Ovid: Fasti
Book Five
Translated
by A. S. Kline ©
2004 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
Book V: May 23:
The Tubilustrium
You ask where I think
the name of May comes from?
Its origin’s not
totally clear to me.
As a traveller stands
unsure which way to go,
Seeing the paths fan
out in all directions,
So I’m not sure which
to accept, since it’s possible
To give different
reasons: plenty itself confuses.
You who haunt the
founts of Aganippian Hippocrene,
Those beloved prints
of the Medusaean horse, explain!
The goddesses are in
conflict. Polyhymnia begins,
While the others
silently consider her speech.
‘After the first
Chaos, as soon as the three primary forms
Were given to the
world, all things were newly re-configured:
Earth sank under its
own weight, and drew down the seas,
But lightness lifted
the sky to the highest regions:
And the sun and stars,
not held back by their weight,
And you, you horses of
the moon, sprang high.
But Earth for a long
time wouldn’t yield to Sky,
Nor the other lights
to the Sun: honours were equal.
One of the common
crowd of gods, would often dare
To sit on the throne
that you, Saturn, owned,
None of the new gods
took Ocean’s side,
And Themis was relegated to the lowest
place,
Until Honour, and
proper Reverence, she
Of the calm look, were
united in a lawful bed.
From them Majesty was born, she considers them
Her parents, she who
was noble from her day of birth.
She took her seat, at
once, high in the midst of Olympus,
Conspicuous, golden,
in her purple folds.
Modesty and Fear sat
with her: you could see
All the gods modelling
their expression on hers.
At once, respect for
honour entered their minds:
The worthy had their
reward, none thought of self.
This state of things
lasted for years in heaven,
Till the elder god was
banished by fate from the citadel.
Earth bore the Giants, a fierce brood of savage
monsters,
Who dared to venture
against Jupiter’s halls:
She gave them a
thousands hands, serpents for legs,
And said: “Take up
arms against the mighty gods.”
They set to piling
mountains to the highest stars,
And to troubling
mighty Jupiter with war:
He hurled lightning
bolts from the heavenly citadel,
And overturned the
weighty mass on its creators.
These divine weapons
protected Majesty well,
She survived, and has
been worshipped ever since:
So she attends on
Jove, Jove’s truest guardian,
And allows him to hold
the sceptre without force.
She came to earth as
well: Romulus and Numa
Both worshipped her,
and so did others in later ages.
She maintains fathers
and mothers in due honour,
She keeps company with
virgins and young boys,
She burnishes the lictor’s
rods, axes, and ivory chair,
She rides high in
triumph behind the garlanded horses.’
Polyhymnia finished
speaking: Clio, and Thalia
Mistress of the curved
lyre, approved her words.
Urania continued: all the rest were
silent,
And hers was the only
voice that could be heard.
And wrinkled age was
valued at its true worth.
The young waged work
of war, and spirited battle,
Holding to their posts
for the sake of the gods:
Age, inferior in
strength, and unfit for arms,
Often did the country
a service by its counsel.
The Senate was only
open to men of mature age,
And Senators bear a
name meaning ripe in years.
The elders made laws
for the people, and specific
Rules governed the age
when office might be sought:
Old men walked with
the young, without their indignation,
And on the inside, if
they only had one companion.
Who dared then to talk
shamefully in an older man’s
Presence? Old age
granted rights of censorship.
Romulus knew this, and chose the
City Fathers
From select spirits:
making them the rulers of the City.
So I deduce that the
elders (maiores) gave their own title
To the month of May: and looked after their own interests.
Numitor too may have said: “Romulus, grant this month
To the old men” and
his grandson may have yielded.
The following month,
June, named for young men (iuvenes),
Gives no slight proof
of the honour intended.’
Then Calliope herself,
first of that choir, her hair
Unkempt and wreathed
with ivy, began to speak:
‘Tethys, the Titaness, was married
long ago to Ocean,
He who encircles the
outspread earth with flowing water.
The story is that
their daughter Pleione was
united
To sky-bearing Atlas, and bore him the Pleiades.
Among them, Maia’s said to have surpassed her sisters
In beauty, and to have
slept with mighty Jove.
She bore Mercury, who cuts the air on winged
feet,
On the cypress-clothed
ridge of Mount Cyllene.
The Arcadians, and swift Ladon, and vast Maenalus,
A land thought older
than the moon, rightly worship him.
Evander, in exile from Arcadia, came
to the Latin fields,
And brought his gods
with him, aboard ship.
Where Rome, the
capital of the world, now stands
There were trees,
grass, a few sheep, the odd cottage.
When they arrived, his
prophetic mother said:
“Halt here! This rural
spot will be the place of Empire.”
The Arcadian hero
obeyed his mother, the prophetess,
And stayed, though a
stranger in a foreign land.
He taught the people
many rites, but, above all, those
Of twin-horned Faunus, and Mercury the wing-footed god.
Faunus half-goat,
you’re worshipped by the girded Luperci,
When their strips of
hide purify the crowded streets.
But you, Mercury, patron of thieves, inventor
Of the curved lyre,
gave your mother’s name to this month.
Nor was this your
first act of piety: you’re thought
To have given the lyre
seven strings, the Pleiads’
number.’
Calliope too ended:
and her sisters voiced their praise.
And so? All three were
equally convincing.
May the Muses’ favour
attend me equally,
And let me never
praise one more than the rest.
Let the work start
with Jove. The star of her who tended
Jove’s cradle is visible on the night
of the first:
The rainy sign of Olenian Capella, the ‘she-goat’, rises:
Placed in the sky for
the gift of milk to him.
Amalthea, the naiad, famous on Cretan Ida,
Hid Jupiter amongst
the woods, they say.
She owned a she-goat
noted among the Dictaean flocks,
With lofty horns
curved over its back,
The beautiful mother
of two kids,
With udders such as
Jove’s nurse should have.
It gave milk to the
god, but broke a horn
On a tree, and was
shorn of half its charm.
The nymph lifted the
horn, then wrapped it
In fresh herbs, and
carried it to Jove, full of fruit.
When he’d gained the
heavens, occupied his father’s throne,
And none was greater
than unconquered Jove,
He made his nurse a
star, and her horn of plenty
That still keeps its
mistress’ name, stars as well.
The Kalends of May saw
an altar dedicated
To the Guardian Lares, with small statues of the gods.
Curius vowed them: but time destroys many
things,
And the long ages wear
away the stone.
The reason for their
epithet of Guardian,
Is that they keep safe
watch over everything.
They support us, and
protect the City walls,
And they’re
propitious, and bring us aid.
A dog, carved from the
same stone, used to stand
At their feet: why did
it stand there with the Lares?
Both guard the house:
both are loyal to their master:
Crossroads are dear to
the god, and to dogs.
Both the Lar and Diana’s pack chase away thieves:
And the Lares are
watchful, and so are dogs.
I looked for statues
of the twin gods,
But they’d fallen with
the weight of years:
The City has a
thousand Lares, and Spirits
Of the Leader, who gave them to the
people,
And each district
worships the three divinities.
Why say this here,
when the month of August
Rightfully owns that
subject of my verse?
For the moment the Good Goddess is my theme.
There’s a natural
height that gives its name to a place:
They call it The Rock:
it’s the bulk of the Aventine.
Remus waited there in vain, when you,
the birds
Of the Palatine,
granted first omens to his brother.
There the Senate
founded a temple, hostile
To the sight of men,
on the gently sloping ridge.
It was dedicated by an
heiress of the ancient Clausi,
Who’d never given her
virgin body to a man:
Livia restored it, so she could imitate
her husband
And follow his lead in
everything.
When Hyperion’s daughter puts the stars to flight,
Raising her light,
behind her horses of dawn,
A cold north-westerly
will smooth the wheat-tips,
White sails will put
out from Calabrian waters.
And when shadowy
twilight leads on the night,
No part of the whole
herd of Hyades is unknown.
The radiant head of Taurus glitters with seven flames,
That Greek sailors
named the Hyades, from ‘rain’ (hyein):
Some think they nursed
Bacchus, others believe
They’re the
granddaughters of Tethys and old Ocean.
Atlas was not yet standing there, his
shoulders weighed
By Olympus, when Hyas, known for his beauty, was born:
Aethra, of Ocean’s lineage, gave birth to
him
And the nymphs at full
term, but Hyas was born first.
When the down was new
on his cheeks, he scared away
The frightened deer,
in terror, and a hare was a good prize.
But when his courage
had grown with his years, he dared
To close with wild
boar and shaggy lionesses,
And while seeking the
lair of a pregnant lioness, and her cubs,
He himself was the
bloodstained victim of that Libyan beast.
His mother and his
saddened sisters wept for Hyas,
And Atlas, soon doomed
to bow his neck beneath the pole,
But the sisters’ love
was greater than either parent’s:
It won them the
heavens: Hyas gave them his name.
‘Mother of the
flowers, approach, so we can honour you
With joyful games!
Last month I deferred the task.
You begin in April,
and pass into May’s span:
One claims you
fleeing, the other as it comes on.
Since the boundaries
of the months are yours,
And defer to you,
either’s fitting for your praise.
This is the month of
the Circus’ Games, and the victors’ palm
The audience applauds:
let my song accompany the Circus’ show.
Tell me, yourself, who
you are. Men’s opinions err:
You’ll be the best
informant regarding your own name.’
So I spoke. So the
goddess responded to my question,
(While she spoke, her
lips breathed out vernal roses):
‘I, called Flora now, was Chloris: the first letter in Greek
Of my name, became
corrupted in the Latin language.
I was Chloris, a nymph
of those happy fields,
Where, as you’ve heard,
fortunate men once lived.
It would be difficult
to speak of my form, with modesty,
But it brought my
mother a god as son-in-law.
It was spring, I
wandered: Zephyrus saw me: I
left.
He followed me: I
fled: he was the stronger,
And Boreas had given his brother authority for
rape
By daring to steal a
prize from Erechtheus’ house.
Yet he made amends for
his violence, by granting me
The name of bride, and
I’ve nothing to complain of in bed.
I enjoy perpetual
spring: the season’s always bright,
The trees have leaves:
the ground is always green.
I’ve a fruitful garden
in the fields that were my dower,
Fanned by the breeze,
and watered by a flowing spring.
My husband stocked it
with flowers, richly,
And said: “Goddess, be
mistress of the flowers.”
I often wished to
tally the colours set there,
But I couldn’t, there
were too many to count.
As soon as the frosted
dew is shaken from the leaves,
And the varied foliage
warmed by the sun’s rays,
The Hours gather dressed in colourful
clothes,
And collect my gifts
in slender baskets.
The Graces, straight away, draw near, and
twine
Wreaths and garlands
to bind their heavenly hair.
I was first to scatter
fresh seeds among countless peoples,
Till then the earth
had been a single colour.
I was first to create
the hyacinth, from Spartan
blood,
And a lament remains
written on its petals.
You too, Narcissus, were known among the
gardens,
Unhappy that you were
not other, and yet were other.
Why tell of Crocus, or Attis, or Adonis, son of Cinyras,
From whose wounds
beauty springs, through me?
Mars too, if you’re unaware, was brought to
birth
By my arts: I pray
unknowing Jupiter never knows it.
Sacred Juno grieved that Jupiter didn’t need
Her help, when
motherless Minerva was born.
She went to Ocean to
complain of her husband’s deeds:
Tired by the effort
she rested at my door.
Catching sight of her,
I said: “Why are you here, Saturnia?”
She explained what
place she sought, and added
The reason. I consoled
her with words of friendship:
She said: “My cares
can’t be lightened by words.
If Jove can be a
father without needing a wife,
And contains both
functions in a single person,
Why should I despair
of becoming a mother with no
Husband, and, chaste,
give birth though untouched by man?
I’ll try all the drugs
in the whole wide world,
And search the seas,
and shores of Tartarus.”
Her voice flew on: but
my face showed doubt.
She said: “Nymph, it
seems you have some power.”
Three times I wanted
to promise help, three times my tongue
Was tied: mighty
Jupiter’s anger was cause for fear.
She said: “Help me, I
beg you, I’ll conceal the fact,
And I’ll call on the
powers of the Stygian flood as witness.”
“A flower, sent to me
from the fields of Olenus,
Will grant what you
seek,” I replied, “unique, in all my garden.
He who gave it to me
said: ‘Touch a barren heifer with this,
And she’ll be a mother
too.’ I did, and she was, instantly.”
With that, I nipped
the clinging flower with my thumb,
Touched Juno, and as I
touched her breast she conceived.
Pregnant now, she
travelled to Thrace and the northern shores
Of Propontis: her wish
was granted, and Mars was born.
Mindful of his birth
that he owed to me, he said:
“You too must have a
place in Romulus’ City.”
Perhaps you think I
only rule over tender garlands.
But my power also
commands the farmers’ fields.
If the crops have
flourished, the threshing-floor is full:
If the vines have
flourished, there’ll be wine:
If the olive trees
have flourished, the year will be bright,
And the fruit will
prosper at the proper time.
If the flower’s
damaged, the beans and vetch die,
And your imported
lentils, Nile, die too.
Wine too, laboriously
stored in the vast cellars,
Froths, and clouds the
wine jars’ surface with mist.
Honey’s my gift: I
call the winged ones who make
Honey, to the violets,
clover and pale thyme.
I carry out similar
functions, when spirits
Run riot, and bodies
themselves flourish.’
I admired her, in
silence, while she spoke. But she said:
‘You may learn the
answer to any of your questions.’
‘Goddess’, I replied:
‘What’s the origin of the games?’
I’d barely ended when
she answered me:
‘Rich men owned cattle
or tracts of land,
Other means of wealth
were then unknown,
So the words ‘rich’ (locuples)
from ‘landed’ (locus plenus),
And ‘money’ (pecunia)
from ‘a flock’ (pecus), but already
Some had unlawful wealth:
by custom, for ages,
Public lands were
grazed, without penalty.
Folk had no one to
defend the common rights:
Till at last it was
foolish to use private grazing.
This licence was
pointed out to the Publicii,
The plebeian aediles:
earlier, men lacked confidence.
The case was tried
before the people: the guilty fined:
And the champions
praised for their public spirit.
A large part of the
fine fell to me: and the victors
Instituted new games
to loud applause. Part was allocated
To make a way up the Aventine’s slope, then steep rock:
Now it’s a serviceable
track, called the Publician
Road.’
I believed the shows
were annual. She contradicted it,
And added further
words to her previous speech:
‘Honour touches me
too: I delight in festivals and altars:
We’re a greedy crowd:
we divine beings.
Often, through their
sins, men render the gods hostile,
And, fawning, offer a
sacrifice for their crimes:
Often I’ve seen
Jupiter, about to hurl his lightning,
Draw back his hand,
when offered a gift of incense.
But if we’re ignored,
we avenge the injury
With heavy penalties,
and our anger passes all bounds.
Remember Meleager, burnt up by distant flames:
The reason, because Diana’s altar lacked its fires.
Remember Agamemnon: the same goddess becalmed
the fleet:
A virgin, yet still
she twice avenged her neglected hearth.
Wretched Hippolytus, you wished you’d
worshipped Venus,
When your terrified
horses were tearing you apart.
It would take too long
to tell of neglect punished by loss.
I too was once
neglected by the Roman Senate.
What to do, how to
show my indignation?
What punishment to
exact for the harm done me?
Gloomily, I gave up my
office. I ceased to protect
The countryside, cared
nothing for fruitful gardens:
The lilies drooped:
you could see the violets fade,
And the petals of the
purple crocus languished.
Often Zephyr said:
‘Don’t destroy your dowry.’
But my dowry was worth
nothing to me.
The olives were in
blossom: wanton winds hurt them:
The wheat was
ripening: hail blasted the crops:
The vines were
promising: skies darkened from the south,
And the leaves were
brought down by sudden rain.
I didn’t wish it so:
I’m not cruel in my anger,
But I neglected to
drive away these ills.
The Senate convened,
and voted my godhead
An annual festival, if
the year proved fruitful.
I accepted their vow.
The consuls Laenas
And Postumius celebrated these
games of mine.
I was going to ask why
there’s greater
Wantonness in her
games, and freer jests,
But it struck me that
the goddess isn’t strict,
And the gifts she
brings are agents of delight.
The drinker’s brow’s
wreathed with sewn-on garlands,
And a shower of roses
hides the shining table:
The drunken guest
dances, hair bound with lime-tree bark,
And unaware employs
the wine’s purest art:
The drunken lover
sings at beauty’s harsh threshold,
And soft garlands
crown his perfumed hair.
Nothing serious for
those with garlanded brow,
No running water’s
drunk, when crowned with flowers:
While your stream, Achelous, was free of wine,
No one as yet cared to
pluck the rose.
Bacchus loves flowers: you can see he
delights
In a crown, from Ariadne’s chaplet of stars.
The comic stage suits
her: she’s never: believe me,
Never been counted
among the tragic goddesses.
The reason the crowd
of whores celebrate these games
Is not a difficult one
for us to discover.
The goddess isn’t
gloomy, she’s not high-flown,
She wants her rites to
be open to the common man,
And warns us to use
life’s beauty while it’s in bloom:
The thorn is spurned
when the rose has fallen.
Why is it, when white
robes are handed out for Ceres,
Flora’s neatly dressed
in a host of colours?
Is it because the
harvest’s ripe when the ears whiten,
But flowers are of
every colour and splendour?
She nods, and flowers
fall as her hair flows,
As roses fall when
they’re scattered on a table.
There’s still the
lights, whose reason escaped me,
Till the goddess dispelled
my ignorance like this:
‘Lights are thought to
be fitting for my day,
Because the fields
glow with crimson flowers,
Or because flowers and
flames aren’t dull in colour,
And the splendour of
them both attracts the eye:
Or because the licence
of night suits my delights,
And this third
reason’s nearest to the truth.’
‘There’s one little
thing besides, for me to ask,
If you’ll allow,’ I
said: and she said: ‘It’s allowed.’
‘Why then are gentle
deer and shy hares
Caught in your nets,
not Libyan lionesses?’
She replied that
gardens not woodlands were her care,
And fields where no
wild creatures were allowed.
All was ended: and she
vanished into thin air: yet
Her fragrance
lingered: you’d have known it was a goddess.
Scatter your gifts, I
beg you, over my breast,
So Ovid’s song may
flower forever.
In less than four
nights, Chiron, the semi-human
Joined to the body of
a tawny horse, reveals his stars.
Pelion is a mountain facing south in
Haemonian Thessaly:
The summit’s green
with pines, the rest is oak.
Chiron, Philyra’s son,
lived there. An ancient rocky cave
Remains, inhabited
once, they say, by that honest old one.
He’s thought to have
exercised those hands, that one day
Sent Hector to his death, in playing on the
lyre.
Hercules visited him, most of his
labours done,
Only the last few tasks
remaining for the hero.
You could have viewed
Troy’s twin fates, together:
One the young scion of
Aeacus, the other Jove’s son.
Chiron received young
Hercules hospitably,
And asked him the
reason for his being there.
He replied, as Chiron
viewed his club and lion-skin, saying:
‘The man is worthy of
these weapons, the weapons of the man!’
Nor could Achilles,
daringly, restrain his hands,
From touching that
pelt shaggy with bristles.
While the old one
handled the arrows, encrusted with poison,
A shaft fell from the
quiver and lodged in his left foot.
Chiron groaned, and
drew its blade from his body:
Hercules, and the
Thessalian youth groaned too.
Though the Centaur
himself mixed herbs culled
From Pagasean hills,
treating the wound with ointments,
The gnawing venom
defied his remedies, and its evil
Penetrated his body,
to the marrow of his bones.
The blood of the
Lernean Hydra fused with
The Centaur’s blood,
giving no chance for aid.
Achilles, drenched in tears, stood
before him as before
A father, just as he
would have wept for Peleus dying.
Often he caressed the
feeble fingers with loving hands,
(The teacher had his
reward for the character he’d formed),
And he kissed him,
often, and often, as he lay there, cried:
‘Live, I beg you:
don’t leave me, dear father!’
The ninth day came,
and you, virtuous Chiron,
Wrapped your body in
those fourteen stars.
Curved Lyra would follow Centaurus, but the path’s
Not clear: the third
night will be the right time.
Scorpio’s mid-part will be visible
in the sky
When we speak of the
Nones dawning tomorrow.
When Hesperus, the Evening Star, has
shown his lovely face
Three times, from that
day, and the defeated stars fled Phoebus,
It will be the ancient
sacred rites of the Lemuria,
When we make offerings
to the voiceless spirits.
The year was once
shorter, the pious rites of purification, februa,
Were unknown, nor were
you, two-faced Janus, leader of the
months:
Yet they still brought
gifts owed to the ashes of the dead,
The grandson paid
respects to his buried grandfather’s tomb.
It was May month,
named for our ancestors (maiores),
And a relic of the old
custom still continues.
When midnight comes,
lending silence to sleep,
And all the dogs and
hedgerow birds are quiet,
He who remembers
ancient rites, and fears the gods,
Rises (no fetters
binding his two feet)
And makes the sign
with thumb and closed fingers,
Lest an insubstantial
shade meets him in the silence.
After cleansing his
hands in spring water,
He turns and first
taking some black beans,
Throws them with
averted face: saying, while throwing:
‘With these beans I
throw I redeem me and mine.’
He says this nine
times without looking back: the shade
Is thought to gather
the beans, and follow behind, unseen.
Again he touches
water, and sounds the Temesan bronze,
And asks the spirit to
leave his house.
When nine times he’s
cried: ‘Ancestral spirit, depart,’
He looks back, and
believes the sacred rite’s fulfilled.
Why the day’s so
called, and the origin of the name,
Escapes me: that’s for
some god to discover.
Mercury, son of the Pleiad, explain it to me, by your
Potent wand: you’ve
often seen Stygian Jove’s halls.
The caduceus-bearer
came, at my prayer. Learn then,
The reason for the
name: the god himself revealed it.
When Romulus had sunk his brother’s
spirit in the grave,
And justice was done
to the over-hasty Remus,
The wretched Faustulus, and Acca with streaming hair,
Sprinkled the calcined
bones with their tears.
Then at twilight they
returned home grieving,
And flung themselves
on the hard couch, just as it lay.
The bloodstained ghost
of Remus seemed to stand
By the bed, speaking
these words in a faint murmur:
‘Behold, I who was
half, the other part of your care,
See what I am, and
know what I was once!
If the birds had
signalled the throne was mine,
I might have been
highest, ruling over the people,
Now I’m an empty
phantom, gliding from the fire:
That is what remains
of Remus’ form!
Ah, where is Mars, my father? If you once spoke
The truth, it was he
who sent us the she-wolf’s teats.
The rash hand of a
citizen undid what the wolf saved.
O how gentle she was
in comparison!
Savage Celer, wounded, may you yield your cruel
spirit,
And bloodstained as I
am, sink beneath the earth.
My brother never
wished it: his love equals mine:
He offered, at my
death, all he could, his tears.
Beg him by your
weeping, by your nurturing,
To signal a day of
celebration in my honour.’
They stretched out
their arms at this, longing to embrace him,
But the fleeting shade
escaped their clutching hands.
When the phantom
fleeing dispelled their sleep,
They both told the
king of his brother’s words.
Romulus, complying,
called that day the Remuria,
When reverence is paid
our buried ancestors.
Over time the harsh
consonant at the beginning
Of the name, was
altered into a soft one:
And soon the silent
spirits were called Lemures too:
That’s the meaning of
the word, that’s its force.
And the ancients
closed the temples on these days,
As you see them shut
still at the season of the dead.
It’s a time when it’s
not suitable for widows or virgins
To wed: she who
marries then won’t live long.
And if you attend to
proverbs, then, for that reason too,
People say unlucky
women wed in the month of May.
Though these three
festivals fall at the same time,
They are not observed
on three consecutive days.
You’ll be disappointed
if you look for Boeotian Orion,
On the middle of these
three days. I must sing of those stars.
Jupiter, and his brother who rules the deep ocean,
Were journeying
together, with Mercury.
It was the hour when
yoked oxen drag back the plough,
And the lamb kneels
down to drink the full ewe’s milk.
By chance, an old man,
Hyrieus, farmer of a tiny plot,
Saw them, as he stood
in front of his meagre dwelling:
And spoke to them:
‘The way’s long, little of day is left,
And my threshold’s
welcoming to strangers.’
He stressed his words
with a look, inviting them again:
They accepted his
offer, hiding their divinity.
They entered the old
man’s cottage, black with smoke:
There was still a
flicker of fire in yesterday’s log.
He knelt and blew the
flames higher with his breath,
And drew out broken
brands, and chopped them up.
Two pots stood there:
the smaller contained beans,
The other vegetables:
each boiling beneath its lid.
While they waited, he
poured red wine with a trembling hand:
The god of the sea
accepted the first cup, and when
He’d drained it, he
said: ‘Let Jupiter drink next.’
Hearing the name of
Jupiter the old man grew pale.
Recovering his wits,
he sacrificed the ox that ploughed
His meagre land, and
roasted it in a great fire:
And he brought out
wine, in smoke-streaked jars,
That he’d once stored
away as a young boy.
Promptly they reclined
on couches made of rushes,
And covered with
linen, but still not high enough.
Now the table was
bright with food, bright with wine:
The bowl was red
earthenware, with cups of beech wood.
Jupiter’s word was:
‘If you’ve a wish, ask it:
All will be yours.’
The old man said calmly:
‘I had a dear wife,
whom I knew in the flower
Of my first youth.
Where is she now, you ask?
An urn contains her. I
swore to her, calling
On you gods, “You’ll
be the only wife I’ll take.”
I spoke, and kept the
oath. I ask for something else:
I wish to be a father,
and not a husband.’
The gods agreed: All
took their stand beside
The ox-hide – I’m
ashamed to describe the rest –
Then they covered the
soaking hide with earth:
Ten months went past
and a boy was born.
Hyrieus called him
Urion, because of his conception:
The first letter has
now lost its ancient sound.
He grew immensely: Latona took him for a friend,
He was her protector
and her servant.
Careless words excite
the anger of the gods:
He said: ‘There’s no
wild creature I can’t conquer.’
Earth sent a Scorpion: its purpose was to attack
The Goddess, who bore
the twins, with its curved dart:
Orion opposed it. Latona set him among the
shining stars,
And said: ‘Take now the
reward you’ve truly earned.’
But why are Orion and
the other stars rushing to leave
The sky, and why does
night contract its course?
Why does bright day,
presaged by the Morning Star,
Lift its radiance more
swiftly from the ocean waves?
Am I wrong, or did
weapons clash? I’m not: they clashed,
Mars comes, giving the
sign for war as he comes.
The Avenger himself descends from the sky
To view his shrine and
honours in Augustus’ forum.
The god and the work
are mighty: Mars
Could not be housed
otherwise in his son’s city.
The shrine is worthy
of trophies won from Giants:
From it the Marching
God initiates fell war,
When impious men
attack us from the East,
Or those from the
setting sun must be conquered.
The God of Arms sees
the summits of the work,
And approves of
unbeaten gods holding the heights.
He sees the various
weapons studding the doors,
Weapons from lands
conquered by his armies.
Here he views Aeneas bowed by his dear burden,
And many an ancestor
of the great Julian line:
There he views Romulus carrying Acron’s weapons
And famous heroes’
deeds below their ranked statues.
And he sees Augustus’
name on the front of the shrine,
And reading ‘Caesar’
there, the work seems greater still.
He had vowed it as a
youth, when dutifully taking arms:
With such deeds a
Prince begins his reign.
Loyal troops standing
here, conspirators over there,
He stretched his hand
out, and spoke these words:
‘If the death of my
‘father’ Julius, priest of Vesta,
Gives due cause for
this war, if I avenge for both,
Come, Mars, and stain
the sword with evil blood,
And lend your favour
to the better side. You’ll gain
A temple, and be
called the Avenger, if I win.’
So he vowed, and
returned rejoicing from the rout.
Nor is he satisfied to
have earned Mars that name,
But seeks the
standards lost to Parthian hands,
That race protected by
deserts, horses, arrows,
Inaccessible, behind
their encircling rivers.
The nation’s pride had
been roused by the deaths
Of the Crassi, when army, leader, standards all
were lost.
The Parthians kept the
Roman standards, ornaments
Of war, and an enemy
bore the Roman eagle.
That shame would have
remained, if Italy’s power
Had not been defended
by Caesar’s strong weapons.
He ended the old
reproach, a generation of disgrace:
The standards were
regained, and knew their own.
What use now the
arrows fired from behind your backs,
Your deserts and your
swift horses, you Parthians?
You carry the eagles
home: offer your unstrung bows:
Now you no longer own
the emblems of our shame.
Rightly the god has
his temple, and title twice of Avenger,
And the honour earned
has paid the avowed debt.
Quirites, celebrate
solemn games in the Circus!
Though that stage
scarcely seems worthy of a mighty god.
You’ll catch sight of
the Pleiades, the whole throng
together,
When there’s one night
still left before the Ides.
Then summer begins, as
I find from reliable sources,
And spring’s tepid
season comes to an end.
The day before the
Ides is marked by Taurus lifting
His starry muzzle. The
sign’s explained by a familiar tale.
Jupiter, as a bull, offered his back
to a Tyrian girl,
And carried horns on
his deceptive forehead.
Europa grasped his hair in her right
hand, her drapery
In her left, while
fear itself lent her fresh grace.
The breeze filled her
dress, ruffled her blonde hair:
Sidonian girl, like
that, you were fit to be seen by Jove.
Often girlishly she
withdrew her feet from the sea,
Fearing the touch of
the leaping billows:
Often the god
knowingly plunged his back in the waves,
So that she’d cling to
his neck more tightly.
Reaching shore, the
god was no longer a bull,
Jupiter stood there,
without the horns.
The bull entered the
heavens: you, Sidonian girl, Jove
Impregnated, and now a
third of the world bears your name.
Others say the sign is
Io, the Pharian heifer,
Turned from girl to
cow, from cow to goddess.
On this day too, the Vestals throw effigies made
of rushes,
In the form of men of
old, from the oak bridge.
Some accuse our
ancestors of a wicked crime,
Putting to death men
over sixty years of age.
There’s an old story,
that when the land was ‘Saturnia’,
Jove, prophetically,
said something like this:
‘Throw two people into
the Tuscan river,
As a sacrifice to the
sickle-bearing Ancient.’
Until Tirynthian Hercules came to our fields,
The sad rite was
performed each year, as at Leucas:
He threw Quirites of
straw into the water:
And now they throw
effigies in the same way.
Some think that the
young men used to hurl
Feeble old men from
the bridges, to steal their votes.
Tell me the truth, Tiber. Your shores pre-date the City,
You should know the
true origin of the rite.
Tiber, crowned in
reeds, lifted his head from mid-stream,
And opened his mouth
to speak these words, hoarsely:
‘I saw this place when
it was grassland, without walls:
Cattle were scattered
grazing on either bank,
And Tiber whom the
nations know and fear,
Was disregarded then,
even by the cattle.
Arcadian Evander is often named to you:
A stranger, he churned
my waters with his oars.
Hercules came here too, with a crowd
of Greeks,
(My name was Albula then, if I remember true)
Evander, hero from
Pallantium, received him warmly,
And Cacus had the punishment he deserved.
The victor left,
taking the cattle, his plunder from
Erythea
With him, but his
friends refused to go any further.
Most of them had come
from deserted Argos:
They established their
hopes, and houses, on our hills.
Yet sweet love for
their native land often stirred them,
And one of them, in
dying, gave this brief command:
“Throw me into the
Tiber, that carried by Tiber’s waves
My spiritless dust
might journey to the Inachian shore.”
That funeral duty laid
on him, displeased his heir:
The dead stranger was
buried in Italian ground,
And a rush effigy
thrown into the Tiber instead,
To return to his Greek
home over the wide waters.’
Tiber spoke, entering
a moist cave of natural stone,
While you, gentle
waters, checked your flow.
Come, Mercury, Atlas’ famous grandson, you whom
A Pleiad once bore to Jove, among the Arcadian hills,
Arbiter of war and
peace to gods on high, and those below:
You who make your way
with winged feet: who delight
In the sounding lyre,
and the gleaming wrestling:
You through whose
teaching the tongue learnt eloquence:
On the Ides, the
Senate founded for you, a temple facing
The Circus: since then
today has been your festival.
All those who make a
living trading their wares,
Offer you incense, and
beg you to swell their profits.
There’s Mercury’s fountain close to the Capene
Gate:
It’s potent, if you
believe those who’ve tried it.
Here the merchant,
cleansed, with his tunic girt,
Draws water and carries
it off, in a purified jar.
With it he wets some
laurel, sprinkles his goods
With damp laurel:
those soon to have new owners.
And he sprinkles his
hair with dripping laurel too,
And with that voice,
that often deceives, utters prayers:
‘Wash away all the lies
of the past,’ he says,
‘Wash away all the
perjured words of a day that’s gone.
If I’ve called on you
as witness, and falsely invoked
Jove’s great power,
hoping he wouldn’t hear:
If I’ve knowingly
taken the names of gods and goddesses,
In vain: let the swift
southerlies steal my sinful words,
And leave the day
clear for me, for further perjuries,
And let the gods above
fail to notice I’ve uttered any.
Just grant me my
profit, give me joy of the profit I’ve made:
And make sure I’ll
have the pleasure of cheating a buyer.’
Mercury, on high,
laughs aloud at such prayers,
Remembering how he
himself stole Apollo’s cattle.
But, I beg you,
Mercury, to respond to a better prayer,
And tell me when Phoebus
enters Gemini, the Twins.
He said: ‘When you see
as many days remaining
In the month as the
labours Hercules completed.’
‘Tell me,’ I replied,
‘the origin of the sign.’
The god explained its
origin, eloquently:
‘The Tyndarides, brothers, one a
horseman, the other
A boxer, raped and
abducted Phoebe and her sister Hilaira.
Idas, and Lynceus, his brother, prepared to fight,
and claim
Their own, both sworn
to be Leucippus’ sons-in-law.
Love urges one set of
twins to demand restitution,
The other to refuse
it: each fights for a common cause.
The Oebalids could have escaped by taking
flight,
But it seemed
dishonourable to conquer by their speed.
There’s a spot clear
of trees, a good place for a fight:
They took their stand
there (its called Aphidna).
Pierced in the chest
by Lynceus’ sword, a wound
He’d not expected, Castor fell to the ground.
Pollux rushed to avenge him, and
with his spear
Ran Lynceus through,
where neck meets shoulder.
Idas attacked him
then, and was only repulsed by Jove’s
Lightning, yet
without, they say, his weapon being torn from him.
And the heights of
heaven were opening for you,
Pollux, when you
cried: ‘Father, hear my words:
That heaven you grant
me alone, share between us:
Half will be more,
then, than the whole of your gift.’
He spoke, and redeemed
his brother, by their changing
Places alternately:
both stars aid the storm-tossed vessel.
Turn back to January to learn what the Agonia are:
Though they’ve a place
in the calendar here as well.
Tonight the stars of Erigone’s dog set: the origin
Of the constellation’s
explained elsewhere.
The next dawn belongs
to Vulcan: they call it
Tubilustria: when trumpets he
makes are purified.
The next date’s marked
by four letters, QRCF, which, interpreted,
Signify either the
manner of the sacred rites, or the flight
of the king.
I’ll not neglect you
either, Fortuna Publica, of a
powerful nation,
To whom a temple was
dedicated on this following day.
When the sun’s been
received by Amphitrite’s rich
waters,
You’ll see the beak of
Jove’s beloved tawny eagle.
The coming dawn will hide
Bootes from your sight,
And next day the
constellation of Hyas will be seen.