Or one could match Hippolytus’ dismay
with that of Cipus, who was so amazed
to see his head, reflected in the waves,
with horns.
Yes, when he gazed into the stream,
he saw those horns reflected—but believed
his eyes had been deceived. Again, again,
he touched his forehead with his fingers—and
the image had not lied. He stopped beside
the river (he was on his homeward way
to Rome, returning from the wars, a victor)
and, lifting eyes and arms to heaven, cried:
“O gods, what ever is foretold by this
prodigious thing, if it brings benefits,
may they be shared by my own home, the land
and people of Quirinus; but if threats
are meant, may I alone confront the menace.”
So Cipus prayed; then, of green turf, he made
an altar, burning incense to placate
the gods; and he poured out wine offerings;
and after sacrificing sheep, he called
upon an augur to consult the entrails—
they still were quivering—to see what tale
they told about the future Cipus faced.
The augur, an Etruscan, read at once
the signs of things momentous—though they were
still indistinct. But when he lifted up
his sharp eyes from the innards of the sheep
and saw the horns of Cipus, he cried out:
“O king, I greet you! For it is to you,
and to your horns that Rome herself and all
the citadels of Latium will bow.
But you must not delay: the city’s gates
are open wide; be quick to enter Rome.
So destiny would have you do. And once
Latin [565–84]
you have been welcomed there, you are to gain
the scepter you—in safety—will retain
forever.”
But before the walls of Rome,
Cipus drew back; he turned his eyes away;
his face was grim and grave as he exclaimed:
“Oh, may the gods save me from such a fate!
For I would rather end my days in exile
than be crowned king upon the Capitol.”
And then he called upon the Roman people
and venerable Senate to assemble.
He garlanded his brow with peaceful laurel
to hide his horns; then, standing on a platform
of earth heaped up by his stout soldiers, he
invoked the ancient gods—as customary—
and said: “In this assembly, there is one
who, if you do not banish him, will be
your king. I shall not name him, but he bears
this sign: upon his brow, he has a pair
of horns. The augur has declared to me
that if this man should ever enter Rome,
he will dictate your laws, enslave you all.
In truth, the gates are open; and he could
have burst into our city: but I checked
his course—though he is closely linked to me.
O Romans, keep him far from your dear city;
or shackle him—if that’s what he deserves
—with heavy chains; or free yourselves from fear
by killing him—for if he gains your city,
fate says that you will suffer tyranny.”
At this, a murmur rose in the assembly,
the sort that sweeps across the squat pine-trees
when boisterous Eurus whistles through them, or
the sound of far-off surge. But in that crowd
of muddled voices, there was one more loud
than all the rest: “Who is he?” They searched out
each other’s forehead, looking for the horns.
Latin [584–608]
Then Cipus said: “The man you seek is found.”
Then (though they tried to stop him) he removed
the garland from his brow: he showed his horns.
And all cast down their eyes; as one, they moaned
and, most unwillingly (for who indeed
could have expected this?), looked at the head
of one who was so notable a man.
And, since they would not have his head stripped bare
of ornaments that honored him, again
they wreathed his head with a triumphal garland.
They did forbid your entering the city,
o Cipus; but to you, the senators
assigned this prize, this honor: as much land
outside the walls as you could circumscribe
within a furrow that your plow, pulled by
a team of oxen, working from sunrise
until the setting of the sun, inscribed
upon the soil. And on the gates of bronze,
the entryway to Rome, they sculpted horns
like your prodigious horns—so as to keep
your name alive through all the centuries.