The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

Meanwhile the sister of Turnus brought him warning,
Lausus needs aid! So, with his car, he drove
Swift through the ranks. “Break off, and give me room,”
He cried, “Room for my duel. I am bound
To battle Pallas; Pallas is my prize,
My prize alone. I only wish his father
Were here to watch!” Obedient, his comrades
Gave place, and as they yielded, Pallas stood
Astonished at this arrogance, this giant:
He took the whole scene in, undaunted, proud,
Fierce, high in spirit, with a ready answer
For Turnus’ taunting:—“Either I win my praise
For kingly spoils or glorious death, and soon:
My father can face either: spare the threats!”
And he moved forward, and the blood ran chill
In all Arcadian hearts. Down from his car
Jumps Turnus; he comes nearer, like a lion
Who sees far-off a bull, intent on battle,
And stalks, and rushes; even so came Turnus,
Came within spear-throw; Pallas, watching, knew it,
Took a step forward, and, that chance might favor
However uneven his strength, prayed to the heavens:—
“If ever my father entertained a stranger
Who proved a god, and gave him food and greeting,
Aid me, O Hercules! Let Turnus see me
Taking the bloody armor from his body,
And his dying eyes behold me, Pallas, victor.”
The young prayer touched the god: his grief was stifled
Deep in his heart, and tears were vain; his father
Spoke to him kindly:—“Every man, my son,
Has his appointed time; life’s day is short
For all men; they can never win it back,
But to extend it further by noble deeds
Is the task set for valor. Even my son,
My own, and sons of other gods have fallen
Under Troy’s lofty walls. Sarpedon, Turnus,
Fate calls alike: the years for each are measured,
The goal in sight.” Jupiter, having spoken,
Shifted his eyes from the Rutulian landscape.

And Pallas flung the spear, full force, and drew
The flashing blade; the shaft sped on, it struck
Where mail and shoulder met; piercing the shield
It grazed the side of Turnus. And he poised
His long oak shaft with the sharp iron, hurled it,
And a taunt went with the toss:—“Which pierces deeper,
Your spear or mine?” So, through the plates of iron,
The plates of bronze, the overlapping leather,
Through the shield’s center drives the quivering point,
Through stubborn mail, through the great breast. In vain
Pallas pulls out the dart, warm from the wound.
His blood, his life, come with it, and he falls
Doubled upon his wound; the armor clangs
Over his body; he strikes the hostile earth,
Dying, with bloody mouth. Above him Turnus,
Rejoicing, cries:—“Arcadians, take notice,
And let Evander know, I am sending back
Pallas as he deserved. Whatever honor
A tomb affords, whatever comfort lies
In burial, that much I grant, and freely:
A costly welcome, Evander’s to Aeneas!”
His left foot on the body, he ripped loose
The belt’s great weight, with the story of a murder
Carved in its metal, the young men foully murdered
On the bridal night, the chamber drenched in blood,
As Clonus, son of Eurytus, engraved it.
And Turnus gloried in the spoil, exulting—
O ignorant mortal mind, which never knows
Of fate or doom ahead, or how, in fortune,
To keep in decent bounds! A time is coming
When Turnus would pay dearly, could he purchase
Pallas unharmed again, would view with loathing
Those spoils, that day. But now, with tears and weeping,
Comrades lift Pallas to the shield and take him,
Great sorrow and great glory, to his father.
One day of war, one day of death, but victims,
And many, for Rutulians to remember.

No rumor, but a runner from the battle
Comes to Aeneas, of his men endangered,
At the edge of death: they are giving way, the Trojans,
There is not much time. Aeneas draws the sword;
Aeneas, burning, cuts a pathway through
The nearest lines; it is Turnus he is seeking,
Turnus the arrogant, slaughter fresh upon him.
Aeneas, all imagination, sees
Pallas, Evander, and the friendly tables
To which he came, a stranger; hears the pledge
Given and taken. For another pledge
He seizes four young men, the sons of Sulmo,
And four whom Ufens fathered; he takes them, living,
For later sacrifice, to dye with blood
The funeral pyre of Pallas. From afar,
He aimed his spear at Magus, but that warrior
Ducked under it cleverly, and the shaft flew over,
And Magus was a suppliant at his knees:—
“I beg you, by the shades of great Anchises,
By all the hope you have of young Iulus,
Spare me, a father and a son, for son
And father. I have property and treasure,
A lofty house, talents of gold and silver
Buried in safety, crude and minted metal.
One life like mine is nothing to the Trojans:
What difference will it make?” “Save for your sons,”
Aeneas answered, “all that gold and silver.
Turnus broke off all bargain-talk, the killer,
When Pallas fell. The shades of great Anchises
Know this, my growing son, Iulus, knows it.”
His left hand grasped the helmet; Magus felt
His head drawn back, he felt throat muscles tighten,
And, as he pleaded still, he felt the sword
Deep driven to the hilt.

A son of Haemon
Was standing not far off, the holy fillets
Around his temples, gleaming in the robes
He wore as priest of Phoebus and Diana,
Bright in his glittering arms. He fled Aeneas
Across the field, in vain escape, and stumbled,
And the Trojan hero, standing over his body,
Struck down, and killed, and gave him a cloak of darkness,
And Serestus took his armor, spoil for Mars.

Caeculus, born of Vulcan’s race, and Umbro,
From Marsian mountains, rallied the ranks. Aeneas
Came storming toward them, hot from wounding Anxur,
Who had been boasting loud, hoping that words
Would make him more aggressive: there was no limit
To promises he made himself, long years,
A ripe old age—if so, he would be a cripple,
A man with no left hand: Aeneas lopped it
Off at the wrist, and the shield’s round circle with it.
Tarquitus, son of Dryope and Faunus,
Proud in his gleaming arms, stood up against him
Briefly; the spear drove through the shield’s huge weight
Nailing it to the breastplate; all in vain
Tarquitus pleaded, stammering and choking.
Aeneas gave his head a shove; the body,
Still warm, turned halfway over under his foot.
Dying, Tarquitus heard:—“Lie there, and scare me,
Terrible warrior! No loving mother
Will ever bury your bones, no father build
A sepulchre above them. The birds of prey
Will take you, or the waters of the flood,
And greedy fishes nibble your wounds and mouth them.”
Four more were slaughtered, Lucas and Antaeus,
Conspicuous in Turnus’ ranks, and Numa,
And sun-burnt Camers, son of noble Volcens,
Richest in land of all Ausonians, ruler
Over Amyclae, the city known for silence.
Men say there was a giant once, Aegaeon,
Who had a hundred arms, and fifty mouths
From each of which came fire, and fifty swords
And fifty shields, and rattled them together,
Defying Heaven’s thunderbolts and lightning,—
Such was Aeneas now, a victor raging
All up and down the field, with one sword only
But that one hot and red. He saw Niphaeus
Driving his four swift horses, and went toward them
With terrible strides and cursing, and they bolted,
Shook off the driver, dragged the car, a ruin,
Down to the shore of the sea. And then two brothers
Bring their white chariot on, Lucagus, Liger,
Of whom Lucagus whirls the sword in fighting,
And Liger plies the reins; they burn with fury,
More than Aeneas can stand: he rushes, monstrous,
A giant with a spear. And Liger taunts him:—
“Whoa! This is not Achilles’ car, these fields
Not Troy, these horses Diomedes’.
You will get it now, the end of life and battle,
Here on this ground.” Poor crazy-talking Liger!
Aeneas wastes no words; his lance comes flying,
And while Lucagus, leaning over the chariot,
Makes of his sword a whip, his left foot forward,
Setting himself for action, the point comes through
The low rim of his shield, drives on, and pierces
The groin on the left side. Lucagus topples,
Writhes on the ground, and dies; and then Aeneas
Has words for him, and bitter ones:—“Lucagus,
Your horses have not run away; they are brave,
They are no traitors, shying at a shadow.
You are the one, it seems, the cheap deserter,
Who jump the wheels, leave the poor beasts forsaken.”
He pulls the horses up; and down comes Liger,
His luck all gone, his hands outstretched for mercy:—
“O Trojan hero, son of mighty parents,
For their remembrance, spare my life: Oh, hear me—”
And there was more he would have said. Aeneas
Broke in:—“Liger, that’s not the way you sounded
A little while ago. What? Should a brother
Leave brother in the battle? Never. Die!”
And the sword went its deadly way, exposing
The spirit’s hiding-place. Such was the carnage
Dealt by Aeneas over the plain, a whirlwind,
A flood of black destruction. And at the city
Ascanius and the warriors broke the siege,
Came from the threatened camp.

And high in heaven
Jupiter spoke to Juno:—“Sister of mine,
And dearest wife, it is, as you were thinking—
You are not wrong—Venus, who helps the Trojans,
Instead of their own right hands, war-quick, or spirit
Aggressive in attack, enduring in danger.”
And Juno made meek answer:—“Why, dear husband,
Trouble me further? I am sick at heart,
I fear your sad commandments. If I only
Had what I used to have, compelling love,
You would not, all-powerful king, refuse my pleading:
You would let me rescue Turnus from the battle,
Restore him safely to his father Daunus.
That would have been my prayer; but let him die,
Let innocent blood be forfeit to the Trojans,
No matter that his lineage is lofty,
His origin from our stock; no matter, either,
The generous offerings he has made your altars.”

The king of high Olympus thus made answer:—
“If it is only respite and reprieve
You ask for this doomed youth, delay, postponement,
If that is all, and you realize I know it,
Take Turnus off by flight, snatch him from danger.
That much you are permitted. But if, beneath the prayer,
Some deeper hope lies hidden, if you are thinking
The war might change entirely, then you nourish
The silliest kind of dreaming.” Juno, weeping,
Replied:—“But what if, in your heart, you granted
The gift your speech refuses? What if Turnus
Might still live on? No; heavy doom awaits him,
Or else I am borne along in grievous error.
I wish my fear were false and I deluded,
And that the god, who has all power, would use it
To change things for the better.” And, having spoken,
She veiled herself with cloud, came down from heaven,
Driving a storm before her, and sought Laurentum,
The Trojan line, the Latin camp, and fashioned
Out of a cloud, a hollow man, a figure
Thin, weak, and curious to see, a phantom,
A false Aeneas, dressed in Trojan armor,
A mimic shield and crest, with unreal language,
Voice without purpose, the image of a stride,
Like the vain forms that flit when death is over,
Like dreams that mock the drugged and drowsy senses.
With arrogant joy this ghost went out parading
Before the warriors’ ranks, brandishing weapons,
Taunting and daring Turnus, who came on,
Hurled from afar the whirring spear; the phantom
Turned and made off, and Turnus, in confusion,
Nourished an empty hope: Aeneas, he thought,
Had turned away, was gone. “What now, Aeneas?
Where do you flee? Do not desert the bride,
The marriage chamber!” And he drew the sword
Glittering as he challenged, and did not notice
The winds sweep off his happiness. Near by,
Moored to a shelf of rock, a ship was standing,
Ladders let down, and gangplank set; a king
Had sailed therein from Clusium. The ghost,
The false Aeneas, hurrying, found shelter
Deep in the hold, and Turnus followed after,
Hot-foot through all delays, leaped onto the deck,
And had no sooner reached the bow than Juno
Broke off the mooring-lines, and the ship went scudding
Over the yielding sea. The real Aeneas
Kept calling Turnus to the fight, kept killing
Any who crossed his path. But the frail image
No longer sought a hiding-place, but swept
High to the darker clouds, with Turnus riding
The gale far out to seaward. Ignorant still,
Ungrateful for reprieve, he looked to shore,
Raising his hands to heaven, and praying:—“Father,
What have I done, to be so tricked, so sullied?
What am I being punished for? Where am I?
Who am I, for that matter? Fugitive
And coward, will I ever see again
The camp, the walls? And all that band of heroes
Who followed me and trusted me, I leave them
In death unspeakable, I see them wheeling,
I hear their dying groans. What am I doing?
What gulf, what chasm, is deep enough to hide me?
Pity me, winds; dash this accursèd vessel
On rocks, on reefs, on any savage quicksands.
I, Turnus, plead with all my heart, ah, strand me
Beyond all reach, where rumor or Rutulian
May neither one pursue me.” His doubting spirit,
Mad with so much disgrace, was undecided
Whether to let the sword drive through the body,
Or dive and swim for it, toward camp and Trojans.
Three times he tried each way, three times his hand,
His will, were stayed by Juno in her mercy
And the tall ship, on wind and tide, was carried
On to Ardea, Daunus’ lofty city.

Meanwhile, at Jove’s command, Mezentius, burning,
Entered the fight, swept through the cheering Trojans.
The Etruscan ranks rush on; against Mezentius
All turn their hate, their weapons. But he stands
Firm as a cliff, a jutting promontory
In the great deep, exposed to the winds’ anger,
Taking all violence of sky and ocean,
Itself unmoved, immovable. Mezentius
Slew Hebrus, son of Dolichaon, and with him
Latagus and the running Palmus; Palmus
He hamstrung from behind, and left him writhing,
And gave his arms to Lausus, mail for his shoulders,
Plumes for the helmet. A rock brought down Latagus,
Smashing his mouth, full in the face. Evanthes
Fell victim, and Paris’ comrade fell, that Mimas
Whose mother gave him birth on the same evening
When Hecuba was delivered of her firebrand.
As a wild boar, sheltered for many years
In woods of pine or tracts of marshland, nourished
On reeds thick-grown, is driven from the mountains
By the sharp-toothed hunting-dogs, and comes to the nets,
And makes a stand, and snorts in savage anger,
And bristles up his shoulders, and no one dares
Come any nearer, but they all assail him
At a safe distance, pelting him and shouting,
And he is fierce and bold and very stubborn,
Gnashing his teeth, and shaking off the weapons,
Even so, like that wild boar, Mezentius held them
At bay, all those who hated him; they dared not
Close with the sword; they kept their distance, shouting,
Assailing him, but out of reach, with missiles.

There was a youth named Acron, who had come
From a Greek town, leaving his bride a virgin
At home in Corythus. Mezentius saw him
Bright in the ranks, flashing, maroon and crimson,
The colors of his bride. Mezentius saw him
The way a hungry lion sees a deer
And the jaws open and the mane is lifted
And after one great leap the claws are fastened
Deep in the flank, and the mouth is red with slaughter.
So charged Mezentius into the midst, and Acron
Went down, heels drumming on the ground, and blood
Staining the broken spear. Orodes fled,
Or tried to, but no spear for him; Mezentius
Closed in, and struck with the sword, leaned on his spear,
With one foot on the body, and cried aloud:—
“Here lies Orodes, men, a mighty captain,
No little bit of the war!” His comrades joined him,
Shouting applause; with his last breath Orodes
Managed an answer:—“Not for long, O foeman,
Shall I be unavenged: exult a little.
Your doom keeps watch; you will hold these fields, as I do,
Before too long.” Mezentius, smiling at him,
Said only, “Die; and let the sire of the gods,
The king of men, look after me.” The steel
Came from the body; iron sleep and heavy
Repose weighed down his eyes; they closed forever
In night’s eternal dark.

Caedicus slaughters
Alcathous, Sacrator kills Hydaspes,
Rapo cuts two men down, Parthenius, Orses,
A tough, strong fighter; Messapus slays Clonius,
Lying, defenceless, on the ground, a rider
Thrown when the bridle of the horse was broken,
And Messapus slays another, Erichaetes,
Who tried to fight on foot; and Lycian Agis
Attempts to fight on foot, and meets Valerus,
And finds him a stout foeman, like his fathers,
And falls; and Thronius falls; his victor, Salius,
Is victim of Nealces, a good fighter
With javelin and far-deceiving arrow.
The scales were balanced: Trojans and Rutulians,
Arcadians, Etruscans, died and slaughtered.
Mars was a heavy-handed god, impartial
In dealing death and wounds. Victors and vanquished
Stood firm, in death or triumph, and the gods
Pitied both sides and all that useless anger,
That suffering which mortals take in battle.
Venus is watching, and Saturnian Juno,
And pale Tisiphone through the hosts goes raging.