The Trident

Silence, laughter, then pandemonium broke loose. Money rapidly changed hands as bets were collected.

Two burly men raced out with a gurney and placed the body and head of the retiarius on it while four youths with a bucket cart shoveled up the bloody sand and smoothed out the surface with rakes until all traces of combat vanished.

Cleared of traffic, the arena was ready for the next event. New bets were hurriedly placed. Anticipation was a palpable thing in the stale air as attendants walked about spraying a mist of perfumed water on spectators.

A man leaned forward toward Gaius.

"Care to make a real wager?"

"What have you got in mind?"

"My wife, your ass."

He motioned to the third level where a pretty woman stood up, nervously looking away.

The next combat was to be between two pros, a Thracian and a mirmillo.

"I'll take the Thracian," Gaius said.

"Done."

"Now I know you're crazy," Lucius said. "What if you lose?"

"Silly question."

Trumpets blared. The Gate of Life opened and two veterans came out. Stunned silence followed, then rose in a ripple of cheers and whistles to foot stomping.

"I'll be damned," Lucius said. "They're women."

They had their helmets off, carried under their arms, their hair chopped short. Escorted by two referees, carrying staffs, they were led to the center of the arena where they put on their helmets and were handed their swords. Both were nude except for triangles of gold cloth covering their genitals and tits. Only their undersized shields distinguished the types of fighters they were supposed to represent. The small square shield was the mirmillo; the round shield was the Thracian.

A shrill whistle sounded and the two gladiatrices squared off.

At first they merely held their stances sizing each other up. Slowly the Thracian began to sidestep around her opponent, occasionally feinting thrusts, leaping back before her opponent could retaliate.

The mirmillo rushed forward blocking the Thracian's hacking blows with her square shield. The Thracian, rocked back, managed to block a sword thrust with her shield, but the blade was deflected down and sliced her thigh.

"You've got her now!"

"Kill the bitch!"

The Thracian made a series of nimble steps back on the balls of her feet and assumed her fighting stance before glancing at her wound to calculate how bad it was. Blood streaked down her leg to her foot.

"You've had it, bitch," the mirmillo taunted. "You'd better raise your little pinky and hope the editor grants you mercy before I finish you."

"Fuck you!"

"She won't last five minutes the way she's bleeding," the man said.

The Thracian started on the run and screamed so loudly that some spectators flinched. The mirmillo wavered her stance unsure how to defend against such a suicidal attack. She thrust out her sword only to have it knocked away by the Thracian's shield; she was propelled violently backwards as the Thracian rammed against her at full speed. Both women sprawled together on the ground. The mirmillo grabbed at her sword frantically and stabbed it into the Thracian's buttock but too late. The Thracian brought her sword around and buried it in the mirmillo's neck, yanked it out and stabbed her in the chest.

Standing up, she raised her bloody sword high in the air. The spectators cheered wildly, drowning out the orchestra.

"Whatever you do to my wife let me watch," the man said.

Y

The editor, Valerius Catullus Messallinus, was all smiles. He stood up, arms extended, and with a dramatic flourish held up a silver bowl, dipped his hand in it and let silver coins trickle down between his fingers. He gave the bowl to a Nubian who hurried down marble steps, through a bronze door that opened onto the arena, and handed the bowl to the gladiatrix along with a palm branch, the symbol of victory.

These she held up and turned about for the crowd. Attendants rushed to help her onto a gurney, taking her to the sanitarium where she would receive expert medical care. The dead mirmillo was gathered up on another gurney and taken to the spoliarium where her throat would be slit to ensure she really was dead.

If no one claimed her body it would be dumped in the Tiber. If she had been a noxii her body would have been food for the meat eating animals.

As attendants cleaned up the bloody mess and spread fresh sand, trumpets gave a strident, imperial salute. All eyes turned to the imperial box where a portly young woman, in a gold stola, entered from a rear passage. She was escorted by an entourage of slaves and nobles, in snow white togas, and half a dozen Praetorian guards, dressed in white formally cut tunics with palliums and swords hanging from brown leather baldrics.

Messallinus, an ex-consul who was blind, turned and held out his hands to hers giving a slight tip of his head.

She was the nineteen year old Julia Flavia, some called Titii, the niece of Domitian. Slaves ushered everyone to their seats, Julia taking a prominent one next to Messallinus. A male slave rushed to hold a blue, silk umbrella over her. Another slave brought her a drink cooled with snow.

"Had I known you were coming, dear Julia, I would have had the velarium deployed." Messallinus leaned toward her, his breath falling on her cleavage where her low cut stola left one shoulder bare.

"No matter, the umbrella will serve as well."

"I trust your uncle is well today?"

"Yes, but concerned with the business of state as usual."

"How blessed we are to have such a great pilot at the helm."

"Yes, consul."

"I'm so pleased that the emperor allowed me to put on this show in honor of my son Opius. He will soon be of age to run for praetor and a good show will serve him well in the opinion of the people."

"Truly, consul. My uncle values your service to him."

"And I am well pleased to give it."

Julia let her gaze drift idly over the empty arena and recalled stories she had heard how Nero had had the sand of the Circus sprinkled with chrysocolla to give it a greenish color. She wondered at such extravagance.

As cruel as he was extravagant she recalled the stories of how he had smeared pitch over Christians and used them as torches to light the Circus at night. Her uncle had a hatred of Christians, too. However, his passion for night events was for showing women scantily dressed fighting dwarves.

Such passions infused her being, too. Often she wondered what it would be like to kill someone. The thought intrigued her.

She gazed farther to her left to where the senatorial section was. A low wall separated the emperial box from it. As she did, her eyes came to rest on an incredibly beautiful young man with curly blonde hair like threads of gold. If an Olympian god had come to earth he could not have been more gorgeous.

She motioned with her ivory fan for her personal slave, Aurelia, who seemed to have an inexhaustible knowledge about things, and whispered in her ear.

"Who is that incredible youth, Aurelia?"

"Mistress, that is Gaius Antonius Saturninus, the poet, son of the govenor of Judea, wealthy Lucius Antonius Saturninus."

"He is divine, and, of course, he is a poet. What else could such a beauty be?"

"Yes, my lady," Aurelia replied, with a knowing smile. "But caution, my lady, one so beautiful is bound to be a heart breaker.

"Already my heart is breaking . . . to know him."

"Would you like me to arrange an introduction, my lady?"

Julia pondered for a space.

"No, if it is meant to be the gods will arrange it."

"And I'm sure they will, my lady."

"See that they do."

Y

A blare of trumpets signaled the final event of the day that everyone had been waiting for: the combat between the rising new star, Sophrus, against the older veteran Ares, a lauded mirmillon of eighteen combats. Both men came out together, Ares a head taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than Sophrus. Behind them their retainers carried their glittering helmets and weapons, followed by two referees with stout staffs.

Ares was an ugly, thick set man with a bald head; a gruesome scar slithered down from his left eye to his chin making more hideous the already grim face with its blunt nose and protruding lower lip. Seemingly oblivious of the crowd, he marched with the determined steps of a man with a singular purpose in life.

Next to him, a study in contrast, was the handsome, trim, muscular Sophrus, with thick, black hair hanging to his broad shoulders. Serene, gazing up occasionally at the packed circle of spectators, he walked with the relaxed, self assured gait of a young prince coming to claim his kingdom.

Their fight was to be to the death, munera sine missione. No quarter given.

They proceeed to the center of the arena while from the orchestra came the rhythmic beat of drums, like signals from a giant pulse: ta tum . . . ta tum . . . ta tum . . . ta tum . . .

The two gladiators were handed their helmets. Sophrus, half lifted his, then hesitated and gazed up at the sky; a telling moment, as if he was thinking this might be the last time he would see the world without looking through the eyeholes of a helmet.

As the two took their positions, some nine feet apart, they were handed their razor sharp swords: the sica, with its curved blade, to Sophrus and the gladius, with its double edged straight blade, for Ares.

Both men made practice swings, then crouched into their protective stances.

The referees looked to the imperial box where Messallinus, informed by a slave, casually lifted his hand. A shout rose and the fight was on.

Yells and shrill whistles erupted from the crowd to egg on the fighters who held back cautiously at first.

Sophrus had the advantage of a much lighter shield and taunted Ares -- whose shield weighed a hefty twenty-five pounds--with a series of feints to draw him out and exhaust him. But Ares was too experienced to fall for such a ploy.

"Do you think I'm a fucking amateur, boy?" Ares said contemptuously.

Sophrus didn't answer, for he knew Ares was trying to trick him into talking in order to distract him.

"Look at you; cat got your tongue, you little, chicken shit pussy?"

Sophrus ignored him and concentrated on his game, for it was a game where death decided who was the winner.

He did a quick study of Ares' technique, but found no flaws. Ares always maintained his scutum at its proper height, at the top of his greaves and level with his eyes so that his whole body was protected behind it. He kept his sword hand behind the shield, too, with the tip of the sword pointed out ready to strike. And instead of taking the fight to Sophrus he held his ground, conserving his energy and forcing Sophrus to close. And Sophrus would have to, for if he didn't a referee would pummel him with his staff.

Most gladiatorial combats lasted only ten to fifteen minutes, any longer and fatigue began to take its toll. Therefore it was normally incumbent upon a fighter to inflict a serious wound on his opponent as soon as possible, and under ordinary circumstances a wounded fighter could hope for mercy, a missio, and have his life spared. But this was a fight to the death. There would be no mercy, so one took more time on deciding when to engage. The man with the most endurance was the one most likely to win.

Sophrus was noted for startlingly brilliant ploys, and the spectators were eager to see what clever thing he would do, for all knew nothing in the routine fighting manual would defeat a pro like Ares.

Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty. Sophrus seemed unable to bring Ares out, and for Sophrus to engage the man would be suicidal, for experience, weight, physical strength and reach were on Ares' side.

The referees were shouting for Sophrus to close, threatening with their staffs. The fickle spectators, wanting to see blood, grew restive and began to jeer and boo, stomping their feet.

Ares smiled, certain that victory would soon be his. The weight of his shield was beginning to tell, but he was strong and could endure it. Soon, he knew, Sophrus would have to engage, and at close quarters his physical superiority would be the deciding factor.

Then it happened!

Sophrus charged. Ares swung his sword stepping forward with his right leg, making the mistake of putting all his weight behind it. Sophrus blocked with his shield. Off balance, Ares stumbled forward with his left foot and shoved out his heavy shield attempting to knock Sophrus off his feet. Instead, Sophrus dropped his shield, grabbed the top of Ares' shield and, putting his whole weight behind it, rammed it down on Ares' barefoot.

Ares gave out a bellow of pain, but before he could rally, the more dexterous Sophrus brought the curved end of his sword over the shield and buried the blade in the base of Ares' neck were it met the shoulder.

Blood frothed from the intricate filigree of Ares' face plate. Dropping his sword he staggered several feet, then dropped to his knees. Sophrus followed and thrust his sica into Ares' back between the shoulder blades severing his spine.

Ares toppled over, face down, dead.

The fickled crowd were on their feet, once more, lauding the fighter they had moments before ridiculed.

If Sophrus noted the irony it was unapparent. He raised his arms and turned for the crowd. Trumpets blared; flutes, organs and drums did a stirring redition of a triumphal march as Sophrus leisurely strolled to the area in front of the imperial box.

Messallinus stood and held up his arms for quiet. Looking about at a world he could no longer see, he spoke in a loud voice that carried to the top most levels owing to the acoustics of the amphitheater.

"You have had a great victory today, Sophrus, over a most formidable opponent. And you have more than lived up to your rising reputation as a superb gladiator. I wish not only to reward you with one hundred thousand sestertii and the laurel crown, Rome's highest honor, but also with the rudis and declare you a free man hence forth."

There was loud acclamation. Neckerchieves floated in colorful waves mixed with enthusiastic shouts and thunderous applause.

Sophrus received his awards and did a victory lap around the arena before disappearing into an exit.

Chapter 5

"I can watch?"

"You can watch," Gaius said.

They were in a small room on the second floor of a whorehouse in Subura.

The man who called himself Cassius and his wife Junia were seated on the bed. She was shy, her cheeks red with shame. Cassius' eyes glowed with lust.

"Take your clothes off," Gaius ordered, looking at Cassius. After a moment, he motioned for Junia to come to him.

She hesitated until Cassius nudged her.

Iron eyebolts were fixed into thick wood beams overhead. Two ropes hung down. Gaius made her step up on a footstool and tied the ropes around her wrists.

Cassius watched from the bed, his bloated cock pulsing against his belly.

When he was done, Gaius kicked the stool out from under her. She cried out as the weight of her body was suddenly concentrated on her delicate wrists.

Taking up a knife, he cut away her stola and undergarments, ripping them off, leaving her naked. With her weight stretching the ropes, her toes barely brushed against the floor.

She had a beautiful body with firm full breasts. Unlike Jewish women, who didn't shave their body hair, Junia was clean shaven all over, even her cunt.

Gaius took his clothes off and moved up against her, placing his cock against her ass. Her flesh was warm and supple. He held her relishing the feel and smell of her. His hands slid up from her hips and cupped her breasts. He tweaked the pebble-hard nipples with his thumbs and forefingers and heard a gasp escape from deep in her throat.

Her thighs trembled as he moved them apart and thrust his cock up her cunt. She was tight and wet. He moved in her rapidly hearing encouraging sighs.

On the bed, Cassius masterbated, his eyes half rolled back in the sockets, the head of his cock purple and swollen.

"Whip her," Cassius gasped. "She likes that."

Gaius withdrew his cock, and stepping back, picked up a braided leather whip off the lamp stand.

"I intend to."

The woman looked back over her shoulder, her eyes filled with fear and longing. She bit her lower lip as she felt the sting of the first lash. More lashes followed, and her nude body danced about wildly, legs splaying about, like a crazed marionette.

"Make her bleed."

Fluid from her cunt, streaked her thighs and dripped onto the floor. Red, swollen welts covered her body, even her tender breasts. When he had covered every inch of her, he threw the whip down and with the knife cut her down.

Unable to stand on her trembling legs, she sank to her knees, her lips brushing against his swollen cock. She opened her mouth and greedily sucked the head in, then engulfed half the shaft, moving back and forth.

Settling to his knees, Gaius motioned for Cassius to entered her from behind, which he eagerly did.

"I'm going . . . to come in her," Gaius gasped, "but you . . . must not, for the game . . . is not over."

Gaius grabbed her head with both hands and shoved his cock fully down her throat forcing her to swallow his gushing ejaculate.

He called for Ajax, who was standing in the narrow hall.

"The husband is yours."

Chapter V

"I can't have sex with you, Gaius."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm married to your father."

"That would make it better."

"Not if we're caught."

"There are ways."

"Not with a hundred slaves in the house."

Gaius studied her for a moment. Unlike the typical woman of the patrician class Messalina was modest in dress and manner. Even though they were getting ready to go to the theater, she wore only a simple, but tasteful, pale green stola. Instead of hair elaborately curled and piled high on the head, with a wire foundation, as was the current fashion, she wore hers parted in the middle and fixed in buns on the sides. She kept her jewelry to a minimum: a gold necklace conservatively arranged with stones of this or that and one or two small rings on her slender fingers. She wore no make up except from the lees of wine to color her lips.

It was this modesty of appearance, along with her beauty and marital status that intrigued him and made her so sexually appealing. To have sex with her would be like ravishing a vestal virgin: something taboo and dangerous, therefore exciting.

Their litter was carried by eight Nubians. A canopy of silk kept off the noon sun while a gauze border shielded them from idle eyes. Gaius recalled that Nero was reputed to have had sex occasionally with his mother, Agrippina, in a litter.

At the theater they were deposited near the rear entrance and were escorted inside to where, backstage, Paris was being feted by a small select party of patricians. Gaius recognized the Empress Domitia and her nieces, Domitilla Flavia and Julia Flavia and an older woman, Attica, wife of Fabricius Veiento, an informer and chief advisor to Domitian.

Upon seeing them Paris broke away from the group and approached beaming happily.

"Ah, Gaius Antonius, my young friend. How nice to see you again."

"And I you, Paris."

Gaius nodded. "This is my stepmother, Messalina Severa."

"So nice to meet you, my lady. You must be proud of your stepson. Such a gifted prodigy."

"Yes, I am."

Paris turned to Gaius. "You must give me a libretto someday, Gaius. I incorporated your Lament for Orpheus into one of my pantomimes and it was a huge success. Your words translate beautifully into a visual presentation. Orpheus, as motion, turning to stone in the final line is so inspired and powerful."

"You flatter me."

"I would never. But if if takes that to get a libretto out of you, I'm on my knees."

"You will never have to do that."

Paris grinned. "Come, I will introduce you two to the Empress. She has taken a great interest in my productions and has made me a influential member of the Emperor's court. If you ever need a favor I'm your man. How's that for someone who was a lowly slave from Egypt just a few years ago?"