Faustina and the Barbarians Read online

  We were housed in the officers’ dormitory of the old fort which the Picts had kindly done their best to make comfortable. There we found bedding and cooking materials and, in a spirit of jest, they’d even left a bowl of woad with which we could paint ourselves blue. Botilda, appreciating the joke, immediately fell on this and, stripping off, started painting her big breasts with the thickheaded brush. It had a stiffening effect, which made her papillis stand out like spear-heads. Botilda already sported a number of tattoos, and when we headed down to meet the Pictish leaders at their camp, our Botilda was transformed into a Pictish amazon. And it was appreciated by our hosts. Hundreds of warriors and their women applauded, the men knocking their spears on their shields, the women striking cooking pots, the younger ones banging their thickly braceleted wrists together.

  The night was dedicated to feasting, parlaying reserved for the following afternoon. Though I’d have preferred it the other way around, for the next day we were all suffering from varying degrees of hangover after the rivers of mead and metheglin which were poured over us, and, needless to say, other substances too.

  This mead, the national drink of the Picts, is a liquor made from fermented honey and water; while metheglin is a kind of medicinal variety, enhanced by various spices, and far stronger. So fiery strong in fact, that it accounts for the fearsome battle-craziness that possesses the Pictish warriors. Enough of this down the throats of the effete Romano-British and we could’ve swept the Saxons into the sea, I thought, until I was told the Saxons drink something like it too.

  It also lights a fire in the libido that is not easily assuaged.

  After the barbecue of roast deer and hare there were various games of physical and martial prowess, chief among them a spear-throwing contest. Our cavalry boys fared fairly miserably in this, and in a fit of pique I grabbed the spear off the grinning Pict next to me and strode out before the target. Liberal though they are, it doesn’t do for anyone, least of all a woman, to grab a man’s weapon—spear or sword, I mean. A gasp went up from the crowd at my gesture and there was fierce muttering which Cinioch and the other representatives of the kings smilingly waved down.

  I took aim at the bright blue bull’s eye on the target, shaking off the fumes of drink wavering across my vision and sent it clear through that blue eye, blowing the whole target into splinters. A roar of applause went up, and from that moment, I thought, the success of our mission was assured.

  What was assured was the devotion of a group of young warriors who surrounded me when I sat back down and plied me with questions—which Botilda had to translate—and more mead and metheglin.

  As I sat amongst their collective eagerness and curiosity, it was as if the nearby fire had got up and transplanted itself within my belly. Their eyes devoured me, their blue-black light like oil coating my face and neck and breasts; whenever one of their folded knees touched me, it had the shock of penetration. And what one felt they all felt, as if they were one young man with eight arms and legs, and four young sprightly cocks.

  I complained of the heat and was immediately offered a trip down to the stream that curled through the nearby wood. Caeli jumped up, concerned to see me walking off into the dark with four tattooed warriors, but I urged her to stay and enjoy her own admirers, a young girl and a young man.

  It was pitch dark in the dense wood, there was no Moon, but suddenly, as we came into a clearing within sound of the thickly murmuring stream, there was light. Four great glowworms ringed me, great thick amorous slugs of purplish-blue light with thick dark snouts snuffling against my thighs and rear. No, this wasn’t entirely a metheglin-induced hallucination. The Picts have a phosphorescent paint, in part derived from the pulp of the glowworm, with which they paint parts of their body for certain nocturnal rituals. These playful youngsters had brought some along and painted their members with it. I had to laugh, and then, through sign-language and a couple of Pictish words I’d acquired, got them to hand me the tube containing the fluorescent stuff. Stripping off my tunica I dabbed some on my nipples which suddenly sprang into life like tumescent fireflies, and, pulling down my thong, I smeared my cunnus’ lips with it too. It gave me a tingling enlivening sensation, though it also dripped a little, as my cunnus was already well and truly oiled with the delicious unguent of anticipation.

  I stood, watching each of the glowworms thicken and stand upward, like four ghostly silent roosters aggressively straining their necks at each other. And suddenly a rustling of dry leaves, and into this charmed circle came Caeli, too concerned to stay by the fire.

  “Here darling.” I handed her the phosphorescent woad. “Join the party.” Caeli looked at the brightly glowing lips of my cunnus, my blue star-like nipples and laughed disbelievingly. But the boys were impatient to start, and I allowed myself to be eased down to the grass, while a great pulsing ballista of light moved between my legs.

  How strange and thrilling it was to look down at my own body, one with the pitch darkness, its one visible opening a purse of light into which the big glowworm began burrowing and disappearing as if it were some strange nocturnal beast sliding into its den. A few feet away the same homecoming was in process. The gates of Caeli’s glowing slit—she must’ve been on all fours at an angle to me—were being spread wider and wider as another long glowing cock pushed into its burrow and disappeared. And then it reappeared slowly, ring by glowing ring, only to nose in again at a quickening pace.

  Have you fucked blindfold yet Flavia? This was far better, as all was blackness, thick, slick, clinging blackness broken only by radiant cocks and light-dripping cunnies.

  The darkness, blanketing all other distraction, allowed me to concentrate on sensation. So much so that my body felt as though it were the whole darkness, the whole of the black earth being penetrated to the core by the burning light of some ancient sky god. I dug my nails into the split muscled rondure of my lover’s black arse, pulling his infinite ram of hard, hot meat deeper and deeper within, squirming upon it like a roll of licking flame until his juice erupted, spitting and bubbling, like the juices sizzling out of the arteries of a spit-roasted hare.

  I could hear Caeli coming too, and, on the cusp myself, grabbed the next stiffly glowing member and stuffed it greedily within the bright maw of my cunnus. The fourth was doing nothing, apart from disappearing within its owner's fist, so I reached up and pulled it toward my mouth. The blue paint tasted rather bitter, but I sucked and swallowed it down rapidly until the familiar taste of sweet young cock flesh broke through, its owner’s groans twining with the breathless cries of Caeli in the dark. It was enough—almost—to bring me off. The painted snake inside me had prematurely shot its sweet venom; I pushed him out and withdrawing my oral guest, relocated him in a cunnus now sopping with glowing moisture. He was very grateful after being kept waiting so long and was so vigorous in his appreciation it was a struggle to hold off my own coming long enough to meet his with my full force.

  Afterwards we all bathed in the cold waters of the black stream, the blue light from our painted bodies washing away into the darkness.

  The following afternoon I put my case for a Roman-Pict anti-Saxon alliance to the six representatives of the Pictish Kings with all the physical and psychological skill at my disposal.

  They acknowledged that the Saxons were a growing threat but weren’t convinced—or said that their masters weren’t convinced, though it was obvious that one or two of them really held the reins of power—that it was a long term threat. One of them, an oily, disrespectful creature, silkily implied that the Romans should clean up their own mess as it was the government in Londinium that had first invited the Saxons in as hired thugs to settle their own internicene disputes. There was truth in this, but I silenced him with another truth: that in these chaotic times most governments hired mercenaries, the Picts themselves were not averse to recruiting feckless British soldiery, and besides, it was pointless now levelling the finger of blame: the scale of the Saxon problem required immediate, concerted
action.

  I left the conference convinced that four of the six were in favour of the alliance. But it all depended on which of the kings had the loudest voice. And we would not have an answer until the ambassadors returned to consult with their masters. I wasn’t happy with this. News reached us that the south was suffering under a massive Saxon assault, that bands of them had even swept as far north as Eboracum, which, apparently, had never happened before. When the oily Pictish ambassador heard this, I saw him smiling. And then I remembered something basic I’d forgotten. As the old saying goes: my enemy’s enemy is my friend. But did the Picts really think these savage Saxons needed anyone’s friendship, that they would stop anywhere?

  A week later we had our answer from the kings. The Picts would not dishonour themselves with any alliance with Romans. We were on our own.

  “Let it be so,” I told our glum little group around the campfire. “Rome began alone, and if necessary she will finish alone.” We thanked our hosts and rode proudly out of Trinomontium.

  We’d been riding an hour or so when we heard hooves racing up behind us. A sight for sore eyes indeed. It was those four darling boys who’d given us so much pleasure with their glowing cocks.

  And behind them a mounted—somewhat awkwardly as the Picts aren’t natural horsemen—troop of over fifty young warriors.

  “We’re coming with you! At least long enough to kill some Saxons.”

  I must finish this letter now Flavia. We are in the hills above Eboracum and planning to attack another party of Saxons. We have killed many in the last few weeks. Pray to the gods that you hear from me again.

  Chapter Four

  To: Flavia Maxima, Constantinople

  From: Faustina Maxima, Erfurt, Thuringia, September 413

  My darling daughter-in-law, doubtless you are alarmed at the address from which I write. Calm yourself. Your mother-in-law is well. All will be explained.

  I left you at the end of my last letter, as we were about to attack a party of Saxons. The more I experience of these people, the less inclined I am to dismiss them as barbarians, despite their stubborn crudities. They can be clever, not least militarily. The party we saw was one of several decoys used to lure the British forces out from Eboracum. So eager were our Pictish volunteers for Saxon blood that they led the charge before the rest of us had time to consider. We could do nothing but follow, so, we swooped upon the Saxons in all our fierce martial glory. Botilda and the girls—even the demure Caeli—covered in bright blue war-paint, hair braided with multi-coloured beads sweeping behind them. I led the charge of course, invoking my great-great-etc grandfather Maximian and the Great Julius, not forgetting history’s great unsung hero Julian the Apostate.

  It was a good fight, with much Saxon blood flying in great arcs through the air, mixed with sprays of mud and foam and sweat from our brave horses. But within minutes we were completely encircled by the Saxon host. Death was certain and my life began to flash before my eyes. Well, you have some idea of what my amourous life has been, and in order not to be distracted by this wild, visual tumult of coitus I levelled the spear I’d taken from a dead Saxon at the enemy massed around us and, spurring Bucephalus on, charged toward death and glory.

  I had almost broken through the great blond links in the Saxon chain, with blood flying, and my own war cry terrifying their mounts enough to throw a few of them, before poor Bucephalus was brought down by a dart in his shank and all was blackness.

  I returned to consciousness with the eager faces of the girls bending over me. They had all survived unhurt, praise the gods, apart from a few flesh wounds. Most of our British cavalry had been killed unfortunately, though a good few had escaped; and the same with the Picts. The Saxons had made a point of keeping the girls alive, and not only that, but had been treating them fairly well.

  But what barbaric practices were we being saved for?

  Two days later we were brought before Cuthbert, the Saxon king, in chains. He sat, drinking mead from a huge ram’s horn, his free hand groping the mountainous breasts of his chief concubine, a creature much fiercer looking than her lord, whose beautifully-shaped green eyes glinted with the flickering fire of a debauched intelligence. The woman—her name was Wulfflaed—devoured each of us with her great green orbs, the tip of her tongue, pierced with a silver stud, playing over her full red lips as her great thrusting tits were massaged beneath her loose embroidered shift. An interpreter stood behind the pair, trying not to look down at the exercises going on within Wulfflaed’s dress.

  “What do you plan to do with us, Sire?” I voiced the title mockingly and was immediately yanked almost to my knees by the guard who had brought us in.

  “Do not speak before the king!”

  “The king seems preoccupied. And I’m getting bored, slave.” I kicked the guard in the balls and he doubled up in agony.

  “Ha! This Roman kicks well. Unchain them and leave us.”

  “But Sire, this one is dangerous.”

  “You dare question your Lord?”

  “Calm yourself, Wulfflaed. Unchain them, dog, before I throw you to this proud Roman lady for her supper.”

  We all rubbed our wrists.

  “So, what are your plans for us?

  “I’m not sure, as yet. But it will involve sport, won’t it, Wulfflaed?”

  Wulfflaed purred, clasping the hand that had not ceased from its breast-massaging.

  “And, much pleasure.”

  “Could you give me a few details?”

  “I’ll give you a clue. It will involve you Romans’ favourite leisure pursuits.”

  “Killing Saxons?”

  “Ha! I like you more and more, Faustina. No. I was talking of the arena.”

  We were chained and led out of our pig sty of a prison the following evening, out of the camp, and into the woods. It was growing dark and Caeli, convinced we were about to be butchered, clutched my hand desperately. I was more sanguine. I knew the king and his concubine had amorous sport in mind for us, though we might well be butchered when we had sated their perverse curiosity, but, as I always say, we could cross that burning bridge when we came to it.

  Suddenly we came upon a ring of fire. A large circular tent open to the sky and stuck with torches around its rim in a sunken clearing between two tree-clogged mounds, completely secreted from view. Inside, as I expected, Cuthbert was sat, slouched on a couch, aping Roman fashion, clutching his trusty mead-horn in one hand and one of Wulfflaed’s titanic breasts in the other. The inside of the tent consisted of a circular muddy floor, the consistency of which, as we watched, a slave thinned further with a casket of water. It was enclosed by a low wooden barrier which Cuthbert and Wulfflaed drunkenly overlooked.

  “I promised you an arena, and here it is. ‘Let the games begin,’ I believe is the phrase.”

  The interpreter explained what was to happen. The girls would be put in the ‘arena’ in pairs in combat with a ‘gladiator’ while I was reserved for last. I began protesting against this—not with my usual fierceness, as hadn’t we Romans perfected the arena, and wasn’t it still in use in much of the Empire?—when Botilda hushed me. For the first gladiators had entered. Two big brawny blonds, their bodies glistening with oil, the long plaits of their freshly washed and aromatic yellow hair hanging down either side of their great hairless punctums, which they were gripping and working into hardness. Over their naked shoulders they had a net each, in the Thracian style.

  “Me first,” Botilda hissed.

  “And me, me,” insisted Aquilina.

  “Appealing though it looks, ladies, this is no game. Be careful. I suggest you disarm them quickly in traditional fashion.”

  “Kick those big gorgeous pricks? Never! Lugh God of Light, I’m dripping. Let me at them.” Botilda’s eyes were fixed on the now massive upright erections of the two warriors.

  “I see your friends are eager for battle, Faustina. Into the arena with them at once.”

  Cuthbert leaned up on his couch, waving his
horn. Wulfflaed’s breasts were out of her dress and gleaming with spilled mead in the torchlight. Botilda and Aquilina, taking the wooden swords that were thrust at them by the interpreter, stepped into the ring.

  “The women are to be naked. Strip or be stripped!”

  Proudly the two pulled their begrimed tunicas over their heads, tossed them toward Cuthbert, and shook out their long hair. The interpreter resumed his station behind the king, the guards left, the Thracians stepped into the ring, their cocks swaying like the thick rudders of ships. Silence descended.

  The men swung their nets adeptly and there was barely room for the girls to avoid them, but avoid them they did, for a couple of minutes at least. Botilda, trying not to scream with glee, was the first to be caught. Her captor yanked her to him, but rather than allowing herself to be tipped on her back, Botilda flipped him deftly over her shoulder, where he landed spattering mud over everyone, including, despite the interpreter’s attempts to shield them, Cuthbert and his concubine’s exposed, palpitating breasts. The king rubbed the mud spots into them, slid a muddy hand up her neck, and pulling her mouth to his, kissed her excitedly.

  Aquilina still danced squelshingly around the arena, dodging the net, but almost tripped over the big cock of the flipped Thracian sticking up like a great pink pole out of the mud. Botilda, battle-frenzied, bent, gripped it by the base and jabbed it up into her cunnus, sinking down on it with a swift liquid motion.

  Meanwhile the other gladiator, wiping the inordinate length of his mud-spattered cock with a spit-filled hand, approached a tremulous Aquilina, her mud-slicked, dripping nakedness wrapped tight in the mesh of the net, so tight she must’ve done the job herself. With one motion he spun her round, bent her over the low wooden parapet, and tore a hole over the netting that clasped her smeared, dripping buttocks and, gripping his smooth glinting weapon, drove it up to the hilt into the moisture-twinkling lips of her eagerly back-thrust cunnus.