The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

And Turnus, all impatience, hot for action,
Buckles his armor, the ruddy breastplate gleaming
Bright with bronze scales, the greaves on fire with gold,
The sword snapped to the baldric. Still bareheaded,
A golden blaze, he runs down from the fortress,
Exulting in his spirit: he has the foe
By the throat already, in imagination.
You see that fire when a stallion breaks his tether,
Runs from the stable, free at last, a monarch
Of all the plain, and makes for the green pastures
Where mares are grazing, or splashes into the river
Out of sheer joy, and tosses his mane, and nickers,
And the light plays across his neck and shoulders.

To meet him came Camilla and her Volscians,
And she reined in at the gate, dismounting quickly,
And all her band, at her example, followed,
Listening as she spoke:—“Turnus, if courage
Has any right to confidence, I promise,
I dare, to meet the horsemen of Aeneas,
I dare, alone, to face the Etruscan riders.
Let me try, first, the dangers of the battle;
You stay on guard as captain of the walls.”
And Turnus, gazing at the warrior-maiden,
Replied:—“O glory of Italy, no words
Of mine can give you worthy thanks; your spirit
Surpasses all the rest of them. Share with me
The work we have to do. Faithless Aeneas,
So rumor says, and scouts confirm, is sending
His cavalry, light-armed, to scour the plains,
And he himself, crossing the mountain-ridges,
Comes down upon the city. I am planning
An ambush for him, where the forest narrows
To shadowy trails; I block both sides of the pass
With soldiery in arms. Do you, Camilla,
Take on the Etruscan horsemen, act as leader;
Messapus, a sharp fighter, will be with you,
And Latin squadrons and the troop from Tibur.”
Messapus and the other captains listened
To orders much like these, and they were heartened,
And Turnus left them, moving toward Aeneas.

There is a valley, winding, curving, fit
For stratagems of warfare, a narrow gorge
Black with dense woods on either side; a trail
Winds through it, narrow and difficult: above it
There lies an unknown plain, a safe position
Whether you charge from right or left, or stand there
Heaving great boulders down the mountain-shoulders,
And Turnus knows this region well, finds cover,
Picks the terrain to suit him, waits and watches
In the dark menace of the woods.

And meantime,
High in the halls of heaven, Latona’s daughter
Was talking to a nymph of hers, a maiden
Of her devoted company, named Opis.
Diana’s words were sorrowful:—“Camilla
Is going forth to cruel war, O maiden,
Our soldier, all in vain, and dearer to me
Than all the other girls; she has loved me long;
It is no impulsive whim that moves her spirit.
Perhaps you know the story—how her father,
Metabus, ruler of an ancient city,
Became a tyrant, and his people drove him
In hatred from Privernum, and he fled
Through war and battles, taking as companion
To share his exile the little infant daughter,
Camilla, she was called, after her mother
Whose name was not so different, Casmilla.
So he was going on, toward ridge and woodland,
Long roads to loneliness, holding his daughter
Before him on his breast, and weapons flying
From every side against them, and the Volscians
Spreading the net of soldiers wide to catch them.
But Metabus went on, and came to a river
Out of its banks, the swollen Amasenus
Foaming in flood from cloudburst. Could he swim it?
He thought so, but he checked himself; he feared
For the dear load he carried. He did some thinking,
And suddenly, or not quite all of a sudden,
He saw the only way. There was the spear
His stout hand bore: it was strong and heavy, knotted
Of seasoned oak, and he bound his daughter to it,
Gently, with bark of cork-wood all around her,
And carefully, to keep the missile’s balance,
And let his right hand weigh its heft a little,
And then made prayer:—‘O gracious woodland-dweller,
Diana, virgin daughter of Latona,
I consecrate my daughter to your service.
These are your darts she holds, the very first ones
She ever carried; she comes to you, a suppliant
Who flees her foe through pathways of the air.
Accept her, O dear goddess, I implore you,
Make her your own. Her father, I commit her,
Now, to the dubious winds.’ The arm drew back,
The whirring spear shot forward, and the waters
Roared loud below, and over the rush of the river
Camilla, on the whistling spear, went flying,
And Metabus, as the great host came closer,
Dove into the flood, and safe across, a victor
And happy, pulled the spear and girl together
Out of the grassy turf, his votive offering
Made to Latona’s daughter. No city ever
Received him to its walls or homes; he would not,
In his wild mood, give in to any city.
He lived with shepherds on the lonely mountains,
And there, where wild beasts lurked, in thorn and thicket
He raised his child; his hands would squeeze the udders
Of wild mares for their milk. When she could stand
And toddle a little, he armed her with a javelin,
A tiny pointed lance, and over her shoulder
Hung quiver and bow. There were no golden brooches
To bind her hair, no trailing gowns: her dress
Was black and orange tiger-skin. Her hand
Grew used to tossing childish darts, or whirling
The limber sling around her head; she learned
To hit her targets, crane or snowy swan.
And as she grew, many a Tuscan mother
Wanted her for this son, or that, but vainly:
Diana was her goddess, and she cherished,
Intact, an everlasting love—her weapons,
Her maidenhood, were all she knew and cared for.
I wish she had never been so possessed, so ardent
For soldiery like this, attacking Trojans
Instead of meeker game; she would have been
The one most dear of all my dear companions.
But now a bitter doom weighs down upon her.
Therefore, O nymph, glide down from heaven to Latium,
Where, under evil omens, men join battle.
Take these, my bow, my arrows; from my quiver
Draw the avenging shaft. His life is forfeit,
Trojan, Italian, whoever he is, whose wound
Profanes the sacred body of Camilla.
And when she has fallen, I will bring her home
By hollow cloud, both warrior and armor
Unspoiled, untaken, to her native country,
Home to her tomb, poor girl.” And swift through air
Opis, on whirring wing, came down from heaven
In the dark whirlwind’s center.

And the Trojans
Were drawing near the walls, with Tuscan leaders
And all that host of cavalry, whose numbers
Filled squadron after squadron, and the horses
Snorted and reared and fought the bit and bridle,
Light-stepping sideways; far and wide the field
Bristled with iron harvest, and the plain
Burned with the arms raised high. And here against them
Come Messapus and Coras and his brother,
The Latins, moving fast, Camilla’s squadron,
The hands drawn back already, and lances flying:
All fire and noise and heat and men and horses.
They ride, keep riding, and the distance closes
To spear-cast, and they halt, and a wild clamor
Breaks out, the charge is on, they spur the horses
Which need no spur, and from all sides they shower
The darts as thick as driving snow, the shadow
Darkens the sky. Tyrrhenus, wild Aconteus,
Single each other out and come together
Head on, and the spears are broken, and men are thrown,
And the horses, smashing their great chests together,
Come down with a crash; Aconteus is hurled
Like a thunderbolt or something from an engine
Incredibly far off, and dies in the air.
And the lines waver, and the routed Latins
Let fall their shields behind them, head for the city,
With Trojans in pursuit: Asilas leads them.
They near the walls, and the Latins turn, and, shouting,
Wheel to the charge, and the Trojans break and scatter
With reins let loose. You are looking at the ocean
The way it comes, one wave, and then another,
Surging, receding, flooding, rushing shoreward
Over the cliffs in spray and foam or smoothing
The farthest sand with the shallow curve, withdrawing
Faster and faster, and undertow, slowly, slowly
Dragging the shingle back, and the surface gliding
Sleek from the visible beaches. Twice the Tuscans
Drove the Rutulians routed to the city;
Twice, driven back themselves, they slung behind them
The shields, reversed, quick-glancing over their shoulders.
But when, for the third time, they came together,
They stayed together, locked, all down the line,
And each man picked his man, and each man stayed there,
And the rough fight rose and thickened. Dying men
Groaned, and the blood was deep, and men and armor
And wounded horses and wounded men and bodies
Of men and horses were in it all together.
Orsilochus found Remulus a warrior
Too tough to take head on, and flung his spear
At the head of the horse, instead, and left the iron
Under the ear, and the great beast, wounded, rearing,
Flailed the air with his forelegs, came down crashing,
And the stunned rider, thrown, rolled over and over.
Catillus killed Iollas, and another,
Herminius, giant in body, giant in arms,
Giant in spirit, a man who fought bare-headed,
Bare-shouldered, a fair-haired man, so huge in stature
He feared no wound. But through his shoulders driven
The quivering spear made way and bent him double,
Writhing in pain. Dark blood flows everywhere,
The sword deals death; men look to wounds for glory.

In the thick of the fight Camilla rages, wearing
Her quiver like an Amazon, one breast
Exposed: she showers javelins, she plies
The battle-axe; she never tires; her shoulder
Clangs with the golden bow, Diana’s weapon.
If ever, turning back, she yields, the arrows
Are loosed from over her shoulder; even in flight
She makes attack. Around her, chosen comrades,
Larina, Tulla, and Tarpeia brandish
Axes of bronze. She chose them as her handmaids,
Good both in peace and war, Italian daughters,
Italy’s pride, like Thracian Amazons
Warring in colorful armor in the country
Where Thermodon river runs, and women warriors
Hail fighting queens with battle-cries or clash
The crescent shields together.

First and last,
Camilla struck men down: who knows how many
She brought to earth in death? Clytius’ son,
Euneus, faced her first, and her long spear
Pierced his unguarded breast. Rivers of blood
Poured from his mouth; he chewed red dust, and dying
Writhed on his wound. She stabbed the horse of Liris,
And the rider fell, and reached for the reins: Pagasus
Stretched out a hand to help him, to break his fall,
And Camilla slew the pair of them together:
Amastrus next, Hippotas’ son: far off,
Her spear caught up with four, Tereus, Chromis,
Harpalycus, Demophoön. For each dart
Sent flying from her hand, a Trojan fell.
Far off she saw the huntsman Ornytus,
Riding a native pony, in strange armor.
He wore a steer’s hide over his wide shoulders,
A wolf’s head for a helmet, with the jaws,
Wide-open, grinning above his head; he carried
A rustic kind of pike, and he was taller,
By a full head, than all the others, easy
Target for any dart. She cried above him:—
“What did you think, O Tuscan?—You were chasing
Beasts in the woods? The day has come when boasting
Like yours is answered by a woman’s weapons,
But after all, you take to the shades of your fathers
No little cause for pride—Camilla killed you!”
And then she slew Orsilochus and Butes,
Two of the mightiest Trojans, stabbing Butes
With spear-point in the back, between the helmet
And breastplate, where the flesh shone white, and shield
Hung down from the left arm. Orsilochus
She fled from first, and, driven in a circle,
Became, in turn, pursuer; and, rising higher,
Brought down the battle-axe, again, again,
Through armor and through bone: his pleas for mercy
Availed him nothing; the wound he suffered spattered
His face with his warm brains. Next in her way
And stunned to halt by abject terror came
A son of Aunus, an expert at lying
Like all Ligurians. He could not escape her,
And knew he could not, but he might outwit her,
Or so he hoped. “What’s so courageous, woman
Always on horseback? Forget the hope of fleeing,
Dismount; meet me on equal terms; try fighting
On foot for once. You will learn, I tell you, something,
The disillusion of that windy glory.”
She took the challenge, burned with angry temper,
Turned her horse over to another, savage
In equal arms, confronting him undaunted,
With naked sword. He leaped into the saddle,
Much pleased with his sly stratagem, drove the rowels
Deep in the flanks, took off. “O vain Ligurian,
Swollen with pride of heart, that slippery cunning
Will never get you home to father Aunus!”
So cried Camilla, and flashed like fire across
The horse’s path, grabbed at the bridle, hauled him
To earth and shed his blood. A hawk in heaven
Is not more quick to seize a dove when, driving
From the dark rock toward lofty cloud, he fastens
The talons deep, and rips, and the feathers flutter,
All blood-stained, down the sky.

On high Olympus
Jupiter watched the scene of battle, rousing
Tarchon the Etruscan with the spur of anger,
And through the slaughter and the yielding columns
That warrior rode, calling each man by name,
Driving his ranks to battle with fierce outcry,
Rallying beaten men to fight:—“What terror,
O Tuscans, causes you such utter panic?
Will nothing ever hurt you? Does a woman
Chase you all over the field in this confusion?
Why do we carry swords? What silly weapons
Are these in our right hands? You are swift enough
For wrestling in the night time, or for dances
When the curved flute of Bacchus does the piping!
You have, it seems, one pleasure and one passion,
Waiting for feasts and goblets on full tables
When priests announce the sacrifice propitious
And the fat victim calls to the deep woodlands.”
So Tarchon had his say, and spurred his charger,
Himself not loath to die, fell like a whirlwind
On Venulus, and swept him from the saddle,
And lifted him with his right hand, and held him
Before him as he rode, and all the Latins
Cheered with a noisy din that reached the heaven.
The arms and man in front of him, over the plain
Rode Tarchon, swift as fire; broke off the point
Of Venulus’ spear, and sought a place unguarded
Where he might thrust a deadly wound; the other
Struggled against him, kept the hand from the throat,
Matched violence with violence. An eagle,
Soaring to heaven, carries off a serpent
In just that manner, in the grip of talons,
And the wounded reptile writhes the looping coils
And rears the scales erect and keeps on hissing,
While the curved beak strikes at the struggling victim,
So, from the battle-line of the Etruscans,
Tarchon swept off his struggling prey in triumph,
An inspiration to his rallied people.

Then Arruns, as the fates would have it, started
Stalking the fleet Camilla with the javelin,
Ahead of her in cunning. He took no chances,
Seeking the easiest way. When that wild maiden
Dashed fiercely into the battle, there he followed
Stealthily in her footsteps, or turned the reins
When she came back victorious. This way, that way,
Wary in each approach, he circled after,
The sure spear quivering as he poised and held it.
It happened Chloreus, Cybele’s priest, was shining
Far off in Phrygian armor, spurring a horse
Covered with leather, scales of brass and gold
And the rider was a fire of foreign color,
Launching his Cretan darts: the bow was golden,
The helmet golden, and the cloak of saffron,
So stiff it had a metal sound, was fastened
With knots of yellow gold; some foreign needle
Had worked embroidery into hose and tunic.
Camilla picked him out from all the battle,
Either to take that spoil home to the temple,
Or flaunt the gold herself; she was a huntress
In blind pursuit, dazzled by spoil, a woman
Reckless for finery. In hiding, Arruns
Caught up his spear and prayed:—“Most high Apollo,
Soracte’s warden, whose adorers feed
The pine-wood fire, and trustful tread the embers,
Let me wipe out this shame. I seek no plunder,
No spoil, no trophy, of Camilla beaten;
I may perhaps find other ways to glory.
All I ask here is that this scourge may vanish
Under a wound I give; for this I am willing
To make return, however inglorious, home.”
Half of his prayer was heard: Apollo granted
The downfall of Camilla; the returning
Safe home was not to be,—the south winds carried
That much to empty air. So the spear, whirring,
Spun from his hand; the sound turned all the Volscians
With anxious eyes and minds to watch their ruler.
She heard no stir in the air, no sound, no weapon
Along the sky, till the spear went to its lodging
In the bare breast and drank the maiden blood.
Her frightened comrades hurry, catch her falling,
And Arruns, frightened more than any other,
Half joy, half fear, makes off: no further daring
Is his, to trust the lance or face encounter.
As a wolf that kills a bullock or a shepherd
Before the darts can reach him, down the mountains
Goes plunging through the brush, the sign of guilt
His tail clapped under the belly, bent on flight,
So Arruns sneaks to cover through the armies.
Dying, she pulls at the dart, but the point is fast,
Deep in the wound between the ribs; her eyes
Roll, cold in death; her color pales; her breath
Comes hard. She calls to Acca, her companion,
Most loved, most loyal:—“I have managed, Acca,
This far, but now—the bitter wound—I am done for,
There are shadows all around. Hurry to Turnus.
Take him this last direction, to relieve me
Here in the fight, defend the town, keep off—
Farewell!” The reins went slack, the earth received her
Yielding her body to its cold, resigning
The sagging head to death; and she let fall,
For the last time, her weapons, and the spirit
Went with a moan indignant to the shadows.
And then indeed the golden stars were smitten
By a wild outcry; with Camilla fallen,
The fight takes on new fierceness: all the Trojans
Rush in, Etruscan leaders, all the squadrons
That came, once, from Evander.

High in the mountains
Opis, Diana’s sentinel, unfrightened,
Had watched the battle, and seen, through all that fury,
Camilla slain in pitiful death. She sighed
And spoke with deep emotion:—“Cruel, cruel,
The punishment you pay, poor warrior-maiden,
For that attempt to battle down the Trojans!
It comes to nothing, all the lonely service
In woodland thicket, the worship of Diana,
The wearing of our arrows on the shoulder.
And even so, in the last hour of dying,
Your queen has not forsaken you, nor left you
Unhonored altogether; through the nations
This will be known, your death, and with it, surely,
The satisfaction of vengeance. He whose wound
Profaned your body will die as he deserves to.”
Under the lofty mountain stood the tomb
Of an old king, Dercennus of Laurentum,
A mound of earth under a holm-oak’s shadow.
Here first the lovely goddess, sweeping down
From heaven, paused, and from that height watched Arruns,
And saw him puffed with pride, exulting vainly,
And called:—“Why go so far away? Come nearer!
Come to the death you merit; for Camilla
Receive the due reward. Shall you die also
Under Diana’s weapons?” She drew an arrow
Swift from the quiver of gold, drew back the bow
Till the curved ends were meeting, and her hands
Were even, left at arrow-tip and right
Brushing her breast as she let loose the bow-string.
And as he heard the twang and the air whirring,
He felt the steel strike home. Gasping and moaning,
He lay there in the unknown dust; his comrades
Forgot, and left him where he lay, and Opis
Soared upward to Olympus.