Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

‘I am attending a banquet with the governor,’ she told him.

  Ever since Catuvolcos had confessed his feelings and had been rebuffed, he had refused to speak to her. Instead he confined himself to harsh glares and mutterings in his barbaric tongue. But she supposed this sight of her humiliation was too good an opportunity for raillery. She decided to get a barb of her own in at his newfound ‘friend’. ‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘He has requested the presence of the games’ foremost gladiatrix.’ She directed her look past him to Sorina.

  ‘A banquet!’ Catuvolcos roared with laugher, and she smelt the foul Egyptian beer on his breath. ‘We know what sort of thing goes on at a civilised banquet, don’t we, Sorina?’

  ‘Indeed,’ the older woman sneered. ‘Painted like a whore, to be a whore. You’ll have so many pricks in you before the night’s out, your cunnus will be gaping like Helle’s pit.’

  Lysandra recoiled, stunned at the vulgarity to which the Amazon descended. ‘I doubt that,’ she spat. ‘Unlike you, I don’t open my legs for any and everyone who fancies it.’ Lysandra was well pleased with herself, having managed she supposed to insult both Sorina and Catuvolcos at the same time. Certainly, she would not play the whipping girl for them. However, the barb was a little too sharp because, with a snarl of rage, Sorina leapt at her.

  Lysandra dropped back into a fighting stance, ready to hammer the Dacian into the ground, but Catuvolcos grabbed the furious barbarian around the waist and hauled her back.

  ‘She’s not worth a flogging,’ he shouted. Around Lysandra, the slave girls screamed and tried to get out of Sorina’s way.

  Sorina glared pure hatred at Lysandra who merely smirked, considering that it had been the older woman who had lost this encounter. That Catuvolcos had turned against her was, however, hurtful, especially when his amorous feelings towards her had never been encouraged. It was not as if she had led him to believe that she reciprocated in any way other than friendship and his hostility was uncalled for. And evidently, he was enjoying some sort of intimate relationship with Sorina; it was unreasonable of him to act in this manner, especially if he had found consolation elsewhere. But then, he was a barbarian, and what could one expect?

  Lysandra made off without a backward glance.

  The girls escorted her to a litter outside the gaol. Six strong men were lined up to carry it and eight legionaries stood fore and aft as escorts. Of course, the lanista was keen to ensure there were no mishaps with one of his prized possessions.

  Lysandra clambered into the lush, red-cushioned interior, exhortations to take care of both hair and makeup ringing in her ears.

  Trussed up in her finery, she was unable to flop back on the cushions and try to relax. As if that would be possible, she thought to herself. The argument with Sorina and Catuvolcos had taken her mind away from the prospect of the evening’s diversions, but now, alone, she had little else to dwell upon. She had to admit that she was somewhat fearful of what the night may bring. She prayed that Sorina’s vicious comment was not the truth. She shuddered at the thought of being used in such a manner.

  It was not the thought of a man that worried her; this was something she had discussed with Eirianwen. Indeed, she and the Silurian had used the olisbos together, and Lysandra considered the act of penetration to be extremely pleasurable. But this was an altogether different proposition; there would be neither tenderness nor care spared for her, she would merely act as the receptacle for another’s gratification.

  This night her slavery would be impressed upon her more vividly than ever before

  Danae had been right when she had said that being a gladiatrix afforded some level of freedom. It was dangerous, to be sure, but Lysandra would by lying to herself if she did not admit that the danger was addictive. Life at the ludus was less harsh than her youth in the agoge, and afforded her the opportunity to honour Athene in blood. An ancient tradition, perhaps, but she felt her life had purpose.

  Admittedly, her noble sacrifice would bring benefit to the women in her care; it was the Spartan way to embrace sacrifice and not to shirk from duty. But inside she was afraid. Lovingly penetrated by the olisbos guided by the hands of Eirianwen would be nothing like being held down and raped — for it would be rape — by an aging senator.

  It is just the body, she told herself. In some ways it was akin to entering the arena. As the thought occurred — and she clutched at it — she dedided she could face Frontinus as Achillia, rather than Lysandra. For it was Achillia who was slave and gladiatrix, not Lysandra, once-priestess of Athene. If Achillia died in the arena or was treated basely it did not matter. She could, she realised, don the armour of the psyche and hold back the taint that rape would bring.

  She felt some tension drain from her. Her genius had allowed her to find a solution to a moral conundrum that few others would have been able to solve. That she had the benefits of education and the Spartan upbringing made her fortunate enough to look at a situation logically, and not with histrionics. Her neat psychological charade would save her honour and enable her to submit without submitting. As she felt the litter being lowered, she allowed herself to smile slightly at her own cleverness.

  Lysandra was taken aback as she emerged from her carriage.

  She had expected opulence but the abode of Sextus Julius Frontinus must surely rival Domitian’s Imperial Palace in Rome so impressive was it in size and decor. Great pillars of marble supported a structure that Lysandra fancied was easily as large as the Parthenon itself. Grand statuary formed an avenue to the entrance of the main house, the twelve gods and goddesses of the Pantheon stared down at all those who approached the abode of Asia Minor’s governor. Fountains depicting dolphins and mythical creatures were interspersed artfully through a huge garden surrounding the palatial residence, the music of water filling the night air with a mystical cadence.

  Balbus’s men led her toward the entrance, where she was handed into the care of yet another soldiery. They eyed her appreciatively, evidently unaware that she could cripple or kill any one of them if she wished. This vindictive thought made her feel somewhat better about the openly salacious looks and she had to acknowledge a side to her that enjoyed the fact that, in the truest Spartan tradition, she was obviously a beauty.

  The men, however, made no attempt to touch her, as they could not know she was a slave; the idiot girls at the amphitheatre must have done an excellent job at disguising her as a Roman freewoman. As they walked through the gigantic atrium, Lysandra could not fail to be impressed by the sheer beauty of the abode. It was only by sheer effort of will that she did not gawk at the marvellously arrayed treasures and murals that surrounded her.

  Two grandly proportioned doors were at the opposite end of the entrance hall, attended by a bird-like man of middle years.

  He smiled at her, and produced a scroll from within a volumi-nous toga.

  ‘I am Achillia,’ she said in her most gracious Latin.

  The birdman scanned the list, and shook his head. ‘I have but one lady… unaccompanied,’ he said, ‘ Lysandra.’ He looked at her inquisitively, eyebrows raised.

  ‘That is in error,’ she told him imperiously, inwardly crushed that Frontinus must know her real name. However, she would not discard her armour so easily. ‘You have heard of me, of course.

  I am the gladiatrix…’

  ‘Yes.’ He cut her off. ‘ Achillia. A great match against the Caledonian last month! I saw that,’ he went on. ‘A fabulous show.

  I recognise you now that I look closer. You know, you can’t expect much from scribes.’ He took a stylus and altered her name on his scroll. ‘There we are.’ He grinned. ‘ Achillia. I shall announce you as ‘Achillia of Sparta’ then?’

  ‘As you wish.’ Lysandra was loath to admit to herself the thrill she garnered from the man’s recognition and deference.

  The birdman looked from side to side as if checking to see if anyone was watching him. ‘I’m a really big supporter of the games,’ he whispered. ‘I wanted to ask…’ He h
esitated, his eyes blinking owlishly. ‘Can you write?’

  ‘Of course I can write.’ Lysandra was outraged, feeling the blood rush to her already too-pink cheeks. ‘Do you take me for some sort of imbecile? Or do you merely think that breasts disqualify one from having an iota of intelligence…?’

  ‘No, no.’ He held up his hands apologetically. ‘I wanted to ask you if you would sign your name for me.’ He blushed as he spoke. ‘Well, not for me, really. For my children. They are huge admirers of the games…’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Yes.’ the man offered her a piece of parchment. ‘As a souvenir.’

  Lysandra was taken aback by the request, but she kept her expression neutral. ‘Certainly.’ She took the stylus. ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Marcus and Lucius,’ he said proudly. ‘Two terrors, but they are all I have since their mother passed on a few years back…’

  He trailed off as Lysandra continued to write. Eventually, she handed the parchment back, inwardly thrilled at having been recognised. ‘Thank you, lady,’ he said, clearly grateful.

  He turned and opened the great double doors, and in a voice that belied his slight build bellowed the arrival of ‘Achillia of Sparta, famed Gladiatrix of the Games of Aeschylus.’

  As soon as he closed the doors behind her, the man looked excitedly at the parchment. ‘Marcus and Lucius,’ the man read.

  ‘Achillia of Sparta greets you, admonishes you to obey your father in all things. Only through discipline and deference can excellence be attained.’ He could not help but smile at the stiffness of the language, and indeed, the message, but he knew that his children would be well pleased. And he also had a tale to tell; it was not often that the famous spared even a look for those such as himself. Stiff she may be, but Achillia of Sparta had won a friend, and he would be sure to tell his fellow aficionados just whom they should be cheering on.

  ‘You’re not screwing her?’

  Stick and Catuvolcos had been long ensconced at the trainers’ recreation site and if they were not exactly swimming in their cups they had at least begun to paddle in them. The ‘recreation site’ was, in fact, a rented warehouse, not far from the amphitheatre. It had the advantage of being cheap enough and spacious enough to accommodate the trainers from the different schools, a good number of whores and a vast amount of wine and beer, all of which were paid for by the various lanistas by way of thanks to their training staff.

  ‘No. She’s a friend. You know, we of the tribes share a kinship of custom if not of blood.’ Catuvolcos’s eyes swept around the room. Nastasen was sitting with some friends from the other schools. A motley bunch from all over the empire, it seemed to Catuvolcos that evil followed the Nubian wherever he went.

  Certainly, Nastasen’s band had a dangerous look to them, hard men who enjoyed their brutal work. He caught Catuvolcos’s gaze and waved, evidently feeling well disposed — probably due to the copious amount of hemp he and his companions were inhaling.

  ‘That is good,’ Stick said sagely. ‘Balbus would skin you alive if you were emptying your sack into Sorina. Bad for business.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. And what is it to you anyway?’

  ‘No need to get tetchy.’ Stick’s eyes became more bulbous. ‘I was just worried about you. Everyone knows you were sweet on the Spartan, and now you’re spending all your time with Sorina.

  You just can’t go round wanting to hump the flock, my friend.’

  ‘Well.’ Catuvolcos took a huge draft of his beer. ‘I’m not sweet on anyone, especially Lysandra. She’s a bitch and I’m grateful for Sorina for pointing it out.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Stick. ‘Well, she’s becoming a very popular bitch. I saw in the market today that there are Achillia figurines on sale.

  That’s unheard of, this is her first proper games. I can imagine that Sorina…’ Stick proceeded to choke on his wine and received a hearty pounding on the back from the big Gaul.

  ‘Go down the wrong way?’ Catuvolcos teased. His own capacity for drinking was legendary.

  ‘Look!’ Stick pointed. ‘I thought that was her for a moment!’

  Catuvolcos followed the Parthian’s gesture, and his own mouth fell open. One of the whores was serving some drinks, deftly avoiding the grasps of inebriated trainers. She was remarkably similar to Lysandra in looks if not bearing, though she was somewhat shorter and slightly younger, she could have been sister to the arrogant Spartan.

  ‘Must be a Greek.’ Catuvolcos scowled, lacing his tone with scorn.

  Stick regarded him. ‘You’re a bit terse, aren’t you?’ Catuvolcos glowered, but Stick had looked away. ‘Oh dear,’ he laughed.

  ‘Nastasen has an eye for her.’

  Indeed, as the girl passed the Nubian, he lunged forward and grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap. She squealed in fake outrage, making a small, yet obviously provocative attempt to escape.

  Nastasen laughed and groped the girl’s breasts, pulling down her tunic to reveal them. She giggled, her face a mask of seduction, and wiggled her bottom on the trainer’s lap. Nastasen pulled her closer to him, his purple tongue licking at her neck, his fingers pulling hard at her small nipples.

  Catuvolcos saw the girl — she could not have been more than sixteen — wince at this. It was none of his business, so turned his attention back to his drink. Nastasen, it seemed, liked it rough, but the girl, young as she was, was a whore, and would be well used to satisfying the demands of a paying public. Much like Lysandra, he thought: both prostituted their bodies for the enjoyment of men. In Catuvolcos’s experience, some women came to love the adulation gained in the arena, the competition and the winning. Lysandra, Sorina had taught him, was such a one. She proclaimed a moral high ground: to be civilised.

  But in truth she was the most barbaric, for she truly enjoyed the killing. For her, it was not survival but pleasure. Even her seduction of Eirianwen was an act, designed to insult the tribal matriarch: the corruption of the woman who would likely succeed Sorina in the tribal hierarchy was indeed something she would revel in.

  The girl with Nastasen cried out and Catuvolcos glanced up to see the big Nubian turning her round and lifting up his own tunic. To calls of encouragement from his group he spat on his hand and felt between her legs, grinning as he lifted his glistening fingers to show his comrades. Smearing his now massively engorged phallus with her juices, he spread open her legs, revealing her sex to the gleeful shouts of his friends. Then, settling himself, he rammed himself into her savagely.

  The girl screamed in pain as Nastasen penetrated her. This only seemed to excite him more, as he pulled at her long hair, leaning over as he continued to thrust brutally into her. The girl desperately tried to turn her cries of pain into those of simulated lust but Catuvolcos could see at each repeated push from Nastasen her expression twisting in agony. The trainer was talking to her as the debasement continued; the Gaul could see his lips forming obscenities and degradations of all kinds. He was asking her if she liked it, if she wanted more. Through her tears the girl was nodding and encouraged him to quicken his efforts.

  His hands were all over her, pulling, and scratching, his hips thrusting hard as he enjoyed her. Catuvolcos was revolted, yet could not tear his eyes away from Nastasen as he pumped unceasingly into the girl’s flesh. The trainer’s pace quickened and his confederates began to clap faster and faster. The Nubian’s eyes were squeezed tight shut as, with a bellow of mingled joy and triumph he came into her. In the throes of orgasm, his teeth clamped down on her shoulder, breaking the skin.

  Catuvolcos had seen enough.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Stick asked blearily, but the Gaul waved him away. As he made his way towards the couch, Nastasen had pulled out, and was forcing the girl to take his still half engorged member in her mouth.

  ‘Suck it,’ he crowed, egged on by the others. ‘Suck it after it’s been in you, you dirty slut.’ He looked about at his companions.

  ‘You have to try this bitch,’ he said, langui
dly moving his hips as the girl’s mouth worked on him. Her eyes were closed and Catuvolcos could see her throat working, trying not to gag as the Nubian forced her head further down. ‘Who’s next?’ he laughed. ‘Who wants some?’

  ‘I’ll be next,’ Catuvolcos forced himself to smile. The group of trainers looked up at him, patently surprised that he had the temerity to interrupt their party.

  ‘You?’ Nastasen pushed the girl away, eyeing him. ‘Yes.’ He grinned. ‘You want her for the same reason I did. It’s just like fucking Lysandra and we both want to do that, don’t we?’

  ‘Only so I can imagine treating that arrogant bitch in the way she deserves.’ Catuvolcos hoped his manner was glib. He had not realised that Nastasen’s hatred and contempt for Lysandra extended so far. ‘I might even piss on the slut,’ he added, extracting a grin from the Nubian giant.

  ‘Take her, then my fine friend.’ Nastasen said with a sweep of his arm. ‘You can bring her to us later.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ Catuvolcos winked. ‘I plan to keep her entertained for hours!’ He clamped his jaw, resisting the urge to smash the leering, black face in. ‘Come on.’ He gestured to the girl, who tried to smile coquettishly. On her tear-streaked features, the expression was almost obscene.

  ‘Have fun,’ Nastasen called as he lead her away. Catuvolcos looked over his shoulder and grinned.

  XXV

  As she entered the triclinium, the dining area, Lysandra felt the eyes of guests upon her. They were not the rough supporters of the arena. These were, for the most part, the richest and most influential people of Halicarnassus. It should have been a great honour to be invited to such a soiree but the fact that she was here as little more than a piece of meat galled her. It would, she knew, have been a terrifying experience for an ordinary woman, but she was secure in the knowledge that her fortitude and bearing would see her through the humiliating ordeal. She was Achillia, not Lysandra, she reminded herself.

  The triclinium was vast, comfortably accommodating the crowd of diners Frontinus had invited. The centrepiece of the room was a wrestling ring, in which two men grappled to the half-hearted attention of the notables. All manner of delicacies were on display and the tang of incense hung in the air, masking the fishy odour of garum, the sauce Romans so loved. Dining couches were arranged artfully, allowing the guests to chat with ease, yet spaced well enough to permit slaves to be about their work of pouring and serving without becoming embarrassingly noticeable.