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24. G REGIF :
N Nunc mihi dicenda est regis fuga. traxit ab illa ut solet
a magno fluctus languescere
flatu, 775 Iamque
duae restant noctes de mense secundo,
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Book II: February 24: The Regifugium Now
I have to tell of the Flight
of the King: The
sixth day from the end of the month has that name. Tarquin
the Proud held the last kingship of the Roman people, A
man of injustice, but powerful in might. He
had taken cities, and overthrown others, And
made Gabii
his, by base trickery. For
the youngest of his three sons, Sextus, clearly a child Of
Tarquin, entered the midst of his enemies in the still of night. They
drew their swords: he said: ‘Don’t kill the unarmed! That’s
what my brother, and father, Tarquin, desire, He
who lacerated my back with a cruel scourge.’ So
he could make his plea, he had suffered a beating. There
was a moon: seeing a youth they sheathed their swords And
saw the scars on his back when he drew back his robe. They
even wept, and begged to fight with them in the war: The
cunning youth complied with the unwary men. Once
in place he sent a friend to ask his father To
show him the means of destroying Gabii. Below
lay a garden full of fragrant plants, Where
a gentle stream of splashing water cut the soil: There
Tarquin the Proud received his son’s secret message, And
then slashed the heads of the lilies with a stick. When
the messenger returned and spoke of the broken flowers, The
son
said: ‘I understand my father’s orders.’ He
killed Gabii’s chief citizens, without delay, And
surrendered the walls, now naked of leaders. See,
a dreadful sight, a snake appeared between the altars, And
snatched the entrails from the dead fires. The
oracle of Phoebus
was consulted: it replied: ‘He
who first kisses his mother will win.’ Not
understanding the god, each of the throng Believing
it, quickly ran to kiss his mother. Wise
Brutus
pretended to be foolish, to be safe From
your snares, dread Tarquin the Proud: Throwing
himself down he kissed Mother Earth, Though
they thought he had stumbled and fallen. Meanwhile
the Roman standards ringed Ardea, And
the city endured a long lingering siege. While
they were idle, and the enemy feared to fight, They
enjoyed themselves in camp: the soldiers at ease. Young
Tarquin entertained his friends with food and wine, And
among them the king’s son spoke out: ‘While
Ardea troubles us with this sluggish war, And
stops us bearing our weapons to our fathers’ gods, How
is the marriage bed served? And are we As
dear to our wives as they are to us?’ Each
praised his own: in their eagerness dispute raged, And
tongues and hearts grew heated with much wine. Then
Tarquinius
who took his famous name from Collatia Rose,
and said: ‘Words are not needed: trust in deeds! Night
still remains: take horse and head for the City!’ The
words pleased them: the horses were bridled, And
carried off their masters. They first sought The
royal palace: there was no guard at the door. See,
they found the king’s daughters-in-law, garlands Round
their necks, keeping vigil over the wine. From
there they swiftly sought Lucretia,
Before
whose couch were baskets of soft wool. By
a scant light her servants were spinning their yarn, Amongst
them the lady spoke with a quiet voice: ‘The
cloak our hands have made (hurry now, girls, hurry!) Must
be sent to the master straight away. What
news is there? Since you hear more of things: How
much more of the war do they say is left to run? Perverse
Ardea, after this you’ll be conquered and fall, You
resist your betters, who force our husbands’ absence. If
only they return! But mine is thoughtless, And
rushes everywhere with his drawn sword. I
faint, I die, as often as the image of my warrior Comes
to mind, and chills my heart with cold.’ She
ended in tears, letting fall the stretched yarn, And
buried her face in her lap. It
became her: becoming, were her modest tears, And
her face was a worthy equal to her heart. Her
husband cried out: ‘Fear not, I come!’ She revived, And
hung, a sweet burden, on her husband’s neck. Meanwhile
the royal youth, Sextus, caught furious fire, And
raged about, captured by blind love. Her
form please him, her white skin and yellow hair, And
added to that her grace, owing nothing to art: Her
voice and speech pleased him, her incorruptibility, And
the less his hope, the more he desired her. Now
the bird had sung that heralds the dawn, When
the young men took their way back to camp. Meanwhile
the image of the absent one captivated His
stunned senses. In memory, she pleased more and more. ‘She
sat so, was dressed so, so spun her yarn, So
her hair spilled loose about her neck, That
was her look: those were her words, That
was her colour, her form, her lovely face.’ As
the flood subsides after a great gale, But
the waves heave from the dying wind, So
though the presence of that pleasing form was absent, Love
remained, which its presence had given form. He
burned, and driven by the goad of sinful love, He
plotted force and deceit to an innocent bed. He
said: ‘The issue is doubtful: we’ll dare extremes! Let
her beware! God and fate favour the bold. By
daring we took Gabii as well.’ So saying, He
strapped on his sword, and mounted his horse. Collatia’s
bronze gate received the young man As
the sun was preparing to hide its face. An
enemy entered Collatinus’s home, as a friend: He
was welcomed courteously: he was of their blood. How
her mind was deceived! Unknowingly, The
wretched woman prepared a meal for her foe. The
meal was done: the hour demanded rest: It
was night, and the whole house was without light: He
rose, and drew his sword from his gilded scabbard, And,
chaste wife, he entered your bedroom. As
he touched the bed, the king’s son said: ‘Lucretia
I have a blade, and I, a Tarquin, speak!’ She
said nothing: she’d no voice or powers of speech Nor
any capability for thought in her whole mind. But
she trembled like a little lamb, caught straying From
the fold, brought low by a wolf’s attack. What
could she do? Fight? In battle a woman loses. Cry
out? But the sword in his right hand restrained her. Fly?
His hands pressed down hard on her breast, A
breast that had never been touched by a stranger’s hand. The
hostile lover pursues her with prayers, bribes, threats, But
prayers and bribes and threats cannot sway her. He
said: ‘My accusation will rob you of your life: The
adulterer will bear false witness to adultery: I’ll
kill a slave, they’ll say you were caught with him.’ Overcome
by fear for her reputation, the girl was conquered. Why,
rejoice, victor? This victory will destroy you. Alas,
how a single night cost you your kingdom! Now
day had dawned: she sat with hair unbound, Like
a mother who must go to her son’s funeral. She
called her aged father and her loyal husband From
the camp, and both came without delay. Seeing
her condition, they asked why she mourned, Whose
rites she prepared, what ill had befallen her? She
was silent for a long time, and hid her face in her robe Out
of shame: her tears flowed in a running stream. Her
father here, her husband there comforted her tears And
begged her to tell, wept, and trembled in blind fear. Three
times she tried to speak, three times desisted, And
a fourth time, gaining courage, still couldn’t raise
her eyes. She
said: ‘Must I owe this to a Tarquin too? Must I speak, Speak,
poor wretch, my shame from my own mouth?’ What
she could, she told. The end she suppressed: She
wept, and a blush spread over a wife’s cheeks. Her
husband and her father forgave her being forced: She
said: ‘I deny myself the forgiveness that you grant.’ Then
she stabbed herself with a blade she had hidden, And,
all bloodied, fell at her father’s feet. Even
then she took care in dying so that she fell With
decency, that was her care even in falling. See,
the husband and father throw themselves on her body, Regardless
of appearances, grieve for their mutual loss. Brutus
approached, and at last, with spirit, belied his name, Snatching
the weapon from the dying body, Holding
the blade dripping with noble blood, Fearlessly
he uttered these menacing words: ‘I
swear by this chaste blood, so courageous, And
by your spirit that will be a divinity to me, I
will be revenged on Tarquin the Proud and his lost brood. I
have concealed my virtue for too long.’ At
these words, lying there, she moved her sightless eyes, And
seemed to witness the speech by a stirring of her hair. They
carried her to her funeral, a woman with a man’s courage, And
tears and indignation followed after her. The
gaping wound was seen. Brutus, with a shout, Gathered
the Quirites,
and told of the king’s evil act. Tarquin
the Proud and his children fled, a consul took up the rule For
the year: That day was the last day of kingship. Am
I wrong, or has the swallow come, herald of the Spring: Does
she not fear lest winter should turn back, return again? Often,
Procne,
you’ll complain that you’ve been too swift, And
your husband, Tereus,
rejoice in the cold you feel. Book II: February 27: The Equirria Now
two nights of the second month remain, And
Mars urges on his chariot’s swift horses. The
day has retained the name Equirria, From
the horse races the god views on his Fields. Rightly
you’re here, Gradivus,
Marching God: your season Demands
its place, the month marked by your name is near. We’ve
reached harbour: the book ends with the month: Now,
from here, my vessel can sail through other waters. |