A/N:

VERY NSFW!

Mature Audiences ONLY!

The first chapter is mild by comparison, but the next ones ARE DEFINITELY NOT!

There is RAPE in this story, which is inherently NON CONSENSUAL.

There is talk of FORCED PREGNANCY in this story.

There is a WHIPPING in this story.

If you find any of the above elements to be disturbing, please go find something else to read.

He entered his tent - the biggest in the encampment of course - he was, after all, their general. But he wasn't like any general they'd ever fought for because he insisted on fighting with them. Unlike the other commanders of his rank, he was right there with his men, in the thick of things. He didn't stick to the relative safety of his horse, either - he swung down almost immediately into the very heart of the din, right in the midst of the clang and clash of sword hitting sword. The screams and cries of those who were losing their fights truly deafening as he stepped agilely over the bodies of those who had already fallen - from both sides. Wielding that heavy weapon with breathtakingly lethal skill and carving his way through their lines like the embodiment of Death himself, he quickly became covered in the blood of his enemies from head to toe, to such an extent that their opponents began to simply part in front of him as the Red Sea for Moses, dropping to their knees before him, abandoning their weapons and begging to be spared.

Of course, no one was, including their King.

Death had no concept of mercy for those who had taken up arms against Rome.

As the echoes of his soldiers' cries - hailing him and his magnificent victory - which he didn't much count as one, considering the cowardice of those who refused to fight against him but instead preferred to simply be cut down like sheep - rang in his ears, Caius Martius entered his tent, not acknowledging the two guards who sprang to attention outside the tent flap as he did so, and having no care for the fact that he was still wearing the blood of his enemies as it oozed with every step from his boots where it had pooled, leaving crimson footprints all over the exquisite rugs that decorated the inside of his quarters as he moved about.

He did not follow the usual tendency of his fellow officers, much to their chagrin. The higher he rose in rank, the further away they try to put him from his soldiers whenever they made camp. But that was what he was, to the bone - a Roman soldier, and damned proud to be one. He hoped he never ended up trying to be anything else. And as such, he annoyed all of his underlings, who saw their distance from the common soldier as a perk of their rank, that his tent - the largest but carefully not ostentatiously decorated - be in the middle of the rest of his men - the ones that actually fought the battles with him, risked their lives for and with him on the front lines, not from the relative safety of horseback and definitely not from a ridge far from actual combat.

Once inside, he began to pace furiously, his mind racing, body still at attention - in more ways than one - from the heat of battle, every part of him hard and ready and humming with energy, every sense painfully heightened, blood coursing through him so furiously that he would have sworn he could feel every drop of it flowing through him.

Especially in one particular part of himself.

He opened his mouth to yell for his servant, but before he could get the wretch's name out, he appeared before him.

"Master." The older man bowed low to him, but Caius ignored the courtesy, as usual.

"A woman. I want a woman," the general growled. "In fact, bring me at least three. I have needs that want slaking."

The man remained where he was for a long moment, not moving a muscle, which enraged Caius, who rounded on the poor man and got directly into his face, easily bearing down on and towering threateningly over the much shorter, smaller man.

"Why do you hesitate?" He drew the sword that was always at his side. "Would you prefer that I find another slave who will obey me -"

With the relative security of long acquaintance, if not affection, between them, the man bravely dared to interrupt his master, saying calmly, "There are already five women awaiting your . . . attention . . . just outside the tent, Dominus."

With a frustrated growl, Caius sheathed his sword. "You know me too well, Petrus." It sounded much more like a complaint than a compliment, but then that was what the servant was used to.

"Fetch them to me."

The slave ducked outside for a short moment, then, when he came back in, he was leading a rope to which five women were attached by corresponding collars around their necks, arms bound behind them. Each of them was more filthy, scrawny and odiferous than the last, it seemed, such that even Caius wrinkled his nose at them.

He stood before the first one, whose hair was a rat's nest upon her head, face caked with dirt and muck, the skins she wore hanging off her in tatters, and wreaking of foul odors he did not want to consider the origins of. She cowered and cringed away from him, avoiding his eyes like a whipped dog, even though he had made no move to touch her.

And the next three were no better. He didn't even bother to remove any of their garments; he found them so grossly distasteful.

The last one, though, was different from the rest; he knew it immediately.

She stood straight and tall - well, as tall as she could. She was easily a foot shorter than he was, but she seemed better fed than the rest of the lot, her cheeks fuller, face almost decorated with dirt rather than showing signs that that she had spent her life dwelling amidst it.

And she was not looking at the ground, as the others had been, but rather straight ahead of her, seeming almost unafraid, or at least attempting to, anyway. She wasn't quite bold enough to look straight at him, but he had seen her watching him as he inspected the others, out of the corner of her eye.

And she hadn't looked away from anything her eyes had encountered, either, he'd noted with more than casual interest.

He put his finger beneath her chin to lift her face and examine her more carefully, coming to stand very close to her - his legs spread wide as if to surround her with himself - as he exerted more than enough pressure to force her head up so that their eyes met.

That was when she spit on him, a considerable mouthful of the effluvia landing on his left cheek.

The other women immediately shrieked and tried to cower on the ground, away from his certain ire, and even Petrus had uttered a short, sharp yelp at her action, which brought his guards bursting in.

The other women she was roped to were dragging her down, but she refused to yield and remained standing proudly, her eyes still clapped to his, even when one of the guards quickly assessed the situation and grabbed her by the collar around her neck, choking her as he placed his sword at her throat, seconds from letting her life's blood flow onto the ground beneath their feet.

The others held their collective breath at the tableau that was unfolding before them, certain the girl was going to be dead by someone's hand in a matter of seconds.

"Halt!" His loud order rent the air, staying the surprised guard's hand. "Release her and step back."

"But Sir -"

Caius drew himself to his full height, his hand on his weapon. "If you do not follow my order, soldier, then it will be my blade at your neck."

She was freed abruptly and stumbled, but righted herself almost immediately, coming again to stand proudly before him, daring to put herself in the same exact position as she had been when she'd spit on him, inches away from him, staring up into his eyes of her own accord, this time, as if daring him to do something about it.

Caius was no fool. He reached down and cut a segment of the ropes that bound the women together before anyone realized what he was doing, and as she had her mouth open to spit on him an incomprehensible second time, he shoved the dense rope into her mouth to gag her, tying it tightly at the back of her head as she shrieked futilely in rage, but then quickly calmed herself, not descending into the hysteria the other women had so easily fallen into.

As she stood there, seconds away from forfeiting her own life just to spit on him again, a flash of admiration for her spirit coursed through him, and the erection that had been killed off by her companions in a manner he had been concerned was permanent was already straining towards her feminine warmth.

With an evil smile, he reached up and grabbed the collar of her flimsy shift in both large fists, and with one slight pull, he split it down the middle and ripped it the rest of the way off her, leaving her naked before the other women, his guards, Petrus . . . and himself.

The soft hearted Petrus looked away, but he would not allow it.

"Everyone look at her. Do not move your eyes from her or I will have them plucked out." He took another step closer to the impudent little bitch, warning her, in her own language, "And you keep your eyes on me or my face will be the last thing you ever see."

With that, Caius used the rags that had been her covering, that were still in his hand, to wipe his face, surprised at the blood that also came away on it - having forgotten that he was bathed in it - moistened by her little gift to him. Then he took a step back from her and gave her a thorough - and thoroughly insulting - once over.

Her hair was streaked with dirt but not matted or snarled, like the others, he noted with interest, and the golden blond color - as well as the curls and waves - shone through regardless of its currently unkempt state. His eyes wandered lower, recognizing immediately that, although she was definitely dirty, it was almost calculatedly so - as if the dirt had been applied hastily and only to those places that where she was exposed.

Caius squatted before her and examined her feet. Not only was she wearing sandals - unlike her compatriots who he would have bet had never owned a pair - but her feet were too damned close to immaculate for her to truly be of equal - low - rank to the women to whom she was bound.

"Cut her bonds, take her shoes, and the rest of them, but leave her here."

The soldier who had nearly killed her hesitated, and his commander, of course, noticed.

"Belay that order." He raised his voice just a bit, but he had an impressive amount of volume at his command "Guards!"

The troop of six men that surrounded his tent at all times poured into the room. "Seize this man." He pointed to the guard. "He has disobeyed me twice - once by action and the second time in his heart. A hundred lashes ought to help him learn to obey." Although it would be doubtful he'd live to apply the lesson, he knew he didn't need to say that. He turned to the other original soldier and said, "Cut her bonds and take the others to the slave enclosure."

In seconds, his will was done and they were alone; the Roman commander and the woman whose small body would sate his lust, willingly or no.

And he much preferred it be the latter, he thought, as he dragged her by the rough rope collar over to the nearest support beam of the tent, which happened to be in the middle of it. He then reached up and looped her already bound wrists over one of the hooks he'd deliberately had driven into them for his own convenience, this one so high that she was forced to remain on her tiptoes as a lot of her weight hung from her hands, stretching out her naked body lewdly before him.

She was surprised when he removed her gag, but then he whispered, his face entirely too close to hers, lips pressed against the side of her cheek, "I don't want anything to interfere with your screams. I want the whole camp to hear them."

Then she saw him reach for the thin leather whip, that was only about twenty inches long total, that hung right next to her.