And now Mezentius, shaking his great spear,
Sweeps like a whirlwind over the plain, a giant
Huge as Orion, wading through the waters,
Towering with his shoulders over the waves,
Lugging an ancient ash-tree from the mountains,
And his head hidden in the clouds of heaven,
So looms Mezentius, monstrous in his armor,
And, from the other side, Aeneas sees him,
And moves to meet him, and Mezentius stands there,
Unfrightened, heavy-set, waiting his foe.
He eyes the distance that the spear may need,
Indulges in mock prayer:—“Let my right hand,
That is to say, my god, and the dart I balance
Favor me now! And as a trophy, Lausus,
I vow yourself, my son, to carry, living,
The spoil stripped from this robber.” The spear flew on,
Glanced from the shield, wounded the knight Antores
Between the side and thigh; Evander’s ally,
Hercules’ comrade, a man from Argos, he falls,
Killed by a wound meant for another; dying,
He thinks of his dear Argos. And Aeneas
Lets drive his spear: it penetrates the shield,
The triple bronze, the layers of leather, biting
Deep in the groin, not going through. And happy
At sight of Tuscan blood, Aeneas draws
Sword from his side, comes hotly on; Mezentius
Staggers, and Lausus grieves; he loves his father,
The tears stream down his face.
Mezentius, dragging back, useless, disabled,
Slowly gives ground, the hostile spear still trailing,
Still fastened to the shield. Lausus runs forward,
Lifts his right arm and strikes. Aeneas parries,
Lausus is halted. But his comrades follow—
The father, with the son’s protecting shield,
Has, still, a chance of safety. Missiles shower
From all sides at Aeneas: though he rages,
He huddles under shelter, like a farmer
When hailstones rattle down, or any traveller
Seeking what he can find, a river bank,
An overhanging rock, or any cover
Until the downpour stops, and the sun returns
Men to their daily labor: so Aeneas,
With javelins thickening, every way, against him,
Endures the storm of war, and threatens Lausus:—
“What rush to death is this? What silly daring
Beyond the limit of strength? O foolish youngster,
You love your father, I know, but fool yourself
With too much loving.” Lausus, in his madness,
Has never a thought of stopping, and Aeneas
Feels anger rise against him, and the Fates
Tie off the ends of Lausus’ thread: the Trojan
Drives with the sword; it is buried in the body
Deep to the hilt. The little shield, frail armor
Against so great a menace, could not hold it.
The pliant tunic, woven by his mother
With golden thread, is no more help; the blood
Stains it another color, and through air
The life went sorrowing to the shades. And now
Aeneas changes. Looking on that face
So pale in death, he groans in pity; he reaches
As if to touch him with his hand, in comfort,
Knowing, himself, how one can love a father.
“Poor boy, what tribute can Aeneas offer,
What praise for so much glory? Keep the armor
You loved so much: if there is any comfort
In burial at home, know I release you
To your ancestral shades and ashes. Further,
You have one solace, this, that you have fallen
By great Aeneas’ hand.” He lifted Lausus
From the bloody ground and raised the head, that dust
And earth and blood should not defile its glory,
And called the Etruscans closer, scornful of them,
Over their hesitation.
Meanwhile, Mezentius, by the wave of the river,
Propped his slumped frame against a tree-trunk, staunching
The wound with water. The bronze helmet hung,
Inverted, from the bough; the heavy arms
Lay quiet on the meadow. Chosen men
Were standing by. Sick, and with labored breath,
He let his chin fall forward, rubbed his neck,
While over his chest the flowing beard was streaming.
Over and over again, he asks and sends
For Lausus: bring him back, he tells the men,
Those are the orders from his unhappy father.
But they were bringing him back, a big man slain
By a big wound. Mezentius knew the sound
Of sorrow from afar, before he heard it,
Fouled his gray hair with dust, flung up his arms,
Clung to the body. “O my son, my son,
Was I so fond of living that I sent
You to the sword for me, saved by your wounds,
Alive when you are dead? The wound indeed
Is driven deep, the bitterness of death
Comes home. I was the one, my son, my son,
Who stained your name with crime, with hatred, driven
From throne and sceptre. I have owed too long
The debt of punishment, and here I am,
Living, and never leaving men and light,
But I shall leave.” He heaved his sickened weight,
Pulling himself together, groin and all,
Slowly. The wound was deep, but he could stand.
He ordered them to bring his horse, that solace,
That pride of his, on which he used to ride
Victorious out of all the wars. He spoke,
And the beast sorrowed with his master’s sorrow:—
“Rhoebus, if anything is ever long
For mortal beings, you and I have lived
For a long time. Today you carry back
Those bloody spoils, Aeneas’ arms, avenging
The pangs of Lausus with me, or we both,
If no force clears the way, go down together,
O bravest heart, too noble to endure
The stranger’s order and the Trojan rider.”
He swung astride, shifted his weight a little,
The way he always did, held in both hands
A load of darts. The helmet glittered bronze,
The horsehair plume was bristling as he rode,
Madness and grief and shame all urging on
That singleness of purpose. He came on fast,
Calling, Aeneas! Aeneas! over and over,
And his voice was loud and firm. Aeneas heard,
Rejoiced, and recognized, and made his prayer:—
“Let this be true, O father of the gods,
O high Apollo!"—then, to his foe, “Come on!”
And moved to meet him with the deadly spear.
Mezentius answered:—“Do you frighten me
With all that fierceness, now that my son is taken?
How meaningless! That was the only way
You could destroy me. Now I fear no death,
I spare no god. Be quiet; for I come
To die, but first of all I bring you this,
A present from me,"—and he flung the dart,
And flung another, and another, wheeling
In a great arc. The boss of gold held strong.
Three times in circles to the left he rode
Around the steady Trojan; thrice the hand
Let fly the dart, and thrice the shield of bronze
Was a great forest with its load of spears.
All this was wearisome,—too many darts,
Too much defensiveness. Aeneas broke
Out of the watchful attitude, and flung
The spear between the charger’s hollow temples.
The great beast reared with fore-hooves flailing air,
Throwing the rider, and came tumbling down
Head-foremost on him, shoulder out of joint.
Trojan and Latin uproar swelled to heaven.
Aeneas, sword-blade ready, rushes in:—
“Where is the fierce Mezentius now, and where
All that wild rage of spirit?” But the king,
Raising his eyes, drank in the sky a little,
Knew a brief moment of recovery,
Enough to say:—“O bitter enemy,
Why all the tauntings and the threats of death?
There is no wrong in slaughter: neither I
Nor Lausus ever made such battle-pledges.
One thing I ask, if beaten enemies
Have any claim on mercy. Let my body
Be granted burial. I know the hate
Of my own people rages round me. Keep
Their fury from me. Let me share the grave
Of my dear son.” He said no more, but welcomed,
Fully aware, the sword-thrust in the throat,
And poured his life in crimson over the armor.
BOOK XI
THE DESPAIR
OF THE LATINS
Meanwhile Aurora, rising, left the ocean.
Aeneas’ heart was troubled—so much dying,
So great a need for funeral rites,—but first
Vows must be paid for victory. At dawn
He sets an oak-trunk on a mound, the branches
Stripped off on every side, and hangs upon it
Mezentius’ gleaming arms, the war-god’s trophy.
He adds the crest, blood-stained, the broken darts,
The riddled breast-plate; binds, to the left, the shield,
Hangs from the neck the ivory sword. His comrades
Hail him, and gather close around, and listen:—
“The greatest task is done: as for the future,
Fear not, my heroes! Here are spoils and first-fruits
Of one proud king; Mezentius is in our hands.
We march, now, on Latinus and his cities.
Prepare your arms, your nerve; let your hopes run
Onward before the war. When the gods grant us
To raise our standards and to lead our army
Out of this camp, let no delay impede us
Through ignorance, no fear retard our courage.
Meanwhile, let us commit to earth the unburied bodies
Of our dear comrades, for no other honor
Waits them below the world. Go, offer homage,
The final rites to those whose blood has won us
This fatherland; let Pallas be sent home
To the mourning city of Evander: Pallas
Had courage, and the day was black that took him
To the bitterness of death.”
He spoke with tears
And went back to the threshold, where old Acoetes,
An armor-bearer, once, to king Evander,
And then, less happily, guardian over Pallas,
Kept watch beside the body. A Trojan throng
Stood all around, an honor-guard, and the women
Loosened their hair in ceremonial mourning,
And when Aeneas came, the lofty portal
Sounded with groaning and with lamentation,
And wailing reached the stars. He looked at Pallas,
The pillowed head, the face as white as snow,
The jagged wound in the smooth breast, and spoke,
And could not check his weeping:—“Ah, poor youngster!
Fortune, a little while, was happy for us
And then turned evil and grudging, and refused me
The joy of seeing you ride back in triumph
To your father’s house with news of our new kingdom.
I have not kept my promise to Evander,
Whose arms went round me when I left, who sent me
To win great empire, and who gave me warning
That these were men of spirit, tough in battle.
And now, perhaps even at this very moment,
The dupe of empty hope, he is making prayers,
Heaping the altars high with gifts, while we
In sorrow attend his lifeless son, with honor
As empty as the father’s hope, for Pallas
Owes nothing more to any god in heaven.
Unhappy Evander, our long-awaited triumph,
Our glorious return, comes to this only,
The bitter funeral of a son; and so
Aeneas keeps his promise!
And yet, O king,
You will not see him slain by shameful wounds,
You will not long for a dire death to cancel
The memory of a son, safe, but a coward.
We have lost a great protection, all of us,
Ausonia, Iulus.”
He gave orders
To raise the pitiful body for its journey,
And chose a thousand men to honor Pallas
With this last escort, to share Evander’s tears,
Poor comfort for so great a grief, but due him.
Men weave the bier with osier and soft willow
And shadow it over with leaves of oak, and Pallas
Rests on his country litter, like a flower
Some girl has picked and lost, a violet
Or drooping hyacinth, and all its luster
Still there, though earth is kind to it no longer.
And then Aeneas brought two robes, whose crimson
Was stiff with gold, robes that the queen of Carthage
Had woven for him, happy in her labor,
Running the gold through crimson. Over Pallas
The robes are cast, the sad and final honor,
The hair is veiled for the fire, and many trophies
Are added, prizes from the Latin battles,
Horses, and weapons, captured from the Latins,
And human victims, offerings to the shades,
Their blood to sprinkle funeral fire, are led
Hands bound behind them, and the names of foemen
Are cut in the trunks of trees that bear their armor.
Unhappy old Acoetes trudges with them,
Beating his breast, clawing his face, or flinging
His wretched body down in the dust. And chariots
Follow, Rutulian blood on wheel and axle,
And Pallas’ war-horse Aethon, riderless,
Without caparison, weeps for his master,
The great tears rolling down. Other men carry
The spear and helmet only, for the rest
Turnus had taken as spoil. And then there follows
A long array of mourners, Trojans, Tuscans,
Arcadians, with arms reversed: so they pass
In long procession, comrade after comrade,
Far on and almost out of sight. Aeneas
Halts, and sighs deeply:—“The same grim fates of war
Call us from here to other tears. Forever
Hail, O great Pallas, and farewell forever!”
He said no more, but turned to the high walls,
Strode back to the camp.
And envoys came
From the Latin city, veiled with boughs of olive,
Asking for truce: let him return the bodies
Strewn by the sword across the battlefield,
Let them be given burial. No war
Is fought with vanquished men, deprived of light:
Let him be merciful—had he not called them
Hosts at one time, and fathers? And good Aeneas
Granted, of right, the truce they sought, and added
Brief words:—“What evil destiny, O Latins,
Involved you in such tragic war, to flee us,
Your friends that might have been? You ask for peace,
Peace for the dead, slain by the lot of battle.
Peace? I would gladly grant it to the living.
I would not be here unless fate had given
This place, this dwelling, and I wage no war
Against your people, but your king deserted
Our friendliness; he had more confidence
In Turnus’ weapons. Turnus, in simple justice,
Should be the one to face this death. If, truly,
He seeks to end the war, to drive the Trojans
By strength of hand from Italy, he should have
Taken my personal challenge: one of us
Would live, to whom his own right hand or heaven
Had granted life. Go now, depart in peace,
Kindle the death-fires for your luckless comrades.”
He spoke, and they were silent: they had nothing
That could be said; they could not face him, either,
And kept their eyes and faces toward each other.
And then old Drances, always bitter and hateful,
Resentful of young Turnus, spoke in answer:—
“O great in glory, even greater in arms,
Heroic Trojan, how can I ever praise you
As highly as I should? Am I to wonder
First at your justice or your warlike prowess?
We shall be glad, indeed, to take these words
Back to our native city and, fortune willing,
Join you with king Latinus. As for Turnus,
Let him seek his own alliances! Our pleasure
Will be in building walls for you, as fate
Ordains, that we should carry on our shoulders
The masonry of Troy.” And they all cheered him.
They pledged twelve days for peace, and in the forests
Trojans and Latins walked as friends together,
Over the ridges, peace among them. Ash-trees
Rang as the two-edged axe bit deep; the pines,
Star-towering, came down; the oak, the cedar,
Split by the wedges, filled the groaning wagons.
And Rumor, messenger of all that mourning,
Came flying to Evander’s home and city,
Rumor, so short a time before the herald
Of victories in Latium for young Pallas.
Out to the gates came the Arcadians; torches,
Carried aloft, after the ancient custom,
Marked off the fields from highway; the long road
Shone with the light of fire, and the Trojans, coming,
Met their lament, and when the mothers saw them,
The city itself was one great fire of mourning.
No force could hold Evander back: he came,
Rushing, into the sad procession’s center,
And where the barrow halted, clung to Pallas,
Weeping and groaning, and his voice could hardly
Manage its way through choking sobs:—“Ah, Pallas,
You have not kept your promise to your father!
You said you would be careful in the battles!
I knew, I knew too well, how much new glory,
How much the sweet fresh pride in the first battle,
Could overpower discretion. Here are the first-fruits
Of your young manhood; here are the cruel lessons
Of war brought home; and all my prayers unheeded
By any god! But my dear wife is happy,
Spared, by her death, this anguish. I live on,
I have overcome my fate by living so,
A father who survives his son. I should have
Followed the Trojan arms, let the Rutulians
O’erwhelm me with their darts; I should have died,
And this procession brought me home, not Pallas.
It is not your fault, O Trojans; I do not blame you,
The treaties joined, the hands we clasped, in friendship.
No: this was coming to me, this was due
The lot of my old age. An early death
Took off my son; I shall rejoice, hereafter,
Knowing he led the Trojans into Latium,
Slew Volscians by the thousands. He was worthy,
Pallas, my son, of such a death. Aeneas,
The mighty Trojans, the Etruscan captains,
The Etruscan ranks, all think so. They bring trophies,
Great trophies, those my son brought low; and Turnus
Would be another trophy, were his years,
His strength, the same as his young enemy’s.
But why am I, unhappy man, delaying
The Trojan hosts from battle? Go: remember
To tell Aeneas this: I keep on living,
However hateful life may be, with Pallas
Taken away from me, I keep on living
Because of his right hand: it owes me something,
The death of Turnus, for the son and father.
And this Aeneas knows, the one thing wanting
To make his praise and fortune sure. I ask
No joy in life—that is impossible—
But only this one thing, to take my son,
In the shades below, one message: Turnus has fallen.”