Translated by Daisy Dunn, 2016

The Romans were ailing in the Second Punic War (218–201 BC) against Carthage when they received an oracle advising them to carry their ‘mother’ to Rome. As was their habit, the oracle was enigmatic, but the Romans worked out that, if they were to defeat Hannibal and his forces, then they needed to establish worship of the Great Mother goddess Cybele in their city. Cybele had been worshipped as an earth goddess across Asia Minor since ancient times. Her priests traditionally castrated themselves in her honour, a custom thoroughly at odds with the Roman way of life. Nonetheless, in 204 BC, the Romans welcomed the goddess, and proceeded to win the war. A century and a half later, Catullus wrote this story about Attis, a man who castrated himself to become a priestess of Cybele (‘he’ becomes ‘she’) only to regret it. The strange metre (‘galliambics’) of Catullus’ poem brought out the foreignness and frenzy the Romans continued to associate with the goddess’ cult.

Driven over high seas in a fast ship Attis

Touched down in the Phrygian grove on quick keen foot

And in woodland approached the goddess’ haunts

Veiled by shadow, summoned there in heightened frenzy,

Drifting from his senses,

He freed with sharp flint the weight from his groin.

And when he felt his remaining limbs were male-free,

Still soaking ground below with fresh blood,

She took quickly in her pale hands a light drum –

Your drum – Cybele, for your rites, mother,

And tapping hollow bull hide with slender fingers

Commenced with trembling voice her song to her companions:

‘To the heights, Gallae, come together to Cybele’s groves,

Together come, Mistress of Dindymus’ vagrant flock,

Who like exiles sought places unknown

As friends of mine and followers of my way

And endured savage salt and wild sea

And unmanned your bodies in deep hatred of Venus.

Hearten the mind of your mistress by meandering quickly,

Let the thought of dallying delay fade from your mind, together come

Let us lead the way to the Phrygian home of Cybele,

The goddess’ Phrygian groves,

Where cymbals cry and drums call back,

Where Phrygian flautist plays profoundly on curved reed,

Where ivy-bearing Maenads shake their heads wilfully

And add encouragement to sacred rites with shrill ululations,

Where that nomad troop of the goddess likes to flutter

And where we should hasten with furious dancing.’

As soon as the counterfeit female Attis sang so to her friends

Her throng suddenly cried with tongues that danced,

The light drum groaned back, the hollow cymbals called back,

The quick chorus approached green Ida on feet that could not wait.

Raging and gasping and drawing breath all at once Attis led the way

To the accompaniment of drums in wandering the shadowy groves

Like an untamed heifer avoiding the weight of the yoke,

The quick Gallae followed their fleet-footed leader.

And so when, quite exhausted, they reached Cybele’s home

After much exertion they fell asleep without dinner,