And there was Messapus, a son of Neptune,
A tamer of horses, a man whom none in battle
Could hurt with fire or sword; his people came
To war from years and years of peaceful living,
Men from Fescennium, Soracte’s mountains,
Flavinian fields, Ciminus’ lake and hillside,
Capena’s groves. They sang as they were marching,
Hailing their king in measured step and rhythm,
Their music like the sound of swans, bound home,
White through white cloud, as they return from feeding,
And the long throats pour echoing music over
Meadow and river. You would not think of warriors,
Marshalled in bronze, in that array, but a cloud
Of raucous birds, driven from sea to shore.
Clausus, a host in himself, led a great host
Of Sabine blood; the Claudian tribe at Rome
Of Sabine origin owes to him its name.
His followers came from many cities, Cures,
Eretum, Amiternum, and Mutusca,
Renowned for olives, Tetrica, Nomentum,
Velinus’ countryside and Mount Severus,
Casperia and Foruli; many rivers
Had served their thirst, the Fabaris, the Tiber,
Himella’s stream, chill Nursia, and Allia,
A name of evil omen: they came like waves
Rolling to Africa’s coast when fierce Orion
Sinks in the wintry ocean, as thick as grain
Turned brown in early summer on Hermus’ plain
Or Lydia’s yellow acres. The earth trembles
Under their feet; the shields clang on their shoulders.
And there was Agamemnon’s son, Halaesus,
A hater of the Trojan name; for Turnus
He yoked his steeds, he brought a thousand peoples,
Men who hoe Massic vineyards, men from hills,
Men from the plains; men from Volturnus’ river,
Men from the town of Cales; Oscan people,
Saticulan hosts. Their weapon is the javelin,
Wound with the whiplash; an old-fashioned shield
Covers their left; for work, close-in, they carry
Sharp-bladed scimitars.
And Oebalus
Was with him, son of Telon and Sebethis,
Born by that nymph when Telon, old, was ruling
Over Capri, a realm his son extended
Over Sarrastrian tribes, over the plainland,
The Sarnus waters; Batulum, Celemna,
Rufrae, were all his towns, and high Abella,
Rich in its apple-trees. These warriors carried
Some kind of German dart; they used for headgear
Bark of the cork-tree: shields and swords were bronze.
From Nersae Ufens came, a man distinguished
In arms and reputation; his tribe were huntsmen,
Farmers, after a fashion; they wore their armor
Even when ploughing. Rugged soil they lived on;
They loved to raid and live on what they raided.
Archippus, the Marruvians’ king, had sent
A warrior-priest, Umbro, renowned in courage.
His helmet carried olive leaves; he knew
The arts of charming serpents and of healing
Their venomous wounds; he had no magic, later,
Against the Trojan spear-point, and the herbs,
Gathered on Marsian hills, availed him little
In days of war; his native groves and waters
Mourned his untimely death.
And Virbius came,
Aricia’s handsome son, raised in the groves,
The marshy shores around Diana’s altar,
Most rich, most gracious. Hippolytus, his father,
Had once been slain, the story runs, a victim
Of Phaedra’s hate and passion, and the vengeance
His father took; he had been drawn and quartered
By Theseus’ stallions, but Apollo’s magic,
Diana’s love, had given him life again
Under the stars and the fair light of heaven,
And Jupiter, angry that any mortal
Should rise from shadow to life, struck down his healer,
Apollo’s son, with a fearful blast of thunder,
Hippolytus being hidden by Diana
In a secret place, where the nymph Egeria tended
Her sacred grove; there he lived out, alone,
In the Italian woods, the days of his life
With no renown; he took another name,
Virbius, meaning, Twice a man; no horses
Ever came near that grove, that holy temple,
Seeing that horses on an earlier shore
Had overturned his chariot in panic
And been his death, driven to panic terror
By monsters from the ocean. But his son,
Virbius the younger, had no fear of horses,
Driving and riding to war.
Among the foremost,
Taller than any, by a head, was Turnus,
Gripping the sword; his helmet, triple-crested,
Had a Chimaera on it, breathing fire
From gaping jaws; the bloodier the battle,
The hotter the fight, the redder that reflection,
And on his shield, in gold, the story of Io,
The heifer, once a girl; you could see her guardian,
Argus, the hundred-eyed, and her poor father,
The river-god with streaming urn, Inachus.
And a cloud of warriors on foot behind him,
Columns with shields, the Argives and Auruncans,
Rutulians, old Sicanians, Labicians
With colored shields, Sacranians, men from Tiber,
Ploughmen of Circe’s ridge, soldiers from Anxur,
Sons of Feronia, that land of greenness
Where Satura’s marsh lies dark, and the cold river
Runs seaward through the valley.
And last of all
Camilla rode, leading her troops on horseback,
Her columns bright with bronze, a soldieress,
A woman whose hands were never trained to weaving,
To the use of wool, to basketry, a girl
As tough in war as any, in speed afoot
Swifter than wind. She could go flying over
The tips of the ears of the wheat, and never bruise them,
So light her way, she could run on the lift of the wave,
Dry-shod; and they came from the houses and fields to wonder,
To gaze at her going, young men, and matrons thronging,
Wide-eyed and with parted lips, at the glory of royal crimson
Over her shoulders’ smoothness, the clasp of the gold
In her hair, and the way she carried the Lycian quiver,
The heft of the pastoral myrtle, the wand with the spearpoint.