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Last times post about woodpeckers got me thinking about the story of Picus and Circe. It’s part of The Metamorphoses the great work of the Roman poet Ovid. In fifteen volumes it is one of the great works of classical mythology. Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet was obviously inspired by it’s tale of Pyramus and Thisbe. The same Pyramus and Thisbe performed by the troupe of guildsmen for the Duke of Athens in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Here is my take on the story of Picus and Circe. The tale is told by one of Odysseus’s men
 A year we lingered in the land of Circe, and much I saw and much I heard. This tale I tell was learnt privately from one of the four acolytes who served Circe in her magical rites.
One day the while Circe dallied with my lord Odysseus the acolyte pointed out to me a statue of a youth in snow-white marble set in a shrine and gaily garlanded with wreaths of flowers, upon the head of that youth was a woodpecker. I asked her who he was and why he was worshipped in that shrine and why the bird rested on his brow; for I was curious.
Listen to this tale and learn of my mistress’ magic power, she said.
King Picus, son of Saturnus, ruled the land of Ausonia. It is his likeness this statue bears, look upon his features, gaze upon his striking grace and know that many a glance he drew from Dryads born among the Latin hills. He was the darling of the Numina Fontana [Fountain-Sprites] and all the Naiads of Albulba and Anio and Almo’s streams. Despite all this Picus only had eyes for Canens, the daughter of Janus, and he gave his love to her and married her.
Once as Canens’ soaring voice poured out her song, Picus left home to hunt the boars that roamed his countryside. He rode a prancing bay stallion and carried a pair of spears. He wore a cloak of purple with a clasp of tawny gold. To those same woods came my mistress Circe, the daughter of Sol to search the fertile hills for her strange herbs. Unseen as she searched in the undergrowth she saw the young king and was entranced by his beauty. The herbs fell from her hands. Like blazing fire a thrill of ecstasy raced through her veins. Then as she gathering her smouldering wits, she went to bare her heart to King Picus, but he rode so fast that she could not get close to him.
"You’ll not escape," she cried, "No! though the wind itself may whirl you away, if I still know myself, if my spells still retain their magic power and all the virtue of my mystical herbs is not lost." She summoned up a spectre of a boar and made it race across before Picus’ eyes, and dart, or seem to dart, into a spinney where the trees stood thick and close, so crowded that no horse may pass. Picus jumped off his steed, unaware of the illusion Circe had created, and he sped off in pursuit of his shadowy prey, and soon had wandered deep into the wood.
Then Circe turned to prayers and incantations, and unknown chants to worship dark and unknown gods, with these chants she eclipsed Luna’s pale face and veiled her father’s orb in ominous clouds. Then while the heavens were darkened, she sang and caused the earth to breathe forth clouds of vapour. The clouds enveloped the courtiers who had accompanied King Picus and they were lost as they groped blindly along the forest trails. And thus the king lost his guards and he was alone.
"Oh, by your eyes, those enthralling eyes of yours that captured my heart and by your beauty, loveliest of kings the beauty that makes me, a goddess, kneel to you, favour my passion, and accept as your own Sol my father, who sees all, and accept the love of Circe Titanisl"
But fiercely did Picus repulse her and her plea. "Be who you may," he cried, "I am not yours, another holds my heart and many a year I pray she shall hold it yet. Never will I wound her for any stranger’s love, while fate keeps my Canens Janigena safe for me!" Time after time my mistress pleaded - all in vain. "You’ll pay for this," Circe said, "never again shall Canens have you home. Now you shall know what one wronged loving woman can do!”
Then eastwards twice and westwards twice she turned, thrice she chanted a spell, thrice she touched him with her wand. Picus fled and marvelled that he ran so fast - so strangely fast -then saw that he’d sprouted wings! Outraged to find himself so suddenly in the form of a weird new bird in his own woodland glade, he pecked the rough-barked oaks with his hard beak and wounded the spreading boughs. His wings assumed the purple of his cloak, the golden broach that pinned his robe became a golden band of feathers round his throat and naught was left of Picus but his name [i.e. picus is the Latin word for woodpecker]. Meanwhile his courtiers through the countryside were calling him and calling, but it was all in vain. Picus was nowhere to be found. Instead they chanced on Circe who by now had cleared the air and let the wind and sun disperse the mists and they charged her as guilty of the disappearance of their king and they threatened her with force and aimed their angry spears at her.
Circe laughed and sprinkled round about her evil drugs and poisonous essences, and out of Erebos and Chaos called Nox [Night] and all the Gods of Night and poured out with long-drawn wailing cries a prayer to Hecate. The woods leapt away, a groan came from the ground, the bushes blanched, the spattered sward was soaked with gouts of blood, stones brayed and bellowed, dogs began to bark, black snakes swarmed on the soil and ghostly shapes of silent spirits floated through the air. Stunned by such magic sorcery, the group of courtiers stood aghast and as they gazed, she touched their faces with her poisoned wand, and at its touch each took the magic form of some wild beast; none kept his proper shape.
As the setting sun had bathed Tartesus’s shore Canens’ watching eyes and heart sought in vain for her husband. Through the woods her household and the townspeople spread with torches in their hands searching for their lord. the Nymph content to tear her hair and weep and wail like a madwoman she rushed out herself and scoured the countryside of Latium for six days. Being unable to find Picus and consumed with grief she threw herself into the river Tiber, raised her voice in one final lament and died.
Anyone interested in reading a proper translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses can find one here
http://www.tkline.freeserve.co.uk/Ovhome.htm
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