Beast of Caledonia (3 page)

These Picts must be giants, she thought. Their women, too,
for an organ that large would surely tear a normal woman apart.

By now, the soldiers had dragged the captive into the
stables. Sara moved from her hiding place behind the wall of the bathhouse to
try to see what happened next. She heard sounds from the stable, a hammering of
metal on metal, but she couldn’t see anything.

Two centurions lingered by the cart of booty that had been
brought back from the battlefield. Long, heavy blades and round shields with
strange designs glinted in the afternoon sun as they passed the weapons to
legionaries who carried them off into the armory.

One of the soldiers held up a beautiful jeweled dagger as he
passed Sara. Sapphires as large as pigeons’ eggs shone even brighter than the
gold in which they were set. Even from a distance, the blade looked wickedly
sharp.

Sara waited until the soldiers left and slipped into the
armory.

Later that day, Sara gathered up an old sleeveless tunic and
an extra blanket she found in the rubbish heap behind the barracks, and went
into the stable The horses were undisturbed by her presence; a few of them
turned their heads to look at her, but most of them just continued to munch
their oats, occasionally flicking away flies with their tails. The smells of
fresh straw and polished leather greeted her from the stalls and the tack room.
The slaves kept the stables scrupulously clean, and she was glad the Pict did
not have to live with the odor of manure.

She found the captive, his legs chained to a post set in Opus
caementicium in one corner of an empty stall. Sara knew what the strength of
that concrete was, and no matter how muscular the Pict was, he would not be
able to get loose. For that reason, her father’s soldiers had no need to
restrain his hands.

He was still naked, as she had suspected he would be, and
she was glad she had brought the clothes and blanket. The opposite door of the
stable was open, and he gazed through the slats in one wall of his stall into
the distance, where the mountains lay cloaked in darkening shades of blue and
gray. The rays of the setting sun slanted across the floor, highlighting the
dust motes and gnats that floated around him.

They also highlighted the wet, silver streaks left by the
tears that trickled down his cheeks.

“I would cry too—” she began.

The barbarian jumped to his feet, folded into a crouch as if
to spring at her. Sara held her ground. He was shackled and she was far enough
away that he couldn’t reach her. But even had that not been the case, she was
surprised to find she was not afraid of him. His tears made her realize that he
was not a beast, as her father and the soldiers made the Picts out to be, but a
human being with feelings, just like other people.

“If someone took me away from my home and the people I
love,” she finished.

He seemed to relax slightly but still crouched in front of
her. His genitals, now limp, hung down between his legs, and Sara could not
help but notice them. She felt her cheeks heat up again, as they had done when
the soldiers led him in. She quickly shifted her gaze to his face.

“Here,” she said, handing him the tunic, “I brought you some
clothing.”

He stood up to his full height. This close she could see
that he was well over a foot taller than her own diminutive height. Sara had
never seen a man so tall. He took it from her hesitantly, perhaps thinking it was
some sort of trap, and stepped back quickly to pull the rough garment over his
head. He nodded as if in thanks and sank back down on the straw beneath him.

“And a blanket.” She held it out for him as she sat down on
a wooden bench, facing him.

The air was becoming colder as night fell. He hesitated for
only a moment, then took it from her and threw it over his long, muscular legs.
He nodded again. Then, as if suddenly aware of his tears, he wiped his eyes
with the back of his hand.

“Is that where you live?” Sara asked, pointing toward the
distant mountains.

He looked at her blankly. It occurred to her that she had
not heard him say anything since his capture and she realized he did not speak
her language. But then, why should he?

She pointed at him, then to the mountains again. “You live
there?”

He nodded curtly, but did not take his eyes off her to look
toward his homeland again.

She pointed at herself. “Sara”

He stared at her for a moment, then said, hesitantly, “Say…”
His voice was the deep sound of thunder from an approaching storm.

“Sara.”

“Say-ra.”

“Yes, that’s right.” She smiled at him and was pleased to
see a shadow of a smile on his face. She pointed at him and raised her
eyebrows, questioningly.

He spoke so quickly she could hardly understand a bit of
what he said. “Ahn…” She shook her head and gave up trying to repeat his name.

As if he understood her difficulty, he said it again, more
slowly. “Annachie.”

“Anna-key.”

He nodded. His smile was broader this time, revealing strong
white teeth with a slight gap between the two in front. He was quite handsome,
albeit in a different sort of way from the men she was used to seeing.

“Saaaraa. Where are you?” The voice of Thea, her
maidservant, carried across the courtyard. “Come inside now!”

Sara gave a deep sigh. She didn’t want to go inside. She
wanted to stay and teach Annachie some of her language, and hopefully, learn
some of his. Turning back to him, she said, “Goodnight.”

He replied in his own language, but she did not understand
it. She stood, reluctantly, and walked back to her house.

* * * * *

Sara thought back to all the times she had lain with him on
his narrow cot in her father’s stable, his arms wrapped around her
protectively. Even though she was old enough to marry and have children, he had
seen her only as a child. He would never want her that way.

And she would never want any man but him.

Tonight, though, she could pretend, as she had so many other
nights. She would imagine that they were together again, back in Caledonia, and
she was his wife.

As she pictured his strong hands on her body, she began to
caress her breasts. Her nipples tightened, her areolas pebbling and drawing
tight. His hands would be calloused, from the rough work he used to do and from
the heavy sword he now used. Yet, despite his strength and the brutality of his
life, Sara knew he would be gentle with her. He always had been. As she lightly
stroked her hard nipples, she imagined him taking them in his mouth and
sucking. She felt her womanly passage begin to weep.

In her mind’s eye she watched him move his hands lower,
across the soft mound of her belly…and her own hands followed. She brushed the
soft hairs of her mons and parted her legs.

“Annachie,” she whispered.

She lightly stroked the petals of her labia, pretending it
was his hands, holding back, trying to make the pleasure last. But, all too
soon, she could wait no longer. She parted the moist folds and inserted one
finger, then two, into her sheath. Would two of her fingers be the size of one
of his? And his phallus—how big would that be when it was fully erect? Even in
her protected environment, Sara had learned what men and women do together.
Blessed
Venus, I want him!

By this time, the honey poured from her; she could feel it
trickling onto the bed beneath. She spread the moisture upward to the tiny nub,
the spot that gave her the greatest pleasure. How many times had she lain in
the dark, imagining his hands on her, doing this to her?

Her pleasure built and built until she could not hold back.
She stroked faster and faster. She buried her head in her pillow and cried his
name as she came. She kept her hand between her legs, feeling the echo of her
orgasm die away.

In the moment before she drifted off to sleep, she knew what
she had to do. First, she owed him an apology. Then if he agreed she would make
her fantasy a reality…even at the risk of her life.

Chapter Three

“Thea,” Sara cried, clutching her former nursemaid’s arm, “were
you at the games? Did you see him? Oh, Thea, he’s alive!”

“Yes, child, I know. I saw him.”

Sara had taken her free time from the temple on the third
day after the games to go to her father’s house on the Palatine. The men who
carried the litter that bore her there, a special privilege for the Vestals,
seemed to creep along. She wanted to shout at them to hurry, but knew that they
would wonder at the reason for her eagerness. She had to be careful not to
create any speculation about her behavior.

She had a plan. She needed an accomplice and she prayed that
Thea would assist her. “Father has gone to Cisalpine Gaul?”

“You know he has.” And Thea knew Sara too well. She could
hear the suspicion in the maidservant’s voice.

“So he has not seen Annachie,” Sara said, as if to herself.
“How long will he be gone this time?”

“Six months, give or take. What are you thinking, Sara?”

“I must see Annachie. I-I have to speak to him. Please help
me get a message to him.”

“You plan to talk, eh, is that all?”

Sara could not answer her truthfully, and Thea would know if
she tried to lie to her. So she said, “He doesn’t want me. He thinks of me as a
child.”

“One look at you and he will know you are no longer a child.”

“I have to see him, Thea. I love him.”

“That is what worries me. Remember your position, your vow.
You know what will happen if you should—”

“Yes, I know what will happen.” She didn’t need Thea to
remind her. “And as to my vow, I made a vow to him first, in my heart.”

“You would risk your life for this man?”

“For the past six years, my life has been nothing without
him. I know well the possible consequences of my actions. I want him more than
life. If he should want me in…in that way, then I will not hesitate.”

When the older woman began to shake her head, Sara pleaded, “I
have never asked you for anything, Thea. Please help me.”

Thea sighed. “All right, child. But be careful, I beg you.”

“I will,” Sara replied, hugging her as she had done when
Thea was still her nursemaid.

“What message shall I give him?”

As she told Thea what to say, Sara ran to the jewel box in
her old bedroom and withdrew an item. “And give him this.”

* * * * *

He heard footsteps approaching his cell. “Beast, come here.”
Milonius Bato and two of his guards stood at the door.

Annachie rose reluctantly.
By the gods, not Septimius
again. One day I will kill that whoreson.
His only consolation was knowing
how tightly Septimius had to bind him each time he used him.

But when Annachie reached them, he saw a woman standing
there next to Bato and his men. She was small in stature, swathed in black and
a gauzy black veil obscured her face.

His heart skipped a beat. But in the next instant he knew
from her stooped figure and her stance that it was not Sara. And, besides, Sara
had been clothed all in white.

Bato spoke to the woman. “Ever since he began appearing in
arenas throughout the provinces, I have had many offers for him, but he has
refused them all. I doubt that you will have any better luck, but we can ask.”

Then he turned to Annachie. “You get a night of fun, Beast.
A rich lady has paid for your services.” Bato could not keep the leer out of
his voice.

Through gritted teeth Annachie said, “I have told you I am
no
puttano
. I will not service a woman so you can become wealthier,
Bato. Now do not ask me again.” Rich Roman women seemed to make a game of
collecting gladiators, to see how many different ones they could lay. Bato
spoke the truth; Annachie had received many offers. He had been tempted to
accept, if only to rid himself of the feel of Septimius. But in the end he
refused each one. He was Septimius’ slave and therefore had to endure his
abuse, but he did not have to become a plaything for a bunch of bored matrons.
There was only one woman he would accept, the one he knew he could never have.

“I understand that you have a special cell for such ‘activity’?”
the woman asked Bato. Her voice sounded familiar to Annachie but he couldn’t
quite place it.

Bato chuckled. “Yes, I like to keep my fighters happy.”

“I told you I will not do it!” he said.

Bato looked at the woman and shrugged his shoulders.

Annachie started to turn away when the woman spoke again. “Perhaps
this will change your mind.” She opened her hand and there lay a necklace of
boar’s tusks strung on a leather cord.

Annachie felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. Gods, he
thought. He remembered that day so clearly…

* * * * *

Sara waved at Annachie as she walked past the ditch where he
was working. He looked up at her and smiled. “
Salve
, Say-ra.”

“Good day, Annachie.”

“Where Say-ra go?”

She pointed to the basket on her arm, then to the dense
woods at the end of the field. “I am going to gather mushrooms for supper.” As
she talked, she made signs with her hands to illustrate her words, even though
he could understand her language better than he could speak it.

“Say-ra take care. Wild beasts in forest.”

“Silly Annachie,” she replied with a grin, “everyone knows
the only wild beast around here is you.”

He curled his fingers to mimic claws and growled at her,
then laughed with her as she headed off toward the woods.

Annachie had not been working much longer when he heard the
scream. “Say-ra!” He was off and running instantly.

His guards must have heard it too for they didn’t try to
stop him. He plunged through the trees, guided only by the snorting and squeals
of the boar.

By the time he reached her, her gown was covered in blood
where the animal’s tusks had torn the skin. The beast was so intent on its
attack it did not even try to run away when Annachie crashed through the
undergrowth toward it. He leapt onto the boar’s back and grabbed it by the
tusks, twisting and breaking its neck in one motion. He lifted the heavy animal
and tossed it aside, then knelt down beside Sara. She had fainted, from the
pain or fright or both.