With these words Orontes dashed hot upon the front ranks, reaping a harvest in both kinds. Not one of all that wide front durst abide the adverse onset of so mighty a champion—not bold fiery Eurymedon, not Alcon his kinsman: Astraios chief of the Satyrs was in flight, none of the Seilenoi themselves would stand. With stormy foot Deriades’ goodson rushed in, raging, lifted a boulder in the air and let fly at the Centaurs, and hit Hylaios: the stone, a very millstone, crushed the forehead of the shaggybreast shepherd ; the missile torn from the rock smashed his headpiece, a sham imitation made of the familiar chalk like a real helmet guarding the face, which fell to the ground like a glowing cinder in many pieces and whitened the dust, while the creature crushed by this stony spear threw his arms along the ground. Next he struck the hairy front of another Centaur with a two-bladed axe, and shore away the curving horn from his bull’s-head. He fell in a great heap on the ground, and rolled headlong tumbling about half dead and brushing the dust with his ears; then lifting his body on his feet, with a last wild effort he danced a stumbling hideous dance of death: the monster let out a harsh roaring sound, like a bull struck on the skull which bellows horribly with grinning jaws.
The pitiless Erembeus now struck Helice, and drove his blade into her chest : the black hand scored the white circle of her breast with red blood. She rolled in the dust, and the hurtling winds taught her a second sorrow by lifting her robe. As her lovely gore welled up over the skin, she modestly smoothed the errant vesture with her right hand, guarding the bare secrets of the snowy-white thigh.”
The god, seeing victory pass to the enemy, and the Satyrs cowed, uttered a loud cry in the turmoil, like an army of nine thousand men pouring defiant shouts with united voices from thunderous throats. Now Orontes fought alone quicknee against Bromios, and he a mortal, challenging with human voice a god. Both advanced together to the encounter, one with a spear, one with a pointed thyrsus. Orontes proud of his armament struck Bacchos on the top of his head, but wounded him not ; he grazed the sharp horn of Bromios all for nothing. For Lord Dionysos wore on that invulnerable head nothing like the shape of the bullfaced moon which can be cut by the devastating steel of the slaughterer’s axe, as they sing of horned Achelods, when Heracles cut off his horn and took it to adorn his wedding. No, Lyaios wore the heavenly image of the cow’s-eye moon, a growth of divine horns shake, The bold Indian facing Bacchos, heavy-thundering like a tempest in the sky, again cast a spear, but the point when it touched the fawnskin crumpled up like lead. Bacchos in his turn let fly his purple thyrsus at the broad shoulder of Orontes, and missed on purpose. Then fightgod Orontes laughed aloud at the ivyswathed lance, and said :
“You that array a crowd of women against my armies, fight if you can with your womanish thyrsus! Play the champion if you can! And if you delight the heart of all mankind, allconquering, now charm one only whom nothing can charm— Orontes! Stand and fight! you shall see what a prime hero my ancient father Indian Hydaspes has produced ! I was not born in Phrygia, where the men are women, who have reaped the corn of youth without seed and without wedlock. I am no unarmed servant of Lyaios the weakling. Drugs will not save your champions; your crazy women I will lead captive, your Seilenoi I will bring from battle as servants for my king, your Satyrs I will destroy, all cowering before my spear.”
So cried in defiance the leader of the host. Lord Bacchos was angry when he heard him, and with a vine cluster he tapped him gently on the chest. This tap of an insignificant vinegrown bloom split his breastpiece. The god’s pike did not touch the protected flesh, did not scratch his body ; but the coat of mail broke and fell with a heavy clang— Orontes was naked! He stept back and turned his gaze to the eastern expanse, and uttered his last words to Phaéthon opposite :
“O Helios, cutting the air in your fiery chariot, pouring your light on the Caucasian plowland so near, stay your car I pray, and announce to Deriades how the Indian peoples are slaves, how Orontes has destroyed himself, how the little thyrsus has broken our men! Describe also the drugged victory of unwarlike Dionysos, the winesoaked stream of the delirious river. Tell how women with light bunches of leaves scatter the untiring host of steelclad Indians. And if you have not forgotten your Clymene’s bed, protect Deriades, a sprout of your own stock, who has in him the blood of Astris said to be your daughter. I never obeyed Bromios the womanhearted. I bring as witnesses the Sun, and the boundless Earth, and India’s god, holy Water.
“And now farewell. Be gracious on the battlefield to the fighting Indians, and bury Orontes dead.”
He spoke, and drew his sword, fixt it against his belly and leapt upon the blade, selfslain, a cruel fate ; then rolled into the river and gave it his name Orontes.
Lord Bacchos looked on him yet breathing and struggling, and addressed him in contemptuous words :
“Lie there, you corpse, in foreign waters ; and may your father Hydaspes cover dying Deriades. I will destroy you both, goodfather and goodson, shaking my Euian thyrsus with point wreathed in vine, instead of bloodstained spear and wellsharpened sword. But you killed yourself with gory steel, and so you never drank the luxurious water of the honey-distilling river; a river has covered you, but you missed the delicious wine. Drink up the whole river alone, if you like ; but you shall have river-water enough when you drink the fatal water of Acheron. Your belly swells already with the bitter water of a murdering stream, and teems quick with Fate ; but taste of Cocytos, and drink Lethe if you like, that you may forget Ares and the bloody steel.” - But the dead body of Orontes was carried away swollen by the restless waters, until the stream vomited out the floating corpse upon the bank breathless and cold. There the Nymphs gave it burial and sang their dirges, the Hamadryad Nymphs, beside the stem of a golden laurel on the bank of the river stream, and inscribed upon the trunk above—“Here lies Indian Orontes, leader of the host, who insulted Bacchos and slew himself with his own hand.”
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