Alcmena

                         But Eurystheus’ rage

did not abate: he nursed his bitter hate

for Hercules and all his race, harassing

his offspring. And Alcmena, faced with that—

and with so many other cares—was anxious;

the only one with whom the queen could share

these cares was Iole, who now was married

to Hyllus, son of Hercules. The will

of Hercules had brought about this wedding;

and Hyllus, to fulfill his father’s wish,

had welcomed Iole both to his bed

and to his heart; and now, with noble seed,

the girl was pregnant. And the old Alcmena—

just as old women will—was now recounting

to Iole the feats of Hercules

and the vicissitudes of her long life.

She started out by saying: “May the gods

be gracious to you, and your labor pains

be shortened when you call upon Lucina,

the goddess who sustains all fearful mothers

in their travail, although when Hercules

was born, she made that hour harsh for me,

yes, hard indeed—that Juno might be pleased.

 

Latin [267–84]

 

For when his hour of birth was imminent,

the sun was just about to touch the tenth

sign of the Zodiac; my womb was heavy

with Hercules, one fated for such toil:

my belly was so large that you could tell

that Jove himself was father of this child.

By then, the fierce pangs were unbearable;

even as I tell this, my limbs grow chill

with horror: that pain lives in my recall.

For seven nights and days I was in torment;

exhausted by the pain, a suppliant,

I called upon Lucina and her three

attendant goddesses of birth’s travail.

She came indeed—but had already schemed

with cruel Juno: they were both in league

against me, and Lucina meant to give

my life to Saturn’s daughter as a gift.

She sat before the door, upon the altar;

and listening to my moans, the goddess crossed

her left knee with her right, and then laced tight

her fingers, locking them around her knees;

so did Lucina block delivery.

She also chanted spells beneath her breath;

with them, too, birth—which had begun—was checked.

I labored, mad with pain; in vain I cursed

ungrateful Jove; I longed to die; my words

would move the hardest stones to tears. Around me

the Theban women also pleaded, prayed:

they tried to give me strength to meet this test.

Now one of my attendants was Galanthis,

a blond-haired girl of humble family,

one quick to get her work done—dear and caring.

She sensed that something strange was happening,

something that Juno had devised and schemed;

and as she came and went and passed the entrance,

she saw the goddess seated on the altar

with her laced fingers locked around her knees.

Galanthis said: ‘Whoever you may be,

 

Latin [285–312]

 

congratulate my mistress. She is happy.

Argive Alcmena has just given birth;

the mother and her son are doing well.’

At that, the goddess of childbirth leaped up,

dismayed, and her locked fingers drew apart.

The knot was now undone; and I gave birth.

They say that, at that point, Galanthis jeered:

she laughed at the deluded deity.

And as she laughed, the savage goddess caught

Galanthis by the hair and dragged her off,

along the ground; the girl tried to get up—

but then the goddess kept her on all fours

and changed Galanthis’ arms into forefeet.

In her new shape, Galanthis kept her old

quickness; her back still kept her color—blond;

it was her form that changed. And since her mouth’s

deceptions helped me to give birth, Galanthis—

transformed—gives birth to younglings through her mouth.

And still, just as before, it is our house

that is her home: she is a weasel now.”