Complete Works of Silius Italicus Page 9

  With slender hopes and little chance of safety, Crixus steeled his heart with contempt of death: his bristling beard was red with a bloody foam, foam flew from his open mouth in his fury, and his hair was rough with a coating of dust. He attacked Tarius, who was fighting beside Scipio, and thundered round him with furious assault. Tarius rolled upon the ground; for the death-dealing spear drove him forward upon his horse’s neck, and he was dragged along by the frightened beast, with his feet caught in the encircling girth. His blood sprinkled the plain and left long traces there; and the spear printed uneven marks on the sand. Scipio praised the young man’s death, and was preparing to avenge his noble spirit, when a dreadful sound struck his ear, and he knew by the shouting that Crixus, whose face he did not know, was coming. His wrath grew fiercer as they got closer, and he fastened his gaze upon the coveted victim. Then encouraging his steed, and patting his neck to please and honour him, Scipio spoke thus: “Garganus, leave till later the common herd of lesser foes; the gods summon us to greater things. Do you see the mighty Crixus coming? Even now I promise to reward you with yonder saddle-cloth, glittering with Tyrian purple — an adornment fit for the barbarian; and I shall give you the reins of gold.” Thus Scipio spoke, and summoned Crixus to battle with a great shout, and demanded an open space for the duel. His enemy, fired with equal ardour, proved no laggard. When the squadrons on both sides fell back as they were bidden and left a clear space, the combatants took stand in the centre of the field. Like the Giant Mimas, the son of Earth, when he fought on the fields of Phlegra and terrified Heaven, so the gigantic Crixus sent forth a cry from his brutish breast and roused his fury with hideous yells. “When Rome was taken and burnt, was no survivor left, to tell you the strength of arm that the tribe of Brennus showed in battle? Well, learn it now!” As he spoke, he threw his spear, whose knotted strength and fire-hardened point were fit to batter down even a city gate. With a dreadful sound it flew; but it went too far, misjudging the distance to be crossed, and the foe was too close; so it passed over the consul’s head. But to him said Scipio: “Remember to tell the shades below and Brennus, your ancestor, how far from the Tarpeian temple you fell, and that you were not permitted to behold the sacred hill of the Capitol.” Then he added force to his spear by the thong and by the trotting of his horse, and threw it with an effort worthy of his huge antagonist. Through the many folds of linen it sped and through the shield fashioned of hide, and pierced with the length of its point his inmost breast. Down he sank, stretching far over the field in his overthrow, and the earth groaned, smitten by his gigantic armour. Even so, when masons build on the Tuscan shore, they hurl a mass of stone from a height upon the water with a mighty noise, to battle with the sea and the invisible currents below: the sea roars; and the deep, parted by the blow, receives the huge mass as it crashes beneath the angry water. Deprived of their leader, the Gauls had recourse to flight; all their confidence and all their valour depended upon a single life. So the hunter on the top of Mount Picanus harries the haunts of wild beasts, and all through the untrodden thickets spreads fell destruction in their crowded lairs; while the fire is silently gathering strength and flame, the tops of the pine-trees are gradually wrapt in black darkness, and the thick smoke goes eddying to the sky; but soon flames blaze out suddenly over the whole mountain: a crackling is heard, the wild beasts flee, the birds flee, and the heifers are startled in the lowland valleys far away.

  When Mago saw that the ranks of Gaul had turned back and that their first effort had failed (and that people is incapable of a second), he summoned to battle his own men and the cavalry of his country. From all sides they rode up, men who used bridles and men who used none. At one time the Romans turn their reins and retreat; at another, panic carries back the squadrons of Carthage; either one force wheels to the right in crescent-shaped curves, or the other turns with a left wheel to outflank the foe; riding forwards and then back, they weave their massed moving ranks and then unweave them in the skill of their retreat. With such alternation, when the winds are at variance, the North-wind drives the sea one way and the East-wind another, and the two with alternate blasts carry the mighty deep in different directions.

  Now the Carthaginian leader flew to the spot, gleaming in purple and gold, and with him were Fear and Terror and Madness. When he raised up the beamy circle of his Gallician shield and threw a great light over the plains, then hope and courage fled, and the shame of retreat was forgotten by fearful hearts; none cared for a noble death, but all were resolved to fly and prayed to the earth to swallow them. So, when a tigress comes forth from her den in the Caucasus, the plains are deserted, and every beast, terrified by her furious mien, seeks a safe hiding-place; she wanders victorious through the deserted valleys, and presently draws back her lips and slowly bares her teeth, as if tearing actual bodies, and devises carnage with wide-gaping jaws. Metabus could not escape Hannibal, nor could Ufens for all his greater stature, though the last ran with winged feet, and the other, with his horse to help him, galloped at full speed. For the spear with shining point sent Metabus to the lower world; and the sword slew Ufens when he fell hamstrung and so lost his life and his repute for speed together. Next Hannibal slew Sthenius and Laurus and Collinus, the son of a cool country, whom Lake Fucinus had reared in its moss-covered grotto and had suffered to swim across its waters. From these Massicus was not divided in death, when the spear struck him — Massicus who was born on the sacred top of the vine-clad hill, and drank the water of the Liris, a placid stream that conceals its flow, and, never affected by rain, brushes its silent banks with sparkling wave. And now began a furious slaughter, and the madness of the combatants could scarce find weapons; shield met and clashed against shield; foot pressed on foot, and the nodding helmet-plume waved as it struck the enemy’s brow.

  Three brothers, all of an age, fought fiercely in the first rank. They were the sons of Barce, a Carthaginian, whom their fertile mother bore, during the wars, to Xanthippus, the Spartan. Their hearts swelled with pride for the past — the victory of Greece when their father led the host, the famous name of Amyclae, and the fetters that the Spartans fastened upon the neck of Regulus. They burned to prove by deeds of valour their descent from a Laconian sire; and then they were fain to visit the cold heights of Taygetus, and at last, when war was over, to swim in their native Eurotas, and see the laws of Lycurgus. But they never went to Sparta; for Heaven and three Italian brothers prevented them. The three were of the same age and the same spirit; they were bred in the tall groves of Egeria, and ruthless Aricia sent them forth; but stern Fate suffered them not to look again on Diana’s lake and temple. For Eumachus and Critias, with Xanthippus, proud to bear his father’s name, were swept on by the tide of battle, and confronted the Romans. Even so, when lions fight one another with fury and fill the desert plains and distant huts with their hoarse roaring, every Moor hastens to remote rocks and untrodden crags, and the African mother raises her babes to her streaming breast, to still their cries; the beasts roar terribly, the broken bones crack in their blood-stained jaws, and the limbs still fight on, in the grip of the cruel teeth. Even so Egeria’s sons, brave Virbius and Capys and their comrade Albanus, sprang forward. Critias, crouching down a moment, stabbed Albanus in the belly and overthrew him; and at once his bowels all gushed out and filled his shield — a piteous sight. Next Eumachus attacked Capys; and though he clutched his shield with all his strength as though it were fastened to his body, yet a cruel sword-cut lopped off the left arm as it clung to the shield; and the luckless hand, refusing to surrender the buckler, still kept its grip and clung to the armour as it fell. Two were now slain, and Virbius alone was left to conquer. He, while shamming flight, slew Xanthippus with his sword and Eumachus with his unbending spear. So at last, when these two were slain, the combat was on equal terms. Then each ran his sword through the other’s breast, and they ended the combat by mutual slaughter. Fortunate in death were they, whom love of kin and country sent down to join the dead! Coming ages will
pray for brethren like them, and their undying fame shall be for ever remembered, if only my verse has power to endure and see a distant posterity, and if Apollo has not begrudged me fame.

  When the ranks were straggling over all the plain, Scipio’s voice (while his voice lasted) stopped them: “Whither do you carry back your standards? What panic has robbed you of yourselves? If it seemed a dreadful thing to stand in the front rank and challenge the van of the foe, then take your stand behind me, soldiers, dismiss your fears, and merely look on! Yonder warriors are the sons of our prisoners. Whither do you fly? What hope have you, if defeated? Shall we make for the Alps? Believe that Rome in person, with her walls and her head crowned with towers, is now stretching out her hands in supplication. I see all our children carried captive, our parents slain, and the fires of Vesta quenched with blood. Keep this sacrilege far away!” Thus he shouted again and again, till the effort and the thick dust choked his voice; then he seized his reins with the left hand and his sword with the right, and exposed his broad breast to the foe, threatening to use his bare blade at once, now against himself and now against the fugitives, if they refused to stand.

  When the Father of Heaven beheld this battle from the height of Olympus, his heart was moved by the danger of the noble consul. He summoned Mars and spoke thus to his son: “Son, unless thou takest part in the strife, this will surely be the last fight of yonder hero; and I fear for him. Snatch him away from the battle; so fiery is he, and he forgets himself in the joy of slaughter. Stop Hannibal; for the insatiate African hopes more from the death of Scipio than from all the heaps of slain. Thou seest, moreover, that boy who already relies on his youthful arm for battle, and aims at prowess beyond his years, and thinks that ripeness for war is slow to come. Thou must be his leader when he wins his maiden spurs; thou must teach him to aspire to great deeds; and let his first victory be the rescue of his sire.”

  Thus spoke the Father of all things. And straightway Mars summoned his chariot from the land of the Odrysae. Then he took the shield that scatters flames of terrible lightning; he put on the helmet too heavy for any other of the gods to wear, and the breastplate which cost the Cyclopes who wrought it much sweat; he brandished aloft the spear that had its fill of blood in the war with the Titans; and he filled the fields with his chariot. With him went his train — Wrath accompanied by the Furies, and countless forms of bloody death; and Bellona, busy with the reins, urged on the four coursers with her fatal scourge. A fearful storm burst from the boundless sky and shrouded the earth, driving dark masses of stormy cloud. The land of Saturn trembled and shook at the approach of the god; and the Ticinus left its banks at the sound of the chariot and flowed backwards to its source.

  The Garamantian spearmen had made a ring round the Roman general; they sought to give Hannibal what he had never got before — the dripping head of a consul, and his armour as booty. Scipio stood firm, resolved never to yield to Fortune; made fiercer by slaughter, he hurled back spear for spear with vehement effort. By now his limbs were drenched with his own blood and the enemy’s; the plume fell from his helmet; the Garamantes, drawing a closer circle round him, pressed nearer with their weapons; and one launched a dart that pierced him with its cruel point.

  When the boy saw the weapon lodged in his father’s body, tears wetted his cheeks, he trembled and turned pale in a moment, and his loud cry went up to heaven. Twice he sought to lay violent hands on himself and die before his father; but twice Mars turned his fury against the Carthaginians instead. Boldly the boy rushed on through missiles and through enemies, keeping pace with Mars himself. At once the ranks gave way, and a wide passage was seen suddenly upon the plain. Protected by the god’s shield, he mowed down the host; over the armour and bodies of the slain he laid low the thrower of the dart, and many a life — the atoning sacrifice he longed for — does he immolate before his father’s eyes. Then in haste he drew the spear from the tough bone, and sped away, bearing his father supported on his neck and shoulders. Amazed at such a sight, the soldiers lowered their weapons; every fierce Libyan and every Spaniard everywhere gave ground: his youth and his noble defence of his father brought about a wondrous silence on the field of battle. Then Mars spoke from his lofty car: “Thou shalt sack the citadel of Carthage, and force her people to make peace. But the glory of this day surpasses all that a long life will offer thee, dear boy. Blessings on thy glorious promise, true child of Jupiter! Greater things are yet to come, but a better gift Heaven cannot give.” The sun had now completed his journey over the earth, and Mars betook himself to the clouds and the sky; and darkness confined the weary armies to their camps.

  Cynthia with downward course was ending the night, while her brother’s coursers breathed fire upon her; and from the eastern wave roseate lights ascended amid the blue of heaven. Then Scipio, fearing the fatal plain and the level ground so favourable to the Carthaginians, made for the Trebia and the hills. The days flew by, as they marched and toiled busily; and, when Hannibal reached the swift stream of the Po, the bridge by which the Roman army had crossed was broken down and floating in midstream, with its cables cut. While Hannibal marched round by devious paths, seeking a ford and an easy approach and a peaceful stretch of the river, meantime he felled with speed the trees that grew hard by, and built barges, to take his army across the stream. And now, behold! a consul, a scion of the Gracchi, arrived and encamped near his colleague beside the Trebia. In answer to a summons he had made the long voyage from Pelorus in Sicily. The family of this great man was famous for its high spirit; and, among the busts of his ancestors, many were conspicuous for distinctions won both in war and peace.

  The Carthaginians, after pitching their camp in the fields across the river, were not backward either. For they were encouraged by success and by their leader, who taunted the Romans thus: “Has Rome yet a third consul in reserve, or a second Sicily to fight her battles? No! all the fighting men of Latium and all the descendants of Daunus are here and Hannibal assumes that no further help can come from there. assembled. Now let the Roman leaders make a treaty with me; now let them insist upon their contracts and covenants! And you, whose life was spared in the battle, life that was no boon, so, so may you live on and again confer this glory on your son! When life ends and Fate summons you, may death in battle be denied you! To fall fighting belongs to Hannibal.” Thus he cried in his fury. Then, impatient of delay, he sent light-armed Massylian squadrons to the verge of the Roman camp, to provoke the foe and draw him forth.

  The Roman soldiers too were ashamed to owe their safety to their stockade, or to let the spears strike against the closed gates of the camp. They sallied forth; and, when the rampart was levelled, the consul, worthy descendant of the Gracchi, rushed out before them all. The wind blew out the horse-hair plume of his Auruncan helmet, and the scarlet cloak that had graced his ancestors was conspicuous on his shoulder. Looking back on the ranks, he summoned them with a loud voice; and wherever a mass of foemen in close formation met him, he burst his way through and sped along the plain. Even so a roaring torrent falls headlong from the summit of Pindus to the plain; with a mighty noise it tears away a side of the mountain and rolls it down; all the cattle in its path, the wild beasts, and the forests, are swept along; and the foaming waters are loud in the rocky valleys.

  Even if I could reproduce the glorious voice of Homer, and if Father Phoebus granted me to speak with a hundred tongues, I could not set forth all the victims slain by the arm of the great consul or by the furious rage of his Carthaginian opponent. Murranus and Phalantus were hardy veterans both; but Hannibal slew the first in close combat and Gracchus the second, each general fighting in full view of his rival. Murranus came from the wind-swept height of Anxur and Phalantus from the stainless waters of the sacred lake, Tritonis. Cupencus had lost an eye, but found the other enough to fight with; and, when he sighted Gracchus, conspicuous in the garb of his rank, he boldly hurled his spear, and planted it quivering in the topmost rim of the consul’s shield. Boiling with
rage, Gracchus cried to him: “Rash man, leave here the sight that still remains in that fierce face and gleams from that mutilated brow.” With these words he threw his spear with a strong straight cast, and the whole point passed through the threatening eye. Nor was the son of Hamilcar less formidable in the fray: he slew luckless Varenus who wore white armour and came from Mevania; for him fertile Fulginia ploughed her rich soil, where the Clitumnus, flowing through the spreading fields, bathes the white bulls in its cool stream. But Heaven was cruel, and Varenus got no recompense for the stately victim he had bred up with fruitless care for the Thunderer of the Capitol. The Spaniards were nimble in attack, and the Moors yet more nimble in their movements. Roman javelins and African spears vied in covering the sky with a thick cloud, and all the level ground, as far as the river-banks, was hidden by the hurtling missiles; and in that close-packed throng the dead had no room to fall.

  The hunter Allius had come from Argyripa in the land of Daunus, and now rode over the plain; his horse was of Apulian breed and his weapons rude; yet he charged the centre of the enemy and threw his native darts with no erring aim. His breastplate was the bristly hide of a Samnite bear, and his helmet was protected by tusks taken from an aged wild boar. He fought as if he were straying through the coverts in some lonely wood, or pursuing flying beasts on Mount Garganus; but when Mago and fierce Maharbal, each from his own place, sighted him at the same moment, then, as two bears, driven by hunger, come down from opposite cliffs, to fall upon a bull affrighted by his two antagonists, and their rage will not suffer them to divide the spoil — even so brave Allius was overthrown by the javelins that came from both his foes. The Moorish yew-wood passed hissing through both his sides; the points met and clashed in the centre of his heart; and it was doubtful which of the two spears could claim his death. By now the Roman standards were scattered over the battle-field; and Hannibal drove the frightened stragglers towards the bank — O pitiful sight! — pushing them on and striving to drown them in the river.