‘Clitor? Where’s that?’ Parata checked out the lovely face of Nymphe and her perky breasts sitting high on her chest.
‘Would you like to find out?’ Nymphe sidled closer.
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. All sexual acts depicted in this story take place between consenting adults.
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Title: Training Day
Author: Lucius
Content Warnings: A training fight between two women gladiators that results in a few bruises. The narrator recalls a harsh whipping of another female fighter and her killing a Roman soldier.
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This story was inspired by a netizen who wanted to read about the daily life of female gladiators. I ran with the idea.
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Training Day
Rome
7 June AD 158
I
Parata checked the leather straps holding her manica, the arm-guard of padded, quilted linen, in place—tight enough. She slipped the strong fingers of her right hand out of the loops holding the glove which covered only the outside of her hand and thumb, then put the mitten back on. Her sword-arm was protected nicely. Her left arm was bare, just like her well-muscled torso—all that flesh was for the shield to protect.
She glanced at her opponent. In the opposite corner of the ill-lit room where the gladiators prepared, Fusca the Ethiopian was quietly humming something in her native language while carefully untangling her net.
‘Zosime, my hood and helm!’ Oh, not another hand-me-down from the men! ‘What’s that, Zosime?’ Parata growled in her German-accented Latin.
‘Well, what does it look like? It’s for your head and your neck,’ the old Greek
ludia
‘female slave at the gladiatorial school’ (Latin)
‘Just tell me one thing,
doule
‘female slave’ (Greek). One of the very few words in that language Parata has learnt. 
‘What do you want—a silken hood straight from
Serica
China
‘I’m gonna do just that real soon!’ Fusca hefted her blunted trident. ‘
Ave Auguste! Ave Caesar!
‘Hail the Emperor! Hail Caesar!’ (Latin) By the mid-2nd century AD heirs to the throne were addressed as caesars, the emperors themselves as augusti. Fusca expects to greet the Emperor Antoninus Pius and Caesar Aurelius Verus, known to us as Marcus Aurelius.
‘The scourge’s gonna make your sweet behind look real nice real soon!’ Parata interjected, mocking Fusca’s uncouth Latin. Fusca had spoken the truth—the Ethiopian girl’s place in the celebrations of twenty years of the Emperor Antoninus Pius’ reign was secure. With Vitalis, the former rebellious Moorish chieftainess, happily pregnant and officially freed as of yesterday, Rome had no better net-fighting woman.
True enough, Rufilla the British rebel was hardly weaker than Fusca. She had beaten Parata in their Saturnalia fight, leaving an ugly scar running down the German’s left flank as a reminder.
But then the reckless redhead screamed ‘Free Caledonia!’ loud enough for the whole Flavian Amphitheatre to hear.
It could’ve earned her the cross, but in the forgiving spirit of Saturnalian festivities Lollius Urbicus, the Prefect of the City, let her off with a sound flogging. On a cold December day Rufilla was put naked to the post set in the middle of the arena of the Ludus Dacicus, the whole school having assembled to witness her punishment. Urbicus and a few senators came to attend as well.
The memory of Rufilla quivering in silent agony under the strokes of a heavy three-tailed whip wielded by a burly trainer, the flakes of snow falling on her long, freckled back criss-crossed with cruel red-blue weals, swam before Parata’s eyes. The German had had her share of harsh floggings, and she couldn’t help but admire the fortitude of the untamed Briton who had just bested her—had almost killed her.
On the Kalends of January Parata, her side still bandaged, bribed a guard to sneak into the punishment cell where Rufilla was held in solitary confinement after her flogging, bringing with her a jar of fine wine and a pot of ointment for the Briton’s wounds. The women ushered in the year of Tertullus and Sacerdos by getting drunk together, and then Parata somehow ended up lying on the bed naked with Rufilla’s bare wealed arse right there in her face and then Rufilla stretched herself atop Parata’s powerful body so that each woman was pleasuring the other with her mouth…
‘Ugh! Now the helmet!’ Zosime had pulled the hood over Parata’s head. The memories floated away. No one in charge of the vicennalia celebrations was going to take a chance on Rufilla, so Fusca it was.
Parata knew well that her ranking among the female secutors was in greater doubt. Andromacha was no more, yet the records of her fellow German, Rhenana of the Chatti, and Cosmias the Armenian robber-woman were more impressive, so beating the Ethiopian today was a must. Only then would Parata’s name be considered for the vicennalia slot, to face Fusca again.
‘Why bother, Parata?’ Fusca said with a broad grin, her even white teeth gleaming in the dark face.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Your head, this fish-head,’ Fusca nodded at the helmet held by Zosime. ‘Both huuuge, thick, squarish, with teeny tiny eyes—who can tell between ’em?’
Zosime cackled. The strapping, broad-shouldered German fighting-woman was large-headed, and her wide face with small, deep-set grey-blue eyes was no great threat to Venus.
‘Put the name change request in yet, girlie? You oughta be renamed Hilaritas,’ Parata grunted.
Fusca always went for pre-training teasing, even if Parata and she stayed on friendly terms. Most female rebels and criminals forced into gladiatorship were as well, despite the ever-present chance of having to kill your acquaintance on the sands. However, with the influx of fresh captives from—most fittingly—Dacia, where the Roman army was suppressing yet another rebellion, all of them lived in cramped quarters, four or five women to a cell, which inevitably led to short, frayed tempers.
‘Ready, lasses?’ Hermes the referee looked in the room just as Zosime was adjusting Parata’s heavy, rounded helmet, absence of the heavy crest being the only concession to her sex.
‘Let’s do it!’ Fusca, light and fit, sauntered past Zosime to the door. Parata grabbed her blunted sword and the old, battered scutum, the faded emblem of an eagle grasping a hare barely discernible on the curved shield, and followed the Ethiopian.
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II
The small audience scattered along the benches of the small amphitheatre cheered Parata and Fusca when they trotted briskly to the centre of the arena, the sand warm and soft under the toughened soles of their bare feet. The young women stood still facing the honoured guests while the under-referee presented them.
In the front row sat two men in white tunics slashed with broad purple stripes. Wearing the laticlave was the privilege of the senatorial order, but one of the two, a light-skinned Numidian in his early twenties, was too young to sit in the Senate House. Parata and Fusca recognized Lollius Germanicianus, the son of the Prefect of the City. Cassius Apollinaris was more than twice as old, a known connoisseur of gladiatorship who last autumn returned to Rome after a long absence governing oriental provinces. The men were flanked by a few Roman knights, their tunics adorned with the narrow stripes of the equestrian order.
A pretty brown-skinned woman was leaning forward from the second tier of seats between the two senatorial guests, telling them something. Vitalis the peerless net-woman—now Aelia Vitalis, freedwoman of the Emperor, retired to a nice flat in the Campus Martius courtesy of a senator whose child she was carrying—kept dropping by her old gladiatorial school, and she came to watch Parata and Fusca fight.
So did almost all female gladiators and quite a few of the men, fighters and trainers both. Parata saw the robust frames of the cheering Rhenana and Cosmias, Rufilla with her fiery hair, the famous dancing-girl and courtesan Sextilia Valerina sitting next to the Briton, the bevy of dark-eyed Dacian novices in the upper tier, then turned her head to look at Fusca. Her trident and dagger in one hand, her net in another, the dark-skinned woman held herself erect, dazzling the audience with her toothsome smile, seemingly unconcerned by her near-nudity.
‘Don’t be coy, Parata, show us yer tits too!’ Rapax the trainer shouted.
Men. Parata rolled her eyes, thankful that her face was hidden by the helmet. She had been keeping her shield in front of her, but at Rapax’s command she set it to the side, presenting her large breasts to the audience. Showing off, she flexed her bare left biceps, strong from training with weights, making the muscle ripple impressively under the fair skin.
The men and quite a few of women shouted their approval.
‘Parata! Looking good!’ Vitalis’ voice cut through the noise.
A thin trickle of sweat ran from beneath the thick quilted wrappings Parata wore under the small greave of boiled leather on her left leg. The sun blazed in the cloudless June sky.
The longer the fight continues, the more advantage to Fusca.
‘Get ready!’ Hermes’ wooden staff swooshed between the fighters, and the women separated to take their positions at the long axis of the arena.
‘Fight!’
Hot blood rushed through Parata’s veins. Taking swift strides, she advanced at Fusca, who danced away from her pursuer with a well-practised ease. The Ethiopian’s legs, long and muscled, seemed to float over the sand as she broke into a ran. No one ever booed the fleeing net-fighters—retreat was their only weapon of defence. Fusca had the manica on her left arm with the galerus, the tall shoulder-guard of dented bronze, attached. That was it.
Fight or flight—and Fusca was about to go on the attack, to try and net her ‘fish’. Wheeling around to face Parata, her eyes fierce, she thrust her trident forward, swinging her net in circles.
Parata noticed the first throw and ducked, raising her scutum to the level of her eyes, so that the weighted meshes of Fusca’s net rattled harmlessly against her helmet and shield. In a heartbeat Parata charged, her sword flashing, pushing Fusca’s trident away with her shield, but Fusca recovered her net by the little cord bordering it and whirled away, ready to attack again.
Twice more her net slid off Parata’s helmet and shield, tumbling onto the sand, only for the Ethiopian to scoop it up and try again. Then Fusca fumbled the fourth throw, and Parata left her no time to recover the net.
‘
Lupa!
‘She-wolf!’ (Latin) Harlot, a swear word here
‘Ungh!’ Fusca landed a hard hit at Parata’s left leg—even with the greave and padding it made the German grunt. A heartbeat later, a violent thrust above the shield rattled her helmet well and good. Parata parried the next blow with her sword.
The women went at it with a zest, exchanging lightning-quick blows and parries, neither one gaining an advantage over the other, but the tremendous exertion was telling. Parata was panting heavily, her body bathed in sweat, her brain was baking in the heavy iron helmet that was making it difficult for her to see and breathe, her leg hurt, but the trial of brute force favoured her. The dark skin of her adversary shone with perspiration too, her scars standing out, she was slowing a little bit.
Fusca tried to break the contact, but Parata was all over her. Her sweat-wet breasts swinging, she inexorably followed the retreating net-woman. Fusca’s best bet was to go after Parata’s legs again, and she violently attacked from below, but Parata was ready—she smashed her shield down on the inclined shaft of the trident with all her strength, making Fusca lose her grip with a desperate cry. The Ethiopian drew aside, but the German lunged at her and slammed into Fusca’s flank with her shield, knocking her woman down on to the sand as the spectators cheered lustily.
Fusca landed on her back, winded. In a heartbeat Parata was above her, impatiently tapping her heaving breasts with the flat of her sword.
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III
‘Get off my tit!’ Fusca groaned hoarsely. The Ethiopian let go of the dagger and raised her forefinger in surrender.
‘Parata of the Chauci wins!’ Hermes shouted.
Putting down her shield and sword, Parata helped Fusca get up, then took off her helmet and the offending hood, airing the clumps of sweat-matted hair plastered to her head and neck. The German waved at the small audience, basking in the cheers of the small crowd, while Fusca stood next to her, rivulets of sweat tracing designs on her gritty back. The women embraced briefly before collecting their arms and leaving the arena.
‘Water,’ Parata panted as they entered the preparation room. Zosime filled two large, chipped clay cups while the female gladiators divested themselves of their gear. Now naked, they drank deeply, cool water bringing relief to their parched throats.
‘One real nasty blow you gave me with that shield of yours,’ Fusca said, returning the empty cup to Zosime to nurse her shoulder. ‘Never one to go easy on a friend, huh? You fat German savage!’
‘How about smashing your trident full force into my leg, skinny?’ Parata finished drinking. ‘Oh well, that’s what Rome really wants from us. They wish to see us not holding back anything.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Fusca nodded. ‘What I want real bad from Rome right now is to get into one of their many baths.’
‘Right,’ Parata ran her hand over the salt-caked skin of her stomach. ‘Pity the Baths of Titus are men-only at this hour.’
‘Let’s hit the Baths of Telesphorus in the Subura!
‘Uh-huh, that bath-house is women-only on the Nones.’
‘Whores-only, am I right?’ Fusca sniggered. ‘Zosime, our tunics!’
‘You, Fusca, might as well stay naked,’ Zosime said with a grin, throwing their clothes at them.
‘What?’ Startled, Fusca almost screamed. ‘No way...’
‘I heard one of the hoity-toity slaves of that old senator talking to our Gallus. The big man wants the pleasure of your company, and they were talking denarii.’
‘Parata! Quick, let’s get out of here!’ Fusca, her dark eyes open wide in alarm, shook out her plain tunic and quickly slipped it over her head. ‘Please! I can’t—I can’t—just not today! Ooooh!’ She let out a string of curses in Latin and Greek.
The German put on her tunic and hugged Fusca. They were no more than imperial slaves, and Gallus the head trainer from time to time lent his charges to very important and well-paying customers for private shows. Among others, Fusca and Parata had entertained Roman senators and knights with their fighting skills.
At least it was blunted-weapons-only business, just like today. But sometimes a lot more was involved. Parata still shuddered from the memories of one night last year when she and Cosmias were hired out to entertain a senatorial youth and his friends, just back in the city from their studies at Athens.
Parata did beat the hardened robber-woman from Armenia, but then the young louts ordered them to get naked, lie down on the marble floor and impale themselves on a single huge double-headed wooden dildo. The young worthies laughed and cheered and howled along with their whores while Parata and Cosmias writhed on the floor, each woman straining the cunt of the other with her pushes. When the spectators had their fill of the obscene fight, Parata and Cosmias were lifted off the floor and fucked in all holes.
Parata was tough, but she wasn’t made of stone.
‘Zosime! What about our passes?’ Parata asked, breaking the hug and bending to tie her sandals. Fusca, all fidgety, listening to the sounds in the corridor, looked ready to bust out of the school and into the streets in her bare feet, but thought better of it and did the same.
‘All settled, girls,’ Zosime told them ‘Just get your tokens from Eros the door-keeper as you leave, and let gods below take those horny senators and their perfumed boys! See you!’
‘Let all the senators in Rome wait!’ Fusca almost dragged Parata to the door.
Escaping the unwanted attentions of a high-born fornicator was good enough for one day. The man might forget about Fusca by tomorrow, and the days after the Kalends, Nones and Ides were considered unlucky anyhow. Parata smiled, reckoning that few Romans were foolhardy enough to bed a dark-skinned girl for the first time on a dies ater—a black day!
It was the eighth hour when they almost ran out of the door into the street facing the Ludus Magnus and turned right towards the huge bulk of the Flavian Amphitheatre, the edifice never far from their lives and their thoughts, mingling with the bustling crowd in front of the Baths of Titus. The heavy brass tokens granting them leave of absence until the end of the day were clinking in Parata’s purse along with a few coins. Moreover, Parata and Fusca were ranked high enough to tarry until midnight and have the trainers close their eyes to it.
‘Why can’t they just keep sticking their cocks into their myriads of slaves, their Valerinas? For real, why us?’ Fusca spat angrily. ‘I’d sooner fuck any of those ’Gyptian sailors,’ she pointed at the group of swarthy marines in blue tunics making their way from the baths to the neighbouring barracks of the Misenum Fleet, ‘than yet another senator!’
Parata sighed. Because they can, that’s why. ‘Let Valerina be, she’s a good one. If any of us gets into big trouble, she can always find a consular besotted enough to get the word to the Emperor himself.’
‘As if!’ Fusca grunted.
‘Say whatever you want, the only thoughtful thing Rufilla ever did here in Rome was getting together with her—Valerina’ll keep her off the cross yet. Ugh!’ The sun-god Sol, a hundred feet and then some of gilt bronze, assaulted Parata’s eyes with his gleaming.
‘Let’s hurry!’ Fusca blew a lusty air kiss at the Temple of Venus and Roma. What do we have but the hope that Love and Rome are going to be kind to us? Parata followed her example.
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IV
The cramped dressing-room —apodyterium—of the Baths of Telesphorus echoed with voices of prostitutes, their skimpy clothes slung haphazardly over rickety wooden benches. The whores had dragged themselves to the ramshackle bath-house before another night of work in the nearby brothels. Parata and Fusca kicked off their sandals and stripped, handing their things to the nimble maidservant and getting oil flasks and strigils in return. The lupae paused in their conversations as they eyed the strong naked bodies of the fighting-women.
The women gladiators padded out barefoot into the dimly lit corridor, the rough floor of pounded brick and lime damp under their feet. Three naked whores fresh out of the pool were leaning against the stained wall, laughing and blabbering drunkenly as they guzzled wine from a large clay jug, their voices hoarse from a night’s worth of shrieks and moans. The lupae paid Parata and Fusca little mind, too absorbed in their revelry. The jug passed from one set of fingers to the next, the wine sloshing against the sides as they drank deeply, their throats working hard as if the women were irrumated one after another.
The female gladiators stepped into the tepidarium, and the warm air smelling of oil and sweat caressed their bruised, weary bodies. Four prostitutes were relaxing in the large pool under the gazes of a blandly sculpted, badly painted Venus and a worse Antinous. A couple more were busy oiling themselves. All eyes were immediately drawn to the athletic newcomers, and the whores started whispering among themselves.
‘Go first, winner! Lie down, I’m gonna do you real good!’ Fusca pointed at the stone bench.
Parata lay flat on her stomach, her body stretched out full length. Fusca poured some oil out of the flask into her palm, then began to massage the viscous liquid into Parata’s back and arms. The oil glistened on the pink skin, highlighting the scars left by the tridents and daggers of her opponents—and the whips of trainers.
Fusca’s strong fingers kneaded the taut muscles of her fellow warrioress as she worked her way down to the legs, soothing the knots and strains, until Parata’s grunts of pleasure mingled with the hushed whispers and occasional snickers from the whores.
‘Ungh! Unnngh!’
‘Turn over, fishie!’
Parata rolled over and lay back using her arms as a pillow, her well-muscled stomach stretching taut. Fusca repeated the process, anointing Parata’s front until the powerful body of her erstwhile opponent gleamed all over. One of the watchers, a young, slender dark-haired whore who had been openly staring at them for some time, let out an audible sigh, involuntarily touching herself, when Fusca got close to the well-plucked
olla
‘Pot’ (Latin) Pussy, duh.
Then Parata returned the favour, rubbing oil on to the whole body of Fusca, making her groan under her forceful ministrations.
‘Aaahhh… Enough, girl, don’t you wreck me twice in one day, leave me be!’ Fusca moaned.
Parata finished massaging her, and the women quickly strigilled off their bodies, flicking the off-scoured mix of oil, dirt and sweat onto the wall of the bath-house, as was the custom. Then they approached the pool’s edge and descended the steps into the warm water, exchanging greetings with the prostitutes.
‘Last Saturnalia I made a denarius betting on you, sister! Good luck!’ One of the working girls, a fellow Ethiopian, lightly slapped Fusca’s shoulder.
‘Parata, you’re really great!’ That was from a blonde with a strong Gaulish accent.
Parata leant back and floated in the pool, her large breasts bobbing on the surface, while Fusca chatted with her dark-skinned compatriot in a chaotic mix of Latin and Meroitic. The water was not so clean, but she and Fusca had seem much worse at the Baths of Telesphorus. It was a warm embrace, soothing her muscles after the day’s exertions.
‘Look at you, big fish!’ Fusca jabbed her playfully. Parata splashed her in response, laughing.
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V
The young whore who had been so entranced by Parata getting massaged swam up to her, close enough so it was natural to exchange greetings. ‘I’m Nymphe of
Clitor
A town in Arcadia, then belonging to the Roman province of Achaia. No, really.
‘Clitor? Where’s that?’ Parata checked out the lovely face of Nymphe and her perky breasts sitting high on her chest.
‘Would you like to find out?’ Nymphe sidled closer.
‘She’s gonna show ya, alright!’ Fusca, who unlike Parata had a little Greek, was grinning along with the Ethiopian whore.
‘Cut it out, lasses! What did I say?’ Parata said gruffly, finding the bottom of the pool with her feet.
‘Pay them no mind, let’s just…’ Nymphe murmured, looking into Parata’s eyes, getting closer and closer until her wet, perky nipples touched the undersides of the taller woman’s breasts, sending a jolt of lust through her.
‘You go, girls!’ Fusca egged them on, her eyes twinkling.
‘Perhaps you’d like to join us?’ Nymphe tore her eyes away from the German.
‘Thanks, but right now I need a long, thick
me-e-e-entula-a-a
‘Prick’ (Latin), but you’ve already guessed it.
Their kiss grew more urgent, tongues slipping and sliding against one another, exploring the depths of their mouths. The other women in the bath-house watched the would-be lovers with fascination until Nymphe broke away, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
‘Let’s go for a quick dip in the caldarium, skip the frigidarium? I know a great cook-shop round the corner with nice rooms in the back…’ Nymphe’s eyes twinkled.
‘Great, I don’t want to cool down at all,’ Parata, happy and horny, panted. A stupid smile played on her lips as she and Nymphe climbed out of the pool, hand in hand, followed by Fusca and a few whores. It stayed in place when a little later the girls flung themselves out of the boiling hot caldarium, the willowy frame of Nymphe clinging to Parata’s large pink body.
‘We’re off,’ Parata called to Fusca. ‘Have a good time!’
‘Sure thing! I’m off to the frigidarium…’
‘Fusca! Fusca the fighter!’ A high-pitched, girly voice pierced the noise of the bath-house. The slave-girl from the dressing-room ran into the hall. ‘Here you are!’ She hurried towards Fusca, droplets of warm water splattering from under her narrow bare feet. ‘There are men outside looking for you, you have to come with me! Look!’ On the girl’s palm lay a large brass token showing the Flavian Amphitheatre.
Fusca’s face fell. Parata padded over to her. The women gladiators recognized the mark of the procurator—Fusca was bound to obey the words of the token’s bearer.
‘Listen up, girl,’ Fusca began slowly, shifting from one foot to another. ‘Just tell them you couldn’t find me…’
‘Couldn’t find you?’ the attendant said with a cheeky giggle, looking at the tall Ethiopian. A few whores laughed.
‘What’s your name, girl?’ Parata joined in. ‘Tell them Fusca’s left already. We’ll make it worth your while…’
‘I’m Soteris, and nuh-uh,’ the girl shook her head with violence. ‘Telesphorus’s gonna have my hide for that. S-sorry!’
‘Not much of a girl saviour, are you?’ Fusca sighed. Her shoulders slumped. ‘I bet it’s that fucking old senator!’
‘He’s not that old,’ Parata blurted out, half-embracing her.
‘Oh, go to the cross!’ Resigned to her fate, Fusca plodded listlessly into the corridor. Parata, Nymphe and Soteris went after her.
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VI
Parata recognized two out of the three men waiting for them in the narrow street outside the baths—a portly scribe from the procurator’s office, whose name escaped her, and Audax, a fair-to-middling secutor from their school. The third one, a comely youth with immaculate long dark hair dressed in a pricey-looking green tunic, must’ve been that slave of Senator Apollinaris who had been haggling with Gallus over Fusca’s price.
‘Well, well, well,’ Fusca, her arms akimbo, her eyes narrowing, contemplated the trio of men waiting for her. ‘All this for poor little me?’
‘Fusca the slave is hereby commanded to attend the
clarissimus vir
‘Most renowned man’ (Latin) The most common honorific of Roman senators during the Principate.
Parata grasped Fusca’s elbow, pumped it. Don’t do anything foolish.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ Nymphe whispered to Parata, fidgeting a little. Parata grunted in affirmation.
After a pause that seemed interminable Fusca nodded. ‘Obedience is a duty. Lead the way, bum-boy,’ she said with resignation, turning towards the long-haired chap.
‘Ah, please refrain from slurs, it is oh so, so unnecessary! It does not become your dark beauty and marvellous strength either,’ the youth chirped. ‘Call me Euprepes. My master evinces great fondness for you, Ethiopian.’
Fusca silently rolled her eyes while exchanging vales with Parata and Nymphe.
‘Away with you! Go!’ The scribe was in a hurry to go back.
Parata and Nymphe looked on in silence as the Ethiopian went along with Euprepes and Audax to entertain the senator.
‘What’s the deal with her?’ Nymphe asked when the trio disappeared around the corner.
‘Fusca doesn’t want to be bought and sold,’ Parata explained. ‘Us fighting isn’t enough for them. We all hate that they whore us out—no offence!’
‘None taken,
meli mou
‘My honey’ (Greek)
‘I’m… used to it,’ Parata swallowed as she lied. And Fusca is more popular with men. ‘I’ve been here for longer.’
Her stomach rumbled loudly.
‘You hungry?’
‘For more than food,’ Parata draped her arm across Nymphe’s shoulders. She yearned to put everything—the violence, the daily submission, the numbing imprisonment at the school—out of her mind. ‘But let’s eat first.’
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VII
Half an hour later, the two women, laughing and kissing, stumbled into the ill-lit back-room of the cook-shop.
‘It’s a good place, the Lucanian sausages here are delicious,’ Parata happily sighed as she unwound her sandals.
‘The only kind of sausages you need today!’ Nymphe was naked already. The sausages had been washed down by quite a few cups of surprisingly decent Syrian wine, and Parata was pleasantly drunk. Judging by the glitter in her eyes, so was the Greek girl.
‘Let me draw the tension out of you,’ Nymphe purred, her voice husky with desire.
Draping her tunic over the only chair in the room, Parata lay back on the stone bed, her powerful thighs parting in invitation. The bedspread was rough, but she didn’t care.
Nymphe knelt between Parata’s legs. Without breaking eye contact, she leant in and kissed Parata on the lips—it was passion mixed with curiosity. Parata’s large hands found their way to the slender waist the Greek girl, her thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her stomach. Her own body responded in kind, her cunt growing slick with anticipation.
The Greek whore’s hand brushed against Parata’s olla, sending a jolt through her body. Feeling her wetness, Nymphe slid down, trailing hot kisses over Parata’s taut stomach, going lower until she reached the juncture of her thighs. Parata gasped as Nymphe’s hot tongue flicked out to taste her.
Parata sprawled on the bed, her fingers tangling in Nymphe’s dark hair, holding her in place as the Greek girl was lapping broad stripes up her slit. Nymphe took her time, now delving deep into Parata’s love canal, now licking her nether lips, now sucking on her
landica
‘Fuck-bead’ (Latin). It was a very offensive word, perhaps the most offensive.
Parata moaned and writhed and bucked, her powerful body quaking with mounting pleasure. ‘I’m...I’m gonna come!’ she gasped out, her head thrown back in bliss. Nymphe redoubled her efforts, sucking hard on her swollen landica, finger-fucking her faster and faster until Parata came undone with a guttural moan, her inner muscles clenching on the Greek girl’s fingers. She slowly descended from the heights of enjoyment as Nymphe lapped up her wetness.
‘You’re so powerful, but you melt so sweetly for me…’ Nymphe breathed, crawling up her flushed body to capture Parata’s lips in a searing kiss.
Parata returned the kiss fiercely, tasting herself.
‘How’d you end up in the ludus?’ Nymphe ventured a question as they lay in embrace.
‘I lived in a village on the Rhine—uh, the great river in our lands,’ Parata saw bewilderment flicking in the Greek girl’s eyes. ‘Our fellows happened to rob a few riverboats, and the Romans raided us. I killed one.’
She closed her eyes and saw the legionary turning abruptly, jerking the bloody sword out of her husband’s chest, and raising his shield as she launched herself into the air with a wild yell of fury and despair.
He was too late. Her spear skidded over the top of the shield and smashed into his face with a crunch of bone.
Her—first and hopefully only—kill.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nymphe sensed her unease. ‘Let’s...’ She twisted on the bed, her eyes gleaming wickedly, interlocking her legs with Parata’s so that their slick cunts pressed against one another.
The feel of their hot flesh slipping against each other’s drove Parata wild. Her breasts grew heavier, the weight of them a delicious ache that seemed to mirror the pulsing of her cunt. Her hands found their way to the Greek girl’s arse, her strong fingers kneading the firm flesh, urging her closer. Moaning, the women bucked and ground, chasing their pleasure, pushing each other towards the climax.
When they came, it was together, hips stuttering as they shook and cried out before collapsing, sweaty and sated, their hearts still racing in the aftermath.
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Epilogue
They said their good-byes outside the cook-shop as Nymphe hurried off to her brothel, agreeing to meet on the third day before the Ides. Parata’s eyes followed the girl—she wondered how much would it cost to buy Nymphe.
Back at the ludus, there was no Fusca. The Ethiopian girl was nowhere when Parata fell asleep.
A few hours later she woke Parata up, hissing like a snake through the bars of her cell’s door.
‘Wha… Fusca, how are you?’ The dawn was breaking outside.
‘I’m great!’ Fusca, who was wearing an eye-wateringly expensive, almost translucent green-yellow dress instead of her rough tunic, slurred. ‘Never have I ever... That Apollinaris made me recline next to him! It was a party with senators and tarts. Valerina was there too! No wives needed!’ She laughed drunkenly. ‘I loved dolphin meatballs, and the roasted flamingo was just fucking fabulous! Eek!’
‘The wines were fucking fabulous as well, I take it,’ Parata said drily. Fusca nodded energetically. ‘No fighting, then?’
‘Bed-wrestling only,’ Fusca giggled. ‘After such a feast I just had to... and Apollinaris wasn’t half bad for his age... and his wine-bibbing. Eek! Audax wanted to fuck me too, I think, but, but... he had to settle for Euprepes!’
‘Go get some sleep, slag!’
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