THE COLOSSAL TURBOT

Satires, IV

Juvenal

Translated by William Gifford, 1817; revised by John Warrington, 1954

Juvenal was one of the great satirists of ancient Rome. He flourished in the troubled times of Emperor Domitian (ruled AD 81–96), the ‘last Flavian’ and ‘bald-pate Nero’, who exiled him to the Egyptian desert after he made a particularly mocking reference. The AD 80s and 90s were fraught with anxieties. Political informers flourished until Domitian was assassinated in AD 96. Juvenal jests about Domitian’s hair loss in this satire about a very expensive fish. The shady but wealthy Crispinus, a member of Domitian’s staff, crops up in several of Juvenal’s satires.

When the last Flavian, drunk with fury, tore

The prostrate world, which bled at every pore,

And Rome beheld, in body as in mind,

A bald-pate Nero rise, to curse mankind,

It chanced that where the fane of Venus stands,

Reared on Ancona’s coast by Grecian hands,

A turbot in the Adriatic main

Filled the wide bosom of the bursting seine.

Monsters so bulky from its frozen stream

Maeotis renders to the solar beam,

And pours them, fat with a whole winter’s ease,

Through the bleak Euxine into warmer seas.

The mighty draught the astonished boatman eyes,

And to the Pontiff’s table dooms his prize.

For who would dare to sell it, who to buy,

When the coast swarmed with many a practised spy—

Beachcombers, prompt to swear the fish had fled

From Caesar’s ponds wherein it erstwhile fed;

And, thus recaptured, claimed to be restored

To the dominion of its ancient lord?

Nay, if Palfurius may our credit gain,

Whatever rare or precious swims the main

Is forfeit to the Crown. Our boatman chose

To give what, else, he had not failed to lose.

Now were the dog-star’s sickly fervours o’er;

Earth, pinched with cold, her frozen livery wore;

The sick of quartan fevers ’gan to speak,

And fiercely blew the blasts of winter bleak,

Keeping the turbot fresh. The boatman flew

As if the sultry South corruption blew;

And now the lake, and now the hill he gains,

Where Alba, though in ruins, still maintains

The Trojan fire which, but for her, were lost,

And worships Vesta, though with less of cost.

The wondering crowd, that gathered to survey

The enormous fish and barred the fisher’s way,

Satiate at length retires; the gates unfold;

Murmuring, the excluded senators behold

The envied dainty enter. On the man

To ‘great Atrides’ pressed, and thus began:

‘This, for a private table far too great,

Accept. The day as festive celebrate.

Make haste to load your stomach and devour

A turbot destined for this happy hour.

I sought him not: he marked the toils I set,

And rushed, a willing victim, to my net.’

Was flattery e’er so rank? Yet He grows vain,

And his crest rises at the fulsome strain.

When to divine a mortal power we raise,

He credits all hyperboles of praise.

But when was joy unmixed? No dish is found

Capacious of the turbot’s ample round!

In this distress he calls the chiefs of state,

At once the objects of his scorn and hate,

In whose pale cheeks distrust and doubt appear,

And all a tyrant’s friendship breeds of fear.

Scarce was the loud Ligurian heard to say:

‘He sits, ’ere Pegasus was on his way;

Yes, the new bailiff of the affrighted town

(For what are Prefects more?) had snatched his gown

And rushed to council. From the ivory chair

He dealt out justice with no common care,

But yielded oft to those licentious times

And, when he could not punish, winked at crimes.

Then old, facetious Crispus tripped along,

Of gentle manners and persuasive tongue:

None fitter to advise the lord of all,

Had that pernicious pest, whom thus we call,

Allowed a friend to soothe his savage mood,

And give him counsel, wise at once and good.

But who shall dare this liberty to take

When, every word you hazard, life’s at stake,

Though but of stormy summers, showery springs?

For tyrants’ ears, alas! are ticklish things.

So did the good old man his tongue restrain,

Nor strove to stem the torrent’s force in vain.

Not one of those who, by no fears deterred,

Spoke the free soul and truth to life preferred,

He temporized. Thus fourscore summers fled,

Even in that court, securely o’er his head.

Next him appeared Acilius hurrying on,

Of equal age, and followed by his son

Who fell, unjustly fell, in early years,

A victim to the tyrant’s jealous fears.

But long ere this were hoary hairs become

A prodigy among the great at Rome:

Hence I would rather owe my humble birth,

Frail brother of the giant brood, to Earth.

Poor youth! in vain the ancient sleight you try;

In vain, with frantic air and ardent eye,

Fling every robe aside and battle wage

With Numidian bears upon the Alban stage:

All see the trick, and, spite of Brutus’ skill,

There are who count him but a trifler still;

For in his day it cost no mighty pains

To gull a prince with much more beard than brains.

Rubrius, though not, like thee, of noble race,

Followed with equal terror in his face;

And, labouring with a crime too foul to name,

More than the pathic satirist lost to shame.

Montanus’ belly next, and next appeared

The legs on which his monstrous pile was reared.

Crispinus followed, daubed with more perfume,

Thus early, than two funerals would consume;

Then bloodier Pompey,1 practised to betray,

And quietly whisper noble lives away.

Fuscus,2 an arm-chair strategist, is there,

Whose corpse the Dacian vultures wait to tear.

Last, shy Veiento with Catullus3 came,

Deadly Catullus, who, at beauty’s name,

Took fire, although unseen: a wretch whose crimes

Struck with amaze e’en these prodigious times;

A base, blind parasite, a murderous lord,

Raised from the bridge-end to the council-board;

Yet fitter still to dog the travellers’ heels

And whine for alms to the descending wheels,

To blow soft kisses to the cars until

They reach the foot of steep Aricia’s hill.

None dwelt so largely on the turbot’s size,

Or raised with such applause his wondering eyes;

But to the left (Oh, treacherous want of sight!)

He poured his praise—the fish was on the right!

Thus would he in the amphitheatre sit

And shout with rapture at some fancied hit;

And thus applaud the stage machinery; where

The youths are rapt aloft and lost in air.

Nor fell Veiento short. As if possessed

With all Bellona’s rage, his labouring breast

Burst forth in prophecy: ‘O Prince, I see

The omens of some glorious victory!

Some monarch taken prisoner of war:

Arviragus hurled from his British car!

The beast’s a foreigner: there is no lack

Of prickles bristling all along his back.’

Proceed, Fabricius, and what remains untold

(The turbot’s age and birth-place) next unfold.

The emperor now the important question put:

‘How say ye, Fathers? Shall the fish be cut?’

‘Oh, far be that disgrace,’ Montanus cries;

‘No, let a dish be formed of amplest size,

Within whose slender sides the fish, dread sire,

May spread his vast circumference entire.

The matter’s urgent; someone is required—

Prometheus—to see the oven’s fired.

Bring, bring the tempered clay, and let it feel

The quick gyrations of the plastic wheel.

But, Caesar, thus forewarned, make no campaign

Unless your potters follow in your train.’

Montanus ended; all approved the plan,

And all the speech, so worthy of the man.

Versed in the old court luxury, he knew

The feasts of Nero and his midnight crew,

Where oft, when potent draughts had fired the brain,

The jaded taste was spurred to gorge again.

And in my time none understood so well

The science of good eating: he could tell

At the first relish if his oysters fed

On the Rutupian or the Lucrine bed;

At first sight of a sea-urchin he’d name.

The country, nay the district, whence it came.

Here closed the solemn farce. The Fathers rise,

And each, submissive, from the presence hies—

Pale, trembling wretches, whom the Prince in sport

Had dragged, astonished, to the Alban court,

As if the stem Sycambri were in arms

Or the fierce Chatti threatened new alarms;

As if ill news by flying posts had come

And gathering nations sought the fall of Rome.

Oh, that such scenes (disgraceful at the most)

Had all those years of cruelty engrossed,

Through which his rage pursued the great and good

Unchecked, while vengeance slumbered o’er their blood.

And yet he fell; for when he changed his game

And first grew dreadful to the vulgar name,

They seized the murderer, drenched in Lamian gore,

And hurled him headlong to the infernal shore.

1 An informer.

2 Cornelius Fuscus, Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, killed in Domitian’s Dacian Wars, AD 86–8.

3 Fabricius Veiento and Catullus Messalinus, both informers under Domitian.