THEOSOPHY
AENEID
Cardiff, Wales, UK, CF24 – 1DL.
Publius
Vergilius Maro (Virgil)
The Aeneid
Virgil
Contents
BkI:1-11
Invocation to the Muse
BkI:50-80 Juno
Asks Aeolus for Help
BkI:81-123 Aeolus
Raises the Storm
BkI:124-156 Neptune
Intervenes
BkI:157-222
Shelter on the Libyan Coast
BkI:223-256 Venus
Intercedes with Jupiter
BkI:257-296
Jupiter’s Prophecy
BkI:297-371 Venus
Speaks to Aeneas
BkI:372-417 She
Directs Him to Dido’s Palace
BkI:418-463 The
Temple of Juno
BkI:494-519 The
Arrival of Queen Dido
BkI:520-560
Ilioneus Asks Her Assistance
BkI:561-585 Dido
Welcomes the Trojans
BkI:586-612
Aeneas Makes Himself Known
BkI:613-656 Dido
Receives Aeneas
BkI:657-694 Cupid
Impersonates Ascanius
BkI:695-722 Cupid
Deceives Dido
BkI:723-756 Dido
Asks for Aeneas’s Story
BkII:1-56 The
Trojan Horse: Laocoön’s Warning
BkII:145-194
Sinon Deludes the Trojans
BkII:195-227
Laocoön and the Serpents
BkII:228-253 The
Horse Enters Troy
BkII:254-297 The
Greeks Take the City
BkII:298-354
Aeneas Gathers his Comrades
BkII:355-401
Aeneas and his Friends Resist
BkII:402-437
Cassandra is Taken
BkII:438-485 The
Battle for the Palace
BkII:559-587
Aeneas Sees Helen
BkII:588-623
Aeneas is Visited by his Mother Venus.
BkII:624-670
Aeneas Finds his Family
BkII:705-729
Aeneas and his Family Leave Troy
BkII:730-795 The
Loss of Creusa
BkII:796-804
Aeneas Leaves Troy
BkIII:1-18 Aeneas
Sails to Thrace
BkIII:19-68 The
Grave of Polydorus
BkIII:69-120 The
Trojans Reach Delos
BkIII:121-171 The
Plague and a Vision
BkIII:172-208 The
Trojans Leave Crete for Italy
BkIII:278-293 The
Games at Actium
BkIII:294-355
Andromache in Chaonia
BkIII:356-462 The
Prophecy of Helenus
BkIII:463-505 The
Departure from Chaonia
BkIII:506-547 In
Sight of Italy
BkIII:548-587 The
Approach to Sicily
BkIII:692-718 The
Death of Anchises
BkIV:1-53 Dido
and Anna Discuss Aeneas
BkIV:129-172 The
Hunt and the Cave
BkIV:173-197
Rumour Reaches Iarbas
BkIV:198-218 Iarbas
Prays to Jupiter
BkIV:219-278
Jupiter Sends Mercury to Aeneas
BkIV:279-330 Dido
Accuses Aeneas
BkIV:331-361
Aeneas Justifies Himself
BkIV:450-503 Dido
Resolves to Die
BkIV:554-583
Mercury Visits Aeneas Again
BkIV:630-705 The
Death of Dido
BkV:1-41 Aeneas
Returns to Sicily
BkV:42-103 Aeneas
Declares the Games
BkV:104-150 The
Start of the Games
BkV:244-285 The
Prize-Giving for the Boat Race
BkV:362-484 The
Boxing Contest
BkV:485-544 The
Archery Contest
BkV:545-603 The
Exhibition of Horsemanship
BkV:604-663 Juno
sends Iris to Fire the Trojan Ships
BkV:664-699 The
Fleet is Saved
BkV:700-745
Nautes’ Advice and Anchises’ Ghost
BkV:746-778
Departure from Sicily
BkV:779-834 Venus
Seeks Neptune’s Help
BkV:835-871 The
Loss of Palinurus
BkVI:56-97 The Sibyl’s
Prophecy
BkVI:98-155
Aeneas Asks Entry to Hades
BkVI:156-182 The
Finding of Misenus’s Body
BkVI:236-263 The
Sacrifice to Hecate
BkVI:264-294 The
Entrance to Hades
BkVI:295-336 The
Shores of Acheron
BkVI:337-383 The
Shade of Palinurus
BkVI:384-416
Charon the Ferryman
BkVI:417-439
Beyond the Acheron
BkVI:440-476 The
Shade of Dido
BkVI:477-534 The
Shade of Deiphobus
BkVI:535-627 The
Sibyl Describes Tartarus
BkVI:628-678 The
Fields of Elysium
BkVI:679-702 The
Meeting with Anchises
BkVI:703-723 The
Souls Due for Re-birth
BkVI:724-751 The
Transmigration of Souls
BkVI:752-776 The
Future Race – The Alban Kings
BkVI:777-807 The
Future Race – Romulus and the Caesars.
BkVI:808-853 The
Future Race – Republic and Beyond
BkVI:854-885 The
Future Race – Marcellus
BkVI:886-901 The
Gates of Sleep
BkVII:1-36 The
Trojans Reach the Tiber
BkVII:37-106 King
Latinus and the Oracle
BkVII:107-147
Fulfilment of A Prophecy
BkVII:148-191 The
Palace of Latinus
BkVII:192-248 The
Trojans Seek Alliance With Latinus
BkVII:249-285
Latinus Offers Peace
BkVII:286-341
Juno Summons Allecto
BkVII:341-405
Allecto Maddens Queen Amata
BkVII:406-474
Allecto Rouses Turnus
BkVII:475-539
Allecto Among the Trojans
BkVII:540-571
Allecto Returns to Hades
BkVII:572-600
Latinus Abdicates
BkVII:601-640
Latium Prepares for War
BkVII:783-817
Turnus and Camilla Complete the Array.
BkVIII:1-25 The
Situation in Latium
BkVIII:26-65
Aeneas’s Dream of Tiberinus
BkVIII:66-101
Aeneas Sails to Pallanteum
BkVIII:102-151
Aeneas Meets Evander
BkVIII:152-183
Evander Offers Alliance
BkVIII:184-305
The Tale of Hercules and Cacus
BkVIII:306-369
Pallanteum – the Site of Rome
BkVIII:370-406
Venus Seeks Weapons from Vulcan
BkVIII:407-453
Vulcan’s Smithy
BkVIII:454-519
Evander Proposes Assistance
BkVIII:520-584
The Preliminary Alarms
BkVIII:585-625
Venus’s Gift of Armour
BkVIII:626-670
Vulcan’s Shield: Scenes of Early Rome.
BkVIII:671-713
Vulcan’s Shield: The Battle of Actium..
BkVIII:714-731 Vulcan’s
Shield: Augustus’s Triple Triumph
BkIX:1-24 Iris
Urges Turnus to War
BkIX:25-76 Turnus
Attacks the Trojan Fleet
BkIX:77-106
Cybele Makes a Plea to Jove
BkIX:107-122
Cybele Transforms the Ships
BkIX:123-167
Turnus Lays Siege to the Camp
BkIX:168-223
Nisus and Euryalus: A Mission Proposed
BkIX:224-313
Nisus and Euryalus: Aletes Consents
BkIX:314-366
Nisus and Euryalus: The Raid
BkIX:367-459 The
Death of Euryalus and Nisus
BkIX:460-524
Euryalus’s Mother Laments
BkIX:590-637
Ascanius (Iulus) in Battle
BkIX:638-671
Apollo Speaks to Iulus
BkIX:672-716
Turnus at the Trojan Gates
BkIX:717-755 The
Death of Pandarus
BkIX:756-787
Turnus Slaughters the Trojans
BkIX:788-818
Turnus Is Driven Off
BkX:1-95 The
Council of the Gods
BkX:96-117
Jupiter Leaves the Outcome to Fate
BkX:118-162
Aeneas Returns From Pallantium
BkX:163-214 The
Leaders of the Tuscan Fleet
BkX:215-259 The
Nymphs of Cybele
BkX:260-307
Aeneas Reaches Land
BkX:308-425 The
Pitched Battle
BkX:426-509 The
Death of Pallas
BkX:510-605
Aeneas Rages In Battle
BkX:606-688 Juno
Withdraws Turnus from the Fight
BkX:689-754
Mezentius Rages in Battle
BkX:755-832 The
Death of Mezentius’s Son, Lausus
BkX:833-908 The
Death of Mezentius
BkXI:1-99 Aeneas
Mourns Pallas
BkXI:100-138
Aeneas Offers Peace
BkXI:139-181
Evander Mourns Pallas
BkXI:182-224 The
Funeral Pyres
BkXI:225-295 An
Answer From Arpi
BkXI:296-335
Latinus’s Proposal
BkXI:336-375 Drances
Attacks Turnus Verbally
BkXI:445-531 The
Trojans Attack
BkXI:532-596
Diana’s Concern For Camilla
BkXI:597-647 The
Armies Engage
BkXI:648-724
Camilla In Action
BkXI:725-767
Arruns Follows Her
BkXI:768-835 The
Death of Camilla
BkXI:836-915 Opis
Takes Revenge
BkXII:1-53 Turnus
Demands Marriage
BkXII:54-80 He
Proposes Single Combat
BkXII:81-112 He
Prepares For Battle
BkXII:113-160
Juno Speaks to Juturna
BkXII:161-215
Aeneas and Latinus Sacrifice
BkXII:216-265 The
Rutulians Break The Treaty
BkXII:266-310
Renewed Fighting
BkXII:311-382
Aeneas Wounded: Turnus Rampant
BkXII:383-467
Venus Heals Aeneas
BkXII:468-499
Juturna Foils Aeneas
BkXII:500-553
Aeneas And Turnus Amongst The Slaughter
BkXII:554-592
Aeneas Attacks The City
BkXII:593-613
Queen Amata’s Suicide
BkXII:614-696
Turnus Hears Of Amata’s Death
BkXII:697-765 The
Final Duel Begins
BkXII:766-790 The
Goddesses Intervene
BkXII:791-842
Jupiter And Juno Decide The Future
BkXII:843-886
Jupiter Sends Juturna A Sign
BkXII:887-952 The
Death Of Turnus
BkI:1-11 Invocation to the Muse
I sing of arms and the man, he who, exiled by fate,
first came from the
coast of Troy to Italy, and to
Lavinian shores – hurled about endlessly by land and
sea,
by the will of the gods, by cruel Juno’s remorseless
anger,
long suffering also in war, until he founded a city
and brought his gods
to Latium: from that the Latin people
came, the lords of Alba
Longa, the walls of noble Rome.
Muse, tell me the cause: how was she offended in her
divinity,
how was she grieved, the Queen of Heaven, to drive a
man,
noted for virtue, to endure such dangers, to face so
many
trials? Can there be such anger in the minds of the
gods?
BkI:12-49 The Anger of Juno
There was an ancient city, Carthage (held by colonists
from Tyre),
opposite Italy, and the
far-off mouths of the Tiber,
rich in wealth, and
very savage in pursuit of war.
They say Juno loved this one land above all others,
even neglecting Samos:
here were her weapons
and her chariot, even
then the goddess worked at,
and cherished, the idea that it should have supremacy
over the nations, if only the fates allowed.
Yet she’d heard of offspring, derived from Trojan
blood,
that would one day overthrow the Tyrian stronghold:
that from them a people would come, wide-ruling,
and proud in war, to
Libya’s ruin: so the Fates ordained.
Fearing this, and remembering the ancient war
she had fought before,
at Troy, for her dear Argos,
(and the cause of her anger
and bitter sorrows
had not yet passed from her mind: the distant
judgement
of Paris stayed deep
in her heart, the injury to her scorned beauty,
her hatred of the
race, and abducted Ganymede’s honours)
the daughter of Saturn, incited further by this,
hurled the Trojans, the Greeks and pitiless Achilles
had left,
round the whole ocean,
keeping them far from Latium:
they wandered for many
years, driven by fate over all the seas.
Such an effort it was to found the Roman people.
They were hardly out of sight of Sicily’s isle, in
deeper water,
joyfully spreading sail, bronze keel ploughing the
brine,
when Juno, nursing the eternal wound in her breast,
spoke to herself: ‘Am I to abandon my purpose,
conquered,
unable to turn the Teucrian
king away from Italy!
Why, the fates forbid it. Wasn’t Pallas able to burn
the Argive fleet, to sink it in the sea, because of
the guilt
and madness of one
single man, Ajax, son of Oileus?
She herself hurled Jupiter’s swift fire from the
clouds,
scattered the ships, and made the sea boil with
storms:
She caught him up in a water-spout, as he breathed
flame
from his pierced chest, and pinned him to a sharp
rock:
yet I, who walk about as queen of the gods, wife
and sister of Jove, wage war on a whole race, for so
many years.
Indeed, will anyone worship Juno’s power from now on,
or place offerings, humbly, on her altars?’
BkI:50-80 Juno Asks Aeolus for Help
So debating with herself, her heart inflamed, the
goddess
came to Aeolia, to the
country of storms, the place
of wild gales. Here
in his vast cave, King Aeolus,
keeps the writhing winds, and the roaring tempests,
under control, curbs them with chains and
imprisonment.
They moan angrily at the doors, with a mountain’s vast
murmurs:
Aeolus sits, holding his sceptre, in his high
stronghold,
softening their passions, tempering their rage: if
not,
they’d surely carry off seas and lands and the highest
heavens,
with them, in rapid flight, and sweep them through the
air.
But the all-powerful Father, fearing this, hid them
in dark caves, and piled a high mountain mass over
them
and gave them a king, who by fixed agreement, would
know
how to give the order to tighten or slacken the reins.
Juno now offered these words to him, humbly:
‘Aeolus, since the Father of gods, and king of men,
gave you the power to quell, and raise, the waves with
the winds,
there is a people I hate
sailing the Tyrrhenian Sea,
bringing Troy’s conquered
gods to Italy:
Add power to the winds, and sink their wrecked boats,
or drive them apart, and scatter their bodies over the
sea.
I have fourteen Nymphs of outstanding beauty:
of whom I’ll name Deiopea, the loveliest in looks,
joined in eternal marriage, and yours for ever, so
that,
for such service to me as yours, she’ll spend all her
years
with you, and make you the father of lovely children.’
Aeolus replied: ‘Your task, O queen, is to decide
what you wish: my duty is to fulfil your orders.
You brought about all this kingdom of mine, the
sceptre,
Jove’s favour, you gave me a seat at the feasts of the
gods,
and you made me lord of the storms and the tempests.’
BkI:81-123 Aeolus Raises the Storm
When he had spoken, he reversed his trident and struck
the hollow mountain on the side: and the winds, formed
ranks,
rushed out by the door he’d made, and whirled across
the earth.
They settle on the sea, East and West wind,
and the wind from
Africa, together, thick with storms,
stir it all from its
furthest deeps, and roll vast waves to shore:
follows a cry of men and a creaking of cables.
Suddenly clouds take sky and day away
from the Trojan’s eyes: dark night rests on the sea.
It thunders from the pole, and the aether flashes
thick fire,
and all things threaten immediate death to men.
Instantly Aeneas groans, his limbs slack with cold:
stretching his two hands towards the heavens,
he cries out in this voice: ‘Oh, three, four times
fortunate
were those who chanced to die in front of their
father’s eyes
under Troy’s high walls!
O Diomede, son of Tydeus
bravest of Greeks! Why
could I not have fallen, at your hand,
in the fields of
Ilium, and poured out my spirit,
where fierce Hector
lies, beneath Achilles’s spear,
and mighty Sarpedon: where Simois rolls, and sweeps
away
so many shields, helmets, brave bodies, of men, in its
waves!’
Hurling these words out, a howling blast from the
north,
strikes square on the sail, and lifts the seas to
heaven:
the oars break: then the prow swings round and offers
the beam to the waves: a steep mountain of water
follows in a mass.
Some ships hang on the breaker’s crest: to others the
yawning deep
shows land between the waves: the surge rages with
sand.
The south wind catches three, and whirls them onto
hidden rocks
(rocks the Italians call the Altars, in mid-ocean,
a vast reef on the surface of the sea) three the east
wind drives
from the deep, to the shallows and quick-sands (a
pitiful sight),
dashes them against the bottom, covers them with a
gravel mound.
A huge wave, toppling, strikes one astern, in front of
his very eyes,
one carrying faithful
Orontes and the Lycians.
The steersman’s thrown out and hurled headlong, face
down:
but the sea turns the ship three times, driving her
round,
in place, and the swift vortex swallows her in the deep.
Swimmers appear here and there in the vast waste,
men’s weapons, planking, Trojan treasure in the waves.
Now the storm conquers Iloneus’s tough ship, now
Achates,
now that in which Abas sailed, and old Aletes’s:
their timbers sprung in their sides, all the ships
let in the hostile tide, and split open at the seams.
BkI:124-156 Neptune Intervenes
Neptune, meanwhile, greatly troubled, saw that the sea
was churned with vast murmur, and the storm was loose
and the still waters welled from their deepest levels:
he raised his calm face from the waves, gazing over
the deep.
He sees Aeneas’s fleet scattered all over the ocean,
the Trojans crushed by the breakers, and the
plummeting sky.
And Juno’s anger, and her stratagems, do not escape
her brother.
He calls the East and West winds to him, and then
says:
‘Does confidence in your birth fill you so? Winds, do
you dare,
without my intent, to mix earth with sky, and cause
such trouble,
now? You whom I – ! But it’s better to calm the
running waves:
you’ll answer to me later for this misfortune, with a
different punishment. Hurry, fly now, and say this to your king:
control of the ocean, and the fierce trident, were
given to me,
by lot, and not to him. He owns the wild rocks, home
to you,
and yours, East Wind: let Aeolus officiate in his
palace,
and be king in the closed prison of the winds.’
So he speaks, and swifter than his speech, he calms
the swollen sea,
scatters the gathered cloud, and brings back the sun.
Cymothoë and Triton, working together, thrust the
ships
from the sharp reef: Neptune himself raises them with
his trident,
parts the vast quicksand, tempers the flood,
and glides on weightless wheels, over the tops of the
waves.
As often, when rebellion breaks out in a great nation,
and the common rabble rage with passion, and soon
stones
and fiery torches fly (frenzy supplying weapons),
if they then see a man of great virtue, and weighty
service,
they are silent, and stand there listening
attentively:
he sways their passions with his words and soothes
their hearts:
so all the uproar of the ocean died, as soon as their
father,
gazing over the water, carried through the clear sky,
wheeled
his horses, and gave them their head, flying behind in
his chariot.
BkI:157-222 Shelter on the Libyan Coast
The weary followers of Aeneas made efforts to set a
course
for the nearest land, and tacked towards the Libyan
coast.
There is a place there in a deep inlet: an island
forms a harbour
with the barrier of its bulk, on which every wave from
the deep
breaks, and divides into diminishing ripples.
On this side and that, vast cliffs and twin crags loom
in the sky,
under whose summits the whole sea is calm, far and
wide:
then, above that, is a scene of glittering woods,
and a dark grove overhangs the water, with leafy
shade:
under the headland opposite is a cave, curtained with
rock,
inside it, fresh water, and seats of natural stone,
the home of Nymphs. No hawsers moor the weary ships
here, no anchor, with its hooked flukes, fastens them.
Aeneas takes shelter here with seven ships gathered
from the fleet, and the Trojans, with a passion for
dry land,
disembarking, take possession of the sands they longed
for,
and stretch their brine-caked bodies on the shore.
At once Achates strikes a spark from his flint,
catches the fire in the leaves, places dry fuel round
it,
and quickly has flames among the kindling.
Then, wearied by events, they take out wheat, damaged
by the sea, and implements of Ceres, and prepare to
parch
the grain over the flames, and grind it on stone.
Aeneas climbs a crag meanwhile, and searches the whole
prospect
far and wide over the sea, looking if he can see
anything
of Antheus and his storm-tossed Phrygian galleys,
or Capys, or Caicus’s arms blazoned on a high stern.
There’s no ship in sight: he sees three stags
wandering
on the shore: whole herds of deer follow at their
back,
and graze in long lines along the valley.
He halts at this, and grasps in his hand his bow
and swift arrows, shafts that loyal Achates carries,
and first he shoots the leaders themselves, their
heads,
with branching antlers, held high, then the mass, with
his shafts,
and drives the whole crowd in confusion among the
leaves:
The conqueror does not stop until he’s scattered seven
huge
carcasses on the ground, equal in number to his ships.
Then he seeks the harbour, and divides them among all
his friends.
Next he shares out the wine that the good Acestes had
stowed
in jars, on the Trinacrian coast, and that hero had
given them
on leaving: and speaking to them, calmed their sad
hearts:
‘O friends (well, we were not unknown to trouble
before)
O you who’ve endured worse, the god will grant an end
to this too.
You’ve faced rabid Scylla, and her deep-sounding
cliffs:
and you’ve experienced the Cyclopes’s rocks:
remember your courage and chase away gloomy fears:
perhaps one day you’ll even delight in remembering
this.
Through all these misfortunes, these dangerous times,
we head for Latium,
where the fates hold peaceful lives
for us: there Troy’s
kingdom can rise again. Endure,
and preserve
yourselves for happier days.’
So his voice utters, and sick with the weight of care,
he pretends
hope, in his look, and stifles the pain deep in his
heart.
They make ready the game, and the future feast:
they flay the hides from the ribs and lay the flesh
bare:
some cut it in pieces, quivering, and fix it on spits,
others place cauldrons on the beach, and feed them
with flames.
Then they revive their strength with food, stretched
on the grass,
and fill themselves with rich venison and old wine.
When hunger is quenched by the feast, and the remnants
cleared,
deep in conversation, they discuss their missing
friends,
and, between hope and fear, question whether they
live,
or whether they’ve suffered death and no longer hear
their name.
Aeneas, the virtuous, above all mourns the lot of
fierce Orontes,
then that of Amycus, together with Lycus’s cruel fate,
and those of brave Gyus, and brave Cloanthus.
BkI:223-256 Venus Intercedes with Jupiter
Now, all was complete, when Jupiter, from the heights
of the air,
looked down on the sea with its flying sails, and the
broad lands,
and the coasts, and the people far and wide, and
paused,
at the summit of heaven, and fixed his eyes on the
Libyan kingdom.
And as he weighed such cares as he had in his heart,
Venus spoke
to him, sadder still, her bright eyes brimming with
tears:
‘Oh you who rule things human, and divine, with
eternal law,
and who terrify them all with your lightning-bolt,
what can my Aeneas have done to you that’s so serious,
what have the Trojans done, who’ve suffered so much
destruction,
to whom the whole world’s closed, because of the
Italian lands?
Surely you promised that at some point, as the years
rolled by,
the Romans would rise from them, leaders would rise,
restored from Teucer’s blood, who would hold power
over the sea, and all the lands. Father, what thought
has changed
your mind? It consoled me for the fall of Troy, and
its sad ruin,
weighing one destiny, indeed, against opposing
destinies:
now the same misfortune follows these men driven on by
such
disasters. Great king, what end to their efforts will
you give?
Antenor could escape through the thick of the Greek
army,
and safely enter the Illyrian gulfs, and deep into the
realms
of the Liburnians, and pass the founts of Timavus,
from which the river bursts, with a huge mountainous
roar,
through nine mouths, and buries the fields under its
noisy flood.
Here, nonetheless, he sited the city of Padua, and
homes
for Teucrians, and gave the people a name, and hung up
the arms of Troy: now
he’s calmly settled, in tranquil peace.
But we, your race, to whom you permit the heights of
heaven,
lose our ships (shameful!), betrayed, because of one
person’s anger,
and kept far away from
the shores of Italy.
Is this the prize for virtue? Is this how you restore
our rule?
The father of men and gods, smiled at her with that
look
with which he clears the sky of storms,
kissed his daughter’s lips, and then said this:
BkI:257-296 Jupiter’s Prophecy
‘Don’t be afraid, Cytherea, your child’s fate remains
unaltered:
You’ll see the city of Lavinium, and the walls I
promised,
and you’ll raise great-hearted Aeneas high, to the
starry sky:
No thought has changed my mind. This son of yours
(since this trouble gnaws at my heart, I’ll speak,
and unroll the secret scroll of destiny)
will wage a mighty war
in Italy, destroy proud peoples,
and establish laws,
and city walls, for his warriors,
until a third summer
sees his reign in Latium, and
three winter camps pass
since the Rutulians were beaten.
But the boy Ascanius, surnamed Iulus now (He was Ilus
while the Ilian kingdom was a reality) will imperially
complete thirty great circles of the turning months,
and transfer his throne from its site at Lavinium,
and mighty in power,
will build the walls of Alba Longa.
Here kings of Hector’s race will reign now
for three hundred years complete, until a royal
priestess,
Ilia, heavy with child, shall bear Mars twins.
Then Romulus will further the race, proud in his nurse
the she-wolf’s tawny pelt, and found the walls of
Mars,
and call the people Romans, from his own name.
I’ve fixed no limits or duration to their possessions:
I’ve given them empire without end. Why, harsh Juno
who now torments land, and sea and sky with fear,
will respond to better judgement, and favour the
Romans,
masters of the world, and people of the toga, with me.
So it is decreed. A time will come, as the years glide
by,
when the Trojan house of Assaracus will force Phthia
into slavery, and be
lords of beaten Argos.
From this glorious source a Trojan Caesar will be
born,
who will bound the empire with Ocean, his fame with
the stars,
Augustus, a Julius, his name descended from the great
Iulus.
You, no longer anxious, will receive him one day in
heaven,
burdened with Eastern spoils: he’ll be called to in
prayer.
Then with wars abandoned, the harsh ages will grow
mild:
White haired Trust, and Vesta, Quirinus with his
brother Remus
will make the laws: the gates of War, grim with iron,
and narrowed by bars, will be closed: inside impious
Rage will roar
frighteningly from blood-stained mouth, seated on
savage weapons,
hands tied behind his back, with a hundred knots of
bronze.’
BkI:297-371 Venus Speaks to Aeneas
Saying this, he sends Mercury, Maia’s son, down from
heaven,
so that the country
and strongholds of this new Carthage
would open to the
Trojans, as guests, and Dido, unaware of fate,
would not keep them from her territory. He flies
through the air
with a beating of mighty wings and quickly lands on
Libyan shore.
And soon does as commanded, and the Phoenicians set
aside
their savage instincts, by the god’s will: the queen
above all
adopts calm feelings, and kind thoughts, towards the
Trojans.
But Aeneas, the virtuous, turning things over all
night,
decides, as soon as kindly dawn appears, to go out
and explore the place, to find what shores he has
reached,
on the wind, who owns them (since he sees desert)
man or beast, and bring back the details to his
friends.
He conceals the boats in over-hanging woods
under an arching cliff, enclosed by trees
and leafy shadows: accompanied only by Achetes,
he goes, swinging two broad-bladed spears in his hand.
His mother met him herself, among the trees, with the
face
and appearance of a virgin, and a virgin’s weapons,
a Spartan girl, or such as Harpalyce of Thrace,
who wearies horses, and outdoes winged Hebrus in
flight.
For she’d slung her bow from her shoulders, at the
ready,
like a huntress, and loosed her hair for the wind to
scatter,
her knees bare, and her flowing tunic gathered up in a
knot.
And she cried first: ‘Hello, you young men, tell me,
if you’ve seen my sister wandering here by any chance,
wearing a quiver, and the hide of a dappled lynx,
or shouting, hot on the track of a slavering boar?’
So Venus: and so Venus’s son began in answer:
‘I’ve not seen or heard any of your sisters, O Virgin
–
or how should I name you? Since your looks are not
mortal
and your voice is more than human: oh, a goddess for
certain!
Or Phoebus’s sister? Or one of the race of Nymphs?
Be kind, whoever you may be, and lighten our labour,
and tell us only what sky we’re under, and what shores
we’ve landed on: we’re adrift here, driven by wind and
vast seas,
knowing nothing of the people or the country:
many a sacrifice to you will fall at the altars, under
our hand.’
Then Venus said: ‘I don’t think myself worthy of such
honours:
it’s the custom of Tyrian girls to carry a quiver,
and lace our calves high up, over red hunting boots.
You see the kingdom of Carthage, Tyrians, Agenor’s
city:
but bordered by Libyans, a people formidable in war.
Dido rules this empire, having set out from Tyre,
fleeing her brother. It’s a long tale of wrong, with
many
windings: but I’ll trace the main chapters of the
story.
Sychaeus was her husband, wealthiest, in land, of
Phoenicians
and loved with a great love by the wretched girl,
whose father gave her as a virgin to him, and wed them
with great solemnity. But her brother Pygmalion,
savage
in wickedness beyond
all others, held the kingdom of Tyre.
Madness came between them. The king, blinded by greed
for gold,
killed the unwary Sychaeus, secretly, with a knife,
impiously,
in front of the altars, indifferent to his sister’s
affections.
He concealed his actions for a while, deceived the
lovesick girl,
with empty hopes, and many evil pretences.
But the ghost of her unburied husband came to her in
dream:
lifting his pale head in a strange manner, he laid
bare the cruelty
at the altars, and his heart pierced by the knife,
and unveiled all the secret wickedness of that house.
Then he urged her to leave quickly and abandon her
country,
and, to help her journey, revealed an ancient treasure
under the earth, an unknown weight of gold and silver.
Shaken by all this, Dido prepared her flight and her
friends.
Those who had fierce hatred of the tyrant or bitter
fear,
gathered together: they seized some ships that by
chance
were ready, and loaded the gold: greedy Pygmalion’s
riches
are carried overseas: a woman leads the enterprise.
The came to this place, and bought land, where you now
see
the vast walls, and
resurgent stronghold, of new Carthage,
as much as they could
enclose with the strips of hide
from a single bull, and from that they called it
Byrsa.
But who then are you? What shores do you come from?
What course do you take?’ He sighed as she questioned
him,
and drawing the words from deep in his heart he
replied:
BkI:372-417 She Directs Him to Dido’s Palace
‘O goddess, if I were to start my tale at the very
beginning,
and you had time to hear the story of our misfortunes,
Vesper would have shut day away in the closed heavens.
A storm drove us at whim to Libya’s shores,
sailing the many seas from
ancient Troy,
if by chance the name
of Troy has come to your hearing.
I am that Aeneas, the virtuous, who carries my
household gods
in my ship with me, having snatched them from the
enemy,
my name is known beyond the sky.
I seek my country Italy, and a people born of Jupiter
on high.
I embarked on the Phrygian sea with twenty ships,
following my given fate, my mother, a goddess, showing
the way:
barely seven are left, wrenched from the wind and
waves.
I myself wander, destitute and unknown, in the Libyan desert,
driven from Europe and
Asia.’ Venus did not wait
for further complaint
but broke in on his lament like this:
‘Whoever you are I don’t think you draw the breath of
life
while hated by the gods,
you who’ve reached a city of Tyre.
Only go on from here, and take yourself to the queen’s
threshold,
since I bring you news that your friends are restored,
and your ships recalled, driven to safety by the
shifting winds,
unless my parents taught me false prophecies, in vain.
See, those twelve swans in exultant line, that an
eagle,
Jupiter’s bird, swooping from the heavens,
was troubling in the clear sky: now, in a long file,
they seem
to have settled, or be gazing down now at those who
already have.
As, returning, their wings beat in play, and they
circle the zenith
in a crowd, and give their cry, so your ships and your
people
are in harbour, or near its entrance under full sail.
Only go on, turn your steps where the path takes you.’
She spoke, and turning away she reflected the light
from her rose-tinted neck, and breathed a divine
perfume
from her ambrosial hair: her robes trailed down to her
feet,
and, in her step, showed her a true goddess. He
recognised
his mother, and as she vanished followed her with his
voice:
‘You too are cruel, why do you taunt your son with
false
phantoms? Why am I not allowed to join hand
with hand, and speak and hear true words?’
So he accuses her, and turns his steps towards the
city.
But Venus veiled them with a dark mist as they walked,
and, as a goddess, spread a thick covering of cloud
around them,
so that no one could see them, or touch them,
or cause them delay, or ask them where they were
going.
She herself soars high in the air, to Paphos, and
returns to her home
with delight, where her temple and its hundred altars
steam with Sabean incense, fragrant with fresh
garlands.
BkI:418-463 The Temple of Juno
Meanwhile they’ve tackled the route the path revealed.
And soon they climbed the hill that looms high over
the city,
and looks down from above on the towers that face it.
Aeneas marvels at the mass of buildings, once huts,
marvels at the gates, the noise, the paved roads.
The eager Tyrians are busy, some building walls,
and raising the citadel, rolling up stones by hand,
some choosing the site for a house, and marking a
furrow:
they make magistrates and laws, and a sacred senate:
here some are digging a harbour: others lay down
the deep foundations of a theatre, and carve huge
columns
from the cliff, tall adornments for the future stage.
Just as bees in early summer carry out their tasks
among the flowery fields, in the sun, when they lead
out
the adolescent young of their race, or cram the cells
with liquid honey, and swell them with sweet nectar,
or receive the incoming burdens, or forming lines
drive the lazy herd of drones from their hives:
the work glows, and the fragrant honey’s sweet with
thyme.
‘O fortunate those whose walls already rise!’
Aeneas cries, and admires the summits of the city.
He enters among them, veiled in mist (marvellous to
tell)
and mingles with the people seen by no one.
There was a grove in the centre of the city, delightful
with shade, where the wave and storm-tossed
Phoenicians
first uncovered the head of a fierce horse, that regal
Juno
showed them: so the race would be noted in war,
and rich in substance throughout the ages.
Here Sidonian Dido was establishing a great temple
to Juno, rich with gifts and divine presence,
with bronze entrances rising from stairways, and beams
jointed with bronze, and hinges creaking on bronze
doors.
Here in the grove something new appeared that calmed
his fears
for the first time, here for the first time Aeneas
dared to hope
for safety, and to put greater trust in his afflicted
fortunes.
While, waiting for the queen, in the vast temple, he
looks
at each thing: while he marvels at the city’s wealth,
the skill of their artistry, and the products of their
labours,
he sees the battles
at Troy in their correct order,
the War, known through
its fame to the whole world,
the sons of Atreus, of Priam, and Achilles angered
with both.
He halted, and said, with tears: ‘What place is there,
Achates, what region of earth not full of our
hardships?
See, Priam! Here too virtue has its rewards, here too
there are tears for events, and mortal things touch
the heart.
Lose your fears: this fame will bring you benefit.’
BkI:464-493 The Frieze
So he speaks, and feeds his spirit with the
insubstantial frieze,
sighing often, and his face wet with the streaming
tears.
For he saw how, here, the Greeks fled, as they fought
round Troy,
chased by the Trojan youth, and, there, the Trojans
fled,
with plumed Achilles pressing them close in his
chariot.
Not far away, through his tears, he recognises
Rhesus’s
white-canvassed tents, that blood-stained Diomede,
Tydeus’s son,
laid waste with great slaughter, betrayed in their
first sleep,
diverting the fiery horses to his camp, before they
could eat
Trojan fodder, or drink from the river Xanthus.
Elsewhere Troilus, his weapons discarded in flight,
unhappy boy, unequally matched in his battle with
Achilles,
is dragged by his horses, clinging face-up to the
empty chariot,
still clutching the reins: his neck and hair trailing
on the ground, and his spear reversed furrowing the
dust.
Meanwhile the Trojan women with loose hair, walked
to unjust Pallas’s temple carrying the sacred robe,
mourning humbly, and beating their breasts with their
hands.
The goddess was turned away, her eyes fixed on the
ground.
Three times had Achilles dragged Hector round the
walls of Troy,
and now was selling the lifeless corpse for gold.
Then Aeneas truly heaves a deep sigh, from the depths of
his heart,
as he views the spoils, the chariot, the very body of
his friend,
and Priam stretching out his unwarlike hands.
He recognised himself as well, fighting the Greek
princes,
and the Ethiopian ranks and black Memnon’s armour.
Raging Penthesilea leads the file of Amazons,
with crescent shields, and shines out among her
thousands,
her golden girdle fastened beneath her exposed
breasts,
a virgin warrior daring to fight with men.
BkI:494-519 The Arrival of Queen Dido
While these wonderful sights are viewed by Trojan
Aeneas,
while amazed he hangs there, rapt, with fixed gaze,
Queen Dido, of loveliest form, reached the temple,
with a great crowd of youths accompanying her.
Just as Diana leads her dancing throng on Eurotas’s
banks,
or along the ridges of Cynthus, and, following her,
a thousand mountain-nymphs gather on either side:
and she carries a quiver on her shoulder, and overtops
all the other goddesses as she walks: and delight
seizes her mother Latona’s silent heart:
such was Dido, so she carried herself, joyfully,
amongst them, furthering the work, and her rising
kingdom.
Then, fenced with weapons, and resting on a high
throne,
she took her seat, at the goddess’s doorway, under the
central vault.
She was giving out laws and statutes to the people,
and sharing
the workers labour out in fair proportions, or
assigning it by lot:
when Aeneas suddenly saw Antheus, and Sergestus,
and brave Cloanthus, approaching, among a large crowd,
with others of the Trojans whom the black storm-clouds
had scattered over the sea and carried far off to
other shores.
He was stunned, and Achates was stunned as well
with joy and fear: they burned with eagerness to clasp
hands,
but the unexpected event confused their minds.
They stay concealed and, veiled in the deep mist, they
watch
to see what happens to their friends, what shore they
have left
the fleet on, and why they are here: the elect of
every ship came
begging favour, and made for the temple among the
shouting.
BkI:520-560 Ilioneus Asks Her Assistance
When they’d entered, and freedom to speak in person
had been granted, Ilioneus, the eldest, began calmly:
‘O queen, whom Jupiter grants the right to found
a new city, and curb proud tribes with your justice,
we unlucky Trojans, driven by the winds over every
sea,
pray to you: keep the terror of fire away from our
ships,
spare a virtuous race and look more kindly on our
fate.
We have not come to despoil Libyan homes with the
sword,
or to carry off stolen plunder to the shore: that
violence
is not in our minds, the conquered have not such
pride.
There’s a place called Hesperia by the Greeks,
an ancient land, strong in men, with a rich soil:
There the Oenotrians lived: now rumour has it
that a later people has
called it Italy, after their leader.
We had set our course there when stormy Orion,
rising with the tide, carried us onto hidden shoals,
and fierce winds scattered us far, with the
overwhelming surge,
over the waves among uninhabitable rocks:
we few have drifted here to your shores.
What race of men is this? What land is so barbaric as
to allow
this custom, that we’re denied the hospitality of the
sands?
They stir up war, and prevent us setting foot on dry
land.
If you despise the human race and mortal weapons,
still trust that the gods remember right and wrong.
Aeneas was our king, no one more just than him
in his duty, or greater in war and weaponry.
If fate still protects the man, if he still enjoys the
ethereal air,
if he doesn’t yet rest among the cruel shades, there’s
nothing
to fear, and you’d not repent of vying with him first
in kindness.
Then there are cities and fields too in the region of
Sicily,
and famous Acestes, of Trojan blood. Allow us
to beach our fleet, damaged by the storms,
and cut planks from trees, and shape oars,
so if our king’s restored and our friends are found
we can head for
Italy, gladly seek Italy and Latium:
and if our saviour’s
lost, and the Libyan seas hold you,
Troy’s most virtuous father, if no hope now remains
from Iulus,
let us seek the Sicilian straits, from which we were
driven,
and the home prepared for us, and a king, Acestes.’
So Ilioneus spoke: and the Trojans all shouted with
one voice.
BkI:561-585 Dido Welcomes the Trojans
Then, Dido, spoke briefly, with lowered eyes:
‘Trojans, free your hearts of fear: dispel your cares.
Harsh events and the newness of the kingdom force me
to effect
such things, and protect my borders with guards on all
sides.
Who doesn’t know of Aeneas’s race, and the city of Troy,
the bravery, the men,
or so great a blaze of warfare,
indeed, we Phoenicians don’t possess unfeeling hearts,
the sun doesn’t harness his horses that far from this
Tyrian city.
Whether you opt for mighty Hesperia, and Saturn’s
fields,
or the summit of Eryx, and Acestes for king,
I’ll see you safely escorted, and help you with my
wealth.
Or do you wish to settle here with me, as equals in my
kingdom?
The city I build is yours: beach your ships:
Trojans and Tyrians will be treated by me without
distinction.
I wish your king Aeneas himself were here, driven
by that same storm! Indeed, I’ll send reliable men
along the coast, and order them to travel the length
of Libya,
in case he’s driven aground, and wandering the woods
and towns.’
Brave Achetes, and our forefather Aeneas, their spirits
raised
by these words, had been burning to break free of the
mist.
Achates was first to speak, saying to Aeneas: ‘Son of
the goddess,
what intention springs to your mind? You see all’s
safe,
the fleet and our friends have been restored to us.
Only one is missing, whom we saw plunged in the waves:
all else is in accord with your mother’s words.’
BkI:586-612 Aeneas Makes Himself Known
He’d scarcely spoken when the mist surrounding them
suddenly parted, and vanished in the clear air.
Aeneas stood there, shining in the bright daylight,
like a god in shoulders and face: since his mother
had herself imparted to her son beauty to his hair,
a glow of youth, and a joyful charm to his eyes:
like the glory art can give to ivory, or as when silver,
or Parian marble, is surrounded by gold.
Then he addressed the queen, suddenly, surprising them
all,
saying: ‘I am here in person, Aeneas the Trojan,
him whom you seek, saved from the Libyan waves.
O Dido, it is not in our power, nor those of our Trojan
race,
wherever they may be, scattered through the wide
world,
to pay you sufficient thanks, you who alone have
pitied
Troy’s unspeakable miseries, and share your city and
home
with us, the remnant left by the Greeks, wearied
by every mischance, on land and sea, and lacking
everything.
May the gods, and the mind itself conscious of right,
bring you a just reward, if the gods respect the
virtuous,
if there is justice anywhere. What happy age gave
birth
to you? What parents produced such a child?
Your honour, name and praise will endure forever,
whatever lands may summon me, while rivers run
to the sea, while shadows cross mountain slopes,
while the sky nourishes the stars.’ So saying he
grasps
his friend Iloneus by the right hand, Serestus with
the left,
then others, brave Gyus and brave Cloanthus.
BkI:613-656 Dido Receives Aeneas
Sidonian Dido was first amazed at the hero’s looks
then at his great misfortunes, and she spoke, saying:
‘Son of a goddess, what fate pursues you through all
these dangers? What force drives you to these
barbarous shores?
Are you truly that Aeneas whom kindly Venus bore
to Trojan Anchises, by the waters of Phrygian Simois?
Indeed, I myself remember Teucer coming to Sidon,
exiled from his country’s borders, seeking a new
kingdom
with Belus’s help: Belus, my father, was laying waste
rich Cyprus, and, as victor, held it by his authority.
Since then the fall of the Trojan city is known to me,
and your name, and those of the Greek kings.
Even their enemy granted the Teucrians high praise,
maintaining they were born of the ancient Teucrian
stock.
So come, young lords, and enter our palace.
Fortune, pursuing me too, through many similar
troubles,
willed that I would find peace at last in this land.
Not being unknown to evil, I’ve learned to aid the
unhappy.’
So she speaks, and leads Aeneas into the royal house,
and proclaims, as well, offerings at the god’s
temples.
She sends no less than twenty bulls to his friends
on the shore, and a hundred of her largest pigs with
bristling backs, a hundred fat lambs with the ewes,
and joyful gifts of wine, but the interior of the
palace
is laid out with royal luxury, and they prepare
a feast in the centre of the palace: covers worked
skilfully in princely purple, massive silverware
on the tables, and her forefathers’ heroic deeds
engraved in gold, a long series of exploits traced
through many heroes, since the ancient origins of her
people.
Aeneas quickly sends Achates to the ships
to carry the news to Ascanius (since a father’s love
won’t let his mind rest) and bring him to the city:
on Ascanius all the care of a fond parent is fixed.
He commands him to bring gifts too, snatched
from the ruins of Troy, a figured robe stiff with gold,
and a cloak fringed with yellow acanthus,
worn by Helen of Argos, brought from Mycenae
when she sailed to Troy and her unlawful marriage,
a wonderful gift from her mother Leda:
and the sceptre that Ilione, Priam’s eldest daughter,
once carried, and a necklace of pearls, and a
double-coronet
of jewels and gold. Achates, hastening to fulfil
these commands, took his way towards the ships.
BkI:657-694 Cupid Impersonates Ascanius
But Venus was planning new wiles and stratagems
in her heart: how Cupid, altered in looks, might
arrive
in place of sweet Ascanius, and arouse the passionate
queen
by his gifts, and entwine the fire in her bones: truly
she fears
the unreliability of this house, and the duplicitous
Tyrians:
unyielding Juno angers her, and her worries increase
with nightfall.
So she speaks these words to winged Cupid:
‘My son, you who alone are my great strength, my
power,
a son who scorns mighty Jupiter’s Typhoean
thunderbolts,
I ask your help, and humbly call on your divine will.
It’s known to you how Aeneas, your brother, is driven
over the sea, round all the shores, by bitter Juno’s
hatred,
and you have often grieved with my grief.
Phoenician Dido holds him there, delaying him with
flattery,
and I fear what may come of Juno’s hospitality:
at such a critical turn of events she’ll not be idle.
So I intend to deceive the queen with guile, and
encircle
her with passion, so that no divine will can rescue
her,
but she’ll be seized, with me, by deep love for
Aeneas.
Now listen to my thoughts on how you can achieve this.
Summoned by his dear father, the royal child,
my greatest concern, prepares to go to the Sidonian
city,
carrying gifts that survived the sea, and the flames
of Troy.
I’ll lull him to sleep and hide him in my sacred
shrine
on the heights of Cythera or Idalium, so he can know
nothing of my deceptions, or interrupt them mid-way.
For no more than a single night imitate his looks by
art,
and, a boy yourself, take on the known face of a boy,
so that when Dido takes you to her breast, joyfully,
amongst the royal feast, and the flowing wine,
when she embraces you, and plants sweet kisses on you,
you’ll breathe hidden fire into her, deceive her with
your poison.’
Cupid obeys his dear mother’s words, sets aside his
wings,
and laughingly trips along with Iulus’s step.
But Venus pours gentle sleep over Ascanius’s limbs,
and warming him in her breast, carries him, with
divine power,
to Idalia’s high groves, where soft marjoram smothers
him
in flowers, and the breath of its sweet shade.
BkI:695-722 Cupid Deceives Dido
Now, obedient to her orders, delighting in Achetes as
guide,
Cupid goes off carrying royal gifts for the Tyrians.
When he arrives the queen has already settled herself
in the centre, on her golden couch under royal
canopies.
Now our forefather Aeneas and the youth of Troy
gather there, and recline on cloths of purple.
Servants pour water over their hands: serve bread
from baskets: and bring napkins of smooth cloth.
Inside there are fifty female servants, in a long
line,
whose task it is to prepare the meal, and tend the
hearth fires:
a hundred more, and as many pages of like age,
to load the tables with food, and fill the cups.
And the Tyrians too are gathered in crowds through the
festive
halls, summoned to recline on the embroidered couches.
They marvel at Aeneas’s gifts, marvel at Iulus,
the god’s brilliant appearance, and deceptive words,
at the robe, and the cloak embroidered with yellow
acanthus.
The unfortunate Phoenician above all, doomed to future
ruin,
cannot pacify her feelings, and catches fire with
gazing,
stirred equally by the child and by the gifts.
He, having hung in an embrace round Aeneas’s neck,
and sated the deceived father’s great love,
seeks out the queen. Dido, clings to him with her eyes
and with her heart, taking him now and then on her
lap,
unaware how great a god is entering her, to her
sorrow.
But he, remembering his Cyprian mother’s wishes,
begins gradually to erase all thought of Sychaeus,
and works at seducing her mind, so long unstirred,
and her heart unused to love, with living passion.
BkI:723-756 Dido Asks for Aeneas’s Story
At the first lull in the feasting, the tables were
cleared,
and they set out vast bowls, and wreathed the wine
with garlands.
Noise filled the palace, and voices rolled out across
the wide halls:
bright lamps hung from the golden ceilings,
and blazing candles dispelled the night.
Then the queen asked for a drinking-cup, heavy
with gold and jewels, that Belus and all Belus’s line
were accustomed to use, and filled it
with wine. Then the halls were silent. She spoke:
‘Jupiter, since they say you’re the one who creates
the laws of hospitality, let this be a happy day
for the Tyrians and those from Troy,
and let it be remembered by our children.
Let Bacchus, the joy-bringer, and kind Juno be
present,
and you, O Phoenicians, make this gathering festive.’
She spoke and poured an offering of wine onto the
table,
and after the libation was the first to touch the bowl
to her lips,
then she gave it to Bitias, challenging him: he
briskly drained
the brimming cup, drenching himself in its golden
fullness,
then other princes drank. Iolas, the long-haired, made
his golden lyre resound, he whom great Atlas taught.
He sang of the wandering moon and the sun’s labours,
where men and beasts came from, and rain and fire,
of Arcturus, the rainy Hyades, the two Bears:
why the winter suns rush to dip themselves in the sea,
and what delay makes the slow nights linger.
The Tyrians redoubled their applause, the Trojans too.
And unfortunate Dido, she too spent the night
in conversation, and drank deep of her passion,
asking endlessly about Priam and Hector:
now about the armour that Memnon, son of the Dawn,
came with to Troy, what kind were Diomed’s horses,
how great was Achilles. ‘But come, my guest, tell us
from the start all the Greek trickery, your men’s
mishaps,
and your wanderings: since it’s the seventh summer now
that brings you here, in your journey, over every land
and sea.’
BkII:1-56
The Trojan Horse: Laocoön’s Warning
They were all silent, and turned their faces towards
him intently.
Then from his high couch our forefather Aeneas began:
‘O queen, you command me to renew unspeakable grief,
how the Greeks destroyed the riches of Troy,
and the sorrowful kingdom, miseries I saw myself,
and in which I played a great part. What Myrmidon,
or Dolopian, or warrior of fierce Ulysses, could keep
from tears in telling such a story? Now the dew-filled
night
is dropping from the sky, and the setting stars urge
sleep.
But if you have such desire to learn of our
misfortunes,
and briefly hear of Troy’s last agonies, though my
mind
shudders at the memory, and recoils in sorrow, I’ll
begin.
‘After many years have slipped by, the leaders of the
Greeks,
opposed by the Fates, and damaged by the war,
build a horse of mountainous size, through Pallas’s
divine art,
and weave planks of fir over its ribs:
they pretend it’s a votive offering: this rumour
spreads.
They secretly hide a picked body of men, chosen by
lot,
there, in the dark body, filling the belly and the
huge
cavernous insides with armed warriors.
Tenedos is within sight, an island known to fame,
rich in wealth when Priam’s kingdom remained,
now just a bay and an unsafe anchorage for boats:
they sail there, and hide themselves, on the lonely
shore.
We thought they had gone, and were seeking Mycenae
with the wind. So all the Trojan land was free of its
long sorrow.
The gates were opened: it was a joy to go and see the
Greek camp,
the deserted site and the abandoned shore.
Here the Dolopians stayed, here cruel Achilles,
here lay the fleet, here they used to meet us in
battle.
Some were amazed at virgin Minerva’s fatal gift,
and marvel at the horse’s size: and at first
Thymoetes,
whether through treachery, or because Troy’s fate was
certain,
urged that it be dragged inside the walls and placed
on the citadel.
But Capys, and those of wiser judgement, commanded us
to either hurl this deceit of the Greeks, this suspect
gift,
into the sea, or set fire to it from beneath,
or pierce its hollow belly, and probe for hiding
places.
The crowd, uncertain, was split by opposing opinions.
Then Laocoön rushes down eagerly from the heights
of the citadel, to confront them all, a large crowd
with him,
and shouts from far off: ‘O unhappy citizens, what
madness?
Do you think the enemy’s sailed away? Or do you think
any Greek gift’s free of treachery? Is that Ulysses’s
reputation?
Either there are Greeks in hiding, concealed by the
wood,
or it’s been built as a machine to use against our
walls,
or spy on our homes, or fall on the city from above,
or it hides some other trick: Trojans, don’t trust
this horse.
Whatever it is, I’m afraid of Greeks even those
bearing gifts.’
So saying he hurled his great spear, with extreme
force,
at the creature’s side, and into the frame of the
curved belly.
The spear stuck quivering, and at the womb’s
reverberation
the cavity rang hollow and gave out a groan.
And if the gods’ fate, if our minds, had not been
ill-omened,
he’d have incited us to mar the Greeks hiding-place
with steel:
Troy would still stand: and you, high tower of Priam
would remain.
BkII:57-144
Sinon’s Tale
See, meanwhile, some Trojan shepherds, shouting
loudly,
dragging a youth, his hands tied behind his back, to
the king.
In order to contrive this, and lay Troy open to the
Greeks,
he had placed himself in their path, calm in mind, and
ready
for either course: to engage in deception, or find
certain death.
The Trojan youth run, crowding round, from all sides,
to see him, and compete in mocking the captive.
Listen now to Greek treachery, and learn of all their
crimes
from just this one. Since, as he stood, looking
troubled,
unarmed, amongst the gazing crowd,
and cast his eyes around the Phrygian ranks,
he said: ‘Ah! What land, what seas would accept me
now?
What’s left for me at the last in my misery, I who
have
no place among the Greeks, when the hostile Trojans,
themselves, demand my punishment and my blood?
At this the mood changed and all violence was checked.
We urged him to say what blood he was sprung from,
and why he suffered: and tell us what trust could be
placed
in him as a captive. Setting fear aside at last he
speaks:
“O king, I’ll tell you the whole truth, whatever
happens,
and indeed I’ll not deny that I’m of Argive birth:
this first of all: if Fortune has made me wretched,
she’ll not also wrongly make me false and a liar.
If by any chance some mention of Palamedes’s name
has reached your ears, son of Belus, and talk
of his glorious fame, he whom the Pelasgians,
on false charges of treason, by atrocious perjury,
because he opposed the war, sent innocent to his
death,
and who they mourn, now he’s taken from the light:
well my father, being poor, sent me here to the war
when I was young, as his friend, as we were blood
relatives.
While Palamades was safe in power, and prospered
in the kings’ council, I also had some name and
respect.
But when he passed from this world above, through
the jealousy of plausible Ulysses (the tale’s not
unknown)
I was ruined, and spent my life in obscurity and
grief,
inwardly angry at the fate of my innocent friend.
Maddened I could not be silent, and I promised, if
chance allowed,
and if I ever returned
as a victor to my native Argos,
to avenge him, and
with my words stirred bitter hatred.
The first hint of trouble came to me from this,
because of it
Ulysses was always frightening me with new
accusations,
spreading veiled rumours among the people, and
guiltily
seeking to defend himself. He would not rest till,
with Calchas
as his instrument – but why I do unfold this unwelcome
story?
Why hinder you? If you consider all Greeks the same,
and that’s sufficient, take your vengeance now: that’s
what
the Ithacan wants, and the sons of Atreus would pay
dearly for.”
Then indeed we were on fire to ask, and seek the
cause,
ignorant of such wickedness and Pelasgian trickery.
Trembling with fictitious feelings he continued,
saying:
“The Greeks, weary with the long war, often longed
to leave Troy and
execute a retreat: if only they had!
Often a fierce storm from the sea land-locked them,
and the gale terrified them from leaving:
once that horse, made of maple-beams, stood there,
especially then, storm-clouds thundered in the
sky.
Anxious, we send Eurypylus to consult Phoebus’s
oracle,
and he brings back these dark words from the
sanctuary:
‘With blood, and a virgin sacrifice, you calmed the
winds,
O Greeks, when you first came to these Trojan shores,
seek your
return in blood, and the well-omened sacrifice of an
Argive life.’
When this reached the ears of the crowd, their minds
were stunned,
and an icy shudder ran to their deepest marrow:
who readies this fate, whom does Apollo choose?
At this the Ithacan thrust the seer, Calchas, into
their midst,
demanding to know what the god’s will might be,
among the uproar. Many were already cruelly
prophesying
that ingenious man’s wickedness towards me, and
silently saw
what was coming. For ten days the seer kept silence,
refusing
to reveal the secret by his words, or condemn anyone
to death.
But at last, urged on by Ulysses’s loud clamour, he
broke
into speech as agreed, and doomed me to the altar.
All acclaimed it, and what each feared himself, they
endured
when directed, alas, towards one man’s destruction.
Now the terrible day arrived, the rites were being
prepared
for me, the salted grain, and the headbands for my
forehead.
I confess I saved myself from death, burst my bonds,
and all that night hid by a muddy lake among the
reeds,
till they set sail, if as it happened they did.
And now I’ve no hope of seeing my old country again,
or my sweet children or the father I long for:
perhaps they’ll seek to punish them for my flight,
and avenge my crime through the death of these
unfortunates.
But I beg you, by the gods, by divine power that knows
the truth,
by whatever honour anywhere remains pure among men,
have pity
on such troubles, pity the soul that endures
undeserved suffering.”
BkII:145-194
Sinon Deludes the Trojans
With these tears we grant him his life, and also pity
him.
Priam himself is the first to order his manacles and
tight bonds
removed, and speaks these words of kindness to him:
“From now on, whoever you are, forget the Greeks, lost
to you:
you’ll be one of us. And explain to me truly what I
ask:
Why have they built this huge hulk of a horse? Who
created it?
What do they aim at? What religious object or war
machine is it?”
He spoke: the other, schooled in Pelasgian art and
trickery,
raised his unbound palms towards the stars, saying:
“You, eternal fires, in your invulnerable power, be
witness,
you altars and impious swords I escaped,
you sacrificial ribbons of the gods that I wore as
victim:
with right I break the Greek’s solemn oaths,
with right I hate them, and if things are hidden
bring them to light: I’m bound by no laws of their
country.
Only, Troy, maintain your assurances, if I speak
truth, if I repay
you handsomely: kept intact yourself, keep your
promises intact.
All the hopes of the Greeks and their confidence to
begin the war
always depended on Pallas’s aid. But from that moment
when the impious son of Tydeus, Diomede, and Ulysses
inventor of wickedness, approached the fateful
Palladium to snatch
it from its sacred temple, killing the guards on the
citadel’s heights,
and dared to seize the holy statue, and touch the
sacred ribbons
of the goddess with blood-soaked hands: from that
moment
the hopes of the Greeks receded, and slipping
backwards ebbed:
their power fragmented, and the mind of the goddess
opposed them.
Pallas gave sign of this, and not with dubious
portents,
for scarcely was the statue set up in camp, when
glittering flames
shone from the upturned eyes, a salt sweat ran over
its limbs,
and (wonderful to tell) she herself darted from the
ground
with shield on her arm, and spear quivering.
Calchas immediately proclaimed that the flight by sea
must be
attempted, and that Troy
cannot be uprooted by Argive weapons,
unless they renew the
omens at Argos, and take the goddess home,
whom they have indeed
taken by sea in their curved ships.
And now they are heading for their native Mycenae with
the wind,
obtaining weapons and the friendship of the gods,
re-crossing
the sea to arrive unexpectedly, So Calchas reads the
omens.
Warned by him, they’ve set up this statue of a horse
for the wounded goddess, instead of the Palladium,
to atone severely for their sin. And Calchas ordered
them
to raise the huge mass of woven timbers, raised to the
sky,
so the gates would not take it, nor could it be
dragged
inside the walls, or watch over the people in their
ancient rites.
Since if your hands violated Minerva’s gift,
then utter ruin (may the gods first turn that
prediction
on themselves!) would come to Priam and the Trojans:
yet if it ascended into your citadel, dragged by your
hands,
Asia would come to the very walls of Pelops, in mighty
war,
and a like fate would await our children.”
BkII:195-227
Laocoön and the Serpents
Through these tricks and the skill of perjured Sinon,
the thing was
credited, and we were trapped, by his wiliness, and
false tears,
we, who were not conquered by Diomede, or Larissan
Achilles,
nor by the ten years of war, nor those thousand ships.
Then something greater and more terrible befalls
us wretches, and stirs our unsuspecting souls.
Laocoön, chosen by lot as priest of Neptune,
was sacrificing a huge bull at the customary altar.
See, a pair of serpents with huge coils, snaking over
the sea
from Tenedos through the tranquil deep (I shudder to
tell it),
and heading for the shore side by side: their fronts
lift high
over the tide, and their blood-red crests top the
waves,
the rest of their body slides through the ocean
behind,
and their huge backs arch in voluminous folds.
There’s a roar from the foaming sea: now they reach
the shore,
and with burning eyes suffused with blood and fire,
lick at their hissing jaws with flickering tongues.
Blanching at the sight we scatter. They move
on a set course towards Laocoön: and first each serpent
entwines the slender bodies of his two sons,
and biting at them, devours their wretched limbs:
then as he comes to their aid, weapons in hand, they
seize him too,
and wreathe him in massive coils: now encircling his
waist twice,
twice winding their scaly folds around his throat,
their high necks and heads tower above him.
He strains to burst the knots with his hands,
his sacred headband drenched in blood and dark venom,
while he sends terrible shouts up to the heavens,
like the bellowing of a bull that has fled wounded,
from the altar, shaking the useless axe from its neck.
But the serpent pair escape, slithering away to the
high temple,
and seek the stronghold of fierce Pallas, to hide
there
under the goddess’s feet, and the circle of her
shield.
BkII:228-253
The Horse Enters Troy
Then in truth a strange terror steals through each
shuddering heart,
and they say that Laocoön has justly suffered for his
crime
in wounding the sacred oak-tree with his spear,
by hurling its wicked shaft into the trunk.
“Pull the statue to her house”, they shout,
“and offer prayers to the goddess’s divinity.”
We breached the wall, and opened up the defences of
the city.
All prepare themselves for the work and they set up
wheels
allowing movement under its feet, and stretch hemp
ropes
round its neck. That engine of fate mounts our walls
pregnant with armed men. Around it boys, and virgin
girls,
sing sacred songs, and delight in touching their hands
to the ropes:
Up it glides and rolls threateningly into the midst of
the city.
O my country, O Ilium house of the gods, and you,
Trojan walls famous in war! Four times it sticks at
the threshold
of the gates, and four times the weapons clash in its
belly:
yet we press on regardless, blind with frenzy,
and site the accursed creature on top of our sacred
citadel.
Even then Cassandra, who, by the god’s decree, is
never
to be believed by Trojans, reveals our future fate
with her lips.
We unfortunate ones, for whom that day is our last,
clothe the gods’ temples, throughout the city, with
festive branches.
Meanwhile the heavens turn, and night rushes from the
Ocean,
wrapping the earth, and sky, and the Myrmidons’
tricks,
in its vast shadow: through the city the Trojans
fall silent: sleep enfolds their weary limbs.
BkII:254-297
The Greeks Take the City
And now the Greek phalanx of battle-ready ships sailed
from Tenedos, in the benign stillness of the silent
moon,
seeking the known shore, when the royal galley raised
a torch, and Sinon, protected by the gods’ unjust
doom,
sets free the Greeks imprisoned by planks of pine,
in the horses’ belly. Opened, it releases them to the
air,
and sliding down a lowered rope, Thessandrus, and
Sthenelus,
the leaders, and fatal Ulysses, emerge joyfully
from their wooden cave, with Acamas, Thoas,
Peleus’s son Neoptolemus, the noble Machaon,
Menelaus, and Epeus who himself devised this trick.
They invade the city that’s drowned in sleep and wine,
kill the watchmen, welcome their comrades
at the open gates, and link their clandestine ranks.
It was the hour when first sleep begins for weary
mortals,
and steals over them as the sweetest gift of the gods.
See, in dream, before my eyes, Hector seemed to stand
there,
saddest of all and pouring out great tears,
torn by the chariot, as once he was, black with bloody
dust,
and his swollen feet pierced by the thongs.
Ah, how he looked! How changed he was
from that Hector who returned wearing Achilles’s
armour,
or who set Trojan flames to the Greek ships! His beard
was ragged,
his hair matted with blood, bearing those many wounds
he received
dragged around the walls of his city.
And I seemed to weep myself, calling out to him,
and speaking to him in words of sorrow:
“Oh light of the Troad, surest hope of the Trojans,
what has so delayed you? What shore do you come from
Hector, the long-awaited? Weary from the many troubles
of our people and our city I see you, oh, after the
death
of so many of your kin! What shameful events have
marred
that clear face? And why do I see these wounds?’
He does not reply, nor does he wait on my idle
questions,
but dragging heavy sighs from the depths of his heart,
he says:
“Ah! Son of the goddess, fly, tear yourself from the
flames.
The enemy has taken the walls: Troy falls from her
high place.
Enough has been given to Priam and your country: if
Pergama
could be saved by any hand, it would have been saved
by this.
Troy entrusts her sacred relics and household gods to
you:
take them as friends of your fate, seek mighty walls
for them,
those you will found at last when you have wandered
the seas.”
So he speaks, and brings the sacred headbands in his
hands
from the innermost shrine, potent Vesta, and the
undying flame.
BkII:298-354
Aeneas Gathers his Comrades
Meanwhile the city is confused with grief, on every
side,
and though my father Anchises’s house is remote,
secluded
and hidden by trees, the sounds grow clearer and
clearer,
and the terror of war sweeps upon it.
I shake off sleep, and climb to the highest roof-top,
and stand there with ears strained:
as when fire attacks a wheat-field when the south-wind
rages,
or the rushing torrent from a mountain stream covers
the fields,
drowns the ripe crops, the labour of oxen,
and brings down the trees headlong, and the dazed
shepherd,
unaware, hears the echo from a high rocky peak.
Now the truth is obvious, and the Greek plot revealed.
Now the vast hall of Deiphobus is given to ruin
the fire over it: now Ucalegon’s nearby blazes:
the wide Sigean straits throw back the glare.
Then the clamour of men and the blare of trumpets
rises.
Frantically I seize weapons: not because there is much
use
for weapons, but my spirit burns to gather men for
battle
and race to the citadel with my friends: madness and
anger
hurl my mind headlong, and I think it beautiful to die
fighting.
Now, see, Panthus escaping the Greek spears,
Panthus, son of Othrys, Apollo’s priest on the
citadel,
dragging along with his own hands the sacred relics,
the conquered gods, his little grandchild, running
frantically
to my door: “Where’s the best advantage, Panthus, what
position
should we take?” I’d barely spoken, when he answered
with a groan: “The last day comes, Troy’s inescapable
hour.
Troy is past, Ilium is past, and the great glory of
the Trojans:
Jupiter carries all to Argos: the Greeks are lords of
the burning city.
The horse, standing high on the ramparts, pours out
warriors,
and Sinon the conqueror exultantly stirs the flames.
Others are at the wide-open gates, as many thousands
as ever came from great Mycenae: more have blocked
the narrow streets with hostile weapons:
a line of standing steel with naked flickering blades
is ready for the slaughter: barely the first few
guards
at the gates attempt to fight, and they resist in
blind conflict.”
By these words from Othrys’ son, and divine will, I’m
thrust
amongst the weapons and the flames, where the dismal
Fury
sounds, and the roar, and the clamour rising to the
sky.
Friends joined me, visible in the moonlight, Ripheus,
and Epytus, mighty in battle, Hypanis and Dymas,
gathered to my side, and young Coroebus, Mygdon’s son:
by chance he’d arrived in Troy at that time,
burning with mad love for Cassandra, and brought help,
as a potential son-in-law, to Priam, and the Trojans,
unlucky man, who didn’t listen to the prophecy
of his frenzied bride! When I saw them crowded there
eager for battle, I began as follows: “Warriors,
bravest
of frustrated spirits, if your ardent desire is fixed
on following me to the end, you can see our cause’s
fate.
All the gods by whom this empire was supported
have departed, leaving behind their temples and their
altars:
you aid a burning city: let us die and rush into
battle.
The beaten have one refuge, to have no hope of
refuge.”
BkII:355-401
Aeneas and his Friends Resist
So their young spirits were roused to fury. Then, like
ravaging
wolves in a dark mist, driven blindly by the cruel
rage
of their bellies, leaving their young waiting with
thirsty jaws,
we pass through our enemies, to certain death, and
make our way
to the heart of the city: dark night envelops us in
deep shadow.
Who could tell of that destruction in words, or equal
our pain
with tears? The ancient city falls, she who ruled for
so many years:
crowds of dead bodies lie here and there in the streets,
among the houses, and on the sacred thresholds of the
gods.
Nor is it Trojans alone who pay the penalty with their
blood:
courage returns at times to the hearts of the defeated
and the Greek conquerors die. Cruel mourning is
everywhere,
everywhere there is panic, and many a form of death.
First, Androgeos, meets us, with a great crowd of
Greeks
around him, unknowingly thinking us allied troops,
and calls to us in friendly speech as well:
“Hurry, men! What sluggishness makes you delay so?
The others are raping and plundering burning Troy:
are you only now arriving from the tall ships?”
He spoke, and straight away (since no reply given was
credible enough) he knew he’d fallen into the enemy
fold.
He was stunned, drew back, and stifled his voice.
Like a man who unexpectedly treads on a snake in rough
briars,
as he strides over the ground, and shrinks back in
sudden fear
as it rears in anger and swells its dark-green neck,
so Androgeos, shuddering at the sight of us, drew
back.
We charge forward and surround them closely with
weapons,
and ignorant of the place, seized by terror, as they
are, we slaughter
them wholesale. Fortune favours our first efforts.
And at this Coroebus, exultant with courage and
success, cries:
“Oh my friends, where fortune first points out the
path to safety,
and shows herself a friend, let us follow. Let’s
change our shields
adopt Greek emblems. Courage or deceit: who’ll
question it in war?
They’ll arm us themselves.” With these words, he takes
up Androgeos’s plumed helmet, his shield with its noble markings,
and straps the Greek’s sword to his side. Ripheus does
likewise,
Dymas too, and all the warriors delight in it. Each man
arms himself with the fresh spoils. We pass on
mingling with the Greeks, with gods that are not our
known,
and clash, in many an armed encounter, in the blind
night,
and we send many a Greek down to Orcus.
Some scatter to the ships, and run for safer shores,
some, in humiliated terror, climb the vast horse again
and hide in the womb they know.
BkII:402-437
Cassandra is Taken
“Ah, put no faith in anything the will of the gods
opposes!
See, Priam’s virgin daughter dragged, with streaming
hair,
from the sanctuary and temple of Minerva,
lifting her burning eyes to heaven in vain:
her eyes, since cords restrained her gentle hands.
Coroebus could not stand the sight, maddened in mind,
and hurled himself among the ranks, seeking death.
We follow him, and, weapons locked, charge together.
Here, at first, we were overwhelmed by Trojan spears,
hurled from the high summit of the temple,
and wretched slaughter was caused by the look of our
armour,
and the confusion arising from our Greek crests.
Then the Danaans, gathering from all sides, groaning
with anger
at the girl being pulled away from them, rush us,
Ajax the fiercest, the two Atrides, all the Greek
host:
just as, at the onset of a tempest, conflicting winds
clash, the west,
the south, and the east that joys in the horses of
dawn:
the forest roars, brine-wet Nereus rages with his trident,
and stirs the waters from their lowest depths.
Even those we have scattered by a ruse, in the dark of
night,
and driven right through the city, re-appear: for the
first time
they recognise our shields and deceitful weapons,
and realise our speech differs in sound to theirs.
In a moment we’re overwhelmed by weight of numbers:
first Coroebus falls, by the armed goddess’s altar, at
the hands
of Peneleus: and Ripheus, who was the most just of all
the Trojans,
and keenest for what was right (the gods’ vision was
otherwise):
Hypanis and Dymas die at the hands of allies:
and your great piety, Panthus, and Apollo’s sacred
headband
can not defend you in your downfall.
Ashes of Ilium, death flames of my people, be witness
that, at your ruin, I did not evade the Danaan
weapons,
nor the risks, and, if it had been my fate to die,
I earned it with my sword. Then we are separated,
Iphitus and Pelias with me, Iphitus weighed down by
the years,
and Pelias, slow-footed, wounded by Ulysses:
immediately we’re summoned to Priam’s palace by the
clamour.
BkII:438-485
The Battle for the Palace
Here’s a great battle indeed, as if the rest of the
war were nothing,
as if others were not dying throughout the whole city,
so we see wild War and the Greeks rushing to the
palace,
and the entrance filled with a press of shields.
Ladders cling to the walls: men climb the stairs under
the very
doorposts, with their left hands holding defensive
shields
against the spears, grasping the sloping stone with
their right.
In turn, the Trojans pull down the turrets and
roof-tiles
of the halls, prepared to defend themselves even in
death,
seeing the end near them, with these as weapons:
and send the gilded roof-beams down, the glory
of their ancient fathers. Others with naked swords
block
the inner doors: these they defend in massed ranks.
Our spirits were reinspired, to bring help to the
king’s palace,
to relieve our warriors with our aid, and add power to
the beaten.
There was an entrance with hidden doors, and a passage
in use
between Priam’s halls, and a secluded gateway beyond,
which the unfortunate Andromache, while the kingdom
stood,
often used to traverse, going, unattended, to her
husband’s parents,
taking the little Astyanax to his grandfather.
I reached the topmost heights of the pediment from
which
the wretched Trojans were hurling their missiles in
vain.
A turret standing on the sloping edge, and rising from
the roof
to the sky, was one from which all Troy could be seen,
the Danaan ships, and the Greek camp: and attacking
its edges
with our swords, where the upper levels offered weaker
mortar,
we wrenched it from its high place, and sent it
flying:
falling suddenly it dragged all to ruin with a roar,
and shattered far and wide over the Greek ranks.
But more arrived, and meanwhile neither the stones
nor any of the various missiles ceased to fly.
In front of the courtyard itself, in the very doorway
of the palace,
Pyrrhus exults, glittering with the sheen of bronze:
like a snake, fed on poisonous herbs, in the light,
that cold winter has held, swollen, under the ground,
and now, gleaming with youth, its skin sloughed,
ripples its slimy back, lifts its front high towards
the sun,
and darts its triple-forked tongue from its jaws.
Huge Periphas, and Automedon the armour-bearer,
driver of Achilles’s team, and all the Scyrian youths,
advance on the palace together and hurl firebrands
onto the roof.
Pyrrhus himself among the front ranks, clutching a
double-axe,
breaks through the stubborn gate, and pulls the bronze
doors
from their hinges: and now, hewing out the timber, he
breaches
the solid oak and opens a huge window with a gaping
mouth.
The palace within appears, and the long halls are
revealed:
the inner sanctums of Priam, and the ancient kings,
appear,
and armed men are seen standing on the very threshold.
BkII:486-558
Priam’s Fate
But, inside the palace, groans mingle with sad
confusion,
and, deep within, the hollow halls howl
with women’s cries: the clamour strikes the golden
stars.
Trembling mothers wander the vast building, clasping
the doorposts, and placing kisses on them. Pyrrhus
drives forward,
with his father Achilles’s strength, no barricades nor
the guards
themselves can stop him: the door collapses under the
ram’s blows,
and the posts collapse, wrenched from their sockets.
Strength makes a road: the Greeks, pour through, force
a passage,
slaughter the front ranks, and fill the wide space
with their men.
A foaming river is not so furious, when it floods,
bursting its banks, overwhelms the barriers against
it,
and rages in a mass through the fields, sweeping
cattle and stables
across the whole plain. I saw Pyrrhus myself, on the
threshold,
mad with slaughter, and the two sons of Atreus:
I saw Hecuba, her hundred women, and Priam at the
altars,
polluting with blood the flames that he himself had
sanctified.
Those fifty chambers, the promise of so many
offspring,
the doorposts, rich with spoils of barbarian gold,
crash down: the Greeks possess what the fire spares.
And maybe you ask, what was Priam’s fate.
When he saw the end of the captive city, the palace
doors
wrenched away, and the enemy among the inner rooms,
the aged man clasped his long-neglected armour
on his old, trembling shoulders, and fastened on his
useless sword,
and hurried into the thick of the enemy seeking death.
In the centre of the halls, and under the sky’s naked
arch,
was a large altar, with an ancient laurel nearby, that
leant
on the altar, and clothed the household gods with
shade.
Here Hecuba, and her daughters, like doves driven
by a dark storm, crouched uselessly by the shrines,
huddled together, clutching at the statues of the
gods.
And when she saw Priam himself dressed in youthful
armour
she cried: “What mad thought, poor husband, urges you
to fasten on these weapons? Where do you run?
The hour demands no such help, nor defences such as
these,
not if my own Hector were here himself. Here, I beg
you,
this altar will protect us all or we’ll die together.”
So she spoke and drew the old man towards her,
and set him down on the sacred steps.
See, Polites, one of Priam’s sons, escaping Pyrrhus’s
slaughter,
runs down the long hallways, through enemies and
spears,
and, wounded, crosses the empty courts.
Pyrrhus chases after him, eager to strike him,
and grasps at him now, and now, with his hand, at
spear-point.
When finally he reached the eyes and gaze of his
parents,
he fell, and poured out his life in a river of blood.
Priam, though even now in death’s clutches,
did not spare his voice at this, or hold back his
anger:
“If there is any justice in heaven, that cares about
such things,
may the gods repay you with fit thanks, and due reward
for your wickedness, for such acts, you who have
made me see my own son’s death in front of my face,
and defiled a father’s sight with murder.
Yet Achilles, whose son you falsely claim to be, was
no
such enemy to Priam: he respected the suppliant’s
rights,
and honour, and returned Hector’s bloodless corpse
to its sepulchre, and sent me home to my kingdom.”
So the old man spoke, and threw his ineffectual spear
without strength, which immediately spun from the
clanging bronze
and hung uselessly from the centre of the shield’s
boss.
Pyrrhus spoke to him: “Then you can be messenger,
carry
the news to my father, to Peleus’s son: remember to
tell him
of degenerate Pyrrhus, and of my sad actions:
now die.” Saying this he dragged him, trembling,
and slithering in the pool of his son’s blood, to the very altar,
and twined his left hand in his hair, raised the
glittering sword
in his right, and buried it to the hilt in his side.
This was the end of Priam’s life: this was the death
that fell to him
by lot, seeing Troy ablaze and its citadel toppled, he
who was
once the magnificent ruler of so many Asian lands and
peoples.
A once mighty body lies on the shore, the head
shorn from its shoulders, a corpse without a name.
BkII:559-587
Aeneas Sees Helen
Then for the first time a wild terror gripped me.
I stood amazed: my dear father’s image rose before me
as I saw a king, of like age, with a cruel wound,
breathing his life away: and my Creusa, forlorn,
and the ransacked house, and the fate of little Iulus.
I looked back, and considered the troops that were
round me.
They had all left me, wearied, and hurled their bodies
to earth,
or sick with misery dropped into the flames.
So I was alone now, when I saw the daughter of
Tyndareus,
Helen, close to Vesta’s portal, hiding silently
in the secret shrine: the bright flames gave me light,
as I wandered, gazing everywhere, randomly.
Afraid of Trojans angered at the fall of Troy,
Greek vengeance, and the fury of a husband she
deserted,
she, the mutual curse of Troy and her own country,
had concealed herself and crouched, a hated thing, by
the altars.
Fire blazed in my spirit: anger rose to avenge my
fallen land,
and to exact the punishment for her wickedness.
“Shall she, unharmed, see Sparta again and her native
Mycenae,
and see her house and husband, parents and children,
and go in the triumphant role of a queen,
attended by a crowd of Trojan women and Phrygian
servants?
When Priam has been put to the sword? Troy consumed
with fire?
The Dardanian shore soaked again and again with blood?
No. Though there’s no great glory in a woman’s
punishment,
and such a conquest wins no praise, still I will be
praised
for extinguishing wickedness and exacting well-earned
punishment, and I’ll delight in having filled my soul
with the flame of revenge, and appeased my people’s ashes.”
BkII:588-623
Aeneas is Visited by his Mother Venus
I blurted out these words, and was rushing on with
raging mind,
when my dear mother came to my vision, never before so
bright
to my eyes, shining with pure light in the night,
goddess for sure, such as she may be seen by the gods,
and taking me by the right hand, stopped me, and,
then,
imparted these words to me from her rose-tinted lips:
“My son, what pain stirs such uncontrollable anger?
Why this rage? Where has your care for what is ours
vanished?
First will you not see whether Creusa, your wife, and
your child
Ascanius still live, and where you have left your
father Anchises
worn-out with age? The Greek ranks surround them on
all sides,
and if my love did not protect them, the flames would
have caught
them before now, and the enemy swords drunk of their
blood.
You do not hate the face of the Spartan daughter of
Tyndareus,
nor is Paris to blame: the ruthlessness of the gods,
of the gods,
brought down this power, and toppled Troy from its
heights.
See (for I’ll tear away all the mist that now,
shrouding your sight,
dims your mortal vision, and darkens everything with
moisture:
don’t be afraid of what your mother commands, or
refuse to obey
her wisdom): here, where you see shattered heaps of
stone
torn from stone, and smoke billowing mixed with dust,
Neptune is shaking the walls, and the foundations,
stirred
by his mighty trident, and tearing the whole city up
by it roots.
There, Juno, the fiercest, is first to take the Scaean
Gate, and,
sword at her side, calls on her troops from the ships,
in rage.
Now, see, Tritonian Pallas, standing on the highest
towers,
sending lightning from the storm-cloud, and her grim
Gorgon
breastplate. Father Jupiter himself supplies the
Greeks with
courage, and fortunate strength, himself excites the
gods against
the Trojan army. Hurry your departure, son, and put an
end
to your efforts. I will not leave you, and I will
place you
safe at your father’s door.” She spoke, and hid
herself
in the dense shadows of night. Dreadful shapes
appeared,
and the vast powers of gods opposed to Troy.
BkII:624-670
Aeneas Finds his Family
Then in truth all Ilium seemed to me to sink in
flames,
and Neptune’s Troy was toppled from her base:
just as when foresters on the mountain heights
compete to uproot an ancient ash tree, struck
time and again by axe and blade, it threatens
continually
to fall, with trembling foliage and shivering crown,
till gradually vanquished by the blows it groans at
last,
and torn from the ridge, crashes down in ruin.
I descend, and, led by a goddess, am freed from flames
and enemies: the spears give way, and the flames
recede.
And now, when I reached the threshold of my father’s
house,
and my former home, my father, whom it was my first
desire
to carry into the high mountains, and whom I first
sought out,
refused to extend his life or endure exile, since Troy
had fallen.
“Oh, you,” he cried, “whose blood has the vigour of
youth,
and whose power is unimpaired in its force, it’s for
you
to take flight. As for me, if the gods had wished to
lengthen
the thread of my life, they’d have spared my house. It
is
more than enough that I saw one destruction, and
survived
one taking of the city. Depart, saying farewell to my
body
lying here so, yes so. I shall find death with my own
hand:
the enemy will pity me, and look for plunder. The loss
of my burial is nothing. Clinging to old age for so long,
I am useless, and hated by the gods, ever since
the father of the gods and ruler of men breathed the
winds
of his lightning-bolt onto me, and touched me with
fire.”
So he persisted in saying, and remained adamant.
We, on our side, Creusa, my wife, and Ascanius, all
our household,
weeping bitterly, determined that he should not
destroy everything
along with himself, and crush us by urging our doom.
He refused and clung to his place and his purpose.
I hurried to my weapons again, and, miserably, longed
for death,
since what tactic or opportunity was open to us now?
“ Did you think I could leave you, father, and depart?
Did such sinful words fall from your lips?
If it pleases the gods to leave nothing of our great
city standing,
if this is set in your mind, if it delights you to add
yourself
and all that’s yours to the ruins of Troy, the door is
open
to that death: soon Pyrrhus comes, drenched in Priam’s
blood,
he who butchers the son in front of the father, the
father at the altar.
Kind mother, did you rescue me from fire and sword
for this, to see the enemy in the depths of my house,
and Ascanius, and my father, and Creusa, slaughtered,
thrown together in a heap, in one another’s blood?
Weapons men, bring weapons: the last day calls to the
defeated.
Lead me to the Greeks again: let me revisit the battle
anew.
This day we shall not all perish unavenged.”
BkII:671-704
The Omen
So, again, I fasten on my sword, slip my left arm
into the shield’s strap, adjust it, and rush from the
house.
But see, my wife clings to the threshold, clasps my
foot,
and holds little Iulus up towards his father:
“If you go to die, take us with you too, at all costs:
but if
as you’ve proved you trust in the weapons you wear,
defend this house first. To whom do you abandon little
Iulus,
and your father, and me, I who was once spoken of as
your wife?”
Crying out like this she filled the whole house with
her groans,
when suddenly a wonder, marvellous to speak of,
occurred.
See, between the hands and faces of his grieving
parents,
a gentle light seemed to shine from the crown
of Iulus’s head, and a soft flame, harmless in its
touch,
licked at his hair, and grazed his forehead.
Trembling with fear, we hurry to flick away the
blazing strands,
and extinguish the sacred fires with water.
But Anchises, my father, lifts his eyes to the
heavens, in delight,
and raises his hands and voice to the sky:
“All-powerful Jupiter, if you’re moved by any prayers,
see us, and, grant but this: if we are worthy through
our virtue,
show us a sign of it, Father, and confirm your omen.”
The old man had barely spoken when, with a sudden
crash,
it thundered on the left, and a star, through the
darkness,
slid from the sky, and flew, trailing fire, in a burst
of light.
We watched it glide over the highest rooftops,
and bury its brightness, and the sign of its passage,
in the forests of Mount Ida: then the furrow of its
long track
gave out a glow, and, all around, the place smoked
with sulphur.
At this my father, truly overcome, raised himself
towards the sky,
and spoke to the gods, and proclaimed the sacred star.
“Now no delay: I follow, and where you lead, there am
I.
Gods of my fathers, save my line, save my grandson.
This omen is yours, and Troy is in your divine power.
I accept, my son, and I will not refuse to go with
you.”
BkII:705-729
Aeneas and his Family Leave Troy
He speaks, and now the fire is more audible,
through the city, and the blaze rolls its tide nearer.
“Come then, dear father, clasp my neck: I will
carry you on my shoulders: that task won’t weigh on
me.
Whatever may happen, it will be for us both, the same
shared risk,
and the same salvation. Let little Iulus come with me,
and let my wife follow our footsteps at a distance.
You servants, give your attention to what I’m saying.
At the entrance to the city there’s a mound, an
ancient temple
of forsaken Ceres, and a venerable cypress nearby,
protected through the years by the reverence of our
fathers:
let’s head to that one place by diverse paths.
You, father, take the sacred objects, and our
country’s gods,
in your hands: until I’ve washed in running water,
it would be a sin for me, coming from such fighting
and recent slaughter, to touch them.” So saying,
bowing my neck,
I spread a cloak made of a tawny lion’s hide over my
broad shoulders, and bend to the task: little Iulus clasps his hand
in mine, and follows his father’s longer strides.
My wife walks behind. We walk on through the shadows
of places, and I whom till then no shower of spears,
nor crowd of Greeks in hostile array, could move,
now I’m terrified by every breeze, and startled by
every noise,
anxious, and fearful equally for my companion and my
burden.
BkII:730-795
The Loss of Creusa
And now I was near the gates, and thought I had completed
my journey, when suddenly the sound of approaching
feet
filled my hearing, and, peering through the darkness,
my father cried: “My son, run my son, they are near
us:
I see their glittering shields and gleaming bronze.”
Some hostile power, at this, scattered my muddled
wits.
for while I was following alleyways, and straying
from the region of streets we knew, did my wife Creusa
halt,
snatched away from me by wretched fate?
Or did she wander from the path or collapse with
weariness?
Who knows? She was never restored to our sight,
nor did I look back for my lost one, or cast a thought
behind me,
until we came to the mound, and ancient Ceres’s sacred
place.
Here when all were gathered together at last, one was
missing,
and had escaped the notice of friends, child and
husband.
What man or god did I not accuse in my madness:
what did I know of in the city’s fall crueller than
this?
I place Ascanius, and my father Anchises, and the gods
of Troy,
in my companions’ care, and conceal them in a winding
valley:
I myself seek the city once more, and take up my
shining armour.
I’m determined to incur every risk again, and retrace
all Troy, and once more expose my life to danger.
First I look for the wall, and the dark threshold of
the gate
from which my path led, and I retrace the landmarks
of my course in the night, scanning them with my
eye.
Everywhere the terror in my heart, and the silence
itself,
dismay me. Then I take myself homewards, in case
by chance, by some chance, she has made her way there.
The Greeks have invaded, and occupied, the whole
house.
Suddenly eager fire, rolls over the rooftop, in the
wind:
the flames take hold, the blaze rages to the heavens.
I pass by and see again Priam’s palace and the
citadel.
Now Phoenix, and fatal Ulysses, the chosen guards,
watch over
the spoils, in the empty courts of Juno’s sanctuary.
Here the Trojan treasures are gathered from every
part,
ripped from the blazing shrines, tables of the gods,
solid gold bowls, and plundered robes.
Mothers and trembling sons stand round in long ranks.
I even dared to hurl my shouts through the shadows,
filling the streets with my clamour, and in my misery,
redoubling my useless cries, again and again.
Searching, and raging endlessly among the city roofs,
the unhappy ghost and true shadow of Creusa
appeared before my eyes, in a form greater than I’d
known.
I was dumbfounded, my hair stood on end, and my voice
stuck in my throat. Then she spoke and with these
words
mitigated my distress: “Oh sweet husband, what use is
it
to indulge in such mad grief? This has not happened
without the divine will: neither its laws nor the
ruler
of great Olympus let you take Creusa with you,
away from here. Yours is long exile, you must plough
a vast reach of sea: and you will come to Hesperia’s
land,
where Lydian Tiber flows in gentle course among the
farmers’
rich fields. There, happiness, kingship and a royal
wife
will be yours. Banish these tears for your beloved
Creusa.
I, a Trojan woman, and daughter-in-law to divine
Venus,
shall never see the noble halls of the Dolopians,
or Myrmidons, or go as slave to some Greek wife:
instead the great mother of the gods keeps me on this
shore.
Now farewell, and preserve your love for the son we
share.”
When she had spoken these words, leaving me weeping
and wanting to say so many things, she faded into thin
air.
Three times I tried to throw my arms about her neck:
three times her form fled my hands, clasped in vain,
like the light breeze, most of all like a winged
dream.
So at last when night was done, I returned to my
friends.
BkII:796-804
Aeneas Leaves Troy
And here, amazed, I found that a great number of new
companions had streamed in, women and men,
a crowd gathering for exile, a wretched throng.
They had come from all sides, ready, with courage and
wealth,
for whatever land I wished to lead them to, across the
seas.
And now Lucifer was rising above the heights of Ida,
bringing the dawn, and the Greeks held the barricaded
entrances to the gates, nor was there any hope of
rescue.
I desisted, and, carrying my father, took to the
hills.
BkIII:1-18
Aeneas Sails to Thrace
After the gods had seen fit to destroy Asia’s power
and Priam’s innocent people, and proud Ilium had
fallen,
and all of Neptune’s Troy breathed smoke from the
soil,
we were driven by the gods’ prophecies to search out
distant exile, and deserted lands, and we built a
fleet
below Antandros and the peaks of Phrygian Ida, unsure
where fate would carry us, or where we’d be allowed to
settle,
and we gathered our forces together. Summer had barely
begun,
when Anchises, my father, ordered us to set sail with
destiny:
I left my native shore with tears, the harbour and the
fields
where Troy once stood. I travelled the deep, an exile,
with my friends and my son, and the great gods of our
house.
Far off is a land of vast plains where Mars is
worshipped
(worked by the Thracians) once ruled by fierce
Lycurgus,
a friend of Troy in the past, and with gods who were
allies,
while fortune lasted. I went there, and founded my
first city
named Aeneadae from my name, on the shore
in the curving bay, beginning it despite fate’s
adversity.
BkIII:19-68
The Grave of Polydorus
I was making a sacrifice to the gods, and my mother
Venus,
Dione’s daughter, with auspices for the work begun,
and had killed
a fine bull on the shore, for the supreme king of the
sky-lords.
By chance, there was a mound nearby, crowned with
cornel
bushes, and bristling with dense spikes of myrtle.
I went near, and trying to tear up green wood from the
soil
to decorate the altar with leafy branches, I saw
a wonder, dreadful and marvellous to tell of.
From the first bush, its broken roots torn from the
ground,
drops of dark blood dripped, and stained the earth
with fluid.
An icy shiver gripped my limbs, and my blood chilled
with terror.
Again I went on to pluck a stubborn shoot from
another,
probing the hidden cause within: and dark blood
flowed from the bark of the second. Troubled greatly
in spirit, I prayed to the Nymphs of the wild,
and father Gradivus, who rules the Thracian fields,
to look with due kindness on this vision, and lessen
its significance. But when I attacked the third
with greater effort, straining with my knees against
the sand
(to speak or be silent?), a mournful groan was audible
from deep in the mound, and a voice came to my ears:
“Why do you wound a poor wretch, Aeneas? Spare me now
in my tomb, don’t stain your virtuous hands, Troy bore
me,
who am no stranger to you, nor does this blood flow
from
some dull block. Oh, leave this cruel land: leave this
shore
of greed. For I am Polydorus. Here a crop of iron
spears
carpeted my transfixed corpse, and has ripened into
sharp spines.”
Then truly I was stunned, my mind crushed by anxious
dread,
my hair stood up on end, and my voice stuck in my
throat.
Priam, the unfortunate, seeing the city encircled by
the siege,
and despairing of Trojan arms, once sent this
Polydorus, secretly,
with a great weight of gold, to be raised, by the Thracian
king.
When the power of Troy was broken, and her fortunes
ebbed,
the Thracian broke every divine law, to follow
Agamemnon’s
cause, and his victorious army, murders Polydorus, and
takes
the gold by force. Accursed hunger for gold, to what
do you
not drive human hearts! When terror had left my bones
I referred this divine vision to the people’s
appointed leaders,
my father above all, and asked them what they thought.
All were of one mind, to leave this wicked land, and
depart
a place of hospitality defiled, and sail our fleet
before the wind.
So we renewed the funeral rites for Polydorus, and
piled
the earth high on his barrow: sad altars were raised
to the Shades, with dark sacred ribbons and black
cypress,
the Trojan women around, hair streaming,
as is the custom: we offered foaming bowls of warm
milk,
and dishes of sacrificial blood, and bound the spirit
to its tomb, and raised a loud shout of farewell.
BkIII:69-120
The Trojans Reach Delos
Then as soon as we’ve confidence in the waves, and the
winds
grant us calm seas, and the soft whispering breeze
calls to the deep,
my companions float the ships and crowd to the shore.
We set out from harbour, and lands and cities recede.
In the depths of the sea lies a sacred island, dearest
of all
to the mother of the Nereids, and Aegean Neptune,
that wandered by coasts and shores, until Apollo,
affectionately, tied it to high Myconos, and Gyaros,
making it fixed and inhabitable, scorning the storms.
I sail there: it welcomes us peacefully, weary as we
are,
to its safe harbour. Landing, we do homage to Apollo’s
city.
King Anius, both king of the people and high-priest of
Apollo,
his forehead crowned with the sacred headband and holy
laurel,
meets us, and recognises an old friend in Anchises:
we clasp hands in greeting and enter his house.
I paid homage to the god’s temple of ancient stone:
“Grant us a true home, Apollo, grant a weary people
walls,
and a race, and a city that will endure: protect this
second
citadel of Troy, that survives the Greeks and pitiless
Achilles.
Whom should we follow? Where do you command us to go?
Where should we settle? Grant us an omen, father, to
stir our hearts.
I had scarcely spoken: suddenly everything seemed to
tremble,
the god’s thresholds and his laurel crowns, and the
whole hill
round us moved, and the tripod groaned as the shrine
split open.
Humbly we seek the earth, and a voice comes to our
ears:
“Enduring Trojans, the land which first bore you from
its
parent stock, that same shall welcome you, restored,
to its
fertile breast. Search out your ancient mother.
There the house of Aeneas shall rule all shores,
his children’s children, and those that are born to
them.”
So Phoebus spoke: and there was a great shout of joy
mixed
with confusion, and all asked what walls those were,
and where
it is Phoebus calls the wanderers to, commanding them
to return.
Then my father, thinking of the records of the
ancients, said:
“Listen, O princes, and learn what you may hope for.
Crete lies in the midst of the sea, the island of mighty
Jove,
where Mount Ida is, the cradle of our race.
They inhabit a hundred great cities, in the richest of
kingdoms,
from which our earliest ancestor, Teucer, if I
remember the tale
rightly, first sailed to Trojan shores, and chose a
site
for his royal capital. Until then Ilium and the towers
of the citadel
did not stand there: men lived in the depths of the
valleys.
The Mother who inhabits Cybele is Cretan, and the
cymbals
of the Corybantes, and the grove of Ida: from Crete
came
the faithful silence of her rites, and the yoked lions
drawing the lady’s chariot. So come, and let us follow
where the god’s command may lead, let us placate
the winds, and seek out the Cretan kingdom.
It is no long journey away: if only Jupiter is with
us,
the third dawn will find our fleet on the Cretan
shores.”
So saying, he sacrificed the due offerings at the
altars,
a bull to Neptune, a bull to you, glorious Apollo, a
black sheep
to the Storm god, a white to the auspicious
Westerlies.
BkIII:121-171
The Plague and a Vision
A rumour spread that Prince Idomeneus had been driven
from his father’s kingdom, and the Cretan shores were
deserted,
her houses emptied of enemies, and the abandoned homes
waiting for us. We left Ortygia’s harbour, and sped
over the sea,
threading the foaming straits thick with islands,
Naxos
with its Bacchic worship in the hills, green Donysa,
Olearos,
snow-white Paros, and the Cyclades, scattered over the
waters.
The sailors’ cries rose, as they competed in their
various tasks:
the crew shouted: “We’re headed for Crete, and our
ancestors.”
A wind rising astern sent us on our way, and at last
we glided by the ancient shores of the Curetes.
Then I worked eagerly on the walls of our chosen city,
and called
it Pergamum, and exhorted my people, delighting in the
name,
to show love for their homes, and build a covered
fortress.
Now the ships were usually beached on the dry sand:
the young men were busy with weddings and their fresh
fields:
I was deciding on laws and homesteads: suddenly,
from some infected region of the sky, came a wretched
plague,
corrupting bodies, trees, and crops, and a season of
death.
They relinquished sweet life, or dragged their sick
limbs
around: then Sirius blazed over barren fields:
the grass withered, and the sickly harvest denied its
fruits.
My father urged us to retrace the waves, and revisit
the oracle of Apollo at Delos, and beg for protection,
ask where the end might be to our weary fate, where he
commands
that we seek help for our trouble, where to set our
course.
It was night, and sleep had charge of earth’s
creatures:
The sacred statues of the gods, the Phrygian Penates,
that I had carried with me from Troy, out of the
burning city,
seemed to stand there before my eyes, as I lay in
sleep,
perfectly clear in the light, where the full moon
streamed through the window casements: then they spoke
to me and with their words dispelled my cares:
“Apollo speaks here what he would say to you, on
reaching Delos,
and sends us besides, as you see, to your threshold.
When Try burned we followed you and your weapons,
we crossed the swelling seas with you on your ships,
we too shall raise your descendants yet to be, to the
stars,
and grant empire to your city. Build great walls for
the great,
and do not shrink from the long labour of exile.
Change your country. These are not the shores that
Delian
Apollo urged on you, he did not order you to settle in
Crete.
There is a place the Greeks call Hesperia by name,
an ancient land powerful in arms and in richness of
the soil:
There the Oenotrians lived: now the rumour is that
a younger race has named it Italy after their leader.
That is our true home, Dardanus and father Iasius,
from whom our race first came, sprang from there.
Come, bear these words of truth joyfully to your old
father,
that he might seek Corythus and Ausonia’s lands:
Jupiter denies the fields of Dicte to you.”
BkIII:172-208
The Trojans Leave Crete for Italy
Amazed by such a vision, and the voices of the gods,
(it was not a dream, but I seemed to recognise their expression,
before me, their wreathed hair, their living faces:
then a cold sweat bathed all my limbs)
my body leapt from the bed, and I lifted my voice
and upturned palms to heaven, and offered pure
gifts on the hearth-fire. The rite completed, with joy
I told Anchises of this revelation, revealing it all
in order.
He understood about the ambiguity in our origins, and
the dual
descent, and that he had been deceived by a fresh
error,
about our ancient country. Then he spoke: “My son,
troubled
by Troy’s fate, Only Cassandra prophesied such an
outcome.
Now I remember her foretelling that this was destined
for our race,
and often spoke of Hesperia, and the Italian kingdom.
Who’d believe that Trojans would travel to Hesperia’s
shores?
Who’d have been moved by Cassandra, the prophetess,
then?
Let’s trust to Apollo, and, warned by him, take the
better course.”
So he spoke, and we were delighted to obey his every
word.
We departed this home as well, and, leaving some
people behind,
set sail, and ran through the vast ocean in our hollow
ships.
When the fleet had reached the high seas and the land
was no longer seen, sky and ocean on all sides, then
a dark-blue rain cloud settled overhead, bringing
night and storm, and the waves bristled with shadows.
Immediately the winds rolled over the water and great
seas rose:
we were scattered here and there in the vast abyss.
Storm-clouds shrouded the day, and the night mists
hid the sky: lightning flashed again from the torn
clouds.
We were thrown off course, and wandered the blind
waves.
Palinurus himself was unable to tell night from day in
the sky,
and could not determine his path among the waves.
So for three days, and as many starless nights,
we wandered uncertainly, in a dark fog, over the sea.
At last, on the fourth day, land was first seen to
rise,
revealing far off mountains and rolling smoke.
The sails fell, we stood to the oars: without pause,
the sailors,
at full stretch, churned the foam, and swept the blue
sea.
BkIII:209-277
The Harpies
Free of the waves I’m welcomed first by the shores
of the Strophades, the Clashing Islands. The
Strophades
are fixed now in the great Ionian Sea, but are called
by the Greek name. There dread Celaeno and the rest
of the Harpies live, since Phineus’s house was denied
them,
and they left his tables where they fed, in fear.
No worse monsters than these, no crueller plague,
ever rose from the waters of Styx, at the gods’ anger.
These birds have the faces of virgin girls,
foulest excrement flowing from their bellies,
clawed hands, and faces always thin with hunger.
Now when, arriving here, we enter port,
we see fat herds of cattle scattered over the plains,
and flocks of goats, unguarded, in the meadows.
We rush at them with our swords, calling on Jove
himself
and the gods to join us in our plunder: then we build
seats on the curving beach, and feast on the rich
meats.
But suddenly the Harpies arrive, in a fearsome swoop
from the hills, flapping their wings with a huge
noise,
snatching at the food, and fouling everything with
their
filthy touch: then there’s a deadly shriek amongst the
foul stench.
We set out the tables again, and relight the altar
fires,
in a deep recess under an overhanging rock,
closed off by trees and trembling shadows:
again from another part of the sky, some hidden lair,
the noisy crowd hovers, with taloned feet around their
prey,
polluting the food with their mouths. Then I order my
friends
to take up their weapons and make war on that dreadful
race.
They do exactly that, obeying orders, placing hidden
swords
in the grass, and burying their shields out of sight.
Then when the birds swoop, screaming, along the curved
beach,
Misenus, from his high lookout, gives the signal on
hollow bronze.
My friends charge, and, in a new kind of battle,
attempt
to wound these foul ocean birds with their swords.
But they don’t register the blows to their plumage, or
the wounds
to their backs, they flee quickly, soaring beneath the
heavens,
leaving behind half-eaten food, and the traces of
their filth.
Only Celaeno, ominous prophetess, settles on a high
cliff,
and bursts out with this sound from her breast:
“Are you ready to bring war to us, sons of Laomedon,
is it war,
for the cows you killed, the bullocks you slaughtered,
driving the innocent Harpies from their father’s
country?
Take these words of mine to your hearts then, and set
them there.
I, the eldest of the Furies, reveal to you what the
all-powerful
Father prophesied to Apollo, and Phoebus Apollo to me.
Italy is the path you take, and, invoking the winds,
you shall go to Italy, and enter her harbours freely:
but you will not surround the city granted you with
walls
until dire hunger, and the sin of striking at us,
force you
to consume your very tables with devouring jaws.”
She spoke, and fled back to the forest borne by her
wings.
But my companions’ chill blood froze with sudden fear:
their courage dropped, and they told me to beg for
peace,
with vows and prayers, forgoing weapons,
no matter if these were goddesses or fatal, vile
birds.
And my father Anchises, with outstretched hands, on
the shore,
called to the great gods and declared the due
sacrifice:
“Gods, avert these threats, gods, prevent these acts,
and, in peace, protect the virtuous!” Then he ordered
us
to haul in the cables from the shore, unfurl and
spread the sails.
South winds stretched the canvas: we coursed over
foaming seas,
wherever the winds and the helmsman dictated our
course.
Now wooded Zacynthus appeared amongst the waves,
Dulichium, Same and Neritos’s steep cliffs.
We ran past Laertes’s kingdom, Ithacas’s reefs,
and cursed the land that reared cruel Ulysses.
Soon the cloudy heights of Mount Leucata were
revealed,
as well, and Apollo’s headland, feared by sailors.
We headed wearily for it, and approached the little
town:
the anchor was thrown from the prow, the stern rested
on the beach.
BkIII:278-293
The Games at Actium
So, beyond hope, achieving land at last, we purify
ourselves for Jove, and light offerings on the altars,
and celebrate Trojan games on the shore of Actium.
My naked companions, slippery with oil,
indulge in the wrestling-bouts of their homeland:
it’s good to have slipped past so many Greek cities
and held our course in flight through the midst of the
enemy.
Meanwhile the sun rolls through the long year
and icy winter stirs the waves with northerly gales:
I fix a shield of hollow bronze, once carried by
mighty Abas,
on the entrance pillars, and mark the event with a
verse:
AENEAS OFFERS THIS ARMOUR FROM CONQUERING GREEKS
then I order them to man the benches and leave
harbour:
in rivalry, my friends strike the sea and sweep the
waves.
We soon leave behind the windblown heights of
Phaeacia,
pass the shores of Epirus, enter Chaonia’s harbour
and approach the lofty city of Buthrotum.
BkIII:294-355
Andromache in Chaonia
Here a rumour of something unbelievable greeted our
ears:
Priam’s son, Helenus, reigning over Greek cities,
having won the wife and kingdom of Pyrrhus, Aeacus’s
scion,
Andromache being given again to a husband of her race.
I was astounded, and my heart burned with an amazing
passion
to speak to the man, and learn of such events.
I walked from the harbour, leaving the fleet and the
shore,
when, by chance, in a sacred grove near the city, by a
false Simois,
Andromache was making an annual offering, sad gifts,
to Hector’s ashes, and calling his spirit to the tomb,
an empty mound of green turf, and twin altars, she had
sanctified,
a place for tears. When she saw me approaching and
recognised,
with amazement, Trojan weapons round her, she froze as
she gazed,
terrified by these great wonders, and the heat left
her limbs.
She half-fell and after a long while, scarcely able
to, said:
“Are you a real person, a real messenger come here to
me,
son of the goddess? Are you alive? Or if the kindly
light has faded,
where then is Hector?” She spoke, and poured out her
tears,
and filled the whole place with her weeping. Given her
frenzy,
I barely replied with a few words, and, moved, I spoke
disjointedly:
“Surely, I live, and lead a life full of extremes:
don’t be unsure,
for you see truly. Ah! What fate has overtaken you,
fallen
from so great a husband? Or has good fortune worthy
enough
for Hector’s Andromache, visited you again? Are you
still
Pyrrhus’s wife?” She lowered her eyes and spoke
quietly:
“O happy beyond
all others was that virgin daughter
of Priam, commanded to die beside an enemy tomb,
under Troy’s high walls, who never suffered fate’s
lottery,
or, as a prisoner, reached her victorious master’s
bed!
Carried over distant seas, my country set afire, I
endured
the scorn of Achilles’s son, and his youthful
arrogance,
giving birth as a slave: he, who then, pursuing
Hermione,
Helen’s daughter, and a Spartan marriage, transferred
me
to Helenus’s keeping, a servant to a servant.
But Orestes, inflamed by great love for his stolen
bride,
and driven by the Furies for his crime, caught him,
unawares, and killed him by his father’s altar.
At Pyrrhus’s death a part of the kingdom passed, by
right
to Helenus, who named the Chaonian fields, and all
Chaonia, after Chaon of Troy, and built a Pergamus,
and this fortress of Ilium, on the mountain ridge.
But what winds, what fates, set your course for you?
Or what god drives you, unknowingly, to our shores?
What of the child, Ascanius? Does he live, and graze
on air,
he whom Creusa bore to you in vanished Troy?
Has he any love still for his lost mother?
Have his father Aeneas and his uncle Hector roused
in him any of their ancient courage or virile spirit?”
Weeping, she poured out these words, and was starting
a long vain lament, when heroic Helenus, Priam’s son,
approached from the city, with a large retinue,
and recognised us as his own, and lead us, joyfully,
to the gates, and poured out tears freely at every
word.
I walked on, and saw a little Troy, and a copy of the
great
citadel, and a dry stream, named after the Xanthus,
and embraced the doorposts of a Scaean Gate.
My Trojans enjoyed the friendly city with me no less.
The king received them in a broad colonnade:
they poured out cups of wine in the centre of a
courtyard,
and held out their dishes while food was served on
gold.
BkIII:356-462
The Prophecy of Helenus
Now day after day has gone by, and the breezes call
to the sails, and the canvas swells with a rising
Southerly:
I go to Helenus, the seer, with these words and ask:
“Trojan-born, agent of the gods, you who know Apollo’s
will,
the tripods, the laurels at Claros, the stars, the
language
of birds, and the omens of their wings in flight,
come, speak (since a favourable oracle told me
all my route, and all the gods in their divinity urged
me
to seek Italy, and explore the furthest lands:
only the Harpy, Celaeno, predicts fresh portents,
evil to tell of, and threatens bitter anger
and vile famine) first, what dangers shall I avoid?
Following what course can I overcome such troubles?”
Helenus, first sacrificing bullocks according to the
ritual,
obtained the gods’ grace, then loosened the headband
from his holy brow, and led me, anxious at so much
divine power, with his own hand, to your threshold
Apollo,
and then the priest prophesied this, from the divine
mouth:
“Son of the goddess, since the truth is clear, that
you sail
the deep blessed by the higher powers (so the king of
the gods
allots our fates, and rolls the changes, so the order
alters),
I’ll explain a few things of many, in my words to you,
so you may travel foreign seas more safely, and can
find
rest in an Italian haven: for the Fates forbid Helenus
to know further, and Saturnian Juno denies him speech.
Firstly, a long pathless path, by long coastlines,
separates
you from that far-off Italy, whose neighbouring port
you intend to enter, unknowingly thinking it nearby.
Before you can build your city in a safe land,
you must bend the oar in Sicilian waters,
and pass the levels of the Italian seas, in your
ships,
the infernal lakes, and Aeaean Circe’s island.
I’ll tell you of signs: keep them stored in your
memory.
When, in your distress, you find a huge sow lying on
the shore,
by the waters of a remote river, under the oak trees,
that has farrowed a litter of thirty young, a white
sow,
lying on the ground, with white piglets round her teats,
that place shall be your city, there’s true rest from
your labours.
And do not dread that gnawing of tables, in your
future:
the fates will find a way, Apollo will be there at
your call.
But avoid these lands, and this nearer coastline
of the Italian shore, washed by our own
ocean tide: hostile Greeks inhabit every town.
The Narycian Locri have built a city here,
and Lyctian Idomeneus has filled the plain
with soldiers: here is that little Petelia, of
Philoctetes,
leader of the Meliboeans, relying on its walls.
Then when your fleet has crossed the sea, and anchored
and the altars are raised for your offerings on the
shore,
veil your hair, clothed in your purple robes, so that
in worshipping the gods no hostile face may intrude
among the sacred flames, and disturb the omens.
Let your friends adopt this mode of sacrifice, and
yourself:
and let your descendants remain pure in this religion.
But when the wind carries you, on leaving, to the
Sicilian shore,
and the barriers of narrow Pelorus open ahead,
make for the seas and land to port, in a long circuit:
avoid the shore and waters on the starboard side.
They say, when the two were one continuous stretch of
land,
they one day broke apart, torn by the force of a vast
upheaval
(time’s remote antiquity enables such great changes).
The sea flowed between them with force, and severed
the Italian from the Sicilian coast, and a narrow
tideway
washes the cities and fields on separate shores.
Scylla holds the right side, implacable Charybdis the
left,
who, in the depths of the abyss, swallows the vast
flood
three times into the downward gulf and alternately
lifts
it to the air, and lashes the heavens with her waves.
But a cave surrounds Scylla with dark hiding-places,
and she thrusts her mouths out, and drags ships onto
the rocks.
Above she has human shape, and is a girl, with lovely
breasts,
a girl, down to her sex, below it she is a sea-monster
of huge size,
with dolphins’ tails joined to a belly formed of
wolves.
It is better to round the point of Pachynus,
lingering, and circling Sicily on a long course,
than to once catch sight of hideous Scylla in her vast
cave
and the rocks that echo to her sea-dark hounds.
Beyond this, if Helenus has any knowledge, if the seer
can be believed, if Apollo fills his spirit with
truth,
son of the goddess, I will say this one thing, this
one thing
that is worth all, and I’ll repeat the warning again
and again,
honour great Juno’s divinity above all, with prayer,
and recite
your vows to Juno freely, and win over that powerful
lady
with humble gifts: so at last you’ll leave Sicily
behind
and reach the coast of Italy, victorious.
Once brought there, approach the city of Cumae,
the ghostly lakes, and Avernus, with its whispering
groves,
gaze on the raving prophetess, who sings the fates
deep in the rock, and commits names and signs to
leaves.
Whatever verses the virgin writes on the leaves,
she arranges in order, and stores them high up in her
cave.
They stay in place, motionless, and keep in rank:
but once a light breeze ruffles them, at the turn of a
hinge,
and the opening door disturbs the delicate leaves, she
never
thinks to retrieve them, as they flutter through the
rocky cave,
or to return them to their places, or reconstitute the
prophecies:
men go away unanswered, and detest the Sibyl’s lair.
Though your friends complain, and though your course
calls your sails urgently to the deep, and a following
wind
might fill the canvas, don’t overvalue the loss in any
delay,
but visit the prophetess, and beg her with prayers to
speak
the oracle herself, and loose her voice through
willing lips.
She will rehearse the peoples of Italy, the wars to
come,
and how you might evade or endure each trial,
and, shown respect, she’ll grant you a favourable
journey.
These are the things you can be warned of by my voice.
Go now, and by your actions raise great Troy to the
stars.”
BkIII:463-505
The Departure from Chaonia
After the seer had spoken these words with benign
lips,
he ordered heavy gifts of gold and carved ivory
to be carried to our ships, and stored massive
silverware
in the holds, cauldrons from Dodona, a hooked
breastplate
woven with triple-linked gold, and a fine conical
helmet
with a crest of horse-hair, Pyrrhus’s armour.
There were gifts of his own for my father too.
Helenus added horses and sea-pilots: he manned
our oars: he also equipped my friends with weapons.
Meanwhile Anchises ordered us to rig sails on the
ships,
so the rushing wind would not be lost, by our delay.
Apollo’s agent spoke to him with great respect:
“Anchises, worthy of proud marriage with Venus,
cared for by the gods, twice saved from the ruins of
Troy,
behold your land of Italy: sail and take it.
But still you must slide past it on the seas:
the part of Italy that Apollo named is far away.
Go onward, happy in your son’s love. Why should I say
more,
and delay your catching the rising wind?”
Andromache also, grieved at this final parting,
brought robes
embroidered with gold weave, and a Phrygian cloak
for Ascanius, nor did she fail to honour him,
and loaded him down with gifts of cloth, and said:
“Take these as well, my child, remembrances for you
from my hand, and witness of the lasting love of
Andromache,
Hector’s wife. Take these last gifts from your kin,
O you, the sole image left to me of my Astyanax.
He had the same eyes, the same hands, the same lips:
and now he would be growing up like you, equal in
age.”
My tears welled as I spoke these parting words:
“Live happily, you whose fortunes are already
determined:
we are summoned onwards from destiny to destiny.
For you, peace is achieved: you’ve no need to plough
the levels
of the sea, you’ve no need to seek Italy’s
ever-receding fields.
I wish that you might gaze at your likeness of
Xanthus,
and a Troy built by your own hands, under happier
auspices,
one which might be less exposed to the Greeks.
If I ever reach the Tiber, and the Tiber’s
neighbouring fields,
and gaze on city walls granted to my people, we’ll one
day
make one Troy, in spirit, from each of our kindred
cities
and allied peoples, in Epirus, in Italy, who have the
same Dardanus
for ancestor, the same history: let it be left to our
descendants care.”
BkIII:506-547
In Sight of Italy
We sail on over the sea, close to the Ceraunian cliffs
nearby,
on course for Italy, and the shortest path over the
waves.
Meanwhile the sun is setting and the darkened hills
are in shadow.
Having shared oars, we stretch out, near the waves, on
the surface
of the long-desired land, and, scattered across the
dry beach,
we rest our bodies: sleep refreshes our weary limbs.
Night, lead by the Hours, is not yet in mid-course:
Palinurus rises alertly from his couch, tests all
the winds, and listens to the breeze: he notes
all the stars gliding through the silent sky,
Arcturus, the rainy Pleiades, both the Bears,
and surveys Orion, armed with gold. When he sees
that all tallies, and the sky is calm, he sounds
a loud call from the ship’s stern: we break camp,
attempt our route, and spread the winged sails.
And now Dawn blushes as she puts the stars to flight,
when we see, far off, dark hills and low-lying Italy.
First Achates proclaims Italy, then my companions
hail Italy with a joyful shout. Then my father Anchises
took up a large bowl, filled it with wine,
and standing in the high stern, called to the heavens:
“You gods, lords of the sea and earth and storms,
carry us
onward on a gentle breeze, and breathe on us with
kindness!”
The wind we longed-for rises, now as we near, a
harbour opens,
and a temple is visible on Minerva’s Height.
My companions furl the sails and turn the prows to
shore.
The harbour is carved in an arc by the eastern tides:
its jutting rocks boil with salt spray, so that it
itself is hidden:
towering cliffs extend their arms in a twin wall,
and the temple lies back from the shore.
Here I see four horses in the long grass, white as
snow,
grazing widely over the plain, our first omen.
And my father Anchises cries: “O foreign land, you
bring us war:
horses are armed for war, war is what this herd
threatens.
Yet those same creatures one day can be yoked to a
chariot,
and once yoked will suffer the bridle in harmony:
there’s also hope of peace.” Then we pray to the
sacred power
of Pallas, of the clashing weapons, first to receive
our cheers,
and clothed in Phrygian robes we veiled our heads
before the altar,
and following the urgent command Helenus had given,
we duly made burnt offerings to Argive Juno as
ordered.
BkIII:548-587
The Approach to Sicily
Without delay, as soon as our vows are fully paid,
we haul on the ends of our canvas-shrouded yard-arms,
and leave the home of the Greek race, and the fields
we mistrust.
Then Tarentum’s bay is seen, Hercules’s city if the
tale is true:
Lacinian Juno’s temple rises against it, Caulon’s
fortress,
and Scylaceum’s shore of shipwreck.
Then far off Sicilian Etna appears from the waves,
and we hear the loud roar of the sea, and the distant
tremor of the rocks, and the broken murmurs of the
shore,
the shallows boil, and sand mixes with the flood.
Then my father, Anchises, said: “This must be
Charybdis:
these are the cliffs, these are the horrendous rocks
Helenus foretold.
Pull away, O comrades, and stand to the oars
together.”
They do no less than they’re asked, and Palinurus is
the first
to heave his groaning ship into the portside waves:
all our company seek port with oars and sail.
We climb to heaven on the curving flood, and again
sink down with the withdrawing waves to the depths of
Hades.
The cliffs boom three times in their rocky caves,
three times we see the spray burst, and the dripping
stars.
Then the wind and sunlight desert weary men,
and not knowing the way we drift to the Cyclopes’s
shore.
There’s a harbour, itself large and untroubled by the
passing winds,
but Etna rumbles nearby with fearsome avalanches,
now it spews black clouds into the sky, smoking,
with pitch-black turbulence, and glowing ashes,
and throws up balls of flame, licking the stars:
now it hurls high the rocks it vomits, and the
mountain’s
torn entrails, and gathers molten lava together in the
air
with a roar, boiling from its lowest depths.
The tale is that Enceladus’s body, scorched by the
lightning-bolt,
is buried by that mass, and piled above him, mighty
Etna
breathes flames from its riven furnaces,
and as often as he turns his weary flank, all Sicily
quakes and rumbles, and clouds the sky with smoke.
That night we hide in the woods, enduring the dreadful
shocks,
unable to see what the cause of the sound is,
since there are no heavenly fires, no bright pole
in the starry firmament, but clouds in a darkened sky,
and the dead of night holds the moon in shroud.
BkIII:588-654
Achaemenides
Now the next day was breaking with the first light of
dawn,
and Aurora had dispersed the moist shadows from the
sky,
when suddenly the strange form of an unknown man came
out
of the woods, exhausted by the last pangs of hunger,
pitifully dressed, and stretched his hands in
supplication
towards the shore. We looked back. Vile with filth,
his beard uncut,
his clothing fastened together with thorns: but
otherwise a Greek,
once sent to Troy in his country’s armour.
When he saw the Dardan clothes and Trojan weapons, far
off,
he hesitated a moment, frightened at the sight,
and checked his steps: then ran headlong to the beach,
with tears and prayers: “The stars be my witness,
the gods, the light in the life-giving sky, Trojans,
take me with you: carry me to any country whatsoever,
that will be fine by me. I know I’m from one of the
Greek ships,
and I confess that I made war against Trojan gods,
if my crime is so great an injury to you, scatter me
over the waves for it, or drown me in the vast ocean:
if I die I’ll delight in dying at the hands of men.”
He spoke and clung to my knees, embracing them
and grovelling there. We urged him to say who he was,
born of what blood, then to say what fate pursued him.
Without much delay, my father Anchises himself gave
the young man his hand, lifting his spirits by this
ready trust.
At last he set his fears aside and told us:
“I’m from the land of Ithaca, a companion of unlucky
Ulysses,
Achaemenides by name, and, my father Adamastus being
poor,
(I wish fate had kept me so!) I set out for Troy.
My comrades left me here in the Cyclops’ vast cave,
forgetting me, as they hurriedly left that grim
threshold. It’s a house of blood and gory feasts,
vast and dark inside. He himself is gigantic, striking
against
the high stars – gods, remove plagues like that from
the earth! –
not pleasant to look at, affable to no one.
He eats the dark blood and flesh of wretched men.
I saw myself how he seized two of our number in his
huge hands,
and reclining in the centre of the cave, broke them
on the rock, so the threshold, drenched, swam with
blood:
I saw how he gnawed their limbs, dripping with dark
clots
of gore, and the still-warm bodies quivered in his
jaws.
Yet he did not go unpunished: Ulysses didn’t suffer
it,
nor did the Ithacan forget himself in a crisis.
As soon as the Cyclops, full of flesh and sated with
wine,
relaxed his neck, and lay, huge in size, across the
cave,
drooling gore and blood and wine-drenched fragments
in his sleep, we prayed to the great gods, and our
roles fixed,
surrounded him on all sides, and stabbed his one huge
eye,
solitary, and half-hidden under his savage brow,
like a round Greek shield, or the sun-disc of Phoebus,
with a sharpened stake: and so we joyfully avenged
the spirits of our friends. But fly from here,
wretched men,
and cut your mooring ropes. Since, like Polyphemus,
who pens
woolly flocks in the rocky cave, and milks their
udders, there are
a hundred other appalling Cyclopes, the same in shape
and size,
everywhere inhabiting the curved bay, and wandering
the hills.
The moon’s horns have filled with light three times
now, while I
have been dragging my life out in the woods, among the
lairs
and secret haunts of wild creatures, watching the huge
Cyclopes
from the cliffs, trembling at their voices and the
sound of their feet.
The branches yield a miserable supply of fruits and
stony cornelian
cherries, and the grasses, torn up by their roots,
feed me.
Watching for everything, I saw, for the first time,
this fleet
approaching shore. Whatever might happen, I
surrendered myself
to you: it’s enough for me to have escaped that wicked
people.
I’d rather you took this life of mine by any death
whatsoever.”
BkIII:655-691
Polyphemus
He’d barely spoken, when we saw the shepherd
Polyphemus
himself, moving his mountainous bulk on the hillside
among the flocks, and heading for the familiar shore,
a fearful monster, vast and shapeless, robbed of the
light.
A lopped pine-trunk in his hand steadied and guided
his steps: his fleecy sheep accompanied him:
his sole delight and the solace for his evils.
As soon as he came to the sea and reached the deep
water,
he washed away the blood oozing from the gouged
eye-socket,
groaning and gnashing his teeth. Then he walked
through
the depths of the waves, without the tide wetting his
vast thighs.
Anxiously we hurried our departure from there,
accepting
the worthy suppliant on board, and cutting the cable
in silence:
then leaning into our oars, we vied in sweeping the
sea.
He heard, and bent his course towards the sound of
splashing.
But when he was denied the power to set hands on us,
and unable to counter the force of the Ionian waves,
in pursuit,
he raised a mighty shout, at which the sea and all the
waves
shook, and the land of Italy was frightened far
inland,
and Etna bellowed from its winding caverns, but the
tribe
of Cyclopes, roused from their woods and high
mountains,
rushed to the harbour, and crowded the shore.
We saw them standing there, impotently, wild-eyed,
the Aetnean brotherhood, heads towering into the sky,
a fearsome gathering: like tall oaks rooted on a
summit,
or cone-bearing cypresses, in Jove’s high wood or
Diana’s grove.
Acute fear drove us on to pay out the ropes on
whatever tack
and spread our sails to any favourable wind.
Helenus’s orders warned against taking a course
between
Scylla and Charybdis, a hair’s breadth from death
on either side: we decided to beat back again.
When, behold, a northerly arrived from the narrow
headland of Pelorus: I sailed past the natural rock
mouth
of the Pantagias, Megara’s bay, and low-lying Thapsus.
Such were the shores Achaemenides, the friend of
unlucky Ulysses,
showed me, sailing his wandering journey again, in
reverse.
BkIII:692-718
The Death of Anchises
An island lies over against wave-washed Plemyrium,
stretched across a Sicilian bay: named Ortygia by men
of old.
The story goes that Alpheus, a river of Elis, forced
a hidden path here under the sea, and merges
with the Sicilian waters of your fountain Arethusa.
As commanded we worshipped the great gods of this
land,
and from there I passed marshy Helorus’s marvellously
rich soil.
Next we passed the tall reefs and jutting rocks of
Pachynus,
and Camerina appeared in the distance, granted
immoveable, by prophecy, and the Geloan plains,
and Gela named after its savage river.
Then steep Acragas, once the breeder of brave horses,
showed its mighty ramparts in the distance:
and granted the wind, I left palmy Selinus, and passed
the tricky shallows of Lilybaeum with their blind
reefs.
Next the harbour of Drepanum, and its joyless shore,
received me. Here, alas, I lost my father, Anchises,
my comfort in every trouble and misfortune, I, who’d
been driven by so many ocean storms: here you left me,
weary, best of fathers, saved from so many dangers in
vain!
Helenus, the seer, did not prophesy this grief of
mine,
when he warned me of many horrors, nor did grim
Celaeno.
This was my last trouble, this the end of my long
journey:
leaving there, the god drove me to your shores.’
So our ancestor Aeneas, as all listened to one man,
recounted divine fate, and described his journey.
At last he stopped, and making an end here, rested.
BkIV:1-53
Dido and Anna Discuss Aeneas
But the queen, wounded long since by intense love,
feeds the hurt with her life-blood, weakened by hidden
fire.
The hero’s courage often returns to mind, and the
nobility
of his race: his features and his words cling fixedly
to her heart,
and love will not grant restful calm to her body.
The new day’s Dawn was lighting the earth with
Phoebus’s
brightness, and dispelling the dew-wet shadows from
the sky,
when she spoke ecstatically to her sister, her kindred
spirit:
“Anna, sister, how my dreams terrify me with
anxieties!
Who is this strange guest who has entered our house,
with what boldness he speaks, how resolute in mind and
warfare!
Truly I think – and it’s no idle saying – that he’s
born of a goddess.
Fear reveals the ignoble spirit. Alas! What
misfortunes test him!
What battles he spoke of, that he has undergone!
If my mind was not set, fixedly and immovably,
never to join myself with any man in the bonds of
marriage,
because first-love betrayed me, cheated me through
dying:
if I were not wearied by marriage and bridal-beds,
perhaps I might succumb to this one temptation.
Anna, yes I confess, since my poor husband Sychaeus’s
death
when the altars were blood-stained by my murderous
brother,
he’s the only man who’s stirred my senses, troubled my
wavering mind. I know the traces of the ancient flame.
But I pray rather that earth might gape wide for me,
to its depths,
or the all-powerful father hurl me with his
lightning-bolt
down to the shadows, to the pale ghosts, and deepest
night
of Erebus, before I violate you, Honour, or break your
laws.
He who first took me to himself has stolen my love:
let him keep it with him, and guard it in his grave.”
So saying her breast swelled with her rising tears.
Anna replied: “O you, who are more beloved to your
sister
than the light, will you wear your whole youth away
in loneliness and grief, and not know Venus’s sweet
gifts
or her children? Do you think that ashes or sepulchral
spirits care?
Granted that in Libya or Tyre before it, no suitor
ever
dissuaded you from sorrowing: and Iarbas and the other
lords
whom the African soil, rich in fame, bears, were scorned:
will you still struggle against a love that pleases?
Do you not recall to mind in whose fields you settled?
Here Gaetulian cities, a people unsurpassed in battle,
unbridled Numidians, and inhospitable Syrtis, surround
you:
there, a region of dry desert, with Barcaeans raging
around.
And what of your brother’s threats, and war with Tyre
imminent?
The Trojan ships made their way here with the wind,
with gods indeed helping them I think, and with Juno’s
favour.
What a city you’ll see here, sister, what a kingdom
rise,
with such a husband! With a Trojan army marching with
us,
with what great actions Punic glory will soar!
Only ask the gods for their help, and, propitiating
them
with sacrifice, indulge your guest, spin reasons for
delay,
while winter, and stormy Orion, rage at sea,
while the ships are damaged, and the skies are
hostile.”
BkIV:54-89
Dido in Love
By saying this she inflames the queen’s burning heart
with love
and raises hopes in her anxious mind, and weakens her
sense
of shame. First they visit the shrines and ask for
grace at the altars:
they sacrifice chosen animals according to the rites,
to Ceres, the law-maker, and Phoebus, and father
Lycaeus,
and to Juno above all, in whose care are the marriage
ties:
Dido herself, supremely lovely, holding the cup in her
hand,
pours the libation between the horns of a white heifer
or walks to the rich altars, before the face of the
gods,
celebrates the day with gifts, and gazes into the
opened
chests of victims, and reads the living entrails.
Ah, the unknowing minds of seers! What use are prayers
or shrines to the impassioned? Meanwhile her tender
marrow
is aflame, and a silent wound is alive in her breast.
Wretched Dido burns, and wanders frenzied through the
city,
like an unwary deer struck by an arrow, that a
shepherd hunting
with his bow has fired at from a distance, in the
Cretan woods,
leaving the winged steel in her, without knowing.
She runs through the woods and glades of Dicte:
the lethal shaft hangs in her side.
Now she leads Aeneas with her round the walls
showing her Sidonian wealth and the city she’s built:
she begins to speak, and stops in mid-flow:
now she longs for the banquet again as day wanes,
yearning madly to hear about the Trojan adventures
once more
and hangs once more on the speaker’s lips.
Then when they have departed, and the moon in turn
has quenched her light and the setting constellations
urge sleep,
she grieves, alone in the empty hall, and lies on the
couch
he left. Absent she hears him absent, sees him,
or hugs Ascanius on her lap, taken with this image
of his father, so as to deceive her silent passion.
The towers she started no longer rise, the young men
no longer
carry out their drill, or work on the harbour and the
battlements
for defence in war: the interrupted work is left
hanging,
the huge threatening walls, the sky-reaching cranes.
BkIV:90-128
Juno and Venus
As soon as Juno, Jupiter’s beloved wife, saw clearly
that Dido
was gripped by such heart-sickness, and her reputation
no obstacle to love, she spoke to Venus in these
words:
“You and that son of yours, certainly take the prize,
and plenty
of spoils: a great and memorable show of divine power,
whereby one woman’s trapped by the tricks of two gods.
But the truth’s not escaped me, you’ve always held the
halls
of high Carthage under suspicion, afraid of my city’s
defences.
But where can that end? Why such rivalry, now?
Why don’t we work on eternal peace instead, and a
wedding pact?
You’ve achieved all that your mind was set on:
Dido’s burning with passion, and she’s drawn the
madness
into her very bones. Let’s rule these people together
with equal sway: let her be slave to a Trojan husband,
and entrust her Tyrians to your hand, as the dowry.”
Venus began the reply to her like this (since she knew
she’d spoken with deceit in her mind to divert the
empire
from Italy’s shores to Libya’s): “Who’d be mad enough
to refuse such an offer or choose to make war on you,
so long as fate follows up what you say with action?
But fortune makes me uncertain, as to whether Jupiter
wants
a single city for Tyrians and Trojan exiles, and
approves
the mixing of races and their joining in league
together.
You’re his wife: you can test his intent by asking.
Do it: I’ll follow.” Then royal Juno replied like
this:
“That task’s mine. Now listen and I’ll tell you
briefly
how the purpose at hand can be achieved.
Aeneas and poor Dido plan to go hunting together
in the woods, when the sun first shows tomorrow’s
dawn, and reveals the world in his rays.
While the lines are beating, and closing the thickets
with nets,
I’ll pour down dark rain mixed with hail from the sky,
and rouse the whole heavens with my thunder.
They’ll scatter, and be lost in the dark of night:
Dido and the Trojan leader will reach the same cave.
I’ll be there, and if I’m assured of your good will,
I’ll join them firmly in marriage, and speak for her
as his own:
this will be their wedding-night.” Not opposed to what
she wanted,
Venus agreed, and smiled to herself at the deceit
she’d found.
BkIV:129-172
The Hunt and the Cave
Meanwhile Dawn surges up and leaves the ocean.
Once she has risen, the chosen men pour from the
gates:
Massylian horsemen ride out, with wide-meshed nets,
snares, broad-headed hunting spears, and a pack
of keen-scented hounds. The queen lingers in her
rooms,
while Punic princes wait at the threshold: her horse
stands there,
bright in purple and gold, and champs fiercely at the
foaming bit.
At last she appears, with a great crowd around her,
dressed in a Sidonian robe with an embroidered hem.
Her quiver’s of gold, her hair knotted with gold,
a golden brooch fastens her purple tunic.
Her Trojan friends and joyful Iulus are with her:
Aeneas himself, the most handsome of them all,
moves forward and joins his friendly troop with hers.
Like Apollo, leaving behind the Lycian winter,
and the streams of Xanthus, and visiting his mother’s
Delos,
to renew the dancing, Cretans and Dryopes and painted
Agathyrsians, mingling around his altars, shouting:
he himself striding over the ridges of Cynthus,
his hair dressed with tender leaves, and clasped with
gold,
the weapons rattling on his shoulder: so Aeneas walks,
as lightly, beauty like the god’s shining from his
noble face.
When they reach the mountain heights and pathless
haunts,
see the wild goats, disturbed on their stony summits,
course down the slopes: in another place deer speed
over the open field, massing together in a fleeing
herd
among clouds of dust, leaving the hillsides behind.
But the young Ascanius among the valleys, delights
in his fiery horse, passing this rider and that at a
gallop, hoping
that amongst these harmless creatures a boar, with
foaming mouth,
might answer his prayers, or a tawny lion, down from
the mountain.
Meanwhile the sky becomes filled with a great
rumbling:
rain mixed with hail follows, and the Tyrian company
and the Trojan men, with Venus’s Dardan grandson,
scatter here and there through the fields, in their
fear,
seeking shelter: torrents stream down from the hills.
Dido and the Trojan leader reach the very same cave.
Primeval Earth and Juno of the Nuptials give their
signal:
lightning flashes, the heavens are party to their
union,
and the Nymphs howl on the mountain heights.
That first day is the source of misfortune and death.
Dido’s no longer troubled by appearances or
reputation,
she no longer thinks of a secret affair: she calls it
marriage:
and with that name disguises her sin.
BkIV:173-197
Rumour Reaches Iarbas
Rumour raced at once through Libya’s great cities,
Rumour, compared with whom no other is as swift.
She flourishes by speed, and gains strength as she
goes:
first limited by fear, she soon reaches into the sky,
walks on the ground, and hides her head in the clouds.
Earth, incited to anger against the gods, so they say,
bore her last, a monster, vast and terrible,
fleet-winged
and swift-footed, sister to Coeus and Enceladus,
who for every feather on her body has as many
watchful eyes below (marvellous to tell), as many
tongues speaking, as many listening ears.
She flies, screeching, by night through the shadows
between earth and sky, never closing her eyelids
in sweet sleep: by day she sits on guard on tall
roof-tops
or high towers, and scares great cities, as tenacious
of lies and evil, as she is messenger of truth.
Now in delight she filled the ears of the nations
with endless gossip, singing fact and fiction alike:
Aeneas has come, born of Trojan blood, a man whom
lovely Dido deigns to unite with: now they’re spending
the whole winter together in indulgence, forgetting
their royalty, trapped by shameless passion.
The vile goddess spread this here and there on men’s
lips.
Immediately she slanted her course towards King Iarbas
and inflamed his mind with words and fuelled his
anger.
BkIV:198-218
Iarbas Prays to Jupiter
He, a son of Jupiter Ammon, by a raped Garamantian
Nymph,
had set up a hundred great temples, a hundred altars,
to the god,
in his broad kingdom, and sanctified ever-living
fires, the gods’
eternal guardians: the floors were soaked with
sacrificial blood,
and the thresholds flowery with mingled garlands.
They say he often begged Jove humbly with upraised
hands,
in front of the altars, among the divine powers,
maddened in spirit and set on fire by bitter rumour:
“All-powerful Jupiter, to whom the Moors, on their
embroidered
divans, banqueting, now pour a Bacchic offering,
do you see this? Do we shudder in vain when you hurl
your lightning bolts, father, and are those idle fires
in the clouds
that terrify our minds, and flash among the empty
rumblings?
A woman, wandering within my borders, who paid to
found
a little town, and to whom we granted coastal lands
to plough, to hold in tenure, scorns marriage with me,
and takes Aeneas into her country as its lord.
And now like some Paris, with his pack of eunuchs,
a Phrygian cap, tied under his chin, on his greasy
hair,
he’s master of what he’s snatched: while I bring gifts
indeed
to temples, said to be yours, and cherish your empty
reputation.
BkIV:219-278
Jupiter Sends Mercury to Aeneas
As he gripped the altar, and prayed in this way,
the All-powerful one listened, and turned his gaze
towards
the royal city, and the lovers forgetful of their true
reputation.
Then he spoke to Mercury and commanded him so:
“Off you go, my son, call the winds and glide on your
wings,
and talk to the Trojan leader who malingers in Tyrian
Carthage
now, and gives no thought to the cities the fates will
grant him,
and carry my words there on the quick breeze.
This is not what his loveliest of mothers suggested to
me,
nor why she rescued him twice from Greek armies:
he was to be one who’d rule Italy, pregnant with
empire,
and crying out for war, he’d produce a people of
Teucer’s
high blood, and bring the whole world under the rule
of law.
If the glory of such things doesn’t inflame him,
and he doesn’t exert himself for his own honour,
does he begrudge the citadels of Rome to Ascanius?
What does he plan? With what hopes does he stay
among alien people, forgetting Ausonia and the
Lavinian fields?
Let him sail: that’s it in total, let that be my
message.”
He finished speaking. The god prepared to obey his
great
father’s order, and first fastened the golden sandals
to his feet
that carry him high on the wing over land and sea,
like the storm.
Then he took up his wand: he calls pale ghosts from
Orcus
with it, sending others down to grim Tartarus,
gives and takes away sleep, and opens the eyes of the
dead.
Relying on it, he drove the winds, and flew through
the stormy clouds. Now in his flight he saw the steep
flanks
and the summit of strong Atlas, who holds the heavens
on his head, Atlas, whose pine-covered crown is always
wreathed
in dark clouds and lashed by the wind and rain:
fallen snow clothes his shoulders: while rivers fall
from his ancient chin, and his rough beard bristles
with ice.
There Cyllenian Mercury first halted, balanced on
level wings:
from there, he threw his whole body headlong
towards the waves, like a bird that flies low close
to the sea, round the coasts and the rocks rich in
fish.
So the Cyllenian-born flew between heaven and earth
to Libya’s sandy shore, cutting the winds, coming
from Atlas, his mother Maia’s father.
As soon as he reached the builders’ huts, on his
winged feet,
he saw Aeneas establishing towers and altering roofs.
His sword was starred with tawny jasper,
and the cloak that hung from his shoulder blazed
with Tyrian purple, a gift that rich Dido had made,
weaving the cloth with golden thread.
Mercury challenged him at once: “For love of a wife
are you now building the foundations of high Carthage
and a pleasing city? Alas, forgetful of your kingdom
and fate!
The king of the gods himself, who bends heaven and
earth
to his will, has sent me down to you from bright
Olympus:
he commanded me himself to carry these words through
the swift breezes. What do you plan? With what hopes
do you waste idle hours in Libya’s lands? If you’re
not stirred
by the glory of destiny, and won’t exert yourself for your
own
fame, think of your growing Ascanius, and the
expectations
of him, as Iulus your heir, to whom will be owed the
kingdom
of Italy, and the Roman lands.” So Mercury spoke,
and, while speaking, vanished from mortal eyes,
and melted into thin air far from their sight.
BkIV:279-330
Dido Accuses Aeneas
Aeneas, stupefied at the vision, was struck dumb,
and his hair rose in terror, and his voice stuck in
his throat.
He was eager to be gone, in flight, and leave that
sweet land,
shocked by the warning and the divine command.
Alas! What to do? With what speech dare he tackle
the love-sick queen? What opening words should he
choose?
And he cast his mind back and forth swiftly,
considered the issue from every aspect, and turned it every
way.
This seemed the best decision, given the alternatives:
he called Mnestheus, Sergestus and brave Serestus,
telling them to fit out the fleet in silence, gather
the men
on the shore, ready the ships’ tackle, and hide the
reason
for these changes of plan. He in the meantime, since
the excellent Dido knew nothing, and would not expect
the breaking off of such a love, would seek an
approach,
the tenderest moment to speak, and a favourable means.
They all gladly obeyed his command at once, and did
his bidding.
But the queen sensed his tricks (who can deceive a
lover?)
and was first to anticipate future events, fearful
even of safety.
That same impious Rumour brought her madness:
they are fitting out the fleet, and planning a
journey.
Her mind weakened, she raves, and, on fire, runs wild
through the city: like a Maenad, thrilled by the
shaken emblems
of the god, when the biennial festival rouses her,
and, hearing the Bacchic cry, Mount Cithaeron summons her by night with its
noise.
Of her own accord she finally reproaches Aeneas in
these words:
“Faithless one, did you really think you could hide
such wickedness, and vanish from my land in silence?
Will my love not hold you, nor the pledge I once gave
you,
nor the promise that Dido will die a cruel death?
Even in winter do you labour over your ships, cruel
one,
so as to sail the high seas at the height of the
northern gales?
Why? If you were not seeking foreign lands and unknown
settlements, but ancient Troy still stood, would Troy
be sought out by your ships in wave-torn seas?
Is it me you run from? I beg you, by these tears, by
your own
right hand (since I’ve left myself no other recourse
in my misery),
by our union, by the marriage we have begun,
if ever I deserved well of you, or anything of me
was sweet to you, pity this ruined house, and if
there is any room left for prayer, change your mind.
The Libyan peoples and Numidian rulers hate me because
of you:
my Tyrians are hostile: because of you all shame too
is lost,
the reputation I had, by which alone I might reach the
stars.
My guest, since that’s all that is left me from the
name of husband,
to whom do you relinquish me, a dying woman?
Why do I stay? Until Pygmalion, my brother, destroys
the city, or Iarbas the Gaetulian takes me captive?
If I’d at least conceived a child of yours
before you fled, if a little Aeneas were playing
about my halls, whose face might still recall yours,
I’d not feel myself so utterly deceived and forsaken.”
BkIV:331-361
Aeneas Justifies Himself
She had spoken. He set his gaze firmly on Jupiter’s
warnings, and hid his pain steadfastly in his heart.
He replied briefly at last: “O queen, I will never
deny
that you deserve the most that can be spelt out in
speech,
nor will I regret my thoughts of you, Elissa,
while memory itself is mine, and breath controls these
limbs.
I’ll speak about the reality a little. I did not
expect to conceal
my departure by stealth (don’t think that), nor have I
ever
held the marriage torch, or entered into that pact.
If the fates had allowed me to live my life under my
own
auspices, and attend to my own concerns as I wished,
I should first have cared for the city of Troy and the
sweet relics
of my family, Priam’s high roofs would remain, and I’d
have
recreated Pergama, with my own hands, for the
defeated.
But now it is Italy that Apollo of Grynium,
Italy, that the Lycian oracles, order me to take:
that is my desire, that is my country. If the turrets
of Carthage
and the sight of your Libyan city occupy you, a
Phoenician,
why then begrudge the Trojans their settling of
Ausonia’s lands?
It is right for us too to search out a foreign
kingdom.
As often as night cloaks the earth with dew-wet
shadows,
as often as the burning constellations rise, the
troubled image
of my father Anchises warns and terrifies me in dream:
about my son Ascanius and the wrong to so dear a
person,
whom I cheat of a Hesperian kingdom, and pre-destined
fields.
Now even the messenger of the gods, sent by Jupiter
himself,
(I swear it on both our heads), has brought the
command
on the swift breeze: I saw the god himself in broad
daylight
enter the city and these very ears drank of his words.
Stop rousing yourself and me with your complaints.
I do not take course for Italy of my own free will.”
BkIV:362-392
Dido’s Reply
As he was speaking she gazed at him with hostility,
casting her eyes here and there, considering the whole
man
with a silent stare, and then, incensed, she spoke:
“Deceiver, your mother was no goddess, nor was
Dardanus
the father of your race: harsh Caucasus engendered you
on the rough crags, and Hyrcanian tigers nursed you.
Why pretend now, or restrain myself waiting for
something worse?
Did he groan at my weeping? Did he look at me?
Did he shed tears in defeat, or pity his lover?
What is there to say after this? Now neither greatest
Juno, indeed,
nor Jupiter, son of Saturn, are gazing at this with
friendly eyes.
Nowhere is truth safe. I welcomed him as a castaway on
the shore,
a beggar, and foolishly gave away a part of my
kingdom:
I saved his lost fleet, and his friends from death.
Ah! Driven by the Furies, I burn: now prophetic
Apollo,
now the Lycian oracles, now even a divine messenger
sent
by Jove himself carries his orders through the air.
This is the work of the gods indeed, this is a concern
to trouble
their calm. I do not hold you back, or refute your
words:
go, seek Italy on the winds, find your kingdom over
the waves.
Yet if the virtuous gods have power, I hope that you
will drain the cup of suffering among the reefs, and
call out Dido’s
name again and again. Absent, I’ll follow you with
dark fires,
and when icy death has divided my soul and body, my
ghost
will be present everywhere. Cruel one, you’ll be
punished.
I’ll hear of it: that news will reach me in the depths
of Hades.”
Saying this, she broke off her speech mid-flight, and
fled
the light in pain, turning from his eyes, and going,
leaving him fearful and hesitant, ready to say more.
Her servants received her and carried her failing body
to her marble chamber, and laid her on her bed.
BkIV:393-449
Aeneas Departs
But dutiful Aeneas, though he desired to ease her
sadness
by comforting her and to turn aside pain with words,
still,
with much sighing, and a heart shaken by the strength
of her love,
followed the divine command, and returned to the
fleet.
Then the Trojans truly set to work and launched the
tall ships
all along the shore. They floated the resinous keels,
and ready for flight, they brought leafy branches
and untrimmed trunks, from the woods, as oars.
You could see them hurrying and moving from every part
of the city. Like ants that plunder a vast heap of
grain,
and store it in their nest, mindful of winter: a dark
column
goes through the fields, and they carry their spoils
along a narrow track through the grass: some heave
with their shoulders against a large seed, and push,
others tighten
the ranks and punish delay, the whole path’s alive
with work.
What were your feelings Dido at such sights, what
sighs
did you give, watching the shore from the heights
of the citadel, everywhere alive, and seeing the whole
sea, before your eyes, confused with such cries!
Cruel Love, to what do you not drive the human heart:
to burst into tears once more, to see once more if he
can
be compelled by prayers, to humbly submit to love,
lest she leave anything untried, dying in vain.
“Anna, you see them scurrying all round the shore:
they’ve come from everywhere: the canvas already
invites
the breeze, and the sailors, delighted, have set
garlands
on the sterns. If I was able to foresee this great
grief,
sister, then I’ll be able to endure it too. Yet still
do one thing
for me in my misery, Anna: since the deceiver
cultivated
only you, even trusting you with his private thoughts:
and only you know the time to approach the man easily.
Go, sister, and speak humbly to my proud enemy.
I never took the oath, with the Greeks at Aulis,
to destroy the Trojan race, or sent a fleet to
Pergama,
or disturbed the ashes and ghost of his father
Anchises:
why does he pitilessly deny my words access to his
hearing?
Where does he run to? Let him give his poor lover this
last gift:
let him wait for an easy voyage and favourable winds.
I don’t beg now for our former tie, that he has
betrayed,
nor that he give up his beautiful Latium, and abandon
his kingdom: I ask for insubstantial time: peace and
space
for my passion, while fate teaches my beaten spirit to
grieve.
I beg for this last favour (pity your sister):
when he has granted it me, I’ll repay all by dying.”
Such are the prayers she made, and such are those
her unhappy sister carried and re-carried. But he was
not
moved by tears, and listened to no words receptively:
Fate barred the way, and a god sealed the hero’s
gentle hearing.
As when northerly blasts from the Alps blowing here
and there
vie together to uproot an oak tree, tough with the
strength of years:
there’s a creak, and the trunk quivers and the topmost
leaves
strew the ground: but it clings to the rocks, and its
roots
stretch as far down to Tartarus as its crown does
towards
the heavens: so the hero was buffeted by endless pleas
from this side and that, and felt the pain in his
noble heart.
His purpose remained fixed: tears fell uselessly.
BkIV:450-503
Dido Resolves to Die
Then the unhappy Dido, truly appalled by her fate,
prayed for death: she was weary of gazing at the vault
of heaven.
And that she might complete her purpose, and
relinquish the light
more readily, when she placed her offerings on the
altar alight
with incense, she saw (terrible to speak of!) the holy
water blacken,
and the wine she had poured change to vile blood.
She spoke of this vision to no one, not even her
sister.
There was a marble shrine to her former husband in the
palace,
that she’d decked out, also, with marvellous beauty,
with snow-white fleeces, and festive greenery:
from it she seemed to hear voices and her husband’s
words
calling her, when dark night gripped the earth:
and the lonely owl on the roofs often grieved
with ill-omened cries, drawing out its long call in a
lament:
and many a prophecy of the ancient seers terrified her
with its dreadful warning. Harsh Aeneas himself
persecuted
her, in her crazed sleep: always she was forsaken,
alone with
herself, always she seemed to be travelling
companionless on some
long journey, seeking her Tyrian people in a deserted
landscape:
like Pentheus, deranged, seeing the Furies file past,
and twin suns and a twin Thebes revealed to view,
or like Agamemnon’s son Orestes driven across the
stage when he
flees his mother’s ghost armed with firebrands and black
snakes,
while the avenging Furies crouch on the threshold.
So that when, overcome by anguish, she harboured the
madness,
and determined on death, she debated with herself over
the time
and the method, and going to her sorrowful sister with
a face
that concealed her intent, calm, with hope on her
brow, said:
“Sister, I’ve found a way (rejoice with your sister)
that will return him to me, or free me from loving
him.
Near the ends of the Ocean and where the sun sets
Ethiopia lies, the furthest of lands, where Atlas,
mightiest of all, turns the sky set with shining
stars:
I’ve been told of a priestess, of Massylian race,
there,
a keeper of the temple of the Hesperides, who gave
the dragon its food, and guarded the holy branches of
the tree,
scattering the honeydew and sleep-inducing poppies.
With her incantations she promises to set free
what hearts she wishes, but bring cruel pain to
others:
to stop the rivers flowing, and turn back the stars:
she wakes nocturnal Spirits: you’ll see earth yawn
under your feet, and the ash trees march from the
hills.
You, and the gods, and your sweet life, are witness,
dear sister, that I arm myself with magic arts
unwillingly.
Build a pyre, secretly, in an inner courtyard, open to
the sky,
and place the weapons on it which that impious man
left
hanging in my room, and the clothes, and the bridal
bed
that undid me: I want to destroy all memories
of that wicked man, and the priestess commends it.”
Saying this she fell silent: at the same time a pallor
spread
over her face. Anna did not yet realise that her
sister
was disguising her own funeral with these strange
rites,
her mind could not conceive of such intensity,
and she feared nothing more serious than when
Sychaeus died. So she prepared what was demanded.
BkIV:504-553
Dido Laments
But when the pyre of cut pine and oak was raised high,
in an innermost court open to the sky, the queen
hung the place with garlands, and wreathed it
with funereal foliage: she laid his sword and clothes
and picture on the bed, not unmindful of the ending.
Altars stand round about, and the priestess, with
loosened hair,
intoned the names of three hundred gods, of Erebus,
Chaos,
and the triple Hecate, the three faces of virgin
Diana.
And she sprinkled water signifying the founts of
Avernus:
there were herbs too acquired by moonlight, cut
with a bronze sickle, moist with the milk of dark
venom:
and a caul acquired by tearing it from a newborn
colt’s brow,
forestalling the mother’s love. She herself, near the
altars,
with sacred grain in purified hands, one foot free of
constraint,
her clothing loosened, called on the gods to witness
her coming death, and on the stars conscious of fate:
then she prayed to whatever just and attentive power
there might be, that cares for unrequited lovers.
It was night, and everywhere weary creatures were
enjoying
peaceful sleep, the woods and the savage waves were
resting,
while stars wheeled midway in their gliding orbit,
while all the fields were still, and beasts and
colourful birds,
those that live on wide scattered lakes, and those
that live
in rough country among the thorn-bushes, were sunk in
sleep
in the silent night. But not the Phoenician, unhappy
in spirit,
she did not relax in sleep, or receive the darkness
into her eyes
and breast: her cares redoubled, and passion, alive
once more,
raged, and she swelled with a great tide of anger.
So she began in this way turning it over alone in her
heart:
“See, what can I do? Be mocked trying my former
suitors,
seeking marriage humbly with Numidians whom I
have already disdained so many times as husbands?
Shall I follow the Trojan fleet then and that
Teucrian’s
every whim? Because they might delight in having been
helped by my previous aid, or because gratitude
for past deeds might remain truly fixed in their
memories?
Indeed who, given I wanted to, would let me, or would
take
one they hate on board their proud ships? Ah, lost
girl,
do you not know or feel yet the treachery of
Laomedon’s race?
What then? Shall I go alone, accompanying triumphant
sailors?
Or with all my band of Tyrians clustered round me?
Shall I again drive my men to sea in pursuit, those
whom I could barely tear away from their Sidonian
city,
and order them to spread their sails to the wind?
Rather die, as you deserve, and turn away sorrow with
steel.
You, my sister, conquered by my tears, in my madness,
you
first burdened me with these ills, and exposed me to
my enemy.
I was not allowed to pass my life without blame, free
of marriage,
in the manner of some wild creature, never knowing
such pain:
I have not kept the vow I made to Sychaeus’s ashes.”
Such was the lament that burst from her heart.
BkIV:554-583
Mercury Visits Aeneas Again
Now that everything was ready, and he was resolved on
going,
Aeneas was snatching some sleep, on the ship’s high
stern.
That vision appeared again in dream admonishing him,
similar to Mercury in every way, voice and colouring,
golden hair, and youth’s graceful limbs:
“Son of the Goddess, can you consider sleep in this
disaster,
can’t you see the danger of it that surrounds you,
madman
or hear the favourable west winds blowing?
Determined to die, she broods on mortal deceit and
sin,
and is tossed about on anger’s volatile flood.
Won’t you flee from here, in haste, while you can
hasten?
Soon you’ll see the water crowded with ships,
cruel firebrands burning, soon the shore will rage
with flame,
if the Dawn finds you lingering in these lands. Come,
now,
end your delay! Woman is ever fickle and changeable.”
So he spoke, and blended with night’s darkness.
Then Aeneas, terrified indeed by the sudden
apparition,
roused his body from sleep, and called to his friends:
“ Quick, men, awake, and man the rowing-benches: run
and loosen the sails. Know that a god, sent from the
heavens,
urges us again to speed our flight, and cut the
twisted hawsers.
We follow you, whoever you may be, sacred among the
gods,
and gladly obey your commands once more. Oh, be with
us,
calm one, help us, and show stars favourable to us in the
sky.”
He spoke, and snatched his shining sword from its
sheath,
and struck the cable with the naked blade. All were
possessed
at once with the same ardour: They snatched up their
goods,
and ran: abandoning the shore: the water was clothed
with ships:
setting to, they churned the foam and swept the blue
waves.
BkIV:584-629
Dido’s Curse
And now, at dawn, Aurora, leaving Tithonus’s saffron
bed,
was scattering fresh daylight over the earth.
As soon as the queen saw the day whiten, from her
tower,
and the fleet sailing off under full canvas, and
realised
the shore and harbour were empty of oarsmen, she
struck her lovely breast three or four times with her
hand,
and tearing at her golden hair, said: “Ah, Jupiter, is
he to leave,
is a foreigner to pour scorn on our kingdom? Shall my
Tyrians
ready their armour, and follow them out of the city,
and others drag
our ships from their docks? Go, bring fire quickly, hand out the
weapons, drive the oars! What am I saying? Where am I?
What madness twists my thoughts? Wretched Dido, is it
now
that your impious actions hurt you? The right time was
then,
when you gave him the crown. So this is the word and
loyalty
of the man whom they say bears his father’s gods
around,
of the man who carried his age-worn father on his
shoulders?
Couldn’t I have seized hold of him, torn his body
apart,
and scattered him on the waves? And put his friends to
the sword,
and Ascanius even, to feast on, as a course at his
father’s table?
True the fortunes of war are uncertain. Let them be so:
as one about to die, whom had I to fear? I should have
set fire
to his camp, filled the decks with flames, and
extinguishing
father and son, and their whole race, given up my own
life as well.
O Sun, you who illuminate all the works of this world,
and you Juno, interpreter and knower of all my pain,
and Hecate howled to, in cities, at midnight
crossroads,
you, avenging Furies, and you, gods of dying Elissa,
acknowledge this, direct your righteous will to my
troubles,
and hear my prayer. If it must be that the accursed
one
should reach the harbour, and sail to the shore:
if Jove’s destiny for him requires it, there his goal:
still, troubled in war by the armies of a proud race,
exiled from his territories, torn from Iulus’s
embrace,
let him beg help, and watch the shameful death of his
people:
then, when he has surrendered, to a peace without
justice,
may he not enjoy his kingdom or the days he longed
for,
but let him die before his time, and lie unburied on
the sand.
This I pray, these last words I pour out with my
blood.
Then, O Tyrians, pursue my hatred against his whole
line
and the race to come, and offer it as a tribute to my
ashes.
Let there be no love or treaties between our peoples.
Rise, some unknown avenger, from my dust, who will
pursue
the Trojan colonists with fire and sword, now, or in
time
to come, whenever the strength is granted him.
I pray that shore be opposed to shore, water to wave,
weapon to weapon: let them fight, them and their
descendants.”
BkIV:630-705
The Death of Dido
She spoke, and turned her thoughts this way and that,
considering how to destroy her hateful life.
Then she spoke briefly to Barce, Sychaeus’s nurse,
since dark ashes concealed her own, in her former
country:
“Dear nurse, bring my sister Anna here: tell her
to hurry, and sprinkle herself with water from the
river,
and bring the sacrificial victims and noble offerings.
Let her come, and you yourself veil your brow with
sacred ribbons.
My purpose is to complete the rites of Stygian
Jupiter,
that I commanded, and have duly begun, and put an end
to sorrow, and entrust the pyre of that Trojan leader
to the flames.”
So she said. The old woman zealously hastened her
steps.
But Dido restless, wild with desperate purpose,
rolling her bloodshot eyes, her trembling cheeks
stained with red flushes, yet pallid at approaching
death,
rushed into the house through its inner threshold,
furiously
climbed the tall funeral pyre, and unsheathed
a Trojan sword, a gift that was never acquired to this
end.
Then as she saw the Ilian clothing and the familiar
couch,
she lingered a while, in tears and thought, then
cast herself on the bed, and spoke her last words:
“Reminders, sweet while fate and the god allowed it,
accept this soul, and loose me from my sorrows.
I have lived, and I have completed the course that
Fortune granted,
and now my noble spirit will pass beneath the earth.
I have built a bright city: I have seen its
battlements,
avenging a husband I have exacted punishment
on a hostile brother, happy, ah, happy indeed
if Trojan keels had never touched my shores!”
She spoke, and buried her face in the couch.
“I shall die un-avenged, but let me die,” she cried.
“So, so I joy in travelling into the shadows.
Let the cruel Trojan’s eyes drink in this fire, on the
deep,
and bear with him the evil omen of my death.”
She had spoken, and in the midst of these words,
her servants saw she had fallen on the blade,
the sword frothed with blood, and her hands were
stained.
A cry rose to the high ceiling: Rumour, run riot,
struck the city.
The houses sounded with weeping and sighs and women’s
cries,
the sky echoed with a mighty lamentation,
as if all Carthage or ancient Tyre were falling
to the invading enemy, and raging flames were rolling
over the roofs of men and gods.
Her sister, terrified, heard it, and rushed through
the crowd,
tearing her cheeks with her nails, and beating her
breast,
and called out to the dying woman in accusation:
“So this was the meaning of it, sister? Did you aim to
cheat me?
This pyre of yours, this fire and altar were prepared
for my sake?
What shall I grieve for first in my abandonment? Did
you scorn
your sister’s company in dying? You should have
summoned me
to the same fate: the same hour the same sword’s hurt
should have
taken us both. I even built your pyre with these
hands,
and was I calling aloud on our father’s gods,
so that I would be absent, cruel one, as you lay here?
You have extinguished yourself and me, sister: your
people,
your Sidonian ancestors, and your city. I should bathe
your wounds with water and catch with my lips
whatever dying breath still hovers.” So saying she
climbed
the high levels, and clasped her dying sister to her
breast,
sighing, and stemming the dark blood with her dress.
Dido tried to lift her heavy eyelids again, but
failed:
and the deep wound hissed in her breast.
Lifting herself three times, she struggled to rise on
her elbow:
three times she fell back onto the bed, searching for
light in
the depths of heaven, with wandering eyes, and,
finding it, sighed.
Then all-powerful Juno, pitying the long suffering
of her difficult death, sent Iris from Olympus, to
release
the struggling spirit, and captive body. For since
she had not died through fate, or by a well-earned death,
but wretchedly, before her time, inflamed with sudden
madness,
Proserpine had not yet taken a lock of golden hair
from her head, or condemned her soul to Stygian Orcus.
So dew-wet Iris flew down through the sky, on saffron
wings,
trailing a thousand shifting colours across the sun,
and hovered over her head. “ I take this offering,
sacred to Dis,
as commanded, and release you from the body that was
yours.”
So she spoke, and cut the lock of hair with her right
hand.
All the warmth ebbed at once, and life vanished on the
breeze.
BkV:1-41
Aeneas Returns to Sicily
Meanwhile Aeneas with the fleet was holding a fixed
course
now in the midst of the sea, cutting the waves, dark
in a northerly
wind, looking back at the city walls that were glowing
now with
unhappy Dido’s funeral flames. The reason that such a
fire had
been lit was unknown: but the cruel pain when a great
love is
profaned, and the knowledge of what a frenzied woman
might do,
drove the minds of the Trojans to sombre forebodings.
When the ships reached deep water and land was no
longer
in sight, but everywhere was sea, and sky was
everywhere,
then a dark-blue rain cloud hung overhead, bringing
night and storm, and the waves bristled with shadows.
Palinurus the helmsman himself from the high stern
cried:
‘Ah! Why have such storm clouds shrouded the sky?
What do you intend, father Neptune?’ So saying, next
he ordered them to shorten sail, and bend to the heavy
oars,
then tacked against the wind, and spoke as follows:
‘Brave Aeneas, I would not expect to make Italy
with this sky, though guardian Jupiter promised it.
The winds, rising from the darkened west, have shifted
and roar across our path, and the air thickens for a
storm.
We cannot stand against it, or labour enough to
weather it.
Since Fortune overcomes us, let’s go with her,
and set our course wherever she calls. I think your
brother Eryx’s
friendly shores are not far off, and the harbours of
Sicily,
if I only remember the stars I observed rightly.’
Then virtuous Aeneas replied: ‘For my part I’ve seen
for some time
that the winds required it, and you’re steering into
them in vain.
Alter the course we sail. Is any land more welcome to
me,
any to which I’d prefer to steer my weary fleet,
than that which protects my Trojan friend Acestes,
and holds the bones of my father Anchises to its
breast?”
Having said this they searched out the port, and
following winds
filled their sails: the ships sailed swiftly on the
flood,
and they turned at last in delight towards known
shores.
But Alcestes, on a high hill in the distance, wondered
at the arrival
of friendly vessels, and met them, armed with
javelins,
in his Libyan she-bear’s pelt: he whom a Trojan
mother bore, conceived of the river-god Crinisius.
Not neglectful of his ancient lineage he rejoiced
at their return, entertained them gladly with his
rural riches,
and comforted the weary with the assistance of a
friend.
BkV:42-103
Aeneas Declares the Games
When, in the following Dawn, bright day had put the
stars
to flight, Aeneas called his companions together,
from the whole shore, and spoke from a high mound:
“Noble Trojans, people of the high lineage of the
gods,
the year’s cycle is complete to the very month
when we laid the bones, all that was left of my divine
father,
in the earth, and dedicated the sad altars. And now
the day is here (that the gods willed) if I am not
wrong,
which I will always hold as bitter, always honoured.
If I were keeping it, exiled in Gaetulian Syrtes,
or caught on the Argive seas, or in Mycenae’s city,
I’d still conduct the yearly rite, and line of solemn
procession, and heap up the due offerings on the
altar.
Now we even stand by the ashes and bones of my father
(not for my part I think without the will and power of
the gods)
and carried to this place we have entered a friendly
harbour.
So come and let us all celebrate the sacrifice with
joy:
let us pray for a wind, and may he will me to offer
these rites
each year when my city is founded, in temples that are
his.
Acestes, a Trojan born, gives you two head of oxen
for every ship: Invite the household gods to our
feast,
our own and those whom Acestes our host worships.
Also, when the ninth Dawn raises high the kindly light
for mortal men, and reveals the world in her rays,
I will declare a Trojan Games: first a race between
the swift ships:
then those with ability in running, and those, daring
in strength,
who step forward, who are superior with javelin and
slight arrows,
or trust themselves to fight with rawhide gloves:
let everyone be there and hope for the prize of a
well-deserved
palm branch. All be silent now, and wreathe your
brows.”
So saying he veiled his forehead with his mother’s
myrtle.
Helymus did likewise, Acestes of mature years, the boy
Ascanius, and the rest of the people followed.
Then he went with many thousands, from the gathering
to the grave-mound, in the midst of the vast
accompanying throng.
Here with due offering he poured two bowls of pure
wine
onto the ground, two of fresh milk, two of sacrificial
blood,
and, scattering bright petals, he spoke as follows:
“Once more, hail, my sacred father: hail, spirit,
ghost, ashes of my father, whom I rescued in vain.
I was not allowed to search, with you, for Italy’s
borders,
our destined fields, or Ausonia’s Tiber, wherever it
might be.”
He had just finished speaking when a shining snake
unwound
each of its seven coils from the base of the shrine,
in seven large loops, placidly encircling the mound,
and gliding
among the altars, its back mottled with blue-green
markings,
and its scales burning with a golden sheen, as a
rainbow forms
a thousand varied colours in clouds opposite the sun.
Aeneas was stunned by the sight. Finally, with a long
glide
among the bowls and polished drinking cups, the
serpent
tasted the food, and, having fed, departed the altar,
retreating harmlessly again into the depths of the
tomb.
Aeneas returned more eagerly to the tribute to his
father,
uncertain whether to treat the snake as the guardian
of the place,
or as his father’s attendant spirit: he killed two
sheep as customary,
two pigs, and as many black-backed heifers:
and poured wine from the bowls, and called on the
spirit
and shadow of great Anchises, released from Acheron.
And his companions as well, brought gifts gladly, of
which
each had a store, piling high the altars, sacrificing
bullocks:
others set out rows of cauldrons, and scattered among
the grass,
placed live coals under the spits, and roasted the
meat.
BkV:104-150
The Start of the Games
The eagerly-awaited day had arrived, and now
Phaethon’s horses brought a ninth dawn of cloudless
light,
and Acestes’s name and reputation had roused the
countryside:
they thronged the shore, a joyous crowd,
some to see Aeneas and his men, others to compete.
First the prizes were set out for them to see in the
centre
of the circuit, sacred tripods, green crowns and
palms,
rewards for the winners, armour, and clothes dyed with
purple,
and talents of silver and gold: and a trumpet sang
out,
from a central mound, that the games had begun.
Four well-matched ships with heavy oars
were chosen from the fleet for the first event.
Mnesthus, soon to be Mnesthus of Italy from whom
the Memmian people are named, captains the Sea-Serpent,
with its eager crew: Gyas, the vast Chimaera of huge
bulk,
a floating city, rowed by the Trojan men
on three decks, with the oars raised in triple rows:
Sergestus, from whom the house of Sergia gets its
name,
sails in the great Centaur, and Cloanthus from whom
your family derives, Cluentius of Rome, in the
sea-green Scylla.
There’s a rock far out at sea opposite the foaming
shore,
which, lashed by the swollen waves, is sometimes
drowned,
when wintry north-westerlies hide the stars:
it is quiet in calm weather and flat ground is raised
above
the motionless water, a welcome haunt for sun-loving
sea-birds.
Here our ancestor Aeneas set up a leafy oak-trunk
as a mark, as a sign for the sailors to know where
to turn back, and circle round the long course.
Then they chose places by lot, and the captains
themselves, on
the sterns, gleamed from a distance, resplendent in
purple and gold:
the rest of the men were crowned with poplar leaves,
and their naked shoulders glistened, shining with oil.
They manned the benches, arms ready at the oars:
readied for action they waited for the signal, and
pounding fear,
and the desire aroused for glory, devoured their
leaping hearts.
Then when the clear trumpet gave the signal, all
immediately
shot forward from the starting line, the sailor’s
shouts
struck the heavens, as arms were plied the waters
turned to foam.
they cut the furrows together, and the whole surface
gaped wide, ploughed by the oars and the three-pronged
beaks.
The speed is not as great when the two horse chariots
hit the field in their race, shooting from their
stalls:
and the charioteers shake the rippling reins over
their
galloping team, straining forward to the lash.
So the whole woodland echoes with applause, the shouts
of men, and the partisanship of their supporters,
the sheltered beach concentrates the sound
and the hills, reverberating, return the clamour.
BkV:151-243
The Boat Race
Gyas runs before the pack, and glides forward on the
waves,
amongst the noise and confusion: Cloanthus follows
next,
his ship better manned, but held back by its weight.
After them separated equally the Sea-Serpent
and the Centaur strain to win a lead:
now the Sea-Serpent has it, now the huge Centaur wins
in front,
now both sweep on together their bows level,
their long keels ploughing the salt sea.
Now they near the rock and are close to the marker,
when Gyas, the leader, winning at the half-way point,
calls out loudly to his pilot Menoetes:
“Why so far adrift to starboard? Steer her course this
way:
hug the shore and graze the crags to port, oars
raised:
let others keep to deep water.” He spoke, but Menoetes
fearing unseen reefs wrenched the prow towards the
open sea.
“Why so far adrift?” again, “Head for the rocks,
Menoetes!”
he shouts to him forcefully, and behold, he sees
Cloanthus
right at his back and taking the riskier course.
He squeezed a path between Gyas’s ship and the booming
rocks
inside to starboard, suddenly passing the leader,
and, leaving the marker behind, reached safe water.
Then indeed great indignation burned in the young
man’s marrow,
and there were tears on his cheeks, and forgetting his
own pride
and his crew’s safety he heaved the timid Menoetes
headlong into the sea from the high stern:
he stood to the helm, himself captain and steersman,
urged on his men, and turned for the shore.
But when Menoetes old as he was, clawed his way back
heavily
and with difficulty at last from the sea floor, he
climbed to the top
of the crag and sat down on the dry rock dripping, in
his wet
clothing. The Trojans laughed as he fell, and swam
and laughed as he vomited the seawater from his chest.
At this a joyful hope of passing Gyas, as he stalled,
is aroused in Sergestus and Mnestheus, the two behind,
Sergestus takes the leading place and nears the rock,
still he’s not a full ship’s length in front, only
part:
the rival Sea-Serpent closes on him with her prow.
Then, Mnesthus walking among his crew amidships
exhorted them: “Now, now rise to the oars, comrades
of Hector, you whom I chose as companions at Troy’s
last fatal hour: now, exert all that strength,
that spirit you showed in the Gaetulian shoals,
the Ionian Sea, and Cape Malea’s pursuing waves.
Now I, Mnesthus, do not seek to be first or try to win
–
let those conquer whom you have granted to do so,
Neptune –
but oh, it would be shameful to return last: achieve
this for us,
countrymen, and prevent our disgrace.” They bend to it
with fierce rivalry: the bronze stern shudders at
their powerful
strokes: and the sea-floor drops away beneath them:
then shallow breathing makes limbs and parched lips
quiver.
and their sweat runs down in streams.
Chance brings the men the glory that they long for.
When Segestus, his spirit raging, forces his bows,
on the inside, towards the rocks, and enters
dangerous water, unhappily he strikes the jutting
reef.
The cliff shakes, the oars jam against them, and snap
on the sharp edges of stone, and the prow hangs there,
snagged.
The sailors leap up, and, shouting aloud at the delay,
gather iron-tipped poles and sharply-pointed
boathooks,
and rescue their smashed oars from the water.
But Mnesthus, delighted, and made eager by his
success,
with a swift play of oars, and a prayer to the winds.
heads for home waters and courses the open sea,
as a dove, whose nest and sweet chicks are hidden
among the rocks, suddenly startled from some hollow,
takes flight for the fields, frightened from her
cover,
and beats her wings loudly, but soon gliding in still
air
skims her clear path, barely moving her swift pinions:
in this way Mnestheus and the Sea-Dragon herself
furrow
the final stretch of water in flight, and her impetus
alone, carries her on her winged path. Firstly
he leaves Segestus behind struggling on the raised
rock
then in shoal water, calling vainly for help,
and learning how to race with shattered oars.
Then he overhauls Gyas and the Chimaera’s huge bulk:
which, deprived of her helmsman now, gives way.
Now Cloanthus alone is left ahead, near to the finish,
Mnestheus heads for him and chases closely
exerting all his powers. Then indeed the shouts
redouble,
and together all enthusiastically urge on the pursuer.
The former crew are unhappy lest they fail to keep
the honour that is theirs and the glory already
in their possession, and would sell their lives for
fame.
the latter feed on success: they can because they
think they can.
And with their prow alongside they might have snatched
the prize,
if Cleanthus had not stretched out his hands over the
sea
and poured out his prayers, and called to the gods in
longing.
“Gods, whose empire is the ocean, whose waters I
course,
On shore, I will gladly set a snow-white bull
before your altars, in payment of my vows,
throw the entrailsinto the saltwater, and pour out
pure wine.”
He spoke, and all the Nereids, Phorcus’s choir, and
virgin Panopea,
heard him in the wave’s depths, and father Portunus
drove him
on his track, with his great hand: the ship ran to
shore, swifter
than south wind or flying arrow, and plunged into the
deep harbour.
BkV:244-285
The Prize-Giving for the Boat Race
Then Anchises’s son, calling them all together as is
fitting,
by the herald’s loud cry declares Cloanthus the
winner,
and wreathes his forehead with green laurel, and tells
him
to choose three bullocks, and wine, and a large talent
of silver
as gifts for the ships. He adds special honours for
the captains:
a cloak worked in gold for the victor, edged
with Meliboean deep purple in a double meandering
line,
Ganymede the boy-prince woven on it, as if breathless
with eagerness, running with his javelin, chasing the
swift stags
on leafy Ida: whom Jupiter’s eagle, carrier of the
lightning-bolt,
has now snatched up into the air, from Ida, with taloned
feet:
his aged guards stretch their hands to the sky in
vain,
and the barking dogs snap at the air. He gives to the
warrior,
who took second place by his prowess, a coat of mail
for his own,
with polished hooks, in triple woven gold, a beautiful
thing
and a defence in battle, that he himself as victor had
taken
from Demoleos, by the swift Simois, below the heights
of Ilium.
Phegeus and Sagaris, his servants, can barely carry
its folds,
on straining shoulders: though, wearing it, Demoleus
used to drive the scattered Trojans at a run.
He grants the third prize of a pair of bronze
cauldrons
and bowls made of silver with designs in bold relief.
Now they have all received their gifts and are walking
off,
foreheads tied with scarlet ribbons, proud of their
new wealth,
when Segestus, who showing much skill has with
difficulty
got clear of the cruel rock, oars missing and one tier
useless,
brings in his boat, to mockery and no glory.
As a snake, that a bronze-rimmed wheel has crossed
obliquely,
is often caught on the curb of a road, or like one
that a passer-by
has crushed with a heavy blow from a stone and left
half-dead,
writhes its long coils, trying in vain to escape, part
aggressive,
with blazing eyes, and hissing, its neck raised high
in the air,
part held back by the constraint of its wounds,
struggling
to follow with its coils, and twining back on its own
length:
so the ship moves slowly on with wrecked oars:
nevertheless she makes sail, and under full sail
reaches harbour.
Aeneas presents Sergestus with the reward he promised,
happy that the ship is saved, and the crew rescued.
He is granted a Cretan born slave-girl, Pholoe, not
unskilled
in the arts of Minerva, nursing twin boys at her
breast.
BkV:286-361
The Foot Race
Once this race was done Aeneas headed for a grassy
space,
circled round about by curving wooded hillsides,
forming an amphitheatre at the valley’s centre:
the hero took himself there in the midst of the throng
many thousands strong, and occupied a raised throne.
Here if any by chance wanted to compete in the
footrace
he tempted their minds with the reward, and set the
prizes.
Trojans and Sicilians gathered together from all
sides,
Nisus and Euryalus the foremost among them,
Euryalus famed for his beauty, and in the flower of
youth,
Nisus famed for his devoted affection for the lad:
next
came princely Diores, of Priam’s royal blood,
then Salius and Patron together, one an Arcanian,
the other of Arcadian blood and Tegean race:
then two young Sicilians, Helymus and Panopes,
used to the forests, companions of old Acestes:
and many others too, whose fame is lost in obscurity.
Then Aeneas amongst them spoke as follows:
“Take these words to heart, and give pleasurable
attention.
None of your number will go away without a reward from
me.
I’ll give two Cretan arrows, shining with polished
steel,
for each man, to take away, and a double-headed axe
chased
with silver: all who are present will receive the same
honour.
The first three will share prizes, and their heads
will be crowned
with pale-green olive: let the first as winner take a
horse
decorated with trappings: the second an Amazonian
quiver,
filled with Thracian arrows, looped with a broad belt
of gold
and fastened by a clasp with a polished gem:
let the third leave content with this Argive helmet.”
When he had finished they took their places and,
suddenly,
on hearing the signal, they left the barrier and shot
onto the course,
streaming out like a storm cloud, gaze fixed on the
goal.
Nisus was off first, and darted away, ahead of all the
others,
faster than the wind or the winged lightning-bolt:
Salius followed behind him, but a long way behind:
then after a space Euryalus was third: Helymus
pursued Euryalus, and there was Diores speeding near
him,
now touching foot to foot, leaning at his shoulder:
if the course had been longer he’d have
slipped past him, and left the outcome in doubt.
Now, wearied, almost at the end of the track,
they neared the winning post itself, when the unlucky
Nisus
fell in some slippery blood, which when the bullocks
were killed
had chanced to drench the ground and the green grass.
Here the youth, already rejoicing at winning, failed
to keep
his sliding feet on the ground, but fell flat,
straight in the slimy dirt and sacred blood.
But he didn’t forget Euryalus even then, nor his love:
but, picking himself up out of the wet, obstructed
Salius,
who fell head over heels onto the thick sand.
Euryalus sped by and, darting onwards to applause and
the shouts
of his supporters, took first place, winning with his
friend’s help.
Helymus came in behind him, then Diores, now in third
place.
At this Salius filled the whole vast amphitheatre, and
the faces
of the foremost elders, with his loud clamour,
demanding to be given the prize stolen from him by a
trick.
His popularity protects Euryalus, and fitting tears,
and ability is more pleasing in a beautiful body.
Diores encourages him, and protests in a loud voice,
having reached the palm, but claiming the last prize
in vain,
if the highest honour goes to Salius.
Then Aeneas the leader said, “Your prizes are still
yours,
lads, and no one is altering the order of attainment:
but allow me to take pity on an unfortunate friend’s
fate.”
So saying he gives Salius the huge pelt of a Gaetulian
lion,
heavy with shaggy fur, its claws gilded.
At this Nisus comments: “If these are the prizes for
losing,
and you pity the fallen, what fitting gift will you
grant to Nisus,
who would have earned first place through merit
if ill luck had not dogged me, as it did Salius?”
And with that he shows his face and limbs drenched
with foul mud. The best of leaders smiles at him,
and orders a shield to be brought, the work of
Didymaon,
once unpinned by the Greeks from Neptune’s sacred
threshold:
this outstanding prize he gives to the noble youth.
BkV:362-484
The Boxing Contest
When the races were done and the gifts allotted,
Aeneas cried: “Now, he who has skill and courage in
his heart,
let him stand here and raise his arms, his fists bound
in hide.”
So saying he set out the double prize for the boxing,
a bullock for the winner, dressed with gold and sacred
ribbons,
and a sword and a noble helmet to console the
defeated.
Without delay Dares, hugely strong, raised his face
and rose, to a great murmur from the crowd,
he who alone used to compete with Paris,
and by that same mound where mighty Hector lies
he struck the victorious Butes, borne of the Bebrycian
race of Amycus, as he came forward, vast in bulk,
and stretched him dying on the yellow sand.
Such was Dares who lifted his head up for the bout at
once,
showed his broad shoulders, stretched his arms out,
sparring
to right and left, and threw punches at the air.
A contestant was sought for him, but no one from all
that crowd
dared face the man, or pull the gloves on his hands.
So, cheerfully thinking they had all conceded the
prize, he stands
before Aeneas, and without more delay holds the
bullock’s horn
in his left hand and says: “Son of the goddess, if no
one dare
commit himself to fight, when will my standing here
end?
How long is it right for me to be kept waiting? Order
me to lead
your gift away.” All the Trojans together shout their
approval,
and demand that what was promised be granted him.
At this Entellus upbraids Acestes, sitting next to him
on a stretch of green grass, with grave words:
“Entellus, once the bravest of heroes, was it all in
vain,
will you let so great a prize be carried off without a
struggle,
and so tamely? Where’s our divine master, Eryx, now,
famous to no purpose? Where’s your name throughout
Sicily,
and why are those spoils of battle hanging in your
house?”
To this Entellus replies: “It’s not that quelled by
fear, pride or love
of fame has died: but my chill blood is dull with age’s
sluggishness,
and the vigour in my body is lifeless and exhausted.
If I had what I once had, which that boaster enjoys
and relies on, if that youthfulness were mine now,
then I’d certainly have stepped forward, but not
seduced
by prizes or handsome bullocks: I don’t care about
gifts.”
Having spoken he throws a pair of gloves of immense
weight
which fierce Eryx, binding the tough hide onto his
hands,
used to fight in, into the middle of the ring. Their
minds
are stunned: huge pieces of hide from seven massive
oxen
are stiff with the iron and lead sewn into them. Above
all
Dares himself is astonished, and declines the bout
from a distance,
and Anchises’s noble son turns the huge volume
and weight of the gloves backwards and forwards.
Then the older man speaks like this, from his heart:
“What if you’d seen the arms and gloves of Hercules
himself, and the fierce fight on this very shore?
Your brother Eryx once wore these (you see that
they’re still stained with blood and brain matter)
He faced great Hercules in them: I used to fight in
them
when more vigorous blood granted me strength,
and envious age had not yet sprinkled my brow with
snow.
But if a Trojan, Dares, shrinks from these gloves of
ours,
and good Aeneas accepts it, and Acestes my sponsor agrees,
let’s level the odds. I’ll forgo the gloves of Eryx
(banish your fears): you, throw off your Trojan ones.”
So speaking he flings his double-sided cloak from his
shoulders,
baring the massive muscles of his limbs, his thighs
with their huge bones, and stands, a giant, in the
centre of the arena.
Then our ancestor, Anchises’s son, lifts up a like
pair of gloves,
and protects the hands of both contestants equally.
Immediately each takes up his stance, poised on his
toes,
and fearlessly raises his arms high in front of him.
Keeping their heads up and well away from the blows
they begin to spar, fist to fist, and provoke a
battle,
the one better at moving his feet, relying on his
youth,
the other powerful in limbs and bulk: but his slower
legs quiver,
his knees are unsteady, and painful gasps shake his
huge body.
They throw many hard punches at each other but in
vain,
they land many on their curved flanks, or their chests
are thumped loudly, gloves often stray to ears
and brows, and jaws rattle under the harsh blows.
Entellus stands solidly, not moving, in the same
stance,
avoiding the blows with his watchful eyes and body
alone.
Dares, like someone who lays siege to a towering city,
or surrounds a mountain fortress with weapons,
tries this opening and that, seeking everywhere, with
his art,
and presses hard with varied but useless assaults.
Then Entellus standing up to him, extends his raised
right:
the other, foreseeing the downward angle of the
imminent blow,
slides his nimble body aside, and retreats:
Entellus wastes his effort on the air and the heavy
man
falls to the ground heavily, with his whole weight,
as a hollow pine-tree, torn up by its roots, sometimes
falls
on Mount Erymanthus or mighty Mount Ida.
The Trojans and the Sicilan youths leap up eagerly:
a shout lifts to the sky, and Acestes is the first to
run forward
and with sympathy raises his old friend from the
ground.
But that hero, not slowed or deterred by his fall,
returns more eagerly to the fight, and generates power
from anger.
Then shame and knowledge of his own ability revive his
strength,
and he drives Dares in fury headlong across the whole
arena,
doubling his punches now, to right and left. No pause,
or rest:
like the storm clouds rattling their dense hailstones
on the roof,
as heavy are the blows from either hand, as the hero
continually batters at Dares and destroys him.
Then Aeneas, their leader, would not allow the wrath
to continue
longer, nor Entellus to rage with such bitterness of
spirit,
but put an end to the contest, and rescued the weary
Dares,
speaking gently to him with these words:
“Unlucky man, why let such savagery depress your
spirits?
Don’t you see another has the power: the gods have
changed sides?
Yield to the gods.” He spoke and, speaking, broke up
the fight.
But Dare’s loyal friends led him away to the ships,
his weakened knees collapsing, his head swaying from
side to side,
spitting out clots of blood from his mouth, teeth
amongst them.
Called back they accept the helmet and sword,
leaving the winner’s palm and the bullock for
Entellus.
At this the victor exultant in spirit and glorying in
the bullock,
said: “Son of the Goddess, and all you Trojans,
know now what physical strength I had in my youth,
and from what fate you’ve recalled and rescued Dares.”
He spoke and planted himself opposite the bullock,
still standing there as prize for the bout, then,
drawing back
his right fist, aimed the hard glove between the horns
and broke its skull scattering the brains: the ox
fell quivering to the ground, stretched out lifeless.
Standing over it he poured these words from his chest:
“Eryx, I offer you this, the better animal, for
Dares’s life:
the winner here, I relinquish the gloves and my art.”
BkV:485-544
The Archery Contest
Immediately Aeneas invites together all who might wish
to compete with their swift arrows, and sets out the
prizes.
With a large company he raises a mast from Serestus’s
ship,
and ties a fluttering dove, at which they can aim
their shafts, to a cord piercing the high mast.
The men gather and a bronze helmet receives the lots
tossed into it: the first of them all to be drawn,
to cheers of support, is Hippocoon son of Hyrtaces,
followed by Mnestheus, the winner of the boat race
a while ago: Mnestheus crowned with green olive.
Eurytion’s the third, your brother, O famous Pandorus,
who, ordered to wreck the treaty, in the past,
was the first to hurl his spear amongst the Greeks.
Acestes is the last name out from the depths of the
helmet,
daring to try his own hand at the youthful contest.
Then they take arrows from their quivers, and, each
man
for himself, with vigorous strength, bends the bow
into an arc,
and first through the air from the twanging string
the son of Hyrcanus’s shaft, cutting the swift breeze,
reaches the mark, and strikes deep into the mast.
The mast quivered, the bird fluttered its wings in
fear,
and there was loud applause from all sides.
Then Mnestheus eagerly took his stand with bent bow,
aiming high, his arrow notched level with his eyes.
But to his dismay he was not able to hit the bird
herself with the shaft, but broke the knots of hemp
cord
that tied her foot as it hung from the mast:
she fled to the north wind and the dark clouds, in
flight.
Then Eurytion who had been holding his bow ready, with
drawn
arrow for some time, called on his brother to note his
vow,
quickly eyed the dove, enjoying the freedom of the
skies,
and transfixed her, as she beat her wings beneath a
dark cloud.
She dropped lifeless, leaving her spirit with the
starry heavens,
and, falling, brought back to earth the shaft that
pierced her.
Acestes alone remained: the prize was lost:
yet he still shot his arrow high into the air,
showing an older man’s skill, the bow twanging. Then
a sudden wonder appeared before their eyes, destined
to be
of great meaning: the time to come unveiled its
crucial outcome,
and great seers of the future celebrated it as an
omen.
The arrow, flying through the passing clouds, caught
fire
marked out its path with flames, then vanished into
thin air,
as shooting stars, loosed from heaven often transit
the sky, drawing their tresses after them. Astonished,
the Trinacrians and Trojans stood rooted to the spot,
praying to the gods: nor did their great leader Aeneas
reject the sign, but embracing the joyful Acestes,
loaded him with handsome gifts and spoke as follows:
“Take these, old man: since the high king of Olympus
shows,
by these omens,
that he wishes you to take extraordinary honours.
You shall have this gift, owned by aged Anchises
himself,
a bowl engraved with figures, that Cisseus of Thrace
once long ago gave Anchises my father as a memento
of himself, and as a pledge of his friendship.”
So saying he wreathed his brow with green laurel
and proclaimed Acestes the highest victor among them
all.
Nor did good Eurytion begrudge the special prize,
though he alone brought the bird down from the sky.
Next he who cut the cord stepped forward for his
reward,
and lastly he who’s swift shaft had transfixed the
mast.
BkV:545-603
The Exhibition of Horsemanship
But before the match is complete Aeneas the leader
calls Epytides to him, companion and guardian
of young Iulus, and speaks into his loyal ear:
“Off! Go! Tell Ascanius, if he has his troop of boys
ready with him, and is prepared for the horse-riding
to show himself with his weapons, and lead them out
in honour of his grandfather.” He himself orders the
whole
crowd of people to leave the lengthy circuit, emptying
the field.
The boys arrive, and glitter together on their bridled
horses
under their fathers’ gaze, and the men of Troy
and Sicily murmur in admiration as they go by.
They all have their hair properly circled by a cut
garland:
they each carry two cornel-wood spears tipped with
steel,
some have shining quivers on their shoulders: a
flexible
torque of twisted gold sits high on their chests
around the neck.
The troops of horse are three in number, and three
leaders
ride ahead: two groups of six boys follow each,
commanded alike and set out in gleaming ranks.
One line of youths is led joyfully by little Priam,
recalling his grandfather’s name, your noble child,
Polites, seed of the Italians: whom a piebald
Thracian horse carries, showing white pasterns
as it steps, and a high white forehead.
Next is Atys, from whom the Latin Atii trace their
line,
little Atys, a boy loved by the boy Iulus.
Last, and most handsome of all in appearance,
Iulus himself rides a Sidonian horse, that radiant
Dido
had given him as a remembrance of herself,
and a token of her love. The rest of the youths
ride the Sicilian horses of old Acestes.
The Trojans greet the shy lads with applause, and
delight
in gazing at them, seeing their ancient families in
their faces.
When they have ridden happily round the whole assembly
under the eyes of their kin, Epytides with a prolonged
cry
gives the agreed signal and cracks his whip.
They gallop apart in two equal detachments, the three
groups parting company, and dissolving their columns,
then, recalled, they wheel round, and charge with
level lances.
Then they perform other figures and counter-figures
in opposing ranks, and weave in circles inside counter-circles,
and perform a simulated battle with weapons.
Now their backs are exposed in flight, now they turn
their spears to charge, now ride side by side in
peace.
Like the Labyrinth in mountainous Crete, they say,
that contained a path winding between blind walls,
wandering with guile through a thousand turnings,
so that undetected and irretraceable errors
might foil any guidelines that might be followed:
so the Trojan children twine their steps in just such
a pattern,
weaving battle and flight, in their display, like
dolphins
swimming through the ocean streams, cutting the
Carpathian
and Lybian waters, and playing among the waves.
Ascanius first revived this kind of riding, and this
contest,
when he encircled Alba Longa with walls, and taught
the Early
Latins to celebrate it in the way he and the Trojan
youth
had done together: the Albans taught their children:
mighty Rome
received it from them in turn, and preserved the
ancestral rite:
and today the boys are called ‘Troy’ and their
procession ‘Trojan’.
So the games are completed celebrating Aeneas’s sacred
father.
BkV:604-663
Juno sends Iris to Fire the Trojan Ships
Here Fortune first alters, switching loyalties. While
they,
with their various games, are paying due honours to
the tomb,
Saturnian Juno sends Iris down from the sky to the
Trojan fleet,
breathing out a breeze for her passage, thinking
deeply
about her ancient grievance which is yet unsatisfied.
Iris, hurrying on her way along a rainbow’s thousand
colours
speeds swiftly down her track, a girl unseen.
She views the great crowd, and scans the shore,
sees the harbour deserted, and the ships abandoned.
But far away on the lonely sands the Trojan women
are weeping Anchises’s loss, and all, weeping, gaze
at the deep ocean. “Ah, what waves and seas are still
left
for weary folk!” They are all of one voice. They pray
for
a city: they tire of enduring suffering on the waves.
So Iris, not ignorant of mischief, darts among them,
setting aside the appearance and robes of a goddess:
becoming Beroe, the old wife of Tmarian Doryclus,
who had once had family, sons, and a famous name.
and as such moves among the Trojan mothers, saying:
“O wretched ones, whom Greek hands failed to drag
to death in the war beneath our native walls!
O unhappy people what fate does Fortune reserve for
you?
The seventh summer is on the turn since Troy’s
destruction,
and we endure the crossing of every sea and shore, so
many inhospitable stones and stars, while we chase over the vast sea
after an Italy that flees from us, tossing upon the
waves.
Here are the borders of our brother Eryx and our host
Acestes:
what stops us building walls and granting our citizens
a city?
O fatherland, O gods of our houses, rescued from the
enemy
in vain, will no city now be called Troy? Shall I see
nowhere a Xanthus or a Simois, Hector’s rivers?
Come now, and burn these accursed ships with me.
For the ghost of Cassandra, the prophetess, seemed to
hand me
burning torches in dream: ‘Seek Troy here: here is
your home’ she said. Now is the time for deeds,
not delay, given such portents. See, four altars to
Neptune:
the god himself lends us fire and the courage.”
So saying she first of all firmly seizes the dangerous
flame
and, straining to lift it high, brandishes it, and
hurls it.
The minds of the Trojan women are startled, and their
wits
stunned. Here, one of the crowd, Pyrgo, the eldest,
the royal nurse of so many of Priam’s sons, says:
“This is not Beroe, you women, this is no wife
of Rhoetitian Doryclus: look at the signs of divine
beauty
and the burning eyes, the spirit she possesses,
her form, the sound of her voice, her footsteps as she
moves.
Just now I myself left Beroe, sick and unhappy, that
she alone
was missing so important a rite and could not pay
Anchises
the offerings due to him.” So she speaks. At first the
women
gaze in uncertainty at the ships, with angry glances,
torn between a wretched yearning for the land
they have reached, and the kingdom fate calls them to,
when the goddess, climbs the sky on soaring wings,
cutting a giant rainbow in her flight through the
clouds.
Then truly amazed at the wonder, and driven by
madness,
they cry out and some snatch fire from the innermost
hearths,
others strip the altars, and throw on leaves and twigs
and burning brands. Fire rages unchecked among
the benches, and oars, and the hulls of painted pine.
BkV:664-699
The Fleet is Saved
Eumelus carries the news of the burning ships to
Anchises’s tomb
and the ranks of the ampitheatre, and looking behind
them
they themselves see dark ash floating upwards in a
cloud.
Ascanius is first to turn his horse eagerly towards
the troubled
encampment, as joyfully as he led his galloping troop,
and his breathless guardians cannot reign him back.
“What new madness is this? He cries. “What now, what
do you
aim at, wretched women? You’re burning your own hopes
not the enemy, nor a hostile Greek camp. See I am
your Ascanius!” And he flung his empty helmet in front
of his feet,
that he’d worn as he’d inspired his pretence of battle
in play.
Aeneas hurries there too, and the Trojan companies.
But the women scatter in fear here and there along the
shore,
and stealthily head for the woods and any cavernous
rocks:
they hate what they’ve done and the light, with sober
minds
they recognise their kin, and Juno is driven from
their hearts.
But the roaring flames don’t lose their indomitable
fury
just for that: the pitch is alight under the wet
timbers,
slowly belching smoke, the keel is gradually burned,
and the pestilence sinks through a whole hull,
nor are heroic strength or floods of water any use.
Then virtuous Aeneas tears the clothes from his chest,
and calls on the gods for help, lifting his hands:
“All-powerful Jupiter, if you don’t hate the Trojans
to a man, if your former affection has regard
for human suffering, let the fleet escape the flames
now,
Father, and save our slender Trojan hopes from ruin:
or if I deserve this, send what is left of us to death
with your
angry lightning-bolt, and overwhelm us with your
hand.”
He had barely spoken, when a dark storm with pouring
rain
rages without check and the high hills and plains
quake with thunder: a murky downpour falls
from the whole sky, the blackest of heavy southerlies,
and the ships are brimming, the half-burnt timbers
soaked,
until all the heat is quenched, and all the hulls
except four, are saved from the pestilence.
BkV:700-745
Nautes’ Advice and Anchises’ Ghost
But Aeneas, the leader, stunned by the bitter blow,
pondered his great worries, turning them this way
and that in his mind. Should he settle in Sicily’s
fields,
forgetting his destiny, or strike out for Italian
shores?
Then old Nautes, whom alone Tritonian Pallas had
taught,
and rendered famous for his great skill (she gave him
answers, telling what the great gods’ anger portended,
or what the course of destiny demanded),
began to solace Aeneas with these words:
“Son of the Goddess, let us follow wherever fate ebbs
or flows,
whatever comes, every fortune may be conquered by
endurance.
You have Trojan Acestes of the line of the gods:
let him share your decisions and be a willing partner,
entrust to him those who remain from the lost ships,
and those tired of your great venture and your
affairs:
Select also aged men and women exhausted by the sea,
and anyone with you who is frail, or afraid of danger,
and let the weary have their city in this land:
and if agreed they will call it by Acestes’s name.”
Then roused by such words from an aged friend,
Aeneas’s heart was truly torn between so many cares.
And now black Night in her chariot, borne upwards,
occupied the heavens: and the likeness of his father
Anchises
seemed to glide down from the sky, and speak so:
“Son, dearer to me than life, when life remained,
my son, troubled by Troy’s fate, I come here
at Jove’s command, he who drove the fire from the
ships,
and at last takes pity on you from high heaven.
Follow the handsome advice that old Nautus gives:
take chosen youth, and the bravest hearts, to Italy.
In Latium you must subdue a tough race, harshly
trained.
Yet, first, go to the infernal halls of Dis, and in
deep
Avernus seek a meeting with me, my son. For impious
Tartarus, with its sad shades, does not hold me,
I live in Elysium, and the lovely gatherings of the
blessed.
Here the chaste Sibyl will bring you, with much blood
of
black sheep. Then you’ll learn all about your race,
and the city granted you. Now: farewell. Dew-wet Night
turns mid-course, and cruel Morning, with panting
steeds,
breathes on me.” He spoke and fled like smoke into
thin air.
“Where are you rushing to? Aeneas cried, “Where are
you
hurrying? Who do you flee? Who bars you from my
embrace?”
So saying he revived the embers of the slumbering fires,
and
paid reverence, humbly, with sacred grain and a full
censer,
to the Trojan Lar, and the inner shrine of
white-haired Vesta.
BkV:746-778
Departure from Sicily
Immediately he summoned his companions, Acestes first
of all,
and told them of Jove’s command, and his dear father’s
counsel,
and the decision he had reached in his mind. There was
little delay
in their discussions, and Acestes did not refuse to
accept his orders.
They transferred the women to the new city’s roll, and
settled
there those who wished, spirits with no desire for
great glory.
They themselves, thinned in their numbers, but with
manhood
fully alive to war, renewed the rowing benches, and
replaced
the timbers of the ships burnt by fire, and fitted
oars and rigging.
Meanwhile Aeneas marked out the city limits with a
plough
and allocated houses: he declared that this was Ilium
and this place Troy. Acestes the Trojan revelled in
his kingdom,
appointed a court, and gave out laws to the assembled
senate.
Then a shrine of Venus of Idalia was dedicated,
close to the stars, on the tip of Eryx, and they added
a stretch of sacred grove, and a priest, to Anchises’s
tomb.
When all the people had feasted for nine days, and
offerings
had been made at the altars, gentle winds calmed the
waves
and a strong Southerly called them again to sea.
A great weeping rose along the curving shore:
a day and a night they clung together in delay.
Now the women themselves, to whom the face of the
ocean
had once seemed cruel, and its name intolerable,
wish to go and suffer all the toils of exile.
Good Aeneas comforts them with kind words
and commends them to his kinsman Acestes with tears.
Then he orders three calves to be sacrificed to Eryx,
a lamb to the Storm-gods, and for the hawsers to be
duly freed.
He himself, standing some way off on the prow, his
brow
wreathed with leaves of cut olive, holds a cup, throws
the entrails
into the salt waves, and pours out the clear wine.
A wind, rising astern, follows their departure: his
friends
in rivalry, strike the waves, and sweep the waters.
BkV:779-834
Venus Seeks Neptune’s Help
But meanwhile Venus, tormented by anxiety speaks
to Neptune, and pours out her complaints in this
manner:
“O Neptune, Juno’s heavy anger, and her implacable
heart, force me to descend to every kind of prayer,
she whom no length of time nor any piety can move,
nor does she rest, unwearied by fate or Jove’s
commands.
It’s not enough that in her wicked hatred she’s
consumed a city,
at the heart of Phrygia, and dragged the survivors of
Troy
through extremes of punishment: she pursues the bones
and ashes
of the slaughtered. She alone knows the reason for
such fury.
You yourself are witness to the trouble she stirred
lately
in Libyan waters: she confused the whole sea
with the sky, daring to do this within your realm,
relying vainly on Aeolus’s violent storm-winds.
See, how, rousing the Trojan women, in her wickedness,
and disgracefully, she has burnt their fleet, and,
with ships lost,
to leave their friends behind on an unknown shore.
I beg you to let the rest sail safely through your
seas,
let them reach Laurentine Tiber, if I ask
what is allowed, if the Fates grant them their city.”
Then the son of Saturn, the master of the deep oceans,
said this: “You’ve every right to trust in my realms,
Cytherea,
from which you draw your own origin. Also I’ve earned
it:
I’ve often controlled the rage and fury of sea and
sky.
Nor has my concern been less for your Aeneas on land
(I call Xanthus and Simois as witnesses). When
Achilles
chased the Trojan ranks, in their panic, forcing them
to the wall,
and sent many thousands to death, and the rivers
choked and
groaned, and Xanthus could not find his course
or roll down to the sea, then it was I who caught up
Aeneas
in a thick mist, as he met that brave son of Peleus,
when neither the gods nor his own strength favoured
him,
though I longed to destroy the walls of lying Troy,
that my hands had built, from the ground up.
Now also my mind remains the same: dispel your fears.
He will reach the harbours of Avernus, safely, as you
ask.
There will only be one, lost in the waves, whom you
will look for: one life that will be given for the
many.”
When he had soothed the goddess’s heart, she joying at
his words,
Father Neptune yoked his wild horses with gold, set
the bits
in their foaming mouths, and, with both hands, gave
them free rein.
He sped lightly over the ocean in his sea-green
chariot,
the waves subsided and the expanse of swollen waters
grew calm under the thunderous axle:
the storm-clouds vanished from the open sky.
Then came his multi-formed followers, great whales,
Glaucus’s aged band, Palaemon Ino’s son,
the swift Tritons, and all of Phorcus’s host:
the left hand taken by Thetis, Melite and virgin
Panopea,
Nesaea, and Spio, Thalia, and Cymodoce.
At this, soothing joy in turn pervaded father Aeneas’s
anxious mind: he ordered all to raise their masts
quickly, and the sails to be unfurled from the
yard-arms.
Together they hauled on the ropes and let out the
canvas as one,
now to port and now to starboard: together they swung
the high yards about: benign winds drove the fleet
along.
Palinurus, first of them all, led the close convoy:
the rest were ordered to set their course by his.
BkV:835-871
The Loss of Palinurus
And now dew-wet Night had just reached her zenith
in the sky: the sailors relaxed their limbs in quiet
rest
stretched out on the hard benches beneath the oars:
when Sleep, gliding lightly down from the heavenly
stars,
parted the gloomy air, and scattered the shadows,
seeking you, bringing you dark dreams, Palinurus,
though you were innocent: the god settled on the high
stern,
appearing as Phorbas, and poured these words from his
mouth:
“Palinurus, son of Iasus, the seas themselves steer
the fleet,
the breezes blow steadily, this hour is granted for
rest.
Lay down your head and rob your weary eyes of labour.
For a little while, I myself will take on your duty
for you.”
Palinurus, barely lifting his gaze, spoke to him:
“Do you tell me to trust the sea’s placid face,
the calm waves? Shall I set my faith on this monster?
Why should I entrust Aeneas to the deceptive breeze,
I whom a clear sky has deceived so often?”
So he spoke and clinging hard to the tiller
never relaxed his hold, and held his sight on the
stars.
Behold, despite his caution, the god shook a branch,
wet with Lethe’s dew, soporific with Styx’s power,
over his brow, and set free his swimming eyes.
The first sudden drowse had barely relaxed his limbs,
when Sleep leant above him and threw him headlong
into the clear waters, tearing away the tiller
and part of the stern, he calling to his friends
often, in vain:
while the god raised his wings in flight into the
empty air.
The fleet sailed on its way over the sea, as safely as
before,
gliding on, unaware, as father Neptune had promised.
And now drawn onwards it was close to the Sirens’s
cliffs, tricky
of old, and white with the bones of many men, (now the
rocks,
far off, boomed loud with the unending breakers) when
the leader
realised his ship was wallowing adrift, her helmsman
lost,
and he himself steered her through the midnight
waters,
sighing deeply, and shocked at heart by his friend’s
fate:
“Oh, far too trustful of the calm sea, and the sky,
you’ll lie
naked, Palinurus, on an unknown shore.”
BkVI:1-55
The Temple at Cumae
BkVI:56-97
The Sibyl’s Prophecy
BkVI:98-155
Aeneas Asks Entry to Hades
With such words, the Sibyl of Cumae chants fearful
enigmas,
from her shrine, echoing from the cave,
tangling truths and mysteries: as she raves, Apollo
thrashes the reins, and twists the spur under her
breast.
When the frenzy quietens, and the mad mouth hushes,
Aeneas, the Hero, begins: ‘O Virgin, no new,
unexpected
kind of suffering appears: I’ve foreseen them all
and travelled them before, in my own spirit.
One thing I ask: for they say the gate of the King of
Darkness
is here, and the shadowy marsh, Acheron’s overflow:
let me have sight of my dear father, his face: show me
the way,
open wide the sacred doors. I saved him, brought him
out from the thick of the enemy, through the flames,
on these shoulders, with a thousand spears behind me:
companion on my journey, he endured with me
all the seas, all the threats of sky and ocean, weak,
beyond his power, and his allotted span of old age.
He ordered me, with prayers, to seek you out, humbly,
and approach your threshold: I ask you, kindly one,
pity both father and son: since you are all power, not
for
nothing has Hecate set you to rule the groves of Avernus.
If Orpheus could summon the shade of his wife,
relying on his Thracian lyre, its melodious strings:
if Pollux, crossing that way, and returning, so
often,
could redeem his brother by dying in turn – and great
Theseus,
what of him, or Hercules? – well, my race too is
Jupiter’s on high.’
With these words he prayed, and grasped the altar,
as the priestess began to speak: ‘Trojan son of
Anchises,
sprung from the blood of the gods, the path to hell is
easy:
black Dis’s door is open night and day:
but to retrace your steps, and go out to the air
above,
that is work, that is the task. Some sons of the gods
have done it,
whom favouring Jupiter loved, or whom burning virtue
lifted to heaven. Woods cover all the middle part,
and Cocytus is round it, sliding in dark coils.
But if such desire is in your mind, such a longing
to sail the Stygian lake twice, and twice see
Tartarus,
and if it delights you to indulge in insane effort,
listen to what you must first undertake. Hidden in a dark
tree
is a golden bough, golden in leaves and pliant stem,
sacred to Persephone, the underworld’s Juno, all the
groves
shroud it, and shadows enclose the secret valleys.
But only one who’s taken a gold-leaved fruit from the
tree
is allowed to enter earth’s hidden places.
This lovely Proserpine has commanded to be brought to
her
as a gift: a second fruit of gold never fails to
appear
when the first one’s picked, the twig’s leafed with
the same metal.
So look for it up high, and when you’ve found it with your
eyes,
take it, of right, in your hand: since, if the Fates
have chosen you,
it will come away easily, freely of itself: otherwise
you
won’t conquer it by any force, or cut it with the
sharpest steel.
And the inanimate body of your friend lies there
(Ah! You do not know) and taints your whole fleet with
death,
while you seek advice and hang about our threshold.
Carry him first to his place and bury him in the tomb.
Lead black cattle there: let those be your first
offerings of atonement.
Only then can you look on the Stygian groves, and the
realms
forbidden to the living.’ She spoke and with closed
lips fell silent.
BkVI:156-182
The Finding of Misenus’s Body
Leaving the cave, Aeneas walked away,
with sad face and downcast eyes, turning their dark
fate
over in his mind. Loyal Achates walked at his side
and fashioned his steps with similar concern.
They engaged in intricate discussion between them,
as to who the dead friend, the body to be interred,
was,
whom the priestess spoke of. And as they passed along
they saw Misenus, ruined by shameful death, on the dry
sand,
Misenus, son of Aeolus, than whom none was more
outstanding
in rousing men with the war-trumpet, kindling conflict
with music.
He was great Hector’s friend: with Hector
he went to battle, distinguished by his spear and
trumpet.
When victorious Achilles despoiled Hector of life,
this most courageous hero joined the company
of Trojan Aeneas, serving no lesser a man. But when,
by chance, he foolishly made the ocean sound
to a hollow conch-shell, and called gods to compete
in playing, if the tale can be believed, Triton
overheard him
and drowned him in the foaming waves among the rocks.
So, with pious Aeneas to the fore, they all mourned
round the body with loud clamour. Then, without delay,
weeping,
they hurried to carry out the Sibyl’s orders, and
laboured to pile
tree-trunks as a funeral pyre, raising it to the
heavens.
They enter the ancient wood, the deep coverts of wild
creatures:
the pine-trees fell, the oaks rang to the blows of the
axe,
ash trunks and fissile oak were split with wedges,
and they rolled large rowan trees down from the hills.
BkVI:183-235
The Funeral Pyre
Aeneas was no less active in such efforts, encouraging
his companions, and employing similar tools.
And he turned things over in his own saddened mind,
gazing at the immense forest, and by chance prayed so:
‘If only that golden bough would show itself to us
now, on some such tree, among the woods! For the
prophetess
spoke truly of you Misenus, alas, only too truly.’
He had barely spoken when by chance a pair of doves
came flying down from the sky, beneath his very eyes,
and settled on the green grass. Then the great hero
knew
they were his mother’s birds, and prayed in his joy:
‘O be my guides, if there is some way, and steer a
course
through the air, to that grove where the rich branch
casts its shadow on fertile soil. And you mother, O
goddess,
don’t fail me in time of doubt.’ So saying he halted
his footsteps,
observing what signs the doves might give, and which
direction
they might take. As they fed they went forward in
flight
just as far as, following, his eyes could keep them in
sight.
Then, when they reached the foul jaws of stinking
Avernus,
they quickly rose and, gliding through the clear air,
perched on the longed-for dual-natured tree, from
which
the alien gleam of gold shone out, among the branches.
Just as mistletoe, that does not form a tree of its
own,
grows in the woods in the cold of winter, with a
foreign leaf,
and surrounds a smooth trunk with yellow berries:
such was the vision of this leafy gold in the dark
oak-tree, so the foil tinkled in the light breeze.
Aeneas immediately plucked it, eagerly breaking the
tough
bough, and carried it to the cave of the Sibylline
prophetess.
Meanwhile, on the shore, the Trojans were weeping
bitterly
for Misenus and paying their last respects to his
senseless ashes.
First they raised a huge pyre, heavy with cut oak and
pine,
weaving the sides with dark foliage, set funereal
cypress in front,
and decorated it above with shining weapons.
Some heated water, making the cauldrons boil on the
flames,
and washed and anointed the chill corpse. They made
lament.
Then, having wept, they placed his limbs on the couch,
and threw purple robes over them, his usual dress.
Some raised the great bier, a sad duty,
and, with averted faces, set a torch below,
in ancestral fashion. Gifts were heaped on the flames,
of incense, foodstuffs, bowls brimming with olive-oil.
When the ashes collapsed, and the blaze died, they
washed
the remains of the parched bones in wine, and
Corynaeus,
collecting the fragments, closed them in a bronze urn.
Also he circled his comrades three times with pure water
to purify them, sprinkling fine dew from a full olive
branch,
and spoke the words of parting. And virtuous Aeneas
heaped up a great mound for his tomb, with the hero’s
own weapons, his trumpet and oar, beneath a high
mountain
which is called Misenus now after him, and preserves
his ever-living name throughout the ages.
BkVI:236-263
The Sacrifice to Hecate
This done, he quickly carried out the Sibyl’s orders.
There was a deep stony cave, huge and gaping wide,
sheltered by a dark lake and shadowy woods,
over which nothing could extend its wings in safe
flight,
since such a breath flowed from those black jaws,
and was carried to the over-arching sky, that the
Greeks
called it by the name Aornos, that is Avernus, or the
Bird-less.
Here the priestess first of all tethered four black
heifers,
poured wine over their foreheads, and placed
the topmost bristles that she plucked, growing
between their horns, in the sacred fire, as a first
offering,
calling aloud to Hecate, powerful in Heaven and Hell.
Others slit the victim’s throats and caught the warm
blood
in bowls. Aeneas himself sacrificed a black-fleeced
lamb
to Night, mother of the Furies, and Earth, her mighty
sister,
and a barren heifer to you, Persephone.
Then he kindled the midnight altars for the Stygian
King,
and placed whole carcasses of bulls on the flames,
pouring rich oil over the blazing entrails.
See now, at the dawn light of the rising sun,
the ground bellowed under their feet, the wooded hills
began
to move, and, at the coming of the Goddess, dogs
seemed to howl
in the shadows. ‘Away, stand far away, O you profane
ones,’
the priestess cried, ‘absent yourselves from all this
grove:
and you now, Aeneas, be on your way, and tear your
sword
from the sheathe: you need courage, and a firm mind,
now.’
So saying, she plunged wildly into the open cave:
he, fearlessly, kept pace with his vanishing guide.
BkVI:264-294
The Entrance to Hades
You gods, whose is the realm of spirits, and you, dumb
shadows,
and Chaos, Phlegethon, wide silent places of the
night,
let me tell what I have heard: by your power, let me
reveal things buried in the deep earth, and the
darkness.
On they went, hidden in solitary night, through gloom,
through Dis’s empty halls, and insubstantial kingdom,
like a path through a wood, in the faint light
under a wavering moon, when Jupiter has buried the sky
in shadow, and black night has stolen the colour from
things.
Right before the entrance, in the very jaws of Orcus,
Grief and vengeful Care have made their beds,
and pallid Sickness lives there, and sad Old Age,
and Fear, and persuasive Hunger, and vile Need,
forms terrible to look on, and Death and Pain:
then Death’s brother Sleep, and Evil Pleasure of the
mind,
and, on the threshold opposite, death-dealing War,
and the steel chambers of the Furies, and mad Discord,
her snaky hair entwined with blood-wet ribbons.
In the centre a vast shadowy elm spreads its aged
trunks
and branches: the seat, they say, that false Dreams
hold,
thronging, clinging beneath every leaf.
And many other monstrous shapes of varied creatures,
are stabled by the doors, Centaurs and bi-formed
Scylla,
and hundred-armed Briareus, and the Lernean Hydra,
hissing fiercely, and the Chimaera armed with flame,
Gorgons, and Harpies, and the triple bodied shade,
Geryon.
At this, trembling suddenly with terror, Aeneas
grasped
his sword, and set the naked blade against their
approach:
and, if his knowing companion had not warned him
that these were tenuous bodiless lives flitting about
with a hollow semblance of form, he would have rushed
at them,
and hacked at the shadows uselessly with his sword.
BkVI:295-336
The Shores of Acheron
From here there is a road that leads to the waters
of Tartarean Acheron. Here thick with mud a whirlpool
seethes
in the vast depths, and spews all its sands into
Cocytus.
A grim ferryman watches over the rivers and streams,
Charon, dreadful in his squalor, with a mass of
unkempt
white hair straggling from his chin: flames glow in
his eyes,
a dirty garment hangs, knotted from his shoulders.
He poles the boat and trims the sails himself,
and ferries the dead in his dark skiff,
old now, but a god’s old age is fresh and green.
Here all the crowd streams, hurrying to the shores,
women and men, the lifeless bodies of noble heroes,
boys and unmarried girls, sons laid on the pyre
in front of their father’s eyes: as many as the leaves
that fall
in the woods at the first frost of autumn, as many as
the birds
that flock to land from ocean deeps, when the cold of
the year
drives them abroad and despatches them to sunnier
countries.
They stood there, pleading to be first to make the
crossing,
stretching out their hands in longing for the far
shore.
But the dismal boatman accepts now these, now those,
but driving others away, keeps them far from the sand.
Then Aeneas, stirred and astonished at the tumult,
said:
‘O virgin, tell me, what does this crowding to the
river mean?
What do the souls want? And by what criterion do these
leave
the bank, and those sweep off with the oars on the
leaden stream?
The ancient priestess spoke briefly to him, so:
‘Son of Anchises, true child of the gods, you see
the deep pools of Cocytus, and the Marsh of Styx,
by whose name the gods fear to swear falsely.
All this crowd, you see, were destitute and unburied:
that ferryman is Charon: those the waves carry were
buried:
he may not carry them from the fearful shore on the
harsh waters
before their bones are at rest in the earth. They roam
for a hundred years and flit around these shores: only
then
are they admitted, and revisit the pools they long
for.’
The son of Anchises halted, and checked his footsteps,
thinking deeply, and pitying their sad fate in his
heart.
He saw Leucaspis and Orontes, captain of the Lycian
fleet,
there, grieving and lacking honour in death, whom a
Southerly
overwhelmed, as they sailed together from Troy on the
windswept
waters, engulfing both the ship and crew in the waves.
BkVI:337-383
The Shade of Palinurus
Behold, there came the helmsman, Palinurus,
who fell from the stern on the Libyan passage,
flung into the midst of the waves, as he watched the
stars.
When Aeneas had recognised him with difficulty
sorrowing among the deep shadows, he spoke first,
saying:
‘What god tore you from us, Palinurus, and drowned you
mid-ocean? For in this one prophecy Apollo has misled
me,
he whom I never found false before, he said that you
would be safe
at sea and reach Ausonia’s shores. Is this the truth
of his promise?’
But he replied: ‘Phoebus’s tripod did not fail you,
Anchises,
my captain, nor did a god drown me in the deep.
By chance the helm was torn from me with violence,
as I clung there, on duty as ordered, steering our
course,
and I dragged it headlong with me. I swear by the
cruel sea
that I feared less for myself than for your ship,
lest robbed of its gear, and cleared of its helmsman,
it might founder among such surging waves.
The Southerly drove me violently through the vast seas
for three stormy nights: high on the crest of a wave,
in the fourth dawn, I could just make out Italy.
Gradually I swam to shore: grasped now at safety,
but as I caught at the sharp tips of the rocks,
weighed down
by my water-soaked clothes, the savage people
attacked me with knives, ignorantly thinking me a
prize.
Now the waves have me, and the winds roll me along the
shore.
Unconquered one, I beg you, by the sweet light and air
of heaven,
by your father, and your hopes in Iulus to come,
save me from this evil: either find Velia’s harbour
again
(for you can) and sprinkle earth on me, or if there is
some way,
if your divine mother shows you one (since you’d not
attempt to sail
such waters, and the Stygian marsh, without a god’s
will, I think)
then give this wretch your hand and take me with you
through the waves
that at least I might rest in some quiet place in
death.’
So he spoke, and the priestess began to reply like
this:
‘Where does this dire longing of yours come from, O
Palinurus?
Can you see the Stygian waters, unburied, or the grim
river of the Furies, Cocytus, or come unasked to the
shore?
Cease to hope that divine fate can be tempered by
prayer.
But hold my words in your memory, as a comfort in your
hardship:
the nearby peoples, from cities far and wide, will be
moved
by divine omens to worship your bones, and build a
tomb,
and send offerings to the tomb, and the place will
have
Palinurus as its everlasting name.’ His anxiety was
quelled
by her words, and, for a little while, grief was
banished
from his sad heart: he delighted in the land being so
named.
BkVI:384-416
Charon the Ferryman
So they pursued their former journey, and drew near
the river.
Now when the Boatman saw them from the Stygian wave
walking through the silent wood, and directing their
footsteps
towards its bank, he attacked them verbally, first,
and unprompted,
rebuking them: ‘Whoever you are, who come armed to my
river,
tell me, from over there, why you’re here, and halt
your steps.
This is a place of shadows, of Sleep and drowsy Night:
I’m not allowed to carry living bodies in the Stygian
boat.
Truly it was no pleasure for me to take Hercules on
his journey
over the lake, nor Theseus and Pirithous, though they
may
have been children of gods, unrivalled in strength.
The first came for Cerberus the watchdog of Tartarus,
and dragged him away quivering from under the king’s
throne:
the others were after snatching our Queen from Dis’s
chamber.’
To this the prophetess of Amphrysian Apollo briefly
answered:
‘There’s no such trickery here (don’t be disturbed),
our weapons offer no affront: your huge guard-dog
can terrify the bloodless shades with his eternal
howling:
chaste Proserpine can keep to her uncle’s threshold.
Aeneas the Trojan, renowned in piety and warfare,
goes down to the deepest shadows of Erebus, to his
father.
If the idea of such affection does not move you, still
you
must recognise this bough.’ (She showed the branch,
hidden
in her robes.) Then the anger in his swollen breast
subsided.
No more was said. Marvelling at the revered offering,
of fateful twigs, seen again after so long, he turned
the stern
of the dark skiff towards them and neared the bank.
Then he turned off the other souls who sat on the long
benches,
cleared the gangways: and received mighty Aeneas
on board. The seamed skiff groaned with the weight
and let in quantities of marsh-water through the
chinks.
At last, the river crossed, he landed the prophetess
and the hero
safe, on the unstable mud, among the blue-grey sedge.
BkVI:417-439
Beyond the Acheron
Huge Cerberus sets these regions echoing with his
triple-throated
howling, crouching monstrously in a cave opposite.
Seeing the snakes rearing round his neck, the
prophetess
threw him a pellet, a soporific of honey and drugged
wheat.
Opening his three throats, in rabid hunger, he seized
what she threw and, flexing his massive spine, sank to
earth
spreading his giant bulk over the whole cave-floor.
With the guard unconscious Aeneas won to the entrance,
and quickly escaped the bank of the river of no
return.
Immediately a loud crying of voices was heard, the
spirits
of weeping infants, whom a dark day stole at the first
threshold of this sweet life, those chosen to be torn
from the breast, and drowned in bitter death.
Nearby are those condemned to die on false charges.
Yet their place is not ordained without the allotted
jury:
Minos, the judge, shakes the urn: he convenes the
voiceless court,
and hears their lives and sins. Then the next place
is held by those gloomy spirits who, innocent of
crime,
died by their own hand, and, hating the light, threw
away
their lives. How willingly now they’d endure
poverty and harsh suffering, in the air above!
Divine Law prevents it, and the sad marsh and its
hateful
waters binds them, and nine-fold Styx confines them.
BkVI:440-476
The Shade of Dido
Not far from there the Fields of Mourning are
revealed,
spread out on all sides: so they name them.
There, those whom harsh love devours with cruel pining
are concealed in secret walkways, encircled by a
myrtle grove:
even in death their troubles do not leave them.
Here Aeneas saw Phaedra, and Procris, and sad
Eriphyle,
displaying the wounds made by her cruel son,
Evadne, and Pasiphae: with them walked Laodamia,
and Caeneus, now a woman, once a young man,
returned by her fate to her own form again.
Among them Phoenician Dido wandered, in the great
wood,
her wound still fresh. As soon as the Trojan hero
stood near her
and knew her, shadowy among the shadows, like a man
who sees,
or thinks he sees, the new moon rising through a
cloud, as its month
begins, he wept tears and spoke to her with tender
affection:
‘Dido, unhappy spirit, was the news, that came to me
of your death, true then, taking your life with a
blade?
Alas, was I the cause of your dying? I swear by the
stars,
by the gods above, by whatever truth may be in the
depths
of the earth, I left your shores unwillingly, my
queen.
I was commanded by gods, who drove me by their
decrees,
that now force me to go among the shades, through
places
thorny with neglect, and deepest night: nor did I
think
my leaving there would ever bring such grief to you.
Halt your footsteps and do not take yourself from my
sight.
What do you flee? This is the last speech with you
that fate allows.’
With such words Aeneas would have calmed
her fiery spirit and wild looks, and provoked her
tears.
She turned away, her eyes fixed on the ground,
no more altered in expression by the speech he had
begun
than if hard flint stood there, or a cliff of Parian
marble.
At the last she tore herself away, and, hostile to
him,
fled to the shadowy grove where Sychaeus, her husband
in former times, responded to her suffering, and gave
her
love for love. Aeneas, no less shaken by the injustice
of fate,
followed her, far off, with his tears, and pitied her
as she went.
BkVI:477-534
The Shade of Deiphobus
From there he laboured on the way that was granted
them.
And soon they reached the most distant fields,
the remote places where those famous in war
crowd together. Here Tydeus met him, Parthenopaeus
glorious in arms, and the pale form of Adrastus:
here were the Trojans, wept for deeply above, fallen
in war,
whom, seeing them all in their long ranks, he groaned
at,
Glaucus, Medon and Thersilochus, the three sons of
Antenor,
Polyboetes, the priest of Ceres, and Idaeus
still with his chariot, and his weapons.
The spirits stand there in crowds to left and right.
They are not satisfied with seeing him only once:
they delight in lingering on, walking beside him,
and learning the reason for his coming.
But the Greek princes and Agamemnon’s phalanxes,
trembled with great fear, when they saw the hero,
and his gleaming weapons, among the shades:
some turned to run, as they once sought their ships:
some raised
a faint cry, the noise they made belying their gaping
mouths.
And he saw Deiphobus there, Priam’s son, his whole
body
mutilated, his face brutally torn, his face and hands
both, the ears
ripped from his ruined head, his nostrils sheared by
an ugly wound.
Indeed Aeneas barely recognised the quivering form,
hiding its dire
punishment, even as he called to him, unprompted, in
familiar tones:
‘Deiphobus, powerful in war, born of Teucer’s noble
blood,
who chose to work such brutal punishment on you?
Who was allowed to treat you so? Rumour has it
that on that final night, wearied by endless killing
of Greeks,
you sank down on a pile of the slaughtered.
Then I set up an empty tomb on the Rhoetean shore,
and called on your spirit three times in a loud voice.
Your name and weapons watch over the site: I could not
see you, friend, to set you, as I left, in your native
soil.’
To this Priam’s son replied: ‘O my friend, you’ve
neglected
nothing: you’ve paid all that’s due to Deiophobus
and a dead man’s spirit. My own destiny,
and that Spartan woman’s deadly crime, drowned me
in these sorrows: she left me these memorials.
You know how we passed that last night in illusory
joy:
and you must remember it only too well.
When the fateful Horse came leaping the walls of Troy,
pregnant with the armed warriors it carried in its
womb,
she led the Trojan women about, wailing in dance,
aping the Bacchic rites: she held a huge torch in
their midst,
signalling to the Greeks from the heights of the
citadel.
I was then in our unlucky marriage-chamber, worn out
with care,
and heavy with sleep, a sweet deep slumber weighing on
me
as I lay there, the very semblance of peaceful death.
Meanwhile that illustrious wife of mine removed every
weapon
from the house, even stealing my faithful sword from
under my head:
she calls Menelaus into the house and throws open the
doors,
hoping I suppose it would prove a great gift for her
lover,
and in that way the infamy of her past sins might be
erased.
Why drag out the tale? They burst into the room, and
with them
Ulysses the Aeolid, their co-inciter to wickedness.
Gods, so repay
the Greeks, if these lips I pray for vengeance with
are virtuous.
But you, in turn, tell what fate has brought you here,
living.
Do you come here, driven by your wandering on the sea,
or exhorted by the gods? If not, what misfortune
torments you,
that you enter these sad sunless houses, this troubled
place?’
BkVI:535-627
The Sibyl Describes Tartarus
While they spoke Aurora and her rosy chariot had
passed
the zenith of her ethereal path, and they might
perhaps
have spent all the time allowed in such talk, but the
Sibyl,
his companion, warned him briefly saying:
‘Night approaches, Aeneas: we waste the hours with
weeping.
This is the place where the path splits itself in two:
there on the right is our road to Elysium, that runs
beneath
the walls of mighty Dis: but the left works punishment
on the wicked, and sends them on to godless Tartarus.’
Deiophobus replied: ‘Do not be angry, great priestess:
I will leave: I will make up the numbers, and return
to the darkness.
Go now glory of our race: enjoy a better fate.’
So he spoke, and in speaking turned away.
Aeneas suddenly looked back, and, below the left hand
cliff,
he saw wide battlements, surrounded by a triple wall,
and encircled by a swift river of red-hot flames,
the Tartarean Phlegethon, churning with echoing rocks.
A gate fronts it, vast, with pillars of solid steel,
that no human force, not the heavenly gods themselves,
can overturn by war: an iron tower rises into the air,
and seated before it, Tisiphone, clothed in a
blood-wet dress,
keeps guard of the doorway, sleeplessly, night and
day.
Groans came from there, and the cruel sound of the
lash,
then the clank of iron, and dragging chains.
Aeneas halted, and stood rooted, terrified by the
noise.
‘What evil is practised here? O Virgin, tell me: by
what torments
are they oppressed? Why are there such sounds in the
air?’
Then the prophetess began to speak as follows: ‘Famous
leader
of the Trojans, it is forbidden for the pure to cross
the evil threshold:
but when Hecate appointed me to the wood of Avernus,
she taught me the divine torments, and guided me
through them all.
Cretan Rhadamanthus rules this harshest of kingdoms,
and hears their guilt, extracts confessions, and
punishes
whoever has deferred atonement for their sins too long
till death, delighting in useless concealment, in the
world above.
Tisiphone the avenger, armed with her whip, leaps on
the guilty immediately, lashes them, and threatening them with the fierce
snakes in her left hand, calls to her savage troop of
sisters.
Then at last the accursed doors open, screeching on
jarring hinges.
You comprehend what guardian sits at the door, what
shape watches
the threshold? Well still fiercer is the monstrous
Hydra inside,
with her fifty black gaping jaws. There Tartarus
itself
falls sheer, and stretches down into the darkness:
twice as far as we gaze upwards to heavenly Olympus.
Here the Titanic race, the ancient sons of Earth,
hurled down by the lightning-bolt, writhe in the
depths.
And here I saw the two sons of Aloeus, giant forms,
who tried to tear down the heavens with their hands,
and topple Jupiter from his high kingdom.
And I saw Salmoneus paying a savage penalty
for imitating Jove’s lightning, and the Olympian
thunder.
Brandishing a torch, and drawn by four horses
he rode in triumph among the Greeks, through Elis’s
city,
claiming the gods’ honours as his own, a fool,
who mimicked the storm-clouds and the inimitable
thunderbolt
with bronze cymbals and the sound of horses’
hoof-beats.
But the all-powerful father hurled his lighting from
dense cloud,
not for him fiery torches, or pine-branches’ smoky
light
and drove him headlong with the mighty whirlwind.
And Tityus was to be seen as well, the foster-child
of Earth, our universal mother, whose body stretches
over nine acres, and a great vulture with hooked beak
feeds on his indestructible liver, and his entrails
ripe
for punishment, lodged deep inside the chest, groping
for his feast, no respite given to the ever-renewing
tissue.
Shall I speak of the Lapiths, Ixion, Pirithous,
over whom hangs a dark crag that seems to slip and
fall?
High couches for their feast gleam with golden frames,
and a banquet of royal luxury is spread before their
eyes:
nearby the eldest Fury, crouching, prevents their
fingers touching
the table: rising up, and brandishing her torch, with
a voice of thunder.
Here are those who hated their brothers, in life,
or struck a parent, or contrived to defraud a client,
or who crouched alone over the riches they’d made,
without setting any aside for their kin (their crowd
is largest),
those who were killed for adultery, or pursued civil
war,
not fearing to break their pledges to their masters:
shut in they see their punishment. Don’t ask to know
that punishment, or what kind of suffering drowns
them.
Some roll huge stones, or hang spread-eagled
on wheel-spokes: wretched Theseus sits still, and will
sit
for eternity: Phlegyas, the most unfortunate, warns
them all
and bears witness in a loud voice among the shades:
“Learn justice: be warned, and don’t despise the
gods.”
Here’s one who sold his country for gold, and set up
a despotic lord: this one made law and remade it for a
price:
he entered his daughter’s bed and a forbidden
marriage:
all of them dared monstrous sin, and did what they
dared.
Not if I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths,
a voice of iron, could I tell all the forms of
wickedness
or spell out the names of every torment.’
BkVI:628-678
The Fields of Elysium
When she had spoken of this, the aged priestess of
Apollo said:
‘But come now, travel the road, and complete the task
set for you:
let us hurry, I see the battlements that were forged
in the Cyclopean fires, and the gates in the arch
opposite us
where we are told to set down the gifts as ordered.’
She spoke and keeping step they hastened along the
dark path
crossing the space between and arriving near the
doors.
Aeneas gained the entrance, sprinkled fresh water
over his body, and set up the branch on the threshold
before him.
Having at last achieved this, the goddess’s task
fulfilled,
they came to the pleasant places, the delightful
grassy turf
of the Fortunate Groves, and the homes of the blessed.
Here freer air and radiant light clothe the plain,
and these have their own sun, and their own stars.
Some exercise their bodies in a grassy gymnasium,
compete in sports and wrestle on the yellow sand:
others tread out the steps of a dance, and sing songs.
There Orpheus too, the long-robed priest of Thrace,
accompanies their voices with the seven-note scale,
playing now with fingers, now with the ivory quill.
Here are Teucer’s ancient people, loveliest of
children,
great-hearted heroes, born in happier years,
Ilus, Assaracus, and Dardanus founder of Troy.
Aeneas marvels from a distance at their idle chariots
and their weapons: their spears fixed in the ground,
and their horses scattered freely browsing over the
plain:
the pleasure they took in chariots and armour while
alive,
the care in tending shining horses, follows them below
the earth.
Look, he sees others on the grass to right and left,
feasting,
and singing a joyful paean in chorus, among the
fragrant
groves of laurel, out of which the Eridanus’s broad
river
flows through the woodlands to the world above.
Here is the company of those who suffered wounds
fighting
for their country: and those who were pure priests,
while they lived,
and those who were faithful poets, singers worthy of
Apollo,
and those who improved life, with discoveries in Art
or Science,
and those who by merit caused others to remember them:
the brows of all these were bound with white
headbands.
As they crowded round, the Sibyl addressed them,
Musaeus above all: since he holds the centre of the
vast crowd,
all looking up to him, his tall shoulders towering
above:
‘Blessed spirits, and you, greatest of Poets,
say what region or place contains Anchises. We have
come here, crossing the great rivers of Erebus, for
him.’
And the hero replied to her briefly in these words:
‘None of us have a fixed abode: we live in the shadowy
woods,
and make couches of river-banks, and inhabit fresh-water
meadows.
But climb this ridge, if your hearts-wish so inclines,
and I will soon set you on an easy path.’
He spoke and went on before them, and showed them
the bright plains below: then they left the mountain
heights.
BkVI:679-702
The Meeting with Anchises
But deep in a green valley his father Anchises
was surveying the spirits enclosed there, destined
for the light above, thinking carefully, and was
reviewing
as it chanced the numbers of his own folk, his dear
grandsons,
and their fate and fortunes as men, and their ways and
works.
And when he saw Aeneas heading towards him over the
grass
he stretched out both his hands eagerly, his face
streaming with tears, and a cry issued from his lips:
‘Have you come at last, and has the loyalty your father
expected
conquered the harsh road? Is it granted me to see your
face,
my son, and hear and speak in familiar tones?
I calculated it in my mind, and thought it would be
so,
counting off the hours, nor has my trouble failed me.
From travel over what lands and seas, do I receive
you!
What dangers have hurled you about, my son!
How I feared the realms of Libya might harm you!’
He answered: ‘Father, your image, yours, appearing to
me
so often, drove me to reach this threshold:
My ships ride the Etruscan waves. Father, let me clasp
your hand, let me, and do not draw away from my
embrace.’
So speaking, his face was also drowned in a flood of
tears.
Three times he tries to throw his arms round his
father’s neck,
three times, clasped in vain, that semblance slips
though his hands,
like the light breeze, most of all like a winged
dream.
BkVI:703-723
The Souls Due for Re-birth
And now Aeneas saw a secluded grove
in a receding valley, with rustling woodland thickets,
and the river of Lethe gliding past those peaceful
places.
Innumerable tribes and peoples hovered round it:
just as, in the meadows, on a cloudless summer’s day,
the bees settle on the multifarious flowers, and
stream
round the bright lilies, and all the fields hum with their
buzzing.
Aeneas was thrilled by the sudden sight, and, in
ignorance,
asked the cause: what the river is in the distance,
who the men are crowding the banks in such numbers.
Then his father Anchises answered: ‘They are spirits,
owed a second body by destiny, and they drink
the happy waters, and a last forgetting, at Lethe’s
stream.
Indeed, for a long time I’ve wished to tell you of
them,
and show you them face to face, to enumerate my
children’s
descendants, so you might joy with me more at finding
Italy.’
‘O father, is it to be thought that any spirits go
from here
to the sky above, returning again to dull matter?’
‘Indeed I’ll tell you, son, not keep you in doubt,’
Anchises answered, and revealed each thing in order.
BkVI:724-751
The Transmigration of Souls
‘Firstly, a spirit within them nourishes the sky and
earth,
the watery plains, the shining orb of the moon,
and Titan’s star, and Mind, flowing through matter,
vivifies the whole mass, and mingles with its vast
frame.
From it come the species of man and beast, and winged
lives,
and the monsters the sea contains beneath its marbled
waves.
The power of those seeds is fiery, and their origin
divine,
so long as harmful matter doesn’t impede them
and terrestrial bodies and mortal limbs don’t dull
them.
Through those they fear and desire, and grieve and
joy,
and enclosed in night and a dark dungeon, can’t see
the light.
Why, when life leaves them at the final hour,
still all of the evil, all the plagues of the flesh,
alas,
have not completely vanished, and many things, long
hardened
deep within, must of necessity be ingrained, in
strange ways.
So they are scourged by torments, and pay the price
for former sins: some are hung, stretched out,
to the hollow winds, the taint of wickedness is
cleansed
for others in vast gulfs, or burned away with fire:
each spirit suffers its own: then we are sent
through wide Elysium, and we few stay in the joyous
fields,
for a length of days, till the cycle of time,
complete, removes the hardened stain, and leaves
pure ethereal thought, and the brightness of natural
air.
All these others the god calls in a great crowd to the
river Lethe,
after they have turned the wheel for a thousand years,
so that, truly forgetting, they can revisit the vault
above,
and begin with a desire to return to the flesh.’
BkVI:752-776
The Future Race – The Alban Kings
Anchises had spoken, and he drew the Sibyl and his
son, both
together, into the middle of the gathering and the
murmuring crowd,
and chose a hill from which he could see all the long
ranks
opposite, and watch their faces as they came by him.
‘Come, I will now explain what glory will pursue the
children
of Dardanus, what descendants await you of the Italian
race,
illustrious spirits to march onwards in our name, and
I will teach
you your destiny. See that boy, who leans on a
headless spear,
he is fated to hold a place nearest the light, first
to rise
to the upper air, sharing Italian blood, Silvius, of
Alban name,
your last-born son, who your wife Lavinia, late in
your old age,
will give birth to in the wood, a king and the father
of kings,
through whom our race will rule in Alba Longa.
Next to him is Procas, glory of the Trojan people,
and Capys and Numitor, and he who’ll revive your name,
Silvius Aeneas, outstanding like you in virtue and
arms,
if he might at last achieve the Alban throne.
What men! See what authority they display,
their foreheads shaded by the civic oak-leaf crown!
They will build Nomentum, Gabii, and Fidenae’s city:
Collatia’s fortress in the hills, Pometii
and the Fort of Inus, and Bola, and Cora.
Those will be names that are now nameless land.
BkVI:777-807
The Future Race – Romulus and the Caesars
Yes, and a child of Mars will join his grandfather to
accompany him,
Romulus, whom his mother Ilia will bear, of
Assaracus’s line.
See how Mars’s twin plumes stand on his crest, and his
father
marks him out for the world above with his own
emblems?
Behold, my son, under his command glorious Rome
will match earth’s power and heaven’s will, and
encircle
seven hills with a single wall, happy in her race of
men:
as Cybele, the Berecynthian ‘Great Mother’, crowned
with turrets, rides through the Phrygian cities,
delighting
in her divine children, clasping a hundred descendants,
all gods, all dwelling in the heights above.
Now direct your eyes here, gaze at this people,
your own Romans. Here is Caesar, and all the offspring
of Iulus destined to live under the pole of heaven.
This is the man, this is him, whom you so often hear
promised you, Augustus Caesar, son of the Deified,
who will make a Golden Age again in the fields
where Saturn once reigned, and extend the empire
beyond
the Libyans and the Indians (to a land that lies
outside the zodiac’s belt,
beyond the sun’s ecliptic and the year’s, where
sky-carrying Atlas
turns the sphere, inset with gleaming stars, on his
shoulders):
Even now the Caspian realms, and Maeotian earth,
tremble at divine prophecies of his coming, and
the restless mouths of the seven-branched Nile are
troubled.
Truly, Hercules never crossed so much of the earth,
though he shot the bronze-footed Arcadian deer,
brought peace
to the woods of Erymanthus, made Lerna tremble at his
bow:
nor did Bacchus, who steers his chariot, in triumph,
with reins
made of vines, guiding his tigers down from Nysa’s
high peak.
Do we really hesitate still to extend our power by our
actions,
and does fear prevent us settling the Italian lands?
BkVI:808-853
The Future Race – Republic and Beyond
Who is he, though, over there, distinguished by his
olive branches,
carrying offerings? I know the hair and the
white-bearded chin
of a king of Rome, Numa, called to supreme authority
from little Cures’s poverty-stricken earth, who will
secure
our first city under the rule of law. Then Tullus
will succeed him who will shatter the country’s peace,
and call to arms sedentary men, ranks now unused to
triumphs.
The over-boastful Ancus follows him closely,
delighting too much even now in the people’s opinion.
Will you look too at Tarquin’s dynasty, and the proud
spirit
of Brutus the avenger, the rods of office reclaimed?
He’ll be the first to win a consul’s powers and the
savage axes,
and when the sons foment a new civil war, the father
will call them to account, for lovely freedom’s sake:
ah, to be pitied, whatever posterity says of his
actions:
his love of country will prevail, and great appetite
for glory.
Ah, see over there, the Decii and Drusi, and Torquatus
brutal with the axe, and Camillus rescuing the
standards.
But those others, you can discern, shining in matching
armour,
souls in harmony now, while they are cloaked in
darkness,
ah, if they reach the light of the living, what civil
war
what battle and slaughter, they’ll cause, Julius
Caesar,
the father-in-law, down from the Alpine ramparts, from
the fortress
of Monoecus: Pompey, the son-in-law, opposing with
Eastern forces.
My sons, don’t inure your spirits to such wars,
never turn the powerful forces of your country on
itself:
You be the first to halt, you, who derive your race
from heaven:
hurl the sword from your hand, who are of my blood!
There’s Mummius: triumphing over Corinth, he’ll drive
his chariot,
victorious, to the high Capitol, famed for the Greeks
he’s killed:
and Aemilius Paulus, who, avenging his Trojan
ancestors, and Minerva’s
desecrated shrine, will destroy Agamemnon’s Mycenae,
and Argos,
and Perseus the Aeacid himself, descendant of
war-mighty Achilles.
Who would pass over you in silence, great Cato, or you
Cossus,
or the Gracchus’s race, or the two Scipios, war’s
lightning bolts,
the scourges of Libya, or you Fabricius, powerful in
poverty,
or you, Regulus Serranus, sowing your furrow with
seed?
Fabii, where do you hurry my weary steps? You, Fabius
Maximus, the Delayer, are he who alone renew our
State.
Others (I can well believe) will hammer out bronze
that breathes
with more delicacy than us, draw out living features
from the marble: plead their causes better, trace with
instruments
the movement of the skies, and tell the rising of the
constellations:
remember, Roman, it is for you to rule the nations
with your power,
(that will be your skill) to crown peace with law,
to spare the conquered, and subdue the proud.’
BkVI:854-885
The Future Race – Marcellus
So father Anchises spoke, and while they marvelled,
added:
‘See, how Claudius Marcellus, distinguished by the
Supreme Prize,
comes forward, and towers, victorious, over other men.
As a knight, he’ll support the Roman State, turbulent
with fierce confusion, strike the Cathaginians and
rebellious Gauls,
and dedicate captured weapons, a third time, to father
Quirinus.’
And, at this, Aeneas said (since he saw a youth of
outstanding
beauty with shining armour, walking with Marcellus,
but his face lacking in joy, and his eyes downcast):
‘Father, who is this who accompanies him on his way?
His son: or another of his long line of descendants?
What murmuring round them! What presence he has!
But dark night, with its sad shadows, hovers round his
head.’
Then his father Aeneas, with welling tears, replied:
‘O, do not ask about your people’s great sorrow, my
son.
The Fates will only show him to the world, not allow
him
to stay longer. The Roman people would seem
too powerful to you gods, if this gift were lasting.
What mourning from mankind that Field of Mars will
deliver to the mighty city! And what funeral
processions
you, Tiber, will see, as you glide past his new-made
tomb!
No boy of the line of Ilius shall so exalt his Latin
ancestors by his show of promise, nor will Romulus’s
land ever take more pride in one of its sons.
Alas for virtue, alas for the honour of ancient times,
and a hand invincible in war! No one might have
attacked him
safely when armed, whether he met the enemy on foot,
or dug his spurs into the flank of his foaming
charger.
Ah, boy to be pitied, if only you may shatter harsh
fate,
you’ll be a Marcellus! Give me handfuls of white
lilies,
let me scatter radiant flowers, let me load my scion’s
spirit
with those gifts at least, in discharging that poor
duty.’
BkVI:886-901
The Gates of Sleep
So they wander here and there through the whole
region,
over the wide airy plain, and gaze at everything.
And when Anchises has led his son through each place,
and inflamed his spirit with love of the glory that is
to come,
he tells him then of the wars he must soon fight,
and teaches him about the Laurentine peoples,
and the city of Latinus, and how to avoid or face each
trial.
There are two gates of Sleep: one of which is said to
be of horn,
through which an easy passage is given to true shades,
the other
gleams with the whiteness of polished ivory, but
through it
the Gods of the Dead send false dreams to the world
above.
After his words, Anchises accompanies his son there,
and,
frees him, together with the Sibyl, through the ivory
gate.
Aeneas makes his way to the ships and rejoins his
friends:
then coasts straight to Caieta’s harbour along the
shore.
The anchors are thrown from the prows: on the shore
the sterns rest.
BkVII:1-36
The Trojans Reach the Tiber
Caieta, Aeneas’s nurse, you too have granted
eternal fame to our shores in dying:
tributes still protect your grave, and your name
marks your bones in great Hesperia, if that is glory.
Now, as soon as the open sea was calm, having paid
the last rites due to custom, and raised a funeral
mound,
Aeneas the good left the harbour and sailed on his
way.
The breezes blew through the night, and a radiant moon
was no
inhibitor to their voyage, the sea gleaming in the
tremulous light.
The next shores they touched were Circe’s lands,
where that rich daughter of the sun makes the hidden
groves
echo with continual chanting, and burns fragrant cedar
for nocturnal light in her proud palace, as she sets
her melodious shuttle running through the fine warp.
From there the angry roar of lions could be heard,
chafing at their ropes, and sounding late into the
night,
and the rage of bristling wild-boars, and caged bears,
and the howling shapes of huge wolves,
whom Circe, cruel goddess, had altered from human
appearance
to the features and forms of creatures, using powerful
herbs.
But Neptune filled their sails with following winds,
so that
Troy’s virtuous race should not suffer so monstrous a
fate
entering the harbour, and disembarking on that fatal
shore,
and carried them past the boiling shallows, granting
them escape.
Now the sea was reddening with the sun’s rays, and
saffron Aurora
in her rose-coloured chariot, shone from the heights
of heaven,
when the winds dropped and every breeze suddenly fell
away,
and the oars laboured slowly in the water. At this
moment,
gazing from the sea, Aeneas saw a vast forest. Through
it
the Tiber’s lovely river, with swirling eddies full of
golden sand,
bursts to the ocean. Countless birds, around and
above,
that haunt the banks and streams, were delighting
the heavens with their song and flying through the
groves.
He ordered his friends to change course and turn their
prows
towards land, and joyfully entered the shaded river.
BkVII:37-106
King Latinus and the Oracle
Come now, Erato, and I’ll tell of the kings, the
times,
the state of ancient Latium, when that foreign
troop first landed on Ausonia’s shores, and I’ll
recall
the first fighting from its very beginning. You
goddess,
you must prompt your poet. I’ll tell of brutal war,
I’ll tell of battle action, and princes driven to
death
by their courage, of Trojan armies, and all of
Hesperia
forced to take up arms. A greater order of things
is being born, greater is the work that I attempt.
King Latinus, now old in years, ruled fields
and towns, in the tranquillity of lasting peace.
We hear he was the child of Faunus and the Laurentine
nymph, Marica. Faunus’s father was Pictus, and he
boasts
you, Saturn, as his, you the first founder of the
line.
By divine decree, Latinus had no male heir, his son
having been snatched from him in the dawn of first
youth.
There was only a daughter to keep house in so noble a
palace,
now ready for a husband, now old enough to be a bride.
Many sought her hand, from wide Latium and all
Ausonia,
Turnus above all, the most handsome, of powerful
ancestry,
whom the queen hastened to link to her as her
son-in-law
with wonderful affection. But divine omens, with their
many
terrors, prevented it. There was a laurel, with sacred
leaves,
in the high inner court in the middle of the palace,
that had been guarded with reverence for many years.
It was said that Lord Latinus himself had discovered
it,
when he first built his fortress, and dedicated it to
Apollo,
and from it had named the settlers Laurentines.
A dense cloud of bees (marvellous to tell) borne
through the clear air, with a mighty humming,
settled in the very top of the tree, and hung there,
their feet all tangled together, in a sudden swarm.
Immediately the prophet cried: ‘I see a foreign hero,
approaching, and, from a like direction, an army
seeks this same place, to rule from the high citadel.’
Then as he lit the altars with fresh pine torches,
as virgin Lavinia stood there next to her father
she seemed (horror!) to catch the fire in her long
tresses,
and all her finery to burn in crackling flame, her
royally
dressed tresses set alight, her crown alight,
remarkable
for its jewels: then wreathed in smoke and yellow
light,
she seemed to scatter sparks through all the palace.
Truly it was talked of as a shocking and miraculous
sight:
for they foretold she would be bright with fame and
fortune,
but it signified a great war for her people.
Then the king, troubled by the wonder, visited the
oracle
of Faunus, his far-speaking father, and consulted the
groves
below high Albunea, mightiest of forests, that echoed
with the sacred fountain, and breathed a deadly vapour
from the dark.
The people of Italy, and all the Oenotrian lands,
sought answers
to their doubts, from that place: when the priest
brought
offerings there, and, found sleep, in the silent
night, lying
on spread fleeces of sacrificed sheep, he saw there
many ghosts
flitting in marvellous forms, and heard various
voices, had speech
with the gods, and talked with Acheron, in the depths
of Avernus.
And here the king, Latinus, himself seeking an answer,
slaughtered a hundred woolly sheep according to the
rite,
and lay there supported by their skins and woolly
fleeces:
Suddenly a voice emerged from the deep wood:
‘O my son, don’t try to ally your daughter in a Latin
marriage,
don’t place your faith in the intended wedding:
strangers will come to be your kin, who’ll lift our
name
to the stars by their blood, and the children
of whose race shall see all, where the circling sun
views both oceans, turning obediently beneath their
feet.’
Latinus failed to keep this reply of his Father’s
quiet,
this warning given in the silent night, and already
Rumour flying far and wide had carried it through
the Ausonian cities, when the children of Laomedon
came to moor their ships by the river’s grassy banks.
BkVII:107-147
Fulfilment of A Prophecy
Aeneas, handsome Iulus, and the foremost leaders,
settled their limbs under the branches of a tall tree,
and spread a meal: they set wheat cakes for a base
under the food (as Jupiter himself inspired them)
and added wild fruits to these tables of Ceres.
When the poor fare drove them to set their teeth
into the thin discs, the rest being eaten, and to
break
the fateful circles of bread boldly with hands and
jaws,
not sparing the quartered cakes, Iulus, jokingly,
said no more than: ‘Ha! Are we eating the tables too?’
That voice on first being heard brought them to the
end
of their labours, and his father, as the words fell
from the speaker’s lips, caught them up
and stopped him, awestruck at the divine will.
Immediately he said: ‘Hail, land destined to me
by fate, and hail to you, O faithful gods of Troy:
here is our home, here is our country. For my father
Anchises (now I remember) left this secret of fate
with me:
‘Son, when you’re carried to an unknown shore, food is
lacking,
and you’re forced to eat the tables, then look for a
home
in your weariness: and remember first thing to set
your hand
on a site there, and build your houses behind a
rampart.’
This was the hunger he prophesied, the last thing
remaining,
to set a limit to our ruin…come then,
and with the sun’s dawn light let’s cheerfully
discover
what place this is, what men live here, where this
people’s city is,
and let’s explore from the harbour in all directions.
Now pour libations to Jove and call, with prayer,
on my father Anchises, then set out the wine once
more.
So saying he wreathed his forehead with a leafy spray,
and prayed to the spirit of the place, and to Earth
the oldest
of goddesses, and to the Nymphs, and the yet unknown
rivers:
then he invoked Night and Night’s rising constellations,
and Idaean Jove, and the Phrygian Mother, in order,
and his two parents, one in heaven, one in Erebus.
At this the all-powerful Father thundered three times
from the clear sky, and revealed a cloud in the ether,
bright with rays of golden light, shaking it with his
own hand.
Then the word ran suddenly through the Trojan lines
that the day had come to found their destined city.
They rivalled each other in celebration of the feast,
and delighted
by the fine omen, set out the bowls and crowned the wine-cups.
BkVII:148-191
The Palace of Latinus
Next day when sunrise lit the earth with her first
flames,
they variously discovered the city, shores and limits
of this nation: here was the pool of Numicius’s
fountain,
this was the River Tiber, here the brave Latins lived.
Then Anchises’s son ordered a hundred envoys, chosen
from every rank, all veiled in Pallas’s olive leaves
to go to the king’s noble fortress, carrying gifts
for a hero, and requesting peace towards the Trojans.
Without delay, they hastened as ordered, travelling
at a swift pace. He himself marked out walls with a
shallow ditch,
toiled at the site, and surrounded the first
settlement on those shores
with a rampart and battlement, in the style of a
fortified camp.
And now his men had pursued their journey and they saw
Latinus’s turrets and high roofs, and arrived beneath
the walls.
Boys, and men in the flower of youth, were practising
horsemanship outside the city, breaking in their
mounts
in clouds of dust, or bending taut bows, or hurling
firm spears
with their arms, challenging each other to race or
box:
when a messenger, racing ahead on his horse, reported
to the ears of the aged king that powerful warriors in
unknown
dress had arrived. The king ordered them to be
summoned
to the palace, and took his seat, in the centre, on
his ancestral throne.
Huge and magnificent, raised on a hundred columns,
his roof was the city’s summit, the palace of
Laurentian Picus,
sanctified by its grove and the worship of
generations.
the fasces, the rods of office: this shrine was
their curia,
after lambs were sacrificed, sat down at an endless
line of tables.
There standing in ranks at the entrance were the
statues of ancestors
of old, in ancient cedar-wood, Italus, and father
Sabinus, the vine-grower,
depicted guarding a curved pruning-hook, and aged
Saturn,
and the image of Janus bi-face, and other kings from
the beginning,
and heroes wounded in battle, fighting for their
country.
Many weapons too hung on the sacred doorposts,
captive chariots, curved axes, helmet crests, the
massive bars
of city gates, spears, shields and the ends of prows
torn from ships.
There Picus, the Horse-Tamer, sat, holding the lituus,
the augur’s
Quirinal staff, and clothed in the trabea, the
purple-striped toga,
and carrying the ancile, the sacred shield, in
his left hand,
he, whom his lover, Circe, captivated by desire,
struck
with her golden rod: changed him with magic drugs
to a woodpecker, and speckled his wings with colour.
BkVII:192-248
The Trojans Seek Alliance With Latinus
Such was the temple of the gods in which Latinus,
seated
on the ancestral throne, called the Trojans to him in
the palace,
and as they entered spoke first, with a calm
expression:
‘Sons of Dardanus (for your city and people are not
unknown
to us, and we heard of your journey towards us on the
seas),
what do you wish? What reason, what need has brought
your ships to Ausonian shores, over so many azure
waves?
Whether you have entered the river mouth, and lie in
harbour,
after straying from your course, or driven here by
storms,
such things as sailors endure on the deep ocean,
don’t shun our hospitality, and don’t neglect the fact
that the Latins are Saturn’s people, just, not through
constraint or law,
but of our own free will, holding to the ways of the
ancient god.
And I remember in truth (though the tale is obscured
by time)
that the Auruncan elders told how Dardanus, sprung
from these shores, penetrated the cities of Phrygian
Ida,
and Thracian Samos, that is now called Samothrace.
Setting out from here, from his Etruscan home,
Corythus,
now the golden palace of the starlit sky grants him a
throne,
and he increases the number of divine altars.’
He finished speaking, and Ilioneus, following,
answered so:
‘King, illustrious son of Faunus, no dark tempest,
driving
us though the waves, forced us onto your shores,
no star or coastline deceived us in our course:
we travelled to this city by design, and with willing
hearts,
exiled from our kingdom, that was once the greatest
that the sun gazed on, as he travelled from the edge
of heaven.
The founder of our race is Jove, the sons of Dardanus
enjoy
Jove as their ancestor, our king himself is of Jove’s
high race:
Trojan, Aeneas, sends us to your threshold.
The fury of the storm that poured from fierce Mycenae,
and crossed the plains of Ida, and how the two worlds
of Europe
and Asia clashed, driven by fate, has been heard by
those whom
the most distant lands banish to where Ocean circles
back,
and those whom the zone of excessive heat, stretched
between the other four, separates from us.
Sailing out of that deluge, over many wastes of sea,
we ask a humble home for our country’s gods, and a
harmless
stretch of shore, and air and water accessible to all.
We’ll be no disgrace to the kingdom, nor will your
reputation
be spoken of lightly, nor gratitude for such an action
fade,
nor Ausonia regret taking Troy to her breast.
I swear by the destiny of Aeneas, and the power of his
right hand,
whether proven by any man in loyalty, or war and
weapons,
many are the peoples, many are the nations (do not
scorn us
because we offer peace-ribbons, and words of prayer,
unasked)
who themselves sought us and wished to join with us:
but through divine destiny we sought out your shores
to carry out its commands. Dardanus sprang from here,
Apollo recalls us to this place, and, with weighty
orders, drives us
to Tuscan Tiber, and the sacred waters of the Numician
fount.
Moreover our king offers you these small tokens of his
former fortune, relics snatched from burning Troy.
His father Anchises poured libations at the altar from
this gold,
this was Priam’s burden when by custom he made laws
for the assembled people, the sceptre, and sacred
turban,
and the clothes, laboured on by the daughters of
Ilium.’
BkVII:249-285
Latinus Offers Peace
At Ilioneus’s words Latinus kept his face set firmly
downward, fixed motionless towards the ground, moving
his eyes
alone intently. It is not the embroidered purple that
moves
the king nor Priam’s sceptre, so much as his dwelling
on his daughter’s marriage and her bridal-bed,
and he turns over in his mind old Faunus’s oracle:
this must be the man, from a foreign house, prophesied
by the fates as my son-in-law, and summoned to reign
with equal powers, whose descendants will be illustrious
in virtue, and whose might will take possession of all
the world.
At last he spoke, joyfully: ‘May the gods favour this
beginning,
and their prophecy. Trojan, what you wish shall be
granted.
I do not reject your gifts: you will not lack the
wealth
of fertile fields, or Troy’s wealth, while Latinus is
king.
Only, if Aeneas has such longing for us, if he is
eager
to join us in friendship and be called our ally, let
him come
himself and not be afraid of a friendly face: it will
be
part of the pact, to me, to have touched your leader’s
hand.
Now you in turn take my reply to the king:
I have a daughter whom the oracles from my father’s
shrine,
and many omens from heaven, will not allow to unite
with a husband of our race: sons will come from
foreign shores,
whose blood will raise our name to the stars: this
they prophesy
is in store for Latium,. I both think and, if my mind
foresees
the truth, I hope that this is the man destiny
demands.’
So saying the king selected stallions from his whole
stable
(three hundred stood there sleekly in their high
stalls):
immediately he ordered one to be led to each Trojan by
rank,
caparisoned in purple, swift-footed, with embroidered
housings
(gold collars hung low over their chests, covered in
gold,
they even champed bits of yellow gold between their
teeth),
and for the absent Aeneas there was a chariot, with
twin horses,
of heaven’s line, blowing fire from their nostrils,
bastards of that breed of her father’s, the Sun, that
cunning
Circe had produced, by mating them with a mortal mare.
The sons of Aeneas, mounting the horses, rode back
with these words and gifts of Latinus, bearing peace.
BkVII:286-341
Juno Summons Allecto
But behold, the ferocious wife of Jove returning
from Inachus’s Argos, winging her airy way,
saw the delighted Aeneas and his Trojan fleet,
from the distant sky, beyond Sicilian Pachynus.
She gazed at them, already building houses, already
confident
in their land, the ships deserted: she halted pierced
by a bitter pang.
Then shaking her head, she poured these words from her
breast:
‘Ah loathsome tribe, and Trojan destiny, opposed to my
own destiny! Could they not have fallen on the Sigean
plains,
could they not have been held as captives? Could
burning Troy
not have consumed these men? They find a way through
the heart of armies and flames. And I think my powers
must
be exhausted at last, or I have come to rest, my anger
sated.
Why, when they were thrown out of their country I
ventured
to follow hotly through the waves, and challenge them
on every ocean.
The forces of sea and sky have been wasted on these
Trojans.
What use have the Syrtes been to me, or Scylla, or
gaping
Charybdis? They take refuge in their longed-for
Tiber’s channel,
indifferent to the sea and to me. Mars had the power
to destroy the Lapiths’ vast race, the father of the
gods himself
conceded ancient Calydon, given Diana’s anger,
and for what sin did the Lapiths or Calydon, deserve
all that?
But I, Jove’s great Queen, who in my wretchedness had the
power
to leave nothing untried, who have turned myself to
every means,
am conquered by Aeneas. But if my divine strength is
not
enough, I won’t hesitate to seek help wherever it
might be:
if I cannot sway the gods, I’ll stir the Acheron.
I accept it’s not granted to me to withhold the Latin
kingdom,
and by destiny Lavinia will still, unalterably, be his
bride:
but I can draw such things out and add delays,
and I can destroy the people of these two kings.
Let father and son-in-law unite at the cost of their
nations’ lives:
virgin, your dowry will be Rutulian and Trojan blood,
and Bellona, the goddess of war, waits to attend your
marriage.
Nor was it Hecuba, Cisseus’s daughter, alone who was
pregnant
with a fire-brand, or gave birth to nuptial flames.
Why, Venus is alike in her child, another Paris,
another funeral torch for a resurrected Troy.’
When she had spoken these words, fearsome, she sought
the earth:
and summoned Allecto, the grief-bringer, from the
house
of the Fatal Furies, from the infernal shadows: in
whose
mind are sad wars, angers and deceits, and guilty
crimes.
A monster, hated by her own father Pluto, hateful
to her Tartarean sisters: she assumes so many forms,
her features are so savage, she sports so many black
vipers.
Juno roused her with these words, saying:
‘Grant me a favour of my own, virgin daughter of
Night,
this service, so that my honour and glory are not
weakened,
and give way, and the people of Aeneas cannot woo
Latinus with intermarriage, or fill the bounds of
Italy.
You’ve the power to rouse brothers, who are one, to
conflict,
and overturn homes with hatred: you bring the scourge
and the funeral torch into the house: you’ve a
thousand names,
and a thousand noxious arts. Search your fertile
breast,
shatter the peace accord, sow accusations of war:
let men in a moment need, demand and seize their
weapons.’
BkVII:341-405
Allecto Maddens Queen Amata
So Allecto, steeped in the Gorgon’s poison, first
searches out
Latium and the high halls of the Laurentine king,
and sits at the silent threshold of Queen Amata, whom
concerns and angers have troubled, with a woman’s
passion,
concerning the Trojan’s arrival, and Turnus’s
marriage.
The goddess flings a snake at her from her dark locks,
and plunges it into the breast, to her innermost
heart, so that
maddened by the creature, she might trouble the whole
palace.
Sliding between her clothing, and her polished breast,
it winds itself unfelt and unknown to the frenzied
woman,
breathing its viperous breath: the powerful snake
becomes her
twisted necklace of gold, becomes the loop of her long
ribbon,
knots itself in her hair, and roves slithering down
her limbs.
And while at first the sickness, sinking within as
liquid venom,
pervades her senses, and clasps her bones with fire,
and before her mind has felt the flame through all its
thoughts,
she speaks, softly, and in a mother’s usual manner,
weeping greatly over the marriage of her daughter to
the Trojan:
‘O, have you her father no pity for your daughter or
yourself?
Have you no pity for her mother, when the faithless
seducer
will leave with the first north-wind, seeking the
deep, with the girl
as prize? Wasn’t it so when Paris, that Phrygian
shepherd,
entered Sparta, and snatched Leda’s Helen off to the
Trojan cities?
What of your sacred pledge? What of your former care
for your own
people, and your right hand given so often to your
kinsman Turnus?
If a son-in-law from a foreign tribe is sought for the
Latins,
and it’s settled, and your father Faunus’s command
weighs on you,
then I myself think that every land free of our rule
that is distant, is foreign: and so the gods declare.
And if the first origins of his house are traced,
Inachus
and Acrisius are ancestors of Turnus, and Mycenae his
heartland.’
When, though trying in vain with words, she sees
Latinus
stand firm against her, and when the snake’s maddening
venom
has seeped deep into her flesh, and permeated
throughout,
then, truly, the unhappy queen, goaded by monstrous
horrors,
rages madly unrestrainedly through the vast city.
As a spinning-top, sometimes, that boys intent on play
thrash
in a circle round an empty courtyard, turns under the
whirling lash,
- driven with the whip it moves in curving tracks: and
the childish crowd
marvel over it in innocence, gazing at the twirling
boxwood:
and the blows grant it life: so she is driven through
the heart
of cities and proud peoples, on a course that is no
less swift.
Moreover, she runs to the woods, pretending Bacchic
possession,
setting out on a greater sin, and creating a wider
frenzy,
and hides her daughter among the leafy mountains,
to rob the Trojans of their wedding and delay the
nuptials,
shrieking ‘Euhoe’ to Bacchus, crying ‘You alone
are worthy
of this virgin: it’s for you in truth she lifts the
soft thyrsus,
you she circles in the dance, for you she grows her
sacred hair.’
Rumour travels: and the same frenzy drives all the
women,
inflamed, with madness in their hearts, to seek
strange shelter.
They leave their homes, and bare their head and neck
to the winds:
while others are already filling the air with vibrant
howling
carrying vine-wrapped spears, and clothed in
fawn-skins.
The wild Queen herself brandishes a blazing
pine-branch
in their midst, turning her bloodshot gaze on them,
and sings
the wedding-song for Turnus and her daughter, and,
suddenly
fierce, cries out: ‘O, women of Latium, wherever you
are, hear me:
if you still have regard for unhappy Amata in your pious hearts,
if you’re stung with concern for a mother’s rights,
loose the ties from your hair, join the rites with
me.’
So Allecto drives the Queen with Bacchic goad, far and
wide,
through the woods, among the wild creatures’ lairs.
BkVII:406-474
Allecto Rouses Turnus
When she saw she had stirred these first frenzies
enough,
and had disturbed Latinus’s plans, and his whole
household,
the grim goddess was carried from there, at once, on
dark wings,
to the walls of Turnus, the brave Rutulian, the city
they say
that Danae, blown there by a violent southerly, built
with her Acrisian colonists. The place was once called
Ardea
by our ancestors, and Ardea still remains as a great
name,
its good-fortune past. Here, in the dark of night,
Turnus was now in a deep sleep, in his high palace.
Allecto changed her fierce appearance and fearful
shape,
transformed her looks into those of an old woman,
furrowed her ominous brow with wrinkles, assumed
white hair and sacred ribbon, then twined an olive
spray there:
she became Calybe, Juno’s old servant, and priestess
of her temple,
and offered herself to the young man’s eyes with these
words:
‘Turnus, will you see all your efforts wasted in vain,
and your sceptre handed over to Trojan settlers?
The king denies you your bride and the dowry looked
for
by your race, and a stranger is sought as heir to the
throne.
Go then, be despised, offer yourself, un-thanked, to
danger:
go, cut down the Tuscan ranks, protect the Latins with
peace!
This that I now say to you, as you lie there in the
calm of night,
Saturn’s all-powerful daughter herself ordered me to
speak openly.
So rise, and ready your men, gladly, to arm and march
from the gates to the fields, and set fire to the
painted ships
anchored in our noble river, and the Trojan leaders
with them.
The vast power of the gods demands it. Let King
Latinus
himself feel it, unless he agrees to keep his word and
give you
your bride, and let him at last experience Turnus
armed.’
At this the warrior, mocking the priestess, opened his
mouth in turn:
‘The news that a fleet has entered Tiber’s waters
has not escaped my notice, as you think:
don’t imagine it’s so great a fear to me.
Nor is Queen Juno unmindful of me.
But you, O mother, old age, conquered by weakness
and devoid of truth, troubles with idle cares, and
mocks
a prophetess, amidst the wars of kings, with imaginary
terrors.
Your duty’s to guard the gods’ statues and their
temples:
men will make war and peace, by whom war’s to be
made.’
Allecto blazed with anger at these words.
And, as the young man spoke, a sudden tremor seized
his body,
and his eyes became fixed, the Fury hissed with so
many snakes,
such a form revealed itself: then turning her fiery
gaze on him,
she pushed him away as he hesitated, trying to say
more,
and raised up a pair of serpents amidst her hair,
and cracked her whip, and added this through rabid
lips:
‘See me, conquered by weakness, whom old age, devoid
of truth,
mocks with imaginary terrors amongst the wars of
kings.
Look on this: I am here from the house of the Fatal
Sisters,
and I bring war and death in my hand.’
So saying, she flung a burning branch at the youth,
and planted the brand, smoking with murky light, in
his chest.
An immense terror shattered his sleep, and sweat,
pouring
from his whole body drenched flesh and bone.
Frantic, he shouted for weapons, looked for weapons by
the bedside,
and through the palace: desire for the sword raged in
him,
and the accursed madness of war, anger above all:
as when burning sticks are heaped, with a fierce
crackling,
under the belly of a raging cauldron, and the depths
dance with the heat, the smoking mixture seethes
inside,
the water bubbles high with foam, the liquid can no
longer
contain itself, and dark vapour rises into the air.
So, violating the peace, he commanded his young
leaders
to march against King Latinus, and ordered the troops
to be readied,
to defend Italy, to drive the enemy from her borders:
his approach itself would be enough for both Trojans
and Latins.
When he gave the word, and called the gods to witness
his vows,
the Rutuli vied in urging each other to arm.
This man is moved by Turnus’s youth and outstanding
nobility
of form, that by his royal line, this one again by his
glorious deeds.
BkVII:475-539
Allecto Among the Trojans
While Turnus was rousing the Rutulians with fiery
courage,
Allecto hurled herself towards the Trojans, on Stygian
wings,
spying out, with fresh cunning, the place on the shore
where handsome Iulus was hunting wild beasts on foot
with nets.
Hades’s Virgin drove his hounds to sudden frenzy,
touching their muzzles with a familiar scent,
so that they eagerly chased down a stag: this was a
prime
cause of trouble, rousing the spirits of the
countrymen to war.
There was a stag of outstanding beauty, with huge
antlers,
that, torn from its mother’s teats, Tyrrhus and his sons
had raised,
the father being the man to whom the king’s herds
submitted,
and who was trusted with managing his lands far and
wide.
Silvia, their sister, training it to her commands with
great care,
adorned its antlers, twining them with soft garlands,
grooming
the wild creature, and bathing it in a clear spring.
Tame to the hand,
and used to food from the master’s table, it wandered
the woods,
and returned to the familiar threshold, by itself,
however late at night.
Now while it strayed far a-field, Iulus the huntsman’s
frenzied hounds started it, by chance, as it moved
downstream, escaping the heat by the grassy banks.
Iulus himself inflamed also with desire for high
honours, aimed an arrow from his curved bow,
the goddess unfailingly guiding his errant hand,
and the shaft, flying with a loud hiss, pierced flank
and belly.
But the wounded creature fleeing to its familiar home,
dragged itself groaning to its stall, and, bleeding,
filled
the house with its cries, like a person begging for
help.
Silvia, the sister, beating her arms with her hands in
distress, was
the first to call for help, summoning the tough
countrymen.
They arrived quickly (since a savage beast haunted the
silent woods)
one with a fire-hardened stake, one with a heavy
knotted staff:
anger made a weapon of whatever each man found
as he searched around. Tyrrhus called out his men:
since by chance he was quartering an oak by driving
wedges, he seized his axe, breathing savagely.
Then the cruel goddess, seeing the moment to do harm,
found the stable’s steep roof, and sounded the
herdsmen’s
call, sending a voice from Tartarus through the
twisted horn,
so that each grove shivered, and the deep woods
echoed:
Diana’s distant lake at Nemi heard it: white Nar’s
river,
with its sulphurous waters, heard: and the fountains
of Velinus:
while anxious mothers clasped their children to their
breasts.
Then the rough countrymen snatching up their weapons,
gathered
more quickly, and from every side, to the noise with
which
that dread trumpet sounded the call, nor were the
Trojan
youth slow to open their camp, and send out help to
Ascanius.
The lines were deployed. They no longer competed
with solid staffs, and fire-hardened stakes, in a
rustic quarrel,
but fought it out with double-edged blades, and a dark
crop
of naked swords bristled far and wide: bronze shone
struck by the sun, and hurled its light up to the
clouds:
as when a wave begins to whiten at the wind’s first
breath,
and the sea swells little by little, and raises higher
waves,
then surges to heaven out of its profoundest depths.
Here young Almo, in the front ranks, the eldest
of Tyrrhus’s sons, was downed by a hissing arrow:
the wound opened beneath his throat, choking the
passage
of liquid speech, and failing breath, with blood.
The bodies of many men were round him, old Galaesus
among them, killed in the midst of offering peace, who
was
one of the most just of men, and the wealthiest in
Ausonian land:
five flocks bleated for him, five herds returned
from his fields, and a hundred ploughs furrowed the
soil.
BkVII:540-571
Allecto Returns to Hades
While they fought over the plain, in an
equally-matched contest,
the goddess, having, by her actions, succeeded in what
she’d promised,
having steeped the battle in blood, and brought death
in the first skirmish,
left Hesperia, and wheeling through the air of heaven
spoke to Juno, in victory, in a proud voice:
‘Behold, for you, discord is completed with sad war:
tell them now to unite as friends, or join in
alliance.
Since I’ve sprinkled the Trojans with Ausonian blood,
I’ll even add this to it, if I’m assured that it’s
your wish
I’ll bring neighbouring cities into the war, with
rumour,
inflaming their minds with love of war’s madness, so
that they come
with aid from every side: I’ll sow the fields with
weapons.’
Then Juno answered: ‘That’s more than enough terror
and treachery:
the reasons for war are there: armed, they fight hand
to hand,
and the weapons that chance first offered are stained
with fresh blood.
Such be the marriage, such be the wedding-rites that
this
illustrious son of Venus, and King Latinus himself,
celebrate.
The Father, the ruler of high Olympus, does not wish
you
to wander too freely in the ethereal heavens.
Leave this place. Whatever chance for trouble remains
I will handle.’ So spoke Saturn’s daughter:
Now, the Fury raised her wings, hissing with serpents,
and sought her home in Cocytus, leaving the heights
above.
There’s a place in Italy, at the foot of high
mountains,
famous, and mentioned by tradition, in many lands,
the valley of Amsanctus: woods thick with leaves hem
it in,
darkly, on both sides, and in the centre a roaring
torrent
makes the rocks echo, and coils in whirlpools.
There a fearful cavern, a breathing-hole for cruel
Dis,
is shown, and a vast abyss, out of which Acheron
bursts,
holds open its baleful jaws, into which the Fury,
that hated goddess, plunged, freeing earth and sky.
BkVII:572-600
Latinus Abdicates
Meanwhile Saturn’s royal daughter was no less active,
setting a final touch to the war. The whole band of
herdsmen
rushed into the city from the battle, bringing back
the dead,
the boy Almo, and Galaesus, with a mangled face,
and invoking the gods, and entreating Latinus.
Turnus was there, and ,at the heart of the outcry,
he redoubled their terror of fire and slaughter:
‘Trojans are called upon to reign: Phrygian stock
mixes with ours: I am thrust from the door.’
Then those whose women, inspired by Bacchus, pranced
about
in the pathless woods, in the god’s dance (for Amata’s
name is not trivial),
drawing together from every side, gathered to make
their appeal to Mars.
Immediately, with perverse wills, all clamoured for
war’s
atrocities, despite the omens, despite the god’s
decrees,.
They vied together in surrounding King Latinus’s
palace:
like an immoveable rock in the ocean, he stood firm,
like a rock in the ocean, when a huge breaker falls,
holding solid amongst a multitude of howling waves,
while round about the cliffs and foaming reefs roar,
in vain,
and seaweed, hurled against its sides, is washed back
again.
As no power was really granted him to conquer
their blind will, and events moved to cruel Juno’s
orders,
with many appeals to the gods and the helpless winds,
the old man cried: ‘Alas, we are broken by fate, and
swept away
by the storm! Oh, wretched people, you’ll pay the
price yourselves
for this, with sacrilegious blood. You, Turnus, your
crime and its punishment await you, and too late you’ll entreat the gods with
prayers.
My share is rest, yet at the entrance to the harbour
I’m robbed of all contentment in dying.’ Speaking no
more
he shut himself in the palace, and let fall the reins
of power.
BkVII:601-640
Latium Prepares for War
There was a custom in Hesperian Latium, which
the Alban cities always held sacred, as great Rome
does now, when they first rouse Mars to battle,
whether they prepare to take sad war in their hands
to the Getae, the Hyrcanians, or the Arabs, or to head
East
pursuing the Dawn, to reclaim their standards from
Parthia:
there are twin gates of War (so they are named),
sanctified by religion, and by dread of fierce Mars:
a hundred bars of bronze, and iron’s eternal strength,
lock them, and Janus the guardian never leaves the
threshold.
When the final decision of the city fathers is for
battle,
the Consul himself, dressed in the Quirine toga,
folded
in the Gabine manner, unbars these groaning doors,
himself,
and himself invokes the battle: then the rest of the
men
do so too, and bronze horns breathe their hoarse
assent.
Latinus was also commanded to declare war in this way
on Aeneas’s people, and unbolt the sad gates,
but the old man held back his hand, and shrank
from the vile duty, hiding himself in dark shadows.
Then the Queen of the gods, gliding from the sky,
set the reluctant doors in motion, with her own hand:
Saturn’s daughter forced open the iron gates of War
on their hinges. Italy, once peaceful and immoveable,
was alight.
Some prepared to cross the plains on foot, others
stirred
the deep dust on noble horses: all demanded weapons.
Others polished smooth shields, and bright javelins,
with thick grease, and sharpened axes on grindstones:
they delighted in carrying standards and hearing the
trumpet call.
So five great cities set up anvils and forged
new weapons: powerful Atina, proud Tibur,
Ardea, Crustumeri, and towered Antemnae.
They beat out helmets to protect their heads, and wove
wickerwork frames for shields: others hammered
breastplates of bronze, and shiny greaves of malleable
silver:
to this they yielded pride in the share’s blade and
the sickle, all their
passion for the plough: they recast their father’s
swords in the furnace.
And now the trumpets began to sound, the word that
signalled war
went round: this man, in alarm, snatched his helmet
from his home,
another harnessed quivering horses to the yoke, took
up his shield,
and triple-linked coat of mail, and fastened on his
faithful sword.
BkVII:641-782
The Battle-List
Now Muses, open wide Helicon, and begin a song
of kings who were roused to war: what ranks of
followers
each one had, filling the plain: with what men even
then
Italy’s rich earth flowered: with what armies she
shone:
since, goddesses, you remember, and have the power to
tell:
while a faint breath of their fame has barely reached
us.
First fierce Mezentius enters the war, that scorner of
gods,
from the Tuscan shore, and rouses his troops to arms.
His son, Lausus, is beside him, than whom no other is
more handsome in form, except Laurentine Turnus.
Lausus, the tamer of horses, who subdues wild beasts,
leads a thousand men from Agylla’s town, who follow
him
in vain, deserving to be happier than under his
father’s
rule, a father who might perhaps not be a Mezentius.
Aventinus follows them, the handsome son of handsome
Hercules,
displaying his palm-crowned chariot and victorious
horses,
over the turf, and carries his father’s emblem on his
shield:
a hundred snakes, and the Hydra wreathed with
serpents:
the priestess Rhea brought him to the shores of light,
in a secret birth, in the woods, on the Aventine Hill,
a woman mated to a god when Tyrinthian Hercules,
the conqueror who slew Geryon, came to the Laurentine
fields,
and bathed his Spanish cattle in the Tuscan stream.
His men carry javelins and grim pikes, in their hands,
to war,
and fight with polished swords and Sabellian spears.
He himself, on foot, a huge lion skin swinging,
with terrifying unkempt mane, and with its white teeth
crowning his head, enters the royal palace, just like
that,
a savage, with Hercules’s clothing fastened round his
shoulders.
Then twin-brothers, Catillus, and brave Coras,
Argive youths, leaving the walls of Tibur,
and a people named after their brother Tiburtus,
borne into the forefront of the army, among the dense
spears,
like cloud-born Centaurs descending from a high peak
in the mountains, leaving Homole and snow-covered
Othrys
in their swift course: the vast woods give way as they
go,
and, with a loud crash, the thickets yield to them.
Nor is Caeculus the founder of Praeneste’s city
missing,
who as every age has believed was born a king, to
Vulcan,
among the wild cattle, and discovered on the hearth,
he’s followed by a rustic army drawn from far and
wide,
men who live in steep Praeneste, and the fields of
Juno
of Gabii, and beside cool Anio, and among the Hernican
rocks
dew-wet from the streams: those you nurture, rich
Anagnia,
and you father Amasenus. They don’t all have weapons
or shields, or rumbling chariots: most fling pellets
of blue lead,
some carry twin darts in their hand, and have reddish
caps of wolf-skin for headgear: the left foot is bare
as they walk, a boot of raw hide protects the other.
And Messapus, Neptune’s son, tamer of horses,
whom no one’s permitted to fell with fire or steel,
now suddenly calls to arms his settled tribes, and
troops
unused to war, and grasps the sword again.
These hold Fescennium’s lines and Aequi Falisci’s,
those Soracte’s heights and Flavinium’s fields,
and Ciminus’s lake and hill, and Capena’s groves.
They march to a steady beat, and sing of their king:
as the river Cayster and the Asian meadows, struck
from afar,
echo sometimes, when the snowy swans, among the
flowing clouds,
return from pasture, and make melodious music from
their long throats.
No one would think that bronze-clad ranks were joined
in such a crowd, but an airy cloud of strident birds
driving shore-wards from the deep gulf.
Behold, Clausus, of ancient Sabine blood, leading
a great army, and worth a great army in his own right.
Now the Claudian tribe and race has spread, from him,
through Latium, since Rome was shared with the
Sabines.
With him, a vast company from Amiternum, and ancient
Quirites
from Cures, all the forces of Eretum, and olive-clad
Mutusca:
those who live in Nomentum town, and the Rosean
fields, by Lake
Velinus, those from Tetrica’s bristling cliffs, and
from Mount Severus,
and Casperia and Foruli, and from beside Himella’s
stream,
those who drink the Tiber and Fabaris, those cold
Nursia sent,
and the armies of Horta and the Latin peoples,
and those whom Allia, unlucky name, flows between and
divides:
as many as the waves that swell in Libya’s seas,
when fierce Orion’s buried by the wintry waters,
or thick as the ears of corn scorched by the early
sun,
in the plain of Hermus, or Lycia’s yellow fields.
The shields clang, and the earth is terrified by the
tramp of feet.
Next Halaesus, Agamemnon’s son, hostile to the Trojan
name,
harnesses his horses to his chariot, and hastens a
thousand
warlike tribes to Turnus, men who turn the fertile
Massic soil for Bacchus, and those the Auruncan elders
have sent from the high hills, and the Sidicine levels
nearby,
those who have left Cales behind, and those who live
by Volturnus’s shallow river, and by their side the
rough
Saticulan and the Oscan men. Polished javelins are
their
weapons, but their custom is to attach a flexible
leash.
A shield protects their left, with curved swords for
close fighting.
Nor shall you, Oebalus, go un-sung in our verses,
you whom they say the nymph Sebethis bore to Telon,
who is old now, when he held the throne of Teleboan
Capreae: but not content with his father’s fields,
even then the son exercised his power over
the Sarrastrian peoples, and the plains that Sarnus
waters,
and those who hold Rufrae and Batulum and Celemna’s
fields,
who are used to throwing their spears in the Teuton
fashion:
and those apple-growers that the ramparts of Abella
look down on,
whose head-cover is bark stripped from a cork-tree:
and their bronze shields gleam, their swords gleam
with bronze.
And you too Ufens, sent to battle from mountainous
Nersae,
well known to fame, and fortunate in arms, whose
people
of the hard Aequian earth, are especially
tough, and hunt extensively in the forests.
They plough the earth while armed, and always delight
in carrying off fresh spoils, and living on plunder.
There came a priest as well, of the Marruvian race,
sent by King Archippus, sporting a frond of fruitful
olive
above his helmet, Umbro the most-valiant,
who, by incantation and touch, was able to shed sleep
on the race of vipers and water-snakes with poisonous
breath,
soothing their anger, and curing their bites, by his
arts.
But he had no power to heal a blow from a Trojan
spear-point,
nor did sleep-inducing charms, or herbs found on
Marsian hills,
help him against wounds. For you, Angitia’s grove
wept:
Fucinus’s glassy wave, for you: for you, the crystal
lakes.
And Virbius, Hippolytus’s son, most handsome, went
to the war, whom his mother Aricia sent in all his
glory,
He was reared in Egeria’s groves, round the marshy
shores,
where Diana’s altar stands, rich and forgiving.
For they tell in story that Hippolytus, after he had
fallen prey
to his stepmother Phaedra’s cunning, and, torn apart
by stampeding
horses, had paid the debt due to his father with his
blood,
came again to the heavenly stars, and the upper air
beneath
the sky, recalled by Apollo’s herbs and Diana’s love.
Then the all-powerful father, indignant that any
mortal
should rise from the shadows to the light of life,
hurled Aesculapius, Apollo’s son, the discoverer
of such skill and healing, down to the Stygian waves.
But kindly Diana hid Hippolytus in a secret place,
and sent him to the nymph Egeria, to her grove,
where he might spend his life alone, unknown,
in the Italian woods, his name altered to Virbius.
So too horses are kept away from the temple of Diana
Trivia, and the sacred groves, they who, frightened
by sea-monsters, spilt chariot and youth across the
shore.
BkVII:783-817
Turnus and Camilla Complete the Array
Turnus himself went to and from, among the front
ranks, grasping
his weapons, pre-eminent in form, overtopping the rest
by a head.
His tall helmet was crowned with a triple plume,
holding up
a Chimaera, breathing the fires of Etna from its jaws,
snarling the more, and the more savage with sombre
flames
the more violent the battle becomes, the more blood is
shed.
But on his polished shield was Io, with uplifted
horns,
fashioned in gold, already covered with hair, already
a heifer,
a powerful emblem, and Argus, that virgin’s watcher,
and old Inachus pouring his river out of an engraved
urn.
A cloud of infantry followed, and the ranks with
shields
were thick along the plain, Argive men
and Auruncan troops, Rutulians and old Sicanians,
and the Sacranian lines, and Labicians, their shields
painted:
and those who farmed your woodland pastures, Tiber,
and Numicius’s holy shore, and those whose ploughshare
turns Rutulian hills or Circe’s headland, those whose
fields
Jupiter of Anxur guards, or Feronia, pleased with her
green groves:
those from where Satura’s black marsh lies, and from
where
chill Ufens finds his valley’s course, and is buried
in the sea.
Besides all these came Camilla, of the Volscian race,
leading her line of horse, and troops gleaming with
bronze,
a warrior girl, her hands not trained to Minerva’s
distaff,
and basket of wool, but toughened to endure a fight,
and, with her quickness of foot, out-strip the winds.
She might have skimmed the tips of the stalks of uncut
corn, and not bruised their delicate ears with her
running:
or, hanging above the swelling waves, taken her path
through
the heart of the deep, and not dipped her quick feet
in the sea.
All of the young men flooding from houses and fields,
and the crowds of women marvelled, and gazed, at her
as she went by,
in open-mouthed wonder at how the splendour of royal
purple
draped her smooth shoulders, how her brooch clasped
her hair
with gold, how she herself carried her Lycian quiver,
and a shepherd’s myrtle staff, tipped with the point
of a spear.
BkVIII:1-25
The Situation in Latium
When Turnus raised the war-banner on the Laurentine
citadel, and the trumpets blared out their harsh
music,
when he roused his fiery horses and clashed his
weapons,
hearts were promptly stirred, all Latium together
swore allegiance in restless commotion, and young men
raged wildly. The main leaders, Messapus, Ufens
and Mezentius, scorner of gods, gathered their forces
from every side, stripping the broad acres of farmers.
And Venulus was sent to great Diomedes’s city, Arpi,
to seek help, and explain that the Trojans were
planted in Latium,
Aeneas had arrived with his fleet, carrying his
vanquished gods,
and pronouncing himself a king summoned by destiny,
that many tribes were joining the Trojan hero,
and his name was spreading far and wide in Latium.
What Aeneas was intending given these beginnings,
what outcome he desired from the war, if fortune
followed him, might be seen more clearly by Diomedes,
himself, than by King Turnus or King Latinus.
So it was in Latium. Meanwhile the Trojan hero of
Laomedon’s
line, seeing all this, tosses on a vast sea of cares,
and swiftly casts his mind this way and that, seizing
on various ideas, turning everything over:
as when tremulous light from the water in a bronze
bowl,
thrown back by sunshine, or the moon’s radiant image,
flickers far and wide over everything, then angles
upwards, and strikes the panelled ceiling overhead.
BkVIII:26-65
Aeneas’s Dream of Tiberinus
It was night, and through all the land, deep sleep
gripped weary
creatures, bird and beast, when Aeneas, the leader,
lay down
on the river-bank, under the cold arch of the heavens,
his heart
troubled by war’s sadness, and at last allowed his
body to rest.
Old Tiberinus himself, the god of the place, appeared
to him,
rising from his lovely stream, among the poplar leaves
(fine linen cloaked him in a blue-grey
mantle, and shadowy reeds hid his hair),
Then he spoke, and with his words removed all cares:
‘O seed of the race of gods, who bring our Trojan city
back from the enemy, and guard the eternal fortress,
long looked-for on Laurentine soil, and in Latin
fields,
here is your house, and your house’s gods, for sure
(do not desist), don’t fear the threat of war,
the gods’ swollen anger has died away.
And now, lest you think this sleep’s idle fancy,
you’ll find
a huge sow lying on the shore, under the oak trees,
that has farrowed a litter of thirty young, a white
sow,
lying on the ground, with white piglets round her
teats,
That place shall be your city, there’s true rest from
your labours.
By this in a space of thirty years Ascanius
will found the city of Alba, bright name.
I do not prophesy unsurely. Now (attend), in a few
words
I’ll explain how you can emerge the victor from what
will come.
Arcadians have chosen a site on this coast, a race
descended
from Pallas, friends of King Evander, who followed
his banner, and located their city in the hills,
named, from their ancestor Pallas, Pallantium.
They wage war endlessly with the Latin race: summon
them
as allies to your camp, and join in league with them.
I’ll guide you myself along the banks by the right
channels,
so you can defeat the opposing current with your oars.
Rise, now, son of the goddess, and, as the first stars
set,
offer the prayers due to Juno, and with humble vows
overcome her anger and her threats. Pay me honour as
victor.
I am him whom you see scouring the banks,
with my full stream, and cutting through rich farmlands,
blue Tiber, the river most dear to heaven. Here is
my noble house, my fount flows through noble cities.’
BkVIII:66-101
Aeneas Sails to Pallanteum
He spoke: then the river plunged into a deep pool,
seeking its floor: night and sleep left Aeneas.
He rose and, looking towards the heavenly sun’s
eastern light, raised water from the stream
in his cupped hands, and poured out this prayer to
heaven:
‘Nymphs, Laurentine Nymphs, from whom come the tribe
of rivers, and you, O Father Tiber, and your sacred
stream,
receive Aeneas, and shield him at last from danger.
In whatever fountain the water holds you, pitying our
trials,
from whatever soil you flow in your supreme beauty,
you will always be honoured by my tributes, by my
gifts,
horned river, ruler of the Hesperian waters.
O, only be with me and prove your will by your
presence.’
So he spoke, and chose two galleys from his fleet,
manned them
with oarsmen, and also equipped his men with weapons.
But behold a sudden wonder, marvellous to the sight,
gleaming white through the trees, a sow the same
colour
as her white litter, seen lying on the green bank:
dutiful Aeneas,
carrying the sacred vessel, sets her with her young
before the altar
and sacrifices her to you, to you indeed, most
powerful Juno.
Tiber calmed his swelling flood all that night long,
and flowing backwards stilled his silent wave, so that
he spread his watery levels as in a gentle pool,
or placid swamp, so it would be effortless for the
oars.
Therefore they sped on the course begun, with happy
murmurs, the oiled pine slipped through the shallows:
the waves marvelled, the woods marvelled, unused to
the far-gleaming
shields of heroes, and the painted ships floating in
the river.
They wore out a night and a day with their rowing
navigated long bends, were shaded by many kinds of
trees,
and cut through the green woods, over the calm levels.
The fiery sun had climbed to the mid-point of the
sky’s arc,
when they saw walls and a fort in the distance, and
the scattered
roofs of houses, which Roman power has now raised
heavenwards:
then Evander owned a poor affair. They turned the
prows
quickly towards land, and approached the town.
BkVIII:102-151
Aeneas Meets Evander
By chance that day the Arcadian king was making solemn
offering
to Hercules, Amphitryon’s mighty son, and other gods
in a grove
in front of the city. His son Pallas was with him, and
with him
were all the leading young men, and his impoverished
senate
offering incense, and the warm blood smoked on the
altars.
When they saw the noble ships: that they were gliding
through the shadowy woods, rowing with silent oars:
they were alarmed at the sudden sight and rose
together,
leaving the tables. But proud Pallas ordered them not
to break off
the rites, and seizing his spear flew off to meet the
strangers himself,
and at some distance shouted from a hillock: ‘Warriors
what motive
drives you to try unknown paths? Where are you
heading?
What people are you? Where from? Do you bring peace or war?’
Then Aeneas the leader spoke from the high stern,
holding out a branch of olive in peace: ‘You are
looking
at men of Trojan birth, and spears hostile to the
Latins,
men whom they force to flee through arrogant warfare.
We seek Evander. Take my message and say that the chosen
leaders of Troy have come, asking for armed alliance.’
Pallas was amazed, awestruck by that great name:
‘O whoever you may be, disembark, and speak to my
father
face to face, and come beneath our roof as a guest.’
And he took his hand and gripped it tight in welcome:
they left the river, and went on into the grove.
Then Aeneas spoke to King Evander, in words of
friendship:
‘Noblest of the sons of Greece, whom Fortune
determines me
to make request of, offering branches decked with
sacred ribbons:
indeed I did not fear your being a leader of Greeks,
an Arcadian, and joined to the race of the twin sons
of Atreus,
since my own worth, and the god’s holy oracles,
our fathers being related, your fame known throughout
the world,
connect me to you, and bring me here willingly,
through destiny.
Dardanus, our early ancestor, and leader of Troy’s
city,
born of Atlantean Electra, as the Greeks assert,
voyaged
to Troy’s Teucrian people: and mightiest Atlas begot
Electra,
he who supports the heavenly spheres on his shoulders.
Your ancestor is Mercury, whom lovely Maia conceived,
and gave birth to on Cyllene’s cold heights:
and Atlas, if we credit what we hear, begot Maia,
that same Atlas who lifts the starry sky.
So both our races branch from the one root.
Relying on this, I decided on no envoys, no prior
attempts
through diplomacy: myself, I set before you, myself
and my own life, and come humbly to your threshold.
The same Daunian race pursues us with war, as you
yourself,
indeed they think if they drive us out, nothing will
stop them
bringing all Hesperia completely under their yoke,
and owning the seas that wash the eastern and western
shores.
Accept and offer friendship. We have brave hearts
in battle, soldiers and spirits proven in action.’
BkVIII:152-183
Evander Offers Alliance
Aeneas spoke. Evander scanned his face, eyes
and form, for a long time with his gaze, as he was
speaking.
Then he replied briefly, so: ‘How gladly I know, and
welcome you, bravest of Trojans! How it brings back
your father’s speech, the voice and features of noble
Anchises!
For I recall how Priam, son of Laomedon, visiting the
realms
of his sister, Hesione, and seeking Salamis,
came on further to see the chill territories of
Arcadia.
In those days first youth clothed my cheeks with
bloom,
and I marvelled at the Trojan leaders, and marvelled
at the son of Laomedon himself: but Anchises as he
walked
was taller than all. My mind burned with youthful
desire
to address the hero, and clasp his hand in mine:
I approached and led him eagerly inside the walls of
Pheneus.
On leaving he gave me a noble quiver
of Lycian arrows, a cloak woven with gold,
and a pair of golden bits, that my Pallas now owns.
So the hand of mine you look for is joined in
alliance,
and when tomorrow’s dawn returns to the earth,
I’ll send you off cheered by my help, and aid you with
stores.
Meanwhile, since you come to us as friends, favour us
by celebrating this annual festival, which it is wrong
to delay, and become accustomed to your friends’ table.’
When he had spoken he ordered the food and drink
that had been removed to be replaced, and seated
the warriors himself on the turf benches.
He welcomed Aeneas as the principal guest, and invited
him
to a maple-wood throne covered by a shaggy lion’s
pelt.
Then the altar priest with young men he had chosen
competed to bring on the roast meat from the bulls,
pile the baked bread in baskets, and serve the wine.
Aeneas and the men of Troy feasted on an entire
chine of beef, and the sacrificial organs.
BkVIII:184-305
The Tale of Hercules and Cacus
When hunger had been banished, and desire for food
sated,
King Evander said: ‘No idle superstition, or ignorance
of the ancient gods, forced these solemn rites of
ours,
this ritual banquet, this altar to so great a
divinity, upon us.
We perform them, and repeat the honours due,
Trojan guest, because we were saved from cruel perils.
Now look first at this rocky overhanging cliff, how
its bulk
is widely shattered, and the mountain lair stands
deserted,
and the crags have been pulled down in mighty ruin.
There was a cave here, receding to vast depths,
untouched by the sun’s rays, inhabited by the fell
shape
of Cacus, the half-human, and the ground was always
warm
with fresh blood, and the heads of men, insolently
nailed to the doors, hung there pallid with sad decay.
Vulcan was father to this monster: and, as he moved
his massive bulk, he belched out his dark fires.
Now at last time brought what we wished, the presence
and assistance of a god. Hercules, the greatest of
avengers,
appeared, proud of the killing and the spoils of
three-fold
Geryon, driving his great bulls along as victor,
and his cattle occupied the valley and the river.
And Cacus, his mind mad with frenzy, lest any
wickedness or cunning be left un-dared or un-tried
drove off four bulls of outstanding quality, and as
many
heifers of exceptional beauty, from their stalls.
and, so there might be no forward-pointing spoor, the
thief
dragged them into his cave by the tail, and, reversing
the signs of their tracks, hid them in the stony dark:
no one seeking them would find a trail to the cave.
Meanwhile, as Hercules, Amphitryon’s son, was moving
the well-fed herd from their stalls, and preparing to
leave,
the cattle lowed as they went out, all the woods were
filled
with their complaining, and the sound echoed from the
hills.
One heifer returned their call, and lowed from the
deep cave,
and foiled Cacus’s hopes from her prison.
At this Hercules’s indignation truly blazed, with a
venomous
dark rage: he seized weapons in his hand, and his
heavy
knotted club, and quickly sought the slopes of the
high mountain.
Then for the first time my people saw Cacus afraid,
confusion
in his eyes: he fled at once, swifter than the East
Wind,
heading for his cave: fear lent wings to his feet.
As he shut himself in, and blocked the entrance
securely,
throwing against it a giant rock, hung there in chains
by his father’s craft, by shattering the links, behold
Hercules arrived in a tearing passion, turning his head
this way and that, scanning every approach, and
gnashing
his teeth. Hot with rage, three times he circled the
whole
Aventine Hill, three times he tried the stony doorway
in vain,
three times he sank down, exhausted, in the valley.
A sharp pinnacle of flint, the rock shorn away
on every side, stood, tall to see, rising behind
the cave, a suitable place for vile birds to nest.
He shook it, where it lay, it’s ridge sloping towards
the river
on the left, straining at it from the right, loosening
its deepest
roots, and tearing it out, then suddenly hurling it
away,
the highest heavens thundered with the blow,
the banks broke apart, and the terrified river
recoiled.
But Cacus’s den and his vast realm stood revealed,
and the shadowy caverns within lay open,
no differently than if earth, gaping deep within,
were to unlock the infernal regions by force, and
disclose
the pallid realms, hated by the gods, and the vast
abyss
be seen from above, and the spirits tremble at
incoming light.
So Hercules, calling upon all his weapons, hurled
missiles
at Cacus from above, caught suddenly in unexpected
daylight,
penned in the hollow rock, with unaccustomed howling,
and rained boughs and giant blocks of stone on him.
He on the other hand, since there was no escape now
from the danger, belched thick smoke from his throat
(marvellous to tell) and enveloped the place in blind
darkness,
blotting the view from sight, and gathering
smoke-laden night in the cave, a darkness mixed with
fire.
Hercules in his pride could not endure it, and he
threw himself,
with a headlong leap, through the flames, where the
smoke
gave out its densest billows, and black mist heaved in
the great cavern.
Here, as Cacus belched out useless flame in the
darkness,
Hercules seized him in a knot-like clasp, and,
clinging, choked him
the eyes squeezed, and the throat drained of blood.
Immediately the doors were ripped out, and the dark
den exposed,
the stolen cattle, and the theft Cacus denied, were
revealed
to the heavens, and the shapeless carcass dragged out
by the feet. The people could not get their fill of
gazing
at the hideous eyes, the face, and shaggy bristling
chest
of the half-man, and the ashes of the jaw’s flames.
Because of that this rite is celebrated, and happy
posterity
remembers the day: and Potitius, the first, the
founder, with
the Pinarian House as guardians of the worship of
Hercules,
set up this altar in the grove, which shall be spoken
of for ever
by us as ‘The Mightiest’, and the mightiest it shall
be for ever.
Come now, O you young men, wreathe your hair with
leaves,
hold out wine-cups in your right hands, in honour of
such great glory,
and call on the god we know, and pour out the wine
with a will.’
He spoke, while grey-green poplar veiled his hair
with Hercules’s own shade, hanging down in a knot of
leaves,
and the sacred cup filled his hand. Quickly they all
poured
a joyful libation on the table, and prayed to the
gods.
Meanwhile, evening drew nearer in the heavens,
and now the priests went out, Potitius leading,
clothed in pelts as customary, and carrying torches.
They restarted the feast, bringing welcome offerings
as a second course, and piled the altars with heaped
plates.
of poplar, one band of youths, another of old men, who
praised
the glories and deeds of Hercules in song: how as an
infant he strangled
the twin snakes in his grip, monsters sent by Juno his
stepmother:
how too he destroyed cities incomparable in war,
Troy and Oechalia: how he endured a thousand hard
labours
destined for him by cruel Juno, through King
Eurystheus:
‘You, unconquerable one, you slew the cloud-born
Centaurs,
bi-formed Hylaeus and Pholus, with your hand: the monstrous
Cretan Bull: and the huge lion below the cliffs of
Nemea.
The Stygian Lake trembled before you: Cerberus, Hell’s
guardian,
lying on half-eaten bones in his blood-drenched cave:
No shape, not Typheus himself, armed and towering
upwards, daunted you: your brains were not lacking
when Lerna’s Hydra surrounded you with its swarm of
heads.
Hail, true child of Jove, a glory added to the gods,
visit us and your rites with grace and favouring
feet.’
Such things they celebrated in song, adding to all this
Cacus’s cave, and the fire-breather himself.
All the grove rang with sound, and the hills echoed.
BkVIII:306-369
Pallanteum – the Site of Rome
Then they all returned to the city, the sacred rites
complete.
The king walked clothed with years, and kept Aeneas
and his son
near him for company, lightening the road with various
talk.
Aeneas marvelled, and scanned his eyes about
eagerly, captivated by the place, and delighted
to enquire about and learn each tale of the men of
old.
So King Evander, founder of Rome’s citadel, said:
‘The local Nymphs and Fauns once lived in these
groves,
and a race of men born of trees with tough timber,
who had no laws or culture, and didn’t know how
to yoke oxen or gather wealth, or lay aside a store,
but the branches fed them, and the hunter’s wild fare.
Saturn was the first to come down from heavenly
Olympus,
fleeing Jove’s weapons, and exiled from his lost
realm.
He gathered together the untaught race, scattered
among
the hills, and gave them laws, and chose to call it Latium,
from latere, ‘to hide’, since he had hidden in
safety on these shores.
Under his reign was the Golden Age men speak of:
in such tranquil peace did he rule the nations,
until little by little an inferior, tarnished age
succeeded,
with war’s madness, and desire for possessions.
Then the Ausonian bands came, and the Siconian tribes,
while Saturn’s land of Latium often laid aside her
name:
then the kings, and savage Thybris, of vast bulk,
after whom we Italians call our river by the name
of Tiber: the ancient Albula has lost her true name.
As for me, exiled from my country and seeking
the limits of the ocean, all-powerful Chance,
and inescapable fate, settled me in this place,
driven on by my mother the Nymph Carmentis’s
dire warnings, and my guardian god Apollo.’
BkVIII:370-406
Venus Seeks Weapons from Vulcan
BkVIII:407-453
Vulcan’s Smithy
BkVIII:454-519
Evander Proposes Assistance
BkVIII:520-584
The Preliminary Alarms
BkVIII:585-625
Venus’s Gift of Armour
BkVIII:626-670
Vulcan’s Shield: Scenes of Early Rome
BkVIII:671-713
Vulcan’s Shield: The Battle of Actium
BkVIII:714-731
Vulcan’s Shield: Augustus’s Triple Triumph
lifting to his shoulder the glory and the destiny of
his heirs.
BkIX:1-24
Iris Urges Turnus to War
While all these things were happening in various
places,
Saturnian Juno sent Iris from heaven to brave Turnus,
who chanced to be sitting in a sacred valley, a grove
to Pilumnus
his father. To him Thaumas’s daughter spoke, from her
rosy lips:
‘Turnus, see, the circling days, unasked, have brought
what you wished, but what no god dared to promise.
Aeneas leaving the city, his friends and ships,
seeks the Palatine kingdom, and Evander’s house.
Unsatisfied he has reached Corythus’s furthest cities,
and, gathering men from the country, arms Lydian
troops.
Why wait? Now is the time to call on horse and
chariot.
End all delays: seize their camp, in its confusion.’
She spoke, and rose into the sky on level wings,
tracing a vast arc against the clouds in her flight.
The youth knew her, raised both his hands to the
heavens,
and sent these words after her as she flew:
‘Iris, glory of the sky, who sent you down through
the clouds, to me, on earth? Where does this sudden
bright moment spring from? I see the sky split apart
at its zenith, and the stars that roam the pole. I
follow
so mighty an omen, whoever calls me to arms.’
Saying this he went to the river and scooped water
from the surface of the stream, calling often
to the gods, and weighting the air with prayers.
BkIX:25-76
Turnus Attacks the Trojan Fleet
Now the whole army, rich in horses, rich in ornate
clothes,
and gold, was engaged in moving over the open fields:
Messapus controlling the front ranks, Tyrrhus’s sons
the rear, Turnus, the leader, in the centre of the
line:
like the deep Ganges, swelling in silence, through
his seven placid streams, or Nile when his rich stream
inundates the fields, soon sinking down into his
course.
The Trojans suddenly see a black dust cloud
gathering there, and darkness rising over the plain.
Caicus shouted first from the forward rampart:
‘What’s that rolling mass of black fog, countrymen?
Bring your swords, quickly: hand out spears: mount the
walls:
ah, the enemy is here!’ With a great clamour the
Trojans
retreated through the gates, and filled the ramparts.
For Aeneas, wisest in warfare, had commanded, on
leaving,
if anything chanced in the meantime, they were not to
dare
to form ranks or trust themselves to the open field:
they were
only to guard the camp and walls, safe behind the
ramparts.
So, though anger and shame counselled the troops to
fight,
still they shut the gates and followed his orders,
awaiting the enemy, armed, within their hollow
turrets.
But Turnus had galloped forward ahead of his slow
column,
accompanied by twenty chosen horsemen, and reached
the city unexpectedly: a piebald Thracian horse
carried him,
a golden helmet with a crimson crest protected his
head.
‘Men,’ he shouted, ‘is there anyone who’ll be first
with me
among the enemy – ? Look,’ and twirling a javelin sent
it
skyward to start the fight, and rode proudly over the
field.
His friends welcomed him with a shout, and followed
with fearful battle-cries: marvelling at the Trojan’s
dull souls,
not trusting themselves to a level field, nor facing
men
carrying weapons, but hugging the camp. He rode to and
fro
wildly round the walls, seeking a way in where there
was none.
Like a wolf, lying in wait by a full sheepfold, that
snarls
by the pens at midnight, enduring the wind and rain,
the lambs bleating safe beneath their mothers,
and rages against the prey out of reach, fierce and
persistent
in its anger, tormented by its dry, bloodless jaws,
and the fierceness of its long-increasing hunger:
so as Turnus scanned the wall and camp, the Rutulian’s
anger
was alight, and indignation burned in his harsh
marrow.
How could he try and enter, and hurl the penned-up
Trojans from their rampart, and scatter them over the
plain?
He attacked the ships, that lay close to a flank of
the camp,
defended by earthworks, and the flowing river,
calling out to his exultant friends for fire,
and fervently grasped a blazing pine-brand in his
hand.
Then they set to (urged on by Turnus’s presence)
and all the men armed themselves with dark torches.
They stripped the hearths: the smoking branches threw
a pitchy glow, and Vulcan hurled the cloud of ashes to
heaven.
BkIX:77-106
Cybele Makes a Plea to Jove
O Muse, what god, turned away such fierce flames
from the Trojans? Who drove such savage fires from the
ships?
Tell me: belief in the story’s ancient, its fame is
eternal.
In the days when Aeneas first built his fleet on
Phrygian Ida
and prepared to set out over the deep ocean,
they say the Mother of the gods herself, Berecyntian
Cybele,
spoke so to great Jupiter: ‘My son, lord of Olympus,
grant what your dear mother asks of you in request.
There was a pine-forest a delight to me for many years
a grove on the summit of the mountain, where they
brought
offerings, dark with blackened firs and maple trunks.
I gave these gladly to the Trojan youth, since he
lacked
a fleet: now, troubled, anxious fear torments me.
Relieve my fears, and let your mother by her prayers
ensure
they are not destroyed, shattered by voyaging or
violent storm:
let their origin on our mountain be of aid to them.’
Her son, who turns the starry globe, replied:
‘O, my mother, to what do you summon fate? What do you
seek
for them? Should keels made by mortal hands have
eternal rights?
Should Aeneas travel in certainty through uncertain
dangers? To what god are such powers permitted?
No, one day when they’ve served their purpose,
and reached an Italian haven, I’ll take away, from
those
that escape the waves, and bear the Trojan chief
to Laurentine fields, their mortal shape, and command
them to be goddesses
of the vast ocean, like Doto, Nereus’s
child, and Galatea, who part the foaming sea with
their breasts.’
He spoke, and swore his assent, by his Stygian
brother’s rivers,
by the banks that seethe with pitch on the black
abyss,
and with his nod shook all Olympus.
BkIX:107-122
Cybele Transforms the Ships
So the day he had promised came, and the Fates
fulfilled
their appointed hour, when Turnus’s injury to the
sacred fleet
prompted the Mother to defend them from the flames.
At first a strange light flared to the watchers, and a
huge cloud
was seen to travel across the sky from the east,
with bands of her Idaean attendants: then a terrible
voice
rang through the air, echoing among the Trojan and
Rutulian lines:
‘Trojans, don’t rush to defend the ships, or take up
arms.
Turnus can burn the ocean, sooner than my sacred
pines. Go free,
you Goddesses of the sea: your mother commands it.’
And at once
each ship tore her cable loose from the bank: they
dipped their noses
like dolphins, and sought the watery deep. Then
(strange wonder)
as many virgin shapes re-surfaced, and swam about the
sea.
BkIX:123-167
Turnus Lays Siege to the Camp
The Rutulians were amazed in mind, Messapus himself
was awe-struck, his horses panicked: and even the
noisy flow
of the river halted, as Tiber retreated from the deep.
But brave Turnus’s confidence never wavered:
and he raised their spirits as well, and chided them:
‘These marvels are aimed at the Trojans, Jupiter
himself
has deprived them of their usual allies: those didn’t
wait
for Rutulian missiles and fires. So the seas are
impassable
for the Trojans, and they have no hope of flight:
other regions
are lost to them, and this land is in our hands, so
many
thousands of Italy’s peoples are in arms. I’m not
afraid
of all the fateful omens from the gods these Phrygians
openly boast of: enough has been granted to Venus and
the Fates,
since the Trojans have reached Ausonia’s fertile
fields.
I have my own counter destiny, to root out the guilty
race,
that has snatched my bride, with the sword. That’s a
sorrow
that doesn’t touch Atrides alone, nor is Mycenae alone
allowed
to take up arms. ‘But to die once is enough.’? To have
sinned
before should be enough for these men, to whom
confidence
in a dividing wall, and slight obstacles to death,
defensive moats,
grant courage, to utterly detest well-nigh the whole
tribe
of women. Did they not witness the work of Neptune’s
hands, the battlements of Troy, sink in flames? But
you,
O chosen ones, which of you is ready to uproot the
ramparts
with your steel, and invade their terrified camp with
me?
I don’t need Vulcan’s arms, or a thousand ships,
against Trojans. Let all Etruria join them now in
alliance.
They need not fear darkness, or cowardly theft
‘of their Palladium, killing guards on the citadel’s
heights’,
we won’t hide in the dark belly of a horse:
I intend to circle their walls in broad daylight with
fire.
I’ll make them concede its not Greeks, Pelasgic youth,
they’re dealing with, whom Hector held till the tenth
year.
Now, since the best part of the day’s gone, men,
refresh yourselves with what’s left, pleased with work
well done, and look forward to starting the battle.
Meanwhile the order was given to Messapus to picket
the gates alertly with sentries and ring the ramparts
with flames.
Fourteen Rutulians were chosen to guard the walls
with their men, each with a hundred soldiers
under them, purple-plumed and glittering with gold.
They ran about, took turns on watch, or lifted
the bronze bowls and enjoyed their wine,
stretched out on the grass. The fires shone,
while the guards spent the watchful night in games.
BkIX:168-223
Nisus and Euryalus: A Mission Proposed
The armed Trojans held the heights, looking down
on this from above, and also with anxious fears,
checked the gates, built bulwarks and bridges,
and disposed their weapons. Mnestheus and brave
Serestus,
whom Aeneas their leader appointed to command the army
and state, if adversity ever required it, urged them
on.
Sharing the risk, the whole company kept watch and
served
in turn, at whatever point was to be guarded by each.
Nisus, bravest of warriors, son of Hyrtacus, was a
guard
at the gates, he whom Ida the huntress had sent
to accompany Aeneas, agile with javelin and light
darts,
and Euryalus was with him, than whom none was
more beautiful among the Aenedae, or wearing Trojan
armour,
a boy, whose unshaven face, showed the first bloom of
youth.
One love was theirs, and they charged side by side
into battle:
now they were also guarding the gate at the same
sentry-post.
Nisus said: ‘Euryalus, do the gods set this fire in
our hearts,
or does each man’s fatal desire become godlike to him?
My mind has long urged me to rush to battle, or high
adventure, and is not content with peace and quiet.
You see what confidence the Rutulians have in events:
their lights shine far apart, and they lie drowned in
sleep
and wine, everywhere is quiet. Listen to what I’m now
thinking, and what purpose comes to mind. The army
and the council all demand Aeneas be recalled,
and men be sent to report the facts to him.
If they were to grant what I suggest to you (the glory
of doing it is enough for me) I think I could find a
way,
beyond that hill, to the walls and ramparts of
Pallanteum.’
Euryalus was dazzled, struck by a great desire for
glory,
and replied to his ardent friend at once, like this:
‘Nisus, do you shun my joining in this great deed,
then? Shall I
send you into such danger alone?
That’s not how my father Opheltes, seasoned in war,
educated me, raising me among Greek terrors
and Troy’s ordeals, nor have I conducted myself so
with you, following noble Aeneas and the ends of fate.
This is my spirit, one scornful of the day, that
thinks
the honour you aim at well bought with life itself.’
Nisus replied: ‘Indeed I had no such doubts of you,
that would be wrong: not so will great Jupiter, or
whoever
looks at this action with favourable gaze, bring me
back to you
in triumph: but if (as you often see in such crises)
if chance or some god sweeps me to disaster,
I want you to survive: your youth is more deserving of
life.
Let there be someone to entrust me to earth, my body
rescued from conflict, or ransomed for a price,
or if Fortune denies the customary rites, to perform
them in my absence, and honour me with a stone.
And don’t let me be a cause of grief to your poor
mother,
my boy, who alone among many mothers dared to follow
you, without thought of staying in great Acestes’s
city.’
But the lad said: ‘You weave your excuses in vain,
my purpose won’t change or yield to yours. Let’s
hurry’,
and he roused guards, who came up to take their place:
leaving his post he walked by Nisus’s side to seek the
prince.
BkIX:224-313
Nisus and Euryalus: Aletes Consents
Every other creature, throughout the land, was easing
its cares with sleep, its heart forgetful of toil:
the Trojans’ chief captains, the pick of their
manhood,
were holding council on the most serious affairs of
state,
what to do, and who should go now as messenger to
Aeneas.
They stood, between the camp and the plain, leaning
on their long spears, holding their shields. Nisus and
Euryalus,
together, begged eagerly to be admitted at once:
the matter being important, and worth the delay. Iulus
was first
to welcome the impatient pair, and ordered Nisus to
speak.
So the son of Hyrtacus said: ‘Followers of Aeneas,
listen
with fair minds, and don’t judge my words by our
years.
The Rutulians are quiet, drowned in sleep and wine.
We ourselves have seen a place for a sortie: it opens
in a fork of the road by the nearest gate to the sea.
There’s a gap between the fires, and black smoke rises
to the stars. If you allow us to seize the chance,
you’ll soon see us back again burdened with spoils
after carrying out vast slaughter. The road will not
deceive us as we seek Aeneas and Pallanteum’s walls.
In our frequent hunting through the secret valleys
we’ve seen the outskirts of the city, and know the
whole river.’
To this Aletes, heavy with years and wise in mind, replied:
‘Gods of our fathers, under whose power Troy lies,
you do not intend to obliterate the Trojan race as yet
since you bring us such courage in our young men and
such
firm hearts.’ So saying, he took them both by the
shoulder
and hand while tears flooded his cheeks and lips.
‘What possible prize could I consider worthy
to be granted you men for such a glorious action?
The gods and tradition will give you the first
and most beautiful one: then good Aeneas, and Ascanius,
who’s untouched by the years and never unmindful
of such service, will immediately award the rest.’
Ascanius interrupted: ‘Rather I entreat you both,
Nisus,
since my well-being depends on my father’s return,
by the great gods of our house, by the Lar of Assaracus,
and by grey-haired Vesta’s innermost shrine, I lay
all my fortune and my promise in your lap, call my
father back,
give me a sight of him: there’s no sorrow if he’s
restored.
I’ll give you a pair of wine-cups, all of silver, with
figures
in relief, that my father captured when Arisba was
taken,
and twin tripods, two large talents of gold,
and an antique bowl Sidonian Dido gave me.
If we truly manage to capture Italy, and take the
sceptre,
and assign the spoils by lot, you have seen the horse
golden Turnus rode, and the armour he wore, I’ll
separate
from this moment, from the lots, that same horse, the
shield,
and the crimson plumes as your reward, Nisus.
Moreover my father will give you twelve women
of choicest person, and male captives all with their
own armour,
and, beyond that, whatever land King Latinus owns
himself.
But now I truly welcome you wholly to my heart,
Euryalus,
a boy to be revered, whose age I come closer to in
time,
and embrace you as a friend for every occasion.
I’ll never seek glory in my campaigns without you:
whether I enjoy peace or war, you’ll have my firmest
trust
in word and action.’ Euryalus spoke like this in
reply:
‘No day will ever find me separated from such
bold action: inasmuch as fortune proves kind
and not cruel. But I ask one gift above all from you:
I have a mother, of Priam’s ancient race, unhappy
woman,
whom neither the land of Troy, nor King Acestes’s city
could keep from accompanying me. I leave her now,
ignorant of whatever risk to me there might be,
and of my farewell, since ( this night and your
right hand bear witness) I could not bear
a mother’s tears. But I beg you, comfort
her helplessness and aid her loss. Let me carry
this hope I place in you with me, I will meet all
dangers
more boldly.’ Their spirits affected, the Trojans
shed tears, noble Iulus above all, and this image
of filial love touched his heart. Then he said:
‘Be sure I’ll do everything worthy of your great
venture.
She’ll be as my mother to me, only lacking her
name Creusa:
no small gratitude’s due to her for bearing such a
son.
Whatever the outcome of your action, I swear by this
life,
by which my father used once to swear: what I promised
to you when you return, your campaign successful,
that same will accrue to your mother and your house.’
So he spoke, in tears: and at the same time stripped
the gilded
sword from his shoulder, that Lycaon of Cnossos had
made
with marvellous art, and equipped for use with an
ivory sheath.
Mnestheus gave Nisus a pelt, taken from a shaggy lion,
loyal Aletes exchanged helmets. They armed, and left
immediately: and the whole band of leaders, young and
old,
escorted them to the gate as they went, with prayers.
And noble Iulus too, with mature mind and duties
beyond his years, gave them many commissions
to carry to his father: but the winds were to scatter
them all, and blow them vainly to the clouds.
BkIX:314-366
Nisus and Euryalus: The Raid
BkIX:367-459
The Death of Euryalus and Nisus
Meanwhile riders arrived, sent out from the Latin
city,
while the rest of the army waited in readiness,
on the plain, bringing a reply for King Turnus:
three hundred, carrying shields, led by Volcens.
They were already near the camp, and below the walls,
when they saw the two men turning down a path on the
left:
his helmet, gleaming in the shadow of night, betrayed
the unthinking Euryalus, and reflected back the rays.
It was not seen in vain. Volcens shouted from his
column:
‘You men, halt, what’s the reason for your journey?
Who are you,
you’re armed?
Where are you off to?’ They offered no response,
but hastened their flight to the woods, trusting to
the dark.
The riders closed off the known junctions, on every
side,
and surrounded each exit route with guards.
The forest spread out widely, thick with brambles
and holm-oaks, the dense thorns filling it on every
side:
there the path glinted through the secret glades.
Euryalus was hampered by shadowy branches, and the
weight
of his plunder, and his fear confused the path’s
direction.
Nisus was clear: and already unaware had escaped the
enemy,
and was at the place later called Alba from Alba Longa
(at that time King Latinus had his noble stalls there)
when he stopped, and looked back vainly for his
missing friend.
‘Euryalus, unhappy boy, where did I separate from you?
Which way shall I go?’ he said, considering all the
tangled tracks
of the deceptive wood, and at the same time scanning
the backward traces he could see, criss-crossing the
silent thickets.
He heard horses, heard the cries and signals of
pursuit:
and it was no great time before a shout reached his
ears
and he saw Euryalus, betrayed by the ground and the
night,
confused by the sudden tumult, whom the whole troop
were dragging away, overpowered, struggling violently
in vain.
What can he do? With what force, or weapons, can he
dare
to rescue the youth? Should he hurl himself to his
death among
the swords, and by his wounds hasten to a glorious
end?
He swiftly drew back his spear arm and gazing upwards
at the moon above, prayed, with these words:
‘O you, goddess, O you, Latona’s daughter, glory of
the stars,
and keeper of the woods, be here and help us in our
trouble.
If ever my father, Hyrtacus, brought offerings on my
behalf
to your altars, if ever I added to them from my own
hunting,
hung them beneath your dome, or fixed them to the
sacred eaves,
let me throw their troop into confusion, guide my
spear through the air.’
He spoke and flung the steel, straining with his whole
body.
The flying javelin divided the shadows, struck Sulmo’s
back,
as he turned, and snapped, the broken shaft piercing
the heart.
He rolled over, a hot stream pouring from his chest,
and deep gasps shook his sides, as he grew cold.
They gazed round them, in every direction. See, Nisus,
all the more eager, levelled another spear against his
ear.
While they hesitated, the javelin hissed through both
of Tagus’s temples, and fixed itself still warm in the
pierced
brain. Fierce Volcens raged, but could not spy out the
author
of the act, nor any place that he could vent his fire.
He rushed at Euryalus with his naked sword, as he
cried out: ‘In the mean time you’ll pay in hot blood
and give me revenge for both your crimes.’
Then, truly maddened with fear, Nisus shouted aloud,
unable
to hide himself in the dark any longer, or endure such
agony:
On me, Rutulians, turn your steel on me, me who did
the deed!
The guilt is all mine, he neither dared nor had the
power:
the sky and the all-knowing stars be witnesses:
he only loved his unfortunate friend too much.’
He was still speaking, but the sword, powerfully
driven,
passed through the ribs and tore the white breast.
Euryalus rolled over in death, and the blood flowed
down his lovely limbs, and his neck, drooping,
sank on his shoulder, like a bright flower scythed
by the plough, bowing as it dies, or a poppy weighed
down by a chance shower, bending its weary head.
But Nisus rushed at them, seeking Volcens
above all, intent on Volcens alone.
The enemy gathered round him, to drive him off,
in hand to hand conflict. He attacked none the less,
whirling
his sword like lightning, until he buried it full in
the face
of the shrieking Rutulian, and, dying, robbed his
enemy of life.
Then, pierced through, he threw himself on the
lifeless body
of his friend, and found peace at last in the calm of
death.
Happy pair! If my poetry has the power,
while the House of Aeneas lives beside the Capitol’s
immobile stone, and a Roman leader rules the Empire,
no day will raze you from time’s memory.
The victorious Rutulians, gaining new plunder, and the
spoils,
weeping carried the lifeless Volcens to the camp.
Nor was there less grief in that camp when Rhamnes
was discovered, drained of blood, and so many other
leaders,
killed in a single slaughter, with Serranus and Numa.
A huge
crowd rushed towards the corpses and the dying, and
the place
fresh with hot killing, and foaming streams full of
blood.
Between them they identified the spoils, Messapus’s
gleaming helmet, and his trappings re-won with such
sweat.
BkIX:460-524
Euryalus’s Mother Laments
And now Aurora, early, leaving Tithonus’s saffron bed,
sprinkled her fresh rays onto the earth. And now
as the sun streamed down, now as day revealed all
things,
Turnus armed himself, and roused his heroes to arms:
they gathered their bronze-clad troops for the battle,
each his own, and whetted their anger with various
tales.
They even fixed the heads of Euryalus and Nisus
on raised spears (wretched sight), and followed
behind them, making a great clamour.
The tough sons of Aeneas had fixed their opposing
lines
on the left side of the ramparts (the right bordered
on the river)
and they held the wide ditches and stood grieving
on the high turrets: moved as one, made wretched by
seeing the heads
of men they know only too well transfixed and
streaming dark blood.
Meanwhile winged Rumour, flying through the anxious
town,
sped the news, and stole to the ears of Euryalus’s
mother.
And suddenly all warmth left her helpless bones,
the shuttle was hurled from her hands, the thread
unwound.
The wretched woman rushed out and sought the ramparts
and the front line, shrieking madly, her hair
dishevelled:
she ignored the soldiers, the danger, the weapons,
then she filled the heavens with her lament:’
‘Is it you I see, Euryalus? You who brought peace
at last to my old age, how could you bring yourself
to leave me alone, cruel child? Why did you not give
your poor mother the chance for a final goodbye
when you were being sent into so much danger?
Ah, you lie here in a strange land, given as prey to
the carrion
birds and dogs of Latium! I, your mother, did not
escort you
in funeral procession, or close your eyes, or bathe
your wounds,
or shroud you with the robes I laboured at night and
day
for you, soothing the cares of old age at the loom.
Where shall I go? What earth now holds your body,
your torn limbs, your mangled corpse? My son,
is this what you bring home to me? Is this why I
followed you
by land and sea? O Rutulians, if you have feelings,
pierce me:
hurl all your spears at me: destroy me above all with
your steel:
or you, great father of the gods, pity me, and with
your lightning bolt, hurl this hated being down to
Tartarus,
since I can shatter this cruel life no other way.’
This wailing shook their hearts, and a groan of sorrow
swept
them all: their strength for battle was numbed and
weakened.
She was igniting grief and Idaeus and Actor,
at Ilioneus’s order, with Iulus weeping bitterly,
caught her up, and carried her inside in their arms.
But the war-trumpet, with its bronze singing, rang out
its terrible sound, a clamour followed, that the sky
re-echoed.
The Volscians, raising their shields in line, ran
forward,
ready to fill in the ditches, and tear down the
ramparts:
Some tried for an entrance, and to scale the wall with
ladders,
where the ranks were thin, and a less dense cordon of
men
allowed the light through. The Trojans accustomed to
defending
their walls by endless warfare, hurled missiles at
them
of every sort, and fended them off with sturdy poles.
They rolled down stones too, deadly weights,
in the hope of breaking through the well-protected
ranks,
which under their solid shields, however, rejoiced
in enduring every danger. But soon even they were
inadequate
since the Trojans rolled a vast rock to where a large
formation
threatened, and hurled it down, felling the Rutulians
far and wide, and breaking their armoured shell.
The brave Rutulians no longer cared to fight blindly,
but tried to clear the ramparts with missiles.
Elsewhere, Mezentius, deadly to behold, brandished
Tuscan pine, and hurled smoking firebrands:
while Messapus, tamer of horses, scion of Neptune,
tore at the rampart, and called for scaling ladders.
BkIX:525-589
Turnus in Battle
I pray to you, O Calliope, Muses, inspire my singing
of the slaughter, the deaths Turnus dealt with his
sword
that day, and who each warrior was, that he sent down
to Orcus,
and open the lips of mighty war with me,
since, goddesses, you remember, and have the power to
tell:
There was a turret, tall to look at, with high
access-ways,
and a good position, that all the Italians tried with
utmost power
to storm, and to dislodge with the utmost power of
their efforts:
the Trojans in turn defended themselves with stones
and hurled showers of missiles through the open
loopholes.
Turnus was first to throw a blazing torch and root the
flames
in its flank, that, fanned by a strong wind, seized
the planking, and clung to the entrances they
devoured.
The anxious men inside were afraid, and tried in vain
to escape disaster. While they clung together and
retreated
to the side free from damage, the turret suddenly
collapsed, and the whole sky echoed to the crash.
Half-dead they fell to earth, the huge mass following,
pierced by their own weapons, and their chests impaled
on the harsh wood. Only Helenor and Lycus managed
to escape: Helenor being in the prime of youth, one
whom a Licymnian slave had secretly borne to the
Maeonian king,
and sent to Troy, with weapons he’d been forbidden,
lightly armed with naked blade, and anonymous white
shield.
When he found himself in the midst of Turnus’s
thousands,
Latin ranks standing to right and left of him,
as a wild creature, hedged in by a close circle of
hunters,
rages against theirs weapons, and hurls itself,
consciously,
to death, and is carried by its leap on to the hunting
spears,
so the youth rushed to his death among the enemy,
and headed for where the weapons appeared thickest.
But Lycus, quicker of foot, darting among the enemy
and their arms reached the wall, and tried to grasp
the high parapet with his hands, to reach his
comrades’ grasp.
Turnus following him closely on foot, with his spear,
taunted in triumph: ‘Madman, did you hope to escape
my reach?’ He seized him, there and then, as he hung,
and pulled him down, with a large piece of the wall,
like an eagle, carrier of Jove’s lightning bolt,
soaring high,
lifting a hare or the snow-white body of a swan in its
talons,
or a wolf, Mars’s creature, snatching a lamb from the
fold,
that its mother searches for endlessly bleating. A
shout rose
on all sides: the Rutulians drove forwards, some
filling
the ditches with mounds of earth, others throwing
burning brands
onto the roofs. Ilioneus felled Lucetius with a rock,
a vast fragment
of the hillside, as he neared the gate, carrying fire,
Liger
killed Emathion, Asilas killed Corynaeus, the first
skilled
with the javelin, the other with deceptive long-range
arrows:
Caenus felled Ortygius, Turnus victorious Caeneus, and
Itys
and Clonius, Dioxippus and Promolus, and Sagaris, and
Idas
as he stood on the highest tower, and Capys killed
Privernus.
Themillas had grazed him slightly first with his
spear, foolishly
he threw his shield down, and placed his hand on the
wound:
so the arrow winged silently, fixed itself deep in his
left side,
and, burying itself within, tore the breathing
passages
with a lethal wound. Arcens son stood there too in
glorious
armour, his cloak embroidered with scenes, bright with
Spanish blue,
a youth of noble features, whom his father Arcens had
sent,
reared in Mars’s grove by Symaethus’s streams,
where the rich and gracious altars of Palicus stand:
Mezentius, dropping his spears, whirled a whistling
sling
on its tight thong, three times round his head, and
split
his adversary’s forehead open in the middle, with
the now-molten lead, stretching him full length in the
deep sand.
BkIX:590-637
Ascanius (Iulus) in Battle
Then they say Ascanius first aimed his swift arrows
in war, used till now to terrify wild creatures in
flight,
and with his hand he felled brave Numanus,
who was surnamed Remulus, and had
lately won Turnus’s sister as his wife.
Numanus marched ahead of the front rank,
shouting words that were fitting and unfitting
to repeat, his heart swollen with new-won royalty
and boasting loudly of his greatness:
‘Twice conquered Trojans aren’t you ashamed to be
besieged
and shut behind ramparts again, fending off death with
walls?
Behold, these are the men who’d demand our brides
through war!
What god, what madness has driven you to Italy?
Here are no Atrides, no Ulysses, maker of fictions:
a race from hardy stock, we first bring our newborn
sons
to the river, and toughen them with the water’s fierce
chill:
as children they keep watch in the chase, and weary
the forest,
their play is to wheel their horses and shoot arrows
from the bow:
but patient at work, and used to little, our young men
tame the earth with the hoe, or shake cities in
battle.
All our life we’re abraded by iron: we goad our
bullocks’
flanks with a reversed spear, and slow age
doesn’t weaken our strength of spirit, or alter our
vigour:
we set a helmet on our white hairs, and delight
in collecting fresh spoils, and living on plunder.
You wear embroidered saffron and gleaming purple,
idleness pleases you, you delight in the enjoyment of
dance,
and your tunics have sleeves, and your hats have
ribbons.
O truly you Phrygian women, as you’re not Phrygian
men,
run over the heights of Dindymus, where a double-reed
makes music for accustomed ears. The timbrels call to
you,
and the Berecynthian boxwood flute of the Mother of
Ida:
leave weapons to men and abandon the sword.’
Ascanius did not tolerate such boastful words and dire warnings,
but facing him, fitted an arrow to the horsehair
string, and,
straining his arms apart, paused, and first prayed
humbly to Jove
making these vows: ‘All-powerful Jupiter, assent to my
bold attempt.
I myself will bring gifts each year to your temple,
and I’ll place before your altar a snow-white bullock
with gilded forehead, carrying his head as high as his
mother,
already butting with his horns, and scattering sand
with his hooves.’
The Father heard, and thundered on the left
from a clear sky, as one the fatal bow twanged.
The taut arrow sped onwards with a dreadful hiss,
and passed through Remulus’s brow, and split the
hollow
temples with its steel. ‘Go on, mock at virtue with
proud words!
This is the reply the twice-conquered Phrygians send
the Rutulians’:
Ascanius said nothing more. The Trojans followed this
with cheers, shouted for joy, and raised their spirits
to the skies.
BkIX:638-671
Apollo Speaks to Iulus
Now, by chance, long-haired Apollo, seated in the
cloudy
skies, looked down on the Italian ranks and the town,
and spoke to the victorious Iulus as follows:
‘Blessings on your fresh courage, boy, scion of gods
and ancestor of gods yet to be, so it is man rises
to the stars. All the wars that destiny might bring
will rightly cease under the rule of Assaracus’s
house,
Troy does not limit you.’ With this he launched
himself
from high heaven, parted the living air, and found
Ascanius: then changed the form of his features
to old Butes. He was once armour-bearer to Trojan
Anchises, and faithful guardian of the threshold:
then Ascanius’s father made him the boy’s companion.
As he walked Apollo was like the old man in every way,
in voice and colouring, white hair, and clanging of
harsh
weapons, and he spoke these words to the ardent Iulus:
‘Enough, son of Aeneas, that Numanus has fallen to
your bow
and is un-avenged. Mighty Apollo grants you this first
glory,
and does not begrudge you your like weapons:
but avoid the rest of the battle, boy.’ So Apollo
spoke and in mid-speech left mortal sight
and vanished far from men’s eyes into clear air.
The Trojan princes recognised the god and his
celestial
weapons, and heard his quiver rattling as he flew.
So, given the god’s words and his divine will, they
stopped
Ascanius, eager for the fight, while themselves
returning
to the battle, and openly putting their lives at risk.
The clamour rang through the towers along the whole
wall,
they bent their bows quickly and whirled their slings.
The whole earth was strewn with spears: shields and
hollow
helmets clanged as they clashed together, the battle
grew fierce:
vast as a rainstorm from the west, lashing the ground
beneath watery Auriga, and dense as the hail the
clouds hurl
into the waves, when Jupiter, bristling with
southerlies,
twirls the watery tempest, and bursts the sky’s
cavernous vapours.
BkIX:672-716
Turnus at the Trojan Gates
Pandarus and Bitias, sons of Alcanor from Ida, whom
Iaera
the wood-nymph bore in Jupiter’s grove, youths tall
as the pine-trees on their native hills, threw open
the gate
entrusted to them by their leader’s command, and,
relying on
their weapons, drew the Rutulian enemy within the
walls.
They themselves stood in the gate, in front of the
towers to right
and left, steel armoured, with plumes waving on their
noble heads:
just as twin oaks rise up into the air, by flowing
rivers,
on the banks of the Po, or by delightful Athesis,
lifting
their shaggy heads to the sky, and nodding their tall
crowns.
When they saw the entrance clear the Rutulians rushed
through.
At once Quercens and Aquicolus, handsome in his
armour,
Tmarus, impulsive at heart, and Haemon, a son of Mars,
were routed with all their Rutulian ranks, and took to
their heels,
or laid down their lives on the very threshold of the
gate.
Then the anger grew fiercer in their fighting spirits,
and soon the Trojans gathering massed in the same
place,
and dared to fight hand to hand, and advance further outside.
The news reached Turnus, the Rutulian leader, as he
raged
and troubled the lines in a distant part of the field,
that the enemy,
hot with fresh slaughter, were laying their doors wide
open.
He left what he had begun, and, roused to savage fury,
he ran towards the Trojan gate, and the proud
brothers.
And first he brought Antiphates down with a spear
throw,
(since he was first to advance), bastard son of noble
Sarpedon
by a Theban mother: the Italian cornel-wood shaft flew
through
the clear air and, fixing in his belly, ran deep up
into his chest:
the hollow of the dark wound released a foaming flow,
and the metal became warm in the pierced lung.
Then he overthrew Meropes and Erymas with his hand,
and then Aphidnus, then Bitias, fire in his eyes, clamour
in his heart, not to a spear (he would never have lost
his life
to a spear) but a javelin arrived with a great hiss,
hurled
and driven like a thunderbolt, that neither two bulls’
hides
nor the faithful breastplate with double scales of
gold
could resist: the mighty limbs collapsed and fell,
earth groaned and the huge shield clanged above him.
So a rock pile sometimes falls on Baiae’s Euboic
shore,
first constructed of huge blocks, then toppled into
the sea:
as it falls it trails havoc behind, tumbles into the
shallows
and settles in the depths: the sea swirls in
confusion,
and the dark sand rises upwards, then Procida’s
lofty island trembles at the sound and Ischia’s isle’s
harsh floor, laid down over Typhoeus, at Jove’s
command.
BkIX:717-755
The Death of Pandarus
At this Mars, powerful in war, gave the Latins
strength
and courage, and twisted his sharp goad in their
hearts,
and sent Rout and dark Fear against the Trojans.
Given the chance for action, the Latins came together
from every side, and the god of battle possessed their
souls.
Pandarus, seeing his brother’s fallen corpse, and
which side
fortune was on, and what fate was driving events,
pushed with a mighty heave of his broad shoulders
and swung the gate on its hinges, leaving many a comrade
locked outside the wall in the cruel conflict: but the
rest
he greeted as they rushed in and shut in there, with
himself,
foolishly, not seeing the Rutulian king bursting
through
among the mass, freely closing him inside the town,
like a huge tiger among a helpless herd.
At once fresh fire flashed from Turnus’s eyes
his weapons clashed fearfully, the blood-red plumes
on his helmet quivered, and lightning glittered from
his shield.
In sudden turmoil the sons of Aeneas recognised that
hated form
and those huge limbs. Then great Pandarus sprang
forward,
blazing with anger at his brother’s death, shouting:
This is not Queen Amata’s palace, given in dowry, or
the heart
of Ardea, surrounding Turnus with his native walls.
You see an enemy camp: you can’t escape from here.’
Turnus, smiling, his thoughts calm, replied to him:
‘Come then, if there’s courage in your heart, close
with me:
you can go tell
Priam that, here too, you found an Achilles.’
He spoke. Pandarus, straining with all his force,
hurled
his spear rough with knots and un-stripped bark:
the wind took it, Saturnian Juno deflected
the imminent blow, and the spear stuck fast in the
gate.
Turnus cried: ‘But you’ll not escape this weapon
my right arm wields with power, the source of this
weapon
and wound is not such as you.’: and he towered up, his
sword
lifted, and, with the blade, cleft the forehead in two
between
the temples, down to the beardless jaw, in an evil
wound.
There was a crash: the ground shook under the vast
weight.
Pandarus, dying, lowered his failing limbs and
brain-spattered
weapons to the ground, and his skull split in half
hung down on either side over both his shoulders.
BkIX:756-787
Turnus Slaughters the Trojans
The Trojans turned and fled in sudden terror,
and if Turnus had thought at once to burst the bolts
by force, and let in his comrades through the gates,
that would have been the end of the war and the
nation.
But rage and insane desire for slaughter drove him,
passionate, against the enemy. First he caught Phaleris
and Gyges whom he hamstrung, then flung their spears,
which he seized, at the backs of the fleeing crowd.
Juno aided him in strength and spirit. He sent
Halys and Phegeus, his shield pierced, to join them,
then Alcander and Halius, Noemon and Prytanis
unawares, as they roused those on the walls to battle.
As Lynceus calling to his comrades moved towards him,
he anticipated him with a stroke of his glittering
sword
from the right-hand rampart, Lynceus’s head, severed
by the single blow at close quarters, fell to the
ground
with the helmet some distance away. Then Amycus,
that threat to wild creatures, than whom none was
better
at coating spears and arming steel with poison,
and Clytius, son of Aeolus, and Cretheus, friend to
the Muses,
Cretheus the Muses’ follower, to whom song and lyre
and striking measures on the strings were always a
delight,
always he sang of horses, of soldiers’ weapons and
battles.
At last the Trojan leaders, Mnestheus and brave
Serestus,
hearing of this slaughter of their men, arrived to see
their troops scattered and the enemy within.
Mnestheus shouted: ‘Where are you running to, off
where?
What other walls or battlements do you have, but
these?
O citizens, shall one man, hemmed in on all sides by
ramparts,
cause such carnage through this our city, and go
unpunished?
Shall he send so many of our noblest youths to Orcus?
Cowards, have you no pity, no shame, for your wretched
country, for your ancient gods, for great Aeneas?’
BkIX:788-818
Turnus Is Driven Off
Inflamed by such words they were strengthened, and
they halted,
densely packed. Turnus little by little retreated from
the fight,
heading for the river, and a place embraced by the
waves.
The Trojans pressed towards him more fiercely, with a
great clamour,
and massed together, as a crowd of hunters with
levelled spears
close in on a savage lion: that, fearful but fierce,
glaring in anger,
gives ground, though fury and courage won’t let it
turn its back,
nor will men and spears allow it to attack, despite
its wish.
So Turnus wavering retraced his steps
cautiously, his mind seething with rage.
Even then he charged amongst the enemy twice,
and twice sent them flying a confused rabble along the
walls:
but the whole army quickly gathered en masse
from the camp,
and Saturnian Juno didn’t dare empower him against
them,
since Jupiter sent Iris down through the air from
heaven,
carrying no gentle commands for his sister, if Turnus
did not leave
the high Trojan ramparts. Therefore the warrior,
overwhelmed
by so many missiles hurled from every side, couldn’t
so much as
hold his own with shield and sword-arm. The helmet
protecting
his hollow temples rang with endless noise, the solid
bronze gaped
from the hail of stones, his crest was torn off, and
his shield-boss
couldn’t withstand the blows: the Trojans, with deadly
Mnestheus
himself, redoubled their rain of javelins. Then the
sweat ran all over
Turnus’s body, and flowed in a dark stream (he’d no
time to breathe)
and an agonised panting shook his exhausted body.
Then, finally, leaping headlong, he plunged down into
the river
in full armour. The Tiber welcomed him to its yellow
flood
as he fell, lifted him on its gentle waves, and,
washing away
the blood, returned him, overjoyed, to his friends.
BkX:1-95
The Council of the Gods
Meanwhile the palace of all-powerful Olympus
was opened wide, and the father of the gods, and king
of men,
called a council in his starry house, from whose
heights
he gazed at every land, at Trojan camp, and Latin
people.
They took their seats in the hall with doors at east
and west,
and he began: ‘Great sky-dwellers, why have you
changed
your decision, competing now, with such opposing
wills?
I commanded Italy not to make war on the Trojans.
Why this conflict, against my orders? What fear
has driven them both to take up arms and incite
violence?
The right time for fighting will arrive (don’t bring
it on)
when fierce Carthage, piercing the Alps, will launch
great destruction on the Roman strongholds:
then it will be fine to compete in hatred, and ravage
things.
Now let it alone, and construct a treaty, gladly, as
agreed.’
Jupiter’s speech was brief as this: but golden Venus’s
reply was not:
‘O father, eternal judge of men and things
(for who else is there I can make my appeal to now?)
you see how the Rutulians exult, how Turnus is drawn
by noble horses through the crowd, and, fortunate in
war,
rushes on proudly. Barred defences no longer protect the
Trojans:
rather they join battle within the gates, and on the
rampart
walls themselves, and the ditches are filled with
blood.
Aeneas is absent, unaware of this. Will you never let
the siege
be raised? A second enemy once again menaces and
harasses
new-born Troy, and again, from Aetolian Arpi, a
Diomede rises.
I almost think the wound I had from him still awaits
me:
your child merely delays the thrust of that mortal’s
weapon.
If the Trojans sought Italy without your consent, and
despite
your divine will, let them expiate the sin: don’t
grant them help.
But if they’ve followed the oracles of powers above
and below,
why should anyone change your orders now, and forge
new destinies?
Shall I remind you of their fleet, burned on the
shores of Eryx?
Or the king of the storms and his furious winds roused
from Aeolia, or Iris sent down from the clouds?
Now Juno even stirs the dead (the only lot still left
to use)
and Allecto too, suddenly loosed on the upper world,
runs wild through all the Italian cities.
I no longer care about Empire. Though that was my hope
while fortune was kind. Let those you wish to win
prevail.
Father, if there’s no land your relentless queen will
grant the Trojans,
I beg, by the smoking ruins of shattered Troy, let me
bring
Ascanius, untouched, from among the weapons: let my
grandson live.
Aeneas, yes, may be tossed on unknown seas, and go
wherever Fortune grants a road: but let me have the
power
to protect the child and remove him from the fatal
battle.
Amathus is mine, high Paphos and Cythera are mine,
and Idalia’s temple: let him ground his weapons there,
and live out inglorious years. Command that Carthage,
with her great power, crush Italy: then there’ll be
no obstacle to the Tyrian cities. What was the use in
their escaping
the plague of war, fleeing through the heart of Argive
flames,
enduring the dangers at sea, and in desolate lands,
as long as the Trojans seek Latium and Troy re-born?
Wouldn’t it have been better to build on those last
embers
of their country, on the soil where Troy once stood?
Give Xanthus and Simois back to these unfortunates,
father, I beg you, and let the Trojans re-live the
course of Ilium.’
Then royal Juno goaded to savage frenzy, cried out:
‘Why do you make me shatter my profound silence,
and utter words of suffering to the world?
Did any god or man force Aeneas to make war
and attack King Latinus as an enemy?
He sought Italy prompted by the Fates (so be it)
impelled by Cassandra’s ravings: was he urged by me
to leave the camp, and trust his life to the winds?
To leave the outcome of war, and their defences to a
child:
to disturb Tuscan good faith, and peaceful tribes?
What goddess, what harsh powers of mine drove him
to harm? Where is Juno in this, or Iris sent from the
clouds?
If it’s shameful that the Italians surround new-born
Troy
with flames, and Turnus make a stand on his native
soil,
he whose ancestor is Pilumnus, divine Venilia his
mother:
what of the Trojans with smoking brands using force
against the Latins,
planting their yoke on others’ fields and driving off
their plunder?
Deciding whose daughters to marry, and dragging
betrothed girls
from their lover’s arms, offering peace with one hand,
but decking their ships with weapons? You can steal
Aeneas away from Greek hands and grant them fog and
empty air
instead of a man, and turn their fleet of ships into
as many nymphs:
is it wrong then for me to have given some help to the
Rutulians?
“Aeneas is absent, unaware of this.” Let him be absent
and unaware.
Paphos, Idalium, and high Cythera are yours? Why
meddle then
with a city pregnant with wars and fierce hearts?
Is it I who try to uproot Troy’s fragile state from
its base?
Is it I? Or he who exposed the wretched Trojans to the
Greeks?
What reason was there for Europe and Asia to rise up
in arms, and dissolve their alliance, through
treachery?
Did I lead the Trojan adulterer to conquer Sparta?
Did I give him weapons, or foment a war because of his
lust?
Then, you should have feared for your own: now, too
late,
you raise complaints without justice, and provoke
useless quarrels.’
BkX:96-117
Jupiter Leaves the Outcome to Fate
So Juno argued, and all the divinities of heaven
murmured
their diverse opinions, as when rising gales murmur in
the woods
and roll out their secret humming, warning sailors of
coming storms.
Then the all-powerful father, who has prime authority
over things,
began (the noble hall of the gods fell silent as he
spoke,
earth trembled underground, high heaven fell silent,
the Zephyrs too were stilled, the sea calmed its
placid waters).
‘Take my words to heart and fix them there.
Since Italians and Trojans are not allowed to join
in alliance, and your disagreement has no end,
I will draw no distinction between them, Trojan or Rutulian,
whatever luck each has today, whatever hopes they
pursue,
whether the camp’s under siege, because of Italy’s
fortunes,
or Troy’s evil wanderings and unhappy prophecies.
Nor will I absolve the Rutulians. What each has
instigated
shall bring its own suffering and success. Jupiter is
king of all,
equally: the fates will determine the way.’ He nodded,
swearing it by the waters of his Stygian brother,
by the banks that seethe with pitch, and the black
chasm
and made all Olympus tremble at his nod.
So the speaking ended. Jupiter rose from his golden
throne,
and the divinities led him to the threshold, among
them.
BkX:118-162
Aeneas Returns From Pallantium
Meanwhile the Rutulians gathered round every gate,
to slaughter the men, and circle the walls with
flames,
while Aeneas’s army was held inside their stockade,
imprisoned, with no hope of escape. Wretchedly they
stood
there on the high turrets, and circling the walls, a
sparse ring.
Asius, son of Imbrasus, Thymoetes, son of Hicetaon,
the two Assaraci, and Castor with old Thymbris were
the front rank:
Sarpedon’s two brothers, Clarus and Thaemon, from
noble Lycia,
were at their side. Acmon of Lyrnesus, no less huge
than his father
Clytius, or his brother Mnestheus, lifted a giant
rock,
no small fragment of a hillside, straining his whole
body.
Some tried to defend with javelins, some with stones,
hurling fire and fitting arrows to the bow.
See, the Trojan boy, himself, in their midst,
Venus’s special care, his handsome head uncovered,
sparkling like a jewel set in yellow gold
adorning neck or forehead, gleaming like ivory,
inlaid skilfully in boxwood or Orician terebinth:
his milk-white neck, and the circle of soft gold
clasping it, received his flowing hair.
Your great-hearted people saw you too Ismarus,
dipping reed-shafts in venom, and aiming them
to wound, from a noble Lydian house, there where men
till rich fields, that the Pactolus waters with gold.
There was
Mnestheus as well, whom yesterday’s glory, of beating
Turnus back from the wall’s embankment, exalted
highly,
and Capys: from him the name of the Campanian city
comes.
Men were fighting each other in the conflict of bitter
war:
while Aeneas, by night, was cutting through the waves.
When, on leaving Evander and entering the Tuscan camp,
he had met the king, announced his name and race,
the help he sought, and that he himself offered,
what forces Mezentius was gathering to him,
and the violence in Turnus’s heart, and then had
warned
how little faith can be placed in human powers,
and had added his entreaties, Tarchon, joined forces
with him
without delay, and agreed a treaty: then fulfilling
their fate
the Lydian people took to their ships by divine
command,
trusting to a ‘foreign’ leader. Aeneas’s vessel took
the van,
adorned with Phrygian lions below her beak, Mount Ida
towering above them, a delight to the exiled Trojans.
There great Aeneas sat and pondered the varying issues
of the war, and Pallas sticking close to his left
side, asked him
now about the stars, their path through the dark
night,
and now about his adventures on land and sea.
BkX:163-214
The Leaders of the Tuscan Fleet
Now, goddesses, throw Helicon wide open: begin your
song
of the company that followed Aeneas from Tuscan
shores,
arming the ships and riding over the seas.
Massicus cut the waters at their head, in the
bronze-armoured Tiger,
a band of a thousand warriors under him, leaving the
walls
of Clusium, and the city of Cosae, whose weapons are
arrows,
held in light quivers over their shoulders, and deadly
bows.
Grim Abas was with him: whose ranks were all
splendidly
armoured, his ship aglow with a gilded figure of
Apollo.
Populonia, the mother-city, had given him six hundred
of her offspring, all expert in war, and the island of
Ilva, rich
with the Chalybes’ inexhaustible mines, three hundred.
Asilas was third, that interpreter of gods and men,
to whom the entrails of beasts were an open book, the
stars
in the sky, the tongues of birds, the prophetic bolts
of lightning.
He hurried his thousand men to war, dense ranks
bristling with spears.
Pisa ordered them to obey, city of Alphean foundation,
set on Etruscan soil. Then the most handsome Astur
followed, Astur relying on horse and iridescent
armour.
Three hundred more (minded to follow as one) were
added
by those with their home in Caere, the fields
by the Minio, ancient Pyrgi, unhealthy Graviscae.
I would not forget you, Cunerus, in war the bravest
Ligurian leader, or you with your small company,
Cupavo,
on whose crest the swan plumes rose, a sign of your
father’s
transformation (Cupid, your and your mother’s crime).
For they say that Cycnus wept for his beloved
Phaethon,
singing amongst the poplar leaves, those shades of
Phaethon’s
sisters, consoling his sorrowful passion with the
Muse,
and drew white age over himself, in soft plumage,
relinquishing earth, and seeking the stars with song.
His son, Cupavo, drove on the mighty Centaur,
following
the fleet, with troops of his own age: the figurehead
towered
over the water, threatening from above to hurl a huge
rock
into the waves, the long keel ploughing through the
deep ocean.
Ocnus, also, called up troops from his native shores,
he, the son of Manto the prophetess and the Tuscan
river,
who gave you your walls, Mantua, and his mother’s name,
Mantua rich in ancestors, but not all of one race:
there were three races there, under each race four
tribes,
herself the head of the tribes, her strength from
Tuscan blood.
From there too Mezentius drove five hundred to arm
against him,
lead in pine warships through the sea by a figure, the
River Mincius,
the child of Lake Benacus, crowned with grey-green
reeds.
Aulestes ploughed on weightily, lashing the waves as
he surged
to the stroke of a hundred oars: the waters foamed as
the surface churned.
He sailed the huge Triton, whose conch shell alarmed
the blue waves,
it’s carved prow displayed a man’s form down to the
waist,
as it sailed on, its belly ending in a sea-creature’s,
while
under the half-man’s chest the waves murmured with foam.
Such was the count of princes chosen to sail in the
thirty ships
to the aid of Troy, and plough the salt plains with
their bronze rams.
BkX:215-259
The Nymphs of Cybele
Now daylight had vanished from the sky and kindly
Phoebe
was treading mid-heaven with her nocturnal team:
Aeneas (since care allowed his limbs no rest) sat
there
controlling the helm himself, and tending the sails.
And see, in mid-course, a troop of his own friends
appeared: the nymphs, whom gracious Cybele
had commanded to be goddesses of the sea,
to be nymphs not ships, swam beside him and cut the
flood,
as many as the bronze prows that once lay by the
shore.
They knew the king from far off, and circled him
dancing:
and Cymodocea, following, most skilful of them in
speech,
caught at the stern with her right hand, lifted her
length herself,
and paddled along with her left arm under the silent
water.
Then she spoke to the bemused man, so: ‘Are you awake,
Aeneas,
child of the gods? Be awake: loose the sheets: make
full sail.
We are your fleet, now nymphs of the sea, once pines
of Ida,
from her sacred peak. Against our will we broke our
bonds
when the treacherous Rutulian was pressing us hard,
with fire and sword, and we have sought you over the
waves.
Cybele, the Mother, refashioned us in this form, from
pity,
granting that we became goddesses, spending life under
the waves.
Now, your son Ascanius is penned behind walls and
ditches,
among weapons, and Latins bristling for a fight.
The Arcadian Horse, mixed with brave Etruscans already
hold
the positions commanded: while Turnus’s certain
purpose
is to send his central squadrons against them, lest
they reach the camp.
Up then, in the rising dawn, call your friends with an
order
to arm, and take your invincible shield that the lord
of fire
gave you himself, that he circled with a golden rim.
If you don’t think my words idle, tomorrow’s light
will gaze on a mighty heap of Rutulian dead.’
She spoke, and, knowing how, with her right hand,
thrust the high stern on, as she left: it sped through
the waves
faster than a javelin, or an arrow equalling the wind.
Then the others quickened speed. Amazed, the Trojan
son
of Anchises marvelled, yet his spirits lifted at the
omen.
Then looking up to the arching heavens he briefly
prayed:
‘Kind Cybele, Mother of the gods, to whom Dindymus,
tower-crowned cities, and harnessed lions are dear,
be my leader now in battle, duly further this omen,
and be with your Trojans, goddess, with your favouring
step.’
He prayed like this, and meanwhile the wheeling day
rushed in with a flood of light, chasing away the
night:
first he ordered his comrades to obey his signals,
prepare their spirits for fighting, and ready
themselves for battle.
BkX:260-307
Aeneas Reaches Land
Now, he stood on the high stern, with the Trojans and
his fort
in view, and at once lifted high the blazing shield,
in his left hand.
The Trojans on the walls raised a shout to the sky,
new hope
freshened their fury, they hurled their spears, just
as Strymonian
cranes under dark clouds, flying through the air, give
noisy
cries, and fleeing the south wind, trail their
clamour.
This seemed strange to the Rutulian king and the
Italian
leaders, until looking behind them they saw the fleet
turned towards shore, and the whole sea alive with
ships.
Aeneas’s crest blazed, and a dark flame streamed from
the top,
and the shield’s gold boss spouted floods of fire:
just as when comets glow, blood-red and ominous in the
clear night,
or when fiery Sirius, bringer of drought and plague
to frail mortals, rises and saddens the sky with
sinister light.
Still, brave Turnus did not lose hope of seizing the
shore first,
and driving the approaching enemy away from land.
And he raised his men’s spirits as well, and chided
them:
‘What you asked for in prayer is here, to break
through
with the sword. Mars himself empowers your hands, men!
Now let each remember his wife and home, now recall
the great actions, the glories of our fathers. And
let’s
meet them in the waves, while they’re unsure and
their first steps falter as they land. Fortune favours
the brave.’
So he spoke, and asked himself whom to lead in attack
and whom he could trust the siege of the walls.
Meanwhile Aeneas landed his allies from the tall ships
using gangways. Many waited for the spent wave to ebb
and trusted themselves to the shallow water: others
rowed.
Tarchon, noting a strand where no waves heaved
and no breaking waters roared, but the sea swept in
smoothly with the rising tide, suddenly turned
his prow towards it, exhorting his men:
‘Now, O chosen band, bend to your sturdy oars:
lift, drive your boats, split this enemy shore
with your beaks, let the keel itself plough a furrow.
I don’t shrink from wrecking the ship in such a
harbour
once I’ve seized the land.’ When Tarchon had finished
speaking so, his comrades rose to the oars and drove
their foam-wet ships onto the Latin fields,
till the rams gained dry ground and all the hulls
came to rest unharmed. But not yours, Tarchon,
since, striking the shallows, she hung on an uneven
ridge
poised for a while, unbalanced, and, tiring the waves,
broke and pitched her crew into the water,
broken oars and floating benches obstructed them
and at the same time the ebbing waves sucked at their
feet.
BkX:308-425
The Pitched Battle
But the long delay didn’t keep Turnus back: swiftly he
moved
his whole front against the Trojans, and stood against
them on the shore.
The trumpets sounded. Aeneas, first, attacked the
ranks
of farmers, as a sign of battle, and toppled the
Latins,
killing Theron, noblest of men, who unprompted
sought out Aeneas. The sword drank from his side,
pierced
through the bronze joints, and the tunic scaled with
gold.
Then he struck Lichas, who had been cut from the womb
of his dead mother and consecrated to you, Phoebus:
why
was he allowed to evade the blade at birth? Soon
after,
he toppled in death tough Cisseus, and huge Gyas, as
they
laid men low with their clubs: Hercules’s weapons
were no help, nor their stout hands nor Melampus their
father,
Hercules’s friend, while earth granted him heavy
labours.
See, Aeneas hurled his javelin as Pharus uttered
words in vain, and planted it in his noisy gullet.
You too, unhappy Cydon, as you followed Clytius, your
new
delight, his cheeks golden with youthful down, you too
would have fallen beneath the Trojan hand, and lain
there,
wretched, free of that love of youth that was ever
yours,
had the massed ranks of your brothers, not opposed
him,
the children of Phorcus, seven in number, seven the
spears
they threw: some glanced idly from helmet and shield,
some gentle Venus deflected, so they only grazed
his body. Aeneas spoke to faithful Achates:
‘Supply me with spears, those that lodged in the
bodies
of Greeks on Ilium’s plain: my right hand won’t hurl
any at these Rutulians in vain.’ Then he grasped a
great javelin
and threw it: flying on, it crashed through the bronze
of Maeon’s shield, smashing breastplate and breast in
one go.
His brother Alcanor was there, supporting his brother
with his right arm as he fell: piercing the arm, the
spear
flew straight on, keeping its blood-wet course,
and the lifeless arm hung by the shoulder tendons.
Then Numitor, ripping the javelin from his brother’s
body,
aimed at Aeneas: but he could not strike at him
in return, and grazed great Achates’s thigh.
Now Clausus of Cures approached, relying on his
youthful
strength, and hit Dryopes under the chin from a
distance away,
with his rigid spear, driven with force, and, piercing
his throat
as he spoke, took his voice and life together: he hit
the ground
with his forehead, and spewed thick blood from his
mouth.
Clausus toppled, in various ways, three Thracians too,
of Boreas’s exalted race, and three whom Idas their father
and their native Ismarus sent out. Halaesus ran to
join him,
and the Auruncan Band, and Messapus, Neptune’s scion,
with his glorious horses. Now one side, now the other
strained
to push back the enemy: the struggle was at the very
threshold of Italy. As warring winds, equal in force
and purpose, rise to do battle in the vast heavens
and between them neither yield either clouds or sea:
the battle is long in doubt, all things stand locked
in conflict:
so the ranks of Troy clashed with the Latin ranks,
foot against foot, man pressed hard against man.
But in another place, where a torrent had rolled and
scattered
boulders, with bushes torn from the banks, far and
wide,
Pallas, seeing his Arcadians unused to charging in
ranks
on foot turning to run from the pursuing Latins,
because
the nature of the ground, churned by water, had
persuaded them to leave
their horses for once, now with prayers, and now with
bitter words,
the sole recourse in time of need, fired their
courage:
‘Friends, where are you running to? Don’t trust to
flight,
by your brave deeds, by King Evander’s name,
and the wars you’ve won, and my hopes, now seeking
to emulate my father’s glory. We must hack a way
through
the enemy with our swords. Your noble country calls
you
and your leader Pallas, to where the ranks of men are
densest.
No gods attack us. We are mortals driven before a
mortal foe:
we have as many lives, as many hands as they do.
Look, the ocean closes us in with a vast barrier of
water,
there’s no land left to flee to: shall we seek the
seas or Troy?’
He spoke, and rushed into the midst of the
close-packed enemy.
Lagus met him first, drawn there by a hostile fate.
As he tore at a huge weight of stone, Pallas pierced
him
where the spine parts the ribs in two, with the spear
he hurled,
and plucked out the spear again as it lodged in the
bone.
Nor did Hisbo surprise him from above, hopeful though
he was,
since, as he rushed in, raging recklessly at his
friend’s cruel death,
Pallas intercepted him first, and buried his sword in
his swollen chest.
Next Pallas attacked Sthenius, and Anchemolus, of
Rhoetus’s
ancient line, who had dared to violate his
step-mother’s bed.
You, twin brothers, also fell in the Rutulian fields,
Laridus
and Thymber, the sons of Daucus, so alike you were
indistinguishable to kin, and a dear confusion to your
parents:
but now Pallas has given you a cruel separateness.
For Evander’s sword swept off your head, Thymber:
while your right hand, Laridus, sought its owner,
and the dying fingers twitched and clutched again at
the sword.
Fired by his rebuke and seeing his glorious deeds, a
mixture
of remorse and pain roused the Arcadians against their
enemy.
Then Pallas pierced Rhoetus as he shot past in his
chariot.
Ilus gained that much time and that much respite,
since he had launched his solid spear at Ilus from far
off,
which Rhoetus received, as he fled from you, noble
Teuthras
and your brother Tyres, and rolling from the chariot
he struck the Rutulian fields with his heels as he
died.
As in summer, when a hoped-for wind has risen,
the shepherd sets scattered fires in the woods,
the spaces between catch light, and Vulcan’s bristling
ranks extend over the broad fields, while the shepherd
sits
and gazes down in triumph over the joyful flames:
so all your comrades’ courage united as one
to aid you Pallas. But Halaesus, fierce in war,
advanced against them and gathered himself behind his
shield.
He killed Ladon, Pheres and Demodocus, struck off
Strymonius’s right hand, raised towards his throat,
with his shining sword, and smashed Thoas in the face
with a stone, scattering bone mixed with blood and
brain.
Halaesus’s father, prescient of fate, had hidden him
in the woods:
but when, in white-haired old age, the father closed
his eyes in death,
the Fates laid their hands on Halaesus and doomed him
to Evander’s spear. Pallas attacked him first praying:
‘Grant luck to the spear I aim to throw, father Tiber,
and a path through sturdy Halaesus’s chest. Your oak
shall have the these weapons and the soldier’s
spoils.’
The god heard his prayer: while Halaesus covered Imaon
he sadly exposed his unshielded chest to the Arcadian
spear.
BkX:426-509
The Death of Pallas
But Lausus, a powerful force in the war, would not
allow
his troops to be dismayed by the hero’s great
slaughter:
first he killed Abas opposite, a knotty obstacle in
the battle.
The youth of Arcadia fell, the Etruscans fell, and
you,
O Trojans, men not even destroyed by the Greeks.
The armies met, equal in leadership and strength:
the rear and front closed ranks, and the crush
prevented
weapons or hands from moving. Here, Pallas pressed and
urged,
there Lausus opposed him, not many years between them,
both of outstanding presence, but Fortune had denied
them
a return to their country. Yet the king of great
Olympos
did not allow them to meet face to face: their fate
was waiting for them soon, at the hand of a greater
opponent.
Meanwhile Turnus’s gentle sister Juturna adjured him
to help
Lausus, and he parted the ranks between in his swift
chariot.
When he saw his comrades he cried: ‘It’s time to hold
back
from the fight: it’s for me alone to attack Pallas,
Pallas
is mine alone: I wish his father were here to see it.’
And his comrades drew back from the field as ordered.
When the Rutulians retired, then the youth, amazed at
that proud
command, marvelled at Turnus, casting his eyes over
the mighty body, surveying all of him from the
distance
with a fierce look, and answered the ruler’s words
with these:
‘I’ll soon be praised for taking rich spoils, or for a
glorious death:
my father is equal to either fate for me: away with
your threats.’
So saying he marched down the centre of the field:
the blood gathered, chill, in Arcadian hearts.
Turnus leapt from his chariot, preparing to close on
foot,
and the sight of the advancing Turnus, was no
different
than that of a lion, seeing from a high point a bull
far off
on the plain contemplating battle, and rushing down.
But Pallas came forward first, when he thought Turnus might
be within spear-throw, so that chance might help him,
in venturing
his unequal strength, and so he spoke to the mighty
heavens:
‘I pray you, Hercules, by my father’s hospitality and
the feast
to which you came as a stranger, assist my great
enterprise.
Let me strip the blood-drenched armour from his dying
limbs,
and let Turnus’s failing sight meet its conqueror.’
Hercules heard the youth, and stifled a heavy sigh
deep in his heart, and wept tears in vain.
Then Jupiter the father spoke to Hercules, his son,
with kindly words: ‘Every man has his day, the course
of life is brief and cannot be recalled: but virtue’s
task
is this, to increase fame by deeds. So many sons of
gods
fell beneath the high walls of Troy, yes, and my own
son
Sarpedon among them: fate calls even for Turnus,
and he too has reached the end of the years granted to
him.’
So he spoke, and turned his eyes from the Rutulian
fields.
Then Pallas threw his spear with all his might,
and snatched his gleaming sword from its hollow
sheath.
The shaft flew and struck Turnus, where the top of the
armour
laps the shoulder, and forcing a way through the rim
of his shield at last, even grazed his mighty frame.
At this, Turnus hurled his oak spear tipped
with sharp steel, long levelled at Pallas, saying:
‘See if this weapon of mine isn’t of greater
sharpness.’
The spear-head, with a quivering blow, tore through
the centre of his shield, passed through all the
layers
of iron, of bronze, all the overlapping bull’s-hide,
piercing the breastplate, and the mighty chest.
Vainly he pulled the hot spear from the wound:
blood and life followed, by one and the same path.
He fell in his own blood (his weapons clanged over
him)
and he struck the hostile earth in death with gory lips.
Then Turnus, standing over him, cried out:
‘Arcadians, take note, and carry these words of mine
to Evander: I return Pallas to him as he deserves.
I freely give whatever honours lie in a tomb, whatever
solace there is in burial. His hospitality to Aeneas
will cost him greatly.’ So saying he planted his left
foot on the corpse,
and tore away the huge weight of Pallas’s belt,
engraved
with the Danaids’ crime: that band of young men foully
murdered
on the same wedding night: the blood-drenched marriage
chambers:
that Clonus, son of Eurytus had richly chased in gold.
Now Turnus exulted at the spoil, and gloried in
winning.
Oh, human mind, ignorant of fate or fortune to come,
or of how to keep to the limits, exalted by favourable
events!
The time will come for Turnus when he’d prefer to have
bought
an untouched Pallas at great price, and will hate
those spoils
and the day. So his friends crowded round Pallas with
many
groans and tears, and carried him back, lying on his
shield.
O the great grief and glory in returning to your
father:
that day first gave you to warfare, the same day took
you from it,
while nevertheless you left behind vast heaps of
Rutulian dead!
BkX:510-605
Aeneas Rages In Battle
Now not merely a rumour of this great evil, but a more
trustworthy
messenger flew to Aeneas, saying that his men were a
hair’s breadth
from death, that it was time to help the routed
Trojans. Seeking you,
Turnus, you, proud of your fresh slaughter, he mowed
down
his nearest enemies, with the sword, and fiercely
drove a wide path
through the ranks with its blade. Pallas, Evander, all
was before
his eyes, the feast to which he had first come as a
stranger,
the right hands pledged in friendship. Then he
captured
four youths alive, sons of Sulmo, and as many reared
by Ufens, to sacrifice to the shades of the dead, and
sprinkle
the flames of the pyre with the prisoners’ blood.
Next he aimed a hostile spear at Magus from a
distance:
Magus moved in cleverly, and the spear flew over him,
quivering,
and he clasped the hero’s knees as a suppliant, and
spoke as follows:
‘I beg you, by your father’s shade, by your hope in
your boy
Iulus, preserve my life, for my son and my father.
I have a noble house: talents of chased silver lie
buried there:
I have masses of wrought and unwrought gold. Troy’s
victory
does not rest with me: one life will not make that
much difference.’
Aeneas replied to him in this way: ‘Keep those many
talents
of silver and gold you mention for your sons. Turnus,
before we spoke,
did away with the courtesies of war, the moment he
killed Pallas.
So my father Anchises’s spirit thinks, so does Iulus.’
Saying this he held the helmet with his left hand and,
bending
the suppliant’s neck backwards, drove in his sword to
the hilt.
Haemon’s son, a priest of Apollo and Diana, was not
far away,
the band with its sacred ribbons circling his temples,
and all
his robes and emblems shining white. Aeneas met him
and drove him
over the plain, then, standing over the fallen man,
killed him and cloaked
him in mighty darkness: Serestus collected and carried
off
his weapons on his shoulders, a trophy for you, King
Gradivus.
Caeculus, born of the race of Vulcan, and Umbro
who came from the Marsian hills restored order,
the Trojan raged against them: his sword sliced off
Anxur’s
left arm, it fell to the ground with the whole disc of
his shield
(Anxur had shouted some boast, trusting the power
of words, lifting his spirit high perhaps, promising
himself white-haired old age and long years):
then Tarquitus nearby, proud in his gleaming armour,
whom the nymph Dryope had born to Faunus of the woods,
exposed himself to fiery Aeneas. He, drawing back his
spear,
pinned the breastplate and the huge weight of shield
together:
then as the youth begged in vain, and tried to utter a
flow of words,
he struck his head to the ground and, rolling the warm
trunk over,
spoke these words above him, from a hostile heart:
‘Lie there now, one to be feared. No noble mother will
bury you
in the earth, nor weight your limbs with an ancestral
tomb:
you’ll be left for the carrion birds, or, sunk in the
abyss,
the flood will bear you, and hungry fish suck your
wounds.’
Then he caught up with Antaeus, and Lucas, in Turnus’s
front line, brave Numa and auburn Camers, son of noble
Volcens,
the wealthiest in Ausonian land, who ruled silent
Amyclae.
Once his sword was hot, victorious Aeneas raged
over the whole plain, like Aegeaon, who had a hundred
arms and a hundred hands they say, and breathed fire
from fifty chests and mouths, when he clashed
with as many like shields of his and drew as many
swords
against Jove’s lightning-bolts. See now he was headed
towards the four horse team of Niphaeus’s chariot
and the opposing front. And when the horses saw him
taking
great strides in his deadly rage, they shied and
galloped in fear,
throwing their master, and dragging the chariot to the
shore.
Meanwhile Lucagus and his brother Liger entered the
fray
in their chariot with two white horses: Liger handling
the horses’ reins, fierce Lucagus waving his naked
sword.
Aeneas could not tolerate such furious hot-headedness:
he rushed at them, and loomed up gigantic with
levelled spear.
Liger said to him: ‘These are not Diomedes’s horses
that you see, nor Achille’s chariot, nor Phrygia’s
plain:
now you’ll be dealt an end to your war and life.’
Such were the words that flew far, from foolish
Liger’s lips. But the Trojan hero did not ready
words in reply, he hurled his spear then against his
enemies.
While Lucagus urged on his horses, leaning forward
towards the spear’s blow, as, with left foot advanced,
he prepared himself for battle, the spear entered the
lower
rim of his bright shield, then pierced the left thigh:
thrown from the chariot he rolled on the ground in
death:
while noble Aeneas spoke bitter words to him:
‘Lucagus, it was not the flight of your horses in fear
that betrayed
your chariot,
or the enemy’s idle shadow that turned them:
it was you, leaping from the wheels, who relinquished
the reins.’
So saying he grasped at the chariot: the wretched
brother,
Liger, who had fallen as well, held, out his helpless
hands:
‘Trojan hero, by your own life, by your parents who
bore
such a son, take pity I beg you, without taking this
life away.’
As he begged more urgently, Aeaneas said: ‘Those were
not
the words you spoke before. Die and don’t let brother
desert brother.’
Then he sliced open his chest where the life is
hidden.
Such were the deaths the Trojan leader caused across
that plain, raging like a torrent of water or a dark
tempest. At last his child, Ascanius, and the men
who were besieged in vain, breaking free, left the
camp.
BkX:606-688
Juno Withdraws Turnus from the Fight
Meanwhile Jupiter, unasked, spoke to Juno:
‘O my sister, and at the same time my dearest wife,
as you thought (your judgement is not wrong)
it is Venus who sustains the Trojans’ power,
not their own right hands, so ready for war,
nor their fierce spirits, tolerant of danger.’
Juno spoke submissively to him: ‘O loveliest of
husbands
why do you trouble me, who am ill, and fearful of your
harsh commands? If my love had the power it once had,
that is my right, you, all-powerful, would surely not
deny me this, to withdraw Turnus from the conflict
and save him, unharmed, for his father, Daunus.
Let him die then, let him pay the Trojans in innocent
blood.
Yet he derives his name from our line: Pilumnus
was his ancestor four generations back, and often
weighted
your threshold with copious gifts from a lavish hand.’
The king of heavenly Olympus briefly replied to her
like this:
‘If your prayer is for reprieve from imminent death
for your doomed prince, and you understand I so ordain
it,
take Turnus away, in flight, snatch him from oncoming
fate:
there’s room for that much indulgence. But if thought
of any greater favour hides behind your prayers, and
you think
this whole war may be deflected or altered, you
nurture a vain hope.’
And Juno, replied, weeping: ‘Why should your mind not
grant
what your tongue withholds, and life be left to
Turnus?
Now, guiltless, a heavy doom awaits him or I stray
empty
of truth. Oh, that I might be mocked by false fears,
and that you, who are able to, might harbour kinder
speech!
When she had spoken these words, she darted down at
once
from high heaven through the air, driving a storm
before her,
and wreathed in cloud, and sought the ranks of Ilium
and the Laurentine camp. Then from the cavernous mist
the goddess decked out a weak and tenuous phantom,
in the likeness of Aeneas, with Trojan weapons (a
strange
marvel to behold), simulated his shield, and the
plumes
on his godlike head, gave it insubstantial speech,
gave it sound without mind, and mimicked the way
he walked: like shapes that flit, they say, after
death,
or dreams that in sleep deceive the senses.
And the phantom flaunted itself exultantly
in front of the leading ranks, provoking Turnus
with spear casts, and exasperating him with words.
Turnus ran at it, and hurled a hissing spear
from the distance: it turned its heels in flight.
Then, as Turnus thought that Aeneas had retreated
and conceded, and in his confusion clung to this idle
hope
in his mind, he cried: ‘Where are you off to, Aeneas?
Don’t desert your marriage pact: this hand of mine
will grant you the earth you looked for over the
seas.’
He pursued him, calling loudly, brandishing his naked
sword,
not seeing that the wind was carrying away his glory.
It chanced that the ship, in which King Osinius sailed
from Clusium’s shores, was moored to a high stone
pier,
with ladders released and gangway ready. The swift
phantom
of fleeing Aeneas sank into it to hide, and Turnus
followed
no less swiftly, conquering all obstacles and leapt
up the high gangway. He had barely reached the prow
when Saturn’s daughter snapped the cable,
and, snatching the ship, swept it over the waters.
Then the vague phantom no longer tried to hide
but, flying into the air, merged with a dark cloud.
Meanwhile Aeneas himself was challenging his missing
enemy
to battle: and sending many opposing warriors to their
deaths,
while the storm carried Turnus over the wide ocean.
Unaware of the truth, and ungrateful for his rescue,
he looked back and raised clasped hands and voice to
heaven:
‘All-powerful father, did you think me so worthy of
punishment,
did you intend me to pay such a price? Where am I
being taken?
From whom am I escaping? Why am I fleeing: how will I
return?
Will I see the walls and camp of Laurentium again?
What of that company of men that followed me, and my standard?
Have I left them all (the shame of it) to a cruel
death,
seeing them scattered now, hearing the groans as they
fall?
What shall I do? Where is the earth that could gape
wide enough for me? Rather have pity on me, O winds:
Drive the ship on the rocks, the reefs (I, Turnus, beg
you, freely)
or send it into the vicious quicksands, where no
Rutulian,
nor any knowing rumour of my shame can follow me?
So saying he debated this way and that in his mind,
whether he should throw himself on his sword, mad
with such disgrace, and drive the cruel steel through
his ribs,
or plunge into the waves, and, by swimming, gain
the curving bay, and hurl himself again at the Trojan
weapons.
Three times he attempted each: three times great Juno
held him back, preventing him from heartfelt pity. He
glided on,
with the help of wave and tide, cutting the depths,
and was carried to his father Daunus’s ancient city.
BkX:689-754
Mezentius Rages in Battle
But meanwhile fiery Mezentius, warned by Jupiter,
took up the fight, and attacked the jubilant Trojans.
The Etruscan ranks closed up, and concentrated
all their hatred, and showers of missiles, on him
alone.
He (like a vast cliff that juts out into the vast
deep,
confronting the raging winds, and exposed to the
waves,
suffering the force and threat of sky and sea,
itself left unshaken) felled Hebrus, son of Dolichaon,
to the earth, with him were Latagus and swift Palmus,
but he anticipated Latagus, with a huge fragment of
rock
from the hillside in his mouth and face, while he
hamstrung
Palmus and left him writhing helplessly: he gave
Lausus the armour
to protect his shoulders, and the plumes to wear on
his crest.
He killed Evanthes too, the Phrygian, and Mimas,
Paris’s
friend and peer, whom Theano bore to his father Amycus
on the same night Hecuba, Cisseus’s royal daughter,
pregnant
with a firebrand, gave birth to Paris: Paris lies in
the city
of his fathers, the Laurentine shore holds the unknown
Mimas.
And as a boar, that piny Vesulus has sheltered
for many years and Laurentine marshes have nourished
with forests of reeds, is driven from the high hills,
by snapping hounds, and halts when it reaches the
nets,
snorts fiercely, hackles bristling, no one brave
enough
to rage at it, or approach it, but all attacking it
with spears,
and shouting from a safe distance: halts, unafraid,
turning in every direction, grinding its jaws,
and shaking the spears from its hide: so none of those
who were rightly angered with Mezentius had the
courage
to meet him with naked sword, but provoked him
from afar with their missiles, and a mighty clamour.
Acron, a Greek had arrived there from the ancient
lands
of Corythus, an exile, his marriage ceremony left
incomplete.
When Mezentius saw him in the distance, embroiled
among the ranks, with crimson plumes, and in purple
robes
given by his promised bride, he rushed eagerly into
the thick
of the foe, as a ravenous lion often ranges the high
coverts
(since a raging hunger drives it) and exults, with
vast gaping jaws,
if it chances to see a fleeing roe-deer, or a stag
with immature horns,
then clings crouching over the entrails, with
bristling mane,
its cruel mouth stained hideously with blood.
Wretched Acron fell, striking the dark earth with his
heels
in dying, drenching his shattered weapons with blood.
And he did not even deign to kill Orodes as he fled,
or inflict a hidden wound with a thrust of his spear:
he ran to meet him on the way, and opposed him man to
man,
getting the better of him by force of arms not
stealth.
Then setting his foot on the fallen man, and straining
at his spear,
he called out: ‘Soldiers, noble Orodes lies here, he
was no small part
of this battle.’ His comrades shouted, taking up the
joyful cry:
Yet Orodes, dying, said: ‘Whoever you are, winner here,
I’ll not go unavenged, nor will you rejoice for long:
a like fate watches for you: you’ll soon lie in these
same fields.’
Mezentius replied, grinning with rage: ‘Die now,
as for me, the father of gods and king of men will see
to that.’
So saying he withdrew his spear from the warrior’s
body.
Enduring rest, and iron sleep, pressed on Orodes’s
eyes,
and their light was shrouded in eternal night.
Caedicus killed Alcathous: Sacrator killed Hydapses:
Rapo killed Parthenius, and Orses of outstanding
strength.
Messapus killed Clonius, and Ericetes, son of Lycaon,
one lying on the ground fallen from his bridle-less
horse,
the other still on his feet. Lycian Agis had advanced
his feet
but Valerus overthrew him, with no lack of his
ancestors’ skill:
Salius killed Thronius, and Nealces, famed for the
javelin,
and the deceptive long-distance arrow, in turn killed
Salcius.
BkX:755-832
The Death of Mezentius’s Son, Lausus
Now grievous War dealt grief and death mutually:
they killed alike, and alike they died, winners and
losers,
and neither one nor the other knew how to flee.
The gods in Jupiter’s halls pitied the useless anger
of them both,
and that such pain existed for mortal beings:
here Venus gazed down, here, opposite, Saturnian Juno.
Pale Tisiphone raged among the warring thousands.
And now Mezentius shaking his mighty spear,
advanced like a whirlwind over the field. Great as
Orion,
when he strides through Ocean’s deepest chasms,
forging a way,
his shoulders towering above the waves, or carrying
an ancient manna ash down from the mountain heights,
walking the earth, with his head hidden in the clouds,
so Mezentius advanced in his giant’s armour.
Aeneas, opposite, catching sight of him in the far
ranks
prepared to go and meet him. Mezentius stood there
unafraid,
waiting for his great-hearted enemy, firm in his great
bulk:
and measuring with his eye what distance would suit
his spear,
saying: ‘Now let this right hand that is my god, and
the weapon
I level to throw, aid me! I vow that you yourself,
Lausus, as token
of my victory over Aeneas, shall be dressed in the
spoils stripped
from that robber’s corpse.’ He spoke, and threw the
hissing spear
from far out. But, flying on, it glanced from the
shield,
and pierced the handsome Antores, nearby, between
flank
and thigh, Antores, friend of Hercules, sent from
Argos
who had joined Evander, and settled in an Italian
city.
Unhappy man, he fell to a wound meant for another,
and dying, gazing at the sky, remembered sweet Argos.
Then virtuous Aeneas hurled a spear: it passed through
Mezentius’s curved shield of triple-bronze, through
linen,
and the interwoven layers of three bull’s hides, and
lodged
deep in the groin, but failed to drive home with
force.
Aeneas, joyful at the sight of the Tuscan blood,
snatched the sword from his side, and pressed
his shaken enemy hotly. Lausus, seeing it, groaned
heavily
for love of his father, and tears rolled down his
cheeks –
and here I’ll not be silent, for my part, about your
harsh death,
through fate, nor, if future ages place belief in such
deeds, your actions,
so glorious, nor you yourself, youth, worthy of
remembrance –
his father was retreating, yielding ground, helpless,
hampered, dragging the enemy lance along with his
shield.
The youth ran forward, and plunged into the fray,
and, just as Aeneas’s right hand lifted to strike a
blow,
he snatched at the sword-point, and checked him in
delay:
his friends followed with great clamour, and, with a
shower
of spears, forced the enemy to keep his distance till
the father
could withdraw, protected by his son’s shield.
Aeneas raged, but kept himself under cover.
As every ploughman and farmer runs from the fields
when storm-clouds pour down streams of hail,
and the passer by shelters in a safe corner, under a
river
bank or an arch of high rock, while the rain falls to
earth,
so as to pursue the day’s work when the sun returns:
so, overwhelmed by missiles from every side,
Aeneas endured the clouds of war, while they all
thundered,
and rebuked Lausus, and threatened Lausus, saying:
‘Why are you rushing to death, with courage beyond
your strength?
Your loyalty’s betraying you to foolishness.’
Nevertheless
the youth raged madly, and now fierce anger rose
higher
in the Trojan leader’s heart, and the Fates gathered
together
the last threads of Lausus’s life. For Aeneas drove
his sword
firmly through the youth’s body, and buried it to the
hilt:
the point passed through his shield, too light for his
threats,
and the tunic of soft gold thread his mother had
woven,
blood filled its folds: then life left the body and
fled,
sorrowing, through the air to the spirits below.
And when Anchises’s son saw the look on his dying
face,
that face pale with the wonderment of its ending,
he groaned deeply with pity and stretched out his
hand,
as that reflection of his own love for his father
touched
his heart. ‘Unhappy child, what can loyal Aeneas grant
to such a nature, worthy of these glorious deeds of
yours?
Keep the weapons you delighted in: and if it is
something you are
anxious about, I return you to the shades and ashes of
your ancestors.
This too should solace you, unhappy one, for your sad
death:
you died at the hands of great Aeneas.’ Also he
rebuked
Lausus’s comrades, and lifted their leader from the
earth,
where he was soiling his well-ordered hair with blood.
BkX:833-908
The Death of Mezentius
Meanwhile the father, Mezentius, staunched his wounds
by the waters of Tiber’s river, and rested his body
by leaning against a tree trunk. His bronze helmet
hung
on a nearby branch, and his heavy armour lay
peacefully on the grass.
The pick of his warriors stood around: he himself,
weak and panting
eased his neck, his flowing beard streaming over his
chest.
Many a time he asked for Lausus, and many times sent
men
to carry him a sorrowing father’s orders and recall
him.
But his weeping comrades were carrying the dead
Lausus,
on his armour, a great man conquered by a mighty
wound.
The mind prescient of evil, knew their sighs from far off.
Mezentius darkened his white hair with dust, and
lifted
both hands to heaven, clinging to the body:
‘My son, did such delight in living possess me,
that I let you face the enemy force in my place,
you whom I fathered? Is this father of yours alive
through your death, saved by your wounds? Ah, now at
last
my exile is wretchedly driven home: and my wound,
deeply!
My son, I have also tarnished your name by my crime,
driven in hatred from my fathers’ throne and sceptre.
I have long owed reparation to my country and my
people’s hatred:
I should have yielded my guilty soul to death in any
form!
Now I live: I do not leave humankind yet, or the
light,
but I will leave.’ So saying he raised himself weakly
on his thigh,
and, despite all, ordered his horse to be brought,
though his strength
ebbed from the deep wound. His mount was his pride,
and it was his solace, on it he had ridden victorious
from every battle.
He spoke to the sorrowful creature, in these words:
‘Rhaebus, we have lived a long time, if anything lasts
long
for mortal beings. Today you will either carry the
head of Aeneas,
and his blood-stained spoils, in victory, and avenge
Lausus’s pain
with me, or die with me, if no power opens that road
to us:
I don’t think that you, the bravest of creatures, will
deign
to suffer a stranger’s orders or a Trojan master.’
He spoke, then, mounting, disposed his limbs as usual,
and weighted each hand with a sharp javelin,
his head gleaming with bronze, bristling with its
horsehair crest.
So he launched himself quickly into the fray. In that
one heart
a vast flood of shame and madness merged with grief.
And now he called to Aeneas in a great voice.
Aeneas knew him and offered up a joyous prayer:
‘So let the father of the gods himself decree it, so
noble Apollo! You then begin the conflict….’
He spoke those words and moved against him with level
spear.
But Mezentius replied: ‘How can you frighten me, most
savage
of men, me, bereft of my son? That was the only way
you could
destroy me: I do not shrink from death, or halt for
any god.
Cease, since I come here to die, and bring you, first,
these gifts.’ He spoke, and hurled a spear at his
enemy:
then landed another and yet another, wheeling
in a wide circle, but the gilded shield withstood
them.
He rode three times round his careful enemy,
widdershins,
throwing darts from his hand: three times the Trojan
hero
dragged round the huge thicket of spears fixed in his
bronze shield.
Then tired of all that drawn-out delay, and burdened
by the unequal conflict, he thought hard, and finally
broke free,
hurling his spear straight between the war horse’s
curved temples.
The animal reared, and lashed the air with its hooves,
and throwing its rider, followed him down, from above,
entangling him, collapsing headlong onto him, its
shoulder thrown.
Trojans and Latins ignited the heavens with their
shouts.
Aeneas ran to him, plucking his sword from its sheath
and standing over him, cried: ‘Where is fierce
Mezentius, now,
and the savage force of that spirit?’ The Tuscan replied,
as, lifting
his eyes to the sky, and gulping the air, he regained
his thoughts:
‘Bitter enemy, why taunt, or threaten me in death?
There is no sin in killing: I did not come to fight
believing so,
nor did my Lausus agree any treaty between you and me.
I only ask, by whatever indulgence a fallen enemy
might claim,
that my body be buried in the earth. I know that my
people’s
fierce hatred surrounds me: protect me, I beg you,
from their anger, and let me share a tomb with my
son.’
So he spoke, and in full awareness received the sword
in his throat,
and poured out his life, over his armour, in a wave of
blood.
BkXI:1-99
Aeneas Mourns Pallas
Meanwhile Dawn rose and left the ocean waves:
though Aeneas’s sorrow urged him to spend his time
on his comrades’ burial, and his mind was burdened by
death,
as victor, at first light, he discharged his vows to
the gods.
He planted a great oak trunk, its branches lopped all
round,
on a tumulus, and decked it out as a trophy to you,
great god of war,
in the gleaming armour stripped from the leader,
Mezentius:
he fastened the crests to it, dripping with blood, the
warrior’s
broken spears, and the battered breastplate, pierced
in twelve places: he tied the bronze shield to its
left side,
and hung the ivory-hilted sword from its neck.
Then he began to encourage his rejoicing comrades:
‘We have done great things, men: banish all fear of
what’s left
to do: these are the spoils of a proud king, the first
fruits of victory,
and this is Mezentius, fashioned by my hands.
Now our path is towards King Latinus and his city
walls.
Look to your weapons, spiritedly, make war your
expectation,
so when the gods above give us the sign to take up our
standards,
and lead out our soldiers from the camp, no delay may halt
us
unawares, or wavering purpose hold us back through
fear.
Meanwhile let us commit to earth the unburied bodies
of our friends, the only tribute recognised in
Acheron’s depths.
Go,’ he said, ‘grace these noble spirits with your
last gifts,
who have won this country for us with their blood,
and first let Pallas’s body be sent to Evander’s
grieving city,
he, whom a black day stole, though no way lacking
in courage, and plunged in death’s bitterness.’
So he spoke, weeping, and retraced his steps to the
threshold
where Pallas’s lifeless corpse was laid, watched
by old Acoetes, who before had been armour-bearer
to Arcadian Evander, but then, under less happy
auspices,
set out as the chosen guardian for his dear
foster-child.
All the band of attendants, and the Trojan crowd,
stood around,
and the Ilian women, hair loosened as customary in
mourning.
As Aeneas entered the tall doorway they struck
their breasts, and raised a great cry to the heavens,
and the royal pavilion rang with sad lamentation.
When he saw the pillowed face and head of Pallas,
pale as snow, and the open wound of the Ausonian spear
in his smooth chest, he spoke, his tears rising:
‘Unhappy child, when Fortune entered smiling was it
she
who begrudged you to me, so that you would not see
my kingdom, or ride, victorious, to your father’s
house?
This was not the last promise I made your father,
Evander,
on leaving, when he embraced me, sending me off
to win a great empire, and warned me with trepidation
that the enemy were brave, a tough race.
And now, greatly deluded by false hopes, he perhaps
is making vows, piling the altars high with gifts,
while we, grieving, follow his son in vain procession,
one who no longer owes any debt to the gods.
Unhappy one, you will see the bitter funeral of your
child!
Is this how we return, is this our hoped-for triumph?
Is this what my great promise amounted to?
Yet, Evander, your eyes will not see a son struck down
with shameful wounds, nor be a father praying for
death,
accursed because your son came home alive. Alas, how
great
was the protector, who is lost to you, Ausonia, and
you, Iulus.’
When he had ended his lament, he ordered them to lift
the sad corpse, and he sent a thousand men, chosen
from the ranks, to attend the last rites, and share
the father’s tears,
a meagre solace for so great a grief, but owed a
father’s sorrow.
Others, without delay, interwove the frame of a bier
with twigs of oak, and shoots of arbutus, shading
the bed they constructed with a covering of leaves.
Here they placed the youth high on his rustic couch:
like a flower plucked by a young girl’s fingers,
a sweet violet or a drooping hyacinth, whose
brightness
and beauty have not yet faded, but whose native earth
no longer nourishes it, or gives it strength.
Then Aeneas brought two robes of rigid gold and purple
that Sidonian Dido had made for him once, with her own
hands,
delighting in the labour, interweaving the fabric with
gold thread.
Sorrowing, he draped the youth with one of these as a
last honour,
and veiled that hair, which would be burned, with its
cloth,
and heaped up many gifts as well from the Laurentine
battle
and ordered the spoils to be carried in a long line:
he added horses and weapons stripped from the enemy.
He had the hands of those he sent as offerings to the
shades,
to sprinkle the flames with blood in dying, bound
behind their backs,
and ordered the leaders themselves to carry
tree-trunks
draped with enemy weapons, with the names of the foe
attached.
Unhappy Acoetes, wearied with age, was led along,
now bruising his chest with his fists, now marring his
face
with his nails, until he fell, full-length on the
ground:
and they led chariots drenched with Rutulian blood.
Behind went the war-horse, Aethon, without his
trappings,
mourning, wetting his face with great tear drops.
Others carried Pallas’s spear and helmet, the rest
Turnus
held as victor. Then a grieving procession followed,
Trojans, Etruscans, and Arcadians with weapons
reversed.
When all the ranks of his comrades had advanced far
ahead,
Aeneas halted, and added this, with a deep sigh:
‘This same harsh fate of warfare calls me from here
to other weeping: my salute for eternity to you, noble
Pallas,
and for eternity, farewell.’ Without speaking more he
turned
his steps toward the camp and headed for the walls.
BkXI:100-138
Aeneas Offers Peace
And now ambassadors, shaded with olive branches,
came from the Latin city, seeking favours: they asked
him
to return the bodies of men, felled by the sword,
overflowing
the plain, and allow them to be buried under a mound
of earth.
there could be no quarrel with the lost, devoid of the
light:
let him spare those who were once hosts and fathers of
brides.
Aeneas courteously granted prayers he could not refuse,
and added these words as well: ‘Latins, what shameful
mischance has entangled you in a war like this,
so that you fly from being our friends? Do you
seek peace for your dead killed by fate in battle?
I would gladly grant it to the living too. I would not
be here, if fate had not granted me a place, a home,
nor do I wage war on your people: your king abandoned
our friendship, and thought Turnus’s army greater.
It would have been more just for Turnus himself to
meet
this death. If he seeks to end the war by force, and
drive out
the Trojans, he should have fought me with these
weapons, he
whom the gods, or his right hand granted life, would
have survived.
Now go and light the fires for your unfortunate
countrymen.’
Aeneas had spoken. They were silent, struck dumb,
and kept their faces and their gaze fixed on one
another.
Then Drances, an elder, always hostile to young
Turnus,
shown in his dislike and reproaches, replied in turn,
so:
‘O, Trojan hero, great in fame, greater in battle,
how can I praise you to the skies enough? Should I
wonder first at your justice, or your efforts in war?
Indeed we will gratefully carry these words back
to our native city, and if Fortune offers a way, we
will
ally you to our king. Let Turnus seek treaties for
himself.
It will be a delight even to raise those massive walls
and lift the stones of Troy on our shoulders.’
He spoke, and they all murmured assent with one voice.
They fixed a twelve day truce, and with peace as mediator,
Trojans and Latins wandered together, in safety,
through the wooded hills. The tall ash rang to the
two-edged axe,
they felled pine-trees towering to the heavens, and
they never
ceased splitting the oaks, and fragrant cedars, with
wedges,
or carrying away the manna ash in rumbling wagons.
BkXI:139-181
Evander Mourns Pallas
And now Rumour filled Evander’s ears, and the palace’s
and the city’s, flying there, bringing news of that
great grief:
Rumour, that a moment since was carrying Pallas’s victory
to Latium. The Arcadians ran to the gates, and
following
ancient custom, seized torches for the funeral: the
road shone
with the long ranks of flames, parting the distant
fields.
The Trojan column, approaching, merged its files of
mourners
with them. When the women saw them nearing
the houses, grief set the city ablaze with its
clamour.
But no force could restrain Evander, and he ran into
their midst,
flung himself on Pallas’s body, once the bier was set
down,
clinging to it with tears and groans, till at last, he
spoke,
his grief scarcely allowing a path for his voice:
‘O Pallas, this was not the promise you made your
father,
that you would enter this savage war with caution.
I am not ignorant how great new pride in weapons
can be, and honour won in a first conflict is very
sweet.
Alas for the first fruits of your young life, and your
harsh schooling in a war so near us, and for my vows
and prayers unheard by any god! Happy were you, O my
most sacred Queen, in a death that saved you from this
sorrow!
I, by living on, have exceeded my fate, to survive as
father
without son. I should have marched with the allied
armies
of Troy and been killed by those Rutulian spears! I
should have
given my life, and this pomp should have carried me,
not Pallas, home!
Yet I do not blame you, Trojans, or our treaty, or the
hands
we clasped in friendship: my white hairs are the cause
of this.
And if an untimely death awaited my son it is my joy
that he fell
leading the Trojans into Latium, killing Volscians in thousands.
Indeed, Pallas, I thought you worthy of no other
funeral
than this that virtuous Aeneas, the great Phyrgians,
the Etruscan leaders and all the Etruscans chose.
Those, whom your right hand dealt death to, bring
great trophies:
Turnus, you too would be standing here, a vast
tree-trunk hung with
weapons, if years and mature strength had been alike
in both.
But why in my unhappiness do I keep the Trojans from
war?
Go, and remember to take this message to your king:
if I prolong a life that’s hateful to me, now Pallas
is dead,
it’s because you know your right hand owes father and
son
the death of Turnus. That is the one path of kindness
to me
and success for you that lies open. I don’t ask for
joy while alive,
(that’s not allowed me) but to carry it to my son deep
among the shades.’
BkXI:182-224
The Funeral Pyres
Dawn, meanwhile, had raised her kindly light on high
for wretched men, calling them again to work and toil:
now Aeneas the leader, now Tarchon, had erected pyres
on the curving bay. Here according to ancestral custom
they each
brought the bodies of their people, and as the gloomy
fires
were lit beneath, the high sky was veiled in a dark
mist.
Three times they circled the blazing piles, clad in
gleaming
armour, three times they rounded the mournful
funeral flames on horseback, and uttered wailing
cries.
Tears sprinkled the earth, and sprinkled the armour,
the clamour of men and blare of trumpets climbed to
the heavens.
Then some flung spoils, stripped from the slaughtered
Latins,
onto the fire, helmets and noble swords, bridles and
swift wheels:
others, gifts familiar to the dead, their shields and
luckless weapons.
Many head of cattle were sacrificed round these, to
Death.
They cut the throats of bristling boars, and flocks
culled
from the whole country, over the flames. Then they
watched
their comrades burn, all along the shore, and kept
guard
over the charred pyres, and could not tear themselves
away
till dew-wet night wheeled the sky round, inset with
shining stars.
Elsewhere too the wretched Latins built innumerable
pyres.
Some of the many corpses they buried in the earth,
some they took
and carried to the fields nearby, or sent onwards to
the city.
The rest, a vast pile of indiscriminate dead, they
burnt
without count, and without honours: then the wide
fields
on every side shone thick with fires, in emulation.
The third dawn dispelled chill shadows from the sky:
grieving, they raked the bones, mixed with a depth of
ash,
from the pyres, and heaped a mound of warm earth over
them.
Meanwhile, the main clamour, and the heart of their
prolonged
lamentation, was inside the walls, in the city of rich
Latinus.
Here mothers and unhappy daughters-in-law, here the
loving hearts
of grieving sisters, and boys robbed of their fathers,
cursed the dreadful
war, and the marriage Turnus had intended, and
demanded that he
and he alone should fight it out with armour and
blade, he who
claimed for himself the kingdom of Italy, and the
foremost honours.
Cruelly, Drances added to this and testified that
Turnus alone
was summoned, that he alone was challenged to battle.
At the same time many an opinion in varied words was
against it,
and for Turnus, and the Queen’s noble name protected him,
while his great fame, and the trophies he’d earned,
spoke for him.
BkXI:225-295
An Answer From Arpi
Amongst this stir, at the heart of the blaze of
dissension,
behold, to crown it all, the ambassadors brought an
answer
from Diomedes’s great city, sad that nothing had been
achieved
at the cost of all their efforts, presents and gold
and heartfelt prayers had been useless, the Latins
must find
other armies or seek peace with the Trojan king.
King Latinus sank beneath this vast disappointment.
The angry gods and the fresh graves before his eyes,
had given
warning that this fateful Aeneas was clearly sent by
divine will.
So, summoning his high council, the leaders of his
people,
by royal command, he gathered them within his tall
gates.
They convened, streaming to the king’s palace, through
the crowded streets. Latinus, the oldest and most
powerful,
seated himself at their centre, with no pleasure in
his aspect.
And he ordered the ambassadors, back from the Aetolian
city,
to tell their news, asking for all the answers in
order.
Then all tongues fell silent, and, obeying
his order, Venulus began as follows:
‘O citizens, we have seen Diomedes and his Argive
camp,
completed our journey, overcome all dangers,
and grasped that hand by which the land of Troy fell.
As victor over the Iapygian fields, by the Garganus
hills, he was
founding the city of Argyripa, named after his
father’s people.
When we had entered, and were given leave to speak to
him
in person, we offered our gifts, and declared our name
and country:
who had made war on us: and what had brought us to
Arpi.
He listened and replied in this way with a calm look:
“O fortunate nations, realms of Saturn, ancient
peoples
of Ausonia, what fortune troubles your peace
and persuades you to invite base war?
We who violated the fields of Troy with our blades,
(forgetting what we endured in battle beneath her high
walls,
or those warriors Simois drowned) have paid in
atrocious suffering,
and every kind of punishment, for our sins, throughout
the world,
a crew that even Priam would have pitied: Minerva’s
dark star
and that cliff of Euboea, Caphereus the avenger, know
it.
Menelaus, son of Atreus, driven from that warfare to
distant shores,
was exiled as far as Egypt, and the Pillars of
Proteus,
while Ulysses has viewed the Cyclopes of Aetna.
Even Mycenean Agamemnon, leader of the mighty Greeks,
was struck down at the hand of his wicked wife, when
barely
over the threshold: he conquered Asia, but an
adulterer lurked.
Need I speak of the kingdom of Neoptolemus,
Idomeneus’s
household overthrown, or the Locrians living on
Libya’s coast?
How the gods begrudged me my return to my country’s
altars: the wife I longed for: and lovely Calydon?
Even now visitations pursue me, dreadful to see:
my lost comrades, as birds, sought the sky with their
wings
or haunt the streams (alas a dire punishment for my
people!)
and fill the cliffs with their mournful cries.
This was the fate I should have expected from that
moment
when, in madness, I attacked Venus’s heavenly body
with my sword, and harmed her hand by wounding it.
Do not, in truth, do not urge me to such conflict.
Since Troy’s
towers have fallen I have no quarrel with Teucer’s
race,
nor have I joyful memories of those ancient evils.
Take the gifts your bring me, from your country,
to Aeneas. I have withstood his cruel weapons and
fought him
hand to hand: trust my knowledge of how he looms
tall above his shield, with what power he hurls his
spear.
Had the Troad produced two other men like him,
the Trojans would have reached the Greek cities,
and Greece would be grieving, their fates reversed.
During all that time we spent facing the walls of
enduring Troy
a Greek victory was stalled at the hands of Hector
and Aeneas, and denied us till the tenth year.
Both were outstanding in courage and weaponry:
Aeneas was first in virtue. Join hands with him in
confederation,
as best you can, but beware of crossing swords with
him.”
Noblest of kings, you have heard, in one, what their
king replies
and what his counsels are concerning this great war.’
BkXI:296-335
Latinus’s Proposal
The ambassadors had scarcely finished speaking when
diverse
murmurs passed swiftly among the troubled Italian
faces, just as
when rocks detain a flowing river a muttering rises
from the imprisoned
eddies, and the banks, that border it echo with
splashing waves.
As soon as thoughts were calmer and anxious lips were
quiet, the king
began to speak, from his high throne, first calling on
the gods:
‘Latins, I wish we had decided on this vital matter
before now,
and it would have been better not to convene the
council at such
a moment, when the enemy is settled in front of our
walls.
Citizens we are waging a wrong-headed war with a
divine race,
unconquered warriors whom no battles weary, and who
will not relinquish the sword even when beaten.
If you had hopes of the alliance with Aetolian armies,
forgo them. Each has his own hopes: but see how slight
they are.
As for the rest of our affairs, the utter ruin they
lie in
is in front of your eyes and under your hands.
I accuse no one: what the utmost courage could do has
been done: the conflict has taken all the strength of
our kingdom.
So let me explain the decision of my deliberating
mind,
and I will outline it briefly (apply your thoughts to
it).
There’s an ancient domain of mine along the Tuscan
river,
stretching westward, to the Sicanian border and
beyond:
Auruncans and Rutulians work the stubborn hills with
the plough,
sow seed there, and use the roughest slopes as
pasture.
Let us yield all this region, with the pine-clad tract
of high hills,
to the Trojans in friendship, and spell out the just
terms
of a treaty, and invite them to share our kingdom:
let them settle, if their desire is such, and build
their city.
But if their wish is to conquer other territories
and some other nation, and they might leave our soil,
let us fashion twenty ships of Italian oak: or more if
they
can fill them, all the timber lies close to the water:
let them set out the number and design of their fleet
themselves: we’ll give the labour, the shipyard and
the bronze.
Moreover, I want a hundred envoys to go to carry the
news
and seal the pact, Latins of noblest birth, holding
out branches
as peace tokens in their hands, and bearing gifts,
talents
of ivory and gold, and the throne and the robe,
symbols of royalty.
Consult together, and repair our weary fortunes.’
BkXI:336-375
Drances Attacks Turnus Verbally
Then Drances, whom Turnus’s glory provoked with the
bitter
sting of secret envy, rose, hostile as before,: lavish
of his wealth, and a better speaker, but with a hand
frozen in battle: held to be no mean adviser in
council,
and powerful in a quarrel (his mother’s high birth
granted him nobility, his father’s origin was
uncertain):
and with these words added weight and substance to
their anger:
‘O gracious king, you consult us on a subject clear to
all,
and needing no speech from us: everyone acknowledges
they know what the public good demands, but shrink
from speech.
Let that man, through whose inauspicious leadership
and perverse ways (speak I will though he threaten me
with violence or death) we have seen so many glorious
leaders
fall, and the city sunk in mourning, while he attacks
the Trojan camp,
trusting in flight, and frightens heaven with his
weapons, let him
grant freedom of speech, and cease his arrogance.
Add one further gift to the many you order us to send
and communicate to the Trojans, one more, gracious
king,
why not, as a father may, and let no man’s violence
prevent you,
give your daughter to an illustrious man in a marriage
worthy of her, binding this peace with an everlasting
contract.
But if fear of doing such possesses our minds and
hearts,
let us appeal to the prince, and beg permission from
him:
to yield, and give up his rights in favour of his king
and his country.
O Turnus, you who are the source and reason for all
these problems
for Latium, why do you so often hurl your wretched
countrymen
into obvious danger? There’s no remedy in war, we all
ask you
for peace, together with the sole inviolable pledge of
peace.
I first of all, whom you imagine to be your enemy (and
I
will not contest it) come as a suppliant. Pity your
people,
set your pride aside, and conquered, give way. Routed,
we have seen enough of death and made broad acres
desolate.
Or, if glory stirs you, if you harbour such strength
of feeling,
and if a palace as dowry is so dear to you, be bold,
and carry yourself confidently against the enemy.
Surely we whose lives are worthless should be
scattered
over the fields, unburied and unwept, so that Turnus
might gain his royal bride? And you too, if you have
any strength, if you have any of your father’s warlike
spirit,
you must look into the face of your challenger.’
BkXI:376-444
Turnus Replies
Turnus’s fury blazed at such a speech. He gasped
and from the depths of his heart gave vent to these
words:
‘Drances, it’s true you always have more than plenty
to say
whenever war calls for men, and you’re first to appear
when the senate
is called together. But there’s no need to fill the
council-house with words,
that fly so freely from you when you are safe, when
the rampart walls
keep the enemy off
and the ditches are not yet drowned in blood.
So thunder away, eloquently (as is your wont) Drances,
and charge
me with cowardice when your hand has produced like
mounds
of Trojan dead, and dotted the fields everywhere
with trophies. You’re free to try what raw courage can
do,
and certainly we don’t need to search far for enemies:
they’re surrounding the walls on every side.
Shall we go against them? Why hesitate?
Will your appetite for war always remain
in your airy tongue and fleeing feet?
I, beaten? You total disgrace, can anyone who sees
the Tiber swollen with Trojan blood, and all Evander’s
house and race toppled, and the Arcadians stripped
of weapons, say with justice I am beaten?
Bitias, and giant Pandarus, and the thousand men that
I as victor
sent down to Tartarus in one day, did not find it so,
imprisoned
though I was by the walls, and hedged by enemy
ramparts.
No safety in war? Madman, sing such about the Trojan’s
life,
and your possessions. Go on then, troubling everyone
with your great fears, and extolling the powers of a
race
twice-defeated, while disparaging Latinus’s army.
Now even Myrmidon princes, now Diomede, Tydeus’s
son, and Larissean Achilles, tremble at Trojan
weapons,
and Aufidus’s river flows backwards from the Adriatic
waves.
And what when he pretends he’s afraid to quarrel with
me,
the cunning rascal, and intensifies the charge with
false terror.
You’ll not lose a life like yours to my right hand
(don’t shrink) keep it, let it remain in your breast.
Now, old father, I return to you and your great debate.
If you place no further hope in our forces,
if we’re so desolate, if one reverse for our troops
has utterly destroyed us, and our Fortunes cannot
return,
let’s stretch out our helpless hands, and sue for
peace.
Oh if only our traditional courage was here, though.
That man to me would be happy in his efforts, and
outstanding
in spirit, who had fallen in death, so as not to see
such things, and who had bitten the dust once and for
all.
Yet if we still have our wealth and manhood intact
and nations and cities of Italy are still our allies,
if the Trojans won glory with great bloodshed,
(they too have their dead, the storm of war’s the same
for all)
why do we lose heart, shamefully, on the very
threshold?
Why does fear seize our limbs before the trumpets
sound?
Many things change for the better with time, and the
various
labours of altering years: Fortune toys with many a
man,
then, visiting him in turn, sets him on solid ground
again.
The Aetolian and his Arpi will be no help to us:
but Messapus will, and Tolumnius, the fortunate,
and all those leaders sent by many a people: no little
glory
will accrue to the flower of Latium and Laurentine
fields.
We have Camilla too, of the glorious Volscian nation,
leading her troop of riders, and squadrons bright with
bronze.
But if the Trojans only call me to fight, and that’s
your wish,
if I’m so great an obstacle to the common good,
Victory is far
from having fled these hands of mine with such hatred
that I should refuse to try anything for a hope so
sweet.
I’d face him with courage though he outclassed great
Achilles,
and wore armour to match, fashioned by Vulcan’s hands.
I, Turnus, not second in virtue to any of my
ancestors,
dedicate my life to you all, and to Latinus, father of
my bride,
Aeneas challenges me alone? I pray that he does so
challenge:
and, if the gods’ anger is in this, that it is not
Drances rather than I
who appeases them in death, or if there’s worth and
glory, takes it all.
BkXI:445-531
The Trojans Attack
Arguing among themselves, they debated the issues
in doubt: while Aeneas was moving his camp and lines.
See, a messenger runs through the royal palace,
with great commotion, filling the city with huge
alarm:
the Trojans, ready for battle, and the Etruscan ranks
were sweeping down from the river Tiber, over the
plain.
At once people’s minds were troubled, their hearts
shaken,
and their deep anger roused by the ungentle shock.
Anxiously they called for weapons: weapons the young
men
shouted, while their sad fathers wept and murmured.
And now a great clamour filled with discord rose to
heaven
on every side, as when a flock of birds settles by
chance
in some tall grove, or when the swans give their
hoarse calls,
among noisy pools, by Padusa’s fish-filled streams.
‘Yes, oh citizens,’ Turnus cried, seizing his moment,
‘convene your council and sit there praising peace:
while they attack us with weapons.’ He said no more
but sprang up and went swiftly from the high halls.
‘You, Volusus,’ he shouted, ‘tell the Volscian troops
to arm,
and lead the Rutulians. Messapus, and Coras with your
brother,
deploy the cavalry, under arms, over the wide plain.
Let some secure the city gates, and occupy the towers:
the rest carry their weapons with me, where I order.’
At once there was a rush to the walls all over the
city.
King Latinus himself left the council, dismayed by the
darkness
of the hour, and abandoned his great plan, reproaching
himself
again and again for not having freely received Trojan
Aeneas,
and adopted him as his son-in-law for the city’s sake.
Some dug trenches in front of the gates or carried
stones
and stakes. The harsh trumpet gave the cruel call to
war.
Then a diverse circle of mothers and sons
ringed the walls: this final trial summoned them all.
Moreover the Queen, with a great crowd of women,
drove to Pallas’s temple on the heights of the citadel
carrying gifts, virgin Lavinia next to her as her
companion,
a source of so much trouble, her beautiful eyes cast
down.
The women climbed to the temple, filled it with
incense
fumes, and poured out sad prayers from the high
threshold:
‘Tritonian Virgin, mighty in weapons, ruler of war,
shatter
the spear of the Trojan robber, with your hand, hurl
him flat
on the earth, stretch him prone beneath our high
gates.’
Turnus, in a fury of zeal, armed himself for battle.
He was already dressed in his glowing breastplate,
bristling with bronze scales, his legs sheathed in
gold,
his temples still bare, his sword buckled to his side,
shining, splendid, as he ran down from the citadel’s
heights,
exultant in spirit, already anticipating the enemy in
hope:
like a stallion, breaking his tether and fleeing his
stall,
free at last, lord of the open plain, who either heads
for the pastures and the herds of mares, or, used to
bathing
in some familiar river, gallops away, and, with head
held high,
neighs with pleasure, his mane playing over neck and
shoulder.
Camilla sped to meet him, accompanied by her Volscian
troops, and alighted from her horse close by the gates,
all her company leaving their mounts at her example,
and slipping to earth: then she spoke as follows:
‘Turnus, if the brave may rightly have faith in
themselves,
I dare to, and promise to, encounter Aeneas’s cavalry,
and ride to meet the Etruscan horsemen alone.
Let me attempt the first dangers of the battle with my
hand
while you stay by the walls and protect the ramparts.’
Turnus replied, his gaze fixed on this amazing girl:
‘O virgin glory of Italy, how should I attempt
to thank you or repay you? But as your spirit
soars beyond us all, share the task with me.
Aeneas, so rumour says, and scouts sent out confirm,
has deployed his light cavalry to search the plains
thoroughly: he himself climbing the ridge, marches
through the desolate heights towards the town.
I am preparing an ambush on a deep track in the woods,
so as to block both entrances to the gorge with armed
men:
you must wait for the Etruscan cavalry charge:
brave Messapus will be with you, and the Latin troops,
and Tiburtus’s band, and you must take command as
leader.’
So he spoke, and exhorted Messapus and all the allied
generals
to battle, with similar words, then moved against the
enemy.
There’s a valley with a winding bend, suitable for the
tricks
and stratagems of warfare, crowded on both sides
by a dark wall of dense leaves, to which a narrow
track
leads: it has a confined floor, and a difficult
entrance.
Above it, among the look-outs of the high mountain
tops,
lies a hidden level and a secure shelter,
whether one wishes to attack to right or left,
or make a stand on the ridge and roll huge boulders
down.
Here the warrior hurried by a well known network of
paths
and taking position he occupied the treacherous woods.
BkXI:532-596
Diana’s Concern For Camilla
Meanwhile, in heaven’s halls, Diana, Latona’s
daughter,
spoke to swift Opis, one of her sacred band of virgin
followers, and gave voice to these sorrowful words:
‘O girl, Camilla, is going to the cruel war, and takes
up
my weapons in
vain. She’s dearer to me than all others,
and this is no new love that comes to Diana,
or moves my spirit with sudden sweetness.
When Metabus was driven from his throne by hatred
of his tyrannical power, and was leaving Privernum,
his ancient city, fleeing amidst the conflict of war,
he took his child to share his exile, and, slightly
altering
her mother’s name Casmilla, called her Camilla.
Carrying her in front of him at his breast he sought a
long ridge
of lonely forests: fierce weapons threatened him on
every side,
and the Volscians hovered round him with their troops.
While they were still in mid-flight, see, the Ausenus
overflowed,
foaming to the top of its banks, so great a downpour
burst
from the clouds. He, preparing to swim across, was held
back
by love of his child, and fear for his dear burden.
Quickly,
debating all options with himself, he settled
reluctantly
on this idea: the warrior fastened his daughter to the
giant spear,
solid with knots and of seasoned oak, he chanced to be
carrying
in his strong hand, wrapping her in the bark of a
cork-tree
from the woods, and tying her wisely to the middle of
the shaft:
then balancing it in his mighty hand he cried out to
the heavens:
‘Kind virgin daughter of Latona, dweller in the woods,
I her father
dedicate this child to your service: fleeing the enemy
through the air,
yours is the first weapon she clasps as a suppliant.
Goddess I beg you
to accept as your own this that I now commit to the
uncertain breeze.’
He spoke, and drawing back his arm hurled the spinning
shaft:
the waters roared, and the wretched Camilla flew
over the rushing river on the hissing steel. And
Metabus,
with a great crowd of his enemies pressing him
closely,
gave himself to the flood, and victoriously snatched
his gift
to Diana from the grassy turf, the spear and the
little maid.
No city would accept him within their houses or their
walls,
(nor would he in his savagery have given himself up to
them)
he passed his life among shepherds on the lonely
mountains.
Here, among the thickets of savage lairs, he nourished
his child at the udders of a mare from the herd, and
milk
from wild creatures, squeezing the teats into her
delicate mouth.
As soon as the infant had taken her first steps,
he placed a sharp lance in her hands, and hung
bow and quiver from the little one’s shoulder.
A tiger’s pelt hung over head and down her back
instead of a gold clasp for her hair, and a long
trailing robe.
Even then she was hurling childish spears with tender
hand,
whirling a smooth-thonged sling round her head,
bringing down Strymonian cranes and snowy swans.
Many a mother in Etruscan fortresses wished for her
as a daughter-in-law in vain: she, pure, content with
Diana
alone, cherished her love of her weapons and
maidenhood.
I wish she had not been swept up into such warfare,
trying to challenge the Trojans: she would be
my darling, and one of my company still.
Come now, nymph, since bitter fate drives her on,
slip from the sky and seek out the Latin borders,
where with evil omen they join in sad battle.
Take these weapons and draw an avenging arrow from the
quiver,
and if anyone violates her sacred flesh by wounding
her,
Trojan or Italian, pay me with their equal punishment
in blood.
Then I’ll carry the body and untouched weapons of the
poor girl
in a cavernous cloud to a sepulchre, and bury her in
her own land.’
She spoke, and Opis slid down with a sound through
heaven’s light air, her body veiled in a dark
whirlwind.
BkXI:597-647
The Armies Engage
In the meantime the Trojan band with the Etruscan
leaders, and all the cavalry, approached the walls,
marshalled in squadrons troop by troop. Warhorses
neighing, cavorted over the whole area, fighting the
tight rein,
prancing this way and that: the field bristled far and
wide
with the steel of spears, and the plain blazed with
lifted weapons.
On the other side, also, Messapus, and the swift
Latins,
Coras with his brother, and virgin Camilla’s wing
appeared,
opposing them on the plain, and drawing their right
arms far back
they thrust their lances forward, the spear-points
quivered:
the march of men and the neighing of horses increased.
And now both halted their advance within a spear’s
throw:
they ran forward with a sudden shout and spurred on
their maddened horses, spears showered from all sides
at once
as dense as snowflakes, and the sky was veiled in
darkness.
Immediately Tyrrhenus and brave Aconteus charged
each other, with levelled spears, and were the first
to fall
with a mighty crash, shattering their horses’
breastbones
as they collided: Aconteus, hurled like a thunderbolt
or a heavy stone shot from a catapult, was thrown
some distance, and wasted his breath of life on the
air.
At once the ranks wavered, and the Latins slung their
shields
behind them, and turned their mounts towards the
walls.
The Trojans pursued, Asilas their leader heading the
squadrons.
Now they were nearing the gates when the Latins again
raised a shout, and turned their horse’s responsive
necks:
the Trojans now fled, and retreated to a distance with
loose reins,
like the sea running in with alternate waves,
now rushing to shore, dashing over the rocks
in a foaming flood, drenching the furthest sands
with its swell, now retreating quickly, sucking
rolling
pebbles in its wash, leaving dry sand as the shallows
ebbed:
twice the Tuscans drove the routed Rutulians to the
city, twice,
repulsed, they looked behind, defending their backs
with their shields.
But when they clashed in a third encounter their lines
locked tight, and man marked man, then truly, the
battle
swelled fiercely among the groans of the dying,
with weapons, bodies, and horses in their
death-throes,
in pools of blood, entangled with slaughtered riders.
Orsilochus hurled a lance at Remulus’s horse, fearing
to attack the man, and left the point embedded beneath
its ear:
The rearing charger, maddened by the blow, and unable
to bear
the wound, lifted its chest, and thrashed high with
its forelegs,
Remulus thrown clear, rolled on the ground. Catillus
felled Iollas and Herminius, a giant in courage, a
giant
in torso and limbs, tawny hair on his head, his
shoulders bare,
for whom wounds held no terror he spread so wide in
his armour.
The driven spear passed quivering through his broad
shoulders,
and, piercing him, doubled him up with pain. Dark
blood
streamed everywhere: clashing with swords, they dealt
death
and sought a glorious ending through their wounds.
BkXI:648-724
Camilla In Action
But an Amazon exulted in the midst of the slaughter,
with one breast bared for battle: Camilla, armed with
her quiver:
now she showered sturdy javelins, scattering them from
her hands,
now she lifted a strong battle-axe in her unwearied
grasp:
and Diana’s weapon, a golden bow, rattled on her
shoulder.
Even when she retreated, attacked from behind,
she reversed her bow and fired arrows while fleeing.
And around her were chosen comrades, virgin Larina,
and Tulla, and Tarpeia wielding her axe of bronze,
the Italides, daughters of Italy, whom noble Camilla
chose herself as her glory, faithful servants in peace
or war:
such were the Amazons of Thrace, treading Thermodon’s
streams, and fighting with ornate weapons, around
Hippolyte, or when Penthesilea returned, in her
chariot,
and the ranks of women with crescent shields exulted.
Whom did you strike, first and last, with your spear,
fierce girl?
How many bodies did you spill over the earth?
Euneus, son of Clytius, was the first, whose exposed
chest
she pierced with her long shaft of pine, as he faced
her.
He fell, spewing streams of blood, and bit
the gory dust, and, dying, writhed on his wound.
Then she killed Liris and Pagasus too, one gathering
the reins of his wounded horse as he rolled from it,
the other
nearing to stretch out a defenceless hand to the
falling man,
both flung headlong together. She added to them
Amastrus,
son of Hippotas, and, leaning forward to throw, sent
her spear
after Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon and Cromis:
and as many spears as the girl sent spinning from her
hand,
so many Trojan warriors fell. The huntsman Ornytus
was riding far off, in unfamiliar armour, on his
Iapygian
horse, the hide stripped from a bullock covering his
broad
shoulders, his head protected by a wolf’s huge gaping
mask,
and white-toothed jaws, a rustic’s hunting-spear in
his hand:
he moved along in the centre of the army, a full head
above the rest. Catching him she struck him (no effort
in the routed ranks) then with pitiless heart spoke
above him:
‘Did you think you chased prey in the forest, Tuscan?
The day is here that proves your words wrong, with
a woman’s weapons. But you’ll carry no small fame
to your father’s shades, you fell to Camilla’s spear.’
Then she killed Orsilochus and Butes, two of the
largest Trojans,
Butes she fixed with a spear in the back, between
breastplate and helmet, where the rider’s neck
gleams and the shield hangs from the left arm:
while fleeing from Orsilochus, chased in a wide
circle,
she eluded him, wheeling inside, pursuing the pursuer:
then, lifting herself higher, drove her strong axe,
again and again,
through armour and bone, as he begged and prayed
desperately:
the wounds staining his face with warm brain-matter.
Now the warrior son of Aunus, met her, and suddenly
halted, terrified at the sight, he a man of the
Apennines,
not the least of the lying Ligurians while fate
allowed it.
When he saw he couldn’t escape a fight by a turn of
speed,
or divert the queen from her attack, he tried to
devise
a stratagem with wit and cunning, as follows:
‘What’s so great about relying on a strong horse,
woman?
Forget flight, and trust yourself to fighting me
on level ground, equip yourself to battle on foot:
you’ll soon know whose windy boasting’s an illusion.’
He spoke, and she, raging and burning with bitter
resentment,
handed her horse to a friend, and faced him with equal
weapons.
on foot and unafraid, with naked sword and plain
shield.
But the youth, sure he had won by guile, sped off
(instantly), flicking his reins, took to flight,
pricking his horse to a gallop with spurs of steel.
The girl shouted: ‘Stupid Ligurian, uselessly vaunting
your boastful spirit, you’ve tried your slippery
native wiles
in vain, and cunning won’t carry you back to Aunus
unharmed.’
And like lightening she intercepted the horse’s path,
on swift feet,
and seizing the reins from in front tackled him, and
took vengeance
on the blood she hated: as light as a falcon, Apollo’s
sacred bird,
swooping from a tall rock, overtaking a dove in flight
in the high cloud,
holding her in its talons, and tearing her heart out
with its curved talons:
while blood and torn feathers shower from the sky.
BkXI:725-767
Arruns Follows Her
But the father of gods and men with watchful eyes
sat throned on high Olympus observing it all.
The maker stirred the Etruscan, Tarchon, to fierce
battle
and goaded him to anger with no gentle spur.
So Tarchon rode amidst the slaughter and the wavering
ranks,
inciting his squadrons with varied shouts, and calling
each man by name, rallying the routed to the fight.
‘What fear, what utter cowardice has filled your
hearts,
O, you ever-sluggish Tuscans, O you who are never
ashamed?
Can a woman drive you in disorder and turn your ranks?
Why do we bear swords and spears idle in our right
hands?
But you are not slow to love or for nocturnal battles,
nor when
the curved pipe proclaims the Bacchic dance. Wait then
for the feast
and wine-cups on the loaded tables, (that is your
passion
and your pleasure) while the happy seer reports the
sacred
omens, and the rich sacrifice calls you into the deep
grove!’
So saying, and ready to die, he spurred his mount into
the press,
tore at Venulus like a whirlwind, and snatched him
from his horse,
and, clasping his enemy to his chest with his right
arm,
and stirring himself to a mighty effort, carried him
off.
A shout rose to the skies and all the Latins turned
their gaze
that way. Tarchon flew over the plain like lightning,
carrying weapons and man: then he broke of the iron
tip
of his enemy’s spear, and searched for an unguarded
opening
where he might deal a deadly wound: Venulus,
struggling with him,
kept the hand from his throat, meeting force with
force.
As when a tawny eagle soaring high carries a snake it
has caught,
entwined in its feet, with talons clinging, while the
wounded serpent
writhes in sinuous coils, and rears its bristling
scales, hissing
with its mouth as it rises up, and none the less
attacks
its struggling prey, with curved beak, while its wings
beat the air:
so Tarchon carried his prize in triumph from the
Tiburtian ranks.
Emulating their leader’s example and success, the
Etruscans charged.
And now Arruns, a man whose life was owed to the
fates,
began to circle swift Camilla, with his javelin,
with skilful cunning, trying for the easiest of
chances.
Wherever the girl rode among the ranks, in her fury,
there Arruns shadowed her, and followed her track in
silence:
wherever she returned in triumph or withdrew from the
foe,
there the youth secretly turned his quick reins.
He tried this approach and that, travelling the whole
circuit
on every side, relentlessly brandishing his sure
spear.
BkXI:768-835
The Death of Camilla
It chanced that Chloreus, once a priest, sacred to
Cybele,
glittered some distance away splendid in Phrygian
armour,
spurring his foam-flecked horse, that a hide, plumed
with bronze scales, and clasped with gold, protected.
He himself, shining with deep colours and foreign
purple,
fired Gortynian arrows from a Lycian bow:
the weapon was golden on his shoulder, and golden
the seer’s helm: his saffron cloak and its rustling
folds of linen
were gathered into a knot with yellow gold, his tunic
and barbaric leg-coverings embroidered by the needle.
The virgin huntress singling him out from all the
press
of battle, either hoping to hang his Trojan weapons
in the temple, or to display herself in captured gold,
pursued him blindly, and raged recklessly through the
ranks,
with a feminine desire for prizes and spoil,
when Arruns, finally seizing his chance, raised his
spear
from ambush and prayed aloud, like this, to heaven:
‘Highest of gods, Apollo, guardian of holy Soracte,
whose chief followers are we for whom the blaze of the
pine-wood
fire is fed, and who as worshippers, confident in our
faith,
plant our steps on deep embers among the flames,
all-powerful father grant that this shame be effaced
by our weapons. I seek no prize, no trophy of the
girl’s defeat,
no spoils: some other deed will bring me fame:
only let this dreadful scourge fall wounded under my
blow,
and I’ll return without glory to the cities of my
ancestors.’
Phoebus heard him, and granted the success of half the
prayer
in his mind, half he scattered on the passing breeze:
he agreed
to the prayer that Arruns might bring Camilla to
sudden death’s ruin:
but did not grant that his noble country should see
him return,
and the gusts carried his words away on the southerly
winds.
So as the spear whistled through the air, speeding
from his hand,
all the Volscians turned their eager eyes and minds
towards the queen. She herself noticed neither breeze
nor sound, nor the weapon falling from the sky,
till the spear went home, fixing itself under her
naked
breast, and driven deep, drank of her virgin blood.
Her friends rushed to her anxiously and caught
their falling queen. Arruns, more fearful than the
rest,
fled in joy and terror, not daring to trust
his spear further, or meet the virgin’s weapons.
And as a wolf that has killed a shepherd, or a great bullock,
immediately hides itself deep in the pathless
mountains
before the hostile spears can reach it, conscious
of its audacious actions, and holds its lowered tail
quivering between its legs, as it heads for the woods:
so Arruns, in turmoil, stole away from sight,
and, content to escape, plunged into the midst of the
army.
Camilla tugged at the weapon with dying hands,
but the iron point was fixed between the bones,
near the ribs, deep in the wound. She sank back
bloodless, her eyes sank, chill with death,
the once radiant colour had left her cheeks.
Then, expiring, she spoke to Acca, one of her peers,
faithful
to Camilla beyond all others, sole sharer of her
sorrows,
and uttered these words to her: ‘Acca, my sister,
my strength lasted this far: now the bitter wound
exhausts me, and all around me darkens with shadows.
Fly, and carry my final commands to Turnus: he must
take
my place in the battle, and keep the Trojans from the
city.
Now farewell.’ With these words she let go the reins,
slipping
helplessly to earth. Then, little by little, growing
cold she loosed
herself from her body completely, dipping the
unresponsive neck
and that head death had seized, letting go her
weapons,
and with a sob her life fled angrily to the shades
below.
Then indeed an immense shout rose, reaching
the golden stars: with Camilla fallen, the battle
swelled:
the Trojan host, the Etruscan leaders, and Evander’s
Arcadian squadrons rushed on in a mass together.
BkXI:836-915
Opis Takes Revenge
Now Opis, Diana’s sentinel, had been seated there
on a mountain, for a long time, watching the battle
fearlessly.
And when she saw far off, amongst the clamour of
raging armies,
that Camilla had paid the penalty of death, she sighed
and uttered these words from the depths of her heart:
‘Ah too cruel, virgin girl, too cruel the sacrifice
you have made, for trying to challenge the Trojans in
war!
It has not helped you that you worshipped Diana
in the lonely woods and wore our quiver on your
shoulder.
Yet your queen has not left you without honour now
in the extremes of death, nor will your loss be
without fame
among the people, nor will you suffer the infamy of
dying
un-avenged. For whoever desecrated your body with this
wound
will pay the price of death.’ An earthen mound,
covered
with shadowy holm-oak, stood beneath the high
mountain,
the vast tomb of Dercennus, an ancient Laurentine
king:
here the loveliest of goddesses, after swift flight,
first set foot
and caught sight of Arruns from the high tumulus.
When she saw him shining in armour, swollen with
pride,
she cried: ‘Why go so far away? Turn your steps here,
come this way to destruction, and receive your reward,
worthy of Camilla. May even you not die by Diana’s
weapons?’
She spoke: then the Thracian goddess took a winged
arrow
from her golden quiver, and stretched the bow in
anger,
drawing it far back, until the curving horns met,
and now with levelled arms she touched the steel tip
with her left hand, and her breast and the bow-string with
her right.
At the same moment as Arruns heard the hissing dart,
and the rushing air, both one, the steel was fixed in
his body.
His allies, oblivious, left him on the unmemorable
dust
of the plain, gasping and groaning in extremity:
while Opis winged her way to heavenly Olympus.
Camilla’s light cavalry were first to flee, their
mistress lost,
the Rutulians fled in turmoil, brave Atinas fled,
scattered leaders and abandoned troops sought safety,
and, wheeling their horses about, headed for the
walls.
No one could check the pursuing, death-dealing
Trojans with weapons, or stand against them
but slung their unstrung bows on bowed shoulders,
and their horses’ hooves shook the crumbling earth in
flight.
A cloud of dark murky dust rolled towards the walls,
and mothers, from the watchtowers, raised the womens’
cry to the stars in heaven, as they beat their
breasts.
The enemy host pressed hard on those who first broke
at speed
through the open gates, mixing with their lines, so
they did not
escape a pitiful death, but, pierced through, gasped
away their lives
on the very threshold, their country’s walls around
them, within
the shelter of their houses. Some closed the gates,
and dared not
open a path for their friends or let them inside the
walls,
though they begged, and the most pitiful death
followed, of those
defending the entrance in arms, and those rushing onto
the swords.
Some driven by the rout, shut out, in front of the
gaze
and the weeping faces of their parents, rolled
headlong
into the ditches, others charging blindly with loose
reins
battered at the gates and the tough gate-posts barring
their way.
The women themselves when they saw Camilla from the
walls
in fierce emulation (true love of country guided them)
threw weapons with their weak hands, and in their
haste
used poles of tough oak and fire-hardened stakes
instead of steel,
and were ablaze to die in the forefront defending the
walls.
Meanwhile in the forest, the bitterest of messages
filled Turnus’s
thoughts: Acca had brought the warrior her news of the
mighty rout:
the Volscian ranks annihilated, Camilla killed, the
enemy
advancing fiercely, sweeping all before them
in the fortune of war, panic now reaching the city.
Maddened he abandoned the ambush among the hills
(so Jove’s cruel will demanded) and left the wild
forest.
He had scarcely passed from view, in reaching the
plain,
when Aeneas, the leader, mounted the ridge, after
entering
the unguarded gorge, and emerging from the dense
woods.
So they both marched quickly towards the walls,
in full force, and with no great distance between
them:
and at that moment Aeneas saw the plain, far off,
smoking with dust, and caught sight of the Laurentine
army,
and Turnus realised that fatal Aeneas was in arms,
and heard the march of feet, and the sound of horses.
They would have joined battle at once and attempted
combat,
but rosy Phoebus was already bathing his weary team
in the Spanish deeps, and, day waning, brought back
the night.
They camped before the city, and strengthened their
defences.
BkXII:1-53
Turnus Demands Marriage
When Turnus saw the Latins exhausted, and weakened
by their military reverse, himself the subject of
every gaze, his own
promise to them yet unfulfilled, he burned implacably,
and unprompted, and raised his courage. As a lion, in
the African
bush, severely hurt by huntsmen with a wound to the
chest,
only then rouses himself to battle, tosses his shaggy
mane
over his neck, in joy, and, unafraid, snaps off the
spear
some poacher has planted in him, roaring from
blood-stained jaws:
so the violence grew in Turnus’s inflamed heart.
Then he spoke to the king, beginning turbulently like
this:
‘There’s no reluctance here, in Turnus: there’s no
reason
for Aeneas’s coward crew to take back their words
or renounce their pact: I go to meet him. Carry out
the holy rite, father, and draw up the marriage
contract.
I’ll either send this Trojan, this Asian deserter,
to Tartarus, (let the Latins sit and watch) and
with my sword, alone, dispel the nation’s shame,
or let him possess the defeated, let Lavinia go then
as his bride.’
Latinus replied to him with calm in his heart:
‘O youth of noble spirit, the more you excel
in fierce courage, the more it is right for me to take
careful thought, and weigh every event with caution.
You have your father Daunus’s kingdom, you have
the many fortresses you captured by force,
and Latinus is not short of gold and generosity:
there are other unmarried girls, not ignoble in birth,
in the fields of Latium and Laurentium. Allow me to
say this,
un-gently, openly stripped of all guile, and take it
to heart:
it was forbidden for me to ally my daughter to any
of her former suitors, and all gods and men decreed
it.
Conquered by love for you, conquered by kinship, and
the tears
of a sorrowful wife, I broke all bounds: I snatched
the betrothed
girl from my son-in-law to be, and drew the impious
sword.
You see, Turnus, what events, what war dogs me,
what a heavy burden you above all bear.
Defeated in two great battles we can hardly preserve
the hopes of Italy in our city: Tiber’s streams are
yet warm
with our blood, the vast plains whitened by our bones.
Why did I waver so often? What madness changed my
decision?
If I’d be ready to accept the Trojans as allies with
Turnus
dead, why not rather end the conflict while he’s
alive?
What would your Rutulian kin say, and the rest of
Italy,
if I betrayed you to death (let chance deny those
words!)
while seeking my daughter in marriage?
Consider the fortunes of war: pity your aged father,
whom his native Ardea keeps apart from us, sorrowing.’
Turnus’s fury was unaffected by these words:
it mounted higher, inflamed by the treatment.
As soon as he was able to speak, he began like this:
‘Most gracious one, that concern you feel for me, I
beg you,
for me, set it aside, and allow me to barter death for
glory.
I too can scatter spears and no lack of steel, from my
hand,
father, and blood flows from the wounds I make as
well.
His goddess mother will be far from him, she who
covers
his flight with mist, like a woman, and hides in empty
shadows.’
BkXII:54-80
He Proposes Single Combat
But the queen wept, terrified by the new terms of
conflict,
and clung to her ardent son, as if she were dying:
‘Turnus, one thing I beg of you, by these tears, by
any respect
for Amata that touches your heart: you are my only
hope,
the peace of my sad old age, the honour and power of
Latinus
is in your hands, our whole tottering house rests on
you:
do not engage in combat with the Trojans.
Whatever danger awaits you in that battle awaits me
too,
Turnus: I would leave this hateful light with you
and will never, as a prisoner, see Aeneas as my
son-in-law.’
Lavinia listened to her mother’s words, her burning
cheeks wet with tears, while a deep blush kindled
their fire, and spread over her glowing face.
Her virgin looks showed such colour as when one
stains Indian ivory with crimson dye, or as
white lilies redden when mixed with many a rose.
Love stirred Turnus, and he fixed his gaze on the
girl:
fired still more for battle, he spoke briefly to
Amata:
‘O mother, I beg you not to send me off with tears,
or like ill omens, as I leave for the battles of a
bitter war:
Turnus is not free to delay his hour of death.
Idmon, as a messenger, carry my unwelcome words
to the Trojan leader. When tomorrow’s Dawn, riding
her crimson chariot, reddens in the sky, do not lead
Trojans against Rutulians, let Trojan and Rutulian
weapons rest: let us resolve this war with our own
blood,
on that field let Lavinia be sought as bride.’
BkXII:81-112
He Prepares For Battle
When he had spoken, and returned quickly to the
palace, he called
for his horses, and delighted in seeing them, neighing
before him,
horses Orithyia herself gave Pilumnus, as a glory,
surpassing the snow in whiteness, and the wind for
speed.
Their charioteers stood around eagerly patting their
echoing chests,
with the flat of their hands, and combing their
flowing manes.
Turnus drew a breastplate, stiff with gold and pale
bronze,
over his shoulders, fitted his sword and shield in
position,
and the horns with their crimson crest: the god with
the power
of fire had wrought the sword for his father, Daunus,
and dipped it, glowing, in the waters of the Styx.
Then Turnus gripped his strong spear firmly, that
stood
leaning on a great column in the middle of the hall,
a spoil won from the Auruncan, Actor, shook it till it
quivered
and shouted: ‘Now, o spear that never failed my call,
now the time has come: Actor, the mightiest, carried
you,
and now the right hand of Turnus: allow me to lay low
the body of that Phrygian eunuch, tear off and shatter
his breastplate with my powerful hand, and defile his
hair
with dust, that’s curled with a heated iron, and
drowned in myrrh.’
He was driven by frenzy, glowing sparks shot
from his whole aspect, fire flashed from his fierce
eyes,
like a bull, before a fight, that starts its
formidable
bellowing and, trying its anger with its horns,
charges a tree-trunk, lashes the air with its blows,
and scatters the sand, as it practises for the battle.
Meanwhile Aeneas, no less fierce, armed with the
weapons,
his mother’s gift, sharpened himself for conflict, and
roused
his anger, happy the war might be settled by the means
on offer.
Then he comforted his friends, and Iulus’s anxious
fears,
speaking of destiny, and ordered them to take a firm
reply
to King Latinus, and declare his conditions for peace.
BkXII:113-160
Juno Speaks to Juturna
The next dawn had scarcely begun to sprinkle the
mountain
summits with its rays, at that time when the horses of
the sun
first rise from the deep ocean, and breathe light from
lifted nostrils:
the Rutulians and Trojans had measured out the field
of combat, under the massive walls of the city,
and were preparing hearths and turf altars for their
mutual gods.
Others wearing priest’s aprons, their foreheads
wreathed
with vervain, brought spring water and fiery embers.
The Ausonian army marched out, and their ranks, armed
with spears, poured through the crowded gates. All the
host
of Trojans and Tuscans streamed out on the other side,
arrayed
in their various armour, equipped with steel, as if
the bitter conflict
of war called out to them. And the captains too, among
their many
thousands, darted about, brilliant in gold and purple,
Mnestheus of Assaracus’s line, brave Asilas,
and Messapus, tamer of horses, son of Neptune.
As soon as each had retired to their own ground, at
the given signal,
they planted their spears in the earth, and leant
their shields on them.
Then women, and weak old men, and the unarmed crowd,
poured out eagerly, and gathered on towers
and rooftops, or stood on the summit of the gates.
But Juno, gazed at the plain, looking from the top of
a hill
(called Alban now, then without name, honour or glory)
at the twin ranks of Laurentum and Troy, and Latinus’s
city.
Immediately, goddess to goddess, she spoke to Turnus’s
sister,
who ruled over lakes and echoing rivers (Jupiter, the
king
of high heaven, gave her that honour for stealing her
virginity):
‘Nymph, glory of rivers, dearest of all to my heart,
you know how I’ve preferred you alone of all the Latin
girls
who’ve mounted unwelcome to the couch of great-hearted
Jove,
and I have freely granted you a place in a part of the
sky:
lest you blame me, Juturna, learn of impending grief.
Whenever Fortune allowed, and the Fates permitted
the Latin state to prosper, I protected Turnus and
your city.
Now I see a warrior meeting with an unequal destiny,
and a day of Fate and inimical force draws near.
I cannot look at this combat, they agreed to, with my
eyes.
If you dare do anything more for your brother in
person,
go on: it’s fitting. Perhaps better things will follow
for the wretched.’
She had scarcely spoken, when Juturna’s eyes flowed
with tears,
and her hand struck her lovely breast three or four
times.
‘This is not the moment for tears,’ said Saturnian
Juno:
‘Run, and, if there’s a way, snatch your brother from
death:
or stir conflict and shatter the treaty they’ve made.
I teach you daring.’ Having urged her thus, she left
her
uncertain and troubled, sadly hurt at heart.
BkXII:161-215
Aeneas and Latinus Sacrifice
Meanwhile the kings drove out: Latinus in a
four-horsed chariot
of massive size (twelve golden rays circling his
shining brow,
emblems of his ancestor, the Sun), Turnus behind a
snow-white
team, brandishing two spears with broad steel blades
in his hand.
On the other side, Aeneas, the leader, ancestor of the
Roman race,
came from the camp, ablaze with starry shield and
heavenly
armour, Ascanius with him, Rome’s second great hope,
while a priest in pure robes brought the offspring
of a bristly boar, and also an unshorn two-year sheep,
and tethered the animals next to the blazing altars.
The heroes turned their gaze towards the rising sun,
sprinkled
salt meal with their hands, marked the victims’
foreheads
with a knife, and poured libations from cups onto the
altars.
Then pious Aeneas, with sword drawn, prayed like this:
‘Sun, be my witness, and this country that I call on,
for which I have been able to endure such labours,
and the all-powerful Father, and you Juno, his wife,
(now goddess, now, be kinder, I pray) and you,
glorious Mars,
you, father, who control all warfare with your will:
I call on founts and rivers, on all the holiness
of high heaven, and the powers in the blue ocean:
if by chance Victory falls to Turnus of Italy,
it is agreed the defeated will withdraw to Evander’s
city,
Iulus will leave the land, and the people of Aeneas
will never
bring renewed war in battle, or attack this realm with
the sword.
But if victory agrees that our contest is mine (as I
think
more likely, and may the gods by their will prove it
so),
I will not command the Italians to submit to Trojans
nor do I
seek a kingdom for myself: let both nations,
undefeated,
put in place an eternal treaty. I will permit your
gods
and their rites: Latinus my father-in-law will keep
his weapons,
my father-in-law will keep his accustomed power: the
Trojans
will build walls for me, and Lavinia will give her
name to a city.
So Aeneas was first to speak, then Latinus followed
him, thus,
raising his eyes to heaven, and stretching his right
hand to the sky:
‘I also swear, Aeneas, by the same earth, sea, and sky,
by Latona’s twin offspring, and by two-faced Janus,
by the power of the gods below, and the shrines of
cruel Dis:
may the Father, who ratifies treaties with his
lightning, hear me.
I touch the altar: I call as witness the gods, and the
flames
between us, no day shall break this peace or truce on
Italy’s side,
however things may fall out: nor will any power
deflect my will, not if it plunges the earth, drowned
in flood, into the waves, and dissolves heaven in
hell,
just as this sceptre (since he chanced to hold the
sceptre in his hand)
hewn, once and for all, from the lowest stem in the
woods,
having lost its parent trunk, and shedding its leaves
and twigs
to the knife, will never, now the craftsman’s hand has
sheathed it
in fine bronze, and given it to the elders of Latium
to carry, extend shoots or shade from light foliage.’
They sealed the treaty between them with these words
in full view of the leaders. Then with due rite they
slaughtered
the sacrificial beasts over the flames, tore out the
entrails,
while they were alive, and piled the alters with
heaped dishes.
BkXII:216-265
The Rutulians Break The Treaty
But the duel had for a long time seemed unfair to the
Rutulians,
and their hearts were torn by varied emotions, more so
when they saw the combatants’ unequal strength near
to.
Turnus added to the unrest, in advancing with silent
tread
and venerating the altar humbly, with downcast eyes,
and by his wasted cheeks and the pallor of his
youthful body.
As soon as his sister, Juturna, was aware that talk
was spreading
and the minds of the multitude were wavering in doubt,
she entered the heart of the army, in the guise of
Camers,
whose birth was of noble ancestry, his father’s name
famous for virtue, and he himself of the bravest in
arms,
she entered the heart of the army, not ignorant of her
task,
sowing various rumours and speaking as follows:
‘O Rutulians, aren’t you ashamed to sacrifice one life
on behalf of so many of you ? Aren’t we their equals
in numbers and might? See, all the Trojans and
Arcadians
are here, and the Etrurian band led by fate, and
hostile to Turnus:
if every other man attacks, there’s barely an opponent
for each of them.
Turnus will climb in glory to the gods, at whose
altars
he has dedicated his life, and live borne on men’s
lips:
but we will be forced to submit to proud masters,
our country lost, we who now sit inactive in the
field.’
The will of the young men was roused by these words,
more and more so, and a murmur spread through the
ranks:
even the Laurentines and the Latins changed their
minds.
Those who had lately hoped for rest from battle, and a
safe existence,
now longed for weapons, prayed for the treaty to be
broken,
and pitied Turnus’s unjust fate. Juturna added another
greater spur,
showing a sign in the depths of the sky, none more
significant
to disturb Italian minds, and charm them by the wonder
of it.
Jove’s tawny eagle, flying through reddened air,
stirred the shore-birds, with noisy confusion
in their winged ranks, when suddenly diving to the
water
he seized the most outstanding swan cruelly in his
curved talons.
The Italians paid attention, and (amazing to see)
all the birds wheeled, clamouring, in flight and, in a
cloud,
drove their enemy through the air, darkening the sky
with their wings, until, defeated by force and the
weight,
the bird gave way, and, dropping the prey
from his talons into the river, fled deep into the
clouds.
Then the Rutulians truly hailed this omen with a shout
and spread wide their hands, and Tolumnius the augur
was first
to cry out: ‘This, this was what my prayers have often
sought.
I understand it, and recognise the gods: snatch up the
sword
with me, with me at your head, o unhappy race, fragile
birds,
whom a cruel foreigner terrifies with war, ravaging
your coast with violence. He will take flight and sail
far away over the deep. Close ranks, together, and
defend
the king who has been snatched from you, in battle.
BkXII:266-310
Renewed Fighting
He spoke, and running forward hurled his spear
at the enemy: the hissing cornel shaft sang, and cut
unerringly
through the air, At one with this, at one, was a
mighty shout
the army all in uproar, and hearts hot with the
turmoil.
The spear flew on, to where, by chance, nine handsome
brothers
stood in its path, all of whom one faithful
Tuscan wife had borne to Arcadian Gylippus,
It struck one of them, a youth of great beauty, in
shining armour,
at the waist, where a stitched belt rubbed against
his stomach, and the buckle bit into the overlapping
ends,
pierced his ribs, and hurled him to the yellow sand.
But his spirited band of brothers, fired by grief,
drew their swords or snatched their iron spears,
and rushed forward blindly. The Laurentine ranks
charged them: Trojans and Agyllines and Arcadians
in decorated armour, poured in from the other side:
so all had one longing, to let the sword decide.
They stripped the altars, there was a fierce storm
of spears in the whole sky, and a steely rain fell:
wine-bowls and hearthstones were carried off:
Latinus himself fled, taking his defeated gods,
the treaty void. Others harnessed their chariots or
leapt
on their horses, and waited with drawn swords.
Messapus, keen to destroy the truce, charging on his
horse,
scared off Auletes, an Etruscan king with a king’s
emblems:
the unfortunate man, as he backed away, entangled,
fell,
head and shoulders, on to the altar behind him: and
Messapus
flew at him furiously, spear in hand, and from his
horse’s height
struck mightily at him with the massive weapon,
as Auletes begged piteously, and spoke like this, over
him:
‘He’s done for: this nobler victim is given to the
great gods.’
The Italians crowded round and stripped the warm body.
Against them, Corynaeus snatched a charred brand
from an altar, and aiming a blow at the charging Ebyso
dashed flames in his face: his great beard flared
and gave off a smell of burning. Corynaeus following
through
his blow, clutched the hair of his stunned enemy in
his left hand
and brought him to earth with a thrust of his bent
knee:
then stabbed him in the side with his straight sword.
Podalirius, towered over the shepherd Alsus, pursuing
him
with naked steel as he ran through the shower of
spears
in the front rank: but Alsus swung his axe back,
and sliced through the front of his enemy’s brow and
chin,
drenching his armour with widely spouting blood.
Harsh repose and iron slumber pressed on his eyes
and their light was sunk in everlasting night.
BkXII:311-382
Aeneas Wounded: Turnus Rampant
But virtuous Aeneas his head bared, unarmed, stretched
out
his right hand, and called loudly to his troops:
‘Where are you running to? Why this sudden tide of
discord?
O, control your anger! The agreement has already been
struck,
and its terms fixed. I alone have the right to fight:
Let me do so: banish your fears. I’ll prove the treaty
sound
with this right hand: these rites mean Turnus is
already mine.’
Amidst these cries and words, see, a hissing arrow
winged its way towards him, launched by what hand,
sent whirling by whom, was unknown, as was the chance
or god that brought the Rutulians such honour:
the glorious pride in it was kept concealed,
and no one boasted of wounding Aeneas.
As soon as Turnus saw Aeneas leave the ranks, his
captains
in confusion, he blazed with the fervour of sudden
hope:
he called for weapons and horses as one, leapt proudly
into his chariot, and gripped the reins in his hands.
He gave many a brave man death in his swift passage.
Many he overturned half-alive, crushed the ranks under
his chariot,
or seizing his spears showered them on those fleeing.
Just as when blood-drenched Mars is roused, and
clashes
his shield, by the icy streams of Hebrus and, inciting
war,
gives rein to his frenzied horses, so that they fly
over the open plain
outrunning the south and west winds, and farthest
Thrace groans
to the beat of their hooves, while around him the
forms of black
Terror, Anger and Treachery, speed, the companions of the
god:
with the same swiftness Turnus lashed his horses,
smoking with sweat, through the midst of the conflict,
trampling on enemies piteously slain, while the
galloping hooves
splashed bloody dew, and trampled the gore mixed with
sand.
Next he gave Sthenelus to death, Thamyrus, and Pholus,
the latter
close to, the former at a distance, from a distance
too
both sons of Imbrasas, Glaucus and Laudes, whom
Imbrasus
himself had raised in Lycia, and equipped with
matching armour,
to fight hand to hand, or outstrip the wind on
horseback.
Elsewhere Eumedes rode through the midst of the
battle,
famous in warfare, the son of aged Dolon,
recalling the grandfather in name, his father in
courage
and skill, he who, in going as a spy that time to the
Greek camp,
dared to ask for Achilles’s chariot as his reward:
but Diomedes paid him a different reward for his
daring
and he no longer aspired to Achilles’s team.
When Turnus saw Eumedes, far over the open plain, he
first
sent a light javelin after him across the long space
between,
then halted his paired horses, leapt from his chariot,
onto the half-dead, fallen man, and, planting his foot
on his neck,
tore the sword from his hand, and bloodied the bright
blade
deep in his throat, adding these words as well:
‘See the fields, that Western Land, you sought in war:
lie there and measure it: this is the prize for those
who dare to cross swords with me, thus they build
their walls.’
Then with a cast of his spear he sent Asbytes to keep
him company,
Chloreus and Sybaris, Dares and Thersilochus, and
Thymoetes
who was flung from the neck of his rearing horse.
As when the blast of the Edonian northerly sounds
over the Aegean deep, and drives the breakers to
shore,
while brooding gusts in the sky put the clouds to
flight,
so, wherever Turnus cut a path, the lines gave way,
and the ranks turned and ran: his own speed carried
him on,
and, as the chariot met it, the wind tossed his
flowing plume.
Phegeus could not endure his attack or his spirited
war-cry:
he threw himself at the chariot and with his right
hand wrenched
the heads of the swift horses aside, as they foamed at
the bit.
While he was dragged along, hanging from the yoke,
Turnus’s broad-headed lance reached for his exposed
flank,
tore open the double-stranded mail where it entered,
and grazed the surface of the flesh in a wound.
Phegeus still turned towards his enemy, his shield
raised,
and was trying to protect himself with his drawn
sword,
when the wheel and the onrush of the spinning axle
sent him headlong, throwing him to the ground, and
Turnus,
following through, struck off his head with a sweep of
his blade
between the rim of the helmet and the chain-mail’s
upper edge, and left the body lying on the sand.
BkXII:383-467
Venus Heals Aeneas
While Turnus was victoriously dealing death over the
plain,
Mnestheus and loyal Achates, with Ascanius
by their side, set Aeneas down inside the camp,
bleeding, supporting alternate steps with his long
spear.
he struggled furiously to pull out the head of the
broken
shaft, and called for the quickest means of
assistance:
to cut open the wound with a broadsword, lay open
the arrow-tip’s buried depths, and send him back to
war.
Now Iapyx, Iasus’s son, approached, dearest of all to
Apollo,
to whom the god himself, struck by deep love, long ago
offered with delight his own arts, his own gifts,
his powers of prophecy, his lyre, and swift arrows.
But Iapyx, in order to delay the fate of his dying
father,
chose knowledge of the virtues of herbs, and the use
of medicine, and, without fame, to practise the silent
arts.
Aeneas stood leaning on his great spear, complaining
bitterly,
amongst a vast crowd of soldiers, with Iulus
sorrowing,
himself unmoved by the tears. The aged Iapyx, his robe
rolled back
in Paeonian fashion, tried hard in vain with healing
fingers
and Apollo’s powerful herbs: he worked at the arrow
uselessly
with his hand, and tugged at the metal with tightened
pincers.
No luck guided his course, nor did Apollo his patron
help,
while cruel terror grew greater and greater over the
plain,
and evil drew near. Now they saw the sky standing on
columns of dust: the horsemen neared and arrows fell
thickly in the midst of the camp. A dismal cry rose to
heaven
of men fighting and falling under Mars’s harsh hand.
At this Aeneas’s mother, Venus, shaken by her son’s
cruel pain, culled a dittany plant from Cretan Ida,
with downy leaves and purple flowers: a herb
not unknown to the wild goats when winged
arrows have fixed themselves in their sides.
This Venus brought, her face veiled in dark mist,
this, with its hidden curative powers, she steeped
in river water, poured into a glittering basin, and
sprinkled
there healing ambrosial juice and fragrant panacea.
Aged Iapyx bathed the wound with this liquid,
not knowing its effect, and indeed all pain fled
from Aeneas’s body, all the flow of blood ceased deep
in the wound. Now, without force, the arrowhead
slipped from the wound, following the motion of his
hand,
and fresh strength returned to Aeneas, such as before.
Iapyx cried: ‘Quickly, bring our hero weapons. Why are
you
standing there?’
and was first to excite their courage against
the enemy. ‘Aeneas, this cure does not come by human
aid,
nor guiding art, it is not my hand that saved you: a
god,
a greater one, worked this, and sends you out again to
glorious deeds.’
Aeneas, eager for battle, had sheathed his legs in
gold,
left and right, and scornful of delay, brandished his
spear.
As soon as his shield was fixed at his side, the chain
mail
to his back, he clasped Ascanius in his armed embrace,
and, kissing his lips lightly through the helmet,
said:
‘My son, learn courage from me and true labour:
good fortune from others. Now my hand will protect you
in war, and lead you to great rewards. Make sure
later,
when your years have reached maturity, that you
remember:
let your father Aeneas, and your uncle Hector
inspire your soul, by recalling their example.’
When he spoken these words, he rushed out through the
gate,
in all his strength, brandishing a great spear in his
hand:
Antheus and Mnestheus with him, and their massed
ranks, and all
the army streamed from the camp. Then the plain was a
chaos
of blinding dust, and the quaking earth shook under
the tramp of feet.
Turnus saw them advance, from the rampart opposite:
the Ausonians saw, and a cold tremor ran to the marrow
of their bones: Juturna was the first of all the
Latins
to hear and recognise the sound, and she fled in fear.
Aeneas flew ahead, racing his dark ranks over the open
plain,
As when the weather breaks and a storm cloud moves
towards
land, over the deep ocean (ah, the hearts of wretched
farmers
know if from far off, and shudder: it brings ruin to
trees,
and havoc to harvests, everything far and wide is
destroyed),
the gales run before it and carry their roar to the
shore:
so the Trojan leader drove his ranks against the foe,
thickly they all gathered to him in dense columns.
Thymbreus struck mighty Osiris with his sword,
Mnestheus killed Arcetius: Achates killed Epulo,
Gyas killed Ufens: even Tolumnius the augur fell,
first to hurl his spear straight at the enemy.
A shout rose to heaven, and in turn the routed
Rutulians
turned their backs in a cloud of dust, fleeing over
the field.
Aeneas himself did not deign to send the fugitives to
their death,
nor did he attack the foot-soldiers, cavalry or those
hurling
missiles: he tracked only Turnus, searching through
the dense gloom, Turnus alone he summoned to combat.
BkXII:468-499
Juturna Foils Aeneas
Juturna, the warrior maiden, her mind stricken with
fear,
knocked Turnus’s charioteer, Metiscus, from the reins,
at this,
so that he slipped from the beam, and left him far
behind:
she herself took his place, and guided the flowing
reins
with her hands, assuming Meniscus’s voice, form,
weapons, all.
As when a dark swallow flies through the great house
of some rich lord, winging her way through lofty halls
gathering tiny crumbs and scraps of food for her noisy
young,
now twittering in the empty courtyards, now by the
damp ponds:
so Juturna was drawn by the horses through the enemy
centre
and, flying in her swift chariot, criss-crossed the
whole plain,
now here, now there, she gives evidence of her
triumphant brother,
not allowing him close combat, flying far away.
Nevertheless Aeneas traversed her winding course to
meet him,
tracking him, calling him loudly among the ranks.
As often as he set eyes on his enemy, and tried to
match
the flight of the swift horses in his course, as often
Juturna turned and wheeled the chariot.
Ah, what to do? Vainly he fluctuated on the shifting
tide,
and diverse concerns called his thoughts away.
Messapus, who happened to be carrying two strong
spears
tipped with steel, advanced lightly towards him,
levelled one, and hurled it with unerring aim.
Aeneas stopped, and gathered himself behind his shield
sinking on one knee: the swift spear still took off
the tip
of his helmet, and knocked the plumes from the crest.
Then his anger truly surged, and incited by all this
treachery,
seeing his enemy’s chariot and horses driven far off,
calling loudly on Jove, and the altars of the broken
treaty,
as witness, he plunged at last into the fray,
and, aided by Mars, he awoke dreadful, savage,
indiscriminate slaughter, and gave full rein to his
wrath.
BkXII:500-553
Aeneas And Turnus Amongst The Slaughter
What god can now relate for me such bitter things as
these,
who can tell of such varied slaughter, the deaths of
generals,
whom Turnus now, and now the Trojan hero, drove in
turn
over the field? Jupiter was it your will that races
who would live
together in everlasting peace should meet in so great
a conflict?
Aeneas meeting Rutulian Sucro (in the first battle
that brought the Trojan attack to a halt) quickly
struck him
in the side, and drove the cruel steel through the
ribs
that protect the heart, where death come fastest.
Turnus threw Amycus from his horse, and Diores his
brother,
attacking them on foot, striking one with the long
lance
as he advanced, the other with his sword, then hanging
both
their severed heads from his chariot carried them away
dripping with blood. Aeneas sent Talos and Tanais
and brave Cethegus to death, three in one attack,
and sad Onites of Theban name, whose mother was
Peridia:
Turnus killed the brothers sent from Lycia, Apollo’s
fields,
and Menoetes of Arcadia, who had hated war, but in
vain:
his humble home and his living were round Lerna’s
fish-filled streams, never knowing the patronage
of the great, and his father farmed rented land.
Like fires set burning from opposite sides of a dry
forest
into the thickets of crackling laurel, or foaming
rivers
falling swiftly from the mountain heights, roaring
and racing seawards, each leaving its path of
destruction,
so Aeneas and Turnus with no less fury swept through
the battle:
now anger surged within: now their hearts which knew
no defeat
were bursting: now with all their strength they set
out to do harm.
As he boasted of his fathers, and the antiquity of his
ancestors’
names, and all his race traced back through Latin
kings,
Aeneas sent Murranus headlong with a stone, a great
whirling rock,
and hurled him to the ground: beneath the reins and
yoke,
the wheels churned him round, and the horses’ hooves,
forgetful of their master, trampled him under with
many a blow.
Turnus met Hyllus as he charged, roaring with
boundless pride,
and hurled a spear at his gilded forehead: piercing
the helmet the weapon lodged in his brain. Cretheus,
bravest of Greeks, your right hand did not save you
from Turnus, nor did the gods hide Cupencus when
Aeneas
came: he set his chest against the weapon’s track,
and the bronze shield’s resistance profited the wretch
nothing.
The Laurentine field saw you fall also, Aeolus,
on your back, sprawled wide on the ground.
You fell, whom the Greek battalions could not lay low,
nor Achilles
who overturned Priam’s kingdom: here was the boundary
of death for you: your noble house was below Mount
Ida,
that noble house at Lyrnesus, your grave in Laurentine
soil.
All the lines turned towards battle, the whole of the
Latins,
the whole of the Trojans, Mnestheus and fierce
Serestus,
Messapus, tamer of horses, and brave Asilas,
the Tuscan phalanx, Evander’s Arcadian squadron,
each for himself, men straining with all their
strength:
no respite and no rest: exerting themselves in one
vast conflict.
BkXII:554-592
Aeneas Attacks The City
Now his loveliest of mothers set in his mind the idea
of moving against the walls, and turning his army on
the city,
swiftly, to confound the Latins with sudden ruin.
While he tracked Turnus here and there through the
ranks
and swept his glance this way and that, he could see
the city, free of fierce warfare and peacefully
unharmed.
Suddenly an image of a more ambitious act of war
inflamed him:
he called the generals Mnestheus, Sergestus and brave
Serestus,
and positioned himself on a hillock, where the rest of
the Trojan army
gathered round in a mass, without dropping their
shields or spears.
Standing amongst them on the high mound he cried:
‘Let nothing impede my orders, Jupiter is with us, and
let
no one be slower to advance because this attempt is so
sudden.
Today I will overthrow that city, a cause of war,
Latinus’s
capital itself, and lay its smoking roofs level with
the ground,
unless they agree to accept our rule, and submit, in
defeat.
Do you think I can wait until Turnus can face battle
with me,
and chooses to meet with me again, though defeated
before?
O citizens, this man is the fountainhead and source of
this wicked war.
Quickly, bring burning brands, and re-establish the
treaty, with fire.’
He spoke, and all his troops adopted wedge-formation,
hearts
equal in emulation, and advanced in a dense mass
towards the walls:
in a flash, scaling ladders and sudden flames
appeared.
Some ran to the gates and cut down the leading
defenders,
others hurled steel, and darkened the sky with
missiles.
Aeneas himself, among the leaders, raised his hand, at
the foot
of the wall, accused Latinus in a loud voice, and called
the gods
to witness that he was being forced into battle again,
that the Italians were doubly enemies, another treaty
was broken.
Dissension rose among the fearful citizens: some
commanded
the city be opened, and the gates be thrown wide
to the Trojans, and they dragged the king himself to
the ramparts:
others brought weapons and hurried to defend the
walls,
as when a shepherd, who’s tracked a swarm to its lair
concealed in the rock, fills it with acrid smoke:
the bees inside, anxious for safety, rush round
their wax fortress, and sharpen their anger in loud
buzzing:
the reeking darkness rolls through their hive, the
rocks
echo within to a blind humming, and fumes reach the
clear air.
BkXII:593-613
Queen Amata’s Suicide
Now further misfortune befell the weary Latins,
and shook the whole city to its foundations with
grief.
When Queen Amata, from the palace, saw the enemy
approaching, the walls assaulted, flames mounting to
the roofs,
but no opposing Rutulian lines, nor Turnus’s army,
the unhappy queen thought Turnus had been killed
in combat, and, her mind distraught, in sudden
anguish,
she cried out that she was the cause, the guilty one,
the source
of evil, and uttering many wild words in the frenzy
of grief, wanting to die, she tore her purple robes,
and fastened a hideous noose of death to a high beam.
As soon as the wretched Latin women knew of the
disaster,
first her daughter Lavinia fell into a frenzy, tearing
at her golden
tresses and rosy cheeks with her hands, then all the
crowd
around her: the wide halls echoed to their
lamentations.
From there the unhappy rumour spread throughout the
city:
Spirits sank: Latinus went about with rent clothing,
stunned by his wife’s fate and his city’s ruin,
received Trojan Aeneas, and adopted him as his
son-in-law.
BkXII:614-696
Turnus Hears Of Amata’s Death
Meanwhile Turnus, fighting at the edge of the plain,
was pursuing the stragglers now, more slowly,
and rejoicing less and less in his horses’ advance.
The breeze bore a clamour to him mingled
with an unknown dread, and the cheerless sounds
of a city in chaos met his straining ears.
‘Ah, what is this great grief that shakes the walls?
What is this clamour that rises from the distant
city?’
So he spoke, anxiously grasping the reins and halting.
At this his sister, controlling chariot, horses and
reins
disguised in the shape of his charioteer, Metiscus,
countered with these words: ‘Turnus, this way, let us
chase
the sons of Troy, where victory forges the way ahead:
there are others with hands to defend our homes.
Aeneas is attacking the Italians, and stirring
conflict:
let our hands too deal cruel death to the Trojans.
You will not leave the field inferior in battle
honours
or the number you have killed’ Turnus replied to this:
‘O sister, I recognised you long ago, when you first
wrecked the truce with your guile, and dedicated
yourself to warfare,
and now too you hide your divinity in vain. But who
desired
you to be sent down from Olympus to suffer such
labours?
Was it so you might see your unlucky brother’s death?
What can I do? What chance can offer me life?
I saw Murranus fall, before my very eyes, calling out
to me, loudly, no one more dear to me than him
remains,
a mighty man, and overwhelmed by a mighty wound.
Unfortunate Ufens fell, so he might not witness our
shame:
the Trojans captured his body and his armour.
Shall I endure the razing of our homes (the one thing
left)
and not deny Drances’s words with my sword?
Shall I turn my back, and this country see Turnus run?
Is it indeed so terrible to die? Oh be good to me, you
Shades
below, since the gods above have turned their faces
from me.
I will descend to you, a virtuous soul, innocent
of blame, never unworthy of my great ancestors.’
He had barely spoken when Saces sped by, carried on a
foaming
horse through the thick of the enemy, wounded full in
the face
by an arrow, and calling to Turnus by name as he
rushed on:
‘Turnus, in you our last hope lies, pity your people.
Aeneas is explosive in arms, and threatens to throw
down
Italy’s highest citadel and deliver it to destruction,
even now
burning brands fly towards the roofs. The Latins turn
their faces
to you, their eyes are on you: King Latinus mutters to
himself,
wavering as to whom to call his sons, towards what
alliance to lean.
Moreover the queen, most loyal to you, has fallen
by her own hand, and fled, in horror of the light.
Messapus and brave Atinas, alone in front of the gates
sustain our lines. Around them dense squadrons stand
on every side, a harvest of steel that bristles with
naked swords,
while you drive your chariot over the empty turf.’
Stunned and amazed by this vision of multiple
disaster,
Turnus stood silently gazing: fierce shame surged
in that solitary heart, and madness mingled with
grief,
love stung to frenzy, consciousness of virtue.
As soon as the shadows dispersed, and light returned
to his mind,
he turned his gaze, with blazing eyes, towards the
walls,
and looked back on the mighty city from his chariot.
See, now, a spiralling crest of flame fastened
on a tower, and rolled skyward through the stories,
a tower he had built himself with jointed beams,
set on wheels, and equipped with high walkways.
He spoke: ‘Now, sister, now fate triumphs: no more
delays:
where god and cruel fortune calls, let me follow.
I’m determined on meeting Aeneas, determined to suffer
death, however bitter: you’ll no longer see me ashamed,
sister.
I beg you let me rage before I am maddened.’
And, leaping swiftly from his chariot to the ground,
he ran through enemy spears, deserting his grieving
sister,
and burst, in his quick passage, through the ranks.
As when a rock torn from the mountaintop by a storm
hurtles downward, washed free by a tempest of rain
or loosened in time by the passage of the years,
and the wilful mass plunges down the slope in a mighty
rush
and leaps over the ground, rolling trees, herds and
men
with it: so Turnus ran to the city walls through the
broken ranks,
where the soil was most drenched with blood, and the
air
shrill with spears, signalled with his hand and began
shouting aloud:
‘Rutulians stop now, and you Latins hold back your
spears.
Whatever fate is here, is mine: it is better that I
alone
make reparation for the truce and decide it with the
sword.’
All drew back, and left a space in their midst.
BkXII:697-765
The Final Duel Begins
Now Aeneas the leader hearing the name of Turnus
left the walls, and left the high fortress,
cast aside all delay, broke off from every task,
and exultant with delight clashed his weapons
fiercely:
vast as Mount Athos, or Mount Eryx, or vast as old
Apennine
himself when he roars through the glittering holm-oaks
and joys in lifting his snowy summit to heaven.
Now all truly turned their eyes, stripping the armour
from their shoulders, Rutulians, Trojans and Italians,
those who held the high ramparts and those whose ram
battered at the walls beneath. Latinus himself was
amazed
at these mighty men, born at opposite ends of the
world,
meeting and deciding the outcome with their swords.
As soon as the field was clear on the open plain,
they both dashed quickly forward, hurling their spears
first
from a distance, rushing, with shield and ringing
bronze,
to battle. The earth groaned: they redoubled their
intense
sword-strokes, chance and skill mingled together.
And as when two bulls charge head to head in mortal
battle,
on mighty Sila or on Taburnus’s heights, and in terror
their keepers retreat, the whole herd stand silent
with fear,
and the heifers wait, mute, to see who will be
lord of the forest, whom all the herds will follow,
as they deal wounds to each other with immense force,
gore with butting horns, and bathe neck and shoulders
in streaming blood, while all the wood echoes to their
bellowing:
so Trojan Aeneas and the Daunian hero, Turnus,
clashed their shields, and the mighty crash filled the
sky.
Jupiter himself held up two evenly balanced scales
before him, and placed in them the diverse fates of
the two,
to see whom the effort doomed, with whose weight death
sank down.
Turnus leapt forward thinking himself safe, rose to
the full height
of his body with uplifted sword, and struck: the
Trojans
and the anxious Latins cried out, both armies were
roused.
But the treacherous blade snapped, and would have left
the eager
warrior defenceless in mid-stroke, if immediate flight
had not saved him. He ran swifter than the east wind,
when he saw that strange hilt in his exposed right
hand.
The tale is that in headlong haste, when he first
mounted
behind his yoked team for battle, he left his father’s
sword
behind, and snatched up the blade of his charioteer,
Metiscus:
and that served him for a long while as the straggling
Trojans
turned their backs, but the mortal blade flew apart
like brittle ice at the stroke, on meeting Vulcan’s
divine armour: and the fragments gleamed on the yellow
sand.
So Turnus ran madly this way and that over the plain,
winding
aimless circles here and there: on all sides the
Trojans
imprisoned him in their crowded ring, and a vast marsh
penned him on one side, on the other the steep
ramparts.
Aenaeas, no less, though his knees, slowed at times
by the arrow wound, failed him and denied him speed,
pursued and pressed his anxious enemy hotly, foot to
foot:
as when a hound in the hunt presses on a stag, chasing
and barking, one found trapped by the river or hedged
in
by fear of the crimson feathers: the stag, terrified
by the snares and the high banks, flies backwards and
forwards
a thousand ways, but the eager Umbrian clings close
with gaping mouth, almost has him, and snaps his jaws
as though he holds him, baffled and biting empty air:
Then a clamour breaks out indeed, the pools and banks
around echo, and the whole sky rings with the tumult.
As he fled Turnus chided the Rutulians, calling on
each
by name and calling out for his own familiar sword.
Aeneas in turn threatened death and immediate destruction
if any one approached, and terrified his trembling
enemies
threatening to raze the city, and pressing on though
wounded.
They completed five circuits, and unwound as many,
this way and that: since they sought for no paltry
prize
at the games, but vied for Turnus’s life blood.
BkXII:766-790
The Goddesses Intervene
By chance this was the place where a bitter-leaved
wild olive, sacred to Faunus, had stood, a tree
revered
by sailors of old, where, when saved from the sea,
they used
to hang their gifts to the Laurentine god, and the
votive garments:
but the Trojans had removed the sacred trunk, allowing
of no exceptions, in order to fight on open ground.
Here stood Aeneas’s spear, its impetus had carried it
there,
fixed and held fast by the tough roots. The Trojan
halted,
intending to pluck out the steel with his hand,
and pursue the man he couldn’t catch by running,
with his javelin. Then Turnus mad with anxiety indeed
cried:
‘Faunus, pity me, I pray, and you, most gracious Earth
if I have every honoured your rites that the sons of
Aeneas
have instead defiled by war, retain the steel.’
He spoke, and did not invoke the power of heaven in
vain,
since Aeneas could not prise open the wood’s grip,
by any show of strength, though he wrestled long and
lingered
over the strong stump. While he tugged and strained
fiercely, Juturna,
the Daunian goddess, changing again to the shape of
Metiscus,
the charioteer, ran forward and restored his sword to
her brother.
But Venus, enraged that this was allowed the audacious
nymph,
approached, and plucked the javelin from the deep
root.
Refreshed with weapons and courage, one relying on his
sword,
the other towering fiercely with his spear, both
breathing hard,
they stood, tall, face to face, in martial conflict.
BkXII:791-842
Jupiter And Juno Decide The Future
The king of almighty Olympus meanwhile was speaking
to Juno, as she gazed at the fighting from a golden
cloud:
‘Wife, what will the end be now? What will be left in
the end?
You know yourself, and confess you know, that Aeneas,
is destined for heaven as the nation’s god: the Fates
raise him to the stars.
What are you planning? What hope do you cling to in
the cold clouds?
Was it right that this god be defiled by a mortal’s
wound?
Or that the lost sword (for what could Juturna achieve
without you?)
be restored to Turnus, the defeated gaining new
strength?
Now cease, at last, and give way to my entreaties,
lest such sadness consume you in silence, and your
bitter
woes stream back to me often from your sweet lips.
It has reached its end. You have had the power to
drive
the Trojans over land and sea, to stir up evil war,
to mar a house, and mix marriage with grief:
I forbid you to attempt more.’ So Jupiter spoke:
so, with humble look, the Saturnian goddess replied:
‘Great Jupiter, truly, it was because I knew it was
your wish
that I parted reluctantly from Turnus and the Earth:
or you would not see me alone now, on my celestial
perch,
enduring the just and the unjust, but I’d be standing,
wreathed in flame,
in the battle line itself, and drawing the Trojans
into deadly combat.
I counselled Juturna (I confess) to help her
unfortunate brother
and approved greater acts of daring for the sake of
his life,
yet not for her to contend with the arrow or the bow:
I swear it by the implacable fountainhead of Styx,
that alone is held in awe by the gods above.
And now I yield, yes, and leave the fighting I loathe.
Yet I beg this of you, for Latium’s sake, for the
majesty
of your own kin: since it is not prohibited by any law
of fate:
when they soon make peace with happy nuptials (so be
it)
when they join together soon in laws and treaties,
don’t order the native Latins to change their ancient
name,
to become Trojans or be called Teucrians,
or change their language, or alter their clothing.
Let Latium still exist, let there be Alban kings
through the ages,
let there be Roman offspring strong in Italian virtue:
Troy has fallen, let her stay fallen, along with her
name.’
Smiling at her, the creator of men and things replied:
‘You are a true sister of Jove, another child of
Saturn,
such waves of anger surge within your heart.
Come, truly, calm this passion that was needlessly
roused:
I grant what you wish, and I relent, willingly
defeated.
Ausonia’s sons will keep their father’s speech and
manners,
as their name is, so it will be: the Trojans shall
sink, merged
into the mass, only. I will add sacred laws and rites,
and make them all Latins of one tongue.
From them a race will rise, merged with Ausonian
blood,
that you will see surpass men and gods in virtue,
no nation will celebrate your rites with as much
devotion.’
Juno agreed it, and joyfully altered her purpose:
then left her cloud, and departed from the sky.
BkXII:843-886
Jupiter Sends Juturna A Sign
This done the Father turns something else over in his
mind
and prepares to take Juturna from her brother’s side.
Men speak of twin plagues, named the Dread Ones,
whom Night bore untimely, in one birth with Tartarean
Megaera,
wreathing them equally in snaky coils, and adding
wings swift
as the wind. They wait by Jove’s throne on the fierce
king’s
threshold, and sharpen the fears of weak mortals
whenever the king of the gods sends plagues
and death’s horrors, or terrifies guilty cities with
war.
Jupiter sent one of them quickly down from heaven’s
heights
and ordered her to meet with Juturna as a sign:
she flew, and darted to earth in a swift whirlwind.
Like an arrow loosed from the string, through the
clouds,
that a Parthian, a Parthian or a Cydonian, fired,
hissing, and leaping unseen through the swift shadows,
a shaft beyond all cure, armed with cruel poison’s
venom:
so sped the daughter of Night, seeking the earth.
As soon as she saw the Trojan ranks and Turnus’s
troops,
she changed her shape, suddenly shrinking to the form
of that
small bird that perching at night on tombs or deserted
rooftops,
often sings her troubling song so late among the
shadows –
and the fiend flew screeching to and fro in front
of Turnus’s face, and beat at his shield with her
wings.
A strange numbness loosed his limbs in dread,
his hair stood up in terror, and his voice clung to
his throat.
But when his wretched sister Juturna recognised the
Dread One’s
whirring wings in the distance, she tore at her
loosened hair, marring
her face with her nails, and her breasts with her
clenched hands:
‘What help can your sister give you now, Turnus?
What is left for me who have suffered so? With what
art
can I prolong your life? Can I stand against such a
portent?
Now at last I leave the ranks. Bird of ill-omen, do
not you
terrify me who already am afraid: I know your
wing-beats
and their fatal sound, and I do not mistake the proud
command
of great-hearted Jupiter. Is this his reward for my
virginity?
Why did he grant me eternal life? Why is the mortal
condition
taken from me? Then, at least, I could end such pain
and go through the shadows at my poor brother’s side!
An immortal, I? Can anything be sweet to me without
you
my brother? Oh what earth can gape deep enough for me,
to send a goddess down to the deepest Shades?’
So saying she veiled her head in a grey mantle, and
the goddess,
with many a cry of grief, plunged into the river’s
depths.
BkXII:887-952
The Death Of Turnus
Aeneas pressed on, brandishing his great spear like a
tree,
and, angered at heart, he cried out in this way:
‘Why now yet more delay? Why do you still retreat,
Turnus?
We must compete hand to hand with fierce weapons, not
by running.
Change into every form: summon up all your powers
of mind and art, wing your way if you wish
to the high stars, or hide in earth’s hollow prison.’
Turnus shook his head: ‘Fierce man, your fiery words
don’t frighten me: the gods terrify me and Jupiter’s
enmity.’
Saying no more he looked round seeing a great rock,
a vast ancient stone, that happened to lie there in
the plain,
set up as a boundary marker, to distinguish fields in
dispute.
Twelve picked men, men of such form as Earth
now produces, could scarcely have lifted it on their
shoulders,
but the hero, grasping it quickly, rising to his full
height
and as swiftly as he could, hurled it at his enemy.
But he did not know himself, running or moving
raising the great rock in his hands, or throwing:
his knees gave way, his blood was frozen cold.
The stone itself, whirled by the warrior through the
empty air,
failed to travel the whole distance, or drive home
with force.
As in dreams when languid sleep weighs down our eyes
at night,
we seem to try in vain to follow our eager path,
and collapse helpless in the midst of our efforts,
the tongue won’t work, the usual strength is lacking
from our limbs, and neither word nor voice will come:
so the dread goddess denied Turnus success,
however courageously he sought to find a way.
Then shifting visions whirled through his brain:
he gazed at the Rutulians, and at the city, faltered
in fear, and shuddered at the death that neared,
he saw no way to escape, no power to attack his enemy,
nor sign of his chariot, nor his sister, his
charioteer.
As he wavered, Aeneas shook his fateful spear,
seeing a favourable chance, and hurled it from the
distance
with all his might. Stone shot from a siege engine
never roared so loud, such mighty thunder never burst
from a lightning bolt. Like a black hurricane the
spear flew on
bearing dire destruction, and pierced the outer circle
of the seven-fold shield, the breastplate’s lower rim,
and, hissing, passed through the centre of the thigh.
Great Turnus sank, his knee bent beneath him, under
the blow.
The Rutulians rose up, and groaned, and all the hills
around
re-echoed, and, far and wide, the woods returned the
sound.
He lowered his eyes in submission and stretched out
his right hand:
‘I have earned this, I ask no mercy’ he said,
‘seize your chance. If any concern for a parent’s
grief
can touch you (you too had such a father, in Anchises)
I beg you to pity Daunus’s old age and return me,
or if you prefer it my body robbed of life, to my
people.
You are the victor, and the Ausonians have seen me
stretch out my hands in defeat: Lavinia is your wife,
don’t extend your hatred further.’ Aeneas stood,
fierce
in his armour, his eyes flickered, and he held back
his hand:
and even now, as he paused, the words began to move
him
more deeply, when high on Turnus’s shoulder young
Pallas’s
luckless sword-belt met his gaze, the strap glinting
with its familiar
decorations, he whom Turnus, now wearing his enemy’s
emblems
on his shoulder, had wounded and thrown, defeated, to
the earth.
As soon as his eyes took in the trophy, a memory of
cruel grief,
Aeneas, blazing with fury, and terrible in his anger,
cried:
‘Shall you be snatched from my grasp, wearing the
spoils
of one who was my own? Pallas it is, Pallas, who
sacrifices you
with this stroke, and exacts retribution from your
guilty blood.’
So saying, burning with rage, he buried his sword deep
in Turnus’s breast: and then Turnus’s limbs grew slack
with death, and his life fled, with a moan, angrily,
to the Shades.
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