The Thebaid
Page 19
to hear the prophet’s chanting. He was anxious
and wound wool ribbons on his hands and shoulders
and would as soon have left these rites unfinished,
just like a hunter who awaits a lion
driven to thickets by loud clamor in
• the forests of Gaetulia: he girds
his soul and waits; he sweats; he grips his weapon;
his face is numb with terror; his knees shake.
What will emerge? How big? He hears the awful
noise of its roaring. Blinded by his panic,
he calculates its distance by the sound.
But nothing happened, so Tiresias
500
cried, ‘‘Goddesses—for whom I poured from fatal
BOOK ∂ ∞≠∞
beakers on plowed-up earth and moistened flames!
I am unable to endure delay!
You disregard me, though I am a priest.
If a Thessalian woman’s raving charms
conjured you, would you come? Would hell
grow pale and shake as often as a witch
from Colchis might apply her Scythian poisons?
I do not care to raise the dead from graves.
I do not carry urns of ancient bones.
Is that why you ignore me? so that I
will not profane celestial gods or those
of Erebus by mingling them, or hunt
pale phantoms with my sword, or pluck diseased
organs from corpses? Goddesses, do not
511
despise, I warn you, my old age or this
dark cloud upon my brow, for even I
am capable of rage. There is a deity
• you fear to know, whose name you are afraid
to say, but he is known to me, and I
would conjure Hecate by him, did I not
revere you, o Thymbraean—o Apollo!
He is the ruler of the triple world.
His name may not be known; it is forbidden.
He . . . but I must be silent. My old age,
my years of peace, forbid my saying . . .’’
Manto, Apollo’s priestess, cut him o√:
518
‘‘Father, attend! The bloodless phantoms come!
The chaos of Elysium appears;
the massive canopy of this dark world
bursts open and reveals dark rivers, forests.
Acheron pours black mud, and Phlegethon
curls flames of darkness down its smoking waves.
Styx flows among the phantoms and divides them.
I can discern the king, pale on his throne,
surrounded by Eumenides, who do
his deadly work. And there is Stygian Juno
in grim rooms on her gloomy bridal bed.
Dark Death sits on an eminence and counts
528
the noiseless multitude as more arrive.
The arbiter from Crete turns hard his urn:
∞≠≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
• this judge is Minos, from Gortynia.
He chooses names and threatens them to find
the truth about their past lives. They confess
the gains that they have gotten from their crimes.
But what concern have you for Erebus,
the god of darkness, and his monsters, his
Scyllas, his Centaurs full of empty rage,
the adamantine chains that bind the Giants,
or hundred-armed Aegaeon’s narrow shade?’’
Tiresias answered, ‘‘O my guide, support
536
• of my old age, it’s true: there is no need
to tell of these. Who does not know about
the stone that must be rolled back, or the lake
that falsely tempts, or Tityos, who feeds
the vultures, or tormented Ixion,
540
tied to an ever turning wheel? I’ve seen
the hidden realms myself, back when my blood
was stronger. Hecate guided me, before
the god eclipsed my eyes and put my light
inside me. Better if you call, with prayers,
the souls of Argos and of Thebes. Avert
the others’ footsteps. Sprinkle milk four times
and order them to leave this dreary grove.
Now then, inform me how they look and dress.
Who craves the blood you pour? Which race approaches
most proudly? Teach my blindness, daughter. Speak!’’
She did as she was told. She sang the songs
549
that make the scattered phantoms come and go,
• just like Medea or deceptive Circe
on the Aegean shores (if you ignore
their evils). She described the sacrifice:
?’’Cadmus is first to lift his sluggish face
553
above the lake of blood, and next to him
the daughter of the Cytherean goddess—
Harmonia—arrives and both have serpents
protruding from their heads, and both snakes drink.
BOOK ∂ ∞≠≥
‘‘They are surrounded by the men of Mars,
556
earthborn companions who lived just one day.
Each one holds weapons. Each one grips his sword.
They block each other, clash. They rage like men
who breathe the air, but they avoid the swamp.
Instead, they thirst for one another’s blood.
?’’Next comes a group of daughters and the grandsons
561
• they mourn. Here is Autonoe, bereft,
• and Ino, panting, looking at a bow
and pressing to her breast her precious infant.
• Semele holds her arms before her womb.
• Agave moans as she runs after Pentheus,
566
her son, along the banks of wandering Lethe,
her thyrsi broken, for the god has left her.
He flees past Stygian lakes to where his father,
Echion, weeps for him and tends the body
his wife had torn to shreds. I recognize
570
sad Lycus and Aeolides, the son
of Aeolus, named Athamas, whose right
elbow is raised: his shoulder bears the burden
of his son’s lifeless corpse. And there is he,
Actaeon, son of Aristaeus, whose
condition and his metamorphosis—
sign of his guilt—have not been altered. Horns
roughen his brow; his hands hold weapons; he
repels the wide-mouthed hounds that tear his limbs.
And here comes Niobe, the envious child
of Tantalus, surrounded by great crowds.
Misfortunes do not dash her. She is proud
of every corpse she mourns, the slain she counts,
and pleased that she has fled from heaven’s sway.
Now, even more, her mad tongue has its way.’’
The virgin priestess chanted while Tiresias
579
listened and white hairs raised his woolen garland.
His gaunt face flushed with blood, and he no longer
leaned on his steadying sta√ or virgin daughter
but stood erect and said: ‘‘Cease singing, Manto;
∞≠∂ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
there is enough external light for me.
The heavy clouds depart, dark shades recede
before my face. A spirit fills my soul.
Daughter, what is its source? The god Apollo?
Or ghosts? Behold, the Argive phantoms lower
their eyes and weep. Grim Abas. Dangerous
589
Proteus. Mild Phoroneus. Pelops—maimed.
And Oenomaus, fouled by bitter dust.
Large tears roll down their faces—therefore, I
predict that Thebes will win t
he war. But who
are these, compacted in a group? And why
do they regard us so unpeacefully?
Their faces and their breasts are dripping blood.
They raise a silent shout, lift outstretched hands.
Their wounds and weapons show their quality—
the souls of warriors. Eteocles,
am I deceived? Is this the group of fifty?
Do you see Cthonius and Chromis and
Phegeus—and Maeon? He stands out because
he wears our crown of laurel. Do not be
599
angry, o soldiers! Your assignment was
no mortal man’s idea, for Atropos,
the Destiny of iron, spun your years.
You met your Fate; we still must face war’s horror
and battle Tydeus.’’ So he spoke. The ghosts
pressed for the woolen ribbons in his hair,
but he drove them aside and toward the blood.
Along the sad shore of Cocytos stood
604
Laius, alone. The winged god Mercury
had redelivered him to harsh Avernus
from where, his eyes askew, he watched his grandson,
whose evil face he knew. He had no thirst
for blood or other fluids, like the rest,
but breathed immortal odium. The priest—
Aonian Tiresias—enticed
him forward, ‘‘Famous king of Tyrian Thebes!
No peaceful sun has seen Amphion’s towers
since your demise. You have su≈ciently
avenged your bloody death, and your descendants
have placated your shade. Whom do you flee,
BOOK ∂ ∞≠Σ
so miserably? He whom you mutter for
614
now lies in endless night, with death close by.
Corrupted blood and dried pus veil his eyes,
which no light enters. Take my word, his fate
is worse than death, but your son’s son is guiltless.
Why do you turn from him? Come here and sate
yourself with sacrificial blood. Reveal
the revolutions of the times. Tell who will die
in war: the enemy, or citizens
you pity? I will then arrange that you
may cross forbidden Lethe on the boat
of your desire, and settle you in peace
among the Stygian gods on holy ground.’’
The promise of reward assuaged King Laius.
624
His cheeks took color. He responded thus:
‘‘We are the same age, priest. Why have you chosen
me from among the many ghosts you raised
to give prognostications of the future?
It would be shameful if my grandsons asked
advice from me. They should adjure the one
so pleased to pierce his father with his sword.
Who crawled back to the womb? who paid his wanton
mother deposit? Oedipus, who tires
the gods and midnight councils of the Furies;
who conjures my dead soul to join his battle.
If I have been selected as a prophet
in times as terrible as these, then let
me say what Lachesis and cruel Megaera
permit me: war comes everywhere, unnumbered
soldiers! Gradivus—fatal god of battle—
goads on the Argive sons of Lerna’s swamp.
But they are stopped by wonders of the world,
by weapons of the gods, by glorious deaths,
and those delays decreed by law that keep
invaders from the final funeral fires.
Thebes’ victory is certain; do not fear;
641
your vicious brother will not gain your kingdom.
The Furies, your dual wrongs, and your cruel father,
whom your sad swords will make victorious,
will be, to my regret, all that remains.’’
∞≠Π STATIUS, THE THEBAID
He slid away when he had spoken, leaving
Tiresias and King Eteocles
in doubt about his ambiguities.
–?–?–?–
Meanwhile, the wandering legions of the sons
646
of Inachus had reached the cooling glades
of Nemea, where Hercules performed
such deeds that thickets still recall his praise.
Already they were busy taking booty,
eager to overthrow and pillage homes.
Who turned their rage? What brought about delay?649
Why did they stray when they had gone halfway?
Teach us, Apollo! Little now remains.
• Start from the dim beginnings of their fame.
• Liber, the god of wine, who wasted Haemus,
653
was feeble as he rearrayed for war.
Two winter seasons he had taught the martial
Thracians the orgies, mysteries of wine,
to plant on Rhodope Icarian shades,
and make the sides of Othrys green with vines.
And now he drove his chariot, bedecked
656
with leaves and tendrils, to his mother’s walls.
• Unbridled lynxes followed, left and right,
while tigers licked their harness, soaked in wine.
Behind him came the joyous Bacchanals,
bearing the spoils of cattle, half-dead wolves,
and she-bears torn to pieces. His companions
were not inactive. Here, with steps that staggered,
• the members of his sect marched: Fear and Anger,
Ardor, who’s never sober, Madness, Valor.
Then Bacchus noticed rising clouds of dust
664
that swirled through Nemea and sunrays flashing
from metal. He saw Thebans unprepared.
The sight unnerved him, he felt faint, he drooped.
He ordered cymbals, pipes, and pounding drums
BOOK ∂ ∞≠π
to cease their playing; in astonishment,
he spoke:
‘‘That mass of soldiers is engaged
to kill me and my followers. Their rage
has simmered over time. The endless anger
of Juno, my stepmother, and fierce Argos
incite this warfare. Was it not enough
that Semele, my mother, burned to dust?
Impious Juno battles idle Thebes—
the relics and the grave of Semele,
her husband’s mistress, who was blown apart
while bearing me. Companions, take the field;
meanwhile I will use fraud to weave delay.’’
His team of Caspian tigers swelled their manes
678
when he gave them the signal to proceed.
He spoke, and just that quickly reached the plain.
It was the moment when the sun had reached
680