The Aeneid (15 page)
“Then in my panic something strange, some enemy power
robbed me of my senses. Lost, I was leaving behind
familiar paths, at a run down blind dead ends
when—
“Oh dear god, my wife, Creusa—
torn from me by a brutal fate! What then,
did she stop in her tracks or lose her way?
Or exhausted, sink down to rest? Who knows?
I never set my eyes on her again.
I never looked back, she never crossed my mind—
Creusa, lost—not till we reached that barrow
sacred to ancient Ceres where, with all our people
rallied at last, she alone was missing. Lost
to her friends, her son, her husband—gone forever.
Raving, I blamed them all, the gods, the human race—
what crueler blow did I feel the night that Troy went down?
Ascanius, father Anchises, and all the gods of Troy,
entrusting them to my friends, I hide them well away
in a valley’s shelter, don my burnished gear
and back I go to Troy . . .
my mind steeled to relive the whole disaster,
retrace my route through the whole city now
and put my life in danger one more time.
“First then,
back to the looming walls, the shadowy rear gates
by which I’d left the city, back I go in my tracks,
retracing, straining to find my footsteps in the dark,
with terror at every turn, the very silence makes me cringe.
Then back to my house I go—if only, only she’s gone there—
but the Greeks have flooded in, seized the entire place.
All over now. Devouring fire whipped by the winds
goes churning into the rooftops, flames surging
over them, scorching blasts raging up the sky.
On I go and again I see the palace of Priam
set on the heights, but there in colonnades
deserted now, in the sanctuary of Juno, there
stand the elite watchmen, Phoenix, ruthless Ulysses
guarding all their loot. All the treasures of Troy
hauled from the burning shrines—the sacramental tables,
bowls of solid gold and the holy robes they’d seized
from every quarter—Greeks, piling high the plunder.
Children and trembling mothers rounded up
in a long, endless line.
“Why, I even dared fling
my voice through the dark, my shouts filled the streets
as time and again, overcome with grief I called out
‘Creusa!’ Nothing, no reply, and again ‘Creusa!’
But then as I madly rushed from house to house,
no end in sight, abruptly, right before my eyes
I saw her stricken ghost, my own Creusa’s shade.
But larger than life, the life I’d known so well.
I froze. My hackles bristled, voice choked in my throat,
and my wife spoke out to ease me of my anguish:
‘My dear husband, why so eager to give yourself
to such mad flights of grief? It’s not without
the will of the gods these things have come to pass.
But the gods forbid you to take Creusa with you,
bound from Troy together. The king of lofty Olympus
won’t allow it. A long exile is your fate . . .
the vast plains of the sea are yours to plow
until you reach Hesperian land, where Lydian Tiber
flows with its smooth march through rich and loamy fields,
a land of hardy people. There great joy and a kingdom
are yours to claim, and a queen to make your wife.
Dispel your tears for Creusa whom you loved.
I will never behold the high and mighty pride
of their palaces, the Myrmidons, the Dolopians,
or go as a slave to some Greek matron, no, not I,
daughter of Dardanus that I am, the wife of Venus’ son.
The Great Mother of Gods detains me on these shores.
And now farewell. Hold dear the son we share,
we love together.’
“These were her parting words
and for all my tears—I longed to say so much—
dissolving into the empty air she left me now.
Three times I tried to fling my arms around her neck,
three times I embraced—nothing . . . her phantom
sifting through my fingers,
light as wind, quick as a dream in flight.
“Gone—
and at last the night was over. Back I went to my people
and I was amazed to see what throngs of new companions
had poured in to swell our numbers, mothers, men,
our forces gathered for exile, grieving masses.
They had come together from every quarter,
belongings, spirits ready for me to lead them
over the sea to whatever lands I’d choose.
And now the morning star was mounting above
the high crests of Ida, leading on the day.
The Greeks had taken the city, blocked off every gate.
No hope of rescue now. So I gave way at last and
lifting my father, headed toward the mountains.”
robbed me of my senses. Lost, I was leaving behind
familiar paths, at a run down blind dead ends
when—
“Oh dear god, my wife, Creusa—
torn from me by a brutal fate! What then,
did she stop in her tracks or lose her way?
Or exhausted, sink down to rest? Who knows?
I never set my eyes on her again.
I never looked back, she never crossed my mind—
Creusa, lost—not till we reached that barrow
sacred to ancient Ceres where, with all our people
rallied at last, she alone was missing. Lost
to her friends, her son, her husband—gone forever.
Raving, I blamed them all, the gods, the human race—
what crueler blow did I feel the night that Troy went down?
Ascanius, father Anchises, and all the gods of Troy,
entrusting them to my friends, I hide them well away
in a valley’s shelter, don my burnished gear
and back I go to Troy . . .
my mind steeled to relive the whole disaster,
retrace my route through the whole city now
and put my life in danger one more time.
“First then,
back to the looming walls, the shadowy rear gates
by which I’d left the city, back I go in my tracks,
retracing, straining to find my footsteps in the dark,
with terror at every turn, the very silence makes me cringe.
Then back to my house I go—if only, only she’s gone there—
but the Greeks have flooded in, seized the entire place.
All over now. Devouring fire whipped by the winds
goes churning into the rooftops, flames surging
over them, scorching blasts raging up the sky.
On I go and again I see the palace of Priam
set on the heights, but there in colonnades
deserted now, in the sanctuary of Juno, there
stand the elite watchmen, Phoenix, ruthless Ulysses
guarding all their loot. All the treasures of Troy
hauled from the burning shrines—the sacramental tables,
bowls of solid gold and the holy robes they’d seized
from every quarter—Greeks, piling high the plunder.
Children and trembling mothers rounded up
in a long, endless line.
“Why, I even dared fling
my voice through the dark, my shouts filled the streets
as time and again, overcome with grief I called out
‘Creusa!’ Nothing, no reply, and again ‘Creusa!’
But then as I madly rushed from house to house,
no end in sight, abruptly, right before my eyes
I saw her stricken ghost, my own Creusa’s shade.
But larger than life, the life I’d known so well.
I froze. My hackles bristled, voice choked in my throat,
and my wife spoke out to ease me of my anguish:
‘My dear husband, why so eager to give yourself
to such mad flights of grief? It’s not without
the will of the gods these things have come to pass.
But the gods forbid you to take Creusa with you,
bound from Troy together. The king of lofty Olympus
won’t allow it. A long exile is your fate . . .
the vast plains of the sea are yours to plow
until you reach Hesperian land, where Lydian Tiber
flows with its smooth march through rich and loamy fields,
a land of hardy people. There great joy and a kingdom
are yours to claim, and a queen to make your wife.
Dispel your tears for Creusa whom you loved.
I will never behold the high and mighty pride
of their palaces, the Myrmidons, the Dolopians,
or go as a slave to some Greek matron, no, not I,
daughter of Dardanus that I am, the wife of Venus’ son.
The Great Mother of Gods detains me on these shores.
And now farewell. Hold dear the son we share,
we love together.’
“These were her parting words
and for all my tears—I longed to say so much—
dissolving into the empty air she left me now.
Three times I tried to fling my arms around her neck,
three times I embraced—nothing . . . her phantom
sifting through my fingers,
light as wind, quick as a dream in flight.
“Gone—
and at last the night was over. Back I went to my people
and I was amazed to see what throngs of new companions
had poured in to swell our numbers, mothers, men,
our forces gathered for exile, grieving masses.
They had come together from every quarter,
belongings, spirits ready for me to lead them
over the sea to whatever lands I’d choose.
And now the morning star was mounting above
the high crests of Ida, leading on the day.
The Greeks had taken the city, blocked off every gate.
No hope of rescue now. So I gave way at last and
lifting my father, headed toward the mountains.”
BOOK THREE
Landfalls, Ports of Call
“Now that it pleased the gods to crush the power of Asia
and Priam’s innocent people, now proud Troy had fallen—
Neptune’s city a total ruin smoking on the ground—
signs from the high gods drive us on, exiles now,
searching earth for a home in some neglected land.
We labor to build a fleet—hard by Antandros,
under the heights of Phrygian Ida—knowing nothing.
Where would destiny take us? Where are we to settle?
We muster men for crews. Summer has just begun
when father commands us: ‘Hoist our sails to Fate!’
And I launch out in tears and desert our native land,
the old safe haven, the plains where Troy once stood.
So I take to the open sea, an exile outward bound
with son and comrades, gods of hearth and home
and the great gods themselves.
“Just in the offing
lies the land of Mars, the boundless farmlands tilled
by the Thracian fieldhands, ruled in the old days
by merciless Lycurgus. His realm was a friend
of Troy for years, our household gods in league
so long as our fortunes lasted. Well, here I sail
and begin to build our first walls on the curving shore,
though Fate will block our way—and I give the town
the name of Aenus modeled on my own.
“Now,
making offerings to my mother, Dione’s daughter,
and to the gods who bless new ventures, I was poised,
there on the beach, to slaughter a pure white bull
to Jove above all who rules the Powers on high.
Nearby I chanced on a rise of ground topped off
by thickets bristling dogwood and myrtle spears.
I tried to tear some green shoots from the brush
to make a canopy for the altar with leafy boughs,
when a dreadful, ghastly sight, too strange for words,
strikes my eyes.
“Soon as I tear the first stalk
from its roots and rip it up from the earth . . .
dark blood oozes out and fouls the soil with filth.
Icy shudders rack my limbs—my blood chills with fear.
But again I try, I tear at another stubborn stalk—
I’ll probe this mystery to its hidden roots,
and again the dark blood runs from the torn bark.
Deeply shaken, I pray to the country nymphs
and Father Mars who strides the fields of Thrace:
‘Make this sight a blessing, lift the omen’s weight!’
But now as I pitch at a third stalk, doubling my effort,
knees bracing against the sand, struggling to pry it loose—
shall I tell you or hold my tongue?—I hear it, clearly,
a wrenching groan rising up from the deep mound,
a cry heaving into the air: ‘Why, Aeneas,
why mangle this wretched flesh? Spare the body
buried here—spare your own pure hands, don’t stain them!
I am no stranger to you. I was born in Troy,
and the blood you see is oozing from no tree.
Oh escape from this savage land, I beg you,
flee these grasping shores! I am Polydorus.
Here they impaled me, an iron planting of lances
covered my body—now they sprout in stabbing spears!’
and Priam’s innocent people, now proud Troy had fallen—
Neptune’s city a total ruin smoking on the ground—
signs from the high gods drive us on, exiles now,
searching earth for a home in some neglected land.
We labor to build a fleet—hard by Antandros,
under the heights of Phrygian Ida—knowing nothing.
Where would destiny take us? Where are we to settle?
We muster men for crews. Summer has just begun
when father commands us: ‘Hoist our sails to Fate!’
And I launch out in tears and desert our native land,
the old safe haven, the plains where Troy once stood.
So I take to the open sea, an exile outward bound
with son and comrades, gods of hearth and home
and the great gods themselves.
“Just in the offing
lies the land of Mars, the boundless farmlands tilled
by the Thracian fieldhands, ruled in the old days
by merciless Lycurgus. His realm was a friend
of Troy for years, our household gods in league
so long as our fortunes lasted. Well, here I sail
and begin to build our first walls on the curving shore,
though Fate will block our way—and I give the town
the name of Aenus modeled on my own.
“Now,
making offerings to my mother, Dione’s daughter,
and to the gods who bless new ventures, I was poised,
there on the beach, to slaughter a pure white bull
to Jove above all who rules the Powers on high.
Nearby I chanced on a rise of ground topped off
by thickets bristling dogwood and myrtle spears.
I tried to tear some green shoots from the brush
to make a canopy for the altar with leafy boughs,
when a dreadful, ghastly sight, too strange for words,
strikes my eyes.
“Soon as I tear the first stalk
from its roots and rip it up from the earth . . .
dark blood oozes out and fouls the soil with filth.
Icy shudders rack my limbs—my blood chills with fear.
But again I try, I tear at another stubborn stalk—
I’ll probe this mystery to its hidden roots,
and again the dark blood runs from the torn bark.
Deeply shaken, I pray to the country nymphs
and Father Mars who strides the fields of Thrace:
‘Make this sight a blessing, lift the omen’s weight!’
But now as I pitch at a third stalk, doubling my effort,
knees bracing against the sand, struggling to pry it loose—
shall I tell you or hold my tongue?—I hear it, clearly,
a wrenching groan rising up from the deep mound,
a cry heaving into the air: ‘Why, Aeneas,
why mangle this wretched flesh? Spare the body
buried here—spare your own pure hands, don’t stain them!
I am no stranger to you. I was born in Troy,
and the blood you see is oozing from no tree.
Oh escape from this savage land, I beg you,
flee these grasping shores! I am Polydorus.
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?’
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.’
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.
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.
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