CANTO XXVIIIWho, e’en in words unfetter’d, might at fullTell of the wounds and blood that now I saw,Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongueSo vast a theme could equal, speech and thoughtBoth impotent alike. If in one bandCollected, stood the people all, who e’erPour’d on Apulia’s happy soil their blood,Slain by the Trojans, and in that long warWhen of the rings the measur’d booty madeA pile so high, as Rome’s historian writesWho errs not, with the multitude, that feltThe grinding force of Guiscard’s Norman steel,And those the rest, whose bones are gather’d yetAt Ceperano, there where treacheryBranded th’ Apulian name, or where beyondThy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without armsThe old Alardo conquer’d; and his limbsOne were to show transpierc’d, another hisClean lopt away; a spectacle like thisWere but a thing of nought, to the’ hideous sightOf the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lostIts middle or side stave, gapes not so wide,As one I mark’d, torn from the chin throughoutDown to the hinder passage: ’twixt the legsDangling his entrails hung, the midriff layOpen to view, and wretched ventricle,That turns th’ englutted aliment to dross.Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze,He ey’d me, with his hands laid his breast bare,And cried; “Now mark how I do rip me! lo!How is Mohammed mangled! before meWalks Ali weeping, from the chin his faceCleft to the forelock; and the others allWhom here thou seest, while they liv’d, did sowScandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent.A fiend is here behind, who with his swordHacks us thus cruelly, slivering againEach of this ream, when we have compast roundThe dismal way, for first our gashes closeEre we repass before him. But say whoArt thou, that standest musing on the rock,Haply so lingering to delay the painSentenc’d upon thy crimes?”—“Him death not yet,”My guide rejoin’d, “hath overta’en, nor sinConducts to torment; but, that he may makeFull trial of your state, I who am deadMust through the depths of hell, from orb to orb,Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true.”More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard,Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed,Forgetful of their pangs. “Thou, who perchanceShalt shortly view the sun, this warning thouBear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish notHere soon to follow me, that with good storeOf food he arm him, lest impris’ning snowsYield him a victim to Novara’s power,No easy conquest else.” With foot uprais’dFor stepping, spake Mohammed, on the groundThen fix’d it to depart. Another shade,Pierc’d in the throat, his nostrils mutilateE’en from beneath the eyebrows, and one earLopt off, who with the rest through wonder stoodGazing, before the rest advanc’d, and bar’dHis wind-pipe, that without was all o’ersmear’dWith crimson stain. “O thou!” said ‘he, “whom sinCondemns not, and whom erst (unless too nearResemblance do deceive me) I aloftHave seen on Latian ground, call thou to mindPiero of Medicina, if againReturning, thou behold’st the pleasant landThat from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo;And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boastsHer worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo,That if ’tis giv’n us here to scan arightThe future, they out of life’s tenementShall be cast forth, and whelm’d under the wavesNear to Cattolica, through perfidyOf a fell tyrant. ’Twixt the Cyprian isleAnd Balearic, ne’er hath Neptune seenAn injury so foul, by pirates doneOr Argive crew of old. That one-ey’d traitor(Whose realm there is a spirit here were fainHis eye had still lack’d sight of) them shall bringTo conf’rence with him, then so shape his end,That they shall need not ’gainst Focara’s windOffer up vow nor pray’r.” I answering thus:“Declare, as thou dost wish that I aboveMay carry tidings of thee, who is he,In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?”Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-boneOf one, his fellow-spirit, and his jawsExpanding, cried: “Lo! this is he I wot of;He speaks not for himself: the outcast thisWho overwhelm’d the doubt in Caesar’s mind,Affirming that delay to men prepar’dWas ever harmful. “Oh how terrifiedMethought was Curio, from whose throat was cutThe tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then oneMaim’d of each hand, uplifted in the gloomThe bleeding stumps, that they with gory spotsSullied his face, and cried: “‘Remember theeOf Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim’d,‘The deed once done there is an end,’ that prov’dA seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race.”I added: “Ay, and death to thine own tribe.”Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off,As one grief stung to madness. But I thereStill linger’d to behold the troop, and sawThings, such as I may fear without more proofTo tell of, but that conscience makes me firm,The boon companion, who her strong breast-plateBuckles on him, that feels no guilt withinAnd bids him on and fear not. Without doubtI saw, and yet it seems to pass before me,A headless trunk, that even as the restOf the sad flock pac’d onward. By the hairIt bore the sever’d member, lantern-wisePendent in hand, which look’d at us and said,“Woe’s me!” The spirit lighted thus himself,And two there were in one, and one in two.How that may be he knows who ordereth so.When at the bridge’s foot direct he stood,His arm aloft he rear’d, thrusting the headFull in our view, that nearer we might hearThe words, which thus it utter’d: “Now beholdThis grievous torment, thou, who breathing go’stTo spy the dead; behold if any elseBe terrible as this. And that on earthThou mayst bear tidings of me, know that IAm Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King JohnThe counsel mischievous. Father and sonI set at mutual war. For AbsalomAnd David more did not Ahitophel,Spurring them on maliciously to strife.For parting those so closely knit, my brainParted, alas! I carry from its source,That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the lawOf retribution fiercely works in me.”
Who, e’en in words unfetter’d, might at fullTell of the wounds and blood that now I saw,Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongueSo vast a theme could equal, speech and thoughtBoth impotent alike. If in one bandCollected, stood the people all, who e’erPour’d on Apulia’s happy soil their blood,Slain by the Trojans, and in that long warWhen of the rings the measur’d booty madeA pile so high, as Rome’s historian writesWho errs not, with the multitude, that feltThe grinding force of Guiscard’s Norman steel,And those the rest, whose bones are gather’d yetAt Ceperano, there where treacheryBranded th’ Apulian name, or where beyondThy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without armsThe old Alardo conquer’d; and his limbsOne were to show transpierc’d, another hisClean lopt away; a spectacle like thisWere but a thing of nought, to the’ hideous sightOf the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lostIts middle or side stave, gapes not so wide,As one I mark’d, torn from the chin throughoutDown to the hinder passage: ’twixt the legsDangling his entrails hung, the midriff layOpen to view, and wretched ventricle,That turns th’ englutted aliment to dross.
Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze,He ey’d me, with his hands laid his breast bare,And cried; “Now mark how I do rip me! lo!How is Mohammed mangled! before meWalks Ali weeping, from the chin his faceCleft to the forelock; and the others allWhom here thou seest, while they liv’d, did sowScandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent.A fiend is here behind, who with his swordHacks us thus cruelly, slivering againEach of this ream, when we have compast roundThe dismal way, for first our gashes closeEre we repass before him. But say whoArt thou, that standest musing on the rock,Haply so lingering to delay the painSentenc’d upon thy crimes?”—“Him death not yet,”My guide rejoin’d, “hath overta’en, nor sinConducts to torment; but, that he may makeFull trial of your state, I who am deadMust through the depths of hell, from orb to orb,Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true.”
More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard,Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed,Forgetful of their pangs. “Thou, who perchanceShalt shortly view the sun, this warning thouBear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish notHere soon to follow me, that with good storeOf food he arm him, lest impris’ning snowsYield him a victim to Novara’s power,No easy conquest else.” With foot uprais’dFor stepping, spake Mohammed, on the groundThen fix’d it to depart. Another shade,Pierc’d in the throat, his nostrils mutilateE’en from beneath the eyebrows, and one earLopt off, who with the rest through wonder stoodGazing, before the rest advanc’d, and bar’dHis wind-pipe, that without was all o’ersmear’dWith crimson stain. “O thou!” said ‘he, “whom sinCondemns not, and whom erst (unless too nearResemblance do deceive me) I aloftHave seen on Latian ground, call thou to mindPiero of Medicina, if againReturning, thou behold’st the pleasant landThat from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo;And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boastsHer worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo,That if ’tis giv’n us here to scan arightThe future, they out of life’s tenementShall be cast forth, and whelm’d under the wavesNear to Cattolica, through perfidyOf a fell tyrant. ’Twixt the Cyprian isleAnd Balearic, ne’er hath Neptune seenAn injury so foul, by pirates doneOr Argive crew of old. That one-ey’d traitor(Whose realm there is a spirit here were fainHis eye had still lack’d sight of) them shall bringTo conf’rence with him, then so shape his end,That they shall need not ’gainst Focara’s windOffer up vow nor pray’r.” I answering thus:
“Declare, as thou dost wish that I aboveMay carry tidings of thee, who is he,In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?”
Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-boneOf one, his fellow-spirit, and his jawsExpanding, cried: “Lo! this is he I wot of;He speaks not for himself: the outcast thisWho overwhelm’d the doubt in Caesar’s mind,Affirming that delay to men prepar’dWas ever harmful. “Oh how terrifiedMethought was Curio, from whose throat was cutThe tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then oneMaim’d of each hand, uplifted in the gloomThe bleeding stumps, that they with gory spotsSullied his face, and cried: “‘Remember theeOf Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim’d,‘The deed once done there is an end,’ that prov’dA seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race.”
I added: “Ay, and death to thine own tribe.”
Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off,As one grief stung to madness. But I thereStill linger’d to behold the troop, and sawThings, such as I may fear without more proofTo tell of, but that conscience makes me firm,The boon companion, who her strong breast-plateBuckles on him, that feels no guilt withinAnd bids him on and fear not. Without doubtI saw, and yet it seems to pass before me,A headless trunk, that even as the restOf the sad flock pac’d onward. By the hairIt bore the sever’d member, lantern-wisePendent in hand, which look’d at us and said,“Woe’s me!” The spirit lighted thus himself,And two there were in one, and one in two.How that may be he knows who ordereth so.
When at the bridge’s foot direct he stood,His arm aloft he rear’d, thrusting the headFull in our view, that nearer we might hearThe words, which thus it utter’d: “Now beholdThis grievous torment, thou, who breathing go’stTo spy the dead; behold if any elseBe terrible as this. And that on earthThou mayst bear tidings of me, know that IAm Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King JohnThe counsel mischievous. Father and sonI set at mutual war. For AbsalomAnd David more did not Ahitophel,Spurring them on maliciously to strife.For parting those so closely knit, my brainParted, alas! I carry from its source,That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the lawOf retribution fiercely works in me.”