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Ianthe.
That was the name written on her bracelet - the name she had always been called. It was most likely the name of a former mistress or trader, but for now she was ‘Ianthe’.
It was a name screamed, a name that was commanded, but never a name that was begged. For Ianthe had learned her place as a slave and did not wish to anger the fist of her master. That was until her mistress desired to cut her striking red hair to weave a capillamentum for herself to wear. She did not wish for that old hag to wear her hair, so she ran into the city and hid for days until she was caught by the guards, who recognized her markings and returned her to her master.
Rome was never kind to slaves, especially those with features deemed desirable.
“That dreadful girl,” Nerilla was so angry she kicked over the vase her late husband had gifted her last spring.
All the slaves in the household stood idly in a single line, not daring to move or flinch while watching the tantrum thrown by their superior.
“Where is she?”
“She is locked in the cellar as ordered, mistress.”
“I am sending her to the gladiator games.”
No one said anything, but they all shared a consistent look of fear, for it was known what happened to girls sent to the arena after the games. As a girl, she wouldn’t fight but be a gift to the winner, who would breed her in the center of the arena for all to see. Sometimes they put up a fight, but usually they calmly bowed their heads and accepted their fate. Knowing Ianthe, she would put up a fight , which worried them.
So that night, the slave Prima hurried down to the cellar with the chain of heavy keys she had taken from their leader. Unlocking the heavy door, she became engulfed in the darkness , absorbed in the scent of salty tears and dried blood.
“Ianthe,” she called to the answer of whimpering and soot. “Ianthe, where does Nerilla have you chained?”
When she stepped into a pool of blood, she hit a soft, fleshy leg that had been damaged and bruised by the whip. A whip her redheaded friend knew all too well.
“Ianthe, oh you poor thing,” In all her years as a slave, she had never seen a woman so beaten and so wounded. Even during the war, when the Romans conquered her home, enslaving her people and enacting their fatal campaign.
“I am alive. That is all Phanes has gifted me.”
“And I have news.”
“News of when I will die? Have the gods spoken to you?”
“No, Nerilla did.”
She picked herself up, now fully interested in what her sister slave was about to tell her.
“You are to be sent to the games.”
“The games?” She gasped and held her chest in shock. She was almost bare, for her blue tunic had been cut and slit at the chest, exposing her and causing her to become as cold as a corpse. “But I am woman; I am weak ; I can’t walk without a limp. How am I to fight a gladiator?”
“You are not to fight, Ianthe.”
The woman she had come to know as a sister looked upon her with pity and woe. Not even she had the courage to educate her friend about what was to come.
“You are to be a gift.”
“No…”
“Do not worry,” Prima knelt down and poured oil on her lame woman’s open wounds. “For it is rumored that Vitus’ slave Septimus will be fighting, and he is almost free. He may petition to keep you as his own.”
“Is he almost free?”
And Prima nodded, giving her friend hope of escape.
So in the morning, Prima made sure to keep close to her mistress to overhear the date and competitors of the next match. She soon confirmed that Septimus would be fighting and that the match would be held in a few days. All the while, Ianthe was being held in the cellar, starved and void of light. It had been days before she was finally let out, but Nerilla decided to still starve her slave of the glow of light.
As soon as she was guided from her dank prison, a mask cloth was tied around her eyes. It was something she never expected to pray for, but every day she prayed that Helios would rip her from her clothed prison and allow the sun to warm her skin and bless her eyes. As the sun in Corinth was when she was young and free.
One day, her prayer for sun would be answered.
Prima visited her sister slave that morning with olive oils and a vase of fresh water. She lathered Ianthe’s naked body in the oils, then scrubbed it off with her own cloth and water. The cloth of her tunic, a part of it she had ripped from the one item she owned, she allowed to become dirtied for the sake of her friend’s beauty.
She was fed a Pomegranate, which stained the pinkness of her lips. It was rumored to boost fertility in the times of Jupiter . Ianthe hoped that becoming with child would allow pity to be bestowed upon her, something she most dearly needed.
Most slaves were discarded after the games , but Ianthe wished Septimus would enjoy her and keep her as his own. She did not want to be killed or, even worse, be sent back to Nerilla.
She was forced to stand in the pit next to her mistress, still with the cloth over her eyes, to avoid the sun. Unable to see the gladiators fighting, she could only make out who was winning through the yells of the crowd.
“That large fellow over there. Though you cannot see him, he will be the one to deflower you, you criminal,” her mistress whispered in her ear. “It is what you deserve, Ianthe. After all, you need to be taught a lesson.”
“Ede faecam,” she responded in a tone that would’ve gotten her killed if she had not been reserved for her current punishment.
Soon, the scent of blood filled the air and, with it, the cheers of an unforgiving crowd. It was then she began to breathe heavily, nearly breaking out of the rope she had been forced into. She yearned for the sun, and that was what she was allowed when she suddenly found herself in the center of the arena. A rough hand cut her blindness from behind, allowing her to eventually see the world around her. But her eyes did not wish to see , and she stumbled back, hitting a bulking frame who attempted to save her from her fall but failed.
Her head hit the hard ground, and she screamed and clenched her eyes shut, the newfound sun blinding her. She did not know what to do , so she simply screamed, as she had done as a child. The entire colosseum roared in laughter, laughing at the small slave as she laid in the shadow of the Gladiator.
He picked her up, using her shoulders to give her balance. It was then she was able to awaken her sense of sight, looking up at the towering man. She had recognized him from the streets of Rome and the graffiti that featured his victorious name and strength. Her mistress had bet on him several times before, boasting to her confidants about the money she had won.
“Πραΰς,” he muttered to her in her native language. He reached out to her cheek, stroking her soft skin with his woundedness. Never had anyone been so still in his arms, especially in the arena. It got him excited, almost making him feel powerful, given his title. “You will not struggle, or I shall kill you. It is my right.”
“I am not the slave of Septimus but of Nerilla,” she looked crazed , her eyebrows creating wrinkles on her forehead as she pushed them up with unease.
“I have won.”
He turned her body around, ripping her dress from behind.
“I am Victor.”
He pushed her to the ground by her shoulders, forcing her knees to become buried in the ground.
“I am free.”
She stared at the crowd in front of her and wished that her blindfold was still tied around her eyes.
“If I shall enjoy you, then I will keep you.” He kneeled down behind her, smacking her buttocks, making her gasp. “But if I find you unwilling, I will kill you. Now, I am your master, and you are my slave.”
He poked at her pussy lips with his hardening cock, determining if he should go slowly or roughly. But then he realized that she was his prize, a lowly slave who was available for him to use and do as he wished.
He wanted her to feel pain. To wish she was dead, for that was the only emotion he knew to inflict.
Slowly, he inserted himself into her. She began to attempt to push away, but he used his strength to grab onto her legs and draw her closer to him. He groaned. Feeling her tightness hug around his bulging and growing cock. He began humping into her, using his free hand to take hold of her hair and pull so that she was forced to stare into the crowd of spectators.
It was a feeling she did not expect. She felt a mix of pain and pleasure, a moan flying from her mouth.
“You like that, you little whore?”
Feeling ashamed, she did not respond. So hearing silence, he became rougher and faster , causing her to bleed.
“Your master asked a question,” he pulled from her and stood tall, grabbing her from the floor, positioning her so that she was bending over. “You may be too small to carry my seed, but I will force myself until you are bred and unable to walk.”
He inserted himself again, this time faster, which caused her to leap and gasp.
“Please,” she began to plead, “please keep me as your own, and I promise to reserve my pussy for your seed so that only you are allowed to defile me in such a way.”
“With me, you will never be free.” He grabbed her neck and forced her to look upon his scared face. “If you escape from me, I will not be as forgiving as your old master.”
Her lust was palpable with a red face and aroused pussy, and he noticed. He used his hand to grip onto her pussy, rubbing her forcefully as he fucked her from behind.
“You’re my little girl,” he spat on her face. “You were made for me, Ianthe.”
The way he said her name caused her to squirm in his arms.
The crowd watched eagerly, waiting for him to breed the slave girl. They grew impatient, but her echoing moans subsided for some entertainment in the meantime.
“My body, my soul and my womb are yours, master.”
And with those nine words, he came into her , fertilizing her womanly body with his warrior seed. She will give him sons whom he will eventually send to the arena to fight for his glory.
He picked up her tired, fragile body before she collapsed into the floor. Setting her on his shoulder, he strode from the arena to never visit it again. Beyond the trials of the gladiator arena, he kept her in the shackles of his home, far from Rome. There was nowhere for her run, not that she ever thought of the idea for his arms of steel frightened her.