The Aeneid (21 page)
Then, terrified by the sudden phantom,
Aeneas, wrenching himself from sleep, leaps up
and rouses his crews and spurs them headlong on:
“Quick! Up and at it, shipmates, man the thwarts!
Spread canvas fast! A god’s come down from the sky
once more—I’ve just seen him—urging us on
to sever our mooring cables, sail at once!
We follow you, blessed god, whoever you are—
glad at heart we obey your commands once more.
Now help us, stand beside us with all your kindness,
bring us favoring stars in the sky to blaze our way!”
Aeneas, wrenching himself from sleep, leaps up
and rouses his crews and spurs them headlong on:
“Quick! Up and at it, shipmates, man the thwarts!
Spread canvas fast! A god’s come down from the sky
once more—I’ve just seen him—urging us on
to sever our mooring cables, sail at once!
We follow you, blessed god, whoever you are—
glad at heart we obey your commands once more.
Now help us, stand beside us with all your kindness,
bring us favoring stars in the sky to blaze our way!”
Tearing sword from sheath like a lightning flash,
he hacks the mooring lines with a naked blade.
Gripped by the same desire, all hands pitch in,
they hoist and haul. The shore’s deserted now,
the water’s hidden under the fleet—they bend to it,
churn the spray and sweep the clear blue sea.
By now
early Dawn had risen up from the saffron bed
of Tithonus, scattering fresh light on the world.
But the queen from her high tower, catching sight
of the morning’s white glare, the armada heading out
to sea with sails trimmed to the wind, and certain
the shore and port were empty, stripped of oarsmen—
three, four times over she beat her lovely breast,
she ripped at her golden hair and “Oh, by God,”
she cries, “will the stranger just sail off
and make a mockery of our realm? Will no one
rush to arms, come streaming out of the whole city,
hunt him down, race to the docks and launch the ships?
Go, quick—bring fire!
Hand out weapons!
Bend to the oars!
What am I saying? Where am I? What insanity’s this
that shifts my fixed resolve? Dido, oh poor fool,
is it only
now
your wicked work strikes home?
It should have then, when you offered him your scepter.
Look at his hand clasp, look at his good faith now—
that man who, they say, carries his fathers’ gods,
who stooped to shoulder his father bent with age!
Couldn’t I have seized him then, ripped him to pieces,
scattered them in the sea? Or slashed his men with steel,
butchered Ascanius, served him up as his father’s feast?
True, the luck of battle might have been at risk—
well, risk away! Whom did I have to fear?
I was about to die. I should have torched their camp
and flooded their decks with fire. The son, the father,
the whole Trojan line—I should have wiped them out,
then hurled myself on the pyre to crown it all!
he hacks the mooring lines with a naked blade.
Gripped by the same desire, all hands pitch in,
they hoist and haul. The shore’s deserted now,
the water’s hidden under the fleet—they bend to it,
churn the spray and sweep the clear blue sea.
By now
early Dawn had risen up from the saffron bed
of Tithonus, scattering fresh light on the world.
But the queen from her high tower, catching sight
of the morning’s white glare, the armada heading out
to sea with sails trimmed to the wind, and certain
the shore and port were empty, stripped of oarsmen—
three, four times over she beat her lovely breast,
she ripped at her golden hair and “Oh, by God,”
she cries, “will the stranger just sail off
and make a mockery of our realm? Will no one
rush to arms, come streaming out of the whole city,
hunt him down, race to the docks and launch the ships?
Go, quick—bring fire!
Hand out weapons!
Bend to the oars!
What am I saying? Where am I? What insanity’s this
that shifts my fixed resolve? Dido, oh poor fool,
is it only
now
your wicked work strikes home?
It should have then, when you offered him your scepter.
Look at his hand clasp, look at his good faith now—
that man who, they say, carries his fathers’ gods,
who stooped to shoulder his father bent with age!
Couldn’t I have seized him then, ripped him to pieces,
scattered them in the sea? Or slashed his men with steel,
butchered Ascanius, served him up as his father’s feast?
True, the luck of battle might have been at risk—
well, risk away! Whom did I have to fear?
I was about to die. I should have torched their camp
and flooded their decks with fire. The son, the father,
the whole Trojan line—I should have wiped them out,
then hurled myself on the pyre to crown it all!
“You, Sun, whose fires scan all works of the earth,
and you, Juno, the witness, midwife to my agonies—
Hecate greeted by nightly shrieks at city crossroads—
and you, you avenging Furies and gods of dying Dido!
Hear me, turn your power my way, attend my sorrows—
I deserve your mercy—hear my prayers! If that curse
of the earth must reach his haven, labor on to landfall—
if Jove and the Fates command and the boundary stone is fixed,
still, let him be plagued in war by a nation proud in arms,
torn from his borders, wrenched from Iulus’ embrace,
let him grovel for help and watch his people die
a shameful death! And then, once he has bowed down
to an unjust peace, may he never enjoy his realm
and the light he yearns for, never, let him die
before his day, unburied on some desolate beach!
and you, Juno, the witness, midwife to my agonies—
Hecate greeted by nightly shrieks at city crossroads—
and you, you avenging Furies and gods of dying Dido!
Hear me, turn your power my way, attend my sorrows—
I deserve your mercy—hear my prayers! If that curse
of the earth must reach his haven, labor on to landfall—
if Jove and the Fates command and the boundary stone is fixed,
still, let him be plagued in war by a nation proud in arms,
torn from his borders, wrenched from Iulus’ embrace,
let him grovel for help and watch his people die
a shameful death! And then, once he has bowed down
to an unjust peace, may he never enjoy his realm
and the light he yearns for, never, let him die
before his day, unburied on some desolate beach!
“That is my prayer, my final cry—I pour it out
with my own lifeblood. And you, my Tyrians,
harry with hatred all his line, his race to come:
make that offering to my ashes, send it down below.
No love between our peoples, ever, no pacts of peace!
Come rising up from my bones, you avenger still unknown,
to stalk those Trojan settlers, hunt with fire and iron,
now or in time to come, whenever the power is yours.
Shore clash with shore, sea against sea and sword
against sword—this is my curse—war between all
our peoples, all their children, endless war!”
with my own lifeblood. And you, my Tyrians,
harry with hatred all his line, his race to come:
make that offering to my ashes, send it down below.
No love between our peoples, ever, no pacts of peace!
Come rising up from my bones, you avenger still unknown,
to stalk those Trojan settlers, hunt with fire and iron,
now or in time to come, whenever the power is yours.
Shore clash with shore, sea against sea and sword
against sword—this is my curse—war between all
our peoples, all their children, endless war!”
With that, her mind went veering back and forth—
what was the quickest way to break off from the light,
the life she loathed? And so with a few words
she turned to Barce, Sychaeus’ old nurse—her own
was now black ashes deep in her homeland lost forever:
“Dear old nurse, send Anna my sister to me here.
Tell her to hurry, sprinkle herself with river water,
bring the victims marked for the sacrifice I must make.
So let her come. And wrap your brow with the holy bands.
These rites to Jove of the Styx that I have set in motion,
I yearn to consummate them, end the pain of love,
give that cursed Trojan’s pyre to the flames.”
The nurse bustled off with an old crone’s zeal.
But Dido,
trembling, desperate now with the monstrous thing afoot—
her bloodshot eyes rolling, quivering cheeks blotched
and pale with imminent death—goes bursting through
the doors to the inner courtyard, clambers in frenzy
up the soaring pyre and unsheathes a sword, a Trojan sword
she once sought as a gift, but not for such an end.
And next, catching sight of the Trojan’s clothes
and the bed they knew by heart, delaying a moment
for tears, for memory’s sake, the queen lay down
and spoke her final words: “Oh, dear relics,
dear as long as Fate and the gods allowed,
receive my spirit and set me free of pain.
I have lived a life. I’ve journeyed through
the course that Fortune charted for me. And now
I pass to the world below, my ghost in all its glory.
I have founded a noble city, seen my ramparts rise.
I have avenged my husband, punished my blood-brother,
our mortal foe. Happy, all too happy I would have been
if only the Trojan keels had never grazed our coast.”
She presses her face in the bed and cries out:
“I shall die unavenged, but die I will! So—
so—I rejoice to make my way among the shades.
And may that heartless Dardan, far at sea,
drink down deep the sight of our fires here
and bear with him this omen of our death!”
what was the quickest way to break off from the light,
the life she loathed? And so with a few words
she turned to Barce, Sychaeus’ old nurse—her own
was now black ashes deep in her homeland lost forever:
“Dear old nurse, send Anna my sister to me here.
Tell her to hurry, sprinkle herself with river water,
bring the victims marked for the sacrifice I must make.
So let her come. And wrap your brow with the holy bands.
These rites to Jove of the Styx that I have set in motion,
I yearn to consummate them, end the pain of love,
give that cursed Trojan’s pyre to the flames.”
The nurse bustled off with an old crone’s zeal.
But Dido,
trembling, desperate now with the monstrous thing afoot—
her bloodshot eyes rolling, quivering cheeks blotched
and pale with imminent death—goes bursting through
the doors to the inner courtyard, clambers in frenzy
up the soaring pyre and unsheathes a sword, a Trojan sword
she once sought as a gift, but not for such an end.
And next, catching sight of the Trojan’s clothes
and the bed they knew by heart, delaying a moment
for tears, for memory’s sake, the queen lay down
and spoke her final words: “Oh, dear relics,
dear as long as Fate and the gods allowed,
receive my spirit and set me free of pain.
I have lived a life. I’ve journeyed through
the course that Fortune charted for me. And now
I pass to the world below, my ghost in all its glory.
I have founded a noble city, seen my ramparts rise.
I have avenged my husband, punished my blood-brother,
our mortal foe. Happy, all too happy I would have been
if only the Trojan keels had never grazed our coast.”
She presses her face in the bed and cries out:
“I shall die unavenged, but die I will! So—
so—I rejoice to make my way among the shades.
And may that heartless Dardan, far at sea,
drink down deep the sight of our fires here
and bear with him this omen of our death!”
All at once, in the midst of her last words,
her women see her doubled over the sword, the blood
foaming over the blade, her hands splattered red.
A scream goes stabbing up to the high roofs,
Rumor raves like a Maenad through the shocked city—
sobs, and grief, and the wails of women ringing out
through homes, and the heavens echo back the keening din—
for all the world as if enemies stormed the walls
and all of Carthage or old Tyre were toppling down
and flames in their fury, wave on mounting wave
were billowing over the roofs of men and gods.
her women see her doubled over the sword, the blood
foaming over the blade, her hands splattered red.
A scream goes stabbing up to the high roofs,
Rumor raves like a Maenad through the shocked city—
sobs, and grief, and the wails of women ringing out
through homes, and the heavens echo back the keening din—
for all the world as if enemies stormed the walls
and all of Carthage or old Tyre were toppling down
and flames in their fury, wave on mounting wave
were billowing over the roofs of men and gods.
Anna heard and, stunned, breathless with terror,
raced through the crowd, her nails clawing her face,
fists beating her breast, crying out to her sister now
at the edge of death: “Was it all for
this
, my sister?
You deceived me all along? Is this what your pyre
meant for me—this, your fires—this, your altars?
You deserted me—what shall I grieve for first?
Your friend, your sister, you scorn me now in death?
You should have called me on to the same fate.
The same agony, same sword, the one same hour
had borne us off together. Just to think I built
your pyre with my own hands, implored our fathers’ gods
with my own voice, only to be cut off from you—
how very cruel—when you lay down to die . . .
You have destroyed your life, my sister, mine too,
your people, the lords of Sidon and your new city here.
Please, help me to bathe her wounds in water now,
and if any last, lingering breath still hovers,
let me catch it on my lips.”
With those words
she had climbed the pyre’s topmost steps and now,
clasping her dying sister to her breast, fondling her
she sobbed, stanching the dark blood with her own gown.
Dido, trying to raise her heavy eyes once more, failed—
deep in her heart the wound kept rasping, hissing on.
Three times she tried to struggle up on an elbow,
three times she fell back, writhing on her bed.
Her gaze wavering into the high skies, she looked
for a ray of light and when she glimpsed it, moaned.
raced through the crowd, her nails clawing her face,
fists beating her breast, crying out to her sister now
at the edge of death: “Was it all for
this
, my sister?
You deceived me all along? Is this what your pyre
meant for me—this, your fires—this, your altars?
You deserted me—what shall I grieve for first?
Your friend, your sister, you scorn me now in death?
You should have called me on to the same fate.
The same agony, same sword, the one same hour
had borne us off together. Just to think I built
your pyre with my own hands, implored our fathers’ gods
with my own voice, only to be cut off from you—
how very cruel—when you lay down to die . . .
You have destroyed your life, my sister, mine too,
your people, the lords of Sidon and your new city here.
Please, help me to bathe her wounds in water now,
and if any last, lingering breath still hovers,
let me catch it on my lips.”
With those words
she had climbed the pyre’s topmost steps and now,
clasping her dying sister to her breast, fondling her
she sobbed, stanching the dark blood with her own gown.
Dido, trying to raise her heavy eyes once more, failed—
deep in her heart the wound kept rasping, hissing on.
Three times she tried to struggle up on an elbow,
three times she fell back, writhing on her bed.
Her gaze wavering into the high skies, she looked
for a ray of light and when she glimpsed it, moaned.
Then Juno in all her power, filled with pity
for Dido’s agonizing death, her labor long and hard,
sped Iris down from Olympus to release her spirit
wrestling now in a deathlock with her limbs.
Since she was dying a death not fated or deserved,
no, tormented, before her day, in a blaze of passion—
Proserpina had yet to pluck a golden lock from her head
and commit her life to the Styx and the dark world below.
So Iris, glistening dew, comes skimming down from the sky
on gilded wings, trailing showers of iridescence shimmering
into the sun, and hovering over Dido’s head, declares:
“So commanded, I take this lock as a sacred gift
to the God of Death, and I release you from your body.”
for Dido’s agonizing death, her labor long and hard,
sped Iris down from Olympus to release her spirit
wrestling now in a deathlock with her limbs.
Since she was dying a death not fated or deserved,
no, tormented, before her day, in a blaze of passion—
Proserpina had yet to pluck a golden lock from her head
and commit her life to the Styx and the dark world below.
So Iris, glistening dew, comes skimming down from the sky
on gilded wings, trailing showers of iridescence shimmering
into the sun, and hovering over Dido’s head, declares:
“So commanded, I take this lock as a sacred gift
to the God of Death, and I release you from your body.”
With that, she cut the lock with her hand and all at once
the warmth slipped away, the life dissolved in the winds.
the warmth slipped away, the life dissolved in the winds.
BOOK FIVE
Funeral Games for Anchises
All the while Aeneas, steeled for a mid-sea passage,
held the fleet on course, well on their way now,
plowing the waves blown dark by a Northwind
as he glanced back at the walls of Carthage
set aglow by the fires of tragic Dido’s pyre.
What could light such a conflagration? A mystery—
but the Trojans know the pains of a great love
defiled, and the lengths a woman driven mad can go,
and it leads their hearts down ways of grim foreboding.
held the fleet on course, well on their way now,
plowing the waves blown dark by a Northwind
as he glanced back at the walls of Carthage
set aglow by the fires of tragic Dido’s pyre.
What could light such a conflagration? A mystery—
but the Trojans know the pains of a great love
defiled, and the lengths a woman driven mad can go,
and it leads their hearts down ways of grim foreboding.
Once they had reached the high seas, no land in sight,
no longer—water at all points, at all points the sky—
looming over their heads a pitch-dark thunderhead
brought on night and storm, ruffling the swells black.
Even the pilot Palinurus, high astern at his station,
cries out: “Why such cloudbanks wrapped around the sky?
Father Neptune, what are you whipping up for us now?”
And with that he issues orders:
“Trim your sails!
Bend to your sturdy oars!”—
and setting canvas
aslant to work the wind, he calls out to his captain:
“Great-hearted Aeneas, no, not even if Jove himself
would pledge me with all his power, could I dream
of reaching Italy under skies like these.
The wind’s shifted, surging athwart our beam,
roaring out of the black West, building into clouds!
There’s no fighting it, no making way against it,
we’re too weak. Since Fortune’s got the upper hand,
let’s follow her where she calls and change course.
No long way off, I think, there are friendly shores,
the coast of your brother Eryx, Sicily’s havens,
if I remember rightly and take our bearings
back by the stars I marked when we set out.”
no longer—water at all points, at all points the sky—
looming over their heads a pitch-dark thunderhead
brought on night and storm, ruffling the swells black.
Even the pilot Palinurus, high astern at his station,
cries out: “Why such cloudbanks wrapped around the sky?
Father Neptune, what are you whipping up for us now?”
And with that he issues orders:
“Trim your sails!
Bend to your sturdy oars!”—
and setting canvas
aslant to work the wind, he calls out to his captain:
“Great-hearted Aeneas, no, not even if Jove himself
would pledge me with all his power, could I dream
of reaching Italy under skies like these.
The wind’s shifted, surging athwart our beam,
roaring out of the black West, building into clouds!
There’s no fighting it, no making way against it,
we’re too weak. Since Fortune’s got the upper hand,
let’s follow her where she calls and change course.
No long way off, I think, there are friendly shores,
the coast of your brother Eryx, Sicily’s havens,
if I remember rightly and take our bearings
back by the stars I marked when we set out.”
“That’s what the wind demands,” says good Aeneas.
“For long I’ve watched you trying to fight against it,
all for nothing. Shorten sail, change course. What land
could please me more, and where would I rather beach
our battered ships than Sicily? Home that harbors
my Dardan friend Acestes, earth that holds
my father Anchises’ bones.”
At that, they head for port
and a following Westwind bellies out their sails.
The fleet goes skimming over the whitecaps now,
the men rejoicing to wheel their prows around
to a coast they know, at last.
But far away,
high on a mountain lookout, quite amazed to see
the fleet of his old friends coming in, Acestes
rushes down to meet them there—a wild figure
bristling spears and a Libyan she-bear’s hide.
Born of a Trojan mother to the river-god Crinisus,
Acestes, never forgetting his age-old lineage,
gladly welcomes his Trojan friends’ return.
He warms them in with treasures of the field,
he cheers the exhausted men with generous care.
And next,
once day broke in the East and put the stars to flight,
Aeneas summons his crews from down along the beach
and greets them all from a mounded rise of ground:
“Gallant sons of Dardanus, born of the gods’ high blood,
the wheeling year has passed, rounding out its months,
since we committed to earth my godlike father’s bones,
his relics, and sanctified the altars with our tears.
The day has returned, if I am not mistaken, the day
always harsh to my heart, I’ll always hold in honor.
So you gods have willed. Were I passing the hours,
an exile lost in the swirling sands of Carthage
or caught in Greek seas, imprisoned in Mycenae,
I would still perform my anniversary vows,
carry out our processions grand and grave
and heap the altars high with fitting gifts.
But now, beyond our dreams, here we stand
by the very bones and ashes of my father—not,
I know, without the plan and power of the gods—
borne by the seas we’ve reached this friendly haven.
So come, all of us celebrate our happy, buoyant rites!
Pray for fair winds! And may it please my father,
once my city is built with temples in his name,
that I offer him these rites year in, year out.
“For long I’ve watched you trying to fight against it,
all for nothing. Shorten sail, change course. What land
could please me more, and where would I rather beach
our battered ships than Sicily? Home that harbors
my Dardan friend Acestes, earth that holds
my father Anchises’ bones.”
At that, they head for port
and a following Westwind bellies out their sails.
The fleet goes skimming over the whitecaps now,
the men rejoicing to wheel their prows around
to a coast they know, at last.
But far away,
high on a mountain lookout, quite amazed to see
the fleet of his old friends coming in, Acestes
rushes down to meet them there—a wild figure
bristling spears and a Libyan she-bear’s hide.
Born of a Trojan mother to the river-god Crinisus,
Acestes, never forgetting his age-old lineage,
gladly welcomes his Trojan friends’ return.
He warms them in with treasures of the field,
he cheers the exhausted men with generous care.
And next,
once day broke in the East and put the stars to flight,
Aeneas summons his crews from down along the beach
and greets them all from a mounded rise of ground:
“Gallant sons of Dardanus, born of the gods’ high blood,
the wheeling year has passed, rounding out its months,
since we committed to earth my godlike father’s bones,
his relics, and sanctified the altars with our tears.
The day has returned, if I am not mistaken, the day
always harsh to my heart, I’ll always hold in honor.
So you gods have willed. Were I passing the hours,
an exile lost in the swirling sands of Carthage
or caught in Greek seas, imprisoned in Mycenae,
I would still perform my anniversary vows,
carry out our processions grand and grave
and heap the altars high with fitting gifts.
But now, beyond our dreams, here we stand
by the very bones and ashes of my father—not,
I know, without the plan and power of the gods—
borne by the seas we’ve reached this friendly haven.
So come, all of us celebrate our happy, buoyant rites!
Pray for fair winds! And may it please my father,
once my city is built with temples in his name,
that I offer him these rites year in, year out.
“Acestes born in Troy will give you cattle,
two head for every ship. Invite to the feast
our household gods, the gods of our own home
and those our host Acestes worships, too.
Then, if the ninth dawn brings a brilliant day
to the race of men and her rays lay bare the earth,
I shall hold games for all our Trojans. First a race
for our swift ships, then for our fastest man afoot,
and then our best and boldest can step up to win
the javelin-hurl or wing the wind-swift arrow
or dare to fight with bloody rawhide gauntlets.
Come all! See who takes the victory prize, the palm.
A reverent silence, all, and crown your brows with wreaths.”
two head for every ship. Invite to the feast
our household gods, the gods of our own home
and those our host Acestes worships, too.
Then, if the ninth dawn brings a brilliant day
to the race of men and her rays lay bare the earth,
I shall hold games for all our Trojans. First a race
for our swift ships, then for our fastest man afoot,
and then our best and boldest can step up to win
the javelin-hurl or wing the wind-swift arrow
or dare to fight with bloody rawhide gauntlets.
Come all! See who takes the victory prize, the palm.
A reverent silence, all, and crown your brows with wreaths.”
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