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, languidly 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.
Slaves, Lysandra knew, were to be neither heard nor seen.
Much like the helots of old Sparta, they existed merely to provide a service. She had come to realise that, whilst in principle she was a slave herself, she was far superior to the domestic chattel.
Her skills and her heritage made this so. Calling a Spartan a slave and her being one were two different things entirely.
Of course, the forthcoming encounter with Frontinus might impress slavery upon a lesser woman but, Lysandra thought suddenly, it was her beauty and presence that had inspired lust in the man. Whilst this was distasteful, it was perfectly understandable. That men admired her was an undeniable fact. Had Catuvolcos not professed his love, and then fallen to depression at her refusal? She had seen, too, the hungry looks from the men in the crowds at the amphitheatre and heard their declarations of love and other more unsavoury suggestions. As she moved into the room, she realised that Frontinus was merely acting in a Roman manner, exercising his power, taking for himself what he wished. It was the way of the Empire, in microcosm.
Her reverie was interrupted as an elderly man stepped up to her, smiling openly.
‘Achillia of Sparta,’ he said. He was somewhat shorter than she, his face lined by age and the elements. ‘I am Sextus Julius Frontinus.’
‘Greetings,’ Lysandra nodded.
‘You are as beautiful as Venus,’ he said, using the irritatingly incorrect Roman name for Aphrodite. It was Lysandra’s view that if their plagiarism of the Hellenistic pantheon was so blatant, why did Romans bother with the farcical name-altering. ‘Or, perhaps Minerva would be more apt,’ he went on. ‘The warrior goddess come from Olympus to grace us with her presence.’
Comparing her to the goddess to whom she was once a priestess was ironic in the extreme; however, she
