Ovid:
Fasti
Book Six
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 VI: June 11:
The Matralia
The reason for this
month’s name’s also doubtful:
Choose the one you
please from those I offer.
I sing the truth: but
some will say I lied,
Believing no deity was
ever seen by mortal.
There is a god in us:
when he stirs we kindle:
That impulse sows the
seeds of inspiration.
I’ve a special right
to see the faces of the gods,
Being a bard, or by
singing of sacred things.
There’s a dense grove
of trees, a place masked
From every sound,
except the trickle of water.
There I considered the
origin of the month
Just begun, and was
thinking about its name.
Behold I saw the
goddesses, but not those Hesiod
saw,
That teacher of
farming, following his Ascraean flock,
Nor those Priam’s son,
Paris, judged in moist Ida’s
Valleys: though one of
them was there.
One of them, her own
husband’s sister:
Juno, it was (I knew her) who stands in Jove’s temple.
I shivered, and
betrayed myself by speechless pallor:
Then the goddess
herself dispelled the fear she’d caused,
Saying: ‘O poet,
singer of the Roman year,
Who dares to tell
great things in slender measures,
You’ve won the right
to view a celestial power,
By choosing to
celebrate the festivals in your verse.
But so you’re not
ignorant or led astray by error,
June in fact takes its
name from mine.
It’s something to have
wed Jove, and to be Jove’s sister:
I’m not sure if I’m
prouder of brother or husband.
If you consider
lineage, I was first to call Saturn
Father, I was the
first child fate granted to him.
Rome was once named Saturnia, after my father:
This was the first
place he came to, exiled from heaven.
If the marriage bed
counts at all, I’m called the Thunderer’s
Wife, and my shrine’s
joined to that of Tarpeian Jove.
If his mistress could
give her name to the month of May,
Shall a similar honour
be begrudged to me?
Or why am I called
queen and chief of goddesses?
Why did they place a
golden sceptre in my hand?
Shall days (luces)
make up the month, and I be called
Lucina from them, yet not name a month
myself?
Then I would repent of
having loyally shed my anger
Against the race of Electra and the house of Dardanus.
I had twin cause for
anger: I grieved at Ganymede’s
abduction,
And my beauty was
scorned by that judge, on Ida.
I would repent of not
favouring Carthage’s walls,
Since my chariot and
my weapons are there:
I would repent of
having granted Rome rule of Sparta,
And of Argos, Mycenae,
and ancient Samos:
And of old Tatius, and the Faliscans who
worship me,
Whom I allowed to fall
prey to the Romans.
But let me not repent,
no race is dearer to me: here
I’m worshipped: here I
occupy a shrine with my dear Jove.
Mavors himself said to me: ‘I entrust
these walls
To you. You’ll have
power in your grandson’s city.’
His words are
fulfilled: I’m worshipped at a hundred altars,
And my month is the
not the least of my honours.
Nevertheless not
merely Rome does me that honour,
But the neighbouring
townsmen treat me the same.
Look at the calendar
of wooded Aricia,
Of the Laurentines,
and my own Lanuvium:
They’ve a month of
June. Look at Tiber,
And the sacred walls
of the goddess at Praeneste:
You’ll read of Juno’s month. Romulus didn’t found them:
But Rome, it’s true,
is the city of my grandson.’
Juno ended. I looked
back: Hebe, Hercules’ wife,
Stood there, with
youthfulness in her look.
She said: ‘If my
mother commanded me to leave heaven,
I wouldn’t stay,
against my mother’s will.
And I won’t argue now
about the name of the month:
I’ll persuade and act
the petitioner’s role,
I’d prefer to maintain
my rights by prayer alone.
Perhaps you’ll take my
side yourself.
My mother occupies the
golden Capitol, and shares
The summit shrine, as
is right, with Jove himself.
While all my glory
comes from the month’s name,
My only honour, one
with which they tease me.
What harm, Roman, in
your granting the name
Of a month to Hercules’ wife: posterity agreeing?
This land owes me
something too, because of my great
Husband: here he drove
the cattle he captured,
Here Cacus, badly protected by his father’s gift
of fire,
Stained the Aventine
earth with his blood.
But back to my point.
Romulus organised the people,
Dividing them into two
parts, according to age:
One was ready to give
advice, the other to fight:
One decided on war,
while the other waged it.
So he decreed, and
divided the months likewise:
June for the young (iuvenes):
the month before for the old.’
She spoke. And in the
heat of the moment they might have
Quarrelled, and anger
disguised true affection:
But Concord came, her long hair twined with
Apollo’s laurel,
A goddess, and the
dear care of our pacific leader.
When she’d told how
Tatius and brave Romulus,
And their two kingdoms
and people had merged,
And fathers- and
sons-in-law made a common home,
She said: ‘The month
of June gets its name from
Their union (iunctus).’
So three reasons were given.
Goddesses, forgive me:
it’s not for me to decide.
Leave me, equally.
Troy was ruined by judging beauty:
Two goddesses can
harm, more than one may delight.
Carna, the first day’s yours. Goddess of
the hinge:
She opens the closed,
by her power, closes the open.
The story of how she
gained the powers she has is obscured
By time, but you’ll
still learn of it from my verse.
There’s an ancient
grove of Alernus near the Tiber:
And the priests still
make sacrifices there.
A nymph was born there (men of old called her Cranaë)
Who was often sought in vain by many suitors.
She used to hunt the land, chasing wild beasts with spears,
Stretching her woven nets in the hollow valleys.
She’d no quiver, yet considered herself Apollo’s
Sister: nor need you, Apollo, have been ashamed of her.
If any youth spoke words of love to her,
She gave him this answer right away:
‘There’s too much light here, it’s too shameful
In the light: if you’ll lead to a darker cave, I’ll follow.’
While he went in front, credulously, she no sooner reached
The bushes than she hid: and was nowhere to be found.
Janus saw her, and the sight
raised his passion.
He used soft words to the hard-hearted nymph.
She told him to find a more private cave,
Followed him closely: then deserted her leader.
Foolish child! Janus can see what happens behind him:
You gain nothing: he looks back at your hiding place.
Nothing gained, as I said, you see! He caught you, hidden
Behind a rock, clasped you, worked his will, then said:
‘In return for our union, the hinges belong to you:
Have them as recompense for your maidenhead.’
So saying he gave her a thorn (it was white-thorn)
With which to drive away evil from the threshold.
There are some greedy birds, not those that cheated
Phineus of his meal,
though descended from that race:
Their heads are large, their eyes stick out, their beaks
Fit for tearing, their feathers are grey, their claws hooked.
They fly by night, attacking children with absent nurses,
And defiling their bodies, snatched from the cradle.
They’re said to rend the flesh of infants with their beaks,
And their throats are full of the blood they drink.
They’re called screech-owls, and the reason for the name
Is the horrible screeching they usually make at night.
Whether they’re born as birds, or whether they’re made so
By spells, old women transformed to birds by Marsian magic,
They still entered Proca’s
bedroom. Proca was fresh
Prey for the birds, a child of five days old.
They sucked at the infant’s chest, with greedy tongues:
And the wretched child screamed for help.
Scared at his cry, the nurse ran to her ward,
And found his cheeks slashed by their sharp claws.
What could she do? The colour of the child’s face
Was that of late leaves nipped by an early frost.
She went to Cranaë and told her: Cranaë said:
‘Don’t be afraid: your little ward will be safe.’
She approached the cradle: the parents wept:
‘Restrain your tears,’ she said, ‘I’ll heal him.’
Quickly she touched the doorposts, one after the other,
Three times, with arbutus leaves, three times with arbutus
Marked the threshold: sprinkled the entrance with water,
Medicinal water, while holding the entrails of a two-month sow:
And said: ‘Birds of night, spare his entrails:
A small victim’s offered here for a small child.
Take a heart for a heart, I beg, flesh for flesh,
This life we give you for a dearer life.’
When she’d sacrificed, she placed the severed flesh
In the open air, and forbade those there to look at it.
A ‘rod of Janus’, taken from
a whitethorn, was set
Where a little window shed light into the room.
After that, they say, the birds avoided the cradle,
And the boy recovered the colour he’d had before.
You ask why we eat greasy bacon-fat on the Kalends,
And why we mix beans with parched grain?
She’s an ancient goddess, nourished by familiar food,
No epicure to seek out alien dainties.
In ancient times the fish still swam unharmed,
And the oysters were safe in their shells.
Italy was unaware of Ionian heath-cocks,
And the cranes that enjoy Pigmy blood:
Only the feathers of the peacock pleased,
And the nations didn’t send us captive creatures.
Pigs were prized: men feasted on slaughtered swine:
The earth only yielded beans and hard grains.
They say that whoever eats these two foods together
At the Kalends, in this sixth month, will have sweet digestion.
They also say that the shrine of Juno
Moneta was founded
On the summit of the citadel, according to your vow, Camillus:
Before it was built, the house of Manlius
had protected
Capitoline Jove against the Gallic weapons.
Great Gods, it would have been better, if he’d fallen,
In defence of your throne, noble Jupiter!
He lived to be executed, condemned for seeking kingship:
That was the crown long years granted him.
This same day is a festival of Mars,
whose temple
By the Covered Way is seen from beyond the Capene Gate.
You too, Tempest, were
considered worthy of a shrine,
After our fleet was almost sunk in Corsican waters.
These human monuments are obvious. If you look
For stars too, great Jove’s eagle,
with curved talons, rises.
Next light summons the Hyades,
the horns on Taurus’
Brow, and then the earth’s soaked with heavy rain.
When two dawns are past, and Phoebus has risen twice,
And the crops have twice been wet by the dewfall,
On that day, they say, during the Tuscan War, Bellona’s
Shrine was consecrated, she who always brings Rome success.
Appius was responsible, who,
when peace was denied Pyrrhus,
Saw clearly with his mind, though deprived of sight.
A little open space looks down on the heights of the Circus
From the temple, there’s a little pillar there of no mean importance:
The custom is to hurl a spear from there to declare war,
When it’s been decided to take up arms against kings and nations.
The rest of the Circus
is protected by Hercules the
Guardian,
The god holds the
office due to the Sibylline
oracle.
The day before the
Nones is when he takes up office:
If you ask about the
inscription, Sulla approved the
work.
I asked whether I
should assign the Nones to Sancus,
Or Fidius, or you Father Semo: Sancus answered me:
‘Whichever you assign
it to, the honour’s mine:
I bear all three
names: so Cures willed it.’
The Sabines of old granted him a shrine
accordingly,
And established it on
the Quirinal Hill.
I have a daughter (may she outlive me, I pray)
In whom I’ll always be
happy, while she’s safe.
When I wished to give
her away to my son-in-law,
I asked which times
were fit for weddings, which were not:
Then it was pointed
out to me that after the Ides of June
Was a good time for
brides, and for bridegrooms,
While the start of the
month was unsuitable for marriage:
For the holy wife of
the Flamen Dialis told me:
‘Till the calm Tiber
carries the sweepings from the shrine
Of Ilian Vesta, on its yellow waves to
the sea,
I’m not allowed to
comb my hair with a toothed comb,
Nor to cut my nails
with anything made of iron,
Nor to touch my
husband, though he’s Jove’s priest,
And though he was
given to me by law for life.
Don’t be in a hurry.
Your daughter will be better wed,
When Vesta’s fire
gleams on purified earth.’
On the third dawn after the Nones, it’s said that Phoebe
Chases away Arcturus, and the Bear’s free of fear of her ward.
Then I recall, too,
I’ve seen games, named for you
Smooth-flowing Tiber, held on the turf in the Field of Mars.
The day’s a festival
for those who tug at dripping lines,
And hide their bronze
hooks under little strands of bait.
The Mind has its own goddess too. I note a
sanctuary
Was vowed to Mind,
during the terror of war with you,
Perfidious Carthage. You broke the peace, and
astonished
By the consul’s death,
all feared the Moorish army.
Fear had driven out
hope, when the Senate made their vows
To Mind, and
immediately she was better disposed to them.
The day when the vows
to the goddess were fulfilled
Is separated by six
days from the approaching Ides.
Vesta, favour me! I’ll open my lips
now in your service,
If I’m indeed allowed
to attend your sacred rites.
I was rapt in prayer:
I felt the heavenly deity,
And the happy earth
shone with radiant light.
Not that I saw you,
goddess (away with poets’ lies!)
Nor were you to be
looked on by any man:
But I knew what I’d
not known, and the errors
I’d held to were
corrected without instruction.
They say Rome had
celebrated the Parilia forty times,
When the goddess, the
Guardian of the Flame, was received
In her shrine, the
work of Numa, that peace-loving king,
(None more god-fearing
was ever born in Sabine lands.)
The roofs you see of
bronze were roofs of straw then,
And its walls were
made of wickerwork.
This meagre spot that
supports the Hall of Vesta
Was then the mighty
palace of unshorn Numa.
Yet the form of the
temple, that remains, they say,
Is as before, and is
shaped so for good reason.
Vesta’s identified
with Earth: in them both’s unsleeping fire:
Earth and the hearth
are both symbols of home.
The Earth’s a ball not
resting on any support,
It’s great weight
hangs in the ether around it.
Its own revolutions
keep its orb balanced,
It has no sharp angles
to press on anything,
And it’s placed in the
midst of the heavens,
And isn’t nearer or
further from any side,
For if it weren’t
convex, it would be nearer somewhere,
And the universe
wouldn’t have Earth’s weight at its centre.
There’s a globe suspended,
enclosed by Syracusan art,
That’s a small replica
of the vast heavens,
And the Earth’s
equidistant from top and bottom.
Which is achieved by
its spherical shape.
The form of this
temple’s the same: there’s no angle
Projecting from it: a
rotunda saves it from the rain.
You ask why the
goddess is served by virgins?
I’ll reveal the true
reason for that as well.
They say that Juno and Ceres were born of Ops
By Saturn’s seed, Vesta was the third daughter:
The others married,
both bore children they say,
The third was always
unable to tolerate men.
What wonder if a
virgin delights in virgin servants,
And only allows chaste
hands to touch her sacred relics?
Realize that Vesta is
nothing but living flame,
And you’ll see that no
bodies are born from her.
She’s truly a virgin,
who neither accepts seed
Nor yields it, and she
loves virgin companions.
I foolishly thought
for ages that there were statues
Of Vesta, later I
learnt there were none beneath her dome:
An undying fire is
concealed with the shrine,
But there’s no image
of Vesta or of fire.
The earth’s supported
by its energy: Vesta’s so called from ‘depending
On energy’ (vi
stando), and that could be the reason for her Greek name. But the hearth (focus) is named from
its fire that warms (fovet) all things:
Formerly it stood in
the most important room.
I think the vestibule
was so called from Vesta too:
In praying we address
Vesta first, who holds first place.
It was once the custom
to sit on long benches by the fire,
And believe the gods
were present at the meal:
Even now in
sacrificing to ancient Vacuna,
They sit and stand in
front of her altar hearths.
Something of ancient
custom has passed to us:
A clean dish contains
the food offered to Vesta.
See, loaves are hung
from garlanded mules,
And flowery wreaths
veil the rough millstones.
Once farmers only used
to parch wheat in their ovens,
(And the goddess of ovens has her sacred
rites):
The hearth baked the
bread, set under the embers,
On a broken tile
placed there on the heated floor.
So the baker honours
the hearth, and the lady of hearths,
And the she-ass that
turns the pumice millstones.
Red-faced Priapus shall I tell of your shame
or pass by?
It’s a brief tale but
it’s a merry one.
Cybele, whose head is crowned with towers,
Called the eternal
gods to her feast.
She invited the satyrs
too, and those rural divinities,
The nymphs, and Silenus came, though no one asked
him.
It’s forbidden, and would
take too long, to describe the banquet
Of the gods: the whole
night was spent drinking deep.
Some wandered
aimlessly in Ida’s shadowy vales,
Some lay, and
stretched their limbs, on the soft grass.
Some played, some
slept, others linked arms
And beat swift feet
threefold on the grassy earth.
Vesta lay carelessly,
enjoying a peaceful rest,
Her head reclining,
resting on the turf.
But the red-faced
keeper of gardens chased the nymphs
And goddesses, and his
roving feet turned to and fro.
He saw Vesta too: it’s
doubtful whether he thought her
A nymph, or knew her
as Vesta: he himself denied he knew.
He had wanton hopes,
and tried to approach her in secret,
And walked on tiptoe,
with a pounding heart.
Old Silenus had
chanced to leave the mule
He rode by the banks
of a flowing stream.
The god of the long Hellespont was about to start,
When the mule let out
an untimely bray.
Frightened by the
raucous noise, the goddess leapt up:
The whole troop
gathered, and Priapus fled through their hands.
The people of Lampsacus sacrifice this animal to
him, singing:
‘Rightly we give the
innards of the witness to the flames.’
Goddess, you deck the
creature with necklaces of loaves,
In remembrance: work
ceases: the empty mills fall silent.
I’ll explain the
meaning of an altar of Jove the
Baker
That stands on the
Thunderer’s citadel, more famous
For name than worth.
The Capitol was surrounded
By fierce Gauls: the
siege had already caused a famine.
Summoning the gods to
his royal throne,
Jupiter said to Mars: ‘Begin!’ and he quickly replied:
A grief that needs a
voice of heartfelt complaint.
But if I’m to tell a
sad and shameful tale in brief,
Rome lies under the
feet of an Alpine enemy.
Jupiter, is this the
Rome that was promised power
Over the world! Rome,
the mistress of the earth?
She’d crushed the
neighbouring cities, and the Etruscans:
Hope was rampant: now
she’s driven from her home.
We’ve seen old men,
dressed in embroidered robes
Of triumph, murdered
in their bronze-clad halls:
We’ve seen Ilian Vesta’s sacred pledges hurried
From their place: some
clearly think of the gods.
But if they look back
at the citadel you hold,
And see so many of
your homes under siege,
They’ll think worship
of the gods is vain,
And incense from a
fearful hand thrown away.
If only they’d an open
field of battle! Let them arm,
And if they can’t be
victorious, let them die.
Now without food, and
dreading a cowardly death,
They’re penned on
their hill, pressed by a barbarous mob.’
Then Venus, and Vesta, and glorious Quirinus with auger’s staff
And striped gown,
pleaded on behalf of their Latium.
Jupiter replied: ‘There’s a common
concern for those walls.
And the Gauls will be
defeated and receive punishment.
But you, Vesta,
mustn’t leave your place, and see to it
That the bread that’s
lacking be considered plentiful.
Let whatever grain is
left be ground in a hollow mill,
Kneaded by hand, and
then baked in a hot oven.’
He gave his orders,
and Saturn’s virgin daughter
Obeyed his command, as
the hour reached midnight.
Now sleep had overcome
the weary leaders: Jupiter
Rebuked them, and
spoke his wishes from holy lips:
‘Rise, and from the
heights of the citadel, throw down
Among the enemy, the
last thing you’d wish to yield!’
They shook off sleep,
and troubled by the strange command,
Asked themselves what
they must yield, unwillingly.
It seemed it must be
bread: They threw down the gifts
Of Ceres, clattering on the enemy helms and
shields.
The expectation that they
could be starved out vanished.
The foe was repulsed,
and a bright altar raised to Jove the Baker.
On the festival of
Vesta, I happened to be returning
By the recent path
that joins the New Way to the
Forum.
There I saw a lady
descending barefoot:
Astonished, I was
silent and stopped short.
An old woman from the
neighbourhood saw me: and telling
Me to sit, spoke to me
in a quavering voice, shaking her head:
‘Here, where the
forums are now, was marshy swamp:
A ditch was wet with
the overflow from the river.
That lake of Curtius, that supports the altars un-wet,
Is solid enough now,
but was a pool of water once.
Where processions file
through the Velabrum to the
Circus,
There was nothing but
willow and hollow reeds:
Often some guest
returning over suburban waters,
Sang out, and hurled
drunken words at the boatmen.
Wasn’t yet so-called
from damning back the river (averso amne).
Here too was a thicket
of bulrushes and reeds,
And a marsh un-trodden
by booted feet.
The pools are gone,
and the river keeps its banks,
And the ground’s dry
now: but the custom remains.’
So she explained it. I
said: ‘Farewell, good dame!
May whatever of life
remains to you be sweet.’
I’d already heard the
rest of the tale in boyhood,
But I won’t pass over
it in silence on that account.
Ilus, scion of Dardanus, had founded a new city
(Ilus was still rich,
holding the wealth of Asia)
A sky-born image of
armed Minerva was said
To have fallen on the
hillside near to Troy.
(I was anxious to see
it: I saw the temple and the site,
That’s all that’s left
there: Rome has the Palladium.)
Apollo Smintheus was consulted, and gave
this answer
From truthful lips, in
the darkness of his shadowy grove:
‘Preserve the heavenly
goddess, and preserve
The City: with her
goes the capital of empire.’
Ilus preserved her,
closed in the heights of the citadel.
The care of it
descended to his heir Laomedon.
Priam failed to take
like care: so Pallas wished it,
Judgement having gone
against her beauty.
They say it was
stolen, whether by Diomede,
Or cunning Ulysses, or taken by Aeneas:
The agent’s unknown,
but the thing’s in Rome:
Vesta guards it: who
sees all things by her unfailing light.
How worried the Senate
was, when Vesta’s temple
Caught fire: and she
was nearly buried by her own roof!
Holy fires blazed, fed
by sinful fires,
Sacred and profane
flames were merged.
The priestesses with
streaming hair, wept in amazement:
Fear had robbed them
of their bodily powers.
Metellus rushed into their midst,
crying in a loud voice:
‘Run and help, there’s
no use in weeping.
Seize fate’s pledges
in your virgin hands:
They won’t survive by
prayers, but by action.
Ah me! Do you
hesitate?’ he said. He saw them,
Hesitating, sinking in
terror to their knees.
He took up water, and
holding his hands aloft, cried:
‘Forgive me, holy
relics! A man enters where no man should.
If it’s wrong, let the
punishment fall on me:
Let my life be the
penalty, so Rome is free of harm.’
He spoke and entered.
The goddess he carried away
Was saved by her
priest’s devotion, and she approved.
Now sacred flames you
shine brightly under Caesar’s rule:
The fire on the Ilian
hearths is there, and will remain,
It won’t be said that
under him any priestess
disgraced
Her office, nor that
she was buried alive in the earth.
So the unchaste die,
being entombed in what they
Have violated: since
divine Earth and Vesta are one.
This day Brutus won his title from the Galician
foe,
And stained the soil
of Spain with blood.
Surely sadness is
sometimes mixed with joy,
Lest festivals delight
the crowd’s hearts completely:
Crassus, near the Euphrates, lost the eagles, his
army,
And his son, and at
the end himself as well.
The goddess said:
‘Parthians, why exult? You’ll send
The standards back, a
Caesar will avenge Crassus’ death.’
But once the violets
are stripped from the long-eared mules,
And the rough
millstones are grinding the grain again,
The sailor at the
stern says: ‘We’ll see the Dolphin,
When day is put to
flight and night comes on.’
Now you complain,
Phrygian Tithonus, abandoned by
your bride,
And the vigilant
Morning Star leaves the Eastern waters.
Good mothers (since
the Matralia is your
festival),
Go, offer the Theban
goddess the golden cakes she’s owed.
Near the bridges and
mighty Circus is a famous square,
One that takes its name from the statue of an ox:
There, on this day,
they say, Servius with
his own
Royal hands,
consecrated a temple to Mother Matruta.
Bacchus, whose hair is
twined with clustered grapes,
If the goddess’ house
is also yours, guide the poet’s work,
Regarding who the
goddess is, and why she excludes
(Since she does)
female servants from the threshold
Of her temple, and why
she calls for toasted cakes.
Semele was burnt by Jove’s compliance: Ino
Received you as a
baby, and nursed you with utmost care.
Juno swelled with rage, that Ino should
raise a child
Snatched from Jove’s
lover: but it was her sister’s son.
So Athamas was haunted by the Furies, and false visions,
And little Learchus died by his father’s hand.
His grieving mother
committed his shade to the tomb.
And paid the honours
due to the sad pyre.
Then tearing her hair
in sorrow, she leapt up
And snatched you from
your cradle, Melicertes.
There’s a narrow
headland between two seas,
A single space
attacked by twofold waves:
There Ino came,
clutching her son in her frenzied grasp,
And threw herself,
with him, from a high cliff into the sea.
Panope and her hundred sisters
received them unharmed,
And gliding smoothly
carried them through their realm.
They reached the mouth
of densely eddying Tiber,