of warriors’ shields, flashing far, and blazoned galleys
moving on upstream. And on and on they row, wearying
night and day as they round the long, winding bends,
floating under the mottled shade of many trees and
cleave the quiet stream reflecting leafy woods.
The fiery Sun had climbed to mid-career when,
off in the distance, they catch sight of walls,
a citadel, scattered roofs of houses: all that now
the imperial power of Rome has lifted to the skies,
but then what Evander held, his humble kingdom.
Quickly they swerve their prows and row for town.
As luck would have it, that day Arcadia’s king
was holding solemn annual rites in honor of Hercules,
Amphitryon’s powerful son, and paying vows to the gods
in a grove before the city. Flanked by his son,
Pallas, the ranking men and the lowly senate,
all were offering incense now, and warm blood
was steaming on the altars. As soon as they saw
the tall ships gliding through the shadowed woods
and the rowers bending to pull the oars in silence—
alarmed by the unexpected sight, all rise as one
to desert the sacred feast. But Pallas forbids them
to cut short the rites, and fearless, seizes a spear
and runs to confront the new arrivals by himself.
“Soldiers,” he shouts from a barrow some way off,
“what drives you to try these unfamiliar paths?
Where are you going? Who are your people?
Where’s your home? Do you bring peace or war?”
Then captain Aeneas calls from his high stern,
his hands extending the olive branch of peace:
“We’re Trojans born. The weapons you see are honed
for our foes, the Latins. They drive us here—as exiles—
with all the arrogance of war. We look for Evander.
Tell him this: Leading chiefs of Dardania come,
pressing to be his friends-in-arms.”
Dardania . . .
Pallas, awestruck by the famous name, cries out:
“Come down onto dry land, whoever you are,
speak with my father face-to-face.
Come under our roofs—our welcome guest.”
Clasping Aeneas’ right hand, he held it long
and heading up to the grove they leave the river.
There Aeneas hails Evander with winning words:
“Best of the sons of Greece, Fortune has decreed
that I pray to you for help, extend this branch
of olive wound in wool. I had no fear of you
as a captain of the Greeks, Arcadia-born
and bound by blood to Atreus’ twin sons.
For I am bound to you by my own strength,
by oracles of the gods and by our fathers—
blood-kin—and your own fame that echoes
through the world. All this binds me to you,
and Fate drives me here, and glad I am to follow.
Dardanus, first and founding father of Ilium,
came to the land of Troy. A son, as Greeks will tell,
of Electra, that Electra, daughter of Atlas, mighty Atlas
who bears the grand orb of the heavens on his shoulders.
Your father is Mercury, conceived by radiant Maia
and born on a snow-capped peak of Mount Cyllene.
But Maia’s father—to trust what we have heard—
is Atlas, the same Atlas who lifts the starry skies.
So our two lines are branches sprung from the same blood.
“Counting on this, I planned my approach to you.
Not with envoys or artful diplomatic probes,
I come in person, put my life on the line,
a suppliant at your doors to plead for help.
The same people attack us both in savage war,
Rutulians under Turnus, and if they drive us out,
nothing, they do believe, can stop their forcing all
of Italy, all lands of the West beneath their yoke,
the masters of every seaboard north and south.
Take and return our trust. Brave hearts in war,
our tempers steeled, our armies proved in action.”
Aeneas closed. While he spoke, Evander had marked
his eyes, his features, his whole frame, and now
he replies, pointedly: “Bravest of the Trojans,
how I welcome you, recognize you, with all my heart!
How well I recall the face, the words, the voice
of your father, King Anchises.
“Once, I remember . . .
Priam, son of Laomedon, bound for Salamis,
out to visit his sister Hesione’s kingdom,
continued on to see Arcadia’s cold frontiers.
Then my cheeks still sported the bloom of youth
and I was full of wonder to see the chiefs of Troy,
wonder to see Laomedon’s son, Priam himself, no doubt,
but one walked taller than all the rest—Anchises.
I yearned, in a boy’s way, to approach the king
and take him by the hand. So up I went to him,
eagerly showed him round the walls of Pheneus.
At his departure he gave me a splendid quiver
bristling Lycian arrows, a battle-cape shot through
with golden mesh, and a pair of gilded reins my son,
Pallas, now makes his. So the right hand you want
is clasping yours. We are allies bound as one.
Soon as tomorrow’s sun returns to light the earth
I’ll see you off, cheered with an escort and support
I’ll send your way. But now for the rites,
since you have come as friends,
our annual rites it would be wrong to interrupt.
So, with a warm heart celebrate them with us now.
High time you felt at ease with comrades’ fare.”
That said, he orders back the food and cups already
cleared away, and the king himself conducts his guests
to places on the grass. Aeneas, the guest of honor,
he invites to a throne of maple, cushioned soft
with a shaggy lion’s hide. Then picked young men
and the altar priest, outdoing themselves, bring on
the roasted flesh of bulls and heap the baskets high
with the gifts of Ceres, wheaten loaves just baked,
and in Bacchus’ name they keep the winecups flowing.
And now Aeneas and all his Trojan soldiers feast
on the oxen’s long back cut and sacred vitals.
Once
their hunger was put aside, their appetites content,
King Evander began: “These annual rites, this feast,
a custom ages old, this shrine to a great spirit—
no hollow superstition, and no blind ignorance
of the early gods has forced them on us. No,
my Trojan guest, we have been saved from dangers,
brutal perils, and so we observe these rites,
we renew them year by year, and justly so.
“Now then,
first look up at this crag with its overhanging rocks,
the boulders strewn afar. An abandoned mountain lair
still stands, where the massive rocks came rumbling down
in an avalanche, a ruin. There once was a cavern here,
a vast unplumbed recess untouched by the sun’s rays,
where a hideous, part-human monster made his home—
Cacus. The ground was always steaming with fresh blood
and nailed to his high and mighty doors, men’s faces
dangled, sickening, rotting, and bled white . . .
The monster’s father was Vulcan, whose smoky flames
&nbs
p; he vomited from his maw as he hauled his lumbering hulk.
But even to us, at last, time brought the answer
to our prayers: the help, the arrival of a god.
That greatest avenger, Hercules! On he came,
triumphant in his slaughter and all the spoils
of triple-bodied Geryon. The great victor,
driving those huge bulls down to pasture,
herds crowding these riverbanks and glens.
But Cacus, desperate bandit, wild to leave
no crime, no treachery undared, untested,
stole from their steadings four champion bulls
and as many head of first-rate, well-built heifers.
Ah, but to leave no hoofmarks pointing forward,
into his cave he dragged them by the tail,
turning their tracks backward—
the pirate hid his plunder deep in his dark rocks.
No hunter could spot a trace that led toward that cave.
“Meanwhile, Hercules was about to move his herds out,
full fed from their grazing, ready to go himself when
the cows began to low at parting, filling the woods
with protest, bellowing to the hills they had to leave.
But one heifer, deep in the vast cavern, lowed back
and Cacus’ prisoner foiled its jailer’s hopes.
Suddenly Hercules ignited in rage, in black fury
and seizing his weapons and weighted knotted club,
he made for the hill’s steep heights at top speed.
And that was the first we’d seen of Cacus afraid,
his eyes aswirl with terror—off to his cave he flees,
swifter than any Eastwind, yes, his feet were winged with fear.
He shut himself in its depths, shattered the chains and
down the great rock dropped, suspended by steel and
his father’s skill, to wedge between the doorposts,
block the entrance fast.
Watch Hercules on the attack. Scanning every opening,
tossing his head, this way, that way, grinding his teeth,
blazing in rage, three times he circles the whole Aventine hill,
three times he tries to storm the rocky gates—no use—
three times he sinks down in the lowlands, power spent.
“Looming over the cavern’s ridge a spur reared up,
all jagged flint, its steep sides sheering away,
a beetling, towering sight, a favorite haunt
of nestling vultures. This crag jutting over
the ridge, leaning left of the river down below—
he charged from the right and rocked it, prised it
up from its bedrock, tore it free of its roots,
then abruptly hurled it down and the hurl’s force
made mighty heaven roar as the banks split far apart
and the river’s tide went flooding back in terror.
But the cave and giant palace of Cacus lay exposed
and his shadowy cavern cleaved wide to its depths—
as if earth’s depths had yawned under some upheaval,
bursting open the locks of the Underworld’s abodes,
revealing the livid kingdom loathed by the gods,
and from high above you could see the plunging abyss
and the ghosts terror-struck as the light comes streaming in.
“So Cacus, caught in that stunning flood of light,
shut off in his hollow rock, howling as never before—
Hercules overwhelms him from high above, raining down
all weapons he finds at hand, torn-off branches, rocks
like millstones. A deathtrap, no way out for the monster now!
Cacus retches up from his throat dense fumes—unearthly,
I tell you—endless waves billowing through his lair,
wiping all from sight, and deep into his cave
he spews out tides of rolling, smoking darkness,
night and fire fused. Undaunted Hercules had enough—
furious, headlong down he leapt through the flames
where the thickest smoke was massing, black clouds
of it seething up and down the enormous cavern.
Here, as Cacus spouts his flames in the darkness,
all for nothing—Hercules grapples him, knots him
fast in a death-lock, throttling him, gouging out
the eyes in his head, choking the blood in his gullet dry.
He tears out the doors in a flash, opens the pitch-black den
and the stolen herds—a crime that Cacus had denied—
are laid bare to the skies, and out by the heels
he drags the ghastly carcass into the light.
No one can get his fill of gazing at those eyes,
terrible eyes, that face, the matted, bristling chest
of the brute beast, its fiery maw burnt out.
“From then on, we have solemnized this service
and all our heirs have kept the day with joy.
Potitius first, the founder of the rites,
the Pinarian house too, that guards the worship
of Hercules. Potitius set this altar in the grove.
The Greatest Altar we shall always call it,
always the Greatest it will be.
“So come,
my boys, in honor of his heroic exploits
crown your hair with leaves, hold high your cups,
invoke the god we share with our new allies,
offer him wine with all your eager hearts.”
With that welcome, a wreath of poplar, hung
with a poplar garland’s green and silver sheen
that shaded Hercules once,
shaded Evander’s hair and crowned his head
and the sacred wooden winecup filled his hand.
In no time, all were tipping wine on the board
with happy hearts and praying to the gods.
Meanwhile
evening is coming closer, wheeling down the sky and
now the priests advance, Potitius in the lead,
robed in animal skins the old accustomed way
and bearing torches. They refresh the banquet,
bringing on the second course, a welcome savor,
weighing the altars down with groaning platters.
Then the Salii, dancing priests of Mars, come
clustering, leaping round the flaming altars,
raising the chorus, brows wreathed with poplar:
here a troupe of boys and a troupe of old men there,
singing Hercules’ praises, all his heroic feats.
How he strangled the first monsters, twin serpents
sent by his stepmother, Juno—crushed them in his hands.
And the same in warfare: how he razed to the roots
those brilliant cities, Troy and Oechalia both.
How under Eurystheus he endured the countless
grueling labors, Juno’s brutal doom.
“Hercules,
you the unvanquished one! You have slaughtered
Centaurs born of the clouds, half man, half horse,
Hylaeus and Pholus—the bull, the monster of Crete,
the tremendous Nemean lion holed in his rocky den.
The Stygian tide-pools trembled at your arrival,
Death’s watchdog cringed, sprawling over the heaps
of half-devoured bones in his gory cave. But nothing,
no specter on earth has touched your heart with fear,
not even Typhoeus himself, towering up with weapons.
Nor did Lerna’s Hydra, heads swarming around you,
strip you of your wits. Hail, true son of Jove,
you glory added to all the gods! Come to us,
come to your sacred rites and speed us on
with your own righteous stride!”
So they sing
his praise, and to crown it sing of Cacus’ cave,
the monst
er breathing fire, and all the woods resound
with the ringing hymns, and the hillsides echo back.
And then, with the holy rites performed in full,
they turned back to the city. The king, bent with years,
kept his comrades, Aeneas and his son, beside him,
moving on as he eased the way with many stories.
Aeneas marveled, his keen eyes gazing round,
entranced by the site, gladly asking, learning,
one by one, the legendary tales of the men of old.
King Evander, founder of Rome’s great citadel, begins:
“These woods the native fauns and the nymphs once held
and a breed of mortals sprung from the rugged trunks of oaks.
They had no notion of custom, no cultured way of life,
knew nothing of yoking oxen, laying away provisions,
garnering up their stores. They lived off branches,
berries and acorns, hunters’ rough-cut fare. First
came Saturn, down from the heights of heaven, fleeing
Jove in arms: Saturn robbed of his kingdom, exiled.
He united these wild people scattered over the hilltops,
gave them laws and pitched on the name of Latium for the land,
since he’d lain hidden within its limits, safe and sound.
Saturn’s reign was the Age of Gold, men like to say,
so peacefully, calm and kind, he ruled his subjects.
Ah, but little by little a lesser, tarnished age
came stealing in, filled with the madness of war,
the passion for possessions.
“Then on they came,
the Ausonian ranks in arms, Sicanian tribes and
time and again the land of Saturn changed its name.
Then kings reared up and the savage giant Thybris,
and since his time we Italians call our river Tiber.
The true name of the old river Albula’s lost and gone.
And I, cast from my country, bound for the ocean’s ends—
irresistible Fortune and inescapable Fate have planted me
in this place, spurred on by my mother’s dire warnings,
the nymph Carmentis, and God Apollo’s power.”
No sooner said than, moving on, he points out
the Altar of Carmentis, then the Carmental Gate
as the Romans call it: an ancient tribute paid
to the nymph Carmentis, seer who told the truth,
the first to foresee the greatness of Aeneas’ sons
and Pallanteum’s fame to come. Next he displays
The Aeneid Page 29