The chiefs, reclining on their couches, eat
their fill of roasted meats, as they appease
their worries and their thirst. No instruments—
no lyre, no boxwood flutes with many vents—
and no songs’ sound. They don’t need these; they pass
the night in talk, as they retell the acts
of bravery—their own, their enemies’.
Their theme is war: and they delight as each,
in turn, recalls the risks and perils met
and overcome. What else can fill the speech
of an Achilles? And if others speak
within the presence of the greatest Greek,
can anything but valor be their theme?
Latin [141–63]
Above all, they discuss his recent feat,
his fight with Cycnus and his victory.
They all consider it astonishing
that Cycnus’ body never could be pierced,
that he emerged intact from every clash—
all iron blunted when it met his flesh.
Achilles’ own self still was wondering,
just like the other Greeks, when Nestor said:
“In your own generation, none but one—
invulnerable—could contemn and scorn
all arms: no sword could do young Cycnus harm.
But long ago I saw a warrior,
Caenus of Thessaly, whose body showed
no wound, though he had faced a thousand blows:
Caenus, who had Mount Othrys as his home—
courageous Caenus, famed for warlike feats.
And what was even more amazing, he
was born a woman.” Hearing this, the Greeks,
astonished, begged old Nestor to complete
his tale. And like the rest, Achilles asked:
“Come now, old man, so wise, so eloquent,
for all of us long so to hear the rest:
Who was this Caenus? Why did he change sex?
In what campaign, upon what field of war
did you meet him? Who was his conqueror—
if he was ever beaten?” And old Nestor
replied: “Old age has dimmed my memory,
and many things I saw in my young years
escape me now, yet there is much I can
recall; but of all things that I have seen
in war and peace, no thing clings more to me
than Caenus. And if anyone’s long years
have seen great things, well then, I have no peer:
two hundred years and more have passed before me—
my life is now in its third century.
“The fairest girl of all in Thessaly
was Caenis: famous for her beauty, she,
Latin [164–89]
daughter of Elatus, was sought by many:
her suitors flocked from every nearby city
and, too, Achilles, from your own (indeed
her region was the same as yours; and Peleus
might well have sought her out as wife, had not
your mother been already wed—or pledged—
to him). But Caenis had no taste for marriage.
Then—so the story goes—as Caenis strolled
along a lonely shore, the sea-god took her
by force. And Neptune, having harvested
the pleasures of his latest passion, said:
‘Whatever you desire—rest assured,
you need but ask for it—will soon be yours.’
And Caenis answered: ‘What I have endured
is so outrageous that I now must choose
some mighty gift as recompense: a thing
that will prevent my ever suffering
such injury again. If you but grant
that I not be a woman anymore,
you will have given all that I would ask.’
The tone in which she uttered these last words
was deeper—such as suits a male; indeed,
she had become a man. The god who keeps
the sea was quick to answer: he’d appeased
her longing—and had added one more gift,
conceding this to her: no blow might pierce
her body; and no iron weaponry
could ever kill her. Gladly, she, now ‘he,’
goes off to spend his days in masculine
pursuits along the fields of Thessaly.