“Are you ready to bring war to us, sons of Laomedon, is it war,

for the cows you killed, the bullocks you slaughtered,

driving the innocent Harpies from their father’s country?

Take these words of mine to your hearts then, and set them there.

I, the eldest of the Furies, reveal to you what the all-powerful

Father prophesied to Apollo, and Phoebus Apollo to me.

Italy is the path you take, and, invoking the winds,

you shall go to Italy, and enter her harbours freely:

but you will not surround the city granted you with walls

until dire hunger, and the sin of striking at us, force you

to consume your very tables with devouring jaws.”

BkIII:356-462 The Prophecy of Helenus

Now day after day has gone by, and the breezes call

to the sails, and the canvas swells with a rising Southerly:

I go to Helenus, the seer, with these words and ask:

“Trojan-born, agent of the gods, you who know Apollo’s will,

the tripods, the laurels at Claros, the stars, the language

of birds, and the omens of their wings in flight,

come, speak (since a favourable oracle told me

all my route, and all the gods in their divinity urged me

to seek Italy, and explore the furthest lands:

only the Harpy, Celaeno, predicts fresh portents,

evil to tell of, and threatens bitter anger

and vile famine) first, what dangers shall I avoid?

Following what course can I overcome such troubles?”

Helenus, first sacrificing bullocks according to the ritual,

obtained the gods’ grace, then loosened the headband

from his holy brow, and led me, anxious at so much

divine power, with his own hand, to your threshold Apollo,

and then the priest prophesied this, from the divine mouth:

“Son of the goddess, since the truth is clear, that you sail

the deep blessed by the higher powers (so the king of the gods

allots our fates, and rolls the changes, so the order alters),

I’ll explain a few things of many, in my words to you,

so you may travel foreign seas more safely, and can find

rest in an Italian haven: for the Fates forbid Helenus

to know further, and Saturnian Juno denies him speech.

Firstly, a long pathless path, by long coastlines, separates

you from that far-off Italy, whose neighbouring port

you intend to enter, unknowingly thinking it nearby.

Before you can build your city in a safe land,

you must bend the oar in Sicilian waters,

and pass the levels of the Italian seas, in your ships,

the infernal lakes, and Aeaean Circe’s island.

I’ll tell you of signs: keep them stored in your memory.

When, in your distress, you find a huge sow lying on the shore,

by the waters of a remote river, under the oak trees,

that has farrowed a litter of thirty young, a white sow,

lying on the ground, with white piglets round her teats,

that place shall be your city, there’s true rest from your labours.

And do not dread that gnawing of tables, in your future:

the fates will find a way, Apollo will be there at your call.

But avoid these lands, and this nearer coastline

of the Italian shore, washed by our own

ocean tide: hostile Greeks inhabit every town.

The Narycian Locri have built a city here,

and Lyctian Idomeneus has filled the plain

with soldiers: here is that little Petelia, of Philoctetes,

leader of the Meliboeans, relying on its walls.

Then when your fleet has crossed the sea, and anchored

and the altars are raised for your offerings on the shore,

veil your hair, clothed in your purple robes, so that

in worshipping the gods no hostile face may intrude

among the sacred flames, and disturb the omens.

Let your friends adopt this mode of sacrifice, and yourself:

and let your descendants remain pure in this religion.

But when the wind carries you, on leaving, to the Sicilian shore,

and the barriers of narrow Pelorus open ahead,

make for the seas and land to port, in a long circuit:

avoid the shore and waters on the starboard side.

They say, when the two were one continuous stretch of land,

they one day broke apart, torn by the force of a vast upheaval

(time’s remote antiquity enables such great changes).

The sea flowed between them with force, and severed

the Italian from the Sicilian coast, and a narrow tideway

washes the cities and fields on separate shores.

Scylla holds the right side, implacable Charybdis the left,

who, in the depths of the abyss, swallows the vast flood

three times into the downward gulf and alternately lifts

it to the air, and lashes the heavens with her waves.

But a cave surrounds Scylla with dark hiding-places,

and she thrusts her mouths out, and drags ships onto the rocks.

Above she has human shape, and is a girl, with lovely breasts,

a girl, down to her sex, below it she is a sea-monster of huge size,

with dolphins’ tails joined to a belly formed of wolves.

It is better to round the point of Pachynus,

lingering, and circling Sicily on a long course,

than to once catch sight of hideous Scylla in her vast cave

and the rocks that echo to her sea-dark hounds.

Beyond this, if Helenus has any knowledge, if the seer

can be believed, if Apollo fills his spirit with truth,

son of the goddess, I will say this one thing, this one thing

that is worth all, and I’ll repeat the warning again and again,

honour great Juno’s divinity above all, with prayer, and recite

your vows to Juno freely, and win over that powerful lady

with humble gifts: so at last you’ll leave Sicily behind

and reach the coast of Italy, victorious.

Once brought there, approach the city of Cumae,

the ghostly lakes, and Avernus, with its whispering groves,

gaze on the raving prophetess, who sings the fates

deep in the rock, and commits names and signs to leaves.

Whatever verses the virgin writes on the leaves,

she arranges in order, and stores them high up in her cave.

They stay in place, motionless, and keep in rank:

but once a light breeze ruffles them, at the turn of a hinge,

and the opening door disturbs the delicate leaves, she never

thinks to retrieve them, as they flutter through the rocky cave,

or to return them to their places, or reconstitute the prophecies:

men go away unanswered, and detest the Sibyl’s lair.

Though your friends complain, and though your course

calls your sails urgently to the deep, and a following wind

might fill the canvas, don’t overvalue the loss in any delay,

but visit the prophetess, and beg her with prayers to speak

the oracle herself, and loose her voice through willing lips.

She will rehearse the peoples of Italy, the wars to come,

and how you might evade or endure each trial,

and, shown respect, she’ll grant you a favourable journey.

These are the things you can be warned of by my voice.

Go now, and by your actions raise great Troy to the stars.”

BkVII:107-147 Fulfilment of A Prophecy

Aeneas, handsome Iulus, and the foremost leaders,

settled their limbs under the branches of a tall tree,

and spread a meal: they set wheat cakes for a base

under the food (as Jupiter himself inspired them)

and added wild fruits to these tables of Ceres.

When the poor fare drove them to set their teeth

into the thin discs, the rest being eaten, and to break

the fateful circles of bread boldly with hands and jaws,

not sparing the quartered cakes, Iulus, jokingly,

said no more than: ‘Ha! Are we eating the tables too?’

That voice on first being heard brought them to the end

of their labours, and his father, as the words fell

from the speaker’s lips, caught them up

and stopped him, awestruck at the divine will.

Immediately he said: ‘Hail, land destined to me

by fate, and hail to you, O faithful gods of Troy:

here is our home, here is our country. For my father

Anchises (now I remember) left this secret of fate with me:

‘Son, when you’re carried to an unknown shore, food is lacking,

and you’re forced to eat the tables, then look for a home

in your weariness: and remember first thing to set your hand

on a site there, and build your houses behind a rampart.’

This was the hunger he prophesied, the last thing remaining,

to set a limit to our ruin…come then,

and with the sun’s dawn light let’s cheerfully discover

what place this is, what men live here, where this people’s city is,

and let’s explore from the harbour in all directions.

Now pour libations to Jove and call, with prayer,

on my father Anchises, then set out the wine once more.

So saying he wreathed his forehead with a leafy spray,

and prayed to the spirit of the place, and to Earth the oldest

of goddesses, and to the Nymphs, and the yet unknown rivers:

then he invoked Night and Night’s rising constellations,

and Idaean Jove, and the Phrygian Mother, in order,

and his two parents, one in heaven, one in Erebus.

At this the all-powerful Father thundered three times

from the clear sky, and revealed a cloud in the ether,

bright with rays of golden light, shaking it with his own hand.

Then the word ran suddenly through the Trojan lines

that the day had come to found their destined city.

They rivalled each other in celebration of the feast, and delighted

by the fine omen, set out the bowls and crowned the wine-cups.