When Jove, the son of Saturn, saw this scene
from his high citadel, he groaned; recalling
Lycaon’s recent monstrous meal (a feast
the other gods had yet to hear about),
his heart was filled with anger such as Jove
can feel—a giant rage. And he convoked
a council of the gods; they came at once.
On high there is a road that can be seen
when heaven is serene: the Milky Way
is named—and famed—for its bright white array;
to reach the regal halls of mighty Jove,
the Thunderer, the gods must take this road.
On either side there range the homes of those
who are the noblest of the gods, the most
illustrious and powerful: their doors
are open wide; their halls are always thronged
Latin [151–72]
(the lesser gods have homes in other zones).
And if this not be too audacious, I
should call this site high heaven’s Palatine.
And now, within the marble council hall,
the gods were seated. Throned above them all,
and leaning on his ivory scepter, Jove—
three times and then a fourth—shook his dread locks
and so perturbed the earth and seas and stars.
Then, opening his angry lips, he said:
“Now, more than ever, I am plagued, beset
by cares in governing the world; I faced
those horrid Giants, with their snake-shaped feet;
each monster, with the hundred hands he had,
was ready to assail the sky, to seize
these heavens—but that challenge was much less
than what confronts us now. For, in the end,
however fierce they were, those Giants all—
when they attacked—formed part of one same pack.
But now I must contend with scattered men;
throughout the world, wherever Nereus’ waves
resound, I shall destroy the mortals’ race.
I swear on the infernal streams that glide
beneath the woods of Styx, that I have tried
all other means; and now I must excise
that malady which can’t be cured: mankind—
lest the untainted beings on the earth
become infected, too. I have half-gods
and rustic deities—Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns,
and woodland gods who haunt the mountain slopes:
we’ve not yet found them fit for heaven’s honors,
but let’s ensure their safety on the lands
we have assigned to them. Can you, o gods,
believe they are secure when I myself,
who am the lord of lightning and your lord,
met with the trap Lycaon set for me—
Lycaon, famed for his ferocity?”
Latin [173–98]
All shouted, keen to hear who had been guilty
of such a sacrilege: even as when
an impious band was fierce in its attempt
to blot the name of Rome and, to that end,
shed Caesar’s blood; and all of humankind,
faced with calamity, was horrified,
the whole world shuddering. And you, Augustus,
are no less pleased by all the firm devotion
your people show to you than Jove was then
to hear the gods outcry on his behalf.
But Jove, with word and gesture, curbed the uproar;
when they had quieted, his words once more
could break the silence in the hall: “Be sure—
he has already paid the penalty.
But I’ll tell you his crime and punishment.
I’d heard about this age of infamy;
and hoping to disprove such tidings, I
descended from Olympus’ heights; I went
from land to land, a god in human guise.
Just now, it would be useless to describe
each sacrilege I found—upon all sides:
the truth was far, far worse than what I’d heard.
And I had crossed Mount Maenala’s dread slopes,
home of wild beasts; I passed Cyllene’s peak
and chill Lycaeus’ pine grove. So I reached
the region and the uninviting home
of the Arcadian tyrant. Dusk had fallen,
and night was soon to follow. I’d made known
I was a god, and an Arcadian crowd
began to worship me. At first Lycaon
just jeered at all their pious prayers, but then
he said: ‘I mean to test him; let us see
if he, beyond all doubt—infallibly—
is god or man.’ This was the test he’d planned:
by night—with me asleep—treacherously
to murder me. And not content with that,
he seized a hostage the Molossians
Latin [199–226]
had sent to him; Lycaon cut his throat;
some of the still warm limbs he boiled in water,
and some he roasted on the fire. No sooner
had he set these before me as my meal
than I, with my avenging lightning bolt,
struck down his home, which caved in on itself—
walls worthy of their owner. He ran off
in panic, and when he had reached the fields,
within the stillness, he began to howl:
he tried to utter words—to no avail.
Wrath rises to his mouth; he foams; and just
as he was always keen on slaughter, now
he turns against the sheep; indeed he’s pleased
to shed more blood. His clothes are changed to fur,
his arms to legs: he has become a wolf.
But he keeps traces of his former shape.
His hair is gray; he has the same fierce gaze;
his eyes still glitter, and he still presents
a savage image. Yes, one house collapsed;
but it was more than one I should have smashed.
Wherever earth extends, fierce Fury reigns!
A vast cabal of crime—that’s what I see.
Let them all pay the proper penalties
without delay. For such is my decree.”
Some of the gods approve Jove’s words with shouts,
inciting him still more; some indicate
assent with silent signs. In any case,
complete destruction of the human race
saddens them all. What aspect would earth take
once it was stripped of men? Who’d offer incense
upon the altars? Had Jove planned by chance
on wild beasts as earth’s sole inhabitants
and overlords? Such were the things they asked.
Their king was quick to set their fears at rest:
he would take care of everything; he swore
a new race, one far different from the first,
emerging wondrously, would share the earth.
Latin [227–52]