"Next!" A voice with a strong German accent entered the room, causing Ariadne to raise her head from the desk she was tidying up to look out of the window. Melancholic, brown eyes fixed on the training compound stretched in front of her, as she watched her father's most expert gladiators 'break in' the new recruits, purchased at the market the day before. She loathed the whole business concerning the combats, but she was also morbidly fascinated by it.  She wondered how it could be possible that a man like her father, who had suffered on his own skin that brutal life, could subject other unfortunate men to it. Was it because he did not know anything better? Because he had not been able to adapt to another life and had returned to do the only thing he had been good at? 'Probably it is so', she thought. She too was now a free woman, but after spending the first fifteen years of her life in slavery, she found it almost impossible to adapt to her new life. She found herself unable to forget what she had been, and the people around her did nothing to help her to do so.

In Zucchabar everyone knew everything about everyone and her past was a known fact, including the detail she had been the property of a man renowned for his depravity. Ariadne mused, not for the first time, it would have been better to be still a slave, at least she would know how to behave, instead of living in a perpetual limbo, trapped between a life that did not exist anymore and another that had yet to really begin. The thought was terrible: how could she debase the precious gift of freedom so much? Trying to distract herself, she looked in the courtyard, just in time to see Haken, her father's star gladiator, spar with a muscular young Numidian. The new recruit was not put off by the giant German, and counterattacked, showing courage, even if his technique was that of a novice. Her father approved his actions and ordered one of the servants to paint the man's tunic in red, the mark that separated the promising fighters from those almost surely destined to a rapid and inglorious demise. Not that there was anything glorious in the games, she mused.

"The Spaniard!" Haken called again and Ariadne decided to watch this match too, before returning to the endless task of pushing away the dirt that continued to seep into the house from outside.  

The 'Spaniard' was a sturdy man with dark hair and beard. He walked in front of the German and took the wooden sword given to him. For a brief moment he gripped the hilt in a way that clearly showed he was able to use it. And to use it well, his body posture so controlled and menacing even she, in all of her inexperience, could sense it, before throwing the training weapon into the sand, and staring at Haken with contempt.  Ariadne shivered and thought briefly about retreating, not wanting to see what she was sure was going to happen, not wanting to see the slave being disciplined. Her father had explained to her why it was so necessary to teach the gladiators who was in command, and she had understood the logic of his words, but still, having suffered so many punishments herself, she hated to see the others go through the same practice. She just hoped the Spaniard learned the lesson quickly and fought as he was requested to do. But the slave did not hear her prayer; in fact, after a blow to his stomach that had made him double over, he did not pick up the sword, but simply stood in front of the enraged German, his head held high, his gaze unwavering. Ariadne saw Haken look at her father for instruction and, after receiving a nod, hit the rebellious slave on his shoulder, where there was still an angry, not completely healed wound. The Spaniard fell down in the dirt, his whole body trembling, but once more he stood straight, a challenging expression on his face. Haken was furious and raised his sword over his head, ready to hit the man again, but his owner's voice blocked him.

"That's enough for the moment. His time will come."

Ariadne turned to look at her father with surprise; that was the first time he let a slave do what he pleased and she could not help wondering why he did so. Then her gaze returned to the Spaniard, whose tunic had just been marked in yellow, the colour of the plodders, and watched him walk away to the cells, feeling somehow fascinated by him. Something in his behaviour, in his lack of fear had touched her and for the first time since she could remember she felt the desire to get to know someone better. The young woman shook her head, making her long, dark hair wave, and deciding she had already lost enough time, returned to her job.

That evening at dinner Ariadne observed her father eat his food with a faraway look on his tanned, lined face. She had never seen him so lost in thought, except when he mused about her late mother, and that made her curious. "What is it?" she asked.

Aelius Proximo turned to look at his daughter and answered, "I think our fortune might be on the verge of improving."

"Really?" she enquired, not really knowing what he meant by his comment.

"Yes, I believe one of the new recruits could turn out to be our gold mine."

"Are you referring to the Numidian? I saw him fight; he has courage, but not great skills." 

Proximo smiled, somehow surprised that the girl, who hated the whole concept of his business, had acquired enough experience to be able to judge a fighter. She was really his daughter. "You are right in your analysis of the Numidian, but I was not referring to him. I was thinking about the Spaniard."

"The Spaniard? But he refused to train, I saw it through the window."

"Yes, but it was how he refused to train that impressed me. There was no fear in his posture and he actually challenged Haken. That man has a great inner strength and I am sure he also has a great ability with the sword; the legionary training is very hard. I am certain he will be great in the arena... if he decides to fight." Proximo ate a piece of bread and went on, "He is one of those men that first break before bending to another's wishes. That's why I stopped Haken and did not order him to be whipped. It would not be any good. No, I will let him brood and send him in the arena two days from now how he is."

"I see." Ariadne returned to her food, actually happy her father decided not to punish the Spaniard; the cries of the whipped slaves never failed to make her nauseous as they brought back images of her past life, when she had seen one of her friends die under the blows.

"Ariadne?" Proximo's voice intruded her thoughts. "Could you go down to the cells and tend to the Spaniard's wound? I saw it bleeding this evening, I think Haken might have reopened it with his blow and I don't want it to get infected again."

"I will take care of it." 

"Thank you." Proximo smiled and was gratified when his daughter smiled back, before rising to her feet and went away. 

He watched her disappear from the room with pride, sadness and nostalgia, as her flowing black curls, brown eyes and delicate features brought back memories of her late mother. He loved Ariadne, but he seemed unable to make her happy or to really communicate with her as a father to his daughter. And she made everything more difficult because she talked so little and never about herself. He knew her life as slave had been terrible, sold as she had been to a brute of a man who had abused her since she was thirteen. Proximo would have wanted to be able to help her to forget, but he was not, and the silent pain in her dark eyes, eyes that could not hide what was in her soul, haunted him, making him feel guilty for not having been able to track her and buy her more quickly, before that lurid bastard of her owner had time to ruin her. Proximo sighed aloud and took a big gulp of his wine, before resolutely turning his thoughts on business if he did not want to drink himself into oblivion.

The sound of tingling keys made Maximus turn his head away from the window just in time to see the door open and a small shape enter his cell, but his tired brain did not even try to wonder who it was. It simply did not matter. Nothing did anymore, now that his reason for living, his wife and son, had gone forever. He closed his eyes to block away the images of their burned and charred bodies, but he opened them again with a jolt when a feminine voice said, "Spaniard, please, come here near the lamp. I need light to tend to your wound." Her tone was gentle and Maximus obeyed to it without conscious thought, rising to his feet, walking the brief distance between them and dropping to sit on his crude bed. The young woman, because she was indeed very young, gave him a little smile of reassurance, before immersing a piece of rag into the basin she had brought with her and beginning to wash his left shoulder, to clean away the dirt and dried blood.

Maximus fixed his eyes resolutely in front of him, his throat suddenly constricted because of the jasmine scent the girl was wearing. It was just a hint, but more than enough to bring back memories of his wife and he struggled not to be overcome by them. She was gone...forever. But her memory haunted him, making him suffer as he had never believed it might be possible. He was not really concerned about the situation he was in, a slave destined to the arena; if he was lucky, he would die soon, and in any case he deserved it as punishment for not having thought that his refusal to take Commodus' hand could have led to his family paying for his mistake. He should have kissed that hand and worked from inside to overthrow the bastard...But no, he had wanted to do the noble thing and here he was- alone, a slave, his whole life destroyed. Maximus closed his eyes, not wanting the girl to see him cry.  She had just finished washing his shoulder and was now examining him.

"Here there are two wounds, Spaniard...Why? I've been told you had only one. Did someone hurt you?" She seemed really concerned and he turned his head to look at her, shaking his head in negation.

She pursed her lips and he saw a look of perplexity cross her dark eyes, as she bent her head again. "Your SPQR tattoo has been scratched away...Why did you do it? Don't you want the others to know you were a soldier? Are you ashamed because you deserted?" she enquired gently, trying to read an answer in his eyes.

Maximus did not reply. It was none of her business and even he did not really know why he had removed his tattoo...Had he done it because the man he used to be no longer existed? Or was it because he was no longer worthy of it? He did not know and he did not care to know.

The girl sighed, and accepting he was not going to answer, returned to her task, smearing his wounds with a healing salve and wrapping a piece of fabric around them. Then she collected her things and stood up, bowing her head to him in salute.

Her respectful gesture caused a reaction in him and Maximus looked at her, willing his parched lips to formulate two words, "Thank you." His voice sounded strange to his ears and he wondered how much time had passed since he had used it, since the day he had begged forgiveness from his wife and son. Abruptly he stood up and walked to the window again, to look out at the sky and imagine being in Elysium with Selene and Marcus.

Ariadne left the cell and waited for the guard to lock the door and walk away, before leaning backward to rest against the wall. She had been shaken by her meeting with the Spaniard, but she could not name the exact reason. There had been something special in his silence and then in his murmur when he had thanked her. She had noticed a barely contained pain in his expressive, clear eyes and she had almost backed away from it when he had first looked at her. That man was suffering terribly, and she was sure it was not merely because of his reduction to slavery. Recently captured or sentenced men were usually angry, but this man was desperate, no longer interested in living. His eyes had told her that, and she had felt an almost irresistible urge to touch his cheek in a comforting gesture. But she had not dared to do it; that man was destined for the arena and she could not risk becoming attached to him only to see him die.

'I must stop considering all the gladiators as fellow slaves. I am free now and they are only chattels,' she said to herself, already knowing those words meant nothing to her; they were human beings, just like her, and the Spaniard seemed to be much more alike her than the others. With a sigh Ariadne started to walk, leaving the cells for the safety of her room and a sleep without dreams.

Proximo's predictions about the Spaniard's talent had been right. Somehow convinced to combat, he had proven to be an amazing fighter, winning his first match and doing it in a way that suggested unlimited potential to become a champion. He had been sent to the arena carrying the yellow mark of the plodders, but he had lost no time to show he was none; he had fought with determination and intelligence, obliging his chained partner to follow his moves and back him.

Ariadne did not like the games, and usually refused to see her father's men fight. She hated to see people suffer for the whims of the others, but that time she had not been able to stay behind, wanting to see what the Spaniard was going to do. In the end, when the carnage had finished, she had felt a small smile creeping to her lips when she saw the man that fascinated her so much stand tall among the only three surviving gladiators, and her heart had gone out to him and his lost spirit, when she had noticed how he looked at the cheering crowd around him. While Haken had played with the audience, the Spaniard had simply stood still, a devastated expression on his face, as if he was actually wondering about the living hell he had ended up in. Ariadne was more than familiar with that feeling, having lived in a Hades on earth for almost two years. She was out of it now, but for that man it was only the beginning and she hoped he would be strong enough to survive.

Time passed in Zucchabar and Proximo's high hopes concerning the Spaniard turned to be right; he truly was the best gladiator he had ever owned, a perfect fighting machine that was making his owner rich. However he was also a source of frustration for the lanista, because he did not seem able to control the man at all. The Spaniard trained every day with discipline and rigor, but he did it more because he knew about the importance of practice, than because he was told to do so, and he never changed his routine. He fought well, winning all his matches, even the most difficult ones, with ease and without a scratch, but he was too quick in the dispatching of his opponents. He did not kill them, he executed them, fast and almost painlessly, without giving them time to even try to defend themselves, without allowing any sort of duel to begin. And the crowd did not like it.

Or rather, they liked the barely suppressed fury with which he killed, but they would like it more if he stretched it out. Proximo did not know what to do; the Spaniard was a complete mystery, an always brooding and silent creature who seemed untouched by the fact that he belonged to someone else, totally uncaring of the fact that Proximo could have ordered him to be killed without a second thought, and perhaps hoping for something like that.  More than once the lanista had got the impression the gladiator was merely bearing with him and heard him talk without really listening to him. That disdainful behaviour had enraged him once and he had ordered the slave to be whipped to teach him a lesson, but the result had not been what he had hoped. The Spaniard had taken the beating without crying out a single moan and when it had finished, he had looked at his owner with a furious and sarcastic glance, telling Proximo he could as well kill him now, because he had no intention to change. And the older man had realized it was not a bluff, thus he had ordered to free the Spaniard and had his wounds tended to by his daughter.

His daughter...Proximo groaned as he thought back at the look of pure contempt she had thrown at him when she had returned from her patient's cell, hissing to him how he could have him punished when he had done nothing wrong. The lanista had tried to explain her how things worked, but she had cut him off with a look as sarcastic as the Spaniard's and he had suddenly understood why she had reacted so badly. She and the gladiator seemed to be cut from the same cloth, two enigmatic loners with an iron will.

"I won't do it again," he had promised in the end and Ariadne had nodded to him in approval. The exchange had caused the two guards who were present in the room to grin, because their all-powerful master seemed totally controlled by his small daughter, and Proximo had lost no time wiping that expression from their faces.

The lanista returned to the present and to the problem at hand- how to convince the Spaniard to play more with the crowd. Could he try to bribe him? Send him a whore and promise him he would get more if he did as his master asked? The grey-haired man shook his head, already picturing another sarcastic and contemptuous glance telling him what he could do with the whore... Proximo sighed and looked at the sky, silently wondering why life always had to be so complex.

It was late afternoon and all the slaves were sitting outside their cells, waiting for their dinner before being locked in. Ariadne passed along the lines of cages, giving a loaf of bread to each man, while two slave girls followed her with a pot of meat soup which they poured in the gladiators' bowls. Her father treated his men well, giving them plenty of food, especially now that the school was back to a good financial state. Ariadne arrived at the row of cells that hosted the champions of the stable and forced herself to slow down her pace, in order not to oblige the two girls behind her to run with the pot to keep up with her, but it was not easy. She loved this time of the day, the moment when she was able to stay near the Spaniard, at least for a little while.

They never spoke to each other, except for him thanking her for the bread, but it was the way he looked at her and treated her that made those brief instants so precious. He looked at her like a woman deserving of the greatest respect, not like chattel as the other men did, even if she was their master's daughter. His eyes never failed to attract and talk to her, making her wish she were able to cancel some of the bitterness and rage that had taken the place of the sadness she had first seen in them. She would have liked to be bolder and find the courage to start a conversation with him and try to become his friend, but a life of submission and fear had taught her to stay silent and not to try fate. And so, once again, Ariadne walked past his cell, but not before giving him a small smile.

Maximus watched the black haired girl smile at him, a shy little grin that expressed solidarity and friendship and, despite himself, he replied to it. He did not know who she was, except that she was the only good thing in this new life of his. He liked her; she was modest and gentle and did not look at him or the other men with ogling eyes as the other women did, and even if she went to the arena, it was probably because her master ordered it, she did not like the games. More than once, throwing a glance at the nobles' box during a fight, he had seen her not looking at the 'spectacle', her back turned to the ring. In the living hell his life had turned to be, it was good to discover there was someone else that despised the games as much as he did. Not that it really mattered.

Maximus looked away, swallowing another wave of bitterness that threatened to choke him. His bout of anger was so strong he almost broke his bowl with his bare hands, as he tried not to let regrets and past memories wash over him. But it was too late and once again he raged against the gods, destiny and himself. For all his life he had been true to honour in every sense of the word, being a loyal soldier and a faithful husband, always putting the others before him, and what had been his reward? Slavery, denigration, pain. He kicked away his cup, feeling the sudden desire to hurt someone. Maximus pressed his hands against his face, trembling in shame. What was happening to him? He felt like a boat without a helm, going adrift in a sea of rage. He deserved every ounce of the degradation and pain he was suffering as punishment for what he had done or had failed to do, but sometimes he wished so badly to forget everything, his past life, his present one...everything. He was able to do it only during the heat of the combat, when his mind was focused enough to block the world outside, except for his opponents, but as soon as it had ended, his situation crashed upon him again and the rage returned to inhabit his body. Maximus cursed his instinct of survival, which did not allow him to simply let himself be killed and stood up, unable to contemplate any more the man he had become, and retreated into his cell, the evening darkness that began to surround him too fitting a representation of the darkness that enveloped his heart.

Ariadne was in her father's bedroom, tidying it, when she heard steps echo on the floor of the room next door. Someone wearing boots had just joined Proximo in his study. She continued to fold the sheets, when she heard her father say, "Ah, Spaniard. Butterfly?"

Ariadne let the linens fall and walked quickly to the curtain used to separate the two rooms, moving it aside just a bit in order to be able to see what was going on.

The Spaniard was standing in the corner of the room, watching straight in front of him, the blue sleeveless tunic he was wearing making him look very handsome to her eyes. She briefly wondered if his beard was as soft as it looked and imagined caressing it, before kissing his mouth. The thought made her blush - where had that come from? - and she returned quickly to observing what was going on.

Not having received an answer to his offer of food, Proximo tried again, "What do you want, uh? Girl? Boy?"

The gladiator looked at him, coldly, almost unemotional. "You sent for me?"

The lanista - and Ariadne too - saw the barely concealed disdain in the man, who looked almost bored and irritated, as if he had something more important to do and his owner was not worth his attention.

"Yes, I did. You are good, Spaniard," Proximo went on, as if he had not noticed his slave's behaviour, "But not that good. You could be magnificent." By this time, Ariadne knew what had caused this conversation. She had been in the arena earlier that day and she had seen how, despite all of her father's recommendations to stretch the match out, the Spaniard had killed six men in less than a minute. The ferocity he had displayed had stunned the crowd, causing him to rage against it, even throwing his sword against the box where Proximo had been sitting, to show him clearly what he thought about his 'instructions'. The Spaniard had been even more deadly than usual and that, the girl believed, had to be the reason her father was now trying to placate him in some way.

"I am required to kill so I kill. That's enough." was the Spaniard's curt reply, which underscored the point: he had no intention to become an entertainer.

"That's enough for the provinces, but not for Rome." The older man threw one of the butterflies he was eating to his pet hyena.

Rome? Wondered Ariadne from her hiding place. What did he mean? 

"The young Emperor has arranged a series of spectacles to commemorate his father, Marcus Aurelius. I find that amusing since it was Marcus Aurelius, the wise, the all-knowing Marcus Aurelius, who closed us down." Proximo went on gesturing, not noticing the look that had crossed his gladiator's face at the mentioning of the late emperor's name. "So finally after five years of scratching a living in flea-infested villages we are finally going back to where we belong, the Colosseum." He breathed deeply, excited, as though he could smell the mighty arena. "Oh, you should see the Colosseum, Spaniard. Fifty thousand Romans watching every movement of your sword, willing you to make the killer blow. The silence before you strike, and the noise afterwards, it rises, rises up like...like...like a storm, as if you were the Thunder God himself."

Her father was totally captivated by the images he was seeing with his mind's eye and Ariadne could not help being fascinated by it, because he seemed to have good memories of his days as a gladiator. That amazed her; she thought he would have hated his past as she hated hers. But evidently it was not so, as his next words confirmed.

"You were a gladiator?" The Spaniard asked him, after having walked to stand in front of him, a hint of interest in his previously flat voice.

"Yes, I was." The older man responded, nervously but proudly.

"You won your freedom?"

Proximo walked to the table and gently touched he wooden sword Ariadne had seen there since the first time he had shown her that room. "A long time ago the emperor presented me with a rudius - it's just a wooden sword, a symbol of your freedom. He touched me on the shoulder, and I was free."

"You knew Marcus Aurelius?" The Spaniard laughed aloud with sarcasm, clearly not believing that the lanista could have known Caesar.

"I did not say I knew him. I said he touched me on the shoulder once." Proximo straightened and watched as his star gladiator approached him once again, a guard closely following him, ready to intervene if the man tried to harm his master.

"You asked me what I want. I, too, want to stand in front of the Emperor, as you did." The Spaniard said softly, raising his left eyebrow. His behaviour had totally changed and he was now more collaborative and ready to listen than ever before. But of course, reasoned Ariadne, it was not difficult to guess why. He wanted to be free, just as she had wanted to be free, even if freedom had not turned out to be the answer to all her problems.

Proximo, too, noticed the change in his gladiator, who was now listening to him with his hands clasped behind his back, like a soldier awaiting for orders, and lost no time pressing his point home. "Then listen to me. Learn from me. I wasn't the best because I killed quickly. I was the best because the crowd loved me. Win the crowd and you win your freedom."

Ariadne was surprised to see the Spaniard look away at the mention of freedom and a shiver ran along her spine; why did she have the strange sensation he was not really interested in being free? But she had no time to wonder more because the slave spoke again.

"I will win the crowd. I will give them something they have never seen before." He gestured with his head. 

"Haaa! So, Spaniard," exclaimed her father, satisfaction clear in his voice, because he had just convinced his rebellious athlete to do as he wished, "We shall go to Rome together and have bloody adventures and the Great Whore will suckle us until we are fat and happy and can suckle no more. And then, when enough men have died, perhaps you will have your freedom." Proximo made a little pause and bent to retrieve a leather cuirass from the floor. "Here, use this," he said, tossing it to his gladiator, who caught it promptly, before bowing his head and walking away. Once alone the grey-haired man approached the window and raised his arms in jubilee, soon joined by his daughter.

"Are we really going to Rome, father?" Ariadne asked, not knowing if she had to be happy at the prospect or not. She had never been in the Capital, even if she had been born in Italia and knew her mother and father had met while he fought in the Colosseum.

He looked at her and nodded, "Yes, we are. We will leave within a month, as soon as the navigation season begins." He smiled at her, "This could be our great chance to make some real money and retire from this world for good. Would you like that?"

The girl nodded; no more men sent to die...of course she liked that! She gave a small smile to him and saw her father beam. He patted her shoulder with affection then said, "Now please, go down and call one of the guards, I need him to go to town and fetch a girl for the Spaniard."

A stunned expression appeared on her face and Proximo hasted to add, "I know you don't like this whole business, Ariadne, but this is how things go and I want to reward him for his promise to win the crowd. That man needs to relax and well..." He stopped talking, as in front of him his daughter continued to stare in silence. He thought his words had caused bad memories in her and he berated himself for having spoken them. How many times, he wondered, had her former master used her to 'relax'?

But Proximo was wrong. Yes, Ariadne was indeed shocked, but not because of the reason he believed. She was shocked by the sudden bout of jealousy that had overwhelmed her. She did not want a whore to touch the Spaniard. Her Spaniard. She wanted to be the one giving him relief.

The idea had come from nowhere but it was here now and it refused to go away. She wanted to give him pleasure, because she liked him and because she wanted to see if there was any difference in being taken because you are offering yourself willingly as opposed to having been ordered to submit. Her father's Numidian concubine, Cassandra, liked to be bedded by him, even longed for it, and Ariadne wanted to know why. And she wanted to discover it with the Spaniard.

"You don't need to pay a whore, father. I will go to him." she said quietly. 

"WHAT?"

"I said I will go to him."

"Are you out of your mind?" Never in his life had Proximo heard something like that.

"I am not mad and I want to be with him."

He was speechless- the discovery that his daughter might desire a man like he desired women was stunning. But she was only a human being, he pondered, a very wronged human being, with desires and needs as everyone. However he was shocked by how she had voiced them and, as a father, he was not sure if he could allow her to behave as she wanted.

"Ariadne... what you say doesn't befit a free, unmarried woman," he began, only to be silenced by a sarcastic laugh so alike the Spaniard's that it made him shiver.

"Father, let's not fool ourselves. I had been a slave till two years ago. My owner did things to me that would make you shiver and debased me so low I am still trying to raise my head again. What chance do I have to find a husband? Especially here where everyone knows my past and treats me as if I were still a slave? Everyone...except for the Spaniard. He is always courteous with me when I bring him food. He actually thanks me every time... Do you know what it means to be treated like a person after having been considered chattel for all your life?"

Proximo nodded slowly, her passionate speech having touched some hidden chords he did not know he had. And he understood he could not deter her. True, as her father he had the right to order her around, but he too had been a slave and, while he was able to suffocate his feelings and send men to die, as he had been sent to die (was it a sort of revenge, since he could not get even with his former owners?), he could not forbid anything to his daughter.

"All right," he capitulated, "If you really want to do so, I will let you go to him. I will put two guards near the door; don't hesitate to call them if the Spaniard should become violent....Is that clear?"

"Yes." Ariadne swallowed hard to conceal her excitement mingled with fear and then walked away without another word, wanting to get ready for the evening.

Ariadne stopped at the beginning of the corridor leading to the Spaniard's cell and took a deep breath, trying to calm her hammering heart. The guards her father had sent to 'protect' her were already standing in front of the closed door and were looking at her with a disdainful expression which meant, "See? We had always known you are nothing more than a whore", but for once she did not mind it, her thoughts were directed to man locked into the cell. She was not afraid of him, even after all the times she had seen him slaughter his opponents in the arena, because somehow she knew he would never harm a woman. As for him being considerate with her, well, after what she had suffered in her master's hands, she doubted he could be any worse, even if she hoped for a different outcome. She had never felt a man caress her body with kindness and she prayed this would be the first time.

And she was certain there already was an important difference in here: she desired the Spaniard, as much as the thought was scaring. He was so handsome... She had caught glimpses of him while he bathed, and the sight of his broad back and tanned legs had filled her with a strange sensation, but till that evening she had not understood it was longing. But it was not simple physical attraction- the loneliness and the desperation she had seen in his eyes had spoken to her as no one before and she wanted to offer him some comfort, in the hope to see those shadows leave his gaze at least for a little while. But would he accept her offer? Ariadne's stomach churned, as she thought there was only one way to know. Thus she gripped the basket she was carrying and resumed to walk.

She arrived at the Spaniard's cell and paused just in front of the door, considering whether or not she would knock. The question was unnecessary, as the man within the cell seemed to sense her presence.

"Come." He barked gruffly. 

She stepped inside.

The gladiator's back was turned away from her, his head inclined toward the window in the upper corner of his cell. A single star was visible, and he seemed to be considering it for a while, before turning around, the usual smile reserved for her already painted on his lips. "You are late tonight," he murmured gently, the first time he had actually told her something different from 'thank you'. "You can leave it on the floor."

The young woman was confused. "It?"

"The meal." The certainty in the man's voice wavered, and he considered his visitor's hands, surprised to see them empty. "What are you doing here?"

Ariadne stiffened her posture. "Proximo has ordered entertainment as a reward to his victorious gladiator." She explained. 

"Entertainment?" Maximus arched an eyebrow, his eyes skimming over the swells and hollows of her form. For a second, temptation glimmered in his eyes.

Then it was gone, resolutely pushed away from his mind, when he considered the girl in front of him, the only person in the entire gladiator school he respected and felt pain for. Oh, sure he shared friendship with Juba and Haken, but this little, gentle creature with the brown eyes of a scared gazelle, was the only one still able to bring some good feelings, as the desire to protect her, into his blackened heart. And now they had sent her to service him...Maximus closed his eyes; how many times had they obliged her to submit to the attention of sex-starved men like him? Shaking his head to dispel the image of his wife, he said gently, "I don't wish to be 'entertained'. Go back to your room. I will explain it to your master." Strange how he was not able to say 'our' master.

"My master?" she said, not understanding.

"Yes, Proximo..." he replied with a note of perplexity.

"He is not my master... He is my father. I thought you knew it, Spaniard."

Maximus shook his head.

"He wanted to send a whore to you, but I decided to come myself." The young woman looked to him and flashed him a little smile, before adding, "My name is Ariadne."

Maximus remained cold, not giving any sign he had heard, as inside him he felt something break. 

Cheated. Once again he had been cheated; the girl he believed a flower between the thorns was indeed only another lusting bitch, like the women that attended the games and tried to touch and grope him every time he was near enough. How stupid he had been to even think there could be something good in that forsaken place.

"Proximo gives very free reign to his daughter, to allow her to behave as a whore." He said, wanting to insult her, to wound her as he had been just wounded.

She did not reply, but continued to look at him, seeming so very innocent and small... Maximus gritted his teeth; he would not allow her to fool him anymore.

He stepped near her, hoping to cow her with his superior size, but she did not back away. Cold blue eyes bore into deep brown ones -- but the girl was still unmoved.

The former general struggled with his feelings: a disoriented mixture of arousal and rage. Something in her excited him and he had been long without a woman's comfort, but her cheating and her spoiled attitude - because only a very spoiled girl could have convinced her father to let her behave in that way - invited his anger. Clearly, she recognized no law but her own, an irresponsible, reckless child greedy to indulge a whim. He had encountered the type before: Commodus.

Maximus took a step further, assuming a menacing stance as he inquired, "And just what type of entertainment were you proposing to give?"

She didn't answer, turning her head to walk back to the door and retrieve a basket he hadn't noticed before. She set it at his feet.

"Meat." She announced flatly. "And drink. Real wine, not watered one. Further reward for your victory. You made my father win a lot of money today."

"How fortunate for him." Maximus prodded the basket with his foot, the action unsettling the small pitcher of wine it contained. "I'm not hungry." It was true, the discovery of her betrayal had taken away all of his appetite.

Ariadne merely laughed, her even teeth flashing in the moonlight that bathed the cell. "Excellent," she replied, in a tone she barely recognized as her own, and raised a finger to the clasp that held her dress. "I'm not a patient woman." 'And that where did that come from?' she wondered, surprised by her own sultry attitude. But she did not stop to think too much; his nearness was intoxicating, and made her bold and daring, as she had never been before. That feeling too was welcome, because for the first time in her life she really felt free.

Maximus tried not to appear interested as slender fingers unfastened the pins that held her tunica in place. The wrinkled linen slithered noisily, to the floor, exposing her body to view.  She was a beautiful young woman. Hardened and darkened by the desert, to be sure, but lovely nonetheless. Her dark skin lay over a voluptuous figure of full breasts, wide hips, and a tiny waist. In spite of his surly defiance, his body took note of her form. Beneath his loincloth there was a stirring.

Ariadne stepped forward, gesturing the Spaniard toward his cot.  He did not obey.

"You don't own me." He hissed.

Luscious lips curled into a threat. "My father does."

Maximus grasped forward, reaching for the skin of her neck. He was not her helpless servant to obey! He would throttle her - but the feel of her hot skin beneath his hands gave him a different idea. Once again, his fury was churning into lust. She was looking for bed sport? Then let her have it - but on his terms!

Ariadne yelped as the Spaniard hauled her to his bed, unceremoniously stripping the last of her garments away. A whisper of fear flashed behind her eyes. "Permit me to-"

"Forgive me, my lady," his voice was thick with irony. "...but I believe that your father purchased me to provide entertainment." The thunderous look on the gladiator's face forced the girl to silence. He pinned her shoulders to the bench as he stripped his own clothes away, then bent forward to place a punishing kiss upon her mouth.

Ariadne trembled as his lips crushed down against her own. The strength behind the action was terrifying ...and intoxicating. Shivers of never-known-before pleasure shimmered through her body as callous-roughened fingers moved over her back and bottom and legs. She opened her eyes, careful to avoid the Spaniard's dark gaze as her eyes wandered over his form. Scars peppered his muscular physique, but they did little to shroud its masculine perfection. His broad shoulders and finely knit thighs seemed to belong to a god - her eyes drifted lower - a particularly well-endowed god...

The sight of his phallus - fully erect and arching toward her - did not cause her to panic as in the past, when she lay defenceless in her master's bed, but raised a fresh bolt of longing through her loins. She ached to have him, and parted her thighs in age-old invitation as he bore down upon her with a second kiss, wetness seeping between her folds, betraying the raw, animal attraction that she felt for him.

"Take me..." She begged closing her eyes as she braced for his assault.

"As you say, my lady." He seemed to laugh.

And then he thrust.

Ariadne gasped as he filled her, the first plunge stretching her body until she felt that she would break. He plunged deep, almost to her core before he drew away. He was ungentle, but not violent as her master had been, and the friction between their joined bodies caused her to writhe in exquisite pleasure. Feeling her own body's reaction, she knew that she liked to be claimed in this way- to bear the full brunt of his masculine power- but knowing that she was still, ultimately, in control. The jagged rhythm of the Spaniard's body finally settled into control. The quick, soft grunts against her shoulder told Ariadne that, as she had hoped, the pleasure she experienced was shared. Just as she felt an unfamiliar tightening in her womb, she could sense the Spaniard growing closer to release. His hips moved faster, harder, until he broke and hot seed rushed between her thighs.

Ariadne and her lover cried out in unison as they met their peak.

Then they were still.

Gradually, the blood that thundered through the Spaniard's veins began to slow down. He steadied his breathing, only then allowing himself to look down at the woman beneath him. Her eyes were closed, and for a few moments, he thought that he had hurt her, but a shy smile informed him to the contrary. He shifted his weight, so as not to crush her small body beneath his own.

Gods, what had he done? 

Maximus recoiled against the act he had just committed. Lying here, between the knees of a strange woman he felt tainted and unclean and used... but while he had claimed her...

He exhaled slowly as he remembered the moments that had just passed: the first that he could remember since his nightmare had begun in which he had not thought of Selene and his son or had not been prey of his all consuming rage.

The woman had promised him entertainment, but she had brought something more precious indeed- comfort, a momentary reprieve from the memories that he could not press away and from the brutal reality that surrounded him.

"What are you thinking?" The girl's soft voice startled him. At its sound, he began to draw away.

"I am thinking that it is time for you to leave."

A pout began to form on her lips, but she seemed to think better of it, and reached in the darkness for her clothes. "As you wish."  Once dressed she started for the door. She paused beside the basket full of food.

"Leave it." He commanded.  He would not eat the meat, but tonight, he needed the wine.  

Ariadne left the room, walking quickly along the corridor, blind to the smirking guards, her heart in turmoil. Never before she had thought sex could bring such pleasure. The Spaniard had worked a strange magic on her body... He had been rough, yes, and had caused her to cry out, but for the first time in her life it had been a cry of pure joy. She thought back at the moment in which the tension inside her had broken and a shiver ran along her spine...how badly she wanted to experience it again! But would her father let her? For the first time in her troubled existence, Ariadne's face settled in a determinate pose, decided as she was to fight for what she wanted...to be with the Spaniard again.

Proximo stopped his anxious pacing as he heard light steps on the stairs and quickly left his room to walk to the landing, where he looked intently at his daughter.

"How are you?" he asked, worried.

Ariadne looked up and gave him the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. "Relax, Father, I am fine. More than fine."

He observed her and nodded, satisfied; except for some beard-burn on her cheeks and neck, and slightly swollen lips, his daughter looked beautiful, her eyes shining, her smile wide.

"So...ehm...I guess the Spaniard ...treated you well."

Ariadne nodded, an intent look on her face, "Yes, he was so... I -I never felt..." Her voice died and she blushed furiously, but what she had said was enough for Proximo.

He smiled and replied, "I am happy for you, Ariadne."

She smiled again and then, suddenly became serious and asked, "May I return to him tomorrow?"

The pleading in her voice and eyes undid Proximo. He knew he should say 'no' to her request. It was real madness, to let his daughter give herself to a slave, but he loved Ariadne, wanted to make her happy and she had never asked something for herself till that moment...How could he refuse her?

He swallowed hard, then nodded, "Yes, you can return to him but...well..." the old man blushed, "perhaps it will be better if you...ehm...ask Cassandra how to avoid... getting with child..."

Ariadne smiled sadly and shook her head. "Don't worry, father, I never was with child with my master and I never used anything to avoid it...I -I think I cannot have babies."

"Oh," Proximo did not know what to say, about this new disgrace befalling his daughter, but she saved him by announcing she was tired and going bed.

"Good night," he said softly to her retreating back and she turned around, blowing him a kiss. It was the first time she had done it and Proximo felt his heart almost burst with joy.

She came back the next evening.

During the daily training, Maximus had pushed himself mercilessly beyond his limits, vainly trying to erase from his memory what had happened in his cell the previous night. Vainly trying to forget that his traitorous body had rebelled against his control and drove him to defile the memory of his beloved wife with the girl who now impudently smiled at him from the threshold of his cell. Deliberately, he'd pushed himself into exhaustion, trying to prevent his mind from wondering if she'd come back. But no matter how hard he'd trained under the merciless African sun, no matter how many times he went over and over his exercising and fighting routines, he'd been unable to forget how good it had felt to have her soft, female flesh beneath him. How good it had felt to be inside her hot, wet, tight sheath. How good it had felt to forget duty, honour, grief and rage and simply give way to his own need and feel the world shatter around him with the blinding force of his release.

His dark mood had not escaped the attention of his fellow gladiators but the men at Proximo's school had learned to respect the brooding Spaniard and left him by himself. Not even Juba, who was closer to him than the others, had dared ask Maximus what was bothering him. It had been fortunate that Proximo had chosen that day to attend to business at another part of Zucchabar for Maximus doubted he'd been able to control himself if he'd have had to face the lanista after he'd discovered that he allowed his daughter to play the whore at her free, capricious whim.

As soon as the training was over, Maximus had returned to his cell and sat in a dark corner and, for the first time since his desperate ride to Hispania, vainly trying to reach Selene and Marcus in time to prevent their execution, he'd tried to pray. Time and again he'd tried to form the words that had been so familiar to him not so long ago, to reach his ancestors and the gods and ask them for answers even if he doubted they'd be inclined to oblige. But the words had refused to come and instead his mind had insisted in wandering. His prayers had soon been replaced by the memory of soft, warm female flesh and blissful female moans had echoed in his ears. And neither the flesh nor the moans had been Selene's.

And now, the girl was back. 

As he had known in his mind that she'd be. 

As he had hoped in his loins that she'd be. 

Neither had it been an easy day for Ariadne. Dawn had found her awake in her narrow bed, still revisiting her encounter with the Spaniard. She'd touched her tender lips with trembling fingers, desperately trying to revive the wild emotions his heavy, punishing kisses had awoken. She'd blushed in the darkness at the memory of his powerful thrusts and the pleasure they had given her. He'd been rough but it had not prevented her from enjoying his seemingly uncaring attention. She had not expected him to be gentle or caring, just to use her as a whore. And he had used her. Hard. Yet it had been so very different from all she had experienced with her master...

"Good evening, Spaniard."

Maximus didn't answer; his jaw set hard, his eyes icy blue pools. Ariadne hesitated for a moment, then walked towards the stone bench where she set her food basket. She knew it was not going to be easy. The Spaniard was a special man, as she had always known, a man of strong emotions that could easily lead to passion... or to violence.

The previous evening, while getting ready to go to him, she'd felt more scared than she cared to admit. But once she had stepped into his cell, excitement had overrun her fears and once he'd taken her in his arms, everything -fear, slavery, hopelessness, abuse- had been forgotten in the whirlwind of desire and pleasure.

"Did you sleep well, Spaniard?" she asked trying to keep her tone light.

"If I did or not, it's none of your business," he growled. Ariadne winced, then licked her lips. The night before she'd been afraid of his rejection because she'd been dreaming how it'd be to be taken by such a man. Now, Ariadne was afraid of his rejection because she knew how it felt to be taken by him. She tried to smile nonchalantly.

"My father says we will soon be ready to start our journey to the sea," she said as she took a loaf of bread from the basket. It was followed by roasted lamb and a small amphora of wine.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was as cold as his gaze.

"Isn't it obvious, Spaniard? Once we are in Rome, my father has great plans for you. He wants you happy and well cared..."

"We?"

Ariadne smiled sweetly. "I'm going too. My father says the Urbs is amazing and I want to see it for myself. Have you ever been to Rome, Spaniard?"

Maximus refused to take the bait. Ariadne poured some wine into a cup and walked towards him. She had carefully bathed before going to him and used some heavily perfumed oil on her skin and hair. It smelled so different from the familiar jasmine scent that always floated around Selene like a cloud. Instead, the girl in front of him smelled of flowers he had never known or even heard, of spices and exotic woods. She smelled like an Eastern market. Like a whore.

"Get out!"

Somehow, despite his angry tone, Ariadne managed to smile. She was close to him now, his big frame making her feel smaller than she was. The light of the only oil lamp in the cell danced on the planes of his handsome, bronzed, bearded face, making his stunning blue eyes shine like gems set on dark metal. Ariadne was so close that she could feel his warmth and smell his masculine scent, an intoxicating combination of leather and sweat and man. She offered him the cup. He ignored her.

"Spaniard, why do you have to make it so difficult?" she asked in a husky, low voice, her own need making her bold. Just like the evening before, it seemed that his nearness was able to transform her into a different person, making the shy, silent Ariadne disappear and bringing out this sultry and daring creature.

"Get out!" he repeated, his voice but a low, menacing growl. She was close, so close. Her perfume filled his nostrils, an unfamiliar, cloying scent which was too foreign and too sweet for him... but neither too foreign nor too sweet to mask the underlying and too familiar scent: underneath her whore's perfume, she smelled of woman.

Maximus felt himself stir. She was a whore. Only a whore comes to a man who is not her husband as boldly as she had the night before. Only a whore seeks a man's attention as a bitch in heat seeks the attention of a pack. She was a whore... and he wanted her. He wanted her now. Naked and panting beneath him. Sweating and moaning and clawing his back as he pumped his lust and his seed between her legs.

The rush of anger was as intense as his rush of lust.

"Get out!" he barked for a third time. 

Ariadne bit her lower lip. She had known it was not going to be easy. The previous night she'd had surprise on her side. Now, she was left to herself and her instincts. And her instincts told her to be bold. She followed their lead.

Using the back of her fingers, Ariadne slowly caressed one of the Spaniard's bare arms, tracing an ascending path along the tanned skin, taut on heavy muscles. A trail of fire.

"Why do you have to make it so difficult?" she repeated as she went on caressing him, seemingly enthralled by the silky quality of his skin. "You know you want it as much as I..."

She never completed the phrase.

Maximus slapped her hand. The cup flew and the wine spilled on the hard floor of the cell and splashed the wall. He moved so quickly that Ariadne had no chance to prevent him from grabbing her and cried in surprise. Using his momentum, he pushed her against the wall, till her back hit the rough bricks. Air left her in a rush and for a moment Ariadne felt dizzy. She closed her eyes only to snap them open when she felt his hot breath against her face.

"What do you want from me?" he growled.

Ariadne swallowed hard. Fear and excitement rushed through her body and she felt a damp heat pooling between her legs. Instinctively, she arched against him, her breath coming in rapid gasps, her arousal so intense that she felt intoxicated. He was all heat and rock hard muscle and man... and he wanted her. Oh, yes. He wanted her badly. No matter what he said or tried to deny, he was hard. Hard for her.

Maximus felt the girl press her body against his and the wave of lust and anger that washed over him was so intense that his head reeled. She was a whore. A reckless, spoiled child who thought she could have whatever she wanted, regardless of duty and decency. She was hot and willing, shamelessly pressing her soft, rounded body against him... and it felt so good. It shouldn't. It was wrong. He didn't go with whores. He hadn't gone with whores since he had married. He had remained faithful to his wife even when it meant going on for years with no woman. Even if women - maidens, married ones, widows, young or mature, free or slaves or whores - were always seeking his attention.

And now... now... 

Using his body to pin her against the wall, Maximus took one of her hands and forced it downwards. Ariadne's eyes opened very wide when her fingers reached his rigid manhood and the Spaniard forced them to wrap around his engorged member.

"Is this what you want?" he growled. 

Ariadne's mouth was dry, her heart racing wildly. She knew how well endowed he was yet touching him so intimately even through the cloth of his tunic and loincloth was different. He felt so big, so large that it seemed impossible that she had already taken him inside her.

"Is this what you want?" he insisted, his voice husky with desire, his heart racing as wildly as hers. Oh, yes. This was what she wanted. She wanted it badly. As badly as he wanted to give it to her. But Maximus wanted to hear her say it. Needed to hear her say it. To say it aloud. He needed her to admit what a whore she was...

"Yes! Oh, yes!" she panted. "Yes, Spaniard!"

"Good, because you are going to get it..." breathed Maximus as he ground his pelvis against her belly, crudely rotating his hips while she tightened her hold on him. "Oh, yes. You are going to get it..."

Maximus grabbed the neckline of her tunic and tore the fabric, freeing her breasts. They fell into his hands, small but proud, the mauve coloured peaks stiff and begging to be kissed, touched, sucked... he took one in his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. It felt so good... so familiar... but she was not Selene. He didn't love her. It was wrong... It was not fair that something that was so wrong could feel so good... She was not his wife... she was a whore... but his body had rules of its own which had nothing to do with honour and duty. He sucked and sucked, devouring her as if he'd been a starved man and she sustenance...

Ariadne moaned uncontrollably, arching her torso against him to allow him better access, the rasping of his beard both hurting and increasing her pleasure as she frantically tried to get closer to him even if she knew that they'd only be closer when he came inside her. Maximus let go of her nipple and turned to the other, sucking it hard as his hands groped for the lower part of her tunic. He managed to raise it high enough to reach between her legs... his fingers found springy, damp hair and heat... Bitch! She had gone to him naked beneath her clothes... naked and ready... He touched her swollen flesh and she cried out, so ready she was that it would take so little to make her come.

Aridane moved her hips against his hand, blindly trying to increase the friction between his callused fingers and her tender, aroused flesh... trying to have him touch her as she wanted and needed to be touched.

Maximus felt her movements and retracted his hand, laughing a low, nasty laugh when he heard her whimper in disappointment and need and sunk his teeth in her nipple before freeing it, making her cry out for a second time. Hastily he rid himself of his own tunic, then fumbled with his loincloth and let it fall to the ground, freeing his throbbing, aching manhood. He couldn't remember being so hard. He couldn't remember needing so badly to bury himself in slick, hot, female flesh... Blindly, he tore at her clothes, oblivious to her weak protests against his rude manhandling. When she was as naked as he, he grabbed her by her waist and raised her against him. Ariadne's legs entwined around his waist in automatic response and he grunted in approval while he fondled her buttocks and rubbed his slightly hairy, muscled chest against her breasts, eliciting a moan of surprised pleasure as her sensitised nipples made contact with the rock hard wall of his torso.

She was so small and light that he could easily support her with one of his arms and he did as he used his free hand to guide his rigid member to her drenched slit. She cried again and tightened her legs around his waist when she felt the tip of his penis against her swollen opening. But Maximus stopped for a moment and Ariadne thought she'd go mad, feeling him so close yet keeping her at bay, keeping her empty... She wriggled in his arms, struggled against him, clawed his strong shoulders and neck... Maximus looked at her, avidly drinking her shameless need, grimly enjoying in denying her, the spoiled, reckless child who thought she could have whatever she wanted, even him...

Then, he thrust.

Ariadne screamed as she came, her body contracting so hard around him that Maximus needed all his strength not to let himself go. Sweat beaded his powerful body with the effort and he clenched his teeth till his jaw ached as badly as if Haken had hit him.

The girl collapsed against him, drenched in sweat, limp, satiated. Knowing he couldn't count on her to keep her hold of him, Maximus positioned her against the wall and hooking her thighs in his arms and forcing them to spread wide open, he withdrew nearly all the way back, then thrust hard again.

And again.

And again.

"No... no..."  

Despite her exhaustion Ariadne struggled against the Spaniard. She was too tender from the previous night's frenzied coupling. Too drained from her recent climax. There was no way she could... 

Maximus remained oblivious to the girl's moans and tightened his hold of her, keeping her under control as he thrust again and again, his hips moving rhythmically, increasing his speed, driving himself towards completion and oblivion, driving himself towards freedom...

Sometime during his thrusting Ariadne ceased to struggle and, instead, started rocking against him, her movements adjusting to his in with the age-old wisdom of instinct. Her moans changed from protest to sobbing bliss and her clawing changed from resistance to spurring as her small body took the full brunt of his force.

On and on he thrust, giving her what she wanted, taking from her what he needed. On and on she rocked against him, taking all he had to give and wanting more...

"Spaniard! Spaniard..." Her voice rose in a wail as she climaxed so hard that she thought she was going to faint.

Maximus shuddered as the girl's body tightened around him, mercilessly driving him towards his own orgasm. He felt his own body tighten and arched his back, a cry of pure, animal pleasure escaping between his clenched teeth as he spilled his seed into her willing body.

For a long moment, there was no other sound in the cell but that of their combined, ragged breaths. Tentatively, Ariadne rested her forehead against Maximus' shoulder. He didn't offer resistance but, when she tried to bury her face in the hollow of his neck, he stiffened. Then, he moved to disengage himself and Ariadne protested weakly, not wanting to lose the feeling of him inside her. Maximus ignored her protests and set her on her feet not too gently. She stumbled, her legs refusing to support her. Before he could stop himself, Maximus grabbed her to prevent her from falling.

"Thanks..." she mumbled. He didn't answer. Instead, he turned around and picked up his clothes, then walked towards his narrow bed and let himself fall on it and closed his eyes.  He was exhausted as he was supposed to be after such a frantic coupling. He should have felt light and free after such an intense release. Yet he didn't.

Ariadne rested for a moment against the cell's wall, unable to move, her body battered by the sheer force of their coupling and the blinding intensity of her climax. She could still feel her inner muscles shuddering with the last, faint spasms of her release, sweat plastering her dark hair against her face and the Spaniard's essence dripping down her thighs.  After a long moment, she forced herself to pick up her torn clothes, but her hands trembled so badly that she couldn't dress herself. Biting her lower lip, Ariadne looked at the man lying on the bed, his right arm over his eyes, his chest rising rhythmically with his breath. She longed to go to him, to curl by his side and sleep...

"Get out!" said the Spaniard as if he had read her thoughts. Ariadne winced but knew better than trying to argue. She wrapped herself in the remnants of her tunic and left the cell.

The girl came back the next evening.

By the time she entered the Spaniard's cell for the third time in a row, Ariadne had already given up trying to make small talk with the brooding gladiator. Instead, she remained quiet, breathless awaiting him to make the first move.  By the time she came to his cell for the third time in a row, Maximus had already given up trying to deny that he'd been waiting for her... and feared she may not come.

After she had left the cell the previous night, he'd had no time to think about honour and duty and his betrayal of both for oblivion had caught him by surprise and he'd slept as he hadn't slept in years. For the first time since he'd seen his burnt farm and his dead family, his sleep had been long and uninterrupted, the rage that always inhabited his body totally forgotten. He'd awakened fresh and well rested, the painful tension that accompanied every single moment of his recent life gone, his body relaxed and his mind sharp. There had been a moment of anger for he knew the reason why he felt so good was no other than having given himself to his own lust and losing himself in that whore's body as he'd refused to do for years out of faithfulness to his wife. But his rage had been short lived. That shameless, spoiled girl had insisted in playing the whore for her own, selfish reasons and in the meantime had taught him an unexpected lesson: that using her body he could win his inner battle against his demons and steal from them the pleasure of ruining his sleep, and make it tense, short, agitated.

Maximus had been a soldier for too long not to know that, when he'd finally set foot in Rome, he'd have but one chance to strike down Commodus and accomplish his vengeance. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of failing his loved ones again. Warring and the games had taught him to use whatever resource or weapon he could snatch to keep himself not only alive but also strong and sharp. His vengeance was to be the final battle of his life and that whore of a girl was but another weapon to reach his victory. Her accursed father had given him a reason to live when he'd showed him that by becoming a star gladiator in Rome he could have a chance to be in front of Commodus. Then, the accursed girl had offered him a way to escape his own demons and keep himself strong and sharp enough to succeed in his mission...

And now, she was there and her whore's perfume floated towards him...

The Spaniard was lying on his bed, as he'd been when she'd left the cell. He seemed not to have moved since then but Ariadne knew better. She'd spied on him while he'd trained along with the other gladiators and her loins had stirred at the sight of sweat running down his tanned skin in rivulets that beautifully delineated his powerful muscles. When she'd left his cell on trembling legs, her body battered by the force of their coupling, Ariadne had stumbled towards her own bed and fallen asleep even before she could gather the strength to wash herself. She had slept late and woken up to the smell of the Spaniard on her body and she'd curled in a ball, still too shocked by what she had experienced in his arms... He had been neither gentle nor caring. He'd taunted her and denied her and enjoyed her frustration... but it had all been oddly exciting. He had taken her hard but she had not felt used like she had with her master. Confused, Ariadne had dragged herself from her bed and when she'd washed her body she'd discovered that her thighs were bruised by the force of his thrusts and she had blushed and giggled and then sobbed and finally fallen on her bed again, where she had daydreamed... And in her dreams, the Spaniard had taken her again and again but he had not been cold and distant but gentle and caring, as he had always been till the night she had gone to him for the first time, and he hadn't used her but loved her as she longed to be loved, calling her by her name, kissing her lips with passion but also with tenderness...

"What are you waiting for?"

His deep and rumbling voice shook her from her musings. This was not a dream but real, ugly, everyday life. The Spaniard would not love her but simply take her as the whore he thought her to be and she'd accept him gladly and even enjoy his rude attention yet that evening, despite the excitement and anticipation that always surrounded their encounters, Ariadne felt sad. If only she was able to talk to him, to reach him and coax him to talk back to her...she was falling in love with him, but he didn't allow her to show it to him. With trembling fingers, she unfastened her clothes and let them fall to the cold, hard cell's floor. Then, she walked naked towards him.

The Spaniard didn't move but eyed her with his cold, unforgiving gaze and Ariadne felt shivers run up and down her spine. He lay on his back, dressed only in his loincloth, the coarse linen already stretched to accommodate his bulging erection. His blue tunic was tidily folded on the stone bench. Ariadne thought it was an odd detail. Men were not usually tidy beings. But she knew that the Spaniard was a former legionnaire, and soldiers of Rome were taught tidiness along with their warring.

Tentatively, she touched his bare shoulder and even if he tensed, he didn't reject her. Ariadne longed so much to caress him as she longed to be caressed by him and trailed her fingertips down his chest, gently touching the bronzed skin dusted with soft hair bleached by the unmerciful sun of Africa. It felt absurdly soft, like silk stretched over sculpted marble.

Maximus felt her fingertips on him and his blood heated in instinctive response. He'd been hard for her since she had come into the cell but her touch made him burn. He didn't want her to caress him. He didn't want her to soil him more than she had already soiled him. She was not his wife but a whore and whores don't perform acts of love but allow themselves to be used by eager men. Yet there was something odd about that girl. She was but a lusting bitch yet sometimes, despite her shameless behaviour, she seemed shy and vulnerable - just like he had thought her to be when she brought him food or tended to his wounds - while those of her kind were usually hardened and bold. She went on caressing his chest and Maximus felt lulled by the heat of her hand and its movement... It felt good... it felt like...He grabbed her arm and dragged her towards him. The girl fell onto his chest with a squeak of surprise and Maximus rolled her beneath his body, where she remained panting and immobile, her eyes wide open. They looked at each other for a moment, then Maximus unfastened his loincloth, freeing his already throbbing manhood. At the feel of him lying hot and hard on her belly, Ariadne forgot everything. Nothing mattered any more but having the Spaniard take her and make her forget. She arched against him, undulating her hips, rubbing against him, urging him to come inside her.

Maximus groaned deep in his chest. If he couldn't control her movements, he wouldn't last long enough to take her. Rising onto his knees, avoiding her hands as she tried to grab him and drag him back on top of her, Maximus managed to manoeuvre her body till her buttocks rested on his thighs, then raised her spread legs against his chest and held her ankles firmly.

He paused for a moment to look at her, lying helpless, panting, and unable to escape his hold. Her nipples were hard as pebbles and her left breast fluttered wildly with the frantic hammering of her racing heart, her small hands convulsively clenching and unclenching on the coarse blanket of his narrow bed. He had her where he wanted her: in his power, open for him, unable to escape, unable to touch him, unable to get what she wanted if he refused to give it to her.

His manhood rested between her spread thighs and he teased her, rubbing its swollen tip against her core. She cried and Maximus felt her gush of dampness drip against his belly and down his testicles.

Then, he flexed his hips and pushed himself into her.

They cried in unison and Maximus clenched his teeth, struggling to prevent himself from coming... It felt so good to be buried inside her... After a long moment, he dug his fingers into her calves and started his rhythmic pumping, caressing her insides with his swollen manhood, increasing his speed, slowing it, rotating his hips, groaning and panting.

Trapped in the Spaniard's powerful hold, dizzy with the pleasure his relentless, powerful stroking was giving her, Ariadne forgot everything and gave herself to the man who rocked against her. Nothing existed but him, towering over her, so long, thick and hard between her legs. She arched against him, trying to take him even more deeply despite that every time he buried himself inside her, he touched the mouth of her womb. Ariadne thrashed and sobbed, moaned and screamed as he drove her crazy with his ramming. She came. Once. Twice. Three times.

Maximus felt her body tighten around his, tugging at him with powerful spasms, spurring him into a fury of lust, need and desperation. Sweat ran down his body and dripped on her heaving breasts and Maximus redoubled his thrusts, feeling his own body tighten, feeling his own thighs shuddering uncontrollably as the girl's thighs shuddered beneath his grip. And when he came in a white-hot rush, it was with such intensity that it was pleasure and it was pain and he felt so dizzy that he couldn't distinguish one from the other.

Exhausted, Maximus released her ankles and let her drop her trembling legs, then collapsed on top of the girl. Somehow he managed to roll away from her. Despite her own exhaustion, Ariadne whimpered. Drained, spent, satiated, she only wanted to snuggle against him and sleep beside his big, warm body.

But it was obvious that once their coupling was over, the gladiator didn't want her in his bed.  Ariadne remained there for a while, her eyes shut, sweat cooling on her wet body, till her breath became even and a little of her strength returned. Then, she silently rolled towards the narrow bed's rim and lowered her legs.

Her feet never touched the floor for the Spaniard's bulging arm wrapped tightly around her waist and she gasped in surprise as he dragged her back towards him, his already rigid manhood pressing hard against her buttocks.

"Not so quickly," he breathed against her ear, his big, callused hand heavily fondling her breasts. Trembling, she allowed him to roll her onto her back and beneath him. 

He used her again, let her rest for a while in the suffocating darkness of the cell then used her once more. 

But, after the third time, when dazed and spent Ariadne had tried to curl by his side and share his sleep, he harshly ordered her out of his bed and his cell and his life.

She obeyed him on trembling legs but came back the next evening. 

And the next. 

And the next.