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Afrany knew this, but he did not care.
“Am I so faint in this stinking hole so much,” he asked himself, “that he had lost all strength of spirit?” He knew that drunkenness was corrupting the mind.
Increasingly, he was pursued by a strange chill in his chest, disgusting and nauseous, and more and more often his head was spinning, like a decrepit grandfather.

From torture and executions of ordinary Christians, he was tormented, but no more, and he could not treat the plebs and the slaves who made up the bulk of them, as equals.
But recently the situation has changed: a different kind of captive, Camilla Placidia, the sixteen-year-old daughter of a local patrician, Killian Camilla Placidia, entered his casemates.

Of course, Camille’s arrest was the result of intrigues against her family, and if her father had no enemies, no one would have touched Camille, had she ever prayed to the chamber pot, but she really was a Christian.
And this meant the worst, because Christians never renounced their faith – and even much more terrible and intolerable than just the end.

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Afrany met Camille several times.
One day she came out of the stretcher in the town square, walked to the fountain, and Afrany froze like a statue, staring at a tall girl-girl, light and fast, like a stream of clear water.
She bent, and a corner of the fabric, leaning back down, opened the tip of the breast with a taut nipple.
On another occasion, he decided to speak to her, indignantly at himself, that he was afraid of Camilla’s black eyes more than Dacian spears.
He despised the patricians, considered them mindless sissies – and so it was, of course – and was afraid to see this again.
But the very first answer convinced him of the opposite: “Could fresh air damage the home flower?” Is not the lady afraid to weave her nose? – Whose nose, Mr.
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