Chapter 5

On the third and final evening of the praetor’s visit, Tarin and Lykos were led back to the platform in the banqueting hall, both still visibly shaken from the previous night’s exhuasting and harrowing ordeal. To the boys’ immense relief, they were presented with wooden swords and ordered to fight for the entertainment of the guests.

Tarin moved with a strained grace, his body still weary from the relentless demands that had been placed upon it so recently. His shoulders slumped slightly, betraying his fatigue, but his eyes remained focused. Lykos wielded his sword with a more assured grip. Though equally drained from the soul-destroying sexual exploitation, his lifelong physical conditioning gave him an edge.

Lykos swiftly took advantage of Tarin’s weariness; his strikes were precise and forceful, each swing of his weapon a calculated move. Tarin’s responses appeared inadequate, his movements laboured as he tried to parry and strike back. The clash of wood against wood echoed in the hall, an audible reminder of the boys’ roles as mere performers for their enthralled audience.

Despite Tarin’s best efforts, his reactions became slower as his strength waned, and Lykos pressed his advantage. With a final, decisive strike, Lykos forced Tarin to the ground. The younger boy fell heavily and lay sprawled on the platform. In a purely symboilc geasture, Lykos pressed the blunt tip of his wooden sword to Tarin’s throat.

The spectators cheered and clapped, which was a stark and unwelcome reminder of the previous evening for Lykos and Tarin. Lykos held out his free hand and helped Tarin to his feet, the two boys finding a deep level of comfort in each other’s touch.

The praetor said something to the master, who then ordered the young gladiators to fight again. Mechanically, they complied. Tarin, still trying to summon what strength he could, moved cautiously, almost hesitantly. Lykos, though tired, had a more controlled and deliberate approach. His strikes were precise, exploiting every small opening in Tarin’s defence. Tarin’s parries were sluggish compared to the first bout, and it soon became clear that Lykos was regaining his earlier advantage.

The difference in the two boys’ energy levels grew more pronounced with each exchange of blows. Finally, with a swift and practised strike, Lykos managed to disarm Tarin. The wooden sword of the defeated warrior clattered to the floor. The fight was over, and Lykos had emerged victorious once more.

The audience responded with cheers and applause, apparently greatly excited by Lykos’s physical dominance. For the briefest of moments, Lykos found himself enjoying their appreciation of his fighting skills – that was, he reflected, what a gladiator was supposed to be good at. But then the moment was shattered in a cruel and jarring manner. Under the weight of public demand, the master ordered Lykos to remove his loincloth and then stimulate himself to the point of physical release.

Lykos felt a rush of anxiety and dread. The crowd’s eyes were fixed on him with a predatory intensity, their earlier appreciation of his gladiatorial prowess now replaced by voyeuristic expectation. Lykos’s heart raced. His body felt alien and unresponsive.

His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the ties of his loincloth. The fabric felt rough against his skin, an irritating reminder of the forced exposure he was about to endure. Each movement was heavy with reluctance and fear. As the loincloth fell to the ground, Lykos was left feeling acutely vulnerable, the weight of his own humiliation settling heavily on his young shoulders.

As he began to comply with the order, Lykos tried to focus on the mechanics of the task, attempting to detach himself from the sheer horror of the situation. Every instinct he possessed told him to stop, to flee. But fear of the consequences – both for himself and for Tarin – forced him to capitulate and carry out the physical act.

His face red with anger and embarrassment, Lykos struggled to maintain some semblance of control. The crowd’s reactions – loud and enthusiastic – only intensified his feelings of degradation. Their cheers for his forced display felt like a relentless assault on his sense of self; their enjoyment was in direct opposition to his own pain and humiliation.

Lykos was struck anew by the awful certainty that some of these people knew exactly who he was, or at least who he had been before he was forced into the role of boy gladiator. The knowledge that they were now watching him stimulate himself sexually for their own sordid enjoyment filled him with shame and revulsion.

In the final moments leading up to his inevitable release, Lykos’s body and brain were awash with conflicting sensations. As he reached the point of no return, he felt a surge of involuntary physical pleasure that stood in stark contrast to his emotional turmoil. His legs threatened to buckle under him as he felt the extreme biological satisfaction spliced with the unfathomable personal horror.

Lykos’s climax was a crushing experience for him. His breathing became ragged and he struggled to maintain his composure, feeling every eye in the room focused on his suffering. The cheers and applause that accompained his forced release brought Lykos no comfort, only seeming to echo mockingly in his ears.

As the act came to a close, Lykos was left feeling physically and emotionally drained. Tarin’s heart ached to have been an unwilling witness to his friend’s ordeal. Both boys were dismissed from the hall without ceremony.

‘Lykos, I... ‘ Tarin said as they headed back to the ludus together, but he could not find the words to continue.

‘It’s all right, Tarin,’ Lykos replied. ‘There’s no need to say anything.’

‘Strange that Kaelus was given the night off,’ Tarin remarked. ‘Not that I mean he doesn’t deserve it.’

Lykos smiled ruefully and said, ‘I’m sure he’ll pay the price sooner or later.’

An hour or so after this, unbeknown to any other member of the visiting party, Kaelus was summoned to the guest chamber that was occupied by the praetor’s wife. The soft glow of torches cast flickering shadows along the corridor as he was led by a guard, his heart heavy and his steps slow.

When they reached the door, the guard knocked and then opened it for Kaelus to enter. The praetor’s wife, a woman of about thirty, was seated by a window, the moonlight spilling over her elegant form. She looked up as he entered, her expression softening as her eyes met his.

‘Come in, Kaelus,’ she said, her voice carrying a warmth that was both unexpected and disarming.

Kaelus stepped inside, the door closing quietly behind him. He stood there for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. This was not like the harsh conditions of the ludus or the leering gazes of the spectators in the banqueting hall. There was a softness here, but in its way it was no less unsettling.

The praetor’s wife gestured for him to come closer, saying, ‘You seem older and stronger than your years.’

Kaelus did not know how to respond to that. There was something almost comforting in her gentle demeanor, a stark contrast to the brutality he was accustomed to. Yet beneath that comfort was the inescapable reality that he was still being used to serve someone else’s desires.

She rose from her seat and approached him, her hand reaching out to caress his cheek. Her touch was soft, and she looked at him with tender concern. For a brief moment, Kaelus allowed himself to believe that someone might be seeing him as more than just a body.

‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ she said softly, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

Her words, though meant to be reassuring, only deepened the conflict within him. He was not afraid of the physical act that he knew was coming – he was used to that. What frightened him was how easily he could be drawn into the illusion of kindness, and how desperately he wanted to believe that someone could care for him in this place.

The praetor’s wife removed her hand from Kaelus’s cheek and efficiently took off his loincloth. She then stroked and fondled him tenderly; his breath caught in his throat as his body responded to her touch. She smiled softly at him, then she moved back slightly and undressed herself before sinking onto the bed.