and loyal relatives, who even now
rejoiced at his return, took up the corpse
that death disfigured, and they bore it home.
No longer could the flaming anger of
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unspeakable Eteocles be checked.
He issued a decree against cremation
and to his infamy forbade the peace
of burial among unseeing shades.
Maeon! Despite him you have earned distinction99
in life and death, and it is right that you
shall never be forgotten, you who dared
to show contempt for kings and sanctify
an ample path for Liberty to walk.
Σ∫ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
What praise is worthy of your fame? What can
be added to your courage by my chant?
You are a prophet whom the gods adore!
Apollo deemed you worthy of his laurel;
he educated you in things divine—
• and not in vain: Dodona’s sacred grove
• and Cirrha’s prophetess delight in puzzling
petitioners when Phoebus does not answer.
Enter Elysium; walk through those regions,108
far from the hellish terrors of Avernus!
That space does not admit the men of Thebes
nor are a tyrant’s orders valid there.
Your body and your clothes remain untouched
by savage animals, and though you lie
exposed to heaven, you will be preserved
by sacred groves and night birds that revere you.
–?–?–?–
They flooded through the gates—wives dead with fear,
114
children, sick parents—and they crossed the plain,
through barren waste, miserable but eager
to find the objects of their tears, while thousands more
massed side by side to o√er solace. Others
sought evidence of just one soldier’s deeds
among the many feats performed that night.
They moved in seething swarms, and they lamented.
120
The countryside resounded with their groans.
But when they reached the dreadful cli√s and savage
forest, their groans were greater than before,
and bitter tears flowed faster, as the sight
of blood enraged the mob in all its madness.
A sad sound seemed to rise as from one voice.
Wearing a robe of blood, his breast rent open,
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violent Sorrow overcame the mothers.
They scrutinized the helmets of the sti√ened
corpses as they identified dead bodies.
Wives fell upon their husbands; others tended
men who were not their own. They used their hair
BOOK ≥ ΣΩ
to wipe away the blood; they closed dead eyes,
dropped tears upon deep wounds, or strove to draw
the points of weapons out (a useless labor)
as others tasked themselves to reattach
arms onto bodies and put heads on necks.
–?–?–?–
Now one lost woman, Ide, wandered through
133
the thickets and the dust of empty fields
in search of her lost sons. She was the proud
• mother of twins (her boys, now dead), and she
was not unfortunate or to be pitied.
The truth is, she was terrible in sorrow.
Her uncombed hair flew loose, and everywhere
among the armor and the bodies she
begrimed her white hair with the filth of dirt
and raked her angry face. She mourned each corpse
in turn, but did so like a sorceress
140
in Thessaly, whose foul inhabitants
know charms that can revive the dead. She took
pleasure in war, and afterward, at night,
bearing a cedar torch with many knots,
she roamed the fields and rolled the dead through blood
as she chose corpses whom she’d use in tombs
to send prayers to divinities in heaven.
The sad assembly of deceased deplored her:
even the lord of darkest hell condemned her.
Happy are they who lie together in
152
the hollow of a rock, whose lives were lost
on one same day to one same hand, whose bodies
were joined together by a single spear
and by their wounds. When she beheld this sight,
her eyes poured tears profusely.
‘‘These embraces—
is this the sight your mother sees? Do your
lips touch? Did Death’s cruel genius bind you two
together in your final hour? Which of your wounds
should I first search, whose face should I first stroke?
Π≠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
‘‘You were your mother’s source of strength, her womb’s
154
good fortune, and the means by which she thought
to touch the gods, to overcome the glory
of other Theban mothers. Better o√
and far more fortunate are married women
whose beds are sterile and whose homes Lucina
spares from the su√erings and shrieks of childbirth.
‘‘My labor brought me sorrow; worse, your deaths
159
have been obscured, because you did not fight
in daylight where your destiny could be
observed and your defeat immortalized—
although it makes your mother miserable.
‘‘You poured your blood in vain; you lie unpraised,
164
obscure in death among so many others.
I have no heart to separate your sad
embrace or break the partnership your strange
death has created. Forward, undivided
and constant brothers, to the final flames.
• Mingle your precious ashes in one urn!’’
–?–?–?–
Meanwhile, the others mourned no less. Among
169
the scattered dead the wife of Chthonius
was here; here was Astyoche, the mother
of Pentheus. Also, Phaedimus, your children,
your little innocents, discovered their
father was gone; Marpessa tended her betrothed,
named Phylleus, just as the sisters of
blood-covered Acamas sponged o√ their brother.
Then men with axes lay the forest open
174
and chopped the knotty pines on nearby hills—
hills that had heard men’s groans and knew what passed
that night.
• Before the pyres, Aletes, the oldest
present, told stories to assuage the grief
BOOK ≥ Π∞
of those unfortunates who had convened
to tend the fires and did not want to leave.
‘‘Our people come from Sidon; we have known
179
calamity; fate plays with us for sport.
A prodigy occurred when Cadmus sowed
his seed of iron in Boeotian furrows:
a strange growth, fields that terrorized his farmers.
It was as bad the time indignant Juno
reduced to fiery ash the royal palace
of aging Cadmus, or when Athamas
carried the half-dead body of his son,
Learchus, from the mountain where he’d won
funereal praise and shouted out for joy
because he was insane and in confusion;
when echoes from Phoenician houses rang
out clearly and the madness of exhausted
Agave dissipated, and she feared
the weeping of her women
, her companions,
and Thebans moaned. But there has only been
191
a single day whose fate and evil form
compares to this one. That’s when the impious
Niobe, daughter of Tantalus, atoned
for her proud words and arrogance. Unnumbered
fallen surrounded her, yet for each body
she lifted from the earth, she found a flame.
That was the state of things, when young and old
195
and grieving mothers exited the city
and raised a cry of sorrow to the gods
for those who died; they pressed around a pair
of funeral pyres at each enormous gate.
I can remember weeping, copying
my parents, since I was too young for sorrow.
‘‘The gods permitted this. Nor did I weep
201
more for Actaeon, whose Molossian hounds
tore him apart when you, Diana, found
him watching from a high and hidden place,
profaning your chaste waters when you changed
that son-in-law of Cadmus to a deer.
Π≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
?’’It also was no worse when our cruel queen—
205
named Dirce—was transformed into a lake
(all of a sudden) where her spilled blood lay.
‘‘The Fatal Sisters spun these bitter threads,
occurrences that Jupiter approved,
but here, at present, now, we are deprived
of blameless men, supporters of our city,
so many victims of an evil king.
News of the broken treaty has not reached
Argos, yet we endure the grief of war.
The blood of men and horses will lie thick
210
over the ground, and rivers will run red.
Men in the first green sap of youth will see it.
I only want a pyre to call my own
and burial in my ancestral ground.’’
These were the old man’s words. He then rehearsed
214
the crimes Eteocles committed, and
he listed punishments the man deserved
and said he was a cruel and brutal person.
From whence proceeds this liberty? His age216
had reached its limit; he had lived his life
and looked to grace late-coming death with fame.
–?–?–?–
The father of the heavens, Jupiter,
218
for long had been observing everything—
the bodies stained with first blood—and he sent
a summons for Gradivus, god of war.
He was destroying Getic towns and killing
the mad Bistonians. He swiftly turned
his horses toward the heavens, and he shook
his weapons—his terrible gold armor, and
his helmet that a bolt of lightning crested,
bright with engraved and terrifying figures.
The pole of heaven thundered, and his shield
reflected blood-red light, as if in envy.
It struck the distant sun, and Jove said, seeing
226
BOOK ≥ Π≥
• Mars panting from his labors in Sarmatia,
his armor soaking wet and stained by war:
‘‘My son, go as you are, just as you are,
to Argos, your sword dripping, anger like
a cloud surrounding you. Remove the last
restraints. Let those who hate, whom nothing pleases,
love you, and let them vow to you their hands,
their fleeting lives. Eliminate delay!
Trample the treaty! We give you the right
to immolate the gods themselves. End peace!
I have already sown the seeds of war:
235
Tydeus returns with his report of deeds
past measuring, a prince’s crimes, the first
beginnings of a vicious fight: the ambush,
the treachery for which his weapons gave
him vengeance. May he be believed and may
you gods who share my blood not let old hatreds
make you participants. But do not pray
to me to change things. Sisters of the dark
242
spindles—the Fates—have made me promises.
Since the beginning of the world this war
has been appointed for this day and for
these people born to battle. Interfere
with me, as I mete sacred punishments
to these inhabitants for old o√enses
their ancestors committed, and I swear
by my eternal heaven, by the shrines
where we are worshiped and the rivers of
Elysium, which even I hold sacred,
that I, with my own hand, will level Thebes
248
and raze her lofty walls to their foundations.
The towers of Argos I will overturn,
crumble the city’s rooftops underneath,
or cover them with rain, and I will have
them swept away, turned into seaside swamps,
even if Juno should protect their hills
and temples from the turbulence of war.’’
He spoke, and his commands astonished them.
253
You would have thought them mortal, since
Π∂ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
nobody uttered one word as they listened,
not otherwise than as at sea, where winds
have made their peace or where the coasts recline
in unresisting sleep, when summertime
caresses silver leaves, and dying breezes
finger the clouds. Then lakes and ponds subside,
the sun burns rivers dry, and streams run silent.
–?–?–?–
His orders were a joy for Mars, a pleasure;
260
his chariot was hot, and he was eager.
He swung his horses left—but Venus crossed
his path and stood before them undismayed.
The steeds moved back, relaxed their flowing manes,
and moved as if they were her suppliants.
She leaned her breasts against the lofty yoke,
tilted aside her tear-stained face, and spoke:
‘‘My noble lord, are you preparing war
269
for Thebes? Do you intend to kill your own
descendants by the sword? These people are
the children of Harmonia! And what
about our union, made in heaven? What
about my tears? Will you not hesitate
for them, you madman? Is this my reward
for misbehaving? Is this how you pay
me back for my lost shame, my infamy,
• the net of Lemnos? As you like it—go!
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The Thebaid Page 13
