Ovid, Fasti 2: On the Rape of Lucretia

Source: http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Latin/OvidFastiBkTwo.htm

Translated by A. S. Kline, copyright 2004.

Meanwhile the Roman standards ringed Ardea,

And the city endured a long lingering siege.

While they were idle, and the enemy feared to fight,

They enjoyed themselves in camp: the soldiers at ease.

Young Tarquin entertained his friends with food and wine,

And among them the king’s son spoke out:

‘While Ardea troubles us with this sluggish war,

And stops us bearing our weapons to our fathers’ gods,

How is the marriage bed served? And are we

As dear to our wives as they are to us?’

Each praised his own: in their eagerness dispute raged,

And tongues and hearts grew heated with much wine.

Then Tarquinius who took his famous name from Collatia

Rose, and said: ‘Words are not needed: trust in deeds!

Night still remains: take horse and head for the City!’

The words pleased them: the horses were bridled,

And carried off their masters. They first sought

The royal palace: there was no guard at the door.

See, they found the king’s daughters-in-law, garlands

Round their necks, keeping vigil over the wine.

From there they swiftly sought Lucretia,

Before whose couch were baskets of soft wool.

By a scant light her servants were spinning their yarn,

Amongst them the lady spoke with a quiet voice:

‘The cloak our hands have made (hurry now, girls, hurry!)

Must be sent to the master straight away.

What news is there? Since you hear more of things:

How much more of the war do they say is left to run?

Perverse Ardea, after this you’ll be conquered and fall,

You resist your betters, who force our husbands’ absence.

If only they return! But mine is thoughtless,

And rushes everywhere with his drawn sword.

I faint, I die, as often as the image of my warrior

Comes to mind, and chills my heart with cold.’

She ended in tears, letting fall the stretched yarn,

And buried her face in her lap.

It became her: becoming, were her modest tears,

And her face was a worthy equal to her heart.

Her husband cried out: ‘Fear not, I come!’ She revived,

And hung, a sweet burden, on her husband’s neck.

Meanwhile the royal youth, Sextus, caught furious fire,

And raged about, captured by blind love.

Her form please him, her white skin and yellow hair,

And added to that her grace, owing nothing to art:

Her voice and speech pleased him, her incorruptibility,

And the less his hope, the more he desired her.

Now the bird had sung that heralds the dawn,

When the young men took their way back to camp.

Meanwhile the image of the absent one captivated

His stunned senses. In memory, she pleased more and more.

‘She sat so, was dressed so, so spun her yarn,

So her hair spilled loose about her neck,

That was her look: those were her words,

That was her colour, her form, her lovely face.’

As the flood subsides after a great gale,

But the waves heave from the dying wind,

So though the presence of that pleasing form was absent,

Love remained, which its presence had given form.

He burned, and driven by the goad of sinful love,

He plotted force and deceit to an innocent bed.

He said: ‘The issue is doubtful: we’ll dare extremes!

Let her beware! God and fate favour the bold.

By daring we took Gabii as well.’ So saying,

He strapped on his sword, and mounted his horse.

Collatia’s bronze gate received the young man

As the sun was preparing to hide its face.

An enemy entered Collatinus’s home, as a friend:

He was welcomed courteously: he was of their blood.

How her mind was deceived! Unknowingly,

The wretched woman prepared a meal for her foe.

The meal was done: the hour demanded rest:

It was night, and the whole house was without light:

He rose, and drew his sword from his gilded scabbard,

And, chaste wife, he entered your bedroom.

As he touched the bed, the king’s son said:

‘Lucretia I have a blade, and I, a Tarquin, speak!’

She said nothing: she’d no voice or powers of speech

Nor any capability for thought in her whole mind.

But she trembled like a little lamb, caught straying

From the fold, brought low by a wolf’s attack.

What could she do? Fight? In battle a woman loses.

Cry out? But the sword in his right hand restrained her.

Fly? His hands pressed down hard on her breast,

A breast that had never been touched by a stranger’s hand.

The hostile lover pursues her with prayers, bribes, threats,

But prayers and bribes and threats cannot sway her.

He said: ‘My accusation will rob you of your life:

The adulterer will bear false witness to adultery:

I’ll kill a slave, they’ll say you were caught with him.’

Overcome by fear for her reputation, the girl was conquered.

Why, rejoice, victor? This victory will destroy you.

Alas, how a single night cost you your kingdom!

Now day had dawned: she sat with hair unbound,

Like a mother who must go to her son’s funeral.

She called her aged father and her loyal husband

From the camp, and both came without delay.

Seeing her condition, they asked why she mourned,

Whose rites she prepared, what ill had befallen her?

She was silent for a long time, and hid her face in her robe

Out of shame: her tears flowed in a running stream.

Her father here, her husband there comforted her tears

And begged her to tell, wept, and trembled in blind fear.

Three times she tried to speak, three times desisted,

And a fourth time, gaining courage, still couldn’t raise her eyes.

She said: ‘Must I owe this to a Tarquin too? Must I speak,

Speak, poor wretch, my shame from my own mouth?’

What she could, she told. The end she suppressed:

She wept, and a blush spread over a wife’s cheeks.

Her husband and her father forgave her being forced:

She said: ‘I deny myself the forgiveness that you grant.’

Then she stabbed herself with a blade she had hidden,

And, all bloodied, fell at her father’s feet.

Even then she took care in dying so that she fell

With decency, that was her care even in falling.

See, the husband and father throw themselves on her body,

Regardless of appearances, grieve for their mutual loss.

Brutus approached, and at last, with spirit, belied his name,

Snatching the weapon from the dying body,

Holding the blade dripping with noble blood,

Fearlessly he uttered these menacing words:

‘I swear by this chaste blood, so courageous,

And by your spirit that will be a divinity to me,

I will be revenged on Tarquin the Proud and his lost brood.

I have concealed my virtue for too long.’

At these words, lying there, she moved her sightless eyes,

And seemed to witness the speech by a stirring of her hair.

They carried her to her funeral, a woman with a man’s courage,

And tears and indignation followed after her.

The gaping wound was seen. Brutus, with a shout,

Gathered the Quirites, and told of the king’s evil act.

Tarquin the Proud and his children fled, a consul took up the rule

For the year: That day was the last day of kingship.