BUT WHILE THE STALWART son of Danae told
the story of his feats, the royal halls
were filled with din and discord—not the sounds
of festive wedding songs, but the uproar
that rises at the start of savage quarrels.
What was a feast is now a bitter brawl:
one might well liken it to tranquil seas
that swell when winds—berserk—whip suddenly.
It’s Phineus, the brother of the king,
who dared to start the strife: now—in the lead—
he brandishes his bronze-tipped ashen shaft;
he shouts: “I’m here! I want revenge! You snatched
my bride, but it is you whom I shall seize:
this time, no thing can save you—not your wings,
nor Jove appearing in a shower of gold.”
But just as Phineus was set to strike,
King Cepheus cried: “What frenzy drives your mind?
How can you, brother, conjure such a crime?
Is this what Perseus deserves—the way
in which you would repay a guest so brave?
It’s he who saved her life. He did not snatch
Andromeda from you: it was the wrath
of the immortal Nereids; it was
horned Ammon and that monster of the sea
who came to glut his belly on the flesh
of my own flesh. Yes, brother, it was they
who took Andromeda from you, when she
was doomed to die—unless your cruelty
wants just this thing, her death—that you might be
consoled at the expense of my own grief!
Beneath your very eyes, you saw her chained;
you were her uncle and her promised mate,
yet you did nothing then; you brought no aid.
How, then, can you outcry when someone saved
her life? Why, then, deny him what he’s gained?
If winning her as wife seems such a prize,
Latin [1–25]
you should have sought to free her from that rock
where she was helpless, chained. You failed to act;
so let him keep what he has won: I’ve sworn
to give him his reward; if not for him,
I now would be a sorrowing old man.
And try to understand: the choice was not
between yourself and him; my choice was made
between yourself and death—her certain fate.”
His brother did not answer; but in doubt,
not knowing which of two to strike, he stared
at each in turn: at Cepheus, and at Perseus.
Yet doubt did not last long; with all the force
of rage, he aimed his shaft at Perseus—
but missed the mark: his lance-head struck a couch.
There it held fast, but Perseus leaped at last
upon the cushions, grabbed the shaft, and cast
the lance straight back; it surely would have smashed
the chest of Phineus if—shamefully—
that wretch had not been quick enough to scurry
behind the altar, taking refuge there.
And yet that shaft had some effect; it struck—
full force—the face of Rhoetus; as he fell,
he wrenched the iron from his bone; he writhed;
he stained with blood the well-spread banquet table.
At that, the fury of the crowd could not
be checked; they hurled their shafts; some called for death
to Perseus and to Cepheus. But the king
had fled his palace, even as he called
on loyalty and justice and the gods
of hospitality as witnesses
that he had tried to stop that sacrilege.
And then warlike Minerva came to shield
her brother with her aegis, giving him
fresh courage. Now there was an Indian
among the guests—a youth called Athis, one
who had been born in Ganges’ crystal stream;
Latin [26–47]
his mother was that river’s nymph, Lymnaee.
His beauty was stupendous; and the boy
sixteen years old, in full force—wore rich robes
that made him still more handsome, for his cloak
was purple fringed with gold; a golden chain
adorned his neck: a golden diadem
curved round his hair, which was perfumed with myrrh.
He was adept at hurling javelins
at distant targets, but he was still more
adept at bending bows. And even then,
while Athis was intent upon his bow,
the stalwart Perseus snatched the smoldering brand—
one he had taken from the altar’s center—
and smashed the face of Athis, crushed his skull.
Now Athis’ close, inseparable friend
was the Assyrian Lycabas, a man
whose love was true—a love he did not hide.
And when he saw that splendid face defiled
by blood, and saw his comrade breathe his last
beneath that cruel wound, he wept, then grasped
the bow his friend had bent. With that in hand,
he cried: “Now face a man! You won’t rejoice
too long at your defeat of this poor boy:
a victory that earns you more contempt
than glory!” As he spoke, the sharp-tipped shaft
streaked from the bowstring, but—his aim was off—
within a fold of Perseus’ robe, it stuck.
Acrisius’ grandson turned on Lycabas
with that same scimitar which he had flashed
in killing the Medusa: this he plunged
into the chest of the Assyrian.
And dying, Lycabas, with eyes that swam
in darkness, turned to search for Athis and,
beside the body of the boy, collapsed
but bore this comfort even as he left
to join the Shades: he shared death with his friend.
Latin [48–73]
At that, Metion’s son, Syenian
Phorbas, and Libyan Amphimedon—
too keen to join the fight—slipped on warm blood
that drenched a stretch of floor. And when they tried
to rise, the blade of Perseus slashed the throat
of Phorbas; then he drove his sword between
the other’s ribs. But he did not employ
his blade to vanquish Eurytus, the son
of Actor, who held high a battle-ax,
broad and two-edged: instead, with both his hands,
he lifted up a giant bowl, embossed
with figures, and he smashed that mass against
the son of Actor. On his back, near death,
the fallen victim vomited red blood
and pounded with his head against the ground.
Then Perseus felled Caucasian Abaris;
and from the line of Queen Semiramis,
proud Polydegmon; and Lycetes, come
from the Sperchios’ shores; and Clytus, Phlegyas,
and Helice, whose hair was never shorn.
That done, the hero treaded on the heaps
of dying men.
And even Phineus
was now afraid to deal with Perseus
directly—so he cast his javelin;
but it was aimed in error, striking Idas,
who until now had—all in vain—abstained
from fighting, taking sides with neither part.
He stared at savage Phineus; in rage,
he cried: “Since I am forced to join this fray,
accept, o Phineus, the foe you made;
and with this blow, let your blow be repaid!”
He wrenched the javelin out of his flesh
but then, about to fling it back, collapsed:
no blood was left within the limbs of Idas.
Latin [74–96]
Hodites (of the Ethiopians,
Cepheus alone could claim a higher rank)
fell, too—cut down by Clymenus. Hypseus
killed Prothoenor and, in turn, was killed
by one of Lynceus’ line. Among them all,
there stood the old Emathion, a man
who fostered fairness and revered the gods.
His years forbade his taking up a lance,
and so he fought with words—assailed, attacked
that wretched battle as his trembling hands
embraced the altar. Chromis, with his sword,
struck off Emathion’s head; and as it rolled
across the altar, half-alive, his tongue
still spat out maledictions till his breath,
amid the altar fires, breathed its last.
And then, at Phineus’ hands, both Broteas
and Ammon—they were brothers—met their death
(though none had bested Ammon as a boxer,
what good can gauntlets do, when they meet swords?);
so, too, did Ampycus, a priest of Ceres,
his temples circled by a white headband.
You, son of Lampetus, not used to war
but to the peaceful work of voice and lyre,
had been invited to delight the guests,
to celebrate the wedding with your chants.
The son of Lampetus now stood apart,
an inoffensive plectrum in his hand,
when Pedasus said scornfully: “Your chant
is still not done; go, sing the rest before
the shades of Styx.” That said, he pierced the bard’s
left temple with his dagger. As he fell,
the dying fingers of the poet brushed
again across the lyre’s strings; that touch,
by chance, gave voice to sad and shadowed chords.
That sight enraged Lycormas; to avenge
that death, he wrenched a robust wooden beam
Latin [97–120]
out from the doorpost; with full force he smashed
the nape of Pedasus, who then collapsed
along the ground, as does a butchered bull.
Cyniphian Pelates, on his part, tried
to wrench a plank out from the left doorpost,
but even as he tried, the javelin
of Corytus, born in Marmarica,
pierced his right hand and pinned him to the plank.
With Pelates held fast, the lance of Abas
impaled his side. He did not fall to earth;
but dying, there he hung down from the wood
to which his hand was nailed. And Melanéus,
a partisan of Perseus, also fell,
as did another, Dorilas, who held
the richest fields of Masamonia—
no one could match the acres he possessed
or gather more abundant heaps of incense.
Caught by a lance that had been shot aslant,
his groin was struck—and that’s a fatal hit.
And when the Bactrian Halcyoneus,
the man who’d hurled that shaft, saw Dorilas
gasping, his eyes askew, about to die,
he cried: “Of all the plots that you possess,
this spot, where you now lie, is all that’s left!”—
and left him, a cadaver, there.
But Perseus
was quick to seek revenge: he wrenched the shaft
out from the still-warm wound and hurled it back:
it hit Halcyoneus’ nose, then drove
straight through his neck, protruding on both sides.
While Fortune favored him, he also killed
Clanis and Clytius: born of one mother,
they died of different wounds. The sturdy arm
of Perseus cast one ashwood lance that ran
through both of Clytius’ thighs; the other shaft
caught Clanis in the mouth—he bit that lance.
And then, beneath the hands of Perseus fell
Latin [120–44]
both Celadon of Mendes and Astreus
(his mother was a Palestinian;
his father was unknown); and Aethion
(till then, adept at reading days to come
but cheated—this time—by a lying omen);
Thoactes, armor-bearer of the king;
and then Agyrtes, who’d earned infamy
for killing his own father. Perseus
is weary, but his enemies are many—
and they are bent on killing him alone.
Arrayed against him, from all sides they thrust:
they all support a cause that would insult
both worth and trust. The only ones who stand
together with him are King Cepheus (but
the king, however honest, has no force),
the new bride, and her mother—their laments
are loud enough and yet are lost among
the clash of weapons and the moans of those
who’ve fallen. Through the desecrated house,
Bellona pours out streams of blood, as she
incites again—again renews the strife.
And now where Perseus stands, he is hemmed in
by Phineus and a thousand of his men.
The shafts fly faster—to the left, the right—
than winter hail; they graze his ears, his eyes.
Against a great stone pillar, Perseus plants
his back and so protects it from attack;
he faces their assault, confronts his foes
as they press on against him. On the left,
it is Molpeus of Chaonia
who threatens; on the right, it is Ethemon
the Nabatean. Even as a tigress
who feels the bite of hunger, if she hears
the bellowing of two herds that appear
to come from different valleys, does not know
which herd to harry (she is hot for both),
so Perseus, now unsure of what is best—
Latin [144–67]
to strike against the right, against the left—
first wounds Molpeus’ leg and is content
to let him flee; and now, he guards against
Ethemon, who allows no truce, but lifts
his blade in rage and tries to slice the neck
of Perseus; but he has not gauged his force
and cracks his sword against the column’s stone.
The blade breaks off; against its owner’s throat,
it slides, but it inflicts no fatal wound.
And there Ethemon stands; he trembles and—
a suppliant—lifts up his helpless hands.
And Perseus sinks the gift of Mercury,
his scimitar, into Ethemon’s body.
But Perseus saw that all his strength might yet
be forced to yield before their crowded ranks.
He cried: “You have compelled me to this step:
from my own enemy, I must seek help.
If any here—by chance—are friends of mine,
let them avert their eyes!” And he raised high
the Gorgon’s head. Then Thescelus cried out:
“Go! Let your magic frighten someone else!”
and set himself to hurl his deadly lance;
but he was frozen in that very act:
a marble statue. Ampyx stood nearby;
and with his sword he rushed to strike the chest
that held the mighty soul of Perseus;
but as he thrust, his right hand, now grown stiff,
could not move forward and could not move back.
And Nileus (one who falsely claimed that he
was born of Nile, the stream with seven mouths—
he even had the shapes of seven channels
engraved upon his shield, with some in gold,
and some in silver) cried: “Now, Perseus, see
the source from which I spring. You will derive
much solace when you reach the dead, the Shades,
for you’ll have fallen at the hands of one
Latin [167–92]
who is so great a champion. . . .” But his words
were stifled in mid-speech; you would have said
his open mouth still tried to speak, and yet
words could not pass. Now Eryx scorned that pair;
he cried: “It’s lack of courage, not the power
of Gorgon, that has made you stiff; let us
lay low this youth and his enchanted arms!”
He started his attack; the earth held fast
his feet; and he was halted, motionless—
a rock, the image of a man in armor.
All these indeed deserved the fate they met.
But Perseus had one friend, Aconteus,
who fought on his behalf, but chanced to stare
at Gorgon’s head and hardened into stone.
Astyages, who thought Aconteus still
a living man, struck hard with his long sword
against the stony form. The sword gave out
a clanging sound; and while Astyages
was still dismayed by that, the very same
force overcame him, too; and on his face—
now stone—the look of wonder still remained.
It would take far too long were I to tell
the names of all the commoners who fell.
Two hundred men were left to carry on;
two hundred, seeing Gorgon, turned to stone.
Then Phineus was ready to repent—
at last—for having launched this unjust clash.
But what can he do now? As he looks round,
he sees the varied shapes, the forms he knows;
he recognizes all his men; he calls
on each by name for help; he can’t believe
what his eyes see; he touches those most close—
and all are marble now. He turns away;
and to his side, he stretches out his hands
and arms—the gesture of a suppliant;
Latin [192–215]
and, ready to confess his guilt, he says:
“You are the victim, Perseus! Now set
aside that monstrous prodigy, that head
of your Medusa: it begets hard stone.
Whatever it may be, I beg, I plead:
put it away. It was not out of hate
for you—nor out of any lust to take
the kingship—that I fought: I only sought
to win my wife. You had more worth, but I
could claim that I came first. Yes, I was slow
to yield; for that, I now repent. Just grant
my life—and nothing more—to me: the rest
is yours to take and keep. You are the bravest.”
As he said this, he did not dare to look
at him to whom he prayed. And Perseus
replied: “You are a coward, Phineus,
but this I can allow you, to be sure—
and it is a great favor (do not fear):
no one will ever harm you with a spear.
No, not at all, for I shall make of you
a monument that always will endure:
for age on age, within these very halls,
here in the palace of my father-in-law,
you will be seen by all; my wife will draw
some solace from the image of the man
who once had sworn that he would be her husband.”
That said, he turned the face of Phorcys’ daughter
to that side where, bewildered, Phineus
had turned. And Phineus, too, tried to avert
his eyes too late: his neck grew stiff, the tears
he shed were turned to stone. And looking so—
in marble now—he stayed: his face displayed
his cowardice, his pleading gaze; his hands
implored; the statue caught his cringing stance.
Latin [215–35]