Book 20

20. The twentieth pursues the ox-cleaver of murderous Lycurgus, when Dionysus is driven into the fish-filled deep.

The contest was dissolved; and the Satyrs, with thyrsus-bearing Dionysus, lodged in the wealthy halls of the cluster. As they feasted, the wine-flushed Seasons came reveling among them; and there was the after-supper beat of drums, and the shrill pipe sounded broad and clear, and drawing from the cups the cup-bearers toiled beside the unresting feast; and the guests, fawning, kept calling for the attendants to ladle out more wine; and the Bacchant leaped up, whirling cymbals, and of the leap-loving girl the unbound, unveiled locks were shaken by the breezes. And the vine-god, summoning the wife of Staphylus, wiped away her squalor and adorned her with a wine-dark robe; and cleansing the broad-bearded Wine-jar, foul all over, he wrapped him again in a white tunic, casting away the mourning garments stained with strewn ash; and no longer wetting his cheeks with self-poured tears did Botrys groan, but, obedient to Dionysus, he opened the fragrant chests; and as they were opened a sparkle blazed from the many-eyed robes; thence taking the bright royal garments of his father Staphylus he put on the cloaks stained with purple murex, and feasted with Lyaeus, who touched the festal cheer. As they delighted, the star Hesperus rose up, holding back the light of dance-delighting dawn. And the ranks of the guests, by turns within the court, took the gift of sleep upon their deep-strewn beds. And the Wine-jar beside Maron went up into one bed, gushing forth the fragrant draught of the nectarous vat, and they made each other drunk, sending forth an equal breath the whole night through. And Eupetale, the nurse of Lyaeus, kindling a torch, for both Botrys and Dionysus made ready a double sea-purple bed for the two; and in a neighbouring chamber, apart from the Satyrs, away from Lyaeus, the handmaids spread a golden couch for the queen. And to Bacchus came a dream, Strife the nurse of war, seated upon a mimic car of lions, holding the form of Rhea, the rattle-loving goddess; and Fear drove the yoke of the dream-chariot's car, a counterfeit Attis shaped in answering limbs, and, holding a shrill voice, soft-skinned in male form, he counterfeited the charioteer of Cybele with a female voice. And standing beside the head of slumbering Bacchus roving Strife rebuked him, and spoke with a war-rousing voice: "You sleep, god-born Dionysus; but to battle Deriades summons you, and here you raise a revel; and your stepmother, beholding your fugitive war, Hera mocks you, while you drag your army into a dance. I am ashamed to appear before Cronion, I shrink from Hera, I shrink from the immortals, that you have wrought nothing worthy of Rhea; the destroyer of the Titans, the champion of his father, Ares with his proud neck throughout heaven I flee, who lifts a shield drenched in the wonted gore; and your sister more than you—the self-perfected child of a noble father's fertile head, who had no mother, Pallas of the gleaming helm I dread, since she too, female Athena, blames male Bacchus as a sluggard; the thyrsus yielded to the aegis, since once proud Pallas, lifting the aegis, crowned the gates of Olympus, scattering the stormy war of the Titans, and honoured the wise birth-pang of her father's head; and you shame the fertile fold of Zeus's thigh. Behold, how Hermes and Apollo laugh, the one still lifting the twin shaft stained with the gore of the high-crested sons of Iphimedeia, the other holding the destroying rod over the slain, many-eyed herdsman; but I flee my own heaven, shunning the reproach of war-shunning Dionysus. And beholding the thyrsoi of Lyaeus at rest, the maiden archer blames the leap-loving Dionysus, the dancer who loves the crags, she the steerer of a car of worthless deer, the slayer of swift hares; the mountain-roaming one blames, near mountain Rhea, the driver of leopards and the charioteer of lions. The house of my son Zeus I disown; for on Olympus I shrink before Leto, who still exults and boasts, who stretched her bow against me, the defender of her own bed, the slayer of earth-born Tityos, smitten with desire. And by twin pains I am scourged, since I behold grieving Semele and the star of noble Maia. You are not like the children of Zeus: you did not slay with the shaft threatening Otus and high-footed Ephialtes, you did not slay Tityos with your winged arrow, not bold Orion sick with love, not the champion of Hera, Argus, the ox-watching son of grief-swelling earth, the watcher of Zeus's ox-horned wedding; but beside Staphylus and Botrys you weave a revel, inglorious, ironless, singing a wine-feast hymn; you shame the earthly race of the Satyrs, since they too, touching the bloodless Bacchic dance, have entrusted all their hope of war to cups. There is feasting too after the fray, there is dancing after the Indian war within the halls of Staphylus; the harps will dry up again after the warlike victory; without toils one cannot dwell in the inaccessible heaven; no easy road belongs to the blessed; out of valour the heaven-rushing path of Olympus draws one to the pole. Endure you too your manifold toils; for the heavenly court of Zeus Hera, in her wrath, prophesies for you." So speaking she flew away. And the god leaped up from his bed, still holding the dread crash of the threatening dream . . . And bold Botrys sprang up, and put on his tunic that hurled rays of the Sidonian sea, and bound his fitted feet with a golden sandal; and guarding the cleft collarbone upon his tireless shoulders he clasped the bright cloak of the sea-mantled kings, casting upon his loins his father's lordly girdle, holding the sceptre. And the Satyrs yoked the blood-red wagon of leopards for the hastening Dionysus; and the Silenoi shouted; and the thyrsus-bearing Bacchants bellowed; and the gathered armies, marshalled for the Indian war, rushed in ranks; and the pipe of Enyo roared; and the leaders ordered the chosen battalions. And one, leaping upon a back with a rider's bound, into the course of the rushing, raging bear lashed its mane as it sped; another, pricking the shaggy-haired belly, drove a wild wandering bull with his crook, joining his slackened feet about both its flanks; and another mounted the spine of the shaggy-breasted lions, gripping the neck-locks for a bridle. And leaving his father's hall together with his inheritance, ruddy Botrys, stretching a four-yoked car, drove in company with cluster-loving Dionysus, holding his servants behind; and with her mother Methe the bride, in a white tunic, mounted the silver-wheeled wagon, and Phasyleia, the steerer of the yoke-straps, upon the mules' necks shook the golden whip; and the broad-headed Wine-jar, stretching the rearmost car, followed in service to both Botrys and Dionysus. Nor was he without his reward; taking him into the land of the Lydians the lord Bacchus set him beside the vat pregnant with wine, receiving the poured weight of the richly-dropping fruit in its wine-holding vessels; whence, keeping this name, with its purple hollow the jar beside the neighbouring vat stands, still receiving the Euian gifts of Bacchus, the token of the former Wine-jar; and had it gained a mortal voice, such a word it would have belched, hearing the revel of the Satyrs: "I am the Wine-jar, named after the former, and beside the vat I receive the sweet stream of the vines; and of the Assyrian Staphylus I was the servant, and of Botrys, and both I nursed as infants, an old foster-father; and still both, as though alive again, I lift up in my flanks." And so the lord Bacchus was destined to accomplish these things in after time, late. And passing through Tyre and journeying through Byblos, and the well-wedded water of the fragrant river Adonis, and the crag of Lebanon and the haunts of the Cyprus-born, he came to Arabia, and beneath the fragrant trees he marvelled at the long-leaved ridge of the Nysaean thicket and the steep-built city, nurse of javelin-bearing men. There a certain man, blood of Ares, a murderer dwelt, holding in his shuddering ways the likeness of his father, lawless, dragging blameless strangers to their death, mad with frenzy—Lycurgus; and of those slain with the sword he crowned his gate with human heads, like Oenomaus and of his time, for whom once the wretched maiden was kept in her father's unwedded halls, a widow, growing old, still no ship for the marriage-Loves, until the son of Tantalus, furrowing the horse-driving swell, bearing the unwetted four-yoked car of the Earth-shaker, held the bridal course, when in a wheeling circle crafty-minded Myrtilus accomplished a deceitful victory, having wrought a treacherous axle with mimic wax, out of pity and love for wailing Hippodameia; and the course was profitless; and beneath the Sun's car the wax-set form was warmed by the flaming brand, and the loosened, short-lived axle hurled away its wheel. Such was Lycurgus, of like manner; and burden-bearing wandering wayfaring men at the crossroads often he bound and dragged to his house, and to his father, the War-god, he sacrificed them, carving them up; and of those cut up by the knife taking the extremities he covered the guest-killing gates. And as when, after the strife of foes, on a man late returning, a javelin-bearer, the offerings of fresh victory, shields or helmets, are hung up upon the hall, so too beside the gateway of murderous Lycurgus the extremities of feet and the hands of the dead were hung aloft. And there was slaughter; and beside the neighbouring altar of Zeus the host-god groaning strangers were carved up by the knife, like oxen and sheep, and the altars were sprinkled with the slain, and the dappled dust grew red with gore about the doors of the house; and the citizens, compelled, hastened to offer sacrifice to Lycurgus instead of Zeus. Nor did you escape, Dionysus, the malice of guile-weaving Hera; but again, wroth with your god-born race, she sent Iris as a messenger, an ill messenger, to charm you, mixing false persuasion with thievish-minded guile; and she gave her the god-fighting ox-cleaver, to carry to the lord of Arabia, to Lycurgus son of Dryas. Nor did the goddess delay; with shifting countenance she counterfeited the false form of answering Ares; and brandishing the fair-helmed crest of her head, casting off her embroidered saffron tunics, she covered herself with a crafty breastplate, the midwife of battle, a bloody breastplate, and a war-rousing male threat the crafty one, sending it from her grim face, mimicked the tongue of the War-god with a ready voice: "Child, seed of unconquered Ares, do you yourself too tremble at the soft-skinned female threat of the Bassarids? Not from Thermodon are these Amazons either, not from the Caucasus are these warlike women; they bear no swift bows and brandish no arrows; they have no bold warhorse; nor upon their shoulders do they lift the half-completed barbarian oxhide. I am ashamed to call you to the fray, that women threaten battle to unconquered Lycurgus. Do you sit idle, Lycurgus, while Dionysus arms? This was a mortal man untimely-born, not from a heavenly stock did he spring; that he was Zeus's, Greek report fashioned the tale; but I cannot believe of Cronion's childbearing, that a mortal in his male thigh my father, high-ruling Zeus, bore as a female son; I do not believe the lying tales, that a mortal man held the offspring of my Zeus, whence sprang Athena; my Zeus has not learned to bring forth a feeble child; take Ares your sire as witness: you saw Athena, the female child of Zeus, mightier than Dionysus. My child, you wield your own strength, and need not your father the War-god, even if he rules in wars; yet still, if you wish, I will arm, nor will I leave you alone in the battles; and a goddess for you, if there be need, the sister-wife of Zeus, Hera, will follow as your fellow-soldier into the fray, shielding her grandson Lycurgus . . . . . . And I will set within your god-receiving temple the thyrsoi of the Bassarids, their bastard spears; and the ox-horned Centaurs' unshaken long horns I will cleave and make the horn-drawn bows of the bow-bearing Arabs, as is fitting; and cutting off the outstretched long-shadowing tail I will make of the Silenoi a shaggy horse-driving whip. These things I bring to you after the fray; but of unwarlike Bacchus the yellow sandals and the womanish tunics of purple, and the female circling girdle on the loins we will keep for your sister, his wife, the foam-born, fitting female gifts; and of woman-mad Lyaeus the whole rank of handmaids I will join to my own bondwomen for a dowerless bed of forced marriage, as is the law for the spear-won; and the worthless shoots of the vines, the kindly gifts of Lyaeus, the Arabian flame shall receive with a hotter spark. And let the sturdy handmaid of dance-weaving Dionysus, the Bassarid, hold another and unwonted craft, dwelling in houses instead of the mountains, and the dappled fawnskin abandoning, let her hide her body in a tunic, grinding the grain with the wheel-shaped stone of the mill; and casting off the garlands, and what they call the fruit, let her be taught common cares by a double rule, a forced bondwoman both to Pallas and to Cythereia, with daytime baskets and nighttime weddings, lifting the shuttle and no longer the cymbals of Rhea. And let the aged Silenoi beside the feast of my table sing the Euian song, and instead of their wonted Lyaeus strike up a revel both for Ares and for Lycurgus." So she spoke, and the gold-winged goddess Iris smiled, having oared the false course of a falcon. And Lycurgus, beholding her, prophesied his own victory, knowing the swift bird, that brandishing its blood-red wings it has learned to drag the feeble doves into terror; for he saw, he saw a like dream: how beside a thicket a maned lion stood armed with raging throat and pursued the horned brood of dappled deer. With such a dream in mind he armed himself against the raving Bacchants, likening the Bassarids to war-untried fawns, and took the greater courage, and the rushing goddess, at Hera's nods, came as a forerunner to Lyaeus, binding the soles of her feet with a winged sandal, lightly bearing the rod, and like Hermes, messenger of Zeus, to bronze-clad Bacchus she cried out a guile-weaving voice: "Brother, child of all-wise Zeus, away from battle carry your rites to host-loving Lycurgus. Leave the fray, do not slay friends, do not flee calm, be gracious with gentle things: who will overcome a kindly man? Do not raise war against your suppliants; do not cover your body with a starry breastplate; do not bind your head with a crest-lifting helmet; do not wreathe your hair with a serpent cluster; but leaving your blood-stained thyrsoi, and lifting a horn of wine brimful of the sweet drink and your wonted rod, hold out the Euian gifts to cluster-loving Lycurgus; now adorn your body with your bloodless robe, now let us weave the song of the unarmoured dance, and let your army wait at rest beside the shady wood, lest it stir up battle against the peaceful king; but, casting a dear garland on your locks, go rejoicing to the unbarred house of the most ready Lycurgus, go reveling like a bridegroom; and your Indian-slaying thyrsoi keep for the disobedient Deriades. The lord Lycurgus does not swell a feeble heart; for he is the heaven-sent blood of Ares, and in battles, bearing the kindred prowess of his father the War-god, he would not cower before the war of your Cronion." So she spoke and persuaded him, and on a high-soaring sandal she came within the heaven. By the guile of the goddess Dionysus shook off his war-rousing thyrsoi and unbound the crested helmet from his locks and laid aside the star-backed shield; and with a bare hand he lifted the vessel crammed with purple dew, a sharp horn and the grief-banishing cluster; and his long unbound hair he wreathed with vine-clinging ivy. And leaving the well-armed army and the battle-rousing women near Carmel, and the cars of lions, soft-tuniced, ironless, he went reveling as a wayfarer on foot; and the pipe shrilled an after-supper song of mirth, and the paired auloi roared a friendly piping, and whirling in her hands the dear cymbals of Lyaeus the Bassarid leaped beside the gateway of Lycurgus. And when the bold lord heard the shout of the dance, the song of Berecyntian echo from the singing pipe, and the clang of the syrinx, and the very oxhide being beaten, he raged, glaring at the double-sounding rounds of the drum; and watching the vine-god beside his porch, laughing a sardonic laugh, he cried out a mocking voice, pouring a truceless threat upon the driver of the Bassarids: "Do you see these offerings of my halls? You too, friend, adorn my house, either with your thyrsoi or with your feet or your hands or your bloody head. If you command, horned Bacchus, your horned Satyrs, I will subdue you like oxen with my ox-cleaver. This is your guest-gift from me, that someone may say, either a god or one of mortals, that the gateway of Lycurgus was garlanded with the half-cut limbs of Dionysus. We do not rule among the Boeotians, this is not Thebes, this is not the house of Semele, where women bear bastard children by the lightning and labour with the thunderbolt. You shake the wine-dark thyrsus, I brandish the ox-cleaver, and cleaving you through the middle of your ox-like brow I will tear apart your arching horn." So speaking he pursued the nurses of Dionysus, smiting them with the ox-cleaver; and of the leap-loving women one shook from her hand the cymbals of Rhea, another laid aside the drums from her rattle-loving hands, another hurled away the clustering fruit, another slipped down along with the nectarous cups; and many cast away, self-rolling in the dust, the sweet-singing syrinx and the breathing pipe of Athena. And as when, after winter, beside a calm thicket seeing the mortal-delighting season of cloudless Phaethon, a shepherd raised a revel, and the Nymphs danced together; and suddenly from the crag poured a circling water, with the waves of a mountain-poured river towered high; but he, piping, shook the harp from his hands, fearing the bold flood of the ravine-river, lest with its swollen stream it should bury his sheep; so he too, scattering the shout of the joy-loving dance, drove the unfilleted Bacchants to a high-headed mountain; and routing, undancing, the wandering female war, bearing the whetted ox-cleaver, the heirloom of Hera, bronze-clad Lycurgus fought against unarmed Bacchus; and unconquerable Hera crashed a thunderous din, the heavy-sounding stepmother bearing down upon Lyaeus, and terrified him; and as the heavy-jealous goddess armed herself on high, the knees of Bacchus shook; for he thought that Cronion was shielding Lycurgus, hearing the thunderous likeness of the heavenly crash; and with frightened feet, fleeing, the unattainable wayfarer plunged beneath the grey wave of the Erythraean sea. And Thetis of the deep embraced him with a friendly arm, and as he sank into the loud-roaring hall the Arabian Nereus greeted him with host-loving hands; and consoling him he soothed him with a friendly word: "Tell me, Dionysus, why are your eyes downcast? Not the army of the earth-born Arabs, not the mortal man who pursued you has conquered you, nor have you fled a mortal spear; but Hera, sister and wife of Zeus son of Cronos, armed herself from heaven, fighting at the side of Lycurgus, Hera and steadfast Ares and the bronze heaven, fourth was Lycurgus, that mighty one; and high-ruling your father, often the champion of heaven, has yielded to Hera. The greater glory shall be yours, when one of the blessed says that the wife of great Zeus and his sister Hera armed her hands against unarmoured Dionysus." Such things consoling Nereus spoke to Bromios. And as Dionysus was hidden by the bright surges Lycurgus, vexed, broke out a cry against the waters: "Would that my father had taught me, after the fray, the works of the sea, that I might compete even in the contest of fishers and catch Dionysus, and from the underwater bays drag my Lydian servant a second time to the land. But, since I have not learned the works of the sea-faring fishermen and know not the guile-weaving trickery of the deep-sea chase, hold the deep-flowing house of Leucothea, until from the sea I remove both you and him whom they call Melicertes, who bears kindred blood; and there is no need of iron, no need of the unsparing earthly ox-cleaver, but I crave fishers, that plunging into the deep of the Erythraean brine they may snatch the hidden Dionysus from the sea; fishers, searchers of Nereus's haunts, spread not your nets for the fishes of the sea, but with your lines drag up Dionysus; and let Leucothea return to the land, hunted together with Lyaeus, and let bold Palaemon come to my house to serve Lycurgus with unwetted limbs, that, leaving the Ephyrean course of the sea-bred horses, he may yoke my car beside an earthly manger, himself together with Bacchus, both attendants; let there be one house, one house for both, for Palaemon and for Dionysus." So speaking he raged, and threatened the sea and grey Nereus, and wished to lash the deep. But Zeus the father cried out against irresistible Lycurgus: "You rave, Lycurgus, contending in vain with the winds; withdraw on your own feet, while your eyes still see. You have heard how once beside a mountain-poured spring Teiresias gazed naked upon Athena alone, he lifted no rushing spear and warred not with the goddess; yet only he gazed, and lost the light of his sight." Such a word from on high through the air spoke high-ruling Zeus, beholding the overweening impiety of Lycurgus.