The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

The two last ones,
Mnestheus and Sergestus, were encouraged;
Gyas was easy now; Sergestus managed
To get ahead, a little; he neared the rock,
Less than a length ahead; the rival Dragon
Was lapped on him, and up and down, amidships,
Went Mnestheus, cheering on his crew:—“Get going,
Rise to the oars, my comrades, men of Hector
Whom I picked out for mine in Troy’s last moment.
Show the old spirit and the nerve that took us
Through the Gaetulian sands, Ionian waters,
Off Cape Malea! We can’t hope to win it,—
Let Neptune look to that!—maybe—at least,
Whatever we do, don’t come in last! We could not
Bear any such disgrace.” They did their utmost,
Straining with all their might, the bronze deck shaking
Under the effort, and the quiet ocean
Streamed under and past them. Arms and legs were weary,
Wobbly, shaking; breath came hard, they gulped
And gasped for air, and sweat ran down in rivers,
And they had some luck. Sergestus, out of his senses,
Drove in, too close, and piled up on the rock,
Which almost bounced as he hit there, and the oars
Were sheared away, and the bow hung up, and the sailors,
Shouting like mad, pushed hard with pikes or boat-hooks,
Or the wreck of the oars, to shove them off. And Mnestheus
Easier now, and with exalted spirit
From this much victory, with a prayer to the winds
And the oars’ swift drive, was running down-hill waters,
Over the open ocean, as a dove
Suddenly startled out of her nest in a cavern
Where the young brood waits, wings to the fields in fright,
Flapping on anxious pinions, and recovers,
And skims down peaceful air, with never a motion
Of wing in the lifting air, so Mnestheus sped,
So sped the Dragon, racing home, and the sweep
Of her own speed made a wind. She passed Sergestus
Struggling, rock-bound, in shallow water, howling
For help, in vain, and learning how to manage
A boat when the oars are broken. She overhauled
Gyas, in the Chimaera, wallowing heavy
Without a pilot. Only Cloanthus was left;
They were after him with all their might, the clamor
Rose twice as loud; they were cheering the pursuer,
And the sky was a crash of shouting. On the Scylla
They would give their lives to hold their place, they have won it,
The glory and honor are theirs already, almost;
And Mnestheus’ men take courage from their nearness;
They can because they think they can. They would have,
Perhaps, or tied, at least had not Cloanthus
Taken to prayer:—“Gods of the seas, whose waters
I skim, whose empire lifts me up, I gladly
Promise you sacrifice, a snow-white bullock
At altars on this shore, and wine for the ocean,
And the entrails flung to the flood!” Under the waves
The Nereids heard him, Phorcus, Panopea
The maiden, and Portunus, the big-handed,
Boosted him on his way. Swifter than arrow,
Swifter than wind, the ship swept into the harbor.

The herald’s cry proclaimed Cloanthus victor,
When all were summoned, and Anchises’ son
Put the green bay leaf on his temples, silver
And wine for the ships, a steer for each. The captains
Have special prizes; the winner has a mantle,
Woven with gold, and a double seam of crimson,
With a story in the texture, Ganymede
Hunting on Ida, breathless, tossing darts
And racing after the deer, and caught and carried
In the talons of Jove’s eagle, soaring skyward,
While the boy’s old guardians reach their hands up, vainly,
And the hounds set up a cry. Mnestheus, second,
Has a coat of mail, with triple links of gold,
A trophy of Demoleos; Aeneas
Had beaten him at Troy, by Simois river,
And taken the armor, glory and guard in battle.
The servants, Sagaris and Phegeus, hardly
Can lift it up, but when Demoleos wore it,
He could go, full-speed, after the flying Trojans.
The third award is a pair of brazen caldrons,
And bowls embossed in silver.

They had their prizes
And went their way, proud of their wealth, and shining
With foreheads garlanded, when with much effort,
Scraped off the rock, oars lost, and one bank crippled,
Here came Sergestus, butt of jeering laughter,
Like a snake with a broken back, which a wagon-wheel
Runs over on the road, or a traveller smashes
With the weight of a stone, and, crushed, it writhes and struggles,
Looping the coils, and half of it is angry
With fiery eyes and hissing mouth, and half
Keeps dragging back the rest and doubles over
On useless muscles, powerless; Sergestus
Came home like such a serpent, maimed and broken,
But the sail went bravely up as they made the harbor,
And Aeneas kept his promise to the captain,
Glad for the ship’s return, and the safe sailors.
A slave-girl, Pholoe from Crete, accomplished
At weaving, was his prize, and her twin children,
Boy-infants, at the breast.
The boat-race over, Aeneas makes his way
To a grassy plain, with wooded hills surrounding
The race-course in the valley. All the crowd
Come trooping after, group themselves around
The central prominence. Rewards and prizes
Draw the competitors, travellers and natives,
Trojans, Sicilians; in the foremost ranks
Are Nisus and Euryalus, the latter
Conspicuous in the flower of youth and beauty,
Whom Nisus follows with entire devotion:
Diores, of the royal house of Priam,
Was ready; Salius, an Acarnanian;
Patron, Tegean-born; and two Sicilians,
Panopes, Helymus, trained to the forests,
Companions of Acestes; and many others
Whose fame by now the darkness hides. Aeneas
Speaks to their hope:—“No one goes unrewarded:
To each I give two Cretan arrows, gleaming
With polished steel, and a double-bitted axe
Embossed with silver. Everybody wins
These prizes, but the first three runners also
Shall wear the wreath of olive, and the winner
Ride home a horse equipped with splendid trappings;
For second place, an Amazonian quiver
With Thracian arrows, a broad belt of gold
With jeweled buckle; and this Argive helmet
For the one who comes in third.”

They take their places,
And when the signal is given, away they go,
Like rain from storm-cloud, bodies leaning forward,
Eyes on the goal. And for the lead it’s Nisus,
Swifter than winds or lightning; running second,
A good way back, comes Salius; and the third one,
Third at some distance, is Euryalus,
Helymus next; right on his heels Diores.
There’s a little crowding there, the course too narrow,
Diores, full of run, is in a pocket,
He can’t get through. The race is almost over,
Their breath comes hard, they are almost at the finish,—
There’s a pool of blood on the ground, where the slain bullocks
Fell in the sacrifice, a slippery puddle
Red on green ground, and Nisus does not see it,
Nisus, still leading, thinking himself the winner,
Is out of luck, his feet slide out from under,
He wobbles, totters, recovers himself a little,
Slips and goes forward, in a beautiful header
Through blood and mud. But he keeps his wits about him,
Does not forget his friend Euryalus; rising,
And sort of accidentally on purpose,
Gets in the way of Salius and spills him,
A cartwheel, head over heels on the flying sand.
Euryalus flashes past, an easy winner
Thanks to his friend’s assistance, and they cheer him;
Helymus second; in third place, Diores.

Immediately there’s a loud howl of protest,
Salius shrieking in the elders’ faces
With cries of Foul! and Outrage! “I was robbed,
Give me first prize!” But all the popular favor
Sides with Euryalus, who is young, and weeping,
And better-looking; and Diores backs him,
Loudly, of course, since who would get the helmet
If Salius was first? Aeneas ends it:—
“The race will stand as run; you get your prizes
As first proposed; no one will change the order;
But one thing I can do, and will do,—offer
A consolation to our innocent friend.”
With this, he gives a lion-skin to Salius,
Heavy with shaggy hair, and the claws gilded.
Nisus is heard from:—“If you’re giving prizes
For falling down, what’s good enough for Nisus?
I would have won it surely, only Fortune
Gave me the same bad deal she handed Salius!”
And with the words he made a sudden gesture
Showing his muddy face. Aeneas, laughing,
Ordered another prize, a shield for him,
The work of Didymaon, stolen by Greeks,
From Neptune’s temple sometime, but recovered,
A worthy prize for a distinguished hero.

Next is a boxing-bout. “Whoever has courage
And fighting spirit in his heart, step forward
And put the gloves on!” There are double prizes,
For the winner a bullock, decked with gold and ribbons,
A sword and shining helmet for the loser.
Without delay, Dares gets up; a murmur
Runs through the crowd as this big man comes forward.
They know that he was Paris’ sparring-partner,
And they recall his famous match with Butes
At Hector’s tomb, where he knocked out that champion
And stretched him dying on the yellow sand.
Now Dares holds his head up for the battle,
Shakes his broad shoulders loose, warms up a little,
A left, a right, a left, in shadow-boxing.
Who will oppose him? No one puts the gloves on,
No one, from all that throng, is in a hurry
To take on Dares. So, exultant, thinking
Himself a winner by default, he grabs
The bullock by one horn, says to Aeneas:—
“If no man, goddess-born, is taking chances,
How long must I keep standing here? How long
Hang around waiting? Give the order, let me
Lead home my prize!” The Trojans all applaud him.
But king Acestes, sprawling on the greensward
Beside Entellus, nudges him a little:—
“What was the use, Entellus, of being a hero,
Of having been our bravest, under Eryx?
Where is that old Sicilian reputation,
And all those prizes hanging from the rafters?
Does Dares get away with this, no contest,
And all those prizes, and you sit here tamely?”
Entellus answers, “Oh, I still love glory
And praise; there’s nothing the matter with my courage,
But I’m too old, the blood is slow and colder,
The strength not what it used to be. That bragger
Has one thing, youth, and how he revels in it!
If I had what he has, I’d not need prizes,
Bullocks or helmets either, to get me fighting.”
From somewhere he produced the gloves of Eryx
And tossed them into the ring, all stiff and heavy,
Seven layers of hide, and insewn lead and iron.
The people stand amazed, and Dares shudders,
Wanting no part of gloves like these; Aeneas
Inspects them, turning them slowly, over and over,
And old Entellus adds a word of comment:—
“Why, these are nothing! What if you had seen
The gloves of Hercules? He used to fight here.
These are the gloves that Eryx wore against him.
You still can see the blood and a splash of brains
That stained them long ago. I used to wear them
Myself when I was younger, and unchallenged
By Time, that envious rival. But if Dares
Declines these arms, all right, make matters equal,
Don’t be afraid; I waive the gloves of Eryx,
You put the Trojan gloves aside; Aeneas
Will see fair play, Acestes be my second.”
He throws the double cloak from off his shoulders,
Strips down to the great limbs, great bones, great muscles
A giant in the ring. Aeneas brings them
Matched pairs of gloves.

They take their stand, each rising
On the balls of his feet, their arms upraised, and rolling
Their heads back from the punch. They spar, they lead,
They watch for openings. Dares, much the younger,
Is much the better in footwork; old Entellus
Has to rely on strength; his knees are shaky,
His wind not what it was. They throw their punches,
And many miss; and some, with a solid thump,
Land on the ribs or chest; temples and ears
Feel the wind of a miss, or the jaws rattle
When a punch lands. Entellus stands flat-footed,
Wasting no motion, just a slip of the body,
The watchful eyes alert. And Dares, feinting,
Like one who artfully attacks a city,
Tries this approach, then that, dancing around him
In varied vain attack. Entellus, rising,
Draws back his right (in fact, he telegraphs it),
And Dares, seeing it coming, slips aside;
Entellus lands on nothing but the wind
And, thrown off balance, heavily comes down
Flat on his face, as falls on Erymanthus
A thunder-smitten oak, and so on, and so on.
Roaring, the Trojans and Sicilians both
Rise to their feet; the noise goes up to heaven;
Acestes rushes in, to raise his comrade
In pity and sorrow. But that old-time fighter
Is not slowed down a bit, nor made more wary;
His rage is terrible, and his shame awakens
A consciousness of strength. He chases Dares
All over the ring, left, right, left, right, the punches
Rattle like hailstones on a roof; he batters Dares,
Spins him halfway around with one hand, clouts him
Straight with the other again. At last Aeneas
Steps in and stops it, with a word of comfort
For the exhausted Dares:—“Luckless fellow,
Yield to the god! What madness blinds your vision
To strength beyond your own?” They rescue Dares,
And drag him to the ships, with his knees caving,
Head rolling side to side, spitting out blood
And teeth; he hardly sees the sword and helmet.
They leave the palm and bullock for Entellus,
Who, in the pride of victory, cries aloud:
“Look, goddess-born! Watch, Trojans, and discover
Two things—how strong I was when I was younger,
And what a death you’ve kept away from Dares!”
And, with the word, he faced his prize, the bullock,
Drew back his right hand, poised it, sent it smashing
Between the horns, shattering the skull, and splashing
Brains on the bones, as the great beast came down, lifeless.
“This life, a better one than Dares’, Eryx,
I vow as sacrifice, and so, victorious,
Retire, and lay aside the gloves forever.”

Next comes an archery contest. Aeneas offers
Prizes and summons; on Serestus’ vessel
The mast is raised, and from its top a cord
With a fluttering dove bound to it as the mark.
Four enter; a bronze helmet takes the lots,
Hippocoön’s leaps out first; then Mnestheus follows,
Green with the olive garland, sign and token
Of ship well driven; and third was Pandarus’ brother,
Eurytion; Pandarus was the archer
Who once broke truce with the Greeks, firing an arrow
In the days of peace; and last came king Acestes,
Willing to try his hand with younger men.

They bend the pliant bows, each archer straining,
Draw shaft from quiver. First from the twanging string
Hippocoön’s arrow flew, through sky, through wind,
Reaching its mark in the wood of the mast, which trembled
And the bird flapped wings in terror, and the crowd
Rang with applause. Mnestheus took his stand,
Drawing the bow back, aiming a little higher,
And missed the bird, but severed knot and tether,
And the dove sped free to the south. Eurytion, waiting
And ready, called in prayer upon his brother,
Let the dart fly, brought down the bird, exulting,
From under the dark of the cloud. She came down lifeless,
Pierced by the arrow still. No prize was left
For king Acestes, but he fired his arrow,
High as he could, to prove his skill. And a wonder
Came to their eyes; it proved an omen later
When seers explained its meaning. The shaft caught fire
Flying amid the clouds, a course of flame,
Vanishing into space, as comets stream
Sweeping across the heaven, their long train flying
Behind them through the sky. All hearts were shaken,
Sicilian, Trojan, both, and all men prayed
To the powers on high. Aeneas hailed the omen,
Embraced Acestes, loaded him with presents,
Saying, “Receive them, father; for the king
Of heaven has willed it so, unusual honors
For skill surpassing. This bowl, with graven figures,
Anchises owned, given him by a Thracian,
King Cisseus, memorial and token,
Of everlasting friendship.” On his brows
He bound green laurel, hailing Acestes victor
Over the rest, and no one grudged the honor,
Not even Eurytion, who had shot the dove;
Mnestheus, for the cutting of the tether,
Took his reward, and the one who hit the mast,
Hippocoön, was not forgotten either.

But while the shoot was on, Aeneas called
Epytides, Iulus’ guardian, to him,
With words for a loyal ear:—“Go, tell Iulus,
If the boys are ready, and the horses marshalled,
To lead them, for Anchises’ sake, presenting
Himself in arms.” And he bade the throng draw back,
Leaving the long course clear and the field open.
The boys rode in, shining on bridled ponies
Before their fathers’ eyes, in true formation,
To a murmur of delight. The garlands weighed
The young hair down, they carried cornel spear-wands
With iron at the tip; and some had quivers
Bright-polished, at their shoulders; torques of gold
Looped high on the breast in pliant rings. Three leaders
Led, each, three squadrons, and a dozen followed
Each gay young captain. One of them was Priam,
Son of Polites, and King Priam’s grandson,
On a piebald Thracian, white of brow and fetlock.
Young Atys led another line—(The Atii,
In Latium, claim descent from him)—young Atys,
Iulus’ special friend. And last, most handsome,
Iulus rode a Carthaginian courser,
Queen Dido’s gift. Sicilian horses carried
The other riders, who rode up to the cheering
Shy, as they heard the sound, and the fond welcome
Of crowds that saw the fathers in the children.
They rode full circle once, and then a signal,
A crack of the whip, was given, and they parted
Into three groups, went galloping off, recalled,
Wheeled, made mock charge, with lances at the ready,
Made march and counter-march, troops intermingled
With troops, to right and left, in mimic battle,
Mimic retreat, and mimic peace, a course
Confusing as the Labyrinth in Crete
Whose path runs through blind walls, where craft has hidden
A thousand wandering ways, mistake and error
Threading insoluble mazes, so the children,
The sons of Troy, wove in and out, in conflict
In flight and sport, as happy as dolphins leaping
Through the Carpathian waters. This was a custom
Ascanius, when grown, himself established
At Alba Longa, his own town, and taught there
What he had learned in boyhood, and the Albans
In turn informed their children, and the Romans
Keep this ancestral rite; the boys are Troy,
And the game Trojan, to this very day,
From its first observance, in Anchises’ honor.