The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

So, thought Allecto,
That should suffice: the palace of Latinus,
And all the king intended, in confusion.
She flew on dusky wings, a gloomy goddess,
To the bold Rutulian’s walls, that city, founded,
Men say, by Danaë and Acrisian settlers,
A place once called Ardea, and it keeps
Its ancient name; its glory has departed.
And here, in his high palace, Turnus slumbered.
In the dead of night, Allecto changed her features,
Her limbs, transformed her glowering, her grimness,
To an old woman’s wrinkles, bound a ribbon
Around gray hair, worked in a wreath of olive,
And she was Calybe then, an aged priestess
Of Juno’s temple, and so she came to Turnus:—
“Turnus! Can this be borne, so many labors
Wasted, the kingdom given to the Trojans?
The king denies you all, the bride, the dowry
Bought with your blood; his heir must be a stranger.
They mock you; never mind. Go forth, protect them,
Save them from dangers, see what thanks they give you,
Lay low the Tuscan ranks, hold over the Latins
The shield of peace. I tell you, Juno told me,
And you so calmly slumbering all through it,
Rise up, be doing something, and be happy
To see the young men armed, and get them going
Out of the gates! There are ships to burn, and captains
To set on fire: the mighty gods command it.
Let King Latinus know it, let him reckon
With Turnus in arms, unless he keeps his promise.”
But Turnus, smiling at her, answered:—“Mother,
You tell me nothing new; I know a fleet
Has come to Tiber’s waters; do not scare me
With fears imagined; Juno, I am certain,
Has not forgotten me. Your age, old woman,
Worn-down, truth-weary, harries you with worries,
Makes you ridiculous, a busybody,
Nervous for nothing in the wars of kings.
Back to the temple, mind your proper business,
Leave war and peace where they belong, with warriors.”
Allecto blazed with anger: Turnus, speaking,
Was suddenly afraid, so wild her features,
So fierce her flaming eyes, the snakes of the Fury
Hissing disaster. She shoves him back; he falters,
Tries to say more; she plies her whip, she doubles
The rising serpents, and her wild mouth cries,
“See me for what I am, worn down, truth-weary,
Nervous for nothing in the wars of kings!
See what I am, see where I come from, bringing
War, war and death, from the Grim Sisters’ home.”
She flung the firebrand at him, torch and terror
Smoking with lurid light. The body, sweating,
Is torn from sleep; he cries for arms, he seeks
Arms at his bedside, through the hallways, lusting
For sword and steel, war’s wicked frenzy mounting
To rampant rage. Even so a cauldron bubbles
When fire burns hot beneath, and water seethes,
Stirs, shifts, breaks out in boiling, and the cloud
Of steam goes toward the sky. The peace is broken.
The call to arms is given; let the captains
March on Latinus, drive the foe from Latium,
Protect the fatherland. Turnus is coming;
No matter who they are, Trojans or Latins,
Turnus will take them on. And his example,
His frenzied prayer, shook his Rutulian comrades,
All eagerness for war. They all admired him,
For handsome bearing, youth, or deeds of courage,
Or kingly birth: boldness engenders boldness.

Allecto, meanwhile, took a new direction,
To the Trojans now; she had found a place for mischief
Along the shore, she had seen Iulus hunting;
His hounds were driven to madness; the scent was rank,
Hot in their nostrils; away they went, the pack
In full cry after the deer, and that pursuit
Was the first cause of trouble; that first kindled
The countryside to violence. That deer,
A handsome animal, with mighty antlers,
Belonged, a pet, to Tyrrhus and his children,
Who had raised him from a fawn. Tyrrhus, the father,
Was keeper of the royal herds, and Silvia,
The daughter, used to comb the beast, and wash him,
Twine garlands in his horns, caress and love him,
And he, grown used to her, would wander freely
Over the woods and meadows, and come home
At nightfall to the friendly door and stable.
This was the deer Iulus’ hounds had started
Floating downstream, reclining by the river
For coolness’ sake, where young Ascanius, burning
For a huntsman’s praise, saw him, and loosed the arrow
That pierced the belly and side, so the poor creature
Came wounded to the house he knew, and moaning
Crept into his stall, bleeding, and like a person
Asking for help, filled all the house with sorrow.
First Silvia came, beating her arms, and others,
Summoned for help, equipped themselves for vengeance,
With Allecto lurking in the silent forest.
A knotted club, a sharpened stake, a firebrand,
Whatever comes to hand will serve, when anger
Is looking for a weapon. Tyrrhus calls them,
They are warriors now, not farmers; they leave the logging,
The quartered oak, the wedges; in breathless anger
Tyrrhus grabs up the axe. A perfect moment
For the goddess on her watch-tower!—she comes flying
To the stable roof; she sounds the shepherds’ call,
Straining her hellish voice on the curved horn
Till grove and woodland echo. Diana’s lake
Hears, and Velinus’ fountain, and white Nar,
The spring of sulphur; and mothers, in their panic,
Hold their young children close. But swift to the sound,
The dire alarum, came the farmers, running;
They call no man their master; they snatch up weapons.
And on the other side the youth of the Trojans
Pour through the open gates to help Iulus.
They are drawn up now; no more a rustic quarrel
With stakes and clubs, the double-bladed steel
Decides the issue, swords are drawn, the harvest
Is black and spiky; bronze defies the sunlight,
Tossing its luster cloudward. As waves at sea
At first are little whitecaps under the wind,
And slowly turn to billows, and then great combers,
So rose the swell of war. Young Almo fell,
Eldest of Tyrrhus’ sons; a whirring arrow,
Piercing the throat, choked him in his own blood.
And many around him fell, among them one,
A good old man, Galaesus, who had come forward
To plead for peace, and died; he was most just
Of all Ausonia’s men, and wealthy, counting
Five flocks of sheep and cattle; a hundred ploughs
Furrowed his acres.

So they fought together,
And neither won,—Allecto had kept her promise:
She had soaked the war in blood, she had made beginning
Of death in battle. She left the western land,
She soared to Juno in heaven, proud of her triumph:—
“There it is for you, perfect, war created
From disagreement! Tell them to join in friendship,
Let them make treaties, now my hand has spattered
The Trojans with Ausonian blood! And still
I can do more, if you desire it: cities
Near-by, I can plague to war with rumors, burn them
With wild desire for battle, bring in allies
From everywhere; I will sow the land with armies.”
But Juno answered:—“That is plenty, thank you;
They can not stop it now; man battles man;
Fresh blood is on the arms that chance first gave.
Now let them stage that bridal feast, that wedding,
Venus’ distinguished son, and king Latinus!
Olympus’ ruler would be most unwilling
To let you roam thus freely in the heavens;
Be gone from here; whatever more is needed,
I will attend to.” So spoke Saturn’s daughter,
And the serpents hissed as the Fury raised her wings,
Flew up, swooped down, to Hell. Under high hills
In Italy’s heart, there lies a vale, Ampsanctus,
Well known in many lands. Dark forests hide it
On every side, and in its very centre
A roaring torrent over the rocks goes brawling,
And there is a cavern here, a breathing hole
For terrible Dis, and a gorge, where Acheron river
Opens the deadly jaws; and here Allecto
Sank out of sight, relieving earth and heaven.

And Juno gave the war the final touches.
The shepherds came to the city from the battle,
Bearing young Almo, slain, and old Galaesus,
His peaceful face defiled; they cry to the gods,
They call on King Latinus. Turnus is there,
As they cry murder, fuel to their fire,
Making their terror double: the kingdom falls
To the men of Troy, he shouts; our blood is tainted;
I am degraded here! And the Latin mothers,
Trooping the pathless woods in Bacchic orgies,
Amata’s cause being their cause, assemble
From every side; it is Mars for whom they clamor,
Not Bacchus any more. And all the people,
Against the omens, against the will of the gods,
Cry out for wicked war. They fight each other,
Almost, to siege and storm Latinus’ palace.
He is a rock in the sea; he stands like a sea-rock
When a crash of water comes, and it is steadfast
Against the howl of the waves, and the roar is useless,
And the sea-weed, flung at the side, goes dripping back.
But even so Latinus could not conquer
Their blind determination. Things were going
As Juno willed. He invoked the empty air,
He invoked the gods, in vain. “Alas, we are broken!
We are broken by fate, we are swept away by storm.
You will pay for this, you will pay for it with bloodshed,
O my poor people! And punishment is waiting,
Turnus, for you; you will find it very bitter,
And then you will pray, and it will be too late.
My rest is won, my voyage almost over;
I lose a happy death.” He said no more,
Shut himself in his palace, and relinquished
The reins of power.

There was a Latin custom,
Cherished, thereafter, by the Alban cities,
As now by Rome, great empress—when they rouse
The god of war to battle, against the Getans,
Arabians, Hyrcanians, no matter;
Whether they march on India, or strive
To win back captured standards from the Parthians,
The custom holds. There are twin gates of Mars,
Held in both awe and reverence; they are fastened
By bolts of bronze, a hundred, by the eternal
Solidity of iron, and their guardian
Is Janus, always watchful at the threshold.
These, when the fathers vote for war, the consul,
Girt in the dress of Romulus, and belted
Gabinian-wise, with his own hand must open,
Must swing the portals wide, with his own voice
Cry war, and the others follow, and the trumpets
Give tongue in bronze agreement. So Latinus
Was called on, by that custom, for announcement
Of war against the Trojans, for the opening
Of those grim gates. But he refused to touch them,
Fled from the task he loathed, hid in the darkness,
And Juno, coming from heaven, shoved them open
With her own hand; the turning hinges grated,
The iron was loosed for war. And all Ausonia,
Listless till then, unmoved, blazed out in fury:
On foot they came, on horseback; through the dust
The cry rang out To arms! They oil the shields,
They make the javelins shine, they hone the axes,
They love the sight of banner, the sound of trumpet.
In five great cities, Tibur, Crustumerium,
Antemnae, and Atina, and Ardea,
Strong towns, and proud, and turret-crowned, they forge
New weapons on their anvils; they carve out helmets,
Make wicker covers for the shields; they hammer
Breastplates of bronze, or greaves of pliant silver.
They beat their ploughshares into swords; the furnace
Gives a new temper to the blades of their fathers.
Alarum sounds, password is whispered. Helmets
Come down from the wall; the yoke weighs down the horses;
A man puts on his armor, picks up his shield,
Buckles his sword to his side.

Open the mountain,
Muses, release the song!—what kings were hurried
Hot-haste to war, who filled their battle-lines,
How Italy blossomed with men, and burned with weapons,
For you remember, Muses, and you have power
To make us all remember, deeds that rumor,
Far-off and faint, brings to our recollection.

First from the Tuscan shore came fierce Mezentius,
Arming his columns, the man who scorned the gods.
Beside him, handsomer than any other,
Save only Turnus, stood his son, young Lausus,
Tamer of horses, huntsman, from Agylla,
Leading a thousand warriors, a vain mission;
He was worthy, Lausus, of a happier fortune
Than being his father’s subject; he was worthy
Of a better father.

Near them, Aventinus
Paraded over the field his horses, victors
In many a fight, his chariots, crowned with palm-leaves.
His shield portrayed a hundred snakes, and the Hydra,
Serpent-surrounded, a token of his father,
For this was Hercules’ son, whose manly beauty
Was like his father’s. His mother was a priestess,
Rhea, whom Hercules had known when, victor,
He had slain Geryon, reached Laurentian country,
And bathed Iberian cattle in the Tiber.
His birthplace was the forest on the hillside
That men call Aventine; his birth was secret.
His men go into battle with pikes and javelins,
Fight with the tapering sabre, and a curious
Sabellan type of dart. And Aventinus
Strode out on foot, the skin of a lion swinging
Across his shoulders; the bristling mane was shaggy,
And the head rose above it like a helmet,
With the white teeth bared and snarling. So he entered
The royal halls, and everything about him
Gave sign of Hercules.

Next came two brothers,
Twins from the town of Tibur, named Catillus
And Coras; through the throng of spears they entered
As Centaurs, born from clouds, come down the mountains,
Crashing through wood and thicket in their onrush.

There was Caeculus, the founder of Praeneste,
A king who, legend says, was born to Vulcan
In a country that raised cattle, found, untended,
Beside a campfire. His men were country fellows
From every here and there, from steep Praeneste,
From Juno’s Gabian fields, from the cold river,
The Anio, Anagnia, Amasenus,
Hernician rocks, and dewy stream and meadow.
Some of them had no arms, no shields, no chariots,
Their weapons, for the most part, being slingshots
And bullets of dull lead, but some of them carried
A couple of darts apiece, and for their headgear
Wore tawny wolfskins; they kept the left foot bare,
They wore a rawhide shinguard on the other.