The Arena of Torment

by Geoffrey Allen

  They went directly to the baths and washed off the sweat and dirt. It felt good to be clean again.

  “Have you ever seen the Colosseum?” Fortuna asked, pouring Africanus a cup of wine.

  “Never,” she said, putting the cup to her lips.

  “Oh, you should see it,” Fortuna said seriously. “Fifty thousand Romans watching every move you make; waiting for you to strike the final blow, the hush before you deliver it and the noise afterwards. It rises like a great storm as if the God of War had entered the arena.” Her face was flushed with the greatness of it all. “Now your training is over I shall be taking my leave soon, but perhaps we shall meet again. Who knows, after enough of your opponents have perished, you too may win your freedom and be as I am, a gladiatrix fighting in her own right. The rewards are good, plenty of money and all the men you can fuck.”

  “I have to prove myself here first,” Africanus reflected.

  “I shall be watching you. Have you made your devotions to Nemesis?”

  “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “The Goddess of fortune, chance and revenge. Every gladiator prays to her and makes a small offering before he enters the arena. She will bring you luck and good fortune.”

  She went to a corner of her room and opened a cabinet. She reached inside and brought out a statue and placed it on the top. It was an image of Nemesis, made of pure gold.

  “It was a gift from a wealthy patron after I won my last fight. I shall offer a gift on your behalf; now pray to her for victory.”

  Africanus got to her knees. “Nemesis, bring me the victory I deserve,” she whispered. “Give me strength to overcome my foes and give long life to Fortuna.”

  She leant forward and kissed the feet of the statue, then stood up, her eyes filled with tears. The night sky had darkened and thunder clouds blackened the sky. Suddenly a crack of thunder boomed across the heavens quickly followed by a flash of lightning.

  “See, the Goddess has answered your prayer. One thing I promise you,” Fortuna said softly, “after your victory I shall make love to you as my parting gift.”

  “I wish we could fuck now,” Africanus replied, putting her arms around Fortuna’s shoulders.

  “No. Sleep now, and may all the Gods favour you.”

  Africanus went to her room and bolted the door. She did not want to be disturbed.

  The arena at Marcellum was nowhere near as grand as the Colosseum. It seated about two thousand people and had a covered seating area for the dignitaries of the town, and unlike the Colosseum the seating arrangements were not divided according to status or class. The townsfolk sat wherever they pleased. Only slaves were banished to the worst seats. At one end of the arena a door opened into the cells below where the gladiators waited their turn. Quintus and Octavia sat under cover out of the searing heat, waited on by a couple of slaves. Glaucus was keeping a low profile and sat at the other end of the arena on a seat specially reserved for sponsors. Polonius was also fielding several pairs of gladiators who were now at that moment battling each other. But Glaucus’ mind was on Africanus and Octavia; the first because so much was riding on her success, and the second because he wanted to ride her. After she’d left his villa he was totally besotted. He knew of no woman who could suck a man off in the way she could. Her tongue was like a living serpent coiling around his cock, and the way she sloshed that wine in her mouth was out of this world. He was still wondering who had taught her that, or perhaps it had just come naturally; some women were like that, inventive and just downright dirty.

  Quintus had agreed to Glaucus’ terms that he would put up the money to stage the show providing he was allowed to keep half of the profits. He had little choice but to agree, teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. If Africanus failed, he would be finished. Octavia had remained strangely silent throughout and just gazed with cool nonchalance at Glaucus seated on the other side of the arena. It wasn’t wise being too friendly, at least until their real plans came to fruition.

  Africanus, blissfully unaware that so much depended on her success, sat alone in a cell deep below the arena, although she could hear the cheering crowds above and the whimpering of the female convicts in the adjoining cells. She was nervous and it didn’t help her state of mind when a man dressed as Mercury in a sinister black cloak and mask passed by her cell on his way to dispatch the wounded. The hammer he carried looked particularly ominous.

  I can only do my best, she muttered, polishing her shield to take her mind off things.

  A stream of wounded gladiators went by followed by their opponents flushed with victory. She looked up and almost fell from her seat.

  “Circo!” she called, jumping up.

  The man turned and looked strangely at her. He was not Circo. She sat down again and went on polishing her shield more determined than ever to win, and wondered where and what Circo was doing now.

  “It is your turn,” the arena master announced. “Go and prepare yourself. When you get in the arena face the town governor, raise your weapon and say, ‘Hail, we who are about to die salute you!’And try and die with honour.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered, heading off to the armoury.

  The armourer selected a helmet, wide brimmed and high crested but without a visor which meant that she could see a lot more clearly. Well, that was something anyway. He wrapped strips of leather around her forearms and calves offering some protection but not inhibiting her speed. He took a long thin strip of leather with a broader gusset in the middle and fitted it around her waist. The thin strip went deep into her buttock crease and under her legs. Only the gusset covered her sex. All in all little better than a thong. In her hand he placed a stout leather whip as thick as her middle finger.

  “But I’m supposed to be armed,” she said aghast. “Of what use is a whip against a sword?”

  “Not on this occasion,” he told her, then slapped her on the shoulder and wished her good luck.

  And Africanus walked up the cold stone stairway and into the bright sunshine.

  Her heart almost stopped at the immensity of the crowd now on their feet and chanting her name. Glaucus had seen to that. Hundreds of hand bills had been distributed around the town proclaiming her prowess. Octavia couldn’t help but wave to him in exultation.

  Africanus raised her arm in salutation and repeated the words the master of the arena had told her. She turned and saw a group of naked women entering the arena; convicts and whores from the local prison released to do battle with the gladiatrix. For a moment she stared at them in disbelief. Where were her armed opponents with whom she was supposed to fight to the death? The women were only lightly armed with short blunt lances.

  The master of ceremonies rose to his feet and the crowd fell silent.

  “Today we bring you the exploits of Zenaida, famed queen of Persia who, armed with only a whip defeated a band of wild female savages in the barren desert of Mesopotamia.”

  The crowd roared their approval and Africanus realized now why she hadn’t been armed. This was no fight to the death or shedding of blood but the sexual thrill of seeing naked women whipped in public. Nevertheless, she was outnumbered and in the right hands those lances, even though blunted could inflict considerable damage, even death if she didn’t watch herself.

  The band, numbering about eight in all came nervously towards her. She didn’t know it but her appearance was frightening. Tall and superbly fit, armed with a shield and whip, helmeted into the bargain, she represented a fearsome spectacle. But she knew she must keep her eyes riveted on her opponents and not be distracted by the crowd, not even by Fortuna who was seated at the front beaming her approval. It was all in the mind; floor the first one who attacked and the rest would disperse, and then finish them piecemeal.

  Her plan worked to begin with. The boldest of them, a hard faced whore from the pits of Marcellum rushed at
her screaming like a demon. At twenty paces she hurled her lance which bounced off the shield, and then Africanus uncoiled her whip and lashed her brutally across her naked rump. The howl that followed had the audience leaping to their feet. The noise was deafening but Africanus stepped forward and kicked her hard in the groin and she rolled over groaning and clutching her sex. Another lance sailed through the air and missed its target by miles. Africanus snatched it up and snapped it over her knee. Two more women rushed at her waving their lances and hurling them at full speed. One ricocheted off her helmet; the other glanced off her shield. She snatched up the nearest lance and with deadly precision returned it into the thigh of the astonished criminal. The edge of the blade might be blunt but the point was sharp enough. The woman shrieked and crashed to the ground, hopelessly wounded.

  Now she had an edge over her opponents. Two of them were disabled and the rest dispersed, running naked around the perimeter, desperate to escape the fearsome gladiatrix, whom it seemed, was indestructible. The men in the audience weren’t the slightest bit interested in the fate of the criminals; they were more interested in the wonderful display of bouncing breasts and bare buttocks and legs running hither and thither. Africanus thrust out her gorgeous rump and wiggled her hips. Her breasts shook ponderously under their own weight, and amid roars of approval she advanced quickly on the slim female cowering at the entrance. This was no time for mercy and she sent the whip lashing into her thighs. The woman made the fatal mistake of turning her back and reaching up, trying to climb out of the arena. Africanus flogged her mercilessly, criss crossing her bare back with bright red welts. Paralysed with fear, the woman clung by her fingers to the parapet, swinging to and fro from each renewed lash. Out of the corner of her eye, Africanus saw a lance darting through the air. She ducked and more by luck than judgment it pierced the left buttock of the clinging woman. Africanus pulled it free and broke it over the woman’s head. She slipped from the parapet and lay unconscious.

  Now with three of them gone the odds were much more in her favour. It took only minutes to disable another two by lashing the first insensible and knocking the second unconscious with her shield. The remaining three went into a huddle, not knowing what to do next. As if seized simultaneously with the idea of making a last ditch attempt to be rid of her, they all hurled their lances at once. Two of them shattered against the wall, but the third caught Africanus unawares and glanced off her ribs, not going in deep enough to inflict a wound but the point was painful. She grunted and rushed over aiming a kick in the groin at the tallest one who buckled against the wall and passed out.

  Only two left, but one of them looked extremely dangerous. She was short and wiry with blazing eyes. She kept her distance while Africanus flogged her sole remaining companion. She rolled over and over, screaming from the whip lashing into her back and belly. Africanus flogged with the assurance of a professional, landing the lash between her shoulder blades, then another only a finger’s width below it and again and again until her back was a ladder of livid red welts. She struggled to her feet and Africanus, deaf to her pleas for mercy lashed across her thighs and belly. The woman fell against the wall, still on her feet while the whip did its evil work. She tottered and fell, still conscious but defeated.

  The last remaining woman had deftly retreated to the other side of the arena and had picked up one of the lances. She stood completely naked and it wouldn’t have taken much to knock her out of the contest, but Africanus sensed that she deserved a sporting chance and slipped her arm from the shield, and discarded her helmet. She dropped her whip and picked up a fallen lance. The woman looked at her from under a great mop of unkempt hair and nodded her gratitude. Africanus motioned her forward into the arena, a gesture much appreciated by the audience who now had a clearer view of both combatants. The shorter woman was very pale from being locked up for so long which made her thick bush of black pubic hair and dark nipples all the more emphatic. Her breasts were pert and round, and like her slim legs, quite beautiful in their own way. Her arse was small and tight, almost adolescent in its shape, tapering outwards to her slender hips and curving in to her slim back. She was a well known thief in Marcellum and many of her victims were in the audience overjoyed at last that the thieving bitch was about to get her just reward. Fortuna leaned forward in her seat. She recognized a difficult opponent, even if no one else did. The woman was shorter and nowhere near as powerful as Africanus, but she could move as fast as a ferret if needs must and could kill if she had to. It would be interesting to see how Africanus dealt with her.

  A hush went through the arena. It was easier to concentrate on a one to one combat and already the bookmakers were taking bets. The younger men in the audience were gazing at the naked beauty of both women and noting the contrast between them. Their arms stretched to each end of the shafts and they began by parrying the lances, each trying to knock the other’s out of their hands. They moved in circles, Africanus bending her back to the shorter woman who in turn reached upwards. But the shafts were not made for such a constant battering and soon snapped. Now they were both disarmed, but to their surprise the master of the arena came over and handed them each a long thick leather strap. Now the contest could begin in earnest and on equal terms.

  It was Africanus who struck the first blow sending her strap winging against the woman’s buttocks. She let out a howl, her body twisting and writhing from the impact as a broad red welt spread across her pale cheeks. The audience loved that and cheered the gladiatrix on to beat her senseless. But the shorter woman knew how to take advantage of her taller opponent and whirled round lashing her across the tops of her thighs. Africanus grunted and sent her strap lashing over the woman’s nipples. She struck again; lower this time under her breasts where the flesh was softer. The pert orbs lifted and she stumbled backwards throwing out her arms. Africanus hit her with full force on her belly and again on the pit of her stomach. She moved fast and grabbed the woman under the legs crushing her sex with her powerful fingers. The woman screamed in anguish and took hold of her assailant’s hair, tugging it with all her might. She was a lot stronger than she looked and tears trickled from Africanus’ eyes. Only a swift jerk of her elbow prevented her hair from being ripped out of her scalp.

  Temporarily winded, the woman retreated clutching her stomach, but when Africanus moved in to finish her, she ducked and sent her strap winging up between the gladiatrix’ legs. Her sex was open and the leather went deep slamming the thong up into her slit. Her belly heaved and her hips shuddered from the impact. If the woman had quickly followed with more lashes she might have won, but Africanus came back whirling the strap around the woman’s thighs. She tried to tug it free and the woman span and fell flat on her stomach. Africanus kicked her legs open as wide as she could and lashed at the parted buttocks. She turned at an angle and sent the leather directly along the arse crease. The woman writhed and squirmed on the sand as the end of the strap whipped into her open sex. The men in the audience could see what was happening and were on their feet watching every move of Africanus’ strap. The woman tried to roll over and curl into a ball, but Africanus kicked her back again and began lashing the tightly clenched buttocks, not stopping until the pale skin was blazing red. She put one foot on the burning buttocks and pinned her to the sand. The woman moaned for the strapping to stop but Africanus had gone beyond feelings of mercy. Even though her opponent was beaten, she lashed her back and thighs, delighting in the punishment she was delivering, yet feeling strangely aroused at the sight of the whipped flesh. It was the woman’s helplessness that had her breasts tingling. Her own sex was wet and she hoped that the skimpy thong would prevent the audience from seeing just how wet she was. But the more astute men noticed how hard her nipples were and the way she kept clenching her buttocks. It didn’t take much imagination to see how aroused she had become and how close she was to her orgasm.

  “On your hands and knees,” she commanded, kicking the woman’s ribs.r />
  With a painful groan, she obeyed and got onto all fours. She remained still until the strap whistled into her buttocks, a blow that sent her scurrying forward. A major part of gladiatorial combat was to win the crowd, get them on your side and increase your popularity and good standing with the rich and famous and one way to do this was to make the loser suffer. Africanus wasn’t wholly aware of that, but she did realise how much the audience roared their approval when she started whipping the woman around the arena, driving her forward like an animal, lashing her again and again across her back and buttocks. She reached the place where the consul was seated and gave one final blow sending the woman sprawling. She groaned and rolled over, looking at Africanus through misted eyes and then fainted.

  “You have done well,” the consul complimented, and tossed her a silver coin.

  Africanus bowed low and gathered up her helmet and shield. Octavia was on her feet applauding her success as was Quintus. Glaucus was nowhere to be seen, he had gone to the atrium to collect his dues. It was Fortuna who came below to the darkened cells offering her congratulations.

  “You might be disappointed that you were not given the chance to use a sword, but look upon it as a real test of your mettle. If anyone of those women had known how to use a lance, you would’ve been dead. You dispatched them ruthlessly and quickly, the true mark of a gladiatrix.”

  Africanus wiped the sweat from her brow. “Does this mean you’re leaving now?”

  “Quintus won’t keep me here longer than necessary. He knows you’re fit and ready, but there is just one more thing we have to do.”

  She smiled and there was no need for words or explanations. They both knew what they wanted.

  “Tonight,” Africanus smiled, and lay down to rest. The sound of her name being chanted still rang in her ears.