The Aeneid (25 page)
Barely raising his eyes, Palinurus answers:
“You tell
me
to forget my sense of the sea?—
the placid face of the swells, the sleeping breakers?
You tell
me
to put my trust in that, that monster?
How could I leave Aeneas prey to the lying winds?
I, betrayed so often by calm, deceptive skies!”
“You tell
me
to forget my sense of the sea?—
the placid face of the swells, the sleeping breakers?
You tell
me
to put my trust in that, that monster?
How could I leave Aeneas prey to the lying winds?
I, betrayed so often by calm, deceptive skies!”
So the pilot countered, iron grip on the tiller,
never loosing his grasp, his eyes fixed on the stars.
But watch, the god with a bough drenched in Lethe’s dew
and drowsy with all the river Styx’s numbing power
shakes it over the pilot’s temples left and right
and fight as he does, his swimming eyes fall shut.
Just as an instant sleep stole in and left him limp,
the god, rearing over him, hurled him into the churning surf
and down he went, headfirst, wrenching a piece of rudder off
and the tiller too, and crying out to his shipmates
time and again—no use—
as the god himself goes winging off into thin air.
And the squadrons forge ahead undaunted, swift as ever,
sailing safely along as Father Neptune promised,
true, but carried closer in to the Sirens’ rocks—
hard straits once, white with the bones of many men—
now roaring out with the sounding boom of surf on reef
when captain Aeneas felt his ship adrift, her pilot lost,
and took command himself, at sea in the black night,
moaning deeply, stunned by his comrade’s fate:
“You trusted—oh, Palinurus—
far too much to a calm sky and sea.
Your naked corpse will lie on an unknown shore.”
never loosing his grasp, his eyes fixed on the stars.
But watch, the god with a bough drenched in Lethe’s dew
and drowsy with all the river Styx’s numbing power
shakes it over the pilot’s temples left and right
and fight as he does, his swimming eyes fall shut.
Just as an instant sleep stole in and left him limp,
the god, rearing over him, hurled him into the churning surf
and down he went, headfirst, wrenching a piece of rudder off
and the tiller too, and crying out to his shipmates
time and again—no use—
as the god himself goes winging off into thin air.
And the squadrons forge ahead undaunted, swift as ever,
sailing safely along as Father Neptune promised,
true, but carried closer in to the Sirens’ rocks—
hard straits once, white with the bones of many men—
now roaring out with the sounding boom of surf on reef
when captain Aeneas felt his ship adrift, her pilot lost,
and took command himself, at sea in the black night,
moaning deeply, stunned by his comrade’s fate:
“You trusted—oh, Palinurus—
far too much to a calm sky and sea.
Your naked corpse will lie on an unknown shore.”
BOOK SIX
The Kingdom of the Dead
So as he speaks in tears Aeneas gives the ships free rein
and at last they glide onto Euboean Cumae’s beaches.
Swinging their prows around to face the sea,
they moor the fleet with the anchors’ biting grip
and the curved sterns edge the bay. Bands of sailors,
primed for action, leap out onto land—Hesperian land.
Some strike seeds of fire buried in veins of flint,
some strip the dense thickets, lairs of wild beasts,
and lighting on streams, are quick to point them out.
But devout Aeneas makes his way to the stronghold
that Apollo rules, throned on high, and set apart
is a vast cave, the awesome Sybil’s secret haunt
where the Seer of Delos breathes his mighty will,
his soul inspiring her to lay the future bare.
And now they approach Diana’s sacred grove
and walk beneath the golden roofs of god.
Daedalus,
so the story’s told, fleeing the realm of Minos,
daring to trust himself to the sky on beating wings,
floated up to the icy North, the first man to fly,
and hovered lightly on Cumae’s heights at last.
Here, on first returning to earth, he hallowed
to you, Apollo, the oars of his rowing wings
and here he built your grand, imposing temple.
High on a gate he carved Androgeos’ death
and then the people of Athens, doomed—so cruel—
to pay with the lives of seven sons. Year in, year out,
the urn stands ready, the fateful lots are drawn.
and at last they glide onto Euboean Cumae’s beaches.
Swinging their prows around to face the sea,
they moor the fleet with the anchors’ biting grip
and the curved sterns edge the bay. Bands of sailors,
primed for action, leap out onto land—Hesperian land.
Some strike seeds of fire buried in veins of flint,
some strip the dense thickets, lairs of wild beasts,
and lighting on streams, are quick to point them out.
But devout Aeneas makes his way to the stronghold
that Apollo rules, throned on high, and set apart
is a vast cave, the awesome Sybil’s secret haunt
where the Seer of Delos breathes his mighty will,
his soul inspiring her to lay the future bare.
And now they approach Diana’s sacred grove
and walk beneath the golden roofs of god.
Daedalus,
so the story’s told, fleeing the realm of Minos,
daring to trust himself to the sky on beating wings,
floated up to the icy North, the first man to fly,
and hovered lightly on Cumae’s heights at last.
Here, on first returning to earth, he hallowed
to you, Apollo, the oars of his rowing wings
and here he built your grand, imposing temple.
High on a gate he carved Androgeos’ death
and then the people of Athens, doomed—so cruel—
to pay with the lives of seven sons. Year in, year out,
the urn stands ready, the fateful lots are drawn.
Balancing these on a facing gate, the land of Crete
comes rising from the sea. Here the cursed lust for the bull
and Pasiphaë spread beneath him, duping both her mates,
and here the mixed breed, part man, part beast, the Minotaur—
a warning against such monstrous passion. Here its lair,
that house of labor, the endless blinding maze,
but Daedalus, pitying royal Ariadne’s love so deep,
unraveled his own baffling labyrinth’s winding paths,
guiding Theseus’ groping steps with a trail of thread.
And you too, Icarus, what part you might have played
in a work that great, had Daedalus’ grief allowed it.
Twice he tried to engrave your fall in gold and
twice his hands, a father’s hands, fell useless.
Yes,
and they would have kept on scanning scene by scene
if Achates, sent ahead, had not returned, bringing
Deiphobe, Glaucus’ daughter, priestess of Phoebus
and Diana too, and the Sibyl tells the king:
“This is no time for gazing at the sights.
Better to slaughter seven bulls from a herd
unbroken by the yoke, as the old rite requires,
and as many head of teething yearling sheep.”
Directing Aeneas so—and his men are quick
with the sacrifice she demands—
the Sibyl calls them into her lofty shrine.
comes rising from the sea. Here the cursed lust for the bull
and Pasiphaë spread beneath him, duping both her mates,
and here the mixed breed, part man, part beast, the Minotaur—
a warning against such monstrous passion. Here its lair,
that house of labor, the endless blinding maze,
but Daedalus, pitying royal Ariadne’s love so deep,
unraveled his own baffling labyrinth’s winding paths,
guiding Theseus’ groping steps with a trail of thread.
And you too, Icarus, what part you might have played
in a work that great, had Daedalus’ grief allowed it.
Twice he tried to engrave your fall in gold and
twice his hands, a father’s hands, fell useless.
Yes,
and they would have kept on scanning scene by scene
if Achates, sent ahead, had not returned, bringing
Deiphobe, Glaucus’ daughter, priestess of Phoebus
and Diana too, and the Sibyl tells the king:
“This is no time for gazing at the sights.
Better to slaughter seven bulls from a herd
unbroken by the yoke, as the old rite requires,
and as many head of teething yearling sheep.”
Directing Aeneas so—and his men are quick
with the sacrifice she demands—
the Sibyl calls them into her lofty shrine.
Now carved out of the rocky flanks of Cumae
lies an enormous cavern pierced by a hundred tunnels,
a hundred mouths with as many voices rushing out,
the Sibyl’s rapt replies. They had just gained
the sacred sill when the virgin cries aloud:
“Now is the time to ask your fate to speak!
The god, look, the god!”
So she cries before
the entrance—suddenly all her features, all
her color changes, her braided hair flies loose
and her breast heaves, her heart bursts with frenzy,
she seems to rise in height, the ring of her voice no longer
human—the breath, the power of god comes closer, closer.
“Why so slow, Trojan Aeneas?” she shouts, “so slow
to pray, to swear your vows? Not until you do
will the great jaws of our spellbound house gape wide.”
And with that command the prophetess fell silent.
lies an enormous cavern pierced by a hundred tunnels,
a hundred mouths with as many voices rushing out,
the Sibyl’s rapt replies. They had just gained
the sacred sill when the virgin cries aloud:
“Now is the time to ask your fate to speak!
The god, look, the god!”
So she cries before
the entrance—suddenly all her features, all
her color changes, her braided hair flies loose
and her breast heaves, her heart bursts with frenzy,
she seems to rise in height, the ring of her voice no longer
human—the breath, the power of god comes closer, closer.
“Why so slow, Trojan Aeneas?” she shouts, “so slow
to pray, to swear your vows? Not until you do
will the great jaws of our spellbound house gape wide.”
And with that command the prophetess fell silent.
An icy shiver runs through the Trojans’ sturdy spines
and the king’s prayers come pouring from his heart:
“Apollo, you always pitied the Trojans’ heavy labors!
You guided the arrow of Paris, pierced Achilles’ body.
You led me through many seas, bordering endless coasts,
far-off Massylian tribes, and fields washed by the Syrtes,
and now, at long last, Italy’s shores, forever fading,
lie within our grasp. Let the doom of Troy pursue us
just this far, no more. You too, you gods and goddesses,
all who could never suffer Troy and Troy’s high glory,
spare the people of Pergamum now, it’s only right.
And you, you blessed Sibyl who knows the future,
grant my prayer. I ask no more than the realm
my fate decrees: let the Trojans rest in Latium,
they and their roaming gods, their rootless powers!
Then I will build you a solid marble temple,
Apollo and Diana, establish hallowed days,
Apollo, in your name. And Sibyl, for you too,
a magnificent sacred shrine awaits you in our kingdom.
There I will house your oracles, mystic revelations
made to our race, and ordain your chosen priests,
my gracious lady. Just don’t commit your words
to the rustling, scattering leaves—
sport of the winds that whirl them all away.
Sing them yourself, I beg you!” There Aeneas stopped.
and the king’s prayers come pouring from his heart:
“Apollo, you always pitied the Trojans’ heavy labors!
You guided the arrow of Paris, pierced Achilles’ body.
You led me through many seas, bordering endless coasts,
far-off Massylian tribes, and fields washed by the Syrtes,
and now, at long last, Italy’s shores, forever fading,
lie within our grasp. Let the doom of Troy pursue us
just this far, no more. You too, you gods and goddesses,
all who could never suffer Troy and Troy’s high glory,
spare the people of Pergamum now, it’s only right.
And you, you blessed Sibyl who knows the future,
grant my prayer. I ask no more than the realm
my fate decrees: let the Trojans rest in Latium,
they and their roaming gods, their rootless powers!
Then I will build you a solid marble temple,
Apollo and Diana, establish hallowed days,
Apollo, in your name. And Sibyl, for you too,
a magnificent sacred shrine awaits you in our kingdom.
There I will house your oracles, mystic revelations
made to our race, and ordain your chosen priests,
my gracious lady. Just don’t commit your words
to the rustling, scattering leaves—
sport of the winds that whirl them all away.
Sing them yourself, I beg you!” There Aeneas stopped.
But the Sibyl, still not broken in by Apollo, storms
with a wild fury through her cave. And the more she tries
to pitch the great god off her breast, the more his bridle
exhausts her raving lips, overwhelming her untamed heart,
bending her to his will. Now the hundred immense
mouths of the house swing open, all on their own,
and bear the Sibyl’s answers through the air:
“You who have braved the terrors of the sea,
though worse remain on land—you Trojans will reach
Lavinium’s realm—lift that care from your hearts—
but you will rue your arrival. Wars, horrendous wars,
and the Tiber foaming with tides of blood, I see it all!
Simois, Xanthus, a Greek camp—you’ll never lack them here.
Already a new Achilles springs to life in Latium,
son of a goddess too! Nor will Juno ever fail
to harry the Trojan race, and all the while,
pleading, pressed by need—what tribes, what towns
of Italy won’t you beg for help! And the cause of this,
this new Trojan grief? Again a stranger bride,
a marriage with a stranger once again.
But never bow to suffering, go and face it,
all the bolder, wherever Fortune clears the way.
Your path to safety will open first from where
you least expect it—a city built by Greeks!”
Those words
re-echoing from her shrine, the Cumaean Sibyl chants
her riddling visions filled with dread, her cave resounds
as she shrouds the truth in darkness—Phoebus whips her on
in all her frenzy, twisting his spurs below her breast.
As soon as her fury dies and raving lips fall still,
the hero Aeneas launches in: “No trials, my lady,
can loom before me in any new, surprising form.
No, deep in my spirit I have known them all,
I’ve faced them all before. But grant one prayer.
Since here, they say, are the gates of Death’s king
and the dark marsh where the Acheron comes flooding up,
please, allow me to go and see my beloved father,
meet him face-to-face.
Teach me the way, throw wide the sacred doors!
Through fires, a thousand menacing spears I swept him off
on these shoulders, saved him from our enemies’ onslaught.
He shared all roads and he braved all seas with me,
all threats of the waves and skies—frail as he was
but graced with a strength beyond his years, his lot.
He was the one, in fact, who ordered, pressed me on
to reach your doors and seek you, beg you now.
Pity the son and father, I pray you, kindly lady!
All power is yours. Hecate held back nothing,
put you in charge of Avernus’ groves. If Orpheus
could summon up the ghost of his wife, trusting so
to his Thracian lyre and echoing strings; if Pollux
could ransom his brother and share his death by turns,
time and again traversing the same road up and down;
if Theseus, mighty Hercules—must I mention them?
I too can trace my birth from Jove on high.”
So he prayed,
grasping the altar while the Sibyl gave her answer:
“Born of the blood of gods, Anchises’ son,
man of Troy, the descent to the Underworld is easy.
Night and day the gates of shadowy Death stand open wide,
but to retrace your steps, to climb back to the upper air—
there the struggle, there the labor lies. Only a few,
loved by impartial Jove or borne aloft to the sky
by their own fiery virtue—some sons of the gods
have made their way. The entire heartland here
is thick with woods, Cocytus glides around it,
coiling dense and dark.
But if such a wild desire seizes on you—twice
to sail the Stygian marsh, to see black Tartarus twice—
if you’re so eager to give yourself to this, this mad ordeal,
then hear what you must accomplish first.
“Hidden
deep in a shady tree there grows a golden bough,
its leaves and its hardy, sinewy stem all gold,
held sacred to Juno of the Dead, Proserpina.
The whole grove covers it over, dusky valleys
enfold it too, closing in around it. No one
may pass below the secret places of earth before
he plucks the fruit, the golden foliage of that tree.
As her beauty’s due, Proserpina decreed this bough
shall be offered up to her as her own hallowed gift.
When the first spray’s torn away, another takes its place,
gold too, the metal breaks into leaf again, all gold.
Lift up your eyes and search, and once you find it,
duly pluck it off with your hand. Freely, easily,
all by itself it comes away, if Fate calls you on.
If not, no strength within you can overpower it,
no iron blade, however hard, can tear it off.
with a wild fury through her cave. And the more she tries
to pitch the great god off her breast, the more his bridle
exhausts her raving lips, overwhelming her untamed heart,
bending her to his will. Now the hundred immense
mouths of the house swing open, all on their own,
and bear the Sibyl’s answers through the air:
“You who have braved the terrors of the sea,
though worse remain on land—you Trojans will reach
Lavinium’s realm—lift that care from your hearts—
but you will rue your arrival. Wars, horrendous wars,
and the Tiber foaming with tides of blood, I see it all!
Simois, Xanthus, a Greek camp—you’ll never lack them here.
Already a new Achilles springs to life in Latium,
son of a goddess too! Nor will Juno ever fail
to harry the Trojan race, and all the while,
pleading, pressed by need—what tribes, what towns
of Italy won’t you beg for help! And the cause of this,
this new Trojan grief? Again a stranger bride,
a marriage with a stranger once again.
But never bow to suffering, go and face it,
all the bolder, wherever Fortune clears the way.
Your path to safety will open first from where
you least expect it—a city built by Greeks!”
Those words
re-echoing from her shrine, the Cumaean Sibyl chants
her riddling visions filled with dread, her cave resounds
as she shrouds the truth in darkness—Phoebus whips her on
in all her frenzy, twisting his spurs below her breast.
As soon as her fury dies and raving lips fall still,
the hero Aeneas launches in: “No trials, my lady,
can loom before me in any new, surprising form.
No, deep in my spirit I have known them all,
I’ve faced them all before. But grant one prayer.
Since here, they say, are the gates of Death’s king
and the dark marsh where the Acheron comes flooding up,
please, allow me to go and see my beloved father,
meet him face-to-face.
Teach me the way, throw wide the sacred doors!
Through fires, a thousand menacing spears I swept him off
on these shoulders, saved him from our enemies’ onslaught.
He shared all roads and he braved all seas with me,
all threats of the waves and skies—frail as he was
but graced with a strength beyond his years, his lot.
He was the one, in fact, who ordered, pressed me on
to reach your doors and seek you, beg you now.
Pity the son and father, I pray you, kindly lady!
All power is yours. Hecate held back nothing,
put you in charge of Avernus’ groves. If Orpheus
could summon up the ghost of his wife, trusting so
to his Thracian lyre and echoing strings; if Pollux
could ransom his brother and share his death by turns,
time and again traversing the same road up and down;
if Theseus, mighty Hercules—must I mention them?
I too can trace my birth from Jove on high.”
So he prayed,
grasping the altar while the Sibyl gave her answer:
“Born of the blood of gods, Anchises’ son,
man of Troy, the descent to the Underworld is easy.
Night and day the gates of shadowy Death stand open wide,
but to retrace your steps, to climb back to the upper air—
there the struggle, there the labor lies. Only a few,
loved by impartial Jove or borne aloft to the sky
by their own fiery virtue—some sons of the gods
have made their way. The entire heartland here
is thick with woods, Cocytus glides around it,
coiling dense and dark.
But if such a wild desire seizes on you—twice
to sail the Stygian marsh, to see black Tartarus twice—
if you’re so eager to give yourself to this, this mad ordeal,
then hear what you must accomplish first.
“Hidden
deep in a shady tree there grows a golden bough,
its leaves and its hardy, sinewy stem all gold,
held sacred to Juno of the Dead, Proserpina.
The whole grove covers it over, dusky valleys
enfold it too, closing in around it. No one
may pass below the secret places of earth before
he plucks the fruit, the golden foliage of that tree.
As her beauty’s due, Proserpina decreed this bough
shall be offered up to her as her own hallowed gift.
When the first spray’s torn away, another takes its place,
gold too, the metal breaks into leaf again, all gold.
Lift up your eyes and search, and once you find it,
duly pluck it off with your hand. Freely, easily,
all by itself it comes away, if Fate calls you on.
If not, no strength within you can overpower it,
no iron blade, however hard, can tear it off.
“One thing more I must tell you.
A friend lies dead—oh, you could not know—
his body pollutes your entire fleet with death
while you search on for oracles, linger at our doors.
Bear him first to his place of rest, bury him in his tomb.
Lead black cattle there, first offerings of atonement.
Only then can you set eyes on the Stygian groves
and the realms no living man has ever trod.”
Abruptly she fell silent, lips sealed tight.
A friend lies dead—oh, you could not know—
his body pollutes your entire fleet with death
while you search on for oracles, linger at our doors.
Bear him first to his place of rest, bury him in his tomb.
Lead black cattle there, first offerings of atonement.
Only then can you set eyes on the Stygian groves
and the realms no living man has ever trod.”
Abruptly she fell silent, lips sealed tight.
His eyes fixed on the ground, his face in tears,
Aeneas moves on, leaving the cavern, turning over
within his mind these strange, dark events.
His trusty comrade Achates keeps his pace
and the same cares weigh down his plodding steps.
They traded many questions, wondering, back and forth,
what dead friend did the Sibyl mean, whose body must be buried?
Suddenly, Misenus—out on the dry beach they see him,
reach him now, cut off by a death all undeserved.
Misenus, Aeolus’ son, a herald unsurpassed
at rallying troops with his trumpet’s cry,
igniting the God of War with its shrill blare.
He had been mighty Hector’s friend, by Hector’s side
in the rush of battle, shining with spear and trumpet both.
But when triumphant Achilles stripped Hector’s life,
the gallant hero joined forces with Dardan Aeneas,
followed a captain every bit as strong. But then,
chancing to make the ocean ring with his hollow shell,
the madman challenged the gods to match him blast for blast
and jealous Triton—if we can believe the story—
snatched him up and drowned the man in the surf
that seethed between the rocks.
So all his shipmates
gathered round his body and raised a loud lament,
devoted Aeneas in the lead. Then still in tears,
they rush to perform the Sibyl’s orders, no delay,
they strive to pile up trees, to build an altar-pyre
rising to the skies. Then into an ancient wood
and the hidden dens of beasts they make their way,
and down crash the pines, the ilex rings to the axe,
the trunks of ash and oak are split by the driving wedge,
and they roll huge rowans down the hilly slopes.
Aeneas moves on, leaving the cavern, turning over
within his mind these strange, dark events.
His trusty comrade Achates keeps his pace
and the same cares weigh down his plodding steps.
They traded many questions, wondering, back and forth,
what dead friend did the Sibyl mean, whose body must be buried?
Suddenly, Misenus—out on the dry beach they see him,
reach him now, cut off by a death all undeserved.
Misenus, Aeolus’ son, a herald unsurpassed
at rallying troops with his trumpet’s cry,
igniting the God of War with its shrill blare.
He had been mighty Hector’s friend, by Hector’s side
in the rush of battle, shining with spear and trumpet both.
But when triumphant Achilles stripped Hector’s life,
the gallant hero joined forces with Dardan Aeneas,
followed a captain every bit as strong. But then,
chancing to make the ocean ring with his hollow shell,
the madman challenged the gods to match him blast for blast
and jealous Triton—if we can believe the story—
snatched him up and drowned the man in the surf
that seethed between the rocks.
So all his shipmates
gathered round his body and raised a loud lament,
devoted Aeneas in the lead. Then still in tears,
they rush to perform the Sibyl’s orders, no delay,
they strive to pile up trees, to build an altar-pyre
rising to the skies. Then into an ancient wood
and the hidden dens of beasts they make their way,
and down crash the pines, the ilex rings to the axe,
the trunks of ash and oak are split by the driving wedge,
and they roll huge rowans down the hilly slopes.
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