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Amica
- Thread starter Velut Luna
- Start date
RacingRodent
Consul
P
Pia
Guest
Such beautiful use of words.... adore this passage.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Do not be sad dear friend, it is only a story, girls are always the victims in this world.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
But we can all enjoy your writing through to that sad end.
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrateNo hope!
indeed...........................................we for sure notSo much , indeed !!!! ...... but who cares ?...
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 72
It’s not far from Herculaneum to Pompeii. The horses pulling the chariot seem to know every stone of the road, conscientiously they don’t let the carriage bump, the wheels run almost silently. Didia is excited by this trip, I keep her hugged to my body and watch Fannius’s intent face as he drives the horses speedily but safely.
How will my life with him? Now the time is close every woman dreams of, ever since, as a little girl, observing her mother or her older sisters, she imagined herself in this unknown world. Doubts inevitably arise. Will our two fortunes that come together as one? Will it be a life full of joy or pain? Will the Gods favour us? We love each other so intensely, we can’t ever manage without each other, but anxiety creeps into us like a worm that eats the soul, suddenly we find ourselves alone, strangers, naked souls, frightened…
Around a bend in the road there slowly appears a city quite unlike the holiday resorts on the Bay, like Baia, Herculaneum or Oplontis, all spread out along the coast. Pompeii is a fortress city created to withstand a siege, half a mile back from the shore, in a position above sea-level and the port nearby. The walls are no longer uninterrupted on the side of the Herculanean Gate, during the long years of Pax Romana beautiful residences have been built alongside the road. Roofs of houses rise above the ramparts, and others face towards the port with their wide tree-lined terraces. The line of flat roofs is dominated by a temple with the front facing the sea. Its gleaming marble columns are topped with a kind of frieze composed of statues of ebony, but it is a living frieze, artisans and slaves, almost naked and blackened by the sun, are moving back and forth along the background of white stone. As they work, the noise of chisels on the stone and the screeching of their working tools flows down to us in the warm air.
The city is constantly busy. There are some working on the walls or in the gardens facing the sea, others swarming along the road, some on foot, some on horseback, in chariots or carts, raising a dusty fog, flocking to the arches of the great city gate.
The house welcomes us with the cool shade of the roof around the atrium, and the refreshing fountain of the dancing satyr observes all who enter. Didia is curious and immediately tries to understand how the rooms are laid out. She goes to the peristyle, and is immediately joined by the children of the slaves, who chase each other in a game.
For days, the preparations for the wedding are in full swing, every moment, every ounce of energy, is spent in fixing, cleaning, organizing, and always when it seems to be finally complete, there’s still something that’s been overlooked, something unfinished.
My main problem is the dress. I go secretly for a fitting, to try it on, try it again, I'm never satisfied, here it falls wrong, there it looks empty, it could be a bit deeper, and it could certainly take a little more padding under the bust to give more roundness, a bit more flesh ... Now the veil’s hanging wrong, it should be like a cloud of gold, but it looks like a peasant’s heavy wool scarf, no, no, that will not do, do and undo... Didia laughs, looking with bright, intelligent eyes, having as much fun as if the dress was being prepared for her.
I’m very nervy today, plus there’s a warm wind blowing that’s irritating and making me sweat, how can I measure my wedding dress in these conditions?
But I’m troubled by this wind for another reason, I recognise the sadness in its voice, it’s a wandering wind, like a blind man it cannot see where it’s going, groping, touches objects with outstretched hands, now it's up that wall, now on that branch, now on the seashore, now on the mountain, leaving everywhere the damp imprint of its light caress. I look at the houses, the sea, the sky and the clouds that stream to the horizon, like wandering black shadows, uncertain, approaching then retreating, moving away as if fearful, like the wing of a night-bird touching the trees, giving everything it touches a dark tint, so that everthing’s tinged with the colour of the night, even the voices seem muffled, gloomy, filling me with horror...
So, as I return home disconsolate with the poor results of the changes made to the dress, just as I turn into the street up to the Temple of Fortuna Augusta, I see in front of the entrance of our house seven cavalrymen wearing armour and helmets, their horses stirring nervously.
My heart leaps into my throat, I run in, stumbling on the doorstep. Fannius is waiting for me impatiently, he hugs me, the cold metal of his armor marks now more than ever our remoteness, our separation. My mouth burns around his lips with the most intense kiss of my life. This is the sad fate of one who loves a soldier, suddenly everything that’s been meticulously prepared is irretrievably lost, everything changes, nothing is like it was a moment ago...
A message from the Emperor Vespasian has summoned the legions loyal to him. Ambitious generals have rebelled against the sick old ruler, they are marching with their troops on Rome, threatening the city. They have to be stopped, the Empire must be defended...
It’s not far from Herculaneum to Pompeii. The horses pulling the chariot seem to know every stone of the road, conscientiously they don’t let the carriage bump, the wheels run almost silently. Didia is excited by this trip, I keep her hugged to my body and watch Fannius’s intent face as he drives the horses speedily but safely.
How will my life with him? Now the time is close every woman dreams of, ever since, as a little girl, observing her mother or her older sisters, she imagined herself in this unknown world. Doubts inevitably arise. Will our two fortunes that come together as one? Will it be a life full of joy or pain? Will the Gods favour us? We love each other so intensely, we can’t ever manage without each other, but anxiety creeps into us like a worm that eats the soul, suddenly we find ourselves alone, strangers, naked souls, frightened…
Around a bend in the road there slowly appears a city quite unlike the holiday resorts on the Bay, like Baia, Herculaneum or Oplontis, all spread out along the coast. Pompeii is a fortress city created to withstand a siege, half a mile back from the shore, in a position above sea-level and the port nearby. The walls are no longer uninterrupted on the side of the Herculanean Gate, during the long years of Pax Romana beautiful residences have been built alongside the road. Roofs of houses rise above the ramparts, and others face towards the port with their wide tree-lined terraces. The line of flat roofs is dominated by a temple with the front facing the sea. Its gleaming marble columns are topped with a kind of frieze composed of statues of ebony, but it is a living frieze, artisans and slaves, almost naked and blackened by the sun, are moving back and forth along the background of white stone. As they work, the noise of chisels on the stone and the screeching of their working tools flows down to us in the warm air.
The city is constantly busy. There are some working on the walls or in the gardens facing the sea, others swarming along the road, some on foot, some on horseback, in chariots or carts, raising a dusty fog, flocking to the arches of the great city gate.
The house welcomes us with the cool shade of the roof around the atrium, and the refreshing fountain of the dancing satyr observes all who enter. Didia is curious and immediately tries to understand how the rooms are laid out. She goes to the peristyle, and is immediately joined by the children of the slaves, who chase each other in a game.
For days, the preparations for the wedding are in full swing, every moment, every ounce of energy, is spent in fixing, cleaning, organizing, and always when it seems to be finally complete, there’s still something that’s been overlooked, something unfinished.
My main problem is the dress. I go secretly for a fitting, to try it on, try it again, I'm never satisfied, here it falls wrong, there it looks empty, it could be a bit deeper, and it could certainly take a little more padding under the bust to give more roundness, a bit more flesh ... Now the veil’s hanging wrong, it should be like a cloud of gold, but it looks like a peasant’s heavy wool scarf, no, no, that will not do, do and undo... Didia laughs, looking with bright, intelligent eyes, having as much fun as if the dress was being prepared for her.
I’m very nervy today, plus there’s a warm wind blowing that’s irritating and making me sweat, how can I measure my wedding dress in these conditions?
But I’m troubled by this wind for another reason, I recognise the sadness in its voice, it’s a wandering wind, like a blind man it cannot see where it’s going, groping, touches objects with outstretched hands, now it's up that wall, now on that branch, now on the seashore, now on the mountain, leaving everywhere the damp imprint of its light caress. I look at the houses, the sea, the sky and the clouds that stream to the horizon, like wandering black shadows, uncertain, approaching then retreating, moving away as if fearful, like the wing of a night-bird touching the trees, giving everything it touches a dark tint, so that everthing’s tinged with the colour of the night, even the voices seem muffled, gloomy, filling me with horror...
So, as I return home disconsolate with the poor results of the changes made to the dress, just as I turn into the street up to the Temple of Fortuna Augusta, I see in front of the entrance of our house seven cavalrymen wearing armour and helmets, their horses stirring nervously.
My heart leaps into my throat, I run in, stumbling on the doorstep. Fannius is waiting for me impatiently, he hugs me, the cold metal of his armor marks now more than ever our remoteness, our separation. My mouth burns around his lips with the most intense kiss of my life. This is the sad fate of one who loves a soldier, suddenly everything that’s been meticulously prepared is irretrievably lost, everything changes, nothing is like it was a moment ago...
A message from the Emperor Vespasian has summoned the legions loyal to him. Ambitious generals have rebelled against the sick old ruler, they are marching with their troops on Rome, threatening the city. They have to be stopped, the Empire must be defended...
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 73
It will remain forever etched in my mind, an image more sad that my eyes had ever seen, his cloak lifted by the wind as he turns to ride away, the wolf-skin swaying on his shoulders, a glance back, and then the black darkness of this wind that engulfs the human figures like the jaws of a sea monster, the wind that rides over the plain like a runaway horse, which has the smell of dry herbs, the bitter scent of laurel.
I recognise this black wind, its black voice, I know I must expect something sad, something painful, but I cannot prevent whatever sadness and pain are coming to meet me. Yet I try to believe that everything, one day, will be as before, we'll be here together, that everything will resume from the point where time has stopped.
The night is the saddest time, more horrible, now, the nightmares that haunt me. I see him in the centre of his soldiers, in the heart of battle, in the midst of blood, wounded, chased like a wolf by hunters, about to be killed. I feel insane, I wake up, and the following night the torment begins again.
The only consolations in my misfortune are Didia, learning ever quicker to write, growing in intelligence and beauty, and Caesius, who’s here every day to give her Latin lessons. These are moments of peace, of distraction.
Every so often, I don’t know why, I get strange screeds on papyrus with short poems. Perhaps it’s still Euthycus who’s writing to me, but his writings are greatly changed, the sentences are jumbled, the concepts abstruse, a real nonsense. Caesius tells me he’d recognised that Euthycus is rather a strange character, a bit crazy, and he wrote a funny poem about him:
Lately he’s showing signs of madness,
poor Eu! A pity! He’s become
pale, dry as dust, lanky, the kind
that if you see you quickly run away!
The doctor told me, 'It's a lunacy
you cannot heal: he has set out
to be a poet, to be a man of letters -
that’s the worst thing that ever can befall! '
He says his talent was so great
it has upset his mind a bit,
due to the swelling of his brain ...
Poor Eu! If, rather than going mad,
he’d simply stayed a fool,
who knows what fame he’d have achieved!
Didia enjoys reading the weird verses of Caesius, where the actors are lions and rabbits, donkeys and monkeys, frogs and flies, foxes and crows, all wise, more so than men.
The best moments are when we leave the house to go to the market, to browse through the stalls of goods displayed by itinerant craftsmen, who travel from city to city, reporting the news from here or there. Often in the portico of the macellum (covered market) there are street artists who perform their funny comedies, the Atellan Farces, masked mimes, joking with the inquisitive young girls who stop to watch their antics.
Then there are the painters, who for a few asses (small coins) will paint portraits with a brush on a wooden board, that girls give to their loved ones. It’s a world that, with its liveliness, grants an interlude of distraction from the dull pain that now occupies my heart perpetually.
Caesius’s visits help me so much, I begin to feel an almost sisterly affection for him. He confides in me, so I try to find out something about him.
'Have you been married?'
'Yes. My wife is dead.'
I remain for a while in silence.
'What was her name?'
'Sabina.'
'And you loved her?'
I ask him.
'Of course!'
'She loved you?'
'Maybe yes.'
'How did she die?'
'She looked a bit like you, my wife. She also had quite a temper - like you, she was always arguing. We were married for three years. She was about to give birth to our son, but the child appeared feet-first, not his head, like Agrippa. This is what the name Agrippa means, aegre partus, 'born with difficulty', you know? I was sure it would be a baby boy. But the hours passed, it was June and Rome was very hot, like it is here, and despite the presence of a doctor and two midwives the baby was not moving. Then she began to lose blood. They came to me before evening. 'Caesius, you have to choose between your wife and your child!' I replied that I chose both, but they shook their heads and said that was impossible, so I said, of course, 'My wife.' I went to stay with her for a bit, she felt weak, but didn’t agree, she wanted the child to be saved!
They had a large pair of shears, like those used by gardeners, you know. And a knife. And a hook. They cut off one leg, then the other. Then with a knife they broke the body in pieces, and they used the hook to pull out the skull. But Sabina’s bleeding didn’t stop, and the next morning she died. Poor Sabina, how she must have suffered!'
Every human being carries secretly in their heart a whole world of death.
It will remain forever etched in my mind, an image more sad that my eyes had ever seen, his cloak lifted by the wind as he turns to ride away, the wolf-skin swaying on his shoulders, a glance back, and then the black darkness of this wind that engulfs the human figures like the jaws of a sea monster, the wind that rides over the plain like a runaway horse, which has the smell of dry herbs, the bitter scent of laurel.
I recognise this black wind, its black voice, I know I must expect something sad, something painful, but I cannot prevent whatever sadness and pain are coming to meet me. Yet I try to believe that everything, one day, will be as before, we'll be here together, that everything will resume from the point where time has stopped.
The night is the saddest time, more horrible, now, the nightmares that haunt me. I see him in the centre of his soldiers, in the heart of battle, in the midst of blood, wounded, chased like a wolf by hunters, about to be killed. I feel insane, I wake up, and the following night the torment begins again.
The only consolations in my misfortune are Didia, learning ever quicker to write, growing in intelligence and beauty, and Caesius, who’s here every day to give her Latin lessons. These are moments of peace, of distraction.
Every so often, I don’t know why, I get strange screeds on papyrus with short poems. Perhaps it’s still Euthycus who’s writing to me, but his writings are greatly changed, the sentences are jumbled, the concepts abstruse, a real nonsense. Caesius tells me he’d recognised that Euthycus is rather a strange character, a bit crazy, and he wrote a funny poem about him:
Lately he’s showing signs of madness,
poor Eu! A pity! He’s become
pale, dry as dust, lanky, the kind
that if you see you quickly run away!
The doctor told me, 'It's a lunacy
you cannot heal: he has set out
to be a poet, to be a man of letters -
that’s the worst thing that ever can befall! '
He says his talent was so great
it has upset his mind a bit,
due to the swelling of his brain ...
Poor Eu! If, rather than going mad,
he’d simply stayed a fool,
who knows what fame he’d have achieved!
Didia enjoys reading the weird verses of Caesius, where the actors are lions and rabbits, donkeys and monkeys, frogs and flies, foxes and crows, all wise, more so than men.
The best moments are when we leave the house to go to the market, to browse through the stalls of goods displayed by itinerant craftsmen, who travel from city to city, reporting the news from here or there. Often in the portico of the macellum (covered market) there are street artists who perform their funny comedies, the Atellan Farces, masked mimes, joking with the inquisitive young girls who stop to watch their antics.
Then there are the painters, who for a few asses (small coins) will paint portraits with a brush on a wooden board, that girls give to their loved ones. It’s a world that, with its liveliness, grants an interlude of distraction from the dull pain that now occupies my heart perpetually.
Caesius’s visits help me so much, I begin to feel an almost sisterly affection for him. He confides in me, so I try to find out something about him.
'Have you been married?'
'Yes. My wife is dead.'
I remain for a while in silence.
'What was her name?'
'Sabina.'
'And you loved her?'
I ask him.
'Of course!'
'She loved you?'
'Maybe yes.'
'How did she die?'
'She looked a bit like you, my wife. She also had quite a temper - like you, she was always arguing. We were married for three years. She was about to give birth to our son, but the child appeared feet-first, not his head, like Agrippa. This is what the name Agrippa means, aegre partus, 'born with difficulty', you know? I was sure it would be a baby boy. But the hours passed, it was June and Rome was very hot, like it is here, and despite the presence of a doctor and two midwives the baby was not moving. Then she began to lose blood. They came to me before evening. 'Caesius, you have to choose between your wife and your child!' I replied that I chose both, but they shook their heads and said that was impossible, so I said, of course, 'My wife.' I went to stay with her for a bit, she felt weak, but didn’t agree, she wanted the child to be saved!
They had a large pair of shears, like those used by gardeners, you know. And a knife. And a hook. They cut off one leg, then the other. Then with a knife they broke the body in pieces, and they used the hook to pull out the skull. But Sabina’s bleeding didn’t stop, and the next morning she died. Poor Sabina, how she must have suffered!'
Every human being carries secretly in their heart a whole world of death.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 74
I live now as a Penelope, even though I'm not yet married, ever waiting for his return, each clatter of hoofs on the stones of the street makes me wince. I have no more tears, I'm eaten up with loneliness, it's as if I've died even while I'm still alive.
Today Caesius has brought me a letter, it’s from the rich owner of a villa just outside the Herculanean Gate, his name is Diomede – it’s a proposal of marriage, he wants to marry me! He has followed me several times in the Forum without my noticing anything. He invites me to go and live in his home, which could become our home, as long as I accepted his proposal. There’s so much money in the house, I’d be ensured maximum security for a comfortable life.
I was there once, in the company of Caesius, who is his friend. The sun was almost at the zenith, it shone through the square opening in the ceiling of the atrium, the air was warm and sweet with the scent of roses. From where I stood, I could see almost the entire pool. The steps at the end nearest me were decorated with elaborate bronze statues: a boar, a snake rising from its coils, an Apollo playing his lyre. At the other end four women, each with her slavegirl standing behind, were lying on couches and waving their fans. When they saw me they turned the fans and peeped from behind them, and I heard their muffled giggles. From the humidity and the scent of oil I knew immediately that we were going to be conducted into the private baths of the house to meet the master.
This man is not completely devoid of sensitivity, even if he appears to be more interested in his business affairs than in the matters of the heart. His social position is quite good but he doesn’t display it willingly, for him power, real power, should be concealed and must work as an invisible force, moving the citizens according to his will like puppets. Everyone knows that he is in command in city, now that Lucius has moved to Rome. Popidius and Cuspius, Olconius and Brixius, they all know this, that’s why they regard him with the utmost respect.
He knows every stone of the city, every hole in the streets, every shop, every sewer, every lamp-post (another of his innovations). But not only does he know the buildings of Pompeii, he knows the people, the mysterious dynamics of the souls of the people, especially during the election. There are five constituencies - Forenses, Campanienses, Salinienses, Urbulanenses, Pagani - in each of these has an agent, and in all the guilds - the launderers, bakers, fishermen, perfumers, goldsmiths and all the others - there too he has his men...
And, in exchange for having paved the way to power for the imbeciles chosen by him, he receives those licences, those exemptions, those planning permissions and those judgments from the Basilica in his favour, that are the invisible currency of power.
For Diomede, this is the life - activity, money, profit. He fears nothing and nobody. And the best part is that he’s not as rich as everyone believes, not at all. He bought the villa (ten million sesterces, far too expensive but it had to be his at all costs!) by borrowing funds and pledging his own home, as well as raising a mortgage on baths that are now under construction but aren’t yet complete. Yet still he manages to grow his business by the force of his will, as well as his cunning and the credit he enjoys.
But I rebel against Caesius, who’s wanting to accompany me to visit Diomede again,
'I can’t go, don’t try and make me! I couldn’t bear to see him again, I cannot marry that man ... '
'Maybe the situation is not as bad as it appears to you now.'
I groan and cover my face with my hands.
'There are more cruel fates than marriage to a wealthy man. You could work in the fields and die at twenty. Or be a prostitute in a back-alley of Pompeii. Accept, learn to live with him. You’ll survive, you'll see.'
'I'd prefer to be a whore, I swear.'
'You're young, what do you know about how people live?'
'What I know is that I couldn’t live with someone I despise.'
My refusal has offended Caesius a little, for a few days he doesn’t show up. Now here he is holding a scroll, a letter, but he has a face like a funeral that fills me with horror...
'A letter from Lucius ...'
I break the seal,
'My dearest daughter ...'
A sword pierces my heart ...
I live now as a Penelope, even though I'm not yet married, ever waiting for his return, each clatter of hoofs on the stones of the street makes me wince. I have no more tears, I'm eaten up with loneliness, it's as if I've died even while I'm still alive.
Today Caesius has brought me a letter, it’s from the rich owner of a villa just outside the Herculanean Gate, his name is Diomede – it’s a proposal of marriage, he wants to marry me! He has followed me several times in the Forum without my noticing anything. He invites me to go and live in his home, which could become our home, as long as I accepted his proposal. There’s so much money in the house, I’d be ensured maximum security for a comfortable life.
I was there once, in the company of Caesius, who is his friend. The sun was almost at the zenith, it shone through the square opening in the ceiling of the atrium, the air was warm and sweet with the scent of roses. From where I stood, I could see almost the entire pool. The steps at the end nearest me were decorated with elaborate bronze statues: a boar, a snake rising from its coils, an Apollo playing his lyre. At the other end four women, each with her slavegirl standing behind, were lying on couches and waving their fans. When they saw me they turned the fans and peeped from behind them, and I heard their muffled giggles. From the humidity and the scent of oil I knew immediately that we were going to be conducted into the private baths of the house to meet the master.
This man is not completely devoid of sensitivity, even if he appears to be more interested in his business affairs than in the matters of the heart. His social position is quite good but he doesn’t display it willingly, for him power, real power, should be concealed and must work as an invisible force, moving the citizens according to his will like puppets. Everyone knows that he is in command in city, now that Lucius has moved to Rome. Popidius and Cuspius, Olconius and Brixius, they all know this, that’s why they regard him with the utmost respect.
He knows every stone of the city, every hole in the streets, every shop, every sewer, every lamp-post (another of his innovations). But not only does he know the buildings of Pompeii, he knows the people, the mysterious dynamics of the souls of the people, especially during the election. There are five constituencies - Forenses, Campanienses, Salinienses, Urbulanenses, Pagani - in each of these has an agent, and in all the guilds - the launderers, bakers, fishermen, perfumers, goldsmiths and all the others - there too he has his men...
And, in exchange for having paved the way to power for the imbeciles chosen by him, he receives those licences, those exemptions, those planning permissions and those judgments from the Basilica in his favour, that are the invisible currency of power.
For Diomede, this is the life - activity, money, profit. He fears nothing and nobody. And the best part is that he’s not as rich as everyone believes, not at all. He bought the villa (ten million sesterces, far too expensive but it had to be his at all costs!) by borrowing funds and pledging his own home, as well as raising a mortgage on baths that are now under construction but aren’t yet complete. Yet still he manages to grow his business by the force of his will, as well as his cunning and the credit he enjoys.
But I rebel against Caesius, who’s wanting to accompany me to visit Diomede again,
'I can’t go, don’t try and make me! I couldn’t bear to see him again, I cannot marry that man ... '
'Maybe the situation is not as bad as it appears to you now.'
I groan and cover my face with my hands.
'There are more cruel fates than marriage to a wealthy man. You could work in the fields and die at twenty. Or be a prostitute in a back-alley of Pompeii. Accept, learn to live with him. You’ll survive, you'll see.'
'I'd prefer to be a whore, I swear.'
'You're young, what do you know about how people live?'
'What I know is that I couldn’t live with someone I despise.'
My refusal has offended Caesius a little, for a few days he doesn’t show up. Now here he is holding a scroll, a letter, but he has a face like a funeral that fills me with horror...
'A letter from Lucius ...'
I break the seal,
'My dearest daughter ...'
A sword pierces my heart ...
Last edited:
RacingRodent
Consul
Why do I feel the police have just turned up on my doorstep and taken off their hats?
Powerful and alarming Luna
P
Pia
Guest
Wonderful words, truly they are!The power of words....
Especially yours, Luna!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 75
'Make way! Make way!'
cried Caesius, sweeping aside with a gesture the slavewomen who were flocking to see, making space for the slaves he was leading into the tablinum, looking around to see where the lifeless body can be laid.
'Here!'
he ordered, sweeping the few objects off the table with his arm, ignoring them falling onto the floor.
Just laid on the table, lifeless, dead, with one arm flopped at the left side, the other resting lightly on the left breast. Everything was cold and inert in the body except the eyes, sweet, half-closed eyes, the face calm, the lips smiling, the body gave to the scene an air of serenity, of peace.
Outside in the atrium was a group of slavewomen , close together, lamenting now with high-pitched screeching, now with hoarse moaning, all their faces turned towards the door, as if death itself might suddenly appear to those pale and frightened faces, faces made haggard with fear. They gradually calmed down, praying softly, invoking the mercy of the Gods, with a moan, a dull moan, like that of an injured dog.
Meanwhile other women had gathered now around the door, a crowd of females, all talking together, first softly, then louder and more hysterically, finally in a confusion of shouting, some covering their faces with both hands, some waving their arms, some beating their breasts with their clasped hands, uttering dark sounds, broken words.
At first one woman, then another, then another, white-faced, wet-eyed, panting like prey to uncontrollable emotion, approached the open doorway, entering in turn, approached the body, trying to caress the face, to touch a foot.
'Don’t be afraid, it won’t move – if you want to go, stay outside, but don’t be frightened!'
Caesius tried to calm this crowd of cultivated but still terrified women. There was a commotion in the atrium, the doctor came to the door, entered and picked up the lifeless, flopping arm, its pulse silenced. All around stared silently at the doctor’s face, awaiting his judgment, his decision, almost as if the question whether alive or already dead could be settled by a gesture, a word.
'She has reached Hades,'
he said at last.
At these words everyone started screaming, pulling their hair, beating their faces and chests with clenched fists, loudly calling out her name. Two elderly slavewomen threw themselves onto her poor body, kissing, embracing, shaking as if to wake her, shouting, 'Wake up, wake up!' Their cry was like the threatening howl of a desperate fury.
'Take her to her room!'
Caesius commanded the slaves, who removed the two old women from the tragic body, driving back the others who were trying to get close. Then they gently lifted, and very gently carried, her into the bedroom, and laid her on the wedding lace that covered the bed.
Æmidius’s wife motioned with her hand,
'Go, leave it to us, it’s women’s business.'
All departed.
Already the moon was spreading its light on the trees of the garden, on the glossy leaves of laurel. Far away on the horizon the island of Capri wa bathed in a delicate shade of purple, the sea-eddies were marbled, white here, green there, purple beyond, displaying in the clear night a sweet, pathetic look, the pallor that belongs to beauty.
Æmidius’s wife combed her long hair, and the other slavewomen helped dress her in her wedding robe of ivory-coloured silk. In the pale light of the moon, her skin took on the appearance of ancient marble. Her face, covered by a veil, light as a cloud, woven of fine gold threads, was serene, now illuminated by the golden light of candles reflected by the mirrors. The red background of the paintings on the walls with their heroic figures served as backdrop around my favorite nymph where she lay on her marriage bed, as tomorrow she will lie on her funeral pyre, and then she shall reach her beloved Fannius, her husband killed by a traitor as his shield parried an assault on his general, killed in defence of the Emperor, killed defending Rome.
All around were silent now, there was just a faint moan from little Didia, kneeling at her feet. The women who were waiting outside the door now entered, some making mysterious gestures, some crying or praying, others contemplating the body richly dressed in the lovely style of the deathbed, their sorrowful voices saying,
'Beautiful! So beautiful! '
and other faces appeared in the doorway, women, slavegirls, children, they all came, wringing their hands as they knelt as if before a holy statue,
'Beautiful! So beautiful! '
They were old ones with lighted candles, followed by women and young girls bringing flowers, then still others, youngest of all, their faces pale, their bare shoulders covered with shawls of dark colours, who surrounded the bed where she lay, and sang those ancient dirges with which people accompany their dead, crying and remembering the good things of life - the one and only good, love - evoking the happy days, the affectionate nights, the kisses, caresses, amorous tears, to take their leave on the threshold of the lower world. Dirges they were, but they seemed to be love songs, they were so soft with a warmth of sad, resigned sensuality.
'Miracle! Miracle! '
a shrill voice suddenly cried.
'Miracle! Miracle! '
everyone shouted back, almost fearing they might obstruct the wonderful event…
'Make way! Make way!'
cried Caesius, sweeping aside with a gesture the slavewomen who were flocking to see, making space for the slaves he was leading into the tablinum, looking around to see where the lifeless body can be laid.
'Here!'
he ordered, sweeping the few objects off the table with his arm, ignoring them falling onto the floor.
Just laid on the table, lifeless, dead, with one arm flopped at the left side, the other resting lightly on the left breast. Everything was cold and inert in the body except the eyes, sweet, half-closed eyes, the face calm, the lips smiling, the body gave to the scene an air of serenity, of peace.
Outside in the atrium was a group of slavewomen , close together, lamenting now with high-pitched screeching, now with hoarse moaning, all their faces turned towards the door, as if death itself might suddenly appear to those pale and frightened faces, faces made haggard with fear. They gradually calmed down, praying softly, invoking the mercy of the Gods, with a moan, a dull moan, like that of an injured dog.
Meanwhile other women had gathered now around the door, a crowd of females, all talking together, first softly, then louder and more hysterically, finally in a confusion of shouting, some covering their faces with both hands, some waving their arms, some beating their breasts with their clasped hands, uttering dark sounds, broken words.
At first one woman, then another, then another, white-faced, wet-eyed, panting like prey to uncontrollable emotion, approached the open doorway, entering in turn, approached the body, trying to caress the face, to touch a foot.
'Don’t be afraid, it won’t move – if you want to go, stay outside, but don’t be frightened!'
Caesius tried to calm this crowd of cultivated but still terrified women. There was a commotion in the atrium, the doctor came to the door, entered and picked up the lifeless, flopping arm, its pulse silenced. All around stared silently at the doctor’s face, awaiting his judgment, his decision, almost as if the question whether alive or already dead could be settled by a gesture, a word.
'She has reached Hades,'
he said at last.
At these words everyone started screaming, pulling their hair, beating their faces and chests with clenched fists, loudly calling out her name. Two elderly slavewomen threw themselves onto her poor body, kissing, embracing, shaking as if to wake her, shouting, 'Wake up, wake up!' Their cry was like the threatening howl of a desperate fury.
'Take her to her room!'
Caesius commanded the slaves, who removed the two old women from the tragic body, driving back the others who were trying to get close. Then they gently lifted, and very gently carried, her into the bedroom, and laid her on the wedding lace that covered the bed.
Æmidius’s wife motioned with her hand,
'Go, leave it to us, it’s women’s business.'
All departed.
Already the moon was spreading its light on the trees of the garden, on the glossy leaves of laurel. Far away on the horizon the island of Capri wa bathed in a delicate shade of purple, the sea-eddies were marbled, white here, green there, purple beyond, displaying in the clear night a sweet, pathetic look, the pallor that belongs to beauty.
Æmidius’s wife combed her long hair, and the other slavewomen helped dress her in her wedding robe of ivory-coloured silk. In the pale light of the moon, her skin took on the appearance of ancient marble. Her face, covered by a veil, light as a cloud, woven of fine gold threads, was serene, now illuminated by the golden light of candles reflected by the mirrors. The red background of the paintings on the walls with their heroic figures served as backdrop around my favorite nymph where she lay on her marriage bed, as tomorrow she will lie on her funeral pyre, and then she shall reach her beloved Fannius, her husband killed by a traitor as his shield parried an assault on his general, killed in defence of the Emperor, killed defending Rome.
All around were silent now, there was just a faint moan from little Didia, kneeling at her feet. The women who were waiting outside the door now entered, some making mysterious gestures, some crying or praying, others contemplating the body richly dressed in the lovely style of the deathbed, their sorrowful voices saying,
'Beautiful! So beautiful! '
and other faces appeared in the doorway, women, slavegirls, children, they all came, wringing their hands as they knelt as if before a holy statue,
'Beautiful! So beautiful! '
They were old ones with lighted candles, followed by women and young girls bringing flowers, then still others, youngest of all, their faces pale, their bare shoulders covered with shawls of dark colours, who surrounded the bed where she lay, and sang those ancient dirges with which people accompany their dead, crying and remembering the good things of life - the one and only good, love - evoking the happy days, the affectionate nights, the kisses, caresses, amorous tears, to take their leave on the threshold of the lower world. Dirges they were, but they seemed to be love songs, they were so soft with a warmth of sad, resigned sensuality.
'Miracle! Miracle! '
a shrill voice suddenly cried.
'Miracle! Miracle! '
everyone shouted back, almost fearing they might obstruct the wonderful event…
Wow Luna....beautifully written...it comes alive so well... love this description:
Already the moon was spreading its light on the trees of the garden, on the glossy leaves of laurel. Far away on the horizon the island of Capri was bathed in a delicate shade of purple, the sea-eddies were marbled, white here, green there, purple beyond, displaying in the clear night a sweet, pathetic look, the pallor that belongs to beauty.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Great help from Eulalia (and Malaparte)
P
Pia
Guest
i'm missing my regular dose of "Amica" !
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Thanks PK
Now I'm on line, in a few days new episodes of 'Amica'.