Psyche followed the games across the empire. She found the violence abhorrent but the men who doled it out to be of interest. Mainly because of the strange lands they hailed from. When Psyche was still mortal and young, the world was so small… then Caesar Augustus showed her just how large it really was. Her great nephew, if the rumor that he was a distant descendant of Aphrodite could be trusted, would return from his campaigns with wild stories about not only the lands but the people who inhabited it.
Of course Psyche herself would never be permitted to travel so far from the Mediterranean. Even with Hedone out of the nest, so to speak, her husband still expected her home at sundown.
She was obviously Greek. Standing out like a sore thumb among the Romans with her fashions, far too Eastern to be of the Peninsula it’s self, and her accent. But she was a wealthy Greek and that granted her access to just about anything. Money was a key which opened many doors.
Several men were selected for her inspection, chained of course for her protection. She surveyed each man carefully. A Gaul- she’d met one before and held little interest in meeting another. A German- always a fun loving and interesting bunch but sadly, she had already met several.
The final man was something called a Celt. The word was unfamiliar to her.
"I will take him. Have him bathed and brought to my villa."
Milo never really felt the chains anymore. Unless they were traveling, the gladiators were rarely required to wear them. But this woman seemed to be of importance, and she'd likely complained about protection. Some of the women did this, though most of the Romans thought the chains restricted their fun, keeping them from touching the slaves everywhere they wished to touch them.
But this woman was a Greek, and she was not interested in merely looking. Milo's face was impassive as always, but his insides roiled and clenched. Killing was nothing; the blood never turned his stomach or wracked him with shame. But the whoring, the obligations to please the men and women who purchased him for the night... He hated that worse than anything in his life. He felt more like the dog, more like the nothing, Bellator called him in the bed of a Roman woman than anywhere else.
The Celt was pulled away from the rest of the gladiators and taken to the bathing house of the ludus. He scrubbed himself clean, ridding his skin of the blood and sand of the training yard, begrudgingly. He wished he could stay in the bathing pools forever, but Bellator ordered him out as soon as the trainer was satisfied with Milo's appearance. A slave girl combed through his curly hair, and the black locks fairly shone when she finished. Milo was clothed in a kilt and cloak, his wrists chained for the journey to the Greek woman's villa; then they were leaving in a wagon, the caged back where Milo was kept covered to prevent onlookers from seeing inside.
Regretfully, the villa was not too far from the ludus. Milo hated the cage, but he hated the thought of what awaited him even more. Most would think him mad for dreading the touch of a beautiful woman, but Milo didn't care. Bellator yanked him down from the wagon by the manacles on his wrists, then led the Celt inside the villa's doors. A slave directed them to an open room with linen curtains dancing with the breeze of the night air. Milo's black eyes found the Greek woman on a kline before Bellator saw her. When the trainer found her as well, he pulled Milo towards her.
"Here is the slave you requested, my lady. Is he still to your liking?"
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