Sold to the Gladiators Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  More Stormy Night Books by Jaye Peaches

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  Sold to the Gladiators

  By

  Jaye Peaches

  Copyright © 2017 by Stormy Night Publications and Jaye Peaches

  Copyright © 2017 by Stormy Night Publications and Jaye Peaches

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Peaches, Jaye

  Sold to the Gladiators

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by The Killion Group/Jason Aaron Baca and 123RF/mihtiander

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  Italy—161 AD

  The sun beat down on Rufus’s back as he waited outside the mud brick house. Inside, and out of earshot, his friend consulted the venerable seer. Rufus didn’t believe in fate. He lived haphazardly and grabbed whatever opportunities came his way: food, fighting, or women. Any of those three were good enough.

  He paced between the shadows of two fig trees. It was taking longer than he thought. At last, when the sun reached the highest point in the azure sky and the baking ground heated the soles of his sandals, the curtain, which was draped across the doorway, parted to reveal his friend. Felix, his lips pressed into a frown, looked troubled by the consultation.

  “So?” Rufus asked cautiously.

  “The omens are not good.”

  “Oh.” His friend’s disappointment was evident in the slump of his shoulders. “Why?”

  They wandered down the hillside.

  “The land is poor. The seer believes my unfortunate past has drained it of virility.”

  “I see.” He didn’t. Priests, soothsayers, oracles: all of them spoke in riddles. “There is nothing you can do to appease the gods?”

  The dust kicked up in front of them and floated down the hill in a golden cloud. In the wide valleys ahead of them lay the great city of Rome.

  “According to the wise man, I must sow my seeds.”

  Obviously, if he intended to become a farmer. Rufus rested his hand on his friend’s broad back. “That is true, Felix.”

  They’d come to a crossroads. Felix chuckled. “He did not mean grains of wheat.”

  Rufus halted and spun Felix about to face him. Now, he appeared amused, almost relieved by Rufus’s lack of understanding. “Your seed?”

  Felix nodded. “Mine. Before the goddesses of fertility.”

  “You plan to take a free woman with you? Julia? Clementine? They would not take kindly to the climate of the northern isles.” Julia was a divine creature, but spoilt, while her younger sister was a talker. Both of them lived a life of social frivolity and plenty of sex.

  Felix shook his head this time. “I’ve already said my farewells to them. No, the sage was particular about the girl. A native one. Comely with hard nipples. Bountiful of hair and shaped like the neck of a fine vase around the waist.”

  Rufus thought the old man in the hut had too much imagination and little practical experience.

  “And you must claim her to ensure your lands are made as bountiful as her hair?” Rufus was struggling not to grin. However, Felix appeared sombre once more. “You’re not convinced you’ll find such a woman?” Rufus asked. “My friend, the walls are covered with your name. You’ve never been short of offers.”

  Felix sighed. “But those are Roman women and civilised by the rule of great men. The women of my homeland are fiery, independent, and inclined to disobedience.”

  “You’ve never shied away from using discipline.” Rufus had watched Felix flog criminals who failed to listen to his commands during lengthy training sessions. As for women, they generally accepted his firm hand because they enjoyed what came with it. Rufus had little understanding of what to expect from Felix’s defiant kin.

  “It’s not just her willingness. The land is very poor and according to the holy man,” he gestured up the hill, “I must avail myself of her many times and not hold back from my demands. I must lust for her daily. She must feel my cock rise up in her belly, in her neediest place, and scream for the agony of its bliss.”

  Rufus licked his lips at the description. Why couldn’t he be gifted with land that needed such a sacrifice? “And this shall bring renewal to your land?”

  “If balanced. If the portents remain bad, then shall the earth need retribution. This lovely creature, so blessed with fortune, shall also need great courage. I’m not hopeful to find such a woman.” Felix gave a small shrug, as if to dismiss his concerns.

  Rufus was not happy to see him so despondent. “Then, we shall find such a woman on our travels north, and when we do, I shall help you acquire her.”

  Felix smiled and resumed the path with a spring in his step. “I should never have doubted you. Of course you may also find her pleasing, and if you do, the goddesses will be doubly satisfied.”

  Rufus bounded down the hill after his friend. The long journey didn’t seem quite so challenging now that they had a second, more appealing mission to accomplish.

  Chapter Two

  Northern Britannia

  Just two soft apples and a chunk of stale bread; nothing else. Any more would be missed by the beady-eyed cook. She smuggled them out of the kitchen in a bag slung under her arm, then down the hillside to the southernmost gate of the fort and past the guards, who smiled at her. They always smiled at her and she made sure she swung her skirts in reply.

  The little boys, perhaps no more than five or six years old, were hidden behind a barn. They held out their dirty hands ready for the food. Glancing over her shoulder, she checked they weren’t being watched. If discovered, stealing from the kitchen would cost her a flogging at the post. The howling wind weakened and a horse brayed, signalling the arrival of visitors from the valley below.

  The riders approached at an ambling pace and, like many stood by the roadside, she couldn’t stop staring at them grow in stature as they drew closer. They were huge men on equally large beasts. The horses needed to be strong to carry their magnificent burdens.

  Bethan’s mouth hung lower. The man on the first horse was dark haired and bronze in tone. On his head was a plumed helmet, like a Roman soldier, but he wasn’t a soldier of any legion she’d seen before. Across his broad shoulders he wore a robe of fur, which cascaded down his long back and over the horse’s rump. Leather guards protected his forearms and shins, while a plate of armour covered his breast. The shadows of his helmet hid his face and only the lengthy bristles on his chin stuck out.

  She stepped forward a little to see the second man, who rode
a few paces behind. He too had skin coloured by the warmth of a distant sun. Unlike the first man, his thick locks of hair were tinged with yellow and reds. The dimming sun shone down on his nose and cheekbones, accentuating their shape. The thin lips of his mouth were surrounded by a thick beard, which was tied into a small tail beneath his chin. A young man, she thought. It was hard to tell given his unusual appearance. Mud caked the horses’ hooves and legs, and even though she did not consider it cold, he had wrapped a cloak tight under his chin, hiding his clothing. All she could see were his feet sticking out below. He gave his steed a small kick with his heels, cajoling him up the steep embankment.

  While the boys gnawed on the bread, she continued to stare at the men as they drew to a halt before the gate. The legionnaire on guard dashed forward, brandishing his spear. The lead rider swiped the tip of it away with his booted foot.

  “I am here to deliver a message for your commander. A message from the emperor himself.” His voice carried easily over the head of the legionnaire to the other soldiers forming behind him. A deep voice and one that sent a shiver down Bethan’s spine. He spoke in Latin, which she understood, but he did so without trace of a dialect. An articulate soldier? Was that possible? No, he couldn’t be a soldier, even though he carried weapons.

  “Dismount and disarm. Weapons are not allowed past this point,” declared the legionnaire.

  There was a lengthy pause before the men complied. The horses neighed when their riders dismounted.

  Next to Bethan, one of the boys tugged on her sleeve. “Are they Celts, like us?”

  The boy didn’t speak Latin, which wasn’t surprising. He lived in the settlement below the fort and wasn’t allowed inside, unlike Bethan. She was a slave and served in the kitchens. Captured during a raid on her village by another clan, she’d been sold to the Romans. As far as the Romans were concerned, all Celts were from the same tribe and they paid little attention to the fighting between the various clans. It had been months since she had been taken from her kin.

  “No. They aren’t, at least not like us. I think they’re gladiators.” She could only guess. She’d not met one before, but she’d heard all about them from those that had seen them fight in the amphitheatres of Eboracum. It was miles and miles away and she’d never been that far south.

  “Gladiators!” the boy shrilled.

  “Hush,” she said, pushing him away from the road.

  The smaller of the two boys ignored her and hurried up the incline to where the horses stood chomping, their hooves kicking the sodden turf.

  “Keep back, boy,” warned the younger man.

  He didn’t understand and continued to rush forward close to the frisky hooves. Bethan picked up her skirts and hurried after him. As she scooped him up out of harm’s way, the apples tumbled out of her bag right by the feet of the cook.

  She cursed under her breath and put the child down. Cook glared at her. He was back from the market with the kitchen boy, who was dragging the dray laden with fresh produce.

  “Stealing,” growled the cook. “You’ve been warned, slave, not to steal.”

  She straightened her back. “It’s just—”

  “It’s just food, I know.” He grabbed her arm. “Food that’s for Romans, not these cursed imbeciles.”

  The two visitors had crossed the threshold of the gate, leaving her with the cook and a trio of legionnaires. One of them smirked.

  “You’ll pay for this, Bethan.” The soldier dragged her between the other two. “In irons, now.”

  “No!” she wailed.

  The boys, thankfully, had scarpered. Their little legs carried them quickly and they disappeared amongst the huts.

  As the gate slammed shut, trapping her inside the fort, she caught sight of the gladiators, if that was what they were. The young one, his cloak swept back over his shoulder, turned to face her. He stared as she wriggled between the guards.

  Now she could see his fine leather breastplate, the moulding around his stomach and the fronds of his battle skirt. He wore breeches to protect him from the cold wind and fur-lined boots.

  Bethan flinched as he held her in his steely gaze. A remarkable man with a head of gold and amber, quite like nothing she’d seen before. He held his helmet tucked under his arm, while his other hand rested on his empty scabbard. He pressed his lips together and nodded. A strange combination, as if he wanted to speak, but knew it was not appropriate. Instead, he acknowledged her presence with a small bow of his head.

  Gods, he was stunning. A flush of warm blood descended across her breasts and into her belly. From there it moved lower and to the apex of her inner thighs. She might be anxious about her impending punishment yet she still managed to find this warmth within her. And, she felt it for a stranger.

  A sturdy hand clamped down on the man’s shoulder and his companion shook him as if to waken him from a slumber; he lost his focus on her.

  “Rufus, we’re to dine with him,” the other man said. He’d removed his helmet to reveal a head laden with dark hair bleached at the ends by the sun. He, too, was dressed in the finery of a warrior. From his neck to his calves, he was packed with muscles and they bulged beneath his shirt and cladding. However, although impressive and affecting, she couldn’t keep her eyes off the younger one.

  Rufus. A Roman name. She liked it especially as he possessed streaks of red in his hair.

  The legionnaire snatched her neck with his callused hand and thrust her head downward. “Behave,” he reprimanded. “You’ll not be smiling like that for much longer.”

  Smiling? She’d not been aware of it. But, thinking about it, she had smiled at him. In fact, she’d beamed from ear to ear.

  As they forced her to move, she lost sight of the other group of soldiers escorting the visitors. They were heading up to the commander’s house. She was going to the cells where they would shackle her with iron chains. Such was the life of a slave. She’d never get used to it.

  Chapter Three

  Commander Atticus took the tablet out of Felix’s hand and examined the emperor’s seal. Satisfied with its authenticity, he placed it on a table. Felix didn’t ask what was written in the letter. It wasn’t any of his business.

  “How long has it taken you?” the commander asked. Atticus was in command of all the forts along the Roman Wall and ruled the legions of northern Britannia with ruthless efficiency.

  “Two months,” replied Felix. They’d left in March after the snows had melted and before the oppressive heat arrived. Britannia wasn’t a hot country like southern Europe. Fucking cold, Rufus had complained on numerous occasions since they’d crossed the sea. After two months of campfires and riding horses, Felix was looking forward to settling down in his new home.

  “I was assured that speed was not essential, only that the message was safely delivered,” Felix said.

  Atticus pursed his lips. “I suppose the emperor had his reasons for choosing you.” The commander meant ex-gladiators. Felix wondered if it was because they could fend for themselves for the lengthy journey. Or perhaps it was because the emperor didn’t trust his citizens with the task. A gladiator’s loyalty was to prize money and survival, and little else.

  “He required me to honour my freedom with one last service. We were chosen as emissaries.” Felix nodded at Rufus, who stood to one side. His junior and one-time protégé, Rufus was a few years younger than he was. Unlike Felix, who originally hailed from Britannia, Rufus was a swarthy Gaul with hazel eyes and thick hair. He’d grown a beard since they’d left the sweltering stench of Rome. Felix scratched the bristles on his chin. He was in need of a shave.

  “Your name, Felix Gaius Hercules, is known throughout the Roman Empire. We are honoured by your visitation. Please sit, both of you.” Atticus waved them to the relative comfort of his private chamber and the long couches. A servant laid out food on a table.

  Of course, his name was known. Felix had survived many fights in the arena, earning him a reputation across the empire as undef
eatable. He’d trained others to fight, too, including Rufus, who’d volunteered. When Felix had been freed, he’d asked that Rufus should join him. The emperor had agreed, but on the condition he delivered the letter.

  “Not many gladiators survive the coliseum,” Atticus remarked. “I only had the pleasure of being there once in my life.” The commander originated from Spain.

  Felix dipped a piece of bread in his wine. “I have fought three times in the coliseum. I began my training in a provincial arena. My friend, Rufus, also survived the coliseum on two occasions.”

  “Indeed.” Atticus applauded them both. “Remarkable.”

  “If you can provide us a night’s accommodation, we will leave early in the morning. The emperor has granted me a villa to the south of Luguvalium.” A small farm with potential, he’d been told by the tax collector in Eboracum when the two men had passed through the town. The potential depended on the goddesses and the seer’s suggestion for pleasing them.

  “Briganti land.” Atticus wrinkled his nose. “They can make trouble. We pay little attention to their skirmishes and pillaging. However, if they step foot near the wall, they pay the price without mercy.”

  Felix said nothing. He was a Briganti. Born in a village somewhere. He’d been taken as a child, sold into slavery and a life as a gladiator. He didn’t fear his own people. The sun had bleached his hair and turned his skin darker, but beneath it, he was a Briton. A Celtic warrior. What he desired was to be a Roman citizen. It would take many years of tax paying and loyalty to earn that right.

  The major domo cleared his throat. “Sir,” he addressed Atticus, “there is the matter of the slave.”

  “Ah, the girl,” Atticus groaned. “Bloody slaves. I’ve had to have a few flogged in the last week for insolence. This is the latest needing my justice. Bring her in.”