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Amica
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Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 76
'Miracle! Miracle! '
It was, at first, an imperceptible movement of her lips, a silent prayer, a plea, then her mouth opened as if wanting to feed on air, as fish do when they stretch, gaping, out of the water. Her chest heaved with a slight sigh, her eyes peered, looking lost, into space. Now Emidius’s wife began massaging the body to warm it, other slaves did the same to the hands and feet. Didia was crying, clinging to her knees.
Caesius turned away all the strangers who had crowded near the door, the excited voices of the small throng of women rose prayer to the gods.
Gradually the body warmed, shaking and trembling continuously, the heartbeat was still weak.
'She's back! She’s returned from the dead!'
Tears of joy on the cheeks of women, kisses and caresses to the resurrected body, her face was growing brighter and it was warm. Caesius cursed the ignorance of the doctor and ordered slaves to bring warm clothes and mulled wine with a little honey dissolved in it. He lifted her with his arms under her armpits to sit up, helped by Emidius’s wife, who held her head erect. With a spoon he took a few drops of the warm liquor fed them between her parted lips. An look of disgust came over her face, she turned her head to refuse it. She was alive!
'We have to keep her awake! Come on, sing!'
Caesius ordered them to bring rattles, tambourines and flutes, and some women sang a sweet old lullaby in Oscan to the rhythm of the instruments.
She was still weak and abstracted, it took a few days before she started to manifest some reaction to external stimuli, before some voluntary movement confirmed that life had resumed its normal course. She watched with eyes filled with wonder and amazement the figures moving around her, sometimes smiling at those who approached. For a long time she made no response, merely a nod, she seemed not to understand what was said to her. Only with Didia did she seem more in touch, following her with his eyes, smiling, then finally she tried to caress her with her hand, moving it towards the girl's face. Then one day she finally asked:
'Who are you?'
'I'm Didia! Don’t you remember my name?'
'No! I do not remember anything!'
Didia began to cry.
'Ah! Now I remember, you're my daughter, but I don’t remember who your father was.'
Little Didia was upset and frightened by this strange situation, she didn’t want to contradict her, she just remained close, with her head resting on her chest.
'Miracle! Miracle! '
It was, at first, an imperceptible movement of her lips, a silent prayer, a plea, then her mouth opened as if wanting to feed on air, as fish do when they stretch, gaping, out of the water. Her chest heaved with a slight sigh, her eyes peered, looking lost, into space. Now Emidius’s wife began massaging the body to warm it, other slaves did the same to the hands and feet. Didia was crying, clinging to her knees.
Caesius turned away all the strangers who had crowded near the door, the excited voices of the small throng of women rose prayer to the gods.
Gradually the body warmed, shaking and trembling continuously, the heartbeat was still weak.
'She's back! She’s returned from the dead!'
Tears of joy on the cheeks of women, kisses and caresses to the resurrected body, her face was growing brighter and it was warm. Caesius cursed the ignorance of the doctor and ordered slaves to bring warm clothes and mulled wine with a little honey dissolved in it. He lifted her with his arms under her armpits to sit up, helped by Emidius’s wife, who held her head erect. With a spoon he took a few drops of the warm liquor fed them between her parted lips. An look of disgust came over her face, she turned her head to refuse it. She was alive!
'We have to keep her awake! Come on, sing!'
Caesius ordered them to bring rattles, tambourines and flutes, and some women sang a sweet old lullaby in Oscan to the rhythm of the instruments.
She was still weak and abstracted, it took a few days before she started to manifest some reaction to external stimuli, before some voluntary movement confirmed that life had resumed its normal course. She watched with eyes filled with wonder and amazement the figures moving around her, sometimes smiling at those who approached. For a long time she made no response, merely a nod, she seemed not to understand what was said to her. Only with Didia did she seem more in touch, following her with his eyes, smiling, then finally she tried to caress her with her hand, moving it towards the girl's face. Then one day she finally asked:
'Who are you?'
'I'm Didia! Don’t you remember my name?'
'No! I do not remember anything!'
Didia began to cry.
'Ah! Now I remember, you're my daughter, but I don’t remember who your father was.'
Little Didia was upset and frightened by this strange situation, she didn’t want to contradict her, she just remained close, with her head resting on her chest.
RacingRodent
Consul
Well amnesia is a nasty twist, what is lost that will be missed, is our Amica now unsound or will our happy heroine yet rebound?
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
The things are dramatically changing....
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 77
But who are these people around me? What am I doing here in this bed? In this house? And who am I? They’ve told me that my name’s Amica, but I thought I had a different name. I seem to know some of these people, like this elderly woman who takes care of me like a mother, and this little girl who’s called Didia and is always near me, maybe she’s my daughter or my sister. I can’t remember anything that’s happened before - if there was a before, or if we just fell out of the sky.
It’s very hard for me to move, and I get tired soon. When I’ve only walked a short distance I feel all sweaty as if I’d been climbing a mountain, I get out of breath just walking along the portico of the peristyle for the daily exercise that I have been ordered to do by this man who doesn’t leave me alone for a moment. He says his name Caesius, but I don’t remember anything about him, and why is he always talking about things I can’t remember? Whatever’s happened to me? I can barely remember the words I need to express my thoughts, they say I’m speaking a strange language, half of my words are Greek, half Latin.
Days go by, it seems that things are improving a little, it seems that as I dig into my mind faded memories are emerging - or are they just things they’ve told me that have settled in my memory? My only pleasure is painting, I look at the flowers and feel a desire to fix their images on these thin wooden tablets, with the most beautiful colours I can make from powders mixed with oil.
But when night falls, I panic. I'm afraid of the night, afraid of the dark, afraid of being swallowed up into nothingness and never escaping from the abyss of the night. I always want a light burning near my bed, and someone to watch close by me while I’m resting. Didia doesn’t leave me for a moment, she’s a great help and comfort, were it not for her perhaps I would run away - but where would I go?
I don’t even know where I am, I can’t even remember the scenery that’s around me. I see the sea, the islands, ships with their sails that travel through this wonderful panorama that opens before us when we go out, always accompanied by Caesius and two slaves who are our guards, and we go to the beach for short walks, to breathe the fresh air that blows off the sea.
I feel like a prisoner in a gilded cage, surrounded by all this attention from people around me. I want to run away to find myself in the silence of the woods, in solitude, perhaps there I could re-weave the broken threads of my memories, or, perhaps even better, build a new life on the ruins of whatever was in time past and has got lost in the maze of my wrecked mind.
Sometimes, walking around the house, I seem to see shadows, faces, hear voices that aren't really there, at least others don’t hear them. I hear the joyful laughter of young girls, or muffled cries of slaves in pain, or feel the gentle touch of the hands of someone who wants to take me and lead me elsewhere...
I'm bewildered by what’s happened to me, and I'm afraid that one day, when I come out of this state of suspended memory, I’ll find myself faced with a reality far more harsh and frightening.
As we walk through the streets of this lovely city with its beautiful palaces, its temples adorned with statues, its market crowded with people, its baths, I seem to see ghosts, ruins of houses, I seem to hear screams of terror, I see people fleeing from impending danger, imminent death. But is it just my mind that’s creating these terrifying scenes, or am I seeing something that is yet to come? I want to get away from here as soon as possible!
But who are these people around me? What am I doing here in this bed? In this house? And who am I? They’ve told me that my name’s Amica, but I thought I had a different name. I seem to know some of these people, like this elderly woman who takes care of me like a mother, and this little girl who’s called Didia and is always near me, maybe she’s my daughter or my sister. I can’t remember anything that’s happened before - if there was a before, or if we just fell out of the sky.
It’s very hard for me to move, and I get tired soon. When I’ve only walked a short distance I feel all sweaty as if I’d been climbing a mountain, I get out of breath just walking along the portico of the peristyle for the daily exercise that I have been ordered to do by this man who doesn’t leave me alone for a moment. He says his name Caesius, but I don’t remember anything about him, and why is he always talking about things I can’t remember? Whatever’s happened to me? I can barely remember the words I need to express my thoughts, they say I’m speaking a strange language, half of my words are Greek, half Latin.
Days go by, it seems that things are improving a little, it seems that as I dig into my mind faded memories are emerging - or are they just things they’ve told me that have settled in my memory? My only pleasure is painting, I look at the flowers and feel a desire to fix their images on these thin wooden tablets, with the most beautiful colours I can make from powders mixed with oil.
But when night falls, I panic. I'm afraid of the night, afraid of the dark, afraid of being swallowed up into nothingness and never escaping from the abyss of the night. I always want a light burning near my bed, and someone to watch close by me while I’m resting. Didia doesn’t leave me for a moment, she’s a great help and comfort, were it not for her perhaps I would run away - but where would I go?
I don’t even know where I am, I can’t even remember the scenery that’s around me. I see the sea, the islands, ships with their sails that travel through this wonderful panorama that opens before us when we go out, always accompanied by Caesius and two slaves who are our guards, and we go to the beach for short walks, to breathe the fresh air that blows off the sea.
I feel like a prisoner in a gilded cage, surrounded by all this attention from people around me. I want to run away to find myself in the silence of the woods, in solitude, perhaps there I could re-weave the broken threads of my memories, or, perhaps even better, build a new life on the ruins of whatever was in time past and has got lost in the maze of my wrecked mind.
Sometimes, walking around the house, I seem to see shadows, faces, hear voices that aren't really there, at least others don’t hear them. I hear the joyful laughter of young girls, or muffled cries of slaves in pain, or feel the gentle touch of the hands of someone who wants to take me and lead me elsewhere...
I'm bewildered by what’s happened to me, and I'm afraid that one day, when I come out of this state of suspended memory, I’ll find myself faced with a reality far more harsh and frightening.
As we walk through the streets of this lovely city with its beautiful palaces, its temples adorned with statues, its market crowded with people, its baths, I seem to see ghosts, ruins of houses, I seem to hear screams of terror, I see people fleeing from impending danger, imminent death. But is it just my mind that’s creating these terrifying scenes, or am I seeing something that is yet to come? I want to get away from here as soon as possible!
RacingRodent
Consul
That is a chilling realisation of what amnesia must feel like, Brava Luna a rodent bows in awe of your art.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
This amnesia description is from a true fact happened to a friend after an accident that caused him several day of coma.
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Not, he became painter.But is he becoming a soothsayer ?
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 78
Sitting hidden in the shade of the upper portico, squeezing my legs between my arms and resting my chin on my knees, I hear someone enter the lower portico, and I lean to watch from behind a low parapet. Caesius has gone to sit on a circular stone bench, he's placed a small box beside him and he's been reading some papyri. Then, putting them aside, he looks up, turning his head toward Diomede, who's just entered the portico.
I pull back sharply. I've discovered some time ago a feature of this portico - its walls and columns seem to capture sounds and voices and channel them upwards, so that even whispers that are barely audible down there become as clear as speeches delivered from the hustings on election day. Because of this, my secret refuge has seemed magical. Almost everything I'd overheard had no meaning for me, but I've been trying to make out from the conversations of the people who live in this house a bit more about myself, and Ive discovered that I'd once been a slave of a certain Lucius who used to live here.
And it was from here, a month ago, I heard Caesius bargaining with Diomede about my future, about the financial terms of a marriage-contract. So far as I could deduce, they were discussing the announcement of the engagement, the final settlement of debts upon marriage, confiscation of property, that is Diomede's villa just outside the Herculanean Gate, in the event that the marriage does not bear fruit, full ownership of the estate assigned to the fruit of marriage on coming of age...
But who is this man who's arranging my sale like I was his property? What authority has he over me? And all without asking my opinion...
And what am I supposed to do? Diomede marries me, so I'm owned by a husband as my master? Become a slave, in a new home, even more so than I was before? No! No! I’ve got to get away!
'Well Diomede, this new situation, Amica's loss of memory, smoothes out many things. You can make your announcement of your engagement tomorrow, on the occasion of the celebrations in honour of Dionysius.'
'So long as Lucius agrees.'
'Don't you worry about that. I've written to Lucius, he's given me full authority to deal with this sensitive issue on his behalf, and for the settlement of the debts that you owe him.'
What? Is everyone here deciding to share out my skin? Get away! Away! As soon as possible!
I expect everyone will be going to the Forum for the coming festival. I approach the cage of goldfinches that were given to me for my birthday. I feed them with scrupulous attention, I've taken care of them when they've been ill, I've watched them mating, hatching, growing, dying, and it's to my finches that I've returned whenever I've wanted to be alone. The cage occupies half of the balcony of my room, in the garden portico, the top is covered to shade them from the sun.
Silence in the big house makes me realise it's empty.
I throw my mantle over my shoulders, and I listen at the doors before opening them. Across the yard the sun is as red as the terracotta roof, and the garden under the window is already in shadow. There’s a cloth over the aviary, and I take it off to give the birds a little air. Then, obeying a sudden impulse I’ve never experienced until now, I lift the hook on the little door in one side of the cage and open it.
The habits of captivity die hard, the goldfinches don’t notice right away the opportunity they’ve been offered, until one, bolder than the others, hops to one end of the perch and then jumps down, pausing in front of the wide open door. He looks at me sideways, bending his little head with its red and black hood, then winking a shiny little eye he launches into flight.
A light beating of wings and a golden flash cuts through the darkness. The goldfinch flies to the other end of the garden and settles to perch on the ridge tiles at the front. Another bird hops up to the door of the cage and takes off, then another. I wanted to stay to watch them all escape, but I had no time, I closed the shutters.
I’d told my handmaid to go with the other slaves to the Forum. The corridor outside my room is deserted, as well as the stairs and the garden, though I keep close to the columns in case I meet anyone. Then I step into the atrium of the house and carry on in the direction of tablinum, passing in front of the empty seat of the watchman. The back door opens directly onto a side street. Every sound seems absurdly amplified, a metallic clang as I raise the iron bar, the squeal of the hinges as I open the door to slip out. I lift my tunic off the floor, holding it with one hand, in the other I’m holding a little bag with the stuff I most care about, and step out through the doorway into the street, wrapped in stifling heat.
A man walking hurriedly along the sidewalk passes in front of me and glances back without stopping, he’s probably late. The stones feel like furnace-bricks. Old folk are sitting on benches in the shade, and the men are hastening to the Forum, or to the tavern to drink and chat. Small lizards run up and down the black stone arches looking much like the cracks that criss-cross the walls.
I walk briskly along the short stretch of road, with the hem of my tunic clutched tight in my fist, my soft shoes are silent on the pavement. I’m about to cross the street when suddenly my foot, already raised, flinches. I have the impression that the paving-slabs are swaying slightly, that the city’s being swept by a huge dry wave. A moment later I stagger and have to hold onto a brick protruding from a wall to keep from falling. Some passers-by are shouting, a loose horse runs away. At the opposite corner of the junction a tile slides down a sloping roof and breaks on the pavement. For a few moments the centre of Pompeii falls into an almost absolute silence.
Then, little by little, activity resumes. I hear sighs of relief, conversations begin. A carter crack’s his whip on the back of his agitated horse, and the cart resumes its motion.
At the first junction I turn left again, staying strictly to passageways that are almost inaccessible, and emerging on the main street only when I’ve got some way from home, far enough to avoid the risk of meeting anyone who knows me. I bow my head and lower the hood of my mantle, it’s not advisable for a woman of my class and my age to walk about the streets of the city.
A child prostitute with a saffron-colored dress, ten years old at most, grabs me by the arm and won’t let go until, rummaging in the small bag attached to my belt, I find a couple of copper coins for her to take away.
Sitting hidden in the shade of the upper portico, squeezing my legs between my arms and resting my chin on my knees, I hear someone enter the lower portico, and I lean to watch from behind a low parapet. Caesius has gone to sit on a circular stone bench, he's placed a small box beside him and he's been reading some papyri. Then, putting them aside, he looks up, turning his head toward Diomede, who's just entered the portico.
I pull back sharply. I've discovered some time ago a feature of this portico - its walls and columns seem to capture sounds and voices and channel them upwards, so that even whispers that are barely audible down there become as clear as speeches delivered from the hustings on election day. Because of this, my secret refuge has seemed magical. Almost everything I'd overheard had no meaning for me, but I've been trying to make out from the conversations of the people who live in this house a bit more about myself, and Ive discovered that I'd once been a slave of a certain Lucius who used to live here.
And it was from here, a month ago, I heard Caesius bargaining with Diomede about my future, about the financial terms of a marriage-contract. So far as I could deduce, they were discussing the announcement of the engagement, the final settlement of debts upon marriage, confiscation of property, that is Diomede's villa just outside the Herculanean Gate, in the event that the marriage does not bear fruit, full ownership of the estate assigned to the fruit of marriage on coming of age...
But who is this man who's arranging my sale like I was his property? What authority has he over me? And all without asking my opinion...
And what am I supposed to do? Diomede marries me, so I'm owned by a husband as my master? Become a slave, in a new home, even more so than I was before? No! No! I’ve got to get away!
'Well Diomede, this new situation, Amica's loss of memory, smoothes out many things. You can make your announcement of your engagement tomorrow, on the occasion of the celebrations in honour of Dionysius.'
'So long as Lucius agrees.'
'Don't you worry about that. I've written to Lucius, he's given me full authority to deal with this sensitive issue on his behalf, and for the settlement of the debts that you owe him.'
What? Is everyone here deciding to share out my skin? Get away! Away! As soon as possible!
I expect everyone will be going to the Forum for the coming festival. I approach the cage of goldfinches that were given to me for my birthday. I feed them with scrupulous attention, I've taken care of them when they've been ill, I've watched them mating, hatching, growing, dying, and it's to my finches that I've returned whenever I've wanted to be alone. The cage occupies half of the balcony of my room, in the garden portico, the top is covered to shade them from the sun.
Silence in the big house makes me realise it's empty.
I throw my mantle over my shoulders, and I listen at the doors before opening them. Across the yard the sun is as red as the terracotta roof, and the garden under the window is already in shadow. There’s a cloth over the aviary, and I take it off to give the birds a little air. Then, obeying a sudden impulse I’ve never experienced until now, I lift the hook on the little door in one side of the cage and open it.
The habits of captivity die hard, the goldfinches don’t notice right away the opportunity they’ve been offered, until one, bolder than the others, hops to one end of the perch and then jumps down, pausing in front of the wide open door. He looks at me sideways, bending his little head with its red and black hood, then winking a shiny little eye he launches into flight.
A light beating of wings and a golden flash cuts through the darkness. The goldfinch flies to the other end of the garden and settles to perch on the ridge tiles at the front. Another bird hops up to the door of the cage and takes off, then another. I wanted to stay to watch them all escape, but I had no time, I closed the shutters.
I’d told my handmaid to go with the other slaves to the Forum. The corridor outside my room is deserted, as well as the stairs and the garden, though I keep close to the columns in case I meet anyone. Then I step into the atrium of the house and carry on in the direction of tablinum, passing in front of the empty seat of the watchman. The back door opens directly onto a side street. Every sound seems absurdly amplified, a metallic clang as I raise the iron bar, the squeal of the hinges as I open the door to slip out. I lift my tunic off the floor, holding it with one hand, in the other I’m holding a little bag with the stuff I most care about, and step out through the doorway into the street, wrapped in stifling heat.
A man walking hurriedly along the sidewalk passes in front of me and glances back without stopping, he’s probably late. The stones feel like furnace-bricks. Old folk are sitting on benches in the shade, and the men are hastening to the Forum, or to the tavern to drink and chat. Small lizards run up and down the black stone arches looking much like the cracks that criss-cross the walls.
I walk briskly along the short stretch of road, with the hem of my tunic clutched tight in my fist, my soft shoes are silent on the pavement. I’m about to cross the street when suddenly my foot, already raised, flinches. I have the impression that the paving-slabs are swaying slightly, that the city’s being swept by a huge dry wave. A moment later I stagger and have to hold onto a brick protruding from a wall to keep from falling. Some passers-by are shouting, a loose horse runs away. At the opposite corner of the junction a tile slides down a sloping roof and breaks on the pavement. For a few moments the centre of Pompeii falls into an almost absolute silence.
Then, little by little, activity resumes. I hear sighs of relief, conversations begin. A carter crack’s his whip on the back of his agitated horse, and the cart resumes its motion.
At the first junction I turn left again, staying strictly to passageways that are almost inaccessible, and emerging on the main street only when I’ve got some way from home, far enough to avoid the risk of meeting anyone who knows me. I bow my head and lower the hood of my mantle, it’s not advisable for a woman of my class and my age to walk about the streets of the city.
A child prostitute with a saffron-colored dress, ten years old at most, grabs me by the arm and won’t let go until, rummaging in the small bag attached to my belt, I find a couple of copper coins for her to take away.
You could ask Tree almost every morning what happened the night before and he would not remember...
Sorry, Velut, I couldn't pass on that...
...it is a great story...
Tree
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 79
I have the uneasy feeling that someone’s following me through this block of poor houses, I have to ask someone for directions to house of Rubio, the Iberian painter who made a portrait of me. The first two passers-by stopped swear they’d never heard of Rubio, but a little later in the crowded Hercules Tavern, the man behind the counter looks at me and, with a sly look, gives me directions in a whisper:
'Down another block, turn right, then take the first left and then ask again, but be careful who you talk to.'
I understand what’s behind this advice when I leave the main street into a narrow, twisting one, with humbler homes and crowded with poor people. Next to the entrance of many of these hovels I see, carved in stone, the symbol of the penis and testicles. The brightly coloured frocks of the prostitutes seem to bloom like flowers shimmering in the gloom.
It's in this area, then, that Rubio has decided to live, in contact with the poorest but most real people, where he can find living models for his works. I slow my pace, wondering if it would be wiser to turn back. But then it hits me that I cannot retrace my steps, a marriage I can’t face is waiting if I turn back. I take the route, faster and more determined.
At the end of the road, a big balcony juts out over the sidewalks, further limiting the space. I swerve to one side to avoid a bunch of layabouts with faces lit by the warm and the wine. At one point, I seem to detect a furtive figure moving behind me, but when I listen, the sound disappears.
Seized by fear, I enter the first open door that I find, to ask for help, and I pause in a dark vestibule. I sense a strong smell, almost of beasts, of sweat and sperm. Places like this are called 'lupanaria', for the prostitutes who act the she-wolf in heat to attract the attention of passers-by are vulgarly called ‘lupae’, ‘wolves’.
From upstairs comes the sound of a flute, a thump on the floorboards, laughter of male and females. On the other side, beyond the curtains of the cubicles, come the sounds of the night - rumblings, whispers, and the cry of a baby.
In the semi-darkness, a woman with a short green dress is sitting on a stool with her legs apart. Hearing me come in she gets up and comes towards me, arms outstretched in welcome, her red lips pursed in a smile. Her eyebrows are blackened with antimony, extending them to the edges of her eye-sockets. For some, this fashion is synonymous with beauty, but to me it brings to mind the death-masks placed before the household gods.
She is of indefinable age, fifteen or fifty, it’s hard to tell with a light so dim.
'Rubio?' I ask,
'Who?'
The woman has a pronounced accent, possibly foreign.
'Not here.'
She says quickly opening her heavily lipsticked mouth, and makes a gesture, extending an arm.
'No. He's not here. '
'Where, then?' I ask.
'I’ll show you,' making a gesture, poking her chin out,
'this way,'
Indicating a door.
From a cubicle near me I hear an ecstatic cry.
The bitch goes out into the street and I follow her.
In the light of the street I notice that her elaborate hairstyle is streaked with grey, rivulets of sweat traced the furrows on her hollow, powdered cheeks. (She can cout herself lucky that she’s been kept working in that place for a long time, if ever her owner decided to sack her she’d be forced to go and live in the public cemetery, opening her legs for beggars behind the graves.)
She puts a hand on her vulture-like throat, and shows me a flight of stairs a few paces further on, then she hurries back quickly where she came from.
As I climb the stone steps I hear a whistle. I'm lost in the Labyrinth, I imagine, but without Ariadne's thread to guide me back to safety. If an attacker were to appear at the top of the stairs, and another behind me to cut off my escape, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
A man has already poked his head out of the window, probably warned by the whistle of the old whore, he motions to me to enter.
I'm afraid I’ve disturbed a little party. Two men are lying on separate couches. A young black man, naked, is playing a flute. An olive-skinned girl, no more than a youngster, completely naked and with her nipples painted silver, is standing on a table as if turned to stone, in the middle of a dance. For a moment no-one moves. The flames of some oil lamps flicker over explicitly erotic paintings on the walls: a woman with her legs spread lying on a man, a man who’s taking a woman from behind, two men lying together, both holding a naked young girl in their arms. A customer pushes his hand slowly under the couch, feeling the floor, looking for a knife that’s resting beside a plate of peeled fruit. The man who got me to come in sticks his foot on the knife and emits a grunt, the other quickly withdraws his hand.
I go back out into the street down the back stairs. With the brothel-keeper, I enter again the dim corridor of the house from which I’ve just come, and I wait for him as he pulls a little box out of its hiding-place, with keys in it. The old prostitute with the green dress has returned to perch on her stool.
'Where’s the key to Rubio’s room?'
Finally he manages to open the box and pull out the keys, dropping the bunch. The old whore bends over to pick it up and shows him the key.
Then he leads me to the tavern next door, a hovel with a stone bench where holes have been carved to hold amphorae of wine. There is nowhere to sit, and almost all the customers drink outside, sitting on the sidewalk with their backs against the wall. They’re nearly all customers of the brothel who are waiting for their turns, or they’ve come back to cool off and brag about their performance. One breathes the same stink as in the brothel. Rubio has to be at rock-bottom to end up in such a place, some perversion must have invaded his soul.
The brothel-keeper is small and light, with hairy arms and legs like those of a monkey, he reminds me of those African monkeys who perform on the Forum attached to a chain to earn some money for their master. We cross through the tavern fast and climb a flight of rickety wooden stairs. We arrive on a landing where he stops, still clutching the key between his fingers, and knocks on the door leaning his head to one side to listen for any sound.
I have the uneasy feeling that someone’s following me through this block of poor houses, I have to ask someone for directions to house of Rubio, the Iberian painter who made a portrait of me. The first two passers-by stopped swear they’d never heard of Rubio, but a little later in the crowded Hercules Tavern, the man behind the counter looks at me and, with a sly look, gives me directions in a whisper:
'Down another block, turn right, then take the first left and then ask again, but be careful who you talk to.'
I understand what’s behind this advice when I leave the main street into a narrow, twisting one, with humbler homes and crowded with poor people. Next to the entrance of many of these hovels I see, carved in stone, the symbol of the penis and testicles. The brightly coloured frocks of the prostitutes seem to bloom like flowers shimmering in the gloom.
It's in this area, then, that Rubio has decided to live, in contact with the poorest but most real people, where he can find living models for his works. I slow my pace, wondering if it would be wiser to turn back. But then it hits me that I cannot retrace my steps, a marriage I can’t face is waiting if I turn back. I take the route, faster and more determined.
At the end of the road, a big balcony juts out over the sidewalks, further limiting the space. I swerve to one side to avoid a bunch of layabouts with faces lit by the warm and the wine. At one point, I seem to detect a furtive figure moving behind me, but when I listen, the sound disappears.
Seized by fear, I enter the first open door that I find, to ask for help, and I pause in a dark vestibule. I sense a strong smell, almost of beasts, of sweat and sperm. Places like this are called 'lupanaria', for the prostitutes who act the she-wolf in heat to attract the attention of passers-by are vulgarly called ‘lupae’, ‘wolves’.
From upstairs comes the sound of a flute, a thump on the floorboards, laughter of male and females. On the other side, beyond the curtains of the cubicles, come the sounds of the night - rumblings, whispers, and the cry of a baby.
In the semi-darkness, a woman with a short green dress is sitting on a stool with her legs apart. Hearing me come in she gets up and comes towards me, arms outstretched in welcome, her red lips pursed in a smile. Her eyebrows are blackened with antimony, extending them to the edges of her eye-sockets. For some, this fashion is synonymous with beauty, but to me it brings to mind the death-masks placed before the household gods.
She is of indefinable age, fifteen or fifty, it’s hard to tell with a light so dim.
'Rubio?' I ask,
'Who?'
The woman has a pronounced accent, possibly foreign.
'Not here.'
She says quickly opening her heavily lipsticked mouth, and makes a gesture, extending an arm.
'No. He's not here. '
'Where, then?' I ask.
'I’ll show you,' making a gesture, poking her chin out,
'this way,'
Indicating a door.
From a cubicle near me I hear an ecstatic cry.
The bitch goes out into the street and I follow her.
In the light of the street I notice that her elaborate hairstyle is streaked with grey, rivulets of sweat traced the furrows on her hollow, powdered cheeks. (She can cout herself lucky that she’s been kept working in that place for a long time, if ever her owner decided to sack her she’d be forced to go and live in the public cemetery, opening her legs for beggars behind the graves.)
She puts a hand on her vulture-like throat, and shows me a flight of stairs a few paces further on, then she hurries back quickly where she came from.
As I climb the stone steps I hear a whistle. I'm lost in the Labyrinth, I imagine, but without Ariadne's thread to guide me back to safety. If an attacker were to appear at the top of the stairs, and another behind me to cut off my escape, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
A man has already poked his head out of the window, probably warned by the whistle of the old whore, he motions to me to enter.
I'm afraid I’ve disturbed a little party. Two men are lying on separate couches. A young black man, naked, is playing a flute. An olive-skinned girl, no more than a youngster, completely naked and with her nipples painted silver, is standing on a table as if turned to stone, in the middle of a dance. For a moment no-one moves. The flames of some oil lamps flicker over explicitly erotic paintings on the walls: a woman with her legs spread lying on a man, a man who’s taking a woman from behind, two men lying together, both holding a naked young girl in their arms. A customer pushes his hand slowly under the couch, feeling the floor, looking for a knife that’s resting beside a plate of peeled fruit. The man who got me to come in sticks his foot on the knife and emits a grunt, the other quickly withdraws his hand.
I go back out into the street down the back stairs. With the brothel-keeper, I enter again the dim corridor of the house from which I’ve just come, and I wait for him as he pulls a little box out of its hiding-place, with keys in it. The old prostitute with the green dress has returned to perch on her stool.
'Where’s the key to Rubio’s room?'
Finally he manages to open the box and pull out the keys, dropping the bunch. The old whore bends over to pick it up and shows him the key.
Then he leads me to the tavern next door, a hovel with a stone bench where holes have been carved to hold amphorae of wine. There is nowhere to sit, and almost all the customers drink outside, sitting on the sidewalk with their backs against the wall. They’re nearly all customers of the brothel who are waiting for their turns, or they’ve come back to cool off and brag about their performance. One breathes the same stink as in the brothel. Rubio has to be at rock-bottom to end up in such a place, some perversion must have invaded his soul.
The brothel-keeper is small and light, with hairy arms and legs like those of a monkey, he reminds me of those African monkeys who perform on the Forum attached to a chain to earn some money for their master. We cross through the tavern fast and climb a flight of rickety wooden stairs. We arrive on a landing where he stops, still clutching the key between his fingers, and knocks on the door leaning his head to one side to listen for any sound.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 80
'There's a knock at the door!'
It 's a young female voice.
'What do you want? I'm working!'
It’s Rubio’s voice.
'A special visitor!'
announces my companion.
'Come in! Quick, you cover yourself!'
says the painter to the girl.
His studio is always peopled by his beautiful models. We enter. Rubio, surprised, bows in greeting and makes a gesture inviting me inside, I reply with a nod and a smile.
The room is shrouded in shadows, a blade of the last light of the setting sun enters from the narrow space between slightly parted shutters, illuminating the young girl, still naked, standing on a stool. She covers her front with a torn mantle. The dust hanging in the still air of the room gleams in the path of the sun’s ray. There is a confusion of objects - brushes, bowls, jars, wooden boards, rolls of parchment and papyrus, rags, an unmade bed, clothes tossed on the floor, scraps of food on the table, pieces of half-eaten bread, dirty dishes, a half-finished jug of wine.
Rubio make place for me on a couch. Removing the girl’s clothes, he throws them to her, she picks them up off the floor, as he invites me to sit.
'Now, off you go, you two! Leave us alone.'
The girl is obviously annoyed by this interruption of her work, she won’t get even a copper coin for this evening, and it’s my fault. She looks at me with annoyance as she takes her bundle of clothes in her arms, not bothering to put them on, and moves towards the door where the pimp takes her by the arm and drags her away. He's satisfied, sure, he’s unexpectedly gained another bitch to take down to his party.
Rubio is no longer young, he’s definitely turned fifty. He keeps his hair, already grey, long and tied with a ribbon in a ponytail. His face, with a sparse, unkempt beard, is furrowed with wrinkles, especially around the eyes, which are black, deep, highly mobile, accustomed to explore every detail of faces, every curve, every feature, and maybe even more - with his penetrating gaze he seems to read your thoughts.
'Whyever have you come to see me in the evening? It’s no time for a woman, especially one of your rank, to be about alone in the city, least of all in this slum!'
'I need help. I’ve run away from my home, I don’t want to marry Diomedes, I want to go to Neapolis, I want to start a new life, alone, far away, where no one can find me. I’ve run away at this time while everyone’s at the feast of Dionysus so no-one could see me. I left my room in a mess, the clothes I was wearing are torn and thrown on the floor, I broke my scent-bottles, so it would look like a kidnapping. I’ve brought with me what little money I could grab, but not much. Now it's too late to venture out of town, I need a place to sleep, at least for tonight.'
'Phew – you’re sure in a pretty mess! But you did well to simulate the abduction, it’s the best way to disappear. They’ll all be worried, looking for you everywhere, but the best place to be is definitely just a few steps from home. You'd better stay here hidden for a short time till I can accompany you to Neapolis. It’s a great advantage that I'm working on the frescoes in the new warm baths that Diomede’s having built. Every day he’s there checking on the progress of the work, he’ll certainly ask me if I’ve heard any news of you, since I live in this unsavoury quarter, in the company of crooks, murderers and whores. I’ll have to mislead his inquiries, but you'll have to be patient and be content to remain hidden here. Upstairs, where I’ve got my portrait studio, there’s a small room with a bed. I'll bring you some clean clothes from the landlord's wife, and the there’ll be no problem with food, she cooks for me - don't worry, she cooks well, and she’s clean. But, of course, my help comes at a price – you’ll have to be my model during the time you stay here, because I can’t let too many girls come, they chat, and if they saw you here we’d end up in trouble.'
'I’d hoped to slip off immediately, perhaps even tomorrow - but you're right, thanks for being so willing to help me. I’ll be very discreet and inconspicuous, I’ll try to disturb you as little as possible, and I’ll gladly repay you as you ask!'
He turns up the flame of the lamp, it’s dark now, the shadows cast by the dim light further enhance the rugged features of his face.
'There's a knock at the door!'
It 's a young female voice.
'What do you want? I'm working!'
It’s Rubio’s voice.
'A special visitor!'
announces my companion.
'Come in! Quick, you cover yourself!'
says the painter to the girl.
His studio is always peopled by his beautiful models. We enter. Rubio, surprised, bows in greeting and makes a gesture inviting me inside, I reply with a nod and a smile.
The room is shrouded in shadows, a blade of the last light of the setting sun enters from the narrow space between slightly parted shutters, illuminating the young girl, still naked, standing on a stool. She covers her front with a torn mantle. The dust hanging in the still air of the room gleams in the path of the sun’s ray. There is a confusion of objects - brushes, bowls, jars, wooden boards, rolls of parchment and papyrus, rags, an unmade bed, clothes tossed on the floor, scraps of food on the table, pieces of half-eaten bread, dirty dishes, a half-finished jug of wine.
Rubio make place for me on a couch. Removing the girl’s clothes, he throws them to her, she picks them up off the floor, as he invites me to sit.
'Now, off you go, you two! Leave us alone.'
The girl is obviously annoyed by this interruption of her work, she won’t get even a copper coin for this evening, and it’s my fault. She looks at me with annoyance as she takes her bundle of clothes in her arms, not bothering to put them on, and moves towards the door where the pimp takes her by the arm and drags her away. He's satisfied, sure, he’s unexpectedly gained another bitch to take down to his party.
Rubio is no longer young, he’s definitely turned fifty. He keeps his hair, already grey, long and tied with a ribbon in a ponytail. His face, with a sparse, unkempt beard, is furrowed with wrinkles, especially around the eyes, which are black, deep, highly mobile, accustomed to explore every detail of faces, every curve, every feature, and maybe even more - with his penetrating gaze he seems to read your thoughts.
'Whyever have you come to see me in the evening? It’s no time for a woman, especially one of your rank, to be about alone in the city, least of all in this slum!'
'I need help. I’ve run away from my home, I don’t want to marry Diomedes, I want to go to Neapolis, I want to start a new life, alone, far away, where no one can find me. I’ve run away at this time while everyone’s at the feast of Dionysus so no-one could see me. I left my room in a mess, the clothes I was wearing are torn and thrown on the floor, I broke my scent-bottles, so it would look like a kidnapping. I’ve brought with me what little money I could grab, but not much. Now it's too late to venture out of town, I need a place to sleep, at least for tonight.'
'Phew – you’re sure in a pretty mess! But you did well to simulate the abduction, it’s the best way to disappear. They’ll all be worried, looking for you everywhere, but the best place to be is definitely just a few steps from home. You'd better stay here hidden for a short time till I can accompany you to Neapolis. It’s a great advantage that I'm working on the frescoes in the new warm baths that Diomede’s having built. Every day he’s there checking on the progress of the work, he’ll certainly ask me if I’ve heard any news of you, since I live in this unsavoury quarter, in the company of crooks, murderers and whores. I’ll have to mislead his inquiries, but you'll have to be patient and be content to remain hidden here. Upstairs, where I’ve got my portrait studio, there’s a small room with a bed. I'll bring you some clean clothes from the landlord's wife, and the there’ll be no problem with food, she cooks for me - don't worry, she cooks well, and she’s clean. But, of course, my help comes at a price – you’ll have to be my model during the time you stay here, because I can’t let too many girls come, they chat, and if they saw you here we’d end up in trouble.'
'I’d hoped to slip off immediately, perhaps even tomorrow - but you're right, thanks for being so willing to help me. I’ll be very discreet and inconspicuous, I’ll try to disturb you as little as possible, and I’ll gladly repay you as you ask!'
He turns up the flame of the lamp, it’s dark now, the shadows cast by the dim light further enhance the rugged features of his face.
P
Pia
Guest
Wonderfully atmospheric and exciting!
Very nice segment, VL...
Tree
Tree
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 81
I get to hear about what happened at Lucius's house when, on their return from the festival, they couldn't find me - almost a riot! Caesius reported my disappearance, accusing one of the slaves of having kidnapped me, and possibly, taking advantage of my amnesia, selling me to some slave-merchant. That poor man was tortured till he confessed, that landed him in prison and then in the arena where he to fight against a fierce gladiator, and, being completely inexperienced, he met a miserable end. I felt very sorry for him, but I couldn’t feel any direct responsibility for his death.
The Imperial Prefect ordered an investigation by his militia and his spies, but it didn’t achieve any result, silence covered me well - stranded here among people living on the fringes of society, I can live protected by the cordon of solidarity that forms among those who want to hide something, from the authorities or from anyone else, you can be sure they won’t betray you, and I’ve brought my false identity documents.
But my heart is broken for the pain of poor Didia, who can't come to terms with my apparent death, she won't eat any more and she stays always locked in my room, crying and looking for a note, a clue, among my things that I left because I couldn't bring them with me.
So I'm intiated into my new job, a really tough job, being a painter's model, and Rubio is very demanding. We mustn’t lose the pose, which is always very complicated, before he has completed his sketch, so my muscles grow numb muscles, pain begins to torture my back, my legs are siezed with cramps. More naked than dressed, or with clothes that leave much of the skin revealed, one day I have to be a nymph, the next a naiad, or Diana, Minerva, Flora or Electra, or one of the muses, or Venus herself, so my body is to be put on display in frescoes that everyone will admire.
The funniest thing that comes to my mind is that my body will always be naked before the eyes of Diomede, who so wanted to marry me, and so I'll get a little revenge on him, being desired by all the men who frequent the baths and admire scenes of nymphs bathing, naked girls combing their hair, playing in the water, in a magical, fairy-tale landscape. But they won’t recognize me, as they admire all these ethereal figures that hover on the ceiling of the main room, the bathers will gaze up without suspecting it’s the same model transformed now into one character, now another.
I've devised a little trick to get out of my hiding place incognito, I’ve got my hair dyed black, put heavy makeup on my eyes like the old whores do, and, when I visit the Forum, I dress in oriental clothes that cover my body completely almost, leaving only my face, and that's hidden by a veil. A fancy wig, and a host of strange accessories complete my metamorphosis, I challenge anyone to recognize me.
During the day, Rubio works on his frescos on the walls of the warm baths, in the evening and at night, or early in the morning, he poses me and sketches me for figures in the scenes that he plans to paint, so I have plenty of time. The madam of the brothel and her husband the pimp have proposed to me, in order for me to earn some money and be able to pay for the room and meals without weighing on the limited resources available for Rubio, that I should work in their low dive. They have in mind a new attraction for visitors, to stage fights between girls, completely naked, parodying the skirmishing of gladiators or the battles against the barbarians. The scenes would always end with an orgy in which the audience can participate. They guarantee that I'll have a chance to escape before being subjected to violence by the customers, they'll set a pair of bouncers to watch over me, they'll get rid of over-enthusiastic admirers.
I hesitate, but accept. I've got to earn my living now, I can't count any more on being kept in comfort by the wealth of others, especially if I want to live in a city like Neapolis or even go to Rome. What better than the oldest profession in the world, which will never go into recession unless all the men become gay? So I find myself, in less than no time, on the stage of this new show, ready to submit to the gaze of lecherous old impotents, past having sex with their wives, who prefer vigorous young slavegirls. But among the spectators I can't fail to notice many of the most important people, lawyers of the courts, magistrates, wealthy merchants from distant lands who’ve come to sell spices and rare fabrics. Thus, bare to the eyes of those perverts, I earn what I’ll need for my future, not to mention enhancing the income of the brothel-keepers. The only risk, other than that of an unwanted pregnancy in the event of an accident during a show, is that someone might take a serious fancy to me - but there's is a quick and effective way to cool such madmen, eviction down a chute that leads directly into the Cloaca Maxima!
So each day I leave Robio's lodgings by the back door, walk briskly along the short stretch of road that separates me from the narrow passage leading to the rear entrance to the brothel. I knock, I'm quickly let in by the African woman. I pass down the corridor on the lower floor and up the stairs to the cubicle that the madam has given me for my secret meetings. A painting by Rubio on a wooden board hangs beside the door, it portrays me as a barbarian warrior, wearing my costume, long green tights, shin-guards on my legs, long gloves and wrist-armour, with a huge collar like a shield topped with spikes. I've a green cloak fastened at the neck, a chain with a pendant attached to a ring in my belly-button, a ring of tattoos around the thigh, otherwise my body is naked. But the real work of art is my helmet, made by an armourer who frequents this place. It has a unique shape, the right half completely covers my eye, in the centre there’s a ridge from which long sharp spikes protrude, with a long ponytail crest in the middle which falls over my mantle. A long, barbarian-style sword completes my attire.
I descend into the arena of the small theatre inside the brothel, that’s used for performances to delight the wealthy clients, on three terraces in a semicircle, already full of greedy voyeurs, all impotent and advanced in years.
Today I face Asteropaeus, the most famous gladiator in Pompeii! It isn't that he's bought me for a few hours, it is I who want him as an opponent in the match - whoever loses will pay with their blood! The first bout ends swiftly with his victory, after a few moments I'm immobilized in the middle of the little arena, he plunges his unsheathed dagger, long and erect, into my tender flesh. I moan and struggle to free myself from his grip, but to no avail, then he downloads all his cum onto my face, eagerly I lick his salty liquor. The audience applauds the scene and the victory of the male.
The second battle is no luckier for me than the first, held down with my face in the sand he invades me from behind so brutally I feel all the pain of his big penis as it expands beyond the capacity of my narrow passage.
The third and the fourth result in more deaths for me, but in the fifth I get a little revenge, a well-aimed blow on his jewels proves a bit of a setback for him. From the sixth round, chances of victory are equal, gradually he’s having to struggle more and more to conquer me.
On his tenth attempt to assault me, his hero’s penis remains as limp as a ripe fig – I’ve won, I’ve humiliated the most superb gladiator!
'Behold, Augustus Caesar! See, you Pompeians! Your champion grovels before a girl, he's too weak to keep up the struggle of love! Mercy or death?'
The crowd's on its feet, roaring, the defeated gladiator is at my feet, on his knees, looking to the terraces for any sign of a hand granting clemency. There's no such gesture, no pity for the vanquished. I'm holding a short, sharp dagger, I grab the hair on his head, and position it with it's blade approached his throat, still looking to the silent crowd in hope they'll relent, but nothing changes.
The blade flashes, and cuts his throat (though no more than he could be injured shaving his face with a knife!) Shocked, brings his hand to his neck, looks at his bloody palms, I grab his left hand and lick the blood off his fingers, his right hand I lead to my pubis, his blood reddens it, holding him by the hair I push his face against my belly, he licks his blood and his semen that overflow from my vagina, all the abundant fluids of my pleasure. Sitting enthroned I keep him held against my body, wrapping his neck with my legs, his tongue penetrates deeply into the secrets of my cave with deep moaning. The eager crowd approach the scene, a few hands try to caress my breasts. His humiliation is complete, I piss down his throat, he gulps down a cup of contempt.
I get to hear about what happened at Lucius's house when, on their return from the festival, they couldn't find me - almost a riot! Caesius reported my disappearance, accusing one of the slaves of having kidnapped me, and possibly, taking advantage of my amnesia, selling me to some slave-merchant. That poor man was tortured till he confessed, that landed him in prison and then in the arena where he to fight against a fierce gladiator, and, being completely inexperienced, he met a miserable end. I felt very sorry for him, but I couldn’t feel any direct responsibility for his death.
The Imperial Prefect ordered an investigation by his militia and his spies, but it didn’t achieve any result, silence covered me well - stranded here among people living on the fringes of society, I can live protected by the cordon of solidarity that forms among those who want to hide something, from the authorities or from anyone else, you can be sure they won’t betray you, and I’ve brought my false identity documents.
But my heart is broken for the pain of poor Didia, who can't come to terms with my apparent death, she won't eat any more and she stays always locked in my room, crying and looking for a note, a clue, among my things that I left because I couldn't bring them with me.
So I'm intiated into my new job, a really tough job, being a painter's model, and Rubio is very demanding. We mustn’t lose the pose, which is always very complicated, before he has completed his sketch, so my muscles grow numb muscles, pain begins to torture my back, my legs are siezed with cramps. More naked than dressed, or with clothes that leave much of the skin revealed, one day I have to be a nymph, the next a naiad, or Diana, Minerva, Flora or Electra, or one of the muses, or Venus herself, so my body is to be put on display in frescoes that everyone will admire.
The funniest thing that comes to my mind is that my body will always be naked before the eyes of Diomede, who so wanted to marry me, and so I'll get a little revenge on him, being desired by all the men who frequent the baths and admire scenes of nymphs bathing, naked girls combing their hair, playing in the water, in a magical, fairy-tale landscape. But they won’t recognize me, as they admire all these ethereal figures that hover on the ceiling of the main room, the bathers will gaze up without suspecting it’s the same model transformed now into one character, now another.
I've devised a little trick to get out of my hiding place incognito, I’ve got my hair dyed black, put heavy makeup on my eyes like the old whores do, and, when I visit the Forum, I dress in oriental clothes that cover my body completely almost, leaving only my face, and that's hidden by a veil. A fancy wig, and a host of strange accessories complete my metamorphosis, I challenge anyone to recognize me.
During the day, Rubio works on his frescos on the walls of the warm baths, in the evening and at night, or early in the morning, he poses me and sketches me for figures in the scenes that he plans to paint, so I have plenty of time. The madam of the brothel and her husband the pimp have proposed to me, in order for me to earn some money and be able to pay for the room and meals without weighing on the limited resources available for Rubio, that I should work in their low dive. They have in mind a new attraction for visitors, to stage fights between girls, completely naked, parodying the skirmishing of gladiators or the battles against the barbarians. The scenes would always end with an orgy in which the audience can participate. They guarantee that I'll have a chance to escape before being subjected to violence by the customers, they'll set a pair of bouncers to watch over me, they'll get rid of over-enthusiastic admirers.
I hesitate, but accept. I've got to earn my living now, I can't count any more on being kept in comfort by the wealth of others, especially if I want to live in a city like Neapolis or even go to Rome. What better than the oldest profession in the world, which will never go into recession unless all the men become gay? So I find myself, in less than no time, on the stage of this new show, ready to submit to the gaze of lecherous old impotents, past having sex with their wives, who prefer vigorous young slavegirls. But among the spectators I can't fail to notice many of the most important people, lawyers of the courts, magistrates, wealthy merchants from distant lands who’ve come to sell spices and rare fabrics. Thus, bare to the eyes of those perverts, I earn what I’ll need for my future, not to mention enhancing the income of the brothel-keepers. The only risk, other than that of an unwanted pregnancy in the event of an accident during a show, is that someone might take a serious fancy to me - but there's is a quick and effective way to cool such madmen, eviction down a chute that leads directly into the Cloaca Maxima!
So each day I leave Robio's lodgings by the back door, walk briskly along the short stretch of road that separates me from the narrow passage leading to the rear entrance to the brothel. I knock, I'm quickly let in by the African woman. I pass down the corridor on the lower floor and up the stairs to the cubicle that the madam has given me for my secret meetings. A painting by Rubio on a wooden board hangs beside the door, it portrays me as a barbarian warrior, wearing my costume, long green tights, shin-guards on my legs, long gloves and wrist-armour, with a huge collar like a shield topped with spikes. I've a green cloak fastened at the neck, a chain with a pendant attached to a ring in my belly-button, a ring of tattoos around the thigh, otherwise my body is naked. But the real work of art is my helmet, made by an armourer who frequents this place. It has a unique shape, the right half completely covers my eye, in the centre there’s a ridge from which long sharp spikes protrude, with a long ponytail crest in the middle which falls over my mantle. A long, barbarian-style sword completes my attire.
I descend into the arena of the small theatre inside the brothel, that’s used for performances to delight the wealthy clients, on three terraces in a semicircle, already full of greedy voyeurs, all impotent and advanced in years.
Today I face Asteropaeus, the most famous gladiator in Pompeii! It isn't that he's bought me for a few hours, it is I who want him as an opponent in the match - whoever loses will pay with their blood! The first bout ends swiftly with his victory, after a few moments I'm immobilized in the middle of the little arena, he plunges his unsheathed dagger, long and erect, into my tender flesh. I moan and struggle to free myself from his grip, but to no avail, then he downloads all his cum onto my face, eagerly I lick his salty liquor. The audience applauds the scene and the victory of the male.
The second battle is no luckier for me than the first, held down with my face in the sand he invades me from behind so brutally I feel all the pain of his big penis as it expands beyond the capacity of my narrow passage.
The third and the fourth result in more deaths for me, but in the fifth I get a little revenge, a well-aimed blow on his jewels proves a bit of a setback for him. From the sixth round, chances of victory are equal, gradually he’s having to struggle more and more to conquer me.
On his tenth attempt to assault me, his hero’s penis remains as limp as a ripe fig – I’ve won, I’ve humiliated the most superb gladiator!
'Behold, Augustus Caesar! See, you Pompeians! Your champion grovels before a girl, he's too weak to keep up the struggle of love! Mercy or death?'
The crowd's on its feet, roaring, the defeated gladiator is at my feet, on his knees, looking to the terraces for any sign of a hand granting clemency. There's no such gesture, no pity for the vanquished. I'm holding a short, sharp dagger, I grab the hair on his head, and position it with it's blade approached his throat, still looking to the silent crowd in hope they'll relent, but nothing changes.
The blade flashes, and cuts his throat (though no more than he could be injured shaving his face with a knife!) Shocked, brings his hand to his neck, looks at his bloody palms, I grab his left hand and lick the blood off his fingers, his right hand I lead to my pubis, his blood reddens it, holding him by the hair I push his face against my belly, he licks his blood and his semen that overflow from my vagina, all the abundant fluids of my pleasure. Sitting enthroned I keep him held against my body, wrapping his neck with my legs, his tongue penetrates deeply into the secrets of my cave with deep moaning. The eager crowd approach the scene, a few hands try to caress my breasts. His humiliation is complete, I piss down his throat, he gulps down a cup of contempt.