Sacrifice

"A raven-haired lady appeared ...". Detail from The Lady of Shalott
Looking at Lancelot (1894) by J. W. Waterhouse

[This is the last part of Manius's letter to Quintus - see the previous part. As readers might remember Manius had first fought with the witch in the forest and later he had met lascivious Fauna, a pantheistic deity who had gripped him with such violence that he had lost consciousness.]

[Italian original]

I wake up lying on a beach, Quintus. I don’t know how long I have been lying there nor why. The murmur of the waves mixes with the rustling of the surrounding trees.

Night is falling. Stupefied, I move closer to the shore-line.

The moon is rising from the sea and showing her full, benign disk. I immerse my head seven times into the sea water in order to purify myself.

I then invoke the name of the goddess who rules the universe:

Full moon rising from the ocean. Click for credits

Tu Luna,
luce feminea conlustrans cuncta terrarum,
iam nunc extremis subsiste,
et pausam pacem, Regina, tribue.

You Moon,
Who with your female light illuminate all lands,
Please help me in this time of adversity
And grant me, Queen, peace and rest.

And here the incipient night appears to reveal for an instant its silent secrets.

In the distance I see young people approaching. As soon as I distinguish them better I realize that they are Romans, wearing Roman sandals and tunics! My heart exults, Quintus! After months spent among the savages I am at last in an area controlled by the British! They are not too different from us and especially from our classmates from Albien, although they are now rather Italianized.

They are escorting a young man, hooded and blindfolded, whose face I cannot discern. I can tell he’s an Angle from his woollen tunic and tight leggings. His arms are tied behind his back.


Two nice-looking girls whose fair tresses are dressed upon their forehead come up to me and take me by the hand. Their aspect, nordic, misty almost and yet pure and inspired, gives me a feeling of peace.


The sound of a horn echoes in the night. Everyone turns and begins to walk towards a wood that is visible in the distance on a rise overlooking the beach.

As we are moving behind the high ground and proceeding along a narrow path I gradually realize that we are approaching a large Roman property, with orderly, cultivated fields, although its splendour now seems a thing of the past.

The property is fortified by a wooden palisade and a rampart. Armed guards patrol its perimeter.

"A path between a double row of willows...". Click for credits and to enlarge

We are let into the property and walk down a path between a double row of willows until we come to the main building, made of solid blocks of stone. The construction had partially fallen down and its missing parts have been replaced with solid logs. Stone and mortar seem forgotten arts in this isle at the end of the world.

The high two-leaf carved-bronze door opens creaking on its hinges. Once past the vestibulum we enter a majestic square peristylium around which the rooms of the main building are arranged.

A peristylium, again from a painting by John William Waterhouse.

I notice the signs of time here as well. Many columns and the portico roof have been rebuilt in wood even though the overall appearance is pleasant, showing care, love. The far side of the peristylium opens onto a wood - a birch, rowan, willow and ash tree grove - that I had already discerned from the beach and from where one can enjoy a magnificent view over the sea.

At the heart of the grove an altar rises, not quadragular, like ours, but circular, in the Celtic way [see below].

Everyone forms a circle around the altar in front of which, in the direction of the sea, a weird wooden structure has been placed, like a throne. And here comes a procession of people of both sexes wearing immaculate linen tunics. They advance among chants, melodious sounds of flutes and acute clinking of sistras.

Sacrifice Rock at Maria Taferl, Austria. The altar was used
by the ancient Celts to make sacrifices upon.

They precede a breathtaking raven-haired lady whose face is hidden by a veil. She advances with slow and sacral steps. Besides her hair I can only see her snow-white forehead and shiny sea-green eyes.

The lady, surely the domina of the house, sits down nobly on the wooden throne. It is the deep of the night. The grove is lit only by the torches and by the rays of the full moon now high in the sky.

Everyone drinks from ceramic cups placed on inlaid-wood sidetables. The two girls come up and offer wooden cups to me and to the hooded man. One helps the tied man to drink, the other hands me the bowl that I start sipping. It's a strange tasting liquor, not entirely unpleasant.

"Why are our cups made of wood?" I ask her in Latin.
"There's a reason for everything. Do not ask, Roman" she replies.

The joy of hearing my mother-tongue again is overrun by the doubt about what I am drinking and especially by the perception of a strange tension in the air, as if something were about to happen.

Now the two maidens do not pay heed to us anymore. Hands joined, they are absorbed in prayer.

The music falls silent. Everyone is looking at the throne.

The woman is nobly sitting on it. The thin fabric of her tunic is showing rather than hiding a body with rounded hips and turgid breasts that seem impatient with the constriction of the linen.

The charm she radiates is ever intensifying.


The music, resumed with the addition of percussions, is getting punchy. People infected by it suggest slight rhythmic movements with their bodies.

Finally the woman stands up and, with a fierce look, lifting her arms toward the night planet, she thus exclaims:

O Queen of Heaven,

Who smile at mortals

With a benign look;

O Goddess,

Whom with any rite

Or name

We are allowed to invoke,

Be it Venus, Diana,

Isis or Brigantia:

You the people of green Albien

Call in the time of adverse fortune.

You who the bright peaks of the sky,

Or the desolate silences of hell,

Rule with a nod:

We invoke you, queen immortal!

We call you with our pleading voice!

Accept our gifts, lady divine,

And guide us, mother of all universes!

Then the woman removes her veil and wig and shows her real look.

I feel my heart skipping beats. The matchless lush red hair gushes out, partly loose and partly interwoven with strings and ribbons. The wild redhead and formidable warrior, & the beautiful lady of the house are therefore the same person!

She looks at me with a mixture of triumph and tenderness. She then unties her tunic and appears naked, her muscular and well proportioned body offered for all to see.

A whirlwind of feelings prevents me from realizing that strong hands are clutching both me and the hooded man and holding us nailed.

At this time the sorceress' green eyes flash and her appearance begins to change.

[I felt so strange, my vision was distorted, Quintus, I do not know if this actually happened]

... eagle, majestic and proud ... deer with moist eyes ... hound tenacious, nervous ... enigmatic gray-eyed feline.

And then hound again, and cat, a white cat and black cat, and also a red striped cat with shiny claws and sneaky eyes.

The woman, once regained human features, finally opens her hands and a frog slipping from her fingers jumps onto her breast. A diamond appears on the creature’s warty head. It is such a bright gem that I cannot but stare at it, mesmerized. And the diamond grows, and grows, and grows and it gets so big and blinding that I lose my senses.

When I gain consciousness I find myself face down and tightly bound to a wooden scaffold placed on top of the circular altar. A posture rather dishonourable, to tell the truth, since, having had my clothes removed my rear is offered to the sight of everybody.

Next to me, tied up and exposed much in the same way, is the young man whose hood and blindfold have been removed. His muscular body looks kind of familiar. I take a better look at him and recognizing him immediately I cry astounded:

“Qwil!! What are you doing here!!”
“Same thing as you: showing my butt up in the air.”
“When did you arrive in Britannia?”
“When did we arrive ... more than one month ago.”
“What? You mean …”
“That the whole crazy bunch is with me, except Quintus. They are British, after all. They wanted to rescue you and at the same time fight for their country in danger."

"We have been looking for you for weeks. Then thanks to Pavlos, a Greek merchant with a good informers network across the country, we have localized you, although the exact location still eluded us. I found it today thanks to a ploy ... "

"That's why you were dressed like an Angle?"

"Well, being of Germanic race and getting along decently with the local dialect I sneaked out of the taberna where we were eating and relaxing (a pretty boring place) and with stolen clothes I started asking questions around. Rumors spread fast. But in a forest not far from your tower .... AHHHH! "

Qwil's cry interrupts the story. A red welt is showing across his buttocks.

I turn around. Behind us three women are standing, bare breasted and holding a bundle of thin birch branches with their right hand. The one who has lashed Qwil first is a virgin. To her right is a mother whose acrid smell of milk penetrates our nostrils. Finally, an old woman with visionary eyes. Another lash falls, this time from the mother, who hits harder. Then it is the old woman's turn, no less vigorous than the other two. Qwil, not taken aback this time and clenching his teeth doesn't emit any groan.

“I have a faint idea why they are doing this” I say.
“Me too. It's a sacrifice, I’m afraid. And it doesn’t seem difficult to grasp who the chosen victims are."

The blows continue to fall upon Qwil’s butt and reach the number of nine. The women always hit in turn and calmly follow the gestures of an ancient rite. It is never possible to predict when the next blow is about to arrive.

Dolce far Niente (1880) by John William Waterhouse (Roma, 1849 – Londra, 1917)

It's my turn now. I grit my teeth. It is again the virgin who strikes first. The pain is excruciating, and I too try not to emit any groan. Turning around to look at the young woman I am stunned since I seem to recognize those green eyes flashes. What hell of a witchcraft is that?

The lashes continue to fall upon my sensitive rear until they too reach the number of nine. I then hear the witch rustle behind me and whisper into my ear while stroking my hair: "Now you come with me, soldier. It is time we clarify a few issues. "

Untied but still immobilized by extremely robust hands I am pushed behind the sorceress. Leaving the grove we reach the majestic quadrangular peristyle in whose central garden grass, flowers, fountains and ponds are arranged with elegant symmetry.

We come to a nice room overlooking the colonnade [see picture above]. Its floor mosaic depicts a woodland scene with Diana the huntress and two nymphs to her sides, three perfectly proportioned figures, with bare legs, arms and breasts and hair loose in the wind. The walls are frescoed with delicate floral motifs that form the backdrop to scenes in which nymphs, satyrs and humans chase one another with Cupids busy to bring the joys & torments of love to everybody. In front, a bed of fine wood inlaid with ivory, tortoiseshell, and gold.

ψ 

The cubiculum [ie a Roman bedroom] curtain closes behind us just as I exclaim:

"Qwil, the young man who was tied next to me, must absolutely be set free. He is not an Angle, but a Roman like me, and, perhaps, you."