weapons and swords she walked on. Her sole care
was not to tread dead bodies, any one
of which might be, she thought, her husband’s corpse.
The faint stars gave her light enough to see
the faces of prone bodies she upturned.
She studied and she scrutinized the dead.
–?–?–?–
Juno, by chance, had slipped from Jove’s embrace
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and traveled secretly through sleepy shades
to Theseus’ walls in order to persuade
Pallas to listen to the supplicants
and give them easy entrance into Athens.
She grieved as she beheld from heaven’s pole
guiltless Argia wandering through the fields,
laboring vainly. So she found the Moon,
driving her lunar horses, and approached.
Discoursing in a pleasant way, she said,
‘‘Do me a little favor, Cynthia.
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You know that you owe Juno some respect,
since you, maliciously, at Jove’s request,
combined three nights for Hercules—but let
me set aside old quarrels. Here’s the task:
Argia, my faithful priestess—daughter of
our Inachus—as you can see, is seeking
her husband through thick shadows, sick at heart.
Clouds dull your brightness. I would like
for you to show your horns and move your orbit
closer than usual to earth. Send Sleep
BOOK ∞≤ ≥≥π
(he who controls your dripping reins and leans
before you) to the watchmen of Aonia.’’
These things were barely uttered, when the goddess
309
rent clouds, revealed her sphere in all its might,
frightened the shadows, stripped the stars of light.
Juno herself could hardly bear her sight.
As soon as brilliance bathed the fields, Argia
312
discerned her husband’s cloak. She knew the pattern
that she herself had woven, miserable woman.
It had been hidden, since the purple cloth
was bloody, dark, and mournful. She was sure
that she had found her husband—she invoked
the gods—then saw him lying in the dust,
practically trampled. She felt faint; her sight
and hearing failed; great grief obstructed tears.
She lay across his face and searched for breath:
none issued from his mouth. The woman pressed
his hair and clothes for blood and gathered flecks.
As soon as she could speak, ‘‘My husband, is
321
this you I see, who marched to war to win
the country you were owed, the son-in-law
of King Adrastus? Is this how I greet
your triumph? I lift sightless eyes and cheeks!
I am Argia: I have come to Thebes!
Lead me inside your city: let me see
the dwelling of your father; o√er me
what you were given—hospitality!
Alas, what am I saying? All the native
earth that you own, you lie on—outstretched, naked.
Why quarrel now? Your brother has no power.
Have you no other relatives who mourn?
Where is your mother and Antigone,
your famous sister? You were overthrown
for me; indeed you died for me alone!
I said, as I recall, ‘Where are you going?
What scepter do you seek that is denied you?
Argos is yours, your wife’s own father’s court
is yours to rule—continuous succession
≥≥∫ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
and unapportioned sway.’ But why do I
complain? I pressured you to fight. I asked
my sorrowful father for what I now hold—
you in my arms. The gods have done me well,
and I thank Fortune that my hopes were met,
the purpose of my traveling fulfilled.
I find your body whole, but, ay me! how
deeply your wounds gape! Could a brother do this?
340
Tell me, where does that foul thief lie? I would—
could I approach—fend birds, drive back fierce beasts.
Has he been given flames? a funeral pyre?
May your land see you not deprived of fire!
You shall be burned, and tears—to kings denied—
shall drop for you. Our loyal love shall last
forever, and your tomb will be attended.
Our son will be our grief’s memorial—
a little Polynices for my couch.’’
–?–?–?–
Behold, another torch, and other moans.
349
Antigone approached in misery.
She sought her brother’s body after she
had found a way to leave her walled-in city.
She had been tended closely all this while:
the king himself had ordered vigilance,
more watch fires, frequent changes of her guards.
The woman made excuses for delay
to both her brother and the gods when she
burst wildly through the walls as soon as sleep
had overcome the standing sentinels.
Her passion tore the countryside, as when
a little lion roars to find its mother.
She had not traveled long; she knew the field—
its dangers and just where her brother died.
Menoetes, who was idle, saw her coming,
360
and he restrained the groans of his dear charge.
But when her straining ears first heard those sounds
and by the light of stars she saw dark clothing,
caked hair, a face that blood had stained, she asked,
BOOK ∞≤ ≥≥Ω
‘‘Whom do you seek? And who are you, bold woman?
Do you not know this night belongs to me?’’
Argia did not speak but threw her veil
367
over her own and Polynices’ face,
and sudden fear made her forget her sorrow.
Her silence made Antigone suspicious;
she watched this woman and her guardian
but neither moved. They stared, and they said nothing
until at last Argia raised her veil
and spoke as she embraced her husband’s body:
‘‘I can reveal myself and join with you,
374
if Creon’s harsh commands have caused you terror,
or you have come, like me, to search among
these old and bloody remnants of the war.
If you are wretched, as your sighs and tears
indicate, join me. Let us trust each other.
I am Adrastus’s daughter. But who comes?
The laws forbid a pyre for Polynices . . .’’
Her words dismayed the Cadmean. She trembled,
380
then interrupted her: ‘‘Unseeing Fortune!
Did you fear me, your partner in distress?
You hold my limbs, and you bewail my body.
I came here after you—I’m so ashamed.
A sister’s cowardly impiety . . .
she first . . .’’ They fell together over him,
avid, in joined embrace, their hair and tears
mingling. They shared his limbs, alternately
leaning upon his face; each one in turn
solaced herself along his precious neck.
Then one recalled her brother, one her husband,
389
and one told tales of Thebes, and one of Argos.
Argia took more time to tell sad deeds:
‘‘I swear by our communal rituals
/> of secret sorrow, by our common ghosts,
and by the conscious stars that Polynices—
≥∂≠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
even in wandering exile—never missed
his stolen honors, precious mother’s love,
or native soil. He only cared for you,
and night and day would cry, ‘Antigone!’
I was less loved, more easily abandoned.
Perhaps before this tragedy you watched
from some high tower as he issued banners
among Greek legions, and he looked at you
from his position and saluted you
with sword or by a nod of his tall crest
while we were far away. What god was it
that made his anger run to this extreme?
Why were your prayers no use? Did he deny
what you requested?’’
Then Antigone
began to tell what happened, his sad fate,
until both women heard Menoetes’ warning:
‘‘Enough! Do what you started. Starlight wanes.
The day draws near, and you must end your task.
When you have lit the flames, then you may weep.’’
Not far away Ismenos roared in flood,
409
turbulent in its banks and stained with blood.
Here the frail women bore the battered body.
They formed a team; their friend lent equal e√ort.
So was the smoking corpse of Phaethon
washed by his sisters, daughters of the sun,
when they bestowed his corpse beside the Po.
As soon as he was buried, weeping trees
stood by that stream: his sisters turned to poplars.
After they washed the body to restore
416
honor to those dead limbs, when they had given
their final kisses, those two wretched women
searched for some fire, but every spark was cold.
Pits held extinguished ashes. Piles were silent.
Whether by chance or godly intervention,
420
the fierce limbs of Eteocles were lying
upon a funeral pyre that smoked nearby,
BOOK ∞≤ ≥∂∞
just as if Fortune had prepared a spot
for wondrous scenes. Perhaps Eumenides—
the Furies—saved that place for flames to strive.
Both women made an e√ort to revive
424
a faint flame in the burned logs they had spied.
They wept for happiness and hoped whoever’s
body they found was mild and would allow
himself a partner in the final rites
those last coals granted, where the shades united.
The brothers lay together. Then the pyre
429
shook as the first corpse fed the hungry fires
and drove the stranger back. A wave of flame
• split at its peak and gleamed, a double top
of cloven light, as if pale death combined
the torches of the Furies. Each round blaze
was menacing and strove to be the higher.
The very timbers settled, driven by
the weight of their commotion, and the virgin—
Antigone—was terrified. She cried:
‘‘We have aroused old hatreds; we shall die!
437
That must have been his brother! Who would drive
a stranger’s shade away? I recognize
a fragment of his shield, a half-burned belt.
Do you see flames recede then clash again?
The war changed nothing; their foul hate survives!
O bitter men, while you fight, Creon thrives!
Your realm is lost! What good is this mad passion?
Control your tempers! You, deprived of justice,
an exile everywhere, desist! Your wife
implores this, and your sister! Or shall we
enter the savage flames to intervene?’’
These things were hardly said when suddenly
447
a tremor shook the field and towers of Thebes.
Now the discordant pyre had formed a chasm;
now watchmen, to whom sleep had given dreams
of evil doings, found their quiet shattered:
soldiers rushed out and scoured the countryside.
Only Menoetes feared them. Those two women
≥∂≤ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
who stood before the pyre expressed their spite
for Creon’s beastly law, and they confessed
their misdeeds openly, and they were fearless,
for they could see the corpses were consumed.
Now pain of death enticed them and they burned
with hope to perish boldly, each competing
to claim responsibility for stealing
the body of a husband and a brother.
One claimed she found the corpse, and one the flames.
One loved, and one was loyal. Each craved pain
459
and sought to slip her hands in cu√s and chains.
They showed no reverence. Their angry words
and hate replaced all awe, or so you’d think.
They raised discordant voices, clamoring
to make their captors take them to the king.
–?–?–?–
Juno, meanwhile, had led the Argive women
464
to distant Athens where they were astonished—
herself no less—by Pallas and her kindness.
The people gave the mourning women welcome
and recognized their need for lamentation.
The goddess Juno o√ered olive branches
and garlands those petitioners adopted;
she taught the women how to veil their eyes
and move in muΔed cloaks and carry urns,
now empty, for the ashes of their men.
People of every age poured from their homes
471
in Athens, and they lined the streets and rooftops.
Why such a multitude, such sympathy?
They moaned before they even knew the reason
or what was wrong, because the goddess merged
among both populations and explained
the mystery of who these women were,
the dead whom they are mourning, what they wished,
while they themselves, in random conversations,
complained about the cruelty of Creon
and the harsh laws of Thebes. The birds of Thrace,
whose words are mangled, do not chatter longer
BOOK ∞≤ ≥∂≥
• about the crimes and wickedness of Tereus,
his bridal couches, his duplicities.
An altar once stood in the city center
481
unoccupied by any god of power.
• There gentle Clemency had found her seat,
The Thebaid Page 52