In spite of his own misery, Costantino felt sorry for the man. ‘It’s all right, brother, I too dreamed about being at home.’

‘I’m dying, I’m dying,’ moaned another. This ship is being sailed by demons. It’s dancing a Sardinian jig!’ At this some of the others even mustered the strength to laugh.

The storm raged all night. Costantino thought he was going to die. He was afraid of death, yet life seemed to him entirely made of grief. His soul seemed awash with the same bitter fluid that his stomach was casting up. Not even at the moment sentence had been pronounced on him had he experienced anything like this present feeling of hopelessness.

He too began to groan and curse, clenching his fists and twisting his chilled toes.

‘I hope you die like I’m dying now, you murderous dogs who brought this on me,’ he said while tears as bitter as the liquid that poisoned his mouth and soul welled up in his eyes.

Towards dawn the storm subsided but even when the sickness had passed Costantino found no relief. He felt as if he had been battered to the point of death and he shivered with cold, exhaustion, and fear. The steamer sailed on. If only it would stop for just one moment. A single moment would have been enough to restore Costantino’s strength, but this endless pitching and tossing, this endless crash of waves went through him with a convulsive shiver. On and on they went. After long hours of agony, night fell. The companion with the smooth yellow face went on moaning, driving Costantino into a frenzy of irritation. At last he was able to doze off, and he began to dream the same dream as on the first night. This time, however, Giovanna was angry, and the rocking of the cradle was almost gentle. When he awoke, he became aware that the steamer had stopped, and in the vast silence that precedes the dawn he heard a voice say, ‘That’s Procida.’

Shuddering with cold, he wondered if they were landing there, because that, he had heard, was where the galleys were. His companion woke too, shivering and yawning widely.

‘Are we there?’ asked Costantino. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Not bad. Have we arrived?’

‘I don’t know. We’re near Procida. Is this where the galleys are?’

‘No, they’re at Nisida. But we’re not going to the galleys!’ said the other proudly, yawning again.

The prisoners were landed at Naples and shut at once into a sealed black and yellow wagon like a moving tomb. Costantino caught only a brief glimpse of a wide expanse of smooth green water, darkened by the shadows of enormous steamships, and boats laden with rough men shouting incomprehensible words. Around the boats on the green water vegetables, orange peel, bits of paper, and filth floated. Huge buildings stood out against a deep blue sky.