BUT FATHER PRIAM, since he did not know
that Aesacus was still alive, although
in feathered form, mourned for his son. In vain—
before an empty tomb on which the name
of Aesacus had been inscribed—the honors
the dead are due were paid to him by Hector
and all his other brothers.
Only Paris
was missing from the mournful rites; for he
was not at home just then—he’d gone to Greece.
A little later, he returned indeed:
he brought a stolen wife together with
a war that lasted long. A thousand ships
pursued him: at his back, the many clans
of Greece, the ranks of all Pelasgians
had massed. That mighty band would soon have won
quick vengeance, if they had not met rough storms.
When set to sail from Aulis, rich with fish,
the port of the Boeotians, their fleet
was blocked by tempest winds that made the sea
impassable. And to appease the gods,
as Danaans always do, they carried out
their rituals: the ancient altar now
was blazing with the fires kindled for
a sacrifice to Jove. Just then they saw—
even as it climbed up a sycamore
that stood nearby the place that served their rites—
a blue-green serpent. In that treetop stood
a nest that held eight fledgling birds. All these
he seized—just as he did the mother: she
was circling round her nestlings frantically.
His greedy jaws soon swallowed them. The Greeks
watched this with wonder. Calchas—son of Thestor—
the augur who had always read the future
correctly—cried: “O Greeks, we shall be victors;
rejoice, for Troy will fall—but only after
a long and wearing war.” And as a sign
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that it would last nine years, the birds were nine.
Entwined around the trees’ green boughs, the snake
was changed to stone; and even to this day
that stone retains a coiling serpent’s shape.
But Nereus’ rage does not relent; untamed,
he chums the waves and winds: he won’t permit
the fleet of war to sail from Aulis’ port.
And some suspect that Neptune’s very self
had stirred the surge, that he might save the walls
of Troy—which he had built. But Thestor’s son
does not agree: he knows the truth, and he
does not conceal it: Agamemnon slighted
Diana when he killed her sacred stag;
and to appease the virgin goddess’ wrath,
the Greeks must offer up a virgin’s blood.
Now pity yields unto the public cause,
and kingship overcomes a father’s love;
Iphigenia stands before the altar,
among attendants all in tears. But just
about to spill such dear chaste blood, Diana
relents: she screens the scene with a dark cloud;
and at the climax of the sacrifice,
amid the pleas and outcries of the crowd,
the goddess substitutes—they say—a hind
in place of the young virgin of Mycenae.
That victim was more seemly: once the hind
was sacrificed, Diana and the sea
both felt their wrath appeased; with winds astern,
a thousand ships sailed off and, after long
and troubled sailing, reached the Phrygian shores.