Soon Theseus came to Athens; though King Aegeus
had fathered Theseus, he had never known
his son, whose courage now had pacified
the Isthmus bathed by seas on both its sides.
Medea wanted Theseus dead, and so
she brewed a potion with a plant she’d brought—
long since—from Scythia’s shores: a lethal herb
spewed from the teeth of Cerberus—they say.
There is a cave whose shadowed entranceway
lies at the end of a down-sloping path
along which Tiryns’ hero, Hercules,
dragged Cerberus in chains of adamant:
the hound was furious; his eyes could not
support the light, the glare of naked day;
and tugging loose, his three heads barked as one
and, barking, sprayed the green fields with white foam.
This slaver, so men say, coagulated
and, nourished by the rich and fertile ground,
became a plant that had the power to poison,
an herb that grows and thrives upon hard stone,
a plant the peasants call aconitum
(in Greek the word for whetstone is akóne).
Now Aegeus, whom Medea had deceived,
was just about to have his own son drink
this brew, as if he were an enemy.
As Theseus, unaware of what they brought,
within his hand held high the fatal cup,
his father recognized the sign embossed
upon the ivory hilt of Theseus’ sword
and, from his dear son’s lips, dashed down the cup.
Latin [402–23]
Medea fled her death: she hid herself
within a cloud she conjured with her spells.
But Aegeus, happy that his son was saved,
was still dismayed: how close was their escape
from an abomination! Now he gave
the gods abundant gifts; he kindled fires
upon the altars; and the sturdy necks
of bullocks wreathed with garlands felt the ax.
And the Athenians—so it is said—
have never known a day more glad than that.
The joy was shared by common folk and elders:
they banqueted together; wine inspired
their artful songs in praise of Aegeus’ son:
“O mighty Theseus, it is you who filled
all Marathon with wonder when you killed
the Cretan bull; and if in Cromyon
the fields are safe and farmers now can till
with no fear of the awful sow, they owe
that gift to you; and Epidaurus must
thank you if it is free from Vulcan’s son,
that bandit, Periphetes, with his club;
and on Cephisus’ banks, you felled the fierce
Procrustes; in Eleusis, Ceres’ city,
you struck down Cercyon; you shattered Sinis,
whose massive power had horror as its end,
the giant who could twist tree trunks and bend
pine tops down to the ground—his catapults
to rend and fling on high his victim’s bodies.
And it was you who freed Alcathoe,
the citadel of Megara, by killing
the bandit Sciron; now we go in safety
along that coastal road. Both land and sea
refused that brigand’s bones; and it is said
that strewn about so long, those bones grew hard
and formed the cliffs now called Scironian Rocks.
Were we to tally all your feats and years,
Latin [424–48]
your years would be exceeded by your deeds.
Great Theseus, now we pray on your behalf;
for you, in gratitude, we drain these drafts.”
Throughout the royal halls, the people throng;
applause and prayers for Theseus echo loud.
In all of Athens, gloom has been unhoused.