Tydeus pressed forward, forcing back Menoetus;
644
his legs were trembling, till his spear and shield
undid him; he gave way and fell, and from
the dirt, disgraced, outspread his lifted hands
and pushed the glittering spear point from his throat.
He made this supplication, ‘‘By the stars
649
that fall through darkness, by the gods, and by
this night which now belongs to you, have mercy!
Make me your messenger, and I will bring
this devastating news to Thebes and sing
your praises openly—despite the king—
before our terror-stricken public; how
our falling javelins were useless; how
no sword could pierce your breast; how you returned,
the victor, to the friend who longs for you!’’
He spoke. The face of Tydeus did not alter.
655
‘‘Your tears are wasted, vain,’’ he told him. ‘‘You
promised your prince my head, or I’m mistaken.
It’s what he wanted. Now lay down your armor;
take a last look at daylight. Should a coward
care if his life is short? Wars last forever!’’
Blood weighed his weapon, even as he spoke,
659
and he withdrew it, then chased beaten soldiers,
bitterly railing, ‘‘This is not the night
that comes each second year, according to
your country’s custom; you see here no Cadmean
orgies, or Bacchus desecrated by
insatiable mothers. You thought you would wear
the skins of fawns and carry slender wands
like the Bacchantes, while you heard soft airs,
• or you would listen to Celaenean pipes
and join disgusting contests warriors shun.
You found here other carnage, other madness.
So few, so cowardly: descend to shadows!’’
BOOK ≤ Σ∞
His voice was thundering, but nonetheless
668
his heart lost force; his limbs were unresponsive
and his blood tired; his lifted hand dealt empty
blows now; his steps were slow; he could not raise
his shield and elbow, weighted down with spoils;
cold sweat dripped down his panting chest, and drops
of gore ran through his hair and burning face.
The smell of death came over him, as when
a lion, who has culled Massylian herds
after their guardian has fled the fields,
stands with his neck and mouth congealed with gore,
sluggish and panting, overwhelmed by carrion;
the slaughter and the blood have slaked his hunger;
his rage declines; he snaps his jaws at nothing;
his long tongue licks away soft bits of fleece.
Carrying trophies, bloody, Tydeus would
682
have entered Thebes to show its prince and people
his unexpected triumph, had not you,
• Tritonian maiden, deemed him worth your counsel.
He was still heated, grimy from his exploit,
when she explained: ‘‘Born of the blood of proud
Oeneus, o you who have, by our consent—
though we were distant—overcome these Thebans,
be moderate and do not overtrust
689
the favor of the gods. This ought to be
your single wish: that fame attend your deeds.
You have been fortunate. Desist!’’
Among
the horrors of the killing one survivor
remained, and not by chance, for he alone,
of many, knew the omens of the air.
The birds did not deceive him. He alone
• foresaw this tragedy. His name was Maeon.
The son of Haemon, he was not afraid
to warn his prince, but destiny deprived
his words of credence. Like a man condemned,
his life devoid of meaning, Tydeus sent him
Σ≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
to carry this stern message: ‘‘Tell your duke,
697
whoever you may be, Aonian,
this—and Aurora will tomorrow see you
spared by my mercy from the other shadows:
‘Pile mounds before your gates. Take down your weapons.
Inspect your walls for signs of ruinous aging.
Draft your best men, and plan to multiply
your crowded battle lines. Look how this grove
smokes from my sword; see how we manage war!’ ‘‘
He said these words, then he prepared a handsome
704
memorial in honor of Athena
to recollect his bloody massacre.
He mounded bodies lying on the ground
and felt the pleasure of his puissant deeds.
There was an old oak on a small mound in
707
the middle of the flatland; heavy bark
ringed its thick trunk; its branches drooped low; here
he hung smashed swords, pierced armor, leather helmets,
and spears that he had drawn from breathing bodies.
Night and far mountains echoed as he prayed,
713
surrounded by accumulated slain:
‘‘Ferocious goddess, soul and image of
your father Jupiter; great Maid of War,
whose sullen helmet hides a terrible
beauty beneath a Gorgon stained with blood!
The blasts of your stern trumpets equal those
that Mars and spear-equipped Bellona blow.
Favor this votive o√ering! Behold
719
our slaughter, whether from Pandion’s hill
in Athens, or, if you prefer, among
the glad choirs in Aonian Itone,
or as you comb your hair in Libyan
Tritonis’ waters, where your chariot,
drawn by a pair of virgin mares, has swept
you in your frenzy: we will dedicate
these mangled limbs to you, these shapeless corpses;
but should it be that I return to my
726
BOOK ≤ Σ≥
home country, where Parthaon ruled; should warlike
Pleuron accept me back, then I will found
a golden temple on the central hill
inside the city. I will honor you
where you may joy to see Ionian storms
and Achelous—sandy, flowing yellow—
stream past the islands of Echinades
irrupting to the sea. Here I myself
will fashion portraits of my ancestors’
battles and fearful images of kings.
I will hang armor from the cupola:
armor I won when ambushed and, o Pallas,
the armor you will give when Thebes is captured.
A hundred Calydonian votaries
736
shall tend your vestal altars, burn Actaean
torches, and they shall hang chaste olive trees
with purple ribbons intertwined with white.
A priestess of long years devoted to
your secret virtues will maintain your flame.
Diana will permit my rich firstfruits
from works of war and peace to be your gifts.’’
He walked to friendly Argos when he finished.
743
–?–?–?–
BOOK 3 Omens
Eteocles dreams. Maeon returns, alone. Thebes mourns the slaughter. The horror of Ide. Aletes remembers other Theban disasters. Jove calls for war. Venus intercedes with Mars. Return of Tydeus to Argos. The evil augury of Amphiaraus. Thebes arms. Capaneus mocks the gods. Argia urges her father to allow war.
Meanwhile, the master of Aonia—
the man of treachery, Eteocles—
can’t sleep, and still the humid stars must glide
long distances till dawn. Uncertain is
the night, his mind preoccupied; the crime
he ordered torments him, and fear, the worst
augur for one who worries, makes him ponder.
‘‘Why this delay?’’ he cried—yet he believed
7
the odds were in his favor, Tydeus
an easy target for so many men—
but heart and soul may weigh more than mere numbers.
‘‘Is there an odd road through the realm? Were soldiers
9
sent out from Argos to assist him? Did
rumor about this ambush reach the towns
nearby? Were those I chose too few, or, Father
Gradivus, were they cowards? No, for they
included Chromis, Dorylas, and those
Thespiadae, the match of any who guard
our towers—men capable of taking Argos;
nor do I think that Tydeus traveled here
wearing bronze armor impenetrable to weapons
and thewed like solid adamant. Malingerers!
What obstacle could one man o√er, if you fought?’’
He su√ered waves of anguish, but he blamed
18
himself above all else, for he had failed
BOOK ≥ ΣΣ
to draw his sword and strike when Tydeus spoke
before their conclave: he’d contained his rage
in public; he had plotted, to his shame,
and now was sorry. He was like a sailor
chosen to guide his vessel from Calabria
on the Ionic Sea: no novice to the waves,
he leaves safe harbor when Olenian
starlight in Capricorn, the sign of rain,
shines clear but fools him; then the sudden thunder
of winter weather fills the world, unbolts
the heavens, and Orion tips the poles.
He’d rather be on land, fights to return,
and wails as mighty south winds blow his stern;
he cannot steer; he now sails unknown seas.
Just so, Agenor’s heir, headman Eteocles,
mourned Lucifer’s late rising, dawn’s delay.
–?–?–?–
Then, suddenly, the chariot of Night
altered its course and set, as did the stars,
• and mother Tethys drove Hyperion,
34
the straggling sun, across the eastern seas.
The tortured earth quaked—deadly sign of trouble—
its depth tormented, and Cithaeron heaved
and stirred its ancient snows. Then rooftops rose;
rocks crashed the seven gates—or so it seemed.
The cause was not remote. Through the cold dawn
40
the son of Haemon, angry at the fates,
disconsolate because his life was spared,
returned. His face was not yet visible,
but even distant tokens indicated
the scope of this disaster. He had shed
all tears but groaned and beat his chest, just like
45
a ruined shepherd who has quit his pasture
when wind storms and the crescent moon of winter
and unexpected rains have driven him
into the forest with his master’s cattle:
at night, ferocious wolves attack; next day
ΣΠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
the killing can be seen, and he is frightened
to bring his lord the news of this fresh slaughter;
he wallows in the dirt, and his laments
reecho through the fields; he can’t endure
the silence of the stockyard, and he calls
his missing bulls and names them all in order.
When he appeared—this was too horrible—
53
alone, the mothers, crowding just inside
the portals, did not dare ask why no troops,
no sterling lords, surrounded him. They let
out wails, the sound of which was like the last
scream when a city’s walls are breached in war,
the sound one hears when vessels sink at sea.
As soon as he received his leave to speak
58
before his hated king, he said, ‘‘The savage
Tydeus returns you my sad life, from many.
Whether it was the judgment of the gods,
or Fortune, or, though shameful to admit,
one man’s invincible endurance—I
hardly believe it, though I bring the news—
everyone, everyone has fallen: I
could see them in the pale light of the night.
The ghosts of comrades and the evil birds
already gather there from whence I’ve come.
I earned this cruel indulgence not with tears
or cunning: no, the gods rewarded me
with shameful daylight. Atropos ignored
my preference, and Fate has kept me living
for some time since she closed the doors of death.
‘‘I say—that you may know how prodigal
69
of life my heart is and how little horror
final things hold for me—your war is cursed,
o man of death, and all the omens say so!
‘‘You trample down the law; you are disdainful
72
because your brother has been banished and
you rule, but constant lamentations from
the many houses su√ering bereavement
BOOK ≥ Σπ
and fifty dead souls flying day and night
will overwhelm you with their ghastly horror—
and I won’t be restrained!’’
77
The savage king
trembled, enraged, and his glum face was lit
with red blood. At his side his henchmen—one
was Phlegyas, the other Labadacus,
two men not slow to wickedness—prepared
to seize the man by force, but Maeon drew
his sword with bold authority and gazed
now at the tyrant’s face, now at his blade:
‘‘You have no right to spill my blood or strike
83
the chest that mighty Tydeus did not pierce.
I go, exultant, following the fate
that warrior denied me, to the shades
where my companions wait. But as for you,
the gods, your brother’’—even as he spoke,
• he thrust his sword hilt-high and through his side.
88
He fought the pain; he doubled over, struggling—
the cut was deep—and sank, and as he gasped
his last, his blood throbbed from his mouth and from
his wound. The Theban elders’ hearts were shaken;
the anxious council murmured, but his wife
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