To Secundus [Sidonius's kinsman, since they share the same grandfather/great-uncle].
Yesterday — the grief of it! — profane hands nearly violated the tomb of my grandfather and your great-grandfather. The cemetery has long been so packed with cremated remains and buried corpses that for some time no fresh grave could be dug. But the earth mounded over the old burials had gradually subsided back to its original level under the weight of winter snow and prolonged rain. This is what emboldened the corpse-bearers to pollute the site with their funeral spades, as though it were vacant ground.
What happened next: the fresh black turf was already piled over the old grave when, riding toward Clermont, I spotted the outrage from the ridge of a neighboring hill. I drove my horse at full speed over level and broken ground alike — too impatient even for that brief delay — and checked the brazen crime with a shout before I arrived. While the men caught in the act hesitated between fleeing and standing their ground, I reached them. I confess my error: I could not restrain myself from punishing the captives. I had the wretches flogged on the very covering of our ancestor's grave — enough to give the living something to think about and the dead something to rest easy about.
However, I deliberately reserved nothing for our bishop's jurisdiction — knowing both my own position and his — so that the affair might not be punished too leniently on the one hand or too severely judged on the other. When I reported the whole business to the holy man by messenger from the road, that just and saintly priest gave credit to my anger and pronounced, in the manner of our ancestors, that the perpetrators of such sacrilege had been justly beaten.
But to prevent future accidents — which we should learn to avoid from this example — I ask that your care, at my expense, even in my absence, should raise the scattered rubble into a proper monument, covered with a polished slab. I left money for the stone and the labor with the venerable Gaudentius. As for the following poem, I composed it the night before — not polished, I am sure, since my mind was much occupied with the journey.
Please have it inscribed on the tablet as quickly as possible. But make sure the stonecutter does not introduce errors into the marble — errors that a hostile reader would attribute to me rather than to the workman, whether they came from carelessness or incompetence. If you take care of this pious request, I shall give thanks as though no praise or glory accrued to you — though as a kinsman, you would have been just as obligated to oversee this task even without my involvement.
Late, after uncles and father, but not
unworthy of his grandfather, a grandson dedicates this poem,
lest in times to come, traveler,
not knowing the dignity of the buried man,
you should trample the unmarked earth.
Here lies the prefect Apollinaris,
who after governing the praetoria of Gaul,
was received into his grieving homeland's embrace —
the wisest and most useful man,
a devotee of the countryside, the army, and the forum,
free, by a dangerous example,
under domineering tyrants.
But his greatest claim to honor is this:
cleansing his brow with the cross
and his body in the baptismal font,
he was the first of all his ancestors
to renounce the sacred for the sacrilegious —
to say farewell to the pagan gods.
This is the first glory, the proudest virtue:
to lead in hope those whom you join in honor,
and to surpass in merits in the next world
those who are your equals in titles in this one.
I know the quality of this epitaph does not match its author's learning, but a cultured soul does not reject even a humble offering of music. Nor should it seem to you belated that we, the third and fourth heirs, are paying this tribute, when we know that Alexander the Great performed rites at the tomb of Achilles, and Julius Caesar at the tomb of Hector, centuries after their deaths. Farewell.
EPISTULA XII
Sidonius Secundo suo salutem.
1. Avi mei, proavi tui tumulum hesterno (pro dolor!) die paene manus profana temeraverat; sed deus affuit, ne nefas tantum perpetraretur. campus autem ipse dudum refertus tam bustualibus favillis quam cadaveribus nullam iam diu scrobem recipiebat; sed iam tellus humatis quae superducitur redierat in pristinam distenta planitiem pondere nivali seu diuturno imbrium fluxu sidentibus acervis. quae fuit causa, ut locum auderent tamquam vacantem corporum baiuli rastris funebribus impiare.
2. quid plura? iam niger caespes ex viridi, iam supra antiquum sepulchrum glaebae recentes, cum forte pergens urbem ad Arvernam publicum scelus e supercilio vicini collis aspexi meque equo effuso tam per aequata quam per abrupta proripiens et morae exiguae sic quoque inpatiens, antequam pervenirem, facinus audax praevio clamore compescui. dum dubitant in crimine reperti dilaberentur an starent, superveni. confiteor errorem, supplicia captorum differre non potui, sed supra senis nostri ipsum opertorium torsi latrones, quantum sufficere posset superstitum curae, mortuorum securitati.
3. ceterum nostro quod sacerdoti nil reservavi meae causae suaeque personae praescius, in commune consului, ne vel haec iusto clementius vindicaretur vel illa iusto severius vindicaret. cui cum tamen totum ordinem rei ut satisfaciens ex itinere mandassem, vir sanctus et iustus iracundiae meae dedit gloriam, cum nil amplius ego venia postularem, pronuntians more maiorum reos tantae temeritatis iure caesos videri.
4. sed ne quid in posterum casibus liceat, quos ab exemplo vitare debemus, posco, ut actutum me quoque absente tua cura sed meo sumptu resurgat in molem sparsa congeries, quam levigata pagina tegat. ego venerabili Gaudentio reliqui pretium lapidis operisque mercedem. carmen hoc sane, quod consequetur, nocte proxima feci, non expolitum, credo, quod viae non parum intentus.
5. quod peto ut tabulae, quantulumcumque est, celeriter indatur; sed vide, ut vitium non faciat in marmore lapidicida; quod factum sive ab industria seu per incuriam mihi magis quam quadratario lividus lector adscribet. ego vero, si pio studio rogata curaveris, sic agam gratias, quasi nil tibi quoque laudis aut gloriae accedat, quem patruo tuo remoto solida praesentis officii sollicitudo mansisset pro gradu seminis.
Serum post patruos patremque carmen
haud indignus avo nepos dicavi,
ne fors tempore postumo, viator,
ignorans reverentiam sepulti
tellurem tereres inaggeratam.
praefectus iacet hic Apollinaris
post praetoria recta Galliarum,
maerentis patriae sinu receptus,
consultissimus utilissimusque
ruris militiae forique cultor,
exemploque aliis periculoso
liber sub dominantibus tyrannis.
haec sed maxima dignitas probatur,
quod frontem cruce, membra fonte purgans
primus de numero patrum suorum
sacris sacrilegis renuntiavit.
hoc primum est decus, haec superba virtus,
spe praecedere quos honore iungas
quique hic sunt titulis pares parentes,
hos illic meritis supervenire.
Novi quidem auctoris nostri non respondere doctrinae epitaphii qualitatem, sed anima perita musicas non refutat inferias. tibi quoque non decet tardum videri quod heres tertius quartusque dependimus, cum tot annorum gyro voluto magnum Alexandrum parentasse manibus Achillis et Iulium Caesarem Hectori ut suo iusta solvisse didicerimus. vale.
◆
To Secundus [Sidonius's kinsman, since they share the same grandfather/great-uncle].
Yesterday — the grief of it! — profane hands nearly violated the tomb of my grandfather and your great-grandfather. The cemetery has long been so packed with cremated remains and buried corpses that for some time no fresh grave could be dug. But the earth mounded over the old burials had gradually subsided back to its original level under the weight of winter snow and prolonged rain. This is what emboldened the corpse-bearers to pollute the site with their funeral spades, as though it were vacant ground.
What happened next: the fresh black turf was already piled over the old grave when, riding toward Clermont, I spotted the outrage from the ridge of a neighboring hill. I drove my horse at full speed over level and broken ground alike — too impatient even for that brief delay — and checked the brazen crime with a shout before I arrived. While the men caught in the act hesitated between fleeing and standing their ground, I reached them. I confess my error: I could not restrain myself from punishing the captives. I had the wretches flogged on the very covering of our ancestor's grave — enough to give the living something to think about and the dead something to rest easy about.
However, I deliberately reserved nothing for our bishop's jurisdiction — knowing both my own position and his — so that the affair might not be punished too leniently on the one hand or too severely judged on the other. When I reported the whole business to the holy man by messenger from the road, that just and saintly priest gave credit to my anger and pronounced, in the manner of our ancestors, that the perpetrators of such sacrilege had been justly beaten.
But to prevent future accidents — which we should learn to avoid from this example — I ask that your care, at my expense, even in my absence, should raise the scattered rubble into a proper monument, covered with a polished slab. I left money for the stone and the labor with the venerable Gaudentius. As for the following poem, I composed it the night before — not polished, I am sure, since my mind was much occupied with the journey.
Please have it inscribed on the tablet as quickly as possible. But make sure the stonecutter does not introduce errors into the marble — errors that a hostile reader would attribute to me rather than to the workman, whether they came from carelessness or incompetence. If you take care of this pious request, I shall give thanks as though no praise or glory accrued to you — though as a kinsman, you would have been just as obligated to oversee this task even without my involvement.
Late, after uncles and father, but not unworthy of his grandfather, a grandson dedicates this poem, lest in times to come, traveler, not knowing the dignity of the buried man, you should trample the unmarked earth. Here lies the prefect Apollinaris, who after governing the praetoria of Gaul, was received into his grieving homeland's embrace — the wisest and most useful man, a devotee of the countryside, the army, and the forum, free, by a dangerous example, under domineering tyrants. But his greatest claim to honor is this: cleansing his brow with the cross and his body in the baptismal font, he was the first of all his ancestors to renounce the sacred for the sacrilegious — to say farewell to the pagan gods. This is the first glory, the proudest virtue: to lead in hope those whom you join in honor, and to surpass in merits in the next world those who are your equals in titles in this one.
I know the quality of this epitaph does not match its author's learning, but a cultured soul does not reject even a humble offering of music. Nor should it seem to you belated that we, the third and fourth heirs, are paying this tribute, when we know that Alexander the Great performed rites at the tomb of Achilles, and Julius Caesar at the tomb of Hector, centuries after their deaths. Farewell.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.