Ovid Fasti III
Translated
by A. S. Kline ã2004 All Rights Reserved
http://www.tonykline.co.uk/Browsepages/Latin/OvidFastiBkThree.htm
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
Book III: Introduction
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
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
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,
Nor
did the ancients have as many Kalends as us:
Their
year was shorter than ours by two months.
To
the conquerors, her people eloquent but not brave.
He
knew the arts of
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
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
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.
Book III: March 1: Kalends
‘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,
“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.
Book III: March 7: Nones
The Nones of March are free of meetings, because it’s thought
The
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!
But so the strange name won’t confuse you,
unknowingly,
Learn who this god is, and why he is so called.
He is the young Jupiter: see his youthful face:
Then see his hand, holding no lightening bolt.
Jove
carried his lightning bolts after the Giants
dared
Their attempt on the heavens: at first he was unarmed.
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
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.
Book
III: March 14: The Equirria
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.
The Numidians immediately
invaded the defenceless
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
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 do: she hated
With
fury, prepared a plan, and wished to die avenged.
It
was night: it seemed her sister Dido stood
Before
her bed, her straggling hair stained with her blood,
Crying:
‘Flee, don’t hesitate, flee this gloomy house!’
At
the words a gust slammed the creaking door.
Anna
leapt up, then jumped from a low window
To
the ground: fear itself had made her daring.
With
terror driving her, clothed in her loose vest,
She
runs like a frightened doe that hears the wolves.
It’s
thought that horned Numicius swept her away
In
his swollen flood, and hid her among his pools.
Meanwhile,
shouting, they searched for the Sidonian lady
Through
the fields: traces and tracks were visible:
Reaching
the banks, they found her footprints there.
The
knowing river stemmed his silent waters.
She
herself appeared, saying: ‘I’m a nymph of the calm
Numicius: hid
in perennial waters, Anna Perenna’s my name.’
Quickly
they set out a feast in the fields they’d roamed,
And celebrated their deeds and the day, with copious
wine.
Some
think she’s the Moon, because she measures out
The
year (annus): others, Themis, or the Inachian heifer.
Anna,
you’ll find some to say you’re a nymph, daughter
Of Azan,
and gave Jupiter his first nourishment.
I’ll
relate another tale that’s come to my ears,
And
it’s not so far away from the truth.
The
Plebs of old, not yet protected by Tribunes,
Fled,
and gathered on the Sacred Mount:
The
food supplies they’d brought with them failed,
Also
the stores of bread fit for human consumption.
There
was a certain Anna from suburban Bovillae,
A poor woman, old, but very industrious.
With
her grey hair bound up in a light cap,
She
used to make coarse cakes with a trembling hand,
And
distribute them, still warm, among the people,
Each
morning: this supply of hers pleased them all.
When
peace was made at home, they set up a statue
To Perenna, because she’d
helped supply their needs.
Now
it’s left for me to tell why the girls sing coarse songs:
Since
they gather together to sing certain infamous things.
Anna
had lately been made a goddess: Gradivus came to her
And
taking her aside, spoke these words:
You
honour my month: I’ve joined my season to yours:
I’ve
great hopes you can do me a service.
Armed,
I’m captivated by armed Minerva,
I
burn, and have nursed the wound for many a day.
Help
us, alike in our pursuits, to become one:
The
part suits you well, courteous old lady.’
He
spoke. She tricked the god with empty promises.
And led him on, in foolish hope, with false delays.
Often,
when he pressed her, she said: ‘I’ve done as you asked,
She’s
won, she’s yielded at last to your prayers.’
The
lover believed her and prepared the marriage-chamber.
They
led Anna there, a new bride, her face veiled.
About
to kiss her, Mars suddenly saw it was Anna:
Shame
and anger alternating stirred the hoodwinked god.
The
new goddess laughed at her dear Minerva’s lover.
Nothing
indeed has ever pleased Venus more.
So
now they tell old jokes, and coarse songs are sung,
And
they delight in how the great god was cheated.
I was
about to neglect those daggers that pierced
Our leader,
when Vesta spoke from her pure hearth:
Don’t
hesitate to recall them: he was my priest,
And
those sacrilegious hands sought me with their blades.
I
snatched him away, and left a naked semblance:
What
died by the steel, was Caesar’s shadow.’
Raised
to the heavens he found Jupiter’s halls,
And
his is the temple in the mighty Forum.
But
all the daring criminals who in defiance
Of
the gods, defiled the high priest’s head,
Have fallen in merited death. Philippi is witness,
And those whose scattered bones whiten its earth.
This
work, this duty, was Augustus’ first task,
Avenging his father by the just use of arms.
When
the next dawn has revived the tender grass,
Scorpio’s
pincers will be visible.
Book
III: March 17: The Liberalia
There’s
a popular festival of Bacchus,
on the third day
After
the Ides: Bacchus, favour the poet who sings your feast.
I’ll
not speak about Semele: you’d have been born defenceless,
If it
hadn’t been that Jupiter
brought her his lightning too.
Nor
will I tell how the mother’s labour was fulfilled
In a
father’s body, so you might duly be born their son.
It
would take long to tell of the conquered Sithonians,
And the Scythians, and the races of incense-bearing
I’ll
be silent about you too, Pentheus, sad prey to your own mother,
And you Lycurgus, who killed your own son in madness.
Lo,
I’d like to speak of the monstrous Tyrrhenians, who
Suddenly
became dolphins, but that’s not the task of this verse.
The
task of this verse is to set out the reasons,
Why a
vine-planter sells his cakes to the crowd.
Liber, before your birth the altars were without
offerings,
And
grass appeared on the stone-cold hearths.
They
tell how you set aside the first fruits for Jupiter,
After subduing the
You
were the first to offer up cinnamon and incense
From conquered lands, and the roast entrails of
triumphal oxen.
Libations
derive their name from their originator,
And
cake (liba) since a part is offered on the
sacred hearth.
Honey-cakes
are baked for the god, because he delights in sweet
Substances, and
they say that Bacchus
discovered honey.
He
was travelling from sandy Hebrus, accompanied
By Satyrs,
(my tale contains a not-unpleasant jest)
And
he’d come to
With the cymbals clashing in his companions’ hands.
Behold
unknown winged things gather to the jangling,
Bees,
that follow after the echoing bronze.
Liber
gathered the swarm and shut it in a hollow tree,
And was rewarded with the prize of discovering honey.
Once
the Satyrs, and old bald-headed Silenus, had tasted it,
They
searched for the yellow combs in every tree.
The
old fellow heard a swarm humming in a hollow elm,
Saw
the honeycombs, but pretended otherwise:
And
sitting lazily on his hollow-backed ass,
He
rode it up to the elm where the trunk was hollow.
He
stood and leant on the stump of a branch,
And greedily reached for the honey hidden inside.
But
thousands of hornets gathered, thrusting their stings
Into his bald head, leaving their mark on his
snub-nosed face.
He
fell headlong, and received a kick from the ass,
As he shouted to his friends and called for help.
The
Satyrs ran up, and laughed at their father’s face,
While he limped about on his damaged knee.
Bacchus
himself laughed and showed him the use of mud:
Silenus took
his advice, and smeared his face with clay.
Father
Liber loves honey: its right to offer its discoverer
Glittering
honey diffused through oven-warm cakes.
The
reason why a woman presides isn’t obscure:
Bacchus
stirs crowds of women with his thyrsus.
Why
an old woman, you ask? That age drinks more,
And loves the gifts of the teeming vine.
Why
is she wreathed with ivy? Ivy’s dearest to Bacchus:
And why that’s so doesn’t take long to tell.
They
say that when Juno
his stepmother was searching
For
the boy, the nymphs of Nysa hid the cradle in ivy leaves.
It
remains for me to reveal why the toga virilis,
the gown
Of
manhood, is given to boys on your day, Bacchus:
Whether
it’s because you seem to be ever boy or youth,
And
your age is somewhere between the two:
Or
because you’re a father, fathers commend their sons,
Their
pledges of love, to your care and divinity:
Or
because you’re Liber, the gown of liberty
And a
more liberated life are adopted, for you:
Or is
it because, in the days when the ancients tilled the fields
More
vigorously, and Senators worked their fathers’ land,
And
‘rods and axes’ took Consuls from the curving plough,
And
it wasn’t a crime to have work-worn hands,
The
farmers came to the City for the games,
(Though
that was an honour paid to the gods, and not
Their
inclination: and the grape’s discoverer held his
games
This
day, while now he shares that of torch-bearing Ceres):
And
the day seemed not unfitting for granting the toga,
So that a crowd could celebrate the fresh novice?
Father
turn your mild head here, and gentle horns,
And
spread the sails of my art to a favourable breeze.
If I
remember rightly, on this, and the preceding day,
Crowds
go to the Argei (their own page will tell who they are).
The
Kite star turns downwards near
The Lycaonian Bear:
on this night it’s first visible.
If
you wish to know who raised that falcon to heaven,
It
was when Saturn
had been dethroned by Jupiter:
Angered,
he stirred the mighty Titans to battle,
And
sought whatever help the Fates could grant him.
There
was a bull, a marvellous monster, born of Mother
Earth,
the hind part of which was of serpent-form:
Warned
by the three Fates, grim Styx
had imprisoned him
In dark woods, surrounded by triple walls.
There
was a prophecy that whoever burnt the entrails
Of
the bull, in the flames, would defeat the eternal gods.
Briareus sacrificed it with an adamantine axe,
And
was about to set the innards on the flames:
But
Jupiter ordered the birds to snatch them: and the Kite
Brought them, and his service set him among the stars.
Book
III: March 19: The Quinquatrus
After
a one day interval, the rites of Minerva are performed,
Which
take their name from the sequence of five days.
The
first day is bloodless, and sword fights are unlawful,
Because Minerva
was born on that very day.
The
next four are celebrated with gladiatorial shows,
The
warlike goddess delights in naked swords.
Pray
now you boys and tender girls to Pallas:
He who
can truly please Pallas, is learned.
Pleasing
Pallas let girls learn to card wool,
And how to unwind the full distaff.
She
shows how to draw the shuttle through the firm
Warp,
and close up loose threads with the comb.
Worship
her, you who remove stains from damaged clothes,
Worship
her, you who ready bronze cauldrons for fleeces.
If
Pallas frowns, no one could make good shoes,
Even
if he were more skilled than Tychius:
And
even if he were cleverer with his hands
Than Epeus once was, he’ll be useless if Pallas is angry.
You
too who drive away ills with Apollo’s art,
Bring
a few gifts of your own for the goddess:
And
don’t scorn her, you schoolmasters, a tribe
So
often cheated of its pay: she attracts new pupils:
Nor
you engravers, and painters with encaustics,
Nor you who carve the stone with a skilful hand.
She’s
the goddess of a thousand things: and song for sure:
If
I’m worthy may she be a friend to my endeavours.
Where
the Caelian Hill slopes down to the plain,
At
the point where the street’s almost, but not quite, level,
You
can see the little shrine of Minerva
Capta,
Which the goddess first occupied on her birthday.
The
source of the name is doubtful: we speak of
‘Capital’
ingenuity: the goddess is herself ingenious.
Or is it because, motherless, she leapt, with a shield
From the crown of her father’s head (caput)?
Or
because she came to us as a ‘captive’ from the conquest
Of Falerii?
This, an ancient inscription claims.
Or
because her law ordains ‘capital’ punishment
For
receiving things stolen from that place?
By
whatever logic your title’s derived, Pallas,
Shield
our leaders with your aegis forever.
Book
III: March 23: The Tubilustria
The last day of the five exhorts us to purify
The
tuneful trumpets, and sacrifice to the mighty god.
Now
you can turn your face to the Sun and say:
‘He
touched the fleece of the Phrixian Ram
yesterday’.
The
seeds having been parched, by a wicked stepmother’s
Guile,
the corn did not sprout in the usual way.
They
sent to the oracle, to find by sure prophecy,
What
cure the Delphic
god would prescribe for sterility.
But
tarnished like the seed, the messenger brought news
That
the oracle sought the death of Helle and young Phrixus:
And
when citizens, season, and Ino herself compelled
The
reluctant king to obey that evil order,
Phrixus and
his sister, brows covered with sacred bands,
Stood together before the altar, bemoaning their
mutual fate.
Their
mother
saw them, as she hovered by chance in the air,
And,
stunned, she beat her naked breasts with her hand:
Then,
with the clouds as her companions, she leapt down
Into
serpent-born Thebes,
and snatched away her children:
And
so that they could flee a ram, shining and golden,
Was
brought, and it carried them over the wide ocean.
They
say the sister held too weakly to the left-hand horn,
And
so gave her own name to the waters
below.
Her
brother almost died with her, trying to help her
As
she fell, stretching out his hands as far as he could.
He
wept at losing her, his friend in their twin danger,
Not
knowing she was now wedded to a sea-green god.
Reaching
the shore the Ram
was raised as a constellation,
While his golden fleece was carried to the halls of
When
the Morning
Star has three times heralded the dawn,
You’ll
find the daylight hours are equal to those of night.
When,
counting from that day, the shepherd has four times penned
The
sated kids, and the grass four times whitened with
fresh dew,
Janus must be adored, and with him gentle Concord,
And the Safety
of Rome, and the altar of Peace.
The
Moon rules the months: this month’s span ends
With the worship of the Moon on the Aventine Hill.