The Aeneid (29 page)
BOOK SEVEN
Beachhead in Latium, Armies Gather
In death, Caieta, Aeneas’ nurse, you too
have granted our shores a fame that never dies.
And now your honor preserves your resting place,
and if such glory is any glory at all, your name
marks out your bones in the Great Land of the West.
have granted our shores a fame that never dies.
And now your honor preserves your resting place,
and if such glory is any glory at all, your name
marks out your bones in the Great Land of the West.
But devout Aeneas now—the last rites performed
and the grave-mound piled high—once the seas lie calm,
sets sail on his journey, puts the port astern.
Freshening breezes blow as night comes on
and a full moon speeds their course,
its dancing light strikes sparkles off the waves.
And they closely skirt the coasts of Circe’s land
where the Sun’s rich daughter makes her deadly groves
resound with her endless song, and deep in her proud halls
she kindles fragrant cedar flaring through the night
as her whirring shuttle sweeps her fine-spun loom.
From there you could hear the furious growls of lions
bridling at their chains, roaring into the dead of night,
the raging of bristly boars and bears caged in their pens
and the looming forms of howling wolves: the men whose shapes
the brutal goddess Circe changed with her potent drugs,
tricked them out in the hides and look of wild beasts.
But to spare the loyal Trojans such a monstrous fate—
risking that harbor, touching those lethal shores—
Neptune swelled their sails with following winds
and gave them a swift escape,
speeding them past the churning shoals unharmed.
and the grave-mound piled high—once the seas lie calm,
sets sail on his journey, puts the port astern.
Freshening breezes blow as night comes on
and a full moon speeds their course,
its dancing light strikes sparkles off the waves.
And they closely skirt the coasts of Circe’s land
where the Sun’s rich daughter makes her deadly groves
resound with her endless song, and deep in her proud halls
she kindles fragrant cedar flaring through the night
as her whirring shuttle sweeps her fine-spun loom.
From there you could hear the furious growls of lions
bridling at their chains, roaring into the dead of night,
the raging of bristly boars and bears caged in their pens
and the looming forms of howling wolves: the men whose shapes
the brutal goddess Circe changed with her potent drugs,
tricked them out in the hides and look of wild beasts.
But to spare the loyal Trojans such a monstrous fate—
risking that harbor, touching those lethal shores—
Neptune swelled their sails with following winds
and gave them a swift escape,
speeding them past the churning shoals unharmed.
Now the sea was going red with the rays of Dawn,
from the heavens gold Aurora shone in her rose-red car
when the wind died down, suddenly every breeze fell flat
and the oars struggle against a sluggish, leaden swell.
But now Aeneas, still at sea, scanning the offing,
spots an enormous wood and running through it,
the Tiber in all its glory, rapids, whirlpools
golden with sand and bursting out to sea. And over it,
round it, birds, all kinds, haunting the riverbed and banks,
entrance the air with their song and flutter through the trees.
“Change course!” he commands his men. “Turn prows to land!”
And he enters the great shaded river, overjoyed.
Now come,
Erato—who were the kings, the tides and times, how stood
the old Latin state when that army of intruders
first beached their fleet on Italian shores?
All that I will unfold, I will recall
how the battle first began . . .
And you, goddess, inspire your singer, come!
I will tell of horrendous wars, tell of battle lines
and princes fired with courage, driven to their deaths,
Etruscan battalions, all Hesperia called to arms.
A greater tide of events springs up before me now,
I launch a greater labor.
King Latinus, already old,
had governed the fields and towns through long years of peace.
Faunus’ son he was, and the Latian nymph’s, Marica,
so we hear. Picus was Faunus’ father, and Picus
boasted you as his sire, Great Saturn, you,
the founder of the bloodline. Latinus had no son,
his one male issue torn from him by the gods’ decrees,
in the first bloom of youth. One daughter alone
was left to preserve the house and royal line—
ripe for marriage now, a full-grown woman now.
Many suitors sought her all through Latium,
all Ausonia too, and the handsomest of the lot
was Turnus, strong in his noble birth and breeding.
The queen mother burned with a will to wed him
to her daughter, true, but down from the gods
came sign on sign of alarm to block the way.
from the heavens gold Aurora shone in her rose-red car
when the wind died down, suddenly every breeze fell flat
and the oars struggle against a sluggish, leaden swell.
But now Aeneas, still at sea, scanning the offing,
spots an enormous wood and running through it,
the Tiber in all its glory, rapids, whirlpools
golden with sand and bursting out to sea. And over it,
round it, birds, all kinds, haunting the riverbed and banks,
entrance the air with their song and flutter through the trees.
“Change course!” he commands his men. “Turn prows to land!”
And he enters the great shaded river, overjoyed.
Now come,
Erato—who were the kings, the tides and times, how stood
the old Latin state when that army of intruders
first beached their fleet on Italian shores?
All that I will unfold, I will recall
how the battle first began . . .
And you, goddess, inspire your singer, come!
I will tell of horrendous wars, tell of battle lines
and princes fired with courage, driven to their deaths,
Etruscan battalions, all Hesperia called to arms.
A greater tide of events springs up before me now,
I launch a greater labor.
King Latinus, already old,
had governed the fields and towns through long years of peace.
Faunus’ son he was, and the Latian nymph’s, Marica,
so we hear. Picus was Faunus’ father, and Picus
boasted you as his sire, Great Saturn, you,
the founder of the bloodline. Latinus had no son,
his one male issue torn from him by the gods’ decrees,
in the first bloom of youth. One daughter alone
was left to preserve the house and royal line—
ripe for marriage now, a full-grown woman now.
Many suitors sought her all through Latium,
all Ausonia too, and the handsomest of the lot
was Turnus, strong in his noble birth and breeding.
The queen mother burned with a will to wed him
to her daughter, true, but down from the gods
came sign on sign of alarm to block the way.
Far in the palace depths there stood a laurel,
its foliage sacred, tended with awe for many years.
Father Latinus, they say, had found it once himself,
building his first stronghold, hallowed it to Phoebus
and named his settlers after the laurel’s name, Laurentes.
Now sweeping toward this tree from a clear blue sky—
a marvel, listen, a squadron of bees came buzzing
to high heaven, swarmed in an instant, massed
on the tree’s crown and hooking feet together,
bent the laurel’s leafy branches down.
A prophet cries at once: “A stranger—I see him!
A whole army of men arriving out of the same quarter,
bent on the same goal, to rule our city’s heights!”
its foliage sacred, tended with awe for many years.
Father Latinus, they say, had found it once himself,
building his first stronghold, hallowed it to Phoebus
and named his settlers after the laurel’s name, Laurentes.
Now sweeping toward this tree from a clear blue sky—
a marvel, listen, a squadron of bees came buzzing
to high heaven, swarmed in an instant, massed
on the tree’s crown and hooking feet together,
bent the laurel’s leafy branches down.
A prophet cries at once: “A stranger—I see him!
A whole army of men arriving out of the same quarter,
bent on the same goal, to rule our city’s heights!”
What’s worse, as the young virgin Lavinia lit
the altar with pure torches, flanking her father,
look—what horror!—her flowing hair caught fire,
her lovely regalia crackled in the flames,
her regal tresses blazed, her crown blazing,
studded with flashing jewels—the next moment
the girl was engulfed in a smoky yellow glare,
strewing the God of Fire’s power through the house.
That sight was bruited about as a sign of wonder, terror:
for Lavinia, prophets sang of a brilliant fame to come,
for the people they foretold a long, grueling war.
the altar with pure torches, flanking her father,
look—what horror!—her flowing hair caught fire,
her lovely regalia crackled in the flames,
her regal tresses blazed, her crown blazing,
studded with flashing jewels—the next moment
the girl was engulfed in a smoky yellow glare,
strewing the God of Fire’s power through the house.
That sight was bruited about as a sign of wonder, terror:
for Lavinia, prophets sang of a brilliant fame to come,
for the people they foretold a long, grueling war.
Dismayed by the signs, the king seeks out the oracle
of Faunus, his vatic father. He consults the grove
below Albunea’s heights, where the grand woods resound
with a holy spring and exhale their dark, deadly fumes.
Here all the Italian tribes and all Oenotria’s land
seek out the oracle’s response in hours of doubt.
Here the priest, when he brings the sacred gifts
and looks for sleep beneath the silent night—
stretched out on the hides of slaughtered sheep—
will see whole hosts of phantoms, miracles on the wing,
hear the voices swarm, engage with the gods in words
and speak with Acheron in Avernus’ deepest pools.
Here too, Latinus himself, seeking out responses,
slaughtered a hundred yearling sheep in the old way
and there he lay ensconced, at rest on fleecy hides
when a sudden voice broke from the grove’s depths:
“Never seek to marry your daughter to a Latin,
put no trust, my son, in a marriage ready-made.
Strangers will come, and come to be your sons
and their lifeblood will lift our name to the stars.
Their sons’ sons will see, wherever the wheeling Sun
looks down on the Ocean, rising or setting, East or West,
the whole earth turn beneath their feet, their rule!”
of Faunus, his vatic father. He consults the grove
below Albunea’s heights, where the grand woods resound
with a holy spring and exhale their dark, deadly fumes.
Here all the Italian tribes and all Oenotria’s land
seek out the oracle’s response in hours of doubt.
Here the priest, when he brings the sacred gifts
and looks for sleep beneath the silent night—
stretched out on the hides of slaughtered sheep—
will see whole hosts of phantoms, miracles on the wing,
hear the voices swarm, engage with the gods in words
and speak with Acheron in Avernus’ deepest pools.
Here too, Latinus himself, seeking out responses,
slaughtered a hundred yearling sheep in the old way
and there he lay ensconced, at rest on fleecy hides
when a sudden voice broke from the grove’s depths:
“Never seek to marry your daughter to a Latin,
put no trust, my son, in a marriage ready-made.
Strangers will come, and come to be your sons
and their lifeblood will lift our name to the stars.
Their sons’ sons will see, wherever the wheeling Sun
looks down on the Ocean, rising or setting, East or West,
the whole earth turn beneath their feet, their rule!”
This response from father Faunus, a warning sent
in the silent night—Latinus did not seal his lips,
Rumor had spread it already, flying far and wide
through Ausonia’s towns before the sons of Troy
tied up their fleet at the river’s green embankments.
in the silent night—Latinus did not seal his lips,
Rumor had spread it already, flying far and wide
through Ausonia’s towns before the sons of Troy
tied up their fleet at the river’s green embankments.
Now Aeneas, his ranking chiefs and handsome Iulus
stretch out on the grass below the boughs of a tall tree,
then set about their meal, spreading a feast on wheaten cakes—
Jove himself impelled them—heaping the plates with Ceres’ gifts,
her country fruits. And once they’d devoured all in sight,
still not sated, their hunger drove them on to attack
the fateful plates themselves, their hands and teeth
defiling, ripping into the thin dry crusts, never
sparing a crumb of the flat-bread scored in quarters.
Suddenly Iulus shouted:
“What, we’re even eating
our platters now?”
Only a joke, and nothing more,
but his words, once heard, first spelled an end of troubles.
As they first fell from the boy’s lips, his father
seized upon them, struck by the will of god,
and made him hold his peace, and Aeneas cries
at once: “Hail to the country owed to me by Fate!
Hail to you, you faithful household gods of Troy!
Here is our home, here is our native land!
For my own father—now I remember—Anchises
left to me these secret signs of Fate:
‘When, my son, borne to an unknown shore,
reduced to iron rations, hunger drives you
to eat your own platters, then’s the moment,
exhausted as you are, to hope for home.
There—never forget—your hands must labor
to build your first houses, ring them round with mounds.’
This is the hunger he meant, this the last trial,
the last limit set to our pains of exile. Come,
with the first light of day, our spirits high,
let’s explore the land. What people hold it?
Where are their towns? Scatter out from port
on different routes. But now pour cups to Jove
and call on Father Anchises with our prayers,
set out the wine on tables once again!”
With that,
he wreathes his brows with a leafy green spray
and prays to the spirit of the place, and Earth,
first of the gods, and nymphs and rivers still unknown,
and then to the Night and the rising stars of Night.
He calls on Jove of Ida, calls the Phrygian Mother,
both gods in turn, and then his two parents,
his mother high above and his father down below.
The Almighty Father answered, three times over,
rending the cloudless sky with claps of thunder,
flourishing high in his own hand from heaven’s peak
a cloud on fire with rays of gold, with radiance.
The rumor spread at once through Trojan ranks
that the day had come to build their destined city.
Impelled by the great omen, hearts filled with joy,
they rush to refresh the banquet, set out bowls
and crown the wine with wreaths.
The next day,
when the sun’s first torch had flared across the earth,
taking different routes they explore the town,
the borderlands and coasts these people hold.
Here are the pools where Numicus’ springs rise
and here is the Tiber River,
here the hardy Latins make their homes.
And then Aeneas orders a hundred envoys,
picked from all ranks, to approach the king’s
imperial city—bearing an olive branch of Pallas
wound in wool, bearing gifts for the great man—
and sue for peace for all the Trojan people.
They waste no time, moving out on command,
setting a brisk pace.
And Aeneas himself lines up
his walls with a shallow trench, he starts to work the site
and rings his first settlement on the coast with mounds,
redoubts and ramparts built like an armed camp.
Soon his envoys, having covered the distance,
sight the Latins’ rising roofs and towers
and go up under the walls. There before the city,
boys and young men in their vibrant pride of strength
are training as riders, breaking teams in the whirling dust,
bending their tough, lithe bows, and hurling honed javelins,
full shoulder throws, challenging friends to race or box,
when a herald comes riding up ahead of the Trojans,
bringing news to the old king’s ears: “Powerful men
in strangers’ dress, they’re on their way here now!”
King Latinus has them summoned into the palace
and takes his fathers’ throne amidst them all.
August,
immense, its hundred columns soaring, the house
commanded the city heights, Laurentine Picus’ home
with its shuddering grove and ancestral, awesome aura.
Here ritual said that kings should receive the scepter,
first raise the rods of power. This shrine is their senate,
this the site of their sacred banquets. Here the elders
slaughtered rams, then sat to dine at an endless line of trestles.
Yes, and here, carved in seasoned cedar, rows of statues,
rows of the founding forebears: Italus, Father Sabinus,
the vintner’s figure still wielding his hooked knife;
old Saturn and Janus’ figure facing right and left.
All stand in the forecourt, and all the other kings
from the start of time, and those who had taken
wounds in war, fighting to save their country.
Many weapons, too, hang on the hallowed doors,
captured chariots, curved axes, crested helmets,
enormous bolts from gates, and lances, shields
and ramming beaks ripped from the prows of ships.
There with the augur’s staff sat Picus to the life,
girt up in the short robe of state, his left hand
holding the sacred buckler. Picus, breaker of horses,
whom his bride, Circe—seized with a blinding passion—
struck with her golden wand and then with magic potions
turned him into a bird and splashed his wings with color.
stretch out on the grass below the boughs of a tall tree,
then set about their meal, spreading a feast on wheaten cakes—
Jove himself impelled them—heaping the plates with Ceres’ gifts,
her country fruits. And once they’d devoured all in sight,
still not sated, their hunger drove them on to attack
the fateful plates themselves, their hands and teeth
defiling, ripping into the thin dry crusts, never
sparing a crumb of the flat-bread scored in quarters.
Suddenly Iulus shouted:
“What, we’re even eating
our platters now?”
Only a joke, and nothing more,
but his words, once heard, first spelled an end of troubles.
As they first fell from the boy’s lips, his father
seized upon them, struck by the will of god,
and made him hold his peace, and Aeneas cries
at once: “Hail to the country owed to me by Fate!
Hail to you, you faithful household gods of Troy!
Here is our home, here is our native land!
For my own father—now I remember—Anchises
left to me these secret signs of Fate:
‘When, my son, borne to an unknown shore,
reduced to iron rations, hunger drives you
to eat your own platters, then’s the moment,
exhausted as you are, to hope for home.
There—never forget—your hands must labor
to build your first houses, ring them round with mounds.’
This is the hunger he meant, this the last trial,
the last limit set to our pains of exile. Come,
with the first light of day, our spirits high,
let’s explore the land. What people hold it?
Where are their towns? Scatter out from port
on different routes. But now pour cups to Jove
and call on Father Anchises with our prayers,
set out the wine on tables once again!”
With that,
he wreathes his brows with a leafy green spray
and prays to the spirit of the place, and Earth,
first of the gods, and nymphs and rivers still unknown,
and then to the Night and the rising stars of Night.
He calls on Jove of Ida, calls the Phrygian Mother,
both gods in turn, and then his two parents,
his mother high above and his father down below.
The Almighty Father answered, three times over,
rending the cloudless sky with claps of thunder,
flourishing high in his own hand from heaven’s peak
a cloud on fire with rays of gold, with radiance.
The rumor spread at once through Trojan ranks
that the day had come to build their destined city.
Impelled by the great omen, hearts filled with joy,
they rush to refresh the banquet, set out bowls
and crown the wine with wreaths.
The next day,
when the sun’s first torch had flared across the earth,
taking different routes they explore the town,
the borderlands and coasts these people hold.
Here are the pools where Numicus’ springs rise
and here is the Tiber River,
here the hardy Latins make their homes.
And then Aeneas orders a hundred envoys,
picked from all ranks, to approach the king’s
imperial city—bearing an olive branch of Pallas
wound in wool, bearing gifts for the great man—
and sue for peace for all the Trojan people.
They waste no time, moving out on command,
setting a brisk pace.
And Aeneas himself lines up
his walls with a shallow trench, he starts to work the site
and rings his first settlement on the coast with mounds,
redoubts and ramparts built like an armed camp.
Soon his envoys, having covered the distance,
sight the Latins’ rising roofs and towers
and go up under the walls. There before the city,
boys and young men in their vibrant pride of strength
are training as riders, breaking teams in the whirling dust,
bending their tough, lithe bows, and hurling honed javelins,
full shoulder throws, challenging friends to race or box,
when a herald comes riding up ahead of the Trojans,
bringing news to the old king’s ears: “Powerful men
in strangers’ dress, they’re on their way here now!”
King Latinus has them summoned into the palace
and takes his fathers’ throne amidst them all.
August,
immense, its hundred columns soaring, the house
commanded the city heights, Laurentine Picus’ home
with its shuddering grove and ancestral, awesome aura.
Here ritual said that kings should receive the scepter,
first raise the rods of power. This shrine is their senate,
this the site of their sacred banquets. Here the elders
slaughtered rams, then sat to dine at an endless line of trestles.
Yes, and here, carved in seasoned cedar, rows of statues,
rows of the founding forebears: Italus, Father Sabinus,
the vintner’s figure still wielding his hooked knife;
old Saturn and Janus’ figure facing right and left.
All stand in the forecourt, and all the other kings
from the start of time, and those who had taken
wounds in war, fighting to save their country.
Many weapons, too, hang on the hallowed doors,
captured chariots, curved axes, crested helmets,
enormous bolts from gates, and lances, shields
and ramming beaks ripped from the prows of ships.
There with the augur’s staff sat Picus to the life,
girt up in the short robe of state, his left hand
holding the sacred buckler. Picus, breaker of horses,
whom his bride, Circe—seized with a blinding passion—
struck with her golden wand and then with magic potions
turned him into a bird and splashed his wings with color.
So grand, the temple of the gods where King Latinus
assumed his fathers’ throne and summoned the Trojans
to him in the halls. As they came marching in,
he hailed them first with peaceful words of welcome:
“Tell us, sons of Dardanus—for we know your city,
your stock, and we heard that you were sailing here—
what do you search for now? What cause, what craving
has sailed your ships to Italy, crossing many seas?
Whether you’re lost or storms have swept you far off course,
dangers that sailors often suffer, facing open ocean—
shielded now by our riverbanks, you ride at anchor.
Don’t resist our welcome. Never forget the Latins
are Saturn’s people, fair and just, and not because
we are bound by curbs or laws, but kept in check
of our own accord: the way of our ancient god.
I can recall, though the years have blurred the tale,
that Auruncan elders liked to tell how Dardanus
sprang up in these fields, then wandered East
to the towns of Phrygian Ida, Thracian Samos,
called Samothrace these days. From here,
his old Tuscan home of Corythus, he set sail,
and now a golden palace high in the starry heavens
welcomes him to a throne, and his altars add
a name to the growing roster of the gods.”
assumed his fathers’ throne and summoned the Trojans
to him in the halls. As they came marching in,
he hailed them first with peaceful words of welcome:
“Tell us, sons of Dardanus—for we know your city,
your stock, and we heard that you were sailing here—
what do you search for now? What cause, what craving
has sailed your ships to Italy, crossing many seas?
Whether you’re lost or storms have swept you far off course,
dangers that sailors often suffer, facing open ocean—
shielded now by our riverbanks, you ride at anchor.
Don’t resist our welcome. Never forget the Latins
are Saturn’s people, fair and just, and not because
we are bound by curbs or laws, but kept in check
of our own accord: the way of our ancient god.
I can recall, though the years have blurred the tale,
that Auruncan elders liked to tell how Dardanus
sprang up in these fields, then wandered East
to the towns of Phrygian Ida, Thracian Samos,
called Samothrace these days. From here,
his old Tuscan home of Corythus, he set sail,
and now a golden palace high in the starry heavens
welcomes him to a throne, and his altars add
a name to the growing roster of the gods.”
As Latinus ended, Ilioneus followed:
“King, great son of Faunus, no black gales,
no stormy seas have swept us here to your country,
nor did the stars or landmarks throw us far off course.
With a firm resolve and willing hearts we’ve reached your city,
driven out of our own kingdom, once the grandest realm
the wheeling Sun could see from Olympus’ heights.
Our race takes root from Jove, the sons of Dardanus
triumph in Father Jove—of the Father’s highest stock,
our king himself, Aeneas of Troy, who sent us to your gates.
How savage the storm that broke from brute Mycenae,
scourging Ida’s plains! How Fate compelled
the worlds of Europe and Asia to clash in war!
All people know the story, all at the earth’s edge,
cut off where the rolling Ocean pounds them back,
and all whom the ruthless Sun in the torrid zone,
arching amidst the four cool zones of earth,
sunders far from us.
“Escaping that flood
and sailing here over many barren seas,
now all we ask is a modest resting place
for our fathers’ gods, safe haven on your shores,
water, and fresh air that’s free for all to breathe.
We will never shame your kingdom, nor will your fame
be treated lightly, no, our thanks for your kind work
will never die. Nor will Italy once regret
embracing Troy in her heart.
I swear by Aeneas’ fate, by his right hand
proved staunch in loyalty, strong in feats of arms,
that many nations, many—and don’t slight us now
because we come with an olive branch held out
and desperate pleas—that many people have
urged us, strongly, to join them as allies.
But the gods’ will spurred us on to seek your land,
their power forced us here. Here Dardanus was born.
Here the clear commands of Apollo call him back
as the god impels us toward the Tuscan Tiber,
the Numicus’ sacred springs.
“Aeneas, moreover,
offers you these gifts, remains of his former riches,
meager relics plucked from the fires of burning Troy.
From this gold goblet Father Anchises tipped the wine
at the high altars. This was Priam’s regalia when,
in the way he liked to rule, he handed down the laws
to his gathered people—the scepter, the holy coronet
and the robes that Trojan women used to weave.”
“King, great son of Faunus, no black gales,
no stormy seas have swept us here to your country,
nor did the stars or landmarks throw us far off course.
With a firm resolve and willing hearts we’ve reached your city,
driven out of our own kingdom, once the grandest realm
the wheeling Sun could see from Olympus’ heights.
Our race takes root from Jove, the sons of Dardanus
triumph in Father Jove—of the Father’s highest stock,
our king himself, Aeneas of Troy, who sent us to your gates.
How savage the storm that broke from brute Mycenae,
scourging Ida’s plains! How Fate compelled
the worlds of Europe and Asia to clash in war!
All people know the story, all at the earth’s edge,
cut off where the rolling Ocean pounds them back,
and all whom the ruthless Sun in the torrid zone,
arching amidst the four cool zones of earth,
sunders far from us.
“Escaping that flood
and sailing here over many barren seas,
now all we ask is a modest resting place
for our fathers’ gods, safe haven on your shores,
water, and fresh air that’s free for all to breathe.
We will never shame your kingdom, nor will your fame
be treated lightly, no, our thanks for your kind work
will never die. Nor will Italy once regret
embracing Troy in her heart.
I swear by Aeneas’ fate, by his right hand
proved staunch in loyalty, strong in feats of arms,
that many nations, many—and don’t slight us now
because we come with an olive branch held out
and desperate pleas—that many people have
urged us, strongly, to join them as allies.
But the gods’ will spurred us on to seek your land,
their power forced us here. Here Dardanus was born.
Here the clear commands of Apollo call him back
as the god impels us toward the Tuscan Tiber,
the Numicus’ sacred springs.
“Aeneas, moreover,
offers you these gifts, remains of his former riches,
meager relics plucked from the fires of burning Troy.
From this gold goblet Father Anchises tipped the wine
at the high altars. This was Priam’s regalia when,
in the way he liked to rule, he handed down the laws
to his gathered people—the scepter, the holy coronet
and the robes that Trojan women used to weave.”
Other books
A Fighter's Choice by Sam Crescent
Jesse by Barton, Kathi S.
The Paleo Diet by Cordain, Loren
Passionate Secrets (The Secrets Trilogy Book 2) by Williams, Lana
Sleeping With The Enemy (A Stranger's Touch) by Eason, Mary
Thief by Linda Windsor
Dancing Naked in Dixie by Lauren Clark
Death in the Desert by Jim Eldridge
Smoketree by Jennifer Roberson
And Yet... by Christopher Hitchens