The Aeneid (13 page)
“This was the hour when rest, that gift of the gods
most heaven-sent, first comes to beleaguered mortals,
creeping over us now . . . when there, look,
I dreamed I saw Prince Hector before my eyes,
my comrade haggard with sorrow, streaming tears,
just as he once was, when dragged behind the chariot,
black with blood and grime, thongs piercing his swollen feet—
what a harrowing sight! What a far cry from the old Hector
home from battle, decked in Achilles’ arms—his trophies—
or fresh from pitching Trojan fire at the Greek ships.
His beard matted now, his hair clotted with blood,
bearing the wounds, so many wounds he suffered
fighting round his native city’s walls . . .
I dreamed I addressed him first, in tears myself
I forced my voice from the depths of all my grief:
‘Oh light of the Trojans—last, best hope of Troy!
What’s held you back so long? How long we’ve waited,
Hector, for you to come, and now from what far shores?
How glad we are to see you, we battle-weary men,
after so many deaths, your people dead and gone,
after your citizens, your city felt such pain.
But what outrage has mutilated your face
so clear and cloudless once? Why these wounds?’
most heaven-sent, first comes to beleaguered mortals,
creeping over us now . . . when there, look,
I dreamed I saw Prince Hector before my eyes,
my comrade haggard with sorrow, streaming tears,
just as he once was, when dragged behind the chariot,
black with blood and grime, thongs piercing his swollen feet—
what a harrowing sight! What a far cry from the old Hector
home from battle, decked in Achilles’ arms—his trophies—
or fresh from pitching Trojan fire at the Greek ships.
His beard matted now, his hair clotted with blood,
bearing the wounds, so many wounds he suffered
fighting round his native city’s walls . . .
I dreamed I addressed him first, in tears myself
I forced my voice from the depths of all my grief:
‘Oh light of the Trojans—last, best hope of Troy!
What’s held you back so long? How long we’ve waited,
Hector, for you to come, and now from what far shores?
How glad we are to see you, we battle-weary men,
after so many deaths, your people dead and gone,
after your citizens, your city felt such pain.
But what outrage has mutilated your face
so clear and cloudless once? Why these wounds?’
“Wasting no words, no time on empty questions,
heaving a deep groan from his heart he calls out:
‘Escape, son of the goddess, tear yourself from the flames!
The enemy holds our walls. Troy is toppling from her heights.
You have paid your debt to our king and native land.
If one strong arm could have saved Troy, my arm
would have saved the city. Now, into your hands
she entrusts her holy things, her household gods.
Take them with you as comrades in your fortunes.
Seek a city for them, once you have roved the seas,
erect great walls at last to house the gods of Troy!’
heaving a deep groan from his heart he calls out:
‘Escape, son of the goddess, tear yourself from the flames!
The enemy holds our walls. Troy is toppling from her heights.
You have paid your debt to our king and native land.
If one strong arm could have saved Troy, my arm
would have saved the city. Now, into your hands
she entrusts her holy things, her household gods.
Take them with you as comrades in your fortunes.
Seek a city for them, once you have roved the seas,
erect great walls at last to house the gods of Troy!’
“Urging so, with his own hands he carries Vesta forth
from her inner shrine, her image clad in ribbons,
filled with her power, her everlasting fire.
“But now,
chaos—the city begins to reel with cries of grief,
louder, stronger, even though father’s palace
stood well back, screened off by trees, but still
the clash of arms rings clearer, horror on the attack.
I shake off sleep and scrambling up to the pitched roof
I stand there, ears alert, and I hear a roar like fire
assaulting a wheatfield, whipped by a Southwind’s fury,
or mountain torrent in full spate, flattening crops,
leveling all the happy, thriving labor of oxen,
dragging whole trees headlong down in its wake—
and a shepherd perched on a sheer rock outcrop
hears the roar, lost in amazement, struck dumb.
No doubting the good faith of the Greeks now,
their treachery plain as day.
“Already, there,
the grand house of Deiphobus stormed by fire,
crashing in ruins—
“Already his neighbor Ucalegon
up in flames—
“The Sigean straits shimmering back the blaze,
the shouting of fighters soars, the clashing blare of trumpets.
Out of my wits, I seize my arms—what reason for arms?
Just my spirit burning to muster troops for battle,
rush with comrades up to the city’s heights,
fury and rage driving me breakneck on
as it races through my mind
what a noble thing it is to die in arms!
“But now, look,
just slipped out from under the Greek barrage of spears,
Panthus, Othrys’ son, a priest of Apollo’s shrine
on the citadel—hands full of the holy things,
the images of our conquered gods—he’s dragging along
his little grandson, making a wild dash for our doors.
‘Panthus, where’s our stronghold? our last stand?’—
words still on my lips as he groans in answer:
‘The last
day
has come for the Trojan people,
no escaping this moment. Troy’s no more.
Ilium, gone—our awesome Trojan glory.
Brutal Jupiter hands it all over to Greece,
Greeks are lording over our city up in flames.
The horse stands towering high in the heart of Troy,
disgorging its armed men, with Sinon in his glory,
gloating over us—Sinon fans the fires.
The immense double gates are flung wide open,
Greeks in their thousands mass there, all who ever
sailed from proud Mycenae. Others have choked
the cramped streets, weapons brandished now
in a battle line of naked, glinting steel
tense for the kill. Only the first guards
at the gates put up some show of resistance,
fighting blindly on.’
from her inner shrine, her image clad in ribbons,
filled with her power, her everlasting fire.
“But now,
chaos—the city begins to reel with cries of grief,
louder, stronger, even though father’s palace
stood well back, screened off by trees, but still
the clash of arms rings clearer, horror on the attack.
I shake off sleep and scrambling up to the pitched roof
I stand there, ears alert, and I hear a roar like fire
assaulting a wheatfield, whipped by a Southwind’s fury,
or mountain torrent in full spate, flattening crops,
leveling all the happy, thriving labor of oxen,
dragging whole trees headlong down in its wake—
and a shepherd perched on a sheer rock outcrop
hears the roar, lost in amazement, struck dumb.
No doubting the good faith of the Greeks now,
their treachery plain as day.
“Already, there,
the grand house of Deiphobus stormed by fire,
crashing in ruins—
“Already his neighbor Ucalegon
up in flames—
“The Sigean straits shimmering back the blaze,
the shouting of fighters soars, the clashing blare of trumpets.
Out of my wits, I seize my arms—what reason for arms?
Just my spirit burning to muster troops for battle,
rush with comrades up to the city’s heights,
fury and rage driving me breakneck on
as it races through my mind
what a noble thing it is to die in arms!
“But now, look,
just slipped out from under the Greek barrage of spears,
Panthus, Othrys’ son, a priest of Apollo’s shrine
on the citadel—hands full of the holy things,
the images of our conquered gods—he’s dragging along
his little grandson, making a wild dash for our doors.
‘Panthus, where’s our stronghold? our last stand?’—
words still on my lips as he groans in answer:
‘The last
day
has come for the Trojan people,
no escaping this moment. Troy’s no more.
Ilium, gone—our awesome Trojan glory.
Brutal Jupiter hands it all over to Greece,
Greeks are lording over our city up in flames.
The horse stands towering high in the heart of Troy,
disgorging its armed men, with Sinon in his glory,
gloating over us—Sinon fans the fires.
The immense double gates are flung wide open,
Greeks in their thousands mass there, all who ever
sailed from proud Mycenae. Others have choked
the cramped streets, weapons brandished now
in a battle line of naked, glinting steel
tense for the kill. Only the first guards
at the gates put up some show of resistance,
fighting blindly on.’
“Spurred by Panthus’ words and the gods’ will,
into the blaze I dive, into the fray, wherever
the din of combat breaks and war cries fill the sky,
wherever the battle-fury drives me on and now
I’m joined by Rhipeus, Epytus mighty in armor,
rearing up in the moonlight—
Hypanis comes to my side, and Dymas too,
flanked by the young Coroebus, Mygdon’s son.
Late in the day he’d chanced to come to Troy
incensed with a mad, burning love for Cassandra:
son-in-law to our king,
he
would rescue Troy. Poor man,
if only he’d marked his bride’s inspired ravings!
into the blaze I dive, into the fray, wherever
the din of combat breaks and war cries fill the sky,
wherever the battle-fury drives me on and now
I’m joined by Rhipeus, Epytus mighty in armor,
rearing up in the moonlight—
Hypanis comes to my side, and Dymas too,
flanked by the young Coroebus, Mygdon’s son.
Late in the day he’d chanced to come to Troy
incensed with a mad, burning love for Cassandra:
son-in-law to our king,
he
would rescue Troy. Poor man,
if only he’d marked his bride’s inspired ravings!
“Seeing their close-packed ranks, hot for battle,
I spur them on their way: ‘Men, brave hearts,
though bravery cannot save us—if you’re bent on
following me and risking all to face the worst,
look around you, see how our chances stand.
The gods who shored our empire up have left us,
all have deserted their altars and their shrines.
You race to defend a city already lost in flames.
But let us die, go plunging into the thick of battle.
One hope saves the defeated: they know they can’t be saved!’
That fired their hearts with the fury of despair.
“Now
like a wolfpack out for blood on a foggy night,
driven blindly on by relentless, rabid hunger,
leaving cubs behind, waiting, jaws parched—
so through spears, through enemy ranks we plow
to certain death, striking into the city’s heart,
the shielding wings of the darkness beating round us.
Who has words to capture that night’s disaster,
tell that slaughter? What tears could match
our torments now? An ancient city is falling,
a power that ruled for ages, now in ruins.
Everywhere lie the motionless bodies of the dead,
strewn in her streets, her homes and the gods’ shrines
we held in awe. And not only Trojans pay the price in blood—
at times the courage races back in their conquered hearts
and they cut their enemies down in all their triumph.
Everywhere, wrenching grief, everywhere, terror
and a thousand shapes of death.
“And the first Greek
to cross our path? Androgeos leading a horde of troops
and taking
us
for allies on the march, the fool,
he even gives us a warm salute and calls out:
‘Hurry up, men. Why holding back, why now,
why drag your heels? Troy’s up in flames,
the rest are looting, sacking the city heights.
But you, have you just come from the tall ships?’
Suddenly, getting no password he can trust,
he sensed he’d stumbled into enemy ranks!
Stunned, he recoiled, swallowing back his words
like a man who threads his way through prickly brambles,
pressing his full weight on the ground, and blindly treads
on a lurking snake and back he shrinks in instant fear
as it rears in anger, puffs its blue-black neck.
Just so Androgeos, seeing us, cringes with fear,
recoiling, struggling to flee but we attack,
flinging a ring of steel around his cohorts—
panic takes the Greeks unsure of their ground
and we cut them all to pieces.
Fortune fills our sails in that first clash
and Coroebus, flushed, fired with such success,
exults: ‘Comrades, wherever Fortune points the way,
wherever the first road to safety leads, let’s soldier on.
Exchange shields with the Greeks and wear their emblems.
Call it cunning or courage: who would ask in war?
Our enemies will arm us to the hilt.’
“With that he dons
Androgeos’ crested helmet, his handsome blazoned shield
and straps a Greek sword to his hip, and comrades,
spirits rising, take his lead. Rhipeus, Dymas too
and our corps of young recruits—each fighter
arms himself in the loot that he just seized
and on we forge, blending in with the enemy,
battling time and again under strange gods,
fighting hand-to-hand in the blind dark
and many Greeks we send to the King of Death.
Some scatter back to their ships, making a run
for shore and safety. Others disgrace themselves,
so panicked they clamber back inside the monstrous horse,
burying into the womb they know so well.
“But, oh
how wrong to rely on gods dead set against you!
Watch: the virgin daughter of Priam, Cassandra,
torn from the sacred depths of Minerva’s shrine,
dragged by the hair, raising her burning eyes
to the heavens, just her eyes, so helpless,
shackles kept her from raising her gentle hands.
Coroebus could not bear the sight of it—mad with rage
he flung himself at the Greek lines and met his death.
Closing ranks we charge after him, into the thick of battle
and face our first disaster. Down from the temple roof
come showers of lances hurled by our own comrades there,
duped by the look of our Greek arms, our Greek crests
that launched this grisly slaughter. And worse still,
the Greeks roaring with anger—we had saved Cassandra—
attack us from all sides! Ajax, fiercest of all and
Atreus’ two sons and the whole Dolopian army,
wild as a rampaging whirlwind, gusts clashing,
the West- and the South- and Eastwind riding high
on the rushing horses of the Dawn, and the woods howl
and Nereus, thrashing his savage trident, churns up
the sea exploding in foam from its rocky depths.
And those Greeks we had put to rout, our ruse
in the murky night stampeding them headlong on
throughout the city—back they come, the first
to see that our shields and spears are naked lies,
to mark the words on our lips that jar with theirs.
In a flash, superior numbers overwhelm us.
Coroebus is first to go,
cut down by Peneleus’ right hand he sprawls
at Minerva’s shrine, the goddess, power of armies.
Rhipeus falls too, the most righteous man in Troy,
the most devoted to justice, true, but the gods
had other plans.
“Hypanis, Dymas die as well,
run through by their own men—
“And you, Panthus,
not all your piety, all the sacred bands you wore
as Apollo’s priest could save you as you fell.
Ashes of Ilium, last flames that engulfed my world—
I swear by you that in your last hour I never shrank
from the Greek spears, from any startling hazard of war—
if Fate had struck me down, my sword-arm earned it all.
Now we are swept away, Iphitus, Pelias with me,
one weighed down with age and the other slowed
by a wound Ulysses gave him—heading straight
for Priam’s palace, driven there by the outcries.
I spur them on their way: ‘Men, brave hearts,
though bravery cannot save us—if you’re bent on
following me and risking all to face the worst,
look around you, see how our chances stand.
The gods who shored our empire up have left us,
all have deserted their altars and their shrines.
You race to defend a city already lost in flames.
But let us die, go plunging into the thick of battle.
One hope saves the defeated: they know they can’t be saved!’
That fired their hearts with the fury of despair.
“Now
like a wolfpack out for blood on a foggy night,
driven blindly on by relentless, rabid hunger,
leaving cubs behind, waiting, jaws parched—
so through spears, through enemy ranks we plow
to certain death, striking into the city’s heart,
the shielding wings of the darkness beating round us.
Who has words to capture that night’s disaster,
tell that slaughter? What tears could match
our torments now? An ancient city is falling,
a power that ruled for ages, now in ruins.
Everywhere lie the motionless bodies of the dead,
strewn in her streets, her homes and the gods’ shrines
we held in awe. And not only Trojans pay the price in blood—
at times the courage races back in their conquered hearts
and they cut their enemies down in all their triumph.
Everywhere, wrenching grief, everywhere, terror
and a thousand shapes of death.
“And the first Greek
to cross our path? Androgeos leading a horde of troops
and taking
us
for allies on the march, the fool,
he even gives us a warm salute and calls out:
‘Hurry up, men. Why holding back, why now,
why drag your heels? Troy’s up in flames,
the rest are looting, sacking the city heights.
But you, have you just come from the tall ships?’
Suddenly, getting no password he can trust,
he sensed he’d stumbled into enemy ranks!
Stunned, he recoiled, swallowing back his words
like a man who threads his way through prickly brambles,
pressing his full weight on the ground, and blindly treads
on a lurking snake and back he shrinks in instant fear
as it rears in anger, puffs its blue-black neck.
Just so Androgeos, seeing us, cringes with fear,
recoiling, struggling to flee but we attack,
flinging a ring of steel around his cohorts—
panic takes the Greeks unsure of their ground
and we cut them all to pieces.
Fortune fills our sails in that first clash
and Coroebus, flushed, fired with such success,
exults: ‘Comrades, wherever Fortune points the way,
wherever the first road to safety leads, let’s soldier on.
Exchange shields with the Greeks and wear their emblems.
Call it cunning or courage: who would ask in war?
Our enemies will arm us to the hilt.’
“With that he dons
Androgeos’ crested helmet, his handsome blazoned shield
and straps a Greek sword to his hip, and comrades,
spirits rising, take his lead. Rhipeus, Dymas too
and our corps of young recruits—each fighter
arms himself in the loot that he just seized
and on we forge, blending in with the enemy,
battling time and again under strange gods,
fighting hand-to-hand in the blind dark
and many Greeks we send to the King of Death.
Some scatter back to their ships, making a run
for shore and safety. Others disgrace themselves,
so panicked they clamber back inside the monstrous horse,
burying into the womb they know so well.
“But, oh
how wrong to rely on gods dead set against you!
Watch: the virgin daughter of Priam, Cassandra,
torn from the sacred depths of Minerva’s shrine,
dragged by the hair, raising her burning eyes
to the heavens, just her eyes, so helpless,
shackles kept her from raising her gentle hands.
Coroebus could not bear the sight of it—mad with rage
he flung himself at the Greek lines and met his death.
Closing ranks we charge after him, into the thick of battle
and face our first disaster. Down from the temple roof
come showers of lances hurled by our own comrades there,
duped by the look of our Greek arms, our Greek crests
that launched this grisly slaughter. And worse still,
the Greeks roaring with anger—we had saved Cassandra—
attack us from all sides! Ajax, fiercest of all and
Atreus’ two sons and the whole Dolopian army,
wild as a rampaging whirlwind, gusts clashing,
the West- and the South- and Eastwind riding high
on the rushing horses of the Dawn, and the woods howl
and Nereus, thrashing his savage trident, churns up
the sea exploding in foam from its rocky depths.
And those Greeks we had put to rout, our ruse
in the murky night stampeding them headlong on
throughout the city—back they come, the first
to see that our shields and spears are naked lies,
to mark the words on our lips that jar with theirs.
In a flash, superior numbers overwhelm us.
Coroebus is first to go,
cut down by Peneleus’ right hand he sprawls
at Minerva’s shrine, the goddess, power of armies.
Rhipeus falls too, the most righteous man in Troy,
the most devoted to justice, true, but the gods
had other plans.
“Hypanis, Dymas die as well,
run through by their own men—
“And you, Panthus,
not all your piety, all the sacred bands you wore
as Apollo’s priest could save you as you fell.
Ashes of Ilium, last flames that engulfed my world—
I swear by you that in your last hour I never shrank
from the Greek spears, from any startling hazard of war—
if Fate had struck me down, my sword-arm earned it all.
Now we are swept away, Iphitus, Pelias with me,
one weighed down with age and the other slowed
by a wound Ulysses gave him—heading straight
for Priam’s palace, driven there by the outcries.
“And there, I tell you, a pitched battle flares!
You’d think no other battles could match its fury,
nowhere else in the city were people dying so.
Invincible Mars rears up to meet us face-to-face
with waves of Greeks assaulting the roofs, we see them
choking the gateway, under a tortoise-shell of shields,
and the scaling ladders cling to the steep ramparts—
just at the gates the raiders scramble up the rungs,
shields on their left arms thrust out for defense,
their right hands clutching the gables.
Over against them, Trojans ripping the tiles
and turrets from all their roofs—the end is near,
they can see it now, at the brink of death, desperate
for weapons, some defense, and these, these missiles they send
reeling down on the Greeks’ heads—the gilded beams,
the inlaid glory of all our ancient fathers.
Comrades below, posted in close-packed ranks,
block the entries, swordpoints drawn and poised.
My courage renewed, I rush to relieve the palace,
brace the defenders, bring the defeated strength.
You’d think no other battles could match its fury,
nowhere else in the city were people dying so.
Invincible Mars rears up to meet us face-to-face
with waves of Greeks assaulting the roofs, we see them
choking the gateway, under a tortoise-shell of shields,
and the scaling ladders cling to the steep ramparts—
just at the gates the raiders scramble up the rungs,
shields on their left arms thrust out for defense,
their right hands clutching the gables.
Over against them, Trojans ripping the tiles
and turrets from all their roofs—the end is near,
they can see it now, at the brink of death, desperate
for weapons, some defense, and these, these missiles they send
reeling down on the Greeks’ heads—the gilded beams,
the inlaid glory of all our ancient fathers.
Comrades below, posted in close-packed ranks,
block the entries, swordpoints drawn and poised.
My courage renewed, I rush to relieve the palace,
brace the defenders, bring the defeated strength.
“There was a secret door, a hidden passage
linking the wings of Priam’s house—remote,
far to the rear. Long as our realm still stood,
Andromache, poor woman, would often go this way,
unattended, to Hector’s parents, taking the boy
Astyanax by the hand to see grandfather Priam.
I slipped through the door, up to the jutting roof
where the doomed Trojans were hurling futile spears.
There was a tower soaring high at the peak toward the sky,
our favorite vantage point for surveying all of Troy
and the Greek fleet and camp. We attacked that tower
with iron crowbars, just where the upper-story planks
showed loosening joints—we rocked it, wrenched it free
of its deep moorings and all at once we heaved it toppling
down with a crash, trailing its wake of ruin to grind
the massed Greeks assaulting left and right. But on
came Greek reserves, no letup, the hail of rocks,
the missiles of every kind would never cease.
linking the wings of Priam’s house—remote,
far to the rear. Long as our realm still stood,
Andromache, poor woman, would often go this way,
unattended, to Hector’s parents, taking the boy
Astyanax by the hand to see grandfather Priam.
I slipped through the door, up to the jutting roof
where the doomed Trojans were hurling futile spears.
There was a tower soaring high at the peak toward the sky,
our favorite vantage point for surveying all of Troy
and the Greek fleet and camp. We attacked that tower
with iron crowbars, just where the upper-story planks
showed loosening joints—we rocked it, wrenched it free
of its deep moorings and all at once we heaved it toppling
down with a crash, trailing its wake of ruin to grind
the massed Greeks assaulting left and right. But on
came Greek reserves, no letup, the hail of rocks,
the missiles of every kind would never cease.
“There at the very edge of the front gates
springs Pyrrhus, son of Achilles, prancing in arms,
aflash in his shimmering brazen sheath like a snake
buried the whole winter long under frozen turf,
swollen to bursting, fed full on poisonous weeds
and now it springs into light, sloughing its old skin
to glisten sleek in its newfound youth, its back slithering,
coiling, its proud chest rearing high to the sun,
its triple tongue flickering through its fangs.
Backing him now comes Periphas, giant fighter,
Automedon too, Achilles’ henchman, charioteer
who bore the great man’s armor—backing Pyrrhus,
the young fighters from Scyros raid the palace,
hurling firebrands at the roofs. Out in the lead,
Pyrrhus seizes a double-axe and batters the rocky sill
and ripping the bronze posts out of their sockets,
hacking the rugged oaken planks of the doors,
makes a breach, a gaping maw, and there, exposed,
the heart of the house, the sweep of the colonnades,
the palace depths of the old kings and Priam lie exposed
and they see the armed sentries bracing at the portals.
springs Pyrrhus, son of Achilles, prancing in arms,
aflash in his shimmering brazen sheath like a snake
buried the whole winter long under frozen turf,
swollen to bursting, fed full on poisonous weeds
and now it springs into light, sloughing its old skin
to glisten sleek in its newfound youth, its back slithering,
coiling, its proud chest rearing high to the sun,
its triple tongue flickering through its fangs.
Backing him now comes Periphas, giant fighter,
Automedon too, Achilles’ henchman, charioteer
who bore the great man’s armor—backing Pyrrhus,
the young fighters from Scyros raid the palace,
hurling firebrands at the roofs. Out in the lead,
Pyrrhus seizes a double-axe and batters the rocky sill
and ripping the bronze posts out of their sockets,
hacking the rugged oaken planks of the doors,
makes a breach, a gaping maw, and there, exposed,
the heart of the house, the sweep of the colonnades,
the palace depths of the old kings and Priam lie exposed
and they see the armed sentries bracing at the portals.
“But all in the house is turmoil, misery, groans,
the echoing chambers ring with cries of women,
wails of mourning hit the golden stars.
Mothers scatter in panic down the palace halls
and embrace the pillars, cling to them, kiss them hard.
But on he comes, Pyrrhus with all his father’s force,
no bolts, not even the guards can hold him back—
under the ram’s repeated blows the doors cave in,
the doorposts, prised from their sockets, crash flat.
Force makes a breach and the Greeks come storming through,
butcher the sentries, flood the entire place with men-at-arms.
No river so wild, so frothing in spate, bursting its banks
to overpower the dikes, anything in its way, its cresting
tides stampeding in fury down on the fields to sweep
the flocks and stalls across the open plain.
I saw him myself, Pyrrhus crazed with carnage
and Atreus’ two sons just at the threshold—
“I saw
Hecuba with her hundred daughters and daughters-in-law,
saw Priam fouling with blood the altar fires
he himself had blessed.
“Those fifty bridal-chambers
filled with the hope of children’s children still to come,
the pillars proud with trophies, gilded with Eastern gold,
they all come tumbling down—
and the Greeks hold what the raging fire spares.
the echoing chambers ring with cries of women,
wails of mourning hit the golden stars.
Mothers scatter in panic down the palace halls
and embrace the pillars, cling to them, kiss them hard.
But on he comes, Pyrrhus with all his father’s force,
no bolts, not even the guards can hold him back—
under the ram’s repeated blows the doors cave in,
the doorposts, prised from their sockets, crash flat.
Force makes a breach and the Greeks come storming through,
butcher the sentries, flood the entire place with men-at-arms.
No river so wild, so frothing in spate, bursting its banks
to overpower the dikes, anything in its way, its cresting
tides stampeding in fury down on the fields to sweep
the flocks and stalls across the open plain.
I saw him myself, Pyrrhus crazed with carnage
and Atreus’ two sons just at the threshold—
“I saw
Hecuba with her hundred daughters and daughters-in-law,
saw Priam fouling with blood the altar fires
he himself had blessed.
“Those fifty bridal-chambers
filled with the hope of children’s children still to come,
the pillars proud with trophies, gilded with Eastern gold,
they all come tumbling down—
and the Greeks hold what the raging fire spares.
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