VULCANALIA
AUGUST 22, AD79
The town elder of Stabiae smiled at his success. At long last, he would one-up
that snooty Pompeii governor Vannozzo. Only he, Caius Baldassario Zirondi, would
provide a human sacrifice to the mighty god Vulcanus during this year's
celebration. To make his show even more dramatic, Zirondi planned to crucify the
female atop the mountain. The people and the gods would realize just how better
a leader he was than some big city clown...
Zirondi stepped closer to the captive. Catching this royal in her trading vessel
as it sailed into the Mediterranean from up north had been a real coup. His gray
eyes sought hers and then traveled lowered down her neck. She was beautiful,
perhaps even too so to waste on some sacrifice, but he reminded himself of the
long run and that, after all, duty was duty. He looked away from her fair face
and to the coarse countenances of the two soldiers on either side of her as they
stood in the cool marble chamber in his palazzio.
"She needs something else to wear for the festival. Get a tunic from the
bordellorito."
One of his men pivoted away to fulfill this latest command as Zirondi stroked
his goatee and glared once more into the placid prisoner. "Your people have all
been sent to the mines in chains. There is no hope for you Contessa. No rescue.
I, however, have devised a means by which you can royally serve." Her eyes
stared past him at curtains in the distance. "Do you understand at all?"
Carlia glanced away from the far wall and disdainfully considered the short
stubby lout addressing her. "You mean, do I understand that my ship was wrecked,
men taken and now held in chains before you? Yes... I understand that much." She
knew her sapphire eyes glinted hate glared; the fool only chuckled at her
disrespect. Not a good sign, she thought.
Zirondi accepted a goblet of cold wine from a slave and wet his lips. The
prisoner included Attitude amongst her many charms. He liked that. She would
make an excellent candidate for the sacrifice.
"Yes, of course you are my prisoner," he said and wiped his fat lips, "but more
than that, I plan to use you. You are to be my sacrifice. You must have appeased
many before...now you will get to appease the Roman God of Fire, Vulcan
himself!"
Her throat tightened but her voice remained steady and she said, "So that's why
this sorry spit of an island is called Vulcano, right? Because you dolts are so
caught up in serving the blacksmith who forges Jupiter's thunderbolts and Mars'
artillery."
"Right you are, Contessa or may I call you Carlia? Professional courtesy and all
that, you know..."
"I have no courtesy with stable animals like you."
"Here you are, your Highness." The soldier returned with a light ivory colored
cloth folded his forearms.
"Ahh, good," Zirondi said and sipped more wine before placing it on a side
table, "let's see what our royal sacrifice has to offer. Strip her!"
Rough hands fingered the gold clasp near the base of Carlia's throat. Fingers
pulled back the blonde strands of hair that softly fell over her shoulders. The
fine material was opened and then parted. The heavy iron chains held her sure as
she was undressed.
"The soldier has brought a gauzy tunic much more appropriate for our offering
here, but these," his words slowed as he cupped one warm breast and gently
lifted it higher, "must be shown to the people. What a shame it would be to show
them only to the gods." His grip delicately squeezed the breast in his grip. A
reddish nipple adamantly poked out at him. It was surrounded by a dark pink oval
and then the creaminess of the rest of the breast.
He continued to weigh the soft firmness between his fingers and cupped in his
palm. Zirondi looked back into the prisoner's eyes. Glad that he had her
attention once more he said, "Your skin is very fair. You are very beautiful. As
a royal, I see that much of your body hair is shaven."
"What would you know of Beauty?" Carlia spat out her words as she stood ramrod
still. Being undressed and then groped by swine did little to diminish her fury,
but then there seemed little else to do but submit.
Just as she was about to twist away, the grip on her body released.
"This is much better," he said and held out the diaphanous citron. "Put this on
her, but leave a deep gap. Then let's go. The people and gods await."
During the driest part of each year ancients from around local Sicilian
territories gatherd just offshore from Sicily itself on the small island of
Vulcano. It was on this island that the locals paid tribute to Vulcan, believed
to be one who crafted thunderbolts for Jupiter and artillery for Mars.
Worshippers gathered near the base of Mount Vesuvius annually near the end of
the month of August to pay tribute Vulcan at what was considered the godly
smokestack of his forge. Fires during the drought season were not uncommon and
Vulcania was held when they were most likely in hopes by the people that dried
brush and small fires would be enough to keep Vulcan from blowing his top and
erupting Vesuvius.
This year the party from the town of Stabiae was all the rage for what they
brought to celebrate Vulcanalia. Roman historian Pliny the Elder, no less, made
note of the procession that wound its way to the summit of Vesuvius. The
townspeople, with their leader up front, brought with them two carts pulled
mules. The first cart carried a huge cross, its upright end hanging over the
rear of the wagon and covered with syrupy pitch. Following behind was the most
spectacular. Tall in the cart stood a tall woman of exquisite features. Golden
tresses fell over her shoulders and through the thin tunic she wore, it was
plain to see the outline of the female's breasts as they jiggled with the cart's
rocky movement. Chains held down her arms and her legs spread. Word quickly
spread that the woman was named Carlia, a captured royal, and that she was to be
sacrificed on the cross to the gods.
Dry winds blustered the crowd as they ascended to the top of the volcano.
Zirondi issued loud orders as the procession stopped and his soldiers scurried
about. Dust blew and eyes were shielded as they watched the cross first unloaded
to be laid on the parched earth. The human sacrifice followed. Other offerings
were forgotten as all watched on the arid summit as Zirondi ordered that the
female be stripped. In a barren setting whipped by hot air, the ripe nude was a
welcome sight.
Carlia fought to focus on who could help. The soles of her feet burned as they
left the rugged cart floor and stepped down onto the hard earth. From the side
she heard Zirondi's voice and soon the nearly transparent gown she had been
given was pulled away. She tried to concentrate and ignore the many stares and
catcalls of the throng around her.
"Lay her down on the cross. Hold out her arms. Someone also hold her ankles."
Zirondi's voice rose in excitement above the noise. He also tried to sound
officious despite the urge to cheer. On the procession up he had noticed
Vannozzo. He and the other big-town mayors looked green as an olive grove with
envy. Zirondi looked at the leaders now and saw them staring slack-jawed at the
blonde nude. His one-upmanship gambit by bringing this royal as a human
sacrifice on Vulcanalia was clearly a success. It was hard to contain his
self-satisfied smile at putting them all to shame. "Hold her steady. I have the
mallet and spikes."
Carlia gasped as her back hit the hard wood of the cross. She looked up into the
cloudless Mediterranean sky. Someone back at the base had placed a garland of
garlic cloves around her head. The cloves and the little leaves interfered with
the sky and then she remembered! Bona Dea, the good goddess, and the secret
ritual that many of these same would celebrate in two month's time. Fervently,
Carlia prayed to the good goddess to deliver her. She only hoped that her
prayers would be answered in time.
Zirondi pressed the point of one gnarled iron spike onto the upturned pale
wrist. Remembering what he had heard about the nasty business of crucifixion, he
probed the flesh for the Spot of Destot, that gap near the end of the palm that
also avoided veins and tendons and bones. He needed this sacrifice to leave just
long enough. Finding what he sought, he pressed the iron harder to hold his
place and raised the mallet high into the heavy afternoon air.
"What's a matter Caius? No guts for the task? Not man enough, eh?"
Zirondi didn't have to look up to recognize the snide voice of Vannozzo. The
cretin probably brought over all of his friends, too. He didn't bother to
answer, but instead gripped the iron spike tighter. In doing so, he probably
pressed it harder into the female's wrist, but that did not matter. What
mattered most was his pride. Ignoring the roughness of the spike, he raised the
mallet higher. He'd show anyone with such a snide tone who was really the man.
Carlia winced as she felt the metal bite into her wrist. She prayed faster for
help from Bona Dea or any deity. Her eyes smarted as they winced from salty
sweat. She turned her head over to see her wrist and the spike just as a blur
descended like a swift shadow from the sky.
Maybe he had swung with too much force. He searched the female's face. Her
beautiful features were distorted. Her eyes bulged. Her voice deafened with its
screaming cry to Vulcan. His arm that held the spike felt a slick warmth
covering it. Blood pooled at the spike base. But, it still stood too high. He
raised the mallet again, and again struck true onto the spike head. He felt the
iron slip deeper into the arm. Zirondi's eyes spotted the nipple. It glistened
like the rest of the bitch. Scattered scarlet spotted the torso then turned into
thin lines that rolled down the curves. He pounded the spike once more.
By all the gods Carlia thought that she could take no more. Sheer terror coursed
through her veins. The second wrist had been almost as bad as the first. Panic
throbbed. She had to escape; the hands that had so firmly held her to the wood
now were gone. Her neck strained to raise up her head, but that was as far as
she could go. To her horror she now realized that she was pinned to the cross by
the nails. The screams left her parched and almost soundless. Carlia felt her
bladder release and thought for a moment that such public humiliation was well
worth the price of freedom until she realized that even after urinating there
was no flight
Few noticed the slight temblor as all were transfixed on the maiden as she was
so viciously nailed to the cross. They gasped at the sound of each strike.
Muscles along the bare legs burgeoned. Many held hands over their ears at the
first sound of her cries. The ribs shone brightly as they expanded. The pounding
seemed to force fresh sweat from every pore. Those that chose to look at her
face rather than the writhing frame saw contorted features conveying almost
inhuman agony.
Zirondi wiped his sweating brow and felt something wet cross his forehead. He
looked down at his right hand and saw that the fingers were covered in the
female's blood. He wiped them across her chest but only succeeded in streaking
trails left by his fingers across the heaving breast and over the clearly
visible rising bones. Something foul-smelling caught his attention and in the
corner of his eye he saw the bare crotch and the gold stream. He chuckled under
his breath. He scared the piss out of her. Looking back to his carpentry work,
he saw the two wide heads of the spikes sticking out just above the bitch's
bloodied wrists. Getting up on one knee, he started to stand.
Zirondi stood, satisfied that his work here was now done and pleased that his
virile action had silenced the bombastic Vannozzo. He signaled to his men to
raise the cross.
Most had stayed atop the active volcano through the late afternoon. They had
their reasons. Vulanalia was an annual festival but this year's event was made
special with the human sacrifice. All were happy with the confidence that
Vulcanus must be pleased with their offering. Hard as the current drought made
life, the gods would show the people favor and they would be led by Vulcanus.
The high setting afforded many views and those that saw the sun cast further
shadows and the bright blue waters of the Mediterranean turn a dark purple spoke
to others. With darkness near the festive group began the trek back down the
mountain leaving the crucified alone.
Carlia could not sleep. Any movement brought poignant shards of pain, yet move
she did as to be still was impossible. Numb as they were, her limbs needed to
push her up the cross so as to breathe. She would gasp for air until the pain
would overpower and her slide back down the upright would continue.
Bitter cold came with the dark. Stars sparkled and then faded as a new day
dawned. Temblors throughout the night grew more frequent and severe. From the
mountain's base, early risers looked up to the summit. In the distance rose a
pale figure and dark cross silhouetted against the morning sky.
A strong jolt in the earth startled those already awake and just rising. And
then the earth was peaceful. Another shake, and one much stronger, followed
within minutes. Frightened faces looked at each other at the base camp. A third
tremor, the strongest yet, shook the party. Surely, Vulcanus must be working
hard.
Mass hysteria ensued. Families and friends gathered and all left behind their
camp sites to flee for safer ground.
Carlia's voice croaked in fear. Much as she hated the tortuous cross, it had
been her home of late. The upright shook with the ground and then fell sideways
until stopping at a radical angle toward the earth. No longer upright, her body
shifted. Carlia almost felt the relief. Her left breast now lay across the base
of her right breast that was now lowest to the ground. Matted and filthy hair
fell over much of her face. Pressures that had seemed enormous slowly eased on
her one wrist. The other now pulled. She could hardly feel either. Carlia
chanced a glimpse and weakly opened her eyes. Through her hair she was able to
see the waters beyond the island. Looking downward, she saw how much closer she
now was to the earth. She was just about to once more hope for escape when the
ground shook again. It lasted longer and felt harder but the upright remained
rooted in the ground. A vile smell assaulted her nostrils. Carlia's eyes opened
once more and she gasped. Fissures were parting the ground beneath her. A
sulphurous steam rose from the rent soil. She heard herself cry out as she hung
closer to the heating earth.
Journalism got the best of Pliny the Elder as he ran with the others but turned
back to see the cross atop the mountain. From the distance he could just make
out the shape though it now looked as though it was angled toward the ground
rather than upright as it used to be. Unfortunately, he didn't stop running as
he looked back and didn't see the tree until it was too late. Pliny the Elder
smacked hard into the cyprus. The rest of the frightened pack paid no heed to
the fallen journalist and continued running away for his or her own safety.
Carlia shook her head. Heat from the opening ground ignited tiny flames that
burst with light and then extinguished as bits of wood on the unfinished timber
ignited. Her own body flushed with heat. She tried to twist her hips from
hanging any lower toward the source. Unsuccessfully, she tried pulling herself
up with her left wrist.
The first volley started small enough but even given its size issued missiles
all too injurious. Ragged pumice fragments flew up. Human flesh was no match.
Hot rocks sliced across the tender body. Ash bubbled and flew. Someday
scientists might name such an event after Pliny, call it something like a
plinian eruption, but for now it was an eruption. Rocks and dirt joined the ash
striking out at anything, or anyone in its ascent.
Carlia coughed. She was choking. Her feet suddenly hurt. Angling her head to
see, the pitch smeared on the lower portion of the upright was on fire! The
flames were already licking her toes. She grimaced as another rock shot past and
sliced across her belly. Strands from her hair began smoldering.
EPILOGUE
Despite Zirondi's attractive tribute Vulcanus turned out not to be so merciful
to his subjects. The Vulcanalia Festival ended in disaster. Carlia was instantly
killed when Vesuvius erupted. The others who had fled, including Zirondi, were
all covered in heavy layers of ash and suffocated. Towns as well as people were
destroyed.
Later generations live in Sicily, Pliny the Elder is remembered, many know of
Pompeii and volcanoes are still fearsome. Gone are characters like Caius
Baldassario Zirondi, Vannozzo and Carlia who remain today, as they were then,
mere figments of the imagination.
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