Your erotic stories

Too many erotic stories. Erotic stories free to watch. Only the best porn stories and sex stories


Category: Lesbian Sex
BadFairGoodInterestingSuper Total 0 votes

Author’s Note: There is archeological and written historical evidence to confirm that women fought as gladiators. While many were slaves from conquered territories, women from all classes of Roman society fought in the Coliseum and just about every arena in the Roman Empire.

A carved relief from the 1st century AD depicts two female gladiators with shields, swords, helmets and dressed similarly to their male counterparts.

Written evidence, though limited, suggests that female gladiatorial combat was a very popular form of entertainment rivaling that of the men. Pairs fighting in the arena were scheduled during afternoon or early evening, an indicator of their high importance to the games. It is interesting to note that the women always fought before the men.

While segregated from the men, women trained at the same schools, in the same types of combat disciplines and enjoyed the same rights and privileges. They were accorded the same type of hero worship by the Roman citizenry and were the super star athlete’s of their day.

Gladiators of both sexes were a highly valued and expensive commodity to their owners. They were treated well with the fortunate few winning their freedom.

The two main protagonists in the story are from the conquered Roman provinces of Gaul and Ethiopia. Captured female warriors from Gaul were prized for their strength and ferocity. The use of Ethiopian women in the games is first mentioned in writings dating from the time of Nero, approx. 60 AD.


As we stood in the sweltering heat of the equipment room in the arena at Tarentum, number eight appeared highly agitated.

“The matron just told me that a very wealthy Senator wanted only the best gladiators for a festival in honor of his forefathers’. He specified that the gladiators are to fight to the death and paid a vast sum of money to the school for the privilege,” number eight said with loathing to our group.

A pervasive feeling of gloom descended on us from number eights sobering news. The gladiatorial school that owned us was wise to keep this information secret until we were about to step foot in the arena.

As I laced up my leather fighting sandals and leggings, the pairings for the afternoons combat were announced. I had grown to despise killing, an affliction seriously detrimental to the well being of a gladiator.

“…Number eleven and number twenty three…” the school director barked.

I froze dead in my tracks.

“No, this can’t be,” I said quietly trying to hide my distress.

“I told you this day might come,” twenty three said resignedly and stood still as her manica or arm guard was fitted into place.

Twenty three had her game face on but I could see that she was shaken by the news.

The glow of the oil lamps cast eerie shadows on the brick walls as twelve gladiators prepared for the combat that would end the life of six.

“I won’t fight,” I said to twenty three in a voice bordering on hysteria.

“Then I will kill you,” she replied in a chilling voice.

I stared at her, unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation. We were the best female gladiators at our school. It made no sense to pair us in a fight to the death when the availability of well trained women was scarce.

Fights to the death were uncommon. Occasionally, a gladiator was severely injured during combat and died as a result. If a gladiator disgraced themselves or showed cowardice the spectators could demand his or her death.

The thought of fighting the woman I cherished above all others to the death, had me in the depths of despair. My mind searched vainly for a way out of this awful predicament but there was none.

On the journey to Tarentum, I had seen several tiny towns that reminded me of my home and in an attempt to ease my growing panic, I tried to remember what my village looked like and…

Gaul 90 AD

My village was in the region the Romans referred to as Gaul. In my mind I saw the huts, the green fields and the smell of roasting meat on the spit; usually a fresh kill my father made in the surrounding hills.

We were a warrior people, made so by the conquest of the Roman legions. Our tribes had withstood the attacks from before I was born or so my father said. But, our numbers had declined dramatically, especially among the fighting men.

With the shortage, many able bodied young women fought alongside their fathers, brothers, cousins and neighbors. Some women were more powerful than their male kin and fought with a ferocity that frightened the enemy. I was tall and lanky for a girl of fifteen but also quite strong.

The Roman broadswords that were taken from the vanquished after skirmishes, was our main weapon for fighting. Even at my young age, I handled it with a two fisted grip that impressed my father.

“Daughter, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were a boy,” he would say to me with admiration.

But, head on confrontation with the Romans was suicide. There seemed to be an endless supply of Roman soldiers and far too few of my people. Our chief strategy was to lie in wait and ambush patrols or cohorts that were lost or separated from the main force.

It was during one such skirmish that I made my first kill with an upward thrust through the neck that nearly severed it. My foe lay at my feet, blood spurting in all directions but it didn’t last long. In a matter of moments he was dead.

Carefully, I examined his still face and thought that he was probably no older than my brother. His was a handsome face, a youthful face only a short time ago filled with the promise victory.

“Daughter, we must make haste. The enemy will regroup and fall upon us in greater numbers,” my father bellowed at me.

During the forced march back to our village, I couldn’t shake the image of the dead young man from my mind. My earliest recollections are of the elders teaching us not only to hate the Romans but to fear them as well.

Although I hated the Romans, I had no fear or hatred for the fallen soldier.

“Why do the Romans hunt us down like animals?” I asked my father one evening by the fire.

“They are an evil people who enslave all they don’t kill. Many of our kinsmen have been captured and only a handful escaped to tell the tale of their ordeal,” he answered forcefully and with disgust.

My father thought I was too young and stupid to hear the grisly details. He thought that all women were dim-witted and foolish but I was smarter than my brothers. I was as skilled a fighter and just as savage.

Even though I fought side by side with the men in my village, I was not treated as an equal. I always had to wait for my father and brothers to eat first just like my mother and sisters who stayed at home.

At tribal festivals during the year, acts of bravery, fearlessness and courage during battle were told but rarely about a fighting woman. Many rounds and toasts of strong drink were hoisted in honor of the heroic but only by the men.

At one such festival when I was sixteen, I was promised to my oldest brother’s friend Etr as his betrothed. I disliked him intensely but I had no say in the matter. The men in my village made all the important decisions.

Our union was turbulent because I didn’t fear him or respect him as a man. I believed he lacked the sound judgment and strength of character that a man should have when making important decisions.

We quarreled most of the time and because we lived with his kin, I had no allies when the fights reached chaotic proportions. When our first child, a son, died during childbirth, he was furious and blamed me.

During battles, Etr took it upon himself to fight alongside of me. I warned him to stay away but he ignored me like any man would. His fighting style was haphazard and lacked discipline.

When I complained to my brother, he roared at me in anger.

“He is trying to protect you! You stupid girl!”

“I need no one to protect me! I can fight better than him and most men” I screamed angrily in reply.

Of course, it was no use arguing. Etr would do as he pleased; I had no say in the matter. But, unfortunately for him, it would lead to his death.

During winter, the Roman campaigns against us would cease or lessen to just a few. We knew they remained in their forts and outposts with a false sense of security. It was the only time of the year when we made hit and run attacks that minimized our casualties but totally disrupted the Romans.

But, regardless of the weather, The Romans sent out patrols to assess our size, strength and location.

Our scouts tracked down many patrols because the ground was snow covered and their footprints clearly visible. Often they got lost in the thick forests; easy pickings for us.

On a snowy afternoon a Roman patrol was spotted in a dense part of the forest, obviously lost. They camped for the night with sentry’s posted every fifteen feet. It was decided that we would attack at dawn before the sunrise.

With the light growing brighter in the east, we poured down the hillside, yelling our war cry. We caught many Romans in their tents and I dispatched two with ease.

A small number of soldiers regrouped and took up a defensive position. With the main part of our force on the other side of the encampment, it would have been prudent to wait until they rejoined us. But, my oldest brother, impatient and bull headed, decided to charge.

During the charge, Etr as usual was at my side. As we ran at full speed toward the Roman line, he kept glancing at me sideways and smiling.

“I will bring much honor and glory to our village today,” he boasted in a useless attempt to impress me.

I ignored him because he was making a critical mistake by not focusing his attention on the enemy in front of us. The first line of Roman defense used a long spear in a fixed position to repel the first wave of an attack.

An agile warrior could avoid and break the spears, then engage the enemy. As I approached the soldier directly in front of me, I wielded a swift sword stroke at his spear and it broke in two.

With only a shield for defense I hacked at him until I severed an arm and disabled him. Suddenly, I realized that Etr was not at my side and as I turned to look, I saw him lying on the ground with a spear through the center of his body.

Etr was alive but barely when I got to him. His face had the unmistakable look of imminent death. I was saddened by his passing but only because it meant one less warrior to defend our people.

When we returned to our village, my oldest brother publicly condemned me and held me responsible for Etr’s death.

When I explained the fatal error Etr made during the charge, he ignored me. I was forced to give my account before the elders and they refused to believe me.

“You are an ill omen girl, no man will want you now for fear he will die in battle!” My father bellowed.

I kept my silence and in spite of my fear that I would be ostracized, I was allowed to remain in the village and continue fighting as a warrior. But, my father was right, no man wanted me.

For the next two years, the Roman campaigns were sporadic and ceased altogether in the winter. It was during the summer, at the start of my eighteenth year that I was injured in battle. A sword sliced across my belly and almost gutted me.

Most who were injured died with high fevers and half out of their minds with visions. I feared the worst and was taken to a hut on the outskirts of the village.

I was cared for by a young woman who happened to be Etr’s sister. Her man had fallen in battle soon after their union was consummated. She was childless like me and forced to live with what little family he had left.

Although she was the same age as me, with the scarcity of eligible men, her prospects for another union were poor.

She applied roots and herbs to my wound several times a day. Each time the searing pain almost made me cry out but I bit my tongue as any good warrior would do.

Eventually, the pain lessened and the fever that signaled death did not appear.

“You will recover, the wound is healing” she said confidently one day as she changed the dressing.

Her words relieved my troubled mind and sleep came easily. Later, she told me that I slept for almost three days.

As my body mended, I found that I enjoyed her company and missed her when she went to do the work that was required of all women in the village. Sometimes, she was gone for many hours and I would wait impatiently for her return.

She was kind and caring towards me even though village lore branded me as responsible for her brother’s demise.

“Etr was a good brother but many times he was careless. I was told what you said to the elders and I believed what you testified to be truth,” she said with conviction.

Certainly, I was indebted to her for saving my life and one day I expressed my feelings.

“I would do the same for any warrior, man or women. Your gratitude is accepted,” she said and smiled at me.

I looked at her kind face and realized that my heart thumped at a quicker pace. A warm feeling enveloped my body and my desire to be in her presence grew stronger.

One very hot day, I was waiting for her to return from her labors in the village. She had taken my clothes to wash in the river and I lay naked and sweating from the stifling heat in the hut. I was still too weak to go outside without help.

As the heat grew worse, I felt light headed and dizzy. Finally, I passed out and was unaware when she returned. She brought fresh straw for our bedding but left it outside when she saw my unresponsive body.

I awoke in a pile of straw under the shade of a tree. She was dabbing my forehead with cool water from a wood bucket.

“You are kind to me woman,” I stated thankfully.

Using a cloth saturated with the cool liquid, she gently wiped down my face, neck, arms and started on my chest. She paused for a moment and stared at my arms with an amused smile on her face.

“Warrior, you have muscles like a man,” she stated clearly still smiling.

No one had ever said that to me. In fact, not since I was a little girl had anyone showed me tender caring like her.

As she slowly proceeded to wash the rest of my body, she hummed a song that sounded both happy and sad. When she finished the cleansing, my body was tingling as though a colony of ants had taken up residence under my skin.

She sat next to me with the same serene smile, gazing at my body.

“You have a strong body like a man but there is no doubt that you are a woman,” she said with a lilt in her voice and looked between my legs.

Indeed, most of the tingling seemed to come out of this area when she washed it.

“You coupled with my brother. Did you not enjoy it?” she asked me with a serious look.

The look in my eyes was all the answer she needed as the tingling feeling increased inside of me.

Her hands were softly running up and down my arms and she was still smiling but it had a different quality. It reminded me of the look Etr got when he wanted to shove his manhood between my thighs.

When her hands moved to my chest her fingers played with the two bumps sticking up. No one including Etr had ever touched me there and it felt good.

The thumping of my heart was faster and my breathing heavier, as though I was going into battle. One of her hands moved over my belly and delicately traced a line along my sensitive scar.

My body jerked in pain from her touch.

“Are you hurting?” she asked while looking at my wound

“No woman,” I lied with a warrior’s stoicism.

Nonetheless, she stopped touching me.

“You’re weak as a newborn pup,” she said with some pity and helped me to sit up.

No self respecting warrior would admit to weakness and despised the pity of others but the words failed me.

Gradually, my strength improved and I started training for the eventual return to battle. After my convalescence, I returned to the hut I occupied with Etr’s family and was turned away.

“We don’t have the means to provide for you,” Etr’s father said wearily with a troubled look.

His youngest and last son had died in the same battle I was injured. With many mouths to feed, the wife of a dead son was a burden he could no longer bear. In truth, I was capable of eating as much if not more than a man.

I had no quarrel with Etr’s father and walked the short distance to my fathers’ hut. My oldest brother greeted me with the same hostility he showed the enemy.

“You are no longer welcome here girl,” he sneered at me.

The hut was full to bursting with my brothers, sisters and their off spring. My father, once the most feared warrior in our village, was sick and probably dying from wounds he received in a recent skirmish. I agreed to go but wondered why my brother, my kin hated me.

When Etr’s sister saw me walking toward her hut, she had a broad smile on her face.

“I am homeless woman. Can you help me?” I asked with a rare dose of humility.

“You are welcome here!” She answered enthusiastically.

“Perhaps you should ask for your father in law’s permission,” I said reminding her of basic tribal law governing such matters.

“He is a kind hearted man and has already consented,” she stated succinctly.

I was impressed. Her actions required forethought and planning, an admirable quality in a woman or a man.

Because it was mid summer, I avoided the stifling heat of the hut and erected a sturdy weather proof lean two under the shade of an enormous maple tree.

My days were spent training with the warriors. In the evenings, I sat or reclined by the outside fire with Etr’s sister as she sewed or wove cloth for garments. We spoke very little and she would softly sing or hum a tribal song.

One evening as she sang a sad song about a fallen warrior, I was fascinated by her golden hair and pale skin. In contrast, mine was dark brown and my complexion a little darker.

“What is your name woman?” I asked gently.

“Blanka,” she replied shyly.

In our language it literally meant white one. When I was much younger, my father told me that during the time of his father’s father, our tribes made peace with the vicious tribes of the far north. They were very tall with golden hair and had the most terrible war cry he ever heard. Their language was harsh but easy to learn and inter marriage was encouraged as a way of joining our peoples together.

Their customs were crude but over time a middle ground for co-existence was established. During my lifetime it was common to see people with gold hair in the villages that made up our tribe.

There were times when disputes and bad blood ended in battles but we learned to stop fighting each other and the Romans became our common enemy. However, they were undisciplined fighters who simply charged and fought with more guts than brains. The Romans were terrified of them and as allies they were invaluable.

Blanka was smiling at me in a demure posture that a wife would assume for her husband. She wanted me to accompany her to the river but with the sun low on the horizon, it was ill advised but I agreed anyway.

“You and your clothes need a wash,” she said charmingly.

That afternoon my hunting party killed a large deer and I was coated with blood, guts and dirt. Blanka grabbed a small sack and walked briskly, matching me stride for stride.

At a secluded pool in a narrow bend of the river, Blanka made me sit on a rock with the water lapping at my waist as she washed my clothes. She was using a root that produced a kind of foam.

Finally, she turned her attention to me and used the same root. As she washed my hair, some of the foam fell on my hand and I discovered it was slippery.

Blanka was humming a tune as she covered my upper body in foam. When I stood up, her hands gently washed the rest of me. She splashed water over me as a rinse than stood back a little and looked me over.

“You have a handsome body warrior,” She said with admiration.

My body was already tingling from Blanka’s soft fingers when she leaned against me and put her arms around my neck. My heart was pounding in my chest.

“I am a female or have you forgotten?” I asked weakly and put my brawny arms around her.

Blanka pulled back a little and gazed at me with that look. She wanted something and slowly it was dawning on me just what that was.

“I desire to be with you, like a wife with a husband,” she said with yearning and ran her hands over my front causing me to moan.

It was well known in our village that sometimes women had desires for other women. They were free to pursue such interest but it was frowned upon after marriage.

Because I trained as a warrior, I was segregated from the day to day activities of women. I knew little about their world and interacted with them in a masculine way.

Blanka was breaking down that barrier by boldly expressing her want. But, with darkness gathering around us, it was imperative that we return to the village.

When we reached my lean two, I lay back on a bed of fresh straw. Blanka flung herself on top of me and tenderly licked the skin on my neck, shoulders and chest. She was fascinated with the bumps on my chest and licked them, sending shivers throughout my body.

Soon Blanka’s licks turned into sucking and indescribable feelings surged over me. Her hand parted my pubic hair and a finger twirled up and down the center where Etr had forced his manhood.

I was lost in the marvelous feelings that Blanka was drawing out of me. An entire Roman legion could have attacked the village and I would not have cared.

The sensation between my legs was so intense that the urgency to urinate started to build. And, it built with enough force that I was powerless to stop it. My body shook with a sensation that was entirely new to me and I cried out with each passing upsurge.

Gradually, the feelings died out as embarrassment over my inability to keep from urinating took hold of me. With Blanka still on top of me, I felt along the straw bed for the telltale signs. Much to my surprise, I discovered that the bedding was dry.

When I confessed this to Blanka, she smiled and said it happened to her also. I fell asleep with her wrapped in my arms.

As the summer waned, Blanka was a frequent visitor to my outside living quarters. She looked after my needs with a caring that was usually reserved for a husband.

The Roman campaigns ceased and it was the most peaceful summer that I could remember. But, it was strictly temporary and patrols were spotted dangerously close to our village.

When my father died, my eldest brother became the unofficial leader of the warriors. I considered him to be too brash and reckless for the position but the male majority said otherwise.

We clashed about his proposed plans and tactics for fighting the Romans. Instead of moving the village to safer ground, he wanted to establish a defensive position and fight it out. He was abandoning our hit and run strategy; a strategy that worked to our advantage because of our much smaller fighting force.

At a warriors’ council, I made my feelings known. I thought that his plan was sheer idiocy and would bring ruin to us all but I was shouted down.

“Stupid female,” was yelled by half the men.

The Romans were anything but stupid and sent twelve cohorts against us on a cool autumn morning. When the second wave struck, we were overrun and retreated in the direction of the village.

About one hundred yards away from the village, we tried desperately to reestablish a defensive line but the volume of Roman attackers overwhelmed us. People in the village were running helter skelter in a vain attempt to flea but the Romans surrounded us and cut off all avenues of escape.

Small pockets of warriors fought bravely as the Romans advanced toward the center of the village. But, defeat and disaster were looming on the horizon.

I fought in a group of ten warriors near the village square. My eldest brother was next to me with a look of terror on his face. He had let the unthinkable happen and paralyzed with fear, he fell quickly as the Romans pressed forward.

I lost track of how many Romans I slew as one by one my comrades fell around me. I was fighting with all the courage and stamina I could muster until I saw the last warrior of my group fall with multiple wounds to his body.

The circle of Romans moved back as did the soldier I was fighting. Completely exhausted and demoralized by the loss of my comrades, I dropped to my knees and awaited the sword thrust that would end my life.

When none came, I looked up to see an important looking soldier walking toward me with a man in non military clothing.

“Drop your weapon and stand up!” the soldier barked at me in Latin.

Immediately, I did as requested but kept my head down.

“An impressive specimen captain; she will command a princely sum at the slave market for gladiators,” the man in civilian clothing stated.

“Guard, chain her to the others,” the captain ordered.

“Just a moment captain, I want her kept separate from the other women. She is not to be raped or abused by your men. It will lower her value. Do I make myself clear?” the civilian stated with authority.

Still distraught by the horrendous defeat inflicted on my people, I suddenly grasped who the civilian was and his authority over a captain in the Roman army.

He was a slave merchant who followed the armies and sold any survivors from battles into slavery. A percentage of the profit from the sale of slaves was returned to the army as a kickback. It was in the captain’s best interest to comply with the slave merchants wishes as monies filtered down from the general in charge.

How did I know this? A fellow of his ilk was captured during a winter raid on a fort. He was tortured for three days before he expired but lasted long enough to tell us everything about his trade.

I was chained to five men and when I looked around I realized that was all that remained of our warriors. A terrible sadness fell over me and for the first time in a very long time, tears fell from my eyes.

For two days we walked in a driving rain until we came to a fort. I noticed a small group of women and children from the village but Blanka was not among them.

Inside the fort, we were kept under guard in the courtyard next to the soldiers’ barracks. When night fell, the women were separated from the children and taken inside the barracks. In a matter of minutes, the sound of screaming and crying descended on our ears as the soldiers raped them. Young or old, the Romans made no distinction.

On several occasions we heard the guards say that another group of the vanquished was expected and then it was off to Rome. When they arrived, we could see they were from a village to the east of ours. Unfortunately, we recognized none of them.

At sunset, the new group of captive women met the same fate as ours at the hands of the Roman soldiers. I can still hear their anguished cries.

Except for a little water, small piece of hard bread and a bowl of clear soup, we were given nothing else. Under an armed guard of a hundred soldiers or better we began the march to Rome. The journey would last for three weeks and claim the lives of half those in chains.

As we marched over a hillside on the Appian Way, the city of Rome could be seen in the distance. In spite of all the hardship and sorrow that I had endured, I marveled at the sheer enormity of the metropolis.

Rome 93 AD

The throngs of people in the streets staggered the mind as we were led to the slave market. A massive oval building with a gleaming marble façade, grew larger and larger as we navigated the narrow streets. The size and scale was such that my entire village would fit inside.

At the time, I had no way of knowing the life and death struggle that the grand structure would play in my life.

We were put into crowded holding cells to await the next auction. All the comrades that I was chained to survived the journey but a terrible fate awaited us all.

The sounds and sights of the slave auction were terrifying. I watched helpless as the women and children from my village were sold one by one. The five men I was chained to were sold to different gladiatorial schools.

When I was led to the block, I tried my best to look defiant and fearless in the face of my captors. The bidding was vigorous and loud with the auctioneer desperately trying to maintain control.

When the final bid was knocked down, the crowd cheered wildly. As I was pushed to an oxcart, a guard shouted in my ear,

“Look happy slave, you’ve just been sold to the best gladiatorial school in Rome.”

Instantly, the words of the slave merchant rang in my ears as I stood defeated before him in my village.

Two oxcarts, one with men and the other with women, moved slowly through the streets until they stopped before a high gated fence. Inside the open courtyard, two story brick buildings lined the sides. The oxcart with the men went to the right of a wood barrier and ours was directed to the left.

We were told to get out and line up according to height. A short but stout woman attired in what appeared to be some type of fighting gear walked up and down the line stopping to look at each woman.

We were assigned a number according to height; the shortest one and the tallest twelve. I was number eleven. My previous identity ceased to exist and from then on I was referred to as number eleven.

A long list of rules was barked at us and we were expected to remember them. A guard led us into a fenced area and we saw women training on various apparatus as we walked by.

Because of possible lice infection, each woman’s head was shaved. In a separate room, we were told to remove all our clothing then marched down a long circular stair to a very large room filled with steaming water.

We were handed a sponge and something called soap. I followed the line into the hot water and mimicked what the others were doing. Bathing was a rarity among my people but I learned to appreciate it when Blanka washed me in the river.

Stark naked and dripping water we stood according to height in a low ceiling room waiting for someone called a physician to examine us. As he inspected each person, he made various comments and observations that were transcribed on a roll of paper by a young man.

“Number eleven,” the young man called out.

“Captured in Gaul, approximately eighteen years old,” the young transcriber stated to the physician.

I stood motionless in front of the physician as he looked over my body.

“Hmm…above average muscle tone,” he stated and the young man scribbled something on the paper.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered and spent a long time examining my teeth.

“Teeth are in good condition. No sign of infection or disease” he stated dryly.

As I lay on a stone table, the physician poked and prodded most of my body but made no comments. Finally, he examined my pubic hair very closely.

“Good, no lice. That’s all,” he barked and I returned to my place in line.

A clean white tunic was issued before we were seated at a communal dining area with many other women. Talking was forbidden and a punishable offence.

A thick soup with meat and vegetables was served along with bread and wine. A veritable feast by the standards of my village and I ate ravenously.

As discreetly as possible, I looked around the room and was amazed by the different varieties and types of females that lined the benches. I recognized no one from my tribe.

There was a tall, dark skinned woman with a regal bearing that intrigued me. She was seated along the far wall with a woman of similar color.

‘She’s beautiful,” I thought to myself.

A loud whistle burst announced the end of the meal and we were marched to a dormitory with windowless rooms. One slave per room only the rooms were cells with locked doors.

The next day after a breakfast of porridge and dried fruit, all the newcomers were given a wooden sword. The basic moves and skills of gladiatorial combat were practiced with military precision until a bell rang signaling the end of practice.

The bath was filled to overflowing with sweaty females. I noticed that the water was scented with oils that were pleasing to the senses. A few women were accorded the luxury of a rubdown by the attendant slaves.

When we were seated for the evening meal, I cautiously looked for the dark skinned woman. She was seated in the same spot only this time she caught me looking. I was drawn to her but for the life of me I knew not why.

The training grew more difficult each day. A newcomer from Greece was badly injured during an exercise and a woman from Spain was whipped in front of us for disobedience. Most women cooperated and applied themselves to the training with dedication. I was among them.

At dinner, I looked for the dark beauty and she caught me every time. Sometimes, she would smile at me and while it made my heart flutter, I always looked away without smiling in return. When she ate, her movements were graceful and mannered. Compared to her, the rest of us ate like swine.

One afternoon after a grueling practice, I was finishing in the bath when I noticed the dark woman receiving a rub down. The brown skin on her back glowed from the oil the slave was kneading into her flesh. She was lean with highly defined muscles that radiated power.

She was facing away from me so I used the opportunity to linger in the bath and steal glances at her. I saw the slave attending to her whisper something in her ear. She turned her head with a smile that lit up her pretty face. My heart was beating wildly in my chest.

Our training progressed to practice combat against an opponent using our wooden swords and shields. Long days in the rain or sunshine, cold or heat were spent endlessly rehearsing the various moves then applying them with a combatant.

“Listen up slaves,” our instructor barked.

“Twenty three will demonstrate the repertoire of moves that are essential for survival in the arena,” she yelled.

When I saw that it was the woman with exotic brown skin, my heart skipped a beat.

I stared in total admiration at twenty three as she moved fluidly and gracefully through the different movements. Her fighting style was extremely refined and polished; far superior to my own and most of the women at the gladiatorial school.

“I need a volunteer…” the instructor bellowed.

Immediately, twenty three pointed her wooden sword at me. I was surprised and struggled to maintain a blank expression.

When I faced off with twenty three, I was mesmerized by her beauty and gazed into her vibrant dark eyes. She was taller than me but leaner. The instructor yelled for us to start, and while I knew I was hopelessly outclassed, I gave it my all.

With an economy of movement, twenty three blocked each sword thrust and parry with nimble agility. As I grew more frustrated, I forgot the discipline that I had been taught and brought my raw power to bear.

With amazing swiftness, twenty three’s wooden sword fell against my neck in what assuredly would have been a death blow. The lesson was over.

As the instructor droned on about the fatal consequences of abandoning our skills during a fight, twenty three was staring at me with a smoldering expression. We were breathing heavily from our exertions and my body was tingling with a familiar sensation.

That evening, as I lay on my bed, my door was unlocked and it shocked me. When we were placed in our cells at night, the doors remained locked until morning.

“Number eleven, follow me,” the guard commanded.

We went up a staircase and down a long corridor, stopping in front of a door similar to mine. The guard opened it and pushed me inside. Much to my astonishment, twenty three was seated on her bed with a mercurial smile on her beautiful face.

Earlier, I heard a soldier assigning companions both male and female to the women scheduled to fight in the arena tomorrow. I knew twenty three was fighting…the realization slowly sank into my head.

I stood motionless in front of twenty three as her intense gaze bore into me. Suddenly, I felt shy in her presence and lowered my head. Never in my years as a warrior did I blush, show bashfulness or weakness of any kind to another person. Yet, here I was acting like the village virgin in front of this strikingly sensual woman.

When twenty three spoke it startled me. Talking was forbidden in the school and except for whispered conversations in the bath, was strictly enforced.

“You are surprised?” she asked in a lilting voice of heavily accented Latin.

I nodded my reply, too afraid to speak. Twenty three gestured for me to sit next to her. When I did so, the intoxicating smell of oils from the bath entered my nose.

The close proximity to twenty three was like drinking too much wine. I felt light headed but shifted my gaze up to her face.

“She’s even more beautiful up close,” I thought to myself.

Twenty three’s brown skin was flawless; her dark eyes sparkled with curiosity but there was some sadness in them as well. Her black shiny hair was cut short and looked like a tightly woven basket.

“You’re beautiful,” I stated in a gushing voice and hoped I used the appropriate Latin word.

Twenty three smiled broadly and laughed. My anger started to rise because I thought she was mocking me.

“So, you think I’m fat,” she said in a chuckling voice.

Quickly I realized my mistake and blurted out the correct word. Twenty three’s demeanor changed and she looked at me with those intense dark eyes. My insides were churning with desire from her gaze.

“I am glad you chose me” I said humbly and looked away.

Twenty three gently pulled my chin so that I was looking directly at her. She moved closer and grazed her warm soft lips over one cheek and then the other. A warm prickly sensation washed over my body and I involuntarily moaned.

Twenty three held me in her muscular arms and brought her sensuous lips to my neck. As they glided over the sensitive skin, her tongue tip added an entirely new feeling.

My body was fiery with passion when twenty three pulled my tunic up and over my head. Her hands caressed my body with a skill inherited from the gods.

When her fingers reached the scar on my belly, they traced along the length with incredible delicacy.

“You were a warrior among your people,” she stated without surprise as though she already knew.

“Yes…umm…” I answered in a breathless voice and moaned.

Twenty three’s fingers slowly rubbed the center between my legs and strong sensations rushed through my body.

Gasping and moaning from the intense pleasure twenty three accorded me, I experienced the overwhelming feeling of peeing myself but realized that it was the new and wonderful sensation that I had enjoyed with Blanka.

As the feeling went away, I was at a loss as to what I should do for her.

“Why do you look unhappy?” she asked with annoyance.

“I do not know how to please a woman,” I answered with shame for my inexperience.

Twenty three laughed in a most charming way.

“In due time, my fiery Gaul; I will teach you all that I know. Now, I must rest,” she said in a soothing voice.

As twenty three tenderly embraced me, I gazed at her peaceful looking face.

“How did you come to be here?” I asked innocently.

Twenty three’s face changed as a shadow of pain passed over it.

“It is a sad story. My father was king of my people. When I was in my fifteenth year, the Roman’s came to my country. Many were killed by the soldiers and many were taken as slaves.

The Romans made my father swear an oath of loyalty. He was to pay money every year to them. If he paid this money, he could be king. But, they don’t trust my father. The soldiers take me, my sister and my brother to Rome. We are made to live in a small house with soldiers always watching.

In my eighteenth year, the soldiers tell us my father is dead. No money is paid to the Romans. The soldiers rape my sister and me. Then, take us to slave market,”

Twenty three’s eyes filled with tears and her voice was cracking.

“I am sold to this gladiatorial school. My sister and brother are sold. For twelve months now I don’t see my brother and sister. I don’t know where they are…” she cried and couldn’t go on.

As twenty three regarded me with sorrowful eyes, she pulled me close in a gentle embrace.

In the days that followed, I learned that twenty three lived in a less restrictive part of the gladiatorial school. She had proven her worth in the arena and was accorded many privileges.

Although she was a slave, she was allowed to keep most of the purse money from her appearances in the arena. Most female gladiators fought once every eight to twelve weeks. Because of our popularity and scarcity, we were too valuable a commodity to our owner to risk more than was necessary.

Twenty three befriended me and took me under her protective wing. We trained in the same fighting discipline and her insights and advice were invaluable. Under her tutelage, I achieved a greater amount of skill.

At her request, I was permitted to spend one night per week with her. Later, I learned that she had to bribe the matron and guards for the extra privilege. I was glad for that.

On the eve of twenty three’s departure for gladiatorial games sponsored by a wealthy landowner south of Rome, I was allowed to visit her. When I entered her room, her beautiful face and radiant smile greeted me.

I was giddy with happiness and ran to her arms.

“You are in high spirits, my fiery Gaul,” she said caringly.

In the short time that we had known each other, twenty three had awakened the female side of me that I had repressed as a warrior with my people.

I was number eleven; the barbarian from Gaul, easily tamed by the majestic dark skinned woman. I was acting and responding like a female for the first time in many years.

As I playfully nuzzled her wonderfully scented neck, my hands massaged the bumps on her front.

“You are eager tonight,” she breathed in my ear.

My fingers found their way under her tunic and caressed the small mounds on her chest as my lips grazed the silky skin of her cheeks and forehead eliciting a few moans.

When I looked into her eyes, my heart was pounding in my chest. Words could not describe the joyous feeling inside of me but I think she knew.

For a long time, my lips slid over twenty three’s velvety skin. When I reached the hard little bumps, I used my tongue tip. She gently held my head all the while panting and groaning.

Twenty three’s hips were undulating and she was pushing the place between her legs against my thigh. I felt something wet and was curious to see what she looked like. I knew she was different from me but I wanted to look more closely.

Twenty three’s skin was darker there and her pubic hair was wound in very tight curls. I saw that the center was open a little with a pinkish inside and was damp with moisture.

Whatever want or desire took hold of me, I can’t be certain but I reasoned that if my tongue tip felt good on other parts of twenty three’s body it would feel just as good there.

Slowly, I ran it up twenty three’s center and kept repeating it. She cried out with pleasure as I worked more of my tongue into the wet groove. Some of her wetness trickled into my mouth and although it tasted strong, I found I liked it.

Twenty three was bucking her gluteus maximus and pushing more of her center against my lips. I wanted to please her in the worst way and kept at her groove. It wasn’t long before she cried out again and her body shook.

Some of her wetness clung to my lips and when she sat up, she slowly licked it off.

“Was it pleasing to you?” I asked shyly.

Twenty three’s answer was to pull me on top of her and hold me tightly with her impressive strength. As we lay facing each other with our arms wound tightly together, she seemed sad.

“Are you afraid?” I asked referring to the journey and gladiatorial games in a different arena.

“No, I am confident but I dislike causing another’s death,” she said with distress in her voice.

I was looking at twenty three curiously. I had killed many in combat as a warrior for my people but always out of necessity.

“My people believe that how a person conducts their life in this world determines their fate in the next. I have brought dishonor on them and myself by fighting and killing for the enjoyment of others,” she said solemnly.

I gazed into twenty three’s dark troubled eyes. “Often, I see the faces of the lives I ended and it shames me,” she whispered with heart rending sadness and lowered her tear filled gaze

My heart ached for twenty three and as I held her firmly against my body, tears coursed down my cheeks.

For two long weeks, I waited impatiently for twenty three’s return. On several occasions during training, I was verbally reprimanded for not paying attention. I was thinking about twenty three.

When twenty three returned, I heard whispering in the bath house that her first opponent was inept and the crowd demanded death. She hesitated in executing the woman and was being reprimanded and confined to her cell.

It was nearly another two weeks before I saw her.

When the guard closed the door, I fell into twenty three’s arms. Overcome with emotion, my tears stained her bare shoulder.

“Why do you cry?” she asked me tenderly.

“I am glad to be with you,” I blubbered like a child and held on to her as though my very existence depended on it.

“You have much feeling in your heart for me?” she asked in the sweetest voice.

My mind searched for the Latin word.

“Love,” was my one word answer.

“My fiery Gaul, I have allowed you to enter my heart. Love for you has grown there and grows stronger each day,” she said with emotional yearning.

At that moment, I knew that I loved and cared for her and always would. Passionately, we explored each others bodies until we were too tired to go on.

As my initial training reached its conclusion, I was informed that I would fight my first combat in the Coliseum. When I learned that twenty three was fighting also, it took some of the edge off my nervousness.

On the eve of the contest, a banquet was given by the school for the gladiators scheduled to compete. Outsiders and Roman citizens were allowed to mingle with us.

Several men and women went up to twenty three or Amazon, her arena name, and complimented her on her fighting style. She graciously thanked them with a smile.

Later, I was accorded the privilege of spending the night with twenty three. Her demeanor was serious and she insisted that I spend time reviewing the skills of our fighting discipline.

As twenty three went through the various moves from basic to complex, I watched transfixed as her lithe body moved with an elegant, fluid style that resembled a graceful dance and not combat.

“You are not paying attention my fiery Gaul,” she lightly admonished me.

“I think I will do well tomorrow,” I stated with some confidence.

“I have seen you in training. You are quick to anger and have a savage way of fighting. It can be both good and bad for you,” she said with caring in her voice.

“Will I have to fight you someday?” I asked in a somber way.

“There may come a day when we face each other. It will be a sad day for me,” she said with quiet despair.

I clung to twenty three like a baby to its mother. Her brutal honesty made my heart ache the likes of which I had never known.

A contingent of guards and slaves marched beside us through a tunnel that connected the gladiatorial school to the sub basement of the Coliseum.

As we emerged into a labyrinth of poorly lit passageways, the smell of death hung heavy in the stifling air. The roars and cries of various beasts were deafening and resonated in air.

Gladiators stood impatiently as slaves working wondrous machines and devices lined the corridors leaving little room for passersby.

Twenty three was stoic and had her game face on. All gladiators were expected to conduct themselves with a quiet and serious demeanor. Talking, while not forbidden, was restricted and we spoke in whispers or with glances.

The thick, soupy and foul air was nauseating me. I was a veteran warrior of many battles but this was appalling to the senses.

As we waited for a lifting device to take us to the floor of the arena I looked at my opponent, a sullen but capable Thracian woman. When we emerged in the bright light of the Coliseum, the grandeur and size of the structure staggered me.

I had little time to appreciate my surroundings as we saluted the Imperial box and faced off with our opponent. The Thracian fought with skill and patience while my ferocious style, honed from my years of fighting the Romans erupted with a fury.

However, I never gained an advantage and we fought to a draw. Twenty three’s opponent was on her knees begging the crowd for mercy. The mob was in a forgiving mood and her life was spared.

Afterward in the cleansing waters of the bath, I smiled at twenty three as she washed her lithe form. She exuded a sexuality and power that lit my senses like a roaring fire. But, her companionship was just as if not more important to me.

Over the next six months, I fought twice in the Coliseum and once in Capernum. The exhibition in Capernum was the first time I had to kill my opponent.

A woman from the Roman upper class, she was poorly trained and gave a bad performance. Defiant in defeat, she refused to ask the crowd for mercy and none was granted.

As I stood over her, she bowed her head and held my thigh in the proper pose for a death blow. Because of my hatred for the Romans when I was a warrior, I had no qualms about killing. But, this was different. I hesitated far too long and the crowd jeered and booed very loudly.

“End it!” I heard her bark in perfect Latin.

When I thrust the sword into her neck ending her life, I understood why twenty three despised the killing.

As punishment for faltering in the arena and with every female gladiator in the school present, I received five lashes and confinement to my cell for two weeks. I refused to cry out from the whip and received my penalty in silence.

My back was on fire with pain as I lay face down on my bed. I heard a key turn in the lock of the door and assumed it was the physician.

Someone knelt beside me and when I turned my head, I saw it was twenty three. She was smiling with sympathy and holding a jar with something white inside. Tears of happiness filled my eyes.

“You were very brave my fiery Gaul,” she said passionately but quietly.

I nodded my head in gratitude but I didn’t feel brave.

“This will hurt but it heals,” she warned me in a soft voice and gave me a piece of leather to bite down on.

When twenty three applied the ointment to my back, I bit the leather to keep from yelling in pain. When it was over, she sat next to me and gently stroked my hair. In a very quiet but melodic voice, she warbled a soothing song that put me peacefully to sleep.

Every evening twenty three came to change the dressing and softly sang me to sleep.

“The healing is good,” twenty three remarked as she inspected my back.

I sat up and turned to put my arms around twenty three in gratitude. With my head on her shoulder, she gently rocked me. The wonderful feeling of security that I felt in her embrace was indescribable. I never wanted it to end.

With four appearances in the arena, I was given more privileges at the school. My stage name in the arena was taken from a Greek mythic god but the crowd gave me the nickname “Barbarian” because of my ferocious fighting style and it stuck.

In spite of the three square meals a day, good health care and very clean living conditions, I was keenly aware that I was a slave with no rights except those granted by my owner, the gladiatorial school.

While some gladiators were awarded freedom, a vast majority never left the confines of the school and died fighting in the arena.

A cold winter wind was blowing the day a female gladiator who had been granted her freedom, returned to the school to fight again.

Later, in the privacy of my cell, I asked twenty three about her but she seemed lost in thought.

“Is it hard for gladiators outside the gates to the school?” I asked with curiosity.

“Yes, some miss the cheering crowds and the money,” she said in a melancholy voice.

“You are unhappy?” I asked with heart felt concern.

Twenty three gave me weak smile but I knew that she was deeply troubled about something. However, she refused to speak about it.

On a late winter afternoon at the Coliseum, twenty three was fighting an equally experienced gladiator but quickly gained an advantage.

With her opponent on her knees, begging for her life, the spectators were evenly divided on sparing her. Luckily, the signal from the Imperial box was for her life to be spared.

When twenty three told me what happened, I sighed with relief for her as she gazed at me with weary eyes.

“I don’t want to kill anymore,” she said with terrible sadness and openly wept.

As I held the beautiful dark skinned woman in my arms, I tried to soothe her by stroking her back and nuzzling her neck.

“You have love for me my fiery Gaul?” she asked tenderly while wiping her wet eyes.

“Much love,” I answered passionately.

Twenty three had learned the Roman technique of kissing from a rich female patron of the school. Wrapped in my gentle embrace, she demonstrated her new skill.

Twenty three’s kissed over my body pausing at my chest to mouth my hard bumps. Her passion at times exceeded my own and I discovered that she desired to please me as much as I desired to please her.

Twenty three taught me the proper technique for licking her center and I derived much pleasure from it. She was panting in rapid breaths and gently held my head between her lovely brown thighs.

As we were resting, I was suddenly curious.

“Do the women of your village…do…with other women…” I had a hard time thinking of the correct Latin words.

Twenty three looked puzzled for a moment but understood what I was asking.

“Yes, there are women who like women. A girl from my village taught me her secrets. It is acceptable among my people,” she stated factually.

Twenty three was moving down my body until she reached the groove between my legs. For a long time, she showed me how superbly educated she was.

On a warm spring morning, twelve female gladiators were informed that they would participate in games sponsored by a very wealthy Senator. The games were to be held in the arena at Tarentum, a small city south of Rome.

It was nothing unusual to fight in gladiatorial contests in different arenas. Sometimes, our opponents were from the local populace but mostly we fought each other.

Twenty three and I were on the roster. With the permission of my instructor, she was allowed to assist in my training.

For three weeks prior to our departure, twenty three drilled me over and over on the basic to advanced skills for the fighting discipline we trained in.

After a very intense practice the hot water of the bath was very satisfying and soothing. I whispered to twenty three that I wanted to give her a rub down.

That evening, I sat/kneeled in the area of her lower back to upper gluteus. Using the same oil as the slave attendants, I tenderly rubbed her back shoulders and neck.

“My fiery Gaul, you have talented hands,” she sighed deeply.

I was enthralled with the texture and color of twenty three’s skin and kneaded her exquisite flesh in a most loving manner. When I was finished, she turned on to her back and gazed at me with loving eyes.

Our passion knew no bounds that night as we used fingers and mouths until our bodies were sore. I loved twenty three. She meant more to me than life itself. As I slept in her comforting embrace, I had no inkling of the awful tragedy to come.


The journey to Tarentum was uneventful and we arrived the following morning. The hot muggy air in the equipment room of the arena was almost unbearable.

Everyone was sweating and in a surly mood. As far as we knew, it was a routine exhibition in the arena at Tarentum. When number eight informed us that the Senator had paid huge sums to see us fight to the death, a pall of overwhelming melancholy enveloped the entire room.

Twenty three was stoic, wearing her game face as she always did before a match. Our pairing was no accident, the Senator paid extra to see the exotic dark skinned gladiator fight the barbarian from Gaul.

One of us would not leave the arena alive. My mind refused to accept the reality of the situation and I decided not to fight. Twenty three had to kill me. I wanted her to live. But, she was wise beyond her years and had a plan of her own. My body was numb, devoid of feeling as we waited in the dimly light passage for our entrance into the arena. As I stood in front of twenty three holding my helmet, she whispered in my ear,

“Goodbye my fiery Gaul.”

A hand caressed my unprotected shoulder and gave a light squeeze of affection.

Before I had a chance to respond, we were separated and twenty three was sent to the opposite wall of the passage. I could barely see her in the gloom.

In the oppressive heat of the late afternoon sun, six pairs of gladiator’s saluted the figures in the Senator’s box and commenced fighting.

We were the least active of all the pairs as I kept circling away from her powerful left arm. I was determined not to fight the woman I loved but twenty three wisely knew that inactivity was deemed as cowardice and could result in both our deaths.

“Fight, stupid barbarian!” she taunted constantly.

Twenty three was clearly the aggressor. As she jabbed and feinted with exquisite skill, I easily blocked them with my shield. I had learned my lessons well.

“People from Gaul are born in dung heaps,” she spat insultingly, desperately trying to raise my anger.

The crowd was restless and rightfully so; not one blow of consequence had been exchanged. Cries and whistles of derision filled the air.

“Listen to them, do you want us both to die, you pathetic excuse for a gladiator,” she said in a voice full of contempt

Twenty three made several half hearted lunges at me that I avoided. Another series of tepid sword thrusts glanced off my shield. In the choking heat of the arena, she was expending precious energy in a bold effort to arouse my fighting instincts.

The crowd noise was deafening and filled with curses and howls.

“I am a princess among my people. You are a stupid uncouth girl, a barbarian,” she shouted scornfully in between sword thrusts.

The insults and angry mob were having an effect on me. Slowly, the rage inside of me built to an unstoppable crescendo and the gladiator in front of me was no longer the woman I loved but an opponent.

“Fight!” she shrieked at me.

With tremendous ferocity, I rained blows on twenty three that staggered her and opened cuts on the unprotected parts of her arms and torso.

Defensively, I circled away from twenty three’s left hand as the crowd cheered wildly. The anger in my veins was not appeased and I waded in with a series of savage thrusts and parries that hit their mark.

Twenty three was shaken and bloody but quickly went on a counter offensive that rattled me. Her attack was precise but lackluster and instinctively, I knew she was tiring. She fought with desperation and I intuitively understood that she was clinging to the futile hope that we would be granted a draw.

As I doubled my assault, hammering blow after blow against her shield, she countered with sword strikes that opened wounds on my arms. She fought with every ounce of strength in her being but was visibly weakening with cuts oozing blood.

Another vicious assault had twenty three steadily backing up until she mounted her last counter offensive. But, she was unable to deliver a blow that mattered. An air of impending doom seemed to settle over us in the roasting heat of the arena.

Exhausted and breathing heavily, twenty three remained in a defensive mode, a sign of her impending defeat. She had used up much of her strength trying to provoke me into fighting.

When I paused to assess her condition, twenty three was unable to raise her sword. Her feet were unsteady and she wobbled precariously. As she fell to her knees, the sword in her left hand slipped from her grasp and thudded on the arena floor.

“Pick up your sword and fight,” I frantically implored the fallen figure.

Twenty three was sweating profusely and gasping for air as blood poured from the wounds on her body. She removed her helmet placing it on the ground as a signal that she was done fighting.

Then, twenty three looked up at me with a heartbreaking expression of sadness. My heart sank in utter despair as I realized that she had sacrificed herself for me.

“Get up and fight!” I screamed at her, my voice shrill and filled with desperation.

But, twenty three was incapable of rising to the challenge, and fell onto her back. She was thoroughly beaten; there was no fight left in her and I wept uncontrollably at the sight of her bloody and battered body.

The crushing reality that I would have to end twenty three’s life filled me with horror. If she had pressed her advantage early, it would have been me kneeling defeated in the blood soaked dirt.

As I stood over twenty three, I looked through a haze of tears at the Senators’ box for any sign of hope that she might be spared. The tremendous cheering by the spectators was for mercy. But, it was not to be.

“Kill her…finish her!” came the cries from the Senator’s box.

It had been decreed, fight to the death.

With my sword in both hands and ready to deal deaths blow, tears streamed down my helmet covered face. Twenty three was the only one who could see my tears of anguish. With the faintest of smiles, she gazed at me with forgiving eyes and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she loved me.

“Goodbye my fiery Gaul,” her final words of endearment in the passageway rang in my ears. I had failed to comprehend that she was making the ultimate sacrifice.

When twenty three closed her eyes in acceptance of her fate, I made the appropriate sword thrust that robbed her body of life. I had no choice or die with her. I felt like a coward.

Consumed with grief, I looked down at her still form for a few precious last moments as the restless mob jeered its disapproval of her demise. Her unmarked beautiful face had a serene look; she was at peace.

As I walked dejectedly to the iron gates of the gladiator exit, I dropped my sword in the blood stained sand of the arena floor. I was sobbing with heart rending sorrow behind my metal mask and let the shield drop too.

When I reached the iron gates, I turned and looked where twenty three’s body lay but it had already been removed by the highly efficient slaves who toiled in the arenas of the Roman Empire.

Because twenty three was a slave and lacked status, there would be no marker or plaque to commemorate her existence and passing. Her body would be thrown into an unmarked mass grave.

I watched as the next group of gladiators entered the arena to the whistles and cheers of the spectators. Still garbed in my armor and helmet, blood from cuts on my arms was dripping off my fingertips. I no longer wanted to live. I had lost everything in my life that was near and dear to me; my people, my village, Blanka and now the dearest of all, twenty three.

As I removed my helmet, I heard twenty three’s voice in my head. “Your time to die will come but not today my fiery Gaul,” she said with certainty as I nervously awaited a gladiatorial contest in the Coliseum of Rome now some long months ago.

We fought side by side in the arena that day with our contests ending in a draw.

“You fought bravely my fiery Gaul,” twenty three declared with a broad smile on her luminous face and placed her arm affectionately around my shoulders.

I vividly recalled the upwelling of emotion that surged in my heart as we strode out of the arena. Twenty three was a noble warrior princess with a courageous and unselfish heart.

“The Romans have robbed us of much except one thing, our memories of our people, loved ones and home. That, they can never take away,” twenty three said to me one day with passionate fire.

“I will remember you till my last dying breath,” I murmured in a breaking voice filled with sorrow and turned my back to the spectacle of killing.

Leave a Reply* Marked items are required