“JULIA BALLS WITH SLA VES!”
A ripple of laughter swept over the onlookers as we moved away. Looking back I saw some Roman offcers elbowing their way up to the inscription. From the scowls on their faces, I could see the handwriting on the wall . . .
The games were already in progress as we entered the Colosseum and made our way to the box occupied by the Princess Julia and her entourage. Ovid and I seated ourselves a little behind her and gazed out on the arena. A gladiator with a trident and net was locked in combat with another wielding a javelin and holding a shield. A moment after our arrival the trident went flying, the net swirled aside and the point of the javelin was at the throat of the first gladiator who was lying on the ground.
The second gladiator put his boot on the chest of his prostrate adversary and glanced up at our box. The Princess Julia stood, an imposing and voluptuous figure in a white toga, and casually pointed one of her thumbs towards the ground. The javelin point slashed the unfortunate gladiator’s throat and a thin stream of blood spurted momentarily into the air. The Princess Julia watched with sparkling eyes.
Ovid nudged me. I leaned back so he could whisper in my ear. “Look at the fellow next to Julia. Was I right about the ‘bouts of love’?”
I looked. The young fellow next to the Princess had raised his toga above his waist. Still staring at the blood staining the sands of the area, the Princess Julia was casually stroking his impressive spear. The others in the box watched surreptitiously, but nobody remarked on it.
Two naked slaves-—a giant Moor and a blond, Nordic-looking type—were in the center of the arena now. They fought bare handed. Only the survivor would live to fight again the next day. The blond lunged for the Moor’s throat. The Moor ducked away and chopped, connecting with a rib. He followed up the advantage by swinging low and grabbing for the others most vulnerable flesh. The blond screamed as he grabbed it with all his might, held on and wrenched.
The Princess Julia was on her feet, her lips moist, her breasts rising and falling with excitement. Even standing she retained her grip on the man beside her, as though emulating the cruelty of the Moor. The difference was that hers was the torture of tantalization while the Moor was out to kill. Behind her one of the other rakes slid his hand up under her toga from behind. She moved slightly, widening her stance so that he might have easier access to her. She stood thus, swaying from side to side with the ministrations of the hand, clenching the other man, her eyes riveted on the agonized slave trying to escape the Moor’s grip.
But the Moor was too strong for him. He twisted cruelly and his opponent fell to the ground in a semifaint. The Moor cast a brief glance at the Princess Julia, grinned slightly, then swooped down on the writhing loser. The Moor’s hands closed on the helpless throat and wrenched the last breath from it.
The Princess seemed to laugh and scream at the same time. The man she’d been grasping half-rose in his seat and sullied her toga with the release of his lust. The Princess fell back gasping, irnpaling herself on the hand of the other man.
Ovid nudged me and we moved in closer to the intimate grouping, finally merging with it. I found my hand grasped by Julia and thrust into the upper folds of her toga until her naked breast burned in my palm. There were four of us surrounding her now, each of us caressing a different part of her body. Behind us, two of her ladies-in-waiting were pressing to join in the activities.
A second Moor had replaced the first in the arena now. Armed only with a dagger, he waited as a lion was released from the far side of the field. The lion reared up, froze, then charged straight for the Moor. The man waited until the beast was almost upon him then swiveled with the grace of a matador. The fangs missed him by inches, the claws by less. The lion wheeled and again the gutsy Moor waited.
This time it looked momentarily as if the lion had bowled him over. But actually it was a planned maneuver on the part of the Moor. As he slid under the lion, he stabbed upwards, just missing the lion’s throat and burying his knife in the animal’s chest.
The lion roared with pain, swung around once again and almost pinned the scrambling Moor to the ground. But the man was too fast for him. Not only did he manage to get out from underneath, but he also managed to retrieve the dagger in the same motion. Before the lion could turn again, he pounced on top of him, riding his back for all the world like a bronco-buster at a rodeo, and stabbing repeatedly at the vulnerable spot between the muscles of the lion’s shoulder blades. It went on for a long time and the Moor was covered with blood before the lion finally fell to the ground, dead.
While it was going on, the erotic intensity was mounting in the royal box. The blood lust and sex lust combined just as Ovid had implied in his poem and we were all jammed closely together in a sitting, standing, reclining mass of passion. It was impossible to tell whose hand was where doing what to whom. The Princess Julia rose out of the center like a tall, willowy flower buffeted by the winds of her responses.
The second victorious Moor retired from the ring. Slaves emerged and carted oft the body of the dead lion. It was during this lull in the proceedings that we managed to disentangle ourselves somewhat. Refocusing, I suddenly realized that the royal box was surrounded by a platoon of centurions. The leader stepped forward and announced that the Princess Julia and Ovid were both under arrest on orders of the Emperor Augustus for having violated the Lex Julia.
The Princess was haughty and the ensuing argument turned into something of a pushing-shoving match. Ovid tried to take advantage of it to squeeze between two of the guards and make his escape. The pressure behind us increasing, I was pushed along with him. The guards closed ranks. Ovid was sent sprawling. I was propelled into the arms of two husky centurions. Holding the line, they reacted instinctively. I was tossed into the air, over the edge of the royal box, into the arena itself.
“Police brutality!” That’s what I felt like yelling as I went flying. But I didn’t have time. The words were still silent in my brain as I landed in the arena and bounced to my feet again. I was up in time to see the blur of a charging lion which had just been released from behind the wall nearby.
“You blabbermouth!” Princess Julia was berating Ovid in the box above me.
“Slave lover!” Ovid retorted.
“Look! The lion is going to eat him!” The Princess was distracted. “Ooh! How thrilling!”
“This is no time—” Ovid was protesting and trying to back away from her clutching hands.
“He’s going to bite off his head! Wow! I am really turned on!” The Princess leaned far over the edge of the box, away from the centurions sent to arrest her, and licked her lips at my impending doom.
The 1ion’s jaws stretched wide as he hurtled through the air towards me. My head plugged into the darkness of his craw. His foul breath was overpowering.
Courage deserted me. I couldn’t quite make the words cross my lips. I didn’t know how to tell him, but the thought was there. The thought was --
You have bad breath!
Chapter Five
“In days of old, when knights were bold,
“And ladies weren’t particular,
“They stood ’em up against the wall,
“And made out perpendicular.”
THE WALL WAS SYRIAN. THE LADY WAS ROYAL, AND I wasn’t a knight, but a eunuch; a designation which might give any sensitive male severe manhood problems.