There is a borderland, a place where three
realms meet: the earth, the heavens, and the sea—
the home of Rumor, high upon a peak.
From there, whatever happens anywhere
Latin [21–41]
is seen; and in that palace, any word
that’s ever spoken in the universe
is heard by ears that wait, alert. And though
her house has endless entrances and boasts
a thousand apertures, no thing can close
those openings: there are no doors. And so,
that house—by night, by day—is never shut.
Since every part is built of sounding brass,
each word that’s spoken in the world rebounds:
the brass vibrates, repeating every sound.
No quiet and no silence can be found;
and yet there is no clamor—just the soft
murmur of voices, as of rolling waves
when heard from far away, or like the last
faint rumble of a distant thunderclap
when Jove has spurred dark clouds to clash. A crowd—
forever coming, going—fills the halls;
and mingling with the true, the false reports—
in thousands—babble, wandering about;
some fill their idle ears with chatter, some
relay to others things they’ve heard: the sum
of clishmaclaver grows; to tales retold
each teller adds his own fresh furbelow.
Here is Credulity; here, heedless Error,
unfounded Joy, and Consternations, Fears,
sudden Seditions, and the hissing words
of unknown whispers. She—Rumor—knows
all that is done within the heavens and
on sea and land; throughout the world she probes.
Now it is Rumor that has spread the word
that ships are drawing close to Phrygia’s shores,
a fleet that’s carrying sturdy warriors.
And, thus, the disembarking Greeks were not
an unexpected foe. The Trojans block
the Greeks’ advance; they pin them to the coast.
Before the fatal lance of Hector, you,
Protesilaus, were the first to fall.
Latin [42–68]
The Danaans, in those first encounters, pay
a heavy price, as Hector’s prowess takes
a deadly toll: the many he has slain
add glory to his name. But Trojans, too,
lose many men: they learn what Greeks can do.