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Amica
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Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 98
Vespera (evening)
A shaft of late sunlight crosses the horizon from the west, it’s almost invisible, a huge black cloud of ash and fiery particles swells like a burst of squid’s ink, drifting lazily from the summit of Vesuvius, driven by the wind that’s blowing from the north, it drags slowly across the sky toward Pompeii and Stabiae. The roar of the black puffy cloud of lava rolling over the sky is like the creaking of a cart loaded with stones, one that’s about to tip out its load onto the road.
Every so often there’s a rip in the cloud, it spills out a flood of lava onto the earth and the sea, it falls on the fields and the hard crust over the waves with the sound of a wagon-load of stones emptying out its cargo, as the fragments touch the soil and the hard crust of the sea, clouds of red dust arise to spread across the sky, obscuring the stars. Vesuvius shrieks horribly in the ruddy twilight that heralds a dreadful night, a desperate cry rises from the doomed city.
The narrow streets of the ancient city are struck by a fury of vermilion light, where the last fugitives, old folk, almost naked, their limbs fleshless and pallid, grope along holding onto the walls, their faces wrapped in white hair ruffled by the wind of terror. They proceed shouting mutilated words that are perhaps magical imprecations, or exhortations to repent, to confess their sins aloud, to prepare for death.
A crowd of plebeian Christians, their faces contorted in fury, come running, shoulder to shoulder like warriors attacking a fortress, screaming, gesticulating and weeping at the windows as they pass, hurling obscene insults and threats, urging repentance of the common infamy, for the Day of Judgement has finally arrived, and the punishment of their God will spare neither women nor old folk nor children.
To these insults and threats people respond from the windows with shrill accusations, atrocious insults and villainous cursing, from the street the crowd echoes with groans and cries, waving their fists to the sky and sobbing horribly. At length the mob bursts into brothels, and emerge dragging naked whores by their hair, and black soldiers, bleeding and terrified, to behold the sky in flames, clouds of grit hanging above the sea, and Vesuvius wrapped in its ghastly shroud of fire, they’re humiliated and terrified. This attack on the brothels is accompanied by ones on the cook-shops and slaughterhouses.
The crowd grows greater with every step, and more furious from the most distant parts of the city people are gravitating to gather in those places which, from the earliest times, have been considered holy.
The turmoil is immense, it’s now becoming a riot. Roman soldiers, caught up in a crowd that’s driving them here and there in its rampage, turn on them and beat them, like in a hellish battle – they too seem to be conquered by fear and ancient fury, their faces disfigured with sweat and ash, their clothes in tatters, their armour shaking loose. Now they are humiliated too, no longer proud men, no longer conquering heroes, but miserable losers, at the mercy of the blind fury of nature, likewise incinerated to the depths of their souls by the fire that is burning up the sky and the earth.
From time to time a dull, muffled rumbling from the mysterious depths of the earth shakes the pavement under our crosses, startling us girls. A hoarse, deep, gurgling voice comes from the wells and the mouths of the sewers, the fountains are blowing out sulphurous fumes or throwing up jets of boiling mud. It’s that subterranean roar, that deep voice, with the boiling mud, that have driven out of the bowels of the earth the miserable mob of Christians, who to escape the ruthless persecution during these painful years have lurked in the labyrinth, living underground.
The rising of these ragged crowds from their living tomb is a ghastly apparition, a sure sign of serious and imminent danger. Neither hunger nor plague nor the earthquakes, that the pagans say ruined palaces and hovels yet respected the caves and tunnels under the foundations of Vesuvius, could achieve what these rivers of boiling mud are doing, malignant Vesuvius is driving these poor people out of the sewers like rats.
These crowds emerging everywhere from underground like the vile volcanic mud, rush like a raging torrent in spate down towards the lower parts of the city, with fighting and screaming, tears and curses, howls of terror and sudden panic, fierce fighting around a tavern, at a fountain, by a cook-shop, everywhere a horrible tumult.
From burning Vesuvius, rivers of lava meander down its sides, over villages in flames. The glare of the huge fire spreads to the island of Capraea, as far as the horizon, and to the mountains of Cisalentum (Cilento), already white with snow. The crowd falls to its knees at the sight of the sea, now covered all over with a horrible skin of mottled green and yellow like that of a decomposing reptile, with high-pitched wails, with bestial screams and curses, with frantic cries for help from heaven.
Many of them are thrown into the waves, hoping to walk on them they are miserably drowned, urged on by the curses and terrible rage of the angry, jealous mob. And there, in front, all wrapped up in his purple robe and flames, reappears Vesuvius, a ghostly Caesar seated on his throne of lava and ash, splitting the sky with his flame-crowned brow, roaring horrendously.
The tree of fire rising out of his throat spreads into the heavenly dome, the sky, disappearing into the supernal abyss. Rivers of blood flow from his red gaping maw, and the earth, sky and sea all tremble with terror. The crowded that fill the city squares have flat, shining faces, cracked white with black shadows, something implacable, of coldness and cruelty, is in those wide open, staring eyes, in those intent faces, like in the facades of the houses, like in objects, even in gestures.
Vespera (evening)
A shaft of late sunlight crosses the horizon from the west, it’s almost invisible, a huge black cloud of ash and fiery particles swells like a burst of squid’s ink, drifting lazily from the summit of Vesuvius, driven by the wind that’s blowing from the north, it drags slowly across the sky toward Pompeii and Stabiae. The roar of the black puffy cloud of lava rolling over the sky is like the creaking of a cart loaded with stones, one that’s about to tip out its load onto the road.
Every so often there’s a rip in the cloud, it spills out a flood of lava onto the earth and the sea, it falls on the fields and the hard crust over the waves with the sound of a wagon-load of stones emptying out its cargo, as the fragments touch the soil and the hard crust of the sea, clouds of red dust arise to spread across the sky, obscuring the stars. Vesuvius shrieks horribly in the ruddy twilight that heralds a dreadful night, a desperate cry rises from the doomed city.
The narrow streets of the ancient city are struck by a fury of vermilion light, where the last fugitives, old folk, almost naked, their limbs fleshless and pallid, grope along holding onto the walls, their faces wrapped in white hair ruffled by the wind of terror. They proceed shouting mutilated words that are perhaps magical imprecations, or exhortations to repent, to confess their sins aloud, to prepare for death.
A crowd of plebeian Christians, their faces contorted in fury, come running, shoulder to shoulder like warriors attacking a fortress, screaming, gesticulating and weeping at the windows as they pass, hurling obscene insults and threats, urging repentance of the common infamy, for the Day of Judgement has finally arrived, and the punishment of their God will spare neither women nor old folk nor children.
To these insults and threats people respond from the windows with shrill accusations, atrocious insults and villainous cursing, from the street the crowd echoes with groans and cries, waving their fists to the sky and sobbing horribly. At length the mob bursts into brothels, and emerge dragging naked whores by their hair, and black soldiers, bleeding and terrified, to behold the sky in flames, clouds of grit hanging above the sea, and Vesuvius wrapped in its ghastly shroud of fire, they’re humiliated and terrified. This attack on the brothels is accompanied by ones on the cook-shops and slaughterhouses.
The crowd grows greater with every step, and more furious from the most distant parts of the city people are gravitating to gather in those places which, from the earliest times, have been considered holy.
The turmoil is immense, it’s now becoming a riot. Roman soldiers, caught up in a crowd that’s driving them here and there in its rampage, turn on them and beat them, like in a hellish battle – they too seem to be conquered by fear and ancient fury, their faces disfigured with sweat and ash, their clothes in tatters, their armour shaking loose. Now they are humiliated too, no longer proud men, no longer conquering heroes, but miserable losers, at the mercy of the blind fury of nature, likewise incinerated to the depths of their souls by the fire that is burning up the sky and the earth.
From time to time a dull, muffled rumbling from the mysterious depths of the earth shakes the pavement under our crosses, startling us girls. A hoarse, deep, gurgling voice comes from the wells and the mouths of the sewers, the fountains are blowing out sulphurous fumes or throwing up jets of boiling mud. It’s that subterranean roar, that deep voice, with the boiling mud, that have driven out of the bowels of the earth the miserable mob of Christians, who to escape the ruthless persecution during these painful years have lurked in the labyrinth, living underground.
The rising of these ragged crowds from their living tomb is a ghastly apparition, a sure sign of serious and imminent danger. Neither hunger nor plague nor the earthquakes, that the pagans say ruined palaces and hovels yet respected the caves and tunnels under the foundations of Vesuvius, could achieve what these rivers of boiling mud are doing, malignant Vesuvius is driving these poor people out of the sewers like rats.
These crowds emerging everywhere from underground like the vile volcanic mud, rush like a raging torrent in spate down towards the lower parts of the city, with fighting and screaming, tears and curses, howls of terror and sudden panic, fierce fighting around a tavern, at a fountain, by a cook-shop, everywhere a horrible tumult.
From burning Vesuvius, rivers of lava meander down its sides, over villages in flames. The glare of the huge fire spreads to the island of Capraea, as far as the horizon, and to the mountains of Cisalentum (Cilento), already white with snow. The crowd falls to its knees at the sight of the sea, now covered all over with a horrible skin of mottled green and yellow like that of a decomposing reptile, with high-pitched wails, with bestial screams and curses, with frantic cries for help from heaven.
Many of them are thrown into the waves, hoping to walk on them they are miserably drowned, urged on by the curses and terrible rage of the angry, jealous mob. And there, in front, all wrapped up in his purple robe and flames, reappears Vesuvius, a ghostly Caesar seated on his throne of lava and ash, splitting the sky with his flame-crowned brow, roaring horrendously.
The tree of fire rising out of his throat spreads into the heavenly dome, the sky, disappearing into the supernal abyss. Rivers of blood flow from his red gaping maw, and the earth, sky and sea all tremble with terror. The crowded that fill the city squares have flat, shining faces, cracked white with black shadows, something implacable, of coldness and cruelty, is in those wide open, staring eyes, in those intent faces, like in the facades of the houses, like in objects, even in gestures.
Last edited by a moderator:
Give Luna the prize!
No one will ever write a more spectacular crux scene!
Look at this:
"Vesuvius, a ghostly Caesar seated on his throne of lava and ash, splitting the sky with his flame-crowned brow, roaring horrendously."
You won't see writing like this every day!
No one will ever write a more spectacular crux scene!
Look at this:
"Vesuvius, a ghostly Caesar seated on his throne of lava and ash, splitting the sky with his flame-crowned brow, roaring horrendously."
You won't see writing like this every day!
'That ain't a volcano! This is' Gunner says.
Picture deleted by Ulrika... Tree needs to get over it...
Tree
Picture deleted by Ulrika... Tree needs to get over it...
Tree
Naraku
Draconarius
Not to detract from Velut Luna's brilliant writing, but, the historian in me demands that I raise a few points.
First: there was no lava flow during the 79CE eruption. Pliny the Younger reported seeing fires on the side of the mountain, but these were likely orchards & vineyards & related structures ignited by the smaller pyroclastic flows - out pourings of superheated gas & ash - that preceded the main eruption & the massive pyroclastic flow that buried Pompeii & Herculaneum.
Second: although the date of August 24 has always been accepted, recent studies suggest the eruption actually occurred around October 24. Among the evidence are meteorological studies of the a wind pattern for the distribution of the ash, a coin that was likely minted in September 79 & the fact that victims were dressed more heavily than would be normal for late summer. The August date may have resulted from a copyist error that was just constantly repeated.
Anyway, Luna's epic is a work of fiction & poetic license is allowed. Her account is certainly no less accurate than Bulwar-Lytton's...and much more entertaining.
First: there was no lava flow during the 79CE eruption. Pliny the Younger reported seeing fires on the side of the mountain, but these were likely orchards & vineyards & related structures ignited by the smaller pyroclastic flows - out pourings of superheated gas & ash - that preceded the main eruption & the massive pyroclastic flow that buried Pompeii & Herculaneum.
Second: although the date of August 24 has always been accepted, recent studies suggest the eruption actually occurred around October 24. Among the evidence are meteorological studies of the a wind pattern for the distribution of the ash, a coin that was likely minted in September 79 & the fact that victims were dressed more heavily than would be normal for late summer. The August date may have resulted from a copyist error that was just constantly repeated.
Anyway, Luna's epic is a work of fiction & poetic license is allowed. Her account is certainly no less accurate than Bulwar-Lytton's...and much more entertaining.
It might have been global warming that caused Pompeii to be so cool...Not to detract from Velut Luna's brilliant writing, but, the historian in me demands that I raise a few points.
First: there was no lava flow during the 79CE eruption. Pliny the Younger reported seeing fires on the side of the mountain, but these were likely orchards & vineyards & related structures ignited by the smaller pyroclastic flows - out pourings of superheated gas & ash - that preceded the main eruption & the massive pyroclastic flow that buried Pompeii & Herculaneum.
Second: although the date of August 24 has always been accepted, recent studies suggest the eruption actually occurred around October 24. Among the evidence are meteorological studies of the a wind pattern for the distribution of the ash, a coin that was likely minted in September 79 & the fact that victims were dressed more heavily than would be normal for late summer. The August date may have resulted from a copyist error that was just constantly repeated.
Anyway, Luna's epic is a work of fiction & poetic license is allowed. Her account is certainly no less accurate than Bulwar-Lytton's...and much more entertaining.
only speculating of course...
Tree
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Not to detract from Velut Luna's brilliant writing, but, the historian in me demands that I raise a few points.
First: there was no lava flow during the 79CE eruption. Pliny the Younger reported seeing fires on the side of the mountain, but these were likely orchards & vineyards & related structures ignited by the smaller pyroclastic flows - out pourings of superheated gas & ash - that preceded the main eruption & the massive pyroclastic flow that buried Pompeii & Herculaneum.
Second: although the date of August 24 has always been accepted, recent studies suggest the eruption actually occurred around October 24. Among the evidence are meteorological studies of the a wind pattern for the distribution of the ash, a coin that was likely minted in September 79 & the fact that victims were dressed more heavily than would be normal for late summer. The August date may have resulted from a copyist error that was just constantly repeated.
Anyway, Luna's epic is a work of fiction & poetic license is allowed. Her account is certainly no less accurate than Bulwar-Lytton's...and much more entertaining.
Yes Naraku, all you are saying it's all right!
I will explain all this, and more, in a post as appendix at the end of the story!
As for the lava, you have never seen an eruption without lava?
How could I not put a little of lava to describe the eruption ??? 
Thanks for your comment!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 99
Diluculum (dawn)
All through the night the glow of the fire strikes the walls, turning the gilded friezes and cornices of temples to blood against the dark, purplish sky, throwing into contrast the red-mortared edges of their roofs with a hallucinatory effect.
Crowds of people stream down to the sea, coming out from a hundred alleyways that lead into the Forum from all sides, walking with their faces turned up. The black clouds, swollen with fiery fragments, roll across the sky above the sea, hot stones streak through the murky air, screeching like comets, a terrible clamour arises from the square.
Every now and again a deep silence falls on the crowd, broken occasionally by a moan, a scream, a sudden shout, a lonely cry that dies at once without echo, like a cry on the summit of a bare mountain. There, at the bottom of Via Marina, hordes of Roman soldiers are forcing against the fences that enclose the harbour, trying to break the thick iron bars.
On ships, on the quays and along the waterside, squadrons of armed sailors have formed up in great haste, there’s a fierce light illuminating the docks and the gangways, packed with crowds of sailors and soldiers, crazed with fear, attempting to board the ships to seek safety from the wrath of Vesuvius.
Here and there, lost in the crowd, Roman soldiers, legionaries from all over the Empire, wander dazed and bewildered, weeping women clinging to their arms. They try to make their way through the crowd, it seems they’ve carried off these women, and are now themselves being carried away by the current, stupefied by the cruelty and strangeness of this immense scourge.
Black-skinned soldiers, almost naked, as if they’d found their ancient forest in the crowd, drift in the tumult, their nostrils dilated and red, their round white eyes protruding from their black faces. They’re surrounded by herds of prostitutes too, half-naked or wrapped in the sacred trappings of yellow silk, green and scarlet of their brothels. Some chant their litanies, others cry out mysterious words in shrill voices, others invoke the names of their gods, gesticulating with their arms above that sea of heads and twisted faces.
A greenish darkness envelops the funeral cortege, and now a shower of hot mud keeps on whipping my face, while Vesuvius growls menacingly, spewing out high fountains of red-hot stones which fall to earth with a great clatter - but the mountain has not yet finished!
I hear a woman shout and raise my eyes. Far away in the sky, weird and shapeless, but gradually more and more distinct, I see a ring of fire, of light travelling slowly down from right to left, a crescent of bright cloud that seems to be crawling along the western flank of Vesuvius, leaving in its wake a trail of arson. Some of these outbreaks are simply dots of fire, isolated and intermittent, burning houses or farms, but elsewhere whole swathes of forest are alight.
Layers of red and orange flames, bright and darting, tear holes into the ragged darkness. The fiery crescent proceeds relentlessly for a time, at least long enough to count to a hundred, and then, after a last feeble outburst, it fades away. There is something strangely sinister about this silent crown in motion, its mysterious appearance, its enigmatic death, it was born from the entrails of the mountain, it rolled down to the sea and there it drowned.
'Difficult to be sure from here,'
observes a Samnite legionary,
'but judging from the position I’d say the cloud of fire is right above Herculaneum.'
‘But I wouldn’t say it’s in flames. That part of the coast seems drowned in darkness, it’s as if the city’s disappeared,'
points out a second soldier.
Both of them gaze towards the base of the burning mountain, looking for some glimmer of light, but they see nothing.
This phenomenon has the effect of shifting the balance of terror in the crowd, first one way and then another. All soon sniff the smell of burning carried on the wind, a pungent stench of sulphur and burning coal.
All this goes on for several hours. At one point the sickle of light shines again over the tumbled top of Vesuvius, and follows much the same path downward as before. This time, however, it is brighter, and when it reaches the shore it does not die immediately but rolls away before it weakens and is swallowed by the darkness. But this time it seems to put out the fires on the ridges of the mountain instead of reviving them, even the shower of stones diminishes.
Someone shouts that we’ll soon all be dead, burned alive. Many are sobbing, and, as ever in a time of great and desperate danger, a sacred painting, or the faint glow of a candle in a shrine, suddenly brings to mind to mind the memory of a faith so long neglected, and rekindles hopes, regrets, fears and faith, long denied or forgotten, in the Gods, and the man who has forgotten his Gods stops, amazed, moved, contemplating the sacred images, and his heart trembles, all ablaze with love. So it happens now to these soldiers, who stop suddenly in front of a small altar of domestic deities and cover their faces with their hands, reciting litanies - and in answer comes the cheep of birds, a faint flapping of wings, a rustle like fledglings in a nest. One of the legionaries jumps back scared – some poor little birds have taken refuge in this votive shrine, little sparrows with ruffled feathers and bright round eyes under the white lids, they’re hiding as if in their nest, huddled together, quivering among the statuettes.
Someone behind the Legionary comes up to him, grabbing his arm.
'Have you seen my wife?'
The man has a small oil lamp and is holding one hand cupped in front of the flame to protect it. He is young, handsome and absurdly immaculate, as if he were out for a walk before breakfast, holding his lantern with manicured hands.
'I'm sorry ...'
'Julia Felix. You must know her, everybody knows her!'
Undoubtedly she’s a well-known whore that’s been keeping her 'husband' in luxury with the proceeds of her trade. His voice is trembling.
'Has anyone seen Julia Felix?'
he shouts again.
‘She’s not been past here,'
someone responds.
The young man moans and staggers off in the direction of the Marine Gate.
'Julia! Julia! '
His voice becomes increasingly faint as the flame of his lamp disappears into the darkness.
'Julia ...!'
'What is this area?'
asks someone who’s just arrived, raising his voice.
'It’s the Forum.'
replies the one who had spoken earlier.
'So is this the road that leads to the Marine Gate?'
'Don’t tell him!'
hisses another voice,
'It’s a stranger, he’s come to rob us.'
Other men are approaching with torches.
'Thieves!'
screams a woman.
'Our things we’ve left unattended! Thieves! '
Some shake their fists, others curse, and suddenly this small illuminated area at the foot of my cross becomes a tangle of shadows and waving torches. A man curses the gods and crashes his torch into the face of a woman, setting her hair on fire. He turns and runs away, pursued by the screams of the woman, to escape from the brawl that’s now attracting people from all the side streets. Men and women emerge from the darkness, shadows out of the shadows, and are quick to throw themselves into the scuffle.
Madness. An entire city has gone mad!
A spectral glow filters from the east, from under the immense cloud above us, making even more dreadful this tragic herald of sunrise.
Diluculum (dawn)
All through the night the glow of the fire strikes the walls, turning the gilded friezes and cornices of temples to blood against the dark, purplish sky, throwing into contrast the red-mortared edges of their roofs with a hallucinatory effect.
Crowds of people stream down to the sea, coming out from a hundred alleyways that lead into the Forum from all sides, walking with their faces turned up. The black clouds, swollen with fiery fragments, roll across the sky above the sea, hot stones streak through the murky air, screeching like comets, a terrible clamour arises from the square.
Every now and again a deep silence falls on the crowd, broken occasionally by a moan, a scream, a sudden shout, a lonely cry that dies at once without echo, like a cry on the summit of a bare mountain. There, at the bottom of Via Marina, hordes of Roman soldiers are forcing against the fences that enclose the harbour, trying to break the thick iron bars.
On ships, on the quays and along the waterside, squadrons of armed sailors have formed up in great haste, there’s a fierce light illuminating the docks and the gangways, packed with crowds of sailors and soldiers, crazed with fear, attempting to board the ships to seek safety from the wrath of Vesuvius.
Here and there, lost in the crowd, Roman soldiers, legionaries from all over the Empire, wander dazed and bewildered, weeping women clinging to their arms. They try to make their way through the crowd, it seems they’ve carried off these women, and are now themselves being carried away by the current, stupefied by the cruelty and strangeness of this immense scourge.
Black-skinned soldiers, almost naked, as if they’d found their ancient forest in the crowd, drift in the tumult, their nostrils dilated and red, their round white eyes protruding from their black faces. They’re surrounded by herds of prostitutes too, half-naked or wrapped in the sacred trappings of yellow silk, green and scarlet of their brothels. Some chant their litanies, others cry out mysterious words in shrill voices, others invoke the names of their gods, gesticulating with their arms above that sea of heads and twisted faces.
A greenish darkness envelops the funeral cortege, and now a shower of hot mud keeps on whipping my face, while Vesuvius growls menacingly, spewing out high fountains of red-hot stones which fall to earth with a great clatter - but the mountain has not yet finished!
I hear a woman shout and raise my eyes. Far away in the sky, weird and shapeless, but gradually more and more distinct, I see a ring of fire, of light travelling slowly down from right to left, a crescent of bright cloud that seems to be crawling along the western flank of Vesuvius, leaving in its wake a trail of arson. Some of these outbreaks are simply dots of fire, isolated and intermittent, burning houses or farms, but elsewhere whole swathes of forest are alight.
Layers of red and orange flames, bright and darting, tear holes into the ragged darkness. The fiery crescent proceeds relentlessly for a time, at least long enough to count to a hundred, and then, after a last feeble outburst, it fades away. There is something strangely sinister about this silent crown in motion, its mysterious appearance, its enigmatic death, it was born from the entrails of the mountain, it rolled down to the sea and there it drowned.
'Difficult to be sure from here,'
observes a Samnite legionary,
'but judging from the position I’d say the cloud of fire is right above Herculaneum.'
‘But I wouldn’t say it’s in flames. That part of the coast seems drowned in darkness, it’s as if the city’s disappeared,'
points out a second soldier.
Both of them gaze towards the base of the burning mountain, looking for some glimmer of light, but they see nothing.
This phenomenon has the effect of shifting the balance of terror in the crowd, first one way and then another. All soon sniff the smell of burning carried on the wind, a pungent stench of sulphur and burning coal.
All this goes on for several hours. At one point the sickle of light shines again over the tumbled top of Vesuvius, and follows much the same path downward as before. This time, however, it is brighter, and when it reaches the shore it does not die immediately but rolls away before it weakens and is swallowed by the darkness. But this time it seems to put out the fires on the ridges of the mountain instead of reviving them, even the shower of stones diminishes.
Someone shouts that we’ll soon all be dead, burned alive. Many are sobbing, and, as ever in a time of great and desperate danger, a sacred painting, or the faint glow of a candle in a shrine, suddenly brings to mind to mind the memory of a faith so long neglected, and rekindles hopes, regrets, fears and faith, long denied or forgotten, in the Gods, and the man who has forgotten his Gods stops, amazed, moved, contemplating the sacred images, and his heart trembles, all ablaze with love. So it happens now to these soldiers, who stop suddenly in front of a small altar of domestic deities and cover their faces with their hands, reciting litanies - and in answer comes the cheep of birds, a faint flapping of wings, a rustle like fledglings in a nest. One of the legionaries jumps back scared – some poor little birds have taken refuge in this votive shrine, little sparrows with ruffled feathers and bright round eyes under the white lids, they’re hiding as if in their nest, huddled together, quivering among the statuettes.
Someone behind the Legionary comes up to him, grabbing his arm.
'Have you seen my wife?'
The man has a small oil lamp and is holding one hand cupped in front of the flame to protect it. He is young, handsome and absurdly immaculate, as if he were out for a walk before breakfast, holding his lantern with manicured hands.
'I'm sorry ...'
'Julia Felix. You must know her, everybody knows her!'
Undoubtedly she’s a well-known whore that’s been keeping her 'husband' in luxury with the proceeds of her trade. His voice is trembling.
'Has anyone seen Julia Felix?'
he shouts again.
‘She’s not been past here,'
someone responds.
The young man moans and staggers off in the direction of the Marine Gate.
'Julia! Julia! '
His voice becomes increasingly faint as the flame of his lamp disappears into the darkness.
'Julia ...!'
'What is this area?'
asks someone who’s just arrived, raising his voice.
'It’s the Forum.'
replies the one who had spoken earlier.
'So is this the road that leads to the Marine Gate?'
'Don’t tell him!'
hisses another voice,
'It’s a stranger, he’s come to rob us.'
Other men are approaching with torches.
'Thieves!'
screams a woman.
'Our things we’ve left unattended! Thieves! '
Some shake their fists, others curse, and suddenly this small illuminated area at the foot of my cross becomes a tangle of shadows and waving torches. A man curses the gods and crashes his torch into the face of a woman, setting her hair on fire. He turns and runs away, pursued by the screams of the woman, to escape from the brawl that’s now attracting people from all the side streets. Men and women emerge from the darkness, shadows out of the shadows, and are quick to throw themselves into the scuffle.
Madness. An entire city has gone mad!
A spectral glow filters from the east, from under the immense cloud above us, making even more dreadful this tragic herald of sunrise.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 100
Agony
Ultima necat
There's a young man with this gang of newcomers, tall but ill-favoured, who wanders among the crosses with a long stick, prodding the poor crucified girls to see whether they are still alive. Whenever he detects in the poor victim of this brutal outrage even the slightest reaction, he commits and atrocity, forcing the splintered end of his instrument into the violated private part of the poor, defenceless crucified female. He is stark naked and keeps masturbating flaunting his member obscenely, responding to the victim’s faint moans with obscene, offensive phrases, he does not ease off until he the object of his attention slump powerless after the prolonged torment.
Many of the bodies are already inert, they do not give him any satisfaction. He’s approaching, I am his target now. He grins seeing me in the strange position I’ve been hung by the Master of Nails for my special, extreme humiliation. I try to play dead, but a deep thrust inside forces me to start, the bastard pig begins his litany of vulgarity, then he stops, lifts his free hand to shade his eyes the better to view me, he seems to recognise me, though I can’t say the same.
'You disgusting bitch! You bastard of a whore! It was because of you I ended up in the brothel of perverts, because of you I suffered the utmost degradation, because of you I was subjected to the most terrible of tortures! Now you’re getting a taste of it to match, suffering terribly as you deserve, it's your own fault!'
But who is this arsehole? What can I have ever done to him?
He sinks his instrument of torture into my ravaged flesh, screaming and masturbating, he seems possessed, quite crazy.
From behind, from the Lower Decuman Way, a soldier comes riding, the madman who is torturing me beckons to him, as if seeking approval for his actions. In response, the soldier draws his sword, and sweeps it down onto the arms of the beast, with a blow that severs the forearms at the wrists. He falls screaming, tries to get up but he cannot, he drags himself on all fours to the remains of the pyre that is burning the crucified bodies that died yesterday, then he gets up and runs off, but stumbles and falls back, shaking bloody stumps that scatter away the little strength that remains in him.
'Who are you?'
'I am a Christian!'
'A Christian soldier? What do you want from us? '
'I want to save you, I want to take you away from the crosses!'
'Flee! If you do, yu’ll only meet a miserable end like us! '
The Christian, standing up on the horse's back, tries and to pull out the nails that hold my feet to the lower beam.
'You're wasting your time, the nails are bent - run! You can see we’ve had it, if you really want to help us, just plunge your sword into our chests, deliver us from this torment. '
'I cannot kill, I am a Christian!'
'But in the war you surely kill your enemies!'
‘I only do so to defend myself, I can’t even deliberately kill an animal!'
'In the name of your God I pray you, kill me! I can’t go on suffering like this! '
'No! I can’t kill you, I’m a Christian!'
'So you prefer to let us suffer to death on this evil wood? Kill me, I beg you, kill me! '
'No! I can't, I can't, I'm a Christian! '
'You're just being a fool and cruel! Even worse than the ones who crucified us! '
The horse rears up, he falls to the ground, at that moment the most violent lightning I've ever seen is unleashed, it’s blinding, followed by crashes, an endless roar of thunder. The horse runs away, the Christian chases him and disappears forever into the darkness.
I’m fainting with the powerful emotions this crazy diatribe has provoked in me. My mind is wandering through worlds of terror, infernal visions are haunting me. I see a temple, I’m among vestal virgins who are praying, then suddenly a handful of soldiers barge into the sanctuary, breaking down the door. Like swallows captured by hawks, our bodies are desecrated, planks are flung onto the floor, desperate cries arise, blows on the nails pierce our flesh, we are crucified. Then darkness and dense smoke and heavy objects covered with a thick blanket of ash appear in new forms, we are buried alive in our tomb of ash and volcanic gravel. I wake up sometimes, again I lose consciousness, again I wake up. In my nightmares the ground melts, and I fall amid a shower of stones into the centre of the earth.
Now even the fires of Mount Vesuvius have been reduced to a few isolated fountains of orange sparks. Another bolt of lightning shines a rosy glow under the black cloud. I feel I’m a disembodied spirit, absolutely alone, buried in rocks almost up to my thighs, with ash that is shaking me about, yet I’m filled with a great sense of tranquillity.
If this is death, then I cannot complain, I can accept it, even with pleasure, like one taking a well-earned rest after a hard day's work.
But now I’m awakened by the heat and the stench of burning. I do not know how long I’ve slept, long enough to be almost completely buried, I'm in my grave. Seized by panic, I wriggle my body and feel the weight on my shoulders drop gradually, stones clatter as they tumble off me. I lift myself and shake my head, spitting out ash that I feel filling my mouth, blinking, now I’m buried alive!
The rain of pumice has almost completely ceased, it’s a warning that’s now familiar, in the distance, right ahead of me, I see again low in the sky the familiar sickle of bright cloud. This time, however, instead of moving from right to left like a comet, it’s cascading fast towards me, growing wider to either side.
This wonder is immediately followed by a period of darkness broken only by light from a forest that burst into flames a few moments later when the conflagration has found new fuel on the southern slope of the mountain. It’s preceded by a roar that seems to be rolling in my direction, carried by the blast from a furnace. Now the face of the fire is no longer like a cloud but a wave, a wave of seething steam scalding my cheeks red hot, making my eyes water, I sense the smell of my hair singeing.
I’m struggling furiously to free myself as far as I can from my shroud of pumice while a sulphurous dawn spotlights me through the sky. At its heart something dark seems to be growing, rising from the ground. I realise that the crimson light is illuminating the silhouette of the city walls, as the view becomes more clear I perceive the shapes of the guard towers, the columns of an unroofed temple, a row of vacant blind windows, and humans, people running in panic following the course of the ramparts. The picture is sharp only for a moment, then the glow behind the city slowly disappears, returning it to the darkness, maybe it was just my imagination. Slowly, slowly time passes. I become aware of the pale contours of my wounded body and am amazed. It may seem silly, but I laugh at the sight, I want to cry with relief, it's almost morning, the new day’s struggling to come to light, and I'm still alive!
To bring me back to some sense of the tragedy there are just some isolated fires on the erupted mountain. Indistinct in the dark, the expanse of pumice spreads out around me like a ghostly landscape of gentle slopes.
I’m feeling sweaty, dirty and thirsty, with the acrid stench of burning in my nostrils and throat. Now pumice has flooded the Forum and turned it into a desert of stones. Through the dust I have a vague vision of low walls to my left and right but I realise they are buildings jutting out from the desert of whitish stones, and the human figures that I see are moving about at the level of the roofs, the pumice must be half as high as the buildings or more. You wouldn’t think we could survive this catastrophe, but some have. I have already noticed some inhabitants on the ramparts, now I see others emerging from holes in the ground, from the tombs of their homes, lone individuals, couples supporting each other, entire families, even a mother with her young son in her arms.
I look around me in this gritty gloom, trying to shake off the accumulating dust, scanning the sky. The rain of stones, bar a few isolated gusts, seems to have stopped - but not for long, more burning air is hovering on the slopes, the mountain seems to suck more energy from the storm, and the longer the pause, the more intensely will the waves flow again.
The first one during the night seems to have hit Herculaneum, the second passed the city and ended in the sea, the third stopped just before the walls of Pompeii - the next one could wipe out the entire city! The port has disappeared altogether, the only evidence of its existence are a tree that rises out from the sea of pumice, broken flagpole, and the shape of a hulk covered with dust. I hear the roar of the stormy sea but it seems far away, and the outline of the coast seems changed.
Each time the earth trembles the approach is heralded from afar off by the crashing of walls and roof-beams collapsing. A glowing sphere comes sizzling through this ghostly landscape, it’s going to hit the pillars of the nearby temple of Apollo.
A fire breaks out. Around me I suddenly see the light of torches coming out from the foggy air. I suppose I’m seeing crowds of survivors who are exploiting the opportunity to escape the city, but the traffic’s now going in the opposite direction, residents are returning to Pompeii - why? To look for what they’ve lost, I guess, to see what they might be able to rescue from their homes, to loot the spoil? I want to shout to them to run away while there’s time, but now I've no breath. A man walks by, jumping from side to side like a puppet to avoid the debris. In the distance I see the fringes of fire crossing the mountain. To my left stood the great building of the Curia (courthouse), but the roof has disappeared and a fire inside is flaring out through the windows illuminating a giant bearded face of the god Bacchus. Behind it stands a row of houses in ruins like a row of smashed teeth. Torches are moving in that direction, fires are being lit, people are digging frantically, some using wooden boards, some their bare hands. Some people scream out names, others pull out boxes, fabrics, pieces of furniture. An old woman is screaming hysterically, two men are wrestling, fighting for something, I don’t know what, another’s attempting to run off with a marble bust in his arms.
I see four motionless horses, paralysed in mid-gallop, appearing from the darkness, then I realise it’s the colossal equestrian statue surmounting the Arch of Drusus. Hundreds of people are now in the street, wandering across the roofs in the gloom, like ants out of a wrecked anthill, some of them just wander aimlessly, lost, mad with anguish and dismay. Others appear more sure, as if they’re following their escape plans, or searching systematically, thieves or legitimate owners, who can say? They run through the alleys, taking with them all they can. The most heartbreaking thing is to hearing names repeated plaintively in the darkness. Has anyone seen or Felicius, Ferusa, Vero or Appuleia the wife of Narcissus, or Specula, or the lawyer Terentius Neon? Parents separated from their children, babies crying in front of the rubble of their homes. The flames of the torches are held to someone's face in the hope that they might be a father, a husband, a brother.
At least a hundred fires are raging on the southern slope of the mountain, forming an ever-changing constellation hanging low in the sky. By now I have learned to distinguish the different sources of fire on Vesuvius, these ones are safe, the remains of a trauma now past, but the prospect of another incandescent cloud that can appear suddenly on the crest of the mountain and make its way down to the devastated city fills me with horror.
The hot wind raises eddies of ash and slag. An incandescent sandstorm is rushing down from Vesuvius towards Pompeii. The defenceless walls are cracking, roofs exploding, tiles, bricks, beams, stones and human bodies all flying towards me, but in such a slow motion they seem in this long moment to be spinning in the air silhouetted against the dazzling light from the wave of fire, empty entities suspended in mid-air at the level of the roofs, the last image of the outside world, a world of shadow and dust. Then every light’s extinguished, in the pitch dark there is nothing, not even a cry, only the roar of the cascade of stones, the searing heat and the burning sensation that swells my body, bursts my eyes, and explodes my brain...
(to be continued...)
Agony
Ultima necat
There's a young man with this gang of newcomers, tall but ill-favoured, who wanders among the crosses with a long stick, prodding the poor crucified girls to see whether they are still alive. Whenever he detects in the poor victim of this brutal outrage even the slightest reaction, he commits and atrocity, forcing the splintered end of his instrument into the violated private part of the poor, defenceless crucified female. He is stark naked and keeps masturbating flaunting his member obscenely, responding to the victim’s faint moans with obscene, offensive phrases, he does not ease off until he the object of his attention slump powerless after the prolonged torment.
Many of the bodies are already inert, they do not give him any satisfaction. He’s approaching, I am his target now. He grins seeing me in the strange position I’ve been hung by the Master of Nails for my special, extreme humiliation. I try to play dead, but a deep thrust inside forces me to start, the bastard pig begins his litany of vulgarity, then he stops, lifts his free hand to shade his eyes the better to view me, he seems to recognise me, though I can’t say the same.
'You disgusting bitch! You bastard of a whore! It was because of you I ended up in the brothel of perverts, because of you I suffered the utmost degradation, because of you I was subjected to the most terrible of tortures! Now you’re getting a taste of it to match, suffering terribly as you deserve, it's your own fault!'
But who is this arsehole? What can I have ever done to him?
He sinks his instrument of torture into my ravaged flesh, screaming and masturbating, he seems possessed, quite crazy.
From behind, from the Lower Decuman Way, a soldier comes riding, the madman who is torturing me beckons to him, as if seeking approval for his actions. In response, the soldier draws his sword, and sweeps it down onto the arms of the beast, with a blow that severs the forearms at the wrists. He falls screaming, tries to get up but he cannot, he drags himself on all fours to the remains of the pyre that is burning the crucified bodies that died yesterday, then he gets up and runs off, but stumbles and falls back, shaking bloody stumps that scatter away the little strength that remains in him.
'Who are you?'
'I am a Christian!'
'A Christian soldier? What do you want from us? '
'I want to save you, I want to take you away from the crosses!'
'Flee! If you do, yu’ll only meet a miserable end like us! '
The Christian, standing up on the horse's back, tries and to pull out the nails that hold my feet to the lower beam.
'You're wasting your time, the nails are bent - run! You can see we’ve had it, if you really want to help us, just plunge your sword into our chests, deliver us from this torment. '
'I cannot kill, I am a Christian!'
'But in the war you surely kill your enemies!'
‘I only do so to defend myself, I can’t even deliberately kill an animal!'
'In the name of your God I pray you, kill me! I can’t go on suffering like this! '
'No! I can’t kill you, I’m a Christian!'
'So you prefer to let us suffer to death on this evil wood? Kill me, I beg you, kill me! '
'No! I can't, I can't, I'm a Christian! '
'You're just being a fool and cruel! Even worse than the ones who crucified us! '
The horse rears up, he falls to the ground, at that moment the most violent lightning I've ever seen is unleashed, it’s blinding, followed by crashes, an endless roar of thunder. The horse runs away, the Christian chases him and disappears forever into the darkness.
I’m fainting with the powerful emotions this crazy diatribe has provoked in me. My mind is wandering through worlds of terror, infernal visions are haunting me. I see a temple, I’m among vestal virgins who are praying, then suddenly a handful of soldiers barge into the sanctuary, breaking down the door. Like swallows captured by hawks, our bodies are desecrated, planks are flung onto the floor, desperate cries arise, blows on the nails pierce our flesh, we are crucified. Then darkness and dense smoke and heavy objects covered with a thick blanket of ash appear in new forms, we are buried alive in our tomb of ash and volcanic gravel. I wake up sometimes, again I lose consciousness, again I wake up. In my nightmares the ground melts, and I fall amid a shower of stones into the centre of the earth.
Now even the fires of Mount Vesuvius have been reduced to a few isolated fountains of orange sparks. Another bolt of lightning shines a rosy glow under the black cloud. I feel I’m a disembodied spirit, absolutely alone, buried in rocks almost up to my thighs, with ash that is shaking me about, yet I’m filled with a great sense of tranquillity.
If this is death, then I cannot complain, I can accept it, even with pleasure, like one taking a well-earned rest after a hard day's work.
But now I’m awakened by the heat and the stench of burning. I do not know how long I’ve slept, long enough to be almost completely buried, I'm in my grave. Seized by panic, I wriggle my body and feel the weight on my shoulders drop gradually, stones clatter as they tumble off me. I lift myself and shake my head, spitting out ash that I feel filling my mouth, blinking, now I’m buried alive!
The rain of pumice has almost completely ceased, it’s a warning that’s now familiar, in the distance, right ahead of me, I see again low in the sky the familiar sickle of bright cloud. This time, however, instead of moving from right to left like a comet, it’s cascading fast towards me, growing wider to either side.
This wonder is immediately followed by a period of darkness broken only by light from a forest that burst into flames a few moments later when the conflagration has found new fuel on the southern slope of the mountain. It’s preceded by a roar that seems to be rolling in my direction, carried by the blast from a furnace. Now the face of the fire is no longer like a cloud but a wave, a wave of seething steam scalding my cheeks red hot, making my eyes water, I sense the smell of my hair singeing.
I’m struggling furiously to free myself as far as I can from my shroud of pumice while a sulphurous dawn spotlights me through the sky. At its heart something dark seems to be growing, rising from the ground. I realise that the crimson light is illuminating the silhouette of the city walls, as the view becomes more clear I perceive the shapes of the guard towers, the columns of an unroofed temple, a row of vacant blind windows, and humans, people running in panic following the course of the ramparts. The picture is sharp only for a moment, then the glow behind the city slowly disappears, returning it to the darkness, maybe it was just my imagination. Slowly, slowly time passes. I become aware of the pale contours of my wounded body and am amazed. It may seem silly, but I laugh at the sight, I want to cry with relief, it's almost morning, the new day’s struggling to come to light, and I'm still alive!
To bring me back to some sense of the tragedy there are just some isolated fires on the erupted mountain. Indistinct in the dark, the expanse of pumice spreads out around me like a ghostly landscape of gentle slopes.
I’m feeling sweaty, dirty and thirsty, with the acrid stench of burning in my nostrils and throat. Now pumice has flooded the Forum and turned it into a desert of stones. Through the dust I have a vague vision of low walls to my left and right but I realise they are buildings jutting out from the desert of whitish stones, and the human figures that I see are moving about at the level of the roofs, the pumice must be half as high as the buildings or more. You wouldn’t think we could survive this catastrophe, but some have. I have already noticed some inhabitants on the ramparts, now I see others emerging from holes in the ground, from the tombs of their homes, lone individuals, couples supporting each other, entire families, even a mother with her young son in her arms.
I look around me in this gritty gloom, trying to shake off the accumulating dust, scanning the sky. The rain of stones, bar a few isolated gusts, seems to have stopped - but not for long, more burning air is hovering on the slopes, the mountain seems to suck more energy from the storm, and the longer the pause, the more intensely will the waves flow again.
The first one during the night seems to have hit Herculaneum, the second passed the city and ended in the sea, the third stopped just before the walls of Pompeii - the next one could wipe out the entire city! The port has disappeared altogether, the only evidence of its existence are a tree that rises out from the sea of pumice, broken flagpole, and the shape of a hulk covered with dust. I hear the roar of the stormy sea but it seems far away, and the outline of the coast seems changed.
Each time the earth trembles the approach is heralded from afar off by the crashing of walls and roof-beams collapsing. A glowing sphere comes sizzling through this ghostly landscape, it’s going to hit the pillars of the nearby temple of Apollo.
A fire breaks out. Around me I suddenly see the light of torches coming out from the foggy air. I suppose I’m seeing crowds of survivors who are exploiting the opportunity to escape the city, but the traffic’s now going in the opposite direction, residents are returning to Pompeii - why? To look for what they’ve lost, I guess, to see what they might be able to rescue from their homes, to loot the spoil? I want to shout to them to run away while there’s time, but now I've no breath. A man walks by, jumping from side to side like a puppet to avoid the debris. In the distance I see the fringes of fire crossing the mountain. To my left stood the great building of the Curia (courthouse), but the roof has disappeared and a fire inside is flaring out through the windows illuminating a giant bearded face of the god Bacchus. Behind it stands a row of houses in ruins like a row of smashed teeth. Torches are moving in that direction, fires are being lit, people are digging frantically, some using wooden boards, some their bare hands. Some people scream out names, others pull out boxes, fabrics, pieces of furniture. An old woman is screaming hysterically, two men are wrestling, fighting for something, I don’t know what, another’s attempting to run off with a marble bust in his arms.
I see four motionless horses, paralysed in mid-gallop, appearing from the darkness, then I realise it’s the colossal equestrian statue surmounting the Arch of Drusus. Hundreds of people are now in the street, wandering across the roofs in the gloom, like ants out of a wrecked anthill, some of them just wander aimlessly, lost, mad with anguish and dismay. Others appear more sure, as if they’re following their escape plans, or searching systematically, thieves or legitimate owners, who can say? They run through the alleys, taking with them all they can. The most heartbreaking thing is to hearing names repeated plaintively in the darkness. Has anyone seen or Felicius, Ferusa, Vero or Appuleia the wife of Narcissus, or Specula, or the lawyer Terentius Neon? Parents separated from their children, babies crying in front of the rubble of their homes. The flames of the torches are held to someone's face in the hope that they might be a father, a husband, a brother.
At least a hundred fires are raging on the southern slope of the mountain, forming an ever-changing constellation hanging low in the sky. By now I have learned to distinguish the different sources of fire on Vesuvius, these ones are safe, the remains of a trauma now past, but the prospect of another incandescent cloud that can appear suddenly on the crest of the mountain and make its way down to the devastated city fills me with horror.
The hot wind raises eddies of ash and slag. An incandescent sandstorm is rushing down from Vesuvius towards Pompeii. The defenceless walls are cracking, roofs exploding, tiles, bricks, beams, stones and human bodies all flying towards me, but in such a slow motion they seem in this long moment to be spinning in the air silhouetted against the dazzling light from the wave of fire, empty entities suspended in mid-air at the level of the roofs, the last image of the outside world, a world of shadow and dust. Then every light’s extinguished, in the pitch dark there is nothing, not even a cry, only the roar of the cascade of stones, the searing heat and the burning sensation that swells my body, bursts my eyes, and explodes my brain...
(to be continued...)
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Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica is dead in this horrible way, but there are still many open items. The Sibilla Cumana had predicted to Fannius numerous descendants, but Amica did not give children to Fannius, it is perhaps wrong the Sibilla Cumana? And then how can we know the story of Amica until the last moment of her life? And Eulalia what it does? 
Quiet Paul
Tribune
Amazing, all of it. Utterly amazing with so many twists and turns. Luna, you are a genius