Nonnus of Panopolis, Dionysiaca 29.167–290: Book 29: Hymenaios fights on; the women join the battle

Now the boy rushed boldly forward. He followed Lyaios, and never fell behind Bacchos now, striking and striking the enemy. As the shadowy shape follows a man, moving inanimate, marching close beside him without a mark on it, as it goes with him when he runs, stands when he stands, sits beside him when he sits, and at table shares the meal with an image of hands: so the boy kept beside Bacchos the winegod as he went. And Dionysos rested not in his fighting: nay, he ran a man through the middle and spitted him on his thyrsus, lifted him high aloft upright, and holding the Indian up in the airy ways displayed him to jealous Hera.

That divine warrior also played his part, Autonoé’s farshooting bridegroom, as befitted his three names, Aristaios the divine, Agreus the hunter wellskilled in war, Nomios the fighting herdsman cudgel in hand. He held his bow in the conflict, like his bowfamous sire, full of the pre-eminent courage of his archeress mother, Cyrene daughter of Hypseus in the olden time. Fearless Agreus hunted one mad enemy like a wild beast and took him prisoner. With experienced hand he hurled a heavy stone for the death of his adversaries, as if he were crushing and pounding the melting travail of the fat olive; he scattered his proud enemies with his favourite bull-roarer, swinging the bronze plate which he used to whirl when he scattered the maddened stings of the swarming bees.

Two firestrong citizens of Samothrace also ran wild, sons of Lemnian Cabeiro; their eyes flashed out their own natural sparks, which came from the red smoky flame of their father Hephaistos. They rode in a car of adamant; a pair of colts beat the dust with rattling hooves of brass, and they sent out a dry whinnying from their throats. These father Hephaistos had made with his inimitable art, breathing defiant fire between their teeth, like the pair of brazenfoot bulls which he made for Aietes the redoubtable ruler of the Colchians, with hot collars and burning pole. Eurymedon drove and guided the fiery mouths of the ironfoot steeds with a fiery bridle ; in his right hand he held a Lemnian spear made on his father’s anvil, and by his wellmade thigh hung a flashing sword—if a man picked up a small stone in his fingertips and struck it against the fire-grained surface of the sharp blade, sparks flashed of themselves from the steel. Alcon grasped a fiery bolt in one hand, and swung about a festal torch of Hecate from his own country.

The Dictaian Corybants joined battle, shaking the plumes of their highcrested helmets, rushing madly into the fray. Their naked swords rang on their beaten shields in emulation, along with resounding leaps; they imitated the rhythm of the dance-at-arms with quick circling movements of their feet, a revel in the battlefield. The Indian nation was ravaged by the steel of those mountaineer herdsmen, the Curetes. Many a man fell headlong into the dust when he heard the bellow of the heavy-dumping oxhides.

The Bassarid lifted her leafy weapon of war, and cast: from that Bacchos-hating generation many men’s heads were brought low by the woman’s thyrsus. Leneus cut off the peak of a hill to arm himself, and raising the crested rock with a hairy hand, he hurled the jagged mass at his adversaries. The Bacchant women shouted their warcry around, and viny arrows were whirled by the hands of ivy-bearing women. Then Eupetale wove a lay for Ares and Dionysos, and attacking cast the piercing ivy, which smashed the steel with leaves of the vine, and destroyed the Indian nation with clusters of leaves.

Grapelover Terpsichore danced about in the turmoil, sweeping off clouds of enemies with manbreaking thyrsus, and swinging round the double plates of the heavyresounding cymbals. Not so loud was the bang of the heavythumping rattle of Heracles, when he drove away the Stymphalian birds, as the noise Terpsichore made, when she drove away the Indian army with the battledin of her dance.

Trygié with limping knee was left behind the company last of all, her feet frozen with fear. Not one of the Seilenoi kept beside her; but they left her there alone frightened, without a helper. She held out her hands to Maron the hard drinker, but Maron would have nothing to do with the old woman because she only hindered the dances of winegreedy Corybants and Satyrs: he did nothing but pray to the gods to let the silly old hag fall before the spear of Deriades.

Calyce also fought by the side of Dionysos, mad with fury. But Oinone ran to the front, and danced in the staggering steps of drunkenness. Her knees were weary and heavy in the struggle, the tippling girl’s soaking locks were swinging about her head.

The din was deafening ; with emulous tumult Astraéis chased Staphyle, Celaineus chased Calyce. Shakespear Morrheus drove off a company of Seilenoi , beating them with his poleaxe : at one shout of the driver Astraios was shaken, Maron fled, Leneus collapsed, the three sons of shaggyhaired Seilenos, who himself sprang up out of mother earth unbegotten and self-delivered ; and Doryclos scared away the charming Lycaste.

These the god helped, and besprinkled the women’s fresh wounds with healing drugs. Unveiled Gorgé he saved, when wounded in the foot by a hostile spear, wrapping the foot in a bandage of vineleaves. He staunched the newly-flowing ichor of Eupetale with wine, and stayed the stream of blood from Staphyle with a charm, healed Myrto’s wounded hand with myrtle, saved Calybe’s life by pulling the arrow out of her shoulder, and pouring the draught of the winepress on the bleeding wound: he ended the pain of Nyse’s just-wounded face by smearing her cheeks on both sides with white chalk. With tearless eyes he mourned over Lycaste.

But after he had soothed the pains of the Bassarids by his art, Dionysos thyrsus-mad fought with still greater fury. One wild Bassarid, possessed by the throes of sense-robbing madness, was harrying the Indians in the conflict, for thy honour, O Lydian god! and from the Bacchant’s hair shone a spontaneous flame about her neck, which burnt her not.

Yet another swarm of sturdy champions was soon stirred up by the sound of the drooling pipes which gathered the army to war, and the loverattle Corybants beating their hands on both sides of the rounded skin, the tinkling cymbals, the syrinx of Pan with its changeable sweet notes tuning up for battle. The enemy ranks answered with tumultuous noise, showers of winged arrows came whizzing through the air: twanged the bow, banged the stone, bellowed the trumpet.