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Amica

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Amica is so well written that I am not looking forward for the conclusion. First, because it's wonderfully told, I can almost physically see the characters and locations. Secondly, because I grew so fond of Amica that I almost could not bear the thought that she is bound to die such a horrible death. :(
 
Amica 82


I’m leading this wild and dissolute life in the throes of an erotic furor that excites me, it burns and consumes me. I understand that I have broken many rules, I’ve crossed many boundaries of common decency. Playing the whore has taken me to a different world, populated by all sorts, from the worst, or those thought to be so, to those you’d suspect of nothing, hiding behind their façade of respectability and who are actually worse than the first, sick with satyriasis, for them nothing is real but sex, they have only that branded in their minds.

But I’ve got to extricate myself from the mess I’ve landed myself in, fleeing from an unwanted marriage, but also from a comfortable home that had come to feel like a prison, but how hard it is to disentangle myself from the complexities I'm experiencing under my skin.

In early May, the rumour spread in Pompeii, making quite a stir, that Lucius has sold all his properties - the House of the Faun, the villa of Quarto, his Bank at the Forum, and a myriad of other houses, shops and business that few would have been able to list, including the various brothels he owned – and, as a sign of great magnanimity, he has freed all his slaves and all the girls who worked in his brothels.

I learned that he’d taken little Didia to Rome to live in his home, poor girl, now she can live far from the painful memories here that were driving her to despair.

I go, well hidden under my eastern dress, to the front of the House of the Faun. New faces are coming in and out of the entrance, in the two rooms to the right and left of the entrance two shops have opened, one exhibiting glassware, in front of the other a shoemaker has built a wooden structure which displays all the types of footwear he produces.


All the wealthiest families are flitting from Pompeii now, the city has more slaves and freedmen than Pompeian citizens. For some time anyone who can get out has gone, Rome is the new place to be, the Eternal City, the Capital of the Empire, while here one senses brooding decline, exacerbated by these constant earthquakes that immediately destroy whatever has just been repaired, it’s a Sisyphean task.

Only Diomede continues undaunted with building his new baths, as he did even after the violent shock that devastated the city some years ago. They were the foundation of his great fortune, the beginning of his social ascent, but things are different now, then it was a shock, but people quickly felt the urge to undertake a great restoration of Pompeii. Now all that’s been replaced by a feeling of widespread fear, of the futility of making any of the effort, especially the economic outlay, that was demanded of the earlier property-owners. So now a freedman can buy a fabulous villa for a song, one that only the rich could afford before.


Rubio has almost finished painting the vaults of the Baths of Diomede, he’s told me that he’ll soon be moving to Naples, where he has already found a patron who wants his house to decorated. I can go with him, he promises that I’ll find a less disreputable job.


So today I’m feeling happy, I can finally get out of this place that is becoming oppressive, now I can move more freely, I'm less fearful when I'm at the market. At a jeweller’s stall I buy, with a few copper coins, a little fish in stained glass, a necklace of slender twisted wire from which hangs a pendant, a small ring of silver-plated copper. I wear it as happily as a girl who’s able to buy her first jewel!

Just around the corner, beyond the Arch of Drusus, two women aproach me, one of them heavily pregnant and walking with difficulty. Her companion asks me, in the Oscan language, if I can give them directions to the surgeon’s house. I try to explain, but she doesn’t seem to understand my pronunciation. I try in Latin, but they don’t understand that at all, so, not wanting to leave them alone, I offer to accompany them.


It’s not far, we just have to walk along the Consular Way and then turn right. I offer my arm to the woman, she accepts my help with a smile and we proceed along the old stretch of the Upper Decuman Way. We stop frequently to allow the woman to catch her breath. Then we turn right, but I’m not sure where we are, I’ve missed a turn. I seek help from a woman who’s sitting at the corner of the street, she vaguely indicates a door across the way, a little further down.


It doesn’t seem much of a house, it certainly doesn’t look like that of the surgeon - perhaps it’s the home of a midwife (the kind who does abortions). The usual blank façade. There’s an oven on one side, with a queue of customers waiting to get into a pastry-shop. A stench of urine comes from the laundry in front, there are urinals on the sidewalks for passers-by to use, nothing cleans clothes like human urine. Next to the laundry, a theatre, or perhaps another brothel. Above the large door of the house there’s another of those ubiquitous written in red paint:

THIS DISTRICT WANTS POPIDIUS SECUNDUS FOR ÆDILE

Hastily we retrace our steps, along the same dark alley. This isn’t the way, here there are just whores and drunks, puddles of piss and clotted vomit on the sidewalk, drawings scratched on the walls and doors of the houses alongside little effigies of Priapus with his huge phallus, with bells hanging from the tip to ward off evil.

I have the impression we’re being followed, and glance behind me, but nobody’s paying us any attention. Compared to the confusion in the market, this part of town seems deserted and silent. Many people are staying inside to avoid the heat, but all of a sudden, as we walk through a block between two streets, there appear as if out of nowhere, militiamen barring the street in front and behind.

We’re trapped, with no way out, they’re advancing menacingly towards us.

'Where do you think you’re going, you Christian bitches?'

They grab us by the arms, binding our wrists with ropes, then haul our cloaks over our heads and lead us away.
 

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AnimaSinistra said:
Amica is so well written that I am not looking forward for the conclusion. First, because it's wonderfully told, I can almost physically see the characters and locations. Secondly, because I grew so fond of Amica that I almost could not bear the thought that she is bound to die such a horrible death. :(
Click to expand...
Thank you for your words, I know you can imagine the scenes take place in an environment that you may well know, the ruins of Pompeii, and if you close your eyes for a moment and then re-open its you can see around us revive people of that time.
 
RacingRodent said:
Operatic in emotion, dramatic in vision, intimate in characterisation a brilliant story this continues to be Luna, brava, brava, brava :clapping::clapping::clapping:
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Quasi quasi arrossisco :oops::oops::oops: di vergogna per tutte le vostre lodi. Ma ricordatevi di ringraziare Eulalia per l'aiuto ed il tempo che dedica alla mia storia :rolleyes::rolleyes::rolleyes:

I almost blush with shame for all of your praise. But remember to thank Eulalia for the help and the time devoted to my story.

[PS she loves it, it's a privilege to play a part - eul]
 
Last edited by a moderator:
Velut Luna said:
Amica 82


I’m leading this wild and dissolute life in the throes of an erotic furor that excites me, it burns and consumes me. I understand that I have broken many rules, I’ve crossed many boundaries of common decency. Playing the whore has taken me to a different world, populated by all sorts, from the worst, or those thought to be so, to those you’d suspect of nothing, hiding behind their façade of respectability and who are actually worse than the first, sick with satyriasis, for them nothing is real but sex, they have only that branded in their minds.

But I’ve got to extricate myself from the mess I’ve landed myself in, fleeing from an unwanted marriage, but also from a comfortable home that had come to feel like a prison, but how hard it is to disentangle myself from the complexities I'm experiencing under my skin.

In early May, the rumour spread in Pompeii, making quite a stir, that Lucius has sold all his properties - the House of the Faun, the villa of Quarto, his Bank at the Forum, and a myriad of other houses, shops and business that few would have been able to list, including the various brothels he owned – and, as a sign of great magnanimity, he has freed all his slaves and all the girls who worked in his brothels.

I learned that he’d taken little Didia to Rome to live in his home, poor girl, now she can live far from the painful memories here that were driving her to despair.

I go, well hidden under my eastern dress, to the front of the House of the Faun. New faces are coming in and out of the entrance, in the two rooms to the right and left of the entrance two shops have opened, one exhibiting glassware, in front of the other a shoemaker has built a wooden structure which displays all the types of footwear he produces.


All the wealthiest families are flitting from Pompeii now, the city has more slaves and freedmen than Pompeian citizens. For some time anyone who can get out has gone, Rome is the new place to be, the Eternal City, the Capital of the Empire, while here one senses brooding decline, exacerbated by these constant earthquakes that immediately destroy whatever has just been repaired, it’s a Sisyphean task.

Only Diomede continues undaunted with building his new baths, as he did even after the violent shock that devastated the city some years ago. They were the foundation of his great fortune, the beginning of his social ascent, but things are different now, then it was a shock, but people quickly felt the urge to undertake a great restoration of Pompeii. Now all that’s been replaced by a feeling of widespread fear, of the futility of making any of the effort, especially the economic outlay, that was demanded of the earlier property-owners. So now a freedman can buy a fabulous villa for a song, one that only the rich could afford before.


Rubio has almost finished painting the vaults of the Baths of Diomede, he’s told me that he’ll soon be moving to Naples, where he has already found a patron who wants his house to decorated. I can go with him, he promises that I’ll find a less disreputable job.


So today I’m feeling happy, I can finally get out of this place that is becoming oppressive, now I can move more freely, I'm less fearful when I'm at the market. At a jeweller’s stall I buy, with a few copper coins, a little fish in stained glass, a necklace of slender twisted wire from which hangs a pendant, a small ring of silver-plated copper. I wear it as happily as a girl who’s able to buy her first jewel!

Just around the corner, beyond the Arch of Drusus, two women aproach me, one of them heavily pregnant and walking with difficulty. Her companion asks me, in the Oscan language, if I can give them directions to the surgeon’s house. I try to explain, but she doesn’t seem to understand my pronunciation. I try in Latin, but they don’t understand that at all, so, not wanting to leave them alone, I offer to accompany them.


It’s not far, we just have to walk along the Consular Way and then turn right. I offer my arm to the woman, she accepts my help with a smile and we proceed along the old stretch of the Upper Decuman Way. We stop frequently to allow the woman to catch her breath. Then we turn right, but I’m not sure where we are, I’ve missed a turn. I seek help from a woman who’s sitting at the corner of the street, she vaguely indicates a door across the way, a little further down.


It doesn’t seem much of a house, it certainly doesn’t look like that of the surgeon - perhaps it’s the home of a midwife (the kind who does abortions). The usual blank façade. There’s an oven on one side, with a queue of customers waiting to get into a pastry-shop. A stench of urine comes from the laundry in front, there are urinals on the sidewalks for passers-by to use, nothing cleans clothes like human urine. Next to the laundry, a theatre, or perhaps another brothel. Above the large door of the house there’s another of those ubiquitous written in red paint:

THIS DISTRICT WANTS POPIDIUS SECUNDUS FOR ÆDILE

Hastily we retrace our steps, along the same dark alley. This isn’t the way, here there are just whores and drunks, puddles of piss and clotted vomit on the sidewalk, drawings scratched on the walls and doors of the houses alongside little effigies of Priapus with his huge phallus, with bells hanging from the tip to ward off evil.

I have the impression we’re being followed, and glance behind me, but nobody’s paying us any attention. Compared to the confusion in the market, this part of town seems deserted and silent. Many people are staying inside to avoid the heat, but all of a sudden, as we walk through a block between two streets, there appear as if out of nowhere, militiamen barring the street in front and behind.

We’re trapped, with no way out, they’re advancing menacingly towards us.

'Where do you think you’re going, you Christian bitches?'

They grab us by the arms, binding our wrists with ropes, then haul our cloaks over our heads and lead us away.
Click to expand...

Hmmm ... nothing good can possibly come of this. :rolleyes:
 
Amica 83


Our pleas for help bring quite the opposite, from the balconies of the houses we hear yells, and stuff is hurled at us.

‘Well done! That’s the way!'

‘Take those Christian and Jewish bitches, they’re a plague in the neighborhood!'

‘Crucify the lot of them!'

‘Give her to the lions!'

‘Burn them alive!'


The militiamen drag us away before we can be attacked by some over-excited bystanders and killed here in the street. And so, without having the slightest idea of where we’re being taken, we’re marched, staggering, a long way, and as we pass many people throw insults and much worse at us.

I hear the creaking of iron gates being raised. I realise this has been a successful round-up, many other women have already been captured before us. I hear the voices of the militiamen, laughing, saying to their companions:

'Bene venabatur!'

(It’s turned out well!)

We’re thrown into a foetid cell, hands undress me, grab my legs and spread them apart, widening my crack. I’m violently, bestially invaded, and then from behind. I prepare myself for a gang-rape. Monstrous cocks penetrate me, in the way of nature and against it, rivers of sperm invaded my innards, I’ve no strength to resist, and surely it would be worse if I tried. I remain at the mercy of the rapists for a time that seems infinite. I hear around me moans of women and girls being subjected to the same brutal assaults, the cries fade away, I hear only the grunting brutes who are reaching the climax of their pleasure.

Overwhelmed, I lose consciousness.

I don’t know how long I remain in this state, but a kick on my butt arouses me, and a voice that commands me to get up. With great effort I try to lift myself.

'Hurry up! The centurion hasn’t got time to wait for your convenience! '


I’m grabbed by the arm, my wrists are still tied behind my back, hauled up and set on my feet. The cloak that’s covered me and my cape are pulled off me, I'm completely naked, smeared with sperm and muck. Two bucketfuls of water wash away the filth, then I’m dragged into the principal chamber where the centurion awaits me.

They all have their faces covered with leather masks. They’re the Militia of the Imperial Prefect, the ones who do the dirty work, raids and kidnappings, and, not rarely, targeted assassinations.


Head bowed, pressing my knees together as if to defend myself from new attacks, I stand before the centurion. One of the militiamen pokes the tip of a short dagger under my chin, forcing me to look up at the man who’s questioning me.


'Your name?'

I mumble.

'I don’t recognise it! Cuu? What sort of fucking name is that? '

'Where do you live?'

I'm confused and trembling, I reply:

'African'

From the corner of the chamber a darker voice, a voice that makes me cringe, it seems to come straight from Hades, distorted by the leather mask, says:

'I know where she lives, this filthy bitch, she lives in the African’s cellar - they call him that because of his skin - and she works in his brothel, she acts in shows that are so obscene there are no words to describe them, you pay good gold for her to show off her pussy, but you never get to fuck her.'

'Are you a Christian?'

'No.' I reply.

'But you were wearing this necklace with the fish! That’s a sure sign you’re a Christian, it’s the passport to partake in the orgies that are go on in the catacombs where you lot hide, you can’t deny that!'

'I'm not a Christian.'

I’m hit in the face with the back of a hand, someone else spits in my face.

'Do you despise your faith?'

'No, I'm not a Christian.'

'Then you'll give us the proof! You’ll have to sacrifice to the gods.'

They lead me in front of a statue of Priapus, I’ve never seen one so obscene, with his hand holding up his huge phallus, the longest of his legs, wielding it like a weapon in an attitude of defiance, ready to use it on anyone who dares to approach. They untie my wrists and put a short dagger in my hand. I'm tempted to attack them, to defend myself, but with spears pointing towards my genitals and my arse they keep me cowed. Now they bring in a pair of squirrels tied together with a cord, I see them with dismay, how can I sacrifice these?


A picture emerges from the deep recesses of my mind, I see myself standing in front of a stone altar, in a snowy landscape, the weak sun moves just grazing across the low hills opposite my home, my sacrificial knife sinks into the belly of a poor pet - have I already made sacrifices to the gods? Where and when could I have committed such an atrocity? My hands shake, my knees struggle to support me.

Then a sure hit.

Zap!

I sever the cord that binds the two tender innocent creatures.

I drop the knife from my hand, while the two wonderful animals, surprised by their newly regained freedom, hesitate for a moment, then flee like lightning through the heavy iron bars of the gate that guards the chamber.

'So, you are unwilling to sacrifice to the gods. You have signed your own sentence!'

says the centurion,

'Take her away!'

Instantly four hands grab me,

'Bastard whore! You wanted to take the piss of us? Whenever I came to the brothel to spy on those who were attending your orgies, my cock was exploding with the desire to fuck you, but you always escaped before I could touch you. Well, now you're here, and you'll do whatever I want,' hisses the voice of this spy who’s found out all about me.'

says the spy, but another:

'Wait, wait, there's more on the account of this bitch. I found here on these papyri a complaint about a missing girl: the description of her appearance corresponds to this “lady” here, apart from the hair colour. Here is said she’d been kidnapped by a male slave and sold to a merchant. The slave was imprisoned, then he became a gladiator to get his revenge, but was killed in a fight with the panthers.'

'So you ran away! You weren’t kidnapped! And you’re also responsible for the death of an innocent man!'

says the centurion, and the other continue:

'But wait, there's still more. Here there’s also the report of the two investigating inspectors of the Imperial Prefect, around two years ago, concerning the disappearance of two Christian slavegirls from the house of the banker Lucius Satrianus. When they went to interrogate the servants, they realised that one of the slavegirls was missing, she’d run away the day before. They only found the accomplice in the escape of the other two, all three were executed in the arena. And the next day a decapitated body was found in the river Dracon, that was discovered to be of a Sicilian slave owned by the banker. It emerged that this Sicilian was a Christian too.'

and the centurion add:

'So this bitch was already a Christian, by running away she escaped execution, and without a doubt she instigated the murder of the Sicilian to cover her escape. It's enough to crucify her immediately, but first she’ll have to undergo a regular legal process so we’ll discover all the other crimes for which she’s responsible!'
 

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RacingRodent said:
....Amica so unjustly accused of so many crimes :eek:
Click to expand...

Hum, are you sure of that ? I'm not ....

Then, you see .... she avoids !
Velut Luna said:
...for repair to have sacrificed :oops: others before!
Click to expand...

In my country, we say: "Who robs an egg , robs a beef " ....
That we can translate by : "Who kills a squirrel, can kill men or women ... "

It's time, Amica, it's time to be confronted to your crimes ... a simple slave of Rome cant joke with the power of the great Roman'Republic !!!

I hope that the following will be as wonderful than all what is already written !
I dont hope, in fact, I'm sure !!!​

:clapping::clapping::clapping: for Luna !​
 
I think the Republic died with Caesar.
Things look a bit sticky for our heroine, after all she has gone through already. :eek:
 
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