The Æneid of Virgil translated into English prose

by Virgil

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.