And even as he sighed,
in sadness the Aeginian replied:
“Would I could tell you of the end without
recounting the beginning! But I speak
directly—bones and ashes, corpses, these
are what became of those your memory seeks!
In taking them, death took much of my realm.
The plague was sent by Juno in her rage
Latin [499–523]
against the people of the isle that bore
her rival’s name, Aegina. A fierce scourge,
at first it seemed a sickness nature caused,
one to be fought with the physician’s art;
but medicine was thwarted—nothing helped.
To start, thick darkness fell upon the earth;
beneath the mantle of the clouds, the heat
was stifling; when the waxing moon had reached
its full orb, joining horns for the fourth time,
then, thinning, had undone its fourth full orb,
the torrid south-wind breathed its lethal breath.
The pestilence infected lakes and springs;
and—thousands upon thousands—serpents swarmed
across the untilled fields, contaminating
our streams with poison. The infection’s force
was first felt by the dogs, the birds, the sheep,
the oxen, and wild beasts. The wretched farmer—
dismayed—saw his stout bulls collapse midway
into the furrows. Of itself, the wool
falls from the bleating sheep; their flesh is prey
to ulcers; and the fiery horse, that once
was celebrated for his breakneck runs
along the dusty course, can win no more:
his glory gone, he moans within his stall;
the death he faces is anonymous.
The boar forgets his rage; the stag can’t trust
his speed; the bears do not assail strong herds.
Now torpor takes all things. The woods, the roads,
the fields are filled with fetid carcasses;
the stench infects the air; let truth be told,
however strange it seems: even the dogs,
even the greedy birds and the gray wolves
won’t touch the rotting corpses; pus and stench
spread far and wide the raging pestilence.
“The plague then gains still greater strength, attacks
the wretched countryfolk, and it holds sway
within the city walls. It first inflames
Latin [523–54]
the guts: the outer sign of that disease
is redness and a panting, fiery breath;
the tongue grows swollen, rough; the burning jaws
hang open to the scorching air; men gasp
and swallow heavy air. No one can bear
to lie upon a bed, and none can stand
a covering of any kind; face down,
each lies upon his belly on the ground,
but earth provides no coolness to the flesh;
it is the soil that gathers heat instead
from the hot bodies. None can offer help,
ease the disease; the plague is pitiless,
assailing even those who try to heal—
the doctors’ craft rebounds against their selves.
For he who stays more close to the diseased
and cares for them most faithfully will meet
his fate more speedily. And when they see
that hope of ever being healed is gone
and death is inescapable, the sick
obey their own desires, caring not
if what they do is harmful—after all,
nothing can help them. And chaotically,
unchecked, they crowd around the springs and streams
and spacious wells. Their thirst is never quenched
till life itself is spent—they drink till death.
And many, bloated, cannot lift themselves
out of the springs and streams—and so are drowned.
But even with cadavers lying there,
some of the sick still seek—and drink—those waters!
As for the wretched who are still at home,
they can’t endure their beds; and they leap up
or, if they are too weak, will just roll off
their mattresses onto the ground—and all
desert their houses. Home is hateful now:
not knowing what caused this disease, they blame
their narrow dwelling places for the plague.
Latin [554–76]
“You could have seen the half-dead roam the streets
as long as they could stand, while those too weak
lay stretched along the ground; there they would weep;
their straining eyes looked up—a final plea—
their arms stretched toward the sky; and then they breathed
their last beneath the hanging heaven’s shroud—
here, there—wherever death had found them out.
“What did I feel? How, how could I not hate
all life—not long to share my dear friends’ fate?
Wherever I would turn my gaze, men lay
along the ground, as acorns when one shakes
the oak or rotten apples when boughs sway.
You see the temple with its long stairway;
that shrine is Jupiter’s. Who did not bring
unto those altars useless offerings?
How often did a husband, even as
he prayed for his dear wife, a father as
he pleaded on his son’s behalf, meet death
before those cruel altars—with a bit
of unused incense still within his hand!
How often did the bulls that they had brought
collapse before the blade had done death’s work—
just as the priest pronounced the sacred words
and poured pure wine between the victim’s horns!
And I, for my own sake and for my land
and my three sons, was offering a bull,
when suddenly—although no knife at all
had struck—the victim bellowed loud and fell;
it scarcely stained the knife with its scant blood.
The guts were too infected to allow
true signs, the warnings of the gods, to show:
the wretched plague had reached the viscera.
And at the sanctuary’s doors I saw
abandoned corpses; and along the altars,
to render death more hateful, some had used
a noose to end their lives: with death they drive
away their fear of death—it would arrive
Latin [576–605]
in any case, but they would have it haste.
And those dead bodies are not borne away
with customary rites: the city gates
are too strait for so many funerals!
Unburied bodies weigh upon the ground
or else—without the gifts one would expect—
are heaped upon high pyres. All respect
is gone; men brawl for spots where they can cast
cadavers—and steal flames to burn their corpses.
There’s no one to shed tears: the children’s souls
and husbands’ roam unwept, the young, the old—
no space is left for graves, no wood for flames.