He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment before opening them. He looked anywhere but his fallen opponent. It hadn’t been fear on Leander’s face. It had been love. Love and acceptance when Hektor had—
“To the sky! To the sky!” The masses screamed for blood. They always screamed for blood.
I will not give it to them today. Hektor stood ready to defy the Empress.
A small smile touched her lips. Somehow, she knew. She always knew. She tipped her thumb down.
Relief bloomed through Hektor. He thrust the polearm into the sand instead of into the flesh of his opponent. The crowd booed and jeered and then hushed as a sudden, stiff breeze blew through the arena, snapping the crimson canopy above them in a sound much like bones breaking.
The heatwave was over.
Hektor exhaled in relief. He raised his trident and shouted the traditional words of victory, “For the Empress! For the Empress!”
The masses roared approval and displayed their favor in the usual manner—cheering and clapping, screaming and shouting insults, spitting, the occasional desert flower thrown his way as the chariots entered the arena in the wake of the praetorian guard. He stepped onto the lead chariot and held his hand up, waving to the dirty, filthy, ignorant plebes as he passed.
Just another Spectacle for the glory of Arena and its blind Empress. He did not have to kill today. But he would have to plow tomorrow.
Fight or fuck, that was the decree of the Empress, and the way of life for her gladiators.
Chapter Two
FIRST DAY
It was tradition for veteran gladiators
To train the novices
And to bestow upon the worthy
Their skill and their seed
—Pia Lucia, House of Lucia, the Architects
Lucan awoke with a start, not knowing where he was. The gladiator stables of House Vulpinius were darker, set deeper back into the compound than those at House Pineus had been. And although the stenches of refuse and shit were absent, the humid darkness had a festering smell all its own.
Groggily, Lucan rose, the sounds of the other novices in his barracks spurring him into movement. His skin was clammy, the slight flickering of braziers and torches throwing ominous shadows as the novices awoke to their morning training. They would wash quickly and dress, and take their place with the novices of other houses at the Ludus Magnii.
Lucan would not be going with them.
His stomach churned in remembrance of the rich fare he’d partaken in yesterday, and he cursed himself for overindulging. He hoped the heaviness in his belly didn’t slow him down.
He stumbled to the basin and splashed warm water on his face and under his arms. Jostling in with so many other novices, he could not help but compare himself to them. He was the same in size and stature, but they carried themselves with a confidence Lucan did not have.
If he passed his trials, he would become a retiarii, valued more for his looks than his skill. The novices around him were likely to become secutors and myrmidon. A few—the best—might eventually become provocators, whose duty it was to incite the crowd with their showmanship.
Like Hektor Actaeon. The thought of training with the primus palus shook Lucan to the core. Dread and excitement filled him until he thought he would be ill. And yet, he had no choice. Quaestor Stratos wanted Lucan to become a champion gladiator, and so a champion gladiator he would become.
Else, he would die trying. Such was the way of masters and slaves in Arena.
Hurriedly, he washed his feet and grabbed his caligae by the straps. Slinging the sandals over his shoulder, he was filled with worry.
Hektor Actaeon, champion and primus palus. What use has he for a boy like me?
* * * *
Hektor strode across the courtyard of the Ludus Magnii, ignoring the stares of the novices as they passed on their way to training. He was the primus palus. He could not be seen hesitating, but as he headed down the stairs to the Claim, his heart weighed more than the heaviest tower shield. These shadowy halls were all too familiar. In his youth, he had looked forward to the Victor’s Claim, to taking what was rightfully his by Arenian law.
That was before he fell in love. That was before Leander.
The shadows closed over him, and the latticework of the iron grates above afforded him a modicum of anonymity, at least from the prying eyes in the courtyard above. He reminded himself to close the privacy grate once he entered his Claim’s cell.
The mingled musk of sweat and blood and men was heady. It perfumed the air and scented his skin. He drew it deep into his nostrils. Despite his disdain for what he came here to do, he found his body responding with need. Uncomfortably, he palmed his cock, shifting it to a better position beneath his tunic.
Once, he had enjoyed coming here as the victor. Once, three years ago, with Leander.
The sound of heavy footfalls approaching made him temper his melancholy. He reminded himself where he was. How many cells he was passing. How many witnesses. If anyone glimpsed a lack of desire, if anyone informed even one of Hektor’s rich patrons—or, Doomsayer’s Abyss, the odds-makers—Hektor’s reputation would be dashed. A gladiator without a healthy appetite for fighting and fucking was considered a waste of denarii.
Hektor had worked too hard, given up too much to allow that to happen.
He fixed a lustful grin to his face just in time to see Remulon bustling through the gloom toward him, as much as a man with one leg could bustle. Captain of the Claim Guard, Remulon had been a champion in his own right, in golden days past. Never a primus palus but still a favorite of the odds-makers and many a lovely amatore.
As a boy, Hektor remembered him on the ballots. I wanted to be just like him.
“Hektor, my friend!” Remulon’s beard split to reveal teeth that were startlingly white in his tanned face. He shifted on his crutch and clasped the primus palus’s forearm. “You have come for your Claim, have you?” His laughter boomed in the dingy, low-ceilinged hall.
Despite his grim mood, Hektor was genuinely glad to see the man. “Remulon.”
“Come, come.” Remulon jammed the crutch under his arm with a good-natured wince and turned in several short hops. “I made sure to put your Claim in the rear hall. Remembered you like your privacy.”
Huffing with exertion, he led Hektor through the darkened labyrinth of passages. The smell of man-musk and the bestial sounds of rutting, of men grunting and crying out—in pleasure, in release, in the pain of being taken for the first time—echoed off the humid walls and made Hektor feel too tight, too bound up in his skin.
His thoughts tumbled back to three years ago. His own first time taking cock. Leander behind him, coaxing him gently, the searing-slick, delicious agony of his rod sliding tight into Hektor’s needy hole. The satisfying burn. He hadn’t been filled up so well since that night. He’d never let another man have him.
No, Hektor Actaeon was the conqueror, not the conquest.
And he was no man’s Claim.
Hektor’s cock stirred again, and he cursed himself. These early morning sojourns to the Claim aroused him, but they could no longer satisfy him. What he truly wanted was to take a lover, and to allow a lover to take him in return. But this was Arena. This was the Empress’s Theatre. Love was scarce here.
The jingling of rusted keys brought him back around.
Remulon popped the lock on the cell and peeled back the heavy oaken door. With a smile at Hektor, he clapped him on the arm. “He’s a handsome one. Not a retiarius but still…not bad either.” His grin was leeringly white in the gloom. “Go, eh? Have fun, my friend. It looks like you need it.”
“Yes.” Hektor forced the word out of a dry throat. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Leaning against it, he waited for his eyes to adjust, for the clump-clomp of Remulon’s crutch to echo away down the hall.
At least these back halls had no exterior grates or windows. Yes, Hektor Actaeon preferred his privacy. He preferred no one knew how he disgraced Leande
r’s memory.
Shoving away from the door, he moved into the small cell.
Two greasy torches guttered on the far wall, and in the center of the chamber, doused in shadow, was a half-naked man chained to the ceiling. His arms had been dragged up over his head so his feet barely reached the ground. His struggles ceased when he saw Hektor, but the momentum caused him to revolve at the end of his chains, as though displaying himself for Hektor’s approval.
Like all gladiators, the man was well formed—muscular and broad, his skin tanned, his hair a dark mop around his face. He had been stripped of his tunic, and his loincloth barely hid his erection. He had been waiting.
Waiting for the great Hektor Actaeon to come and plow him.
Despite himself, Hektor came to half-hardness at the sight of an eager man. Licking his lips, he tore his gaze away. To the left was a small bench and a brazier. Atop the brazier, a crock of oil. Not all gladiators used it. Some liked to fuck their conquest dry, to make it hurt.
Cruelty was never against the Empress’s decree.
Hektor was a killer, but he was not cruel. He stepped up to his conquest and laid a hand on the man’s back to stop his slow spin. The feel of warm skin stirred his desire, and Hektor let his hand linger. The man’s wounds had been treated. Every house had healers and leeches on hand, and the Claim was no different. Some, it was rumored, still had the touch of Rilrune, Goddess of Green and Good, and were able to heal with a touch.
It looked like a similar healer had paid ministration to his conquest. Then again, he was Hektor Actaeon. Only the best for him.
A leaden dread filled Hektor’s limbs, and he let his hand fall away. He was tired of all the mindless, loveless fucking. He hated that his body yearned toward this man in chains. He wanted to pluck out his eyes at lusting after a helpless, willing piece of man flesh.
From the way the man writhed in the chains, from the way he thrust back with his ass, he had been taken before. And wanted to be taken again. He grunted and rolled his hips. “Gonna just stand there?” He thrust back again, and Hektor could see the man was stiff already, his ass cheeks clenched, sweat running down his back.
There was no choice. If he hesitated…
Hektor stepped up, freeing his own cock from its confinement. It sprang up, heavy, the tip damp with precum. He damned his traitorous body. The first touch of the head on the man’s hole, and he’d explode. That’s it. Think only of the pleasure. He banished his guilt, banished his memories, and resigned himself.
At least he could sate his body and make it good for his Claim. He reached for the oil.
Kneeling, he spread the conquest’s ass cheeks and began rolling his fingertips around that puckered hole, smearing the oil, dipping a fingertip inside. The dark scents of musk and man and sweat drove Hektor to full arousal, his cock achingly hard. He worked one, then two fingers inside the man’s hot, tight ring. He stretched and scissored, reveling in the shuddering moans from his conquest.
Hektor yearned for a taste.
He leaned in, burying his nose and mouth in that crease, tonguing the man’s puckered entrance. The chains creaked and groaned wildly as the gladiator ground back, shoving his ass into Hektor’s face, trying to get Hektor to spear him with his tongue.
With a licentious groan, Hektor gave him what he wanted, licking deep inside the man’s hole, holding him open with greedy hands. Hektor worked him with fingers and tongue, getting him wet with saliva and oil. His cock throbbed in time with each thrust of his tongue. Hektor panted with raw need. He needed. He wanted. He stood, keeping his hands on the man, keeping his cheeks spread wide.
One more glance at that glistening hole.
Hektor nudged the slick entrance with his cock. Slowly, he began to push inside, feeding each inch of his rod into the man’s ass, tunneling in tight. The man bucked and writhed beneath him, his groans guttural, torn from his lips. The grating gyrations of the chains, the sensation of being squeezed inside another man’s body… Hektor went wild. He grabbed the man’s hips and impaled him to the hilt, lunging in with his cock, invading the man’s ass with every hard thrust.
Lost to pleasure, sucked into that gripping hole, Hektor shouted his triumph. He leaned over, his sweaty chest against the man’s sweat-soaked back, and bit his neck, yanking at his hair. His other hand dug into his conquest’s hip, pulling him back even as Hektor shoved forward, humping the other man’s ass. Driving himself in deep. The sounds of flesh slapping flesh, Hektor’s balls smacking the man’s ass, echoed in the small space.
Their groans joined those of the other men in rut.
Hektor thrust in and stayed there, grinding hard against the man’s ass. “Take it. Take every fucking inch of me.”
“Yes,” came his conquest’s panted whisper.
One more sharp plunge, and Hektor exploded, spilling his hot load deep within the man’s quivering hole. He pumped, driving his cum deeper with a wild desperation.
Three more lunging thrusts, and Hektor pulled out. A rivulet of cum ran down the man’s thigh. Hektor watched it, the pearly liquid trickling to the dust where it would be lost forever.
The man sagged, but his cock was still heavy. “We’re not done.”
Hektor’s words came out raw and rough. “The Abyss we’re not.” He was under no obligation to do anything but plow his conquest. Clearly the man had enjoyed it. They were finished. Hektor felt guilty enough without having another man’s cum on his hands, in his mouth…
“You’re Hektor Actaeon.”
“And?” Hektor struggled to keep his voice steady.
“You wouldn’t want me telling anyone it wasn’t good now, would you?”
A bolt of fear shot through Hektor and then anger swept after it, taking his sanity. Without thinking, he brought his open palm down on the man’s ass. Smack! The sound carried in the small, hollow space.
The man grunted. “Fffuuuuck.”
The sound of his lecherous moan drove Hektor beyond reason. He slapped the man again and then again, harder, the headiness of the act, the noise of the slaps making him hard again. His cock stood up stiff as an iron rod. Doomsayer in the Abyss, what is wrong with me?
The man’s ass was a pretty pink, more enticing with every moan and roll of his hips. Hektor could not keep his hands from his own cock—the sight of that pink ass, the glide of his rigid pole through his fingers driving him to wantonness. The implication that he was somehow deficient rolled through Hektor like a storm.
He stepped forward and, in one jab, speared the man again with his cock. He grabbed without ceremony, taking the man’s hips and pounding him so hard the chains’ bindings rattled.
Hektor’s lust was mindless, boundless. He was shouting with each thrust, fucking that tight hole, using its owner. Reaching around, he palmed the man’s cock and jerked him in time to his rutting. The man moaned, leaning his head back on Hektor’s shoulder and thrusting himself into the gladiator’s hands.
“Yeah, that’s it. Pump my cock. Fuck!”
Hektor went harder, faster, plowing the man until he had no breath to speak. It was easier that way, easier when his face was turned, when all Hektor could hear was breathy moans and guttural groans, the slap of cock and balls and ass coming together.
His eyes rolled back into his head, and on the hazy edge of orgasm, he thought again of Leander. Every pump, every dark thrust, into Leander’s ass or the clasp of his throat.
“Leander,” he whispered.
“Yes,” the man managed, riding him. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard!”
And Hektor did—taking him, fucking him, his fingers biting into the man’s hips as he rammed him. “Leander, Leander, Leander,” he cried until his throat was raw and his cock ran dry, pumping load after sweltering load deep into his conquest’s tight ass.
He withdrew, sweaty and hot and confused. And as his cum ran down the man’s thigh, Hektor tucked himself back into his loincloth and fairly fled the cell.
* * * *
The sun beat mercil
essly down on the Grand Palestra, and it wasn’t yet midday. Stratos stood at the edge of the theatre’s training field, closing his eyes as a stray wind blew sand and grit about like dervishes. He brushed dirty-blond hair back from his face and looked over to where the novice gladiators labored against one another with spear and net and trident.
Some of them fumbled and stumbled about like newly born colts just finding their legs. They were all young, eager, strong, not yet tainted by Arena and her whorish ways. He watched the sweat roll off taut, rippling muscle and flesh. His mouth felt dry, and he lifted his wineskin to his lips.
The watered wine was silky on his throat, but he wished for something hotter, more forceful—a heady claiming in the dark of night, skin against sweaty skin, a sleek cock shoved into his throat, deliciously choking him as icy blue eyes…
A moan escaped Stratos a breath before bitterness made him clamp his teeth over it. Even now, Alession was with her again. He was her consul, but still, how many matters of state needed to be discussed each day? Stratos balled his fists and resisted punching the nearest straw practice dummy.
Once, he and Stratos had been close in confidence. Fellow lictors, they spent most of their waking hours discussing politics, philosophy, art. They drank at the same alehouses, whored at the same whorehouses, ate together, bathed together.
They had even… Once.
But that was three years ago. Before Stratos allowed House Actaeon to steal an assured victory from House Vulpinius. Stratos sighed. The offense had not occurred at an ordinary Spectacle, but at the Grand Melee. The Vulpinius fighter stood ready to claim his victory, but in the last moments, he was foully slain by an Actaeon man—a man whom Stratos should have controlled better.
The Empress had been furious. She declared the entire Melee a travesty with no victor. No one discovered Stratos’s involvement, but Alession knew. He knew, and he had bet accordingly. In the end, Stratos lost his man and Alession lost thirty denarii. Furious, he’d railed at Stratos, called him careless, selfish, and cursed the day the Oracles drew the lot of House Vulpinius and placed it on Stratos as an infant.
In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal Page 5