Should I abandon men whom you, as king,
are sure to punish? Even if I should,
I know these men: they love me; they think I
deserve support. They won’t let me surrender
power . . .’ ‘‘
But Tydeus could endure no more.
451
He interrupted him. ‘‘You willsurrender!
You will surrender power!If iron walls
encircled you, or if Amphion sang
a second song and mounded triple ramparts,
not fire or sword could save you! You will pay
for your impertinence, and you will strike
your crown against the earth before you die.
Our armies will defeat you! You deserve it,
but they are to be pitied whom you tear
away from wives and children, those whose fate
leaves them to die in your unholy war.
You’re a fine king! How many funeral pyres
460
will dot Cithaeron’s heights, and how much blood
will flow along Ismenos stream? So much
for piety; so much for promises.
But should I be surprised? Let us consider
your origins and Oedipus, your father.
You are his sole true heir. Your bear the stain—
mad man—of his behavior and his crimes.
But I am wasting time. We want our year!’’
∂∂ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
He screamed these bold words backward from
467
the threshold, and he hurried out. He parted
the instigated multitude just like
the Calydonian boar who guards Diana:
his bristles sti√, his curved tusks slash like lightning
when he is pressured by the Argive army,
which cuts him o√ by heaping stones and piles
of branches torn from trees along those banks
the river Achelous penetrates.
Now Telamon is on the ground, and he
473
leaves prostrate Ixion and then assails
you also, Meleager. There, at last,
a broad spear strikes him, but he blunts its point
by resolute defense. In such a way
the Calydonian hero ground his teeth
and left the terrified assembly—just
as if they had denied him his own kingdom.
He hurried on his way; he threw aside
478
the olive branch he’d held as suppliant.
Astonished mothers watched him from the ledges
along high roofs; they hurled their insults on
the savage son of Oeneus but were thinking
similar awful thoughts about their king.
Eteocles, their ruler, was not slow
482
to plan his wicked crimes and his deceits.
Enraged, he gave instructions to a chosen
squadron of loyal young men, fit for war,
and now with prayers, now with harsh commands,
he ordered them to undertake a battle
at night—to violate the sacred name
of legate with their silent swords: an ambush.
What is more cowardly for one who rules?
Along a nearby path through underbrush
496
(a hidden track), these young men raced each other:
their shortcut skipped the deep part of the forest.
There is a seat that’s suited to their fraud,
498
where far from town, two hills, like evil jaws,
impinge upon the roadway. There a mountain
BOOK ≤ ∂Σ
casts its long shadow, and the leafy slopes
create a sylvan bowl as if, it seemed,
Nature arranged a place fit for deceits
and ambushes, where men might hide behind
downsloping rocks through which the footpath winds.
A plain below held broad, inclining fields
504
and, opposite, a bold protuberance,
the former dwelling of that winged beast
that once confronted Oedipus. She’d perched there,
insolently, with sallow cheeks and pusfilled
eyes, her feathers sti√ with human blood,
embracing the remains of men, and clasped
half-eaten bones to her bare chest. Her dreadful
eyes scanned the far horizons to determine
whether a visitor approached to pierce
her riddles. If a traveler came near
511
and dared but failed to guess her secret meaning,
she would not wait to strike but straight would soar:
her talons would extend from leaden hands,
and she would beat her victim with her pinions
and tear him with her teeth. She thus concealed
her secret wiles until undone by one
whose cunning matched her own. Her wings ceased beating,
and from her bloody precipice she fell
and hit harsh rocks that tore her empty belly.
The forest was infected with her horror: cattle
519
refuse to pasture in the nearby fields,
and hungry sheep avoid the tainted grass.
Shadows no longer please the choirs of Dryads,
nor did the Fauns perform their rituals.
From that enchanted grove, even the birds
of bad luck fled. Destined to perish, the squadron
silently marched and circled through the forest.
Men lay their battle armor on the ground
but kept their grips and leaned on upright spears
while waiting for their puissant enemy.
Night veiled the sun beneath her cool, damp mantle
527
and spread her sable shadow on the land,
∂Π STATIUS, THE THEBAID
as Tydeus, drawing closer to the grove,
glimpsed, from a lofty mound, the reddish glint
of shields and crested helmets worn by soldiers.
Their copper armor flickered through the shadows,
reflecting moonlight in between the trees.
He halted at the sight but then advanced.
He kept two steady spears prepared, his hand
positioned on the grip of his sheathed sword.
Tydeus spoke first, not terrified, unhumble:
535
‘‘Who might you be, you men who hide your weapons?’’
but no one answered him. The quietness
inspired no confidence; it seemed suspicious;
it did not promise peace. Then suddenly
the leader of the cohort, Chthonius,
unbent his giant arm and flung his spear:
it whirled through darkening air, yet neither Fortune
nor heaven favored his attempt. The weapon
flew and pierced through the cloak of savage boar—
black, bristling leather the Olenian wore
knotted on his left shoulder—and almost
drew blood: its blunted spear tip spared his throat.
Tydeus’ blood froze in his heart; his hair stood sti√,
544
his eyes glanced savagely from side to side,
courageous, eager with desire, but pale.
He yet had no idea how many waited.
‘‘Step forward! Meet me in the open! Is
547
your cowardice so great you will not talk?
Alone, myself, I challenge you!’’
They did
not hesitate when they heard his defiance.
As soon as he beheld their numbers, saw
549
soldiers emerge from countless shadows—some
descending from the heights, while others climbed
the slopes of valleys, and the plain held many
whose lucent armor lighte
d all the road—
he sought the steep cli√ of the savage Sphinx.
BOOK ≤ ∂π
As when the beaters’ cries drive animals
556
from their retreats, in his uncertainty
he found the only means to save himself,
tearing his fingernails on pointed stones
that broke o√ as he scrambled up hard rock
and made himself the master of the ridge.
Fear now was far behind him, and a path
558
lay open for destruction. He upheaved
a boulder from the hill that groaning oxen,
straining their necks, would be hard pressed to drag
when drafted to construct a city wall.
He bent his strength beneath it, seeking
561
to balance that immense projectile—like
• the empty wine bowl righteous Pholus lifted
• against his enemies, the Lapiths. Death
stared at those looking in astonishment
564
as he stood over them and then released
that weight, which maimed their bodies, hands, and faces
and smashed their iron armor and their weapons.
Four men groaned in one heap beneath that mass
568
of mountain he dislodged, an overture
that terrified the others. These withdrew,
for those who died were not despicable.
The first was Dorylas, whose ardor matched
the strength of kings; then Theron, born of Mars,
who trusted in his earthborn ancestors.
Second to none in managing his horse,
573
• but now dead in the field they’d walked was Halys
• and Phaedimus, whom Bacchus hated, as
he hated all King Pentheus’s descendants.
Their unexpected fortune terrified
576
the cohort; Tydeus saw them scattering,
disorganized, but only had two spears,
still propped against the mountain where he’d left them.
He hurled these to exacerbate their flight,
579
and then he sought the plain, lest weapons strike
his unprotected body. Down he leaped
swiftly to seize a shield that he had seen
∂∫ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
rolling away from Theron where he fell.
He took his stand, thrusting the small, round target
before him that his enemy had held.
He blocked his back and head with his own armor.
Meanwhile, the Ogyidae regrouped, closing
585
their ranks, and took position. Tydeus
drew his swift sword—Bistonian, a gift
of war from Oeneus—and he attacked
his opposition equally, wherever
he could, opposing some, while with his sword
he parried flying weapons others hurled.
Now their own numbers hindered them; they fought
590
encumbered by each other’s armaments.
They struggled, strengthless; their missed blows hit comrades;
their whole disordered battle line collapsed.
Tydeus, expectant, waited their attack,
small, hard to hit, invincible, unmoved.
• Not otherwise, immense Briareus,
596
in Phlegra, where the Getes live, fought the gods,
where he defied—if this may be believed—
Apollo’s arrows and the dreadful serpents
• of Pallas, and Mars’s Pelethronian spear
tipped with sharp iron, and the thunderbolts
• that weary Pyracmon produced for Vulcan
when all Olympus spent itself in vain;
600
Briareus sulked—so many hands were idle!
With equal energy the fiery Tydeus
handled his shield, retreated, circled back,
and even as he tore darts from his targe
and armor where they dangled, he rearmed
and cut o√ those who tried to get away.
His wounds were many, deep, yet none had found
his hidden life; they did not threaten death.
A sword-swing toppled mad Deilochus,
607
who joined his comrades in the underworld:
Phegeus, whose upraised ax announced his threat,
and Gyas and Lycophontes of Thebes—
one of the Dirce, one they call Echion.
BOOK ≤ ∂Ω
Those who escaped now sought each other out
611
and counted heads; their thinned ranks sorrowed them.
Chromis could trace his origin to Cadmus
in Tyre. (Phoenician Dryope
was pregnant when a band of revelers
swept her along and she ignored her womb;
she dragged a bull for Bacchus by its horns,
a mighty labor that induced the birth.)
He was a bold spearman; he’d killed the lion
618
whose skin he wore. He shook a hardwood club,
knotted with spikes, and told his people, ‘‘Men,
will one alone go back and boast in Argos
of so much slaughter? He will hardly be
believed when he returns! Companions, are
your hands and weapons worthless? Cydon, Lampus:
is this what we were sent for by our king?’’
But a Teumesian shaft of dogwood entered
624
his throat while Chromis spoke; his jaws were no
protection, and his tongue, which shaped new words,
swam loose in waves of blood. He stood until
death glided through his limbs, then, falling, bit
the spear, and he was silent.
Why should I
629
• forget to honor you as well, Thespiadae,
and make you famous? Periphas uplifted
his brother’s dying body: he was one
whose inborn piety was unsurpassed.
His left hand raised the drooping neck, his right
sustained the body. Sobbing grief emerged
633
from his tight-fitting breastplate. His strapped helmet
could not stop tears and groans, when from behind
a weighty spear transfixed his curving ribs;
it entered through his back and exited
into his brother, binding loving hearts.
Periphas let his eyes, which still could see,
fall closed; his brother watched, for he had life
and strength despite his wounds, and told him, ‘‘Sons
of yours will hold you; they will give you kisses!’’
Σ≠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
They sank beneath a single destiny
whose hope had been to die if either died:
with their right hands they closed each other’s eyes.
The Thebaid Page 11
