So Ares rose to the seven-zone sky, jealous, heavy with rancour. But Dionysos danced boldly into the battle and assailed the swarthy people, now leaping upon the first ranks with earthshaking bound, now right in the midst of the forefighters. With his darting thyrsus he mowed the firstfruits of his black harvest, and furiously cut down the tribes of the enemy throng. When he saw that Ares had abandoned the Indian contest, he cheered on the Satyrs to attack Deriades, and each outdid the other. Aristaios left to Dionysos the boisterous right wing of the clusterbearing host, and ran to the left of the battle.
Now when Morrheus saw the servants of Bromios still fighting with leaves and flowery shafts, he called out in great amazement to foolish Deriades —
" What is this marvel, Deriades? My warriors fall, struck with a thyrsus or rubbishy leaves — the shieldless slay the armed! Nothing shakes the Bassarids; strike them with axe or two-edged sword, they remain unwounded! You do the same, if I may say so, my lord king — let be your bronze

beaten spear and lift a vinethyrsus, if you would shed blood, since the enemy are much more triumphant with their bunches of twigs than steel. I never saw a conflict of this kind: the rubbishy thyrsus in volleys is better than our javelins.
" Give me too a green weapon to shake! for our arrows have been beaten by the unwarlike fennel. Give me yellow boots to wear, since even our unbreakable greaves have given way to the buskins. What good is it if I have a brazen shield, when women are more triumphant unarmed, and swing their cymbals in battle, while warriors collapse, while helmets yield to garlands and corselet to fawnskin? Often I have met unwounded Dionysos and thought to tear through his unbreakable flank: I have let fly my spear with good aim, and when it touched Dionysos, the unbending sharp point of the bronze was bent!" When he finished, the bold monarch smiled, and looked askance at his goodson in silent witnessing anger; then he broke out into bold menacing words: “Why do you tremble at unarmed Dionysos, you fool Morrheus? A nice thing to fear Satyrs playing at battle!” This fearless boast encouraged his goodson. The prodigious Morrheus attacked the warriors of Bromios. He wounded Eurymedon, cut through the groin with his blood-stained spear: the mad point ran through the thigh and tore the skin from the fat flesh; collapsing he fell on his knee to the ground. Mail-clad Alcon did not neglect his brother's fall; but lifting spear and round buckler he made for the fallen man, and covered the warrior well, holding the

shield tower-like over his body, and thrusting right and left his unresting spear, brother protecting brother against the foe. He straddled across the wounded man, as a lion over his cubs, shouting loud and letting out mad Cory ban tic cries from his lips. When Morrheus saw him moving with neat steps about his brother, defending the fallen Cabeiros, the monster went raging like Typhon and attacked both brothers, that Cabeiro might shed her tears for two dead sons, slain in one day with one spear. And now he would have dealt equal destruction to both, but Eurymedon called upon his Lemnian father with voice that gasped and strained from his mouth: “O Father, firebreathing lord of our laborious art! Grant me the boon once earned, when Deo of the threshing-floor alone seized three-cliff Sicily, as sighting-prize for Persephoneia hidden there, and knocked over your windblown bellows in the west and your wide forge and gripping tongs: but I defended my father and scared her off, protecting your anvil. You owe it to me that the air is black and hot with your Sicilian sparks! Then save your son I pray, whom savage Morrheus has wounded!” At these words fiery Hephaistos leapt down from heaven, and sent a flame leaping and fluttering with many tongues about his son, whirling in his hand a shoot of fire. About Morrheus's neck the flame crawled and curled of itself as if it knew what it was doing, and rolled round his throat a necklace of fireblazing constraint; the blazing throat once encircled, it ran down with a springing movement to the end of his toes, and wove a plait of fiery threads

over the warrior's foot, and there firmly fixt on the earth scattered its dancing sparks — the helmet caught fire and his head was hot enough! And now he would have fallen flat, struck with the fiery shot, had not Deriades' father Hydaspes come to the rescue. For he sat watching the battle high on a rock, his bull-form having a false guise of human shape. He poured a quenching stream and saved the man's life, cooling the hot blast from the firebeaten face, brushing off the ashes and dirt from the helmet. Then he caught up Morrheus wrapt in a darksome cloud, covered and hid his limbs in a livid mist; that the firebearing Crookshank might not destroy him with his blazing shower of deadly Lemnian flame; that old Hydaspes, the tender-hearted father, might not see another goodson of Deriades perish after the first, and lament the death of Morrheus along with Orontes." But firebearing Hephaistos drove away all the warriors who stood round the just-wounded boy. Then lifting his son on his shoulder he took him out of the fray and rested him against an oaktree hard by; he spread wholesome simples upon the mounded groin, and saved him alive after his collapse.
Yet Morrheus had not forgotten the fight he had begun. He reared his head again, having escaped the fiery attack, the blazing assailant, the flaming points. He caught Phlogios the son of Strophios rolling about and killed him; that dancer of springheel Dionysos, who at the banquets of tearless Lyaios, used to flicker the twisting fingers of his mimicking hands. He would depict by gesture Phaethon's death with sensitive hand, until he made

the feasters weep with tears quite out of place, mourning the death of an imaginary Phaethon; as he depicted the young man blazing and hurtling down, he would bring painful grief upon Dionysos who feels no grief. When shakespear Morrheus saw him tumbling there, he said: That was a different jig you danced near the table! You played a merry dance by the mixingbowl — why do you pace a groaning dance on the battlefield } Well, if you have a passion for a dancing turn of Dionysos, go show to Hades your mystic rites. You need no chalk — your round face is well dusted of itself. Or dance if you like before Lethe the dirge-fancier, and let unsmiling Persephone have the pleasure of watching your capers."
So he cried exultant, and leaping swift as the wind on the Seilenoi put them to flight. And shakeshield Tectaphos followed with devastating sword: he was the one whom Deriades once kept imprisoned in the deep pit; but he could not escape fate a second time. For when necessity comes, who can save a man from cruel destiny, when hard allvanquishing Fate bids him die? Nor could a trick now save Tectaphos from death. Madly he then pursued the army of Lyaios and sliced the sportive limbs of the horned Satyrs: he shore through the throat of Pylaieus the broilbreeder, he struck Onthyrios's brow with pitiless blade, he destroyed broadbreasted Pithos with bare steel. And indeed he would have killed a crowd of Bacchants besides; but quickfoot Eurymedon saw him and rushed up, shaking his Corybantian twibill against him. He smashed his forehead and

clove his head — a jet of bloody dew spouted up and the champion fell to the ground, soaking the dust. Half-dead he rolled on the ground, lamenting the ancient torture of the earth-dug pit, and the threads of this later Fate; remembering still the clever scheme of his daughter which saved him from death, he wailed and mingled his tears with his blood: “O my mother and my nurse, my girl, O clever unhappy wife! Why did you not come near me when I was nigh unto death? Why could you not help me now again, fearless girl? What has become of your lifegiving drink? Are you true to your father while he lives, and not while he is dying! If a trick can bring back a man from Hades, seek me another and better trick, seek a plan useful against death, that after the hollow pit in the earth I may escape the gates of Hades in war as well, if there be a way to return from the pit whence no man returns.” He could scarce finish these words, when his voice failed him. Poor Eerie on the lofty walls could see her just-wounded father, and amid showers of tears she uttered a cry of mourning. She stained her tangled hair with dust, she rent her garments and bared her breast, she beat her head; and cried aloud to her father although now past cure, as if he could still hear:
" My son! illfated father of the daughter who gave you her milk! To-day there is no breath from your lips! You are dead — what milk have I now to give you life, to bring back your soul again, ah me unhappy! What breast can I offer you now to give

you help? O if I can cajole Aidoneus too! For you, father, only one tribute remains for me to render: I will not leave you alone among the dead. Accept the blood of your slain daughter's throat as once you took the milk of her breast. Come here, warders of Deriades! Show me another pit in the ground instead of the old one, where I may enter and once more make my dead father live.
But Hades is not like those warders, to let me devise another trick for my father's help and solace his pains. O if I had that deathdealing sword, that I might fall and perish in my despair by the steel that murdered my father! You man who cut off my father's head, kill Eerie as you killed Tectaphos, that men may say — ' Both father and daughter he destroyed with one sword!"
So she cried amid her tears. Now the battle grew fiercer: Enyo fanned the flame in both armies. Morrheus killed Dasyllios Tainarides with his sword, driving the blade through the right jawbone: Dasyllios the man of Amyclai, ever unshaken by any assault, who never lost shield to an enemy. He killed also Alcimacheia the highland girl, for beauty and valour alike pre-eminent above her years-mates. She was daughter to Harpalion famous for his vines; she had dared to enter the temple of Hera laden with ivy, which that goddess of Argos hated as much as she loved her favourite red pomegranate, dared to beat the fine statue with the vineleaves of her thyrsus, to beat the brazen figure with bunches of grapes— insulting the resentful stepmother of Lyaios! But she did not escape the frightful wrath thus kindled in Hera: no, Lemnian Alcimacheia who defied the gods was buried in a strange land —

she did not return from the war, she never again saw Harpalion her father, she never saw her own country, Lemnos, the bridechamber of Jason and Hysipyleia; death was her punishment, and she lay among strangers under a mound of earth. Ah hapless girl! she lost Harpalion, she was severed from Lyaios.
But furious Morrheus was not content with slaying Alcimache, the Mainad who mocked the gods; he slew also Codone, still a maiden, whose home was the Olympian soil of Elis beside Alpheios, the garland-loving river. Forgive me, ye Fates! He had no pity for the tresses of that head which was soon to wither, none for the rosy glow of that face soiled in the dust; no pity when he saw the breast with its two round apples, and the firm pressure on the breastband; no respect for the deep cleft of the thigh. No! all that beauty he killed in the bud. Struck down she fell to the ground; and Morrheus with nodding plume chased Mainads innumerable in their fine robes. Eurypyle, Sterope, Soe he mowed down with his sword, Staphyle he cleft asunder, ruddy Gigarto he wounded, and pierced Melictaina's breast above the pink nipple, staining his deadly steel with crimson.
The spiteful Telchines also joined the battle. One held a tall fir tree; one had a cornel, trunk and roots and all; one broke off the peak of a cliff and rushed against the Indians, whirling his darting rock with furious arms and crushing the foe.

Fickle Hera, still heavy against Lyaios, gave courage and spirit to lordly Deriades, and showed a brilliant glow upon his triumphant course for the terror of his foes. When he came forth in arms a fatal glow sparkled from the Indian shield, dazzling flames leapt over the crest of his helmet. Bold as he was, Bacchos trembled when he saw the flashing boss of Deriades' fireshot shield and the plumes of the helmet burning in the air. Dionysos was amazed when he saw, and had not the heart to meet him; but he retreated from the battle with unwilling feet, when he understood the device of Hera in arms.
Then the Indians took courage, and moved to the fight as Bromios left the field; Deriades saw it, and swept the thronging ranks of Bacchants while he swung his blade right and left again and again.
Iobacchos in distress retired to the woodland ridge, and left the winds to blow away his hope of victory, since he feared his stepmother's fierce resentment. But Athena came down from heaven; for Zeus ruling on high sent her, on the errand to change the mind of her brother, now a fugitive in dread of Hera, and to bring him back to the battle. She stood behind him, and caught Bacchos by his yellow hair, seen by him alone, that grim goddess: from her face the eyes flashed a fiery gleam, and breathing sparks of good sense upon Lyaios she spoke angrily in warlike tones of rebuke:
" Whither do you flee, Dionysos? Why flight instead of fight? Where is your mighty thyrsus and your arrows of vine? W hat word shall I tell of

you to my Cronion? Have I seen the Indian king dead on the battlefield? No — Deriades lives, Morrheus fights on!
" What have you shown of inborn heavenly prowess? Have you set foot in Libya? ' Have you had the task of Perseus? Have you seen the eye of Sthenno which turns all to stone, or the bellowing invincible throat of Euryale herself? Have you seen the tresses of viperhair Medusa, and have the open mouths of her tangled serpents run round you? No fighter was Semele's son; Acrisios's daughter bore the Gorgonslayer, a son worthy of my Zeus, for winged Perseus did not throw down my sickle, and he thanked Hermeias for lending his shoes. I have a witness ready here, the monster of the deep turned to stone; pray ask Cepheus, what the sickle of Perseus did. Ask the east, and ask the west; for both know — the Nereids tremble before Andromeda's husband, the Hesperids sing him who cut down Medusa.
" Aiacos was not affrighted, he was not like Bacchos, he did not run from Deriades, he did not shrink from the Indian battle! Did the Arab chief frighten you again yesterday? I am still ashamed to look at Ares, the furious father of Lycurgos, when he publishes abroad the cowardice of runaway Dionysos.
" Your father and mine feared not battle, when the Titan gods armed themselves against Olympos. Where is Orsiboe — have you taken the Indian Queen? Rheia has not seen Cheirobie captive of your spear. Zeus forgive my boast — but I will not call you brother, when you run from Deriades

and the unwarlike nation of India! Come, take your thyrsus again and remember the battle; fight in the van of the army, and you will see Athena well armed and fighting beside the armed Bacchants: she will lift her aegis-cape, the invincible weapon of Olympos!"
Thus the goddess inspired Bromios with strength. Then he took courage and fought boldly again, entrusting all his hope of coming victory to Tritogeneia.
Now whom first, whom last did Bacchos slay, when Athena insatiate of battle made him brave? He slew a round hundred of his enemies with destroying thyrsus, and he wounded many in many ways, striking with spear or bunches of twigs or clustered branches, or throwing stone, a rough missile. Those who were hit by the divine flail went rushing madly about with a great noise. He wounded Phringos in the left shoulder with sharp thyrsus, and he rushed away out of reach; but Melisseus caught him and brought him down with a sharp poleaxe. Dionysos thyrsus-mad leapt after Egretios, shaking his Euian spear for a long shot: the sharp Bacchic blade flew whizzing through the air, eager to strike the man — and Egretios escaped. But the god attacked the Bolinges, and scared into flight the strife-stirring Arachotai. With his intoxicating vine leaves he swept away the terrible tribes of spearbold Salangoi; and the host of shielded Arienoi were scattered. The Euian scattered the whole host of the Earsleepers in his chase after the forefighters of Phringos and Egretios.
Bacchos in his might beat off Lygos also out of the gory battle. Cunning Meilanion hid in a tree, and from his hiding-place

showered arrows among the Bassarids, but the god hit him with his thyrsus of vine. Formidable Hera saved him unhurt, because he had often used this trick of arms, and attacked Bacchants, making war from ambush. He was always hidden by a rock or concealed by the leaves of a tall tree, shooting men unnoticed with his arrows.
The Indians retreated at last from the carnage of the battle, fearing the valour of unconquered Dionysos.