A Tale of Ties and Binds - Chapter 15

Chapter 15. A Moaning of Matriarchs

The Celt

It was a cool day on the Macedonian plains. The wind was blowing softly through the hair of a thousand Greek soldiers, and the sun felt warm against their backs. Eagles soared through the sky, high above the Thessalian battle formation.

"A good omen," offered Marissa. "Hera favours our cause." The Matriarch of the Thunderbolt was a short woman, olive-skinned and bright of eye with contrasting dark hair. In truth, she was only acting Matriarch. Her older sister had vanished during a storm on the return voyage from Mytilene many moons ago - almost a year - and Marissa had taken to foolish superstition in a hope that her sister may return. It was as though the girl didn't want to be Matriarch - not a feeling with which the Celt could sympathise.

"Perhaps the Trojans will view the eagles as a good omen for them too." Titania shifted in her saddle. The stunning blonde had never enjoyed fighting on horseback. There was something cowardly about it, something distant to the thrill of battle. She preferred to stand in the heat of it all, eye to eye with her enemies, their hearts beating in tune as she bested them with her whip, her net, her shield or her hands if need be. Horses skirted along the flanks like gnats and flew away whenever the fray grew too hot. Real warriors would rather be taken captive than run. Still, it was expected of the general to sit ahorse for at least the beginning of the battle with the other matriarchs as they discussed their plans and observations, however useless the opinions of lesser women were.

Her armour was the cleanest leather of them all. Around her bodice, in the pattern of Celtic knotwork, was the shiniest bronze trimming. She could see her reflection in her bracers and grieves, though they had never needed much polishing. Her foes never managed to land blows with their whips so her armour had never been scuffed. They always had an annoying habit of losing the fights before they'd really begun. Titania also made a point of wearing the shortest skirt in all the army. It barely covered any thigh, and may as well have not been there at all. She'd often believed it would be easier to fight stark naked had it not been for the fact that her armour heralded her as the Celt - famed warrioress and matriarch, rich and powerful. That, and the bodice emphasised her large breasts and strong hips and gave her somewhere to carry her ropes.

"Perhaps they do," Marissa agreed, "but their goddesses are false so it makes no matter."

Perhaps all goddesses are false, the Celt thought. She thought it best not to say that though. Better to have the fools on her side until the very end. All her life Titania had doubted the existence of deities, and all her life she had never been proven wrong. The eagle is doing what eagles do. Who gives a donkey's arse where it flies?

She looked across the formation from atop a rocky knoll surrounded in the banners of the households in attendance, the Celtic Knot's sigil swaying tall and dominant. The sigil of the Queen's household stood next to it, the iron-studded whip on a black background. The sigils of the Households of the Trident and Thunderbolt were close by - a collared trident in a blue sea and a golden thunderbolt between bosom-like clouds, respectively. Though they were the only households the Celt had bothered to remember, so small and insignificant were the many others. Titania's own soldiers formed the bulk, supplemented by troops from the Household of the Whip. It was not customary for the Queen's soldiers to fight in battle unless the Queen Herself were fighting too, but Titania had convinced the monarch to give her control over Her troops for this occasion. It was not difficult to convince Her of things; simply throw a fresh phallic slave at Her crotch and She'd agree to anything without a moment's thought. Elsewise, the Households of the Thunderbolt and the Trident each gave a few hundred women to the army, including their matriarchs.

The Matriarch of the Trident rode up alongside the general on a horse almost too large for her. Megan was young for a matriarch, perhaps only nineteen - the same age as Serena, whatever had happened to her. Perhaps she'd chosen to stay with the Illyrian allies for a time, though it was among the least of the Celt's concerns. She didn't need an heiress until she was indisposed by war, treachery, or the will of the goddesses, and there was no woman in all the Aegean who was a better fighter or a more cunning foe than she. The goddesses, should they be anything other than stories for gullible children, did not frighten her. General Titania had come very far in only a few years, and the divine mistresses who may or may not live in the heavens should be nothing but proud. If the priestesses told it true, the Celt was nearly as cruel and unforgiving as they were.

Megan was a reflection of her older sister - tall, long black hair, and a proud stance. Her older sister had been the former General Cassia, stripped of armour and rank and thrown into the Queen's own personal harem. It was part of the plan, Titania reminisced. I throw the battle of Mytilene for the Trojans, the general is demoted, the position is opened, the Queen offers it to me and I humbly accept. It would have been much simpler if not for the Scylla bitch getting there before me, but I framed her as the traitor and killed two birds with one stone. She giggled softly. Every time she saw the Matriarch of the Trident, the Celt couldn't help but laugh just a little bit at how things had turned out.

"Our scouts have found a reserve of Scythian horsewomen hiding in the tree line to the east," Megan said. "They're preparing to flank us once the battle begins, General."

All part of the plan. "Position a line of cavalry out of sight behind a hill. Let them think they can flank us, and counterflank them when they try."

"Barbarians," Marissa scoffed, unaware of whom she was speaking to. The Household of the Celtic Knot began as little more than an Illyrian slave trader in a strange new land of Thessaly, a barbarian in a 'civilised' world. But now... now their sigil hung on banners from Paxi to the Sporades. "The Trojans hire their nets and their whips from uncivilised foreigners. What kind of women does that make them?"

You'll soon discover that for yourself, Titania thought with a slight smirk.

"General," said Megan, "is Matriarch Lydia of the Scylla not joining us in battle? I'd have thought she'd take the opportunity to prove herself for the first time since her rise to the title."

She's proven herself quite well already. Lydia has a tongue like a contortionist and handles bondage like she was born in ropes. "I kept her garrisoned in Larissa should the Trojans attack us from behind."

"Do you expect them to try?"

The Celt smiled knowingly. "Not at all."

A Greek outrider appeared on the ridge in the distance, racing her steed towards the formation. She unslung her horn from her breast and blew with all her strength. The Trojans were on the march.

And so it ends. And so it begins. "Matriarchs, take your women to the front lines. We'll charge them once they're in range of our bolas. They won't be prepared for that." Actually, they would be. "My own sisters-in-arms will reinforce you soon after. We'll rout the Trojan forces and those who run the slowest will honour us in our victory beds this night." Marissa and Megan rode away to join their forces.

The Trojan lines appeared atop the ridge. Most were armed with whip and net and armoured in scaled leather. They carried crescent-shaped shields on their shoulders and a dozen coils of rope in their belts. Titania was glad to see her gold had not gone to waste.

Along the flanks, drums were beaten and horns were blown. The Trojans replied in turn. The smell of battle wafted up to the knoll, warm and aroused and bringing forth a whole library of glorious memories of past battles. It was the same smell all those years ago, she reflected, when we crushed the Messapians and ended the war. It made Titania almost regretful that this battle was a complete farce.

The Trojan lines charged - ten paces, twenty paces, thirty, forty, fifty. Someone yelled for the slingers to loose their bolas and the air was full of low humming as they swung them through their fingers. They turned the blue horizon brown as the weighted leathern coils fell into the Trojan lines. A fair number of soldiers tumbled to the ground, hands or feet or both tangled in knots, but most continued on their way.

To the left, Marissa atop her horse cracked a whip. To the right, Megan atop another did the same. Their soldiers charged in unison, bolas still flying over their heads. The smell was rarely better than during a charge. Anticipation, fear and lust added something special to it.

The lines drew closer together and the deception was close enough to taste. The Greeks raised their whips and the Trojans raised their shields. Within no more than ten paces before the lines met, the Trojans folded in their ranks, forming long lines of emptiness separated by thick columns of soldiers. Surprised, confused, and still charging at full speed, the Greeks had little option but to funnel in between.

Within moments, the front line of Trojan soldiers appeared on the opposite side of the Greek charge, having forced themselves all the way through the ranks. They split their column and doubled back, enclosing themselves around the soldiers of the Trident and Thunderbolt. It would have been an opportune time to charge in with reinforcements. If Titania hadn't organised the Trojan battle plan in the first place, that was exactly what she would have done.

They were quickly overwhelmed. Whips cracked, shields battered against one another, nets came down, and the Greeks were the first captives of the battle. Marissa roared in fury from atop her steed, cracking down on the foes that surrounded her. A net appeared from nowhere and tangled the matriarch's arms against her chest. She was pulled from her mount immediately after, engulfed by the waves of Trojans. Megan had vanished almost as soon as the plan was executed. No doubt at least one of the soldiers serving the Celtic Knot had seen what happened and wouldn't mind sharing. Perhaps I'll see her in the camp later. I finally won't have to suppress my laughter.

The Queen's soldiers were craning their necks around impatiently, perhaps wondering why they had never received an order to reinforce. Titania raised her hand, gesturing the next command. Somewhere close by, a horn blew, deep and long-winded. The soldiers serving the Celtic Knot drew to attention, turned to the Queen's women beside them, and tackled them to the ground in a tumultuous cloud of rope and hair.

Scythian horsewomen emerged from the tree line to the south and hurled large nets into the Greek cavalry waiting behind a hill. Caught unawares, they too were quickly left tangled in knots within the thick grass.

Another whiff of that smell - that warm, aroused, anticipating, fearful and lust-filled scent of battle. There was something new to it now. Betrayal? No, Titania had sensed that many times, most recently in the dungeon in the slave market district of Larissa when the Scylla bitch was blindsided by her sister. No, victory. That was it. Victory never smelled so complete.

All throughout the Macedonian plains, Greek soldiers were struggling against their captors. Leather armour was being torn apart, hair was being viciously pulled, breasts were being tightly restrained in coarse ropes, and the anguished moans of defeat and sensual ecstasy filled the battlefield.

Titania sat atop her horse high above it all on the rocky knoll, surrounded by a forest of banners. She shifted in her saddle uncomfortably. Coming about, she felt her finger snag slightly on the reins of her saddle. She brought her hand up to inspect it. Curses, the Celt thought, I've broken a nail. And I've been having such a good day so far.

She arrived back in the capital a half day's march later. She rode through streets with ugly and unpronounceable names, passed by shops and stalls that were vending poorly-made toys for annoying children, and was met with oohs and aahs from many women who doubtless envied her. Most, frustratingly, shouted, "Celt! Celt! Celt!" not with envy or reverence, but with disdain. They hated her, she knew. The weak and the poor always had. They were jealous. It would be the last time she travelled these roads like this. Tomorrow, she reminded herself, they shall all kneel.

Her column of sisters-in-arms trailed behind her on foot while she rode out in front. Their hands ached from tying knots all morning, Titania noticed, and some were marching slightly bow-legged. Blonde hair spilled out from the base of their helms and the sigil of their household was embedded in the rivets and studs of their armour and shields. The Illyrian maiden wrapped in the tight confines of Celtic artwork was a message to all her foes "Today you face the Celt. Make it easier on yourselves and simply lie down and put your hands behind your back."

It was the message she was hoping would rub off on the royal guards standing before the gates of the palace. Unfortunately for them, they preferred to bar her way instead, making demands and asking questions. They were soon stripped, trussed and silenced. She'd probably have replaced them anyway.

More royal guards and more trussings, the palace was not particularly well defended. A matriarch could simply walk in and do as she pleases, Titania reflected with a smirk. And then what fate would befall the Queen?

Her sisters-in-arms pushed open the doors to the throne room and the Celt cantered in atop her horse. She was proud of the entrance. The short steward called out, "Matriarch Titania of the Household of the Celtic Knot, General of the Thessalian Army and Taker of Captives." The slave girl wore the sigil of the Household of the Whip on the breast still covered by her purple chiton. The other breast was small and exposed. The Celt considered if it was worth keeping her as the steward or if she'd serve better bound in a hogtie between the sheets.

The royal tributes adorned the columns which lined the central path up to the throne. Each girl came from a different household, and each girl was her household's metaphorical promise to honour the Queen. The tributes were drawn from anywhere in the families serving the households, but not for long. Soon they would be highborn hostages, sisters or second daughters to the matriarchs. Then they'd matter. No woman would dare oppose Queen Titania.

Queen Astrid sat regally upon the throne, slowly churning her hips on the phallic slave imprisoned within. A large banner bearing her sigil was spread across the wall behind her, and the actual iron-studded whip hung just below it balanced across two pegs. "General, what news of the Trojan invasion? Good news, I assume?"

The Celt dismounted her horse. "The Matriarchs of the Trident and the Thunderbolt were taken captive, their sisters-in-arms the same. Your forces also fell under Trojan knots. I do not doubt they're all serving the Trojans as chairs and shelves and candlesticks as we speak."

"We lost?" the Queen asked in disbelief.

"Someone lost, but it's wasn't the Trojans and it wasn't me."

The Queen frowned. Behind her eyes, her mind was at work figuring it out. Every little detail of the past year fell into place, suddenly forming a clear picture. Queen Astrid was clever, even if easily distracted by gifts and flattery. It was said that the Queen of Thessaly would make one of the most desirable captives in all the Aegean. With a firm bust, soft curves, a golden crown upon her head and long brown hair bound in golden rings, the rumours were not untrue. "It was always you. You were the traitor."

The Celt bowed. "History will remember it differently. They will sing songs of this day."

"You won't have power for long. The matriarchs of the realm are loyal to Me! They will not stand f-"

"They shall do as I command!" the Celt's voice echoed through the throne room. "They will not dare oppose me. I've kidnapped their sisters and their heiresses. They lie in chains in the darkest dungeons throughout the city, guarded day and night by scores of soldiers. To move against me is to risk losing their family members to slavery. I have every household by the collar, Astrid. I do not care for their loyalty; they need only fear me."

Titania's childhood had been a lonely one. Not by fate, but by choice. The little girls who surrounded her had foolish dreams of one day becoming famous warriors or wealthy slavers, though not a single one possessed the conviction and vindictiveness necessary to achieve those dreams. Even the young Titania knew she could use that to her advantage, for she never allowed herself to love the girls around her, to call them friends. They were tools; the way a seamstress uses a needle or a smith uses a hammer, as a means to an end. To most girls, friends were just people they didn't expect to betray them. The little girl who would one day be known as the Celt, conversely, never expected them to be loyal.

The Queen sighed and buried her head in her hands. "What is to happen to My people?"

"That's none of your concern." With a flick of the wrist, Titania ordered a dozen of her soldiers to join her in the throne room. "Rise, Astrid. Rise and kneel before me."

The Queen clenched her fists. She eyed her ancestral whip hanging on the wall behind her.

Come and fight me, Titania wished. Take your weapon. You seized the throne with it once, protect it now. Give me a fight. Make it hard for me. Make this more a challenge than it's been. Give the poets something to sing about for generations to come. Grab the whip.

To the Celt's disappointment, the Queen did not make a reach for her weapon. The monarch stood from her throne, the phallic slave's meat sliding out with a pop, and descended the steps of her dais. She approached Titania, glaring, her long brown hair flowing almost magically behind her... and fell to her hands and knees like a common dog. She was panting heavily in anger and dismay, making her canine impersonation all the more believable.

"Let's do this properly," Titania grinned. "Queen Astrid, Matriarch of the Household of the Whip, Grand Matriarch of the Thessalian families, Binder of Rivals and Slaver of Sisters, I hereby pronounce your reign to be at an end. Your lands, slaves, and titles are now the property of the realm - my realm." She reached out her hand and lifted the golden crown off Astrid's head and could feel her eyes welling up with a rush of pride. "Sisters, bind her, gag her, and take her to the royal harem."

"Curse you, Titania. Curse you and your entire househo-mmph!" the erstwhile monarch was cut off by a rag shoved into her mouth as her arms were wrenched behind her. First her elbows, then her wrists were bound, across her midriff went another rope, above and below those firm breasts of hers, over her shoulders, through her crotch, and then they were all corded and woven together in Celtic knotwork fashion. She was led away, squirming in the grips of the Celt's soldiers and moaning angrily; the former Queen of Thessaly.

The Celt took a deep breath. She weighed the gold in her hands. It wasn't heavy, but still heavier than it looked. And shiny too. She placed it atop her head - a golden crown in a golden mane. "Queen Titania," she whispered. Then she said it again, louder. And louder again. She raced to a window overlooking the capital and screamed it at the top of her lungs! As the echo slowly faded away, she chuckled. I won.

"Your Grace?" one of her remaining soldiers said. Titania didn't recognise it at first, but the soldier was talking to her. "What shall we do with the tributes?"

The many girls suspended against their columns looked on, shocked at what they'd seen and fragrantly aroused by the spectacle. "Set them free, bind them, keep them for yourselves - it makes no matter. But release her," she pointed to a blonde tribute who'd been her informer on military secrets and royal affairs. "She's one of ours."

The soldiers bowed and complied, unshackling the tributes from their bondage. Some they rebound in the family style, others they released to run away as quickly as their weak legs could carry them. It would be their tongues that spread the word of Queen Titania's rise to the throne of Thessaly.

She climbed the dais and lowered herself into the throne. Her throne, it was now, and very comfortable. The phallic slave's meat slid up inside her. Her phallic slave. She churned it slightly, feeling it throb deep within. Her palace, her realm, her everything as far as the eye could see, and further still. "Queen Titania," she said again, looking about her throne room. "I suppose I shall have to redecorate."

Continued in Chapter 16

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