The Aeneid (17 page)
“‘First, that Italian land you think so near—
all unknowing, planning to ease into its harbors—
lies far off. A long wandering path will part you
miles from that shore by a lengthy stretch of coast.
So, first you must bend your oar in Sicilian seas
and cross in your ships the salt Italian waves,
the lakes of the Underworld and Aeaea, Circe’s isle,
before you can build your city safe on solid ground.
I will give you a sign. Guard it in your heart.
When at an anxious time by a secret river’s run,
under the oaks along the bank you find a great sow
stretched on her side with thirty pigs just farrowed,
a snow-white mother with snow-white young at her dugs:
that will be the place to found your city, there
your repose from labor lies. No reason to fear
that prophecy, the horror of eating your own platters.
The Fates will find the way. Apollo comes to your call.
all unknowing, planning to ease into its harbors—
lies far off. A long wandering path will part you
miles from that shore by a lengthy stretch of coast.
So, first you must bend your oar in Sicilian seas
and cross in your ships the salt Italian waves,
the lakes of the Underworld and Aeaea, Circe’s isle,
before you can build your city safe on solid ground.
I will give you a sign. Guard it in your heart.
When at an anxious time by a secret river’s run,
under the oaks along the bank you find a great sow
stretched on her side with thirty pigs just farrowed,
a snow-white mother with snow-white young at her dugs:
that will be the place to found your city, there
your repose from labor lies. No reason to fear
that prophecy, the horror of eating your own platters.
The Fates will find the way. Apollo comes to your call.
“‘But set sail from our land, steer clear of Italy’s coast,
the closest coast to our own, washed by our own seas—
every seaboard town is manned by hostile Greeks.
Here the Narycian Locri built their walls
and troops of Cretan Idomeneus from Lyctos
commandeered the Sallentine level fields.
Here little Petelia built by Philoctetes,
the Meliboean chief, lies safe behind its walls.
Once you have passed them all, moored your ships
on the far shore and set up altars on the beach
to perform your vows, then cloak yourselves in purple,
veil your heads, so while the hallowed fires are burning
in honor of the gods, no enemy presence can break in
and disrupt the omens. Your comrades, you yourself
must hold fast to this sacred rite, this custom.
Your sons’ sons must keep it pure forever.
“‘Now then,
launching out as the wind bears you toward Sicilian shores
and Pelorus’ crowded headlands open up a passage,
steer for the lands to port, the seas to port,
in a long southern sweep around the coast,
but stay clear of the heavy surf to starboard.
These lands, they say, were once an immense unbroken mass
but long ago—such is the power of time to work great change
as the ages pass—some vast convulsion sprang them apart,
a surge of the sea burst in between them, cleaving
Sicily clear of Hesperia’s flanks, dividing lands
and towns into two coasts, rushing between them
down a narrow tiderip.
“‘But now Scylla to starboard
blocks your way, with never-sated Charybdis off to port—
three times a day, into the plunging whirlpool of her abyss
she gulps down floods of sea, then heaves them back in the air,
pelting the stars with spray. Scylla lurks in her blind cave,
thrusting out her mouths and hauling ships on her rocks.
She’s human at first glance, down to the waist a girl
with lovely breasts, but a monster of the deep below,
her body a writhing horror, her belly spawns wolves
flailing with dolphins’ tails. Better to waste time,
skirting Sicily then in a long arc rounding Cape Pachynus,
than once set eyes on gruesome Scylla deep in her cave,
her rocks booming with all her sea-green hounds.
“‘What’s more,
if a prophet has second sight, if Helenus earns your trust
and Apollo fills his soul with truth, one prophecy, one
above all, son of the goddess, I will make to you,
over and over repeat this warning word. Revere
great Juno’s power first in all your prayers,
to Juno chant your vows with a full heart and win
the mighty goddess over with gifts to match your vows.
Only then can you leave Sicilian shores at last,
dispatched to Italy’s coast, a conquering hero.
Once ashore, when you reach the city of Cumae
and Avernus’ haunted lakes and murmuring forests,
there you will see the prophetess in her frenzy,
chanting deep in her rocky cavern, charting the Fates,
committing her vision to words, to signs on leaves.
Whatever verses the seer writes down on leaves
she puts in order, sealed in her cave, left behind.
There they stay, motionless, never slip from sequence.
But the leaves are light—if the door turns on its hinge,
the slightest breath of air will scatter them all about
and she never cares to retrieve them, flitting through her cave,
or restore them to order, join them as verses with a vision.
So visitors may depart, deprived of her advice,
and hate the Sibyl’s haunts.
“‘But never fear delay,
though crewmen press you hard and the course you set
calls out to your sails to take the waves, and you could
fill those sails with good fair winds. Still you must
approach her oracle, beg the seer with prayers
to chant her prophecies, all of her own accord,
unlock her lips and sing with her own voice.
She will reveal to you the Italian tribes,
the wars that you must fight, and the many ways
to shun or shoulder each ordeal that you must meet.
Revere her power and she will grant safe passage.
That far I may go with my words of warning.
Now sail on. By your own brave work exalt
our Trojan greatness to the skies.’
“Friendly words,
and when he had closed, the prophet ordered presents,
hoards of gold and ivory inlays, brought to our ships,
crowding our holds with a massive weight of silver,
Dodona cauldrons, a breastplate linked with mail
and triple-meshed in gold, a magnificent helmet
peaked with a plumed crest—Neoptolemus’ arms—
and then the gifts of honor for my father.
He adds horses too, pilots to guide our way,
fills out our crews, rearms our fighting comrades.
the closest coast to our own, washed by our own seas—
every seaboard town is manned by hostile Greeks.
Here the Narycian Locri built their walls
and troops of Cretan Idomeneus from Lyctos
commandeered the Sallentine level fields.
Here little Petelia built by Philoctetes,
the Meliboean chief, lies safe behind its walls.
Once you have passed them all, moored your ships
on the far shore and set up altars on the beach
to perform your vows, then cloak yourselves in purple,
veil your heads, so while the hallowed fires are burning
in honor of the gods, no enemy presence can break in
and disrupt the omens. Your comrades, you yourself
must hold fast to this sacred rite, this custom.
Your sons’ sons must keep it pure forever.
“‘Now then,
launching out as the wind bears you toward Sicilian shores
and Pelorus’ crowded headlands open up a passage,
steer for the lands to port, the seas to port,
in a long southern sweep around the coast,
but stay clear of the heavy surf to starboard.
These lands, they say, were once an immense unbroken mass
but long ago—such is the power of time to work great change
as the ages pass—some vast convulsion sprang them apart,
a surge of the sea burst in between them, cleaving
Sicily clear of Hesperia’s flanks, dividing lands
and towns into two coasts, rushing between them
down a narrow tiderip.
“‘But now Scylla to starboard
blocks your way, with never-sated Charybdis off to port—
three times a day, into the plunging whirlpool of her abyss
she gulps down floods of sea, then heaves them back in the air,
pelting the stars with spray. Scylla lurks in her blind cave,
thrusting out her mouths and hauling ships on her rocks.
She’s human at first glance, down to the waist a girl
with lovely breasts, but a monster of the deep below,
her body a writhing horror, her belly spawns wolves
flailing with dolphins’ tails. Better to waste time,
skirting Sicily then in a long arc rounding Cape Pachynus,
than once set eyes on gruesome Scylla deep in her cave,
her rocks booming with all her sea-green hounds.
“‘What’s more,
if a prophet has second sight, if Helenus earns your trust
and Apollo fills his soul with truth, one prophecy, one
above all, son of the goddess, I will make to you,
over and over repeat this warning word. Revere
great Juno’s power first in all your prayers,
to Juno chant your vows with a full heart and win
the mighty goddess over with gifts to match your vows.
Only then can you leave Sicilian shores at last,
dispatched to Italy’s coast, a conquering hero.
Once ashore, when you reach the city of Cumae
and Avernus’ haunted lakes and murmuring forests,
there you will see the prophetess in her frenzy,
chanting deep in her rocky cavern, charting the Fates,
committing her vision to words, to signs on leaves.
Whatever verses the seer writes down on leaves
she puts in order, sealed in her cave, left behind.
There they stay, motionless, never slip from sequence.
But the leaves are light—if the door turns on its hinge,
the slightest breath of air will scatter them all about
and she never cares to retrieve them, flitting through her cave,
or restore them to order, join them as verses with a vision.
So visitors may depart, deprived of her advice,
and hate the Sibyl’s haunts.
“‘But never fear delay,
though crewmen press you hard and the course you set
calls out to your sails to take the waves, and you could
fill those sails with good fair winds. Still you must
approach her oracle, beg the seer with prayers
to chant her prophecies, all of her own accord,
unlock her lips and sing with her own voice.
She will reveal to you the Italian tribes,
the wars that you must fight, and the many ways
to shun or shoulder each ordeal that you must meet.
Revere her power and she will grant safe passage.
That far I may go with my words of warning.
Now sail on. By your own brave work exalt
our Trojan greatness to the skies.’
“Friendly words,
and when he had closed, the prophet ordered presents,
hoards of gold and ivory inlays, brought to our ships,
crowding our holds with a massive weight of silver,
Dodona cauldrons, a breastplate linked with mail
and triple-meshed in gold, a magnificent helmet
peaked with a plumed crest—Neoptolemus’ arms—
and then the gifts of honor for my father.
He adds horses too, pilots to guide our way,
fills out our crews, rearms our fighting comrades.
“Meanwhile Anchises gave the command to spread sail,
no time to waste, we’d lose the good fair winds,
and Apollo’s seer addressed him with deep respect:
‘Anchises, worthy to wed the proudest, Venus herself,
how the gods do love you. Twice they plucked you safe
from the ruins of Troy. Italy waits you now, look,
sail on and make it yours!
But first you must hurry past the coastline here,
the part of Italy that the god unfolds for you
lies far at sea. “Set sail now,” the god commands,
“blest in the dedication of your son.” Enough.
Why waste time with talk when the wind is rising?’
no time to waste, we’d lose the good fair winds,
and Apollo’s seer addressed him with deep respect:
‘Anchises, worthy to wed the proudest, Venus herself,
how the gods do love you. Twice they plucked you safe
from the ruins of Troy. Italy waits you now, look,
sail on and make it yours!
But first you must hurry past the coastline here,
the part of Italy that the god unfolds for you
lies far at sea. “Set sail now,” the god commands,
“blest in the dedication of your son.” Enough.
Why waste time with talk when the wind is rising?’
“Andromache grieves no less at our final parting.
She brings out robes shot through with gilded thread
and a Phrygian cloak for Ascanius. Not to be outdone
in kindness, weighing him down with woven gifts
she says: ‘Please take these as well, the work
of my hands, reminders of me to you, dear boy,
and tokens of my love . . .
the love of Hector’s Andromache that never dies.
Take them. The last gifts from your own people.
You are the only image of my Astyanax that’s left.
His eyes, his hands, his features, so like yours—
he would be growing up now, just your age.’
“Turning
to leave, my tears brimmed and I said a last farewell:
‘Live on in your blessings, your destiny’s been won!
But ours calls us on from one ordeal to the next.
You’ve earned your rest at last. No seas to plow,
no questing after Italian fields forever
receding on the horizon. Now you see before you
Xanthus and Troy in replica, built with your own hands,
under better stars, I trust, and less exposed to the Greeks.
If I ever reach the Tiber, the fields on Tiber’s banks,
and see my people secure behind their promised walls,
then of our neighboring kin and kindred cities, both
in Epirus and Hesperia—both have the same founder,
Dardanus, the same fate too—someday we will make
our peoples one, one Troy in heart and soul.
Let this mission challenge all our children.’
She brings out robes shot through with gilded thread
and a Phrygian cloak for Ascanius. Not to be outdone
in kindness, weighing him down with woven gifts
she says: ‘Please take these as well, the work
of my hands, reminders of me to you, dear boy,
and tokens of my love . . .
the love of Hector’s Andromache that never dies.
Take them. The last gifts from your own people.
You are the only image of my Astyanax that’s left.
His eyes, his hands, his features, so like yours—
he would be growing up now, just your age.’
“Turning
to leave, my tears brimmed and I said a last farewell:
‘Live on in your blessings, your destiny’s been won!
But ours calls us on from one ordeal to the next.
You’ve earned your rest at last. No seas to plow,
no questing after Italian fields forever
receding on the horizon. Now you see before you
Xanthus and Troy in replica, built with your own hands,
under better stars, I trust, and less exposed to the Greeks.
If I ever reach the Tiber, the fields on Tiber’s banks,
and see my people secure behind their promised walls,
then of our neighboring kin and kindred cities, both
in Epirus and Hesperia—both have the same founder,
Dardanus, the same fate too—someday we will make
our peoples one, one Troy in heart and soul.
Let this mission challenge all our children.’
“North we sail and skirt Ceraunia’s cliffs
to the narrow straits, the shortest route to Italy,
while the sun sinks and darkness shrouds the hills.
Landing, drawing lots for tomorrow’s stint at the oars,
we stretch out in the lap of welcome land at water’s edge
and scattered along the dry beach refresh ourselves
as sleep comes streaming through our weary bodies.
Night, drawn by the Hours, approaches mid-career
when Palinurus, on the alert, leaps up from bed
to test the winds, his ears keen for the first stir,
scanning the constellations wheeling down the quiet sky,
Arcturus, the rainy Hyades and the Great and Little Bears,
his eyes roving to find Orion geared in gold. And then,
when he sees the entire sky serene, all clear,
he gives the trumpet signal from his stern
and we strike camp at once,
set out on our way and spread our canvas wings.
to the narrow straits, the shortest route to Italy,
while the sun sinks and darkness shrouds the hills.
Landing, drawing lots for tomorrow’s stint at the oars,
we stretch out in the lap of welcome land at water’s edge
and scattered along the dry beach refresh ourselves
as sleep comes streaming through our weary bodies.
Night, drawn by the Hours, approaches mid-career
when Palinurus, on the alert, leaps up from bed
to test the winds, his ears keen for the first stir,
scanning the constellations wheeling down the quiet sky,
Arcturus, the rainy Hyades and the Great and Little Bears,
his eyes roving to find Orion geared in gold. And then,
when he sees the entire sky serene, all clear,
he gives the trumpet signal from his stern
and we strike camp at once,
set out on our way and spread our canvas wings.
“The dawn was a red glow now, putting stars to flight
as we glimpse the low-lying hills, dim in the distance . . .
Italy. ‘Italy!’—Achates was first to shout the name—
‘Italy!’ comrades cried out too with buoyant hearts.
Father Anchises crowned a great bowl with wreaths,
brimmed it with unmixed wine,
and standing tall in the stern, he prayed the gods:
‘You Powers that rule the land and sea and storms,
grant us wind for an easy passage, blow us safe to port!’
As the wind we pray for quickens, a harbor opens wide and
closer till we can see Minerva’s temple on the heights.
Shipmates furl the sails and swing the prows toward land.
The harbor curves like a bow, bent by Eastern combers,
rocky breakwaters foam with the salt surf spray,
the haven’s just behind them. Towering cliffs
fling out their arms like steep twin walls
and the temple rests securely back from shore.
as we glimpse the low-lying hills, dim in the distance . . .
Italy. ‘Italy!’—Achates was first to shout the name—
‘Italy!’ comrades cried out too with buoyant hearts.
Father Anchises crowned a great bowl with wreaths,
brimmed it with unmixed wine,
and standing tall in the stern, he prayed the gods:
‘You Powers that rule the land and sea and storms,
grant us wind for an easy passage, blow us safe to port!’
As the wind we pray for quickens, a harbor opens wide and
closer till we can see Minerva’s temple on the heights.
Shipmates furl the sails and swing the prows toward land.
The harbor curves like a bow, bent by Eastern combers,
rocky breakwaters foam with the salt surf spray,
the haven’s just behind them. Towering cliffs
fling out their arms like steep twin walls
and the temple rests securely back from shore.
“Here I saw it—our first omen: four horses,
snow-white, cropping the grasslands far and wide.
‘War!’ Father Anchises calls out, ‘Land of welcome,
that’s what you bring us, true, horses are armed for war,
these pairs of horses threaten war. But then again,
the same beasts are trained to harness as teams
and bow to the yoke, at one with bit and bridle.
There’s hope for peace as well.’
“At once we pray
to the force of Pallas, goddess of clashing armies,
the first to receive our band of happy men.
We stand at the altar, heads under Trojan veils,
and following Helenus’ orders first and foremost,
duly burn our offerings, just as bidden,
to Juno, Queen of Argos.
“No time for delay.
Our rites complete, at once we swing our sails
to the wind on yardarm spars and put astern
this home of Greeks, the fields we dare not trust.
First we sight the Gulf of Tarentum, Hercules’ town,
if the tale is true, then looming over the waves ahead,
Lacinian Juno’s temple, Caulon’s fort on the rugged coast
of Scylaceum, wrecker of ships, then far across the seas,
rising up from the swells, we can see Mount Etna, Sicily,
hear the tremendous groaning of waters, pounding rocks,
the resounding roar of breakers crashing on the shore—
reefs spring up, swirling sand in the sea-surge.
Father Anchises cries out: ‘Surely that’s Charybdis,
those the cliffs that Helenus warned of, craggy deathtraps.
Row for your lives, my shipmates—backs in the oars, now stroke!’
snow-white, cropping the grasslands far and wide.
‘War!’ Father Anchises calls out, ‘Land of welcome,
that’s what you bring us, true, horses are armed for war,
these pairs of horses threaten war. But then again,
the same beasts are trained to harness as teams
and bow to the yoke, at one with bit and bridle.
There’s hope for peace as well.’
“At once we pray
to the force of Pallas, goddess of clashing armies,
the first to receive our band of happy men.
We stand at the altar, heads under Trojan veils,
and following Helenus’ orders first and foremost,
duly burn our offerings, just as bidden,
to Juno, Queen of Argos.
“No time for delay.
Our rites complete, at once we swing our sails
to the wind on yardarm spars and put astern
this home of Greeks, the fields we dare not trust.
First we sight the Gulf of Tarentum, Hercules’ town,
if the tale is true, then looming over the waves ahead,
Lacinian Juno’s temple, Caulon’s fort on the rugged coast
of Scylaceum, wrecker of ships, then far across the seas,
rising up from the swells, we can see Mount Etna, Sicily,
hear the tremendous groaning of waters, pounding rocks,
the resounding roar of breakers crashing on the shore—
reefs spring up, swirling sand in the sea-surge.
Father Anchises cries out: ‘Surely that’s Charybdis,
those the cliffs that Helenus warned of, craggy deathtraps.
Row for your lives, my shipmates—backs in the oars, now stroke!’
“They snapped to commands, pulled hard, Palinurus first
to swerve his shuddering prow to port for open sea
and the whole fleet swung to port with oars and sails.
Up to the sky an immense billow hoists us, then at once,
as the wave sank down, down we plunge to the pit of hell.
Three times the cliffs roared out from between the hollow caves,
three times we saw the spume exploding to spray the stars.
At last the sun and the wind went down, abandoned us,
broken men, our bearings lost . . . floating adrift
toward the Cyclops’ coast.
“There is a harbor
clear of the wind, and spacious, calm, a haven,
but Etna rumbles, hard by, showering deadly scree
and now it heaves into the sky a thundering dark cloud,
a whirlwind pitch-black with smoke and red-hot coals
and it hurls up huge balls of fire that lap the stars—
and now it vomits rocks ripped from the mountain’s bowels
erupting lava into the air, enormous molten boulders,
groaning magma roiling up from its bedrock depths.
They say Enceladus’ body, half-devoured by lightning,
lies crushed under Etna’s mass, the mighty volcano piled
over him, breathing flames from its furnaces blasting open,
and every time the giant rolls on his bone-weary side
all Sicily moans, quakes, shrouds the sky with smoke.
Covered by woods that night we brave out horrors,
unable to see what made such a monstrous uproar.
The stars were extinguished, the high skies black,
the luminous heavens blotted out by a thick cloud cover,
the dead of night had wrapped the moon in mist.
“At last
the day was breaking, the morning star on the rise,
Aurora had just burned off the night’s dank fog,
when suddenly out of the woods the weird shape
of a man, a stranger, all but starved to death,
in wretched condition, emerges, staggers toward us,
hands outstretched to us on the beaches, begging mercy.
We turned, looked back at him . . . his filth appalling,
his beard all tangled, his rags hooked up with thorns.
Still, head to foot a Greek, a man once sent to Troy
equipped with his country’s arms. Soon as he saw
our Dardan dress from afar, our Trojan swords,
he froze in his tracks a moment, gripped by fear,
then breakneck made for the shore with tears and prayers:
‘I beg you, Trojans, beg by the stars, the gods above,
the clear bright air we breathe—sail me off and away!
Anywhere, any land you please, that’s all I want.
I am, I confess, a man from the Greek fleets,
I admit I fought to seize your household gods.
For that, if my crime against you is so wicked,
rip me to bits and fling the bits in the sea,
plunge me into the depths! If die I must,
death at the hands of
men
will be a joy!’
“With that,
he clutched my knees and kneeling, groveling, clung fast.
We press him hard—who is he? Who are his parents?
What rough fortune has driven him to despair?
Father Anchises, barely pausing, gives the man his hand
and the friendly gesture lifts the stranger’s spirits.
Setting his fears aside, he starts out on his story:
‘I come from Ithaca, my country . . .
unlucky Ulysses’ comrade. Call me Achaemenides.
My father Adamastus was poor, and so I sailed to Troy—
Oh if only our poverty lasted longer! But here
my comrades left me, forgot me—this monstrous cave
of the Cyclops—fleeing in terror from its brutal mouth.
This gruesome house. Gory with its hideous feasts.
Pitch-dark inside. Immense. The giant himself,
his head scrapes the stars! God save our earth
from such a scourge! No looking him in the face,
no trying to reach him with a word. He gorges himself
on the innards and black blood of all his wretched victims.
With my own eyes I’ve seen him snatch a pair of our men
in one massive hand and, sprawling amidst his lair,
crush their bodies on the rocks till the cave’s maw
swam with splashing blood. I’ve seen him gnawing limbs,
oozing dark filth, and the warm flesh twitching still
between his grinding jaws.
“‘But what a price he paid!
Ulysses would not tolerate such an outrage,
always true to himself when it’s life-or-death.
Soon as the monster gorged himself to bursting,
buried deep in wine, his neck slumping to one side,
spreading his huge hulk across his cave, dead asleep
but retching chunks of flesh and wine awash with filth—
we prayed to the great gods, drew lots, rushed in a ring
around him there and drilled out with a stabbing spike
his one enormous eye, lodged deep in his grisly brow,
big as a Greek shield or Apollo’s torch, the sun.
So at last we avenged our comrades’ shades—elated.
to swerve his shuddering prow to port for open sea
and the whole fleet swung to port with oars and sails.
Up to the sky an immense billow hoists us, then at once,
as the wave sank down, down we plunge to the pit of hell.
Three times the cliffs roared out from between the hollow caves,
three times we saw the spume exploding to spray the stars.
At last the sun and the wind went down, abandoned us,
broken men, our bearings lost . . . floating adrift
toward the Cyclops’ coast.
“There is a harbor
clear of the wind, and spacious, calm, a haven,
but Etna rumbles, hard by, showering deadly scree
and now it heaves into the sky a thundering dark cloud,
a whirlwind pitch-black with smoke and red-hot coals
and it hurls up huge balls of fire that lap the stars—
and now it vomits rocks ripped from the mountain’s bowels
erupting lava into the air, enormous molten boulders,
groaning magma roiling up from its bedrock depths.
They say Enceladus’ body, half-devoured by lightning,
lies crushed under Etna’s mass, the mighty volcano piled
over him, breathing flames from its furnaces blasting open,
and every time the giant rolls on his bone-weary side
all Sicily moans, quakes, shrouds the sky with smoke.
Covered by woods that night we brave out horrors,
unable to see what made such a monstrous uproar.
The stars were extinguished, the high skies black,
the luminous heavens blotted out by a thick cloud cover,
the dead of night had wrapped the moon in mist.
“At last
the day was breaking, the morning star on the rise,
Aurora had just burned off the night’s dank fog,
when suddenly out of the woods the weird shape
of a man, a stranger, all but starved to death,
in wretched condition, emerges, staggers toward us,
hands outstretched to us on the beaches, begging mercy.
We turned, looked back at him . . . his filth appalling,
his beard all tangled, his rags hooked up with thorns.
Still, head to foot a Greek, a man once sent to Troy
equipped with his country’s arms. Soon as he saw
our Dardan dress from afar, our Trojan swords,
he froze in his tracks a moment, gripped by fear,
then breakneck made for the shore with tears and prayers:
‘I beg you, Trojans, beg by the stars, the gods above,
the clear bright air we breathe—sail me off and away!
Anywhere, any land you please, that’s all I want.
I am, I confess, a man from the Greek fleets,
I admit I fought to seize your household gods.
For that, if my crime against you is so wicked,
rip me to bits and fling the bits in the sea,
plunge me into the depths! If die I must,
death at the hands of
men
will be a joy!’
“With that,
he clutched my knees and kneeling, groveling, clung fast.
We press him hard—who is he? Who are his parents?
What rough fortune has driven him to despair?
Father Anchises, barely pausing, gives the man his hand
and the friendly gesture lifts the stranger’s spirits.
Setting his fears aside, he starts out on his story:
‘I come from Ithaca, my country . . .
unlucky Ulysses’ comrade. Call me Achaemenides.
My father Adamastus was poor, and so I sailed to Troy—
Oh if only our poverty lasted longer! But here
my comrades left me, forgot me—this monstrous cave
of the Cyclops—fleeing in terror from its brutal mouth.
This gruesome house. Gory with its hideous feasts.
Pitch-dark inside. Immense. The giant himself,
his head scrapes the stars! God save our earth
from such a scourge! No looking him in the face,
no trying to reach him with a word. He gorges himself
on the innards and black blood of all his wretched victims.
With my own eyes I’ve seen him snatch a pair of our men
in one massive hand and, sprawling amidst his lair,
crush their bodies on the rocks till the cave’s maw
swam with splashing blood. I’ve seen him gnawing limbs,
oozing dark filth, and the warm flesh twitching still
between his grinding jaws.
“‘But what a price he paid!
Ulysses would not tolerate such an outrage,
always true to himself when it’s life-or-death.
Soon as the monster gorged himself to bursting,
buried deep in wine, his neck slumping to one side,
spreading his huge hulk across his cave, dead asleep
but retching chunks of flesh and wine awash with filth—
we prayed to the great gods, drew lots, rushed in a ring
around him there and drilled out with a stabbing spike
his one enormous eye, lodged deep in his grisly brow,
big as a Greek shield or Apollo’s torch, the sun.
So at last we avenged our comrades’ shades—elated.
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