Amica 3
Noises from the upper deck, the sailors have opened the hatches, they’re untying us, ordering us to get up on deck. The light’s almost blinding, it prevents us from seeing clearly the beauty of the scene around us, a blue sea crossed by numerous vessels.
But they quickly bind our wrists to a chain that runs the entire length of the Phoenician ship from stem to stern. We’re lined up nude, like an exhibition of precious goods. A large warship propelled by oars projecting from its sides is approaching us fast. Its sails are reefed, it tacks, comes alongside us.
From above the gunwale, soldiers shout incomprehensible sentences. They point first at one and then another of us women, a new load of slavegirls.
We’re not an enemy ship, yet an archer shoots an arrow which is tied to a thin rope. The tip sticks in front the feet of a statuesque brunette. The Phoenician merchant curses. A sailor collects the rope, it’s bound to a strong hawser which winds out from the Roman ship. Promptly the sailor unlocks the beautiful girl from the chain, and winds the rope around her waist, ties her wrists, and throws her into the sea. They haul their prey on board the ship like a fish on a hook. She’s the price for access to the port, you pay in kind, not with gold coins!
Another boat approaches, a rowing boat, without sails, while the great galley moves away propelled by oars. Another arrow, another rope, but now the sailors furl the sails, the rowers pull the Phoenician ship to the port, towards a large rock from which rises a high tower with a fire burning on the top. The sailors point out the islands, bays, buildings that are near the coast, cities farther away and villages. To starboard lies Capri, on which stands one splendid palace, they say it’s the villa of the Emperor. Then there’s a city, Stabie, another, Pompeia, the river, Draconis, the harbor ahead of us, Oplontis, then to left, Erculaneum, Neapolis, Misenum, and a large island, Ischia.
But I'm terrified by the immense mountain that dominates the panorama. The sailors call it Vesuvius. A premonitory shiver runs through my body, as I cling on to myself, trying to make myself small to escape the gaze of the mountain. It's covered in forests, but villages too, houses, and at its feet the cities and cultivated fields.
Slowly the Phoenician ship is hauled by the oarsmen of the tug into the mouth of the harbour. There’s a huge statue on the pier, a giant, Hercules, say the sailors, who are now preparing to dock. Ships, boats, sailors, slaves, fish, vases, statues, boxes, carts on the docks, crowds, voices... someone spots us, they’re shouting, waving, welcome to the new slaves of Pompeia!
