NOW LUCIFER, EXPELLING NIGHT, revealed
the light of shining dawn; as Eurus fell,
the damp fog lifted. Gentle Auster helped
the glad return of Cephalus and all
of his new allies to their longed-for port:
they reached Piraeus sooner than they’d hoped.
Meanwhile, the city of Alcathous,
where Nisus now was king, was under siege
by Minos; he was devastating all
the coast of Megara. King Nisus had,
amid the gray hairs growing on his head,
a gleaming purple tuft: on this alone,
there hung the safety of his realm, his throne.
Six times the new moon’s crescent horn had risen;
the fate of Megara was still uncertain;
for Victory—on wings of indecision—
flew now to one, now to the other camp.
There was a tower—the tower of the king—
that rose up from the walls of Megara:
upon those walls Apollo had set down
his golden lyre, and within those stones
his music lingered. Scylla, Nisus’ daughter,
in peaceful days, climbed often to this tower;
and now, with war at hand, she went there still
to watch the savage feats and trials of Mars.
By now the siege had lasted long, and she
had learned to recognize the names of chiefs,
their weapons and their battle dress, their steeds
and Cretan quivers; but the one whom Scylla
knew best—far better than she should—was he
who led the siege: Europa’s son. She deemed
King Minos handsome if he chose to keep
his head concealed beneath a crested casque;
and if he bore a bright gold shield, then that
Latin [1–27]
gold shield delighted Scylla. If he cast
a pliant shaft—his sinews taut and tense—
she marveled at his mix of strength and craft.
And if he bent the curving bow whose shaft
was fitted to the string, she would have sworn
that it was Phoebus’ self whose hands held fast
those arrows. But when Minos showed his face
without a casque of bronze and, in his cloak
of purple, rode his milk-white stallion graced
with an adorned caparison, and gripped
the foaming bit, then Scylla almost went
insane: she said how happy was the lance
that his hands touched, how glad the reins he clasped.
If she, though but a girl, could only speed
her way among the ranks of enemies!
If she, down from that tower’s top, could fling
herself into the Cretans’ camp, or else
throw open Megara’s bronze gates—indeed
whatever thing might meet her Minos’ needs!
And even as she sat and watched the white
tents of the Cretan king, young Scylla cried:
“I cannot tell if I should welcome or
should mourn this lamentable war! I grieve
that Minos, he who has my love, must be
my enemy! But if there had not been
this siege, he’d never have been known to me.
If he just took me hostage, he’d win peace;
he could give up this war—and then I’d be
in Minos’ company. And if your mother,
Europa, was as splendid as you are,
then Jove indeed was right to burn for her!
If I had wings, I’d ride across the air
and then—thrice happy—stand within the camp
of Minos: I’d reveal myself, my love,
and ask him how much dowry it would take
to win him as my husband! Just so long
as he does not demand the citadel
Latin [27–54]
of my own land! Oh, yes, I would give up
that wedding, if I thought it must be bought
by treason! On the other hand, the victor
can often prove to be a man of peace—
and there is little wrong with such defeat.
The war that Minos wages is quite just:
his son was murdered—it’s revenge he wants;
his cause is strong, his army has great force,
and I believe that he will triumph; but
if what awaits my city—its sure fate—
is loss, should it be Mars to break our walls,
or should it be my love? It is far better
for him to win without a massacre,
without delay, without his having paid
one drop of his own blood. I would at least
be rid of fear that someone—unaware—
might pierce your chest, my Minos—unaware,
I say, for is there any man who’d plan
with cruelty to cast an evil lance
at you, if he, in truth, knew who you were?
I like this scheme: I’m set now to consign
myself, my homeland, and my dowry—I
will end this war. But if my wish is just
a wish, that’s not enough. The watchmen guard
the entrances; the king, my father, keeps
the gateway’s keys; yes, he and only he
prevents my plan; unhappy me, I fear
just him. O gods, would that I had no father!
But then, is everyone not his own god?
Fortune rejects the prayers of the halfhearted!
Another girl, afire with love like mine,
would well before this have destroyed—with joy—
whatever obstacle stood in love’s way.
And should another’s strength be more than mine?
Through fire and sword, I’ll dare to go—although
there’s no need here for fire, nor for sword:
my father’s lock of hair will be enough;
that purple tuft is far more dear to me
Latin [54–79]
than any gold, for it alone can be
my blessing—giving me what I most need.”
As Scylla said these things, night fell—the chief
healer of cares. But as the shadows grew,
within the girl audacity grew, too.
The hour of rest had come, when sleep invades
hearts that are weary with the cares of day.
Now Scylla steals into her father’s room
in silence and—how vile a crime!—tears off
the fatal tuft; she grips that obscene loot;
then, quick to hurry off, she exits through
the gates; and striding past the Cretan troops
(she is so sure that what she’s done will win
their favor), she confronts the king of Crete.
The sight of Scylla startles him. She says:
“It’s love that drove me to this act. Now I,
King Nisus’ daughter, Scylla, would consign
into your hands, my home, my native land.
For this I ask you just one recompense:
yourself. This purple lock is my love-pledge;
this is not hair that you receive: it is
my father’s head.” She showed the sinful gift;
she held it high, and then she offered it.
The king recoiled; and shocked by that outrage,
he cried: “May you, who have disgraced our age,
be banished by the gods from all their world!
May neither land nor sea have place for you.
And I, at least, will surely not allow
a monster of your sort to reach the isle
of Crete, my world, the cradle of great Jove!”
That said, as soon as he’d imposed just laws
on the Megarians—and Minos was
an upright man—he set his homeward course:
he had the hawsers of the fleet unloosed;
the oarsmen sped his ships adorned with bronze.
Latin [79–103]
When Scylla saw the Cretan fleet afloat
and saw her sin had won her no reward,
when she had prayed till she could pray no more,
with outstretched hands, incensed, enraged, insane,
her hair disheveled, wild, the girl exclaimed:
“Where do you flee, abandoning the one
who brought you victory? Beyond my own
dear home, more than my father, what I chose
was you. Where do you flee? It was my sin
that let you win—and did that sin not earn
some merits? Have you scorned my gift and spurned
my love—forgotten that my fate and hopes
depend on you alone? Where shall I go?
I am a derelict. Shall I return to my own city? It is overthrown.
And even if it stands, to me it’s closed:
I am a traitor. Or shall I return
to face my father, he whom I bestowed
on you as gift? My people hate me so,
and with good reason; and our neighbors know
that others, too, may do as I have done.
I am shut out from all the world, unless
you open Crete to me. But if you choose
to bar this, too, and to abandon me—
ungratefully—along this shore, Europa
is not your mother: you must be the son
of an Armenian tigress, or Charybdis—
forever lashed by Auster’s blasts—or Syrtis,
the treacherous. You are no son of Jove—
your mother was not tricked by a false bull;
that tale they tell is but a lying fable:
the bull who fathered you indeed was true—
a savage beast who needed more than heifers.
O father Nisus, punish me! Delight
in my despair, you walls that I betrayed!
I know that I deserve my wretched state;
I’m only fit for death. But I should die
beneath the hands of those whom my foul crime
Latin [104–29]
has wronged. Why should you, Minos, claim the right
to punish me when, through my sin, you’ve won?
For both my country and my father, it
was sin; for you, it was a benefit.
She is indeed a worthy wife for you—
she who, in her adultery, deceived
a savage bull: she used that shape of wood
and bore a monstrous fetus in her womb:
half-man, half-beast. Do my words reach your ears,
or, thankless Minos, do the winds that bear
your ship away, bear, too, across the air—
the empty air—my words? I do not wonder—
no, no—that your Pasiphae preferred
that bull to you: your bestiality
was worse than his. But now, what misery
is mine! He’s told his crew to speed away;
the surge churned by his oars is loud, and I—
together with my shores—am left behind.
But none of this will help! In vain you try
to cancel from your mind the gifts that I
gave you. Against your will, I’ll follow you
and, clinging to the curving stem, I shall
be drawn across the sea’s long surge and swell.”
As soon as she had finished, Scylla dived
into the waves and, following the fleet
(her frenzy gave her force), she found the ship
of Minos, and the girl held fast to it—
she was a hateful comrade. When her father
caught sight of her (he now was hovering
above her in the air on tawny wings—
yes, he had just been changed into an osprey),
he rushed to tear at her with his hooked beak
as she hung at the stem. Her grip grew slack;
and terrified, she fell, and yet did not
touch down along the surface of the sea:
the air, though light, seemed to sustain her body.
She found that she had feathers; as a bird,
Latin [129–50]
her name is Ciris (drawn from the Greek verb
keirein, “to cut”), for she had shorn the tuft.