BOOK V
THE FUNERAL GAMES
FOR ANCHISES
Meanwhile Aeneas and the fleet were holding
The sure course over the sea, cutting the waters
That darkened under the wind. His gaze went back
To the walls of Carthage, glowing in the flame
Of Dido’s funeral pyre. What cause had kindled
So high a blaze, they did not know, but anguish
When love is wounded deep, and the way of a woman
With frenzy in her heart, they knew too well,
And dwelt on with foreboding.
They were out of sight of land, with only sea
Around them on all sides, alone with ocean,
Ocean and sky, when a cloud, black-blue, loomed over
With night and tempest in it; the water roughened
In shadow, and the pilot Palinurus
Cried from the lofty stern. “What clouds are these
Filling the sky? What threat is father Neptune
Preparing over our heads? Trim ship,” he ordered,
“Bend to the oars, reef down the sail.” The course
Was changed, on a slant across the wind, and the pilot
Turned to Aeneas: “With a sky like this,
I’d have no hope of reaching Italy,
Even if Jove himself should guarantee it.
The winds have changed, they roar across our course
From the black evening, thickening into cloud.
We have no strength for headway. Luck is against us,
Let us change the course, and follow. I remember
Fraternal shores near by, the land of Eryx,
Sicilian harbors; we were here before
If I recall my stars.”
Aeneas answered:
“I saw it long ago, the will of the winds,
The uselessness of struggle. Change the course,
Steer to the land most welcome to me; there
My friend Acestes dwells, and there my father
Anchises lies at rest. What better land
To rest our weary ships?” They made for the harbor,
With favoring wind, a swift run over the water,
A happy turn to a familiar shore.
High on a hill-top look-out, king Acestes,
Son of a Trojan mother and Crinisus,
A river-god, saw friendly vessels coming,
With wonder and delight, came hurrying toward them,
With a bear-skin over his shoulder, and javelins
Bristling in his grasp, and he remembered
The old relationship, and gave them welcome
With all his rustic treasure, a glad returning,
Friendly assurance for their weariness.
A good night’s rest, and a bright morning followed,
And from the shore Aeneas called his comrades,
Stood on a little rise of ground, and told them:
“Great sons of Dardanus, heaven-born, a year
Draws to an end, a year ago we buried
My father in this land, and consecrated
Sorrowful altars to his shade. The day
Comes round again, which I shall always cherish,
Always lament, with reverence, in the mourning,
For the gods’ will. If I were held, an exile,
In the Gaetulian quicksands, or a captive
In some Greek ship or city, I would honor
This day with solemn rites, and pile the altars
With sacrificial offering. But now,—
This must be heaven’s purpose—we have entered
A friendly harbor. Come, then, all of us,
Let us be happy in our celebration,
Let us pray for winds, and that the god hereafter
Receive his rites in temples for his honor
Built in the city we found. Two heads of oxen
Acestes gives each vessel; bring the gods
Of our own household, and the ones Acestes
Pays worship to. Nine days from now, if dawn
Comes bright and shining over the world of men,
There will be games, a contest for the boats,
A foot-race, javelin-throw or archery, a battle
With rawhide gloves; let all attend, competing
For victory’s palm and prize. And now, in silence,
Garland the brow with leaves.”
He bound his temples
With Venus’ myrtle, and the others followed,
Acestes, Helymus, and young Iulus,
And the other lads, and Aeneas, from the meeting,
Moved to Anchises’ tomb, and many thousands
Came thronging there. He poured libation, duly,
Bowls of pure wine, and milk, and victim-blood,
And strewed bright flowers, praying: “Holy father,
Hail, once again; hail once again, O ashes,
Regained in vain; hail, holy shade and spirit!
Hail, from a son, destined to seek alone
The fated fields, Italian soil, alone
To seek, whatever it is, Ausonian Tiber.”
And as he finished speaking, a huge serpent
Slid over the ground, seven shining loops, surrounding
The tomb, peacefully gliding around the altars,
Dappled with blue and gold, such iridescence
As rainbow gives to cloud, when the sun strikes it.
Aeneas stood amazed; and the great serpent
Crawled to the bowls and cups, tasted the offerings,
And slid again, without a hint of menace,
Under the altar-stone. Intent, Aeneas
Resumed the rites; the serpent might have been,
For all he knew, a guardian of the altar,
Or some familiar spirit of Anchises.
Two sheep he sacrificed, two swine, two heifers,
Poured wine, invoked the spirit of his father,
And the shade loosed from Acheron. His comrades
Also bring gifts, whatever they can, slay bullocks,
Load altars high; others prepare the kettles,
Sprawl on the greensward, keep the live coals glowing
Under the roasting-spits, and the meat turning.
And the day came, the ninth they had awaited
With eagerness, bright and clear, and the crowd gathered
Under Acestes’ sanction; they were eager
To see the Trojans, or to join the contests.
There were the prizes, tripods, and green garlands,
And palms for the winners, armor, crimson garments,
Talents of silver and gold. And a trumpet heralds
The start of the games.
For the first contest
Four ships are entered, heavy-oared, and chosen,
The pick of the fleet. Mnestheus is one captain,
His ship the Dragon, and his crew is eager,—
(Later the Memmian line will call him father).
Gyas commands the big Chimaera, a vessel
Huge as a town; it takes three tiers of oarsmen
To keep her moving. Then there is Sergestus
Riding the Centaur, and the sea-blue Scylla
Cloanthus leads. (The Sergian house at Rome
Descends from one, Cluentians from the other.)
Far out in the water, facing the foaming shores,
There lies a rock, which the swollen waves beat over
On stormy days when gales blot out the stars,
But quiet in calm weather, a level landing
For the sun-loving sea-gulls. Here Aeneas
Sets a green bough of holm-oak, as a signal
To mark the turning-point; to this the sailors
Must row, then turn, and double back. The places
Are chosen by lot; the captains are set off,
Shining in gold and purple; all the sailors
Wear poplar-wreaths, and their naked shoulders glisten
With the smear of oil. They are at their places, straining
Arms stretched to the oars, waiting the word, and their chests
Heave, and their hearts are pumping fast; ambition
And nervousness take hold of them. The signal!
They shoot away; the noise goes up to the heavens,
The arms pull back to the chests, the water is churned
To a foam like snow; the start is very even,
The sea gapes open under the rush of the beaks
And the pull of the oars. The racers go no faster
When the chariots take the field, and the barrier springs
Cars into action, and the drivers lash
Whipping and shaking the reins. Applause and shouting
Volley and ring, and shrill excitement rises
From some with bets on the issue; all the woodland
Resounds, the shores are loud, and the beaten hillside
Sends back the uproar.
Gyas beats the others
In the rush of the starting sprint; Cloanthus follows,
With a better crew, but a slower, heavier vessel;
Behind them come the Dragon and the Centaur,
With no advantage either way; first one,
And then the other, has it, moving even
With long keels through salt water; and the leader
Has almost reached the rock, the turn; that’s Gyas,
The captain, yelling loudly at his pilot:—
“Menoetes, what the hell! Why are you steering
So far off to the right? Bring her in closer,
This way, let the oars just miss the rocks, hug shore,
Cut her close here on the left; let the other fellows
Stay out as far as they like.” Menoetes, though,
Feared unseen rocks, and made for open water.
“Why so far off the course? The rock, Menoetes,
Keep close to the rock!” And while he shouted, Gyas
Could see Cloanthus coming up behind him
Inside him, on the left, and gaining, gaining.
Between the roar of the rock and the ship of Gyas,
Cloanthus grazed his way, and passed the leader,
Made the turn safely, and reached open water.
Then Gyas really was burnt up; he was crying
In rage; to hell with pride, to hell with safety!
He grabbed that cautious pilot of his, and heaved him
Over the stern, he took the rudder over,
Steering for shore, and yelling at the sailors,
As old Menoetes slowly came to the surface,
His heavy garments dripping, clawing and scrambling
Up to the top of the rock, to perch there, drying,
A good laugh for the Trojans, as they watched him
Taking his header, coming up, and swimming,
And spitting out salt water.