Poems Page 13

  her clothes torn to expose her breasts.

  The city held a festa – the Parilia, our fathers called it –

  marking the foundation of the walls,

  an annual shepherds’ junket, games all over town,

  rustic trenchers dripping with plenty,

  the tipsy crowd launching its grubby feet across

  sacred heaps of blazing hay. Romulus

  ordered the watch suspended to mark the holiday,

  the barracks silent with no trumpet blare.

  Tarpeia, thinking her time had come, went to meet the enemy:

  she sealed the deal – her person part of it.

  The hill, hard to climb, had been left free for the festival;

  time pressed, barking dogs were put to the sword.

  Sleep made a gift of everything, but Jupiter’s will

  was that she should stay awake for her punishment –

  and could a single death suffice for the sinful girl

  who wanted to betray the flame of Vesta?

  She gave away the gate of Rome and the sleeping city

  for a marriage day – any day he chose.

  But Tatius was not a man to honour an act of treachery.

  ‘Marry,’ he said. ‘Come to my kingdom’s bed!’

  He spoke, and he and his comrades crushed her under their armour.

  A dowry appropriate to her services.

  So Jove’s hill got its name of shame: wakeful Tarpeia,

  you have your payback for your unjust lot.

  IV.5

  God rot you, madam,

  and may the earth choke your grave with thorns,

  your shade be in perpetual need of a drink,

  your ghost have no rest when your body’s ash,

  and the hungry howl of vengeful Cerberus

  terrorise your accursed bones.

  You once could turn bashful Hippolytus

  into a sexual predator,

  doom the most harmonious union,

  make Penelope jeer at talk

  her husband’s coming home, and bed

  horny Antinous.

  You said the word – magnets lost their pull,

  mother birds became

  stepmothers to their nestlings.

  You threw some graveyard herbs into

  the irrigation channel –

  standing crops were washed away by floods.

  You could bewitch the moon,

  make it dance to your song,

  turn into a werewolf after sunset,

  tear out ravens’ eyes with your fingernails

  to blind a husband watching for your tricks,

  consult screech-owls about my blood-type,

  and, to finish me off,

  gather secretions from a mare in heat.

  These were the words of your trade:

  ‘You sexy girl, you make men hot:

  let’s have an eager crowd

  beating the carriageway to your door.

  You fancy gold and jewels from the East,

  dresses with Tyrian dyes,

  silks from Kos,

  gilded Turkish bedspreads,

  gifts from palm-fronded Egypt,

  fluorspar cups from Persia …?

  Then no more talk of faithfulness,

  forget the gods, let lying reign supreme,

  tear up the rules of chastity – it’s too

  expensive.

  ‘Delays add value – fabricate excuses:

  love put off just one night comes back stronger.

  He messed your hair up? Anger pays:

  he’s under pressure when you trade for peace.

  So now he’s purchased sex, you’ve promised it –

  tell him it’s Isis time, so ten days off.

  Let your maids harp on that it’s April, and it’s going

  to be your birthday on the Ides of May.

  Your suppliant’s waiting; pull up a chair and write …

  anything! If it scares him, you’ve got him.

  Keep permanent love-bites around your neck

  that he can think another man’s teeth left.

  ‘Don’t take your cue from Medea’s railing

  (she put the question, so of course got dumped),

  rather from suave Menander’s pricy Thais,

  when the comic harlot outwits cunning slaves.

  Adapt to the style of your man: if he strikes up a tune,

  drink with him and sing along.

  Have the doorman check for gifts:

  if an empty fist is knocking,

  he can sleep on oblivious, head against the bolt.

  It’s a soldier, not exactly a Romeo,

  or a horny-handed sailor? Don’t turn him away

  (if he’s paying ready money);

  ditto some barbarian who used to have

  a label round his neck,

  jumping about in the Forum on chalked feet.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the gold, not the hand that brings it.

  You hear poetry? What do you get aside from words?

  If he’s offering verses, but not clothes, from Kos,

  say you can’t hear him – till hard cash appears.

  Make the best of the springtime of your youth,

  the wrinkle-free age –

  time won’t make you any prettier.

  I’ve seen rose gardens outstripping scented Paestum

  wilt in a morning in the sirocco’s breath.’

  When Acanthis was drilling this into my lady-friend’s head,

  I was fast becoming skin and bones.

  But now, Queen Venus, accept before your altar

  the cut throat of a ring-dove for grace received:

  I saw a rattling cough

  take hold in her wrinkled neck,

  bloody spit ooze out between

  her cavity-filled teeth,

  and her putrid soul expire

  into her ancient mattress:

  her sagging hovel shivered as the fire died.

  For her funeral she can have

  the stolen bands around her scanty hair,

  her cap discoloured by the filth of neglect,

  and the dog that was only too wakeful – to my cost –

  when my thumb was about to slip the lock.

  An old, broken-necked amphora can be

  the madam’s tomb:

  fig tree, squeeze your roots, vice-like, about it.

  And lovers, pelt this grave with sharp-edged stones;

  add curses to those rocks to crush her bones.

  IV.6

  The bard is beginning the rites. Silence, please.

  One blow to fell the heifer at my altar.

  A Roman garland to rival Philitas’ ivy,

  a jug to pour Cyrenean water.

  Give me soft spikenard, offerings of seductive

  incense, wind wool three times round the altar.

  Sprinkle me with water, have the ivory flute

  pour a libation of song from Turkish jars.

  Away with dishonesty, let all evil seek

  some other sky: pure laurel smooths the bard’s new path.

  Muse, we shall tell of Apollo’s Palatine home,

  a theme, Calliope, that deserves your blessing.

  These are songs to the greater glory of Caesar; when Caesar

  is sung, even Jupiter must pay attention.

  Apollo’s port pushes into Epirus,

  a bay buries Ionian breakers’ rumble;

  Roman ships mass at Actium’s memorials;

  the sea now beset by sailors’ supplications.

  Here the world’s forces forgathered, a fir forest’s

  vast volume in the waves, but omens uneven:

  one rank relegated to ruin by Romulus,

  with weapons wielded, shamefully, by a woman;

  facing – Augustus’ fleet, sails filled with Jove’s afflatus,

  its standards long skilled to strike for the nation.

  The combat lines were curved
in a couple of crescents,

  the sheen of weapons wavering on the water,

  as Apollo, leaving his Delos to lie motionless

  (once it had floated, just a toy of the tempest),

  perched over Augustus’ prow, and a pulse

  of fire flashed three times in a zigzag fork.

  Now his hair did not hang down his shoulders,

  no leisurely lay from a lyre of tortoiseshell,

  rather the glower he gave Agamemnon,

  gutting the Greek camp for the greedy pyre,

  or when he slew the sinuous Python serpent,

  the monster menacing the gentle Muses.

  He said: ‘World-saver, son of Alba Longa,

  Augustus, more acclaimed than Trojan ancestors,

  you control the land – conquer at sea; for your cause

  my bow battles, and my back’s arrow burden.

  Free the nation from fear; its folk have faith in you,

  piling your ship with the public prayers;

  if you do not defend it, Romulus did not

  auspiciously view twelve vultures over the Palatine.

  ‘Enemy oars approach too close: a catastrophe

  that Roman waves carry a queen’s sails while you command.

  There’s nothing to fear if their fleet coming forward

  has hundred-oared warships: the sea holds them back;

  and those timbers that threaten with rock-throwing Centaurs

  are nothing but hollow planks whose power is paint.

  It’s the cause that makes or breaks courage in a soldier –

  if it’s not just, the disgrace disarms him.

  Time now: engage, and I, who have set the time,

  will convey the Julian vessels to victory.’

  He had ended, and emptied his quiverful on the enemy;

  after those bowshots Caesar’s spear came second.

  Rome’s faith in Phoebus triumphs; the female is punished,

  her shattered sceptre tossed by Ionian waves.

  And Julius stared down in astonishment from his star:

  ‘No one can deny our bloodline’s divinity.’

  Triton’s horn hailed the homecoming, all the goddesses

  of the sea clapped hands, saluting freedom’s standards.

  But She heads to hide in the Nile in her fugitive

  felucca – she won’t die on a day that’s demanded.

  All the better! A tiny triumph one woman would be,

  led through the lanes Jugurtha trod long ago!

  Apollo’s Actium memorials were made because

  every shaft he shot subdued ten ships.

  Done – my war poem! Victorious Apollo’s requesting

  the lute, stripping off his armour for peaceful dancing.

  Party-time in white clothes in the shaded grove:

  I’ll have scented roses round my neck,

  flowing wine squeezed from Falernian presses,

  Cilician fragrance sprayed on my hair.

  Poets need a drink for the Muse to stir their talent:

  Bacchus, you usually inspire your brother Apollo.

  One scribe can record the defeat of marsh-dwelling Rhinelanders,

  another versify Ethiopia’s dark kingdom;

  a third report the late treaty to deal with the Parthians:

  ‘They can give back Rome’s standards – soon we’ll be taking theirs;

  generous Augustus is sparing the Easterners’ arrows,

  but he’s just deferring the trophies for his offspring.

  Good news, Crassus, if you feel anything out there

  in the sand – we can cross the Euphrates to visit your tomb!’

  Wine and song is how I’ll pass my nights,

  until day casts its rays into my cup.

  IV.7

  Ghosts exist then: death doesn’t end it all;

  the pallid shade eludes the guttering pyre.

  Cynthia, just buried to the trumpet’s knell,

  leaned across my bed, I thought,

  when fitful sleep after her funeral

  dipped to the chilly empire of my sheets.

  Her hair the same as when they took her away,

  her eyes the same, her dress scorched on one side,

  fire-marks on the familiar beryl ring,

  her lips worn down by Lethe’s water,

  she summoned living breath and voice, snapping

  the thumb and fingers of her brittle hand:

  ‘Traitor, no girl can hope for much from you!

  Nodding off already? Forgotten

  our assignations in Subura? No sleep then!

  Those night escapades that grooved my window-sill?

  I slipped out often, swinging down a rope

  hand over hand into your arms.

  We made love by the corner, chest to chest,

  our clinches warming up the city street.

  So much, then, for your promises: just words

  stripped away by the unhearing winds.

  ‘No one cried out at my passing –

  your voice might have secured one day’s reprieve.

  No undertaker even hired; a broken

  tile gashed my unprotected head.

  Who saw you, at my funeral, hunched in grief?

  Was your coat warm with tears? Did you wear black?

  Too far to trail my cortege all the way?

  You could have ordered it to move more slowly.

  No prayers were heard from you for winds to stoke

  my flames, no fragrance sweetened up the fire.

  Would some cheap hyacinths have left you broke?

  Or a wine flagon cost too much to crack?

  ‘Put Lygdamus on the rack; heat up the steel:

  I knew his tricks when I drank that cloudy wine;

  cunning Nomas may hide her brews –

  a touch of fire will soon make her confess!

  Some tart once offering a cut-price night

  paces your floor now in a gold-trimmed dress;

  if my complexion’s praised by servant girls,

  they’ll soon get mounds of wool to spin;

  old Petale, who took wreaths to my tomb,

  was clamped in horrid shackles. Lalage

  was thrashed, suspended by her curls,

  for asking just one favour in my name.

  You let your new love melt my statuette

  so she could pay her dowry from the gold.

  ‘Guilty as charged, Propertius –

  but I won’t hound you.

  I ruled your books – you gave me a long run.

  I swear by the Fates, whose thread can’t be unspun,

  and so may Cerberus let me quietly past,

  that I was loyal. May a snake twist round

  my bones, hissing in my grave, if I lie.

  ‘The river of death has two destinations;

  departed souls row one way or the other.

  For Clytemnestra and Pasiphae (she

  who built the monstrous wooden cow) the boat

  goes hellwards; flower-decked craft take others

  where the wind caresses Elysian roses,

  where sweet-toned lutes, Cybele’s cymbals

  and Eastern lyres of turbaned troupes keep time.

  Andromeda and Hypermnestra, wives

  of virtue, tell the stories of their vows.

  The first recounts how chains caused by her mother

  bruised her on cold rocks where her arms were pinned;

  the second how her sisters planned a crime

  but she recoiled at the atrocity.

  With tears in death we seal love in our lives;

  your many infidelities I pass over.

  ‘Now your instructions – if you’re so inclined,

  and Chloris’ herbs haven’t got you in their grip.

  Look after Parthenie, my nurse,

  in her old age; she was always kind to you;

  and don’t make Latris, my favourite maid,

  hold
up the mirror for a new mistress;

  any last poems you’ve written about me –

  burn them: don’t keep my praises in your drawer.

  Plant ivy on my tomb, its swelling fruit

  and tendrils twining round my bones.

  Where the Aniene floods the orchards,

  and ivory, thanks to Hercules, stays white,

  carve this fitting verse upon a stone,

  brief words for the commuter out of Rome:

  IN TIVOLI’S SOIL HERE GOLDEN CYNTHIA LIES,

  FOR SWEET ANIENE’S BANKS AN ADDED PRIZE.

  ‘Don’t spurn the dreams that come from paradise:

  righteous visions possess the weight of truth.

  At night we roam, night frees the imprisoned dead,

  even Cerberus strays, the bolt slides from the gate.

  Laws send us back to Lethe at daybreak:

  we board, the boatman counts his cargo.

  ‘Have other women now, you’re theirs to take:

  you’ll soon be mine, our bones will grind as one.’

  At last her long complaint at me was done:

  her wraith escaped my outstretched arms and fled.

  IV.8

  READ ALL ABOUT IT! MAJOR RIOT ON ESQUILINE!

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  Lanuvio, long the home of a patron snake,

  is worth a detour for an hour or so.

  Where a dark cleft bisects a steep ravine,

  a virgin must go, by an old custom,

  to feed the hungry serpent when he demands

  his annual meal, hissing from the depths.

  Girls sent for that ritual turn pale

  when their soft hands stray near the reptile’s jaws.

  He grabs the food the maiden proffers,

  the basket trembling in her grasp.

  If she’s been good, she’ll make it safely home;

  farmers will cry: ‘A bumper crop this year!’

  There Cynthia travelled by pony and trap

  to worship Juno (or Venus, more likely),

  her progress witnessed by the Appian Way,

  whose paving stones her coach-wheels rattled over.

  She looked a sight, bent forward with the reins,