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Amica
- Thread starter Velut Luna
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AnimaSinistra
Governor
LABOR LIBEROS FACIT = ARBEIT MACHT FREI(*)
It was the motto of Auschwitz concentration camp. Nothing new under the sun!
------------------
(*) "Work makes people free".
It was the motto of Auschwitz concentration camp. Nothing new under the sun!
------------------
(*) "Work makes people free".
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 85
We receive a terrifying welcome from a pack of snarling mastiffs, barely restrained by the thick ropes tied round their necks, these are the guardians of the furnace. I daren’t even lift my hands to ward off one that appears to be targeting me, grinding his teeth, lifting his jaws, baring his sharp fangs. His eyes are bloodshot, his bite could tear off half of my thigh.
The watchman holds onto him and yells:
'Good dog! Good dog, Moloch! Later! You’ll get her too, later!'
I'm terrified by these words, I almost pee in fear.
'Down on yours knees all of you! In the middle of the yard! Down!!!'
What looks like the captain of the guard gives the order.
Slowly we group all together at the centre of the square, falling on our knees, exhausted from the long march. A group of slavewomen dragging a heavy cart manually are watching us, they are all naked, skinny, with sagging breasts like old hags, you can count all their ribs, their staring eyes bulge, their teeth protrude from the lips of their withered mouths that they are no longer able to close. Matted hair, dirty skin, dry and sunburnt, bruises all over their bodies, scars of old wounds and scabs of dried blood from more recent injuries newly inflicted by the scourge.
Our eyes meet theirs, both groups full of terror, ours seeing what fate awaits us, the others understanding that we are the replacements who herald, very soon, their execution.
A group of crosses at the bottom of the square, empty now, reminds us of what fate awaits us all, condemned already, even before any trial.
What is the cross? Two marks scratched on a surface, two pieces of wood joined together. The cross is our essence, the vertical is life, the horizontal death. And why this symbol is so powerful? A rune, a magic mark, a cabalistic sign, a symbol of salvation - or so the Christians say - a stigma, a curse, a contradiction, a madness...
Take a brush, how do you paint it? First the vertical mark, from top to bottom, the sign of life, it does not rise up from the bottom like a tree, it comes from above, it’s a gift of the gods - or of the God of the Christians?
Then the horizontal, from left to right, the sign of death, which intersects life, stops, interrupts. These signs divide both space and humanity into four parts, to the right the good, the bad to the left, above, the elect, below, the outcasts.
That's what the cross is, our being, is our selves, life and death, good and evil, the first and the last, necessary and inseparable.
Put a figure on these two signs, any figure, it becomes a talisman of extraordinary power, it becomes a shield against all evil, that is why Christians are proud to wear it, it is their weapon of defence, but also to attack.
But these crosses have not come down from above like my drawing, they rise up out of the earth, from the underworld, they are the curse-crosses, the symbol of infamy on which will be hung the remanants of poor bodies, on which we shall hang, where we shall end our miserable existence.
While I’m meditating, with head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground, on the stones of the yard, thinking of this horrible fate that awaits me, a guard grabs my hair.
'You! Come here, it's your turn!'
I hadn’t realised that the others before me had all been chained.
I’m dragged into a cellar in one of the ruins, four guards grab me, two by my arms, another by my hair, they make me kneel on the ground, the fourth holds me on the ground by my ankles. The farrier slips an iron bracelet on my wrist, lays it on an anvil, and hammers in a large rivet that locks the band. My other wrist gets the same, then, leaning my head to one side on the iron anvil, he fixes a collar - the blows of his hammer resound through my brain till it feels it must explode. The collar has hung on it a metal plate with a Roman numeral, DXI, that will be my name as far as they’re concerned.
Now it’s time to shackle my ankles, the guard raises one of my legs, as if I were a male dog pissing against a wall, the ankle-ring is positioned and the farrier drives home the rivet.
I'm in such an obscene position I’m experiencing all the humiliation that arises from knowing I’m exposed to anything that the guards might do. I close my eyes waiting for their violence. A long tongue creeps into the folds of my slit, a cold nose touches my arse-hole, I realise with terror it’s one of the dogs. Wide-eyed and screaming, I struggle to escape, but they’re holding me firmly, feeding me to the brute.
‘Come on Moloch! She’s all yours now!'
The mastiff hurls me on my back and plunges his cock into my trembling sex. I scream in desperation while the sniggering guards urge it on. Luckily the monster who’s raping me reaches the height of his pleasure after just a few thrusts, with a fierce growl, almost a roar, he injects his burning seed into my vagina.
But there's more. With a hot iron they imprint a brand of infamy on the inside of my thigh, an H, an S, an X, and a cross, then they throw me out from the cellarhead to one side of the square where there is a pool of water.
'Wash yourself, bastard whore, Christian bitch!'
We receive a terrifying welcome from a pack of snarling mastiffs, barely restrained by the thick ropes tied round their necks, these are the guardians of the furnace. I daren’t even lift my hands to ward off one that appears to be targeting me, grinding his teeth, lifting his jaws, baring his sharp fangs. His eyes are bloodshot, his bite could tear off half of my thigh.
The watchman holds onto him and yells:
'Good dog! Good dog, Moloch! Later! You’ll get her too, later!'
I'm terrified by these words, I almost pee in fear.
'Down on yours knees all of you! In the middle of the yard! Down!!!'
What looks like the captain of the guard gives the order.
Slowly we group all together at the centre of the square, falling on our knees, exhausted from the long march. A group of slavewomen dragging a heavy cart manually are watching us, they are all naked, skinny, with sagging breasts like old hags, you can count all their ribs, their staring eyes bulge, their teeth protrude from the lips of their withered mouths that they are no longer able to close. Matted hair, dirty skin, dry and sunburnt, bruises all over their bodies, scars of old wounds and scabs of dried blood from more recent injuries newly inflicted by the scourge.
Our eyes meet theirs, both groups full of terror, ours seeing what fate awaits us, the others understanding that we are the replacements who herald, very soon, their execution.
A group of crosses at the bottom of the square, empty now, reminds us of what fate awaits us all, condemned already, even before any trial.
What is the cross? Two marks scratched on a surface, two pieces of wood joined together. The cross is our essence, the vertical is life, the horizontal death. And why this symbol is so powerful? A rune, a magic mark, a cabalistic sign, a symbol of salvation - or so the Christians say - a stigma, a curse, a contradiction, a madness...
Take a brush, how do you paint it? First the vertical mark, from top to bottom, the sign of life, it does not rise up from the bottom like a tree, it comes from above, it’s a gift of the gods - or of the God of the Christians?
Then the horizontal, from left to right, the sign of death, which intersects life, stops, interrupts. These signs divide both space and humanity into four parts, to the right the good, the bad to the left, above, the elect, below, the outcasts.
That's what the cross is, our being, is our selves, life and death, good and evil, the first and the last, necessary and inseparable.
Put a figure on these two signs, any figure, it becomes a talisman of extraordinary power, it becomes a shield against all evil, that is why Christians are proud to wear it, it is their weapon of defence, but also to attack.
But these crosses have not come down from above like my drawing, they rise up out of the earth, from the underworld, they are the curse-crosses, the symbol of infamy on which will be hung the remanants of poor bodies, on which we shall hang, where we shall end our miserable existence.
While I’m meditating, with head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground, on the stones of the yard, thinking of this horrible fate that awaits me, a guard grabs my hair.
'You! Come here, it's your turn!'
I hadn’t realised that the others before me had all been chained.
I’m dragged into a cellar in one of the ruins, four guards grab me, two by my arms, another by my hair, they make me kneel on the ground, the fourth holds me on the ground by my ankles. The farrier slips an iron bracelet on my wrist, lays it on an anvil, and hammers in a large rivet that locks the band. My other wrist gets the same, then, leaning my head to one side on the iron anvil, he fixes a collar - the blows of his hammer resound through my brain till it feels it must explode. The collar has hung on it a metal plate with a Roman numeral, DXI, that will be my name as far as they’re concerned.
Now it’s time to shackle my ankles, the guard raises one of my legs, as if I were a male dog pissing against a wall, the ankle-ring is positioned and the farrier drives home the rivet.
I'm in such an obscene position I’m experiencing all the humiliation that arises from knowing I’m exposed to anything that the guards might do. I close my eyes waiting for their violence. A long tongue creeps into the folds of my slit, a cold nose touches my arse-hole, I realise with terror it’s one of the dogs. Wide-eyed and screaming, I struggle to escape, but they’re holding me firmly, feeding me to the brute.
‘Come on Moloch! She’s all yours now!'
The mastiff hurls me on my back and plunges his cock into my trembling sex. I scream in desperation while the sniggering guards urge it on. Luckily the monster who’s raping me reaches the height of his pleasure after just a few thrusts, with a fierce growl, almost a roar, he injects his burning seed into my vagina.
But there's more. With a hot iron they imprint a brand of infamy on the inside of my thigh, an H, an S, an X, and a cross, then they throw me out from the cellarhead to one side of the square where there is a pool of water.
'Wash yourself, bastard whore, Christian bitch!'
Yikes!!!!! The ferocious Mastiff is one of the most ancient types of dog breeds going back thousands of years. What a dreadful thing!!!!
I'm not much of a doggie person,
but I think the mastiffs that people walk in the Forest today are quite docile beasts -
but they weren't originally bred that way, certainly not back in Roman times.
Here's a Neapolitan one, looking like he can't wait to get at Amica
but I think the mastiffs that people walk in the Forest today are quite docile beasts -
but they weren't originally bred that way, certainly not back in Roman times.
Here's a Neapolitan one, looking like he can't wait to get at Amica
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
I'm not much of a doggie person,
but I think the mastiffs that people walk in the Forest today are quite docile beasts -
but they weren't originally bred that way, certainly not back in Roman times.
Here's a Neapolitan one, looking like he can't wait to get at Amica
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Neapolitan Mastiff
Neapolitan Mastiff
The Neapolitan Mastiff or Italian Mastiff, (Italian: Mastino Napoletano) is a large, ancient dog breed. This large breed is often used as a guard dog and family protector. Despite their looks, they are a big gentle dog with family and friends. They can be trained as guard dogs to protect people or property.[1] Neapolitan mastiffs need a lot of daily exercise. They are directly descended from the Tibetan mastiff, one of the oldest dog breeds.
Standards
According to American Kennel Club (AKC) standards, male Neapolitan Mastiffs should measure 26–31 inches (66–79 cm) at the withers. They should weigh 130–155 pounds (60-70 kg). Females should measure 24–29 inches (61–74 cm). They should weigh 110–130 pounds (50–60 kg). Body length should be 10–15% greater than height.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
I'm not much of a doggie person,
but I think the mastiffs that people walk in the Forest today are quite docile beasts -
but they weren't originally bred that way, certainly not back in Roman times.
Here's a Neapolitan one, looking like he can't wait to get at Amica
Even I am not a doggie person, I wrote this piece recalling the fear of when, as a child, a big dog playfully jumped on me.
The farrier slips an iron bracelet on my wrist, lays it on an anvil, and hammers in a large rivet that locks the band -V. Luna...
Feel fortunate you were not buggered by these bastards...
Tree
Feel fortunate you were not buggered by these bastards...
Tree
LittleSiss
Sorceress
Why do I think of Richard Simmons ???????????????
Forgive me ... GLBT !!!!!!!!!!!
LittleSiss
Sorceress
Fuck them!!! You put that reply on my post!!!
Tree
This is Coffee Shop speak, Tree!
Just be nice.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 86
I’m shattered, crying, retching, can’t stop my limbs trembling, I’m sick with rage. I try to wash out the filth that has burst into my treasure chest, with jerky, hysterical movements I keep poking my fingers and hands into my vagina, trying to remove every trace of the brute’s semen. Then the girl comes up who was ahead of me along the road,
'They’ve raped you?'
'Not them, it was the beast!'
'Bastards! They won't miss a chance to throw us into the deepest degradation! '
She tries to take me away from the pool of water where I’m still persisting with my efforts to purify my poor violated body, but then, crawling on all fours, I follow her to join the group huddled in the centre of the square.
I hide my face on her chest, she strokes my hair gently,
'What's your name?'
'Everyone calls me Amica, but I don’t know if it's my real name, perhaps Kuu is my name, I can’t remember anything about my past.'
'My name’s Detfri, I'm a Samnite.'
'Are you a Christian too?'
'No, I've been enslaved because my father rebelled against Rome.'
'I'm not even a Christian either, but they’ve accused me of it.'
'Rebels, Christians, Jews, or anyone assumed to be, are doomed to certain death, even if they’ve committed no real crime. These Romans are pigs!'
'Silence you two! Talk is forbidden here! '
A guard strikes us with an ox-whip across our shoulders and faces, blood trickles from my split lip.
'Stand! At the ready all of you, to welcome our Commandant!'
We get up, looking bewildered.
Into the open area, in a chariot drawn by four horses, comes a man dressed in a tunic edged with red and gold stripes. He’s short and fat, with thinning hair kept smooth with unguents, his head’s surrounded by a crown of golden laurel leaves, his face and eyes look haunted. He’s holding a kind of sceptre that uses to signal, giving orders to the guards. He positions himself where he’s well in view before beginning his speech.
'I have the honour and responsibility, conferred upon me by the Imperial Prefect as delegated by our Emperor, even though I am unworthy, to be the Director of this place, where you are going stay as long as necessary, until you complete the course of re-education and are fit to return to life in civil society, from which you’ve chosen to alienate yourselves by rebelling, or by embracing new philosophies or religions contrary to those principles and teachings that are the basis of civilised life in the Roman Empire. Here you will get answers to your doubts, attention to your physical and mental health, education in the laws and customs that govern our society - which is of course the most advanced in the world. In exchange for such a precious gift you will be asked to undertake a small daily commitment of work, remembering that our motto is 'Work makes us free'. This work will be duly remunerated in proportion to your contribution to the total output, and when you leave this advanced training-school, you will receive what you have earned, minus, of course, the costs of your support and a consideration for the organizational effort and commitment of resources that the Judiciary of Pompeii has invested in this public facility. So, I bid you welcome, I wish you a fruitful, formative journey, and I urge you to contact to us for your every requirement, any questions, or any guidance that you may need.
Long live our Emperor! '
Wielding his sceptre, he gives the order to dismiss.
We look at each other goggle-eyed.
'What the fuck is this asshole on about? You'll see, in a few months we will be like those over there, down to just skin and bones, ready to end up in the furnace, where they'll wipe out any trace of our existence.'
A dark girl behind us hisses this between her teeth, luckily we’re in the middle of the group, the guards aren’t close, and the ubiquitous mastiffs, though they’ve got sharp ears and a fine sense of smell, don’t understand our language - and even if they did, they couldn’t snitch on us.
But her mentioning the furnace fills me with dread, I’ve heard rumours that prisoners are slated for extermination because they‘re too weak to work digging out clay or grinding rocks, so they’re sent to load the bricks and tiles ready for firing into the chambers of the brick kiln, when they’re overcome by fatigue and collapse on the floor, no-one will pull them out, they go to their eternal freedom up the chimney!
Four wretched slaves, whose skin covers nothing but impoverished skeletons, approach us, two carrying a basket, the other two a pitcher. The guards make us sit in the middle of the place, we’re surrounded by dogs. Serving of lunch commences, a slice of cold spelt polenta, dark, heavy, and sloppy. We have to cup our hands to receive what little water they can hold. This is all we’re allowed, so as not to over-stretch the budget of the City Council, and not to exceed our earnings, this must pass for our food, deemed ample and sufficient to keep us healthy and vigorous, fit for the backbreaking work that will make us free.
I’m shattered, crying, retching, can’t stop my limbs trembling, I’m sick with rage. I try to wash out the filth that has burst into my treasure chest, with jerky, hysterical movements I keep poking my fingers and hands into my vagina, trying to remove every trace of the brute’s semen. Then the girl comes up who was ahead of me along the road,
'They’ve raped you?'
'Not them, it was the beast!'
'Bastards! They won't miss a chance to throw us into the deepest degradation! '
She tries to take me away from the pool of water where I’m still persisting with my efforts to purify my poor violated body, but then, crawling on all fours, I follow her to join the group huddled in the centre of the square.
I hide my face on her chest, she strokes my hair gently,
'What's your name?'
'Everyone calls me Amica, but I don’t know if it's my real name, perhaps Kuu is my name, I can’t remember anything about my past.'
'My name’s Detfri, I'm a Samnite.'
'Are you a Christian too?'
'No, I've been enslaved because my father rebelled against Rome.'
'I'm not even a Christian either, but they’ve accused me of it.'
'Rebels, Christians, Jews, or anyone assumed to be, are doomed to certain death, even if they’ve committed no real crime. These Romans are pigs!'
'Silence you two! Talk is forbidden here! '
A guard strikes us with an ox-whip across our shoulders and faces, blood trickles from my split lip.
'Stand! At the ready all of you, to welcome our Commandant!'
We get up, looking bewildered.
Into the open area, in a chariot drawn by four horses, comes a man dressed in a tunic edged with red and gold stripes. He’s short and fat, with thinning hair kept smooth with unguents, his head’s surrounded by a crown of golden laurel leaves, his face and eyes look haunted. He’s holding a kind of sceptre that uses to signal, giving orders to the guards. He positions himself where he’s well in view before beginning his speech.
'I have the honour and responsibility, conferred upon me by the Imperial Prefect as delegated by our Emperor, even though I am unworthy, to be the Director of this place, where you are going stay as long as necessary, until you complete the course of re-education and are fit to return to life in civil society, from which you’ve chosen to alienate yourselves by rebelling, or by embracing new philosophies or religions contrary to those principles and teachings that are the basis of civilised life in the Roman Empire. Here you will get answers to your doubts, attention to your physical and mental health, education in the laws and customs that govern our society - which is of course the most advanced in the world. In exchange for such a precious gift you will be asked to undertake a small daily commitment of work, remembering that our motto is 'Work makes us free'. This work will be duly remunerated in proportion to your contribution to the total output, and when you leave this advanced training-school, you will receive what you have earned, minus, of course, the costs of your support and a consideration for the organizational effort and commitment of resources that the Judiciary of Pompeii has invested in this public facility. So, I bid you welcome, I wish you a fruitful, formative journey, and I urge you to contact to us for your every requirement, any questions, or any guidance that you may need.
Long live our Emperor! '
Wielding his sceptre, he gives the order to dismiss.
We look at each other goggle-eyed.
'What the fuck is this asshole on about? You'll see, in a few months we will be like those over there, down to just skin and bones, ready to end up in the furnace, where they'll wipe out any trace of our existence.'
A dark girl behind us hisses this between her teeth, luckily we’re in the middle of the group, the guards aren’t close, and the ubiquitous mastiffs, though they’ve got sharp ears and a fine sense of smell, don’t understand our language - and even if they did, they couldn’t snitch on us.
But her mentioning the furnace fills me with dread, I’ve heard rumours that prisoners are slated for extermination because they‘re too weak to work digging out clay or grinding rocks, so they’re sent to load the bricks and tiles ready for firing into the chambers of the brick kiln, when they’re overcome by fatigue and collapse on the floor, no-one will pull them out, they go to their eternal freedom up the chimney!
Four wretched slaves, whose skin covers nothing but impoverished skeletons, approach us, two carrying a basket, the other two a pitcher. The guards make us sit in the middle of the place, we’re surrounded by dogs. Serving of lunch commences, a slice of cold spelt polenta, dark, heavy, and sloppy. We have to cup our hands to receive what little water they can hold. This is all we’re allowed, so as not to over-stretch the budget of the City Council, and not to exceed our earnings, this must pass for our food, deemed ample and sufficient to keep us healthy and vigorous, fit for the backbreaking work that will make us free.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Welcome back Wragg! Thanks!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 87
Herennius Sattius is the name of the owner of these quarries, he has a commission from the Aediles of Pompei to exploit the veins of various minerals that outcrop along the sides of this valley, carved out by a stream that runs down from Vesuvius, to produce bricks and tiles, and to extract lime and cement which are used for the city’s buildings. Clay, limestone, pozzolan (mineral ash used to harden mortar and concrete), plaster, pumice, gravel, slabs of basalt and blocks of travertine limestone are the raw materials that have to be processed by us captives to turn them into bricks, tiles and other building materials, in this industrial site which is our prison compound.
Herennius has also been granted the privilege of exploiting the labour of prisoners, to keep down the labour costs and so also the price of building materials. And this brings him immense profits, though he has to share them with the Adiles of Pompeii, it’s a well-tried operation that fattens the political class of this area.
Diomede is a big customer of Herennius, his hot baths are being built with materials produced here, apart from the precious marble which comes from all over the Empire. For sure he’ll never know that the tiles that will cover the roof of his show-house will be made by the hands of the woman he wanted to take in marriage.
We’re lined up along a ruined wall of one of the buildings that make up this prison camp. The earthquake almost twenty years ago destroyed a well-organised industrial works that once stood here. We proceed slowly to receive our allocation of tools for work.
Some receive picks, others shovels, others heavy mallets and iron wedges, hammers and chisels, or sledges. Detfri and I receive pairs of clogs with wooden soles reinforced with strips of iron, we look mystified, we don’t understand the use of this equipment.
'You'll have to make bricks and tiles, those shoes are used to stamp the wet mixture into the forms.'
After the distribution of tools we proceed to our places of work, always under the watchful eyes of the ubiquitous mastiffs. It’s a large pool full of mud in which a group of slavewomen are walking around trampling and stirring the wet mixture of red clay with broomsticks. At intervals of time, they have to fill the forms for bricks or tiles, using their feet shod in the wooden clogs to compact the mixture, and then finally they set out the forms in an open sunny spot for the first stage of drying the product. Subsequently other slavegirls will transport the raw bricks to the kiln for firing. There are also two other smaller furnaces, in one of them lime is burnt, in the other a mixture of lime and pozzolan which will then be pulverised to make into concrete.
The work is exhausting, a continuous cycle without stopping, only rarely are we allowed a drink. In the evening, exhausted, overwhelmed by fatigue, we don’t even have the strength to eat the indigestible barley-meal porridge, but after the first few days we don’t reject the food, we eagerly consume as much as we can without vomiting, it is so indigestible.
But our work is not the hardest, much worse is the lot of those poor women who have to dig out the clay with picks, or break the limestone to extract slabs of travertine, or demolish the cliffs of basalt to quarry out paving-slabs for roads, or drag sledges carrying the various raw or processed materials.
Grinding lime into rough grains for cement, or bricks that have broken during processing and have to be pulverized by the grindstones, is left to those who are being punished for insubordination, or just at the whim of the guards. This may happen to any of us, being subjected to this gruelling task, always compelled to maintain a steady pace by flogging inflicted without mercy.
But the most terrible of punishments is to be consigned to work in the brick kiln, from there no-one can come out alive. Completely naked, with hair and pubic curls shaved off, these wrecks of exhausted bodies must load up the chambers where they light the fires for baking bricks, and then, after the firing, from the opposite end of the kiln, they have to extract the finished products. The heat is unbearable, their skin bakes, burns from contact with materials that are not yet cooled are very frequent, hot smoke drifting from one chamber to another is unbreathable, which is why those who are forced to suffer this true torture are shaved – their hair and pubic growth may otherwise catch fire. If, felled by fatigue or suffocated by the fumes, or her lungs are scorched by the heat, one of them slumps to the ground and is no longer able to get out, she’s just left where she’s fallen, and the fire consumes her poor body.
I imagine it’s like this in the place that Christians call Hell, I hope I never have to suffer this punishment.
All in all, the work that Detfri and I are set to do might be considered healthy, we just have to walk round trampling the mud, who of us has never run barefoot through puddles? Always outdoors, with the sun that tans our skin, the wind ruffling our hair gives momentary relief, it caresses our skin.
If it was just doing our job, the weight on our shoulders would be tolerable, but no! During the night, while we should be restoring our tired bodies with restful sleep, the guards roam the dormitories in search of the most beautiful girls and lead them into the punishment cells, to rape them and torture them, for no reason except to satisfy their pleasure.
The cruellest beast is Herennius himself, and he’s targeted Detfri and me, along with some other good-looking slavegirls. None of us gets more than a few nights between sessions when we’re hauled out by the guards and conducted into his pleasure-house for his entertainment, while we suffer humiliations and tortures unimaginably obscene - even when I was a whore in the African’s brothel and I was performing in those most shameful shows, I wasn’t reduced to such extreme levels of depravity.
Detfri suffers profoundly undergoing these humiliations, sometimes she’s on the verge of despair, even cursing her father for rebelling against Rome, cursing Herennius who is reducing her to an object of obscene perversion.
She pronounces her curses in her Oscan language - a curse is a curse in any language, but if it is uttered in a language not generally understood, it’s even more effective!
Herennius Sattius is the name of the owner of these quarries, he has a commission from the Aediles of Pompei to exploit the veins of various minerals that outcrop along the sides of this valley, carved out by a stream that runs down from Vesuvius, to produce bricks and tiles, and to extract lime and cement which are used for the city’s buildings. Clay, limestone, pozzolan (mineral ash used to harden mortar and concrete), plaster, pumice, gravel, slabs of basalt and blocks of travertine limestone are the raw materials that have to be processed by us captives to turn them into bricks, tiles and other building materials, in this industrial site which is our prison compound.
Herennius has also been granted the privilege of exploiting the labour of prisoners, to keep down the labour costs and so also the price of building materials. And this brings him immense profits, though he has to share them with the Adiles of Pompeii, it’s a well-tried operation that fattens the political class of this area.
Diomede is a big customer of Herennius, his hot baths are being built with materials produced here, apart from the precious marble which comes from all over the Empire. For sure he’ll never know that the tiles that will cover the roof of his show-house will be made by the hands of the woman he wanted to take in marriage.
We’re lined up along a ruined wall of one of the buildings that make up this prison camp. The earthquake almost twenty years ago destroyed a well-organised industrial works that once stood here. We proceed slowly to receive our allocation of tools for work.
Some receive picks, others shovels, others heavy mallets and iron wedges, hammers and chisels, or sledges. Detfri and I receive pairs of clogs with wooden soles reinforced with strips of iron, we look mystified, we don’t understand the use of this equipment.
'You'll have to make bricks and tiles, those shoes are used to stamp the wet mixture into the forms.'
After the distribution of tools we proceed to our places of work, always under the watchful eyes of the ubiquitous mastiffs. It’s a large pool full of mud in which a group of slavewomen are walking around trampling and stirring the wet mixture of red clay with broomsticks. At intervals of time, they have to fill the forms for bricks or tiles, using their feet shod in the wooden clogs to compact the mixture, and then finally they set out the forms in an open sunny spot for the first stage of drying the product. Subsequently other slavegirls will transport the raw bricks to the kiln for firing. There are also two other smaller furnaces, in one of them lime is burnt, in the other a mixture of lime and pozzolan which will then be pulverised to make into concrete.
The work is exhausting, a continuous cycle without stopping, only rarely are we allowed a drink. In the evening, exhausted, overwhelmed by fatigue, we don’t even have the strength to eat the indigestible barley-meal porridge, but after the first few days we don’t reject the food, we eagerly consume as much as we can without vomiting, it is so indigestible.
But our work is not the hardest, much worse is the lot of those poor women who have to dig out the clay with picks, or break the limestone to extract slabs of travertine, or demolish the cliffs of basalt to quarry out paving-slabs for roads, or drag sledges carrying the various raw or processed materials.
Grinding lime into rough grains for cement, or bricks that have broken during processing and have to be pulverized by the grindstones, is left to those who are being punished for insubordination, or just at the whim of the guards. This may happen to any of us, being subjected to this gruelling task, always compelled to maintain a steady pace by flogging inflicted without mercy.
But the most terrible of punishments is to be consigned to work in the brick kiln, from there no-one can come out alive. Completely naked, with hair and pubic curls shaved off, these wrecks of exhausted bodies must load up the chambers where they light the fires for baking bricks, and then, after the firing, from the opposite end of the kiln, they have to extract the finished products. The heat is unbearable, their skin bakes, burns from contact with materials that are not yet cooled are very frequent, hot smoke drifting from one chamber to another is unbreathable, which is why those who are forced to suffer this true torture are shaved – their hair and pubic growth may otherwise catch fire. If, felled by fatigue or suffocated by the fumes, or her lungs are scorched by the heat, one of them slumps to the ground and is no longer able to get out, she’s just left where she’s fallen, and the fire consumes her poor body.
I imagine it’s like this in the place that Christians call Hell, I hope I never have to suffer this punishment.
All in all, the work that Detfri and I are set to do might be considered healthy, we just have to walk round trampling the mud, who of us has never run barefoot through puddles? Always outdoors, with the sun that tans our skin, the wind ruffling our hair gives momentary relief, it caresses our skin.
If it was just doing our job, the weight on our shoulders would be tolerable, but no! During the night, while we should be restoring our tired bodies with restful sleep, the guards roam the dormitories in search of the most beautiful girls and lead them into the punishment cells, to rape them and torture them, for no reason except to satisfy their pleasure.
The cruellest beast is Herennius himself, and he’s targeted Detfri and me, along with some other good-looking slavegirls. None of us gets more than a few nights between sessions when we’re hauled out by the guards and conducted into his pleasure-house for his entertainment, while we suffer humiliations and tortures unimaginably obscene - even when I was a whore in the African’s brothel and I was performing in those most shameful shows, I wasn’t reduced to such extreme levels of depravity.
Detfri suffers profoundly undergoing these humiliations, sometimes she’s on the verge of despair, even cursing her father for rebelling against Rome, cursing Herennius who is reducing her to an object of obscene perversion.
She pronounces her curses in her Oscan language - a curse is a curse in any language, but if it is uttered in a language not generally understood, it’s even more effective!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Before to be roasted he suffer the curse of Detfri.
Herrenius Sattius
I hope Vesuvius slowly roasts him alive