Courted (7 page)

“Have you ever known Akila to be wrong about
a color?” Octavia asked.

“You have a point. Did she do the instita on
your gown, or hire it out?”

“She did the decorative stitching at the
neck, but let Fulvia and Miriam do the instita around the hem. She
says they are almost as good as she is now.”

“Do you think …” Aemilia began, but was
suddenly cut off by the blast of horns signaling that the first
fight was going to commence. She promptly forgot what she was
saying and became engrossed in the activities beginning in the
arena.

Octavia smiled at her friend’s eagerness. She
didn’t understand the love Aemilia had for watching combat, but she
joined the cheering throng in solidarity with her.

“Run, you shit-eating rat! Run!” Aemilia
bellowed, completely caught up in the struggle taking place on the
sand below her in the ring. A wiry little man, one who looked like
he came from one of the Roman territories in the far west, had
ducked under a massive club that had been swung by a gigantic
Nubian whose huge muscles bunched under his shining ebony skin.
Although most spectators sat in the shade of a large canvas awning
that stretched over most of the Colosseum, the gladiators were
fighting in the bright sun. The white sands of the ring seemed
incandescent, and the pale background served to make the Nubian
look even more sublime.

The smaller fighter was now fleeing toward
one of the small fortifications that dotted the mock battlefield.
If he could outrace his larger opponent then he could clamber to
the top of one of the free-standing walls. There he would get some
breathing room to figure out how to recover some of the weaponry he
had lost in the scuffle. If he couldn’t, then the Nubian would
quickly trounce him and be declared the winner, thus ending the
bout. Most people were screaming encouragement for the scrawny
gladiator, in the selfish hope of extending the fight.

Aemilia leaned over and asked Octavia, as
quietly as she possibly could considering the noise level of the
crowd around them, if she thought the Nubian was a gladiator she
would like to know better.

“No,” Octavia declined,
after some thought. “He doesn’t move me that way.” It was true that
the man was beautiful, both in his face and in his proportions, and
had the same predatory grace as a lion, but she was untempted. She
had seen several other men of outstanding good looks in the arena
today, and so far
there were none who
ignited even the smallest flame or drop of moisture in her cold and
arid privates.

The larger gladiator had caught his smaller
foe just short of a fortification and was now holding the man aloft
by one ankle while his captive struggled rather comically. The
crowd roared with delight and broke out in a cacophonous clamor of
appreciation when the Nubian celebrated his win by spinning his
defeated opponent over his head and letting him fly face first into
the dirt.

“I need to go to the lavatorium,” Octavia
told Aemilia, “but I’ll be back before the start of the next
match.” She set off toward the toilets, which were long marble
benches with holes cut in them that opened over a sewer. There was
absolutely no privacy, and she would have to do her business while
almost pressed against the person beside her. The water from the
cheap neighboring bathhouses ran underneath the seats in order to
wash away the waste. This made a trip to the toilet a very public
event, but at least it was not an unbearably smelly one. Octavia
was followed by one of her slaves whose job was to hand her a sea
sponge fastened to the end of a stick when she was ready to wipe
herself. The slave would then clean the sponge with vinegar,
readying it for the next use.

Octavia returned to her seat just as the
Colosseum band began the fanfare that announced the next match.
According to the program guide that she had bought for what she
considered an exorbitant price, the next match featured a very
popular gladiator, Ursus Helarctos, against three lesser-known
combatants.

Idly, Octavia wondered why they called the
gladiator the “Sun Bear”. She supposed it was because he was one of
those hairy brutes from the northernmost part of the world. Then
again, it could be some sort of crude sexual innuendo she didn’t
know about. She watched, slightly bored, as the first three men
were paraded into the arena and were hyped to the skies. Finally,
the Sun Bear himself strode out onto the sand.

Octavia lost her breath.

The Sun Bear’s visage was largely obscured by
his helmet, but his body was so beautiful she didn’t care if he had
a face like a catfish. Gladiators, aptly nicknamed “barley-men”,
ate mostly grain so that that they would have extra fat around
their midsections to protect their organs from wayward blows. Most
fighters were therefore stocky, with muscle definition visible only
in their massive arms and legs. The Sun Bear was different. He
closely resembled the Greek ideal, like the statues of gods and
heroes but on a much larger scale. His torso was incredibly
muscular, with a belly ridged like an alligator’s. The exposed skin
of his broad shoulders and long legs was bronzed from the sun. His
pale hair, long compared to the proper length of a man’s hair, lay
over his shoulders and extended from the bottom of his protective
headgear. He also sported hair on his chest, a marked contrast to
the depilated fashion for Roman men.

He was magnificent.

It was more than just his
incredible looks that sent a thunderbolt of desire shooting down
her stomach to bring her nethers rapidly to life. There was an
indefinable something that made him stand out, that made him so
appealing to her. Perhaps it was the way he moved with the
confidence of a barbarian king. Perhaps it was the way he grinned
at his opponents when he brought them down, as if he were enjoying
a little game and hoped that no one was too upset by a broken arm
or a foot long gash on the thigh. Octavia didn’t know
what
it was about him, but
she knew she wanted him inside her, thrusting into her until she
came screaming. Apollo's balls, she had become soaking wet
just
thinking
about
it.

“Aemilia?”

“Hmmm?”, her friend replied, still intent on
watching the Sun Bear defeat the last of his challengers while the
crowd howled with excitement.

“Him. I want
him
.”

That got Aemilia’s
attention, and she whipped her head around to gawk at Octavia.
“Seriously? You want
him
? The Sun Bear? That savage?”

“Yes.”

Aemilia arched her eyebrow.
“He is one of the most popular gladiators in the city, my friend.
He has a dozen men and women waiting in litters or hired chairs
outside the amphitheater each night desperate for a chance to
shower him with gold in exchange for his cock. He has always had
his pick of — shall we call them, sponsors? -- and is notorious for
walking away from them if they asked too much of him. Now, it’s
even harder to get him, because he has bought his freedom. As a
liberti he can do as he chooses and sadly he no longer chooses
to
do
anyone. No
one has been able to get him for more than a year! And then there’s
the fact that a bull his size is so strong that he might
accidentally tear you a new hole if his aim is off. But him,
he
is the one you want to
have slap his balls against your ass. You don’t ask for much do
you?”

Octavia looked her friend squarely in the
eye. “Aemilia, I would have him in the street while people watched,
that’s how badly I want him.”

Aemilia sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Torr was tired. He wanted nothing so much as
a hot meal followed by a long bath and a hard massage. Then he
wanted to drag himself his bed and sleep for three days.
Unfortunately for him, Pollus, his former master and the owner of
the gladiatorial school where he rented a barracks room, was
waiting for him when he came out of the arena.

It vexed him greatly.

Pollus was as goggle-eyed as a frog and as
ugly as a dragon’s backside. His looks, however, were not the
reason Torr didn’t want to see him.

Nor did Torr wish to avoid him because Pollus
had once owned him. Torr had been born into slavery; that was just
the dice the Fates had rolled. Pollus had been a good master and
had treated all his slaves well, so Torr bore him no ill will. He
even continued to train with Pollus. The unattractive little
ex-gladiator knew a score of fighting tricks that would make the
Norse god Loki weep with envy, which was why his gladiatorial
school was thriving.

Torr also didn’t care that Pollus was a
histrionic diva. The fact that Pollus would overstate and oversell
and overwork any phrase before he would let it escape his mouth
didn’t annoy Torr as much as it bothered some of his fellow
fighters. Frankly, Torr suspected the flamboyance Pollus displayed
was to keep others off their guard so they would underestimate his
deadly fighting skills. Torr was not so stupid as to think of
Pollus as ‘harmless’ just because the man swished when he walked,
so he was the one who bested the trainer in sparring more than
anyone else in the school.

No, Torr’s annoyance stemmed
from the fact that the wizened trainer served as a pander for
bored, rich spectators
seeking a gladiator
to shag. Pollus couldn’t seem to get it through his thick skull
that Torr wanted nothing to do with selling his
sword
anywhere but on the sands of the
Flavian. The idea that Torr thought of himself as something other
than a commodity to be sold was a concept that Pollus simply could
not get his head around.

As much as he wanted to,
Torr couldn’t simply walk away from Pollus. Having been allowed to
buy his freedom, Torr was obligated to continue to demonstrate his
gratitude to his former master with
obsequium
and
operae.
To fail to give sufficient
deference or specific free works to Pollus would make Torr
vulnerable to the charge of being libertus ingratus, an ungrateful
freedman.
Ex-masters could take legal
action against “ungrateful” former slaves
and Torr knew Pollus wouldn’t hesitate to drag him into court
if the grasping little man felt that he wasn’t getting his
due.

From the ingratiating
expression on Pollus’ face,
Torr had a
fairly good idea what the trainer wanted from him
and it wasn’t tips on how to polish his
helmet.

“No.”

Pollus blinked. “But Torr, my dearest and
most beloved son, the delicate flower of my heart, I haven’t even
told you what I want yet.”

“You want me to
futuo
some rich hag or
some old sack of shit
who spurts a thousand
denarii each time he comes and I am not going to do it. I am tired.
I have
mentula diffutūta
, Pollus. My cock has been so overused that it is about to
break in two. I have been in and out of more women than a brine
douche and I don’t like men for sex. You go screw
whoever it is and tell them you are
me.”

“Torr, you don’t understand,” Pollus pleaded.
“This is different.”

Torr snorted with disbelief.

“Really, my golden fighting bear, this really
is different. This is no ordinary request, and it is no ordinary
woman you would be servicing with your put upon and much abused
tool.” Pollus theatrically fluttered his eyelashes. “It is a
request by Aemilia Squaminga, the wife of Mergus Squaminger.

Mergus Squaminger was one of
the richest merchant-kings in Rome or any of the territories. His
wealth had allowed him to bribe his way into a citizenship
and he was rumored to be seeking a Tribunate in
the near future. His wife was also a significant personage, since
she was a prominent benefactress in the rapidly spreading and much
respected Cult of Isis. Moreover, the Squamingae were known all
over Rome for their lax respect for the concept of monogamy … and
their similar taste in men.

Good things could happen for
an infama who serviced Aemilia Squaminga. Since her husband was not
only an obliging cuckold but also her dearest friend, he was always
willing to help his wife’s favorite paramours whenever she asked
him to. One of her lovers was treated so generously that he was
able to buy his freedom
and
purchase an insulae in the Subura. Owning an
apartment building in the bustling center of the city had
transformed him from an infama to a prosperous landlord. He had
even gotten his citizenship, as much from the influence of the
Squamingae as from carefully placed bribes. Nor was he the only man
to benefit from a stint in Aemilia’s bed.

Torr didn’t want to admit
it, but he actually
was
interested in Aemilia Squaminga as a sponsor. Cautiously, he
asked Pollus, “Is it just Aemilia or is it Mergus as
well?”

“Rest your mind, precious
love. She knows you don’t have...
ahem...
a taste for men, so she was
careful to tell me there was no other man
involved.” Pollus dipped his head and gave Torr a flirtatious
look from the corner of his eye, “Between you and me, sweetness,
you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Pollus. If I should
ever decide to sow in that particular field, I promise you that you
will be the last person I tell.”

Pollus laughed. “I shall lie awake nights
worrying about it, I’m sure. I already lie there and pine for
you.”