Beast of Caledonia (2 page)

Chapter Two

Annachie had waited in his cell during the
probatio
armorum
. Not for the first time he marveled that he was still alive. Why,
after months of training and so many years of fighting, did he still cling to
this worthless life of his? How many times had he thought how easy it would be
to just lie down and let his opponent end it all with one stroke of an axe or
one thrust of a sword?

Finally, he concluded that his instinct for survival was
just too strong. At the last moment, when death at the hands of his opponent
seemed imminent, he would fight back and win.

And the hell that was his life would continue.

Bato had many other gladiators just waiting to take Annachie’s
place. Most of them could not shine while they remained in his shadow. He could
feel their anger and jealousy. For that reason he kept mainly to himself. Only
a few of his fellows had even attempted to speak with him.

And Septimius had many other men and boys to play with.
Annachie should have killed himself after the first time the disgusting pig
violated him. But to his shame, his phallus had hardened and he had shot his
seed into the man’s slobbering mouth. Then Annachie had come again when the man
had forced himself inside him, further adding to his disgrace. For six years
now, the abuse had continued, and even though Annachie could not control his
traitorous body, he was able to distance his mind from it. He thought of
home—of running through the hills hunting deer and wild boar, fishing in the
cold swift-flowing rivers, of the clan gatherings at Beltane and Samhain. But
he wouldn’t let himself think of his family…and he would never let himself
think of Sara.

Sara. Since he had been brought to Rome, when his time was
his own, he could not stop thinking about her. Her father had been planning to
return to this city when the emperor’s wall was completed, and it was almost
finished when Quintus had given him to Septimius.

She must be married and have young children by now. Was she
in Rome, or did her husband take her off to some distant city or province?
Wouldn’t it be ironic if she were back in Caledonia, while he was here—

The cry of the announcer interrupted his thoughts. “Citizens
of Rome, I give you the
Beast of Caledonia
!”

Annachie rose and made his way slowly up the dirt ramp and
out into the arena. He had to admit it was an impressive sight. To think that
men could build a stone structure this big. But that had been the only thing he
had found impressive about Rome. Sara had been right about the city—it was
overcrowded, dirty and stinking.
Oh, Sara, I hope you are in my homeland,
where the air is pure and there is room to run free.

He turned in a circle, surveying the crowd. Most of the men
booed and jeered at him, but many of the women smiled and some even licked
their lips. He found it strange that Roman women were as bloodthirsty as their
men. Were they imagining his death, or were they wondering what it would be
like to lie with him? Throughout his travels to far-off lands with Septimius’
fighters, many women had tried to pay the slaver for Annachie’s services.
Annachie had refused them all. There was only one woman he wanted…and she was
the one he could never have.

His opponent, Terranus, stood before the emperor’s box and
gave the usual salute, “Hail, emperor, greetings from a man about to die!”
Annachie looked Antoninus over but refused to salute him. For one thing, the
man was nothing to him, and for another, he had no intention of dying this day.

As he turned away from the emperor, he saw six women and
girls sitting in a row. They were all swathed in white, from the veils on their
heads to the gowns that covered every inch of flesh, except for their faces and
hands. One of them stood very still with her hand over her heart. His gaze
locked with hers…and his legs almost gave out underneath him.

Sara!

At that moment, Terranus came at him. This was the biggest
man Annachie had ever seen in his life. Terranus stood at least five inches
taller than Annachie’s own six and a half feet, and outweighed him by about
four stone. Although certainly muscular, there were some areas of Terranus’
body that were tending to fat, and Annachie hoped he could use this to his
advantage.

Instead of the
gladius
, the short sword favored by
most gladiators, Annachie had a two-handed sword, his weapon of choice, while
Terranus used a heavy iron club. On one end of the club, the iron had been
hammered into a narrow edge, much like an axe. The other end was shaped into a
ball with sharp spikes sticking out at all angles. Annachie knew that if his
opponent’s weapon caught his in just the right way, it would snap his sword in
two.

For several minutes, the men circled each other,
occasionally moving in to strike a blow. But neither seemed to be making any
progress. Several times Terranus’ club came so close, Annachie could feel the
whoosh of air as it passed by. Terranus’ longer reach had Annachie moving
backwards or jumping to the side, preventing him from getting close enough to
the giant to strike a blow.

Annachie knew his only hope was to try to get the man off
balance. But Terranus’ lumbering gait kept his feet firmly planted on the
ground and his wide stance made it almost impossible to sway him. As time wore
on, Annachie drew deep breaths of air into his lungs. He felt himself losing
strength. He had to end this soon or he would die at Terranus’ hands.

He was being too cautious. His usual indifference to life or
death had deserted him upon seeing Sara again. If he could just meet with her,
talk to her, make sure she was all right and that she was happy. A few moments
were all he needed. But he knew he would never be able to do that.

The least he could do was make sure he didn’t die in front
of her.

Terranus swung his club high, intending to lop off Annachie’s
head. Annachie ducked down, dropped to the ground, and sliced through Terranus’
kneecap with his sword. The big man went down, screaming, blood spurting from
the arteries in his leg and soaking into the sand.

Annachie stood over the man. Terranus looked up at him,
acceptance and pleading in his eyes, and nodded. Annachie usually did not kill
his opponents, for many a strong man could survive injuries inflicted in the
arena and go on to gain his freedom and do other work. But Terranus was losing
blood fast and was in great pain.

Without looking to the emperor for approval, Annachie pierced
Terranus’ heart with his sword. Then he dropped his weapon and walked back to
the cells. He didn’t dare glance Sara’s way. He didn’t want to see her disgust
at the animal he had become.

* * * * *

Annachie lay on his cot that night, unable to sleep. All these
years Sara’s image had never faded from his mind, so at first he had wondered
if he had conjured her up today. But she was real and so close he could have
touched her if she had reached down to him.

Memories poured over him like rain, and just like rain, he
could do nothing to stop them.

He remembered the first night she came to him after the boar’s
attack. Her body had healed but her mind had not. He had heard her many times,
crying out in the dark with a nightmare. Her mother, as usual, paid no attention
to her. But he would hear Thea, her nursemaid, trying to comfort her and show
her that no wild beasts lurked in her chamber, ready to attack her again.

Then she began coming to him in the stable. She seemed to
believe that only he could banish the beasts that threatened her in the dark,
in her nightmares.

But one night, she faced another fear…

* * * * *

He came awake with a start. Sara had come to him again for
comfort, as she had so many nights before. She lay curled on her side, facing
him, her head against his chest. He heard her sniff, and then felt her tears
dampen his tunic. “Sara? What is wrong?”

“I-I saw myself in the looking glass today.”

“Aye?”

“My body is so ugly now.”

“No, Sara, no. Not true.”

“It is, it is true. I cannot make a good marriage now. I am
a disgrace to my family. What man would want me now?”

“A smart man would,” Annachie said. I would, he thought, but
immediately stopped himself. There was no possible way he could ever have Sara
for his wife, as much as he wanted it. Her people would not accept him, and his
people would not accept her. Where could they live? How could he support her
and their children? What—

Annachie shook his head to clear his thoughts. What made him
think Sara would even want him to begin with? No, her father would see to it
that she made a good marriage. He only hoped the man would be understanding of
her scars—those seen and unseen—and treat her kindly.

He tucked her head against his shoulder. “Sleep now.
Everything will be all right.” And Annachie offered up a silent prayer to
Harimella, the goddess of protection, that his assurances would prove true.

* * * * *

Annachie gave a trembling sigh. She had been fifteen, old
enough to marry and bear children. But not his. He knew he could never have
her.

She came to him only for comfort. He had saved her life and
she most likely saw him as her protector. That did not mean she loved him.

Yet whatever her reason for coming to him at night, he had
still looked forward to her visits. He remembered the feel of her, so thin the
first time she came, then fleshing out as she continued to recover from her
injuries. He remembered the scent of heather on her skin and in her hair from
the soap she used.

And he remembered the night her father had found them.

He put that horrible memory aside and thought back to how
she had looked today at the games. By the gods, she was lovely. He had only
been able to glance at her a few times, having to keep an eye on his opponent,
but he had still seen how she had matured, the woman she had become. She was
plumper, soft in all the places a man likes a woman to be soft. He’d had no
softness in his life since that last night with her. If he had her lying next
to him now, he would not be content to merely hold and comfort her.

The very thought caused his cock to stretch and lengthen.
Gods, it had been so long since he’d had a woman. He had refused all the
prostitutes brought to the gladiators’ compound and all the rich women in the
Roman provinces who had tried to pay for his “services”. None of them held any
appeal for him. Nor did he pleasure himself, as many of the other men did. The
only release he ever got was when Septimius tied him down and forced his stubby
prick into him. It disgusted Annachie, yet his traitorous body didn’t care.

But tonight, nothing could stop him from reaching down to
take his hardening shaft in his hand. He pictured Sara before him, not as the
young girl she had been six years ago, but as the woman she’d become. In his
mind, he could smell the scent of heather. He could feel the smoothness of her
breasts and belly, the soft pelt covering her mons. He saw himself parting her
labia and licking the moisture there. She would taste sweet, like honey…

By now the pain was almost unbearable. Annachie spat in his
right hand and wrapped it around his shaft. With his left hand, he cupped his
balls. He tried to imagine how her small hands would feel caressing him. Soft
and smooth, tentative at first, then more boldly. He would teach her what felt
the best, how to stroke him and handle him in the ways that he knew would give
him release. Would she be willing to take him in her mouth?
By the gods!

With that thought, his need to come was too strong to hold
back any longer. He pulled and squeezed his cock gently at first, trying to
make it last, seeing her smiling face before him. But soon he could not wait
and began to pump faster and faster. He buried his face in the bedding of his
cot to muffle his groans. Too soon, his cum burst forth, spraying his belly and
chest.

As Annachie came back to his senses, he heard moans and
cries from several of his cellmates, followed by a soft, breathless chuckle. A
voice from a nearby cot said, “Well, Beast, it’s about damn time. We all
thought you could only get it up for Septimius.”

Annachie felt his cheeks burn with shame. It was bad enough
that he had endure the slaver’s abuse, let alone have his comrades make fun of
him because of it.

Someday, Septimius. I do not know how nor when, but
someday I am going to kill you. That I promise you.

* * * * *

Sara was relieved she did not have to tend the sacred fire
that night. She couldn’t wait to be alone with her memories.

Annachie.

She had thought his image was still clear in her mind. But
after seeing him today, she knew her remembered version of him paled to little
more than a shadow.

He was magnificent. Even more so than the first time she saw
him…

* * * * *

The Antonine Wall, Croy Hill, 143 AD

He was the first completely naked man she had ever seen.

Oh, Sara had seen her father’s soldiers working on the wall
or in the fields, but they always covered themselves with at least a loincloth.
And she had seen male babies but, of course, they didn’t count. This one was a
man.

And a big man. He towered over even the tallest of the
soldiers who were half pulling, half dragging him into the fort. His muscles
strained against his chains, and a deep growl sounded from his throat. His
wild, sun-streaked curls flowed in waves over his shoulders and to his waist in
the back, and tight braids hung down on each side of his face. Strange blue
markings, smeared from his sweat and his struggles with his captors, covered
almost every inch of his flesh. Sara had no idea what they meant, but she knew
he must be one of the dreaded Picts the soldiers were always fighting.

As her gaze traveled over his body, Sara felt the blood rush
to her cheeks. Suddenly, she understood some of the jokes and comments she had
heard the women make about men. Their words came back to her—genitalia,
phallus, prick, balls—and their descriptions of what men did with those things.
She now knew instinctively what those terms referred to as she watched the
turgid flesh swaying between his legs and the sac hanging underneath.