Complete Works of Silius Italicus Page 11

  Meanwhile Flaminius, bereft of his senses and swept along by destiny, ordered the standards to be advanced with speed; and then the sun’s coursers lifted his fiery chariot from the sea and scattered daylight abroad. Soon the sun with disk renewed had dispelled the vapours; and the darkness, broken up by the cloudless radiance, floated down by degrees to earth. But now the birds, which the peoples of Latium consult by ancient custom, when they go to war and inquire into the purpose of Heaven concerning the issue — these birds refused to eat as if aware of coming disaster, and fled from their food with flapping wings. And the bull at the altar never ceased to bellow with hoarse and mournful sound; and when the axe was swung against him, he met the blow with shrinking neck and ran away from the altar. Again, when they tried to wrench the standards from their mounds of soil, noisome blood spouted forth in their faces from the broken ground, and Mother Earth herself sent forth from her bleeding breast dreadful omens of coming slaughter. Moreover, the Father of the gods, who shakes earth and sea with his thunder, seized thunderbolts from the forges of the Cyclopes, and hurled them into the Tuscan waters of Lake Trasimene, till the lake, struck by fire from heaven, smoked all over its wide expanse, and fire burned on the water. Alas, for fruitless warnings and portents that seek in vain to hinder destiny! Alas, for gods who cannot contend against Fate! At this point Corvinus spoke, a famous orator and a noble name; his golden helmet bore the bird of Phoebus, which commemorated the glorious combat of his ancestor. Himself inspired by Heaven and alarmed by the fears of the soldiers, he mingled warning with entreaty and thus began: “By the fire from Troy and by the Tarpeian rock, by the walls of Rome, by the fate of our sons that hangs on the issue of this battle — by these we entreat you, general, not to defy the gods but to await a fit time for battle. They will give us place and time for fighting; only be not too proud to wait for Heaven’s favour. When comes the happy hour that shall bring death and defeat for Libya, then the standards will need no force to make them follow, the birds will take their food unterrified, and Mother Earth will vomit no blood. Do you, so skilled a soldier, fail to see how great is the power of cruel Fortune in our present position? The enemy is encamped over against us and stops our way, and the wooded heights all round threaten us with ambuscades; nor is there a way of escape on the left where the lake spreads, and the path through the gorge is narrow. If you are willing to meet guile with guile and to postpone battle, Servilius will soon be here with his hurrying troops. He has equal authority with you, and his legions are as strong as yours. War calls for strategy: valour is less praiseworthy in a commander.”

  Thus Corvinus spoke; and all the chief officers added words of entreaty; and each man, beset by a double fear, prayed to the gods not to fight against Flaminius, and to Flaminius not to persist in fighting against Heaven. This roused the general’s anger to greater heat; and, when he heard that a friendly force was near, he cried in fury: “Was it thus that you saw me rushing to battle against the Boii, when the great peril of that fearsome horde came against us, and the Tarpeian rock feared a second siege? How many I then put to death! how many bodies my right arm laid low! — bodies born by Earth in anger, and men whom a single wound could hardly kill. Their huge limbs were scattered over the plains, and now their mighty bones cover the fields. Shall Servilius, forsooth claim a share in my great deeds for his belated army, so that I cannot conquer unless I share the triumph with him, but must rest content with half the glory? You say that the gods warn us. Think not that the gods are like yourselves — men who tremble at the sound of the trumpet. The sword is a sufficient soothsayer against the foe, and the work of an armed right hand is a glorious omen worthy of a Roman soldier. Is this your purpose, Corvinus, that the consul should shut himself up behind a rampart and do nothing? Shall Hannibal first seize the high walls of Arretium, and then destroy the citadel of Corythus, and next proceed to Clusium, and at last march unmolested to the walls of Rome? Groundless superstition ill becomes an army; Valour is the only deity that rules in the warrior’s breast. In the darkness of night an army of ghosts stands round my bed — the unburied soldiers, whose bodies are rolling down Trebia’s stream and the waters of the Po.”

  Straightway, surrounded by his officers and hard by the standards, he put on his armour for the last time, proof against all entreaty. His tough helmet was made of bronze and the tawny hide of a sea-calf; and above it rose a triple crest, with hair of the Suevi hanging down like a mane; and on the top stood a Scylla, brandishing a heavy broken oar and opening wide the savage jaws of her dogs. When Flaminius conquered and slew Gargenus, king of the Boii, he had fitted to his own head this famous trophy that no hand could mutilate, and proudly he bore it in all his battles. Then he put on his breastplate; its twisted links were embossed with plates wrought of hard steel mingled with gold. Next he took up his shield, formerly drenched with the slaughter of Gauls and adorned with their blood; and on it the She-wolf, in a dripping grotto, was licking the limbs of a child, as if he were her cub, and suckling the mighty scion of Assaracus for his translation to heaven. Lastly he fitted the sword to his side and the spear to his right hand. His war-horse stood by, proudly champing the foaming bit; for saddle he bore the striped skin of a Caucasian tiger. Then the general mounted and rode from one company to another, as far as the confined space would allow, and filled their ears with his appeals: “Yours is the task, and yours the glory, to carry the head of Hannibal on a pike through the streets of ltome, for fathers and mothers to behold.

  That one head will make amends for all our slain. Let each man recall the griefs that urge him on: ‘My brother, alas! my own brother is lying on the fatal banks of the Ticinus; or ‘My son, unburied, is measuring the depth of the river Po.’ Let each man speak thus to himself. But, if any man feels no rage derived from private sorrow, let him find motives in the suffering of his country to sting his heart to fierce wrath — the breach made in the Alps, the awful fate of Saguntum, and those whom Heaven forbade to cross the Ebro now so near to the Tiber. For, while you are held back by augurs and soothsayers vainly prying into the entrails of victims, Hannibal has but one thing more to do — to pitch his camp on the Tarpeian rock.”

  Thus Flaminius ranted, and then he spied in the crowded ranks a warrior fitting on his black helmet-plume. “It is your task, Orfitus,” he cried, “to contend for this prize — who shall bear the spoils of honour to Jupiter, a welcome offering borne aloft on a blood-stained litter. For why should this glory be won by the hand of another?” He rode on; and when he heard in the ranks a familiar voice, “Murranus,” he cried, “your war-cry reveals your presence from afar, and I see you already frenzied as you slaughter the foe. How great the glory that awaits you! But this is my prayer: — set us free from this confinement, making a way with the sword.” Next he recognized Aequanus, a son of Mount Soracte, a splendid figure in splendid armour: in his native land it was his task to carry the offerings thrice in triumph over harmless fires, at the time when the Archer, the loving son, takes pleasure in the blazing piles. “Aequanus,” cried the general, “fill your heart with wrath that suits your prowess and your wounds; and then may you ever tread unhurt over Apollo’s fire, and conquer the flame, and carry the customary offering to the altar, while Phoebus smiles. With you as my partner in the rage of battle, I should not hesitate to pierce a phalanx of the Marmaridae in their centre, or to rush upon the squares of the Cinyphian horsemen.”

  Flaminius no longer could endure appeals and speeches that postponed the battle. Long shall the Aeneadae lament what followed. The fatal trumpets rang forth the signal all together; and the bugle rent the air with its awesome din. O grief! O tears, which even after so many centuries are not belated! I shudder, as if calamity were imminent, as if Hannibal were even now calling to arms. From the hills that hid them they rushed forth — Asturians and Libyans, fierce Balearic slingers, and swarms of Macae, Garamantians, and Numidians; Cantabrians also, eager beyond others to hire out their swords and approve mercenary warfare; and Vascon
es who scorn the protection of a helmet. On this side rocks, on this the lake, on this armed men with their united cries, hem the Romans in, while the ring of Carthaginians spread the battle-cry from man to man through the hills.

  The gods turned away their faces and gave way reluctantly to over-ruling Fate. Mars himself wondered at the good fortune of the Carthaginian leader; Venus wept with dishevelled hair; and Apollo was wafted to Delos, where he soothed his grief with plaintive lyre. Juno alone remained, sitting on a peak of the Apennines, and her cruel heart looked forward to the dreadful slaughter.

  First of all, the men of Picenum, when they saw the enemy pouring forth like a cloudburst from the sky, and Hannibal in full career, anticipate the attack; the soldiers in their ardour seek a recompense for their imminent death in harassing their conqueror; and free from fear as if life was lost already, they send down before them victims to make atonement to their own ghosts. With combined effort and simultaneous action they hurled a cloud of javelins against the Carthaginians; and the foe were beaten back and lowered their shields in which the heavy curved weapons stuck fast. The fiercer on that account did the Libyans press on — and the presence of their stern commander increased their efforts — while man encouraged man, till breast clashed hard against breast.

  Bellona herself moved through the centre of the battle, brandishing her torch, and her fair hair was spattered with abundant gore. The hoarse cry that came from the dark breast of the hellish goddess was fraught with death; and the dreadful trumpet with its mournful music drove maddened hearts into the fray. The ardour of the Romans was kindled by defeat, and despair proved a strong incentive in the hour of disaster; but the foe were encouraged by the favour of Heaven and the smiling face of Victory, and they enjoyed the favour of Mars.

  Lateranus, carried away by noble love of slaughter, had gone on slaying till he pierced to the centre of the foe. While he, too eager for battle and bloodshed, defied Fortune on unequal terms among the hordes of the enemy, Lentulus, a youth of the same age, saw his plight and ran forward with a hasty effort against fierce Bagas, whose spear-point was close to the back of Lateranus as he fought. But Lentulus was quicker and drove his spear in first, and proved himself a friend in adversity. Then the pair eagerly joined forces; the brows of both shone with equal light, and their heads, held high, were adorned with twin plumes. It was by chance that Syrticus, a Carthaginian, was driven to face the pair — for who would have dared to meet them in fight, unless he were condemned to nether darkness by the deity of the shades below? He hastened down from the heights, carrying a branch broken off from an oak-tree; and, as he fiercely brandished the heavy knotted bough, he burned with vain desire to slay the pair: “Ye Romans, here are no Aegatian islands, no shore that betrays the seaman; no sea, stirred by sudden storms and not by war, shall decide the issue of battle; at sea ye conquered in the past; learn now, how a Libyan can fight on dry land, and resign your power to your betters.” At the same time he pressed Lateranus hard with the heavy branch, and reviled him while he attacked. But Lentulus ground his teeth with rage: “Lake Trasimene shall climb up these hills,” he cried, “before his noble blood shall wet your bough.” Then crouching down, he stabbed the other in the groin which the effort of his blow had lifted up, till the hot blood poured out from the black lung through the gaping entrails.

  In other parts of the field the same frenzy raged, and the fighters were eager to slay and be slain. Tall Iertes slew Nerius; and high-born Volunx, the owner of broad lands, was overthrown by Rullus.

  What availed him now all his treasure locked up in secret chambers, or his kingly palace, once shining with African ivory, or whole villages belonging to him alone? The wealth he seized could not help him, or the thirst for gold that men can never slake. The man whom Fortune favoured once and crammed with piled-up wealth and rich gifts — him now shall the Ferryman’s boat convey naked to Tartarus.

  Near them fought the young warrior Appius, cutting a path with his sword, and seeking glory where utmost valour was needed and none else had strength to seek it. He was confronted by Atlas — Atlas from the Spanish shore; but his distant home by the outmost sea did not save him. When he aimed his spear at the head of Appius, the point alone lightly grazed the skin and just tasted that noble blood. Like a thunder-peal were the threats of Appius; his furious eyeballs burned with fresh fire; the lightning of his rage scattered all in his path; his wound was hidden by the helmet, and the flowing blood made his warlike figure more splendid. Then one might have seen his enemy striving in terror to hide behind his comrades, like a trembling hind pursued by a Hyrcanian tigress, or like a pigeon that checks her flight when she sees a hawk in the sky, or like a hare that dives into the thicket at sight of the eagle hovering with outstretched wings in the cloudless sky. He was wounded in the face by the furious sword; then Appius cut off his head and quivering right hand, and sought a fresh victim, made fiercer by his victory.

  Isalcas stood near; he came from Cinyps, and his weapon was a shining axe; his ambition, poor wretch, was to fight and win glory under the eyes of Mago, his father-in-law; for he was proud of his Carthaginian bride-to-be, and flattered by the vain promise that, when war with Rome was over, they should be wedded, fierce Appius turned his furious rage against Isalcas, and, rising to his full height, delivered his stroke at the helmet, while the other sought to aim his heavy axe at the forehead. But the brittle sword broke against the helmet of the Cinyphian, so sturdy was the stroke. Nor was Isalcas more fortunate: he missed his mark and only cut off the boss of the Roman’s shield. Then Appius, breathing hard, swung aloft a stone, which he could never have lifted from the ground but for the strength that anger gave him, and crushed his foe as he fell backwards with the heavy boulder, and rammed it down upon the shattered bones., Mago, who was fighting not far away, groaned when he saw his son-in-law fall, and the tears fell behind his helmet. Then he rushed up in haste; the marriage he had lately approved, and his hope of grandchildren, stirred his rage. On he came and surveyed the shield and the huge limbs of Appius; and the light that shone from the front of the gleaming helmet, seen at close quarters, cooled his fierce wrath for a space. So a lion, that has rushed down from a wooded height, crouches down upon the plain and gathers his limbs under him, when he sees hard by the horns of a fierce bull, even though long fasting urges him on; the beast stares now at the starting muscles on the great neck, and now at the savage eyes beneath the shaggy forehead, and watches the bull preparing for action and pawing the dust in readiness for fight. And now Appius was first to brandish his spear, and thus he spoke: “If you feel the ties of kindred, then be true to the alliance you have formed, and go where your son-in-law has gone.” The weapon flew through the shield and the brazen armour, and stuck fast in the left shoulder. Mago made no reply, but fiercely levelled his spear, the famous gift that his great brother gave him; for beneath the walls of Saguntum Hannibal had taken it from Durius whom he had conquered and slain, and had given it to his brother to bear in battle, the glorious token of a famous contest. The huge weapon, made more formidable by the rage of the thrower, passed through the helmet and the head of Appius, dealing a fatal wound. His bloodless hands, seeking to pluck forth the weapon, fell helpless upon the wound. Low on the Maeonian plain lies Appius, that famous name; and much of Italy’s might fell with him. The lake shivered, and Trasimene withdrew its waters from contact with the body. The bleeding mouth of the dying man closed on the weapon and muttered as it bit the spear.

  Nor was Mamercus more fortunate: he suffered in every limb and was wounded by every foe. He had killed a standard-bearer and seized the heavy standard; and now he was carrying it through the enemy’s ranks, where a fierce company of Lusitanians were fighting. He was rallying the wavering eagles of the Romans, when the Lusitanians, maddened to fury by his bold action, hurled at the unhappy man every weapon they carried themselves or that they could pick up from the ground, covered so thick with missiles that movement was scarce possible. Even his bones were pierced
; and scarce could half of the spears find room in his body.

  Meanwhile Hannibal came up in haste, stirred to anger by his brother’s wound. Distracted at sight of the blood, he kept asking Mago and his companions whether the wound was in the body, and whether the spear had struck home with all its weight. When he heard better news than he dreaded, and that danger of death was remote, he covered Mago with his own shield, and hurried him off the field, and lodged him in the camp, safe from the storm of battle. Next he made haste to summon the skill of the healer and the aid of ancient Synhalus. Synhalus surpassed all men in anointing a wound with the juices of simples; he could draw a weapon forth from the body by incantation and send snakes to sleep by stroking them. Hence his fame was great through the cities of Libya and the shores of Egyptian Syrtis. In ancient days the first Synhalus had learnt from his father, Ammon himself, the deity of the Garamantes, how to give relief and healing to men bitten by wild beasts or sore wounded in battle; and he, when dying, revealed the divine gift to his son; and the son bequeathed his father’s skill, to make his heir glorious; and next in succession came this Synhalus, no less famous than his sires. By his sagacity and by study he added to the lore of Ammon, and could point to his ancestor, the ancient comrade of Ammon, on many a bust. Now with healing hand he brought the remedies his ancestors had used; his garments were wound tightly about his loins, as the custom of physicians is; and quickly he cleansed the wound of blood and soothed it by washing. But Mago, reflecting on the death and spoiling of his foe, comforted his brother by his words, and made light of a mishap so glorious: “Fear nothing, brother,” he said. “You can apply no more potent remedy to my suffering than this — that Appius lies low, sent to the nether world by my spear. Even if I lose my life, I have done enough and shall gladly follow my foe to the shades.”