“This is shameful,” I muttered, “I am Arthur’s heir.”
Gathering the threads of my courage, I pushed the door open and stepped through into a large cellar with a vaulted ceiling. It was brightly lit by dozens of torches and candles and the leaping flames of a fire set in a stone hearth in the middle of the floor.
The cellar was full of people. With the exception of the musicians hammering away at drums and pipes in one corner, most were in a state of undress, and all under the influence of drink and narcotics. Random heaps of brightly coloured cushions were scattered about the floor. Naked couples writhed and copulated on them, careless of privacy, men and women swapping partners as the fancy took them. The faces of both sexes were heavily rouged and painted, a hideous effect that both repelled and fascinated me. A few wore leather masks in the shape of fabulous beasts.
One of the latter apparitions came lurching towards me, stark naked save for his mask, which was shaped like an eagle and had an immense curved beak. He carried an overflowing amphora of wine in each hand. This alone, along with his swagger, gave me some clue to his identity.
“Welcome, Achilles!” cried Leo, his voice heavily slurred, “come to collect your proper reward, eh?”
His grinning mouth was visible under the mask. Never had I felt such an urgent need to drive my fist into it. “I came because my lover has been threatened,” I replied curtly. “That was your doing, I presume?”
“None of mine. I can do without your dull face at these orgies. Your presence was requested by another. I strongly recommend you have a drink and relax.”
I declined his offer of wine. He shrugged and moved away, laughing as he almost tripped over a threesome.
The pounding din of the music, combined with the heat and the shrieks of laughter and the muggy stench of furiously courting lovers, made my head swim. The wound in my skull started to throb, and I flopped down on a heap of spare cushions to rest and wait on events.
Once the initial shock and thrill have passed, there is nothing quite as tedious as witnessing an orgy. I had no interest in taking part and politely rebuffed invitations to do so from several revolting individuals, male and female, their bodies still glistening with the marks of recent encounters.
A clash of cymbals announced a halt in proceedings. The band fell mercifully silent, and those who were still capable peeled themselves off the floor and each other.
The far end of the cellar was hidden by a heavy silk curtain. As the cymbals faded, this was ripped aside to reveal a wooden platform mounted on bricks, occupied by a male dwarf wearing an absurd parody of imperial dress: a long yellow robe and a diadem made of some cheap metal. His garish face-paint was beginning to run in the heat, making an already ugly visage almost too foul to look upon.
“Friends and lovers,” he simpered in a ridiculously high-pitched voice, “I trust our little entertainment has proved adequate so far?”
He was answered with drunken jeers and insults. The dwarf fluttered his little hands and ignored them. “You will be pleased to hear that your mistress has deigned to join us tonight,” he went on, “to perform for your delight and education. Grovel, you toads, for the Empress!”
This was met by a smattering of applause, and I saw genuine eagerness sketched on the debauched faces around me. Another clash of cymbals sounded from the alcove beside the stage, accompanied by a roll of drums.
The dwarf bowed and shuffled backwards offstage. From the opposite end emerged a woman. By the standards of the orgy she was fully-dressed in a black silken veil that covered the lower part of the face, and a black loincloth. Otherwise she was naked as a needle.
Theodora was no more difficult to recognise than Leo. She had put on weight and muscle since I first came to the Hippodrome, and now resembled a female gymnast more than a dancer. The music started up again, only softer and more rhythmic, and she started to grind and gyrate about the stage, slapping her hips in time to the drums.
In truth, it was pretty poor stuff. As a dancer she was far inferior to my Elene, and the sweating, fleshy lasciviousness of her routine held no charms for me. But then I was sober, and happily unaware of the dangerous influence this woman already wielded.
Nor was I aware of the depravity of which she was capable. I had heard rumours over the years, of course, but most seemed so incredible I dismissed them as hearsay. That night in the cellar, my eyes were opened.
Theodora’s dancing seemed to last an age, but finally the music faded and she flounced to a halt, soaked in sweat and greedily milking the applause of the spectators. Thinking that was the end of the entertainment, I rose to leave. Then the cymbals sounded again.
At first I thought the wine and opiate fumes had affected me. The dwarf re-emerged from the alcove, leading a gigantic white tigress on a red leash attached to a golden collar around the beast’s neck. He showed no sign of fear, even though she could have snapped his neck with one swipe of her paw, but smirked and blew soft kisses to the audience.
Frozen with shock, I fell back onto my seat. No-one else was capable of movement either, save the dwarf and Theodora.
It was now that she performed her greatest trick. Having removed her veil and her loincloth, she stood in the middle of the stage and slowly bent backwards until her palms were laid flat on the stage. Dropping his leash, the dwarf skipped over to her and produced a drawstring purse from his belt. He opened the purse, dipped his hand inside and theatrically held it aloft to reveal its contents — gold dust, I thought initially, but then realised it was brown sugar.
I watched in utter disbelief as the dwarf sprinkled the sugar onto Theodora’s exposed groin. When the last grain was deposited, he snapped his fingers at the tiger. She rose from her haunches and padded towards Theodora, who showed no alarm at the beast’s approach. Her eyes were closed and her painted lips parted, as if in anticipation of ecstasy.
Not a sound could be heard in the cellar, save the rapid drumming of my pulse and the lapping of the tiger’s tongue as she licked the sugar from Theodora’s vulva.
When every last grain was consumed, the tiger meekly allowed herself to be led away by the dwarf. Her eyes were slightly glazed, so I assume she had been drugged beforehand.
Theodora straightened up and executed a graceful bow. This was the signal for the musicians to start playing again. They did so rather clumsily, and their hands shook as they plied their instruments.
“Drink!” cried Theodora, raising her arms high, “dance, make love, give yourselves up to pleasure! Your Empress commands you!”
A few of the more prudent spectators started to clap. The applause swiftly rose to a storm as Theodora bowed again and strode confidently offstage. The dwarf returned to gather up her discarded mask and loincloth. After that he moved among the revellers, who had resumed their previous debauchery with a rather forced enthusiasm. He stopped beside two of the younger men, big and well-muscled and probably handsome under their disfiguring face-paint, and tapped both of them on the shoulder. They obediently left their partners and disappeared into the alcove.
Then the dwarf approached me. “Britannicus, the hero of the arena,” he piped, “your presence is required backstage.”
“By Theodora?” I asked. He smirked and nodded.
“Then you must send her my regards and apologies,” I said briskly, “I have no desire to see her, or to stay a moment longer in this hell-pit.”
I made to rise, but the dwarf placed his little hand flat against my chest. “You are best advised to come,” he warned. “The Empress has picked you out to enjoy her favours. She cannot be denied. It is her custom to choose the strongest and most successful athletes to service her needs. I have chosen two of the finest already, but she is never less than satisfied with three stallions at a time. You should be honoured.”