They scattered incense on the altar fires
and then poured wine upon them. As prescribed,
they offered bullocks as a sacrifice
and burned the vitals to complete the rites.
Then, once more in the palace, they reclined
upon high couches, savored Bacchus’ wine
and Ceres’ gifts. “O Phoebus’ cherished priest,”
pious Aeneas asked, “am I in error
or did I see a son of yours together
with four fine daughters when, some time ago,
I visited your city?” And in sorrow,
shaking his head—around his temples ran
his sacred snow-white fillets—Delos’ priest
replied:
“What you recall is right—unflawed—
o best of heroes; when you came, you saw
that I was father of five children: now
(things human are so mutable) you see,
to all effects, a man who is bereft.
Can I call on my absent son for help
when he lives so far off, upon an isle—
Andros—that takes its name from him? His land
is there, where he is king; the god of Delos
endowed him with the power of prophecy.
But to my daughters Bacchus gave a power
beyond their deepest prayers, beyond belief;
for anything they touched was turned to wheat
or wine or to the oil that we receive
from Pallas’ gray-green tree—and certainly
great riches were implicit in that gift.
As soon as Agamemnon heard of this,
that pillager of Troy (we suffered, too—
Latin [634–56]
in some way—from the storm that battered you)
dragged off my daughters: using brutal force,
against their will he tore them from my arms.
And then he issued this profane command:
my daughters were to use their god-sent gift
to feed the Grecian fleet. Each girl escaped
as best she could: two daughters sought Euboea;
and two made for their brother’s island, Andros.
But they were followed there by Grecian troops,
who threatened war unless my daughters were
consigned to them. Since fear had greater force
than did fraternal love, my son gave up
his sisters, destined to harsh punishment.
And yet one must forgive the fright he felt;
for, after all, his island had no Hector
and no Aeneas as its firm defenders—
those two who made it possible for you
to hold the Greeks at bay for nine long years.
They were about to chain their prisoners,
when my two daughters, lifting up their arms—
not bound as yet—to heaven, cried aloud:
‘Help, father Bacchus!’ And the god who’d given
so singular a gift to them, brought help—
if one may call the loss of human shape,
although it be a miracle, true aid.
And I cannot describe their change, so strange
that I have never understood it, nor
can I explain it now; we only know
the end result of my dear daughters’ sorrow:
they sprouted feathers, turned to snow-white doves,
the birds Anchises’ consort, Venus, loves.”