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[patrick1]

Troilus

Early. Too damn early. And who was the younger Patricles to give Troilus orders? 'Quickly now: Cunnus must be paraded.'

What am I, a slave myself? 'Yes, yes!'

The sisters have been curled up in each others' arms on the floor, the younger one looking up at him with fearful eyes, then looking quickly away when his stare meets hers. What is he to do with them? Fired with the anger of waking too soon, of resentment at being given orders (What war has that bastard ever fought in? Spoiled nephew of a rich man?), he barks at the women: 'Up on the stool, sit back back. Link your arms. Do it!' He grabs the younger one's hair, 'No please!' says the elder, the one who tasted his desire last night, and he slaps her face -

Hell, I was too kindly to them last night. Now they hurry to obey me, and the sting in my palm where I slapped her sends a message straight to my prick, and perhaps I will be a torturer like old Patricles after all. Now, where are all those chains and cuffs and ropes and manacles in the back room...?

He finds manacles to secure their wrists. Their arms linked together, how hard it will be for them to move about. How foolish they will look.

He wants to have them kneel right now, and drink from him.

'Troilus!'

'Coming!' And he grabs his slaves' chain, and tells them to bring fruit and water and laughs as they don't seem to know how to move, fastened back to back, and he mauls the ripe left breast of the older one and says, 'Quickly now!' - enjoying the little flash of anger before she suppresses it, enjoying her fear as he uses her own language again to give her orders...

 

[patrick1]

the young Patricles

The young Patricles likes it that she doesn't beg. Cunnus. He unfastens her ankle, and leashes her at the neck, and leads her out, and yet, naked, humiliated, in pain, she doesn't plead. What reserves of pride she must have. He knows in his heart, tugging her out stumbling into the brightening air of morning, that he's much more of a coward than her. As he leads her up to the stage he knows that in her place he would be trying to make a deal, any deal, not to go through again what she went through the night before.

Instead, when they reach the stage, and she looks again at the platform where she was tortured, she shudders, yet he can see her making herself stand erect. He wants to compliment her but he doesn't know how. And anyway, that's not what her torturer should be doing, is it? Where is your fine goddess now, the one whose tiny effigy hangs from the ring in that forbidden place between your legs? That's the sort of thing he ought to be saying, yes. But the words just won't come out. Instead it's she who speaks, a torrent of something in her own language.

No, she isn't cursing me, she hasn't placed a curse on my uncle, no.

No.

'Slave!' he calls, and here they are, scurrying from the shadows, Flotsam and Jetsam, what does Uncle call them? Jingle and Jangle, yes, have they lain here somewhere forgotten all night? 'Fresh rope, four short lengths, and water for her, and fruit,' he barks in what he hopes are the appropriate tones, and they hurry and scurry away.

Cunnus, or whatever she calls herself in her own lost world, kneels on the dusty boards of the stage, looking out at the auditorium.

Patricles waves out there. Troilus is out there on the seats, returning his wave, hell, what has the soldier done to his slaves overnight? They are bound back to back somehow, standing in shade and discomfort while he lolls on a seat, as if the goddess of arrogance, Mars's sister perhaps? had visited him overnight and infused him with her most powerful potions.

And the slaves are returned, and he says 'Up, Cunnus,' and she spits in his face and, curiously, it pleases him that she does so, he feels recognized, the cruel Patricles just like his sadistic uncle, and unceremoniously he lifts her up under her armpits. She doesn't fight him as he binds each of her ankles to the posts, then each of her wrists...

She smells dirty, and of fear somehow, but that isn't what makes him want to brush against her, then shift a little away so he doesn't brush against her, the heat of her body radiating towards him, the touch of her skin lingering somehow on his fingertips.

Later he will touch her. He will make himself be her torturer. Yes he will.

He turns to Jingle, or Jangle: 'Feed her. Make sure she drinks. We will admit an audience later. Before then, there'll be a woman, a hooded woman who will come. Give her whatever she needs. I go to visit my uncle.'

 

[patrick1]

Erudio

Erudio wants her. Naked, astride her back, he wants her. Slave Siham. She lies naked, face down on the marble beside the pool, and he massages her skin, the darkness of her and the patterns of a lighter grey in the folds of her, she is so other and yet so surely his.

There's a spell that must not be broken. He massages her deep, his balls resting on the small of her back.

He'd woken early, and even the slave Luna, on the floor, had been sleeping, carelessly on her side, a phallus between her thighs.

And he'd tiptoed out, naked in the warmth of early morning, and bathed himself in the warm pool in the courtyard, and by the time he'd finished, Nike (Nee-kay), the woman of the household, had padded quietly to the side of the pool in her orange robe bringing fruit, and fresh sour bread, and pure cold water to him.

And then he'd gone in to them, Luna and Siham, stirring, and led them both out by the hand, as if they were equals, and told them to wash each other, in the warm water of the pool in the courtyard. And he'd watched them dreamily bathing, caressing each other's flesh, and he'd fed them black and red berries, and pieces of melon, and nectarine, and bread – 'No, you may not use your hands, I will feed you from my hand.'

And Slave Siham had not demurred - seduced by the warmth, and the cleansing, and the sensuous touch of Luna – had she even noticed that he had arrogated to himself the right to tell her she may not use her hands?

And when he'd said, holding out a hand to her to help her from the water, droplets glistening on her skin, beads of light, 'Time for your massage,' perhaps she hadn't realized until she was prone, nude, restful, that it was he who would squat astride her back, his prick erect, and press his fingers into her flesh, the tense muscles of her shoulders, the softness of her neck.

He likes this feeling: that she knows his lust, that he might fuck her at any moment but chooses not to, that if he fucked her now she might not quite be sure, even in her own mind, if she consented or nay.

And finally, without doing anything more to her than administering the touch of his fingers and his skin, he rolls off her, and touches her face. 'How lovely you are, Slave Siham. Stay there for me.'

When he returns, only moments later, with the thin iron collar, and the wrist manacles, and the phallus with a strap that Luna might wear around her waist, Slave Siham lies still where he left her. She sits up abruptly, though, at the jangle of metal, at the sight of what he carries. 'Hey,' and she flinches, but he still caresses her cheek, 'nothing will happen to you unless you desire it.' He settles on the couch beside her. He sees her eyes glance nervously at the manacles. Luna watches from the water.

'I have business in the town. Here is what will happen. If you choose to wear the collar, and the manacles, then Luna may make love to you, wearing the phallus. See its little refinements,' and he tickles the little points of something rubbery at the base of the artificial prick that might pleasure her. 'If not, then you may only relax in the sunshine, not touching each other, and Nike will read you the poetry of Catullus and the works of Cicero, for you to discuss. For to become a cultured slave you must become not merely a sensual slave, but also well-read in the classics of our literature, which Nike knows well.' He gestures – from an alcove in the cloister peers the woman's oval, anxious face. 'Nike was scarred by Patricles, and I bought her freedom, and she will watch and tell me everything.'

He hears the slave Siham answering. Not quite in anger, but not in acceptance. And he sweeps out, shutting out her words or he will respond to them, out to clothe himself, to compose himself to become a gentleman of the town, a man of the world, not the putative master who wants to train the slave to obey, not the priapic sensual animal who wants only to fuck, fuck, fuck...

 

[Sweet_Denna]

Jaleh wakes up early, long before her sister opens her eyes again. Long before the Roman. Through the window, she can see the first faint stripes of the dawning day. The air is still chilly at this hour, and Jaleh wraps her small body tighter around her sleeping sister. Softly, she caresses Sholeh’s back. She is curled up in her arms, breathing evenly, shivering in her sleep. Jaleh hopes that the dreams that flee through her sister’s mind are pleasant and help her take a rest from what happened. From what was still to come.

Oh Sholeh. How long it had taken her to finally find sleep this night, despite her exhaustion, despite her heavy, leaden, merciless fatigue. Jaleh cannot chase the image from her mind – the image of the young Roman soldier, carried away by the pleasure her sister so skilfully provided, moaning, forcing his cock ever further down her throat, his hands roughly gripping her hair. Sholeh had not protested, she had not even tried to fight him as he had finally, finally erupted in her mouth, as he had ordered her to swallow all of his seed, to spill nothing, not a single drop. Sholeh had complied then, too, without complaint.

But later, when she had believed their master to be asleep, she had frantically tried to wash her mouth from the unfamiliar taste, had frantically emptied many cups of water, and had cleaned her lips, her mouth, and her tongue; over and over again. Sholeh was so afraid that he would wash away her memories of Soroush; the little, no, the last thing that she still called her own. She could not afford to lose them. How frightened Jaleh had been, frightened that the Roman would wake up and punish her sister for her outrageous, for her almost mad behaviour. Jaleh does not want to admit it to herself, but there had been that treacherous part of her mind that had been mesmerized by the sight of the unmasked lust on the handsome young man’s face; she had never seen such a spectacle before. His groans, his tensing muscles, his parted lips. His erect, throbbing cock, glistening with spit and arousal. The young girl swallows. Her gaze hesitantly creeps over to the sleeping Roman who slightly stirs under the thin covers. How terrible she feels for this curiosity.

Then: hurried feet, a voice that calls out, urges their master, Troilus, to rise from his bed. As he opens his eyes, sleep still weighing down his eyelids, they meet hers, and terrified, Jaleh lowers her gaze. Oh Creator. The breaking day yanks her thoughts back into the present; this room, and the reality that lingers in both. He is angry that he has been asked to rise up this early; the voice that called out to him did not leave room for argument, it ordered. Sholeh stirs. Before she fully comprehends what happens, he snaps at them to sit, back to back, on the stool; one sister is too frightened to comply, the other still too sleepy. Jaleh feels his fingers in her hair, pulling roughly, and cries out in pain, prompting Sholeh to plead for him to stop –

The hard slap across her cheek echoes through the room, but it is again the younger of the two Persian sisters that cries out, as if the Roman had struck her; Sholeh is silent, again. And silently she pulls her sister up on the stool, links her arms behind her back with Jaleh’s, as their master had ordered. Her cheek darkens where he had hit her; she bites her lip, and stares straight ahead, carefully avoiding his gaze as he fastens iron manacles around their slender wrists. Against her will, she flinches as his skin, still warm with sleep, brushes against her. Jaleh has difficulties not to panic; the Roman seems different this morning, a hint of cruelty plays around the corners of his mouth. They are linked so close now that it will be hard to move, and when he orders them to bring fruit and water, they stumble, unsure of how to obey.

Sholeh still does not look at him; she cannot, almost impatiently, she tugs at her sisters arms who in turn almost falls. The Roman laughs at the ridicule image of the two, crushes Sholeh’s breast in his hand, which forces her to finally meet his gaze. A short, spiteful glare is all the young woman dares to express before she pulls her sister with her to fetch what he has asked for. The hated accent, there it is again. His voice is soft when he speaks Parsi, as if he caresses every syllable, like a promise; a terrible promise.

Much later, when they stand, still fastened together by their arms and the manacles, in the theatre of pain again, again staring at the stage, Sholeh cannot avoid a few silent tears to roll down her cheeks; luckily, Jaleh does not see it. His taste is still on her lips, she cannot get rid of it; his moans still ring in her ears. While they are not dangling in cages above the wooden planks anymore, while they stand in an unnoticed corner in the shade, Sholeh’s fear is greater than ever before.

***

When the night finally gives way to reluctant daylight, Benona is pulled from her prison. Her body aches, the wounds that the Torturer had caused the previous evening burn between her thighs, but she does not complain or protest. With silent, mildly interested surprise, she notices that the boy from her dream had taken form and flesh, and seems to be responsible for her now, that the cruel Roman is dead. Is he dead? Benona whispers a silent prayer; while not a priestess anymore she knows that Arduinna has not forsaken her, that she can put her trust in her goddess still. Large blue eyes follow each of the young man’s moves, his every gesture. The Gallic woman notices his insecurity at once; he is new at this. His eyes betray his....fear? Benona tilts her head as she watches him carefully. His touch is gentle when he unfastens the cuffs and chains. There is a short moment, shorter than the flutter of a butterfly’s wing that she wants to address him. Maybe...? No. He is but a servant of the Torturer himself, his successor, there is nothing she can say to him.

And he, too, leads her out to the stage, the scene of her sufferings and losses; he too seems to be set on continuing the older Roman’s work. Benona shivers. Everything is as she remembers it; from when her mind had slipped into unconsciousness the night before. Her knees are weak, her throat goes dry at the sight, but she does not hesitate to step to the edge of the wooden platform to stare out at the empty auditorium – empty but for one young man, whose lips seem to curl into a slight grin at the sight of the fallen priestess, and two women – slaves – that stand in the shade. Benona’s eyes meet that of the Roman sprawled arrogantly on the stone rows and she starts to pray again, her clear voice loud and echoing from the walls of the theatre. You shall be damned, all of you. What sorry, pitiful men you are. I despise you, and so does my goddess. The tiniest of cracks in her voice tells of the pain that she is in.

Benona feels her knees grow ever weaker, and she needs to kneel not to fall over; the movement forces a groan from her throat. What did they still want from her? Had not everything that could be done to her been done to her? What was left? Again, her eyes meet that of the boy. Will he even be able to do what his debauched public expects from a performance in a theatre like this one? His voice rings out across the auditorium, and the two slaves that Benona had seen before appear from the shadows, silently like ghosts.

He barks orders at them, and they hurry away, seemingly indifferent to who demands their service; Benona curls her lips in disgust. Slaves! Maybe she is even better off here, on this stage that will see her suffer, that will see her tortured, and in the end, hopefully, dead. All of this is still better than becoming such a mindless, frightened servant, is it not? These thoughts of spite run through her head when the young man orders her to stand; she spits in his face in defiance. Can he not see how tired she is? How very much in pain? Fuck you, she wants to whisper, but she does not know how to say in a language he will understand. He raises her by her arms then, and while his grip is still gentle, it is strong, and yes, she is so very tired, too tired to further resist...

Benona tries to read in his eyes; tries to detect something that will set him apart from the bitter man that bought her. Is she mistaken? Maybe she imagines all of this: his gentleness, his fear, his insecurity; hope can be such a treacherous friend. Uncaringly, he fastens her ankles and her wrists, just as the Torturer had before him. She groans in frustration, softly, scared of the thoughts that plague her mind; hope for his mercy – and it is not a fast death she now imagines, it is something else..something....else...but what...?... - will make her weak, and she cannot afford weakness. Damned. All of you.

***

Siham does not remember having fallen asleep, yet morning has come so quickly that she wonders where the hours went...when she finally wakes, she is alone in his bed; and to her dismay this fact upsets her. Soft voices float in from the courtyard, there is the splashing of water; but a glimpse over the rim of the bed convinces the Saracen that her slave Luna is still there, curled up on the floor, the inside of her thighs still glistening. Siham wonders what she had dreamt about –

The Roman enters the bedroom, Erudio, and he is naked; Siham cannot turn her gaze, the beauty of his body holds it captive. A man. The young woman ponders the thought, even as he takes her and Luna by the hand to lead them outside to the courtyard, where they had bathed together the previous evening. The moon-faced girl moves with grace despite her fatigue, and steps into the water without hesitation. Siham follows, enjoying the warm water on her skin; suddenly she does not care about her nudity anymore.

She caresses Luna’s body as she washes her, a few times her hands stray between the woman’s thighs, and Erudio feeds them, she is hungry and thankfully takes what he offers her on his palm. Her mind has not yet shaken off the arousing dreams of last night, and Luna skilfully lets it linger on the images that plague it...such that Siham catches herself wishing for Erudio to join them in the pool, for what she does not know. He has not calles her “slave” again – maybe he has changed his mind after all and accepted that she would not become that slave that he had purchased?

A massage. Siham lays on her stomach, closes her eyes and expects Luna to tend to her tired muscles, but then: it is him who lowers himself on top of her, gently, she stirs in surprise and a short pang of fear. Her eyes widen at the sensation of his erect cock softly brushing up against her skin; the heat radiating off his prick sends shivers over her body. She tenses under his touch; the sensuality suddenly giving way to something deeper, wilder, will he take her? Siham prepares to shake him off should he try – herself unsure if it is reflex or free will that makes her react in this way.

The woman holds her breath. How equally soft and firm his touch is; it is the first time that a man lays hands on her in this fashion; and the first time that she consents to such approach. What has changed since yesterday? She remembers his distress; what has changed? Still, she cannot relax underneath him, too real is the possibility of him taking her at any moment. The conflict rages in her mind: What is it she wants? And what, in the gods’ name, does he want?

His fingers. The way his cock lays across her thighs, teasing her every time he moves forward. His touch. His scent. Siham growls softly; what is it that turns her into such a will-less...slave? The thought coincides with him pronouncing the word out loud, she wants to protest, but the touch of his fingers on her face seals her lips.

When he returns, she sits on the low couch next to the pool, her eyes shifting from his face to the things he carries, the sounds these things make. The explanation that follows is free of malice, and yet she frowns. Let the slave fuck her, and for the first time, while her wrists are bound? Her eyes grow black with anger at his insult; and she can only barely keep herself from slapping his face. How dare he? The rest of his words barely reach her, but she knows that she needs to control her anger, that she needs to conceal thoughts of violence and revenge from him until the one opportune moment arrives – her mind is clear now; all sleep chased again from her senses. “Very well, Erudio, Nike will report to you then on what I have decided. You will find out upon your return.” It is all she says.

The Roman leaves; Siham’s black eyes follow his steps until he is out of sight. Patricles, the Torturer. Intrigued, she looks at the young woman Nike. Patricles. Maybe it is the heat that his touch has stirred in her, maybe it is the anger that his offer caused: there is a strange taste for cruelty that clouds her mind. “Read to me then, Nike.” She motions for Luna to join them and the moon-faced girl obeys at once, thousands of tiny droplets of water adorn her smooth skin like jewels. “Put on the belt, Luna, as your master has suggested.” Almost without hesitation, the slave does as told while Nike settles next to the couch. “Read to me while Luna will take you, Nike.” Her lips curl into a cold smile. “Let me enjoy artfully chosen words while my slave will fuck you like a common whore.”

Oh, Siham knows that the Roman would not approve of this tableau; but she does not want to please him; no. What an insult! His nerve! She wants to grant herself this little spiteful extravagance, and Nike’s flushed face, her fear to voice rightful protest cause a warm tingle to run down Siham’s spine.

“Go on. Begin.”

 

[patrick1]

She catches up with Erudio halfway from the forum to Patricles' sister's, 'Sir! Sir!' She has been running in her strange hopalong fashion and he has to tell her to calm down, to sit on a ruined wall beside him and take a sip of water from his pitcher, to take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from her temples before she, Nike, can tell him what the matter is.

And she tells him, tells him all that Siham did and said, and how she Nike could not bear to put the thing the male thing on her but did not dare to answer back which is why she simply burst into tears and ran away, ran all the way across town then down here and she is sorry, so sorry...

'You have nothing to be sorry for.'

'No, sir,' she says, unconvinced, still panting.

'You have nothing to be sorry for. Please, as I asked before, please go back, but there is no need to venture forth from your kitchen, watch from there, and if she challenges you, say, “Erudio has asked me to remain here and not to obey anything you say.” For she is a slave and you are not, she has no hold over you, no dominion over you, and she must learn. Understood?'

She wants to hug him. He can see. She wants to nestle in his shoulder. Her gratitude to him for freeing her, finding her a place to live and a place in life, has long turned into devotion and he has long ago decided he must never, not even when intoxicated, stray beyond the courtesies and civilities of a master and a servant. He takes her hand: 'Understood?'

'Understood sir.' She is wide-eyed with understanding. She smiles for him, she has a thin pretty pink pair of lips and she knows it, she licks them and smiles, and then she turns with a flick of auburn hair and hobbles away up the hill.

+

'Cursed. We are all cursed.'

Says Patricles, pale, gaunt, prone on a sofa beneath a coverlet of silk in his sister's house, his sister herself kneeling at his bedside, pressing a flagon of water to his lips.

His words are no answer to the question he's been put. 'So shall I set the priestess free? Or...'

What is his young nephew to do? He has recovered his nerve, and sees now in his mind's eye the woman Cunnus naked and spread between the stakes on the stage and yes, he could gladly take the place of the man who used to stand before her, but he wants some kind of authorisation from his uncle who instead babbles nonsense:

'The goddess will come for us whatever we do.'

- 'Or so shall I go ahead? With the cave-woman?'

The old man, eyes bloodshot, turns his gaze on his nephew: 'She may be the goddess for all we know.'

And this is the first moment when young Patricles wonders, seeing the older man's almost imperceptible nod, whether all this babbling is a smokescreen. Is he secretly saying yes to the cave-woman? Is he unable to speak frankly in front of his pious sister?

'I do think that's enough for the present,' says the woman, 'no, Erudio, no,' to the man entering, 'please, he must rest,' and while her attention is distracted by Erudio yes, there's another more definite nod from uncle to nephew, who rises, squeezes the older man's hand. Torturer to torturer. The cave-woman it shall be then.

+

Roused he is this morning, roused and aroused, Troilus realizes how tired he was last night, exhausted and dazed and shocked by the torture display and amazed to find himself the owner, fuck it, the owner of these two fucking beauties. One of them has tasted his lust. Yes. Which has overcome his, what? - shyness, yes, he was indeed shy of his own slaves but not now. No. Now he can't resist, in the shade of the bleachers, aroused too by the distant nude slave on the stage, Troilus can't resist reaching out to the older of his possessions – his possessions! - beside him, Shoal or something, the one who has tasted him and revealed her own carnal knowledge in doing so, he reaches out to her ample breasts. It hadn't struck him till it was done how the way he'd fastened the two young women, back to back, would force them to thrust out their breasts. Desire runs through him like the sap of spring, perhaps he could drag the pair of them down by the little stream behind the entrance and -

Agh, too late, too late, there's the young Patricles on the stage again, lording it like his uncle, 'Troilus!' he's calling, 'a morning audience will begin to enter in a count of a thousand,' good, good, just time then to take them back to their new home, for Troilus suddenly feels, commingled with his lust, an all-too-easily-imagined jealousy of the invisible throng, the throng of men who will soon be here and aroused by whatever is to happen to the pretty cunt on stage, whom they cannot get to, and what beside and among them will they see then? Two pretty Persians tied back to back all vulnerable and fuckable? No fucking way.

'I'll be here!' he calls, and as he drags the Persian women up and off – how delicious it is, they can't quite work out how to walk, sideways together or one forwards and one backwards, so they stumble after him especially if increases his pace, how their vulnerability titillates him – he already knows what he will require of them, 'You will clean this place from top to bottom!' he will say, 'yes! Tied like this! And every speck of dirt I find will be a whiplash across someone's belly – or worse - when I return for the food you will prepare! Understood?!' He laughs, revelling in how he sounds like a glorious parody of a slave-owner, and yet he is one, with two fucking beautiful slaves!

+

When Erudio returns home he finds, to his surprise, the three women in the courtyard, seemingly at ease, albeit divided by the pool. On one side sits a placid Nike, cooling her bare feet in the water, reading aloud some dull odes from Martial. On the other reclines Siham, stroking the hair of a likewise reclining Luna. They all have smiles and words of greeting for him.

He raises his hand; he strolls over to Siham, smiling. 'Martial, eh? Dull but worthy. I think a sensualist like you, Slave Siham,' and he caresses from behind the back of her neck, and then her hair, 'would prefer Catullus, surely...do you know him?' Not pausing for an answer, he goes to Luna and strokes her hair in turn,

'Sparrow, favorite of my girl,
with whom she is accustomed to play, whom she is accustomed to hold in her lap,
for whom, seeking greedily, she is accustomed to give her index finger
and to provoke sharp bites...'

Luna, to his pleased surprise, joins in the game, biting at his finger. And so he takes the game further, coiling the slave's hair in his hand until it hurts, until she cries out, as his voice modulates from lightness to darkness: 'Or there's Odi et amo.

I hate and I love. How could this be? You might ask. I don't know.
But I feel it and I am tortured.'

Yes, he has their rapt attention now. He lets go of the slave's slave, goes to Siham, and takes her hand. 'My new slave. You will come with me, if you please. I do not think you yet understand what it means to have been bought and sold. And so we shall go and sit in the audience while you watch what would have happened to you – as nearly did happen to you – if my dear old friend Patricles had acquired you instead of me. And then we will return, and talk of slavery. Come along, the show is about to begin. No, Luna can stay behind and learn some obscene Catullus with which to entertain us later. Come along!'

 

[Sweet_Denna]

Siham laughs as Nike stumbles out of the villa, sobbing and in distress. She wonders where the girl will go; after her Roman master maybe? Erudio? Good. The beautiful Saracen is content that he will learn of her outrageous behaviour at once; ne needs to understand the extent of his insult. Luna stands indecisive, the dildo in her hand, obedient as ever. Siham motions for her to drop the device and to sit with her, to caress her hair, her skin. “Where are you from, Luna? What land did they drag you off from?”

***

Benona feels how the last little bits of strength drip from her body; the last bits that she has left. The sun is already aggressive in the morning, she groans softly in her bonds. The young woman wonders how much more her mind and her body are able to endure; and which of the two will fade away first. Footsteps on the wooden planks announce the young man that has so easily replaced the older, the Torturer Patricles. The Gallic slave drinks from the cup that another woman holds to her dry lips, feels the sweet taste of a ripe peach on her tongue, a few tiny droplets roll down her chin and are swept away delicately by slender fingers.

Her eyes scan the still empty rows; they see the young Roman soldier that had been here the first night, too. She sees two bound women, standing bound in the shade, back to back; and almost completely nude. Beloved goddess, you have saved me once, please do not let them take my dignity before I break. You took the old bastard yesterday, today you shall take his offspring.

***

Bound so uncomfortably, the two sisters stumble along as their master drags them back to the Torturer’s villa. Sholeh can still feel the touch of the soldier’s hand on her breast, his unwanted, his feared touch. Her thoughts race through the events that have occurred since the previous night, she has seen his hungry looks, has clearly felt his impatience to fully sample what is now his. Even the thought of this seems unbearable – and ever since she felt his cock angrily throbbing against her lips, the threat of his desire looms over her like a suffocating, toxic cloud.

Then they arrive, but he will leave to return to the theatre of pain; both Persians are relieved. But before he parts, he voices an odd request.

Tied like this! Sholeh stares at him in disbelief, while Jaleh – forcibly facing the other way - tries to glance over her shoulder. What he asks of them is, simply put, impossible. The cleaning, yes, maybe: a cleaning rug can be plunged into a bucket of water, can be wiped across floors and colourful tiles held between the toes; but to cook? To prepare a meal? Impossible. The Persian frowns at his cruel amusement; he knows that they will likely fail to fulfil his orders, that he will have reason to deal out punishment. How much he has changed since he acquired them as his slaves. One night on the Torturer’s villa, and he is already infected with the evil that seems to linger in these walls. Having no experience in the ownership of human beings, however lowly in his eyes, he has no sense for the responsibility this task should also entail.

She can feel a tug against her arm; much like a silent question that her younger sister is too scared to ask. Sholeh’s velvet eyes stay glued to the Roman; only after a few moments have passed does she finally lower her gaze as she should before her master. “Yes, Dominus”, she says softly. “We will tend to the cleaning as you asked but it will be difficult to satisfy your palate with our hands and arms tied in a manner that forbids even holding a knife; much less adding spices to a dish.” The older sister can feel Jaleh’s muscles tense in surprise and anxious nervousness at that remark. Does Sholeh dare to challenge their new master?

Feeling her younger sister’s fear, she seeks to dissimulate the impression of defiance: “Dominus, you should only taste the finest of foods. Let us indulge you with the fine cuisine of our beloved homeland.” She hesitates, but cannot hold her tongue. “I am sure you have come to miss it, too.” The last sentence was spoken in Parsi; Jaleh gasps in shock as Sholeh looks up at Troilus. Her expression is soft, her stance submissive, but there is that glint in her large black eyes...this faint glimmer.

***

When Nike reappears, out of breath and her pretty face tear-stained, Siham welcomes her with a soft kiss on both cheeks. She has been a diligent messenger; and the Saracen is thankful for it.

Siham looks up at Erudio when he arrives only a short while afterwards; and greets him with a coy smile. Is he angry? Nike sits by the pool and reads aloud, as ordered, but the Saracen barely listens. Martial is not to her liking, and her mind still lingers on Erudio; the kindest, and weakest of slave masters. As he walks over to her, she can feel a strange heat linger on her skin, heat that is not kissed there by the sun. While she is still angry, still furious, she is glad to see him back in the house. To kill him or to caress him? About that, she is not yet sure.

Smiling at his remark on Martial, she replies: “Dull indeed. A paternalistic prude, a bitter man.” But Catullus? Maybe. She sighs, tilts her head, watching Luna nib at Erudio’s finger like the sparrow in the poem. Her eyes are glued to his face as his hand snakes around the moon-faced girl’s tresses, lightly at first, then quickly, painfully firm. Luna screams, and again Siham can feel a rush of heat rushing form the soles of her naked feet to her centre, a tingle on her fingertips. Who is this man, this Erudio? How much she would love to read his thoughts.

Then they leave, Siham does not question his wish to show her what fate he saved her from; she has already understood what kind of man the old Torturer Patricles is when she saw the Gallic priestess being paraded through the streets of Massilia. Does she need to remind him that she is not this woman? That she is not like them, that she is strong and willing to spill the blood of the man who dares to insult her? That it is not only the master that defines the slave, but that it is, as far as she is concerned, also the other way around?

Her hand in his, she follows him outside. “I much prefer the Greek Euripides”, she says softly, without meeting his gaze. “He understood the nature of tyranny; and the burden of having to serve a small-minded, unwise master.” The Saracen willingly does not elaborate if she refers to Patricles, or the man that guides her.

 

[patrick1]

It's quite a crowd for the late morning. The sun is already high in a blue sky untainted by cloud. So it's a dilemma for the theatre crowd: there's shade towards the back of the auditorium, but only at the front will anyone see in detail what is in store for the naked priestess who yesterday was beaten, and shamed, and pierced in her most intimate place – see, there, glinting in the sun, a gold ring with a tiny thing attached, that's a tiny version of her own so-called goddess you know, Arduinna, and she was raped with broken shards of a statuette of the goddess too yes, front and back, how she bled and howled - do you believe it, though? That she cursed old Patricles? And that now his prick has shrivelled away to nothing and he is dying and penitent?

Erudio and Siham are at the front, in the bright sunlight, with a pitcher of water, listening to the gossip swirl around them. Erudio has seen Troilus, the young soldier from yesterday, patrolling the crowd. Erudio finds his attention going back and forth from the nude, sweating, suffering woman on the stage, and the crowd – he wants to look at her - he can't – he must – poor thing - go on and torture her - he feels all the feelings of the crowd around him, and reminds himself to be calm, that he is here as a lesson for Siham, yes, no need to become over-excited, and – ah! Here is the young Patricles in a fine cloak of white, a red flower pinned to the left of his chest, helping a small woman entirely shrouded in toga and hood up on to the stage, the two slaves Jingle and Jangle on all fours behind them.

There's a rise in the sound around them, a few whoops. And then a hush descends.

'Fellow-Romans, citizens of the city, visitors. It is my honour, as the bearer of the name of my uncle Patricles, to continue the theatre of pain for your delectation. My uncle is indisposed, but his work goes on. Welcome!'

Is this his vocation? The shy young man whom everyone though was just a shadow of the family's better days? Is this what he was born to? He has risen, certainly to the occasion.

And the hooded woman and the slaves, now erect, begin behind to busy themselves with pots and dark liquid, and a burner, and sharp instruments, around the bound, naked victim, as he goes on:

'Inge, the cave-woman, is here today to inflict grievous tortures on the woman now known as Cunnus. Inge is a woman from the forest, mistress of the arts of piercing' – and for a moment, a theatrical moment, he reaches across to her, as if by surprise, and parts her hood to show her face – a face covered in dark swirling indistinct black images, where gold and silver rings glitter in every conceivable place, on her eyebrows, in her nose, on her lips, in her cheeks, on her tongue when she sticks it out – and there is an audible gasp, and then an unexpected round of applause, as the woman bows, and smile a toothless smile, and Patricles closes her hood over the face again.

'Mistress of the arts of piercing,' repeats the younger Patricles, 'and, as you just glimpsed on her own face, of tattooing: the painting of indelible pictures upon the body. And so, upon Cunnus's body today, she will begin, at the front, to inscribe the giant image of a cunt, from throat to pubic bone, and, on the back, the giant image of a penis,' and at that moment comes Cunnus's first cry, the woman Inge busy at her lower belly, 'every mark, friends, to make every mark she must painfully pierce the flesh, and then insert the ink, made of pine bark, and brass, and gall, and vitriol,' another cry, 'and there will be hundreds, thousands of marks upon Cunnus's body as the obscene images are inscribed there.'

'Ah!'

'And that's not all,' the young Patricles smiles, not quite hearing something ribald from the back of the audience, but saying 'Yes indeed' all the same, 'for at intervals during the day,' another cry, 'the lips of her cunt will be pierced twelve times, to insert twelve rings, six on each lip.'

There is a sound from the audience, it might be horror, it might be admiration.

And another cry from the victim as Patricles raises his hand: 'And finally, at nightfall, six buyers of six tickets, six of you, will inflict the ultimate torture, for my uncle has decreed – and who am I to disappoint him, honoured citizen? - that the woman's name must be branded across her face, C U N N U S.' A louder cry from the victim. 'Tickets from the slaves passing among you. Citizens, friends: enjoy!'

And a final burst of applause drowns out Cunnus's next cry, as slowly, so slowly, the tattoo of a cunt begins to grow up her naked torso...

 

[Sweet_Denna]

Benona is too weak to feel much, too dazed to understand what her new master has planned for her. And yet her lips part in anxious protest as he lists the tortures that await her this morning.

The pain is excruciating, but worse, much worse is the expectations of upcoming tortures. Her dry lips try to form the words of prayer, she mumbles something, but is interrupted by another moan, a scream of terror, that she voiced, yes, but that she is unconscious of forming. Oh goddess! Never in her darkest dreams had she been able to imagine such horrors. The old woman’s eyes glimmer as she glances up at the priestess’ face between the strokes of her needle.

The Gallic slave looks at the young man who ordered this to happen, who now seems to command over her fate. The young priestess says something, what is it? Is she pleading for him to spare, to save her? Or is she trying to curse him, too? Her large blue eyes shine with pending tears, the heat, the pain, the sheer terror of what is about to happen, what has long started, finally take their toll on the brave little priestess.

***

Such beauty. The woman on stage, while she looks damaged, and dirty from her earlier sufferings – is this what Erudio went to see the previous night? – is beautiful beyond anything that Siham has ever seen. Something stirs in her. Desire? How the morning sun is tangled up in the girls’ golden tresses! The Saracen would love to feel the warmth of her hair under her fingers, the taut softness of her skin on her own. She imagines the Gallic woman sighing under her caresses, and has to swallow at the thought. Then it begins.

Words branded on her immaculate face, obscene images engraved in her silken white skin? Siham gasps at the words of the brazen young Roman on stage. How could a man so young and gentle-looking, so beautiful and seemingly well-cultured, offer such scenes to this raging, to this mad audience? Does he give them what they want only, or does he dictate the taste for torture himself? The silent Siham studies his face as he talks – does she hope to find a trace of disgust, of sadness over what is about to happen? She feels Erudio’s eyes on her and frowns; did he leave her so hastily the previous night to enjoy watching this bound slave being tortured?

As the blonde priestess screams in pain, as the image of a bare cunt grows under the skilful hands the old witch, fury rises in Siham. Another wail of agony from the bound slave, Siham flinches. Such beauty, spoilt! Such grace, disfigured! “Stop this!” she mutters under her breath. Does she address Erudio? Or the young man on the stage? “Stop them!” She does not glance at the man sitting next to her, with whom she had shared moments of tenderness only a few hours earlier. Her fists are clenched into the soft fabric of her tunic. Again, Erudio had covered her to protect his Saracen from these predators that pretended to be men. For the length of a short, short second, her eyes meet those of the priestess on stage. Siham remembers Erudio’s words; that the Torturer had wanted to buy her, that it would have been her bound between these bars, her with that nearly broken look in her eyes. What barbarity!

Siham rises from her seat, infuriated. Erudio had ignored her angry whispers, or had pretended not to hear? Well, he will not be able to ignore what she has to say to him now. “How vile! Not even the barbarian tribes in the deserts of my homeland would ever dream of such barbarian depravity, of such inhumane torture. You Romans, you call yourself civilized? Worthy of ruling over en empire? Shame on you!”

Then she pauses for a moment, looks directly at him, and finally hisses: “Is this the lesson you wanted to teach me then? That you are rabid dogs?” Another moment of tense silence, before she spits out at his face. Her fury really knows no bounds, even her eyes seem darker. The curiosity about that gentle Roman, the hint of affection towards him; all of this has been washed away by her rage.

Even if she would have realized what embarrassment her behaviour causes the man who aspires to be her master, she would, very likely, not have cared. The famous slave master Erudio, belittled by his headstrong Saracen, and in front of everybody! And not simply belittled, but lectured, no, insulted! There are snickers, mocking whispers. Others have whipped their slaves’ skin off their backs for less, much less. Someone shouts: “Master Erudio, maybe you should let Patricles show you how to deal with slaves!”

But Siham does neither see nor listen to what goes on around her; outraged, the beautiful woman rushes towards the entrance, not even glancing back. How will the master slave trainer react to such outrageous disobedience? Not all have watched the scene, too enraptured by the sight on stage; they have eyes only for the sufferings of beautiful Cunnus.

***

Confused and angry, Sholeh kneels on the floor, staring at her feet. Her poor sister, the weary Jaleh, is unable to persuade her to follow their master’s orders; she fears his fury, and his whip. Chained to her older sibling, she must kneel as well, facing the other direction. “Sister....dear Sholeh...” she whispers. “Please get up; we must tend to the tasks that he has given us. Please come to your senses...” Now that the Roman is gone, she dares to speak again in her own language; it feels as if she has not addressed her sister in years.

But Sholeh just shakes her head. The task he has given them cannot be fulfilled and he knows it, so the only reason for him to ask it of them must be the possibility of punishment then. As if they are not already punished amply, by his mere presence alone! By the ever present threat of his desire, and his touch! After her challenge, he had simply left them standing there, ignoring her weak protest, as if even her words were to insignificant to even be acknowledged. And are they not?

Jaleh leans her head against that of her sister, and starts humming a song. By her own will and strength, she can accomplish nothing; if Sholeh does not comply, there is nothing to do then other than to wait for his return.

 

[patrick1]

Erudio is dreaming. Surely.

But when he wakes the dream is still true. There is a woman on a stage, moaning, and -

Ah. As he rises, he feels within him a great, an almost overwhelming disappointment. A cloud crosses the sun, as if to confirm his view of the world. What is the crowd so excited about? Why are they complaining about him standing?

He closes his eyes for a moment and sees the woman Siham in his mind's eye. Yes, he must deal with this. Yes he must.

A woman screams. He opens his eyes, and remembers who he is.

+

An hour later, he is drinking wine beside the pool at his home when a man, among the many he has sent out into the city to search, brings her to him. She is naked and in a net, a fish caught from a sea of fools. He pays the man for his trouble, and does not listen to the silly ramblings of the woman herself – her name? He has already made himself forget - and summons the slave Luna. They grapple with the wriggling fish, and stuff a ball in her mouth, binding it there, so her babbling won't disturb him any more, and bind her wrists and ankles together behind her to stop most of her struggling.

Patricles is right. That's the saddest thing.

He tells her this, in the carriage a little later, she naked in her net again on the floor, hogtied, gagged, his sandalled feet resting on her flesh. He has asked Nike to accompany them, and she too, beside him, rests her bare feet on the slave's skin.

'I should have left you to Patricles,' he says to the heaving flesh at his feet. 'You and he are of one kind: that this is about power, that the master must express his power on the slave's flesh, that the slave must always fight her powerlessness.'

'Such futile nonsense, I always feel, on both sides.' He could have loved her, he liked her spirit, but what can he do but press his feet into her and say: 'It's a game we play. You are a slave, I am a master. I was the kindest master you could have had. All you gave me was petulance, rebellion, a dream of escape I daresay. And there comes a point where it cannot be tolerated. I train the future mistresses of colonial civil servants, who will understand that they are slaves, and make the most of their good fortune to be beautiful, intelligent, and in the right place at the right time. I do not train silly girls who dream their brothers are about to gallop over the mountain and liberate them from a fate worse than death, so they can go on and on being arrogant.'

They are at the slave market. He nods to the silent, ever-watchful Nike, who goes out to find Abu Ghassan. Erudio's head buzzes with something like pain, down the left side. What is it that the world is saying? Pay no heed. He takes hold of the woman's hair – thank the goddesses, he has forgotten her name – and says: 'You accuse my tribe of cruelty? Here in Massilia there are deaf dumb and blind beggars – because your Saracen cousins tore out their tongues, destroyed their eardrums, burnt out their eyes. Tribes. Agh. I had high hopes of your intellect. But I see now, I should have left you to Patricles, to be tortured. That's what you understand. To be bound like this: that's what you understand. Mine – my game – you would have had to be...well...'

The door is open. Abu Ghassan is there. Erudio is a good customer, so he knows the slave-dealer will take her back, and that Nike, watching behind, will have explained the situation to him, as she has before. The dealer will take offers for her, naked, caged, but confirm nothing for two days. After that Erudio will visit the woman again – yes, he has wilfully forgotten her name, it begins with S, for Slave, yes – and discuss her fate with her for the last time.

'She's all yours,' he says. The man lifts her out. Erudio helps Nike into the carriage. Siham, that's her name. Don't look. He closes his eyes. This is how it must transpire. Yes. Yes.

 

[Sweet_Denna]

Siham errs through the narrow streets of the city.

She has done him wrong. In assuming that he enjoyed this cowardly, this sadistic display of power. He has not followed her out of the theatre. Now, that her anger has cooled, that she has had time to contemplate the events that have transpired, she wonders where he is. If he will come for her. If he is angry. Erudio. How miserably his lesson has failed. And how miserably she has failed him. No, she had had no right to humiliate him so, to accuse him of a crime he simply exposed to her.

The Saracen must be a curious sight, her slender body so unusually concealed by a dark cloak, but her legs, parting the fabric with every step, clearly bare. Without any direction, she walks, until she reaches the old port, the place where Erudio had first laid eyes on her. The sea is calm in the morning, in lazy waves, the water washes against the stone walls of the port and against the few fisher boats that have come back early. Siham stops, and takes a deep breath, and decides to sit down. To wait for Erudio?

Her eyes caress the horizon; beyond it lies home. Her naked feet dangle over the water, and a few fishermen shout out cheerful obscenities. Yes, she has wronged Erudio. The images of the bound priestess flash through her mind. His words. Siham knows that she owes him the possibility of revenge. An excuse?

The man who finally grabs her, tears the cloak from her shoulders and throws a net around her as if catching fish - Siham did not hear him approach her. The first moments of panic cause her to cry out, but there is also a sting of joy: Is it because she knows that the Roman must have sent this slave hunter?

“A rogue slave! That’s all she is!” The man who captured her still sees the need to calm a curious crowd who comes rushing to witness the scene. Then a hard hit, and black, leaden silence.

***

Why do invisible fists force all air from her lungs when she sees him by the pool, a cup of wine in his hand, and so terribly calm? Erudio. The confusion, the throbbing pain against her skull, the sudden exposure to sunlight: the excuse she stammers is in a language the Roman cannot understand. Does it matter at all? Siham searches his eyes, but he grants her no glance.

Then she is gagged, and bound, and the insolent Luna – does she detect a smirk on her face? – diligently assists in subduing her mistress. It makes her angry again, and at the same time there is something else, sadness, perhaps, that this is how it will end.

***

Now, bound, gagged and tied, she feels disappointment more than anything else. Fear? No. Siham has long forgotten what the kiss of fear feels like on her skin. But that he simply discards her now; that he did not even contemplate punishment; that he refuses to lower himself to the likes of Patricles – it fills her with vague pride, with respect for the Roman Erudio.

And finally, he speaks.

She would like to respond to him, but cannot. Yes, those foolish Romans that ventured into the lands that she once called home, they have suffered the punishment for their arrogance. She does not consider them victims of her countrymen’s cruelty, and does not mourn their unfortunate fate. Soldiers and mercenaries, all of them, why would she even waste another thought of what has been done to these thieves? But that woman, that beautiful priestess – even now the thought of her makes Siham’s skin sing in anticipation – she had been abducted to be tortured for the amusement of a depraved people that claims to deal out civilization to other, more “barbaric” men.

But where is the arrogance in hoping for freedom? In refusing to become the slave of another? Hope of escape? Yes, of course, always. But never had it crossed her mind that someone would miraculously save her; that someone would take on what she considered her own responsibility. Her brothers would expect no less of their brave sister. Is her courage not the reason that her father sent her away? Suddenly her heart aches in her chest, but not from the pressure of Erudio’s feet. But he continues to speak, unaware, no, uncaring of her thoughts.

She tries to crane her neck, to catch his glance with hers, to no avail. It seems as if he has already wiped her from his mind, not even the faint trace of anger that she detected in his voice earlier is there anymore. The mistress of a Roman bureaucrat! Despite her gag and her uncomfortable position, she cannot help but smirk at this suggestion.

He, too, fails to understand. That to Siham the thought of submission is worse than anything else. It is not about the constant struggle for power. Not about force and torture, no. It is the freedom, the choice to submit to another that makes the Saracen shiver. And Patricles! Siham feels the anger rising again. He is no master, no man; a rabid animal, a fearful dog that enjoys the excitement of torturing bound, helpless women. Erudio does not understand that she would never, never submit to this man, that she despises everything he represents, and that she would die a thousand deaths under his hand before crawling before him – and yes, to Siham this seems like an easy task, so much easier than what Erudio has asked from her, he...

When he had caressed her, massaged her skin, how vulnerable he had been in his desire! And how close had she been to letting go, to handing herself over to his craving. And yet. She can feel the light touch of Nike’s feet on her shoulders. Then, the carriage stops.

***

Abu Ghassan frowns as the carriage stops in front of his house. The Saracen. He had had a bad feeling selling her to the gentle Erudio. He had feared that this might happen. With a dirty curse in his own tongue he hurls her out of the carriage, his fingers roughly grabbing her hair. And still her black eyes glimmer with rage and arrogance! His hard slap in her face sends the young woman, bound as she is, to the floor - Abu Ghassan does not handle rejection well, and nothing damages his business like rejected merchandise – news of this will stick to his very robes like dog shit.

No, she is still untouched. The hasty, shy whispers of Nike do little to calm the slave trader. “So! But what good will her virgin cunt do after the Master Erudio threw her out of his house?” The attentive Nike – he remembers her sad little tale, having himself sold her to Patricles once – looks at him with big, unwavering eyes. “Fine. Tell Erudio that I will take her back. But tell him also that after two days – and two days exactly – this little princess will be sold to the brothels.” A nod and the fairy-like servant is gone. The brothels! But who else would buy her, no matter her virgin beauty, no matter her spirit – if Erudio has given up on her this quickly? The money he had paid for her! Abu Ghassan grinds his teeth with the thought of the lost fortune.

Have the gods cursed him? First that amateur brat, spoiling his business with this little Gallic priestess; then Patricles, his most-esteemed customer, falling suddenly so ill that the Torturer has to send his nephew to tend to his theatre; and now this? “What have you done, you Saracen whore? What on earth have you done to anger Erudio? Do you not know that the gods have blessed you with a master as refined, as cultured, and as skilled as him? You barbarian cunt, I wish the barren deserts that have spit you out would swallow you again!” He kicks her in the ribs, knowing that every bruise will further lower her price.

She cannot get up on her own, and for a moment, the slave trader relishes her helplessness. He bows down and whispers in her ear: “But heed my words, Saracen: In two days, you will get a taste of what it really means to be the slave of the Romans.”

 

[patrick1]

Erudio does not want to close his eyes or open them.

The carriage jogs and he shuts his eyes to try and cope with the motion and he sees the Saracen, naked, as he has never truly seen her but here she is in his imagination, naked and spread and waiting for him, her eyes melting with desire.

He has left her behind at the slave market for her recalcitrance. He may never see her again.

He open his eyes. There is Nike, opposite him, smiling: the woman whom he freed from Patricles' torturing clutches, the woman who would do anything for him, who would almost certainly lie naked in his arms and tell him every detail of her excruciating treatment at patricle's hands until he exploded with desire inside her.

He has resolved never to so much as touch her except inadvertently.

'Sir, are you...?'

Her hand is on the back of his. Her fingers are long and slender.

'I need to stop the – Coachman! Stop!'

She touches his hand again. The coach stops, he tells her to continue the journey without him, yes yes he will be fine, just a touch of the sun, not to worry, not to worry.

Of course, he is on the dusty road just below the villa of Patricles' sister, isn't he?

Might distract him, the sickly old fool (beware, still a dangerous man), yes, yes.

Erudio climbs the hill, feeling twice his age.

+

Troilus is bored.

All the woman does on the stage is weep, and weep again, and howl when the needle pierces her skin again, and weep, and -

And the crowd. The young Patricles, perhaps sensing boredom in the crowd itself, is now allowing the audience ten at a time to crouch on the stage itself, just a few feet away from the suffering woman, so they can see her sweat, the blood dripping down her belly from the wounds of her tattooing, her glistening skin, her untarnished beauty despite her torture.

Troilus holds back the eleventh and twelfth and thirteenth and tries to understand why he is starting to dislike the crowd. Even, to despise them, slavering for more blood, to witness more suffering, the suffering of a woman who never harmed them, suffering inflicted not by their hands but only by their surrogates. Why, he too has slaves but he has earned them, hasn't he? Earned the money, however nefariously, to own them? Earned through his own suffering some sort of right to inflict it? Been physically and mentally scarred by Persians so that other Persians deserve to be scarred by him, don't they?

So it's with fury, a pent-up fury that he reacts when a man tugs at his sleeve and murmurs of money – what need has he of money, for Jove's sake? How many more morons are going to try and bribe their way onstage?

Then he listens. A man with a country accent. He might take Troilus' place among the guards so Troilus himself can go and rest? And there's something in it for him?

He thinks of the Persian sisters, and his fury is gone in a moment. He looks up at the man offering the bribe: a handsome fellow, fair like the woman on stage, sturdily-built. 'Not a word to young Patricles.' 'Not a word.'

Relieved of duty, relieved of the onerous feelings of duty, Troilus pushes away through the crowd, resolving to refresh himself with a glass or two of wine to swish away the morning before seeing how his slaves have dealt with their task, not seeing the fair man murmur in the ear of a child who then runs, runs off up the hill in the opposite direction...

+

Young Patricles is tired. The heat; the responsibility; the endless pressures of the morning.

He has hardly enjoyed the sight of the woman. Time to have her to himself.

His announcement is not welcomed. 'The show will be resumed at moonrise, just before sunset. We must allow our Cunnus to recover so she may suffer for us again! Show is over! Show is over!'

The guards usher the crowds away. So many people he employs now, he doesn't recognize half of them.

And there she is, half-hanging in her bonds: Cunnus herself, head bowed, sweat-streaked, her body bloody and already, from belly to just beneath her breasts, tattooed. He touches the design. It's elaborate, he looks round to praise the hooded cave-woman but she too has vanished into the shadows. He turns back to the priestess, caresses the lines of her tattoo. She seems half-conscious. Only when he tickles the ring at her cunt does she look up at him, blank-eyed. How he wants her. This is what his uncle must feel, this great wave of power, and desire, and pleasure in another's pain, all wonderfully commingled. He will drag her back to her cell below the stage, and lick every wound on her while she moans and curses. He reaches up to untie her wrists.

+

There are four horsemen, helmeted, armed with spears and swords. At the brow of the hill they divide: two along the coast, two up towards the stadium.

Two of them pass a startled Troilus, walking with uneven gait out of the tavern, towards his Persian beauties. They turn at the corner beyond the tavern, and trot up to the place where Patricles's sister lives. Erudio is outside, taking the air, while within Patricles sleeps. 'Is that him?' 'No.'

One dismounts, then the other. 'We have business with Patricles.'

'I'm afraid,' says Erudio mildly, 'he's...'

He says no more. The man's blow across his face knocks him to the ground.

And in what seems a moment they emerge, the two strangers, with Patricles borne between them. They sling him over the back of the piebald horse. One fastens him down with a strap. 'Please,' says Erudio, struggling to rise, 'he's a sick man....'

'He is indeed,' says the horseman, mounting. 'Very sick.'

And they ride off to join, three junctions up the hill, their two fellows: one with the tortured woman in his arms, astride his horse with him; the other with the trussed younger Patricles slung over the back. And they ride, no-one in time to follow them, ride east, back to the brow of the hill and beyond, the four horsemen, and the torturers, and the tortured...

 

[Sweet_Denna]

Jaleh grows uneasy with every idle minute that passes. If he returns to find his two slaves on the floor like this, having done nothing, nothing at all...! “Sholeh...sweet Sholeh”, she tries to convince her sister. “Let us at least try, let us prove to him that we tried, so that we may escape the sting of his whip...” Her sister, however, does not move a muscle. The younger Persian’s arms are burning with pain from being unable to move them, and she almost wishes for the Roman to return, would it not have been for his threat.

A threat he will not hesitate to act upon, for sure; their master has changed so quickly, accustomed himself almost too fast to being the owner of two Persian women, his hand will not waver. She clears her throat as she feels the soft skin of her sister’s back moving against hers with every breath. “Soroush would not want you to suffer, dear Sholeh. He would never want you to give in to your sadness...” Sudden and complete silence falls over the room, a tension so thick that Jaleh is afraid that her sister might strike her. But then-

A head appears in the doorway, a pale, freckled face adorned by untameable crimson locks. “Oh my, you look lamentable!” A voice clear like a crystal bell, the cheerful sound of it seems to shatter the layers of melancholy that had suffocated both sisters. She, too, is almost naked, wearing nothing but a thin iron band around her neck and a loose-fitting garment that does not cover her breasts. Surely she must be one of the slaves of the house of Patricles who had been unable to quench her curiosity about the young Roman master and his two Persian slaves.

Slowly, tiptoeing, she enters the room. “I heard earlier what your master has asked of you two.” She kneels in front of Jaleh, tilts her head in friendly curiosity. “I will help you.” Sholeh looks up, and tries to glimpse over her shoulder. “The Roman will punish you if he learns of this.” The redhead laughs. “Then let’s hope that he never finds out.” With a smile, she adds: “And besides, I would not complain if that soldier would want to lay hands on me.” Then she is gone, only to reappear moments later with a bucket of water and rugs. “Here, help me with this. You can wrap these around your feet and wipe the floors while I handle the corners that you cannot reach bound like this.”

She lends Jaleh a hand and pulls her to her feet, Sholeh must follow. “You know...it’s no use to despair like this. If your master tires of you, and he will, if your eyes lose their fire, you will be sold to the brothels. And trust me, my sweet beauties; you do not want to find yourselves there.” Her voice has lost nothing of its clarity, but her tone is sincere. “And two beautiful women like you should rather indulge in their master’s desires; you will see, it will be him who will be bowing to your wishes in no time at all.”

Jaleh likes the spirited young woman who appeared out of nowhere to save the day. Ex machina. Sholeh is less eager to lend her her ear. But she does swipe the tiled floor as she is told, lost in thought and memories. “And food he requested?” Jaleh nods. The redheaded slave laughs. “Oh, he is deliciously vicious, your master.” With a deep sigh, she continues. “Patricles has no interest in me whatsoever, I enjoy pain, and I enjoy a hard cock, whereas he wants merely to torture and rip anxious screams from the lips of his slaves.” Jaleh blushed deeply and pretends to focus on a dark spot beneath her rag-clad foot. Sholeh’s voice cuts through the air like a knife: “Our master is a bad man and a killer; I would prefer the vice of the Torturer.”

The other slave stops in her movements, rises from the floor. Her green eyes lock with Sholeh’s silken gaze. “No. You would not.” Her hand caresses the black tresses. “You would not.” It is all she says, before she returns to her task.

***

Siham kneels on a platform; again. The slick Abu Ghassan has overcome his initial anger, and soon realized that he can sell the Saracen yet for a fine price. Already, a few interested customers have flocked at his shop. There is one, a delicate man with hard lines around his mouth, who has offered more than even Erudio paid. Siham follows the exchange with angry vigour; the trader has promised her former master to wait, and two days, before selling her off to another. But she also knows that the greedy Egyptian will have a hard time to resist the luring glimmer of coins. The man who wants to take the Saracen home has an allure of aristocracy about him, of a man who is used to being obeyed. Siham throws him the most defiant glances she can muster; she does not dare to speak out, not after all that has happened.

Will Erudio come? Will he take her back?

 

[patrick1]

Troilus has lost his balance.

No he hasn't.

Yes he has.

He picks himself up from the dust. He has seen, in the bottom of a glass, the third? - maybe the fourth – what he will do.

For no good reason. That's the point.

A voice in his head said, there must be a reason. Slaves obey or disobey. They are punished if they disobey.

But what if I want to punish them anyway? Out of sheer anger?

And after four good glasses – maybe five – he has seen what he must do, when he has been to the place the horsemen go, and pretend he too is a horseman.

+

They have cleaned the place. How strange. He had been hoping to punish them for disobedience. But here is the place cleaned, and a stew bubbling on the stove.

Now he will simply have to punish them – for no good reason.

He laughs. How pretty they are. How they will understand their slavery better, to be punished for no good reason.

'Well done,' he says, unfastening them. Caressing the older one's breasts. The younger one flinches and cowers even as he doesn't touch her.

Ah.

'On your back, Now! No! Only you!'

Sholeh and Jaleh. They could run, even between them they could overpower him, now, this moment.

Keep them guessing and it won't occur to them.

And now he opens the big bag he obtained at the place the horsemen go. He takes out the knife and the younger one cries out. He strokes her hair: ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he says, wanting to make her afraid. And then he's struggling to cut the first piece of rope, of all the pieces of rope that are going to bind the one woman to the other, and she, Sholeh, she sees the whip in his bag and she says 'No.'

He smiles, cutting into the rope so it's big enough for her wrist and her sister's ankle. That's the way it'll be, bind them face to snatch, make them smell each other, disgusting fucking Persians...

'No,' she's saying, but he only realises a moment too late that she's not saying 'No' to him but to her sister. As he half-turns he sees Jaleh, arms raised, his jar for wine raised there, and he's too astonished and a little too drunk to react until the thing hits him, on the side of the head, and oblivion rushes up to meet him from somewhere like Hades. And he comes round for a moment, swirling through dark waters, feeling himself being bound with his own ropes, and then a deeper oblivion strikes him in the face.

+

Young Patricles cries 'No' again but they still bit him, in the ribs this time, and then again, and he spits out a tooth, the taste of blood, but what can it be they want him to say? He has been foolish, bad, evil perhaps, and that's why he's ended up on this boat wherever he is, moored miles from home, being beaten by strangers, but what does he know how to say but the truth?

'Please,' he gasps when they take a breather, 'Please, it's all true. I watched her being tortured and raped, knowing she could never be your virgin priestess, ju- just like you say, I watched and then, then I did, I tortured her myself, I did it all, that's why she is marked like that...'

They babble at each other in a language he doesn't understand. If he tells them the final truth will they kill him for it? Or stop killing him?

He will tell them. Whatever it costs him.

'Please,' and the older of his jailors steps out of the shadows and bends to him. 'Please,' says Patricles, 'I know I have done wrong, I tortured her. But I touched her, and looked into her eyes, and I know this terrible thing: It gave her pleasure.'

'Don't you...' the older man begins, but the younger one comes forward. 'What did you say?'

'We treated her abom, abominably, as a spectacle of degradation and pain for our own satisfaction. And it gave her pleasure. Why don't you ask her? It gave her pleasure.'

+

How weary Erudio is when he gets home. How appalling to see his old friend and enemy carried off like that. How depressing to feel failure, the first failure of his slave-training life, sweep over him. How sad to know from the experience of a lifetime that even half a dozen glasses of the best Etruscan wine will not salve this wound.

And yet Nike, waiting at his door, is eager to tell him something. And so they are in his courtyard, and he is sipping wine, and Nike is sprawled on the floor at his feet even though he's encouraged her to lie on the couch, telling him her idea. 'My cousin – he came back from the British wars with his mind a little gone – I have never told you before but I look after him. He will help me.'

'Help you do what?'

'Be your representative. With the Saracen woman.'

'My – representative?' Is this wine stronger than he remembered?

'My cousin's dog has died. He is no longer good with people. He hates everyone but me. But he loved his dog. A bitch it was. And it loved him. But only after he had trained her. It. I remember how cruel he was at first, it made me flinch or have to leave: but it loved him soon enough. I believe he would love to have a new bitch to train. Sir.'

'Sir me no sirs. Let me think.' Erudio blinks to make sure he's awake. He mulls over her words to make sure he understands. Would this make him a kind of Patricles? Why doesn't he just leave the Saracen to the whoremongers down at the port? Massilian scum.

Because he has never failed before. And this might be a kind of surrogate success. He already sees himself explaining to people: One needs the judgment to know when to delegate training to someone more appropriate. And it would please the woman at his feet.

Erudio takes a deep draught of wine, and smiles. 'Go fetch your cousin now.' He pushes away her effusive response as she stands to embrace him. 'Go, go. I will get the money. Don't even tell that old scoundrel Abu Ghassan who you come from. Wait till the very moment her time is up, but not a moment later. Go. Go.'

She has kissed him on the forehead. It cannot be avoided, her affection.

He closes his eyes, smiling. Nike's cousin's bitch. He sees the Saracen on all fours, in collar and leash, naked, barking.