The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

Meanwhile, the kings were riding forth, Latinus
Imposing in his four-horse car, his forehead
Gleaming with twelve gold rays of light, the symbol
Of his ancestral Sun, and Turnus coming
Behind a snow-white team, and Turnus’ hand
Brandishing spears with two broad heads of steel.
And on this side, burning with starry shield
And arms from Heaven, came Aeneas, father
Of Rome to be, and from the camp Iulus,
The second hope of Roman greatness, followed.
In robes immaculate, the priest was waiting
Beside the blazing altars, swine and oxen
And sheep, unshorn, ready for sacrifice,
And the leaders faced the rising sun, and sprinkled
The salted meal, and marked the victims’ foreheads
With knives that took the holy lock, and poured
Libations on the altars, and Aeneas,
Drawing his sword, made prayer:—“Sun, be my witness,
And Earth be witness to me in my praying,
This Earth, for whom I have been able to bear
Such toil and suffering, Almighty Father,
Queen Juno, now, I pray, a kinder goddess,
Be witness, and Mars, renownèd god of battles,
Rivers and Fountains, too, I call, and Powers
Of lofty Heaven and deep blue ocean, witness:
If victory comes to Turnus, the Trojans, beaten,
Go to Evander’s city, and Iulus
Will quit these lands forever, and hereafter
No son or follower of Aeneas ever
Will rise again in warfare, or with sword
Attack these kingdoms. But if Victory grants us,
As I expect, and may the gods confirm it,
To win the battle, I will not have Italians
Be subject to the Trojans; I crave no kingdom,
Not for myself: let both, unbeaten nations,
On equal terms enter eternal concord.
I will establish gods and ceremonial;
My sire, Latinus, keep his arms, his sceptre.
The Trojans will build walls for me; Lavinia
Shall give the city her name.”

And so Aeneas
Made solemn pledge, and after him Latinus,
Lifting his eyes to heaven, and outstretching
His right hand to the stars, confirmed the treaty:—
“By these same Powers I swear, Aeneas, by Earth,
Sea, Stars, Latona’s offspring, two-faced Janus,
The power of the world below, and Pluto’s altars;
May the Almighty Father, who sanctions treaties
With lightning, hear my words: I touch the altars,
I call these fires and presences to witness:
No day shall break this peace, this pact, Italians,
However things befall; no force shall turn me
From this intention, not if the force of deluge
Confounded land and water, Heaven and Hell.
Even as this sceptre” (and he gestured with it)
“Shall never bloom with leaf in branch or shadow,
Once it has left its forest-trunk, its mother,
And lost to steel its foliage, a tree
No more, when once the artist’s hand has edged it
With proper bronze, for Latin sires to carry.”
So they affirmed the covenant, in sight
Of leaders and people, and duly, over the flame,
Made sacrifice of victims, and tore out
The entrails while the beasts yet lived, and loaded
The altars high with offerings.

But more and more
Rutulian hearts were wavering; the fight
Began to seem unequal, and they stirred,
Shifted and doubted. And Turnus moved them strangely,
Coming on silent footstep to the altar,
Looking down humbly, with a meek devotion,
Cheeks drawn and pale. Juturna heard the whispers,
The muttered talk, and sensed the stir in the crowd,
And suddenly plunged into their midst, disguised
As Camers, noble in birth and brave in arms, and son
Of a brave father. She knew what she was doing,
Putting the fuel of rumor on the fire,
And crying:—“Are you not ashamed, Rutulians,
That one should be exposed for all this army?
In strength, in numbers, are we not their equal?
Here they all are, the Trojans, the Arcadians,
The Etruscans, all the lot of them: and we
Are almost twice as many; man to man,
Two against one! But no: we are willing to let him
Rise to the skies on deathless praise; the gods
Receive him, by his own decision bound,
An offering at their altars, and we sit here
Sluggish as stone on ground, our country lost,
Ready to bow to any arrogant master.”
They are moved; at least the young are, and a murmur
Runs through the ranks: the Latins and Laurentians
Are ripe for change. Rest from the war, and safety
Count less than arms. They want the treaty broken,
They pity Turnus. It’s not fair, this bargain.
And now Juturna adds a greater warning,
A sign from heaven, and nothing could have stirred them
With more immediate impetus to folly.
For, flying through the sky, an eagle, orange
In the red light, was bearing down, pursuing
The birds along the shore, and they were noisy
In desperate flight, and the eagle struck, and the talons
Seized the conspicuous swan. And as the Italians
Looked up in fascination, all the birds,
Most wonderful to tell, wheeled, and their outcry
Clanged, and their wings were a dark cloud in heaven,
A cloud that drove their enemy before them,
Till, beaten down by force, by weight, the eagle
Faltered, let go the prey, which fell to the river
As the great bird flew far to the distant clouds.
This omen the Rutulians cheered with shouting,
With hands that cry for action. And their augur,
Tolumnius, roused them further:—“I have prayed
Often for this, and here it is! I own it,
I recognize the gods. With me as leader,
With me, I say, take arms, unhappy people,
Whom, like frail birds, the insolent marauder
Frightens in war, despoils your shores. He also
Will take to flight, far to the distant oceans.
Combine, come massing on, defend in battle
The king snatched from you!”

He went rushing forward,
Let fly his spear: the whistling shaft of cornel
Sang its determined way through air, and with it
A mighty shout arose, formations broken,
Hearts hot for battle, as the spear went flying.
Nine handsome brothers, their mother a Tuscan woman,
Good wife to the Arcadian Gylippus,
Stood in its path, and one of them, distinguished
In looks and gleaming armor, fell; the spear-point
Struck where the belt was buckled over the belly
And went on through the ribs. The brothers, angry,
Grieving, drew swords, or picked up spears in frenzy,
Went blindly rushing in, and the Latin columns
Came charging at them; from their side the Trojans,
Men from Agylla, brightly-armed Arcadians,
Poured in a rushing flood. One passion held them,—
Decide it with the sword! They strip the altars,
The sky is dark, it seems, with a storm of weapons,
The iron rain is a deluge. Bowls and hearth-fires
Are carried off; Latinus flees: the gods
Are beaten, the treaty ruined by corruption.
Other men rein their chariots, leap on horses,
Come with drawn swords.

Messapus, most eager
To break the truce, rides down a king, Aulestes,
Wearing the emblem of a Tuscan monarch.
Staggering backward from that charge, and reeling,
He falls upon the altars, there behind him,
Comes down on head and shoulders. And like fire
Messapus flashes toward him, spear in hand,
And, from the horse, strikes heavily down; the spear
Is like a plunging beam. For all his pleading
Aulestes hears no more than this:—“He has it!
Here is a better victim for the altars!”
His limbs are warm as the Italians rob them.
Ebysus aims a blow at Corynaeus
Who snatches up a firebrand from the altar
And thrusts it in his face, and his beard blazes
With a smell of fire. And Corynaeus follows,
Clutches the hair with the left hand, and grounds him
With knee-thrust; the relentless steel goes home.
And Podalirius, sword in hand, looms over
The shepherd Alsus, rushing through the weapons
In the front line, but Alsus, arm drawn back,
Swings the axe forward, cleaving chin and forehead,
Drenching the armor with blood. An iron slumber
Seals Podalirius’ eyes; they close forever
In everlasting night.

But good Aeneas,
Head bare, holds out his hand, unarmed, calls loudly
In hope to check his men:—“Where are you rushing?
What sudden brawl is rising? Control your anger!
The treaty is made, and all the terms agreed on,
The fight my right alone. Let me take over;
Lay down your fear: this hand will prove the treaty,
Making it sure. These rites owe Turnus to me.”
And even as he cried, an arrow flew
Winging against him; no one knew the hand
That turned it loose with whirlwind force; if man
Or god, nobody knew; and no man boasted
Of having been the one to wound Aeneas.

And Turnus saw him leave the field, and captains
And ranks confused, and burned with sudden spirit.
He is hopeful now; he calls for arms, for horses,
Leaps proudly into his chariot, plies the reins,
Drives fiercely, gives to death many brave heroes,
Rolls many, half alive, under the wheels,
Crushes the columns under his car, and showers
Spear after spear at men who try to flee him.
Even as Mars, along the icy Hebrus,
In blood-red fury thunders with his shield
And rousing war gives rein to his wild horses
Faster than winds over the open plain
As Thrace groans under their gallop, and around him
Black Terror’s forms are driven, and Rage, and Ambush,
Attendants on the god,—with equal frenzy
So Turnus rages through the midst of battle,
Lashing the steeds that steam with sweat, and killing
And riding down the slain; the swift hooves spatter
A bloody dew and the sand they pound is bloody.
He has given Sthenelus to death, and Pholus,
And Thamyrus, by spear or sword, close in,
Far off, no matter; Glaucus also, Lades,
Imbrasus’ sons, from Lycia, where their father
Reared them and gave them either kind of armor,
For fighting hand to hand, on foot, or mounted
On chargers swift as wind.

Elsewhere Eumedes
Comes riding to the battle, son of Dolon,
Named after Dolon’s father, and in daring
True son of Dolon, who claimed Achilles’ chariot
For spying on the Grecian camp, and went there
And Diomedes paid him for his daring
With somewhat different tokens, so that Dolon
No longer craved the horses of Achilles.
And Turnus saw that son of his, Eumedes,
Far on the open plain, and overtook him
With the light javelin, through long emptiness,
And stopped his horses, and leaped down, and landed
On a man fallen, half-alive, and stood there,
Foot on Eumedes’ neck, twisted the sword
From Eumedes’ right hand, and changed its silver
To red, deep in Eumedes’ throat, and told him:—
“Lie down there, Trojan; measure off the acres
You sought in war! Any who dare attack me
Are paid rewards like these; they build their walls
On such foundations!” He flung the spear and brought him
Companions in his death, Asbytes, Chloreus,
Thersilochus and Sybaris and Dares
And finally Thymoetes, slain on horseback.
As the north wind roars over the deep Aegean
Piling the combers shoreward, and in heaven
Clouds flee the blast of the gale, so, before Turnus,
The columns yield, the lines give way, and his onrush
Bears him along, and the wind of his going tosses
The nodding plume. And Phegeus tried to stop him,
Flinging himself before the car, and grabbing,
With his right hand, the bridle, twisting, wrenching
The foaming jaws, and while he rode the yoke
The spear-point found his side uncovered, piercing
The mail with grazing wound, but Phegeus managed
To keep the shield before him and for safety
Tried to keep coming forward—the drawn sword
Would be the best protection, but the axle
Caught him, the wheels went over him, and Turnus
Swept by and the scythe of Turnus’ sword cut through him
Between the shield and helmet, and the body
Lay headless on the sand.

While Turnus, winning,
Slaughtered across the field of war, Achates,
With Mnestheus at his side, and young Iulus,
Brought back Aeneas to camp, bleeding and limping,
Using the spear as crutch, struggling, in anger,
To pull the barb from the wound; the shaft had broken.
The thing to do, he tells them over and over,
The quickest way would be to cut around it,
Let the sword do the probing, find the spear-point
No matter how deep it tries to hide, expose it,
Get it out of there, and send him back to battle.
And Iapyx came to help, the son of Iasus,
Dearest beyond all others to Apollo
Who once had offered him his arts, his powers,
His augury, his lyre, the lore of arrows,
But Iapyx made another choice; his father,
It seemed, was dying, and he chose to save him
Through what Apollo had the power to offer,
Knowledge of simples and the arts of healing,
And so he chose the silent craft, inglorious.
So there was Iapyx, trying to be helpful,
Aeneas, leaning on his spear, and cursing,
Indifferent to Iulus’ tears, and others
Standing around, and anxious. The old doctor
Tucked up his robe, compounded potent herbs,
Applied them, fussed around, all to no purpose;
Tried to extract the dart by hand, and then by forceps,—
No luck at all: Apollo does not guide him,
And more and more across the plains the horror
Thickens, and evil nears. They see the sky
Standing on dust; horsemen come on, and arrows
Are falling thick, and a mournful din arises
As fighting men go down, with Mars relentless.

Then Venus, shaken with a mother’s anguish
Over a suffering son, from Cretan Ida
Plucked dittany, a plant with downy leaves
And crimson blossom: the wild goats know and use it
As cure for arrow-wounds. This herb the goddess
Brought down, her presence veiled in cloud, and steeped it
With secret healing in the river-water
Poured in the shining caldrons, and she added
Ambrosia’s healing juice, and panacea,
And agèd Iapyx washed the wound, unknowing
The virtues of that balm, and all the pain
Suddenly, and by magic, left the body;
The blood was staunched, deep in the wound; the arrow
Dropped from the flesh, at the least touch; the hero
Felt all his strength return. “Quick! Bring his weapons!”
Iapyx cries out, the first to fire their spirit
Against the foe, “Why are you standing there,
What are you waiting for? These things have happened
By more than mortal aid or master talent,
It is not my hand, Aeneas, that has saved you,
Some greater god is working here, to send you
To greater deeds.” Aeneas, eager for battle,
Had the gold shin-guards on while he was talking,
Makes the spear flash, impatient, gets the armor
Buckled about the body, and the sword
Ready at the left side, and through the helmet
Stoops down to kiss Iulus:—“Learn, my son,
What I can show you, valor and real labor:
Learn about luck from others. Now my hand
Will be your shield in war, your guide to glory,
To great rewards. When you are grown, remember;
You will have models for your inspiration,
Your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector.”