The twentieth deals with the pole-axe of bloodthirsty Lycurgos, when Dionysos is chased into the fishy deep.
The Games were over; the Satyrs with Dionysos of the thyrsus spent the night in the opulent halls of Botrys. The Seasons of the vintage joined in the banqueters’ revels : there was banging of drums at that supper, the panspipes filled the place with their shrill tones ; the servers were busy ladling wine into the cups at the unresting feast, and the banqueters ever kept coaxing the servants to draw more wine. The Bacchant leapt high, waving her cymbals, while the hair of the dancing girl shook in the breezes without ribbon and without veil.
The vinegod called the wife of Staphylos, wiped away the dirt and adorned her with a wine-coloured robe. He cleansed broadbeard Pithos from the dirt which covered him, and threw away the mourning clothes soiled with smears of ashes, then dressed him again in a gleaming-white frock. Botrys lamented no longer or wetted his cheeks with helpless welling tears, but at Bacchos’s bidding opened his scented coffers ; as they opened, sparkling gleams came from robes covered with gems. From these he took out and donned the brilliant royal garb of Staphylos his father, steeped in purple dye, and joined Lyaios at table to touch the feast.
While they were amusing themselves, the star of evening rose and rolled away the light of dancedelighting day. The troops of banqueters one after another took the boon of sleep, on piles of bedding in the hall. Pithos entered one bed with Maron, with drops still on his lips of the fragrant potion from the nectarean winepress; and breathing out the same breath they intoxicated each other all night long. Eupetale the nurse of Lyaios lit a torch, and prepared a double bed strewn with sea-purple, for both Botrys and Dionysos. In a neighbouring room, away from the Satyrs and apart from Bacchos, the servants laid a golden bed for the queen.
A dream came to Bacchos—Discord the nurse of War, in the shape of Rheia the loverattle goddess, seated in what seemed to be her lionchariot. Rout drove the team of this dreamchariot, in the counterfeit shape of Attis with limbs like his ; he formed the image of Cybele’s charioteer, a softskinned man in looks with shrill tones like the voice of a woman. Gadabout Discord stood by the head of sleeping Bacchos, and reproached him with brawlinciting voice :
“You sleep, godborn Dionysos! Deriades summons you to battle, and you make merry here! Stepmother Hera mocks you, when she sees your Enyo on the run, as you drag your army to dances! I am ashamed to show myself before Cronion, I shrink from Hera, I shrink from the immortals, because your doings are not worthy of Rheia. I avoid Ares, destroyer of the Titans, his father’s champion, who lifts a proud neck in heaven, still holding that shield ever soaked with gore; and I fear your sister still more, selfbred daughter of a father of fine progeny, unmothered child of her father’s head, flashhelm Pallas, because Athena too blames Bacchos idle, the woman blames the man! Thyrsus yielded to goatskin, since once upon a time valiant Pallas holding the goatskin defended the gates of Olympos, and scattered the stormy assault of the Titans, thus honouring the dexterous travail of her father’s head —but you disgrace the fruitful pocket in Zeus’s thigh ! Look how Hermeias and Apollo laugh—one brandishing two arrows yet stained with the gore of Iphimedeia’s hightowering sons, the other holding the rod which destroyed the dead shepherd of many eyes. Indeed I must leave my own heaven to avoid reproach for battleshy Dionysos. The Virgin Archeress denounces Dionysos the dancer, the friend of mountains, when she sees him leaving his thyrsus alone; she drives only a weak team of stags, she kills only running hares, she ranges the mountains beside Rheia of the mountains, and she denounces one who drives leopards and manages lions! I disclaim the house of my own son Zeus; for in Olympos I shrink from Leto, still a proud braggart, when she holds up at me the arrow that defended her bed and slew Tityos the lustful giant. I am tortured also with double pain, when I see sorrowing Semele and of Zeus. You did not slay with an arrow threatening Otos and hightowering Ephialtes, no winged shaft of yours destroyed Tityos, you did not kill that unhappy lover bold Orion, nor Hera’s guardian Argos, the cowkeeper, a son of the earth so fertile in evil, the spy on Zeus in his weddings with horned cattle ! No, you weave your web of merriment with Staphylos and Botrys, inglorious, unarmed, singing songs over the wine; you degrade the earthy generation of Satyrs, since they also have touched the bloodless Bacchanal dance and drowned all warlike hopes in their cups. There may be banquet after battle, there may be dancing after the Indian War in the palace of Staphylos; viols may let their voice be heard again after victory in the field. But without hard work it is not possible to dwell in the inaccessible heavens. ‘The road to the Blessed is not easy ; noble deeds give the only path to the firmament of heaven by God’s decree. You too then, endure hardship of every kind. Hera for all her rancour foretells for you the heavenly court of Zeus.”
She spoke, and flew away. The god leapt from his bed, with the terrible sound of that threatening dream still in his ears. Bold Botrys also leapt up, and put on his tunic shooting gleams of the Sidonian sea, and slipt his feet into wellfitting golden shoes. He threw over his unwearied shoulders the royal robe of bright purple cloth, pinning it with a brooch; his father’s proud girdle was round his loins and the sceptre in his hand. Satyrs yoked the panthers to the red car at the urgent bidding of Dionysos, Seilenoi uttered the warcry, Bacchant women roared, thyrsus in hand. The hosts gathered and marched line after line to the Indian War: Enyo’s pipes resounded, the leaders arranged the battalions in their places. One mounted with an agile leap on the back of a furious bear, whipping the hairy neck as it rushed on its course; another astride on a wild bull gripped his two flanks with hanging feet, and pricked his hairy belly with his crook to guide the wandering course ; a third rode on the back of a shaggy lion, and pulled the hair of his mane instead of a bridle.
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