• Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.

Amica

Go to CruxDreams.com
Amica 89


To seal the curse, Detfri burns an offering on a stone which serves as a sacrificial altar, a few crow feathers and a tuft of fox hair, dedicates it to the spirit of Vibia Aquia, and offers up a further invocation to Damia, sister of Vibia, for a successful outcome to her request for intercession with Keres Arentika.


Detfri strongly believes in these magical practices, she’s used to making up a concoction and sprinkling it where the unfaithful lover of some girl would pass, so that it would mingle with dust and mud on his feet and they could follow the track to the dwelling-place of his secret lover, and there cast another spell, with an evil eye, against the rival.


But the days pass and nothing happens, and Detfri grows increasingly restless.


After a hard day’s work, on the last tile she’s produced, she decides to leave an impression of her shoe, and to write a sentence with her name on the surface of the tile-clay. Detfri writes in the Oscan language, the language spoken by the Samnites and many other peoples of this area, it’s more common here than Latin, and it’s written from right to left in Oscan letters. She doesn’t know how to write Latin, although she understands the spoken language. I do the same alongside her, inscribing with a bit of wood, but in Latin:


"Detfri, slave of Herennius Sattius, stamped her seal with the sole of her shoe."

"Amica, slave of Herennius, has stamped her seal when we laid out the tiles to dry."

'I want to die! I can’t stand this torture, all these degradations we have to suffer, why doesn’t Keres hear my prayer?'


'No doubt Keres is listening, the gods are just waiting for the proper time to act.'


Chained to the wall of the cell, we’re about to fall asleep when, suddenly, in come some guards, drag us off to the pleasure saloon of Herennius, two other slavegirls with us.


Our agony begins, we’re bound in obscene positions, the beast passes from one to another to satiate his pleasure and our pain. His face is red, his neck veins bulging, he’s sweating like a horse that’s galloped a long stretch of road.

While he’s sodomising a beautiful eastern slavegirl, he suddenly stiffens, his face turns purple, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, his eyes wide, he gives an inhuman scream, then starts shaking uncontrollably with increasingly violent convulsions. Then he falls to the ground exhausted, kicking in the air, grinding his teeth, his eyes rolling in their sockets, almost popping out. After a series of spasms in his limbs, as if his body is being gripped by some mysterious power, he stops, rigid, his eyes rolling upwards, his mouth gaping, full of foamy drool, only the continuous trembling in his legs certifies that he isn’t dead yet.


Guards hurry to help him, they carry him away on a stretcher like a ladder, I see in Detfri’s eyes a glint of malignant satisfaction.


For some days we don’t see him, then he reappears, tied to a chair, with his head cocked to one side, his mouth twisted in an obscene grimace, his arms and hands contracted and distorted. He looks to us like a hungry wolf, hunting for the witnesses to be sentenced: our time has come.


'I die happy! Keres Arentika has heard me! Keeping him alive in this state she’s making him suffer, submitting him to perpetual torture. O Goddess, forgive me for having doubted you!'


In the depths of this moonless night, we begin the last chapter of our tragedy.

The only light is the sinister glow of a flickering torch. The gang that’s taken me from the cell in where I was held, and separated from the others, is made up of half a dozen men, maybe more, but in almost total darkness I can make out only shadows. On the other hand I can hear them talking, two of them joking, probably scoffing at me, one of them wonders aloud if I’ve ever been on a quail hunt.

We stop in what seems to be a clearing, two more guards are waiting. They’ve stuck their torches in the ground, otherwise all around there’s dense darkness.

Yet in the dark I seem to sense a movement, a rustling, a soft whispering like someone at prayer, but when I peer the way they seem to be coming from I can’t see anything, and I think, perhaps hope, they are tricks of my imagination.

The night is now approaching its limpid end. On the ground, barely touched by a veil of dewy light, a dark patch appears to remain indelible. And then, only then, can I make out a pit. Shallow, two or three paces wide, it looks like a natural hollow in the ground. And from it are looking out human faces.


Someone extinguishes the torches, the light is growing, and with it rises ever louder the chorus of birds. For a time, however, no-one moves. At last an order rings out, a guard approaches the pit, he turns round and takes his dagger from its sheath. He kneels and begins to stir in there as if he’s stirring with a ladle in a huge cauldron. He’s cutting the ropes from the wrists of prisoners. Then he stands up and sheaths the dagger. Now the others approach, pushing me to do the same.

From the pit come moans, quickly drowned by the curses of the squad commander, who begins to yelling as hard as he can for all of them to stand up.

Then one by one they begin to unravel with funereal slowness, they seem to be being shaped by some sculptor into forms they have forgotten, each of their bodies is raised up as if at the sound of the trumpets of Jericho. The man that cut them from the ropes tells them they are free, but also urges them to get away as soon as they can, before they change their minds.

Now I too am pushed into the pit, and now I see Detfri and recognise the other two slavegirls tortured with us on the night when the curse was fulfilled. A momentary flicker of dulled surprise passes across our faces, but now the men’s voices are more threatening, commanding us to race off as fast as we can, so we scramble out of that pit, four, pale, staggering figures, we start cantering, stumbling, falling and getting up, and then we make a run for it, gasping like we’re having nightmares, up towards the heathland veiled by the mists of early dawn.


But already I sense a trick. They’re in no hurry to take aim with their bows. They just want to give us enough of a start so they’ll get more sport from the game. And so begins the quail hunt!
 

Attachments

  • Amica 89.pdf
    12.9 KB · Views: 11
Velut Luna said:
Amica 89


To seal the curse, Detfri burns an offering on a stone which serves as a sacrificial altar, a few crow feathers and a tuft of fox hair, dedicates it to the spirit of Vibia Aquia, and offers up a further invocation to Damia, sister of Vibia, for a successful outcome to her request for intercession with Keres Arentika.


Detfri strongly believes in these magical practices, she’s used to making up a concoction and sprinkling it where the unfaithful lover of some girl would pass, so that it would mingle with dust and mud on his feet and they could follow the track to the dwelling-place of his secret lover, and there cast another spell, with an evil eye, against the rival.


But the days pass and nothing happens, and Detfri grows increasingly restless.


After a hard day’s work, on the last tile she’s produced, she decides to leave an impression of her shoe, and to write a sentence with her name on the surface of the tile-clay. Detfri writes in the Oscan language, the language spoken by the Samnites and many other peoples of this area, it’s more common here than Latin, and it’s written from right to left in Oscan letters. She doesn’t know how to write Latin, although she understands the spoken language. I do the same alongside her, inscribing with a bit of wood, but in Latin:


"Detfri, slave of Herennius Sattius, stamped her seal with the sole of her shoe."

"Amica, slave of Herennius, has stamped her seal when we laid out the tiles to dry."

'I want to die! I can’t stand this torture, all these degradations we have to suffer, why doesn’t Keres hear my prayer?'


'No doubt Keres is listening, the gods are just waiting for the proper time to act.'


Chained to the wall of the cell, we’re about to fall asleep when, suddenly, in come some guards, drag us off to the pleasure saloon of Herennius, two other slavegirls with us.


Our agony begins, we’re bound in obscene positions, the beast passes from one to another to satiate his pleasure and our pain. His face is red, his neck veins bulging, he’s sweating like a horse that’s galloped a long stretch of road.

While he’s sodomising a beautiful eastern slavegirl, he suddenly stiffens, his face turns purple, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, his eyes wide, he gives an inhuman scream, then starts shaking uncontrollably with increasingly violent convulsions. Then he falls to the ground exhausted, kicking in the air, grinding his teeth, his eyes rolling in their sockets, almost popping out. After a series of spasms in his limbs, as if his body is being gripped by some mysterious power, he stops, rigid, his eyes rolling upwards, his mouth gaping, full of foamy drool, only the continuous trembling in his legs certifies that he isn’t dead yet.


Guards hurry to help him, they carry him away on a stretcher like a ladder, I see in Detfri’s eyes a glint of malignant satisfaction.


For some days we don’t see him, then he reappears, tied to a chair, with his head cocked to one side, his mouth twisted in an obscene grimace, his arms and hands contracted and distorted. He looks to us like a hungry wolf, hunting for the witnesses to be sentenced: our time has come.


'I die happy! Keres Arentika has heard me! Keeping him alive in this state she’s making him suffer, submitting him to perpetual torture. O Goddess, forgive me for having doubted you!'


In the depths of this moonless night, we begin the last chapter of our tragedy.

The only light is the sinister glow of a flickering torch. The gang that’s taken me from the cell in where I was held, and separated from the others, is made up of half a dozen men, maybe more, but in almost total darkness I can make out only shadows. On the other hand I can hear them talking, two of them joking, probably scoffing at me, one of them wonders aloud if I’ve ever been on a quail hunt.

We stop in what seems to be a clearing, two more guards are waiting. They’ve stuck their torches in the ground, otherwise all around there’s dense darkness.

Yet in the dark I seem to sense a movement, a rustling, a soft whispering like someone at prayer, but when I peer the way they seem to be coming from I can’t see anything, and I think, perhaps hope, they are tricks of my imagination.

The night is now approaching its limpid end. On the ground, barely touched by a veil of dewy light, a dark patch appears to remain indelible. And then, only then, can I make out a pit. Shallow, two or three paces wide, it looks like a natural hollow in the ground. And from it are looking out human faces.


Someone extinguishes the torches, the light is growing, and with it rises ever louder the chorus of birds. For a time, however, no-one moves. At last an order rings out, a guard approaches the pit, he turns round and takes his dagger from its sheath. He kneels and begins to stir in there as if he’s stirring with a ladle in a huge cauldron. He’s cutting the ropes from the wrists of prisoners. Then he stands up and sheaths the dagger. Now the others approach, pushing me to do the same.

From the pit come moans, quickly drowned by the curses of the squad commander, who begins to yelling as hard as he can for all of them to stand up.

Then one by one they begin to unravel with funereal slowness, they seem to be being shaped by some sculptor into forms they have forgotten, each of their bodies is raised up as if at the sound of the trumpets of Jericho. The man that cut them from the ropes tells them they are free, but also urges them to get away as soon as they can, before they change their minds.

Now I too am pushed into the pit, and now I see Detfri and recognise the other two slavegirls tortured with us on the night when the curse was fulfilled. A momentary flicker of dulled surprise passes across our faces, but now the men’s voices are more threatening, commanding us to race off as fast as we can, so we scramble out of that pit, four, pale, staggering figures, we start cantering, stumbling, falling and getting up, and then we make a run for it, gasping like we’re having nightmares, up towards the heathland veiled by the mists of early dawn.


But already I sense a trick. They’re in no hurry to take aim with their bows. They just want to give us enough of a start so they’ll get more sport from the game. And so begins the quail hunt!
Click to expand...

And the hunt is on!!! Thrilling Luna. What an ending this promises!!!! :)
 
"Guards hurry to help him, they carry him away on a stretcher like a ladder, I see in Detfri’s eyes a glint of malignant satisfaction."

Nicely done, Detfri! :)

Run like the wind, Amica! :eek:

Nicely written, Luna! :)
 
Amica 90


I run at breakneck speed, stumble, hurt my foot, curse the bastards who’ve taken away our shoes. Staggering I get up, fall again and get up again. I go on running, then suddenly I feel myself whisked up high. I can’t understand, I’m caught in a fisherman's net, snared in a trap like they use to catch quail. We’re all floundering, entangled, trying to free ourselves, but the arrows strike their prey.

Detfri has already been hit by several arrows, she’s pierced, but lets out no screams of pain, with all the strength she has left, she’s trying to break out of the embrace of the net. But she’s overwhelmed by a new flight of arrows, falls lifeless, her eyes turned to the sky. The others too fall after a while, conquered. One arrow, another, the pain is excruciating, then suddenly I drop, fall to ground with a crack hitting my head on a stone, and lose consciousness.

I wake up with a start to the warm wetness of a tongue that’s dutifully licking my whole aching body. It’s Moloch. I can barely understand the situation, I look around at the arrow-pierced corpses of my unfortunate companions. The presence of mastiff scares me, but now it seems to have no aggressive manner, it just continues wiping a deep wound on my thigh with its long tongue. I try to lift myself, I realise it's my only chance to escape, but I can’t, I just drag myself on my hands and knees, crawling among the weeds and rocks.

'Bravo Moloch! You've found the bitch!'

I hadn’t even noticed the guards had returned, and loaded onto a cart the poor bodies of my companions. Not finding me where I fell they’d begun searching for me, maybe they’d seen the hound from some way off. One of them grabs me by the hair and takes his dagger, ready to slaughter me.

'No! We’ll have more fun yet with this Christian bitch, her God wants to save her!'

calls the leader of the guards laughing, the others respond with coarse guffaws of approval.

Dragging me down the slope by one roped foot, down the path by which I’d so painstakingly and painfully tried to escape, and now retrace in even more pain and despair, wounded by each tree-stump or rock that my body hits, they haul me to the wagon. The stiffening corpse of poor Detfri given up to death of the poor Detfri seems like that of a doe caught by hunters, clotted blood mingled with dust fouls her white skin, her eyes wide, her mouth agape in a last cry of pain, I recoil in horror at contact with her cold flesh.

Back in the prison-yard, on the parade-square at the centre, the guards have put up three stakes, on which they’ve nailed, each by one foot, the pitiful remains, so they're hanging obscenely upside-down. I'm chained to the pole that holds Detfri, the chain passes through a ring in the collar to the manacles and the ankle-irons, I’m lying on the ground with my face in the dust. The other prisoners are watching the scene in horror, this obscene and terrible spectacle.


'Whoever tries to escape will suffer the same fate!'

someone shouts menacingly at the shivering, terrified crowd of prisoners.

The sun sets on Pompeii, a blood-red sky, full of clouds.
 

Attachments

  • Amica 90.pdf
    9.1 KB · Views: 12
One year has passed from the moment I posted the first episode of Amica,
http://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/amica.3710/

I must first of all thank Eulalia that was so patient all this time, and I have to thank all the friends that have followed my story, reading and commenting on each new episode, I hope not to have too bored with my constant changes of scene and strange situations, but I hope that the story has maintained a certain unity, it is not easy to write for a long time on the same subject without losing sight of the goal set. I hope I have succeeded in my purpose. The story is coming to an end, a few more episodes of the main story and then two little surprises for you, dear readers!
 
Well, Amica's become an important part of this girl's life, I'm apprehensive how I'll cope without her, it's been a wonderful voyage of discovery, thanks to Luna's wonderful imagination grounded in her deep knowledge of Pompeii, Roman life, and Italian literature.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom