The Aeneid (33 page)
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.”
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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 monster breathing fire, and all the woods resound
with the ringing hymns, and the hillsides echo back.
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 monster 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.
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.”
“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 grand grove that heroic Romulus restored
as a refuge—the Asylum—then shows him, under
its chilly rock, the grotto called the Lupercal,
in the old Arcadian way, Pan of Mount Lycaeus.
And he shows him the grove of hallowed Argiletum too,
he swears by the spot, retells the Death of Argus,
once his guest.
From there he leads Aeneas on
to Tarpeia’s house and the Capitol, all gold now
but once in the old days, thorny, dense with thickets.
Even then the awesome dread of the place struck fear
in the hearts of rustics, even then they trembled
before the woodland and the rock.
“This grove,” he says,
“this hill with its crown of leaves is a god’s home,
whatever god he is. My Arcadians think they’ve seen
almighty Jove in person, often brandishing high
his black storm-shield in his strong right hand
as he drives the tempest on. Here, what’s more,
in these two towns, their walls razed to the roots,
you can see the relics, monuments of the men of old.
This fortress built by Father Janus, that by Saturn:
this was called the Janiculum, that, Saturnia.”
So,
conversing and drawing near Evander’s humble home,
they saw herds of cattle, everywhere, lowing loud
in the Roman Forum and Carinae’s elegant district.
“These gates,” Evander says, as he reaches his lodge,
“Hercules in his triumph stooped to enter here.
This mansion of mine was grand enough for him.
Courage, my friend! Dare to scoff at riches.
Make yourself—you too—worthy to be a god.
Come into my meager house, and don’t be harsh.”
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 grand grove that heroic Romulus restored
as a refuge—the Asylum—then shows him, under
its chilly rock, the grotto called the Lupercal,
in the old Arcadian way, Pan of Mount Lycaeus.
And he shows him the grove of hallowed Argiletum too,
he swears by the spot, retells the Death of Argus,
once his guest.
From there he leads Aeneas on
to Tarpeia’s house and the Capitol, all gold now
but once in the old days, thorny, dense with thickets.
Even then the awesome dread of the place struck fear
in the hearts of rustics, even then they trembled
before the woodland and the rock.
“This grove,” he says,
“this hill with its crown of leaves is a god’s home,
whatever god he is. My Arcadians think they’ve seen
almighty Jove in person, often brandishing high
his black storm-shield in his strong right hand
as he drives the tempest on. Here, what’s more,
in these two towns, their walls razed to the roots,
you can see the relics, monuments of the men of old.
This fortress built by Father Janus, that by Saturn:
this was called the Janiculum, that, Saturnia.”
So,
conversing and drawing near Evander’s humble home,
they saw herds of cattle, everywhere, lowing loud
in the Roman Forum and Carinae’s elegant district.
“These gates,” Evander says, as he reaches his lodge,
“Hercules in his triumph stooped to enter here.
This mansion of mine was grand enough for him.
Courage, my friend! Dare to scoff at riches.
Make yourself—you too—worthy to be a god.
Come into my meager house, and don’t be harsh.”
So he said, and under his narrow sloped roof
he led the great Aeneas, laid him down on a bed
of fallen leaves and the hide of a Libyan bear.
Night comes rushing down, embracing the earth
in its deep dark wings.
But his mother, Venus,
stirred by fear—no wonder—by all the threats
and the Latins’ violent uproar, goes to Vulcan now
and there in their golden bridal chamber whispers,
breathing immortal love through every word:
“When Greek kings were ravishing Troy in war,
her fated towers, her ramparts doomed to enemy fires,
I asked no help for the victims then, I never begged
for the weapons right within your skill and power.
No, my dearest husband, I’d never put you to work
in a lost cause, much as I owed to Priam’s sons,
however often I wept for Aeneas’ grueling labors.
Now, by Jove’s command he lands on Rutulian soil,
so now I do come, kneeling before the godhead I adore,
begging weapons for my Aeneas, a mother for her son!
Remember Aurora, Tithonus’ wife, and Nereus’ daughter?
Both wept and you gave way. Look at the armies massing,
cities bolting their gates, honing swords against me
to cut my loved ones down.”
No more words.
The goddess threw her snow-white arms around him
as he held back, caressing him here and there,
and suddenly he caught fire—the same old story,
the flame he knew by heart went running through him,
melting him to the marrow of his bones. As thunder
at times will split the sky and a trail of fire goes
rippling through the clouds, flashing, blinding light—
and his wife sensed it all, delighting in her bewitching ways,
she knew her beauty’s power.
And father Vulcan,
enthralled by Venus, his everlasting love, replied:
“Why plumb the past for appeals? Where has it gone,
goddess, the trust you lodged in me? If only
you’d been so passionate for him, then as now,
we would have been in our rights to arm the Trojans,
even then. Neither Father Almighty nor the Fates
were dead against Troy’s standing any longer or
Priam’s living on for ten more years. But now,
if you are gearing up for war, your mind set,
whatever my pains and all my skills can promise,
whatever molten electrum and iron can bring to life,
whatever the bellows’ fiery blasts can do—enough!
Don’t pray to me now. Never doubt your powers.”
he led the great Aeneas, laid him down on a bed
of fallen leaves and the hide of a Libyan bear.
Night comes rushing down, embracing the earth
in its deep dark wings.
But his mother, Venus,
stirred by fear—no wonder—by all the threats
and the Latins’ violent uproar, goes to Vulcan now
and there in their golden bridal chamber whispers,
breathing immortal love through every word:
“When Greek kings were ravishing Troy in war,
her fated towers, her ramparts doomed to enemy fires,
I asked no help for the victims then, I never begged
for the weapons right within your skill and power.
No, my dearest husband, I’d never put you to work
in a lost cause, much as I owed to Priam’s sons,
however often I wept for Aeneas’ grueling labors.
Now, by Jove’s command he lands on Rutulian soil,
so now I do come, kneeling before the godhead I adore,
begging weapons for my Aeneas, a mother for her son!
Remember Aurora, Tithonus’ wife, and Nereus’ daughter?
Both wept and you gave way. Look at the armies massing,
cities bolting their gates, honing swords against me
to cut my loved ones down.”
No more words.
The goddess threw her snow-white arms around him
as he held back, caressing him here and there,
and suddenly he caught fire—the same old story,
the flame he knew by heart went running through him,
melting him to the marrow of his bones. As thunder
at times will split the sky and a trail of fire goes
rippling through the clouds, flashing, blinding light—
and his wife sensed it all, delighting in her bewitching ways,
she knew her beauty’s power.
And father Vulcan,
enthralled by Venus, his everlasting love, replied:
“Why plumb the past for appeals? Where has it gone,
goddess, the trust you lodged in me? If only
you’d been so passionate for him, then as now,
we would have been in our rights to arm the Trojans,
even then. Neither Father Almighty nor the Fates
were dead against Troy’s standing any longer or
Priam’s living on for ten more years. But now,
if you are gearing up for war, your mind set,
whatever my pains and all my skills can promise,
whatever molten electrum and iron can bring to life,
whatever the bellows’ fiery blasts can do—enough!
Don’t pray to me now. Never doubt your powers.”
Other books
Angelfire by Courtney Allison Moulton
Safe in His Arms by Renee Rose
city of dragons 02 - fire storm by crowe, val st
A Perfect Proposal by Katie Fforde
A Dangerous Love by Brenda Joyce
The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation by Belinda Vasquez Garcia
This Private Plot by Alan Beechey
Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) by Lisa T. Bergren
Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5) by Karina Halle