The Thebaid
Page 36
Her face regained the ardor it had lost;
• the snakes that bristled on her breast relaxed.
Haemon, the Cadmian, could sense the god
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had left him, that he threw his spear less hard.
He could not recognize his own weak blows,
as more and more his strength and spirit failed;
he felt no shame in yielding when assailed
by Tydeus—he, the Acheloan hero!
Hefting a spear that no one else could lift,
he aimed between the margin of the shield
and Haemon’s helmet—at the jugular,
that gleaming, vital spot. Nor was his hand
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uncertain, for his spear flew, bringing death,
but Pallas interfered and drove the lance
at Haemon’s shield, a favor for Apollo.
Haemon no longer had the confidence
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to hold his ground or charge or dare to look
at Tydeus’ savage face. His spirit weakened,
• as happens in Lucania when a spear
scotches the bristling forehead of a boar—
the aim not true. Not wounded to the brain,
he vents his rage by slashing side to side
but will not face again the spear he tried.
BOOK ∫ ≤≤≥
Look, here is Prothous, the leader of
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an enemy battalion, happily
flinging his darts. How he made Tydeus angry!
Enraged he struck two bodies with one blow;
both horse and rider fell: as Prothous
groped for his dangling reins, his horse’s hooves
trampled his helmet on his face and kicked
his shield against his chest; the horse then flicked
its bridle o√ and, wounded, losing blood,
reclined and lay its neck against its master.
• So on Mount Gaurus vine and elm fall down:
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some farmer’s double loss, but greater for
the elm, which dies while losing its support.
Nor does it mourn its fallen limbs as much
as friendly grapes it had no wish to crush.
Corymbus, from Mount Helicon, who’d been
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a comrade of the muses, now took arms
against Danaans. His demise had been
predicted by the placement of the stars,
• because Urania long before beheld
his Stygian destiny, but nonetheless
he sought out enemies and wars, perhaps
so men would sing of him. He now lay dead,
worthy of chants and lengthy praises, though
the sister muses mourned his loss in silence.
Young Atys joined in the defense of Thebes—
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he who had been engaged to chaste Ismene,
Agenor’s progeny, since he was young.
Although he came from Cirrha, he had not
disdained his in-laws for their wicked deeds.
The spotless squalor of his future bride
and undeserved decline commended her,
for he was virtuous, nor had the girl
renounced him in her heart. They would,
if Fortune should allow it, please each other,
but war has interrupted plans for marriage.
Angered by this invasion, Atys would
sometimes outrace his lines and charge Lernaeans
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on foot, with just his sword, or ride, reins high,
as in some spectacle. His mother had
enfolded his smooth chest and growing shoulders
in triple pleats of purple cloth and tipped
with gold his breastplate, arrows, belt, and bracelets—
even his helmet was engraved with gold—
an outfit to impress his future wife.
He trusted it, and he defied the Greeks.
He threw his spears and chased retreating troops.
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He took the armor of the men he slew,
returning back to safety like a lion
in Caspian forests of Hyrcania,
still innocent of massacres and sleek,
not yet a terror, huge and tawny maned,
who slaughters sluggish cattle close to home
while their custodian is gone and slakes
his hunger by consuming tender lambs.
The arms of Tydeus were unknown to Atys:
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he did not know enough to be afraid
and judged him by his smallness—so he dared
to throw his fragile weapons at this soldier
who threatened and pursued so many others.
Tydeus laughed horribly when he first felt
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those useless blows and said, ‘‘For sometime now
I have been noticing your great desire
to die a hero’s death, you shameless fool!’’
He spoke, and scorned to use his spear or sword
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but with his fingers flicked a feeble dart
that nonetheless drove deep in Atys’ groin
as if it had been hurled with all his might.
Sure he would die, he passed him by, too proud
to stoop and strip away his armaments.
‘‘We would not hang these trophies up for Mars
or you, o warlike Pallas! They are worthless,
to be rejected as not even fit
to give Deipyle should she enlist
for war and join me here outside her chamber!’’
BOOK ∫ ≤≤Σ
These were his words, and now he turned his mind
to winning greater trophies in the war,
as some strong lion, who can choose his victims,
passes defenseless heifers and young calves,
raging, intent to bathe in blood, who will
not stop except to break a great bull’s spine.
But Atys did not fail, when he had fallen,
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to call Menoeceus with a fainting voice.
Menoeceus turned his chariot and steeds
and quickly drove to where the Tyrians
allowed Tegeans to surround their man.
‘‘For shame, young men of Cadmus! It’s a lie
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that says your fathers grew up from the ground!
Are you degenerate that you permit this?
Is it ignoble that a stranger died
fighting for us? He was unfortunate,
this foreigner, and had not yet impressed
his promised bride! Are we such faithless men?’’
Thoughts of the wives and children they esteemed
sti√ened the will of those embarrassed soldiers.
Meanwhile, Ismene and Antigone
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sat in the inner recess of their rooms,
far di√erent from their brothers, innocent
o√spring of wretched Oedipus. They made
various lamentations as they talked,
not about current evils, but the distant
origins of their fate. This girl bemoaned
their mother’s marriage; that, their father’s eyes;
this one the brother who maintained his rule;
that one the brother who had wandered o√.
But both complained about the war: their prayers
were hesitant and sad, and they were swayed
two ways—by fear of who would win the contest
and who would be defeated, yet they favored,
without admitting it, the exiled one.
So King Pandion’s daughters, Philomela
• and Procne—nightingale and swallow—seek
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≤≤Π STATIUS, THE THEBAID
trustworthy hospitality, the homes
they leave
when winter weather drives them out.
Their voices seem like words. They think they speak.
They perch above their old nests and recall
their fortunes—feeble murmurings, unclear.
After the women wept and then were silent,
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Ismene said, ‘‘What is this fantasy
we mortals have? Why is our trust deceived?
Do cares attend us as we sleep? Does sleep
bring clarity of vision to our souls?
I could not bear to think of marrying,
not even when we were at peace, but lo!
to my embarrassment, last night I dreamed
I saw my husband! Sister, how can sleep
show me an image that I had forgotten
and barely recognize? Once, in these rooms,
I glimpsed him when our covenants were drawn.
Suddenly, sister, I saw only blurs,
flames separated us, and then his mother
followed me, shouting for her Atys back!
Is this an image of impending doom?
I feel secure as long as Thebes is strong,
the Doric troops retreat, and we’re allowed
to reconcile the pride of our two brothers.’’
Such was their conversation, when stark terror
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shattered the quiet house, as Atys, who’d
been rescued with great e√ort, was received.
He had lost blood. He barely clung to life.
He held his hand positioned on his wound.
His neck hung limply from his shield, his hair
fell from his forehead, and Jocasta, who
saw him first, trembling, called his dear Ismene.
The future son-in-law’s declining voice
called only for Ismene; cold lips spoke
her name alone. The household servants wept.
His lady held her hands before her eyes,
immobilized by fear; she felt ashamed,
yet entered where he lay. Jocasta granted
BOOK ∫ ≤≤π
the dying man’s last wish and let him see—
let him be present with—his dear Ismene.
Four times as death came over him he lifted
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his eyes and failing vision at her name;
he turned from heaven’s light to look at her
and gazed unmoving at the one he loved.
And then, because his mother was not near
and death had shown a mercy to his father,
his bride-to-be received the sad reward
of lowering his eyelids; left alone,
her eyes filled up with tears; the poor girl moaned.
–?–?–?–
While this was happening in Thebes, Bellona
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renewed the war with fresh flames, other serpents.
Men longed for battle, and their sword blades shone
as if first blows were only now delivered.
Preeminent was Tydeus, even though
Parthenopaeus shot unerring arrows,
Hippomedon’s mad horses kicked the dying,
and Capaneus surveyed the array
of distant Thebans as he aimed his spear.
The day belonged to Tydeus; it was he
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they feared and fled. He cried, ‘‘Why flee?
Remain here and avenge your murdered friends
and make atonement for a dreadful night!
I am the man who conquered fifty souls
but feel the need to kill as many more.
Send me more men; no, send as many squadrons!
Are there no fathers or no brothers as
devoted as the fallen you’ve forgotten?
Where is your grief, your shame that I returned
a victor to Inachian Mycenae!
Are these all Thebes has left? this the king’s strength?
Where can I find the great Eteocles?’’
Just then he saw the king commanding troops
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along the left wing, saw his high casque flash.
• Tydeus raced not less slowly than the bird
≤≤∫ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
that carries lightning brings a white swan terror,
enveloping and circling him with shadow.
But first: ‘‘O just king of Aonia!
We meet in open combat! We draw swords!
Perhaps you’d rather wait for night’s dark shadows?’’
The king said nothing, but he aimed a shaft
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of hissing horn in answer at his foe,
but when it reached its mark, the watchful hero
knocked it aside and eagerly unleashed
all of his own great strength to fling his spear.
The deadly weapon, which could end the duel,
flew through the air and drew the eyes of gods
some of whom favored Thebans, some the Greeks,
but the cruel Fury interfered and saved
Eteocles for his disgraceful brother.
The erring point hit Phlegyas, a warrior.
Then a great skirmishing of men began
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as Tydeus, the Aetolian, drew his sword
and rushed the Theban troops, who covered for
their king as he retreated. Just this way
a band of shepherds makes a wolf abandon
a bullock he has seized and he responds
fiercely, but not at them. He wants his booty—
the prey that, having seized, he now pursues.
No less unmoved was Tydeus by the lines
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that formed against him as he made his way.
He struck Deilochus and pierced his chest,
the face of Thoas, and the flank of Clonius.
Savage Hippotadas? He stabbed his groin.
Tydeus tossed heads in helmets through the air;
disjointed arms and legs rained over bodies.
By now he had enclosed himself with piles
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of corpses and the spoils of fallen men.
He was surrounded by the battle line
and every weapon aimed at only him.
Some arrows struck his sinews, some just missed,
BOOK ∫ ≤≤Ω
some Pallas cast aside, but many stood
sti√ like an iron forest on his shield.
The boar skin that he wore, his country’s pride,
slipped o√ his back and shoulders, and his crest
had lost its glory, a tall figurine
of Mars that now no longer topped his helmet.
It fell—no happy omen for the man!
Only bare bronze remained to cover him
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from thudding rocks that flew around his head.
Blood filled his helmet, and his wounded chest
streamed darkly with a mix of gore and sweat.
He could see comrades urge him, see the shield