War Booty - illustrated
Copyright© 2025 by CreepyUnclePete
Chapter 7
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 7 - A heroic officer in the Roman Empire is rewarded with several beautiful slaves. Written as a memoir, an old man telling his life story. Includes many sex scenes, but lots of historical information, too. History buffs will probably love this, guys craving wank material or ladies looking for romance - not so much.
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Fa/Fa Ma/Ma Mult Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Rape Slavery BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Historical Military War Magic Sharing Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Father BDSM MaleDom FemaleDom Group Sex Orgy Interracial Black Male Black Female White Male White Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Lactation Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Voyeurism Prostitution Violence Illustrated
I overheard a soldier ask, “Why do we stop every night and sleep ashore? We could go so much faster, if we sailed at night, too.”
Another explained, “If we lose sight of land, we might never see it again! Want to be lost on the ocean, dying of hunger and thirst, until one of Neptune’s monsters claims us?”
Each ship had a crude magnetic compass which pointed vaguely north, but with unpredictable winds, currents, and visibility, sailing more than half a day from land was perilous. Any sane captain went ashore nightly, or at least anchored within sight of land. The few exceptions were trade routes between Londonium and Belgica, and across the Mediterranean.
Banditry wasn’t rare along the coasts of Gaul or Hispania, but with a full cohort, over four hundred battle-hardened veterans, we had nothing to fear but the sea. Gescribate was later called Brest, a week’s sail south of Belgica. Ten more days got us to the great port of Gades, which a king much later on renamed Cadiz. It’s often said that Rome build Gades, and Gades built Roman trade. It’s mostly true, with ships visiting from as far as Narvik and Helsinki in the far north, Dakar or Lagos south along the African coast, even from the Nile and Black Sea. With a hundred thousand residents, only eight cities in the Empire were larger.
Arriving at dawn instead of noon would have been much better. Screams and other sounds of combat accompanied the odors of death and burning buildings. The salt air of Gades did not smell of trade and brine as it should; but burning hair and the sickly metallic tang of blood. As we sailed into the harbor, the silence was shattered not by the greeting of port officials, but by a scream that sounded like a pig being flayed alive. We had come for a peaceful anchorage, but tied up at the pier and charged into an urban slaughterhouse. The city had been devoured from within, a malignant growth of deserters from the Tingus, across the Pillars of Hercules, and opportunistic ruffians who joined them to turn the jewel of Hispania into a charnel house.
My men didn’t hesitate, rapidly forming a testudo, as they’d practiced thousands of times. A volley of arrows rained down from the clay-tiled roofs, dozens, hundreds of them. Other than our big scutum shields, only one hit its mark, pinning a man’s foot to the wooden quay. I drew my gladius, the steel singing as it left the scabbard, and roared for my men to advance. We pushed inland, the narrow, winding alleys of Gades becoming a claustrophobic gauntlet where death lurked behind every draped curtain and overturned amphora.
The urban warfare was a brutal, intimate affair. We fought not in the open fields of Caledonia, but in the suffocating press of tenement halls and spice markets. In an alleyway barely wide enough for three men abreast, we were ambushed from above. A huge limestone slab was heaved off a balcony, crushing my loyal bodyguard Krato like a melon. Roman armor was the best in the world, but couldn’t save him from a falling boulder heavier than he was.
Rage overtook me! I led my men into the insula, the apartment building. I lunged forward, driving my blade through the belly of a deserter, then severing the right hand of another. I made the worst mistake a commander can, I let emotion rule me, personally leading from the front instead of thinking and directing from the rear.