The Royal Slave
The swine... she ground her teeth and clenched jaw muscles. It was bad enough to
have been captured by the Romans, now she had to correct this dolt on his own
stupid laws.
Caesar Scipio insouciantly gazed out pass the massive columns fronting his
praetorium, played with his forelock and said, "You happen to be quite right,
Etruscan insurrectress. We Romans are allowed to crucify only slaves. In your
case, however..., excuse me.
Yes, Micon, what is it?"
Her hostile eyes narrowed to slits as the skinny consul rustled his toga, bent
his gaunt frame and whispered in Scipio's ear. Blue-green veins scratched just
under translucent skin atop the old man's hairless skull. She winced at the
sight: some people should never wear yellow...
"Speak out loud. I command you."
The old man creaked erect. He pointed a scrawny finger at Rasenna and said,
"Moecha Turpis."
"Now, now, Micon. Is that any way to behave toward our guest? Calling this royal
personage a Shameful Slut? For shame on you."
Scipio conspiratorially winked at Rasenna and said, "See? The old coot actually
quotes poetry."
Rasenna snarled and twisted her chained wrists. Calling her a 'guest', much less
a slut, was an insult. "That's right, Scipio. The poetry is by Catullus and lest
you forget, I am educated. Not like your Roman women purposefully kept ignorant
by their menfolk."
The bearded consul bent and whispered more into Scipio's ear, so quietly that
she could not make out what he said, but it was obvious by the slow smear of
bulbous lips across Scipio's fat face that what he heard agreed with him.
Whatever it was had something to do with her, and that something she had a hunch
was not going to be good.
The one calling himself Caesar chose to ignore Rasenna's latest jab concerning
his society's mores and said, "Since you were quite right, about the only
crucifying slaves part, my man Micon has come up with a fine alternative for
dealing with your obvious lack of loyalty. Sure to please your rebellious
nature, plus, we get a fine show. Think of it as a win-win."
She survived the ambush on her retinue, then fled alone only to be later
captured by Romans. Now she had to suffer drivel from this petty magistrate and
his creaky sycophant.
Caesar Scipio summoned all of his imperiate powers as he looked down upon the
enemy leader now held in his domain and said, "In the name of Rome I condemn you
to die upon the cross, however, as a gladiatrix!
Proclaimed as such, you will qualify for crucifixion as we consider all who
fight in the arena to be nothing more than common slaves." He hiccupped and
belched as he chuckled at his own sense of warped mirth. "And certainly a
gladiatrix does qualify."
"In your case of course, you shall be sort of a... royal slave."
Her complexion tanned by many a Mediterranean sun and sculpted by numerous
battles retained its youthful allure. Thanks to her father's genes, her colors
were lighter than the usually dark-haired, dark-skinned Etruscans. As a
chieftain from north of the Poe valley, the Gaul met her Etruscan mother and
fell in love. Together they gave birth to a fair-haired daughter. Yet, on
hearing Scipio's taunt, her face flushed with anger and darkened. Being held
mercy to the scoundrel's every whim aggravated, to say the very least.
"But, just between us," Scipio murmured as he sunk back into his upholstered
throne and fanned his face with the palm of his hand. A large onyx stone set in
silver glowed from the ringed index finger. "We both know of your royal lineage
thereby making your execution as a "common slave" something of a study in irony.
Next weekend then, it is! My people are going to love it."
Fingers demurely covered his beady eyes as he dreamily said, "And of course,
love me, for providing them with such an entertainment spectacle."
Creases formed a frown across her forehead. Blonde bangs covered the uppermost
lines. Dark coals of her eyes smoldered as she continued to glare up at Scipio.
Scipio disliked her people as much as any good Roman. Their haughty women and
other arrogant habits defied all that his occupation stood for. Etruscans must
end, and this female before him seemed like a perfect place to start.
"Give the her a week at the gladiatorial school. Contact the aedile in charge of
staging spectacles. Have him and others prepare the coliseum for this most
special event."
Guards snapped to attention. Micon deferentially bowed as his Caesar shifted
bulky robes and poured from the throne. Gilded sandals flapped against marble
floor as Scipio waddled away in the distance.
