Nes, Dejanejra in Herkulova smrt

Besedilo

Nes, Dejanejra in Herkulova smrt

He had finished speaking, and a nymph, her dress tucked up in Diana’s fashion, one of his attendants, her hair flowing over either shoulder, came forward, bearing in a lavish horn all autumn’s bounty, ripe fruit for the second course. Dawn came, and as the first sunlight struck the peaks, the young men departed: they would not wait for the rivers to grow peaceful, their currents to run calmly, and all the floodwaters to subside. Achelous hid his rugged face and his head, shorn of a horn, beneath the waves.

Yet only the loss of that stolen glory had humbled him; in all else he was unharmed. Even the damage to his head was hidden by willow leaves or reeds laid over it. But you, fierce Nessus, passion for that same maiden had destroyed, a flying arrow piercing your back. For, returning to his native city with his new bride, the son of Jove had reached the rushing waters of the Euenus.

Swollen beyond its usual bounds by winter rains, the river seethed with whirlpools and could not be crossed. Fearless for himself, but anxious for his wife, he was approached by Nessus, strong of limb and familiar with the fords. “By my service this lady shall be set upon that farther bank,” he said, “Alcides. Use your strength to swim across!” And the Aonian hero entrusted the frightened Calydonian maiden to Nessus, pale with terror, afraid of both the river and her bearer.

Then, just as he was, weighed down by his quiver and lion’s hide (for he had thrown his club and curved bow to the farther bank), he said, “Since I have begun, let this river too be conquered!” Without hesitation, without seeking where the stream was gentlest, he scorned to yield and be carried downstream. He had reached the bank and was picking up the bow he had thrown when he recognized his wife’s voice. As Nessus prepared to betray his trust, he shouted, “Where is your vain confidence in your speed carrying you, brute? You, two-shaped Nessus, I am speaking to you! Listen, and do not steal what is mine!

If no respect for me restrains you, at least your father’s whirling wheel might have checked this forbidden lust. Yet you will not escape, however much you trust your horse’s strength: with a wound, not with my feet, I shall overtake you.” His last words were proved by the deed: he loosed an arrow through the fleeing back, and its barbed point stood out from the chest.

As soon as it was pulled free, blood spurted from both wounds, mingled with the deadly poison of Lerna. Nessus caught it. “For I shall not die unavenged,” he said to himself, and gave the woman he had seized a garment soaked in his warm blood, pretending it would kindle love. A long stretch of time passed, and the deeds of mighty Hercules had filled the earth and satisfied his stepmother’s hatred.

Victorious over Oechalia, he was preparing to fulfil his vows with sacrifice to Cenaean Jove, when Rumour reached your ears first, Deianira—chattering Rumour, who delights in adding falsehood to truth, and swells from the smallest beginnings through her own lies— saying that Amphitryon’s son was captive to his passion for Iole. She believed it, for she loved him, and, terrified by the news of this new love, at first gave way to tears, and the wretched woman poured out her grief in weeping. But soon she said, “Why, though, am I weeping? My rival will delight in these tears.

Since she is coming, I must act quickly and devise some plan, while I still can, before another woman occupies my marriage bed. Shall I complain or keep silent? Return to Calydon or remain? Shall I leave this house, or, if nothing else, stand in her way? What if, remembering, Meleager, that I am your sister, I dare some dreadful deed, and, by slaughtering my rival, show what an injured woman’s grief can do?”

Her mind ran down many paths. Above all these choices she preferred to send the garment steeped in Nessus’ blood, to restore the strength of a failing love. Not knowing what she gave, she entrusted to unsuspecting Lichas the cause of her own sorrow, and with tender words—poor woman!— charged him to deliver that gift to her husband. Unknowing, the hero took it and clothed his shoulders in the venom of the Lernaean serpent.

He was offering incense and prayers to the newly kindled flames, pouring wine from a bowl upon the marble altars, when the deadly power grew warm and, released by the heat, spread far and wide through Hercules’ limbs. As long as he could, he stifled his groans with his accustomed courage; but when agony overcame his endurance, he thrust the altars away and filled wooded Oeta with his cries.

At once he tried to tear apart the death-dealing garment: wherever he pulled it, it pulled away his skin, and—horrible to tell— either clung to his limbs, defying his attempts to wrench it free, or laid bare his mangled flesh and mighty bones. His very blood hissed, as a white-hot sheet of metal does when plunged into cold water, and seethed with the burning poison.

Nor was there any limit: ravenous flames devoured his vitals, dark sweat streamed from his whole body, and his scorched sinews crackled. His marrow dissolved in that hidden corruption, and, lifting his hands to the stars, he cried, “Feast on my ruin, daughter of Saturn, feast, cruel one, and look down from on high upon this torment, and glut your savage heart! Or if even an enemy might pity me— if even you might—take away this life, sick with dreadful anguish, hated by you and born for toil.

That will be a gift to me; such gifts become a stepmother. Was it for this I subdued Busiris, who defiled his temples with strangers’ blood, and robbed Antaeus of the nourishment his cruel mother gave him? Did the Spanish herdsman’s triple form not daunt me, nor your triple form, Cerberus? Was it you, my hands, that crushed the mighty bull’s horns? Does Elis hold the work you did, and the Stymphalian waters, and the woods of Parthenius? Was it by your strength that I brought back the belt embossed with gold from the Thermodon, and the apples guarded by the sleepless dragon?

Could neither the Centaurs withstand me, nor the boar that ravaged Arcadia? Did it avail the hydra nothing to grow through injury and regain twice its strength? What then? I saw the Thracian’s horses fattened on human blood, and their mangers filled with mangled bodies; I saw and overthrew them, killing both the horses and their master. The monstrous Nemean lion lies strangled by these arms; upon this neck I bore the heavens. Jove’s cruel wife grew weary of commanding labours; I never wearied of performing them.

But now a new affliction is upon me, which neither courage nor weapons nor strength of arms can withstand. Deep in my lungs a ravenous fire wanders, feeding on every limb. Yet Eurystheus thrives! And there are those who can believe that gods exist!” He spoke, and, stricken, roamed the heights of Oeta, like a bull carrying hunting spears lodged in its body, after the man who struck the blows has fled.

You might have seen him groaning again and again, and roaring, again and again trying to tear all his clothing apart, felling trees, raging against the mountains, or stretching his arms towards his father’s heaven. Then he caught sight of trembling Lichas, hiding in a hollow rock, and, his pain having gathered all his fury, he said, “Was it you, Lichas, who brought this fatal gift?

Are you to be the author of my death?” The man trembled, pale with terror, and falteringly spoke words of excuse. As he spoke and tried to clasp the hero’s knees, Alcides seized him, whirled him three or four times, and hurled him into the Euboean waters harder than a catapult. As he hung in the airy sky, he hardened. Just as rain, they say, congeals in freezing winds and turns to snow, and the snowflakes, whirled together, lose their softness, binding into compact hailstones, so, hurled through empty air by those powerful arms, bloodless with fear and drained of all moisture, he turned to rigid stone, as ancient times have told.

Even now a little rock rises from the deep waters of the Euboean sea, preserving traces of a human shape. Sailors fear to tread upon it, as though it could feel, and call it Lichas. But you, illustrious son of Jove, having felled the trees that grew on lofty Oeta and piled them into a pyre, commanded the son of Poeas to take your bow, your ample quiver, and the arrows destined to see the kingdom of Troy once more. He kindled the flames beneath; and as the hungry fire caught the pile, you spread the Nemean lion’s skin over the heaped wood and lay down, your neck resting on your club, with a face as calm as though you reclined at a feast,

garlanded with flowers among brimming cups of wine. Now the fire roared mightily, spreading on every side, and assailed those fearless limbs and the man who scorned its power. The gods feared for earth’s defender. Jupiter, Saturn’s son, perceived their fear, and addressed them with a smiling face: “Your fear is my delight, you gods, and with all my heart I gladly congratulate myself that I am called the ruler and father of a grateful people, and that my son is protected by your favour too.

For though you grant him this for his own mighty deeds, I too am in your debt. But let no groundless fear alarm your faithful hearts: scorn the flames of Oeta! He who has conquered all will conquer the fire you see, and feel the power of Vulcan only in the part he took from his mother. What he drew from me is eternal, free and secure from death, and no flame can subdue it.

When its earthly life is done, I shall receive that part in heaven’s realm, and I trust that all the gods will rejoice in what I do. Yet if anyone should grieve at Hercules becoming a god, and begrudge him his reward, that god shall still know he earned it, and approve against their will.” The gods assented. His royal wife too seemed to receive the rest of Jove’s words without displeasure, but his last words with a hardened look, resenting that he had singled her out.

Meanwhile Mulciber had consumed all that flames could ravage, and no recognizable image of Hercules remained. He retained nothing drawn from his mother’s likeness, and bore the traces of Jove alone. And as a snake, renewed after shedding its old skin, revels in life and gleams with fresh scales, so, when the Tirynthian cast off his mortal limbs, he flourished in his better part, began to seem greater, and became awe-inspiring in his august majesty.

His almighty father swept him up among the hollow clouds and bore him in a four-horse chariot to the radiant stars.