Free Last Gladiatrix, The by Eva Scott

go wild. Of course, you cannot survive such an encounter but no doubt you will fight hard. Why else would they bother pitting you against a gladiator? It would be no sport at all if you could not hold your own.’
    Titus had prepared her well for this outcome, but the knowledge did not stop her stomach churning and the muscles in her neck from becoming ridged. ‘My advice to you: kill as quickly as you can. Do not hold back. He will be fighting for his life; never forget that. Now, you should sleep while you can.’ Her eyes burnt with a blazing fierceness. Klara withdrew to a shadowy corner of her cell, wrapping herself in a blanket. Before long, the sound of her soft snores could be heard echoing off the walls.
    Xanthe sat a while longer, her thoughts full of Titus and the morrow. What if he did not survive his fight? A world without him would not be worth living in. She sighed. And her parents, they may never find out what had befallen her. Who would tell them if she did not survive? Who would comfort them in their heartbreak?
    Xanthe picked up a piece of straw and chewed on it absently. She refused to entertain thoughts of defeat, intending to fight like demon and win tomorrow. She would see her parents again, and do so with Titus by her side.
    A great weariness overtook her. Sighing, Xanthe curled up and closed her eyes, allowing sleep to claim her.

Chapter Ten
    Lucius Pulus enjoyed his job, but especially the women. He took a moment to appreciate the Scythian woman’s curves as she slept, unaware of his lurking presence. He found her tattoos strangely attractive and wondered what it would be like to bed her. Some other time, perhaps.
    The squat man shouted and banged on the cell doors. The Scythian opened her eyes and peered up at him through the gloom.
    ‘Come! Get up! It is time for the feast. Your sponsor is waiting.’ Lucius rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘Quick, girl. We haven’t got all night.’ He unlocked her cell as she scrambled to her feet, straw sticking out of her hair.
    He grabbed her arm and manhandled her out of the cell, enjoying every minute. ‘I hope you’re not as dim-witted in the arena tomorrow as you’re being right now. It will make for a tedious event. Now hurry along. We have to get you dressed.’
    ‘I don’t understand you,’ Xanthe said, as she craned her neck to see if the Hun woman was asleep in her cell. Was it tomorrow already? How long had she slept?
    The ugly little man muttered something before dragging her along the corridor to a small anteroom.
    A fat, greasy woman waited for her, mumbling unhappily to herself. The horrid man said something, making the woman shout back what could only have been an insult, before withdrawing.
    The woman tugged at Xanthe’s dirty tunic, indicating for her to remove it. Xanthe disrobed, standing naked in the cool evening air. The woman led her to a bucket of cold water and gave her a sponge, her meaning clear.
    Grateful for the opportunity to rub the layer of grime off her skin, Xanthe found herself enjoying the sponge bath immensely. How nice to be clean again. She looked down, admiring her tattoos as they gleamed wet in the half-light.
    The fat woman said something and poked at one of them with a fat finger. Xanthe instinctively recoiled, baring her teeth and growling, more for effect than with any real intent. The gesture had the desired result, and the woman leaped back out of her reach.
    A bundle of clothes lay across a chair, and the woman gestured for Xanthe to put them on, too nervous to come closer. A short skirt made of soft leather, a breastplate of stiffened leather and a strange little cap that would offer no protection in the ring made up her new attire. They fitted well enough and at least the breast plate would offer some defence.
    Xanthe turned this way and that, trying to see what she looked like. So this was how Romans imagined Scythian warrior women dressed? She wouldn’t know, having never encountered one, but