An emaciated figure lay huddled on the dirty floor. Her hair was brittle, her cheeks white and sunken. She hardly noticed anything around her. Hunger tugged at her, but unable to move, she lay and abandoned herself to her fate. "God help me!" It was a soft whisper that escaped Amaya's lips. Tears had been running down her face for several days. She was afraid. Her mother used to sing psalms to her when she was afraid, but she wasn't no longer there. No one was left of her family. She was alone.
For several weeks now, Armenia has been besieged by the Roman army under Gnaeus Domitius on the orders of the Roman Emperor Nero. The city's supplies were long gone. In silent, stinking decay, the city lay beneath the sun, like the thousands of corpses that littered its streets. Desperation lay like a dark, oppressive shadow over the city. But how could it be otherwise when death awaited them outside the city walls?
Amaya didn't know how long she had been lying there. She prays for strength and trust but her situation seemed so hopeless. Convulsively she tried to fall asleep to be able to forget her sadness and her hunger at least for a moment. Without success. She closed her eyes and thought about the past. Just a few weeks ago, she was the daughter of Festizius, one of the richest and most respected men in her country. Now he was dead. Here in the dining room, where she now lay on the floor, her family had sat together every evening and eaten at a richly set table. Her little sister's laughter filled the room every night as they danced together to the tune her mother played on the violin. Amaya's heart clenched at the painful memories. She was so happy and now she had lost everything.
Amaya was jolted out of her thoughts as someone fled down the narrow alley outside. Screams of death came from afar. She heard men's voices getting closer and nailed shoes scraping the stone floors. Armenia was conquered. Doors splintered and cries of horror came from the houses. Amaya's heart was racing. The voices kept getting louder. Suddenly she heard her front door flew open and several men rushed into her house to search it.
"It's over. I won't have to suffer any longer. God please help me, I'm so scared!" Amaya didn't say the words out loud, but she knew God heard her. She didn't open her eyes until she felt a man stop in front of her. With their big blue ones Eyes she stared at a man in armor smeared with dust and blood, his hand wrapped around his heavy sword and pointed at Amaya.
He had to kill her. He had received orders from Domitius to kill everyone who could no longer be used as slaves. This girl he looked down on was more dead than alive. She would never survive the trip to Rome, and even if she did, no one would want her as a slave. Still he hesitated. The girl wasn't pretty. She was emaciated, dirty and wore a tattered robe. But her eyes radiated such a great peace that a shiver ran down his spine. He had never seen anyone so calm before their death. And this girl knew that he would kill her.
He lowered his arm and loosened his grip on his sword. "Get up!", he ordered Amaya. She looked at him in disbelief and tried to get up, but fell back on the ground from weakness. "Get up if you want to live!", he said and gave her one last chance. If she couldn't do it now, he would have to kill her on the spot. At least it would have relieved her of her pain.
Amaya straightened up and was pulled to her feet by the Roman soldier. "Leave her lying there, Klaudius," she heard a soldier coming in say. "She's too weak." The soldier seemed to consider his colleague's words. "You're right." He loosened his grip and the secure hold for Amaya was gone. She fell to the ground again and saw how the soldier twitched his sword and began to swing. Her hope evaporated. She was already looking death in the eye . ,,Wait!" The soldier turned and Amaya breathed a sigh of relief. "That must be Festizius's daughter." The room fell silent. The soldiers, now five standing in their dining room, exchanged uncertain glances. "What's your name?" one of them asked. "Amaya," the skinny girl blurted out weakly. That one word obviously cost her a lot of strength. "Take her out onto the wagon. She's worth a lot just for her last name. Hardly anyone in Rome can claim to have a formerly important person as a slave. She's worth almost as much as a princess." The soldiers obeyed and lifted Amaya up. She didn't know whether to rejoice or to cry. Because she didn't know which would be better: a slave of Rome or death...