A Tale of Ties and Binds - Chapter 5

Chapter 5. A Breaking of Bonds

The sun and the clouds were battling for the dominant position in the heavens, and the dust from the dirt road flew up into the sky to join them. All the while, the words kept repeating in Penelope's mind. The Celt is the traitor. The Celt is the traitor. The Celt is the traitor. At least she was more likely to be than anyone else, and a woman with her kind of wealth and power would be too dangerous to leave unsuspected.

A small well appeared in the distance, reminding Penelope that her horse had been galloping for far longer than would be good for it so she decided to rest. The well was attended by a slave girl in a tattered tunic with her hands bound before her in frayed leather. She pulled a bucket of water from the shaft of the well and held it before Penelope's mount. At closer inspection, the slave's binds looked to be made from a reused horse's bridle. In comparison, the well looked nearly new. Whichever freewoman owns this slave and the well takes far better care of the well. Penelope made a mental note to purchase the girl later. The Household of the Scylla took much better care of their property, especially when it came to binding them with materials that couldn't be snapped with a hard pull. Once the horse was rested and rehydrated, they were back on their way.

The dirt track turned into a paved road just beyond the city limits as it wound along the curves of the bay. Penelope was met with a choice when she arrived at the dockyard; the short way or the long way. The former option would get her to the palace quickly, but her sisters-in-arms were busy investigating the whorehouses and slave markets that inhabited the other option. In such uncertain times, she decided to err on the side of caution and regroup with her household.

There is no district in the city of Larissa that is more crowded than the slave trade district. The air is thick with lust-filled passion and the sexual frustration of those without the coin to pay. Potential buyers crowd the streets and slaves are put on show atop tall wooden galleries. Slaves are bought to be whores, by whores, to be handmaidens, by handmaidens, to be labourers, by labourers, my freewomen and matriarchs and everything in between. The auctioning is mostly civil, but occasionally the punters take to binding and gagging their rivals to silence their bids (and the auctioneers will sometimes wave the coin and simply offer a trade). It is the most dangerous place in the city for this reason. If you find yourself unjustly bound and gagged and stripped, bystanders will just as likely buy you as set you free.

In the brunt of it all, a dispersed band of sisters-in-arms bearing a sigil of a five-headed Scylla gripping a captive between its jaws, its fifth head deep between her thighs. Some were doing their duty and interrogating slavers and buyers and anyone who looked like a regular, marked by a thick purse on their hip and a coil of ropes in their hand. Others were busy eyeing the slaves on the galleries, or the dancers on the balconies, or the contortionists in their stalls. Penelope made another mental note to ban them from using Logical Phallusy. For a month, at least.

Penelope spied her younger sister overseeing it all. If the goddesses had blessed Penelope with good looks, then they had surely moulded Lydia from their own reflections. She was a flawless creature with her shoulder-length auburn hair and curves that would make sculptors beg to use her as their muse. A silver Scylla-headed whip with five tails was placed at her belt, and a light bronze shield was slung across her back. Penelope dismounted her horse and tied the reins to a hitching post. "Lydia," she yelled above the noise for her sister to hear. "We must gather the sisters at once. Help me find them."

Lydia was surprised to see her matriarch had come to join them. "We only just arrived, Captain. There is still so much to do."

Penelope pulled her sister into an embrace so she wouldn't have to yell. "I was speaking with the phallic slave and he said that the Celt would often visit her tribute in the throne room. I think the traitor might be her." Even with the noise of auctioneers and excited giggles blasting in around them, Penelope still feared being heard by the wrong people. Many of the slavers in this area received a trickle of the Celt's merchandise from the barbarian lands to the north and northwest and may be under her employ. "We need to gather the sisters and head to the palace. The Queen must learn what I've heard."

She could feel her sister tense up in fear. "Are you sure you can trust the word of a slave, Captain? How do you know he's telling it true?"

Still holding her close, "He has no reason to lie to me, Lydia, and what he said fits in with everything else I know. We need to leave."

Lydia pushed away slightly to look at Penelope. "If that is your command, Captain, there is one person here you should speak to. You might want to hear what they have to say." With that, she took her older sister by the hand and led her through the crowds of amorous buyers.

A short journey left them standing before a heavy wooden door in an alleyway between two whorehouses. Even through the bricks and over the hustle of the crowds, Penelope could clearly make out the sounds of climaxing girls - slaves and freewomen both. The only way to tell them apart was by which scream was muffled by a gag and which begged the goddesses to make it harder and faster. Lydia pushed open the door and it groaned in its hinges. A single torch in a wall sconce was all that illuminated a narrow stone staircase leading down into the subterranean dungeons in which many whorehouses store their wares when they're not being used. Lydia took the torch as Penelope stepped down and closed the door behind her. It was suddenly and refreshingly quiet compared to the streets, but so dark that she could only see a few steps in front of her. "Who is this person, and how can she help us?" she asked.

"Perhaps it would be better to wait and see, Captain," replied Lydia as the pair went deeper down.

The flat ground was a welcome sight, as was the tunnel with more torches. They followed it through with nothing but the crackling of the flames and the echoes of their footsteps to make a sound, until they arrived at another heavy door. Lydia knocked thrice and waited. Penelope found it awfully hypocritical that her sister should doubt the word of a handsome phallic slave yet consider someone who spends their time in the dungeon of a whorehouse a credible source of information. The door swung open from the other side and standing there was a guard. It was too dark to make out much of her other than she wore the boiled leather bodice and skirt of a soldier and hid her face behind a Corinthian-style leather helm. Lydia tugged on Penelope's hand and pulled her deeper until the tunnel opened up into a much wider square room.

Guards lined the walls and doorways, each equipped with whips and bolas and a light shield. In the corners of the room were large cages wherein several slave girls awaited sale or a shift in the whorehouse above, their hard chains jingling softly. At the far end of the room was a throne, of sorts, that mimicked the Queen's own. At least Penelope thought it looked like a throne the way the shadowed figure was sitting in it.

Lydia stopped in the centre of the room where she stood without a sound. Penelope spoke to break the silence, "My sister has told me that you know information regarding the traitor." She didn't want to specifically mention who she suspected. "If you could shed any light on this, I would be most grateful."

The figure shifted in her chair which grunted below - a phallic slave locked inside the hollow throne. "Indeed, I have more information than you'd know what to do with, Penelope."

Penelope's heart skipped a beat in her chest. That voice. It couldn't be.

The figure rose from her throne and was flanked immediately by a pair of guards, each holding a torch in hand. The dancing flames showed the figure to be blonde woman with stunning features and a short skirt. Her armour was ornamented with a trim of shiny iron bands that wound intricately along the leather bodice, criss-crossing and turning and folding. Polished bronze bracers protected her arms, and matching grieves clasped around her smooth legs from ankle to knee. The light swam through the rivets of her skirt to confirm the Celtic artwork. Stood before her was the Matriarch of the Household of the Celtic Knot, Titania, better known simply as the Celt.

"Titania!" Penelope stammered, trying not to show her panic. She was in a dungeon with possibly the most skilled warrioress in all of Greece (and the woman she was accusing of treason) with a dozen of her guards, and only Lydia to reinforce her should things turn violent. It would be better to ignore her sense of pride and tread lightly.

"Please, Penelope, they all call me the Celt behind my back anyway. I've actually grown rather fond it."

"Alright, Celt." Where to go from here? "What do you know about the traitor?" As soon as she said it, she wondered if it was the right thing to ask.

The Celt laughed. It was an arrogant laugh. "I know all there is to know. It's me." She said it so matter-of-factly that it took Penelope a moment.

"You admit it?"

"Of course! We're all friends here, aren't we? No doubt you'd like me to explain. I'd planned to help throw the battle for the Trojans, which would anger the Queen greatly. I knew She'd take it out on General Cassia only because She'd wanted her as a part of the royal harem ever since Cassia became a matriarch. That would leave the generalship open, and by luck, I should happen to gift the Queen a pair of captives - the only captives taken by the Thessalian Army in the entire battle." The Celt smirked. "But then the captain of the Sapphic Scylla arrived at the palace before I did, and Her Grace offered her the generalship first. Well, I was disappointed, as you can imagine. But then She offered the promotion to whoever caught the woman who told the Trojans we were coming. I could have offered myself, bound and gagged and stripped of armour and rank, but then that wouldn't be very good for me, would it? So I needed a new plan. Patience, Penelope."

Penelope could feel all the guards around her. It didn't feel good. "Patience?"

"Wait for you to figure it out. It didn't take long, as I knew it wouldn't. You're a clever girl, Penelope. I sped up the process a little when I traded some fresh phallic slaves to the Queen, knowing She'd 'gift' one of her used slaves to you and one to me. I've got the Spartan in my throne now. See how his meat rises at the sound of my voice? He isn't very talkative, but I keep him gagged anyway - just to add that little extra to the experience. I'd hoped either of these phallic slaves would be able to tell you about my little visits to my tribute in the throne room to send you my way. And how you played right into my hands, Penelope. You've always been such a proud woman, never knowing when to lie down and take it like a good girl. And now you're the final piece in my plan." She began to laugh again. "The goddesses favour those with ambition."

Final piece? How could she know I'd end up here? It was too much for Penelope to think about now, and she could feel what was about to happen next. "Lydia," she whispered to her sister beside her, "prepare for a fight." Penelope's hands moved to her hips to grab the bolas and her long leather whip. The guards in the doorway looked like the right distance away to be snagged easily in the bolas, and the two standing against the wall would deal with her whip. Lydia could do the same on her side of the room and then use her shield to knock down the Celt. They'd bind her, gag her, tear the armour from her body and lay her helpless and naked at the Queen's feet.

She could see Lydia shoulder her shield from the corner of her eye. This is it, she thought. This is the fight we'll remember for the rest of our lives, the fight we'll tell our granddaughters about while they're whipping each other playfully through the fields, the fight that would end the Celt's quest for power, and a fight they'll sing songs about for generations to come.

But one blow ended it all when Penelope was shoved defencelessly to the ground from behind. She looked up to see her younger sister standing over her, shield raised and eyes cold. A best friend one day, a sadistic mistress the next.

Continued in Chapter 6