Metamorphoses XIII.422-559
The ghost of Achilles demands human sacrifice; Hecuba suffers more great losses, gives a speech, and plots revenge.
ultima conscendit classem—miserabile visu!—
in mediis Hecabe natorum inventa sepulcris:
prensantem tumulos atque ossibus oscula dantem
Dulichiae traxere manus, tamen unius hausit 425
inque sinu cineres secum tulit Hectoris haustos;
Hectoris in tumulo canum de vertice crinem,
inferias inopes, crinem lacrimasque reliquit,
Est, ubi Troia fuit, Phrygiae contraria tellus
Bistoniis habitata viris: Polymestoris illic 430
regia dives erat, cui te commisit alendum
clam, Polydore, pater Phrygiisque removit ab armis,
consilium sapiens, sceleris nisi praemia magnas
adiecisset opes, animi inritamen avari.
ut cecidit fortuna Phrygum, capit inpius ensem 435
rex Thracum iuguloque sui demisit alumni
et, tamquam tolli cum corpore crimina possent,
exanimem scopulo subiectas misit in undas.
Litore Threicio classem religarat Atrides,
dum mare pacatum, dum ventus amicior esset: 440
hic subito, quantus, cum viveret, esse solebat,
exit humo late rupta similisque minanti
temporis illius vultum referebat Achilles,
quo ferus iniustum petiit Agamemnona ferro
‘inmemores’ que ‘mei disceditis,’ inquit ‘Achivi, 445
obrutaque est mecum virtutis gratia nostrae!
ne facite! utque meum non sit sine honore sepulcrum,
placet Achilleos mactata Polyxena manes!’
dixit, et inmiti sociis parentibus umbrae,
rapta sinu matris, quam iam prope sola fovebat, 450
fortis et infelix et plus quam femina virgo
ducitur ad tumulum diroque fit hostia busto.
quae memor ipsa sui postquam crudelibus aris
admota est sensitque sibi fera sacra parari,
utque Neoptolemum stantem ferrumque tenentem; 455
inque suo vidit figentem lumina vultu,
‘utere iamdudum generoso sanguine’ dixit
‘nulla mora est; at tu iugulo vel pectore telum
conde meo’ iugulumque simul pectusque retexit.
‘scilicet haud ulli servire Polyxena vellem. 460
haud per tale sacrum numen placabitis ullum!
mors tantum vellem matrem mea fallere posset:
mater obest minuitque necis mihi gaudia, quamvis
non mea mors illi, verum sua vita tremenda est.
vos modo, ne Stygios adeam non libera manes, 465
ite procul, si iusta peto, tactuque viriles
virgineo removete manus! acceptior illi,
quisquis is est, quem caede mea placare paratis,
liber erit sanguis. siquos tamen ultima nostri
verba movent oris (Priami vos filia regis, 470
non captiva rogat), genetrici corpus inemptum
reddite, neve auro redimat ius triste sepulcri,
sed lacrimis! tum, cum poterat, redimebat et auro.’
dixerat, at populus lacrimas, quas illa tenebat,
non tenet; ipse etiam flens invitusque sacerdos 475
praebita coniecto rupit praecordia ferro.
illa super terram defecto poplite labens
pertulit intrepidos ad fata novissima vultus;
tunc quoque cura fuit partes velare tegendas,
cum caderet, castique decus servare pudoris. 480
Troades excipiunt deploratosque recensent
Priamidas et quot dederit domus una cruores,
teque gemunt, virgo, teque, o modo regia coniunx,
regia dicta parens, Asiae florentis imago,
nunc etiam praedae mala sors; quam victor Ulixes 485
esse suam nollet, nisi quod tamen Hectora partu
edideras: dominum matri vix repperit Hector!
quae corpus conplexa animae tam fortis inane,
quas totiens patriae dederat natisque viroque,
huic quoque dat lacrimas; lacrimas in vulnera fundit 490
osculaque ore tegit consuetaque pectora plangit
canitiemque suam concretam sanguine vellens
plura quidem, sed et haec laniato pectore, dixit:
‘nata, tuae—quid enim superest?—dolor ultime matris,
nata, iaces, videoque tuum, mea vulnera, vulnus: 495
en, ne perdiderim quemquam sine caede meorum,
tu quoque vulnus habes; at te, quia femina, rebar
a ferro tutam: cecidisti et femina ferro,
totque tuos idem fratres, te perdidit idem,
exitium Troiae nostrique orbator, Achilles; 500
at postquam cecidit Paridis Phoebique sagittis,
nunc certe, dixi, non est metuendus Achilles:
nunc quoque mi metuendus erat; cinis ipse sepulti
in genus hoc saevit, tumulo quoque sensimus hostem:
Aeacidae fecunda fui! iacet Ilion ingens, 505
eventuque gravi finita est publica clades,
sed finita tamen; soli mihi Pergama restant.
in cursuque meus dolor est: modo maxima rerum,
tot generis natisque potens nuribusque viroque
nunc trahor exul, inops, tumulis avulsa meorum, 510
Penelopae munus, quae me data pensa trahentem
matribus ostendens Ithacis “haec Hectoris illa est
clara parens, haec est” dicet “Priameia coniunx,”
postque tot amissos tu nunc, quae sola levabas
maternos luctus, hostilia busta piasti! 515
inferias hosti peperi! quo ferrea resto?
quidve moror? quo me servas, annosa senectus?
quo, di crudeles, nisi uti nova funera cernam,
vivacem differtis anum? quis posse putaret
felicem Priamum post diruta Pergama dici? 520
felix morte sua est! nec te, mea nata, peremptam
adspicit et vitam pariter regnumque reliquit.
at, puto, funeribus dotabere, regia virgo,
condeturque tuum monumentis corpus avitis!
non haec est fortuna domus: tibi munera matris 525
contingent fletus peregrinaeque haustus harenae!
omnia perdidimus: superest, cur vivere tempus
in breve sustineam, proles gratissima matri,
nunc solus, quondam minimus de stirpe virili,
has datus Ismario regi Polydorus in oras. 530
quid moror interea crudelia vulnera lymphis
abluere et sparsos inmiti sanguine vultus?’
Dixit et ad litus passu processit anili,
albentes lacerata comas. ‘date, Troades, urnam!’
dixerat infelix, liquidas hauriret ut undas: 535
adspicit eiectum Polydori in litore corpus
factaque Threiciis ingentia vulnera telis;
Troades exclamant, obmutuit illa dolore,
et pariter vocem lacrimasque introrsus obortas
devorat ipse dolor, duroque simillima saxo 540
torpet et adversa figit modo lumina terra,
interdum torvos sustollit ad aethera vultus,
nunc positi spectat vultum, nunc vulnera nati,
vulnera praecipue, seque armat et instruit ira.
qua simul exarsit, tamquam regina maneret, 545
ulcisci statuit poenaeque in imagine tota est,
utque furit catulo lactente orbata leaena
signaque nacta pedum sequitur, quem non videt, hostem,
sic Hecabe, postquam cum luctu miscuit iram,
non oblita animorum, annorum oblita suorum, 550
vadit ad artificem dirae, Polymestora, caedis
conloquiumque petit; nam se monstrare relictum
velle latens illi, quod nato redderet, aurum.
credidit Odrysius praedaeque adsuetus amore
in secreta venit: tum blando callidus ore 555
‘tolle moras, Hecabe,’ dixit ‘da munera nato!
omne fore illius, quod das, quod et ante dedisti,
per superos iuro.’ spectat truculenta loquentem
falsaque iurantem tumidaque exaestuat ira
The last to go on board, a pitiable sight, was Hecuba, discovered midst the sepulchres of her sons. There, as she clung to their tombs, striving to give her farewell kisses to their bones, the hands of the Dulichian dragged her away. Yet she rescued Hector’s ashes only, and bore the rescued dust with her in her bosom. And on Hector’s tomb she left locks of her hoary hair, a meagre offering, her hair and tears.
Opposite to Phrygia where Troy stood, there lies a land where dwelt the Bistones. There was the luxurious court of Polymestor, to whom your father, Polydorus, secretly commended you for care, sending you far from Phrygia’s strife; a prudent plan, if he had not sent with you a great store of treasure, the prize of crime, a temptation to a greedy soul. When the Phrygian fortunes waned, the impious Thracian king took his sword and thrust it into his young charge’s throat; and just as if a murder could be disposed of-with the victim’s body, he threw the corpse from a cliff into the waves below.
On this Thracian coast Atrides had moored his fleet until the sea should quiet down and the winds be more favourable. Here on a sudden, up from the wide-gaping earth, Achilles sprang, large as he was in life. He had a threatening manner and a look as on the day he fiercely challenged sword in hand the unjust Agamemnon. “And are you, then, departing, ye Greeks,” he cried, “forgetful of me? And have your thanks for my services been buried with me? It shall not be! And, that my tomb may not lack its fitting honour, let Polyxena be sacrificed and so appease Achilles’ shade.” He spoke, and the allied Greeks obeyed the pitiless ghost. Torn from her mother’s arms, of whom she was well-nigh the only comfort left, the brave, ill-fated maid, with more than woman’s courage, was led to the fatal mound and there was sacrificed upon the cruel tomb. Self-possessed she was, even when she had been placed before the fatal altar and knew the grim rites were preparing for her; and when she saw Neoptolemus standing, sword in hand, with his eyes fixed upon her, she exclaimed: “Spill at last my noble blood, for I am ready, and plunge your sword deep in my throat and breast!” (and she bared her throat and breast). Polyxena, be sure, has no desire to live in slavery! Not by such a rite as this will you appease any god! Only I would that my mother may know nothing of my death. My mother prevents and destroys my joy of death. And yet she should not deprecate my death, but rather her own life. Only do you, that I may go free to the Stygian spirits, stand back, if my request is just, and let no rude hand of man touch my virgin body. More acceptable to him, whoever he is, whom by my sacrifice you are seeking to appease, will my free blood be. But if my last words move any of you (’tis the daughter of King Priam and not a captive maid who asks it), restore my body to my mother without ransom; and let her pay in tears and not in gold for the sad privilege of sepulture. She did pay in gold also when she could.” She spoke, and the throng could not restrain their tears, though she restrained her own. Then did the priest, himself also weeping and remorseful, with deep-driven weapon pierce her proffered breast. She, sinking down to earth with fainting knees, kept her look of dauntless courage to the end. And even then, as she was falling, she took care to cover her body and to guard the honour of her modesty.
The Trojan women take up her body and count one by one the lamented Priamidae, and how many victims this single house has given. You, royal maid, they weep, and you, who but yesterday were called queen-consort and queen-mother, you, once the embodiment of proud Asia, but now suffering hard lot even for a captive, one whom victorious Ulysses would not desire, save that you had given birth to Hector. A lord for his mother Hector scarcely found! She, embracing the lifeless body of that brave spirit, gives to it also the tears which she has shed so often for country, sons and husband. She pours her tears into her daughter’s wound, covers her lips with kisses, and beats the breasts that have endured so many blows. Then plucking out her white hair caked in blood and tearing her breast, this and much more she cried: “O child, your mother’s last cause for grief—for what else is left me—my child, low you lie, and I see your wound, my wound. Behold, that I might lose none of my children without violence, you also have your wound. But you, because you were a woman, I thought safe from the sword; even though a woman, you have fallen by the sword; and that same Achilles, who has bereft Troy and me, who has destroyed so many of your brothers, has destroyed you also. But when he fell by Paris’ and by Phoebus arrows, ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘now is Achilles to be feared no more.’ But even now I was still to fear him. His very ashes, though he is dead and buried, are savage against our race; even in the tomb we have felt him for our enemy; for Achilles have I been fruitful! Great Troy lies low, and by a woeful issue the public calamity was ended; yet it was ended; for me alone Pergama still survives; my woes still run their course. But late on the pinnacle of fame, strong in my many sons, my daughters, and my husband, now, exiled, penniless, torn from the tombs of my loved ones, I am dragged away as prize for Penelope. And as I sit spinning my allotted task of wool, she will point me out to the dames of Ithaca and say: ‘This woman is Hector’s noble mother, this is Priam’s queen.’ And now after so many have been lost, you, who alone were left to console your mother’s grief, you have been sacrificed upon our foeman’s tomb. Yes, I have but borne a victim for my enemy. And to what end do I, unfeeling wretch, live on? Why do I linger? To what end, O wrinkled age, do you keep me here? To what end, ye cruel gods, save that I still may see fresh funerals, do you prolong an old woman’s life? Who would suppose that Priam could be happy when Pergama was o’erthrown? Happy is he in death. He does not see you, my daughter, lying murdered here; he left his life and kingdom, both at once. But I suppose, O royal maiden, you shall be dowered with funeral rites and your body buried in your ancestral tomb! Such is no longer the fortune of our house. Your funeral gifts shall be your mother’s tears; your burial, the sand of an alien shore! We have lost all; but still there’s something left, some reason why for a brief span I may endure to live: his mother’s dearest, now her only child, once youngest of my sons, my Polydorus, sent to these shores to the Thracian king. But why do I delay, meanwhile, to wash my daughter’s cruel wounds with water, her face bespattered with her blood?”
She spoke and with tottering steps of age went to the shore, tearing her grey hair as she went. “Give me an urn, ye Trojan women,” the wretched creature said, intending to dip up some water from the sea. And there she saw the body of Polydorus, cast up upon the shore, covered with gaping wounds made by Thracian spears. The Trojan women shrieked at the sight; but she was dumb with grief; her very grief engulfed her powers of speech, her rising tears. Like a hard rock, immovable she stood, now held her gaze fixed upon the ground, and at times lifted her awful face to the heavens; now she gazed upon the features of her son as he lay there in death, now on his wounds, but mostly on his wounds, arming herself with ever-mounting rage. When now her rage blazed out, as if she still were queen, she fixed on vengeance and was wholly absorbed in the punishment her imagination pictured. And as a lioness rages when her suckling cub has been stolen from her, and follows the tracks of her enemy, though she does not see him, so Hecuba, wrath mingling with her grief, regardless of her years but not her deadly purpose, went straight to Polymestor, who wrought the heartless murder, and sought an audience with him, pretending that she wished to show him a store of gold which she had hoarded for her son and now would give him. The Thracian was deceived and, led by his habitual lust for gain, he came to the hiding-place. Then craftily, with smooth speech he said: “Come, Hecuba, make haste, give me the treasure for your son! I swear by the gods of heaven, all shall be his, what you give now and what you have given before.” She grimly eyed him as he spoke and swore his lying oath.