Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 97
Ninth hour (mid-afternoon).
The Pompeians flee, covering their heads with tables and bedding as a shower of stones begins to fall, frothy, off-white stones, like petrified sponges, not that heavy but they hurt if they hit you, and when they hit the ground they bounce like hailstones. And suddenly it gets dark, the air is pierced by something that strikes the poor girl being crucified on my right, it hits her on her shoulder and bounces on the pavement, a fiery stone as big as a fist. Another hits the opposite arm of my cross, it’s like being in the middle of a hailstorm, a hailstorm that is hot and dark, something of an unimaginable kind, but one that soon passes.
A character I recognize well wanders by, looking dazed at the obscene spectacle surrounding him - Diomede, who wanted to marry me! He’s been hit repeatedly on his head and shoulders by the shower of stones, now he’s leaning against the shaft of a column alongside the Curia. He feels his face is wet, and when he lifts his hand to his nose he finds that the back is covered in blood. He starts to stagger along the lower Via Decumana, hugging the high walls of the Basilica, towards the Porta Marina. I watch him go with a tinge of emotion, perhaps even regret.
A big mastiff is prowling among the crosses, sniffing at the foot of each one. He’s limping along, then he stops, round his neck there’s a frayed rope, the end’s dragging on the ground. He’s been injured, he’s bleeding. He raises his head and looks at me sadly, leaning it a little to one side.
'Moloch Moloch! What have they done? Don’t stay here! Run away! At least you can save yourself! We’re all going to die here! Can’t you see the fury of the mountain? '
He yelps, whines anxiously, he seems to want to call me, he seems to want to tell me to get off this horrible wooden thing. He heads off towards the sea, then immediately turns back, surprised that I don’t want to follow, he’s moving his body as if to suggest I rip myself from the cross, he barks encouragingly then stands motionless, watching.
After yet another violent earthquake and the roar of the mountain that follows, convinced that I no longer want to follow him, he lopes off towards the sea, but stops once again, then, more hot stones begin to fall, he runs away, I feel the tears on my cheeks.
The fleeing crowd, who’ve sought temporary shelter under the porticos of the Forum, resumes their stampede, terrified people with their hair on end, beards matted, gesturing madly, wild-eyed, mouths aghast, I even hear the hoarse gasps erupting from their chests, they proceed like blind men, groping their way along.
From all the windows, naked folk are leaning waving their arms, calling to the others with loud cries and shrill shrieks, and those fleeing along the streets raise their faces, yelling and crying too, without pausing in their hasty escape. From all sides come people who look wretched and wild, dressed in rags, some completely naked, carrying rush-lamps, kneeling on the pavement loudly invoking the help of the gods, beating their chests and rending their faces with frantic scratching, pouring out tears of terror.
The appearance of the sea, visible beyond the Marine Gate at the bottom of the street in front of my gallows, is perhaps the most horrible sight in the world. As far as the eye can see, it seems to have a hard, livid crust, all pockmarked with holes like the symptoms of some monstrous plague.
Under that hideous crust one can imagine the power of an extraordinary force, a barely restrained fury, it’s as if the sea is going to rise up from the bottom and break its hard, tortoise-like shell, to pour out across the earth and discharge its horrendous fury.
Offshore from Herculaneum, Oplontis and the harbour of Pompeii I can see boats hurrying out to sea, heading straight into danger with only the desperate help of oars, for the wind is blowing offshore with such violence their sails just collapse like dead birds, and other boats are hastening from Surrentum, Stabia and Capreae to bring relief to the unfortunate inhabitants of the regions close to the fury of the fire.
Torrents of mud slither slowly down from the flanks of Vesuvius, wrapping themselves around like black snakes, and where these torrents of mud meet rivers of lava, high clouds of purple steam arise, and a horrible hissing reaches Pompeii, like the sizzling of red-hot iron in water.
Ninth hour (mid-afternoon).
The Pompeians flee, covering their heads with tables and bedding as a shower of stones begins to fall, frothy, off-white stones, like petrified sponges, not that heavy but they hurt if they hit you, and when they hit the ground they bounce like hailstones. And suddenly it gets dark, the air is pierced by something that strikes the poor girl being crucified on my right, it hits her on her shoulder and bounces on the pavement, a fiery stone as big as a fist. Another hits the opposite arm of my cross, it’s like being in the middle of a hailstorm, a hailstorm that is hot and dark, something of an unimaginable kind, but one that soon passes.
A character I recognize well wanders by, looking dazed at the obscene spectacle surrounding him - Diomede, who wanted to marry me! He’s been hit repeatedly on his head and shoulders by the shower of stones, now he’s leaning against the shaft of a column alongside the Curia. He feels his face is wet, and when he lifts his hand to his nose he finds that the back is covered in blood. He starts to stagger along the lower Via Decumana, hugging the high walls of the Basilica, towards the Porta Marina. I watch him go with a tinge of emotion, perhaps even regret.
A big mastiff is prowling among the crosses, sniffing at the foot of each one. He’s limping along, then he stops, round his neck there’s a frayed rope, the end’s dragging on the ground. He’s been injured, he’s bleeding. He raises his head and looks at me sadly, leaning it a little to one side.
'Moloch Moloch! What have they done? Don’t stay here! Run away! At least you can save yourself! We’re all going to die here! Can’t you see the fury of the mountain? '
He yelps, whines anxiously, he seems to want to call me, he seems to want to tell me to get off this horrible wooden thing. He heads off towards the sea, then immediately turns back, surprised that I don’t want to follow, he’s moving his body as if to suggest I rip myself from the cross, he barks encouragingly then stands motionless, watching.
After yet another violent earthquake and the roar of the mountain that follows, convinced that I no longer want to follow him, he lopes off towards the sea, but stops once again, then, more hot stones begin to fall, he runs away, I feel the tears on my cheeks.
The fleeing crowd, who’ve sought temporary shelter under the porticos of the Forum, resumes their stampede, terrified people with their hair on end, beards matted, gesturing madly, wild-eyed, mouths aghast, I even hear the hoarse gasps erupting from their chests, they proceed like blind men, groping their way along.
From all the windows, naked folk are leaning waving their arms, calling to the others with loud cries and shrill shrieks, and those fleeing along the streets raise their faces, yelling and crying too, without pausing in their hasty escape. From all sides come people who look wretched and wild, dressed in rags, some completely naked, carrying rush-lamps, kneeling on the pavement loudly invoking the help of the gods, beating their chests and rending their faces with frantic scratching, pouring out tears of terror.
The appearance of the sea, visible beyond the Marine Gate at the bottom of the street in front of my gallows, is perhaps the most horrible sight in the world. As far as the eye can see, it seems to have a hard, livid crust, all pockmarked with holes like the symptoms of some monstrous plague.
Under that hideous crust one can imagine the power of an extraordinary force, a barely restrained fury, it’s as if the sea is going to rise up from the bottom and break its hard, tortoise-like shell, to pour out across the earth and discharge its horrendous fury.
Offshore from Herculaneum, Oplontis and the harbour of Pompeii I can see boats hurrying out to sea, heading straight into danger with only the desperate help of oars, for the wind is blowing offshore with such violence their sails just collapse like dead birds, and other boats are hastening from Surrentum, Stabia and Capreae to bring relief to the unfortunate inhabitants of the regions close to the fury of the fire.
Torrents of mud slither slowly down from the flanks of Vesuvius, wrapping themselves around like black snakes, and where these torrents of mud meet rivers of lava, high clouds of purple steam arise, and a horrible hissing reaches Pompeii, like the sizzling of red-hot iron in water.
