Book 18

18. In the eighteenth book Staphylus and Botrys come, inviting the mountain-roaming son of Thyone to a feast.

And already winged, many-mouthed Rumour flew, running beneath every line of the cities of Assyria, proclaiming the name of cluster-bearing Dionysus, and the bold Indian War and the splendid-clustered vintage. And Staphylus, hearing of the ironless army of the Satyrs and the vine-decked rites and the Euian sacraments of Lyaeus, longed to behold Bacchus; and urging on his son Botrys, the lord of the Assyrians, high on his wind-swift car, met Dionysus of the clusters as he passed by. And seeing him approaching, and the silver-wheeled wagon and the harness of leopards and the bright reins of lions, unshorn Botrys reined in his father's chariot; and sceptred Staphylus leapt down from his car, gazing at the halted track of the leopards of Dionysus; and bending his knee, propping his footstep upon the ground, stretching out an olive-branch with god-fearing hand . . . And the lord soothed Dionysus with a friendly speech: 'By Zeus the protector of suppliants, your father, Dionysus, by Semele the god's child, do not pass my son by. I have heard how Lycaon received your father, him together with the blessed ones, and slaying his son with his hand, Nyctimus, set him before your unsuspecting father, and touched a single table with all-ruling Zeus, beside the verge of Arcadia; and over the heads of Sipylus Tantalus, as they tell, gave hospitality to your father, and carving up his own son, set him before the gods as food; and the broad shoulder of Pelops, the part that Deo feasted on, shaping it with ivory, with a false, cunning ornament, Cronion brought back to life the carved-up son, joining the limbs that had been divided among one another. But why, Dionysus, have I named to you Lycaon the child-slayer, host of the blessed ones, and Tantalus the air-walker, the cunning thief of the nectar-cups, proclaiming a man hostile to ambrosia and nectar? Zeus and Apollo Macello entertained in one feast . . . And when the Earth-shaker uprooted all the Phlegyae into the sea, breaking the whole island apart with his trident, he spared both women and did not overthrow them with his trident. And you too, bearing the likeness of your hospitable father, for a single dawn step within my halls; grant grace to both, to Botrys and his father.' So speaking he persuaded him; and Dionysus mounted his car, blessing his house, and Dionysus followed after; and bold Botrys lifted up the horse-whip, and travelling along the bull's deserted verge in winding course he drove his ancestral car, and led the way for Lyaeus to the Assyrian land; and on the neck-harness receiving the golden reins of the Mygdonian car, Maron, the charioteer of Bromius, insatiable of the lash, hurling the unsparing whirr of the beast-guiding whip, drove the storm-swift wagon of leopards; and the Satyrs, running before, struck up the dance, leaping about the mountain-running car of Lyaeus; and many a flower-loving Bacchant ran here and there, holding the trackless path with a passable foot, and the fold of the rock, narrow and ladder-like, she measured with swift step, and clashed with her hand and her well-rhythmed sandals, stealing away the toil of the deep-cliffed road, frenzy-driven; and the Pans high on the customary rock danced with well-greaved feet in the dust, striding across the headland of the untrodden crag. But when, as they journeyed, the royal court appeared, far-shining, gleaming with the many-coloured ornament of its stones, then fair-haired Botrys, leaving his father's car, went swift-sandalled into the house, a wayfarer leading the way, making ready all things at once, and with a loving spirit he set out the varied dinners of a rich table. While Botrys still arranged the feast for Lyaeus, the lord of varied gifts showed Bacchus the artful beauties of the stone-paved hall, from which a marble, richly-wrought radiance streamed, kin in hue to the sun and to the answering moon; the walls grew white with silver metals, and flashing the sparks of men upon the face was the lychnis, named after the lamp; and the house held too the wine-dark amethyst, adorned with reddening, fiery stone, resting upon the hyacinth; and the pale agate spat out a smoky gleam, and the serpentine glittered with the spotted forms of its scales; and the Assyrian emerald belched up a green radiance. And spread about the halls in a column-line, the golden surfaces of the wooden roof grew red with rich rafters; and of many-cleft metals the bright floor was variegated with well-pebbled art; and the gateway, broad in compass, in some well-carved wood, held the delicate likeness of newly-sawn ivory. Such things the old sceptred king showed to Bacchus his witness; and scarcely did he bend his step within the god-receiving court, holding Dionysus by the hand; and with slow-yielding foot the god strained his wandering eye in winding turns; and the god marvelled at the starry, gleaming ornament, beholding the gold-wrought court of the hospitable king. And the lord roused his handmaids and urged on the slaves to carve, for the Satyrs of bull-horned Dionysus, the herd of well-fed bulls and the flocks of sheep. And as Staphylus pressed on, swift-working was his command to the answering slaves; and many bustled, servants of the feast; and the bulls were carved and the sleek lines of the grazing sheep. And there was dancing; and fragrant breezes breathed through the lyre-filled house, and made the streets of the sweet-smelling city steam; and broad moistures of wine made the whole house drunk. And the cymbals clashed, and beside the well-sounding table the pipes of Pan hummed, the woven flutes roared, and the circle of the loud-thundering oxhide crashed through the hall with twofold beatings, and there was the rattle of castanets to accompany the supper. And in the midst heavy with wine, bearing the unsteady rush of a trembling foot, Maron went here and there, shaken by frenzy, turning his upright step back from the floor, propping his hands upon the shoulders of two Satyrs, appearing in the midst; and he was lifted by the throbbing of another's foot, with a tawny skin, and in the midst, sending out purple beams from his whole gleaming face, the answering likeness of the Moon's horns, in his left hand lifting a newly-flayed wineskin, swollen with the customary wine, slung round his neck-belt, and in his right a cup; and the Bacchants encircled the old man bounding with the shifting throb of his feet, as though about to fall, his head reeling, yet never falling. And drunken-tottering themselves, the handmaids and the slaves revelled in the dance, having tasted for the first time the unfamiliar sweet wine. And the wife of King Staphylus, mother of a noble son, the clustering Bacchic dew made drunk, Methe; and heavy-headed she asked the Bacchants to drink again, bounding about the wine-receiving bowl of Lyaeus; and she shook her head, shifting with a double throb, leaning her hair upon her shoulder with a swinging sway, restless, turning back here and there; and about the ground the Bacchant, taking with her hands the frenzied Methe, who was again and again about to fall on her slippery sandals, raised her up. And Staphylus too was drunk; and from the wine-loving cup his cheeks grew red with the wine of the cluster; and the freshly-bearded boy, together with Staphylus his father, bound his unplaited tresses with unfamiliar ivy, girdling them like a crown; and changing step upon step with rivalling feet, Botrys danced in spirals, turning his right foot in turn from the left; and Staphylus leapt with the dancing throb of his feet, leading his curved step circled in a running track, propping his arm upon the neck of Botrys the dancer; and he blessed the drink of choir-weaving Dionysus, restless, shaking here and there the loosened locks that streamed upon his shoulder; and Methe herself danced too, leaning her arm both on her son and on her husband, in the midst of Staphylus and Botrys; and she could feel the threefold delight of the interwoven dance. And Pithos, half-old, shaking his grey hair to the winds, stuffed up to the teeth with the sweet-drinking stream, heavy with wine danced, turning his drink-tottering step; and with the sweet drops belched up from his throat he whitened his tawny, foaming beard. And they drank the whole day; and as the cups were drained, all the western land was covered by the shadowy gloom with its blackening edge, and with a faint light the dapple stars lit up, and the two-coloured air grew dark, as Phaethon set beneath the shadowy cone, holding still a small remnant of Dawn behind him on his path; and silent Night clothed the darkness with her own skin, inscribing the sky with a starry tunic. And after the bowl of drunkenness, after the dinners of the table, Botrys together with his father and wine-pouring Dionysus, sorted in order upon the well-spread couches, took the gift of sleep and consorted with dreams. But when, with rosy glimmerings, the messenger of Dawn, faintly-shining, the dawn-light marked off the shadow-leaving mist, then fair-haired Bacchus sprang from his morning bed, shaken by hope of victory; for in the night he had cut down the Indian race with his ivied thyrsus, pursuing the deceiving image of a sleep-born battle. And hearing the noise of the Satyrs and the thud of javelins he shook off the tumult of the dreamlike warfare, scattering his warlike sleep; and he held in his heart the dread fear of a prophetic, threatening dream; for he had seen the imitation likeness of the battle of Lycurgus, a forerunner of things to come, that bold, within the thicket, hard-fighting from the crag, a lion with raging throat had startled Bacchus, still leaping and not touching iron, into fear, and driven him to the sea, hiding in the deeps, fleeing the beast's threat; and he had seen another terror, that a bold lion was pursuing the thyrsus-bearing women, his throat gaping, bloodying them with his claws; and as the women were torn, the sacraments rolled in the dust from the initiate's hand, and the cymbals lay on the ground; and a Bacchant, turning round, fastened bonds about the lion's jaws, binding a vine-rope tight upon his head, and wove about the lion's neck a strangling bond; and the female throng ran upon the beast, one upon another, and gashed his grim feet and hands with thorns; and scarcely, when he had been girdled with the curling cluster, did Artemis take him alive; and from the heavenly bosom a fiery lightning, darting down upon his face, made the beast spin back, a blind wayfarer. Such a dream Dionysus beheld; and from his bed rising upright he put on, stained with the slaughter of Indians, his bronze, starry tunic upon his breast, and girdled his hair with a crooked serpent-bond, and fastened his feet with reddening boots, and lifted the thyrsus in his hand, the flower-loving spear of Enyo; and he called for a Satyr attendant. And the divine, answering echo of the Bacchic mouths hearing, lord Botrys awoke, and put on his tunic; and Pithos, sleeping . . . But when Methe heard the voice, she scarcely lifted her head, and as her head grew heavy she slept again in sluggishness; and still at dawn the wife remained, gathering sweeter sleep upon her eyes, and late she left her bed with slow-yielding foot. And cluster-loving Staphylus accompanied Lyaeus as he hastened on his way, holding out guest-gifts, a golden jar with silver cups, from which of old he always drank the milk of milked goats; and he gave embroidered robes, those which beside the water of the Tigris Persian Arachne had fashioned with delicate thread. And the lord of many gifts uttered a word to Bromius: 'Fight for me, Dionysus, and do deeds worthy of your father; show that you bear the race of Cronides; for in fresh youth your father, still a boy, hurled the earth-born Titans from Olympus; hasten you too in battle to destroy the overweening earth-born race of Indians. I remember a tale, which to our father Assyrian Belus once told, the guardian of my soil, my father's father, and I will tell it to you myself: when watery Cronos lifted the jaw of his marriage-robbing sickle, when he rushed upon his mother's couch and cut the male corn-ear of his father's unwedded ploughings, the forerunner of the Titans, he fought with your father, and broad-bearded Cronos kindled War, hurling frosty spears against Cronion, casting the cold, wet missile; and sharp-pointed from the air were sent the hail-shaped arrows. And more than the Sun, fire-bearing Zeus armed himself, with a hotter spark loosing the petrified water. But when you lash the raw-devouring lions into the Indian fray, do not tremble at the elephants, since your Zeus who rules on high crushed high-headed Campe with the thunderbolt, whose whole crooked body was of many shapes; for of alien growth, twisted, self-coiling, a thousand crawlers from her viperous feet kindled aslant War, belching long-shadowing venom; and about her neck bloomed fifty varied heads of beasts; and some roared with lion-heads in the form of the unmarked Sphinx's grim face, others spurted up foam from boar-tusks, and with the gathered phalanx of many-whelped heads there was an exact likeness of Scylla's face; and at her middle body a double nymph appeared, shaggy with venom-shooting serpent-clusters; upon her breast, down to the topmost fold of her thighs, with sea-monster scales her bastard shape grew rough, high-stretched; and the nails of her widely-scattered palms were set aslant in the form of a hook-clawed sickle; and from her topmost neck, through her resistless back, a self-coiling scorpion, hanging high by the tail of her neck, crawled, whetted with a hail-sharp, keen sting. Such was the spotted-shaped, coiling Campe that was lifted up, and whirling earth and air and the depth of the brine she flew with the discordant throb of her dark wings, darting tempests and arming storms, the Tartarean nymph, black-winged; and from her eyelids a wandering flame belched up far-reaching sparks. But your heavenly father Zeus slew so great a beast, and conquered the Cronian, viperous War. Become you too the very likeness of your father, that I may call you the destroyer of the earth-born, second after Cronides, when you have reaped the hostile corn-ear of the earth-born Indians. This battle befits you, like to his; for of old your father overthrew the Indian, the champion-of-the-fray of Cronion, the son of the soil, adorned with towering limbs, whence the Indians won their race; your father fought against the Indian, and you fight against Deriades. Become for me the very likeness of Ares too, since he also overthrew so great a god-fighting son of Echidna, spitting the dread venom of ill-shaped Echidna, who got a double, yoked form, within the thicket of his mother shaking the coiling circle of his spine; him Cronos held, boundless, hurling the thunderbolt, Ares hissing with serpent-feet, when, lifting his hands over the circle of his breast, he made war on your Zeus, and in the airy path set the clouds in rows upon his high-crested head, and the birds that strayed onto his crooked hair he often seized together and feasted in his capacious throat; this one, in his prowess, your brother Ares slew. I do not call you lesser than Ares; for you might vie with all the children of Zeus, since with your murderous thyrsus you show as much prowess as Ares fights with the spear, and you accomplish, like Phoebus, your contests; and a beast-slaying son of Zeus, another, I entertained in my hall; for yesterday well-winged Perseus came to my house, leaving the bright Cydnus, neighbour of Corycus, like you, friend, and he said that, named after his swift foot, he had marked out a newly-built city among the Cilician men; but he was lifting the topmost heads of the unbeheld Gorgon Medusa, while you lift the wine-dark fruit, the messenger of good cheer, the forgetter of mortal grief; Perseus slew the sea-monster beside the Erythraean sea, and you overthrew the race of the Erythraean Indians. Slay Deriades, as you slew the Indian Orontes, worse than the sea-monster; for grieving Perseus saved Andromeda, but you, with greater victory, save the starry maiden bitterly oppressed under the bidding of unjust Indians, that I may kindle one revel for Gorgon-slaying Perseus and Indian-slaying Dionysus.' So speaking he returned again to his hall, the delicate lord, the host of Bromius; and hearing the king speak, thyrsus-frenzied Dionysus delighted in the goading speech, and raged for battle, hearing of his father's war with charmed ears; and he reproached Cronides, and wished for a greater victory yet to come, a third, after the twofold war with the Indians, holding rivalry with Cronides. And calling Pherespondus, descendant of the heavenly herald, like to the breezes, the wise son of Iphthime, he embraced him with a friendly speech: 'O child of Hermes, my beloved herald, go and announce this to lordly Deriades: "Lord, either, apart from battle, receive the gifts of Lyaeus, or make war on Bromius, and you will be equal to Orontes."' He spoke; and swift-sandalled, going from land to land, the herald accomplished his path to the eastern verge, holding his father's staff. And on his golden car lifting the cluster, the heart-cheering fruit of the vintage, walking from city to city on many-bending feet, he filled all the Assyrian land with his vintage, holding out to the countrymen the grape-decked flower of the vineyard. While beside the wing of the eastern, fiery Eurus he measured the Syrian soil with his wandering wine-dark car, meanwhile doom fell upon Staphylus too; and in the hall the slaves rent the tunic upon their breasts, and the handmaids raised the wail; and the breasts grew red, struck by their palms; and of the many-wailing women the circles of their faces were gashed by mournful nails. And late, returning again upon his cluster-rich car, Dionysus came back and entered the court of Botrys, holding memory of the loving table of Staphylus; and as he beheld Pithos with downcast face, he prophesied the doom of his Staphylus by wise silence, of his own accord; and calling Methe he questioned her with a word: 'Tell me, woman, what has befallen you, that you have changed your form? I see you squalid, having left you gleaming; who has quenched your unspeakable beauty? No longer do you send the inborn purple fire from your wine-dark cheeks. And you, old man, do not hide it, from where do you pour these tears? Who cut, broad-bearded one, your flowing beard? Who shamed your grey hair? Who rent your tunic? And you, offshoot of the wine-loving mother Methe who bore you, child of my Staphylus, from where have you got a hairless head? What envy has spoiled your curling hair? Your tresses no longer streaming upon your white shoulders, unplaited, send forth the breath of Tyrian perfume, no longer, when frenzied, from your head do your cheeks shoot a rosy gleam. How do you wear these robes soiled with poured dust? Where have the royal robes of the Tyrian sea gone for me? No longer do I recognize you, your face withering. Where has sceptred Staphylus gone up, that I may know? Tell me, who has snatched your father away in a single hour? I know your grief, even if you long to hide it; I have no need of your voice; for of their own accord your eyes announce your silent mourning; I know your grief, even if you long to hide it; your tears prophesy your pains, and your squalid tunics cry aloud the doom of my Staphylus. And envy has snatched away my hope; for I thought that after the Indian war, together with King Staphylus, I would lift up with my hands the bridal-chamber's evening fire, the wedding of the close-fighting cluster being accomplished.'