The Aeneid (16 page)
“‘Double back on the sea-lanes, back to Delos now,
Apollo’s oracle!’—so my father Anchises urges—
‘Pray for the god’s good will and ask him there:
where will they end, our backbreaking labors?
Where can we turn for help from all our toil?
What new course do we set?’
“Night had fallen
and sleep embraced all living things on earth.
But the sacred images of our Trojan household gods,
those I’d saved from the fires that swept through Troy . . .
Now as I lay asleep they seemed to stand before me,
clear before my eyes, so vivid, washed in the light
of the full moon flooding in through deepset windows.
Then the Powers spoke out to ease me of my anguish:
‘All that Apollo will predict if you return to Delos,
he tells you here, of his own free will he sends us
here before your doors. You and your force-at-arms,
we followed you all when Troy was burnt to rubble.
We are the gods, with you at the helm, who crossed
the billowing sea in ships. And one day we shall lift
your children to the stars and exalt your city’s power.
For a destiny so great, great walls you must erect
and never shrink from the long labor of exile, no,
you must leave this home. These are not the shores
Apollo of Delos urged. He never commanded you
to settle here on Crete.
“‘There is a country—
the Greeks called it Hesperia, Land of the West,
an ancient land, mighty in war and rich in soil.
Oenotrians settled it; now we hear their descendants
call their kingdom Italy, after their leader, Italus.
There lies our true home. There Dardanus was born,
there Iasius. Fathers, founders of our people.
Rise up now! Rejoice, relay our message, certain
beyond all doubt, to your father full of years.
Seek out the town of Corythus, sail for Italy!
Jove denies you the fields of Dicte: Crete.’
Apollo’s oracle!’—so my father Anchises urges—
‘Pray for the god’s good will and ask him there:
where will they end, our backbreaking labors?
Where can we turn for help from all our toil?
What new course do we set?’
“Night had fallen
and sleep embraced all living things on earth.
But the sacred images of our Trojan household gods,
those I’d saved from the fires that swept through Troy . . .
Now as I lay asleep they seemed to stand before me,
clear before my eyes, so vivid, washed in the light
of the full moon flooding in through deepset windows.
Then the Powers spoke out to ease me of my anguish:
‘All that Apollo will predict if you return to Delos,
he tells you here, of his own free will he sends us
here before your doors. You and your force-at-arms,
we followed you all when Troy was burnt to rubble.
We are the gods, with you at the helm, who crossed
the billowing sea in ships. And one day we shall lift
your children to the stars and exalt your city’s power.
For a destiny so great, great walls you must erect
and never shrink from the long labor of exile, no,
you must leave this home. These are not the shores
Apollo of Delos urged. He never commanded you
to settle here on Crete.
“‘There is a country—
the Greeks called it Hesperia, Land of the West,
an ancient land, mighty in war and rich in soil.
Oenotrians settled it; now we hear their descendants
call their kingdom Italy, after their leader, Italus.
There lies our true home. There Dardanus was born,
there Iasius. Fathers, founders of our people.
Rise up now! Rejoice, relay our message, certain
beyond all doubt, to your father full of years.
Seek out the town of Corythus, sail for Italy!
Jove denies you the fields of Dicte: Crete.’
“Thunderstruck by the vision, the gods’ voice—
this was no empty dream, I saw them clear before me,
their features, face-to-face, their hair crowned with wreaths.
At the sight an icy sweat goes rippling down my body,
I tear myself from bed, I raise my hands and voice
in prayer to the skies and tip a pure, unmixed
libation on the hearth. Gladly, the rite performed,
I unfold the whole event to Anchises, point by point.
He recalls at once the two lines of our race, two parents:
his own error, his late mistake about ancient places.
‘My son,’ he says, ‘so pressed by the fate of Troy—
Cassandra alone made such a prophecy to me . . .
Now I recall how she’d reveal our destination,
Hesperia: time and again repeating it by name,
repeating the name of Italy. But who believed
a Trojan expedition could reach Italian shores?
Who was moved by Cassandra’s visions then?
Yield to Apollo now and take the better course—
the god shows the way!’
“So Anchises urges
and all are overjoyed to follow his command.
Leaving a few behind, we launch out from Crete,
deserting another home, and set our sails again,
scudding on buoyant hulls through wastes of ocean.
“As soon
as our ships had reached the high seas, no land in sight,
no longer—water at all points, at all points the sky—
looming over our heads a pitch-dark thunderhead
brings on night and storm, ruffling the swells black.
At once the winds whip up the sea, huge waves heaving,
strewing, flinging us down the sheer abyss, the cloudbanks
swallowing up the daylight, rain-soaked night wipes out the sky
and flash on flash of lightning bursts from the torn clouds—
we’re whirled off course, yawing blind in the big waves.
Even Palinurus, he swears he can’t tell night from day,
scanning the heavens he finds nothing but walls of sea,
the pilot’s bearings lost. For three whole days we rush,
the waves driving us wildly on, the sun blotted out,
for as many nights we’re robbed of stars to steer by.
Then at last, at the fourth dawn—landfall, rearing
up into view, some mountains clear in the offing,
a rising curl of smoke. Down come the sails,
the crewmen leap to the oars, no time to lose,
they bend to it, churn the spray and sweep
the clear blue sea.
“So I was saved from the deep,
the shores of the Strophades first to take me in.
Strophades—Greek name for the Turning Islands—
lie in the Great Ionian Sea.
Here grim Celaeno and sister Harpies settled
after Phineus’ doors were locked against them all
and they fled in fear from the tables where they’d gorged.
The Harpies . . . no monsters on earth more cruel,
no scourge more savage, no wrath of the gods has
ever raised its head from the Styx’s waters.
The faces of girls, but birds! A loathsome ooze
discharges from their bellies, talons for hands,
their jaws deathly white with a hunger never sated.
this was no empty dream, I saw them clear before me,
their features, face-to-face, their hair crowned with wreaths.
At the sight an icy sweat goes rippling down my body,
I tear myself from bed, I raise my hands and voice
in prayer to the skies and tip a pure, unmixed
libation on the hearth. Gladly, the rite performed,
I unfold the whole event to Anchises, point by point.
He recalls at once the two lines of our race, two parents:
his own error, his late mistake about ancient places.
‘My son,’ he says, ‘so pressed by the fate of Troy—
Cassandra alone made such a prophecy to me . . .
Now I recall how she’d reveal our destination,
Hesperia: time and again repeating it by name,
repeating the name of Italy. But who believed
a Trojan expedition could reach Italian shores?
Who was moved by Cassandra’s visions then?
Yield to Apollo now and take the better course—
the god shows the way!’
“So Anchises urges
and all are overjoyed to follow his command.
Leaving a few behind, we launch out from Crete,
deserting another home, and set our sails again,
scudding on buoyant hulls through wastes of ocean.
“As soon
as our ships had reached the high seas, no land in sight,
no longer—water at all points, at all points the sky—
looming over our heads a pitch-dark thunderhead
brings on night and storm, ruffling the swells black.
At once the winds whip up the sea, huge waves heaving,
strewing, flinging us down the sheer abyss, the cloudbanks
swallowing up the daylight, rain-soaked night wipes out the sky
and flash on flash of lightning bursts from the torn clouds—
we’re whirled off course, yawing blind in the big waves.
Even Palinurus, he swears he can’t tell night from day,
scanning the heavens he finds nothing but walls of sea,
the pilot’s bearings lost. For three whole days we rush,
the waves driving us wildly on, the sun blotted out,
for as many nights we’re robbed of stars to steer by.
Then at last, at the fourth dawn—landfall, rearing
up into view, some mountains clear in the offing,
a rising curl of smoke. Down come the sails,
the crewmen leap to the oars, no time to lose,
they bend to it, churn the spray and sweep
the clear blue sea.
“So I was saved from the deep,
the shores of the Strophades first to take me in.
Strophades—Greek name for the Turning Islands—
lie in the Great Ionian Sea.
Here grim Celaeno and sister Harpies settled
after Phineus’ doors were locked against them all
and they fled in fear from the tables where they’d gorged.
The Harpies . . . no monsters on earth more cruel,
no scourge more savage, no wrath of the gods has
ever raised its head from the Styx’s waters.
The faces of girls, but birds! A loathsome ooze
discharges from their bellies, talons for hands,
their jaws deathly white with a hunger never sated.
“Gaining that landfall, making port, what do we see
but sleek lusty herds of cattle grazing the plains,
flocks of goats unguarded, cropping grassland?
We charge them with drawn swords, calling out
to the gods, to Jove himself, to share our kill.
Then on the halfmoon bay we build up mounds of turf
and fall to the rich feast. But all of a sudden, watch,
with a ghastly swoop from the hills the Harpies swarm us—
ruffling, clattering wingbeats—ripping our food to bits,
polluting it all with their foul, corrupting claws,
their obscene shrieks bursting from the stench.
Again, in a deep recess under rocky cliffs,
[screened around by trees and trembling shade,]
we deck our tables out, relight the altar-fire
but again, from some new height, some hidden nest
the rout comes screaming at their quarry, flapping round us,
slashing with claw-feet, hook-beaks fouling our meal.
‘To arms!’ I command the men,
‘wage all-out war against this brutal crew!’
All hands snap to orders, hiding swords away
in the tall grasses, covering shields as well.
So when they make their roaring swoop along the bay,
Misenus, poised on a lookout, sounds the alarm,
a brazen trumpet blast, and the men attack,
geared for a strange new form of combat, fighting
to hack these vile seabirds down with bloody swords.
But their feathers take no stab-wounds, backs no scars
and swift on their wings they soar toward the heavens,
leaving behind half-eaten prey and trails of filth.
but sleek lusty herds of cattle grazing the plains,
flocks of goats unguarded, cropping grassland?
We charge them with drawn swords, calling out
to the gods, to Jove himself, to share our kill.
Then on the halfmoon bay we build up mounds of turf
and fall to the rich feast. But all of a sudden, watch,
with a ghastly swoop from the hills the Harpies swarm us—
ruffling, clattering wingbeats—ripping our food to bits,
polluting it all with their foul, corrupting claws,
their obscene shrieks bursting from the stench.
Again, in a deep recess under rocky cliffs,
[screened around by trees and trembling shade,]
we deck our tables out, relight the altar-fire
but again, from some new height, some hidden nest
the rout comes screaming at their quarry, flapping round us,
slashing with claw-feet, hook-beaks fouling our meal.
‘To arms!’ I command the men,
‘wage all-out war against this brutal crew!’
All hands snap to orders, hiding swords away
in the tall grasses, covering shields as well.
So when they make their roaring swoop along the bay,
Misenus, poised on a lookout, sounds the alarm,
a brazen trumpet blast, and the men attack,
geared for a strange new form of combat, fighting
to hack these vile seabirds down with bloody swords.
But their feathers take no stab-wounds, backs no scars
and swift on their wings they soar toward the heavens,
leaving behind half-eaten prey and trails of filth.
“All but one. Perched on a beetling crag, Celaeno,
prophet of doom—her shrieks erupted from her breast:
‘So, war as well now? Gearing for battle, are you?
You, the sons of Laomedon, as if to atone
for the butchery of our cattle, our young bulls?
You’d force the innocent Harpies from their fathers’ kingdom?
Take what I say to heart and stamp it in your minds:
this prophecy the almighty Father made to Phoebus
and Phoebus made to me, the greatest of the Furies,
and I reveal to you. Italy is the land you seek?
You call on the winds to sweep you there by sea?
To Italy you will go. Permitted to enter port
but never granted a city girded round by ramparts,
not before some terrible hunger and your attack on us—
outrageous slaughter—drive you to gnaw your platters
with your teeth!’
“So Celaeno shrieked
and taking flight, dashed back to the forest.
The blood of my comrades froze with instant dread.
Their morale sank, they lost all heart for war,
pressing me now to pray, to beg for peace, whether
our foes are goddesses, yes, or filthy, lethal birds.
Then father Anchises, stretching his hands toward the sea,
cries out to the Great Powers, pledging them their due rites:
‘Gods, ward off these threats. Gods, beat back disaster!
Be gracious, guard your faithful.’”
prophet of doom—her shrieks erupted from her breast:
‘So, war as well now? Gearing for battle, are you?
You, the sons of Laomedon, as if to atone
for the butchery of our cattle, our young bulls?
You’d force the innocent Harpies from their fathers’ kingdom?
Take what I say to heart and stamp it in your minds:
this prophecy the almighty Father made to Phoebus
and Phoebus made to me, the greatest of the Furies,
and I reveal to you. Italy is the land you seek?
You call on the winds to sweep you there by sea?
To Italy you will go. Permitted to enter port
but never granted a city girded round by ramparts,
not before some terrible hunger and your attack on us—
outrageous slaughter—drive you to gnaw your platters
with your teeth!’
“So Celaeno shrieked
and taking flight, dashed back to the forest.
The blood of my comrades froze with instant dread.
Their morale sank, they lost all heart for war,
pressing me now to pray, to beg for peace, whether
our foes are goddesses, yes, or filthy, lethal birds.
Then father Anchises, stretching his hands toward the sea,
cries out to the Great Powers, pledging them their due rites:
‘Gods, ward off these threats. Gods, beat back disaster!
Be gracious, guard your faithful.’”
“We cast off cables and let the sheets run free,
unfurling sail as a Southwind bellies out the canvas.
We launch out on the foaming waves as wind and helmsman
call our course. Now over the high seas we raise up
woody Zacynthos, Dulichium, Same, Neritos’ crags,
past Ithaca’s rocky coast we race, Laertes’ realm,
cursing the land that spawned the vicious Ulysses.
And soon Leucata’s cloudy summit comes into view and
Apollo’s shrine on its rugged headland, dread of sailors.
Exhausted, we land at Actium, trek to the little town.
Anchors run from prows, the sterns line the shore.
“So,
exceeding our hopes, we win our way to solid ground at last.
We cleanse ourselves with the rites we owe to Jove
and make the altars blaze with votive gifts,
then crowd the Actian shore with Trojan games.
My shipmates strip and glistening sleek with oil,
wrestle the old Trojan way, our spirits high—
we’d skimmed past such a flurry of Argive cities,
holding true to our flight through waters held by foes.
Then as the sun rolls round the giant arc of the year,
icy winter arrives and a Northwind roughens up the seas.
Fronting the temple doors, I bolt the brazen shield
great Abas bore, and I engrave the offering
with a verse:
“Then I command
the crews to embark from harbor, man the thwarts.
And shipmates race each other, thrashing the waves,
plunging along Phaeacia’s mist-enshrouded heights
to lose them far astern, skirting Epirus’ coasts,
sailing into Chaonia’s port and we finally reach
the hilltop town, Buthrotum.
“Here an incredible story
meets our ears: that Helenus, Priam’s son, holds sway
over these Greek towns, that he had won the throne
and wife of Pyrrhus, son of Achilles—Andromache
was wed once more to a man of Trojan stock.
Astonishing! My heart burned with longing,
irresistible longing to see my old friend
and learn about this remarkable twist of fate . . .
Setting out from the harbor, leaving ships and shore
I chanced to see Andromache pouring out libations
to the dead—the ritual foods, the gifts of grief—
in a grove before the city, banked by a stream
the exiles made believe was Simois River. Just now
tipping wine to her husband’s ashes, she implored
Hector’s shade to visit his tomb, an empty mound
of grassy earth, crowned with the double altars
she had blessed, a place to shed her tears.
As she saw me coming, flanked by Trojan troops,
she lost control, afraid of a wonder so extreme.
Watching, rigid, suddenly warmth leaves her bones,
she faints, and after a long pause barely finds
the breath to whisper: ‘That face, it’s really you?
You’re real, a messenger come my way? Son of the goddess—
still alive? Or if the light of life has left you,
where’s my Hector now?’
“Breaking off,
Andromache wept, her wailing filled the grove,
inconsolable. I could scarcely interject a word,
dismayed, I stuttered a few breathless phrases:
‘Alive, yes. Still dragging out my life . . .
through the worst the world can offer. Have no doubt,
what you see is real. Oh what fate has overpowered you,
robbed of such a husband? Or does fortune shine again
on you, Hector’s Andromache, just as you deserve?
Are you still married to Pyrrhus?’
“Eyes lowered,
her voice subdued, she murmured: ‘She was the one,
the happiest one of all, Priam’s virgin daughter
doomed to die at our enemy’s tomb—Achilles—
under the looming walls of Troy. No captive slave
allotted to serve the lust of a conquering hero’s bed!
But I, our home in flames, was shipped over strange seas,
I bowed to the high and mighty pride of Achilles’ son,
produced him a child—in slavery. Then, keen to marry
a Spartan bride, Hermione, granddaughter of Leda,
he turned me over to Helenus, slave to slave.
But Orestes burned with love for his stolen bride,
spurred by the Furies for his crimes, he seized Pyrrhus,
quite off guard, and butchered him at his father’s altar.
At Pyrrhus’ death, part of his kingdom passed to Helenus,
who named the plains Chaonian—all this realm, Chaonia,
after the Trojan Chaon, and built a Trojan fortress,
the Ilian stronghold rising on this ridge.
“‘But you,
what following winds, what Fates have sailed you here?
What god urged you, all unknowing, to our shores?
And what of your son, Ascanius? Still alive,
still breathing the breath of life? Your son,
whom in the old days at Troy . . .
does he still love his mother lost and gone?
Do his father Aeneas and uncle Hector fire his heart
with the old courage, his heroic forebears’ spirit?’
unfurling sail as a Southwind bellies out the canvas.
We launch out on the foaming waves as wind and helmsman
call our course. Now over the high seas we raise up
woody Zacynthos, Dulichium, Same, Neritos’ crags,
past Ithaca’s rocky coast we race, Laertes’ realm,
cursing the land that spawned the vicious Ulysses.
And soon Leucata’s cloudy summit comes into view and
Apollo’s shrine on its rugged headland, dread of sailors.
Exhausted, we land at Actium, trek to the little town.
Anchors run from prows, the sterns line the shore.
“So,
exceeding our hopes, we win our way to solid ground at last.
We cleanse ourselves with the rites we owe to Jove
and make the altars blaze with votive gifts,
then crowd the Actian shore with Trojan games.
My shipmates strip and glistening sleek with oil,
wrestle the old Trojan way, our spirits high—
we’d skimmed past such a flurry of Argive cities,
holding true to our flight through waters held by foes.
Then as the sun rolls round the giant arc of the year,
icy winter arrives and a Northwind roughens up the seas.
Fronting the temple doors, I bolt the brazen shield
great Abas bore, and I engrave the offering
with a verse:
AENEAS DEVOTES THESE ARMS
SEIZED FROM GRECIAN VICTORS.
the crews to embark from harbor, man the thwarts.
And shipmates race each other, thrashing the waves,
plunging along Phaeacia’s mist-enshrouded heights
to lose them far astern, skirting Epirus’ coasts,
sailing into Chaonia’s port and we finally reach
the hilltop town, Buthrotum.
“Here an incredible story
meets our ears: that Helenus, Priam’s son, holds sway
over these Greek towns, that he had won the throne
and wife of Pyrrhus, son of Achilles—Andromache
was wed once more to a man of Trojan stock.
Astonishing! My heart burned with longing,
irresistible longing to see my old friend
and learn about this remarkable twist of fate . . .
Setting out from the harbor, leaving ships and shore
I chanced to see Andromache pouring out libations
to the dead—the ritual foods, the gifts of grief—
in a grove before the city, banked by a stream
the exiles made believe was Simois River. Just now
tipping wine to her husband’s ashes, she implored
Hector’s shade to visit his tomb, an empty mound
of grassy earth, crowned with the double altars
she had blessed, a place to shed her tears.
As she saw me coming, flanked by Trojan troops,
she lost control, afraid of a wonder so extreme.
Watching, rigid, suddenly warmth leaves her bones,
she faints, and after a long pause barely finds
the breath to whisper: ‘That face, it’s really you?
You’re real, a messenger come my way? Son of the goddess—
still alive? Or if the light of life has left you,
where’s my Hector now?’
“Breaking off,
Andromache wept, her wailing filled the grove,
inconsolable. I could scarcely interject a word,
dismayed, I stuttered a few breathless phrases:
‘Alive, yes. Still dragging out my life . . .
through the worst the world can offer. Have no doubt,
what you see is real. Oh what fate has overpowered you,
robbed of such a husband? Or does fortune shine again
on you, Hector’s Andromache, just as you deserve?
Are you still married to Pyrrhus?’
“Eyes lowered,
her voice subdued, she murmured: ‘She was the one,
the happiest one of all, Priam’s virgin daughter
doomed to die at our enemy’s tomb—Achilles—
under the looming walls of Troy. No captive slave
allotted to serve the lust of a conquering hero’s bed!
But I, our home in flames, was shipped over strange seas,
I bowed to the high and mighty pride of Achilles’ son,
produced him a child—in slavery. Then, keen to marry
a Spartan bride, Hermione, granddaughter of Leda,
he turned me over to Helenus, slave to slave.
But Orestes burned with love for his stolen bride,
spurred by the Furies for his crimes, he seized Pyrrhus,
quite off guard, and butchered him at his father’s altar.
At Pyrrhus’ death, part of his kingdom passed to Helenus,
who named the plains Chaonian—all this realm, Chaonia,
after the Trojan Chaon, and built a Trojan fortress,
the Ilian stronghold rising on this ridge.
“‘But you,
what following winds, what Fates have sailed you here?
What god urged you, all unknowing, to our shores?
And what of your son, Ascanius? Still alive,
still breathing the breath of life? Your son,
whom in the old days at Troy . . .
does he still love his mother lost and gone?
Do his father Aeneas and uncle Hector fire his heart
with the old courage, his heroic forebears’ spirit?’
“A torrent of questions—weeping futile tears,
she sobs her long lament as Priam’s warrior son,
Helenus, comes from the walls with full cortege.
Recognizing his kin, he gladly leads us home,
each word of welcome breaking through his tears.
And I as I walk, I recognize a little Troy,
a miniature, mimicking our great Trojan towers,
and a dried-up brook they call the river Xanthus,
and I put my arms around a cutdown Scaean Gate.
And all my Trojans join me,
drinking deep of a Trojan city’s welcome.
The king ushered us into generous colonnades,
in the heart of the court we offered Bacchus wine
and feasted from golden plates, all cups held high.
she sobs her long lament as Priam’s warrior son,
Helenus, comes from the walls with full cortege.
Recognizing his kin, he gladly leads us home,
each word of welcome breaking through his tears.
And I as I walk, I recognize a little Troy,
a miniature, mimicking our great Trojan towers,
and a dried-up brook they call the river Xanthus,
and I put my arms around a cutdown Scaean Gate.
And all my Trojans join me,
drinking deep of a Trojan city’s welcome.
The king ushered us into generous colonnades,
in the heart of the court we offered Bacchus wine
and feasted from golden plates, all cups held high.
“Now time wears on, day in, day out, and the breezes
lure our sails, a Southwind rippling in our canvas.
So I approach the prophet-king with questions:
‘Son of Troy and seer of the gods, you know the will
of Phoebus Apollo, know his Clarian tripods and his laurel,
know the stars, the cries of birds, the omens quick on the wing.
Please, tell me—all the signs foretold me a happy voyage,
yes, and the will of all the gods impels me now
to sail for Italy, seek that far-off land.
The Harpy Celaeno alone foretold a monstrous sign,
chanting out the unspeakable—withering wrath to come
and the ghastly pangs of famine. What dangers, tell me,
to steer away from first? What course to set
to master these ordeals?’
“At that, Helenus
first performs a sacrifice, slaughters many bulls.
He prays the gods for peace, he looses the sacred ribbons
round his hallowed head and taking me by the hand
he leads me to your shrine, Apollo, stirred with awe
by your vibrant power, and at once this prophecy
comes singing from the priest’s inspired lips:
‘Son of the goddess, surely proof is clear,
the highest sanctions shine upon your voyage.
So the King of the Gods has sorted out your fate,
so rolls your life, as the world rolls through its changes.
Now, few out of many truths I will reveal to you,
so you can cross the welcoming seas more safely,
moor secure in a Latian harbor. The Fates
have forbidden Helenus to know the rest.
Saturnian Juno says I may not speak a word . . .
lure our sails, a Southwind rippling in our canvas.
So I approach the prophet-king with questions:
‘Son of Troy and seer of the gods, you know the will
of Phoebus Apollo, know his Clarian tripods and his laurel,
know the stars, the cries of birds, the omens quick on the wing.
Please, tell me—all the signs foretold me a happy voyage,
yes, and the will of all the gods impels me now
to sail for Italy, seek that far-off land.
The Harpy Celaeno alone foretold a monstrous sign,
chanting out the unspeakable—withering wrath to come
and the ghastly pangs of famine. What dangers, tell me,
to steer away from first? What course to set
to master these ordeals?’
“At that, Helenus
first performs a sacrifice, slaughters many bulls.
He prays the gods for peace, he looses the sacred ribbons
round his hallowed head and taking me by the hand
he leads me to your shrine, Apollo, stirred with awe
by your vibrant power, and at once this prophecy
comes singing from the priest’s inspired lips:
‘Son of the goddess, surely proof is clear,
the highest sanctions shine upon your voyage.
So the King of the Gods has sorted out your fate,
so rolls your life, as the world rolls through its changes.
Now, few out of many truths I will reveal to you,
so you can cross the welcoming seas more safely,
moor secure in a Latian harbor. The Fates
have forbidden Helenus to know the rest.
Saturnian Juno says I may not speak a word . . .
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The Duke's Holiday by Maggie Fenton
Season of the Wolf (BBW Holiday Romance) by Mason, Marie
Fallen Star by James Blish
Luck of the Dragon (Entangled Covet) by Scott, Susannah
CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy by Lynn Sholes
Mistwood by Cypess, Leah
The Secret Identity of Devon Delaney by Barnholdt, Lauren
