BOOK XII

When Turnus sees that the War-god’s enmity has broken the spirit of Latium, that men are beginning to claim his promise, and make him the mark of their eyes, he bursts at once into fury unappeasable, and swells his pride to the height. As in Punic land, when the hunters 5 have wounded him deep in the breast, the lion at last rouses himself to fight, tosses with fierce joy his mane from his neck, snaps fearlessly the brigand’s spear in the wound, and roars from his gory mouth: even so, Turnus once kindled, his vehemence grows each moment. Then he 10 addresses the king, and dashes hotly into speech: “Turnus stops not the way: Æneas and his cowards have no plea for retracting their challenge or disowning their plighted word; I meet the combat; bring the sacred things, good father, and solemnize the truce. Either will I with my own 15 right hand send the Dardan down to Tartarus, the runaway from Asia—let the Latians sit by and see—and with my single weapon refute the slander of a nation; or let the vanquished own their master and Lavinia be the conqueror’s bride.” 20

With calm dignity of soul the king makes answer: “Gallant youth, the greater your impetuous valour, the more watchful must needs be my foresight, the more anxious my scrutiny of all that may happen. You have your father Daunus’ kingdom, you have many a town 25 won by your own sword: I that speak have gold and a heart to give it; in Latium and Laurentum’s land are other unwedded maidens, of no unworthy lineage. Suffer me without disguise to give voice to these unwelcome sayings, and take home what I speak further: I was forbidden by 30 Fate to give my daughter to any of her early suitors; so sang gods and men alike. Conquered by my love for you, conquered by the ties of kindred and the sorrow of my weeping queen, I set all pledges at naught, I snatched the bride from her plighted husband. I drew the unhallowed 5 sword. From that fatal day you see what troubles, what wars are let loose upon me; you know the weight of the sufferings which _you_ are the first to feel. Twice vanquished in a mighty conflict, we scarce protect by our bulwarks the hopes of Italy: Tiber’s waters are yet steaming 10 with our blood, and the spacious plains are whitened by our bones. Whither am I drifting again and again? what madness turns my brain? If on the death of Turnus I am ready to welcome these new allies, why should I not end the strife while he lives and is safe? What will our 15 Rutulian kinsmen say, what the rest of Italy, if—may Fortune forefend the omen!—I give you up to death, you, a suitor for my alliance, for my daughter’s hand? Think of the uncertainties of war; have pity on your aged sire, now biding forlornly far away in his Ardean home!” 20

These words abate not Turnus’ vehemence a whit: it starts up fiercer, more virulent for the healing hand. Soon as he can find utterance, he thus begins: “The care you take for my sake, best of fathers, lay down for my sake, I beg, and suffer me to pledge my life for my honour. 25 My hand, too, can scatter darts and fling steel with no feeble force; my blows, too, fetch blood. He will not have his goddess-mother within call, to hide her craven son in an unmanly cloud, and conceal herself by help of treacherous shadows.” 30

But the queen, appalled by the new hazard of the combat, was all in tears, clinging to her fiery son-in-law with the convulsive grasp of death: “Turnus, by these my tears, by any regard you cherish for Amata—you are now our only hope, our only solace in our forlorn old age—the 35 honour and power of the king are in your hands; on you, its one pillar, the whole house leans. I ask but this—forbear to cross swords with the Teucrians. Whatever chance waits on you in this unhappy combat, waits on me, too, my Turnus; along with you I shall leave the hated light, nor see in Æneas my son-in-law and my conqueror.”

As Lavinia heard her mother’s voice, her glowing cheeks 5 were bathed in tears; a deep blush kindled a fire, and shot over her flushing face. As when a man has stained Indian ivory with blood-red purple, or like a bed of lilies and roses mixed: such hues were seen on the maiden’s countenance. He, bewildered with passion, fixes his eyes upon her: the 10 sight makes him burn the more for battle, and thus he addresses Amata in brief: “Let me not have tears nor aught so ominous, dear mother, as my escort to the iron battle; Turnus is not free to postpone the call of death. Go, Idmon, and bear the Phrygian despot a message that 15 will like him not: Soon as the goddess of to-morrow’s dawn shall fire the sky with the glow of her chariot, let him not spur the Teucrians against the Rutulians; let Teucrian and Rutulian sheath their swords, while we twain with our own life-blood decide the war. Let 20 Lavinia’s hand be sought and won in yonder field.”

So he spoke, and rushed back within doors: he calls for his steeds, and joys to look on them snorting and neighing—the steeds which Orithyia gave as a present to Pilumnus, to surpass the snows in whiteness, the winds in speed. 25 Round them stand the bustling charioteers, patting their chests with hollow palms and combing their maned necks. Next he throws round his shoulders his hauberk, stiff with scales of gold and dazzling orichalc,[282] and adjusts to his wear the sword, the shield, and the cones of the crimson 30 crest—that sword the Fire-god’s own hand had made for his father Daunus, and tempered it glowing in the Stygian wave. Lastly, the spear which was standing in the palace-hall, propped by a mighty column, the spoil of Auruncan Actor, he seizes forcefully, sturdy as it is, 35 and shakes till it quivers, crying aloud: “Now, my good spear, that hast never failed my call, now is the time; once wast thou swayed by giant Actor, now by Turnus: grant that I may lay low the emasculate Phrygian, strip and rend his hauberk by strength of hand, and soil in the dust those ringlets curled with hot iron and moist with myrrh.” So he rages, fury-driven: sparks flash from the furnace of his countenance, lightnings dart from his 5 fiery eyes; as when a bull in view of a fight raises fearful bellowing, and calls up rage into his horns by butting against a tree’s trunk, challenges the wind with his blows, and spurns the flying sand in prelude for the fray.

With equal fierceness Æneas, clad in his mother’s 10 armour, sharpens valour’s edge, and lashes his heart with wrath, joying that proffered truce should end the war. Then he calms his comrades’ fear and the grief of Iulus, talking of destiny, and sends envoys with an answer to the Latian king, to name the conditions of peace. 15

Scarce had the next morrow begun to sprinkle the mountain-tops with light, at the time when the sun’s steeds first come up from the deep and breathe flakes of radiance from their upturned nostrils, when Rutulians and Teucrians were at work, measuring out lists for combat 20 under the ramparts of the mighty town, with hearths in the midst, and altars of turf for their common gods. Others were carrying fire and spring water, begirt with aprons, vervain[283] wreaths on their brows. Forth moves the Ausonian army, bands with lifted javelins issuing 25 from the crowded gates. From yonder quarters pours the Trojan and Tuscan force, with the arms of their several countries, harnessed as if summoned by the War-god’s bloody fray. In the midst of either squadrons the generals flash along, glorious in gold and purple, Mnestheus, 30 Assaracus’ seed, and Asilas the brave, and Messapus, tamer of horses, the progeny of Neptune. At a given signal each army retreats within its confines; spears are fixed in the ground, and bucklers rested at ease. Matrons in yearning eagerness, and unarmed masses, and tottering 35 old men, fill turret and roof, or stand by the lofty portals.

But Juno, from the top of the mount now styled Alban—in those days it had no name, nor glory, nor honour—was looking in prospect on the plain, the two armies, Trojan and Laurentine, and the Latian town. At once she addressed Turnus’ sister, a goddess herself, who presides over the pool and the brawling stream—such dignity Jove, the king of heaven, solemnly made hers in return for 5 violated maidenhood: “Sweet Nymph, glory of the rivers, favourite of my heart, you know how I have preferred you to all Latium’s daughters who have climbed the odious bed of our great Master and have gladly given you a seat in the sky; and now, Juturna, learn from me your sorrow, for 10 which I am not to blame. So long as Fortune seemed favourable and Fate allowed Latium to prosper, I spread my shield over Turnus and these your walls: now I see the youth engaged with a destiny mightier than his own, and the day of doom and the power of the enemy are at 15 hand. I cannot look on the combat, nor on the league that ushers it in. If you have the nerve to dare aught for your brother, go on; it is a sister’s part: perhaps the downtrodden have a better lot in store.” Ere she had well ended Juturna’s tears sprang forth, and thrice and again 20 her hand smote on her lovely breast. “No time for tears,” cries Saturn’s daughter: “quick, and if any way there be, snatch your brother from death: or at least revive the war—and mar the treaty while yet on their lips. Remember, I warrant the attempt.” With such advice she left her 25 wavering in purpose and staggering under the cruel blow.

Meantime the monarchs appear, the stately form of the Latian king riding in a four-horse car, his brows gleaming with a circle of twelve gilded rays, the cognizance of the Sun his grandsire: Turnus is drawn by a snow-white pair, two 30 spears with broad iron points quivering in his hands. Then comes father Æneas, the parent stock of the Roman tree, blazing with his starry shield and celestial armour, and at his side Ascanius, the second hope of mighty Rome, both issuing from their camp: while a priest in stainless robe 35 has brought the young of a bristly boar and an unclipped sheep of two years old, and placed the victims by the blazing altar. They, turning their eyes to the rising sun, offer the salted barley, score with the steel the brows of the cattle, and make libations from their chargers. Then thus prays good Æneas, his sword drawn in his hand: “Let the Sun above and the Earth beneath witness my invocation, 5 this very Earth for which I have had the heart to endure so much, and the almighty Sire, and thou, his goddess-bride, Saturn’s daughter, now—may I hope it?—now at last made gracious: thou, too, glorious Mars, whose princely nod controls every battle: Springs also and Rivers I invoke, all the majesty of the sky, all the 10 deities of the purple deep: if chance award the victory to Turnus the Ausonian, reason claims that the vanquished shall retire to Evander’s town: Iulus shall quit the land, nor shall Æneas’ children in after-days draw the sword again, or threaten this realm with war. But should conquest 15 vouchsafe to us the smiles of the battle-field, as I rather deem, and pray that Heaven will rather grant, I will not bid the Italians be subject to Troy, nor ask I the crown for myself: no, let the two great nations, one unconquered as the other, join on equal terms in an everlasting federation. 20 The gods and their ritual shall be my gift: let my good father-in-law still wield the sword and the lawful rights of empire: the Teucrians shall raise me a city, and Lavinia shall give it her name.” Thus first Æneas: the Latian king follows, with eyes lifted to heaven, and right hand 25 stretched to the stars: “I swear as you swore, Æneas, by Land and Ocean and Lights above, Latona’s twofold offspring, and two-faced Janus, the potency of the gods below and the shrine of relentless Pluto: and let the Father too give ear, who ratifies covenants with thunder. 30 My hand is on the altars; I adjure the fires and powers that part us: so far as rests with Italy, no length of time shall break this bond of friendship, let things issue as they may: no violence shall make me swerve in will, not though deluge and chaos come again, ruining the earth into the 35 water and crushing down heaven into Tartarus: even as this sceptre”—for a sceptre chanced to be in his hand—“shall never more burgeon with light foliage into branch or shade, now that once cut down in the woods it is orphaned of that which gave it life, and has resigned to the axe its leaves and its sprays—once a tree, now the workman’s hand has cased it with seemly brass, and given it to be wielded by Latium’s elders.” With words like these 5 were they ratifying the treaty, all the nobles looking on. Then, as the rite ordains, they cut the throats of the hallowed’ victims into the fire, flay the yet breathing flesh, and pile the altars with laden chargers.

But the Rutulians have long been thinking the combat 10 unequal: their bosoms are swayed by rival emotions, all the more, the nearer they observe the ill-matched champions. Turnus aids the feeling by the quietness of his step and the downcast reverential look which he turns on the altar, his wan cheeks, and the pallor of his youthful 15 frame. Soon as his sister Juturna heard such whispers spreading, and saw the hearts of the multitude wavering to and fro, she plunges among the ranks, taking the form of Camers, great in ancestral dignity, great in the name of his father’s worth, and himself a valiant warrior—plunges 20 among the ranks, knowing well what she would have, and scatters her sayings abroad in words like these: “Blush ye not, Rutulians, with souls such as yours, to make one a sacrifice for all? are we not equal to our foes in strength or in numbers? See, here is their whole army, Trojan 25 and Arcadian, aye, and that fated band of Eturia, which seeks Turnus’ life. Though but half of us should engage, each would scarce have an enemy to fight with. He, no doubt, will rise on the wings of fame to the gods for whose altars he gives himself to die, and will live in the mouths 30 of men: we, stripped of our country, shall be the slaves of haughty masters, we, I say, now seated passively on the ground.” By such words the flame is fanned more and more in those young warrior hearts, and murmurs run from rank to rank: not Rutulian alone, but Laurentian and 35 Latian are changed men. They who a short while since were hoping for their own repose and their state’s prosperity, now burn for arms, would have the treaty undone, and pity Turnus’ cruel fate. And now Juturna gives them one thing more, even a sign from heaven, no spell so potent to work on Italian minds and make them dupes of the marvel. Flying through the ruddy sky, Jove’s golden bird was chasing the river fowl, a winged noisy multitude, 5 when suddenly swooping on the water he carries off in his tyrant claws a stately swan. The Italians are all attention, when lo! the whole mass of birds face about with a scream, marvellous to see, their wings darkening the air, and in dense cloud press on their enemy, till overborne by 10 sheer weight he gives way, drops the booty from his talons into the river, flying aloft, and vanishes in the distant sky. Oh, then the Rutulians welcome the omen with a shout and spread their hands on high; and first of all cries the augur Tolumnius. “Here, here is the thing I have prayed for so 15 often. I embrace it, I own the hand of Heaven. Follow me—yes, me—and seize your weapons, my poor countrymen, whom the felon stranger is scaring with battle, as if ye were feeble birds, and ravaging your coasts. He too will turn to flight and sail far away on the deep. Close 20 your ranks with one accord, and rally round the prince of whom the battle robs you.” He spoke, and running forward hurls his dart full at the enemy: the hurtling cornel sounds, and cuts the air on no doubtful errand. A deafening shout follows on the act, the ranks are confused, 25 and men’s hearts stirred with mad bewilderment. On flew the spear, just where nine goodly brethren chanced to stand facing it, all born of one true Tuscan mother to Gylippus the Arcadian. One of these just at the waist where the quilted belt chafes against the belly and the 30 buckle presses the sides—a youth of goodly form and clad in refulgent armour—it strikes through the ribs and lays him grovelling on the yellow sand. But his brothers, a gallant company and stung by grief, draw their swords or seize their javelins, and charge in headlong fury. 35 To meet them rush the Laurentian columns: while from their side surge forth in a flood Trojans and Agyllans and Arcadians with inlaid harness. All are possessed by one passion, to try the issue with the steel. The altars are stripped bare: through the whole sky drives a flickering storm of weapons and an iron sleet comes thick: bowls and hearths are carried away. King Latinus flies, bearing away his gods in discomfiture, the truce unratified. 5 Others rein the chariot or vault on horseback, with swords ready drawn.

Messapus, all on fire to annul the treaty, spurs his horse full on the Tuscan Aulestes, a king and wearing kingly cognizance: he draws quickly back, and gets entangled 10 in piteous sort with the altars that meet him behind, falling on them head and shoulders. Up flashes Messapus spear in hand, and towering on horseback brings down on him the massy beam in the midst of his prayers, and delivers himself thus: “He is sped: here is a better victim for the 15 mighty gods.” The Italians cluster round, and strip the yet warm body. As Ebusus comes up and aims a blow, Corynæus meets him with a brand half-burnt from the altar and dashes the fire in his face: his long beard burst into a blaze and made a smell of burning hair: the enemy 20 presses on, grasps in his left hand the locks of the wildered man and with the impact of his knee pins him to earth; then buries the stark falchion in his side. Podalirius gives chase to Alsus the shepherd as he rushed in the first rank through a shower of darts, and hangs over him with 25 naked sword: he, swinging back his axe, splits full in front the foe’s forehead and chin, and splashes his arms right and left with the blood. The heavy rest of iron slumber settles down on the dying eyes, and their beams are curtained in everlasting night. 30

But good Æneas, his head bare, was stretching forth his unarmed hand and shouting to his men: “Whither are you driving? what is this sudden outburst of strife? Oh, curb your passions! the truce is stricken, and all the terms arranged: none but I has a right to engage: give way to 35 me and have done with alarm: my sword shall ratify the treaty: this sacrifice has put Turnus in my power.” While he is crying thus and uttering words like these, lo! full at the chief flies a hurtling arrow, none knew by what hand launched, by what wind wafted, who graced the Rutulians so highly, chance or deity: the glory of the proud achievement was lost, nor was any known to boast of having wounded Æneas. 5

Soon as Turnus sees Æneas retiring from the battle, and the Trojan leaders in confusion, he glows with swift access of hope, calls for horses and armour, bounds like a conqueror into the chariot, and takes the reins in hand. Many a heroic frame he slaughters as he whirls along, many 10 he tumbles and leaves to live or die, crushes whole ranks by the onset of his car, or plucks forth spears and hurls them at the fliers. Just as storming along by Hebrus’ icy flood gore-stained Mars smites on his shield, and stirring battle lets loose his fiery steeds: they fly over the plains 15 faster than winds southern or western: Thrace groans to her extremity under the beat of their hoofs: around him circle the frowns of black-visaged Terror, and the powers of Wrath and Treachery, liege followers of the god: with like eagerness through the thickest of the battle Turnus 20 whirls his straining horses, trampling in piteous sort on the slaughtered foe: the flying hoof spirts gory dew, and blood and sand are kneaded in a mass. Sthenelus he has slain already, and Thamyris and Pholus, these hand to hand, that from a distance: a distant death, too, has found the 25 Imbrasidæ, Glaucus and Lades, trained in Lycia by Imbrasus their sire, and by him harnessed alike, warriors who could stand and fight or outride the winds. In another part of the field Eumedes is riding through the fray, the gallant son of ancient Dolon, with the name of his grandsire, 30 the heart and hand of his sire, who of old, offering to spy out the Danaan camp, dared to ask Achilles’ chariot as his guerdon; far other guerdon was it with which Diomed requited his daring, and his hopes are set on Achilles’ steeds no longer. Marking him at distance along 35 the plain, Turnus first sends after him a flying spear through the intervening space, then stops the car and dismounts, comes on the wretch gasping and laid low, and setting his foot on his neck, wrests the sword from his hand, bathes it flashing deep in his throat, and thus accompanies the blow: “Lie there, Trojan, and measure the Hesperian soil you came to invade: such are their guerdons who draw their swords on me; so build they up their city.” 5 Then with a spear throw he sends Asbutes to join the dead. Chloreus and Sybaris and Dares and Thersilochus, Thymœtes too, thrown off by a restiff horse. As when the blast of Thracian Boreas roars on the deep Ægean and drives the billows to the shore, wherever the winds push 10 on, the clouds scurry over the sky, so when Turnus cleaves his path, the ranks give way, the armies turn in rout; the motion bears him along, and the gale which blows on the car tosses his flickering crest. Phegeus, indignant at his overweening onset, meets the car and grasping the bridle 15 wrenches aside the foaming jaws of the impetuous steeds. While he is dragged along clinging to the yoke, the broad spear-head reaches his unguarded breast, cleaves the two-plated corslet, and tastes the surface of the flesh. Yet he, his shield before him, kept fronting and threatening the 20 foe, and protecting himself with his drawn sword, when the wheel careering onward strikes and flings him on the ground, and Turnus with a sweep of his blade between the bottom of the helmet and the breastplate’s topmost rim has lopped the head and left the trunk to welter. 25

While Turnus thus is dealing havoc over the field, Mnestheus, true Achates, and Ascanius have helped Æneas to the camp, all bleeding, and staying his halting steps by the help of a spear. There he frets and struggles to pull out the broken shaft, and calls for help the readiest 30 way, bidding them enlarge the wound with a broad sword, cut the weapon’s lodgment to the bottom, and send him to combat again. And now at his side was Iapis, son of Iasus, dearest of mankind to Phœbus, he to whom the god in his passionate fondness would fain have given his 35 own function, his own hand’s cunning, the augur’s insight, the lyre, the weapons of archery; but he, wishing to lengthen out the span of his bed-rid sire, chose rather to know the virtue of simples and the laws of the healing art, and to practise in silence an unambitious craft. There stood Æneas, fretting impatiently, propped on his massy spear, with a warrior concourse about him, and Iulus all in tears, yet himself unmoved by their sorrow. 5 The aged leech, his garments swathed round him in Pæon’s fashion, is plying busily the healing hand and Phœbus’ sovereign remedies all to no end, all to no end pulling at the dart and griping the steel with the pincer. No Fortune guides the course of skill, no patron Phœbus 10 lends his aid; and meanwhile the fierce alarms of the field grow louder and louder, and the mischief is nearer at hand. They see dust-clouds propping the sky, the horsemen gallop in, darts fall thick in the midst of the camp, and heavenward mounts the cruel din of warriors battling 15 or falling in the stern affray:—when, lo! Venus, struck to the heart by her son’s undeserved suffering, with a mother’s care plucks dittany[284] from Cretan Ida, a plant with downy leaves and a purple flower: wild goats know that simple well, if the flying arrow should lodge in their 20 flesh. Veiled by a dim cloud, the goddess brings it down; with it she impregnates the spring water gleaming in the caldron, imparting unseen powers, and sprinkles ambrosia’s[285] healthful juice and fragrant panacea. The old man rinsed the wound with the water so transformed, all 25 unwitting, and in a moment all pain was fled from the frame, and the blood was stanched in the wound. The arrow obeys the hand, and falls unforced, and strength is restored as before. “Quick! give the warrior his arms! why so tardy?” cries Iapis, himself the first to stir up 30 the martial spirit. “No human aid has done this, no power of leech-craft; it is not my hand, Æneas, that restores you; a mightier power than man’s is at work, sending you back to mightier deeds.” The chief, greedy for the fight, has cased his legs in gold, chafing at delay 35 and brandishing his spear. Soon as the shield is fitted to his side, the cuirass to his back, he clasps Ascanius to his mailed breast, and kissing his lips through the helmet addresses him thus: “Learn valour from me, my son, and genuine hardihood, success from others. To-day it is my hand that shall shield you in war and lead you through the walks of honour; be it your care, when your age has ripened into manhood, to bear the past in mind, seek 5 patterns among those of your own blood, and be stirred to action by Æneas your sire and Hector your uncle.”

So having said, he passed towering through the gate, a huge spear quivering in his hand: Antheus and Mnestheus close their ranks and rush forth, and the whole 10 multitude streams from the empty camp. The field is clouded by blinding dust, and earth throbs and shudders with the tramp of feet. Turnus saw them coming towards him from their battlements, the Ausonians saw, and a cold shudder ran through their vitals: first before all the 15 Latians Juturna heard and knew the sound and shrank back in terror. As a storm-cloud bursting through the sky sweeps down to earth along the main: hapless husbandmen know it ere it comes, and shudder at heart; yes, it will bring havoc to their trees, devastation to their 20 crops, will lay all low far and wide; the winds fly before it and waft the sound to the shore: with as strong a rush the Rhœteian chief sweeps his army full on the foe; they close in firm masses and form severally at his side. Thymbræus’ sword cuts down mighty Osiris, Mnestheus slays 25 Archetius, Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens; falls too the augur Tolumnius, the first to fling his javelin at the enemy. The din mounts to the sky, and the Rutulians routed in turn fly through the plains in a whirlwind of dust. The hero himself neither stoops to slaughter the 30 flying nor encounter such as would fain meet him foot to foot, weapon in hand: Turnus alone he tracks winding through the thick darkness, him alone he challenges to combat. The terror struck Juturna’s manly mind: she plucks from his seat Metiscus, Turnus’ charioteer, as he 35 drives the horses, and leaves him fallen at distance behind the car: herself takes his place and handles the flowing rein, assuming all that Metiscus had, voice and person and armour. Like a black swallow that flies through the house of some wealthy man and traverses the lofty hail, in quest of scraps of food for her twittering nestlings; now she is heard in the empty cloisters, now about the watertanks; so drives Juturna through the 5 thick of the foe, and flies on rapid wheel from spot to spot, now here, now there she gives a glimpse of her victorious brother, yet never lets him stop and fight, but whirls far away in the distance. Æneas for his part winds through sinuous paths in hope to meet him, tracks 10 his steps, and shouts to him aloud across the weltering ranks. Oft as he spies out the foe and tries by running to match the horses’ winged speed, each time Juturna wheels the car aside. What can he do? he tosses in aimless ebb and flow, thoughts distracting his mind this 15 way and that:—when lo! Messapus, with sudden movement, happening to carry two limber spear-shafts tipped with steel, levels one at him and flings it true to its mark. Æneas stopped and gathered his arms about him, sinking on his knee; yet the fierce spear took the top of the 20 helmet and struck the crest from the cone. Then at last his wrath mounts high; and under the duresse of treachery, as he sees the steeds and chariot whirling away from him, after many an appeal to Jove and the altars of the violated league, he falls on the ranks before him, and fanned 25 to dreadful vengeance by the War-god’s breath, lets loose a carnage cruel and unsparing, and flings the reins on the neck of his passion.

And now what god will tell me all those horrors and relate for me in verse the several scenes of slaughter, the 30 deaths of the leaders whom Turnus here, the Trojan hero there, is chasing over the plain? Was it thy will, great Jove, that nations destined in time to come to everlasting amity should first clash in such dread turmoil? Æneas confronted by Rutulian Sucro[o] (that combat first brought 35 the Trojan onset to a stand) after brief delay catches him on the side and drives his stubborn sword death’s nearest way through the ribs that fence the bosom. Turnus in foot-encounter slays Amycus, whose horse had thrown him, and his brother Diores, striking one with the spear ere he came up, the other with the swordblade, lops the heads of both, hangs them from his car, and carries them dripping with blood. That sends down Talos to death 5 and Tanais and brave Cethegus, those at one onslaught, and hapless Onytes, of the house of Echion, brought forth by Peridia: that kills the brethren who came from Apollo’s land of Lycia, and young Menœtes the Arcadian, who shrunk from war in vain; he plied his craft and lived 10 in poverty by the fishy waters of Lerna, a stranger to the halls of the great; and his father tilled land for hire. Like two fires launched from different quarters on a dry forest with bushes of crackling bay, or as when two foaming rivers pouring from lofty heights crash along and run 15 towards the ocean, each ploughing his own wild channel: with no less fury rush through the fight Æneas and Turnus both: now, now the wrath is boiling within them: their unconquered bosoms swell to bursting: they throw their whole force on the wounds they deal. This with 20 the whirl and the blow of a mighty rock dashes Murranus headlong from his car to the ground, Murranus who had ever on his tongue the ancient names of sires and grandsires and a lineage stretching through the series of Latium’s kings: the wheels throw forward the fallen man under the 25 reins and yoke, and he is crushed by the quick hoof-beat of the steeds that mind not their lord. That meets Hyllus as he rushed on in vehement fury, and hurls a javelin at his gold-bound brows: the spear pierced the helmet and stood fixed in the brain. Nor did your 30 prowess, Cretheus, bravest of Greeks, deliver you from Turnus, nor did the gods Cupencus worshipped shield him from the onset of Æneas: his bosom met the steel, and the check of the brazen buckler stood the wretch in small stead. You, too, great Æolus, the Laurentian 35 plains looked on in death, spreading your frame abroad over their surface: fallen are you, whom the Argive bands could never overthrow, nor Achilles the destroyer of Priam’s realm: here was your fatal goal: a princely home under Ida’s shade: at Lyrnesus a princely hope, in Laurentian soil a sepulchre. The two armies are in hot conflict: all the Latians, all the sons of Dardanus, Mnestheus, 5 and keen Serestus, and Messapus tamer of the steed, and brave Asilas, the Tuscan band, and Evander’s Arcad cavalry, each man for himself straining every nerve: no stint, no stay; they strive with giant tension.

And now Æneas had a thought inspired by his beauteous mother, to march to the walls, throw his force 10 rapidly on the town, and stun the Latians with a sudden blow. Tracking Turnus through the ranks he swept his eyes round and round, and beholds the city enjoying respite from all that furious war, and lying in unchallenged repose. At once his mind is fired with the vision of a 15 grander battle: Mnestheus he summons and Sergestus and brave Serestus, the first in command, and mounts an eminence round which the rest of the Teucrian army gathers in close ranks, not laying shield or dart aside. Standing on the tall mound, he thus bespeaks them: 20 “Let nothing stay my orders; the hand of Jove is here; nor let any move slower because the enterprise is sudden. The town, the cause of the war, the royal home of the Latian king, unless they submit the yoke and confess themselves vanquished, I will overthrow this day, and lay 25 its smoking turrets level with the ground. What? am I to wait till Turnus choose to bide the combat, and once conquered, meet me a second time? This, my men, is the well-spring, this the head and front of the monstrous war. Bring torches with speed, and reclaim the treaty 30 fire in hand.” He said, and all with emulous spirit of union close their ranks and stream to the walls in compact mass. Scaling ladders and brands are produced suddenly and in a moment. Some run to the several gates and slay those stationed there: some hurl the steel 35 and overshadow the sky with javelins. Æneas himself among the foremost lifts up his hand under the city wall, loudly upbraids the king, and calls the gods to witness that he is once more forced into battle, the Italians twice his foes, the second treaty broken like the first. Strife arises among the wildered citizens: some are for throwing open the town and unbarring the gates to the Dardans: nay, they even drag the monarch to the ramparts: others 5 draw the sword and prepare to guard the walls: as when a countryman has tracked out bees concealed in a cavernous rock and filled their hiding-place with pungent smoke, they in alarm for the common wealth flit about their waxen realm and stir themselves to wrath by vehement 10 buzzing: the murky smell winds from chamber to chamber: a dull blind noise fills the cavern: vapours ascend into the void of air.

Yet another stroke fell on Latium’s wearied sons, shaking with its agony the city to her foundations. When 15 the queen from her palace saw the enemy draw near, the walls assailed, flames flying roofward, the Rutulian army, the soldiers of Turnus nowhere in sight, she deemed, poor wretch, her warrior slain in the combat, and maddened with the access of grief, cries aloud that she alone is the 20 guilty cause, the fountainhead of all this evil; and flinging out wild words in the fury of her frenzied anguish, rends with desperate hand her purple raiment, and fastens from a lofty beam the noose of hideous death. Soon as Latium’s wretched dames knew the blow that had fallen, 25 her daughter Lavinia is first to rend yellow hair and roseate cheek, and the rest about her ran as wildly: the palace re-echoes their wail. The miserable story spreads through the town: every heart sinks: there goes the old king with garments rent, all confounded by his consort’s 30 death and his city’s ruin: he soils his hoary locks with showers of unseemly dust, and oft and oft upbraids himself that he embraced not sooner Æneas the Dardan nor took him for son-in-law of his own free will.

Turnus, meantime, is plying the war far away on the 35 plain, following here and there a straggler with abated zeal, himself and his steeds alike less buoyant. The air wafted to him the confused din, inspiring unknown terror, and on his quickened ears smote the sound of the city’s turmoil and the noise not of joy. “Alas! what is this mighty agony that shakes the walls? what these loud shouts pouring from this quarter and that?” So he cries, and drawing his bridle halts bewildered. His sister, just 5 as she stood in guise of Metiscus the driver, guiding car, horse, and reins, thus meets his question: “Proceed we still, Turnus, to chase the Trojans, where victory’s dawn shows us the way: others there are whose hands can guard the city: Æneas bears down on the Italians and 10 stirs up the battle: let us send havoc as cruel among his Teucrians: so shall your slain be as many and your martial fame as high.” Turnus answered: “Sister, I both knew you long since, when at first you artfully disturbed the truce and flung yourself into our quarrel, and now 15 you vainly hide the goddess from my eyes. But tell me by whose will you are sent from Olympus to cope with toils like this? Is it that you may look on the cruel end of your hapless brother? For what can I do? what chance is there left to give me hope of safety? With my 20 own eyes I saw Murranus die, his giant frame laid low by a giant wound: he called me by name, he, than whom I had no dearer friend. Dead, too, is ill-starred Ufens, all because he would not see me disgraced: his body and his arms are the Teucrians’ prize. Am I to let the nation’s 25 homes be razed to the ground, the one drop that was wanting to the cup, and not rather with my own right hand give Drances’ words the lie? Shall I turn my back? shall this land see Turnus flying? is death after all so bitter? Be gracious to me, gentle powers of the grave, 30 since the gods above are against me! Yes, I will come down to you a stainless spirit, guiltless of that base charge, worthy in all my acts of my great forefathers.”

Scarce had he spoken, when lo! there flies through the midst of the foe, on a foaming steed, Saces, with an arrow 35 full in his face: up he spurs, imploring Turnus by name: “Turnus, our last hope is in you: have compassion on your army. Æneas thunders with sword and spear, and threatens that he will level in dust and give to destruction the Italians’ topmost battlements: even now brands are flying to the roofs. Every Latian face, every eye turns to you: the king himself mutters in doubt whom to call his son-in-law, to whose alliance to incline. Nay, 5 more, your fastest friend the queen is dead by her own hand, scared and driven out of life. Only Messapus and keen Atinas are at the gates to uphold our forces. About them are closed ranks, and an iron harvest of naked blades: you are rolling your car over a field from which 10 war has ebbed.” Turnus stood still with silent dull regard, wildered by the thoughts that crowd on his mind: deep shame, grief and madness, frenzy-goaded passion and conscious wrath all surging at once. Soon as the shadows parted and light came back to his intelligence, 15 he darted his blazing eyes cityward with restless vehemence, and looked back from his car to the wide-stretching town. Lo! there was a cone of fire spreading from story to story and flaring to heaven: the flame was devouring the turret which he had built himself of planks welded 20 together, put wheels beneath it, and furnished it with lofty bridges. “Fate is too strong for me, sister, too strong: hold me back no longer: we needs must follow where Heaven and cruel Fortune are calling us. Yes, I _will_ meet Æneas: I will endure the full bitterness of 25 death: no more, my love, shall you see me disgraced: suffer me first to have my hour of madness.” He said, and in a moment leapt to the ground, rushes on through foes, through javelins, leaves his sister to her sorrow, and dashes at full speed through the intervening ranks. Even 30 as from a mountain’s top down comes a rock headlong, torn off by the wind, or washed down by vehement rain, or loosened by the lapse of creeping years; down the steep it crashes with giant impulse, that reckless stone, bounding over the ground and rolling along with it trees, herds, 35 and men: so, dashing the ranks apart, rushes Turnus to the city walls, where the earth is wet with plashy blood, and the gale hurtles with spears: he beckons with his hand, and cries with a mighty voice: “Have done, ye Rutulians! ye Latians, hold back your darts! whatever Fortune brings she brings to me: ’tis juster far that I in your stead should singly expiate the treaty’s breach and try the issue of the steel.” All at the word part from the 5 midst, and leave him a clear space.

But father Æneas, hearing Turnus’ name, quits his hold on the walls and the battlements that crown them, flings delay to the winds and breaks off the work of war, steps high in triumph, and makes his arms peal dread 10 thunder: vast as Athos, vast as Eryx, vast as father Apennine himself, when he roars with his quivering holms[286] and lifts his snowy crest exultingly to the sky. All turn their eyes with eager contention. Rutulians, Trojans, and Italians, those alike who were manning the towers and 15 those whose battering-rams were assailing the foundations. All unbrace their armour. Latinus himself stands amazed to see two men so mighty, born in climes so distant each from each, thus met together to try the steel’s issue. At once, when a space is cleared on the plain, first hurling 20 their spears, they advance with swift onset, and dash into the combat with shield and ringing harness. Earth groans beneath them; their swords hail blow on blow: chance and valour mingle pell-mell. As when on mighty Sila or Taburnus’ summit two bulls, lowering their brows for 25 combat, engage fiercely: the herdsmen retreat in dread: the cattle all stand dumb with terror, the heifers wait in suspense who is to be the monarch of the woodland, whom the herds are to follow henceforth: they each in turn give furious blows, push and lodge their horns, and 30 bathe neck and shoulders with streams of blood: the sound makes the forest bellow again: with no less fury Æneas the Trojan, and the Daunian chief clash shield on shield: the enormous din fills the firmament. Jupiter himself holds aloft his scales poised and level, and lays 35 therein the destinies of the two, to see whom the struggle dooms, and whose the weight that death bears down. Forth darts Turnus, deeming it safe, rises with his whole frame on the uplifted sword, and strikes, Trojans and eager Latians shout aloud: both armies gaze expectant. But the faithless sword snaps in twain and fails its fiery lord midway in the stroke, unless flight should come to his aid. Off he flies swifter than the wind, seeing an unknown 5 hilt in his defenceless hand. Men say that in his headlong haste, when first he was mounting the car harnessed for battle, he left behind his father’s falchion and snatched up the steel of Metiscus, his charioteer: so long as the Teucrians fled straggling before him, the weapon 10 did good service; soon as it came to the divine Vulcanian armour, the mortal blade, like brittle ice, flew asunder at the stroke: the fragments sparkle on the yellow sand. So now in his distraction Turnus flies here and there over the plain, weaving vague circles in this place and in 15 that: for the Trojans have closed in circle about him, and here is a spreading marsh, there lofty ramparts to bar the way.

Nor is Æneas wanting, though at times the arrow wound slackens his knees and robs them of their power 20 to run: no, he follows on, and presses upon the flier foot for foot: as when a hound has got a stag pent in by a river, or hedged about by the terror of crimson plumage, and chases him running and barking: the stag, frighted by the snare and the steep bank, doubles a thousand times: 25 the keen Umbrian clings open-mouthed to his skirts, all but seizes him, and as though in act to seize, snaps his teeth, and is baffled to find nothing in their gripe. Then, if ever, uprises a shout, echoing along bank and marsh, and heaven rings again with the noise. Turnus, even as 30 he flies, calls fiercely on the Rutulians, addressing by name, and clamors for his well-known sword. Æneas, for his part, threatens death and instant destruction, should any come near, and terrifies his trembling foes, swearing that he will raze their city to the ground, and 35 presses on in spite of his wound. Five times they circle round, five times they retrace the circle: for no trivial prize is at stake, no guerdon of a game: the contest is for Turnus’ life, for his very heart’s blood. It chanced that there had stood there a wild olive with its bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus, a tree in old days reverenced by seamen, where when saved from ocean they used to fasten their offerings to the Laurentian god and hang up their 5 votive garments: but the unrespecting Trojans had lately lopped the hallowed trunk, that the lists might be clear for combat. There was lodged Æneas’ spear: thither its force had carried it, and was now holding it fast in the unyielding root. The Dardan chief bent over it, fain to 10 wrench forth the steel that his weapon may catch whom his foot cannot overtake. Then cried Turnus in the moment of frenzied agony: “Have mercy, I conjure thee, good Faunus, and thou, most gracious earth, hold fast the steel if I have ever reverenced your sanctities, which 15 Æneas’ crew for their part have caused battle to desecrate.” He said, nor were his vows unanswered by heavenly aid. Hard as he struggled, long as he lingered over the stubborn stock, by no force could Æneas make the wood unclose its fangs. While he strains with keen insistence, the 20 Daunian goddess, resuming the guise of charioteer Metiscus, runs forward and restores to her brother his sword. Then Venus, resenting the freedom taken by the presumptuous Nymph, came nigh, and plucks the weapon from the depth of the root. And now towering high, 25 with restored weapons and recruited force, this in strong reliance on his sword, that fiercely waving his spear tall as he, the two stand front to front in the breath-draining conflict of war.

Meanwhile the king of almighty Olympus accosts Juno, 30 as from a golden cloud she gazes on the battle: “Where is this to end, fair spouse? what last stroke have you in store? you know yourself, by your own confession, that Æneas has his place assured in heaven among Italia’s native gods, that destiny is making him a ladder to the 35 stars. What plan you now? what hope keeps you seated on those chilly clouds? was it right that mortal wound should harm a god, or that Turnus—for what power could Juturna have apart from you?—should receive back his lost sword and the vanquished should feel new forces? At length have done, and let my prayers bow your will. Let this mighty sorrow cease to devour you in silence: let me hear sounds of sullen disquiet less often 5 from your lovely lips. The barrier has been reached. To toss the Trojans over land and sea, to kindle an unhallowed war, to plunge a home in mourning, to blend a dirge with the bridal song, this it has been yours to do: all further action I forbid.” So spake Jupiter: and so in 10 return Saturn’s daughter with downcast look: “Even because I knew, great Jove, that such was your pleasure, have I withdrawn against my will from Turnus and from earth: else you would not see me now in the solitude of my airy throne, exposed to all that comes, meet or unmeet: 15 armed with firebrands, I should stand in the very line of battle, and force the Teucrians into the hands of their foes. As for Juturna, I counselled her, I own, to succour her wretched brother, and warranted an unusual venture where life was at stake: but nought was said of 20 aiming the shaft or bending the bow: I swear by the inexpiable fountain-head of Styx, the one sanction that binds us powers above. And now I yield indeed, and quit this odious struggle. Yet there is a boon I would ask, a boon which destiny forefends not. I ask it for 25 the sake of Latium, for the dignity of your own people: when at last peace shall be ratified with a happy bridal, for happy let it be: when bonds of treaty shall be knit at last, let it not be thy will that the native Latians should change their ancient name, become Trojans or 30 take the Teucrian style: let not them alter their language or their garb. Let there be Latium still: let there be centuries of Alban kings: let there be a Roman stock, strong with the strength of Italian manhood: but let Troy be fallen as she is, name and nation alike.” The 35 Father of men and nature answered with a smile: “Aye, you are Jove’s own sister, the other branch of Saturn’s line; such billows of passion surge in your bosom! but come,—let this ineffectual frenzy give way: I grant your wish, and submit myself in willing obedience. The Ausonians shall keep their native tongue, their native customs: the name shall remain as it is: the Teucrians shall merge in the nation they join—that and no more: 5 their rites and worship shall be my gift: all shall be Latians and speak the Latian tongue. The race that shall arise from this admixture of Ausonian blood shall transcend in piety earth and heaven itself, nor shall any nation pay you such honours as they.” Juno nodded assent, and 10 turned her sullenness to pleasure; meanwhile she departs from the sky, and quits the cloud where she sat.

This done, the sire meditates a further resolve, and prepares to part Juturna from her brother’s side. There are two fiends known as the Furies, whom with Tartarean 25 Megæra dismal Night brought forth at one and the same birth, wreathing them alike with coiling serpents, and equipping them with wings that fan the air. They are seen beside Jove’s throne, at the threshold of his angry sovereignty, goading frail mortality with stings of terror, 20 oft as the monarch of the gods girds himself to send forth disease and frightful death, or appals guilty towns with war. One of these Jove sped with haste from heaven’s summit, and bade her confront Juturna in token of his will. Forth she flies, borne earthward on the blast of a 25 whirlwind. Swift as the arrow from the string cleaves the cloud, sent forth by Parthian—Parthian or Cydonian—tipped with fell poison’s gall, the dealer of a wound incurable, and skims the flying vapours hurtling and unforeseen, so went the Daughter of Night and made her 30 way to earth. Soon as she sees the forces of Troy and the army of Turnus, she huddles herself suddenly into the shape of a puny bird, which oft on tombstone or lonely roof sitting by night screams restlessly through the gloom; in this disguise the fiend again and again flies flapping in 35 Turnus’ face, and beats with her wings on his shield. A strange chilly terror unknits his frame, his hair stands shudderingly erect, and his utterance cleaves to his jaws. But when Juturna knew from far the rustling of those Fury pinions, she rends, hapless maid, her dishevelled tresses, marring, in all a sister’s agony, her face with her nails, her breast with her clenched hands: “What now, my Turnus, can your sister avail? what more remains for 5 an obdurate wretch like me? by what expedient can I lengthen your span? can I face a portent like this? At last, at last I quit the field. Cease to appal my fluttering soul, ye birds of ill omen: I know the flapping of your wings and its deathful noise; nor fail I to read great 10 Jove’s tyrannic will. Is this his recompense for lost virginity? why gave he me life to last for ever? why was the law of death annulled? else might I end this moment the tale of my sorrows, and travel to the shades hand in hand with my poor brother. Can immortality, can aught 15 that I have to boast give me joy without him? Oh, that earth would but yawn deep enough, and send me down, goddess though I be, to the powers of the grave!” So saying, she shrouded her head in her azure robe, with many a groan, and vanished beneath the river of her deity. 20

Æneas presses on, front to front, shaking his massy, tree-like spear, and thus speaks in the fierceness of his spirit: “What is to be the next delay? why does Turnus still hang back? ours is no contest of speed, but of stern soldiership, hand to hand. Take all disguises you can; 25 muster all your powers of courage or of skill: mount on wing, if you list, to the stars aloft, or hide in the cavernous depth of earth.” Shaking his head, he replied: “I quail not at your fiery words, insulting foe: it is Heaven that makes me quail, and Jove my enemy.” No more he 30 spoke: but, sweeping his eyes round, espies a huge stone, a stone ancient and huge, which chanced to be lying on the plain, set as some field’s boundary, to forefend disputes of ownership: scarce could twelve picked men lift it on their shoulders, such puny frames as earth produces 35 now-a-days: he caught it up with hurried grasp and flung it at his foe, rising as he threw, and running rapidly, as hero might. And yet all the while he knows not that he is running or moving, lifting up or stirring the enormous stone: his knees totter under him, and his blood chills and freezes: and so the mass from the warrior’s hand, whirled through the empty void, passed not through all the space between nor carried home the blow. Even 5 as in dreams, at night, when heavy slumber has weighed down the eyes, we seem vainly wishing to make eager progress forward and midway in the effort fail helplessly; our tongue has no power, our wonted strength stands not our frames in stead, nor do words or utterance come at 10 our call: so it is with Turnus: whatever means his valour tries, the fell fiend bars them of their issue. And now confused images whirl through his brain: he looks to his Rutulians and to the city, and falters with dread, and quails at the threatening spear: how to escape he knows 15 not, nor how to front the foe, nor sees he anywhere his car or the sister who drives it.

Full in that shrinking face Æneas shakes his fatal weapon, taking aim with his eye, and with an effort of his whole frame hurls it forth. Never stone flung from 20 engine of siege roars so loud, never peal so rending follows the thunderbolt. On flies the spear like dark whirlwind with fell destruction on its wing, pierces the edge of the corslet, and the outermost circle of the seven-fold shield, and with a rush cleaves through the thigh. Down with 25 his knee doubled under him comes Turnus to earth, all his length prostrated by the blow. Up start the Rutulians, groaning as one man: the whole mountain round rebellows, and the depths of the forest send back the sound far and wide. He in lowly suppliance lifts up eye 30 and entreating hand: “It is my due,” he cries, “and I ask not to be spared it: take what fortune gives you. Yet, if you _can_ feel for a parent’s misery—your father, Anchises was once in like plight—have mercy on Daunus’ hoary hairs, and let me, or if you choose my breathless 35 body, be restored to my kin. You are conqueror: the Ausonians have seen my conquered hands outstretched: the royal bride is yours: let hatred be pressed no further.” Æneas stood still, a fiery warrior, his eyes rolling, and checked his hand: and those suppliant words were working more and more on his faltering purpose, when, alas! the ill-starred belt was seen high on the shoulder, and light flashed from the well-known studs—the belt of 5 young Pallas, whom Turnus conquered and struck down to earth, and bore on his breast the badge of triumphant enmity. Soon as his eyes caught the spoil and drank in the recollection of that cruel grief, kindled into madness and terrible in his wrath: “What, with my friend’s 10 trophies upon you, would you escape my hand? It is Pallas, Pallas, who with this blow makes you his victim, and gluts his vengeance with your accursed blood.” With these words, fierce as flame, he plunged the steel into the breast that lay before him. That other’s frame grows 15 chill and motionless, and the soul,[287] resenting its lot, flies groaningly to the shades.

FOOTNOTES

[A] “Like footsteps upon wool.”—Tennyson, _Œnone_.

[B] Mr. Conington has missed a line, which may be rendered thus: “who knowest the divine will of Apollo—his tripods and his laurels.”—[E. S. S.]

[C] Another line omitted in the translation:—“huge as Greek shield or sun-god’s torch.”—[E. S. S.]

[D] A caret in the Ms. notes the omission of _Urbis opus_: “A city in itself.”—[E. S. S.]

[E] Three lines omitted in the Ms.: “Then on Mount Eryx, towering to the stars, is reared a temple to Idalian Venus, and for Anchises’ tomb a priest appointed, with dedication of broad-acred grove.”—[E. S. S.]

[F] For the omitted lines Conington’s verses are inserted.—[E. S. S.]

NOTES