The Thebaid
Page 29
Agylleus tumbled down and buried him
under his massive bulk, not otherwise
than when a miner in the hills of Spain
goes underground far down from light and life.
He will lie broken in a mass of rubble
should tunnels tremble, arching vaults collapse;
his angry soul will never reach the stars.
∞π≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
Tydeus was stronger, with more heart and courage,
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and soon slipped from that evil grasp and weight,
and when he faltered, whirled behind his back.
He quickly gripped his side and held his groin,
and when Agylleus tried to seize his flank
and struggled to escape, he strained his thighs
and bent his knees and lifted him. The sight
was terrible, his strength miraculous.
• Thus, it is said, the earthborn Libyan
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was lifted in the air by Hercules,
who would not let his feet touch mother earth
after he learned the secret of his strength.
The air resounded. Spectators applauded,
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happy to watch him hold that man aloft
until, to their surprise, he suddenly flung
Agylleus on his side and threw himself
on top and seized his hips between his legs.
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The beaten man—his belly on the ground,
prone on his chest, his neck in Tydeus’s hand—
faded and only fought to save his pride.
At last he rose unhappily to leave;
the earth was stained by marks of his defeat.
Tydeus received the palm with his right hand
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and took the shining armor with his left.
‘‘What if the Dircean plain had not received
a portion of my blood, as you have seen,
when my wounds made a treaty with the Thebans?’’
He showed his scars and gave his prized rewards
to his companions, and he sent the cuirass
after Agylleus, who had left the field.
–?–?–?–
The next were those who fought with naked steel:
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Agreus from Epidaurus and the Theban,
not yet condemned by fate. They took the field
with others, armed and ready, but Adrastus,
the son of Iasus, called a halt. ‘‘Enough
of death remains, young men! Preserve your spirit!
BOOK Π ∞π≥
Hold back your longing for opponents’ blood!
And you, for whom we desolate fair cities
and our ancestral countryside, do not
allow so much to chance before the battle,
nor, God forbid, fulfill your brother’s prayers!’’
He spoke, and he awarded both men helmets
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of gold; then, lest his son-in-law lack honor,
he ordered that his brow be garlanded
and that the Theban be proclaimed the victor—
an omen that the deadly Fates ignored.
–?–?–?–
The leadership now urged the king to add
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some exploit of his own to grace the games
and o√er final honor to the tomb.
And so that every prince would have a prize,
• he should shoot arrows from his Lyctian quiver
or throw his slender spear shaft through the clouds.
He joyfully agreed and, crowded by
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his most important men, descended from
the green berm to the field, while his arms bearer
brought him his lightest arrows and his bow.
He pointed to an ash tree in the distance
across the circuit’s length. He aimed at this.
Who can deny the secret source of omens?
We know our destiny but disregard
the warnings and refer to them as chance.
Man is too lazy to attend his fate.
Thus Fortune gains her power to do us harm.
The fatal arrow quickly crossed the field,
rebounded from the tree, and—horrible
to see—flew back on that same path, then fell
beside the mouth of King Adrastus’ quiver.
The leaders o√ered many explanations,
but all were wrong. Some laid the blame
∞π∂ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
on clouds, some sky-high winds, while others said
the arrow struck the tree and bounced away.
The secret of our death is deep and hidden,
but also visible. The arrow promised
its master’s sad return from war—alone!
–?–?–?–
BOOK 7 Earth Opens
Jupiter sends Mercury to the house of Mars. Adrastus addresses the shade of Archemorus. Panic in Thebes. Bacchus appeals to Jupiter. Eteocles prepares Thebes for war. Catalog of Theban allies and champions (Creon and his sons Haemon and Menoeceus, Dryas, Eurymedon, and Hypseus). Hippomedon leads the Argives, despite ill omens, across the Asopos River. Tisiphone stirs both sides. Jocasta appeals to Polynices. The Fury Tisiphone rouses two tigers of Bacchus, whose deaths ignite the first battle. Earth opens for Amphiaraus.
Not with an even heart did Jupiter
watch the Pelasgians delay their task
of waging war against the Tyrians.
He shook his head, and that hard motion made
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high stars fall from the sky and Atlas howl
as his distended neck absorbed his burden.
He then spoke to swift Mercury, his son:
‘‘My boy, leap quickly. Ride the northern winds
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• to Thrace, where the Parrhasian dipper feeds
my winter clouds, and my own winter rains
those fires that never touch the ocean streams.
There houses lie beneath the pole star’s snow.
There Mars dwells, either leaning on his spear
to breathe, though he hates peace, or—I believe—
he takes his fill of arms and winding trumpets
and wallows in the blood of clans he favors.
‘‘Hurry this warning: say his father angers;
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spare nothing! After all, I long ago
commanded him to spark the Argive army
drawn from the areas below the Isthmos
of Corinth or surrounded by Malea,
which raves and echoes. These young men of war
had hardly left the city’s walls and gates
∞πΠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
when they held games, like conquerors, as they
paid homage to the tomb their crimes created.
‘‘Is this the rage of Mars? To hear a discus
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bounce and Oebalian boxing gloves collide?
Mars boasts about his madness, his insane
desire for warfare; therefore, let him show
impiety and render unto ashes
innocent cities, carry fire and sword,
smash to the ground those people who implore
the Thunderer: exhaust the wretched world!
‘‘Now I am angry, but he moderates
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contention: he abates! But he must start
a battle sooner than I speak these words
and drive the Argives to the walls of Thebes
or I will change things: there will be no cruelty!
Let his divinity be mild and good
and let him turn his unrestraint to leisure;
let him return my steeds and sword and lose
his power over blood! I will survey
the earth and tell the world it must make peace!
Athena will su≈ce for war in Thebes.’’
He spoke these words, and the Cyllenian
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descended into Thrace. Continuous
tempests exhaled from heaven’s northern gates;
long lines of clouds stretched out; the heavens blew,
and northeast storm winds struck him as he flew.
Hail rattled on his golden cloak. His own
Arcadian helmet o√ered small protection.
• Here he saw lifeless trees and shrines to Mars
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and shuddered at the sight. A thousand Furies
surrounded War’s fierce domicile, which lies
under and opposite Haemus. It has walls
of fitted iron, narrow iron gates
so tight they scrape, and columns bound with iron
that prop the roof. The radiance of Phoebus
weakens on contact with this seat of Mars;
BOOK π ∞ππ
it makes the light afraid, and its hard gleam
saddens the stars. The posted guards befit it:
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mad-moving Haste, who leaps through outer gates,
blind Wickedness, pale Fear, and blood-red Rage.
Deception carries hidden knives, and Discord
a two-edged sword. Innumerable Threats
howl through the inner court where in the middle
Valor stands sadly and exultant Madness
and armored Death (gore blots his face) mount thrones.
The plundered flames of burning towns and blood
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of war lie on his altars, and the spoils
that he has pillaged from surrounding lands.
The temple’s high facades are lined with captives,
fragments of gates designed in iron, ships
for warfare, empty chariots, heads crushed
by war-cart wheels, and even what seem groans:
all kinds of violence, and every wound.
The god is everywhere and never languid.
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Mulciber etched him with his godlike art
before the sun’s rays caught him in adultery,
the bond of marriage broken, chained in bed.
The winged Maenalian had just begun
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to seek the temple’s ruler when, behold,
• earth shook and torrents roared in horned Hebrus
as horses bred for war disturbed the valley;
foam flecked the trembling fields—a sign!—and gates
bound with eternal adamant released.
Mars was returning in his chariot,
leading his spoils, his ranks of weeping captives.
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Hyrcanian blood made him illustrious
and feared; the scattered drops deformed wide fields.
He traveled through the high snows and the trees
while dark Bellona, grim-faced charioteer,
guided his team and brandished her long spear.
Mercury sti√ened and he lowered his eyes.
Even his father would have shown respect
(if he had been there) and toned down his threats
or changed his message. Mars was first to speak:
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‘‘What orders from our father have you borne
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through the great ether, brother? It’s not like you
to travel north alone to my cold climate.
Maenalus with its dews and warm Lycaeus
provide the milder airs that you prefer!’’
When Mercury delivered Jove’s decree
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Mars did not wait for long but urged his yoked,
perspiring, panting steeds, indignant at
the Argives that they had not left for battle.
The mighty Father watched. His anger lightened.
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Slowly, with gravity, he lowered his head.
Just so east winds decline and leave the seas
they stir to fury; skies grow peaceful; storms
diminish and depart. Swells settle down
till sailors who have not had time to breathe
can resecure the riggings of their ships.
–?–?–?–
The war games, rites, and funeral
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had finished, but the crowds had not departed
when King Adrastus poured wine on the ground,
while everyone was silent, to placate
the ashes of Archemorus:
‘‘Small one,
allow us to observe your holiday
every three years, for years to come. Do not
let wounded Pelops choose Arcadian altars
nor let his ivory joint strike Elean temples.
Guard the Castalian altars from the serpent.
Keep Melicertes’ shade from Corinth’s pines.
O child, we hold you back from sad Avernus
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and join your sad solemnities to stars
that never die. We hurry o√ to war.
But if you let our army overturn
the houses of Boeotia, you will earn
much greater altars; your divinity
BOOK π ∞πΩ
will be maintained by all Inachian cities,
and men will swear by you, a god, in Thebes!’’
He spoke for all, and each man’s vows were these.
–?–?–?–
By this time Mars had pressed his outstretched steeds
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along the shores of Corinth, where the city’s
citadel lifts its head high through the air
and casts its shade in turn on either sea.
One of his dreadful followers, named Panic,
announced his chariot, at his command.
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There’s nothing Panic cannot make us think.
His horrible approach drives cities crazy.
No one is better at instilling fear,
more fit for draining courage from men’s souls.
This monster’s hands and voices have no number;
he can assume whatever face he wants.
He makes the common people think they see
stars tumble from the sky, twin suns appear,
earth totter, and the old-growth forests walk.
Panic conceived this excellent device:
across the Nemean plains he swirled false dust.
The leadership observed and wondered at
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the dark cloud overhead; then Panic added
false clamors to the noise and imitated
the pulsing sound of mounted men and arms;
he filled the wandering winds with fearful cries.
Their spirits soared, but common people murmured
because they were in doubt. ‘‘What makes this sound?
Or do our ears deceive us? Why does this
cloud of dust hang in heaven? Could it be
Ismenian soldiers? Yes, it could. They’re coming!
But is there such audacity in Thebes?
Did they make haste while we interred the child?’’