The Pen of Eurymachus

This piece is dedicated to that good old god with the womanizing eye, Father Zeus.
-BTN '08

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The Pen of Eurymachus

There is a curious lacuna in most current manuscripts of Ovid’s Metamorphoses which the popular translators treat with simple omission, as, perhaps, that is what the classical poet intended. The narrative of Eurymachus of Sparta was possibly never intended to be retained in the final edition by decree of the author’s muse-given inspiration, but to this present writer the merit of the tale seems rather apparent and worthy of notice. It is possible that the myth met Ovid’s editorial knife because of the narrative’s own consciousness of the poetic art. Eurymachus was, himself, a poet, and this temptation toward self-reference was possibly too much for Ovid’s tastes.

Another possible reason for omission, and in Robert Grave’s opinion, the stronger reason, is that the tale ends with a deification that Ovid wanted to reserve for Julius Caesar. The apex of the Metamorphoses is clearly the final tale, towards which the entire corpus of transformational myths has been leading, wherein Caesar is raised to heaven to become a newly born immortal star. The fact that “Eurymachus” ends with a similar event (implied rather than given in so much detail, perhaps to soften this parallelism) may have prompted the author to can this tale and reserve the birth of a star for the finale – and for the divine ruler of the new-born Roman Empire.

As with the rest of the Metamorphoses, the two themes of “Eurymachus” are love as a universal motive and transformation as a universal physical law. An additional theme of poetry makes an intrusion. The story runs as many of the borrowed Greek myths do: a young virgin, of noble birth, captures the attentions of an Olympian god. More often than not in these myths, the god swayed by infant Cupid’s invisible powers is mighty Jove, and such is the case in this tale. However, in this case there is a confounding element, or at least a twist to the predictable yarn. Rather than revolving around Jupiter’s pursuit of the girl, Aglaia, the tale revolves around humble Eurymachus, a country-boy turned poet who is infatuated with Aglaia and thus becomes the unwitting rival of the King of Olympus. Aglaia dies prematurely. This is decreed by the Fates, and even Olympian Jove cannot dispute. The tale deals with the aftermath of Aglaia’s funeral.

Jupiter has attended Aglaia’s funeral in the form of a mortal, a form and trick not unfamiliar to the god. The lawgiver/philosopher Lycurgus is listed as another notable attendee, providing both a setting in mythological history for the tale and an indication of Aglaia’s place in the Spartan aristocracy. Clearly, Lycurgus’ reforms to Spartan society had not yet had the result of effectively extinguishing the arts and humanities from Sparta, and thus Eurymachus enjoyed a measure of prestige in the city for his talents.

After the girl’s funeral rites have passed, Eurymachus, the unrequited lover, is sitting on the steps of a temple musing about “walking the walk of Orpheus” when Jove, Aglaia’s chosen lover, in mortal form, takes a seat beside him. The poet, citing his station as poet, recognizes his rival by his godly proportions and the sorrow in his eyes. For the first time, he perceives the god not as an abstract enemy, his competitor and cause of his defeat in love, but, through the sorrow in the god’s eyes, Eurymachus sees Jove as a comrade, subject to the same spell of madness that he himself suffers. Jove is not his nemesis, but a victim of the same sickness. Quiet, the country poet listens as the god speaks. Eventually, Eurymachus feels strong enough to inquire about the moment Jove first saw Aglaia, to which the god replies: “I saw her in a field among horses; the braids of her hair reminded me of the twisting bark of the Indian fig. From the clouds, I desired her. I descended in the form of a man I perceived she would admire.”

Though Jupiter’s affections were eventually requited by the girl, there is no mention of semi-divine offspring from the union. While any lapse of virility by a god is inconceivable, or at least should have been inconceivable, apparently the fruits of this affair are outside the interest of the story.

Eurymachus, moved to tears by the beauty of Jupiter’s tale, wishing to some degree that it was his own, replies cryptically: “Because you have had the experience of her love, I am blessed to have joined you in your experience. Previously I only spoke blasphemous words. Now I see that we are one and the same.” He continues to relate to the god his own history with Aglaia – how he met her as a child in the market between amphora of Egyptian beer and the table of a money-changer, how he instantly gave credence to Pythagoras’ philosophy of previous lives because he felt he’d seen her somehow before, how – at eighteen – she rejected his admission of love before the statue of Justice in the plaza, and how he heard at last that a great man, like an Olympian, was courting her.

Over the course of things, Eurymachus suggests that Jove might, by his power, raise Aglaia from the dead so that they might have her company again in the land of the living. Olympian Jove replies: “It is not within justice to raise her again to life, but my divine powers permit me to make her a star in my imperial heaven.”

“A star would scarcely be worthy…” Eurymachus replies quietly.

The god returns: “I know that you too, though a man, would do this honor yourself, if you but possessed my station. I know – I see in your heart – that, though different, we contain the same sentiment.”

“You are right, Brother Jove,” Eurymachus replies, presuming what no other mortal had – to call the god “brother.” “Only let me ask, as we look upon this new star we placed in the sky tonight, who made Ulysses immortal – was it you, Brother Jove, or was it the pen of Homer?”


References:
1: Ovid. Metamorphoses.
2: This is all bullshit.