Stick paused at the Greek women’s table. ‘Well done, you fierce bitches.’ Despite the absence of Lysandra, they seemed to be in good spirits. He sat on the edge of the table and swilled his beer.
‘I have to be honest,’ he told them. ‘I didn’t think you sluts had it in you. But, you’ve made it through your first games — no small thanks to me.’
‘We’re so grateful, Stick,’ Thebe said, the drunken grin on her face somewhat belying her mockery. ‘What would we do without you?’
‘You’d be dead,’ Stick exclaimed. ‘But you live! You are true warriors now.’
The women were silent at that. Stick was not given to making compliments, and to have gained his respect, however perverse it might be, meant something.
‘How did you come to be here,’ Thebe ventured after a moment.
‘In Asia Minor?’ Stick belched mightily. ‘I was a soldier in the Parthian army. I trekked across the whole stinking Empire — wore out more boots than I can count. We marched all the way to Armenia, which you uneducated trollops will not know is the buffer between the Empire of the Romans and the Empire of Parthia. Well, I’d had enough of soldiering, taking the shit that the clueless officers dealt out to more capable men such as myself.
So I skipped across the border, looking to make a new life, and…’ he trailed off, his ugly face twisting in a self-mocking grin. ‘I was captured as a Parthian spy and sold into slavery. I call that shit luck.’
The women fell about laughing at Stick’s story. It was truly unfortunate, but the Parthian bore it with such a sense of irony, it could not fail to be humorous.
‘Don’t think because we’re talking now that I’ll go easy on you when we get back to the ludus,’ Stick admonished, sliding onto the bench. ‘But you’re veterans now and you won’t get the same treatment as the new girls. You’ve earned that much, at least.’
Catuvolcos also sat, enjoying the easy banter. As they poured more drinks for themselves he decided that he would visit Lysandra shortly.
After a cup or two.
Lysandra squinted at the torchlight, gritting her teeth against the high-pitched scream of the opening cell door. She found that she did not care if they had come to release her or not.
‘Well, well, well.’
She stiffened at the sound of Nastasen’s voice. The trainer entered the cell, flanked by three other men who were unfamiliar to her. The Nubian placed his torch in a holder on the wall as his men regarded her. The light from the naked flame shone weirdly on Nastasen’s ebon skin, and, despite herself, Lysandra felt a twinge of fear in her gut. She swallowed. ‘Have you come to release me?’
‘Have we come to release you?’ Nastasen mimicked, his voice a high falsetto. He kicked the door shut with his heel and his compatriots laughed.
Lysandra got to her feet and met his gaze levelly. ‘If you have no purpose here, then leave me, Nastasen,’ she said with a sternness she did not feel.
The trainer came close to her and she saw that his eyes were shining with a strange madness, the pupils impossibly large. His fist lashed out, crashing straight into the side of her head.
Though she tried to raise an arm to block the blow, the chains she wore restrained her and the full power of the punch smashed her to the ground. The men were suddenly around her, kicking her savagely and repeatedly. She curled into a foetal position, trying to protect herself, but the blows were too many and too fast.
Dazed, blood pouring from her head, she was dragged to her feet. Lysandra opened her mouth to scream for help but Nastasen punched her hard in the stomach, knocking the wind from her.
His rough hand gripped her tunic and tore it over her head and his friends laughed at her nakedness. Fear gave her strength and her foot lashed out, catching him in the midriff. Nastasen staggered back as one of his compatriots locked his arm around her neck, choking her.
‘Turn her over.’ Nastasen’s voice was thick with lust and fury.
Lysandra struggled, but the strength of the men was too great.
Annoyed at her actions, one of them cracked her head into the stone wall and stars swam sickeningly before her eyes. She felt fingers pulling at the flesh of her buttocks and between her legs, invading her cruelly. She screamed then, and the men laughed.
‘Better shut her up,’ one said.
‘Use this.’
There was a moment of shuffling, then one of the men pinched her nose; after some time, forced to gasp for air, she opened her mouth, and the man shoved a cloth into it. It tasted foul with sweat.
‘Look at that,’ Nastasen crooned, spreading her buttocks wide.
‘All nice and pink. And tight. Really tight.’
She felt him position himself behind her, steadying himself.
Then came a wave of agony as he rammed himself into her. She screamed into the cloth, the cords of her neck standing out.
‘How do you like that, you fucking bitch?’ Nastasen bore her to the filthy floor, thrusting with all his weight. ‘You’ve been asking for it,’ he grunted, taking pleasure from her pain. ‘You deserve it!’
Tears came to her eyes, hot and salty, as he continued and she screamed again, shaking her head, begging for the ordeal to be over.
‘You deserve it!’ Nastasen gasped again. ‘You…’ He trailed off, lost in his pleasure.
Lysandra felt him quicken his pace, his breathing becoming ragged before he collapsed on top of her, sated for now. Moments later, he pulled himself out, and climbed to his feet. She began to shake and he aimed a kick into her ribs. ‘She loved it!’ he chuckled. ‘Who’s next?’
‘I’m next,’ the one who had choked her said. ‘But turn her round and lift her head up. I want her to see my face while I fuck her.’
Lysandra closed her eyes as she felt the next force his way into her flesh. She was lost in a sea of torment, her most intimate parts open for the abuse and pleasure of the Nubian and his gang. All manner of depravities were visited on her, acts that were designed to humiliate as well as cause pain, and all the while they mocked. When the three had at last spent their first issue they resumed beating her, letting their ardour rise again at the sight of her suffering.
Then it began again.
XXXII
‘Wake up, Gaul!’ Catuvolcos looked about blearily.
Hildreth, was pulling him off the table where he had slumped. ‘You can’t pass out!’ Hildreth herself was flushed red from excess, her breath reeking of beer and garlic.
Catuvolcos recoiled, and was sick down himself.
‘That’s disgusting,’ Hildreth observed.
‘Lysandra,’ Catuvolcos mumbled.
‘She’s locked up, idiot.’
‘No, we must let her out,’ Catuvolcos announced with all the conviction of the truly inebriated. ‘It is not fair that we should enjoy ourselves whilst she is in chains.’ He got to his feet, and overbalanced, falling onto his rear. He looked up, and began to laugh.
Hildreth shook her head, offering him a hand up. ‘Come on, I will help you then. You won’t get there on your own, I think.’
Supporting each other, the two weaved towards the catacombs, sniggering.
‘Shussh…’ Catuvolcos put a finger to his lips as they walked through the tunnels, their mirth echoing off the walls. Trying to cease their hilarity only made it worse and the two leant against the wall, shoulders shuddering with repressed mirth.
‘No, stop.’ Hildreth waved her hands, tears running down her face. ‘It hurts.’ She slid down the wall, clutching her stomach.
‘Help!’
Catuvolcos doubled up at her antics. For a time the two were incapable of even moving, both close to hysterics. ‘The thing is,’ he gasped, ‘I don’t know what we are laughing at.’
‘Your face,’ Hildreth exclaimed. ‘Shussh,’ she imitated him. ‘Was so funny.’ She rolled to her knees, and climbed up, using the wall to support herself. The two staggered on, and made their way to Lysandra’s cell. Grinning, Catuvolcos opened the door.