by S. U. Pacat
‘It’s so rare to see you at these entertainments, Your Highness,’ said Vannes.
‘I was in the mood to enjoy myself,’ said Laurent.
‘Your new pet is causing quite a stir.’ Vannes walked around Damen as she spoke. ‘He’s nothing like the slaves that Kastor gifted to your uncle. I wonder if Your Highness has had the chance to see them? They’re much more . . .’
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘You don’t sound pleased.’
‘Kastor sends two dozen slaves trained to worm their way into the bedchambers of the most powerful members of court. I’m overjoyed.’
‘What an entirely pleasant sort of espionage,’ said Vannes, arranging herself comfortably. ‘But the Regent keeps the slaves on a tight leash, I hear, and has not loaned them out at all. Regardless, I highly doubt we’ll see them in the ring. They didn’t quite have the—élan.’
Estienne sniffed and gathered his pet to him, a delicate flower who looked like he would bruise if you so much as brushed a petal. ‘Not everyone has your taste for pets who can sweep the ring competitions, Vannes. I, for one, am relieved to hear that all the slaves in Akielos are not like this one. They’re not, are they?’ This last a little nervously.
‘No.’ Councillor Guion spoke with authority. ‘None of them are. Among the Akielon nobility, dominance is a sign of status. The slaves are all submissive. I suppose it’s intended as a compliment to you, Your Highness, to imply that you can break a slave a strong as this one—’
No. It wasn’t. Kastor was amusing himself at everyone’s expense. A living hell for his half-brother, and a backhand insult to Vere.
‘—as for his provenance, they have arena matches regularly—sword, trident, dagger—I’d guess he was one of the display fighters. It’s truly barbaric. They wear almost nothing during the sword fights, and they fight the wrestling matches nude.’
‘Like pets,’ laughed one of the courtiers.
The conversation turned to gossip. Damen heard nothing useful in it, but then, he was having difficulty concentrating. The ring, with its promise of humiliation and violence, was holding most of his attention. He thought: so the Regent keeps a close watch on his slaves. At least that is something.
‘This new alliance with Akielos can’t sit easily with you, Your Highness,’ said Estienne. ‘Everyone knows how you feel about that country. Their barbaric practices—and of course what happened at Marlas—’
The space around him was suddenly very quiet.
‘My uncle is Regent,’ Laurent said.
‘You are twenty one in spring.’
‘Then you would do well to be prudent in my presence as well as my uncle’s.’
‘Yes, Your Highness,’ said Estienne, bowing briefly and moving off to one side, acknowledging it for the dismissal it was.
Something was happening in the ring.
Two male pets had entered, and were standing off with slight wariness, in the manner of competitors. One was a brunet, with long-lashed almond eyes. The other, to whom Damen’s attention naturally gravitated, was blond, though his hair was not the buttercup yellow of Laurent’s, it was darker, a sandy colour, and his eyes weren’t blue, they were brown.
Damen felt a shift in the constant, low-grade tension that had been with him since the baths—since he woke up in this place on silk cushions.
In the ring, the pets were being stripped of their clothes.
‘Sweetmeat?’ said Laurent. He held the confection delicately, between thumb and forefinger, just far enough out of reach that Damen would have to rise up onto his knees in order to eat it from Laurent’s fingertips. Damen jerked his head back.
‘Stubborn,’ Laurent remarked mildly, bringing the treat to his own lips instead, and eating it.
A range of equipment was on display alongside the ring: long gilt poles, various restraints, a series of golden balls such as a child might play with, a little pile of silver bells, long whips, the handles decorated with ribbons and tassels. It was obvious that the entertainments in the ring were varied, and inventive.
But the one that unfolded in front of him now was simple: rape.
The pets knelt with their arms around one another, and an officiator held a red scarf aloft, then dropped it, fluttering, to the ground.
The pretty picture that the pets made quickly dissolved into a heaving tussle before the sounds of the crowd. Both pets were attractive and both were lightly muscled—neither possessed the build of a wrestler, but they did look marginally stronger than some of the willowy exquisites who curled around their masters in the audience. The brunet was first to gain the advantage, stronger than the blond.
Damen realised what was happening in front of him, as every whisper he had heard in Akielos of the depravities of the Veretian court began unfolding before his eyes.
The brunet was on top, his knee forcing the blond’s thighs open. The blond was trying desperately to throw him off and it wasn’t working. The brunet held the blond’s arms behind his back, and scrabbled, humping ineffectually. And then he was in, smooth as entering a woman, though the blond was struggling. The blond had been—
—prepared—
The blond let out a cry and tried to buck his captor off, but the motion only drove him deeper.
Damen’s eyes swung away, but it was almost worse to look at the audience. Lady Vannes’s pet sat with flushed cheeks, her mistress’s fingers well occupied. To Damen’s left, the red-haired boy was unlacing the front of his master’s garments, and wrapping a hand around what he found there. In Akielos, slaves were discreet, public performances were erotic without being overt, the charms of a slave to be enjoyed in private. The court did not gather to watch two of them fucking. Here, the atmosphere was almost orgiastic. And it was impossible to block out the sounds.
Only Laurent seemed immune. He was probably so jaded that this display did not even cause his pulse to flicker. He sat in a graceful sprawl, one wrist balanced on the armrest of the box seat. At any moment, he might contemplate his nails.
In the ring, the performance was approaching its culmination. And, by now, it was a performance. The pets were adept and playing to their audience. The sounds that the blond was making had changed in quality, and were rhythmic, in time with the thrusts. The brunet was going to ride him to climax. The blond was stubbornly resisting, biting his lip to try and hold himself back, but with every jarring thrust he was driven closer, until his body shivered and gave of itself.
The brunet pulled out and came, messily, all over his back.
Damen knew what was coming, even as the blond’s eyes opened, even as he was helped from the ring by a servant of his master, who fussed over him solicitously, and gifted him with a long diamond earring.
Laurent lifted refined fingers in a prearranged signal to the guard.
Hands clamped down on his shoulders. Damen’s chain was detached from his collar, and when he did not spring into the ring like a dog released to the hunt, he was sent there at sword point.
‘You kept pestering me to put a pet in the ring,’ Laurent was saying to Vannes and the other courtiers who had joined him. ‘I thought it was time I indulged you.’
It was nothing like entering the arena in Akielos, where the fight was a show of excellence and the prize was honour. Damen was released from the last of his bonds and stripped of his garments, which were not many. It was impossible that this was happening. He felt again a strange sort of sick dizziness . . . Shaking his head slightly, needing to clear it, he looked up.
And saw his opponent.
Laurent had threatened to have him raped. And here was the man who was going to do it.
There was no way that this brute was a pet. He outweighed Damen, big-boned and heavy-muscled, with a thick layer of flesh overlying the muscle. He had been chosen for his size, not his looks. His hair was a lank black cap. His chest was a thick pelt of hair that extended all the way down to his exposed groin. His nose was flat and broken; he was clearly no stranger to fights, though
it was actually difficult to imagine anyone suicidal enough to punch this man in the nose. He had probably been dragged out of some mercenary company and told: fight the Akielon, fuck him, and you’ll be well rewarded. His eyes were cold as they passed over Damen’s body.
All right, he was outweighed. Under normal circumstances, that would not be a cause for anxiety. Wrestling was a trained discipline in Akielos, and one Damen excelled at and enjoyed. But he had had days in harsh confinement, and, yesterday, had endured a beating. His body was tender in places, and his olive skin did not hide all of the bruising: here and there were the telltale signs that would show an opponent where to press down.
He thought about that. He thought about the weeks since his capture in Akielos. He thought about the beatings. He thought about the restraints. His pride was lashing its tail. He would not be raped in front of a room full of courtiers. They wanted to see a barbarian in the ring? Well, the barbarian could fight.
It began, a little sickeningly, as it had begun with the two pets: on their knees, with their arms around one another. The presence of two powerful adult men in the ring released something in the crowd that the pets had not, and the shouted insults, bets and ribald speculation filled the room with noise. Closer, Damen could hear the breath of his mercenary opponent, could smell the rank, masculine smell of the man, over the cloying perfumed roses of his own skin. The red scarf lifted.
The first heave had enough force to break an arm. The man was a mountain, and when Damen matched strength to strength, he found, a little worryingly, that his earlier dizziness was with him still. There was something strange in the way that his limbs felt . . . sluggish . . .
There was no time to think about it. Thumbs were suddenly seeking for his eyes. He twisted. Those parts of the body that were soft and tender, and that, in fair sport, would be avoided, must now be protected at all costs; his opponent was willing to tear, rip and gouge. And Damen’s body, otherwise hard and smooth, was newly vulnerable where it was bruised. The man he fought knew it. The pounding blows Damen suffered were all brutally aimed to land on old hurts. His opponent was vicious and formidable, and he had been instructed to do damage.
Despite all this, the first advantage was Damen’s. Outweighed and fighting that strange dizziness, skill still counted for something. He gained a hold on the man, but when he tried to call on his strength to finish things, he found instead unsteady weakness. The air was suddenly expelled from his lungs after a driving blow to his diaphragm. The man had broken his hold.
He found new leverage. He bore down with all his weight on the man’s body and felt him shudder. It took more out of him than it should have. The man’s muscles bunched under him, and this time when the hold was broken Damen felt a burst of pain in his shoulder. He heard his breath go uneven.
Something was wrong. The weakness he felt was not natural. As another wave of dizziness passed over him, he thought suddenly of the over-sweet smell in the baths . . . the incense in the brazier . . . a drug, he realised as his breath heaved. He had inhaled some sort of drug. Not just inhaled, had stewed in it. Nothing had been left to chance. Laurent had acted to make the outcome of this fight certain.
A sudden renewed onslaught came and he staggered. It took too long to regain himself. He grappled ineffectually; for a few moments neither man could sustain a grip. Sweat on the man’s body glistened, making purchase more difficult. Damen’s own body had been slightly oiled; the scented slave preparation gave him an ironic, unlooked for advantage, momentarily protecting his virtue. He thought it was not the moment for stricken laughter. He felt the man’s warm breath against his neck.
In the next second he was on his back, pinned, blackness threatening the edge of his vision as the man applied a crushing pressure against his windpipe, above the gold collar. He felt the push of the man against him. The sound of the crowd surged. The man was trying to mount.
Thrusting against Damen, his breath now coming in soft grunts. Damen struggled to no avail, not strong enough to break this hold. His thighs were forced apart. No. He sought desperately for some weakness that could be exploited, and found none.
Goal in his sights, the man’s attention split between restraint and penetration.
Damen flung the last of his strength at the hold, and felt it quaver—enough to shift their positions slightly—enough to find leverage—an arm freed—
He drove his fist sideways, so that the heavy gold cuff on his wrist slammed hard into the man’s temple, with the sick sound of an iron bar impacting on flesh and bone. A moment later, Damen followed up, perhaps unnecessarily, with his right fist, and smashed his stunned, swaying opponent into the dirt.
He fell, heavy flesh collapsing, partially across Damen.
Damen somehow pushed away, instinctively inserting distance between himself and the prone man. He coughed, his throat tender. When he found that he had air, he began the slow process of rising to his knees and from there to his feet. Rape was out of the question. The little spectacle with the blond pet had been all performance. Even these jaded courtiers did not expect him to fuck a man who was unconscious.
Except that he could feel, now, the displeasure of the crowd. No one wanted to see an Akielon triumph over a Veretian. Least of all Laurent. The words of Councillor Guion came back to him, almost crazily. It’s in poor taste.
It was not over. It was not enough to fight through a drug haze and win. There was no way to win. It was already clear that the Regent’s diktats did not extend to the entertainments in the ring. And whatever now happened to Damen would happen with the crowd’s approbation.
He knew what he had to do. Against every rebelling instinct, he forced himself forward, and dropped to his knees before Laurent.
‘I fight in your service, Your Highness.’ He searched his memory for Radel’s words, and found them. ‘I exist only to please my Prince. May my victory reflect on your glory.’
He knew better than to look up. He spoke as clearly as he could, his words for the onlookers as much as they were for Laurent. He tried to look as deferential as possible. Exhausted and on his knees, he thought that wasn’t difficult. If someone hit him right now, he’d fall over.
Laurent extended his right leg slightly, the tip of his well-turned boot presenting itself to Damen.
‘Kiss it,’ Laurent said.
Damen’s whole body reacted against that idea. His stomach heaved; his heart, in the cage of his chest, was pounding. One public humiliation substituted for another. But it was easier to kiss a foot than be raped in front of a crowd . . . wasn’t it? Damen bent his head and pressed his lips to the smooth leather. He forced himself to do it with unhurried respect, as a vassal might kiss the ring of a liege lord. He kissed just the curve of the toe tip. In Akielos an eager slave might have continued upward, kissing the arch of Laurent’s foot, or, if they were daring, higher, his firm calf muscle.
He heard Councillor Guion: ‘You’ve worked miracles. That slave was completely unmanageable aboard the ship.’
‘Every dog can be brought to heel,’ said Laurent.
‘Magnificent!’ A smooth, cultured voice, one Damen didn’t know.
‘Councillor Audin,’ said Laurent.
Damen recognised the older man he had glimpsed in the audience earlier. The one who had sat with his son, or nephew. His clothing, though it was dark like Laurent’s, was very fine. Not, of course, as fine as a prince’s. But close to it.
‘What a victory! Your slave deserves a reward. Let me offer one to him.’
‘A reward.’ Laurent, flatly.
‘A fight like that—truly magnificent—but with no climax—allow me to offer him a pet, in place of his intended conquest. I think,’ said Audin, ‘that we are all eager to see him really perform.’
Damen’s gaze swung around to the pet.
It was not over. Perform, he thought, and felt sick.
The young boy was not the man’s son. He was a pet, not yet adolescent, with thin limbs and his growth spurt still far in
his future. It was obvious that he was petrified of Damen. The little barrel of his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He was, at the oldest, fourteen. He looked more like twelve.
Damen saw his chances of returning to Akielos gutter and die like candle flame, and all the doors to freedom close. Obey. Play by the rules. Kiss the Prince’s shoe. Jump through his hoops. He had really thought he would be able to do that.
He gathered the last of his strength to himself and said: ‘Do whatever you want to me. I’m not going to rape a child.’
Laurent’s expression flickered.
Objection came from an unexpected quarter. ‘I’m not a child.’ Sulkily. But when Damen looked incredulously at him, the boy promptly went white and looked terrified.
Laurent was looking from Damen to the boy and back again. Frowning as if something didn’t make sense. Or wasn’t going his way.
‘Why not?’ he said, abruptly.
‘Why not?’ said Damen. ‘I don’t share your craven habit of hitting only those who cannot hit back, and take no pleasure in hurting those weaker than myself.’ Driven past reason, the words came out in his own language.
Laurent, who could speak his language, stared back at him, and Damen met his eyes and did not regret his words, feeling nothing but loathing.
‘Your Highness?’ said Audin, confused.
Laurent turned to him eventually. ‘The slave is saying that if you want the pet unconscious, split in half, or dead of fright, then you will need to make other arrangements. He declines his services.’
He pushed up out of the box seat and Damen was almost driven backwards as Laurent strode past, ignoring his slave. Damen heard him say to one of the servants: ‘Have my horse brought to the north courtyard. I’m going for a ride.’
And then it was over—finally, and unexpectedly—it was somehow over. Audin frowned and departed. His pet trotted after him, after an indecipherable look at Damen.
As for Damen, he had no idea what had just happened. In the absence of other orders, his escort had him dressed and prepared to return to the harem. Looking around himself, he saw that the ring was now empty, though he hadn’t noticed whether the mercenary had been carried out, or had risen and walked out of his own accord. Across the ring was a thin trail of blood. A servant was on his knees mopping at it. Damen was being manoeuvred past a blur of faces. One of them was Lady Vannes who, unexpectedly, addressed him.