Gladiatrix

XIII

Nastasen should have felt elation but there was only a strange sense of emptiness. In his mind’s eye, he saw the scene played out many times. The Spartan whore facing the German, her staid movements, her clumsy attacks, her woeful defence. And her humiliating defeat. His heart had leapt for joy when he had seen her topple to the sand, utterly beaten.

But that joy had passed too quickly to be replaced by the injustice of it. He should have been the one to break her. The night-borne silence of his room mocked him as he twisted the strands of hemp inside an earthenware jar before lighting the ends from a nearby lamp. As soon as they started to glow, he put down the lamp, leaned over the mouth of the jar and inhaled deeply.

He had hated her from the moment he laid eyes on her: the arrogant swagger in her walk; the supercilious mien she used when she spoke to any and all, including himself. He, Nastasen, son of princes, from a line of warriors famous when the Spartans were still herding goats in their rough little corner of Greece. So, she had proven she could take a beating; but any fool could do that. For all her talk, all her disdainful manner, she had been found wanting. It was all bluster.

And that had disappointed Nastasen.

He had wanted to bring her down at her peak when the arrogant bitch had felt she had come to the height of her powers. She had been resilient to the vine staff, but there were other ways of breaking the spirit. He would have fucked some humility into her.

His lips closed around the cone of smoking hemp, seeing her struggling beneath him, begging him to stop as his greater strength, his power, overwhelmed her. Savouring the look on her face as he forced himself into her, hearing her agonised scream as her tender flesh tore open to receive him.

He grew hard at the thought of it.

Visions swam in his mind as the opiate took hold of him, images of the delicious cruelties he would inflict on her; cruelties only a man could mete out to a woman. He lay back, his skin tingling and, almost unconsciously, he began to stroke himself, gasping at the drug-heightened pleasure of his own touch. There was Lysandra, proud and arrogant, as he, Nastasen, came to her, tearing the clothes from her body. He laughed at her shock, and laughed again as his great fist smashed into her face. He was bearing her down, holding her wrists to the ground as he pushed between her splayed legs. Splayed like a whore’s. And the unimaginable pleasure of that first, bleeding violation…

He gripped himself tightly, cutting off his impending orgasm, his heart pounding, sweat coursing over his body. Sitting up, he blew softly on the smouldering hemp until the ends glowed brightly. Why just imagine he asked himself? Had she not done enough merely by despising him? She deserved to be punished.

The drug coursing through him, he allowed his initial arousal to wane but he still felt a heavy, urgent desire to spend his seed.

The Spartan would be his receptacle.

Catuvolcos was worried, both for Lysandra and for himself. He had seen many women come to the ludus and had inured himself to tender feelings towards them. Balbus was a good master, providing women for his trainers in order that they would not be driven to distraction by the gladiatrices with whom they were allowed no intimacy.

But this was different, the Gaul realised. He felt for this cold, beautiful woman in a way he had for no other. Every time he closed his eyes she was there. He ran his hands through his coppery hair, trying to purge his thoughts of her, knowing it was useless.

He had felt sick with fear when she had fallen to Hildreth, desperately anxious at the fact that the blows had been to her head. He had seen what could happen with the head wound, the wound that sucked the soul but left the body alive. He had interrogated the physician, Quintus, as to her condition and, though the old man had assured him all was well, Catuvolcos’s worries were not assuaged. In truth, he felt he had persisted too much in his inquiry: Quintus had thought it strange that he be so concerned over the fate of a single fighter.

He knew he had to see her for himself, just to be sure. He had had experience on the battlefield; he knew the signs of the head wound that caused damage deep inside. Quintus was competent, but Catuvolcos feared that he may have missed a vital sign.

He was no longer young, and could have made a mistake.

The hour was late but, even so, getting to the infirmary would be a risky undertaking. He was confident that he could pass off a nocturnal wander around the ludus as a need for fresh air or even just a fancy. But if he were seen entering or leaving the infirmary, there would be questions asked and Catuvolcos would have no answers. The best course of action was not to arouse any suspicion by being seen out of his quarters. That would take skill, a hunter’s expertise, and he possessed that in abundance. It was risky but, he decided, a risk worth taking.

Just to see her.

Exasperated, he slapped his palm to his forehead. What was he thinking? He could not afford to care about Lysandra; it was fraught with danger for them both. If anybody discovered his feelings, both of them would be sent to the blocks. He would lose his chance of freedom and rob her of the chance to win hers.

A sudden fear gripped his heart. What if she does not survive? his own voice whispered in his mind. He could not live with himself if he let that happen. His tongue licked dry lips. He must see her. He did not give himself a chance to think the matter over: his decision made, he stole from his quarters, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The night was still and humid, the air heavy with the promise of thunder. The chirping of nocturnal insects was loud and somewhere an owl called its hunting song. Above, the clouds swept across to hide the face of moon, and Catuvolcos felt that the gods were with him.

His eyes scanned the walls of the ludus, seeing the silhouettes of Balbus’s hired guards, some pacing, some lounging on their spears. It seemed that they had relaxed their vigilance somewhat in the absence of the lanista. He paused, his body alive with the thrill of apprehension. There could be no going back.

Catlike, he crept through the darkness, keeping to the shadows, his movements slight and slow. Stealth, he knew, required patience and care; speed counted for little. He slipped between the houses inhabited by the school’s top fighters, Titus and Balbus’s higher ranking servants, moving only when he was sure he was unobserved.

To reach the infirmary he had to circumnavigate the training area. Cutting across it would be quicker, but to cross open ground, even in the dead of night, was to invite discovery. With painful slowness, he skirted the sands of the training ground, passing the locked cells of the gladiatrices. As he moved, he checked again to see if the guards were watching. They were not. Even from this distance, he could hear the sound of chatter and scattered laughter. He smiled grimly, imagining what Balbus would have to say about their slovenly behaviour.

He made it past the cells and the scrubs’ quarters without incident. As he made it to the massive bathhouse, he breathed a little easier. His goal was in sight.

The door to the infirmary was ajar.

Catuvolcos leant around it, his senses alert to the slightest movement or sound from inside. There was none. He let go a breath he had not realised he had been holding. He slipped into the infirmary. Once inside he paused for a few moments letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. It was at that moment that the moon goddess pushed away the curtain of clouds that obscured her face.

A dull light flooded into the infirmary and Catuvolcos’s heart stopped in his chest. Illuminated clearly at the back of the room, was Nastasen.

Naked save for his loincloth, he stood over the only occupied bed in the infirmary. Catuvolcos did not need to see the light of the moon on her pale features nor the hair that shrouded her pillow like a silken black sea to know that it was Lysandra who occupied that bed. The Nubian had not moved. He merely stood like a Promethean statue, staring down at the sleeping Lysandra.

‘Nastasen!’ the word escaped Catuvolcos before he could stop himself.

As if awaking from a dream, the Nubian looked up slowly.

The strange locks hanging about his face and the feverish gleam in his eye gave the gigantic trainer a demonic aspect. Nastasen held his finger to his lips, and moved slowly away from Lysandra’s bed.

As he approached, Catuvolcos could smell the Nubian’s sweat and, beneath his loincloth, the vestiges of his arousal showed plainly. He felt his face grow hot as his blood burned with anger.

The thought of Nastasen’s hands on the Spartan sickened him.

‘What are you doing here?’ Catuvolcos realised his whisper was harsh and too loud.

‘What are you doing here?’ Nastasen’s voice trembled with a nervous tension. He seemed to be on the border of hysterical laughter.

‘I saw you come in here and wondered what you were up to,’

Catuvolcos lied.

Nastasen inhaled deeply, causing his massive chest to expand.

‘I needed some medication,’ he whispered. ‘The hemp, Catuvolcos.

I know that Quintus has a supply and I am running low.’

‘Does he keep it by Lysandra’s bed?’

‘She called out in her sleep.’ The Nubian shrugged. ‘It caught my attention and I stopped to look at her.’ He paused, the hugely dilated pupils regarding Catuvolcos. ‘What do you care, anyway?

You seem to be sweet on this girl. Saying she’s ill when she performs badly. And now, out in the middle of the night, just turning up where she happens to be.’ His face split into a smile, his teeth starkly white against the ebony of his flesh.

Catuvolcos swallowed. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said, hoping his intonation was glib. ‘Like I said, I saw you and wondered what you were up to.’ The Nubian nodded.

‘Join me in a snort or two, Gaul?’

Catuvolcos was appalled that Nastasen had even suspected his true motivation for being in the infirmary. He cursed himself a fool for putting himself in this position, but now he had no choice other than to accept the Nubian’s offer. Not to do so would give the black giant time alone, time to think about what had transpired. Catuvolcos hoped that a night on the hemp would dull his fellow trainer’s suspicions. Forcing himself to smile, he nodded wordlessly and turned away, leaving the infirmary on cat’s feet.

He did not see Nastasen glare hatred at his back.