“Why did you not write to me?” She asked, trying to ignore his coldness.
“You have a husband and should not be pining after a lowly legionary,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest as Camilla took a step back, leaving her hands on his shoulders.
“Oh, don’t hate me for getting married,” she pouted. She then placed her face next to his ear. “I told you, Marcellus may be my husband but I still think of you as my lover.” She then flicked her tongue against his ear.
Artorius shuddered slightly. It did feel pretty good and besides, Camilla had blossomed and grown more womanly curves since he left two years before. He smiled. If she wanted him to be her lover, so be it; but it would be on his terms not hers. A series of wicked thoughts came to his mind.
They took a walk to a block of flats. Camilla opened the door to one and ushered Artorius in. It was plain and unadorned; Camilla and her husband were simply renting the space while they were in Rome. Or could she have gotten it on her own, in anticipation of meeting her proposed lover?
“So, where is your husband this night?” Artorius asked as he stepped inside.
“Off at one of the brothels, I do believe,” Camilla replied. “You know, under Roman law sex with a married person is not considered adultery if one is paying for the service.” She then placed her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately.
Artorius felt his body tense, blood rushing through his veins as he felt the beast inside him come unleashed.
He gave a guttural growl and bit her savagely on the neck. Camilla gave a yelp of surprise and mild pain. Artorius then swatted her hard across the butt before picking her up and throwing her roughly onto the bed. He was immediately on top of her, snarling and tearing her clothes off. Her garments tore in places as they were discarded. Camilla’s eyes were wide, her breath coming in near panic gasps. He leered at her.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Artorius growled into her ear. His lovemaking of Camilla was utterly savage and animalistic; at times it bordered on brutality. His deviant mind conjured up things to do to her that she had never even contemplated. Her screams were, at times, a mixture of ecstasy and pain and were loud enough to wake the entire block. At one point he roughly turned her over onto her stomach and pulled back on her hair, biting her once more on the neck.
“Oh my,” Camilla panted, her face dripping with sweat. “What are you going to do to me now…” Her eyes grew wide in surprise and she bit hard into the pillow as Artorius answered her question, thoroughly violating her in ways she never expected.
After a number of hours, when he had ravaged her to the point where he knew she would not even be able to walk the next day, he finished, took a brief moment to catch his breath, and then started to get dressed. Camilla simply lay there whimpering. He laughed to himself when he saw how her clothes were torn up, not to mention the very visible bite mark on her neck, which would be swollen and purple by morning. As soon as he was dressed, he rummaged through her things and found a pouch with some coins in it. As he took one out, Camilla struggled to sit up.
“What are you doing?” she asked, surprised.
“Keeping you from getting into trouble,” he said, showing the coin to her. “Like you said, it isn’t adultery if the service is paid for. And the way I see it, you owe me one denarius for my services. And now, I will bid you good night.” As he started for the door, Camilla started to climb out of the bed, only to find that her legs refused to function properly, and she landed in a heap on the floor.
Artorius laughed out loud, shook his head, and wandered out into the night.
“Artorius…wait.” Camilla found her entire body ached from the ordeal. He was, after all, perhaps two-and-a-half times her bodyweight, with strength, power, and endurance far beyond her comprehension; not to mention his deviancy and savagery. She shook her head and started giggling to herself about the entire affair as she curled up on the floor.
Chapter XXVII: The Legionary versus the Gladiator
The last day of the games took place two days before the triumphal parade. That morning members of the Second Century accompanied their optio to the gladiators’ entrance at the arena. Vitruvius was in full legionary armor. The terms of the wager were that no missile weapons would be allowed, that Vitruvius would use standard military arms, and that his unnamed opponent could use whatever weapons and armor he pleased.
It was dark and dank underneath the arena where the gladiators prepared themselves. It stank of sweat, flatulence, metal, and blood. Vitruvius turned to his friends.
“Go on and take your seats. I’ll meet up with you when this is over,” he directed.
With pats on the back and a few words of encouragement, the legionaries left their optio to his meeting with Sacrovir’s gladiator. As soon as they had gone, Vitruvius walked around, surveying everything in the dungeon. There were racks of weapons, most of which were semi-rusted and in need of work. He looked down at his own gladius, still strapped to his belt. His was a fine weapon, one that had served him for years. It would serve him effectively once again this day. But what was he fighting for?
In another part of the dungeon, on the other side of the arena, a small, sallow-faced man paced back and forth in front of his most prized possession. The gladiator was completely hidden in the shadows, but his deep, nasally breathing could be heard.
“Today will be your finest day,” Sacrovir remarked as he continued to pace back and forth, “and I want you to make sure that pompous soldier suffers for his outrage towards us. Make him bleed… hamstring him… humiliate him… make him beg for his death. Do that and you shall have whatever you ask.”
“I want my freedom,” a deep voice boomed.
Sacrovir raised a hand. “Don’t be presumptuous, man. You are my best fighter, my champion. Besides, you can understand that it would be bad business for me to release you upon society. Surely there is something else to satisfy your hunger? A certain girl, even a boy perhaps?”
“You promised me freedom a long time ago. I have done everything you asked of me!” The voice was becoming loud and incensed.
“And so I did,” Sacrovir answered, raising his hands in resignation. Though his champion was by far the best gladiator he had ever owned, to say nothing of the wealth his victories had added to Sacrovir’s coffers, he was beginning to fear that he was slowly losing control of his most prized fighter. “Very well, slay this uniformed upstart and you shall have your freedom. But I want a good show. I want this to be our finest hour, and I want that soldier begging for death before it is over. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, master.”
Why are you here, Vitruvius? The optio asked himself. Is it for glory, for prestige? No, these things mean nothing to you. What is it then? You are not one to stoop so low as to fight for money. Why then? He continued to pace back and forth along the corridor leading to the arena. He could hear the sounds of gladiators fighting and the crowd screaming for blood. He then looked down at his arms, his chest, and his body in general. He was thickly set with powerful muscle, but not so bulky that it would slow his speed. By Mars, God of war, but his hands had slain many men! He had fought brave and tenacious warriors, yet he had always gotten the best of them, and mostly with little to no effort. Perhaps that was it. In spite of the uncountable number of battles he fought, he had never felt himself to be in any danger. Not once had he even been so much as scratched by an assailant. That was it! He had never been truly challenged before!