Incident at Siwa

by

Tacitus

“You will be unconquered until united with the gods.”

The Oracle at Siwa greeting Alexander the Great

I

The two large ornate doors in the palace at Alexandria slammed open and the thin blonde woman strode proudly into the room. She was wearing form-fitting black leather pants tucked into knee-high black leather boots. Bronze-trimmed knee armor covering their tops. A sleeveless black leather vest buttoned up the front, hugging slim curves and a trim waist, revealing upper arms of lithe, firm muscle. At her wrists were wide black leather riding bracers, also trimmed in bronze. Shiny blonde hair flowed loosely, almost to the waist. The long coltish mane framed a perfectly chiseled face and deeply tanned cheekbones. The dust of the ride and the heat of the day showed on exposed skin.

The raven-haired slave knew she should keep her eyes averted, but she could not help but look on in envy, remembering when she herself had been similarly fitted out. She gasped silently as the piercing eyes of her owner bore right through her, and she sighed with relief as they just as quickly flicked away in a dismissive, though encouragingly hungry, gesture.

The slave looked straight down at the floor. She had noted a long braided-leather whip coiled over one of the thin woman's hips. She hoped her envious appraisal of the woman in black leather had not earned her another reprove session with the whip. Her back already bore repeated scars from such encounters, and she was in no hurry to repeat the experience. Hopefully the time with the equestrian procurator had gone well.

She involuntarily flinched as the black-clad woman strode across the floor. "Strip,” the blonde commanded.

The linen whispered against her skin as she unpinned it from broad shoulders.

The blonde took her from behind. Thin, narrow hands, still cloaked in the desert's dust, stroked the bun of shoulder-length black hair, gathered tight at the nape of the neck.

She swayed and felt the still warm leather press against her back. Beneath it, small breasts were hard and erect in anticipation. Her own larger, more pliant orbs were still soft, yielding and cool to the touch beneath her shirt. Her master's breath tickled her ear. From behind a hand rested briefly on her shoulder, than slid over the shoulder and down, warm fingers kneading a cool chest.

The stroking fingers became even warmer, though now from within rather than from the sun's heat. There was only a faint sensation of travel as they followed down the curve of belly, thigh, and calf. The thin blonde shifted her weight and with one hand cupped the firm muscularity of her thigh. The other followed, pressing the slave's thick, powerful legs inexorably apart.

The dark-haired woman's heart thumbed hard, her breasts swelling in anticipation, nipples growing erect, hard and round. Warm hands pressed against her thighs' soft inner flesh.

She reached for the long wooden pin that held her hair in place. Pulling it out, she let the thick black shimmer cascade over her shoulders and face. She ran both hands through the dark mass and pushed it back, shaking her head. Her large breasts bobbed free, round and loose.

The slave shifted weight and tilting her torso forward, lowered her owner gently to the floor, straddling thin, hard thighs still encased in leather. The thin blonde slowly drew her hands up, cupping her lover's naked breasts and lifting them, her eyes alight in anticipation, a slight smile on her lips.

For a moment her partner felt as though she had stopped breathing, though her large chest continued to rise and fall. “There was just something about a woman in black leather!”

A quick roll to the right and suddenly the blonde was on top. The slave's shift was wadded high around her waist as bare buttocks rose up…lowered…and began smacking rhythmically against the marble floor. The black-clad woman's hand skimmed her thigh, pushing aside the lingering drifts of linen.

And then she was in her.

The jolt of the climax, so soon after penetration, struck so hard that her hips jerked as her heavily muscled belly quivered and convulsed, heels digging hard against the cool hardness of the floor. “The Gods, she knows how to take me.”

Slowly, sensation to feet and hands, legs and arms, breasts and thighs, returned. She gently moved the now-still fingers glued between her legs and felt the last of the tingling shocks run down her thighs as they slid free.

Now it was her turn.

Gently she bucked her owner off, rolled to her knees and stood up. The smaller blonde woman stood also, content now to follow, turning her back to her partner. The larger, raven-haired woman leaned forward and flicked the blonde's earlobe with her tongue, nipping her way across the thin, broad shoulders. Unlacing the black leather pants and peeling them down off narrow, sinewy thighs with hard flanks, she threw them aside. Smiling all the while, she quickly undid the laces of the black leather bodice and discarded it also. Escaping from confinement, the blonde's small but firm and pert breasts were suddenly free, round and loose under their muslin undergarment. But the raven-haired woman was not satisfied, and quickly slipped the blonde's final clothing off her back, leaving her naked and exposed.

Now she watched with fascination as the tiny muscles between the blonde's shoulder blades twitched. The smaller woman was barely breathing, waiting for her lover, wondering what the next move would be. “These Greeks certainly have the way about them!”

Suddenly the larger woman spun her partner around, facing forward, and gathering the blonde's wrists in her large hands, wrenched upward and pinned her hands above her head. The slave's large, beautifully shaped mouth and moist lips trailed hot hisses across her lover's face, and then branded her throat. The thin blonde cried out as her partner moved lower, biting nipples and grazing teeth across sensitive flesh of a firm belly before moving to the moist areas between outspread legs.

The dark-skinned woman carefully traced long firm thigh muscles with soft lips, all the while allowing her fingers to rake through thick blonde curls toward the still-moist labia. "Shall I penetrate you, mistress?" The long thin fingers poised at the blonde's opening, awaiting their master's voice.

"Now?" Deep blue eyes were wide with anticipation.

As if in answer, the blonde knelt before her, breasts to breasts, and a pair of hungry lips silenced her as the last wisp of undergarment was ripped from the slave's hips. But the larger woman was unwilling to relinquish control and pushed the blonde over on her back, and erect between her outstretched thighs, covered her master's torso with her own body. The smaller woman willingly surrendered the top position, and devoured her slave's mouth with her own. The raven-haired woman's strong hands snaked between their bodies, long fingers parting the blonde's nether lips, stroking at her clit with quick firm movements meant to bring on a fast, hard climax.

The thin woman's breath came in short whimpering gasps. Suddenly she was imploding inside, her body thrashing with wave after wave of pleasure. "Oh the Gods. This is the glory that is Greece!"

The blonde's cries of ecstasy were swallowed up in a deep, tongue-enhanced kiss, as probing, stroking fingers kneaded and stroked burning flesh until there were no more tremors.

II

It was a forbidding place, sterile with salt, a rough sea suddenly stilled, tossing waves transformed into hard, fibrous earth, a dull gray under a full moon when they traveled at night. To the south, lunar ridges, gravel beds and the burning salt wastes of the Great Sand Sea stretched towards the Sahara, with no fixed habitation between here and Timbuktu.

Sandblasted and sunburned from the crossing, they stood in the half silted remains of an Old Kingdom temple as the sun set over the western desert and hot winds blew in. The journey south had been an unending ride through dreary scrubby waste, no marks along the route, no mountains anywhere, no trees or even hillocks. Only an ancient up thrusting mud-brick citadel, a flyblown desolation quivering in the heat, signaled at long distance the vivid green oasis at Siwa, reached after a fortnight on the ancient caravan route.

Dense palm groves shaded fragrant gardens from the heat of day, gardens full of olives, sweet lemons, figs, pomegranates and lemons. Above the water hole was the ancient brown hill of Aghurmi where the Oracle and the ancient town had stood since the time of the first pharaohs, a mud-brick warren of walls, jagged pinnacles and conical dwellings. Famous as the location where Alexander was first proclaimed to be the Son of Ra and destined to rule the world, the Roman decurio and her entourage walked up the path to the temple as if but well armed tourists merely on a sightseeing trip.

But there was purpose in this odyssey, as the equestrian procurator had made clear to the decurio in Alexandria. As too often in the past, the natives were restless, with the Egyptians of the Upper Nile agitating in revolt against their Roman conquerors and the equally hated immigrant Greeks populating the Lower Nile valley and the coastline. With the Empire games in Rome approaching, word had spread that the Cult of Isis, once outlawed but again thriving beyond the reach of the two legions stationed in this troublesome province, was agitating for a true Egyptian, not some Greek imposter, to represent the Principate of Egypt.

The Roman decurio , and her Greek female consort, a former Champion of Rome, had been sent south to win in a wrestling contest over the Egyptian contender, and return to the procurator as Champion of Egypt in her own right.

III

Through the door she approached the threshold of the inner chamber where an image of Ammon I in the shape of an omphalos decorated with emerald stones was kept in a wooden ritual boat. Silently she approached the High Priest of Osiris, titular head of the Cult of Isis. He was a tall, high-shouldered figure with long bony hands, fingers intertwining serpentinely about a small urn, the point of his chin resting on a yellow silk robe shimmering in the light of a dozen torches. A gleaming, great domelike brow, closely shaven head and plucked eyebrows accentuated his sharp features. An unlined, pale ivory face was set off by magnetic eyes of deep green, orbs old with ancient wisdom and cunningly veiled like those of the drowsing black cat perched high on his shoulder, occasionally nuzzling an ear. Around his neck hung a large pendant of imperial jade.

Acknowledging her presence, the guttural voice echoed in the high domed room. “Priestess, they do not know…and I expect it to remain that way. Do you understand?” He turned to face her.

The woman named Mamawi was black-skinned and heavy breasted, product of a Ethiopian mother and Arabian father, bought by the Cult from the slave markets of Timbuktu before the annual Nile flood last year. Regardless of origin and mixed parentage, to become a Priestess of Osiris, God of the Underworld, and a member of the Cult of Isis, she had been made over as an Egyptian. Her hair, no longer the wiry, nested tangle she exhibited on the slave block, was now heavily oiled and straightened, styled to a gleaming black helmet of shoulder-length. Thick eyebrows had been plucked into a narrow black line, dark pubic bush shaven clean and heavily oiled with the essence of myrrh.

Mamawi's girth and size, renown in her homeland, were complemented by an imperious, cunning look in her eyes, product of a childhood spent amongst competing tribes and the harsh savannas of the arid uplands beyond the Nile's first cataract. She was strong and, for her size, remarkably agile, and could be deadly with her hands and feet, as more than one victim had learned. She was confident that in this hellhole at the edge of Empire she would triumph, render this Greek woman helpless within her grasp, and soon journey with the next caravan for the coast…and Rome.

She, and not some cunt from Alexander's race of barbarians that lived downstream near the city that bore his name, would represent the ancient Kingdom of Egypt in the coliseum in this year's games. The High Priest of Osiris had taught her well!

Mamawi licked thick parched lips and pawed at the ground with a foot, that while carefully oiled with nails finely trimmed, was at the same time large, thick, and heavily callused. “Do you think this was really necessary?” she asked in a low tone. “And what if her blonde bitch, the decurio , suspects that the cool drink you gave them, intended to symbolize friendship and obedience to the Emperor, was nothing of the sort? What if she divines that what they thought to be a restorative from the desert's heat and sun before the contest, was in fact an elixir laced with frankincense, honey and aloe, to say nothing of the ground black almonds which cause temporary blindness?”

The black woman continued, “Do you not think I know what you're doing? I have not spent all my time here merely becoming an Egyptian. I am aware of the knowledge of medicines and herbal potions possessed by the Priests of Osiris and the Cult of Isis. That blonde decurio is no fool. Will she not suspect something when your concoction takes hold in the belly of my opponent?”

The High Priest was angry. “What do you take me for…a fool?” he retorted. “We share a bed…each others bodies…and now you think you know more than me on how to play to Roman vanity. I assure you, I've done this before. The added ingredients are tasteless and take time to react with the body's fluids.”

“Mamawi, be not deceived, you will still have to go out there and fight this powerful Greek bitch, at least initially, with her strength and coordination skills unimpaired. They say she is a mighty warrior…a former champion…who has fought the length and breadth of the Empire…and most often come up victorious.”

“I don't know much about the blonde; only that she looks mean and calculating. She is Roman, and Egypt sadly knows what that means for the children of pharaoh.”

“Besides, your worries are groundless. Only the woman wrestler you will face in the corral got the elixir in her drink. The decurio just got the aloe and cold beer. Once her companion is defeated, that is if you can manage to stave off defeat, remain conscious and off your back until the elixir takes hold in her belly and eyes, we will have nothing to fear from the tall, thin one. She is in the service of the procurator in Alexandria and will not dare return to him in defeat.”

“You win today…and you can do what you want with the blonde bitch. Regardless, she will never return downstream, unless floating lifeless in the Nile.”

Mamawi smiled silently in admiration at the plotting of the High Priest. No wonder he had been able to buy her so cheaply from those stupid Arab slave traders in Timbuktu! Yet no words or expressions emanated from her, for fear of sparking another verbal assault or physical reprisal like that of last week. As part of the Cult, her genealogy was now accepted by her Egyptian followers as the same as that of the god Osiris, to whom she was both sister and wife. The High Priest, concerning the property he had bought, considered her only the latter. He liked dark meat and was getting it now on a regular basis.

But she would never forget her treatment at his hands. Some day she was going to break his body with her bare hands and avenge his nightly indignities that satisfied him…but never her. Frankly, she preferred lighter, softer white meat…and would, starting this afternoon in the corral, begin to be satisfied.

In the cool of the evening, after this contest was decided, she'd do the Roman bitch…and when her appetite was sated, kill her.

IV

Xena sensed her opponent, standing across the corral, could be real trouble, a dangerous black wolf cornered deep in its own lair, surrounded by predators of the same pack. Accounting for the headdress of cow horns and a sun disc signifying her magical powers and link with the Cult of Isis that adorned her head, she was as tall and muscular as the Thracian woman.

The Warrior Princess observed the dark skin glistening under the searing rays of the African sun, her opponent's solid sensuous body accentuated by a light coat of the fragrant oil of myrrh carefully applied by the High Priest's doting attendants. No, this woman was neither a native Egyptian nor a Greek import from the Upper Nile. She was from some place far away, probably to the south, clearly a product of a harsh and unforgiving childhood.

The Warrior Princess sensed there was more to this contest than met the eye. No expense or preparation had gone amiss in making the Priestess of Osiris ready for combat. Nothing was too fine for this scion of the gods and descendant of the pharaoh. After the fight, that High Priest bore careful watching. But first to attend to this black woman wrestler representing his Cult of Isis…and these people's ancient heritage.

For her part, the Priestess of Osiris made a leisurely visual sweep of her opponent's body, hungrily devouring the sight of her naked opponent. The High Priest had been right. These Greek Amazons were more than just part of mythology, mere legends of a time long past. This one was a particularly fine looking specimen, an intelligent, powerful animal undoubtedly as good in bed as in the arena.

A glossy lion's mane of raven hair, with a few gray streaks, framed a once-beautiful face now showing combat's wear and tear common to wrestlers and gladiators. Thick black eyebrows arched over shining, deep blue eyes and sensuous, inviting lips. The Greek woman's olive-hued skin was stretched tautly over a tall frame supported by thick muscular legs. The large patch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs, wide hips, tapered waist, firm biceps, heavily muscled belly, and wine-red nipples on large breasts perched high up on a magnificent chest all attested to the finest that Greek culture and breeding had to offer since the time of Alexander.

Licking her lips, the Priestess of Osiris wondered what her opponent's nipples tasted like. She intended to find out…first here…and then again, tonight. This one was for keeping alive a bit longer than perhaps the High Priest desired…but Mamawi intended to enjoy the sensual pleasures of this Greek warrior…pleasures unknown to the High Priest.

The Greek woman momentarily turned to address her Roman consort and the priestess noted that the back view was just as pleasing as the front, revealing firm round buttocks and curvaceous, sculpted calves. The ankles were thin, the feet relatively small. Clearly, this woman, lacking the heavily callused soles and spread toes of the Egyptian, routinely wore shoes or boots and rode as much as she walked. “Another ‘civilized' woman to be taught the law of the African steppe!”

With a brief nod from the High Priest, the two women approached each other cautiously, sleek glistening bodies doing a slow, sensual dance as they circled each other looking for an opening, pendulous heavy breasts swaying with their slow deliberate movements. Both muscular warriors held their hands close to their sides, palms down, fingers stiff, awaiting the shock of combat.

Then in unspoken mutual agreement, both raised their arms slowly, challenging each other to a test of strength, woman to woman. The Egyptian's body pulsed sensually as she moved in to grasp first one, then the other outstretched hand of her opponent.

Yet it was only now, once physical contact had been consummated, that the Priestess of Osiris fully realized what she was up against. Xena's mass and strength bore down on her like no power she had ever felt before. Mamawi strained mightily to keep from being bowed over, constantly shifting backwards in a vain attempt to relieve the tremendous pressure being put on her lower back. While straining intensely against this strange non-believer, the priestess caught Xena's stare and her gaze spoke volumes. The Greek woman was confident in her ultimate victory. It was just a matter of time.

Mamawi silently agreed. “Yes it was just a matter of time…if she could hold out!”

Both women's bodies shook sensually as they struggled for position, but slowly and inexorably the Egyptian priestess's arms were being brought down to a fully stretched out position. Protruding chests grated against one another as upper thighs alternately flexed and trembled, straining under the intense pressure of two warrior woman seeking to gain…and maintain…advantage.

Slowly and methodically the Greek woman wrestler, with greater upper body strength, was pushing hard against her straining Egyptian opponent, muscling her back against the corral fence. Mamawi's face was full of frustration and concern. Her attempts to resist this Amazon seemed to be of no avail; the Greek was simply too strong.

The priestess realized that this dark-haired Thracian, as a former Champion of Rome had lost little of the skill and strength that had once made her great. This warrior woman was going to crush her against the corral fence railing, and she was powerless to prevent it. The hot, moist breath from her opponent blew down on her face as the Greek's large sensual body, in full contact with its victim's, pushed hard against that of the Egyptian. Xena's superior strength was apparent as the black woman's back bowed painfully over the top railing, the intense, acute pressure forcing air from the priestess's lungs. Her desperate tortured gasps were clearly audible to those clustered around the corral perimeter.

The uneasy stirring within the partisan crowd was further heightened as Mamawi moaned in despair, sensing her position increasingly hopeless as she began to lose her footing. The Greek wrestler sensed the strength of her opponent ebbing, as the black woman's resistance and attempts to break free of Xena's rigid arms, biceps swollen with power, faltered as kicking legs slid out from under her.

As the priestess began falling backwards, Xena quickly released her hands and drove several hard forearm smashes into her opponent's large chest, rocketing Mamawi back over the top rail, arms dangling listlessly from her sides. The Egyptian's large body, now hanging over the top rail at the waist, shook provocatively with the force of the Greek woman's blows to torso and groin, blows that with each guttural cry of anguish, were clearly having a devastating effect on their intended target.

Xena pumped a solid right fist into the black woman's belly, a blow that penetrated through the stomach muscles and deep into the abdominal cavity. Mamawi let out a shriek of pain, spasmed upward in response, and collapsed over the top rail, which broke under her body weight.

The priestess clutched desperately at the middle rail of the corral with flailing arms, but another stunning blow to her groin knocked her upper body beyond the corral perimeter. Only the fact that her knees hung up on the middle rail prevented her from spilling completely into the crowd. As it was, with head, shoulders and upper back flat on the ground, buttocks and thighs tilted leeringly upward, and calves slung over the railing, the provocative, fully revealing pose did nothing to improve the deity of the priestess in the eyes of her supplicants in the Cult of Isis. A nod from the High Priest, and several slaves quickly surrounded their momentarily stunned and downcast heroine and helped her back into the corral's perimeter and on to her feet.

Xena backed off as her opponent, gasping desperately needed breath as breasts and belly heaved provocatively, sought to regain her bearings and recover from the devastating beating she had received at the hands of the Greek dominatrix. Mamawi's pained, exhausted expression was of real concern to the High Priest; perhaps he had not made the potion strong enough. Discerning his unspoken concern as to the fight's outcome, the Egyptian woman began slowly pacing to-and-fro, playing for time, taking advantage of her opponent's Olympiad-like sportsmanship.

Finally, sensing delaying tactics to merely prolong the contest, the Greek woman dropped both arms to her sides and shouted, “Hey priestess, you want some of this? Come and get it! What are you waiting for?”

Xena's insolent manner and derisive taunt was too much for Mamawi to take. After all, she was the Priestess of Osiris, God of the Underworld. “How dare a non-believer talk to her like that!” Crying out in anger and frustration, and hoping to get the crowd back on her side, she sprang forward aggressively, flashing large feet high at the Greek woman's head. But Xena was ready, and skillfully blocked and dodged the Egyptian woman's flurry of kicks. The Warrior Princess was slowly forced back step-after-step before the flurry of the continued onslaught, but was also carefully waiting for an opportunity to exploit her opponent's fervent attack.

It was not long in coming. Ducking under a side kick, Xena took a following blow hard on her left shoulder, spinning her around. Clearly, the priestess, despite being at an early disadvantage, was experienced in the arena and full contact fighting, her powerful body quick to seize any opportunity for advantage.

But the Greek woman's confidence in ultimate victory remained, and quickly regaining her balance, she turned to face her onrushing opponent.

Dodging another kick, Xena anticipated the follow-up right fist aimed for her chest. Shifting to one side, the Thracian took a quick step forward and brought her arm down over her opponent's forearm, trapping it tightly against her side. Grabbing the priestess's left arm at the biceps, Xena heaved her opponent off balance and again on to the corral's wooden fencing.

The Priestess of Osiris stumbled backwards in response to Xena's movements, newly appreciating the skill, in addition to brute strength, that the Warrior Princess was bringing to this contest. But she knew, with the administering of the High Priest's elixir, that time was on her side if only she could hold out.

Pinned against the fence railing, the Egyptian woman's fingers desperately pried at Xena's hand on her upper arm, wincing as her foe's crushing grip dug deep into the muscle. Suddenly releasing the entrapped arm, the Greek warrior delivered a right fist hard into priestess' belly, driving the air from her lungs and doubling her over. A double-fisted blow to the back of the neck drove the black-skinned woman into the corral dirt, while a spinning side kick caught her on the chin as stunned, she attempted to regain her feet.

Sprawled in the dirt, again, the Priestess of Osiris looked like anything but a descendant of the pharaoh, and a clear air of concern was now evident in the Cult of Isis priests and native onlookers sourly observing what appeared to them to now be a one-sided contest.

True, the Greek woman did permit her opponent to struggle up to a half crouch, but another blow to the head sent the Egyptian reeling to the fence railing again, spittle and a thin stream of blood now oozing down her chin. She rubbed the impact spots on both her forehead and chests and through blurry vision only sensed the dominant Greek wrestler's close presence.

Too late she saw the kick coming straight at her groin, and the full force of the blow doubled her over in agony as she fell between the upper and middle rails of the corral, sprawling again into the audience. With the breath crushed from her body, she could only manage to sit upright with spectator assistance and slowly crawl back into the corral, assuming a defensive fetal position as repeated blows from her Greek antagonist struck her back, sides and flanks.

But peering through arms wrapped around her head for protection, Mamawi spied a slender foot of her opponent within range, and quickly struck forward, burying her teeth just above the anklebone. Xena yelling in shock and pain, wretched her right leg from her opponent's toothy grip, and stumbled backwards across the corral. For the first time she had lost the initiative. It was now she, not Mamawi, that leaned against the wooden railing, massaging her ankle and assessing the damage.

Her opponent slowly regained her feet.

Propping herself up on her right elbow to take weight off her damaged ankle, Xena suddenly felt light headed and nauseous. “Was there something in the bite from this black bitch that would cause her to suddenly feel faint?” Not expecting the cause of her sudden discomfort, she carefully examined her body, searching for an unknown wound or injury that might be the cause of a numbness she could feel slowly growing, rather than receding in strength, throughout her body.

Looking at her thighs and calves, rubbing her left hand down her belly, flanks and reaching around to her lower back, she was at a loss to explain the woozy feeling and periodic clouding of her vision. Wiping a hand across her eyes as if to clear a cloudy mist before her, swaying to and fro, suddenly sick to her stomach, she bent over in nauseous pain and vomited into the corral dirt, gasping for breath.

The blonde Roman stood up in concern, searching in vain for the cause of her slave's predicament. She failed to notice the ever so slight nod of accomplishment and relief evident in the near naked priests of Osiris congregating in a self-congratulatory group behind their High Priest.

But while both Roman owner and Greek wrestler were clueless, the latter knew that, whatever its cause, her rapidly dissipating strength necessitated bringing the contest to a rapid conclusion if she was to emerge victorious. So standing upright, fighting the wrenching pain in her belly and increasingly able to see only hazy shapes before her, the raven-haired warrior cried out in attack and advanced quickly across the corral. The closer she approached her adversary, the more the Egyptian came into focus, and seeing the black wrestler swinging high with her right hand, Xena ducked beneath the blow and drove a hard forearm straight into the priestess's firm belly. A follow-up blow to the groin, accompanied by a side kick to the head, and the Egyptian again sprawled in the dirt.

Increasingly nauseous, wracked by dry heaves, Xena simply dropped down on her opponent. She hoped to keep her within a rapidly decreasing range of vision and permit her own greater body strength to work to her advantage. But the Greek woman's growing weakness was evident to the hostile crowd as she clearly strained to even keep the Priestess of Osiris pinned down.

Mamawi twisted and squirmed, and began to work her way out from under the body of the Greek wrestler. Xena's chest was heaving with pain and shortage of breath, as the numbness spread to the extremities of her limbs. Suddenly with a grunt of satisfaction, the priestess got to her knees, pitched forward, and rolled up and over the Warrior Princess's body as it sprawled in the dirt. Xena's body writhed in internal agony as her Egyptian opponent mounted her shoulders, fingers going for the throat. The Thracian's body slammed up and down, rolled to one side and the other, trying to force the black woman to dismount, hands dislodging the strangling grip of her opponent.

Mamawi responded by sliding down her opponent's torso and lowering her body so that she lay, breast-to-breast, belly-to-belly, astride the Greek woman. Both wrestlers now began to rock to-and-fro, fingers laced together, in a bacchanalian dance designed to bring one victor to a superior, unassailable position. Xena spread her legs wide, seeking to obtain maximum leverage as she struggled to move her right calf up, foot flat on the ground. But Mamawi, sensing her tactic, quickly snapped her thighs around those of her opponent, clamping down hard, forcing the Greek woman's legs closed. Xena cried out in frustration, sensing her best opportunity to dominate had gone fleeting, her strength increasingly dissipating.

Mamawi sensed the Warrior Princess's predicament, silently thanking the High Priest for his machination that had kicked in none too soon. Suddenly breaking the Greek woman's handhold and pivoting atop the prostrate body of her opponent, she positioned her ass by Xena's head, grabbed the sweat soaked Warrior Princess's dark mane, wrenched upward, and clamped on a front face headlock, rocking back to increase the strain, biceps bulging, thighs trembling in exertion. Wriggling snakelike on her feet and ass, she slid to her left as the Greek woman's body followed in limp compliance. Mamawi sank the hold in harder, seeking to cut off the Warrior Princess's air supply, but as she leaned even further back to increase leverage and inflicted pain, Xena quickly rolled forward over her opponent's shoulder, twisted sharply to her right, and with a firm blow to the surprised Egyptian's belly, broke the hold.

Grunting in surprise, “these Greeks sure knew how to wrestle,” the black woman sought to regain the initiative. Springing to her haunches, Mamawi pivoted on her left heel, and launched another heavy-fisted attack on the Greek wrestler as she sought to gain her own feet. Knocked sprawling into the dirt on her back, and sensing the Egyptian woman's leering face looming over her readying another blow, Xena drove a right fist into the dim shape.

But evident to all, the blow lacked the strength and power the Greek woman had so wantonly exhibited earlier in the match, and quickly her opponent shook off the blow and taunted, “Is that the best you can do, you Greek slut?”

Before Xena could hit her again, Mamawi's body stiffened and with a whiplash-like movement she drove a heavily callused foot straight into the prostrate Greek woman's breasts. Leaping into the air, the priestess' heavy thigh dropped hard on Xena's forehead, and the impact of the blow, complemented by the increased effects of the elixir, left the Thracian unbalanced, disoriented, and half blind. The Egyptian shouted in unrelenting triumph, and when Xena half-raised her torso in response to a hard fist to the groin, Mamawi whipped her legs in front and behind the Greek woman's head and locked them around her victim's throat. Falling back on her ass, the priestess leveraged herself up on powerful arms, tightened her legs, and dragged a listless Xena backwards to the center of the corral.

Suddenly the Egyptian wrestler released the hold, spun around and as Xena raised her legs to half roll and attempt to regain her feet, Mamawi batted them aside and sat down between the voluptuously curved, heavily muscled thighs of her opponent. Employing all she had learned about female anatomy in the Cult of Isis, both claw-like hands closed on Xena's dark thatch, rending, tearing and squeezing at points of maximum sensitivity. The Greek woman's screams of agony as she arched her back upward, raising buttocks off the ground, were abruptly terminated with a series of blows to her now tautly stretched belly. The Thracian collapsed, thrashing in agony, clouds of dirt emanating from under her spasmodically jerking body. The priestess released her claw-like grip from the non-believer's snatch and jumped up.

As she rose, the now reinvigorated, newly confident Egyptian caught Xena's thick thighs under her arms. The Priestess of Osiris's grip trapped the helpless Warrior Princess, her back flush against the corral dirt, legs upright in the air, ensnared between the Egyptian's powerful arms. Now the priestess began to spin around. At first she could barely move Xena's heavy muscular body across the corral floor but as she persisted, building up momentum, the Greek woman's head began bouncing hard against the corral floor, the flesh on her naked back scraping raw against the brittle, pounded dirt. Shifting her arms downward from her opponent's thick thighs to the curvaceous calves to gain more leverage, the priestess lifted her adversary completely off the ground and began whirling her helplessly in dizzying circles.

Following more than a dozen full revolutions, the Egyptian, sensing final victory at hand, shouted in celebration as she released the Greek woman's body. Xena hurtled through the air, crashing into the wooden perimeter fence, splintering a middle rail, and crumpled in a heap amongst the shards of wood marking her impact.

Moaning amidst the wreckage, Xena, with virtually no sight, felt rather than saw Mamawi closing to attack again and was helpless to resist. With her head whirling in darkening disorientation from the potion-induced stupor, she could barely resist when the Priestess of Osiris dragged her to her feet.

The Egyptian smiled in admiration of the soft orbs before her, then grinning viciously, began ripping and chopping into the Greek wrestler's large breasts. With the assault on her chest, a sightless Xena frantically renewed her defensive struggle, but her wild blows flailed mostly at empty air. Even when they connected, they lacked hitting power and the Egyptian warrior shrugged them off and continued pounding on the Greek woman's breasts, then shifted the target of her attacks to her victim's abdominals and groin.

She found such attention sexually stimulating, and noticed that the crowd too was enjoying the spectacle. The Priestess of Osiris thought to herself, “Any man in this shit-hole, and half the women, would pay me a hundred sesterces to trade places right now, to feel and taste the splendid breasts of this Greek Amazon. And to think…thanks to the High Priest…they're all mine!”

As if in acknowledgement of her debt, the Priestess of Osiris momentarily broke off her ferocious attack and nodded in acknowledgement to the gaggle of priests clustered around their leader, avidly enjoying the contest being played out before them. While a pause for covert reflection and unbidden thanks, Xena, unaware of what was going on, fell back in momentary relief against the upper corral rail.

But the break in the action was over all too soon for the ravaged Greek wrestler as her tormentress renewed the attack, smashing repeated blows into the torso of the body now straddling the corral fence for support. The priestess' eyes gleamed with passion as, licking her lips, she upheld a stunned Xena's melon-like right breast and drove an extended-finger chop into the soft fleshy area beneath. The Warrior Princess cried out in muted pain, but the High Priest's elixir was now affecting her to the point where the feeling of pain was being deadened. Sensing what was happening, she tried to assume a defensive stance but found she was unable to even lift her arms up and over the top rail from which they had fallen behind.

Again the Priestess of Osiris stood back, contemplating in admiration her self-pinioned quarry: “She's got breasts like whores in Luxor half her age. Well, they may be as big as mine, but let's see how pretty those tits look when I'm done with her.” With that, the Egyptian closed to renew the attack.

The Priestess of Osiris dug her claws into one big, succulent globe. Only the dulled feeling of her grasp allowed Xena to guess as to the position of her opponent, but such knowledge was useless as she tried to protect her breast. The vengeful priestess was not to be denied, and pinched the exquisite wine red nipple between thumb and forefinger, digging her nails into the deep, soft flesh.

That degree of pain shot through her potion-induced stupor, and Xena cried out in sheer agony. Laughing scornfully, the Priestess of Osiris used the large ripe melon as a lever to carefully position the blindly thrashing Greek woman. Then she drove her right hand deep into the Thracian woman's crotch. The priestess' long strong fingers squeezed Xena's womanhood with savage effect and the Warrior Princess again cried out fiercely in pain.

Bending low, the Priestess of Osiris slid her back under Xena's heaving belly. With a guttural grunt she hoisted the dark-haired warrior's captive body across her shoulders and lifted her clean off the corral railing. It was an impressive display of brute strength. “Yes the High Priest had chosen well,” more than one admiring or envious spectator thought.

Repeating an earlier tactic, the Priestess of Osiris started to spin again, her right hand serving as a claw embedded in her victim's privates. Laughing maniacally, she bounced the woman's lower body in the air, the head snapping down with each impact of her feet in the corral dirt. In excruciating pain, Xena endured helplessly as the Priestess of Osiris spun her with increasing speed and then, flexing thick biceps and lifting her victim high overhead, slammed the Warrior Princess with furious glee into the pounded dirt floor.

Xena landed with a jarring crash, her spine nearly snapping on impact. Mamawi did not give the anguished woman time to recover as facing her feet, the Egyptian woman squatted on her opponent's face. Helpless to lift the suffocating weight from her prostrate body, Xena could only flail helplessly as the priestess wrapped her legs around Xena's upper arms, trapping them along her sides. Once Mamawi was certain she had Xena inescapably pinned, she pressed her ass down firmly on the Thracian's face, clearly delighting in the strangled gasps and desperate thrashing resulting from the suffocating position.

Xena tried to move her arms but they were securely locked between her opponent's thick legs. Her face was mashed against the moist, black skin, nose buried in the crack between the firm taut buttocks of her now dominant adversary. Xena's legs were cocked beneath her, raising her lower body to an angle that vulnerably exposed her belly. From this position the Priestess of Osiris launched a deliberate attack on the Warrior Princess's firm abdominals.

Smiling wickedly in glee, experiencing a sensation she could only recall after a night of torrid sex with a particularly adept female attendant, Mamawi calmly and deliberately began a calculated attack on her opponent's heavily muscled belly. A hard right fist pounded down to soften the striated tissue, seconded by a left hand with rigid, sharply nailed fingers rigidly extended to cut and tear the weakened muscle.

With Xena trapped, barely able to breathe, much less counter the brutal attack, the priestess shouted in triumph and continued the rhythmic pounding of her victim's mid-section. She took care to put all her weight and power behind each blow to ensure that each fist smashed, and each finger cut, into the Greek wrestler's straining, sweating body.

Xena's body shuddered at the shock of each calculated strike. After a dozen such blows, Mamawi grinned devilishly and waited patiently for her victim's involuntary movements to subside.

But then the blows were repeated…and after sufficient time was again allowed…repeated. This third time, one rigid finger strike slid off its victim's soaking wet belly, and cut deep into the pubic region. In response the shriek of pain could even be heard coming from beneath the suffocating flesh of the priestess' firm buttocks, and Xena's heavy legs jackknifed into the air, and dropping back down on the corral floor, splayed wide and writhing back-and-forth in agony.

Again Xena's full-fleshed body shuddered uncontrollably. Mamawi laughed again, and more carefully drove repeated blows with drumbeat-like consistency into the Warrior Princess's damaged abdominals. The black woman loved the sensual feel of the Greek wrestler's firm belly yielding to her fist, her face and mouth jammed between firm buttocks of her oppressor. Below her, Xena writhed convulsively, her lower body digging a sweat-soaked furrow into the corral dirt. But even with the thrashing and heavy body movement, the black woman's firm thighs never loosened grip on their victim's face and arms.

Before these lordly priests of Osiris, Mamawi was really beginning to enjoy herself. And so was her audience. Entranced as they were at watching the domination and defeat of the non-believer's woman champion, they were equally enthralled at the newly discovered lithe lethality of her victorious opponent. Each blow smacking into the weakened belly of the Thracian woman resulted in the jiggling of heavy black flesh on thick, muscular thighs and powerful arms and shoulders, to say nothing of the tantalizing sway of the Priestess of Osiris's large breasts erect in erotic stimulation and the thrill of victory. More than one attendee pledged to pay more attention to this suddenly beautiful woman when in the thralls of a sermon from the High Priest. Perhaps there was more to be discovered about that splendid body of hers than simply observing the ritual of the Cult.

Sensing the newly appreciative, rapt attention of those gathered around the corral's perimeter, Mamawi ceased her calculated attack, opened her thighs to release her hapless quarry, rose, and languidly stretched her arms above her head. Walking around her stunned adversary still writhing in pain in the dirt, the dominant black wrestler shook out her long limbs, bent over and touched her toes as if warming up for a run, and smiled sweetly at her audience. “Surely one of these men could service me more than that impotent High Priest,” she pondered, aware of the effect she was having on her audience. “Well, first things first!”

She turned on her prostrate opponent. “Okay pride of Greece, but now a whore of Rome. Are you ready for some wrestling? What…no answer? Too much dirt and pain to get up? Here…let me help you!” And with that, she grabbed the prostrate Thracian's upper right arm and roughly jerked her to her feet.

In response Xena yelled out in desperation as her right fist flashed out at the sound of the priestess' leering voice. The blow, weak though it was, found its mark, connecting with the side of the black woman's face. Mamawi fell back a step and rubbed her jaw.

“You will pay for that, you fucking cunt!” she snarled. As the Greek woman, trying to rally, drew back her right hand to throw another blind, but hopefully another lucky, punch, her black nemesis caught her left arm and gave it a vicious twist. Leveraging it up high on the Greek woman's back, Mamawi whipped her opponent hard against the corral fence. Xena managed to half turn to take the blow on her side, and then rebounded in a hurried attempt to counterattack where she sensed her opponent was located. But the black priestess had anticipated such a move, and as the Greek woman rushed forward, arms outstretched to hopefully ensnare her opponent, the Egyptian half-turned and ducking under searching arms, snapped a stunning kick deep into Xena's grievously damaged belly.

The Warrior Princess gasped in a tortured sob and doubled over. Mamawi straightened her up with a right fist to the jaw. A left hook sent Xena hurtling backwards, arms and legs askew. Barely catching herself and managing to stay upright, she was again spread-eagled on the corral fence upper rail. Ripe for the attack, her dark-skinned nemesis wasted no time in going to work, this time on Xena's dark pubic thatch, shimmering in sweat, gleamed brightly in the hot African noon sun.

By now, the defeated woman's olive-hued flesh stretched over trembling muscular thighs and once taut abdominals was in stark contrast to the victorious Egyptian's darker body, sleek and splendid in victory and domination. The contrast between women, between civilizations, one old and revered, one new and presumptuous, was not missed by those gathered around the corral's perimeter.

The High Priest, author of the current humiliation of this Greek invader in the affairs of the Kingdom of Egypt, smiled in satisfaction at the turn of events. “Yes, there was still a place for the magic of the ancients in this new world! Were but a pharaoh on the throne, rather than a Roman magistrate, I would be justly rewarded. The power of the urn, the effect of the potions cannot be denied. The priestess will owe me much for today's victory…and I intend to have her start repaying her debt once we dispose of these two bitches!”

Back in the corral, scene of the High Priest's triumph, the Priestess of Osiris, with her wrestling opponent defenseless in such a suggestive pose, cried out again in savage triumph and launched a pointed right foot that struck at the apex of the Warrior Princess's dark triangle, knifing deep into her vitals. The Thracian screamed and with one hand desperately clasping the corral fence rail, freed the other hand to clutch protectively at her groin.

But it was to little avail as Mamawi knocked the defending limb aside and repeated the blow. Again a shriek of pain…and Xena's arm fell listlessly off the fence rail. Tottering forward on wobbly legs, arms windmilling in a vain attempt to find her tormentress, she sank slowly to her knees, now cradling her injured womanhood with both hands. Tears from both pain-wracked, sightless eyes, cut deep furrows through her dirt-shrouded face.

In her potion-induced stupor, a sightless Xena could scarcely comprehend, much less counter, the savagery of her opponent's attack. But her pain-scarred features were clearly eliciting no feeling of sympathy from her dominant adversary, or the local crowd now giddy with their priestess' certain victory. The doubts and fears expressed before were now replaced with ragged cheers of encouragement and pride: “Egypt was back!”

The Priestess of Osiris, acknowledging her fans' vocal support, laughed harshly in satisfaction at a job well done, and decided to reward them with a final, sensuous show. Rather than end it quickly, the black wrestler gave the badly injured Greek wrestler a hard shove. Xena collapsed into the corral dirt, still clutching at herself as waves of nausea and pain deadened her feeling and half-paralyzed her lower body. Rolling on to her side, big olive-hued thighs worked slowly back-and-forth, seeking in vain some release from the agonizing pain emanating from her privates.

“Hah, it will be a long time before some Roman fucks that snatch,” Mamawi jeered to the crowd, as a quick kick to the shoulder rolled Xena over on her back, legs slowly drawing up into a near fetal position for protection.

The triumphant black woman backed off again, and now parading around the corral's perimeter, accepted further accolades of victory from her clearly enamored audience. A corral in the oasis of Siwa was not the coliseum in Rome…but all in good time…all in good time!

Behind her Xena struggled to her side, rolled over on her lower legs, and slowly stood up. It hurt to even walk, her long muscular legs trembling at the effort. Mamawi waited until she was finally upright, then cackling with joy, approached her opponent. Not even bothering with any defensive moves, the Warrior Princess stood there as the black woman warrior launched a savage, slashing attack on her helpless victim. She pounded away without mercy, targeting the sharp wine-red tips of Xena's magnificent breasts. The pendulous mammaries quivered under the relentless assault, bouncing helpless around Xena's broad chest in response to a series of devastating blows.

Arms listless at her sides, yet refusing to go down, the sightless Greek wrestler stood, resigned to her fate before her now dominant opponent as Mamawi bore in without remorse on the defenseless body before her. Xena was now bleeding from multiple cuts…nearly unconscious…but still standing…and refusing to collapse.

But finally, tiring of the game in the heat of the afternoon, and deciding she would rather enjoy a long, luxurious bath before the night's certain sensual entertainment began, Mamawi picked up a section of broken fence and pivoting to one side, brought the wooden rail smashing down on the Thracian woman's neck. Quietly…without sound of pain or protest…Xena keeled over into the dirt. It was over.

V

It was midnight at the oasis. Shadows painted the faces of the two people in the corral. One was impatiently standing and one was lying on the ground, clutching at her belly, groaning in agony and barely moving.

“Oh Xeee-naah…not again. You know, I'm beginning to despise you, my good little Greek girl. In the past we have fought as champions, each one representing our own factions within the Empire. Perhaps after Byzantium you fought …or loved…me out of some silly sense of guilt at having failed. But now…after all this time…all our travels together…and repeated opportunities to make up for past defeats…again you have failed me. Here we are…as before…in Carnuntum…Britannia…Antioch…just another dung heap of the Empire. And there you lie…again…defeated.”

“Same old Xena…same old story. Seeing you like this begins to get old after a while. Once so strong and the envy of both male and female warriors everywhere, you are now pathetic, a symbol of defeat and surrender. And such symbols do not set well with the Emperor.”

“Listen to me, you old crone. Your bruised and bloody body here tonight reminds me little of what you used to be…and what now…unless I intervene…you will never be again: Champion of Rome”

The thin blonde speaker paused in her tirade, sensing her slave and lover…still affected by the High Priest's elixir, to say nothing of her severe beating at the hands of the Priestess of Osiris, was barely conscious of her surroundings, much less comprehending her harangue.

“Well…never send a Greek to do a Roman's job, they say! Or if they don't…they should!” She laughed.

“Oh, poor little Xeee-naah. You know, I don't understand, with things initially going so well, how they turned out the way they did. Perhaps I underestimated the wiles of our host. Maybe he is more like me than I gave him credit for. Or maybe the strength and determination of that priestess really did triumph over a ‘has-been' still living in the faded glory of Alexander. Ironic that your defeat should occur here in the same location as one of the Boy Wonder's greatest triumphs!”

“Regardless, as I promised the procurator in Alexandria, I will do what ever I have to do to see us under the Emperor's gaze in the coliseum.”

“And besides, that black bitch wants me. I'm certain you're not surprised. We…people like you and I…can always tell. I'm certain you'll understand…I intend on fucking that black bitch's lights out tonight!”

Abruptly she turned on her heel and left, as her companion writhed silently in the dirt.

VI

The soft warm tongue separated her wet engorged folds and dipped deep into her opening. The Priestess of Osiris shifted on the settee, grabbing handfuls of long blonde hair swaying gently across her face and chest. Her clenched fists ensnared her lover's mane as she spread her legs wider to give the probing tongue greater access. In dim torchlight a glistening sheen of sweat covered two naked bodies, one black and one white. The musky odor of sex permeated the small room adjoining the Oracle, accompanied by barely discernible grunts of mutual pleasure.

The thin blonde raised her head, peering across the trembling torso and large, erect breasts of her partner. Not wanting to alert the nearby priests she whispered, "How is this…is this what you want? …is this how you like it?” And then, not caring to wait for a reply, she added in a mere whisper, “Just try not to die before doing me first."

The probing tongue circled a swollen clit before full lips closed around it. The thin blonde flicked rapidly back and forth over the hardened nub, sending jolts of pleasure through the Egyptian's large, taut body.

The dark woman shifted again, groaning almost inaudibly, releasing her lover's hair. Heels dug into the linen covered tic on the settee as her body arched into the mouth that was still firmly attached to her heated center. Knuckles turned white as she gripped narrow, but firm shoulders undulating below her. She clenched her teeth, only to part her lips as she gasped in a rapid, near-silent hiss, “The High Priest must not know.” She moaned softly as muscles in her body contracted over and over in powerful waves.

An unseen nod of easily given assent from her lover's head buried deep between her thighs ensured they would not.

The Priestess of Osiris arched her back and then, issuing a flood of molten liquid that shrouded her partner's face, collapsed back on the settee. As the orgasm subsided, her eyelids fluttered closed as she let out a long breath and began to relax. “Now that was sex…and with a Roman cunt at that! Perhaps she could teach the High Priest a few pleasurable tricks.”

But the blonde was not there yet…nor would she ever be. For she was now focused on her singular mission. “Not this time,” she thought, adding with a subtle smile, “Oh, the things I do for Emperor and Empire.”

The blonde repositioned above her lover, moistening lips with the warm fluid now dripping down on to the delicious dark breasts below. Grinning wolfishly and lowering her head, she lightly bit Mamawi's left nipple, ear lobe and shoulder. Feeling the Egyptian's passion begin to rekindle, as the large, sinewy body stirred beneath her, she turned her head, laying a cheek flat against the sweat-sheathed full breasts of her sated partner, tongue flickering in-and-out, appropriately as a serpent's, teasing the long pink nipples atop pendulous black breasts erect.

The blonde's right hand, slightly trembling in anticipation, skimmed down the Egyptian's thigh, lingering longingly over her moist maidenhood, then as if dismissing the notion for lack of time, burrowed beneath the settee tic and found what it was looking for. Dim torchlight momentarily reflected off an unseen metal object that quickly disappeared into the folds of the linen fabric.

The blonde lifted her head from its comfortable lodging between twin black breasts, and smiling all the while, moved upwards, and pressed first carefully, then with more force, against her lover's neck. Abruptly her left hand ran behind the Egyptian's sweat soaked head, grabbing dark tresses firmly at the base of the scalp. Now lifted up at an abrupt angle, the Priestess of Osiris could see her own torso and the small, white hand moving slowly up her belly, clasping something cold and hard. Heart still thumping in her ears, blood again tingling as it flowed through skin and temple, thighs and fingers, she eagerly awaited another tryst with this torrid lover, in some manner, position and apparently with an implement unknown to her.

Thus she barely mouthed a complaint, only forming her lips into a large, voiceless ‘O,' when the narrow steel bade passed swiftly and silently between her floating ribs and into the kidneys. A half twist and upward wrench from its expert wielder in matters of evisceration, and the thin blade cut through and deep into the chest cavity. There was barely a sound, as the blonde's full lips and mouth were now on the Egyptian's neck, biting down hard under the chin, penetrating the throat.

The kill was silent and efficient, as befitted a Soldier of Rome. No sound of pain, shock or surprise was uttered, certain to be heard by the attending priests of Osiris. Luscious, blood red, full lips and mouth bit down hard. The larynx was fastened tight within the mouth, the windpipe crushed. Only a faint suffocating sigh was emitted from the dying woman's lungs as the essence of life departed.

When it was over, the victim's body still in death, the naked blonde stood. Satisfied, in more ways than one, “the Gods she loved this!”, she peered down at the lifeless form before her. Picking up the linen shroud to wrap around her nude form, she wiped her face and the blood from her lips, chin and chest.

“That'll do!” she smiled…and Callisto, decurio in the service of the Emperor, stole away into the night.