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The Thebaid

Page 26

by Publius Papinius Statius


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  of rugged forests and encircling mountains

  that formed a crown, a soft embrace, a seat.

  A berm marked out by pairs of boundary stones

  embraced a long and level field. It sloped

  up gently, winding, with no sudden drops,

  and shaped a summit, soft with living turf.

  Dawn, and the sun’s red rays traversed the field.

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  Cohorts of soldiers sat there, pressed together,

  and as they saw their numbers and each other’s

  faces and uniforms, they felt some pleasure;

  their confidence renewed, and they felt better.

  One hundred black bulls, strongest of the herd,

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  slowly paraded, then an equal number

  of cows of that same color with their calves

  whose brows were not yet crescented by horns.

  • A series of amazing e≈gies

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  was borne along, the likenesses

  of high-souled ancient ancestors.

  The first was Hercules, whose strong embrace

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  crushes a gasping lion, breaks his bones.

  The Argives found it frightening to view

  that figure, not a real man, only bronze—

  and they were his descendants! Next in order

  was father Inachus, reclining on

  his left side by a mound of brookside reeds.

  They showed him pouring water from his urn.

  Io was next, already on all fours, and she

  • saw starry Argus, ever vigilant,

  behind her, and her father grieved. But then

  in Pharian fields in Egypt, Jupiter

  lifted her kindly, and Aurora kissed her.

  Now father Tantalus was drawn along,

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  not he who hovers near deceiving waves

  or snatches at the air when trees recede,

  but the great Thunderer’s guest, a pious man.

  Elsewhere triumphant Pelops drove the reins

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  and car of Neptune, while the charioteer

  • Myrtilos grappled for his swimming wheels

  but fell behind the faster vehicle.

  • Then came the grave Acrisius, and the harsh

  face of Coroebus. They showed Danae,

  • and rain poured on her lap. Amymone

  appeared in sadness by the stream she’d found.

  Alcmena held the infant Hercules,

  her pride and joy, and three moons veiled her hair.

  • The sons of Belus shook discordant hands,

  a truce of enmity. Aegyptus stood

  nearby with milder aspect, but the face

  of Danaus revealed his treachery:

  he planned a future evening of destruction!

  Unnumbered pageants satisfied the soldiers,

  but then their prowess called the best to contests.

  –?–?–?–

  The sweat of horses first. Recite, Apollo,296

  the names of famous riders and their steeds.

  ∞Σ≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID

  There never was a gathering of more

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  noble, wing-footed horses. These resembled

  a flock of birds aligned in V-formation,

  or Aeolus, whose mad winds clash on shore.

  Leading the others, clearly visible

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  because his red mane flamed, Arion pranced.

  His lord, they say, was Neptune and the first

  to hurt his tender mouth with his sharp curb:

  he tamed that horse along a sandy shore

  without a whip, for his desire to race

  could not be satisfied—he was inconstant,

  like winter waves, and joined with swimming steeds

  he often drew his blue-haired master safely

  through the Ionic and the Libyan seas

  while storm clouds marveled to be left behind

  and north and south winds struggled to pursue.

  With equal speed he carried Hercules,

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  son of Amphitryon, when he engaged

  • in King Eurystheus’s toils and traced deep furrows

  through meadowlands. Even to him he was

  disorderly and di≈cult to hold,

  but soon—a gift of heaven—he accepted

  the rule of King Adrastus. He grew tame

  with age till on this day the king permitted

  his son-in-law to ride him—yet he gave

  warning to Polynices not to raise

  a stern hand should the horse bolt, but use skill,

  the arts of riding. ‘‘Do not let him free

  and o√ the bit!’’ he warned. ‘‘Urge other steeds

  with whips and threats! This horse has all the speed

  you’ll need!’’ In just that way, Apollo gave

  • his happy son his fiery reins and car

  but wept while he instructed him which stars

  were treacherous, which zones could not be crossed,

  and what was temperate between the poles.

  His son was pious, duly cautious, but

  young, and the harsh Fates would not let him learn.

  The next contestant for the palm wore white,

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  harnessed white horses, and wore bands of wool

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  whose color matched his casque and crested plume:

  Amphiaraus, guiding Spartan horses.

  • These were your o√spring, Cyllarus, begotten

  by stealth when Castor, by the shores of distant

  • Scythia, traded Amyclean reins

  for oars along the Black Sea where he sailed.

  Admetus, blessed with steeds of Thessaly,

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  could hardly curb his barren mares, o√spring

  of Centaurs, it was said. They scorned their sex

  and used their female heat to fashion strength.

  They were like night and day, dark-grained and white,

  so bright they could be easily believed

  to stem from that same herd that would not eat

  as long as they, enchanted and amazed,

  could hear Apollo play Castalian reeds.

  The next were sons of Jason, whom their mother

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  Hypsipyle had recently discovered.

  The name of Thoas was one’s mother’s father;

  Euneos was a word derived from Argo.

  Their faces, horses, chariots, and clothes

  and equal and harmonious vows to win—

  or come in second only to a brother—

  made the twins similar in all they did.

  Here were Hippodamus and Chromis—one

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  descended from great Hercules, the other

  from Oenomaus. Who could tell which one

  handled his reins more fiercely? Getic steeds,

  bred by Diomedes, for one; the other

  had horses from his Pisan father. Stains

  of blood marred both war carts—and foul remains.

  One of the goalposts was a strong, bare oak,

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  whose branches had been stripped; opposed, a stone

  protuberance, the kind that limits fields.

  It was the length four javelins could reach

  or three times longer than an arrow’s flight.

  –?–?–?–

  ∞Σ∂ STATIUS, THE THEBAID

  Meanwhile the singing of Apollo charmed

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  the Muses, in their glorious assembly.

  He touched his strings, and gazed down from Parnassus,

  then sang the first beginnings of the gods,

  for often he had sung of Jupiter,

  • or Phlegra, or his own fight with the serpent,

  • or told, with piety, his brothers’ d
eeds.

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  He opened with what spirit moves the stars,

  the bolts of lightning, what soul animates

  the rivers, feeds the winds, provides the source

  of life for oceans. He revealed the sun’s

  pathways that hurry nightfall or delay it

  and how the universe holds middle earth

  deep down and bounded by an unseen world.

  He finished, and although the Sisters wished

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  to hear more, he dismissed them and removed

  the laurel from his instrument, unwove

  the chaplet from his bright head, and released

  his waist’s embroidered girdle. Then he saw,

  in Nemea, the land of Hercules,

  commotion—not far o√—a great assembly

  of four-horse chariots prepared for racing.

  By chance Amphiaraus and Admetus

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  stood in a nearby field. Apollo knew them

  and asked himself, ‘‘What god put these two kings,

  my loyal followers, in competition?

  Both men are pious. Both are dear to me.

  I do not know which one should be preferred!

  When I served in the fields of Pelias,

  as Jove ordained, and midnight Fates desired,

  one o√ered incense—though I was a servant—

  and never made me feel inferior.

  The other is companion of the tripod,

  a faithful student, skilled in augury.

  The merits of the one should be preferred,

  but then, the other’s thread of life is short.

  • Admetus will receive old age, die late,

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  but you, Amphiaraus, have no space

  for joy between the dark abyss and Thebes.

  • You know this; you have heard the sad birds sing!’’

  He spoke, and his hard face, unused to tears,

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  was moist. Then suddenly he bounded through

  the brilliant air to Nemea, more swift

  than his own arrows or his father’s lightning.

  He landed as the skies retained his traces;

  the winds revealed his brilliant path of flight.

  –?–?–?–

  Prothous tumbled markers in a bronze

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  helmet to choose positions for the start.

  Horses and drivers were their countries’ finest,

  descendants of the gods. Their hearts unsettled,

  with nervous confidence and hope, they waited.

  Enclosed, they strained to be released as chills

  ran through their limbs—not only fear but thrills.

  The horses shared the passion of their masters.

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  Flames filled their eyes. Bits rattled in their mouths.

  Blood and saliva scalded bridle rings.

  They pressed the posts and scarce-resisting gates

  and exhaled rage like smoke. Distraught, they waited,

  and lost a thousand steps before they started;

  their heavy hooves upchurned the absent fields!

  Trusted attendants smoothed their knotted manes,

  settled their spirits, whispered, planned their race.

  Tyrrhenian trumpets played; the steeds leaped forward.

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  What sails at sea, what weaponry in battle,

  what clouds so swiftly race across the sky?

  There is less force in winter streams and fire;

  stars fall more slowly, so do drops of rain

  and rivers from high summits to the plains.

  The Grecians watched them start but soon lost sight

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  of separate horses in the blinding dust.

  ∞ΣΠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID

  A single cloud obscured them, one so dark

  they scarcely saw or heard each other’s cries.

  Then the pack thinned. The chariots formed lines.

  The second circuit smoothed out former furrows.

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  The eager drivers leaned and touched their yokes,

  flexed with their knees, and doubled tight-held reins.

  Neck muscles bulged. Winds combed the flying manes;

  • wheels squealed; hooves pounded; parched earth drank white rain.

  Hands never paused; whips whistled through the air.

  Cold hail does not fall faster in north winds

  nor water tumble from the horns of winter.

  Astute Arion could detect the guilt

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  of Polynices, son of Oedipus,

  the dreadful foreigner who held his reins.

  He felt his future, and he was afraid,

  unruly from the start, as his oppression

  angered him more than usual. The Greeks

  thought him provoked by praise, but he was fleeing

  his driver, running mad, his unrestraint

  threatening his charioteer, while through the field

  he searched for King Adrastus, his right master.

  Amphiaraus came before the others,

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  but he was far behind in second place.

  Admetus, the Thessalian, raced with him.

  Then came the twins; now Euneos was first,

  now Thoas. One advanced; one fell behind.

  • Though each desired to win, they never clashed.

  Desperate Chromis and Hippodamus

  followed, slowed by their horses’ weight, not lack

  of talent, and Hippodamas, out front,

  could feel the heat of panting mouths behind him.

  The auger of Apollo hoped to take

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  the shorter, inside path around the goal

  by drawing in his reins so he could pass,

  and the Thessalian hero, too, perceived

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  an opportunity because Arion

  ran unrestrained in circles to the right.

  Amphiaraus was first, Admetus now

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  no longer third, but they were passed, their joy

  short-lived, as Neptune’s horse rejoined the circuit

  from which he’d strayed. The crowd rose to its feet;

  the heavens shook and tumult struck the stars.

  No longer could the Theban Polynices

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  manage his reins or dare to use his whip,

  like an exhausted helmsman who no longer

  looks to the stars but only hopes for luck

  while sea waves sweep his ship against black rocks.

  Again they circled right in full career

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  and strove to hold their course around the field.

  Axles collided; treacherous spokes struck wheels;

  a thousand horsehooves pounded on the plain.

  The riders feared, and also threatened, murder.

  Their craving for renown was unrelenting.

  Their violence was equally intense

 

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