Ovid: Fasti
Book Three
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 III: March
14: The Equirria
Book III: March
17: The Liberalia
Book III: March
19: The Quinquatrus
Book III: March
23: The Tubilustria
Come Mars, God of War, lay aside your shield and
spear:
A moment, from your
helmet, free your shining hair.
What has a poet to do
with Mars, you might ask?
The month I sing of
takes its name from you.
You see, yourself,
fierce wars waged by Minerva:
Is she less free to
practice the noble arts for that?
Take time to set aside
you lance and follow Pallas’
Example: and find
something to do while unarmed.
You were unarmed then,
as well, when the Roman
Priestess captivated
you, so you could seed this City.
Silvia, the Vestal, (why not begin with
her?)
Sought water at dawn
to wash sacred things.
When she came to where
the path ran gently down
The sloping bank, she
set down the earthenware jar
From her head. Weary,
she sat on the ground and opened
Her dress to the
breeze, and composed her ruffled hair.
While she sat there,
the shadowy willows, melodious birds,
And the soft murmur of
the water made her sleepy.
Sweet slumber slyly
stole across her conquered eyes,
And her languid hand
fell, from supporting her chin.
Mars saw her, seeing
her desired her, desiring her
Possessed her, by
divine power hiding his theft.
She lost sleep, lay
there heavily: and already,
Rome’s founder had his
being in her womb,.
Languidly she rose,
not knowing why she rose,
And leaning against a
tree spoke these words:
‘I beg that what I saw
in vision in my sleep
Might be happy and
good. Or was it too real for sleep?
I thought I was
tending the Trojan flame, and the woollen band
Slipped from my hair,
and fell down, in front of the sacred fire.
From it, strange
sight, at once, two palm trees sprang:
One of the trees was
taller than the other,
And covered all the
world with its heavy branches,
Touching the topmost
stars with its crown.
See, my uncle, Amulius, wielding an axe against the
trees,
The thought terrified
me, and my heart shuddered with fear.
A woodpecker, bird of Mars, and a she-wolf defended
The twin trunks: by
their help both palm-trees were saved.’
She spoke, and weakly
lifted the brimming pitcher:
She had filled it
while she told of her vision.
Meanwhile Remus and Quirinus were growing,
And her belly swelled
with the divine burden.
When only two signs
remained for the shining god
To travel before the
complete year had run its course,
Silvia became a
mother. They say the images of Vesta
Covered their eyes
with their virgin hands:
The altar of the
goddess certainly trembled when her priestess
Gave birth, and the
fearful flame sank to its own ashes.
When Amulius, knew of
this, a man scornful of justice,
(Since he overcame his
own brother and took his power)
He ordered the twins
drowned in the river. The water shrank
From the crime: and
the boys were left there on dry land.
Who doesn’t know that
the children were fed on milk
From a wild creature,
and a woodpecker often brought them food?
Now should I forget
you, Larentia, nurse of such a
nation,
Nor, poor Faustulus, the help that you gave.
I’ll honour you when I
speak of the Larentalia,
And the month approved
of by the guardian spirits.
The children of Mars
were eighteen years old,
And fresh beards grew
below their yellow hair:
These brothers, the
sons of Ilia, gave judgement
When asked, to all
farmers and masters of herds.
They often returned pleased
with the blood of robbers
They’d spilt: driving
the stolen cattle back to their fields.
Hearing their origin,
their spirits rose at their father’s divinity,
And they were ashamed
to be known only among a few huts.
Amulius fell, struck through by Romulus’ sword
And the kingdom was
returned to their old grandfather.
Walls were built,
which it would have been better
For Remus not to leap, small though they
were.
Now what was once
woodland and the haunt of cattle,
Was a City, and the
founder of the eternal City said:
‘Arbiter of War, from
whose blood I am thought to spring,
(And to confirm that
belief I shall give many proofs),
I name the first month
of the Roman year after you:
The first month shall be called by my father’s
name.’
The promise was kept:
he called the month after his father.
This piety is said to
have pleased the god.
And earlier, Mars was worshipped above all the gods:
A warlike people gave
him their enthusiasm.
Athens worshipped Pallas: Minoan Crete, Diana:
Hypsipyle’s island of Lemnos worshipped Vulcan:
Juno was worshipped by Sparta and Pelops’ Mycenae,
Pine-crowned Faunus by Maenalian Arcadia:
Mars, who directs the
sword, was revered by Latium:
Arms gave a fierce
people possessions and glory.
If you have time
examine various calendars.
And you’ll find a
month there named after Mars.
It was third in the
Alban, fifth in the Faliscan calendar,
Sixth among your
people, Hernican lands.
The position’s the
same in the Arician and Alban,
And Tusculum’s whose
walls Telegonus made.
It’s fifth among the
Laurentes, tenth for the tough Aequians,
First after the third
the folk of Cures place it,
And the Pelignian
soldiers agree with their Sabine
Ancestors: both make
him the god of the fourth month.
In order to take
precedence over all these, at least,
Romulus gave the first
month to the father of his race.
Nor did the ancients
have as many Kalends as us:
Their year was shorter
than ours by two months.
Greece, defeated had
not yet transmitted her arts
To the conquerors, her
people eloquent but not brave.
He knew the arts of
Rome, then, who fought well:
He was fluent, who
could hurl the javelin, then.
Who knew the Hyades or Pleiades, the daughters
Of Atlas, or that there were two poles in the
sky:
Knew that there are
two Bears, the Sidonians steering
By Cynosura, the Greek sailor noting Helice:
That the signs Apollo, the Sun, travels in a whole year,
His sister Diana’s Moon-horses cross in a month?
The stars then ran
their course, freely, unobserved
Each year: yet
everyone held them to be gods.
They couldn’t touch
the heaven’s gliding Standards,
Only their own, and it
was a great crime to lose them.
Theirs were of straw:
But the straw won a reverence
As great as you see
the eagles share today.
A long pole carried
the hanging bundles (maniplos),
From which the private
soldier takes his name (maniplaris).
So, untaught and
lacking in science, each five-year lustre
That they calculated
was short by two whole months.
A year was when the
moon returned to full for the tenth time:
And that was a number
that was held in high honour:
Because it’s the
number of fingers we usually count with,
Or because a woman
produces in ten months,
Or because the
numerals ascend from one to ten,
And from that point we
begin a fresh interval.
So Romulus divided the
hundred Senators into ten groups,
And instituted ten
companies of men with spears,
And as many front-rank
and javelin men,
And also those who
officially merited horses.
He even divided the
tribes the same way, the Titienses,
The Ramnes, as they
are called, and the Luceres.
And so he reserved the
same number for his year,
It’s the time for
which the sad widow mourns her man.
If you doubt that the
Kalends of March began the year,
You can refer to the
following evidence.
The priest’s laurel
branch that remained all year,
Was removed then, and
fresh leaves honoured.
Then the king’s door
is green with Phoebus’ bough,
Set there, and at your
doors too, ancient wards.
And the withered
laurel is taken from the Trojan hearth,
So Vesta may be brightly dressed with
new leaves.
Also, it’s said, a new
fire is lit at her secret shrine,
And the rekindled
flame acquires new strength.
And to me it’s no less
a sign that past years began so,
That in this month
worship of Anna Perenna begins.
Then too it’s recorded
public offices commenced,
Until the time of your
wars, faithless Carthaginian.
Lastly Quintilis is the fifth (quintus)
month from March,
And begins those that
take their names from numerals.
Numa Pompilius, led to Rome from the lands
of olives,
Was the first to
realise the year lacked two months,
Learning it from Pythagoras of Samos, who
believed
We could be reborn, or
was taught it by his own Egeria.
But the calendar was
still erratic down to the time
When Caesar took it, and many other
things, in hand.
That god, the founder
of a mighty house, did not
Regard the matter as
beneath his attention,
And wished to have
prescience of those heavens
Promised him, not be
an unknown god entering a strange house.
He is said to have
drawn up an exact table
Of the periods in
which the sun returns to its previous signs.
He added sixty-five
days to three hundred,
And then added a fifth
part of a whole day.
That’s the measure of
the year: one day
The sum of the five
part-days is added to each lustre.
‘If it’s right for the
secret promptings of the gods
To be heard by poets,
as it’s rumoured they may,
Tell me, Gradivus, Marching God, why women
keep
Your feast, you who
are apt to be served by men.’
So I spoke. And Mars answered, laying aside his helmet,
But keeping his
throwing spear in his right hand:
Now am I, a god used
to warfare, invoked
In pursuit of peace,
and I’m carried into new camps,
And I don’t dislike
it: I like to take on this function,
Lest Minerva think that she alone can do so.
Have what you seek, labouring
poet of Latin days,
And inscribe my words
in your memory.
Rome was little, if you wish to trace
its first beginnings,
But still in that
little, there was hope of all this.
The walls already
stood, too cramped for its future people,
But then thought too
large for its populace.
If you ask where my
son’s palace was,
See there, that house
made of straw and reeds.
He snatched the gifts
of peaceful sleep on straw,
Yet from that same low
bed he rose to the stars.
Already the Roman’s
name extended beyond his city,
Though he possessed
neither wife nor father-in-law.
Wealthy neighbours
rejected poor sons-in-law,
And hardly thought I
was the origin of the race.
It harmed the Romans
that they lived in cattle-byres,
Grazed sheep, and
owned a few acres of poor soil.
Birds and beasts each
mate with their own kind,
And even a snake has
another with which to breed:
Rights of
intermarriage are granted to distant peoples:
Yet none wished to
marry with the Romans.
I sympathised,
Romulus, and gave you your father’s spirit:
“Forget prayers,” I
said, “Arms will grant what you seek.”
He prepared a feast
for the god, Consus. Consus will tell
you
The rest of what
happened that day when you sing his rites.
Cures was angered, and all who endured that
same wrong:
Then a father fist
waged war on his sons-in-law.
The ravished women
were now almost mothers,
And the war between
the kinfolk lingered on,
When the wives
gathered to the call in Juno’s temple:
Among them, my
daughter-in-law dared to speak:
“Oh, all you ravished
women (we have that in common)
We can no longer delay
our duties to our kin.
The battle prepares,
but choose which side you will pray for:
Your husbands on this
side, your fathers are on that.
The question is
whether you choose to be widows or fatherless:
I will give you
dutiful and bold advice.”
She gave counsel: they
obeyed and loosened their hair,
And clothed their
bodies in gloomy funeral dress.
The ranks already
stood to arms, preparing to die,
The trumpets were
about to sound the battle signal,
When the ravished
women stood between husband and father,
Holding their infants,
dear pledges of love, to their breasts.
When, with streaming
hair, they reached the centre of the field,
They knelt on the
ground, their grandchildren, as if they understood,
With sweet cries,
stretching out their little arms to their grandfathers:
Those who could,
called to their grandfather, seen for the first time,
And those who could
barely speak yet, were encouraged to try.
The arms and passions
of the warriors fall: dropping their swords
Fathers and
sons-in-law grasp each other’s hands,
They embrace the
women, praising them, and the grandfather
Bears his grandchild
on his shield: a sweeter use for it.
Hence the Sabine
mothers acquired the duty, no light one,
To celebrate the first
day, my Kalends.
Either because they
ended that war, by their tears,
In boldly facing the
naked blades,
Or because Ilia happily became a mother through me,
Mothers justly observe
the rites on my day.
Then winter, coated in
frost, at last withdraws,
And the snows vanish,
melted by warm suns:
Leaves, once lost to
the cold, appear on the trees,
And the moist bud
swells in the tender shoot:
And fertile grasses,
long concealed, find out
Hidden paths to lift
themselves to the air.
Now the field’s
fruitful, now’s the time for cattle breeding,
Now the bird on the
bough prepares a nest and home:
It’s right that Roman
mothers observe that fruitful season,
Since in childbirth
they both struggle and pray.
Add that, where the
Roman king kept watch,
On the hill that now
has the name of Esquiline,
A temple was founded,
as I recall, on this day,
By the Roman women in
honour of Juno.
But why do I linger,
and burden your thoughts with reasons?
The answer you seek is
plainly before your eyes.
My mother, Juno, loves
brides: crowds of mothers worship me:
Such a virtuous reason
above all befits her and me.’
Bring the goddess
flowers: the goddess loves flowering plants:
Garland your heads
with fresh flowers, and say:
‘You, Lucina, have
given us the light of life’: and say:
‘You hear the prayer
of women in childbirth.’
But let her who is
with child, free her hair in prayer,
So the goddess may
gently free her womb.
Now who will tell me
why the Salii carry Mars’
Celestial weapons, and
sing of Mamurius.
Teach me, nymph, who
serves Diana’s lake and grove:
Nymph, Egeria, wife to Numa, speak of your actions.
There is a lake in the
vale of Aricia, ringed by dense woods,
And sacred to religion
from ancient times.
Here Hippolytus hides, who was torn to
pieces
By his horses, and so
no horse may enter the grove.
The long hedge is
covered with hanging threads,
And many tablets
witness the goddess’s merit.
Often a woman whose
prayer is answered, brow wreathed
With garlands, carries
lighted torches from the City.
One with strong hands
and swift feet rules there,
And each is later
killed, as he himself killed before.
A pebble-filled stream
flows down with fitful murmurs:
Often I’ve drunk
there, but in little draughts.
Egeria, goddess dear to the Camenae, supplies the water:
She who was wife and
counsellor to Numa.
The Quirites were too prompt to take
up arms,
And Numa quietened them with justice, and fear
of the gods.
So laws were made,
that the stronger might not take all,
And traditional rights
were properly observed.
They left off being
savages, justice superseded arms,
And citizens were
ashamed to fight each other:
Those who had once
been violent were transformed, on seeing
An altar, offering
wine and salted meal on the warm hearths.
See, the father of the
gods scatters red lightning through
The clouds, and clears
the sky with showers of rain:
The forked flames
never fell thicker:
The king was fearful,
the people filled with terror.
The goddess said:
‘Don’t be so afraid! Lightning
Can be placated, and
fierce Jupiter’s anger averted.
Picus and Faunus, each a deity native to Roman
soil,
Can teach you the
rites of expiation. But they won’t
Teach them unless
compelled: so catch and bind them.’
And she revealed the
arts by which they could be caught.
There was a grove,
dark with holm-oaks, below the Aventine,
At sight of which you
would say: ‘There’s a god within.’
The centre was grassy,
and covered with green moss,
And a perennial stream
of water trickled from the rock.
Faunus and Picus used
to drink there alone.
Numa approached and
sacrificed a sheep to the spring,
And set out cups
filled with fragrant wine.
Then he hid with his
people inside the cave.
The woodland spirits
came to their usual spring,
And quenched their dry
throats with draughts of wine.
Sleep succeeded wine:
Numa emerged from the icy cave
And clasped the
sleepers’ hands in tight shackles.
When sleep vanished,
they fought and tried to burst
Their bonds, which
grew tighter the more they struggled.
Then Numa spoke: ‘Gods
of the sacred groves, if you accept
My thoughts were free
of wickedness, forgive my actions:
And show me how the
lightning may be averted.’
So Numa: and, shaking
his horns, so Faunus replied:
‘You seek great
things, that it’s not right for you to know
Through our admission:
our powers have their limits.
We are rural gods who
rule in the high mountains:
Jupiter has control of
his own weapons.
You could never draw
him from heaven by yourself,
But you may be able,
by making use of our aid.’
Faunus spoke these words: Picus too
agreed,
‘But remove our
shackles,’ Picus added:
‘Jupiter will arrive
here, drawn by powerful art.
Cloudy Styx will be witness to my promise.’
It’s wrong for men to
know what the gods enacted when loosed
From the snare, or
what spells they spoke, or by what art
They drew Jupiter from
his realm above. My song will sing
Of lawful things, such
as a poet may speak with pious lips.
The drew you (eliciunt)
from the sky, Jupiter, and later
Generations now
worship you, by the name of Elicius.
It’s true that the
crowns of the Aventine woods
trembled,
And the earth sank
under the weight of Jove.
The king’s heart
shook, the blood fled from his body,
And the bristling hair
stood up stiffly on his head.
When he regained his
senses, he said: ‘King and father
To the high gods, if I
have touched your offerings
With pure hands, and
if a pious tongue, too, asks for
What I seek, grant
expiation from your lightning,’
The god accepted his
prayer, but hid the truth with deep
Ambiguities, and
terrified him with confusing words.
‘Sever a head,’ said
the god: the king replied; ‘I will,
We’ll sever an
onion’s, dug from my garden.’
The god added: ‘Of a
man’: ‘You’ll have the hair,’
Said the king. He
demanded a life, Numa replied: ‘A fish’s’.
The god laughed and
said: ‘Expiate my lightning like this,
O man who cannot be
stopped from speaking with gods.
And when Apollo’s disc is full tomorrow,
I’ll give you sure
pledges of empire.’
He spoke, and was
carried above the quaking sky,
In loud thunder,
leaving Numa worshipping him.
The king returned
joyfully, and told the Quirites
What had happened:
they were slow to believe his words.
‘It will surely be
believed,’ he said, ‘if the event follows
My speech: listen, all
you here, to what tomorrow brings.
When Apollo’s disc has
lifted fully above the earth,
Jupiter will grant me
sure pledges of empire.’
The left, doubtful,
considering it long to wait,
But setting their
hopes on the following day.
The ground was soft at
dawn, with a frost of dew:
When the crowd
gathered at the king’s threshold.
He emerged, and sat in
the midst on a maple wood throne.
Countless warriors
stood around him in silence.
Phoebus had scarcely
risen above the horizon:
Their anxious minds
trembled with hope and fear.
The king stood, his
head covered with a white cloth
Raising his hands,
that the god now knew so well.
He spoke as follows:
‘The time is here for the promised gift,
Jupiter, make true the
words of your pledge.’
As he spoke, the sun’s
full disc appeared,
And a loud crash came
from the depths of the sky.
Three times the god
thundered, and hurled his lightning,
From cloudless air,
believe what I say, wonderful but true.
The sky began to split
open at the zenith:
The crowd and its
leader lifted their eyes.
Behold, a shield fell,
trembling in the light breeze.
The sound of the
crowd’s shouting reached the stars.
The king first
sacrificed a heifer that had never known
The yoke, then raised
the gift from the ground,
And called it ancile,
because it was cut away (recisum)
All round, and there
wasn’t a single angle to note.
Then, remembering the
empire’s fate was involved,
He thought of a very
cunning idea.
He ordered many
shields cut in the same shape,
In order to confuse
the eyes of any traitor.
Mamurius carried out the task: whether
he was superior
In his craft or his
character it would be hard to say.
Gracious Numa said to
him: ‘Ask a reward for your work,
You’ll not ask in vain
of one known for honesty.’
He’d already given the
Salii, named from their leaping (saltus),
Weapons: and words to
be sung to a certain tune.
Mamurius replied:
‘Give me glory as my prize,
And let my name be
sounded at the song’s end.’
So the priests grant
the reward promised for his
Ancient work, and now
call out ‘Mamurius’.
Girl if you’d marry,
delay, however eager both are:
A little delay, at
this time, is of great advantage.
Weapons excite to war,
war’s bad for those married:
The omens will be
better when weapons are put away.
Now the girded wife of
the peak-capped Flamen Dialis
Has to keep her hair
free from the comb.
When the third night
of the month initiates its rising,
One of the two fishes
(Pisces) will have vanished.
There are two: one
near to the South Wind, the other
To the North Wind:
each taking a name from its wind.
When Aurora, Tithonus’ bride, shall have begun
To shed dew from her
saffron cheeks at the fifth dawn,
The constellation,
whether you call it Arctophylax,
Or dull Bootes, will have been sinking, fleeing
your sight.
But even the Grape-Gatherer will not yet have
escaped you:
The origin of that
star-name also can be swiftly told.
It’s said that hairy Ampelus, son of a nymph and satyr,
Was loved by Bacchus, among the Ismarian hills:
The god entrusted him
with a vine, trailing from an elm’s
Leafy boughs, and the
vine takes its name from the boy’s.
While on a branch
rashly picking the shining grapes.
He fell: but Liber raised the fallen youth to the
stars.
When the sixth sun
climbs Olympus’ slopes from ocean,
And takes his way
through the sky behind winged horses,
All you who worship at
the shrine of chaste Vesta,
Give thanks to her,
and offer incense on the Trojan hearth.
To the countless
titles Caesar chose to earn,
The honour of the High Priesthood was added.
Caesar’s eternal
godhead protects the eternal fire,
You may see the
pledges of empire conjoined.
Gods of ancient Troy, worthiest prize for that Aeneas
Who carried you, your
burden saving him from the enemy,
A priest of Aeneas’
line touches your divine kindred:
Vesta in turn guard
the life of your kin!
You fires, burn on,
nursed by his sacred hand:
Live undying, our
leader, and your flames, I pray.
The Nones of March are
free of meetings, because it’s thought
The temple of Veiovis was consecrated today
before the two groves.
When Romulus ringed his grove with a high
stone wall,
He said: ‘Whoever
takes refuge here, they will be safe.’
O from how tenuous a
beginning the Romans sprang!
How little that crowd
of old are to be envied!
Ossa blazed with his new fires, and Pelion higher than Ossa,
And Olympus rooted to the solid earth.
A she-goat stands
there too: they say the Cretan nymphs
Nursed the god: and
she gave her milk to the infant Jove.
Now I’m called on to
explain the name. Farmers call
Stunted grain vegrandia,
and what’s feeble vesca.
If that’s the meaning,
why should I not suspect
That the shrine of
Veiovis is that of Little Jupiter?
Now when the stars
glitter in the dark-blue sky,
Look up: you’ll see
the head of Gorgonian Pegasus.
It’s said he leapt
from the fecund neck of dead Medusa,
His mane drenched with
her blood.
As he glided above the
clouds, beneath the stars,
The sky was his earth,
wings acted instead of feet,
And soon he champed
indignantly on the fresh bit,
So that his light hoof
created Helicon’s Aonian spring.
Now he enjoys the sky,
that his wings once sought,
And glitters there
brightly with his fifteen stars.
As soon as night falls
you will see the Cretan Crown:
Through Theseus’ crime Ariadne was made a goddess.
She’d already happily
exchanged that faithless spouse for Bacchus,
She who’d given the
ungrateful man the thread to follow.
Delighting in her
wedded fate, she said: ‘Why did I weep
Like a country-girl,
his faithlessness has been my gain?’
Meanwhile Bacchus had conquered the straight-haired
Indians,
And returned with his
riches from the Eastern world.
Among the captive
girls, of outstanding beauty,
One, the daughter of a
king, pleased Bacchus intensely.
His loving wife wept,
and treading the curving shore
With dishevelled hair,
she spoke these words:
‘Behold, again, you
waves, how you hear my complaint!
Behold again you
sands, how you receive my tears!
I remember I used to
say: “Perjured, faithless Theseus!”
He abandoned me: now
Bacchus commits the same crime.
Now once more I’ll
cry: “Woman, never trust in man!”
My fate’s repeated,
only his name has changed.
O that my life had
ended where it first began.
So that I’d not have
existed for this moment!
Why did you save me,
Liber, to die on these lonely sands?
I might have ceased
grieving at that moment.
Bacchus, fickle,
lighter than the leaves that wreathe
Your brow, Bacchus
known to me in my weeping,
How have you dared to
trouble our harmonious bed
By bringing another
lover before my eyes?
Alas, where is sworn
faith? Where the pledges you once gave?
Wretched me, how many
times must I speak those words?
You blamed Theseus and
called him a deceiver:
According to that
judgement your own sin is worse.
Let no one know of
this, let me burn with silent pain,
Lest they think I
deserved to be cheated so!
Above all I wish it to
be hid from Theseus,
So he may not joy in
you as a partner in crime.
I suppose your fair
lover is preferred to a dark,
May fair be the
colouring of my enemies!
Yet what does that
signify? She is dearer to you for that.
What are you doing?
She contaminates your embrace.
Bacchus, be true, and
do not prefer her to a wife’s love.
I am one who would
love my husband for ever.
The horns of a
gleaming bull captivated my mother.
Yours, me: but this is
a love to be praised, hers shameful.
Let me not suffer, for
loving: you yourself, Bacchus,
Never suffered for
confessing your desire to me.
No wonder you make me
burn: they say you were born
In fire, and were
snatched from the flames by your father.
I am she to whom you
used to promise the heavens.
Ah me, what a reward I
suffer instead of heaven!’
She spoke: Liber had
been listening a long while
To her complaint,
since he chanced to follow closely.
He embraced her, and
dried her tears with kisses,
And said: ‘Together,
let us seek the depths of the sky!
You’ll share my name
just as you’ve shared my bed,
Since, transmuted, you
will be called Libera:
And there’ll be a
memory of your crown beside you,
The crown Vulcan gave to Venus, and she to you.’
He did as he said, and
changed the nine jewels to fire:
Now the golden crown
glitters with nine stars.
When he who, with his
swift chariot, brings bright day
Has raised his disc
six times, and immersed it again,
You will see horse
races again on the Campus,
That grassy plain that
Tiber’s winding waters wash.
But if by chance it’s
flooded by overflowing waves,
The dusty Caelian Hill
will accept the horses.
The happy feast of Anna Perenna is held on the Ides,
Not far from your
banks, Tiber, far flowing river.
The people come and
drink there, scattered on the grass,
And every man reclines
there with his girl.
Some tolerate the open
sky, a few pitch tents,
And some make leafy
huts out of branches,
While others set reeds
up, to form rigid pillars,
And hang their
outspread robes from the reeds.
But they’re warmed by
sun and wine, and pray
For as many years as
cups, as many as they drink.
There you’ll find a
man who quaffs Nestor’s years,
A woman who’d age as
the Sibyl, in her cups.
There they sing
whatever they’ve learnt in the theatres,
Beating time to the
words with ready hands,
And setting the bowl
down, dance coarsely,
The trim girl leaping
about with streaming hair.
Homecoming they
stagger, a sight for vulgar eyes,
And the crowd meeting
them call them ‘blessed’.
I fell in with the
procession lately (it seems to me worth
Saying): a tipsy old
woman dragging a tipsy old man.
But since errors
abound as to who this goddess is,
I’m determined not to
cloak her story.
Wretched Dido burned with love for Aeneas,
She burned on the pyre
built for her funeral:
Her ashes were
gathered, and this brief couplet
Which she left, in
dying, adorned her tomb:
AENEAS THE REASON, HIS THE BLADE EMPLOYED.
DIDO BY HER OWN HAND WAS DESTROYED.
Realm, and Iarbas the Moor captured and held the
palace.
Remembering her scorn,
he said: ‘See, I, whom she
So many times
rejected, now enjoy Elissa’s
marriage bed.’
The Tyrians scattered, as each chanced to
stray, as bees
Often wander
confusedly, having lost their Queen.
Anna, was driven from her home,
weeping on leaving
Her sister’s city,
after first paying honour to that sister.
The loose ashes drank
perfume mixed with tears,
And received an
offering of her shorn hair:
Three times she said:
‘Farewell!’ three times lifted
And pressed the ashes
to her lips, seeing her sister there.
Finding a ship, and
companions for her flight, she glided
Away, looking back at
the city, her sister’s sweet work.
There’s a fertile
island, Melite, near barren Cosyra,
Lashed by the waves of
the Libyan sea. Trusting in
The king’s former
hospitality, she headed there,
Battus was king there, and was a wealthy
host.
When he had learned
the fates of the two sisters,
He said: ‘This land,
however small, is yours.’
He would have been
hospitable to the end,
Except that he feared Pygmalion’s great power.
The corn had been
taken to be threshed a third time,
And a third time the
new wine poured into empty vats.
The sun had twice
circled the zodiac, and a third year
Was passing, when Anna
had to find a fresh place of exile.
Her brother came
seeking war. The king hated weapons,
And said: ‘We are
peaceable, flee for your own safety!’
She fled at his
command, gave her ship to the wind and waves:
Her brother was
crueller than any ocean.
There’s a little field
by the fish-filled streams
Of stony Crathis: the local people call it Camere.
There she sailed, and
when she was no further away
Than the distance
reached by nine slingshots,
The sails first fell
and then flapped in the light breeze.
‘Attack the water with
oars!’ cried the captain.
And while they made
ready to reef the sails,
The swift South Wind
struck the curved stern,
And despite the
captain’s efforts swept them
Into the open sea: the
land was lost to sight.
The waves attacked
them, and the ocean heaved
From the depths, and
the hull gulped the foaming waters.
Skill is defeated by
the wind, the steersman no longer
Guides the helm, but
he too turns to prayer for aid.
The Phoenician exile
is thrown high on swollen waves,
And hides her weeping
eyes in her robe:
Then for a first time
she called her sister Dido happy,
And whoever, anywhere,
might be treading dry land.
A great gust drove the
ship to the Laurentine shore,
And, foundering, it
perished, when all had landed.
Meanwhile pious Aeneas had gained Latinus’ realm
And his daughter too, and had merged both
peoples.
While he was walking
barefoot along the shore
That had been his
dower, accompanied only by Achates,
He saw Anna wandering,
not believing it was her:
‘Why should she be
here in the fields of Latium?’
Aeneas said to
himself: ‘It’s Anna!’ shouted Achates:
At the sound of her
name she raised her face.
Alas, what should she
do? Flee? Wish for the ground
To swallow her? Her
wretched sister’s fate was before her eyes.
The Cytherean hero felt her fear, and spoke
to her,
(He still wept, moved
by your memory, Elissa):
‘Anna, I swear, by
this land that you once knew
A happier fate had
granted me, and by the gods
My companions, who
have lately found a home here,
That all of them often
rebuked me for my delay.
Yet I did not fear her
dying, that fear was absent.
Ah me! Her courage was
beyond belief.
Don’t re-tell it: I
saw shameful wounds on her body
When I dared to visit
the houses of Tartarus.
But you shall enjoy
the comforts of my kingdom,
Whether your will or a
god brings you to our shores.
I owe you much, and
owe Elissa not a little:
You are welcome for
your own and your sister’s sake.’
She accepted his words
(no other hope was left)
And told him of her
own wanderings.
When she entered the
palace, dressed in Tyrian style,
Aeneas spoke (the rest
of the throng were silent):
‘Lavinia, my wife, I
have a pious reason for entrusting
This lady to you:
shipwrecked, I lived at her expense.
She’s of Tyrian birth:
her kingdom’s on the Libyan shore:
I beg you to love her,
as your dear sister.’
Lavinia promised all,
but hid a fancied wrong
Within her silent
heart, and concealed her fears:
And though she saw
many gifts given away openly,
She suspected many
more were sent secretly.
She hadn’t yet decided what to