by

Tacitus

(Note: This story refers to events depicted in “Satyr’s Child,” which

can be found in the 3rd Femfight Story Competition archives.)

I

As the sun slipped above the azure Aegean Sea, flagstones were already warm beneath her feet as she lightly ran up the hill towards the gymnasia. This was to be the day that determined if she was ready to journey north to the frontier. It was to be a tough, vigorous test, for a reversal here meant merely more training and conditioning. Defeat on the frontier, against her likely opponent, would most certainly mean death.

The months since her brutal loss in the arena at Byzantium at the hands of the Teutonic warrior Callisto had been particularly difficult for Xena. Slipping over the side of the slave boat after strangling her jailer as he raped her, she had misjudged the strength of the current off Thracia and the damage to her right arm and shoulder and nearly drowned, before she was able to struggle ashore, more dead than alive. Found by a shepherd taking his flock to new pastureland, she had been nursed back to health in a rude wooden hut dug into the stony hillside before she was able to make her way slowly, and in considerable pain, overland to her hometown of Amphipolis.

A visit to the local surgeon, schooled in the ancient medical practices of Athens, helped repair the most serious damage to her right arm, shoulder and inner thigh. But the damage inflicted by Callisto was far more than physical, and while the Thracian’s physical wounds healed, her mental anguish was an equally formidable challenge to overcome.

The raven-haired Greek woman, one hailed as the Warrior Princess, was now the object of derision throughout the eastern half of the Empire. While family friends remained close and supportive, a few encounters on the streets of Amphipolis with those whom had first-hand knowledge of the thoroughness of her defeat and personal, physical humiliation at the hands of Callisto, were embarrassing. To jeers and taunts by males and females, many who had seen her beaten, hapless body twisting slowly on the arena’s guy ropes, her response had been to simply turn away and return home without a word or action in defense of her conduct in Byzantium.

The people were right to feel she had failed them. Her defeat, particularly in the way that the Teutonic dominatrix had administered it, methodically attacking and destroying each of her physical strengths and attributes, followed by stringing her up for all the arena’s spectators to gaze on her tortured, naked body, was devastating to those who had admired her accomplishments over the years. The people had lost trust and confidence in her strength and ability to win in arena combat, but more importantly, so had she.

Thus, her daily runs were conducted just as the first rays of sun lit the eastern sky. Her conditioning, strengthening workouts and routine at the gymnasia, an ancient school of Greek athletics in the Olympian tradition perched high above the Aegean coastline, were all completed before the morning’s normal attendees arrived.

But lately there had been a more urgent nature to Xena’s routine. Word from the north, where Callisto had led a Roman Army to battle the Quadi tribe of Celts north of the Danube River, was not good. The Amber Road, the so-named Roman road connecting the amber producing regions far to the north along the great inland sea, with the Danubian province of Pannonia, and further east to the Black Sea, had been overrun in Germania by barbarian hordes intent on severing the profitable trade between north and south and imposing themselves as middlemen.

The Quadi tribe was just one of several that contested Rome’s access to the amber-producing regions far to the north. The XIII Legion had built the aptly named Amber Road from the Black Sea to Carnuntum, but it was now the XV Legion that was to extend passage north into the remote forests.

The XV, newly-led by Callisto as the Emperor’s compensation for her now-famous victory over Xena in the climatic arena struggle several months ago, was initially successful, but then suffered several reversals at the hands of the barbarians. In the last two ambushes, desperate struggles where only the discipline of the legion allowed it to survive, Callisto had been reported missing immediately prior to the attacks. Rival centurions and the new garrison and XV Legion commander at Carnuntum, Marcus Licinius, seeking favor with Rome, called into question the blonde woman’s loyalty to the Emperor. First when she returned after her Legion’s defeat, she had been deposed from leadership and then imprisoned in the squalid jail at Carnuntum. As a citizen of Rome she had a right to a hearing on the charges against, but rumors were that it was only a matter of time before she was crucified as a traitor.

Far to the south, Xena heard tales of happenings to the north, but derived little solace from her nemesis’ dilemma. Neither the blonde warrior’s imprisonment, banishment nor execution, be it for cowardice, which Xena doubted, or treason, which was possible, would solve the raven-haired warrior’s quest for vengance. She needed to again come to grips in the arena with this woman who had so ruthlessly destroyed her body and her reputation. She had to visit on the blonde warrior the same pain and suffering the Thracian herself had received at the German woman’s hands. Xena needed her opponent to be in good health, not weakened by torture or imprisonment, and the contest witnessed by hundreds of citizens of the Empire.

Thus, assuming today’s physical trial would end successfully, Xena had sought passage on a small trading scow that would leave Amphipolis for Byzantium and ultimately the Black Sea port of Odessus tomorrow morning. Like the Great Alexander, who had assembled his invincible army in Amphipolis three centuries earlier before embarking on a campaign to conquer the world, Xena was impatient and anxious to go, to seek out her nemesis as Alexander had sought, and killed, the Persian King Darius.

The Warrior Princess’s armor, chakram and sword were polished, sharpened and ready for the long trek to the Danubian frontier. But a question that still gnawed at Xena, and concerned those of her family who were aware of her mental and physical anguish over the past several months, was one of her personal fitness and mental toughness to again face in personal combat the blonde warrior who had brought down on her such pain and humiliation.

Fortunately for Xena, the head of the gymnasia, Artimus, a family friend of her father’s generation, understood her concerns and physical needs. He promised her, when she was ready, a fierce female competitor who would test her as none, excepting perhaps Callisto, had ever done. A victory over this opponent would ensure she was recovered from her earlier severe beating, both physically and mentally.

Her just-named adversary would be the Sircusan slave Zenobia, from the Mediterranean island of Sicily, long a Greek colony before the ascent of Rome. Trained as a female gladiator and wrestler in the school at Capua, and nursing a generations-old hatred of Greeks dating from Athens’s destruction of her island’s army three centuries earlier, Zenobia was known for her strength and delight in inflicting cruel punishment on her victims. More than one female wrestler, and several male opponents, had suffered career-ending injuries from her hands and feet, with several of her more notable victories against Greeks occurring in the shallow wrestling pit at the Amphipolis gymnasia itself.

For her part, the Sircusan woman recognized the challenge afforded by Xena. Even still recovering from previous injuries, the island-born woman did not underestimate the skill and strength of her opponent. The Sircusan had listened intently to accounts of the Byzantium contest, knew where and how the warrior princess had been injured, and the tactics Callisto had employed to so savagely beat her. Zenobia hoped the Gods would take pity on the Thracian whore, for she intended none. Both participants looked forward to the contest, which would be conducted in private with no spectators.

Artimus, the gymnasia head, favored sporting contests conducted in the Olympic tradition of his ancestors in which women were not even allowed to attend as spectators, much less actually participate in the games. Thus, the battle between Zenobia and Xena would certainly go far beyond what was considered “proper” athletic conduct, and he had reluctantly agreed to lend use of the gymnasia only because of his prior friendship with Xena’s father. To ensure there would be no interference regardless of how brutal the fight became, it was to be conducted in private with no spectators. Both participants demanded that the only rules be that there were none.

Artimis, though concerned lest harm befall a friend of his family, agreed to the terms, for he sensed that Xena would never be able to face her own demons without such a brutal testing of her strength and character. But with his own reputation to consider and bills to pay, he also worked hard to ensure no one else would be able to see the contest and possibly convey the details of its conduct to others who might not look kindly on such an infraction of the Olympic wrestling rules of Ancient Greece. No one, none of the gymnasia attendants that worked for him, or even Xena’s closest family members living within the very city that they both called home, were made aware of the arrangement. Being held shortly after dawn, an hour or more before the public doors to the gymnasia were opened, would ensure no early arrivals inadvertently witnessed the struggle.

Xena paused at the top of the small rise on which the gymnasia was located. In the dawn’s early light, looking around, she could see no sign of her opponent enroute, so elected to do some additional bending and stretching before the beginning of the contest. Entering through an obscure side gate as instructed by Artemis, as she walked past the pool and towards the exercise area, she spied her opponent already in the shallow pit, conducting deep squats along the circular stonewall that marked its perimeter.

Xena walked to the edge, looked down, and noted the muscularity in the thick shoulders, pronounced pectorals and broad back of the Sircusan woman. Her thick, hard calve muscles and quadriceps that rippled with muscle at the slightest movement offset narrow hips and a small, firm, tight waist. Her breasts were covered in a leather-stretched halter, laced together with whipcord at the front. A matching leather-framed muslin wrapping covered her womanhood and buttocks. Her forearms, biceps and triceps stood out in bold relief, and when flexed showed rippling strength that bespoke years of training in gymnasias and experience in gladiatorial contests. With the exception of the dark hair visible under her armpits, her entire body shimmered in a light coating of olive oil which she had just finished applying.

Xena’s wish had been granted. Artemis had chosen well. This was a formidable, dangerous opponent, and victory here would give her the confidence she would need to journey north in search of Callisto.

Zenobia acknowledged her arrival with a curt nod and guttural grunt, and looked upward at the raven-haired Warrior Princess she had heard so much about. As was the Sircusan’s, Xena’s chest and stomach area were well defined by rippling muscularity. Zenobia noted approvingly the bulging pectoral and deltoid muscles of the Thracian warrior, glistening in a fine sheen of sweat from her early morning run. The Greek’s large breasts thrust forward, encased in a white running tunic that draped halfway down the length of her powerful thighs. But no amount of clothing could disguise the power and strength of this woman. The Empire had chosen well in once making her its champion. Her defeat at the hands of Callisto had been a shock to all. For Zenobia to repeat that feat, the Sircusan felt all her strength, cunning, and knowledge of Xena’s prior injuries would have to be employed in a calculated manner at the Greek’s physical weakest points with no mercy being shown. Well aware of what Xena’s objective in this contest was, Zenobia certainly expected none for herself.

Intending to wrestle this woman in the nude, as Callisto in the Byzantium arena had forced her to, Xena turned away to remove her running tunic. Almost instantly she realized her mistake, but it was too late. Quickly, the large dark-skinned hands of the Sircusan appeared at the edge of the pit, rudely grasped her ankles, and jerked forcefully. Xena fell flat on her face and chest as she felt herself being dragged into the pit. With the now-hampering tunic riding up over her head, her legs fell over the lip of the wrestling pit wall. Two sharp stabs of pain in her inner right thigh followed by savage blows to the kidneys told her the Sircusan bitch was already seeking to open her recently healed wound to weaken and intimidate the Greek woman at the outset. Extending her arms and hands, Xena quickly raised her upper body off the edge of the wall, and threw herself backwards into the pit, ensnaring her opponent with the quickness of her move, and using the large, well-oiled body of the Sircusan to cushion her fall.

Her opponent was surprised at Xena’s near instantaneous response to the unceremonious beginning of their contest, and equally surprised that she, herself, would suddenly be the one on the bottom in the pit. But she quickly rolled out from under the Greek, and as Xena settled to the pit floor, desperately trying to remove the remnants of the torn tunic from around her chest, Zenobia tore off her own halter and muslin wrap, and now completely nude, first came to a half crouch, and then leaped, arms and legs wide open, on top of her struggling prostrate foe.

The force of her impact confirmed in Xena her suspicion that this woman was not only heavier than Callisto, but also weighed more than the Thracian herself, who had suffered considerable weight loss over the summer recovering from her injuries. However there was little time to ponder weight differences and their effect on her strategy, as Xena felt the Sircusan’s knees ramming hard into her cunt, forcing her thighs apart, her arms scrambling to pin Xena’s hands to her sides, breath reeking of garlic hot and moist in the Greek’s face.

As Xena struggled to keep her arms from being forced into her sides, Zenobia suddenly drove her head, mouth wide open, between Xena’s ample breasts and bit down hard. The Greek warrior shrieked in pain as the tearing and rending teeth did their bloody work. The Sircusan raised her head and laughed gleefully at her opponent’s pain, kneed her again in the groin, and then bit down again, this time her teeth finding purchase in her victim’s left breast. Again the Warrior Princess cried out in pain, but then succeeded in folding her left leg up nearly under her buttocks and pushed down hard, flipping her torso to the right, and threw her opponent off and into the dirt.

But Zenobia rolled quickly away from the scrambling Greek woman, rose again to a half crouch, and as Xena stood and raised her arms to remove the tattered remnants of the tunic, drove a crushing fist into her groin, another to her chest and two quick blows to the face. Xena paused, half upright, and toppled forward to the pit floor, clearly stunned and now bleeding from mouth and nose, in addition to her breasts. In a flash Zenobia was astride her back, callused hands grabbing her by the throat, crushing her Adam’s apple and driving her forehead brutally into the floor, filling her mouth and nose with sand. Choking and gasping for air, the Greek warrior sought in vain to pry her tormentress’ hands away from her throat, but to no avail.

As the Thracian woman neared unconsciousness, Zenobia released her grip and arose, surveying the results of the first brief moments of combat. “This is the finest the Greeks have to offer?” she muttered.

What she saw filled her with pride and satisfaction as the celebrated Warrior Princess lay bloody and distraught on her stomach, feet splayed out defenselessly in front of her. But the Sircusan sought not a quick victory, and instead wanted to prolong the pain and agony of her opponent. An unfeeling, unconscious body impervious to the torture she intended on inflicting was not desired. Zenobia wanted a fight to the finish, wanted to hear the triumphal cry of victory and the anguished gasps of defeat, with one or the other contestant permanently crippled. A quick, career-ending battle between the two warriors, even with no audience present and the victim being a once-great Greek Amazon now past her prime, would be disappointing.

Thus, instead of focusing on the throat and face to quickly render her opponent helpless, Zenobia returned to the attack by electing a slower, more painful path to victory, drilling her right knee deep into Xena’s groin, eliciting a muffled scream of pain from the Greek woman’s mouth still full of sand and blood. Sensing a growing sense of resignation and defeat on the part of her victim, the Sircusan warrior sneered in delight at the plight of the once-famous Warrior Princess and lowered herself to straddle Xena’s narrow waist just above the buttocks. Driving two hard fists into the lower back, she followed up by clubbing with both hands joined together at the back of the neck, driving Xena’s face again into the pit dirt. Then she rocked back, ran her right hand between the Greek’s butt cheeks, and tore at her twin body orifices with sharpened nails

Stunned and overwhelmed, the raven-haired Thracian could offer but feeble resistance as the strong fingers of her adversary now laced themselves together beneath her chin, and pulled backwards and upwards hard, jerking her head back at an acute angle to the rest of her body, which lay immobilized under the weight of her Sircusan tormentor. The pressure on her spine was excruciating, and as Zenobia arched further away, her muscles quivered under the strain. Bringing her full weight to bear on Xena’s lower back, she bent the Warrior Princess nearly in half. The searing pain evident in the Greek’s contorted face and strangled gasps was clearly bringing her to the brink of surrender to her dominant opponent. Xena could only cry out in muffled agony as her neck was again wrenched back at almost a right angle to the rest of her torso, but her echoes of anguish and seeming defeat were overwhelmed in volume and intensity by the animal-like grunts emanating from the woman inflicting the torture on her.

Sweat coursed from both nude bodies, and mixed with the pit dirt and blood freely flowing from the Greek woman’s nose, mouth and breasts each combatant was now shrouded in a thin brown patina, with only the areas in direct contact with their opponent remaining relatively free of the concoction. Through the miasma of pain clouding her head Xena sensed that she was slowly losing consciousness and realized that not only was she nearing defeat, but most likely an injury that would not only end her career as a warrior, but leave her a cripple dependent on the charity of her sure-to-be scornful Amphipolis neighbors.

Realizing the brutal reality facing her, the Thracian warrior slowly drew her thick thighs in tighter to her body and began to wedge them beneath her body. Zenobia sensed the traditional wrestling tactic and pulled back all the harder against Xena’s neck, but felt her adversary’s body slowly rising beneath her. She momentarily raised her own body and then dropped down, hoping to drive Xena back prostrate into the dirt, but the momentary lessening weight of the Sircusan, however brief, allowed the Greek woman to quickly pull her legs beneath her body and more ably bear the renewed weight of her adversary. Zenobia realized her mistake, but barely had time to consider her next move when Xena, having regained use of both hands and knees, suddenly pulled her arms beneath her, thrust her back and buttocks as high as possible and threw Zenobia off her back and forward into the pit wall.

The Sircusan struck it nearly head on with a dull thud and, momentarily stunned, slumped to the pit floor. Xena slowly gained her feet, and limped over to the prostrate Sircusan, alert for any sudden movement on her opponent’s part. But when it appeared she was not feigning injury, Xena painfully raised her left leg and drove her foot, heel first, hard into her tormentor’s kidneys, followed by two savage stomps to the nape of the neck. It was killing time, and she intended to rise to the occasion.

As Zenobia writhed in pain, Xena bent down, rolled her over, and drove the left heel down into the head, followed by three sharp blows to the groin area, hard on the pubic mound. Stunned, the Sircusan could only look up through pained, blood and sand filled eyes at the now dominant Greek Amazon towering over her. She sensed the tide of the struggle had turned, perhaps irreparably, against her, but determined to keep fighting as long as possible, she half-raised herself on her elbows and tried to roll away.

But the Thracian warrior sensed her wrestling counter, and quickly dropped the full weight of her body on her prostrate foe, straddling her stomach, with massive thighs wedged tightly against her opponent’s ribs. A clubbing fist knocked the stunned Sircusan back into the dirt. Xena gazed hungrily at her ample cleavage, but then shook such thoughts from her concentration, and as if in retribution for such sentiments, lifted up Zenobia’s left breast and drove a hard blow with her right fist into the fleshy area beneath it. A shriek of pain emanated from the throat of her adversary and Xena sensed for the first time in this contest that she had found a real weak spot of her dark-haired opponent. She repeated the action twice more, and then shifted to the right breast. Only this time, rather than a fist, she sunk her fingers into the tender area and tore away with her nails. Again, a shriek of pain, even louder than before. Zenobia attempted to defend herself by swinging blindly at the body above her. Only when her hands sought the Greek’s own pendulous breasts, and sunk their nails into their flesh, did she sense any movement on the Thracian’s part.

Quickly Xena rolled off the body below her, and stood. Her combat ardor and bloodlust, so fearsome on fields of battle from Britannia to Parthia, was now clearly up. She bent down, deflected outreaching hands again searching for a purchase in her breasts, and hauled the hapless Sircusan to her feet by her hair. As hands attempted to relieve the pressure on her scalp, the Greek Amazon chopped hard on both shoulders, and followed up quickly with hard right fists into the stomach and groin area.

As the Sircusan sagged in a semi-conscious state, Xena hurled her against the pit wall and smiled. For the first time since her terrible struggle with Callisto she felt all her old cunning, strength, and innate cruelty coming back. No longer tentative and concerned for injury, but rather seeking to maim or kill, the Amazon closed her opponent for close-in body work at which she had long excelled. Two hammering blows to the chest area alternately flattened Zenobia’s breasts against her chest, accompanied by choking cries of pain from her victim.

A feeble attempt by the Sircusan to kick up with her right leg into Xena’s groin was easily parried by the Greek warrior, who responded to the move by wrenching the leg up high, nearly lifting the Sircusan off the arena floor, and slamming her backwards into the pit wall. Xena drove her fingers hard into her opponent’s thigh muscle, ripping into the flesh with her razor sharp nails. Another howl of pain was cut short by a fist to the mouth, shattering two front teeth and splitting both lips. Xena lifted the leg even higher, the thigh and quadriceps muscles of her opponent now bold in their relief. But rather than focusing on the distended leg, Xena moved in even closer and drove prying fingers hard into the Sircusan’s pubic mound, tearing at flesh and hair. A shriek of pain was accompanied by a desperate head but to her tormentress, eliciting a deep cut in her forehead, but the new pain, and additional blood only served to further enrage the Warrior Princess, who rather than backing away, wrenched up the leg even further, and this time drove a forearm down hard across the lower thigh. The resulting sound told Xena she had either cracked or cleanly broken the bone, and through much blood, dirt and sweat she smiled again.

With her opponent nearly unconscious and unable to do anything to protect her vulnerable body from the vicious onslaught of the Warrior Princess, Xena sought revenge for both today’s earlier administered pain and the nightmare and humiliation that had befallen her since that fatal meeting with Callisto in Byzantium’s arena.

Xena dragged her victim upright to the side of the pit wall, and thrust first one, and then the other, arm over the lip. The Sircusan, powerless to resist, hung there as meat on a butcher’s hook. Recalling Callisto’s horrific treatment of her in a similar predicament in Byzantium, Xena began driving fists into various areas of her opponents trussed up body, particularly intent on the area immediately below the rib cage, groin and breasts. The Sircusan’s body shuddered with each telling blow, as the Greek Warrior methodically broke several of her ribs and slashed at her breasts and pubic mound with her nails.

Finally, a telling blow low into her right side dislodged Zenobia’s upper arm from the pit rim. Her body swung limply to the left until her dead weight dislocated her left shoulder, and as the muscle and tendon gave way, she fell, arms and legs askew, into the pit in a heap.

Xena took notice of the state of her opponent but barely paused in her assault. Quickly outstretching her victim’s listless body, she dropped with all her weight on the left upper thigh, intent on breaking both bones. Though the nearly unconscious Sircusan barely stirred, the Greek dominatrix sensed something give way and laughed haughtily as she regained her feet. This woman would never walk without another means of support, much less enter the arena again, Xena thought, a fitting end to her own period of self-torment, as well as preparation for another fight with Callisto.

Preparing to launch herself again on her victim, intent on breaking both arms, she sensed movement above her and a restraining hand on her shoulder. Pausing, she looked up into the wizened features of her father’s friend, Artimus, owner of the gymnasia.

“Xena,” he quietly asserted, “Have you not had enough?”

The Warrior Princess wrenched away from his grasp, and drew herself up to renew the attack. But sensing the concern on Artimus’s face, for what she was doing would get him in trouble with the local authorities if they ever found out, as the presence of a crippled or nearly dead woman wrestler in the gymnasia would be very difficult to explain, she paused, and then stopped.

Artimus was right. The earlier pain and damage visited on her body by this Sircusan bitch who clearly sought to destroy her as she in fact had been destroyed, had driven Xena to the extreme of violence and a desire to kill which had once been her way, arousing passions that had long lain dormant under the patina of civilization. But the exertions of this Sircusan whore had brought out in Xena a past thought forgotten.

With recent experience in sustaining severe bodily injury, it was clear that Zenobia was effectively destroyed as an arena combatant and would no doubt finish out her life as a beggar or prostitute eking out a meager existence on the streets of Amphipolis, Athens or Rome. Her days as a brutal champion wrestler were over.

Xena turned away from her prostrate foe, and climbed out of the pit. Artimus was waiting carefully off to the side, a bucket of warm water and a sponge at his feet. As Xena approached him he drew back as if in fear of being struck by this clearly outraged, erect, dominant female warrior. “The Gods,” thought Xena, “I am back!”

With only a hint of a smile to portray her satisfaction, Xena raised her hands as if to strike her male benefactor, but as he recoiled, Xena broke into a wider grin. “Artimus, true friend, you are right. It is over, at least in Amphipolis. Here…please help me get clean.”

With that Xena stood still, arms erect, as Artimus began to wipe her sweat-slick and bloodstained body clean of the accumulated filth of this morning’s conflict. Pausing only briefly to admire her large breasts, and gently stroke the dark juncture of hip and thighs, Artimus remembered years long gone by when he had been a hoplite warrior. Back then, he would have bedded this beautiful Amazon in mutual ecstasy, but those days were long past. Now he could but admire her magnificently sculptured body as he diligently worked to cleanse it of the morning’s labors.

When nearly clean, Artimus motioned her towards a nearby massage table. Even given her now insatiable lust for combat, Xena also was wise enough to recognize she had sustained some physical damage and abuse from her opponent that would require immediate attention and some healing time before she began her journey north to the Danube in search of Callisto. So stretching out to her fullest extent on the table, she purred contently as Artimus worked strong fingers into her deltoids, biceps, trapeze and thigh and lower leg muscles. As strong hands lathered with scented olive oil massaged and stroked her breasts she moaned in appreciation and lust and briefly considered asking Artimus for “further” services before drifting into healing slumber.

When awakened by the gentle prodding of Artimus it was because men were now filing into the gymnasia. As Xena raised herself to a sitting position, she noted that Zenobia’s body no longer lay forlornly in the pit. Artimus had clearly been busy while she slept, and no evidence of their bloody encounter remained for the men arriving at the regular opening hour to discern. The pit was swept clean, the dirt seemingly undisturbed since last night’s duties by the owner.

Though fully nude, Xena’s body elicited only passing interest from the male athletes that were here at this early hour. Although many knew of the woman warrior’s prowess and for those so oriented, her sexual allure, none thought it unusual that she would be in the gymnasia at this early hour. Many had seen her frequently running in the early morning hours, and knew she had been healing and rehabilitating herself in the care of several trainers after her severe mauling by Callisto.

Thus, Xena asking for a new shift from Artimus struck no one as anything out of the ordinary, and no one overhead her brief whisper of appreciation and squeezing of the gymnasia owner’s arm. Just a pair of good family friends parting company, though both knew that months of mental and physical conditioning were now over. Ahead for one lay merely the quotidian routine of a provincial Greek city gymnasia. For the other, a journey to the outer reaches of Empire in search of her destiny…and revenge.

II

Bumping and jarring its way over frozen roads, slewing through great cuttings of hardened snowdrift, the Roman supply train slowly wound its way down the wind-scoured hill overlooking the Danube flood plain. As the heavily laden XV Legion supply wagons approached the two-story rampart of the fort at Carnuntum, looming dark and forbidding through blustery snow squalls, Xena pulled back the muslin windscreen and dropped lightly into the knee-deep snow. Gathering her heavy woolen coat tightly around her with a wide leather belt, and necessarily checking the accessibility of her sword and chakrum in recognition of the frontier border being little more than a stone’s throw away, she half-slid, half-scrambled down a rock-strewn uneven track towards a small, squat building built too close to the riverbank.

Making her way to the heavily barred door, she first banged with her fists, then with the hilt of her sword, to announce her presence over the howling wind roaring down the river valley. Finally, the heavy bar rotated upward, the door opened a crack, and a guttural voice shouted against the noise of the storm, “What do you want?” Then seeing it was a woman, rather than the relief watch requesting entrance, the door was quickly thrown open wider and the Warrior Princess crossed the threshold into the hovel that passed as the Carnuntum prison.

The stench of unwashed bodies, half-cooked food and fire smoke was nearly overpowering as Xena peered through the dimly lit interior, looking for the Watch Captain. One particularly burly, seemingly drunk legionnaire stood up and approached her and repeated the doorkeeper’s question, “What do you want, bitch?”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned to his three companions gathered around the gaming table. “Look what Marcus Licinius sent us on a cold winter’s night. And unlike these barbarian cunts we normally get, this one has some meat on her bones! Nice of the commander, isn’t it?” he yelled. Half-drunken, lusty laughter emanated from the group, but as his hands groped towards Xena’s face, a quick right forearm to the chest sent him stumbling back towards his companions.

“You stupid fool! Get your hands off me! I am not one of your camp followers, or some barbarian wench willing to fuck for money. I am a citizen of Rome and I have come here to see your prisoner,” Xena forcefully asserted, adding, “and I have Marcus Licinius’s permission to question Callisto using any methods I want.” Not quite true, but then by the time these stupid soldiers had determined that she had yet to meet the garrison commander, she intended to be long gone from this filthy sty.

“Very well,” the Watch Captain replied, licking his lips disappointingly as Xena removed her heavy coat. He had hoped for a whore to help the time pass, but he knew enough about Marcus’s frustrated desire to find out what the treacherous blonde bitch knew about the Quadi tribe not to question the fort commander’s election to try a woman interrogator this time. And from the looks of her, the strength of her arms and legs apparent even through the heavy outer garments, she could beat or fuck the information out of her. He did not care which method she chose.

“Your welcome to that cunt…got a lot of my men killed on the road to Vindobona last month. But watch her…even shackled, she’s hamstrung two of my watch section.”

“I know. I’ve dealt with her before, “ replied Xena. “But I won’t need these,” she continued, removing her sword and chakrum and depositing them on her coat in a pile in the corner. “The centurion wants her alive for the arena,” she added.

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” replied the Watch Captain, being careful not to hint at his true feelings toward his commander. This Thracian whore probably shared his bed, and he didn’t want to place at risk his promotion that would see him return to Rome and the Praetorian Guard.

“He’s so busy he doesn’t have time to tell us much. Anyway, have a good time!” he grinned mischievously, “and if you need any help just yell out. Callisto has felt the power and glory of Rome more than once,” he drunkenly slurred, grabbing at his crotch with both hands.

Xena blanched and turned away, heading towards the cellblock and recalling the personal degradation she had felt when a captive on the slave boat after her defeat in Byzantium’s arena at the hands of Callisto. Not that she did not want to kill the Teutonic warrior herself in a fight to the death, but the idea of Callisto being routinely raped and molested by these pigs, any one of whom she could easily defeat in combat, turned the Warrior Princess’s stomach. Regardless, she concealed her sentiments from the Key Man as he unlocked the outer cell door.

“Now you girls just have a good time in there…and save some for us!” he grinned, licking his wine stained lips as the door slammed shut behind her.

The dim light of a pair of torches caught the brightness of Callisto’s wispy blonde hair beneath the prisoner’s helmet that encased her head. Even in heavy, vulgar black leather and chains, shackled to iron rings that gave her little room for movement, begrimed in dirt, sweat and blood of the last battle as well as her daily servicing at the hands of her captors, Xena had to admire the slender, but powerful, body of the nymph-warrior before her. If only she didn’t hate this bitch so much, she’d gladly take her to bed. Those long sinewy legs, lithe thighs, hard alabaster flanks, flat, taught stomach and small, pert breasts with nipples stiff in the cold, all surmounted by dark red lips and a tousled blonde mane of hair. The Gods, it had been a long time! And you wouldn’t find a body like this anywhere north of the slave market at Tarsus.

Xena moved quietly in front of the prisoner, careful not to disturb the heavy chains lying coiled at her feet. From the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the Teutonic warrior appeared fast asleep. As the Greek woman closed her nemesis, the long, narrow bruises visible above her groin and on her thighs and upper arms gave evidence of her having been repeatedly beaten by truncheons wielded by her prison guards.

“May the Gods have mercy on their souls if Callisto gets lose,” Xena thought, “for she will surely have none.” A wry grin came to her face as she envisioned the blonde warrior forcing her captors to squeal like pigs before she ran them through with her sword. She drew closer to the manacled blonde, and seeing further damage across the breasts of the German woman inflicted by her guards, Xena gently reached forward and caressed the wounded area.

Callisto’s eyes flew open, an instant fear of more inflicted pain washing across her face. Slowly, as her eyes focused in the poor light on who was standing before her, a faint nod of acknowledgement of the Warrior Princess was visible beneath the embossed leather restraints of her helmet.

“Why Xena, how good of you to come and see me!” whispered Callisto through cracked and bloody lips. The tensing of her body, expecting further blows, was replaced again by weariness as she sagged in her chains, barely able to keep her head up. “Would you be a dear and fetch me some water…please?”

Xena turned and walked back to the narrow arch leading to the cell. “Guards!” she shouted. Their dice game interrupted, the Key Man sauntered over.

“What do you want now, Greek woman?”

“Water…for me…I am thirsty.”

“Get it yourself,” he muttered and lifted the iron bar across the door.

Xena walked out, went over to a bucket, and ladled out a full amount. Placing it to her lips, she slowly walked back into Callisto’s cell as the dice game resumed.

“Callisto…careful…” she whispered as she slowly brought the ladle to the blonde’s lips, pushing the helmet back against the wall so her adversary could drink. The blood caked on her lips slowly dissolved into the water as Callisto gulped down as much as she could manage in the head harness. An equal amount spilled down her throat, across her breasts and down her torso. Scarcely constrained shivers replaced an initial shudder as the cold liquid coursed down her battered body as the wetness accentuated the cold and dampness of her riverside imprisonment.

The ladle was emptied before Callisto was sated, but the Warrior Princess refrained from getting more for fear of alerting the guards that the blonde had regained consciousness. Quietly putting the implement on the ground, she gently felt Callisto’s sides, her arms and the bruised areas above and on her breasts. There were some deep cuts and bleeding, but no broken bones or contusions that would inhibit her ability in the arena. Xena sighed in relief; Callisto immediately understood her concern.

“Want to ensure I’m not too damaged, right, whore?” Callisto hissed. She tried to raise her leg to knee the Greek warrior, but the weight and minimal length of the chains stopped her thigh half way to its target.

Xena stepped back. Even in chains and manacles, this she-bitch was dangerous. “I have arranged with the camp commander for another contest, if that’s what you mean,” the Warrior Princess answered.

“Oh Xena, I thought so. Indeed, I hoped so. You are such a fool, such a glutton for punishment. Well, as you can see love, I was healthier last summer when we met. But I must say, you do look much better than the last time I saw you, trussed up like a castrated bull before all Byzantium.”

“Tell me Xena, how does it feel to be naked in front of hundreds of lusting men and women? What does it feel like to have your private parts violated, my fingers thrusting inside of you, your body torn and beaten, twisting slowly in the hot Mediterranean sun for all to see? What does it feel like to be destroyed, physically and mentally, to be humiliated and ridiculed in front of the Empire?

“If you release me now, after I kill these guards with my bare hands, I’ll give you the chance you have sought over all these long months since Byzantium. We could fight, to the death if you want, right here. And no one, but your precious Gods, would know the better of it!”

She paused…furrowed her brow… and wanly smiled. “Oh, but of course, you don’t want that, do you? You want our contest to be out in the open, a formal event attended by all in Carnuntum, with wine and women and the XV Legion in attendance…hundreds to bear witness to your victory…tales to be told…and songs to be sung…from Britannia to the Arabian Sea.”

Callisto laughed. “See that is the difference between us, Warrior Princess. You see this struggle, as your Athenian ancestors did, a ritual, a tragic play, a clever design to symbolize the struggle for power in the Empire, not to end it.”

“But the ancient ways are for me, not the ways of your precious classical Greece, and city-states and democracy. No Xena, I am of the old school, the school that sacked Troy, slew Hector, and brought back the flower of Trojan womanhood to serve as slaves in palaces and concubines in whorehouses from Sparta to Sircusa for generations.

“You see Xena, I see our struggle solely in personal terms. Like your Greek hero Achilles, for me, the thrill of violence substitutes for the pleasures of food and wine and a warm body to fuck at night. When I cry out in celebration with a Celt’s blood, or your blood, on my hands, or howl and laugh in celebration as I run a barbarian’s body through with my sword, or destroy your body with my fists, feet and nails, I am one with Achilles, Ajax and Agamemnon. Like them, my cry of victory is but the wild joy of a personal war I love.”

“You and me, in front of one or one thousand, it makes no difference. I long to humiliate and destroy you, to feel that thick neck of yours between my hands, your fat breasts smothered beneath my crushing thighs, your cunt bleeding, your legs bent and broken from my kicks.” Callisto began to silently laugh, but a deep, wheezing cough wracked her body. She spit out some blood and mucus, spittle drawing slowly down her chest.

“Tell me, love, did not your Greek poet Homer write of Achilles that what he craved was slaughter and blood and the choking groans of men? Don’t waste your pity on me, whore. I am but one with you mythical Gods and heroes. Tell me Xena, am I not more Greek than you?”

“Hardly,” retorted Xena. “A Greek warrior would never abandon troops he was in command of on eve of battle. Regardless of the odds, a true Greek warrior would fight to the death with his men, like Leonidas at Thermopylae or Xenophon leading his outnumbered troops out of Anatolia, slaughtering thousands of Persians at every mountain pass, rather than go over to the enemy.”

A bitter scream of anger emanated from the Teutonic warrior, as she vainly swung her belabored hands at Xena’s face. “You black-haired bitch. I would tear your throat out for that if I could reach you. You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve been listening to lies the Romans are telling about me to escape responsibility for their own cowardice and defeat,” she screamed, as the noise of the chains rising and falling, coupled with her high-pierced ranting, resulted in laughter from the other room as the guards paused in their game to imagine what Xena must be doing to the German woman.

Xena walked back through the narrow archway, returned the ladle to the bucket, and turned to the Romans immersed in their game. “This won’t be long boys!” she said with a deep seductive laugh, and went back into the cell, closing the cell door behind her. She walked over to Callisto, being careful to remain outside the range of those arms and legs.

“What do you mean ‘lies’?” asked Xena.

“You stupid bitch,” spat Callisto, her voice full of spite and venom but still barely audible beyond Xena’s hearing. “Do you think I am afraid of these Celts? How many do you think I have killed? How many have I killed in the presence of Roman legionnaires fighting for their lives? Have you asked any of the soldiers…not their feckless officers who are too often drunk to even defend themselves?”

The veins in Callisto’s neck stood out in bold relief from her alabaster skin, the muscles of her thighs and arms tight with tension as they sought freedom from their shackles. Despite the cold, perspiration was visible on her forehead and upper lip, hatred flashing in coal black eyes. “The Gods, she truly is beautiful,” thought Xena, “How I would like to free her of her chains and roll with her on the floor of this sty now.”

Callisto’s gesture snapped her out of her reverie. “Come here, Warrior Princess, I’ve something to tell you.” As Xena feigned reluctance, all the time wanting desperately to take this nubile, hard body in her arms and make passionate love to her, the blonde continued, “Promise…I won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid, Xena. Besides, you have your protectors, four big ugly Roman studs you’ve probably already fucked, right outside to save their sweet little Warrior Princess, the Once Champion of Rome, with their truncheons if you cry out. Five against one, and me in chains at that. With those odds, even you might beat me Xena!”

The Thracian warrior growled in anger, drew back, and backhanded the blonde savagely in the mouth. The resonance of flesh striking flesh, followed by Callisto’s deep moan, resonated throughout the cell. Outside, the Romans laughed again at the sound amidst their drinking and gaming.

Blood flowed freely from Callisto’s nose. Tasting her own body fluid and its salt, the German woman licked her lips, carefully painting them deep red again with her own tongue and blood. “Thank you…my mighty Warrior Princess. Another…please!”

Xena screamed in defiance and slapped her again, resulting in a fine spray of blood and spittle. A right fist hard to the blonde’s stomach sank deep into her abdominals. Nearly unconscious, Callisto slumped against the prison wall, remaining erect only due to the presence of her chains.

Xena shrank back, embarrassed at her loss of self-control. “Was Callisto right? Was she afraid of her? Regardless of the flesh, were the mental scars from the Byzantium arena still not healed?”

“Here…piggy…piggy…piggy,” Callisto taunted. “Come see your Auntie Callisto…and listen to what a wondrous tale she has to tell!”

Xena turned to go. “Enough of this until the arena,” she shouted.

“Xena, don’t go…yet…please!” suddenly implored Callisto, her tone and inflection suggesting a desperate desire to be heard.

Xena stopped and slowly turned around. “Callisto, why should I be interested in anything you have to say?”

“Come here, I need to explain my actions,” beseeched the blonde prisoner, raising her manacled arms in supplication.

“And why should I believe you?” replied the Thracian woman.

“Because, Xena, I want you to know the truth. Whatever else you think of me, and I of you, I want you to at least know, in life or death, the truth.”

As Xena opened her mouth to reply, Callisto interjected, “And don’t tell me you don’t yearn for me, to feel me in your strong loving arms, to have me suckle those magnificent full breasts of yours, to feel me between your legs, our crotches rubbing together, black on white fur, to take me inside of you as you have taken so many of these Roman dogs… only to be disappointed when they are not the man you are.”

“Xena, you know I speak the truth. You want me…yearn for me…someone to match you strength for strength and fulfill your innermost desire. Xena, I saw the way you looked at me, the passion on your face when you saw me here, trussed up, raped and beaten by these animals. Xena, you want me…you love me. Admit it. You see in me yourself…a Warrior…a Princess…a woman the likes of which this world has never seen.”

Again Xena turned in disgust, embarrassed that her feelings had been so transparent to a Callisto apparently feigning sleep. Fully conscious of the sweat on her brow, despite the cold and dampness of the cell, and the wetness between her legs, she was nearly out the door when Callisto again called out, “Xena, I want you to know the truth. When I face you again in the arena, and we both know that time is growing near, I want you to know, as you see me standing dominant over your broken and ravished body, that you have again been bested by a superior warrior in the best tradition of your ancestors that captured and sacked Troy. I don’t need you to like me, Xena. Indeed, I welcome your hatred. But I do want you to respect me…and know why I am like I am.”

The Greek woman was now curious. What was Callisto so anxious to convey to her? What deep secret seemed to torment this women…this beautiful woman…whose conduct at times seemed little more than that of a wild animal roaming the northern forests? Was there an explanation? Xena moved closer, but carefully, not close enough to be within range of those lethal arms and legs. A caged, wounded animal was often more dangerous than one running free.

“Good, my love,” Callisto cooed. She leaned forward as far as her restraints would permit, and lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “Tell me, my good little Greek girl, in your childhood did your mother recite to you the Hymn to Demeter?”

Xena thought for a moment, and then replied, “Yes, I remember.”

“Go on,” Callisto continued, “tell me more…please!”

Xena continued, “Demeter was an Olympian Goddess, wife of Zeus. Their child, Persephone, while cavorting with her friends in the forest, was abducted by Hades, God of the Underworld. The child initially resisted all advances by the Ruler of the Dark. But finally, weakening over the years and now a ripe young maiden, Persephone made the mistake of accepting from Hades the seeds of a pomegranate. The consumption of the seeds, their insides the dark red of menstrual blood, consummated the relationship between Hades and Persephone and the beautiful maiden was transformed into the elusive, shadowy wife of the stern and imperious God of the Underworld.”

“Very good, my precious Xena. I am impressed. An educated as well as a strong woman, a classically schooled Greek woman warrior adrift in a pagan male Roman world. Is there more, my love? Please go on. How does the story end?” whispered Callisto, with a tone of near reverence in her voice.

Xena continued, “Despite Demeter’s entreaties with her husband, Zeus, Persephone was condemned to dwell in the Underworld for part of each year. Every spring she would travel to the surface of the earth, and return to her mother’s arms. Every autumn, with the first snowfall, she would return to the dark domain and her bed beneath earth shared with Hades.”

Xena stopped, noting that Callisto was seemingly lost in her own thoughts, her eyes glistening in the dim torchlight of her cell. What was it about the Hymn to Demeter that affected her so? As if reading her mind, Callisto raised her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s all I remember,” Xena answered. “Have I forgotten something?”

The blonde looked earnestly into her eyes. “No it is a story…a myth…it doesn’t have an ending.” The blood from her nose, wreathed on her lips, was now dripping off her chin and between her breasts. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

Xena sensed something, but she was not certain quite what. She approached the blonde woman, and put her hand to the German woman’s cheek, catching a tear as it rolled downward. She then cupped her chin, wiping the blood from it, and bent slowly forward brushing her lips against the blood red lips of Callisto. The blonde opened her eyes. “Oh…Xena,” she whispered.

Xena straddled the blonde’s legs with her own, pressing her body up to the Teutonic warrior’s as close as she could get. Starting with a tender kiss to her full lips, the raven-haired Thracian initially drew back, but sensing that Callisto was receptive to further such treatment, she renewed the effort, searing lips now pressed together in fervent passage, agile tongues intertwined. Teeth sought tender flesh as Xena’s hands passed over the blonde’s chest, hovering just above the skin but not touching, then cupping, stroking and rubbing the blonde’s small, erect breasts. Thumbs found nipples and moved in small circles, massaging and stimulating, while all the while Xena’s warm tongue traced wide wet circles around Callisto’s eyes and nose. The shackled German woman moaned in rising passion.

In response the Greek woman lowered her hands to Callisto’s firm, lithe thighs, caressing her firm stomach and languidly running her fingers between the prisoner’s legs, her restrained penetration eliciting a faint moan from the blonde. Callisto shuddered and painfully spread her legs as wide as the weight of her suspended arms would support. Xena knelt before her, kneading the strong inner thigh muscles with her hands, while licking, biting and sucking on that flesh accessible from between the black leather harness. The Thracian’s fingers and nails alternately caressed and raked the inside of the blonde’s alabaster thighs. As her movements grew firmer and stronger in their intensity, Callisto’s moans grew more constricted and beseeching.

The Teutonic Warrior’s ravaged stomach muscles convulsed and her hips began undulating to a silent internal rhythm. The more Xena’s strong, calloused fingers, leathered hands, and moist tongue, ran between her legs and massaged her thighs, the wetter she became. Sweating herself in the passion of the moment, Xena pulled away the rough leather from between her own thighs and while entering Callisto with one pair of fingers, pleasured herself with the other hand.

The blonde moaned loudly with the width and depth of the penetration and her hips began rocking at an increasingly fervent pace, intent on creating the friction her body…and Xena…so eagerly sought. Her body rocked wildly in its chains, the entire leather harness spasming with the thrust of her orgasm, her lungs grasping for air as her arms thrashed wildly, the pain of her shackles feeding her climax.

Suddenly the door was thrown over and two drunken, truncheon wielding Romans burst in. “Hey what’s going on here, whores? Save any for us?” shouted one as he stumbled forward and fell to his knees. Quickly Callisto snapped her widespread legs together, and raised her right leg as far as possible, striking Xena full in the face.

The Thracian warrior fell back on her haunches, hating the interruption before she had gone over, and reacting in shock to the surprisingly well-placed, powerful blow of her still encumbered lover. Her nose, too, was now bleeding as she slowly regained her feet, pulled her leather skirt back into place and straightened her armor. To ensure the Romans only understood one thing about her relationship with the prisoner, she dealt Callisto a glancing forearm blow to the side of the head. With both women bleeding, licking their lips, tasting the salt of their own fluid, no one noticed that both seemed to be smiling between the blood and the pain.

“Out of here, Grecian bitch!” yelled the second Roman, and brushing past her, raised the truncheon above his head. “Take this you German cunt, and like it!” he roared, and began striking the blond about the head, arms and legs. Soon joined by his companion, who grabbed Callisto’s legs and wrenched them away from the wall, the point of impact shifted to her abdomen, crotch and thighs. Now a third guard had come into the cell, and as he fumbled at the belt cinching together his winter campaign jacket, Xena edged towards the archway, and left the cell.

Gesturing futilely to the Watch Captain, who thinking of his promotion had remained distant from the activity inside Callisto’s cell, Xena gathered her coat and weapons, threw back the door, and quickly stepped outside, feeling desperate need of the sharp cold and embracing pine tree smell of the Danubian forests. Behind her, growing increasingly faint, were cries of pain from one, and yells of lust and amusement from three. Struggling to gain the road to the fort, Xena suddenly stopped, and bending over in both revulsion and passion, threw up.

III

The heavy scutum shields of the legionnaires formed a tight circle about a dozen cubits across, the shield-bosses facing inward to form a hard, serrated edging to the makeshift arena. The opponents moved to opposite ends of the fighting ground and Xena shed armor, boots and leather wrappings to match Callisto clad only in a thin muslin undergarment. After carefully placing her sword and chakram under her breastplate, she approached the center of the arena, shivering in the cold and dampness. Callisto turned to face her, the heavy breathing of both combatants displayed frostily in the bitter cold of the Danubian forest night.

“How are you?” Xena asked, hoping the tone in her voice did not betray any sentiments other than those of wanton hate and a desire for victory over her foe.

“Oh, now aren’t you a dear for asking!” retorted Callisto. “When I have you groveling at my feet, those sow’s breasts of yours torn and bloody…heavy thighs thrust wide open in supplication…when I force you to bow down…kiss my feet…and salute me as the Champion of Rome…then I will tell you, Thracian whore. And then, maybe we’ll start where we left off in jail…unless I kill you first!

Xena half sneered…half smiled. “Well…she’s back in true form,” she thought. Callisto seemed none the worse for her month-long treatment by her Roman captors. “By the Gods, this she-bitch was beautiful…and love her or hate her…I’d like to be in her and fuck her…to feel her bone and sinew and muscle in my hands…on my lips. To feel her constricting tunnel swallowing up my fingers…and then in response…her…in me.”

But such lustful sentiments were rudely interrupted, when with Marcus Licinius’s abrupt signal, the clarion note of a horn sounded and hundreds of spectator’s voices shouted in an urgent, enthusiastic chorus. No sentimental pandering to the crowd on the “Glory of Rome” or any such other nonsense tonight. It was cold…too cold for this kind of entertainment…and the sooner this fight was over, the better, the garrison commander thought. “The Gods, if only I had known Xena would come after her, I’d have had Callisto killed after her betrayal and then had this Greek wench warm my bed all winter long.”

Licinius made a mental note to extend the invitation of conjugal hospitality to the raven-haired Warrior Princess regardless of the outcome of this fight. As long as she was not too badly injured, she’d be a better fuck than any of these Celt camp followers that hovered around the stables.

As for Callisto, if she defeated Xena, Licinius intended on having her crucified, as a traitor to Rome. He had no desire to have her in his bed. Others had tried to bed this cunt on earlier campaigns beyond the Danube, and had paid for it with either their lives or painful mutilations that would be difficult to explain when the XV Legion returned to warmer climes. And if Xena killed Callisto…well, the wild dogs that roamed the woods immediately outside the fort’s perimeter would be unusually well fed tonight!

Licinius’s attention returned to the makeshift arena as, in unison, both contestants charged one another, colliding in the center of the ring. Almost immediately, the crowd grew silent, focused intently on the struggle between these two Amazonian warriors.

Xena had cleverly tilted her head forward immediately prior to impact, and her forehead struck the German woman sharply across the bridge of her nose. Momentarily stunned as the two wrestlers collided, Callisto could not react soon enough to counter Xena’s long muscular arms as they shot out and around Callisto’s body and locked together behind, with her arms pinned inside. Xena quickly heaved Callisto off her feet, squeezing the air out of her lungs. Callisto squirmed and kicked, trying in vain to free her arms pressed hard against the broad body of the Greek woman.

The effect of the bear hug was immediately visible on Callisto’s countenance as Xena flexed her knees and arched her wide, heavily muscled back, briefly relaxing the hold as Callisto slid down inside her grasp. Then the raven-haired warrior’s grasp tightened again, only this time her forearms impacted immediately below the blonde’s rib cage, with clasped fists driving deep into her lower back.

Grunting, Xena now lifted the smaller woman higher, the thick muscles of her upper arms and shoulders standing out in broad relief in the dim light of two dozen torches. Callisto’s face began to turn red as she fruitlessly struggled to free her arms. Xena’s twin fists, pressing deep into the small of her back, were causing intense pain in her lower spine, and as she desperately wriggled her now sweat-slick body against the larger woman, she felt the pressure on her back move slowly upward as her struggles resulted in her body slowly slipping through the raven haired warrior’s grasp. Xena’s thick black hair whipped wildly across Callisto’s face, as they grew level to one another.

Xena groaned with the intensity of her strength mixed with lustful pleasure as the writhing smaller woman’s taut alabaster breasts pressed hard against her own darker orbs through both shifts. Seeking to lessen the blonde body’s slippage, the Greek woman tightened her grip, grinding both pairs of engorged nipples against one another. Looking deep into Callisto’s pain wracked eyes, the Thracian sensed something more than just the tortuous feelings of the moment. “The Gods, even in the heat of mortal combat this bitch was beautiful,” she thought!

The raven-haired warrior’s reverie was suddenly and emphatically broken, as Callisto’s right hand, gaining its freedom as her body slid lower, sank tearing and scrambling fingers into Xena womanhood. With a shriek, Xena reared back, still attempting to maintain her grasp on her nubile opponent, but as she lowered her head and flexed her thighs to raise the blonde off the ground again and renew a hold higher on the hard body within her grasp, Callisto jerked her head forward and crashed it into the bridge of Xena’s nose.

As blood gushed from the broken appendage over Xena’s breasts and shoulders, her encircling grip momentarily went slack, and with arms and waist now loosened from her opponent’s grip, Callisto slid free to the ground. Quickly rising to her knees, she took firm grip on Xena’s lower calves, pulled back hard, sending her stunned, bleeding opponent crashing into the dirt of the arena floor.

Callisto leaped atop her opponent, raised her upper thigh high, and slammed a knee into her exposed crotch, following up with two hard fists into her stomach. Xena parried a third fist, and then drove a hard right of her own into the blonde’s kidneys, eliciting a cry of pain as the Teutonic warrior grasped her side. Xena quickly levered her right leg beneath her and rolled to the left, throwing her tormentor into the dirt. Both women warily gained their feet, and began slowly circling one another, tearing off the now-shredded remnants of their shifts and throwing them aside.

The crowd let out an appreciative gasp as the now totally nude combatants separated for the first time. The dim light of the torches reflected off the sheen of sweat that encased the hardened flanks and sides of both women.

More than one legionnaire wished he himself were in the arena embracing in mortal combat such an opponent as either woman. “The Gods, it had been a long time, and what a waste to have these two sluts so intent on killing one another, when either would have been more than welcomed in the camp…and bed…of any Soldier of Rome on this bitterly cold night.”

The brief respite from combat was broken as Xena renewed the attack, sending a flurry of kicks directly at Callisto’s chest. The blonde woman was forced back across the dozen or so cubits of the arena framed by the shields of the XV Legion until the small of her back pressed hard against the medal of the shield-bosses. Two well-placed kicks to her breasts were followed up with a loping left hand that caught her flush on the cheek. Callisto’s body shuddered as it sagged in semi-consciousness. Xena closed for the conflict ending coup de grace, clasping both hands above her head as she prepared a killing blow for the blonde woman’s neck.

But suddenly it was Xena who cried out in pain, as her opponent, nearly prostrate on the ground, sent a sharp right hand driving hard between the Thracian’s legs, rending, tearing and remaining in the fertile dark triangle that marked the Greek woman’s pubic area. As Xena sought to remove the offending grasp of this she-devil from her crotch, Callisto gained her knees, and with her free left hand drove a series of cutting, sharp blows into the Thracian’s ribs and lower belly. Now it was Xena that was sagging slowly to her knees, vainly attempting to free Callisto’s right hand from its excruciating purchase between her legs.

Within range to scrape and claw at Xena’s magnificent chest, the blonde warrior let out a victorious shout of triumph as she sensed the struggle turning in her favor. Regaining her feet, and looming over the now reeling Warrior Princess, Callisto suddenly eased the painful grip of her right hand, pivoted off her right foot and delivered a powerful, vicious kick to the right side of Xena’s face. With a resounding thud that echoed to the farthest reaches of the crowd now intent on watching these two warrior women fight to the death, Xena dropped her hands to her side, clearly stunned by the strength and location of the blow.

The Greek woman staggered, first leaned forward, then abruptly back, finally toppling over on her left side, arms and legs splayed out in the arena dirt. Instantly Callisto was on top of her, spinning her on her back so that the overwhelmed Warrior Princess now gazed up into the cold Danube sky…and the image of the dominant Teutonic warrior straddling her waist, raining a multitude of blows on her stomach, chest and shoulders.

Xena sought to throw off her tormentress by attempting to buck upwards, but sensing her ploy, Callisto leaned back herself and drove three sharp fingers into the Greek woman’s cunt. The resultant cry and collapse of Xena’s legs told of the telling effect of this blow. To those that had doubted stories of last summer’s struggle in Byzantium’s arena, their basic truthfulness was now apparent to all witnessing this struggle. While Xena was clearly the stronger of the two woman warriors, Callisto’s knowledge of how to really hurt an opponent with her bare hands, how to derive maximum damage to an opponent’s body with certain blows at particular locations, made the contest more than even in her favor.

As if in confirmation, Xena again tried to rid herself of her blonde nemesis, arching her back and hammering her opponent’s stomach area with a flailing left fist. But as before, Callisto countered by leaning away, and again drove three fingers hard into Xena’s crotch. This time her razor sharp nails tore and clawed at the Greek woman’s dark-haired, increasingly bloody snatch. Again, Xena’s efforts to escape her opponent’s straddle failed, as she collapsed back on to the arena floor, screaming savagely, the look of a trapped animal washing across her face.

Seeing her fearful grimace, Callisto laughed, and sucking on her now withdrawn fingers, shouted for all to hear, “Greek whore, do you always get this wet when you’re trying to kill someone?”

And when Xena failed to answer, the blonde added, “Oh, my poor little Greek girl…about to die. I hope this has been as good for you as it has for me!”

With that, Callisto began raining repeated blows on to Xena’s face, and when the Thracian crossed her arms over her mouth and eyes for protection, Callisto lowered her target to her unprotected breasts and belly, slicing and tearing at the tender flesh, her fingernails raking long bloody furrows down the Greek woman’s breasts, across her abdominals and into her dark pubic area.

As a result of a brutal, double-fisted strike, Xena felt one of her ribs crack. As Callisto again raised her tawny sinuous arms above her head to repeat the telling blow, Xena half rolled to her left, painfully twisting her bruised torso, and brought the point of her right elbow hard against Callisto’s rib cage. In her weakened pinioned state the blow lacked its normal stunning power, but with Callisto stretched to her fullest extent, the force of the elbow was enough to shift the blonde’s center of gravity, however briefly, so that she fell off to the side as Xena continued rolling to her left.

Callisto yelled out in frustration and shook her head in disappointment. She continued to be amazed at the Greek woman’s capacity for absorbing punishment and still possessing the strength to escape what should have been a contest-ending predicament. “But then,” Callisto muttered, “they didn’t call her the Warrior Princess for nothing.”

But with her face bloody from repeated blows, Xena staggered away, regaining her feet. Clutching herself low, she gazed at her hated…and loved…adversary with continued respect. “The Gods, how this she-bitch could fight!”

But Callisto, sensing a kill, re-engaged, approaching the Greek woman with arms wide open as if to embrace a long-lost lover. Xena paused, uncertain of the Teutonic warrior’s intent, when suddenly the warrior-nymph smashed both hands hard into either side of her face. The Greek woman clutched at her ringing ears, and in doing so, offered up her crotch and maiden breasts to Callisto’s renewed assault. Two swift kicks into the groin brought the Warrior Princess again to her knees, but as Callisto’s hands tore at her nipples, and then shifted to a choking grip around her throat, a desperate, stinging blow from the Greek woman with her right hand, between the blonde’s legs, drove her also to her knees.

Breathing the frigid Danubian air in short, forced breaths, sweat and blood mixed in equal proportion over their naked bodies, both warriors looked intently at one another. Then in unspoken mutual agreement, both rose slowly to their feet, extended arms above their heads, and grasped one another in a final test, sensing that the victor in this contest of strength and will would become Champion of Rome, at least here in the northern forest.

Their naked, elongated bodies stretched taught with tension and lustful fury, as chests and torsos quivered, stippled stomachs sunk deeply concave under the strain, heads nearly touching their opponent’s shoulder. Shoulders were wrenched upwards, rib cages reflecting in the pale torchlight, dark aureoles and rigid nipples jutting firmly against one another.

As the final struggle began, the crowd’s intent fixation on the two woman warriors was suddenly broken when a hundred voices screamed out beyond the perimeter of the arena, accompanied by a fusillade of spears, arrows and axes flying through the air. While some found their intended Roman targets, most fell harmlessly to the ground.

Because the soldiers had all been facing towards the arena pit, and intensely focused on the conflict therein, a raiding party of Celts had been able to edge clear of the forest boundary unseen, stealing silently across the cleared area marking the approaches to the fort, noiselessly killing the sentries intent on the carnal struggle in the arena. As a result, numerous casualties were inflicted before the surprised legionnaires could face about, deflect the weapons of their enemies, assemble in disciplined formation, and counterattack.

Several barbarians, ably managing their deadly falcata single edged steel swords were able to hack their way to the arena pit itself. But their attention was diverted by spying two naked, sweat and blood soaked women, presumably feuding Roman camp followers, scrambling to opposite sides of the arena desperately searching for weapons with which to defend themselves.

Xena, hobbling to the far side as quickly as her groin injury would allow, grabbed her sword and chakram, and spinning about, quickly disemboweled the nearest pursuing Quadi warrior. Confronted by two additional barbarians, she fought both off until joined by a soldier who ran one Celt through with his gladius while Xena dispatched the other with a spinning side kick followed by a downward thrust through the chest.

Looking across the dimly lit arena clogged with swirling Romans, Celts, and civilians fleeing the combat all about them, in the resultant melee she could see Callisto, unrecognized in her nakedness, fighting for her life against three opponents. Outnumbered, and like Xena, suffering greatly from the rigors of their still unfinished contest, the blonde warrior killed one opponent with a discarded sword, severely wounded another with a battle ax, but was then felled by a forceful blow to her naked back from the long wood handle of a falx ax wielded by a massive, begrimed Celt.

As the blonde woman painfully struggled to regain her feet, desperately searching for any weapon while trying to stay outside her opponent’s long reach, another powerful blow drove her to the ground. With her right leg twisted provocatively beneath her, heaving alabaster breasts, sweat covered flanks, light bush and thighs glistening in the dim torch light, to the Celtic warrior towering above her, Callisto’s body represented the sexual allure and wanton pleasure sought in raiding and plundering Roman towns on the frontier. The bearded warrior, iron-bladed falx raised high to deliver the deathblow, paused to take one final look at the firm and ripe body beneath him. This Roman bitch was almost too beautiful to kill.

His pause gave Xena time she needed. Hobbling halfway across the arena, and seeing the barbarian raise his deadly weapon, she screamed “No, she’s mine!” pivoted to her left, drew back, and hurled the chakram at the distant uplifted arms. Streaking across the arena, its path evidenced only by a barely audible hiss, the deadly circular disc found its mark, cutting completely through the left arm and burying itself halfway in the right upper arm. Screaming in agony the Celt fell forward as Callisto rolled away.

Tearing the blood-soaked blade from its victim as she grabbed a discarded sword, the naked blonde warrior stood. Whirling towards Xena still halfway across the arena, Callisto raised the weapon as if to forcefully and with deadly intent return it to its rightful owner…but then paused…raised the chakram high over her head…and smiled.

Both warriors’ eyes momentarily met with a look of surprise…appreciation…and unfulfilled desire.

And then they were upon her.

IV

Xena awoke with a start. There was someone in the room, close…very close. She felt for the sword normally lying next to her, but found it strangely missing. And then a dagger’s cold steel pressed into the skin under her left ear and soft, ambrosia-scented lips caressed her cheek. “Callisto!”

The blonde, barely discernable in the flickering low light of the fire’s dying embers drew back, her fine hair caressing Xena’s cheek. “Greetings Xena, you sated sow! And you thought I was dead. I know. I watched you and those other fools look for my body amongst the pile of dead after the Celt attack. You stupid bitch. It will take more than these filthy barbarians to kill me. After all, you’ve been trying for years! Don’t you agree, my love?”

The raven-haired warrior carefully nodded in assent, the fine point of the blonde’s blade pricking her flesh.

“Good…now don’t be foolish and cry out. I’d hate to slice that pretty little throat above such strong shoulders…and full maiden’s breasts.” A raspy giggle followed by a throaty cough indicated that Callisto, like Xena, had yet to fully recover from their ordeal of brute strength, bitter cold, and mortal combat in the pit of Carnuntum a month ago.

The dagger’s steel skated across her neck, slicing gently into the skin. “Oh…sorry Xena…but as you can see, I am still suffering from the embrace of your loving arms.” With another hoarse cough, the blade moved lower, below the Thracian’s chin. Callisto’s lips hovered just above Xena’s, her breath blowing warm and sweet on her captive’s face, blonde hair teasingly caressing her breasts.

“I am recalled home by One who may not be denied,” she continued. “In much that I came to do, I have failed. Much that I have done, particularly concerning you, my love, I would seek to undo. But His summons cannot be denied. Out of the northern forests I came, but listen well, Thracian whore. Fire now smolders north of the Danube, soon to become an all-consuming flame. Ahead lies a time for Rome such as has never been seen…people will fall by sword and flame…suffer in captivity…villages and cities destroyed…men butchered…women raped and sold into slavery. Our fire will be all consuming. Nothing will stand in our way.”

Xena trembled, both from words and touch, as she felt her captor’s left hand slide lightly down her naked flank, across her belly, and stop just below her loins. Callisto was holding something above Xena’s womanhood, but the dagger’s blade remained hard against her throat, its sharp end penetrating ever so slightly. Even lying perfectly still, the Warrior Princess was bleeding.

“I know you’re thinking of a way to warn the soldiers, sound the alarm, and after you and they are done with me, ship what is left back to Rome in chains, or feed my body to the stinking dogs that frequent this sty. Hah!…you stupid slut! It will never happen.”

She lowered her left hand slowly. “Spread your legs, whore. And don’t be embarrassed. As you remember from Byzantium and last month, I’ve been there…done that.” Xena complied, slowly spreading her legs across the bed.

“Wider, bitch!” Callisto hissed. When Xena could open no further, Callisto laughed, admiringly: “Obviously you’ve been serviced by more than one Roman pig in this shit hole. And tell me, my good little Greek girl, how is fucking Licinius? Certainly he’s better than the Watch Captain you started out with after our date in the arena.”

“Oh yes, cunt, I’ve been keeping up on your sexual conquests. I guess you have it right after all! If you can’t beat them…and clearly you can’t…why not just join them…as you clearly have.”

“But Xena, love, you can’t beat me…so why not join me in...?” Callisto stopped in mid-sentence.

When Xena failed to respond, the blonde hissed in barely a whisper, “But of course not, my good little Greek girl. You still want to be known as the Warrior Princess…Champion of Rome. You long for the title to be restored and will do whatever it takes to win it back. And following me in to the wild woods of the north would brand you as a traitor, the way the Empire thinks of me now. Too bad…we would have made such a good team…I would even have let you be on top…sometimes!”

“Oh well, time is wasting…and there’s always another slut willing to ball for beads where I’m going!”

“But before I leave, I have something for you, love.” With that, she pushed a wide, hard object between the raven-haired warrior’s upper thighs. Wrapped in thick muslin cloth, Xena could not discern what it was.

“Be very still cunt…this may hurt…but rest assured, pain is not what I want to cause you! If I had wanted that…you’d already be dead!” And with that, Callisto shifted position slightly and jammed her left hand and its contents hard into Xena’s groin. The Thracian warrior let out a low cry, but the blade at her throat cut deeper, and she lay still and quiet.

“There, now you’ll have something to remember me by on cold winter nights. It will certainly be more enjoyable than mounting these flaccid Romans who call themselves men!”

“After all, my love, I owed you. And now my debt is paid.”

Xena said nothing, the pain in her groin subsiding. But the dagger’s blade cut deeper, blood coursing down her throat and on to the horse blanket she was laying atop.

“I leave you now, Warrior Princess, to return from whence I came. Waste no time looking for me. Seek not my ashes, for He is the Lord of Fires. Farewell my love.”

And with one final flick of the blade…she was gone.

Xena carefully sat up in bed, pressing her left hand against her throat to staunch the bleeding, while her right sought to remove the object from between her thighs. On feeling its shape she knew immediately what it was. Raising it above her head, the muslin wrap fell off, and the fireplace’s dying embers reflected off the burnished metal of her chakram.

V

At dawn days later, snow swirled around the XV Legion as it slowly wound its way out of the fort, and down the Amber Road, summoned by the Emperor for a winter campaign against Parthians in the east. The frontier would be unprotected for a month, but neighboring Celtic tribes were temporarily at peace with the Empire, bribed with wine and gifts. By the time they had finished squandering their sesterces on Mediterranean fruits, Arabian horses and African slaves available in Carnuntum’s marketplace, the XIV Legion would arrive from the northern seacoast province of Belgica.

Xena paused at the heavy wooden gates of the fort. She had been invited by Licinius to continue sharing his bed while traveling with the legion as far as Odessus, where she would take leave of the centurion and his men, and await a merchant ship bound for Byzantium. The way south would be safe, and within weeks she would be back among her people. It would be a time to rest, heal wounds, and renew acquaintances. As the final supply wagon and its guard crossed the fort’s threshold, Xena moved to join the dependents, sutlers and camp followers in the army’s wake.

But as she fell in step at the end of the column, she felt the chakram’s cold steel brush against her right thigh, concealed beneath her woolen greatcoat gathered tightly at the waist. As she carefully felt the nearly healed scar under her chin, the ache between her legs returned as it had every morning since Callisto’s visit.

Xena halted, and as the column marched on, disappearing into the snow-shrouded distance, she turned and retraced her steps towards the fort’s gates. Drawing near the fork in the road, she paused. Her current path took her back inside the palisade, while the other led across the Danube…and north into Germania.

From the watchtower, the guard watched a solitary figure make its way slowly through deepening snowdrifts towards the river crossing. Who would be going into Germania now, and in this weather?

He shrugged…Rome didn’t pay him to think…and returned to thawing his hands over the brazier’s fire. The Gods, it was going to be a long, cold winter.