The Thebaid
Page 40
‘‘Unstoppable right hand, divinity,
you who have been a presence in my wars,
I call on you because I scorn the deities.
You are the only god whom I adore!’’
He spoke; he stoked his prowess with his vows.
His quivering ash spear punctured Hypseus’ shield;
it pierced his brazen hauberk and his massive
torso and took his life. So Hypseus fell
just as a lofty turret—that same sound—
falls after countless missiles rip a town
and conquerors invade its open walls.
Hovering above him, Capaneus boasts,
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‘‘We do not grudge you honor as you die.
See, Capaneus did this; turn your eyes!
Be glad you’ll be admired by other ghosts!’’
He took his sword and casque and tore away
the shield of Hypseus, and he held them over
the body that was once Hippomedon.
≤Σ≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
‘‘O mighty duke,’’ he said, ‘‘accept these spoils,
yours and your enemy’s. Your shade shall know
a proper burial, your ashes find
suitable honors, but until the time
that I return with ceremonial fire
and take revenge, I’ll let these rites su≈ce.’’
So even-handed Mars brought war in turn
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with all its hardship both to Greeks and Thebans.
Here they mourned fierce Hippomedon, there Hypseus
(both were indomitable) and either side
took comfort in its enemy’s laments.
–?–?–?–
Meanwhile the mother from Arcadia
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had nightmares of her arrow-bearing son.
Her hair disheveled and her feet unbound,
before the dawn she visited cold Ladon
to purge her evil visions in that stream.
Often through sleepless nights, weighed down by cares,
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she would see trophies falling from the shrine
that she had consecrated, see herself
moving down wandering roads past unknown tombs,
an exile from her groves, pursued by groups
of Dryades. And she would often see
triumphs returning from her young son’s wars,
his armor, comrades, and his well-known steed,
but never him. Her quiver would fall o√
her shoulders, and simulacra would burn—
her portraits and her other e≈gies.
But that night in particular aroused
panic in her maternal breast, bad portents.
There was an oak, known through Arcadia,
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the tallest in her groves, which she herself
had picked and dedicated to Diana,
the goddess Trivia, whose worship graced
this special tree with her divinity.
Here she would hang her bow and weary weapons,
BOOK Ω ≤Σ≥
curved tusks of boars, the skins of vanquished lions,
and antlers equal to the largest branches.
Its limbs were crowded thick with rural trophies,
the green shade overwhelmed by flashing steel.
One night, while dreaming, she returned, exhausted
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from fierce hunts in the mountains, carrying
an Erymanthean bear’s head in her grasp
and thought she saw her oak, its crown cut down,
its branches dripping blood, dead on the ground.
A nymph, when questioned, said her enemy
• Lyaeus and his bloody Maenads raged.
While she lamented and—with unfelt blows—
pounded her chest, night vanished, and she leaped
o√ her sad bed and wiped away false tears.
She purged her own impiety by dipping
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her hair in Ladon three times and recited
words that can soothe the worries of a mother;
then, through the morning dew, she hurried to
the shrine of armed Diana and rejoiced
to see her oak and well-known grove intact.
She prayed before the goddess, and she said:
‘‘O powerful lady of the forests, whose harsh paths
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and militant example I repeat—
I scorn my sex in ways not known to Greeks
• (nor do the Amazons or Colchian
barbarians revere you more than I)—
if I have never joined the Bacchic dance
or bands of nighttime revelers, although
I am polluted by a hated husband;
if I have never rubbed the Bacchic sta√
or spun soft wool; if in my heart I am
a hunter and unmarried and unwilling
• to hide my moral fault in secret caves,
then save my son, the child whom I disclosed,
the trembling boy I placed before your feet.
He showed that he was worthy of his blood
by crawling to, and calling for, my weapons
as soon as he had learned to weep and speak.
What do my trembling nights and dreams portend?
≤Σ∂ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
Let me see him victorious in the war
where bold vows and excessive trust in you
have led the boy. Or if I ask too much,
bring him back here and let him bear your weapons.
You must attend these dreadful signs of evil!
Why should the hostile Maenads and the Theban
deity rule our forest, Delian goddess?
Oh, me! if I’m an augur, let me be
ignorant of the future. Why should I
feel certain there’s an omen in the oak?
What if sleep sends me truthful messages?
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• By your maternal labors, mild Dictynna,
and by the honor of your brother, let
your arrows hit my grieving womb, and let
Parthenopaeus learn about my death
before I hear of his!’’ She spoke and saw
white-robed Diana’s altar moist with tears.
The fierce divinity left Atalanta
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stretched on her sacred threshold where she swept
the cold stones with her tresses while the goddess
flew through the stars then past Maenalian forests
to reach the walls of Cadmus by the road
that shines in heaven, the divine abode.
The goddess had reached halfway past the peaks
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of green Parnassus when she saw her brother.
Although his cloud shone brightly, he seemed cheerless.
He was returning from the Theban war,
sad and in mourning for his prophet’s death.
Then, earth had opened; now, the sun and moon
made heaven glow, a sacred confluence.
Their bows commingled, and their quivers echoed.
Apollo spoke first: ‘‘Sister, I’m aware
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you seek among Labdacian troops to find
a young Arcadian, one who overreaches!
His loving mother has petitioned you,
and I wish Fate would let us grant her wishes.
To my embarrassment, I saw the arms
and sacred chaplet of my prophet fall
BOOK Ω ≤ΣΣ
to Tartarus while he was facing me.
I could not stop his chariot or close
the gaping earth. Thus cruel, should I be worshiped?
You see my caves lament, my shrines fall silent—
the only gifts I gave my pious prophet.
Sister, desist from vain and mournful toil;
do not enlist assistance that must perish
.
The young man’s time is here; fate will not change;
your brother’s oracles do not deceive you.’’
The virgin was perplexed, and she replied,
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‘‘Should not this poor man’s end be glorious?
May not he seek the solace of hard death?
Whatever person of ill will shall stain
his right hand with this young man’s innocence,
should he escape my punishment? Should not
my arrows be permitted just revenge?’’
She spoke and moved her steps. She let her brother
take a small kiss, then sought infected Thebes.
–?–?–?–
After the double deaths, the fight grew cruel.
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Desire for vengeance moved both sides to fury.
Here was the squad of Hypseus—lines that lacked
their leader; there, deserted followers
of slain Hippomedon, who darkly murmured.
The straining bodies faced each other’s swords.
They yearned with similar insanity
to drink the others’ blood or pour their own.
They watched their cruel opponents face-to-face;
not one man would retreat a single pace.
Now swift Latona glided through the air
and stopped on Dirce’s heights. The hills saluted;
glades recognized the goddess, and they trembled,
for she once wearied bow and savage arrows
in killing Niobe and seven children.
A hunter unaccustomed to the fray—
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a horse that was enduring its first bridle—
≤ΣΠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
bore Parthenopaeus proudly through the squadrons
wrapped in a tiger’s double-colored hide
whose gilded talons tapped across his shoulders.
Its neck lay flat and knotted, and its mane
was chaste and bound, while on its breast there beat
a rural, crescent necklace—ivory teeth.
The young man wore a cloak, twice purple dyed,
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a tunic bright with gold, the only work
his mother ever wove. A slender sash
was wrapped around his waist, and he had slung
a shield from his left shoulder, where it hung.
His sword was much too heavy, but he loved
the gold pin with the polished clasp that tied
the hanging belt that circled his left side,
the sound his scabbard made, the trembling noise
he heard his quiver give, the helmet chains
that fell behind his head. He shook, for joy,
his glittering, jeweled helmet and his plumes,
but when his panting casque grew hot from fighting,
he do√ed it, and, bareheaded, let his locks
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shimmer with splendid rays that seemed to glow
and match his youthful cheeks, where no red down
had yet appeared: he mourned his beard’s delay
and was displeased to hear his features praised.
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He wore a stern expression on his face,
yet anger flattered him. It made him handsome.
Mindful that he was young, the Theban bands
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retreated and relaxed their bows, but he
pursued, despite their pity, and attacked.
His fearsome javelins and dust and sweat
won admiration from the nymphs of Sidon
along Teumesian summits; they admired
his prowess but breathed silent prayers and sighs.
A gentle sadness struck Diana’s heart
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as she observed this; teardrops stained her cheeks.
‘‘What means of cheating your approaching death
can I, your faithful goddess, find for you?
BOOK Ω ≤Σπ
Fierce and lamented boy, is this the war
you hurry to? Your strength is immature,
impatient, yet your spirit urges you
to seek a glorious death! Too narrow were
Maenalian forests for impulsive years
when you were young, my little one, although
without your mother you could not have moved
safely through caves of savage animals;
you hardly had the strength to bend a bow
or wield the weapons suited to a hunt,
and now your mother wearies my deaf doorposts
and sills, makes loud laments before my altars.
Happy to die, to leave a parent miserable,
you revel in war’s horns and calls to battle!’’
Diana did not want the boy to perish
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ingloriously, so she descended, wrapped
in red mist, to the battle, and she stole
his slender arrows from the bold boy’s back
and changed them for a set of heavenly shafts
that would not fail to wound when he attacked.
She sprayed his limbs with her ambrosial liquid
and drenched his horse so both might die unblemished.
She also murmured magic spells and charms
that Colchian women learn in secret caverns
where she instructs them in the power of herbs.
Pathenopaeus rode like dancing flames
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and shot his naked, undirected bow,
forgetful of his mother and his country,
and of himself. He put too great a trust
in his celestial weapons—like a lion
whose mother in Gaetulia delivers
freshly slain food to him when he is little,
but when he feels his neck produce a mane
and sees his new-grown claws, then he feels savage,
refuses to be fed and loves to roam
free in the open fields. He does not know
the path back to his cave. He can’t find home.
≤Σ∫ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
Whom did you slay with your Parrhasian bow,
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unbridled boy? Coroebus the Tanagrean.
Your arrow found the narrow path between
the margin of his target and his helmet.
His jaws poured blood, and sacred venom made
his face glow red with fire. More savagely,
Eurytion.With a three-pointed barb
a skillful arrow entered his left eye.
He pulled the shaft out with his fallen orb
and tried to charge its owner, but what weapons
are stronger than the weapons of the gods?
An arrow in his other eye, its twin,
left him in darkness, but from memory
he was still able to pursue the Thebans
until he tripped on Idas, who lay prostrate.
He groped among the bodies that had fallen
in savage fighting, and he begged his friends