“My eyes
still see with clarity Phaeocomes,
who bore six lion-hides that he had tied
together, knotting them: enough to shield
his human and his equine halves. He threw
a log four oxen would have strained to move;
and from above, it struck and smashed the skull
of Tectaphos, the son of Olenus.
“The Lapith’s dome was shattered; through his mouth
and eyes and ears and hollow nostrils oozed
his soft brains, just as curdled milk strains through
those withes of oak that countrymen will use
when making cheese—or just as soggy must
will drip when pressed down, thick, through a clogged sieve.
But when Phaeocomes stooped down to strip
the Lapith’s arms (your father witnessed this),
it’s my sword-thrust that pierced the centaur’s guts.
And Chthonius and Teleboas, too,
fell by my blade: while one bore a forked bough,
the other bore a lance—and with that shaft
he wounded me—a scar you still can see,
however old that wound may be. Ah, yes,
they should have sent me out to Pergamum
to conquer it. For then I had the strength;
my arms could then have checked—if not surpassed—
the arms of Hector. But in those days, he
was not yet born or still in infancy:
and now it is old age that weakens me.
Latin [425–48]
“And shall I tell you just how Periphas
struck down Pyraethus? Or how Ampyx’ shaft,
although without a tip, when cast straight at
the galloping Echeclus, smashed his face?
How Macareus of Peletronia
struck Erigdupus’ chest and laid him low?
And I remember how a hunting spear
that Nessus’ hand had hurled was buried in
Cymelus’ groin. And do not think that Mopsus,
the son of Ampycus, was only there
to serve as seer, pronouncing prophecies;
for Morphus’ lance laid low biform Hodites;
and when that dying centaur tried to speak,
he found his tongue was pinned just to his chin,
just as—fast to his throat—his chin was pinned.
“By then, five centaurs had already met
their death at Caenus’ hands: Antimachus
and Bromus, Elymus, and Styphelus,
and one who bore a battle-ax, Pyraemos
(though I am clear as to their names and number,
I can’t recall how Caenus killed each centaur).
Now Latreus, massive in his bulk and stature,
rushed from the centaurs’ ranks to challenge Caenus:
he bore the arms of one whom he had felled
and then despoiled, Emathian Halesus.
He was not young, he was not old—the age
of Latreus stood midway. Though hair was gray
upon his temples, he could still display
a young man’s energy. A sight to see
and fear—he bore a shield, he bore a sword,
and also bore a Macedonian lance.
Between the Lapiths’ and the centaurs’ ranks,
he clashed his arms, he faced each host in turn;
while wheeling, galloping, he poured these words
upon the empty air—his boasts, his scorn:
‘Must I, o Caenis, suffer one like you!
For me, you’ll always be a woman, you
Latin [449–70]
are nothing more than Caenis. Yes, you seem
to have forgotten that your origins
were feminine; you don’t remember what
you had to do to merit this reward,
the price you paid to earn yourself this false
appearance of a man! Remember then
just what you were at birth, what you went through:
now go, take up the distaff—that’s your due:
take up the basket heaped with threads, the wool
your thumb can twist: let men attend to war!’
But when he heard such boasting, Caenus cast
a lance that pierced the side of Latreus as
the centaur’s flanks, in his great gallop, stretched;
and just where horse joins man, the lance head smashed.
Enraged by pain, the centaur then struck back;
his shaft caught Caenus in his naked face;
the lance recoiled, even as hailstones do
when they have struck a roof, or as a pebble
rebounds when flung against a hollow drum.
Then Latreus closes in; he tries to thrust
his sword into the hardened sides of Caenus;
but there’s no point where he can pierce the Lapith.
‘But you can’t flee from me,’ the centaur cries;
‘my point is blunted, but my blade can slice
edgewise.’ His long right arm then angled so
his stroke that he could hack with one great blow
across the girth of Caenus. When it hit
the Lapith’s flesh, the sword blade clanged as if
it had struck marble, breaking into bits
against the toughened skin. When Caenus felt
that he had let them marvel long enough
as he stood there unharmed, he cried: ‘And now it’s
time to try my blade upon your body!’
He drove his deadly blade up to the hilt
in Latreus’ equine chest; again, again
he turned the buried blade within the guts
of Latreus—and in wounds, inflicted wounds.
Latin [471–93]
“And now these biform centaurs, clamoring
and frenzied, charge at Caenus: it is he
whom all—as one—assail with sword and lance.
But when their shafts have struck, their shafts fall back;
despite their blows the Lapith stands intact,
unpierced—not one drop of his blood is shed.
A sight so strange astonishes them all.
But then the centaur Monycus outcried:
‘How shameful is this sight! We, a great tribe,
are challenged by a single man—indeed
by one who is but barely man. And yet,
it’s he who is a man in truth, while we
who shirk and cringe are nothing more than he
once was. What use are our tremendous limbs,
our doubled powers, and the gifts received
from nature, which combines in us two beings
who are the mightiest of living things.
I scarcely think we are a goddess’ sons
or fathered by Ixion—he was one
who dared to hope that he would win great Juno,
while we have let a half-man do us in.
Come, let’s heap trunks and rocks and blanket him
with mountain masses—simply smother his
tenacious soul beneath an avalanche
of forest. Let us suffocate his throat:
don’t pierce him, just use weight—and crush and choke.’
That said, he chanced to find a toppled tree-trunk,
a trunk the wild south-wind had overthrown.
This, Monycus heaved straight at sturdy Caenus.
The rest were quick to do what he had done:
and soon Mount Othrys had been stripped of trees—
and there was no shade left on Pelion.
“Now buried underneath that mass of trees
their giant weight upon him, Caenus heaves
and writhes; he tries to lift that ton of rocks
upon his sturdy shoulders; but the heap
grows heavier upon his head and face;
Latin [494–517]
it’s hard to breathe; he’s left with little space;
beginning to give way, he can’t stand straight;
he tries in vain to reach the air, to free
his body of those forests: one could see
from time to time some movement underneath
that heap—as if Mount Ida (as I speak,
you see it just beyond us) were to shake
with an earthquake. We do not know just how
he died. Some said his body was thrust down
by all that forest force to Tartarus’
deep hole. But Mopsus, son of Ampycus,
contested this: he said that he had seen,
emerging from the muddle of that heap
into the sky, a bird with golden wings
(a bird that I, too, saw—just once and then
never again). And Mopsus, sighting it—
a bird that, in slow flight, was hovering
above the Lapith ranks, with its loud wings—
with both his eyes and heart still following
its flight, cried out: ‘O Caenus, it is you
I hail, the glory of the Lapith people:
you were a mighty warrior, and now
you are a bird that has no similar.’
Since Mopsus had profound authority,
his story was believed. The grief increased
our fury; we could not forget that scene—
one man against so many enemies.
Nor did we set aside our swords until—
to ease our sorrow—we, in truth, had killed
half of our centaur foes; the rest took flight,
escaping under cover of dark night.”