Here they impaled me, an iron planting of lances
covered my body—now they sprout in stabbing spears!’
“Then I was awestruck, stunned by doubt and dread.
My hackles bristled, voice choked in my throat.
“This Polydorus:
the doomed Priam had once dispatched him in secret,
bearing a great weight of gold, to be maintained
by the King of Thrace when Priam lost his faith
in Trojan arms and saw his city gripped by siege.
That Thracian, once the power of Troy was shattered,
our Trojan fortunes gone—he joins forces with Agamemnon,
siding with his victorious arms, and breaks all human laws.
He hacks Polydorus down and commandeers the gold.
To what extremes won’t you compel our hearts,
you accursed lust for gold?
When dread has left my bones, I bring this omen
sent by the gods before our chosen Trojan captains,
my father first of all: I had to have their judgment.
With one mind they insist we leave this wicked land
where the bonds of hospitality are so stained—
sail out on the Southwind now!
“And so
we give Polydorus a fresh new burial,
piling masses of earth on his first mound,
raising to all the shades below an altar dark
with the wreaths of grief and dead-black cypress
ringed by Trojan women, hair unbound in mourning.
We offer up full bowls, foaming with warm milk,
and our cups of hallowed blood. And so we lay
his soul in the grave as our voices raise his name,
the resounding last farewell.
“Then in the first light
when we can trust the waves—a breeze has calmed the surf
and a gentle rustling Southwind makes the rigging sing,
inviting us to sea—my crewmen crowd the beaches,
launch the ships, and out from port we sail,
leaving the land and cities sinking in our wake.
Mid-sea there lies the sacred island of Delos,
loved by the Nereids’ mother, Aegean Neptune too.
Apollo the Archer, finding his birthplace drifting
shore to shore, like a proper son had chained it fast
to Myconos’ steep coast and Gyaros, made it stable,
a home for men that scorns the winds’ assaults.
Here I sail, and here a haven, still, serene,
receives our weary bodies safe and sound . . .
Landing, we just begin to admire Apollo’s city
when King Anius, king of men and priest of the god,
his brow wreathed with the bands and holy laurel leaves,
comes to meet us, spotting a long-lost friend, Anchises.
Clasping our host’s hands, we file toward his palace.
“There,
awed by the shrine of god, built strong of ancient stone,
I begged Apollo: ‘Grant us our own home, god of Thymbra!
Grant us weary men some walls of our own, some sons,
a city that will last. Safeguard this second Troy,
this remnant left by the Greeks and cruel Achilles.
Whom do we follow? Where do we go? Command us,
where do we settle now? Grant us a sign, Father,
flow into our hearts!’
“I had barely spoken
when all at once, everything seemed to tremble,
the gates of the god, Apollo’s laurel-tree,
the entire mountain around us seemed to quake,
the tripod moaned, the sacred shrine swung open.
We flung ourselves on the ground, and a voice sounded out:
‘Sons of Dardanus, hardy souls, your fathers’ land
that gave you birth will take you back again,
restored to her fertile breast.
Search for your ancient mother. There your house,
the line of Aeneas, will rule all parts of the world—
your sons’ sons and all their descendants down the years.’
And Phoebus’ words were met by a ringing burst of joy
mixed with confusion, all our voices rising, asking:
‘Where is this city? Where is the land that Apollo
calls us wanderers to, the land of our return?’
“Then my father, mulling over our old traditions,
answers: ‘Lords of Troy, learn where your best hopes rest.
An island rises in mid-sea—Crete, great Jove’s own land
where the first Mount Ida rears, the cradle of our people.
The Cretans live in a hundred spacious cities, rich domains.
From there—if I recall what I heard—our first father,
Teucer sailed to Troy, Cape Rhoeteum, picked the point
and founded his kingdom on those shores. But Troy
and her soaring ramparts were not standing yet,
the people lived in valleys, deep in lowlands.
From Crete came our Great Mother of Mount Cybelus,
her Corybantes’ clashing cymbals, her grove on Ida,
the sacred binding silence kept for her mystic rites
and the team of lions yoked to our Lady’s chariot.
So come, follow the gods’ commands that lead us on.
Placate the winds, set sail for Cnossus’ country.
It’s no long journey. If only Jove is with us now,
the third dawn will find us beached on the shores of Crete.’
“With that, he slaughtered fitting beasts on the altars:
a bull to Neptune, a bull to you, our noble Apollo,
a black ram to the winter storms, and a white ram
to the Zephyrs fair and warm.
“Rumor flies that Idomeneus,
famous Cretan prince, has fled his father’s kingdom,
an exile, and the shores of Crete are now deserted,
clear of enemies, homes derelict, standing ready
for us to settle. Out of Ortygia’s port we sail,
winging the sea to race on past the Naxos ridge
where the Maenads revel, past the lush green
islands of Donusa and Olearos, Paros, gleaming
white as its marble—through the Cyclades strewn
across the sea and through the straits we speed,
their waters churned to foam by the crowded shorelines,
shipmates racing each other, spurring each other on:
‘On to Crete,’ they’re shouting, ‘back to our fatherland!’
And a rising sternwind surges, drives our vessels on
and at last we’re gliding into the old Curetes’ harbor.
Inspired, I start to build the city walls we crave.
I call it Pergamum, yes, and my people all rejoice
at the old Trojan name. I urge them to cherish
their hearths and homes, erect a citadel strong
to shield them well.
“Our ships were no sooner hauled
onto dry land, our young crewmen busy with weddings,
plowing the fresh soil while I was drafting laws
and assigning homes, when suddenly, no warning,
out of some foul polluted quarter of the skies
a plague struck now, a heartrending scourge
attacking our bodies, rotting trees and crops,
one whole year of death . . .
Men surrendered their own sweet lives
or dragged their decrepit bodies on and on.
And the Dog Star scorched the green fields barren,
the grasses shriveled, blighted crops refused us food.
“‘Double back on the sea-lanes, back to Delos now,
Apollo’s oracle!’—so my father Anchises urges—
‘Pray for the god’s good will and ask him there:
where will they end, our backbreakin
g labors?
Where can we turn for help from all our toil?
What new course do we set?’
“Night had fallen
and sleep embraced all living things on earth.
But the sacred images of our Trojan household gods,
those I’d saved from the fires that swept through Troy . . .
Now as I lay asleep they seemed to stand before me,
clear before my eyes, so vivid, washed in the light
of the full moon flooding in through deepset windows.
Then the Powers spoke out to ease me of my anguish:
‘All that Apollo will predict if you return to Delos,
he tells you here, of his own free will he sends us
here before your doors. You and your force-at-arms,
we followed you all when Troy was burnt to rubble.
We are the gods, with you at the helm, who crossed
the billowing sea in ships. And one day we shall lift
your children to the stars and exalt your city’s power.
For a destiny so great, great walls you must erect
and never shrink from the long labor of exile, no,
you must leave this home. These are not the shores
Apollo of Delos urged. He never commanded you
to settle here on Crete.
“‘There is a country—
the Greeks called it Hesperia, Land of the West,
an ancient land, mighty in war and rich in soil.
Oenotrians settled it; now we hear their descendants
call their kingdom Italy, after their leader, Italus.
There lies our true home. There Dardanus was born,
there Iasius. Fathers, founders of our people.
Rise up now! Rejoice, relay our message, certain
beyond all doubt, to your father full of years.
Seek out the town of Corythus, sail for Italy!
Jove denies you the fields of Dicte: Crete.’
“Thunderstruck by the vision, the gods’ voice—
this was no empty dream, I saw them clear before me,
their features, face-to-face, their hair crowned with wreaths.
At the sight an icy sweat goes rippling down my body,
I tear myself from bed, I raise my hands and voice
in prayer to the skies and tip a pure, unmixed
libation on the hearth. Gladly, the rite performed,
I unfold the whole event to Anchises, point by point.
He recalls at once the two lines of our race, two parents:
his own error, his late mistake about ancient places.
‘My son,’ he says, ‘so pressed by the fate of Troy—
Cassandra alone made such a prophecy to me . . .
Now I recall how she’d reveal our destination,
Hesperia: time and again repeating it by name,
repeating the name of Italy. But who believed
a Trojan expedition could reach Italian shores?
Who was moved by Cassandra’s visions then?
Yield to Apollo now and take the better course—
the god shows the way!’
“So Anchises urges
and all are overjoyed to follow his command.
Leaving a few behind, we launch out from Crete,
deserting another home, and set our sails again,
scudding on buoyant hulls through wastes of ocean.
“As soon
as our ships had reached the high seas, no land in sight,
no longer—water at all points, at all points the sky—
looming over our heads a pitch-dark thunderhead
brings on night and storm, ruffling the swells black.
At once the winds whip up the sea, huge waves heaving,
strewing, flinging us down the sheer abyss, the cloudbanks
swallowing up the daylight, rain-soaked night wipes out the sky
and flash on flash of lightning bursts from the torn clouds—
we’re whirled off course, yawing blind in the big waves.
Even Palinurus, he swears he can’t tell night from day,
scanning the heavens he finds nothing but walls of sea,
the pilot’s bearings lost. For three whole days we rush,
the waves driving us wildly on, the sun blotted out,
for as many nights we’re robbed of stars to steer by.
Then at last, at the fourth dawn—landfall, rearing
up into view, some mountains clear in the offing,
a rising curl of smoke. Down come the sails,
the crewmen leap to the oars, no time to lose,
they bend to it, churn the spray and sweep
the clear blue sea.
“So I was saved from the deep,
the shores of the Strophades first to take me in.
Strophades—Greek name for the Turning Islands—
lie in the Great Ionian Sea.
Here grim Celaeno and sister Harpies settled
after Phineus’ doors were locked against them all
and they fled in fear from the tables where they’d gorged.
The Harpies . . . no monsters on earth more cruel,
no scourge more savage, no wrath of the gods has
ever raised its head from the Styx’s waters.
The faces of girls, but birds! A loathsome ooze
discharges from their bellies, talons for hands,
their jaws deathly white with a hunger never sated.
“Gaining that landfall, making port, what do we see
but sleek lusty herds of cattle grazing the plains,
flocks of goats unguarded, cropping grassland?
We charge them with drawn swords, calling out
to the gods, to Jove himself, to share our kill.
Then on the halfmoon bay we build up mounds of turf
and fall to the rich feast. But all of a sudden, watch,
with a ghastly swoop from the hills the Harpies swarm us—
ruffling, clattering wingbeats—ripping our food to bits,
polluting it all with their foul, corrupting claws,
their obscene shrieks bursting from the stench.
Again, in a deep recess under rocky cliffs,
[screened around by trees and trembling shade,]
we deck our tables out, relight the altar-fire
but again, from some new height, some hidden nest
the rout comes screaming at their quarry, flapping round us,
slashing with claw-feet, hook-beaks fouling our meal.
‘To arms!’ I command the men,
‘wage all-out war against this brutal crew!’
All hands snap to orders, hiding swords away
in the tall grasses, covering shields as well.
So when they make their roaring swoop along the bay,
Misenus, poised on a lookout, sounds the alarm,
a brazen trumpet blast, and the men attack,
geared for a strange new form of combat, fighting
to hack these vile seabirds down with bloody swords.
But their feathers take no stab-wounds, backs no scars
and swift on their wings they soar toward the heavens,
leaving behind half-eaten prey and trails of filth.
“All but one. Perched on a beetling crag, Celaeno,
prophet of doom—her shrieks erupted from her breast:
‘So, war as well now? Gearing for battle, are you?
You, the sons of Laomedon, as if to atone
for the butchery of our cattle, our young bulls?
You’d force the innocent Harpies from their fathers’ kingdom?
Take what I say to heart and stamp it in your minds:
this prophecy the almighty Father made to Phoebus
and Phoebus made to me, the greatest of the Furies,
and I reveal to you. Italy is the land you seek?
You call on the winds to sweep you there by sea?
To Italy you will go. Permitted to enter port
but never granted a city girded round by ramparts,
not before some terrible hunger and your attack on us—
outrageous slaughter—drive you to gnaw your platters
with your teeth!’
“So Celaeno shrieked
and taking flight, dashed back to the forest.
The blood of my comrades froze with instant dread.
Their morale sank, they lost all heart for war,
pressing me now to pray, to beg for peace, whether
our foes are goddesses, yes, or filthy, lethal birds.
Then father Anchises, stretching his hands toward the sea,
cries out to the Great Powers, pledging them their due rites:
‘Gods, ward off these threats. Gods, beat back disaster!
Be gracious, guard your faithful.’”
“We cast off cables and let the sheets run free,
unfurling sail as a Southwind bellies out the canvas.
We launch out on the foaming waves as wind and helmsman
call our course. Now over the high seas we raise up
woody Zacynthos, Dulichium, Same, Neritos’ crags,
past Ithaca’s rocky coast we race, Laertes’ realm,
cursing the land that spawned the vicious Ulysses.
And soon Leucata’s cloudy summit comes into view and
Apollo’s shrine on its rugged headland, dread of sailors.
Exhausted, we land at Actium, trek to the little town.
Anchors run from prows, the sterns line the shore.
“So,
exceeding our hopes, we win our way to solid ground at last.
We cleanse ourselves with the rites we owe to Jove
and make the altars blaze with votive gifts,
then crowd the Actian shore with Trojan games.
My shipmates strip and glistening sleek with oil,
wrestle the old Trojan way, our spirits high—
we’d skimmed past such a flurry of Argive cities,
holding true to our flight through waters held by foes.
Then as the sun rolls round the giant arc of the year,
icy winter arrives and a Northwind roughens up the seas.
Fronting the temple doors, I bolt the brazen shield
great Abas bore, and I engrave the offering
with a verse:
AENEAS DEVOTES THESE ARMS
SEIZED FROM GRECIAN VICTORS.
“Then I command
the crews to embark from harbor, man the thwarts.
And shipmates race each other, thrashing the waves,
plunging along Phaeacia’s mist-enshrouded heights
to lose them far astern, skirting Epirus’ coasts,
The Aeneid Page 13