 Book 7, Part 1 of Farsalia, Dramatic Episodes of the Civil Wars. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Farsalia by Lucan. Translated by J.D. Duff. Book 7, The Battle, Part 1. Nair to the summons of the eternal laws more slowly tighten rows, nor drave his steeds, forced by the sky revolving up the heaven with gloomier presage, wishing to endure the pangs of ravished light and dark eclipse, and drew the mists up not to feed his flames, but lest his light upon the salient earth might fall undimmed. Pompeius, on that mourn, to him the latest day of happy life, in troubled sleep an empty dream conceived. For in the watches of the night he heard innumerable Romans shout his name within his theatre. The benches vied to raise his fame and place him with the gods. As once in youth, when victory was won, or conquered tribes, where swift Ibaris flows, and where sartorius armies fought and fled, the west subdued, with no less majesty than if the purple toga graced the car, he sat triumphant in his pure white gown of Roman knight and heard the senate's cheer. Perhaps as ills drew near, his anxious soul, shunning the future, wooed the happy past, or as his want, prophetic slumber showed that which was not to be, by doubtful forms misleading, or as envious fate forbade return to Italy, this glimpse of Rome kind fortune gave. Break not his latest sleep, ye sentinels, let not the trumpet call strike on his ear, for on the morrow's night, shapes of the battle lost, of death and war, shall crowd his rest with terrors. Whence shalt thou the poor man's happiness of sleep regain? Happy if even in dreams thy Rome could see once more her captain, would the gods had given to thee and to thy country one day yet to reap the latest fruit of such a love, though sure of fate to come. Thou marchest on as though by heaven ordained in Rome to die, she, conscious ever of her prayers for thee, heard by the gods, deemed not the fates decreed such evil destiny, but she should lose the last sad solace of her magnus tomb. Then young and old had blent their tears for thee, and child unbidden. Women torn their hair and struck their bosoms as for brutus dead. But now no public woe shall greet thy death as erst thy praise was heard, but men shall grieve in silent sorrow, though the victor's voice amid the clash of arms proclaims thy fall. Though incense smoke before the thunderer shrine and shouts of welcome bid great Caesar hail. The stars had fled before the growing morn, when eager voices, as the fates drew on the world to ruin. Round Pompeius' tent demand the battle signal. What, by those so soon to perish, shall the sign be asked, their own, their country's doom? Ah, fatal rage, that hastens on the hour. No other sun upon this living host shall rise again. Pompeius fears, they cry, he's slow to act, too kind to Caesar, and he fondly rules a world of subject peoples, but with peace such rule were ended. Eastern kings no less, and peoples, eager for their distant homes, already murmured at the lengthy war. Thus hath it pleased the gods, when woe impends on guilty men, to make them seem its cause. We court disaster, crave the fatal sword. Of Magnus camp, Farsalia was the prayer. Fortulius, of all the sons of Rome, chief orator, beneath whose civil rule fierce cataline at the peace-compelling axe, trembled and fled, arose to Magnus' ear, bearing the voice of all. To him was war grown hateful, and he longed once more to hear the senate's plaudits, and with eloquent lips he lent persuasion to the weaker cause. Then Pompeius, for her gifts to thee, asks this one boon, that thou shouldst use her now. Here at thy feet thy leading captains lie, and here thy monarchs, and a suppliant world entreats thee prostrate for thy kinsmen's fall. So long shall Caesar plunge the world in war. What was thy tread when these proud nations fell? How deep their shame and justly should delay now mar thy conquests. Where thy trust in fate, thy fervor where? In great dust dread the gods, or think they favor not the senate's cause? Thy troops unbidden shall the standard seize and conquer. Thou in shame be forced to win. If at the senate's orders, and for us the war is waged, then give to us the right to choose the battlefield. Why dost thou keep from Caesar's throat the swords of all the world? The weapon quivers in the eager hand. Verse 1 awaits the signal. Strike at once, or without thee, the trumpets sound the fray. Art thou the senate's comrade or her lord? We wait your answer. But Pompeius groaned. His mind was adverse, but he felt the fates opposed his wish, and knew the hand divine. Since all desire it, and the fates prevail, so let it be. Your leader now know more. I share the labors of the battlefield. Let fortune roll the nations of the earth in one red ruin. Myriads of mankind see their last sun to-day. Yet Rome, I swear, this day of blood was forced upon thy sun. Without a wound the prizes of the war might have been thine, and he who broke the peace in peace forgotten. Whence this lust for crime shall bloodless victories in civil war be shunned, not sought? We've ravished from our foe all boundless seas and land. The starving troops have snatched earth's crops half-grown, in vain attempt their hunger to appease. They prayed for death, sought for the sword thrust, and within our ranks were feigned to mix their lifeblood with your own. Much of the war is done. The conscript youth whose heart beats high, who burns to join the fray, though men fight hard in terror of defeat, the shock of onset need no longer fear. Bravest is he who promptly meets the ill when fate commands it, and the moment comes. Yet brooks delay in prudence. And shall we, our happy state enjoying, risk it all? Trust to the sword the fortunes of the world. Not victory, but battle ye demand. Do thou, O fortune, of the Roman state, who maids to Pompeus' guardian, from his hands take back the charge grown weightier, and thyself commit its safety to the chance of war. Nor blame nor glory shall be mine today. Thy prayers unjustly, Caesar, have prevailed. We fight. What wickedness! What woes on men! Destruction on what realms this dawn shall bring. Crimson with Roman blood yon stream shall run. But that, without the ruin of our cause, the first fell bold hurled on this cursed day might strike me lifeless. Else this battle brings a name of pity, or a name of hate. The loser bears the burden of defeat. The victor wins, but conquest is a crime. Trust to the soldiers, burning for the fray, he yields, forbidding, and throws down the reins. So may a sailor give the winds control upon his bark, which, driven by the seas, bears him an idle burden. Now the camp hums with impatience, and the brave man's heart, with beats tumultuous, robbs against his breast. And all the host had standing in their looks the paleness of the death that was to come. On that day's fight, T'was manifest that Rome and all the future destinies of man hung trembling. And by weightier dread possessed they knew not danger. Who would fear for self, should ocean rise and whelm the mountaintops, and sun and sky descend upon the earth in universal chaos? Every mind is bent upon Pompeius and on Rome. They trust no sword until its deadly point glows on the sharpening stone. No lance will serve till straightened for the fray. Each bow is strung anew, and arrows chosen for their work fill all the quivers. Horsemen try the curb, and fit the bridal rain, and whet the spur. If toil's divine with human may compare, T'was thus, when flagra bore the giant crew. In Etna's furnace glow'd the sword of Mars, Neptune's trident felt the flame once more. And great Apollo, after Python's slain, sharpened his darts afresh. On palace shield was spread anew the dread Medusa's hair. And broad Cecilia trembled at the blows of Vulcan forging thunderbolts for Jove. Yet fortune failed not, as they sought the field, in various pressage of the ills to come. All heaven opposed their march. Portentous fire in columns filled the plain, and torches blazed. And thirsty whirlwinds, mixed with meteorbolts, smote on them as they strode, whose sulfurous flames perplexed the vision. Crests were struck from helms. The melted sword-blade flow'd upon the hilt. The spear ran liquid, and the hurtful steel smoked with a sulfur that had come from heaven. Nay more, the standards hid by swarms of bees innumerable, weighed the bearer down. Horse lifted from the earth, bedew'd with tears. No more of Rome the standards, or her state. And from the altar fled the frantic bull to fields afar. Nor was a victim found to grace the sacrifice of coming doom. But thou, Caesar, to what gods of ill didst thou appeal? What furies didst thou call? What powers of madness, and what stygian kings, whelmed in the abyss of hell, didst favor gain by sacrifice in this thine impious war? Strange sights were seen, or caused by hand's divine, or due to fearful fancy. He must top plung'd headlong in the valley. This met with High Olympus, while at Ossus feet red ran bibius, and Farsalia's field gave warlike voices forth in depth of night. Now darkness came upon their wondering gaze, now daylight, pale and wan, their helmets wreathed in pallid mist, the spirits of their sires hover'd in air, and shades of kindred dead passed flitting through the gloom. Yet to the host, conscious of guilty prayers, which thought to shed the blood of sires and brothers, earth and air distraught, and horrors seething in their hearts, gave happy omen of the end to come. It's just strange that peoples whom their latest day of happy life awaited, if their minds foreknew the doom, should tremble with a fright. Romans who dwelt by far a raxi stream, and Tyrian gattus, in whatever climb, neath every sky, struck by mysterious dread, were plung'd in sorrow, yet rebuked the tear, for yet they knew not of the fatal day. Thus on Eugannian hills, where sulfurous fumes disclose the rise of a ponus from earth, and where Tomavus broadens in the meads, and augur spake. This day the fight is fought, the arms of Caesar and Pompeius meet to end the impious conflict, or he saw the bolts of Jupiter predicting ill, or else the sky discordant or the space of heaven from pole to pole, or else per chance the sun was sad and misty in the height, and told the battle by his wasted beams. By nature's fiat that the salient day passed not as others. If the gifted sense of reading portents had been given to all, all men had known for salia. Gods of heaven, how do ye mark the great ones of the earth? The world gives tokens of their wheel or woe, the sky records their fates. In distant climbs to future races shall their tale be told, or by the fame alone of mighty deeds had in remembrance, or by this my care borne through the centuries, and men shall read in hope and fear the story of the war and breathless prey, as though it were to come, for that long since accomplished, and for thee thus far Pompeius shall that prayer be given. But from their arms the opposing sun filled all the slope with radiance as they marched in ordered ranks to that ill-fated fight, and stood arranged for battle. On the left thou, Lentulus, hadst charge, two legions there, the fourth, and bravest of them all, the first, while on the right don't mischus ever staunch, though fates be adverse, stood. In middle-line the hardy soldiers from Cilician lands in Scipio's care, their chief in Libyan days today their comrade. By inipious pools and by the rivulets the mountain troops of Cappadocia, and loose of rain thy squadrons, Pontus, on the firmer ground Galatius Tetrax and the greater kings, and all the purple-robed the slaves of Rome, Numidian hordes were there from Afric shores, their Cretus host and Iterians found full space to wing their arrows. Where the tribes from brave Iberia clashed their shields, and their Gaul stood arrayed against her ancient foe. Let all the nations be the victor's prize, none grace in future a triumphal car. This fight demands the slaughter of a world. Caesar that day to send his troops for spoil had left his tent. And on the further hill behold his foe descending to the plain. The moment asked for by a thousand prayers is come, which puts his fortune on the risk of imminent war, to win or lose it all. For burning with desire of kingly power, his eager soul ill-brook'd the small delay this civil war compelled. Each instant lost robbed from his due. But when at length he knew the last great conflict come, the fight supreme, whose prize the leadership of all the world, and felt the ruin nodding to its fall, swiftest to strike yet for a little space his rage for battle failed. The spirit bold to pledge itself the issue waver'd now. For magnus fortunes gave no room for hope, though Caesar's none for fear. Deep in his soul such doubt was hidden, as with mean and speech that augured victory, thus the chief began. Ye conquerers of a world, my hope in all, prayed for so oft, the dawn of fight is come. No more entreat the gods, with sword in hand seize on our fates. And Caesar in your deeds this day is great or little. This the day for which I hold, since Rubicon was passed, your promise given. For this we flew to arms. For this deferred the triumphs we had won, and which the foe refused. This gives you back your homes and kindred, and the peaceful farm, your prize for years of service in the field. By the fates command this day shall prove whose quarrel juster. For defeat is guilt to him on whom it falls. If in my cause, with fire and sword ye did your country wrong, strike for acquittal. Should another judge this war, not Caesar, none were blameless found. Not for my sake this battle, but for you, to give you, soldiers, liberty and law, against all the world. Wishful myself for life, apart from public cares, and for the gown that robes the private citizen, I refuse to yield from office till the law allows your right in all things. When my shoulders rest all blame, all power be yours, nor deep the blood between yourselves and conquest. Grecian schools of exercise and wrestling send us here their chosen darlings to await your swords. And scarcely armed for war a dissonant crowd barbaric that will start to hear our trump, nay, their own clamor. Not in civil strife your blow shall fall. The battle of today sweeps from the earth the enemies of Rome. Dash through these cowards and their vaunted kings, one stroke of sword and all the world is yours. Make plain to all men that the crowds who decked Pompeius hundred pageants scarce were fit for one poor triumph. Shall Armenia care who leads her masters, or barbarians shed one drop of blood to make Pompeius chief or our Italia? Rome, tis Rome they hate and all her children, yet they hate the most those whom they know. My fate is in the hands of you, mine own true soldiers, proved in all the wars we fought in Gaulia. When the sword of each of you shall strike, I know the hand. The javelin's flight to me betrays the arm that launched it hurtling. And today once more I see the faces stern, the threatening eyes, unfailing proofs of victory to come. In now the battle rushes on my sight. Kings trodden down and scattered senators fill all the ensanguine plain, and peoples float unnumbered on the crimson tide of death. Enough of words I but delay the fates, and you who burn to dash into the fray forgive the pause. I tremble with the hopes, thus finding utterance. I near have seen the mighty gods so near, this little field alone dividing us. Their hands are full of my predestined honors. For tis I who, when this war is done, shall have the power, or all that peoples, all that kings enjoy, to shower it where I will. But has the pole been moved, or in its nightly course some star turned backwards, that such mighty deeds should pass here on the salient earth? Today we reap of all our wars the harvest or the doom. Think of the cross that threats us, and the chain limbs hacked asunder, Caesar's head displayed upon the rostra, and that narrow field piled up with slaughter, for this hostile chief is savage Sula's pupil. Tis for you, if conquered, that I grieve. My lot apart is cast long since. This sword, should one of you turn from the battle ere the foe be fled, shall rob the life of Caesar. O ye gods, drawn down from heaven by the throes of Rome, may he be conqueror who shall not draw against the vanquished an inhuman sword. Or count it as a crime if men of Rome preferred another standard to his own. Pompey's sword drank deep Italian blood when, cabined in yawn space, the brave man's arm no more found room to strike. But you, I pray, touch not the foe who turns him from the fight, a fellow citizen, a foe no more. But while the gleaming weapons threaten still, let no fond memories unnerve the arm. No pious thought of father or of kin. But full in face of brother or of sire, drive home the blade. Unless the slain be known, your foes account his slaughter as a crime. There not our camp, but lay the rampart low, and fill the fos with ruin. Not a man but holds his post within the ranks to-day. And yonder tents, deserted by the foe, shall give us shelter when the rout is done. Scarce had he paused. They snatch the hasty meal, and seize their armor, and with swift acclaim welcome the chief's predictions of the day. Tread low their camp when rushing to the fight, and take their post. Nor word nor order given, in fate they put their trust. Nor hath thou placed all Caesar's there, all striving for the throne of Rome, their city, had their serried ranks with speedier tread dash down upon the foe. Farsalia by Lucan Translated by J. D. Duff Book 7 The Battle, Part II But when Pompeia saw the hostile troops move forth in order and demand the fight, and knew the gods' approval of the day, he stood astoned, while a deadly chill struck to his heart, omen itself of woe, that such a chief should at the call to arms thus dread the issue. But with fear repressed, born on his noble steed along the line of all his forces, thus he spake. The day your bravery demands, that final end of civil war ye asked for is at hand. But forth your strength, your all. The sword to-day does its last work. One crowded hour is charged with nations' destinies. Who ere of you longs for his land and home, his wife and child, seek them with sword. Here in mid-battlefield the gods place all at stake. Their better right bids us expect their favor. They shall dip your brands in Caesar's blood, and thus shall give another sanction to the laws of Rome, our cause of battle. If for him were meant an empire or the world, had they not put an end to Magnus' life, that I am chief of all these mingled peoples, and of Rome disproves an angry heaven. See here combined all means of victory. Noble man have sought unasked the risks of war. Our soldiers boast ancestral statues. If to us were given a curious, if Camillus were returned, or Patriot Decius to devote his life, here would they take their stand. From furthest east all nations gathered, cities as the sand unnumbered give their aid. A world complete serves neath our standards. North and south, and all who have their being, neath the starry vault, hear meat in arms conjoined. And shall we not crush, with our closing wings, this paltry foe? Few shall find room to strike. The rest with voice must be content to aid. For Caesar's ranks suffice not for us. Think from Rome's high walls the matrons watch you with their hair unbound. Think that the Senate whore, too old for arms, with snowy locks outspread. And Rome herself, the world's high mistress, fearing now alas a despot. All exhort you to the fight. Think that the people that is, and that shall be, joins in the prayer. In freedom to be born, in freedom die their wish. If mid these vows be still found place for mine, with wife and child, so far as imperator may, I bend before you suplent. Let this fight be won, behold me exile, your disgrace, my kinsmen scorn. From this tis yours to save, then save. Nor in the latest stage of life let Magnus be a slave. Then burn their souls at these his words, indignant at the thought. And Rome rose up within them, and to die was welcome. Thus alike with hearts of flame moved either host to battle, one in fear and one in hope of empire. These hands shall do such work as not the rolling centuries, not all mankind, though free from sword and war, shall air make good. Humans that were to live this fight shall crush, and peoples preordained to make the history of the coming world shall come not to the birth. The Latin name shall sound as fables in the ears of men, and ruins loaded with the dust of years shall hardly mark her cities. Albus Hill, home of our gods, no human foot shall tread, save of some senator at the ancient feast by Numa's orders founded. He compelled serves his high office. Void and desolate are Wei, Quora, and Lorientum's hold, yet not the tooth of envious time destroyed these storied monuments, twas civil war that raced their citadels, where now hath fled the teeming life that once Italia knew. Not all the earth can furnish her with men, untenanted her dwellings and her fields, slaves till her soil. One city holds us all. According to Ruin the ancestral roof finds none on whom to fall, and Rome herself, void of her citizens, draws within her gates the dregs of all the world. That none might wage a civil war again, thus deeply drank farcellius fight the lifeblood of her sons. Mark in the calendar of Rome for I, the days when Alia and Cannae fell, and shall farcellius mourn, darkest of all, stand on the page unmarked, alas the fates, not plague nor pestilence nor famines rage, not cities given to the flames, nor towns trembling at shock of earthquake shall weigh down such heroes lost, when fortunes ruthless hand lops at one blow the gift of centuries, leaders and men embattled. How great art thou, Rome, in thy fall, stretched to the widest bounds war upon war laid nations at thy feet, till flaming titan, nigh to either pole, beheld thine empire, and the furthest east was almost thine, till day and night and sky for thee revolved, and all the stars could see throughout their course was Roman. But the fates in one dread day of slaughter and despair turned back the centuries and spoke thy doom, and now the Indian fears the axe no more, once emblem of thy power. Now no more the girded consul curbs the getten horde, or in sarmation furrows guides the share. Still Parthia boasts her triumphs unavanged, foul is the public life, and freedom fled to furthest earth beyond the Tigris stream, and Rhine's broad river wandering at her will mid-tutan hordes and Scythian, though by sword sought yet returns not. But that from the day when Romulus, aided by the vultures' flight, ill-omanned, raised within that hateful grove, Rome's earliest walls, down to the crimson field in dire Thessalia fought, she ne'er had known Italia's peoples. Did the Brutai strike in vain for liberty? Why laws and rights, sanctioned by all the annals, designate with consular titles? Happier far the Medes and blessed Arabia, and the eastern lands held by a kindlier fate in despot rule. That nation serves the worst, which serves with shame. No guardian gods watch over us from heaven. Love is no king. Let ages whirl along in blind confusion. From his throne supreme shall he behold such carnage and restrain his thunderbolts. On Mimus shall he hurl his fires, on Rotopy and Edas Woods unmeriting such chastisement, and leave this life to Cassius' hand. On Argos fell at Grim Thaestis' feast, untimely night by him thus hastened. Shall Thessalia's land receive full daylight, wielding kindred swords in father's hands and brothers? Careless of men are all the gods. Yet for this day of doom such vengeance have we reaped, as deities may give to mortals. For these wars shall raise our parted Caesar's to the gods, and Rome shall deck their effigies with thunderbolts and stars and rays, and in the very feigns swear by the shades of men. With swift advance they cease the space that yet delays the fates, till short the span dividing. Then they gaze for one short moment where may fall the spear, what hand may deal their death, what monstrous task soon shall be theirs. And all in arms they see, in reach of stroke, their brothers and their sires with front opposing. Yet to yield their ground it please them not. But all the host was dumb with horror, cold upon each loving heart, awestruck, the life-blood pressed. And all men held with arms outstretched their javelins for a time, poised yet unthrown. Now made the avenging gods a lot thee, Crestanus, not such a death as all men else do suffer. In the tomb mayst thou have feeling and remembrance still, for thine the hand that first flung forth the dart which stained with Roman blood the saviour's earth. Madman, to speed thy lance when Caesar's self still held his hand. Then from the clarions broke the strident summons, and the trumpets blared responsive signal. Upward to the vault the sound re-echoes, where nor clouds may reach, nor thunder penetrate. And hemost slopes reverberate to Pellion the den. Pindus re-echoes, Edas lofty rocks groan, and Pangean cliffs till at their rage, born back from all the earth, they shook for fear. Unnumbered darts they hurl, with prayers diverse. Some hope to wound, others in secret, yearn for hand still innocent. Chance rules supreme, and wayward fortune upon whom she wills makes fall the guilt. But for the hatred bred by civil war suffices spear nor lance, urged on their flight afar. The hand must grip the sword, and drive it to the foeman's heart. But while Pompeius ranks shield wedged to shield, were ranged in dense array, and scarce had space to draw the blade, came rushing at the charge, full on the central column, Caesar's host, mad for the battle. Man nor arms could stay the crash of onset, and the furious sword clove through the stubborn panoply to the flesh. Their only stayed. One army struck, their foes struck not in answer. Magnus swords were cold, but Caesar's reeked with slaughter and with guilt. Nor fortune lingered, but decreed the doom which swept the ruins of a world away. Soon as withdrawn from all the spacious plain, Pompeius' horse was ranged upon the flanks. Past through the outer files the lighter armed of all the nations joined the central strife, with divers weapons armed, but all for blood of Rome a thirst. Then blazing torches flew, arrows and stones, and ponderous balls of lead molten by speed of passage through the air. Caesar, Iterian archers, and the mead winged forth their countless shafts till all the sky grew dark with missiles hurled. And from the night brooding above death struck his victims down, guiltless such blow, while all the crime was heaped upon the Roman spear. In line oblique behind the standards, Caesar in reserve had placed some companies of foot, in fear the foremost ranks might waver. These at his word, no trumpet-sounding, break upon the ranks of Magnus horsemen where they rode at large, flanking the battle. They, unshamed of fear and careless of the fray, when first a steed pierced through by Javelin, spurned with sounding hoof the temples of his rider, turned the rain, and through their comrades, spurring from the field in panic, proved that not with boring Rome barbarians may grapple. Then arose immeasurable carnage. Here the sword there stood the victim, and the victor's arm wearied of slaughter. O, that to thy planes, farcella, might suffice the crimson stream from host's barbarian, nor other blood pollute thy fountains' sources. These alone shall clothe thy pastures with the bones of men. Or if thy fields must run with Roman blood, then spare the nations who in times to come must be her peoples. Now the terror spread through all the army, and the favoring fates decreed for Caesar's triumph. The war ceased in the wider plain, though still ablaze where stood the chosen of Pompey's force, upholding yet the fight. Not here allies begged from some distant king to wield the sword. Here were the Roman sons, the sires of Rome. Here the last frenzy and the last despair. Here Caesar was thy crime, and here shall stay my muse repelled. No poetry of mine shall tell the horrors of the final strife, nor for the coming ages paint the deeds which civil war permits. Be all obscured in deepest darkness. Here the useless tear and vain lament, and let the deeds that fell in that last fight of Rome remain unsung. But Caesar, adding fury to the breasts already flaming with the rage of war, that each might bear his portion of the guilt which stained the host, unflinching through the ranks passed at his will. He looked upon the brands, these reddened only at the point, and those streaming with blood and gory to the hilt. He marks the hand which trembling grasped the sword, or held it idle, and the cheek that grew pale at the blow, and that which at his words glowed with the joy of battle. Mids the dead he treads the plain, and on each gaping wound presses his hand to keep the life within. Thus Caesar passed, and where his footsteps fell, as when Bologna shakes her crimson lash, or mavers scourges on the threshen mayors, when shunning the dread face on Palis shield, he drives his chariot. There arose a night dark with huge slaughter and with crime, and groans as of a voice immense, and sounds of alms as felt the wearer, and of sword on sword crashed into fragments. With a ready hand Caesar supplies the weapon, and bids strike full at the visage, and with lance reversed urges the flagging ranks and stirs the fight. Where flows the nation's blood, where beats the heart, knowing, he bids them spare the common herd, but seek the senators. Thus Rome he strikes, thus the last hold of freedom. In the fray then fell the nobles with their mighty names of ancient prowess. Their Matellus sons Corvini, Lapidi, Torquati too, not once nor twice the conquerors of kings, first of all men, Pompeus' name except, lay dead upon the field. But, Brutus, where, where was thy sword, veiled by a common helm, unknown thou wanderest? Thy country's pride, hope of the senate, thou for none besides. Thou latest scion of that race of pride, whose fearless deeds the centuries record, tempt not the battle, nor provote the doom, awaits thee on Philippi's faded field, thy Thessaly. Not here shall thou prevail against Caesar's life, not yet hath he surpassed the height of power, and deserved to death noble at Brutus' hands. Then let him live thy faded victim. There upon the field lay all the honor of Rome. No common stream mixed with the purple tide. And yet of all who noble fell, one only now I sing, thee brave domicius. When ere the day was adverse to the fortunes of thy chief, thine was the arm which vainly stayed defied, vanquished so oft by Caesar, now twas thine yet free to perish. By a thousand wounds came welcome death, nor had thy conqueror power again to pardon. Caesar stood and saw the dark blood welling forth, and death at hand, and thus in words of scorn. And dost thou lie, domicius, there? And did Pompeius name thee his successor, thee? Why leaveest thou, then, his standards helpless? But the parting life still faintly thrombed within domicius' breast. Thus finding utterance. Yet thou hast not won thy hateful prize, for doubtful are the fates. Nor thou the master, Caesar, free as yet with great Pompeius for my leader still, warring no more I seek the silent shades. Yet with this hope in death, that thou subdued to madness and to me, in grievous guise, maced pay atonement. So he spake, no more, then closed his eyes in death. Twershamed to shed, when thus a world was perishing, the tear meet for each fate, foreseeing the wound that reft each life away. Through forehead and through throat the pitiless weapon clove its deadly path, or forced the entrails forth. One fell to earth, prone at the stroke. One stood, though shorn of limb, glanced from this breast unharmed the quivering spear. But it transfixed to earth. Here from the veins spouted the lifeblood till the fomens' arms were crimsonned. One his brother slew, nor dared to spoil the course, till severed from the neck he flung the head afar. Another dashed full in his father's teeth the fatal sword, by murderous frenzy striving to disprove his kinship with the slain. Yet for each death we find no separate dirge, nor weep for man when peoples fell. Thus Rome thy doom was wrought at dread forseless. Not as in other fields, by soldiers slain or captains, here were swept whole nations to the death. Assyria here, Akhia, Pontus, and the blood of Rome gushing in torrents forth, forbade the rest to stagnate on the plain. Nor life was raft, nor safety only then, but reeled the world and all her manifold peoples at the blow in that day's battle dealt. Nor only then felt, but in all the times that were to come. Those swords gave servitude to every age that shall be slavish. By our sires was shaped for us our destiny, the despot yoke. Yet have we trembled not, nor feared to bear our throats to slaughter, nor to face the foe. We bear the penalty for others' shame, such be our doom. Yet fortune, sharing not in that last battle, twas our right to strike one blow for freedom ere we served our Lord. Now saw Pompeius grieving that the gods had left his side, and knew the fates of Rome passed from his governance. Yet all the blood that filled the field scarce brought him to confess his fortunes fled. A little hill he sought went to describe the battle-raging still upon the plain, which when he nearer stood the warring ranks concealed. Once did the chief gaze on unnumbered swords that flashed in air and sought his ruin, and the tide of blood in which his host had perished. Yet not as those who, prostrate fallen, would drag nations down to share their evil fate, Pompeius did. Well were the gods thought worthy of his prayers to give him solace, in that after him might live his Romans. Spare ye gods, he said, nor lay whole people slow. My fall attained, the world and Rome may stand, and if ye need more bloodshed, hear on me, my wife and sons, reek out your vengeance, pledges to the fates such have we given. Too little for the war is our destruction, doth the carnage fail, the world escaping? Magnus fortunes lost, why doom all else beside him? Thus he cried, and passed amid his standards, and recalled his vanquished host that rushed on fate declared. Not for his sake such carnage should be wrought. So thought Pompeius, nor the foment sword he feared nor death, but lest upon his fall to quit their chief his soldiers might refuse, and or his prostrate corpse a world in arms might find its ruin, or perchance he wished from Caesar's eager eyes to veil his death. In vain unhappy. For the fates decree he shall behold, shorn from the bleeding trunk again thy visage. Thou too, his spouse, beloved Cornelia, didst cause his flight, thy longed four features. Yet he shall not die when thou art present. Then upon his steed, though fearing not the weapons at his back, Pompeius fled, his mighty soul prepared to meet his destinies. Thou groan nor tear, but solemn grief, as for the fates of Rome, was in his visage, and with mean unchanged he saw farcellous woes above the frowns or smiles of fortune. In triumphant days and in his fall her master. The burden laid of thine impending fate, thou partest free to muse upon the happy days of yore. Hope now has fled, but in the fleeting past how wasst thou great? Seek thou the wars no more, and call the gods to witness, that for thee henceforth dies no man. In the fights to come, on Afric's mournful shore, by pharaoh's stream and fateful moonda, in the final scene of dire farcellous battle, not thy name doth stir the war, and urge the foeman's arm, but those great rivals biding with us yet, Caesar and Liberty. And not for thee, but for itself the dying senate fought, when thou hatched fled the combat. Findst thou not some solace, thus imparting from the fight, nor seeing all the horrors of its close? Look back upon the dead that load the plain, the rivers turbid with a crimson stream. Unpity thou thy victor, how shall he enter the city, who on such a field finds happiness? Trust thou in fortune yet, her favorite ever, and what air alone in lands unknown and exile be thy lot, what air thy sufferings, neath the farion king, twer worse to conquer. Then forbid the tear, cease sounds of woe, and lamentation cease, and let the world adore thee in defeat, as in thy triumphs. With unfaltering gaze, look on the suppliant kings, thy subjects still. Search out the realms and cities which they hold, thy gift Pompeus, and a fitting place choose for thy death. First witness of thy fall, and of thy noble bearing in defeat, Larissa, weeping yet with gifts of price fit for a victor, from her teeming gates poured forth her citizens. Their homes and feigns flung open, wishing it had been their lot with thee to share disaster. Of thy name still much survives, unto thy former self alone inferior. Still couldst thou to arms all nations call, and challenge fate again. But thus he spake. Two cities, nor two men, avails the conquered ought. Then pledge your faith to him who has the victory. Caesar trod Farsalia's slaughter, while his daughter's spouse thus gave him kingdoms. But Pompeus fled mid-sobs and groans and blaming of the gods for this their fierce commandment. And he fled, full of the fruits and knowledge of the love the peoples bore him, which he knew not his in times of happiness. When Italian blood flowed deep enough upon the fatal field, Caesar bade halt, and gave their lives to those whose death had been no gain. But that their camp might not recall the foe, nor calm of night banish their fears, he bids his cohorts dash, while fortune glowed and terror filled the plain, straight on the ramparts of the conquered foe. Light watched the task to urge them to the spoil. Soldiers, he said, the victory is ours, full and triumphant. There doth lie the prize which you have won, not Caesar. At your feet behold the booty of the hostile camp. Vanquished from Hesperian nations, ruddy gold and all the riches of the Orient world are piled within the tents. The wealth of kings and of Pompeus here awaits its lords. Haste, soldiers, and outstrip the flying foe. In now the vanquished of Farsalia's field anticipate your spoils. No more, he said, but drave them, blind with frenzy for the gold, to spurn the bodies of their fallen sires, and trample chiefs in dashing on their prey. What rampart had restrained them as they rushed to seize the prize for wickedness and war, and learn the price of guilt. Though they found in ponderous masses, heaped for need of war, the trophies of the world, yet were their minds unsatisfied, that asked for all. What heir Iberian minds or tagus bring to-day, or era-maspians from golden sands may gather had they seized? All had they thought their guilt too cheaply sold. When pledge to them was the Tarpean rock for victory won, and all the spoils of Rome by Caesar's word, shall camps suffice them? Then plebeian limbs on Senators' turf took rest, on kingly couch the meanest soldier, and the murderer lay where yesterday night his brother or his sire. In raving dreams within their waking brains yet raged the battle, and the guilty hand still wrought its deeds of blood, and restless sought the absent sword-hilt. Thou hadst said that groans issued from all the plain, that parted souls had breathed a life into the guilty soil, that earthly darkness teemed with gibbering ghosts and Stygian terrors. Victory foully won, thus claimed its punishment. The slumbering scents already heard the hiss of vengeful flames as from the depths of Acheron. One saw deep in the trances of the night his sire, and one his brother slain. But all the dead in long array were visioned to the eyes of Caesar dreaming. Not in other guise or resty saw the furies ere he fled to purge his sin within the Scythian bounds. Nor in more fierce convulsions raged the soul of Penteas raving, nor Agave's mind when she had known her son. Before his gaze flashed all the javelins which Varsalia saw, or that avenging day when drew their blades the Roman senators, and on his couch infernal monsters from the depths of Hell, scourged him in slumber. Thus his guilty mind brought retribution. Ere his rival died, the terrors that enfold the Stygian stream and Black Avernus, and the ghostly slain broke on his sleep. But when the golden sun unveiled the butchery of Varsalia's field, he shrank not from its horror, nor withdrew his feasting gaze. There rolled the streams in flood with crimson carnage. There a seething heap rose shrouding all the plain. Now in decay, slow settling down. Here numbered he the host of Magnus slain, and for the mourns repast that spot he chose whence he might watch the dead, and feast his eyes upon Amethia's field concealed by corpses. Of the bloody sight in satiate he forbade the funeral pyre, and cast Amethia in the face of heaven. Nor by the punic victor was he taught, who at the close of Cannae's fatal fight laid in the earth the Roman consul dead, to find fit burial for his fallen foes. For these were all his countrymen, nor yet his ire by blood appeased. But ask we not for separate pyres or sepulchres apart wherein to lay the ashes of the fallen. Burn in one holocaust the nation's slain, or should it please thy soul to torture more thy kinsmen, pile on high from Edas' slopes and pin this top the woods. As shall he see, while fugitive on the deep, the blaze that marks the salia. Yet by this idle rage not dost thou profit. For these corporal frames, bearing innate from birth the certain germs of dissolution, either by decay or fire consumed, shall fall into the lap of all embracing nature. Thus, if now thou shouldst deny the pyre, still in that flame when all shall crumble, earth and rolling seas and stars commingled with the bones of men, these two shall perish. Where thy soul shall go, thee shall companion thee. No higher flight in airy realms is thine, nor smoother couch beneath the stygian darkness. For the dead no fortune favors. And our mother earth, all that is born from her, receives again. And he whose bones no tomb or urn protects, yet sleeps beneath the canopy of heaven. And thou, proud conqueror, who wouldst deny the rites of burial two thousand slain, why flee thy field of triumph, why desert this reeking plain. Drink Caesar of the streams, drink if thou canst. And should it be thy wish, breathe that the salian air. But from thy grasp the earth is ravished, and the unburied host, routing their victor, hold far salia's field. Then to the ghastly harvest of the war came all the beasts of earth, whose facile sense of odor tracks the bodies of the slain. Sped from his northern home the Thracian wolf, bears left their dens, and lions from afar senting the carnage, dogs obscene and foul their homes deserted. All the air was full of gathering fowl, who in their flight had long pursued the armies. Cranes, who yearly changed the frosts of Thracia for the banks of Nile, this year delayed their voyage. As near before the air grew dark with vultures hovering wings innumerable, for every grove and wood sent forth its denizens. On every tree dripped from their crimsoned beaks a gory dew. Offed on the conquerors and their impious arms, or purple rain of blood, or moldering flesh fell from the lofty heaven, or limbs of men from weary talons dropped. But even so the peoples passed not all into the maw of ravening beast or fowl. The inmost flesh scarce did they touch, nor limbs. Thus lay the dead scorned by the spoiler, and the Roman host by sun and length of days, and rain from heaven, at length was mingled with Amethia's plain, ill-starred Thessalia. By what hateful crime didst thou offend, that thus on thee alone was laid such carnage? By what length of years shall thou be cleansed from the curse of war? When shall the harvest of thy fields arise free from their purple stain? And when the share ceased to upturn the slaughtered hosts of Rome? First shall the battle-onset sound again. Again shall flow upon thy faded earth a crimson torrent. This may be or throne our sire's memorials. Those erected last, or those which pierced by ancient roots, have spread through broken stones their sacred urns abroad. Thus shall the plowmen of Hemonia gaze on more abundant ashes, and the rake pass or more frequent bones. Wirt, Thracia, thou. Our only battlefield, no sailor's hand upon thy shore, should make his cable fast. No spade should turn. The husbandmen should flee thy fields, the resting place of Roman dead. No lowing kind should graze, nor shepherd dare to leave his fleecy charge to browse at will on fields made fertile by our mouldering dust. All bare and unexplored thy soil should lie, as past men's footsteps, parched by cruel suns, or pawled by snows unmelting. But ye gods, give us to hate the lands which bear the guilt. And not all earth be cursed, though not all be blameless found. Twas thus that Moondis fight, and blood of Mutina, and Lucas Cape, and sad Pachinus, made Philippi pure. End of Book 7, Part 2 Book 8, Part 1 of Varsalia, dramatic episodes of the Civil Wars. This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varsalia by Lucan, translated by J.D. Duff. Book 8, Death of Pompeius, Part 1 Now through Alcity's past and Tempe's groves, Pompeius aiming for hegemony and glens and forest lone, urged on his weary steed, scarce heeding now the spur, by devious tracks seeking to veil the footsteps of his flight, the rustle of the foliage and the noise of following comrades, filled his anxious soul with terrors, as he fancied at his side some ambushed enemy. Fallen from the height of former fortunes, still the chieftain knew his life not worthless. Mindful of the fates and against the price he set on Caesar's head, he measures Caesar's value of his own. Yet as he rode the features of the chief made known his ruin, many as they sought the camp for salient, ere yet was spread news of the battle, met the chief amazed and wondered at the world of human things, nor held disaster sure, though Magnus Self told of his ruin. Every witness seen brought peril on his flight, to a better far safe in a name obscure, through all the world to wander, but his ancient fame forbade. Too long had great Pompeus from the height of human greatness, envious of mankind, looked on all others, nor for him henceforth could life be lowly. The honors of his youth too early thrust upon him, and the deeds which brought him triumph in the sullen days, his conquering navy and the Pontic wars made heavier now the burden of defeat, and crushed his pondering soul. So length of days drags down the hotty spirit, in life prolonged when power has perished fortune's latest hour. Be the last hour of life, nor let the wretch live on, disgraced by memories of fame. But on the boon of death, who dared the sea of prosperous chance? Upon the ocean marge by red panious, blushing from the fray, born in a sloop to lightest wind and wave, scarce equal he, whose countless oars yet smote upon Correa's isle and Lucas' Point, lord of Cilicia and Lembernia lands, corrupt trembling to the sea, he bids them steer for the sequestered shores of Lesbos Isle. For there wort thou, sharer of all his griefs, Cornelia, sadder far thy life apart, and wort thou, precedent the Cilias fields, wracked in thy heart with presages of ill, for Cilia fills thy dreams, and when the shades give place to coming dawn, with hasty step thou tress some cliffs sea-beaten and with eyes gazing afar, art first to mark the sail of each approaching bark, yet dars not ask ought of thy husband's fate. Hold the boat, whose bending canvas bears her to the shore, she brings unknown as yet thy chiefest dread, rumour of evil, herald of defeat, magnus thy conquered spouse, fear than no more. But give to grief thy moments, from the ship he leaps to land, she marks the cruel doom wrought by the gods upon him, pale and wan his weary features by the hoary lock shaded, the dust of travel on his garb, dark on her soul a night of anguish fell. Her trembling limbs no longer bore her frame, scarce throbbed her heart, and prone on earth, she lay, deceived in hope of death. The boat made fast, Pompeus treading the lone waste of sand drew near, and when Cornelia's maiden saw, they stayed there weeping, yet with sighs subdued, reproached the fates, and tried in vain to raise their mistresses form, till magnus to his breast drew her with cherishing arms, and at the touch of soothing hands, the lifeblood to her veins returned once more, and she could bear to look upon his features. He forbade despair, chiding her grief, not at the earliest blow by fortune doubt, and heritress of fame bequeathed by noble fathers, should thy strength thus fail and yield. Renown shall yet be thine, to last through ages, not of laws decreed nor conquest won, but gentler path to thee, as to thy sex is given, thy husband's woe. Let thine affection struggle with the fates, and in his misery love thy lord the more. I bring thee greater glory, for that gone is all the pomp of power, and all the crowd of faithful senators and suppliant kings. Now first Pompeus for himself alone, tis thine to love. Curb this unbounded grief, while yet I breathe, unseemingly. Or my tomb weep out thy fold, the final pledge of faith. Thou hast no loss, nor has the war destroyed ought save my fortune. It is for that thy grief that was my love. Roused by her husband's words, yet scarcely could she raise her trembling limbs, thus speaking through her sobs. What I had sought detested Caesar's couch, ill-oamened wife of spouse unhappy. At my nuptials twice a fury has been bridesmaid, and the ghost of slaughtered crassie, with avenging shades brought by my wedlock to the doomed camp, the Parthinian Massacre. Curse my star has cursed the world, and peoples have been hurled to death in one red moment, and the gods through me have left the better cause. O hero mine, mightiest husband, wed it to a wife unworthy. Twas through her that fortune gained the right to strike thee. Wherefore did I wed to bring thee misery? Mine, mine the guilt, mine be the penalty, and that the wave may bear thee gently onwards, and the kings may keep their faith to thee. And all the earth be ready to thy rule, me from thy side cast to the billows. Rather had I died to bring thee victory, thy disasters thus expiate. In cruel Julia, thee who by this war has vengeance on our vows, from line of boat I call atonement find in this thy rival's death, and spare at least thy magnus. And upon his breast she fell, while all the concourse wept, in magnus' self, who saweth the sally as field without a tear. But now upon the shore a numerous ban from myteline thus approached the chief. If tis our greatest glory to have kept the pledge with us by such a husband placed, do thou one night within these friendly walls we pray thee, stay, thus honoring the homes long since devoted, magnus to thy cause. This spot in days to come the guest from Rome, for thee shall honor. Nowhere shall thou finder sure a refuge in defeat. All else my court, the victor's favor, we long since have learned his chastisement. And though our isle rides on the deep, girt by the ocean wave, no ships has Caesar, and to us shall come, be sure thy captains, to our trusted shore, the war renewing. Take for all is thine, the treasures of our temples and the gold. Take all our youth by land or on the sea, to do thy bidding. Lesbos only asked this from the chief who sought her in his pride, not in his wall to leave her. Pleased and soul at such a love, enjoyed that in the world some faith still lingered. Lesbos Pompeia said, Earth has for me no dearer land than this. Did I not trust it with so sweet a pledge, and find it faithful? Here was Rome for me, country and household gods, this shore I sought home of my wife, this Lesbos, which for her had merited remorseless Caesar's ire. Nor was afraid to trust you with the means to gain his mercy. Not enough, through me your guilt was caused, I part throughout the world to prove my fate. Farewell thou, happiest land, famous for ever, whether taught by thee some other kings and peoples may be pleased to give me shelter, or shouldst thou alone be faithful? And now seek I in what lands right may be found or wrong. My latest prayer, receive-o-deity, is still with me, thou biddest, thus may be mine again, conquered with hostile Caesar in my tracks to find a Lesbos, where to enter in and once depart unhindered. In the boat he placed his spouse, while from the shore arose such lamentation, and such hands were raised in ire against the gods that thou hast deemed all left their kin for exile and their homes, and though for Magnus grieving in his fall, yet for Cornelia chiefly did they mourn, long since their gentle guest. For her had wept the Lesbian matrons had she left to join a victor husband, for she won their love by kindly modesty and gracious mean, ere yet her lord was conquered, while as yet their fortunes stood. Now slowly to the deep, sank fiery titan, but not yet to those he sought, if such there be, was shown his orb. Though veiled from those he quitted, Magnus' mind, anxious with waking care, is sought through the kings his subjects and the cities lead with Rome in faith, and through the pathless tracks that lie beyond the southern bounds, until the toil of sorrowing thought upon the past, and dread of that which might be made him cast afar his wavering doubts, and from the captain seek some counsel on the heavens, how by the sky he marked his track upon the deep, what star guided the path to Syria, and what points found in the wane would pilot him a right to shores of Libya. But thus replied the well-skilled watcher of the silent skies, not by the constellations moving ever across the heavens, do we guide our barks. For that were perilous, but by that star which never sinks nor dips below the wave, gird by the glittering groups men call the bears. When stands the pole star clear before the mast, then to the Bosphorus loquie, and the main which carves the coast of Scythia, but the more bootest dips and nearer to the sea, is Sinosura seen, so much the ship towards Syria tends, till bright Canopus shines, in southern skies content to hold his course, with him upon the left past pharaohs born, straight from the Sirtis, shalt thou plow the deep, and with her now dust bid me shape the yards, and set the canvas. Magnus, doubting still, this only be thy care. From Pracey I steer the vessel onward, shun with all thy skill, Italia's distant shore, and from the rest trust to the winds for guidance. When I sought, pledged with the lesbians my spouse beloved, my course was sure, now fortune, were that wilt give me a refuge. These his answering words. The pilot as they hung from level yards, shifted the sails, and holding to the stern one sheet he slacked the other, to the left steering, where Sammian rocks and Cheehan marred the stillness of the waters, while the seas sent up an answer to the changing keel, a different murmur. Not so deftly turns curbing his steeds, his wane, the charioteer, while glows his dexter wheel, and with a left he almost touches, yet avoids the gold. Now Titan veiled the stars and showed the shore. When following Magnus came a scattered band, save from the Thracian storm. From Lesbos' port his son next, captains who preserve their faith. From at his side, though, vanquished in the field, cast down by fate, in exiles still there stood, lords of the earth and all her orient realms, the kings, his ministers. To the furthest lands he bids Deotaris, O faithful friend, since in Imathia's battlefield was lost the world, so far as Roman, it remains to test the faith of peoples of the east, who drink of Tigris in Euphrates' stream, secure as yet from Caesar, be it thine far as the rising of the sun to trace the fates that favor Magnus. To the courts of Matian palaces, to Scythian steppes, and to the son of Hortior Sassus, to bear my message, hold ye to the faith pledged by your priests and by the thunderer's name of Latium Swarm, then fill your quivers full, draw to its fullest span thy Arminian bow, and get in archers, wing the fatal shaft, and you ye Parthians, if when I sought the Caspian gates and on the Alunean tribes, fierce, ever-warring, pressed, I suffered you in Persian tracks to wander, nor compelled to seek for shelter above Alunean walls, if beyond Ceres' kingdom, in the bounds of Wile, Chaldea, where from Nysa's top pours down Hydaspus. In the Ganges' flow foams to the ocean, nearer far I stood than Persia's bounds to Phoebus' rising fires. If my sufferings Parthians, you alone decked not my triumphs, but an equal state, sole of my Eastern princes, face to face met Magnus in his pride, nor only once through me were saved, for after that dread day, who but Pompeya soothed the kindling fires of Latium's anger? By my service paid come forth to victory, burst the ancient bounds by Macedon's hero set, and Magnus' cause marched Parthians to Rome's conquest, Rome herself praised to be conquered. Hard the task imposed, yet daught his robe in swift debate, the king wrapped in a servant's mantle, the prince for safety play the boar, then happy ashore, the pleasant slot than lordship of the world. The king thus parted past Icaria's rocks, Pompeya's vessel skirts the foamy crags of Little Samos, caliphans, tranquil sea, and effaces lie beyond him, and the air breathed freely on him from the Coen shore. Coutus he shunned and famous for its son, Rhotus, and steered for the middle deep, escaped the windings of Telmesus' bay, till rose Pamphylian coast before the bar, and first the fallen chieftain dared to find in small, phasal shelter, for therein scarce was the husband men, and empty homes for bad to fear. Next Horus' heights he saw, in dipsis falling from his lofty sides, so sailed he onward. Did Pompeya's hope thus severed by the billows from the foe to make his safety sure? His little boat flies unmolested past Sicilian shores, but to their exiled lord and chiefest part, the Senate of Rome, was drawn. Selendri there received their feet, where fair Selenus' stream and spacious bay gives refuge from the main, and to the gathered chiefs in mournful words at length Pompeya's thus resolved in his thoughts. O faithful comrades mine in war and flight, to me my country, though this barren shore our place of meeting, and no gathered host surrounds us, yet upon our changed estate I seek your counsel. Rouse ye as of yore with hearts of courage, Magnus on the field not all is perished, nor do fates forbid that I arise afresh with living hope of future victories and spurned defeat. From Libyan ruins did not Marius rise again, recorded counsel on the page full of his honors. Shall a lighter blow keep Magnus down, whose thousand chiefs and ships still plow the billows? By defeat his strength not whelmed but scattered, in the fame alone of our great deeds of glory in the past shall now protect us, and the world unchanged still love its hero. Way upon the scales ye chiefs, which best may help the needs of Rome, in faith in armies, or the Parthian realm, Egypt or Libya. For myself ye chiefs, I veil no secret thoughts, but thus advise, place no reliance on the Parian king, his age forbids, nor on the cunning Moor, who vein of punic ancestors and vein of Carthaginian memories and descent, supposed from Hannibal, and swollen with pride at Various's supplication, sees and thought Rome lie beneath him. Therefore comrade, seek at speed the eastern world, those mighty realms disjoins from us Euphrates in the gates called Caspian, on another sky than ours their day and night revolve. Another sea of different you is severed from our own. Rule is their wish, not else, and in their plains taller the warhorse, stronger twains the bow, there fails nor youth nor age to wing the shaft, fatal in flight. Their archers first subdued the lance of Macedon, in Beatrice's walls, home of the Mead, and haughty Babylon, with all her storied towers, nor shall they dread the Roman onset, trusting to the shafts by which the host of fated Crassus fell, nor trust they only to the javelin blade, untipped with poison, from the rancorous edge the slightest wound deals death. But that my lot forced me not thus to trust that savage race of Arceus, yet now their emulous fate contends with Roman destinies. The gods smile favoring on their nation, thence I'll pour on Caesar's peoples from them another earth, and all the Orient ravished from its home. But should the east and barbarous trees fail, fate bear our shipwrecked fortunes past the bounds of earth, as known to men. The kings I made I supplicate not, but in death shall take to other spheres this solace. Chief of all of his hands, my kinsmen's, never shed my blood, nor soothed me dying. Yet as my mind in turn the varying fortunes of my life recalls, how I was glorious in that eastern world. How great my name by far mightest march, and where swift tannace flows, no other land is so resounded with my conquest won. So sent me home triumphant. Rome, do thou, approve my enterprise? What happier chance could favoring gods afford thee? Parthian hosts shall fight the civil wards of Rome, and share her ills, and fall and feebled. When the arms of Caesar meet with Parthian and the Frey, then must kind fortune vindicate my lot, or crassus be avenged. But murmurs rose, and Magnus speaking knew his words condemned. Then lentilus answered with indignant soul, for most to rouse their valor, thus in words worthy a counsel. Have the salient woes broken thy spirit so? One day's defeat condemn the world to ruin? Is the cause lost in one battle and beyond recall? Find we no cure for wounds? Does fortune drive thee, Magnus, to the Parthian's feet alone? And dost thou fugitive, spurn the lands and skies known here to fore, and seek for other poles and constellations, and Shaldean gods, and Wright's barbarian, servant of the realm of Parthia? But why then took we arms for love of liberty? If thou can't slave thou hast deceived the world? Shall Parthia see thee at whose name, ruler of mighty Rome, she trembled, at whose feet she captive saw, Hercanean kings and Indian princess Neal, now humbly suppliant, victim of the fates, and at thy prayers her puny strength extolled, in manned contention with the western world? And Pompeus thou shall plead thy cause in that proud tongue, unknown to Parthian ears, of which thy fame is worthy, sobs and tears he shall demand of thee. And has our shame brought us to this, that some barbarian foe shall binge, Hesperia's wrongs ere Rome her own? Thou wert our leader for the civil war, Mitsypheous people dost thou brute abroad Wounds and disasters, which are ours alone, Rome until now, though subject to the yoke of civic despots, yet within her walls has Brooke no foreign lord. And art thou pleased from all the world to summon to her gates these savage people, while the standards lost by far euphrates when the crass I fell, shall lead thy columns? Shall the only king who failed Imathia, while the fates yet hid their favoring voices, give the victor's power, and join with thine his fortune? Nay, not so this nation trusts itself. Each race that claims a northern birth, unconquered in the fray, claims but the warrior's death. But as the sky slopes towards the eastern tracks, and gentler climbs, so are the nations. There in flowing robes and garments delicate are men arrayed. Through the Parthian and Sarmathia's plains, where Tigris spreads across the level meads, contends invincible, for fight is his unbounded, but should uplands bar his path he scales them not, nor through the night of war shall his weak bow, uncertain in its aim, repel the fulmin, nor his strength of arm, the torrent stem, nor all a summer's day in dust and blood bear up against the foe. They fill no hostile trench, nor in their hand shall battering engine or machine of war dash down the rampart, and what error avails to stop their arrows, battles like a wall. Widesweep their horsemen, fleeting in attack and light in onset, and their troops shall yield a camp, not taken. Poisoned are their shafts, nor did they dare a combat hand to hand, but as the winds may suffer from afar they draw their bows at venture. Brave men love the sword, which yield it by a stalwart arm, drives home the blow and makes the battle sure. Not such their weapons, and the first assault shall force the flying mead with coward hand and empty quiver from the field. His faith in poisoned blades is placed, but trustest thou those who without such aid refuse the war? For such alliance wilt thou risk a death, with all the world between thee and thy home? Shall some barbarian earth or lowly grave enclose thee perishing? In that were shame, while crassius seeks a sepulchre in vain, thy lot is happy. Death, unfeared by men, is thy worst doom. Pompeus, but no death, awaits Cornelia. Such a fate for her this king shall not reserve. For know not we the hateful secrets of barbarian love, which blind is that of beast the marriage bed pollutes with wives unnumbered, nor the laws by nature made respect they, nor of kin. In ancient days the fable of the crime by tyrant Oedipus unwitting wrought, brought hate upon his city. But how off sits on the throne of Arsasus, a prince of birth incestuous. This gracious dame born of Metellus, noblest blood of Rome, shall share the couch of the barbarian king with thousand others. Yet in savage joy, proud of her former husbands, he may grant some larger share a favor. And the fates may seem to smile on Parthia, for the spouse of Crassus, captives, shall to him be brought as spoil of former conquest. If the wound dealt in that fell defeat in eastern lands still stirs thy heart, then double is the shame first to have waged the war upon ourselves, then ask the foe for succor. For what blame can rest on thee, or Caesar, worse than this, that in the clash of conflict ye forgot for Crassus slaughtered troops the vengeance do? First should unite at Rome upon the mead have poured her captains, in the troops who guard the northern frontier from the Dacian hordes, and all our legions should have left the Rhine free to the Tutan, till the Parthian dead were piled in heaps upon the sands that hide our hero's slain, and haughty Babylon lay at her victor's feet. To this foul peace we pray and end, and if Thessalius day has closed our warfare, let the conqueror march straight on our Parthian foe. Then should this heart and only leap at Caesar's triumph one, go thou and pass Oraxes's chilly stream on this thine errand, and the fleeting ghost pierced by the Scythian shaft shall greet thee thus. Art thou not he to whom our wandering shades looked for their vengeance in the guise of war, and dost thou sue for peace? There shall thou meet memorials of the dead. Let his yon wall were past their headless trunks, Euphrates here engulfed them slain, of Tigris' winding stream cast on the shore to perish. Gaze on this, and thou can't supplicate at Caesar's feet, amid Thessalius seated. Nay, thy glance turned on the Roman world, and if thou fierced King Juba, faithless, and the southern realms, then seek we pharaohs. Grip down the west, girt by the trackless Certe's forces, back by sevenfold stream the ocean, rich in gleam and gold and merchandise, and proud of Nile, ask for no reign from heaven. Now holds this boy her scepter, owed to thee, his guardian thou, and who shall fear the shadow of a name? Hope not from monarch's old, whose shame is fled, or laws, or truth, or honor of the guards, new kings may mildest sway. His words prevailed upon his hearers, with what freedom speaks when states are trembling, patriot despair. They hoist their sails for Cyprus shaped, whose altars more than all the goddess loves, who from the Pafian wave spring, mindful of her birth, is such be truth in gods of origin. As the craggy Isle, Pompeus sailing, left at length a stern, its southern cape, and struck across the main, with winds transverse in tides, nor reached the mount grateful to sailors for its nightly gleam. But to the bounds of Egypt, hardly one with battle and canvas, were divided Nile, pours through the shallow his Palusian stream. Now is the season when the heavenly scale most nearly balances the varying hours. Once only equal, for the wintry day repays tonight her losses of the spring, and Magnus learning that thy Egyptian king lay by Mount Cassius ere the sun was set or flagged his canvas, thither steered his ship. End of book 8, part 1.