Pentheus

And once his prophecy had come to pass

and all the towns of Greece had heard of that,

renown—well earned—now crowned Tiresias.

The only one among the Greeks to scorn

the seer was Pentheus; he—Echion’s son—

despised the gods and mocked the auguries

of old Tiresias; he even mocked

 

Latin [491–515]

 

the prophet for his dwelling in the dark—

his blindness. But the white-haired seer just shook

his head and answered, saying: “You indeed

will wish that you had been denied this light,

for then, made blind as I am blind, you might

not have to see the rites of Bacchus. I

foresee the day—and it is soon to come—

when Bacchus Liber, son of Semele,

shall come. If you don’t worship that new god,

you will be torn into a thousand parts—

your scattered limbs tossed round about; your blood

will foul the woods and stain your mother and

your mother’s sisters. This will come to pass.

You will not honor the new god; and then

you will complain that, in my blindness, I

saw far too well.”

 

           His words were not yet done,

when Pentheus chased him out. But what the seer

had said was true. His presage soon fell due.

 

Now Bacchus has arrived; fanatic cries

ring out across the fields; for these new rites,

a mix of men and matrons and young wives,

the nobles and the commons, leave behind

the town; they rush and crowd. “What heats your minds

with this insanity?”—so Pentheus tries

to check them—“Why this frenzy? Are your minds

askew? Mars’ serpent was your parent: can

you now succumb to clanging cymbals and

the flute of crooked horn, the cheap deceits

of magic? How can you, who did not fear

the swords of war, the trumpets, tight-held spears,

arrayed and keen—now be defeated by

this wine-incited madness, these shrill cries

of women, obscene crowds, and futile drums?

What sorry sight could leave me more amazed?

You elders, you who sail the long seaways,

 

Latin [515–38]

 

who brought your wandering household gods to this

transplanted Tyre—would you now permit

all this to fall—without defending it?

Or you, young men much closer to my years,

men far more fit for gripping armor than

for lifting high the thyrsus—helmets suit

your heads much more than tender garlands do.

I ask you this: remember, you’re the seed

of one whose serpent strength was such that he—

although alone—crushed many. In defense

of his own pool and fountain, he met death:

come now, defend your name, your fame. He killed

brave warriors, but you need only rout

a coward crowd to save your father’s land.

If Thebes is fated to a life so brief,

then I should rather see these great walls breached

by warriors and battering rams: at least

I’d hear the clash of iron, the roar of flames.

We would be wretched then, but not ashamed;

lament would be our lot, but we would not

have need to hide our blame; there would be tears,

but we would be unstained. But now our Thebes

will fall before an unarmed boy. He has

no warcraft and no horsemen, no sharp shafts;

his only arms are tresses soaked in myrrh,

soft garlands, garments rich with purple dyes

and gold embroidery. Just stand aside

a moment, and I’ll force him to confess

that he’s no son of Jove, and all his rites

are counterfeit. And if Acrisius

was resolute—for he had nerve enough

to scorn the empty godhead and to shut

the gates of Argos in his face—need I

and all of Thebes be cowed when he arrives?

Be quick”—so did he spur his slaves—“go now:

bring this intruder here to me—in chains!

And don’t delay.”

 

Latin [539–63]

 

            Though Cadmus tried to sway

his grandson, as did Athamas and all

his family, no council could dissuade

the mind of Pentheus. They can’t stay his rage;

their calls for calm don’t check him—they abet

the force they would repress: so have I seen

a torrent—there where nothing curbed its course—

flow rather peacefully—no rage, no roar;

but where it had been dammed—where giant stones

and tree trunks blocked its path—it boiled and foamed;

resistance only made its fury grow.

 

And now his slaves return, bloodstained and scarred—

and when their master asks where Bacchus is,

they say they have not seen him; then they add:

“We caught this follower of his, this priest

who serves his sacred rites.” And they push forward

a man whose hands are tied behind his back.

He’s an Etruscan devotee of Bacchus.

 

The eyes of Pentheus stare in fury, yet

he does not kill him on the spot but asks:

“O you who now will die and, with your death,

will serve to warn the others, tell me this:

your name, your parents’ names, your land, and why

you are a votary of these strange rites.”

 

The prisoner shows no fear as he replies:

“Acoetes is my name, Maeonia

my country, and I come from humble folk.

My father left no fields for me to till,

no sturdy oxen, and no woolly flocks—

in sum, no cattle. He himself did not

have much—no more than line and hook and rod:

he would catch fish and draw them—leaping—up.

That craft was all his wealth, and when he passed

his skill to me, he said:

 

Latin [564–88]

 

           ‘You are to have

my craft; you are my follower, my heir.’

And when he died, he left me nothing more

than the expanse of waters. This is all

that I can call my patrimony. Soon—

that I, for all my days, not be confined

to nothing but those shoals—I learned to guide

a ship: I taught my hands to steer. My eyes

upon the stars, I learned to recognize

the rainy constellation of the Goat,

Taygete, the Hyades, the Bears;

I learned the ways of winds and their directions,

what harbors offer ships the surest shelter.

By chance, as I was headed out for Delos,

thrust off my course and toward the coast of Chios,

with well-plied oars we rode and reached the land:

agile, we leaped out onto the wet sands;

and there we spent the night. As soon as dawn

began to redden in the sky, I woke;

I showed my crewmen where they were to go

to find and fetch fresh water. Meanwhile, I

remained behind upon a rise, to see

what wind was promising; then I called back

my comrades as I headed for the ship.

Opheltes led the others, shouting: ‘Here

we are!’ Across the sands he tugged a boy,

a trophy (so he called him), whom he’d found

in a deserted field: a boy whose form

could match the loveliness of a young girl.

That boy, like one who’s stunned by wine and sleep,

can hardly follow him along the beach:

he sways and staggers. As I stare at him,

his clothes, his face, his gestures—nothing seems

to mark him as a mortal. Sensing that,

I tell my friends: ‘I do not know which god

is hidden in this body, but I know

that in this body there’s a deity.

Be friend to us, whoever you may be:

 

Latin [589–613]

 

assist us in our journey and forgive

these men who captured you.’ ‘You need not pray

for us,’ says Dictys—one whom none outraced

in climbing to the topmost mast and then,

with rope held fast, in sliding down again.

And Libys said that he was right; so did

fair-haired Melanthus, he who manned our prow

as lookout; and Alcimedon agreed,

and Epopeus, he whose voice marked time—

when we were rowing, he would spur us on.

They all agree: unheeding, greedy, they

are keen to profit from so fair a prey.

At that, I shout: ‘But I will not permit

such sacrilege; I’ll not defile this ship;

we will not take a god as plunder: I

am in command; it’s I who must decide.’

I block the boarding plank; then Lycabas

is furious; he was the man most reckless

of all the crew: for a ferocious crime

he had been driven out from Tuscany.

As I resist his force, his tough fists pound

my throat; I would have toppled overboard,

had I not gripped a rope that broke my fall.

The godless crew applauds that blow. At last,

Bacchus (for he indeed is Bacchus), just

as if the ruckus had awakened him,

and wine no longer dimmed his mind, cries out:

‘What are you doing? Why this brouhaha?

Come tell me, sailors, why I’m here—and where

you’re taking me.’ But, ‘There’s no need to fear,’

says Proreus; ‘simply tell us where you want

to sail, and there we’ll let you disembark.’

‘Then head for Naxos,’ Bacchus answers him;

‘that is my home; you will be welcome there.’

And, by the sea and all the gods, those cheats

all swear to do just that; they order me

to set the sails upon our painted ship.

Since Naxos lies upon our right, I head

 

Latin [613–40]

 

that way. Opheltes cries: ‘Have you gone mad?

What are you doing now?’ And most of them,

with nods and winks and some with whispers, let

me understand that I am to tack left.

Amazed, I say: ‘Then someone else must take

the helm.’ I’ll have no part in their foul plot.

My crewmen curse me out; they will not stop

their muttering. And one, Aetalion,

says: ‘Do you think that it is you alone

on whom our safety must depend?’ That said,

he comes and takes my place; he does not head

for Naxos; he turns left instead. At that,

the god, prepared to mock them now, as if

he had seen through their fraudulence at last,

high on the curved stem, eyes the sea; then he

feigns tears and says: ‘The shore you promised me

is not the coast I see. What did I do

to earn this punishment? What glory can

you, sailors, win—for you are all grown men—

in tricking me, a boy? I’m one against

so many of you.’ I, long since, had wept;

but that foul band derides my tears; they beat

the waters still more quickly with their oars.

And by that god himself I swear to you

(for there is none more near to us than Bacchus)

that what I have to tell you now is just

as true as it’s incredible. Midsea,

the ship stands still as if in some dry dock.

But, stupefied, they still persist. They beat

with oars, they spread the sails, they try to speed

in one way or another. Ivy creeps

and twines around the oars; its upward reach

clings to the mast and, spiraling, impedes

the sails with heavy clusters. Bacchus now,

with grapes in clusters garlanding his brow,

waves high a wand that’s wreathed with ivy leaves:

around him, tigers, lynxes (all of these

are phantom forms—as are the company

 

Latin [640–69]

 

of savage spotted panthers). All the crew,

impelled by madness or by terror, leap

down from the deck into the sea. The first

whose body starts to darken and to bend

is Medon—I can see his spine curve in.

And Lycabas asks him: ‘What kind of monster

are you becoming?’ But as he asks this,

his own jaws spread, his nose is squashed, his skin

grows hard and scaly. Lybis, as he tries

to budge the blocked oars, sees his hand shrink in,

but none could call them hands—they now are fins.

Another, as he reaches out to catch

a cable that is twisted, finds he has

no arms; his crippled body plunges back

into the sea; the tail that ends his body

curves like a crescent moon. Upon all sides,

they leap and dive; the sea spray showers high;

I see them now emerge and now sink back;

they have devised a playful dance; they draw

the water into their wide nostrils, then

they blow it out again. Along the deck

where, just before, there were some twenty men

(the crew that ship could carry), I was left

alone. I shuddered, cold with fear, and not

aware of what I did; but then the god

encouraged me: ‘Do not lose heart, sail on

to Naxos.’ Once I reached that coast, I joined

the cult of Bacchus, following his rites.”

 

“We’ve showed much patience,” Pentheus said; “we’ve heard

all of your endless tale—which wound its way

so that my anger might, through such delay,

wind down. But now, you slaves be quick. Don’t wait;

his fate is savage torture; send him down

into the night of Styx.” Tyrrhenian

Acoetes, carried off at once, was locked

within a sturdy dungeon. But as they

prepared their instruments of cruel torture—

 

Latin [669–98]

 

the irons in the fire—it is said

that, of their own accord, the doors flew open,

and, of their own accord, with no one there

to loosen them, the chains fell from his arms.

 

But Pentheus, unrelenting, goes himself—

he sends no messenger—to see the place

where the Bacchantes choose to celebrate

their sacred rites: Cithaeron. And the mount

resounds with strident chants and howls and shouts.

As an excited stallion, when he hears

the brazen trumpet sound the battle call,

is keen to join the clash, so Pentheus, when

he hears those long-drawn cries pulse through the air,

grows hot: that clamor reignites his wrath.

 

Midway along the mountain-side there lies

a clearing; although ringed by woods, that site

stands free of trees. And here, as Pentheus spies

the sacred rites with his profaning eyes,

the one who is the very first to sight

Echion’s son—just as she is the first

to rush against him madly, and the first

to hurl a thyrsus at him—is his mother.

“Come, come, my sisters, both of you!” she shouts.

“A giant boar is roaming on our slopes:

I must tear him apart.” Against him rush

all that mad crowd, attacking from all sides:

he’s trembling—yes, he’s trembling now, his speech

is much less violent; he blames himself,

admits that he has sinned. But he is pierced

with bitter wounds. He cries: “Autonoe,

my dear aunt, help me now, you must recall

Actaeon’s shade—have mercy!” She does not

remember her Actaeon; and she shreds

his right arm, and fierce Ino rips his left.

That sorry wretch has no arms left with which

to plead. He lifts the stumps: “O mother, see!”

 

Latin [698–725]

 

Agave, seeing that, just howls; she shakes

her head, her hair, tears off his head, and yells,

as she lifts high his head: “This, comrades, spells

our victory—our work!” The wind is not

more swift in stripping leaves from some tall tree

when, touched by autumn’s chill, they hang loosely,

than were those vile hands, tearing Pentheus’ body.

The fate of Pentheus serves as warning: now

the Theban women, bearing incense, crowd

these new rites; at these holy shrines, they bow.