Faustina and the Barbarians (9 page)

There was a huge force drawn up between the Saxons and the level land that led to Eboracum. Thousands of Picts, erect on their mounts and standing shield to shield, armour glinting and flashing in the mounting sun, formed what looked like an entire Romano-British army. As it turned out, the Picts had relented, the promise of extensive lands south of the wall having been negotiated and agreed upon. But agreed with who? Can you guess, Flavia darling? With Comminilingus! After the destruction of Calleva my beautiful bisexual lover had crossed into Gaul and returned with reinforcements. I was overjoyed when a note was smuggled to me from him into the Saxon camp.

But how long before I could enjoy him again? And would the girls and I survive the terrible battle that was about to lock the two armies together and surely decide the fate of Britain?

Nothing happened that day and the girls and I were placed under heavy guard. Through our jailers, who could not withstand our combined charms, we learned that intense negotiations were going on between Cuthbert and company and the Romano-British-Pictish force.
 

The following afternoon the interpreter came to escort me into Cuthbert’s presence. His concubine, for once, was not in attendance, and the king himself lay sprawled, naked to the waist, on his fur-clad couch, a mead-horn in one hand, his other fondling the blond fur that coated the muscled shield of his belly.
 

“The king apologises again for the fact that he cannot speak your language, but is determined to learn it,” said the interpreter.

“Latin declensions are beyond him, and besides, what need has he to learn my language?”
 

I looked at him. He looked different. What was it? He was freshly shaved, his thick tightly-plaited hair drawn back from his smooth, tanned forehead, his blue-black eyes swollen amorously. I returned his look and at that moment Comminilingus was eclipsed.

“Every need, he hopes,” the interpreter went on, “as he will wish to commune with his Special Adviser on Romano-British affairs with no third parties present.”

“Ask His Mead-jesty what in Hades he’s talking about.”

And then I was told. Cuthbert had agreed to withdraw his Saxons from the area, and to effect a complete withdrawal of all Saxons from Britain for a space of ten years, providing I, Faustina Maxima, accompanied him to Thuringia as his ‘Special Adviser’.

“Faustina Maxima is no bargaining chip!” I spat, and turned on my heel.

That evening I was ushered into Comminilingus’ tent. If I did not return my girls would have their throats cut. Comminilingus fell upon me like a hungry wolf with its prey, tearing at my stola, and when it was off, pushing me to the floor and ramming his cock between my breasts, where he rutted in a fury of frustrated passion, while I covered his hot twisting muscular nakedness with kisses, eventually getting him down, but not in time to receive in my hot cunnus the explosion of cum that erupted between my breasts and splashed my throat.

Afterwards, we talked amicably, even ardently, but something had changed between us. Perhaps it was the fact that I had already decided what I was going to do before I parted the curtains of Comminilingus’ tent.
 

A ten year withdrawal by the Saxons would buy Britain breathing space to rebuild her defences and train fresh troops. Doubtless the Saxons, for all their wildness, were playing the long game, and were banking on returning in lethal force after ten years. But I would be able to gather invaluable information and intelligence and find a way of relaying it to Britain, perhaps through you, Flavia, if you’re agreeable. The Eastern Empire is still strong and if its Emperor Arcadius, when he’s old enough, can be persuaded—as which man can’t?—by you and I to send troops to Britain, the country’s Roman future will be assured.

Apart from all this, what is life without ever fresh adventures, Flavia? The Saxons are brutes, but today’s brutes are tomorrows senators, and they need all the help they can get.

I didn’t protract my meeting with Comminilingus but decided to return to Cuthbert with my answer. The girls would be anxious too, especially Caeli.

He was still asprawl on his furs when I returned, greeting me with a quizzical but foxily assured smile on his handsome face.
 

“Your Special Adviser is here to draw up her contract.”

He beckoned me to his side and I inhaled the smell of fire-warmed man-flesh, mead, and wolf-skin, a smell that I would now find difficult to live without. He took my hand, and softly caressed my palm with his beringed thumb.

“Take this horn in token of our agreement.” He had had his interpreter translate the phrase while I was with Comminilngus.
 

I gripped it tightly, tall, thick, smooth, hard, curving, and already afoam. And it wasn’t the mead-horn.

THE END

About the author

John McKeown is a British writer based in Dublin. He lived in Prague where he was a teacher and freelance journalist and part of the ex-pat literary scene in the 1990s, then moved to Ireland in 2000 becoming a columnist for the
Irish Examiner
, and arts feature writer for the
Irish Times
. He was theatre critic for the
Irish Daily Mail
from 2006 to 2008 and is currently reviewing theatre for the
Irish Independent
and UK online theatre magazine
Exeunt
while raising his daughter Julia. His erotic short stories have been published by Xcite Books in the UK, who have also recently published his first novella
Gooseflesh Abbey
. JMS Books in the US is publishing two other erotic novellas, also in 2013,
Prague Memoir
and
The Time Sex Machine
. In addition to erotica John has four collections of poetry in print, the last,
Night Walk
published by Salmon Press in Ireland (available from Dufour Editions in the US). He has also collaborated with Leo O’Kelly of Irish folk-rock duo Tir Na nOg, on an album of songs entitled
Will
released in 2011 on Life and Living Records in the UK.

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