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The ditches are full of witches
In which I get my act together and rewind a few scenes in the Pharsalia to introduce the witches of Thessaly, who will fuck you up. In seeking out one to tell his future, however, it could be argued that Sextus Pompeius is acting no more suicidally than the rest of his perishing republic, whose civil war is just a society-wide form of falling on your sword (see proem: populumque potentem / in sua uictrici conuersum uiscera dextra). After which we will get the introduction of Erictho, who is even scarier than your average Thessalian, and the necromancy itself, as originally promised, and then either I'll just backtrack and finish Book 6 or skip to something completely different, like Julius Caesar's utterly meaningless tourist-walk around the ruins of Troy. Usual rights reserved to delete, rewrite, or despair of the entire thing.
He had learned of
the secrets of savage magicians, things abominable
to the gods above, and altars grim with grave-offerings,
warranty of ghosts and Dis, and it was clear to the wretch
that those above knew little. The place itself encouraged
his fruitless, senseless folly, the camp hard by the walls
of the Haemonians, whom no freehand monsters of fiction
can outdo, whose art is whatever is not to be believed.
The craggy earth of Thessaly springs with noxious herbs
and stones that come to know the chanting of magicians,
their grave secrets. There many things grow
that can assault the gods; the herbs the Colchis-stranger
did not bring with her, she gathered in Haemonian lands.
The unholy songs of this dread tribe can turn the ears
of sky-dwellers deaf to so many peoples, so many tribes—
their voice alone passes through the vaults of the upper air
and bears the words that compel, unwilling, that power
whom no care for sky-pole or spinning heaven can ever
distract. When that unspeakable murmur touches the stars,
then neither Persian Babylon nor Memphis with its secrets,
unbolt each shrine of their ancient magicians as they may,
could draw their gods from Thessaly's strange altars.
By a song of the Thessalians, into hardened hearts flows
love never prompted by the fates, and stern old men
blaze up with illicit flame: nor are their skills confined
to noxious draughts or skimming off the love-pledge
from a newborn's forehead, swollen with juice.
The mind untainted by a drink of poisonous filth
is destroyed by incantation, bodies not bound
by a shared bed's harmony or beauty's seducing strength
are dragged together in the magic reel of twisted thread.
The changes of nature give over and night-prolonged day
is stuck fast, the upper air disregards its laws
and Jupiter urges the skies to speed on their swift wheel,
wondering why they do not. Now they fill the world
with rains and draw clouds before hot Phoebus
and the sky thunders in Jupiter's ignorance; with the same voices
they shake off damp-scattering fogs and stormclouds
with streaming hair. Windless, the sea's plain
swells, but when banned from the touch of the blast
it falls still, though Notus roils and the ship-speeding sails
swell against the wind. From the steep cliff
a torrent hangs fixed, the river runs
the wrong way in its bed. Summer cannot raise the Nile,
Maeander sets his waters straight, Arar hustles along
the loitering Rhone. Mountains drop their peaks,
unpleat their ridges: Olympus looks up at the clouds
and even in the sunless freeze of winter,
the Scythian snows drip away. It is Haemonian song
that forces back star-driven Tethys in the shore's defense.
Even the earth shudders on the axes of its steadfast weight
and the force that pulls inward to the world's core totters—
stricken by their voices, even so ponderous a mass
gives way to a glimpse of Olympus slipping round.
Every animal with power of death and born to harm
at once fears the Haemonians and furthers their lethal arts:
on them avid tigers and the noble rage of lions
fawn with caressing mouth, for them the snake unfolds
its icy coils and stretches out in the ploughed hoar-frost,
the viper's knots burst apart and knit again
and the serpent falls at a breath of human venom.
What works on those above to follow chants and herbs
and fear to disdain them? What contract and commerce
holds the gods bound? Is it a duty to obey,
or does it please them? Is it the prize of unknown piety,
or do they prevail with silent threats? Is this binding of theirs
on all those above, or is it a certain god these songs
command, who can compel the world to whatever
he is compelled to himself? By them, the stars were first
drawn down from the headlong sky and clear Phoebe
besieged by the dire venom of their words,
to pale and blaze with black and terrestrial fires,
as if the earth blocked her from her brother's face
and grafted its shadows between their heavenly lights,
crushed down by incantation, enduring eclipse
until she spills onto the grasses close below.
—Lucan, Pharsalia 6.430—506.
He had learned of
the secrets of savage magicians, things abominable
to the gods above, and altars grim with grave-offerings,
warranty of ghosts and Dis, and it was clear to the wretch
that those above knew little. The place itself encouraged
his fruitless, senseless folly, the camp hard by the walls
of the Haemonians, whom no freehand monsters of fiction
can outdo, whose art is whatever is not to be believed.
The craggy earth of Thessaly springs with noxious herbs
and stones that come to know the chanting of magicians,
their grave secrets. There many things grow
that can assault the gods; the herbs the Colchis-stranger
did not bring with her, she gathered in Haemonian lands.
The unholy songs of this dread tribe can turn the ears
of sky-dwellers deaf to so many peoples, so many tribes—
their voice alone passes through the vaults of the upper air
and bears the words that compel, unwilling, that power
whom no care for sky-pole or spinning heaven can ever
distract. When that unspeakable murmur touches the stars,
then neither Persian Babylon nor Memphis with its secrets,
unbolt each shrine of their ancient magicians as they may,
could draw their gods from Thessaly's strange altars.
By a song of the Thessalians, into hardened hearts flows
love never prompted by the fates, and stern old men
blaze up with illicit flame: nor are their skills confined
to noxious draughts or skimming off the love-pledge
from a newborn's forehead, swollen with juice.
The mind untainted by a drink of poisonous filth
is destroyed by incantation, bodies not bound
by a shared bed's harmony or beauty's seducing strength
are dragged together in the magic reel of twisted thread.
The changes of nature give over and night-prolonged day
is stuck fast, the upper air disregards its laws
and Jupiter urges the skies to speed on their swift wheel,
wondering why they do not. Now they fill the world
with rains and draw clouds before hot Phoebus
and the sky thunders in Jupiter's ignorance; with the same voices
they shake off damp-scattering fogs and stormclouds
with streaming hair. Windless, the sea's plain
swells, but when banned from the touch of the blast
it falls still, though Notus roils and the ship-speeding sails
swell against the wind. From the steep cliff
a torrent hangs fixed, the river runs
the wrong way in its bed. Summer cannot raise the Nile,
Maeander sets his waters straight, Arar hustles along
the loitering Rhone. Mountains drop their peaks,
unpleat their ridges: Olympus looks up at the clouds
and even in the sunless freeze of winter,
the Scythian snows drip away. It is Haemonian song
that forces back star-driven Tethys in the shore's defense.
Even the earth shudders on the axes of its steadfast weight
and the force that pulls inward to the world's core totters—
stricken by their voices, even so ponderous a mass
gives way to a glimpse of Olympus slipping round.
Every animal with power of death and born to harm
at once fears the Haemonians and furthers their lethal arts:
on them avid tigers and the noble rage of lions
fawn with caressing mouth, for them the snake unfolds
its icy coils and stretches out in the ploughed hoar-frost,
the viper's knots burst apart and knit again
and the serpent falls at a breath of human venom.
What works on those above to follow chants and herbs
and fear to disdain them? What contract and commerce
holds the gods bound? Is it a duty to obey,
or does it please them? Is it the prize of unknown piety,
or do they prevail with silent threats? Is this binding of theirs
on all those above, or is it a certain god these songs
command, who can compel the world to whatever
he is compelled to himself? By them, the stars were first
drawn down from the headlong sky and clear Phoebe
besieged by the dire venom of their words,
to pale and blaze with black and terrestrial fires,
as if the earth blocked her from her brother's face
and grafted its shadows between their heavenly lights,
crushed down by incantation, enduring eclipse
until she spills onto the grasses close below.
—Lucan, Pharsalia 6.430—506.
no subject
Thank you!
And the passage is primo stuff.
I love this whole book of the Pharsalia. I am planning to finish the necromancy, and then—see replies to
no subject
---L.