BOOK XI

Meanwhile, the Goddess of Dawn has risen and left the ocean. Æneas, though duty presses to find leisure for interring his friends, and his mind is still wildered by the scene of blood, was paying his vows to heaven as conqueror should at the day-star’s rise. A giant oak, lopped all 5 round of its branches, he sets up on a mound, and arrays it in gleaming arms, the royal spoils of Mezentius, a trophy to thee, great Lord of War: thereto he attaches the crest yet raining blood, the warrior’s weapons notched and broken, and the hauberk stricken and pierced by twelve 10 several wounds: to the left hand he binds the brazen shield, and hangs to the neck the ivory-hilted sword. Then he begins thus to give charge to his triumphant friends, for the whole company of chiefs had gathered to his side: “A mighty deed, gallants, is achieved already: dismiss 15 all fear for the future: see here the spoils, the tyrant’s first-fruits: see here Mezentius as my hands have made him. Now our march is to the king and the walls of Latium. Set the battle in array in your hearts and let hope forestall the fray, that no delay may check your ignorance 20 at the moment when heaven gives leave to pluck up the standards and lead forth our chivalry from the camp, no coward resolve palsy your steps with fear. Meanwhile, consign we to earth the unburied carcases of our friends, that solitary honour which is held in account in the pit 25 of Acheron. Go,” he says, “grace with the last tribute those glorious souls, who have bought for us this our fatherland with the price of their blood: and first to Evander’s sorrowing town send we Pallas, who, lacking nought of manly worth, has been reft by the evil day, and whelmed 30 in darkness before his time.”

So he says weeping, and returns to his tent-door, where the body of breathless Pallas, duly laid out, was being watched by Acœtes the aged, who had in old days been armour-bearer to Evander his Arcadian lord, but then in an hour less happy was serving as the appointed guardian 5 of the pupil he loved. Around the corpse were thronging the retinue of menials and the Trojan train, and dames of Ilion with their hair unbound in mourning fashion. But soon as Æneas entered the lofty portal, a mighty wail they raise to the stars, smiting on their breasts, and 10 the royal dwelling groans to its centre with their agony of woe. He, when he saw the pillowed head and countenance of Pallas in his beauty, and the deep cleft of the Ausonian spear in his marble bosom, thus speaks, breaking into tears: “Can it be, unhappy boy, that Fortune at the 15 moment of her triumphant flood-tide has grudged you to me, forbidding you to look on my kingdom, and ride back victorious to your father’s home? Not such was the parting pledge I gave on your behalf to your sire Evander, when, clasping me to his heart, he sent me on my way to mighty 20 empire, and anxiously warned me that the foe was fierce and the race we should war with stubborn. And now he belike at this very moment in the deep delusion of empty hope is making vows to Heaven and piling the altars with gifts, while we are following his darling, void of life, and 25 owing no dues henceforward to any power on high, with the vain service of our sorrow. Ill-starred father! your eyes shall see what cruel death has made of your son. And is this the proud return, the triumph we looked for? has my solemn pledge shrunk to this? Yet no beaten 30 coward shall you see, Evander, chastised with unseemly wounds, nor shall the father pray for death to come in its terror while the son survives. Ay me! how strong a defender is lost to our Ausonian realm, and lost to you, my own Iulus!” 35

So having wailed his fill, he gives order to lift and bear the poor corpse, and sends a thousand men chosen from his whole array to attend the last service of woe, and lend their countenance to the father’s tears, a scant solace for that mighty sorrow, yet not the less the wretched parent’s due. Others, nothing slack, plait the framework of a pliant bier with shoots of arbute and oaken twigs, and shroud the heaped-up bed with a covering of leaves. 5 Here place they the youth raised high on his rustic litter, even as a flower cropped by maiden’s finger, be it of delicate violet or drooping hyacinth, unforsaken as yet of its sparkling hue and its graceful outline, though its parent earth no longer feeds it or supplies it with strength. Then 10 brought forth Æneas two garments stiff with gold and purple, which Dido had wrought for him in other days with her own hands, delighting in the toil, and had streaked their webs with threads of gold. Of these the mourner spreads one over his youthful friend as a last honour, 15 and muffles the locks on which the flame must feed: moreover he piles in a heap many a spoil from Laurentum’s fray, and bids the plunder be carried in long procession. The steeds too and weapons he adds of which he had stripped the foe. Already had he bound the victims’ 20 hands behind their backs, doomed as a sacrifice to the dead man’s spirit, soon to spill their blood over the fire: and now he bids the leaders in person carry tree-trunks clad with hostile arms, and has the name of an enemy attached to each. There is Acœtes led along, a lorn old 25 man, marring now his breast with blows, now his face with laceration, and anon he throws himself at his full length on the ground. They lead too the car, all spattered with Rutulian blood. After it the warrior steed, Æthon, his trappings laid aside, moves weeping, and bathes his 30 visage with big round drops. Others carry the spear and the helm: for the rest of the harness is Turnus’ prize. Then follows a mourning army, the Teucrians, and all the Tuscans, and the sons of Arcady with weapons turned downward. And now after all the retinue had passed on 35 in long array, Æneas stayed, and groaning deeply uttered one word more: “We are summoned hence by the same fearful destiny of war to shed other tears: I bid you hail forever, mightiest Pallas, and forever farewell.” Saying this and this only, he turned to the lofty walls again, and bent his footsteps campward.

And now appeared the ambassadors from the town of Latium, with the coverings of their olive boughs, entreating 5 an act of grace: the bodies which were lying over the plains as the steel had mowed them down they pray him to restore, and suffer them to pass under the mounded earth: no man wars with the vanquished and with those who have left the sun: let him show mercy to men once 10 known as his hosts and the fathers of his bride. The good Æneas hearkens to a prayer that merits no rebuke, grants them the boon, and withal bespeaks them thus: “What undeserved ill chance, men of Latium, has entangled you in a war so terrible and made you fly from us your friends? 15 Ask you peace for the dead, for those on whom the War-god’s die has fallen? Nay, I would fain grant it to the living too. I were not here had not fate assigned me a portion and a home: nor wage I war against your nation: it was the king that abandoned our alliance, and sought 20 shelter rather under Turnus’ banner. Fairer it had been that Turnus should have met the death-stroke ye mourn. If he seeks to end the war by strength of arm and expel the Trojan enemy, duty bade him confront me with weapons like mine, and that one should have lived who had earned 25 life from heaven or his own right hand. Now go and kindle the flame beneath your ill-starred townsmen.” Æneas’ speech was over: they stood in silent wonder, their eyes and countenances steadfastly fixed on each other. Then Drances, elder in birth, ever embroiled with the 30 youthful Turnus by hatred and taunting word, thus speaks in reply: “O mighty in fame’s voice, mightier in your own brave deeds, hero of Troy, what praise shall I utter to match you with the stars? Shall I first admire your sacred love of right, or the toils of your hand in war? Ours it 35 shall be gratefully to report your answer to our native town, and should any favouring chance allow, make you the friend of king Latinus. Let Turnus look for alliance where he may. Nay, it will be our pride to uprear those massive walls of destiny, and heave on our shoulders the stones of your new Troy.” He spoke, and the rest all murmured assent. For twelve days they make truce, and with amity to mediate, Trojans and Latians mingled roam 5 through the forest on the mountain slopes unharming and unharmed. The lofty ash rings with the two-edged steel: they bring low pines erst uplifted to the sky, nor is there pause in cleaving with wedges the oak and fragrant cedar, or in carrying ashen trunks in the groaning wains. 10

And now flying Fame, the harbinger of that cruel agony, is filling with her tidings the ears of Evander, his palace and his city—Fame that but few hours back was proclaiming Pallas the conqueror of Latium. Forth stream the Arcadians to the gates, with funeral torches in ancient fashion, 15 snatched up hurriedly; the road gleams with the long line of fire, which parts the breath of fields on either hand. To meet them comes the train of Phrygians, and joins the wailing company. Soon as the matrons saw them pass under the shadow of the houses, they set the mourning city 20 ablaze with their shrieks. But Evander—no force can hold him back; he rushes into the midst: there as they lay down the bier he has flung himself upon Pallas, and is clinging to him with tears and groans, till choking grief at last lets speech find her way: “No, my Pallas! this was 25 not your promise to your sire, to trust yourself with caution in the War-god’s savage hands. I knew what a spell there lay in the young dawn of a soldier’s glory, the enrapturing pride of the first day of battle. Alas for the ill-starred first-fruits of youth, the cruel foretaste of the 30 coming war! alas for those my vows and prayers, that found no audience with any of the gods! alas too for thee, my blessed spouse, happy as thou art in the death that spared thee not for this heavy sorrow! while I, living on, have triumphed over my destiny, that I might survive in 35 solitary fatherhood. Had I but followed the friendly standards of Troy, and fallen whelmed by Rutulian javelins! had I rendered my own life up, so that this funeral train should have borne _me_ home, and not my Pallas! Nor yet would I blame you, men of Troy, nor the treaty we made, nor the hands we plighted in friendship; it is but the portion ordained long ago as fitting for my gray hairs. If it was written that my son should die ere his 5 time, it shall be well that he fell after slaying his Volscian thousands, while leading a Teucrian army to the gates of Latium. Nay, my Pallas, I would wish for you no worthier funeral than that accorded to you by Æneas the good and his noble Phrygians, by the Tyrrhene leaders, 10 and the whole Tyrrhene host. Each bears you a mighty trophy whom your right hand sends down to death. And you, too, proud Turnus, would be standing at this moment, a giant trunk hung round with armour, had your age been but as his, the vigour of your years the same. But why 15 should misery like mine hold back the Teucrians from the battle? Go, and remember to bear my message to your king. If I still drag the wheels of my hated life now my Pallas is slain, it is because of your right hand, which owes the debt of Turnus’ life to son and sire, yourself being witness. 20 This is the one remaining niche for your valour and your fortune to fill. I ask not for triumph to gild my life: that thought were crime: I ask but for tidings that I may bear to my son down in the spectral world.”

Meantime the Goddess of Dawn had lifted on high her 25 kindly light for suffering mortality, recalling them to task and toil. Already father Æneas, already Tarchon, have set up their funeral piles along the winding shore. Hither each man brings the body of friend or kinsman as the rites of his sires command; and as the murky flames are applied 30 below, darkness veils the heights of heaven in gloom. Thrice they ran their courses round the lighted pyres, sheathed in shining armour; thrice they circled on their steeds the mournful funeral flame, and uttered the voice of wailing. Sprinkled is the earth with their tears, 35 sprinkled is the harness. Upsoars to heaven at once the shout of warriors and the blare of trumpets. Others fling upon the fire plunder torn from the Latian slain, helms and shapely swords and bridle-reins and glowing wheels; some bring in offering the things the dead men wore, their own shields and the weapons that sped so ill. Many carcases of oxen are sacrificed round the piles: bristly swine and cattle harried from the country round are 5 made to bleed into the flame. Then along the whole line of coast they gaze on their burning friends, and keep sentry over the half-quenched fire-bed, nor let themselves be torn away till dewy night rolls round the sky with its garniture of blazing stars. 10

With like zeal the ill-starred Latians in a different quarter set up countless piles; of the multitude of corpses some they bury in the earth, some they lift up and carry off to neighbour districts, and send them home to the city; the rest, a mighty mass of promiscuous carnage, they burn 15 uncounted and unhonoured; and thereon the plains through their length and breadth gleam with the thickening rivalry of funeral fires. The third morrow had withdrawn the chill shadows from the sky: the mourners were levelling the piles of ashes and sweeping the mingled bones 20 from the hearths, and heaping over them mounds of earth where the heat yet lingers. But within the walls, in the city of Latium’s wealthy king, the wailing is preëminent, and largest the portion of that long agony. Here are mothers and their sons’ wretched brides, here are sisters’ 25 bosoms racked with sorrow and love, and children orphaned of their parents, calling down curses on the terrible war and on Turnus’ bridal rites; he, he himself, they cry, should try the issue with arms and the cold steel, who claims for himself the Italian crown and the honours of 30 sovereignty. Fell Drances casts his weight into the scale, and bears witness that Turnus alone is challenged by the foe, Turnus alone defied to combat. Against them many a judgment is ranged in various phrase on Turnus’ side, and the queen’s august name lends him its shadow; many 35 an applauding voice upholds the warrior by help of the trophies he has won.

Amid all this ferment, when the blaze of popular turmoil is at its height, see, as a crowning blow, comes back the sorrowing embassy with tidings from Diomede’s mighty town: the cost of all their labours has gained them nought: gifts and gold and earnest prayers are alike in vain: the Latians must look for arms elsewhere, or sue for peace 5 from the Trojan chief. King Latinus himself is crushed to earth by the weight of agony. The wrath of the gods, the fresh-made graves before his eyes, tell him plainly that Æneas is the man of destiny, borne on by heaven’s manifest will. So he summons by royal mandate a mighty 10 council, the chiefs of his nation, and gathers them within his lofty doors. They have mustered from all sides, and are streaming to the palace through the crowded streets. In the midst Latinus takes his seat, at once eldest in years and first in kingly state, with a brow that knows not joy. 15 Hereupon he bids the envoys returned from the Ætolian town to report the answers they bear, and bids them repeat each point in order. Silence is proclaimed, and Venulus, obeying the mandate, begins to speak:

“Townsmen, we have looked on Diomede and his Argive 20 encampment: the journey is overpast, and every chance surmounted, and we have touched the hand by which the realm of Ilion fell. We found him raising his city of Argyripa, the namesake of his ancestral people, in the land of Iapygian Garganus which his sword had won. Soon as 25 the presence was gained and liberty of speech accorded, we proffer our gifts, inform him of our name and country, who is our invader, and what cause has led us to Arpi.[275] He listened, and returned as follows with untroubled mien: ‘O children of fortune, subjects of Saturn’s reign, men of 30 old Ausonia, what caprice of chance disturbs you in your repose, and bids you provoke a war ye know not? Know that all of us, whose steel profaned the sanctity of Ilion’s soil—I pass the hardships of war, drained to the dregs under those lofty ramparts, the brave hearts which that 35 fatal Simois covers—yea, all of us the wide world over have paid the dues of our trespass in agonies unutterable, a company that might have wrung pity even from Priam: witness Minerva’s baleful star, and the crags of Eubœa, and Caphereus the avenger. Discharged from that warfare, wandering outcasts on diverse shores, Menelaus, Atreus’ son, is journeying in banishment even to the pillars of Proteus[276]; Ulysses has looked upon Ætna and her Cyclop 5 brood. Need I tell of Neoptolemus’ portioned realms, of Idomeneus’ dismantled home, of Locrian settlers on a Libyan coast? Even the monarch[277] of Mycenæ, the leader of the great Grecian name, met death on his very threshold at the hand of his atrocious spouse; Asia fell 10 before him, but the adulterer rose in her room. Cruel gods, that would not have me restored to the hearth-fires of my home, to see once more the wife of my longing and my own fair Calydon! Nay, even my flight is dogged by portents of dreadful view; my comrades torn from me are winging 15 the air and haunting the stream as birds—alas that the followers of my fortunes should suffer so!—and making the rocks ring with the shrieks of their sorrow. Such was the fate I had to look for even from that day when with my frantic steel I assailed the flesh of immortals, and impiously 20 wounded Venus’ sacred hand. Nay, nay, urge me no longer to a war like this. Since Pergamus fell, my fightings with Troy are ended; I have no thought, no joy, for the evils of the past. As for the gifts which you bring me from your home, carry them rather to Æneas. I tell 25 you, I have stood against the fury of his weapon, and joined hand to hand with him in battle; trust one who knows how strong is his onset as he rises on the shield, how fierce the whirlwind of his hurtling lance. Had Ida’s soil borne but two other so valiant, Dardanus would have 30 marched in his turn to the gates of Inachus, and the tears of Greece would be flowing for a destiny reversed. All those years of lingering at the walls of stubborn Troy, it was Hector’s and Æneas’ hand that clogged the wheels of Grecian victory, and delayed her coming till the tenth 35 campaign had begun. High in courage were both, high in the glory of martial prowess; but piety gave _him_ the preëminence. Join hand to hand in treaty, if so you may; but see that your arms bide not the shock of his.’ Thus, gracious sire, have you heard at once the king’s reply, and the judgment he passed on this our mighty war.”

The envoys had scarcely finished when a diverse murmur runs along the quivering lips of the sons of Ausonia, as, 5 when rapid streams are checked by rocks in their course, confused sounds rise from the imprisoned torrent, and neighbouring banks reëcho with the babbling of the waves. Soon as their passions were allayed, and their chafed countenances settled in calm, the monarch, first invoking 10 heaven, begins from his lofty throne:

“To have taken your judgment, Latians, ere this on the state of the common-weal, would have been my pleasure, and our truer interest, rather than summon a council at a crisis like this, when the foe has sat down before our walls. 15 A grievous war, my countrymen, we are waging with the seed of heaven, a nation unsubdued, whom no battles overtire, nor even in defeat can they be made to drop the sword. For any hope ye have cherished in the alliance of Ætolian arms, resign it forever. Each is his own hope; 20 and how slender is this ye may see for yourselves. As to all beside, with what utter ruin it is stricken is palpable to the sight of your eyes, to the touch of your hands. I throw the blame on none: manly worth has done the utmost it could: all the sinews of the realm have been strained 25 in the contest. Now then I will set forth what is the judgment of my wavering mind, and show you it in few words, if ye will lend me your attention. There is an ancient territory of mine bordering on the Tuscan river, extending lengthwise to the west, even beyond the Sicanian frontier; 30 Auruncans and Rutulians are its tillers, subduing with the ploughshare its stubborn hills, and pasturing their flocks on the rugged slopes. Let this whole district, with the lofty mountain and its belt of pines, be our friendly gift to the Teucrians; let us name equal terms of alliance, and 35 invite them to share our kingdom; let them settle here, if their passion is so strong, and build them a city. But if they have a mind to compass other lands and another nation, and are free to quit our soil, let us build twenty ships of Italian timber, or more if they have men to fill them: there is the wood ready felled by the river side; let themselves prescribe the size and the number; let us provide brass, and hands, and naval trim. Moreover, to convey 5 our proffers and ratify the league, I would have an embassy of a hundred Latians of the first rank sent with peaceful branches in their hands, carrying also presents, gold and ivory, each a talent’s weight, and the chair and striped robe that are badges of our royalty. Give free counsel 10 and help to support a fainting commonwealth.”

Then Drances, hostile as ever, whom the martial fame of Turnus was ever goading with the bitter stings of sidelong envy, rich, and prodigal of his riches, a doughty warrior with the tongue, but a feeble hand in the heat of 15 battle, esteemed no mean adviser in debate, and powerful in the arts of faction: his mother’s noble blood made proud a lineage which on his father’s side was counted obscure:—he rises, and with words like these piles and heaps anger high: 20

“A matter obscure to none, and needing no voice of ours to make it plain is this that you propound, gracious king. All own that they know what is the bearing of the state’s fortune; but their tongues can only mutter. Let him accord freedom of speech, and bate his angry blasts, to 25 whose ill-omened leadership and inauspicious temper—aye, I _will_ speak, let him threaten me with duel and death as he may—we owe it that so many of our army’s stars have set before our eyes, and the whole city is sunk in mourning, while he is making his essay of the Trojan camp, 30 with flight always in reserve, and scaring heaven with the din of his arms. One gift there is over and above that long catalogue which you would have us send and promise to the Dardans: add but this to them, most excellent sovereign, nor let any man’s violence prevent you from 35 bestowing your daughter in the fulness of a father’s right on a noble son-in-law and a worthy alliance, and basing the peace we seek on a covenant which shall last forever. Nay, if the reign of terror is so absolute over our minds and hearts, let us go straight to him with our adjurations and ask for grace at his own hands—ask him to yield, and allow king and country to exercise their rights. Why fling your wretched countrymen again and again into 5 danger’s throat, you, the head and wellspring of the ills which Latium has to bear? There is no hope from war; peace we ask of you, one and all—yes, Turnus, peace, and the one surety that can make peace sacred. See, first of all I, whom you give out to be your enemy—and 10 I care not though I be—come and throw myself at your feet. Pity those of your own kin, bring down your pride, and retire as beaten man should. Routed we are; we have looked on corpses enough, and have left leagues enough of land unpeopled. Or if glory stirs you, if you 15 can call up into your breast the courage needed, if the dowry of a palace lies so near your heart, be bold for once, and advance with bosom manned to meet the foe. What! that Turnus may have the blessing of a queenly bride, are we, poor paltry lives, a herd unburied and unwept, to lie 20 weltering on the plain? It is your turn: if you have any strength, any touch of the War-god of your sires, look him in the face who sends you his challenge.”

At these words Turnus’ violence blazed out: heaving a groan, he vents from the bottom of his heart such utterance 25 as this: “Copious, Drances, ever is your stream of speech in the hour when war is calling for hands; when the senate is summoned, you are first in the field. Yet we want not men to fill our court with talk, that big talk which you hurl from a safe vantage-ground, while the rampart 30 keeps off the foe and the moat is not foaming with carnage. Go on pealing your eloquence, as your wont is: let Drances brand Turnus with cowardice, for it is Drances’ hand that has piled those very heaps of Teucrian slaughter, and is planting the fields all over with its trophies. What 35 is the power of glowing valour, experience may show you: enemies in sooth are not far to seek: they are standing all about the walls. Well, are we marching to the encounter? why so slow? will you never lodge the War-god better than in that windy tongue, those flying feet? What? beaten? I? who, foulest of slanderers, will justly brand me as beaten, that shall look on Tiber still swelling with Ilion’s best blood, on Evander’s whole house prostrate 5 root and branch, and his Arcadians stripped naked of their armour? It was no beaten arm that Bitias and giant Pandarus found in me, or the thousand that I sent to death in a single day with my conquering hand, shut up within their walls, pent in by the rampart of the foe. No 10 hope from war? Croak your bodings, madman, in the ears of the Dardan and of your own fortunes. Ay, go on without cease, throwing all into measureless panic, heightening the prowess of a nation twice conquered already, and dwarfing no less the arms of your king. See, 15 now the lords of the Myrmidons[278] are quaking at the martial deeds of Phrygia, Tydeus’ son, Thessalian Achilles, and the rest, and river Aufidus is in full retreat from the Hadrian sea. Or listen when the trickster in his villany feigns himself too weak to face a quarrel with me, and 20 points his charges with the sting of terror. Never, I promise you, shall you lose such life as yours by hand of mine—be troubled no longer—let it dwell with you and retain its home in that congenial breast. Now, gracious sire, I return to you and the august matter that asks our 25 counsel. If you have no hope beyond in aught our arms can do, if we are so wholly forlorn, destroyed root and branch by one reverse, and our star can never rise again, then pray we for peace and stretch craven hands in suppliance. Yet, oh, had we but one spark of the worth that 30 once was ours, that man I would esteem blest beyond others in his service and princely of soul, who, sooner than look on aught like this, has lain down in death and once for all bitten the dust. But if we have still store of power, and a harvest of youth yet unreaped, if there are cities 35 and nations of Italy yet to come to our aid, if the Trojans as well as we have won their glory at much bloodshed’s cost—for they too have their deaths—the hurricane has swept over all alike—why do we merely falter on the threshold? why are we seized with shivering ere the trumpet blows? Many a man’s weal has been restored by time and the changeful struggles of shifting days: many a man has Fortune, fair and foul by turns, made her sport 5 and then once more placed on a rock. Grant that we shall have no help from the Ætolian and his Arpi: but we shall from Messapus, and the blest Tolumnius, and all the leaders that those many nations have sent us; nor small shall be the glory which will wait on the flower of Latium 10 and the Laurentine land. Ay, and we have Camilla,[279] of the noble Volscian race, with a band of horsemen at her back and troops gleaming with brass. If it is I alone that the Teucrians challenge to the fight, and such is your will, and my life is indeed the standing obstacle to the good of 15 all, Victory has not heretofore fled with such loathing from my hands that I should refuse to make my venture for a hope so glorious. No, I will confront him boldly, though he should prove great as Achilles, and don harness like his, the work of Vulcan’s art. To you and to my royal father-in-law 20 have I here devoted this my life, I, Turnus, second in valour to none that went before me. ‘For me alone Æneas calls.’ Vouchsafe that he may so call! nor let Drances in my stead, if the issue be Heaven’s vengeance, forfeit his life, or, if it be prowess and glory, bear that prize 25 away!”

So were these contending over matters of doubtful debate: Æneas was moving his army from camp to field. See, there runs a messenger from end to end of the palace amid wild confusion, and fills the town with a mighty 30 terror, how that in marching array the Trojans and the Tuscan force are sweeping down from Tiber’s stream over all the plain. In an instant the minds of the people are confounded, their bosoms shaken to the core, their passions goaded by no gentle stings. They clutch at arms, 35 clamour for arms: arms are the young men’s cry: the weeping fathers moan and mutter. And now a mighty din, blended of discordant voices, soars up to the skies, even as when haply flocks of birds have settled down in a lofty grove, or on the fishy stream of Padusa hoarse swans make a noise along the babbling waters, “Ay, good citizens,” cries Turnus, seizing on his moment, “assemble your council and sit praising peace; they are rushing on 5 the realm sword in hand.” Without further speech he dashed away and issued swiftly from the lofty gate. “You, Volusus,” he cries, “bid the Volscian squadrons arm, and lead out the Rutulians. You, Messapus, and you, Coras[280] and your brother, spread the horse in battle array 10 over the breadth of the plain. Let some guard the inlets of the city and man the towers; the rest attack with me in the quarter for which I give the word.” At once there is a rush to the ramparts from every part of the city: king Latinus leaves the council and the high debate unfinished, 15 and wildered with the unhappy time, adjourns to another day, ofttimes blaming himself that he welcomed not with open arms Æneas the Dardan, and bestowed on the city a husband for the daughter of Latium. Others dig trenches before the gates or shoulder stones and stakes. 20 The hoarse trumpet gives its deathful warning for battle. The walls are hemmed by a motley ring of matrons and boys: the call of the last struggle rings in each one’s ear. Moreover the queen among a vast train of Latian mothers is drawn to the temple, even to Pallas’ tower on the height, 25 with presents in her hand, and at her side the maid Lavinia, cause of this cruel woe, her beauteous eyes cast down. The matrons enter the temple and make it steam with incense, and pour from the august threshold their plaints of sorrow: “Lady of arms, mistress of the war, Tritonian[o] 30 maiden, stretch forth thy hand and break the spear of the Phrygian freebooter, lay him prostrate on the ground, and leave him to grovel under our lofty portals.” Turnus with emulous fury arms himself for the battle. And now he has donned his ruddy corslet, and is bristling with 35 brazen scales; his calves have been sheathed in gold, his temples yet bare, and his sword had been girded to his side, and he shines as he runs all golden from the steep of the citadel, bounding high with courage, and in hope already forestalls the foe: even as when a horse, bursting his tether, escapes from the stall, free at last and master of the open champaign,[281] either wends where the herds of mares pasture, or wont to bathe in the well-known river 5 darts forth and neighs with head tossed on high in wanton frolic, while his mane plays loosely about neck and shoulders. His path Camilla crosses, a Volscian army at her back, and dismounts from her horse at the gate with queenly gesture; the whole band follow her lead, quit 10 their horses, and alight to earth, while she bespeaks him thus: “Turnus, if the brave may feel faith in themselves, I promise boldly to confront the cavalry of Troy and singly ride to meet the Tyrrhene horse. Let me essay the first hazard of the combat; do you on foot remain by 15 the walls and be the city’s guard.” Turnus replies, gazing steadfastly on the dreadful maid: “O maiden, glory of Italy, what thanks shall I strive to speak or render? but seeing that soul of yours soars above all, partake the toil with me. Æneas, as rumour and missioned spies tell 20 me for truth, has cunningly sent on his light-armed cavalry to scour the plain, while he, surmounting the lonely steeps of the hill, is marching townward. I meditate a stratagem of war in that woodland gorge, to beset the narrow thoroughfare with an armed band. Do you in 25 battle array receive the Tuscan horse. With you will be keen Messapus, and the Latian cavalry, and Tiburtus’ troop: take your share of a general’s charge.” This said, he exhorts Messapus and the federate leaders with like words to the fight, and advances to meet the enemy. 30 A glen there is, narrow and winding, suited for ambush and stratagems of arms, pent in on both sides by a mountain-wall black with dense foliage; a scant pathway leads to it, with straitened gorge and jealous inlet. Above it on the mountain’s watch-tower height lies a concealed 35 table-land, a post of sheltered privacy, whether one be minded to face the battle right and left, or, standing on the slope, to roll down enormous stones. Hither repairs the warrior along the well-known road: he has occupied the spot and sat him down in the treacherous forest.

Meantime, in the mansions above Latona’s daughter was addressing Opis the swift, a maiden comrade of her sacred train, and was uttering these words in tones of 5 sorrow: “Ah, maiden, Camilla is on her way to the ruthless war; in vain she girds herself with the arms of our sisterhood, dear to me that she is beyond all beside: for no new tenderness this that has come on Diana, nor sudden the spell wherewith it stirs her heart. When Metabus, 10 exiled for the hate which tyranny genders, was parting from Privernum, his ancient city, as he fled from the heart of the combat, he bore away his infant child to share his banishment, and varying Casmilla, her mother’s name, called her Camilla. The father, carrying her in his bosom, 15 was making for the long mountain slopes of the solitary woods, while bitter javelins were showering all around him, and the Volscians with circling soldiery hovering about: when lo! intercepting his flight was Amasenus, brimming and foaming over its banks, so vast a deluge of rain had 20 burst from the clouds. Preparing to plunge in, he is checked by tenderness for his child, and fears for the precious load. At last, as he pondered over every course, he hit suddenly on this resolve. There was a huge weapon, which he chanced to be carrying in his stalwart hand 25 as warriors use, sturdy with knots and seasoned timber: to it he fastens his daughter, enclosed in the cork-tree’s forest bark, and binds her neatly round the middle of the shaft; then, poising it in a giant’s grasp, he thus exclaims to heaven: ‘Gracious lady, dweller in the woods, 30 Latona’s maiden daughter, I vow to thy service this my child: thine are the first weapons that she wields as she flies from the foe through air to thy protection. Receive, I conjure thee, as thine own her whom I now entrust to the uncertain gale.’ He said, and, drawing back his arm, 35 hurled the javelin: loud roared the waves, while over the furious stream fled poor Camilla on the hurtling dart. But Metabus, pressed closer and closer by the numerous band, leaps into the river, and in triumph plucks from the grassy bank his offering to Trivia, the javelin and the maid. No cities opened to him house or stronghold, for his wild nature had never brooked submission: among the shepherds’ lonely mountains he passed his days. There in the 5 woods, among beasts’ savage lairs, he reared his daughter on milk from the breast of an untamed mare, squeezing the udder into her tender lips. And soon as the child first stood on her feet, he armed her hands with a pointed javelin, and hung from her baby shoulder a quiver and a 10 bow. For the golden brooch in her hair, for the long sweeping mantle, there hang from her head adown her back a tiger’s spoils. Even then she launched with tiny hand her childish missiles, swung round her head the sling’s well-turned thong, and brought down a crane from Strymon 15 or a snow-white swan. Many a mother in Tyrrhene town has wooed her for her son in vain: with no thought but for Dian, she cherishes in unsullied purity her love for the hunter’s and the maiden’s life. Would she had never been pressed for warfare like this, essaying to strike a blow 20 at the Teucrians: so had she still been my darling and a sister of my train. But come, since cruel destiny is darkening round her, glide down, fair nymph, from the sky, and repair to the Latian frontier, where now in an evil hour the tearful battle is joining. Take these arms, and draw 25 from the quiver an avenging shaft: therewith let the foe, whoever he be, Trojan or Italian, that shall profane with the stroke of death that sacred person, make to me in like manner the atonement of his blood. Afterwards in the hollow of a cloud I will bear off the body of my lost favourite 30 undespoiled of its arms, and lay her down in her own land.” Thus she: and Opis hurtled downward through the buoyant air, a black whirlwind enswathing her form.

But the Trojan band meanwhile is nearing the walls with the Etruscan chiefs and the whole array of cavalry, 35 marshalled into companies. Steeds are prancing and neighing the whole champaign over, and chafing against the drawn bridle as they face hither and thither: the field, all iron, bristles far and wide with spears, and the plains are ablaze with arms reared on high. Likewise Messapus on the other side and the swift-paced Latians, and Coras and his brother, and maid Camilla’s force appear in the plain against them, couching the lance in their backdrawn 5 hands and brandishing the javelin: and the onset of warriors and the neighing of steeds begin to wax hot. And now each army had halted within a spear-throw of the other: with a sudden shout they dash forward, and put spurs to their fiery steeds: missiles are showered from all 10 sides in a moment, thick as snow-flakes, and heaven is curtained with the shade. Instantly Tyrrhenus and fierce Aconteus charge each other spear in hand, and foremost of all crash together with sound as of thunder, so that the chest of either steed is burst against his fellow’s; Aconteus, 15 flung off like the levinbolt or a stone hurled from an engine, tumbles headlong in the distance, and scatters his life in air. At once the line of battle is broken, and the Latians, turned to flight, sling their shields behind them and set their horses’ heads cityward. The Trojans give them 20 chase: Asilas in the van leads their bands. And now they were nearing the gates, when the Latians in turn set up a shout, and turn their chargers’ limber necks; the others fly, and retreat far away at full speed. As when the sea, advancing with its tide that ebbs and flows, one 25 while sweeps towards the land, deluges the rocks with a shower of spray, and sprinkles the sandy margin with the contents of its bosom, one while flees in hasty retreat, dragging back into the gulf the recaptured stones, and with ebbing waters leaves the shore. Twice the Tuscans 30 drove the Rutulians in rout to their walls; twice, repulsed, they look behind as they sling their shields backward. But when in the shock of a third encounter the entire armies grapple each other, and man has singled out man, then in truth upsoar the groans of the dying, and arms and 35 bodies and death-stricken horses blended with human carnage welter in pools of gore: and a savage combat is aroused. Orsilochus hurls a spear at Remulus’ horse—for the rider he feared to encounter—and leaves the steel lodged under the ear. Maddened by the blow, the beast rears erect, and, uplifting its breast, flings its legs on high in the uncontrolled agony of the wound: Remulus unseated rolls on earth, Catillus dismounts Iollas, and likewise 5 Herminius, giant in courage, and giant too in stature and girth: his bare head streams with yellow locks, and his shoulders also are bare: wounds have no terrors for him, so vast the surface he offers to the weapon. Through his broad shoulders comes the quivering spear, and bows 10 the impaled hero double with anguish. Black streams of gore gush on all sides: the combatants spread slaughter with the steel, and rush on glorious death through a storm of wounds.

But Camilla, with a quiver at her back, and one breast 15 put forth for the combat, leaps for joy like an Amazon in the midst of carnage: now she scatters thick volleys of quivering javelins, now her arm whirls unwearied the massy two-edged axe: while from her shoulder sounds the golden bow, the artillery of Dian. Nay, if ever she be 20 beaten back and retreating rearward, she turns her bow and aims shafts in her flight. Around her are her chosen comrades, maid Larina, and Tulla, and Tarpeia, wielding the brazen-helved hatchet, daughters of Italy, whom glorious Camilla herself chose to be her joy and pride, able 25 to deal alike with peace and war: even as the Amazons of Thrace when they thunder over the streams of Thermōdon and battle with her blazoned arms, encompassing Hippolyte, or when Penthesilea, the War-god’s darling, is careering to and fro in her chariot, and the woman 30 army, amid a hubbub of shrill cries, are leaping in ecstasy and shaking their moony shields. Who first, who last, fierce maiden, is unhorsed by your dart? How many stalwart bodies lay you low in death? The first was Eunēus, Clytius’ son, whose unguarded breast as he stood fronting 35 her she pierces with her long pine-wood spear. Down he goes, disgorging streams of blood, closes his teeth on the gory soil, and dying writhes upon his wound. Then Liris, and Pagasus on his body: while that, flung from his stabbed charger, is gathering up the reins, and this is coming to the rescue and stretching his unarmed hand to his falling comrade, they are overthrown in one headlong ruin. To these she adds Amastrus, son of Hippotas: 5 then, pressing on the rout, pursues with her spear-throw Tereus, and Harpalycus, and Demophoon, and Chromis: for every dart she launched from her maiden hand there fell a Phrygian warrior. In the distance rides Ornytus accoutred strangely in hunter fashion on an Iapygian 10 steed: a hide stripped from a bullock swathes his broad shoulders in the combat, his head is sheltered by a wolf’s huge grinning mouth and jaws with the white teeth projecting, and a rustic pike arms his hand: he goes whirling through the ranks, his whole head overtopping them. 15 Him she catches, an easy task when the hosts are entangled in rout, pierces him through, and thus bespeaks the fallen in the fierceness of her spirit: “Tuscan, you thought yourself still chasing beasts in the forest, but the day is come which shall refute the vaunts of your nation by a 20 woman’s weapons. Yet no slight glory shall you carry down to your fathers’ shades, that you have fallen by the dart of Camilla.” Next follow Orsilochus and Butes, two of the hugest frames of Troy: Butes she speared behind ’twixt corslet and helm, where the sitter’s neck is seen 25 gleaming, and the shield is hanging from the left arm: Orsilochus, as she pretends to fly and wheels round in a mighty ring, she baffles by ever circling inwards, and chases him that chases her: at last, rising to the stroke, she brings down on the wretch again and again, spite of all his prayers, 30 her massy battle-axe that rives armour and bone: the brain spouts over the face through the ghastly wound. Now there stumbles upon her, and pauses in terror at the sudden apparition, the warrior son of Aunus, dweller on the Apennine, not the meanest of Liguria’s children while 35 Fate prospered his trickery. He, when he sees no speed of flight can escape the combat, or avoid the onset of the dreadful queen, essaying to gain his base end by policy and stratagem, thus begins: “What great glory is it after all, if you, a woman, trust your mettled steed? Put away the chance of flight, and dare to meet me hand to hand on equal ground, and gird you for battle on foot: soon shall you see which of us gains honour from this 5 windy boasting.” He said: but she, all on fire, stung with bitter grief, gives her horse to her comrade, and stands ready to meet him in arms, fearless though on foot, with naked sword and maiden shield. But the youth, deeming that his wiles had sped, darts away without more ado, 10 and turning his bridle, rides off in flight, and wearies his beast with the strokes of his iron heel. “False Ligurian, vainly puffed up with overweening fancies, to no end have you tried your sire’s slippery craft, nor shall your lying bring you safe to Aunus the liar.” So cries the maiden, 15 and with lightning-like pace crosses at full speed the horse’s path, and seizing the reins, fronts and encounters him, and gluts her vengeance with his hated blood: easily as a hawk, the bird of augury, darting from a lofty rock, comes up with a dove high in the clouds, holds her in his gripe, 20 and with crooked talons tears out her heart, while gore and plucked feathers come tumbling from the sky.

But no blind spectator of the scene is sitting throned on high Olympus, even the father of men and gods. The sire urges Tarchon the Tuscan to the ruthless fray, and goads 25 him to wrath by no gentle stings. So among heaps of carnage and yielding bands Tarchon goes riding, and rouses the cavalry with words of diverse purport, calling each by his name, and gives the beaten new strength for battle. “What terror, O ye Tuscan hearts that will not 30 feel, that will still be sluggish, what strange cowardice has come on you? To what end is this steel, these idle weapons our right hands bear? But slow ye are not to hear the call of love, or when the wry-necked fife gives the word for the Bacchic dance: ay, there is your passion, there your 35 delight, till the favouring seer announce the sacrificial feast, and the fat victim invite you to the tall trees of the grove.” So saying, he spurs his steed into the midst, ready for the death he brings to others, and charges in fury on Venulus, snatches the foe from his horse, folds his arms round him, and carries him on his saddle before him with wild and violent speed. Upsoars a shout to heaven, and every Latian eye is turned to the scene. Over the 5 plain like lightning flies Tarchon, bearing the warrior and his arms. Then from the top of the chiefs own spear he breaks off the point, and feels for an unguarded part where to plant the deadly blow: the foe, struggling, keeps off Tarchon’s hand from his throat, and repels force with 10 force. As when the golden eagle soaring on high carries a serpent he has caught, trussing it in his claws, and adhering with his taloned gripe; the wounded reptile writhes its spiral coils, stiffens with erected scales, and hisses from its mouth, surging and swelling; the eagle, undismayed, 15 plies it despite its struggles with his hooked beak, while his pinions beat the air: even thus Tarchon carries his prize in triumph from the bands of Tibur’s folk. Following their chief’s auspicious lead, the sons of Mæonia charge the foe. Then Arruns, the man of fate, compasses swift 20 Camilla about, dart in hand, with many a forestalling wile, and tries what chance may be readiest. Wherever the fiery maid dashes into the midst of the battle, Arruns threads his way after her, and scans her steps in silence: wherever she returns in triumph, escaping safely from the 25 foe, that way the youth turns his swift and stealthy rein; now makes proof of this approach, now of that, and traverses the whole circle, and shakes with relentless malice his inevitable lance. It chanced that one Chloreus, sacred to Cybele and once her priest, was shining conspicuous 30 from afar in Phrygian armour, urging on a foaming charger, whose covering was a skin adorned with golden clasp and brazen scales set plume-wise. He, in the blaze of foreign purple, was launching Gortynian shafts from a Lycian bow; golden was the bow that rang from his shoulder, golden the 35 helm on his sacred head; his saffron scarf with its rustling gauzy folds was gathered up by a golden brooch, and his tunic and his hose decked with barbaric broidery. He it was that the maiden, eager, it may be, to fasten on the temple-gate the arms of Troy, or to flaunt herself in the golden spoil, singled out from all the battle, and was following with a hunter’s blind devotion, raging recklessly through the ranks, enkindled with a woman’s love for prey 5 and plunder; when at length, seizing his opportunity, Arruns awakes his dart from its ambush, and thus prays aloud to heaven: “Greatest of gods, Apollo, guardian of divine Soracte, whom we are the first to worship, for whom the pine-tree glow is fed by heaps of wood, while ourselves, 10 thy votaries, strong in our piety, walk through the flame over living embers, grant, all-powerful sire, that my arms may wipe this scandal away. I seek no plunder or spoil, no trophy for the conquest of a maid; the rest of my deeds shall secure my fame; let but this terrible fiend fall vanquished 15 by wound of mine, I will return to the cities of my fathers an unhonoured man.” Phœbus heard, and vouchsafed in his heart that half the vow should speed, while half he scattered among the flying breezes: to strike and slay Camilla with sudden death-wound, so much he grants 20 the suppliant: to return and meet the eyes of his noble fatherland, this he allows not; the gusts of air turned the accents into wind. So when the spear, launched from the hand, was heard along the sky, each keen Volscian mind flew to one centre, every Volscian eye was bent on the 25 queen. She alone had no thought for wind or sound or weapon sweeping down from heaven, till the spear had made its passage and lodged beneath her protruded breast, and deeply driven, drank her maiden blood. Her comrades run together in alarm, and support their falling mistress. 30 Arruns, more terrified than all, flies away, half joy, half fear, nor puts further confidence in his lance, nor dares to meet the darts of the maiden. Even as the caitiff wolf, ere the weapons of vengeance can follow him, has fled at once to the pathless privacy of the mountain steep, 35 on slaying a shepherd or mighty bullock, conscious of his daring deed, and drawing back his quivering tail with lithe action has clapped it to his belly and made for the woods, in like manner Arruns all wildered has stolen away from sight, and contented to escape has plunged into the thick of the battle. With dying hand the maiden pulls at the spear; but the steely point stands lodged among the bones at the ribs in the deep wound it made. Drained of 5 blood, she sinks to earth; sink, too, her death-chilled eyes; her once bright bloom has left her face. Then at her last gasp she accosts Acca, one of her maiden train, who beyond the rest was Camilla’s friend and shared her thoughts, and speaks on this wise; “Thus far, sister Acca, has 10 strength been given me: now the cruel wound overcomes me; and all around me grows dim and dark. Haste and carry Turnus my dying charge, to take my place in the battle and keep off the Trojans from the town. And now farewell.” As she spoke she dropped the bridle, swimming 15 down to earth with no willing act. Then as the death-chill grows she gradually discumbers herself of the entire weight of the body, droops her unstrung neck and her head on which fate has seized, quitting too her armour, and her soul, resenting its lot, flies groaningly to the shades. Then 20 indeed, rising unmeasured, the uproar strikes the golden stars: Camilla overthrown, the fight waxes fiercer: on they rush thickening, at once the whole force of the Teucrians, and the Tyrrhene leaders, and Evander’s Arcad cavalry. 25

But Trivia’s sentinel Opis has long been seated high on the mountain top, an undismayed spectator of the combat. And when far off, deep among the din of raging warriors, she spied Camilla shent by ruthless death, she groaned, and fetched these words from the bottom of her 30 breast: “Poor maiden! too, too cruel the penalty you have paid for provoking the Teucrians to battle. Nought has it bestead you at your need to have served Dian in the forest, and carried on your shoulder the shafts of our sisterhood. Yet not unhonoured has your queen left you even 35 here in death’s extremity; nor shall this your end be without its glory in the world, nor yourself bear the ignominy of the unrevenged; for he, whoever he be, whose wound has profaned your person, shall atone it by the death he has earned.” Under the lofty mountain’s shade there stood a vast mound of earth, the tomb of Dercennus, an old Laurentine king, shrouded with dark ilex: here the beauteous goddess first alights with a rapid bound, and 5 spies out Arruns from the barrow’s height. Soon as she saw him gleaming in his armour, and swelling with vanity, “Why stray from the path?” cries she; “turn your feet hitherward! come hither to your death, and receive Camilla’s guerdon! Alack! and are you too to be slain 10 by the shafts of Dian?” She said, and with the skill of Thracian maiden drew a swift arrow from her gilded quiver, bent the bow with deadly aim, and drew it far apart, till the arching ends met together, and with her two hands she touched, the barb of steel with her left, her breast with 15 her right and the bowstring. Forthwith the hurtling of the shaft and the rush of the breeze reached Arruns’ ear at the moment the steel lodged in his body. Him gasping and groaning his last his comrades leave unthinking in the unmarked dust of the plain: Opis spreads her wings, and 20 is borne to skyey Olympus.

First flies, its mistress lost, Camilla’s light-armed company; fly the Rutules in rout, flies keen Atinas; leaders in disarray and troops in devastation make for shelter, turn round, and gallop to the walls. None can sustain 25 in combat the Teucrians’ deadly onset or resist the stream; they throw their unstrung bows on their unnerved shoulders, and the hoof of four-foot steeds shakes the crumbling plain. On rolls to the ramparts a cloud of dust, thick and murky; and the matrons from their sentry-posts, 30 smiting on their breasts, raise a shriek as women wont to the stars of heaven. Who first pour at speed through the open gates are whelmed by a multitude of foemen that blends its crowd with theirs; they scape not the agony of death, but on the very threshold, with their 35 native walls around them, in the sanctuary of home, they breathe away their lives. Some close the gates: they dare not give ingress to their friends nor take them within the walls, implore as they may: and a piteous carnage ensues, these guarding the approach sword in hand, those rushing on the sword’s point. Some, borne on by the deluge, stream headlong into the moat; some in blind agony, spurring their horses, charge as with battering-rams the 5 portals and their stubborn barriers. Nay, the very matrons on the walls in the intensity of the struggle, prompted by true patriot spirit at sight of Camilla, fling darts from their quivering hands, and make hard oak-stakes and seared truncheons do the work of steel, hot and headlong, 10 and fain would be the first to die for their city.

Meantime the cruel news floods Turnus’ ears in his forest-ambush, as Acca tells the warrior her tale of mighty terror: the Volscian ranks destroyed, Camilla slain, the enemy coming on like a torrent, sweeping all before their victorious 15 onslaught, the alarm already wafted to the walls. He, all on fire (for even such is Jove’s stern requirement), quits his post on the hills, leaves the impregnable forest. Scarce had he passed from their sight and occupied the plain, when father Æneas, entering the unguarded pass, 20 scales the hill-top, and issues through the shadowy wood. So the two rivals march cityward at full speed, each with all his army, nor long is the intervening distance; at the same moment Æneas looked far over the plains all smoking with dust, and saw the host of Laurentum, and Turnus was 25 aware of fell Æneas in battle array, and heard the onward tramp of feet and the neighing of steeds. Instantly they were for closing in fight and throwing for the stake of combat; but the time was come for reddening Phœbus to bathe his wearied team in the Hiberian flood, and bring back 30 night on the steps of retreating day. So they encamp before the city, and make their ramparts strong.