wavers between them. Trapped by fear—to move
in two directions—it’s intolerable!”
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173
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–•–•–•–
But now by Jove’s command, a gathering—
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a council of selected gods—convened
within the halls of whirling heaven, in
the deep empyrean. Its distance is
the same from everything: the houses of
the sunrise and the sunset, equally
from dry land and seas spread beneath the skies.
Jove entered, upright—and the deities
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trembled as he approached, although his gaze
was calm. He took his seat: a throne of stars.
No one dared move, till he himself, the father,
waved a calm hand, permitting everyone
to sit. And now a crowd of demigods
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and Rivers (relatives of soaring clouds)
and Winds (whose terror quiets them)
filled the gilt hall. Its arched roof radiated
the majesty of many gods; its heights
glowed with a mighty splendor; and its doors
were luminous, their light mysterious.
One called for silence. Heaven hushed, and then
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from his preeminence, Jove spoke with words
of sacred weight: immutable the fate
that followed his address.
‘‘Terrestrial
offenses—human ingenuity
no Dirae of remorse can mollify—
these I denounce! How far am I supposed
to go to punish criminals? I’m tired
of hurling lightning in a rage: long use
wears out the Cyclops’ arms; Aeolian
anvils lose fire. I have already let
• the horses of the sun draw Phaëthon
off course, his chariot ignite the air,
his ashes scorch the earth. What must I do
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further? My brother, Neptune, even you
signaled permission with your trident to
let oceans overwhelm forbidden shores.
Now I descend to discipline a pair
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of houses my own blood produced: one branch
settled in Argos, home of Perseus’
grandfather; one, Aonia—in Thebes.
Their hearts remain the same in everything.
Who can forget the slaughter Cadmus caused,
how the Eumenides were called to war
from deepest hell, the evil joy and zeal
• of savage women who roam forests, or
the crimes against the gods that they conceal?
All day, all night would not enable me
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to name the customs wicked people keep.
A shameless heir ascends his father’s bed
and stains his mother’s innocence—seeking
entrance to his own origin. The man
is horrible, but gave a permanent
atonement to the gods: he threw away
the light of day. No longer does he feed
on upper air. But then, much worse, his sons
trample his fallen eyes. Perverse old man!
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Now what you prayed for will occur. You and
your blindness earn you the revenge that Jove
can offer. I pronounce this cause of war:
the fatal wedding, when Adrastus turns
father-in-law. The Argive race deserves
punishment, for I still feel, in my heart’s
secret recess, how Tantalus deceived
the gods when he prepared his savage feast.”
All-powerful, the father spoke. His words,
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however, wounded Juno. Her heart burned
with unexpected rage, and she returned
her answer, thus:
“Of all the gods, you are
the most ingenuous, that you bring war
to me. Why me? You know that I support
Argos with men and wealth. The Cyclops built
her citadel; there, great Phoroneus ruled
a kingdom of wide fame. You, with no shame,
murdered—there as he slept—the one who watched
your cow; you turned to gold to penetrate
the walls. I overlook your secret rapes,
but I detest the town where you displayed
yourself in public places, openly
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thundering your adultery, flinging
the lightning bolts that should be mine. Let Thebes
pay. Why should Argos be your enemy?
“If you resent our sacred marriage, then
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why not demolish old Mycenae or
• Samos? Or level Sparta? anywhere
festival blood and ample incense warm
the altars of your wife. Sweeter to you
• the prayers and smoke of Mareotic Copts,
loud wails, the sound of bronze along the Nile.
“If it’s the case that men must expiate
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their father’s crimes, and this new sentiment
obsesses you, then search eternity:
how far back must you follow to amend
the madness of the world or rectify
the spirit of the age? Start in the place
• where mazy Alpheos seeks Arethusa,
driven by waves to his Sicilian love
across the sea. You do not seem ashamed
that the Arcadians have set your shrine
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on ground unsancti.ed or that the steeds
of Oenomaus better suit the stalls
of Thrace beneath Mount Haemus than
they do that king’s war chariot, for still
his daughter’s suitors lie unburied, mangled
and torn by those man-eating animals,
their bodies stiff. Yet you are grati.ed
to have the honor of a temple there. You like
• baleful Mount Ida, Crete, where people lie
and say you’re nothing but a dead soul. Why
envy my habitation in the land
of Tantalus, where sons of yours reside?
Pity them. Turn aside war’s violence.
So many faithless cities better serve
your purpose than the one that must endure
your feuding progeny.”
Jove heard the words
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of Juno, her reproaches mixed with prayers,
and he responded not unpleasantly,
although his meaning stung: “To tell the truth,
I never thought that you would tolerate
anything I considered suitable
for Argos. I know Bacchus and Dione
can make long speeches in defense of Thebes,
but they defer to my authority.
By Styx, my brother’s dreaded lake, I swear
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I will not change what I have said—my word
is irrevocable and firm. And so,
Cyllenian Mercury, my son: take wing
on lifting airs. Be diligent. Outspeed
the currents of the southern wind. Descend
where darkness reigns. Say to your uncle,
‘Let ancient Laius, murdered by his son,
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ascend to upper air! The law of hell
forbids his passing to the further shore
• of Lethe yet.’ And carry my decree
to his ill-omened grandson: ‘Banishment
has brought your brother strength, and friends
in Argos lend him con.dence. You, then,
may keep your brother distant from your court
and contradict his claim to rule in turn.’
He’d do this anyway—and lay the grounds
>
for enmity. The rest I shall arrange.”
• His father spoke. Atlas’s grandson appeared
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and quickly bound winged sandals on his feet.
A cap concealed his hair. His glow dimmed stars.
In his right hand he held the slender wand
he uses to induce and banish sleep
or send dead souls to deep, dark Tartarus
or, on occasion, bring dead shades to life.
Down he leapt, upright; by the air sustained
that instant, flying on the vast sublime
and traced a mighty down-gyre through the clouds.
–.–.–.–
Meanwhile, the exiled son of Oedipus
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furtively wandered from his former home
along the wastelands of Aonia,
already ill-disposed toward the realm
that should be his. The long year made him groan.
The signs moved slowly by which time is told.
One thought obsessed the man: that he might see
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his brother driven out, brought low, and Thebes
and its possessions his to own—alone.
He’d trade eternity for that one day.
He grudged and sulked, as if this loss delayed
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his flight, but soon his royal pride upswelled,
and his imagination set himself
upon the throne—his brother down, deposed.
His thoughts swung from anxiety to hope;
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his mood was altered by his endless longing.
Whether Erinys—the avenging spirit—
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led him, or Fortune showed the way, or steadfast
Atropos lured him there, he chose to go,
undaunted, to Danaan fields, to Argos—
the town of Inachus, beside Mycenae,
a place of dark where sunlight disappears.
He left behind the cave that echoed with
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Ogygia’s shrieks and mournful cries, the hills
rich with the blood of Bacchic revelries.
From there he skirted shores on which extend
the pleasant plains that lie beside Cithaeron,
whose languid mountainsides decline toward water.
He climbed a rocky road and left behind
• the rocky, infamous Scironic cliffs,
• the rural realm where Scylla cut the king
her father’s purple lock, and pleasant Corinth.
From one field he could hear two different seas.
And now the rising moon, Titania,
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sailed through the wide expanse, conveyed above
the silent world where Phoebus served his term.
Her moisture-bringing two-horsed chariot
scattered thin frost across the lower air.
Now herds and birds fell silent. Swaying sleep
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bent down from heaven, bringing misery
of life the solace of oblivion
and respite from anxiety and greed.
But it was stormy, dark. No red night sky
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promised a day of sunshine. No long rays
of brilliant twilight streaked through thin, high clouds.
Blackness and night veiled heaven, impenetrable
to flame; the dark more dense the nearer earth.
• Stiff Aeolus, the wind, rebounded in
his bolted fortress cavern; raucous sounds
announced the coming of cold storms; gales howled,
cut at right angles, clashed, and—when the doors
were severed from their hinges—sought the pole.
They strove to win a portion of the sky.
Auster, the hot south wind, accumulated
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the largest mass of night, unwound long scrolls
of clouds, and poured out rain that Boreas,
the north wind, turned to hail. His breath blew cold.
The air caught fire; the lightning never tolled.
In Nemea and on Arcadia’s
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tall peaks that bound the groves of Taenaros
it poured so that the Inachus ran high
and ice swells made the Erasinus rise.
Rivers that had been dirt paths now de.ed
their banks as Lerna’s ancient poison stirred
and from the bottom of the lake upswirled.
Dashed were the sacred groves. The hurricane
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tore ancient limbs off trees. Lycaean glades—
summer retreats the sun had never seen—
no longer lay concealed in mountain shades.
The traveler pressed on, although he watched
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rocks fly from broken peaks and disappear,
and listened, equally amazed, afraid,
to streams in spate, rain-swollen, sweep away
sheepfolds and shepherd’s huts: nor did he slow,
although distracted and uncertain where
the road led through black silence, wasted fields,
while in the night, imagining his fear,
he felt his brother here, and here, and here!
Just as a sailor, caught on winter seas,
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looks for the tardy Wagon of Boötes
or kindly moonlight to reveal his way
but stands resourceless, uninformed, when sea
and sky combine in storm, and he expects
at any moment that his ship’s high prow
will run on sunken rocks or sea-sprayed cliffs
in shallows or in whirlpools—deadly deeps—
then, even so, the hero, he of Thebes,
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wandered through opaque forests full of trees
and thrust the cold boss of his mighty shield
before him, driving beasts from dreadful lairs;
his forward-leaning chest tore thickets (fear
and melancholy gloom impelled his soul)
• until the turrets of Larissa leaped
to view. Their light shone over Argive roofs
and poured down sloping walls. His hope aroused,
he flew in that direction—on his left, on high
Prosymna, Juno’s temple; over here,
the Lake of Lerna, whose black fens had been
dis.gured by the flames of Hercules.
He reached the open portals and went in.
He saw, at once, the royal entry way.
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Limbs stiff from wind and weather, there he lay,
leaning against the posts of unknown doors,
and beckoned tender sleep to that hard floor.
–.–.–.–
There ruled a king, Adrastus. He had passed
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most of his peaceful life and now grew old.
Rich in forefathers, he’d inherited,
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