The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

Help me, Calliope, with the song: what killing
Turnus dealt out that day, the roll of victims
Whom every warrior sent to Hell: O, aid me
To unfold it all, the war’s great panorama.

There was a tower, high overhead, well chosen
To suit the ground, equipped with lofty gangways;
On this the Italians spent their every effort
To tear it down, the Trojans to defend it
With stones from above, and arrows through the loopholes.
A firebrand, flung by Turnus, found a lodging
Along one side, and the wind blew and fanned it,
And lintel and planking burned, and the men huddled
Within, and found no way to flee, and shifted
Toward the undamaged portion, when all of a sudden,
Lopsided under the weight, it toppled crashing
And filled all heaven with thunder. Half dead already
Men reached the ground, and the tower came down upon them,
Pierced through and through by shafts of their own making,
Their chests transfixed by jagged broken timbers.
Two manage to escape, Lycus, Helenor,
The latter a young warrior, the son
Of a Maeonian king and a slave-girl mother,
Who sent him off to Troy in arms (forbidden,
Since arms were not for slaves), a naked sword,
A shield with no device. He saw himself
Now in the midst of Turnus’ thousands, marshalled
Before him and behind him. There he stood
Like a wild animal, ringed in by hunters,
Raging against their weapons, and sure of death,
Leaping upon them,—so Helenor, certain
To die, rushed where the weapons were the thickest.
Lycus was swifter afoot: through men, through weapons,
He gained the wall, reached up to pull himself over,
Reached up for hands to help him. But Turnus came
Hot on his heels:—“You fool,” he cried in triumph,
“Did you think you were out of reach?” And as he hung there,
Turnus grabbed him, tore him loose, and the wall came with him.
An eagle, so, sweeps up again to heaven
With a white swan or rabbit in his talons;
Or so a wolf snatches a lamb from the sheepfold
To the bleating of the ewe. A shout arises;
Men from all sides come on; they fill the trenches,
Keep firebrands flying at the tower and rooftop.
Ilioneus knocks over one, Lucetius,
Who came to the gates with fire; he bowled him over
With a rock as big as a mountain. Liger slew
Emathion with a javelin; Asilas
Shot Corynaeus down. Caeneus won
Over Ortygius, lost to Turnus. Turnus
Killed half a dozen, Clonius, Dioxippus,
Itys, Promolus, Sagaris, and Idas.
Capys cut down Privernus: a spear had grazed him,
And the fool had flung his shield aside, to carry
His hand to his side, and an arrow pinned it there,
And went on through, a mortal wound in the bowels.
A young man in the battle, the son of Arcens,
Stood out conspicuous in arms, a tunic
Embroidered bright, Iberian blue; his father
Had sent him from his mother’s grove along
Symaethus stream and Palicus’ rich altars.
Mezentius saw him there, laid down his spear,
Whirled the sling thrice around his head, let fly,
And the slug of the sling-shot split the victim’s temples,
Stretching his blue in the deep yellow sand.

Then, so they say, was the first time Iulus
Brought down a man in war; he had hunted only
Wild beasts, before this time, with bow and arrows.
There was a youngster, Remulus by name,
Or, it might be, Numanus, lately married
To Turnus’ younger sister, very proud
And pleased with his new royalty. He strode
Along the foremost battle-line, and taunted,
Shouting indecencies, a swollen hero:—
“What, once again, O Phrygians twice-besieged?
Have you no shame, to hide behind the ramparts
A second time, a second time with walls
To ward off death? Look at the silly warriors
Who claim our brides with steel! What god, what madness,
Brought you to Italy? No sons of Atreus
Are here, no lying glib Ulysses. We
Are a tough race, we bring our new-born sons
To the ice-cold river, dip them in to make them
Tough as their fathers, make them wake up early
To hunt till they wear the forests out; they ride,
They shoot, and love it; they tame the earth, they battle
Till cities fall: and all our life is iron,
The spear, reversed, prods on the ox; old age
Pulls on the helmet over the whitest hair;
We live on what we plunder, we revel in booty.
But you—O wonderful in purple and saffron!—
Love doing nothing, you delight in dancing,
And oh, those fancy clothes, sleeves on the tunics,
And ribbons in the bonnets! Phrygian women,
By God, not Phrygian men! Be gone forever
Over the heights of Dindymus; pipe and timbrel
Call you to female rites: leave arms to men,
The sword to warriors!”

But Ascanius loosened
An arrow from the quiver, held the shaft
Nocked to the bow-string, and with arms outspread
For shot, made prayer:—“Almighty Jupiter,
Favor my bold beginning. I shall offer
The temple every year a snow-white bullock
With gilded horns, a young one, but already
Tall as his dam, butting with horn, and pawing
The sand with restless hoof.” The father heard him,
There was thunder on the left, and in that instant
The fatal bow-string twanged. The shaft came flying
Through air, and the steel split the hollow temples
Of that young bragger Remulus. “Go on,
Mock valor with arrogant words! This is the answer
The Phrygians twice-besieged, the Phrygian women,
Send back to Remulus.” The Trojans cheered him
With joyful shouts and spirits raised to heaven.

And it so happened from the realm of sky
Long-haired Apollo, throned with cloud, looked down
And saw the Ausonian battle-lines and city,
And had a word of blessing for Iulus:—
“Good for your prowess, youngster! That’s the way
To reach the stars, a son of gods, a father
Of gods to be. In time the wars will end
Under that royal line. Troy sets you free
For greater destinies.” And he left the heaven,
Came through the stir of air, and sought Iulus,
Disguised as ancient Butes, armor-bearer,
Once, to Anchises, a guardian at his threshold,
Later Ascanius’ servant. With his voice,
His grizzled hair, his color, his sounding arms,
Apollo came and spoke to the hot young warrior:—
“Let that be plenty, son of great Aeneas:
Numanus slain and unavenged; your arrow
Has done its work. Apollo grants this praise,
Your first, and does not envy the little archer.
But now, my son, refrain from war.” He vanished,
Before the speech was ended, into thin air,
And the Trojan captains knew the god, his weapons,
The clang of the quiver of the god ascending,
And at his will and order keep Ascanius
Out of the fight for which he longs, themselves
Go back to the work, charge at the jaws of danger.
The loud cry runs from tower to tower, all down
The avenue of the walls, and they bend the bows,
And catapults hum as the great stone goes flying.
The ground is sown with weapons; shield and helmet
Ring with the clanging; the fight is a swell and a surge
Like the rise of a wind from the west, with rainstorm pelting
Hard on the ground, thicker than hail on ocean,
When Jupiter lashes the gales and cloud-burst thunders from heaven.

Two young men, tall as pine-trees, tall as hills
That gave them birth, Alcanor’s sons, their mother
The Oread Iaera, stood at the gate,
Obeying orders, Pandarus and Bitias,
And had their own idea, and flung it open,
Relying on their arms, an invitation—
Here’s open house for all, come in, come in!
To right and left they stood before the towers,
Armed with the steel, and with the high plumes tossing,
Like twin oaks towering by pleasant rivers.
The Rutulians saw the entrance open, rushed in,
Were beaten back: Haemon, the son of Mars,
Tmarus the headstrong, Quercens, Aquicolus
Handsome in arms, fled with their columns routed,
Or perished in the gateway. And anger mounted
In all those battling spirits: the Trojans gathered,
Daring in closer combat now, and risking
Brief sallies past the walls.

Turnus, far off,
Raging and rioting, heard the glad tidings
Of enemies gone wild with slaughter, gates
Flung open wide. Whatever he was doing
He broke off gladly, burned with monstrous anger,
Rushed to the Trojan gate and those proud brothers.
Antiphates came to meet him, bastard son
Of tall Sarpedon and a Theban mother,
And Turnus’ javelin laid him low: it flew,
Italian cornel-wood, through the soft air,
Lodged in the throat, pierced deep into the chest.
The wound’s dark hollow filled with foaming red,
The steel grew warm in the lung. And Turnus’ hand
Brought down Meropes, Erymas, Aphidnus,
Then Bitias blazing-eyed and hot in spirit.
No javelin brought him down, no common javelin
Would ever have killed that giant, but a pikestaff,
Rifled and whirring loud, driven like lightning,
Cut through the double leather, the double mail
With scales of gold, and the huge limbs sprawl and tumble,
Earth groans, and his great shield clangs down above him,
The way a pillar of rock comes down, at Baiae,
When men have pried it loose and shoved it over
Into the ocean, and, crashing down in ruin,
It lies in shallow water, confusion of sea,
Eruption of black sand, and the shock of sound
Makes the high mountains tremble, and the earth
Shudder under the oceans.

And Mars added
New strength and spirit to the Latins, raked them
With the sharp sting of the spur, and sent the Trojans
Panic and runaway fear. The Latins, given
The chance of fight, come on, as the war-god rides them.
Pandarus, seeing his brother’s fallen body,
Seeing the turn of fortune, puts his shoulder
With all his strength to the gate, and slowly, slowly,
Swings it on stubborn hinge, to leave his comrades,
Many of them, shut out, beyond the rampart,
Fighting in desperate battle; others he welcomes
As they come pouring in, the fool, not seeing
One of them was no Trojan! That was Turnus,
Shut up in the town, as welcome as a tiger
Penned in a flock of sheep. And Turnus’ eyes
Shone with new light, his arms rang loud, his plume
Nodded blood-red, and his great shield flashed lightning.
Sudden confusion fastened on the Trojans;
They knew him as he was, gigantic, hateful,
But Pandarus flashed forward toward him, burning
With vengeance for a brother’s death, and shouting:—
“Why, this is not Amata’s bridal palace,
Nor yet the center of your father’s city!
This is a hostile camp you see here, Turnus,
And not a chance to leave it.” Turnus only
Smiled at him with untroubled heart:—“Start something,
If there is any fighting spirit in you;
Come closer; I have a message for king Priam:
Tell him Achilles was here.” And Pandarus flung
His spear, rough-knotted, the unpeeled bark still on it,
And the winds bore it off, and Juno parried
The threat of the coming wound, and it fastened, harmless,
Stuck in the wooden gate.

“And here’s a weapon
That will not miss, seeing my right hand swings it,”
And with his answer Turnus rose full height
To the sword upraised, and brought it down, and the steel
Split the head clean apart between the temples,
And Pandarus came crashing down, and the earth
Shook underneath his weight, and he lay there, dying,
Limbs buckled underneath him, and his armor
Spattered with brains, and the head’s halves, divided,
Dangling on either shoulder.

And the Trojans
Ran every way, in rout and sudden terror.
That day might well have been their last, that battle
The end of war, had Turnus ever bothered
To break the bars of the gate, let in his comrades.
But no: his fury and mad desire of slaughter
Drove him one way, and one way only, forward.
He caught Phaleris, and he hamstrung Gyges,
And snatched their spears and flung them at the Trojans
Who fled with nothing but their backs for target.
Juno supplied him fire and strength. He added
Halys to the dead roster of his comrades,
Pierced Phegeus through his shield and mail. Four others,
Alcander, Halius, Prytanis, Noemon,
Ignorant of his presence, roused the fighters
Along the walls, and fell before they knew it.
Lynceus, calling his comrades, came to meet him,
And Turnus, standing higher, slashed and swung,
Close in, and the flashing blade swept head and helmet
Together from the shoulders; then he slaughtered
Amycus, hunter of beasts, a clever craftsman
In arming darts with poison; and Aeolus’ son,
Clytius; and Cretheus, the Muses’ comrade,
Lover of music and song, whose theme was always
Warfare and warhorse, arms of men, and battle.