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Amica

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Amica 64

Part fourth


But whatever is this life of mine? I seem to be a Penelope, constantly waiting for a man who does not return - at least Penelope had a husband, and she was the queen of Ithaca. I have no husband, I love a man but I don’t know whether he wants to marry me, and, for now, I’m still just a slave, not yet free. Have I misread all these things that are happening to me?

It isn’t easy to resist all the approaches I get from all the men I meet, with one excuse or another. Even Caesius, who’s writing to me now twice a day, flatters me in his letters, praising my beauty, I know he’d like to have me as his lover - even if one day in the villa of Poppea, I overheard him commenting to a guest, “she has one flaw, she’s a bit narrow in the hips - and there is the threat that Fannius will cut my throat if I dare to touch her ...!”

Every day is an ongoing struggle, under siege by men who are aiming to capture at least my attention, if not my body. It’s a bit of a trial, living in a villa frequented by patricians, young and not so young – they’re the most dangerous, when they see a beautiful slavegirl they just want to take her to bed, or, worse, rape where she is. And I’m living in a villa with lots of male slaves - they daren’t risk it, only because their owner would sell them as galley-slaves to some transport-ship-owner, but they’re always looking at me lustfully, undressing me with their eyes, stretching out their paws, with heavy breathing and murmured comments, or even insulting me and calling me a lesbian.

Not to mention what happens when Euken accompanies me into Herculaneum, it would take a company of Praetorian Guardsmen for me to defend myself! In the market they’re all trying to grope me, and when someone pinches my butt or my breast, or I bend over to look at something on a bench and someone behind me dares to touch me up between my thighs, when I turn around to find the culprit I only see faces looking the other way, everyone’s preoccupied, minding their own business, no one saw, no one will say...

It’s only I myself who wants to keep the promise I made to Fannius, to be for him alone - but as for wearing a chastity belt, which I've heard the Orientals make their women wear to prevent them from cheating, I’d need a complete suit of armour of the toughest metal to defend myself! And supposing I were to decide to break my promise? If I gave myself complaisantly to an occasional lover? I’m no longer a virgin, neither in front nor behind, Fannius has taken everything that I had jealously guarded for him from the first moment I met him, so how would he know that someone else has fucked me? I’d risk getting pregnant, from what I understand, the sylphius doesn’t work too well. I almost envy Rectina who can’t get pregnant, even though it's the thing I’ve found out to be her strongest desire.
 

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Eulalia said:
"e' rriavule!"
Click to expand...
yep...............................I read e.g.
Naples is the most mysterious city in Europe, and the only city of the ancient world that has not perished like Troy, or Nineveh, or Babylon. It is the only city in the world that has not sunk in the immense shipwreck of ancient civilization. Naples is a Pompeii that was never buried. Is not a city: is a world. The ancient world with its pagan customs have remained intact on the surface of the modern world. You cannot understand Naples, nor ever will you understand Naples.

(Curzio Malaparte)
 
Amica 65


A clatter of hooves on the pavement in front of the villa, neighing of horses, the noise of weapons and military harness. Gods save me, the militiamen of the Imperial Prefect have come to arrest me!

'Come! Come Amica ', Rectina’s calling me.

I go out, and I almost lose my wits – it’s not the Guards, it’s Fannius with his fellow soldiers, but why haven’t I been aware of his coming?

I run, throw myself on his neck, he hugs me. I can’t feel his body, the hard metal of his armour separates us, but just his kiss on my mouth sets my crazy heart galloping. In my mind a whirlwind of thoughts is blowing, this is the moment when everything changes for me – though not without fear, leaving the safe house of Rectina for a new destiny is certainly exciting, but full of unknowns, even if it is what I want most in the world.


Then the water in the calidarium and frigidarium (hot and cold baths), with a massage with aromatic oils on his skin, restores his strength after the long journey, before a refreshing lunch. Didia watches with curiosity, her smiling eyes capturing all the nuances of our gestures and our glances, she seems happy to be able to serve us and readily brings us the most delicious morsels.

'Be good Didia, in a few days we’ll come back to get you - if you want, you can come with us to live in Pompeii.'

I see a little bit of disappointment in her eyes, she’d like to come at once, but for now we have to part, I’m going with Fannius to his villa, and love requires confidentiality!

The horses are ready, I climb onto a beautiful grey mare. Fannius’s comrades have departed to their homes, where their wives and girl friends are waiting impatiently for their return – the life of soldiers’ women is a life of waiting.

We’re nearly at the end of our journey from Herculaneum to the villa as dusk falls. At the sides of the roads are long lines of slaves, silent and exhausted. I’ve heard about these poor wretches, slaves, like me, but they have to work on the large farms until they die of fatigue. I’ve never seen any so closely, every time one of them finds the strength to lift her eyes from the dust to meet mine it’s like looking through a hole into the underworld.


Gathering shadows empty the road of its traffic, the villas on the lower slopes gradually vanish behind us, to be replaced by isolated lights of torches flickering in the dark.

The heat’s oppressive and I'm thirsty, I forgot to bring any water, my skin’s sweaty, irritated where it’s in contact with my clothing. Suddenly the heavy air seems to thicken and hums around us, a moment later, from the depths of the mountain to the left, we hear a muffled roar, the earth trembles.

The horse rears up and almost throws me, the reins slip through my fingers and my sweaty legs wet fail to grip the flanks, I almost tumble. As soon as the mare’s forelegs are back on the ground she gallops away, I can only stay in the saddle by grasping her thick mane, clinging on tight. I'm not as clever a rider as Fannius, he knows much better than me how to control his horse, they know each other like two brothers.

We go at a gallop for a long stretch until the animal finally slows down, and then I realise that we’ve left the road and are now trotting lightly through an open field. In the distance I can hear the sound of the flowing stream not far from the villa. The mare hears it too, or perhaps she recognises the scent, because she changes direction and heads towards the source of the sound. I’ve been holding on with my cheek pressed against the neck of the beast and my eyes shut, but now, raising my head, I see the low stone wall that acts as a barrier beside the stream. The mare stoops to drink, in her ear I whisper a thankyou, and slowly, so as not to frighten her, I dismount. I’m trembling with terror, but Fannius has had a good ride, and now we’ve arrived he smiles at me, happily taking my hand.

In the still air of the hot night, the moon seems the only thing alive, from the profiled edge of the mountains she seems to rise shining like a seabird that’s breaking from the shell in which she’s been hidden. Her faint light spreads across the plain, shadows that at first enwrapped the sleeping landscape in a veil of grey become black, objects take shape within the rays of the silvery moon.

Lying naked on the terrace where we are gazing at the sky, the stars are losing their brightness in the milky light of the sky. Our hands come together, fingers intertwined, our bodies turn, our mouths kiss, it’s as if everything happens of its own accord, as if every muscle moved to its own choreography, not controlled by the mind but by a code inscribed within it, as if each knew everything about the other. Our members do not belong to us anymore, we’re a single, new, living body, throbbing, sighing, moaning, loving. Every moment is past, present and future at the same time and for infinity, all is us and we are all, the whole universe.

The moon shines on the smooth black stones paving the patio, shaping the contours of the flat roofs. It feels as hot as in the late afternoon, the moon’s shining high in the sky with almost the same intensity as the sun. A grey cat runs along the wall, then disappears, and from afar comes the chirping of cicadas in the park.

The faint light of dawn lights the sky to the east. Nights, days and nights pass in a procession of immemorial moments, we are suspendedin this whirlwind of love and passion.
 

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Amica 66


A procession of cheering people come down from the villages to Pompeii, many on foot, others on donkeys, families on carts pulled by oxen or cows, a few with horses. They’re hurrying to the Vulcanalia, festival of the god Vulcanus. The ceremony is particularly significant this year for the highest ever number of citizens wishing to offer sacrifices. The drought is endless, springs and wells have dried up, there are earth-tremors, strange apparitions, they say, have been seen and heard on the mountain, all of this is attributed to Vulcanus. And in cities too there is considerable apprehension. The faces are flushed and sweat-streaked in the crowd that’s dragging along the way, fear is palpable in the air. And this year there will also be a gladiatoral combat in the arena, sponsored by the city magistrates, to appease the god.

On our horses we mingle with the crowd that's heading towards the Vesuvian Gate. The gates are already open, despite the early hour.

The red towers along the walls, with their signs of damage over the centuries, display the new intolerance towards both the new religion and the Jews, with blasphemous slogans and death-threats, while crosses, always ready to welcome new condemned ones to their arms, stand empty for now.

The of pilgrims dressed up for the festival proceeds in amazing order, only the voices, festive shouts, and children running about, give any sense of celebration. The festival falls towards the end of the summer with all its promises, and marks the beginning of the long, sad decline into winter, when early in the evening and in the morning when you wake up you have to light the candles.

For Fannius, the Vulcanalia doesn’t really matter, he’s participating mainly out of duty, being present in place of his father, who’s now living in Rome.

The tiled surfaces of the roofs are red, and red too are the painted electoral messages that smear the walls of the houses:

THE ENTIRE POPULATION HAS APPROVED THE CANDIDATURE OF CUSPIUS TO THE OFFICE OF ÆDILIS.

THE MERCHANTS, TOGETHER WITH ELVIUS VITALIUS, URGE THE ELECTION OF MARCUS HOLCONIUS PRISCUS AS MAGISTRATE WITH JUDICIAL POWERS.

THE WORSHIPPERS OF ISIS SUPPORT THE ELECTION OF AEDILIS POPIDIUS SECONDUS.

The city seems obsessed by the elections, the new magistrates are elected every year in March.

The house of Lucius is already in turmoil, the slaves await us. How different the house seems, though it’s been such a short time - the absence of the people who lived in it until the time of my departure, the absence of Eulalia. The garden seems a little sad, and the dancing satyr finds himself alone, he no longer has his beautiful nymphs to watch mischievously. I meet the black night elf, now is a nice cat, full of life, he’s the king of the house and reigns over all his pussycat slaves!

After a good refreshing bath, getting rid of the smell of the horse, I must prepare to accompany Fannius the ceremony. The wife of Æmidius brings me a beautiful dress, it belonged to Fulvia Lucilla when she was still young and slender, she didn’t take it to Rome in her wardrobe. It’s of a white fabric, light, almost transparent, woven with slender gold thread thin, and falls to brush the ground. It has an extraordinary elegance, not like the dress I wore the time I went to the arena for gladiatorial games, a bit too provocative. The slaves comb me and apply makeup. I put on some jewelry that Fannius has taken from the safe in the tablinum (office). I’m already looking like a matron, though I’m only eighteen years old – well, approximately, it’s not so easy to know my exact age, I don’t even know what day I was born.

As tradition expects, the governors of the city gather on the steps of the Temple of Jupiter, magistrates and priests in front and members of the (patrician) orders immediately behind. Fannius is among them in place of his father, not far from an altar on which is a sacrificial fire. I remain among the guests, casting around my eyes in search of someone who I know is calling me, namely Caesius the poet. I feel almost guilty for not having replied to his letters since I left the Rectina’s house – in truth I haven’t received any yet. It will be good I will have a little company while Fannius is engaged.

Caesius tells me about the origin and meaning of the holiday: Vulcanus lives in a cave under a mountain and spreads his voracious fire across the Earth. All the creatures fear him except fish, and so, on the principle that the gods, like humans, want above all whatever is most difficult for them to get, Vulcanus must be appeased by throwing live fish in the flames of a pyre.
The ceremony itself isn’t at all nice, there is absolutely nothing noble in the spectacle of hundreds of little fish being thrown into the flames by superstitious citizens who parade in front of the sacred fire to watch those silvery bodies writhing and leaping in the heat.

Fannius moves away before the end of the ceremony. He descends the steps of the temple that are now in the shadow of the building, passing between the rows of spectators, then through the triumphal arch dedicated to Drusus, and comes out into the empty street behind the baths. I follow him with my eyes as Caesius accompanies me, making our way through the crowd, we bid farewell on the doorstep, making an appointment tomorrow for the games in the arena.

Fannius has gone indoors just before me - he saw me in the crowd and beckoned to me to come back, it's almost time for dinner. I’m still thinking of those poor silvery fish leaping sizzling in the flames, and decide not to eat, but I recline in the triclinium out of courtesy to the guests. They are some of his fellow-soldiers, whom he met near the Temple of Fortuna Augusta, and invited them to honour the feast. Bonfires in honour of Vulcanus will be lit at nightfall.

To begin with, there’ll be the usual shows in the Forum, a bull-fight, some Greek wrestling matches, nothing particularly elaborate, only an hour or so of entertainment waiting for it to get dark. These are the kind of shows that an Aedilis usually organizes as sign of gratitude for the position he’s obtained. Fannius and his comrades want to attend them before they return to their homes, but I prefer to stay alone at home, saying I feel tired.
 

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Eulalia said:
that is an understatement - Luna has a whole bank-full of great talents! :devil: :devil: :devil:
Click to expand...
Luna is one of the most sweet and intelligent ... not to mention funny and cute persons that I know (without really knowing).

I would beg to stay with her, if I ever went to Italy for a Vacation. :)
 
Absolutely stunning work Luna! I don't mind that Amica doesn't show up in my alerts because I could read your work forever!:bdsm-heart: I love how you portray Amica growing as a person so deeply and of course all the interesting historical accuracies as well.:)
 
Amica 67a


Early in the morning the heat was still oppressive, but at some moment we saw a dark blue tumult of choppy waves being driven on by the wind from the direction of Capri, and now a sea breeze is beginning to blow over the city that’s making the leaves rustle. For the rest of the day we’ll be able to breathe almost spring-like air.

The shortest way to reach the arena from the house of Lucius is to turn left and follow the Upper Decuman Way, known as Fortune Street, towards the Nola Gate as far as the crossroads with the Cardinal Way, that’s The Stabian Way, which we take turning right towards the Stabian Gate; then, at the crossroads with the Lower Decuman, we turn left, and proceed all the way along it until we’re near the Sarnus Gate.

Oh buy, buy my flowers
I’m blind, an orphan and a stranger...

The poor Θεσσα beggar-maid has such a sweet voice! Under the portico, where we met the trader selling votive statuettes, the girl’s singing to a little three-stringed cithara, with a basket of flowers at her feet. Whenever she ends a verse, she turns the basket around, asking passers-by to buy her flowers, and many give a sestertius as a reward for that heartfelt sweet song, and because it’s clear that she really cannot see, she has white eyes.

Suddenly a child puts a scrap of papyrus into my hand:

Golden thoughts,
Noble sunbeams
Kissing your body,
Gold of the moon.

It's definitely Eutychus, but wherever’s my admirer hiding?

Groups of travellers of all social classes, at first few and far between, are walking to reach the amphitheatre, further along the way the crowd becomes a compact mass, to which are constantly added more Pompeians appearing from the side streets.

On the square in front of the Gladiators’ Palaestra (training gym) are Holconius, Popidius, Cuspius and Brixius, the quadrumvirs, already waiting with their wives; the Imperial Prefect, Titus Suedius Clemens has not yet arrived. Popidius, handsome but feeble, Cuspius, brutal and stupid, like his father, Brixius, a martyr to over-indulgence, and Holconius, sour and bitchy, too many anchovies and too much garum in his diet!

Fannius takes the opportunity to introduce me as his bride, the princess who comes from the land of Thule.

All yesterday he spent coaching me in what I have to do: I don’t have to smile, as I surely would have done, nor bow, but I must maintain a dismissive attitude, a haughty look, almost arrogance personified, and put on an irritable face. It seems this is the rule in Roman high society, the more of a bitch you are, the higher your credit in the opinion of others!

At last the Prefect arrives and we can go up onto the platform of honour, covered with a red cloth for shade, The Prefect sits at the centre on a throne that suggests Caesar has returned to earth. To his sides sit the quadrumvirs, then to the right is Fannius, and the nouveaux rich. He’s the character I’ve already met at the banquet in villa of Rectina, the puppeteer, and behind the Prefect a senior officer and guards are stationed. We women sit on the left, a little way back from the balustrade.

Before the opening of the games in honour of Jupiter, Venus and Vulcan, a religious ceremony is performed, the sacrifice of a placid bull that’s led to the altar. It gazes at the priest, looking puzzled, then suddenly it’s stunned by hammer-blow on its head, and like lightning the knife slits open its throat. The bull falls heavily, with legs outstretched, and finally, as the crimson streams of blood are clotting in the sand, the yellow bag of steaming entrails is tugged out of its abdomen to be examined for omens.

Trumpets herald the entrance of the gladiators, the roar of the crowd proclaims they can’t wait, this is their true religion.
 

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Amica 67b


They enter in the arena, preceded by a band of soldiers who play curved trumpets and horns, then the lictors bearing the fasces (bundles of rods enwrapping double-headed axes, symbolising the powers of the magistrates), and soldiers carrying the standards with the imperial eagles. The gladiators get the crowd excited, showing off their weapons and mimicking the movements of fighting, running all the way round the elliptical track around the amphitheatre.

There’s also a pair of gladiatrices, a novelty recently introduced to add some more excitement to the show. Unlike the males they don’t wear helmets or armour, only a narrow strip of panther- or leopard- skin covering their hips, held by a cord around the waist. Their breasts are bare, they’ve a protective gleave on their right arms, and a small shield on the left, their weapon is a short, double-edged dagger.

One of the two has her hair dyed red, using the 'sapo' of the Gauls, the other has black hair in braids that look like a knot of serpents, like the terrible Medusa who’ll paralyse her opponent as soon as she sees her. Her face is covered with red tattoos, her body is deformed with the excess of muscle, were it not for the prominence of their breasts – though even they are poorly developed – they’d hardly reveal their feminine nature.


The crowd is roaring, cheering the champions as they pass before their eyes, everyone’s screaming out their names. They finally arrive in front of the VIP box and greet the Imperial Prefect, raising their arms in the Roman salute,

'Look at that Thracian, what muscles!'
'The black retiarius is an idol!'
'By Jove! Dishy! Awesome! '

So say the women on the grandstand, excited at the sight of the divine anatomies of their favourites. The Master of Ceremonies reads the list of pairs of combatants in the first stage of the tournament, the two gladiatrices will fight each other to the death at the end of the show, and betting begins on who’ll get the glory of winning, who’ll shed the blood of losers. The retiarius is given three to one on, he’s already had twenty triumphs, but Tiger’s at five to one on, he’s had thirty wins and gives no mercy.

The first fight ends after only a few skirmishes, the murmillo (heavy-armed gladiator) is struck by the spear of the hoplomachus (light-armed gladiator), the crowd votes for mercy, but they’re too late, he’s already dead in a pool of blood.

'It wasn’t worth the trouble to come and watch that.'
'And you’ve lost ten gold pieces you were silly enough to stake!'

It’s the wives of Brixius and Cuspius who are taunting each other about the outcome of the duel.


Now the scaeva, the left-handed gladiator is fighting against the secutor, armed with a short sword.

'Fifty gold pieces on the southpaw!'
exclaims the wife of Cuspius, eager to make up the amount she’s lost.
'There's no contest!'
says the wife of Popidius.
'But you’re so wrong! Nepimus is skilled, and fighting with his left hand he deceives all his opponents.'

But no-one this time wants to risk backing the loser, the poor secutor who’s fought heroically succumbs, and with a hook driven into his foot he’s dragged into the spoliarium (mortuary).

The crowd’s calling out for the next pair of contenders, more blood, more deaths, no mercy, the atmosphere is enflamed, the arena is energized, as each round ends a new pair are already squaring up, while poor bloody bodies are dragged away in the dust. The triumphs of the winners turn in the next round into tragedies, into massacres, the one to emerge as the final winner is the retiarius, black as a statue of ebony.

Now it’s the turn of the two gladiatrices. They’re sizing each other up, skipping around each other in a circle. The crowd wants blood and roars, a thrust, parried with the shield, a pause, more lunges, there isn’t the same strength of combat as between the males, but there’s cunning, tactics, agility - still, the spectators are impatient.

'Yuuuh! Yuuuh! Yuuuh! '

Under the pressure of the crowd’s incitement, the duel becomes more daring, violent shocks are exchanged. Medusa darts out to one side, the redhead strikes at her, the scanty panther-skin falls to the ground, bloodied, leaving her opponent bare.

The redhead is confident of victory, but she’s mistaken, a blow falls and the sword drops out of her hand, her arm is wounded, she falls on her knees. The furious naked panther pounces on the wounded girl, grabs her by the hair to lift up her head, sinks her sword into the base of her neck, and a gush of blood squirts out smearing the skin of Medusa as she raises her sword in victory, but she immediately collapses to the ground herself, lifeless too, from the deep wound in her side.

The hooks penetrate the muscles of their legs, the horses drag off the remains of the hapless victims, their blood leaves a long trail across the sand of the arena.
 

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Velut Luna said:
Amica 67b


They enter in the arena, preceded by a band of soldiers who play curved trumpets and horns, then the lictors bearing the fasces (bundles of rods enwrapping double-headed axes, symbolising the powers of the magistrates), and soldiers carrying the standards with the imperial eagles. The gladiators get the crowd excited, showing off their weapons and mimicking the movements of fighting, running all the way round the elliptical track around the amphitheatre.

There’s also a pair of gladiatrices, a novelty recently introduced to add some more excitement to the show. Unlike the males they don’t wear helmets or armour, only a narrow strip of panther- or leopard- skin covering their hips, held by a cord around the waist. Their breasts are bare, they’ve a protective gleave on their right arms, and a small shield on the left, their weapon is a short, double-edged dagger.

One of the two has her hair dyed red, using the 'sapo' of the Gauls, the other has black hair in braids that look like a knot of serpents, like the terrible Medusa who’ll paralyse her opponent as soon as she sees her. Her face is covered with red tattoos, her body is deformed with the excess of muscle, were it not for the prominence of their breasts – though even they are poorly developed – they’d hardly reveal their feminine nature.


The crowd is roaring, cheering the champions as they pass before their eyes, everyone’s screaming out their names. They finally arrive in front of the VIP box and greet the Imperial Prefect, raising their arms in the Roman salute,

'Look at that Thracian, what muscles!'
'The black retiarius is an idol!'
'By Jove! Dishy! Awesome! '

So say the women on the grandstand, excited at the sight of the divine anatomies of their favourites. The Master of Ceremonies reads the list of pairs of combatants in the first stage of the tournament, the two gladiatrices will fight each other to the death at the end of the show, and betting begins on who’ll get the glory of winning, who’ll shed the blood of losers. The retiarius is given three to one on, he’s already had twenty triumphs, but Tiger’s at five to one on, he’s had thirty wins and gives no mercy.

The first fight ends after only a few skirmishes, the murmillo (heavy-armed gladiator) is struck by the spear of the hoplomachus (light-armed gladiator), the crowd votes for mercy, but they’re too late, he’s already dead in a pool of blood.

'It wasn’t worth the trouble to come and watch that.'
'And you’ve lost ten gold pieces you were silly enough to stake!'

It’s the wives of Brixius and Cuspius who are taunting each other about the outcome of the duel.


Now the scaeva, the left-handed gladiator is fighting against the secutor, armed with a short sword.

'Fifty gold pieces on the southpaw!'
exclaims the wife of Cuspius, eager to make up the amount she’s lost.
'There's no contest!'
says the wife of Popidius.
'But you’re so wrong! Nepimus is skilled, and fighting with his left hand he deceives all his opponents.'

But no-one this time wants to risk backing the loser, the poor secutor who’s fought heroically succumbs, and with a hook driven into his foot he’s dragged into the spoliarium (mortuary).

The crowd’s calling out for the next pair of contenders, more blood, more deaths, no mercy, the atmosphere is enflamed, the arena is energized, as each round ends a new pair are already squaring up, while poor bloody bodies are dragged away in the dust. The triumphs of the winners turn in the next round into tragedies, into massacres, the one to emerge as the final winner is the retiarius, black as a statue of ebony.

Now it’s the turn of the two gladiatrices. They’re sizing each other up, skipping around each other in a circle. The crowd wants blood and roars, a thrust, parried with the shield, a pause, more lunges, there isn’t the same strength of combat as between the males, but there’s cunning, tactics, agility - still, the spectators are impatient.

'Yuuuh! Yuuuh! Yuuuh! '

Under the pressure of the crowd’s incitement, the duel becomes more daring, violent shocks are exchanged. Medusa darts out to one side, the redhead strikes at her, the scanty panther-skin falls to the ground, bloodied, leaving her opponent bare.

The redhead is confident of victory, but she’s mistaken, a blow falls and the sword drops out of her hand, her arm is wounded, she falls on her knees. The furious naked panther pounces on the wounded girl, grabs her by the hair to lift up her head, sinks her sword into the base of her neck, and a gush of blood squirts out smearing the skin of Medusa as she raises her sword in victory, but she immediately collapses to the ground herself, lifeless too, from the deep wound in her side.

The hooks penetrate the muscles of their legs, the horses drag off the remains of the hapless victims, their blood leaves a long trail across the sand of the arena.
Click to expand...

Very exciting action writing..lots of historically accurate detailing, as usual...well done Luna!:)
 
Velut Luna said:
Amica 67b
The crowd is roaring, cheering the champions as they pass before their eyes, everyone’s screaming out their names. They finally arrive in front of the VIP box and greet the Imperial Prefect, raising their arms in the Roman salute....

The hooks penetrate the muscles of their legs, the horses drag off the remains of the hapless victims, their blood leaves a long trail across the sand of the arena.
Click to expand...
Luna, your writing is wonderful and here details the reality of it all.
 
for the: 2015 International Women's Day
____________________________________________________________________​


Amica 67c


The crowd of fifteen thousand Pompeians who’ve come to watch the games, and who are now preparing to leave the arena, is stopped by a fanfare, and by the Imperial Prefect getting to his feet and signalling that he intends to address all the people. Silence falls, soon disturbed by some slight murmuring, as the Prefect is handed a scroll. He breaks the seal and opens the letter.

Grey hair plastered with sweat on his forehead crowns his raptor-like profile, as he bows his head to read. His white skin’s smooth and hairless, as if he’s been shaved all over, I think with disgust.

'In the name of the Emperor, Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, and under the powers conferred on him by the Senate and People of Rome ...'

It is an edict of the Emperor.

'... Too many Jews fled from Jerusalem before its destruction and have plagued the Empire ... gathering in groups to practise their religion in secret, despite it being prohibited throughout the Empire ... and now the new cult of those who call themselves Christians threatens the security of the Empire ... insubordination has taken root even among Roman citizens, among Greek freedmen, and among slaves of all races that we keep in our homes ... they are guilty of the most abhorrent crimes ... practising incest and cannibalism ... to ensure your safety, and the integrity of the Empire, I order that these despicable creatures be captured and put to death ... and I delegate to the Imperial Prefects and civic authorities to put into effect all such actions as are necessary to suppress this spreading subversion... so says our divine Caesar ... and I would like to add that, with the agreement of the quadrumvirs present here, that all those who denounce Jews and Christians will be exempted from payment of civic taxes in proportion to the number they name ...'

So the persecution’s beginning here, that’s already well under way in Rome.

'... Now, as a demonstration of our commitment, we shall witness the torture of ten of these wretches.'

The Pompeians are delirious, praising Caesar Vespasian, Titus Clemens, and the quadrumvirs, with applause, shouts, Roman salutes, and rhythmic stamping of their feet, pounding the stones of the terraces, the structure of the arena vibrates as if possessed by the thrill of anger, as if shaken by an earthquake.

A surreal silence falls, shaken by a quiver of expectation. The noise of the chains of the mechanism that raises the iron-barred gates of the passage leading to the spoliarium breaks the stillness of the air.

The pale skin of ten women, completely naked, gleams in the shadows of the dark corridor. They are dragging with ropes the wood of the corss-beams on which they’re to be nailed, crucified. Tremble in terror, trying to hide their nakedness exposed to spectators, they fall on their knees in a group in the centre of the arena. The crowd screams insults, laughing at their humiliation, throwing scraps of food that fall on the sand.

The women on the platform look on bewildered, it’s the first time here in Pompeii that women have been crucified in the arena – there have only a few such cases, and they were outside the Vesuvian Gate, where I saw those three Christian women hanging on crosses, already nearly dead, when I was on my way back with Eulalia from the villa of Lucius, almost two years ago.

I watch the poor victims in horror, I think I recognize some of them - yes, one is Sara Judea, the slavegirl taken away from the house of Lucius on the day of the census. Another is Nesea, I thought perhaps she was a Christian, the pretty girl with big eyes, the captured doe, as Eulalia wrote in her secret message. Two of the others were, no doubt, among the Christians who disappeared that tragic night, ones who didn’t get away, were arrested by the militiamen of the Prefect, who’d already begun rounding up Christians secretly. Where have they been held captive? They have signs of whipping and torture on their delicate skin, they’re slim, their hair unkempt, expressions distorted by fear of what’s about to happen.

Fannius is too far away from me, I can’t tell him that four of these poor wretches were slaves of his father, and anyway this isn’t the time to draw attention to myself when the Prefect and his guards are present.

The sappers have finished digging holes in the ground where the crosses are now going to be raised. They’re brought into the arena on a wagon, each victim is dragged violently to the shaft of the cross, and tied there with her arms raised. The scourge begins the destruction of the poor bodies, with blow after blow their pale skin is torn, blood streams from the wounds that the of metal spikes of the scourges tear open, ripping out pieces of flesh. The poor women writhe with each blow, moaning, screaming, pleading, while the crowd claps to the rhythm of the scourge-strokes.

Nesea soon collapses, slumping as if dead, hanging from the ropes binding her wrists. Her scourger unties her and drags her almost lifeless to the beam where she’s to be nailed. She hasn’t given him the satisfaction of resisting like the others do, so, to take revenge, he pulls his penis from under his tunic and rapes her in front of the whole crowd – they show their appreciation with a bestial howl like the roar of male animals at the height of their sexual enjoyment, as they ejaculate into a female belly. One by one the girls succumb, and to gratify the ferocity of the crowd, their executioners mimic the first brute, abusing the poor defenceless bodies.

'Crucify! Crucify! '

The crowd is going berserk, in the throes of a kind of collective orgasm, their bloodlust, their death-wish, is insatiable. I feel the blows of hammers nailing the slender wrists to the wood of the cross-bars lying on the sand as pains penetrating into my brain, every stroke is a knock of my heart that’s now beating to the frenetic pace of the mallets, it’s as if the nails were being driven into my temples.

A shiver runs down my spine, my skin contracts as if a cold penis is invading me, my nipples are standing on end, my breasts swelling, a strange tension is siezing my vulva, my womb throbs with pain. I’m puzzled by this erotic tension that overcoming me, my mind is horrified but my body is caught up in this orgasmic maelstrom.

Now, with ropes passed under the short arms of the huge crosses, the women are hoisted up onto the symbols of infamy, their feet are nailed to the trunk in awkward positions, so their bodies hang in grotesque postures, almost comical if they weren’t so tragic. These executioners are experts in their craft, they’re the ones who were crucifying Jews in the fields outside Jerusalem at the rate of five hundred a day, it amuses them, and shows their contempt for their victims, to humiliate them utterly, introducing the cornu into their anus, fised with a nail to the upright of the cross. Sara seems to resist with a bit of pride, fighting against her degradation, her screams echo in the silence of the arena:

ה 'לעשות את זה גשם מהשמיים מעל גופרית העיר הזאת ואש אז הוא הורס את כל המישור כל התושבים וככל שהוא
גדל על הקרקע​
It’s the curse of Sodom, I remember.

'What the fuck’s that whore saying?' hisses the wife of Holconius.

The senior officer replies, '”May the Lord rain upon this city brimstone and fire out of heaven, may he overthrow this city and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the city, and that which grows upon the ground ... “’
and he continues,
'... It’s a sentence from a holy book of the Jews, the prayer of a prophet to his God to destroy the city of Sodom - I was in Jerusalem for ten years before Dux Titus Vespasian destroyed it, and I've learned how fanatical these Jews are.'

'Call on your God! You trusted in him, let him deliver you now, let him get you off the cross - if he exists!'

yells Cuspius, shaking his fist, he can’t even distinguish a Jew from a Christian.

With sharp-pointed spears, they pierce their victims, wreaking carnage, digging quivering flesh out of their white breasts now dripping with blood. As they get ever more excited, they even assault their tender groins with sharp swords, deeply wounding the muscles of their legs and trunks – can it be a gesture of pity to accelerate their death?

But soon the crowd realises that something else has been prepared. Silence falls, from the dark caverns under the amphitheatre building come the roars of fierce animals, the executioners get away to shelter behind the wooden barriers, as the latticework gates of the caverns are raised.

The lions enter, stop, sniff the air, prowl slowly between the crosses, peering at the poor bodies, emitting low growls, calling to one another as if they were preparing for a hunt. The poor women condemned to this horrible fate are groaning in terror, writhing on their crosses as if they’re trying to liberate themselves from the nails and escape, or at least remove their bodies from the jaws of the animals that are now approaching them. They’re licking the blood.

Nesea makes a last effort, with a soft moan, then she gives up and moves no longer, I hope for her sake she’s been scared to death, I’m encouraged by the thread of urine leaking from her sex, while the lion grabs her foot with his teeth and tears off her leg.

As if that’s a signal, the horde attacks and begins the massacre, the victims are torn down from their crosses with desperate cries, to cheers and encouragement to the beasts from the crowd that now cannot suppress the mad frenzy that’s possessing them.

I’m sweating, I focus my eyes on the empty space of the passage that opens into the stands, I don’t see anything but a luminous vortex that’s slowly rotating and beating to the paroxysmal rhythm of my heart.

I see my mother being disembowelled by the killers, the daughters of my village being nailed to the trees of the forest and burned alive, but this barbarity is even worse, an ever fiercer trembling takes possession of me, my limbs are shaken by an inner earthquake, I’m burning with fever, I feel two strong arms that grab me from behind, a moment before I pass out.


 

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Velut Luna said:
for the: 2015 International Women's Day
____________________________________________________________________​


Amica 67c


The crowd of fifteen thousand Pompeians who’ve come to watch the games, and who are now preparing to leave the arena, is stopped by a fanfare, and by the Imperial Prefect getting to his feet and signalling that he intends to address all the people. Silence falls, soon disturbed by some slight murmuring, as the Prefect is handed a scroll. He breaks the seal and opens the letter.

Grey hair plastered with sweat on his forehead crowns his raptor-like profile, as he bows his head to read. His white skin’s smooth and hairless, as if he’s been shaved all over, I think with disgust.

'In the name of the Emperor, Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, and under the powers conferred on him by the Senate and People of Rome ...'

It is an edict of the Emperor.

'... Too many Jews fled from Jerusalem before its destruction and have plagued the Empire ... gathering in groups to practise their religion in secret, despite it being prohibited throughout the Empire ... and now the new cult of those who call themselves Christians threatens the security of the Empire ... insubordination has taken root even among Roman citizens, among Greek freedmen, and among slaves of all races that we keep in our homes ... they are guilty of the most abhorrent crimes ... practising incest and cannibalism ... to ensure your safety, and the integrity of the Empire, I order that these despicable creatures be captured and put to death ... and I delegate to the Imperial Prefects and civic authorities to put into effect all such actions as are necessary to suppress this spreading subversion... so says our divine Caesar ... and I would like to add that, with the agreement of the quadrumvirs present here, that all those who denounce Jews and Christians will be exempted from payment of civic taxes in proportion to the number they name ...'

So the persecution’s beginning here, that’s already well under way in Rome.

'... Now, as a demonstration of our commitment, we shall witness the torture of ten of these wretches.'

The Pompeians are delirious, praising Caesar Vespasian, Titus Clemens, and the quadrumvirs, with applause, shouts, Roman salutes, and rhythmic stamping of their feet, pounding the stones of the terraces, the structure of the arena vibrates as if possessed by the thrill of anger, as if shaken by an earthquake.

A surreal silence falls, shaken by a quiver of expectation. The noise of the chains of the mechanism that raises the iron-barred gates of the passage leading to the spoliarium breaks the stillness of the air.

The pale skin of ten women, completely naked, gleams in the shadows of the dark corridor. They are dragging with ropes the wood of the corss-beams on which they’re to be nailed, crucified. Tremble in terror, trying to hide their nakedness exposed to spectators, they fall on their knees in a group in the centre of the arena. The crowd screams insults, laughing at their humiliation, throwing scraps of food that fall on the sand.

The women on the platform look on bewildered, it’s the first time here in Pompeii that women have been crucified in the arena – there have only a few such cases, and they were outside the Vesuvian Gate, where I saw those three Christian women hanging on crosses, already nearly dead, when I was on my way back with Eulalia from the villa of Lucius, almost two years ago.

I watch the poor victims in horror, I think I recognize some of them - yes, one is Sara Judea, the slavegirl taken away from the house of Lucius on the day of the census. Another is Nesea, I thought perhaps she was a Christian, the pretty girl with big eyes, the captured doe, as Eulalia wrote in her secret message. Two of the others were, no doubt, among the Christians who disappeared that tragic night, ones who didn’t get away, were arrested by the militiamen of the Prefect, who’d already begun rounding up Christians secretly. Where have they been held captive? They have signs of whipping and torture on their delicate skin, they’re slim, their hair unkempt, expressions distorted by fear of what’s about to happen.

Fannius is too far away from me, I can’t tell him that four of these poor wretches were slaves of his father, and anyway this isn’t the time to draw attention to myself when the Prefect and his guards are present.

The sappers have finished digging holes in the ground where the crosses are now going to be raised. They’re brought into the arena on a wagon, each victim is dragged violently to the shaft of the cross, and tied there with her arms raised. The scourge begins the destruction of the poor bodies, with blow after blow their pale skin is torn, blood streams from the wounds that the of metal spikes of the scourges tear open, ripping out pieces of flesh. The poor women writhe with each blow, moaning, screaming, pleading, while the crowd claps to the rhythm of the scourge-strokes.

Nesea soon collapses, slumping as if dead, hanging from the ropes binding her wrists. Her scourger unties her and drags her almost lifeless to the beam where she’s to be nailed. She hasn’t given him the satisfaction of resisting like the others do, so, to take revenge, he pulls his penis from under his tunic and rapes her in front of the whole crowd – they show their appreciation with a bestial howl like the roar of male animals at the height of their sexual enjoyment, as they ejaculate into a female belly. One by one the girls succumb, and to gratify the ferocity of the crowd, their executioners mimic the first brute, abusing the poor defenceless bodies.

'Crucify! Crucify! '

The crowd is going berserk, in the throes of a kind of collective orgasm, their bloodlust, their death-wish, is insatiable. I feel the blows of hammers nailing the slender wrists to the wood of the cross-bars lying on the sand as pains penetrating into my brain, every stroke is a knock of my heart that’s now beating to the frenetic pace of the mallets, it’s as if the nails were being driven into my temples.

A shiver runs down my spine, my skin contracts as if a cold penis is invading me, my nipples are standing on end, my breasts swelling, a strange tension is siezing my vulva, my womb throbs with pain. I’m puzzled by this erotic tension that overcoming me, my mind is horrified but my body is caught up in this orgasmic maelstrom.

Now, with ropes passed under the short arms of the huge crosses, the women are hoisted up onto the symbols of infamy, their feet are nailed to the trunk in awkward positions, so their bodies hang in grotesque postures, almost comical if they weren’t so tragic. These executioners are experts in their craft, they’re the ones who were crucifying Jews in the fields outside Jerusalem at the rate of five hundred a day, it amuses them, and shows their contempt for their victims, to humiliate them utterly, introducing the cornu into their anus, fised with a nail to the upright of the cross. Sara seems to resist with a bit of pride, fighting against her degradation, her screams echo in the silence of the arena:

ה 'לעשות את זה גשם מהשמיים מעל גופרית העיר הזאת ואש אז הוא הורס את כל המישור כל התושבים וככל שהוא
גדל על הקרקע​
It’s the curse of Sodom, I remember.

'What the fuck’s that whore saying?' hisses the wife of Holconius.

The senior officer replies, '”May the Lord rain upon this city brimstone and fire out of heaven, may he overthrow this city and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the city, and that which grows upon the ground ... “’
and he continues,
'... It’s a sentence from a holy book of the Jews, the prayer of a prophet to his God to destroy the city of Sodom - I was in Jerusalem for ten years before Dux Titus Vespasian destroyed it, and I've learned how fanatical these Jews are.'

'Call on your God! You trusted in him, let him deliver you now, let him get you off the cross - if he exists!'

yells Cuspius, shaking his fist, he can’t even distinguish a Jew from a Christian.

With sharp-pointed spears, they pierce their victims, wreaking carnage, digging quivering flesh out of their white breasts now dripping with blood. As they get ever more excited, they even assault their tender groins with sharp swords, deeply wounding the muscles of their legs and trunks – can it be a gesture of pity to accelerate their death?

But soon the crowd realises that something else has been prepared. Silence falls, from the dark caverns under the amphitheatre building come the roars of fierce animals, the executioners get away to shelter behind the wooden barriers, as the latticework gates of the caverns are raised.

The lions enter, stop, sniff the air, prowl slowly between the crosses, peering at the poor bodies, emitting low growls, calling to one another as if they were preparing for a hunt. The poor women condemned to this horrible fate are groaning in terror, writhing on their crosses as if they’re trying to liberate themselves from the nails and escape, or at least remove their bodies from the jaws of the animals that are now approaching them. They’re licking the blood.

Nesea makes a last effort, with a soft moan, then she gives up and moves no longer, I hope for her sake she’s been scared to death, I’m encouraged by the thread of urine leaking from her sex, while the lion grabs her foot with his teeth and tears off her leg.

As if that’s a signal, the horde attacks and begins the massacre, the victims are torn down from their crosses with desperate cries, to cheers and encouragement to the beasts from the crowd that now cannot suppress the mad frenzy that’s possessing them.

I’m sweating, I focus my eyes on the empty space of the passage that opens into the stands, I don’t see anything but a luminous vortex that’s slowly rotating and beating to the paroxysmal rhythm of my heart.

I see my mother being disembowelled by the killers, the daughters of my village being nailed to the trees of the forest and burned alive, but this barbarity is even worse, an ever fiercer trembling takes possession of me, my limbs are shaken by an inner earthquake, I’m burning with fever, I feel two strong arms that grab me from behind, a moment before I pass out.
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Amazing writing, as ever. Powerful. Thank you for sharing your work!
 
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