A Bad Day in the Colosseum.

A Bad Day in the Colosseum.

The thunder of excitement in the Amphitheatrum Flavium is electric; a palpably mounting pulsation of noise from the 80,000 fortunate souls to have gained a place this day in the largest amphitheatre in Rome or indeed the empire. The three tiers of the vast arena are packed with baying, howling mobs jostling for space arranged according to their status within the Roman culture.

At the very lowest level, just above the sanded ground of the central arena, are the elite among the Roman classes seated in the podium. Here fat and fabulously wealthy senators bring their own seats to prime positions to observe the games. At one end of the amphitheatre at this level is a special box reserved for the Vestal Virgins. Facing it, at the far end of the elliptical stadium, there is the prime box of all; the exclusive domain of the Emperor himself and his retinue. Above the podium, the next level is called the maenianum primum. You have to be of noble birth or a knight to claim a place on this level. On the very top layer, the maenianum secundum, is to be found the ordinary Roman citizens. Even these are seated according to rank with the wealthiest holding the lower tiers or immum while their less endowed brethren are relegated to the uppermost levels; the summum. Seated in this vast arena is the very stratum of Roman society united at least in the spectacle of these games.

And what games they are! Held in celebration of Ceasar's triumphs in the East, the games are reckoned by all to be amongst the greatest ever held in Rome; five days of spectacle and ceremony unrivalled in the memory of all those present. There have been mock battles, simulations of natural scenes in the conquered lands to the East, gladitorial contests, wild b**st hunts with fabulous creatures rarely seen in Rome before, executions of prisoners and bloodshed aplenty in homage to the magnificence of Rome. But today all these entertainments promise to be eclipsed by the afternoon's major event on the programme. Today the most famous gladiator in all Rome will demonstrate his prowess.

Magnificent though the games are, the most illustrious spectator is looking out of sorts. Ceasar perhaps indulged a little too much in feasting and drinking the night before. He was so ill at ease at lunch that he had been barely able to manage a mouthful. He had partaken of only a morsel of the stuffed dormouse, scarce a nibble of the larks' tongues in aspic, just a taste of the roast peacock and he had forsaken the sow's stomach stuffed with lamb altogether! He sits in his box sweating copiously under the fierce afternoon sun, clutching a goblet and scowling at the entertainment provided. The lavish games are costing a fortune and, judging by his demeanour, it seems as if he considers them, for the moment at least, to be barely worth the cost.

Even the elaborate mock battle staged seems to have done little to improve his humour. He glares at the trembling slave who refills his goblet and the two slaves waving the feathered fans behind him waft their apparatus furiously; certain, that if Ceasar should become over heated in the cauldron of the amphitheatre, that they face a whipping or worse tonight. Looking most nervous of all at Ceasar's apparent displeasure is the sweating, obese figure of Culus Basium; stood to Ceasars's left; the organiser of the games and the one on whom the responsibility will fall should the spectacle in the arena fall short of Imperial expectations.

As the last of the bodies from the staged battle are cleared away and the wounded assisted from the arena, Ceasar takes a draft from his goblet. It is the finest Falernian wine made of Aglianico g****s grown on the slopes of Mt Falernus close to the border of Latium and Campania but it might as well be common vinegar for all the impression it appears to make on Ceasar's palate. He swills the wine about in his mouth sourly and regards his goblet with distaste. “Well Culus,” he pronounces at last, “I hope for your sake that the rest of the afternoon's sport is better than that miserable offering. If it isn't we shall have to extract what little entertainment we can by having you trampled to death by the elephants!”

Culus swallows and draws a hand across his perspiring brow. “But of course my most divine and munificent Ceasar!” he protests, fawning sickeningly and waving his hand about flamboyantly. “That was merely a light starter; just a small diversion before we move on to the crowning glory of the afternoon programme.”

Ceasar frowns as if unconvinced. “And just what is this crowning glory of yours Culus? What is this special attraction you've been promising all day? It had better be good I'm warning you!”

Culus offers up a silent prayer to the Gods; fervently praying that Ceasar will be taken by the spectacle to come. “Oh sire; mighty Ceasar, you will be entranced I assure you. The Gods themselves will gaze down in wonder at the spectacle that awaits you! Today, in honour of your genius and magnanimity, a feat will be performed here in the Colosseum the like of which has never been seen before in Rome. Today, our mighty gladiator Mentula Rigidius will perform an act of gallantry never before attempted within the hallowed walls of this great stadium. All of Rome and the halls of Mt Olympus will hold their breath in amazement!”

Ceasar grunts distractedly and eases his bulk on the cushion covering his marble seat in discomfort. Some of the less salubrious waters of the River Styx appear to be coursing through his bowels. “Well bring it on and let's see if it's worth sparing your worthless life for another day.” he growls ill-humouredly.

Hastily Culus rises to give the signal. There is a blast on the trumpets and the heralds announce the appearance of Rome's favourite gladiator; Mentula Rigidius in the arena. A huge roar erupts from the crowd. Mentula is a legend in the Colosseum, veteran of nearly three hundred combats, never defeated in the arena, the envy of every man and the object of desire of every woman. A crescendo of adulation reverberates around the enormous amphitheatre. Timing his appearance to perfection, Mentula, always the showman, strides arrogantly onto the arena, waving his arm in acknowledgement of the tumultuous and rapturous ovation.

Yet even as the gladiator strides out into the centre of the great amphitheatre, a note of uncertainty enters the crowds' vociferous acclaim. It is their hero Mentula to be certain but Mentula as they have never seen him before. For one thing he carries no weapon. His customary sword and round shield are conspicuously absent. He wears no helmet or armour. In fact he wears very little at all! His upper body is naked to the waist; his muscles gleaming from the aromatic oils with which he has been anointed. On his feet there are simple sandals and all he wears about his waist is a short leather skirt barely long enough to cover his groin.

Ceasar starts in surprise and turns to raise an eyebrow in Culus's diraction. “How in the name of Caelus's testicles is he supposed to fight like that Culus? What in Charon's name are you up to?”

Culus draws a deep breath. “Ah Great Ceasar! He needs only the arms he carries with him today! All shall be revealed!” Culus gives another signal. There is another fanfare on the trumpets and a large door opens in the side of the arena. Through it are ushered Mentula's adversaries and the astonishment of the crowd increases. Urged on by the whips of their handlers, one hundred beautiful slave girls are herded out into the harsh light of the afternoon sun in the baking Colosseum.

Even Ceasar seems taken aback by this new development. The girls are all hand picked for their beauty from the captive ranks of slaves taken in the Eastern campaign. They wear only simple white linen shifts and their eyes dart about in fear as they are herded forward under the encouraging stings of the lashes.

Ceasar appears to be momentarily bereft of speech. Finally he finds his voice once more. “By all the Seven anuses of Hell? What is this Culus?” he thunders.

“This sire is a feat which will be forever etched in the annals of this stadium. Today, before your very eyes, Mentula Rigidius will service all one hundred of these slaves, impale them on the rod of Imperial Rome and send them away with Roman seed quickening their bellies!”

Ceasar appears dumbfounded. “What? All of them?”

“Every last oh one mighty Ceasar!”

“It can't be done!”

“I assure you Ceasar that the Great Mentula will accomplish this deed with alacrity. It is not only his skill and expertise with the sword of the arena for which he is famous but also for that sword provided him at his birth by the benevolence of the Gods. When he un-sheaths that sword every damsel in Rome will swoon!”

“By Jupiter!” Ceasar wipes his brow in consternation. “And you're sure he can do this?”

“Absolutely Ceasar!”

“Well I'll be buggered by Priapus! Carry on Culus.”

“At your command Ceasar!” Culus gives the signal and one of the slave girls is pushed forward. One of the guards grasps her shift and tears it roughly away from her leaving her naked beneath the eyes of the audience in the Colosseum. The girl squeals in alarm and tries to cover her modesty with her arms as the crowd hoots in delight.

Mentula holds up his arms and the crowd grows silent in anticipation. With a theatrical gesture the gladiator whips his short skirt of and reveals himself in all his magnificence. There is a collective gasp from the crowd. The Gods have been lavish indeed with their endowment in his case. His mighty member stands forth, proud and at attention, thrusting from his loins like a python. The men in the crowd regard it with envy while the women folk fan their blushes and lean forward for a better look.

Ceasar himself frowns a little at this. He dislikes the ostentatious display of manhood from the better endowed. He feels it an invidious comparison. His own penis is rather small unfortunately.

The biggest reaction that the sight of Mentula's swollen asset elicits however is from the slave girl cowering naked before him. Her eyes grow wide in terror for there is no longer any doubt about exactly what he intends to do with that engorged monstrosity. With a shriek of panic, she turns and bolts. The guards make no effort to stop her. It is all part of the sport and in any case there is nowhere for her to go.

Mentula stalks her around the arena, playing with his prey. Three times he chases her around the arena grinning hugely. She tries to scramble up the confining wall to the podium above but slides down and tries to dash off to one side. Mentula is extracting the maximum performance from his victim as the crowd howls for him to catch her and finish the job.

Finally, when the hysteria of the crowd reaches fever pitch, he corners her and grasps her. As the mob screams its approval he hefts her over his shoulder and, with her heels kicking and her tiny fists beating futilely at his back, he carries her back to the centre of the arena and dumps her unceremoniously on the ground. She tries to scramble away on all fours but he snatches her by the hips and, kneeling at her rump, impales her with his member. The crowd is delirious with glee as he pounds away at her furiously, lifting her bodily from the sand with the vigour of his thrusts. The girl shrieks in pain and humiliation and beats the ground before her with her palms under the assault of his violation. The girl howls as he spends himself inside her and the triumphal roar of the crowd is a feral fury at the completion of the act.

Mentula rises to his feet to bow in acknowledgement of the waves of applause, leaving the girl ruined on the sand with semen oozing from her sex. Two guards carry her away while a goblet of fine wine is pushed into Mentula's hand to fortify himself with. He takes a long draft, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and nods. A second girl is stripped naked and released.

Even Ceasar in his foul mood is bound to concede that the entertainment is highly diverting. There is no doubt that Mentula is an accomplished showman. He plays the crowd to perfection and teases his prey mercilessly. Each girl is different. Some try to run and the crowd loves to watch him chase them, allowing them to stay a few yards ahead before, with a burst of speed, capturing them and subjecting them to the fury of his apparently insatiable organ. Others try to fight, flailing out with fists and nails before he over-powers them and ruts with them in the sand. Some seem simply resigned to their fate and submit without a struggle but he punishes these with a few lashes from a whip borrowed from the guards.

He takes some on all fours in doggy fashion. He takes some flat on their backs. Others he upends and pounds into them with their legs over his shoulders. Then others again he simply bends forward and takes them standing up. He likes to do this with the ones with ample breasts so the crowd can enjoy watching their full melons swinging back and forth as he thrusts at their loins. One particularly spirited girl put up a terrific fight before being overcome. In tribute he mounts her on his penis with her legs over his arms and marches a full circuit of the arena, bouncing her up and down on himself to the exhilarated, ecstatic approval of the crowd. Yes... there is no doubt...Mentula is a showman alright!

And the tally of the girls mounts inexorably. One after another they are carried or dragged in ruins and disgrace from the arena, sobbing and bruised and with the fruits of Mentula's labour seeping from their private parts. The crowd loves it and even Ceasar seems to have forgotten his ill humour as he watches enraptured, his face flushed pink with excitement.

Yet as the tally grows higher a sense of unease begins to set in. Perhaps after seventy girls Mentula is a little more leaden of foot; a tad less sprightly perhaps. After eighty it is becoming clear that he is flagging. It is taking him longer and longer to catch and subdue each girl. His breathing is becoming more and more laboured. Perhaps he is taking a little too much wine to fortify himself than is wise for he is undoubtedly starting to stagger. By the ninetieth girl he is clearly in trouble.

The crowd grows silent as he labours into the last ten girls remaining. The task is to complete one hundred girls and it is becoming increasingly uncertain as to whether or not he can achieve it. The crowd seems mesmerised, willing him on mentally and holding its collective breath as he struggles heroically out under the baking sun. Ninety two...ninety three...ninety four... each girl it seems must be his last for he can barely muster the strength to master them and scarcely able to stagger to his feet after doing so to take on the next. Ninety four...ninety five...ninety six... it has become a monumental task of endurance sapping every last ounce of strength from his body. Ninety six...ninety seven...ninety eight...incredibly he seems to find some inner kernel of fortitude within himself. You can hear a pin drop in the Colosseum by now.

Girl number ninety nine tries to run from him and he can barely keep up with her. It seems as if she will evade him altogether dodging his despairing lunges easily. He leans against the, arena wall panting heavily, as she eyes him warily from the far side. Steeling himself to one final mighty effort he lumbers after her. He momentarily pins her into a corner by Ceasar's box. She is waiting for the right moment. As he lunges she darts aside, dodging him with ease. But, with a superhuman effort he throws himself full length after her and flails out a single arm. He catches her by one ankle as he falls and she trips, sprawling out on the sand. With a mighty effort of will he holds his grasp on the struggling girl and pulls himself forward. She squirms and fights hard but somehow he manges to pull himself on top of her, subduing her with his weight. She grows still beneath him. He takes a long time to gain his breath as he lies on top of the girl. The crowd is biting its knuckles as he summons the strength to mount her. The cheer as he penetrates her is enormous; the relief palpable.

He lies spent for nearly a minute in the sand. Then somebody starts to clap... a slow rhythmic cadence; a call to arms. With a heaving chest the gladiator begins to rise. The crowd screams at him, spurring him onto to one last gargantuan effort. Incredibly, impossibly, he staggers to his feet. The Roman mob is delirious. The men are baying themselves hoarse. The women are beside themselves, hurling flowers and, even, shamefully, items of their own clothing onto the sand of the arena. The gladiator raises his head to consider the final hurdle. The task is nearly done; the incredible nearly complete. One girl and one girl only stands between him and the adulation of all Rome.

Yet she will not be an easy battle this last one. She is a feisty looking little thing, proud and unafraid. She is perhaps not a big girl but she is wiry and lithe and there is a fiery look to her eye. She is the last mountain for Mentula to climb but the steel in her eyes promises no easy conquest.

Almost in a trance Mentula lumbers towards her. The girl does not wait for the guards to divest her of her gown. Instead she tears it from her own body and throws it contemptuously into the sand at Mentula's feet. She speaks Latin it seems for in a clear voice she calls out “Come on then you Roman pig! See if you're man enough for me!” She stands there with her hands on her hips and glares at him defiantly. Proud in her nakedness the girl seems almost some barbarian Goddess standing there unafraid, her breasts thrust forward mockingly. Mentula blinks and sways but totters forward. He throws out a hand but she steps aside almost impudently. He tries time and again to catch her but she is too quick, too alert and he looks like a lumbering bear trying to snatch at a quicksilver lizard.

She is mocking him now. “Is that all you can manage Roman? Why the meanest peasant boy of my land could do better than that!” She is not fleeing but stalking around him, taunting him. “Is this all you have to offer? A girl could hunger for a real man in Rome if this is the best the city can offer. By all the demons of hell I could take your cojones for earrings! Come on Roman or must I ask the stable lads in the arena to satisfy me?”

A subtle change has come over the Colosseum now. The crowd is starting to laugh, enjoying the girls mockery. Their sympathies are changing. Now the girl is being admired for her bravery and pride. Mentula can barely stand. His eyes are swimming in and out of focus. He is tottering on the edge of collapse. It is the moment the girl has been waiting for. Like lightning, she darts up to him and pushes him with all her strength in the chest.

It is the end. Mentula staggers backwards and then falls heavily on his back. It is obvious to every spectator there that he will not be getting up again. He lies finally exhausted beyond endurance. The girl stands over him triumphantly with her hands on her hips. She spits carefully and contemptuously. Then she turns her back and, with a toss of her hair strides proudly away. The crowd cheers her mightily as she goes.

Ceasar is furious. He turns to Culus in rage. “What do you mean by this Culus? You assured me that Mentula could service all one hundred girls with ease and look at him now! Humbled by Jupiter! The manhood of all Rome humbled publicly by a foreign slave girl! Rome will be a laughing stock! Explain yourself!”

Culus wrings his hands in dismay. “I cannot explain it Ceasar. It is inexplicable. I am at a loss to understand how he failed. He did it perfectly alright in practice this morning!”

Michaela