Poems Read online

  provoking ribald jokes about her driving.

  (The less said the better about her smooth-chinned beau,

  his swerving carriage and dogs with fancy collars.

  Let’s hope he’ll end up as a gladiator,

  unable to afford a razor blade.)

  With Cynthia cheating on me again, I vowed

  to pitch my camp-bed elsewhere. On the Aventine

  a certain Phyllis lives (when sober, boring;

  a pleasure drunk). Below the Capitol

  there’s another, Teia, pretty but

  a man-eater in her cups. I invited both

  to sweeten up my night and boost

  my love-life, sampling pastures new. One couch

  for three, a garden screened from view.

  Seating arrangements? Me between the two.

  Lygdamus was our sommelier and got

  the summer glassware out and best Greek wine.

  A flute-player from Egypt, Syrian castanets,

  fresh rose-petals ready to strew, and Magnus,

  more skilful than his shrunken frame suggests,

  gyrated his stunted forearms to the tune.

  The lamps were full – yet flickered constantly;

  the table collapsed, another ominous sign.

  I played at dice, hoping that full houses

  would spur libido; ones was all I threw.

  I ignored the girls’ songs (and unbuttoned blouses):

  Lanuvio’s gate danced before my eyes.

  Then suddenly the creak of hinges,

  the sound of voices in the alleyway.

  In seconds, Cynthia burst into the place,

  her hair undone, but radiant in her fury.

  My wine-glass slipped out of my nerveless fingers;

  sozzled, I couldn’t move my pallid lips.

  Her eyes, in womanly rage, darted lightning

  in a scene reminiscent of the sack of Troy.

  She sank her talons into Phyllis’ face.

  ‘Help!’ Teia called out. ‘Neighbours, there’s a fire!’

  The shouting woke the Romans from their dreams,

  the whole street echoed with the angry screams.

  The girls, their hair torn and their clothes awry,

  took refuge in the nearest bar in town.

  Pumped up with victory, Cynthia tracked me down,

  swung a back-hander that left my nose bloody,

  planted a line of tooth-marks round my neck,

  and blackened with great care each guilty eye.

  The fun of hitting me now wearing thin,

  Lygdamus was dragged from where he hid behind

  the couch, pleading with me to save his skin.

  I was a prisoner just like you were, buddy.

  I reached out in unconditional surrender.

  Cynthia allowed me just to touch her toe,

  saying: ‘If you wish me to forgive your sin,

  accept my terms, which are as follows:

  1) No more going to Pompey’s Portico

  or the Forum seeking friends of female gender;

  2) Don’t crane round for girls in the back row

  at plays, or ogle them as they drive past;

  3) Lygdamus, the cause of all my troubles,

  must go on sale, his ankles clapped in irons.’

  Those were her terms. I answered: ‘Yes, of course.’

  She laughed for all to hear. She had her way.

  The doorstep that the girls had crossed to come

  she scrubbed, and all the rooms she fumigated.

  She made me put new oil in all the lamps

  and dabbed hot sulphur three times on my head.

  A change of sheets – the deal was consummated.

  Cynthia and I made peace, all over the bed.

  IV.9

  When Hercules drove the bullocks from the stalls of Erythea,

  he came to the sheep-grazed Palatine, the unconquerable heights,

  and stopped the cattle there (they were tired; he was tired),

  where the Velabro formed a pool of river water

  and boatmen steered their craft where city streets now run.

  But they weren’t safe: Cacus proved a deceitful host

  and stole the oxen, contravening Jupiter’s law.

  Cacus was a local, a bandit who lived in a menacing cave,

  the sounds he uttered divided between his triple mouths.

  To try to disguise the blatant evidence of his theft,

  he dragged the cattle backwards by their tails into his cave.

  But he could not fool Hercules; the bullocks lowed,

  and our hero trashed the robber’s horrible home in a rage.

  Cacus lay dead, his three heads smashed by the famous cudgel;

  Hercules said: ‘Let’s go, cattle – you were my club’s last labour:

  twice I sought you out, and twice you were my reward;

  go and name these fields with your bovine lowing: one day

  your pasture will be Rome’s renowned Forum Bovarium.’

  But now a thirst tormented Hercules’ dry throat,

  and the land, though fertile, offered no source of fresh water;

  in the distance he heard the laughter of girls in an enclosure,

  where a circular wall hemmed in a shaded grove,

  the sealed-off place of the women’s goddess, venerable springs,

  and rites that no man ever saw without punishment.

  Crimson ribbons covered a secluded doorway

  where a ramshackle cottage glowed with scented flames,

  a poplar adorned the shrine with its grey-green leaves,

  birdsong was hidden somewhere in a mass of shade.

  Hercules raced here, dust caking his dry beard,

  uttering less than god-like words outside the door:

  ‘Whoever you are who frolic in the sacred bower, please,

  open your sanctuary to welcome a worn-out man.

  I’ve been wandering round in need, I can hear spring-water sounding,

  just what cupped hands could take from a stream would be enough.

  Did you ever hear of someone who propped up the globe on his back?

  I’m him: the world I took on my shoulders calls me Alcides.

  Who doesn’t know about the exploits of Hercules’ club,

  the arrows that never missed against notorious monsters?

  The one man who turned on the lights down in the Stygian gloom?

  Now I’ve arrived in this corner of Earth, but my travails

  go on: I’m exhausted but no roof is open to me.

  Even if you were performing rites for spiteful Juno,

  she would not have refused me water – and she’s my stepmother!

  Maybe it’s my face or my lion’s mane that frightens

  you all, or else my hair, scorched by the Libyan sun,

  but once I did household tasks, dressed in a purple gown,

  and completed a daily assignment of spinning in Lydia;

  a breast-band of soft cloth covered the hair on my chest

  and despite my calloused hands I made a convincing girl.’

  Hercules’ argument; but the gracious priestess, whose white

  hair was bound with a scarlet ribbon, answered him:

  ‘Don’t damage your eyes, my friend; this grove is dangerous:

  leave now – get away from the doorway while the going’s good.

  The altar that’s protected by the loneliness of this cottage

  is closed to men and avenged by an implacable law.

  The prophet Tiresias paid a high price for seeing Minerva

  when she put down the Gorgon’s head and bathed her strong limbs.

  I hope you find other springs: this water’s reserved for women,

  a private stream that flows along a secret course.’

  But Hercules put his shoulder to that shaded entrance

  and the door could not withstand a fury driven by thirst.

  When
he had drained the stream and slaked his burning throat,

  his lips barely dry, he pronounced this fateful sentence:

  ‘The Ara Maxima, vowed when I recovered my cattle,

  the biggest altar these hands ever built,’ (he said),

  ‘will never be opened up for veneration by women;

  so may the thirst be avenged of Hercules the traveller.’

  And since he had sanctified a world cleansed by his hands,

  the Sabine town of Cures worshipped him as Sancus.

  Lord Hercules, whom stern Juno now smiles on, I greet you;

  Sancus, be present in my book and bless it.

  IV.10

  And now: the origins of Feretrian Jupiter

  and how three sets of weapons were taken from three leaders.

  It’s a stiff climb, but one powered by hopes of glory:

  garlands from easily reached flowers are not for me.

  Romulus set the precedent for this award,

  coming back from the enemy laden with rewards,

  when his spear killed Acron the Sabine in front

  of our gates, felling him upon his toppled mount.

  Acron, son of Hercules, commander from the city

  of Caenina, had threatened Roman territory.

  He had dared to hope for spoils from Romulus’ body,

  but ended up yielding his own, wet and bloody.

  Romulus had seen him outside the city’s cavernous towers,

  armed to the teeth, but got in with a quickly answered vow:

  ‘Jupiter, Acron will fall today as an offering to you.’

  His enemy fell, a spoil to Jove – the vow came true.

  Another victory for our nation’s valorous father,

  schooled in a humble home to endure martial rigour.

  The same horse served for war or else to go ploughing;

  a shaggy crest decked out his helmet of wolf skin.

  His painted shield had no inlay of glittering gilt,

  and slaughtered oxen furnished a durable sword-belt.

  Next in line was Cossus, who killed the Veian Tolumnius,

  when defeating Veii was a challenge for Rome.

  War clamour had not crossed the Tiber: Nomentum’s conquest

  and Cora’s, with its three acres per settler, were our furthest.

  Alas poor Veii, in time past you too were a kingdom

  and a gilded chair was set out in your forum;

  now the wandering shepherd’s horn sounds alone

  inside your walls and ploughs turn up the occasional bone.

  The Veiian chief was perched on the tower above his gates

  seeking talks with the enemy, trusting in his wits;

  the battering ram was pounding the wall with its bronze head,

  a long mantlet shielding the siege work that had started,

  when Cossus said: ‘Brave men should fight out in the open.’

  No sooner said than done: each man stood on the plain.

  Rome had God on its side that day, and Tolumnius’

  severed neck splashed with blood the Roman horses.

  Claudius beat off the enemies who had crossed the Po,

  bringing home the Belgian shield of the giant who

  led them, Virdomarus. He claimed descent from Brennus,

  and his shower of javelins from the front chariot was famous.

  But the twisted torque fell from his sliced throat

  and he stained his striped breeches with his blood.

  Now trophies from all three are stored in the temple; Feretrian

  means leader struck – ferit – leader, confident in the omens,

  or that they brought back – ferebant – the arms on their shoulders;

  and hence the proud altar is called Feretrian Jupiter’s.

  IV.11

  Paullus, desist. Spare my tomb further tears.

  The black gate will not swing wide at your prayers;

  the dead, once subject to the next world’s code,

  find solid steel paving a one-way road.

  The master of these dark halls may hear the sound,

  but all your weeping soaks into deaf ground.

  Though gods like offerings, once the boatman’s paid,

  mean-spirited fate seals off the world of shade.

  The trumpets wailed enough when the torch fire

  was lit to take me from the funeral pyre.

  My glittering marriage, ancient family tree,

  loyal child-bearing, were no help to me.

  Was fate less hostile to Cornelia?

  Five fingers easily now encompass her.

  Slow tide of Acheron in night’s endless seat,

  whatever waters swirl about my feet,

  I come here free of guilt, early at most,

  and ask no special lenience for my ghost;

  if Aeacus sits as judge beside the urn,

  let him assess my case when it’s my turn;

  his brothers too, and next to Minos’ chair

  the band of Furies in the court’s still air.

  Sisyphus, leave that rock; let Ixion’s wheel

  be still and Tantalus’ water mirage real,

  villainous Cerberus chase no shades today,

  his chain hang slack, the door-bar pushed away.

  I’ll plead my own defence and if it fails,

  like Danaus’ daughters, carry leaky pails.

  Can spoils of warfare won by ancestors

  prove virtue? Spanish bronze entered our doors;

  my mother’s side is no less marked by fame,

  each house has special honours to its name.

  I cast no smear on my forefathers’ slate;

  I was a model others emulate.

  My girlish frocks gave way to wedding dresses,

  a married woman’s headband tied my tresses;

  I slept in Paullus’ bed and my gravestone

  proclaims I was the bride of him alone.

  Two public posts my brother occupied;

  his consul year triumphant – but I died.

  By my forebears our city glorifies,

  and under whose flag shattered Carthage lies,

  and who destroyed the king of Macedon

  boasting of being Achilles’ distant son –

  I swear I never broke the laws of Rome

  or through my conduct stained our family home.

  And nothing changed, innocence marked it all:

  a radiant path, marriage to funeral.

  Bloodlines dictated how I led my life;

  no judge’s frown could make a better wife.

  Though judgement passed on me might be severe,

  my presence gives no woman cause for fear:

  not matchless Claudia, who with a cord

  moved the stuck ship with Cybele aboard,

  not chaste Aemilia, who saved Vesta’s fire,

  her linen robe making the flame blaze higher.

  I brought no shame upon you, darling mother:

  nothing (but death) would you wish any other.

  Civic laments are added to your moans,

  even Caesar weeps to vindicate my bones.

  His daughter’s worthy sister was laid low,

  the emperor grieves – we saw a god’s tears flow.

  I earned the garments of a fruitful spouse,

  and was not stolen from a barren house.

  All’s well: I never mourned a child’s decease;

  they all survived to see me rest in peace.

  My sons, my consolation since I passed,

  it was your hands that closed my eyes at last.

  Daughter, whose birth enhanced your father’s bid

  for office, wed once, as your mother did.

  That is the high point of a woman’s glory

  when people praise her married life’s full story.

  All, multiply, and if our line pursues

  my deeds, I gladly take death’s final cruise.

  Paullus, to you our ch
ildren I bequeath:

  my body is ashes, but such cares still breathe.

  Be mother and father now; as they grow older

  their full weight comes to rest upon your shoulder.

  Add my kisses to yours to staunch their weeping:

  all our household will be in your safe-keeping.

  Don’t grieve yourself while they are standing by,

  and when they come, make sure your cheeks are dry.

  Night is appointed for your hopeless yearning,

  seeing my shape in dreams, tossing and turning.

  When talking to a picture of my face

  in secret, for an answer leave a space.

  But should a new stepmother then be wed,

  nervously sitting on the marriage bed,

  then greet your father’s union with praise,

  children, and captivate her with your ways;

  don’t laud your mother, lest comparison sparks

  affronts to her from casual remarks.

  If, for your father, memory should suffice,

  putting on my remains so high a price,

  learn to allay the old age that arrives,

  those trials that descend on widowers’ lives.

  May all those years I lost be given to you,

  so that my offspring grant him joy anew.

  I rest my case; sad witnesses, please stand;

  Earth, pay rewards my virtues now demand.

  Goodness has opened heaven; may I be found

  worthy to sail where honoured souls are bound.

  NOTES

  Notes to the Poems

  I.1

  Aspects of the poem are discussed in the introduction.

  Tullus: A friend and possible early patron of Propertius. He is commonly identified as the nephew of Lucius Volcacius Tullus, a prominent Roman politician. Other poems are also addressed to him, including I.6 (qv).

  Milanion: In Greek mythology, one of several names cited as the successful suitor of Atalanta, a princess who was exposed to die as a newborn because she was not a male heir. She was nursed by a bear, and later brought up by hunters, becoming herself a hunter before finding her way back home. Propertius relates how Milanion wooed her, enduring hardships for her in the fastnesses of Arcadia, including a bruising encounter with a Centaur (half-man, half-horse). He makes only a glancing reference to the best-known version of the story in which Atalanta, who excels at running, challenges suitors to a race: the first man to beat her can marry her, but those who lose are put to death. Milanion defeats her by dropping golden apples, given to him by Venus, in her path; these cause Atalanta to slow down, as she stops to pick them up.