Daughters of Chains Ch. 01 - Teaser (Patreon)

Lucius Varinius Secundus sat comfortably in the maenianum primum, the marble tier where equestrians and men of standing could take in the games without the stink of the rabble at their backs. The Colosseum surged around him like a living beast, the noise of tens of thousands blending into a constant roar. The hiss of wagers, the bellow of vendors hawking roasted dormice and watered wine, and the chants of “Iugula! Iugula!” rising whenever the sand turned red.

The air was thick with smells: iron tang of blood, acrid sweat, perfume from wealthy matrons, the fat of roasting meats drifting up from the stalls. Lucius had a plate of honeyed figs, spiced lentils, and cuts of pork beside him. Along with a cup of Falernian, watered just enough to keep his head sharp. He enjoyed, but did not gorge, as he was a man of taste, not excess.

The afternoon’s program had already thrilled the crowd as the gladiators had clashed — murmillo against retiarius, secutor against Thracian — but not to the death. The matches were staged tests of skill, dramatic enough to keep the people howling but careful enough to preserve the fighters. Lucius knew their value; a single well-trained gladiator cost more to raise than a dozen slaves.

But the mob craved death, and death they had been given.

The editors of the games had provided a grim spectacle: condemned criminals, dragged into the arena in chains, to be disposed of in ‘theatrical’ executions. The crowd roared as a pair of burly murmillos drove their swords into the wretches, striking not with efficiency but flourish. A stab to the gut, a shove to the sand, and then a final thrust while the victim writhed for show.

One unlucky soul had been tied to a post and used for target practice, his body bristling with pila before he was finished off to roars of laughter. The sand grew slick with their blood, and the mob, drunk on cruelty, chanted for more. Rome’s appetite for suffering was endless. Then, as the shadows lengthened, came the finale.

The trumpets blared, and the heralds shouted of a rare delight… the entrance of gladiatrices. Women in the arena were a rarity, reserved for the most decadent shows, and the crowd responded with a frenzy of cheers, jeers, and whistles. Lucius leaned forward, taking in the sight as the women were arrayed before him and all of Rome.

They entered in pairs, shields flashing, blades gleaming, their armor designed not for true protection but for titillation. Breastplates cut scandalously low, skirts of leather strips swishing against bare thighs, oiled skin glistening in the light. They circled each other like wolves, every movement theatrical — hips swaying, blades clashing, and hair whipping loose in the heat of the fight.

The crowd adored it, and they clamored for more, which was slowly given as the show continued. Young men shouted themselves hoarse, some swearing aloud they would pay more than the rate of the Venus House for a night with such women.

“By Hercules, I’d give a year’s wages to be crushed beneath her!” one drunken youth bawled, his friends howling with agreement. Others bragged they would outbid senators if it meant a taste of such wild flesh.

It was not just the men who were interested in the spectacle below. Lucius’ sharp ears caught the low laughter of matrons behind him, jeweled hands hiding lips as they whispered to one another. One spoke of how her husband grew dull in bed, and that she’d happily slip a gladiatrix through her villa’s door if given the chance.

Another, who was a bit older, cheeks flushed with wine, murmured that she would pay richly for the chance to ‘comfort’ a defeated one, to stroke and soothe the wild fire out of her. Even the younger girls leaned forward, wide-eyed, their faces betraying the stirrings of envy, curiosity, and longing.

The women below fought hard, but the bout was as much performance as contest. Shields locked, breasts pressed, and blades flashed in arcs designed to display rather than kill. The crowd screamed not for blood but for dominance. For one to straddle the other in the sand, to raise her sword high while pinning her rival beneath her.

And when it happened — when the victor wrenched her opponent down by the hair and held her in place, sweat running in rivulets down exposed skin — the amphitheater quaked with noise.

Lucius’ heart beat faster as he watched the show unfold before him. He had heard of such spectacles in whispers, dismissed by many as decadent nonsense. But seeing it now, with the crowd in rapture, he understood something the philosophers never would. This was not weakness, nor was it decay… this was profit! And then he heard it… the spark that lit the flame.