The Thebaid
Page 44
among you, give the boy a little fire
and a small bit of dust. His look implores,
implores you as he lies there. I will sate
the evil birds. Expose me to the beasts:
I was the one who made him go to war.’’
Amphion answered, ‘‘You who so desired
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to bury your commander, tell us what
the cowardly Pelasgians plan to do:
≤∫≠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
they seem inactive and dispirited.
Reveal their plans and I will give you life
and guarantee your leader his last rites.’’
Dymas was horrified. He thrust his sword
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through his own heart. ‘‘Was this dishonor missing
among the Argive’s sorrows, that I turn
traitor? I will not pay that price, nor would
this young man want entombment on such terms.’’
He spoke. He tore a large gash through his chest,
fell on the boy, and with his last gasp cried:
‘‘You shall be buried underneath my body.’’
Thus the illustrious Arcadian
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and that Aetolian of equal merit,
who clung to those commanders whom they loved,
exhaled their famous souls and cherished death.
• You will be long remembered, though the song
that rises from my lyre be not as strong
as Virgil’s. Possibly Euryalus
will not disdain to welcome you among
the shades, nor Phrygian Nisus share his glory.
–?–?–?–
Fearsome Amphion sent some messengers
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to bring the captive corpses to his king
and tell Eteocles what he had done.
He had the severed heads upraised
to mock and show the Argives his defiance.
At the same time, those on the Grecian walls
453
could see Thiodamas as he returned,
and they did not conceal their joyous pride.
They could discern men’s sword blades—still unsheathed—
and see their armor glow from recent killing.
A new and greater roar leaped through the air
as soldiers strained and hung along stockades
to recognize companions, like a flock
of newborn baby birds who see their mother
BOOK ∞≠ ≤∫∞
returning in the distance through the air:
they gape and want to meet her; they hang from
the margins of their nest, and they would fall
if she did not forestall them with her breast
and stop them with her fluttering, soft wings.
While the night’s deeds, the quiet work of Mars,
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was subject to discussion, and men seized
their relatives in glad embraces, they
asked after Hopleus, looked for tardy Dymas.
Just then Amphion with his Dircean soldiers
came near the camp, and he was much displeased.
The earth was fevered from the recent slaughter;
the massacre had mounded heaps of soldiers.
He shook as if a lightning bolt had struck him;
he shuddered, could not speak, felt blind, lost strength,
and wheeled his steed around as he lamented.
A cloud of dust upswirled as his troops fled.
They had not yet enclosed themselves in Thebes
474
when swarms of Argive cohorts took the field.
Spurred by the night’s success, they ran their wheels
over the limbs and steel of fallen men,
half-living gore in one foul-smelling heap.
Rivers of blood impeded chariots
as heavy horse hooves trampled broken bodies.
The troops thought this road sweet since they believed
they breeched Sidonian roofs, the blood of Thebes.
‘‘Pelasgians!’’ urged Capaneus now,
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‘‘your prowess has been hidden far too long!
Because I can be seen, my victory
will give some satisfaction. Forward, men!
Raise up the dust and shout your battle cries.
Attack them in the open. My right hand
is ominous; my fierce, drawn sword prophetic!’’
He shouted, and Adrastus was on fire,
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as eager as his Theban son-in-law.
Thiodamas, the brooding prophet, followed.
≤∫≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
Argives approached the walls, just as Amphion
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was narrating the story of the slaughter.
They would have entered the despairing city
if Megareus had not responded quickly
and called down from his watchtower, ‘‘Sentinel,
the enemy is coming; close the portals!’’
Sometimes excessive fear gives strength. The doors
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shut quickly, but Echion moved too late
to bar Ogyges. Spartans stormed the gate.
The first to fall upon the threshold were
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Panopeus, dweller in Laconia’s hills;
and Oebalus, who swam the harsh Eurotas;
and you, Alcidamas, the marvel of
every gymnasium, who recently
had won the Nemean games, whose strong hands Pollux
first fastened with lead-weighted leather gloves.
You saw your master’s bright orb as you died,
just as the god allowed his star to hide.
You will be mourned by the Oebalian groves,
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the slick banks of the Spartan maiden, Leda,
and waters where her false swan made his song.
The Amyclaean nymphs of Trivia
will grieve, as will your mother, who will mourn
because you learned too well the manly arts
and laws of war in which you were instructed.
Such was the battle at the gate of Thebes.
Then Acron, leaning with his shoulders, and
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Ialmenides, who pushed with all his weight,
forced closed the heavy portal barred with bronze,
just as a pair of oxen bend their necks
• to break Pangaea’s long unfurrowed slopes.
The losses of their e√ort matched their gains
since they excluded Thebans but retained
some of the enemy: inside the walls
the Greek Ormenus fell; Amyntor stretched
his upturned hands and begged, but words and head
fell on the hostile earth, as did his necklace.
BOOK ∞≠ ≤∫≥
The Argives smashed the palisades, where guards
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were powerless to stop them, and the first
cohorts of infantry approached the walls.
The horses of the cavalry, however,
refused to leap the broad expanse of ditch;
they stalled and shook before that deep abyss
and wondered why their riders pressed them forward.
Their riders urged them to the outer verge
but could not force reluctant chargers further.
Meanwhile some men ripped ramparts from the ground
while others chopped apart the gates’ defenses
and heated iron bolts to make them soft.
They drove out stones with rams and ringing bronze,
rejoiced when torches landed on the roofs,
• and delved below the walls where, under turtles,
they undermined the bases of Thebes’ turrets.
Tyrians thronged the towers on the walls,
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their only means of safety, and they hurled
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burned firebrands and steel-bright javelins,
lead missiles that caught fire as they flew,
and stones, torn from the ramparts, at their foes.
The rooftops sent a shower of savage rain.
Barred windows spit out streams of screaming arrows.
• It was as when the clouds that top Malea
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• or high Ceraunia, which long lie still,
unmoving on the shadows of the hills,
leap down and batter ships with sudden storms.
In this way was the Argive army swamped
by Agenorean defenses, but
the deadly rain made no man turn around.
They did not look to die, yet they directed
their faces to the walls and aimed their weapons.
The heavy stroke of an Ogygian spear
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struck Antheus as he drove his chariot,
armored with scythes, around the walls of Thebes.
His reins dropped from his hands, and he fell back;
his half-dead body dangled by his greaves—
≤∫∂ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
one of the awful spectacles of war.
His armor dragged; his spear and smoking wheels
plowed three ruts in the earth; his head was jerked
from side to side and raised long plumes of dust;
his trailing tresses swept an ample path.
–?–?–?–
The frightening pulse of trumpets rang through town;
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barred doors could not keep out these fearful sounds.
Entrances were divided. In each threshold
a savage standard signaled joy or harm.
Inside, the sight was bleak, and Mars himself
would not rejoice to see it. Mourning, Madness,
Anxiety, and Cringing, wrapped in shadows,
brought horrible insanity within
the self-divided and distracted city.
You can be sure the war had entered town:
the rooftops were alive with running people;
loud cries were intermingling in the streets;
the citizens imagined swords and flames
and in their minds accepted slavery’s chains.
They gave up hope; they crowded homes and temples;
they mourned and grouped around ungrateful altars.
All ages felt one fear inside the city;
old people prayed for death; the young turned pale
or burned with ardor. Ringing atria
echoed the sounds of women’s lamentations.
The children wept, in shock; they did not know
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why they were crying, but they felt the fright
arising from their mothers’ mournful cries.
Love drove the women to be unashamed—
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in this extremity—of public work,
to arm their men, enflame them, give them courage,
exhort them, even join them as they mustered,
nor did they cease to point out little children
or their ancestral doorways while they wept,
like bees in caverns of volcanic stone
BOOK ∞≠ ≤∫Σ
who, armed with stings, resound (a nasty cloud)
and urge each other on by murmuring
and flying in the face of their opponent:
a herdsman who disturbs them when he steals.
Their weary wings soon clasp their golden home
and mourn its captured honey as they press
the combs they have constructed to their chests.
The judgment of the people was divided,
580
and no one tried to hide discordant views:
some said to let the brother have his realm—
nor did they whisper, but spoke openly,
in loud mobs—they would give it to the brother!
Terror caused loss of reverence for the king.
‘‘Let us permit the exile to complete
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the yearly term agreed upon, to see
his Cadmean home, to feel pain when he greets
the shadows where his father dwells. Indeed,
why should my blood atone for this deceit,
the crimes and lies of our injurious king?’’
But others said, ‘‘It is too late for trust.
Now Polynices wants to conquer us!’’
Others approached Tiresias in a group
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of weeping suppliants and begged to know
the future: they sought comfort for their grief.
He would not tell them heaven’s destiny,
but kept it hidden. ‘‘Do you come to me
because our ruler asked me for advice,
despite my admonition, when I counseled
against the warfare his bad faith has caused?
Nevertheless,’’ he says, ‘‘unhappy Thebes,
if I am silent, you will be destroyed!
I am a wretched man. I cannot bear
to listen to your fall or let the flames
the Argives kindle scorch my empty eyes.
Piety overwhelms me. Daughter, pile
the altar; let us find the will of heaven.’’
≤∫Π STATIUS, THE THEBAID
His daughter Manto did; with practiced eyes
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she taught her father; she described twin flames,
two peaks of blood-red fires on the altar.
Between them burned a high, translucent blaze,
and then a double upsurge formed a serpent,
a ghostly image carved against the redness
that o√ered meaning to her father’s darkness
and answered his uncertainties at once.
He held his arms around the rings of flame;
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his glowing face absorbed prophetic vapors;
his hair stood sti√ with horror; his wild locks
lifted his trembling fillets. You would think
his eyes’ lost glow restored, his sight renewed.
He finally gave expression to his frenzy:
‘‘Attend, polluted sons of Labdacus!
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The gods demand the greatest sacrifice.
Salvation comes, but on a stony path.
The dragon that belongs to Mars demands
propitiation, fearsome recompense.
The youngest member of the serpent’s seed
must fall to guarantee our victory.
Blessed is he who dies for this reward.’’
Creon was standing at the savage altar
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beside the prudent prophet. He lamented
his homeland’s public destiny, but he
was startled by this sudden stroke, no less
than if a twisting spear had pierced his chest.
He listened and he knew Tiresias
called for Menoeceus, his son. His fear
persuaded him; the anxious father stood,