The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

So from the gates he rushed, a mighty warrior
Wielding a mighty spear, and all the column
Came pouring forth; Mnestheus, Antheus, others,
Leave the forsaken camp. The dust is blinding
Over the plain, the tramp of armies marching
Makes the earth tremble, and from the opposite hillside
Turnus and the Ausonians saw them coming
And a cold chill ran through their bones; Juturna,
Quicker than all the Latins, heard the sound,
Knew it, and fled in terror. And Aeneas
Rushed his dark column over open country
As a cloud-burst sweeps to land across the ocean
And farmers know it, far away, and shudder
Fearful and sure of ruin to woods and cornfield,
And the winds fly on before the storm and herald
The roaring sound to the shore; so, like a cloud-burst,
Aeneas brings his armies on; they gather,
Each company, at his side. Thymbraeus’ sword
Strikes down Osiris; Mnestheus slays Arcetius;
Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens.
Tolumnius, that augur whose spear had broken
The armistice, lies low. A shout arises:
The Rutulians turn back in rout; the dust-clouds
Follow them over the field in flight. Aeneas
Disdains to kill retreating men, refuses
Attack on such as face him; it is Turnus
He watches for, hunts through the gloom of battle,
It is Turnus, Turnus only, whom he summons.

And this Juturna knows, and in her panic
She flings Metiscus, charioteer of Turnus,
Out of the car, far from the reins and axle,
And takes his place, plying the supple reins,
Calls with Metiscus’ voice, assumes his armor.
As a dark swallow through a rich man’s mansion
Flies winging through great halls, hunting for crumbs
For the young birds at home, and now chirps under
The empty courts, now over the quiet pool,
Even so, Juturna, by the horses carried,
Darts here and there, quarters the field, and proudly
Makes a great show of Turnus, her cheering brother,
Yet never lets him close in fight or grapple,
Forever wheeling and turning. But Aeneas
Is dogged in pursuit and loud in challenge.
Whenever he sees that car, and runs to meet it,
Juturna shifts the course. What can he do?
Nothing, it seems, but boil in rage; one anger
Makes conflict in his heart against another.
Messapus comes against him; his left hand
Holds two tough lances, tipped with steel: advancing,
He levels one, well-aimed; Aeneas crouches
On one knee under the shield, but the spear, flying,
Picks off the crested plume from the top of the helmet.
Aeneas’ anger swells; this treachery rankles.
Messapus’ chariot and steeds, withdrawing,
Are far away. He has made appeal to Jove
And the broken treaty’s altars all too often,
And now he fights in earnest; Mars beside him,
He rouses terrible carnage, giving anger
Free rein: he makes no choice of opposition.

What singer or what god could tell the story
Of all these deaths? Both Turnus and Aeneas,
In turn, drive victims over all the plain.
Jupiter willed it so, that mighty nations,
Destined, in time, for everlasting friendship,
Should meet in that great struggle. A Rutulian,
Sucro, held off Aeneas for a little,
And died more quickly, with the sword-point driven
Through ribs’ protecting framework. Turnus met
Amycus, and unsaddled him; his brother,
Diores, fought on foot, and Turnus killed them,
The one by spear, the one by sword; his chariot
Bore off their severed heads, blood dripping from them.
Aeneas, in one charge, brought down three warriors,
Talos and Tanais and brave Cethegus,
And then one more, the sorrowful Onites,
Whose mother was Peridia; and Turnus
Killed brethren, Lycian born, and young Menoetes
Who hated war, in vain, and once loved fishing
In Lerna’s rivers; his Arcadian dwelling
Had been a cottage, and his father planted
Land that he did not own. Like fire through forest
When underbrush is dry, and laurel crackles,
Or like two mountain-torrents roaring seaward,
Each leaving devastation, so Aeneas
And Turnus swept the battle, anger surging,
Surging in those great hearts, swollen to bursting,
Not knowing how to yield, all strength devoted
To death and wounds.

There was a man, Murranus,
Whose pride of ancestry was loud and boastful,
Last of a line of Latin kings. Aeneas
Brought him to earth and laid him low; a stone,
A mighty whirling rock served as the weapon,
And under reins and under yoke the wheels
Rolled him along, and over him the horses
Trampled in earth the lord they had forgotten.
Hyllus rushed Turnus, and a javelin met him
Through the gold temple-band, and pierced the helmet
And lodged there, in the brain. A brave man, Cretheus,
Had no defense against the might of Turnus,
And no god saved Cupencus from Aeneas,
No shield of bronze delayed the speeding weapon.
Aeolus fell, stretched on the plains, a hero
Too powerful for all the Greek battalions,
Whom even Achilles, overthrower of Troy,
Could not bring down. He reached his goal of death
Here in Laurentum, a man whose home, Lyrnesus,
Lay at the foot of Ida, but his tomb
Was on Italian soil. So all the lines
Turned to the battle, Mnestheus, Serestus,
Messapus, tamer of horses, brave Asilas,
Etruscan columns and Evander’s squadrons,
Latins and Trojans, all of them contending
With all their might, no rest, no pause, no slacking.

And now his goddess-mother sent Aeneas
A change of purpose, to direct his column
More quickly toward the town, confuse the Latins
With sudden onslaught. He was tracking Turnus
Here, there, all up and down the columns, watching,
Shifting his gaze, and so he saw that city
Immune from that fierce warfare, calm and peaceful.
The vision of a greater fight comes to him:
He calls Sergestus, Mnestheus, brave Serestus,
And takes position on a mound; the Trojans
Come massing toward him, shield and spear held ready.
And as he stands above them, he gives the orders:—
“Let there be no delay: great Jove is with us.
Let no man go more slackly, though this venture
Is new and unexpected. That city yonder,
The cause of war, the kingdom of Latinus,
Unless they own our mastery, acknowledge
Defeat, declare obedience, I will topple,
Level its smoking roof-tops to the ground.
Or should I wait until it suits prince Turnus
To face the duel with me, and, once beaten,
Consent to fight again? This is the head,
O citizens, this the evil crown of warfare.
Hurry, bring firebrands, win from fire the treaty!”
His words inflame their zeal, and, all together
They form a wedge; a great mass moves to the wall,
Ladders and sudden fire appear from nowhere;
The guards at the gate are butchered; steel is flying,
The sky is dark with arrows. Toward the city
Aeneas lifts his hand, rebukes Latinus,
Calling the gods to witness that his will
Was not for battle, it was forced upon him
By the Italians, double treaty-breakers,
His foes for now the second time. The townsmen
Quarrel among themselves: “Open the town!”,
Cry some, “Admit the Trojans!” and would drag
The king himself to the ramparts. Others hurry
With arms, man the defenses. When a shepherd
Trails bees to their hive in the cleft of a rock and fills it
With smarting smoke, there is fright and noise and fury
Within the waxen camp, and anger sharpened
With buzzing noises, and a black smell rises
With a blind sound, inside the rock, and rolling
Smoke lifts to empty air.

Now a new sorrow
Came to the weary Latins, shook the city
To its foundations, utterly. The queen
Had seen the Trojans coming and the walls
Under attack and fire along the gables
And no Rutulian column, nowhere Turnus
Coming to help. He had been killed, her hero,
She knew at last. Her mind was gone; she cried
Over and over:—“I am the guilty one,
I am the cause, the source of all these evils!”
And other wilder words. And then she tore
Her crimson robes, and slung a noose and fastened
The knot of an ugly death to the high rafter.
The women learned it first, and then Lavinia:
The wide hall rings with grief and lamentation;
Nails scratch at lovely faces, beautiful hair
Is torn from the head. And Rumor spreads the story
All up and down the town, and poor Latinus,
Rending his garments, comes and stares,—wife gone,
And city falling, an old man’s hoary hair
Greyer with bloody dust.

And meanwhile Turnus
Out on the plain pursues the stragglers, slower
And slower now, and less and less exultant
In his triumphant car. From the city comes
A wind that bears a cry confused with terror,
Half heard, but known,—confusion, darkness, sorrow,
An uproar in the town. He checks the horses,
Pauses and listens. And his sister prompts him:—
“This way, this way! The Trojans run, we follow
Where victory shows the path. Let others guard
The houses with their valor. The Italians
Fall in the fight before Aeneas. Let us
Send death to the Trojans, in our turn. You will not
Come off the worse, in numbers or in honor.”
Turnus replies:—“O sister, I have known,
A long while since, that you were no Metiscus,
Since first you broke the treaty and joined the battle.
No use pretending you are not a goddess.
But who, from high Olympus, sent you down
To bear such labors? Was it to see your brother
In pitiful cruel death? What am I doing,
What chance will fortune grant me? I have seen
A man I loved more than the rest, Murranus,
A big man, slain by a big wound, go down.
Ufens is fallen, lucky or unlucky,
In that he never saw our shame; the Trojans
Have won his body and arms. Our homes are burning,
The one thing lacking up to now,—and shall I
Endure this, not refute the words of Drances
With this right hand? Shall I turn my back upon them?
Is it so grim to die? Be kind, O shadows,
Since the high gods have turned their favor from me.
A decent spirit, undisgraced, no coward,
I shall descend to you, never unworthy
Of all my ancient line.”

He had hardly spoken
When a warrior, on foaming steed, came riding
Through all the enemy. His name was Saces,
And his face was badly wounded by an arrow.
He called the name of Turnus, and implored him:—
“We have no other hope; pity your people!
Aeneas is a lightning-bolt; he threatens
Italy’s topmost towers; he will bring them down
In ruins; even now the brands are flying
Along the roof-tops. They look to you, the Latins,
They look for you; and king Latinus mumbles
In doubt—who are his sons, who are his allies?
The queen, who trusted you the most, has perished
By her own hand, has fled the light in terror.
Alone before the gates the brave Atinas
And Messapus hold the line. Around them, squadrons
Crowd close on either side, and the steel harvest
Bristles with pointed swords. And here is Turnus
Wheeling his car across a plain deserted.”

Bewildered by disaster’s shifting image,
Turnus is silent, staring; shame and sadness
Boil up in that great heart, and grief and love
Driven by frenzy. He shakes off the shadows;
The light comes back to his mind. His eyes turn, blazing,
From the wheels of the car to the walls of that great city
Where the flame billowed upward, the roaring blast
Catching a tower, one he himself had fashioned
With jointed beams and rollers and high gangways.
“Fate is the winner now; keep out of my way,
My sister: now I follow god and fortune.
I am ready for Aeneas, ready to bear
Whatever is bitter in death. No longer, sister,
Shall I be shamed, and you behold me. Let me,
Before the final madness, be a madman!”
He bounded from the chariot, came rushing
Through spears, through enemies; his grieving sister
He left behind, forgotten. As a boulder
Torn from a mountain-top rolls headlong downward,
Impelled by wind, or washed by storm, or loosened
By time’s erosion, and comes down the hillside
A mass possessed of evil, leaping and bounding,
And rolling with it men and trees and cattle,
So, through the broken columns, Turnus rushes
On to the city, where the blood goes deepest
Into the muddy ground, and the air whistles
With flying spears. He makes a sudden gesture,
Crying aloud:—“No more, no more, Rutulians!
Hold back your weapons, Latins! Whatever fortune
There may be here is mine. I am the one,
Not you, to make the treaty good, to settle
The issue with the sword. That will be better.”
They all made way and gave him room.

Aeneas,
Hearing the name of Turnus, leaves the city,
Forsakes the lofty walls; he has no patience
With any more delay, breaks off all projects,
Exults, a terrible thunderer in armor,
As huge as Athos, or as huge as Eryx,
Or even father Apennine, that mountain
Roaring above the oaks, and lifting high
His crown of shimmering trees and snowy crest.
Now all men turned their eyes, Rutulians, Trojans,
Italians, those who held the lofty ramparts,
Those battering at the wall below; their shoulders
Were eased of armor now. And king Latinus
Could hardly, in amazement, trust his senses
Seeing these two big men, born worlds apart
Meeting to make decision with the sword.
The plain was cleared, and they came rushing forward,
Hurling, far off, their spears; the fight is on,
The bronze shields clang and ring. Earth gives a groan.
The swords strike hard and often; luck and courage
Are blent in one. And as on mighty Sila
Or on Taburnus’ mountain, when two bullocks
Charge into fight head-on, and trembling herdsmen
Fall back in fear, and the herd is dumb with terror,
And heifers, hardly lowing, stare and wonder
Which one will rule the woodland, which one the herd
Will follow meekly after, and all the time
They gore each other with savage horns, and shoulders
And necks and ribs run streams of blood, and bellowing
Fills all the woodland,—even so, Aeneas
And Daunus’ son clash shield on shield; the clamor
Fills heaven. And Jupiter holds the scales in balance
With each man’s destiny as weight and counter,
And one the heavier under the doom of death.