by Nonnus
[92] “Bridegroom Morrheus, welcome Chalcomede a willing bride! Welcome your bride in your own bed after your battles! In the day when you saw me you delighted your eyes — in the night, sleep by the side of your loving Chalcomedeia! Even in sleep marriage has its charm, even in dreams it has a passion of sweet desire. I would fain hold you in my arms, and dawn is near.”
[99] With these words, the vision flew away; Morrheus leapt out of his sleep and saw the beginning of Dawn, the thief of love. He thought Chalcomede desired him, and at once said silently to himself, feeding his delusive hope of love:
[103] “Threefold light you bring, O daughter of the mist! You bring Chalcomede, and you bring the daylight, and you drive night away! O Chalcomede, do you appear to me also, and comfort wakeful Morrheus, you, rosier yourself than rose-crowned Dawn: no such roses are brought by the Seasons to our meadows. Charming maiden, your cheeks present a meadow of the Springtime which time knows not how to wither. Your flowers are in bloom when the fruit wasting Autumn Seasons are here: your lilies can be seen even in winter; your body is all one blushing anemone never-fading, which the Graces tend and the winds never destroy. Your name you have adorned by the triumphs of your spear; your name fits your valour — not in vain are you called Chaleomede, for brazen Ares begat you, tumbling on the bed of love-begetting Cypris. All the world calls you Chalcomede, but I alone call you Chrysomede, because you have the beauty of golden Aphrodite; I believe you come from Sparta, for as I think, Aphrodite Steelcorseleta was the mother of Chalcomede.”
[122] So he spoke on his wakeful bed but when farshooting Dawn with crimson face leapt up sending forth her light as the forerunner of battle, Ares musterhost armed the Indian nation; then the Indians fully equipped ran from their wellwheeled beds to gather round the chariot of Deriades.
[128] But the Bacchoi, with invincible Dionysos still amissing, poured forth downcast on the plain. No longer in confident heart they marched to the fight, but they were stricken with fear. No longer with manbreaking madness the women in bronze corselets rushed frantic to the field, no more they scattered foam from their bellowing throats with deep growlings; but in silence undisturbed the untanned calfskins lay unbeaten. Their torches sent forth no shining flame of martial brands nor belched the death-bringing smoke; but under the goad of the divine lash the warriors turned to women. The Satyrs made no noise, no sound echoed as of yore from the pipes to awaken the conflict. The Seilenoi went to battle in sober silence with their wits about them; they had not painted their faces with crimson like fresh blood, nor purpled their yellow skin to deceive and affright, nor daubed their foreheads with white chalk as usual. The Pans had drunk no hot blood fresh from the veins of a lioness of the wilds, and rushed not swift as the wind frenzied into the conflict, but they were mild with fear: hesitating they pawed the ground with gentle noiseless hooves, and ceased the terrible leaps of their highland dance.
[151] But Deriades proudly grappled with the men’s battle, shaking his pointed horn like a helmet plume; Morrheus leapt raging against the company of women. For Chalcomedeia did not stand beside the Bacchant women to make him pitiful, and check the blade which darted against the women purpled with blood; but now the lovely young girl, a new bow-famed Amazon, took hand in the fight beside the front ranks in the plain, clad in light robes and a shining tunic. For that is what wise Thetis told her to do, that she might save the whole host, so distressed while Dionysos was being plagued.
[162] Then Morrheus parting from that face, the image of the Graces, saved alive eleven of the weak Bassarids, whom he judged to be next after Chalcomede. He bound the Mainalids’ arms behind them in a knot too tight to be undone; then dragging them with hair flowing loose to the yoke of slavery, he gave them to his goodfather Deriades as servants won by the spear, to be a second brideprice for his wife; for whose sake he had fought beside peaksoaring Tauros, to win her for his bride, when he joined to himself in the bonds of wedlock the young princess, Deriades’ daughter, his yearsmate Cheirobie. For the Indian chieftain had received no marriage gift for his daughter, no precious gold, no bright stone of the sea; herds of oxen and flocks of sheep Deriades refused, and joined his daughters in marriage without price, to stirring warriors, taking for goodsons Morrheus and ninecubit Orontes — gave his own children as brides to two champions, Cheirobie to Morrheus and Protonoeia to Orontes. For Morrheus was not like men of this earth, but he resembled the national strength of the earthborn Indians in highnecked body and gigantic limbs; he had the earthborn breed which towering Typhon had, when near the neighbouring rock of firebreeding Arima he displayed his inborn courage for Cydnos to behold. The bride-price which he brought was the sweat of Cilician labours; a bridegroom without possessions, he possessed his bride by valour. So in those days Assyria bent the knee to the steel that wooed a bride for Morrheus, Cilician Tauros bowed his rocky neck to the yoke of Deriades, bold Cydnos curtseyed, and for that reason in the Cilieian land Morrheus is still called Heracles Sandes. But that is an old story; in this later conflict Morrheus captured the Thyiads with pitiless spear, and triumphant shouted an unbridled speech:
[196] “These are for you, my lord king, treasures for your daughter which I bring first; later I will give you Bacchos!”
[198] To these words of Morrheus the Indian prince replied:
[199] “Cheirobie you had without price, Morrheus of the flashing helmet. You paid me price enough for your shieldbearing marriage by enslaving the Cilician cities in the lofty valour of victory. Now again you bestow new gifts. If it be your pleasure, make prisoners of the Bassarids as well, and fill the whole palace of Cheirobie with handmaids; but for Bacchos I need not Morrheus; I myself will drag Dionysos to a yoke of slavery laden with galling fetters. Only I bid you take care not to lust after a captive for your bed, that I may not see you just like the womanmad Indians. Do not look upon the eyes and silvery neck of a Bacchant woman, that you may not make my girl jealous by your lusts. But when I have destroyed the whole army of Bromios, I will invade the Maionian land, and thence I will drain the infinite wealth of Lydia, all that Pactolos produces; I will march to vineclad Phrygia, where Rheia dwells who cared for Bromios in boyhood, and I will destroy the wealthy ground of silvery Alybe hard by, that I may bring home shining white sheets from mines that roll in riches. And I will devastate the land of sevengate Thebes, as they call it, and I will burn Semele’s fiery house, where the lady’s chamber still is in hot ruins from that parched bridal.”
[221] So spoke the lawless king Deriades, as he received the whole line of handmaidens, gifts of his warlike goodson from the battle. He handed over the Bacchants to Phlogios and Agraios dragged along by the hair, their hands all girdled with unbreakable straps in one long line.
[226] These Phlogios led bound, and conducted them through the city as tidings of the royal victory. Some were hung up beside the carved gateway of the palace, with nooses choking their encircled necks. To others he allotted a hot fate of death by fire. Others were entombed in water, in the earthdug hollows of a well, where water is drawn from deep-sunk pools by the hard work of hand over hand. Then they would cry, half-seen, immovable, from the watery depths of the pit, one after another —
[236] “I have heard that the Indians’ god was Earth and Water, and there is reason for that saying: for both are arrayed against me together! I am between death by earth and destruction by water, and I have a double fate near me. A strange chain of mud holds me fast, and I can no longer lift a foot; my soaking knees are firmly rooted in mire, and I stand immovable ready for the Fates. There was a time when a river pursued me, and I feared not the running water; O that this also were a murmuring stream, that I might here also paddle my hands and cut its dark water too!”
[247] So she spoke, and receiving the pouring flood into her open throat, perished slowly by a fate which gave her no burial.
[249] But Morrheus, enchained by the sweet passion for Chaleomede, drove the whole unweaponed band of Mainalids into the frowning city, prodding th
em with his spear from behind. As a shepherd drives scattered clumps of mingled sheep into the shelter of a roomy pen together, and guides his fleecy flocks of sheep with his staff all in a flurry, while many drovers run by his side, stretching out their joined hands, to encircle them and drive them on in close files headlong, for fear some group of the enclosed sheep should break aside and run away: so windswift Morrheus drove to the steepwalled city all the column of Bacchant women cut out from the battle, and herded the female crowd into the gates. But for all his trouble his scheme was useless. He wished to leave all this booty of fair women from the battle, and to hunt afterwards for Chalcomede, to drag her away, to make her his slave with other women, that she might be his servant by day and his bedfellow by night, and do the work of two goddesses in turn — Cypris in secret and Athena’s loom in public....
[269] Shakespear Morrheus did not neglect this. He turned over the timid women’s war to Deriades, who was fighting near him, and attacked the male part of Bacchos’s army, that he might cut off the men too; and they were put to flight on the field. But the tempestuous girl stood in all her bravery in front of the city near the wall, a maiden unveiled. She mimicked the ways of love-mad women with artificial nods and becks, rolling her eyes, and her blushing breast gave colour to the white tunic which had escaped from its wonted belt. Morrheus gazed at her with delight, and saw the delicate round of her breast stretching the robe from within.
[281] The maiden caught up a hewn stone rounded like a quoit, which would be a monstrous weight for a cart, and cast it with skilful hand at helmeted Morrheus. The stone hurtled through the air with a loud whizzing sound, and scraped the surface of his shield, where a chased image of gold showed the imitation portrait of an unreal Cheirobie. It tore off the depicted head, and scratched the face with its shining edge and disfigured the artistic beauty of a rounded portrait. “Happy shield!” thought Morrheus, and leapt about again and again, laughing in his heart as he said to himself,
[292] “Fearless Chalcomedeia! A new rosyfinger Peitho! Elegant image of Cypris, and of Athena in her cuirass! Bacchic Dawn, Selene who never sets! You have torn off the portrait of my wife: I only wish you had cut the throat of Cheirobie, the real wife!”
[297] With these thoughts, he pursued the chaste maiden in front of the walls, shouting threats but not lifting his hand, with volleys of words but no pricks of the spear for the maiden, for he lifted the sparing spear in a gentle hand merciful: as if in real anger, a friendly enemy with a rough voice he cried speeches meant to deceive; for he both laughed in his heart and showed fury in his face. He gently brandished and cast a wavering lance at a useless mark, on purpose. The girl fled nimbleknee, quick as the blowing breezes. As she strained with moving windswift knee, the air spread abroad her clustering curls and bared the neck which rivalled Selene. Morrheus ran with sparing foot on purpose, now gazing at the feet bare of strapped shoes and at the rosy ankles, now watching the locks of hair tossed behind — so he chased Chalcomede, and now’ called to her in pleasant words, coaxing speech from a gentle throat:
[316] “Wait for me, Chaleomedeia! Wait for your lover in arms! Your radiance saves you, not your speed! Sharp steel is not so strong to bring down a man as the sparks of love. I am no enemy, fear not! for in this battle your beauty has beaten my point of steel. You need no spear, no shield. For sword, for furious spear, you have the rays of your countenance, and your cheeks are much more triumphant than the ashplant. The terrible strength of my hand is melted. No wonder if my valiant spear is conquered, for savage Ares himself turns woman when Cypris stands up to him. Receive me in the company of your Satyrs. In battle the Indians are best so long as I hold arms in my hands: but if it be your pleasure, I will serve Dionysos as lackey. If it be your pleasure, strike my neck or my flank: I care not for death if your blade pierces me. Only mourn me when dead; the tears of sorrowing Chalcomede will bring me back even from Hades.
[334] “Maiden, why do you tremble if I lift a gentle spear? Seeing your tresses lying tangled upon your uncovered shoulders, I have put my helmet from off my uncovered hair; when I see the fawnskin, I hate to wear a corselet.”
[338] When the words were said, she passed away and joined the Bacchoi, and keeping out of the way of the murderous Morrheus, she boldly fought and battled against the armed men.
[341] Then the Bacchic host left the noise of the whirling conflict and had time to breathe, while Morrheus retired from the field.
[343] But Deriades pursued the band of Bassarids in front of the city, striking with his sword, until he had driven them up to the walls, and the whole company was penned within the open gateway of the lofty fortress. So pursued with the sword, they entered the city, torn from their familiar forests. Unresting the columns marched away here and there by unfamiliar winding roads, divided into parts, these towards the wing of Euros, these to the uplands of Zephyros in the western clime of the world, others travelling along the plain of Notos, other Bassarids driven to the region of Boreas. Then the Mainads put off the manly temper which constrained them, and once more became women, refusing battle, remembering the art they loved of distaff and basket; once more they wished to ply the spindle of Athena instead of the gear of Lyaios. And the blackskin men had wild uproar of defensive battle within the city, destroying the snow-white host.
BOOK XXXV
In the thirty-fifth, seek the love of Morrheus for the enemy, and the battle and bloodshed of Bassarid women.
DERIADES, the gigantic Indian chieftain, was fighting furiously in the mad battle and attacking the servants of Bromios, now casting a long spear, now striking with the hilted sword; or he rushed about throwing boulders from the mountain torrents and shooting arrows sharper still.
[6] In this manner the women within the walls were harried by the spears of Deriades; and there was a din from both sides of many tongues. The paved streets of the city were empurpled by the red gore, as the women were slain therein amid great tumult. The old men were seated unmoving upon the high precipitous walls, watching the fray; the women also upon the rooftops gazed at the whole thyrsusbearing throng, and many a longrobed maiden from her chamber above leaning upon her nurse marked this female warfare, and lamented with tears the slaughter of some girl of her own years. But no man took and forced any lovely nymph; for the king had commanded his womanmad people to eschew meddling or marrying with the captives of the spear, lest in thinking of the Paphian they should be slack in the fight.
[21] But a girl rolling upon the ground was bared, her dress was pulled aside, and armed with her own radiance, wounded she wounded her lusting slayer; her beauty was her bolt, and dying she conquered; her naked thighs were as weapons, and sped the arrows of the Loves against her slayer. Then he would have felt desire for a lifeless corpse, as Achilles did — seeing a new Penthesilei on the ground, he would have kissed the cold lips of the girl, prostrate in the dust, had he not feared the weight of the threat of Deriades. He looked at the skin of the naked girl denied him, he gazed at her white ankles, at the parting of the uncovered thighs, touched her limbs, handled often the swelling rosy breast even now like an apple; he would even have mingled with her in love — but at last, tired, he let these foolish words of desire escape him:
“Maiden of the rosy arms, wounded yourself you have wounded your lovesick slayer, slain you conquer the living, you pierce your own destroyer with the arrows of your eyes! The spear has been conquered by your beauty; for the radiance of your face deals confusion as much as the barbs of javelins. Your bosom is as a bow, since your breasts are more potent archers of the Loves than arrows are. A strange incredible desire is in me, when I pursue a girls dead love to attain a perished wedlock! A thing without breath goads me, the breathing. If I dare ask it, let those lips have breath and speech, maiden, that I may hear a word from your sweet mouth, speaking something like this: ‘You killed me, you plundered me, rolling upon the ground! Then let a girl be, scoundrel. Touch not my tunic, when your steel has cut me! Why do you hold the side which you
have wounded? Stroke no more the cruel wound which you gave me!’ Away my spear, away the boldness of my hand, because it left alone Seilenoi with hoary bristling hair and all the ugly generation of Satyrs, and instead of old men, instead of shaggy chests, it vanquished a tender girl! But now’ I touch the wound in your so desirable flesh, what ridge of the pasturing woodlands must I traverse to summon old lifebringing Cheiron to help your wound? or where can I find medicines, the secrets of the Healer’s painassuaging art? Would that I had what they call the herb centaury, that I might bind the flower of no-pain upon your limbs, and bring you back safe and living from Hades whence none returns! What magic hymn have I, or song from the stars, that I may chant the ditty with Euian voice divine, and stay the flow of blood from your wounded side? Would I had here beside me the fountain of life, that I might pour on your limbs that painstilling water and assuage your adorable wound, to bring back even your soul to you again! O Glaucos, guiding the revolutions of innumerable years, if it be lawful, leave the abyss of the barren sea, and show me the life-sufficing plant, show that which you tasted once with your lips, and now enjoy life incorruptible, circling with the course of infinite time!”
[79] Then arose the bride Protonoe, who still mourned Orontes dead, to avenge her slain husband. She dashed through the crowd of women, and one might have thought her another manlike Atalante among the Erythraians. And Cheirobie seizing a shield and the spear of Morrheus attacked the Bassarids, and seemed like that Gorge, who once when well-walled Calydon was attacked wielded the oxhide shield of Toxeus her brother, and fought though a woman while Meleagros sulked. And Orsiboe appeared with her battlestirring husband, imitating the boldness of warlike Deianeira, when beside the inhospitable rock of Parnassus she faced the Dryopes and fought, a woman turned Amazon. Many women were shut up in the wide palace courtyards, and there was infinite lamentation in the turmoil under those roofs. Many a battlestirring maiden entered the fight in the street, other women on the roofs provided themselves with stony missiles; and the crowds within kept up the din of warfare.