The Thebaid
Page 34
since what use do you have for augury,
you who command the Fates who spin our lives?
Let your heart yield; be better than the gods!
Reserve your deadly punishments, my lord:
my wife, that wicked women, may arrive,
and she deserves your outrage more than I!’’
Pluto received his prayers but scorned compassion,
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just as a lion, when Massylian steel
glitters before him, summons rage and power,
but if his enemy should fall, contents himself
to let his victim live, and passes by.
–?–?–?–
Meanwhile the army in the open air
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looked for the chariot adorned with fillets
and fertile laurel leaves, which even now
put fear in famous warriors. No one
defeated it, and no one drove it o√.
The troops, suspicious of the earth, retreated
and traced their steps around the impious field.
BOOK ∫ ≤≠Ω
In honor of the tombs of hell, they shunned
that place of hungry ruin. It lay still.
The news reached King Adrastus (who was elsewhere,
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encouraging his troops), delivered by
Palaemon, who was trembling as he galloped,
scarce able to believe what he had witnessed.
By chance he had been near the man who fell,
and when earth opened, that poor soul turned pale.
‘‘Avert your steps, my lord, and flee,’’ he yelled,
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‘‘back to our Doric lands and native towers—
that is, if they remain! Here is no work
for blood or weapons! Why should we unsheathe
our useless swords against the town of Thebes?
Our chariots, our arms, our fighting men
are swallowed by the earth’s impiety;
even this field we stand on seems to flee!
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I myself saw the road to deepest night
when the firm surface fissured and the son
of Oeclus fell, alas, than whom no one
was better loved by fortunetelling stars!
‘‘I speak of marvels! Even now, my lord,
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I left the fields and furrows and the horses,
horses that smoked and dripped and foamed. What’s more,
this curse is not communal: Thebans stay:
Thebes’ children are acknowledged by the earth.’’
Slow to believe, Adrastus was amazed,
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but Mopsus brought the same news; so did Actor,
trembling. And Rumor now made bold to bring
new horrors, saying more than one had died.
The army, of its own accord, retreated,
undisciplined, before the trumpets sounded,
but found the road was weary; soldiers’ knees
resisted hurry, and their horses balked
defiantly—you’d think they showed some sense!
No exhortation could extend their pace
or make them lift their eyes or raise their faces.
≤∞≠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
The Tyrian incursion gathered strength,
but now dark Evening drove his lunar steeds—
a short truce, troubled rest, the fear night breeds.
Imagine the morale, once there was time
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for unrestrained lamenting. Men unlaced
their helmets as their tears fell. They were tired,
and nothing cheered them up. They threw aside
their dripping shields untouched, forgot to wipe
their weapons, praise their steeds, or reunite
the plumes on feathered crests or comb them high.
Large gashes went unwashed, and gaping wounds
were barely stitched together. Such distress
was great throughout the camp, and even fear
of battle could not bring the men to eat
or fortify themselves for war. All sang
your praise, Amphiaraus, and with tears
recalled your heart, that fertile source of truth.
One thought ran through the tents: the gods were gone,
and nothing of divinity remained.
‘‘Alas, where are the laurel-bearing car,
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all-hallowed armaments, and helmet crest
entwined with sacred bands? Is this the faith
owed by Castalia’s tripod, lake, and cave?
Apollo’s way of saying thanks? Who will explain
the falling stars, what leftward lightning means,
or why slain entrails should reveal the gods?—
select our roads, decide the time to rest,
predict what savage wars may have success
or when the hour of peace should be preferred?
Who now will read the future or discern
what destiny the birds prognosticate?
You knew the outcome of this war—your fate
and ours (so mighty were your sacred powers)—
and yet you came; you joined your countrymen
in our sad combat! Even when earth called,
in your own fatal hour, you engaged
the Tyrian army and consumed yourself
against opposing standards. Even when
dying, you terrified the foe, and we beheld
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your deadly spear in motion as you fell.
Now what is happening? Can you return
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from Stygian regions, burst to upper earth?
Do you sit, fortunate, beside your friends
the Fatal Sisters, whom (in turn) you teach
and learn from what’s to come? And does Avernus’
lord let you enter sacred groves to serve
Elysium’s birds? Wherever you may be,
the mourning of Apollo will not cease.
In silence Delphi will forever grieve
this strange and everlasting injury.
Upon this anniversary, the shrines
• of Tenedos and Chryse will be closed—
Delos (the island moored for hosting birth)
• and secret recesses of unshorn Branchus!
No suppliant on this day will approach
• the gates of Clarius, the threshold of
Didymeus, or Lycia’s oracle.
Silence will fall on Thymbra in the Troad,
the oracle in Ammon, and the oak
of Jupiter that murmurs in Molossis.
Apollo’s rivers will run dry, his laurels
wither; the skies will utter nothing—no
wise prophecies; no wings will fan the clouds.
The day will come when shrines that say what’s true
will use your priests; and men will worship you!’’
Such were the testimonials the prince
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of prophecies received, as if they laid
his body in the soft earth and brought gifts
and funeral flames and sad rites to his pyre.
Their hearts were broken, ill-prepared for war.
It was as when the Argonauts were stalled
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• by Tiphys’ sudden death when seas refused
to bear the fleet or listen to the oars;
even the winds diminished in their power.
But gradually their talk reduced their grief,
their hearts grew lighter, and sleep softly crept,
as night dimmed sorrows, over those who wept.
–?–?–?–
≤∞≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
But elsewhere night was di√erent: in Thebes
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they made the heavens dance with various games.
Outside the watchmen dozed along the walls;
/> inside, musicians played Idaean drums,
twin cymbals sounded, and the woodwinds hummed.
They sang in town the sacred hymns of praise
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to bless their gods, their local deities.
They poured wine, they wore garlands, and they mocked
Amphiaraus, whom they said knew nothing,
and thatwas why he’d died. Then they competed
to sing the praises of their own Tiresias.
Soon they were telling ancient histories;
they sang about the origins of Thebes.
Some told of Sidon and the sea and of
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Europa’s hands that grasped the horns of Jove—
bull Jove, who plowed the furrows of the sea god
Nereus. Some sang of Cadmus, and the weary
heifer, and men of blood born from Mars’ field.
Others recalled the lutenist of Tyre,
Amphion, how he brought sharp rocks to life
and how they crawled toward Thebes. Then others praised
the pregnancy of Semele, the Cytherean
nuptial rites and how Harmonia was led
home past the torches that her brothers held.
Each table had its stories, just as if
Bacchus had only recently despoiled
• India’s Hydaspes River and its jewels
and kingdoms in the East and showed his people
flags of obscure, defeated Indians.
That was, they say, when Oedipus emerged
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unlooked for from dark places where he’d hidden.
His face was bright, and his own hand had brushed
his white hair free from black grime and removed
the clinging strands that fouled his countenance.
He joined in conversation with his friends,
no longer scorned their sympathy, drew out
a portion from the feast, and wiped away
the dried blood that had fallen from his eyes.
He listened to, and answered, everyone,
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where formerly he only would complain
of hell, the Furies, and Antigone,
who guided him. The cause of this was hidden.
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It was not Thebes’ good fortune in the war
that pleased the man, but war itself. He wished
his son to seek for praise, but not to win.
He longed for that initial clash of swords,
sowing his seeds of hate with silent words,
and so the feast delighted him, and he
showed unaccustomed joy, as Phineus did,
when after his long fast had tortured him,
he learned the birds no longer plagued his house
but was not yet convinced the news was true
until he took a couch beside his table
and raised a bowl untouched by savage wings.
–?–?–?–
The other Grecian cohorts were exhausted
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by war and worry when Adrastus stood
high on a mound beside his camp and heard
that joyful celebration. His heart broke,
age weakened him, but nonetheless he kept
his vigil and observed the enemy—
the sad task of a man who would be king.
It hurt to hear drunk voices full of pride,
loud horns, harsh drums, and other sounds from Thebes,
and to see tottering torches, short-lived fires.
He stood, eyes open, by himself, like some
pilot who stands on deck, while on the flood
his ship sails silently, submerged in sleep,
men trusting in the safety of the sea
and guided by the god carved on their keel.
The time was dawn, when Phoebus’s fiery sister,
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hearing a yoke of horses and the roar
of Ocean’s hollow caverns, gathers her
stray beams as light accumulates above;
she drives away the stars with her light lash.
The king called his sad council, and he asked
the mourners who should next assume the tripod,
≤∞∂ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
receive the vacant dignity of wearing
laurels and woolen fillets. They agreed,
without delay: Melampus’ famous son,
Thiodamas, renowned for sanctity,
must be the one, for he’d already learned
the secrets of the gods and had observed
the flights of birds with him who gladly shared
his art and said they both could be compared.
He was dumbfounded by their great acclaim
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and humbled by this unexpected glory.
Duly submissive, reverent, he took
the pro√ered crown of leaves, but he disclaimed
all worthiness and tried to be constrained,
just as a Persian prince, if young, accepts
his father’s throne and people, weighing joys,
uncertainties, and fears. His safety would
be greater had his father lived. Can he
trust the nobility? Or will citizens
rebel against his rule? Whom should he send
to guard Euphrates, whom the Caspian gates?
Then he must take his father’s bow and mount
his awe-inspiring horse, attempt to wrap
his hand around the scepter, fill the crown.
When he had fitted twisted, woolen bands
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around his head, he prayed to heaven’s gods
then went through camp rejoicing, made glad sounds,
and in his first o≈cial act as priest
prepared to placate Mother Earth, fulfilling
the wishes of Danaans who lamented.
Straightway he ordered double altars built,
covered with aging sod and living branches.
He piled innumerable flowers for the Goddess,
gifts she had given, and he added fruits
and anything the busy year produced.
He sprinkled altars with unspoiled milk,
and then began:
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‘‘Eternal Maker! You
created gods and men; you made the streams;
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you grew groves for the gods and sowed the seeds
• of life—Promethean man, the stones of Pyrrha!
You give variety to men; you feed
the hungry, and you let men rule the seas.
You give us power to tame the gentle flocks,
wild beasts, and birds. The swift machine of heaven
circles around you through an empty vacuum.
You are the source of strength that never falters
and you make firm the pole that never sets.
You are the center of the universe!
• Two chariots surround you; the three brothers