There is nothing like an obscure Roman poet to curl up with on a dark winter day. I have been reading Valerius Flaccus, a poet seldom read even by Latinists. Very little is known about Valerius Flaccus. Quintilian mentions a writer of that name who died in 95 CE. He writes, “We have recently lost much in [the death of] Valerius Flaccus” (multum in Valerio Flacco nuper amisimus). Classicists love to speculate about the poets’ lives, but there is not much to go on here.
And certainly readers of Latin poetry have lost much in V.F.’s obscurity. His epic poem, Argonautica, is a stunning retelling of the myth of Jason and the Argonauts. And even those of us who are not terribly interested in Jason like to collect tidbits about Medea, sine qua non. We also compare V.F.’s version to to Apollonius Rhodius’s Argonautica, a Greek epyllion (a little epic) written in the third century BCE. But V.F.’s greatest influence is Virgil’s Aeneid, from which he freely borrows phrases, images, and motifs.
There is a horrifically violent scene in Book III of V.F.’s Argonautica. A senseless battle is fought at night, a mass slaughter, which turns out to have been friendly fire on a massive scale. King Cizycus had given hospitality to Jason and the Argonauts, and they parted with warmth, exchanging valuable gifts. But at night Cyzicus mistook them for enemies. Only the intervention of Juppiter prevented the extinction of the Doliones (Cyzicus’s people).
Their grief is ineffable on both sides. The priest, Mopsus (Ampycides), delivers philosophical speeches and performs rites that help them express their grief.
Below is a prose translation of a snippet from Book III, in which the priest prepares for the burial rites. I have omitted a few words that make the English too awkward. Leave it to the poets to solve those problems!
And now sleep had pressed the earth, and dreams were flying around the silent world. Vigilant Ampycides, looking out for the time of the secret rites, seeks the river in the Aesepian woods and runs beside it into the waves of the sea. He purifies his limbs with purple brine and living water, and fits himself for the rites for the deeds that inspired horror.. Then he encircles his forehead with woolen bands, and suppliant with an olive branch, marks out a place for the altars and sacred ritual.
It is time for a new translation of Valerius Flaccus, since not everyone is a Latinist.
You know you’re in trouble when you start laughing at the epic poem you’ve decided is your winter reading project.
You can imagine my horror when I realized this poem is not only dull but deplorablly written.
Lucan attempts to imitate Virgil, but his writing is so labored,