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We are all lying manacled, even the small children. Each of us has an identifying label attached to the manacle on our wrists or feet. The cave is extremely crowded, so that the ground can hardly be seen, though one can here and there glimpse pebbles and earth between our supine bodies in the fitful light given by two suspended lamps. The cave is cold and humid, and adults of ordinary height must stoop when standing or walking.
Over the last two days our guards have fed us twice with watery gruel. Two days is just my estimate, for there are no clues inside the cave to the passage of time.
It is not possible to make trouble here, manacled as we are, except by shouting out. Those who do this are cruelly beaten by a guard, though I have noticed that these beatings seem to be done in a way which will not cause lasting scars or infirmities.
There are, I think, two rough earthenware beakers for brackish drinking water. These are circulated from time to time, but the two of us are lying in an unfavourable position, and usually when a beaker reaches us it is empty. There are no sanitary provisions, so that we are all lying in our own faeces and urine. The stench is appalling.
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