Statius: The Thebaid
Translated by A. S. Kline ã 2013 All Rights Reserved.
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Contents
BkI:1-45 Invocation to the Muses
BkI:46-87 Oedipus invokes Tisiphone
BkI:114-196 She sows division In Thebes
BkI:197-247 Jupiter addresses the Gods
BkI:283-311 Jupiter sends Mercury to stir up strife
BkI:312-335 Polynices journeys to the Isthmus
BkI:336-389 Polynices reaches Argos in a storm
BkI:390-446 Tydeus and Polynices quarrel
BkI:447-481 Adrastus pacifies the combatants
BkI:482-532 Adrastus prays to the goddess of Night
BkI:533-595 Adrastus tells of the daughter of Crotopus (Psamathe)
BkI:596-672 Adrastus concludes his tale
BkI:673-720 Polynices declares his parentage
BkII:1-70 Mercury returns with Laius’ shade
BkII:71-133 Laius’ shade appears to Eteocles in sleep
BkII:134-200 Adrastus pledges his daughters in marriage
BkII:201-268 His daughters wed the heroes, Polynices and
Tydeus
BkII:269-305 The necklace of Harmonia
BkII:306-362 Polynices desires to rule in Thebes
BkII:363-409 Tydeus goes to Thebes as emissary
BkII:410-481 Eteocles refuses to stand down
BkII:482-526 Eteocles prepares an ambush for Tydeus
BkII:527-612 Tydeus faces his attackers
BkII:613-681 He completes the slaughter
BkII:682-743 He pays homage to Pallas Athene
BkIII:1-52 Maeon returns to Thebes
BkIII:53-113 Maeon commits suicide
BkIII:114-168 Ide mourns the sons of Thespius
BkIII:169-217 Aletes condemns the king’s actions
BkIII:218-259 Jupiter sends Mars to rouse Argos to war
BkIII:260-323 Venus confronts Mars
BkIII:324-393 Tydeus returns to Argos
BkIII:394-459 Adrastus and the seers seek omens
BkIII:460-498 They consult the flight of birds
BkIII:499-565 The omens are revealed
BkIII:566-597 Argos prepares for war
BkIII:598-677Amphiaraus counters Capaneus’ enthusiasm
BkIII:678-721 Argia, Polynices’ wife, urges war
BkIV:1-31 The Argives set out for war
BkIV:32-73 The leaders depart: Adrastus
BkIV:74-115 The leaders depart: Polynices and Tydeus
BkIV:116-164 The leaders depart: Hippomedon
BkIV:165-186 The leaders depart: Capaneus
BkIV:187-245 The leaders depart: Amphiaraus
BkIV:246-308 The leaders depart: Parthenopaeus
BkIV:309-344 Atalanta resists Parthenopaeus’ departure
BkIV:345-405 The Queen of the Theban Bacchantes complains
BkIV:406-487 Tiresias summons the shades
BkIV:488-535 The ghosts gather
BkIV:536-578 Manto summons Argive and Theban spirits
BkIV:579-645 The ghost of Laius prophesies
BkIV:646-696 Bacchus perceives the Argive threat
BkIV:697-738 Bacchus causes drought in Argos
BkIV:739-796 Hypsipyle guides the Argives
BkIV:797-843 The Argives drink at Langia’s stream
BkV:1-47 Adrastus asks to hear Hypsipyle’s story
BkV:48-84 Hypsipyle’s tale – Lemnos at war with Thrace
BkV:85-169 Hypsipyle’s tale – Polyxo urges the women to
slaughter
BkV:170-205 Hypsipyle’s tale – They attack the men
BkV:206-264 Hypsipyle’s tale – Hypsipyle saves Thoas
BkV:265-301 Hypsipyle’s tale – The ghost of Thyoneus
BkV:302-334 Hypsipyle’s tale – Hypsipyle reigns
BkV:335-375 Hypsipyle’s tale – The Argonauts arrive
BkV:376-444 Hypsipyle’s tale – The Argonauts reach land
BkV:445-498 Hypsipyle ends her tale - Jason, exile, slavery
BkV:588-637 Lament for the dead Archemorus (Opheltes)
BkV:638-698 The anger of Lycurgus
BkV:699-753 Hypsipyle is reunited with her sons
BkVI:1-117 Preparations for the Funeral and the Games
BkVI:118-192 Eurydice mourns her son
BkVI:193-254 The Funeral of Archemorus
BkVI:255-295 The Funeral Games – The opening procession
BkVI:296-354 The Funeral Games – Competitors for the
chariot-race
BkVI:355-409 The Funeral Games – Apollo attends the race
BkVI:410-468 The Funeral Games – The chariot-race begins
BkVI:469-549 The Funeral Games – The chariot-race ends
BkVI:550-645 The Funeral Games – The foot-race
BkVI:646-718 The Funeral Games – The discus competition
BkVI:719-825 The Funeral Games – The boxing
BkVI:826-910 The Funeral Games – The wrestling
BkVI:911-946 Adrastus receives an inauspicious omen
BkVII:1-63 Mercury is sent to rouse the war-god Mars
BkVII:64-104 Mars sets out to join the Argive host
BkVII:105-144 Mars causes panic
BkVII:145-226 Bacchus complains to Jove
BkVII:227-289 Antigone asks about the Theban allies
BkVII:290-373 Laius’ armour-bearer details the troops
BkVII:374-423 Eteocles’ speech; Argive portents
BkVII:424-469 The Argives reach Thebes
BkVII:470-533 Jocasta seeks to end the war
BkVII:534-563 Tydeus argues against her counsel
BkVII:564-627 A Fury sows the seeds of battle
BkVII:628-687 The deaths of Pterelas and Eunaeus
BkVII:688-722 Amphiaraus leads the fight
BkVII:723-770 Apollo takes the reins
BkVII:771-823 Amphiaraus is swallowed by the earth
BkVIII:1-83 Dis objects to the invasion of his realm
BkVIII:84-126 Amphiaraus explains his presence there
BkVIII:127-161 The Argives react to his loss
BkVIII:162-217 The lament for Amphiaraus
BkVIII:218-270 The rejoicing in Thebes
BkVIII:271-341 Thiodamas prays to Earth
BkVIII:342-372 The armies advance
BkVIII:373-427 Battle is joined
BkVIII:428-479 The first encounter
BkVIII:480-535 Tydeus overcomes Haemon
BkVIII:536-553 The deaths of Prothous and Corymbus
BkVIII:554-606 The wounding of Atys
BkVIII:607-654 The dying Atys is carried to Thebes
BkVIII:655-766 The death of Tydeus
BkIX:1-85 Polynices’ lament for Tydeus
BkIX:86-143 The struggle over Tydeus’ body
BkIX:144-195 Tisiphone intervenes
BkIX:196-265 The battle at the Ismenos
BkIX:266-314 Slaughter in the flood
BkIX:315-403 The death of Crenaeus
BkIX:404-445 The river-god learns of his grandson’s fate
BkIX:446-491 The Ismenos rises against Hippomedon
BkIX:492-539 The death of Hippomedon
BkIX:540-569 The death of Hypseus
BkIX:570-636 Atalanta prays to Diana
BkIX:637-682 Diana journeys to Thebes
BkIX:683-775 She intervenes to aid Parthenopaeus
BkIX:776-840 Mars banishes her from the field
BkIX:841-876 Dryas wounds Parthenopaeus
BkIX:877-905 The death of Parthenopaeus
BkX:1-48 The Thebans set a watch on the Argive camp
BkX:49-83 Juno resolves to help the Argives
BkX:156-218 Thiodamas the augur is inspired
BkX:219-295 He leads an attack on the sleeping Thebans
BkX:296-346 The conclusion of the slaughter
BkX:347-383 The Argives try to retrieve their champions’
corpses
BkX:384-448 The deaths of Hopleus and Dymas
BkX:449-508 Capaneus leads the attack on Thebes
BkX:509-551 The Argives attack the gates and walls
BkX:552-627 Tiresias prophesies
BkX:628-685 Divine Courage inspires Menoeceus
BkX:686-737 Cleon seeks to dissuade him
BkX:738-782 Menoeceus sacrifices himself
BkX:783-826 His mother Eurydice mourns him
BkX:827-882 Capaneus again assaults the city
BkX:883-939 The death of Capaneus
BkXI:1-56 The Thebans counter-attack
BkXI:57-135 Tisiphone rouses her sister Megaera
BkXI:136-204 Megaera spurs on Polynices
BkXI:205-256 Tisiphone re-directs Eteocles’ prayer
BkXI:257-314 Creon berates Eteocles
BkXI:315-353 Jocasta pleads with Eteocles, her son
BkXI:354-402 Antigone pleads with Polynices, her brother
BkXI:403-446 Adrastus tries to intervene in the conflict
BkXI:447-496 The goddess Piety is opposed by Tisiphone
BkXI:497-579 Eteocles and Polynices kill each other
BkXI:580-647 Oedipus mourns: Jocasta kills herself
BkXI:648-707 Creon threatens Oedipus with exile
BkXI:708-760 Antigone pleads with Creon
BkXII:1-59 The Thebans burn their dead
BkXII:60-104 Creon leads the funeral rites for Menoeceus
BkXII:105-172 The Argive wives set out for Thebes
BkXII:173-227 Argia decides to defy Creon’s edict
BkXII:228-290 She makes her way to the battlefield
BkXII:291-348 She discovers Polynices’ corpse
BkXII:349-408 Antigone meets her on the same mission
BkXII:409-463 The brothers’ bodies are burned together
BkXII:464-518 The Argive women reach Athens
BkXII:519-586 Evadne petitions Theseus
BkXII:587-676 Theseus sets out for Thebes
BkXII:677-729 Creon accepts battle
BkXII:730-796 Theseus slays Creon
The Muses’ fire
inspires my mind to tell of fraternal war,
Of alternate kingship,
of guilty
In impious hatred. Goddesses,
where do you command me
To begin? Shall I sing
the origins of that fateful people,
Of the Sidonian rape,
and the sway of Agenor’s inexorable
Decree, that sent
Cadmus to sail the waves in search?
The tale is long were
I to recall that ploughman’s fearful
Sowing of conflict,
the warriors out of unholy furrows,
Were I to pursue all
that followed; how Amphion’s
Music drew piles of
stone to form
What led to Bacchus’
fierce anger against his kindred city;
The savage act of
Juno, through which wretched Athamas
Bent his bow, his wife
Ino embracing the Ionian wave,
Plunging fearless into
the depths with Palaemon her son.
Yet swiftly I leave
the joys and sorrows of Cadmus’
Days behind: let my
poem content itself with the troubled
House of Oedipus,
since, as yet, I do not dare to sing
Of Italian arms and
northern victories; twice-conquered
The Dacians, in
league, hurled from their mountain peaks;
Or earlier still the
fight on the
O Domitian, a glory
added to
Pursue your father
Vespasian’s aims anew,
Hers for eternity.
Though the starry paths be more confined,
Where a shining tract
of heaven, free of Boreas, the Pleiades,
The forked lightning,
beckons you; though the Sun curbing
His fiery-footed
steeds set his radiant halo on your brow,
Or Jove, on high, grant
you an equal share of the wide sky,
May you, powerful on
earth and sea, forgo the heavens,
May you rest content
with the governance of mankind.
A time will come, when
filled with brighter Pierian flame,
I shall sing your
deeds: now, I but tune the lyre, enough
To recount Aonian
conflict; a sceptre fatal to two brothers;
Anger outlasting
death, flames warring still in strife above
The pyre; the bodies
of kings left unburied, and cities
Emptied by continual
slaughter, while Dirce’s crystal
Spring ran red with
Lernaean blood, Thetis horrified
As the Ismenus,
accustomed to flow past arid shores,
Rose in mighty flood.
What hero would you have me first
Recall, Clio? Shall it
be Tydeus, extravagant in his wrath?
Or the laurel-crowned
seer Amphiaraus’ precipitous fall?
Wild Hippomedon too
urges himself upon me, driving-on
The hostile corpse-filled
waters, and I must mourn bold
Parthenopaeus, sing
Capaneus’ unheard-of consternation.
Once Oedipus with
guilty hand had pierced his impious eyes,
And, condemned to
eternal night, concealed his shame
He dragged out what
life was left in a long drawn-out dying.
He pledged himself to
darkness, and in the furthest corner
Of his dwelling he
kept house, far from the rays of heaven;
Yet the fierce light
of his conscience hovered round him
On restless wings, the
avenging Furies were at his heart.
There he turned his
sightless orbs, in crude, pitiful living
Punishment, towards
the air, struck at the echoing earth
With bloodied hands,
and uttered this prayer in wrath:
‘You Gods that rule
guilty spirits and Tartarus too small
For retribution, and
you,
I see; and you,
Tisiphone, to whom I pray so often,
Assent, and grant your
favour to my dark request.
If I am worthy, if it
was you who nursed me in your lap
When I fell from the
womb, and strengthened me when
They pierced my feet;
if I sought
Spring flowing from
the twin peaks, sought my father,
Though I might have
lived content with Polybus as
Substitute and,
catching the aged Laius in a narrow place
In triple-cleft
If, taught by you, I
had the wit to solve the cruel Sphinx’s
Riddle; if I entered
the sweet madness of woeful marriage
With my mother,
suffering many a night of sin, engendering
Children fit for you,
as well you know; and if thereafter
I pressed yielding orbs
against harsh fingers, relinquished sight
Beside my wretched
mother’s corpse; hear me, if my prayer
Is worthy and such as
yourself might whisper to my frenzy!
Those I begot, no
matter in what bed, failed to aid me,
Bereft of sight and
sceptre, or to ease my grief with words.
Behold how, in their
pride – oh agony! – these kings, made so
By my tragedy, mock at
my blindness, scorn their father’s pain.
Am I anathema to them
too? Does the father of the gods see
And yet do nothing?
Let you, at least, my fated champion,
Emerge, and set there
my progeny in line for punishment.
Don this blood-stained
crown I ripped with gory fingers
From my brow, spurred
on by a father’s prayers, get you
Between these
brothers, and let steel dissolve their pact
Of blood. Queen of
subterranean Tartarus, grant the act
Of evil I desire.
Youthful spirits will be quick to follow.
Come, in worthy
measure, and you’ll know them mine.’
The savage goddess
turned her cruel face towards him
As he spoke. She
chanced to be seated by foul Cocytus,
And loosing the
serpent locks about her head, had let
Their snaky tongues
lap at its sulphurous waters.
Now, swifter than
Jove’s lightning or a falling star,
She leapt from the
shore: a crowd of phantoms fled
Fearing to face their
mistress. She through shades,
Through fields black
with the swarm of ghosts,
Sought Taenarus’
threshold from which none return.
Day felt her near,
Night’s pitch-dark cloud obstructed
Him, frightening his
gleaming horses: far-off, tall
Atlas shuddered, the
sky trembling on his shoulders.
Rising swiftly from
Malea’s cleft she sped along
The familiar route to
Faster, to and fro,
holding her own Tartarus no dearer.
A hundred asps, erect,
cast their shadows on her face,
A fraction of those
that made her fearful hair; a steely
Light lurked in her
sunken eyes, as when Thessalian
Witchcraft makes the
eclipsed moon blush through cloud.
Her skin was taut and
swollen, suffused with venom;
Her blackened mouth
filled with fiery vapour, from which
Drought, plague and
famine bring death to all; on her back
A dreadful cloak
stiffens, knotted blue-black on her breast:
Atropos, the Fate, and
Proserpine herself tend her dress:
Then their hands shake
with wrath: the one gleams with
Funereal fire, the
other lashes the air with a living snake.
She stood where
The sky, green tresses
hissing fiercely all as one,
A sign to earth which
all the Achaean seashores
And Pelop’s kingdom
widely echoed.
Half-way to heaven,
and Spartan Eurotas heard;
Oeta’s mountain-range
wavered and slid side-wards,
And the Isthmus barely
withstood the double wave.
Ino, Palaemon’s
mother, caught him from the waves,
As he roamed on
dolphin back, and pressed him to her.
When, at the Cadmaean
citadel, Tisiphone halted
Her headlong course,
and poisoned the atmosphere
With her accustomed
cloud of vapour, shock gripped
The brothers’ hearts
and ancestral madness seized
Their minds, with envy
of the other’s good fortune;
Fear, engendering
hatred; the fierce desire for rule;
Breach of mutual give
and take; ambition impatient
Of subservience; the
need to stand supreme, alone;
And conflict, the
companion of shared sovereignty.
Just as two bullocks
that a farmer takes from the wild
Herd and yokes to the
plough, rebel; never having felt
The weight before that
bows their necks and shoulders,
Such that, equally
matched, they pull apart and strain
The ropes, with their
crooked track vexing the furrow;
So the indomitable
brothers raged in headlong strife.
Now they agreed, in
alternate years, to exchange
Kingship for exile; so
by malign treaty they decreed
Fortune must change
sides, and the sceptre’s holder
Be ever-tormented by
the swift course of succession.
This was the brotherly
love between them, this the sole
Barrier to war; doomed
to fail before the second reign.
This too was in days
before coffered ceilings gleamed
With thick gilding,
our high halls columned in Greek
Marble, with wide
space to hold the assembled clients.
No spears then guarded
the restless sleep of kings,
No ranks then of
steel-bearing sentinels, no wealth
To drown jewels with
wine, and gold with dainties:
Naked power armed
them, at war for a pauper’s crown.
While they disputed as
to who should plough cramped
Dirce’s barren acres
or hold the Tyrian exile’s petty
Throne, justice
perished, human and divine, all good,
All decency in life and
death. Oh, wretched men, what
Purpose had your
wrath? What though by such evil
You sought earth’s
boundaries, that which the sun sees
When he leaps from the
eastern threshold, that which
He gazes on as he
sinks beyond the gates of
The countries his
slanting rays touch, those the north
Wind cools, those the
moist south warms with its heat?
What though
Together in one place?
A cursed citadel, a house of terror,
Sufficed to hatred, a
monstrous madness was the price
Of mounting Oedipus’
throne. Now Polynices’ kingship
Was set aside, deferred
by lot. What a day that was, for you,
In your empty palace,
cruel Eteocles, seeing all power yours,
All other men
subservient, no head held as high! Now,
The opposition begins
amongst the Theban people, now,
The silent masses
resent their king, and as is the manner
Of the populace, the
coming man is favourite amongst them.
So those, wishing to
harm the ruler with base venom, ever
Unwilling to suffer
those above them, began to mutter:
‘Is it the harsh Fates
who inflict this burden on
To be forever changing
those we must fear, to bow
Our shoulders unsurely
beneath alternate yokes?
Divided themselves,
they control a nation’s destiny,
By force render
Fortune fickle. Are we to be always
Enslaved by each exile
in turn? Father of gods and men,
Was it you who decided
that this pair should so decree?
Or was
When Cadmus, searched
the
Vainly seeking the
Sidonian bull’s seductive burden,
Founded, as an exile,
a kingdom in Hyantean fields,
And fraternal warfare
erupted from pregnant earth,
As an augury of what faced
his remote posterity?
See how absolute power
acts more cruelly, rises
To threaten us with
stern gaze? What menace
Inhabits that face,
how his pride oppresses all!
Can he be a mere
citizen again, ever? His brother
Was kinder to the
suppliant, gentler of speech, more
Patient in doing
right. No wonder, lacking sole power.
We are a base mob,
now, fit to be used by any master.
Just as chill Boreas
drives the sails one way, moist Eurus
Another, and the
ship’s fate hovers between them,
Caught in dire uncertainty,
alas, a fate too cruel for any
Nation to bear, so the
one commands, the other threatens.’
Now, at Jupiter’s
orders, the supreme gods assembled
In the house of the
whirling heavens, at the centre
Of the sky. All places
neighbour upon it, the spaces
Of sunrise and sunset,
land and sea revealed to light.
Towering Jove himself
makes his way among the gods,
So that all tremble
though his aspect remains serene;
And mounts to his
starry throne; nor do the skyey ones
Dare at once to
follow, waiting till the Father himself
With tranquil gesture,
allows them to be seated. Soon,
A mass of vagrant
demigods, with the river-gods kin
To the highest clouds,
and the winds, their roar restrained
By fear, fill the
golden hall. At the majesty of the mingled
Deities the dome
trembles, its heights glow a deeper blue,
And its doorways shine,
florescent with arcane light.
Silence was commanded;
the earth was mute with terror.
He spoke from on high
(his sacred words are both weighty
And immutable, and the
Fates follow his every dictum):
‘I groan for the sins
of earth, and the human mind that no
Vengeful Fury can
satisfy! I weary of wielding my wrathful
Lightning bolts, such
that the Cyclops’ shoulders tire of their
Forging, and Vulcan’s
anvils exhaust their supplies of fuel.
Though I suffered the
Sun’s steeds, loosed by the unskilled
Phaethon, to set the
sky on fire while the wheels ran wild,
And the earth was
covered with the lad’s ashes, even that
Had no effect, nor
that you Poseidon, my brother, with your
Great trident let the
sea roam newly-free over dry land.
Now I am forced to
punish two Houses, born of my blood.
One stream descended
to Adrastus in Persean Argos,
The other flowed from
its source to Aonian Thebes.
The same character
marks them both: who does not know
Of Cadmus’ troubles,
how often the host of Furies, roused
From their infernal
halls, made war; of the evil bacchanals
Of the Theban women,
their wild coursing through the deep
Forests, and those
actions of the gods best left unspoken.
I could scarcely
enumerate in the space of a day and a night
Till the following
dawn, all the profane exploits of that race.
That impious heir,
Oedipus, even dared to climb into his own
Father’s bed, and
defile his innocent mother’s womb,
So returning
(monstrously!) to his own source. He paid,
However, a lasting
penalty before the gods, excluding light,
And he no longer
breathes our air; and then, in falling,
His sons (a deed
lacking all morality) trampled his blind orbs.
Now, now, shall your
prayer be answered, fateful old man.
Your darkness is
worthy of your desire: that Jove avenge.
I shall bring new
warfare on that guilt-ridden kingship,
And tear that whole
fatal stock out by the root. Let the seed
Of battle be King
Adrastus’ gift of his daughter in a union
Not blessed by heaven.
His line too I resolve to afflict
With punishment; since
Tantalus’ deceit, and the outrage
Of his cruel banquet
are yet present in the depths of my heart.’
So spoke the
all-powerful Father, but wounded by his words
And with a sudden
tremor in her burning heart, Juno gave
This answer: ‘Is it I
whom you command to wage war, O
Most righteous of the
gods, is it I? You know I ever aided
The Cyclopean towers
and great Phoroneus’ famed sceptre
With men and wealth,
though in that land you chose to kill
Argus, guardian of the
Pharian heifer Io, in deadly sleep,
And enter Danae’s
prison tower in your aureate disguise.
I forgive your
deceitful antics in bed, yet I hate that city
Where you show
yourself openly; thunder; hurl what should be
Mine, the
lightning-bolt, sign and compact of our great union.
Let Thebes expiate its
crimes, but why make
If discord in our
sacred marriage chamber is worth the price,
Then raze
Level with the soil.
Why should your wife’s altars, piled high
With eastern incense,
rejoicing in festal blood, warm any land?
Let Mareotic Coptos
rather know the smoke of holy vows,
Rather the mournful
currents of the sistrum-rattling
If races must expiate
the crimes of their ancient ancestors,
If such late resolve
has entered your troubled mind, to review
Past times, how far
must we return to cancel earth’s mad deeds,
Amending the ages
backwards? Begin at once with
From which the
sea-travelled waters of
From afar his Sicanian
amours: or where Arcadians set your altar
(Shamelessly) on
sullied ground. Where sped Oenomaus’ chariot,
A gift of Mars, and
horses fit to be stabled by Thracian Haemus.
Where yet, stark and
unburied, lie the mangled heads of suitors,
Torn from their
bodies. Yet the tribute of a temple there pleases
You; and Cretan Mount
Ida that falsely claims your burial place.
Why begrudge me a
house in the
Of war, take pity on
your own. There are wicked realms for you,
On every side, more
fit to have royal daughters wed guilty men.’
So Juno ended, with
both request and reproach combined. Yet
The words of his reply
were not harsh, though they were firm:
‘I scarcely dreamt
you’d bless any action I might take against
Your
Chance, Bacchus and
Dione would plead at length for
Though reverence for
my power should forbid it. Indeed I call
On Pluto my brother’s
Stygian waves to witness my fixed, my
Irrevocable decree:
and no speech shall ever alter my intention.
So, Mercury, move your
wings, fly faster than the urging wind,
Glide through the pure
air to the land of darkness, and there say
To its lord, your
uncle: let aged Laius ascend to the earth above.
Slain by his son
Oedipus’ sword, Lethe’s shore, in accord with
The laws of deep
Erebus, has not yet known him. Let him carry
My commands to
Eteocles, his fatal grandson, whose brother,
Polynices, hopes much
from exile, stirred by Argive friendship.
Let the foul king, as
he would, keep Polynices from his palace;
Let him refuse the
agreed alternation of royal power. Let that
Hereafter be a cause
of wrath; what follows I will surely guide.’
The grandson of Atlas
obeyed his father’s words, now swiftly
Fastening the winged
sandals to his ankles, covering his head
With his broad hat: so
moderating the heat of the fiery stars.
Then he took the wand
in his right hand, which banishes sweet
Sleep, or brings it
on, and with which he enters black Tartarus
And gives breath again
to the bloodless shades. Down he sped,
And shivered as the
thin atmosphere received him. Without
Pausing, he undertakes
his high swift flight through the void,
And he traces a
gigantic arc as he travels through the clouds.
Long a wanderer, exiled
from his native land, Polynices,
Son of Oedipus,
secretly traversed the wastes of Aonia.
Time and again his
thoughts dwelt on his kingship long
Overdue, and sighed at
the lingering seasons, at the slow
Pace of the stars. He
brooded constantly, day and night,
On this recurring
question: would he ever see his brother
Humbly relinquish
power, and leave him sole authority
In
Now he bemoans the
long stretch of exile, now he embraces
Princely pride, and
imagines himself seated there on high,
His brother already
dethroned: tormenting hope plagues
His thoughts,
prolongation of desire consumes the dream.
Thus he decided to
strike out boldly for the cities of Inachus;
Danae’s fields;
Did a Fury lead him as
his guide; or the fortunes of the road;
Or did inexorable
Atropos summon him in that direction?
He left the glades
where Ogygian fury howled, and hills
Blood-stained by
Bacchic rites. From there he passed,
To the land where
To the plane, and
slopes its weary heights to the sea.
Here, taking the steep
and narrow rocky path, leaving
Behind Sciron’s
infamous cliffs, and the fields of Scylla
Where purple-locked
Nisus ruled, and wealthy
In the midst of the
land he could hear the twin seas roar.
Now Phoebus’s work was
done, Titanis was rising nearby,
Through the wide
silent sky, carried in her dew-wet chariot,
Parting the cool
atmosphere. Now all the birds and beasts
Were still, Sleep
clouding biting care, leaning down from
The air; and bringing
sweet forgetfulness of life’s labours.
But no reddened clouds
in the sky promised day’s return,
No long twilight shone
with refracted light thinning shadow.
Black impenetrable
night rose more densely over the earth,
Hiding the heavens. Now
the caves of ice-bound
Resounded with the wild
threat of the oncoming storm.
The winds roared
together in conflict, plucking at the arc
Of the sky, stirring
it on its hinges, as if each would snatch
The heavens for
itself. Auster, the southerly, most congealed
The night, whirling in
coils of darkness, pouring dense rain
Which harsh Boreas,
the north wind, solidified with his cold
Breath before it fell.
Now quivering lightning seared the sky,
Now the scorched air
was pierced by sudden bursts of light.
Now
Were drenched through.
Inachus foamed in spate, Erasinus
Surged in icy flood. Embankments
failed to hold the waters,
That filled the once
dry courses. And foaming with ancient
Venom, Lerna’s swamps
surged frothing from their deeps.
Every wood was shattered;
gusts broke the ancient limbs;
The shadowy haunts of
Lycaeus, seen by no summer suns
Throughout the distant
ages, were laid naked to the eye.
Now Polynices
marvelled at rocks flung from the heights,
Now his ears were
assaulted by the roar of cloud-fallen
Torrents flowing from
the mountains, sweeping the flocks
And shepherds’ huts away
in a mad whirl. Swiftly, frantic,
He took his doubtful
desolate way through black silence.
Fear and his brother
Terror oppress him from every side.
Like a sailor caught
on a wintry sea, to whom neither
The slow Wain nor the
Moon with her friendly glow
Show his course, who
hangs confused in the midst
Of the tumult on land
and wave, forever anticipating
Treacherous reefs in
the shallows, or cliffs with jagged
Outlines foaming above
his lifted prow, so the Cadmean
Hero; crossing the
dark forest; now quickening his steps;
Driving wild beasts
from fearsome lairs with his great
Shield; thrusting
himself through thickets (spurred on
By the strength of his
dark fears) till night was overcome
By the halls of
Inachus, and
Throwing light on the
city steeps. There he hastened, urged
By hope, Juno’s temple
on high Prosymna lay to the left,
To the right Lerna’s
dark marsh-pools, scorched by Hercules.
At last he reached the
open gates, and entered. There lay
The royal courtyard,
there he lay down against the doors
Of the unfamiliar
palace, all his limbs stiffened by wind
And rain, and welcomed
restless sleep to his harsh bed.
In
His people in peace.
He was of rich ancestry, tracing his line
To Jupiter on either
side. He had lost his better half, supported
Though by the twin
gift of flourishing daughters, and to him
Phoebus had prophesied
(a fatal thing to speak of, but a truth
Soon to be revealed!)
that fate was bringing each a husband,
One a tawny lion, one
a bristling boar. Though their royal father,
And Amphiarus too, who
was skilled in considering the future,
Pondered this, neither
understood it, since Apollo, its source,
Forbade enlightenment,
so worry festered in the father’s heart.
See then! Fate drives
Tydeus the Olenian from ancient
(Exiled by guilt and
fear, chancing to shed his brother’s blood)
And in the drowsy
depths of night he too trod the selfsame path.
The same chill wind
and rain assailed him and, ice on his head
And shoulders, hair
drenched by the stormy showers, he came
To the same yard where
the earlier exile lay on the chill ground.
Here fortune stirred
both to the peak of a bloodthirsty quarrel.
They disdained to
shelter from the night under a shared roof.
For a while they
bickered, exchanging verbal threats. Then
When hurling abuse had
sufficiently inflamed their anger,
They rose and bared
their chests, challenging naked combat.
Polynices was taller,
long-limbed and in his prime, but equal
Strength upheld
Tydeus’ brave spirit, and the courage in every
Fibre of his body was
all the greater despite his smaller stature.
Now they shower mighty
blows, like those of javelins or those
Of Rhipaean
hailstones, on face and curving temples, or pound
On bended knees at
unprotected loins. As when, at
Jupiter’s quinquennial
games return, and the sand grows hot
With the athletes’
sweat, while the shouting crowd spur on
Tender youth, and
mothers apart wait to know who has won,
So flushed with
hatred, though not inspired by thought of glory,
Those two rushed in. Clawing
hands raked at the eye-sockets,
Entering deep into
yielding flesh. Perhaps (anger so urged them)
They might have
unsheathed the swords at their sides, perhaps
The young Theban might
have fallen to the enemy’s blade,
For his brother to
mourn (and perhaps better so) if the old king
Sober and full of
cares, had not found sleep hard to come by,
So wondered at this
strange turmoil in the depths of night,
At the groans from
straining chests, and made his way there.
Crossing the high
halls in the bright torchlight, unbarring
The doors, there on
the threshold he meets a fearful sight,
Torn flesh and faces
stained with showers of blood. He cried:
‘What’s the reason for
this madness, you young strangers?
No subject of mind
would dare to commit such violence here.
Why this fierce urge
to disrupt the quiet of night with brawling?
Was the day not long
enough for this, do you find it so irksome
To settle for peace of
mind and sleep awhile? Come, explain:
Where do you hail
from; where journey, what’s your dispute?
Your blood-letting
suggests the conflict of two proud races,
And such angry
quarrelling argues you are of no low degree.’
Scarcely had he
finished before they began with a shout,
And sideways looks: ‘O
gentle King of the Achaeans,
What need for words?
You can see yourself how our faces
Stream with blood.’
Such is the speech they interweave,
In mingled tones of
wrathful utterance, till Tydeus begins
The tale in order:
‘Seeking solace after sad misfortune,
I left monster-bearing
Of Achelous. Behold,
deepest night found me within
Your borders. Why
should this fellow deny me shelter
From the storm, merely
because he chanced to reach
Your threshold before
me? Even the bi-formed Centaurs,
They say, lodge
together; the Cyclopes in Etna couch
With one another. If
savage monsters have their natural
Rules and laws, for us
to share beds on the ground –
But why continue? You
will either depart, good fellow,
Delighting in the
spoils, or find me, unless my strength
Is exhausted, sapped
by grief, one born of Oeneus’ race,
And not yet
degenerated from my father’s warrior line.’
‘Nor do I lack high
birth or courage,’ answered the other,
Though, conscious of
the past, he hesitated to declare
His father’s name. Then
the kindly Adrastus replied:
‘Now come, dispel the
menace that night and anger
Or courage suddenly
evoked, and pass beneath my roof.
Let your right hands
be clasped and pledge your hearts.
What has happened was
not in vain, nor the gods absent;
Perhaps this anger was
herald of your future friendship,
And the memory will
not prove unpleasant.’ Nor was
The old king an idle
prophet, for they say that after their
Conflict they were
bound in such loyalty as led Theseus
To share the worst
with reckless Pirithous, and Pylades
To face Megaera’s
fury, and shield the maddened Orestes.
Even in the heat of
that moment they allowed the king
To calm their angry
hearts with words and (now amenable
As a sea the winds
fought over grows calm, while a light
Lingering breeze flaps
the canvas) they entered the palace.
There, Adrastus first
had chance to scan the heroes’ clothes
And fierce weapons. On
Polynices back hung a stiffened
Lion-skin, with
tangled mane, like to the one that Hercules,
Amphitryon’s son, tanned
and wore in Teumesos’ valley,
In his youth, before
he had battled with the Nemean lion.
While glorious spoils
from a Calydonian boar stretched
Over Tydeus’ broad
shoulders, a hide bristling fearfully,
And adorned with
backward-arcing tusks. Astounded
By so clear a
fulfilment of the prophecy, the aged king
Acknowledged the warning
that Apollo’s sacred oracle
Had sounded from the
echoing cave. His eyes glazed,
His frozen lips fell
mute, and a tremor of joy ran through
His body. He saw that
these would be those sons-in-law
Manifestly led there
by a god, whose prophesied arrival,
In the symbolic
semblance of wild beasts, Apollo the augur
Had enigmatically
signified. Stretching his arms to the stars,
He cried: ‘O Night,
who clasping to you the labours of earth
And sky, send the
burning stars on their wide-ranging track,
Allowing the weary
creatures to recharge their spirits, until
The rising sun prompts
them to prepare for toil, of your grace
You grant me the proof
I have long sought in my perplexity
And error, revealing
the unwinding of an ancient destiny:
Stand by that work and
render your omens true. This house
Will ever worship and
honour you while the years measure
Their passage. Black
cattle will bow their necks, goddess,
As your chosen
sacrifice, and Vulcan’s flame sprinkled
With fresh milk will
consume the lustral entrails. Hail,
Ancient promise of the
tripods, and the darkened caves!
Fortune, I have snared
the gods.’ So he spoke, clasping
Both by the hand and
leading them to the inner halls
Of the palace. Flames
still flickered amongst the grey ash
Of the dormant altars,
their heat yet warming the sacrificial
Offerings. He
commanded the fires relit, the recent rites
Renewed, and rival
servants ran in haste to obey his word.
The royal hall hums
with varied action. Some there adorn
The couches with
fine-woven purples, rustling gold-thread,
Piling cushions high,
others polish the circular tables, set
Them in place. Yet
others try to banish night’s dark shades,
Raising lamps on
gilded chains. To some falls the roasting
On spits of the raw
flesh of slaughtered beasts, to others
The heaping high of
baskets with corn ground by the mill.
Adrastus is pleased
with his busy and obedient household.
Now he gleams himself,
propped high on proud silken cloth,
On his ivory throne.
There too the young guests recline,
Their wounds washed
and dried, and gazing at each other’s
Bruised and battered
faces, mutually forgive. Then the aged
King sent for Acaste
(his daughters’ nurse, their faithful
Guardian, chosen to
protect that modesty reserved for lawful
Love) and the
long-lived monarch whispers in her listening ear.
She was not slow to obey,
and his two daughters swiftly
Left the inner
chambers: lovely to behold, their faces
Were equal to those of
armed Pallas, and Diana of the bow,
Except that they
inspired no terror. They saw the faces then
Of men new to their
modest eyes. Both pallor and blushes
Showed on their noble
cheeks, and their glances ashamed
Returned to their
venerable father. When all had satisfied
Their appetites with
the banquet, the scion of Iasus, called,
As was his custom, for
the servants to bring the bowl bright
With gold, fashioned
in relief, from which Danaus and old
Phoroneus were
accustomed to pour libations to the gods.
Its surface was chased
with sculpted figures: Perseus, born
Of the shower of gold,
bore Medusa’s severed snaky head,
And almost seemed
leaping still into the passing breeze,
While her heavy eyes
and dulled countenance seemed yet
To grow pale in the
life-like gold. There Ganymede too,
The Phrygian hunter, was
raised aloft in the eagle’s claws,
Gargara sinking
behind,
While his hounds tire
their jaws in vain, barking at clouds,
And leaping at
shadows. Adrastus, poured streams of wine
From this cup,
invoking the gods in turn, Apollo above all.
His crowd of servants
and companions adorned with chaste
For whom this festal
day is celebrated, for whom there glow
The re-kindled fires,
with lavish incense, on the smoking altars.
‘Perhaps, young men’,
said the king, ‘you are curious to know
Why we perform these
rites, why we grant the highest honour
To Apollo? Religion
persuades us to it, and not without reason.
Tested of old by
grievous affliction, so the people of
Now make sacrifice.
Listen to me, and I will unfold the tale:
Apollo had killed the
Python, engendered by Earth, the dark
Monster with its
writhing coils that had smothered
Within those seven
black folds, scoring the ancient oak-trees
With its scales,
striking it as it lay by the Castalian spring,
Its triple-forked
tongue seeking water to feed its dark venom,
The god making many
wounds with his weapons, finally,
Leaving the monster
spread over a hundred acres of Cirrha’s
Plain, when seeking to
expiate that recent slaying he came
Beneath the modest
roof of our own Crotopus. In his house
He had a daughter,
scarce out of childhood, an inviolate
Virgin of wondrous
beauty. Better if she had never shared
Delian mischief,
Phoebus’ secret love! For, by the waters
Of the Inachus,
And when Cynthia
showed her full face for the tenth time
She gave birth to a
child, destined to be Latona’s grandson.
Fearing punishment
(since her father would have shown no
Mercy or forgiveness,
regarding that forced union) she took
To the pathless hills,
and once amongst the sheepfolds secretly
Entrusted her son to a
highland shepherd who might rear him.
Grassy turf was the
boy’s cradle, one unworthy of his birth,
And the home that
sheltered him was woven of oak branches.
His limbs were warmed
by a wrapping of strawberry-tree bark,
A hollow reed lulled
him to sleep, sharing earth with the sheep.
But the Fates would
not concede even that. As he lay unaware
On the green turf,
lips open to breathe the air, a pack of rabid
Murderous dogs tore
him apart, in their blood-stained jaws.
When the evil news
reached his mother, the shock drove shame;
Fear, father from her
mind. She filled the house with wild cries,
And distraught, with her
breasts bare, went of her own will
To that father of hers
and confessed. Unmoved he commanded
(Infamously!) that she
enter the darkness of death she desired.
Too late, Apollo
remembered their union. To avenge her cruel
Fate, he summoned a
monster begat in the Furies’ cruel den,
In the depths of
Acheron; it had the face and breast of a girl;
Yet from its head rose
a hissing snake, fronting the livid brow.
Moving by night, this
fatal curse, slid foully into bedrooms;
Tore new-born infants
from their mother’s breast; devoured
Them in blood-stained
maw; fed richly on a country’s grief.
This proved too much
for one Coroebus, a man noted for his
Skill and bravery in
arms, who offered to lead a small chosen
Band of the hardiest
youths, ready to set fame above life itself.
The monster, having
plundered another home, was passing
The double gates, with
the bodies of two children dangling
At her side, her claws
already in their entrails, nails of iron
Hot at their tender
hearts. The young hero faced her circled
By the warrior band,
and buried his long blade in her breast
Of flint, sought the
core of life with his glinting blade, then
Returned Pluto’s monstrous
shade to him, to keep forever.
All joyed to view,
close at hand, the eyes darkened in death,
The dreadful flux of
its belly, and the breasts clotted thick
With the gore of our
lost ones. The men were stupefied, then
After tears came great
rejoicing despite their pallor. Some
Crushed the dead limbs
with hardened staves (vain solace
For their sorrow)
thrusting sharp stones into the eye-sockets.
Their power to do so
failed to assuage their anger. Carrion
Birds flew from her
unfed, circling with night-bound cries,
And the jaws of
ravening dogs and fearful wolves gaped dry.
Robbed of his vengeance,
Apollo waxed fiercer still against
The wretched folk, and
seated amongst the topmost shades
Of twin-peaked
Shafts from his angry
bow, spreading a dense blanket of mist
Over the fields, and
the high towers built by the Cyclopes.
Sweet lives expire.
Death with his blade severs the Sisters’
Threads, and clasping
the defeated city bears it to the shades.
Their lord asks why:
why the endless sinister fire from heaven,
Why should Sirius now
reign all year round? Apollo, the cause,
Now commanded that the
young men who saw the monster die
Should be sacrificed.
Happy in their courage those noble spirits:
Earning a name
throughout the ages, not basely hiding their act
Of bravery, nor
fearing to go to certain death. Coroebus though
Stood at the entrance
to Cirrha’s temple, and faced the square,
Daring then to
exacerbate the God’s anger, with his words:
‘Thymbrean Apollo, I
am not here by force or in supplication.
My love of country, my
clear conscience summoned me here.
Phoebus, I am the one
who laid your mortal avenger low, I am
The one you seek,
cruel god, with your dark clouds and murky
Light your black
plague of ill omen. Though savage monsters
Be dear to the gods,
though men’s lives lost to the world may be
Of less value to them,
though cruel heaven thus prove merciless,
Why has all
Of gods, should offer
my life to the Fates. Or does this seem
Kinder to you, to see
houses desolate and the land alight,
The men who plough it
given to the flames? Why let words
Restrain your arrows
and your power? The mothers wait
Expectantly, offering
their prayers once more. I am content,
I have deserved no
mercy from you. Stir your quiver, then,
And stretch the
sounding bow; put this noble spirit to death;
Yet as I die, dispel
the dark mass that hangs over Inachian
Was gripped by
reluctance to kill, and yielding he granted
The hero life’s sombre
beauty: then the evil mists vanished
From the sky and
Coroebus left the threshold of Apollo’s
We perform the
appointed rites at this solemn festival,
And fresh worship
appeases Phoebus’ shrine. You two
Visiting this altar by
chance, of what stock are you both?
Though if the cry that
reached my ears just now spoke true,
One here descends from
Calydonian Oeneus, and knows
The rule of Porthaon’s
house. But who are you that visit
At this the Ismenian
hero gazed with sadness at the ground,
And glancing at Tydeus
on his left, after a long pause, spoke:
‘It would be better to
have waited until the sacred rite was done,
Before asking about my
race and country, what ancient line
I am from: it troubles
me to confess it amidst the worshippers.
But if you are so
eager to know this wretched man’s origin,
My ancestor is Cadmus;
my land is Mars’ own
And Jocasta is my
mother. Adrastus was moved, why hide
From your host what he
knows well? (He had recognised him.)
He knows, news does
not fail to make its way to
Whoever shivers in
Arctic light, or drinks from the
Or enters Ocean dark
at sunset, or finds himself stranded
By Syrtes’ uncertain
shore, knows of the king, his horror,
And his eyes destroyed
through shame. Do not complain,
Or take on yourself
the sorrows of those who reared you.
In my race too,
respect for kin often went awry, yet guilt
Is not visited on later
generations. If you differ from them
You may deserve
success and make amends for your race.
But now with sloping
shaft the icy Wain grows fainter,
Pour wine on the
altar, and let us again and then again
Sing out our prayer to
Leto’s son, our parents’ saviour.
O Father Phoebus,
whether in Patara’s thickets among
Snow-bound Lycian
hills, or delighting to drench golden
Locks in Castalia’s
chaste water, whether at Thymbra
As patron of
Of that Phrygian stone
on your shoulders, without reward,
Or whether you choose
to favour Latona’s
Whose shadow meets the
To seek for
You bend against
fierce enemies, yours the arrows, gifts
Of your heavenly
Father, yours the ever radiant cheeks;
You have skill to read
the threads the Parcae spin, the fate
Beyond, and great Jove’s
resolves – what plagues or wars
The year will bring to
men, what kingdoms comets topple:
You conquered Phrygian
Marsyas with the lyre; you spread
Earthborn Tityos over
Stygian sands to your mother’s honour;
Green Python and
Theban Niobe shuddered to know the fall
Of your arrows; and
for you alone Megaera the grim avenger
Presses food on
starving Phlegyas, where he lies beneath
Echoing cliffs, urging
him, as his table companion, to eat
Unholy meats, while
nausea counteracts his eternal hunger:
Oh, come, be mindful
of our hospitality, and grant your love
And favour to Juno’s
fields, whether it is right for us to call
You roseate Titan as
the Achaemenians do; or, it may be,
Osiris bringer of
fertile crops; or Mithras twisting the horns
Of some reluctant
bull, in the depths of a stony Persian cave.’
End of Book I
Meanwhile Mercury,
Maia’s winged son, had returned
From the chill shades,
as mighty Jove had commanded;
Heavy cloud on all
sides denied him passage, torpid air
Enveloped him; no
zephyr sped him on his way, only
The foul breath of
that silent country. Here
In its nine folds,
there blazing torrents blocked his path.
After him trailed old
Laius’ trembling shade, slowed
Still by his wound.
The impious blade with like stroke
Had transfixed his
body, to the hilt, and driven home
The Furies’ primal
wrath. Yet on he went, his steps
Steadied by the
healing wand. Then the sterile groves
The phantom-haunted
fields, the sombre forest stood
Amazed; Earth herself
wondered at opening upwards;
And even the dead
without light showed the livid hue
Of envy. One especially
whose twisted purpose it had
Ever been in the upper
world (thus his life ended ill)
To insult the wretched
and gripe at prosperity, cried:
‘Go then, fortunate
man, for whatever use you may
Be summoned. Whether
Jupiter commands it, or some
Great Fury forces you
to the light, or some priestess
Of
Sepulchre, go, view
the sweet sky and the sun you
Left behind, and the
green earth, and oh, the rivers’
Pure springs, yet you
will be all the sadder entering
These shadows once
again.’ Cerberus saw them, too,
Where he lay on the
dark threshold, and reared his
Snarling heads. Fierce
to the crowd that passes in,
His black neck was
already swelling with menace,
Already he pawed at
the bones littering the ground,
But the god soothed
his bristling with Lethe’s wand,
And closed his
adamantine eyes in triple slumber.
There is a place (that
the people of Inachus named
Taenarus) where
foaming Malea’s dread promontory
Rises into the air; no
gaze finds its summit, standing
High and serene,
looking down on wind and rain;
And only the weary
stars make it their station. Yet
The exhausted winds
have their sleeping quarters
There, and there too
are the paths of the lightning.
Dense clouds guard the
mountain’s middle-slopes,
While no sound of
wings reaches the highest; no
Hoarse thunder
rumbles. But when the sun is low,
Its vast shadow sends
long fingers over the waters,
And swims on the
abyss. Deep in the inner bay,
Taenarus bends its
lofty shores, where the billows
Dare not break. There
Wearied by the Aegean
waves; their hooves paw
The sands, their
fish-like tails merge with the water.
In this place, they
say, a winding path leads pale
Ghosts to black
Pluto’s great halls enriched by death.
If the Laconian
farmers speak true, screams are heard,
The groans of those
who are punished, and the land
Is awake with dark
tumult; often the stir and voices
Of the Furies sound in
broad daylight, and Cerberus
The tri-formed keeper
of the dead, heard by the farmers,
Drives them from the
fields. This was the way by which
The god, cloaked in
dark shadow, reached the upper world,
And shaking the
subterranean mist from his face, cleared
His form with draughts
of fresh air. Towards Arcturus,
Under the full and
silent moon, he passed among fields
And races. Sleep,
driving Night’s horses, met him there
And turning aside from
heaven’s direct course he rose
Hastily to honour the
deity. Laius’ shade flew on below
The god, viewing the
stars he had lost, and his homeland.
Now he gazes on
Cirrha’s heights, and
By his burial. They
came to
At his son’s
threshold, loath to enter that familiar place.
And when he saw his
own blood-stained chariot, its shaft
Resting against the
tall pillars, he almost turned away,
In confusion; nor was
it Jove the Thunderer’s command
That held him back,
but the power of the Arcadian wand.
By chance, it was the
day of Jove’s famous lightning-bolt
When his abrupt rescue
of you, tender Bacchus, joined you
To him. That gave the
Tyrian colonists a reason to prolong
A sleepless night in
festive rivalry. In fields and houses,
Everywhere, among the
empty wine-bowls and garlands,
They exhaled the
breathy wine-god. There many a pipe
Of boxwood and many a
cymbal sounded above the beat
Of the bull-hide
drums.
Mothers through the
wild woods in a kindlier Bacchic rite.
Such feasts do the
wild Bistones gather to on Rhodope,
Or in Ossa’s vales;
and to them a half-dead sheep, meat
Snatched from the
lion’s jaws, and blood mixed with fresh
Milk is a luxury;
while if ever the fierce odour of Ogygian
Wine breathes on them
they love to scatter wine-cups
And stones and, after
spilling a friend’s innocent blood,
To start the day once
more, and reload the festive tables.
Such was the eve when,
from the silent air, swift-flying
Mercury glided to
Eteocles’ bed. The Echionian king
Had laid his huge
frame on a tall mattress, his limbs
Resting on heaped
Assyrian robes. Ah, mortal minds
All ignorant of their
fate! Even such dine, and sleep.
Then old Laius does as
he is ordered; and lest he seem
An illusory phantom of
the night, he adopts the blind
Visage and voice of
long-lived Tiresias, and the familiar
Fillets of wool. His
hair and the white beard on his chin,
And his pallor he
retained, but a headband not his own
Circled his hair,
where fillets entwined with grey olive
Gracefully emerged. He
seemed then to touch the breast
Of the king with a
twig, and to speak these fatal words:
‘This is no time to
sleep, you who embrace night’s depths,
Sluggishly; heedless
of your brother. Great deeds summon
You where you lie and
weighty plans. You snore, like
A steersman asleep
under dark clouds, all careless of his
Sails, and sea-driven
rudder, while the winds raise high
The mighty Ionian
waves. Even now (so Rumour has it)
Polynices prides
himself on fresh marriage, and gathers
Strength to seize the
kingdom, and make you resign it,
Promising himself an
old age in your palace. Adrastus,
Destined by prophecy
to be his father-in-law, and
The dowry, emboldens
him, while Tydeus, tainted with
A brother’s blood, is
his comrade, bonded to him for life.
Leave, swollen one,
and you can expect your brother’s
Long exile. Pitying
from on high, the father of the gods
Himself sends me to
you: Hold Thebes, drive off your kin,
As blind with desire
for power he would you, let him not
Trust for long in the
evil he’s begun, wishing his brother
Dead, nor allow him to
foist
He spoke, and then
departed (already the steeds of light
Were putting the pale
stars to flight), tearing the twigs
And fillets of wool
from his hair, revealing himself to be
The king’s
grandfather. Bending over his fatal grandson’s
Bed, he bared the wide
wound at his throat, and drenched
The sleeper with a
stream of blood. The king’s slumber
Was broken. He raised
his limbs, and leapt from that
Place of horror.
Shaking off the phantom flow of gore,
He shuddered to see
his grandfather, and turned at once
To seek his brother.
As a tigress, at the sound of the hunt,
Her stripes rippling,
shakes off the depths of sleep, roars
And shows her claws
and, attacking the crowd of men,
Seizes one alive in
her jaws, meat for her blood-stained
Cubs, so the furious
king fought with his absent brother.
And now
Bed, and driven the
chill shadows from heaven’s heights,
Shaken the dew from
her hair, blushing at the chasing sun.
From her Lucifer in
reddened cloud turns his waning fires,
As he leaves the sky
with slow steeds, till the fiery father
Fully shows his face,
forbidding even his own sister’s rays.
Then Adrastus, Talaus’
aged son; Polynices the Dircaean
Hero; and he of
Achelous, Tydeus, hastened from their beds.
Over the latter two,
wearied by wind and storm, Sleep had
Poured his brimming
horn, but the king’s rest was troubled
As he pondered the
gods’ will and the bonds of hospitality
Newly-forged, and
asked what fate the finding of these
Sons-in-law had
brought him. They met in the central hall
Of the palace and
clasped hands in turn, then were seated
Where private matters
could be safely raised and argued.
The two were hesitant,
and Adrastus spoke first: ‘Young
Nobles, whom Night has
not brought here to my kingdom
Without some higher
purpose, whose steps Apollo guided
To my house through
lightning, rain and threatening thunder,
I think it cannot be
unknown to you, as to all the Pelasgians,
That eager crowds of
suitors seek my daughters in marriage;
For they, a happy
pledge to me of grandchildren, are entering
Womanhood under the
one star. You need no father’s word,
You could judge their
grace and modesty at last night’s feast.
Men both proud of their
kingdoms and their far-flung power
(The list is long of
Spartan and Thessalian lords) and mothers
Throughout the towns
of
Of posterity; nor did
your own Oeneus reject more suitors for
Deianira, nor Oenomaus
race more to death for Hippodamia.
But it is not right
for me to choose among the sons of
Or those from
In the due course of
things are promised to you. Thanks be
To the gods, you are
such in birth and mind that the prophecy
Proves welcome. These
are the honours you win for passing
So harsh a night,
these the prizes attendant on your quarrel.’
They listened, then
for a while fixed their gaze firmly on each
Other’s faces, each
seeming to yield the first word to the other.
But Tydeus, ever the
bolder in action, began: ‘How niggardly
Is your mature wisdom
in confessing to your fame, how well
You temper favouring
Fortune with virtue! To whom does
Adrastus bow in
lordship? Who does not know how, summoned
From the throne of
your ancestral
To unruly
Of all the races the
Dorian Isthmus holds back, and the far
Countries beyond its
boundary. The sun would not have fled
From dire
Chariot races, nor
other Furies have pursued other kings, nor
Would all you deplore
more deeply, Theban, have occurred.
As for us, we are
willing, and our hearts are open.’ So spoke
The one and the other
added: ‘Would not any man accept
Such a father-in-law?
Exiles as we are, banished from our
Native lands, Venus
has not yet brought joy, but the sorrow
Has abated in our
hearts, and the pain fixed there has ceased.
This is no less a
solace than the vessel finds, that driven by
The rushing gale sees
friendly shores ahead. We are pleased
To follow fair omens
of royalty, and spend what is left of fate
And life’s toils under
your star.’ Spending no longer in speech,
They rose, and the
Inachian father heaped promise on promise,
Swearing to help them
both to recover their native kingdoms.
So, the news spread through the city: bridegrooms were there,
For the king’s
daughters; peerless Argia, and Deipyle no less a
Match in beauty; that
the girls mature now were ready to be wed,
And happily all
prepared to rejoice. Rumour reached other cities,
Their neighbours,
stirring the countryside round about, as far as
The glades of Lycaeus,
past Parthenius, and to Ephyre’s fields.
That same goddess of
disturbance descended on Ogygian Thebes,
Cloaked the city with
her wings, frightened King Eteocles there
With echoes of night
past, chanting of wedding feasts and guests,
Royal pacts and
mingling of blood-lines, and then (what licence
The monster has; what
madness she brings!) with sounds of war.
All
With a happy crowd;
close at hand they view images of ancestors,
Bronze contending with
living faces. Hands have dared to create
All this! Here
twin-horned Father Inachus himself sits, leaning
To his left, against
his tilted urn. Old Iasus, gentle Phoroneus
There too; warlike
Abas; Acrisius angry with the Thunderer;
Coroebus bearing the
monster’s head on a naked sword-point,
And a likeness of
Danaus, crime already present in his mind.
A thousand leaders
follow. A wave of subjects murmurs there,
And flows through the
noble doors, while all of the notables,
And those whose rank
approaches royalty are ranked in order.
The inner halls are
bright with the flames of sacrifice, noisy
With women’s cares; a
band of chaste Argive ladies surround
The mother, others
ring the girls, praising their new lords,
Comforting their
fears. They move amongst them, splendid
Of face and dress,
modesty blushing in their radiant cheeks,
Eyes downcast. The
last breath of virgin love steals over them,
And the shame of first
experience troubles their countenances.
Then virtuous showers
wet their faces, and their tears delight
Their affectionate
parents. It is as though Pallas, and Diana,
Apollo’s stern sister,
both fierce in looks and weapons, blond
Hair braided, were to
glide from the heavens leading their
Sacred bands, she of
Aracynthus, she of Cynthus; such that
You’d never find by
gazing, if that were permitted, which
Owned to richer
beauty, or more grace, or greater authority;
Both such that were
they to exchange dress with one another,
Pallas would adorn the
quiver, and Diana the crested helm.
The sons of Inachus
rivalled one another in joy, wearying
The gods with vows,
worshipping in accord with their rites.
Some offered
sacrificial beasts, and entrails, others, by altars
Of bare turf, invoked
the gods with incense (no less heard
If their thoughts
found acceptance) adorning their doorways
With gathered
branches. But behold, sudden terror (so harsh
Lachesis decreed)
startled their spirits; the father’s joy fled,
The day was spoiled,
as they neared the threshold of virgin
Pallas’ temple, she
who holds
Than Athenian heights.
Here, by ancient custom when ripe
For marriage, the
chaste daughters of Iasus would dedicate
Their virgin tresses,
in propitiation of the wedding couch.
As they reached the
lofty citadel, a bronze shield, the spoil
Of Arcadian Euhippus,
fell to the steps from the tall summit
Of the shrine,
striking down the bridal torches at the head
Of the procession,
quenching their flames; then, as they
Hesitated to step
forward, they were frightened by the blare
Of a mighty horn from
the temple’s depths. Scarce crediting
Their hearing, all
turn towards the king at the first alarm:
The dire omens of
things to come, move them all, filled
With fear and
murmuring. No wonder though, for Argia
Wears a fatal
ornament, her husband’s present, the luckless
Necklace of Harmonia.
Long, the well-known tale of woe
Which I will tell, by
which the gift acquired its cruel power.
Vulcan, so they say,
made it for Harmonia, a gift to adorn
Her wedding day, for
he had long resented Mars’ furtive
Pleasures, while
punishment had failed to prevent adultery
Detected, even the
vengeful chains powerless to restrain.
The Cyclopes, though
their skills were in more massive
Work, laboured on it,
and the Telchines, famed in crafts,
Lent zealous hands.
But he himself sweated most of all.
He set a ring of
emeralds, florescent with secret fires,
Around its adamant
forged with ill-omened shapes,
With Gorgon’s eyes;
ash from a lightning-bolt’s remains,
Dross of a Sicilian
anvil; shiny crests from green snakes’
Heads; and there a
weeping shoot of the Hesperides, with
The fatal gold of the
Golden Fleece. With these he mingled
Various ills, a lock
snatched from Tisiphone’s black tresses,
And the most harmful
powers that Venus’ girdle granted;
These he smeared
cunningly with lunar foam, and over
The whole spread
bright poisons. Neither Pasithea, first
Of the charming
Graces, nor Cupid, the Idalian boy, had
Shaped it, but Grief,
Anger, Sorrow, and Strife set there
The whole force of
their hands. It first wrought its ill
When Harmonia’s cries
turned to a serpent’s hiss and she
And Cadmus furrowed
And trailing bodies.
Then daring Semele had scarce hung
The baneful gift at
her neck, when Juno disguised crossed
The threshold. They
say you too, unhappy Jocasta, owned
That lovely curse.
With its glory you enhanced your looks,
To light, ah, such a
marriage bed! Many another followed.
Eriphyle, wife of the
doomed seer Amphiaraus, viewed it,
And at every banquet
and altar nursed fierce secret envy:
If only she might one
day make that cruel trinket her own.
Alas, the attendant
auguries failed to warn. Oh, the grief
She prayed for, the
tragedy she desired, impious woman!
She earned her own:
yet a wretched husband’s embraces
Betrayed, a guiltless
son’s insanity – were those deserved?
Now Argia shone with
the gift, out-gleaming her sister’s
Lesser gems with its
greater splendour of accursed gold.
After twelve days the
royal banquets and the people’s
Celebrations ended.
Now the Ismenian hero turned his
Gaze towards
He thought of the day
when fate favoured his brother,
When he stood in the
Echionian palace a mere subject:
When he saw the gods
had spurned him, friends lost
In fearful confusion.
None stood with him, Fortune
Had fled. Only
Antigone, his sister, wished to travel
With the exile on his
sorrowful way, and even she
He left on the
threshold, his vast anger stifling tears.
Night and day he
listed those whom he saw delighted
At his leaving, those
especially who courted the evil
King, and those few
who shed a tear for the fugitive.
Then grief consumed
his spirit, and a maddened rage,
And hope that, long
deferred, proves heaviest of cares.
This cloud of thoughts
circling in his mind, he planned
Now to journey to
He was denied. Like a
bull, leader of the herd, exiled
From his beloved
valleys, driven from his customary
Pastures by some
victor, and forced to live far from
His stolen heifers,
one who when his power returns
Sets his mighty neck
muscles straining, breaks oak
Trees with his chest,
and so longs, stronger than ever
In hoof and horn, to
fight to reclaim his meadows,
And herd, that the
victor fears his return, and all
The herdsmen, amazed,
scarcely know him: thus,
And not otherwise does
the young Teumesian hero
Sharpen his anger in
his silent heart. His loyal wife,
Sensed his private
urge to be gone. Lying on their bed
Clasping him, in the
first pale light of dawn, she cried:
‘Deceiver, what is it,
what journey are you plotting?
Nothing escapes a
lover. I feel the piercing sighs, your
Sleepless cares, you
who never slumber peacefully.
How often when I touch
you, I find your face is wet
With tears and your
breast alive with dark anxieties!
The severing of our
bond, our marriage, a widowed
Youth are not the
worst, though our love is yet new,
And our bed has not
yet cooled from our sacrament:
It is your safety, my
beloved, I freely confess: that
Torments me. Will you
go unarmed and friendless
To win a kingdom? Will
you have the power to quit
At unmasking kings,
reports him as vain, arrogant,
Proud of his spoils,
set against you: his year not done.
Prophecies alarm me now,
the entrails that convey
The gods’ menaces,
gliding birds, troubled visions
In the dark, and Juno
who (as I remember) never
Has deceived me, comes
to me in the dead of night.
Why go unless some
guilty passion draws you, or
Have you a finer
father-in-law in
The young Echionian
gave a laugh, and soothed
His wife’s tender
sorrow with an embrace, planting
Timely kisses on her
mournful eyes, and quenching
Her tears: ‘Let your
heart be free of fear; have faith,
A peaceful day of
speeches will greet the deserving.
Anxieties yet greater
than your years do not suit you.
Let Jupiter determine
our fate that day, and Justice,
If she chooses to turn
her eyes toward us from heaven,
And defend what is
right on earth: perhaps the day
Will come when you’ll
see the walls of your husband’s
City, and walk there
as the queen of both our realms.’
Such his words, then
swiftly he left the dear threshold.
He spoke, sadly, to
Tydeus, companion in his actions,
And faithful sharer of
his cares (so strong was the love
That bound them after
their quarrel) and to Adrastus.
The discussion was
lengthy, debating many options,
All finally agreeing
on the best: to test his brother’s
Good faith first,
requesting the safe transfer of power.
Brave Tydeus
volunteered for the task, though Deipyle
His wife tried hard to
restrain this boldest of Aetolians.
Yet her father’s word,
and an emissary’s assurance
Of safe return, and
her sister’s rightful prayers prevailed.
Now Tydeus took the
rough tracks by woods and shore:
Where Lerna’s marshes
lie, the scorched Hydra yet
Warmed in their guilty
depths; through
Fearful shepherds,
still afraid of lions, sound no flutes;
By
And Sisyphus’ harbour
Cenchrea and Palaemon’s
Lechaeum separate
those breakers angered by land.
From there he passed
by
Agenor’s
Eteocles enthroned on
high, fenced with sharp lances.
Though the lawful
period of his reign was now done,
The fierce King
governed the people, not his brother.
He sat, happy to
commit any crime, yet complaining
That no claim had yet
been made against the promise.
Tydeus presented
himself (an olive branch declared
The emissary) and on
request announced his name
And purpose.
Forthright as he was, and always prone
To anger, his words
were a mix of the just and severe:
‘If plain good faith
and respect for the pledge you gave
Were yet yours, it
were better if you had sent envoys
To your brother now
your year has passed; laid your
Honours aside as
agreed; renounced authority readily;
So that after his
wanderings amongst strange cities,
His undeserved
suffering, he might reign here at last,
As he desires. But
since the love of kingship is sweet,
And power seduces I am
here to make demand of you.
Already the swift
globe has spun on its axis, already
The vanished shadows
have returned to the mountains,
While your brother, a
penniless exile, was enduring
Sad hours in unknown
places. Now is the time for you
To suffer daylight
under an open sky, feel earth’s chill
In your limbs, and
kneel humbly beside foreign hearths.
Put an end to
happiness. Rich in purple, conspicuous
With gold, you have
mocked your poor brother’s lean
Years long enough. I
counsel you to unlearn the joys
Of kingship and in
patient exile to merit your return.’
He spoke, and
Eteocles’ hot heart roared in his silent
Breast, just as a
snake, long thirsting in its hollow pit,
Rears, angered by a
cast stone, weaves its whole body,
And summons its venom
into its scaly neck and jaws:
‘Were I at all unsure,
before, of my brother’s enmity;
If his secret hatred
was at all obscure; this alone would
Provide the proof. How
wildly you threaten, in his name,
As though the enemy’s
sappers were already undermining
Our walled palisades
while trumpets called the squadrons
To assault! If you’d
spoken your message among Bistones,
Or the Geloni pale
under the northern sun, your eloquence
Could scarce have been
less, nor you the less attentive to
Impartial justice. Yet
I’ll not accuse you of any madness.
You’ve executed your
commission. Now since all you say
Is full of menace and,
hand on hilt, you demand the throne,
Devoid of good faith,
and peaceful offers, take this reply
To the Argive king,
words not equal to yours in harshness:
‘The sceptre that a
just fate, and the honour due my years
Pronounce mine, I hold
and long will hold: to you belongs
Kingship by marriage,
gifted to you by your Inachian bride.
Let Danae’s gold
accumulate (why should I desire a greater
Realm?) Rule
Will rule Dirce’s
rough pastures and the shores
Waves confine, not
afraid to call poor Oedipus my father:
Yours is nobility writ
large (Pelops and Tantalus your
Ancestors) allied now
more closely still to Jupiter’s line.
Would your queen,
accustomed to her father’s fine house
Suffer this as her
home, where our sisters would of right
Spin threads of
anxiety for her, or our mother dishevelled
From long mourning, or
that accursed king audible
Maybe in the depths of
darkness, would offend her?
The people’s hearts by
now are accustomed to my yoke:
I bear the shame,
alas, for commoners and nobles both.
Must they suffer
uncertainty and change of rule so often
That they groan;
grudging obedience to a dubious claimant?
A brief reign is
unsparing of a nation. Witness the dread,
Witness the dismay the
citizens show at our arrangement.
Shall I abandon all
those whom you are sure to punish?
Brother, you send in
anger. Even if I were willing, if I read
Affection where
gratitude is due, the noblemen will not
Allow me to desert the
throne.’ Tydeus no longer bore it,
And in the midst of
these final words, replied: ‘You shall,’
And again, ‘You shall;
though ramparts of adamant ring
You round or Amphion
sound another tune and build triple
Walls for you, neither
the blade nor fire shall protect you
From punishment for
your actions: you will die beneath
Our swords, striking
the earth wearing the crown you stole.
Such you deserve; but,
good king, I pity all those lives you
Hold cheap, sending
them to death in bitter battle, snatching
Them from their wives
and children. What corpses will roll
Amongst those
blood-stained waters,
This then is brotherly
love, this your great loyalty! Nor do I
Wonder at the crimes
of your race: such was the author
Of your being, such
your father’s impure marriage; and yet
Origins deceive us:
you alone are true heir of Oedipus. Such,
You man of violence,
is the reward you shall reap for your
Action and your sin.
We demand our year of rule. But I delay.’
This he shouted,
boldly, turning from the threshold, then ran
Headlong between the
astounded ranks. So Diana’s avenging
Boar, in his bristling
pride, hurls lightning from tusked jaws
While the Pelopean
hunters pressing hard roll rocks in his path
And shattered trees
from Achelous’ broken shores: first he
Hurls Telamon to the
ground, now fells Ixion, then turns
On Meleager: there at
last he halts at a spear-thrust, freeing
The blade caught in
his straining shoulder. So the Calydonian
Hero, Tydeus, quitting
the shuddering council grinds his jaws,
As though it were he
himself who were denied the throne.
He hurries on his way,
hurls aside the peace-offering of olive
Branches, while from
the thresholds of their houses women
Watch amazed, and hurl
curses at the fierce son of Oeneus,
And in the depths of
their hearts at the stubborn king as well.
Nor was the king idle,
never free of wicked plans and vile
Treachery. He tempted
loyal youths, chosen for battle skills,
First with ardent
words and then with gold, and proposed
A vicious nocturnal
ambush, eager to kill this emissary,
(A role sacred to all
throughout history) with hidden blade.
What does kingship not
hold cheap? What stratagems
Would he not devise if
Fortune delivered him his brother?
O, blind counsels of
the wicked! O crime, ever the coward!
A crowd of men sworn
to arms, enough to assault a camp
Or shatter the high
walls of a city with steady blows from
A battering ram, seek
to take a single life. In close order,
Fifty warriors pour
from the tall gate. So much for courage!
Glory to you who are
thought worthy of such weapons!
A short cut leads
through the trees. They hurry forward
On a secret track
through the dense forest, saving time.
They choose a fitting
site for ambush, far from the city,
Where a tortuous pass
is hemmed in by hills, shrouded
By shade from the
heights above, leafy wooded ridges
Curving inwards
(Nature had made the place for crime,
The darkness aiding
concealment.) A rough and narrow
Path pierced the
cliffs, below a plain and a broad stretch
Of sloping meadows.
Opposite was a dark ledge, home
To the Sphinx. Here
the savage creature once waited,
Lifting pale cheeks,
and eyes filled with putrid matter,
Feathers clotted with
vile gore, standing on human limbs,
Pressing half-chewed
bones to her naked breasts, viewing
The plain with
wavering gaze, watching for some stranger
Who might dare to meet
the challenge of enigmatic words,
And have commerce with
her evil tongue. Then, quickly
Sharpening her
extended nails, her livid hands, her teeth
Bared to wound, with
frightful wings she would flap
Against the
traveller’s face. Her riddle went unsolved,
Until Oedipus (a
monster like herself, alas!) trapped her;
And subdued, her wings
trailing, she dashed her foul
Form against the rocks
below. The woods revealed their
Horror; cattle feared
the nearby meadows, and hungry
Flocks shunned the
tainted grass. The Dryad choruses
Dislike its shade
unfitted to the rites of Fauns; even
The carrion birds flee
the monstrous grove. There,
With muffled steps,
the fatal band arrive, and leaning
On their spears, their
shields grounded, wait for their
Proud enemy, ringing
the wood with a circle of guards.
Night had begun to
cloak Phoebus with her dewy mantle
And had cast her dusky
shadows over earth, when nearing
The woods Tydeus saw, from
a high hill, the reddish gleam
Of soldiers’ shields
and crested helms, where branches left
Openings in the trees
and, in the shadows opposite, tremors
Of flickering
moonlight strayed over their bronze armour.
Shocked by the sight,
he still went forward, merely gripping
His bristling spears
and sheathed sword’s hilt more tightly.
Then, free of base
fear, he challenged first: ‘Where do you
Hail from, men, with
hidden weapons?’ No voice answered,
And the suspicious
silence stirred mistrust of their intent.
Behold, Cthonius,
their trusty leader hurled a spear that flew
Through the darkened
air, from his huge arm; but Fortune
And the god deflected
its flight. Still it struck the expanse
Of black, bristling
Olenian boar-hide over his left shoulder,
Close to the flesh,
the headless shaft scratching at his throat.
Then his hair stood on
end, and the blood froze at his heart.
Fiercely, he shouts at
them, angered in mind, face pale with
Fury (not dreaming the
size of the enemy force): ‘Come out,
Face me here on the
open field! What, scared to try? Such
Cowards then? Alone, I
challenge you to fight, a man alone.’
At this they rush him,
he sees more men than he had thought
Run from countless
hiding places, some from the ridge, some
Adding to them from
the valley’s depths, many from the plain,
The whole path
gleaming with weapons, as wild beasts raised
By the hunt reveal
themselves at a cry. Oppressed, one path
Lay clear; he headed
for the vile Sphinx’s steep cliff: rasping
His clutching hands on
the sheer crag he climbed the harsh
Heights, and gained a
rock safe from danger behind while
The risky path lay
below. From the cliff he prised a huge
Scarce have torn from
the ground to bring it within a wall;
Then he raised it with
all his strength, balancing the mighty
Mass on high, like
great-hearted Pholus, the Centaur, lifting
An empty mixing bowl
to fling it at his Lapith adversaries.
Stupefied, the men
below on the fatal track saw him there.
He hurled the rock,
and its downfall overwhelmed them:
Heads, hands, weapons,
with shattered breasts and armour
Were crushed beneath.
Four men groaned there, smashed
To a common pulp. Now
the terrified band relinquished
The attack since those
who had fallen were noted warriors:
Dorylas the
lightning-bolt, a king among men for his fiery
Courage; Theron, scion
of Mars, trusting in his earthborn
Ancestry; Halys, a
horseman second to none (foot-soldier
Now and dead on the
ground); and Phaedimus, of the line
Of Pentheus, a race
Bacchus had not yet forgiven. The men,
Appalled by their
sudden end, broke their ranks in confusion.
Seeing this, Tydeus
hurled two javelins he had carried in his
Hands and then set
against the cliff at his fleeing enemies.
Then he freely chose
to leap down, and snatch up the shield
He had seen thrown
aside when Theron was crushed, so as
To protect his naked
chest against weapons. Head and back
Guarded by its
familiar presence, defending his front
With that enemy shield,
he took his stand. Once again
The sons of Ogygus
closed their ranks and stood firm.
Tydeus swiftly draws
his Bistonian sword, great Oeneus’
Gift of Mars, and
facing this group and that on every side
Shakes off the
gleaming iron shafts. Their numbers impede
Them, shields caught
together, their blows without force,
Striking at their own
comrades, lurching about entangled
In the mass, while
Tydeus waits for each attack, offering
A slim target to the
spears, impregnable. So giant Briareus
If we can believe it,
in Thracian Phlegra, took up arms
Against the gods,
scorning Apollo’s bow on the one side,
And frowning Pallas’
serpents on the other; here Mars’
Thessalian pine tipped
with a blade, there lightning bolt
On lightning bolt to
weary the Cyclopes; attacked in vain
By all the Olympians,
not all his hundred hands employed.
Such was Tydeus’
ardour, thrusting his shield to and fro,
Retiring, and circling
the spot, then bearing down on his
Trembling enemies,
plucking out the many javelins stuck
Quivering in his
shield, to re-arm himself. Often he felt
Sharp blows, but none
reached the life within, none could
Hope to kill. He
himself whirls raging Deilochus round,
And calls Phegus, who
threatens him with his raised axe,
To go join Deilochus
among the shades, and likewise
Dircaean Gyas, and
Echionian Lycophontes. Till, in fear,
They search and call
the roll, their appetite for slaughter
Diminished, grieved at
the thinning of their dense ranks.
Behold Chromis,
descendant of Cadmus (Chromis whom
Phoenician Dryope
carried in her womb, and gave life to
When, suddenly caught
up in the dancing, she forgot her
Burden, so that as she
dragged a bull by the horn, for your
Sake Bacchus, her
contractions began with the strain of it,
And the child was
born). Brave Chromis, clad in the skin
Of a slain lion,
grasping his spears, brandishing a knotted
Club of pine-wood,
berated them thus: ‘Shall one man,
One man alone, return
to
The numbers he has
killed? They will scarce believe it
When he reports. Alas,
friends, are our hands and weapons
Useless? Cydon, Lampus
is this the promise that we gave
The king? Yet as he
shouted to them, a Theban javelin,
Plucked from the
shield, entered his open mouth, pierced
His throat. His voice
failed, the severed tongue gushed
Blood. Still he stood,
until death seized his limbs, then
Fell to the ground,
collapsing silently, biting on the spear.
You too, the sons of
Thespius, why should I deny you
Your fame and honour?
Periphas (none more renowned
For his natural gifts
and love of kin) one of the two, raised
His dying brother from
the earth, cradling the drooping
Head with his left
arm, his brother’s body with the right.
Grief strained the
armour none too large for his sorrow,
His helmet-straps
barely held a helm drenched in tears.
Yet, as he groaned
deeply, a heavy spear from behind
Shattered his rib-cage
at a thrust, and pierced his own
Brother’s chest, its
shaft pinning both of them together.
The brother gazed,
eyes still alight with life, then seeing
His dying brother,
closed them. Yet his spirit was not yet
Flown, and life
hovering despite the wound, he cried:
‘Enemy, may your sons
deal you such an embrace, such
Kisses.’ So they were
doomed alike to die, and answering
Their sad prayer to
die together, sealed each other’s eyes.
At once Tydeus drove
the terrified Menoetes before him,
On shield and spear,
till retreating, hastily, the Theban
Stumbling in panic,
tripped on the rough ground and fell.
Hands spread wide in
entreaty, he pushed the thrusting
Blade from his throat:
‘By those shadows and the stars
That glide across
them, by the gods and this your night,
Let me carry the sad
news to
Before the trembling
people, in contempt of their king;
So may our weapons
fall idle, the iron fail to pierce your
Flesh, and you return
victorious as your friend desires.’
With unchanging
expression, Tydeus replied thus: ‘You
Shed your tears in
vain; you too, if I mistake not, swore
To bring your unjust
king my head. Now say farewell
To conflict and the
light. Why seek to live a coward’s
Life? War abides.’ At
this the spear, withdrawn, was
Wet with blood.
Angered, he pursued his beaten foes
With bitter words:
‘This night sees no return of your
Triennial ancestral
rite: here are no Cadmean orgies,
Here are no women
intent on Bacchic desecration.
Think you those are
the skins of fawns and frail wands
You bear, joining
lascivious dances to unwarlike song,
To the sound of
Marsyas’ pipe that real men know not?
To the shades with
you, O band of cowards! So Tydeus
Roared, but his limbs
began to fail him, and the blood
Throbbed wearily in
his breast. Now his hand was lifted
In febrile blows, his
steps slowed, the hand behind his
Shield-boss no longer
raised the shield weighted with
Spears, a cold rain
fell from his panting chest, his hair
And burning face were
dewed with blood, all the foul
Spray from the dying.
He was like a lion that chasing
The shepherd from the
fields, gorging on Numidian
Sheep, its hunger
sated in bloody slaughter, its mane
And neck weighed with
gore, stands among the dead,
Gaping with sickness,
filled with the meat, its fury lost
Till now it merely
snarls, with empty jaws, at thin air,
And licks away soft
wool with its protruding tongue.
Sated with spoils and
slaughter, Tydeus would have
Entered
Their king, in
triumph, if you Pallas had not deigned
To counsel him, afire
and filled with the fog of battle
As he was: ‘Scion of
proud Oeneus’ race, to whom
I have just granted
victory over neighbouring
Have done: do not test
the patience of the generous
Gods. Ask only that
this exploit finds credence; you
Have chanced Fortune
far enough. Now, go.’ One
Unwilling survivor of
the sad slaughter remained,
Maeon, son of Haemon,
outlived his friends, having
Foreseen it all, since
he was skilled in reading omens
From the flight of
birds; nor had he failed to warn
The king, but Fate
ensured that he was not believed.
The wretch was doomed
to an unprofitable life. He
It was to whom Tydeus
gave a pitiful task; ‘Whoever
You may be of Aonia’s
sons, you, who by my grace
Survive the slaughter
to see tomorrow’s sun, I order
You to take your lord
this message: ‘Build ramparts
Round your gates,
sharpen up your weapons, inspect
That ring of walls
time has weakened, but above all
Pack them tightly with
men; add to your dense ranks.
Behold this place
stained far and wide by my sword:
So we will come at
you, in war.’ Having spoken, he
Readied himself to pay
due homage to Pallas, with
The blood-stained
spoils. Joyfully he gathered arms
From the ground and
viewed the results of his deeds.
An oak stood there,
its tender youth long forgotten,
On a mound in the
midst of the plain, vigorous still
And tough, with thick
bark, and curving branches.
He brought dented
helms and fastened them there;
Shields too scored
with gashes, fixing there swords
Shattered by blows,
spears drawn from dead limbs.
Then standing by the
bodies and a pile of weapons,
He began, while the
long night-bound ridge echoed
His words: ‘Oh, glory
and spirit of your great father,
Fierce goddess, mighty
in war, on whose fair head,
In fearful beauty,
sits the grim helm; at whose breast
The blood-spattered
Gorgon glares (nor could Mars
Nor Bellona armed with
spear for battle raise more
Fiery trumpet blasts),
show favour to these honours,
Whether you come from
Pandion’s Athenian citadel
To see this slaughter,
or turn aside from Aonian Itone,
Lover of the dance, or
comb your hair bathed in
Mares bear you,
drawing your chariot on swift wheels:
To you I dedicate the
shattered spoils, and shapeless
Trophies of these
warriors. But if I should reach my
Native Calydonian lands
again, and Aetolian Pleuron
Open her gates at my
return, I shall dedicate a golden
Shrine to you on the
city’s heights where it may be
Sweet to you to gaze
on Ionian storms, where wild
Achelous raises the
waves with his yellow head,
Leaving the Echinades,
behind him, in his wake.
There I shall portray
ancestral battles and the dread
Visages of
great-hearted kings, and there I shall fix
Weapons to high walls,
weapons I have gathered
Won by my efforts, and
those that you, Tritonia,
Will grant when
Calydonian maidens,
vowed to serve your virgin
Altars, will duly wind
purple ribbons striped with
White about the Attic
torches made of your chaste
Olive-tree. And an
aged priestess shall feed your
Eternal flame, your
arcane image never to be seen.
In war or peace, by
custom, you shall then receive
First fruits, nor
shall Diana resent her loss of them.’
He spoke then took
again the road to sweet
End of Book II
But the treacherous king
in his Aonian palace finds no rest
In the perilous night,
even though the dew-wet stars must
Journey long until the
dawn. Anxiety keeps vigil in his
Mind, and exacts
punishment for the crime he planned,
While fear, the worst
of prophets in time of doubt, broods
Over many things.
‘Alas,’ he cries, ‘why all this delay?
(Since he had thought
it an easy task and Tydeus no great
Challenge to such a
force, not rating courage and spirit
Against large
numbers.) ‘Did they miss him on the road?
Was help sent him from
Spread to neighbouring
cities? Did I choose too small
A force, great Mars,
or are they weaklings? Yet brave
Chromis is there, and
Dorylas, the scions of Thespius
Like two great
turrets; they could raze all
Order. Nor it seems to
me is he impervious to weapons,
His limbs are scarcely
made of bronze or adamant. Oh,
Cowards, if combat was
joined, to struggle helplessly
Against one man!’ So
he agonises, stirred by conflicting
Doubts, blaming
himself above all for not striking down
The emissary as he
spoke in the assembly, so sating his
Foul anger openly. Now
he feels ashamed of his actions,
And regrets them. Like
the master of a Calabrian vessel
In Ionian waters (no
stranger to the sea but deceived, by
Capella the Olenian
star’s clear rising, into leaving fair
Harbour) when a sudden
crack of thunder echoes loud
Through the firmament
and Orion bends the sky lower;
Who longs to be
ashore, and struggles to reverse course,
But is driven on by a
mighty gale astern, and forgetting
His skill groans and
blindly goes where the sea takes him:
Thus Etoecles, the
Agenorean king, berated Lucifer for
Dawdling, dawn for
rising too slowly for anxious men.
Behold, as Night
retreated and her chariot withdrew,
As the stars sank,
while great Tethys urged on the Sun
Who lingered in
eastern waters, the massy depths were
Stirred, a sign of
grievous trouble, and the earth shook;
The rooftops were seen
to rise, the seven gates seemed
Level with the
mountain ridge. The cause was apparent.
Maeon, Haemon’s son
had returned in the chill dawn,
Angered by Fate,
grieving that death was denied him.
His expression was not
yet visible, but at a distance
He gave signs of great
disaster, beating at his chest
And groaning: as for
his tears he had shed them all.
So a herdsman, his
cattle slaughtered in the night
By wolves after a
sudden gale, when the wild horns
Of a winter moon have
driven them into the woods,
Who, at dawn, finds
the carnage there before his eyes,
In plain view, and
fears to tell his master, face to face,
Of the tragedy,
covering his head with dust, fills all
The fields with his
lament, calling to the long ranks
Of lost bulls, hating
the silence of their empty stall.
When the women
gathered at the threshold of the gate
Saw him alone (the
horror!) no band of brave warriors
Round him, frightened
to question him, they raised a cry
Like that last clamour
when a city falls, or a ship sinks.
As soon as he was
granted the audience he desired, he
Spoke to the hateful
king: ‘Fierce Tydeus spared you this
One wretched life of
our great company. It was decreed
By the gods perhaps,
or Fortune, or, though pride hates
To confess it, his
invincible might. I who report it to you
Scarce believe it; all
are fallen, all. Night’s wandering
Planets I call as
witnesses; my comrades’ shades; the evil
Omen of this
earthquake at my return: that I won this cruel
Favour, this gift of
shameful life, by no tears or cunning:
But the gods’ decree,
inflexible Atropos, and a prophecy
Long ago that such
fate would be denied me, averted death.
Now, that you may see
my heart clings not to life, unafraid
Of the final hour, I
say to you: ‘Murderer, you’ve launched
An unholy war,
oblivious to the omens, proud to abolish
Rule of law, and reign
while your brother’s doomed to exile.
A host of orphans,
lost families, will haunt you with endless
Lament – and fifty ghosts will fly about you bringing
fell
Terror by night and
day, for I linger not.’ Though the fierce
King was already moved
to anger, his scowling face suffused
With blood; though
Phlegyas, and Labdacus a man not slow
To mischief (these the
king’s bodyguards) prepared to drive
Maeon out by force,
anticipating the king’s command, he,
The great-hearted seer
had already bared his sword, and now,
Gazing at the blade,
and then the tyrant’s fierce visage: cried:
‘You shall never have
me in your power, nor strike the breast
That great Tydeus left
unwounded. I go with joy, reach for
The death that was
snatched from me, borne to my friends’
Shades that await my
coming. You, I leave to your brother,
And the gods – ’ the
sword he plunged deep in his side cut
Short his speech. He
doubled over, fighting against the pain,
Straining against the
mighty wound; then fell, and the blood
Gushed from mouth and
flank with his last sobbing breaths.
The nobles were
startled, the anxious councillors murmured.
Maeon’s loyal wife and
parents, the joy at his return so soon
Lost, carried his
corpse home, its face grim, rigid with death
Achieved. But the
infamous king’s wild anger was unsated;
He forbade the funeral
fires, and impiously, though in vain,
Sought to deny the
oblivious shade the quiet of the tomb.
And you, Maeon,
splendid in spirit and destiny, never to be
Forgotten (as is
fitting), who dared to challenge a king face
To face, and sanctify
the path to wider freedom: what song,
Prophet beloved by the
gods, what speech of mine suffices
To enhance the glory
you deserve? Not in vain did Apollo
Teach you celestial
wisdom; judge you worthy of his laurel:
(Apollo silent)) are
pleased to keep the nations in suspense.
Now you too, go, make
your way through Elysian fields
Far from Tartarean
Avernus, where the realm lies closed
To Ogygian shades,
where the guilty tyrant’s orders lose
Their power. Let your
limbs and clothes remain untouched
By blood-stained
beasts, and the woods, the sad reverence
Of the birds, keep you
from harm beneath that naked sky.
Now grieving wives and
children and sorrowful parents
Poured from the city
to the plain, the open wilderness,
Each running,
desperate to seek their own dead, in sad
Rivalry, and as they
went thousands accompanied them,
Trying to bring
solace; others were keen to see the scene
Of one man’s deeds,
the night’s mighty action. The road
Was loud with lament,
the fields resounding to their grief.
But when they came to
the fatal cliffs, the accursed wood,
Their first sorrow,
their tears were as nothing to the pitiful
Clamour raised by the
common cry; stirred by the blood,
The crowd were driven
mad. There stood dread Mourning,
Clothes torn and
blood-stained, striking his breast, calling
The women near. They
examine the helms of the cold dead,
Pointing out the
corpses they can name, clutching prostrate
At others’ and their
own. Some trail their hair in the gore,
Others close eyes and
lave deep wounds with their tears,
Some draw out spears
with vainly cautious hands, others
Lay severed limbs in
place, and set heads on their necks.
Ide, noble mother of
the Thespiadae, now of twin corpses,
Wandered through
thickets, and over the wide dusty plain,
Her hair vilely erect,
her nails pressed to her bruised face
(Not merely pitiable,
distressed, but with terror in her tears)
Everywhere she
searched among the weapons and bodies
Seeking her boys,
helplessly, and bemoaning every corpse,
Trailing her grey
tresses on the fatal ground. So does some
Thessalian woman,
whose nation’s dark craft it is to bring
The dead to life with
magic spells, visit the battlefield at
Night rejoicing in
recent conflict, holding her splintered
Torch of ancient
cedar-wood on high, rolling the bodies
Over in their blood,
examining the dead to see which one
She might most command
in the light, as the sad conclave
Of spirits moan, and
dark Avernus’ lord waxes wrathful.
The sons of Thespius
lay together beneath a distant rock,
Happy in that they
died on the same day by the same hand,
Linked by the spear
that had pierced their wounded chests.
When she found them,
Ide’s tears streamed down, crying:
‘Children, shall a
mother endure to see such an embrace,
Such kisses? Was cruel
death to join you in this way,
At the end? What wound
shall I press, what face shall I
Stroke first? Are
these a mother’s strength, a womb’s fate,
Through whom I thought
to reach the gods and outdo all
Ogygian parents in my
glory? How much happier with
Their lot, more
sweetly wed, are those whose beds are
Barren, whose house
Lucina, summoned by childbirth,
Never sees! My labour
pains are now a cause of sorrow.
Not in the thick of
battle, famous for your fate, your
Daring actions,
destined to live in the memory of nations,
Did you find these
wounds, a grieving mother laments;
You died an obscure
death, amongst the crowd, alas,
Lying unnoticed,
amongst the gore, none to praise you.
No, I dare not part
your hands locked in this sad embrace,
And break the union of
such a passing. Go, ever brothers,
Un-dissevered by the
final pyre, mingle ashes in the urn.’
No less lament arose
from Cthonius’ wife; from Pentheus’
Mother Astyoche; as
they realised the extent of the carnage.
Your children,
Phaedimus, mere lads, learned of the loss
Of their father. Marpessa
bathed the corpse of Phylleus,
Her betrothed; Acamas’
sisters washed his blood-stained
Body. Then they took
an axe to the ancient trees, clearing
The summit of the
nearby hill that overlooked the night’s
Work, and echoed to
the moans; there, in front of the flames,
As they refused to be
called away from their individual pyres,
Aged Aletes solaced
the ill-starred gathering with his words:
‘Often our people has
suffered misfortune, tested by various
Twists of fate, ever
since the stranger from
Sowed warriors’ seed
in Aonian furrows, from which those
Armed men rose, such
that the farmers feared their fields.
But the lament was no
greater than this when the ancient
Theban
Cruel Juno so decreeing;
nor when wretched Athamas with
Funereal dirge came
down from the trembling mountain,
Carrying half-dead
Learchus, and cried, alas, with insane joy!
Nor did our Phoenician
houses ring more loudly when weary
Agave, recovered from
her madness, was frightened to see
Her companions’ tears.
One fatal day alone was like to this,
Equally calamitous,
the day when Niobe, Tantalus’ daughter,
Paid for her proud
boast and, encompassed by her total ruin,
Raised all those
corpses from the ground to seek the pyre.
Such was the people’s
mourning then, when young and old,
With a long file of
women, reproaching the gods with cries
Of pity, bore a pair
of corpses from each of the seven gates.
I remember how I
myself (though not old enough to assist)
Wept none the less,
equalled my parents’ grief with my own.
Yet those actions were
the work of deities. I could no more
Lament, Diana, that
Actaeon’s Molossian hounds destroyed
Their master, he
profaning your chaste pool, sacrilegiously
Spying on you or,
Bacchus, that royal Dirce became a pool,
Her blood suddenly
transformed; for the Sisters had spun
That cruel thread, as
Jove saw. But now it is by the work
Of an evil king that
so many of the finest of our countrymen,
Of our innocent
citizens, are dead. The news of the broken
Pact has not yet
reached
What the worst of war
will do. How men and horses will
Sweat in the mud and
dust! Oh, how deeply will the rivers
Be cruelly stained
with blood! Let war be the work of youth,
Green to battle, as for
me let my pyre be lit while it may, let
Me be covered with my
ancestral earth!’ So the aged man
Cried out, heaping
reproaches on Eteocles, calling him
Cruel; an abomination:
sure to pay dearly for his crimes.
Where did such licence
come from? His last day was near,
His life was done; he
sought honour in death long-delayed.
The lord of the stars
watching the blood-drenched citizens,
Meanwhile, from the
heights of the world, ordered Mars
To be swiftly
summoned. He had been ravaging the wild
Bistones, wreaking
havoc in the Getic townships, and now
Was urging his chariot
on to the heavenly citadel, vaunting
His splendid helm with
its lightning-bolt crest, the shield
Of sombre gold alive
with the fearful shapes of monsters.
His thunderous wheels
sound in the sky while his shield
Blazes blood-red, its
disc rivalling that of the distant sun.
When Jupiter saw him,
still panting from his Sarmatian
Labours, his chest
coated with the storm of war, he cried:
‘My son, get you to
Blade, in a cloud of
anger. Let them discard constricting
Reins, and hating all,
longing for you, rush to dedicate
Hands and lives away:
spur the tardy, wreck the treaties:
We charge you with this,
lawfully to set the celestial host
Themselves alight with
war, and shatter my peace. I too
Have already sown the
seeds of conflict. Tydeus returns
With news of wicked
ambush, a royal crime, and so
A shameful provocation
to war: stealth and treachery he
Avenged with his own
weapons. Make sure he’s believed.
As for you, O deities,
my bloodline, do not dispute in hate,
Nor try to tempt me
with rival entreaties. Fate, the dark
Distaff of the
Sisters, assures me: this day was doomed
To war from the
creation of the world, these nations born
To fight each other.
And should you disapprove my
Seeking retribution
from these people for evils past,
And to punish their
sinful offspring, I swear by this
Eternal citadel, the
sanctuary of my thoughts, and those
Rivers of the
underworld, that I too hold sacred, that I,
With my own hands will
seize the walls of
Raze them to their
foundations, snatching up her towers
And hurling them from
on high onto Inachian rooftops,
Or sending rain to
sweep them into the cerulean deep,
Though Juno herself
should labour to protect her hills
And temples in the
whirlwind.’ He finished speaking,
And they, so amazed at
his decree you’d have declared
Them mortal, kept
silence and controlled their thoughts,
As the winds hold their
peace, when the sea grows calm,
And the shoreline
stretches out in a tranquil slumber,
While idle summer
soothes the clouds and forest-leaves,
The gale being done;
and all the marshes and sounding
Lakes subside, and the
sun-scorched rivers flow silently.
Mars, proud of his task, and still aflame in his burning
Chariot, tugged the
reins leftwards. He had just reached
His journey’s end,
plunging from the sky, when Venus
Took her stand
fearlessly there before his horses. They
Reared back, their
rigid manes subsiding in supplication.
Then leaning against
the top of the shaft, her tearful face
Averted, while the
horses bowed their heads and champed
The foaming bit before
their mistress’ feet, she spoke out:
‘O finest of fathers,
war against
The destruction of
your own descendants? Harmonia’s race,
And the union we
celebrated in heaven, and these my tears,
Do they not deter you,
madman? Is this the reward for my
Shame? Is this what my
lost name and honour, and
Net of chain deserve
from you? Go your way, freely, yet
Elsewhere Vulcan
defers to me, and my wronged husband
Though angered, serves
me yet. If I ordered him to sweat
For me, spending
sleepless nights at his everlasting forge,
He would be pleased
and toil at new weapons, even for you.
But you – I seek to
move stone, a heart of bronze, with my
Requests. Yet
regarding this alone I entreat you, simply this:
Why did you have me
wed my dear daughter, Harmonia,
To a Tyrian husband,
those fatal nuptials, boasting that
Tyrians of Cadmus’
serpent-blood, a race descending
From the line of Jove,
would be renowned in battle, their
Hearts eager for
action? How I wish the girl had married
Beyond
Was it not shame
enough that Venus’ daughter slithers
Across the ground,
shedding venom over Illyrian turf?
Yet now an innocent
people –’ Here the lord of war
Could stand her tears
no longer. Switching his spear
To his left hand he
leapt from his tall chariot in a trice,
Clasping her to his
shield, bruising her in his grip.
Then with fond words
he attempted to soothe her.
‘O my solace after
war, my sacred delight, my soul’s
Only peace, you alone
of the deities have the power
To face my weapons
without harm, to stand before
These steeds though
they neigh amongst the slaughter,
And snatch this sword
from my hand. I do not forget
That marriage of
Sidonian Cadmus, nor your loyalty
(Seek no pleasure in
false reproaches!): I’d sooner,
God though I am, be
plunged in my uncle’s infernal
Deeps, and be led
helpless among the pallid shades.
Yet, charged with
carrying out the Fates’ warnings,
And the supreme
father’s will (since Vulcan is no fit
Choice for the task)
how can I oppose Jove or flout
His decree? Even now I
saw the earth, sky and sea
Tremble at his words
(what power!) and saw the ranks
Of deities cowed. But,
have no fear, love, in the end
Since no power can
prevent it, I will be there when
Those two nations
battle beneath the walls of
To aid them, allied in
arms. Through blood-drenched
Fields you’ll see me
seal the Argives doom, nor will I
Disappoint you. It is
my right, the Fates agree.’ So he
Spoke, and drove his
fiery horses forth. No swifter does
Jove’s wrath strike
the earth, when he stands on snowy
Thracian Othrys, or Thessalian
Ossa’s chill northern peak
Among the clouds, the
lightning in his hand. The blazing
Bolt, with triple
tail, leaps down, bearing the god’s fierce
Message, scaring the
heavens, to send an omen to rich
Fields, or drown the
wretched mariners in the waves.
Now Tydeus completes
his journey, and fearful to behold
Traverses with tired
steps the Danaan fields, and the slopes
Of green Prosymna. His
hair thick with dust, sweat flowing
From his soiled shoulders
over his deep wounds, eyes red
And inflamed through
lack of sleep, rabid thirst parches his
Throat, yet his mind,
conscious of his deeds, fills with glory.
So a warring bull
returns to his pasture, neck and shoulders
Drenched with blood,
his rival’s and his own, his dewlaps torn,
Yet wearied, his
courage is yet high, and he still paces proudly,
Scorning the ground,
while his foe lies on bare earth, groaning
In shame, trying to
deny the raw pain he is feeling. Such was
Tydeus, nor had he
failed to stir the cities along his way, all
That lie between
Relating the tale
everywhere, time and time again, of how he
Had gone as an
emissary from the Greeks to seek the realm
Of exiled Polynices,
but met with violence, treachery, crime
In the night; that was
how the Echionian king kept his oath.
The brother was denied
his rights. All were swift to credit it.
The god, lord of war,
had persuaded them to believe his tale,
And Rumour had
increased their fear, once it was admitted.
Entering the gates,
suddenly, as venerable Adrastus chanced
To be holding council,
he shouted at the very palace doors:
‘Warriors, to arms, to
arms! And you, the great lord of Lerna,
If the blood of your
brave ancestors runs in your veins, take
Up your weapons! The
love of kin is dead, the nations know
Neither justice nor
morality nor do they pay heed to Jupiter.
Better if I had been
sent as envoy to the wild Sarmatians or
To King Amycus, the
cruel keeper of the Bebrycian forest.
Not that I complain at
my mission, or the orders I received:
I am glad I went
myself, and put guilty
They waged war against
me, if you would believe it, war,
As if I were a mighty
tower or walled town: warriors chosen
To set an ambush, and
carrying every kind of weapon, and I,
Defenceless: they
attacked at night with cunning, but in vain:
Now they lie drenched
in their own blood, by a desolate city.
Now, O now is the time
to for action, while they’re troubled,
Pale with fright,
while they are retrieving their dead. Now,
My father, now I would
seek to go, while they remember
The weight of my hand,
though I myself am wearied after
Making ghosts of those
fifty warriors, and though I still bear
These wounds caked and
foul with blood!’ The Argives,
Troubled in their
turn, leapt from their seats, Polynices,
The Cadmean hero above
all, his gaze anguished, cried:
‘Hated by the gods, a
victim of life, as I am, can I view
Your wounds and feel
content? O, my brother, was such
The homecoming you
planned for me? Was it towards me
Those weapons were
pointed? O shameful longing for life!
Unhappily, it is I who
thwart my brother from committing
The crime he planned!
Let your walls, at least, my friends,
Know peace and quiet.
I must not prove a cause of trouble
To you. I am but a
guest. I know (good fortune has not made
Me so unaware) how sad
it is to be torn from wife, children,
And fatherland: so,
let no man blame me for his family’s ills;
No angry mother look
at me askance. I will go freely to my
Death, though the best
of wives, and her father, restrain me
As he did once before.
I owe a life to
And to you great
Tydeus.’ So with a flurry of words he tries
Their hearts, and aims
his entreaty. His distress rouses anger,
And hot tears of
indignation. There is but one thought in all,
In those chilled with
sluggish age, not merely in the young,
That they must leave
their homes behind bereft; summon
The neighbouring
forces; and march at once. But Adrastus,
The king, profoundly
wise, and no novice to the exercise
Of power said: ‘Leave
it to the gods and my consideration,
I beg you. Your
brother shall not wield the sceptre blithely,
But nor are we
desirous of war. Yet, let us welcome Tydeus,
Oeneus’ noble son,
triumphant after such mighty bloodshed,
Let rest refresh his
brave spirit; anger must not act unwisely.’
At that, his pale
bride and troubled comrades gathered round
Tydeus, who was weary
from the fighting and his journey.
He was content to
stand in the hall’s depths, leaning his back
On a huge pillar,
while Epidaurian Idmon (quick with a blade,
Gentle with compounds
of warm herbs) bathed his wounds.
Caught up in his
memories, he recounted again the origins
Of the dispute, what
each man had said, the place of ambush,
The moment of furtive
combat, the opposition, their names
And fame, the toughest
duels, and how he spared Maeon
To carry the dread
news. The loyal band of men, the nobles,
His father-in-law,
were astounded, and Polynices smouldered.
Now the setting Sun
had set free his fiery steeds by the curving
Rim of the western
sea, and was bathing his red hair in Ocean’s
Stream. Nereus’
attendants thronged towards him from the deep,
With the swift-running
Hours. They took the reins, relieved him
Of the mass of his
golden crown, freed his chest of the burning
Leather straps, then
they let out his faithful horses to their soft
Pasture, while the
chariot was reversed with its pole in the air.
Night fell, stilling
the cares of men, the movement of creatures,
Wrapping the sky in a
mantle of darkness, sweet to all but you,
Adrastus, and
Polynices. As for Tydeus, generous sleep had
Enfolded him in mighty
dreams of valour. Now armed Mars
Among night-wandering
shadows, strikes
With his thunderous
weapons, and fills their troubled hearts
With longing for him.
Madness and Anger adorn his crest,
Panic, armour-bearer,
gives rein to the steeds, and Rumour,
Alert to every noise,
surrounded by false tidings of conflict,
Flies before his
chariot, driven by the horses’ panting breath,
Beating her restless
wings, with a deep murmuring sound,
Urged on with
blood-stained whip by the charioteer, to cry
False news and true,
while the god from his high chariot
Spurs her forward, his
Scythian lance at her head and back.
Even as
From the Aetolian
cave, and urges them freely over the wide
Gales and dark Storms,
dense Clouds, and black Tempests,
Tearing at Earth’s
foundations: shaken to their roots, trembling,
The
From Myconos and
Gyaros, calling for help to her foster-child.
Now a seventh dawn’s
blushing face brings bright day to gods
And men, as aged
Adrastus leaves his inner sanctum, anxious,
Troubled in mind
regarding war and his ambitious sons-in-law,
Uncertain whether to
let weapons hold sway; let nations stir;
Or to rein-in anger
and clamp loosened swords in their sheaths.
On the one hand he
favours peace and tranquility, on the other
Inglorious quietude
seems shameful, while men’s new found
Longing for battle is
hard to quench. He ponders long: at last,
One thought commends
itself, to consult prophetic minds,
And perform the sacred
rites that forecast truly. To you,
Wise Amphiaraus, and
Melampus son of Amythaus (older
But young in spirit,
and blessed with Phoebus’ gift) is given
The task of reading
the future. It is hard to say which seer
Apollo favours more,
which is more graced by
To begin they read the
blood and entrails of sheep, seeking
The gods’ will,
alarmed as discoloured hearts, veins boding
Ill, greet them. Yet
they decide to go seek omens in the sky.
There is a mountain
whose bold ridge rises to the heavens
(The farmers of Lerna
call it Aphesas) that had long been
Sacred to the Argive
people. They used to say swift Perseus
Pierced the clouds
there as he hovered in flight, while his
Fearful mother watched
her boy’s parting steps from a crag
And almost followed.
This the two seers, their sacred heads
Adorned with leaves of
grey olive, brows with snow-white
Ribbons, climbed once
bright sunrise melted the hard frost
On the damp fields.
First Amphiaraus in customary prayer
Seeks the favour of
the god: ‘Almighty Jupiter (since we
Are taught that you
grant wisdom through the flight of birds,
Sending omens on swift
wings, and revealing in the heavens
Prophecies and hidden
causes)
Send the divine word
from its cave; nor the Chaonian leaves
Thought to produce
sounds at your command in the groves
Of
In Lycian Patara, and
Apis by the
Equals his father by
repute, and that Pan whom farmers hear
At night in Lycaonian
shadows by wave-swept
To compete; than does
he, more possessed in spirit, to whom
You, Dictaean Jove,
reveal yourself, rousing prophetic birds.
Unknown it is why they
have long possessed this wondrous
Honour; whether
because the creator of the heavenly palace
Decreed it so, when he
wove new beings from random chaos,
Or whether to them,
who take to the air transformed, bodies
Changed from those we
owned before, rarely landing here
On earth, the purer
sky devoid of evil teaches truth, only you
The supreme originator
of earth and gods can rightly know.
Let us learn from the
sky, in advance, if Argive strife is here,
And of the toil to
come. If that request is granted and the cruel
Fates decree we should
rattle the gates of
Spears, show a sign,
send thunder on the left; let every bird
Flying about the stars
cry benign omens in harmony in their
Secret tongue. If you
deny it, cause delay, and cloud the void
Of day with birds on
the right.’ So he spoke, and disposed his
Limbs on a tall rock;
then he added prayers to other unknown
Deities, and found
delight in the darkness of the wide universe.
Once they had
apportioned the stars between them and scanned
The heavens
attentively with close gaze, then Amythaon’s son
Melampus, the seer,
finally spoke: ‘Amphiaraus, do you see
How under the high
dome of the living sky not one bird wings
Its peaceful way,
hangs wheeling in the heavens in airy course,
Or screams a benign
omen as it vanishes? No raven, attendant
Of the tripod; no
fiery eagle, bearer of the lightning bolt, is by;
No hooting taloned owl
of fair Minerva with favourable sign.
Vultures and raptors
cry from far above, plundering their prey.
Monstrous things take
wing, fateful birds shriek in the clouds,
Screech owls and
nocturnal horned owls wail, calling out death
And disaster. What
portents of the gods should have primacy?
Lord of Thymbra, great
Apollo, shall the heavens be given over
To such as these? In
fury their curved talons slash away at each
Other’s heads and with
flapping wings like mourners who beat
Their chests they stir
the breezes, strike at their feathered breasts.’
Amphiaraus answered:
‘Revered father, I have often delivered
Omens of subtle
Apollo. Even when, among the regal demigods,
Thessalian Argo, that
ship of pine, carried me onwards in green
Youth, those warriors
were amazed when I foresaw the dangers
Of the sea and land,
and Jason consulted me as often as Mopsus,
As I told of things to
come. Yet I have never seen the heavens
More prodigious of
terrors: though still greater things appear.
Look upwards:
innumerable swans are marshalling their ranks
In the bright regions
of the deep sky, driven by Boreas perhaps
From the Thracian
north, or summoned by the fertile richness
Of placid
And silent they wheel
in unbroken rings as though behind walls
And ramparts. But see,
a nobler flight approaches in the void.
I see seven eagles,
weapon-bearers of highest Jupiter, exulting
In tawny line.
Consider them the Argive royalty. They invade
The circles of the
snowy flock, opening their hooked beaks
For fresh slaughter,
plunging with talons drawn. Do you see
How the air drips
blood as never before, how day rains feathers?
Yet what fierce anger
of baleful Jove’s drives the conquerors
To sudden death? One
eagle, seeking the heights, bursts into
Flame from the sun’s
torch, his pride quenched; the wings
Of another, younger
eagle, fail as he flies after larger birds;
One falls entangled
with his prey; one turns back in flight
Leaving the ranks of
his comrades to their fate; another ends
In a mass of
storm-cloud; a sixth dying feeds on a living bird;
Revered Melampus, why
weep covertly? I know the seventh
Who falls there.’
Terror gripped the seers, appalled by a weight
Of futurity, suffering
the vision of all that would come to pass.
They wished they had
not witnessed that gathering of birds,
Not forced their wish
on heaven that denied them, distressed
That the gods had
heard their prayer. Why did poor mortals
On this earth first
nurture the ill longing to know futurity?
Shall we call it a gift of the gods! Or is it that we
ourselves,
This greedy species,
are never satisfied with what we have,
And must predict the
birth and end of life, what the kind
Father of the gods
intends, what harsh Clotho has in view?
So divination from entrails, sounds of birds in the clouds,
The movements of the
stars, the footsteps of the moon,
Thessalian witchcraft.
But the ancestral race of the golden
Age and the Arcadians
born of rocks and trees did not so.
Their only wish was,
by hand, to tame the fields and forests,
And what tomorrow
might bring was sin for a man to know.
We a depraved and
lamentable crew question the high gods
Deeply, hence comes
fear and anger, hence comes treachery
And crime, and a host
of demands, beyond all moderation.
Amphiaraus tore the
sacred ribbons and the guilty garlands
From his head, threw
away the twigs, and without honours
Descended the hateful
mountain. Now with the war trumpets
To hand and distant
Stand the sight of the
multitude, nor the king’s council nor
The noble gatherings,
but cloistered in his dark dwelling he
Refuses to divulge the
omens of the gods (Melampus clings
To the countryside
from shame and anxiety): Amphiaraus
Keeps silent for
twelve days raising doubts among the people
And their leaders, but
then the Thunderer’s high command
Sounds out, emptying
fields and ancient cities of their men.
Everywhere Mars, the
god of war, drives countless columns
Before him. Men desert
their homes joyfully, leaving loved
Wives and children
weeping on the threshold, so strongly
Do the gods grip and
inspire them. Eagerly they snatch
Weapons from their
doorposts, commandeering chariots
From the shrines,
refurbishing the pikes tarnished with rust,
Swords sheathed in
their neglected scabbards, grinding them
To render them new
again, ready to deal out cruel wounds.
Some try the fit of
rounded helms, jerkins of bronze mail,
The tunics clinking
with disused iron. Others bend Cretan
Bows from Gortyn. Now
the ploughshares, sickles, harrows,
And curved hoes redden
fiercely in the consuming furnace.
They dare to hew
strong shafts from sacred wood, to cover
A shield from a
slaughtered ox too old for work. Into
They burst, and cried
war at the doors of the sorrowful king,
War with their mouths,
war at their heart. The clamour rose,
Loud as the crashing
of Tyrrhenian breakers; or as the giant
Enceladus shifting
from side to side, while fiery
Thunders through its
depths, the summit gushes, the straits
By Pelorus contract,
and the severed lands hope to be united.
Capaneus was inspired
by a mighty lust for war, his swollen
Pride had long argued
against the endless peace (he was noble
And of ancient blood,
while he himself had outdone the finest
Deeds of his fathers.
He had scorned the gods with impunity,
Restless for justice,
and prodigal of life when anger prompted.)
Like a denizen of the
dark woods of Pholoe, or one who might
Stand equal with
Of Amphiaraus’
dwelling, where a crowd of warriors with their
Leaders gathered:
‘What cowardice is this, you sons of Inachus,
And you Achaeans our
allies? Must so many warriors, prepared
And armed, linger
uncertain at a single citizen’s plebeian gate?
(Oh, for shame!) Were
Apollo himself (so cowards and Rumour
Have it, whoever
speaks!) to bellow in frenzy, deep in his cave,
Under
To announce her
fearful and enigmatic prophecies. Courage is
My god, and the sword
I hold. Now let this priest with his holy
Deceptions appear, or
I’ll test this mighty power of birds today.’
The Achaean warriors
shouted joyfully and added their assent
To his madness. Forced
at length to show himself, Amphiaraus
Cried: ‘I am not drawn
from darkness by a young blasphemer’s
Reckless cries, or
those words; wild though his threats may be.
A storm of other cares
assails me. My last day will be subject
To another fate, my
death will not be due to mortal weapons.
Yet my love for you
and all-too-powerful Phoebus urge me on
To speak my knowledge.
I will lay bare to you what lies beyond,
What things will come.
As for you, madman, no warning will
Serve, for you alone
our lord Apollo is silent. Wretched men,
Why rush to arms when
the Fates and the gods above oppose it?
What Fury’s whip
lashes you in your blindness? Are you so
Tired of life? Do you
hate
You not for omens? Why
did you urge me climb with trembling
Steps to the arcane
summit of Perseus’ mountain and interrupt
The council of the
gods? I might have remained in ignorance
Like you as to the
outcome of the conflict, the days of darkness,
The fate that begins
here to unravel for all of you, and for me.
I summon as witness
the secret places of the universe that I
Have questioned, the
cries of birds, and you lord of Thymbra,
Never before so harsh
in your reply, to the omens that I saw.
I witnessed portents
of great disaster, terror for men and gods,
The Fury Megaera’s
laughter, and Lachesis, snapping the rotten
Threads of
generations. Hurl down your weapons. See, the god
Opposes your frenzy!
Behold the god! Wretches, what glory
Is there in heaping
Aonia, Cadmus’ fatal fields, with your
Defeated corpses? But
why do I vainly prophesy? Why warn
Of certain fate? I
go.’ The priest groaned, his lips now sealed.
Capaneus responded to
him: ‘Let these ravings augur, only
That you, yourself,
shall live empty and inglorious years,
And Etruscan clangour
never echo round your brow. Why
Quench the better
hopes of the brave? Is it simply so you
May keep your foolish
birds, son, house, and a marriage bed
Where you lie fast
asleep, that we must leave noble Tydeus
Un-avenged, all silent
as to his wounds and the broken pact?
If you’d forbid these
Greeks to wage savage war, then go
Yourself as emissary
to our Theban enemies. Those ribbons
Will guarantee your
safety. In short, your speech plucks
Pretexts, some
darkened pattern of action, from thin air!
The gods are wretched
indeed if they pay heed to chants
And human prayers. Why
put fear into unknowing minds?
Fear first made the
gods of this world. For now let this
Raving go unpunished.
But when, from our helms, we drink
Dirce’s waters, and
those of Ismenos, to the trumpet’s cry,
I warn you: do not try
to stop me then, while I long for
Weapons and the sound
of war, delaying battle with your
Birds and entrails.
Those fragile ribbons and the madness
Of your dread Apollo
will not help you then: There I shall
Be augur, and all who
are ready to rave in battle with me.’
Again the mighty roar
of the warriors thundered out, rising
In vast tumult to the
stars. It flowed like the swift torrent,
Set loose by the
mountains now freed of their winter cold
By spring breezes,
that rushes across the plain, and leaps
Vain obstructions in
its course: fields, cattle, houses drown
In the cross-currents,
until the ungovernable tide is halted
By a steep hill slope,
or comes to rest among vast ramparts.
But now night
intervened to interrupt this leaders’ quarrel.
Now Argia could no
longer endure her husband’s anguish;
Her troubled heart
both sharing in and pitying his distress.
Unadorned, she ran to
her revered father’s high palace, her
Beauty marred by the
marks of tears on her face, hair torn,
Carrying little Thessander
in her arms, to his beloved sire,
As night gave way to
fresh light, and only the Ploughman
And his Wain remained
to eye the stars sinking into Ocean.
Entering, she threw
herself down before her royal father:
‘Father, even were I
slow to tell you, you surely know why
I visit your house at
night in tearful supplication, without my
Sorrowful husband. Yet
I call on the sacred laws of marriage
As witness, and
yourself, father, sleepless suffering demands
This, not he. For
since Hymen and favourless Juno first raised
Ill-omened torches the
pain and torment at my side has stolen
My rest. Were I a
dreadful tigress, or possessed a heart harder
Than the sea-cliffs,
still I could not bear it. You alone can help;
Yours the great power
to heal. Let there be war, father; view
The thwarted fate of
your exiled son-in-law, and this his child,
Who would feel ashamed
some day of his birth. Oh, where is
The welcome you first
showed, hands clasped, and the gods as
Witness? Surely
Polynices is that man of fate Apollo foretold?
I burned no guilty
torch of love, warmed by no stolen flame;
Your revered order,
your counsel I cared for. But now how
Cruel were I to
despise the plaintive cries of the wretched!
Father, you know not
the feelings of a chaste and loving wife
Married to a grieving
husband. Now in sorrow I ask a sombre
Joyless favour that
brings with it fear and grief, though
When the sad day comes
that severs our embraces, when
The trumpets sound
their harsh signal to the departing host,
When the cruel metal
hides your faces, then dear father,
Perhaps I shall demand
its opposite.’ He, accepting tearful
Kisses from her lips,
answered: ‘Daughter, I could never
Criticise such sorrow,
set fear aside; your request deserves
Praise, it is worthy
to be considered, but the gods (no, no,
Do not relinquish hope
for what you urge!) and my qualms,
And the varying duties
of kingship must give me thought.
What ought to be shall
be, child, nor shall you complain
That you wept to no
purpose. Comfort your husband, let
This just delay seem
no harsh loss: with great preparations
One moves slowly,
child. It will benefit the war.’ He speaks,
While dawning light
gives warning, great cares bid him rise.
End of Book
Phoebus had thrice
eased harsh winter with his breezes,
Forcing the passing
days to increase their narrow bounds,
Before wise counsel
had been overturned by demanding
Fate, and these
wretches given at last the licence for war.
First Bellona waved
her red torch from
And with her right
hand sent her massive spear whirling;
It flew, whistling,
through the clear sky and so landed
On the high rampart of
Aonian Thebes. Then entering
The camp and mingling
with the warriors clad in steel
And gold, she cried
out, loud as a squadron, handed
Swords to departing
men; drove on the horses; called
Troops to the gates:
the brave not needing to be urged,
And even the cowards
gaining a brief access of courage.
The appointed day
arrived. Whole flocks were ritually
Sacrificed to Gradivus
and the Thunderer; the priest,
Finding nothing
favourable in the entrails, feigning
Good omens for the
soldiers. Now their fathers, wives
And children, flowed
among them blocking their path
To the outer gates.
The weeping was unrestrained.
Helms and shields were
wet with tears as they spoke
Their sad farewells,
and a family to be sighed for hung
About every warrior.
They tried to grant kisses through
Closed visors, while
crests nodded to their embraces.
Those who had called a
moment past for their swords,
For death itself, now
groaned, anger quenched, giving
Way to tears. So, when
voyagers are ready to set sail
On some long journey,
and the fluked anchor is hauled
From the deep, and a
breeze fills the sails, the dear ones
Cling to them, vying
to twine their arms about their neck;
Sea-mist and kisses
blur their weeping eyes; left behind,
They stand there yet,
waving to the vessel from the cliff,
And still gaze from
the heights, for sweet it is to follow
The flying canvas,
saddened by the rising offshore wind.
Now, ancient Fame, and
you, past Ages of the world,
You that remember
leaders, and celebrate their lives,
Set out the names. And
you, Calliope, raise your lyre,
O queen of the
sounding groves, and tell of the armies
And the weapons Mars
conjured, the cities he emptied
Of their people, since
no deeper wisdom comes to any
Mind than that which
flows from your fount. Adrastus,
The king, full of
years, sad and weighed down by care
Walked barely unaided
among cries of encouragement,
Glad to feel the steel
at his side, attendants bearing his
Shield behind him. His
charioteer held the swift horses
There at the gate,
Arion already neighing for the yoke.
Medea better for
grazing; sheep-rich Philius; and Neris,
Fearing the Charadros
as it foams down its long valley;
Cleonae of the massive
tower, and Thyrea fated to reap
Spartan dead. With
them march the men who till rocky
Drepanum, and tend the
fields of olive-bearing
Mindful of this king
whom they once drove elsewhere;
And those whom the
slow Langia passes in silent flow,
And the Elisson that
curves sinuously between shores,
Owning to grim honour
since its harsh waters are said
To bathe the Stygian
Furies: fresh from the destruction
Of Thracian palace, or
the impious roofs of
Or Cadmus’ dwelling,
they’ll plunge their faces deep,
Their snaky tresses
panting for Phlegethon’s streams;
And the river flees
from them as they swim, its pools
Darkening endlessly
with venom. There too are men
From
From Cenchreae, where
a fountain known to the poets
Sprang from under
Pegasus’ hoof, where the Isthmus
Thwarts the seas, and
separates their breaking waves.
A host three thousand
strong follows Adrastus, proudly,
Some bearing pikes,
some stakes hardened in the fire
(There is no one race
and so no single kind of weapon)
Some whirling curved
slings, making a circle in thin air.
Adrastus, revered for
his power and his years, joins
Them, moving like a
great bull among pastures he
Has long possessed;
his neck droops, his shoulders
Are hollow, yet he is
still leader; the other steers lack
Courage to try him in
battle, seeing his horns splintered
By many a blow; the
great scars of wounds on his chest.
Beside Adrastus,
Polynices, his Theban son-in-law lifted
His banner, in whose
cause they fought, to whom the whole
Army lent its anger:
and volunteers rallied to him from his
Native land. Some
championed the exile, their loyalty made
Firmer by misfortune,
some mainly wished a change of ruler,
While many were won to
the rightness of his superior cause.
Moreover Adrastus
granted him rule of Aegion and Arene;
And power over Theseus’
Troezen, lest he lack glory leading
Too mean a force, and
feel the lost honours of his homeland.
His clothes and
weapons were those he had worn as a fated
Guest that winter’s
night. A Teumesian lion-skin adorned his
Back, the blades of
twin javelins gleamed, while on the sharp
Sword at his side a
menacing Sphinx, embossed, firmly sat.
Already in his hopes
and prayers, his realm regained, he sees
His mother’s form, his
loyal sisters; yet he looks backward far
Towards Argia where
she leans distraught from a high turret.
She draws her
husband’s thoughts and gaze from sweet
Behold Tydeus like a
lightning-bolt in their midst has roused
A host of his
countrymen, strong again in body, overjoyed
At hearing the first
trumpets sound. He was like a snake that
Slithers from his deep
den at the mild breath of spring sunlight,
Free of moulted skin,
shedding the scaly years, a green threat
Among rich grasses,
marking trouble for the labourer who finds
Him gaping from the
turf, and feels the first venom of his fangs.
Rumours of war brought
Tydeus allies too, from
Stony Pylene heard the
call; and Pleuron where Meleager’s
Sisters wept for him,
and were turned to birds; steep
And Olenos that
challenges Mount Ida with its tale of Jupiter;
And Aetolian Chalcis
whose haven hosts the Ionian waves;
And Achelous, whose
river-god’s horn was broken by Hercules,
So that even now he
scarcely dares to raise his mutilated brow
From the liquid depths
and mourns, head sunk in his green cave,
While his shores
breathe dust and parch. These warriors’ chests
Were protected by
shields of bronze-covered wicker, they bore
Cruel pikes, and Mars
their ancestral god adorned their helmets.
A chosen band of men
surrounded the brave son of Oeneus,
Ready for war, and
marked with the scars of that evil night.
He equals Polynices in
his menace and his anger, such that
It seems in doubt for
which of them the fight will be waged.
Vaster than these, the
Doric ranks appeared, newly armed,
Men that plough your
banks, and with many a ploughshare
Lyrceus; and your
shores, Inachus, chief of Achaean streams,
(Since no fiercer
river flows over Persean soil, when Taurus
And the watery
Pleiades shine, foaming, swollen with the rain
From Jove his
son-in-law); and men swift Asterion encircles,
And Erasinus bearing
Dryopian harvests; and those who till
The Epidaurian fields
(the hills are kind to Bacchus’ vines,
But not to Sicilian
Ceres’ corn). Distant Dyme sent warriors,
Neleian Pylos dense
squadrons (Pylos was not yet famous,
Nestor was still
young, in his second span of life, but he
Refused to join the
doomed army). Hippomedon led them
All, teaching them the
love of glorious valour. On his head
A bronze helmet
swayed, with its triple snowy plume erect,
Chain mail chafed his
sides beneath his shield, a golden arc
Covered his shoulders
and chest, all Danaus’ night-work
Engraved in the metal;
fifty marriage chambers all ablaze
With crime, with the
black torches of the Furies; the father
Himself in the
bloodstained doorway praising the guilty,
Examining the swords.
A Nemean steed bore Hippomedon
Down from the citadel
of
Filled the fields with
a vast flying shadow, raising a long trail
Of dust over the plain.
Hylaeus the Centaur hurtled like that
From his mountain
cave, shattering the undergrowth with his
Shoulders and
bi-formed breast; Ossa dreading his passing;
Cattle and wild beasts
crouching in terror; even his brothers
Not without fear, till
with one vast leap he reached the pools
Of Peneus, damming the
mighty river with his opposing mass.
What mortal voice
could describe the weight of steel, the ranks,
The power. Ancient
Hercules, not lacking
brave men, or degenerated from the days
Of her great son, but
her wealth sunk in decay, no riches adding
To her strength; only
a rare dweller in the fallow fields marking
Her towers raised by
the Cyclopes’ sweat. Yet still she yields
Three hundred
courageous hearts to the countless ranks of war.
They’ve no throwing
spears or baleful flashing swords: on their
Backs are tawny lion
skins, their national garb; their pine staves
In their hands; with
inexhaustible quivers crammed with arrows.
They sing their praise
of Hercules and a world rid of monsters;
And far beyond leafy
Oeta the god hears.
And the sacred
vineyards of Cleonaean Molorchus, all they have
Gathered for the
battle: far famed is the glory of his poor cottage,
The arms of the god,
his guest, are depicted on its doors of willow,
And in his tiny field
are shown the oak on which the god leaned
His club and unstrung
bow; the marks of his elbow in the ground.
And Capaneus marched
out, head and shoulders taller than the rest.
His shield was made
from the hides of four untamed steers, topped
With a rigid mass of
heavy bronze, embossed with the vile Hydra,
Newly slain, branched
and triple-crowned: part, embossed in silver,
Shone with savage
living heads, part was treated, a new technique,
Darkened in tawny gold
as if in death; round it flowed the sluggish
River-marshes of
Lerna, dark blue in steel. While his broad chest
And wide flanks were
protected by closely-woven iron mail, no
Women’s work, a thing
of awe. From his helmet’s glittering crest
A Giant arose. A
cypress stripped of branches with point attached,
Was his spear, that
none but he could hurl. Under his command fall
Those nurtured by
fertile Amphigenia, flat
Ithome, Thyron and Aepy
piled on its hilltop, Helos, and Pteleon,
And Dorion mourning
for Thamyris, its Getic bard, who thought
To surpass the Aonian
Muses in song, and was condemned to a life
Of silence, voice and
lyre instantly mute (who can slight the deities
Face to face?) He had
forgotten Celaenae, the home of the satyr,
Marsyas hung and
flayed for daring to try his skill against Apollo.
Now even the will of
Amphiaraus, the far-seeing augur, grew faint,
And yielded: he indeed
knew the outcome, and the fatal omens,
But Atropos herself
placed weapons in his uncertain hand, her power
Outweighed the god of
prophecy’s. Nor was his own wife’s treachery
Lacking, his house
glittered already with forbidden ore, the golden
Necklace the Fates had
warned would bring destruction to the seer.
His faithless spouse
knew (ah, the guilt!) but chose to barter her
Husband for a gift,
coveting the spoils of powerful Argia, wishing
To glow with stolen
adornment. Argia, happily placed the fatal
Necklace in the hands
of her beloved Polynices, and without a tear
Said: ‘To me, bright
ornaments do not suit these times, I would
Take no pleasure in
making myself beautiful in your sad absence.
It will be enough to
solace my doubts and fears with the consolation
Of friends, and sweep
the surface of the altars with my unkempt hair.
Should I (shameful
thought!) wear rich Harmonia’s golden dower,
While you are encased
in threatening helm, and sounding steel?
Fortune will grant me
ornaments more fitting, my garb outshine
To me, and the temples
are filled with votive choirs. For now, let
Her who wishes, and is
happy at her husband’s absence, wear it.’
Thus the fatal gold
entered Eriphyle’s house and set in motion
The mighty antecedents
of her crime. Tisiphone smiled grimly,
Rejoicing in things to
come. Meanwhile Amphiaraus stood behind
His Taenarian steeds,
bred out of Castor’s Cyllarus in an unknown
Unequal union, as they
pawed the ground. Parnassian wool threads,
Denoting the seer,
adorned him; his helm was wreathed with olive
Leaves, and a white
ribbon twined round its scarlet plume. Now,
He handled the taut
reins and, at the same instant, those weapons
In his hand. His
chariot quivering with a forest of iron, had slots
For javelins on either
side. He himself, with weighty spear, seen
From afar, shone with
light from the conquered Python graved
On his shield. Men
from Apollo’s Amyclae followed his chariot;
From Pylos, and Malea
shunned by nervous mariners; Caryae
Skilled in music in
Diana’s honour; Pharis, and Cytherean Messe,
Mother of doves; and a
phalanx out of Taygetus; and hardened
Warriors from the
banks of the swan-filled Eurotas; Mercury,
Himself, the Arcadian
god, nurtured these men in the naked
Dust, and imbued them
with the power and fury of raw valour;
Minds, filled with
vigour thus, lead them on to sweet rituals
Of death with honour,
while parents applaud their children’s
Fate, urging them on
to die, while a multitude sheds tears for
Their youth, and
mothers rest content with a wreathed corpse.
These warriors gripped
the reins and flourished twin javelins,
Clasped together;
their massive shoulders were bare, a rough
Cloak hung down their
back, and Leda’s swan-crest adorned
Their helmets. They
were not the only ones to follow the seer:
Sloping
Who swim the yellow
By its long
sea-journey. They churn their crumbling fields far
And wide with chariots
beyond count, and tame steeds for war;
A glory that endures
among a race known for King Oenomaus’
Broken axles and vile
deeds. The horses gnaw at the foaming
Bits, and a white rain
showers down, to fleck the furrowed sand.
You too, Parthenopaeus
(a novice in war, alas, but such is the urge
For new glory!), led
out the Parrhasian squadrons unbeknown
To your mother. His
stern parent, Atalanta, chanced to be hunting,
With her bow, in far
glades beyond chill
The youth would not
have gone). No more handsome a face would
Go into that grave
danger, no peerless form more favoured; nor
Did he lack courage
but simply years of a more mature strength.
What spirits of the
groves and rivers, what nymphs of the woodland
Dells did he not fill
with burning passion? They say Diana herself,
Seeing the lad, with
gentle steps, treading the grass in Maenalus’
Shade, forgave her
companion Atalanta, and set the Amyclaean
Quiver with its
Dictaean arrows on his shoulder. He charged out,
Filled with Mars’
audacious zeal, afire with the sound of trumpets
And weapons, ready to
mar his yellow hair with the dust of battle,
And return on a
captured enemy mount. He was tired of the woods,
Ashamed his arrows had
not tasted the dubious glory of taking
Human life. Shining
with gold he flamed ahead now, clothed
In purple, clasps of
Iberian metal creasing the folds of his robe.
On his virgin shield
his mother was depicted in the Calydonian
Hunt. At his left side
his brave bow rattled, while his Cydonian
Arrows jostled in a
quiver pale with electrum bright with jasper
From the east, arrows
whose feathers rasped his back. He rode
Astride a charger
swifter than a frightened deer, clothed in two
Lynx hides, that wondered
at the weapons of a greater master.
His handsome colour
and the freshness of youth in his cheeks
Drew all eyes. The
Arcadians, an ancient race, old as the moon
And stars, sent him
loyal troops. The race was born, so legend
Tells from tall forest
trees, when Earth, astonished, felt the first
Tread of feet. There
were no houses, cities, fields or marriage
Laws as yet. Oaks and
laurels bore new offspring; the shadowy
Ash created a nation;
a vigorous lad came from a fertile rowan.
They say the alternation
of light and dark night amazed them,
And that following the
setting sun at a distance they despaired
Of day. High Maenalus
also was thinned of farmers; deserted,
The Parthenian forest;
while Rhipe, Stratie and windy Enispe
Gave troops for war.
Nor was Tegea idle; nor Cyllene, happy in
Her winged god,
Mercury; nor Aleae, forest shrine of Minerva;
Nor swift Clitor; and
the River Ladon, father of Daphne, she
Almost Apollo’s bride;
nor Lampia, white on its snowy ridge;
Nor Pheneos, named the
source of
The Arcadian Azanes
came, emulating the cries on Cybele’s Ida;
The Parrhasian chiefs;
the men of Nonacria’s land which delights
The quiver-bearing
Thunderer (love laughed at his disguise as
Diana); Orchemnos,
too, rich in cattle, Cynosura in wild beasts.
The same ardour
emptied Aepytus’ fields and high Psophis,
And the mountains
known for Hercules’ exploits with his club
Against Erymanthus’
monstrous boar, and Stymphalos’ birds.
All are Arcadians, one
race divided only in their ways of life.
Some bend Paphian
myrtles back from the root, and practise
Fighting with
shepherds’ staves, some are armed with bows,
Some with stakes. One
has a helmet, one wears his customary
Arcadian hat, while
another masks his head with the savage
Gaping jaws of a
Lycaonian bear. The warlike crowd, those
Hearts sworn to do
battle, were not joined by the warriors
From neighbouring
Occurring there, when
the sun turned backwards at
There, those other
brothers were locked together in conflict.
The news her son was
leaving as the leader of the Arcadians
In the war now reached
Atalanta. Her step faltered, her bow
Fell by her side.
Swifter than the wings of the wind she fled
The forest; rocks and
rivers with brimming banks obstructing
Her path; she ran with
her robe all gathered up, as she was,
Her yellow hair
blowing in the breeze, as a tigress robbed
Of her cubs angrily
tracks her enemy’s course. Reaching
The camp, she pressed
herself against the bridle (he, pale
And downcast): ‘Why
this furious longing, my son, where
Does this cruel
courage in your youthful heart arise from?
Are you fit to rule
men in war? Can you bear the weight
Of fighting, and lead
squadrons of warriors with swords?
What strength do you
have for that? I turned pale but now
Seeing you thrusting a
hunting spear against a fierce boar,
Forced back, knee
bent, in that close combat, near collapse;
And if I’d not fired
an arrow from my curved bow, where
Would your war be? My
arrows will not help you there,
Nor my polished bow,
nor your piebald horse in which
You put your faith, with
its black markings. A boy scarce
Ripe for Dryads’
chambers, the passions of Erymanthian
Nymphs, you set out on
a great enterprise. The omens are
Valid. I wondered why
Diana’s temple seemed to shudder
Of late, and she was
seen in her infernal guise, as spoils
Of war fell from the
sacred dome; it slacked my bowstring,
And made my hands
falter, uncertain of every arrow shot.
Wait till your honours
increase, and your years are greater,
Your rosy cheeks
shadowed, and my looks no longer yours.
Then I will lead you
to war myself, and the steel you long
For, and I’ll shed no
mother’s tears to summon you back.
Take your weapons
home, for now. You Arcadians, born
Of rocks and trees,
will you stop him?’ She would have
Spoken longer, but the
leaders surrounded her and her son,
And crowding near they
comforted her and tried to calm
Her fears. Now the
harsh trumpets bray. She clasps her
Son still in her fond
embrace, commending him to Adrastus.
Elsewhere the people
of Mars and Cadmus, dismayed by
The king’s madness,
and alarmed at the grievous news,
(Since it was rumoured
the Argives were descending on
Them in strength)
slowly, shamed by their ruler and his
Cause, and yet surely
nonetheless, prepared for conflict.
None were eager to
unsheathe their swords, nor protect
Their shoulders with
their father’s shields, nor groom
Their teams of horses,
these the delights of war. Rather,
They worked
dejectedly, without anger or commitment,
With fearful gestures.
One was grieved at the thought
Of the illness of a
loving parent, another at the thought
Of his sweet young
wife, and of the luckless offspring
Swelling her womb.
None were on fire for the war-god.
The walls themselves
were crumbling with long neglect.
The flanks of
Amphion’s great towers were now fragile
And decayed. Brute
toil, in silence, repaired the ramparts
That the song of a
sacred lyre had once raised to heaven.
And yet a lust for
vengeance in battle did inspire the cities
Of
An unjust king as by
wanting to assist an allied nation.
The monarch indeed was
just like a wolf that has raided
A packed sheepfold;
his chest still dripping with vile gore,
His bristling jaws
foul with bloodstained strands, he quits
The pen gazing
uneasily, this way and that, to discover
Whether the sturdy
shepherds have witnessed the deed
And pursue him; till,
aware of his own audacity, he flees.
Busy Rumour added fear
on fear: one alarm had Lernaean
Cavalry already
wandering along the banks of Asopus.
Another had
And Teumesos another,
while Plataeae, her watch fires
Alight in the
darkness, was said to be aflame. For who
Had not freely known
and witnessed Tyrian house gods
Dripping sweat,
Dirce’s water flowing red, strange births,
And the Sphinx giving
utterance from her cliff? And then
Fresh terror troubled
their anxious hearts: their woodland
Queen of Bacchantes
was suddenly possessed; scattering
The sacred baskets,
she flew down from the Ogygian peak
To the plain, waving
her triple pine torch to and fro, wildly,
With bloodshot eyes,
her frenzied cries filling the startled
City, in her passion,
shouting: ‘Nysaean father, mighty
Bacchus, you have
longed since ceased to love your own
People. Now you run
with your iron-tipped wand shaking
Warlike Thracian
Ismara, command Lycurgus to imagine
A forest of vines; or
you rave in flagrant triumph beside
The swollen
And the lands of
sunrise, or emerge golden from the waters
Of the Hermus. Yet we,
your children, who have cast aside
The thyrsi, the wands of our nation used in
holy worship,
Endure war, and
terror, and the crimes of kin, the gifts
Of an unjust reign.
Raise me Bacchus: set me down where
Amazonian armies, in
eternal frost, howl beyond the peaks
Of Caucusus, rather
than hear me tell of monstrous deeds,
And a brood of
unhallowed rulers. Lo! You possess me,
(Not such was the
madness, I dedicated to you, Bacchus.)
Now I see a pair of
mighty bulls, of one breed, that clash.
They lock long horns,
butting head on head, and then die
Savagely, in mutual
wrath. And he the worst, that sinner:
Yield, you who seek to
fight alone for the ancient pasture,
Communal hill slopes.
Woe to you! Such bloody conflict
When another holds
rights to the meadow!’ So she cried,
Then as Bacchus left
her, her face grew still, in icy repose.
Alarmed now by the
omen, and unequal to a host of fears,
The king, sick at
heart, sought aid and counsel of the blind
Old seer, wise
Tiresias; so men did, fearful of the unknown.
He declared that the
gods themselves reveal less of truth in
The rich slaughter of
cattle, the flight of birds, in quivering
Entrails, the tripod’s
riddles, or the movements of the stars,
Or in the flow of
smoke over the incense-bearing altars, as
They do through
spirits summoned from the shores of death.
He then enacted the
sacred rites of Lethe, plunging the king
Below the surface of
the Ismenos, where it meets the sea,
And purging all about
him with the ragged entrails of sheep,
Wafts of odorous
sulphur, fresh herbs, and lengthy prayers.
There stood a grove,
rich in years, bent by robust old age,
Its boughs un-lopped;
where sunlight never penetrated.
Winter could not touch
it, and over it neither southerlies,
Nor northerlies,
blowing from the Getic Bear, had power.
Beneath lay a hidden
quiet; terror kept a void of silence,
There; and echoes of
excluded light cast an eerie pallor.
The shade was not
lacking a deity: Diana frequented it,
As guardian of the
wood; her image carved from cedar
And pine was hid in
sacred shadow beneath its boughs.
Her darts whistled
unseen among the trees, the howling
Of her hounds was
heard by night, when she crossed
Her uncle Dis’s
threshold, exchanging Hecate’s form
For one new and
better; or weary of the mountains, as
The sun at zenith
counselled sweet sleep, she planted
Her arrows all around
her, and rested, her head leaning
On her quiver. Beyond
is a vast stretch of plain, fields
Of Mars, the furrows
that yielded warriors to Cadmos:
Daring, the man, who
after the fighting among brothers,
Among the deep-drenched
furrows, first turned the soil
Again with
ploughshare, tilling the blood-stained earth!
Even now at
The fateful soil
breathes out dense tumultuous vapours,
And the dark sons of
earth rise up in phantom conflict;
Then the farmer runs
in fear from the field he was set
To plough, the oxen
rush homewards in mad frenzy.
There, the aged
prophet ordered dark-fleeced sheep
And black cattle to be
tethered, the finest of the herds
(Since the ground was
suited to Stygian rites, the soil,
Drenched once by the
blood of warriors, to his liking).
Dirce and sad
Died to a stunned
silence. There, with his own hands,
He twined dark
garlands round the curved horns, then
At the edge of the
wood, as times before, he poured
Draughts of rich wine
on the ground, into the hollows,
In nine places;
offerings of fresh milk and Attic honey;
And blood, seductive
to the shades. He offered as much
As the dry earth would
drink. Then tree trunks, rolled
To the spot, were used
to make triple fires for Hecate
At his command, and as
many for the Furies, the virgin
Daughters of accursed
Acheron. Then a ditch was dug,
And pines heaped in
the air, for you, lord of Avernus,
And beside it a lesser
altar piled for Ceres’ Persephone.
Mourning cypresses
were twined, in front and all around,
And now the beasts
collapsed to the blows of an axe
On their bowed heads,
while pure meal was scattered.
Then his daughter
Manto, with blood caught in bowls,
Made a first libation,
and circling all the pyres thrice,
In her revered
father’s manner, offered still-quivering
Entrails, livers and
lungs, swiftly set light to the dark
Branches with blazing
torches. When Tiresias heard
Boughs crackling in
the flames, and then the roaring
Of the gloomy piles
(fierce heat breathed on his face,
And the fiery vapour
heated his hollow eye-sockets)
He cried out (the
pyres trembling at his mighty voice):
‘Dread realms of
Tartarus, you, kingdom of insatiable
Death, and you Hades,
cruellest of the three brothers,
You, to whom are given
the shades that serve you,
And the guilty for
eternal punishment, you whom
The palace of the
lower world obeys, open the silent
Places, and stern
Proserpine’s abyss, to my summons.
Call out the host
hidden in hollow night, and so allow
The ferryman, his
vessel filled, to re-pass the
Let all cross
together, but grant the shades more ways
Than one of rising to
the light. Daughter of Perses,
Separate the pious
spirits of Elysium from the rest,
Let airy Mercury with
his wand of power lead them;
But Tisisphone, do you
show the guilty dead the path,
The most of Erebus,
and the most of Cadmus’ race,
To the wide shore of
day, flailing your snaky tresses
Three times, racing
ahead of them with burning yew;
And let not Cerberus’
triple jaws obstruct them there,
Or turn aside the
shades that rise, longing for the light.’
He spoke, then the
aged seer and the virgin of Apollo
Waited expectantly;
they felt no fear, since the god
Was in their hearts:
but Oedipus’s son was overcome
By deep dread. In his
anxiety he gripped now the hand,
Now the shoulder, now
the sacred fillets of the prophet
In his dread chant,
and wished now the rites would end.
He felt like the
huntsman waiting the approach of a lion,
Roused from its lair,
in the undergrowth of a Gaetulian
The weapon,
sweat-drenched, in his grip, as fear freezes
His face, and his legs
tremble; as he imagines the beast
Nearing, its size –
hearing the fatal omen of its roaring,
And gauging, with
blind trepidation, the sound it makes.
Then Tiresias, as the
phantoms still failed to advance,
Called out:
‘Goddesses, for whom we have sprinkled
Libations on the
flames, and poured wine with our left
Hands on the hollowed
earth, I summon you to witness,
I can endure no more
delay. Am I, as priest, to be heard
In vain? Shall you
come to the command of a Thessalian
Witch’s rabid chant?
Or, if a Colchian cries, drugged
With Scythian potions,
shall Tartarus turn pale, shudder
In fright? Do you care
less for me? Though I choose not
To raise corpses from
tombs, or scatter the ancient ash
From brimming urns, or
profane the assembled gods
Of heaven and Erebus,
or chase after bloodless faces
With a blade, and
snatch the sickly innards of the dead,
Do not, I warn you, do
not scorn my fading years, or
The shadow on my
darkened brow. I too can be cruel:
I know what you fear
may be uttered, may be heard.
I could trouble Hecate
(did I not revere you, Apollo,
Lord of Thymbra) and
the greatest of the triple world,
Whom it is blasphemy
to know. He – but I am silent:
The peace old age
seeks forbids it. I summon you, now –’
But, eagerly, Manto,
devotee of Phoebus, intervened:’
Father, you are heard:
the bloodless crowd approaches.
The Elysian void lies
open, the vast hidden darkness
Of earth splits apart,
woods and black rivers appear;
Acheron spews livid
sand; fiery Phlegethon rolls dark
Smoke over his waters;
Shades. I see Him,
pale upon his throne, around Him
The Furies, servants
of His deathly work, there I see
The grim
marriage-chamber and the bed of Proserpine,
The Stygian Juno.
Black Death is seated there, alert,
Counting the silent
gathering, on his master’s behalf;
While yet greater
crowds await their turn. The Cretan
Judge, Minos, shakes
his harsh urn, demanding truth
With threats, forcing
them to recount their lives from
Their inception, and
confess at last their hidden crimes.
Shall I tell you of
the monsters of Erebus; Scyllas there,
Centaurs vainly
raging; the Giants’ twisted chains, solid
Steel; the cramped
shade of hundred-handed Briareus?’
‘No, guide and support
to my old age,’ replied her father,
‘Do not tell me what
all men know. Who has not heard
Of Sisyphus and his
ever-returning stone, of Tantalus
And the deceptive
pool, Tityus food for the vultures,
And Ixion dizzied on
his eternal wheel? I too when my
Blood was swifter saw
the hidden realms, while Hecate
Led me, before Hera
destroyed my sight, before Jupiter
Drove all light
inwards to my breast. Summon Argive
Spirits here and
Theban rather, with your prayers, bid
All others, daughter,
turn away, sprinkled four times
With milk, to quit the
dismal grove. Tell me the look
And manner of the
shades, you bring, their appetite
For the blood we
spilled, and which of those nations
Seems more proud;
point by point illuminate my night.’
She did as he
commanded, casting a spell, like Medea
Without her guilty
crimes, or Circe, changer of forms,
On Aea’s shore; a
spell that scattered all the shades,
And recalled some.
Then she addressed her revered
Father: ‘Cadmus lowers
his feeble serpent’s mouth
To the pool of blood
first, then Cytherea’s daughter
Harmonia succeeds her
husband, the two snakes drink
From the eddies. Their
followers, the warriors of Mars
Born from the earth,
whose life-span was a single day
Surround them, all
armed, hands on their sword-hilts.
They attack, feint and
parry with the fury of the living,
Ignoring the sad pit,
thirsting for each other’s blood.
Next a crowd of
daughters and lamented grandchildren
Approach. There
Autonoe, bereaved of her Actaeon,
And Ino fleeing
Athamas’ bow, pressing her sweet lad
To her panting breast,
and Semele arms outstretched to
Defend her womb.
Cadmean Agave follows Pentheus
Her son, her Bacchic
wand broken, grieving, free now
Of the god, her
breasts bare and bleeding. He now flees
Through Lethe’s wilds,
and beyond the Stygian Lake,
Where Echion his more
kindly father weeps for him
And re-unites his
dismembered body. I recognise sad
Lycus, and Athamas,
the son of Aeolus, throwing now
The corpse of his son
Learchus over his burdened
Shoulder. Nor has
Actaeon lost the aspect or stigma
Of his changed form as
yet: his brow still roughened
With antlers, sword in
hand, he repels his hounds,
Jaws apart to tear
him. And behold, Niobe, Tantalus’
Daughter, envied for
her long train, appears; to count
Her dead children in
proud mourning; not downcast
By grief, but joyful
rather to escape the gods’ power,
And be free to grant
her foolish tongue more scope.’
As the virgin
priestess described all this for her father,
His white hair with
its sacred ribbons stood on end,
And the blood was
driven from his haggard visage.
He no longer leant on
his supporting stave or looked
To the loyal girl, but
standing erect and tall he cried:
‘Cease, your tale, my
daughter. I have light enough
Now from beyond; the
mist disperses; the darkness
Is stripped from my
face. Inspiration fills me, sent
By Apollo above or the
ghosts themselves. Behold,
I see what I just
heard, but look, the Argive shades
Are mournful, their
eyes are downcast. Grim Abas,
Guilty Proteus, gentle
Phoroneus, maimed Pelops,
And Oenomaus, are
soiled with dust, while streams
Of tears bedew their
faces. From it I augur
Shall have the better
of this war. But what of that
Gathering crowd?
Warriors by their weapons, by
Their wounds; why do
they show chests and faces
Drenched with blood,
and with illusory clamour
Devoid of peace, raise
high their arms towards us?
Am I wrong, majesty,
or are those your fifty men?
See there Cthonius,
Chromis, Phegeus; see, Maeon
Adorned with our
prophetic laurel. Warriors, do not
Be angered, this was
no mortal’s doing, believe it!
Steely Atropos wove
the hour. You are free of life’s
Trials, while Tydeus
and the horrors of war are ours.’
So saying, as they
pressed forward he drove them back
With twigs tied by
sacred ribbons, pointing to the blood.
The shade of Laius
stood alone on Cocytus’ sad shore.
Mercury had already
returned him to pitiless Avernus.
Now, breathing endless
hatred, looking askance at his
Fell grandson (whose
face he knew) he kept far from
The blood and
offerings, yet still the Aonian seer drew
Him in: ‘Great king of
Tyrian Thebes, where no kindly
Day has shone on
Amphion’s citadel since your death,
Now sufficiently
avenged for your blood-stained end,
Your shade appeased by
the disasters of your progeny,
Whom, wretched one, do
you avoid? Oedipus, whom
You curse, lies long
in the grave, and knows the close
Confines of death, his
exhausted visage sunk in blood
And filth, cast from
the light of day: a fate worse than
Any death, believe me!
What reason have you to shun
Your innocent
grandson? Confer, face to face; sate
Yourself on
sacrificial blood; and, with anger or pity
Towards your family’s
fate, reveal events to come,
The war’s disasters.
Then I’ll let you cross that Lethe
Forbidden you, in the
boat you long for, and restore
You to pious ground,
and entrust you to the deities
Of the
Laius moistened his
cheeks with blood, and replied:
‘My peer as prophet
why, as you reviewed the host
Of spirits, did you
choose me, from all this crowd,
As augur, to speak to
you of the future? It is enough
To know the past. Does
my noble grandson (shame
On him) ask counsel of
me? Bring Oedipus, bring
Him to your wicked rites, who was happy to put
His father to the
sword, and return to his source,
Thrusting himself on
his innocent mother. Now,
His son must weary the
gods and the dark councils
Of the Furies, and ask
my shade for help in battle!
Yet if I am welcome
so, as a prophet for sad times,
I will speak, so far
as Lachesis and grim Magaera
Let me. War is upon
you, war from every quarter
In innumerable
numbers; Mars, at fate’s command,
Urges on Lerna’s
children with his goad. Earth’s
Portents, and the
weapons of the gods, await them;
Lovely death; sinful
decree that delays the final fire:
Brother shall not have
the kingdom, only the Furies.
Through twin impieties
and luckless weapons (alas!)
Your cruel father will
prevail.’ With this, he sank back,
And left them troubled
by his enigmatic prophecies.
Meanwhile the Argives,
a host on the march, held to
Shady
Glory. Already they
burned with desire to gather
Theban plunder, to
raze and ravage homesteads.
Phoebus, say now, who
deflected their anger, what
Caused delay, what
events intervened on the way.
Of its inception, a
few elements of the tale remain.
Bacchus was returning
with his exhausted army
From conquered Haemus.
There beneath the stars
Of two winters he had
taught the warlike Getae
To bear his emblems,
with Othrys’ frosty ridge;
And Rhodope to grow
green with Icarian vines.
Now he brought his
leafy chariot to his mother’s
While his tigers
licked at the wine-damp bridles.
Victorious Macedonian
Bacchantes in the rear
Carried the spoils;
cattle, and half-dead wolves,
And wounded bears. His
was no idle train: Anger
And Madness, and Fear,
and Courage were there,
Ever-intoxicated
Ardour, and wavering footsteps,
And a host with all
the hallmarks of their leader.
Seeing
And the daylight on
fire with the glitter of steel,
Yet
Though subdued in
speech, and lacking vigour,
He commanded the
cymbals, drums, twin pipes
That blared round his
deafened ears to fall silent,
Then he spoke: ‘This
army seeks to destroy me,
And my race. Their
ancient rage finds new heat.
Savage Argos and my
implacable stepmother’s
Wrath fuel this war
against me. My mother turned
To ashes, the flames I
was born in, the lightning
I myself saw flare,
are not those enough? Now
The wicked goddess
even attacks with steel what
Survives: a dead
mistress’ tomb, unarmed
I’ll weave delay by
guile. Onward, my companions,
Onward to the plain!’
His Hyrcanian tigers bristled
At his signal; and
before he ended, reached
It was the moment when
breathless
To heaven’s high
zenith, when heat stands sluggishly
In the gasping fields,
and every grove admits the light.
He summoned the watery
powers, and surrounded by
Their silent host,
began: ‘Nymphs of the wild, deities
Of the streams, and
you, the greater part of my army,
Perform this task I
set you faithfully. Choke the Argive
Founts, and rivers,
the marshes, and wandering brooks
With dust, for me,
awhile. In
War against my city is
afoot let all the deeps run dry.
Phoebus is at the
summit of his path as yet, only let
Your goodwill not
fail. The stars grant power to my
Plan, and Erigone’s
scorching dog-star Sirius foams.
Go with a will; enter
the hidden places of the earth.
Later I shall see you
in full flow, and the finest gifts
Offered in worship of
me shall be yours in honour,
And I will ward off
the licentious Satyrs’ nocturnal
Mischief, and those
lustful approaches of the Fauns.’
He spoke, and a thin
film seemed to spread over their
Faces, and their moist
emerald-green tresses grew dry.
At once a burning
drought drained the fields of
The waters evaporated;
founts, lakes were encrusted;
Riverbeds hardened to
baking mud. The impoverished
Soil was sick, and the
stalks of wheat folded at each
Tender base. The
flocks stood helpless by the shores,
The herds sought in
vain the rivers they once waded.
Thus when the ebbing
Vast cavern; holds at
their source the liquid snows
Of an eastern winter;
the valley steams abandoned
By the flood, and
gasping
Of her watery patron,
until he grants their prayers,
In bringing
nourishment down to the Pharian fields,
Granting the precursor
of a long year of harvests.
Guilty Lerna was dry;
Lyrcus, and mighty Inachus,
And Charadros that
rolled rocks in his flood; bold
Erasious that ever
overflowed his banks; Asterion,
Boisterous as the sea,
a familiar sound on pathless
Heights, keeping the
shepherds from their slumber.
Langia alone, also by
order of the god, nurtured her
Silent waters in
secret shade. The death of Opheltes
Had not yet granted
the goddess sad renown, fame
Was not yet hers. But
she watched grove and stream
In the wilderness.
Great glory awaited the Nymph,
For the Nemean games,
of alternate years, at which
Revive the tale of sad
Hypsipyle and sacred Opheltes.
Now men no longer had
the strength to lift hot shields,
Or endure the
constraints of armour (such the savage
Thirst that parched
them). Not only were their mouths
And dry throats afire,
but an inner agony gripped them:
Their pulse beat raggedly,
their veins congealed, sour
Blood clung to their
parched organs. Then crumbling
Soil, the dusty earth,
breathed out hot vapour. No foam
Flowed from the
horses’ mouths, they champed dry bits,
Thrusting their
tongues against the bridles. The riders’
Rule was scorned;
inflamed, the creatures raged over
The land. Adrastus
sent scouts in all directions. Were
The marshes of
Waters still remain?
All stagnated, drained by hidden
Fire, nor was there
hope of rain from the sky. They
Might as well have
scoured sandy
Deserts of African
Syene that no cloud ever shades.
Then suddenly (for
Bacchus himself had planned it),
As they wandered the
woodlands they saw Hypsipyle,
Lovely in her sorrow.
Opheltes was clasped to her breast,
The ill-fortuned child
of Inachian Lycurgus, not her own;
Her hair was
dishevelled, her clothes in rags, yet her face
Had the marks of
royalty, and her dignity was clearly
Not eclipsed by
misfortune. Adrastus, amazed, now spoke
To her: ‘Divine lady
of the forest (for your fair visage
And your modesty show
you are no mortal) blessed
In not needing to seek
for water under this blazing sky,
Give succour to your
neighbours. Whether Diana, Leto’s
Daughter, the
bow-bearer, sent you to some marriage
Chamber from her
chaste company, or some lover of no
Common order descended
from the stars to beget a child
(For the ruler of the
gods is himself no stranger to Argive
Nuptial beds) behold
our wretched ranks. Our mission is
To put guilty
Robs us of courage, an
unwarlike fate consumes our idle
Powers. Help us in our
trouble, lead us to some turbid
River or muddy swamp;
nothing is too shaming, nothing
Too vile, for our plight.
You now we ask in lieu of winds
And rainy sky; restore
our ebbing strength and sinking
Courage for war; and
let your child then prosper beneath
Favourable stars. Let
Jupiter grant us merely to retrace our
Steps, and what
war-spoils will we gift you! I’ll repay you,
Goddess, with Theban
flocks and copious blood, and here
A mighty altar will
mark the grove.’ He gasped out these
Words, panting with
the heat, his parched tongue impeded
By his rasping breath.
His men were subject to like pallor,
Their mouths gaping
helplessly. The Lemnian, her eyes
Downcast replied:
‘Would that I had not suffered sorrows
Beyond the mortal!
Though I am descended from celestial
Race, how should I be
your goddess? You witness a mother
Bereaved, fostering a
child entrusted to her care. The gods
Alone know whether
mine are nurtured at the breast; yet I
Owned to a kingdom and
a mighty father. But why speak,
Why keep you, weary,
from the water you crave? Come
With me, and let us
see if Langia’s channel still holds her
Perennial stream. She
it is that ever flows; under the zenith
Of raging Cancer and
when Sirius shakes his blazing crest.’
The poor child, alas,
clung to her, and lest she proved too
Slow a guide to the
Pelasgi, she set him down on the ground
Nearby (so the Fates ordained)
and when he would not be
Left behind consoled
his sweet tears with knots of flowers
Loving murmurs: as
Mount Ida re-echoes to mighty wails,
When Cybele, the Great
Berecyntian Mother, commands
The quivering Curetes
to dance round the tiny Thunderer,
And they strike their
sacred drums in emulation; so now
The child, on the
breast of the vernal earth, in dense grass,
Cries for his dear
nurse, calling for milk, and then smiles
And attempts words
that his tender lips struggle to sound.
He wonders at the
forest noises or plucks at what comes
His way, or with open
mouth breathes in the day. Thus he
Wanders through the
woods unaware of danger, careless
Of life. Such was
tender Mars in the Thracian snow, such
The winged boy Mercury
on the Arcadian peak, such was
Mischievous Apollo,
crawling on the shore, swaying
Now the Argives made
their way through the undergrowth,
The wilds dimmed with
green shade, Some surrounded their
Guide, others followed
en masse or pushed ahead. Hypsipyle,
Dignified and swift,
pressed onwards in the midst of them.
Now they approached
the stream, the sounding valley echoed,
And the splashing of
water on stone struck their ears. Argus
Was in the lead;
showing his standard to the prompt platoons
He raised the joyful
call of ‘Water! Then from mouth to mouth
The cry ran: ‘Water!’
So run the shouts of sailors at the oars
On the shores of the
Ambracian sea (loud the land returns
The echo) when the
helmsman points, in salute to Apollo,
At
Plunge
indiscriminately in the flow, a shared thirst uniting
The mingled throng.
Bridled teams enter with their chariots,
And horses, carrying
their armed riders, are borne along.
Some are deceived by
whirling currents, slippery rocks.
They have no scruples
in trampling kings caught in the flow,
Or swamping the
upturned faces of yelling comrades. Waves
Break and the waters
are torn apart all along their course.
Once a gentle lucent
green in a liquid track, now its channel
Is muddied, churned to
the depths, and the tumbled banks,
The uprooted turf,
darken it. Yet they drink it regardless,
As it flows, thick
with mud and debris, even if their thirst
Is slaked, like armies
fighting a pitched battle in the flood,
Or conquerors sacking
a city they have captured. But now,
One of the kings
surrounded in the midst by water cried:
‘
When will your
opposition end? You were not crueller even
To Hercules when he
throttled the raging lion, and drove
Its breath back into
its swollen chest. Let it to be enough,
That you counter your
people’s actions thus far. And you,
Horned source of
everlasting streams, you who never yield
To any sun, flow
freely from whatever source your cool
Mouth lets loose its
immortal torrent. For you do not rely
On frosty winter
granting you unknown snows, the rains
Returning you water
snatched from some other fount, nor
Some favour from the
pregnant clouds of the northerlies;
You are self-reliant
and no star counteracts your course.
Not Apollo’s Ladon,
nor
Nor Nessus the
Centaur’s Lycormas, will surpass you.
You I shall celebrate
(honoured next to Jove), in peace
Beneath a host of
gleaming spoils, at the festive table:
Only welcome us
joyfully in triumph, once more yield
Your streams to our
weariness, in generous hospitality,
And graciously then
receive this army you have saved.’
End of Book IV
Their thirst quenched
at the river, its shores and bed trampled,
The warriors left the
much diminished shallows behind them;
Now the war-horses
devoured the plain more briskly, soldiers
On foot, refreshed,
thronged over the wide fields. Their strength,
Courage, menace, was
evident again, as though they’d drunk
Flames of war and
readiness for battle from blood-steeped water.
Marshalled in
formation, disciplined ranks, each in correct position
With its former
leader, they were ordered to resume their march.
Now dust rises once
more from the earth, and the woods reveal
The passage of
gleaming weapons. The host is like the raucous
Flocks of birds,
over-wintering near Pharos, that, when the icy
Northern days lengthen
leave
Casting a shadow on
land and sea, while the pathless sky echoes;
Once again they endure
wind and rain, swim flowing snow-melt,
And spend their summer
days beneath unencumbered Haemus.
Then Adrastus, Talaus’
son, surrounded by a crowd of his peers,
Standing under an
ancient ash, leaning on the spear of Polynices
Who stood beside him,
said: ‘Oh, tell us who you may be, you
Who have gained the
glory of saving countless men from death,
And honour that
Jupiter himself would not despise, come tell us,
As we hasten from your
streams, where your home and country is,
Beneath what stars you
drew breath. Say who your father may be,
For you are not far
from the divine, though Fortune deserts you,
Your aspect is that of
noble blood, your troubled face evokes awe.’
The Lemnian girl
sighed, shed a few reluctant tears, then replied:
‘General, you ask me
to re-open dreadful wounds: concerning
In their beds. Oh, the
crime, the cold madness haunts my heart!
Oh, alas for those on
whom that wild savagery fell! Oh, Night!
Oh, my father! Yet,
lest you be ashamed of your kindly guide,
I am one, my captains,
who helped my father to flee and hide.
Why weave a long
prologue to those ills? War summons you,
And the great
enterprise you cherish. This much I shall say:
I am Hypsipyle,
daughter of that Thoas of whom you know;
Taken captive I now
endure this servitude to your Lycurgus.’
They listened eagerly;
she now seemed nobler, more worthy
Of their respect, fit
to have guided them. Now a wish arose
In them all to hear
her story. Principally, Adrastus urged her:
‘Come (
Hampered as we are by
foliage, and screened by forest shade)
Set out the crime,
your merit, and the sorrows of your people,
And how you came here,
troubled, an exile from your realm.’
It is sweet for the
wretched to talk, and recount former sorrows.
She began: ‘The
Weary Vulcan rests
after visiting fiery
Darkens the sea with
the shadow of his forests, and darkens
The land with his vast
slopes. The Thracians farm those shores,
The Thracians were our
doom, and thence the crime. Our land
Was rich, her children
flourishing, and she no less renowned
Than
On which the sea casts
its foam. It pleased the gods to trouble
Our lives, though we
too were to blame; we offered no fires
To Venus; the goddess
went unsung among us. Even divine
Hearts may be hurt,
and thoughts of vengeance rise within.
So she came from
ancient Paphos, from her hundred altars,
Changing her looks,
her face and hair; she put off amorous
Ways and banished her
Idalian doves, they say; and certain
Women set rumours
flying, that in the darkness of
The goddess flitted
through bedchambers with the Furies,
The Tartarean Sisters,
bearing other flames than theirs, far
Greater weapons; set
twining snakes in the secret depths
Of houses, bringing
blind terror to the nuptial thresholds,
Without pity for
Vulcan her husband, despite his loyalty.
Forthwith, tender
Spirits of Love, you fled from
Hymen was silent, his
torches reversed; chilled the affections
Of the marriage couch.
No nights of joy; none sleeps in fond
Embrace; savage Hatred
and Madness roam everywhere,
And Strife keeps the
midst of the bed. The men are set on
Rooting out the proud
Thracians on that opposing coast,
Shattering their
fierce race in war, although their homes
Are before them, and
their children are there on the shore.
They would rather
endure Edonian winter, the Bear
Above their heads, or
after battle, in the dead of night,
Listen in silence to
the sudden surge of rushing torrents.
Their sad wives
languished in endless tears, day and night,
Consoling each other,
gazing across the sea to cruel
(Though as for me, my
carefree virgin years spared me).
The sun was halfway
through his arc, balancing his shining
Chariot on
Thunder pealed in the
blue sky; four times Vulcan’s forge
Breathed plumes of
smoke; and the Aegean waters stirred
Without a breeze,
striking the shores in mighty breakers,
When suddenly,
breaking with custom, old Polyxo rose in
Dread frenzy, left her
room, and rushed into the light of day.
Like an inspired
Teumesian Maenad, when rites summon
And Ida’s boxwood
flutes urge her, and Bacchus is heard
On the mountain tops,
so with staring eyes suffused with
Blood she roused the
deserted city with her wild clamour,
Beating on doors,
calling at the thresholds for all to gather.
Her sons, unfortunate
companions, clung to her as she
Ran. All the women
burst from their houses and rushed
At once to the citadel
of Pallas, on the heights. There, all
Crowded in haste,
massed together in confusion. Then,
Unsheathing a sword
the instigator to crime demanded
Silence, and from
amongst us dared to speak to us thus:
‘Deserted wives of
And by righteous
indignation to enact a punishment
(Summon your courage,
and act beyond your gender!)
If you weary of
endlessly tending an empty house,
The flower of your
youth shamefully blighted, barren
Years passed in
eternal lament, I promise I have found
A way to renew
affection (and divine help will not prove
Wanting). Only assume
a strength equal to your sorrow.
First tell me this,
this third chill winter who has known
Union in marriage, the
secret graces of the bedchamber?
Whose breast has been
warmed by her mate? Whose
Birth-pangs has Lucina
witnessed, say, or who pulses
With what she prayed
for, swelling with the months?
Custom grants even
wild birds and beasts that grace.
Oh, cowards! Did not a
Greek father, Danaus, hand
Weapons of vengeance
to virgin daughters, and drench
The young unsuspecting
men with blood in their sleep,
Delighting in
treachery: are we a mere useless crowd?
And if we need a
nearer precedent, let Procne, the wife
From Rhodope teach us
courage, who took vengeance
In marriage, with her
own hands, in feasting with her
Husband. Nor will I,
who urge you, stand apart, free
Of crime or care. My
quiver is full, and I have laboured,
As you see. These four
together by my side, their father’s
Pride and solace, though
their hugs and tears delay me,
I shall stab with the
blade, mingling the blood from these
Brothers’ wounds, and
while they breathe add their father’s.
Will you equally
summon the courage for this slaughter?
She was urging them on
when sails gleamed on the sea
Before them: the
Lemnian ships returned. Polyxo seized
On the moment,
ecstatically: ‘The gods themselves call
Out to us, and shall
we fail them? Behold, it is our fleet!
A god, a god of
vengeance, delivers them to our wrath,
And favours our
actions. No idle vision, mine in dream:
Venus it was who stood
by me with naked sword-blade,
Clear to sight,
clearer than sleep. “Why waste the time?”
She cried: “Purge your
rooms of these estranged spouses.
I will bring you other
marriage-torches, finer husbands.”
Speaking she placed
the sword, this very one, on my bed.
Oh, wretched ones, why
not take measures while the time
For action’s here. See
the foaming sea churned by strong
Shoulders. Perhaps
they bring Bistonian brides with them.’
Provoked by this, a
great clamour rose towards the stars.
It was as if
Of that
crescent-shielded host’s attack, when Mars yields
His weapons to them,
and opens the gates of savage war.
Nor were there
discordant cries, from the differing factions,
In the manner of the
masses, but rather one single uproar,
One madness in them
all, the same wish to destroy homes,
Sever life’s thread in
young and old, slay foreign babes
At the breast, and
bear a sword through every generation.
There in the green
grove (that cast shade far over the earth
Close by Minerva’s
tall hill, itself dark but overshadowed
By a towering mountain
so the sunlight was doubly lost)
They pledged their
oath. You, Mars’ Enyo bore witness,
And you, Proserpine:
the Stygian goddesses were there
Before their presence
was even invoked, Acheron opened;
And yet Venus was
there unseen, mingling everywhere,
Venus clasped their
weapons, Venus stirred their wrath.
Nor was the sacrifice
as usual, Charops’ wife offered up
Her son. They girded
themselves for action and pierced
His startled flesh
with steel, hands stretching out eagerly
From every side; and
over the pulsing blood they swore
To crime sweet to
them; a new ghost circled its mother.
How I shuddered in my
bones to witness such things,
How my visage
blanched! I was like a deer surrounded
By bloodthirsty
wolves, her gentle heart lacking strength,
Whose scant trust is
in speed, and flies headlong in terror,
Thinks herself taken
now; now, eludes their snapping jaws.
The fleet had arrived,
and now the keels had met the sand,
And competing in their
haste, the Lemnian men leapt ashore,
Poor wretches, whom
neither their raw courage in Thracian
Warfare, nor even the
enmity of the severing sea had killed!
They filled the tall
shrines of the gods with burning incense,
And dragged there the
promised victims: the smoke is black
On every altar; the
gods grant no flawless palpitating entrails.
Jupiter shed darkness
from dew-wet
Than usual; and with
delicate care, I think, he held the sky
From turning, while
the Fates protested, nor did the night
Ever last longer after
the sun’s work was done. Though late,
The stars did shine in
the heavens, while
But
Cloud: gloom and fog
were woven round her, and a black
Mist overhead.
Now, relaxing at home,
or in the shade of the sacred groves,
The warriors feasted
richly, emptying great golden goblets
Of wine to their
depths, telling at leisure the tales of their
Battles along the
Strymon, their sweat and toil on Rhodope
Or on icy Haemus. And
amidst the garlands and banqueting
Their wives reclined,
that finely dressed but impious crew.
Venus had rendered
their husbands gentle, on this their last
Night of life; vainly
granting brief respite after so long, she
Gifted the wretched
men with a breath of short-lived passion.
Then the dances fell
silent, and there was an end to feasting
Or dalliance, and the
first sounds at nightfall died away.
Sleep, cloaked with
the darkness now of his brother Death,
And moist with Stygian
dew embraced the city of doom,
Pouring deep slumber from
his implacable horn, parting
The host of men. Wives
and daughters-in-law were awake,
Prepared for crime,
and the Sisters gladly sharpened their
Cruel weapons. They
set to their evil work, a Fury ruling
Every heart. No
differently do Hyrcanian lionesses circle
The herds in the
Scythian fields, dawn hunger drives them
Out to seek their
prey, eager cubs demanding nourishment.
Which of that crime’s
thousand shapes should I now
Relate to you? Gorge
stood daringly above Helymus,
Wreathed in garlands
on a pile of cushions, breathing
Out the wine’s vapour
as he regained strength in sleep,
And probed his
disordered clothing for a place to strike,
As fatal slumber
deserted him at the approach of death.
In doubt, his vision
confused, he seized his enemy in
Close embrace, but
she, as he held her, swiftly plunged
The blade into his
back, until the tip touched her own
Breast. So the deed
was done. His head fell back, yet
Eyelids quivering, he
still murmured lovingly, seeking
Gorge, nor did his
arms slip from her unworthy neck.
I will not describe
the deaths of others, cruel though
They were, only the
deaths in my own family: I saw
You fall,
yellow-haired Cydon, and you, Crenaeus,
Your uncut tresses
flowing to your shoulders: you
Were my
foster-brothers, my father’s other offspring.
You too, mighty Gyas,
whom as my betrothed I feared,
I saw you fall to a
blow from blood-stained Myrmidone,
And saw Epopeus too,
stabbed by his barbarous mother,
As he played among the
couches and festive garlands.
Lycaste unarmed wept
over her brother Cydimus, equal
To her in age, gazed
at the doomed man, his looks so like
Her own, the blush on
his cheek, the locks she herself had
Twined with gold, as
their cruel mother, having killed her
Husband, stood there
thrusting the sword into her hands,
Urging her on with
threats. Like some wild creature owned
By a gentle master
that has lost its customary aggression,
And is slow to offer
fight, reluctant to revert despite goads
And the lash, so she
collapsed on his body as he lay there,
Falling, so that his
streaming blood soaked all her breast,
Then pressing her
hair, all torn, into the fresh wounds.
And when I saw
Alcimede carrying her father’s severed
Head, its mouth still
moving, the sword in her hand still
Eager for blood, my
hair stood erect and a cruel tremor
Pierced my innards. It
seemed like my father Thoas,
And the fatal hand
seemed mine. I ran at once to my
Father’s room. He,
long awake (for what sleep is there
For those who rule?) was
asking himself (though our
House was far from the
city) what the noise was, why
Those sounds in the
night, why clamour and not peace.
I related, as he
trembled, the grievous crimes in order,
And the cause of such
audacity: ‘They are maddened,
And no force can quell
them. Follow me, unfortunate
One, since if you
linger they will take you, and perhaps
You will die with me.’
So roused, he leapt from the bed,
And we made our way
through the deserted byways
Of the city, concealed
in the dark, finding everywhere
The heaped corpses
from the night’s massacre, where
Cruel twilight had
seen them slain in the sacred groves.
Here where faces
pressed to couches, sword-hilts erect
In wounded breasts,
broken fragments of huge spears,
Knife-rent clothes
among bodies, upturned wine-bowls,
Entrails drenched in
blood, and bloody wine pouring
Over the wine cups
from severed throats. There lay
A crowd of young men;
here a gathering of the old
No weapon should have
touched; here half-dead lads
On the threshold of
life, laid on the breasts of their
Groaning fathers,
sobbing, breathed out their spirits.
The feasts of the
Lapiths on chill Ossa explode in no
Crueller manner,
whenever the cloud-born Centaurs
Grow heated with deep
draughts of wine: the first
Pallor of anger has scarce
been seen, when rising
To their feet they
upset the tables, eager for battle.
Then Thyoneus revealed
himself to us in our trepidation,
Bringing help to his
son Thoas in his peril, and shone
At first with a sudden
blaze of light. I recognised him,
Though his swelling
temples were not wreathed with
His eyes shedding
unseemly tears, he spoke to us:
“My son, while the
Fates allowed I ensured
Would be powerful, and
feared by other nations, my
Efforts were
unceasing, for you, in that lawful labour.
The gloomy Parcae have
cruelly cut the thread, nor
Could I avert these
ills by the many words and tears
I have poured out in
supplication before mighty Jove.
To Venus, his
daughter, he granted a vile privilege.
Speed your flight, and
you, girl, my worthy offspring,
Guide your father by
way of the double wall that runs
To the shore: here at
the gate where all seems silent,
Baleful Venus stands,
with a sword urging on the mad.
(Why this violence
from her, why this martial spirit?)
Trust your father to
the deep: I’ll prolong your care.”
So saying he vanished
into air; and darkness obscuring
Our sight, he lit our
path with a long track of flame.
I followed the sign he
gave; then entrusted my father,
In a wooden hull, to
the winds, to the
The Aegean embraces,
and the gods of the sea. Nor
Would our mutual tears
have ceased were it not that
Lucifer was banishing
the stars from the Eastern sky.
Then with many a fear
in mind and barely trusting in
Bacchus, I left the
sounding shore: my steps urgent,
But my troubled mind
still gazing behind; nor could I
Help viewing from each
hill, the rising wind and waves.
Dawn rose in shame,
and the sun, unrolling the heavens,
Turned his light from
Behind a cloud. The
madness of that night was exposed,
And shame suddenly
filled them with fear of the dawn,
(Though all were
guilty): they buried their victims deep
In earth or burnt them
impiously on hastily-built pyres.
Now Venus, and the
band of Furies, sated, left the city
They had taken; and
the women realising what they had
Done tore their hair
and drenched their eyes with tears.
At a blow, the island,
wealthy, rich in land, men, arms,
Famous and honoured by
its Getic triumph, had lost
Its powers, was
orphaned and severed from the world,
And not by some
inundation, enemy, or unlucky storm.
Men no longer ploughed
the earth or the waters, silent
The houses, deep the
stain, all things fouled with black
Blood, and only us
alive in the great city’s buildings,
The savage spirits of
the dead sighing on the rooftops.
I too built a blazing
fire in a hidden corner of our palace,
And threw my father’s
weapons, sceptre, and notable
Garments, his royal
clothing, into the flames. Grieving,
With blood-stained
sword, and tangled hair, I stood by
The empty and
deceitful pyre, in fear lest any passed,
Praying it might not
prove an ill omen to my father,
And so allay doubts
and fears regarding his death.
For this service, once
the false illusion of his murder
Had gained credence, I
was granted rule and occupied
(In punishment!) my
father’s throne. Who was I, so
Besieged, to refuse? I
agreed, but only after endless
Prayer to the gods,
and brooding on the truth, and my
Innocence. I inherited
thus (by such dire authority!)
An exhausted realm, a
sorrowing powerless
More and more the
grief troubled their waking senses,
They lamented loudly,
and slowly came to hate Polyxo.
Now they allowed
themselves to build altars to the dead,
Commemorate the
atrocity, and swear by the buried ashes.
So it is when
quivering heifers, stupefied, see their leader
And master of the
stall, to whom the glory and pastures
Of the horned herd
belong, slain by a Massylian lion,
Their breed is maimed,
its pride vanished, and the fields,
The very rivers, the
silent trees grieve for the dead king.
Behold! Splitting the
waters with bronze prow the pine
Keel from Pelion came,
guest of the wide virgin waters.
The Minyae row her, a
double wake whitening from her
High bows, such that
you might think Ortygia torn from
Its root, or a slice
of hillside is coursing over the seas.
But when the oars were
raised in the air and the waves
Fell silent, a voice
sweeter than dying swans or Apollo’s
Lyre came from the
ship and the very waters drew close.
Later we learned
Oeagrian Orpheus was making music,
Leaning against the
mast amongst the oarsmen, helping
Them to forget their
heavy labour. They sailed to lands
Of Scythian Boreas,
and the shores of
The clashing rocks.
Seeing them we thought they were
Thracian warriors, and
fled to our city in tumultuous
Panic, like a dense
throng of cattle or a flight of birds.
Alas, where were the
Furies now? We climbed walls
And towers along the
harbour and shore, all granting
A view over the open
sea. There in trembling haste
The women hauled
stakes and stones, their husbands’
Blood-stained swords
and armour tainted by death.
Shameless, they donned
coats of mail and set helms
On their bold heads.
Minerva blushed in amazement
At the audacious crew,
and Mars on distant Haemon
Laughed. Then finally
the wild frenzy left their minds.
No ship, they thought,
but punishment for their crime,
The tardy justice of
the gods, was nearing over the brine.
Now the Pelasgian ship
was but a Cretan arrow’s flight
From land when Jupiter
sent a storm-cloud pregnant
With dark rain, and
drove it onwards above the rigging.
The sea grew rough,
and the sunlight lost, the darkness
Of the sky was soon
matched by the colour of the waves.
Fierce winds blew
dense clouds and churned the deep,
And the wet sand rose
to view in the black whirlpools.
The whole ocean hung
poised in the conflicting winds,
Then over-arching
breakers neared the stars and toppled.
The vessel faltered,
and her onward progress slowed,
Then tilting she
thrust the Triton figurehead at her bow
Now to the heavens,
now into the depths of the flood.
The strength of those
demigods, those heroes, brought
No relief, as the
crazed mast thrashed the stern, then
Leaned forward
perilously to touch the curving waves,
And the oar thudded
uselessly into each oarsman’s chest.
While the warriors
were labouring to counter sea and wind,
We, from the cliffs,
and highest sections of the walls hurled
Missiles from above,
with feeble trembling arms, at Telamon,
And Peleus (what
daring!) and sought Hercules with arrows.
As for the Minyans,
attacked by weather and the enemy, some
Defended with their
shields, others baled water from the hold,
Others fought; but
their efforts blunted by the ship’s motion,
Their deflected
strength lacked force. We sent down a greater
Hail of darts, the
storm of iron vying to outdo the storm; such
A shower of hardened
stakes and shattered millstones, javelins
And flaming missiles
like streaks of fire fell, now in the waves,
Now aboard the ship,
till the pine deck echoed and the planks
Groaned in the hollow
cavities below. So Jupiter lashes green
Meadows with
Hyperborean snow, till on the plain every single
Creature’s buried,
birds are driven to earth, the harvest flattened
By ruinous ice, the
mountains roar and the rivers surge in wrath.
But now Jove’s
lightning broke through the cloud, and the great
Warriors showed
plainly in its light, such that our hearts froze,
Our nerveless hands
relaxed, the unaccustomed weapons fell
From our grasp, and we
reverted to our gender. We saw the sons
Of Aeacus and Ancaeus,
directly threatening our walls, Iphitus
Thrusting the vessel
away from the cliffs with his long spear.
But Hercules,
Amphitryon’s son, towered clear above the others,
Tilting the vessel on
one side then the other, longing to plunge
Into the waves. But
Jason, as yet unknown, ah, to me, leapt
Nimbly over oars and
benches, over the backs of the heroes,
Urging on with hand
and voice Meleager, Oeneus’ great son,
Then Idas and Talaus,
then one of the Tyndarides drenched
With the white
sea-spray, then
Father Boreas’ icy
fog, to lash the sails to the mast again.
Their blows strike the
sea and the walls; but the foaming
Waters yield no way,
the spears bounce from the towers.
The helmsman Tiphys
wearied by the massive breakers,
The helm unresponsive
in his grasp, grew pale, and altered
Course time and again,
aiming the bows away from the reef,
Into the deeps to
either side, until from the bowsprit’s tip
Jason, Aeson’s son,
waved a branch of Mopsus the seer’s
Palladian olive,
seeking a truce though the crew demurred:
The roaring tempest
swallowing his voice. Then came a lull
In the fighting, and
with it the gale, exhausted, subsided,
And the sunlight shone
again after the Olympian turmoil.
The fifty heroes,
their ship duly moored, leapt from the sheer
Side, shaking the
foreign earth: proud and tall, and of mighty
Parentage, their brows
were calm and faces recognisable,
Now that their visages
were no longer swollen in anger.
So the gods are said
to emerge from their hidden portals
When they wish to
re-visit the houses and the humble
Banqueting tables of
the Ethiopians, under the rising sun;
And then it is that
rivers and mountains give way to them,
Earth’s proud to bear
their tread, and sky-bearing Atlas rests.
There we saw Theseus,
proud of saving
From the wild bull;
and Zetes and
Thracian brothers,
with red whirring wings at their brows;
And Admetus, whom
Phoebus thought it no shame to call
His superior; and
Orpheus so untypical of harsh
And Meleager, scion of
To Nereus of the deep.
Castor and Pollux, the twin sons
Of Oebalus confuse the
eye with their teasing similarity;
One wears a bright
cloak, the other the same, both wield
A spear, both are
smooth-faced and bare-shouldered, both
Have a shining star in
their hair. Young Hylas too had dared
The voyage, adapting
to Hercules’ great stride as he follows,
Whose huge bulk he can
yet scarcely match in a race: bearing
Lerna’s weapons, in
joy, sweating beneath the mighty quiver.
Now Venus was there
again, and Love with silent flames tested
The violent hearts of
Lemnian women; as imperial Juno filled
Their minds with the
heroes’ bearing and prowess, the marks
Of noble lineage.
Every house vied to welcome the strangers.
Then fire was renewed
on the altars, sinful thoughts forgotten.
Then came feasting,
pleasant slumber, nights of rest, though
I think their pleasing
nature was not unwilled by the gods.
Perhaps, Generals, you
wish to know my own error, the fault
Of Fate? By the ashes
of my kin, by the Furies, I swear, it was
Not my fault or
intention (the dear gods know) to kindle flame
In Jason, though he
had the charm to captivate a young girl.
Phasis has its own
dire laws; alien the love
Now the starry nights,
shedding their cold, grew warm with
Long hours of
sunlight, and the swift-turning year revolved.
Now new birth and
progeny came in answer to our prayers.
I too gave birth with
the rest, to twins, memories of forced
Marriage, made a
mother by my harsh guest, I renewed my
Father’s name. What
happened to them after I left I do not
Know: they are twenty
by now if the Fates have allowed
Them to flourish, and
Lycaste has raised them as I wished.
The seas were calm,
and a gentler southerly filled the sails.
As if the ship herself
were tired of lingering in the tranquil
Harbour, she strained
at her cable tied to the facing cliffs.
The Minyae longed to
depart, and Jason summoned his
Comrades – oh, the
savage! If only he had sailed beyond
Our shores that time,
a man neglectful of his offspring,
And his promised word!
What of his fame among distant
Peoples, what if the
golden fleece of Phrixus was restored!
The hour of sailing
was set. Tiphys, the steersman, divined
The following day’s
weather, and Phoebus’ place of setting
Blushed red. One more
lament, and the eve of a departure.
Dawn had scarcely
broken, as Jason standing high on deck,
Gave the order to
leave; and the sea was struck by the oars.
We followed them with
our gaze from cliffs and mountain
Tops as they cleft the
foaming surface of the outspread deep,
Until the light tired
our flickering eyesight, seeming to merge
The wide sea and sky
as one, and levelling down the waters
At the far horizon. A
rumour reached the port that Thoas had
Crossed the sea and
ruled now in his brother’s
Was innocent, that the
blazing pyre had been mere deception.
The impious crowd made
a clamour, spurred on by their guilt,
Claiming
responsibility. And hidden voices began to be raised
Among the multitude:
“Were we happy to kill, was she alone
Faithful? Was it not
the gods and fate? If the city is so sinful,
Why is she our queen?”
Terrified of such murmurs (of a cruel
Punishment, with my
royalty no defence) I, alone and in secret,
Took to the winding
shore, leaving the accursed city by way
Of my father’s prior
route. But Bacchus did not appear a second
Time. A pirate crew,
landing there, spirited me away, I keeping
Silent all the while
and they brought me to your land as a slave.’
So the Lemnian exile
repeated her story to the Lernaean kings
Consoling her ills
with her sad and lengthy tale, forgetful (so
The gods intended) of
the child she had left behind. He sank
His drooping face with
heavy eye-lids into the thick grass,
And, tired of play,
fell asleep, his hand still clutching the turf.
Meanwhile a serpent, a
holy earthborn terror of the Achaean
Woods, slithered over
the meadow, drawing his huge bulk on,
And gathering it
behind him. His eyes were full of livid flame,
The green foam of
venom pouring from his mouth. The triple
Tongue flickered
between three rows of curved fangs, the cruel
Hood on his gilded
brows extended. The farmers declared him
Sacred to Argive
Jupiter who tended the site and the poor men’s
Offerings made on
woodland altars. Sometimes the serpent slid
In sinuous circles
round the god’s shrine, sometimes he scraped
The timber of the
unfortunate groves, de-barking great ash trees
With his embrace.
Often he stretched from riverbank to bank,
And the waters frothed
with the thrashing of his scaly folds.
But now all the earth
was parched, by order of the Theban deity,
Now the water Nymphs
were hidden in the sand, he grew angry,
His curved flanks
driving his sinuous length along the ground,
While he raged
noxiously at the fires of his desiccated venom.
Through the arid pools
and marshes and dry springs he roved,
Wandering through
empty river-courses, flickering uncertainly
With his mouth
up-turned, or furrowing the exhausted fields,
Bent down to the
clinging soil, seeking moisture in green turf.
Grasses wilted as his
head passed, stricken by his hot breath,
The plain dying to his
hiss: as vast he was as Draco, the snake
That divides the Great
and Little Wains in the sky; or Python
Who shook the twin
peaks of sacred
Coils about them, till
you pierced him, Apollo, with a hundred
Wounds, and he died
under the weight of your forest of arrows.
What decision of the
gods, child, cursed you with the burden
Of so heavy a fate?
Must it then lay you low, though barely
At life’s threshold?
Surely it was to render you holy through all
The ages, worthy in
death of so grand a sepulchre? Caught by
The lashing of its
tail you perished, child, the snake all unaware.
Sleep fled your body
instantly, but your eyes opened to death.
Yet when from your
startled mouth a dying wail met the air,
And your cry then fell
silent broken like an incomplete utterance
In dream, Hypsipyle
heard. In mortal fear she ran on legs that
Would barely carry
her. By her augury, she was quickly sure
The cry meant
disaster, and casting her eyes in all directions
She searched the
ground in vain, calling again and again words
That the child would
know. There was no sign of him, no trace
Of his path through
the meadow. The sluggish serpent lay coiled,
Filling wide acres
even so, his head lying exposed on his green
Body. The poor woman
shuddered at the sight and with her cries
Stirred the forest
depths; the snake merely lay there quiescent.
But her cries reached
the Argives, and at their leader’s order,
Parthenopaeus, the
Arcadian knight, ran to the spot and found
Out the cause. Then,
at the flash of weapons and men calling,
The fearful snake
lifted his scaly neck. The tall Hippomedon
Seized a rock, a
boundary marker, and with a mighty effort
Sent it whirling
through the air, as when a millstone is fired
From a catapult
against barred gates in war. The warrior’s
Effort was in vain,
the serpent had already flexed his supple
Neck, avoiding the
imminent blow. The ground shook, knots
Of vegetation sprang
apart in the pathless woods. Capaneus
Rushing to confront
the enemy with his ash spear, now cried:
‘You’ll not escape my
blows, whether you’re simply a savage
Creature of the
fearful grove, or merely a plaything of the gods
(Let the gods have
you!) no, not if you merged your body
With a Giant’s.’ The
spear flew quivering through the air, then
Entered the monster’s
gaping jaws, severed the roots of his cruel
Triple tongue, flashed
through the erect hood, the ornament to his
Darting head, and
stuck deep in the earth, drenched in the black
Venom from his throat.
He had scarcely felt the pain throughout
His length, when with
a rapid action, coiling round the weapon,
Tearing the spear from
the soil, he fled to the god’s dark shrine;
There measuring his
vast length on the ground he hissed away his
Life-breath,
beseeching his master’s altar. The kindred swamps
Of Lerna mourned him
in indignation; the Nymphs that would
Strew him with spring
flowers; the fields of
And the woodland Fauns
in every grove broke their reed-pipes.
Jupiter himself in the
highest heavens called up his weapons,
And tempestuous winds
and storm clouds gathered, but the god’s
Anger was not roused
sufficiently as yet; Capaneus was reserved
For a weightier
missile; nevertheless the breath of the lightning
Blast as it reached
earth touched the tip of the crest on his helm.
Now the place was rid
of the serpent, the unhappy Lemnian
Searched the fields,
and at the distant summit of a little hill
She paled to see the
grass bedewed with blood. There she
Ran, to discover
tragedy, and wild with the weight of grief
Fell to the guilty
earth in an instant, speechless, without tears
Faced with the
disaster. In her misery she rained down kisses
On the child’s body,
and tried to catch the flight of the living
Spirit on her breath.
The face was damaged, and the breast,
The skin was torn
away, the frail bones visible, the tissues
Drenched in the fresh
blood, the corpse one whole wound.
So when a slow-moving
snake has ravaged the nest, killed
Some bird’s young in a
shadowy ilex tree, the returning
Mother is startled at
the silence of her once-noisy home,
And flutters about it,
letting fall the food held in her beak,
Seeing only the blood
and scattered feathers from its ruin.
She clasped the torn
limbs to her breast, poor soul, twining
Her hair about them.
At last her throat set free her voice
And made a path for
her sorrow, till her moans resolved
Themselves in words:
‘Archemorus, sweet image of my
Children lost to me,
solace for my lost land and royalty,
Pride and joy of my
servitude, what cruel god has taken
Your life, you whom I
left playing, crawling in the grass?
Where is your
star-like face? Where are the half-formed
Words, the sounds and
laughs and gurgles only I could
Understand? How I used
to tell you of
And lull you to sleep
with my long tale of woe! Thus I
Found solace while I
put this little one to my breast. Now,
Bereaved the flow of
milk falls vainly on your sad wounds.
I recognise the work
of the gods. O, dire presentiments in
Sleep, O fear in the
night, O Venus who never appeared
To my vision in the
darkness, except to bring me sorrow!
Why accuse the gods? I
myself (why afraid to confess as
I face death?) exposed
you to fate. What madness filled
My mind? How did such
neglect of my charge overcome
Me? While I, in my
vanity, retold the history of my country,
The tale of my renown
(what fidelity, what sense of duty!),
Lead me to him,
Generals, if you are thankful for my help,
And favourable to my
sad speech; or kill me yourselves
With your swords,
rather than that I should be hateful to my
Sad lords, on seeing
them, and his bereaved mother, though
My love and grief are
no less than hers. Shall I bear this
Melancholy burden to
pour into his Eurydice’s lap? Should
The earth not sink me
first in deepest darkness?’ With this,
Her face stained with
soil and blood, she twined about
The great kings’ feet,
silently reminding them of her aid.
And now the startling
news that ran through Lycurgus’ halls,
While he was making
sacrifice, filled his house with tears,
And his own eyes, as
he was descending from the summit
Of Aphesas, Perseus’
mountain, where he’d been offering
Sacred portions to the
angry Thunderer, shaking his head
As he returned from
inspecting the unpropitious entrails.
Keeping to himself
there, he sought no part in the Argive
Fight; not lacking
courage, constrained by the temple altars.
He still recalled the
former oracles and the gods’ warning,
Those words repeated
to him from the depths of the shrine:
‘Lycurgus, you must
give an early sacrifice to the Theban
War.’ So alerted, the
dust of an army nearby grieved him,
Wincing at the blare
of trumpets, wishing the warriors ill.
Behold (the gods do
not deceive!) Thoas’ daughter came
Bearing those mangled
remains. The mother, Eurydice,
Leading a group of
women, a grieving crowd, advanced
To meet her; Lycurgus’
love for his son was no less active,
Stronger in disaster,
a father’s fierce anger repressed tears,
And with long strides
he covered the intervening ground,
Crying: ‘Here is one
to whom the loss of my little child’s
Spilt blood is
welcome. Why is she still alive? Drive
her
Bound before us,
comrades, forward quickly with her. I’ll
Soon make her forget
that tale of
And the lie regarding
that divine lineage she’s so proud of.
Grasping his sword, he
advanced, about to deal death in his
Anger, when Tydeus,
Oeneus’ heroic son, took action,
Thrusting the other
backward aggressively with his shield,
And gritting his
teeth: ‘Cease your foolishness, madman,
Whoever you may be!’
Capaneus moved forward likewise,
And fierce Hippomedon,
and the Arcadian, Parthenopaeus,
The former his sword
raised, the latter levelled, dazzling
The man with the
glittering of steel. On the other side, a band
Of farmers rallied to
their king. Between them the gentler
Adrastus stepped,
along with Amphiaraus who respected
His dealings with
those adorned with sacred ribbons, saying:
‘No, I beg you!
Sheathe those swords, and be you the first.
We are of one blood.’
But Tydeus was not at peace. ‘Would
You dare send our
guide, savour of the Argive host, to her
Grave, thankless
before so many thousands (in revenge
For what?) she who was
queen, the child of Thoas, a man
Whose father was
Bacchus the shining one? Oh, coward,
Is it not enough that
while your countrymen have flocked
To arms from every
quarter, you alone among all the busy
Ranks choose peace?
Choose then, and may Greek victory
Find you at the
graveside yet, and still mourning this death.’
He spoke. Lycurgus’
anger ebbed, his reply was calmer:
‘I did not think, for
my part, that it was you at the gates,
Rather that
And slay us if it is
your pleasure to shed the blood of friends,
Employ your might at
home, and let impious fire destroy
Jove’s undefended
shrine (what then is not permitted?) if,
Lord and master here,
I have no right to deal with a lowly
Slave, in accord with
the sorrow weighing on my heart.
Yet he sees, he sees,
the ruler of the gods, and his anger
Though tardy will
abide.’ So saying, he gazed towards
The heights. The
houses elsewhere rang with the clash
Of weapons. Even now,
Rumour had outpaced the swift
Squadrons, and
embraced twin conflicts with her wings.
Some said Hypsipyle,
thus blamed, had been dragged
Away to her doom,
others that she was already dying.
Believing so, their
anger countenanced no delay. Now
Weapons and blazing
torches threatened the palace,
They called for the
overthrow of the monarchy, for
Lycurgus to be seized
and carried off along with Jove’s
Statue and his altars.
The halls re-sounded to women’s
Screams and grief,
retreating, turned to flee from terror.
But Adrastus, high in
his chariot, carrying Thoas’ daughter
With him, before the
clamorous crowd of men, passed
Through their midst
and shouted: ‘Enough! Here is no
Savage act, nor does
Lycurgus deserve such an assault.
And, behold, here is
she who found the blessed stream!
Just such is the scene
when a northerly and easterly on
One side, and a
southerly with its dark rain on the other,
Have roused the ocean
with their opposing gales, daylight
Is banished and the
tempest reigns; then comes the king
Of the deep with his
great steeds; and bi-formed Triton,
Swimming alongside,
signals far and wide to the falling
Breakers, until the
sea is level and hills and shores appear.
Which of the gods
brought solace for her pain; countering
Her tears with an
answer to her deepest prayer; bringing
Unlooked-for joy to
sad Hypsipyle? You it was, Bacchus,
Founder of her line,
who brought her two sons to
From
Their mother was the
reason for their presence; Lycurgus’
Generous house had
welcomed them; there, news of his
Child’s death had
reached the king. They, as his guests,
Supported the king (oh
Chance and men’s minds blind
To the future!), but
when they heard cries of
And Thoas, they swept
past weapons and outstretched
Hands, and weeping
clasped their mother in their eager
Embrace, taking her in
turns to their breast. She was
Frozen, as if turned
to stone, her gaze fixed ahead, she,
Of her own experience,
not daring to trust the gods.
But seeing their
faces, and their swords from the Argo
Jason had left behind,
and his insignia on their clothes,
Her sorrows left her,
eyes filled with tears of a different
Kind, and she fainted,
overcome by so great a blessing.
There were signs too
from the heavens, tumultuous cries
Of joy, and the drums
and cymbals of the god sounded
Through echoing air.
Then the virtuous son of Oecles,
Amphiaraus, once the
ebbing anger of the crowd brought
Calm, and their
silence allowed them to hear his speech,
Cried: ‘Oh king of
Leaders appointed,
hear what Apollo clearly commands.
This trouble comes to
the Argive army from long ago,
In straight descent,
brought by the Fates. The drought
And the vanishing
streams; the death-dealing serpent;
The lad singled out,
alas, by a name that is our destiny,
Arechemorus; all this
arises from the gods’ supreme will.
Contain your anger,
and set your hastily-seized weapons
Aside: the child must
be accorded the lasting honours he
Deserves. Let the
brave offer pure libations to the dead
Who was their own; may
you Apollo bring more delay,
And we be barred from
making war by fresh circumstance,
And may fatal Thebes
recede forever in the far distance.
But you, Lycurgus and
Eurydice, you the fortunate, whose
Destiny exceeds that
of other noble parents, whom lasting
Fame will attend
throughout the ages, whilst Father Inachus
And Lerna’s marshes
shall flow, whilst
Flickering shadows on
the fields, do not violate the rites
By weeping, do not
reproach the gods: for the child is now
A god, nor would he
have preferred Nestor’s long years,
Or to outlive Phrygian
Priam.’ Thus he ended his speech,
And night wrapped all
the heavens in hollow darkness.
End of Book V
On the footsteps of
Rumour, the news swept widely through
The Danaan cities that
the sons of Inachus were establishing
Rites at the new tomb,
as well as memorial games in which
Brave men in hot
competition would ready themselves for war.
A festival in the
Greek manner! Pious Hercules first appointed
Such honours for
Pelops at
Brow. Then
The Pythian Games to
recall the triumph of young Apollo’s bow.
Then came the dark
rites observed at Palaemon’s gloomy altars
When brave Leucothea
returns to a friendly shore at the Isthmian
Festival, renewing her
lament: both shores are loud with mourning
And Echionian Thebes
responds with tears. And now the scions
Of kings, those sons
of
Mighty names Aonia’s
land and Tyrian mothers uttered with sighs,
Met there, in
They were like sailors
about to venture on unknown seas, whether
To meet the Tyrrhene
storms, or the wide
Helm and rigging and
oars, gently, on a placid lake, and learn how
To anticipate real
risks, who when they are trained are confident
And strike out far on
the waves, without regard to the fading shore.
Bright Dawn’s
toil-bearing chariot had risen in the sky, and Night,
And Sleep with his
emptied horn, were fleeing that pale goddess’s
Waking course. Now the
streets were loud with grief, the tearful
Palace with groans;
and far off pathless forests received, distorted
And multiplied the
sounds. The father sat stripped of holy ribbons,
His tangled hair and
his unkempt beard matted with funereal dust.
Opposite him the
bereaved mother, more distraught and grieving
More than the men, set
her maids an example, urging, exhorting
Them, despite their
willingness, and striving to clasp her child’s
Violated corpse,
returning to it whenever she was dragged away.
The father himself
restrained her. Then, when the Inachian kings
Arrived at the
threshold with sad faces of mourning too, as if this
Tragedy were fresh,
and the infant suffering his first wounds, or
The deadly serpent in
the very hall, though weary they redoubled
The blows against
their breasts, the walls echoing their clamour.
The Pelasgi felt the
reproach, and countered the charge with tears.
Adrastus himself,
whenever the noise died, and a stunned silence
Gripped the house,
yielding him space, with words of unprompted
Solace, consoled the
father. He spoke of destiny, of the harshness
Of our human
condition, of inexorable fate, or recalled those other
Children who, thanks
to Heaven, still lived. Yet while he spoke
The lament began
again. Lycurgus was no more quieted with words,
However well-meant,
than the fierce
Of men’s prayers on
the deep, or errant lightning by veils of cloud.
Meanwhile the child’s
bier, a bed destined for the pyre, was woven
From tender branches
of sad cypress. The base was strewn all over
With rustic greenery,
then more elaborate wreaths of herbs, topped
By a mound of flowers
doomed to die. The final tier heaped high
With Arabian perfumes,
the riches of the east, held masses of white
Incense, and
long-lasting cinnamon the gift of the aged King Belus.
The summit quivered
with gold, a soft curtain of Tyrian purple rose
Above, glittering at
every point with cut gems, its centre woven
With acanthus leaves,
round the form of Linus and the fatal hounds.
The mother had always
hated that wondrous work, and averted her
Eyes from the omen.
The love of glory, mixed with pride and pain,
Spread weapons and
ancestral trappings, from the afflicted palace,
Round the bier, as
though some giant figure was being born to his
Funeral, a mighty
corpse for the flames; yet barren and empty fame
Delights the grieving,
and the tiny corpse was greater for its funeral.
So endless honour and
piteous pleasure graced the tears. Gifts more
Weighty than his years
were given to the pyre; for an earlier vow
Of his father’s had
caused a miniature quiver and arrows, innocent
Missiles, to be made
for him, and horses of proven worth, all bred
From the stables’
famous line, were being reared for him, and shields
And glittering belts
were being readied, anticipating growing strength.
Elsewhere, at the
command of the learned augur, the army laboured
To raise high the
mountainous pyre, with tree trunks, fallen branches
And dark offerings, to
expiate their guilt at slaying the serpent, before
Their ill-omened war
began. A grove was felled whose ancient foliage
Had never known the
axe, richer in its dense shade than all the forests
Of
Sacred in majestic age
it stood, said to be older than human ancestry;
And a true witness to
the passing of generations of Nymphs and Fauns.
Its pitiful ruin was
imminent. Driven by fear the creatures fled, the birds
Flitted from their
warm nests. The towering beech, the Chaonian oaks,
The cypress unharmed
by winter and spruce-trees fell, to feed the funeral
Fire, rowan and ilex
trunks, yews with their poisonous sap, and ash-trees
Fated to drink blood,
shed in the accursed war, long-lasting hardwoods.
Then the sea-going fir
and pine-boughs, aromatic when cut, were split,
As alder, friend to
water, and the vine-bound elm bowed their uncut tips
To the ground. The
earth groaned. The forests of
Swiftly uprooted, are
so torn away, when Boreas from his rocky cave,
Lifts his head; nor
does fire bring faster ruin to the trees when a southerly
Gale blows. Pales;
Silvanus, lord of the shade; and the host of demigods
Leave the places that
they love, haunts of ancient peace; and as they go
The woods groan in
unison, while clinging Nymphs embrace the oaks.
So, in a captured
city, when the enemy general releases his eager men
To plunder, the signal
is scarcely given when the whole city is gone;
Without restraint they
level everything, drag away, drive and carry off
Whatever they can,
with far greater tumult than ever they made in war.
Now, shared toil had
raised twin altars of like size, one to the sad shades
The other to the gods,
when a pipe of curving horn boomed low as a sign
Of grief, the pipe
that according to
The youthful dead.
They used to say that Pelops appointed such chanting
And ceremony to mark
the passing of children; and Niobe dressed in black
Brought twelve urns
so, to Sipylos; of her children slain by the twin bows.
The Greek generals
brought funeral gifts, their offerings, to be burned,
Each signed, to
testify in piety to the honours his race had won. Later,
Amid wild shouts, the
bier itself was raised on the shoulders of young
Men (the leader had
chosen them from a host of warriors).The Lernaean
Generals surrounded
Lycurgus, a gentler company circled the queen.
Hypsipyle was there,
not unattended. The sons of Inachus remembered
And guarded her, her
sons supported her by her bruised arms, so their
Mother might lament.
But no sooner had Eurydice left her ill-starred
House, than speech
rose from her bared throat, and with a prologue
Of blows to her
breast, and long drawn out sighs, she began: ‘Not thus,
My son did I hope to
follow you, with this long train of Argive women,
Nor did I imagine, in
my foolish prayers, that your childhood would end
Like this, my thoughts
were not so cruel. How should I dream, in my
Ignorance, that
Chose to begin this
war by a sacrifice of our blood? Who
dedicated
Your death, sinfully,
to its success? Yet your house, Cadmus, grieves
Not; no child is
mourned among
Suffer the first fruit
of tears, untimely death to the sound of trumpets,
The clash of swords; I
who thoughtlessly trusted a nurse I thought true,
And handed her my
babe. Why not? She had told me how she saved
Her father, by her
cleverness, and kept her innocent hands unstained.
Behold her: this woman
who alone she says abjured the deadly oath,
Immune to the madness
of her fellow Lemnians! This daring woman,
(You believe her yet!)
this woman strong in her devotion, abandoned
Not her king or lord
but another’s child, disloyally, in a lonely field,
Unthinking, leaving
him by a path in a dangerous wood. No fearful
Serpent (what need,
alas, for such deadly monsters) but strong winds
Merely, branches blown
by the wind, or terror alone might have been
Enough to kill him.
Nor, in my sad loss, can I accuse you warriors;
With such a nurse this
mother’s tragedy was always inevitable. Yet,
My child, you were
fonder of her, it was her you heard and recognised
When she called, ignoring
me: your mother had little joy of you. She,
The undutiful, heard
your cries and tearful laughter, she knew the lisp
Of your first words.
She, while you lived, acted as your mother: I now.
But, alas, I lack even
the power to punish her as she deserves! Generals,
Why these vain rites,
these gifts for the pyre? I beg you, by the sacrifice
I have made at the
commencement of war, deliver her (the shades ask no
Less) deliver her to
the ashes and the parent she destroyed. So Theban
Mothers may mourn
their child, as I do.’ She tore her hair, repeatedly,
In supplication:
‘Deliver her up: do not call me cruel, eager for blood,
Since I will die along
with her, if I can only sate myself with gazing
At that stroke of
justice, and we be hurled together on the same pyre.’
Calling out, seeing
Hypsipyle lamenting in another more distant place
(For neither was she
sparing of hair or breast) and indignant that she
Too was grieving
publicly, she cried: ‘Forbid her this, at least, you
Nobles, and you,
General, for whose war this pledge of the marriage
Bed has died. Drag
that hateful woman from these funeral rites. Why
Does she show her
accursed self with his mother? Why is she here,
In our hour of
tragedy? For whom does she, who embraces her own
Children, mourn?’ So
she spoke, then suddenly ceasing her cries,
She fainted. It was as
if a calf, with little strength, his vigour drawn
As yet from the udder,
had been cheated of his first milk, carried off
By a wild beast, or
sent by a herdsman to the cruel altar. The dam,
Bereft, rouses valley,
rivers, trees with her lowing, asks a question
Of the empty fields;
she is last to leave the sad meadow, devoid
Of any desire for
home, turning unsated from the grass before her.
Lycurgus himself hurled
his proud sceptre and Jove’s emblems
On the pyre, and with
a blade cut the hair of his beard and head,
Covering the tiny face
of the dead child with the severed mass,
And uttered words that
mingled with his tears: ‘Perfidious Jove,
I would have consecrated
these locks to you for a far different
Reason, if you had
granted my son to offer his youthful beard
With them in your
temple. But your priest’s words have not been
Endorsed, his prayer
was denied. Let this shade, who is far more
Worthy of them, possess
them.’ The fire was lit, the flames roared
In the lower branches;
it was hard to restrain the maddened parents.
The Danaans stood as
ordered, their shields raised, barring the sight
From unlawful view.
The ashes glistened; no embers were ever
Richer than they. Gems
split, silver fused in a mass, gold melted
From embroidered
fabrics. Logs swelled with Assyrian unguents,
Charred honey and pale
saffron hissed, and on them were poured
Bowls of foaming wine;
cups of dark blood; milk dear to the dead.
Then the Greek kings
led out seven squadrons (of a hundred riders
Each) with insignia
reversed. According to custom, they circled
The pyre
anti-clockwise, the rising flames bowing as they passed.
Three times they
traversed the ring, weapons clashed on weapons,
Four times beating on
their shields they raised a din, four times
The handmaidens’ palms
a softer sound as they beat their breasts.
A second fire received
the dying sheep and still-breathing cattle.
But then, at auspices
of strange disaster, the prophet commanded
The mourning to cease,
though he knew that the omens spoke true.
Clockwise they wheeled
retracing their course, spears quivering,
And each threw an
offering into the flames, from his equipment,
A bridle, a choice
belt, a javelin, or the crest that shaded his helm.
It was over, and
already the fires, exhausted, sank to ash. They
Quenched the flames,
dousing the pyre with floods of water, till
Their labour ceased at
sunset, duty narrowly ended with the dark.
Nine times had Lucifer
dismissed the dew-wet stars from the sky,
And as often at night,
as Hesperus, heralded the Moon’s light,
(Though the knowing
constellations are not deceived, detecting
Him as one, in his
rising and his setting) and a wondrous work
Was complete! A
building stood there, all of stone, a mighty
Here Hypsipyle pointed
out the stream to the weary Danaans;
Here the child
crawled, here he slept while the scaled serpent
Dragged its rasping
length round the margins of the hill; one
Could almost hear the
blood-filled hiss from its dying mouth,
So expertly was the
snake shown, coiled round a marble spear.
And now a crowd
arrived, from street and field, eager to see
The Games, the mock
battles (Rumour had brought them all).
Even those whom youth
or weary age had left at home, free
Of the horror of war,
appeared. No greater host ever raised
A clamour on
A valley, embraced by
woods, sat in a circle of green winding
Hills; shaggy ridges
stood around, and a solid mound with twin
Shoulders terminated
the exit from the plain, whose level lifted
To grassy brows and
gentle slopes, that curved with long paths,
Green turf, and no
sudden defiles. There when the fields were
Already reddened by
the sun, a troop of warriors took their seats.
They took pleasure in
the number, the looks, and bearing of their
Comrades in the crowd,
and in their confidence in such a host.
There a hundred black
bulls, the pride of the herd, were led,
A slow-moving mass;
and a like number of heifers and steers
Without horns as yet,
of the same colour. Then a procession
Of brave images of
ancient ancestors appeared, skilfully done;
The faces seemed alive.
First Hercules, crushing the panting
Lion, shattering its
bones with hard friction against his chest.
Though it was made of
bronze, in their honour, the Inachians
Were still fearful at
the sight. Father Inachus came next, leaning
On the crest of his reed-filled
bank, and tipping his brimming urn
To the left. Behind
him, Io, now four-legged, her father’s grief,
Watched Argus, starred
with those eyes that never closed. Jove,
In gentler mood, had
exalted her in
Was worshipping her as
guest. Then father Tantalus, not hung
Above the illusory
waters or snatching at the empty air and its
Retreating branches,
but the good Tantalus dinner-guest of Jove.
Elsewhere Pelops the
victor, in his chariot, grips the reins that
Falling wheels, and
the spinning axle leaves him far behind.
There too is stern
Acrisius, with his daughter the guilty Danae,
And Coroebus the
monster-slayer, and sad Amymone beside
The spring
About her head, taking
pride in her babe Hercules. Aegyptus
And Danaus, sons of
Belus, clasp right hands in their doomed
Pact, Aegyptus
depicted with gentle look; but on Danaus’ face
The marks of deceit,
sign of the fatal marriages, of that night
Of murder are plain to
see. A thousand other images follow.
Pleasure at last is
satisfied: Valour calls the brave to compete.
The first event was
the chariot-racing. Apollo, recount the names,
Of the horses, and
those famous charioteers; for there was never
A nobler set of
coursers arrayed. It was as though a swarm of birds
Raced in swift flight;
or Aeolus had the wild winds scour the shore.
First came Arion,
conspicuous for the flame of his red mane. His
Sire was
And bit to break a
colt on the sandy shore, sparing him the whip;
A colt with insatiable
desire for motion, restless as the wintry sea.
In harness with
Deeps, carrying his
ocean father to every shore. Clouds, amazed,
Were left behind; east
and west winds chased him in emulation.
He was no less superb
on land, carrying Hercules over the deeply
Ploughed fields as he
performed labours for Eurystheus; still wild
And unmanageable even
for that son of Amphitryon. Later, a gift
Of the gods, he
deigned to obey Adrastus, having grown milder
In the intervening
years. Now the king, with many an admonition,
Allowed his
son-in-law, Polynices, to manage him; telling him how
To soothe the horse
when excited, not to handle him harshly, nor
To grant him free
rein. ‘Others you urge, with goads and threats.
He will lead, and more
swiftly than you may wish.’ So when, with
Tears, the Sun set
Phaethon, his child, in his fast chariot, handing
Him the fiery reins,
he warned the joyful youth of the dangerous
Constellations, whole
regions inimical to passage, and to keep
To the temperate zone
between the poles; great love he showed,
Fearful and cautious.
But cruel Fate prevented the young man
Heeding his
advice. Amphiaraus was close favourite
to win
The palm, with his
team of Spartan horses, offspring of Cyllarus,
Bred in secret, while
Castor was far off, at the mouth of Scythian
Wore snowy white, and
snowy were the coursers that stretched
Their necks beneath
the yoke; his helm and ribbons matching
His white plume.
Admetus, from
Could barely control
his barren mares, the Centaur’s foals they
Say, and I believe it,
they so scorn breeding, avoiding mating
For the sake of
strength. They were like night and day mingled,
White with dark
markings, strong in colouration, worthy to be
Of that herd that
ceased to graze on hearing the Castalian reed’s
Piping, when Apollo
played as shepherd to fortunate Admetus.
And behold, Jason’s
young sons, their mother Hypsipyle’s fresh
Glory, Thoas, named
from his grandfather, and Euneos, named
From ‘the good ship’
Argo, riding like chariots. Twins, they
Were identical in all;
looks, dress, chariots, teams; and no less
So in their wishes;
each desired to win, or be beaten only by his
Brother. Chromis and
Hippodamus competed too, one the son
Of Hercules, the other
of Oenomaus; such that you might doubt
Which of the two
grasped the reins more fiercely. One raced
The team of Getic
Diomedes, the other that of his Pisan father.
Both chariots stained
with dark blood displayed cruel trophies.
The turning post at
one end of the course was a bare oak, long
Naked of its leaves;
the other a stone block, the farmers’ mark.
Between lay four
javelin-throws, three arrow-flights, of space.
Meanwhile Apollo, the
lyre in his hands, lulled the noble band
Of Muses with his
song, as he gazed at Earth from
Airy summit. First he
sang of the gods, for often he would tell
Of Jupiter and the
battle at Phlegra, of the serpent he had slain;
And in praise of his
brothers. Then he revealed what propels
The lightning bolt;
what spirit guides the stars; whence rivers
Derive their
animation, the winds their nourishment; from what
Fount the vast ocean
pours; what path the sun takes so nights
Shorten or extend;
whether the ground sits lowest, or above
And underpinned by
another hidden world. He ended, quieting
The Sisters eager for
more, and fastening his lyre, with the bright
Leaves of his wreath,
to a laurel bush, and untying the embroidery
At his breast, he
heard cheering there, and was drawn to the sight
Of Hercules’
He chanced to see
Admetus and Amphiaraus (heroes known to him)
Standing together in
the field, and spoke to himself: ‘What god
Brings together these
kings, my most loyal followers, in rivalry?
Both are virtuous,
both loved; I could not choose between them.
The former, when I was
a servant in Pelion’s fields (so Jupiter
Commanded, the dark
Sisters willed) gave incense to me, his
Underling, and would
not treat me as his inferior; the latter is
A friend to the
oracle, a pious disciple of that divine calling.
The first deserves the
preference, yet the other’s end is near.
Admetus shall know the
path of old age, but no joy remains
To you, Amphiaraus;
You know it, unhappy
one, long the birds have so prophesied.’
He murmured the words
and tears almost staining his inviolable
Face he reached
His father’s lightning
or his own arrows. Long present himself
On land, his trace yet
lingered in the sky, and a bright trail still
Shone along the
breeze. Now Prothous shook lots in a bronze
Helmet, and each
competitor knew his place and starting order.
The men, splendid
ornaments of earth, and their horses no less
Splendid, both of
divine race, waited behind the barrier, while
Hope, fearful courage,
pent-up confidence welled within them.
Nothing felt certain
at heart: eager to race, they were yet afraid:
The chill before
battle seized all their limbs. The horses equalled
Their masters in
ardour. Their fiery eyeballs rolled. Champing
At the bits scorched
with blood and foam, the posts and bars
Could scarce withstand
their pressure, and between them rose
The smoking breath of
repressed rage. To stand there motionless
Was torture, heavy
hooves struck out prematurely, the energy
Of a thousand pacing
movements wasted. The faithful grooms
Combed out the tangled
manes, with words of encouragement
And advice. The
Tyrrhenian trumpet sounded opposite them,
And all leapt from
their place. What sails on the sea fly so,
Missiles in battle, or
clouds in the sky? The winter rivers
And the rush of flames
are not so swift. Meteors fall more
Slowly, the
accumulated rain, and the torrents from the hills.
The Pelasgi saw and
named them as they shot forward, then
They were snatched
from view, shrouded in blinding dust.
Wrapped in the one
fog, their faces lost in the tumult, they
Scarcely knew each
other amidst the shouts and clamour.
The pack thinned out,
staggered according to the quality
Of each, a second
circuit trampling over tracks of the first.
Now their chests
almost touch the horses’ backs, now
They round the posts,
knees straining, reins grasped hard.
The wind combs flowing
manes, the neck-muscles swell
Below, and the dry
ground drinks white showers of foam.
There’s a thunderous
sound of hooves, a hiss of wheels.
Arms are wearied, the
air whistles with the crack of whips:
No denser the lash of
hail from the ice-bound Bear, the rain
That streams down from
the horns of the She-Goat, Capella.
Arion, prescient,
sensed another charioteer than his master,
And unknowingly feared
Polynices, dread son of Oedipus.
From the very start he
was angry, at odds with his burden,
Wilder in his ardour
than was his custom. The Inachians
Thought him inflamed
with desire for glory, but it was his
Charioteer he fled, he
whom he menaced in his wild fury,
As, ahead of them all,
he searched the field for his master.
Amphiaraus followed, a
distant second, neck and neck
With Thessalian
Admetus; the twins, Euneos and Thoas
Ran close; now one in
front, now the other, they give way,
They lead again;
loving brothers undivided by glory’s rivalry.
Chromis the fierce,
and fierce Hippodamus, made up the rear,
No novices, but held
back by their ponderous teams of horses.
Hippodamus was ahead,
and feeling the breath of the pursuit,
His own shoulders hot
with the heavy gasping of those mouths.
Now Apollo’s augur,
Amphiaraus, hoped to take the lead,
Dragging on his reins,
and running it tight around the post.
Admetus too was on
fire with fresh hope, as Arion, unchecked
By his true master,
strayed to the right, far out along the bend.
Now Amphiaraus,
Oecles’ son, was ahead, and Admetus no
Longer third, but
Arion, the horse of
From a wide circuit,
pressing both hard, at last overtook them,
Their joy short-lived.
A cry rose to the stars, the sky trembled,
And the crowd lifted
to their feet, revealing the bare benches.
But Polynices grew
pale, the reins loose in his hand, his whip
Idle, just as a
helmsman, whose skill fails him, rushes towards
The rocks, driven by
the waves, no longer steering by the stars,
Throwing away the
power of his art now overcome by chance.
Once more, over the
plain, they drove, directly or obliquely,
Swerving and pursuing
their course, axle meeting axle, spoke
To spoke; no truce or
trust. You’d have thought it a war, cruel
War, but without the
clash of steel; so wild were they for glory.
They shudder and threaten
death, hooves scraping against rims.
Whips and goads are no
longer enough; they urge their teams
On by name. Shouting
to Pholoe; Iris; and the trace horse, Thoe;
Admetus calls, while
the augur, Amphiaraus chides Aschetus,
And Cycnus, ‘the
Swan’, worthy of his name. Strymon hears
Chromis call to him,
fiery Aetion hears Euneos; Hippodamas
Taunts the lagging
Cydon, Thoas begs his piebald, Podarces,
To fly. Only
Polynices, the scion of Echion, is darkly silent
In his errant chariot,
fearing to reveal a tremor in his voice.
The horses’ effort
seemed scarcely begun and already they were
Starting the fourth
lap of the dusty course. Exhausted, their limbs
Streamed with sweat,
their parched mouths breathed and expelled
A dense hot vapour,
their forward rush was no longer at full pace,
And their long
drawn-out panting racked their heaving flanks.
Then bold Fortune
chose to decide the issue long in doubt.
Thoas crashed, trying
eagerly to pass Haemonian Admetus,
Nor could his brother
help him, willing though he was, since
Hippodamus, scion of
Mars, obstructed him with his chariot.
Then Chromis, rounding
the bend of the inward goal, grasped
Hippodamus’ axle, and
held it with the whole strength of his
Sire, Hercules; the
horses tried vainly to escape, straining
At their bridles and
stretching out their necks. In such a way
The tide will hold
Sicilian vessels fast, while a southerly gale
Seeks to drive them
on; their swollen sails static in mid-ocean.
Now Chromis hurled the
charioteer from his shattered chariot,
And sought to drive
ahead. But when the Thracian horses saw
Hippodamus on the
ground, their old hunger returned, in their
Fury they would have
torn him trembling limb from limb, had
Chromis, the Tirynthian
hero, heedless of the race, not dragged
The team away, and to
loud applause withdrawn from the race.
Meanwhile Apollo had
long desired for you the honour that he
Promised, Amphiaraus.
Thinking the time ripe at last to show
His favour, he entered
the churned spaces of the dusty course,
As the race was
ending, when final victory was in the balance.
A monstrous phantom
with snakes for hair, and fearful looks,
He either raised from
Erebus, or conjured for a brief moment,
With cunning art;
certain it is that he revealed the abomination,
Adorned with
innumerable terrors, to the heavens above. Not
Even the gatekeeper of
dark Lethe could eye it without fear,
Nor the Eumenides
themselves, without the deepest horror; it
Would have troubled
the horses of the Sun or Mars, in flight.
Golden Arion saw it
and his mane sprang erect, his shoulders
Reared, and he hung
there, his fellow and their partners either
Side, suspended in
mid-air. The Theban exile, Polynices, fell
And landed on his
back, sprawling till he could free himself
From the reins; the
chariot released from control, swept away.
As he lay there on the
sand, Amphiaraus, Thessalian Admetus,
And Euneus, the
Lemnian hero, flew past, swerving as best
They could to avoid
him. At last his friends approached; he
Lifted his head, sunk
in darkness, from the ground, raising
His bruised limbs, and
returned unexpectedly to Adrastus.
How close death came,
Theban, if harsh Tisiphone had not
Prevented it! What a
mighty war would have been averted!
Have dedicated their
shorn locks, in prayer; and your grave
Would have known more
worshippers than Archemorus’.
Now Amphiaraus,
Oecles’ son, though certain of the prize
Had he simply followed
the masterless Arion in front of him,
Still burned with
desire to overtake the now empty chariot.
The god gave renewed
strength. Swifter than the East Wind
He flew, as though
from the starting gate when first emerging
Onto the track, while
he chided swift Achetos, and snowy
Cycnus, plying reins
and whip across their back and mane.
Now at last, no one
ahead, the fiery wheels drew the axle on,
The sand was churned
and scattered in the air; yes, even then
The earth groaned and
threatened angrily! Perhaps Cycnus
Might have drawn ahead
and Arion lost, but his sire
Would not allow it.
So, in a fair result, the horse retained his
Glory while victory
went to Amphiaraus, the seer. Two young
Men brought him a
reward for victory, the bowl of Hercules,
Which the Tirynthian
used to carry in one hand and, victorious
Over monsters or in
war, tilt it foaming into his upturned mouth.
It showed Centaurs
fiercely moulded, terrifyingly shaped in
Gold, and on its
surface torches, stones, other bowls hurled
Amidst the slaughter
of the Lapithae, the powerful anger
Of the dying
everywhere; while he himself was holding wild
Hylaeus, twisting the
Centaur’s beard and plying his club.
For Admetus a cloak
was the reward, with a flowing Maeonian
Border, dyed
repeatedly to a deep purple. Here Leander was
Depicted, swimming
Phrixus’ sea, gleaming bluish in watery
He about to change
stroke with his arms, and the very fabric,
Showing his wet hair,
seemed moist. Opposite Hero of
Sat, watching
anxiously from the summit of her tower, yet
In vain: with the lamp
nearby, her accomplice, about to fail.
Adrastus ordered these
rich gifts to be granted the winners.
His son-in-law he
consoled with an Achaean serving-girl.
Next Adrastus invited
the runners to compete for fine prizes:
In a test of agility,
where valour plays little part, a peaceful
Activity in the
service of the rites, yet not unavailing in war
If the right arm
fails. First Idas emerged, his brow recently
Wreathed with Olympian
leaves; and the men of
Greeted him with
cheers. Alcon of Sicyon followed; and then
Phaedimus, twice
proclaimed victor on the Isthmian sands;
And Dymas who once ran
faster than wing-footed horses,
But of late followed
them, slowed by age. And many others,
From here and there,
unknown to the crowd, came forward
In silence. Now there
are calls from the packed stands for
Arcadian
Parthenopaeus; they murmur his name, his mother
Atalanta famed for her
speed. Who does not know of her
Matchless Maenalian
beauty, and her flying feet no suitor
Could overtake? The
mother’s glory weighed on the son,
Already known far and
wide for slaying the deer on foot
In the open glades of
Lycaeus, for catching a speeding
Javelin as he ran. At
last he leapt lightly from the ranks,
To a roar of
expectation, dashing from the crowd, as he
Unpinned the gold
clasp of his cloak. His limbs gleamed,
Their splendour
revealed, his fine shoulders and naked
Chest no less
delightful than his face, and yet his visage
Eclipsed by his body.
He himself, though, deflected praise
Of his beauty, and
kept admirers at bay. Then, no novice,
He concentrated on
oiling his flesh with the rich pressings
Of Athene, while Idas,
Dymas, and others did the same.
Just so, when the
heavens shine over the tranquil ocean,
And reflections of the
starry sky tremble on the waves,
Though all are bright
Hesperus shines more brightly,
Glowing as deeply in
dark water as in the heights above.
Idas was second to him
in beauty and not greatly slower
In speed, close to him
in age but a little older; the oil
Of the wrestling
ground had already encouraged a faint
Growth of down on his
cheek, a hint of shadow below
The cloud of his uncut
hair. Now they flexed muscles,
Testing, and
exercising, their languid limbs in various
Ways, putting
themselves artificially in motion. Now
They sank on their
bended knee, now slapped their oily
Chests with the flat
of their hand, now raised an eager
Leg, or brought a
brief sprint to an end in a sudden halt.
When the signal fell,
offering an equal start, they soon
Devoured the course,
and the naked runners gleamed
Over the field. It
even seemed the swift horses had run
Less swiftly earlier
over the same terrain. You might
Have though them so
many arrows loosed by a Cretan
Host, or by retreating
Parthians. So, fleet-footed stags
In the Hyrcanian
wilds, hearing, or thinking they hear,
The roar of a hungry
lion in the distance, will blindly
Run, swept on by
panic, and crowded together in fear,
Their horns clashing
loud and long in mingled flight.
The Maenalian lad fled
from sight, faster than the wind,
Shaggy Idas pressed
after him, panting heavily at his
Shoulder, his breath
and shadow falling on his back.
Next came Dymas and
Phaedimus straining in rivalry,
With Alcon quick on
their heels. Parthenopaeus’ blond
Uncut tresses flowed
behind his head: the Arcadian
Had tended it from his
earliest years, promising it as
A gift to Diana
Trivia, dedicating it boldly (in vain)
To his native altar
should he return a winner from war.
Now untied and pouring
freely over his back, it flew
Behind him in the
breeze, hindering him and flying
In the face of Idas
threatening his footsteps. Idas now
Saw the chance to
commit a foul, and near the finish
As Parthenopaeus was
about to cross the winning line,
Idas seized his hair,
and dragging him back, passing
Him by, reached the
finish gate, leading by a distance.
The Arcadians roared
in anger, and called for weapons,
Then, armed, ran to
support their king should the stolen
Prize and honour won
not be restored, pouring onto
The track; others
applauded Idas’ cunning. Meanwhile
Parthenopaeus covered
his face with the dust and wept;
The grace of tears
adding to his beauty. In his distress
He tore with
blood-stained nails now at his chest, now
At his face and hair,
undeserving of this shame; on all
Sides, discordant
clamour raged, while aged Adrastus
Unsure, delayed his
judgement. At last he spoke: ‘Lads.
End your quarrel. Your
skill must be tried a second time.
But not in each
others’ tracks: Idas, keep to this side,
Parthenopaeus take the
other; let there be no cheating.’
They heard and obeyed.
Then Parthenopaeus of Tegea
Addressed the goddess,
silently, in supplication: ‘Lady
Of the Forests, since
these locks are dedicated to you,
And my vow has led to
this disgrace, I beg, if my mother,
And myself have
deserved any favour from you through
Our hunting, I beg
that this ill-omen not accompany me
To
He was heard was that
the track scarce felt his passage,
The air barely moved
between his legs, and his swift feet
Hung above the dust,
leaving it untouched. With a shout
He burst from the
gate, with a shout returned to the king,
Grasped the palm, and
put to an end to sighing. The race
Was done, the prizes
were ready. Arcadian Parthenopaeus
Received a horse,
shameless Idas claimed a shield, all
The rest departed
content with gifts of Lycian quivers.
Now Adrastus invited
any strong man, who wished, to try
His skill at the
discus, and proudly demonstrate his strength.
Pterelas responded,
yet, arching his whole body, he was only
Able to land the
slippery mass of bronze nearby. The scions
Of Inachus watched in
silence, pondering the task. Then a host
Of competitors
appeared, two Achaeans, three sons of Ephyre,
A Pisan, and an
Acarnanian the seventh. Hope of glory would
Have brought still
more, had not the tall Hippomedon appeared
Among them, spurred on
by the spectators, and carrying another
Solid discus in his
right hand, crying: ‘Try this one, men, instead,
You who go to shatter
walls with rocks and to demolish Tyrian
Towers, try this: as
for that other weight, who could not throw it?’
He caught it up,
effortlessly, hurling it to one side. They moved
Away amazed, declaring
themselves outmatched. Only Phlegyas,
And ardent Menestheus
(shame and their ancestry alone kept
Them in the contest)
reluctantly chanced their arms. The rest
Of the young men
willingly conceded, and bowing to the discus,
Withdrew ingloriously.
So in Thracian fields the shield of Mars
Strikes
The sun, and booms
deeply when the god beats it with his spear.
Phlegyas of Pisa began
the competition, drawing all eyes to him;
Such power his
body-shape promised. First he coated his hand
And the discus with
soil, then shaking off the dirt turned the disk
Round and round to
determine which side best suited his grip,
And then his forearm.
He possessed no lack of skill. This sport
Had ever been his
passion, not only when he attended the rites
That glorified his
land, but when he would measure the
From bank to bank,
sending a discus over the river at the widest
Part, and never
landing it in the water. So, confident in his skill,
He began by measuring
the heavens with his arm not the rough
Acres of ground, and
bending alternate knees he gathered his
Strength and whirled
the discus above him to reach the clouds.
Swiftly it sought the
heights, accelerating as if it was falling,
Till at length, with
less velocity, it returned exhausted to earth,
And plunged into the
ground. So the eclipsed sister of the Sun
Falls, when drawn down
from the astonished stars, and people
Beat bronze to aid
her, in vain fear, while Thessalian witches
Their spells heard,
laugh in victory to view her panting steeds.
The Greeks applauded
now, to a dark look from Hippomedon,
And the crowd hoped
for an even mightier throw over the plain.
But evil Fortune came
to him, she who loves to destroy reckless
Expectations. How many
of us can compete against the gods?
He was aiming already
to cover a vast distance, his neck was
Already swivelling,
his flank withdrawing, when the discus
Slipped and fell in front
of him, frustrating his throw, leaving
Him empty-handed. The
crowd groaned, only a few enjoyed
The sight. Then
Menestheus with trepidation approached to try
His skill. Cautiously,
and with many a prayer to you, Mercury,
He roughened the
surface of the heavy discus with dust. Hurled
By his powerful arm,
with greater fortune, it sailed out, landing
A good way down the
track. The crowd applauded and an arrow
Was set to mark the
spot. Hippomedon threw third, approaching
That test of strength
with slow and ponderous tread. And he took
To heart the message
implied by Phlegyas’ fate and Menestheus’
Good fortune. He felt
the familiar weight in his hand, and raised
It high, testing his
rigid flanks and powerful arms, then swung
The burden with a
tremendous whirl, himself following through.
The discus took to the
air with a fearsome leap and already far on
Preserving the impetus
from the hand that flung it, kept its flight,
Passing the mark of
Menestheus by a long way, as was certain,
And falling far beyond
the rival throw, with a crash like a great
Mass of falling
masonry, setting the green flanks and summits
Of the arena hill
trembling. It was like that rock Polyphemus
Hurled, blindly, from
smoky
Of the departing
vessel, and not far from his enemy, Ulysses.
Then Adrastus ordered
the emblem of a tiger presented
To the winner: it
shone with a surround of yellow gold,
And the claws were
likewise tipped. Menestheus received
A Cretan bow and
quiver of arrows. ‘But to you, Phlegyas,’
He said, ‘foiled by
mischance, I give this sword to wear,
Once Pelasgus’ pride
and defence, nor will Hippomedon
Grudge you this, I
think. Now, time for greater courage,
Raise the boxing
gloves face to face. Here valour is close
To that needed for the
heat of battle.’ Capaneus, the Argive
Took his place,
massive to view, a source of massive fear,
Fitting the rawhide
gloves, blackened with lead, on hands
As hard as himself.
‘Stand up, one of you many thousands
Of warriors, and let
it be one of Aonian race, one whom
It would be no sin to
send to his death, so my valour might
Not be stained with my
countrymen’s blood.’ Their minds
Were numbed, and
terror kept them silent. At length then,
Unexpectedly,
Alcidamas, from
Leapt up. The
followers of the Dorian kings felt wonder,
But his friends knew
that he trusted in his teacher, Pollux,
And had been nurtured
beside the sacred wrestling floors.
The god himself had
held him in his hands, moulding his
Arms (seduced by love
of the material) and often placed
Him opposite,
marvelling at him as he stood aggressive
As himself, then
lifting him high in triumph and pressing
Him to his breast.
Capaneus, thinking him of no account,
Scorned his challenge,
as if in pity, demanding a different
Opponent. But at last
he was forced to take position, his
Languid neck already
swelling at the provocation. Poised,
On their toes, they
raised hands like lightning bolts. Heads
Well back they watched
each other carefully, barring every
Approach. Capaneus
showed the breadth of his limbs from
Every angle, his
large-boned stance like Tityos’ looming
Large from the Stygian
fields, if that is the grim vultures
Had allowed it.
Alcidamas was scarcely out of boyhood,
But his strength was
more mature than his years suggested,
And youthful energy
gave such promise of a mighty future
That none wished to
see him beaten or savagely bloodied,
And they watched the
spectacle with anxiety and prayers.
The two men measured
each other with their gaze, both
Hoping for a first
opening. There was no immediate blow,
Or show of anger. For
a while they planned their move,
In hidden wrath and
fear. They merely sparred with raised
Arms, and tried their
gloves, dulling them with rubbing.
Alcidamas, the better
boxer, delayed his charge, held back,
Husbanding his
strength, and fearful of a lengthy contest.
Capaneus, seeking to
do harm and careless of his defence,
Went all out, working
both arms without restraint, grinding
His teeth uselessly, surging
forward then checking himself.
But the Spartan, with
sharp foresight, watchful in accord
With his native skill,
parried the blows or evaded them;
Sometimes, with a
swift indulgent nod of the head, he
Emerged unscathed,
then he would smother the others
Weapons with his
hands, or advanced his feet while
Drawing back his head.
Often he engaged his opponent
Whose strength was
greater than his own, attacking him
Boldly (so sharply
honed his skill, so practiced his aim),
Moving inside him,
overshadowing him, leaping in the air.
As a wave gathers, and
rushes at the menacing rocks, then
Breaks, then ebbs, so
he circled round his angry adversary,
Then stormed his
defence. Behold he raises rigid fore-arms,
Steadily, threatening
the flanks, the eyes. As Capaneus
Defended against them,
he distracted him, and cleverly
Slipped in a sudden
blow between the hands, so gashing
The middle of the
brow; now the blood flowed, a warm
Stream staining the
temples. Capaneus was not yet aware
Of the wound, and
wondered at the crowd’s sudden shout,
But chancing to draw a
weary hand over his face, seeing
Blood-spots on his
glove, he was more indignant than ever
A lion or a tiger is
at the javelin’s stroke. In a passion,
He drove the
retreating youth over the ground, pushing
Him backwards, bending
his spine; and he ground his
Teeth violently,
doubling, multiplying, his whirling blows.
Many landed in thin
air, some struck his opponent’s gloves.
With quick footwork
the Spartan evaded the thousand
Deaths that hovered
round his hollow temples; he recalled
His skill, and facing
his foe retreated with counter-blows.
Now both, breathing
heavily from their efforts, wearied.
The one attacked more
slowly, the other was less agile
In defence. Both
trembled at the knees, forced to rest.
So when high waves
have wearied the rowing sailors,
At a signal from the
stern, they will lower their oars,
But have scarcely
rested for a while when a second
Order rouses them
again. See how Alcidamas ducks
His opponent’s furious
onslaught, evading him now by
Deliberately plunging
his shoulders forwards. Capaneus
Then tumbled headlong,
and as he rose again, the bold
Lad struck him, and
then turned pale at his own success.
The scions of Inachus
raised a shout, louder than the sea
Or the wind in the
forest. When Adrastus saw Capaneus
Struggling from the
ground, raising his arms intent on
Unacceptable revenge,
he cried: ‘Go friends, I beg you,
He’s maddened; run
swiftly, he’s in a fury, grip him tight!
He’ll not stop till he
mingles shattered bone and brains;
Bring the palm and the
prizes; take the Spartan away, or
He’ll be killed.’
Without delay, Tydeus rushed forward,
Hippomedon not far
behind. By a joint effort they drew
Capaneus’ arms behind
him, restraining him, with much
Persuasion: ‘Leave
off, you’ve won. It’s better to spare
The loser’s life. He’s
one of us, too, a comrade in battle.’
The hero was unmoved,
pushing away the palm-branch
And the gift of armour
offered, bellowing: ‘Leave me
Be! I’ll gouge those
cheeks with which the half-breed
Won favour, mark them
with dust and gore, and send
His marred body to the
grave, for his Oebalian master
To mourn.’ He spoke:
but his friends steered him away,
Swollen with anger,
and contesting the result, while
All the Spartans
praised the foster-child of renowned
Taygetus, and from a
safe distance mocked the threats.
Meanwhile
great-hearted Tydeus, tormented by others’
Achievements and the
awareness of his own prowess,
Was goaded into
action. He was skilled with the discus,
And at running, no
less so with the gloves, but above
All other sports he
loved the wrestling. Thus he would
Spend his moments of
respite from the wars, and, oiled,
Ease battle tensions,
challenging mighty opponents in
The sports arena and
along the banks of Achelous, happy
To have the river-god
as teacher. So, when brave ambition
Drew warriors to the
wrestling, the Aetolian stripped his
Fearsome native
boar-hide from his back. Agylleus set
His long limbs against
him, a man of Cleonaean stock,
No less in stature
than Hercules, his huge shoulders
Ever towering above
other men. But lacking vigour,
His father’s strength
of body, he ran to fat, his limbs
Flowing, loose and
lax. Hence Tydeus’ bold confidence
Of beating so huge an
opponent. Though he himself
Seemed small, he was
heavy-boned, with firm knotted
Muscle. Never had
Nature sought to frame so great
A spirit nor such
immense power in so small a body.
After they had rubbed
oil into their flesh, both jogged
To the centre of the
field and drenched themselves in
Handfuls of sand,
dusting each others’ gleaming limbs
All over, flexing
their shoulders, stretching their arms.
Now skilful Tydeus
cleverly bends Agylleus down
To the ground,
stooping his own back, knees close
To the sand. Like the
cypress-tree, queen of the
Bowed to the earth by
a southerly wind, and scarcely
Clinging on by the
roots, though destined to return
To the same heights as
before, so towering Agylleus
Spontaneously bent
double, inclining his huge limbs,
And groaning at his
smaller foe. Now with their hands
Each tried for a grip,
on head, neck, shoulder, chest,
Flanks or elusive
legs. Sometimes they hung a long
While grasping each
others’ arms, and then fiercely
Broke a finger-grip.
No less savagely do two bulls,
Potential leaders,
struggle grimly while the fair herd
Awaits the winner
mid-meadow; furiously they strain
Heaving breasts, while
desire goads them on, easing
The pain of wounds. So
boars with lightning tusks,
And shambling bears
with shaggy grasp, give battle.
Tydeus proved
resilient; unwearied by sun and sand
His limbs retained
their power, his flesh was firm
His sinews tightened
by harsh toil. Agylleus though
Slackened, snatching
his breath, exhausted, he gaped
In distress, sand
flowing from his body in a stream
Of sweat, as he
touched the earth furtively to support
Himself. Tydeus was on
him, harrying and, feinting
At the neck, caught at
the legs, but in vain, his arms
Too short to gain
their objective. His tall adversary
Fell upon him,
smothering him from sight beneath
His vast collapsing
mass. Like the worker in some
Spanish mine, who
going below, leaving daylight
And the living behind
him, feels the suspended
Roof tremble, sees the
fractured rock crumbling,
Till, with a sudden
crash, he is buried beneath it,
Covered by the fall of
earth, his body all crushed
And broken, unable to
return its indignant spirit
To the stars above.
But the more vigorous Tydeus,
From beneath the
iniquitous mass, and circling
The other as he moved
uncertainly, clung to his
Back then twined
around his sides and stomach,
In a firm swift hold.
Next, squeezing his knees
Between Agylleus’
thighs as he struggled in vain
To escape the grip,
and clutch at Tydeus’ side,
That irrepressible
opponent (wonderful and terrible
To see) lifted him in
the air. So, as the tale tells,
Antaeus, the Libyan
son of Earth, bathed in sweat,
Struggled in Hercules’
arms once he had been
Lifted from the sand;
and with no hope of release,
Unable to touch his
mother Earth even with the tips
Of his toes, revealed
the source of his strength.
A roar of pleased
applause rose from the crowd.
Balancing Agylleus’ on
high, Tydeus suddenly
Released him to fall
sidelong, following him
As he descended,
simultaneously grasping his
Neck with his right
hand, his thighs with his feet.
Thus trapped, Agylleus
weakened, only the shame
Prompting him to
struggle. At length he sprawled
On the ground, flat on
his front, and after a long
Pause rose dejected,
leaving rough furrows marked
On the ground. Tydeus
took the palm in his right
Hand, and the gift of
shining armour in his left,
Saying: ‘This I won
even though no small part of my
Blood was left on
Dirce’s plain (as you have heard)
Where I gained these
scars, my pledge to
And here he showed the
wounds, handing the prize
His glory had won to
his comrades, while Agylleus
In turn received an
unvalued armoured breastplate.
Warriors now came
forward to fight with naked swords:
Epidaurian Agreus and
the Theban exile, Polynices, he
Whose doom was not yet
upon him, already stood there
Armed, but the royal
scion of Iasus, forbade their duel:
‘O, you young men!
Death has victims enough in store!
Save your brave
spirits and mad eagerness for the blood
Of your enemies.
Polynices, for whom we have deserted
Our ancestral lands,
our beloved cities, do not, I beg you,
Before war begins,
allow chance and your brother’s wish
(May the gods defend
us) to have so much power over us.’
So saying he gifted
both with a gilded helmet, ordering
That his son-in-law’s
noble brow be wreathed, lest he
Lack glory, and that
the Theban be loudly proclaimed
Victor: and the dark
Fates echoed that cry as an omen.
His generals then
urged him to honour the festal games
With some action of
his own, so paying his last respects
To the tomb. And lest
the leaders lack outright victory,
They asked him to
shoot Cretan arrows from his bow
Or send a light
javelin towards the clouds. Cheerfully
He complied, and
surrounded by the foremost warriors,
He descended from the
green hill to the plain, ordering
His armour-bearer to
bring his light quivers and bows.
He intended to
traverse the wide arena from a distance
With a shot, and
transfix a given ash-tree with a wound.
Who can deny that
omens arise from the hidden causes
Of events? Fate is
revealed to men, and yet they disdain
To see, so prior
notice of the future is largely wasted.
Thus we call omens
mere chance, and Ill-Fortune gains
The power to harm us.
Swiftly covering the ground, that
Fateful shaft struck
the tree then (dreadful to witness!),
Flew back through the
air it had traversed reversing its
Path to the target,
and falling close to the quiver’s edge.
The leaders speculated
to no purpose: some said winds
In the low clouds had
turned the arrow, others that it
Was repulsed by the
shock of striking the trunk. Deep
Lay its mighty import,
yet its evil was still apparent:
A war was promised
from which the arrow’s master
Would return alone, to
a melancholy homecoming.
End of Book VI
While the Pelasgi thus
delayed the onset of the Theban war,
Jupiter watched them,
no kindness in his heart, and shook
His head, so that the
stars on high trembled at the motion;
Atlas complaining:
Earth weighed heavier on his shoulders.
Then Jove addressed
Mercury, the swift Arcadian god: ‘Go,
Lad, and in one rapid
leap glide to the north as far as those
Thracian dwellings,
and the pole of the snowy constellation,
That Great Bear, where
Callisto feeds her flames (forbidden
To sink into the
Ocean) on wintry clouds and my own rain.
There, quickly,
deliver his father’s urgent command to Mars,
Who perhaps lays his
spear aside to breathe, though he hates
To rest or, more
likely, plies weapons and insatiate trumpets,
Revelling in the
courage of a race he loves. Spare nothing!
I thought he was
ordered, long ago, to rouse Inachian troops,
And all the peoples
the Isthmus separates or Malea’s angry
Waters thunder round:
yet that host have scarcely passed
Beyond their walls,
and halt to worship! They are so intent
On applause at the
funeral rites of a slain innocent, you might
Think they were home
from war. Is this your wrath, my Mars?
The discus spins in
recoil, and makes earth resound; Spartan
Gloves meet in combat.
If Mars owned to the frenzy, the wild
Delight in battle he’s
so proud of, he’d be putting innocent cities
Ruthlessly to the
sword then burning them, felling people who
Called on the
Thunderer, while exhausting the wretched world.
But now he’s mild in
warfare, and resigns himself to my anger.
Unless he hastens the
war and hurls the Danaan host against
The Theban walls
faster than I command let him (and yet
I threaten nothing
cruel) let him become a kind and gentle god,
Let his savage ways
transform to peaceful ones, let him return
The sword and horses,
and end his power over life and death.
I’ll watch over the
earth and order universal peace. Minerva
Will prove sufficient
to deal with the Theban war. He spoke
While already Mercury
was approaching the
As he glided down from
the Great Bear’s gateway to the pole,
He was tossed this way
and that by the tempests ever-present
In that region, the
lines of storm-clouds in the sky, the south
Wind’s first gasps. A
dense hail rattled on his golden mantle,
While his shady
broad-brimmed Arcadian hat gave little cover.
There he found barren
woods, and Mars’ shrine, shuddering
As he gazed. There
under far-off Haemus lies the god’s savage
Home, surrounded by a
thousand Frenzies. Its walls are iron,
Iron-clad its trodden
thresholds, its roof as well rests on iron
Columns. Apollo’s ray
is daunted, light avoids the dwelling,
And a harsh glare
dulls the stars. Its guards suit the place:
Mad Impulse leaps from
the outer gate, blind Evil, red-hot
Anger, blood-stained
Terror. Treachery lurks with hidden
Blade, and Strife
grasping a double-edged sword. The court
Echoes with countless
Threats, sombre Courage takes his
Stand in the centre,
ecstatic Rage, and armed Death seated
There, with blood-filled
countenance. On the altars flames
Snatched from burning
cities, and blood derived from war,
Those alone. Trophies
from many lands and captive races
Dot the temple heights
and surrounds: fragments of iron
Gates, warships’
keels, empty chariots, skulls they crushed,
The very groans
almost. Every relic truly of violent harm.
Mars was to be seen
everywhere, but not with slack visage
As Vulcan with his
divine art had displayed him; he had
Not yet been shown in
the light of an adulterer, nor as yet
Been punished for his
shameful union in that net of chains.
The winged god had
barely begun his search for the lord
Of the shrine when,
behold, the ground quaked and horned
Hebrus bellowed as his
waters were parted. Then the horses
Of war roaming the
valley all foamed at the mouth, among
The quivering grasses,
a sign of his arrival, and the closed
Gates of everlasting
adamant flew open. He appeared now
In his chariot,
adorned with Hyrcanian gore, transforming
The wide fields with a
dire spray of blood: at his back were
The spoils, the
weeping masses. The woods and deep snow
Gave passage. Dark
Bellona controlled the team with her
Blood-stained hand;
pricked them on with her long spear.
Mercury froze at the
sight, and lowered his gaze. Jupiter
Himself would have
been awed if he had been there, he
Would have withdrawn
his threats, retracting his order.
The Lord of War spoke
first: ‘What command is this you
Bring from Jove, out
of the wide heavens? For you would
Not of your own free
will come to this place, my brother,
To my wintry storms,
you who live by dew-wet Maenalus,
And the mild mountain
breezes of sun-drenched Lycaeus.’
Mercury gave out the
Father’s decree. Mars in an instant
Had his horses whipped
into flight, panting though they
Were from constant
effort; he too filled with indignation
Over the battle-shy
Greeks. Jove’s anger ebbed, on high,
At the sight, and
slowly and weightily his looks altered,
As when an easterly
fades, and vanishes, over the ocean,
Leaving it conquered,
a calm swell and gently rolling sea
Replacing the
exhausted tempest; though the vessels still
Lack their rigging,
and the sailors still catch their breath.
The funeral games and
their unarmed contests, had ended,
But the crowd had not
yet dispersed. Silence fell while
Adrastus the hero
poured wine on the ground to appease
Archemorus’ ashes,
saying: ‘Little one, grant that we may
Celebrate this day
with many a triennial renewal. Let not
Ivory-shouldered
Pelops show more eagerness to visit
Glide more willingly
to Castalia’s Pythian temple; nor
Palaemon’s shade swim,
to
We deny you to weeping
Avernus, lad, and join our sad
Rite to the eternal
stars. Now we are an army in haste.
But if you ensure we
conquer the Theban cities with our
Swords, then a great
altar we’ll build to proclaim your
Worth, then you shall
be a god, worshipped not only
In the Inachian
cities, but a divinity invoked in captive
Now Mars’ thrusting
steeds were treading Ephyre’s shore,
Where Acrocorinthus
lifts its head into the upper skies,
And casts its shadow
alternately on the Isthmus’ twin seas.
There the god
commanded Panic, one of his crew of dire
Companions, to advance
before the team: none better at
Instilling breathless
fear, at hiding reality from the mind.
The monster has
countless voices and hands, and whatever
Face he chooses; all
things are believed if he’s their author,
And he drives whole
cities mad with his terrible onslaughts.
If he persuades the
wretched of twin suns, or that the stars
Are falling, the
ground is shaking, ancient forests sinking,
They are sure to see
it. Now he invented something new
And sly. He raised the
illusion of dust on the Nemean
Plain. The generals
gazed astounded at the fog overhead.
He added tumultuous
noise, a clamour that seemed like
Weapons clashing,
galloping cavalry, fearsome shouts
On the wandering breeze.
The leaders’ hearts pounded,
The men murmured,
confused: ‘What noise is this, or
Are we deceived? Why
are the stars concealed by dust?
Are the Ismenians upon
us? That’s it, they’re approaching.
Would Thebes dare?
Well do you think they’ll wait till
We’ve finished with
funeral rites and tombs?’ So Panic
Bewilders them, and
changes his appearance as he makes
His way through the
ranks; now one of
Now a Pylian, now a
Spartan by his looks, and he swears
The enemy are close,
troubling the men with false alarms.
To the fearful nothing
is false. So, when Mars appeared
Himself among the
maddened army, and in swift circuit
Was borne round the
heights of the sacred valley, thrice
Raising his spear,
thrice lashing his steeds, thrice beating
His shield against his
chest, each man ran for his arms,
For his arms or
another’s, in wild disorder; snatching
Helms, and harnessing
horses not theirs. A savage lust
For death and
slaughter, raged in every breast, nothing
Stood in their
passion’s way, and they plunged forward
As if compensating for
delay. The shores resounded as
The wind from the land
rose and vessels fled harbour;
Everywhere sails were
flying, loose tackle thrown about,
Oars floated and every
anchor dragged free, until from
Mid-ocean they viewed
sweet land, comrades left behind.
Bacchus had seen the
Inachian cohorts swiftly gathering
For the march: sad at
heart, his shining face distraught,
He turned to the city
of
The palace that nursed
him, and his father’s lightning.
His hair and garlands
disordered, the thyrsus fell from
His hand, the
grape-vines slid untouched from his horns.
Dishevelled,
inglorious, in tears as he was, he appeared
Before Jove who
happened to be alone in his heavenly
Halls. Bacchus, in a
guise never seen before (though his
Father understood
why), spoke as a suppliant: ‘Almighty
Sire of the gods, will
you raze
So cruel? Have you no
pity for the dear land, the house
You deceived, and my
mother’s ashes? Enough that you
Once hurled fire from
the clouds; we think, unwillingly.
Now a second time you
bring dark flames to the earth,
Though not on oath to
the
What next, my father,
angry but just: a lightning-bolt
For me? Yet you do not visit Danae’s house so, nor
Parrhasian Callisto’s
forest, nor yet Leda’s Amyclae.
It seems of all your
sons I am the most disregarded.
Yet I was the sweet
burden you sewed into your thigh,
To grant me a new
threshold on life, and a lost womb,
Completing my mother’s
term. And my unwarlike
Followers, unpractised
in war, know only my ranks,
My struggles, how to
garland their hair with leaves,
And whirl to the sound
of the pipes: they fear only
The thyrsi of brides,
the revels of married women.
How can they withstand
Mars and his war-trumpets?
Behold what work he is
preparing, that fervid one!
What if it were your
Curetes he had armed, ordering
Them to defend
themselves with their useless shields?
And now you favour
To choose?) Oh,
Father, your decisions are worse
Than the danger
itself. Must we be ruined to enrich
My stepmother’s
But what will become
of my slaughtered people’s
Rites and sacraments,
and the ashes of my mother,
Who conceived me to
her sorrow? Must I flee too,
To
I triumphed, to be
their captive? Give the fugitive
A sanctuary. My
brother Apollo (I begrudge him
Not) fixed Latona’s
island,
Minerva banished
I myself have seen
Io’s son, Epaphus, rule the East,
Nor are Mercury’s
Cyllene nor Minos’
Troubled by war-horns.
Why am I your only son
Whose altars offend?
Counts for little) is
where you had your long night
With Alcmene, and gave
her Hercules; and there
You chose to love
Antiope, daughter of Nycteus;
And there live the
race of
Kinder than the
lightning; at least protect Agenor’s
Progeny.’ The Father
smiled at these reproaches.
Calmly he raised him
as he knelt with outstretched
Arms and, kissing him,
gave this tranquil answer:
‘My boy, it’s not my
wife’s doing, as you suppose,
Nor am I so obedient
to her fierce demands. We
Are led by the
immutable spinning of the Fates;
Ancient, long delayed,
are the causes of this war.
Whose anger ebbs so
readily, who is more sparing
Of human blood than I?
Heaven and these halls,
Eternal as myself
throughout the ages, are witness
To the whirling lightning
bolts I have often stilled,
How seldom their fire
determines events on earth.
I was even unwilling
to let Mars destroy the Lapiths,
And Diana to ravage
ancient
Had suffered wrongs
that cried out for vengeance,
There is too much slaughter,
it irks me to transform
Spirits, and return so
many to life in new bodies.
Yet it is time I
extirpated the scions of Labdacus
And Pelops; you know
yourself how prompt
Is to attack the gods
(to say nothing of Dorian crime);
You too (regarding
Pentheus) – yet since that ancient
Wrath is forgot, I
should be silent. Though Pentheus
Who was neither
stained with his father’s blood, nor
Guilty of sullying his
mother’s bed and begetting his
Own brothers, was torn
and scattered across the wilds.
Where were your tears
then and these heartfelt cries?
It is not to my own
anger I sacrifice these fell sons
Of Oedipus. Earth and
heaven and piety, and violated
Trust; Nature, and the
Furies themselves, demand it.
Be not over-concerned
for your city. I have not yet
Decreed an end to
Theban history, a more menacing
Time shall come, and
another generation’s vengeance.
Let Juno complain for
now.’ At this, Bacchus regained
His calm and his
demeanour. So the ranks of roses fade,
Scorched by a burning
sun and a harmful southerly, but
If the day clears, and
Zephyr’s breeze revives the air,
Fresh buds open and
gleam, all the lost beauty returns,
And the unadorned
twigs are dressed in a new glory.
Meanwhile a messenger
had brought sure news to Eteocles’
Astonished ears, that
the Grecian generals were marching
In lengthy column and
would soon be no great distance
From the Aonian
fields; at their approach all men trembled
And felt apprehension
for
Who they were, by
their name and lineage and coat of arms.
The king, concealing
all fear, demanded to be told, yet hated
The informant: he
decided to rouse his allies with a speech,
And so determine his
own strength. Mars had awakened all
Aonia,
Was Jupiter’s desire.
The signals flew swiftly in sequence,
And the allies marched
from afar, showing their armed might.
They filed into the
plain close to the city, doomed, awaiting
War’s madness. There was
no enemy in sight as yet, though
Mothers mounted the
battlements, an anxious throng, to show
The children their
fathers’ in shining armour, figures of terror
To them under their
helms. High on a lonely tower, Antigone
Whom the people were
not yet allowed to see, concealed her
Tender face with a
black veil. In attendance was Laius’ former
Armour-bearer, an old
man, but revered by the royal maiden.
She spoke first: ‘Is
there hope that these troops can withstand
The Pelasgi, my
father? We hear that all of Pelops’ scions are
Descending on us. Tell
me, I pray, of the allied kings and their
Armies: since I
already see which standards our Menoeceus
Commands, which
soldiers are Creon’s, how noble Haemon
Exits the tall
Homoloid Gate, under the sign of his bronze
Sphinx.’ So Antigone,
in her ignorance, to whom old Phorbas
Replied: ‘Behold,
Dryas has brought a thousand archers from
And a fierce
lightning-bolt in gold. He is the grandson, his
Courage attests it, of
tall Orion: I pray such ancestral omens
Stay far from here,
and virgin Diana forgets the old offence.
Ocalee, Medeon,
dense-wooded Nisa, and Thisbe echoing
With Dione’s doves
have joined his force, to serve our king.
Next is Eurymedon, a
woodland terror, with the arms of his
Rural father, Faunus,
and a crest of pine instead of horsehair:
And a terror I think
he’ll prove in mortal combat. Erythrae
Rich in flocks bears
him company, and the men of Scolos
And Eteonos, dense
with rugged ridges, Hyle’s brief shore,
And the proud folk of
Atalanta’s Schoenos, who cultivate
The famous site of her
running; they brandish ashen pikes
In the Macedonian
manner, and shields scarcely capable
Of defending against
cruel wounds. Behold, the Neptunian
Folk of Onchestus rush
forward shouting; those Mycalesos
Nurtures on her
pine-covered acres; and Palladian Melas;
And Hecate’s watery
Gargaphie; and those whose young
Ears of corn Haliartos
begrudges, smothering the growing
Crops with
over-abundant weeds. Their weapons are rough,
Boles of trees, their
helms are hollow lion masks, and bark
Furnishes their
shields. Since they lack a king, see there,
Our Amphion leads them
(he is easy to recognise, girl)
His helmet showing a
lyre, and also the ancestral bull.
Bravo, young man! He
is ready to chance the swords,
And defend the walls
dear to him with his naked chest.
You too, Heliconian
throng, are come to aid our effort,
And you, Permessus and
Olmius, happy in the Muses’
Streams, have armed
your wards though they hang back
From war. You can hear
the troops exult in their native
Chorus, like the swans
along bright Strymon when pale
Winter yields. Go
happily, and never shall your praises
Die, and the Sisters
shall sing your wars in endless song.’
He spoke then the girl
briefly interposed a question. ‘Those
Two now, what line
unites them, brothers surely by their
Matching coats of
arms, and tall matching helmet crests?
Would that my brothers
were so agreed!’ The old man smiled:
‘You are not the first
to be deceived by the sight, Antigone.
Many (since their ages
are deceptive) have called them so.
But they are father
and son, and have confounded the laws
Of aging. The nymph
Dercetis in burning desire for union,
Shamelessly violated
Lapithaon before his maturity, a lad
Ignorant of the
marriage bed, unripe for conjugal flames.
Fair Alatreus was born
not long after, and overtook his
Father still in the
flower of youth, adopting his insignia,
Mingling ages. They
rejoice now, wrongly, in the name
Of brothers, the
father more so; since he takes pleasure
In the thought of one
day being the younger. The father
Brings three hundred
cavalry to the war, his son the same.
They have abandoned
meagre Glisas, and its vineyards,
They say, and the
crops in the fields of fertile Coronia.
Now see Hypseus there
overshadowing his tall steeds,
His left side defended
by the seven layered bull’s-hide
Of his shield, his
chest by triple-meshed steel, while he
Never fears for his
back. His spear is a marvel of ancient
Timber, released it
ever pierces armour and flesh, and his
Hand never fails of
its aim. Asopus the river-god is named
As his father, and
worthy to be so regarded when he surges
In spate, sweeping
bridges away as, roaring, he churned
His waters against
Jupiter, his son-in-law, in vengeance
For
From her father’s
stream clasped in Jupiter’s embrace.
The river-god rose
with furious courage and gave battle
With none to call on
for aid, until finally triple-lightning
And thunder dislodged
him and he gave way. Even now
The valiant flow’s
gasping shores delight in breathing out
Ash and Aetnean steam
into the sky, signs of the struggle.
So shall we marvel at
Hypseus on the plains of Cadmus,
If only fortunate
Hypseus leads the men
of Itone, and Minerva’s squadrons
From Alalcomenae, that
Midea and vine-rich Arne supply;
And the farmers of
And those who plough
Peteon’s furrows, and hold our
Stretch of Euripus’
flowing course; and you sited there,
Anthedon, where
Glaucus plunged from the grassy shore
Into the beckoning
sea, cerulean then in beard and hair,
And shocked at the
fish’s tail merging with his thighs.
They seek to slice the
breeze with twisted sling and shot,
While their javelins
will out-soar the Cydonian arrows.
And you Cephisus would
have given us fair Narcissus
Too, but already the
hard-hearted lad shows his pallor
In Thespiae’s fields,
and his father’s desolate wave
Bathes the flower. Who
shall name for you, the men
From Phoebus and
ancient Phobis; from Panope, Daulis,
Cyparissos and the
vales of Lebadia and Hyampolis
Under the jagged
cliffs; or those whose oxen plough
Twin
Glades, and Lilaea
sending out your icy fount, where
Python would quench
his gasping thirst and deflect
Your stream from the
sea. Behold the laurels twined
About every helmet,
and the shields showing Tityos
Slain by Apollo;
Here by
Iphitus leads them who
lost, of late, Naubolus, his
Father, the son of
Hippasus, once your host most
Gentle Laius: I still
drove, still gripped the reins,
With no thought of
danger, while you already lay
Under the horses’
hooves, your neck maimed by
Cruel blows (O, would
my blood too had flowed!)’
As he spoke tears ran
down, pallor seized his face,
And a sudden sob
stifled the passage of his voice;
His ward’s presence
warmed the old man’s loving
Heart and, reviving,
he spoke in a trembling voice:
‘Antigone, my cause of
anxious care, my last joy,
For you I have fended
off the death long overdue,
(Fated perhaps to see
more crime, the same familial
Bloodshed) lingering
here to see you safely married.
Such would realise my
hopes: oh, then discharge me,
You Fates, from
wearisome life. Yet while I struggle
Helplessly, see again
now what mighty leaders pass:
I have not named
Clonis or the long-haired sons
Of Abas, nor you rocky
Carystos, nor low-lying
Aegae nor high
Caphereus. Now my sight is dim,
And they are still,
your father commands silence.’
Scarcely had the old
man on the tower spoken, than
Eteocles, from his
platform, began: ‘Brave kings,
Whom I, your leader,
would not hesitate to obey,
Fighting as a common
soldier to defend
I do not seek to rouse
you, since you freely take
Up arms, and of your
own will swear to battle
For my just cause. Nor
can I praise you enough
Or thank you as you
deserve; the gods will repay,
And your spoils, when
the enemy is conquered:
You have come here to
defend a city, your ally.
No warlike colonists
from alien shores, no sons
Of a foreign soil, but
a native enemy attacks her,
One that commands a
hostile army though his
Father and mother were
Theban, as his sisters,
Are and
You now plan your own
race’s destruction,
The peoples of Aonia
are here, willingly: and I
Have not been
abandoned to you, you savage!
Even you should
recognise what these cohorts
Wish: they forbid me
to restore you the throne.’
So he spoke, and duly
gave his orders: who
Should prepare to
fight, who guard the walls,
The strength of the
vanguard and the centre.
So, when the light
shines through the wattle
Fence, the shepherd
opens the gates while
The dew is fresh, and
sends out the leaders
Of the flock, the ewes
following in a pack;
He himself raises the
pregnant ones and those
Whose udders trail the
ground, and carries
The stumbling lambs to
their mothers’ feet.
Meanwhile the Argives
spent a night and day
Under arms, then
another night and day, so
Their wrath drove
them, despising rest, barely
Pausing for sleep or
food. They flew towards
The enemy, ignoring
portents, though Chance,
The harbinger of certain
Fate, contrived many
As if in prophecy. For
birds and beasts offered
Dire warning, as did
the stars, rivers opposed
Their flow, the Father
thundered, evil lightning
Flashed; terrifying
voices rose from sanctuaries,
While the temple doors
closed, spontaneously;
Now it rained blood,
now stones; now ghosts
Appeared, ancestors
confronting them weeping.
Then even the oracles
of Apollo’s Cirrha fell
Silent, an
unaccustomed howling filled
And prophetic
Fight (what horror!)
inside their opened shrine.
Arcadians say Lycaon’s
maddened shade barked
In the silence of the
night,
Racing over his cruel
plain, while a wandering
Acarnanian
slanderously reported that Achelous
Was now maimed in both
his horns.
Sought to propitiate
Perseus’ gloomy image,
And Juno’s troubled
ivory statue. Countrymen
Told of Inachus
bellowing powerfully, while
A dweller by the
Isthmus claimed that Theban
Palaemon gave out a
lament over the twin seas.
The Argive phalanx
heard all this, but eagerness
For war was deaf to
the gods, and forbade fear.
Now they had reached
the streams of
And your banks,
Asopos. The squadrons did not
Dare to ford the
hostile river yet, since it poured
In spate over the
terrified countryside. Was it
A mountain storm, a
rain-cloud, that roused it,
Or the river’s own
will and Jupiter interposing
The river’s waters
denying their armed passage?
Yet fierce Hippomedon
forced his nervous mount
Into the flood, a
great section of earth following,
And leaving the
generals behind cried out from
Mid-stream, holding
weapons and harness aloft:
‘Onwards soldiers,
thus do I vow to be the first
To lead you against
the walls and enter
Ashamed to linger they
all plunged into the flow.
So when a herdsman is
driving cattle on through
An unknown ford, the
herd stand dismayed: far
Off the distant shore
seems and fearful the space,
But when the leader
forges a passage, the water
Seems kinder, the
depth less, the far shore closer.
Not far away they saw
a ridge, with ground fit
For a safe encampment,
from which they could
Even view the Theban
city’s Sidonian towers.
The site delighted
them, offering them security,
A hill with broad
summit, with an open sloping
Field below, not
overlooked by other heights.
Nor was hard labour
needed to fortify the spot,
Nature had favoured
the place, wonderfully:
Rocks rose to form a
rampart, shelves plunged to
Fair ditches, four
chance mounds made parapets.
The rest of what was
needed they soon supplied,
Till the sun left the
hills and sleep brought rest.
Who could describe the
shock to the Thebans?
Facing a war likely to
destroy them, black night
Terrified the
sleepless city with threatened dawn.
They scurried about
the battlements, in their fear
Nothing seemed to be
truly defensible or secure.
Amphion’s towers were
fragile, endless rumours
Circulated, terror
announcing other greater foes.
They saw the Inachian
tents opposite, and alien
Campfires in the
hills. Some called on the gods
In prayer and
complaint, or talked to their horses
And their weapons;
while others in tears clasped
Their loved ones in
their arms, and sorrowfully
Detailed their funeral
rites against an ill morrow.
If a light sleep
closed their eyes, they seemed in
Battle; dazed the
delay seemed now a gain, now
Wearied them; they
feared the light and prayed
For light to come.
Tisiphone shook her twin
Serpents and ran
through both armies, thrusting
Each brother before
the other’s eyes, their father
Before both, while he
far off in the palace depths,
Is roused, invokes the
Furies, reclaims his sight.
Now the dawn had
swallowed the chill Moon
With the misted stars,
and Ocean was swollen
With impending light,
while the wide waters
Open to the new day
grew calm with the rays
Of his labouring
chariot, when behold, Jocasta
Exited the gate, in
all the majesty of her sorrow,
Her fierce gaze veiled
by her loose white hair,
Her cheeks bloodless,
arms bruised by the fury
Of her grieving. She
bore an olive branch twined
With black wool, like
to the eldest of the Furies.
On either side, her
daughters, the stronger sex
For now, supported
her, as she worked aged limbs,
Moving quicker than
seemed possible. Reaching
The enemy camp she
pressed her naked breasts
Against the barriers,
begging for admittance, with
Tremulous cries:
‘Unbar the way! The impious
Mother of such enemies
requests it. This womb
Has the right, the
execrable right, to enter here.’
The warriors trembled
with terror at the sight
And still more the
sound of her. A messenger
Was despatched to
Adrastus and soon returned.
At his command they
let her enter, granting
Her passage between
the swords. At her first
Sight of the Achaean
leaders, maddened with
Grief she let loose a
dreadful cry: ‘Argive princes,
Will you lead me to
the enemy that I bore. Under
Which helmet, say,
shall I find my son?’ Polynices
The Cadmean hero ran
to the distracted woman
And embraced her,
comforting her as he held her,
Filling her with tears
of joy and, between pressing
Her and his dear
sisters to his breast, murmuring:
‘Mother, mother.’ But
the aged woman revealed
A bitter anger behind
her tears: ‘O, Argive prince,
Why feign tender tears
and reverence towards me?
Why clasp me about the
neck, why hold your hated
Mother to your
armoured breast? Are you not then
The wandering exile,
and the pitied guest? Whose
Compassion would you
not rouse? Long columns
Of men await your
orders, and many swords glitter
Beside you. Oh,
wretched woman! Is this the child
I wept for day and
night? If you respect yet the words
And wisdom of your
people, I, who bore you, beg,
If not command, while
the armies are silent as yet,
And piety shudders
expectantly at war, that you
Come with me, and look
a moment on your city’s
Gods, its homes that
you are about to burn, speak
To your brother (why
do you look askance?) speak
To him and claim the
throne, while I play arbiter.
Either he will grant
it, or you will at least take up
The sword again with
better reason. Do you fear
Some trick, that I
your own mother may be here
To deceive you?
Morality has not so fled our ill
House. Were it even
Oedipus himself who led you,
You’d have scant need
of fear. But if persist you
Must, we bring you,
cruel son, an unsought gain,
Take your sisters
hostage, bind their hands behind
Them, and fetter me in
chains. Your father who
Offends you, he too
shall be brought here somehow.
Now, you Inachians, I
address my sorrow to your
Sense of right. For
each of you has left little ones,
And aged parents with
tears like mine behind you.
Trust a mother with
her flesh and blood, and if
This young man here is
dear to you, as I pray,
After so short a time,
think what is fitting to me,
To a mother’s breasts,
you Pelasgi. Even Thracian,
Even Hyrcanian kings,
would grant such a request,
Even those whose
madness exceeds ours. Consent,
Or I will die clasping
my son in my arms, and war
Shall outlive me.’ Her
words moved those proud
Warriors. You might
have seen helmets nodding
In acquiescence and
weapons wet with pious tears.
Like raging lions, the
solid impacts of whose chests
Have beaten armed
huntsmen to the ground, whose
Anger then has swiftly
waned, so that they become
Content to ignore
their hunger, sure of sating it on
The captive foe, so
the Pelasgi were stirred, hearts
Wavering, and their
fierce ardour for war lessened.
Before their eyes
Polynices was turning to kiss now
His mother, now
innocent Ismene, now Antigone
Entreating him in
floods of tears; his mind in turmoil,
And power forgotten:
he wished to obey his mother,
And gentle Adrastus
did not demur; but here Tydeus
Mindful of the justice
of their wrath, forestalled him:
‘Send me, instead, who
sampled Eteocles’ good faith
Not long ago (and I in
no way his brother!) send me
To face a king the
marks of whose notable propensity
To peace and honest
dealing I still bear on my breast.
Where were you then,
aged mother, broker of peace
And trust, when your
people detained me, that night,
With their sweet
hospitality? Are those the dealings
To which you’ll
subject your son? Show him the field
Then, still rich in
Theban blood and my own! And you,
Polynices, too mild,
too little mindful of your kin, will
You follow her? When
all around you unsheathe their
Swords, will the
weapons be stayed because she weeps?
Do you think he’ll
return you to the Argive camp, you
Fool, once you are
behind his walls and in his power?
This lance will sooner
be changed to wood, and grow
Leaves while Inachus
and Achelous flow backwards.
If gentle speech and
an end to savage warfare is what
They seek, well, this
camp is open too, and has as yet
Offered no reason for
their mistrust. Or am I suspect?
Well then I’ll absent
myself, and my wounds with me.
Let him enter, with
his mothers and sisters to mediate.
Suppose even that you
prevail, he vacates the throne
Peacefully, will you
not have to restore it once more?’
Now the army was again
swayed, convinced by his
Counsel, as a
southerly meets a northerly in the sky
And conquers the
opposing waves. Once more war
And its madness were
at hand; a wild Fury grasped
Her moment, sowing the
seeds of the opening battle.
Two tigresses were
wandering by Dirce’s stream,
Once yoked to the
savage chariot of Eastern warfare,
Now gentle, released
of late by victorious Bacchus
From Erythraean
shores, to retirement in Aonian fields.
An aged priest and a
host of the god’s followers would
Adorn them, by custom
(till they forgot past warfare
And the scent of
Indian grasses) with ripened clusters
From varied
vine-shoots, lacing their markings with
Streaks of purple,
until the very hills and herds (who
Would have thought
it?) loved them, and the heifers
Dared to low around
them. For no pangs of hunger
Made them murderous;
they were fed by hand, wine
Was poured and they
bent back their fearsome heads.
They roamed the
countryside in peace, and if they
Padded quietly into
some town, houses and shrines
Were warm with
offerings, believing that Bacchus
Himself had entered.
Now the Fury touched them
Thrice with her snaky
whip, forcing them to return
To their savage
nature. They erupted in violence,
And that countryside
no longer recognised them,
Like two lightning
bolts bursting from the distant
Heavens, trailing
fiery tresses through the clouds.
No differently, they
with sudden charge and fearful
Roars, bounded over
the plain and with mighty leap
Launched themselves at
a charioteer, and it was yours
Amphiaraus (an omen
for you, since it chanced to be
Your horses that were
being led to the nearby pool)
Then they attacked
Taenarian Idas (who followed)
And Aetolian Acamas:
wild was the flight of horses
Through the meadows,
till Aconteus who was brave
In the hunt (he was an
Arcadian), fired by the sight
Of men being
slaughtered, pursued the tigresses, as
They turned towards
the trusted battlements, with
Showers of missiles
and grasping spear after spear
Drove the weapons time
and again through their
Flanks and back. Trailing a long stream of blood
The reached the gates
half-dead, spears protruding
From their sides,
giving out almost human groans
And rested their
wounded chests against the walls
They had loved. You
would have thought cities
And shrines were being
sacked, Sidonian homes
Set alight by evil
torches, such a clamour rose
From the open
ramparts. The Thebans had rather
The cradle of mighty
Hercules or Semele’s bower
Or Harmonia’s inner
room had collapsed. Phegeus,
A worshipper of
Bacchus, now attacked Aconteus
In turn; he, with no
weapons left, still triumphing
At the creatures’ deaths.
The men of Tegea rushed
To his rescue, but too
late; already the young warrior
Lay dead, sprawled on
the sacred corpses, avenging
Bacchus’ sorrow. So
the council of the Argives was
Interrupted by a
sudden tumult in the camp. Jocasta
No longer daring to
address them, now fled, through
The manifestly hostile
crowd. They, lately so gentle,
Now drove her and her
daughters away, while Tydeus
Was quick to seize the
opportunity: ‘Go then, trust
Now in your hopes of
peace and good faith! Could
Eteocles not at least
delay his wickedness until we
Had dismissed his
mother, and she returned?’ Then
He drew his sword and
called to his comrades. Fierce
The clamour now, and
the anger red hot on both sides.
Generals’ orders
ignored, horses and chariots mingled
With infantry; an
indiscriminate host presses on them
As they run, no time
to identify themselves or the foe.
So the men of
Tangles. Banners and
trumpets were left in the rear,
All the clarions
followed in search of the front line.
So great a battle
sprung from so small a cause! So
The wind builds
strength within the clouds; gently
Stirs the leaves and
the moving treetops; but then
It sweeps the forest
and lays bare the shaded hills.
Now, Pierian Sisters, we ask you not of far-off deeds,
Rather tell us of your
battles, and your Aonians. For
You watched, close by
the battle, while
Shuddered at the
Tyrrhenian braying. Theban Pterelas
Was betrayed by his
horse, in the fray, the reins slack,
His hand weary so
that, out of control, it carried him
Through the enemy’s
scattered ranks. Tydeus’ spear
Ran the horse through
the shoulders and transfixing
The young man’s left
thigh, pinned him to his mount
As he slipped; the
animal fled, his master nailed to
His back, and bore him
onwards without shield or
Reins, like a Centaur
yet possessed of his dual-life,
Bearing off his own
dying self. The steel’s work
Went on; the warriors
raging in turn; Hippomedon
Felled
Fell to Parthenopaeus:
Sword took, Periphas
the spear, Itys a treacherous
Arrow. Mavortian
Haemon’s blade sweeps away
The head of Inachian
Caeneus; the startled eyes
Seek the trunk across
the body’s fresh division,
The heart seeks its
head. Abas was seizing his
Armour as he lay
there, but caught by an Achaean
Shaft, dying, lost his
enemy’s shield and his own.
And who persuaded you,
Eunaeus, to abandon
The worship of Bacchus
and his sacred grove,
Which his priest must
not leave even for a night,
Exchanging Bacchus’
madness for that of war?
What threat were you?
Nysaean wreathes of pale
Ivy entwined the
fragile substance of your shield,
And a white ribbon
bound your vine-wood spear,
With shoulders hidden
by your hair, downy cheeks,
An unwarlike corselet
blushing with Tyrian weave,
Sleeves on your arms,
embroidered sandals on your
Feet, you are swathed
in linen, while a shining clasp
Of gold with tawny jasper
jaws bites your Taenarian
Cloak, as behind it
clatters a bow-case and bow,
Beside a gilded
lynx-skin quiver of swift arrows.
Possessed by the god,
he challenged a thousand foes
Calling loudly: ‘Away!
Apollo’s Cirrhaean heifer
With fair omen first
revealed the site of these walls.
Spare them: stones
rose of themselves to build them.
We are a sacred race:
Jupiter is son-in-law to our city,
Mars its
father-in-law. Bacchus we call, without a lie,
Our foster-son, and
mighty Hercules.’ As he boasted,
Savage Capaneus with
his cloud-touching spear moved
To confront him. As a
lion in his dark lair is roused
At dawn to anger, but
sees from his rugged cave a stag
Or steer not yet
equipped with horns for battle, so that
He rushes joyously
through the band of hunters and
Hostile weapons, eyes
his prey, ignores his wounds;
So Capaneus rejoicing
in the unequal match balanced
The weight of his
mighty cypress spear for its flight.
But before he threw
it, he shouted: ‘Doomed man,
Why try to scare us
with your womanish howling?
If only he whom your
madness serves would come
Himself! Go, sing your
song to the Theban women!’
With that he flung his
spear. It flew as though no
Force opposed its
passage, scarce striking the shield
Before it exited
Eunaeus’ back. His arms fell, the gold
Shook to his drawn-out
breaths, the blood poured out,
Redder than his
corselet. Brave lad, you died there,
Aonian Bacchus’ second
love, you died and Thracian
Tmolus and fertile
Nysa too, and Ariadne’s
And
The Argive squadrons
found Eteocles no sluggard,
Though Polynices’ made
less use of his sword, loath
To use it against his
countrymen. It was Amphiaraus
Who was foremost
amongst the Argives, and yet his
Horses were already
suspicious of the ground. They
Turned the indignant
earth to clouds of dust. Apollo,
Saddened, granted his
priest hollow glory, shedding
Splendour on his final
passing, lighting his helmet
And shield with starry
gleams. Nor were you, Mars,
Slow to yield a gift
to your brother: that no hand
Or mortal weapon had
power to harm the prophet
In that battle; his
death hallowed, for Dis to revere.
So he was carried into
the very midst of his foes,
Certain himself of his
doom, that very knowledge
Bringing him strength.
His limbs seemed mightier,
The day vaster, his
sight of the heavens never so
Extensive, had there
been but time! Now Courage,
Death’s near
neighbour, distracted him. He burned
With insatiable lust
for savage war, revelling in
The strength of his
right hand; pride in his fiery
Spirit. Is this the
man who eased human suffering,
And so often robbed
the Fates of their power? How
Different now to the
servant of tripod and laurel
Skilled at knowing
Apollo in every bird’s flight!
Like an outbreak of
plague, or the grievous rays
Of a hostile star, he
sacrificed a countless host
With his sword, to his
own shade. With a javelin
He killed Phlegyas,
and proud Phyleus, while his
Scythed chariot felled
Clonis and Chremetaon
(One standing to face
him, the other severed at
The knee); then
Chromis with a spear-thrust;
Long-haired Gyas;
Lycoreus sacred to Phoebus
(Though unknowingly,
for he had already struck
With the full thrust
of his ash spear when the man’s
Helm fell, and the
sacred ribbon came into view);
Alcathous, with a
stone, he who had wife and home,
And shore-loving
children by the pools of Carystos:
He had long been a
searcher of waters, now the land
Deceived him, in dying
he came to know the virtue
Of storm and wind and
the gentler perils of the sea.
Meanwhile Asopian
Hypseus had viewed the massacre
Of his comrades from
afar, eager to change the course
Of the battle, though
already routing the Tirynthians
With his chariot in
like measure. Seeing the augur, he
Thought little of
present bloodshed and desired to meet
Him with sword and
will. A varied wedge of enemy
Warriors barred his
way; proudly he raised a spear
Cut on his father’s
banks, crying: ‘Father, Asopos,
Rich distributor of
Aonian streams, famous still
For the ashes of
Jove’s lightning bolts, grant power
To my right hand. Your
son asks it, and this oak-spear,
Foster child of your
stream. I can scorn Phoebus now,
Since you opposed the
father of the gods. I shall give
The augur’s weapons to
your waters, and his ribbons
Mournful without him.’
His father heard, and sought
To grant his wish, but
Apollo denied him, deflecting
The spear instead to
strike Amphiaraus’ charioteer,
Herses, who fell from
the chariot as the god himself
Grasped the loose
reins, disguised as the Lernaean,
Haliacmon. Then no
banners tried to oppose his fiery
Passage, their
trembling bearers fell from mere fright
And a coward’s death
overtook them. An onlooker
Might have wondered
whether the onrushing horses
Were more slowed by
their burden or urged on. As
A cloud-covered
mountainside, undermined by storms
Of a new winter, its
ancient mass ruined by erosion
No longer supporting
its weight, slides to the plain,
A fearful horror,
sweeping off men, fields, swathes
Of mature timber,
until at last, its plunge exhausted,
It wearily hollows out
a valley, blocks flowing rivers;
So the chariot,
weighed down by the mighty warrior
And the great god,
raged here and there hot with blood.
Apollo himself sat
there controlling reins and weapons,
Directing the
spear-thrusts and deflecting enemy darts,
Robbing impending
missiles of their power to strike.
Melaneus, on foot, was
beaten to the ground; Antiphus
Unaided by his horse’s
height; Aetion born of Heliconis
The nymph; Polites,
notorious for slaying his brother;
Lampus who tried to
sleep with Manto the prophetess;
Against him Phoebus
himself shot his sacred arrows.
Now the horses,
smelling the blood, snorted in alarm
At dying men; the wheel-tracks
reddened with gore
From severed limbs,
warriors crushed in their furrows.
Some, already
unconscious, the impious axle grinds,
Others, half-dead from
their wounds, see it approach
Their faces, powerless
to escape. Now the harness was
Wet with blood, and
the pole too slippery to step on,
The wheels were
clogged, and the horses’ hooves
Slowed by trampled
entrails. Apollo himself madly
Plucks arrows from the
corpses, or spears left jutting
From the bones; the
ghosts shriek, and follow after.
Now Apollo
acknowledged his servant for the last time:
‘Use the light you
possess, and achieve immortal renown
While irrevocable
Death still fears our combined presence.
We are outdone. You
know the merciless Fates can never
Rewind the thread. Go,
delight, long promised to the hosts
Of Elysium; at least
you’ll not have to suffer from Creon’s
Command, and lie there
nakedly, with burial denied you.’
Amphiaraus then
replied, taking breath from the fighting:
‘Long have I sensed
you in the swaying chariot, seated
Beside this fatal
yoke, Cirrhaean father (why such honour
To the doomed?) how
can you ward off present death?
Already I hear the
flow of the rushing
Receive the laurels
brought to adorn my head, which it
Were sacrilege to take
down to Erebus, receive them.
Now, Phoebus, if any
grace is owed to your departing
Prophet, with my final
words I commit to you a hearth
Betrayed, the
punishment of an evil wife, and the noble
Madness of a son,’
Apollo leapt down in tears, grieving
He averted his face:
then the chariot and the soon to be
Masterless horses
groaned. No differently does a vessel
At night, in the blind
turmoil of a north-westerly wind,
Realise she must
perish, when the Twins flee the rigging,
Quit hull and sails
their sister Helen’s fire has doomed.
Now the earth began to
shudder, collapsing; the surface
Quaked, and a thicker
dust was stirred; now the plain
Bellowed with
subterranean noise. Warriors, alarmed,
Thought this the stir
of battle; these were battle-sounds;
And quickened their
steps; but a different tremor bows
Men and weapons and
wondering horses. Now leafy
Crowns nod, now
battlements, and the Ismenos flows
Through broken banks;
anger forgotten, they fix their
Trembling weapons in
the ground, or shaken, lean on
Their wavering spears,
as meeting face to face both
Sides draw back and
witness there each other’s pallor.
As when Bellona joins
navies in battle on the waves,
Contemptuous of the
ocean, and a more benign storm
Rises, then each looks
to himself; threat of death in other
Guise sheathes their
swords; shared fear makes for peace.
Such was the uncertain
state of the battle over the plain.
Was the earth in labour
trying to expel a raging blast
Of storm-wind from her
womb, an imprisoned fury?
Or had some hidden
flow of water gnawed crumbling
Soil and undermined it
by erosion? Or was the fabric
Of the rolling sky
bearing down on them somehow?
Or had
A heavier weight of
sea on the neighbouring coast?
Was it a commotion for
the seer, or did earth threaten
The two brothers?
Behold, the ground splits; a mighty
Cavern reveals its
precipice; the stars, the spirits fear
In turn. A huge void
swallowed him, taking the horses
As they sought to
cross; neither weapons nor the reins
Fell from his hand.
Thus he drove the upright chariot
Down to Tartarus,
looking upwards at the sky as he fell,
Groaning to see the
earth re-close, till a fainter tremor
Closed the riven plain
again, sealing light from Avernus.
End of Book
When the seer suddenly
fell among pallid shadows,
Invading the house of
the dead, exposing the secrets
Of the underworld’s
king, such that the armoured
Corpse caused turmoil,
all were seized with horror.
There by Stygian
shores they marvelled at horses,
Weapons, the alien
flesh; for his limbs had neither
Been consumed by fire
nor came blackened from
The sad urn, but were
warm with the sweat of battle,
His shield wet with
blood and dust of the split plain.
The Fury had not yet
greeted and purified him with
A branch of yew, nor
had Proserpina marked him
By the dark gate as
one of the company of the dead.
His arrival even
surprised the Fates at their spinning,
And only on seeing the
augur did the startled Parcae
Snap the thread. Safe
in Elysium, the shades looked
Round them at the
noise, as did those in the deep pit
Further off whom
another night oppresses, a host
Blind with a different
darkness. Then stagnant lakes
And scorched marshes
groaned aloud, and Charon,
The pale boatman of
the ghost-bearing stream, cried
Aloud that Tartarus
had been cleft to its depths by
A strange rupture of
earth above, and that a shade
Had reached there by
another road than his river.
The lord of Erebus was
seated there, in his citadel
At the centre of his
unhappy realm, and happened
To be interrogating
the dead on their life’s ill deeds,
Angered with all
shades and pitying nothing human.
The Furies stood
around him, the ranks of Death,
And cruel Punishment
dangling her jangling chains.
The Fates bring the
souls, with an identical gesture
Of the thumb condemn
them: the work is onerous.
Close by the virtuous
Minos and his revered brother,
Rhadamanthus, grant
milder judgement, tempering
That of the bloody
monarch; Cocytus, Phlegethon
Are there, swollen
with tears and fire respectively,
While
When the upper world
gave way, though unused
To feeling dread,
feared the stars above, and spoke,
Displeased by dancing
light: ‘What divine disgrace
Has opened Avernus to
a hostile sky? Who shatters
The dark and speaks of
life to the silent host? Who
Threatens us? Which of
my brothers wars against me?
I’ll join combat: let
the boundaries of the realms end!
Who would be best
pleased? The third lot drawn cast
Me down defeated from
high heaven; left me the world
Of the guilty; yet
even that is not mine: entered now
And exposed to the
fatal stars. Is then
Ruler spying out my
strength? The Giant’s chains were
Already rattling, the
Titans eager to reach the ethereal
Sky, and attack our
unfortunate Father. Why does he,
In his cruelty, deny
me my gloomy leisure, a restless
Quiet, loathing the
daylight I have lost? If I pleased
I could lay all my
kingdom open, and shroud the Sun
With a Stygian veil,
prevent Mercury from returning
To the upper regions
(what do I care for his errands to
And fro between the
worlds?) detain both the Twins.
Why should I torment
Ixion with that endless whirling?
Why should the water
not wait for Tantalus? Is Chaos
To be profaned by the
living and I endure it? Pirithous’
Reckless passion tried
my patience, and Theseus sworn
To support his
audacious friend, savage Hercules too,
Cerberus’ iron-gated
threshold falling silent, with its
Guardian removed.
Tartarus was even open to Orpheus’
Thracian song;
shamefully (alas!) I saw the Eumenides
Weeping wretched tears
at his seductive harmony, while
The Sisters’ re-spun
their thread. I too, the harsh violent
Law receiving kinder
interpretation, made a single stealthy
Visit, though I
scarcely dared to do so, not to the high
Heavens, but to bring
my bride from the Sicilian fields.
They claimed I had not
the right, even then, and Jupiter
Straight away imposed
unjust conditions, and her mother,
Ceres, divided the
year in two. But why waste speech?
Tisiphone, go, avenge
Tartarus’ realm: now if ever do
Your worst, show
new-created monsters, reveal some
Vast unknown
abomination, something the world has
Never witnessed, to
make me marvel and your sisters
Envious. Or rather let
two brothers, (as a preliminary
Omen of our hatred)
yes brothers, rush to attack each
Other in ecstatic war.
Let a savage warrior there gnaw
His enemy’s skull like
a rabid beast, and let another
Deny a dead man his
funeral pyre, and pollute the air
With his naked corpse.
Let brutal Jove enjoy the sight.
And let this madness
not invade my kingdom alone,
Find one who will make
war against the gods and repel
The flame of the
lightning bolt, and angry Jupiter’s
Smoking shield. Let me
witness the whole world more
Afraid to meddle with
black Tartarus than pile Pelion
On leafy Ossa!’ While
he spoke the gloomy palace
Trembled at his words;
his own realm and that pressing
Down from above were
shaken. No more powerfully does
Jove move heaven with
a frown and twist the starry poles.
‘As for you’ he cried,
‘what death was yours, you who
Rush headlong through
the void on your unlawful track?’
Amphiaraus approached
the menacing God. He was now
Faint to sight, and on
foot, yet still on his head the symbols
Of prophecy that none
had plucked from him, the ribbons
On his brow, though
faded; and he yet held a dying branch
Of olive. ‘O mighty
end of all that is (though to me who
Know the elemental
causes, creator too) soften your threats,
I beg you, and your
irate heart, deeming a man, and one who
Fears your laws, not
worthy of wrath. I enter Lethe to dare
No offence like
Hercules’ (how dare I think it?) nor through
Unlawful passion (pay
credit to these sacred emblems); no
Need for Cerberus to
flee to his cave, nor Proserpine to fear
My chariot. An augur I
was, and favoured at Apollo’s altars;
I call Chaos to
witness it (for how could Apollo be invoked
Here?). I do not
suffer this strange fate because of any crime,
Nor did I deserve to
be snatched from the nurturing daylight.
Minos could find the
truth, the urn of the Cretan judge would
Reveal it. Betrayed
for evil gold through my wife’s treachery,
I joined the Argive
ranks knowingly (and so a crowd of recent
Shades are here, some
by my hand); in a sudden convulsion
Of the earth, your
darkness swallowed me (I feel the horror
Still) out of the
midst of thousands. Imagine my thoughts as I
Passed through the
hollow guts of the earth in long descent,
Twisting in the
shrouded air. Ah me! Of me, nothing is left
To comrades or
country, or is captive in
I’ll see the houses of
Lerna, or return to my stunned father
Even in the form of
ashes. I have no tomb; no pyre, no tears
Alas, of loved ones
sent me onwards. I bring to you all there
Was to bury, no use to
me these steeds. I will make no demur
At drinking those
waters, and forgetting my tripods forever.
What role is there for
a prescient seer while the Fates spin
Your bidding? But let
your heart relent, I pray, be gentler
Than the gods. If my
sinful wife should enter your realm
One day, save your
grim punishments for her. She, kind
Lord is more deserving
of your wrath.’ Dis, embarrassed by
His own wrath, now
accepted the plea. Thus a lion reveals
His anger and his
claws when the glitter of Massylian steel
Confronts him, but if
his enemy falls he will prove content
To pass the vanquished
by, leaving them their life, intact.
Meanwhile the warriors
sought the chariot noted for its
Ribbons and triumphal
laurel, and for its master lately
Formidable in the open
field, his weapons glorious; he
Never routed or put to
flight. The squadrons retreated
Suspicious of the
ground, soldiers by-passing signs
Of the treacherous
quake; the melancholy site, a greedy
Pit avoided still, in
honour of that infernal burial scene.
Palaemon, scarcely
crediting his eyes, ran to Adrastus,
Busy urging on his men
elsewhere, to bring the news.
Still trembling (since
by chance he had been standing
Near to the falling
prophet, and was wretchedly pale
From the sight of the
chasm) he spoke: ‘Fly, my lord,
Turn back: let’s see
if the Dorian lands are still intact,
If our native city is
yet where we left it. What need for
Weapons and bloodshed?
Why do we draw swords, in
Vain, against
Chariots, arms and
fighting men. Even this ground on
Which we stand seems
fated to subside. I myself saw
The path to nocturnal
darkness, and the earth’s depths
Shattered, and Oecles’
son, alas, one dearer than all
To the prescient
stars, plunging downwards. In vain
I stretched out my
hands and called to him. Do I seem
To speak of marvels?
Lord, the horses’ tracks are there,
Where I left them, the
dust smoking, and the ground
Wet with their foam.
It was no common evil. Earth
Knows its
foster-children; the Theban ranks still stand.’
Adrastus, amazed, was
slow to believe. But Mopsus
Told the same tale, as
did the terrified Actor. Now
Bold Rumour, with
fresh alarms, cried that more than
One had been consumed.
The troops fled of their own
Will, not waiting for
the proper trumpet call. But their
Speed was sluggish,
their knees giving way as they ran.
The horses themselves
(as if they knew) proved stubborn,
Disobeying,
spontaneously, every command to quicken
Pace, or raise their
heads from the ground. The Thebans
Redoubled their
attack, but shadowy Vesper was already
Leading out the lunar
steeds; a brief respite was granted
The warriors, a sad
space of rest, a night of growing fear.
Imagine the scene now
that licence was granted to lament.
Helmets loosened; how
the tears flowed! Weary they took
No pleasure in familiar
concerns. They threw aside their
Blood-drenched
shields, and no man wiped his spear or
Praised his mount, or
combed and dressed the tall crest
Of his gleaming helm.
They scarcely took the time to wash
Deep gashes, or bind
life-threatening wounds, so great was
The sorrow everywhere.
Not even the toil of battle could
Persuade them to eat
and nourish themselves for the fight.
As they wept
everything reminded them of your glories,
Amphiaraus, your heart
rich in truth; and among the tents
There was talk only of
the gods’ departure, and the deities’
Abandonment of the
army: ‘Alas, where now is the chariot
And its laurels, the
familiar arms, the crested helm twined
With ribbons? Is this
the work of Castalian pools or caves,
Or the rites beside
the tripod? Is this Apollo’s gratitude?
Who now will speak to
us of falling stars; the meaning
Of lightning on the
left; or of what divine message lurks
In sacrificial
entrails; when to go, when to delay; which
Hour is opportune for
savage warfare, or favours peace?
Who now will reveal
futurity; to whom shall the flight
Of birds reveal our
destiny? You knew the outcome of
This war as well, our
fate and your own, and yet (what
Courage your holy
heart possessed) you joined us still,
Luckless comrade. And
when earth and the fateful hour
Summoned you, you gave
yourself still to decimating
The Theban ranks, and
felling those hostile standards.
Then even in the midst
of death we saw you depart
Spear poised a fearful
sight to the enemy. Now what
Realm holds you? Do
you possess the power to split
The earth and return
from Stygian deeps? Or do you
Sit happily beside the
Fates, your divinities; and learn
Or teach, in
harmonious speech, of things to come?
Or has the lord of
Avernus pitied you, and given you
Blessed groves, and a
task observing Elysian birds?
Whatever your fate
you’ll be the subject of eternal
Grief to Phoebus, an
ever-fresh disaster; long to be
Mourned in silent
In Tenedos; at Chryse;
in
Birth; shut is the
sanctuary of long-haired Branchus;
And this dawn no
suppliant shall approach the temple
Doors in Claros; or
Didyma’s or any Lycian threshold.
Even Jupiter Ammon’s
horned oracle shall fall mute,
And the Dodonian oak
that speaks for Molossian Jove;
And Trojan Thymbra.
Rivers will seek to turn to dust
The laurels wither;
and no birds shall haunt the clouds;
The heavens themselves
will cease to grant sure omens
From their prophetic
cries. The day will soon be here
When you too shall be
worshipped in shrines dedicated
To the Fates, and your
own priest shall lead the rites.’
Such was the solemn
tribute they paid the prophet-king,
As though they granted
gifts and sad obsequies to his
Burning pyre, and
consigned his spirit to gentle earth.
Now all were down-hearted,
with minds averse to war;
Just as when Tiphys,
helmsman of the Argo, was lost
To sudden death,
quitting the brave Minyae; the tackle
No longer obeyed, the
steering-oar refused the waves,
The winds themselves
seemed to blow with less force.
Now wearied by lament,
their grief exhausted in speech,
Their hearts were
eased, and night fell, lightening their
Cares with sleep,
which gently overcomes men’s tears.
But elsewhere, in the
Theban city, men passed a different
Night: they spun out
the hours with various diversions
Indoors and out; the
very sentries on the walls at ease.
Twin cymbals sounded,
Idaean drums and boxwood flutes
Modulated by the
breath. And everywhere, holy paeans
Hymned the beloved
gods, each native divinity in turn;
Everywhere were
garlands and wreathed wine-jars. Here
They mock the
non-prescient augur’s death and compete
To praise their own
Tiresias in fitting contrast; there they
Rehearse their own
ancestor’s deeds, and sing of ancient
Waves, the Ocean
furrowed by the mighty bull, Jove’s
Horns clasped tightly
by weak hands; others of Cadmus
And the weary heifer,
and fields ripe with blood-stained
Conflict; yet others
of the stones that rose to the music
Of a Tyrian lyre, when
Amphion animated living rock.
Some praised the
pregnant Semele, others Cytherean
Nuptials when Harmonia
was escorted home by many
A brotherly cupid with
his torch. No table lacked its
Tale, as if Bacchus
with his wand, fresh from ravaging
The jewelled Hydaspes
and the countries of the East,
Was displaying to the
nations the banners of a dusky
Triumph, and the
unknown
Who was ever hidden
from sight in his sinister abode,
Came to join the crowd
involved in a public banquet;
Cleansed the dark dust
from his white hair, cleared
The loose unkempt
locks from his countenance, then
Tolerated his fellows’
kind greetings, and the solace
He had previously
rebuffed; and even wiped the dried
Blood from his eyes
and swallowed food. He listened,
And spoke to everyone,
he who was accustomed only
To assail Dis and the
Furies and perhaps Antigone his
Helper, with his
melancholy complaints. The reason
For his presence was
deceptive. It was not the good
Fortune of
War itself. He urged
his son on, and approved his
Actions, but without
the wish to see him victorious;
Rather with silent
longing he meditated on the seeds
Of evil and the first
clash of swords. So his pleasure
In the feast, and the
unusual joy in his face. Thus
Phineus, after the
hunger of his long punishment,
Hearing the screeching
in the house had ceased,
That the Harpies had
been driven away (though
Not quite believing
it) sat to table, food, wine-cup
Undisturbed by the
flapping of those savage wings.
Meanwhile the rest of
the Argive army lay there,
Wearied by anxiety and
battle. From the camp’s
High rampart, Adrastus
listened with faint heart
To the joyful tumult.
Though he suffered the ills
Of old age, sadly power
drove him to vigilance.
The clamour of bronze,
the bitter-sounding flute,
The noise from
Wavering torchlight
and temporary fires stung
Him. Thus when at sea
the crew falls silent, sunk
In universal sleep,
careless of drowning, trusting
Their lives to the
helmsman, he stands wakeful,
Lonely at the stern;
he and the tutelary divinity
That rides the vessel
inscribed with their name.
It was the hour before
approaching dawn, the hour
When Phoebus’ bright
sister, knowing his steeds
Are harnessed, hears
the roar of Ocean’s hollow
Breakers heralding the
day, and with a flick of her
Whip dispels the
stars. The king had summoned
His gloomy council;
groaning, they ask who will
Succeed to the
tripods, to whom the abandoned
All want Thiodamas,
without delay, the eminent
Son of holy Melampus.
Amphiaraus himself
Used to share with him
the secrets of the gods;
With him alone, omens
from the flight of birds.
Far from jealous of
such arts, he was delighted
For Thiodamas to be
called his peer, or his near
Equal. The magnitude
of the honour astounds
Thiodamas now, the
unexpected glory amazes
Him; humbly he reveres
the proffered laurel,
Denying he’s fitted
for the burden, so worthy
To be coerced. Thus, a
son of the Persian king
For whom it were
better if his father had lived,
Chancing to inherit
the throne and its power,
Weighs the joy against
his anxiety and doubt:
Are his nobles loyal,
will the people oppose his
Rule, to whom shall he
entrust the
Shore, the Caspian
Gate? So he is reluctant
To accept fealty and
mount his own father’s
Steed, thinking his
hand too immature to hold
The sceptre, his brow
too slight for the crown.
Once his hair was
adorned with twists of wool,
And he was fit for the
gods, Thiodamas walked
In triumph through the
camp to a joyful tumult,
Preparing, as his
first act as priest, to appease
Earth, the mourning
Danai no less approving.
So he ordered two
altars constructed of living
Timber and turf,
adding numerous flowers for
The goddess, her own
gifts returned, heaped
Fruit and whatever the
fertile year had brought.
Sprinkling the hearths
with pure milk, he began:
‘O eternal womb of
divinities and men, you who
Yield rivers and
forests, and all the seeds of life,
Prometheus’ handiwork
and Pyrrha’s stones; you
Who first nurtured
hungry men, and developed
Them; you who surround
and bear the sea; to you
Belong the gentle
herds of cattle, the aggression
Of wild beasts, the calm
of birds: firm, enduring
Strength of a world
that has no setting, round you
The swift substance of
the sky, and the chariots
Of sun and moon
circle, as you hang in empty air,
O centre of all
things, undivided by the great gods!
So your gifts alone
suffice the many nations, races
And lofty cities on
your surface; bearing Atlas
Who shoulders the sky,
labouring to support those
Starry abodes on high
without your help. We, alone
Goddess do you refuse
to bear; are we too weighty?
What crime, I pray, do
we expiate, unaware? Is it
That we come here from
the lands of Inachus, we,
An alien folk? Every
soil is man’s home and it ill
Becomes you, noble
one, to distinguish, by so harsh
And arbitrary a
boundary, between peoples, who
No matter where they
are or hail from, are yours.
Be common ground to
all, bear both sides’ arms.
Grant us, I pray, to
gasp away our spirits, fighting
In these battle ranks,
and return them to the sky.
Do not drag living
bodies into the grave so hastily,
Be not so sudden. We
will come to you by the road
All take, the path
approved. Only hear our prayer,
Make firm the wavering
plain for the Pelasgi, let
The swift Fates be not
forestalled. And you, so dear
To the gods,
Amphiaraus, whom no hand, no Theban
Sword slew, but whom
great Nature clasped to her
Naked breast, and
enfolded, as though she buried
You in Cirrha’s cave
as you deserved, grant me,
I pray, knowledge of
your rites, and commend me
To heaven and the
truth-speaking altars, and teach
Me what you were about
to tell the people. I will
Carry out your
prophetic work, and invoke you;
Ambassador for your
god, in Phoebus’s absence.
The place where you
were lost will be more sacred
Than
So saying, he interred
black sheep and dusky cattle
In the earth, heaping
undulating piles of sand over
Their living bodies,
paying the seer a tithe of death.
So things were among
the Argives when the war-horns
Sounded opposite them,
and the bronze clamour stirred
Cruel swords.
Tisiphone, from Teumesos’ peak, gave
Her support, shaking
her locks, rousing the trumpets,
Adding her cries and
hisses.
With the alien sounds;
as did the stones, once rising
To a different music.
Now Bellona pressed against
The quivering doors
and armed portals, and now
Disrupted infantry;
chariots blocked warriors, running
As though the Danai
were driving hard at their back.
So the jostling
squadrons crowded through the Seven
Gates. Creon, by lot,
left through the Ogygian; Eteocles
Through the Neistan;
Hamon took the lofty Homoloian;
Hypsus and tall Dryas
went by the Proetian and Electran;
Eurymedon’s men shook
the Hypsistan, as Menoeceus,
The great-hearted,
claimed all the Dircaean’s ramparts;
So, when the hidden
Of an alien climate,
at his great delta, the divided flow
Carries the gifts of
winter to the sea over seven plains,
The Nereids fleeing in
rout to their deeps, afraid to meet
With a sea free of
brine. But yonder the Inachian army
Advanced slowly and
sadly, especially the ranks of
And Lacadaemon, and
the warriors of Pylos. They, bereft
Of their augur,
Amphiaraus, follow the newly-appointed
Thiodamas, but rally
to him loyally as their commander.
It was not only your
own men who missed you, master
Of the tripods, but
the whole phalanx felt your loss.
Less prominent the
seventh crest among the squadrons.
Thus if an envious
cloud, in the liquid air, veils a star
Of the Great Bear the
constellation’s glory is marred,
The icy pole is no
longer the same with one fire veiled,
And mariners,
confused, count the unfamiliar luminaries.
But battle summons me
now: now let Calliope lend anew
Fresh strength, and
Apollo more mightily direct my lyre.
A dark day brought to
all the fatal hour they themselves
Had demanded. Issuing
from Stygian shades, Death joyed
In the open sky,
flying he covered the plain, inviting men
Towards his black maw;
never choosing the rank and file,
But those victims most
worthy of life, marking those in
The prime of years,
the brave, with a blood-stained claw.
Now the Furies
snatched the threads from the Fates, now
The Sisters’ spinning
of those wretches’ lives was ruined.
The Lord of War
standing amidst the plain, his spear-blade
Still un-wet, turned
his shield towards now these, now those,
Stirring weapons,
effacing thoughts of wife, children, home.
Away went love of
country and, last to flee, the love of life.
Anger maintained their
grip on hilt and spear, panting breath
Tried to burst from
their armour, helms shook with risen hair.
What wonder that men
burned? The very horses were on fire
Against the foe,
showering the dusty ground with white foam,
As though their bodies
were at one with their masters owning
Their rider’s rage: so
fiercely they champ the bit, and neigh
For battle, rearing
high, shifting their horsemen backward.
Now they charged, and
the front ranks met in a cloud of dust.
Both sides rushed
equally swiftly towards each other seeing
The space between them
diminish. Now shield struck shield,
Boss beat on boss,
foot met foot, and spear encountered spear;
Thus the two armies
strained against each other, their breath
Smoked as one, while
plumes on alien helms mingled. The face
Of war was still fair:
the crests erect, riders atop their mounts,
No chariot driverless,
armour in place, shields gleaming, belts
And quivers splendid,
their gold as yet not marred with blood.
But a skill careless
of life lets valour loose, more furiously
Than when the Bear
lashes airy Rhodope with layers of snow
As the Kids are
setting; or when Jove thundering from the sky
Makes all Ausonia
echo; or Syrtis is shaken by the dense hail,
When dark Boreas
brings Italian rains to
Blackened with
missiles, and clouds of steel hung in the sky,
The air too crowded
for fresh darts. Some died from enemy
Spears, some from
their own javelins returned on them, shafts
Clashed in the air,
losing direction failing to wound, blades too,
Slings rained a shower
of whistling stones, swift shot; arrows,
Poisoned, threatening
dual death, imitated the lightning bolts.
Earth has no space for
more missiles, and each strikes a target.
Often they fall and
kill by accident, chance does valour’s work.
The armies now press
forward, now retreat, gaining and losing
Ground by turns. So,
when Jove menacingly gives rein to gusts
And storms, heaven’s
hosts in conflict afflict the earth below
With opposing
tempests, now a southerly gale blows strongest,
Now a northerly, till
in the battle of the winds either the one
Conquers with an
excess of rain or the other clears the sky.
Asopian Hypseus was first into battle, repulsing the Oebalian
Squadrons (since with the great pride of their race they were
Breaking the Euboean line, using their solid shield-bosses),
Killing Menalcas, leader of the vanguard. He was Laconian
In mind as well as race, a foster child of the Spartan river;
Nor did he disgrace his ancestors. He pulled the spear, that
Had penetrated chest and back, from flesh and bone, lest
He be shamed, and with failing grip returned it to his enemy
Streaked with blood. Dying, Taygetus, that beloved stream
Flashed before his eyes, the battles, his lash-marks as a boy,
Which his mother had praised. Now Theban Amyntas aimed
An arrow at Phaedimus, Iasus’ son. Oh, swift Fate! Already
Phaedimus twitched on the ground and Amyntas’ bow-string
Was surely still humming. Calydonian Agreus lopped Phegeus’
Right arm from his shoulder; still on the ground, grasping its
Sword and thrusting. Acoetes, passing before it where it lay
Struck at it in fear, severed though it was. Savage Acamas
Conquered Iphis; fierce Hypseus slew Argus; while Pheres
Felled Abas. Bleeding from various wounds they lay there,
Iphis the horseman, and Argus the foot-soldier, and Abas
The charioteer. Now Inachian twins slew twins of Theban
Blood (masked by their helmets in the cruel fog of war!)
And as they stripped the corpses of their armour, they saw
The horror; the brothers looked at each other and together
Grieved over their mistake. Ion, a worshipper of Jupiter
At
At Cirrha, and threw his horses into confusion. Jupiter
From the heights praised the former, while Apollo, slow
To bring aid, showed pity for the latter, though in vain.
Fortune brought glory to mighty warriors on both sides,
Drenched in enemy blood. Theban Haemon harried and
Killed Danai, while Tydeus in fury pursued the Theban
Forces. Minerva inspired the former, Hercules the latter.
So you might think two rivers bursting from mountain
Slopes and falling, a dual catastrophe on the plain, are
Competing, in spate, as to which should toss earth, trees
Higher, or drown bridges deeper; and whenever a single
Valley contains both and they might meet, each proudly
Goes its own way, refusing to reach the ocean together.
Onchestian Idas shook a smoking torch as he disrupted
The Argive ranks, forging a fiery path amongst them.
Tydeus, with a mighty blow of his spear, from close
Quarters, stabbed him, splitting his helmet, the huge
Warrior falling on his back, the blade in his forehead.
The brand fell and the flames licked at his temples.
Tydeus cried: ‘Call Argos merciful: we grant you your
Pyre: burn Theban in your own flames!’ Then as a tiger
Rejoicing in its first kill goes through the whole flock,
He killed Aon with a stone, Pholus and Chromis with
His sword, and ran the two Helicaones through with
His spear. Maera, the priestess of Aegean Venus, was
Their mother, though the goddess forbade her to bear
A child: now, though prey to you blood-stained Tydeus,
That mother was praying for them at Venus’ cruel altar.
No less did random slaughter drive Herculean Haemon;
His insatiable blade carried him through the host of men,
Now humbling
Grim ranks, now the foster-children of grieving Pleuron,
Until with an already wearied arm he reached Olenian Butes,
Whom he attacked as he turned to forbid his troops to flee.
He was a boy, a boy with cheeks unshaven, locks unshorn.
Before he was aware, the Theban axe poised in mid-flight
Had sliced his helm and split his temples, severed tresses
Falling onto his shoulders: with no time for fear, he leapt
From this life by an unanticipated path. Then Haemon slew
Blond Hypanis and blond Polites, the former had dedicated
His beard to Apollo, the latter his tresses to Bacchus, yet
Both gods proved unkind. To their corpses Haemon added
Hyperenor; and Damasus, who turned to flee but received
Haemon’s spear between the shoulders, through the chest
So that the spear-point sent the shield flying from his grasp.
Ismenian Haemon would still have been killing his Inachian
Foes, Amphitryon’s son Hercules guiding his aim, granting
Him strength, but now Pallas sent cruel Tydeus to meet him.
Face to face the divinities came, each favouring an adversary,
And Hercules spoke gently: ‘My faithful sister, what chance
Brings us together in the mist of war? Has Queen Juno forged
This evil? Sooner would I (what madness!) oppose our great
Father’s lightning bolts and war against him. Haemon’s race –
Well I’ll disavow it, since you favour his enemy, as I would
If your Tydeus’ threatened my son, Hyllus, in close conflict,
Or my father, Amphitryon, returned from the Stygian depths.
I will always remember, goddess, how your hand and aegis
Worked for me, when I wandered the earth, a slave to cruel
Mischance. Ah, you yourself would have accompanied me
To pathless Tartarus, did Acheron not deny access to the gods.
You granted me a father and the heavens – who could speak
Worthily of these things? Take
To destroy her. I yield for my part, and ask your pardon.’
With these words he withdrew. Minerva was moved by his
Respect, and her countenance was once more as it had been,
The ardour lessened, the snakes erect at her breast subsiding.
Theban Haemon felt the goddess leave him. His darts flew
Less fiercely, and he failed to realise his previous skill.
His strength and courage waned more and more, and he felt
No shame in retreating. Tydeus attacked him as he withdrew,
And balancing a javelin only he could hurl aimed at the point
Where the helm’s lower rim rests on the shield’s edge, where
The vital parts of the throat showed white. Nor did his hand
Fail him. The spear would have killed Haemon, but Minerva
Forbade it, deflecting it to wound the left shoulder slightly, as
A favour to her worthy brother, Hercules. Haemon, however,
Feared to remain and face the blood-stained Tydeus in battle.
His mind was troubled, confidence and willpower dispelled.
So a wild boar whose bristling temples have been grazed by
Some Lucanian spear (the thrust not reaching into the brain,
The arm not following through) deflects its anger, swerves
To one side, seeks to stop the spear penetrating once more.
Behold Tydeus, Oeneus’
son, indignant that Prothous, leader
Of a band of men,
should happily send missiles against them
With sure aim, pierced
two bodies in his fury, horse and man,
With a single
pine-wood spear. Prothous fell beneath his mount,
And as the rider
sought the reins that had slipped from his hand,
The wounded creature
trampled his face and chest beneath his
Helm and shield, until
it loosed the bridle with its dying breath,
And lay with its neck
across its master. So, an elm and a vine
Fall on
Is the sadder, longing
for the forest lost to both, not so much
Lamenting its own
boughs in the fall than the companion grapes
It loathed to crush.
Corymbus of Helicon, who was formerly
A friend of the Muses,
had taken arms against the Danai. Aware
Of what the Stygian
Fates had spun, one Muse, Urania, had long
Foretold his death
from the stars’ alignments. Yet he longed for
War and warriors, so
as to sing them perhaps. Long to be praised
In song himself, he
lay there, as the Sisters silently wept his loss.
Young Atys had been
betrothed from a tender age to Agenorian
Ismene. Cirrha was his
home yet he was no stranger to
And its army. He had
not shunned her parents despite knowing
Their sad history,
rather her chaste desolation and the courtesy
Due to innocent
affliction commended the girl to her lover. He
Was no ordinary man,
and the girl’s heart was at one with his,
Each would joy in the
other if fate allowed. War prevented
Their marriage,
fuelling the young man’s anger against the foe.
He was among the first
to charge, harrying the hosts of Lerna,
Now on foot with
flickering sword, now mounted with the reins
In his hand, as though
the spectators’ eyes were following him.
His mother had clad
his slender shoulders and smooth chest
In triple purple.
Then, lest he be dressed less well than his
Beloved, she gilded
his arrows, belt, sleeves, and horse’s
Trappings, and added
scrolls of gold to his helm. Trusting,
Alas, to such finery
he challenged the Argives to battle. First
He attacked the weaker
squadrons with his spear; returning
To his friends in the
lines with the spoils on killing his man.
So a young Caspian
lion in Hyrcanian shade, lacking as yet
A terrifying yellow
mane, or history of bloodshed, will raid
At leisure a flock not
far from the fold, while the shepherd is
Absent, and sate its
hunger on a tender lamb. He even showed
No fear of Tydeus, not
knowing him by his armour and, taking
Measure only of his
size, dared to provoke him again and again,
With slender darts,
while Tydeus gnashed his teeth and pursued
Other foes. At last
the Aetolian turned his eyes to the source of
These feeble blows,
and with a dreadful laugh cried: ‘Perverse
Man, I perceive you
desire great fame from death.’ With this
He carelessly launched
a lightweight javelin, not considering
This audacious
adversary worth his sword or spear. And yet
The missile still
pierced the hidden arteries of the groin, as
Though he had hurled
it with all his might. Tydeus swept by,
Atys’ death assured,
disdaining to take the spoils, crying:
‘We’ll not hang such
trophies on your walls, Mars, or yours
Warlike Minerva. May
shame prevent me carrying such arms
Myself. If Deipyle had
left her bower and followed me to war,
I’d scarcely have
given her them to play with.’ So he
spoke,
And his thoughts drew
him on to greater battle prizes. Thus,
A lion after countless
killings, ignores frail calves and soft
Heifers, mad to plunge
in blood on the neck of a mighty bull,
Leader of the herd.
But Menoeceus heard Atys’ fall and his
Dying cry and, turning
his horses, leapt from his speeding
Chariot. The men of
Tegea were advancing on Atys’ corpse
Where he lay; while
the Thebans feigned indifference. He
Called out: ‘For
shame, you Theban youth, belying your
Ancestors born of the
earth! Where are you heading for,
You degenerates? Shall
Atys, a friend, defending our blood,
Lie here? As such a
friend still, the unhappy champion
Of a wife not yet his:
do we ignore such pledges?’ Filled
Then with a proper
sense of shame, the troops stood taller,
While each man’s
thoughts returned to his own beloved.
Meanwhile in a private
inner chamber, the sisters, Antigone
And Ismene, of a
different character than their two brothers,
Innocent daughters of
unhappy Oedipus, talked of their ills
Together, not those of
the present but those far back destined
By fate. One laments
their mother’s second marriage, the other
Their father’s ruined
eyes; one the reigning brother the other
The exiled; and both
the war. Hence a weighty meditation on
What sad prayer to
make: fear points both ways. Whom to
Wish vanquished in the
struggle, whom victorious? The exile
Silently tips the
scale. So Pandion’s birds, the nightingales,
Returning to their
familiar site, the home they left when winter
Drove them out, perch
on the nest, tell to the place their tale
Of ancient woe; their
sad, broken utterance is mistaken for
Speech, and yes, their
murmurs seem not dissimilar to words.
Now after tears and
long silence, Ismene began again: ‘What
Mortal illusion is
this? What breach of trust? Can it be our
Cares keep vigil while
we rest, and clear images of our
Thoughts return in
sleep? Behold, I who should knowingly
Have no concern with
marriage chambers even if profound
Peace reigned, I saw,
in the night (alas, for shame!), nuptials
Sister: how did
mindless slumber bring me my betrothed, he
Barely known to me by
sight? Not of my own will, dreaming,
I gazed at him,
sister, while my loyalty was somehow pledged.
At once everything
seemed in turmoil, a sudden fire interposed,
And his mother was
pursuing me with frantic cries, demanding
That Atys return to
her. Is this a vague prophecy of disaster?
Not that I fear, while
our home is safe, and the Dorian army
Are here, and we can
forge a peace between our brothers.’
They were still
speaking, when in an instant a confused din
Filled the palace, and
Atys, rescued by a mighty effort, was
Carried in yet living,
barely a drop of blood in his veins.
His hand covered the
wound, his head overhung the rim
Of his shield, his
hair streamed backwards from his brow.
Jocasta met him first
and called in a trembling voice for his
Beloved Ismene; since
her son-in-law’s fading voice asked
Only for her, her name
alone fell from his chill lips. Women
Wept, Ismene raised
her hands to her face, cruelly restrained
By shame; yet she must
go, Jocasta granting this last request
Of the dying youth;
showing her; beckoning the girl forward.
On the point of death,
four times, he bravely raised his head
And failing eyes at
her name. He gazed only at her, the light
Of day neglected, not
sated by the sight of her beloved face.
Then, since his mother
was absent, and his father had found
Peace in death, his
betrothed had the pitiful task of closing his
Eyes. Then finally the
witnesses distant she confessed her
Sorrowful affection,
and bathed his wound with her tears.
While this was
happening in
Fresh snakes and
torch, was renewing the conflict. Warriors
Longed to fight, as if
they had only just raised their hands
In conflict and every
sword were still newly burnished.
Tydeus was foremost.
Though Parthenopaeus bent a sure
Bow, though Hippomedon
on his furious steed trampled
The faces of the
dying, though Capaneus’ pine spear flew
Seen by the Theban
squadrons from afar, the day belonged
To Tydeus, it is him
they feared and fled, as he shouted:
‘Where are you off to?
Behold, now you can avenge your
Dead comrades and
repay me for that sad night. I am he
Insatiable in
slaughter who took those fifty lives. Come,
Bring me as great a
host again! Where are their fathers?
Where are the loving
brothers of the fallen? Why so
Forgetful of the loss?
How ashamed I am to have left
For Inachian Mycenae
so content! Is this what remains
Of
Wonder is that noble
leader?’ As he spoke he saw
Eteocles himself
urging on the left wing of his army,
Conspicuous by the
gleam of his proud helm. Tydeus
Attacked him ardently,
as eagerly as a fiery eagle above
A snowy swan,
shrouding the frightened creature with
Its vast shadow. He
was the first to call out: ‘O King,
Most just ruler of the
Theban people, shall you fight
In armour and show
your sword at last, or would you
Not rather wait for
night and the darkness you love?’
The other spoke no
reply, but sent a spear, in answer,
Whistling towards his
enemy. The watchful hero swept
It aside at the end of
its trajectory and hurled a missile
Furiously himself with
a greater force than ever. The
Lance sped savagely on
its way bent on ending the war.
(Theban and Argive
gods, on either side, favoured its
Passage), but a cruel
Fury deflected it, leaving Eteocles
To his errant brother.
The spear flew awry and struck
Phlegyas the
armour-bearer. A vast melee ensued for
Tydeus attacked more
furiously still with naked sword,
While the Theban host
defended their retreating leader.
So in the depths of
night a strong band of cowherds
Will drive a wolf away
from the steer he has caught:
He leaps at them
obstinately, and disdains to attack
Those who bar his path
and charge at him, but only
The creature he has
first assaulted. So Tydeus ignored
The ranks of lesser
men s ranged against him, passing
Them by. Yet he
pierced Thoas’ face, Deilochus’ chest,
Clonius’ flank and
grim Hippotades’ groin. Sometimes
He severed limbs from
their trunks, and sent helmet
And head whirling to
the sky. Eventually his path was
Choked with the
corpses and the armour of the fallen.
The Theban army
expended its strength on him alone,
And at him alone all
missiles were aimed. Some clung
To his frame, others
fell uselessly; some Minerva tore
Free, many stood proud
from his shield, its boss dense
With spears, a
quivering forest of steel, while the boar
Hide on his back and
shoulders was ripped and torn.
Now the tall crest on
his helm was shorn, and the image
Of Mars crowning its grim
peak plunged to the ground,
An unhappy omen for
the wearer: now the bare bronze
Was welded to his
temples, while stones resound against
It, and thud onto his
shield. His helmet filled with blood,
And a dark flow of
gore, mixed with sweat, bathed his
Wounded chest. He
looked back at his comrades urging
Him on, and at loyal
Minerva who, far off, hid her eyes
Behind her shield, on
her way to move her divine father
With her tears.
Behold, an ash spear sliced the air, bearer
Of wrath and a mighty
doom; though its wielder was not
Apparent, it was
Melanippus, the son of Astacus. He
Did not claim the
deed, and hoped his hand in it might
Stay hidden, but his
troops’ delight revealed him where
He trembled. Now
Tydeus, letting his round shield fall,
Bowed to one side,
while Theban shouts and Pelasgian
Groans mingled, as the
latter stretched their arms out
To protect him,
defending him despite himself. But he
Had seen that
detestable son of Astacus, far off through
The intervening ranks;
with all his remaining strength
He willed himself to
strike, hurling a spear that Hopleus
Had handed him. A
stream of blood was forced from him
By the effort. Then
his sorrowing comrades dragged him
Away, although he
still longed to fight (what ardour!),
Begging for a spear
and, on the verge of death, refusing
To expire. They set
him down at the edge of the field,
Propped up by a shield
on either side on which he leant,
Promising him, amidst
their tears, that he would return
To Mars’ cruel
conflict. But he himself felt the light
Receding, and the
final cold gripping his heart; leaning
On the ground he
cried: ‘A favour, sons of Inachus, not
That my bones be taken
back to
Home: I care nothing
for funeral rites. I despise limbs
Whose strength has
failed, a body that refuses to obey
My will. But oh, that
head of yours Melanippus, oh if
Someone would bring me
that! For I doubt not you are
Writhing on the
ground, my skill remaining to the last.
Go, Hippomedon, I beg
you, if you possess one drop
Of Atreus’ blood; go,
young Arcadian glorying in your
First war, and you,
Capaneus, now the greatest warrior
Of this Argive host!
All were moved at this, Capaneus
The first to leave. He
found Astacus’s son, lifted him
From the dust, and
carried him over his left shoulder,
(Still breathing,
staining his captor’s back with blood
From his open wound)
like Hercules returning from
The Arcadian cave with
the captive boar, to Argive
Acclaim. Tydeus raised
himself and turned his head
To see him, wild with
joy and wrath, contemplating
The gasping mouth, the
savage eyes, and recognised
Himself in the other.
He commanded the enemy’s
Head be severed and
brought to him. Holding it in his
Left hand, he glared
at it fiercely, proud to feel it
Cool, and see those
grim eyeballs, still trembling,
Grow still. But though
the unhappy man was content,
Tisiphone the avenger
demanded more. As Pallas
Appeared, having
swayed her father’s emotions,
Bearing immortal glory
to the wretched Tydeus,
Gazing at him, she saw
his jaws drenched with fluid
From the shattered
skull, polluted with the matter
From a human brain
(his comrades could not wrest
It away). The bitter
Gorgon on her shield stood tall,
With flailing snaky
locks; the asps rearing before
The goddess’ face and
masking it. Turning away
From the prostrate
Tydeus, she fled, not returning
To the stars until the
mystic torch and the waters
Of the guiltless
river, Ilissos, had purged her eyes.
End of Book VIII
Reports of Tydeus’
bloodthirsty frenzy exasperated
The Thebans. The
Inachians themselves showed little
Grief for the fallen
warrior, blaming him, complaining
That he’d exceeded the
bounds of hatred. It is even said
That Mars, most
turbulent of gods, though then raging
At the forefront of
the work of carnage, was offended
By mankind, refusing
to look and guiding his frightened
Horse another way. So
the Cadmean warriors drove on
To avenge the dead
Melanippus, outraged by such savage
Behaviour, roused as
though their fathers’ bones had been
Disturbed in their
graves, their ashes fed to cruel monsters.
The king himself
inflamed them further: ‘Will any man
Now show mercy or
humanity to the Argives? They tear
Our bodies apart with
their sharp teeth (what madness,
Have they exhausted
their weapons?) You would think we
Battled Hyrcanian
tigers, or fought with fierce Libyan lions.
Now Tydeus lies there
(oh, the lovely solace of death!)
Gripping his enemy’s
skull in his mouth, dying, relishing
The unholy gore; where
we use ungentle steel and flames,
They show naked hatred:
their savagery needs no weapons.
Let them reveal their
madness to you, supreme Father, let
Them enjoy their
glorious renown. No wonder they were
Left to complain of
the gaping void as earth herself fled.
How should the very
ground itself support such as they?’
So saying, he led his
shouting men in a major onslaught.
All were raging to
possess the armour of the hated Tydeus,
And snatch his corpse. In the same way flocks
of carrion
Birds veil the stars
if a far-off breeze brings a noxious smell
Of bodies left without
burial: they fly to them with eager cries,
The high atmosphere is
alive with flapping wings, and lesser
Birds flee the sky.
Now Rumour’s swift murmur spread wide
Through the Theban
plain among the ranks (speedier than ever
Since she brought sad
news) until she glided into Polynices’
Apprehensive ear,
bringing him a tale of most grievous loss.
The young man’s tears,
about to flow, were frozen: he was
Slow to believe the
story; Tydeus’ valour that he knew so
Well both urged him to
accept the death and to deny it.
But when the disaster
was attested on good authority,
A mist clouded his
eyes and mind. His blood congealed;
His arms and legs were
heavy; his helmet wet with tears;
And his shield, loose
in his grasp, snagged on his greaves.
He walked sorrowfully,
with feeble steps, trailing his spear
As though he was
weighed down with a thousand troubles,
And ached in every
limb; his comrades stood apart, marking
His passage with
groans. At last he threw aside the weapons
Burdening him, and flung
himself unarmed on the lifeless
Body of his noble
friend, shedding tears, crying: ‘Is this,
O Son of Oeneus, my
foremost champion in battle, is this
Reward, I have
rendered you, deserved; that you should lie
Here, a corpse, on
Cadmus’ hated field, while I survive?
Now I am exiled
indeed, banished forever, since my better
Brother, alas, has
been taken from me! I no longer desire
The rule of lot and
the perjured crown of guilty kingship.
What do I care for a
prize bought so dearly; for a sceptre
That you cannot hand
me? Go men, leave me alone with
My warrior brother: no
need for further deeds of arms and
Wasted lives. Go, I
beg you. What more is there to ask?
Tydeus is lost! What
death can atone for this? O Adrastus,
O for
Meeting, the blows
that Tydeus and I traded, brief anger,
And the pledge of
eternal friendship! Why did you not
Kill me with your
sword, great Tydeus (as you might) on
Our father-in-law’s
threshold. In my cause, instead, you
Willingly went to
From which no other
would have returned, as though you
Had gone to win the
sceptre and its honours on your own
Behalf. Already Fame
no longer speaks of Telamon and
Peleus, of Pirithous
and Theseus. How nobly you lie there!
What wound should I
first examine? What of this blood is
Yours, what your
enemy’s? What host, what countless
Throng laid you low?
Or do I err and Mars himself struck
You with the full
force of his spear, in jealousy?’ So he
Spoke, and grieving
drenched with tears the warrior’s face
Still slippery with
gore, repositioning the right hand. ‘Must
You lay down your life
in hatred of my enemies, and I yet
Live on? He drew his
sword wildly from the scabbard,
And readied it for
slaughter. His friends held him back
And Adrastus rebuked
him, calming his bursting heart
With counsel on fate
and the vagaries of war. Gradually
He drew him away from
the beloved dead, from whom
His grief and noble
wish to die arose, and silently, as he
Spoke, returned the
weapon to its sheath. Polynices was
Led like an ox that
has lost the partner of its labours,
Listlessly deserting
in mid-field the furrow he started,
And dragging at one
side of the unbalanced yoke, with
Bowed neck, as the
weeping ploughman lifts the other.
Behold, at Eteocles’
urging, a select band of Theban
Warriors advances
under his banner, men whom Pallas
Would not scorn in
war, or Mars at the end of his spear;
Opposing them stood
tall Hippomedon, shield tight
Against his chest, and
lance extending far before him,
Like a rock fronting
the waves, unmoved under the sky,
On which the breakers
shatter; it stands impervious to
Any threat, the sea
itself retreating from its harsh face,
While wretched sailors
wrecked in its lee know it well.
Eteocles spoke first
(choosing a strong spear as he did so)
‘Are you not ashamed,
before the gods and the sky above,
To defend this dead
man, this corpse that dishonours our
Warfare? A fine thing,
a memorable deed to bury this wild
Beast, lest he go to
Vomiting evil gore on
his soft bier. Dismiss your anxiety
For what no carrion
bird, impious monster, nor fire itself
Did we allow it, would
consume!’ Without more words,
He hurled the long
javelin. Blunted by the tough bronze
It still penetrated
and stuck fast in the shield’s next layer.
Pheres and fierce
Lycus followed him, but Pheres’ spear
Fell back uselessly to
earth, while Lycus’ missile grazed
The helmet with the
tall and terrifying crest. The plumes,
Severed by the spear
point, scattered widely, the metal
Bare of its glory.
Hippomedon held fast, refusing, though
Provoked, to charge
the opposing ranks but, dancing over
The same piece of
ground, thrust and drew back on every
Side, never letting
his arm reach out too far. As he moved
He defended the body
closely, weaving around and over it.
So a cow protects her
first-born defenceless calf, fending
Away a prowling wolf,
wheeling, and sweeping her horns
About, uncertainly, in
a circle; showing no fear for herself,
She rages forgetting
her gender, a female imitating mighty
Bulls. At length a
pause in the hail of darts allowed return
Fire. Now Alcon of
Sicyon had come to Hippomedon’s aid,
And swift Idas’
Pisaean squadron arrived to form a wedge.
Heartened by their
presence, Hippomedon launched a huge
Lernaean shaft,
himself, against the enemy. It flew like an
Arrow unchecked, ran
Polites through, and unrelentingly
Pierced the shield of
Mopsus nearby. Then Hippomedon
Speared Cydon of
As he turned to grasp
a weapon, through his head with
Its mop of hair. Eryx
wondered as he died at the presence
Of the blade in his
hollow throat that had not arrived via
His mouth; his teeth,
expelled by the point, and his last cry,
Bubbling blood,
emerged together. Leonteus, concealed
Behind lines of
weapons, dared to stretch out his arm
Stealthily, and clutch
Tydeus’ prostrate body by the hair:
Hippomedon saw him
and, despite the threat on all sides,
Severed that presumptuous
hand, with his cruel sword,
Chiding him as he did
so: ‘Tydeus himself it is, Tydeus
Who robs you of your
hand: fear even the lifeless corpses
Of warriors in future
and beware, you wretch, of touching
The mighty dead!’
Three times the Theban phalanx pulled
The grim carcase away,
three times the Danai retrieved it.
So in the straits of
Itself, a ship will
hover despite the anxious helmsman’s
Efforts, driven back
along her course with flapping sails.
Theban hands would not
have had the strength to drive
Hippomedon from his
ground, nor would catapults have
Moved him from his
station with their missiles; blows
Ruinous to high
towers, would have tested his shield
And rebounded, but
impious Tisiphone remembered
The orders of the king
of darkness, and considered
Tydeus’ crime.
Craftily, she entered the field of war.
The armies felt her in
their midst, and a sudden sweat
Poured from men and
horses, though with bland face
She appeared as
Inachian Halys, the unholy brand of
Fire and her whip
absent, her snaky hair silent at her
Command. Armed, she
approached fierce Hippomedon,
Her eyes and voice
calm, yet he feared her face as she
Spoke, and wondered at
his fear. Weeping she said:
‘Famed warrior, you
protect your dead friend in vain,
The corpse of an
unburied Greek (are our fears then
For the dead, is it
our business now to build tombs?);
Adrastus himself has
been captured by a Theban band,
And is being dragged
away, asking aid, with voice and
Hand, above all from
you; I see him slipping in blood,
His white hair, alas,
stripped of its shattered diadem!
He is not far; among
that knot of men in the dust-cloud.’
The hero stood there
anxiously weighing his fears, for
Some time. The harsh
maiden roused him: ‘Why do
You hesitate? Shall we
go on? Or does this corpse hold
You, and are the
living of less account?’ He entrusted
The sad work of his
own struggle to his comrades, and
Went, deserting his
close friend but looking back, ready
If they chanced to
call him. Then following the weaving
Footsteps of the
fierce goddess he ran this way and that,
Seemingly without
clear direction, till the impious Fury
Throwing away her
shield, a host of asps bursting from
Her helmet,
disappeared darkly from his view. The mist
Dispersed and the
unhappy hero saw the sons of Inachus
At rest, and the
chariot of Adrastus who was quite safe.
Now the Thebans had
the corpse. Loud cries attested to
Their joy, shouts of
victory reached Hippomedon’s ear,
And filled his heart
with private grief. Tydeus’ body was
Dragged over enemy
soil (by the harsh power of fate!)
That Tydeus for whom
of late a great space had been left
On either side as he
chased the men of
On foot, unchecked, or
behind the reins. His weapons
Gone, his hands at
peace, his savagery no more, the foe
Were pleased to abuse
his features rigid in death, his
Fearsome countenance,
with impunity. This is the wish
Brave and cowardly
alike pursue, ennobling their hands,
Keeping the
bloodstained weapons to show their wives
And children. So when
a lion, that has long ravished
The Moorish
countryside, causing all the flocks to be
Penned, and their
owners to keep watch, has been
Battled to the ground
by bands of weary shepherds,
The land rejoices, the
farmers with loud clamour,
Approach the place
where he now glares, impaled,
From a roof-beam or
hung to adorn an ancient grove:
Tug at his mane; open
his huge jaws; tell their losses.
Though fierce
Hippomedon saw that the battle for
The corpse was lost,
the body taken, and his toil in
Vain, he pursued
relentlessly all the same, barely able
To distinguish friend
from foe, wielding his sword
Blindly, as long as
nothing slowed his onrush. But
Now the ground was
slippery with fresh carnage;
And corpses, weapons,
shattered chariots slowed
His progress, as did
the wound in his left thigh
Made by Eteocles’
spear; in his passion he had
Either feigned to be
unharmed, or ignored the hurt.
At last he saw the
sorrowing Hopleus, the faithful
Comrade of great
Tydeus, and his armour-bearer
In the battle though
he had failed to save him. Now
He held the reins of
Tydeus’ charger that ignorant
Of its master’s fate,
neck bowed, was chafing only
At its idleness, at
Tydeus venturing more attacks
On foot. The hero
mounting grasped him tightly,
He being irked by a
strange weight on his proud back
(Having known one
master only since he was tamed)
And spoke to him:
‘Unhappy steed, oh why refuse
Your destiny? No more
for you the sweet burden
Of your proud master.
No more shall you stride
The Aetolian plain, or
rejoice to trail your mane in
The pools of Achelous.
As to what remains, come
Avenge the beloved
dead, at least: then follow him
And do not as a
captive hurt Tydeus’ exiled shade,
By carrying some
haughty rider.’ The horse heard
And seemed to take
fire, sweeping the hero away
Tempestuously, less
chary at a like touch on the rein.
Thus a Centaur,
part-human, leaps from airy Ossa
To the valley, the
tall forests trembling at his face,
The plain below at his
hooves. Alarmed the Thebans
Crowded together in
breathless flight, while the hero
Pressed on them with
his mount, slicing through their
Necks with his steel
blade, leaving their fallen bodies
In his wake. So, they
reached the River Ismenos, its
Channel fuller than
usual (ill omen) and moving as
A swollen mass. Here
was a brief respite for the fearful
Men weary from their
flight over the plain. The stream,
Host now to the
conflict, amazed by warriors, glittered
With clear reflections
of their armour. Into the waves
They leapt, and the
bank collapsed with a mighty splash,
Shrouding the opposite
shore in dust. Hippomedon also,
With no time to loose
the reins, spurred a mightier leap,
And rushed on his
panicked enemies through the hostile
Flow, leaving only his
javelins behind, fixed in the green
Turf and entrusted to
a poplar tree. The Thebans terrified
Let the rushing
current take their weapons. Some doffed
Their helmets and the
cowards hid as long as they could,
Holding their breath
underwater. Many now tried to swim
The river, waists
hampered by their belts, chests dragged
Under by their soaked
corselets. Such is the panic that
Seizes silvery fish
beneath the swollen flood when they
See a dolphin
searching the slopes of the hidden deep;
The whole shoal flees
to the bottom, they crowd afraid
Among green seaweed,
nor re-appear until the dolphin
Leaps again from the
surface preferring to race the ships
He has spied. So
Hippomedon drove fleeing Thebans;
He used his arms and
the reins together in mid-stream,
Pushing the horse on
with blows from his feet; the light
Hooves accustomed to
the plain flailed through the water
Seeking the sand
below. Theban Chromis felled Ion,
Antiphos in turn slew
Chromis, Hypseus slew Antiphon,
Astyages also and
Linus, he leaving the river on the verge
Of escaping, had not
the Sisters forbidden it, his first
Threads of fate
ordaining that he would not die on land.
Hippomedon pressed on
the ranks of
Asopian Hypseus
harried the Danai, the river terrified
Of both. Both dyed the
water with blood, and neither
Was destined to
survive the river. Now mangled heads
And limbs rolled
downstream, severed arms floated
With their trunk, the
flood carrying spears and light
Shields, and unstrung
bows, plumes hampering helms
From following the
flow. The surface of the water was
Thickly strewn with
loose weapons, its depths with
Bodies; of warriors
struggling in their death-throes,
And of the living men
thrust backwards by the river.
Young Argipus had
grasped the branch of a riverside
Elm as the flood swept
him away: fierce Menoeceus
Now severed his
well-formed arms with his sword.
Argipus fell, his
efforts lost, gazing in shock at his
Shorn limbs clutching
the tall tree above. Hypseus’
Spear dealt Sages a
mighty wound; he sank beneath
The wave, blood rising
from the depths in place of
A corpse. Agenor leapt
from the bank to help his
Brother and clutched
him, but the wretched man
Dragged him down in a
close embrace: Agenor
Might have broken
free, but refused to escape
Without his brother.
Capetus’ right hand rose in
Menace, but a
spiralling eddy sucked him into its
Whirling core: his
face vanished, his hair; and last
The hand clutching his
sword disappeared beneath
The fast-flowing
waters. Death came to the wretched
In a thousand guises:
a Mycalesian spear from behind
Buried its blade in
Agyrtes’ back. He looked around,
But its source was
unseen: thrust forward by the force
Of the current, the
spear had run loose and tasted blood.
Tydeus’ Aetolian
steed, stabbed in its mighty shoulder,
Reared high with its
dying strength, and hanging there
Beat the air. But
Hippomedon was not dislodged by
Shock. Pitying the
horse, groaning, he drew the blade
From the wound, and of
his own will loosed the reins.
Then on foot he
re-entered the fray, more sure of his
Aim and footing, and
slew one warrior after another
With his sword:
sluggish Nomius and brave Mimas;
Thisbaean Lichas,
Anthedonian Lycetus, Thespiades,
One of twins, his
brother Panemus begging for a like
Fate, but Hippomedon
replied: ‘Live on, and go alone
To the walls of cursed
Thank the gods that
Bellona with blood-stained hand
Placed the fight in
this rapid stream. The waters drive
You cowards onwards on
your native flood, nor shall
Unburied Tydeus’ naked
shade cry mournfully above
Your pyre. Earth bears
him and will dissolve him into
His elements; you
shall make raw food for the fishes.’
Thus he bore down on
his foes salting their wounds
With words. Now he
raged with his sword, now he
Snatched floating
javelins and returned them. He
Slew Theron, a
follower of virgin Diana, and Gyas
A farmer, and
wave-wandering Erginus, unshorn
Herses, and Cretheus
scornful of the sea’s power
Who had often run
before the Euboean tempests
In a tiny boat, daring
Caphereus’ stormy headland.
Such are the ironies
of fate. His chest pierced by steel,
He rolled in the
waves, shipwrecked, alas, on strange
Waters! You too,
As you crossed the river
in your tall chariot to rejoin
Your comrades, felled
you and lost you your horses,
Drowned, being yoked,
by the force of the cruel flood.
Come now, learned
Sisters: of your indulgence, tell me
Whose efforts vanquished
great Hippomedon in those
Swollen waters, and
how Ismenos himself was roused
To battle. Your task
is to work backwards and dispel
Years of fame. Young
Crenaeus, the son of Faunus
And the Nymph Ismenis,
delighted in making war
In his mother’s
stream, he whose first sight was that
Faithful flow, whose
cradle was its green shores and
Natal waters. Deeming
the Furies powerless there, he
Happily traversed his
grandfather’s embracing flood,
From bank to bank. The
waves lifted his feet whether
He went downstream or
across, and when he breasted
Its current, the
river, no obstruction, retreated for him.
The waves cover the
thighs of Glaucus, its guest from
Anthedon, no more
fawningly; Triton rises no higher
From a summer sea, nor
does Palaemon, hurrying back
To his mother’s fond
embrace, spurring on his tardy
Dolphin. Crenaeus’
armour adorned his shoulders; his
Fine shield gleamed
with gold, on which was engraved
The origins of the
Theban people. There Europa, the girl
From
And trusting now in
the waves, no longer held the horns
In her tender hand,
and the water played around her feet;
You’d have thought the
bull on that shield was alive as it
Cut the billows. And
the river lent credence to the scene,
The Ismenos of like
colour to the sea. Now Crenaeus
Boldly sought
Hippomedon with his weapons and with
Provocative words as
well: ‘This is not Lerna, ripe with
Poison; no Herculean
serpents drink these waters. This
Is a sacred river that
you enter, sacred waters (as you
Will find, you
wretch!) that nurture gods.’ Hippomedon
Made no answer but
attacked, though the river massed
Itself against him,
slowing his hand that still executed
The stroke though
hindered and penetrated life’s inner
Sanctums. The water
shuddered at the outrage; the woods
On both shores wept;
and the hollowed banks gave out
A deeper murmur. In
death, a last cry issued from Crenaeus’
Mouth: ‘Mother!’ he
called and the river closed over her
Unfortunate son’s last
words. She, stricken by the blow,
Surrounded by a host
of her grey-green sisters leapt from
The glassy depths in
frenzy, her hair dishevelled, and tore
At her face and her
green dress, wildly, beating her breast
Again and again. As
she burst from the water she called
His name, over and over,
in a quivering voice. Crenaeus
Was nowhere to be
seen, but his shield lay floating on
The surface, speaking
death only too clearly to his mother.
He himself floated far
off, where the Ismenos is changed
In its final outflow
by its first contact with the sea. She
Lamented as Halycone
does for her wave-borne home
And salt-drenched nest
when cruel Auster and hostile
Thetis have robbed her
of her children, her shivering
Nestlings. Bereaved
she sank again and, hidden deep
Beneath the river,
searched in vain for the body of her
Poor son, through many
a current still making moan.
Where the liquid path
shone before her as she went,
Often the harsh river
opposed her, and her eyes dimmed
With a film of blood.
Nonetheless, she swam swiftly,
Thrusting away javelins
and swords, searching helmets
And bending back prone
bodies with her hands. Not even
The ocean deterred her
and she was entering the brine,
When a compassionate
band of Nereids pushed his corpse,
Now possessed by the
tall breakers, to his mother’s breast.
Embracing him as if he
were alive she drew him back, laid
Him on the shore’s bed
and dried his wet face with her soft
Hair. Adding to her
cries of pain, she spoke: ‘Is this the gift
Your parents those
demigods, and Ismenos, your immortal
Grandfather, grant
you? Is this the way you shall reign over
Our flood? This
sounding, alien shore is gentler, alas, to the
Wretched; and gentler
the waves that mingling with the river
Returned your body,
seemingly awaiting your sad mother?
Are these my looks;
are these the eyes of your wild father?
Are these the tresses
of your wave-revolving grandfather?
You were once known as
the glory of woods and water;
While you lived I was
treated as a greater goddess, queen
Beyond comparison of
the Nymphs. Alas where is that host
Now that haunted your
mother’s threshold, nymphs of the
Dell begging to be
your slaves? Why do I bear you in my
Sad embrace, Crenaeus,
I who had better have remained in
The cruel deep, not
for myself but as my tomb? Ah, harsh
Father have you no
shame, no pity for such ruin? What deep
Ineluctable marsh in
the innermost recesses of your flow,
Hides you, where
neither news of your grandson’s dreadful
Fate or my lament can
reach you? See how Hippomedon
Rages, more powerfully
than before, swaggering through
Your flood, the banks
and waves trembling before him,
The water drenched
with our blood at every blow. You
Prove sluggish,
prepared to serve the fierce Pelasgi. Come,
At least to the
funeral and the ashes of your own. Not his
Pyre alone, but mine
too you shall kindle here.’ With this
She beat her breast,
staining its innocence with her blood.
Her cerulean sisters
echoed her lament. So in a haven of
The Isthmus, they say,
Leucothea, not yet a Nereid, wailed
As her chill gasping
son Melicertes spewed, on her, cruel brine.
Father Ismenos was
ensconced in his secret cave, from which
The wind and clouds
drink, which nourishes the rainbow, so that
Richer harvests grace
Tyrian fields. When, above the sound of
His own waters, he
heard the distant lament, his daughter’s
Fresh grief, he lifted
his neck coated with moss, his hair heavy
With ice, and the
full-grown pine fell from his loosened grasp,
His urn, relinquished,
rolled away. Along his banks the groves
And tributaries
wondered as his head emerged, mired with
Ancient silt. So he
rose from his swollen flood lifting his face,
Foam-covered, and his
chest down which the streams from his
Cerulean beard coursed
in sounding flow. One of the Nymphs
Greeted her father and
told him of his grandson’s fate, their
Family tragedy, and
taking his hand named the blood-stained
Culprit. Ismenos,
towering above the deep river, struck at his
Face, shook his horns
entwined with green sedge, and spoke
In sombre tones: ‘Ruler
of the gods, is this my reward, I who
Have often played host
and confidant to your doings (nor am
I afraid to recount
them): those Satyrs’ horns on a deceptive
Brow; that night when
the moon was forbidden to unyoke
Her chariot; that pyre
as a dowry, lightning elicited by a trick;
And I nurturing the
mightiest of your sons, or do they too
Hold my services of
little worth: Hercules crawling by my
Shore; Bacchus’ flames
extinguished for you by my waters.
See the carnage, what
corpses I carry in my flood dense
With weapons and
covered in a second layer. A series of
Battles occupies my
whole channel, all my waves breathe
Horror, and new shades
stray below, and above where my
Banks are linked by
darkness. I, a river that echoed with
Sacred cries, I who am
used to bathing Bacchus’ horns
And tender thyrsi with
my pure spring, I am choked with
Corpses, and seek a
narrowed passage to the sea. Strymon’s
Impious pools brim
with less gore, foaming Hebrus is dyed
No redder when Mars
makes war. Do my nurturing waters
Not admonish you and
your company, Bacchus, forgetful
Now of your childhood?
Or are you happier subduing
Hydaspes’ eastern
streams? As for you, Warrior, who now
Exult in the blood and
spoils of an innocent youth, unless
I prove mortal and
your blood divine you will not return
From me to mighty
Inachus, to cruel
So he spoke, and
gnashed his teeth, signalling to the raging
Waters. Chill
Commanding ancient
snows, that feed the wintry winds, to
Melt. His brother
Asopus added voiceless power to his flow,
Contributing streams
from earth’s open veins. Ismenos too
Explored the bowels of
the hollow earth, rousing the pools,
The settled lakes, and
sluggish marshes; and, lifting his eager
Face to the stars,
absorbed the mists and dried the moist air.
Now taller than either
bank he overran his shores; Hippomedon
Mid-river who had
stood chest and shoulders above the waters
Wondered at their
sudden increase as he sank lower. On every
Side swift gusts and
swollen waves rose like the sea when rain
Drains the Pleiades,
or dark Orion falls upon frightened sailors;
So the Teumesian river
tossed the hero, lifted by the flat of his
Buckler, on the
sea-like flood; leaping and foaming, to overtop
The hero’s shield with
a dark tide, then falling back, in breaking
Waves, to return with
greater volume. Not content with his liquid
Mass, Ismenos snatched
at trees that bound the crumbling banks,
Whirling away the ancient
boughs, and rocks loosed from his bed.
The unequal fight of
man and water now hung poised, and the god
Grew indignant; for
the hero, undaunted by his threats, refused to
Flee. He met and
entered the oncoming waves, cleaving the flow
With his outstretched
shield. Standing firm, as the ground eroded
Beneath him, legs
tensed against the slippery rocks, Hippomedon
Strained with his
knees, clung to his foothold in the treacherous
Mud undermining him,
rebuking the river: ‘Ismenos, why this
Sudden anger? From
what deeps do you draw this strength, slave
Of an unwarlike god,
free from all blood except in female orgies,
When Bacchus’ pipes
call and maddened women stain the triennial
Festival.’ He spoke
and the god came against him, his visage wet
With a cloud and rain
of floating sand. The god raged wordlessly,
Rising with an oak
tree’s trunk and striking his adversary’s chest
With all the power of
wrath and deity. At last Hippomedon was
Forced to retreat, the
shield shaken from his hand, and slowly
Turning his back he
reversed his steps. The waters bore down
On him; the river
following in triumph as he stumbled onwards.
The Thebans assailed
him too with a shower of stones and steel,
And drove him back
from the banks on either side. What was he
To do, attacked by
weapon and wave? There was neither chance
Of fleeing the flood,
nor an opportunity there for glorious death.
A standing ash tree
jutted from the edge of the grassy bank, whether
Rooted in earth or
water was uncertain, but friendlier to the water,
Occupying the flood
with its outspread shade. He clutched at it for
Help (how else could
he reach the shore?) hooking it with his right
Arm, but it could not
withstand his weight. Overcome by a burden
Greater than its
strength, it gave way. Detached from its roots in
The waves and those on
dry land, the trunk brought itself and the bank
Down on the anxious
hero, who was now at the end of his endurance,
And in its sudden
collapse enclosed him with its mass. Here the waters
Combined in an
inescapable pit filled with mud, and with whirlpools
Ebbing and flowing.
Now the winding eddies encircled the general’s
Shoulders, then his
neck. Confessing at last to his defeat, foreseeing
Death, he cried:
‘Great Mars (for shame!) will you drown me here,
To vanish beneath
sluggish pools and marsh, like a shepherd caught
In the angry waters of
a sudden torrent? Was I so unworthy of death
By the blade?’ Juno,
roused at last by his prayer, accosted Jupiter:
How far will you go,
great father of the gods, how far, in oppressing
The Inachians? Already
Minerva has been brought to loathe Tydeus;
Who is of Mycenean
race, whose home is
Above all (is this how
loyalty is repaid?), be prey for the cruel beasts
Of the ocean? Did you
not once grant tombs and funeral pyres to all
Those vanquished?
Where are the Cecropian flames after battle; how
Shall Theseus grant
him the final fire?’ Jupiter listened to his consort’s
Just plea, and cast
his gaze readily towards Cadmus’ walls; seeing his
Nod, the river
subsided. The hero’s bloodless shoulders and pierced
Chest appear to view,
as a rockbound shore the sailors sought appears
When a storm raised by
the high wind has abated, the waves retreating
From the jagged
cliffs. What use in being so near the shore? Theban
Warriors attacked him
on all sides with a shower of weapons. Nothing
Protected his limbs,
he was defenceless before death. His wounds open.
The blood no longer held
beneath the river is released to the naked air,
And looses the
contents of his veins. He stumbled, chilled by the water,
His footing unsure,
and fell forward as an oak tree falls on Getic Haemus
Toppled by the fury of
the north wind or by its own decay, its foliage
Once touching the sky,
now leaving behind a vast void of air; forest
And mountain trembling
as it totters, as to what direction it will drop,
Which trees it will
overwhelm in sequence. None was so daring as to
Touch his sword or
helm. Approaching closely with locked shields,
The Thebans viewing
the mighty dead could scarce believe their eyes.
At last Boeotian
Hypseus approached and pulled the sword from
Hippomedon’s cold
grasp, loosening the helm from the grim face.
Then he went through
the Theban ranks displaying the helmet high
On the point of his
gleaming blade, and boasting loudly: ‘Here’s
Fierce Hippomedon,
here’s the formidable avenger of the dreadful
Tydeus and the
conqueror of the blood-stained river.’ Great-hearted
Capaneus saw him from
afar and repressed his sorrow. Aiming a huge
Spear he cried: ‘Help
me, right arm, my only all-powerful and present
Deity in battle, I
call on you; I, the scorner of gods, adore you alone.’
So saying he himself
fulfilled the prayer. The pinewood shaft passed
Quivering through the
shield, the corselet’s bronze mail, and finally
Found the heart deep
in Hypseus’ mighty chest. He fell with a crash
Like a tall tower that
collapses, shaken to the depths by countless
Blows, opening a
breach to the city’s conquerors. Capaneus stood
Over him: ‘I shall not
deny the glory of your death; behold, I
It was gave you your
wound; die happy, and boast more loudly
Than other shades!’
Then he seized sword and helmet, snatched
Hypseus’ shield, and
holding them above Hippomedon’s corpse,
Cried: ‘Receive your
spoils and the enemy’s together, mighty
General. A funeral
will be granted your ashes, and due honours
To your shade;
meanwhile, until we can render you your pyre,
Capaneus, your
avenger, clothes your limbs with this sepulchre.’
So Mars, impartially,
devised similar wounds for the Argives
And the Thebans alike,
in the harsh exchanges of the battlefield.
Here fierce
Hippomedon, there Hypseus, no less active in the war,
Are lamented, and the mourning
on both sides gives them solace.
Meanwhile stern
Atalanta the Tegean mother of Parthenopaeus,
The young archer, was
troubled by gloomy visions in her sleep.
Before dawn, she took
her way to the chill waters of Ladon, her
Hair flying in the
wind, feet bare as usual, to purge her sinister
Thoughts in the living
waters. In the night, oppressed by a weight
Of cares, she’d
repeatedly seen spoils she had dedicated falling
From the walls of
shrines; and she herself, exiled from the forests,
Banished from the
Dryads, wandering among unknown sepulchres;
Or her son’s triumphs,
after the war, his companions and weapons,
His usual steed, but
never he himself; or again her quiver sliding
From her shoulder, and
her familiar images and portraits consumed
By fire. But that
night above all seemed to portend danger, rousing
Maternal feelings in
the poor woman’s breast. There was an oak
Rich in growth, known
throughout
Had chosen from the
many others in those groves, and consecrated
To Diana Trivia,
rendering it numinous by her worship. There she
Would lay aside her
bow, wearily, and there she hung the boars’
Curving tusks, and the
hides stripped from lions, and antlers large
As great branches. The
boughs were scarcely visible it was so hung
With rustic trophies
all around, the glint of steel dispelling the shade.
She saw herself, in
dream, tired from the hunt, returning proudly from
The mountains carrying
the freshly severed head of an Erymanthian
Boar, only to find the
tree on the ground dying, ravaged by wounds,
Its leaves scattered,
its limbs dripping blood. The Nymphs replied
To her questions by
telling of blood-stained Maenads and Bacchus’
Hostile cruelties. As
she groaned and beat her breast with phantom
Blows, her eyes had
opened to the darkness; leaping from her sad
Couch she examined her
face for the signs of those imagined tears.
Now, when she’d bathed
her hair three times in the river to expiate
The horror, and added
words of solace for a mother’s anxious cares,
She ran through the
morning dew to armed Diana’s shrine, joyful
To see the oak and the
familiar ranks of trees. Then standing there
At the goddess’
threshold, she prayed, though in vain: ‘Powerful
Virgin of the forests,
whose ungentle banner and fierce campaigns
I follow, scornful of
my gender and in no Greek fashion (nor have
The harsh folk of
You with greater
ardour) the dances and the wanton sport of night
Were never mine, and
though violated by a hateful union I never
Bore smooth thyrsi or
soft wool but even afterwards, even then,
Remained a huntress in
the gloomy wilds, a virgin at heart, nor
Did I choose to hide
my fault in some secret cave, but showed
My son and,
confessing, placed him trembling at your feet; nor
Was he unworthy of my
blood; for the boy soon crept towards
My bow and, with tears
and lisping speech, asked for weapons;
Grant, I pray, that I
may see him victorious in battle (for what
Do these nights of
fear, these dreams threaten?), he who went
To the war brave and
hopeful, trusting too much, alas! in you;
Or if I ask too much,
grant me at least to see him, once more.
Let him labour here
and bear your arms. Suppress the dire
Signs of evil. Why in
our groves, Diana of the Woods, must
Hostile Maenads and
Theban deity reign? Ah me! Why deep
Within (may I prove an
augur ignorant of futurity!) why so
Deeply do I interpret
a mighty omen from this oak-tree? Alas,
If sleep sends me true
presage of what comes; by your mother’s
Labour, gentle Diana,
and your brother’s glory; pierce this
Luckless womb with
your arrows. Let him know of the death
Of his unhappy mother
first.’ She spoke and saw that even
Snowy Diana’s altar
stone was moist with the flow of tears.
The fierce goddess
left her lying there at the sacred threshold,
And sweeping the cold
altar with her tresses. Diana leapt
Leafy Maenalus, among
the stars, where the sky’s far paths
Shine for deities
alone, and steered her high course towards
The walls of
Now midway on her
journey, passing over the leafy ridges
Of
Face sadder than was
his habit, returning from the Theban
Battlefield, mourning
Amphiaraus’ death in Earth’s abyss.
That region of the sky
reddened as the two shining ones met,
At their sacred
conjunction a light burning on both sides,
Their bows joining and
quivers responding. He spoke first:
‘Sister, I know: you
are seeking the troops of Labdacus
And the Arcadian who
braves a fight beyond his strength.
His faithful mother
has asked it of you: and would that
The Fates might let
you grant her prayer! Consider my
Feelings! Helpless to
intervene I saw my votary’s face,
(For shame!) turned
towards me, sacred fronds, and weapons,
Sink into Tartarus’
void. Nor, cruel that I proved, unworthy
Of worship, could I
halt his chariot and close death’s chasm.
You see my sacred cave
in mourning, sister, and my oracle
Mute: such the sole
gifts with which I reward my loyal seer.
Do not try to bring
useless help, a vain and mournful effort.
The lad’s end is nigh,
his fate unalterable: your prophetic
Brother shall not
deceive you: there is no room for doubt.’
With consternation,
the virgin goddess replied: ‘Yet at least
I can seek honour for
him at the last, and the solace in
Death that is mine to
grant; nor shall he who impiously
Stains his wicked
hands with the innocent youth’s blood
Escape punishment. My
arrows too have the right to fly
In anger.’ So saying
she flew on, grudgingly allowing her
Brother’s kiss, and in
her wrath sought the fields of
And now that leaders
on both sides had been slain the fight
Grew fiercer,
vengeance rousing mutual anger. Here roared
The squadrons of Hypseus,
troops robbed of their general,
There the orphaned
cohorts of dead Hippomedon. They
Offered their
straining bodies to the steel with the same
Mad eagerness to drain
alien blood as to shed their own.
Neither side had
advanced a step, but ranked in a wedge,
Were laying down their
lives before the savage foe, face
Forwards, when
Latona’s swift daughter glided down
From the air and stood
on the summit of Dirce’s peak.
The hills knew her and
the woods trembled to recognise
The goddess, there
where bare-breasted she had once
Slain Niobe’s brood,
with cruel arrows and tireless bow.
Parthenopaeus
meanwhile, now the slaughter had begun
Swept through the
ranks on a stallion new to the bridle,
To whom war and
suffering were previously unknown.
The horse was adorned
with a striped tiger-skin, those
Gilded claws tapping
at the shoulders. The mane was
Knotted, flat,
curtailed; and a crescent necklet of white
Boar-tusk, a mark of
the forest, bounced at his chest.
Parthenopaeus himself
wore a cloak twice-steeped in
Oebalian dye, and a
tunic bright with gold (the only
Garment his mother had
woven) gathered round his
Loins with a slender
band. He had allowed his shield
To rest on the horse’s
left shoulder, while his sword,
Too large for him,
weighed heavily. A golden brooch
With a polished clasp
to the belt that hung around his
Strong flanks, was his
delight. And he loved the rattle
Of scabbard and
quiver, and of the chain-mail falling
From his helm to touch
his back; and to give sometimes
A joyous toss of his
horse-hair crest and let the shining
Gems on his helmet
glitter: though when his brow was
Hot with battle, he
freed it and rode with his head bare.
Then his hair gleamed
handsomely; handsome his eyes
With tremulous rays,
and cheeks whose lack of downy
Beard annoyed him with
their tardiness. Nor was he
Made vain by praise of
his beauty, marring his looks
With many threatening
frowns, though his angry brow
Maintained a seemly
aspect. The Theban warriors,
Remembering their own
sons, freely gave way to him,
Withdrawing their
levelled spears, but he charged on,
Flinging cruel
javelins at those who showed him pity.
Even the Sidonian
Nymphs on the Teumesian ridges
Praised him as he
fought, winning their favour in
Sweat and dust; and
they sighed with silent longing.
As Diana watched the
spectacle, tender sorrow melted
Her heart’s depths and
she marred her cheeks with tears:
‘What refuge from
approaching death can your faithful
Goddess find for you
now? Did you then rush to battle
Of your own free will,
fierce boy, who one must pity?
Alas, it was raw
courage and impatience drove you,
And the love of glory
exhorting valorous death! Long
Have Maenalus’ forests
seemed too small for you, lad,
As age prompted; and
those paths to wild beasts’ dens
Barely safe there
without your mother whose woodland
Javelins and bow your
precociousness lacked the strength
To manage. Now she
offers lament and many a reproach
At my altars, wearying
doors and thresholds deaf to her.
You happily rejoice at
the fine noise of the trumpets and
The shouts of battle,
only your poor mother foreseeing
Your death.’ Then lest
she be there as a helpless witness
To the dying youth’s
final glory, she entered the ranks
Of warriors, hidden by
a dark mist. First she stole light
Arrows from the brave
lad’s quiver and filled it with
Celestial darts, none
of which falls without taking blood.
Then she sprinkled
ambrosial liquid over his limbs, over
His horse too, so that
his body might be unmarred by any
Wound before the end,
accompanying this with sacred
Chants and words of
secret knowledge that she herself
Teaches Colchian women
by night in the hidden caves,
Or in pointing out
wild herbs to them as they search.
Now with outstretched
bow he spurs here and there, fierily,
Beyond reason,
forgetting his native land, his mother, self;
Spending the heavenly
arrows too swiftly. So a young lion
Scorns the gory food
his Gaetulian mother brings, feeling
The mane rising on his
neck and savagely examining his
Adult claws and,
exercising his freedom at last, delights
In the open plains,
all thought gone of returning to the den.
Reckless lad, whom do
you not slay with your Parrhasian
Bow? Your first arrow
caught Coroebus of Tanagra: fired
Through the narrow
slit between the helmet’s lower edge
And the rim of his
shield, it suffused his throat with blood,
And his face flushed
with the fire of divine poison. Eurytion
Met a crueller fate;
the point of the wicked triple barb buried
Itself in his left
eyeball. Pulling out the arrow with the ruined
Orb at its end, he ran
at the archer, but what can the powerful
Shafts of the gods not
accomplish? The wound brought twin
Darkness to the other
eye, completing its effect: foolishly he
Still pursued his
tormentor in thought, until he stumbled over
The prostrate Idas and
fell: there he lay, poor wretch, gasping
Among the corpses of
that savage battle, praying to friends
And foe alike for
death. Parthenopaeus added to his victims
Abas; Argus notable
for his tresses; and his brother Cydon
Loved incestuously by
his unfortunate sister. Cydon was
Pierced through his
groin, and Argus through his temples
With a slanting shaft,
the steel tip visible on the one side,
The sleek fletches on
the other, blood flowed from both.
The sharp arrows show
no mercy. Lamus was not saved
By his beauty, Lygdus
by his sacred ribbon, or Aeolos
By his youth. Lamus
was pierced through the face, Lygdus
Groaned at a wound in
the thigh, Aeolos at a deep gash
In his pale forehead.
One, steep
White Thisbe sent;
one, green Erythrae will not see again.
Parthenopaeus aim
never misses, no missile flies without
Divine help, his right
hand knows no rest and every arrow
Joins its whirring
flight to its precursor. Who would believe
A single hand and bow
was at work? Now he aimed ahead,
Now at random launched
an attack on one side or the other,
And then fled his
assailants, looking back only to aim his bow.
And now the Thebans
were united in wonder and indignation.
Amphion, of Jupiter’s
illustrious race, spoke first, unaware
As yet of the carnage
Parthenopaeus had dealt: ‘How long
Can you stave off
fate, lad, who richly deserve to bereave
Your parents? Your
pride and audacity run high only because
No one deigns to fight
you, thinking it not worth battling you
For so little,
considering you beneath their anger. Go back to
His rage here on the
real battlefield. Yet, if the melancholy
Glory of the grave
tempts you we’ll grant you a man’s death!’
Meanwhile Atalanta’s
fierce son, deeply stung, was seething
And before the other
had finished replied: ‘I am too old to take
Up arms against
He would refuse to
fight the likes of these? You see Arcadian
Not Theban stock
before you, the seed of a warlike race. No
Maenad woman, slave to
Echionian Bacchus, gave birth to me
In the silence of
night. I never set an unsightly turban on my
Brow or brandished a
shameful spear. I learned from the cradle
How to crawl over
frozen rivers, and enter the dreadful lairs
Of wild beasts; and
(what more to say?) my mother always
Has bow and blade
about her, while your ancestors ever beat
Hollow drums.’ This
was too much for Amphion, who hurled
A mighty javelin at
the speaker’s mouth. But Parthenopaeus’
Horse, scared by the
fatal brightness of the steel, swerved aside,
And, as he turned, the
eager missile passed his master by. All
The more fiercely
Amphion, with drawn sword, was seeking
The youth when
Latona’s daughter appeared suddenly amidst
The battle, and stood
before his eyes, full face, opposing him.
Maenalian Dorceus was
often at his side. Atalanta, in her anxiety,
Had entrusted him,
bound as he was to the youth by innocent
Affection, with protecting
the lad’s tender years in battle. Diana,
Masked with his
features, spoke: ‘Enough, Parthenopaeus, you
Have harried the
Ogygian troops enough! Now think of your
Unhappy mother and
whoever of the gods may wish you well.’
Unafraid he replied;
‘Most loyal Dorceus, all I ask is that you
Allow me to stretch
him on the ground, this man who carries
Weapons to compete
with my weapons and boasts my armour
And sounding reins.
The reins I’ll grasp, the adornments I’ll
Hang from Diana’s high
lintel, the captured quiver will be my
Gift for my mother.’
Diana heard and smiled amid her tears.
Meanwhile Venus in a
distant region of the sky watched all
This, embracing Mars.
Speaking to her dear lord of
Of Cadmus, and of the
descendants of their dear Harmonia,
She opportunely
stirred the resentment hid in his silent heart.
‘Mars do you not see
how Diana, flaunting her virginity, shows
Herself among the
warrior host, how boldly she governs armies
And martial banners?
See how many of our race she supplies
As gifts for
slaughter? Are valour and wrath now deemed hers;
And you left to hunt
the deer? The Lord of War, roused to battle
By her just complaint,
now plunged into the fray, anger alone his
Companion as he
plummeted through the outstretched void, his
Other Frenzies
labouring in the fight. Swiftly now he came to
Leto’s sorrowing
daughter, and reprimanded her with a harsh
Warning: ‘These are
not the battles that the Father of the Gods
Allotted you. Unless
you leave the field of arms now, shameless
One, you will find
that even Pallas is unequal to this right hand.’
What could she do?
Mars’ spear on the one hand, the youth’s
Fatal thread full-spun
on the other; and, far off, Jove’s frowning
Countenance. She went,
defeated at last by her shame alone.
But Mars surveyed the
Theban army and roused dread Dryas,
Whose blood derived
from turbulent Orion, and whose hatred
Of Diana’s companions
was hereditary (hence his rage). He
Fell on the routed
Arcadians with his sword, leaving their
Leader defenceless. In
serried ranks he slew the people
Of Cyllene; the men of
shadowy Tegea, Aepytian generals
And the Telphusian
troops, trusting to kill Parthenopaeus,
Whose hand grew weary,
his strength expended. For, tired
Now, Parthenopaeus
switched squadrons, here and there.
A thousand presages of
doom oppressed him, black mists
Of death went before
him. Now, alas, he found few friends
Remained, saw the true
Dorceus, felt his strength ebbing
Gradually, felt his
quiver exhausted; his shoulder lighter.
Now it was harder and
harder to raise his weapons, even
To himself he seemed
but a boy – then fierce Dryas flamed
Before him, his shield
glittering dreadfully. A sudden pang
Gripped the Arcadian’s
face and body. As a white swan,
Seeing above him an
eagle, bearer of the lightning bolt,
And folding his
quivering wings to his breast, longs for
Strymon’s bank to
open; so the youth, beholding the form
Of savage Dryas, was
seized not with anger but a shudder
Presaging death.
Pallid he still raised his shield, and praying
In vain to Diana and
the gods, readied his unresponsive bow.
About to shoot,
straining both arms, the bow-tips meeting
The arrow’s point; the
cord, his chest; suddenly Dryas’ spear,
Hurled towards him
with great force, cut the tense vibrating
String in two; his
shot was lost, the arrow fell idly from his
Useless hand, and the
bow-tips sprang erect. Then, in turmoil,
The luckless youth
dropped reins and shield, unable to endure
The wound the spear
had made piercing the fabric covering
His right shoulder and
the flesh beneath. A second spear
Hamstrung his horse,
halting its flight. Then Dryas himself
Fell (wonderfully
strange!) unconscious of any wound;
The weapon’s sender
and the cause to be revealed some day.
The youth meanwhile
was carried by his friends to a quiet
Corner of the field.
Dying, he wept (alas, the innocence of
Youth) for his fallen
horse! His helm unloosed, his features
Sank, and there in his
flickering eyes failing beauty faded.
Time and again they
gripped his hair, and lifted his head
That would not stay
erect, while (a tragedy to make
Herself weep) blood
ran purple from his snow-white breast.
At length he cried,
his sobbing breath interrupting speech:
‘I die, Dorceus; go
comfort my poor mother. If anxiety
Delivers true
presentiments, she has already seen for sure
This sad hour of evil
in sleep or through some omen. But
With honourable
cunning you must keep her fears at bay,
And long deceive her.
Do not approach her suddenly or
When she has weapons
in her hands. And when at last
You must confess; tell
her that my last words were these:
‘Mother, I have
deserved this; punish me, though it may be
Against your will. A
mere lad I took up arms, and refused
To stay even when you restrained
me; nor even in battle
Did I spare you fear.
Live; and be angered rather by my
Brave pride. Now lay
fear aside; you will gaze in vain
From Lycaeus’ hill,
hoping for a distant sound through
The mist, and for the
dust raised by my troops. Cold I lie
On the naked earth,
and you not here to touch my face
Or receive my parting
breath. But this lock of hair,
My bereaved mother
(and with his hand he offered it
To the blade) this
lock of hair, you used to comb to
My disdain, you’ll
possess in place of my whole body.
To it grant burial,
and duly ensure that no novice blunts
My arrows, my beloved
hounds are led no more among
The glades. As for
this bow, unlucky in its first campaign,
Burn it, or hang it
high as a reproach to ungrateful Diana.’
End of Book IX
Dewy Night, impelled
by Jove’s command, shrouded Phoebus
At the western gate.
Jove took no pity on the Argive camp
Nor on the Theban
forces, but it saddened him for so many
Foreign warriors, and
the innocent, to be thinned by the sword.
The plain was
disfigured by the broad patches of shed blood.
There were corpses
robbed of their pyres, abandoned limbs;
There were weapons;
and the horses that men had ridden so
Proudly: left behind.
Now the inglorious armies with battered
Standards disengaged
their failing lines. The gates that proved
Too narrow for
warriors going to battle seemed wide to those
Returning. The sorrow
was equal on both sides; but that four
Danaan squadrons had
lost their great captains gave solace
To
The steersmen gone,
guided by the winds, chance and the gods.
The Tyrians were so
bold as to stand their sentries down, but
They kept watch solely
for the enemy’s flight, if they, content
To turn for home
perhaps, should seek
Were given, and turns
of duty set: the leaders of this nocturnal
Warfare being Lycus at
his request, and Meges chosen by lot.
Then, their
dispositions agreed, they hoisted their weapons,
Food, and means for
fire. The king exhorted them as they left:
‘Conquerors of the
Danai (tomorrow’s dawn is near, darkness
That intervened to
save the cowards will not last forever), be
Of good cheer; bear
hearts that are worthy of heaven’s favour.
Lerna’s glory and her
greatest warriors are slain. Tydeus has
Gone to vengeful
Tartarus. Death stands amazed at Amphiaraus’
Living shade; Ismenos
boasts the spoils of stricken Hippomedon;
We are ashamed to
count only Parthenopaeus among our trophies.
Victory is in our
hands; the noble leaders of their army, the crests
Displayed by their
seven squadrons are fallen. Are we to go in fear
Of aged Adrastus; my
brother, with his inexperience; or Capaneus’
Crazed threats? Go
now; light watch-fires around the besieged.
There is nothing to
fear from the foe. You’ll guard wealth, spoils,
Already yours.’ So he
encouraged the fierce scions of Labdacus.
They were ready to
repeat their exhausting toil, and turned round,
Without respite; dust,
sweat and blood mingled on their bodies;
Scarce taking time for
those who would meet and talk with them,
Even shaking off their
loved ones’ embraces. Then they divided
The watch of the enemy
camp between them, front, rear, curved
Flanks, and surrounded
the ramparts with hostile fires. So a great
Pack of ravening
wolves with gaping jaws will gather at nightfall,
From the surrounding
countryside, starved with hunger, despite
Its attendant daring;
now they press against the very sheepfolds,
Their bellies
tormented by hope denied, by the quavering bleats,
And odour of rich
flesh from the pens. All that is left them is to
Blunt their claws and
rasp their chests against the solid posts,
And grind their fangs,
un-moistened by blood, at the threshold.
But prostrate in the
courts of the far-off Argive temple, before
Their native altars, a
host of suppliant Pelopean women begged
Sceptred Juno for aid
and for their loved ones’ return, pressing
Their faces against
the painted doors and cold stones, showing
Their little children
how to lie prone in worship. Their prayers
Had already laid day
to rest; now night followed with its cares
The heaped altar fires
keeping vigil. They had also brought her
A gift in a basket, a
robe whose wondrous fabric no barren or
Divorced woman had
handled, adornment for the chaste goddess,
And not to be scorned.
The rich purple blazed with gold, with
Various embroidered
work. There was the goddess herself
Innocent of marriage,
betrothed to great Jupiter, timorously
About to change from
sister to wife. With downcast eyes she
Tasted the kisses of
young Jove, she as yet un-betrayed,
Not knowing a
husband’s deceptions. With this garment
The Argive women
veiled the holy ivory and made their
Prayers with tears and
pleas: ‘Queen of the starry heavens,
Gaze on the
sacrilegious towers of Theban Semele, shatter
The paramour’s tomb,
and hurl another lightning bolt (as you
Can) against
rebellious
Knew that the Fates
and Jove were against her Argives, yet
She would not have the
prayers or the gift offered in vain.
Then Fortune helped,
and gave her a vital opportunity for aid.
From on high, she saw
the city gates closed, and the Greek
Ramparts surrounded by
a vigilant guard. She trembled with
The sting of anger;
her hair, stirring, shook the sacred diadem.
She’d burned no more
fiercely when, deserted among the stars,
She had waxed
indignant against Alcmene who bore the burden
Of Hercules; against
Jove’s double infidelity. Now she resolved
To plunge the Thebans
in the sweetness of an untimely sleep.
And offer them to
Death. She ordered her servant Iris to don
Her usual bands of
colour, and assigned her the whole task.
That gleaming goddess
obeyed her orders, and left the sky,
Descending to earth
along the suspended bridge of her bow.
Beyond the misty
regions of western night, and all their dusky
Peoples, lies a still
grove no star can penetrate; below it a massy
Cave with porous rocks
pierces a hollow hillside, where sluggish
Nature placed the
house of idle Sleep, his untroubled dwelling.
Shadowy Rest and lazy
Oblivion and torpid Sloth with never
Wakeful face, guard
the threshold. In the hallway Ease and
Silence sit mutely
with folded wings, keeping blustering winds
From the ceiling,
forbidding branches from straying, depriving
Birds of their song.
Here is no roar of waves, though all shores
May sound; nor any
from the sky. Close by the cavern, even
The stream flowing
among rocks and boulders down the steep
Valley is silent.
Every sheep of the black herd around lies on
The ground; the new
shoots droop; a breath from the earth bows
The grasses. Within,
fiery Mulciber’s carved a thousand images
Of the god. Here
wreathed Pleasure clings to his side, there his
Comrade Toil sinks to
rest; and elsewhere he shares a couch with
Bacchus or Mar’s
child, Love. While further on, in the deepest
Recesses of the
dwelling, he lies down with Death, though none
Are saddened by that
thought. These: the images. He himself rests
In the damp cave, on
sheets strewn with soporific flowers. His
Clothes breathe; the
covers are warm from his idle body; above his
Couch, dark vapour is
exhaled from his gasping mouth. One hand
Supports the hair
tumbling from his left temple, the other has let fall
His forgotten horn.
Around him, countless dreams of various kinds
Wander, true mixed
with false, ardent with sad, the misty hosts of
Night that cling to
the rafters and doorposts, or rest on the ground.
The glow that
surrounds the cave is dim and faint, and languid lights
That invite the first
moments of slumber expire in flickering flames.
Here Iris, the
many-coloured maiden hovered in the dark-blue sky.
The woods were bright,
the gloomy valleys smiled on the goddess,
And, struck by her
gleaming arch, the house awoke. But Sleep was
Untouched by the
goddess’ shining rays and the sound of her voice;
He lay there as before
until Thaumas’ daughter shed all her light
Upon him, shining deep
into his motionless eyes. Then the golden
Source of rain-showers
spoke to him: ‘O Sleep, kindest of the gods,
Juno commands you to
capture the Theban generals, the people
Of fierce Cadmus, who
now elated by the battle’s outcome watch
The Achaean camp and
deny your power. Grant her heartfelt prayer:
Rarely could you earn
Juno’s goodwill so easily, without offending
Jupiter.’ So saying,
she thumped his idle breast with her hand lest
Her words were wasted,
admonishing him again and again. With
The sole look on his
face of agreement, he assented to the goddess’
Command. Iris left the
damp cave, her bow more heavily charged
And she brightened her
darkened rays with rich showers of rain.
Sleep too roused his
feet and his winged temples to action, filling
His billowing cloak
with the chill air of a sombre sky. Silently
He flew through the
upper levels of the air and loomed heavily
Over the Theban
fields. His influence brought birds, wild creatures,
Cattle to the ground;
wherever he flew the waters dropped languidly
From the cliffs, the
woodland trees bowed their crowns, and stars
Fell in greater
numbers from the drowsy sky. The god’s presence
Was first felt as a
sudden darkening of the plain, and the endless
Noise and cries of the
warriors were hushed. But when he hovered
On moist wings,
entering the camp in the densest of black shadows,
Their eyes drifted and
their heads bowed; words were left unfinished
In mid-speech. Soon
they let fall their gleaming shields and cruel
Javelins, and their
faces sank wearily on their chests. And now all
Was silent: even their
war-horses were powerless to stay standing,
And sudden falls of
ash extinguished the watch-fires they had lit.
But Sleep did not lull
the Argives to like slumber; the seductive
Powers of the
night-wandering god refrained from loosing his
Mists on the
neighbouring camp. The armed Argives stood there,
Indignant at the
shameful nocturnal effrontery of the watch-fires.
Behold now a sudden
ecstasy, a divine madness, gripped the mind
Of Thiodamas, either
at Juno’s prompting or kindly Apollo’s rousing
Of his new priest, commanding
him with wild disturbance to reveal
The future. Thiodamas
leapt into their midst, dreadful to see
And hear, unable to
endure the deity’s power that a frail receptive
Mind cannot contain.
Its promptings overflowed; the naked frenzy
Filled his visage; the
flow of blood alternately swelling and draining
His quivering cheeks.
His gaze wandered here and there; tossing
His head, he flailed
the wreath about that was entwined in his hair.
So Cybele, the Great
Mother of Mount Ida, drives the blood-stained
Phrygian from her
dread shrine, unconscious that steel has pierced
His arms, as he beats
the sacred torches against his breast, whirls
His gory tresses, and
deadens the fresh wounds by his flight, till
All the fields are in
dread, spattered the sacred pine-tree of worship,
And the lions that
draw her chariot rise up, in their astonishment.
Thiodamas ran to the
inner council chamber, the revered house
Of the standards,
where Adrastus made ill by their long series
Of cruel disasters
deliberated, in vain, on their desperate state.
About him the
newly-appointed generals, seconds-in-command
To the dead, stood in
those places left empty by the great kings,
Not joyful at such
promotion to the heights, but grieving still.
Likewise when a ship
has lost her captain, and wanders about
In mid-course, the
officer at the prow, or he who guards her
Flanks, takes command
of the straying rudder; but the vessel
Is stalled and her
tackle slow to respond while the divinity,
Whose figurehead is at
the stern, fails to accept a lesser hand.
Now the augur,
inspired, filled the Argives with fresh courage:
‘Generals, I bring
mighty commands and dreadful admonitions
From the gods: these
words come not from my own mind:
Amphiaraus, he who
agreed to your calling me to his service,
And entrusting me with
his sacred ribbons, he it is that speaks.
A night rich in action
and suited to a noble stratagem, is now
Revealed by divine
augury. Valour calls to us directly, and
Fortune demands our
efforts. The Theban ranks are stupefied,
Sunk in sleep. Now is
the moment to avenge our dead kings,
And a wretched day.
Grasp your weapons now, open the gates
Without delay: this
action will ensure them their funeral pyres,
And us our own. I
foresaw it, during the day’s fighting as our
Army was humbled, and,
beaten, we turned our backs. I saw it
(I swear, by the
tripods and my lost master’s strange fate) and
Around me birds
flapped their wings auspiciously. But now I
Am certain: a moment
ago, in the silent night, he himself rose,
Rose from the earth
that split once more; just as he once was
(The shadows had only
veiled his horses) Amphiaraus came
To me, no phantom of
idle slumber, no product of mere sleep.
He cried: ‘Will you
leave the Inachians to squander this night
In idleness, you
degenerate? (If so, give back my Parnassian
Wreaths; return to me
my divine powers!) Did I not teach you
The secrets of the
heavens, in the flight of birds? Go, at least
Take vengeance for my
sake with the sword!’ He spoke, and
He, in his chariot,
with raised spear seemed to push me towards
The threshold. To
work, then, and make use of the divine; our
Enemies are not lying
here: battle is afoot and savage power.
Who will join me,
while the Fates allow, eager to raise himself
To the heights? Behold,
again the birds of night prove benign;
Even though my
comrades in this army hold back, I’ll obey,
I’ll go alone, for he
indeed comes with me, shaking the reins.’
So he cried,
disturbing the night, and the generals were roused
As though the same god
were in all their hearts; they burned
To accompany him in
the one cause. He himself was prompted
To choose thirty men,
the pick of the army. Round him, other
Warriors protested
loudly, asking why they must stay in camp
In vain idleness. Some
boasted their noble birth, others their
Ancestral deeds or
their own, others call for lots to be drawn,
Then on all sides they
demand it. Adrastus rejoiced in their
Protests and his
spirits rose. Likewise on Pholoe’s high slopes,
The keeper of swift
horses is happy, when foals have swelled
The herd in teeming
spring, to see some struggling to climb
The heights, others
swimming the torrents, others vying with
Their parents; then he
ponders in mind which should be broken
Gently to the harness;
which will ride well; which are born for
War and the sound of
trumpets; which to win the Elean palm.
Thus the aged leader
of the Achaean host. Nor is he absent from
Their enterprise:
‘From where does this sudden inspiration come?
Which of you gods has
returned to shattered
Here, in misfortune,
does the blood of our race still flow, do
The seeds of virtue
endure in a time of wretchedness? Now
I commend you, noble
warriors, and delight in my comrades’
Glorious sedition. Yet
guile, and secret warfare is our plan,
Our movements must be
hidden: a crowd is no use for dark
Mischief. Keep your
spirits high; behold, dawn will visit
Vengeance on our foes.
Then the fight shall be in the open,
And we will attack
together.’ After these words, soon
The warriors valour
was harnessed and controlled. It was
As though Aeolus, the
cave of the winds in uproar, were
To place another rock
against the door, and imperiously
Block the exit, just
as the winds were eager for the waves.
The prophet added
Agylleus, son of Hercules, and Actor
To his strength: the
latter skilled in persuasion, the former
Boasting a strength
equalling his father’s. Each of the three
Led ten men of the
thirty, a formidable force even to face
The Thebans. Thiodamas,
new to warfare, adopted a martial
Air, laying sacred
twigs aside, Apollo’s emblems; handing
His brow’s adornments
to the aged king; and donning helm
And mail, a gift of
Polynices in thanks. Fierce Capaneus
Weighed Actor down
with a great sword; scorning, himself,
To attack an enemy
with guile or follow divine command.
Agylleus exchanged
weapons with fierce Nomius: what use
Hercules’ bow and
arrows in battles in the deceptive dark?
Then they leapt from
the steep battlements to the rampart,
Lest the loud creaking
of the bronze gate sound too loud.
It was not long before
they saw their prey, scattered over
The ground, seeming as
though they were already dead,
And slain by the
sword. Now with loud voice the priest
Exhorted them:
‘Forward comrades, wherever the lust
For endless slaughter
takes you, favourites of the gods,
I pray you do not fail
them! See the cohorts defenceless
In vile languor. Shame
on them! Are these the men who
Dared to besiege the
Argive camp, and keep guard over
Warriors? So saying he
drew his gleaming sword, and
Passed swiftly through
the dying host. Who could count
The dead or put names
to the lifeless throng? Randomly
He struck at back and
chest, leaving the helmets to stifle
Their murmurs, their
wandering ghosts bathed in blood.
One man was stretched
out carelessly on a couch; one
Had sunk at last with
sagging steps onto his shield, barely
Gripping his weapons;
others lay grouped among wine cups
And armour’ others
leant on their shields where the final mist
Of fatal sleep had
overcome each drowsy man where he lay.
Divinity was there,
since Juno, armed and brandishing
A torch, bright as the
moon, with her bared right arm, lit
The Argives’ way,
strengthening their courage and pointing
Out the victims.
Thiodamas felt the goddess’ presence, but
Hid his joy in
silence. Now his hand slowed, his sword
Grew heavier, and his
anger waned at such success.
Thus, a Caspian
tigress, who has slaughtered huge steers,
Her rage quenched by
endless bloodshed, her jaws weary,
The stripes of her
coat smeared with thick foul gore, will
Survey the scene and
grieve that her hunger is diminished.
So the exhausted seer
wandered amongst the Theban dead.
At times he prayed for
a hundred hands and arms for battle,
At times he wearied of
draining the blood from torpid flesh
Wishing instead that
the enemy might rise up against him.
Elsewhere, Actor and
Agylleus, great Hercules’ scion, were
Wasting the drowsy
Thebans, the troops advancing in a swathe
Of blood. The grass was
soaked black with gore, and the tents
Were awash with
sanguinary streams. The earth smoked; one
Exhalation of death
and sleep together rolled across it. None
Of the prostrate men
raised their heads, so dense the darkness
With which the winged
god hovered over the wretches, their
Eyes opening only in
death. Ialmenus, doomed never to see
Another sunrise had
spent his last night’s watch in play and
Music: singing a
Theban song of victory, overcome by the god,
His head drooped
leftward, now he lay slumped over the lyre.
Agylleus drove his
spear through the back and chest, striking
The right hand on the
tortoiseshell plectrum setting the fingers
Quivering among the
strings. Spilt blood upset the wine-cups.
Water mixed with that
dire stream, and Bacchus’ wine too
Revisited the depths
of the mixing bowls and dishes. Fierce
Actor killed Thamyris
in his brother’s embrace;
Wreathed Echeclus from
behind; Danaus severed Hebrus’ head,
Snatched unaware by
the Fates, his spirit flitting to the shades
With no pain, escaping
the torments of a cruel death. Stretched
On the cold ground
near his chariot and faithful horses, Calpetus
Disturbed them with
his heavy breathing as they cropped their
Native turf. His moist
mouth overflowed as inflamed with wine
He tossed and turned
in sleep. The Inachian seer slit his throat
Where he lay, and a
great gush of blood drove out the wine, as
His fragmentary cry
was stifled by the gore. Perhaps his rest
Had been prophetic and
in his heavy slumber he had dreamed
Of Thiodamas, and of a
The fourth watch of
the drowsy night remained, with drifting
Cloud and many stars
obscured, as Bootes fled at the approach
Of the Sun’s mightier
carriage. Now the action had ended, and
Actor called to Thiodamas:
‘This unlooked-for success should
Satisfy the Pelasgi.
Few of that host, I think, have escaped
Cruel death; only
cowards whom a living shame may conceal
In the bloody depths.
Halt this, while good fortune attends us.
Fatal
Favoured us are
departing.’ Thiodamas agreed, and raised his
Dripping hands to the
stars: ‘Apollo, I assign to you these spoils
Of a night you
revealed to me, even though my hands are not yet
Cleansed with water,
since I, a fierce warrior of the tripods and
A faithful priest,
gave this welcome sacrifice to you. If I have
Responded to your
urging, not disgraced the charge you gave,
Come again to me;
deign to invade this mind of mine again.
Now I bring you only a
crude offering, broken weapons and
The blood of soldiers,
but if ever, Paean, you grant us to see
Our native country and
the shrines we long for, remember
My vow, Lycius, and
claim an equal number of rich gifts
For your sacred
portals, and as many bulls.’ So he prayed,
And re-called his
comrades from their successful action.
Among them, as was
fated, were Calydonian Hopleus and Dymas
The Arcadian, both
past companions of their leaders, both dear
To them, and both
still grieving and indignant at surviving them.
Hopleus the first to
speak, challenged Dymas: ‘Noble Dymas,
Have you no thought
for your dead king now he is lost? Already
The Theban dogs and
carrion birds may have him. What will you
Arcadians take back to
your country? Behold his angry mother
Will meet you on your
return, asking where his body is. In my
Thoughts, Tydeus, whatever
state his body, however un-mourned
His death may be,
lacking a grave, rages still. I still wish to go
Search throughout the
cruel field, or the very midst of
Dymas replied: ‘I
swear by these scattered stars, by the shade of
My leader, a god to
me, I am of the same mind. Dejected by grief,
I have waited to find
a companion, but now I will lead the way.’
His face turned sadly
towards the heavens, he prayed: ‘O Moon,
Mistress of the arcane
night, if as they say your divinity appears
In triple form, if you
visit the woods with a different face, Diana,
(Gaze upon us now at
least) it is your dead companion we seek,
Your own lad, the
peerless foster-child of the forests.’ The goddess
Inclining her chariot
towards them, brought the arc of her horns
Near, and shed her
kindly rays, revealing the bodies. The plain lay
Open to the view, with
In anger, shatters the
night sky with thunder, clouds part, the starry
Flames appear in the
lightning flash, the world is suddenly displayed
To sight. Dymas
received the rays, and Hopleus, struck by the same
Glow saw Tydeus. They
signalled to one another through the dark,
Rejoicing, and each
lifted to his shoulders a beloved burden, as
Though restored to
life, returned from cruel death. Wordless, not
Daring to weep for
long, cruel day being close and the sunrise
Threatening to reveal
them, they walked mute through the gloomy
Silence, striding out,
grieved to see the dying shadows grow pale.
Fate is hostile to
virtue, and Fortune is rarely a friend to great
Actions. Already they
could see the camp, and in their minds
Were close and their
loads lighter, when a sudden cloud of dust
And noise rose behind
them. Brave Amphion led the cavalry,
At his king’s command,
to check the guarded camp by night.
He was the first to
see something stirring, far off in the plain’s
Pathless regions,
unclear to sight (light had not yet dispelled
All the darkness)
something indistinct, like bodies in motion.
Suddenly, discerning
mischief, he cried out: ‘Halt, whoever
You may be? Clearly
they were enemies. The Argives pressed
Ahead: afraid, but not
for themselves. Amphion now threatened
The anxious men with
death, hurling a spear from some distance,
But aiming high as a
warning, pretending to a misdirected throw.
The weapon pierced the
ground before Dymas’ eyes, he chancing
To be in front, and
checked his step. But great-hearted Aepytus
Had no such thought of
losing an opportunity, and transfixed
Hopleus from behind,
even grazing the body of Tydeus where
It hung from his
shoulders. Hopleus fell, still carrying his noble
Leader, and died still
grasping him, happy not to feel the body’s
Subsequent removal,
descending unknowing to the cruel shades.
Dymas turned and
seeing that the pursuers were close upon him,
Was unsure whether to
meet their attack with weapons or prayer.
Anger counselled
weapons, Fortune urged him to pray, not fight.
He was uncertain of
either course. But anger overcame entreaty.
He set the pitiful
corpse at his feet, twisting the huge tiger-skin
That chanced to clothe
his back to the left to act as a shield, then
Stood firm, presenting
his drawn sword, facing their weapons,
Prepared equally to
kill or die. So a lioness with cubs, attacked
In her wild lair by
Numidian hunters, standing over her young
Gnashes her teeth in
grim and piteous manner, in her confusion;
She could dislodge the
men and shatter their weapons in her jaws,
But love for her
offspring fills her savage heart and in her fury
She still looks for
her cubs. Now Tydeus’ left hand was cut away,
Though Amphion forbade
desecration, and Parthenopaeus’ body
Was dragged about by
the hair. Only then, too late, Dymas asked
For quarter, and
lowering his sword pleaded: ‘By the cradle of
Bacchus born of the
lightning, by Ino’s flight, by the tender years
Of your Palaemon,
handle him more gently! If any of you delight
In sons at home, if
any here is a father, grant the boy his meagre
Handful of dust and a
little fire. He asks it, his mute face makes
Request. Give me to
the wild beasts; it is more fitting that I am
Food for the carrion
crows, since I dared him to fight this war.’
‘Not yet,’ Amphion
replied, ‘tell me first, if you are so eager
To bury your king,
what battle plan the cowardly Argives make;
What is it, broken and
weary as they are, that they intend? Out
With it, and quickly.
Then take your leader and your life, go
Freely and inter him.’
The Arcadian shuddered and drove his
Blade, hilt and all,
into his breast: ‘That would be all I lacked
To crown my
misfortune, that I should turn traitor and dishonour
Have wished to win
burial thus.’ So saying he hurled himself
On the boy’s corpse,
bleeding from his deep wound, with these
Last words: ‘Let me
grant you this funeral shroud at least!’ So,
A brave and noble
pair, Aetolian Hopleus and Arcadian Dymas
That noted warrior,
breathed out their mighty spirits embracing
The kings they had
loved, and delighting in death. Hallowed,
You too will live in
memory throughout the ages, though my
Song rises from a
lesser lyre than Maro’s, and perhaps his
Euryalus shall not
scorn your company among the shades,
And Phrygian Nisus’
glory shall grant you entrance there.
Now fierce Amphion
sent report of the action to the king,
Informing him of the
enemy’s guile, restoring the captive
Bodies. He himself
went to taunt the besieged Pelasgi,
And flaunt the severed
heads of their countrymen. From
Their battlements
meanwhile the Argives saw Thiodamas
Returning, and were
unable to contain their outburst of joy.
Discerning the shields
and drawn swords red with blood
From the recent
slaughter, fresh cries rose to the mighty
Heavens, and the
warriors leaned from the upper ramparts,
Each man eager to
greet his friends. Likewise when a nest
Of fledglings spy
their mother in the air flying homewards,
They long to reach
her, hang from the rim, gaping, about
To fall, did she not
spread her feathers to prevent them,
And rebuke them with
her careful wings. While the men
Told their tale of the
covert action, and summarised their
Silent killing, their
joyous embraces granting satisfaction
To their friends, and
awaited Hopleus, and complained
At Dymas’ delay,
behold, the leader of the Theban troops,
Amphion, arrived on
swift wings. He was not pleased by
His tally of dead for
long, seeing the field drenched by
The warm blood of
Expiring in ruin. A
trembling seized him, such as grips those
Touched by a fire from
heaven and, shuddering, his voice
Sight and strength
failed as one. His horse, of its own free
Will, turned about, as
he groaned, and the squadron fled
Kicking up dust behind
it. They had not yet reached
Gates when the Argive
cohort, buoyed by the night’s success,
Charged onto the
field. Over the limbs and weapons of those
Fallen, over earth
fouled by blood, over mounds of the dying,
The horses thundered,
while a bloody rain bathed and clogged
The chariot wheels.
The warriors relished taking that path, as
Though in their pride
they trampled
In the pools of blood.
Capaneus urged them on: ‘Your valour
Has been hidden long
enough, Pelasgians. Now, now will
The victory this day
shall witness be glorious to me; come,
Openly with me,
through dust and clamour, before all eyes.
I too bear prescient
omens in the dread fury of my drawn
Sword.’ So he spoke,
and King Adrastus and his son-in-law,
Polynices, burned with
ardour, and the augur followed now
More sadly. Soon they
were near the walls (while Amphion
Was still relaying the
new disaster) and would have entered
The unfortunate city
there and then, if Megareus, on a high
Watchtower, had not
shouted in an instant: ‘Close every gate,
Men, the enemy is
approaching, barricade the gates all round.’
Sometimes excess of
fear grants strength: swiftly every gate
Was barred; except the
Ogygian where Echion was slow to
Close it and the bold
Spartan warriors broke through,
Only to fall at the
threshold: you Panopeus, who lived on
The slopes of
Taygetus; and you Oebalus, a swimmer in
The chill Eurotas; and
you O Alcidamas, victor on every
Wrestling ground and
lately a winner in the Nemean dust,
Whose first gloves
were tied by Pollux, Tyndareus’ son,
Himself, eyes seeking
your mentor’s bright constellation;
Though the god himself
has set; his star deserting you all.
One the Oebalian
forest shall mourn; one the Spartan girl’s
Deceptive shore by
that river where Jove played the swan;
One Diana’s Amyclaean
Nymphs, that one whose mother,
That taught him the
rules and wise precepts of battle, shall
Complain that he
learned his lesson only too well. So Mars,
Raged at the
vulnerable threshold of Echionian Thebes.
At length Acron,
shoving with his shoulders, Ialmenides
Thrusting with the
full force of his body, turned the timber
Of the bronze-clad
gate on its hinges, both straining like
The groaning bullocks
that plough Pangaea’s fallow soil.
Their efforts achieved
both gain and loss, enemy soldiers
Trapped inside, but
their own comrades shut out. Greek
Ormenus fell within.
As Theban Amyntor stretched out
His hands in a flood
of entreaties, his neck was severed,
And his head, its
tongue still moving, fell to the ground,
His fine necklet,
drenched with blood, falling from his
Throat onto the
hostile sand. Meanwhile the ramparts
Were breached, the
first ranks of the defenders lacking
Courage and
retreating. The Argive infantry reached
The walls, but horses
balked at leaping the wide moat;
They halted trembling
fearing the gap, startled at being
Urged forward: now
they make to plunge from the lip,
Now of their own
accord they rear against the harness.
Some men tore away
defensive lines set in the ground,
Others toppled
barriers in front of the gates, or sweated
To remove iron
palisades and push stones from their
Base with rams tipped
by echoing bronze. Some hurled
Torches at the roofs,
exulting when they lodged firmly,
Some mined the
foundations, or tested the hollow towers
Blindly from beneath
the linked shields of their testudo.
But the Thebans
occupied every high point on the walls,
And, as their only
course of action, hurled fire-blackened
Stakes against the
enemy; bright steel javelins; fire-balls
That ignited as they
flew through the air; even the stones
From the walls. The
battlements poured out a fierce hail
While the windows,
defended, emitted whistling darts.
Like gales that lurk
in the clouds above Malea, or high
Ceraunia, and gather
over the darkened hills to burst
Against ships’ sails,
the Theban weapons overwhelmed
The Argive troops. But
the warriors refused to avert their
Faces or chests from
the dreadful onslaught, and faced
The walls, oblivious
to danger, pre-occupied with their
Weapons alone. Antheus
was circling the walls in his
Scythed chariot when
the plunging weight of a Theban
Spear struck him from
above. The reins were torn from
His hand, and thrown
backwards he was caught by his
Greaves encasing dying
flesh. A mischance in battle,
Astounding to behold,
his shield dragged on the ground,
The dust was ploughed
by the smoking wheels, as
His spear traced a
third furrow, while the lolling head
Followed making a long
trail in the dust, the broad wake
Marked by his
backward-streaming hair showing plain.
Now the trumpet’s
mournful clangour batters at the city,
Breaking through
blocked portals with its piercing bray.
Covering the
approaches, at each gateway, stands a fierce
Ensign-bearer,
displaying to all their disasters and victories.
Within, the scene is
dire. Mars himself scarcely delighted
In the sight. The
frenzied city was maddened by terror:
Grief, Madness, Panic
and blind Flight encompassed by
Darkness tore it apart
in a chaos of discord. You would
Have thought the
battle was within. The heights seethed
With movement, the
streets were confused with cries,
And in their minds
they saw fire and sword on every
Side, and themselves
weighed down by cruel chains:
Fear consumes the
future. Now they thronged the roofs
And temples, the
unyielding altars surrounded by lament.
The same terror
gripped all ages. Old men summoned
Death, the young
turned red then pale, hallways shook
To the cries of women
wailing. Children wept without
Understanding,
troubled, and frightened simply by their
Mothers’ tears. Driven
by love, the women’s despair
Showed no shame: they
handed their husbands’ weapons,
Roused anger and
courage in them, exhorted them, ran
Alongside, and never
ceased to point, groaning, to their
Houses and their
little children. So, when a shepherd has
Disturbed wild bees,
while plundering their hive in some
Stony cavern, the
savage swarm hum loudly, exciting
Each other with their
buzzing, and fly at the enemy’s
Face; then, wings
failing, they lament, surrounding
The golden nest with
its honeyed cells, pressing their
Bodies against the
combs that cost them so much labour.
The crowd’s sentiments
were divided, a conflict sowing
The seeds of discord:
some called (not quietly, but openly
With loud shouts) for
the restoration of Polynices as king,
Losing, in their fear,
all respect for Eteocles: ‘Let the exile
Return and reign for
his year as agreed: let the unfortunate
Man revisit his
Cadmean home and his father’s blindness.
Why should we pay in
blood for a deceitful and perjurious
Crime perpetrated by
the king?’ Others cried: ‘It is too late
To invoke their pact.
Polynices will seek total victory now.’
Others again, a
suppliant throng, begged Tiresias, tearfully,
As the sole
consolation in time of trouble, to read the future.
He kept the gods’
decrees suppressed, concealed in his heart:
‘Did our leader credit
my advice and warnings before when
I opposed this
treacherous warfare? Yet, wretched
Doomed to perish if I
am silent, I shall endure the sound of
Your destruction,
feeling the Argive flames warm my empty
Sockets. Piety; let me
concede; ready the altars, girl, let us
Make enquiry of the
gods.’ Manto obeyed, and her keen
Vision reported to him
that the crimson flame of the altar
Fire split in two, yet
a bright tip rose clearly in the midst;
Then she described to
him how it twisted in a double spiral,
In the phantom image
of a snake, wavering with fragmentary
Redness: and thus
Manto illuminated her father’s darkness.
Tiresias embraced the
wreathed flames a while, breathing
The prophetic vapours,
his face filled with passion. His hair
Rose in dread and
dismay, wild tresses lifting the trembling
Ribbons. You might
have thought his blind orbs had vision,
That the
long-exhausted colour had returned to his cheeks.
At length he gave
voice to his seething frenzy: ‘Listen,
O guilty scions of
Labdacus, to the final sacrifice the gods
Require. Sweet salvation
comes, but by a harsh road. Mars’
Serpent demands a
cruel offering, and the rites for the dead.
Whoever is the
youngest of the people of the snake let him
Die. Only in this way
will victory be granted. Happy is
The man who shall
leave this life to win so great a prize.’
Creon stood beside the
prophetic seer’s cruel altar, saddened
But until now only
mourning his country’s and the common
Fate: suddenly he felt
Tiresias’ words as an immense lightning
Bolt, stricken, as
though a flying javelin had pierced his breast,
Knowing that his son
Menoeceus was the one required, for
Deep dread turned the
father’s heart to ice, and fear persuaded.
He stood there
anguished and in shock, as the Sicilian shore
Receives the waves
thrown back by the Libyan surge. Now
He begged in vain for
the seer, filled with Apollo’s power
As he was and
demanding action, to be silent; now grovelling
At his feet, now
clasping his mouth tight shut as he chanted.
Already Rumour
grasping the sacred utterance flew with it
In her embrace, and
soon all of
Clio, come now, since
the ages and the annals of antiquity
Are in your keeping,
recount the tale that is in your memory:
Tell how the youth was
inspired to delight in glorious death
(Since such ardour is
not stirred in men except by the gods).
Divine Courage,
attendant on Jupiter’s throne, from which
She is only rarely
granted to the world so Earth may know her,
(Either when the
almighty Father gifts her to us, or she herself
Deigns to enter the
mind that can receive her as she did then)
Leapt down rejoicing
from the celestial regions – the bright
Stars gave way for her
as she fell, the heroic fires she herself
Has placed in the sky;
and now she trod the earth, although
Her gaze is never far
from the heavens. She thought it well
To alter her looks,
and appear as prophetic Manto, so that
Her words might be
believed entire; and cunningly shed
Her former aspect. The
power and severity left her eyes,
But something of the
beauty remained, with softer aspect.
She laid aside her
sword, replacing all with a seer’s robe,
Whose folds descend,
while a sacred ribbon is bound about
Her formal tresses
(replacing victory’s laurels), though her
Austere countenance,
and long stride, yet betray her divinity.
So Omphale, Hercules’
Lydian wife, smiled to see him bereft
Of his bristling
hides, huge shoulders bursting the Sidonian
Robes as he broke the
distaffs and ruined the beaten drums.
Courage found you,
Menoeceus, standing near the Dircaean
Gate; not unfit for
the sacrifice required; worthy of the deed.
The entrance to the
massive gateway was unbarred, and you
And warlike Haemon
were laying the Danaans low, though
You took the lead
despite both being of one blood, brothers
In all things. The
dead were piled around. Every dart found
Its mark, every blow
wrought slaughter (even though Divine
Courage had not yet
appeared); neither mind nor heart rested.
His eager weapons had
no respite, the very Sphinx, guardian
Emblem of his helmet,
seemed maddened; her image seemed
Alive, roused by the
sight of blood, glittering as the spattered
Bronze gleamed. But
the goddess stayed his hand and sword
As he fought: ‘O,
great-hearted youth, whom Mars would know,
Above all others, to
be of Cadmus’ warlike seed, leave these
Petty skirmishes; not
such is the due your courage owes you.
The stars summon you:
think more nobly, and you shall raise
Your spirit to the
heavens! For this my Tiresias has raved at
The blessed altars;
flames and entrails will it; Apollo urges.
They demand an
earth-born hero to save our country’s blood.
Rumour chants the
prophecy, the people of Cadmus rejoice,
Trusting in you: feel
the god’s inspiration: grasp a noble fate.
Go hasten, I beg,
before Haemon, behind, takes your place.’
So she spoke and, as
he hesitated, stroked his chest, silently
With her great hand
and left her influence in his heart. No
More swiftly does a
cypress tree blasted by lightning feel
The angry flames from
root to tip, than that youth possessed
By divine power;
spirit exalted; felt the love of glorious death.
Seeing her walk and
bearing as she turned away; how ‘Manto’
Rose from earth to the
sky; he cried, wonderingly: ‘Whichever
Deity you are that
summons me, I follow; I hasten to obey.’
Even as he went, he
stabbed Agreus of Pylos who threatened
The rampart. The
armour-bearers relieved him of his burden.
A delighted crowd at
his entry hailed him now as their saviour,
A bringer-of-peace,
and their god, filling him with noble fire.
Now, breathlessly, he
was making his way to the battlements,
Pleased to have
avoided his parents in their distress, when
He met Cleon, his
father, and both stood still, eyes downcast,
Neither speaking.
Cleon was the first to begin: ‘What event
Brings you from the
battle? What do you seek more urgent
Than the war? Tell me,
son, I pray you. Why so grim, why
This pallor in your
cheeks? Why do your ferocious eyes
Not meet your father’s
gaze? You’ve heard the seer’s utterance,
That’s plain. Son, I
beg you, by your years and mine, by your
Unhappy Mother’s
breast, my son, do not believe the prophet!
Would the gods deign
to inspire an impious old man with
Empty sockets in his
hollow face, a punishment like that of vile
Oedipus? What if this
is treachery, a cunning ruse of the king,
Who in his desperate
state fears our nobility, and your courage,
Notable among the
generals? Perhaps the words thought to be
The god’s are his; and
his, the command. Rein in your hot mood,
Grant time, exercise a
brief delay; impulse is ever a bad master.
Grant your father this
request, I beg you. Then your brow may
Be marked by old age’s
grey hairs, and you yourself become
A parent, and live,
brave boy, to fear as I do. Do not leave us
A house bereft. Do
other fathers and their children move you?
For shame! First have
pity on your own. That is piety, that is
True honour: the rest
is only glory, vain honours, reputation
Wrapped in death. I am
no coward that seeks to dissuade you.
Go, make war; pierce
the Danaan ranks; brave their swords;
Make yourself a
target: I will not restrain you. But let me wash
Away your streaming
blood with my tears and let me heal your
Quivering wounds, and
send you time and again into cruel battle.
Such is what
Held his hands, but
neither words nor tears moved the young
Man, pledged to the
gods. Rather, at their prompting, he chose
To keep his own
counsel, and deceive his father, allay his fears:
‘Ah, good father, you
are mistaken, you are ignorant of what we
Should truly fear. The
commands or utterances of frenzied seers
Trouble me not nor
move me with their untruths (let the cunning
Tiresias sing them to
himself and his daughter) no not if Apollo
Himself were to ope
his shrine and rave in my face. But my dear
Brother’s grievous
mischance brings me back to the city of my
Own free will. Haemon
groans, between their lines and ours,
Barely out of the dust
of battle,
Delay. Go, comfort him
in his uncertain state, tell the bearers
To take care, and
carry him gently. I go to find Aetion, skilled
In healing wounds and
calling back a life that is ebbing away.’
Cutting short his
speech, he hurried onwards; Creon’s mind was
Immersed in a dark
fog, his thoughts confused. His duty seemed
Uncertain, his fears
in conflict; the Fates urging him to believe.
Meanwhile warlike
Capaneus drove the host emerging from
The open gates over
the level field; now cavalry squadrons,
Now infantry, now
chariots trampling on their driver’s bodies.
His men batter at the
high towers too with a continuous hail
Of rocks, routing the
enemy bands, with their blood on fire.
Now Capaneus inflicts
fresh wounds with swift whirling lead,
Now spins a javelin
high with his outstretched arm. No spear
Reaches the
battlements but brings down its man, returning
Wet with slaughter.
The Pelopean phalanx no longer believe
Tydeus or Hippomedon,
Amphiaraus or Parthenopeus, dead:
Rather that the
spirits of his friends have merged together in
The one body, so well
does Capaneus fill the void they left.
No man’s age or rank
or beauty move him. He rages against
Those who fight and
those who plead alike. No one opposes
Him for long or hopes
for some perverse eventuality of battle.
Far off men dread the
frenzied weapons, the fearful plumes
And visor. But pious
Menoeceus now took his chosen stand
On the battlement.
Holy his looks, more majestic than his
Usual aspect, as
though he had descended suddenly from
The heavens. Doffing
his helmet, recognizable to all, he
Gazed down on the
ranks of warriors and with a loud cry
Called attention to
himself and brought silence to the field.
‘Deities of battle,
and you O Phoebus, who grant me so noble
A death, grant
The gift of my blood.
Drive back the enemy, and thrust their
Vile remnants on
captive Lerna. Let Father Inachus
reject his
Inglorious
foster-children as they tend their lacerated backs.
But let the price of
my death restore temples, land, homes,
Wives and children to
the Thebans. If I am pleasing to you
As sacrifice, if my
ears heard the prophet’s utterance without
Dismay, and accepted
when
What is due to
Amphion’s walls, in exchange for my life,
And appease, I beg
you, the father I deceived.’ So he spoke,
And with glittering
blade dealt himself a solitary blow, that
Pierced the flesh and
freed a noble spirit that disdained its
Body, and grieved to
be confined. Bespattering the tower
And walls with blood
so purifying them, he plunged into
The midst of the
warriors below, still grasping the sword,
His corpse aimed at
the fierce Achaeans. But Valour and
Piety seized his body
in their arms and carried it gently
To the earth. For his
spirit had long since sped to Jupiter’s
Feet, and claimed for
itself a place among the noblest stars.
Now, recovering the
body without effort, since the Argives
Withdrew in reverence,
of their own accord, the people bore
The hero within the
walls, with ritual celebration. Carried
On the shoulders of
the Theban warriors, in long procession,
All the folk accorded
him grateful honour, calling him their
Guardian spirit, above
Amphion and Cadmus their founder.
Some heaped his corpse
with garlands, some with scattered
Flowers of the spring.
His body placed in the ancestral tomb
And their praises
done, they returned to battle, while Creon
Mourned with tears,
his anger forgotten: and then the mother,
Eurydice, had her
chance to lament: ‘Did I nurture you, noble
Boy, as a sacrifice
for fierce
Though I was some
worthless creature’s mother? What sin
Have I committed?
Which of the gods hates me so? I saw
No son return to me in
monstrous union. I bore no grandchild,
Through a fatal
marriage with my own child. And yet, see you,
Jocasta has her sons,
and beholds them still captains and kings.
Must I make cruel
offering in war (was such your pleasure, god
Of the lightning
bolt?) so that those brothers, sons of Oedipus,
Might take turns with
the crown? Why do I complain though
Of gods and men? It
was you, cruel Menoeceus, who, above all,
Hastened to kill your
unhappy mother. Why such love of death?
What cursed madness
seized your mind? What did I conceive?
What did I bear? A
child so unlike myself. Surely it was Mars’
Serpent and the earth
flowered with our ancestor’s new-born
Weapons – hence that
wretched courage, and all too much of
That war-god’s fire in
your heart, nothing of your mother. See,
Destroyed of your own
free will, you go to the shades, without
The Fates so wishing.
I feared Capaneus’ weapons and the Danai,
But this hand I should
have feared, this and the weapon I gave
You in my foolishness.
See how deeply the blade entered his
Throat? The Danai
themselves could not have struck deeper.’
The unhappy woman
would have gone on speaking, filling
The world with her
complaint, but her companions led her
Away and her maids,
comforting her regardless, kept her to
Her chamber, where she
sat, her cheeks scarred by her nails.
She took no note of
daylight or words of entreaty nor, bereft
Of mind and voice,
turned her distraught gaze from the ground.
So a fierce tigress
whose cubs have been taken lies alone in her
Scythian lair, and
licks the paw-prints on the still-warm stone;
Her rage gone, the
wilderness quiet, her rabid hunger stilled,
Flocks and herds pass
unafraid, as she lies there and watches;
Where are those for
whom she stored nourishment in her body,
Those to whom she,
long awaited, might bring her rich prey?
So much for the war of
weapons, trumpets, steel and wounds:
Now Capaneus must be
brought to battle with the starry sky.
I may no longer sing
in that manner poets so often adopt;
I must ask a more
exalted inspiration of the Aonian groves.
Goddesses dare all
with me! Did a frenzy, out of the depths
Of night grip the
warrior? Did the Stygian Sisters take arms
Against Jupiter,
following Capaneus’ banner? Or was he
Filled with courage
beyond all bounds, a reckless thirst for
Renown, and the fame
that a glorious death may bring? Or
Was his previous
success the mere harbinger of disaster,
The gods in their
anger, enticing mortals to their doom?
Now Capaneus scorned
the ground, tiring of that slaughter
On the plain. His and
the Argives’ missiles were exhausted
Long since, and his
arm was weary. He gazed up at the sky,
Then with a grim look
took the measure of the high towers,
And had a long wooden
scaling ladder with countless rungs
Brought forward.
Terrible from afar he brandished a blazing
Torch of flaring oak,
that reddened his arms, reflecting fire
From his shield. ‘This
is the gateway to
‘This is the way my
rising courage commands me to go, here
Where the walls are
slippery still with Menoeceus’ blood.
I will test what his
sacrifice achieved, and whether Apollo
Deceives.’ So saying
he mounted the ladder step by step,
To gain the besieged
city. So the giants appeared amongst
The clouds, when
impious earth was piled high as though
To overtop the gods,
with Jove anxious since Ossa almost
Reached him before
vast Pelion had been heaped upon it.
Then the Thebans,
truly terrified by this ultimate act of fate,
(Thinking the city
faced final ruin and Bellona had arrived
With blood-stained
brand to level its towers to the ground)
Vied to launch huge
stones and stakes from every rooftop,
And whirl loaded
slings – how ineffective javelins proved
And cloud-wandering
arrows! – eagerly winding catapults,
And hurling iron
masses. The missiles flung, from above
Or behind, failed to
bring him down. Balanced in thin air,
As though he were
treading firmly on the level ground,
Capaneus climbed
upwards despite that mighty avalanche.
Thus a river will
batter against a bridge with endless waves,
Piling against the ancient
timbers, till gaps appear between
Its stones and beams
fall; all the more violently the river,
Sensing success,
hammers away and drags at the failing
Mass with its powerful
surge until its swift flow loosens
All the bolts, and,
victorious, runs smoothly, its course free.
At last Capaneus
towered above the long-sought summit,
And standing erect
gazed at
By his vast shadow.
Now he threw taunts at Amphion’s
Turrets, their
defendants cowering in dismay: ‘For shame!
Are these frail things
the walls that danced to his lyre’s
Unwarlike song, in
that oft-told lying fable of
How hard can it be to
level walls raised by gentle music?’
With which he attacked
the blocks of stone with hands
And feet, demolishing
wooden tiers and flooring in his
Path. The bridging
planks flew apart, the stone ties of
Roof coverings gave
way, the battlements were dismantled.
Re-utilising them, he
hurled broken fragments onto houses
And temples below
crushing the city with its own defences.
But now the gods who
favoured
Round Jove, shouting
their various complaints; the Father,
Trying to be fair to
all, witnessing their mighty outbursts
Of temper, knew that
only he himself could control them.
Bacchus groaned as his
stepmother watched, and looking
Askance at his father,
cried: ‘Where is your fierce hand,
And the flames that,
sadly, formed my cradle? Where, oh,
Where is the
lightning-bolt?’ Apollo, whose oracle helped
Found
Lerna against it,
stood there irresolute, with strung bow;
Perseus, Danae’s
winged son, lamented for his mother’s
Of her husband Vulcan,
stood apart from him, gazing
At Mars in silent
anger. Bold Minerva rebuked the Aonian
Gods, while Juno stood
there, mute, tormented with fury.
Yet none of this
troubled Jupiter’s calm. The noise had
Subsided when, behold,
Capaneus’ voice was heard in
The heavens: ‘Do none
of the gods defend trembling
Accursed land, where
are Bacchus and Hercules? I am
Tired of attacking
weaklings; come then (for who is
Worthier to face me?)
See, I hold Semele’s tomb and
Ashes. Come, battle against
me with your fires, Jupiter!
Or are you only brave
when terrifying a frightened girl
With your thunder, or
razing her father Cadmus’ towers?
The gods, lamenting
his words, groaned. Jupiter himself,
Merely laughing at the
madman, shook his sacred locks:
‘If the giants’
audacity at Phlegra failed, what can a man
Expect? Must I strike
you, too?’ The crowd of deities urge
Their patient leader
on, from every side, grinding their
Teeth and demanding
militant retaliation, nor does Juno,
Subdued, dare any longer
to thwart the Fates. Now even
The heavenly region
thundered of its own accord, without
Jove’s signal; clouds
gathered without a wind, and the rain
Rushed forth. You
might have thought giant Iapetus had
Slipped his Stygian
chains, or
Had released their
prisoners to the sky above. The gods
Were ashamed of such
apprehensions, but when they saw
Capaneus stand amidst
the whirling globe, wildly demanding
Would launch his
lightning-bolt. Over the Ogygian tower’s
To veil themselves in
gloom. Yet Capaneus still clung there,
On the now shrouded
heights, crying out as lightning flared
From the heart of the
restless storm: ‘These, yes these flames
I should deploy
against
Re-kindling its
smouldering oak-wood.’ At these very words
The lightning struck
him, hurled with Jupiter’s full strength.
First the plumes on
his helm were charred and the scorched
Boss of his shield
fell away; then all his limbs were aglow.
The ranks fell back,
both armies terrified, anticipating his
Plunge from the
heights wondering whom his fiery corpse
Might strike. He felt
the fire hiss, in his helm and hair, then
Within him, and trying
to clutch the chain-mail with his
Hand, touched the
glowing remains at his breast. Yet still he
Stood there expelling
his last breath towards the stars, his
Smoking frame pressed
to the stones he hated. Nor would
He have fallen if his
earthly powers had not deserted him,
His spirit freed. Had
his body failed him a moment later,
He would even have
greeted Jove’s second lighting-bolt.
End of Book X
Once the fury of
mighty Capaneus’ outrageous daring
Had faded, and he had
exhaled the flames within him,
(
That accompanied his
fall from the battlements) Jupiter,
Victorious, calmed the
shaken regions with his right hand,
And, with a look,
restored the skies above, and the light.
The gods praised him
as though he came breathless from
Battling the giants at
Phlegra, and heaping
Scorched Enceladus.
Capaneus’ corpse, grim of aspect,
Still grasping
fragments of the shattered tower, lay there,
Bequeathing to the
nations the memory of his deeds, not
Unappreciated by
Jupiter himself. The outstretched body
Bulked as large as
that of the violator of Apollo’s mother,
Tityos, in Avernus,
where even the vultures shudder as
They retreat from the
cavities of his chest, viewing that
Prostrate giant’s
limbs, his wretched entrails regenerating
To nourish them once
more. So Capaneus, flung to earth,
Burdened the foreign
field he scorched, the soil exhaling
Sulphur from the sky.
Masses in the temples
rose. Mothers dared to release their
Children from their
arms, as the prayers and the despairing
Lamentations ceased.
But the Achaeans sped over the plain
In scattered flight,
fearing not merely the enemy squadrons
Or mortal blades, but
the wrath of Jupiter still before their
Eyes, their armour
burning them, and their helmets ringing,
With every pang of
fear. In their terror, Jove himself seemed
To pursue them, and
block their escape route with his flames.
The Theban army pressed
on behind, taking advantage of that
Sky-born tumult. So
growling bears, eager wolves approach,
After a lion in
Massylian fields has rent the untamed leaders
Of the herd with his
mighty jaws; the scavengers with lesser
Rage that come to feed
on another creature’s prey. Eurymedon
On one flank, urged
them on, wild and bristling in his armour,
Rough-cut javelins in
his hand, his nature to stir trouble (Pan
Was his father); on
the other flank young Alatreus, his deeds
More powerful than his
years suggested, matching his youthful
Father; both joyful
but the begetter happier, nor was it possible
To say whose weapons
rang louder; who threw the swifter spear.
The ramparts of the
Argive camp were crowded with a dense
Swarm of fugitives.
Mars, your transformations! The Pelasgi
Who had lately scaled
So clouds retreat, so
crops bow this way and that as the south
Wind veers, so with
white foam the tide now veils now bares
The thirsting sands.
Tyrinthians died far and wide, who copy
The accoutrements of
their nursling god; while that fierce son
Of Amphitryon, their
Hercules, grieved as he watched among
The stars at Nemean
hides, clubs, quivers, drenched in blood.
On the iron-clad top
of an Argive tower stood Enyeus, adept
At urging men on with
the trumpet to martial action. But now
He was sounding the
retreat for those in trouble, urging their
Flight, giving the
direction of the camp. Suddenly a missile
Descending caught him
aslant, and passed through his hand
And his left ear as he
blew. Now, his spirit fled to the empty
Breeze, his mouth cold
and silent; the last note echoing alone.
Then Tisiphone,
revelling in evil, exercised by the blood of both
Peoples, sought to end
the war by a duel between the brothers.
Yet she doubted
herself adequate to such a conflict unless she
Roused Megaera, with
her kindred snakes, from the infernal deep,
To act as her
companion in war. So she took herself to a secluded
Valley, and dug at the
soil with her Stygian blade, and murmured
The name of her absent
sister, and (sure signal to the Elysian realm)
Raised a horned
serpent from her hair to utter a lengthy hiss. He was
The king of her dusky
tresses, and when earth, sea and sky heard
Him they shuddered,
and Jove again looked towards
Megaera, who was
standing beside Dis while Capaneus, bathing his
Noble shade in the
stream of Styx, was lauded by the assembled host,
Heard the sound.
Bursting the earth apart, the dead rejoicing, she stood
At once, beneath the
stars; and while the blackness below grew lighter,
So the daylight above
waned. Her dark sister, with a clasp of the hand,
Welcomed her, saying:
‘Alone on earth, facing a hostile world, Sister,
I have executed our
Stygian Father’s dread commands, and endured
The frenzy imposed,
while you others hold Elysium and the compliant
Shades in check; nor
have my labours been in vain: nor my spoils here
Shameful. That all
this plain is drenched, pooled with steaming blood,
That Lethe’s bank holds
a countless swarm, such is my meaning, those
The happy tokens. Why
speak of it? Let Mars have them, and let Enyo
Boast of them to the
world. You saw (for he was surely visible from
The Stygian shades)
that general’s jaws foul with blood, face dripping
With dark gore, as he
chewed insatiably on the wretched skull I gave
Him. Just now did you
not hear a dreadful noise descending to your
World from the stars?
That sacred thunderstorm was mine; I mingled
Among the warriors
with their frenzied weapons, scorning the warring
Gods and the
lightning-bolt’s mighty wrath, but now (I must confess)
My heart grows weary
with long labour, Sister, my hands are slowed:
Hell’s torch of yew is
dulled by the light; unwonted rays of too many
Stars make my serpents
drowsy. Join forces with me, you whose fury
Is still intense,
whose joyous tresses wave fresh from Cocytus’ fount.
We shall prepare no
customary battle, no war of armies, but brothers’
Swords must be drawn
in conflict, brothers’ I say (though kindly Faith,
And Piety resist us,
they shall be conquered). A mighty task! Let us
Assume their hatred
and their hostile weapons. Why do you delay?
Come: choose which
banner you shall bear. Both ready, and ours.
Yet I fear lest the
uncertain mob, a mother’s pleas, or Antigone’s
Gentleness in
entreaty, retard our progress somewhat. And even he,
Who wearies us with
his prayers and calls on us to avenge his lost
Sight, plays the
father: he is said to weep by himself alone, apart
From all others.
Indeed I myself hesitate to burst into
Familiar home. Make
the impious exile obey you; urge on Argive
Wickedness; let mild
Adrastus not prevail; and beware lest the host
Of Lerna delay. Go,
and return as my enemy, in this duel of theirs.’
Such were the tasks
the sisters undertook, taking their separate paths;
Just as the North wind
and the South stir war from the opposite poles,
The former feeding on
Rhipaean snows, the latter on Libyan sands;
And sea, rivers, sky,
woods complain while disaster looms; farmers
Bemoan their losses,
yet pity the sailors overwhelmed in the depths.
When Jupiter from high
Trembling orb stained
and spotted, he uttered a spate of grave words:
‘You gods have seen
martial fury taken to the limit of what is lawful,
Or acceptable in war,
though one of them chose impious means; daring,
But doomed to fall by
my hand. Now a terrible duel approaches, one
Unknown before to
wretched earth. Avert your eyes! Let them hide
From Jove, and attempt
such things only in the gods’ absence. Enough
To have seen Tantalus’
dire banquet, Lycaon’s guilty altars,
Hastening to shroud
the sky with starry darkness. Now too day must be
Confounded. Earth,
receive the clouds that veil evil, let the sky be dim;
I am resolved to spare
the universe and my celestials the sight. Let not
The stars of kindly
Virgo or the Twins bear witness.’ So the almighty
Father spoke, removing
his gaze from the guilt-ridden fields, while
The lands beneath now
missed the clear skies that were dear to them.
And now the virgin
daughter of Erebus traced Polynices path through
The Argive army and
found him at the gate itself, uncertain whether
To attempt escape by
death or flight from such weighty misfortune.
The doubts in his
troubled mind were fuelled by omens. Wandering
The ramparts in the
depths of night, in ill thought, anxious, considering
The worst, he had seen
the image of his wife Argia, lacerated, bearing
A funeral torch (the
gods show us signs: so she would walk; the torch
Such as she would
carry for her husband): when he asked where she
Was going, why the
grief, why the emblems of mourning, she merely
Wept, and silently
averted the flame. He knew the dark vision existed
Only in his mind; for
how could his wife have come from
And be suddenly there
on the rampart, but he recognised it as a fatal
Warning of his
approaching death, and accepting it as such was afraid.
Yet now when the Fury
out of Acheron touched his breastplate three
Times with her whip,
he burned, helpless with martial ardour, eager
Not so much for the
throne itself, but for fratricide, and slaughter,
For the death of a
brother drenched in blood. He spoke to Adrastus,
In a moment: ‘A last
survivor of the Argives and their allies, Father,
I have reflected on
our present troubles. There was a time, before
Achaean blood was
shed, when I might have gone forth to fight my
Own battles, and not
sent out the flower of the Danaan people, nor
Sacrificed the lives
of kings, nor made so many cities grieve, that I
Might place a crown
upon my head. But since the moment for such
Courage has now passed
let me at least make reparation according
To my deserts. Father,
though you hide the wound deep, and respect
You son-in-law’s sense
of honour, I am the one, exiled from throne
And country (an ill
guest; would I had been inflicted on some other
City!), who when you
ruled in righteous peace…yet exact punishment
Now: I challenge my
brother (why shudder? It is decreed and fated.)
To mortal combat. Do
not try to prevent me: you cannot. Not even
If my mother or my
unfortunate sisters, dressed in mourning, were
To encumber my arms,
or my father to press his blind face against
My shield, and
obstruct me as I rushed out to fight, would I desist.
How can I watch these
last Inachian lives be lost, or take advantage
Of your deaths? I saw
the earth open and gape wide on my account,
And did not enter. I
brought about Tydeus’ crime and saw him dead:
Defenceless Tegea
demands her king of me, and his bereaved mother
Cries to me from some
Parrhasian hollow. I failed to climb the banks
Of Ismenos while
Hippomedon’s blood stained its waters; nor did I,
Scale the Theban tower
with you, Capaneus, to share the lightning
And the frenzy. Was I
so afraid of death? But I shall make payment,
Worthily. Let the
Pelasgian wives, mothers, and aged fathers whom I
Have robbed of so much
joy, and whose houses I have made desolate,
Gather together
wherever they may be. I and my brother shall fight,
What more is needed?
Let them watch and pray for Eteocles’ victory.
And now farewell, my
wife, and farewell sweet
Dear sire be kind to
my ashes (for the blame for my ills falls not on
Me alone, the gods and
the Fates must share my guilt) and after this
Battle save my body;
defend it from the scavengers and my brother;
Take back my urn; and
make a better marriage for your daughter;
That is all.’ They
wept, as Bistonian snows melt with spring’s return,
And mighty Haemus
slides and Rhodope slips into the river gorges.
The aged king tried to
calm the exile’s ardour with words of gentle
Encouragement, but the
blood-stained Fury cut short his words with
Fresh terrors and in
the guise of Inachian Phereclus brought Polynices’
Swift charger and
deadly arms, the helm shutting out well-intentioned
Speech in an instant.
Then she summoned him: ‘Delay no more, make
Haste! Eteocles too,
they say, advances from the gate.’ So, all-powerful
She grasped him and
hurled him onto his horse. Pallid, he flew over
The open plain, and
saw, all about him, the goddess’ looming shadow.
The Theban king was
offering sacrificial thanks to Jove for the bolt
Of lightning, thinking
the Danai’s power had diminished, but in vain.
Neither the heavenly
Father, nor any other deity, had visited the altar,
For wicked Tisiphone
was among the trembling acolytes, re-directing
His words to the lord
of the underworld: ‘Greatest of gods, for
Owes her origin to
you; though fierce Juno and her accursed
Were envious, from the
day when you scattered the Sidonian dancers
On the shore and, as
seducer, uttered deceitful lowing over the calm
Waters, and deigned to
bear Europa on your back. Nor is it an idle tale
That you ravished
Cadmean Semele, lustily invading her Theban home;
Think yet, I ask, of
your kin in marriage with gratitude, and the walls
We cherish, and as our
champion wield the thunder. We saw you stir
The clouds and defend
our high towers, as though your own celestial
Palace were attacked;
we recognised the saving lightning-bolt with joy,
The flames our
ancestors witnessed. Now receive the pick of our herd,
A votive bull, and the
high-piled incense. But worthy thanks are beyond
The work of mortals.
Let Hercules and our Bacchus compete in gratitude
Towards you; you
preserve these walls for them.’ Thus Eteocles prayed,
But dark flames struck
at his mouth and eyes, hurled the crown from his
Head and engulfed it.
Then the angry bull bloodied the shrine with its
Foam before the
sacrificial blow could fall, breaking from the restraining
Crowd and, in the
turmoil, carrying the altar away with a frantic tossing
Of its horns. The
attendants scattered; the soothsayer consoled the king.
He, sadly persistent,
ordered the rite to be renewed, and then completed,
Hiding his deep-felt
fear with an assumed air of confidence. So, when
Hercules felt the
Oetaean shirt of flame clinging to his limbs and the fire
Deep in his bones, he
still sought to offer the prayer he had commenced,
Pouring the incense;
still steadfast, enduring the pain; but not long after,
A great groan was
forced from him, and Nessus’ poison raged victorious
Within him. Now
Aepytus, breathless with his haste, mind in confusion,
Came running with a
message for the king. He had abandoned his post
By the gate, and
panted out his barely intelligible words to the trembling
Monarch: ‘Leader,
break off your pious worship and those ill-timed rites.
Your brother threatens
the walls on horseback, attacks the barred gates,
Calling out your name,
demanding to fight you alone in battle. Behind
Him his saddened
comrades weep, and both armies groan as he speaks,
Clashing their arms in
protest, but he still summons you, crying: “Now
Is the moment, Great
Begetter of the Gods. What less does Capaneus
Deserve?”’ In turmoil,
the king shuddered with profound hatred; yet
Rejoiced despite his
anger. Thus when a bull, the leader of the herd
Enjoying peace, his
rival exiled, hears the faintest sound of the hostile
Bellowing and
recognises its menace he stands before the herd alight
With fierce wrath,
breathing out his readiness in ardent foam, stabbing
The ground with his
hoof, the air with his horns, until the earth quakes
And the trembling
valleys, shuddering, await the onset of their duel.
The courtiers did not
desert their king: ‘Let Polynices beat at the walls
In vain. Does he dare
to come this far with his shattered forces?’ ‘His is
The madness of
despair: seeking peril, risking danger, despising safety.’
‘Rest here, secure of
your throne, we’ll repel the enemy, command us!’
So the surrounding
throng but, behold, Creon, still passionately grieving,
Came ready to speak
his mind, and licensed to do so by the state of war.
The father knows no
peace, Menoeceus’ death chafes his heart, he still
Seeks his image,
clasps him, sees the streams of blood pour from his
Breast, as he falls
eternally from the cruel tower. Sensing that Eteocles
Was uncertain,
hesitant, he cried: ‘You must go. Grant us reparation.
We’ll no longer be
forced to endure you, worst of leaders and brothers,
King only of your
subjects’ deaths and sorrows, and guilty of the Furies’
Presence and the war.
We have atoned enough, before the unkind gods,
For your perjury. You
have been to this city, strong in arms and riches
And thronged but now
with citizens, like a plague from the sky or from
Marshy ground, and
even now your shadow over-looks its emptiness.
You lack men to serve
you: the earth holds them, devoid of life; their
Native river already
bears them to the sea. Some lack limbs, others
Tend agonising wounds.
Can you give brothers, fathers or sons back
To us wretches, return
the dead to their fields and homes? Where are
Mighty Hypseus and our
close-neighbour Dryas, where now are those
Men of prophetic
Chances of battle
brought to death at least, while my son, (Ah, shame!)
Was made a royal
sacrifice, like a dumb beast of the herd, (Woe is me!),
Sprinkled with the
altar libations in unholy rite and commanded to die.
Do you hesitate yet?
Summoned by the armed enemy will you now
At least, keep faith?
Or does the questionable Tiresias order another
Into battle, and once
more weave oracles to my sorrow? Why else is
Haemon left to me and
him alone? Order him to go, while you
watch
From your seat in this
high tower. Why the fierce rage? Why look to
Your crowd of lackeys?
They too would have you pay the penalty.
Even your mother and
sisters loathe you. Ardent against you, your
Brother threatens
steel and death, tearing at the barred and guarded
Gates, do you not
hear?’ So Creon spoke, grinding his teeth, seething
With rage and misery.
The king replied: ‘You cannot deceive me.
Your son’s glorious
fate is not what moves you. Such cant and rant
Become a father, but
hope lurks beneath those tears, hope and hidden
Desire. You make his
death a pretext for your mad ambition, urging
Me on, as one does who
is next in succession to the vacant throne.
But Fortune will not
so abandon
One so undeserving of
so great a son! Nor would I find it hard to take
Present vengeance. But
to arms, to arms first, my men! Let brothers
Meet in battle: Creon
would ease his sorrow. Let frenzy rule now:
When I am victor you
will pay for all.’ So he deferred their quarrel
For a time, and
sheathed the sword that anger was already thrusting
Into his hand, as a
snake, disturbed at random by a shepherd, that
Coils and rises
gathering the poison from its whole length into its
Jaw, yet if its enemy
directs his steps away a little, and the threat
Subsides, drinks its
own wrathful venom, its neck swollen in vain.
But Jocasta, Eteocles’
mother, fearful, distraught, at the first rumour
Of unfolding fate (nor
slow to credit it) ran, with torn hair, lacerated
Face and bare and
bleeding breast, unmindful of her sex or what
Was fitting. She was
like Pentheus’ mother, Agave, clambering
Madly to the summit of
the mountain to bring the promised head
To cruel Bacchus.
Neither her companions, nor her fond daughters
Could keep pace with
her, such strength did profound misery
Grant the unhappy
woman; bloodless age made wild by sorrow.
Meanwhile the king was
donning his glorious helm, taking up
His fierce javelins,
and examining his mount that rejoiced at
Trumpet-calls,
fearless of the bugles, when suddenly his mother
Loomed before him. He
and his followers turned pale with fear,
And his squire
withdrew the spear he was proffering. She cried:
‘What madness is this?
Why is some Fury risen again to oppress
Our kingdom? Will you
yourselves stand face to face, after all?
Is it not enough to
have led your respective armies up till now,
And delegated
action? To what shall the victor seek to
return?
To my arms? Oh, happy
for once is my dire husband’s blindness!
Presumptuous eyes, you
are punished, that I should see this day!
Whither cruel man do
you turn your threatening gaze? Why does
Your face turn flushed
and pale by turns? Why do your clenched
Teeth hold back a
sinful muttering? Woe is me! You may conquer,
But first you must
wield your weapons here: I will stand on the very
Threshold of the gate:
an unhappy omen, a dreadful image of sin.
You must trample these
white hairs, these breasts, you wicked man,
And ride your charger
over your mother’s womb. Spare me; why
Thrust me from your
path with hilt and shield? I took no dark
Vows to Stygian gods
nor prayed to the Furies with blind speech,
Against you. Hear me!
Your mother, alas, cruel man, it is who
Pleads with you, not
your father. Hesitate to commit this crime,
And measure what you
do. Yes your brother beats at the walls,
And stirs up impious
war against you: no mother or sister stands
There to obstruct him.
All things here entreat you, all here lament:
There, Adrastus can
scarcely alone dissuade him from this duel;
Perhaps he even
demands it; while it is from my embrace that you
Leave your gods and
your ancestral threshold to fight your brother.’
Elsewhere Antigone
sped with silent step towards the hostile
Tumult (chaste
virginity not restraining her) eager to reach
The summit of the
Ogygian Gate; with aged Actor at her heels,
Even though the
strength to reach the very top might fail him.
She hesitated a moment
gazing at such extent of military force,
Then recognised (what
horror) Polynices, her brother, crying
Aloud in his pride as
he attacked the city. At once her lament
Filled the air around,
and she called to him loudly, making as
If to hurl herself
from the walls: ‘Brother, hold your fire, look
To this tower a
moment, turn your brave helm towards my eyes!
Are they your enemies?
Is it thus we should invoke the annual
Pact; ensure good
faith? Are these eyes a motive for complaint?
Is this a humble
exile’s fine cause? By your Argive home
(since
You no longer care for
your Theban one) if in this place any are
Still dear to you,
then I beg you, my brother, quench your pride.
See: two armies, and a
host of others on both sides, beseech you.
Your Antigone loyal to
her suffering own, suspected by the king,
Sister to you alone,
pleads with you, oh hard heart! At least leave
Off your frowning
looks. Let me know that face I love, perhaps
For the last time, and
find my lament may move you. Our mother
Already sways Eteocles
with her tearful pleas, and they say he will
Sheath his drawn
sword. Are you still resolute for me? For me who
Night and day lament
your exile and your wanderings, who often
Calmed our father’s
growing anger against you? Why acquit your
Brother by a crime?
Was it not he who broke the covenant agreed,
Broke faith; is it not
he, the guilty one, who is cruel towards his kin?
Yet behold, though
challenged, he does not appear.’ At these words,
His anger slowly began
to weaken, though the Fury opposed such
In words and action:
already his grasp slackened, the reins loosened,
He fell silent; then
his groans erupted, his helm confessed his tears;
Wrath abated, and he
felt ashamed either to appear guilty or depart;
When suddenly
Tisiphone opposed the mother and drove Eteocles
Through the shattered
gates. He cried: ‘I come, envying you in one
Thing alone, that
yours was the first challenge. Do not cavil at this
Delay, our mother held
firmly to my arm. Now my country, land
Unsure of your
rightful king, oh now you must belong to the victor!’
Polynices was no less
strident. ‘You savage, will you learn finally
What good faith means,
meeting me on level terms? Now, for the first
Time in a good while,
fight against me, my brother; such is the only
Ground; the only pact
that remains.’ So he spoke, eyeing his brother
With hostile intent.
For in his heart’s depths he chafed at the king’s
Endless retinue, his
royal helm and purple-clothed mount, his shield
Glittering with gold,
even though he himself was scarcely ill-dressed
And shone in no common
cloak; Argia herself had fashioned his in
Maeonian style, her
skilful fingers stitching gold thread to the purple.
Now prompted by the
Furies, the brothers went out into the dusty plain,
Each with his dark
companion to goad and guide him. The Furies it was
Who held the reins,
adorning trappings and glittering armour, placing
Serpents to augment
the crests. Crime bound by fraternal blood stood
In the field that
mighty duel born of a single womb; beneath their helms
Twin faces gazed at
one another. The banners trembled, the trumpets fell
Silent, the martial
horns were dumb. Thrice thundered the eager king
Of the dark realms,
thrice he shook the earth’s foundations, and the very
Gods of battle fled.
Vanished, renowned Valour: extinguished, Bellona’s
Torches; Mars drove
his fearful horses far away, merciless Minerva with
Her Gorgon breastplate
stood aside; and in their place loomed the Stygian
Sisters. People
crowded the open rooftops in their misery, tears falling
On all sides, and
lamentation filling every height. Old men moaned that
They had lived too
long, mothers stood bare-breasted telling their sons
Not to watch the
fight. The lord of Tartarus himself commanded his gates
Be opened, and sent
the Ogygian ghosts to view their countrymen’s foul
Deeds. Seated on their
native hills, in a sad circle, they polluted daylight,
Rejoicing their own
sins were now surpassed. But when Adrastus heard
That the pair (openly
taunting each other) were about to fight and that
Shame no longer
hindered their crime; he drove his chariot swiftly there
And set it between
them. He himself was justly venerated for his years
And royalty, but what
did foreign dignity mean to such as these, who
Cared not for kith and
kin? Still he implored them: ‘Children of Inachus
And
Respect for the gods?
Is this true warfare? Desist, relinquish your anger,
My enemy (though if
anger could hear, you are not so distant from me
In lineage); and you,
my son-in-law, I urge you too: if your desire for
A sceptre is so great,
I’ll doff my regal robes, go: take Lerna and
For your own!’ His
persuasive words no more calmed their fiery mood,
Or altered their fixed
intention, than Scythian Pontus, arched in towering
Waves, prevents the
Cyaenean rocks from clashing. Seeing his prayers
Were in vain, that the
chargers were galloping into battle in twin clouds
Of dust, and the
maddened brothers were already fingering their javelins’
Throwing-straps, he
fled, leaving all behind; the camp, and the men, his
Son-in-law and
Of Fate) all pale as
Dis, the ruler of the shades and last to inherit his
Share of the world
after the adverse casting of the lots, who descended
In his chariot,
entering Tartarus, with all the earth and the heavens lost.
Yet Fortune did not
further the duel as yet, but delayed and retarded
The sin’s inception;
lingering a while. Twice they rode to the attack
In vain, twice benign
errors made the horses swerve before meeting,
And the spears fell
aslant, innocent of impious blood. Both tugging
At the reins, they
urged the guiltless creatures on with cruel spurs.
The armies too were
troubled by this awesome and unnatural duel
Allowed by the gods.
Murmurs and muttering rose from both sides.
There were frequent
attempts to renew the war and, by attacking,
Obstruct with warring
troops this unfortunate fight between the two.
Meanwhile Piety has been
seated in a secluded region of the heavens
Discontented with
earth and the companionship of the gods; and not
In her former and
familiar guise with face serene, but her ribbons
Stripped from her hair
and weeping over the fraternal strife, like
The anguished mother
and unhappy sisters of those two combatants;
Abusing cruel Jove and
the guilty Fates, threatening to leave the sky
And its light and so
descend to Erebus, favouring a Stygian home:
‘Why did you create
me, Primal Nature, to contend with the savage
Passions of living
things and even gods? I am nothing to people now.
No reverence is shown
me, anywhere. Oh, madness! Oh, mankind,
Oh, Prometheus’ dire
arts! How fine it would have been if Earth had
Not been re-populated
after Pyrrha! Behold this race of mortals!’
So she spoke, and
sensing the moment to help had come, said: ‘Let
Me try at least,
though in vain.’ She leapt down from the heavens;
Beneath the darkening
clouds a snowy trail marked the goddess’
Sad footsteps. She had
barely touched the plain when, in an instant,
Both armies turned
mild and pacific, perceiving all the wickedness.
Then faces and breasts
were wet with tears and silent terror gripped
The brothers. Bearing
the likeness of weapons and fittingly dressed,
She called to men here
and there: ‘Go, move, prevent them, you
Who have brothers and
sons in
Here in
That spears fall
short; the horses baulk, Fortune herself resists this.’
She might almost have
resolved their doubts, if grim Tisiphone had
Not seen through her
disguise, and swifter than lightning was there
Rebuking her:
‘Sluggish deity, involved in things of peace, why
Obstruct the work of
war? Be gone, shameless one! This is our day,
Our field of action.
Your defence of guilty
Where were you when
Bacchus stirred contention, when his orgies
Drove armed women mad?
Where were you idling when the snake
Of Mars drank of the
unholy pool, when Cadmus ploughed the soil,
When the Sphinx was
vanquished, when Oedipus was questioned
By his father, when
Jocasta was lit by our torches to her bridal bed?’
So Tisiphone savaged
her and, as Piety shrank back before her face
And withdrew her own
modest countenance, she brandished her torch,
And pressed towards
her, her serpents hissing, until the meek goddess
Drew her cloak over
her eyes and fled, bearing her complaint to Jove.
Then indeed were men
spurred on to fiercer anger: ripe for conflict;
The troops’ minds were
changed, and they gathered again to watch.
Once more the wicked
contest began, the impious king readied his
Weapons and he was the
first to chance a throw of his deadly spear.
The weapon struck
Polynices’ shield-boss, but failed to penetrate,
Foiled by the layers
of gold. Then the exile advanced, and uttered
A fatal prayer: ‘You
gods, whom Oedipus of the lacerated face
Asked to stir the
fires of wickedness, and not in vain, I make no
Wild demand: I’ll
atone for my actions and pierce my breast with
This very blade, if he
will leave me grasping the sceptre in death,
And, the lesser shade,
take this grief-bearer with him.’ The spear
Flew swiftly between
the horseman’s thigh and his horse’s flank,
Threatening death to
both, but the rider moved his knee to evade
The blow, though the
point, while failing of its purpose, struck
His mount slantwise
through the ribs. Then the charger, scorning
The tightened reins,
hurtled forward, and stained the ground red
With a pool of blood.
Polynices exulted, believing the blood his
Brother’s, while
Eteocles himself feared the same. Now the exile
Flicked the reins and
dashed on blindly, in his eagerness, to meet
The wounded horse.
Hands, harness, weapons clashed, and both
Steeds stumbling
crashed to the ground. As when a brace of ships,
That a cloud-bearing
southerly at night drives together, shattering
Their oars and
entangling their rigging, sink together, interlocked
As they are, to the
ocean bed after a lengthy struggle between them,
And against the
darkness also and the storm: such was the shape of
That encounter. They
clashed without rule or skill, only courage
And anger; viewing
each other with fiery hatred and hostile glares
Through their visors.
There was not an inch between them, their
Swords locked, their
hands clasped, hearing each other’s murmurs
Of rage loud as
trumpet-cries or bugles sounding. Fiercely they
Struggled, as
wild-boars, fuelled by anger, crashing together like
Lightning-bolts, arch
their bristling backs, eyes quivering with
Flame, their curved
tusks hooked together and clashing noisily,
While a hunter watches
the duel from some rock nearby, pale,
Hushing his hounds to
silence. The brothers dealt no fatal blow
As yet, but bloodshed
had begun, the crime was now enacted.
No need for the Furies
now; they merely marvelled, and stood
Applauding, envying a
human madness greater than their own.
Each brother sought
the other’s blood with furious desire, and
Unaware of his own
blood flowing. At last, exiled Polynices
Whose cause was
greater and anger stronger, exhorted himself
To greater effort, and
leaning in drove his sword deep into his
Brother’s body, where
the end of the corselet barely covered
The thighs with a
fringe of metal. Eteocles as yet felt no pain,
But sensing the first
chill of cold steel drew his wounded body
Behind his shield.
Soon, growing more and more conscious of
His hurt, he began to
gasp in distress, his enemy giving him no
Quarter, taunting him
as he retreated: ‘Where are you off to now,
Brother? Here’s the
result of languid somnolence, of a regal and
Enfeebling peace,
here’s the result of long-sheltered rule! While
Here, see my limbs
hardened by exile and poverty. You should
Learn to bear life’s
deprivations, and set no score by pleasures.’
So the wretched pair
fought on. There was yet strength and blood
In the evil king,
despite his weariness, and his legs still carried
Him for a while; but
then he created a deliberate ploy, collapsing
Apparently in his
death throes.
His brother raised his
arms to heaven, thinking himself victorious:
‘Be blessed, my
prayers were not in vain. I see his eyes closing,
His face sunken in
death. Bring me his sceptre and the crown
From his head, while
he still lives!’ So saying he approached
The dying man, seeking
to take his armour too and weapons
As though to carry
them to his land, as spoils, and hang them
In triumph in some
temple. But his brother was not yet a shade,
Clinging to life with
a vengeful anger, and when he saw his
Brother loom over him,
bending towards his chest, he raised
His sword covertly and
with the bare remnants of his failing
Strength, joyful in
death, set the blade in his brother’s breast.
Polynices cried: ‘You
live yet? Or is it your anger that still
Survives you, traitor,
ever unworthy of the abodes of peace?
Come with me to the
shades! There I’ll demand, once more,
What was agreed, if
Minos the Agenorean judge’s Cnossian
Urn still stands and
kings are thereby punished.’ Ceasing,
He fell, the whole
weight of his armour crushing his brother.
Go, savage spirits,
and in death pollute grim Tartarus, and
Exhaust the torments
of Erebus. And you, Stygian goddesses,
Spare mankind such
malice: and may no later day witness
So foul a crime, but
throughout all the lands and centuries,
May the monstrous sin
fade in the minds of new generations,
And let only those who
rule us still recall that dreadful duel.
When Oedipus learned
of the fatal result, he emerged from
The dark depths of his
dwelling, offering his imperfections
To the light: beard
and hair caked and filthy with primal gore,
Matted tresses
cloaking his Fury-ravaged head. The hollows
Of his eye-sockets too
were foul with traces of gouged matter.
Antigone’s shoulder
bore the weight of his left hand, his right
Rested on his stave.
It was as if Charon, ferryman of sluggish
Avernus, wearying of
the dead, were to leave his boat and rise
To the upper world, to
trouble the sun and the fading stars, he
Neither strong or
patient enough to bear the air above for long;
Leaving his task to
grow as the generations wait on the shore
For the tardy boatman.
So Oedipus in the light, saying to his
Companion as she wept
deeply: ‘Lead me to my sons, I pray,
Place a father beside
their fresh corpses!’ The girl hesitated,
Unsure of his intent.
Bodies, weapons, chariots hampered them,
Entangling and
delaying their passage, and the old man’s steps
Faltered amidst the
carnage while his pitiable guide laboured.
At last the girls’ cry
proclaimed the long sought-for bodies.
And he threw himself
across the cold forms, unable to utter;
He lay groaning over
their bloody wounds but his words,
Though repeatedly
attempted, failed to sound. Finally, as he
Caressed the helms,
seeking their obscured visages, his
Long wordless sighs
resolved into speech: ‘Piety, so tardy,
Do you now strike my
spirit, after so long a time? Can
Human sympathy still
exist in this heart of mine? Nature,
Behold you conquer
this unhappy father, yes, you conquer!
Behold I groan and
tears flow from these arid sockets, while
My impious hand obeys,
and womanlike it beats my breast.
Cruel warriors, only
too truly sons of mine, receive these
Obsequies due a
monstrous fate. I cannot even see which
One is which, to sound
appropriate words. Antigone, tell me,
I beg, which am I
holding? How then can your savage father
Accompany your
funeral? Oh, if my sight might return to me
That I might gouge
those eyes again, and lacerate my face!
Oh, sorrow, Oh,
parental vows and sinful prayers heard all
Too clearly! Which
deity, standing beside me while I prayed,
Took up my words and
relayed them to the Fates? Madness
Caused this, a Fury,
my father, mother, kingdom, my ruined
Eyes, not I, I swear
it by Dis, by blessed darkness, and by
My innocent guide; so
may I die worthy to enter Tartarus,
So may the angry shade
of Laius not shun me! Alas, what
Fraternal knot, what
wounds I touch! Let me seek to loose
These hands, and
unchain these hostile fetters at the last.
Now, at least, may
your father come between you!’ Thus,
Lamenting, little by
little he assumed the angry mantle
Of the dead, and
sought a weapon, though covertly lest
His daughter denied
him. But the cautious Antigone had
Removed all such from
his reach. The old man cried out
In wrath: ‘Where are
the guilty swords? Ah, Furies, is
Every inch of iron
sunk in their flesh?’ As he spoke, his
Sorrowful companion
raised him, suppressing her own
Grief in silence,
happy only in that her fierce sire mourned.
Earlier, the queen,
alarmed by the noise of incipient combat,
Had retrieved Laius’
sword from its store, that lamentable
And ill-famed relic of
a sceptred king. She railed against
The gods, her accursed
marriage bed, her son’s madness
And her first
husband’s shade; struggled with the sword,
And at last leaning
forward drove the blade into her breast.
The wound opened her
aged veins and her unhappy couch
Was cleansed in blood.
Ismene collapsed on that withered
Chest that grated at
the blow, and weeping dried it with her
Hair as she lamented.
So, sad Erigone wept beside the body
Of her murdered father
in the Marathonian wood, and then
Her tears exhausted,
intent on death, unloosed the fatal rope,
And chose the firmest
branch from which to hang herself.
Now Fortune, in her
malice, glad to have destroyed the two
Leaders’ hopes, passed
Amphion’s kingdom and his sceptre
To another, and Creon
inherited Cadmus’ power. Alas, a sad
End to war! On his
behalf had the brothers died. The seed
Of Mars rendered him
illustrious, and Menoeceus’ sacrifice
Of himself for his
country gained Creon, the father, favour
With the people. He
mounts
To tyrants. Alas the
seductiveness of power, the ill-advised
Love of the sceptre!
When does the coming man ever learn
From his predecessor’s
fate? Behold, Creon, happy to stand
In that accursed
place, and handle the blood-stained helm.
What can good fortune
not do! Now his paternal heart began
To turn to other
matters: as the king, forgetting Menoeceus.
Imbued with the cruel
practices of that palace, he gave orders
(Evidence and proof of
his own ways) that the Danai be denied
Funeral pyres, that
their ill-fated army of sad homeless shades
Be abandoned to the
naked sky. Then, beside the Ogygian Gate
He met Oedipus
returning; for a moment he was afraid, silently
Confessing himself the
lesser man, and checked his ready anger.
But soon he was a king
once more and boldly reproached his
Sightless enemy. ‘Omen
hateful to the victor, be gone: and take
Yourself far off.
Divert your Furies from us, purge the very walls
Of
What more remains for
you to ask? Your sons are dead: now, go.’
Oedipus quivered with
mad rage, his cheeks trembled as though
He still had sight,
his years receded. Then he thrust his daughter
Aside, cast away his
staff, and supported only by his anger let
Words erupt from his
swelling breast: ‘Are you bent on cruelty
Already, Creon? You
wretch, you rose but now to treacherous
Royalty, my fortune’s
place, and already you assume the right
To trample on the
wreckage of kings. Already you deny tombs
To the vanquished, and
banish your countryman from the walls.
Bravo, you are worthy
to maintain the Theban sceptre, if such
Are your first deeds.
But why restrict your new prerogatives,
Madman? Why interpret
your powers so narrowly? You threaten
Exile. A timid kind of
royal inclemency is this! Why not show
Your greed, and stain
your savage blade at once? Believe me,
You can. Let some ambitious
henchman appear and sever this
Unflinching head
fearlessly. Begin! Or do you wait for me to fall
Prostrate, with
beseeching hands, at the feet of my ungentle lord?
Would you let me if I
tried? Do you threaten me with punishment,
And imagine any terrors
remain? You demand I leave this palace?
I forsook the sky and
earth of my own will, and turned my hand
In vengeance against
my own face, no one forcing me so to do.
What does a hostile
king command more? I will fly this accursed
Dwelling: what matter
where I take my darkness or my long
Dying? Will any nation
if asked not grant a wretch as much soil
As he can cover in his
own country? Is
The light brighter
here, do such propitious stars soothe my face,
Have I a mother here,
and sons! Rule Thebes, command it under
The same auspices as
Cadmus ruled, and Laius, and I: may you
Wed so and get such
loyal sons: and may you lack the courage
To evade Fortune with
your own hand; but love the light when
She snares you. Enough
of these omens I utter. Daughter, come,
Lead me away. Yet why
should I link you to my sorrows? Grant
Me a guide, king!’ But
sorrowing Antigone feared abandonment.
She offered up a
different entreaty: ‘Revered Creon, by Menoeceus’
Sacred shade I beg you
(so may your reign be happy), pardon now
This afflicted man,
and forgive his proud words. Misery has long
Granted him this
manner of speech. It is not yourself alone that he
Shows fierceness
towards; made harsh by sorrow he thus addresses
The Fates and the
gods. He is often difficult even with me. In his
Ungovernable heart
freedom in misery and the grim hope of cruel
Death have long
existed. Behold even now he cleverly provoked
Your anger, and sought
the punishment. But I beg you to employ
The greater wisdom of
sovereignty and from your height overlook
The fallen, and
respect the ruinous downfall of former greatness.
He too once sat high
on the throne with men at arms around him,
Granting aid and
justice to the wretched, and dealing fairly with
The powerful and the
needy, he who of all that host has now but
A single woman to
attend him, and he not exiled as yet. Is he an
Obstacle to the
fortunate? Do you need to show hatred, exert
Royal power against
him; and thus drive him from your house?
Perhaps you fear he
will groan too loudly at your door, annoy
You with untimely
prayer? Fear not, he will weep far away
From the palace. I
will calm him when this mood arises, and
Teach him
subservience. I will remove him from company,
And hide him in a
solitary place: let that be his exile. For what
Foreign city would
accept the wanderer? Would you have him
Try
Of Aonian losses to
the door of a vanquished Adrastus, and beg
For bare necessities:
a king of
Of our unhappy race,
and display our shameful deeds? Hide,
What we are, I beg
you. It will not be for long, Creon. Pity
The aged man, and let
me bury my parents’ sad remains here,
For here Thebans, at
least, may be interred.’ So she begged,
Humbly, until her
father, with savage threats, scorning pardon,
Drew her away. He was
like the lion beneath a lofty crag, at
Whom forest and
mountain once trembled in his prime, but
Now lies motionless,
disabled by long years; yet magnificent
Of mien, and best left
undisturbed even in old age. If the noise
Of cattle meets his
drooping ears, he rises, remembering how
He was, groaning at
his decayed powers, that other lions now
Rule the plains. Creon
was moved by her plea, but would not
Grant all she asked,
denying them both part of his indulgence.
‘You shall not be
banished beyond your country’s borders,
So long as you do not
soil her homes and her sacred shrines
With your presence.
Let the wilderness know you, and your
Own
Two nations lie in
their own blood, shall be a dwelling-place
For your shade.’ So he
spoke, and proudly returned to his
Royal palace, amid the
feigned acclamation of his followers
And of the sorrowing
people. Meanwhile the defeated Danai
Left those deadly
ramparts furtively: none with their rightful
Standard or leader.
They went silently, randomly, to shameful
Return, inglorious
life rather than honourable death. Darkness
Favoured their going,
welcome night shrouding the fugitives.
End of Book XI
Though the waking Sun
had not yet driven the stars from the sky,
The moon, with fading
horn, saw light looming as Dawn dispersed
The speeding clouds,
and readied the vast ether for Phoebus’ return:
The sparse Theban
forces wandered from their houses, complaining
Of the night’s delays.
They had rested, at last, in their first slumber
After battle, yet
uncertain peace banished sleep and victory brought
Memories of savage
warfare. At first they scarcely dared to advance
And pull down the
barriers at the ramparts, or unbar the gates fully.
Their old fear and
horror at the now empty plain were still before
Their eyes.
Confounded, as sailors, long tossed about the seas, feel
The ground heave at
first, they wondered that nothing opposed them,
And imagined that the
routed army might yet rise up against them.
So when Idalian doves
see a yellow snake climb to the sill of their
Dovecote, they will
drive their young inside, and defend their nest
With their claws,
stirring their unwarlike wings to battle. Even if it
Retreats, the white
flock still fear the open air and, launched at last
In flight, they will
yet look back in terror from amidst the heavens.
The Thebans approached
the remains of their fallen, a lifeless host,
Driven by grief and
mourning their cruel guides. Here are weapons
And corpses but they
see only the faces of their dead with the bodies
Of strangers beside
them. Some grieve over the chariots and
speak
To the masterless
horses, since such is all that remains; others plant
Kisses in devastating
wounds, and mourn for lost valour. The chill
Carnage is sifted:
severed hands still grasping sword-hilt or spear
Are revealed, and
arrows fixed in eyeballs. Some, rushing there with
Hands raised ready to
lament find no trace of their loved one amongst
The slaughter; while
elsewhere pitiful arguments begin over formless
Flesh as to who should
render what is due and lead the funeral rites.
Often mistaken they
wept for enemy dead (while Fortune mocked)
Nor could they know in
their misery what flesh to respect and what
To trample. But those
whom grief left unvisited, those with families
Unscathed, wandered
the deserted Danaan camp, hurling firebrands,
Or (an after-battle solace)
roamed about to find where Tydeus lay,
Or whether the lost
augur’s gulf still yawned, or where Capaneus,
Enemy of the gods,
might be and whether the ashes of the lightning
Bolt still glowed
among his limbs. They consumed the whole day
With weeping, nor did
the evening gloom drive them away. In their
Grief they found
relief in lamentation and indulging their sorrow.
None went to their
homes and, all night through, the host sat beside
Their dead, taking it
in turns to mourn, or with fire and self-inflicted
Blows scare away wild
creatures. Nor did they close their eyes,
Neither soothed by
gentle starlight, nor wearied by endless tears.
Gathered the glories
of the forest, mighty timbers, from bereaved
Teumesos and
The corpses of those
destroyed were burnt on high-built biers.
The Ogygian shades
rejoiced at this final tribute, but the naked
Host of Argives moaned
wretchedly and flew lamenting round
The flames they were
denied. Even the spirit of savage Eteocles,
Received burial
honours, though by no means royal ones, while
Polynices was still
treated as an Argive, his exiled spirit scorned.
Neither Creon nor
On a common fire, and
instead of a pile of timber like the rest
His pyre was a
warrior’s mound of chariots, shields and armour
Of the Argives. As a
victor, the corpse’s hair was dressed with
Peace-giving laurel
and ribbons, and among enemy spoils he lay,
Like Hercules rich
amidst Oeta’s flames as the stars claimed him.
Creon sacrificed
living things there, Pelasgian captives, bridled
Horses, to solace
those brave in battle: the tall flames quivered,
And then the father’s
lament burst forth: ‘O my son, who would
Have ruled Echion’s
city with me and after me if too great a desire
For high glory had not
possessed you, revered child, whose death
Embitters future
honour and the thankless offices of kingship:
You dwell in the
vaulted sky with the gods; immortal in valour
You attend their
company (so I believe); yet for me you’ll be
Always one to grieve
for as well as worship. Let
Altars and dedicate
high temples; let your father simply mourn.
Now alas what fitting
rights, what obsequies shall I grant you?
No less, had I but the
power, than to pull down deadly
And
Whose life (what
horror!) and title have been won by my son’s
Death. Did not one
single day of impious warfare, send you
My boy and those fatal
brothers to Tartarus? Do Oedipus and I
Not bear an equal load
of sorrow? How alike, good Jupiter, our
Mourning for those
shades! My son, receive new offerings for
Your triumph. Receive
this sceptre that guides the hand, this
Crown that sits
proudly on the brow, gifts you have made your
Father, though
scarcely to his joy. Let Eteocles’ sad shade see
You as king, yes,
king.’ So saying, he loosed them from his
Head and hand and, his
anger rising again, spoke once more
And violently: ‘Let
them call me merciless and cruel because
I forbid Lerna’s dead
to be burnt like you. Would I could grant
Endless feeling to
their corpses, driving their wretched souls
From Erebus and
heaven, and lead the wild beasts, myself,
The carrion birds with
curved beaks, to those accursed kings!
Alas, that the kindly
earth and time itself will dissolve them
Where they lie! Once
more I command this, once more: let
None dare solace the
Pelasgi with helping flame! Or he will
Expiate his crime with
death, and replace the bodies he has
Consumed with his own.
I swear this by the gods and mighty
Menoeceus.’ He spoke,
and his attendants led him to the palace.
Meanwhile the widowed
and bereaved Inachian women left
Empty
And like a crowd of
captives each bore her own wounds too:
All were in a similar
state, hair hanging down to their bared
Breasts, faces
bloodied from the lacerating nails, their soft
Arms swollen from
blows. Argia, first among the mourners,
Queen of that
black-clothed host, helplessly sought the way,
Now sinking against
her sorrowing maids, now rising again.
Caring nothing now for
palace or father, she had one loyalty;
And one name, that of
her beloved Polynices, was on her lips.
She would leave
Ill-omened city. Next,
Deipyle, yielding nothing to her sister,
Led the Calydonian
women, and those of Lerna, to Tydeus’
Death-bed. She, poor
woman, heard of her husband’s crime,
The vile gnawing, but
grieving love forgives all to the fallen.
After her came Nealce,
harsh of visage and yet pitiable; she
Called to Hippomedon
in fitting lament. Then Amphiaraus’
Impious wife,
Eriphyle, doomed to raise a vacant pyre. Last,
Maenalian Diana’s
bereaved companion, Atalanta, leads on
The dignified Evadne,
and a host of mourners; the former
Grieves and laments
her darling boy’s ordeal; as the other
Remembering Capaneus
her mighty husband, goes weeping
Grimly, in anger at
the highest stars. Hecate watched them
From the Lycaean
groves and followed groaning, while Ino
The Theban mother
wailed for them from her Isthmian tomb,
As they approached the
Isthmus; and Ceres though mourning
Her own wept for the
night-bound flock, showing her secret
Fires for the
wanderers. Juno herself led them on by-roads
And hid their trail
lest their own people forbade the journey,
And the glory of the
great enterprise was lost. Moreover Iris
Was charged with
preserving the dead bodies of the leaders.
She bathed the
decomposing limbs with arcane juices, and
Ambrosial dew, to
maintain the corpses longer for the pyre,
And prevent their
flesh rotting before they met the flames.
Behold, Ornytus (an
Argive abandoned by his comrades,
And hampered by a
recent blow) with dust-streaked face
And bloodless wound
was making his feeble way, timidly
And stealthily, over
remote un-trodden ground, leaning on
His shattered spear.
He was amazed to find the lonely spot
Troubled by sudden
commotion, seeing the flock of women,
Now the sole remainder
of Lerna’s army, he had no need
To ask the reason for
their journey, which was obvious, but
Was the first to
speak, in sadness: ‘Which path do you take,
Poor souls, which
path? Do you hope for burial for a lost
Husbands’ ashes? A
guard stands vigil over the dead, and
Keeps count of the
unburied bodies for the king. There are
No tears, all human
access is forbidden: only wild beasts
And carrion birds may
approach. Will Creon respect your
Mourning justly?
Sooner could the pitiless altars of Busiris
Be appeased, the
hunger of Diomedes’ horses, the Sicilian
Divinities. Perhaps he
will seize you, as suppliants, if I
Know his mind, and
have you killed, not by your husbands’
Bodies but far from
their beloved shades. Why not flee while
The path is safe,
return to Lerna and grant names, all that is
Left to you, to empty
tenantless sepulchres, and then summon
Their absent spirits
to the vacant tombs? Or why not implore
Aid from
Theseus has returned
joyful in victory from the Thermidon?
Creon must be driven
by weapons and war to observe our
Human customs.’ So he
spoke, their tears ceased, and their
Deep impetus for the
journey was lost, their faces frozen
As one, in pallor. So
when the roar of a hungry Hyrcanian
Tigress reaches the
gentle heifers, the very fields troubled
At the sound, a great
fear seizes them all: which of them
Will the predator
take, whose shoulders will she cling to?
Immediately dissent
arose, opinion was variously divided.
Some were for
appeasing
Thought the folk of
Them grace. Shameful
return was far from their thoughts.
Now it was that Argia,
with unfeminine power, conceived
An impassioned plan,
and despite her gender set out on
A dreadful task. She
resolved (a stubborn hope born of
Noble peril) to
directly oppose the king’s impious decree,
As not even a bride of
Rhodope or foster-child of snowy
Phasis, flanked by the
virgin Amazons, would dare to do.
Then she carried out
an artful stratagem so as to detach
Herself from the loyal
host and, made daring by the depth
Of her grief and
despising life, to challenge the merciless
Gods and the
blood-stained king. Piety and chaste love
Urged her on.
Polynices was there before her eyes, with
Every action, now as
guest in distress, now her betrothed,
Before the marriage
altar, now gentle husband, now in his
Grim helmet, sad in
her embrace, then looking back often
From the outer
threshold; yet no image came to her mind
More frequently than
that of his naked ghost, in the mire
Of the Theban
battlefield, demanding burial. Troubled in
Mind she was pained by
her maddened thoughts, in love
With the dead, that
most chaste of passions. So she turned
To her Pelasgian
companions, saying: ‘You must summon
Up the hosts of
Smile on your pious
efforts. But I, who was the sole cause
Of such disaster, must
penetrate the Theban palace, suffer
The first
lightning-bolts of his reign. The gate of that fierce
City will not prove
deaf to my knock. My husband’s parents
Are there, his
sisters: I shall not enter
Do not try to prevent
me. A mighty impulse urges me on,
And my spirit’s
augury.’ She spoke no more, but chose
Menoetes (once guide
and guardian of her maiden modesty)
Alone; and though new
to the place, ignorant of it, hurried
Off, in the direction
from which Ornytus came. When she
Thought she had left
the companions of her grief far behind,
She cried: ‘Am I to
wait (ah, painful!) for a tardy decision of
Theseus while you rot
on enemy soil? Will his nobles, will
A favourable
soothsayer assent to war? Meanwhile your body
Is assailed, and I
would rather expose my own limbs to those
Carrion birds than
yours. Most faithful one, if you have any
Feeling among the
shades, you are complaining to the gods
Of
If by chance you are
already consumed: either way the crime
Is mine. Must violence
indeed mean nothing to the mourner?
Must death and savage
Creon mean nothing? Your warnings
Spur me on, Ornytus!’
So saying, with headlong haste, she
Devoured the Megarian
fields. Each person she met pointed
Out the way,
shuddering at her appearance, respecting her
Wretchedness. On she
went, grim of face, dreading nothing
In her heart or of
what she heard, trusting in her extreme
Woe, and more
formidable than fearful, like the leader of that
Band of Phrygian
worshippers, on the night when Dindymus
Echoes with lament,
one whirled away to pine-bearing Simois’
Stream, and chosen by
the goddess for self-mutilation, herself
Gifting the knife,
decking the victim with wool-twined wreath.
Already the sun had
hidden his burning chariot in the Hesperian
Flood, to return from
other deeps, but Argia was indifferent
To day’s departure,
absorbed by grief in her heavy task. Nor
Was she afraid of the
dark landscape, nor checked her passage
Over pathless rocks,
among boughs about to fall, through secret
Glades of the forest,
dark even under a cloudless sky, through
Plough-land bordered
by hidden ditches, through rivers careless
Of their fords, past
slumbering creatures and the perilous lairs
Of dreadful monsters;
such is the power of courage and grief.
Menoetes was ashamed
of his slower pace, and wondered at
The strength of his
weak foster-child. How many dwellings
For man and beast did
she not disturb with her pained lament?
How frequently she
lost her way; how frequently the solace
Of her accompanying
torch failed her as the cold darkness
Overcame its flame!
Now, before the travellers, Pentheus’
Ridge sloped downwards
into a wide declivity, and there,
With panting breath,
his strength almost gone, Menoetes
Began to speak: ‘I
believe, Argia, that if the hope our toil
Has nourished does not
deceive me Theban houses are close,
And bodies too, in
need of burial: the air around is seething,
Heavy and unclean;
great birds fly there through the void.
Here is that cruel
ground, the city nearby. See how the vast
Shadows of the walls
extend over the plain, and dying fires
Flicker from the
watchtowers. The city it is. A moment ago
The dark itself held
deeper silence, and only stars relieved
The blackness of the
night.’ Argia shuddered, and stretched
Her right hand towards
the walls: ‘City of
Desire, now a hostile
place, yet dear to me even so if you
Were to return me my
husband’s corpse unharmed, see you
What magnificence
attends me; what company surrounds me,
As I near your gates
for the first time, I, the daughter-in-law
Of your great Oedipus?
My prayer is not excessive: for as
A stranger I ask but a
body, a lament, a pyre. I ask for one
Who was exiled from
his realm and defeated in war, one
Whom you judged
unworthy of his father’s throne. Give
Him back to me. And if
the dead take form, and spirits
Wander free when the
flesh is gone, I beg that you may
Come to me, Polynices,
and you yourself show the way,
And lead me to your
corpse, if I so deserve.’ She spoke,
Then entered a
shepherd’s hut nearby, relit the flame
Of her dying torch,
and ran wildly onto the fatal field.
Thus Ceres, in her
bereavement, lighting her brand at
The shores of Ausonia
and
Of that dark rapist,
vast furrows in the dust; Enceladus
Himself echoed her
wild outcry, and his fires erupted
To light her path: the
rivers, woods, waves and clouds
Cried out: ‘Persephone’,
only the palace of the Stygian
Lord was silent: it
breathed not a word of Persephone.
Now Argia’s loyal
foster-father warned her to remember
Creon, in her
distraction, and to lower her torch and go
Secretly in stealth.
The queen, lately feared through all
The cities of
The august hope of her
nation, in hostile night, without
A guide, and with the
enemy nearby, stumbling alone
Over weapons and grass
slippery with blood, fearing
Neither the darkness
nor the crowd of shades gathered
About her, spirits
lamenting their lost flesh, trampling
On blade and spear in
blind passage, seemed unaware;
Her sole concern to
spare the corpses, thinking every
Dead man her own, and
scanning them keenly where
They lay, turning them
onto their backs then bending
Over them complaining
at the dim light from the stars.
It chanced that Juno
had stolen from her mighty spouse’s
Embrace and was making
her way through the sleep-laden
Darkness of the skies,
to the walls of Theseus’
To sway Minerva and
prepare the city to receive the pious
Suppliants. She
grieved on seeing from heaven’s heights
That innocent Argia
was wandering vainly and wearily
Over the field.
Meeting with the lunar chariot she turned
Her gaze towards it
and spoke in a gentle voice: ‘Cynthia,
Grant me a small
favour if you have any regard for Juno.
You did indeed triply
lengthen Hercules’ single night at
Jupiter’s bidding,
shameless one – but let me leave aside
Old complaints. See,
here is an opportunity to serve me.
You observe the
darkness through which Argia, a scion
Of Inachus, and my
favourite worshipper sadly wanders,
Unable to find her
husband’s body in the intense gloom,
While your rays
languish behind cloud. Reveal your
Horns, I pray, and
pass nearer to earth in your orbit than
Is your habit. And
send Sleep, who nods here from your
Chariot as he handles
the dewy reins, to those Theban
Sentries.’ She was
scarce done before the moon goddess
Displayed her full orb,
cleaving the cloud. The shadows
Took fright, the stars
lost their lustre; and even Saturnia
Herself could barely
endure the brightness. Now light
Flooded the plain,
Argia recognised her husband’s cloak,
Her own handiwork,
although the fabric was obscured,
The purple cloth
dimmed by blood. Invoking the gods,
Believing this to be
all that was left of his beloved body,
She found his corpse
well nigh trampled into the dust.
Mind, sight and voice
fled, and grief stilled her tears.
Then she pressed her
whole body to him, kissed his face,
Seeking the absent
spirit there, then squeezing the blood
From his hair and
clothes to treasure. Presently her power
Of speech returned:
‘Is it thus I find you, my husband,
A leader in war who
set out for a kingdom rightfully his,
The son-in-law of
mighty Adrastus? Is this the triumph
I hoped to see? Lift
your eyes to me that see no longer.
Argia has come to your
To your city, show me
your father’s house, return our
Hospitality? Ah, what
am I saying? Thrown on the bare
Earth, here is your
portion of your native land. Why is
There conflict still?
Truly, your brother rules no more.
Are none of your kind
moved to weep for you? Where
Is your mother, where
is the renowned Antigone? Your
Death grieves me
alone, in defeat I alone remember you.
I thought: “Why go?
Why demand a sceptre denied you?
You hold
Palace; here you shall
have long-lasting honour, here
An undivided rule.”
But how should I complain? It was
I who sent you to war,
I who pleaded with my sorrowful
Father, only that I
might now embrace you thus. But it is
Well, you gods; I
thank you, Fortune. The long-held hope
Of my journey is
fulfilled, and I have found his body yet
Whole. Oh, but how
deep is this gaping wound! Did a
Brother do this?
Where, I ask, does that foul thief lie?
I should outdo the
carrion birds if I had the power to
Approach him, and take
precedent over the wild beasts.
Is there truly a pyre
for the murderer? But you too, my
Husband, your country
shall not see you robbed of fire.
You too shall burn,
and win tears not to be won by kings.
Bereaved loyalty shall
endure forever, serving your tomb.
Our son shall be
witness to my sorrow, and Thessander,
My little ‘Polynices’,
must warm my bed in your place.
Behold, the wretched
Antigone endures like grief and bears
Another torch for the
dead. She had barely won the freedom
She sought to leave
the city, as the king declared he feared
Her intentions, so
that guards accompanied her constantly:
The watches had been
shortened, more numerous fires lit.
So, excusing herself
before her brother and the gods for her
Delay, she waited till
the grim sentries yielded to sleep for
A while, and then
rushed from the city with an angry cry,
Like the roar of a
virgin lioness, that terrifies the country
Round about, free of
its mother now, raging at last in fury.
She went quickly,
knowing the cruel field and the place
Where her brother lay
in the dust. Menoetes, unoccupied,
Saw her come towards
them, and checked his dear foster
Child’s lament, but
the sound reached the maiden’s ears
And, by the light of
their torches and the stars, she saw
Argia clothed all in
black, her hair trailing and her face
Stained with clots of
blood. ‘Whose body do you seek’
She cried, ‘and who
are you that dare this in my night?’
Argia was silent and
veiled her own face and the corpse,
Seized by sudden fear,
for a moment forgetting her sorrow.
All the more did
Antigone persist, rebuking her for her
Suspicious silence,
urging either of them to speak, but
Both remained mute. At
last Argia, still clasping the body
In her arms, unveiled
her face and spoke: ‘If you too come
To seek a corpse as I
did in the stale blood of battle, if you
Too go in fear of
Creon’s harsh decree then I can trust you
And explain myself. If
you grieve (and I see the signs there
Indeed of tears and
lament) join with me in faith, yes, join
With me. I am the
daughter of King Adrastus (oh, alas,
Is anyone by?) here
though kingdoms forbid it, to raise
A pyre to my dear
Polynices.’ The Theban girl, amazed,
Trembled, interrupting
the speaker: ‘Can you then fear me
The sharer (oh, blind
fortune!) in your sorrows, fear me?
Mine too are the limbs
you clasp, the corpse you weep for.
I yield place to you,
hold him. Ah, for shame, a sister’s piety
Is but a poor thing!
Yours has prior claim.’ And here both
Collapsed in a mutual
embrace of the corpse, both readily
Mingling hair and
tears, dividing his limbs between them;
Then returning to his
face, they lamented in turn, hanging
Alternately on his
beloved neck. Now as one recalled her
Brother, and the other
her husband, and each began again
To speak of
The whole sad story:
‘I swear to you by our private sacred
And mutual sorrow, by
the dead we share, and by the stars
That witness, that
though a wandering exile it was not his
Lost power that he
craved, nor his native soil, nor his dear
Mother’s breast, but
you alone, and night and day he spoke
Of Antigone. I was
less to him and easier to leave behind.
But you, perhaps from
some high tower, saw him before
The duel, handing out
standards to the Argive companies,
And he looked up at
you from the very heart of that array,
Saluted you with his
sword, the crest of his nodding helm:
I was far away. But
what god drove him to such extremity
Of madness? Did his
family beg him in vain? Did he deny
You when you pleaded?’
Antigone began to explain those
Workings of sad fate,
but the loyal companion admonished
Both: ‘Come, better to
finish what you have begun! Now
The stars grow pale,
troubled by approaching day: complete
Your labours. There
will be time for tears when the pyre is lit.’
Not far away a roar
proclaimed the shores of the Ismenos,
Still flowing
turbidly, discoloured with blood. There, though
Lacking strength, the
two women carried the mangled body,
Sharing the effort, to
which their companion, little stronger,
Joined his aid. Thus
the still-smoking corpse of Phaethon,
Hyperion’s son, was
bathed by his sisters in the warm waters
Of the River Po; and
he was scarce entombed when, turned
To poplar-trees, their
sad grove stood weeping by its shore.
After the two had
cleansed away the blood in the waves,
And the limbs in death
had returned to beauty, after their
Last kisses, the
sorrowing women sought the means of fire.
But the pyres around
were quenched and the ashes cold,
Extinguished in the
muddy trenches. Yet whether by chance
Or by the will of the
gods, that to which fierce Eteocles’ limbs
Had been consigned
still stood. Was Fortune preparing one
More place of portent,
or had the Fury preserved this fire
For mischief? Here,
equally zealous, they observed a single
Thin flame still
flickering among the blackened logs, both
Rejoicing despite
their tears. They had no knowledge yet
Of whose pyre it was,
but they prayed that whoever it might
Might be would admit
another, in peace and mercy, to share
The final fire and, as
shades, let their ashes mingle together.
Behold the brothers,
joined once more! As soon as those
Consuming flames
touched their limbs, the pile of timber
Quaked, the newcomer
was almost banished from the pyre.
The fire, divided at
the summit flared in alternating tips
Of broken light. Each
mass of flame menaced, and tried
To out-leap, the
other. The logs themselves shifted weight
And rolled apart.
Antigone, terrified, cried: ‘We are lost,
We have stirred the
wrath of the dead. It was his brother’s
Pyre. Who else would
be so savage as to repel the advent
Of another shade? See,
I recognise this piece of his shield,
And this charred belt.
It is his brother’s. See how the flame
Withdraws from, yet
rushes at, the other? It lives, their
Monstrous hate, it
lives! War has done nothing. Ah, you
Wretches, you fight,
but has not Creon already conquered?
Eteocles, your kingdom
is lost. Why then this fury? Cease
Your menaces! And you
Polynices, an exile everywhere,
Ever denied justice,
yield now. This your wife, your sister
Beg, or must we plunge
into the savage flames to part you?’
She had barely
finished when a sudden tremor shook
The plain and the high
city towers, and widened the cleft
In the discordant
fire. The sentries slumber was disturbed;
Sleep himself sent
troubled images. At once the soldiers
Ran in, ringing the
place with their encircling weapons.
The old man was
afraid, but the two women beside the pyre
Openly admitted to the
act, to flouting Creon’s cruel decree,
Lamenting loudly, but
free of care, seeing that Polynices’
Corpse had been
totally consumed. Now they were eager
For harsh
self-sacrifice, and their desire for death seethed
Bravely within them.
They contested who had stolen his
Body, a brother’s, a
husband’s, and each won credence
In turn. ‘I stole the
corpse’. ‘I dragged him to the fire.’
‘Affection made me do
so.’ ‘It was love.’ Both demanded
Savage punishment and
rejoiced to be bound in chains.
Gone was the mutual
respect in those alternating cries.
You might have thought
all anger and hatred, so loudly
Did they shout, urging
their captors towards the king.
Meanwhile far away at
the walls of Athens Juno led
Forward the distraught
Argive women (Pallas being
Now benign) and,
distraught herself, sought the city’s
Favour towards the
sorrowing troop, lending dignity
To their tears. She
herself gave them olive branches
And the ribbons of
suppliants, and told them to lower
Their eyes and veil
them with their mantles, holding
Up the urns of their
dead, empty of ashes. Athenians
Poured from their
homes filling the streets, or climbed
To the rooftops,
asking where this swarm of grieving
Women, all clustered
together, had appeared from.
Though not yet knowing
the cause of their distress,
The people already
groaned in sympathy. Now Juno
Mingled with both
groups, saying whence they came
And whose deaths they
mourned and their request,
And the women
themselves spoke denouncing
And Creon’s cruel
decree to all and sundry. Those
Nightingales of Thrace
with Philomela’s mutilated
Call complain no more
loudly as they sing out from
Their foreign perches
against the dual marriage bed
And Tereus’ injustice.
In the midst of the city was
An altar, but not one
dedicated to any deity of power;
Gentle Mercy had her
shrine there and misery made it
Sacred. She never
lacked fresh suppliants, and never
Denigrated requests
with refusal, all who asked were
Heard. They were
allowed to visit by day and night,
And propitiated the
goddess solely with their troubles.
Her rites were frugal;
no burnt incense or deep measure
Of blood was allowed:
the altar was moist with tears,
And above it hung sad
offerings of shorn tresses, or
Clothing left there
when luck changed. A gentle grove
Surrounded it, with
revered emblems of worship, laurels
And branches of
suppliant olive both twined with wool.
There was no effigy,
no divine form there cast in bronze;
For Mercy delights to
live in minds and hearts. The place
Was always full of the
fearful, ever bristling with crowds
Of the needy, only to
the fortunate was her altar unknown.
They say the children
of Hercules founded the shrine,
Being saved in battle
after their father’s death. The tale
Falls short of the
truth: we may rightly believe the gods
Themselves, to whom
Hallowed the place,
and just as they established the rule
Of law, and granted us
fresh humanity, and sacred rites,
And those seeds that
descended hence into empty lands,
So they sanctified a
common refuge for troubled souls,
Far from all rage and
threat and monarchy, a righteous
Altar, from which the
vicissitudes of Fortune receded.
All those defeated in
war, or exiled from their country,
Deposed from their
thrones, or charged with crimes in
Error, gathered there
and sued for peace. Later that
Hospitable place was
to overcome Oedipus’ Furies,
And conceal the
Theban’s relics, and remove the guilt
For his mother’s death
from the unfortunate Orestes.
There the anguished
throng of Lerna gathered, crowds
Of Athenians showing
them the way, and all the mass
Of former unfortunates
yielded their places to them.
They were scarcely
there before their cares were eased,
And their hearts had
rest; like those cranes driven to flight
From their native land
by the northerly winds who cross
The sea to Pharos,
filling the sky more widely with their
Glad sound, happy,
beneath cloudless skies, to have left
The snows they scorn,
and ease their chill along the
Now the joyful cheers
and shouts of the crowd, raised
To the sky above, and
the glad sound of the trumpets
Announced the return
of Theseus to his native city,
In his laurelled
chariot after fierce battles with Scythian
Amazons, his warfare
done. Before their leader were led
The spoils,
chariot-loads of virgins the image of harsh Mars,
Wagons piled with
helms, horses bereaved of their riders,
Shattered axes with
which those women felled the forests
And pierced the frozen
Belts glittering with
gems, shields stained with the blood
Of their owners. The
women themselves showed no fear,
Nor acknowledged their
gender, and nor did they lament in
The common manner,
scorning to plead only seeking out
The shrine of virgin
Minerva. The populace’s first desire
Was to view the
victor, drawn by four snow-white horses.
Hippolyte too
attracted their eyes, now charming in aspect,
And ready to accept
the marriage bond. The Athenian
Women muttered among
themselves, wondering that she
Had broken with the
austere custom of her country, in that
Her hair was groomed and
her breast covered by her mantle;
That she would mingle
her own barbarian blood with that
Of mighty
The sad daughters of
Pelops walked from the altar, where
They had been sitting,
to admire the passage of the triumph.
They thought of their
defeated men folk, and when Theseus
Slowed his chariot and
from its proud height enquired as to
Their petition, and
invited their plea with kindly attention,
Evadne, the wife of
Capaneus, chose to speak before the rest:
‘Warrior son of
Aegeus, to whom Fortune offers opportunity
Of great and
unexpected glory from our disaster, we are of
No foreign stock, nor
guilty of heinous crime:
Home, where our
husbands were brave kings – would it had
Been otherwise! For
what point was there in sending seven
Battalions to set
Agenor’s
Here to complain of
those men’s deaths. Such are the chances
Of battle, and the
fortunes of war. They fell in fight, but they
Were no Cyclopes
raised in Sicilian caves or by the bi-formed
Centaurs of
Ancestry. They were of
human blood, great Theseus, men
Created beneath the
same stars, to the same manner of life,
The same nurture, as
you yourselves. Creon denies them their
Funeral pyres, and
bars them from the threshold of the Stygian
Gate, as though he had
fathered the Furies or Charon, ferryman
Of the Lethe, leaving
them poised between heaven and Erebus.
Ah, primal Nature!
Where are the gods in this, where the hurler
Of that unjust
lightning-bolt? Where will you stand,
Now a seventh dawn
rises, steering her frightened horses far
From them where they
lie. The light of every starry ray slants
Away from them in
horror. The wild beasts and the very birds
Themselves loathe the
foul flesh on their approach and that
Battlefield breathing
corruption, tainting the breeze, the sky.
What remains of them
might you suppose? Make him permit
Us to gather the naked
bones, the blood-stained rotting flesh.
Hurry, honoured sons
of Cecrops! You must be our champion
Before Thracians and
Macedonians grieve as we do, or others
Elsewhere who hold
funeral rites and immolate by burning.
Or what limit shall
there be to savagery? True, we made war,
But those in hate are
fallen; death has buried the bitterness
Of wrath. You too, or
so the stories of your noble deeds relate,
Would not throw Sinis
or the vile Cercyon to savage monsters,
And would rather have
cremated and not drowned fierce Scyron.
Did not the Thracian
River Don too, from whence you bring back
These spoils, see the
smoke of Amazonian pyres? But be worthy
Of this triumph, grant
earth and sky and Erebus a deed, if it was
Truly you who freed
your native
Of the Minotaur, if
aged Hecale who sheltered you did not shed
Her tears in vain. So
may you never fight a battle without Pallas
Aiding you nor divine
Hercules envying your matching exploits,
And may your mother
see you ever triumphant in your chariot,
And may unconquered
She spoke and all
echoed her words and stretched out their hands
In clamorous entreaty.
The heroic son of
By righteous anger,
moved by their tears, exclaiming: ‘What Fury
Has induced such
strange behaviour in a king? The Greek hearts
I left behind, when I
departed for
Not such: whence this
new frenzy? Fell Creon, did you think Theseus
Defeated there? Well,
I am here, and not weary of blood, believe me:
This spear still
thirsts for that of the wicked. No delay. Loyal Phegeus,
Wheel your horse and
ride for the Tyrian towers. Proclaim my words:
‘Flames for the Danai
or war for
His recent battles and
the journey, he urged on his men, reviving their
Flagging strength. So
a bull when he has regained his brides and his
Pastures, and the
fight is behind him, hearing the woods resound with
The bellowing of
another contender, prepares himself again, though
His head and back rain
streams of blood, and pawing the meadow
Conceals his pain, and
hides his wounds with the dust. Minerva too
Shook her shield,
stirring Libyan terror, making the Medusa guarding
Her breast quiver, its
snakes immediately rearing up, their whole
Swarm gazing towards
To march, but already
Dircean Thebes trembled at the trumpets’ sound.
Now the warriors
assembled eager for the fight, not only those soldiers
From the Caucasian
triumph but untrained recruits from every region
Roused to arms. They
gathered willingly to their leader’s standard,
These were the men
that fought for chill Brauron, Monychian fields,
Famed for victory over
the Persians. The homes of Icarius and Celeus,
Hosts to their
country’s gods, Bacchus and Ceres, sent men to fight,
Green Melaenae, and
Aegaleos dense with forests, and Parnes kind
To the vine, and
Lycabessos, more generous still to the oil-rich olive.
Fierce warriors from
Alae were there, and the ploughboys of fragrant
They left Sunium
behind, visible afar to vessels from the east, where
Theseus’ Cretan ship
with its black sail deceived Aegeus, whose fall
Gave a name to the
shifting waves.
Hang up their ploughs
and seek grim battle; Ceres’
And Callirhoe those
whom she entwined nine times in her meandering
Streams; and the
Ilissos too, that witnessed the rape of Orithyia and hid
Boreas, her Getic
lover, along his banks. The Acropolis itself, where
The deities held their
great dispute, resolved when a new species of
Tree, the olive,
sprang from the contested plateau and cast its long
Shadow on the sea;
that rocky hill too was emptied for the warfare.
Hippolyte wished to
go, so as to lead her Thracian squadrons against
Cadmus’ walls, but the
promise of her pregnant womb now certain
Held her back, and her
husband asked her to forgo thoughts of war,
And hang her quiver,
its service complete, in the marriage chamber.
When Theseus saw the
troops, eager for battle and glittering with
Shining steel, giving
brief embraces and hasty kisses to their loving
Children, he spoke to
them from his high chariot: ‘Soldiers, you who
Shall with me defend
the laws of the lands and the earth’s covenants,
Consider the justice
of our enterprise. It is clear that the judgement
Of gods and men,
Nature, our ruler, and the hosts of silent Avernus
Are on our side; on
the other are the ranks of the avenging Furies.
Active for
March quickly now, and
trust in our great cause.’ He spoke, then
Hurled his spear to
initiate their swift passage. So, when Jupiter
At the Hyperborean
pole high among the clouds shakes the skies
At the start of
winter,
Restless from long
idleness take heart, and the windswept Bear
Whistles: then sea and
mountains roar, there is conflict amongst
The viewless clouds,
and thunder and wild lightning hold revel.
Now the trampled earth
groaned, a weight of hooves transmuted
The green fields, and
the soil pulverised by countless squadrons
Of cavalry and foot,
blew outwards. Yet the glitter of arms still
Shone through the
smothering dust, and cleft the air far off,
As spears flashed
through the thick cloud. They recruited night’s
Silent darkness to
their cause too. There was fierce competition
Among the warriors as
to who might first announce, from some
Low hill, that
In sight, and whose
lance might be the first to lodge in its wall.
Nearing the place,
Neptunian Theseus grasped his vast shield
Depicting armies. On
his boss it reveals the origins of his own
Glory, the hundred
cities and hundred winding walls of
Himself in the depths
of the monstrous labyrinth grasping
The shaggy neck of the
struggling Minotaur, alternately binding
Hands and knotty arms
about him, his head averted to escape
The horns. Men are
terrified when he goes to war defended
By that savage scene;
they see Theseus twice, his hands twice
Bloody with
destruction, and he himself recalls his past deeds,
Viewing his band of
comrades again, the once dreaded entrance,
And the maid of
Meanwhile Savage Creon
was arranging the death of Adrastus’
Widowed daughter Argia
and that of Antigone. Their wrists were
Manacled behind their
backs but, being proud and eager to die,
Disappointing the
bloodthirsty king, they were both stretching
Their necks out
towards the swords, when Phegeus arrived there
Carrying Theseus’
message. He came in peace, bearing innocuous
Olive branches but
loud and angry, over-mindful of his commander,
Emphasising that
Theseus was already nearby, his troops spread
Over the intervening
country, he threatened war, and stirred war.
Creon stood there in
perplexity, anxiety rising within him: thus he
Wavered, and his
earlier threats and anger ebbed. Then he braced
Himself and with a
false and sorrowful smile said: ‘Was that no
Small lesson we taught
defeated
Come to assault our
walls. Well then, let them come: but let them
Not complain after the
battle: there is one law for the vanquished.’
He spoke, but could
see that the horizon was dark with clouds
Of dust and the Theban
mountains losing their outline. Turning
Pale, he nevertheless
ordered the people to arms, and demanded
His own weapons. Then
to his dismay he thought he saw the Furies
Appear, suddenly, in
the heart of the palace; Menoeceus weeping;
And the Argive corpses
set on pyres while all rejoiced. What a day
Of battle now came,
when the victory won by
In blood, was lost!
The Thebans grasped the spoils hung so recently
In their ancestral
shrines, defending themselves with broken shields,
Dinted helmets, and
spears still caked with blood. None, brave to
See, rode his steed,
or marched gallantly with sword or quiver. Faith
In the fortifications
fled, and the walls were exposed on every side.
The gates required new
defences, their former enemy had destroyed
Them, and the
battlements were shattered where Capaneus toppled
Them, and while the
soldiers, wounded, weak, planted no last kisses
On wives’ and
children’s cheeks; the old were dazed and prayer-less.
Meanwhile Theseus,
seeing a brilliant sun burst through the clouds,
Its rays glittering on
the armour, leapt onto that plain whose corpses
Lay unburied below the
walls. Breathing air tainted by foul vapours
Beneath his
dust-stained helm, he groaned, and righteous battle-anger
Flared. Now either the
Theban king chose not to fight a second battle
Over the very bodies
of the dead, or else in his wickedness he sought
Virgin soil to drink
the blood, lest he fail to grant earth full measure
Of the cruel
slaughter. Now, Bellona roused two peoples to one-sided
Stood slackly, their
swords languishing, and their spear-straps loose
In their hands. They
gave ground, withdrew their squadrons, their old
Wounds still bleeding.
The Athenian generals too doused their ardour,
Their threat receding,
their courage ebbing, with clear victory assured,
Just as the roar of
the winds diminishes when no forest obstructs their
Fury or the wild
breakers sink to silence far from the sounding shore.
Now Neptunian Theseus
brandished his spear of Marathonian oak
On high, its cruel
shadow falling on the foe, the flame of its point
Filling the grim
battlefield, as though Mars whipped on his Thracian
Chariot bearing death
and rout on swift wheels from Haemus’ peak,
Such that pale terror
drove the panicked scions of Agenor in retreat.
Theseus wearied of
slaying fugitives, his hand scorned easy prey,
While his men’s
courage exhausted itself in furious ignoble carnage.
Anger feeds mighty
lions, but only wolves and degenerate dogs love
Lifeless flesh flung
at their feet. Nevertheless Theseus slew Olenius
And Lamyrus, the one
as he snatched arrows from his quiver, while
The other savagely
grasped a heavy rock; and killed Alcetus’ three
Sons who trusted in
their ancestral triple strength. Theseus slew
Them each in turn from
a distance with as many spears: Phyleus
Took the blade in his
chest; Helops bit down on it with his teeth;
While Iapyx felt it
pass through his shoulder. Now Theseus headed
For Haemon high in his
four-horse chariot, and whirled his deadly
Weapon. Haemon swerved
his frightened team. Reaching its mark,
After its long flight,
the spear pierced two of the horses, and would
Have transfixed a
third if the point had not struck the pole between.
Yet amidst the
squadrons it was Creon, only Creon that he sought
With fearful shouts
and oaths: his is the name that Theseus called.
Then he caught sight
of him on the other flank urging on his men
With cries,
threatening them with the worst, in vain. His troops
Melted away, while
Theseus’ men let him be, as ordered, trusting
In the gods and their
general’s weapons. Creon grasping his, now
Recalled them. Feeling
their equal hatred, he roused himself in
Fatal anger, and with
a final fury, driven by thoughts of death,
Cried out: ‘You are
not fighting now with shield-bearing women,
Here are no virginal
arms. This is the raw conflict of men. It was
We who put mighty
Tydeus and ravening Hippomedon to death,
And dispatched
Capaneus to the shades. What mad foolishness
Counselled you to war,
oh perverse man? See you not where they
Lie, those you would
avenge?’ So saying he planted a javelin
In the rim of Theseus’
shield, all in vain. That grim son of Aegeus
Mocked speech and
throw alike, and readied a mighty launch of
His steel-tripped
oaken spear, first with proud words thundering:
‘You Argive ghosts, to
whom I dedicate this offering, open wide
The gates of Tartarus:
make ready you vengeful Furies, for behold
Creon comes!’ With
that, the quivering shaft cleft the air, to strike
Where delicate links
of chain with their complex weave formed
The close-knit mail.
Creon’s impious blood spurted from their
Thousand openings: he
fell, his eyes already wandering in death.
A grim-faced Theseus
stood beside him and grasping the armour
Cried: ‘Now will you
grant the flames due your dead foes? Now
Will you bury the
vanquished? Go! Dark is your punishment, but
You at least are sure
of a tomb at last.’ In a now-friendly confusion
The standard-bearers
met, and the warriors clasped hands. A truce
Was struck in the
midst of the battlefield; Theseus became a guest.
They begged him to
enter the walls and honour their houses. He
Without demur entered
the enemy city as victor. Ogygian brides
And mothers rejoiced,
as Bacchus’ worshippers beside the
Won to his warlike
wand, intoxicated, celebrate unwarlike revels.
See, in the shadow of
Dirce’s heights, the Pelasgian women shouted
Fit to shake the
stars, hastening like those wild Thyiads summoned
To Bacchic wars; you
would think they were calling for some vast
Crime, or had
committed one. Mourning now rejoiced and fresh
Tears exulted. Emotion
drove them here and there; should they first
Seek out magnanimous
Theseus, or Creon’s corpse, or their loved
Ones? The sadness of
the bereaved led them towards the bodies.
Even though some god
were to free my breath in a thousand voices,
There is no worthy
effort of mine that could do justice to such a host
Of pyres for generals
and common folk alike, nor such a chorus of
Lament; nor could I
relate with what bravery Evadne threw herself
Into the flames
consuming her beloved, seeking to touch the lightning
In that mighty breast;
nor how Deipyle, Tydeus’ luckless wife, excused
His savage deed as she
bent to kiss the corpse; nor how Argia told her
Sister of the cruel
guards; nor with what grief Atalanta the Erymanthian
Mother of Arcadian
Parthenopaeus mourned for her son, whose beauty
Remained though the
life was fled, he for whom both armies wept alike.
Scarcely could
Apollo’s presence, bringing fresh inspiration, complete
The task, while my
barque, on the wide ocean, has earned harbour now.
My Thebaid on whom for
twelve years I’ve spent all my waking effort,
Will you survive, and
be read when your author is long gone? Already,
In truth, your fame
has spread a generous path before you, and begun
To reveal you, a new
arrival, to those to come. Already magnanimous
Domitian, our Caesar,
has deigned to acknowledge you, and the learned
Youth of
Try to compete with
the divine Aeneid, rather follow always in its steps
And adore it from
afar. Soon every envy spreading mist before you will
Vanish and, when I am
gone, you’ll receive such honour as is deserved.
End of Book XII and the Thebaid