Book 17

17. In the seventeenth book I sing of the first-hunted War and the stream of the honey-dripping river made drunk with wine.

Nor, when he had taken alive — unshaken, fettered by sleep through the drunkenness of unmixed wine — the unwounded race of Indians, did Dionysus entrust the battle to the winds of forgetfulness; but again he lifted the Phrygian thyrsus, for to the war-cry of high-crested Deriades, who summoned him, he hastened, leaving unremembered the crafty, wine-heavy love of the Amazon's child and the slumbering wedding. And the god led the way, bearing, as herald of the race of Zeus, a heavenly beam upon his gleaming face; and around the Lydian car of Giant-slaying Dionysus were ranks of thyrsus-bearers, and he was girdled with warriors on either side, appearing in the midst, and he flashed back at Olympus; in beauty he hid them all — and seeing him you might soon say he was the fiery sun amid the widely-scattered stars. And the lord armed his army's ironless War, with no sword, no death-bringing ash-spear, but instead of bronze holding for his weapon the unbreakable ivy; and wheeling it through the cities of Asia, and fixing it in the soil of Asia, he wildly drove the savage car of the Cybeleïd goddess, shaded with coeval ivy on its vine-shoot harness, lashing the speeding chariot with a flower-haired whip; and he made the eastern land drunk with the Maronian vintage. And the whole host of Bacchants flowed as Bromius' comrades in arms, holding courage from the earlier battle's grace, when, with twin embracing arm, sweet-maddened and ironless, Silenus, heavy-kneed, a sluggish wayfarer, lifting an armed Indian — a thinking, voiceless corpse — withdrew; and when, reveling with the twofold rhythm of her feet, the unveiled Bacchic Mimallon rattled her castanets over an Indian still sleeping, and clasping his neck hunted her plunder, a self-charged prey of battle . . . And from city to city he went, and to the rich plain of neighbouring Alybe he came, where, close at hand, rolling a Zeus-fallen swell with its wealthy streams, Geudis whitens with the channel of its treasure-holding waters, scouring the hollow of its silver bed. There, as he passed by the deep-rich rock, Bacchus, fellow-traveller of the ox-horned Satyrs, a wayfarer on foot, was received in a desolate hut by a man of the fields, Brongus, a mountain-roaming dweller of unhewn glens, inhabiting a houseless house under the unwrought foundation of earth-born rocks; and as a giver of good cheer, mixing the snowy dew of a milked she-goat, the host shepherd soothed him with a milky drink, with worthless foods and rustic cups, and loosed one wool-fleeced sheep from his fold, that he might carve a sacrifice for Dionysus; but the god restrained him, and the old man obeyed the unbending nods of Bacchus, and leaving the sheep untouched he set some shepherd's meal before willing Lyaeus, making a dinnerless dinner of an uncarved table, such as is told of Cleonaean Molorchus, those things which, as he hastened to the lion-slaying contest, he made ready for Heracles; and in heaps he threw upon the table the autumn flower of the olive that swims in brine, Brongus, taking the model of a loving herdsman, lifting in plaited baskets the fresh-set cheese, moist, round-shaped; and the god laughed, beholding the simple dinners of the country folk, and to the hospitable herdsman turning a gracious eye he touched the scanty table, devouring insatiably; and ever he remembered that scant feast of the bloodless board, beside the supper of his own mother, mountain-dwelling Cybele. And he marvelled at the rugged gates of the round court, how toil-working Nature had carved the dwelling, how without art the cliffs had been rounded into answering courses. But when lord Bacchus had taken his fill of the pastoral fare, then, stirred by the divine breath of Bacchus, the countryman piped the wonted song of Pan, Brongus, pressing the double-sounding flute of Athena, hymning Dionysus; and the god delighted his heart in the song, and mixing in a bowl the newly-flowing moisture of the press: 'Receive, old man, this gift, a respite from all care; nor do you need milk, holding the sweet-smelling dew, the earthly likeness of heavenly nectar, such as Ganymede draws and gladdens great Zeus with on Olympus. Let go the longing for your old milk; for of new-born she-goats, when the udders are pressed, the snowy moistures do not delight men, nor do they loose their cares.' So speaking he gave, as a guest-gift of the pastoral table, the well-clustered vintage, mother of toil-loosing wine; and the lord taught him the flower-loving work of the vineyard, to bend the vine-twigs round in the well-nourishing trench of plants, cutting the tops of the aged, flourishing cluster, to raise the young shoots of the wine-bearing grape. And leaving the herdsman and the ridge of the wild woodland he hastened to another mountain war against the Indians; and urging on the mountain-running track, his companions the Satyrs, he came back again to consort with his handmaid frenzied Bacchants. And thirsting for slaughter and for thyrsus-fair battle, holding the deep-booming trumpet of the Tyrrhenian sea, he sounded on the conch a song, escort of Enyalius, gathering his folk; and he made the mighty warriors drunk, drawing the men with hotter thoughts toward War, destroyers of the un-Bacchic Indian breed. These lord Dionysus marshalled for the battle of the Indians; but Astraeis, going unreachably, brought word to Orontes of the enslaved tribes of the Indians, and cried with a grieving voice: 'Son-in-law of spear-bold, battle-abiding Deriades, hear me, and hearing be not angry; and I will teach you the drug-wrought victory of unarmoured Dionysus. There was battle between the Indians and the Satyrs: aslant roared the line of Bassarids, and my folk was arrayed against Lyaeus, flashing with shields; and watching the javelin-bearers the Lydian, that man of many wiles, made my warriors shudder. And there stood up the champion of the unwarlike Satyrs — not a spear of combat bearing in his hand, nor holding a naked sword, nor on the string drawing toward a straight-pathed mark the wind-borne shaft; but he held a bull's horn, and in the hollow tip he carried a liquid drug, and into the channels of the silver river he poured down all his crafty dew, reddening the sweet stream with the moisture; and out of the battle, parched in the heat, all the fiery Indians who drank held a conscious madness and struck up the dance; and a deadly sleep fell upon them, and unbending, maddened past all restraint, they bedded down upon their oxhides; others lay down upon unspread pallets, giving over their sluggish bodies to unsleeping sleep, a prey to the feeble Bacchants and to Dionysus. And these, without battle and without keen iron, the women plundered into slavish yoke-bondage, with their burdened limbs, and over the shoulders of the enemy the warriors, like living corpses, were lightly carried, some still spewing out the deceitful moisture of Bacchus, enslaved by necessity to the unwarlike Satyrs, maddened by the drugged stream. And out of the battle I alone was left, still untaught of the murderous dew, fleeing with unwetted lips the deceiving water. But beware the drink, spear-wielder, lest after the cunning, ironless, bloodless victory of Lyaeus some other trick take alive in War the remnant of the Indians.' At his words, heavy-wrathed Orontes grew the more enraged, and swiftly came back to battle; for half-finished was the contest, and the foundations of another fight were being laid. While the mountain-running Ares armed the Indian host, meanwhile the Bassarids, high on much-winding Taurus, hastened to battle, and the Bacchants marched together, arms-bearing, and the unarmed Beasts; some, breaking off the bases of the glens, lifted them up, others a high-stretched headland of the hill; and as the battle began they fell upon the enemy; and many-cleft ravines were hurled in spirals against the Indian heads. And bounding upon the cliff with slender feet the Pans armed themselves in madness, of whom one of them, seizing with skilful hand the neck constrained by his grip, tore open the foeman with his goat-hooves, gashing the mid-flank along with the heavy corslet; another, with the well-curved points of his long-shooting horns, snatching an Indian wanderer upright and pierced through, lifted him impaled at the middle, and into the airy ways flung him high-flying upon his two horns, headlong, self-rolling; and another, like Deo of the sheaves, brandishing in his hand the reed-cutting sickle, as if it were the corn-ear of battle, the sheaves of warfare, reaped the broods of the foe with the hook-clawed bronze, making a revel for Ares, a harvest-feast for Dionysus too, cutting the heads of the enemy; and he held out to Bacchus his witness the curved sword stained with the dew of men. Pouring out a bloody libation to Dionysus, he made the Fates drunk too, pouring the drink of Enyalius; and as another stood his ground, the goat-fed Pan, gripping him, twisting a bond of interwoven hands upon his neck, flung the well-corsleted foe upon his horn, his flank cloven with the two-edged point; another, slaying with his crook a man who charged, crushed the brow-frowning topmost forehead through the middle. And bold Orontes heartened the Indian host, pouring out a threatening speech with a high-manly voice: 'Come, friends, let us rouse War against the Satyrs; do not tremble at the Ares of battle-fleeing Dionysus; and let none of you drink the yellow water, the deceiving, maddening drugs of the sweet spring, mangled by the hand of Lyaeus, of the ill-fated Indians; lest, after so many heads, sleep destroy us too. Come, let us fight again with confidence; and when shall the unwarlike Bacchus openly set my War against him? If he can, let the fugitive champion abide me, that he may learn what champions Deriades arrays for War. Let him fight with leaves, I with fiery iron. To me who hold a bronze spear, what will the Lydian do hurling his oaken shaft of clusters? But this warrior, this feeble fellow, I will drag away bound, heavily fettered, this womanish Dionysus, attendant of Deriades; this one with the woman's soft skin — leave all the Indians, so many, and fight you alone against Orontes. Sweet is he who twirls the loosened locks of his hair, sweet the lovely champion of the Bassarids; but they too, the women, shoot with beauty and not with arrows. Your servants I will join to the woman-mad Indians, dragged to the beds of spear-won wedlock.' So speaking, hot Orontes ran upon the champions, reaping the twofold harvest of Ares; nor did any dare to abide the opposing onset of so great a champion, not bold Eurymedon the fiery, nor his brother Alcon; for Astraeis, the Satyrs' champion, fled, nor did any of the Sileni stand his ground. And with stormy foot the son-in-law of Deriades, terrible, raged, lifting against the Centaurs a windy boulder, and he struck Hylaeus; the shaggy-breasted herdsman's topmost forehead he crushed, casting a millstone of rock, and he battered his head-guard with a ravine-torn missile, the fashioned likeness of false skill in customary gypsum, the imitation of a true helmet, a fence for the eye; and it fell on the ground in many splinters, like fiery ash, and there came white dust; but he, sinking down, embraced the ground with his arm beside his rocky spear. And of another Centaur, through the well-horned head, striking the shaggy forehead with his double-edged ox-cleaver, he shore off the curved bull-horn; and great he fell to earth, and bounding on his head half-dead he rolled, and beat the dust with his ears; and raising his body up on a last foot he raved, holding a mirthless, rolling-footed dance of death; and the monster crashed out a sound, like a bull sending forth a harsh bellowing from a grinning throat, struck in the head. And striking Helice, loveless Erembeus drove the bronze into her breast, and the white circle of her bosom the dark hand scored with reddening blood; and her, fallen in the dust, the javelin-hurling winds joined to another grief, lifting up her robe; and from her flesh gushed the lovely gore; and in shame with her right hand she gathered up her fleeing tunic, guarding the bared mysteries of her snowy thigh. And the god, beholding the shifting victory of the foe, and the Satyrs cowering, crashed out into the battle-din, like an army of nine thousand from loud-thundering throats pouring an answering echo from gathered mouths. And swift-kneed Orontes fought alone against Bromius, mortal though he was, and challenged the god with a mortal voice. Both came together to the battle, of whom the one held a spear, the other a sharpened thyrsus. And on the top of Bacchus' unwounded head, casting his blow, overweening Orontes vainly struck Bromius' sharp horn; for lord Dionysus, of the unharmed head, held a bull-shaped likeness of the Moon-bright forehead, not to be cut by the crushing iron of the ox-cleaver, as horned Achelous is sung, whose horn once Heracles cut off and took as a marriage-dower; but Lyaeus held the heavenly likeness of the ox-eyed Moon, having the unbreakable growth of a divine horn, unshaken by the foe; and the bold Indian against Bacchus, heavy-booming, like an airy gale, hurled a second time, and the point was bent back for him, touching the fawnskin, like lead. And against his target casting the wine-dark thyrsus at the broad shoulder of Orontes, Bacchus willingly missed; and mocking Lyaeus with his ivied spear the god-fighter Orontes said: 'You who array a womanish host against my battalions, if you can, make war with your womanish thyrsus, if you can, do battle in the front; and if you charm the minds of mortals, all-subduer, then charm one single, unbeguiled Orontes. Stand and fight, and you shall know what a valiant chieftain my old Indian Hydaspes rears. I was not born of Phrygia, whence women are mannish, having reaped the unsown corn-ear of unwedded youth; I am no ironless servant of feeble Lyaeus. Drugs will not save your champions; and your frenzied handmaids I will plunder, and out of the battle I will bring the Sileni as servants to my king, and all your cowering Satyrs I will destroy with my spear.' So spoke, shouting his war-cry, the army's champion; and hearing it lord Bacchus was angered, and with a vine-cluster he struck him on the chest, sparingly; and by the worthless clustering flower struck, his corslet was split; yet the Bacchic point did not touch his sheltered flesh, nor graze the surface of his body; but as his iron tunic broke, heavy-booming Orontes drew back, naked; and toward the eastern verge he strained his eyes to Phaethon facing him, and spoke his last word: 'Sun, who cleave the air through your fiery chariot, casting your light over the neighbouring Caucasian furrow, halt your car for me, and tell Deriades of the enslaved tribes of the Indians and self-slain Orontes and the little man-breaking thyrsi; tell too of the drug-wrought victory of battle-untried Dionysus, and the stream of the mind-deranging river made drunk with wine; and tell how the unwearied host of iron-bearing Indians the women cleave apart with their slender leaves. And if you still remember the bed of your Clymene, save Deriades, the offshoot of your race, who bears the blood of Astris, the girl said to be your daughter. I did not yield to womanish Bromius; I call as witnesses the Sun and the boundless Earth and the god of the Indians, the pure water. But you, farewell, and be gracious to the battle of the warring Indians, and bury Orontes, who has perished.' So speaking he drew his sword, and fixing it in the midst of his belly, heavy-fated he leapt upon the self-slaying iron; and he rolled into the river and gave his name to Orontes. And beholding him still breathing and gasping, lord Bacchus spoke, pouring out a mocking echo: 'Lie there, corpse, in foreign waters; and your dying Deriades let his father Hydaspes hide. You both, father-in-law and son-in-law, I will destroy, instead of a murderous spear and a sharpened sword shaking Euian thyrsi and a vine-clad point. But slaying you with the blood-red iron, you did not drink the delicate streams of the honey-dripping river; and the river covered you, and you missed the sweet wine. If you wish, drink the whole stream alone; but you will not need the river's streams, having drunk the Acherusian water, deadly; and with the man-slaying flow and the bitter stream holding a belly swelling, pregnant with Fate, taste of Cocytus, and if you wish, drink Lethe, that you may forget War and the bloody iron.' So he spoke, mocking the wet corpse. And swollen, on the unsteady waves the dead Orontes was dragged along; and as he swam through the stream with cold limbs the river-banks belched up the breathless corpse. The Nymphs entombed him and wailed the dirge over him, the Hamadryad nymphs, beside the root of a golden laurel around the river's flow, and they wrote high upon a tree: 'Here lies the army's champion who dishonoured Bacchus, the Indian Orontes, slain by his own hand.' Nor yet was there an end of the joyless battle; for half-finished was the contest and the strife unaccomplished; and high-shining the Indian Ares raised the war-cry; and in the renewed battle-din the unfinished Bacchic frenzy, belching out the Lydian weight of madness, the maenad Enyo reveled into another battle, hurling at the foe with man-slaying clusters, maddened for Ares; and by the shoot-loving Lyaeus the enemy were slain with the oaken iron, holding a bloody wound; and as, by the unarmoured Bacchant with her clustering spear, the iron was cloven, the bronze-tunicked Indians marvelled that with sharp ivy their breasts were laid bare, newly wounded; for more easily the bearers, without shelter of a corslet, were shot. And of others there was unspeakable, manifold slaughter, beneath whose gore their tunics, cloven by the leaves, were reddened as they fought, where Taurus stands; and the Bacchants encircled unbending, like a crown, the ranks of the yoked Indians. And the bold flute piped a song of slaughter; and in the battle the Bacchants, servants of battle-untried Dionysus, struck by axes and double-edged swords, were all, like a tower, unharmed; but the soft-haired foes were slain by slender leaves; and one after another there were stuck fast in the long-shooting trees the thick darts of the Indians, and the pine was pierced by the far-flung spear, the fir was struck, the laurel was shot, though it was the tree of Phoebus, and in its shamefaced leaves it hid the cloud of long-winged arrows sent against it, lest Apollo see it shot through with darts. And with bare hand, without shields, without iron, the Bacchant shook her rattles, and the shield-bearer fell; the drums crashed out, and the warriors danced; the cymbals clashed, and the Indian man bent his neck to Lyaeus as a suppliant. And in the thin skin of fawns the unbreakable points of the javelins were turned aside; and the bronze-heavy, unbending helmet was cut by foliage. And one champion of the war-maddened Satyrs, striking a man, threw Euian leaves, and of the newly-wounded bearer the bronze tunic was split by the clustering ivy. And beholding the scales of battle with their shifting swing foretelling the victory of Indian-slaying Lyaeus, Astraeis, unreachable, withdrew, escaping his doom, cowering before the long-leaved spear of Dionysus. Meanwhile Aristaeus, scattering life-giving drugs, healed every wound of the Bassarids with Phoebian skill. On the blows of one he laid the Centaur-herb; of another, weighed down, he cleansed the bloody dew by pressing out the blood; and he healed the plaintive Bacchant, grinding many kinds of plants for the girl's wounds, whether of foot or hand or breast or flank. And when another champion was struck by a murderous arrow, he drew out the swift point, and pressing the wounds with his hand he made the bloody dew spurt up little by little; to another he brought his hand, and scoring the surface of the wound he cut away the parts rotted by the drugged shaft with a knife, laying his sparing fingers with the very tips of his hand; and with the green flower of the life-sustaining earth he mixed the cunning travail of the evil-averting bee, sprinkling with his hand the pain-killing moisture of Bacchus; and others, wounded, he healed with a Phoebian voice, murmuring a dread, many-named hymn of song, mindful of the life-sustaining mysteries of his father's craft. So he healed the shifting wound. And as they fought, already the barbarian-tongued womanish War ceased. And the Bassarids took alive many warriors from the battle; and many of the foe, leaving the Taurus heights, returned to the region of the Indian land with vain hopes, to the house of Deriades, the broad-spanning drivers of measureless-lived elephants. And drawing the Satyrs after the strife into a vintage dance, pastoral Pan made music, pouring out a victory echo. And Blemys of the woolly head, champion of the Erythraean Indians, lifted up the bloodless branch of olive in supplication, bending his slavish knee to Indian-slaying Dionysus. And the god, beholding the man bowed to the ground, took him by the hand and raised him up, and together with a many-tongued folk of dark Indians he sent him off, holding him far away, since he loathed the rule and the ways of Deriades, to the verge of Arabia, where beside the neighbouring sea he dwelt on a prosperous soil and gave his name to its citizens; and Blemys came swiftly to the mouth of seven-channelled Nile, to be the sceptred ruler of the like-skinned Ethiopians; and the foundation of ever-summery Meroe received him, the eponymous leader of the later-born Blemyes.