Rome, 80 AD
Torn between a forced marriage and the threat of assassination, Clodia is desperate to escape the cruel, dangerous world of the Imperial city. But the greatest challenge the young widow faces is her forbidden desire for the one man who can save her—her fearless bodyguard slave.
A proud warrior brought to Rome in chains, Artair’s hunger for freedom is almost as strong as his hunger for his beautiful domina. Artair’s fierce loyalty to Clodia soon leads him into the brutal gladiatorial arena, where he is prepared to sacrifice his life to defend her honor...
Mastered by Her Slave
Greta Gilbert
Author Note
The year was 80 AD. The Roman Empire held most of Europe in its merciless grip. The Roman army, at constant war, labored to feed an insatiable beast—the city of Rome itself.
It must have been a terrible time to be alive. There was pernicious inequality. There were fires, plagues, and violence. There were crazy Emperors like Nero, who years before had drained the Imperial coffers and terrorized the city. There was even a volcano—the infamous Vesuvius—which in 79 AD unleashed its fury on the people of the Pompeii region, condemning them to history.
But perhaps it was also an amazing time to be alive. It was the eve of the opening of the great Flavian Amphitheater, aka the Colosseum, an architectural wonder of the world. There were opulent public bathhouses, glorious temples, and an incredible network of roads. Never before had so many different kinds of people come together—to do business, to trade ideas, and, of course, to fall in love.
I hope you enjoy the story!
Greta
Dedication
For Mom and Wumpy, with gratitude and so much love—
And for Mary Catherine (aka “MC”), my inspiration
Contents
Chapter One
Rome, 80 AD
She examined the captive’s hands, searching for a sign from the gods. Her very life rested upon this choice.
“Do you favor him, Clodia? Or shall we look at some others?” asked her sister, Davena.
Clodia ran her finger down the man’s stomach, sensing him shudder. He was one of so many, his bare torso pressed between so many others—a tragic horde of ill-fortuned souls filling the marketplace with their misery.
“The mango says these are from Pompeii,” her sister added. “Can you imagine? Surviving the eruption of that terrible volcano? Such brave boys!”
Clodia marveled at Davena, how easily she sauntered past the men she called “boys,” breathing in the smell of a pink gardenia while her own slaves cooled her with ostrich-feather fans.
Clodia herself could not pretend any enjoyment. She found the slave market shameful, the essence of Rome’s brutality. Yet she knew that coming here was the least of her sins.
She was the wife—no, the widow now—of mighty general Paulinus, the man who captured Queen Boudica and brought the wild tribes of Briton to their knees.
“Glory to Gaius Suetonius Paulinus,” the guests had cheered at her husband’s funeral games. But Clodia could not bring herself to join them. It was no secret that her husband had been a butcher. Over ten thousand Iceni women and children slaughtered in a single battle. Ten thousand innocent lives erased. All for the glory of Rome.
Clodia begged the goddess Minerva to erase her thoughts. But no matter how much she wished to forget Paulinus’s deeds, she could not. Neither could she escape the thought that in some sense, the blood her husband had spilled was on her hands, too.
And now, as the Fates would have it, so was his money.
Paulinus had no men in his family. No sons, nephews or brothers to carry on the Suetonius name. By law, then, Clodia inherited everything.
It was the worse fate she could have ever imagined. Paulinus came from an old Roman clan, the kind who found Roman law tedious. It was said that Paulinus’s sister, his closest blood relative, had already set a price on Clodia’s head. Or so they whispered at the baths.
Clodia looked up at the man before her. Somehow, she had not let go of his hand.
“Apologies,” Clodia murmured, placing it gently by his side. His finger grazed the back of her hand, igniting an invisible spark where it touched.
When she looked up, the man was peering down at her, a curious gaze in his blue-gray eyes. But before she could blink he was looking forward again, his eyes fixed on some invisible horizon.
He was lean, filthy, and smelled of the sea. His hair was thick and yellow and grew in serpentine ropes that mingled with his beard, which grew so long and tangled it seemed stolen from Medusa herself.
He was a ghastly vision, but his power could not be concealed. He stood two heads taller than Clodia, his arms full, his legs long and solid as tree trunks.
But will he do what I require, when the time comes? There seemed no way to be sure.
At the edge of the piazza, Clodia spied the long toga of the city’s most famous gladiator trainer, the procuratore of the Ludus Magnus. The man’s slight build and delicate manner belied a boundless ambition. Even Clodia had heard of his efforts to maintain the favor of the emperor with increasingly bloody spectacles.
Now, the procuratore’s assistants were surveying the captives, who appeared to have been plucked from every corner of the Empire. There were war-weary souls from Judea, black-skinned Numidians from the Mauretanian sands; and rebels from Germania and Britannia, with eyes the color of stormy seas. At the procuratore’s commands, the largest, healthiest-looking men were being marked on the cheek with ash.
If she did not act, Clodia knew that the man before her would also be tagged for the gladiator school. And for him, as for the others, there would be no education. The inaugural games needed victims as well as heroes, and Emperor Titus had made no secret of his desire to anoint his new amphitheater in a river of blood. In two short days, these men would most certainly be dead.
Damnati ad gladium. Gladiator’s