Contents

Foreword

Histories

History

Aristophanes’ Speech

Thesmophoriazusae

The Bacchantes

The Funeral Games of Patroclus

The Games on Phaeacia

The Funeral Games

The Fasti

About Classical Wisdom Weekly

Foreword

By Ben Potter

The major text within this anthology – indeed, within the extant annals of antiquity – which give us the most information and detail about celebrations and festivals in the Ancient World is, without doubt, Ovid’s half-finished Fasti.

This would-be epic is made up of six books, each taking the name of a month of the, only fifty-year-old, Julian calendar. Though out of vogue for much of the twentieth century, the historical importance of the Fasti cannot be underestimated as it contains not only a record of when the various religious festivals of Rome took place, but also, rather pleasingly, the mythology behind them.

However, like with almost all literature at the time (the Fasti was published simultaneously to Ovid’s exile from Rome – in 8AD), it is fervent both in its praise of, and attempt to legitimise, the emperor Augustus.

That said, there are few scholars out there (unless they are sucking up to a head of department or applying for funds) who would cite the Fasti as being their favourite piece of Augustan, let alone Latin or Greek, poetry. Ovid’s charm and grace does shine through, therefore we cannot totally damn the Fasti with that euphemistic albatross ‘for the serious-minded reader’; nevertheless, though we’ve included the poem in its ‘entirety’ (i.e. all of it that Ovid finished), we’ve also put it at the end of the anthology so as not to alarm the literarily squeamish from the get-go.

Hence we begin on a lighter and less prosodic note with the Father of History, Herodotus (484-425BC).

Herodotus was one of those select scholarly experts who combine serious subject matter with a readable and light-hearted approach. Here, he gives his observations on the customs of a couple of outlying, ‘barbarian’ civilisations, the Babylonians and Egyptians.

N.B. For the Greeks, barbarians were technically, by etymological definition, Persian; the word derives from the noise of the Persian language to the Greek ear (bar-bar-bar-bar), but it became a term to mean, interchangeably, anyone who didn’t speak Greek, didn’t worship the Greek gods, or, simply, who wasn’t Greek.

Polybius (200-118BC) continues our historical gobbets. Like Bob Hope, Cary Grant, W.H.Auden and Alfred Hitchcock, Polybius left a bankrupt, militarily defunct, but culturally rich society to join a brash, bold and bellicose superpower. Though, unlike the abovementioned, he swapped Greece for Rome not England for America, and, crucially, his repatriation wasn’t nearly so voluntary.

That said, he was no mere slave, but a political hostage with a rich, curious and fertile mind befitting of his privileged status.

This status of an educated outsider on the inside of the social and political elite gave him a unique insight into Roman cultural life; he had the wit and intelligence to understand and appreciate this life, a similar cultural background from which to contextualise it, and, crucially, a relative lack of bias in reporting it.

Here he gives his observations on Roman funerary rites before providing two accounts of festivals being manipulated for political gain.

Our extract from Plato (c.427-347BC) does not give any information about an ancient festival; it actually is an ancient festival. Ironically, given its modern meaning, a symposium was a ritualised opportunity for men to get very, very drunk, eat some good food, have a nice chat, and, occasionally, fraternise with prostitutes.

Here we’ve included the most famous of all the speeches in Plato’s most enjoyable work; that of Aristophanes’ explanation for heterosexual and homosexual attraction.

We could literally have chosen any and all the extant plays of Athenian theatre to complement this month’s omnibus. This is because the theatrical festivals were, in and of themselves, an incredibly important part of the Athenian religious calendar.

The winter Lenaia and the spring Dionysia were two of the most popular celebrations in ancient Athens… unsurprisingly, given that they were devoted to the god of wine and theatre, Dionysus. Thus, if one wished to be a good and pious celebrant then taking in a show and a gutful of booze would have been the optimum way to show one’s piety and devotion.

Even still, we’ve managed to find two wonderful examples of Athenian theatre, one comic and one tragic, which are both part of the festival in their own right and also use festivals as the context for their plots.

Our excerpt from Aristophanes’ (c.446-386BC) Thesmophoriazusae (Women Celebrating the Festival of the Thesmophoria) gives as a unique, though highly fictionalised, insight into the private world of female festivities. The weakness in terms of historical accuracy, aside from Aristophanes being a comic writer and, as such, above any restrictions of realism, is that, being a man, he would have had no first-hand knowledge of what went on at this women-only event. That said, it might give us an insight into what the average Athenian man thought women got up to when no men were around – or, at least, what were the stock jokes and stereotypes pertaining thereto.

Sticking with Athenian theatre, though losing all the gags, we move on to Euripides (c.480 – 406BC). His Bacchae/Bacchantes though, on the surface, similar in content to the Thesmophoriazusae, could not, in reality, be any more different.

Both are preoccupied with female-dominant festivals; however, the bawdy larks and ribald slapstick of Aristophanes are replaced with scenes of harrowing psychological and physical torment. Though not for the faint-hearted, some argue that there is nowhere within the pages of ancient theatre a more compelling or gut-wrenching plot than that of the Bacchae.

Whilst it may have been hard for us to credit that theatrical events were a staple of the festive calendar, what were even more important were athletic competitions.

Though every town would probably have had its own annual games, in Greece, sporting events were every bit as sacred as the most serious and devout religious festivals. Indeed, the four Panhellenic (i.e. Greek-wide) sporting competitions (the Isthmian, Nemean, Pythian and Olympic Games) were of such importance that an annual armistice was called for competitors travelling to and from the games – a necessary function seeing as there was rarely a moment during which one Greek state was not at war with another.

Though it would be difficult to do justice to what a key religious and recreational pursuit these games were, the best argument for their importance is, perhaps, the fact that they are provided a position of prominence in the three seminal epic poems of the Ancient World: Homer’s (c.9th century BC) Iliad and Odyssey, and Virgil’s (70-19 BC) Aeneid; the relevant excerpts of which are included herein.

What underlines this prominence is the fact that all three epics could, quite easily, and without disrupting the flow or continuity of the story, decide to either omit, or marginalise, sporting competition within the plot. Indeed, Classical and literary scholars have often argued that all three books could actually be improved by the omission of these ritualised games.

Whether this is true or not is, of course, a matter of personal taste. However, the very fact that such a claim can be made only serves to reinforce the almost undeniable fact that sporting events were not merely popular or respected, but a key piece of the fabric that wove religious, communal and festive life together in the Ancient World.

Enjoy.

-Ben Potter (August, 2016)

Histories

Herodotus

Book I, II and IV

Translated by George Rawlinson

Book I

Babylonian customs and rites

Of the Babylonians customs, whereof I shall now proceed to give an account, the following (which I understand belongs to them in common with the Illyrian tribe of the Eneti) is the wisest in my judgment. Once a year in each village the maidens of age to marry were collected all together into one place; while the men stood round them in a circle. Then a herald called up the damsels one by one, and offered them for sale. He began with the most beautiful. When she was sold for no small sum of money, he offered for sale the one who came next to her in beauty. All of them were sold to be wives. The richest of the Babylonians who wished to wed bid against each other for the loveliest maidens, while the humbler wife-seekers, who were indifferent about beauty, took the more homely damsels with marriage-portions. For the custom was that when the herald had gone through the whole number of the beautiful damsels, he should then call up the ugliest- a cripple, if there chanced to be one- and offer her to the men, asking who would agree to take her with the smallest marriage-portion. And the man who offered to take the smallest sum had her assigned to him. The marriage-portions were furnished by the money paid for the beautiful damsels, and thus the fairer maidens portioned out the uglier. No one was allowed to give his daughter in marriage to the man of his choice, nor might any one carry away the damsel whom he had purchased without finding bail really and truly to make her his wife; if, however, it turned out that they did not agree, the money might be paid back. All who liked might come even from distant villages and bid for the women. This was the best of all their customs, but it has now fallen into disuse. They have lately hit upon a very different plan to save their maidens from violence, and prevent their being torn from them and carried to distant cities, which is to bring up their daughters to be courtesans. This is now done by all the poorer of the common people, who since the conquest have been maltreated by their lords, and have had ruin brought upon their families.

The following custom seems to me the wisest of their institutions next to the one lately praised. They have no physicians, but when a man is ill, they lay him in the public square, and the passers-by come up to him, and if they have ever had his disease themselves or have known any one who has suffered from it, they give him advice, recommending him to do whatever they found good in their own case, or in the case known to them; and no one is allowed to pass the sick man in silence without asking him what his ailment is.

They bury their dead in honey, and have funeral lamentations like the Egyptians. When a Babylonian has consorted with his wife, he sits down before a censer of burning incense, and the woman sits opposite to him. At dawn of day they wash; for till they are washed they will not touch any of their common vessels. This practice is observed also by the Arabians.

The Babylonians have one most shameful custom. Every woman born in the country must once in her life go and sit down in the precinct of Venus, and there consort with a stranger. Many of the wealthier sort, who are too proud to mix with the others, drive in covered carriages to the precinct, followed by a goodly train of attendants, and there take their station. But the larger number seat themselves within the holy enclosure with wreaths of string about their heads - and here there is always a great crowd, some coming and others going; lines of cord mark out paths in all directions the women, and the strangers pass along them to make their choice. A woman who has once taken her seat is not allowed to return home till one of the strangers throws a silver coin into her lap, and takes her with him beyond the holy ground. When he throws the coin he says these words- “The goddess Mylitta prosper thee.” (Venus is called Mylitta by the Assyrians.) The silver coin may be of any size; it cannot be refused, for that is forbidden by the law, since once thrown it is sacred. The woman goes with the first man who throws her money, and rejects no one. When she has gone with him, and so satisfied the goddess, she returns home, and from that time forth no gift however great will prevail with her. Such of the women as are tall and beautiful are soon released, but others who are ugly have to stay a long time before they can fulfil the law. Some have waited three or four years in the precinct. A custom very much like this is found also in certain parts of the island of Cyprus.

Such are the customs of the Babylonians generally.

BOOK II

Egyptians, their customs, rites and festivals

Concerning Egypt itself I shall extend my remarks to a great length, because there is no country that possesses so many wonders, nor any that has such a number of works which defy description. Not only is the climate different from that of the rest of the world, and the rivers unlike any other rivers, but the people also, in most of their manners and customs, exactly reverse the common practice of mankind. The women attend the markets and trade, while the men sit at home at the loom; and here, while the rest of the world works the woof up the warp, the Egyptians work it down; the women likewise carry burthens upon their shoulders, while the men carry them upon their heads. They eat their food out of doors in the streets, but retire for private purposes to their houses, giving as a reason that what is unseemly, but necessary, ought to be done in secret, but what has nothing unseemly about it, should be done openly. A woman cannot serve the priestly office, either for god or goddess, but men are priests to both; sons need not support their parents unless they choose, but daughters must, whether they choose or no.

In other countries the priests have long hair, in Egypt their heads are shaven; elsewhere it is customary, in mourning, for near relations to cut their hair close: the Egyptians, who wear no hair at any other time, when they lose a relative, let their beards and the hair of their heads grow long. All other men pass their lives separate from animals, the Egyptians have animals always living with them; others make barley and wheat their food; it is a disgrace to do so in Egypt, where the grain they live on is spelt, which some call zea. Dough they knead with their feet; but they mix mud, and even take up dirt, with their hands. They are the only people in the world- they at least, and such as have learnt the practice from them- who use circumcision. Their men wear two garments apiece, their women but one. They put on the rings and fasten the ropes to sails inside; others put them outside. When they write or calculate, instead of going, like the Greeks, from left to right, they move their hand from right to left; and they insist, notwithstanding, that it is they who go to the right, and the Greeks who go to the left. They have two quite different kinds of writing, one of which is called sacred, the other common.

They are religious to excess, far beyond any other race of men, and use the following ceremonies:- They drink out of brazen cups, which they scour every day: there is no exception to this practice. They wear linen garments, which they are specially careful to have always fresh washed. They practise circumcision for the sake of cleanliness, considering it better to be cleanly than comely. The priests shave their whole body every other day, that no lice or other impure thing may adhere to them when they are engaged in the service of the gods. Their dress is entirely of linen, and their shoes of the papyrus plant: it is not lawful for them to wear either dress or shoes of any other material. They bathe twice every day in cold water, and twice each night; besides which they observe, so to speak, thousands of ceremonies. They enjoy, however, not a few advantages. They consume none of their own property, and are at no expense for anything; but every day bread is baked for them of the sacred corn, and a plentiful supply of beef and of goose’s flesh is assigned to each, and also a portion of wine made from the grape. Fish they are not allowed to eat; and beans- which none of the Egyptians ever sow, or eat, if they come up of their own accord, either raw or boiled- the priests will not even endure to look on, since they consider it an unclean kind of pulse. Instead of a single priest, each god has the attendance of a college, at the head of which is a chief priest; when one of these dies, his son is appointed in his room.

Male kine are reckoned to belong to Epaphus, and are therefore tested in the following manner:- One of the priests appointed for the purpose searches to see if there is a single black hair on the whole body, since in that case the beast is unclean. He examines him all over, standing on his legs, and again laid upon his back; after which he takes the tongue out of his mouth, to see if it be clean in respect of the prescribed marks (what they are I will mention elsewhere); he also inspects the hairs of the tail, to observe if they grow naturally. If the animal is pronounced clean in all these various points, the priest marks him by twisting a piece of papyrus round his horns, and attaching thereto some sealing-clay, which he then stamps with his own signet-ring. After this the beast is led away; and it is forbidden, under the penalty of death, to sacrifice an animal which has not been marked in this way.

The following is their manner of sacrifice:- They lead the victim, marked with their signet, to the altar where they are about to offer it, and setting the wood alight, pour a libation of wine upon the altar in front of the victim, and at the same time invoke the god. Then they slay the animal, and cutting off his head, proceed to flay the body. Next they take the head, and heaping imprecations on it, if there is a market-place and a body of Greek traders in the city, they carry it there and sell it instantly; if, however, there are no Greeks among them, they throw the head into the river. The imprecation is to this effect:- They pray that if any evil is impending either over those who sacrifice, or over universal Egypt, it may be made to fall upon that head. These practices, the imprecations upon the heads, and the libations of wine, prevail all over Egypt, and extend to victims of all sorts; and hence the Egyptians will never eat the head of any animal.

The disembowelling and burning are, however, different in different sacrifices. I will mention the mode in use with respect to the goddess whom they regard as the greatest, and honour with the chiefest festival. When they have flayed their steer they pray, and when their prayer is ended they take the paunch of the animal out entire, leaving the intestines and the fat inside the body; they then cut off the legs, the ends of the loins, the shoulders, and the neck; and having so done, they fill the body of the steer with clean bread, honey, raisins, figs, frankincense, myrrh, and other aromatics. Thus filled, they burn the body, pouring over it great quantities of oil. Before offering the sacrifice they fast, and while the bodies of the victims are being consumed they beat themselves. Afterwards, when they have concluded this part of the ceremony, they have the other parts of the victim served up to them for a repast.

The male kine, therefore, if clean, and the male calves, are used for sacrifice by the Egyptians universally; but the females they are not allowed to sacrifice, since they are sacred to Isis. The statue of this goddess has the form of a woman but with horns like a cow, resembling thus the Greek representations of Io; and the Egyptians, one and all, venerate cows much more highly than any other animal. This is the reason why no native of Egypt, whether man or woman, will give a Greek a kiss, or use the knife of a Greek, or his spit, or his cauldron, or taste the flesh of an ox, known to be pure, if it has been cut with a Greek knife. When kine die, the following is the manner of their sepulture:- The females are thrown into the river; the males are buried in the suburbs of the towns, with one or both of their horns appearing above the surface of the ground to mark the place. When the bodies are decayed, a boat comes, at an appointed time, from the island called Prosopitis,- which is a portion of the Delta, nine schoenes in circumference,- and calls at the several cities in turn to collect the bones of the oxen. Prosopitis is a district containing several cities; the name of that from which the boats come is Atarbechis. Venus has a temple there of much sanctity. Great numbers of men go forth from this city and proceed to the other towns, where they dig up the bones, which they take away with them and bury together in one place. The same practice prevails with respect to the interment of all other cattle- the law so determining; they do not slaughter any of them.

Such Egyptians as possess a temple of the Theban Jove, or live in the Thebaic canton, offer no sheep in sacrifice, but only goats; for the Egyptians do not all worship the same gods, excepting Isis and Osiris, the latter of whom they say is the Grecian Bacchus. Those, on the contrary, who possess a temple dedicated to Mendes, or belong to the Mendesian canton, abstain from offering goats, and sacrifice sheep instead. The Thebans, and such as imitate them in their practice, give the following account of the origin of the custom:- “Hercules,” they say, “wished of all things to see Jove, but Jove did not choose to be seen of him. At length, when Hercules persisted, Jove hit on a device- to flay a ram, and, cutting off his head, hold the head before him, and cover himself with the fleece. In this guise he showed himself to Hercules.” Therefore the Egyptians give their statues of Jupiter the face of a ram: and from them the practice has passed to the Ammonians, who are a joint colony of Egyptians and Ethiopians, speaking a language between the two; hence also, in my opinion, the latter people took their name of Ammonians, since the Egyptian name for Jupiter is Amun. Such, then, is the reason why the Thebans do not sacrifice rams, but consider them sacred animals. Upon one day in the year, however, at the festival of Jupiter, they slay a single ram, and stripping off the fleece, cover with it the statue of that god, as he once covered himself, and then bring up to the statue of Jove an image of Hercules. When this has been done, the whole assembly beat their breasts in mourning for the ram, and afterwards bury him in a holy sepulchre.

The account which I received of this Hercules makes him one of the twelve gods. Of the other Hercules, with whom the Greeks are familiar, I could hear nothing in any part of Egypt. That the Greeks, however (those I mean who gave the son of Amphitryon that name), took the name from the Egyptians, and not the Egyptians from the Greeks, is I think clearly proved, among other arguments, by the fact that both the parents of Hercules, Amphitryon as well as Alcmena, were of Egyptian origin. Again, the Egyptians disclaim all knowledge of the names of Neptune and the Dioscuri, and do not include them in the number of their gods; but had they adopted the name of any god from the Greeks, these would have been the likeliest to obtain notice, since the Egyptians, as I am well convinced, practised navigation at that time, and the Greeks also were some of them mariners, so that they would have been more likely to know the names of these gods than that of Hercules. But the Egyptian Hercules is one of their ancient gods. Seventeen thousand years before the reign of Amasis, the twelve gods were, they affirm, produced from the eight: and of these twelve, Hercules is one.

In the wish to get the best information that I could on these matters, I made a voyage to Tyre in Phoenicia, hearing there was a temple of Hercules at that place, very highly venerated. I visited the temple, and found it richly adorned with a number of offerings, among which were two pillars, one of pure gold, the other of emerald, shining with great brilliancy at night. In a conversation which I held with the priests, I inquired how long their temple had been built, and found by their answer that they, too, differed from the Greeks. They said that the temple was built at the same time that the city was founded, and that the foundation of the city took place two thousand three hundred years ago. In Tyre I remarked another temple where the same god was worshipped as the Thasian Hercules. So I went on to Thasos, where I found a temple of Hercules which had been built by the Phoenicians who colonised that island when they sailed in search of Europa. Even this was five generations earlier than the time when Hercules, son of Amphitryon, was born in Greece. These researches show plainly that there is an ancient god Hercules; and my own opinion is that those Greeks act most wisely who build and maintain two temples of Hercules, in the one of which the Hercules worshipped is known by the name of Olympian, and has sacrifice offered to him as an immortal, while in the other the honours paid are such as are due to a hero.

The Greeks tell many tales without due investigation, and among them the following silly fable respecting Hercules:- “Hercules,” they say, “went once to Egypt, and there the inhabitants took him, and putting a chaplet on his head, led him out in solemn procession, intending to offer him a sacrifice to Jupiter. For a while he submitted quietly; but when they led him up to the altar and began the ceremonies, he put forth his strength and slew them all.” Now to me it seems that such a story proves the Greeks to be utterly ignorant of the character and customs of the people. The Egyptians do not think it allowable even to sacrifice cattle, excepting sheep, and the male kine and calves, provided they be pure, and also geese. How, then, can it be believed that they would sacrifice men? And again, how would it have been possible for Hercules alone, and, as they confess, a mere mortal, to destroy so many thousands? In saying thus much concerning these matters, may I incur no displeasure either of god or hero!

I mentioned above that some of the Egyptians abstain from sacrificing goats, either male or female. The reason is the following:- These Egyptians, who are the Mendesians, consider Pan to be one of the eight gods who existed before the twelve, and Pan is represented in Egypt by the painters and the sculptors, just as he is in Greece, with the face and legs of a goat. They do not, however, believe this to be his shape, or consider him in any respect unlike the other gods; but they represent him thus for a reason which I prefer not to relate. The Mendesians hold all goats in veneration, but the male more than the female, giving the goatherds of the males especial honour. One is venerated more highly than all the rest, and when he dies there is a great mourning throughout all the Mendesian canton. In Egyptian, the goat and Pan are both called Mendes.

The pig is regarded among them as an unclean animal, so much so that if a man in passing accidentally touch a pig, he instantly hurries to the river, and plunges in with all his clothes on. Hence, too, the swineherds, notwithstanding that they are of pure Egyptian blood, are forbidden to enter into any of the temples, which are open to all other Egyptians; and further, no one will give his daughter in marriage to a swineherd, or take a wife from among them, so that the swineherds are forced to intermarry among themselves. They do not offer swine in sacrifice to any of their gods, excepting Bacchus and the Moon, whom they honour in this way at the same time, sacrificing pigs to both of them at the same full moon, and afterwards eating of the flesh. There is a reason alleged by them for their detestation of swine at all other seasons, and their use of them at this festival, with which I am well acquainted, but which I do not think it proper to mention. The following is the mode in which they sacrifice the swine to the Moon:- As soon as the victim is slain, the tip of the tail, the spleen, and the caul are put together, and having been covered with all the fat that has been found in the animal’s belly, are straightway burnt. The remainder of the flesh is eaten on the same day that the sacrifice is offered, which is the day of the full moon: at any other time they would not so much as taste it. The poorer sort, who cannot afford live pigs, form pigs of dough, which they bake and offer in sacrifice.

To Bacchus, on the eve of his feast, every Egyptian sacrifices a hog before the door of his house, which is then given back to the swineherd by whom it was furnished, and by him carried away. In other respects the festival is celebrated almost exactly as Bacchic festivals are in Greece, excepting that the Egyptians have no choral dances. They also use instead of phalli another invention, consisting of images a cubit high, pulled by strings, which the women carry round to the villages. A piper goes in front, and the women follow, singing hymns in honour of Bacchus. They give a religious reason for the peculiarities of the image.

Melampus, the son of Amytheon, cannot (I think) have been ignorant of this ceremony- nay, he must, I should conceive, have been well acquainted with it. He it was who introduced into Greece the name of Bacchus, the ceremonial of his worship, and the procession of the phallus. He did not, however, so completely apprehend the whole doctrine as to be able to communicate it entirely, but various sages since his time have carried out his teaching to greater perfection. Still it is certain that Melampus introduced the phallus, and that the Greeks learnt from him the ceremonies which they now practise. I therefore maintain that Melampus, who was a wise man, and had acquired the art of divination, having become acquainted with the worship of Bacchus through knowledge derived from Egypt, introduced it into Greece, with a few slight changes, at the same time that he brought in various other practices. For I can by no means allow that it is by mere coincidence that the Bacchic ceremonies in Greece are so nearly the same as the Egyptian- they would then have been more Greek in their character, and less recent in their origin. Much less can I admit that the Egyptians borrowed these customs, or any other, from the Greeks. My belief is that Melampus got his knowledge of them from Cadmus the Tyrian, and the followers whom he brought from Phoenicia into the country which is now called Boeotia.

Almost all the names of the gods came into Greece from Egypt. My inquiries prove that they were all derived from a foreign source, and my opinion is that Egypt furnished the greater number. For with the exception of Neptune and the Dioscuri, whom I mentioned above, and Juno, Vesta, Themis, the Graces, and the Nereids, the other gods have been known from time immemorial in Egypt. This I assert on the authority of the Egyptians themselves. The gods, with whose names they profess themselves unacquainted, the Greeks received, I believe, from the Pelasgi, except Neptune. Of him they got their knowledge from the Libyans, by whom he has been always honoured, and who were anciently the only people that had a god of the name. The Egyptians differ from the Greeks also in paying no divine honours to heroes.

Besides these which have been here mentioned, there are many other practices whereof I shall speak hereafter, which the Greeks have borrowed from Egypt. The peculiarity, however, which they observe in their statues of Mercury they did not derive from the Egyptians, but from the Pelasgi; from them the Athenians first adopted it, and afterwards it passed from the Athenians to the other Greeks. For just at the time when the Athenians were entering into the Hellenic body, the Pelasgi came to live with them in their country, whence it was that the latter came first to be regarded as Greeks. Whoever has been initiated into the mysteries of the Cabiri will understand what I mean. The Samothracians received these mysteries from the Pelasgi, who, before they went to live in Attica, were dwellers in Samothrace, and imparted their religious ceremonies to the inhabitants. The Athenians, then, who were the first of all the Greeks to make their statues of Mercury in this way, learnt the practice from the Pelasgians; and by this people a religious account of the matter is given, which is explained in the Samothracian mysteries.

In early times the Pelasgi, as I know by information which I got at Dodona, offered sacrifices of all kinds, and prayed to the gods, but had no distinct names or appellations for them, since they had never heard of any. They called them gods (Theoi, disposers), because they disposed and arranged all things in such a beautiful order. After a long lapse of time the names of the gods came to Greece from Egypt, and the Pelasgi learnt them, only as yet they knew nothing of Bacchus, of whom they first heard at a much later date. Not long after the arrival of the names they sent to consult the oracle at Dodona about them. This is the most ancient oracle in Greece, and at that time there was no other. To their question, “Whether they should adopt the names that had been imported from the foreigners?” the oracle replied by recommending their use. Thenceforth in their sacrifices the Pelasgi made use of the names of the gods, and from them the names passed afterwards to the Greeks.

Whence the gods severally sprang, whether or no they had all existed from eternity, what forms they bore- these are questions of which the Greeks knew nothing until the other day, so to speak. For Homer and Hesiod were the first to compose Theogonies, and give the gods their epithets, to allot them their several offices and occupations, and describe their forms; and they lived but four hundred years before my time, as I believe. As for the poets who are thought by some to be earlier than these, they are, in my judgment, decidedly later writers. In these matters I have the authority of the priestesses of Dodona for the former portion of my statements; what I have said of Homer and Hesiod is my own opinion.

The following tale is commonly told in Egypt concerning the oracle of Dodona in Greece, and that of Ammon in Libya. My informants on the point were the priests of Jupiter at Thebes. They said “that two of the sacred women were once carried off from Thebes by the Phoenicians, and that the story went that one of them was sold into Libya, and the other into Greece, and these women were the first founders of the oracles in the two countries.” On my inquiring how they came to know so exactly what became of the women, they answered, “that diligent search had been made after them at the time, but that it had not been found possible to discover where they were; afterwards, however, they received the information which they had given me.”

This was what I heard from the priests at Thebes; at Dodona, however, the women who deliver the oracles relate the matter as follows:- “Two black doves flew away from Egyptian Thebes, and while one directed its flight to Libya, the other came to them. She alighted on an oak, and sitting there began to speak with a human voice, and told them that on the spot where she was, there should henceforth be an oracle of Jove. They understood the announcement to be from heaven, so they set to work at once and erected the shrine. The dove which flew to Libya bade the Libyans to establish there the oracle of Ammon.” This likewise is an oracle of Jupiter. The persons from whom I received these particulars were three priestesses of the Dodonaeans, the eldest Promeneia, the next Timarete, and the youngest Nicandra- what they said was confirmed by the other Dodonaeans who dwell around the temple.

My own opinion of these matters is as follows:- I think that, if it be true that the Phoenicians carried off the holy women, and sold them for slaves, the one into Libya and the other into Greece, or Pelasgia (as it was then called), this last must have been sold to the Thesprotians. Afterwards, while undergoing servitude in those parts, she built under a real oak a temple to Jupiter, her thoughts in her new abode reverting- as it was likely they would do, if she had been an attendant in a temple of Jupiter at Thebes- to that particular god. Then, having acquired a knowledge of the Greek tongue, she set up an oracle. She also mentioned that her sister had been sold for a slave into Libya by the same persons as herself.

The Dodonaeans called the women doves because they were foreigners, and seemed to them to make a noise like birds. After a while the dove spoke with a human voice, because the woman, whose foreign talk had previously sounded to them like the chattering of a bird, acquired the power of speaking what they could understand. For how can it be conceived possible that a dove should really speak with the voice of a man? Lastly, by calling the dove black the Dodonaeans indicated that the woman was an Egyptian. And certainly the character of the oracles at Thebes and Dodona is very similar. Besides this form of divination, the Greeks learnt also divination by means of victims from the Egyptians.

The Egyptians were also the first to introduce solemn assemblies, processions, and litanies to the gods; of all which the Greeks were taught the use by them. It seems to me a sufficient proof of this that in Egypt these practices have been established from remote antiquity, while in Greece they are only recently known.

The Egyptians do not hold a single solemn assembly, but several in the course of the year. Of these the chief, which is better attended than any other, is held at the city of Bubastis in honour of Diana. The next in importance is that which takes place at Busiris, a city situated in the very middle of the Delta; it is in honour of Isis, who is called in the Greek tongue Demiter (Ceres). There is a third great festival in Sais to Minerva, a fourth in Heliopolis to the Sun, a fifth in Buto to Latona, and a sixth in Papremis to Mars.

The following are the proceedings on occasion of the assembly at Bubastis:-

Men and women come sailing all together, vast numbers in each boat, many of the women with castanets, which they strike, while some of the men pipe during the whole time of the voyage; the remainder of the voyagers, male and female, sing the while, and make a clapping with their hands. When they arrive opposite any of the towns upon the banks of the stream, they approach the shore, and, while some of the women continue to play and sing, others call aloud to the females of the place and load them with abuse, while a certain number dance, and some standing up uncover themselves. After proceeding in this way all along the river-course, they reach Bubastis, where they celebrate the feast with abundant sacrifices. More grape-wine is consumed at this festival than in all the rest of the year besides. The number of those who attend, counting only the men and women and omitting the children, amounts, according to the native reports, to seven hundred thousand.

The ceremonies at the feast of Isis in the city of Busiris have been already spoken of. It is there that the whole multitude, both of men and women, many thousands in number, beat themselves at the close of the sacrifice, in honour of a god, whose name a religious scruple forbids me to mention. The Carian dwellers in Egypt proceed on this occasion to still greater lengths, even cutting their faces with their knives, whereby they let it been seen that they are not Egyptians but foreigners.

At Sais, when the assembly takes place for the sacrifices, there is one night on which the inhabitants all burn a multitude of lights in the open air round their houses. They use lamps in the shape of flat saucers filled with a mixture of oil and salt, on the top of which the wick floats. These burn the whole night, and give to the festival the name of the Feast of Lamps. The Egyptians who are absent from the festival observe the night of the sacrifice, no less than the rest, by a general lighting of lamps; so that the illumination is not confined to the city of Sais, but extends over the whole of Egypt. And there is a religious reason assigned for the special honour paid to this night, as well as for the illumination which accompanies it.

At Heliopolis and Buto the assemblies are merely for the purpose of sacrifice; but at Papremis, besides the sacrifices and other rites which are performed there as elsewhere, the following custom is observed:- When the sun is getting low, a few only of the priests continue occupied about the image of the god, while the greater number, armed with wooden clubs, take their station at the portal of the temple. Opposite to them is drawn up a body of men, in number above a thousand, armed, like the others, with clubs, consisting of persons engaged in the performance of their vows. The image of the god, which is kept in a small wooden shrine covered with plates of gold, is conveyed from the temple into a second sacred building the day before the festival begins. The few priests still in attendance upon the image place it, together with the shrine containing it, on a four-wheeled car, and begin to drag it along; the others stationed at the gateway of the temple, oppose its admission. Then the votaries come forward to espouse the quarrel of the god, and set upon the opponents, who are sure to offer resistance. A sharp fight with clubs ensues, in which heads are commonly broken on both sides. Many, I am convinced, die of the wounds that they receive, though the Egyptians insist that no one is ever killed.

The natives give the subjoined account of this festival. They say that the mother of the god Mars once dwelt in the temple. Brought up at a distance from his parent, when he grew to man’s estate he conceived a wish to visit her. Accordingly he came, but the attendants, who had never seen him before, refused him entrance, and succeeded in keeping him out. So he went to another city and collected a body of men, with whose aid he handled the attendants very roughly, and forced his way in to his mother. Hence they say arose the custom of a fight with sticks in honour of Mars at this festival.

The Egyptians first made it a point of religion to have no converse with women in the sacred places, and not to enter them without washing, after such converse. Almost all other nations, except the Greeks and the Egyptians, act differently, regarding man as in this matter under no other law than the brutes. Many animals, they say, and various kinds of birds, may be seen to couple in the temples and the sacred precincts, which would certainly not happen if the gods were displeased at it. Such are the arguments by which they defend their practice, but I nevertheless can by no means approve of it. In these points the Egyptians are specially careful, as they are indeed in everything which concerns their sacred edifices.

Egypt, though it borders upon Libya, is not a region abounding in wild animals. The animals that do exist in the country, whether domesticated or otherwise, are all regarded as sacred. If I were to explain why they are consecrated to the several gods, I should be led to speak of religious matters, which I particularly shrink from mentioning; the points whereon I have touched slightly hitherto have all been introduced from sheer necessity. Their custom with respect to animals is as follows:- For every kind there are appointed certain guardians, some male, some female, whose business it is to look after them; and this honour is made to descend from father to son. The inhabitants of the various cities, when they have made a vow to any god, pay it to his animals in the way which I will now explain. At the time of making the vow they shave the head of the child, cutting off all the hair, or else half, or sometimes a third part, which they then weigh in a balance against a sum of silver; and whatever sum the hair weighs is presented to the guardian of the animals, who thereupon cuts up some fish, and gives it to them for food- such being the stuff whereon they are fed. When a man has killed one of the sacred animals, if he did it with malice prepense, he is punished with death; if unwittingly, he has to pay such a fine as the priests choose to impose. When an ibis, however, or a hawk is killed, whether it was done by accident or on purpose, the man must needs die.

The number of domestic animals in Egypt is very great, and would be still greater were it not for what befalls the cats. As the females, when they have kittened, no longer seek the company of the males, these last, to obtain once more their companionship, practise a curious artifice. They seize the kittens, carry them off, and kill them, but do not cat them afterwards. Upon this the females, being deprived of their young, and longing to supply their place, seek the males once more, since they are particularly fond of their offspring. On every occasion of a fire in Egypt the strangest prodigy occurs with the cats. The inhabitants allow the fire to rage as it pleases, while they stand about at intervals and watch these animals, which, slipping by the men or else leaping over them, rush headlong into the flames. When this happens, the Egyptians are in deep affliction. If a cat dies in a private house by a natural death, all the inmates of the house shave their eyebrows; on the death of a dog they shave the head and the whole of the body.

The cats on their decease are taken to the city of Bubastis, where they are embalmed, after which they are buried in certain sacred repositories. The dogs are interred in the cities to which they belong, also in sacred burial-places. The same practice obtains with respect to the ichneumons; the hawks and shrew-mice, on the contrary, are conveyed to the city of Buto for burial, and the ibises to Hermopolis. The bears, which are scarce in Egypt, and the wolves, which are not much bigger than foxes, they bury wherever they happen to find them lying.

The following are the peculiarities of the crocodile:- During the four winter months they eat nothing; they are four-footed, and live indifferently on land or in the water. The female lays and hatches her eggs ashore, passing the greater portion of the day on dry land, but at night retiring to the river, the water of which is warmer than the night-air and the dew. Of all known animals this is the one which from the smallest size grows to be the greatest: for the egg of the crocodile is but little bigger than that of the goose, and the young crocodile is in proportion to the egg; yet when it is full grown, the animal measures frequently seventeen cubits and even more. It has the eyes of a pig, teeth large and tusk-like, of a size proportioned to its frame; unlike any other animal, it is without a tongue; it cannot move its under-jaw, and in this respect too it is singular, being the only animal in the world which moves the upper-jaw but not the under. It has strong claws and a scaly skin, impenetrable upon the back. In the water it is blind, but on land it is very keen of sight. As it lives chiefly in the river, it has the inside of its mouth constantly covered with leeches; hence it happens that, while all the other birds and beasts avoid it, with the trochilus it lives at peace, since it owes much to that bird: for the crocodile, when he leaves the water and comes out upon the land, is in the habit of lying with his mouth wide open, facing the western breeze: at such times the trochilus goes into his mouth and devours the leeches. This benefits the crocodile, who is pleased, and takes care not to hurt the trochilus.

The crocodile is esteemed sacred by some of the Egyptians, by others he is treated as an enemy. Those who live near Thebes, and those who dwell around Lake Moeris, regard them with especial veneration. In each of these places they keep one crocodile in particular, who is taught to be tame and tractable. They adorn his ears with ear-rings of molten stone or gold, and put bracelets on his fore-paws, giving him daily a set portion of bread, with a certain number of victims; and, after having thus treated him with the greatest possible attention while alive, they embalm him when he dies and bury him in a sacred repository. The people of Elephantine on the other hand, are so far from considering these animals as sacred that they even eat their flesh. In the Egyptian language they are not called crocodiles, but Champsae. The name of crocodiles was given them by the Ionians, who remarked their resemblance to the lizards, which in Ionia live in the walls and are called crocodiles.

The modes of catching the crocodile are many and various. I shall only describe the one which seems to me most worthy of mention. They bait a hook with a chine of pork and let the meat be carried out into the middle of the stream, while the hunter upon the bank holds a living pig, which he belabours. The crocodile hears its cries, and making for the sound, encounters the pork, which he instantly swallows down. The men on the shore haul, and when they have got him to land, the first thing the hunter does is to plaster his eyes with mud. This once accomplished, the animal is despatched with ease, otherwise he gives great trouble.

The hippopotamus, in the canton of Papremis, is a sacred animal, but not in any other part of Egypt. It may be thus described:- It is a quadruped, cloven-footed, with hoofs like an ox, and a flat nose. It has the mane and tail of a horse, huge tusks which are very conspicuous, and a voice like a horse’s neigh. In size it equals the biggest oxen, and its skin is so tough that when dried it is made into javelins.

Otters also are found in the Nile, and are considered sacred. Only two sorts of fish are venerated, that called the lepidotus and the eel. These are regarded as sacred to the Nile, as likewise among birds is the vulpanser, or fox-goose.

They have also another sacred bird called the phoenix which I myself have never seen, except in pictures. Indeed it is a great rarity, even in Egypt, only coming there (according to the accounts of the people of Heliopolis) once in five hundred years, when the old phoenix dies. Its size and appearance, if it is like the pictures, are as follow:- The plumage is partly red, partly golden, while the general make and size are almost exactly that of the eagle. They tell a story of what this bird does, which does not seem to me to be credible: that he comes all the way from Arabia, and brings the parent bird, all plastered over with myrrh, to the temple of the Sun, and there buries the body. In order to bring him, they say, he first forms a ball of myrrh as big as he finds that he can carry; then he hollows out the ball, and puts his parent inside, after which he covers over the opening with fresh myrrh, and the ball is then of exactly the same weight as at first; so he brings it to Egypt, plastered over as I have said, and deposits it in the temple of the Sun. Such is the story they tell of the doings of this bird.

In the neighbourhood of Thebes there are some sacred serpents which are perfectly harmless. They are of small size, and have two horns growing out of the top of the head. These snakes, when they die, are buried in the temple of Jupiter, the god to whom they are sacred.

I went once to a certain place in Arabia, almost exactly opposite the city of Buto, to make inquiries concerning the winged serpents. On my arrival I saw the back-bones and ribs of serpents in such numbers as it is impossible to describe: of the ribs there were a multitude of heaps, some great, some small, some middle-sized. The place where the bones lie is at the entrance of a narrow gorge between steep mountains, which there open upon a spacious plain communicating with the great plain of Egypt. The story goes that with the spring the winged snakes come flying from Arabia towards Egypt, but are met in this gorge by the birds called ibises, who forbid their entrance and destroy them all. The Arabians assert, and the Egyptians also admit, that it is on account of the service thus rendered that the Egyptians hold the ibis in so much reverence.

The ibis is a bird of a deep-black colour, with legs like a crane; its beak is strongly hooked, and its size is about that of the land-rail. This is a description of the black ibis which contends with the serpents. The commoner sort, for there are two quite distinct species, has the head and the whole throat bare of feathers; its general plumage is white, but the head and neck are jet black, as also are the tips of the wings and the extremity of the tail; in its beak and legs it resembles the other species. The winged serpent is shaped like the water-snake. Its wings are not feathered, but resemble very closely those of the bat. And thus I conclude the subject of the sacred animals.

With respect to the Egyptians themselves, it is to be remarked that those who live in the corn country, devoting themselves, as they do, far more than any other people in the world, to the preservation of the memory of past actions, are the best skilled in history of any men that I have ever met. The following is the mode of life habitual to them:- For three successive days in each month they purge the body by means of emetics and clysters, which is done out of a regard for their health, since they have a persuasion that every disease to which men are liable is occasioned by the substances whereon they feed. Apart from any such precautions, they are, I believe, next to the Libyans, the healthiest people in the world- an effect of their climate, in my opinion, which has no sudden changes. Diseases almost always attack men when they are exposed to a change, and never more than during changes of the weather. They live on bread made of spelt, which they form into loaves called in their own tongue cyllestis. Their drink is a wine which they obtain from barley, as they have no vines in their country. Many kinds of fish they eat raw, either salted or dried in the sun. Quails also, and ducks and small birds, they eat uncooked, merely first salting them. All other birds and fishes, excepting those which are set apart as sacred, are eaten either roasted or boiled.

In social meetings among the rich, when the banquet is ended, a servant carries round to the several guests a coffin, in which there is a wooden image of a corpse, carved and painted to resemble nature as nearly as possible, about a cubit or two cubits in length. As he shows it to each guest in turn, the servant says, “Gaze here, and drink and be merry; for when you die, such will you be.”

The Egyptians adhere to their own national customs, and adopt no foreign usages. Many of these customs are worthy of note: among others their song, the Linus, which is sung under various names not only in Egypt but in Phoenicia, in Cyprus, and in other places; and which seems to be exactly the same as that in use among the Greeks, and by them called Linus. There were very many things in Egypt which filled me with astonishment, and this was one of them. Whence could the Egyptians have got the Linus? It appears to have been sung by them from the very earliest times. For the Linus in Egyptian is called Maneros; and they told me that Maneros was the only son of their first king, and that on his untimely death he was honoured by the Egyptians with these dirgelike strains, and in this way they got their first and only melody.

There is another custom in which the Egyptians resemble a particular Greek people, namely the Lacedaemonians. Their young men, when they meet their elders in the streets, give way to them and step aside; and if an elder come in where young men are present, these latter rise from their seats. In a third point they differ entirely from all the nations of Greece. Instead of speaking to each other when they meet in the streets, they make an obeisance, sinking the hand to the knee.

They wear a linen tunic fringed about the legs, and called calasiris; over this they have a white woollen garment thrown on afterwards. Nothing of woollen, however, is taken into their temples or buried with them, as their religion forbids it. Here their practice resembles the rites called Orphic and Bacchic, but which are in reality Egyptian and Pythagorean; for no one initiated in these mysteries can be buried in a woollen shroud, a religious reason being assigned for the observance.

The Egyptians likewise discovered to which of the gods each month and day is sacred; and found out from the day of a man’s birth what he will meet with in the course of his life, and how he will end his days, and what sort of man he will be- discoveries whereof the Greeks engaged in poetry have made a use. The Egyptians have also discovered more prognostics than all the rest of mankind besides. Whenever a prodigy takes place, they watch and record the result; then, if anything similar ever happens again, they expect the same consequences.

With respect to divination, they hold that it is a gift which no mortal possesses, but only certain of the gods: thus they have an oracle of Hercules, one of Apollo, of Minerva, of Diana, of Mars, and of Jupiter. Besides these, there is the oracle of Latona at Buto, which is held in much higher repute than any of the rest. The mode of delivering the oracles is not uniform, but varies at the different shrines.

Medicine is practised among them on a plan of separation; each physician treats a single disorder, and no more: thus the country swarms with medical practitioners, some undertaking to cure diseases of the eye, others of the head, others again of the teeth, others of the intestines, and some those which are not local.

The following is the way in which they conduct their mournings and their funerals:- On the death in any house of a man of consequence, forthwith the women of the family beplaster their heads, and sometimes even their faces, with mud; and then, leaving the body indoors, sally forth and wander through the city, with their dress fastened by a band, and their bosoms bare, beating themselves as they walk. All the female relations join them and do the same. The men too, similarly begirt, beat their breasts separately. When these ceremonies are over, the body is carried away to be embalmed.

There are a set of men in Egypt who practice the art of embalming, and make it their proper business. These persons, when a body is brought to them, show the bearers various models of corpses, made in wood, and painted so as to resemble nature. The most perfect is said to be after the manner of him whom I do not think it religious to name in connection with such a matter; the second sort is inferior to the first, and less costly; the third is the cheapest of all. All this the embalmers explain, and then ask in which way it is wished that the corpse should be prepared. The bearers tell them, and having concluded their bargain, take their departure, while the embalmers, left to themselves, proceed to their task. The mode of embalming, according to the most perfect process, is the following:- They take first a crooked piece of iron, and with it draw out the brain through the nostrils, thus getting rid of a portion, while the skull is cleared of the rest by rinsing with drugs; next they make a cut along the flank with a sharp Ethiopian stone, and take out the whole contents of the abdomen, which they then cleanse, washing it thoroughly with palm wine, and again frequently with an infusion of pounded aromatics. After this they fill the cavity with the purest bruised myrrh, with cassia, and every other sort of spicery except frankincense, and sew up the opening. Then the body is placed in natrum for seventy days, and covered entirely over. After the expiration of that space of time, which must not be exceeded, the body is washed, and wrapped round, from head to foot, with bandages of fine linen cloth, smeared over with gum, which is used generally by the Egyptians in the place of glue, and in this state it is given back to the relations, who enclose it in a wooden case which they have had made for the purpose, shaped into the figure of a man. Then fastening the case, they place it in a sepulchral chamber, upright against the wall. Such is the most costly way of embalming the dead.

If persons wish to avoid expense, and choose the second process, the following is the method pursued:- Syringes are filled with oil made from the cedar-tree, which is then, without any incision or disembowelling, injected into the abdomen. The passage by which it might be likely to return is stopped, and the body laid in natrum the prescribed number of days. At the end of the time the cedar-oil is allowed to make its escape; and such is its power that it brings with it the whole stomach and intestines in a liquid state. The natrum meanwhile has dissolved the flesh, and so nothing is left of the dead body but the skin and the bones. It is returned in this condition to the relatives, without any further trouble being bestowed upon it.

The third method of embalming, which is practised in the case of the poorer classes, is to clear out the intestines with a clyster, and let the body lie in natrum the seventy days, after which it is at once given to those who come to fetch it away.

Book IV

Customs, rites and celebrations of the Scythians

Scythia has an abundance of soothsayers, who foretell the future by means of a number of willow wands. A large bundle of these wands is brought and laid on the ground. The soothsayer unties the bundle, and places each wand by itself, at the same time uttering his prophecy: then, while he is still speaking, he gathers the rods together again, and makes them up once more into a bundle. This mode of divination is of home growth in Scythia. The Enarees, or woman-like men, have another method, which they say Venus taught them. It is done with the inner bark of the linden-tree. They take a piece of this bark, and, splitting it into three strips, keep twining the strips about their fingers, and untwining them, while they prophesy.

Whenever the Scythian king falls sick, he sends for the three soothsayers of most renown at the time, who come and make trial of their art in the mode above described. Generally they say that the king is ill because such or such a person, mentioning his name, has sworn falsely by the royal hearth. This is the usual oath among the Scythians, when they wish to swear with very great solemnity. Then the man accused of having foresworn himself is arrested and brought before the king. The soothsayers tell him that by their art it is clear he has sworn a false oath by the royal hearth, and so caused the illness of the king- he denies the charge, protests that he has sworn no false oath, and loudly complains of the wrong done to him. Upon this the king sends for six new soothsayers, who try the matter by soothsaying. If they too find the man guilty of the offence, straightway he is beheaded by those who first accused him, and his goods are parted among them: if, on the contrary, they acquit him, other soothsayers, and again others, are sent for, to try the case. Should the greater number decide in favour of the man’s innocence, then they who first accused him forfeit their lives.

The mode of their execution is the following: a wagon is loaded with brushwood, and oxen are harnessed to it; the soothsayers, with their feet tied together, their hands bound behind their backs, and their mouths gagged, are thrust into the midst of the brushwood; finally the wood is set alight, and the oxen, being startled, are made to rush off with the wagon. It often happens that the oxen and the soothsayers are both consumed together, but sometimes the pole of the wagon is burnt through, and the oxen escape with a scorching. Diviners - lying diviners, they call them- are burnt in the way described, for other causes besides the one here spoken of. When the king puts one of them to death, he takes care not to let any of his sons survive: all the male offspring are slain with the father, only the females being allowed to live.

Oaths among the Scyths are accompanied with the following ceremonies: a large earthern bowl is filled with wine, and the parties to the oath, wounding themselves slightly with a knife or an awl, drop some of their blood into the wine; then they plunge into the mixture a scymitar, some arrows, a battle-axe, and a javelin, all the while repeating prayers; lastly the two contracting parties drink each a draught from the bowl, as do also the chief men among their followers.

The tombs of their kings are in the land of the Gerrhi, who dwell at the point where the Borysthenes is first navigable. Here, when the king dies, they dig a grave, which is square in shape, and of great size. When it is ready, they take the king’s corpse, and, having opened the belly, and cleaned out the inside, fill the cavity with a preparation of chopped cypress, frankincense, parsley-seed, and anise-seed, after which they sew up the opening, enclose the body in wax, and, placing it on a wagon, carry it about through all the different tribes. On this procession each tribe, when it receives the corpse, imitates the example which is first set by the Royal Scythians; every man chops off a piece of his ear, crops his hair close, and makes a cut all round his arm, lacerates his forehead and his nose, and thrusts an arrow through his left hand. Then they who have the care of the corpse carry it with them to another of the tribes which are under the Scythian rule, followed by those whom they first visited. On completing the circuit of all the tribes under their sway, they find themselves in the country of the Gerrhi, who are the most remote of all, and so they come to the tombs of the kings. There the body of the dead king is laid in the grave prepared for it, stretched upon a mattress; spears are fixed in the ground on either side of the corpse, and beams stretched across above it to form a roof, which is covered with a thatching of osier twigs. In the open space around the body of the king they bury one of his concubines, first killing her by strangling, and also his cup-bearer, his cook, his groom, his lacquey, his messenger, some of his horses, firstlings of all his other possessions, and some golden cups; for they use neither silver nor brass. After this they set to work, and raise a vast mound above the grave, all of them vying with each other and seeking to make it as tall as possible.

When a year is gone by, further ceremonies take place. Fifty of the best of the late king’s attendants are taken, all native Scythians- for, as bought slaves are unknown in the country, the Scythian kings choose any of their subjects that they like, to wait on them- fifty of these are taken and strangled, with fifty of the most beautiful horses. When they are dead, their bowels are taken out, and the cavity cleaned, filled full of chaff, and straightway sewn up again. This done, a number of posts are driven into the ground, in sets of two pairs each, and on every pair half the felly of a wheel is placed archwise; then strong stakes are run lengthways through the bodies of the horses from tail to neck, and they are mounted up upon the fellies, so that the felly in front supports the shoulders of the horse, while that behind sustains the belly and quarters, the legs dangling in mid-air; each horse is furnished with a bit and bridle, which latter is stretched out in front of the horse, and fastened to a peg. The fifty strangled youths are then mounted severally on the fifty horses. To effect this, a second stake is passed through their bodies along the course of the spine to the neck; the lower end of which projects from the body, and is fixed into a socket, made in the stake that runs lengthwise down the horse. The fifty riders are thus ranged in a circle round the tomb, and so left.

Such, then, is the mode in which the kings are buried: as for the people, when any one dies, his nearest of kin lay him upon a wagon and take him round to all his friends in succession: each receives them in turn and entertains them with a banquet, whereat the dead man is served with a portion of all that is set before the others; this is done for forty days, at the end of which time the burial takes place. After the burial, those engaged in it have to purify themselves, which they do in the following way. First they well soap and wash their heads; then, in order to cleanse their bodies, they act as follows: they make a booth by fixing in the ground three sticks inclined towards one another, and stretching around them woolen felts, which they arrange so as to fit as close as possible: inside the booth a dish is placed upon the ground, into which they put a number of red-hot stones, and then add some hemp-seed.

Hemp grows in Scythia: it is very like flax; only that it is a much coarser and taller plant: some grows wild about the country, some is produced by cultivation: the Thracians make garments of it which closely resemble linen; so much so, indeed, that if a person has never seen hemp he is sure to think they are linen, and if he has, unless he is very experienced in such matters, he will not know of which material they are.

The Scythians, as I said, take some of this hemp-seed, and, creeping under the felt coverings, throw it upon the red-hot stones; immediately it smokes, and gives out such a vapour as no Grecian vapour-bath can exceed; the Scyths, delighted, shout for joy, and this vapour serves them instead of a water-bath; for they never by any chance wash their bodies with water. Their women make a mixture of cypress, cedar, and frankincense wood, which they pound into a paste upon a rough piece of stone, adding a little water to it. With this substance, which is of a thick consistency, they plaster their faces all over, and indeed their whole bodies. A sweet odour is thereby imparted to them, and when they take off the plaster on the day following, their skin is clean and glossy.

The Scythians have an extreme hatred of all foreign customs, particularly of those in use among the Greeks, as the instances of Anacharsis, and, more lately, of Scylas, have fully shown. The former, after he had travelled over a great portion of the world, and displayed wherever he went many proofs of wisdom, as he sailed through the Hellespont on his return to Scythia touched at Cyzicus. There he found the inhabitants celebrating with much pomp and magnificence a festival to the Mother of the Gods, and was himself induced to make a vow to the goddess, whereby he engaged, if he got back safe and sound to his home, that he would give her a festival and a night-procession in all respects like those which he had seen in Cyzicus. When, therefore, he arrived in Scythia, he betook himself to the district called the Woodland, which lies opposite the course of Achilles, and is covered with trees of all manner of different kinds, and there went through all the sacred rites with the tabour in his hand, and the images tied to him. While thus employed, he was noticed by one of the Scythians, who went and told king Saulius what he had seen. Then king Saulius came in person, and when he perceived what Anacharsis was about, he shot at him with an arrow and killed him. To this day, if you ask the Scyths about Anacharsis, they pretend ignorance of him, because of his Grecian travels and adoption of the customs of foreigners.

History

Book VI, XVII and XXXI

Polybius

BOOK VI

Roman funerary rites

Now the people of Italy are by nature superior to the Carthaginians and the Africans, both in bodily strength, and in courage. Add to this, that they have among them certain institutions by which the young men are greatly animated to perform acts of bravery. It will be sufficient to mention one of these, as a proof of the attention that is shown by the Roman government, to infuse such a spirit into the citizens as shall lead them to encounter every kind of danger for the sake of obtaining reputation in their country. When any illustrious person dies, he is carried in procession with the rest of the funeral pomp, to the rostra in the forum; sometimes placed conspicuous in an upright posture; and sometimes, though less frequently, reclined. And while the people are all standing round, his son, if he has left one of sufficient age, and who is then at Rome, or, if otherwise, some person of his kindred, ascends the rostra, and extols the virtues of the deceased, and the great deeds that were performed by him in his life. By this discourse, which recalls his past actions to remembrance, and places them in open view before all the multitude, not those alone who were sharers in his victories, but even the rest who bore no part in his exploits, are moved to such sympathy of sorrow, that the accident seems rather to be a public misfortune, than a private loss. He is then buried with the usual rites; and afterwards an image, which both in features and complexion expresses an exact resemblance of his face, is set up in the most conspicuous part of the house, inclosed in a shrine of wood. Upon solemn festivals, these images are uncovered, and adorned with the greatest care.

And when any other person of the same family dies, they are carried also in the funeral procession, with a body added to the bust, that the representation may be just, even with regard to size. They are dressed likewise in the habits that belong to the ranks which they severally filled when they were alive. If they were consuls or praetors, in a gown bordered with purple: if censors, in a purple robe: and if they triumphed, or obtained any similar honor, in a vest embroidered with gold. Thus appeared, they are drawn along in chariots preceded by the rods and axes, and other ensigns of their former dignity. And when they arrive at the forum, they are all seated upon chairs of ivory; and there exhibit the noblest objects that can be offered to youthful mind, warmed with the love of virtue and of glory. For who can behold without emotion the forms of so many illustrious men, thus living, as it were, and breathing together in his presence? Or what spectacle can be conceived more great and striking? The person also that is appointed to harangue, when he has exhausted all the praises of the deceased, turns his discourse to the rest, whose images are before him; and, beginning with the most ancient of them, recounts the fortunes and the exploits of every one in turn. By this method, which renews continually the remembrance of men celebrated for their virtue, the fame of every great and noble action become immortal. And the glory of those, by whose services their country has been benefited, is rendered familiar to the people, and delivered down to future times. But the chief advantage is, that by the hope of obtaining this honorable fame, which is reserved for virtue, the young men are animated to sustain all danger, in the cause of the common safety. For from hence it has happened, that many among the Romans have voluntarily engaged in single combat, in order to decide the fortune of an entire war. Many also have devoted themselves to inevitable death; some of them in battle, to save the lives of other citizens; and some in time of peace to rescue the whole state from destruction. Others again, who have been invested with the highest dignities have, in defiance of all law and customs, condemned their own sons to die; showing greater regard to the advantage of their country, than to the bonds of nature, and the closest ties of kindred.

BOOK XVIII

The Freedom of the Greeks at the Isthmian Games

When these decisions had been come to, the time for the celebration of the Isthmian games arrived. The expectation of what would happen there drew the men of highest rank from nearly every quarter of the world; and there was a great deal of talk on the subject from one end of the assembled multitude to the other, and expressed in varied language. Some said that from certain of the places and towns it was impossible that the Romans could withdraw; while others asserted that they would withdraw from those considered most important, but would retain others that were less prominent, though capable of being quite as serviceable. And such persons even took upon themselves in their ingenuity to designate the precise places which would be thus treated. While people were still in this state of uncertainty, all the world being assembled on the stadium to watch the games, the herald came forward, and having proclaimed silence by the sound of a trumpet, delivered the following proclamation: “The senate of Rome and Titus Quintus, proconsul and imperator, having conquered King Philip and the Macedonians in war, declare the following peoples free, without garrison, or tribute, in full enjoyment of the laws of their respective countries: namely, Corinthians, Phocians, Locrians, Euboeans, Achaeans of Phiotis, Magnesians, Thessalians, Perrhaebians.”

Now as the first words of the proclamation were the signal for a tremendous outburst of clapping, some of the people could not hear it at all, and some wanted to hear it again; but the majority feeling incredulous, and thinking that they heard the words in a kind of dream, so utterly unexpected was it, another impulse induced every one to shout to the herald and trumpeter to come into the middle of the stadium and repeat the words: I suppose because the people wished not only to hear but to see the speaker, in their inability to credit the announcement. But when the herald, having advanced into the middle of the crowd, once more, by his trumpeter, hushed the clamour, and repeated exactly the same proclamation as before, there was such an outbreak of clapping as is difficult to convey to the imagination of my readers at this time. When at length the clapping ceased, no one paid any attention whatever to the athletes, but all were talking to themselves or each other, and seemed like people bereft of their senses. Nay, after the games were over, in the extravagance of their joy, they nearly killed Flamininus by the exhibition of their gratitude. Some wanted to look him in the face and call him their preserver; others were eager to touch his hand; most threw garlands and fillets upon him; until between them they nearly crushed him to death. But though this expression of popular gratitude was thought to have been extravagant, one might say with confidence that it fell short of the importance of the actual event. For that the Romans and their leader Flamininus should have deliberately incurred unlimited expense and danger, for the sole purpose of freeing Greece, deserved their admiration; and it was also a great thing that their power was equal to their intention. But the greatest thing of all is that Fortune foiled their attempt by none of her usual caprices, but that every single thing came to a successful issue at the same time: so that all Greeks, Asiatic and European alike, were by a single proclamation become “free, without garrison or tribute, and enjoying their own laws.”

BOOK XXXI

The Grand Festival at Daphne

When this same king (Antiochus Epiphanes) heard of the games in Macedonia held by the Roman proconsul Aemilius Paulus, wishing to out do Paulus by the splendour of his liberality, he sent envoys to the several cities announcing games to be held by him at Daphne; and it became the rage in Greece to attend them. The public ceremonies began with a procession composed as follows: first came some men armed in the Roman fashion, with their coats made of chain armour, five thousand in the prime of life. Next came five thousand Mysians, who were followed by three thousand Cilicians armed like light infantry, and wearing gold crowns. Next to them came three thousand Thracians and five thousand Gauls. They were followed by twenty-thousand Macedonians, and five thousand armed with brass shields, and others with silver shields, who were followed by two hundred and forty pairs of gladiators. Behind these were a thousand Nisaean cavalry and three thousand native horsemen, most of whom had gold plumes and gold crowns, the rest having them of silver. Next to them came what are called “companion cavalry,” to the number of a thousand, closely followed by the corps of king’s “friends” of about the same number, who were again followed by a thousand picked men; next to whom came the Agema or guard, which was considered the flower of the cavalry, and numbered about a thousand. Next came the “cataphract” cavalry, both men and horses acquiring that name from the nature of their panoply; they numbered fifteen hundred. All the above men had purple surcoats, in many cases embroidered with gold and heraldic designs. And behind them came a hundred six-horsed, and forty four-horsed chariots; a chariot drawn by four elephants and another by two; and then thirty-six elephants in single file with all their furniture on.

The rest of the procession was almost beyond description, but I must give a summary account of it. It consisted of eight hundred young men wearing gold crowns, about a thousand fine oxen, foreign delegates to the number of nearly three hundred, and eight hundred ivory tusks. The number of images of the gods it is impossible to tell completely: for representations of every god or demigod or hero accepted by mankind were carried there, some gilded and others adorned with gold-embroidered robes; and the myths, belonging to each, according to accepted tradition, were represented by the most costly symbols. Behind them were carried representations of Night and Day, Earth, Heaven, Morning and Noon. The best idea that I can give of the amount of gold and silver plate is this: One of the king’s friends, Dionysius his secretary, had a thousand boys in the procession carrying silver vessels, none of which weighed less than a thousand drachmae;1 and by their side walked six hundred young slaves of the king holding gold vessels. There were also two hundred women sprinkling unguents from gold boxes; and after them came eighty women sitting in litters with gold feet, and five hundred in litters with silver feet, all adorned with great costliness. These were the most remarkable features of the procession

The festival, including the gladiatorial shows and hunting, lasted thirty days, in the course of which there was continual round of spectacles. During the first five of these everybody in the gymnasium anointed himself with oil scented with saffron in gold vessels, of which there were fifteen, and the same number scented with cinnamon and nard. On the following days other vessels were brought in scented with fenugreek, marjoram, and lily, all of extraordinary fragrancy. Public banquets were also given, at which couches were prepared, sometimes for a thousand and sometimes for fifteen hundred, with the utmost splendour and costliness.

The whole of the arrangements were made personally by the king. He rode on an inferior horse by the side of the procession, ordering one part to advance, and another to halt, as occasion required; so that, if his diadem had been removed, no one would have believed that he was the king and the master of all; for his appearance was not equal to that of a moderately good servant. At the feasts also he stood himself at the entrance, and admitted some and assigned others their places; he personally ushered in the servants bringing the dishes; and walking about among the company sometimes sat down and sometimes lay down on the couches. Sometimes he would jump up, lay down the morsel of food or the cup that he was raising to his lips, and go to another part of the hall; and walking among the guests acknowledge the compliment, as now one and now another pledged him in wine, or jest at any recitations that might be going on. And when the festivity had gone on for a long time, and a good many of the guests had departed, the king was carried in by the mummers, completely shrouded in a robe, and laid upon the ground, as though he were one of the actors; then, at the signal given by the music, he leapt up, stripped, and began to dance with the jesters; so that all the guests were scandalised and retired. In fact every one who attended the festival, when they saw the extraordinary wealth which was displayed at it, the arrangements made in the processions and games, and the scale of the splendour on which the whole was managed, were struck with amazement and wonder both at the king and the greatness of his kingdom: but when they fixed their eyes on the man himself, and the contemptible conduct to which he condescended, they could scarcely believe that so much excellence and baseness could exist in one and the same breast.

Aristophanes’ Speech

Plato

The Symposium

Translated by Benjamin Jowett

Aristophanes professed to open another vein of discourse; he had a mind to praise Love in another way, unlike that of either Pausanias or Eryximachus. Mankind, he said, judging by their neglect of him, have never, as I think, at all understood the power of Love. For if they had understood him they would surely have built noble temples and altars, and offered solemn sacrifices in his honour; but this is not done, and most certainly ought to be done: since of all the gods he is the best friend of men, the helper and the healer of the ills which are the great impediment to the happiness of the race. I will try to describe his power to you, and you shall teach the rest of the world what I am teaching you.

In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it. The original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, of which the name survives but nothing else. Once it was a distinct kind, with a bodily shape and a name of its own, constituted by the union of the male and the female: but now only the word ‘androgynous’ is preserved, and that as a term of reproach.

In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and the same number of feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. He could walk upright as men now do, backwards or forwards as he pleased, and he could also roll over and over at a great pace, turning on his four hands and four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in the air; this was when he wanted to run fast.

Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three; and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round because they resembled their parents. Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods; of them is told the tale of Otys and Ephialtes who, as Homer says, attempted to scale heaven, and would have laid hands upon the gods.

Doubt reigned in the celestial councils. Should they kill them and annihilate the race with thunderbolts, as they had done the giants, then there would be an end of the sacrifices and worship which men offered to them; but, on the other hand, the gods could not suffer their insolence to be unrestrained. At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way.

He said: ‘Methinks I have a plan which will enfeeble their strength and so extinguish their turbulence; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers; this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us. They shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg.’

He spoke and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which is halved for pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair; and as he cut them one after another, he bade Apollo give the face and the half of the neck a turn in order that man might contemplate the section of himself: he would thus learn a lesson of humility. Apollo was also bidden to heal their wounds and compose their forms. So he gave a turn to the face and pulled the skin from the sides all over that which in our language is called the belly, like the purses which draw tight, and he made one mouth at the centre, which he fastened in a knot (the same which is called the navel); he also moulded the breast and took out most of the wrinkles, much as a shoemaker might smooth leather upon a last; he left a few, however, in the region of the belly and navel, as a memorial of the primeval state.

After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to grow into one, they began to die from hunger and self-neglect, because they did not like to do anything apart; and when one of the halves died and the other survived, the survivor sought another mate, man or woman as we call them,—being the sections of entire men or women,—and clung to that.

Thus they were being destroyed, when Zeus in pity invented a new plan: he turned the parts of generation round to the front, for this had not been always their position, and they sowed the seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in one another; and after the transposition the male generated in the female in order that by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed, and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the business of life. So ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, seeking to make one of two, and to heal the state of man.

Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish, is but the tally-half of a man, and he is always looking for his other half. Men who are a section of that double nature which was once called androgynous are lovers of women; adulterers are generally of this breed, and also adulterous women who lust after men. The women who are a section of the woman do not care for men, but have female attachments; the female companions are of this sort. But they who are a section of the male follow the male, and while they are young, being slices of the original man, they have affection for men and embrace them, and these are the best of boys and youths, because they have the most manly nature.

Some indeed assert that they are shameless, but this is not true; for they do not act thus from any want of shame, but because they are valiant and manly, and have a manly countenance, and they embrace that which is like them. And these when they grow up become our statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the truth of what I am saying. When they reach manhood they are lovers of youth, and are not naturally inclined to marry or beget children,—if at all, they do so only in obedience to custom; but they are satisfied if they may be allowed to live with one another unwedded;

And such a nature is prone to love and ready to return love, always embracing that which is akin to him. And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together, and yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover’s intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment.

Suppose Hephaestus, with his instruments, to come to the pair who are lying side by side and to say to them, ‘What do you mortals want of one another?’

They would be unable to explain. And suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity he said: ‘Do you desire to be wholly one; always day and night in one another’s company? for if this is what you desire, I am ready to melt and fuse you together, so that being two you shall become one, and while you live live a common life as if you were a single man, and after your death in the world below still be one departed soul, instead of two—I ask whether this is what you lovingly desire and whether you are satisfied to attain this?’—

There is not a man of them who when he heard the proposal would deny or would not acknowledge that this meeting and melting into one another, this becoming one instead of two, was the very expression of his ancient need.

And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love. There was a time, I say, when we were one, but now because of the wickedness of mankind God has dispersed us, as the Arcadians were dispersed into villages by the Lacedaemonians. And if we are not obedient to the gods, there is a danger that we shall be split up again and go about in basso-relievo, like the profile figures showing only one half the nose which are sculptured on monuments, and that we shall be like tallies. Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety in all things, that we may avoid evil and obtain the good, taking Love for our leader and commander.

Let no one oppose him—he is the enemy of the gods who opposes him. For if we are friends of God and at peace with him we shall find our own true loves, which rarely happens in this world at present. I am serious, and therefore I must beg Eryximachus not to make fun or to find any allusion in what I am saying to Pausanias and Agathon, who, as I suspect, are both of the manly nature, and belong to the class which I have been describing. But my words have a wider application—they include men and women everywhere; and I believe that if our loves were perfectly accomplished, and each one returning to his primeval nature had his original true love, then our race would be happy. And if this would be best of all, the best in the next degree must in present circumstances be the nearest approach to such a union; and that will be the attainment of a congenial love.

Wherefore, if we would praise him who has given to us the benefit, we must praise the god Love, who is our greatest benefactor, both leading us in this life back to our own nature, and giving us high hopes for the future, for he promises that if we are pious, he will restore us to our original state, and heal us and make us happy and blessed.

This, Eryximachus, is my discourse of love, which, although different to yours, I must beg you to leave unassailed by the shafts of your ridicule, in order that each may have his turn; each, or rather either, for Agathon and Socrates are the only ones left.

Thesmophoriazusae

Aristophanes

Dramatis Personae

EURIPIDES

MNESILOCHUS, Father-in-law of Euripides

AGATHON

SERVANT OF AGATHON

HERALD

WOMEN

CLISTHENES

A MAGISTRATE

A SCYTHIAN POLICEMAN

–––––––––––––––––––––––-

Behind the orchestra are two buildings, one the house of the poet AGATHON, the other the Thesmophorion. EURIPIDES enters from the right, at a rapid pace, with an air of searching for something; his father-in-law MNESILOCHUS, who is extremely aged, follows him as best he can, with an obviously painful expenditure of effort.

–––––––––––––––––––––––-

MNESILOCHUS Great Zeus! will the swallow never appear to end the winter of my discontent? Why the fellow has kept me on the run ever since early this morning; he wants to kill me, that’s certain. Before I lose my spleen antirely, Euripides, can you at least tell me where you are leading me?

EURIPIDES What need for you to hear what you are going to see?

MNESILOCHUS How is that? Repeat it. No need for me to hear….

EURIPIDES What you are going to see.

MNESILOCHUS Nor consequently to see….

EURIPIDES What you have to hear.

MNESILOCHUS What is this wiseacre stuff you are telling me? I must neither see nor hear?

EURIPIDES Ah! but you have two things there that are essentially distinct.

MNESILOCHUS Seeing and hearing?

EURIPIDES Undoubtedly.

MNESILOCHUS In what way distinct?

EURIPIDES In this way. Formerly, when Aether separated the elements and bore the animals that were moving in her bosom, she wished to endow them with sight, and so made the eye round like the sun’s disc and bored ears in the form of a funnel.

MNESILOCHUS And because of this funnel I neither see nor hear. Ah! great gods! I am delighted to know it. What a fine thing it is to talk with wise men!

EURIPIDES I will teach you many another thing of the sort.

MNESILOCHUS That’s well to know; but first of all I should like to find out how to grow lame, so that I need not have to follow you all about.

EURIPIDES Come, hear and give heed!

MNESILOCHUS I’m here and waiting.

EURIPIDES Do you see that little door?

MNESILOCHUS Yes, certainly.

EURIPIDES Silence!

MNESILOCHUS Silence about what? About the door?

EURIPIDES Pay attention!

MNESILOCHUS Pay attention and be silent about the door? Very well.

EURIPIDES That is where Agathon, the celebrated tragic poet, dwells.

MNESILOCHUS Who is this Agathon?

EURIPIDES He’s a certain Agathon….

MNESILOCHUS Swarthy, robust of build?

EURIPIDES No, another.

MNESILOCHUS I have never seen him. He has a big beard?

EURIPIDES Have you never seen him?

MNESILOCHUS Never, so far as I know.

EURIPIDES And yet you have made love to him. Well, it must have been without knowing who he was. (The door of AGATHON’S house opens.) Ah! let us step aside; here is one of his slaves bringing a brazier and some myrtle branches; no doubt he is going to offer a sacrifice and pray for a happy poetical inspiration for Agathon.

SERVANT OF AGATHON (standing on the threshold; solemnly) Silence! oh, people! keep your mouths sedately shut! The chorus of the Muses is moulding songs at my master’s hearth. Let the winds hold their breath in the silent Aether! Let the azure waves cease murmuring on the shore!….

MNESILOCHUS Bombax.

EURIPIDES Be still! I want to hear what he is saying.

SERVANT ….Take your rest, ye winged races, and you, ye savage inhabitants of the woods, cease from your erratic wandering….

MNESILOCHUS (more loudly) Bombalobombax.

SERVANT ….for Agathon, our master, the sweet-voiced poet, is going….

MNESILOCHUS ….to be made love to?

SERVANT Whose voice is that?

MNESILOCHUS It’s the silent Aether.

SERVANT ….is going to construct the framework of a drama. He is rounding fresh poetical forms, he is polishing them in the lathe and is welding them; he is hammering out sentences and metaphors; he is working up his subect like soft wax. First he models it and then he casts it in bronze….

MNESILOCHUS ….and sways his buttocks amorously.

SERVANT Who is the rustic that approaches this sacred enclosure?

MNESILOCHUS Take care of yourself and of your sweet-voiced poet! I have a strong tool here both well rounded and well polished, which will pierce your enclosure and penetrate you.

SERVANT Old man, you must have been a very insolent fellow in your

youth!

EURIPIDES (to the SERVANT) Let him be, friend, and, quick, go and

call Agathon to me.

SERVANT It’s not worth the trouble, for he will soon be here himself. He has started to compose, and in winter it is never possible to round off strophes without coming to the sun to excite the imagination.

EURIPIDES And what am I to do?

SERVANT Wait till he gets here. (He goes into the house.)

EURIPIDES Oh, Zeus! what hast thou in store for me to-day?

MNESILOCHUS Great gods, what is the matter now? What are you grumbling and groaning for? Tell me; you must not conceal anything from your father-in-law.

EURIPIDES Some great misfortune is brewing against me.

MNESILOCHUS What is it?

EURIPIDES This day will decide whether it is all over with Euripides or not.

MNESILOCHUS But how? Neither the tribunals nor the Senate are sitting, for it is the third day of the Thesmophoria.

EURIPIDES That is precisely what makes me tremble; the women have

plotted my ruin, and to-day they are to gather in the Temple of Demeter to execute their decision.

MNESILOCHUS What have they against you?

EURIPIDES Because I mishandle them in my tragedies.

MNESILOCHUS By Posidon, you would seem to have thoroughly deserved your fate. But how are you going to get out of the mess?

EURIPIDES I am going to beg Agathon, the tragic poet, to go to the Thesmophoria.

MNESILOCHUS And what is he to do there?

EURIPIDES He would mingle with the women, and stand up for me, if needful.

MNESILOCHUS Would be present or secretly?

EURIPIDES Secretly, dressed in woman’s clothes.

MNESILOCHUS That’s a clever notion, thoroughly worthy of you. The prize for trickery is ours. (The door of AGATHON’S house opens.)

EURIPIDES Silence!

MNESILOCHUS What’s the matter?

EURIPIDES Here comes Agathon.

MNESILOCHUS Where, where?

EURIPIDES That’s the man they are bringing out yonder on the eccyclema. (AGATHON appears on the eccyclema, softly reposing on a bed, clothed in a saffron tunic, and surrounded with feminine toilet articles.)

MNESILOCHUS I am blind then! I see no man here, I only see Cyrene.

EURIPIDES Be still! He is getting ready to sing.

MNESILOCHUS What subtle trill, I wonder, is he going to warble to us?

AGATHON (He now sings a selection from one of his tragedies, taking first the part of the leader of the chorus and then that of the whole

chorus., As LEADER OF THE CHORUS) Damsels, with the sacred torch in hand, unite your dance to shouts of joy in honour of the nether goddesses; celebrate the freedom of your country. (As CHORUS) To what divinity is your homage addressed? I wish to mingle mine with it. (As LEADER OF THE CHORUS) Oh! Muse! glorify Phoebus with his golden bow, who erected the walls of the city of the Simois. (As CHORUS) To thee, oh Phoebus, I dedicate my most beauteous songs; to thee, the sacred victor in the poetical contests. (As LEADER OF THE CHORUS) And praise Artemis too, the maiden huntress, who wanders on the mountains and through the woods…. (As CHORUS) I, in my turn, celebrate the everlasting happiness of the chaste Artemis, the mighty daughter of Leto! (As LEADER OF THE CHORUS) ….and Leto and the tones of the Asiatic lyre, which wed so well with the dances of the Phrygian Graces. (As CHORUS) I do honour to the divine Leto and to the lyre, the mother of songs of male and noble strains. The eyes of the goddess sparkle while listening to our enthusiastic chants. Honour to the powerful Phoebus! Hail! thou blessed son of Leto.

MNESILOCHUS Oh! ye venerable Genetyllides, what tender and voluptuous songs! They surpass the most lascivious kisses in sweetness; I feel a thrill of delight pass up me as I listen to them. (To EURIPIDES) Young man, if you are one, answer my questions, which I am borrowing from Aeschylus’ “Lycurgeia.” Whence comes this androgyne? What is his country? his dress? What contradictions his life shows! A lyre and a hair-net! A wrestling school oil flask and a girdle! What could be more contradictory? What relation has a mirror to a sword? (To AGATHON) And you yourself, who are you? Do you pretend to be a man? Where is your tool, pray? Where is the cloak, the footgear that belong to that sex? Are you a woman? Then where are your breasts? Answer me. But you keep silent. Oh! just as you choose; your songs display your character quite sufficiently.

AGATHON Old man, old man, I hear the shafts of jealousy whistling by my ears, but they do not hit me. My dress is in harmony with my thoughts. A poet must adopt the nature of his characters. Thus, if he is placing women on the stage, he must contract all their habits in his own person.

MNESILOCHUS (aside) Then you make love horse-fashion when you are composing a Phaedra.

AGATHON If the heroes are men, everything in him will be manly. What we don’t possess by nature, we must acquire by imitation.

MNESILOCHUS (aside) When you are staging Satyrs, call me; I will do my best to help you from behind, if I can get my tool up.

AGATHON Besides, it is bad taste for a poet to be coarse and hairy. Look at the famous Ibycus, at Anacreon of Teos, and at Alcaeus, who handled music so well; they wore head-bands and found pleasure in the lascivious dances of Ionia. And have you not heard what a dandy Phrynichus was and how careful in his dress? For this reason his pieces were also beautiful, for the works of a poet are copied from himself.

MNESILOCHUS Ah! so it is for this reason that Philocles, who is so hideous, writes hideous pieces; Xenocles, who is malicious, malicious ones, and Theognis, who is cold, such cold ones?

AGATHON Yes, necessarily and unavoidably; and it is because I knew this that I have so well cared for my person.

MNESILOCHUS How, in the gods’ name?

EURIPIDES Come, leave off badgering him; I was just the same at his age, when I began to write.

MNESILOCHUS Ah! then, by Zeus! I don’t envy you your fine manners.

EURIPIDES (to AGATHON) But listen to the cause that brings me here.

AGATHON Say on.

EURIPIDES Agathon, wise is he who can compress many thoughts into few words. Struck by a most cruel misfortune, I come to you as a suppliant.

AGATHON What are you asking?

EURIPIDES The women purpose killing me to-day during the Thesmophoria, because I have dared to speak ill of them.

AGATHON And what can I do for you in the matter?

EURIPIDES Everything. Mingle secretly with the women by making yourself pass as one of themselves; then do you plead my cause with your own lips, and I am saved. You, and you alone, are capable of speaking of me worthily.

AGATHON But why not go and defend yourself?

EURIPIDES Impossible. First of all, I am known; further, I have white hair and a long beard; whereas you, you are good-looking, charming, and are close-shaven; you are fair, delicate, and have a woman’s voice.

AGATHON Euripides!

EURIPIDES Well?

AGATHON Have you not said in one of your pieces, “You love to see the light, and don’t you believe your father loves it too?”

EURIPIDES Yes.

AGATHON Then never you think I am going to expose myself in your stead; it would be madness. It’s up to you to submit to the fate that overtakes you; one must not try to trick misfortune, but resign oneself to it with good grace.

MNESILOCHUS You fairy! That’s why your arse is so accessible to lovers.

EURIPIDES But what prevents your going there?

AGATHON I should run more risk than you would.

EURIPIDES Why?

AGATHON Why? I should look as if I were wanting to trespass on secret nightly pleasures of the women and to rape their Aphrodite.

MNESILOCHUS (aside) Wanting to rape indeed! you mean wanting to be raped. Ah! great gods! a fine excuse truly!

EURIPIDES Well then, do you agree?

AGATHON Don’t count upon it.

EURIPIDES Oh! I am unfortunate indeed! I am undone!

MNESILOCHUS Euripides, my friend, my son-in-law, never despair.

EURIPIDES What can be done?

MNESILOCHUS Send him to the devil and do with me as you like.

EURIPIDES Very well then, since you devote yourself to my safety, take off your cloak first.

MNESILOCHUS There, it lies on the ground. But what do you want to do with me?

EURIPIDES To shave off this beard of yours, and to remove all your other hair as well.

MNESILOCHUS Do what you think fit; I yield myself entirely to you.

EURIPIDES Agathon, you always have razors about you; lend me one.

AGATHON Take it yourself, there, out of that case.

EURIPIDES Thanks. (To MNESILOCHUS) Now sit down and puff out your right cheek.

MNESILOCHUS (as he is being shaved) Ow! Ow! Ow!

EURIPIDES What are you houting for? I’ll cram a spit down your gullet, if you’re not quiet.

MNESILOCHUS Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! (He jumps up and starts running away.)

EURIPIDES Where are you running to now?

MNESILOCHUS To the temple of the Eumenides. No, by Demeter! I won’t let myself be gashed like that.

EURIPIDES But you will get laughed at, with your face half-shaven like that.

MNESILOCHUS Little care I.

EURIPIDES In the gods’ names, don’t leave me in the lurch. Come here.

MNESILOCHUS Oh! by the gods! (He turns reluctantly and resumes his seat.)

EURIPIDES Keep still and hold up your head. Why do you want to fidget about like this?

MNESILOCHUS Mm, mm.

EURIPIDES Well! why mm, mm? There! it’s done and well done too!

MNESILOCHUS Alas, I shall fight without armour.

EURIPIDES Don’t worry; you look charming. Do you want to see yourself?

MNESILOCHUS Yes, I do; hand the mirror here.

EURIPIDES Do you see yourself?

MNESILOCHUS But this is not I, it is Clisthenes!

EURIPIDES Stand up; I am now going to remove your hair. Bend down.

MNESILOCHUS Alas! alas! they are going to grill me like a pig.

EURIPIDES Come now, a torch or a lamp! Bend down and watch out for the tender end of your tool!

MNESILOCHUS Aye, aye! but I’m afire! oh! oh! Water, water, neighbour, or my perineum will be alight!

EURIPIDES Keep up your courage!

MNESILOCHUS Keep my courage, when I’m being burnt up?

EURIPIDES Come, cease your whining, the worst is over.

MNESILOCHUS Oh! it’s quite black, all burnt down there!

EURIPIDES Don’t worry! Satyrus will wash it.

MNESILOCHUS Woe to him who dares to wash me!

EURIPIDES Agathon, you refuse to devote yourself to helping me; but at any rate lend me a tunic and a belt. You cannot say you have not got them.

AGATHON Take them and use them as you like; I consent.

MNESILOCHUS What shall I take?

EURIPIDES First put on this long saffron-coloured robe.

MNESILOCHUS By Aphrodite! what a sweet odour! how it smells of young male tools Hand it to me quickly. And the belt?

EURIPIDES Here it is.

MNESILOCHUS Now some rings for my legs.

EURIPIDES You still want a hair-net and a head-dress.

AGATHON Here is my night cap.

EURIPIDES Ah! that’s fine.

MNESILOCHUS Does it suit me?

AGATHON It could not be better.

EURIPIDES And a short mantle?

AGATHON There’s one on the couch; take it.

EURIPIDES He needs slippers.

AGATHON Here are mine.

MNESILOCHUS Will they fit me? (To AGATHON) You don’t like a loose fit.

AGATHON Try them on. Now that you have all you need, let me be taken inside. (The eccyclema turns and AGATHON disappears.)

EURIPIDES You look for all the world like a woman. But when you talk, take good care to give your voice a woman’s tone.

MNESILOCHUS (falsetto) I’ll try my best.

EURIPIDES Come, get yourself to the temple.

MNESILOCHUS No, by Apollo, not unless you swear to me….

EURIPIDES What?

MNESILOCHUS ….that, if anything untoward happen to me, you will leave nothing undone to save me.

EURIPIDES Very well! I swear it by the Aether, the dwelling-place of the king of the gods.

MNESILOCHUS Why not rather swear it by the sons of Hippocrates?

EURIPIDES Come, I swear it by all the gods, both great and small.

MNESILOCHUS Remember, it’s the heart, and not the tongue, that has sworn; for the oaths of the tongue concern me but little.

EURIPIDES Hurry up! The signal for the meeting has just been raised on the Temple of Demeter. Farewell. (They both depart. The scene changes to the interior of the Thesmophorion, where the women who form the chorus are assembled. Mnesilochus enters, in his feminine attire, striving to act as womanly as possible, and giving his voice as female a pitch and lilt as he can; he pretends to be addressing his slave-girl.)

MNESILOCHUS Here, Thratta, follow me. Look, Thratta, at the cloud of smoke that arises from all these lighted torches. Ah! beautiful Thesmophorae! grant me your favours, protect me, both within the temple and on my way back! Come, Thratta, put down the basket and take out the cake, which I wish to offer to the two goddesses. Mighty divinity, oh, Demeter, and thou, Persephone, grant that I may be able to offer you many sacrifices; above all things, grant that I may not be recognized. Would that my well-holed daughter might marry a man as rich as he is foolish and silly, so that she may have nothing to do but amuse herself. But where can a place be found for hearing well? Be off, Thratta, be off; slaves have no right to be present at this gathering. (He sits down amongst the women.)

WOMAN HERALD Silence! Silence! Pray to the Thesmophorae, Demeter and Cora; pray to Plutus, Calligenia, Curotrophus, the Earth, Hermes and the Graces, that all may happen for the best at this gathering, both for the greatest advantage of Athens and for our own personal happiness! May the award be given her who, by both deeds and words, has most deserved it from the Athenian people and from the women! Address these prayers to heaven and demand happiness for yourselves. Io Paean! Io Paean! Let us rejoice!

CHORUS (singing) May the gods deign to accept our vows and our prayers! Oh! almighty Zeus, and thou, god with the golden lyre, who reignest on sacred Delos, and thou, oh, invincible virgin, Pallas, with the eyes of azure and the spear of gold, who protectest our illustrious city, and thou, the daughter of the beautiful Leto, queen of the forests, who art adored under many names, hasten hither at my call. Come, thou mighty Posidon, king of the Ocean, leave thy stormy whirlpools of Nereus; come, goddesses of the seas, come, ye nymphs, who wander on the mountains. Let us unite our voices to the sounds of the golden lyre, and may wisdom preside at the gathering of the noble matrons of Athens.

WOMAN HERALD Address your prayers to the gods and goddesses of Olympus, of Delphi, Delos and all other places; if there be a man who is plotting against the womenfolk or who, to injure them, is proposing peace to Euripides and the Medes, or who aspires to usurping the tyranny, plots the return of a tyrant, or unmasks a supposititious child; or if there be a slave who, a confidential party to a wife’s intrigues, reveals them secretly to her husband, or who, entrusted with a message, does not deliver the same faithfully; if there be a lover who fulfils naught of what he has promised a woman, whom he has abused on the strength of his lies; if there be an old woman who seduces the lover of a maiden by dint of her presents and treacherously receives him in her house; if there be a host or hostess who sells false measure, pray the gods that they will overwhelm them with their wrath, both them and their families, and that they may reserve all their favours for you.

CHORUS (singing) Let us ask the fulfilment of these wishes both for the city and for the people, and may the wisest of us cause her opinion to be accepted. But woe to those women who break their oaths, who speculate on the public misfortune, who seek to alter the laws and the decrees, who reveal our secrets to the foe and admit the Medes into our territory so that they may devastate it! I declare them both impious and criminal. Oh! almighty Zeus! see to it that the gods protect us, albeit we are but women!

WOMAN HERALD Hearken, all of you! this is the decree passed by the Senate of the Women under the presidency of Timoclea and at the suggestion of Sostrate; it is signed by Lysilla, the secretary: “There will be a gathering of the people on the morning of the third day of the Thesmophoria, which is a day of rest for us; the principal business there shall be the punishment that it is meet to inflict upon Euripides for the insults with which he has loaded us.” Now who asks to speak?

FIRST WOMAN I do.

WOMAN HERALD First put on this garland, and then speak.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Silence! let all be quiet! Pay attention! for here she is spitting as orators generally do before they begin; no doubt she has much to say.

FIRST WOMAN If I have asked to speak, may the goddesses bear me witness, it was not for sake of ostentation. But I have long been pained to see us women insulted by this Euripides, this son of the green-stuff woman, who loads us with every kind of indignity. Has he not hit us enough, calumniated us sufficiently, wherever there are spectators, tragedians, and a chorus? Does; he not style us adulterous, lecherous, bibulous, treacherous, and garrulous? Does he not repeat that we are all vice, that we are the curse of our husbands? So that, directly they come back from the theatre, they look at us doubtfully and go searching every nook, fearing there may be some hidden lover. We can do nothing as we used to, so many are the false ideas which he has instilled into our husbands. Is a woman weaving a garland for herself? It’s because she is in love. Does she let some vase drop while going or returning to the house? her husband asks her in whose honour she has broken it: “It can only be for that Corinthian stranger.” Is a maiden unwell? Straightway her brother says, “That is a colour that does not please me.” And if a childless woman wishes to substitute one, the deceit can no longer be a secret, for the neighbours will insist on being present at her delivery. Formerly the old men married young girls, but they have been so calumniated that none think of them now, thanks to that line of his: “A woman is the tyrant of the old man who marries her.” Again, it is because of Euripides that we are incessantly watched, that we are shut up behind bolts and bars, and that dogs are kept to frighten off the adulterers. Let that pass; but formerly it was we who had the care of the food, who fetched the flour from the storeroom, the oil and the wine; we can do it no more. Our husbands now carry little Spartan keys on their persons, made with three notches and full of malice and spite. Formerly it sufficed to purchase a ring marked with the same sign for three obols, to open the most securely sealed-up door! but now this pestilent Euripides has taught men to hang seals of worm-eaten wood about their necks. My opinion, therefore, is that we should rid ourselves of our enemy by poison or by any other means, provided he dies. That is what I announce publicly; as to certain points, which I wish to keep secret, I propose to record them on the secretary’s minutes.

CHORUS (singing) Never have I listened to a cleverer or more eloquent woman. Everything she says is true; she has examined the matter from all sides and has weighed up every detail. Her arguments are close, varied, and happily chosen. I believe that Xenocles himself, the son of Carcinus, would seem to talk mere nonsense, if placed beside her.

SECOND WOMAN I have only a very few words to add, for the last speaker has covered the various points of the indictment; allow me only to tell you what happened to me. My husband died at Cyprus, leaving me five children, whom I had great trouble to bring up by weaving chaplets on the myrtle market. Anyhow, I lived as well as I could until this wretch had persuaded the spectators by his tragedies that there were no gods; since then I have not sold as many chaplets by half. I charge you therefore and exhort you all to punish him, for does he not deserve it in a thousand respects, he who loads you with troubles, who is as coarse toward you as the vegetables upon which his mother reared him? But I must back to the market to weave my chaplets; I have twenty to deliver yet.

CHORUS (singing) This is even more animated and more trenchant than the first speech; all she has just said is full of good sense and to the point; it is clever, clear and well calculated to convince. Yes! we must have striking vengeance on the insults of Euripides.

MNESILOCHUS Oh, women! I am not astonished at these outbursts of fiery rage; how could your bile not get inflamed against Euripides, who has spoken so ill of you? As for myself, I hate the man, I swear it by my children; it would be madness not to hate him! Yet, let us reflect a little; we are alone and our words will not be repeated outside. Why be so bent on his ruin? Because he has known and shown up two or three of our faults, when we have a thousand? As for myself, not to speak of other women, I have more than one great sin upon my conscience, but this is the blackest of them. I had been married three days and my husband was asleep by my side; I had a lover, who had seduced me when I was seven years old; impelled by his passion, he came scratching at the door; I understood at once he was there and was going down noiselessly. “Where are you going?” asked my husband. “I am suffering terribly with colic,” I told him, “and am going to the can.” “Go ahead,” he replied, and started pounding together juniper berries, aniseed, and sage. As for myself, I moistened the door-hinge and went to find my lover, who laid me, half-reclining upon Apollo’s altar and holding on to the sacred laurel with one hand. Well now! Consider! that is a thing of which Euripides has never spoken. And when we bestow our favours on slaves and muleteers for want of better, does he mention this? And when we eat garlic early in the morning after a night of wantonness, so that our husband, who has been keeping guard upon the city wall, may be reassured by the smell and suspect nothing, has Euripides ever breathed a word of this? Tell me. Neither has he spoken of the woman who spreads open a large cloak before her husband’s eyes to make him admire it in full daylight to conceal her lover by so doing and afford him the means of making his escape. I know another, who for ten whole days pretended to be suffering the pains of labour until she had secured a child; the husband hurried in all directions to buy drugs to hasten her deliverance, and meanwhile an old woman brought the infant in a stew-pot; to prevent its crying she had stopped up its mouth with honey. With a sign she told the wife that she was bringing a child for her, who at once began exclaiming, “Go away, friend, go away, I think I am going to be delivered; I can feel him kicking his heels in the belly ….of the stew-pot.” The husband goes off full of joy, and the old wretch quickly takes the honey out of the child’s mouth, which starts crying; then she seizes the baby, runs to the father and tells him with a smile on her face, “It’s a lion, a lion, that is born to you; it’s your very image. Everything about it is like you, even his little tool, curved like the sky.” Are these not our everyday tricks? Why certainly, by Artemis, and we, are angry with Euripides, who assuredly treats us no worse than we deserve!

CHORUS (singing) Great gods! where has she unearthed all that? What country gave birth to such an audacious woman? Oh! you wretch! I should not have thought ever a one of us could have spoken in public with such impudence. ‘Tis clear, however, that we must expect everything and, as the old proverb says, must look beneath every stone, lest it conceal some orator ready to sting us.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS There is but one thing in the world worse than a shameless woman, and that’s another woman.

FIRST WOMAN By Aglaurus! you have lost your wits, friends! You must be bewitched to suffer this plague to belch forth insults against us all. Is there no one has any spirit at all? If not, we and our maid-servants will punish her. Run and fetch coals and let’s depilate her in proper style, to teach her not to speak ill of her sex.

MNESILOCHUS Oh no no! not that part of me, my friends. Have we not the right to speak frankly at this gathering? And because I have uttered what I thought right in favour of Euripides, do you want to depilate me for my trouble?

FIRST WOMAN What! we ought not to punish you, who alone have dared to defend the man who has done so much harm, whom it pleases to put all the vile women that ever were upon the stage, who only shows us Melanippes and Phaedras? But of Penelope he has never said a word, because she was reputed chaste and good.

MNESILOCHUS I know the reason. It’s because not a single Penelope exists among the women of to-day, but all without exception are Phaedras.

FIRST WOMAN Women, you hear how this creature still dares to speak of us all.

MNESILOCHUS And, Heaven knows, I have not said all that I know. Do you want any more?

FIRST WOMAN You cannot tell us any more; you have crapped out all you know.

MNESILOCHUS Why, I have not told the thousandth part of what we women do. Have I said how we use the hollow bandles of our brooms to draw up wine unbeknown to our husbands?

FIRST WOMAN The cursed jade!

MNESILOCHUS And how we give meats to our pimps at the feast of the Apaturia and then accuse the cat….

FIRST WOMAN You’re crazy!

MNESILOCHUS ….Have I mentioned the woman who killed her husband with a hatchet? Of another, who caused hers to lose his reason with her potions? And of the Acharnian woman….

FIRST WOMAN Die, you bitch!

MNESILOCHUS ….who buried her father beneath the bath?

FIRST WOMAN And yet we listen to such things!

MNESILOCHUS Have I told how you attributed to yourself the male child your slave had just borne and gave her your little daughter?

FIRST WOMAN This insult calls for vengeance. Look out for your hair!

MNESILOCHUS By Zeus! don’t touch me.

FIRST WOMAN (slapping him) There!

MNESILOCHUS (hitting back) There! tit for tat!

FIRST WOMAN Hold my cloak, Philista!

MNESILOCHUS Come on then, and by Demeter….

FIRST WOMAN Well! what?

MNESILOCHUS I’ll make you crap forth the sesame-cake you have eaten.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Stop wrangling! I see a woman running here in hot haste. Keep silent, so that we may hear the better what she has to say. (Enter CLISTHENES, dressed as a woman.)

CLISTHENES Friends, whom I copy in all things, my hairless chin sufficiently evidences how dear you are to me; I am women-mad and make myself their champion wherever I am. Just now on the market-place I heard mention of a thing that is of the greatest importance to you; I come to tell it to you, to let you know it, so that you may watch carefully and be on your guard against the danger which threatens you.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS What is it, my child? I can well call you child, for you have so smooth a skin.

CLISTHENES They say that Euripides has sent an old man here to-day, one of his relations….

LEADER OF THE CHORUS With what object? What is his idea?

CLISTHENES ….so that he may hear your speeches and inform him of your deliberations and intentions.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS But how would a man fail to be recognized amongst women?

CLISTHENES Euripides singed and depilated him and disguised him as a woman.

MNESILOCHUS This is pure invention! What man is fool enough to let himself be depilated? As for myself, I don’t believe a word of it.

CLISTHENES Nonsense! I should not have come here to tell you, if I did not know it on indisputable authority.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Great gods! what is it you tell us! Come, women, let us not lose a moment; let us search and rummage everywhere! Where can this man have hidden himself to escape our notice? Help us to look, Clisthenes; we shall thus owe you double thanks, dear friend.

CLISTHENES Well then! let us see. To begin with you; who are you?

MNESILOCHUS (aside) Wherever am I to stow myself?

CLISTHENES Each and every one must pass the scrutiny.

MNESILOCHUS (aside) Oh! great gods!

FIRST WOMAN You ask me who I am? I am the wife of Cleonynus.

CLISTHENES (to the LEADER OF THE CHORUS) Do you know this woman?

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Yes, yes, pass on to the rest.

CLISTHENES And she who carries the child?

FIRST WOMAN Surely; she’s my nurse.

MNESILOCHUS (aside) This is the end. (He runs off.)

CLISTHENES Hi! you there! where are you going? Stop. What are you running away for?

MNESILOCHUS (dancing on one leg) I want to take a pee, you brazen thing.

CLISTHENES Well, be quick about it; I shall wait for you here.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Wait for her and examine her closely; she’s the only one we do not know.

CLISTHENES That’s a long leak you’re taking.

MNESILOCHUS God, yes; I am constricted; I ate some cress yesterday.

CLISTHENES What are you chattering about cress? Come here! and be quick. (He starts to pull MNESILOCHUS back.)

MNESILOCHUS Oh! don’t pull a poor sick woman about like that.

CLISTHENES (looking MNESILOCHUS square in the eye) Tell me, who is your husband?

MNESILOCHUS (embarrassed) My husband? Do you know a certain individual at Cothocidae…?

CLISTHENES Whom do you mean? Give his name.

MNESILOCHUS He’s an individual to whom the son of a certain individual one day…

CLISTHENES You are drivelling! Let’s see, have you ever been here before?

MNESILOCHUS Why certainly, every year.

CLISTHENES Who is your tent companion?

MNESILOCHUS A certain…. Oh! my god!

CLISTHENES That’s not an answer!

FIRST WOMAN Withdraw, all of you; I am going to examine her thoroughly about last year’s mysteries. But move away, Clisthenes, for no man may hear what is going to be said. Now answer my questions! What was done first?

MNESILOCHUS Let’s see now. What was done first? Oh! we drank.

FIRST WOMAN And then?

MNESILOCHUS We drank to our healths.

FIRST WOMAN You will have heard that from someone. And then?

MNESILOCHUS Xenylla asked for a cup; there wasn’t any thunder-mug.

FIRST WOMAN You’re talking nonsense. Here, Clisthenes, here This is the man you were telling us about.

CLISTHENES What shall we do with him?

FIRST WOMAN Take off his clothes, I can get nothing out of him.

MNESILOCHUS What! are you going to strip a mother of nine children naked?

CLISTHENES Come, undo your girdle, you shameless thing.

FIRST WOMAN Ah! what a sturdy frame! but she has no breasts like we have.

MNESILOCHUS That’s because I’m barren. I never had any children.

FIRST WOMAN Oh! indeed! just now you were the mother of nine.

CLISTHENES Stand up straight. What do you keep pushing that thing down for?

FIRST WOMAN (peering from behind) There’s no mistaking it.

CLISTHENES (also peering from behind) Where has it gone to now?

FIRST WOMAN To the front.

CLISTHENES (from in front) No.

FIRST WOMAN (from behind) Ah! it’s behind now.

CLISTHENES Why, friend, it’s just like the Isthmus; you keep pulling your stick backwards and forwards more often than the Corinthians do their ships

FIRST WOMAN Ah! the wretch! this is why he insulted us and defended Euripides.

MNESILOCHUS Aye, wretch indeed, what troubles have I not got into now!

FIRST WOMAN What shall we do?

CLISTHENES Watch him closely, so that he does not escape. As for me, I’ll go to report the matter to the magistrates.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Let us kindle our lamps; let us go firmly to work and with courage, let us take off our cloaks and search whether some other man has not come here too; let us pass round the whole Pnyx, examine the tents and the passages. Come, be quick, let us start off on a light toe and rummage all round in silence. Let us hasten, let us finish our round as soon as possible.

CHORUS (singing) Look quickly for the traces that might show you a man hidden here, let your glance fall on every side; look well to the right and to the left. If we seize some impious fellow, woe to him! He will know how we punish the outrage, the crime, the sacrilege. The criminal will then acknowledge at last that gods exist; his fate will teach all men that the deities must be revered, that justice must be observed and that they must submit to the sacred laws. If not, then woe to them! Heaven itself will punish sacrilege; being aflame with fury and mad with frenzy, all their deeds will prove to mortals, both men and women, that the deity punishes injustice and impiety, and that she is not slow to strike.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS But I think I have now searched everywhere and that no other man is hidden among us.

FIRST WOMAN Where are you flying to? Stop! stop! Ah! miserable woman that I am, he has torn my child from my breast and has disappeared with it.

MNESILOCHUS Scream as loud as you will, but you’ll never feed him again. If you do not let me go this very instant, I am going to cut open the veins of his thighs with this cutlass and his blood shall flow over the altar.

FIRST WOMAN Oh! great gods! oh! friends, help me! terrify him with your shrieks, triumph over this monster, permit him not to rob me of my only child.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Oh! oh! venerable Moirai, what fresh attack is this? It’s the crowning act of audacity and shamelessness! What has he done now, friends, what has he done?

MNESILOCHUS Ah! your insolence passes all bounds, but I know how to curb it!

LEADER OF THE CHORUS What a shameful deed! the measure of his iniquities is full!

FIRST WOMAN Aye, it’s shameful that he should have robbed me of my child.

CHORUS (singing) It’s past belief to be so criminal and so impudent!

MNESILOCHUS (singing) Ah! you’re not near the end of it yet.

CHORUS (singing) Little I care whence you come; you shall not return to boast of having acted so odiously with impunity, for you shall be punished.

MNESILOCHUS (speaking) You won’t do it, by the gods!

CHORUS (singing) And what immortal would protect you for your crime?

MNESILOCHUS (speaking) You talk in vain! I shall not let go the child.

CHORUS (singing) By the goddesses, you will not laugh presently over your crime and your impious speech. For with impiety, as ‘tis meet, shall we reply to your impiety. Soon fortune will turn round and overwhelm you.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Come there, bring some firewood. Let’s roast the wretch as quickly as we can.

FIRST WOMAN Bring faggots, Mania! (To MNESILOCHUS) You will be nothing but charcoal soon.

MNESILOCHUS Grill away, roast me, but you, my child, take off this Cretan robe and blame no one but your mother for your death. But what does this mean? The little girl is nothing but a skin filled with wine and shod with Persian slippers. Oh! you wanton, you tippling women, who think of nothing but wine; you are a fortune to the drinking-shops and are our ruin; for the sake of drink, you neglect both your household and your shuttle!

FIRST WOMAN Faggots, Mania, plenty of them.

MNESILOCHUS Bring as many as you like. But answer me; are you the mother of this brat?

FIRST WOMAN I carried it ten months.

MNESILOCHUS You carried it?

FIRST WOMAN I swear it by Artemis.

MNESILOCHUS How much does it hold? Three cotylae? Tell me.

FIRST WOMAN Oh! what have you done? You have stripped the poor child quite naked, and it is so small, so small.

MNESILOCHUS So small?

FIRST WOMAN Yes, quite small, to be sure.

MNESILOCHUS How old is it? Has it seen the feast of cups thrice or four times?

FIRST WOMAN It was born about the time of the last Dionysia. But give it back to me.

MNESILOCHUS No, may Apollo bear me witness.

FIRST WOMAN Well, then we are going to burn him.

MNESILOCHUS Burn me, but then I shall rip this open instantly.

FIRST WOMAN No, no, I adjure you, don’t; do anything you like to me rather than that.

MNESILOCHUS What a tender mother you are; but nevertheless I shall rip it open. (He tears open the wine-skin.)

FIRST WOMAN Oh, my beloved daughter! Mania, hand me the sacred cup, that I may at least catch the blood of my child.

MNESILOCHUS Hold it below; that’s the only favour I grant you. (He pours the wine into the cup.)

FIRST WOMAN Out upon you, you pitiless monster!

MNESILOCHUS This robe belongs to the priestess.

SECOND WOMAN What belongs to the priestess?

MNESILOCHUS Here, take it. (He throws her the Cretan robe.)

SECOND WOMAN Ah! unfortunate Mica! Who has robbed you of your daughter, your beloved child?

FIRST WOMAN That wretch. But as you are here, watch him well, while I go with Clisthenes to the Magistrates and denounce him for his crimes.

MNESILOCHUS Ah! how can I secure safety? what device can I hit on? what can I think of? He whose fault it is, he who hurried me into this trouble, will not come to my rescue. Let me see, whom could I best send to him? Ha! I know a means taken from Palamedes; like him, I will write my misfortune on some oars, which I will cast into the sea. Where might I find some oars? Hah! what if I took these statues instead of oars, wrote upon them and then threw them towards this side and that. That’s the best thing to do. Besides, like oars they are of wood. (singing) Oh! my hands, keep up your courage, for my safety is at stake. Come, my beautiful tablets, receive the traces of my stylus and be the messengers of my sorry fate. Oh! oh! this R looks miserable enough! Where is it running to then? Come, off with you in all directions, to the right and to the left; and hurry yourselves, for there’s much need indeed! (He sits down to wait for Euripides. The Chorus turns and faces the audience.)

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Let us address ourselves to the spectators to sing our praises, despite the fact that each one says much ill of women. If the men are to be believed, we are a plague to them; through us come all their troubles, quarrels, disputes, sedition, griefs and wars. But if we are truly such a pest, why marry us? Why forbid us to go out or show ourselves at the window? You want to keep this pest, and take a thousand cares to do it. If your wife goes out and you meet her away from the house, you fly into a fury. Ought you not rather to rejoice and give thanks to the gods? for if the pest has disappeared, you will no longer find it at home. If we fall asleep at friends’ houses from the fatigue of playing and sporting, each of you comes prowling round the bed to contemplate the features of this pest. If we seat ourselves at the window, each one wants to see the pest, and if we withdraw through modesty, each wants all the more to see the pest perch herself there again. It is thus clear that we are better than you, and the proof of this is easy. Let us find out which is the worse of the two sexes. We say, “It’s you,” while you aver, “it’s we.”’ Come, let us compare them in detail, each individual man with a woman. Charminus is not equal to Nausimache, that’s certain. Cleophon is in every respect inferior to Salabaccho. It’s a long time now since any of you has dared to contest the prize with Aristomache, the heroine of Marathon, or with Stratonice.

Among the last year’s Senators, who have just yielded their office to other citizens, is there one who equals Eubule? Not even Anytus would say that. Therefore we maintain that men are greatly our inferiors. You see no woman who has robbed the state of fifty talents rushing about the city in a magnificent chariot; our greatest peculations are a measure of corn, which we steal from our husbands, and even then we return it to them the very same day. But we could name many amongst you who do quite as much, and who are, even more than ourselves, gluttons, parasites, cheats and kidnappers of slaves. We know how to keep our property better than you. We still have our cylinders, our beams, our baskets and our surshades; whereas many among you have lost the wood of your spears as well as the iron, and many others have cast away their bucklers on the battlefield.

There are many reproaches we have the right to bring against men. The most serious is this, that the woman, who has given birth to a useful citizen, whether taxiarch or strategus should receive some distinction; a place of honour should be reserved for her at the Stenia, the Scirophoria, and the other festivals that we keep. On the other hand, she of whom a coward was born or a worthless man, a bad trierarch or an unskilful pilot, should sit with shaven head, behind her sister who had borne a brave man. Oh! citizens! is it just that the mother of Hyperbolus should sit dressed in white and with loosened tresses beside that of Lamachus and lend out money on usury? He, who may have made a deal of this nature with her, so far from paying her interest, should not even repay the capital, saying, “What, pay you interest? after you have given us this delightful son?”

MNESILOCHUS I have contracted quite a squint by looking round for him, and yet Euripides does not come. Who is keeping him? No doubt he is ashamed of his cold Palamedes. What will attract him? Let us see! By which of his pieces does he set most store? Ah! I’ll imitate his Helen, his last-born. I just happen to have a complete woman’s outfit.

SECOND WOMAN What are you ruminating about now? Why are you rolling up your eyes? You’ll have no reason to be proud of your Helen, if you don’t keep quiet until one of the Magistrates arrives.

MNESILOCHUS (as Helen) “These shores are those of the Nile with the beautiful nymphs, these waters take the place of heaven’s rain and fertilize the white earth, that produces the black syrmea.”

SECOND WOMAN By bright Hecate, you’re a cunning varlet.

MNESILOCHUS “Glorious Sparta is my country and Tyndareus is my father.”

SECOND WOMAN He your father, you rascal! Why, it’s Phrynondas.

MNESILOCHUS “I was given the name of Helen.”

SECOND WOMAN What! you are again becoming a woman, before we have punished you for having pretended it the first time?

MNESILOCHUS “A thousand warriors have died on my account on the banks of the Scamander.”

SECOND WOMAN Would that you had done the same!

MNESILOCHUS “And here I am upon these shores; Menelaus, my unhappy husband, does not yet come. Ah! Why do I still live?”

SECOND WOMAN Because of the criminal negligence of the crows!

MNESILOCHUS “But what sweet hope is this that sets my heart a-throb? Oh, Zeus! grant it may not prove a lying one!” (EURIPIDES enters.)

EURIPIDES (as Menelaus) “To what master does this splendid palace belong? Will he welcome strangers who have been tried on the billows of the sea by storm and shipwreck?”

MNESILOCHUS “This is the palace of Proteus.”

SECOND WOMAN Of what Proteus? you thrice cursed rascal! how he lies! By the goddesses, it’s ten years since Proteas died.

EURIPIDES “What is this shore whither the wind has driven our boat?”

MNESILOCHUS “’Tis Egypt.”

EURIPIDES “Alas! how far we are from own country!

SECOND WOMAN Don’t believe that cursed fool. This is Demeter’s Temple.

EURIPIDES “Is Proteus in these parts?”

SECOND WOMAN Ah, now, stranger, it must be sea-sickness that makes you so distraught! You have been told that Proteas is dead, and yet you ask if he is in these parts.

EURIPIDES “He is no more! Oh! woe! where lie his ashes?”

MNESILOCHUS “’Tis on his tomb you see me sitting.”

SECOND WOMAN You call an altar a tomb! Beware of the rope!

EURIPIDES “And why remain sitting on this tomb, wrapped in this long veil, oh, stranger lady?”

MNESILOCHUS “They want to force me to marry a son of Proteus.”

SECOND WOMAN Ah! wretch, why tell such shameful lies? Stranger, this is a rascal who has slipped in amongst us women to rob us of our trinkets.

MNESILOCHUS (to SECOND WOMAN) “Shout! load me with your insults, for little care I.”

EURIPIDES “Who is the old woman who reviles you, stranger lady?

MNESILOCHUS “’Tis Theonoe, the daughter of Proteus.”

SECOND WOMAN I! Why, my name’s Critylle, the daughter of Antitheus, of the deme of Gargettus; as for you, you are a rogue.

MNESILOCHUS “Your entreaties are vain. Never shall I wed your brother; never shall I betray the faith I owe my husband, Menelaus, who is fighting before Troy.”

EURIPIDES “What are you saying? Turn your face towards me.”

MNESILOCHUS “I dare not; my cheeks show the marks of the insults I have been forced to suffer.”

EURIPIDES “Oh! great gods! I cannot speak, for very emotion…. Ah! what do I see? Who are you?”

MNESILOCHUS “And you, what is your name? for my surprise is as great as yours.”

EURIPIDES “Are you Grecian or born in this country?”

MNESILOCHUS “I am Grecian. But now your name, what is it?”

EURIPIDES “Oh how you resemble Helen!

MNESILOCHUS “And you Menelaus, if I can judge by these pot-herbs.”

EURIPIDES “You are not mistaken, ‘tis none other than that unfortunate mortal who stands before you.”

MNESILOCHUS “Ah! how you have delayed coming to your wife’s arms! Press me to your heart, throw your arms about me, for I wish to cover you with kisses. Carry me away, carry me away, quick, quick, far, very far from here.”

SECOND WOMAN By the goddesses, woe to him who would carry you away! I should thrash him with my torch.

EURIPIDES “Do you propose to prevent me from taking my wife, the daughter of Tyndareus, to Sparta?”

SECOND WOMAN You seem to me to be a cunning rascal too; you are in collusion with this man, and it wasn’t for nothing that you kept babbling about Egypt. But the hour for punishment has come; here is the Magistrate with his Scythian.

EURIPIDES This is getting awkward. Let me hide myself.

MNESILOCHUS And what is to become of me, poor unfortunate man that I am?

EURIPIDES Don’t worry. I shall never abandon you, as long as I draw breath and one of my numberless artifices remains untried.

MNESILOCHUS The fish has not bitten this time. (A MAGISTRATE enters, accompanied by a Scythian policeman.)

MAGISTRATE Is this the rascal Clisthenes told us about? Why are you trying to make yourself so small? Officer, arrest him, fasten him to the post, then take up your position there and keep guard over him. Let none approach him. A sound lash with your whip for him who attempts to break the order.

SECOND WOMAN Excellent, for just now a rogue almost took him from me.

MNESILOCHUS Magistrate, in the name of that hand which you know so well how to bend when money is placed in it, grant me a slight favour before I die.

MAGISTRATE What favour?

MNESILOCHUS Order the archer to strip me before lashing me to the post; the crows, when they make their meal on the poor old man, would laugh too much at this robe and head-dress,

MAGISTRATE It is in that gear that you must be exposed by order of the Senate, so that your crime may be patent to the passers-by. (He departs.)

MNESILOCHUS (as the SCYTHIAN seizes him) Oh! cursed robe, the cause of all my misfortune! My last hope is thus destroyed!

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Let us now devote ourselves to the sports which the women are accustomed to celebrate here, when time has again brought round the mighty Mysteries of the great goddesses, the sacred days which Pauson himself honours by fasting and would wish feast to succeed feast, that he might keep them all holy. Spring forward with a light step, whirling in mazy circles; let your hands interlace, let the eager and rapid dancers sway to the music and glance on every side as they move.

CHORUS (singing) Let the chorus sing likewise and praise the Olympian gods in their pious transport. It’s wrong to suppose that, because I am a woman and in this temple, I am going to speak ill of men; but since we want something fresh, we are going through the rhythmic steps of the round dance for the first time.

Start off while you sing to the god of the lyre and to the chaste goddess armed with the bow. Hail I thou god who flingest thy darts so far, grant us the victory! The homage of our song is also due to Here, the goddess of marriage, who interests herself in every chorus and guards the approach to the nuptial couch. I also pray Hermes, the god of the shepherds, and Pan and the beloved Graces to bestow a benevolent smile upon our songs.

Let us lead off anew, let us double our zeal during our solemn days, and especially let us observe a close fast; let us form fresh measures that keep good time, and may our songs resound to the very heavens. Do thou, oh divine Bacchus, who art crowned with ivy, direct our chorus; ‘tis to thee that both my hymns and my dances are dedicated; oh, Evius, oh, Bromius, oh, thou son of Semeld, oh, Bacchus, who delightest to mingle with the dear choruses of the nymphs upon the mountains, and who repeatest, while dancing with them, the sacred hymn, Euios, Euios, Euoi! Echo, the nymph of Cithaeron, returns thy words, which resound beneath the dark vaults of the thick foliage and in the midst of the rocks of the forest; the ivy enlaces thy brow with its tendrils charged with flowers.

SCYTHIAN (he speaks with a heavy foreign accent) You shall stay here in the open air to wail.

MNESILOCHUS Archer, I adjure you.

SCYTHIAN You’re wasting your breath.

MNESILOCHUS Loosen the wedge a little.

SCYTHIAN Aye, certainly.

MNESILOCHUS Oh by the gods! why, you are driving it in tighter.

SCYTHIAN Is that enough?

MNESILOCHUS Oh! Oh! Ow! Ow! May the plague take you!

SCYTHIAN Silence! you cursed old wretch! I am going to get a mat to lie upon, so as to watch you close at hand at my ease.

MNESILOCHUS Ah! what exquisite pleasures Euripides is securing for me! But, oh, ye gods! oh, Zeus the Deliverer, all is not yet lost! I don’t believe him the man to break his word; I just caught sight of him appearing in the form of Perseus, and he told me with a mysterious sign to turn myself into Andromeda. And in truth am I not really bound? It’s certain, then, that be is coming to my rescue; for otherwise he would not have steered his flight this way. (As Andromeda, singing) Oh Nymphs, ye virgins who are so dear to me, how am I to approach him? how can I escape the sight of this Scythian? And Echo, thou who reignest in the inmost recesses of the caves, oh! favour my cause and permit me to approach my spouse. A pitiless ruffian has chained up the most unfortunate of mortal maids. Alas! I bad barely escaped the filthy claws of an old fury, when another mischance overtook me! This Scythian does not take his eye off me and he has exposed me as food for the crows. Alas! what is to become of me, alone here and without friends! I am not seen mingling in the dances nor in the games of my companions, but heavily loaded with fetters I am given over to the voracity of a Glaucetes. Sing no bridal hymn for me, oh women, but rather the hymn of captivity, and in tears. Ah! how I suffer! great gods! how I suffer! Alas! alas! and through my own relatives too! My misery would make Tartarus dissolve into tears! Alas! in my terrible distress, I implore the mortal who first shaved me and depilated me, then dressed me in this long robe, and then sent me to this Temple into the midst of the women, to save me. Oh! thou pitiless Fate! I am then accursed, great gods! Ah! who would not be moved at the sight of the appalling tortures under which I succumb? Would that the blazing shaft of the lightning would wither…. this barbarian for me! The immortal light has no further charm for my eyes since I have been descending the shortest path to the dead, tied up, strangled, and maddened with pain. (In the following scene EURIPIDES, from off stage, impersonates Echo.)

EURIPIDES Hail! beloved girl. As for your father, Cepheus, who has exposed you in this guise, may the gods annihilate him.

MNESILOCHUS And who are you whom my misfortunes have moved to pity?

EURIPIDES I am Echo, the nymph who repeats all she hears. It was I, who last year lent my help to Euripides in this very place. But, my child, give yourself up to the sad laments that belong to your pitiful condition.

MNESILOCHUS And you will repeat them?

EURIPIDES I will not fail you. Begin.

MNESILOCHUS (singing) “Oh! thou divine Night! how slowly thy chariot threads its way through the starry vault, across the sacred realms of the Air and mighty Olympus.”

EURIPIDES (singing) Mighty Olympus.

MNESILOCHUS (singing) “Why is it necessary that Andromeda should have all the woes for her share?

EURIPIDES (singing) For her share.

MNESILOCHUS (speaking) “Sad death!

EURIPIDES Sad death!

MNESILOCHUS You weary me, old babbler.

EURIPIDES Old babbler.

MNESILOCHUS Oh! you are too unbearable.

EURIPIDES Unbearable.

MNESILOCHUS Friend, let me talk by myself. Do please let me. Come, that’s enough.

EURIPIDES That’s enough.

MNESILOCHUS Go and hang yourself!

EURIPIDES Go and hang yourself!

MNESILOCHUS What a plague!

EURIPIDES What a plague!

MNESILOCHUS Cursed brute!

EURIPIDES Cursed brute!

MNESILOCHUS Beware of blows!

EURIPIDES Beware of blows!

SCYTHIAN Hullo! what are you jabbering about?

EURIPIDES What are you jabbering about?

SCYTHIAN I shall go and call the Magistrates.

EURIPIDES I shall go and call the Magistrates.

SCYTHIAN This is odd!

EURIPIDES This is odd!

SCYTHIAN Whence comes this voice?

EURIPIDES Whence comes this voice?

SCYTHIAN You are mad.

EURIPIDES You are mad.

SCYTHIAN Ah! beware!

EURIPIDES Ah! beware!

SCYTHIAN (to MNESILOCHUS) Are you mocking me?

EURIPIDES Are you mocking me?

MNESILOCHUS No, it’s this woman, who stands near you.

EURIPIDES Who stands near you.

SCYTHIAN Where is the hussy!

MNESILOCHUS She’s running away.

SCYTHIAN Where are you running to?

EURIPIDES Where are you running to?

SCYTHIAN You shall not get away.

EURIPIDES You shall not get away.

SCYTHIAN You are chattering still?

EURIPIDES You are chattering still?

SCYTHIAN Stop the hussy.

EURIPIDES Stop the hussy.

SCYTHIAN What a babbling, cursed woman! (EURIPIDES now enters, costumed as Perseus.)

EURIPIDES “Oh! ye gods! to what barbarian land has my swift flight taken me? I am Perseus; I cleave the plains of the air with my winged feet, and I am carrying the Gorgon’s head to Argos.”

SCYTHIAN What, are you talking about the head of Gorgos, the scribe?

EURIPIDES No, I am speaking of the head of the Gorgon.

SCYTHIAN Why, yes! of Gorgos!

EURIPIDES “But what do I behold? A young maiden, beautiful as the immortals, chained to this rock like a vessel in port?”

MNESILOCHUS “Take pity on me, oh stranger! I am so unhappy and distraught! Free me from these bonds.”

SCYTHIAN You keep still! a curse upon your impudence! you are going to die, and yet you will be chattering!

EURIPIDES “Oh! virgin! I take pity on your chains.”

SCYTHIAN But this is no virgin; he’s an old rogue, a cheat and a thief.

EURIPIDES You have lost your wits, Scythian. This is Andromeda, the daughter of Cepheus.

SCYTHIAN (lifting up MNESILOCHUS’ robe) But look at his tool; it’s pretty big.

EURIPIDES Give me your hand, that I may descend near this young maiden.

Each man has his own particular weakness; as for me I am aflame with love for this virgin.

SCYTHIAN Oh! I’m not jealous; and as he has his arse turned this way, why, I don’t care if you make love to him.

EURIPIDES “Ah! let me release her, and hasten to join her on the bridal couch.”

SCYTHIAN If you are so eager to make the old man, you can bore through the plank, and so get at him.

EURIPIDES No, I will break his bonds.

SCYTHIAN Beware of my lash!

EURIPIDES No matter.

SCYTHIAN This blade shall cut off your head.

EURIPIDES “Ah! what can be done? what arguments can I use? This savage will understand nothing! The newest and most cunning fancies are a dead letter to the ignorant. Let us invent some artifice to fit in with his coarse nature.” (He departs.)

SCYTHIAN I can see the rascal is trying to outwit me.

MNESILOCHUS Ah! Perseus! remember in what condition you are leaving

me.

SCYTHIAN Are you wanting to feel my lash again!

CHORUS (singing) Oh! Pallas, who art fond of dances, hasten hither at my call. Oh! thou chaste virgin, the protectress of Athens, I call thee in accordance with the sacred rites, thee, whose evident protection we adore and who keepest the keys of our city in thy hands. Do thou appear, thou whose just hatred has overturned our tyrants. The womenfolk are calling thee; hasten hither at their bidding along with Peace, who shall restore the festivals. And ye, august goddesses, display a smiling and propitious countenance to our gaze; come into your sacred grove, the entry to which is forbidden to men; ‘tis there in the midst of the sacred orgies that we contemplate your divine features. Come, appear, we pray it of you, oh, venerable Thesmophorae! Is you have ever answered our appeal, oh! come into our midst. (During this ode the SCYTHIAN falls asleep. At the end of it EURIPIDES returns, thinly disguised as an old procuress; the CHORUS recognizes him, the SCYTHIAN does not; he carries a harp, and is followed by a dancing girl and a young flute-girl.)

EURIPIDES Women, if you will be reconciled with me, I am willing, and I undertake never to say anything ill of you in future. Those are my proposals for peace.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS And what impels you to make these overtures?

EURIPIDES (to the CHORUS) This unfortunate man, who is chained to the post, is my father-in-law; if you will restore him to me, you will have no more cause to complain of me; but if not, I shall reveal your pranks to your husbands when they return from the war.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS We accept peace, but there is this barbarian whom you must buy over.

EURIPIDES I’ll take care of that. Come, my little wench, bear in mind what I told you on the road and do it well. Come, go past him and gird up your robe. And you, you little dear, play us the air of a Persian dance.

SCYTHIAN (waking) What is this music that makes me so blithe?

EURIPIDES Scythian, this young girl is going to practise some dances, which she has to perform at a feast presently.

SCYTHIAN Very well! let her dance and practise; I won’t hinder her. How nimbly she bounds! just like a flea on a fleece.

EURIPIDES Come, my dear, off with your robe and seat yourself on the Scythian’s knee; stretch forth your feet to me, that I may take off your slippers.

SCYTHIAN Ah! yes, seat yourself, my little girl, ah! yes, to be sure. What a firm little titty! it’s just like a turnip.

EURIPIDES (to the flute-girl) An air on the flute, quick! Are you afraid of the Scythian?

SCYTHIAN What a nice arse! Hold still, won’t you? A nice twat, too.

EURIPIDES That’s so! (To the dancing girl) Resume your dress, it is time to be going.

SCYTHIAN Give me a kiss.

EURIPIDES Come, give him a kiss.

SCYTHIAN Oh! oh! oh! my god, what soft lips! like Attic honey. But might she not stay with me?

EURIPIDES Impossible, officer; good evening.

SCYTHIAN Oh! oh! old woman, do me this pleasure.

EURIPIDES Will you give a drachma?

SCYTHIAN Aye, that I will.

EURIPIDES Hand over the money.

SCYTHIAN I have not got it, but take my quiver in pledge. I’ll bring her back. (To the dancing girl) Follow me, my fine young wench. Old woman, you keep an eye on this man. But what’s your name?

EURIPIDES Artemisia.

SCYTHIAN I’ll remember it, Artemuxia. (He takes the dancing girl away.)

EURIPIDES (aside) Hermes, god of cunning, receive my thanks! everything is turning out for the best. (To the flute-girl) As for you, friend, go along with them. Now let me loose his bonds. (To MNESILOCHUS) And you, directly I have released you, take to your legs and run off full tilt to your home to find your wife and children.

MNESILOCHUS I shall not fail in that as soon as I am free.

EURIPIDES (releasing MNESILOCHUS) There! It’s done. Come, fly, before the Scythian lays his hand on you again.

MNESILOCHUS That’s just what I am doing. (Both depart in haste.)

SCYTHIAN (returning) Ah! old woman! what a charming little girl! Not at all a prude, and so obliging! Eh! where is the old woman? Ah! I am undone! And the old man, where is he? Hi, old woman, old woman Ah! Ah! but this is a dirty trick! Artemuxia! she has tricked me, that’s what the little old woman has done! Get clean out of my sight, you cursed quiver! (Picks it up and throws it across the stage.) Ha! you are well named quiver, for you have made me quiver indeed. Oh! what’s to be done? Where is the old woman then? Artemuxia!

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Are you asking for the old woman who carried the lyre?

SCYTHIAN Yes, yes; have you seen her?

LEADER OF THE CHORUS She has gone that way along with the old man.

SCYTHIAN Dressed in a long robe?

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Yes; run quick, and you will overtake them.

SCYTHIAN Ah! rascally old woman! Which way has she fled? Artemuxia!

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Straight on; follow your nose. But, hi! where are you running to now? Come back, you are going exactly the wrong way.

SCYTHIAN Ye gods! ye gods! and all this while Artemuxia is escaping. (He runs off.)

LEADER OF THE CHORUS Go your way! and a pleasant journey to you! But our sports have lasted long enough; it is time for each of us to be off home; and may the two goddesses reward us for our labours!

THE END

The Bacchantes

Euripides

Dramatis Personae

Dionysus

Cadmus

Pentheus

Agave

Teiresias

First Messenger

Second Messenger

Servant

Before the Palace of Pentheus at Thebes. Enter DIONYSUS.

DIONYSUS Lo! I am come to this land of Thebes, Dionysus’ the son of Zeus, of whom on a day Semele, the daughter of Cadmus, was delivered by a flash of lightning. I have put off the god and taken human shape, and so present myself at Dirce’s springs and the waters of Ismenus. Yonder I see my mother’s monument where the bolt slew her nigh her house, and there are the ruins of her home smouldering with the heavenly flame that blazeth still-Hera’s deathless outrage on my mother. To Cadmus all praise I offer, because he keeps this spot hallowed, his daughter’s precinct, which my own hands have shaded round about with the vine’s clustering foliage.

Lydia’s glebes, where gold abounds, and Phrygia have I left behind; o’er Persia’s sun-baked plains, by Bactria’s walled towns and Media’s wintry clime have I advanced through Arabia, land of promise; and Asia’s length and breadth, outstretched along the brackish sea, with many a fair walled town, peopled with mingled race of Hellenes and barbarians; and this is the first city in Hellas I have reached. There too have I ordained dances and established my rites, that I might manifest my godhead to men; but Thebes is the first city in the land of Hellas that I have made ring with shouts of joy, girt in a fawn-skin, with a thyrsus, my ivy-bound spear, in my hand; since my mother’s sisters, who least of all should have done it, denied that Dionysus was the son of Zeus, saying that Semele, when she became a mother by some mortal lover, tried to foist her sin on Zeus-a clever ruse of Cadmus, which, they boldly asserted, caused Zeus to slay her for the falsehood about the marriage. Wherefore these are they whom I have driven frenzied from their homes, and they are dwelling on the hills with mind distraught; and I have forced them to assume the dress worn in my orgies, and all the women-folk of Cadmus’ stock have I driven raving from their homes, one and all alike; and there they sit upon the roofless rocks beneath the green pine-trees, mingling amongst the sons of Thebes. For this city must learn, however loth, seeing that it is not initiated in my Bacchic rites, and I must take up my mother’s defence, by showing to mortals that the child she bore to Zeus is a deity. Now Cadmus gave his sceptre and its privileges to Pentheus, his daughter’s child, who wages war ‘gainst my divinity, thrusting me away from his drink-offerings, and making no mention of me in his prayers. Therefore will I prove to him and all the race of Cadmus that I am a god. And when I have set all in order here, I will pass hence to a fresh country, manifesting myself; but if the city of Thebes in fury takes up arms and seeks to drive my votaries from the mountain, I will meet them at the head of my frantic rout. This is why I have assumed a mortal form, and put off my godhead to take man’s nature.

O ye who left Tmolus, the bulwark of Lydia, ye women, my revel rout! whom I brought from your foreign homes to be ever by my side and bear me company, uplift the cymbals native to your Phrygian home, that were by me and the great mother Rhea first devised, and march around the royal halls of Pentheus smiting them, that the city of Cadmus may see you; while I will seek Cithaeron’s glens, there with my Bacchanals to join the dance. (Exit DIONYSUS., Enter CHORUS.)

CHORUS From Asia o’er the holy ridge of Tmolus hasten to a pleasant task, a toil that brings no weariness, for Bromius’ sake, in honour of the Bacchic god. Who loiters in the road? who lingers ‘neath the roof? Avaunt! I say, and let every lip be hushed in solemn silence; for I will raise a hymn to Dionysus, as custom aye ordains. O happy he! who to his joy is initiated in heavenly mysteries and leads a holy life, joining heart and soul in Bacchic revelry upon the hills, purified from every sin; observing the rites of Cybele, the mighty mother, and brandishing the thyrsus, with ivy-wreathed head, he worships Dionysus. Go forth, go forth, ye Bacchanals, bring home the Bromian god Dionysus, child of a god, from the mountains of Phrygia to the spacious streets of Hellas, bring home the Bromian god! whom on a day his mother in her sore travail brought forth untimely, yielding up her life beneath the lightning stroke of Zeus’ winged bolt; but forthwith Zeus, the son of Cronos, found for him another womb wherein to rest, for he hid him in his thigh and fastened it with golden pins to conceal him from Hera. And when the Fates had fully formed the horned god, he brought him forth and crowned him with a coronal of snakes, whence it is the thyrsus-bearing Maenads hunt the snake to twine about their hair. O Thebes, nurse of Semele! crown thyself with ivy; burst forth, burst forth with blossoms fair of green convolvulus, and with the boughs of oak and pine join in the Bacchic revelry; dor;-thy coat of dappled fawn-skin, decking it with tufts of silvered hair; with reverent hand the sportive wand now wield. Anon shall the whole land be dancing, when Bromius leads his revellers to the hills, to the hills away! where wait him groups of maidens from loom and shuttle roused in frantic haste by Dionysus. O hidden cave of the Curetes! O hallowed haunts in Crete, that saw Zeus born, where Corybantes with crested helms devised for me in their grotto the rounded timbrel of ox-hide, mingling Bacchic minstrelsy with the shrill sweet accents of the Phrygian flute, a gift bestowed by them on mother Rhea, to add its crash of music to the Bacchantes’ shouts of joy; but frantic satyrs won it from the mother-goddess for their own, and added it to their dances in festivals, which gladden the heart of Dionysus, each third recurrent year. Oh! happy that votary, when from the hurrying revel-rout he sinks to earth, in his holy robe of fawnskin, chasing the goat to drink its blood, a banquet sweet of flesh uncooked, as he hastes to Phrygia’s or to Libya’s hills; while in the van the Bromian god exults with cries of Evoe. With milk and wine and streams of luscious honey flows the earth, and Syrian incense smokes. While the Bacchante holding in his hand a blazing torch of pine uplifted on his wand waves it, as he speeds along, rousing wandering votaries, and as he waves it cries aloud with wanton tresses tossing in the breeze; and thus to crown the revelry, he raises loud his voice, “On, on, ye Bacchanals, pride of Tmolus with its rills of gold I to the sound of the booming drum, chanting in joyous strains the praises of your joyous god with Phrygian accents lifted high, what time the holy lute with sweet complaining note invites you to your hallowed sport, according well with feet that hurry wildly to the hills; like a colt that gambols at its mother’s side in the pasture, with gladsome heart each Bacchante bounds along.” (Enter TEIRESIAS.)

TEIRESIAS What loiterer at the gates will call Cadmus from the house, Agenor’s son, who left the city of Sidon and founded here the town of Thebes? Go one of you, announce to him that Teiresias is seeking him; he knows himself the reason of my coming and the compact I and he have made in our old age to bind the thyrsus with leaves and don the fawnskin, crowning our heads the while with ivy-sprays. (Enter CADMUS.)

CADMUS Best of friends! I was in the house when I heard thy voice, wise as its owner. I come prepared, dressed in the livery of the god. For ‘tis but right I should magnify with all my might my own daughter’s son, Dionysus, who hath shown his godhead unto men. Where are we to join the dance? where plant the foot and shake the hoary head? Do thou, Teiresias, be my guide, age leading age, for thou art wise. Never shall I weary, night or day, of beating the earth with my thyrsus. What joy to forget our years?

TEIRESIAS Why, then thou art as I am. For I too am young again, and will essay the dance.

CADMUS We will drive then in our chariot to the hill.

TEIRESIAS Nay, thus would the god not have an equal honour paid.

CADMUS Well, I will lead thee, age leading age.

TEIRESIAS The god will guide us both thither without toil.

CADMUS Shall we alone of all the city dance in Bacchus’ honour?

TEIRESIAS Yea, for we alone are wise, the rest are mad.

CADMUS We stay too long; come, take my hand.

TEIRESIAS There link thy hand in my firm grip.

CADMUS Mortal that I am, I scorn not the gods.

TEIRESIAS No subtleties do I indulge about the powers of heaven. The faith we inherited from our fathers, old as time itself, no reasoning shall cast down; no! though it were the subtlest invention of wits refined. Maybe some one will say, I have no respect for my grey hair in going to dance with ivy round my head; not so, for the god did not define whether old or young should dance, but from all alike he claims a universal homage, and scorns nice calculations in his worship.

CADMUS Teiresias, since thou art blind, I must prompt thee what to say. Pentheus is coming hither to the house in haste, Echion’s son, to whom I resign the government. How scared he looks I what strange tidings will he tell? (Enter PENTHEUS.)

PENTHEUS I had left my kingdom for awhile, when tidings of strange mischief in this city reached me; I hear that our women-folk have left their homes on pretence of Bacchic rites, and on the wooded hills rush wildly to and fro, honouring in the dance this new god Dionysus, whoe’er he is; and in the midst of each revel-rout the brimming wine-bowl stands, and one by one they steal away to lonely spots to gratify their lust, pretending forsooth that they are Maenads bent on sacrifice, though it is Aphrodite they are placing before the Bacchic god. As many as I caught, my gaolers are keeping safe in the public prison fast bound; and all who are gone forth, will I chase from the hills, Ino and Agave too who bore me to Echion, and Actaeon’s mother Autonoe. In fetters of iron will I bind them and soon put an end to these outrageous Bacchic rites. They say there came a stranger hither, a trickster and a sorcerer, from Lydia’s land, with golden hair and perfumed locks, the flush of wine upon his face, and in his eyes each grace that Aphrodite gives; by day and night he lingers in our maidens’ company on the plea of teaching Bacchic mysteries. Once let me catch him within these walls, and I will put an end to his thyrsus-beating and his waving of his tresses, for I will cut his head from his body. This is the fellow who says that Dionysus is a god, says that he was once stitched up in the thigh of Zeus-that child who with his mother was blasted by the lightning flash, because the woman falsely said her marriage was with Zeus. Is not this enough to deserve the awful penalty of hanging, this stranger’s wanton insolence, whoe’er he be?

But lo! another marvel. I see Teiresias, our diviner, dressed in dappled fawn-skins, and my mother’s father too, wildly waving the Bacchic wand; droll sight enough! Father, it grieves me to see you two old men so void of sense. Oh! shake that ivy from thee! Let fall the thyrsus from thy hand, my mother’s sire! Was it thou, Teiresias, urged him on to this? Art bent on introducing this fellow as another new deity amongst men, that thou mayst then observe the fowls of the air and make a gain from fiery divination? Were it not that thy grey hairs protected thee, thou shouldst sit in chains amid the Bacchanals, for introducing knavish mysteries; for where the gladsome grape is found at women’s feasts, I deny that their rites have any longer good results.

CHORUS What impiety! Hast thou no reverence, sir stranger, for the gods or for Cadmus who sowed the crop of earth-born warriors? Son of Echion as thou art, thou dost shame thy birth.

TEIRESIAS Whenso a man of wisdom finds a good topic for argument, it is no difficult matter to speak well; but thou, though possessing a glib tongue as if endowed with sense, art yet devoid thereof in all thou sayest. A headstrong man, if he have influence and a capacity for speaking, makes a bad citizen because he lacks sense. This new deity, whom thou deridest, will rise to power I cannot say how great, throughout Hellas. Two things there are, young prince, that hold first rank among men, the goddess Demeter, that is, the earth, calf her which name thou please; she it is that feedeth men with solid food; and as her counterpart came this god, the son of Semele, who discovered the juice of the grape and introduced it to mankind, stilling thereby each grief that mortals suffer from, soon as e’er they are filled with the juice of the vine; and sleep also he giveth, sleep that brings forgetfulness of daily ills, the sovereign charm for all our woe. God though he is, he serves all other gods for libations, so that through him mankind is blest. He it is whom thou dost mock, because he was sewn up in the thigh of Zeus. But I will show thee this fair mystery. When Zeus had snatched him from the lightning’s blaze, and to Olympus borne the tender babe, Hera would have cast him forth from heaven, but Zeus, as such a god well might, devised a counterplot. He broke off a fragment of the ether which surrounds the world, and made thereof a hostage against Hera’s bitterness, while he gave out Dionysus into other hands; hence, in time, men said that he was reared in the thigh of Zeus, having changed the word and invented a legend, because the god was once a hostage to the goddess Hera. This god too hath prophetic power, for there is no small prophecy inspired by Bacchic frenzy; for whenever the god in his full might enters the human frame, he makes his frantic votaries foretell the future. Likewise he hath some share in Ares’ rights; for oft, or ever a weapon is touched, a panic seizes an army when it is marshalled in array; and this too is a frenzy sent by Dionysus. Yet shalt thou behold him e’en on Delphi’s rocks leaping o’er the cloven height, torch in hand, waving and brandishing the branch by Bacchus loved, yea, and through the length and breadth of Hellas. Hearken to me, Pentheus; never boast that might alone doth sway the world, nor if thou think so, unsound as thy opinion is, credit thyself with any wisdom; but receive the god into thy realm, pour out libations, join the revel rout, and crown thy head. It is not Dionysus that will force chastity on women in their love; but this is what we should consider, whether chastity is part of their nature for good and all; for if it is, no really modest maid will ever fall

‘mid Bacchic mysteries. Mark this: thou thyself art glad when thousands throng thy gates, and citizens extol the name of Pentheus; he too, I trow, delights in being honoured. Wherefore I and Cadmus, whom thou jeerest so, will wreath our brows with ivy and join the dance; pair of grey beards though we be, still must we take part therein; never will I for any words of thine fight against heaven. Most grievous is thy madness, nor canst thou find a charm to cure thee, albeit charms have caused thy malady.

CHORUS Old sir, thy words do not discredit Phoebus, and thou art wise in honouring Bromius, potent deity.

CADMUS My son, Teiresias hath given thee sound advice; dwell with us, but o’erstep not the threshold of custom; for now thou art soaring aloft, and thy wisdom is no wisdom. E’en though he be no god, as thou assertest, still say he is; be guilty of a splendid fraud, declaring him the son of Semele, that she may be thought the mother of a god, and we and all our race gain honour. Dost thou mark the awful fate of Actaeon? whom savage hounds of his own rearing rent in pieces in the meadows, because he boasted himself a better hunter than Artemis. Lest thy fate be the same, come let me crown thy head with ivy; join us in rendering homage to the god.

PENTHEUS Touch me not away to thy Bacchic rites thyself! never try to infect me with thy foolery! Vengeance will I have on the fellow who teaches thee such senselessness. Away one of you without delay! seek yonder seat where he observes his birds, wrench it from its base with levers, turn it upside down, o’erthrowing it in utter confusion, and toss his garlands to the tempest’s blast. For by so doing shall I wound him most deeply. Others of you range the city and hunt down this girl-faced stranger, who is introducing a new complaint amongst our women, and doing outrage to the marriage tie. And if haply ye catch him, bring him hither to me in chains, to be stoned to death, a bitter ending to his revelry in Thebes. (Exit PENTHEUS.)

TEIRESIAS Unhappy wretch! thou little knowest what thou art saying. Now art thou become a raving madman, even before unsound in mind. Let us away, Cadmus, and pray earnestly for him, spite of his savage temper, and likewise for the city, that the god inflict not a signal vengeance. Come, follow me with thy ivy-wreathed staff; try to support my tottering frame as I do thine, for it is unseemly that two old men should fall; but let that-pass. For we must serve the Bacchic god, the son of Zeus. Only, Cadmus, beware lest Pentheus’ bring sorrow to thy house; it is not my prophetic art, but circumstances that lead me to say this; for the words of a fool are folly. (Exeunt CADMUS and TEIRESIAS.)

CHORUS O holiness, queen amongst the gods, sweeping on golden pinion o’er the earth! dost hear the words of Pentheus, dost hear his proud blaspheming Bromius, the son of Semele; first of all the blessed gods at every merry festival? His it is to rouse the revellers to dance, to laugh away dull care, and wake the flute, whene’er at banquets of the gods the luscious grape appears, or when the winecup in the feast sheds sleep on men who wear the ivy-spray. The end of all unbridled speech and lawless senselessness is misery; but the life of calm repose and the rule of reason abide unshaken and support the home; for far away in heaven though they dwell, the powers divine behold man’s state. Sophistry is not wisdom, and to indulge in thoughts beyond man’s ken is to shorten life; and if a man on such poor terms should aim too high, he may miss the pleasures in his reach. These, to my mind, are the ways of madmen and idiots. Oh! to make my way to Cyprus, isle of Aphrodite, where dwell the love-gods strong to soothe man’s soul, or to Paphos, which that foreign river, never fed by rain, enriches with its hundred mouths! Oh! lead me, Bromian god, celestial guide of Bacchic pilgrims, to the hallowed slopes of Olympus, where Pierian Muses have their haunt most fair. There dwell the Graces; there is soft desire; there thy votaries may hold their revels freely. The joy of our god, the son of Zeus, is in banquets, his delight is in peace, that giver of riches and nurse divine of youth. Both to rich and poor alike hath he granted the delight of wine, that makes all pain to cease; hateful to him is every one who careth not to live the life of bliss, that lasts through days and nights of joy. True wisdom is to keep the heart and soul aloof from over-subtle wits. That which the less enlightened crowd approves and practises, will I accept. (Re-enter PENTHEUS. Enter SERVANT bringing DIONYSUS bound.)

SERVANT We are come, Pentheus, having hunted down this prey, for which thou didst send us forth; not in vain hath been our quest. We found our quarry tame; he did not fly from us, but yielded himself without a struggle; his cheek ne’er blanched, nor did his ruddy colour change, but with a smile he bade me bind and lead him away, and he waited, making my task an easy one. For very shame I said to him, “Against my will, sir stranger, do I lead thee hence, but Pentheus ordered it, who sent me hither.” As for his votaries whom thou thyself didst check, seizing and binding them hand and foot in the public gaol, all these have loosed their bonds and fled into the meadows where they now are sporting, calling aloud on the Bromian god. Their chains fell off their feet of their own accord, and doors flew open without man’s hand to help. Many a marvel hath this stranger brought with him to our city of Thebes; what yet remains must be thy care.

PENTHEUS Loose his hands; for now that I have him in the net he is scarce swift enough to elude me. So, sir stranger, thou art not ill-favoured from a woman’s point of view, which was thy real object in coming to Thebes; thy hair is long because thou hast never been a wrestler, flowing right down thy cheeks most wantonly; thy skin is white to help thee gain thy end, not tanned by ray of sun, but kept within the shade, as thou goest in quest of love with beauty’s bait. Come, tell me first of thy race.

DIONYSUS That needs no braggart’s tongue, ‘tis easily told; maybe thou knowest Tmolus by hearsay.

PENTHEUS I know it, the range that rings the city of Sardis round.

DIONYSUS Thence I come, Lydia is my native home.

PENTHEUS What makes thee bring these mysteries to Hellas?

DIONYSUS Dionysus, the son of Zeus, initiated me.

PENTHEUS Is there a Zeus in Lydia, who begets new gods?

DIONYSUS No, but Zeus who married Semele in Hellas.

PENTHEUS Was it by night or in the face of day that he constrained thee?

DIONYSUS ‘Twas face to face he intrusted his mysteries to me.

PENTHEUS Pray, what special feature stamps thy rites?

DIONYSUS That is a secret to be hidden from the uninitiated.

PENTHEUS What profit bring they to their votaries?

DIONYSUS Thou must not be told, though ‘tis well worth knowing.

PENTHEUS A pretty piece of trickery, to excite my curiosity!

DIONYSUS A man of godless life is an abomination to the rites of the god.

PENTHEUS Thou sayest thou didst see the god clearly; what was he like?

DIONYSUS What his fancy chose; I was not there to order this.

PENTHEUS Another clever twist and turn of thine, without a word of answer.

DIONYSUS He were a fool, methinks, who would utter wisdom to a fool.

PENTHEUS Hast thou come hither first with this deity?

DIONYSUS All foreigners already celebrate these mysteries with dances.

PENTHEUS The reason being, they are far behind Hellenes in wisdom.

DIONYSUS In this at least far in advance, though their customs differ.

PENTHEUS Is it by night or day thou performest these devotions?

DIONYSUS By night mostly; darkness lends solemnity.

PENTHEUS Calculated to entrap and corrupt women.

DIONYSUS Day too for that matter may discover shame.

PENTHEUS This vile quibbling settles thy punishment.

DIONYSUS Brutish ignorance and godlessness will settle thine.

PENTHEUS How bold our Bacchanal is growing! a very master in this wordy strife!

DIONYSUS Tell me what I am to suffer; what is the grievous doom thou wilt inflict upon me?

PENTHEUS First will I shear off thy dainty tresses.

DIONYSUS My locks are sacred; for the god I let them grow.

PENTHEUS Next surrender that thyrsus.

DIONYSUS Take it from me thyself; ‘tis the wand of Dionysus I am bearing.

PENTHEUS In dungeon deep thy body will I guard.

DIONYSUS The god himself will set me free, whene’er I list.

PENTHEUS Perhaps he may, when thou standest amid thy Bacchanals and callest on his name.

DIONYSUS Even now he is near me and witnesses my treatment.

PENTHEUS Why, where is he? To my eyes he is invisible.

DIONYSUS He is by my side; thou art a godless man and therefore dost not see him.

PENTHEUS Seize him! the fellow scorns me and Thebes too.

DIONYSUS I bid you bind me not, reason addressing madness.

PENTHEUS But I say “bind!” with better right than thou.

DIONYSUS Thou hast no knowledge of the life thou art leading; thy very existence is now a mystery to thee.

PENTHEUS I am Pentheus, son of Agave and Echion.

DIONYSUS Well-named to be misfortune’s mate!

PENTHEUS Avaunt! Ho! shut him up within the horses’ stalls hard by, that for light he may have pitchy gloom. Do thy dancing there, and these women whom thou bringest with thee to share thy villainies I will either sell as slaves or make their hands cease from this noisy beating of drums, and set them to work at the loom as servants of my own.

DIONYSUS I will go; for that which fate forbids, can never befall me. For this thy mockery be sure Dionysus will exact a recompense of thee-even the god whose existence thou deniest; for thou art injuring him by haling me to prison. (Exit DIONYSUS, guarded, and PENTHEUS.)

CHORUS Hail to thee, Dirce, happy maid, daughter revered of Achelous! within thy founts thou didst receive in days gone by the babe of Zeus, what time his father caught him up into his thigh from out the deathless flame, while thus he cried: “Go rest, my Dithyrambus, there within thy father’s womb; by this name, O Bacchic god, I now proclaim thee to Thebes.” But thou, blest Dirce, thrustest me aside, when in thy midst I strive to hold my revels graced with crowns. Why dost thou scorn me? Why avoid me? By the clustered charm that Dionysus sheds o’er the vintage I vow there yet shall come a time when thou wilt turn thy thoughts to Bromius. What furious rage the earth-born race displays, even Pentheus sprung of a dragon of old, himself the son of earth-born Echion, a savage monster in his very mien, not made in human mould, but like some murderous giant pitted against heaven; for he means to bind me, the handmaid of Bromius, in cords forthwith, and e’en now he keeps my fellow-reveller pent within his palace, plunged in a gloomy dungeon. Dost thou mark this, O Dionysus, son of Zeus, thy prophets struggling ‘gainst resistless might? Come, O king, brandishing thy golden thyrsus along the slopes of Olympus; restrain the pride of this bloodthirsty wretch! Oh! where in Nysa, haunt of beasts, or on the peaks of Corycus art thou, Dionysus, marshalling with thy wand the revellers? or haply in the thick forest depths of Olympus, where erst Orpheus with his lute gathered trees to his minstrelsy, and beasts that range the fields. Ah blest Pieria! Evius honours thee, to thee will he come with his Bacchic rites to lead the dance, and thither will he lead the circling Maenads, crossing the swift current of Axius and the Lydias, that giveth wealth and happiness to man, yea, and the father of rivers, which, as I have heard, enriches with his waters fair a land of steeds.

DIONYSUS (Within) What ho! my Bacchantes, ho! hear my call, oh! hear.

CHORUS Who art thou? what Evian cry is this that calls me? whence comes it?

DIONYSUS What ho! once more I call, I the son of Semele, the child of Zeus.

CHORUS II My master, O my master, hail!

CHORUS III Come to our revel-band, O Bromian god.

CHORUS IV Thou solid earth!

CHORUS Most awful shock!

CHORUS VI O horror! soon will the palace of Pentheus totter and fall.

CHORUS VII Dionysus is within this house.

CHORUS VIII Do homage to him.

CHORUS IX We do! I do!

CHORUS Did ye mark yon architrave of stone upon the columns start asunder?

CHORUS XI Within these walls the triumph-shout of Bromius himself will rise.

DIONYSUS Kindle the blazing torch with lightning’s fire, abandon to the flames the halls of Pentheus.

CHORUS XII Ha! dost not see the flame, dost not clearly mark it at the sacred tomb of Semele, the lightning flame which long ago the hurler of the bolt left there?

CHORUS XIII Your trembling limbs prostrate, ye Maenads, low upon the ground.

CHORUS XIV Yea, for our king, the son of Zeus, is assailing and utterly confounding this house. (Enter DIONYSUS.)

DIONYSUS Are ye so stricken with terror that ye have fallen to the earth, O foreign dames? Ye saw then, it would seem, how the Bacchic god made Pentheus’ halls to quake; but arise, be of good heart, compose your trembling limbs.

CHORUS O chiefest splendour of our gladsome Bacchic sport, with what joy I see thee in my loneliness!

DIONYSUS Were ye cast down when I was led into the house, to be plunged into the gloomy dungeons of Pentheus?

CHORUS Indeed I was. Who was to protect me, if thou shouldst meet with mishap? But how wert thou set free from the clutches of this godless wretch?

DIONYSUS My own hands worked out my own salvation, easily and without trouble.

CHORUS But did he not lash fast thy hands with cords?

DIONYSUS There too I mocked him; he thinks he bound me, whereas he never touched or caught hold of me, but fed himself on fancy. For at the stall, to which he brought me for a gaol, he found a bull, whose legs and hoofs he straightly tied, breathing out fury the while, the sweat trickling from his body, and he biting his lips; but I from near at hand sat calmly looking on. Meantime came the Bacchic god and made the house quake, and at his mother’s tomb relit the fire; but Pentheus, seeing this, thought his palace was ablaze, and hither and thither he rushed, bidding his servants bring water; but all in vain was every servant’s busy toil. Thereon he let this labour be awhile, and, thinking maybe that I had escaped, rushed into the palace with his murderous sword unsheathed. Then did Bromius-so at least it seemed to me; I only tell you what I thought-made a phantom in the hall, and he rushed after it in headlong haste, and stabbed the lustrous air, thinking he wounded me. Further the Bacchic god did other outrage to him; he dashed the building to the ground, and there it lies a mass of ruin, a sight to make him rue most bitterly my bonds. At last from sheer fatigue he dropped his sword and fell fainting; for he a mortal frail, dared to wage war upon a god; but I meantime quietly left the house and am come to you, with never a thought of Pentheus. But methinks he will soon appear before the house; at least there is a sound of steps within. What will he say, I wonder, after this? Well, be his fury never so great, I will lightly bear it; for ‘tis a wise man’s way to school his temper into due control. (Enter PENTHEUS.)

PENTHEUS Shamefully have I been treated; that stranger, whom but now I made so fast in prison, hath escaped me. Ha! there is the man! What means this? How didst thou come forth, to appear thus in front of my palace?

DIONYSUS Stay where thou art; and moderate thy fury.

PENTHEUS How is it thou hast escaped thy fetters and art at large?

DIONYSUS Did I not say, or didst thou not hear me, “There is one will loose me.”

PENTHEUS Who was it? there is always something strange in what thou sayest.

DIONYSUS He who makes the clustering vine to grow for man.

PENTHEUS (I scorn him and his vines!)

DIONYSUS A fine taunt indeed thou hurlest here at Dionysus!

PENTHEUS (To his servants) Bar every tower that hems us in, I order you.

DIONYSUS What use? Cannot gods pass even over walls?

PENTHEUS How wise thou art, except where thy wisdom is needed!

DIONYSUS Where most ‘tis needed, there am I most wise. But first listen to yonder messenger and hear what he says; he comes from the hills with tidings for thee; and I will await thy pleasure, nor seek to fly. (Enter MESSENGER.) Messenger.

Pentheus, ruler of this realm of Thebes! I am come from Cithaeron, where the dazzling flakes of pure white snow ne’er cease to fall.

PENTHEUS What urgent news dost bring me?

MESSENGER I have seen, O king, those frantic Bacchanals, who darted in frenzy from this land with bare white feet, and I am come to tell thee and the city the wondrous deeds they do, deeds passing strange. But I fain would hear, whether I am freely to tell all I saw there, or shorten my story; for I fear thy hasty temper, sire, thy sudden bursts of wrath and more than princely rage.

PENTHEUS Say on, for thou shalt go unpunished by me in all respects; for to be angered with the upright is wrong. The direr thy tale about the Bacchantes, the heavier punishment will I inflict on this fellow who brought his secret arts amongst our women.

MESSENGER I was just driving the herds of kine to a ridge of the hill as I fed them, as the sun shot forth his rays and made the earth grow warm; when lo! I see three revel-bands of women; Autonoe was chief of one, thy mother Agave of the second, while Ino’s was the third. There they lay asleep, all tired out; some were resting on branches of the pine, others had laid their heads in careless ease on oak-leaves piled upon the ground, observing all modesty; not, as thou sayest, seeking to gratify their lusts alone amid the woods, by wine and soft flute-music maddened.

Anon in their midst thy mother uprose and cried aloud to wake them from their sleep, when she heard the lowing of my horned kine. And up they started to their feet, brushing from their eyes sleep’s quickening dew, a wondrous sight of grace and modesty, young and old and maidens yet unwed. First o’er their shoulders they let stream their hair; then all did gird their fawn-skins up, who hitherto had left the fastenings loose, girdling the dappled hides with snakes that licked their cheeks. Others fondled in their arms gazelles or savage whelps of wolves, and suckled them-young mothers these with babes at home, whose breasts were still full of milk; crowns they wore of ivy or of oak or blossoming convolvulus. And one took her thyrsus and struck it into the earth, and forth there gushed a limpid spring; and another plunged her wand into the lap of earth and there the god sent up a fount of wine; and all who wished for draughts of milk had but to scratch the soil with their finger-tips and there they had it in abundance, while from every ivy-wreathed staff sweet rills of honey trickled.

Hadst thou been there and seen this, thou wouldst have turned to pray to the god, whom now thou dost disparage. Anon we herdsmen and shepherds met to discuss their strange and wondrous doings; then one, who wandereth oft to town and hath a trick of speech, made harangue in the midst, “O ye who dwell upon the hallowed mountain-terraces! shall we chase Agave, mother of Pentheus, from her Bacchic rites, and thereby do our prince a service?” We liked his speech, and placed ourselves in hidden ambush among the leafy thickets; they at the appointed time began to wave the thyrsus for their Bacchic rites, calling on Iacchus, the Bromian god, the son of Zeus, in united chorus, and the whole mount and the wild creatures re-echoed their cry; all nature stirred as they rushed on. Now Agave chanced to come springing near me, so up I leapt from out my ambush where I lay concealed, meaning to seize her. But she cried out, “What ho! my nimble hounds, here are men upon our track; but follow me, ay, follow, with the thyrsus in your hand for weapon.” Thereat we fled, to escape being torn in pieces by the Bacchantes; but they, with hands that bore no weapon of steel, attacked our cattle as they browsed. Then wouldst thou have seen Agave mastering some sleek lowing calf, while others rent the heifers limb from limb. Before thy eyes there would have been hurling of ribs and hoofs this way and that; and strips of flesh, all blood-bedabbled, dripped as they hung from the pine-branches. Wild bulls, that glared but now with rage along their horns, found themselves tripped up, dragged down to earth by countless maidens’ hands. The flesh upon their limbs was stripped therefrom quicker than thou couldst have closed thy royal eye-lids. Then off they sped, like birds that skim the air, to the plains beneath the hills, which bear a fruitful harvest for Thebes beside the waters of Asopus; to Hysiae and Erythrae, hamlets ‘neath Cithaeron’s peak, with fell intent, swooping on everything and scattering all pellmell; and they would snatch children from their homes; but all that they placed upon their shoulders, abode there firmly without being tied, and fell not to the dusky earth, not even brass or iron; and on their hair they carried fire and it burnt them not; but the country-folk rushed to arms, furious at being pillaged by Bacchanals; whereon ensued, O king, this wondrous spectacle. For though the ironshod dart would draw no blood from them, they with the thyrsus, which they hurled, caused many a wound and put their foes to utter rout, women chasing men, by some god’s intervention. Then they returned to the place whence they had started, even to the springs the god had made to spout for them; and there washed off the blood, while serpents with their tongues were licking clean each gout from their cheeks. Wherefore, my lord and master, receive this deity, whoe’er he be, within the city; for, great as he is in all else, I have likewise heard men say, ‘twas he that gave the vine to man, sorrow’s antidote. Take wine away and Cypris flies, and every other human joy is dead.

CHORUS Though I fear to speak my mind with freedom in the presence of my king, still must I utter this; Dionysus yields to no deity in might.

PENTHEUS Already, look you! the presumption of these Bacchantes is upon us, swift as fire, a sad disgrace in the eyes of all Hellas. No time for hesitation now! away to the Electra gate! order a muster of all my men-at-arms, of those that mount fleet steeds, of all who brandish light bucklers, of archers too that make the bowstring twang; for I will march against the Bacchanals. By Heaven I this passes all, if we are to be thus treated by women. (Exit MESSENGER.)

DIONYSUS Still obdurate, O Pentheus, after hearing my words! In spite of all the evil treatment I am enduring from thee, still I warn thee of the sin of bearing arms against a god, and bid thee cease; for Bromius will not endure thy driving his votaries from the mountains where they revel.

PENTHEUS A truce to thy preaching to me! thou hast escaped thy bonds, preserve thy liberty; else will I renew thy punishment.

DIONYSUS I would rather do him sacrifice than in a fury kick against the pricks; thou a mortal, he a god.

PENTHEUS Sacrifice! that will I, by setting afoot a wholesale slaughter of women ‘mid Cithaeron’s glens, as they deserve.

DIONYSUS Ye will all be put to flight-a shameful thing that they with the Bacchic thyrsus should rout your mail-clad warriors.

PENTHEUS I find this stranger a troublesome foe to encounter; doing or suffering he is alike irrepressible.

DIONYSUS Friend, there is still a way to compose this bitterness.

PENTHEUS Say how; am I to serve my own servants?

DIONYSUS I will bring the women hither without weapons.

PENTHEUS Ha! ha! this is some crafty scheme of thine against me.

DIONYSUS What kind of scheme, if by my craft I purpose to save thee?

PENTHEUS You have combined with them to form this plot, that your revels may on for ever.

DIONYSUS Nay, but this is the compact I made with the god; be sure of that.

PENTHEUS (Preparing to start forth) Bring forth my arms. Not another word from thee!

DIONYSUS Ha! wouldst thou see them seated on the hills?

PENTHEUS Of all things, yes! I would give untold sums for that.

DIONYSUS Why this sudden, strong desire?

PENTHEUS ‘Twill be a bitter sight, if I find them drunk with wine.

DIONYSUS And would that be a pleasant sight which will prove bitter to thee?

PENTHEUS Believe me, yes! beneath the fir-trees as I sit in silence.

DIONYSUS Nay, they will track thee, though thou come secretly.

PENTHEUS Well, I will go openly; thou wert right to say so.

DIONYSUS Am I to be thy guide? wilt thou essay the road?

PENTHEUS Lead on with all speed, I grudge thee all delay.

DIONYSUS Array thee then in robes of fine linen.

PENTHEUS Why so? Am I to enlist among women after being a man?

DIONYSUS They may kill thee, if thou show thy manhood there.

PENTHEUS Well said! Thou hast given me a taste of thy wit already.

DIONYSUS Dionysus schooled me in this lore.

PENTHEUS How am I to carry out thy wholesome advice?

DIONYSUS Myself will enter thy palace and robe thee.

PENTHEUS What is the robe to be? a woman’s? Nay, I am ashamed.

DIONYSUS Thy eagerness to see the Maenads goes no further.

PENTHEUS But what dress dost say thou wilt robe me in?

DIONYSUS Upon thy head will I make thy hair grow long.

PENTHEUS Describe my costume further.

DIONYSUS Thou wilt wear a robe reaching to thy feet; and on thy head shall be a snood.

PENTHEUS Wilt add aught else to my attire?

DIONYSUS A thyrsus in thy hand, and a dappled fawnskin.

PENTHEUS I can never put on woman’s dress.

DIONYSUS Then wilt thou cause bloodshed by coming to blows with the Bacchanals.

PENTHEUS Thou art right. Best go spy upon them first.

DIONYSUS Well, e’en that is wiser than by evil means to follow evil ends.

PENTHEUS But how shall I pass through the city of the Cadmeans unseen?

DIONYSUS We will go by unfrequented paths. I will lead the way.

PENTHEUS Anything rather than that the Bacchantes should laugh at me.

DIONYSUS We will enter the palace and consider the proper steps.

PENTHEUS Thou hast my leave. I am all readiness. I will enter, prepared to set out either sword in hand or following thy advice. (Exit PENTHEUS.)

DIONYSUS Women! our prize is nearly in the net. Soon shall he reach the Bacchanals, and there pay forfeit with his life. O Dionysus! now ‘tis thine to act, for thou art not far away; let us take vengeance on him. First drive him mad by fixing in his soul a wayward frenzy; for never, whilst his senses are his own, will he consent to don a woman’s dress; but when his mind is gone astray he will put it on. And fain would I make him a laughing-stock to Thebes as he is led in woman’s dress through the city, after those threats with which he menaced me before. But I will go to array Pentheus in those robes which he shall wear when he sets out for Hades’ halls, a victim to his own mother’s fury; so shall he recognize Dionysus, the son of Zeus, who proves himself at last a god most terrible, for all his gentleness to man. (Exit DIONYSUS.)

CHORUS Will this white foot e’er join the night-long dance? what time in Bacchic ecstasy I toss my neck to heaven’s dewy breath, like a fawn, that gambols ‘mid the meadow’s green delights, when she hath escaped the fearful chase, clear of the watchers, o’er the woven nets; while the huntsman, with loud halloo, harks on his hounds’ full cry, and she with laboured breath at lightning speed bounds o’er the level water-meadows, glad to be far from man amid the foliage of the bosky grove. What is true wisdom, or what fairer boon has heaven placed in mortals’ reach, than to gain the mastery o’er a fallen foe? What is fair is dear for aye. Though slow be its advance, yet surely moves the power of the gods, correcting those mortal wights, that court a senseless pride, or, in the madness of their fancy, disregard the gods. Subtly they lie in wait, through the long march of time, and so hunt down the godless man. For it is never right in theory or in practice to o’erride the law of custom. This is a maxim cheaply bought: whatever comes of God, or in time’s long annals, has grown into a law upon a natural basis, this is sovereign. What is true wisdom, or what fairer boon has heaven placed in mortals’ reach, than to gain the mastery o’er a fallen foe? What is fair is dear for ave. Happy is he who hath escaped the wave from out the sea, and reached the haven; and happy he who hath triumphed o’er his troubles; though one surpasses another in wealth and power; yet there be myriad hopes for all the myriad minds; some end in happiness for man, and others come to naught; but him, whose life from day to day is blest, I deem a happy man. (Enter DIONYSUS.)

DIONYSUS Ho! Pentheus, thou that art so cager to see what is forbidden, and to show thy zeal in an unworthy cause, come forth before the palace, let me see thee clad as a woman in frenzied Bacchante’s dress, to spy upon thy own mother and her company. (Enter PENTHEUS.) Yes, thou resemblest closely a daughter of Cadmus.

PENTHEUS Of a truth I seem to see two suns, and two towns of Thebes, our seven-gated city; and thou, methinks, art a bull going before to guide me, and on thy head a pair of horns have grown. Wert thou really once a brute beast? Thon hast at any rate the appearance of a bull.

DIONYSUS The god attends us, ungracious heretofore, but now our sworn friend; and now thine eyes behold the things they should.

PENTHEUS Pray, what do I resemble? Is not mine the carriage of Ino, or Agave my own mother?

DIONYSUS In seeing thee, I seem to see them in person. But this tress is straying from its place, no longer as I bound it ‘neath the snood.

PENTHEUS I disarranged it from its place as I tossed it to and fro within my chamber, in Bacchic ecstasy.

DIONYSUS Well, I will rearrange it, since to tend thee is my care; hold up thy head.

PENTHEUS Come, put it straight; for on thee do I depend.

DIONYSUS Thy girdle is loose, and the folds of thy dress do not hang evenly below thy ankles.

PENTHEUS I agree to that as regards the right side, but on the other my dress hangs straight with my foot.

DIONYSUS Surely thou wilt rank me first among thy friends, when contrary to thy expectation thou findest the Bacchantes virtuous.

PENTHEUS Shall I hold the thyrsus in the right or left hand to look most like a Bacchanal?

DIONYSUS Hold it in thy right hand, and step out with thy right foot; thy change of mind compels thy praise.

PENTHEUS Shall I be able to carry on my shoulders Cithaeron’s glens, the Bacchanals and all?

DIONYSUS Yes, if so thou wilt; for though thy mind was erst diseased, ‘tis now just as it should be.

PENTHEUS Shall we take levers, or with my hands can I uproot it, thrusting arm or shoulder ‘neath its peaks?

DIONYSUS No, no! destroy not the seats of the Nymphs and the haunts of Pan, the place of his piping.

PENTHEUS Well said! Women must not be mastered by brute force; amid the pines will I conceal myself.

DIONYSUS Thou shalt hide thee in the place that fate appoints, coming by stealth to spy upon the Bacchanals.

PENTHEUS Why, methinks they are already caught in the pleasant snares of dalliance, like birds amid the brakes.

DIONYSUS Set out with watchful heed then for this very purpose; maybe thou wilt catch them, if thou be not first caught thyself.

PENTHEUS Conduct me through the very heart of Thebes, for I am the only man among them bold enough to do this deed.

DIONYSUS Thou alone bearest thy country’s burden, thou and none other; wherefore there await thee such struggles as needs must. Follow me, for I will guide thee safely thither; another shall bring thee thence.

PENTHEUS My mother maybe.

DIONYSUS For every eye to see.

PENTHEUS My very purpose in going.

DIONYSUS Thou shalt be carried back,

PENTHEUS What luxury

DIONYSUS In thy mother’s arms.

PENTHEUS Thou wilt e’en force me into luxury.

DIONYSUS Yes, to luxury such as this.

PENTHEUS Truly, the task I am undertaking deserves it. (Exit PENTHEUS.)

DIONYSUS Strange, ah! strange is thy career, leading to scenes of woe so strange, that thou shalt achieve a fame that towers to heaven. Stretch forth thy hands, Agave, and ye her sisters, daughters of Cadmus; mighty is the strife to which I am bringing the youthful king, and the victory shall rest with me and Bromius; all else the event will show. (Exit DIONYSUS.)

CHORUS To the hills! to the hills! fleet hounds of madness, where the daughters of Cadmus hold their revels, goad them into wild fury against the man disguised in woman’s dress, a frenzied spy upon the Maenads. First shall his mother mark him as he peers from some smooth rock or riven tree, and thus to the Maenads she will call, “Who is this of Cadmus’ sons comes hasting to the mount, to the mountain away, to spy on us, my Bacchanals? Whose child can he be? For he was never born of woman’s blood; but from some lioness maybe or Libyan Gorgon is he sprung.” Let justice appear and show herself, sword in hand, to plunge it through and through the throat of the godless, lawless, impious son of Echion, earth’s monstrous child! who with wicked heart and lawless rage, with mad intent and frantic purpose, sets out to meddle with thy holy rites, and with thy mother’s, Bacchic god, thinking with his weak arm to master might as masterless as thine. This is the life that saves all pain, if a man confine his thoughts to human themes, as is his mortal nature, making no pretence where heaven is concerned. I envy not deep subtleties; far other joys have I, in tracking out great truths writ clear from all eternity, that a man should live his life by day and night in purity and holiness, striving toward a noble goal, and should honour the gods by casting from him each ordinance that lies outside the pale of right. Let justice show herself, advancing sword in hand to plunge it through and through the throat of Echion’s son, that godless, lawless, and abandoned child of earth! Appear, O Bacchus, to our eyes as a bull or serpent with a hundred heads, or take the shape of a lion breathing flame! Oh! come, and with a mocking smile cast the deadly noose about the hunter of thy Bacchanals, e’en as he swoops upon the Maenads gathered yonder. (Enter SECOND MESSENGER.)

SECOND MESSENGER O house, so prosperous once through Hellas long ago, home of the old Sidonian prince, who sowed the serpent’s crop of earth-born men, how do I mourn thee! slave though I be, yet still the sorrows of his master touch a good slave’s heart.

CHORUS How now? Hast thou fresh tidings of the Bacchantes?

SECOND MESSENGER Pentheus, Echion’s son is dead.

CHORUS Bromius, my king! now art thou appearing in thy might divine.

SECOND MESSENGER Ha! what is it thou sayest? art thou glad, woman, at my master’s misfortunes?

CHORUS A stranger I, and in foreign tongue I express my joy, for now no more do I cower in terror of the chain.

SECOND MESSENGER Dost think Thebes so poor in men?(*, * Probably the whole of one iambic line with part of another is here lost.)

CHORUS ‘Tis Dionysus, Dionysus, not Thebes that lords it over me.

SECOND MESSENGER All can I pardon thee save this; to exult o’er hopeless suffering is sorry conduct, dames.

CHORUS Tell me, oh! tell me how he died, that villain scheming villainy!

SECOND MESSENGER Soon as we had left the homesteads of this Theban land and had crossed the streams of Asopus, we began to breast Cithaeron’s heights, Pentheus and I, for I went with my master, and the stranger too, who was to guide us to the scene. First then we sat us down in a grassy glen, carefully silencing each footfall and whispered breath, to see without being seen. Now there was a dell walled in by rocks, with rills to water it, and shady pines o’erhead; there were the Maenads seated, busied with joyous toils. Some were wreathing afresh the drooping thyrsus with curling ivy-sprays; others, like colts let loose from the carved chariot-yoke, were answering each other in hymns of Bacchic rapture. But Pentheus, son of sorrow, seeing not the women gathered there, exclaimed, “Sir stranger, from where I stand, I cannot clearly see the mock Bacchantes; but I will climb a hillock or a soaring pine whence to see clearly the shameful doings of the Bacchanals.” Then and there I saw the stranger work a miracle; for catching a lofty fir-branch by the very end he drew it downward to the dusky earth, lower yet and ever lower; and like a bow it bent, or rounded wheel, whose curving circle grows complete, as chalk and line describe it; e’en so the stranger drew down the mountain-branch between his hands, bending it to earth, by more than human agency. And when he had seated Pentheus aloft on the pine branches, he let them slip through his hands gently, careful not to shake him from his seat. Up soared the branch straight into the air above, with my master perched thereon, seen by the Maenads better far than he saw them; for scarce was he beheld upon his lofty throne, when the stranger disappeared, while from the sky there came a voice, ‘twould seem, by Dionysus uttered-

“Maidens, I bring the man who tried to mock you and me and my mystic rites; take vengeance on him.” And as he spake he raised ‘twixt heaven and earth a dazzling column of awful flame. Hushed grew the sky, and still hung each leaf throughout the grassy glen, nor couldst thou have heard one creature cry. But they, not sure of the voice they heard, sprang up and peered all round; then once again his bidding came; and when the daughters of Cadmus knew it was the Bacchic god in very truth that called, swift as doves they dirted off in cager haste, his mother Agave and her sisters dear and all the Bacchanals; through torrent glen, o’er boulders huge they bounded on, inspired with madness by the god. Soon as they saw my master perched upon the fir, they set to hurling stones at him with all their might, mounting a commanding eminence, and with pine-branches he was pelted as with darts; and others shot their wands through the air at Pentheus, their hapless target, but all to no purpose. For there he sat beyond the reach of their hot endeavours, a helpless, hopeless victim. At last they rent off limbs from oaks and were for prising up the roots with levers not of iron. But when they still could make no end to all their toil, Agave cried: “Come stand around, and grip the sapling trunk, my Bacchanals! that we may catch the beast that sits thereon, lest he divulge the secrets of our god’s religion.”

Then were a thousand hands laid on the fir, and from the ground they tore it up, while he from his seat aloft came tumbling to the ground with lamentations long and loud, e’en Pentheus; for well he knew his hour was come. His mother first, a priestess for the nonce, began the bloody deed and fell upon him; whereon he tore the snood from off his hair, that hapless Agave might recognize and spare him, crying as he touched her cheek, “O mother! it is I, thy own son Pentheus, the child thou didst bear in Echion’s halls; have pity on me, mother dear! oh! do not for any sin of mine slay thy own son.”

But she, the while, with foaming mouth and wildly rolling eyes, bereft of reason as she was, heeded him not; for the god possessed her. And she caught his left hand in her grip, and planting her foot upon her victim’s trunk she tore the shoulder from its socket, not of her own strength, but the god made it an easy task to her hands; and Ino set to work upon the other side, rending the flesh with Autonoe and all the eager host of Bacchanals; and one united cry arose, the victim’s groans while yet he breathed, and their triumphant shouts. One would make an arm her prey, another a foot with the sandal on it; and his ribs were stripped of flesh by their rending nails; and each one with blood-dabbled hands was tossing Pentheus’ limbs about. Scattered lies his corpse, part beneath the rugged rocks, and part amid the deep dark woods, no easy task to find; but his poor head hath his mother made her own, and fixing it upon the point of a thyrsus, as it had been a mountain lion’s, she bears it through the midst of Cithaeron, having left her sisters with the Maenads at their rites. And she is entering these walls exulting in her hunting fraught with woe, calling on the Bacchic god her fellow-hunter who had helped her to triumph in a chase, where her only prize was tears.

But I will get me hence, away from this piteous scene, before Agave reach the palace. To my mind self-restraint and reverence for the things of God point alike the best and wisest course for all mortals who pursue them. (Exit SECOND MESSENGER.)

CHORUS Come, let us exalt our Bacchic god in choral strain, let us loudly chant the fall of Pentheus from the serpent sprung, who assumed a woman’s dress and took the fair Bacchic wand, sure pledge of death, with a bull to guide him to his doom. O ye Bacchanals of Thebes! glorious is the triumph ye have achieved, ending in sorrow and tears. ‘Tis a noble enterprise to dabble the hand in the blood of a son till it drips. But hist! I see Agave, the mother of Pentheus, with wild rolling eye hasting to the house; welcome the revellers of the Bacchic god.

(Enter AGAVE.)

AGAVE Ye Bacchanals from Asia

CHORUS Why dost thou rouse me? why?

AGAVE From the hills I am bringing to my home a tendril freshly-culled, glad guerdon-of the chase.

CHORUS I see it, and I will welcome thee unto our revels. All hail!

AGAVE I caught him with never a snare, this lion’s whelp, as ye may see.

CHORUS From what desert lair?

AGAVE Cithaeron-

CHORUS Yes, Cithaeron?

AGAVE Was his death.

CHORUS Who was it gave the first blow?

AGAVE Mine that privilege; “Happy Agave!” they call me ‘mid our revellers.

CHORUS Who did the rest?

AGAVE Cadmus-

CHORUS What of him?

AGAVE His daughters struck the monster after me; yes, after me.

CHORUS Fortune smiled upon thy hunting here.

AGAVE Come, share the banquet.

CHORUS Share? ah I what?

AGAVE ‘Tis but a tender whelp, the down just sprouting on its cheek beneath a crest of failing hair.

CHORUS The hair is like some wild creature’s.

AGAVE The Bacchic god, a hunter skilled, roused his Maenads to pursue this quarry skilfully.

CHORUS Yea, our king is a hunter indeed.

AGAVE Dost approve?

CHORUS Of course I do.

AGAVE Soon shall the race of Cadmus-

CHORUS And Pentheus, her own son, shall to his mother-

AGAVE Offer praise for this her quarry of the lion’s brood.

CHORUS Quarry strange!

AGAVE And strangely caught.

CHORUS Dost thou exult?

AGAVE Right glad am I to have achieved a great and glorious triumph for my land that all can see.

CHORUS Alas for thee! show to the folk the booty thou hast won and art bringing hither.

AGAVE All ye who dwell in fair fenced Thebes, draw near that ye may see the fierce wild beast that we daughters of Cadmus made our prey, not with the thong-thrown darts of Thessaly, nor yet with snares, but with our fingers fair. Ought men idly to boast and get them armourers’ weapons? when we with these our hands have caught this prey and torn the monster limb from limb? Where is my aged sire? let him approach. And where is Pentheus, my son? Let him bring a ladder and raise it against the house to nail up on the gables this lion’s head, my booty from the chase. (Enter CADMUS.)

CADMUS Follow me, servants to the palace-front, with your sad burden in your arms, ay, follow, with the corpse of Pentheus, which after long weary search I found, as ye see it, torn to pieces amid Cithaeron’s glens, and am bringing hither; no two pieces did I find together, as they lay scattered through the trackless wood. For I heard what awful deeds one of my daughters had done, just as I entered the city-walls with old Teiresias returning from the Bacchanals; so I turned again unto the and bring from thence my son who was slain by Maenads. There I saw Autonoe, that bare Actaeon on a day to Aristaeus, and Ino with her, still ranging the oak-groves in their unhappy frenzy; but one told me that that Agave, was rushing wildly hither, nor was it idly said, for there I see her, sight of woe!

AGAVE Father, loudly mayst thou boast, that the daughters thou hast begotten are far the best of mortal race; of one and all I speak, though chiefly of myself, who left my shuttle at the loom for nobler enterprise, even to hunt savage beasts with my hands; and in my arms I bring my prize, as thou seest, that it may be nailed up on thy palace-wall; take it, father, in thy had and proud of my hunting, call thy friends to a banquet; for blest art thou, ah! doubly blest in these our gallant exploits.

CADMUS O grief that has no bounds, too cruel for mortal eye! ‘tis murder ye have done with your hapless hands. Fair is the victim thou hast offered to the gods, inviting me and my Thebans to the feast Ah, woe is me first for thy sorrows, then for mine. What ruin the god, the Bromian king, hath brought on us, just maybe, but too severe, seeing he is our kinsman!

AGAVE How peevish old age makes men! what sullen looks! Oh, may my son follow in his mother’s footsteps and be as lucky in his hunting, when he goes quest of game in company with Theban youthsl But he can do naught but wage war with gods. Father, ‘tis thy duty to warn him. Who will summon him hither to my sight to witness my happiness?

CADMUS Alas for you! alas! Terrible will be your grief when ye are conscious of your deeds; could ye re. for ever till life’s close in your present state, ye would not, spite of ruined bliss, appear so cursed with woe.

AGAVE Why? what is faulty bere? what here for sorrow?

CADMUS First let thine eye look up to heaven.

AGAVE See! I do so. Why dost thou suggest my looking thereupon?

CADMUS Is it still the same, or dost think there’s any change?

AGAVE ‘Tis brighter than it was, and dearer too.

CADMUS Is there still that wild unrest within thy soul?

AGAVE I know not what thou sayest now; yet methinks my brain is clearing, and my former frenzy passed away.

CADMUS Canst understand, and give distinct replies?

AGAVE Father, how completely I forget all we said before!

CADMUS To what house wert thou brought with marriage-hymns?

AGAVE Thou didst give me to earthborn Echion, as men call him.

CADMUS What child was born thy husband in his halls?

AGAVE Pentheus, of my union with his father.

CADMUS What head is that thou barest in thy arms?

AGAVE A lion’s; at least they said so, who hunted it.

CADMUS Consider it aright; ‘tis no great task to look at it.

AGAVE Ah! what do I see? what is this I am carrying in my hands?

CADMUS Look closely at it; make thy knowledge more certain.

AGAVE Ah, ‘woe is me! O sight of awful sorrow!

CADMUS Dost think it like a lion’s head?

AGAVE Ah no! ‘tis Pentheus’ head which I his unhappy mother hold.

CADMUS Bemoaned by me, or ever thou didst recognize him.

AGAVE Who slew him? How came he into my hands?

CADMUS O piteous truth! how ill-timed thy presence here!

AGAVE Speak; my bosom throbs at this suspense.

CADMUS ‘Twas thou didst slay him, thou and thy sisters.

AGAVE Where died he? in the house or where?

CADMUS On the very spot where hounds of yore rent Actaeon in pieces.

AGAVE Why went he, wretched youth! to Cithaeron?

CADMUS He would go and mock the god and thy Bacchic rites.

AGAVE But how was it we had journeyed thither?

CADMUS Ye were distraught; the whole city had the Bacchic frenzy.

AGAVE ‘Twas Dionysus proved our ruin; now I see it all.

CADMUS Yes, for the slight he suffered; ye would not believe in his godhead.

AGAVE Father, where is my dear child’s corpse?

CADMUS With toil I searched it out and am bringing it myself.

AGAVE Is it all fitted limb to limb in seemly wise?

CADMUS (*, * One line, or maybe more, is missing)

AGAVE But what had Pentheus to do with folly of mine?

CADMUS He was like you in refusing homage to the god, who, therefore, hath involved you all in one common ruin, you and him alike, to destroy this house and me, forasmuch as I, that had no sons, behold this youth, the fruit of thy womb, unhappy mother! foully and most shamefully slain. To thee, my child, our house looked up, to thee my daughter’s son, the stay of my palace, inspiring the city with awe; none caring to flout the old king when he saw thee by, for he would get his deserts. But now shall I be cast out dishonoured from my halls, Cadmus the great, who sowed the crop of Theban seed and reaped that goodly harvest. O beloved child! dead though thou art, thou still shalt be counted by me amongst my own dear children; no more wilt thou lay thy hand upon my chin in fond embrace, my child, and calling on thy mother’s sire demand, “Who wrongs thee or dishonours thee, old sire? who vexes thy heart, a thorn within thy side? Speak, that I may punish thy oppressor, father mine!”

But now am I in sorrow plunged, and woe is thee, and woe thy mother and her suffering sisters too! Ah! if there be any man that scorns the gods, let him well mark this prince’s death and then believe in them.

CHORUS Cadmus, I am sorry for thy fate; for though thy daughter’s child hath met but his deserts, ‘tis bitter grief to thee.

AGAVE O father, thou seest how sadly my fortune is changed.(*, *

After this a very large lacuna occurs in the MS.)

DIONYSUS Thou shalt be changed into a serpent; and thy wife Harmonia, Ares’ child, whom thou in thy human life didst wed, shall change her nature for a snake’s, and take its form. With her shalt thou, as leader of barbarian tribes, drive thy team of steers, so saith an oracle of Zeus; and many a city shalt thou sack with an army numberless; but in the day they plunder the oracle of Loxias, shall they rue their homeward march; but thee and Harmonia will Ares rescue, and set thee to live henceforth in the land of the blessed. This do I declare, I Dionysus, son of no mortal father but of Zeus. Had ye learnt wisdom when ye would not, ye would now be happy with the son of Zeus for your ally.

AGAVE O Dionysus! we have sinned; thy pardon we implore.

DIONYSUS Too late have ye learnt to know me; ye knew me not at the proper time.

AGAVE We recognize our error; but thou art too revengeful.

DIONYSUS Yea, for I, though a god, was slighted by you.

AGAVE Gods should not let their passion sink to man’s level.

DIONYSUS Long ago my father Zeus ordained it thus.

AGAVE Alas! my aged sire, our doom is fixed; ‘tis woful exile.

DIONYSUS Why then delay the inevitable? Exit.

CADMUS Daughter, to what an awful pass are we now come, thou too, poor child, and thy sisters, while I alas! in my old age must seek barbarian shores, to sojourn there; but the oracle declares that I shall yet lead an army, half-barbarian, half-Hellene, to Hellas; and in serpent’s shape shall I carry my wife Harmonia, the daughter of Ares, transformed like me to a savage snake, against the altars and tombs of Hellas at the head of my troops; nor shall I ever cease from my woes, ah me! nor ever cross the downward stream of Acheron and be at rest.

AGAVE Father, I shall be parted from thee and exiled.

CADMUS Alas! my child, why fling thy arms around me, as a snowy cygnet folds its wings about the frail old swan?

AGAVE Whither can I turn, an exile from my country?

CADMUS I know not, my daughter; small help is thy father now.

AGAVE Farewell, my home! farewell, my native city! with sorrow I am leaving thee, an exile from my bridal bower.

CADMUS Go, daughter, to the house of Aristaeus,(*, * Another large lacuna follows.)

AGAVE Father, I mourn for thee.

CADMUS And I for thee, my child; for thy sisters too I shed a tear.

AGAVE Ah! terribly was king Dionysus bringing this outrage on thy house.

CADMUS Yea, for he suffered insults dire from you, his name receiving no meed of honour in Thebes.

AGAVE Farewell, father mine!

CADMUS Farewell, my hapless daughter and yet thou scarce canst reach that bourn.

AGAVE Oh! lead me, guide me to the place where I shall find my sisters, sharers in my exile to their sorrow! Oh! to reach a spot where cursed Cithaeron ne’er shall see me more nor I Cithaeron with mine eyes; where no memorial of the thyrsus is set up! Be they to other Bacchantes dear!

CHORUS Many are the forms the heavenly will assumes, and many a thing the gods fulfil contrary to all hope; that which was expected is not brought to pass, while for the unlooked-for Heaven finds out a way. E’en such hath been the issue here. (Exeunt OMNES.)

THE END

The Funeral Games of Patroclus

Homer

The Illiad Book XXIII

While the city of Troy grieved, the Achaeans reached the fleet by the Hellespont and dispersed to their own ships, except for the Myrmidons whom Achillesrestrained, saying to his warlike friends: ‘Myrmidons, with your swift horses, my loyal comrades, don’t unyoke the teams from their chariots yet, but drive them past Patroclus and mourn for him as the dead should be mourned. Then when we’ve sated ourselves with grief, we’ll un-harness them and eat together here.’

Then Achilles led them as they raised their voices as one, in lament. Three times, in their grief, they drove their long-maned horses round the corpse, and Thetisintensified their need to weep. The sand and their armour were wet with tears, so great a warrior was the man they mourned. And the son of Peleus was loudest in the strident lament, laying his man-killing hands on his comrade’s breast: ‘Rejoice, Patroclus, even in the House of Hades, for I have kept my promise to you, that I would drag Hector’s corpse here and feed it to the dogs, and I will cut the throats of twelve noble youths of Troy at your pyre, in vengeance for your death.’

When he had spoken, he thought of a further way to defile Hector’s corpse, flinging it face down in the dust by Patroclus’ bier. The warriors removed their gleaming bronze armour, loosed the war-horses, and sat in their hundreds beside swift-footed Achilles’ ship. He gave them a funeral feast to ease their hearts. Many a sleek ox plunged under the knife, many a sheep and bleating goat was slaughtered, and many a fine fat white-tusked hog was hung above the flames to singe, while blood pooled round the corpse, deep enough to dip the wine-cups in.

Now their prince, fleet-footed Achilles, was invited by the Achaean leaders, to dine with King Agamemnon, though he was still grieving deeply and they found him hard at first to persuade. When they all reached Agamemnon’s hut, they told the clear-voiced heralds to set a great cauldron on the fire, in hopes of tempting Achilles to wash the blood from his body. But he refused, and made a vow: ‘By Zeus, the mightiest and best of gods, no water shall come near my head until I have laid Patroclus on the pyre, heaped up his mound, and shorn my hair, for I shall never grieve more deeply while I’m among the living. Let us yield to the necessity for food, however loathsome that prospect, but at dawn, Lord Agamemnon, order wood to be gathered, and provide all that is needed when a dead man enters the deepest darkness, so that Patroclus’ body may be swiftly consumed, and the army return to its toil.’

They readily agreed to his request, and each of them sharing in the meal, they feasted. When their hunger and thirst were sated, they retired to rest. But Achilles lay sighing heavily, among his Myrmidons, by the echoing shore, out in the open just above the breaking surf. His strong limbs were weary from hunting Hector round windy Troy, yet no sooner had sleep seized him, shedding sweetness round him and easing his heart’s cares, than the spirit of poor Patroclus appeared, the very semblance of the man himself, with the same stature, eyes, and clothes, and it was his voice that spoke saying: ‘You sleep, and forget me, Achilles. You neglect me now I’m dead, as you never did when I was alive. Hasten my funeral, and let me pass Hades’ Gate. The spirits keep me out, the shades of men done with toil, who will not let me join them beyond the river, but leave me wandering in vain this side of the yawning Gate. And clasp my hand, I beg you, for once you’ve given me to the fire, I shall not return. You and I will never sit apart from our dear friends and talk as we once did, now that mortal fate has consumed me: that fate appointed for me at my birth. You too, godlike Achilles, are doomed to die beneath the walls of Troy. One more thing I ask of you, if you will. Don’t bury my ashes far from yours, Achilles. Let them be as one, just as we were when we grew up together. Menoetius brought me, to your house, a child from Opoeis, because I killed Amphidamus’ son, accidentally, in a foolish quarrel over a game. Peleus, the horseman, welcomed me to his palace, showed me loving care, and made me your squire. So let one urn enclose our ashes, the golden urn your royal mother gave you.’

Fleet-footed Achilles answered: ‘Why, when you are here, dear heart, do you come only to ask such things? I will see to it all, just as you wish, but now come closer, so that, if only for a moment, we might clasp our arms round one another, and sate ourselves with sad lament.’

So saying, he stretched out his hands in vain. The spirit vanished like smoke beneath the earth, gibbering faintly. Achilles sprang up in turmoil, and beat his hands together, crying sadly: ‘There now! Even in Hades’ House something of us survives, spirit and semblance, but no power of response: for all night long poor Patroclus’ shade, his very likeness, stood over me, weeping, lamenting, saying what I must do.’

Achilles’ cry woke the Myrmidons to further lament, and rosy-fingered Dawn found them wailing round the pitiful dead. King Agamemnon, meanwhile, sent out men from every hut with mules to fetch wood, under the command of Meriones, attendant on kindly Idomeneus. They carried woodman’s axes and strong ropes, and drove the mules upwards to and fro on winding tracks until they came to the high slopes of Ida, of the many streams. There they set to, the long-bladed axes felling tall oaks with a crash. The Greeks split the logs and roped them to the mules that tore up the ground hauling them through dense undergrowth down to the plain. The woodcutters handled the logs, as Meriones ordered, and stacked them on the shore where Achilles planned a great funeral mound for Patroclus and himself. When they had stacked the wood, the whole crowd sat and waited. Then Achilles gave orders to his warlike Myrmidons to don their armour, and yoke the chariots. They did so and the charioteers mounted their chariots. Then they set off, the chariots first, a host of warriors following on foot, with Patroclus in the midst, carried by his friends. They had cut off locks of their hair and thrown them on the corpse till they covered it like a garment. Noble Achilles walked behind, supporting the head, sorrowing for the peerless comrade he was sending to Hades’ Halls.

When they reached the place he’d appointed, they set the corpse down on a platform of wood. Now a fresh idea struck Achilles, and stepping back from the pyre he cut a golden lock of his hair, which he had grown to honour the river-god Sperchius. He looked out over the wine-dark sea and spoke anxiously to the god: ‘Sperchius, my father Peleus made vain prayer to you, vowing that if I came home to my native land I’d cut my hair and offer a holy sacrifice of fifty unblemished rams, at the precinct and fragrant altar where your waters flow. The old man made his vow, but you have denied fulfilment. Since I shall not return to my own dear native land, allow me to give this lock of hair to the warrior Patroclus to take with him.’

So saying, he went and placed the lock of hair in the corpse’s hands, and prompted them all to further displays of grief. Sunset would still have found them weeping, if Achilles had not spoken to Agamemnon: ‘Son of Atreus, the troops obey you above all others, and though they may go on grieving, send them away from the pyre for now, and let them prepare their meal. We the dead man’s closest mourners will manage things here, but ask the leaders to stay.’

King Agamemnon hearing this, promptly dismissed the men to their well-crafted ships, though the chief mourners remained, and piling up the wood to make the pyre a hundred feet square, sad at heart they placed the corpse on top. They flayed and dressed numerous fine sheep and sleek shambling cattle before the pyre, and noble Achilles took fat from them all and wrapped the corpse in it, head to foot, and piled the flayed carcasses around. Then he leant two-handled jars of oil and honey against the bier, and groaning aloud swiftly threw the bodies of four proud horses on the pyre. Of the nine dogs Patroclus fed beneath his table, Achilles cut the throats of two and threw their bodies on the pyre. Then he completed the grim task he had in mind, killing twelve noble sons of the brave Trojans with his bronze blade, and setting the pyre alight so the pitiless flames would spread. Then he gave a groan, and called his dear friend by name: ‘All hail to you, Patroclus, though in the House of Hades. See how I keep the promises I made. Twelve noble sons of brave Trojans, the fire will devour with you. But the dogs, not the flames, shall feed on Hector, son of Priam.’

Yet, despite his threats, no dogs defiled Hector’s corpse, for Aphrodite, Zeus’ daughter, kept them from him, night and day, and anointed him with sweet ambrosial oil of roses, so Achilles would not tear the flesh dragging the corpse about. And Phoebus Apollo drew a dark cloud down from sky to earth, and cloaked the whole place where the dead man lay, to prevent the sun shrivelling the flesh and sinews of his limbs.

Now the pyre of dead Patroclus would not burn. Fleet-footed Achilles took thought, then standing back from the pyre prayed to the winds, Boreas the North-wind, Zephyrus the West, promising them fine offerings. Pouring libations from a golden cup, he begged them fervently to blow, so the wood might kindle and the bodies might burn. Iris heard his prayer, and flew swiftly to give the Winds his message. They were feasting together in Zephyrus’ house, Lord of the Western Gales, when Iris halted on his stone threshold. They sprang up when they saw her, and called her to sit beside them. But she refused, saying: ‘I can’t, I must return to Ocean’s stream, and the land of the Ethiopians, where they are sacrificing to the immortals, and share in their sacred feast. But Achilles asks for you Boreas, and you wild Zephyr, and promises fine offerings if you’ll kindle the pyre where Patroclus lies, for whom the Achaeans grieve.’

Then she left while the winds rose with a roar, driving the clouds in rout before them. Soon they were out at sea, stirring the swelling waves with their stormy blast. Reaching the fertile land of Troy, they attacked the pyre, raising a great column of roaring fire. As one, their blast beat on the flames, howling all night long, and all night long swift Achilles drew wine from a golden bowl in a two-handled cup, and poured it on the ground, wetting the earth and calling to the spirit of poor Patroclus. And Achilles, pacing heavily round the fire, groaned without cease, while his friend’s bones burned, as a father groans for a newly-wedded son whose death leaves his wretched parents in despair.

At the hour when the Morning Star rises, heralding the new day, and in his wake saffron-robed Dawn spreads light on the waves, the fire died down and the flames ceased. The Winds returned home over the Thracian Sea, roaring above the surging waves. Achilles turned away from the smouldering pyre, lay down exhausted, and instantly slept. But his comrades gathered round him, and the noise of their voices and footsteps roused him once more. Sitting upright, he spoke to them: ‘Atreides, and you other leaders of the Achaeans, quench the glowing pyre with red wine, wherever there are embers, then let us collect the ashes of Patroclus, Menoetius’ son, separating them from the rest, though that is easy since he lay at the centre of the pyre, while the men and horses and the rest were burned at its edge. Then we will place the ashes in a golden urn, sealed with a double layer of fat, until such time as I too vanish to Hades. As for the mound, provide what is fitting but no more, and whichever of you survive among the benched ships when I am gone, then you must build our joint mound broad and high.’

They did as fleet-footed Achilles requested, first quenching the fire with wine to its edge, where there were embers; then, in tears, collecting the white ashes of their gentle comrade, placing them in a golden urn sealed with a double layer of fat, and covering it with a soft linen cloth they took it to his hut. Next they traced the circuit of his mound, setting a ring of stones around the pyre then piling earth inside. When they had raised the barrow, they made as if to leave, but Achilles stopped them and made them sit in a wide ring where he had decided funeral games would be held, and sent for prizes from his ships; cauldrons, tripods, horses, mules, sturdy oxen, female slaves and grey iron.

For the first event, a chariot race, Achilles offered splendid prizes; a woman skilled in fine handiwork, and a tripod with ear-shaped handles holding twenty-two measures, for the winner; a six-year old mare, broken-in and pregnant with a mule foal, for the runner-up; for the third place, a brand new gleaming cauldron holding four measures; for the fourth, two talents of gold; and the fifth a brand new two-handled cooking dish.

He rose and spoke to the Argives: ‘Atreides, and you other bronze-greaved Achaeans, these are the prizes that await the winning charioteers. If we Greeks were holding the games in another man’s honour, since I have the finest pair of horses, immortal steeds that Poseidon gave my father Peleus, and he in turn gave me, no doubt I would carry off first prize, but they’ve lost their great and glorious charioteer, a kind man who’d rub sweet oil in their manes after washing them in clear water. And now they stand and mourn him, heart-stricken, their manes sweeping the ground. But the event is open to the rest of you, whichever of you Achaeans trust in your horses and chariot.’

At this the competitors came forward. Noble Eumelus was first to rise, Admetus’ dear son, a skilful horseman. Then Mighty Diomedes, son of Tydeus, rose to harness the horses, of the breed of Tros, taken from Aeneas though Apollo saved Aeneas himself. Red-haired Menelaus was next, Zeus-born Atreides, yoking swift horses, Aethe, a mare of Agamemnon’s, and his own horse Podargus. Echepolus, Anchises of Sicyon’s son, had given the mare as a gift to Agamemnon, so he might stay safely at home and not follow the king to windy Troy. Zeus had granted him great wealth in spacious Sicyon. Menelaus now harnessed the eager mare. The fourth to ready his long-maned team was Antilochus, noble son of proud Nestor, son of Neleus, and the swift horses harnessed to his chariot were of the Pylian breed. His father approached to offer some good advice, the wise to the wise: ‘Antilochus, young as you are, Zeus and Poseidon love you, and they have made you an expert horseman, so you need little advice from me. Yet, expert though you are at navigating the turns, remember your horses are the slowest in this race, and that’s a great handicap. Their horses are quicker, but their charioteers no more cunning, so use all your skill, if you don’t want to see the prizes slip away. It is skill not mere strength that makes the better woodsman; skill lets the helmsman on the wine-dark wave steer a sailing ship, buffeted by the wind; and skill too sees one charioteer beat another. One man, leaving it all to his horses, slackens the reins and lets his team wander, his line stray, but the skilful man, though with slower horses, thinks of the turn and wheels close by the post, keeps his team in hand from the start, uses the ox-hide reins, and keeps his eyes on the lead chariot.

Now here’s something to look out for. There’s a dead-tree stump, of weathered oak or pine, about six foot high, flanked by two white stones, at the turn. The ground is smooth and firm on the bend. It may mark an ancient grave, or perhaps was a turning post long ago. Now Achilles has adopted it as his. Hug it tightly as you turn, and lean to the left of your team yourself as you stand firm on your platform of plaited thongs. Flick the offside horse with your whip, shout him on and give him rein, but let the near-side run so near the post the hub of the well-built wheel almost grazes the stone, but don’t touch it and wreck your chariot and harm the horses, or the rest will have glory and you the blame. Use your wits, dear son, and look sharp. If you can pass inside at the turn, no one will put on speed and overtake you, not even if he drove noble Arion, in pursuit, Adrastus’ racehorse that was sired in heaven or of Laomedon’s breed of famous horses, the very best in Troy.’

With this advice to his son on how to win, Nestor, son of Neleus, regained his place and sat, while Meriones, the fifth competitor, readied his long-maned horses. Then all mounted their chariots, and cast their lots one by one into Achilles’ helmet. When he shook it, out leapt the lot of Nestor’s son Antilochus; then that of Lord Eumelus; of Menelaus the famous spearman; and of Meriones; while that of Diomedes, the best of them all, was last. They lined up for the start, and Achilles pointed out the turning post for off over the flat plain, where godlike Phoenix, his father’s squire, was placed as referee, to keep a watch on the race and judge their merits.

As one, they raised their whips, shook the reins, and urged their teams on. Swiftly the horses galloped over the plain, leaving the ships behind. A whirlwind cloud of dust rose to their chests, and their manes streamed in the wind. Now the chariots ran freely over the solid ground, now they leapt in the air, while the hearts of the charioteers beat fast as they strove for victory, and they shouted to their horses, flying along in the storm of dust.

It was not till the galloping horses were heading back towards the grey sea that each team showed its mettle, and the charioteers forced the pace. Eumelus’ swift-footed mares shot to the front, chased by Diomedes’ stallions, hot on their heels, as if they might mount Eumelus’ chariot, and their heads were at his back as they flew, blowing hot breath on his neck and shoulders. Diomedes would have passed him now, or at least drawn level, if Phoebus Apollo in resentment had not struck the gleaming whip from his hand. Diomedes saw the mares run on, while his own horses slowed without the effect of the whip, and tears of anger filled his eyes. But Athenesaw that Apollo had interfered, and speeding after, returned the whip and inspired the team. Then in her anger she chased down Eumelus, and shattered the yoke of his chariot, so the mares swerved from side to side and the broken pole struck the ground, while Eumelus himself was hurled to the earth beside the wheel. The skin was stripped from his elbows, nose and cheeks, his forehead bruised, while his eyes filled with tears and he was robbed of speech.

Meanwhile Diomedes passed the wreck and drove his powerful horses on, far in the lead. Athene had strengthened his team and given him the glory. And red-haired Menelaus, the son of Atreus, ran second. But Antilochus called to his father’s team: ‘On now, show me how you can run. You’ll not catch Diomedes’ pair, for Athene grants them strength and him the glory. But chase down Menelaus’ team, don’t let them beat you, or Aethe the mare will put you to shame. Why so slow, my beauties? I’ll tell you this, if we win a lesser prize, there’ll be no sweet fodder at Nestor’s hands, he’ll slit your throats with his keen blade. So on, as fast as you can, and I’ll contrive to pass them where the course narrows: that’s my chance.’

With this the horses, responding to his threat, speeded up for a while, and soon the steadfast Antilochus saw a narrow place in the sunken road ahead, where a stream swollen by winter rain had eroded the track and hollowed out the course. Menelaus drove on assuming no one could overtake, but Antilochus veered alongside, almost off the track. Then Menelaus called to him, in alarm: ‘Rein in Antilochus, that’s recklessness! The track’s wider further on. Pass there if you can, mind my chariot, don’t wreck us both!’

He shouted loud enough, but Antilochus, pretending not to hear, plied his whip and drove the more wildly. They ran side by side a discus length, as far as a young athlete testing his strength can hurl it from the shoulder, then Menelaus held back, and his pair gave way, fearing the teams might collide and overturn the light chariots, hurling their masters in the dust, for all their eagerness to win. Red-haired Menelaus stormed at Antilochus: ‘You’re a pest Antilochus, we Achaeans credited you with more sense. All the same, you’ll not win a prize, when I force you to answer on oath to this.’

With that he addressed his team: ‘Don’t flag, and don’t lose heart. Their legs will weaken sooner than yours, they’re carrying more years.’ And his pair, responding to his call, increased their speed and closed on the pair in front.

Meanwhile the spectators, from their seats in the ring, were waiting to catch sight of the horses, flying towards them in a cloud of dust. The Cretan leader, Idomeneus, was first to see them, from the lookout point high above the assembly. When he heard the charioteer’s voice shouting to his horses, he recognised the man despite the distance; and he knew one of the lead horses that showed clearly, a bay with a white patch like a full moon on its brow. He stood and called to the Argives: ‘My friends, can you see the horses too? A different team’s ahead, it’s a new charioteer in the lead. Eumelus’ mares were in front on the outward leg, but they must have come to grief. I saw them galloping first towards the turning post, but there’s no sign of them now, though I’ve searched the whole Trojan plain. Perhaps the reins slipped from his hands, and he failed to take the turn? I think it’s there his chariot must have wrecked, and hurled him to the ground, while the mares swerved and bolted in their terror. Stand and look on, yourselves. I think the leader is Aetolian, yes, it’s great Diomedes, prince among Argives, son of horse-taming Tydeus.’

But Ajax the Lesser, that fine runner, the son of Oïleus, was quick to disagree: ‘Idomeneus, why are you always sounding off? Those high-stepping mares are still far out on the plain. Your not young any more, nor are your eyes the sharpest among us, yet you’re always laying down the law. Among your betters you should hold your tongue. Eumelus’ mares are still in the lead, just as they were before, that’s him standing there, the reins in his hands.’

Idomeneus answered angrily: ‘Ajax, you’re good at insults, but useless in council, your bad manners always let you down. Come, let’s bet on whose in the lead, with Atreides as referee. Let’s wager a tripod or a cauldron, losing it might teach you a lesson.’

At this, Ajax the Lesser, in his anger, leapt to his feet ready with more insults, and the quarrel would soon have been out of hand, if Achilles had not risen and spoken: ‘Ajax, Idomeneus, no more of this, enough of these crude discourtesies! It is wrong to behave so, and you’d be the first to condemn such things in others. Sit down again, in the ring, and watch the race. The teams will soon be home in their rush for victory, and then you’ll all see which of the Argive horses lead, and which are behind.’

Diomedes soon arrived, whipping the high-stepping horses hard, as they sped towards the goal. Showers of dust clung to him, and the wheel rims hardly left a trace on the powdery ground, as the swift-footed pair flew onwards pulling the chariot, decorated with gold and tin. He drew to a halt in the centre of the ring, sweat pouring to the ground from his horses’ chests and necks. He himself leapt to the ground from his gleaming chariot, and leant the long whip against the shaft. Nor did his squire Sthenelus lose a moment in claiming the prize, but eagerly his joyful friends led away the women and carried off the eared tripod, while he un-harnessed the horses.

Antilochus, Nestor’s son, came in second, having outstripped Menelaus by guile not speed, though Menelaus and his swift team still came in close behind, by no more than the distance from horse to wheel. As a horse strains at the yoke under its master’s lash, the tip of its tail brushes the wheel rim, and that was how close Menelaus came to peerless Antilochus, though he had been a discus throw behind at first. Long-maned Aethe, Agamemnon’s mare, was pulling ever more strongly, and if the course had been a little longer, he would have overtaken Antilochus decisively.

Meriones, Idomeneus’ strong squire, came in a spear-cast behind Menelaus, being the least skilful charioteer and driving the slowest horses. And last of all came Eumelus, dragging his light chariot and driving his horses ahead of him. Hearing his tale, swift-footed Achilles felt sorry for the man, and spoke winged words to the Argives: ‘The best charioteer has come in last, but he deserves the prize for second place, given Diomedes has won the first.’

The Achaeans shouted their agreement, and he would have given Eumelus the mare, if Antilochus, son of proud Nestor, had not risen to object: ‘Achilles, if you as you say, then I resent it. Good man though he is, you’d rob me of my prize, just because he and his chariot came to harm. He’d not have been last, if he’d prayed to the gods before the race. If you truly pity him, and he’s dear to you, then in your hut there’s a pile of gold and bronze, there are women, horses, sheep too. Give him a fine prize later, or do it now and have these Greeks applaud you. But I’ll not yield the mare, if anyone wants her let him fight me for her, hand to hand.’

Noble Achilles, the great runner, smiled at Antilochus, his dear comrade, and rejoicing in his friendship, spoke to him warmly: ‘Antilochus, if you’d rather I gave Eumelus something of my own, as an extra prize, I will. I’ll grant him the breastplate I took from Asteropaeus. It’s a valuable one, of bronze plated with bands of shining tin.’

Then he asked his dear friend Automedon to fetch it from his hut, and taking it he placed it in Eumelus’ hands, and he was delighted to receive it.

Now Menelaus rose, mortified and furiously angry with Antilochus. A herald placed the staff in his hands and commanded silence then the godlike warrior spoke: ‘Antilochus, what is this? You used to be a man of sense. Now you shame my prowess, cutting across my team and thrusting your own slower pair ahead. Come now, leaders and rulers of Achaea, judge impartially between us, lest in future some bronze-clad Achaean says that Antilochus, who cheated Menelaus, won the mare because though his team were not as fast, he was the worthier and more skilful man. I will even resolve the case myself and justly too, such that none of you Danaans will disagree. Antilochus, nurtured by Zeus, come here. Stand before your chariot and team, and as is customary take the whip in hand you used just now, place your hand against a horse’s flank and swear by the Earth-Shaker and Encircler that you did not thwart me by a deliberate foul.’

‘Ah, be gentle with me, King Menelaus,’ the sober Antilochus replied, ‘you are older and wiser. You know the follies a young man commits, his mind is hasty, and his judgement poor. So forgive me, and I will give you the mare myself, of my own free will. And if you ask more of me and my house, I’d give it eagerly, rather than be exiled from your heart, you whom Zeus nurtured, and perjure myself before the gods.’

With this, proud Nestor’s son led the mare forward, and gave her up to Menelaus, whose heart was warmed by the gesture, warmed like the dew-wet grain ripening at harvest time. So he spoke warm words, to Antilochus, in reply: ‘Antilochus, I can’t be angry with you, since you were never foolish or reckless before, though this time youth got the better of judgement. Don’t try to outwit your elders. It would have been harder for another to placate me, but you and your good father and your brother have toiled and suffered greatly for my cause, so I accept your apology and grant you the mare though she is mine, so all may know my heart is never over-proud or unyielding.’

So saying, he handed the mare over to Noëmon, Antilochus’ friend, to lead away, and took the gleaming cauldron as his prize. Meriones who had come in fourth, accepted the two talents of gold so reserved, while the fifth prize, the two-handled dish went unclaimed. Achilles carried it through the throng, and approaching Nestorhanded it to him, saying: ‘My venerable lord, accept and treasure this memento of Patroclus’ funeral, for you will never see him more among the Argives. Sadly, old age weighs on you now, and you cannot contend in boxing, wrestling, javelin throwing or the foot-race, but I give you this prize nonetheless.’

So saying, he placed it in Nestor’s hands, and he accepting it with delight, replied with winged words: ‘Yes, indeed, my son, what you say is true. I am no longer as steady on my feet, dear friend, nor can I fling my arms out in a wide wrestling grip. I wish I were as young and strong as that time when the Epeians were interring King Amarynceus at Buprasium, and his sons held funeral games in his honour. Then no man proved himself my equal, Epians, Pylians or proud Aetolians. I beat Clytomedes, the son of Enops, in the boxing and Ancaeus of Pleuron, who took me on in the wrestling. In the foot race I outran Iphiclus, good as he was, and my spear out-threw Phyleus and Polydorus. Only in the chariot race did the two Moliones beat me, by their combined superior strength, forcing their team to the front, begrudging me the victory since the race carried the best prize. They were twins, and one could drive with a sure hand, while the other plied the whip.

Such was the man I once was, but now it’s time for younger men. Sadly old age is upon me, though then I was first among the warriors. Now you must go on with your dear friend’s funeral games. Meanwhile I welcome your gift with pleasure, your remembrance of our friendship delights my heart, and of the honour I’m owed among the Achaeans. In return, let the gods grant you favour enough to satisfy your heart.’

When he had listened to Nestor’s words, Achilles, son of Peleus, made his way through the crowd of spectators and set out the prizes for the boxing-match. For the winner he fetched a six-year old mule, broken-in, and they are hardest of all to break, and tethered it in the arena. For the loser there was a two-handled drinking cup. Then he announced the contest: ‘Atreides, and all you bronze-greaved Achaeans, I want to see our two best boxers raise their fists and fight for these prizes. He whom Apollo grants true endurance in our eyes will return to his hut leading this sturdy mule, while the loser shall have this fine cup.’

At this a tall and powerful warrior stood up, a champion boxer, Epeius, son of Panopeus. He placed his hand on the mule, saying: ‘Whoever wants the cup, step forward. No man will beat me with his fists, and take the mule, since I’m the best boxer, I say. I may not be the greatest warrior, a man can’t be best at everything, but this thing is for sure, whoever I fight I’ll tear his flesh to ribbons and break his bones. I hope his kin are here to take him away when I’ve felled him.’

A silence fell at his words. Godlike Euryalus alone stood up to fight him, the son of King Mecisteus, Talaus’ son, who at the funeral games for Oedipus, in Thebes, defeated every Cadmeian opponent. Diomedes, the spearman, eager to see him win, helped Euryalus to prepare, and gave him encouragement. He buckled on his belt, and bound the ox-hide thongs carefully on his hands. When the two contestants were ready, they stepped to the centre of the arena, and raising their mighty arms, set to. Each landed heavy blows with their fists, and they ground their teeth, as the sweat poured over their limbs. Euryalus sought an opening, but noble Epeius swung and struck his jaw, and he went straight down, his legs collapsing under him. Like a fish that leaps in the weed-strewn shallows, under a ripple stirred by the North Wind, then falls back into the dark wave, so Euryalus leapt when he was struck, but the big-hearted Epeius, lifted him and set him on his feet, and all his friends crowded round, and supported him from the ring his feet trailing, his head lolling, as he spat out clots of blood. He was still confused when they sat him down in his corner, and had to fetch the cup, his prize, themselves.

Swiftly, Achilles brought out the prizes for the third contest, a wrestling bout. For the winner, a great tripod to hold a cauldron over the flames, valued by the Achaeans at twelve oxen; for the loser a female slave skilled in fine handiwork, and she they reckoned at four oxen. Then he announced the bout: ‘Rise now, whichever pair of warriors will try their skill.’ At his words, Telamonian Ajax stepped forward, and cunning Odysseus also got to his feet, a man of many wiles. When they had both prepared, they entered the ring, and came to grips, clasping each other in their mighty arms, locked together like the sloping rafters that some skilled craftsman sets in place on a tall house, to resist the winds. Their backs creaked under the pressure of their strong hands, and the sweat ran down in streams, while many a blood-red weal appeared on their shoulders and ribs, as they strove for the ornate tripod and the glory. Odysseus could no more trip Ajax, and floor him, than Ajax could move powerful Odysseus’ firm stance. But when they began to weary the watching Achaeans, Ajax spoke quietly to Odysseus: ‘Zeus-born son of Laertes, Odysseus of the many wiles, you’d best try lift me, or I you, and let Zeus decide the matter.’

So saying, he tried a lift, but Odysseus knew a trick or two. He kicked Ajax hard in the back of his knee, and toppled him backwards, falling on his chest. The spectators looked on admiringly, as they stood and noble long-enduring Odysseus in turn tried a lift, raising him off the ground a fraction, then failing to lift him further crooking a leg round Ajax’s knee, so they fell side by side, smothered in dust. They sprang up ready for a third round, but Achilles restrained them: ‘No more, don’t wear each other out. You were both victorious, and shall have identical prizes: there are other events now for competition.’ With this, they readily retired, and wiping the dust from their bodies, donned their tunics.

Now Achilles offered prizes for a foot-race. First prize was a fine silver mixing bowl, of six measures, the loveliest thing in the world, a masterpiece of Sidoniancraftsmanship, gifted to Thoas by Phoenician merchants on a trading mission over the dark waters. His grandson Euneos, Jason’s son, gave it to Patroclus as ransom for Lycaon. Now Achilles offered the bowl as a prize to the fastest runner, in tribute to his friend. The second prize was a large well-fattened ox, and for the third a half talent in gold. Achilles now rose and asked for entrants. Swift Ajax the Lesser, and Odysseus, the cunning, stepped forward, with the fastest of the young men, Antilochus, Nestor’s son. They took their places at the start, and Achilles pointed out the turning post. Off they ran, and Ajax, son of Oïleus, hit the front, with noble Odysseus at his heels, as close as a woman weaving holds the shuttle to her chest, as she draws it along skilfully passing its spool through the warp. He trod in Ajax’s footsteps before the dust had settled, and his breath beat on Ajax’s neck as they ran swiftly on. The Greeks shouted for Odysseus as he strained for victory, urging him on to the utmost. As they were nearing the finish, Odysseus prayed urgently in his heart to bright-eyed Athene: ‘Goddess, hear me, help me if you will and quicken my legs.’ He prayed and Athene heard, making his limbs seem lighter, and just as they reached the line, Pallas Athene made Ajax slip on a patch of offal from the sacrifice of bellowing bulls that fleet-footed Achilles had made in honour of Patroclus. He fell and his mouth and nostrils were filled with offal, while Odysseus came in first, and claimed the silver bowl, leaving the ox for noble Ajax. He stood there, spitting out the offal, grasping the ox’s horn, and complained to the Argives: ‘There, did you see how the goddess made me slip, she who’s always at Odysseus side, helping him!’

His words raised a shout of laughter. Antilochus lifted his prize, the gold, and addressed the crowd: ‘Friends, I declare, and don’t we know it, the immortals love the older generation. Ajax has only a few years more than I, but Odysseus is of the breed of former times, and as men say, a green old age is his, and he’s a hard man for any Greek to beat, except for Achilles.’

This tribute to swift-footed Achilles brought a response from the prince himself: ‘Antilochus, your praise shall not go unrewarded; and I’ll double the value of your prize. So saying he placed another half-talent in his hands, much to Antilochus’ delight.

Now Achilles brought out a shield and helmet, and a long-shadowed spear, Sarpedon’s gear that Patroclus had captured. Then he announced the next event: ‘Our two best warriors must arm, and fight each other for these prizes before the army, with naked bronze. I will give the one who first penetrates the other’s guard and draws blood, this noble silver-studded Thracian sword I took from Asteropaeus, and the other arms they both can share, as well as a fine banquet in my hut.’

At these words, great Telamonian Ajax and mighty Diomedes, Tydeus’ son, leapt to their feet. When they had armed themselves on their own side of the ring, they advanced to the centre, so menacing and eager for battle the Achaeans held their breath. Closing, they charged three times and each time thrust at each other with their spears. Ajax pierced Diomedes’ shield, but his breastplate kept the point from wounding him, while Diomedes kept thrusting at the rim of Ajax’s shield, aiming for his neck with the point of his gleaming lance. Now the Greeks were so fearful for Ajax that they called an end to the contest and for shared prizes. However, Achilles awarded the long-sword to Diomedes, with its scabbard and its fine belt.

Then Achilles offered as prize a huge lump of pig-iron that the powerful Eëtion used to hurl. Achilles had carried it off, aboard ship, with other of his possessions, after he had killed him. Now he announced the next competition, calling for entrants: ‘The winner of this will have iron enough for five years, and even if his farmland is remote, he won’t need to send a ploughman or a shepherd into town for lack of it, this will supply all his needs.’

Up leapt steadfast Polypoetes; godlike and powerful Leonteus; Telamonian Ajax, and noble Epeius. They lined up, and first Epeius grasped the mass of iron and hurled it, but the Achaeans mocked his feeble effort. Then Leonteus, offshoot of Ares, tried and his mark was quickly passed by Ajax, whose mighty throw won him the lead. But when stalwart Polypoetes, grasped and flung it, he sent it far beyond them all, like a herdsman hurling his crook and sending it whirling past his herd of cows. There was a great shout, and Polypoetes’ friends ran to carry off the royal prize to the hollow ships.

For the archery prizes, Achilles laid out ten double-headed axes of dark iron and ten single. He set up a mast from a blue-prowed ship a long way off on the sands, and fastened a pigeon to it by the foot, offering the fluttering bird as a target: ‘Whoever hits the pigeon as it flutters, wins the double-headed axes for himself, and if anyone strikes the cord that holds it, but misses the bird, he shall take the prize for a lesser shot, the single-headed axes.’

At this Lord Teucer rose, as did Meriones, noble squire to Idomeneus. They shook lots in a bronze helmet, and Teucer took first shot. He swiftly let fly a mighty arrow, but forgot his intended promise to Apollo of a rich sacrifice of firstling lambs. Apollo grudging him success, caused him to miss the bird, but hit the cord that tied its foot, the sharp arrow slicing the bond in two. The cord fell, as the pigeon darted skyward, and the Achaeans raised a great shout. But Meriones, who had readied an arrow while Teucer aimed, snatched the bow from Teucer’s hand, vowing instantly to offer those lambs to the Archer God. High up against the clouds he saw the pigeon fluttering, and as she circled he sent an arrow clean through her wing, the shaft falling to earth again and sticking upright in the ground at Meriones’ feet. Meanwhile the pigeon settled on the mast, her head drooping and her plumage all awry. There she quickly died, and fell from her perch, as the spectators gazed in wonder. So Meriones carried off the ten double-axes, while Teucer took the rest to the hollow ships.

Finally, the son of Peleus, brought a long-shadowed spear, and a new cauldron as yet unused, embossed with flowers, and worth an ox. He set them down and the javelin throwers rose, imperial Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and Meriones, squire to Idomeneus, who was eager to compete again. But fleet-footed Achillesaddressed the king: ‘Atreides, we know how excellent you are at the javelin, our superior in strength and skill; so take the cauldron to the hollow ships, and I suggest we grant the spear to Meriones, if that is agreeable to you.’

Agamemnon, king of men, agreed to this, and Achilles gave the bronze spear to Meriones, and handed the king’s fine prize to Talthybius the royal herald

The Games on Phaeacia

The Odyssey Book VIII

Homer

Translated by A. S. Kline

As soon as rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, royal Alcinous left his bed, and so did Odysseus, scion of Zeus, sacker of cities. Then royal Alcinous led the way to the Phaeacians’ gathering place, laid out there by the ships. There they sat on the polished seats next to each other, and Pallas Athene, planning great-hearted Odysseus’ return, traversed the city, disguised as wise Alcinous’ herald. She approached the nobles, and spoke these words: ‘Leaders and Counsellors of the Phaeacians, come with me to the assembly, and hear of the stranger, driven to wander the sea, who has come to wise Alcinous’ palace, a man like the immortals.’

With her words she roused their hearts and minds, and the gathering place was quickly filled with those arriving. Many wondered at the sight of Laertes’ wise son. Athene invested his head and shoulders with grace, and made him taller and stronger, so that the Phaeacians would all welcome him with awe and respect, and he might perform the many tasks with which they might test him. When they were all together in the assembly Alcinous addressed them:

‘Leader and Counsellors of the Phaeacians, listen while I speak as my feelings prompt me. This stranger, whose name I do not know, has come to my house in his travels from east or west. He asks for his passage home, and seeks our confirmation. Let us further his going, as with others in the past. For no one who comes to my house waits here long, grieving for lack of help. So, let us run a black ship down to the glittering waves for her maiden voyage, and choose fifty-two young men from the town, who have proved themselves before. And when they have duly lashed the oars in place, come ashore quickly to my house and ready a feast: I will provide enough for all. These are my orders for the crew, and you sceptered Princes come on now to the fair palace, and let us entertain the stranger there: let no one refuse. And summon, Demodocus, the divine bard, for a god has given him supreme powers of song, to give delight, in whatever form his spirit prompts him to sing.’

With this he led the way, and the sceptered Princes followed, while a herald went to bring the divine bard. And the chosen fifty-two went, as ordered, to the shore of the barren sea. And when they had reached the ship and the shore, they drew the black vessel down to the deep water, and set up mast and sail in her, and fitted the rows of oars through their leather straps, and raised the white sail. They moored her well out in the roads, then made their way to shore and the great palace of wise Alcinous. The courts and halls and porticoes were full of the gathering, a crowd of young men and old. Alcinous had twelve sheep slaughtered for them, eight white-tusked boars, and two shambling oxen. They flayed the carcasses, dressed them, and prepared a tempting feast.

The herald returned, leading their skilful bard, whom the Muse loved more than other men, though she gave him both good and evil: she robbed him of his sight, but gifted him the power of sweet song. Pontonous, the herald, placed a silver-embossed chair in the midst of them all, with its back against a high pillar, and hung the ringing lyre on a peg above his head, and showed him how to find it with his hands. And he set a handsome table by his side, with a basket of bread, and a cup of wine to drink if he was so minded. Then they all stretched out their hands to the fine feast spread before them.

When they had satisfied their need for food and drink, the Muse inspired her bard to sing of the heroes’ glorious deeds, part of that tale whose fame had risen to high heaven, the quarrel between Achilles, Peleus’ son, and Odysseus, who argued fiercely at the gods’ rich festival, though Agamemnon, king of men, was secretly pleased to see a dispute between the Achaeans’ finest. For Phoebus Apollo had prophesied, at sacred Pytho, where Agamemnon had crossed the stone threshold to consult the oracle, that after a quarrel sorrow would begin to overtake the Trojans, though by Zeus’ will it was the beginning of sorrow for the Greeks as well. This was the bard’s song, and Odysseus clutched at his long purple cloak with his great hands, and dragged it over his head to hide his handsome face, ashamed lest the Phaeacianssee the tears pouring from his eyes. Whenever the divine bard stopped singing, Odysseus wiped the tears away, drew the cloak from his head, and reaching for his two-handled cup made libations to the gods. But when the bard began again, prompted by the Phaeacian lords who enjoyed his song, Odysseus covered his head once more and groaned.

He hid the falling tears from all except Alcinous, who, aware because he sat by him, noticed all, and heard him sighing deeply. And he spoke, quickly, to the sea-faring Phaeacians: ‘Leaders and Counsellors of the Phaeacians, hear me. We have enjoyed sharing our rich feast and the music of the lyre, its companion. Now let us go outside and try our skill in various sports, so this stranger when he is home can tell his friends how much better we are than other men in boxing, wrestling, running, and leaping.’

With this he led the way and all followed. The herald hung the ringing lyre on the peg, and led Demodocus by the hand from the hall along the same path the Phaeacian nobles had taken to see the games. They headed for the gathering place, and a countless throng went with them. Many fine young men rose to compete: Acroneos and Ocyalus, Elatreus, Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus and Eretmeus, Ponteus and Proreus, Thoon, Anabesineos, and Amphialus, son of Polyneus, Tecton’s son. Euryalus too, the equal of Ares, destroyer of men, and son of Naubolus who in looks and form was the finest of all the Phaeacians after peerless Laodamas. And flawless Alcinous’ three sons as well, Laodamas, Halius and godlike Clytoneus.

The first trial was a foot race: they all sped from the mark along the course set out, raising the dust from the ground. Faultless Clytoneus was quickest, and taking the lead he reached the crowd, leaving the rest behind by as much as a furrow’s length in mule-ploughed land. Then they tested each other in painful bouts of wrestling, where Euryalus beat the best. Amphialus then leapt furthest, while Elatreus conquered with the discus, and Laodamas, Alcinous’ fine son, won in the boxing. When they were all satisfied with the contest, Laodamas, said: ‘Friends, let’s ask the stranger whether he’s practised in any familiar sport. He’s a fine build in thighs and calves, with two strong arms, a stout neck, plenty of strength. Nor has he lost the power of youth, he is only wearied with suffering. There’s nothing like the sea to sap a man’s strength, however tough he might be.’

Euryalus replied: ‘Laodamas, what you say is right. Go and challenge him yourself, and make the challenge a public one.’

At this Alcinous’ fine son came to the centre, and spoke to Odysseus: ‘Sir stranger, come, enter the contest too, if you have any skill as seems likely, since there is no greater glory for a living man than that which he wins with his own hands and feet. Come, prove yourself, and throw off your cares. Your journey will soon start. The ship is launched now and the crew are ready.’

‘Laodamas’ replied resourceful Odysseus, ‘why provoke me with a challenge? My mind is on trouble not on play, since I have toiled and suffered greatly in the past, and now I long only to return home, and so I sit in your gathering and plead with your king and people.’

Euryalus answered then, mocking him to his face: ‘Indeed, stranger, you look like a man unused to manly sports, more like the captain of a merchant crew, trading to and fro in a sailing ship, careful for his cargo, keeping a greedy eye on freight and profit. You are no athlete.’

With a dark look, resourceful Odysseus replied: ‘Stranger, you speak unwisely, you are a man blinded by foolishness. How true it is that the gods seldom grace men equally with their gifts, of mind, form or speech. One man is meagre in appearance, but the gods crown his words with beauty, and men delight in him as he speaks sweetly in modest eloquence, conspicuous in a crowd, and looked on like a god as he crosses the city. Another seems an immortal, but his words lack grace. You too have exceptional looks a god could not better yet your mind is crippled. You have roused my spirit by speaking rudely. I am no novice in your sports: indeed I was one of the best when I had my youth, and strength lay in my hands. While now I’m constrained by pain and suffering, since I have endured many things in my passage through mortal warfare and hostile seas. And yet, though I’ve suffered deeply, I will join your contest, since your speech has stung me, and your words have riled me to the heart.’

With this he leapt to his feet, still wrapped in his cloak, and seized a discus bigger than the rest, thicker and heavier by some way than those the Phaeacians normally used in competition. Spinning around, he sent it from his huge hand, and it hummed as it flew: the Phaeacians cowered, those lords of the ship and the long oar, beneath the flying stone. Flung smoothly from the hand, it sailed past all their marks, and Athene, in human likeness, pegged the distance, then, spoke to him: ‘Stranger, even a blind man, groping with his hands, could find your mark, by far and away the furthest, and separate from the cluster. You can take heart from this, at any rate: none of the Phaeacians will meet or pass it.’

Noble and long-suffering Odysseus was pleased by her words, happy to find a genuine supporter at the games. He spoke to the Phaeacians now with a lighter heart.

‘Match that, you youngsters: I expect I’ll send another along, as far or further, in a moment. As for the rest, since you’ve angered me deeply, if anyone has the courage and the spirit, let him come and prove himself, in boxing, wrestling, running, it matters not: let any of you Phaeacians try, except Laodamas. For he’s my host, and who would quarrel with the one who shows him hospitality? Only a worthless idiot would challenge the man who welcomes him to a foreign land. He would ruin his own good luck. But the rest of you I’ll not deny or disdain, wishing to know your skill and be matched with you. I am no lightweight in any of the sports men practice. I know how to handle a polished bow with skill, and I was always first to pick off a man in the enemy ranks, however many comrades stood with me to shoot at the foe. When we Achaeans fought at Troy only Philoctetes surpassed me. But I count myself the best by far of all the other mortal men on earth, who eat their bread. Still, I would not claim to compete with Hercules, or Oechalian Eurytus, archers who vied with the gods. That’s why great Eurytus died swiftly, and never reached old age in his halls, because Apollo, challenged to an archery contest, killed him in anger. And the spear I hurl further than others can shoot an arrow. Only in running I fear one of you Phaeacians might best me, since I’ve been thrown about by the waves, and on my raft I could not exercise, and my legs are weakened.’

They all stood silent at his words. Only Alcinous answered, saying: Stranger, since you are not ungracious, but wish to emphasise the skills you possess, and were angered because this man taunted you at the games, making light of your powers, in a way that none would who rightly knew how to speak; come, listen to what I say. Then you may recount it to some other hero, as you feast in your home with your wife and children, remembering our skill, the talents Zeus endowed us with from our forefather’s days. We may not be the greatest boxers or wrestlers, but we run fast in the race, and we are the finest sailors: and ever the feast is dear to us, the dancing and the lyre, fresh clothes, warm baths, and bed.

So come, you finest dancers among us Phaeacians, perform for this stranger, so he can tell his friends when he reaches home how we excel not only in swiftness of foot, and seamanship, but in dancing too, and in song. Let someone go quickly, and fetch Demodocus his ringing lyre that is somewhere in the palace.’

The herald rose at godlike Alcinous’ words and brought the hollow lyre from the king’s hall. Then nine elected officials, who organised the games, cleared a space, and marked out a wide arena for the dance. Next, the herald came forward carrying Demodocus’ ringing lyre. The bard stood in the centre and round him a group of dancers, boys in the first flush of youth, skilled in dancing, and Odysseus marvelled as he gazed at their flashing feet, striking the sacred dancing floor.

Then the bard struck the chords that began his sweet song, and told of the love of Ares and Aphrodite of the lovely crown, how they lay together in secret in Hephaestus’ house, and how Ares gave her a host of gifts while dishonouring the Lord Hephaestus’ bed. But Helios, the sun god, who had spied them sleeping together, came to tell him. When Hephaestus had heard the sour tale, he went to his smithy his heart set on evil, and set up his huge anvil on its block, and forged a net of chains, firm and unbreakable. And when, furious with Ares, he had made the snare, he went to his room and marriage bed, and fastened the netting to its posts, and hung its links above from the roof beams, fine as a spider’s web, and so cunningly made it was invisible even to the blessed gods.

When he had spread his net over the bed, he pretended to leave for Lemnos, that well-ordered citadel, dearest of all the islands, to his eyes. Nor was Ares of the Golden Reins blind to the master-craftsman Hephaestus’ going, but went straight to his house, hot for the love of Cytherea of the lovely crown. She had scarcely left her father’s presence, that of mighty Cronos’ son, and seated herself on arriving, when Ares entered and took her hand and spoke to her: ‘Sweetheart, come, let us to bed, and take delight in mutual love. Hephaestus has left, for Lemnos no doubt, to visit the barbarously spoken Sintians.’

As he spoke it seemed a pleasant thing to her to lie with him. So they went to the bed and lay down. Then clever Hephaestus’ cunning net fell all around them, and they were unable to move or raise themselves. They soon realised there was no escape. Now the great lame god approached, for Helios had kept watch and carried the word, and Hephaestus returned before ever reaching Lemnos. He came home, troubled in mind, and as he stood in the gateway a terrible anger seized him. And he cried out fiercely to all the gods:

‘Father Zeus, and all you other blessed and immortal gods, come, see something laughable, and intolerable, how Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, scorning me for my lameness, makes love with hateful Ares because he is straight-limbed and handsome while I was born crooked. My parents alone are to blame for that: I wish they had never made me! Look how these two usurp my bed and sleep together, while I am filled with pain to see it. Yet they won’t want to lie like this much longer, I think: no, not for an instant, however much they are in love. They’ll soon lose their urge for bed, the net and its links will hold them instead till her father repays me all the gifts I gave him while wooing this shameless hussy, a beautiful daughter indeed but faithless.’

At this the gods came crowding the bronze threshold: Poseidon, Earth-Bearer, Hermes the messenger, and Lord Apollo who strikes from afar. The goddesses stayed at home from modesty, but those deathless ones, givers of good, stood in the entrance, and when they saw clever Hephaestus’ snare, unquenchable laughter flowed from the blessed gods. One would glance at his neighbour and say: ‘Ill deeds don’t prosper. The slow catch the swift, as Hephaestus here, slow as he is, has netted Ares the swiftest of all the Olympian gods. He has trapped him by cunning, though lame. Ares must pay the fine for adultery.’

Such were the comments, then Lord Apollo, son of Zeus, said to Hermes: ‘Guide and Giver of Good Things, Hermes, Zeus’ son, would you not care to lie in bed beside golden Aphrodite, even though you were snared by unbreakable chains?’

The Messenger-God, Slayer of Argus, replied: ‘Lord Apollo, Far-Shooter, three times as many inescapable links could hold me, and you gods could be watching, and yes, all the goddesses too, if only I might sleep with golden Aphrodite.’

At this, laughter rose from the group of immortal gods. But Poseidon was unsmiling, and kept begging Hephaestus, the master craftsman, to set Ares free, speaking with winged words: ‘Set him free, and I promise what you ask, that he’ll pay what’s owed in the presence of the deathless gods.’

The illustrious lame god replied: ‘Poseidon, Earth-Bearer, don’t ask this of me. It’s a sad mistake for sure, to stand surety for a sad rogue. Will I bind you with chains, in the presence of the deathless gods, if Ares shrugs off both chains and debt, and escapes?’

But Poseidon, said again: ‘If Ares shrugs off the debt and escapes, Hephaestus, I will pay it myself.’

To this, the illustrious lame god replied: ‘Well, I can’t refuse you, it wouldn’t be right.’ And he loosed the net, and the two of them, free of the chains, leaped up in a trice and fled. Ares headed for Thrace, but laughter-loving Aphrodite to Paphos in Cyprus, where she has a sanctuary and fragrant altar. There the Graces bathed her, and anointed her with such heavenly oil as gleams on the limbs of the gods who live forever. And they dressed her in beautiful clothes, marvellous to behold.

This was the song of the famous bard, that delighted Odysseus and the Phaeacians famed for their long-oared ships. Next Alcinous asked Halius and Laodamas to dance by themselves, since no one else could compete with them. Having taken a lovely purple ball, which clever Polybus had made, one leant back and threw it high towards the shadowy clouds, while the other leapt and caught it again before his feet touched the ground. When they had repeatedly shown their skill at hurling it high, they threw it to and fro as they danced on the rich earth, while the other youths stood round the arena beating time amidst loud applause.

Then noble Odysseus spoke: ‘Lord Alcinous, most renowned of men, you claimed your dancers were best, and see, your word is good: I’m amazed at the sight.’

Royal Alcinous was delighted at this and at once he spoke to the seafaring Phaeacians:

‘Leaders and Counsellors of the Phaeacians, hear me. This stranger seems a man of the highest discernment. Let’s give him a friendly gift as is only right. Twelve illustrious princes rule our land, and I am the thirteenth. Let each of you twelve bring him a fresh tunic and cloak, and a talent of rich gold, and let us all arrange it swiftly, so the stranger may go to his supper with a happy heart having our gifts to hand. And let Euryalus make amends with a gift and an apology, for his unfortunate words.’

They praised his speech, and endorsed his thought, and each sent a squire to fetch the gifts. Then it came to Euryalus to reply, saying: ‘Lord Alcinous, most renowned of men, I will make amends as you command. I will give him this bronze sword with a silver hilt, and a scabbard for it of fresh-cut ivory: it will be of great value to him.’

With this he placed the silver-embossed sword in Odysseus hands, and spoke to him winged words: ‘Sir stranger, I salute you, and if harsh words have been said, may the storm winds take them and blow them away. As for yourself may the gods grant you see your wife once more, and your native land, since you’ve suffered endless trouble, far from your friends.’

Resourceful Odysseus replied: ‘I salute you, too, my friend, and may the gods give you joy, and may you never have cause to miss the sword you give me with these words, which indeed make amends.’ So saying he hung the silver-embossed sword from his shoulder.

As the sun set the splendid gifts arrived. The noble squires carried these to Alcinous’ palace. There, the sons of faultless Alcinous took them and placed them before their beloved mother. And royal Alcinous leading the way they all entered and sat on raised seats. Then mighty Alcinous said to Arete: ‘Wife, have a fine coffer, the best you have, brought here, and place a fresh tunic and cloak in it yourself, and heat a cauldron of water over the fire, so that when he has bathed, and seen stored away all these gifts the noble Phaeacians have brought, he can take pleasure in the feast and the singing. And I will give him this fine gold cup, so he may remember me forever when he pours libations, at home, to Zeus and the other gods.’

At this, Arete ordered her maids to place a large cauldron on the fire, for the bathwater. They filled it then piled firewood underneath. Flames licked around the cauldron’s belly, and the water was heated. Meanwhile Arete had a strong coffer from the treasure chamber brought for the stranger, and filled it with the Phaeacians’ fine gifts of clothes and gold. She added a lovely tunic and cloak herself then spoke to Odysseus winged words: ‘See to its lid, and knot the cord yourself, now, lest someone rob you on the journey as you lie in sweet sleep aboard the black ship.’

Attending to her words, noble long-suffering Odysseus quickly closed the lid, and tied its cords with a subtle knot that Lady Circe had taught him. Then the housekeeper invited him to take his bath, and the sight of it delighted him, since comforts like these had been scarce once he’d left the home of Calypso of the lovely tresses, where he’d been cared for like a god. When the maids had bathed him, and rubbed him with oil, and had clothed him in a fine tunic and cloak, he left the bath and joined the men at their wine.

Nausicaa, graced by the gods with beauty, was standing by a door-post of the well-built hall, and when her eyes fell on him she marvelled, and she spoke to him with winged words: ‘Joy to you, stranger, and may you remember me sometimes even in your own country, since you owe your life indeed to me.’

And resourceful Odysseus replied, saying: ‘Nausicaa, daughter of brave Alcinous, by this token may Zeus the Thunderer, Hera’s husband, grant me my homecoming, and may I see that day. Then I will pray to you there too, as a divinity, all my days, since you, girl, have given me life.’

With that he seated himself next to King Alcinous, since they were already serving the food and mixing the wine. Then the herald approached leading good Demodocus the bard, whom all honoured, and seated him in the midst of the throng, on a chair that leant against a tall pillar. Resourceful Odysseus, first cutting slices from the chine of a white-tusked boar rich with fat on either side, of which there was plenty left, spoke to the herald: ‘Take this portion of food to Demodocus, Herald, and let me welcome him, despite my grief. Bards are honoured and revered by every man on earth, for the Muse has shown them the path to poetry, and loves the tribe of poets.’

He finished, and the herald took the food and handed it to noble Demodocus, who was delighted. So they stretched out their hands to the good things before them, and when they had sated their desire for food and drink, resourceful Odysseus spoke to the bard, saying: ‘Demodocus, I praise you above all mortal men, one taught by the Muse, Zeus’ daughter, or perhaps by Apollo, for you sang the Achaeans’ fate with truth and feeling, all of their actions and their suffering, all the efforts they exerted, as if you had been there, or heard it from one who was. Now, come, change your theme, and sing of the making of the Wooden Horse, that Epeius fashioned with Athene’s help, that noble Odysseus contrived to have dragged inside the citadel, filled by cunning with warriors who then sacked Troy. Tell the tale as it happened, and I will say to all mankind that the god has given you freely of the power of divine song.’

At his words the bard, inspired by the god, began, and raising his voice picked up the tale at the point where the Argives had burned their camp, boarded their oared ships, and sailed some way off, leaving glorious Odysseus and the rest sitting inside the Horse, at the Trojan’s meeting place. The Trojans themselves had dragged it into the citadel. There it stood, while the people sat round it, discussing it endlessly to no conclusion. Three suggestions found favour: to cut through the hollow timber with pitiless bronze, or drag it to the edge of the rock and over the cliff, or let it stand there, as a grand offering to the gods, in propitiation, which is what happened in the end. For it was their destiny to be destroyed when the city accepted that huge horse of wood, where the best of the Argives lay hidden, bringing death and ruin to Troy.

Then he sang how the Achaeans left their hollow hiding place, and poured from the horse, to sack the city. He sang how the other warriors dispersing through the streets, laid waste high Troy, but Odysseus, the image of Ares, together with godlike Menelaus, sought Deiphobus’ house. There, said the tale, Odysseus fought the most terrible of fights, but conquered in the end, with the help of great-hearted Athene.

So sang the famous bard. And Odysseus’ heart melted, and tears poured from his eyes. He wept pitifully, as a woman weeps who throws herself on her husband’s dying body, fallen in front of his city and people, trying to ward off that evil moment from the city and his own children: watching him gasping for breath in dying, she clings to him and screams aloud, while behind her the enemy beat her back and shoulders with their spears: then she is led into captivity to endure a life of toil and suffering, her cheeks wasted pitifully with grief. He hid the falling tears from all except Alcinous, who, aware because he sat by him, noticed all, and heard him sighing deeply. At one he addressed the sea-faring Phaeacians:

‘Leaders and Counsellors of the Phaeacians, hear me, and let Demodocus still his ringing lyre, since his song fails to give pleasure to all alike. From the moment of our feast when our divine bard was inspired to sing, this stranger has never stopped his sad grieving, his heart must surely be overflowing with sorrow. Let the bard refrain, and let us enjoy ourselves, hosts and guest alike: that would be better. We prepared all this for the sake of a sacred stranger after all, this farewell and the gifts of friendship we give with love. To a man of any intelligence, a stranger, a suppliant, is dear as a brother.

Now, sir, for your part: don’t mask the answer to what I ask with clever subterfuge: plain speaking serves us best. Tell us the name you go by at home, the name your mother and father, and the rest, in the town and countryside, give you. No one who’s born into this world, whether high or low, goes nameless: our parents give us all a name once we are born. Name your country, your people and your city, so our ships may take you home, steering a course by means of their own intelligence. Phaeacian ships have no helmsman or steering oar, for the ships themselves know our thoughts and wishes, and the cities of men, every fertile country, and hidden by mist and cloud they speed over the sea’s wide gulf, and never fear damage or shipwreck. Though I heard a story once from my father Nausithous, who used to say that Poseidon was angry with us because we conveyed all men, in safety. He claimed that some day, when a well-built Phaeacian ship was crossing the misty sea, returning from such a journey, Poseidon would strike her, and then ring our city with a mountain chain. That is what the old king claimed, and the god can do it, or leave it undone, as he wishes.

But tell me this, and speak true, where have your wanderings taken you, what countries of men have you seen? Tell me of those peoples, and their crowded cities, the cruel, savage and lawless races, and those who are good to strangers, and in their hearts fear the gods. And tell me why you weep, and sorrow in spirit, when you hear of the Argives’ fate, of Troy and the Danaans. The gods engineered it, weaving the web of mortal ruin, to make a song for those as yet unborn. Perhaps some kinsman died at Troy, some good and loyal man, your son-in-law or your wife’s father, dearest to a man after his own flesh and blood. Or a sure friend, for such is as good as a brother.’

The Funeral Games

The Aeneid Book V

Virgil

Translated by A. S. Kline

Meanwhile Aeneas with the fleet was holding a fixed course now in the midst of the sea, cutting the waves, dark in a northerly wind, looking back at the city walls that were glowing now with unhappy Dido’s funeral flames. The reason that such a fire had been lit was unknown: but the cruel pain when a great love is profaned, and the knowledge of what a frenzied woman might do, drove the minds of the Trojans to sombre forebodings. When the ships reached deep water and land was no longer in sight, but everywhere was sea, and sky was everywhere, then a dark-blue rain cloud hung overhead, bringing night and storm, and the waves bristled with shadows. Palinurus the helmsman himself from the high stern cried: ‘Ah! Why have such storm clouds shrouded the sky? What do you intend, father Neptune?’ So saying, next he ordered them to shorten sail, and bend to the heavy oars, then tacked against the wind, and spoke as follows: ‘Brave Aeneas, I would not expect to make Italy with this sky, though guardian Jupiter promised it. The winds, rising from the darkened west, have shifted and roar across our path, and the air thickens for a storm. We cannot stand against it, or labour enough to weather it. Since Fortune overcomes us, let’s go with her, and set our course wherever she calls. I think your brother Eryx’s friendly shores are not far off, and the harbours of Sicily, if I only remember the stars I observed rightly.’ Then virtuous Aeneas replied: ‘For my part I’ve seen for some time that the winds required it, and you’re steering into them in vain. Alter the course we sail. Is any land more welcome to me, any to which I’d prefer to steer my weary fleet, than that which protects my Trojan friend Acestes, and holds the bones of my father Anchises to its breast?” Having said this they searched out the port, and following winds filled their sails: the ships sailed swiftly on the flood, and they turned at last in delight towards known shores. But Alcestes, on a high hill in the distance, wondered at the arrival of friendly vessels, and met them, armed with javelins, in his Libyan she-bear’s pelt: he whom a Trojan mother bore, conceived of the river-god Crinisius. Not neglectful of his ancient lineage he rejoiced at their return, entertained them gladly with his rural riches, and comforted the weary with the assistance of a friend.

When, in the following Dawn, bright day had put the stars to flight, Aeneas called his companions together, from the whole shore, and spoke from a high mound: “Noble Trojans, people of the high lineage of the gods, the year’s cycle is complete to the very month when we laid the bones, all that was left of my divine father, in the earth, and dedicated the sad altars. And now the day is here (that the gods willed) if I am not wrong, which I will always hold as bitter, always honoured. If I were keeping it, exiled in Gaetulian Syrtes, or caught on the Argive seas, or in Mycenae’s city, I’d still conduct the yearly rite, and line of solemn procession, and heap up the due offerings on the altar. Now we even stand by the ashes and bones of my father (not for my part I think without the will and power of the gods) and carried to this place we have entered a friendly harbour. So come and let us all celebrate the sacrifice with joy: let us pray for a wind, and may he will me to offer these rites each year when my city is founded, in temples that are his. Acestes, a Trojan born, gives you two head of oxen for every ship: Invite the household gods to our feast, our own and those whom Acestes our host worships. Also, when the ninth Dawn raises high the kindly light for mortal men, and reveals the world in her rays, I will declare a Trojan Games: first a race between the swift ships: then those with ability in running, and those, daring in strength, who step forward, who are superior with javelin and slight arrows, or trust themselves to fight with rawhide gloves: let everyone be there and hope for the prize of a well-deserved palm branch. All be silent now, and wreathe your brows.” So saying he veiled his forehead with his mother’s myrtle. Helymus did likewise, Acestes of mature years, the boy Ascanius, and the rest of the people followed. Then he went with many thousands, from the gathering to the grave-mound, in the midst of the vast accompanying throng. Here with due offering he poured two bowls of pure wine onto the ground, two of fresh milk, two of sacrificial blood, and, scattering bright petals, he spoke as follows: “Once more, hail, my sacred father: hail, spirit, ghost, ashes of my father, whom I rescued in vain. I was not allowed to search, with you, for Italy’s borders, our destined fields, or Ausonia’s Tiber, wherever it might be.” He had just finished speaking when a shining snake unwound each of its seven coils from the base of the shrine, in seven large loops, placidly encircling the mound, and gliding among the altars, its back mottled with blue-green markings, and its scales burning with a golden sheen, as a rainbow forms a thousand varied colours in clouds opposite the sun. Aeneas was stunned by the sight. Finally, with a long glide among the bowls and polished drinking cups, the serpent tasted the food, and, having fed, departed the altar, retreating harmlessly again into the depths of the tomb. Aeneas returned more eagerly to the tribute to his father, uncertain whether to treat the snake as the guardian of the place, or as his father’s attendant spirit: he killed two sheep as customary, two pigs, and as many black-backed heifers: and poured wine from the bowls, and called on the spirit and shadow of great Anchises, released from Acheron. And his companions as well, brought gifts gladly, of which each had a store, piling high the altars, sacrificing bullocks: others set out rows of cauldrons, and scattered among the grass, placed live coals under the spits, and roasted the meat.

The eagerly-awaited day had arrived, and now Phaethon’s horses brought a ninth dawn of cloudless light, and Acestes’s name and reputation had roused the countryside: they thronged the shore, a joyous crowd, some to see Aeneas and his men, others to compete. First the prizes were set out for them to see in the centre of the circuit, sacred tripods, green crowns and palms, rewards for the winners, armour, and clothes dyed with purple, and talents of silver and gold: and a trumpet sang out, from a central mound, that the games had begun. Four well-matched ships with heavy oars were chosen from the fleet for the first event. Mnesthus, soon to be Mnesthus of Italy from whom the Memmian people are named, captains the Sea-Serpent, with its eager crew: Gyas, the vast Chimaera of huge bulk, a floating city, rowed by the Trojan men on three decks, with the oars raised in triple rows: Sergestus, from whom the house of Sergia gets its name, sails in the great Centaur, and Cloanthus from whom your family derives, Cluentius of Rome, in the sea-green Scylla. There’s a rock far out at sea opposite the foaming shore, which, lashed by the swollen waves, is sometimes drowned, when wintry north-westerlies hide the stars: it is quiet in calm weather and flat ground is raised above the motionless water, a welcome haunt for sun-loving sea-birds. Here our ancestor Aeneas set up a leafy oak-trunk as a mark, as a sign for the sailors to know where to turn back, and circle round the long course. Then they chose places by lot, and the captains themselves, on the sterns, gleamed from a distance, resplendent in purple and gold: the rest of the men were crowned with poplar leaves, and their naked shoulders glistened, shining with oil. They manned the benches, arms ready at the oars: readied for action they waited for the signal, and pounding fear, and the desire aroused for glory, devoured their leaping hearts. Then when the clear trumpet gave the signal, all immediately shot forward from the starting line, the sailor’s shouts struck the heavens, as arms were plied the waters turned to foam. they cut the furrows together, and the whole surface gaped wide, ploughed by the oars and the three-pronged beaks. The speed is not as great when the two horse chariots hit the field in their race, shooting from their stalls: and the charioteers shake the rippling reins over their galloping team, straining forward to the lash. So the whole woodland echoes with applause, the shouts of men, and the partisanship of their supporters, the sheltered beach concentrates the sound and the hills, reverberating, return the clamour.

Gyas runs before the pack, and glides forward on the waves, amongst the noise and confusion: Cloanthus follows next, his ship better manned, but held back by its weight. After them separated equally the Sea-Serpent and the Centaur strain to win a lead: now the Sea-Serpent has it, now the huge Centaur wins in front, now both sweep on together their bows level, their long keels ploughing the salt sea. Now they near the rock and are close to the marker, when Gyas, the leader, winning at the half-way point, calls out loudly to his pilot Menoetes: “Why so far adrift to starboard? Steer her course this way: hug the shore and graze the crags to port, oars raised: let others keep to deep water.” He spoke, but Menoetes fearing unseen reefs wrenched the prow towards the open sea. “Why so far adrift?” again, “Head for the rocks, Menoetes!” he shouts to him forcefully, and behold, he sees Cloanthus right at his back and taking the riskier course. He squeezed a path between Gyas’s ship and the booming rocks inside to starboard, suddenly passing the leader, and, leaving the marker behind, reached safe water. Then indeed great indignation burned in the young man’s marrow, and there were tears on his cheeks, and forgetting his own pride and his crew’s safety he heaved the timid Menoetes headlong into the sea from the high stern: he stood to the helm, himself captain and steersman, urged on his men, and turned for the shore. But when Menoetes old as he was, clawed his way back heavily and with difficulty at last from the sea floor, he climbed to the top of the crag and sat down on the dry rock dripping, in his wet clothing. The Trojans laughed as he fell, and swam and laughed as he vomited the seawater from his chest. At this a joyful hope of passing Gyas, as he stalled, is aroused in Sergestus and Mnestheus, the two behind, Sergestus takes the leading place and nears the rock, still he’s not a full ship’s length in front, only part: the rival Sea-Serpent closes on him with her prow. Then, Mnesthus walking among his crew amidships exhorted them: “Now, now rise to the oars, comrades of Hector, you whom I chose as companions at Troy’s last fatal hour: now, exert all that strength, that spirit you showed in the Gaetulian shoals, the Ionian Sea, and Cape Malea’s pursuing waves. Now I, Mnesthus, do not seek to be first or try to win – let those conquer whom you have granted to do so, Neptune – but oh, it would be shameful to return last: achieve this for us, countrymen, and prevent our disgrace.” They bend to it with fierce rivalry: the bronze stern shudders at their powerful strokes: and the sea-floor drops away beneath them: then shallow breathing makes limbs and parched lips quiver. and their sweat runs down in streams. Chance brings the men the glory that they long for. When Segestus, his spirit raging, forces his bows, on the inside, towards the rocks, and enters dangerous water, unhappily he strikes the jutting reef. The cliff shakes, the oars jam against them, and snap on the sharp edges of stone, and the prow hangs there, snagged. The sailors leap up, and, shouting aloud at the delay, gather iron-tipped poles and sharply-pointed boathooks, and rescue their smashed oars from the water. But Mnesthus, delighted, and made eager by his success, with a swift play of oars, and a prayer to the winds. heads for home waters and courses the open sea, as a dove, whose nest and sweet chicks are hidden among the rocks, suddenly startled from some hollow, takes flight for the fields, frightened from her cover, and beats her wings loudly, but soon gliding in still air skims her clear path, barely moving her swift pinions: in this way Mnestheus and the Sea-Dragon herself furrow the final stretch of water in flight, and her impetus alone, carries her on her winged path. Firstly he leaves Segestus behind struggling on the raised rock then in shoal water, calling vainly for help, and learning how to race with shattered oars. Then he overhauls Gyas and the Chimaera’s huge bulk: which, deprived of her helmsman now, gives way. Now Cloanthus alone is left ahead, near to the finish, Mnestheus heads for him and chases closely exerting all his powers. Then indeed the shouts redouble, and together all enthusiastically urge on the pursuer. The former crew are unhappy lest they fail to keep the honour that is theirs and the glory already in their possession, and would sell their lives for fame. the latter feed on success: they can because they think they can. And with their prow alongside they might have snatched the prize, if Cleanthus had not stretched out his hands over the sea and poured out his prayers, and called to the gods in longing. “Gods, whose empire is the ocean, whose waters I course, On shore, I will gladly set a snow-white bull before your altars, in payment of my vows, throw the entrailsinto the saltwater, and pour out pure wine.” He spoke, and all the Nereids, Phorcus’s choir, and virgin Panopea, heard him in the wave’s depths, and father Portunus drove him on his track, with his great hand: the ship ran to shore, swifter than south wind or flying arrow, and plunged into the deep harbour.

Then Anchises’s son, calling them all together as is fitting, by the herald’s loud cry declares Cloanthus the winner, and wreathes his forehead with green laurel, and tells him to choose three bullocks, and wine, and a large talent of silver as gifts for the ships. He adds special honours for the captains: a cloak worked in gold for the victor, edged with Meliboean deep purple in a double meandering line, Ganymede the boy-prince woven on it, as if breathless with eagerness, running with his javelin, chasing the swift stags on leafy Ida: whom Jupiter’s eagle, carrier of the lightning-bolt, has now snatched up into the air, from Ida, with taloned feet: his aged guards stretch their hands to the sky in vain, and the barking dogs snap at the air. He gives to the warrior, who took second place by his prowess, a coat of mail for his own, with polished hooks, in triple woven gold, a beautiful thing and a defence in battle, that he himself as victor had taken from Demoleos, by the swift Simois, below the heights of Ilium. Phegeus and Sagaris, his servants, can barely carry its folds, on straining shoulders: though, wearing it, Demoleus used to drive the scattered Trojans at a run. He grants the third prize of a pair of bronze cauldrons and bowls made of silver with designs in bold relief. Now they have all received their gifts and are walking off, foreheads tied with scarlet ribbons, proud of their new wealth, when Segestus, who showing much skill has with difficulty got clear of the cruel rock, oars missing and one tier useless, brings in his boat, to mockery and no glory. As a snake, that a bronze-rimmed wheel has crossed obliquely, is often caught on the curb of a road, or like one that a passer-by has crushed with a heavy blow from a stone and left half-dead, writhes its long coils, trying in vain to escape, part aggressive, with blazing eyes, and hissing, its neck raised high in the air, part held back by the constraint of its wounds, struggling to follow with its coils, and twining back on its own length: so the ship moves slowly on with wrecked oars: nevertheless she makes sail, and under full sail reaches harbour. Aeneas presents Sergestus with the reward he promised, happy that the ship is saved, and the crew rescued. He is granted a Cretan born slave-girl, Pholoe, not unskilled in the arts of Minerva, nursing twin boys at her breast.

Once this race was done Aeneas headed for a grassy space, circled round about by curving wooded hillsides, forming an amphitheatre at the valley’s centre: the hero took himself there in the midst of the throng many thousands strong, and occupied a raised throne. Here if any by chance wanted to compete in the footrace he tempted their minds with the reward, and set the prizes. Trojans and Sicilians gathered together from all sides, Nisus and Euryalus the foremost among them, Euryalus famed for his beauty, and in the flower of youth, Nisus famed for his devoted affection for the lad: next came princely Diores, of Priam’s royal blood, then Salius and Patron together, one an Arcanian, the other of Arcadian blood and Tegean race: then two young Sicilians, Helymus and Panopes, used to the forests, companions of old Acestes: and many others too, whose fame is lost in obscurity. Then Aeneas amongst them spoke as follows: “Take these words to heart, and give pleasurable attention. None of your number will go away without a reward from me. I’ll give two Cretan arrows, shining with polished steel, for each man, to take away, and a double-headed axe chased with silver: all who are present will receive the same honour. The first three will share prizes, and their heads will be crowned with pale-green olive: let the first as winner take a horse decorated with trappings: the second an Amazonian quiver, filled with Thracian arrows, looped with a broad belt of gold and fastened by a clasp with a polished gem: let the third leave content with this Argive helmet.” When he had finished they took their places and, suddenly, on hearing the signal, they left the barrier and shot onto the course, streaming out like a storm cloud, gaze fixed on the goal. Nisus was off first, and darted away, ahead of all the others, faster than the wind or the winged lightning-bolt: Salius followed behind him, but a long way behind: then after a space Euryalus was third: Helymus pursued Euryalus, and there was Diores speeding near him, now touching foot to foot, leaning at his shoulder: if the course had been longer he’d have slipped past him, and left the outcome in doubt. Now, wearied, almost at the end of the track, they neared the winning post itself, when the unlucky Nisus fell in some slippery blood, which when the bullocks were killed had chanced to drench the ground and the green grass. Here the youth, already rejoicing at winning, failed to keep his sliding feet on the ground, but fell flat, straight in the slimy dirt and sacred blood. But he didn’t forget Euryalus even then, nor his love: but, picking himself up out of the wet, obstructed Salius, who fell head over heels onto the thick sand. Euryalus sped by and, darting onwards to applause and the shouts of his supporters, took first place, winning with his friend’s help. Helymus came in behind him, then Diores, now in third place. At this Salius filled the whole vast amphitheatre, and the faces of the foremost elders, with his loud clamour, demanding to be given the prize stolen from him by a trick. His popularity protects Euryalus, and fitting tears, and ability is more pleasing in a beautiful body. Diores encourages him, and protests in a loud voice, having reached the palm, but claiming the last prize in vain, if the highest honour goes to Salius. Then Aeneas the leader said, “Your prizes are still yours, lads, and no one is altering the order of attainment: but allow me to take pity on an unfortunate friend’s fate.” So saying he gives Salius the huge pelt of a Gaetulian lion, heavy with shaggy fur, its claws gilded. At this Nisus comments: “If these are the prizes for losing, and you pity the fallen, what fitting gift will you grant to Nisus, who would have earned first place through merit if ill luck had not dogged me, as it did Salius?” And with that he shows his face and limbs drenched with foul mud. The best of leaders smiles at him, and orders a shield to be brought, the work of Didymaon, once unpinned by the Greeks from Neptune’s sacred threshold: this outstanding prize he gives to the noble youth.

When the races were done and the gifts allotted, Aeneas cried: “Now, he who has skill and courage in his heart, let him stand here and raise his arms, his fists bound in hide.” So saying he set out the double prize for the boxing, a bullock for the winner, dressed with gold and sacred ribbons, and a sword and a noble helmet to console the defeated. Without delay Dares, hugely strong, raised his face and rose, to a great murmur from the crowd, he who alone used to compete with Paris, and by that same mound where mighty Hector lies he struck the victorious Butes, borne of the Bebrycian race of Amycus, as he came forward, vast in bulk, and stretched him dying on the yellow sand. Such was Dares who lifted his head up for the bout at once, showed his broad shoulders, stretched his arms out, sparring to right and left, and threw punches at the air. A contestant was sought for him, but no one from all that crowd dared face the man, or pull the gloves on his hands. So, cheerfully thinking they had all conceded the prize, he stands before Aeneas, and without more delay holds the bullock’s horn in his left hand and says: “Son of the goddess, if no one dare commit himself to fight, when will my standing here end? How long is it right for me to be kept waiting? Order me to lead your gift away.” All the Trojans together shout their approval, and demand that what was promised be granted him. At this Entellus upbraids Acestes, sitting next to him on a stretch of green grass, with grave words: “Entellus, once the bravest of heroes, was it all in vain, will you let so great a prize be carried off without a struggle, and so tamely? Where’s our divine master, Eryx, now, famous to no purpose? Where’s your name throughout Sicily, and why are those spoils of battle hanging in your house?” To this Entellus replies: “It’s not that quelled by fear, pride or love of fame has died: but my chill blood is dull with age’s sluggishness, and the vigour in my body is lifeless and exhausted. If I had what I once had, which that boaster enjoys and relies on, if that youthfulness were mine now, then I’d certainly have stepped forward, but not seduced by prizes or handsome bullocks: I don’t care about gifts.” Having spoken he throws a pair of gloves of immense weight which fierce Eryx, binding the tough hide onto his hands, used to fight in, into the middle of the ring. Their minds are stunned: huge pieces of hide from seven massive oxen are stiff with the iron and lead sewn into them. Above all Dares himself is astonished, and declines the bout from a distance, and Anchises’s noble son turns the huge volume and weight of the gloves backwards and forwards. Then the older man speaks like this, from his heart: “What if you’d seen the arms and gloves of Hercules himself, and the fierce fight on this very shore? Your brother Eryx once wore these (you see that they’re still stained with blood and brain matter)

He faced great Hercules in them: I used to fight in them when more vigorous blood granted me strength, and envious age had not yet sprinkled my brow with snow. But if a Trojan, Dares, shrinks from these gloves of ours, and good Aeneas accepts it, and Acestes my sponsor agrees, let’s level the odds. I’ll forgo the gloves of Eryx (banish your fears): you, throw off your Trojan ones.” So speaking he flings his double-sided cloak from his shoulders, baring the massive muscles of his limbs, his thighs with their huge bones, and stands, a giant, in the centre of the arena. Then our ancestor, Anchises’s son, lifts up a like pair of gloves, and protects the hands of both contestants equally. Immediately each takes up his stance, poised on his toes, and fearlessly raises his arms high in front of him. Keeping their heads up and well away from the blows they begin to spar, fist to fist, and provoke a battle, the one better at moving his feet, relying on his youth, the other powerful in limbs and bulk: but his slower legs quiver, his knees are unsteady, and painful gasps shake his huge body. They throw many hard punches at each other but in vain, they land many on their curved flanks, or their chests are thumped loudly, gloves often stray to ears and brows, and jaws rattle under the harsh blows. Entellus stands solidly, not moving, in the same stance, avoiding the blows with his watchful eyes and body alone. Dares, like someone who lays siege to a towering city, or surrounds a mountain fortress with weapons, tries this opening and that, seeking everywhere, with his art, and presses hard with varied but useless assaults. Then Entellus standing up to him, extends his raised right: the other, foreseeing the downward angle of the imminent blow, slides his nimble body aside, and retreats: Entellus wastes his effort on the air and the heavy man falls to the ground heavily, with his whole weight, as a hollow pine-tree, torn up by its roots, sometimes falls on Mount Erymanthus or mighty Mount Ida. The Trojans and the Sicilan youths leap up eagerly: a shout lifts to the sky, and Acestes is the first to run forward and with sympathy raises his old friend from the ground. But that hero, not slowed or deterred by his fall, returns more eagerly to the fight, and generates power from anger. Then shame and knowledge of his own ability revive his strength, and he drives Dares in fury headlong across the whole arena, doubling his punches now, to right and left. No pause, or rest: like the storm clouds rattling their dense hailstones on the roof, as heavy are the blows from either hand, as the hero continually batters at Dares and destroys him. Then Aeneas, their leader, would not allow the wrath to continue longer, nor Entellus to rage with such bitterness of spirit, but put an end to the contest, and rescued the weary Dares, speaking gently to him with these words: “Unlucky man, why let such savagery depress your spirits? Don’t you see another has the power: the gods have changed sides? Yield to the gods.” He spoke and, speaking, broke up the fight. But Dare’s loyal friends led him away to the ships, his weakened knees collapsing, his head swaying from side to side, spitting out clots of blood from his mouth, teeth amongst them. Called back they accept the helmet and sword, leaving the winner’s palm and the bullock for Entellus. At this the victor exultant in spirit and glorying in the bullock, said: “Son of the Goddess, and all you Trojans, know now what physical strength I had in my youth, and from what fate you’ve recalled and rescued Dares.” He spoke and planted himself opposite the bullock, still standing there as prize for the bout, then, drawing back his right fist, aimed the hard glove between the horns and broke its skull scattering the brains: the ox fell quivering to the ground, stretched out lifeless. Standing over it he poured these words from his chest: “Eryx, I offer you this, the better animal, for Dares’s life: the winner here, I relinquish the gloves and my art.”

Immediately Aeneas invites together all who might wish to compete with their swift arrows, and sets out the prizes. With a large company he raises a mast from Serestus’s ship, and ties a fluttering dove, at which they can aim their shafts, to a cord piercing the high mast. The men gather and a bronze helmet receives the lots tossed into it: the first of them all to be drawn, to cheers of support, is Hippocoon son of Hyrtaces, followed by Mnestheus, the winner of the boat race a while ago: Mnestheus crowned with green olive. Eurytion’s the third, your brother, O famous Pandorus, who, ordered to wreck the treaty, in the past, was the first to hurl his spear amongst the Greeks. Acestes is the last name out from the depths of the helmet, daring to try his own hand at the youthful contest. Then they take arrows from their quivers, and, each man for himself, with vigorous strength, bends the bow into an arc, and first through the air from the twanging string the son of Hyrcanus’s shaft, cutting the swift breeze, reaches the mark, and strikes deep into the mast. The mast quivered, the bird fluttered its wings in fear, and there was loud applause from all sides. Then Mnestheus eagerly took his stand with bent bow, aiming high, his arrow notched level with his eyes. But to his dismay he was not able to hit the bird herself with the shaft, but broke the knots of hemp cord that tied her foot as it hung from the mast: she fled to the north wind and the dark clouds, in flight. Then Eurytion who had been holding his bow ready, with drawn arrow for some time, called on his brother to note his vow, quickly eyed the dove, enjoying the freedom of the skies, and transfixed her, as she beat her wings beneath a dark cloud. She dropped lifeless, leaving her spirit with the starry heavens, and, falling, brought back to earth the shaft that pierced her. Acestes alone remained: the prize was lost: yet he still shot his arrow high into the air, showing an older man’s skill, the bow twanging. Then a sudden wonder appeared before their eyes, destined to be of great meaning: the time to come unveiled its crucial outcome, and great seers of the future celebrated it as an omen. The arrow, flying through the passing clouds, caught fire marked out its path with flames, then vanished into thin air, as shooting stars, loosed from heaven often transit the sky, drawing their tresses after them. Astonished, the Trinacrians and Trojans stood rooted to the spot, praying to the gods: nor did their great leader Aeneas reject the sign, but embracing the joyful Acestes, loaded him with handsome gifts and spoke as follows: “Take these, old man: since the high king of Olympus shows, by these omens, that he wishes you to take extraordinary honours. You shall have this gift, owned by aged Anchises himself, a bowl engraved with figures, that Cisseus of Thrace once long ago gave Anchises my father as a memento of himself, and as a pledge of his friendship.” So saying he wreathed his brow with green laurel and proclaimed Acestes the highest victor among them all. Nor did good Eurytion begrudge the special prize, though he alone brought the bird down from the sky. Next he who cut the cord stepped forward for his reward, and lastly he who’s swift shaft had transfixed the mast.

But before the match is complete Aeneas the leader calls Epytides to him, companion and guardian of young Iulus, and speaks into his loyal ear: “Off! Go! Tell Ascanius, if he has his troop of boys ready with him, and is prepared for the horse-riding to show himself with his weapons, and lead them out in honour of his grandfather.” He himself orders the whole crowd of people to leave the lengthy circuit, emptying the field. The boys arrive, and glitter together on their bridled horses under their fathers’ gaze, and the men of Troy and Sicily murmur in admiration as they go by. They all have their hair properly circled by a cut garland: they each carry two cornel-wood spears tipped with steel, some have shining quivers on their shoulders: a flexible torque of twisted gold sits high on their chests around the neck. The troops of horse are three in number, and three leaders ride ahead: two groups of six boys follow each, commanded alike and set out in gleaming ranks. One line of youths is led joyfully by little Priam, recalling his grandfather’s name, your noble child, Polites, seed of the Italians: whom a piebald Thracian horse carries, showing white pasterns as it steps, and a high white forehead. Next is Atys, from whom the Latin Atii trace their line, little Atys, a boy loved by the boy Iulus. Last, and most handsome of all in appearance, Iulus himself rides a Sidonian horse, that radiant Dido had given him as a remembrance of herself, and a token of her love. The rest of the youths ride the Sicilian horses of old Acestes. The Trojans greet the shy lads with applause, and delight in gazing at them, seeing their ancient families in their faces. When they have ridden happily round the whole assembly under the eyes of their kin, Epytides with a prolonged cry gives the agreed signal and cracks his whip. They gallop apart in two equal detachments, the three groups parting company, and dissolving their columns, then, recalled, they wheel round, and charge with level lances. Then they perform other figures and counter-figures in opposing ranks, and weave in circles inside counter-circles, and perform a simulated battle with weapons. Now their backs are exposed in flight, now they turn their spears to charge, now ride side by side in peace. Like the Labyrinth in mountainous Crete, they say, that contained a path winding between blind walls, wandering with guile through a thousand turnings, so that undetected and irretraceable errors might foil any guidelines that might be followed: so the Trojan children twine their steps in just such a pattern, weaving battle and flight, in their display, like dolphins swimming through the ocean streams, cutting the Carpathian and Lybian waters, and playing among the waves. Ascanius first revived this kind of riding, and this contest, when he encircled Alba Longa with walls, and taught the Early Latins to celebrate it in the way he and the Trojan youth had done together: the Albans taught their children: mighty Rome received it from them in turn, and preserved the ancestral rite: and today the boys are called ‘Troy’ and their procession ‘Trojan’. So the games are completed celebrating Aeneas’s sacred father.

The Fasti

Ovid

Book I-VI

Translated by A. S. Kline

Translator’s Note:

Ovid’s numerous references throughout the Fasti to the rising and setting of stars and constellations, further detailed in the relevant index entries, have been checked using a computer-based astronomical program (Redshift 4) set to Rome in 8AD. The Kalends, Nones, Ides, and major Festivals of each month are identified in the headings against the relevant days.

Book I:Introduction

I’ll speak of divisions of time throughout the Roman year,

Their origins, and the stars that set beneath the earth and rise.

Germanicus Caesar, accept this work, with a calm face,

And direct the voyage of my uncertain vessel:

Not scorning this slight honour, but like a god,

Receiving with favour the homage I pay you.

Here you’ll revisit the sacred rites in the ancient texts,

And review by what events each day is marked.

And here you’ll find the festivals of your House,

And see your father’s and your grandfather’s name:

The prizes they won, that illustrate the calendar,

That you and your brother Drusus will also win.

Let others sing Caesar’s wars: I’ll sing his altars,

And those days that he added to the sacred rites.

Approve my attempt to tell of your family honours,

And banish the apprehension from my heart.

Be kind to me, and you’ll empower my verse:

My wit will stand or fall by your glance.

My page trembles, judged by a learned prince,

As if it were being read by Clarian Apollo.

We know the eloquence of your skilful voice,

Taking up civil arms for anxious defendants:

And we know, when your efforts turn to poetry,

How copiously the river of your genius flows.

If it’s right and lawful, a poet, guide the poet’s reins,

So beneath your auspices the whole year may be happy.

When Rome’s founder established the calendar

He determined there’d be ten months in every year.

You knew more about swords than stars, Romulus, surely,

Since conquering neighbours was your chief concern.

Yet there’s a logic that might have possessed him,

Caesar, and that might well justify his error.

He held that the time it takes for a mother’s womb

To produce a child, was sufficient for his year.

For as many months also, after her husband’s funeral,

A widow maintains signs of mourning in her house.

So Quirinus in his ceremonial robes had that in view,

When he decreed his year to an unsophisticated people.

Mars’ month, March, was the first, and Venus’ April second:

She was the mother of the race, and he its father.

The third month May took its name from the old (maiores),

The fourth, June, from the young (iuvenes), the rest were numbered.

But Numa did not neglect Janus and the ancestral shades,

And therefore added two months to the ancient ten.

Yet lest you’re unaware of the laws of the various days,

Know Dawn doesn’t always bring the same observances.

Those days are unlawful (nefastus) when the praetor’s three words

May not be spoken, lawful (fastus) when law may be enacted.

But don’t assume each day maintains its character throughout:

What’s now a lawful day may have been unlawful at dawn:

Since once the sacrifice has been offered, all is acceptable,

And the honoured praetor is then allowed free speech.

There are those days, comitiales, when the people vote:

And the market days that always recur in a nine-day cycle.

The worship of Juno claims our Italy’s Kalends,

While a larger white ewe-lamb falls to Jupiter on the Ides:

The Nones though lack a tutelary god. After all these days,

(Beware of any error!), the next day will be ill-omened.

The ill-omen derives from past events: since on those days

Rome suffered heavy losses in military defeat.

Let these words above be applied to the whole calendar,

So I’ll not be forced to break my thread of narrative.

Book I: January 1: Kalends

See how Janus appears first in my song

To announce a happy year for you, Germanicus.

Two-headed Janus, source of the silently gliding year,

The only god who is able to see behind him,

Be favourable to the leaders, whose labours win

Peace for the fertile earth, peace for the seas:

Be favourable to the senate and Roman people,

And with a nod unbar the shining temples.

A prosperous day dawns: favour our thoughts and speech!

Let auspicious words be said on this auspicious day.

Let our ears be free of lawsuits then, and banish

Mad disputes now: you, malicious tongues, cease wagging!

See how the air shines with fragrant fire,

And Cilician grains crackle on lit hearths!

The flame beats brightly on the temple’s gold,

And spreads a flickering light on the shrine’s roof.

Spotless garments make their way to Tarpeian Heights,

And the crowd wear the colours of the festival:

Now the new rods and axes lead, new purple glows,

And the distinctive ivory chair feels fresh weight.

Heifers that grazed the grass on Faliscan plains,

Unbroken to the yoke, bow their necks to the axe.

When Jupiter watches the whole world from his hill,

Everything that he sees belongs to Rome.

Hail, day of joy, and return forever, happier still,

Worthy to be cherished by a race that rules the world.

But two-formed Janus what god shall I say you are,

Since Greece has no divinity to compare with you?

Tell me the reason, too, why you alone of all the gods

Look both at what’s behind you and what’s in front.

While I was musing, writing-tablets in hand,

The house seemed brighter than it was before.

Then suddenly, sacred and marvellous, Janus,

In two-headed form, showed his twin faces to my eyes.

Terrified, I felt my hair grow stiff with fear

And my heart was frozen with sudden cold.

Holding his stick in his right hand, his key in the left,

He spoke these words to me from his forward looking face:

‘Learn, without fear, what you seek, poet who labours

Over the days, and remember my speech.

The ancients called me Chaos (since I am of the first world):

Note the long ages past of which I shall tell.

The clear air, and the three other elements,

Fire, water, earth, were heaped together as one.

When, through the discord of its components,

The mass dissolved, and scattered to new regions,

Flame found the heights: air took a lower place,

While earth and sea sank to the furthest depth.

Then I, who was a shapeless mass, a ball,

Took on the appearance, and noble limbs of a god.

Even now, a small sign of my once confused state,

My front and back appear just the same.

Listen to the other reason for the shape you query,

So you know of it, and know of my duties too.

Whatever you see: sky, sea, clouds, earth,

All things are begun and ended by my hand.

Care of the vast world is in my hands alone,

And mine the governance of the turning pole.

When I choose to send Peace, from tranquil houses,

Freely she walks the roads, and ceaselessly:

The whole world would drown in bloodstained slaughter,

If rigid barriers failed to hold war in check.

I sit at Heaven’s Gate with the gentle Hours,

Jupiter himself comes and goes at my discretion.

So I’m called Janus. Yet you’d smile at the names

The priest gives me, offering cake and meal sprinkled

With salt: on his sacrificial lips I’m Patulcius,

And then again I’m called Clusius.

So with a change of name unsophisticated antiquity

Chose to signify my changing functions.

I’ve explained my meaning. Now learn the reason for my shape:

Though already you partially understand it.

Every doorway has two sides, this way and that,

One facing the crowds, and the other the Lares:

And like your doorkeeper seated at the threshold,

Who watches who goes and out and who goes in,

So I the doorkeeper of the heavenly court,

Look towards both east and west at once.

You see Hecate’s faces turned in three directions,

To guard the crossroads branching several ways:

And I, lest I lose time twisting my neck around,

Am free to look both ways without moving.’

So he spoke, and promised by a look,

That he’d not begrudge it if I asked for more.

I gained courage and thanked the god fearlessly,

And spoke these few words, gazing at the ground:

‘Tell me why the new-year begins with cold,

When it would be better started in the spring?

Then all’s in flower, then time renews its youth,

And the new buds swell on the fertile vines:

The trees are covered in newly formed leaves,

And grass springs from the surface of the soil:

Birds delight the warm air with their melodies,

And the herds frisk and gambol in the fields.

Then the sun’s sweet, and brings the swallow, unseen,

To build her clay nest under the highest roof beam.

Then the land’s cultivated, renewed by the plough.

That time rightly should have been called New Year.’

I said all this, questioning: he answered briefly

And swiftly, casting his words in twin verses:

‘Midwinter’s the first of the new sun, last of the old:

Phoebus and the year have the same inception.’

Then I asked why the first day wasn’t free

Of litigation. ‘Know the cause,’ said Janus,

‘I assigned the nascent time to business affairs,

Lest by its omen the whole year should be idle.

For that reason everyone merely toys with their skills,

And does no more than give witness to their work.’

Next I said: ‘Why, while I placate other gods, Janus,

Do I bring the wine and incense first to you?’

He replied: ‘So that through me, who guard the threshold,

You can have access to whichever god you please.’

‘But, why are joyful words spoken on the Kalends,

And why do we give and receive good wishes?’

Then leaning on the staff he gripped in his right hand,

He answered: ‘Omens attend upon beginnings.’

Anxious, your ears are alert at the first word,

And the augur interprets the first bird that he sees.

When the temples and ears of the gods are open,

The tongue speaks no idle prayer, words have weight.’

Janus ended. Maintaining only a short silence

I followed his final words with my own:

‘What do the gifts of dates and dried figs mean’,

I said, ‘And the honey glistening in a snow-white jar?’

‘For the omen,’ he said, ‘so that events match the savour,

So the course of the year might be sweet as its start.’

‘I see why sweet things are given. Explain the reason

For gifts of money, so I mistake no part of your festival.’

He laughed and said: ‘How little you know of your age,

If you think that honey’s sweeter to it than gold!

I’ve hardly seen anyone, even in Saturn’s reign,

Who in his heart didn’t find money sweet.

Love of it grew with time, and is now at its height,

Since it would be hard put to increase much further.

Wealth is valued more highly now, than in those times

When people were poor, and Rome was new,

When a small hut held Romulus, son of Mars,

And reeds from the river made a scanty bed.

Jupiter complete could barely stand in his low shrine,

And the lightning bolt in his right hand was of clay.

They decorated the Capitol with leaves, not gems,

And the senators grazed their sheep themselves.

There was no shame in taking one’s rest on straw,

And pillowing one’s head on the cut hay.

Cincinnatus left the plough to judge the people,

And the slightest use of silver plate was forbidden.

But ever since Fortune, here, has raised her head,

And Rome has brushed the heavens with her brow,

Wealth has increased, and the frantic lust for riches,

So that those who possess the most seek for more.

They seek to spend, compete to acquire what’s spent,

And so their alternating vices are nourished.

Like one whose belly is swollen with dropsy

The more they drink, they thirstier they become.

Wealth is the value now: riches bring honours,

Friendship too: everywhere the poor are hidden.

And you still ask me if gold’s useful in augury,

And why old money’s a delight in our hands?

Once men gave bronze, now gold grants better omens,

Old money, conquered, gives way to the new.

We too delight in golden temples, however much

We approve the antique: such splendour suits a god.

We praise the past, but experience our own times:

Yet both are ways worthy of being cultivated.’

He ended his statement. But again calmly, as before,

I spoke these words to the god who holds the key.

‘Indeed I’ve learned much: but why is there a ship’s figure

On one side of the copper as, a twin shape on the other?’

‘You might have recognised me in the double-image’,

He said, ‘if length of days had not worn the coin away.

The reason for the ship is that the god of the sickle

Wandering the globe, by ship, reached the Tuscan river.

I remember how Saturn was welcomed in this land:

Driven by Jupiter from the celestial regions.

From that day the people kept the title, Saturnian,

And the land was Latium, from the god’s hiding (latente) there.

But a pious posterity stamped a ship on the coin,

To commemorate the new god’s arrival.

I myself inhabited the ground on the left

Passed by sandy Tiber’s gentle waves.

Here, where Rome is now, uncut forest thrived,

And all this was pasture for scattered cattle.

My citadel was the hill the people of this age

Call by my name, dubbing it the Janiculum.

I reigned then, when earth could bear the gods,

And divinities mingled in mortal places.

Justice had not yet fled from human sin,

(She was the last deity to leave the earth),

Shame without force, instead of fear, ruled the people,

And it was no effort to expound the law to the lawful.

I’d nothing to do with war: I guarded peace and doorways,

And this,’ he said, showing his key, ‘was my weapon.’

The god closed his lips. Then I opened mine,

Eliciting with my voice the voice of the god:

‘Since there are so many archways, why do you stand

Sacredly in one, here where your temple adjoins two fora?

Stroking the beard falling on his chest with his hand,

He at once retold the warlike acts of Oebalian Tatius,

And how the treacherous keeper, Tarpeia, bribed with bracelets,

Led the silent Sabines to the heights of the citadel.

‘Then,’ he said, ‘a steep slope, the one by which you

Now descend, led to the valleys and the fora.

Even now the enemy had reached the gate, from which

Saturn’s envious daughter, Juno, had removed the bars.

Fearing to engage in battle with so powerful a goddess,

I cunningly employed an example of my own art,

And by my power I opened the mouths of the springs,

And suddenly let loose the pent-up waters:

But first I threw sulphur intro the watery channels,

So boiling liquid would close off that path to Tatius.

This action performed and the Sabines repulsed,

The place took on its secure aspect as before.

An altar to me was raised, linked to a little shrine:

Here the grain and cake is burnt in its flames’

‘But why hide in peace, and open your gates in war?’

He swiftly gave me the answer that I sought:

‘My unbarred gate stands open wide, so that when

The people go to war the return path’s open too.’

I bar it in peacetime so peace cannot depart:

And by Caesar’s will I shall be long closed.’

He spoke, and raising his eyes that looked both ways,

He surveyed whatever existed in the whole world.

There was peace, and already a cause of triumph, Germanicus,

The Rhine had yielded her waters up in submission to you.

Janus, make peace and the agents of peace eternal,

And grant the author may never abandon his work.

Now for what I’ve learned from the calendar itself:

The senate dedicated two temples on this day.

The island the river surrounds with divided waters,

Received Aesculapius, whom Coronis bore to Apollo.

Jupiter too shares it: one place holds both, and the temples

Of the mighty grandfather and the grandson are joined.

Book I: January 3

What prevents me speaking of the stars, and their rising

And setting? That was a part of what I’ve promised.

Happy minds that first took the trouble to consider

These things, and to climb to the celestial regions!

We can be certain that they raised their heads

Above the failings and the homes of men, alike.

Neither wine nor lust destroyed their noble natures,

Nor public business nor military service:

They were not seduced by trivial ambitions,

Illusions of bright glory, nor hunger for great wealth.

They brought the distant stars within our vision,

And subjected the heavens to their genius.

So we reach the sky: there’s no need for Ossa to be piled

On Olympus, or Pelion’s summit touch the highest stars.

Following these masters I too will measure out the skies,

And attribute the wheeling signs to their proper dates.

So, when the third night before the Nones has come,

And the earth is drenched, sprinkled with heavenly dew,

You’ll search for the claws of the eight-footed Crab in vain:

It will plunge headlong beneath the western waves.

Book I: January 5: Nones

Should the Nones be here, rain from dark clouds

Will be the sign, at the rising of the Lyre.

Book I: January 9

Add four successive days to the Nones and Janus

Must be propitiated on the Agonal day.

The day may take its name from the girded priest

At whose blow the god’s sacrifice is felled:

Always, before he stains the naked blade with hot blood,

He asks if he should (agatne), and won’t unless commanded.

Some believe that the day is called Agonal because

The sheep do not come to the altar but are driven (agantur).

Others think the ancients called this festival Agnalia,

‘Of the lambs’, dropping a letter from its usual place.

Or because the victim fears the knife mirrored in the water,

The day might be so called from the creature’s agony?

It may also be that the day has a Greek name

From the games (agones) that were held in former times.

And in ancient speech agonia meant a sheep,

And this last reason in my judgement is the truth.

Though the meaning is uncertain, the king of the rites,

Must appease the gods with the mate of a woolly ewe.

It’s called the victim because a victorious hand fells it:

And hostia, sacrifice, from hostile conquered foes.

Cornmeal, and glittering grains of pure salt,

Were once the means for men to placate the gods.

No foreign ship had yet brought liquid myrrh

Extracted from tree’s bark, over the ocean waves:

Euphrates had not sent incense, nor India balm,

And the threads of yellow saffron were unknown.

The altar was happy to fume with Sabine juniper,

And the laurel burned with a loud crackling.

He was rich, whoever could add violets

To garlands woven from meadow flowers.

The knife that bares the entrails of the stricken bull,

Had no role to perform in the sacred rites.

Ceres was first to delight in the blood of the greedy sow,

Her crops avenged by the rightful death of the guilty creature,

She learned that in spring the grain, milky with sweet juice,

Had been uprooted by the snouts of bristling pigs.

The swine were punished: terrified by that example,

You should have spared the vine-shoots, he-goat.

Watching a goat nibbling a vine someone once

Vented their indignation in these words:

‘Gnaw the vine, goat! But when you stand at the altar

There’ll be something from it to sprinkle on your horns.’

Truth followed: Bacchus, your enemy is given you

To punish, and sprinkled wine flows over its horns.

The sow suffered for her crime, and the goat for hers:

But what were you guilty of you sheep and oxen?

Aristaeus wept because he saw his bees destroyed,

And the hives they had begun left abandoned.

His azure mother, Cyrene, could barely calm his grief,

But added these final words to what she said:

‘Son, cease your tears! Proteus will allay your loss,

And show you how to recover what has perished.

But lest he still deceives you by changing shape,

Entangle both his hands with strong fastenings.’

The youth approached the seer, who was fast asleep,

And bound the arms of that Old Man of the Sea.

He by his art altered his shape and transformed his face,

But soon reverted to his true form, tamed by the ropes.

Then raising his dripping head, and sea-green beard,

He said: ‘Do you ask how to recover your bees?

Kill a heifer and bury its carcase in the earth,

Buried it will produce what you ask of me.’

The shepherd obeyed: the beast’s putrid corpse

Swarmed: one life destroyed created thousands.

Death claims the sheep: wickedly, it grazed the vervain

That a pious old woman offered to the rural gods.

What creature’s safe if woolly sheep, and oxen

Broken to the plough, lay their lives on the altar?

Persia propitiates Hyperion, crowned with rays,

With horses, no sluggish victims for the swift god.

Because a hind was once sacrificed to Diana the twin,

Instead of Iphigeneia, a hind dies, though not for a virgin now.

I have seen a dog’s entrails offered to Trivia by Sapaeans,

Whose homes border on your snows, Mount Haemus.

A young ass too is sacrificed to the erect rural guardian,

Priapus, the reason’s shameful, but appropriate to the god.

Greece, you held a festival of ivy-berried Bacchus,

That used to recur at the appointed time, every third winter.

There too came the divinities who worshipped him as Lyaeus,

And whoever else was not averse to jesting,

The Pans and the young Satyrs prone to lust,

And the goddesses of rivers and lonely haunts.

And old Silenus came on a hollow-backed ass,

And crimson Priapus scaring the timid birds with his rod.

Finding a grove suited to sweet entertainment,

They lay down on beds of grass covered with cloths.

Liber offered wine, each had brought a garland,

A stream supplied ample water for the mixing.

There were Naiads too, some with uncombed flowing hair,

Others with their tresses artfully bound.

One attends with tunic tucked high above the knee,

Another shows her breast through her loosened robe:

One bares her shoulder: another trails her hem in the grass,

Their tender feet are not encumbered with shoes.

So some create amorous passion in the Satyrs,

Some in you, Pan, brows wreathed in pine.

You too Silenus, are on fire, insatiable lecher:

Wickedness alone prevents you growing old.

But crimson Priapus, guardian and glory of gardens,

Of them all, was captivated by Lotis:

He desires, and prays, and sighs for her alone,

He signals to her, by nodding, woos her with signs.

But the lovely are disdainful, pride waits on beauty:

She laughed at him, and scorned him with a look.

It was night, and drowsy from the wine,

They lay here and there, overcome by sleep.

Tired from play, Lotis rested on the grassy earth,

Furthest away, under the maple branches.

Her lover stood, and holding his breath, stole

Furtively and silently towards her on tiptoe.

Reaching the snow-white nymph’s secluded bed,

He took care lest the sound of his breath escaped.

Now he balanced on his toes on the grass nearby:

But she was still completely full of sleep.

He rejoiced, and drawing the cover from her feet,

He happily began to have his way with her.

Suddenly Silenus’ ass braying raucously,

Gave an untimely bellow from its jaws.

Terrified the nymph rose, pushed Priapus away,

And, fleeing, gave the alarm to the whole grove.

But the over-expectant god with his rigid member,

Was laughed at by them all, in the moonlight.

The creator of that ruckus paid with his life,

And he’s the sacrifice dear to the Hellespontine god.

You were chaste once, you birds, a rural solace,

You harmless race that haunt the woodlands,

Who build your nests, warm your eggs with your wings,

And utter sweet measures from your ready beaks,

But that is no help to you, because of your guilty tongues,

And the gods’ belief that you reveal their thoughts.

Nor is that false: since the closer you are to the gods,

The truer the omens you give by voice and flight.

Though long untouched, birds were killed at last,

And the gods delighted in the informers’ entrails.

So the white dove, torn from her mate,

Is often burned in the Idalian flames:

Nor did saving the Capitol benefit the goose,

Who yielded his liver on a dish to you, Inachus’ daughter:

The cock is sacrificed at night to the Goddess, Night,

Because he summons the day with his waking cries,

While the bright constellation of the Dolphin rises

Over the sea, and shows his face from his native waters.

Book I: January 10

The following dawn marks the mid-point of winter.

And what remains will equal what has gone.

Book I: January 11: The Carmentalia

Quitting his couch, Tithonus’ bride will witness

The high priest’s rite of Arcadian Carmentis.

The same light received you too, Juturna, Turnus’ sister,

There where the Aqua Virgo circles the Campus.

Where shall I find the cause and nature of these rites?

Who will steer my vessel in mid-ocean?

Advise me, Carmentis, you who take your name from song,

And favour my intent, lest I fail to honour you.

Arcadia, that’s older than the moon (if we believe it),

Takes its name from great Arcas, Callisto’s son.

From there came Evander, though of noble lineage on both sides

Nobler through the blood of Carmentis, his sacred mother:

She, as soon as her spirit absorbed the heavenly fire,

Spoke true prophecies, filled with the god.

She had foretold trouble for her son and herself,

And many other things that time proved valid.

The mother’s words proved only too true, when the youth

Banished with her, fled Arcady and his Parrhasian home.

While he wept, his mother said: ‘Your fortune must

Be borne like a man (I beg you, check your tears).

It was fated so: it is no fault of yours that exiles you,

But a god: an offended god expelled you from the city.

You’re not suffering rightful punishment, but divine anger:

It is something in great misfortune to be free of guilt.

As each man’s conscience is, so it harbours

Hope or fear in his heart, according to his actions.

Don’t mourn these ills as if you were first to endure them:

Such storms have overwhelmed the mightiest people.

Cadmus endured the same, driven from the shores of Tyre,

Remaining an exile on Boeotian soil.

Tydeus endured the same, and Pagasean Jason,

And others whom it would take too long to speak of.

To the brave every land is their country, as the sea

To fish, or every empty space on earth to the birds.

Wild storms never rage the whole year long,

And spring will yet come to you (believe me).’

Encouraged by his mother’s words, Evander

Sailed the waves and reached Hesperian lands.

Then, advised by wise Carmentis, he steered

His boat into a river, and stemmed the Tuscan stream.

She examined the river bank, bordered by Tarentum’s shallows,

And the huts scattered over the desolate spaces:

And stood, as she was, with streaming hair, at the stern,

And fiercely stopped the steersman’s hand:

Then stretching out her arm to the right bank,

She stamped three times, wildly, on the pine deck:

Evander barely held her back with his hand,

Barely stopped her leaping swiftly to land.

‘Hail, you gods of the land we sought’ she cried,

‘And you the place that will give heaven new gods,

And you nymphs of the grove, and crowds of Naiads!

May the sight of you be a good omen for me and my son,

And happy be the foot that touches that shore!

Am I wrong, or will those hills raise mighty walls,

And from this earth all the earth receive its laws?

The whole world is one day promised to these hills:

Who could believe the place held such fate in store?

Soon Trojan ships will touch these shores,

And a woman, Lavinia, shall cause fresh war.

Pallas, dear grandson, why put on that fatal armour?

Put it on! No mean champion will avenge you.

Conquered Troy you will conquer, and rise from your fall,

Your very ruin overwhelms your enemy’s houses.

Conquering flames consume Neptune’s Ilium!

Will that prevent its ashes rising higher than the world?

Soon pious Aeneas will bring the sacred Penates, and his

Sacred father here: Vesta, receive the gods of Troy!

In time the same hand will guard the world and you,

And a god in person will hold the sacred rites.

The safety of the country will lie with Augustus’ house:

It’s decreed this family will hold the reins of empire.

So Caesar’s son, Augustus, and grandson, Tiberius,

Divine minds, will, despite his refusal, rule the country:

And as I myself will be hallowed at eternal altars,

So Livia shall be a new divinity, Julia Augusta.’

When she had brought her tale to our own times,

Her prescient tongue halted in mid-speech.

Landing from the ships, Evander the exile stood

On Latian turf, happy for that to be his place of exile!

After a short time new houses were built,

And no Italian hill surpassed the Palatine.

See, Hercules drives the Erythean cattle here:

Travelling a long track through the world:

And while he is entertained in the Tegean house,

The untended cattle wander the wide acres.

It was morning: woken from his sleep the Tyrinthian

Saw that two bulls were missing from the herd.

Seeking, he found no trace of the silently stolen beasts:

Fierce Cacus had dragged them backwards into his cave,

Cacus the infamous terror of the Aventine woods,

No slight evil to neighbours and travellers.

His aspect was grim, his body huge, with strength

To match: the monster’s father was Mulciber.

He housed in a vast cavern with deep recesses,

So hidden the wild creatures could barely find it.

Over the entrance hung human arms and skulls,

And the ground bristled with whitened bones.

Jupiter’s son was leaving, that part of his herd lost,

When the stolen cattle lowed loudly.

‘I am recalled” he said, and following the sound,

As avenger, came through the woods to the evil cave,

Cacus had blocked the entrance with a piece of the hill:

Ten yoked oxen could scarcely have moved it.

Hercules leant with his shoulders, on which the world had rested,

And loosened that vast bulk with the pressure.

A crash that troubled the air followed its toppling,

And the ground subsided under the falling weight.

Cacus at first fought hand to hand, and waged war,

Ferociously, with logs and boulders.

When that failed, beaten, he tried his father’s tricks

And vomited roaring flames from his mouth:

You’d think Typhoeus breathed at every blast,

And sudden flares were hurled from Etna’s fires.

Hercules anticipated him, raised his triple-knotted club,

And swung it three, then four times, in his adversary’s face.

Cacus fell, vomiting smoke mingled with blood,

And beat at the ground, in dying, with his chest.

The victor offered one of the bulls to you, Jupiter,

And invited Evander and his countrymen to the feast,

And himself set up an altar, called Maxima, the Mightiest,

Where that part of the city takes its name from an ox.

Evander’s mother did not hide that the time was near

When earth would be done with its hero, Hercules.

But the felicitous prophetess, as she lived beloved of the gods,

Now a goddess herself, has this day of Janus’ month as hers.

Book I: January 13: Ides

On the Ides, in Jove’s temple, the chaste priest (the Flamen Dialis)

Offers to the flames the entrails of a gelded ram:

All the provinces were returned to our people,

And your grandfather was given the name Augustus.

Read the legends on wax images in noble halls,

Such titles were never bestowed on men before.

Here Africa named her conqueror after herself:

Another witnesses to Isaurian or Cretan power tamed:

This makes glory from Numidians, that Messana,

While the next drew his fame from Numantia.

Drusus owed his death and glory to Germany –

Alas, how brief that great virtue was!

If Caesar was to take his titles from the defeated

He would need as many names as tribes on earth.

Some have earned fame from lone enemies,

Named from a torque won or a raven-companion.

Pompey the Great, your name reflects your deeds,

But he who defeated you was greater still.

No surname ranks higher than that of the Fabii,

Their family was called Greatest for their services.

Yet these are human honours bestowed on all.

Augustus alone has a name that ranks with great Jove.

Sacred things are called august by the senators,

And so are temples duly dedicated by priestly hands.

From the same root comes the word augury,

And Jupiter augments things by his power.

May he augment our leader’s empire and his years,

And may the oak-leaf crown protect his doors.

By the god’s auspices, may the father’s omens

Attend the heir of so great a name, when he rules the world.

Book I: January 15

When the third sun looks back on the past Ides,

The rites of Carmenta, the Parrhasian goddess, are repeated.

Formerly the Ausonian mothers drove in carriages (carpenta)

(These I think were named after Evander’s mother).

The honour was later taken from them, so every woman

Vowed not to renew their ungrateful husband’s line,

And to avoid giving birth, unwisely, she expelled

Her womb’s growing burden, using unpredictable force.

They say the senate reproved the wives for their coldness,

But restored the right which had been taken from them:

And they ordered two like festivals for the Tegean mother,

To promote the birth of both boys and girls.

It is not lawful to take leather into her shrine,

Lest the pure hearths are defiled by sacrifice.

If you love ancient ritual, listen to the prayers,

And you’ll hear names you’ve never heard before.

They placate Porrima and Postverta, whether sisters,

Maenalian goddess, or companions in your exile:

The one thought to sing of what happened long ago (porro),

The other of what is to happen hereafter (venturum postmodo).

Book I: January 16

Radiant one, the next day places you in your snow-white shrine,

Near where lofty Moneta lifts her noble stairway:

Concord, you will gaze on the Latin crowd’s prosperity,

Now sacred hands have established you.

Camillus, conqueror of the Etruscan people,

Vowed your ancient temple and kept his vow.

His reason was that the commoners had armed themselves,

Seceding from the nobles, and Rome feared their power.

This latest reason was a better one: revered Leader, Germany

Offered up her dishevelled tresses, at your command:

From that, you dedicated the spoils of a defeated race,

And built a shrine to the goddess that you yourself worship.

A goddess your mother honoured by her life, and by an altar,

She alone worthy to share great Jupiter’s couch.

Book I: January 17

When this day is over, Phoebus, you will leave Capricorn,

And take your course through the sign of the Water-Bearer.

Book I: January 23

Seven days from now when the sun sinks in the waves,

The Lyre will no longer shine in the heavens.

Book I: January 24

After Lyra vanishes into obscurity, the fire that gleams

At the heart of the Lion will be sunk in the sea at dawn.

I have searched the calendar three or four times,

But nowhere found the Day of Sowing:

Seeing this the Muse said: ‘That day is set by the priests,

Why are you looking for moveable days in the calendar?’

Though the day of the feast’s uncertain, its time is known,

When the seed has been sown and the land’s productive.’

You bullocks, crowned with garlands, stand at the full trough,

Your labour will return with the warmth of spring.

Let the farmer hang the toil-worn plough on its post:

The wintry earth dreaded its every wound.

Steward, let the soil rest when the sowing is done,

And let the men who worked the soil rest too.

Let the village keep festival: farmers, purify the village,

And offer the yearly cakes on the village hearths.

Propitiate Earth and Ceres, the mothers of the crops,

With their own corn, and a pregnant sow’s entrails.

Ceres and Earth fulfil a common function:

One supplies the chance to bear, the other the soil.

‘Partners in toil, you who improved on ancient days

Replacing acorns with more useful foods,

Satisfy the eager farmers with full harvest,

So they reap a worthy prize from their efforts.

Grant the tender seeds perpetual fruitfulness,

Don’t let new shoots be scorched by cold snows.

When we sow, let the sky be clear with calm breezes,

Sprinkle the buried seed with heavenly rain.

Forbid the birds, that prey on cultivated land,

To ruin the cornfields in destructive crowds.

You too, spare the sown seed, you ants,

So you’ll win a greater prize from the harvest.

Meanwhile let no scaly mildew blight its growth,

And let no bad weather blanch its colour,

May it neither shrivel, nor be over-ripe

And ruined by its own rich exuberance.

May the fields be free of darnel that harms the eyesight,

And no barren wild oats grow on cultivated soil.

May the land yield rich interest, crops of wheat

And barley, and spelt roasted twice in the flames.’

I offer this for you, farmers, do so yourselves,

And may the two goddesses grant our prayers.

War long gripped mankind: the sword was more useful

Than the plough: the ox yielded to the warhorse:

Hoes were idle, mattocks made into javelins,

And heavy rakes were forged into helmets.

Thanks to the gods, and your house, under your feet

War has long been bound in chains.

Let the ox be yoked, seed lie beneath ploughed soil:

Peace fosters Ceres, and Ceres is child of Peace.

Book I: January 27

On this sixth day before the approaching Kalends,

A temple was dedicated to the Dioscuri.

Brothers of the divine race founded it

For those divine brothers, by Juturna’s lakes.

Book I: January 30

My song has led to the altar of Peace itself.

This day is the second from the month’s end.

Come, Peace, your graceful tresses wreathed

With laurel of Actium: stay gently in this world.

While we lack enemies, or cause for triumphs:

You’ll be a greater glory to our leaders than war.

May the soldier be armed to defend against arms,

And the trumpet blare only for processions.

May the world far and near fear the sons of Aeneas,

And let any land that feared Rome too little, love her.

Priests, add incense to the peaceful flames,

Let a shining sacrifice fall, brow wet with wine,

And ask the gods who favour pious prayer

That the house that brings peace, may so endure.

Now the first part of my labour is complete,

And as its month ends, so does this book.

Book II: Introduction

January is done, and the year advances with my song.

As the second month runs, so let the second book.

For the first time, my verses, sail with more canvas,

Your theme, I recall, has been slight till now.

I found you ready enough servants of love,

When I toyed with poetry in my first youth,

Now I sing of sacred rites and calendar days:

Who’d have thought it would lead to this?

Here’s my soldiering: I bear the weapons I can,

My right hand isn’t useless for every service.

If I can’t hurl the javelin with a mighty throw,

Nor sit astride a war-horse’s back,

No helmet on my head, no sharp sword slung,

(Any man can be handy with those weapons)

Still I promote your titles with a dutiful heart,

Caesar, and your progress towards glory.

Come, then, and cast your eye on my gift awhile,

If pacifying enemies leaves you a moment free.

The fathers of Rome called purification februa

Many things still indicate that meaning for the word.

The high priests ask the King and the Flamen

For woollen cloths, called februa in the ancient tongue.

When houses are cleansed, the roasted grain and salt,

The lictor receives, are called by the same name.

The same name too is given to the branch, cut from a pure

Tree, whose leaves wreathe the priests’ holy brows.

I’ve seen the priest’s wife (the Flaminica) ask for februa,

And at her request she was given a branch of pine.

In short anything used to purify our bodies,

Had that title in the days of our hairy ancestors.

The month is so called, because the Luperci

Cleanse the earth with strips of purifying hide,

Or because the time is pure, having placated the dead,

When the days devoted to the departed are over.

Our ancestors believed every sin and cause of evil

Could be erased by rites of purification.

Greece set the example: she considered the guilty

Could rid themselves of sins by being purified.

Peleus cleansed Patroclus, and Acastus Peleus

From the blood of Phocus, by Haemonian waters.

Medea, drawn through the air by bridled dragons,

Was undeservedly welcomed by trusting Aegeus.

Alcmaeon said to Achelous: ‘Absolve my sin’,

And he did absolve that son of Amphiarus.

Ah! Too facile, to think the dark guilt of murder

Could be washed away by river water!

Yet (lest you err, through ignorance of their old order)

Though January is the first month, and was before,

February that follows was once last in the ancient year.

And your worship, Terminus, closed the sacred rites.

The month of Janus came first, being the entrance (janua):

This month was last, sacred to the last rites of the dead.

Afterwards the Decemvirs are thought to have brought together

These months that had been parted by a wide interval of time.

Book II: February 1: Kalends

At the start of the month they say that Juno the Saviour (Sospita),

Neighbouring the Phrygian Mother, was honoured with new shrines.

If you ask where those temples, dedicated to the goddess

On the Kalends, are now, they are fallen with the lapse of time.

All the rest would have similarly fallen in ruins,

But for the far-sighted concern of our sacred Leader,

Under whose rule the shrines are untouched by age:

Not satisfied with mere men, he also serves the gods.

Pious one, you who build and repair the temples,

May there be mutual care between you and the gods!

May the gods grant you the length of years you grant them,

And may they stand on guard before your house!

On this day too the grove of Alernus is crowded,

Near where Tiber, from afar, meets the ocean waves.

At Numa’s sanctuary, and the Thunderer’s on the Capitol,

And on the summit of Jove’s citadel, a sheep is sacrificed.

Often the sky, covered with cloud, rains heavily,

Or the earth is hidden under a blanket of snow.

Book II: February 2

When the next sun looses the jewelled yoke

From his bright horses, before he sinks in the western waves,

Looking up at night towards the stars, someone will say:

‘Where is the Lyre, that shone brightly last night?’

And searching for the Lyre, he will see that the Lion’s back

Has also plunged suddenly into the wide waters.

Book II: February 3

The Dolphin that you saw lately, studded with stars,

Will escape your gaze on the following night:

He was a happy go-between in love’s intrigues,

Or he carried the Lesbian lyre and its master.

What land or sea does not know of Arion?

He could hold back the running waters with his singing.

Often the wolf seeking a lamb was halted by his voice,

Often the lamb stopped, in fleeing the ravening wolf.

Often hare and hounds rested in the same covert,

And the deer on the rock stood still near the lioness,

And the chattering crow perched with Pallas’ owl,

Without a quarrel, and the dove united with the hawk.

They say that Diana has often stood entranced at your music,

Tuneful Arion, as if it were played by her brother’s hand.

Arion’s fame had filled the cities of Sicily,

And charmed the Italian shores with the sound of his lyre:

Travelling back from there, he boarded a ship

Carrying with him the wealth won by his art.

Unhappy one, perhaps you feared the wind and waves,

But the sea, in truth, was safer for you than your ship.

Since the steersman stood there with naked blade,

And the rest of that crew of conspirators were armed.

Why draw that blade? Seaman, steer the wandering vessel:

That weapon is not appropriate in your hands.

Trembling with fear, Arion said: ‘I don’t plead for life,

But let me take up my lyre and play a little.’

They granted it, laughing at the delay. He took the wreath

That might have graced your tresses, Phoebus:

Put on his robe, twice-stained with Tyrian purple:

And, plucked by his thumb, the strings gave out their music,

Such a melody as the swan’s mournful measures,

When the cruel shaft has transfixed its brow.

At once, he plunged, fully clothed into the waves:

The water, leaping, splashed the sky-blue stern.

Then (beyond belief) they say a dolphin

Yielded its back to the unaccustomed weight.

Sitting there, Arion gripped the lyre, and paid his fare

In song, soothing the ocean waves with his singing.

The gods see good deeds: Jupiter took the dolphin

And ordered its constellation to contain nine stars.

Book II: February 5: Nones

Now I wish for a thousand tongues, and that spirit

Of yours, Homer, you who celebrated Achilles,

While I sing the sacred Nones in alternating verse.

This is the greatest honour granted to the calendar.

My wit deserts me: the burden’s beyond my strength,

This special day above all I am to sing.

Why did I wish, foolishly, to lay so great a task

On elegiac verse? This was a theme for the heroic stanza.

Sacred Father of the Country, this title has been conferred

On you, by the senate, the people, and by us, the knights.

Events had already granted it. Tardily you received

Your true title, you’d long been Father of the World.

You have on earth the name that Jupiter owns to

In high heaven: you are father of men, he of gods.

Romulus, give way: Caesar by his care makes your walls

Mighty: you made such as Remus could leap across.

Tatius, and the little towns of Cures and Caenina,

Knew you: under this Leader all the sun sees is Roman.

You owned a little patch of conquered land:

Caesar possesses all beneath Jupiter’s heavens.

You raped married women: under Caesar they are ordered

To be chaste: you permitted the guilty your grove: he forbids them.

Force was acceptable to you: under Caesar the laws flourish.

You had the title Master: he bears the name of Prince.

Remus accused you, while he pardons his enemies.

Your father deified you: he deified his father.

Already Aquarius shows himself to the waist,

And pours the gods flowing nectar mixed with water,

And you who shrink from the north wind, be pleased,

A softer breeze is blowing from the West.

Book II: February 9

Five days later, the Morning Star has lifted its brightness

From the ocean waves, and these are the first days of spring.

But don’t be misled: cold days are still in wait for you,

Departing winter leaves sharp traces behind.

Book II: February 11

On the third night, you will see straight away

That the Bear Keeper Bootes’ feet have emerged.

Callisto was one of the Hamadryads, among

The sacred band of the huntress Diana.

She laid her hand on the goddess’ bow, saying:

‘Bear witness, bow I touch, to my virginity.’

Cynthia praised the vow: ‘Keep faith with that

And you will be first among my companions.’

She’d have kept her vow, if she’d not been beautiful:

She was wary of men, but sinned with Jupiter.

Phoebe had hunted many creatures through the woods,

And was returning home at noon, or shortly after.

As she reached a grove (a dense grove dark with holm-oak

With a deep fount of cool water at its centre),

She said: ‘Arcadian virgin, let’s bathe here in the woods.’

The girl blushed at the false title of virgin.

Diana spoke to the nymphs, and they undressed.

Callisto was ashamed, and gave bashful signs of delay.

Removing her tunic, her swollen belly

Gave clear witness to the burden she carried.

The goddess spoke to her, saying: ‘Daughter of Lycaon,

Oath-breaker, leave the virgin band, do not defile pure waters.’

Ten times the moon completed her full orb,

When she, thought to be virgin, became a mother.

Juno, wounded, raged, and altered the girl’s form.

What would you? Jupiter had ravished her against her will.

And seeing in his victim a shameful animal face,

Juno said: ‘Let Jupiter enjoy her embraces now!’

She who had been loved by highest Jove,

Roamed the wild mountains as a shaggy she-bear.

The boy she conceived furtively was adolescent

When the mother met the child she had born.

She reared, wildly, and growled, as if she knew him:

Growling was his mother’s only mode of speech.

The boy, unknowing, would have pierced her with his sharp spear,

But they were both caught up into the heavenly mansions.

They shine as neighbouring constellations: first the Bear,

Then the Bear-keeper takes shape behind her back.

Still, Juno, Saturn’s daughter, rages and begs grey Tethys

Never to wash the Maenalian Bear with her waters.

Book II: February 13: Ides

The altars of rustic Faunus smoke, on the Ides.

There, where the island breaks Tiber’s waters.

This was the day when three hundred and six

Of the Fabii fell to Veientine weapons.

A single family assumed the burden and defence of the city:

Their strong right arms volunteered their swords.

Noble soldiers they marched from the one camp,

And any one of them was fitted to be the leader.

The nearest way was the right hand arch of Carmentis Gate

Let no one go that way: it is unlucky.

Tradition says that the three hundred Fabii passed through:

The gate is free of blame, but is still unlucky.

When they had quickly reached the rushing Cremera,

(It was flowing darkly with winter rain)

They pitched their camp there, and with naked swords

Broke the Etruscan ranks with their valour,

Just like Libyan lions attacking the herds

Scattered over the fields, far and wide.

The enemy fled, receiving the wounds of shame

In their backs: the earth red with Tuscan blood.

So again, and as often, they fall. When open victory

Was denied them, they set armed men in ambush.

There was a plain, bounded by hills and forests,

Where the mountain creatures could make a lair.

The enemy left a few men and a scattering of cattle

In its midst, the rest of their army hid in the thickets.

Look, as a torrent swollen by rain and snow

That the warm West wind has melted, flows

Over the cornfields and roads, not as normal,

Enclosed by the margins of its banks,

So the Fabii, widely deployed, filled the valley,

Felling whatever they saw, filled with no other fear.

Where are you rushing to, noble house? Don’t trust the enemy:

Noble simplicity, beware of treacherous blades!

Valour is destroyed by fraud: the enemy leap out

Into the open plain, and take the ground on all side.

What can a few brave men do against thousands?

What help remains for them in time of danger?

As a wild boar driven far from the deep woods

By the hounds, scatters the swift pack with roaring maw,

But is soon killed, so they do not die un-avenged,

Dealing and receiving wounds alternately.

One day sent all the Fabii to war:

All that were sent to war, one day destroyed.

Yet we might think that the gods themselves took council,

To save the seed of the Herculean house:

For a boy too young to bear weapons

Was left behind of all the Fabian house,

No doubt so that you, Maximus, might be born

To save the state, one day, by your delaying.

Book II: February 14

Three constellations lie together, Corvus the Raven,

Hydra, and Crater, the Cup, between the two.

On the Ides they’re hidden at twilight, but risen the following night.

I’ll tell why the three as so closely linked together.

It happened that Phoebus prepared a solemn feast for Jove,

(This tale of mine will not take long to tell):

‘Go, my bird,’ he said, ‘so nothing delays the sacred rites,

And bring a little water from the running stream.’

The Raven caught up a gilded Cup in his claws,

And flew high into the air on his way.

There was a fig tree thick with unripe fruit:

The Raven tried it with his beak: but it wasn’t fit to eat.

Forgetting his orders, it’s said he perched by the tree,

To wait till the fruit should sweetly ripen.

When at last he’d taken his fill, he grasped a long Water-Snake

In his black talons, and returned to his master with a lying tale:

‘This snake caused my delay, it blocked the running water:

It prevented the stream’s flow, and my errand.’

‘Will you add to your fault with lies,’ said Phoebus,

And cheat the god of prophecy with words?

As for you, you’ll drink no cool water from the springs,

Until the ripened figs cling to the trees.’

So he spoke, and as an eternal reminder of this ancient tale,

Snake, Bird and Cup, as constellations, gleam side by side.

Book II: February 15: The Lupercalia

This third morning after the Ides sees the naked Luperci,

And the rites of two-horned Faunus enacted.

Pierian Muses, tell the origin of the rites,

And where they were brought from to our Latin home.

They say the ancient Arcadians worshipped Pan

The god of cattle, he of the mountain heights.

Mount Pholoe was witness, and the Stymphalian waters,

And Ladon that runs its swift course to the sea:

The ridges of the Nonacrine grove circled with pines:

High Tricrene, and the Parrhasian snows.

Pan was the god of cattle there, and the mares,

He received gifts for guarding the sheep.

Evander brought his woodland gods with him:

There where Rome stands there was merely a site.

So we worship the god, and the priest performs

The rites the Pelasgians brought in the ancient way.

Why, you ask, do the Luperci run, and since it’s their custom,

This running, why do they strip their bodies naked?

The god himself loves to run swiftly on the heights,

And he himself suddenly takes to flight.

The god himself is naked, and orders his servants naked,

Since anyway clothes were not suited to that course.

They say the Arcadians had their land before the birth

Of Jove, and their race is older than the moon.

They lived like beasts, lives spent to no purpose:

The common people were crude as yet, without arts.

They built houses from leafy branches, grass their crops,

Water, scooped in their palms, was nectar to them.

No bull panted yoked to the curved ploughshare,

No soil was under the command of the farmer.

Horses were not used, all carried their own burdens,

The sheep went about still clothed in their wool.

People lived in the open and went about nude,

Inured to heavy downpours from rain-filled winds.

To this day the naked priests recall the memory

Of old customs, and testify to those ancient ways.

But why Faunus, especially, shunned clothing,

Is handed down in an old tale full of laughter.

By chance Tirynthian Hercules was walking with Omphale,

His mistress, and Faunus saw them from a high ridge.

He saw and burned. ‘Mountain spirits,’ he said,

‘No more of your company: she will be my passion.’

As the Maeonian girl went by her fragrant hair streamed

Over her shoulders, her breast was bright with gold:

A gilded parasol protected her from warm sunlight,

One Herculean hands, indeed, held over her.

Now she came to Bacchus’ grove, and Tmolus’ vineyard,

While dew-wet Hesperus rode his dusky steed.

She entered a cave roofed with tufa and natural rock,

And there was a babbling stream at its entrance.

While her attendants were preparing food and wine,

She clothed Hercules in her own garments.

She gave him thin vests dyed in Gaetulian purple,

Gave him the elegant zone that had bound her waist.

The zone was too small for his belly, and he unfastened

The clasps of the vests to thrust out his great hands.

He fractured her bracelets, not made for such arms,

And his giant feet split the little shoes.

She took up his heavy club, and the lion’s pelt,

And those lesser weapons lodged in their quiver.

So dressed, they feasted, and gave themselves to sleep,

Resting on separate couches set next to one another,

Because they were preparing to celebrate the rites

Of the discoverer of the vine, with purity, at dawn.

It was midnight. What will unruly love not dare?

Faunus came through the dark to the dewy cave,

And seeing the servants lost in drunken slumber,

Had hopes of their master also being fast asleep.

Entering, as a reckless lover, he roamed around,

Following his cautious outstretched hands.

He reached the couches spread as beds, by touch,

And this first omen of the future was bright.

When he felt the bristling tawny lion-skin,

However, he drew back his hand in terror,

And recoiled, frozen with fear, as a traveller, troubled,

Will draw back his foot on seeing a snake.

Then he touched the soft coverings of the next couch,

And its deceptive feel misled him.

He climbed in, and reclined on the bed’s near side,

And his swollen cock was harder than horn.

But pulling up the lower hem of the tunic,

The legs there were bristling with thick coarse hair.

The Tirynthian hero fiercely repelled another attempt,

And down fell Faunus from the heights of the couch.

At the noise, Omphale called for her servants, and light:

Torches appeared, and events became clear.

Faunus groaned from his heavy fall from the high couch,

And could barely lift his limbs from the hard ground.

Hercules laughed, as did all who saw him lying there,

And the Lydian girl laughed too, at her lover.

Betrayed by his clothing: so the god hates clothes

That trick the eye, and calls the naked to his rites.

Add Roman reasons, my Muse, to foreign ones,

And let my charger race his own dusty course.

A she-goat was sacrificed to cloven Faunus, as usual,

And a crowd had been invited to the scanty feast.

While the priests prepared the entrails, on willow spits,

The sun being then at the zenith of it course,

Romulus and his brother, and a shepherd boy,

Exercised their naked bodies on the sunlit plain:

Trying the strength of their arms in sport,

With levers, javelins, or hurling heavy stones.

A shepherd shouted from the heights: ‘Romulus, Remus,

Thieves are driving the bullocks off through the wasteland.’

It would have taken too long to arm: they took opposite

Directions: and meeting them Remus re-took their prize.

Returning he drew the hissing entrails from the spits,

Saying: ‘No one but the victor shall eat of these.’

As he said, so he and the Fabii did. Romulus returned,

Unsuccessful, finding the empty table and bare bones.

He laughed and grieved that Remus and the Fabii,

Should have conquered, where his own Quintilii could not.

The tale of that deed endures: they run stark naked,

And the success achieved enjoyed a lasting fame.

You might also ask why that cave is called the Lupercal,

And the reason for giving the day such a name.

Silvia, a Vestal, had given birth to divine children,

At the time when her uncle held the throne.

He ordered the infants taken and drowned in the river:

What was he doing? One of the two was Romulus.

Reluctantly his servants obeyed the sad command

(Though they wept) and took the twins to the appointed place.

It chanced that the Albula, called Tiber from Tiberinus

Drowned in its waves, was swollen with winter rain:

You could see boats drifting where the fora are,

And there in the vale of the Circus Maximus.

When the servants arrived there (since they were

Unable to go further), one of them said:

‘How alike they are, how beautiful each of them is!

Yet of the two this one is the more vigorous.

If nobility is seen in the face, unless I’m wrong,

I suspect that there’s some god within you –

Yet if some god were the author of your being,

He’d bring you aid at such a perilous time:

Your mother would surely bring help if she could,

Who has borne and lost her children in one day:

Born together, to die together, pass together beneath

The waves!’ He finished and set them down.

Both squalled alike: you’d have thought they knew.

The servants returned with tears on their cheeks.

The hollow trough, where the boys were laid, floated

On the water, how great a fate the little ark carried!

It drifted onwards towards a shadowy wood,

And gradually settled where the depth lessened.

There was a tree: traces remain, which is now called

The Rumina fig, once Romulus’ fig tree.

A she-wolf, newly delivered, (miraculously!) found the abandoned twins,

Who would have thought the creature would not harm them?

Far from harming them she helped them: and a wolf fed those

Whom their kin would have allowed to perish.

She stayed, caressed the tender infants with her tail,

And licked their bodies with her tongue.

You might know they were sons of Mars: without fear

They sucked her teats, and the milk not meant for them.

She gave her name to the place: and the place to the Luperci.

The nurse has a great reward for the milk she gave.

Why shouldn’t they be named from the Arcadian peak?

Lycaean Faunus has temples in Arcadia.

Bride, why linger? No potent herb, or prayer

Or magic spell can make you a mother:

Be patient under the blows of a fruitful hand,

And soon your husband’s father will be a grandfather.

For there was a day when harsh fate decreed

Wives rarely gave their mates gifts from their womb.

Romulus (since it was when he ruled) cried:

‘What was the use of raping the Sabine women,

If that wrong has brought war instead of strength?

It would have been better if our sons were unwed.’

A grove below the Esquiline Hill, untouched

For many years, was sacred to great Juno.

When they had gathered there, husbands and wives

Bowed their knees, alike, in supplication,

And suddenly the tree tops moved and trembled,

And the goddess spoke strange words in her grove:

‘Let the sacred he-goat pierce the Italian wives’.

The crowd stood, terrified, at the troubling words.

There was an augur (his name is lost with the years,

But he had lately arrived, an exile from Tuscany),

He killed a he-goat and, at his command, the wives

Offered their backs, to be beaten by thongs from its hide.

When the moon renewed her horns in her tenth orbit,

The husband became a father, and the wife a mother.

Thanks be to Lucina! Goddess you took that name

From the grove (lucus), or as yours is the source of light (lucis).

Gracious Lucina, spare women heavy with child, I beg you,

And bring the ripe burden tenderly from the womb.

When this day dawns, no longer trust the winds:

The breezes are faithless at this season:

The gales are fickle, and for six days the door

Of the Aeolian cavern stands open wide.

Now nimble Aquarius of the tilted urn, is hidden:

Pisces, you next receive the sky-borne horses.

They say that you and your brother (for you glitter

Together as stars) mounted two gods on your backs.

Dione, once, fleeing from dreaded Typhon,

When Jupiter took up arms to defend the heavens,

Came to Euphrates with the little Cupid,

And sat by the brink of the waters of Palestine.

Reeds and poplars grew by the banks,

And willows too gave hope of shelter there.

While she hid, the grove rustled in the wind:

She turned pale with fear, and thought enemies nearby.

So, holding the child in her lap, she cried:

‘Help, you Nymphs, and aid two divine beings!’

She leapt in, without delay. Twin fishes bore her:

For which, a worthy gift, they were made stars.

And so the pious Syrians hold it wrong to serve them

At their table: their mouths are not defiled with fish.

Book II: February 17

The next day is not notable, but the third is Quirinus’,

(He was Romulus before), who is so called

Either because a spear was curis among the ancient Sabines,

(By his spear that warlike god won his place among the stars),

Or because the Quirites gave their name to their king,

Or because he united the city of Cures to Rome.

For when the father, lord of weapons, saw the new walls

And the many wars waged with Romulus’ hands,

He said: ‘Jupiter, Roman power possesses strength:

It doesn’t need the services of my people.

Return the son to his father. Though one is dead,

The one who remains is enough for himself and Remus.

You said to me: “There’ll be one you’ll raise

To the azure sky.” Let Jupiter keep his word.’

Jupiter nodded his agreement. Both the poles trembled

At his nod, and Atlas shifted the weight of the sky.

There’s a place the ancients called the She-goat’s Marsh:

You chanced to be judging the people there, Romulus.

The sun vanished, and rising clouds obscured the sky,

And a heavy shower of torrential rain fell.

Then it thundered. Then the sky was split by lightning:

All fled, and the king rose to the stars behind his father’s horses.

There was mourning, senators were falsely charged with murder,

And perhaps that belief might have stuck in people’s minds,

But Julius Proculus was travelling from Alba Longa,

With the moon shining, and having no need of a torch,

When suddenly the hedge to his left moved and shook:

So that he drew back a step, his hair bristling.

It seemed to him that Romulus, handsome, more than human,

And finely dressed, stood there, in the centre of the road,

Saying: ‘Prevent the Quirites from mourning me,

And profaning my divinity by their tears:

Let the pious crowds bring incense and propitiate

The new god Quirinus, and cultivate their father’s art of war.’

So he commanded and vanished into thin air:

Proculus gathered the people and reported the command.

Temples were built for the god, the hill named for him,

And on certain days the ancestral rites are re-enacted.

Learn too why this day is called the Feast of Fools.

The reason for it is trivial but fitting.

The earth of old was farmed by ignorant men:

Fierce wars weakened their powerful bodies.

There was more glory in the sword than the plough:

And the neglected farm brought its owner little return.

Yet the ancients sowed corn, corn they reaped,

Offering the first fruits of the corn harvest to Ceres.

Taught by practice they parched it in the flames,

And incurred many losses through their own mistakes.

Sometimes they’d sweep up burnt ash and not corn,

Sometimes the flames took their huts themselves:

The oven was made a goddess, Fornax: the farmers

Pleased with her, prayed she’d regulate the grain’s heat.

Now the Curio Maximus, in a set form of words, declares

The shifting date of the Fornacalia, the Feast of Ovens:

And round the Forum hang many tablets,

On which every ward displays its particular sign.

Foolish people don’t know which is their ward,

So they hold the feast on the last possible day.

Book II: February 21: The Feralia

And the grave must be honoured. Appease your fathers’

Spirits, and bring little gifts to the tombs you built.

Their shades ask little, piety they prefer to costly

Offerings: no greedy deities haunt the Stygian depths.

A tile wreathed round with garlands offered is enough,

A scattering of meal, and a few grains of salt,

And bread soaked in wine, and loose violets:

Set them on a brick left in the middle of the path.

Not that I veto larger gifts, but these please the shades:

Add prayers and proper words to the fixed fires.

This custom was brought to your lands, just Latinus,

By Aeneas, a fitting promoter of piety.

He brought solemn gifts to his father’s spirit:

From him the people learned the pious rites.

But once, waging a long war with fierce weapons,

They neglected the Parentalia, Festival of the Dead.

It did not go unpunished: they say from that ominous day

Rome grew hot from funeral fires near the City.

I scarcely believe it, but they say that ancestral spirits

Came moaning from their tombs in the still of night,

And misshapen spirits, a bodiless throng, howled

Through the City streets, and through the broad fields.

Afterwards neglected honour was paid to the tombs,

And there was an end to the portents, and the funerals.

But while these rites are enacted, girls, don’t marry:

Let the marriage torches wait for purer days.

And virgin, who to your mother seem ripe for love,

Don’t let the curved spear comb your tresses.

Hymen, hide your torches, and carry them far

From these dark fires! The gloomy tomb owns other torches.

And hide the gods, closing those revealing temple doors,

Let the altars be free of incense, the hearths without fire.

Now ghostly spirits and the entombed dead wander,

Now the shadow feeds on the nourishment that’s offered.

But it only lasts till there are no more days in the month

Than the feet (eleven) that my metres possess.

This day they call the Feralia because they bear (ferunt)

Offerings to the dead: the last day to propitiate the shades.

See, an old woman sitting amongst the girls performs the rites

Of Tacita, the Silent (though she herself is not silent),

With three fingers, she sets three lumps of incense

Under the sill, where the little mouse makes its secret path:

Then she fastens enchanted threads together with dark lead,

And turns seven black beans over and over in her mouth,

And bakes the head of a sprat in the fire, mouth sewn up

With pitch, pierced right through with a bronze needle.

She drops wine on it too, and she or her friends

Drink the wine that’s left, though she gets most.

On leaving she says: ‘We have sealed up hostile mouths

And unfriendly tongues’: and the old woman exits drunk.

You’ll ask at once, who is the goddess Muta?:

Hear of what I’ve learned from the old men.

Jupiter, overcome with intense love for Juturna,

Suffered many things a god ought not to bear.

Now she would hide in the woods among the hazels,

Now she would dive into her sister waters.

The god called the nymphs who lived in Latium,

And spoke these words in the midst of their throng:

‘Your sister is an enemy to herself, and shuns a union

With the supreme god that would benefit her.

Take counsel for both: for what would delight me greatly

Would be a great advantage to your sister.

When she flees, stop her by the riverbank,

Lest she plunges her body into the waters.’

He spoke: all the nymphs of the Tiber agreed,

Those too who haunt your spaces, divine Ilia.

There was a naiad, named Lara: but her old name

Was the first syllable twice-repeated, given her

To mark her failing. Almo, the river-god often said:

‘Daughter, hold your tongue,’ but she still did not.

As soon as she reached the pools of her sister Juturna,

She said: ‘Flee these banks’, and spoke Jupiter’s words.

She even went to Juno, and showing pity for married women

Said: ‘Your husband loves the naiad Juturna.’

Jupiter was angered, and tearing that tongue from her mouth

That she had used so immoderately, called Mercury to him:

‘Lead her to the shadows: that place is fitting for the silent.

She shall be a nymph, but of the infernal marshes.’

Jove’s order was obeyed. On the way they reached a grove:

Then it was they say that she pleased the god who led her.

He prepared to force her, with a glance instead of words

She pleaded, trying to speak from her mute lips.

Heavy with child, she bore twins who guard the crossroads,

The Lares, who keep watch forever over the City.

Book II: February 22

The next day has its name, Caristia, from our dear (cari) kin,

When a throng of relations gathers to the family gods.

It’s surely pleasant to turn our faces to the living,

Once away from our relatives who have perished,

And after so many lost, to see those of our blood

Who remain, and count the degrees of kinship.

Let the innocent come: let the impious brother be far,

Far from here, and the mother harsh to her children,

He whose father’s too long-lived, who weighs his mother’s years,

The cruel mother-in-law who crushes the daughter-in-law she hates.

Be absent Tantalides, Atreus, Thyestes: and Medea, Jason’s wife:

Ino who gave parched seeds to the farmers:

And Procne, her sister, Philomela, and Tereus cruel to both,

And whoever has gathered wealth by wickedness.

Virtuous ones, burn incense to the gods of the family,

(Gentle Concord is said to be there on this day above all)

And offer food, so the robed Lares may feed from the dish

Granted to them as a mark of esteem, that pleases them.

Then when moist night invites us to calm slumber,

Fill the wine-cup full, for the prayer, and say:

‘Health, health to you, worthy Caesar, Father of the Country!’

And let there be pleasant speech at the pouring of wine.

Book II: February 23: The Terminalia

When night has passed, let the god be celebrated

With customary honour, who separates the fields with his sign.

Terminus, whether a stone or a stump buried in the earth,

You have been a god since ancient times.

You are crowned from either side by two landowners,

Who bring two garlands and two cakes in offering.

An altar’s made: here the farmer’s wife herself

Brings coals from the warm hearth on a broken pot.

The old man cuts wood and piles the logs with skill,

And works at setting branches in the solid earth.

Then he nurses the first flames with dry bark,

While a boy stands by and holds the wide basket.

When he’s thrown grain three times into the fire

The little daughter offers the sliced honeycombs.

Others carry wine: part of each is offered to the flames:

The crowd, dressed in white, watch silently.

Terminus, at the boundary, is sprinkled with lamb’s blood,

And doesn’t grumble when a sucking pig is granted him.

Neighbours gather sincerely, and hold a feast,

And sing your praises, sacred Terminus:

‘You set bounds to peoples, cities, great kingdoms:

Without you every field would be disputed.

You curry no favour: you aren’t bribed with gold,

Guarding the land entrusted to you in good faith.

If you’d once marked the bounds of Thyrean lands,

Three hundred men would not have died,

Nor Othryades’ name be seen on the pile of weapons.

O how he made his fatherland bleed!

What happened when the new Capitol was built?

The whole throng of gods yielded to Jupiter and made room:

But as the ancients tell, Terminus remained in the shrine

Where he was found, and shares the temple with great Jupiter.

Even now there’s a small hole in the temple roof,

So he can see nothing above him but stars.

Since then, Terminus, you’ve not been free to wander:

Stay there, in the place where you’ve been put,

And yield not an inch to your neighbour’s prayers,

Lest you seem to set men above Jupiter:

And whether they beat you with rakes, or ploughshares,

Call out: “This is your field, and that is his!”’

There’s a track that takes people to the Laurentine fields,

The kingdom once sought by Aeneas, the Trojan leader:

The sixth milestone from the City, there, bears witness

To the sacrifice of a sheep’s entrails to you, Terminus.

The lands of other races have fixed boundaries:

The extent of the City of Rome and the world is one.

Book II: February 24: The Regifugium

Now I have to tell of the Flight of the King:

The sixth day from the end of the month has that name.

Tarquin the Proud held the last kingship of the Roman people,

A man of injustice, but powerful in might.

He had taken cities, and overthrown others,

And made Gabii his, by base trickery.

For the youngest of his three sons, Sextus, clearly a child

Of Tarquin, entered the midst of his enemies in the still of night.

They drew their swords: he said: ‘Don’t kill the unarmed!

That’s what my brother, and father, Tarquin, desire,

He who lacerated my back with a cruel scourge.’

So he could make his plea, he had suffered a beating.

There was a moon: seeing a youth they sheathed their swords

And saw the scars on his back when he drew back his robe.

They even wept, and begged to fight with them in the war:

The cunning youth complied with the unwary men.

Once in place he sent a friend to ask his father

To show him the means of destroying Gabii.

Below lay a garden full of fragrant plants,

Where a gentle stream of splashing water cut the soil:

There Tarquin the Proud received his son’s secret message,

And then slashed the heads of the lilies with a stick.

When the messenger returned and spoke of the broken flowers,

The son said: ‘I understand my father’s orders.’

He killed Gabii’s chief citizens, without delay,

And surrendered the walls, now naked of leaders.

See, a dreadful sight, a snake appeared between the altars,

And snatched the entrails from the dead fires.

The oracle of Phoebus was consulted: it replied:

‘He who first kisses his mother will win.’

Not understanding the god, each of the throng

Believing it, quickly ran to kiss his mother.

Wise Brutus pretended to be foolish, to be safe

From your snares, dread Tarquin the Proud:

Throwing himself down he kissed Mother Earth,

Though they thought he had stumbled and fallen.

Meanwhile the Roman standards ringed Ardea,

And the city endured a long lingering siege.

While they were idle, and the enemy feared to fight,

They enjoyed themselves in camp: the soldiers at ease.

Young Tarquin entertained his friends with food and wine,

And among them the king’s son spoke out:

‘While Ardea troubles us with this sluggish war,

And stops us bearing our weapons to our fathers’ gods,

How is the marriage bed served? And are we

As dear to our wives as they are to us?’

Each praised his own: in their eagerness dispute raged,

And tongues and hearts grew heated with much wine.

Then Tarquinius who took his famous name from Collatia

Rose, and said: ‘Words are not needed: trust in deeds!

Night still remains: take horse and head for the City!’

The words pleased them: the horses were bridled,

And carried off their masters. They first sought

The royal palace: there was no guard at the door.

See, they found the king’s daughters-in-law, garlands

Round their necks, keeping vigil over the wine.

From there they swiftly sought Lucretia,

Before whose couch were baskets of soft wool.

By a scant light her servants were spinning their yarn,

Amongst them the lady spoke with a quiet voice:

‘The cloak our hands have made (hurry now, girls, hurry!)

Must be sent to the master straight away.

What news is there? Since you hear more of things:

How much more of the war do they say is left to run?

Perverse Ardea, after this you’ll be conquered and fall,

You resist your betters, who force our husbands’ absence.

If only they return! But mine is thoughtless,

And rushes everywhere with his drawn sword.

I faint, I die, as often as the image of my warrior

Comes to mind, and chills my heart with cold.’

She ended in tears, letting fall the stretched yarn,

And buried her face in her lap.

It became her: becoming, were her modest tears,

And her face was a worthy equal to her heart.

Her husband cried out: ‘Fear not, I come!’ She revived,

And hung, a sweet burden, on her husband’s neck.

Meanwhile the royal youth, Sextus, caught furious fire,

And raged about, captured by blind love.

Her form please him, her white skin and yellow hair,

And added to that her grace, owing nothing to art:

Her voice and speech pleased him, her incorruptibility,

And the less his hope, the more he desired her.

Now the bird had sung that heralds the dawn,

When the young men took their way back to camp.

Meanwhile the image of the absent one captivated

His stunned senses. In memory, she pleased more and more.

‘She sat so, was dressed so, so spun her yarn,

So her hair spilled loose about her neck,

That was her look: those were her words,

That was her colour, her form, her lovely face.’

As the flood subsides after a great gale,

But the waves heave from the dying wind,

So though the presence of that pleasing form was absent,

Love remained, which its presence had given form.

He burned, and driven by the goad of sinful love,

He plotted force and deceit to an innocent bed.

He said: ‘The issue is doubtful: we’ll dare extremes!

Let her beware! God and fate favour the bold.

By daring we took Gabii as well.’ So saying,

He strapped on his sword, and mounted his horse.

Collatia’s bronze gate received the young man

As the sun was preparing to hide its face.

An enemy entered Collatinus’s home, as a friend:

He was welcomed courteously: he was of their blood.

How her mind was deceived! Unknowingly,

The wretched woman prepared a meal for her foe.

The meal was done: the hour demanded rest:

It was night, and the whole house was without light:

He rose, and drew his sword from his gilded scabbard,

And, chaste wife, he entered your bedroom.

As he touched the bed, the king’s son said:

‘Lucretia I have a blade, and I, a Tarquin, speak!’

She said nothing: she’d no voice or powers of speech

Nor any capability for thought in her whole mind.

But she trembled like a little lamb, caught straying

From the fold, brought low by a wolf’s attack.

What could she do? Fight? In battle a woman loses.

Cry out? But the sword in his right hand restrained her.

Fly? His hands pressed down hard on her breast,

A breast that had never been touched by a stranger’s hand.

The hostile lover pursues her with prayers, bribes, threats,

But prayers and bribes and threats cannot sway her.

He said: ‘My accusation will rob you of your life:

The adulterer will bear false witness to adultery:

I’ll kill a slave, they’ll say you were caught with him.’

Overcome by fear for her reputation, the girl was conquered.

Why, rejoice, victor? This victory will destroy you.

Alas, how a single night cost you your kingdom!

Now day had dawned: she sat with hair unbound,

Like a mother who must go to her son’s funeral.

She called her aged father and her loyal husband

From the camp, and both came without delay.

Seeing her condition, they asked why she mourned,

Whose rites she prepared, what ill had befallen her?

She was silent for a long time, and hid her face in her robe

Out of shame: her tears flowed in a running stream.

Her father here, her husband there comforted her tears

And begged her to tell, wept, and trembled in blind fear.

Three times she tried to speak, three times desisted,

And a fourth time, gaining courage, still couldn’t raise her eyes.

She said: ‘Must I owe this to a Tarquin too? Must I speak,

Speak, poor wretch, my shame from my own mouth?’

What she could, she told. The end she suppressed:

She wept, and a blush spread over a wife’s cheeks.

Her husband and her father forgave her being forced:

She said: ‘I deny myself the forgiveness that you grant.’

Then she stabbed herself with a blade she had hidden,

And, all bloodied, fell at her father’s feet.

Even then she took care in dying so that she fell

With decency, that was her care even in falling.

See, the husband and father throw themselves on her body,

Regardless of appearances, grieve for their mutual loss.

Brutus approached, and at last, with spirit, belied his name,

Snatching the weapon from the dying body,

Holding the blade dripping with noble blood,

Fearlessly he uttered these menacing words:

‘I swear by this chaste blood, so courageous,

And by your spirit that will be a divinity to me,

I will be revenged on Tarquin the Proud and his lost brood.

I have concealed my virtue for too long.’

At these words, lying there, she moved her sightless eyes,

And seemed to witness the speech by a stirring of her hair.

They carried her to her funeral, a woman with a man’s courage,

And tears and indignation followed after her.

The gaping wound was seen. Brutus, with a shout,

Gathered the Quirites, and told of the king’s evil act.

Tarquin the Proud and his children fled, a consul took up the rule

For the year: That day was the last day of kingship.

Am I wrong, or has the swallow come, herald of the Spring:

Does she not fear lest winter should turn back, return again?

Often, Procne, you’ll complain that you’ve been too swift,

And your husband, Tereus, rejoice in the cold you feel.

Book II: February 27: The Equirria

Now two nights of the second month remain,

And Mars urges on his chariot’s swift horses.

The day has retained the name Equirria,

From the horse races the god views on his Fields.

Rightly you’re here, Gradivus, Marching God: your season

Demands its place, the month marked by your name is near.

Book II: February 28

We’ve reached harbour: the book ends with the month:

Now, from here, my vessel can sail through other waters.

Book III: Introduction

Come Mars, God of War, lay aside your shield and spear:

A moment, from your helmet, free your shining hair.

What has a poet to do with Mars, you might ask?

The month I sing of takes its name from you.

You see, yourself, fierce wars waged by Minerva:

Is she less free to practice the noble arts for that?

Take time to set aside you lance and follow Pallas’

Example: and find something to do while unarmed.

You were unarmed then, as well, when the Roman

Priestess captivated you, so you could seed this City.

Silvia, the Vestal, (why not begin with her?)

Sought water at dawn to wash sacred things.

When she came to where the path ran gently down

The sloping bank, she set down the earthenware jar

From her head. Weary, she sat on the ground and opened

Her dress to the breeze, and composed her ruffled hair.

While she sat there, the shadowy willows, melodious birds,

And the soft murmur of the water made her sleepy.

Sweet slumber slyly stole across her conquered eyes,

And her languid hand fell, from supporting her chin.

Mars saw her, seeing her desired her, desiring her

Possessed her, by divine power hiding his theft.

She lost sleep, lay there heavily: and already,

Rome’s founder had his being in her womb,.

Languidly she rose, not knowing why she rose,

And leaning against a tree spoke these words:

‘I beg that what I saw in vision in my sleep

Might be happy and good. Or was it too real for sleep?

I thought I was tending the Trojan flame, and the woollen band

Slipped from my hair, and fell down, in front of the sacred fire.

From it, strange sight, at once, two palm trees sprang:

One of the trees was taller than the other,

And covered all the world with its heavy branches,

Touching the topmost stars with its crown.

See, my uncle, Amulius, wielding an axe against the trees,

The thought terrified me, and my heart shuddered with fear.

A woodpecker, bird of Mars, and a she-wolf defended

The twin trunks: by their help both palm-trees were saved.’

She spoke, and weakly lifted the brimming pitcher:

She had filled it while she told of her vision.

Meanwhile Remus and Quirinus were growing,

And her belly swelled with the divine burden.

When only two signs remained for the shining god

To travel before the complete year had run its course,

Silvia became a mother. They say the images of Vesta

Covered their eyes with their virgin hands:

The altar of the goddess certainly trembled when her priestess

Gave birth, and the fearful flame sank to its own ashes.

When Amulius, knew of this, a man scornful of justice,

(Since he overcame his own brother and took his power)

He ordered the twins drowned in the river. The water shrank

From the crime: and the boys were left there on dry land.

Who doesn’t know that the children were fed on milk

From a wild creature, and a woodpecker often brought them food?

Now should I forget you, Larentia, nurse of such a nation,

Nor, poor Faustulus, the help that you gave.

I’ll honour you when I speak of the Larentalia,

And the month approved of by the guardian spirits.

The children of Mars were eighteen years old,

And fresh beards grew below their yellow hair:

These brothers, the sons of Ilia, gave judgement

When asked, to all farmers and masters of herds.

They often returned pleased with the blood of robbers

They’d spilt: driving the stolen cattle back to their fields.

Hearing their origin, their spirits rose at their father’s divinity,

And they were ashamed to be known only among a few huts.

Amulius fell, struck through by Romulus’ sword

And the kingdom was returned to their old grandfather.

Walls were built, which it would have been better

For Remus not to leap, small though they were.

Now what was once woodland and the haunt of cattle,

Was a City, and the founder of the eternal City said:

‘Arbiter of War, from whose blood I am thought to spring,

(And to confirm that belief I shall give many proofs),

I name the first month of the Roman year after you:

The first month shall be called by my father’s name.’

The promise was kept: he called the month after his father.

This piety is said to have pleased the god.

And earlier, Mars was worshipped above all the gods:

A warlike people gave him their enthusiasm.

Athens worshipped Pallas: Minoan Crete, Diana:

Hypsipyle’s island of Lemnos worshipped Vulcan:

Juno was worshipped by Sparta and Pelops’ Mycenae,

Pine-crowned Faunus by Maenalian Arcadia:

Mars, who directs the sword, was revered by Latium:

Arms gave a fierce people possessions and glory.

If you have time examine various calendars.

And you’ll find a month there named after Mars.

It was third in the Alban, fifth in the Faliscan calendar,

Sixth among your people, Hernican lands.

The position’s the same in the Arician and Alban,

And Tusculum’s whose walls Telegonus made.

It’s fifth among the Laurentes, tenth for the tough Aequians,

First after the third the folk of Cures place it,

And the Pelignian soldiers agree with their Sabine

Ancestors: both make him the god of the fourth month.

In order to take precedence over all these, at least,

Romulus gave the first month to the father of his race.

Nor did the ancients have as many Kalends as us:

Their year was shorter than ours by two months.

Greece, defeated had not yet transmitted her arts

To the conquerors, her people eloquent but not brave.

He knew the arts of Rome, then, who fought well:

He was fluent, who could hurl the javelin, then.

Who knew the Hyades or Pleiades, the daughters

Of Atlas, or that there were two poles in the sky:

Knew that there are two Bears, the Sidonians steering

By Cynosura, the Greek sailor noting Helice:

That the signs Apollo, the Sun, travels in a whole year,

His sister Diana’s Moon-horses cross in a month?

The stars then ran their course, freely, unobserved

Each year: yet everyone held them to be gods.

They couldn’t touch the heaven’s gliding Standards,

Only their own, and it was a great crime to lose them.

Theirs were of straw: But the straw won a reverence

As great as you see the eagles share today.

A long pole carried the hanging bundles (maniplos),

From which the private soldier takes his name (maniplaris).

So, untaught and lacking in science, each five-year lustre

That they calculated was short by two whole months.

A year was when the moon returned to full for the tenth time:

And that was a number that was held in high honour:

Because it’s the number of fingers we usually count with,

Or because a woman produces in ten months,

Or because the numerals ascend from one to ten,

And from that point we begin a fresh interval.

So Romulus divided the hundred Senators into ten groups,

And instituted ten companies of men with spears,

And as many front-rank and javelin men,

And also those who officially merited horses.

He even divided the tribes the same way, the Titienses,

The Ramnes, as they are called, and the Luceres.

And so he reserved the same number for his year,

It’s the time for which the sad widow mourns her man.

If you doubt that the Kalends of March began the year,

You can refer to the following evidence.

The priest’s laurel branch that remained all year,

Was removed then, and fresh leaves honoured.

Then the king’s door is green with Phoebus’ bough,

Set there, and at your doors too, ancient wards.

And the withered laurel is taken from the Trojan hearth,

So Vesta may be brightly dressed with new leaves.

Also, it’s said, a new fire is lit at her secret shrine,

And the rekindled flame acquires new strength.

And to me it’s no less a sign that past years began so,

That in this month worship of Anna Perenna begins.

Then too it’s recorded public offices commenced,

Until the time of your wars, faithless Carthaginian.

Lastly Quintilis is the fifth (quintus) month from March,

And begins those that take their names from numerals.

Numa Pompilius, led to Rome from the lands of olives,

Was the first to realise the year lacked two months,

Learning it from Pythagoras of Samos, who believed

We could be reborn, or was taught it by his own Egeria.

But the calendar was still erratic down to the time

When Caesar took it, and many other things, in hand.

That god, the founder of a mighty house, did not

Regard the matter as beneath his attention,

And wished to have prescience of those heavens

Promised him, not be an unknown god entering a strange house.

He is said to have drawn up an exact table

Of the periods in which the sun returns to its previous signs.

He added sixty-five days to three hundred,

And then added a fifth part of a whole day.

That’s the measure of the year: one day

The sum of the five part-days is added to each lustre.

Book III: March 1: Kalends

‘If it’s right for the secret promptings of the gods

To be heard by poets, as it’s rumoured they may,

Tell me, Gradivus, Marching God, why women keep

Your feast, you who are apt to be served by men.’

So I spoke. And Mars answered, laying aside his helmet,

But keeping his throwing spear in his right hand:

Now am I, a god used to warfare, invoked

In pursuit of peace, and I’m carried into new camps,

And I don’t dislike it: I like to take on this function,

Lest Minerva think that she alone can do so.

Have what you seek, labouring poet of Latin days,

And inscribe my words in your memory.

Rome was little, if you wish to trace its first beginnings,

But still in that little, there was hope of all this.

The walls already stood, too cramped for its future people,

But then thought too large for its populace.

If you ask where my son’s palace was,

See there, that house made of straw and reeds.

He snatched the gifts of peaceful sleep on straw,

Yet from that same low bed he rose to the stars.

Already the Roman’s name extended beyond his city,

Though he possessed neither wife nor father-in-law.

Wealthy neighbours rejected poor sons-in-law,

And hardly thought I was the origin of the race.

It harmed the Romans that they lived in cattle-byres,

Grazed sheep, and owned a few acres of poor soil.

Birds and beasts each mate with their own kind,

And even a snake has another with which to breed:

Rights of intermarriage are granted to distant peoples:

Yet none wished to marry with the Romans.

I sympathised, Romulus, and gave you your father’s spirit:

“Forget prayers,” I said, “Arms will grant what you seek.”

He prepared a feast for the god, Consus. Consus will tell you

The rest of what happened that day when you sing his rites.

Cures was angered, and all who endured that same wrong:

Then a father fist waged war on his sons-in-law.

The ravished women were now almost mothers,

And the war between the kinfolk lingered on,

When the wives gathered to the call in Juno’s temple:

Among them, my daughter-in-law dared to speak:

“Oh, all you ravished women (we have that in common)

We can no longer delay our duties to our kin.

The battle prepares, but choose which side you will pray for:

Your husbands on this side, your fathers are on that.

The question is whether you choose to be widows or fatherless:

I will give you dutiful and bold advice.”

She gave counsel: they obeyed and loosened their hair,

And clothed their bodies in gloomy funeral dress.

The ranks already stood to arms, preparing to die,

The trumpets were about to sound the battle signal,

When the ravished women stood between husband and father,

Holding their infants, dear pledges of love, to their breasts.

When, with streaming hair, they reached the centre of the field,

They knelt on the ground, their grandchildren, as if they understood,

With sweet cries, stretching out their little arms to their grandfathers:

Those who could, called to their grandfather, seen for the first time,

And those who could barely speak yet, were encouraged to try.

The arms and passions of the warriors fall: dropping their swords

Fathers and sons-in-law grasp each other’s hands,

They embrace the women, praising them, and the grandfather

Bears his grandchild on his shield: a sweeter use for it.

Hence the Sabine mothers acquired the duty, no light one,

To celebrate the first day, my Kalends.

Either because they ended that war, by their tears,

In boldly facing the naked blades,

Or because Ilia happily became a mother through me,

Mothers justly observe the rites on my day.

Then winter, coated in frost, at last withdraws,

And the snows vanish, melted by warm suns:

Leaves, once lost to the cold, appear on the trees,

And the moist bud swells in the tender shoot:

And fertile grasses, long concealed, find out

Hidden paths to lift themselves to the air.

Now the field’s fruitful, now’s the time for cattle breeding,

Now the bird on the bough prepares a nest and home:

It’s right that Roman mothers observe that fruitful season,

Since in childbirth they both struggle and pray.

Add that, where the Roman king kept watch,

On the hill that now has the name of Esquiline,

A temple was founded, as I recall, on this day,

By the Roman women in honour of Juno.

But why do I linger, and burden your thoughts with reasons?

The answer you seek is plainly before your eyes.

My mother, Juno, loves brides: crowds of mothers worship me:

Such a virtuous reason above all befits her and me.’

Bring the goddess flowers: the goddess loves flowering plants:

Garland your heads with fresh flowers, and say:

‘You, Lucina, have given us the light of life’: and say:

‘You hear the prayer of women in childbirth.’

But let her who is with child, free her hair in prayer,

So the goddess may gently free her womb.

Now who will tell me why the Salii carry Mars’

Celestial weapons, and sing of Mamurius.

Teach me, nymph, who serves Diana’s lake and grove:

Nymph, Egeria, wife to Numa, speak of your actions.

There is a lake in the vale of Aricia, ringed by dense woods,

And sacred to religion from ancient times.

Here Hippolytus hides, who was torn to pieces

By his horses, and so no horse may enter the grove.

The long hedge is covered with hanging threads,

And many tablets witness the goddess’s merit.

Often a woman whose prayer is answered, brow wreathed

With garlands, carries lighted torches from the City.

One with strong hands and swift feet rules there,

And each is later killed, as he himself killed before.

A pebble-filled stream flows down with fitful murmurs:

Often I’ve drunk there, but in little draughts.

Egeria, goddess dear to the Camenae, supplies the water:

She who was wife and counsellor to Numa.

The Quirites were too prompt to take up arms,

And Numa quietened them with justice, and fear of the gods.

So laws were made, that the stronger might not take all,

And traditional rights were properly observed.

They left off being savages, justice superseded arms,

And citizens were ashamed to fight each other:

Those who had once been violent were transformed, on seeing

An altar, offering wine and salted meal on the warm hearths.

See, the father of the gods scatters red lightning through

The clouds, and clears the sky with showers of rain:

The forked flames never fell thicker:

The king was fearful, the people filled with terror.

The goddess said: ‘Don’t be so afraid! Lightning

Can be placated, and fierce Jupiter’s anger averted.

Picus and Faunus, each a deity native to Roman soil,

Can teach you the rites of expiation. But they won’t

Teach them unless compelled: so catch and bind them.’

And she revealed the arts by which they could be caught.

There was a grove, dark with holm-oaks, below the Aventine,

At sight of which you would say: ‘There’s a god within.’

The centre was grassy, and covered with green moss,

And a perennial stream of water trickled from the rock.

Faunus and Picus used to drink there alone.

Numa approached and sacrificed a sheep to the spring,

And set out cups filled with fragrant wine.

Then he hid with his people inside the cave.

The woodland spirits came to their usual spring,

And quenched their dry throats with draughts of wine.

Sleep succeeded wine: Numa emerged from the icy cave

And clasped the sleepers’ hands in tight shackles.

When sleep vanished, they fought and tried to burst

Their bonds, which grew tighter the more they struggled.

Then Numa spoke: ‘Gods of the sacred groves, if you accept

My thoughts were free of wickedness, forgive my actions:

And show me how the lightning may be averted.’

So Numa: and, shaking his horns, so Faunus replied:

‘You seek great things, that it’s not right for you to know

Through our admission: our powers have their limits.

We are rural gods who rule in the high mountains:

Jupiter has control of his own weapons.

You could never draw him from heaven by yourself,

But you may be able, by making use of our aid.’

Faunus spoke these words: Picus too agreed,

‘But remove our shackles,’ Picus added:

‘Jupiter will arrive here, drawn by powerful art.

Cloudy Styx will be witness to my promise.’

It’s wrong for men to know what the gods enacted when loosed

From the snare, or what spells they spoke, or by what art

They drew Jupiter from his realm above. My song will sing

Of lawful things, such as a poet may speak with pious lips.

The drew you (eliciunt) from the sky, Jupiter, and later

Generations now worship you, by the name of Elicius.

It’s true that the crowns of the Aventine woods trembled,

And the earth sank under the weight of Jove.

The king’s heart shook, the blood fled from his body,

And the bristling hair stood up stiffly on his head.

When he regained his senses, he said: ‘King and father

To the high gods, if I have touched your offerings

With pure hands, and if a pious tongue, too, asks for

What I seek, grant expiation from your lightning,’

The god accepted his prayer, but hid the truth with deep

Ambiguities, and terrified him with confusing words.

‘Sever a head,’ said the god: the king replied; ‘I will,

We’ll sever an onion’s, dug from my garden.’

The god added: ‘Of a man’: ‘You’ll have the hair,’

Said the king. He demanded a life, Numa replied: ‘A fish’s’.

The god laughed and said: ‘Expiate my lightning like this,

O man who cannot be stopped from speaking with gods.

And when Apollo’s disc is full tomorrow,

I’ll give you sure pledges of empire.’

He spoke, and was carried above the quaking sky,

In loud thunder, leaving Numa worshipping him.

The king returned joyfully, and told the Quirites

What had happened: they were slow to believe his words.

‘It will surely be believed,’ he said, ‘if the event follows

My speech: listen, all you here, to what tomorrow brings.

When Apollo’s disc has lifted fully above the earth,

Jupiter will grant me sure pledges of empire.’

The left, doubtful, considering it long to wait,

But setting their hopes on the following day.

The ground was soft at dawn, with a frost of dew:

When the crowd gathered at the king’s threshold.

He emerged, and sat in the midst on a maple wood throne.

Countless warriors stood around him in silence.

Phoebus had scarcely risen above the horizon:

Their anxious minds trembled with hope and fear.

The king stood, his head covered with a white cloth

Raising his hands, that the god now knew so well.

He spoke as follows: ‘The time is here for the promised gift,

Jupiter, make true the words of your pledge.’

As he spoke, the sun’s full disc appeared,

And a loud crash came from the depths of the sky.

Three times the god thundered, and hurled his lightning,

From cloudless air, believe what I say, wonderful but true.

The sky began to split open at the zenith:

The crowd and its leader lifted their eyes.

Behold, a shield fell, trembling in the light breeze.

The sound of the crowd’s shouting reached the stars.

The king first sacrificed a heifer that had never known

The yoke, then raised the gift from the ground,

And called it ancile, because it was cut away (recisum)

All round, and there wasn’t a single angle to note.

Then, remembering the empire’s fate was involved,

He thought of a very cunning idea.

He ordered many shields cut in the same shape,

In order to confuse the eyes of any traitor.

Mamurius carried out the task: whether he was superior

In his craft or his character it would be hard to say.

Gracious Numa said to him: ‘Ask a reward for your work,

You’ll not ask in vain of one known for honesty.’

He’d already given the Salii, named from their leaping (saltus),

Weapons: and words to be sung to a certain tune.

Mamurius replied: ‘Give me glory as my prize,

And let my name be sounded at the song’s end.’

So the priests grant the reward promised for his

Ancient work, and now call out ‘Mamurius’.

Girl if you’d marry, delay, however eager both are:

A little delay, at this time, is of great advantage.

Weapons excite to war, war’s bad for those married:

The omens will be better when weapons are put away.

Now the girded wife of the peak-capped Flamen Dialis

Has to keep her hair free from the comb.

Book III: March 3

When the third night of the month initiates its rising,

One of the two fishes (Pisces) will have vanished.

There are two: one near to the South Wind, the other

To the North Wind: each taking a name from its wind.

Book III: March 5

When Aurora, Tithonus’ bride, shall have begun

To shed dew from her saffron cheeks at the fifth dawn,

The constellation, whether you call it Arctophylax,

Or dull Bootes, will have been sinking, fleeing your sight.

But even the Grape-Gatherer will not yet have escaped you:

The origin of that star-name also can be swiftly told.

It’s said that hairy Ampelus, son of a nymph and satyr,

Was loved by Bacchus, among the Ismarian hills:

The god entrusted him with a vine, trailing from an elm’s

Leafy boughs, and the vine takes its name from the boy’s.

While on a branch rashly picking the shining grapes.

He fell: but Liber raised the fallen youth to the stars.

Book III: March 6

When the sixth sun climbs Olympus’ slopes from ocean,

And takes his way through the sky behind winged horses,

All you who worship at the shrine of chaste Vesta,

Give thanks to her, and offer incense on the Trojan hearth.

To the countless titles Caesar chose to earn,

The honour of the High Priesthood was added.

Caesar’s eternal godhead protects the eternal fire,

You may see the pledges of empire conjoined.

Gods of ancient Troy, worthiest prize for that Aeneas

Who carried you, your burden saving him from the enemy,

A priest of Aeneas’ line touches your divine kindred:

Vesta in turn guard the life of your kin!

You fires, burn on, nursed by his sacred hand:

Live undying, our leader, and your flames, I pray.

Book III: March 7: Nones

The Nones of March are free of meetings, because it’s thought

The temple of Veiovis was consecrated today before the two groves.

When Romulus ringed his grove with a high stone wall,

He said: ‘Whoever takes refuge here, they will be safe.’

O from how tenuous a beginning the Romans sprang!

How little that crowd of old are to be envied!

But so the strange name won’t confuse you, unknowingly,

Learn who this god is, and why he is so called.

He is the young Jupiter: see his youthful face:

Then see his hand, holding no lightening bolt.

Jove carried his lightning bolts after the Giants dared

Their attempt on the heavens: at first he was unarmed.

Ossa blazed with his new fires, and Pelion higher than Ossa,

And Olympus rooted to the solid earth.

A she-goat stands there too: they say the Cretan nymphs

Nursed the god: and she gave her milk to the infant Jove.

Now I’m called on to explain the name. Farmers call

Stunted grain vegrandia, and what’s feeble vesca.

If that’s the meaning, why should I not suspect

That the shrine of Veiovis is that of Little Jupiter?

Now when the stars glitter in the dark-blue sky,

Look up: you’ll see the head of Gorgonian Pegasus.

It’s said he leapt from the fecund neck of dead Medusa,

His mane drenched with her blood.

As he glided above the clouds, beneath the stars,

The sky was his earth, wings acted instead of feet,

And soon he champed indignantly on the fresh bit,

So that his light hoof created Helicon’s Aonian spring.

Now he enjoys the sky, that his wings once sought,

And glitters there brightly with his fifteen stars.

Book III: March 8

As soon as night falls you will see the Cretan Crown:

Through Theseus’ crime Ariadne was made a goddess.

She’d already happily exchanged that faithless spouse for Bacchus,

She who’d given the ungrateful man the thread to follow.

Delighting in her wedded fate, she said: ‘Why did I weep

Like a country-girl, his faithlessness has been my gain?’

Meanwhile Bacchus had conquered the straight-haired Indians,

And returned with his riches from the Eastern world.

Among the captive girls, of outstanding beauty,

One, the daughter of a king, pleased Bacchus intensely.

His loving wife wept, and treading the curving shore

With dishevelled hair, she spoke these words:

‘Behold, again, you waves, how you hear my complaint!

Behold again you sands, how you receive my tears!

I remember I used to say: “Perjured, faithless Theseus!”

He abandoned me: now Bacchus commits the same crime.

Now once more I’ll cry: “Woman, never trust in man!”

My fate’s repeated, only his name has changed.

O that my life had ended where it first began.

So that I’d not have existed for this moment!

Why did you save me, Liber, to die on these lonely sands?

I might have ceased grieving at that moment.

Bacchus, fickle, lighter than the leaves that wreathe

Your brow, Bacchus known to me in my weeping,

How have you dared to trouble our harmonious bed

By bringing another lover before my eyes?

Alas, where is sworn faith? Where the pledges you once gave?

Wretched me, how many times must I speak those words?

You blamed Theseus and called him a deceiver:

According to that judgement your own sin is worse.

Let no one know of this, let me burn with silent pain,

Lest they think I deserved to be cheated so!

Above all I wish it to be hid from Theseus,

So he may not joy in you as a partner in crime.

I suppose your fair lover is preferred to a dark,

May fair be the colouring of my enemies!

Yet what does that signify? She is dearer to you for that.

What are you doing? She contaminates your embrace.

Bacchus, be true, and do not prefer her to a wife’s love.

I am one who would love my husband for ever.

The horns of a gleaming bull captivated my mother.

Yours, me: but this is a love to be praised, hers shameful.

Let me not suffer, for loving: you yourself, Bacchus,

Never suffered for confessing your desire to me.

No wonder you make me burn: they say you were born

In fire, and were snatched from the flames by your father.

I am she to whom you used to promise the heavens.

Ah me, what a reward I suffer instead of heaven!’

She spoke: Liber had been listening a long while

To her complaint, since he chanced to follow closely.

He embraced her, and dried her tears with kisses,

And said: ‘Together, let us seek the depths of the sky!

You’ll share my name just as you’ve shared my bed,

Since, transmuted, you will be called Libera:

And there’ll be a memory of your crown beside you,

The crown Vulcan gave to Venus, and she to you.’

He did as he said, and changed the nine jewels to fire:

Now the golden crown glitters with nine stars.

Book III: March 14: The Equirria

When he who, with his swift chariot, brings bright day

Has raised his disc six times, and immersed it again,

You will see horse races again on the Campus,

That grassy plain that Tiber’s winding waters wash.

But if by chance it’s flooded by overflowing waves,

The dusty Caelian Hill will accept the horses.

Book III: March 15: Ides

The happy feast of Anna Perenna is held on the Ides,

Not far from your banks, Tiber, far flowing river.

The people come and drink there, scattered on the grass,

And every man reclines there with his girl.

Some tolerate the open sky, a few pitch tents,

And some make leafy huts out of branches,

While others set reeds up, to form rigid pillars,

And hang their outspread robes from the reeds.

But they’re warmed by sun and wine, and pray

For as many years as cups, as many as they drink.

There you’ll find a man who quaffs Nestor’s years,

A woman who’d age as the Sibyl, in her cups.

There they sing whatever they’ve learnt in the theatres,

Beating time to the words with ready hands,

And setting the bowl down, dance coarsely,

The trim girl leaping about with streaming hair.

Homecoming they stagger, a sight for vulgar eyes,

And the crowd meeting them call them ‘blessed’.

I fell in with the procession lately (it seems to me worth

Saying): a tipsy old woman dragging a tipsy old man.

But since errors abound as to who this goddess is,

I’m determined not to cloak her story.

Wretched Dido burned with love for Aeneas,

She burned on the pyre built for her funeral:

Her ashes were gathered, and this brief couplet

Which she left, in dying, adorned her tomb:

AENEAS THE REASON, HIS THE BLADE EMPLOYED.

DIDO BY HER OWN HAND WAS DESTROYED.

The Numidians immediately invaded the defenceless

Realm, and Iarbas the Moor captured and held the palace.

Remembering her scorn, he said: ‘See, I, whom she

So many times rejected, now enjoy Elissa’s marriage bed.’

The Tyrians scattered, as each chanced to stray, as bees

Often wander confusedly, having lost their Queen.

Anna, was driven from her home, weeping on leaving

Her sister’s city, after first paying honour to that sister.

The loose ashes drank perfume mixed with tears,

And received an offering of her shorn hair:

Three times she said: ‘Farewell!’ three times lifted

And pressed the ashes to her lips, seeing her sister there.

Finding a ship, and companions for her flight, she glided

Away, looking back at the city, her sister’s sweet work.

There’s a fertile island, Melite, near barren Cosyra,

Lashed by the waves of the Libyan sea. Trusting in

The king’s former hospitality, she headed there,

Battus was king there, and was a wealthy host.

When he had learned the fates of the two sisters,

He said: ‘This land, however small, is yours.’

He would have been hospitable to the end,

Except that he feared Pygmalion’s great power.

The corn had been taken to be threshed a third time,

And a third time the new wine poured into empty vats.

The sun had twice circled the zodiac, and a third year

Was passing, when Anna had to find a fresh place of exile.

Her brother came seeking war. The king hated weapons,

And said: ‘We are peaceable, flee for your own safety!’

She fled at his command, gave her ship to the wind and waves:

Her brother was crueller than any ocean.

There’s a little field by the fish-filled streams

Of stony Crathis: the local people call it Camere.

There she sailed, and when she was no further away

Than the distance reached by nine slingshots,

The sails first fell and then flapped in the light breeze.

‘Attack the water with oars!’ cried the captain.

And while they made ready to reef the sails,

The swift South Wind struck the curved stern,

And despite the captain’s efforts swept them

Into the open sea: the land was lost to sight.

The waves attacked them, and the ocean heaved

From the depths, and the hull gulped the foaming waters.

Skill is defeated by the wind, the steersman no longer

Guides the helm, but he too turns to prayer for aid.

The Phoenician exile is thrown high on swollen waves,

And hides her weeping eyes in her robe:

Then for a first time she called her sister Dido happy,

And whoever, anywhere, might be treading dry land.

A great gust drove the ship to the Laurentine shore,

And, foundering, it perished, when all had landed.

Meanwhile pious Aeneas had gained Latinus’ realm

And his daughter too, and had merged both peoples.

While he was walking barefoot along the shore

That had been his dower, accompanied only by Achates,

He saw Anna wandering, not believing it was her:

‘Why should she be here in the fields of Latium?’

Aeneas said to himself: ‘It’s Anna!’ shouted Achates:

At the sound of her name she raised her face.

Alas, what should she do? Flee? Wish for the ground

To swallow her? Her wretched sister’s fate was before her eyes.

The Cytherean hero felt her fear, and spoke to her,

(He still wept, moved by your memory, Elissa):

‘Anna, I swear, by this land that you once knew

A happier fate had granted me, and by the gods

My companions, who have lately found a home here,

That all of them often rebuked me for my delay.

Yet I did not fear her dying, that fear was absent.

Ah me! Her courage was beyond belief.

Don’t re-tell it: I saw shameful wounds on her body

When I dared to visit the houses of Tartarus.

But you shall enjoy the comforts of my kingdom,

Whether your will or a god brings you to our shores.

I owe you much, and owe Elissa not a little:

You are welcome for your own and your sister’s sake.’

She accepted his words (no other hope was left)

And told him of her own wanderings.

When she entered the palace, dressed in Tyrian style,

Aeneas spoke (the rest of the throng were silent):

‘Lavinia, my wife, I have a pious reason for entrusting

This lady to you: shipwrecked, I lived at her expense.

She’s of Tyrian birth: her kingdom’s on the Libyan shore:

I beg you to love her, as your dear sister.’

Lavinia promised all, but hid a fancied wrong

Within her silent heart, and concealed her fears:

And though she saw many gifts given away openly,

She suspected many more were sent secretly.

She hadn’t yet decided what to do: she hated

With fury, prepared a plan, and wished to die avenged.

It was night: it seemed her sister Dido stood

Before her bed, her straggling hair stained with her blood,

Crying: ‘Flee, don’t hesitate, flee this gloomy house!’

At the words a gust slammed the creaking door.

Anna leapt up, then jumped from a low window

To the ground: fear itself had made her daring.

With terror driving her, clothed in her loose vest,

She runs like a frightened doe that hears the wolves.

It’s thought that horned Numicius swept her away

In his swollen flood, and hid her among his pools.

Meanwhile, shouting, they searched for the Sidonian lady

Through the fields: traces and tracks were visible:

Reaching the banks, they found her footprints there.

The knowing river stemmed his silent waters.

She herself appeared, saying: ‘I’m a nymph of the calm

Numicius: hid in perennial waters, Anna Perenna’s my name.’

Quickly they set out a feast in the fields they’d roamed,

And celebrated their deeds and the day, with copious wine.

Some think she’s the Moon, because she measures out

The year (annus): others, Themis, or the Inachian heifer.

Anna, you’ll find some to say you’re a nymph, daughter

Of Azan, and gave Jupiter his first nourishment.

I’ll relate another tale that’s come to my ears,

And it’s not so far away from the truth.

The Plebs of old, not yet protected by Tribunes,

Fled, and gathered on the Sacred Mount:

The food supplies they’d brought with them failed,

Also the stores of bread fit for human consumption.

There was a certain Anna from suburban Bovillae,

A poor woman, old, but very industrious.

With her grey hair bound up in a light cap,

She used to make coarse cakes with a trembling hand,

And distribute them, still warm, among the people,

Each morning: this supply of hers pleased them all.

When peace was made at home, they set up a statue

To Perenna, because she’d helped supply their needs.

Now it’s left for me to tell why the girls sing coarse songs:

Since they gather together to sing certain infamous things.

Anna had lately been made a goddess: Gradivus came to her

And taking her aside, spoke these words:

You honour my month: I’ve joined my season to yours:

I’ve great hopes you can do me a service.

Armed, I’m captivated by armed Minerva,

I burn, and have nursed the wound for many a day.

Help us, alike in our pursuits, to become one:

The part suits you well, courteous old lady.’

He spoke. She tricked the god with empty promises.

And led him on, in foolish hope, with false delays.

Often, when he pressed her, she said: ‘I’ve done as you asked,

She’s won, she’s yielded at last to your prayers.’

The lover believed her and prepared the marriage-chamber.

They led Anna there, a new bride, her face veiled.

About to kiss her, Mars suddenly saw it was Anna:

Shame and anger alternating stirred the hoodwinked god.

The new goddess laughed at her dear Minerva’s lover.

Nothing indeed has ever pleased Venus more.

So now they tell old jokes, and coarse songs are sung,

And they delight in how the great god was cheated.

I was about to neglect those daggers that pierced

Our leader, when Vesta spoke from her pure hearth:

Don’t hesitate to recall them: he was my priest,

And those sacrilegious hands sought me with their blades.

I snatched him away, and left a naked semblance:

What died by the steel, was Caesar’s shadow.’

Raised to the heavens he found Jupiter’s halls,

And his is the temple in the mighty Forum.

But all the daring criminals who in defiance

Of the gods, defiled the high priest’s head,

Have fallen in merited death. Philippi is witness,

And those whose scattered bones whiten its earth.

This work, this duty, was Augustus’ first task,

Avenging his father by the just use of arms.

Book III: March 16

When the next dawn has revived the tender grass,

Scorpio’s pincers will be visible.

Book III: March 17: The Liberalia

There’s a popular festival of Bacchus, on the third day

After the Ides: Bacchus, favour the poet who sings your feast.

I’ll not speak about Semele: you’d have been born defenceless,

If it hadn’t been that Jupiter brought her his lightning too.

Nor will I tell how the mother’s labour was fulfilled

In a father’s body, so you might duly be born their son.

It would take long to tell of the conquered Sithonians,

And the Scythians, and the races of incense-bearing India.

I’ll be silent about you too, Pentheus, sad prey to your own mother,

And you Lycurgus, who killed your own son in madness.

Lo, I’d like to speak of the monstrous Tyrrhenians, who

Suddenly became dolphins, but that’s not the task of this verse.

The task of this verse is to set out the reasons,

Why a vine-planter sells his cakes to the crowd.

Liber, before your birth the altars were without offerings,

And grass appeared on the stone-cold hearths.

They tell how you set aside the first fruits for Jupiter,

After subduing the Ganges region, and the whole of the East.

You were the first to offer up cinnamon and incense

From conquered lands, and the roast entrails of triumphal oxen.

Libations derive their name from their originator,

And cake (liba) since a part is offered on the sacred hearth.

Honey-cakes are baked for the god, because he delights in sweet

Substances, and they say that Bacchus discovered honey.

He was travelling from sandy Hebrus, accompanied

By Satyrs, (my tale contains a not-unpleasant jest)

And he’d come to Mount Rhodope, and flowering Pangaeus:

With the cymbals clashing in his companions’ hands.

Behold unknown winged things gather to the jangling,

Bees, that follow after the echoing bronze.

Liber gathered the swarm and shut it in a hollow tree,

And was rewarded with the prize of discovering honey.

Once the Satyrs, and old bald-headed Silenus, had tasted it,

They searched for the yellow combs in every tree.

The old fellow heard a swarm humming in a hollow elm,

Saw the honeycombs, but pretended otherwise:

And sitting lazily on his hollow-backed ass,

He rode it up to the elm where the trunk was hollow.

He stood and leant on the stump of a branch,

And greedily reached for the honey hidden inside.

But thousands of hornets gathered, thrusting their stings

Into his bald head, leaving their mark on his snub-nosed face.

He fell headlong, and received a kick from the ass,

As he shouted to his friends and called for help.

The Satyrs ran up, and laughed at their father’s face,

While he limped about on his damaged knee.

Bacchus himself laughed and showed him the use of mud:

Silenus took his advice, and smeared his face with clay.

Father Liber loves honey: its right to offer its discoverer

Glittering honey diffused through oven-warm cakes.

The reason why a woman presides isn’t obscure:

Bacchus stirs crowds of women with his thyrsus.

Why an old woman, you ask? That age drinks more,

And loves the gifts of the teeming vine.

Why is she wreathed with ivy? Ivy’s dearest to Bacchus:

And why that’s so doesn’t take long to tell.

They say that when Juno his stepmother was searching

For the boy, the nymphs of Nysa hid the cradle in ivy leaves.

It remains for me to reveal why the toga virilis, the gown

Of manhood, is given to boys on your day, Bacchus:

Whether it’s because you seem to be ever boy or youth,

And your age is somewhere between the two:

Or because you’re a father, fathers commend their sons,

Their pledges of love, to your care and divinity:

Or because you’re Liber, the gown of liberty

And a more liberated life are adopted, for you:

Or is it because, in the days when the ancients tilled the fields

More vigorously, and Senators worked their fathers’ land,

And ‘rods and axes’ took Consuls from the curving plough,

And it wasn’t a crime to have work-worn hands,

The farmers came to the City for the games,

(Though that was an honour paid to the gods, and not

Their inclination: and the grape’s discoverer held his games

This day, while now he shares that of torch-bearing Ceres):

And the day seemed not unfitting for granting the toga,

So that a crowd could celebrate the fresh novice?

Father turn your mild head here, and gentle horns,

And spread the sails of my art to a favourable breeze.

If I remember rightly, on this, and the preceding day,

Crowds go to the Argei (their own page will tell who they are).

The Kite star turns downwards near

The Lycaonian Bear: on this night it’s first visible.

If you wish to know who raised that falcon to heaven,

It was when Saturn had been dethroned by Jupiter:

Angered, he stirred the mighty Titans to battle,

And sought whatever help the Fates could grant him.

There was a bull, a marvellous monster, born of Mother

Earth, the hind part of which was of serpent-form:

Warned by the three Fates, grim Styx had imprisoned him

In dark woods, surrounded by triple walls.

There was a prophecy that whoever burnt the entrails

Of the bull, in the flames, would defeat the eternal gods.

Briareus sacrificed it with an adamantine axe,

And was about to set the innards on the flames:

But Jupiter ordered the birds to snatch them: and the Kite

Brought them, and his service set him among the stars.

Book III: March 19: The Quinquatrus

After a one day interval, the rites of Minerva are performed,

Which take their name from the sequence of five days.

The first day is bloodless, and sword fights are unlawful,

Because Minerva was born on that very day.

The next four are celebrated with gladiatorial shows,

The warlike goddess delights in naked swords.

Pray now you boys and tender girls to Pallas:

He who can truly please Pallas, is learned.

Pleasing Pallas let girls learn to card wool,

And how to unwind the full distaff.

She shows how to draw the shuttle through the firm

Warp, and close up loose threads with the comb.

Worship her, you who remove stains from damaged clothes,

Worship her, you who ready bronze cauldrons for fleeces.

If Pallas frowns, no one could make good shoes,

Even if he were more skilled than Tychius:

And even if he were cleverer with his hands

Than Epeus once was, he’ll be useless if Pallas is angry.

You too who drive away ills with Apollo’s art,

Bring a few gifts of your own for the goddess:

And don’t scorn her, you schoolmasters, a tribe

So often cheated of its pay: she attracts new pupils:

Nor you engravers, and painters with encaustics,

Nor you who carve the stone with a skilful hand.

She’s the goddess of a thousand things: and song for sure:

If I’m worthy may she be a friend to my endeavours.

Where the Caelian Hill slopes down to the plain,

At the point where the street’s almost, but not quite, level,

You can see the little shrine of Minerva Capta,

Which the goddess first occupied on her birthday.

The source of the name is doubtful: we speak of

‘Capital’ ingenuity: the goddess is herself ingenious.

Or is it because, motherless, she leapt, with a shield

From the crown of her father’s head (caput)?

Or because she came to us as a ‘captive’ from the conquest

Of Falerii? This, an ancient inscription claims.

Or because her law ordains ‘capital’ punishment

For receiving things stolen from that place?

By whatever logic your title’s derived, Pallas,

Shield our leaders with your aegis forever.

Book III: March 23: The Tubilustria

The last day of the five exhorts us to purify

The tuneful trumpets, and sacrifice to the mighty god.

Now you can turn your face to the Sun and say:

‘He touched the fleece of the Phrixian Ram yesterday’.

The seeds having been parched, by a wicked stepmother’s

Guile, the corn did not sprout in the usual way.

They sent to the oracle, to find by sure prophecy,

What cure the Delphic god would prescribe for sterility.

But tarnished like the seed, the messenger brought news

That the oracle sought the death of Helle and young Phrixus:

And when citizens, season, and Ino herself compelled

The reluctant king to obey that evil order,

Phrixus and his sister, brows covered with sacred bands,

Stood together before the altar, bemoaning their mutual fate.

Their mother saw them, as she hovered by chance in the air,

And, stunned, she beat her naked breasts with her hand:

Then, with the clouds as her companions, she leapt down

Into serpent-born Thebes, and snatched away her children:

And so that they could flee a ram, shining and golden,

Was brought, and it carried them over the wide ocean.

They say the sister held too weakly to the left-hand horn,

And so gave her own name to the waters below.

Her brother almost died with her, trying to help her

As she fell, stretching out his hands as far as he could.

He wept at losing her, his friend in their twin danger,

Not knowing she was now wedded to a sea-green god.

Reaching the shore the Ram was raised as a constellation,

While his golden fleece was carried to the halls of Colchis.

Book III: March 26

When the Morning Star has three times heralded the dawn,

You’ll find the daylight hours are equal to those of night.

Book III: March 30

When, counting from that day, the shepherd has four times penned

The sated kids, and the grass four times whitened with fresh dew,

Janus must be adored, and with him gentle Concord,

And the Safety of Rome, and the altar of Peace.

Book III: March 31

The Moon rules the months: this month’s span ends

With the worship of the Moon on the Aventine Hill.

Book IV: Introduction

‘Kindly mother of the twin Cupids, favour me!’ I said.

She glanced back towards her poet: ‘Why do you

Need me?’ she said. ‘Surely, you sing greater themes.

Have you some old wound lingering in your heart?’

‘Goddess, ‘ I replied, ‘you know my wound.’ She laughed,

And the sky immediately cleared in her direction.

‘Hurt or whole have I ever deserted your cause?

You were always my intent and my labour.

As was fitting in my youth, innocently I played,

And now my horses sweep out a wider field:

From ancient texts I sing the days and reasons,

And the star-signs that rise and set, beneath the Earth.

I’ve reached the fourth month, where you’re most honoured,

And you know, Venus, both month and poet are yours.’

The goddess, moved, touching my brow lightly

With Cytherean myrtle, said: ‘Finish what you’ve begun.’

I was inspired, and suddenly knew the origins of days:

Sail, my boat, while you can, while the breezes blow.

If there’s any part of the calendar that might stir you,

Caesar, in April you’ll find what should interest you.

This month you inherit from a mighty lineage,

Yours by adoption into a noble house.

When Romulus established the length of the year,

He recognised this, and commemorated your sires:

And as he granted first place among months to fierce Mars,

Being the immediate cause of his own existence,

So he granted the second month to Venus,

Tracing his descent from her through many generations:

Searching for the roots of his race, unwinding the rolls

Of the centuries, he came at last to his divine kin.

He couldn’t be ignorant that Electra daughter of Atlas

Bore Dardanus, that Electra had slept with Jove.

From Dardanus came Ericthonius, and from himTros:

He in turn produced Assaracus, and Assaracus Capys.

Next was Anchises, with whom Venus

Didn’t disdain to share the name of parent.

From them came Aeneas, whose piety was seen, carrying

Holy things, and a father as holy, on his shoulders, through the fire.

Now at last we come to the fortunate name of Iulus,

Through whom the Julian house claims Teucrian ancestors.

Postumus was his, called Silvius among the Latin

Race, being born in the depth of the woods.

He was your father, Latinus. Alba followed Latinus:

Epytus was next to take your titles Alba.

Epytus gave his son Capys a Trojan name,

And the same was your grandfather Calpetus.

When Tiberinus ruled his father’s kingdom after him,

It’s said he drowned in a deep pool of the Tuscan river.

But before that he saw the birth of a son Agrippa,

And a grandson Remulus, who was struck by lightning.

Aventinus followed them, from whom the place and the hill

Took their name. After him the realm passed to Proca.

He was succeeded by Numitor, brother to harsh Amulius.

Ilia and Lausus were then the children of Numitor.

Lausus fell to his uncle’s sword: Ilia pleased Mars,

And bore you Quirinus, and your brother Remus.

You always claimed your parents were Mars and Venus,

And deserved to be believed when you said so:

And you granted successive months to your race’s gods,

So your descendants might not be in ignorance of the truth.

But I think the month of Venus took its title

From the Greek: she was named after the sea-foam.

Nor is it any wonder it was called by a Greek name,

Since the land of Italy was Greater Greece.

Evander had reached here with ships full of his people:

Alcides had arrived, both Greek by race.

(A club-bearing guest fed his cattle on Aventine grass,

And one of the great gods drank from the Albula):

Ulysses, the Neritian leader, also arrived: witness

The Laestrygones, and the shore that bears Circe’s name.

Telegonus’s walls were already standing, and the walls

Of damp Tibur, constructed by Greek hands.

Halaesus had come, spurred by the fate of the Atrides,

Halaesus from whom the Faliscan country derives its name.

Add to this, Antenor, who advised the Trojans to make peace,

And Diomedes, the Oenid, son-in-law to Apulian Daunus.

Aeneas arrived later, after Antenor, bringing his gods

To our country, out of the flames of Ilium.

He had a comrade, Solymus, from Phrygian Ida,

From whom the walls of Sulmo take their name,

Cool Sulmo, my native place, Germanicus.

Ah me, how far that place is from Scythia’s soil!

And I, so distant – but Muse, quell your complaints!

Holy themes set to a gloomy lyre are not for you.

Where does envy not reach? Venus, there are some

Who’d grudge you your month, and snatch it away.

They say Spring was named from the open (apertum) season,

Because Spring opens (aperit) everything and the sharp

Frost-bound cold vanishes, and fertile soil’s revealed,

Though kind Venus sets her hand there and claims it.

She rules the whole world too, and truly deserves to:

She owns a realm not inferior to any god’s,

Commands earth and heaven, and her native ocean,

And maintains all beings from her source.

She created the gods (too numerous to mention):

She gave the crops and trees their first roots:

She brought the crude minds of men together,

And taught them each to associate with a partner.

What but sweet pleasure creates all the race of birds?

Cattle wouldn’t mate, if gentle love were absent.

The wild ram butts the males with his horn,

But won’t hurt the brow of his beloved ewe.

The bull, that the woods and pastures fear,

Puts off his fierceness and follows the heifer.

The same force preserves whatever lives in the deep,

And fills the waters with innumerable fish.

That force first stripped man of his wild apparel:

From it he learned refinement and elegance.

It’s said a banished lover first serenaded

His mistress by night, at her closed door,

And eloquence then was the winning of a reluctant maid,

And everyone pleaded his or her own cause.

A thousand arts are furthered by the goddess: and the wish

To delight has revealed many things that were hidden.

Who dares to steal her honour of naming the second month?

Let such madness be far from my thoughts.

Besides, though she’s powerful everywhere, her temples

Crowded, doesn’t she hold most sway in our City?

Venus, Roman, carried weapons to defend your Troy,

And groaned at the spear wound in her gentle hand:

And she defeated two goddesses, by a Trojan judgement,

(Ah! If only they hadn’t remembered her victory!)

And she was called the bride of Assaracus’s son,

So that mighty Caesar would have Julian ancestors.

No season is more fitting for Venus than Spring:

In spring the earth gleams: in spring the ground’s soft,

Now the grass pokes its tips through the broken soil,

Now the vine bursts in buds through the swollen bark.

And lovely Venus deserves the lovely season,

And is joined again to her darling Mars:

In Spring she tells the curving ships to sail, over

Her native seas, and fear the winter’s threat no longer.

Book IV: April 1: Kalends

Perform the rites of the goddess, Roman brides and mothers,

And you who must not wear the headbands and long robes.

Remove the golden necklaces from her marble neck,

Remove her riches: the goddess must be cleansed, complete.

Return the gold necklaces to her neck, once it’s dry:

Now she’s given fresh flowers, and new-sprung roses.

She commands you too to bathe, under the green myrtle,

And there’s a particular reason for her command (learn, now!).

Naked, on the shore, she was drying her dripping hair:

The Satyrs, that wanton crowd, spied the goddess.

She sensed it, and hid her body with a screen of myrtle:

Doing so, she was safe: she commands that you do so too.

Learn now why you offer incense to Fortuna Virilis,

In that place that steams with heated water.

All women remove their clothes on entering,

And every blemish on their bodies is seen:

Virile Fortune undertakes to hide those from the men,

And she does this at the behest of a little incense.

Don’t begrudge her poppies, crushed in creamy milk

And in flowing honey, squeezed from the comb:

When Venus was first led to her eager spouse,

She drank so: and from that moment was a bride.

Please her with words of supplication: beauty,

Virtue, and good repute are in her keeping.

In our forefather’s time Rome lapsed from chastity:

And the ancients consulted the old woman of Cumae.

She ordered a temple built to Venus: when it was done

Venus took the name of Heart-Changer (Verticordia).

Loveliest One, always look with a benign gaze

On the sons of Aeneas, and guard their many wives.

As I speak, Scorpio, the tip of whose raised tail

Strikes fear, plunges down into the green waves.

Book IV: April 2

When the night is past, and the sky is just beginning

To redden, and the birds, wet with dew, are singing,

And the traveller who’s been awake all night, puts down

His half-burnt torch, and the farmer’s off to his usual labours,

The Pleiades will start to lighten their father’s shoulders,

They who are said to be seven, but usually are six:

Because it’s true that six lay in the loving clasp of gods

(Since they say that Asterope slept with Mars:

Alcyone, and you, lovely Celaeno, with Neptune:

Maia, Electra, and Taygete with Jupiter),

While the seventh, Merope, married you, Sisyphus, a mortal,

And repents of it, and, alone of the sisters, hides from shame:

Or because Electra couldn’t bear to watch Troy’s destruction,

And so her face now is covered by her hands.

Book IV: April 4 The Megalesian Festival of Cybele

Let the sky turn three times on its axis,

Let the Sun three times yoke and loose his horses,

And the Berecyntian flute will begin sounding

Its curved horn, it will be the Idaean Mother’s feast.

Eunuchs will march, and sound the hollow drums,

And cymbal will clash with cymbal, in ringing tones:

Seated on the soft necks of her servants, she’ll be carried

With howling, through the midst of the City streets.

The stage is set: the games are calling. Watch, then,

Quirites, and let those legal wars in the fora cease.

I’d like to ask many things, but I’m made fearful

By shrill clash of bronze, and curved flute’s dreadful drone.

‘Lend me someone to ask, goddess.’ Cybele spying her learned

Granddaughters, the Muses, ordered them to take care of me.

‘Nurslings of Helicon, mindful of her orders, reveal

Why the Great Goddess delights in continual din.’

So I spoke. And Erato replied (it fell to her to speak about

Venus’ month, because her name derives from tender love):

‘Saturn was granted this prophecy: “Noblest of kings,

You’ll be ousted by your own son’s sceptre.”

The god, fearful, devoured his children as soon as

Born, and then retained them deep in his guts.

Often Rhea (Cybele) complained, at being so often pregnant,

Yet never a mother, and grieved at her own fruitfulness.

Then Jupiter was born (ancient testimony is credited

By most: so please don’t disturb the accepted belief):

A stone, concealed in clothing, went down Saturn’s throat,

So the great progenitor was deceived by the fates.

Now steep Ida echoed to a jingling music,

So the child might cry from its infant mouth, in safety.

Some beat shields with sticks, others empty helmets:

That was the Curetes’ and the Corybantes’ task.

The thing was hidden, and the ancient deed’s still acted out:

The goddess’s servants strike the bronze and sounding skins.

They beat cymbals for helmets, drums instead of shields:

The flute plays, as long ago, in the Phrygian mode.’

The goddess ceased. I began: ‘Why do fierce lions

Yield untamed necks to the curving yoke for her?’

I ceased. The goddess began: ‘It’s thought their ferocity

Was first tamed by her: the testament to it’s her chariot.’

‘But why is her head weighed down by a turreted crown?

Is it because she granted towers to the first cities?’

She nodded. I said ‘Where did this urge to cut off

Their members come from?’ As I ended, the Muse spoke:

‘In the woods, a Phrygian boy, Attis, of handsome face,

Won the tower-bearing goddess with his chaste passion.

She desired him to serve her, and protect her temple,

And said: “Wish, you might be a boy for ever.”

He promised to be true, and said: “If I’m lying

May the love I fail in be my last love.”

He did fail, and in meeting the nymph Sagaritis,

Abandoned what he was: the goddess, angered, avenged it.

She destroyed the Naiad, by wounding a tree,

Since the tree contained the Naiad’s fate.

Attis was maddened, and thinking his chamber’s roof

Was falling, fled for the summit of Mount Dindymus.

Now he cried: “Remove the torches”, now he cried:

“Take the whips away”: often swearing he saw the Furies.

He tore at his body too with a sharp stone,

And dragged his long hair in the filthy dust,

Shouting: “I deserved this! I pay the due penalty

In blood! Ah! Let the parts that harmed me, perish!

Let them perish!” cutting away the burden of his groin,

And suddenly bereft of every mark of manhood.

His madness set a precedent, and his unmanly servants

Toss their hair, and cut off their members as if worthless.’

So the Aonian Muse, eloquently answering the question

I’d asked her, regarding the causes of their madness.

‘Guide of my work, I beg you, teach me also, where She

Was brought from. Was she always resident in our City?

‘The Mother Goddess always loved Dindymus, Cybele,

And Ida, with its pleasant streams, and the Trojan realm:

And when Aeneas brought Troy to Italian fields, the goddess

Almost followed those ships that carried the sacred relics.

But she felt that fate didn’t require her powers in Latium,

So she stayed behind in her long-accustomed place.

Later, when Rome was more than five centuries old,

And had lifted its head above the conquered world,

The priest consulted the fateful words of Euboean prophecy:

They say that what he found there was as follows:

‘The Mother’s absent: Roman, I command you: seek the Mother.

When she arrives, she must be received in chaste hands.’

The dark oracle’s ambiguity set the senators puzzling

As to who that parent might be, and where to seek her.

Apollo was consulted, and replied: ‘Fetch the Mother

Of all the Gods, who you’ll find there on Mount Ida.’

Noblemen were sent. Attalus at that time held

The Phrygian sceptre: he refused the Italian lords.

Marvellous to tell, the earth shook with long murmurs,

And the goddess, from her shrine, spoke as follows:

‘I myself wished them to seek me: don’t delay: send me,

Willingly. Rome is a worthy place for all divinities.’

Quaking with fear at her words, Attalus, said: ‘Go,

You’ll still be ours: Rome claims Phrygian ancestry.’

Immediately countless axes felled the pine-trees

Those trees pious Aeneas employed for his flight:

A thousand hands work, and the heavenly Mother

Soon has a hollow ship, painted in fiery colours.

She’s carried in perfect safety over her son’s waves,

And reaches the long strait named for Phrixus’ sister,

Passes fierce Rhoetum and the Sigean shore,

And Tenedos and Eetion’s ancient kingdom.

Leaving Lesbos behind she then steered for the Cyclades,

And the waves that break on Euboea’s Carystian shoals.

She passed the Icarian Sea, as well, where Icarus shed

His melting wings, giving his name to a vast tract of water.

Then leaving Crete to larboard, and the Pelopian waves

To starboard, she headed for Cythera, sacred to Venus.

From there to the Sicilian Sea, where Brontes, Steropes

And Aemonides forge their red-hot iron,

Then, skirting African waters, she saw the Sardinian

Realm behind to larboard, and reached our Italy.

She’d arrived at the mouth (ostia) where the Tiber divides

To meet the deep, and flows with a wider sweep:

All the Knights, grave Senators, and commoners,

Came to meet her at the mouth of the Tuscan river.

With them walked mothers, daughters, and brides,

And all those virgins who tend the sacred fires.

The men wearied their arms hauling hard on the ropes:

The foreign vessel barely made way against the stream.

For a long time there’d been a drought: the grass was dry

And scorched: the boat stuck fast in the muddy shallows.

Every man, hauling, laboured beyond his strength,

And encouraged their toiling hands with his cries.

Yet the ship lodged there, like an island fixed in mid-ocean:

And astonished at the portent, men stood and quaked.

Claudia Quinta traced her descent from noble Clausus,

And her beauty was in no way unequal to her nobility:

She was chaste, but not believed so: hostile rumour

Had wounded her, false charges were levelled at her:

Her elegance, promenading around in various hairstyles,

And her ready tongue, with stiff old men, counted against her.

Conscious of virtue, she laughed at the rumoured lies,

But we’re always ready to credit others with faults.

Now, when she’d stepped from the line of chaste women,

Taking pure river water in her hands, she wetted her head

Three times, three times lifted her palms to the sky,

(Everyone watching her thought she’d lost her mind)

Then, kneeling, fixed her eyes on the goddess’s statue,

And, with loosened hair, uttered these words:

“ Kind and fruitful Mother of the Gods, accept

A suppliant’s prayers, on this one condition:

They deny I’m chaste: let me be guilty if you condemn me:

Convicted by a goddess I’ll pay for it with my life.

But if I’m free of guilt, grant a pledge of my innocence

By your action: and, chaste, give way to my chaste hands.”

She spoke: then gave a slight pull at the rope,

(A wonder, but the sacred drama attests what I say):

The goddess stirred, followed, and, following, approved her:

Witness the sound of jubilation carried to the stars.

They came to a bend in the river (called of old

The Halls of Tiber): there the stream turns left, ascending.

Night fell: they tied the rope to an oak stump,

And, having eaten, settled to a tranquil sleep.

Dawn rose: they loosed the rope from the oak stump,

After first laying a fire and offering incense,

And crowned the stern, and sacrificed a heifer

Free of blemish, that had never known yoke or bull.

There’s a place where smooth-flowing Almo joins the Tiber,

And the lesser flow loses its name in the greater:

There, a white-headed priest in purple robes

Washed the Lady, and sacred relics, in Almo’s water.

The attendants howled, and the mad flutes blew,

And soft hands beat at the bull’s-hide drums.

Claudia walked in front with a joyful face,

Her chastity proven by the goddess’s testimony:

The goddess herself, sitting in a cart, entered the Capene Gate:

Fresh flowers were scattered over the yoked oxen.

Nasica received her. The name of her temple’s founder is lost:

Augustus has re-dedicated it, and, before him, Metellus.’

Here Erato ceased. There was a pause for me to ask more:

I said: ‘Why does the goddess collect money in small coins?’

She said: ‘The people gave coppers, with which Metellus

Built her shrine, so now there’s a tradition of giving them.’

I asked why people entertain each other at feasts,

And invite others to banquets, more than at other times.

She said: ‘It’s because the Berecynthian goddess by good luck

Changed her house, and they try for the same luck, by their visits.’

I was about to ask why the Megalesia are the first games

Of the City’s year, when the goddess (anticipating) said:

‘She gave birth to the gods. They yielded to their mother,

And she was given the honour of precedence.’

Why then do we call those who castrate themselves, Galli,

When the Gallic country’s so far from Phrygia?’

‘Between green Cybele and high Celaenae,’ she said,

‘Runs a river of maddening water, called the Gallus.

Whoever drinks of it, is crazed: keep far away, all you

Who desire a sound mind: who drinks of it is crazed.’

‘They consider it no shame to set a dish of salad

On the Lady’s table. What’s the reason?’ I asked.

She replied: ‘It’s said the ancients lived on milk,

And on herbs that the earth produced of itself.

Now they mix cream cheese with pounded herbs,

So the ancient goddess might know the ancient food.’

Book IV: April 5: Nones

When the stars have vanished, and the Moon unyokes

Her snowy horses, and the next dawn shines in the sky,

He’ll speak true who says: ‘On this day long ago

The temple of Public Fortune was dedicated on the Quirinal.’

Book IV: April 6

It was the third day of the games (I recall), and a certain

Elderly man, who was sitting next to me at the show, said:

‘This was the day when Julius Caesar crushed proud

Juba’s treacherous army, on the shores of Libya.

Caesar was my leader, under whom I’m proud

To have been a tribune: he ordered me so to serve.

I won this seat in war, and you in peace

Because of your role among the Decemvirs.’

We were about to speak again when a sudden shower

Parted us: Libra balanced there shed heavenly waters.

Book IV: April 9

But before the last day completes the spectacle,

Orion with his sword will have sunk in the sea.

Book IV: April 10

When the next dawn gazes on victorious Rome,

And the fleeing stars have given way to the Sun,

The Circus will be thronged with a procession of many gods,

And horses swift as the wind will compete for the winner’s prize.

Book IV: April 12: The Games of Ceres

Next, the Games of Ceres, there’s no need to say why:

Obvious: the bounteous promise and gifts of the goddess.

The bread of primitive humans was made of plants,

That the earth produced without being asked:

They sometimes plucked wild grasses from the turf,

Sometimes tender leaves from the treetops made a meal.

Later the acorn was known: its discovery was fine,

Since the sturdy oak offered a rich horde.

Ceres was first to summon men to a better diet,

Replacing their acorns with more nourishing food.

She forced bulls to bow their necks to the yoke:

So the deep-ploughed soil first saw the light.

Copper was prized then, iron was still hidden:

Ah! If only it could have been hidden forever.

Ceres delights in peace: pray, you farmers,

Pray for endless peace and a peace-loving leader.

Honour the goddess with wheat, and dancing salt grains,

And grains of incense offered on the ancient hearths,

And if there’s no incense, burn your resinous torches:

Ceres is pleased with little, if it’s pure in kind.

You girded attendants lift those knives from the ox:

Let the ox plough, while you sacrifice the lazy sow,

It’s not fitting for an axe to strike a neck that’s yoked:

Let the ox live, and toil through the stubborn soil.

Now, this part requires me to tell of a virgin’s rape:

You’ll recognise much you know, but part is new.

The Trinacrian land took its name from its shape:

It runs out in three rocky capes to the vast ocean.

It’s a place dear to Ceres. She owns, there, many cities,

Among them fertile Enna, with its well-ploughed soul.

Cool Arethusa gathered together the mothers of the gods:

And the yellow-haired goddess came to the sacred feast.

Her daughter, Persephone, attended by girls, as ever,

Wandered barefoot through Enna’s meadows.

In a shadow-filled valley there’s a place,

Wet by the copious spray from a high fall.

All the colours of nature were displayed there,

And the earth was bright with hues of various flowers.

On seeing it she cried: ‘Come here to me, my friends,

And each carry back, with me, a lapful of flowers.’

The foolish prize enticed their girlish spirits,

And they were too busy to feel weary.

One filled baskets woven from supple willow,

Another her lap, the next loose folds of her robe:

One picked marigolds: another loved violets,

And one nipped the poppy-heads with her nails:

Some you tempt, hyacinth: others, amaranth, you delay:

Others desire thyme, cornflowers or clover.

Many a rose was taken, and flowers without name:

Proserpine herself plucked fragile crocuses and white lilies.

Intent on gathering them, she gradually strayed,

And none of her friends chanced to follow their lady.

Dis, her uncle saw her, and swiftly carried her off,

And bore her on shadowy horses to his realm.

She called out: ‘Oh, dearest Mother, I’m being

Carried away!’ and tore at the breast of her robe:

Meanwhile a path opened for Dis, since his horses

Can scarcely endure the unaccustomed daylight.

When her crowd of friends had gathered their flowers,

They shouted: ‘Persephone, come for your gifts!’

But silence met their call: they filled the hills with their cries,

And sadly beat their naked breasts with their hands.

Ceres was startled by their grief (she’d just now come from Enna),

And cried instantly ‘Ah me! Daughter, where are you?’

She rushed about, distracted, as we’ve heard

The Thracian Maenads run with flowing hair.

As a cow bellows, when her calf’s torn from her udder,

And goes searching for her child, through the woods,

So the goddess groaned freely, and ran quickly,

As she made her way, Enna, from your plains.

There she found marks of the girlish feet, and saw

Where her familiar form had printed the ground:

Perhaps her wandering would have ended that day,

If wild pigs hadn’t muddied the trail she found.

She’d already passed Leontini, the river Amenanas,

And your grassy banks, Acis, on her way:

She’d passed Cyane, the founts of slow Anapus,

And you, Gelas, with whirlpools to be shunned.

She’d left Ortygia, Megara and the Pantagias,

And the place where the sea receives Symaethus’ waves,

And the caves of Cyclopes, scorched by their forges,

And the place who’s name’s derived from a curving sickle,

And Himera, Didyme, Acragas and Tauromenium,

And the Mylae, that rich pasture for sacred cattle.

Next she reached Camerina, Thapsus, and Helorus’ Tempe,

And where Eryx stands, ever open to the Western winds.

She’d crossed Pelorias, Lilybaeum and Pachynum,

Those three projecting horns of her land.

Wherever she set foot, she filled the place with sad cries,

Like the bird mourning for her lost Itys.

Alternately she cried: ‘Persephone!’ and ‘My daughter’,

Calling and shouting both the names in turn,

But Persephone heard not Ceres, nor the daughter

Her mother, and both names by turns died away:

If she spied a shepherd or farmer at work,

Her cry was: ‘Has a girl passed this way?’

Now the colours faded, and the darkness hid

Everything. Now the wakeful dogs fell silent.

High Etna stands above vast Typhoeus’ mouth,

Who scorches the earth with his fiery breath:

There the goddess lit twin pine branches as torches:

And since then there are torches handed out at her rites.

There’s a cave, its interior carved from sharp pumice,

A place not to be approached by man or beast:

Reaching it she yoked serpents to her chariot,

And roamed the ocean waves above the spray.

She shunned the Syrtes and Zanclaean Charybdis,

And you, hounds of Scylla, wrecking monsters,

Shunned the wide Adriatic, and Corinth between two seas:

And so came to your harbour, country of Attica.

Here she sat for the first time, mournfully, on cold stone:

That stone the Athenians named the Sorrowful.

She lingered many days under the open sky,

Enduring both the moonlight and the rain.

Every place has its destiny: What’s now called

Ceres’ Eleusis was then old Celeus’ farm.

He was bringing acorns home, and berries he’d picked

From the briars, and dry wood for the blazing hearth.

His little daughter was driving two she-goats from the hill,

While confined in his cradle was a sickly son.

‘Mother!’ the girl said (the goddess was moved

By that word mother) ‘Why are you alone in the wilderness?’

The old man stopped too, despite his heavy load,

And begged her to shelter under his insignificant roof.

She refused. She was disguised as an old woman, her hair

Covered with a cap. When he urged her she replied:

‘Be happy, and always a father! My daughter’s been

Stolen from me. Ah, how much better your fate than mine!’

She spoke, and a crystal drop (though goddesses cannot weep),

Like a tear, fell on her warm breast. Those tender hearts,

The old man and the virgin girl, wept with her:

And these were the righteous old man’s words:

‘Rise, and don’t scorn the shelter of my humble hut,

And may the lost daughter you mourn be safe and sound.’

The goddess said: ‘Lead on! You’ve found what could persuade me’

And she rose from the stone and followed the old man.

Leading, he told his follower, how his son was sick

Lying there sleepless, kept awake by his illness.

About to enter the humble house, she plucked

A tender, sleep-inducing, poppy from the bare ground:

And as she picked it, they say, unthinkingly, she tasted it,

And so, unwittingly, eased her long starvation.

And because she first broke her fast at nightfall,

Her priests of the Mysteries eat once the stars appear.

When she crossed the threshold, she saw all were grieving:

Since they’d lost hope of the child’s recovery.

Greeting the mother (who was called Metanira)

The goddess deigned to join her lips to the child’s.

His pallor fled, his body suddenly seemed healthier:

Such power flowed out of the goddess’ mouth.

There was joy in the house, in the father, mother

And daughter: those three were the whole house.

They soon set out a meal, curds in whey,

Apples, and golden honey on the comb.

Kind Ceres abstained, and gave to the boy

Poppy seeds in warm milk to make him sleep.

It was midnight: silent in peaceful slumber,

The goddess took Triptolemus on her lap,

Caressed him with her hand three times, and spoke

Three spells, not to be sounded by mortal tongue,

And she covered the boy’s body with live embers

On the hearth, so the fire would purge his mortal burden.

His good, fond, foolish mother, waking from sleep,

Crying: ‘What are you doing?’ snatched him from the coals,

To her the goddess said: ‘Though sinless, you’ve sinned:

My gift’s been thwarted by a mother’s fear.

He will still be mortal, but first to plough,

And sow, and reap a harvest from the soil.’

Ceres spoke, and left the house, trailing mist, and crossed

To her dragons, and was carried away in her winged chariot.

She left Sunium’s exposed cape behind, and Piraeus’ safe harbour,

And all that coast that lies towards the west.

From there she crossed the Aegean, saw all the Cyclades,

Skimmed the wild Ionian, and the Icarian Sea,

And, passing through Asia’s cities, sought the long Hellespont,

And wandered her course, on high, among diverse regions.

Now she gazed at incense-gathering Arabs, now Ethiopians,

Beneath her Libya now, now Meroe and the desert lands:

Then she saw the western rivers, Rhine, Rhone, Po,

And you, Tiber, parent of a stream full of future power.

Where, now? Too long to tell of the lands she wandered:

No place on earth remained unvisited by Ceres.

She wandered the sky too, and spoke to the constellations

Those near the chilly pole, free of the ocean waves:

‘You Arcadian stars (since you can see all things,

Never plunging beneath the watery wastes)

Show this wretched mother, her daughter, Proserpine!’

She spoke, and Helice answered her in this way:

‘Night’s free of blame: Ask the Light about your

Stolen daughter: the Sun views, widely, things done by day.’

The Sun, asked, said: ‘To save you grief, she whom you seek

Is married to Jupiter’s brother, and rules the third realm.’

After grieving a while, she addressed the Thunderer:

And there were deep marks of sorrow in her face:

‘If you remember by whom I conceived Persephone,

Half of the care she ought to be shown is yours.

Wandering the world I’ve learnt only of her wrong:

While her ravisher is rewarded for his crime.

But Persephone didn’t deserve a thief as husband:

It’s not right to have found a son-in-law this way.

How could I have suffered more, as captive to a conquering

Gyges, than now, while you hold the sceptre of the heavens?

Well, let him escape unpunished, I’ll suffer it, un-avenged,

If he returns her, amending his old actions by the new.’

Jupiter soothed her, excusing it as an act of love,

‘He’s not a son-in-law who’ll shames us,’ he said,

‘I’m no nobler than him: my kingdom’s in the sky,

Another owns the waters, another the empty void.

But if your mind is really so set against alteration,

And you’re determined to break firm marriage bonds,

Let’s make the attempt, but only if she’s kept her fast:

If not, she’ll remain the wife of her infernal spouse.’

The Messenger God had his orders, and took flight for Tartarus,

And, back sooner than expected, told what he’d clearly seen:

‘The ravished girl,’ he said ‘broke her fast with three seeds

Concealed in the tough rind of a pomegranate.’

Her gloomy mother grieved, no less than if her daughter

Had just been taken, and was a long time recovering even a little.

Then she said: ‘Heaven’s no place for me to be, either:

Order that I too may be received by the Taenarian vale.’

And so it would have been, if Jupiter hadn’t promised,

That Persephone should spend six months each year in heaven.

Then, at last, Ceres recovered her countenance and spirits,

And set garlands, woven from ears of corn, on her hair:

And the tardy fields delivered a copious harvest,

And the threshing-floor barely held the heaped sheaves.

White is fitting for Ceres: dress in white clothes for Ceres’

Festival: on this day no one wears dark-coloured thread.

Book IV: April 13: Ides

Jupiter, titled the Victor, keeps the Ides of April:

A temple was dedicated to him on this day.

And if I’m not wrong, on this day too, Liberty

Began to occupy a hall worthy of our people.

Book IV: April 14

On the next day, you sailors, seek safe harbours:

The westerly wind will blow mixed with hail.

Be that as it may, it was on this day, a day of hail,

That a Caesar, armed, clashed shields at Modena.

Book IV: April 15: The Fordicidia

When the third day after the Ides of April dawns,

You priests, offer a pregnant (forda) cow in sacrifice.

Forda is a cow in calf and fruitful, from ferendo (carrying):

They consider fetus is derived from the same root.

Now the cattle are big with young, and the ground’s

Pregnant with seed: a teeming victim’s given to teeming Earth.

Some are killed on Jupiter’s citadel, the Curiae (wards)

Get thirty cows: they’re drenched with plenty of sprinkled blood.

But when the priests have torn the calves from their mother’s womb,

And thrown the slashed entrails on the smoking hearth,

The oldest Vestal burns the dead calves in the fire,

So their ashes can purge the people on the day of Pales.

In Numa’s kingship the harvest failed to reward men’s efforts:

The farmers, deceived, offered their prayers in vain.

At one time that year it was dry, with cold northerlies,

The next, the fields were rank with endless rain:

Often the crop failed the farmer in its first sprouting,

And meagre wild oats overran choked soil,

And the cattle dropped their young prematurely,

And the ewes often died giving birth to lambs.

There was an ancient wood, long untouched by the axe,

Still sacred to Pan, the god of Maenalus:

He gave answers, to calm minds, in night silence.

Here Numa sacrificed twin ewes.

The first fell to Faunus, the second to gentle Sleep:

Both the fleeces were spread on the hard soil.

Twice the king’s unshorn head was sprinkled with spring water,

Twice he pressed the beech leaves to his forehead.

He abstained from sex: no meat might be served

At table, nor could he wear a ring on any finger.

Dressed in rough clothes he lay down on fresh fleeces,

Having worshipped the god with appropriate words.

Meanwhile Night arrived, her calm brow wreathed

With poppies: bringing with her shadowy dreams.

Faunus appeared, and pressing the fleece with a hard hoof,

From the right side of the bed, he uttered these words:

‘King, you must appease Earth, with the death of two cows:

Let one heifer give two lives, in sacrifice.’

Fear banished sleep: Numa pondered the vision,

And considered the ambiguous and dark command.

His wife, Egeria, most dear to the grove, eased his doubt,

Saying: ‘What’s needed are the innards of a pregnant cow,’

The innards of a pregnant cow were offered: the year proved

More fruitful, and earth and cattle bore their increase.

Book IV: April 16

Cytherea once commanded the day to pass more quickly,

And hurried on the Sun’s galloping horses,

So this next day young Augustus might receive

The title of Emperor sooner for his victory in war.

Book IV: April 17

And when you see the fourth dawn after the Ides,

The Hyades will set in the sea at night.

Book IV: April 19: The Cerialia

When the third dawn from the vanishing of the Hyades

Breaks, the horses will be in their stalls in the Circus.

So I must explain why foxes are loosed then,

Carrying torches fastened to scorched backs.

The land round Carseoli’s cold, not suited for growing

Olives, but the soil there’s appropriate for corn.

I passed it on the way to my native Pelignian country,

A small region, yet always supplied by constant streams.

There I entered, as usual, the house of my former host:

Phoebus had already unyoked his weary horses.

My host used to tell me of many things, including this,

As a preparation for my present work:

‘In that plain,’ he said (pointing at the plain),

A thrifty peasant woman and her sturdy husband had a small

Plot, he tilled the land himself, whether it needed ploughing,

Or required the curving sickle or the hoe.

They would sweep the cottage, set on timber piles,

She’d set eggs to hatch under the mother hen’s feathers,

Or collect green mallows or gather white mushrooms,

Or warm the humble hearth with welcome fire,

And still worked her hands assiduously at the loom,

To provision them against the threat of winter cold.

She had a son: he was a playful child,

Who was already twelve years old.

In a valley, he caught, in the depths of a willow copse,

A vixen, who’d stolen many birds from the yard.

He wrapped his captive in straw and hay, and set fire

To it all: she fled the hands that were out to burn her:

In fleeing she set the crops, that covered the fields, ablaze:

And a breeze lent strength to the devouring flames.

The thing’s forgotten, but a relic remains: since now

There’s a certain law of Carseoli, that bans foxes:

And they burn a fox at the Cerialia to punish the species,

Destroyed in the same way as it destroyed the crops.

Book IV: April 20

Next dawn when Memnon’s saffron-robed mother,

With her rosy horses, comes to view the wide lands,

The sun leaves the Ram, Aries, leader of the woolly flock,

Betrayer of Helle, and meets a nobler victim on leaving.

Whether it’s Jupiter the Bull, or Io the Heifer’s hard to tell:

The front of the creature appears: the rest’s concealed.

But whether the sign’s a bull or whether it’s a heifer,

It enjoys that reward for its love, against Juno’s wishes.

Book IV: April 21: The Parilia

The night has gone: dawn breaks. I’m called upon to sing

Of the Parilia, and not in vain if kindly Pales aids me.

Kindly Pales, if I respect your festival,

Then aid me as I sing of pastoral rites.

Indeed, I’ve often brought ashes of a calf, and stalks

Of beans, in chaste purification, in my full hands:

Indeed, I’ve leapt the threefold line of flames,

And the wet laurel’s sprinkled me with dew.

The goddess, moved, blesses the work: my ship

Sets sail: may favourable winds fill my sails.

Go, people: bring fumigants from the Virgin’s altar:

Vesta will grant them, Vesta’s gift will purify.

The fumigants are horse blood and calf’s ashes,

And thirdly the stripped stalks of stringy beans.

Shepherd, purify your sated sheep at twilight:

First sprinkle the ground with water, and sweep it,

And decorate the sheepfold with leaves and branches,

And hide the festive door with a trailing garland.

Make dark smoke with pure burning sulphur,

And let the sheep bleat, in contact with the smoke.

Burn male-olive wood, and pine, and juniper fronds,

And let scorched laurel crackle in the hearth.

Let a basket of millet keep the millet cakes company:

The rural goddess particularly loves that food.

Add meats, and a pail of her milk, and when the meat

Is cut, offer the warm milk, pray to sylvan Pales,

Saying: ‘Protect the cattle and masters alike:

And drive everything harmful from my stalls.

If I’ve fed sheep on sacred ground, sat under a sacred tree,

While they’ve unwittingly browsed the grass on graves:

If I’ve entered a forbidden grove, or the nymphs

And the god, half-goat, have fled at sight of me:

If my knife has pruned the copse of a shady bough,

To fill a basket of leaves for a sick ewe:

Forgive me. Don’t count it against me, if I’ve sheltered

My flock, while it hailed, in some rustic shrine,

Don’t harm me for troubling the pools. Nymphs,

Forgive, if trampling hooves have muddied your waters.

Goddess, placate the springs, and placate their divinities

On our behalf, and the gods too, scattered in every grove.

Let us not gaze on Dryads, or on Diana bathing,

Nor on Faunus, as he lies in the fields at noon.

Drive off disease: let men and beasts be healthy,

And healthy the vigilant pack of wakeful dogs.

May I drive back as many sheep as dawn revealed,

Nor sigh returning with fleeces snatched from the wolves.

Avert dire famine: let leaves and grass be abundant,

And water to wash the body, water to drink.

May I press full udders, may my cheeses bring me money,

May the wicker sieve strain my liquid whey.

And let the ram be lusty, his mate conceive and bear,

And may there be many a lamb in my fold.

And let the wool prove soft, not scratch the girls,

Let it everywhere be kind to gentle hands.

Let my prayer be granted, and every year we’ll make

Huge cakes for Pales, Mistress of the shepherds.’

Please the goddess in this way: four times, facing east,

Say these words, and wash your hands with fresh dew.

Then set a wooden dish, to be your mixing bowl,

And drink the creamy milk and the purple must:

Then leap, with nimble feet and straining thighs

Over the crackling heaps of burning straw.

I’ve set forth the custom: I must still tell of its origin:

But many explanations cause me doubt, and hold me back.

Greedy fire devours all things, and melts away the dross

From metals: the same method cleans shepherd and sheep?

Or is it because all things are formed

Of two opposing powers, fire and water,

And our ancestors joined these elements, and thought fit

To touch their bodies with fire and sprinkled water?

Or did they think the two so powerful, because they contain

The source of life: denied to the exile, it makes the new bride?

I can scarce believe it, but some consider it refers

To Phaethon, and to Deucalion’s flood.

Some say, too, that once when shepherds struck

Stones together, a spark suddenly leapt out:

The first died, but the second set fire to straw:

Is that the basis for the fires of the Parilia?

Or is the custom due rather to Aeneas’ piety,

To whom the fire gave safe passage, in defeat?

Or is this nearer the truth, that when Rome was founded,

They were commanded to move the Lares to their new homes,

And changing homes the farmers set fire to the houses,

And to the cottages, they were about to abandon,

They and their cattle leaping through the flames,

As happens even now on Rome’s birthday?

That subject itself is matter for a poet. We have come

To the City’s founding. Great Quirinus, witness your deeds!

Amulius had already been punished, and all

The shepherd folk were subject to the twins,

Who agreed to gather the men together to build walls:

The question was as to which of them should do it.

Romulus said: ‘There’s no need to fight about it:

Great faith is placed in birds, let’s judge by birds.’

That seemed fine. One tried the rocks of the wooded Palatine,

The other climbed at dawn to the Aventine’s summit.

Remus saw six birds, Romulus twelve in a row.

They stuck to the pact, and Romulus was granted the City.

A day was chosen for him to mark out the walls with a plough.

The festival of Pales was near: the work was started then.

They trenched to the solid rock, threw fruits of the harvest

Into its depths, with soil from the ground nearby.

The ditch was filled with earth, and topped by an altar,

And a fire was duly kindled on the new-made hearth.

Then, bearing down on the plough handle, he marked the walls:

The yoke was borne by a white cow and a snowy ox.

So spoke the king: ‘Be with me, as I found my City,

Jupiter, Father Mavors, and Mother Vesta:

And all you gods, whom piety summons, take note.

Let my work be done beneath your auspices.

May it last long, and rule a conquered world,

All subject, from the rising to the setting day.’

Jupiter added his omen to Romulus’ prayer, with thunder

On the left, and his lightning flashed leftward in the sky.

Delighted by this, the citizens laid foundations,

And the new walls were quickly raised.

The work was overseen by Celer, whom Romulus named,

Saying: ‘Celer, make it your care to see no one crosses

Walls or trench that we’ve ploughed: kill whoever dares.’

Remus, unknowingly, began to mock the low walls,

saying: ‘Will the people be safe behind these?’

He leapt them, there and then. Celer struck the rash man

With his shovel: Remus sank, bloodied, to the stony ground.

When the king heard, he smothered his rising tears,

And kept the grief locked in his heart.

He wouldn’t weep in public, but set an example of fortitude,

Saying: ‘So dies the enemy who shall cross my walls.’

But he granted him funeral honours, and couldn’t

Hold back his tears, and the love he tried to hide was obvious.

When they set down the bier, he gave it a last kiss,

And said: ‘Farewell, my brother, taken against my will!’

And he anointed the body for burning. Faustulus, and Acca

Her hair loosened in mourning, did as he did.

Then the as yet unnamed Quirites wept for the youth:

And finally the pyre, wet by their tears, was lit.

A City arose, destined (who’d have believed it then?)

To plant its victorious foot upon all the lands.

Rule all, and be ever subject to mighty Caesar,

And may you often own to many of that name:

And as long as you stand, sublime, in a conquered world,

May all others fail to reach your shoulders.

Book IV: April 23: The Vinalia

I’ve spoken of Pales’ festival, I’ll speak of the Vinalia:

There’s only a single day between the two.

You prostitutes, celebrate the divine power of Venus:

Venus suits those who earn by your profession.

Offer incense and pray for beauty and men’s favour,

Pray to be charming, and blessed with witty words,

Give the Mistress myrtle, and the mint she loves,

And sheaves of rushes, wound in clustered roses.

Now’s the time to crowd her temple near the Colline Gate,

One that takes its name from a Sicilian hill:

When Claudius took Arethusian Syracuse by force,

And captured that hill of Eryx, too, in the war,

Venus moved to Rome, according to the long-lived Sibyl’s

Prophecy, preferring to be worshipped in her children’s City.

Why then, you ask, is the Vinalia Venus’ festival?

And why does this day belong to Jupiter?

There was a war to decide whether Turnus or Aeneas

Should be Latin Amata’s son-in-law: Turnus begged help

From Etruscan Mezentius, a famous and proud fighter,

Mighty on horseback and mightier still on foot:

Turnus and the Rutuli tried to win him to their side.

The Tuscan leader replied to their suit:

‘My courage costs me not a little: witness my wounds,

And my weapons that have often been dyed with blood.

If you seek my help you must divide with me

The next wine from your vats, no great prize.

No delay is needed: yours is to give, mine to conquer.

How Aeneas will wish you’d refused me!’

The Rutulians agreed. Mezentius donned his armour,

And so did Aeneas, and addressed Jove:

‘The enemy’s pledged his vine-crop to the Tyrrhenian king:

Jupiter, you shall have the wine from the Latin vines!’

The nobler prayer succeeded: huge Mezentius died,

And struck the ground, heart filled with indignation.

Autumn came, dyed with the trodden grapes:

The wine, justly owed to Jupiter, was paid.

So the day is called the Vinalia: Jupiter claims it,

And loves to be present at his feast.

Book IV: April 25: The Robigalia

When six days of April remain,

The Spring season will be half-over,

And you’ll look for Helle’s Ram in vain:

The rains will be your sign, when the Dog’s mentioned.

On this day, returning to Rome from Nomentum,

A white-robed throng blocked my road.

A priest was going to the grove of old Mildew (Robigo),

To offer the entrails of a dog and a sheep to the flames.

I went with him, so as not to be ignorant of the rite:

Your priest, Quirinus, pronounced these words:

‘Scaly Mildew, spare the blades of corn,

And let their tender tips quiver above the soil.

Let the crops grow, nurtured by favourable stars,

Until they’re ready for the sickle.

Your power’s not slight: the corn you blight

The grieving farmer gives up for lost.

Wind and showers don’t harm the wheat as much,

Nor gleaming frost that bleaches the yellow corn,

As when the sun heats the moist stalks:

Then, dreadful goddess, is the time of your wrath.

Spare us, I pray, take your blighted hands from the harvest,

And don’t harm the crop: it’s enough that you can harm.

Grip harsh iron rather than the tender wheat,

Destroy whatever can destroy others first.

Better to gnaw at swords and harmful spears:

They’re not needed: the world’s at peace.

Let the rural wealth gleam now, rakes, sturdy hoes,

And curved ploughshare: let rust stain weapons:

And whoever tries to draw his sword from its sheath,

Let him feel it wedded there by long disuse.

Don’t you hurt the corn, and may the farmer’s

Prayer to you always be fulfilled by your absence.’

He spoke: to his right there was a soft towel,

And a cup of wine and an incense casket.

He offered the incense and wine on the hearth,

Sheep’s entrails, and (I saw him) the foul guts of a vile dog.

Then the priest said: ‘You ask why we offer an odd sacrifice

In these rites’ (I had asked) ‘then learn the reason.

There’s a Dog they call Icarian, and when it rises

The dry earth is parched, and the crops ripen prematurely.

This dog is set on the altar to signify the starry one,

And the only reason for it is because of the name.’

Book IV: April 28: The Floralia

When Aurora’s left Tithonus, kin to Phrygian Assaracus,

And raised her light three times in the vast heavens,

A goddess comes framed in a thousand varied garlands

Of flowers: and the stage has freer license for mirth.

The rites of Flora also stretch to the Kalends of May:

Then I’ll speak again, now a greater task is needed.

Vesta, bear the day onwards! Vesta’s been received,

At her kinsman’s threshold: so the Senators justly decreed.

Phoebus takes part of the space there: a further part remains

For Vesta, and the third part that’s left, Caesar occupies.

Long live the laurels of the Palatine: long live that house

Decked with branches of oak: one place holds three eternal gods.

Book V: Introduction

You ask where I think the name of May comes from?

Its origin’s not totally clear to me.

As a traveller stands unsure which way to go,

Seeing the paths fan out in all directions,

So I’m not sure which to accept, since it’s possible

To give different reasons: plenty itself confuses.

You who haunt the founts of Aganippian Hippocrene,

Those beloved prints of the Medusaean horse, explain!

The goddesses are in conflict. Polyhymnia begins,

While the others silently consider her speech.

‘After the first Chaos, as soon as the three primary forms

Were given to the world, all things were newly re-configured:

Earth sank under its own weight, and drew down the seas,

But lightness lifted the sky to the highest regions:

And the sun and stars, not held back by their weight,

And you, you horses of the moon, sprang high.

But Earth for a long time wouldn’t yield to Sky,

Nor the other lights to the Sun: honours were equal.

One of the common crowd of gods, would often dare

To sit on the throne that you, Saturn, owned,

None of the new gods took Ocean’s side,

And Themis was relegated to the lowest place,

Until Honour, and proper Reverence, she

Of the calm look, were united in a lawful bed.

From them Majesty was born, she considers them

Her parents, she who was noble from her day of birth.

She took her seat, at once, high in the midst of Olympus,

Conspicuous, golden, in her purple folds.

Modesty and Fear sat with her: you could see

All the gods modelling their expression on hers.

At once, respect for honour entered their minds:

The worthy had their reward, none thought of self.

This state of things lasted for years in heaven,

Till the elder god was banished by fate from the citadel.

Earth bore the Giants, a fierce brood of savage monsters,

Who dared to venture against Jupiter’s halls:

She gave them a thousands hands, serpents for legs,

And said: “Take up arms against the mighty gods.”

They set to piling mountains to the highest stars,

And to troubling mighty Jupiter with war:

He hurled lightning bolts from the heavenly citadel,

And overturned the weighty mass on its creators.

These divine weapons protected Majesty well,

She survived, and has been worshipped ever since:

So she attends on Jove, Jove’s truest guardian,

And allows him to hold the sceptre without force.

She came to earth as well: Romulus and Numa

Both worshipped her, and so did others in later ages.

She maintains fathers and mothers in due honour,

She keeps company with virgins and young boys,

She burnishes the lictor’s rods, axes, and ivory chair,

She rides high in triumph behind the garlanded horses.’

Polyhymnia finished speaking: Clio, and Thalia

Mistress of the curved lyre, approved her words.

Urania continued: all the rest were silent,

And hers was the only voice that could be heard.

‘Once great reverence was shown to white hair,

And wrinkled age was valued at its true worth.

The young waged work of war, and spirited battle,

Holding to their posts for the sake of the gods:

Age, inferior in strength, and unfit for arms,

Often did the country a service by its counsel.

The Senate was only open to men of mature age,

And Senators bear a name meaning ripe in years.

The elders made laws for the people, and specific

Rules governed the age when office might be sought:

Old men walked with the young, without their indignation,

And on the inside, if they only had one companion.

Who dared then to talk shamefully in an older man’s

Presence? Old age granted rights of censorship.

Romulus knew this, and chose the City Fathers

From select spirits: making them the rulers of the City.

So I deduce that the elders (maiores) gave their own title

To the month of May: and looked after their own interests.

Numitor too may have said: “Romulus, grant this month

To the old men” and his grandson may have yielded.

The following month, June, named for young men (iuvenes),

Gives no slight proof of the honour intended.’

Then Calliope herself, first of that choir, her hair

Unkempt and wreathed with ivy, began to speak:

‘Tethys, the Titaness, was married long ago to Ocean,

He who encircles the outspread earth with flowing water.

The story is that their daughter Pleione was united

To sky-bearing Atlas, and bore him the Pleiades.

Among them, Maia’s said to have surpassed her sisters

In beauty, and to have slept with mighty Jove.

She bore Mercury, who cuts the air on winged feet,

On the cypress-clothed ridge of Mount Cyllene.

The Arcadians, and swift Ladon, and vast Maenalus,

A land thought older than the moon, rightly worship him.

Evander, in exile from Arcadia, came to the Latin fields,

And brought his gods with him, aboard ship.

Where Rome, the capital of the world, now stands

There were trees, grass, a few sheep, the odd cottage.

When they arrived, his prophetic mother said:

“Halt here! This rural spot will be the place of Empire.”

The Arcadian hero obeyed his mother, the prophetess,

And stayed, though a stranger in a foreign land.

He taught the people many rites, but, above all, those

Of twin-horned Faunus, and Mercury the wing-footed god.

Faunus half-goat, you’re worshipped by the girded Luperci,

When their strips of hide purify the crowded streets.

But you, Mercury, patron of thieves, inventor

Of the curved lyre, gave your mother’s name to this month.

Nor was this your first act of piety: you’re thought

To have given the lyre seven strings, the Pleiads’ number.’

Calliope too ended: and her sisters voiced their praise.

And so? All three were equally convincing.

May the Muses’ favour attend me equally,

And let me never praise one more than the rest.

Book V: May 1: Kalends

Let the work start with Jove. The star of her who tended

Jove’s cradle is visible on the night of the first:

The rainy sign of Olenian Capella, the ‘she-goat’, rises:

Placed in the sky for the gift of milk to him.

Amalthea, the naiad, famous on Cretan Ida,

Hid Jupiter amongst the woods, they say.

She owned a she-goat noted among the Dictaean flocks,

With lofty horns curved over its back,

The beautiful mother of two kids,

With udders such as Jove’s nurse should have.

It gave milk to the god, but broke a horn

On a tree, and was shorn of half its charm.

The nymph lifted the horn, then wrapped it

In fresh herbs, and carried it to Jove, full of fruit.

When he’d gained the heavens, occupied his father’s throne,

And none was greater than unconquered Jove,

He made his nurse a star, and her horn of plenty

That still keeps its mistress’ name, stars as well.

The Kalends of May saw an altar dedicated

To the Guardian Lares, with small statues of the gods.

Curius vowed them: but time destroys many things,

And the long ages wear away the stone.

The reason for their epithet of Guardian,

Is that they keep safe watch over everything.

They support us, and protect the City walls,

And they’re propitious, and bring us aid.

A dog, carved from the same stone, used to stand

At their feet: why did it stand there with the Lares?

Both guard the house: both are loyal to their master:

Crossroads are dear to the god, and to dogs.

Both the Lar and Diana’s pack chase away thieves:

And the Lares are watchful, and so are dogs.

I looked for statues of the twin gods,

But they’d fallen with the weight of years:

The City has a thousand Lares, and Spirits

Of the Leader, who gave them to the people,

And each district worships the three divinities.

Why say this here, when the month of August

Rightfully owns that subject of my verse?

For the moment the Good Goddess is my theme.

There’s a natural height that gives its name to a place:

They call it The Rock: it’s the bulk of the Aventine.

Remus waited there in vain, when you, the birds

Of the Palatine, granted first omens to his brother.

There the Senate founded a temple, hostile

To the sight of men, on the gently sloping ridge.

It was dedicated by an heiress of the ancient Clausi,

Who’d never given her virgin body to a man:

Livia restored it, so she could imitate her husband

And follow his lead in everything.

Book V: May 2

When Hyperion’s daughter puts the stars to flight,

Raising her light, behind her horses of dawn,

A cold north-westerly will smooth the wheat-tips,

White sails will put out from Calabrian waters.

And when shadowy twilight leads on the night,

No part of the whole herd of Hyades is unknown.

The radiant head of Taurus glitters with seven flames,

That Greek sailors named the Hyades, from ‘rain’ (hyein):

Some think they nursed Bacchus, others believe

They’re the granddaughters of Tethys and old Ocean.

Atlas was not yet standing there, his shoulders weighed

By Olympus, when Hyas, known for his beauty, was born:

Aethra, of Ocean’s lineage, gave birth to him

And the nymphs at full term, but Hyas was born first.

When the down was new on his cheeks, he scared away

The frightened deer, in terror, and a hare was a good prize.

But when his courage had grown with his years, he dared

To close with wild boar and shaggy lionesses,

And while seeking the lair of a pregnant lioness, and her cubs,

He himself was the bloodstained victim of that Libyan beast.

His mother and his saddened sisters wept for Hyas,

And Atlas, soon doomed to bow his neck beneath the pole,

But the sisters’ love was greater than either parent’s:

It won them the heavens: Hyas gave them his name.

‘Mother of the flowers, approach, so we can honour you

With joyful games! Last month I deferred the task.

You begin in April, and pass into May’s span:

One claims you fleeing, the other as it comes on.

Since the boundaries of the months are yours,

And defer to you, either’s fitting for your praise.

This is the month of the Circus’ Games, and the victors’ palm

The audience applauds: let my song accompany the Circus’ show.

Tell me, yourself, who you are. Men’s opinions err:

You’ll be the best informant regarding your own name.’

So I spoke. So the goddess responded to my question,

(While she spoke, her lips breathed out vernal roses):

‘I, called Flora now, was Chloris: the first letter in Greek

Of my name, became corrupted in the Latin language.

I was Chloris, a nymph of those happy fields,

Where, as you’ve heard, fortunate men once lived.

It would be difficult to speak of my form, with modesty,

But it brought my mother a god as son-in-law.

It was spring, I wandered: Zephyrus saw me: I left.

He followed me: I fled: he was the stronger,

And Boreas had given his brother authority for rape

By daring to steal a prize from Erechtheus’ house.

Yet he made amends for his violence, by granting me

The name of bride, and I’ve nothing to complain of in bed.

I enjoy perpetual spring: the season’s always bright,

The trees have leaves: the ground is always green.

I’ve a fruitful garden in the fields that were my dower,

Fanned by the breeze, and watered by a flowing spring.

My husband stocked it with flowers, richly,

And said: “Goddess, be mistress of the flowers.”

I often wished to tally the colours set there,

But I couldn’t, there were too many to count.

As soon as the frosted dew is shaken from the leaves,

And the varied foliage warmed by the sun’s rays,

The Hours gather dressed in colourful clothes,

And collect my gifts in slender baskets.

The Graces, straight away, draw near, and twine

Wreaths and garlands to bind their heavenly hair.

I was first to scatter fresh seeds among countless peoples,

Till then the earth had been a single colour.

I was first to create the hyacinth, from Spartan blood,

And a lament remains written on its petals.

You too, Narcissus, were known among the gardens,

Unhappy that you were not other, and yet were other.

Why tell of Crocus, or Attis, or Adonis, son of Cinyras,

From whose wounds beauty springs, through me?

Mars too, if you’re unaware, was brought to birth

By my arts: I pray unknowing Jupiter never knows it.

Sacred Juno grieved that Jupiter didn’t need

Her help, when motherless Minerva was born.

She went to Ocean to complain of her husband’s deeds:

Tired by the effort she rested at my door.

Catching sight of her, I said: “Why are you here, Saturnia?”

She explained what place she sought, and added

The reason. I consoled her with words of friendship:

She said: “My cares can’t be lightened by words.

If Jove can be a father without needing a wife,

And contains both functions in a single person,

Why should I despair of becoming a mother with no

Husband, and, chaste, give birth though untouched by man?

I’ll try all the drugs in the whole wide world,

And search the seas, and shores of Tartarus.”

Her voice flew on: but my face showed doubt.

She said: “Nymph, it seems you have some power.”

Three times I wanted to promise help, three times my tongue

Was tied: mighty Jupiter’s anger was cause for fear.

She said: “Help me, I beg you, I’ll conceal the fact,

And I’ll call on the powers of the Stygian flood as witness.”

“A flower, sent to me from the fields of Olenus,

Will grant what you seek,” I replied, “unique, in all my garden.

He who gave it to me said: ‘Touch a barren heifer with this,

And she’ll be a mother too.’ I did, and she was, instantly.”

With that, I nipped the clinging flower with my thumb,

Touched Juno, and as I touched her breast she conceived.

Pregnant now, she travelled to Thrace and the northern shores

Of Propontis: her wish was granted, and Mars was born.

Mindful of his birth that he owed to me, he said:

“You too must have a place in Romulus’ City.”

Perhaps you think I only rule over tender garlands.

But my power also commands the farmers’ fields.

If the crops have flourished, the threshing-floor is full:

If the vines have flourished, there’ll be wine:

If the olive trees have flourished, the year will be bright,

And the fruit will prosper at the proper time.

If the flower’s damaged, the beans and vetch die,

And your imported lentils, Nile, die too.

Wine too, laboriously stored in the vast cellars,

Froths, and clouds the wine jars’ surface with mist.

Honey’s my gift: I call the winged ones who make

Honey, to the violets, clover and pale thyme.

I carry out similar functions, when spirits

Run riot, and bodies themselves flourish.’

I admired her, in silence, while she spoke. But she said:

‘You may learn the answer to any of your questions.’

‘Goddess’, I replied: ‘What’s the origin of the games?’

I’d barely ended when she answered me:

‘Rich men owned cattle or tracts of land,

Other means of wealth were then unknown,

So the words ‘rich’ (locuples) from ‘landed’ (locus plenus),

And ‘money’ (pecunia) from ‘a flock’ (pecus), but already

Some had unlawful wealth: by custom, for ages,

Public lands were grazed, without penalty.

Folk had no one to defend the common rights:

Till at last it was foolish to use private grazing.

This licence was pointed out to the Publicii,

The plebeian aediles: earlier, men lacked confidence.

The case was tried before the people: the guilty fined:

And the champions praised for their public spirit.

A large part of the fine fell to me: and the victors

Instituted new games to loud applause. Part was allocated

To make a way up the Aventine’s slope, then steep rock:

Now it’s a serviceable track, called the Publician Road.’

I believed the shows were annual. She contradicted it,

And added further words to her previous speech:

‘Honour touches me too: I delight in festivals and altars:

We’re a greedy crowd: we divine beings.

Often, through their sins, men render the gods hostile,

And, fawning, offer a sacrifice for their crimes:

Often I’ve seen Jupiter, about to hurl his lightning,

Draw back his hand, when offered a gift of incense.

But if we’re ignored, we avenge the injury

With heavy penalties, and our anger passes all bounds.

Remember Meleager, burnt up by distant flames:

The reason, because Diana’s altar lacked its fires.

Remember Agamemnon: the same goddess becalmed the fleet:

A virgin, yet still she twice avenged her neglected hearth.

Wretched Hippolytus, you wished you’d worshipped Venus,

When your terrified horses were tearing you apart.

It would take too long to tell of neglect punished by loss.

I too was once neglected by the Roman Senate.

What to do, how to show my indignation?

What punishment to exact for the harm done me?

Gloomily, I gave up my office. I ceased to protect

The countryside, cared nothing for fruitful gardens:

The lilies drooped: you could see the violets fade,

And the petals of the purple crocus languished.

Often Zephyr said: ‘Don’t destroy your dowry.’

But my dowry was worth nothing to me.

The olives were in blossom: wanton winds hurt them:

The wheat was ripening: hail blasted the crops:

The vines were promising: skies darkened from the south,

And the leaves were brought down by sudden rain.

I didn’t wish it so: I’m not cruel in my anger,

But I neglected to drive away these ills.

The Senate convened, and voted my godhead

An annual festival, if the year proved fruitful.

I accepted their vow. The consuls Laenas

And Postumius celebrated these games of mine.

I was going to ask why there’s greater

Wantonness in her games, and freer jests,

But it struck me that the goddess isn’t strict,

And the gifts she brings are agents of delight.

The drinker’s brow’s wreathed with sewn-on garlands,

And a shower of roses hides the shining table:

The drunken guest dances, hair bound with lime-tree bark,

And unaware employs the wine’s purest art:

The drunken lover sings at beauty’s harsh threshold,

And soft garlands crown his perfumed hair.

Nothing serious for those with garlanded brow,

No running water’s drunk, when crowned with flowers:

While your stream, Achelous, was free of wine,

No one as yet cared to pluck the rose.

Bacchus loves flowers: you can see he delights

In a crown, from Ariadne’s chaplet of stars.

The comic stage suits her: she’s never: believe me,

Never been counted among the tragic goddesses.

The reason the crowd of whores celebrate these games

Is not a difficult one for us to discover.

The goddess isn’t gloomy, she’s not high-flown,

She wants her rites to be open to the common man,

And warns us to use life’s beauty while it’s in bloom:

The thorn is spurned when the rose has fallen.

Why is it, when white robes are handed out for Ceres,

Flora’s neatly dressed in a host of colours?

Is it because the harvest’s ripe when the ears whiten,

But flowers are of every colour and splendour?

She nods, and flowers fall as her hair flows,

As roses fall when they’re scattered on a table.

There’s still the lights, whose reason escaped me,

Till the goddess dispelled my ignorance like this:

‘Lights are thought to be fitting for my day,

Because the fields glow with crimson flowers,

Or because flowers and flames aren’t dull in colour,

And the splendour of them both attracts the eye:

Or because the licence of night suits my delights,

And this third reason’s nearest to the truth.’

‘There’s one little thing besides, for me to ask,

If you’ll allow,’ I said: and she said: ‘It’s allowed.’

‘Why then are gentle deer and shy hares

Caught in your nets, not Libyan lionesses?’

She replied that gardens not woodlands were her care,

And fields where no wild creatures were allowed.

All was ended: and she vanished into thin air: yet

Her fragrance lingered: you’d have known it was a goddess.

Scatter your gifts, I beg you, over my breast,

So Ovid’s song may flower forever.

Book V: May 3

In less than four nights, Chiron, the semi-human

Joined to the body of a tawny horse, reveals his stars.

Pelion is a mountain facing south in Haemonian Thessaly:

The summit’s green with pines, the rest is oak.

Chiron, Philyra’s son, lived there. An ancient rocky cave

Remains, inhabited once, they say, by that honest old one.

He’s thought to have exercised those hands, that one day

Sent Hector to his death, in playing on the lyre.

Hercules visited him, most of his labours done,

Only the last few tasks remaining for the hero.

You could have viewed Troy’s twin fates, together:

One the young scion of Aeacus, the other Jove’s son.

Chiron received young Hercules hospitably,

And asked him the reason for his being there.

He replied, as Chiron viewed his club and lion-skin, saying:

‘The man is worthy of these weapons, the weapons of the man!’

Nor could Achilles, daringly, restrain his hands,

From touching that pelt shaggy with bristles.

While the old one handled the arrows, encrusted with poison,

A shaft fell from the quiver and lodged in his left foot.

Chiron groaned, and drew its blade from his body:

Hercules, and the Thessalian youth groaned too.

Though the Centaur himself mixed herbs culled

From Pagasean hills, treating the wound with ointments,

The gnawing venom defied his remedies, and its evil

Penetrated his body, to the marrow of his bones.

The blood of the Lernean Hydra fused with

The Centaur’s blood, giving no chance for aid.

Achilles, drenched in tears, stood before him as before

A father, just as he would have wept for Peleus dying.

Often he caressed the feeble fingers with loving hands,

(The teacher had his reward for the character he’d formed),

And he kissed him, often, and often, as he lay there, cried:

‘Live, I beg you: don’t leave me, dear father!’

The ninth day came, and you, virtuous Chiron,

Wrapped your body in those fourteen stars.

Book V: May 5

Curved Lyra would follow Centaurus, but the path’s

Not clear: the third night will be the right time.

Book V: May 6

Scorpio’s mid-part will be visible in the sky

When we speak of the Nones dawning tomorrow.

Book V: May 9: The Lemuria

When Hesperus, the Evening Star, has shown his lovely face

Three times, from that day, and the defeated stars fled Phoebus,

It will be the ancient sacred rites of the Lemuria,

When we make offerings to the voiceless spirits.

The year was once shorter, the pious rites of purification, februa,

Were unknown, nor were you, two-faced Janus, leader of the months:

Yet they still brought gifts owed to the ashes of the dead,

The grandson paid respects to his buried grandfather’s tomb.

It was May month, named for our ancestors (maiores),

And a relic of the old custom still continues.

When midnight comes, lending silence to sleep,

And all the dogs and hedgerow birds are quiet,

He who remembers ancient rites, and fears the gods,

Rises (no fetters binding his two feet)

And makes the sign with thumb and closed fingers,

Lest an insubstantial shade meets him in the silence.

After cleansing his hands in spring water,

He turns and first taking some black beans,

Throws them with averted face: saying, while throwing:

‘With these beans I throw I redeem me and mine.’

He says this nine times without looking back: the shade

Is thought to gather the beans, and follow behind, unseen.

Again he touches water, and sounds the Temesan bronze,

And asks the spirit to leave his house.

When nine times he’s cried: ‘Ancestral spirit, depart,’

He looks back, and believes the sacred rite’s fulfilled.

Why the day’s so called, and the origin of the name,

Escapes me: that’s for some god to discover.

Mercury, son of the Pleiad, explain it to me, by your

Potent wand: you’ve often seen Stygian Jove’s halls.

The caduceus-bearer came, at my prayer. Learn then,

The reason for the name: the god himself revealed it.

When Romulus had sunk his brother’s spirit in the grave,

And justice was done to the over-hasty Remus,

The wretched Faustulus, and Acca with streaming hair,

Sprinkled the calcined bones with their tears.

Then at twilight they returned home grieving,

And flung themselves on the hard couch, just as it lay.

The bloodstained ghost of Remus seemed to stand

By the bed, speaking these words in a faint murmur:

‘Behold, I who was half, the other part of your care,

See what I am, and know what I was once!

If the birds had signalled the throne was mine,

I might have been highest, ruling over the people,

Now I’m an empty phantom, gliding from the fire:

That is what remains of Remus’ form!

Ah, where is Mars, my father? If you once spoke

The truth, it was he who sent us the she-wolf’s teats.

The rash hand of a citizen undid what the wolf saved.

O how gentle she was in comparison!

Savage Celer, wounded, may you yield your cruel spirit,

And bloodstained as I am, sink beneath the earth.

My brother never wished it: his love equals mine:

He offered, at my death, all he could, his tears.

Beg him by your weeping, by your nurturing,

To signal a day of celebration in my honour.’

They stretched out their arms at this, longing to embrace him,

But the fleeting shade escaped their clutching hands.

When the phantom fleeing dispelled their sleep,

They both told the king of his brother’s words.

Romulus, complying, called that day the Remuria,

When reverence is paid our buried ancestors.

Over time the harsh consonant at the beginning

Of the name, was altered into a soft one:

And soon the silent spirits were called Lemures too:

That’s the meaning of the word, that’s its force.

And the ancients closed the temples on these days,

As you see them shut still at the season of the dead.

It’s a time when it’s not suitable for widows or virgins

To wed: she who marries then won’t live long.

And if you attend to proverbs, then, for that reason too,

People say unlucky women wed in the month of May.

Though these three festivals fall at the same time,

They are not observed on three consecutive days.

Book V: May 11

You’ll be disappointed if you look for Boeotian Orion,

On the middle of these three days. I must sing of those stars.

Jupiter, and his brother who rules the deep ocean,

Were journeying together, with Mercury.

It was the hour when yoked oxen drag back the plough,

And the lamb kneels down to drink the full ewe’s milk.

By chance, an old man, Hyrieus, farmer of a tiny plot,

Saw them, as he stood in front of his meagre dwelling:

And spoke to them: ‘The way’s long, little of day is left,

And my threshold’s welcoming to strangers.’

He stressed his words with a look, inviting them again:

They accepted his offer, hiding their divinity.

They entered the old man’s cottage, black with smoke:

There was still a flicker of fire in yesterday’s log.

He knelt and blew the flames higher with his breath,

And drew out broken brands, and chopped them up.

Two pots stood there: the smaller contained beans,

The other vegetables: each boiling beneath its lid.

While they waited, he poured red wine with a trembling hand:

The god of the sea accepted the first cup, and when

He’d drained it, he said: ‘Let Jupiter drink next.’

Hearing the name of Jupiter the old man grew pale.

Recovering his wits, he sacrificed the ox that ploughed

His meagre land, and roasted it in a great fire:

And he brought out wine, in smoke-streaked jars,

That he’d once stored away as a young boy.

Promptly they reclined on couches made of rushes,

And covered with linen, but still not high enough.

Now the table was bright with food, bright with wine:

The bowl was red earthenware, with cups of beech wood.

Jupiter’s word was: ‘If you’ve a wish, ask it:

All will be yours.’ The old man said calmly:

‘I had a dear wife, whom I knew in the flower

Of my first youth. Where is she now, you ask?

An urn contains her. I swore to her, calling

On you gods, “You’ll be the only wife I’ll take.”

I spoke, and kept the oath. I ask for something else:

I wish to be a father, and not a husband.’

The gods agreed: All took their stand beside

The ox-hide – I’m ashamed to describe the rest –

Then they covered the soaking hide with earth:

Ten months went past and a boy was born.

Hyrieus called him Urion, because of his conception:

The first letter has now lost its ancient sound.

He grew immensely: Latona took him for a friend,

He was her protector and her servant.

Careless words excite the anger of the gods:

He said: ‘There’s no wild creature I can’t conquer.’

Earth sent a Scorpion: its purpose was to attack

The Goddess, who bore the twins, with its curved dart:

Orion opposed it. Latona set him among the shining stars,

And said: ‘Take now the reward you’ve truly earned.’

Book V: May 12

But why are Orion and the other stars rushing to leave

The sky, and why does night contract its course?

Why does bright day, presaged by the Morning Star,

Lift its radiance more swiftly from the ocean waves?

Am I wrong, or did weapons clash? I’m not: they clashed,

Mars comes, giving the sign for war as he comes.

The Avenger himself descends from the sky

To view his shrine and honours in Augustus’ forum.

The god and the work are mighty: Mars

Could not be housed otherwise in his son’s city.

The shrine is worthy of trophies won from Giants:

From it the Marching God initiates fell war,

When impious men attack us from the East,

Or those from the setting sun must be conquered.

The God of Arms sees the summits of the work,

And approves of unbeaten gods holding the heights.

He sees the various weapons studding the doors,

Weapons from lands conquered by his armies.

Here he views Aeneas bowed by his dear burden,

And many an ancestor of the great Julian line:

There he views Romulus carrying Acron’s weapons

And famous heroes’ deeds below their ranked statues.

And he sees Augustus’ name on the front of the shrine,

And reading ‘Caesar’ there, the work seems greater still.

He had vowed it as a youth, when dutifully taking arms:

With such deeds a Prince begins his reign.

Loyal troops standing here, conspirators over there,

He stretched his hand out, and spoke these words:

‘If the death of my ‘father’ Julius, priest of Vesta,

Gives due cause for this war, if I avenge for both,

Come, Mars, and stain the sword with evil blood,

And lend your favour to the better side. You’ll gain

A temple, and be called the Avenger, if I win.’

So he vowed, and returned rejoicing from the rout.

Nor is he satisfied to have earned Mars that name,

But seeks the standards lost to Parthian hands,

That race protected by deserts, horses, arrows,

Inaccessible, behind their encircling rivers.

The nation’s pride had been roused by the deaths

Of the Crassi, when army, leader, standards all were lost.

The Parthians kept the Roman standards, ornaments

Of war, and an enemy bore the Roman eagle.

That shame would have remained, if Italy’s power

Had not been defended by Caesar’s strong weapons.

He ended the old reproach, a generation of disgrace:

The standards were regained, and knew their own.

What use now the arrows fired from behind your backs,

Your deserts and your swift horses, you Parthians?

You carry the eagles home: offer your unstrung bows:

Now you no longer own the emblems of our shame.

Rightly the god has his temple, and title twice of Avenger,

And the honour earned has paid the avowed debt.

Quirites, celebrate solemn games in the Circus!

Though that stage scarcely seems worthy of a mighty god.

Book V: May 13

You’ll catch sight of the Pleiades, the whole throng together,

When there’s one night still left before the Ides.

Then summer begins, as I find from reliable sources,

And spring’s tepid season comes to an end.

Book V: May 14

The day before the Ides is marked by Taurus lifting

His starry muzzle. The sign’s explained by a familiar tale.

Jupiter, as a bull, offered his back to a Tyrian girl,

And carried horns on his deceptive forehead.

Europa grasped his hair in her right hand, her drapery

In her left, while fear itself lent her fresh grace.

The breeze filled her dress, ruffled her blonde hair:

Sidonian girl, like that, you were fit to be seen by Jove.

Often girlishly she withdrew her feet from the sea,

Fearing the touch of the leaping billows:

Often the god knowingly plunged his back in the waves,

So that she’d cling to his neck more tightly.

Reaching shore, the god was no longer a bull,

Jupiter stood there, without the horns.

The bull entered the heavens: you, Sidonian girl, Jove

Impregnated, and now a third of the world bears your name.

Others say the sign is Io, the Pharian heifer,

Turned from girl to cow, from cow to goddess.

On this day too, the Vestals throw effigies made of rushes,

In the form of men of old, from the oak bridge.

Some accuse our ancestors of a wicked crime,

Putting to death men over sixty years of age.

There’s an old story, that when the land was ‘Saturnia’,

Jove, prophetically, said something like this:

‘Throw two people into the Tuscan river,

As a sacrifice to the sickle-bearing Ancient.’

Until Tirynthian Hercules came to our fields,

The sad rite was performed each year, as at Leucas:

He threw Quirites of straw into the water:

And now they throw effigies in the same way.

Some think that the young men used to hurl

Feeble old men from the bridges, to steal their votes.

Tell me the truth, Tiber. Your shores pre-date the City,

You should know the true origin of the rite.

Tiber, crowned in reeds, lifted his head from mid-stream,

And opened his mouth to speak these words, hoarsely:

‘I saw this place when it was grassland, without walls:

Cattle were scattered grazing on either bank,

And Tiber whom the nations know and fear,

Was disregarded then, even by the cattle.

Arcadian Evander is often named to you:

A stranger, he churned my waters with his oars.

Hercules came here too, with a crowd of Greeks,

(My name was Albula then, if I remember true)

Evander, hero from Pallantium, received him warmly,

And Cacus had the punishment he deserved.

The victor left, taking the cattle, his plunder from Erythea

With him, but his friends refused to go any further.

Most of them had come from deserted Argos:

They established their hopes, and houses, on our hills.

Yet sweet love for their native land often stirred them,

And one of them, in dying, gave this brief command:

“Throw me into the Tiber, that carried by Tiber’s waves

My spiritless dust might journey to the Inachian shore.”

That funeral duty laid on him, displeased his heir:

The dead stranger was buried in Italian ground,

And a rush effigy thrown into the Tiber instead,

To return to his Greek home over the wide waters.’

Tiber spoke, entering a moist cave of natural stone,

While you, gentle waters, checked your flow.

Book V: May 15: Ides

Come, Mercury, Atlas’ famous grandson, you whom

A Pleiad once bore to Jove, among the Arcadian hills,

Arbiter of war and peace to gods on high, and those below:

You who make your way with winged feet: who delight

In the sounding lyre, and the gleaming wrestling:

You through whose teaching the tongue learnt eloquence:

On the Ides, the Senate founded for you, a temple facing

The Circus: since then today has been your festival.

All those who make a living trading their wares,

Offer you incense, and beg you to swell their profits.

There’s Mercury’s fountain close to the Capene Gate:

It’s potent, if you believe those who’ve tried it.

Here the merchant, cleansed, with his tunic girt,

Draws water and carries it off, in a purified jar.

With it he wets some laurel, sprinkles his goods

With damp laurel: those soon to have new owners.

And he sprinkles his hair with dripping laurel too,

And with that voice, that often deceives, utters prayers:

‘Wash away all the lies of the past,’ he says,

‘Wash away all the perjured words of a day that’s gone.

If I’ve called on you as witness, and falsely invoked

Jove’s great power, hoping he wouldn’t hear:

If I’ve knowingly taken the names of gods and goddesses,

In vain: let the swift southerlies steal my sinful words,

And leave the day clear for me, for further perjuries,

And let the gods above fail to notice I’ve uttered any.

Just grant me my profit, give me joy of the profit I’ve made:

And make sure I’ll have the pleasure of cheating a buyer.’

Mercury, on high, laughs aloud at such prayers,

Remembering how he himself stole Apollo’s cattle.

Book V: May 20

But, I beg you, Mercury, to respond to a better prayer,

And tell me when Phoebus enters Gemini, the Twins.

He said: ‘When you see as many days remaining

In the month as the labours Hercules completed.’

‘Tell me,’ I replied, ‘the origin of the sign.’

The god explained its origin, eloquently:

‘The Tyndarides, brothers, one a horseman, the other

A boxer, raped and abducted Phoebe and her sister Hilaira.

Idas, and Lynceus, his brother, prepared to fight, and claim

Their own, both sworn to be Leucippus’ sons-in-law.

Love urges one set of twins to demand restitution,

The other to refuse it: each fights for a common cause.

The Oebalids could have escaped by taking flight,

But it seemed dishonourable to conquer by their speed.

There’s a spot clear of trees, a good place for a fight:

They took their stand there (its called Aphidna).

Pierced in the chest by Lynceus’ sword, a wound

He’d not expected, Castor fell to the ground.

Pollux rushed to avenge him, and with his spear

Ran Lynceus through, where neck meets shoulder.

Idas attacked him then, and was only repulsed by Jove’s

Lightning, yet without, they say, his weapon being torn from him.

And the heights of heaven were opening for you,

Pollux, when you cried: ‘Father, hear my words:

That heaven you grant me alone, share between us:

Half will be more, then, than the whole of your gift.’

He spoke, and redeemed his brother, by their changing

Places alternately: both stars aid the storm-tossed vessel.

Book V: May 21: The Agonia

Turn back to January to learn what the Agonia are:

Though they’ve a place in the calendar here as well.

Book V: May 22

Tonight the stars of Erigone’s dog set: the origin

Of the constellation’s explained elsewhere.

Book V: May 23: The Tubilustrium

The next dawn belongs to Vulcan: they call it

Tubilustria: when trumpets he makes are purified.

Book V: May 24

The next date’s marked by four letters, QRCF, which, interpreted,

Signify either the manner of the sacred rites, or the flight of the king.

Book V: May 25

I’ll not neglect you either, Fortuna Publica, of a powerful nation,

To whom a temple was dedicated on this following day.

When the sun’s been received by Amphitrite’s rich waters,

You’ll see the beak of Jove’s beloved tawny eagle.

Book V: May 26, May 27

The coming dawn will hide Bootes from your sight,

And next day the constellation of Hyas will be seen.

Book VI: Introduction

The reason for this month’s name’s also doubtful:

Choose the one you please from those I offer.

I sing the truth: but some will say I lied,

Believing no deity was ever seen by mortal.

There is a god in us: when he stirs we kindle:

That impulse sows the seeds of inspiration.

I’ve a special right to see the faces of the gods,

Being a bard, or by singing of sacred things.

There’s a dense grove of trees, a place masked

From every sound, except the trickle of water.

There I considered the origin of the month

Just begun, and was thinking about its name.

Behold I saw the goddesses, but not those Hesiod saw,

That teacher of farming, following his Ascraean flock,

Nor those Priam’s son, Paris, judged in moist Ida’s

Valleys: though one of them was there.

One of them, her own husband’s sister:

Juno, it was (I knew her) who stands in Jove’s temple.

I shivered, and betrayed myself by speechless pallor:

Then the goddess herself dispelled the fear she’d caused,

Saying: ‘O poet, singer of the Roman year,

Who dares to tell great things in slender measures,

You’ve won the right to view a celestial power,

By choosing to celebrate the festivals in your verse.

But so you’re not ignorant or led astray by error,

June in fact takes its name from mine.

It’s something to have wed Jove, and to be Jove’s sister:

I’m not sure if I’m prouder of brother or husband.

If you consider lineage, I was first to call Saturn

Father, I was the first child fate granted to him.

Rome was once named Saturnia, after my father:

This was the first place he came to, exiled from heaven.

If the marriage bed counts at all, I’m called the Thunderer’s

Wife, and my shrine’s joined to that of Tarpeian Jove.

If his mistress could give her name to the month of May,

Shall a similar honour be begrudged to me?

Or why am I called queen and chief of goddesses?

Why did they place a golden sceptre in my hand?

Shall days (luces) make up the month, and I be called

Lucina from them, yet not name a month myself?

Then I would repent of having loyally shed my anger

Against the race of Electra and the house of Dardanus.

I had twin cause for anger: I grieved at Ganymede’s abduction,

And my beauty was scorned by that judge, on Ida.

I would repent of not favouring Carthage’s walls,

Since my chariot and my weapons are there:

I would repent of having granted Rome rule of Sparta,

And of Argos, Mycenae, and ancient Samos:

And of old Tatius, and the Faliscans who worship me,

Whom I allowed to fall prey to the Romans.

But let me not repent, no race is dearer to me: here

I’m worshipped: here I occupy a shrine with my dear Jove.

Mavors himself said to me: ‘I entrust these walls

To you. You’ll have power in your grandson’s city.’

His words are fulfilled: I’m worshipped at a hundred altars,

And my month is the not the least of my honours.

Nevertheless not merely Rome does me that honour,

But the neighbouring townsmen treat me the same.

Look at the calendar of wooded Aricia,

Of the Laurentines, and my own Lanuvium:

They’ve a month of June. Look at Tiber,

And the sacred walls of the goddess at Praeneste:

You’ll read of Juno’s month. Romulus didn’t found them:

But Rome, it’s true, is the city of my grandson.’

Juno ended. I looked back: Hebe, Hercules’ wife,

Stood there, with youthfulness in her look.

She said: ‘If my mother commanded me to leave heaven,

I wouldn’t stay, against my mother’s will.

And I won’t argue now about the name of the month:

I’ll persuade and act the petitioner’s role,

I’d prefer to maintain my rights by prayer alone.

Perhaps you’ll take my side yourself.

My mother occupies the golden Capitol, and shares

The summit shrine, as is right, with Jove himself.

While all my glory comes from the month’s name,

My only honour, one with which they tease me.

What harm, Roman, in your granting the name

Of a month to Hercules’ wife: posterity agreeing?

This land owes me something too, because of my great

Husband: here he drove the cattle he captured,

Here Cacus, badly protected by his father’s gift of fire,

Stained the Aventine earth with his blood.

But back to my point. Romulus organised the people,

Dividing them into two parts, according to age:

One was ready to give advice, the other to fight:

One decided on war, while the other waged it.

So he decreed, and divided the months likewise:

June for the young (iuvenes): the month before for the old.’

She spoke. And in the heat of the moment they might have

Quarrelled, and anger disguised true affection:

But Concord came, her long hair twined with Apollo’s laurel,

A goddess, and the dear care of our pacific leader.

When she’d told how Tatius and brave Romulus,

And their two kingdoms and people had merged,

And fathers- and sons-in-law made a common home,

She said: ‘The month of June gets its name from

Their union (iunctus).’ So three reasons were given.

Goddesses, forgive me: it’s not for me to decide.

Leave me, equally. Troy was ruined by judging beauty:

Two goddesses can harm, more than one may delight.

Book VI: June 1: Kalends

Carna, the first day’s yours. Goddess of the hinge:

She opens the closed, by her power, closes the open.

The story of how she gained the powers she has is obscured

By time, but you’ll still learn of it from my verse.

There’s an ancient grove of Alernus near the Tiber:

And the priests still make sacrifices there.

A nymph was born there (men of old called her Cranaë)

Who was often sought in vain by many suitors.

She used to hunt the land, chasing wild beasts with spears,

Stretching her woven nets in the hollow valleys.

She’d no quiver, yet considered herself Apollo’s

Sister: nor need you, Apollo, have been ashamed of her.

If any youth spoke words of love to her,

She gave him this answer right away:

‘There’s too much light here, it’s too shameful

In the light: if you’ll lead to a darker cave, I’ll follow.’

While he went in front, credulously, she no sooner reached

The bushes than she hid: and was nowhere to be found.

Janus saw her, and the sight raised his passion.

He used soft words to the hard-hearted nymph.

She told him to find a more private cave,

Followed him closely: then deserted her leader.

Foolish child! Janus can see what happens behind him:

You gain nothing: he looks back at your hiding place.

Nothing gained, as I said, you see! He caught you, hidden

Behind a rock, clasped you, worked his will, then said:

‘In return for our union, the hinges belong to you:

Have them as recompense for your maidenhead.’

So saying he gave her a thorn (it was white-thorn)

With which to drive away evil from the threshold.

There are some greedy birds, not those that cheated

Phineus of his meal, though descended from that race:

Their heads are large, their eyes stick out, their beaks

Fit for tearing, their feathers are grey, their claws hooked.

They fly by night, attacking children with absent nurses,

And defiling their bodies, snatched from the cradle.

They’re said to rend the flesh of infants with their beaks,

And their throats are full of the blood they drink.

They’re called screech-owls, and the reason for the name

Is the horrible screeching they usually make at night.

Whether they’re born as birds, or whether they’re made so

By spells, old women transformed to birds by Marsian magic,

They still entered Proca’s bedroom. Proca was fresh

Prey for the birds, a child of five days old.

They sucked at the infant’s chest, with greedy tongues:

And the wretched child screamed for help.

Scared at his cry, the nurse ran to her ward,

And found his cheeks slashed by their sharp claws.

What could she do? The colour of the child’s face

Was that of late leaves nipped by an early frost.

She went to Cranaë and told her: Cranaë said:

‘Don’t be afraid: your little ward will be safe.’

She approached the cradle: the parents wept:

‘Restrain your tears,’ she said, ‘I’ll heal him.’

Quickly she touched the doorposts, one after the other,

Three times, with arbutus leaves, three times with arbutus

Marked the threshold: sprinkled the entrance with water,

Medicinal water, while holding the entrails of a two-month sow:

And said: ‘Birds of night, spare his entrails:

A small victim’s offered here for a small child.

Take a heart for a heart, I beg, flesh for flesh,

This life we give you for a dearer life.’

When she’d sacrificed, she placed the severed flesh

In the open air, and forbade those there to look at it.

A ‘rod of Janus’, taken from a whitethorn, was set

Where a little window shed light into the room.

After that, they say, the birds avoided the cradle,

And the boy recovered the colour he’d had before.

You ask why we eat greasy bacon-fat on the Kalends,

And why we mix beans with parched grain?

She’s an ancient goddess, nourished by familiar food,

No epicure to seek out alien dainties.

In ancient times the fish still swam unharmed,

And the oysters were safe in their shells.

Italy was unaware of Ionian heath-cocks,

And the cranes that enjoy Pigmy blood:

Only the feathers of the peacock pleased,

And the nations didn’t send us captive creatures.

Pigs were prized: men feasted on slaughtered swine:

The earth only yielded beans and hard grains.

They say that whoever eats these two foods together

At the Kalends, in this sixth month, will have sweet digestion.

They also say that the shrine of Juno Moneta was founded

On the summit of the citadel, according to your vow, Camillus:

Before it was built, the house of Manlius had protected

Capitoline Jove against the Gallic weapons.

Great Gods, it would have been better, if he’d fallen,

In defence of your throne, noble Jupiter!

He lived to be executed, condemned for seeking kingship:

That was the crown long years granted him.

This same day is a festival of Mars, whose temple

By the Covered Way is seen from beyond the Capene Gate.

You too, Tempest, were considered worthy of a shrine,

After our fleet was almost sunk in Corsican waters.

These human monuments are obvious. If you look

For stars too, great Jove’s eagle, with curved talons, rises.

Book VI: June 2

Next light summons the Hyades, the horns on Taurus’

Brow, and then the earth’s soaked with heavy rain.

Book VI: June 3

When two dawns are past, and Phoebus has risen twice,

And the crops have twice been wet by the dewfall,

On that day, they say, during the Tuscan War, Bellona’s

Shrine was consecrated, she who always brings Rome success.

Appius was responsible, who, when peace was denied Pyrrhus,

Saw clearly with his mind, though deprived of sight.

A little open space looks down on the heights of the Circus

From the temple, there’s a little pillar there of no mean importance:

The custom is to hurl a spear from there to declare war,

When it’s been decided to take up arms against kings and nations.

Book VI: June 4

The rest of the Circus is protected by Hercules the Guardian,

The god holds the office due to the Sibylline oracle.

The day before the Nones is when he takes up office:

If you ask about the inscription, Sulla approved the work.

Book VI: June 5: Nones

I asked whether I should assign the Nones to Sancus,

Or Fidius, or you Father Semo: Sancus answered me:

‘Whichever you assign it to, the honour’s mine:

I bear all three names: so Cures willed it.’

The Sabines of old granted him a shrine accordingly,

And established it on the Quirinal Hill.

Book VI: June 6

I have a daughter (may she outlive me, I pray)

In whom I’ll always be happy, while she’s safe.

When I wished to give her away to my son-in-law,

I asked which times were fit for weddings, which were not:

Then it was pointed out to me that after the Ides of June

Was a good time for brides, and for bridegrooms,

While the start of the month was unsuitable for marriage:

For the holy wife of the Flamen Dialis told me:

‘Till the calm Tiber carries the sweepings from the shrine

Of Ilian Vesta, on its yellow waves to the sea,

I’m not allowed to comb my hair with a toothed comb,

Nor to cut my nails with anything made of iron,

Nor to touch my husband, though he’s Jove’s priest,

And though he was given to me by law for life.

Don’t be in a hurry. Your daughter will be better wed,

When Vesta’s fire gleams on purified earth.’

Book VI: June 7

On the third dawn after the Nones, it’s said that Phoebe

Chases away Arcturus, and the Bear’s free of fear of her ward.

Then I recall, too, I’ve seen games, named for you

Smooth-flowing Tiber, held on the turf in the Field of Mars.

The day’s a festival for those who tug at dripping lines,

And hide their bronze hooks under little strands of bait.

Book VI: June 8

The Mind has its own goddess too. I note a sanctuary

Was vowed to Mind, during the terror of war with you,

Perfidious Carthage. You broke the peace, and astonished

By the consul’s death, all feared the Moorish army.

Fear had driven out hope, when the Senate made their vows

To Mind, and immediately she was better disposed to them.

The day when the vows to the goddess were fulfilled

Is separated by six days from the approaching Ides.

Book VI: June 9: The Vestalia

Vesta, favour me! I’ll open my lips now in your service,

If I’m indeed allowed to attend your sacred rites.

I was rapt in prayer: I felt the heavenly deity,

And the happy earth shone with radiant light.

Not that I saw you, goddess (away with poets’ lies!)

Nor were you to be looked on by any man:

But I knew what I’d not known, and the errors

I’d held to were corrected without instruction.

They say Rome had celebrated the Parilia forty times,

When the goddess, the Guardian of the Flame, was received

In her shrine, the work of Numa, that peace-loving king,

(None more god-fearing was ever born in Sabine lands.)

The roofs you see of bronze were roofs of straw then,

And its walls were made of wickerwork.

This meagre spot that supports the Hall of Vesta

Was then the mighty palace of unshorn Numa.

Yet the form of the temple, that remains, they say,

Is as before, and is shaped so for good reason.

Vesta’s identified with Earth: in them both’s unsleeping fire:

Earth and the hearth are both symbols of home.

The Earth’s a ball not resting on any support,

It’s great weight hangs in the ether around it.

Its own revolutions keep its orb balanced,

It has no sharp angles to press on anything,

And it’s placed in the midst of the heavens,

And isn’t nearer or further from any side,

For if it weren’t convex, it would be nearer somewhere,

And the universe wouldn’t have Earth’s weight at its centre.

There’s a globe suspended, enclosed by Syracusan art,

That’s a small replica of the vast heavens,

And the Earth’s equidistant from top and bottom.

Which is achieved by its spherical shape.

The form of this temple’s the same: there’s no angle

Projecting from it: a rotunda saves it from the rain.

You ask why the goddess is served by virgins?

I’ll reveal the true reason for that as well.

They say that Juno and Ceres were born of Ops

By Saturn’s seed, Vesta was the third daughter:

The others married, both bore children they say,

The third was always unable to tolerate men.

What wonder if a virgin delights in virgin servants,

And only allows chaste hands to touch her sacred relics?

Realize that Vesta is nothing but living flame,

And you’ll see that no bodies are born from her.

She’s truly a virgin, who neither accepts seed

Nor yields it, and she loves virgin companions.

I foolishly thought for ages that there were statues

Of Vesta, later I learnt there were none beneath her dome:

An undying fire is concealed with the shrine,

But there’s no image of Vesta or of fire.

The earth’s supported by its energy: Vesta’s so called from ‘depending

On energy’ (vi stando), and that could be the reason for her Greek name.

But the hearth (focus) is named from its fire that warms (fovet) all things:

Formerly it stood in the most important room.

I think the vestibule was so called from Vesta too:

In praying we address Vesta first, who holds first place.

It was once the custom to sit on long benches by the fire,

And believe the gods were present at the meal:

Even now in sacrificing to ancient Vacuna,

They sit and stand in front of her altar hearths.

Something of ancient custom has passed to us:

A clean dish contains the food offered to Vesta.

See, loaves are hung from garlanded mules,

And flowery wreaths veil the rough millstones.

Once farmers only used to parch wheat in their ovens,

(And the goddess of ovens has her sacred rites):

The hearth baked the bread, set under the embers,

On a broken tile placed there on the heated floor.

So the baker honours the hearth, and the lady of hearths,

And the she-ass that turns the pumice millstones.

Red-faced Priapus shall I tell of your shame or pass by?

It’s a brief tale but it’s a merry one.

Cybele, whose head is crowned with towers,

Called the eternal gods to her feast.

She invited the satyrs too, and those rural divinities,

The nymphs, and Silenus came, though no one asked him.

It’s forbidden, and would take too long, to describe the banquet

Of the gods: the whole night was spent drinking deep.

Some wandered aimlessly in Ida’s shadowy vales,

Some lay, and stretched their limbs, on the soft grass.

Some played, some slept, others linked arms

And beat swift feet threefold on the grassy earth.

Vesta lay carelessly, enjoying a peaceful rest,

Her head reclining, resting on the turf.

But the red-faced keeper of gardens chased the nymphs

And goddesses, and his roving feet turned to and fro.

He saw Vesta too: it’s doubtful whether he thought her

A nymph, or knew her as Vesta: he himself denied he knew.

He had wanton hopes, and tried to approach her in secret,

And walked on tiptoe, with a pounding heart.

Old Silenus had chanced to leave the mule

He rode by the banks of a flowing stream.

The god of the long Hellespont was about to start,

When the mule let out an untimely bray.

Frightened by the raucous noise, the goddess leapt up:

The whole troop gathered, and Priapus fled through their hands.

The people of Lampsacus sacrifice this animal to him, singing:

‘Rightly we give the innards of the witness to the flames.’

Goddess, you deck the creature with necklaces of loaves,

In remembrance: work ceases: the empty mills fall silent.

I’ll explain the meaning of an altar of Jove the Baker

That stands on the Thunderer’s citadel, more famous

For name than worth. The Capitol was surrounded

By fierce Gauls: the siege had already caused a famine.

Summoning the gods to his royal throne,

Jupiter said to Mars: ‘Begin!’ and he quickly replied:

‘My people’s plight is surely unknown,

A grief that needs a voice of heartfelt complaint.

But if I’m to tell a sad and shameful tale in brief,

Rome lies under the feet of an Alpine enemy.

Jupiter, is this the Rome that was promised power

Over the world! Rome, the mistress of the earth?

She’d crushed the neighbouring cities, and the Etruscans:

Hope was rampant: now she’s driven from her home.

We’ve seen old men, dressed in embroidered robes

Of triumph, murdered in their bronze-clad halls:

We’ve seen Ilian Vesta’s sacred pledges hurried

From their place: some clearly think of the gods.

But if they look back at the citadel you hold,

And see so many of your homes under siege,

They’ll think worship of the gods is vain,

And incense from a fearful hand thrown away.

If only they’d an open field of battle! Let them arm,

And if they can’t be victorious, let them die.

Now without food, and dreading a cowardly death,

They’re penned on their hill, pressed by a barbarous mob.’

Then Venus, and Vesta, and glorious Quirinus with auger’s staff

And striped gown, pleaded on behalf of their Latium.

Jupiter replied: ‘There’s a common concern for those walls.

And the Gauls will be defeated and receive punishment.

But you, Vesta, mustn’t leave your place, and see to it

That the bread that’s lacking be considered plentiful.

Let whatever grain is left be ground in a hollow mill,

Kneaded by hand, and then baked in a hot oven.’

He gave his orders, and Saturn’s virgin daughter

Obeyed his command, as the hour reached midnight.

Now sleep had overcome the weary leaders: Jupiter

Rebuked them, and spoke his wishes from holy lips:

‘Rise, and from the heights of the citadel, throw down

Among the enemy, the last thing you’d wish to yield!’

They shook off sleep, and troubled by the strange command,

Asked themselves what they must yield, unwillingly.

It seemed it must be bread: They threw down the gifts

Of Ceres, clattering on the enemy helms and shields.

The expectation that they could be starved out vanished.

The foe was repulsed, and a bright altar raised to Jove the Baker.

On the festival of Vesta, I happened to be returning

By the recent path that joins the New Way to the Forum.

There I saw a lady descending barefoot:

Astonished, I was silent and stopped short.

An old woman from the neighbourhood saw me: and telling

Me to sit, spoke to me in a quavering voice, shaking her head:

‘Here, where the forums are now, was marshy swamp:

A ditch was wet with the overflow from the river.

That lake of Curtius, that supports the altars un-wet,

Is solid enough now, but was a pool of water once.

Where processions file through the Velabrum to the Circus,

There was nothing but willow and hollow reeds:

Often some guest returning over suburban waters,

Sang out, and hurled drunken words at the boatmen.

That god, Vertumnus, whose name fits many forms,

Wasn’t yet so-called from damning back the river (averso amne).

Here too was a thicket of bulrushes and reeds,

And a marsh un-trodden by booted feet.

The pools are gone, and the river keeps its banks,

And the ground’s dry now: but the custom remains.’

So she explained it. I said: ‘Farewell, good dame!

May whatever of life remains to you be sweet.’

I’d already heard the rest of the tale in boyhood,

But I won’t pass over it in silence on that account.

Ilus, scion of Dardanus, had founded a new city

(Ilus was still rich, holding the wealth of Asia)

A sky-born image of armed Minerva was said

To have fallen on the hillside near to Troy.

(I was anxious to see it: I saw the temple and the site,

That’s all that’s left there: Rome has the Palladium.)

Apollo Smintheus was consulted, and gave this answer

From truthful lips, in the darkness of his shadowy grove:

‘Preserve the heavenly goddess, and preserve

The City: with her goes the capital of empire.’

Ilus preserved her, closed in the heights of the citadel.

The care of it descended to his heir Laomedon.

Priam failed to take like care: so Pallas wished it,

Judgement having gone against her beauty.

They say it was stolen, whether by Diomede,

Or cunning Ulysses, or taken by Aeneas:

The agent’s unknown, but the thing’s in Rome:

Vesta guards it: who sees all things by her unfailing light.

How worried the Senate was, when Vesta’s temple

Caught fire: and she was nearly buried by her own roof!

Holy fires blazed, fed by sinful fires,

Sacred and profane flames were merged.

The priestesses with streaming hair, wept in amazement:

Fear had robbed them of their bodily powers.

Metellus rushed into their midst, crying in a loud voice:

‘Run and help, there’s no use in weeping.

Seize fate’s pledges in your virgin hands:

They won’t survive by prayers, but by action.

Ah me! Do you hesitate?’ he said. He saw them,

Hesitating, sinking in terror to their knees.

He took up water, and holding his hands aloft, cried:

‘Forgive me, holy relics! A man enters where no man should.

If it’s wrong, let the punishment fall on me:

Let my life be the penalty, so Rome is free of harm.’

He spoke and entered. The goddess he carried away

Was saved by her priest’s devotion, and she approved.

Now sacred flames you shine brightly under Caesar’s rule:

The fire on the Ilian hearths is there, and will remain,

It won’t be said that under him any priestess disgraced

Her office, nor that she was buried alive in the earth.

So the unchaste die, being entombed in what they

Have violated: since divine Earth and Vesta are one.

This day Brutus won his title from the Galician foe,

And stained the soil of Spain with blood.

Surely sadness is sometimes mixed with joy,

Lest festivals delight the crowd’s hearts completely:

Crassus, near the Euphrates, lost the eagles, his army,

And his son, and at the end himself as well.

The goddess said: ‘Parthians, why exult? You’ll send

The standards back, a Caesar will avenge Crassus’ death.’

Book VI: June 10

But once the violets are stripped from the long-eared mules,

And the rough millstones are grinding the grain again,

The sailor at the stern says: ‘We’ll see the Dolphin,

When day is put to flight and night comes on.’

Book VI: June 11: The Matralia

Now you complain, Phrygian Tithonus, abandoned by your bride,

And the vigilant Morning Star leaves the Eastern waters.

Good mothers (since the Matralia is your festival),

Go, offer the Theban goddess the golden cakes she’s owed.

Near the bridges and mighty Circus is a famous square,

One that takes its name from the statue of an ox:

There, on this day, they say, Servius with his own

Royal hands, consecrated a temple to Mother Matruta.

Bacchus, whose hair is twined with clustered grapes,

If the goddess’ house is also yours, guide the poet’s work,

Regarding who the goddess is, and why she excludes

(Since she does) female servants from the threshold

Of her temple, and why she calls for toasted cakes.

Semele was burnt by Jove’s compliance: Ino

Received you as a baby, and nursed you with utmost care.

Juno swelled with rage, that Ino should raise a child

Snatched from Jove’s lover: but it was her sister’s son.

So Athamas was haunted by the Furies, and false visions,

And little Learchus died by his father’s hand.

His grieving mother committed his shade to the tomb.

And paid the honours due to the sad pyre.

Then tearing her hair in sorrow, she leapt up

And snatched you from your cradle, Melicertes.

There’s a narrow headland between two seas,

A single space attacked by twofold waves:

There Ino came, clutching her son in her frenzied grasp,

And threw herself, with him, from a high cliff into the sea.

Panope and her hundred sisters received them unharmed,

And gliding smoothly carried them through their realm.

They reached the mouth of densely eddying Tiber,

Before they became Leucothea and Palaemon.

There was a grove: known either as Semele’s or Stimula’s:

Inhabited, they say, by Italian Maenads.

Ino, asking them their nation, learned they were Arcadians,

And that Evander was the king of the place.

Hiding her divinity, Saturn’s daughter cleverly

Incited the Latian Bacchae with deceiving words:

‘O too-easy-natured ones, caught by every feeling!

This stranger comes, but not as a friend, to our gathering.

She’s treacherous, and would learn our sacred rites:

But she has a child on whom we can wreak punishment.’

She’d scarcely ended when the Thyiads, hair streaming

Over their necks, filled the air with their howling,

Laid hands on Ino, and tried to snatch the boy.

She invoked gods with names as yet unknown to her:

‘Gods, and men, of this land, help a wretched mother!’

Her cry carried to the neighbouring Aventine.

Oetaean Hercules having driven the Iberian cattle

To the riverbank, heard and hurried towards the voice.

As he arrived, the women who’d been ready for violence,

Shamefully turned their backs in cowardly flight.

‘What are you doing here,’ said Hercules (recognising her),

‘Sister of Bacchus’ mother? Does Juno persecute you too?’

She told him part of her tale, suppressing the rest because of her son:

Ashamed to have been goaded to crime by the Furies.

Rumour, so swift, flew on beating wings,

And your name was on many a lip, Ino.

It’s said you entered loyal Carmentis’ home

As a guest, and assuaged your great hunger:

They say the Tegean priestess quickly made cakes

With her own hands, and baked them on the hearth.

Now cakes delight the goddess at the Matralia:

Country ways pleased her more than art’s attentions.

‘Now, O prophetess,’ she said, ‘reveal my future fate,

As far as is right. Add this, I beg, to your hospitality.’

A pause ensued. Then the prophetess assumed divine powers,

And her whole breast filled with the presence of the god:

You’d hardly have known her then, so much taller

And holier she’d become than a moment before.

‘I sing good news, Ino,’ she said, ‘your trials are over,

Be a blessing to your people for evermore.

You’ll be a sea goddess, and your son will inhabit ocean.

Take different names now, among your own waves:

Greeks will call you Leucothea, our people Matuta:

Your son will have complete command of harbours,

We’ll call him Portunus, Palaemon in his own tongue.

Go, and both be friends, I beg you, of our country!’

Ino nodded, and gave her promise. Their trials were over,

They changed their names: he’s a god and she’s a goddess.

You ask why she forbids the approach of female servants?

She hates them: by her leave I’ll sing the reason for her hate.

Daughter of Cadmus, one of your maids

Was often embraced by your husband.

Faithless Athamas secretly enjoyed her: he learned

From her that you gave the farmers parched seed.

You yourself denied it, but rumour confirmed it.

That’s why you hate the service of a maid.

But let no loving mother pray to her, for her child:

She herself proved an unfortunate parent.

Better command her to help another’s child:

She was more use to Bacchus than her own.

They say she asked you, Rutilius, ‘Where are you rushing?

As consul you’ll fall to the Marsian enemy on my day.’

Her words were fulfilled, the Tolenus

Flowed purple, its waters mixed with blood.

The following year, Didius, killed on the same

Day, doubled the enemy’s strength.

Fortuna, the same day is yours, your temple

Founded by the same king, in the same place.

And whose is that statue hidden under draped robes?

It’s Servius, that’s for sure, but different reasons

Are given for the drapes, and I’m in doubt.

When the goddess fearfully confessed to a secret love,

Ashamed, since she’s immortal, to mate with a man

(For she burned, seized with intense passion for the king,

And he was the only man she wasn’t blind to),

She used to enter his palace at night by a little window:

So that the gate bears the name Fenestella.

She’s still ashamed, and hides the beloved features

Under cloth: the king’s face being covered by a robe.

Or is it rather that, after his murder, the people

Were bewildered by their gentle leader’s death,

Their grief swelling, endlessly, at the sight

Of the statue, until they hid him under robes?

I must sing at greater length of a third reason,

Though I’ll still keep my team on a tight rein.

Having secured her marriage by crime, Tullia

Used to incite her husband with words like these:

‘What use if we’re equally matched, you by my sister’s

Murder, I by your brother’s, in leading a virtuous life?

Better that my husband and your wife had lived,

Than that we shrink from greater achievement.

I offer my father’s life and realm as my dower:

If you’re a man, go take the dower I speak of.

Crime is the mark of kingship. Kill your wife’s father,

Seize the kingdom, dip our hands in my father’s blood.’

Urged on be such words, though a private citizen

He usurped the high throne: the people, stunned, took up arms.

With blood and slaughter the weak old man was defeated:

Tarquin the Proud snatched his father-in-law’s sceptre.

Servius himself fell bleeding to the hard earth,

At the foot of the Esquiline, site of his palace.

His daughter, driving to her father’s home,

Rode through the streets, erect and haughty.

When her driver saw the king’s body, he halted

In tears. She reproved him in these terms:

‘Go on, or do you seek the bitter fruits of virtue?

Drive the unwilling wheels, I say, over his face.’

A certain proof of this is Evil Street, named

After her, while eternal infamy marks the deed.

Yet she still dared to visit her father’s temple,

His monument: what I tell is strange but true.

There was a statue enthroned, an image of Servius:

They say it put a hand to its eyes,

And a voice was heard: ‘Hide my face,

Lest it view my own wicked daughter.’

It was veiled by cloth, Fortune refused to let the robe

Be removed, and she herself spoke from her temple:

‘The day when Servius’ face is next revealed,

Will be a day when shame is cast aside.’

Women, beware of touching the forbidden cloth,

(It’s sufficient to utter prayers in solemn tones)

And let him who was the City’s seventh king

Keep his head covered, forever, by this veil.

The temple once burned: but the fire spared

The statue: Mulciber himself preserved his son.

For Servius’ father was Vulcan, and the lovely

Ocresia of Corniculum his mother.

Once, performing sacred rites with her in the due manner,

Tanaquil ordered her to pour wine on the garlanded hearth:

There was, or seemed to be, the form of a male organ

In the ashes: the shape was really there in fact.

The captive girl sat on the hearth, as commanded:

She conceived Servius, born of divine seed.

His father showed his paternity by touching the child’s

Head with fire, and a cap of flames glowed on his hair.

And Livia, this day dedicated a magnificent shrine to you,

Concordia, that she offered to her dear husband.

Learn this, you age to come: where Livia’s Colonnade

Now stands, there was once a vast palace.

A site that was like a city: it occupied a space

Larger than that of many a walled town.

It was levelled to the soil, not because of its owner’s treason,

But because its excess was considered harmful.

Caesar countenanced the demolition of such a mass,

Destroying its great wealth to which he was heir.

That’s the way to censure vice, and set an example,

When the adviser himself does as he advises.

Book VI: June 13: Ides

The next day has no features worth your noting.

On the Ides a temple was dedicated to Unconquered Jove.

Now I must tell of the lesser Quinquatrus.

Help my efforts, yellow-haired Minerva.

‘Why does the flautist wander widely through the City?

Why the masks? Why the long robes?’ So I spoke,

And so Tritonia, laying down her spear, answered me.

(Would I could relay the learned goddess’ very words!):

‘Flautists were much employed in your fathers’ days,

And they were always held in high honour.

The flute was played in shrines, and at the games,

And it was played at mournful funerals too:

The effort was sweetened by reward. But a time came

That suddenly ended the practice of that pleasant art.

The aedile ordered there should be no more than ten

Musicians accompanying funeral processions.

The flute-players went into exile at Tibur.

Once Tibur itself was a place of exile!

The hollow flute was missed in the theatre, at the altars:

No dirge accompanied the funeral bier.

There was one who had been a slave, at Tibur,

But had long been freed, worthy of any rank.

He prepared a rural banquet and invited the tuneful

Throng: they gathered to the festive table.

It was night: their minds and vision were thick with wine,

When a messenger arrived with a concocted tale,

Saying to the freedman: “Dissolve the feast, quickly!

See, here’s your old master coming with his rod.”

The guests rapidly stirred their limbs, reeling about

With strong wine, staggering on shaky legs.

But the master cried: “Away with you!” and packed

The laggards into a wagon lined with rushes.

The hour, the motion, and the wine, brought on sleep,

And the drunken crowd dreamed they were off to Tibur.

Now they re-entered Rome through the Esquiline,

And at dawn the cart stood in the middle of the Forum.

To deceive the Senate as to their class and number,

Plautius ordered their faces covered with masks:

And introduced others, wearing long garments,

So that female flautists could be added to the crew:

And their return best hidden, in case they were censured

For coming back contrary to their guilds’ orders.

The ruse succeeded, and they’re allowed their new costume,

On the Ides, singing merry words to the ancient tunes.’

When she’d instructed me, I said: ‘It only remains

For me to learn why the day’s called the Quinquatrus.’

She replied: ‘There’s my festival of that name in March,

And that guild is one of my creations.

I first produced the music of the long flute,

By piercing boxwood with spaced holes.

The music pleased: but I saw the swollen cheeks

Of my virginal face reflected in the water.

I said: “ I don’t value my art that highly, away

My flute”: and threw it to fall on the turf by the river.

Marsyas the satyr found it, and marvelled at first

Not knowing its use: but found his breath produced a note:

And worked it now by breathing now by fingering.

He soon boasted of his skill among the nymphs:

And challenged Phoebus: trounced by Phoebus he was hanged:

And his skin was flayed from his limbs.

I’m the true creator and inventor of this music.

That’s why the guild keeps my holy days.

Book VI: June 15

The third day comes, when you, Thyone of Dodona,

Stand with the Hyades on the brow of Agenor’s Bull.

It’s the day, Tiber, when you send the sweepings of Vesta’s

Shrine down the Tuscan waters, to the sea.

Book VI: June 16

Spread your sails to the west wind, mariners, if you trust

The breeze, tomorrow it blows fair over your waters.

Book VI: June 17-18

But when the Sun, the father of the Heliades, has dipped his rays

In the waves, and the quiet stars have circled the twin poles,

Orion will lift his mighty shoulders above the earth:

And the next night the Dolphin will be seen.

Once it saw the Volscians and Aequians fleeing

Over your plains, Mount Algidus:

And you Tubertus triumphing famously over your neighbours

Rode as victor, in a chariot drawn by snow-white horses.

Book VI: June 19

Now twelve days are left to the end of the month,

But you must add another day to that number:

The sun departs the Twins, and the Crab flames red:

Pallas begins to be worshipped on the Aventine.

Book VI: June 20

Now Laomedon, the wife of your son, Tithonus, rises, and rising

Drives away the night, and the black hoar-frost flees the meadows.

A shrine is said to have been dedicated to Summanus, whoever

He is, when you, Pyrrhus, were a terror to the Romans.

Book VI: June 21

When that day’s sun has been received by Galatea, in her

Father’s waves, and the whole world is sunk in quiet sleep,

The young man blasted by his grandfather’s lightning, rises,

Ophiucus, stretching out his hands circled by twin snakes.

Phaedra’s passion is known: and Theseus’ wrong:

When over-credulous he condemned his son.

The pious, but doomed youth, was travelling to Troezen:

When a bull parted the waters in its path.

Fear seized the startled horses: their master restrained them

In vain, and they dragged him over crags and harsh stones.

He fell from the chariot and, limbs tangled in the reins,

Hippolytus’ wounded body was carried along,

Till he gave up his spirit, to Diana’s great anger.

‘There’s no need for grief,’ said Aesculapius:

I’ll restore the pious youth to life, free of wounds,

And sad fate will yield to my skill.’

Quickly he took medicines from an ivory casket,

(They had once been of aid to Glaucus’ shade,

When a seer went down to cull the herbs he’d noted,

One snake having been healed by another snake),

He touched his breast three times, three times spoke

Words of healing: the youth lifted his head from the ground.

Hippolytus hid in his own sacred grove, in the depths

Of Diana’s woods: he is Virbius of the Arician Lake.

But Clotho, the Fate, and Dis both grieved: she, that a life-thread

Had been re-spun, he that his realm’s rights had been curtailed.

Jupiter, fearing the example set, directed his lightning

At one who employed the power of too great an art.

Phoebus, you complained: but Aesculapius is a god: be reconciled

To your father Jove: he himself did for you what he forbids to others.

Book VI: June 22

Caesar, however much you rush to conquer,

I’d not have you march if the auspices are bad.

Let Flaminius and the shores of Lake Trasimene

Be your witness, the just gods often warn by means of birds.

If you ask the hour of that ancient, and reckless disaster,

It was on the tenth day from the end of the month.

Book VI: June 23

The next day’s better: Masinissa defeated Syphax,

And Hasdrubal fell by his own sword.

Book VI: June 24

Time slips by, and we age silently with the years,

There’s no bridle to curb the flying days.

How swiftly the festival of Fors Fortuna’s arrived!

June will be over now in seven days.

Quirites, come celebrate the goddess Fors, with joy:

She has her royal show on Tiber’s banks.

Hurry on foot, and others in swift boats:

It’s no shame to return home tipsy.

Garlanded barges, carry your bands of youths,

Let them drink deep of the wine, mid-stream.

The people worship her, because they say the founder

Of her shrine was one of them, and rose from humble rank,

To the throne, and her worship suits slaves, because Servius

Was slave-born, who built the nearby shrines of the fatal goddess.

Book VI: June 26

See, returning from the suburban shrine, a drunken

Worshipper hailing the stars with words like these:

‘Orion your belt is hidden today, and perhaps will be tomorrow,

But after that it will be visible to me.’

And if he wasn’t tipsy he’d have said

The solstice will fall on that same day.

Book VI: June 27

Next day the Lares are granted a sanctuary in the place

Where endless wreaths are twined by skilful hands.

The same day owns to the temple of Jupiter the Stayer,

That Romulus founded of old in front of the Palatine.

Book VI: June 29

When as many days of the month are left as there are named Fates,

A temple was dedicated to you, Quirinus of the striped gown.

Book VI: June 30

Tomorrow the Kalends of July return:

Muses put the final touch to my work.

Pierides, tell me, who placed you with Hercules

Whose stepmother Juno unwillingly conceded it?

So I spoke, and Clio replied: ‘Behold the monument

To famous Philip, from whom chaste Marcia descends,

Marcia whose name derives from sacrificial Ancus Marcius,

And whose beauty equals her nobility.

In her, form matches spirit: in her

Lineage, beauty and intellect meet.

Don’t think it shallow that I praise her form:

We praise the great goddesses in that way.

Caesar’s aunt was once married to that Philip:

O ornament, O lady worthy of that sacred house!’

So Clio sang. Her learned sisters approved:

And Hercules agreed, and sounded his lyre.

About Classical Wisdom Weekly

Classical Wisdom Weekly is a publishing house that looks to bring ancient wisdom to modern minds. We believe that an understanding and appreciation of the classics can lead to a more fulfilled, intellectually satisfying life.

We love the classics and we hope to encourage that enthusiasm for the ancient books in others. We strive to take these beautiful ideas outside of the classroom, beyond academia and straight to people’s homes.

Classical Wisdom Weekly is presented by Les Belles Lettres English, a partner of Les Belles Lettres, a prestigious French publishing house located in Paris.

Learn more by going to www.classicalwisdom.com