Wild was the dismay among the inhabitants of Laurentum when they saw the Trojans and Tuscans advancing in full force, with scaling ladders, battering-rams, and torches, to the assault. Some rushed to the battlements, determined to resist to the last; others cried that the gates must be opened to the enemy; and a third party broke into the palace, and dragged the unhappy Latinus into the streets, vowing that they would hand him over to the vengeance of Æneas. All was panic, confusion, and uproar, as in a nest of wild bees smoked to death by a shepherd who seeks to rifle their store. In the midst of this disorder an event occurred which gave the last blow to those who still favored the cause of Turnus. When the queen saw the approaching attack on the city she at once concluded that Turnus had fallen, and, full of remorse for the part which she had played, she went and hanged herself from a high beam in her chamber.
THE DEATH OF TURNUS
By H. L. Havell
Turnus, whose car was still driven by the disguised Juturna, had been carried in pursuit of some straggling Trojans to the farthest verge of the plain. Suddenly his ears were caught by a wild, tumultuous cry from the distant city, and, laying his hand on the reins, he brought the chariot to a stand. “Why haltest thou?” asked the pretended Metiscus. “Leave thy comrades to defend the walls, and continue the work of slaughter here, where there is none to oppose thee.” Turnus answered: “Sister, I knew thee from the first, and recognized thy hand in all the wild havoc of this day. But vain are all thy labors; Heaven is against me, and I must bow to the will of fate. I have seen all the noblest of my comrades slain before my eyes; shall I suffer this royal city to be given up to fire and slaughter for my sake? Shall I play coward, and make my name a byword for Drances and his crew? No, if Heaven is against me, be ye at least with me, ye noble spirits of the dead! Prepare to receive me, a stainless soul, worthy to be numbered among the mightiest of my line.”
Scarcely had he spoken when a Rutulian horseman, wounded in the face by an arrow, came galloping towards him, shouting: “Turnus, what doest thou here? Thou art our last hope and refuge; the city is beset, Amata has died by her own hand; but few of thy friends remain to keep up a desperate defence. Come quickly, for dire is the need.” As if to give point to his words, at this very moment the flames were seen leaping from a huge wooden tower built on a projection of the walls. For a while Turnus stood as if stupefied, overcome by the conflicting passions which surged within him. Then, collecting himself with a strong effort, he said: “’Tis enough; my fate calls me, and I obey. Let me strike one good blow first, and then let death take his due.” Thereupon he sprang from the chariot, and, running at full speed, broke his way through the fighting lines, like a great boulder sapped in its foundations by the winter rains and toppled from a mountain’s crest. “Make way,” he cried; “drop your weapons, ye Rutulians and Latins. This is my quarrel, not yours, and I am come to pay the price.”
Both sides fell back, and left an open space for the final encounter between the two great champions. “At last!” murmured Æneas as he came towering on, and took his stand, “like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved,” face to face with his giant foe. First they flung their spears, and, these not taking effect, they drew their swords, and engaged hand to hand. Loud clashed the steel, and a stream of lightning seemed to play about their heads, so fast and furious were the strokes. Like two bulls fighting for the sovereignty of the herd, while the kine stand lowing near, so strove the Italian and the Trojan for the mastery, foot to foot and shield to shield. At length Turnus lifted high his sword, and, coming down with the whole weight of his body, discharged a tremendous blow at the crest of Æneas. The weapon belonged to Metiscus, his charioteer, and he had snatched it up in mistake for his own good blade, which had been tempered by the hand of Vulcan himself. And now the faithless sword proved its mortal temper, and was shivered to the hilt like glass. With a bitter curse the Rutulian turned his back, and fled, and Æneas followed close, though still somewhat disabled by his recent wound. Hither and thither they sped, pursuer and pursued, as a keen hound chases the flying deer, brought to bay by a high rocky mountain-side; the stag wheels and doubles, and the hound’s jaws close with a snap, as his quarry eludes him again.
Turnus shouted to his comrades, imploring them to bring his sword, but Æneas warned them off with threatening gestures; and so the race went on, which was run for no common stake, but for the very life blood of Turnus.
When Æneas flung his spear at the beginning of the duel the weapon had sunk deep into the stump of an olive-tree; the tree itself, which was sacred to Faunus, had been felled by the Trojans, and rolled out of the way, on the morning before the battle. Catching sight of the spear as he ran past in pursuit of Turnus, Æneas paused, and strove to tear it out. In wild terror Turnus watched his efforts, and cried: “Faunus, god of my fathers, hold the weapon fast, and preserve thy worshiper!” Faunus heard his prayer, and kept the iron point close pinned in the knotted roots of his sacred tree; and while Æneas was still tugging and straining at the shaft, Juturna, again disguised as Metiscus, ran up to Turnus, and gave him back his sword. Thereupon Venus, angered by the presumption of the nymph, drew near in her turn, wrenched out the lance, and handed it to her son. Their weapons thus restored the champions stood face to face once more, prepared to renew the battle.