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Amica

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Velut Luna said:
Ultima necat
Click to expand...
a bit late: as Luna's explained to me, a gloomy but popular inscription on sundials reads
OMNIA VULNERUNT ULTIMA NECAT
'They (the hours) all wound (us), the last one kills' :(​
 
Jollyrei said:
...Incredible...
Click to expand...

That's not the word that I could use : rather unreal ( fantastic ...), something like the "Apocalypse of St Jean" ...
Perhaps we can take the three successive waves like the Trumpets of Apocalypse ...

PS : in my opinion, no need to explain more ( is it explaining ?) ... but Velut is the writter and decision maker ...;)
 
To be honest, if you'd asked me without warning, I'd have guessed it was 1st conj., I had to check ;) :p
 
The Latin phrase 'omnes feriunt ultima necat' means: any wound, the last kills.
It is also well-found variants 'omnes vulnerant ultima necat' and 'vulnerant omnes, ultima necat'.

This motto is attributed to Seneca the Elder and is often engraved on sundials or on watch dials.
 
Helping Luna with 'Amica' has been an amazing experience for me,
it's no exaggeration to call it 'life-changing'.
As we approach the final scene, Luna's invited me to post 'Eulalia's chapter',
though it's of course Luna's work with just a polish from me -
it's an honour to be associated with the entire masterpiece!

Amica 101

Eulalia

One year later.

The transverse yardarm that holds the sail is removed from its housing amidships in the hull, and sailors at either end grab the shrouds and begin raising it up the mast. The sail is still furled, the mast is positioned just aft of the carchesium (‘two-handled cup’), as the foc’sle is called in the sailors’ jargon. A lad no bigger than ten years old climbs the mast to release the sail, he runs confidently the entire length of the yardarm and loosens the knots so that, when the last one’s undone, the heavy canvas unfurls swelling immediately and we feel the strength of the wind. The Minerva groans like a wounded animal and picks up speed, slicing through the waves and throwing up curls of white foam at either end of its pointed hull like a chisel digging through soft wood.

We’ve left Athens, my husband and I, to return to Rome where we want to live as long as life will allow us to be together. He has been summoned back by the Emperor Titus to take up an office that is high both in the public sphere and in the military, as 'Praefectum Classis Misenensis', to replace the unforgettable Pliny the Elder who died on the beach at Stabiae during the rescue operation conducted by Great Fleet during the eruption of Vesuvius almost a year ago.

The wind’s been favorable for the whole trip, as it still is now, the Minerva turns her bow confidently towards the north, in the distance the coast seems to vanish away quickly. But my thoughts are running faster, in my heart there’s a burden so severe that I can barely hold back my tears, so great is my pain. A thousand questions crowd my mind, a thousand questions needing to be answered. Already with the thought of Pompeii before me, I see myself walking the streets seraching for Amica. I've had no news since I received a dramatic letter sent by Lucius telling me of her disappearance a few months before the eruption, it seems she vanished a only few days before Lucius came to take her with him to Rome.

Already, in the vicinity of Paestum we see advance warnings of the plight of these places, the green of nature seems to have given way to an alien world of oppression, the trees look withered and bare as if in perpetual winter, the Coast of the Sirens is covered with a coat of grey, but it's almost night when the ship negotiates the narrow passage between the headland of Surrentum and the Isle of Capraea.

The sails are furled and a drum can be heard on the deck the starting to beat, the oars move at a steady pace, the dark shadows ahead of us begins to take shape as the contours of the coast, there’s a breakwater, a sandy beach, a row of villas with terraces lit by torches, people wading into the sea where the waves are breaking on the shore, hauling their boats into the shallows and making them safe on the sand. Wherever we are, it’s not Pompeii.

'Hold fast!' yells Captain Torquatus.

A moment later the vessel runs aground stopping abruptly, but the impact has been cushioned by a layer of pumice deposited along the shore. I hear the shouts of sailors diving from the deck, plunging into the sea, setting anchors alongside. Men with mooring ropes are running along the beach looking for a chance to secure the ship, there is no longer any landing-place.

'It is a great stroke of luck, if there’d been rocks we’d have destroyed the hull.'

'I would say we should spend the night here.'

'We have no choice, admiral, no ship can proceed at sea here out of sight of any lighthouse.'

I’m looking with surprise at the lights climbing the slopes of the unfamiliar little hills, I can’t find the coast road that used to run around the Bay. On the beach a hundred people have gathered, observing the silhouette of the impressive quadrireme.

The high tide overnight has refloated the Minerva, she’s now rocking us in the moonlight.

The fresh light of dawn has revealed a devastated landscape, only the position of the islands confirms that we’ve actually landed off the site of the port of Pompeii, the mouth of the river has evidently shifted towards Stabiae, to the beach where the body of Pliny was found, and that place too has disappeared, all I can see of the city wall emerges out of a blanket of grey pumice and ash, the tops of the towers on the seaward side have been destroyed.

The Emperor Titus has initiated operations to bring the city of Pompeii back to the light, oxcarts are carrying excavated material down the road from the Marine Gate, finds rescued from the deposits of the eruption, down to a new pier that’s still under construction. It can be only be reached from the sea, the coastline has advanced half a Roman mile, the coast road has disappeared. Large cargo vessels ride at anchor awaiting their turn to approach the temporary landing-stage, even the lighthouse perched on the rock in front of the former harbour has collapsed in violent earthquakes.

A biga (two-horse chariot) brought by one of the sailors from Misenum is now standing by watching the ongoing activity. It’s waiting for us. With bated breath I get ashore and we make our way cautiously across the compacted dirt, on a temporary trackway made with material recovered from the ruins, where heavy traffic is proceeding in both directions.

I can scarcely recognise the places where there used to be buildings from the ruins that have been revealed by the excavations: the Basilica, with its great high walls is now about half its height, the Forum is just a large vacant plot of wasteland, all that remains to be seen is the imposing structure of the Temple of Jupiter at the lower end, but its roof, pediment, columns and statues have all disappeared. All the walls appear naked without the coating of precious marble that once covered them. On the ground there are only broken columns and smashed capitals, this is no reconstruction of the city, this is just looting, even an undamaged area of pavement of the square has been ripped up, and wherever I look I see slaves labouring, and citizens of Pompeii who survived the tragedy because they fled in time and have now returned to salvage what they can from their homes, are diligently dismantling, detaching, every piece that can be recovered - marbles, capitals, columns, statues, bas-reliefs, all loaded onto wagons and taken away.

We proceed towards the arch of Drusus, only the imposing structure of the Thermae (hot baths) seems to have withstood the fury that was unleashed on this town, but everything looks as if a huge flame has burnt it, annealing the walls, bricks, and frescoes.

Further on we see emerging from a thick layer of pumice, burnt wood and debris, the ruins of the Temple of Fortuna, further than that we cannot go, we can’t get to the house of Lucius, the layer of pumice and ash deposited here is too deep and it has hardened in the rains to become almost stone.

We hear extraordinary stories from people who survived the catastrophe, from whom we ask directions as to how we can proceed. A man with scars of deep burns that have miraculously healed, now deaf, tells us that he saw the fire advancing, then it overpowered him, bursting his eardrums, burning hair, sweeping off at a stroke all his clothes and even his shoes, and sending him crashing upside-down through a window of the Baths, hurling him into thelaconium (sweat-room), and throwing him into the little water that was left in the pool which saved him!

A blind slave who’d escaped from Pompeii hid on the road to Stabiae in the belly of a dead horse, in that way he evaded heat and stones. The fire killed more than two thousand people in a few moments but these flames, while burning clothes and hair in a few moments, soon died out for lack of air, to make way for another wave of ash both thick and thin, spattering and enveloping the city and region. The ash congealed, then more pumice fell.

The story that strikes me most is of a man and a woman who emerged from the ground at sunset on the day the eruption had ended, and were seen walking together towards the ocean, even after the sun had set behind the jagged outline of Mount Vesuvius, and before the wind blowing from Capraea rolled across the dunes of ash. But this story’s considered unlikely by most sensible people, they see it as the figment of a superstitious imagination.

Stunned and disconsolate we return to the Minerva, as the chariot turns in the Via Marina I give a last, pensive look back at the desolation of the Forum, I see in the crowd faces of loved ones, but cast out these deceptive images from my mind.

Two more days of sailing, our eyes and hearts still filled with shocking images of destruction and death, then Rome awaits us in its superb splendour, a striking contrast to the desolation of Pompeii.

We arrive early at the sumptuous home of Lucius on the Aventinum, with a panoramic balcony overlooking the city. Lucius and Fulvia come up to me, embrace me, they’ve both grown old so quickly, the tragedy of Fannius’s death has hastened their old age and veiled their eyes in sadness. This wonderful villa would be a sad place if it weren’t inhabited by two blonde babes that are running about playing hide and seek among the statues and columns of the peristyle. The slavegirl who’s taking care of them is Didia, and now my thoughts turn to the image of lost Amica.

Lucius tells me that the children are the offspring of Fannius and Corinna, and she too soon arrives in the large garden, proud and beautiful. The youngsters have never known their father, they’ve been adopted by Lucius so that he can pass on the family name.

Fannius, that rascal, was always too easily attracted by feminine beauty, he betrayed Amica, just as I warned her! Perhaps this was the reason for her disappearance just before Lucius was going to arrive in Pompeii to take her with him to Rome?

We hear stories, memories of people known to have disappeared in the vast tragedy, of the survivors who miraculously escaped the disaster, and we hear of the desperate search for Amica. But of her there remains only a fanciful legend.

Behind a high rock which sheltered it from the wind there’s a tiny patch of meadow, dotted with bushes of rosemary and flowering broom, with grass that’s deep green, a raw, shiny green that glows so brightly, so unexpectedly, a fresh, virgin green. The grass that grows down almost to the sea, by contrast, has a tired, faded green, as if the sea belongs to an ancient world. All around, the countryside buried under the ashes, burnt and torn by the violence of nature, has reverted to chaos.

But there, on that little world of green grass springing fresh out of the chaos, stands a girl on the sandy shore, where the green grass yields to the waves, combing her hair, gazing at the sea. She watches the sea as a woman looks in a mirror. From that fresh grass, she peers into the ancient mirror of sea with a smile of happy surprise, and the ancient sea reflects with a tinge of green her long, soft, silvery-blonde hair, and her smooth, white skin. A crouching dog follows with its eyes the slow, calm gestures of the silent girl.
 

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Velut Luna said:
The Latin phrase 'omnes feriunt ultima necat' means: any wound, the last kills.
It is also well-found variants 'omnes vulnerant ultima necat' and 'vulnerant omnes, ultima necat'.

This motto is attributed to Seneca the Elder and is often engraved on sundials or on watch dials.
Click to expand...
yes, grovelling apologies to Anima Sinistra, illumination from Luna convinces me that it is 1st conjugation,
and should be vulnerant. Which all goes to show that my reliability is not at all reliable. :oops: :spank:
 
Eulalia said:
Helping Luna with 'Amica' has been an amazing experience for me,
it's no exaggeration to call it 'life-changing'.
As we approach the final scene, Luna's invited me to post 'Eulalia's chapter',
though it's of course Luna's work with just a polish from me -
it's an honour to be associated with the entire masterpiece!

Amica 101

Eulalia

One year later.

The transverse yardarm that holds the sail is removed from its housing amidships in the hull, and sailors at either end grab the shrouds and begin raising it up the mast. The sail is still furled, the mast is positioned just aft of the carchesium (‘two-handled cup’), as the foc’sle is called in the sailors’ jargon. A lad no bigger than ten years old climbs the mast to release the sail, he runs confidently the entire length of the yardarm and loosens the knots so that, when the last one’s undone, the heavy canvas unfurls swelling immediately and we feel the strength of the wind. The Minerva groans like a wounded animal and picks up speed, slicing through the waves and throwing up curls of white foam at either end of its pointed hull like a chisel digging through soft wood.

We’ve left Athens, my husband and I, to return to Rome where we want to live as long as life will allow us to be together. He has been summoned back by the Emperor Titus to take up an office that is high both in the public sphere and in the military, as 'Praefectum Classis Misenensis', to replace the unforgettable Pliny the Elder who died on the beach at Stabiae during the rescue operation conducted by Great Fleet during the eruption of Vesuvius almost a year ago.

The wind’s been favorable for the whole trip, as it still is now, the Minerva turns her bow confidently towards the north, in the distance the coast seems to vanish away quickly. But my thoughts are running faster, in my heart there’s a burden so severe that I can barely hold back my tears, so great is my pain. A thousand questions crowd my mind, a thousand questions needing to be answered. Already with the thought of Pompeii before me, I see myself walking the streets seraching for Amica. I've had no news since I received a dramatic letter sent by Lucius telling me of her disappearance a few months before the eruption, it seems she vanished a only few days before Lucius came to take her with him to Rome.

Already, in the vicinity of Paestum we see advance warnings of the plight of these places, the green of nature seems to have given way to an alien world of oppression, the trees look withered and bare as if in perpetual winter, the Coast of the Sirens is covered with a coat of grey, but it's almost night when the ship negotiates the narrow passage between the headland of Surrentum and the Isle of Capraea.

The sails are furled and a drum can be heard on the deck the starting to beat, the oars move at a steady pace, the dark shadows ahead of us begins to take shape as the contours of the coast, there’s a breakwater, a sandy beach, a row of villas with terraces lit by torches, people wading into the sea where the waves are breaking on the shore, hauling their boats into the shallows and making them safe on the sand. Wherever we are, it’s not Pompeii.

'Hold fast!' yells Captain Torquatus.

A moment later the vessel runs aground stopping abruptly, but the impact has been cushioned by a layer of pumice deposited along the shore. I hear the shouts of sailors diving from the deck, plunging into the sea, setting anchors alongside. Men with mooring ropes are running along the beach looking for a chance to secure the ship, there is no longer any landing-place.

'It is a great stroke of luck, if there’d been rocks we’d have destroyed the hull.'

'I would say we should spend the night here.'

'We have no choice, admiral, no ship can proceed at sea here out of sight of any lighthouse.'

I’m looking with surprise at the lights climbing the slopes of the unfamiliar little hills, I can’t find the coast road that used to run around the Bay. On the beach a hundred people have gathered, observing the silhouette of the impressive quadrireme.

The high tide overnight has refloated the Minerva, she’s now rocking us in the moonlight.

The fresh light of dawn has revealed a devastated landscape, only the position of the islands confirms that we’ve actually landed off the site of the port of Pompeii, the mouth of the river has evidently shifted towards Stabiae, to the beach where the body of Pliny was found, and that place too has disappeared, all I can see of the city wall emerges out of a blanket of grey pumice and ash, the tops of the towers on the seaward side have been destroyed.

The Emperor Titus has initiated operations to bring the city of Pompeii back to the light, oxcarts are carrying excavated material down the road from the Marine Gate, finds rescued from the deposits of the eruption, down to a new pier that’s still under construction. It can be only be reached from the sea, the coastline has advanced half a Roman mile, the coast road has disappeared. Large cargo vessels ride at anchor awaiting their turn to approach the temporary landing-stage, even the lighthouse perched on the rock in front of the former harbour has collapsed in violent earthquakes.

A biga (two-horse chariot) brought by one of the sailors from Misenum is now standing by watching the ongoing activity. It’s waiting for us. With bated breath I get ashore and we make our way cautiously across the compacted dirt, on a temporary trackway made with material recovered from the ruins, where heavy traffic is proceeding in both directions.

I can scarcely recognise the places where there used to be buildings from the ruins that have been revealed by the excavations: the Basilica, with its great high walls is now about half its height, the Forum is just a large vacant plot of wasteland, all that remains to be seen is the imposing structure of the Temple of Jupiter at the lower end, but its roof, pediment, columns and statues have all disappeared. All the walls appear naked without the coating of precious marble that once covered them. On the ground there are only broken columns and smashed capitals, this is no reconstruction of the city, this is just looting, even an undamaged area of pavement of the square has been ripped up, and wherever I look I see slaves labouring, and citizens of Pompeii who survived the tragedy because they fled in time and have now returned to salvage what they can from their homes, are diligently dismantling, detaching, every piece that can be recovered - marbles, capitals, columns, statues, bas-reliefs, all loaded onto wagons and taken away.

We proceed towards the arch of Drusus, only the imposing structure of the Thermae (hot baths) seems to have withstood the fury that was unleashed on this town, but everything looks as if a huge flame has burnt it, annealing the walls, bricks, and frescoes.

Further on we see emerging from a thick layer of pumice, burnt wood and debris, the ruins of the Temple of Fortuna, further than that we cannot go, we can’t get to the house of Lucius, the layer of pumice and ash deposited here is too deep and it has hardened in the rains to become almost stone.

We hear extraordinary stories from people who survived the catastrophe, from whom we ask directions as to how we can proceed. A man with scars of deep burns that have miraculously healed, now deaf, tells us that he saw the fire advancing, then it overpowered him, bursting his eardrums, burning hair, sweeping off at a stroke all his clothes and even his shoes, and sending him crashing upside-down through a window of the Baths, hurling him into thelaconium (sweat-room), and throwing him into the little water that was left in the pool which saved him!

A blind slave who’d escaped from Pompeii hid on the road to Stabiae in the belly of a dead horse, in that way he evaded heat and stones. The fire killed more than two thousand people in a few moments but these flames, while burning clothes and hair in a few moments, soon died out for lack of air, to make way for another wave of ash both thick and thin, spattering and enveloping the city and region. The ash congealed, then more pumice fell.

The story that strikes me most is of a man and a woman who emerged from the ground at sunset on the day the eruption had ended, and were seen walking together towards the ocean, even after the sun had set behind the jagged outline of Mount Vesuvius, and before the wind blowing from Capraea rolled across the dunes of ash. But this story’s considered unlikely by most sensible people, they see it as the figment of a superstitious imagination.

Stunned and disconsolate we return to the Minerva, as the chariot turns in the Via Marina I give a last, pensive look back at the desolation of the Forum, I see in the crowd faces of loved ones, but cast out these deceptive images from my mind.

Two more days of sailing, our eyes and hearts still filled with shocking images of destruction and death, then Rome awaits us in its superb splendour, a striking contrast to the desolation of Pompeii.

We arrive early at the sumptuous home of Lucius on the Aventinum, with a panoramic balcony overlooking the city. Lucius and Fulvia come up to me, embrace me, they’ve both grown old so quickly, the tragedy of Fannius’s death has hastened their old age and veiled their eyes in sadness. This wonderful villa would be a sad place if it weren’t inhabited by two blonde babes that are running about playing hide and seek among the statues and columns of the peristyle. The slavegirl who’s taking care of them is Didia, and now my thoughts turn to the image of lost Amica.

Lucius tells me that the children are the offspring of Fannius and Corinna, and she too soon arrives in the large garden, proud and beautiful. The youngsters have never known their father, they’ve been adopted by Lucius so that he can pass on the family name.

Fannius, that rascal, was always too easily attracted by feminine beauty, he betrayed Amica, just as I warned her! Perhaps this was the reason for her disappearance just before Lucius was going to arrive in Pompeii to take her with him to Rome?

We hear stories, memories of people known to have disappeared in the vast tragedy, of the survivors who miraculously escaped the disaster, and we hear of the desperate search for Amica. But of her there remains only a fanciful legend.

Behind a high rock which sheltered it from the wind there’s a tiny patch of meadow, dotted with bushes of rosemary and flowering broom, with grass that’s deep green, a raw, shiny green that glows so brightly, so unexpectedly, a fresh, virgin green. The grass that grows down almost to the sea, by contrast, has a tired, faded green, as if the sea belongs to an ancient world. All around, the countryside buried under the ashes, burnt and torn by the violence of nature, has reverted to chaos.

But there, on that little world of green grass springing fresh out of the chaos, stands a girl on the sandy shore, where the green grass yields to the waves, combing her hair, gazing at the sea. She watches the sea as a woman looks in a mirror. From that fresh grass, she peers into the ancient mirror of sea with a smile of happy surprise, and the ancient sea reflects with a tinge of green her long, soft, silvery-blonde hair, and her smooth, white skin. A crouching dog follows with its eyes the slow, calm gestures of the silent girl.
Click to expand...

Beautiful, Eulalia!

I have a lump in my throat
 
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