Around a week ago I awoke from a peculiar dream. This particular vision was saturated with the exotic architecture and alien faces of Etruscan art, a fantasm full of portents and feathered flight patterns, oracular symbols signifying nothing. But upon waking, I was consumed by a single conviction, a single desire for the day. I wished to see more of that alien race and her idols.
Etruscan art grips my soul at it’s strangest level. There is a chthonic quality, an unnameable grandeur, that radiates off the idols left by that race. When I cast my eyes on the fired clay and terracotta, on those charnel figures of a dead epoch, truly I can say: This is a people I do not understand.
And yet from the bones of their legacy, from the forms left by their craftsmen, I glimpse the shade of something that I sense within myself. A sense of obsession, a particular superstition, a relationship with the unseen that I have walked hand in hand with since childhood.
Seneca had this to say about them:
“Whereas we believe lightning to be released as a result of the collision of clouds, they believe that the clouds collide so as to release lightning: for as they attribute all to deity, they are led to believe not that things have a meaning insofar as they occur, but rather that they occur because they must have a meaning.”
The first article I ever wrote on substack was on Etruscan divination. Their inexplicable ability to read the will of the gods in the entrails of livestock, to divine the future from a flash in the sky. I have a deep affection for these phantoms, for these long-dead ghosts, for this ethnos out of time.
I decided I would get my required fix from within the Etruscan Museum of the Villa Giulia. A location that I strangely had never visited before.
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I arrived around noon. And from the moment I entered that place, I found myself under an ineffable spell, a trance-like daze of silent wonder and awe.
Upon entering the old Pope Julius’ villa you are presented with a truly celestial vista, serene and magnificent. The entrance is a harmonious portico adorned with paintings inspired by the grotesques of Rome’s Domus Aurea. Painted pergolas with white roses and jasmine crown a circle of deities, composed of melodious colors that simply sing to your soul.
After several minutes of soaking in this glow, I entered the museum proper.
The aura changes immediately upon entering. A tunnel of strange forms consumes you, Krater vessels decorated in midnight brush strokes, narrating scenes of dead myths. Pitch black Bucchero ceramics of an unnerving texture. Bronze idols that resemble a Subsaharan witch doctors fetish, imbued with uncanny power and angst. Elongations. A vertical dimension.
Another day I will catalog the treasures of that place in an article, but for the sake of our topic, we will skip a few hours ahead. Right before I saw Apollo.
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I descended the staircase feeling heavy and drained, almost hungover, on the comedown of a peculiar form of religious intoxication. Hours of feasting on strange forms had left my soul queasy. There was an urgency in my pace, it was time to leave this place of forbidden energy and regain my strength with a kebab and a smoke. But as I reached the last step a mass of mesmerizing muscle met my gaze.
Beautiful ochre biceps attached to forearms fit for a broadsword. Clenched ligaments coiling in potential energy, deltoids of exquisite proportion, pectorals that would put Schwarzenegger to shame. And yet, an eerie mutilation. Before my eyes stood a form in decline, suspended by unseen magic, a bodybuilder blown half to bits by shrapnel or Father Time.
Heracles stood before me, but this Heracles was a far cry from his sable shadows adorning the Krater vessels.
He was broken. Shattered. His imposing musculature was revealed to be as fragile as one of those painted vases. The corpse of a hero, the corpse of a god. But what I found truly disturbing was the expression still radiating from his mangled face, an expression made manifest through a single eye.
A shock. A horror. An endless scream into the void. What manner of being possessed the power to slay this monster of a man?
And as I tossed this thought into the recesses of my mind, I turned my head and had my question answered.
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I have been trying now for a good hour to properly describe my first glimpse of that Apollo, to reconstruct in words the unspeakable sensation that touched my soul, how his countenance seemed to manifest in a pitch of smoke, a form beckoning in my periphery. How I turned my head from dismembered Hercules and bore witness to a figure that still flickers in the embers of my mind.
A being imbued with a terrible majesty, pulsating with a peculiar glow, how human hands managed to craft such an extraordinary figure… God only knows.
Photographs completely and utterly fail to capture the fire of this idol’s essence. I had seen pictures of it before, it was a familiar form, but a computer screen could not capture the inexplicable inertia of his presence.
Never before have I looked upon a statue, and instinctively understood that I was being watched.
The photo gives him a slightly goofy impression, obfuscating the eerie reality that can only be experienced in person.
This ancient Apollo seemed to me a being of paradox. All at once abolishing the poet philosopher’s artificial polarity. No man would have dared to posit a dichotomy as foolish and stupid as "Apollonian vs Dionysian" if they had looked for even a moment upon the visage of the Apollo of Veii.
A majestic apparition: Chthonic and yet…. hypercosmic. Simultaneously a deity of the depths and one of Proclus’ Henads. His face casts a look of black lightning, mirroring the jagged bolt stitched into his cloak, an expression beyond good and evil. For the first time in my life, I felt as if I was in the presence of a god. A deity far removed from the loving Lamb of Golgotha.
For a moment I sympathized with the protagonists of Lovecraftian pulp, I too had come face to face with a horrible unknown. But the horror of Lovecraftian gods is their distance from us. There is nothing remotely human in the sprawling horror of Azathoth, who reigns “in the spiral black vortices of the ultimate void of Chaos.” There is nothing resembling a man in the Shoggoth, those “massive amoeba-like creatures made out of iridescent black slime, with multiple eyes floating on the surface.” But here, in the countenance of Apollo, is the form of a man, and yet a human form utterly alien and uncanny. Remote but present. A form standing among us, who stood among us in past epochs, who gazed down upon men offering prayer and incense. An idol that drank the sweet smoke of meat offerings with the same look he gives now. Vertiginous, and yet… seductive. Awe-inspiring. Dignified. Even now, a small part of me, a long-dormant impulse whispers at the sight, to fall down upon my knees in supplication. As a Catholic, this instinct is more disturbing than any Hollywood horror production, far more chilling than any nocturnal fever dream.
I finally unlocked my eyes with this Apollo and became aware of a strange reality. Apollo was standing before another Heracles. Another mangled mass. Originally, the statues of Apollo, Heracles, Artemis, and Hermes would have stood above the apex of the Temple of Portonaccio, dancing on the roof beams in choreographed contention, a frozen moment of battle no different than the gently painted brush strokes of the Krater vessels. They depicted the mythological struggle for possession of the Ceryneian hind, sacred to Artemis, with its gilt antlers. Apollo and Heracles, like all good Greek brothers, were no strangers to violent bouts between themselves. Apollo was to lose this battle, and the presence of the divine messenger Mercury testified that everything was decided by Jupiter’s will.
And so how peculiar, how absurd, that two millennium later they stand together again, but instead of face to face in combat, Heracles has been half eviscerated, as Apollo flashes a sardonic smile, no longer needing to draw his glittering bow back. As if he has vanquished his foe with only a look.
An even more incredible is that directly behind this Heracles is his red ochre twin, also shattered like a potter’s vessel.
As if this single look had cast both aspects of his foe into oblivion, perfectly aligned by some invisible force, gloating over a victory two millennia late.
And even stranger…
A small piece of Mercury also survived, Mercury the emissary of Jupiter, Mercury who played the peacemaker.
Head severed and glaring mad, pupil uncentered from iris, a frenzied expression too strange for words.
Before continuing, I would like to present a small passage from Schopenhauer.
“Spinoza says that if a stone which has been projected through the air, had consciousness, it would believe that it was moving of its own free will. I add this only, that the stone would be right. The impulse given it is for the stone what the motive is for me, and what in the case of the stone appears as cohesion, gravitation, rigidity, is in its inner nature the same as that which I recognise in myself as will, and what the stone also, if knowledge were given to it, would recognise as will.”
A terrible hypothesis began to assemble itself in the recesses of my mind. That this ancient statue had some primordial will altogether alien to our own conceptions of causality, and had reassembled itself here, in this position, to gloat in his victory over his fellow idols. To allow himself for but a century or two- lifetimes for us, but mere moments for him- to let the masses come and snap photographs and admire, as he stood above his slain foe, all the while the decapitated emissary of Jupiter’s dead volition witnessed madly from his stoop.
And then another revelation swelled up within me, the fact that after millennia of hibernation, this Apollo decided to unveil himself during the greatest war Europe had ever before known, in 1916, during the first paroxysm of carnage that scarred the lands he once reigned over. As if he willingly returned to this earth, to reassemble his terracotta countenance and witness a new age.
I wonder if the men who discovered him glittering in the earth, believed that their discovery was a result of their own volition, for a part of me fears that some other force, of an alien cognition, had simply willed some ants to prop him up awake.
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In the following days, I found myself unable to turn away from this phantasm, from this shadow flickering in my mind’s eye.
There seemed to me a constellation of various symbols and signatures within the hallowed walls of the Villa Giulia, which were in turn sewn into the Apollo of Veii, a phantom thread that had now stitched itself into my soul.
This Apollo had an air of the infernal, a hint of sulfur mingling with his perfume essence. And it was this exotic and paradoxical scent that sent me on an astonishing trail of discovery.
The Etruscan Apollo was a god by the name of Apulu. He was syncretized with the purely Hellenic Apollo due to their many similarities, however, there are a few glaring differences. Apulu is really an epithet for the Etruscan god Suri, meaning black. Like the Greek Apollo, Suri was indeed a god of the Sun, light, health, and plagues, and oracular in nature. A deity of prophecy. But, there is one great distinction. Suri was both a sun god and a chthonic god. A sun god of the netherworld, the infernal regions.
A god of the Black Sun.
Upon coming upon this information, a terrible clarity began to sneak up on me. The matrix of interests and obsessions that has possessed me in recent months began to seamlessly intertwine together in this single statue.
It is time for some context before continuing.
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“…Of the fairest glories that mortals may attain, to him is given to sail to the furthest bound. Yet neither ship nor marching feet may find the wondrous way to the gatherings of the Hyperborean people.Yet was it with these that Perseus the warrior chief once feasted, entering their homes, and chanced upon their sacrifices unto the god, those famous offerings of hecatombs of asses; for in their banquets and rich praise Apollon greatly delights, and laughs to see the rampant lewdness of those brutish beasts. Nor is the Mousa (Muse) a stranger to their life, but on all sides the feet of maidens dancing, the full tones of the lyre and pealing flutes are all astir; with leaves of gleaming laurel bound upon their hair, they throng with happy hearts to join the revel. Illness and wasting old age visit not this hallowed race, but far from toil and battle they dwell secure from fate’s remorseless vengeance…”
-Pindar Pythian Ode 10
Apollo was originally said to be from Hyperborea, and of all the gods he was most explicitly associated with that land, a land he periodically sojourned to. It is beyond the scope of this article to explain the myths of that place, but if you are interested, I would recommend reading Arktos The Polar Myth by Joscelyn Godwin. (Recommended to me by my friend Plethonist). After reading that book, you will be able to grasp the full implications of this article.
Here is a summary in the purely Greek context:
It seems that nobody has before highlighted this simple fact, that the Apollo of Veii has a particularly striking Hyperborean context. The iconographic scene taking place between the Apollo of Veii and Hercules is the struggle for the Ceryneian Hind, his third labor, which partially takes place in Hyperborea. And behind Apollo, stands a statue of his mother Leto, holding Apollo as a child. A significance you will soon understand.
Another aspect of Apollo that must be grasped is his association with the wolf. A connection that remains obscure in popular consciousness.
“Vow to Apollo, the wolf-born god, famed for his bow, that thou wilt sacrifice a glorious hecatomb of firstling lambs, when thou shalt come to thy home, the city of sacred Zeleia.”
-The Illiad of Homer
Again, it is beyond the scope of this article to fully elucidate Apollo’s lupine nature, and I recommend reading Apollo the Wolf God by Daniel Gershenson.
When Apollo’s mother Leto was pregnant with the god, she “came to the island (Delos) from Hyperborea accompanied by a pack of wolves where she gave birth to Apollon with the assistance of Eileithyia who was summoned from the northern realm to further the labor.”
Antoninus Liberalis suggests Leto took on the form of a wolf when she traveled from Hyperborea to Delos with Apollo in her womb, while Aelian states, “Wolves are not easily delivered of their young, only after twelve days and twelve nights, for the people of Delos maintain that this was the length of time that it took Leto to travel from the Hyperboreoi to Delos.”
It appears as if Apollo’s wolfish attributes are most emphasized in his connection to the Northern Hyperborea. I will dig deeper into Apollo’s lupine essence in a moment, but let us first return to the Etruscan context, Apulu, or Suri, and his most famous surviving depiction, the Apollo of Veii.
The priests of Soranus (the Latinization of Suri) were called Hirpi Sorani. (The Wolves of Soranus).
Servius the Grammarian records a peculiar story about these priests.
Basically, “once, during a sacrifice to Dīs Pater, several wolves ran up to the altar and stole the sacrificial pieces. The shepherds gave chase and ran to a cave – into Mount Soracte – from which such suffocating fumes emanated that those who pursued fell dead. The pestilence that soon spread throughout the country was connected with the death of the shepherds, while the oracle, to whom they turned for advice on how to get rid of the plague, replied that the plague would stop as soon as the inhabitants, like wolves, began to lead a robber life. These people took the name Hirpi Sorani (from Sabine: hirpus, 'wolf') and devoted themselves to the cult of the god Soranus, who was later identified with Dīs Pater due the volcanic properties of the mountain and the underground nature of the god.”
Now this is truly fascinating. This story almost perfectly parallels the theorized ancient Indo-European wolf cults. The recent book “Werewolves, Warriors and Winter Sacrifices” explains the nature of these roving gangs of Indo-European wolf warriors.
While the authors do not bring up Servius' account of the Hirpi Sorani, they do mention Lupercalia, which is believed to have originated in the aforementioned Etruscan priesthood.
Taken together, it seems fairly conclusive proof of Apollo’s (or at least his Etruscan counterparts) northern origin, or even stranger, a literal Hyperborean one.
And so how peculiar, how bizarre, that within the Villa Giulia’s Etruscan museum, a short distance from the Apollo of Veii, is a unique piece of pottery.
The museum display identifies the figures on the outer shell as Heracles, Deianira, and Nessus, while the inner figure is simply described as a Wolf-Man who may be a Chthonic deity.
And the particular form of this wolfman, the position of his limbs, it is the striking shape of a swastika, and not just any swastika, but a left-turning swastika. And if Guenon and legions of other orientalists and esotericists are correct in identifying the swastika as primarily a polar symbol, (and only a solar one secondarily) representing the Arktoi constellations, we are faced with an astonishing array of symbols.
Apollo is both a solar god and a Hyperborean and therefore polar god, who is associated with the wolf. And this Etruscan form of Apollo, Suri, is a black sun god.
I understand that much of this will be lost upon you, and this is why I have supplied the necessary book titles to understand the things I am getting at.
To make matters stranger, the scene that is depicted in the outer ring iconographically alludes to the death of Heracles.
Events begin in the period shortly after Heracles married his third wife, Deianira. Travelling through Aetolia, Heracles and Deianira came to the River Evenus, where the centaur Nessus acted as ferryman, transporting those who required help, across the fast flowing river.
Deianira therefore climbed upon the back of the centaur, who carried her across the river. The beauty of Deianira brought the savagery of Nessus to the fore, and the centaur decided to abduct the wife of Heracles so that he could have his way with her.
Thus, with Heracles still on the far bank, Nessus made to run off with Deianira still on his back, the screaming of Deianira alerted Heracles to events, and quickly Heracles notched an arrow and let fly. The arrow hit its intended target, and as each of Heracles’ arrows was dipped in the blood of the Lernaean Hydra, poison was soon racking through the body of the centaur.
Recognising that his own death was imminent, Nessus plotted his revenge, and before Heracles could cross the river and return to the side of his wife, Nessus was convincing Deianira that the blood stained cloak which Nessus wore, was a powerful love token, and that if Heracles were to wear it, then the love of Heracles for Deianira would be reignited.Years passed by and the insecurity of Deianira came to the fore when she learned that Heracles was returning home with the beautiful Iole, princess of Oechalia, as his concubine. Worried that she was about to be replaced in the affections of Heracles, Deianira remembered the words of Nessus, and so retrieved the Tunic of Nessus from its hiding place.
Deianira then gave the tunic to the herald Lichas, telling him to give it to Heracles, so that he might return home in a new shirt.
Believing that what he was being presented with was just a normal shirt, Heracles donned the item of clothing, but immediately the poison of the Lernaean Hydra, which was present in the remnants of blood of Nessus, entered the body of Heracles.
Miguel Serrano is having a stroke right now.
So, how curious, that in the middle of this ring alluding to Heracles’ death, there is a smiling wolfman, with a terrible look in his eye, a look reminiscent of a certain statue from Veii…
One more note before continuing. Let us briefly return to the adolescent Indo-European werewolves.
By some stroke of fate, right next to the painted wolfman, stands a collection of dice made of human bone.
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In the next article, we will go further into this matrix of symbols, to grasp the true nature of the Apollonian. I will leave you with a brief look at what is to come, from Gershensoms book.
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Before ending this article, I would like to pass into the void of speculation and acausality, to explore an unspeakable oracular element hidden in the Apollo of Veii.
But we must first restate two elements of this bizarre equation.
Apollo is an oracular god, which fits dialogues perfectly with the wind-wolf attribute when viewed from the proper logical lens. (We will discuss the wind wolf element further in the next article).
The second element that must be restated, is that Apollo is a god of medicine and healing. Sometimes this healing attribute was mediated by his son Asclepius. BUT:
There is a double nature here, “he who has wounded shall heal.” Destruction and rejuvenation.
Now we are prepared to approach my final set of thoughts, to explore the inexplicable coincidences surrounding this statue’s discovery, the ominous air of its unearthing.
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This chthonic and yet solarian masterpiece was discovered on May 19, 1916. Over the next three years it would be restored, its countenance regenerated, finally reassembling itself in 1919. Apollo of Veii, the Etruscan Suri, a god of oracular prophecy, volcanoes, the sun, and both plague and healing, sure chose an interesting time to reappear.
During this brief period, as his glittering terracotta organs were reassembled, one of the deadliest pandemics in history roared across Europe, the Spanish Flu of 1918-1919. Exactly 100 years after this deity of disease was reformed, the COVID-19 pandemic would rear its hideous head. Four years before Apollo’s reemergence from the ground, like a chthonic herald, the largest volcanic eruption of the 20th century, Novarupta, roared from the depths and scorched the earth.
But all of this pales in comparison to the last synchronicity, the last coincidence to accompany this god of prophecy and the sun.
One year to the month after the re-emergence of the Apollo of Veii, on May 13, 1917, a spectacular manifestation of prophetic grandeur lit the skies of Portugal. Three Shepard children would be given messages from the Virgin Mary, which would culminate later that year in The Miracle of the Sun. And with it, a set of secrets, three in number, imparted to the children, which would be remembered as the most famous instance of prophecy since the days of Nostradamus.
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I will leave you with a headline, and I want you to take a good look at the date. I want you to engage that schizophrenic portion of your brain, that section once demarcated by the ancients as under the reign of the oracle- and look at the numerology and animals involved.
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