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.”
Meanwhile the dawn had brought to weary mortals
Her kindly light, and work again, and labors.
Along the winding shore Aeneas, Tarchon,
Set up the pyres, and all, as had their fathers,
Brought bodies of their kinsmen, lit the fires
That burned, but darkly, and the light of heaven
Was hidden by the blackness of that shadow.
Three times, in glittering armor, they went riding
Around the funeral blaze, three times they circled
The mournful fire and cried with wailing voices.
Tears fell on earth and armor; heaven heard
The groans of men, the blare of trumpet. Spoils
Went to the fire, the handsome swords, the helmets,
Bridles and shining wheels, and well-known gifts
For men who died, their shields, their luckless weapons.
Bullocks were slain, and bristly swine, and sheep
From all the fields, homage to fire and death,
And all along the shore, they watched their comrades
Burn on the pyres, and guarded the dead embers,
And could not leave till day had gone, and night
Dewy with gleaming stars rolled over heaven.
And elsewhere in the countryside the Latins
Built, as the Trojans had, pyres without number.
Many were slain, and many men were buried
Where they had fallen, and many men sent home
To their own cities, and many no one knew,
No one could mark with honor or distinction,
And these were given one common pyre; the fields
Rivalled each other as the fires kept burning.
Three days had gone; and over bones and ashes
They heaped the earth, still warm. Inside the walls,
Within the city of that rich king Latinus,
Grief swelled from murmur to wailing, to loud uproar,
The greatest share of sorrow. Brides and mothers,
Sisters and fatherless boys, crying and cursing,
Denounced the evil war and Turnus’ marriage.
They call on him, on Turnus alone, to settle
The issue with the sword; he is the one,
Their accusation cries, who wants the kingdom,
All Italy for himself, and the highest honors.
And Drances, savage, tips the balance further:
Turnus, alone, (he says) is called on, Turnus
Alone is called to battle. But against them
Many a man has good to say of Turnus,
And the shadow of the queen’s great name protects him,
And he has been a mighty man in battle.
And during all this swirling burning tumult,
Envoys, who came from Diomede’s great city,
Brought gloomy news: nothing had been accomplished
With all that toil and trouble; nothing gained
By gifts or gold or pleading, and the Latins
Were left two choices, to seek for other allies
Or ask Aeneas for peace. Under the burden
Of that great grief even Latinus falters.
Aeneas is called by fate, the will of heaven
Is clear, the gods are angry; the fresh graves,
Before their eyes, bear more than ample witness.
Therefore, he calls a council; all his leaders
Stream through the crowded highways to the palace,
And in their midst, the oldest man among them,
The first in power, Latinus, far from happy,
Speaks from his throne,--the messengers from Arpi
Should tell what news they bring, in proper order,
Sparing no single item. All were silent,
Obedient to his word, and Venulus
Gave the report:--“O citizens, we have seen
The Argive camp, and Diomede. We made
The journey safely through all kinds of perils.
We have touched the hand by which Troy fell. That hero
Has his own city now, named from his father,
In Garganus’ conquered fields. We entered there,
Had leave to speak, offered our gifts, and told him
Our name and country, why we came to Arpi,
Who made war on us. He listened to our story
And answered us, quite calmly. These are his words:--
‘O happy people of the realm of Saturn,
Ancient Ausonians, what chance, what fortune
Disturbs your rest, leads you to unknown warfare?
All of us, every one, who desecrated
The fields of Troy with steel--I do not mention
All that we suffered under those high walls,
Or heroes drowned in Simois--every one,
All over the world, has paid and kept on paying
All kinds of punishment, all kinds of torture,
A band that even Priam would have to pity.
Minerva knows it, with her baleful star,
Euboea’s headland knows it, and Caphereus,
That cape of vengeance. From that warfare driven
Ulysses faced the Cyclops; Menelaus
Was exiled far to the west. Idomeneus
Lost Crete: what need is there to mention Pyrrhus,
To name the Locrians on Libya’s coastline?
Even the Greeks’ great captain, Agamemnon,
Met shame beyond his threshold; Clytemnestra
Struck with her evil hand,--the king of men,
The conqueror of Asia, fell, a cuckold
Murdered in his own palace, at Mycenae.
To me the gods were kinder; they would not let me
See home again, the wife I loved, the altars
Of lovely Calydon; here I am, still haunted
By portents horrible to see--my comrades
Lost, seeking heaven on their wings, or aimless
Along the rivers, crying in shrill voices
Around the rocks, creatures of lamentation
That once were men! The gods know how to punish.
This, so it seems, was what I had to hope for
Ever since that first moment of my madness
When I took steel in hand and wounded Venus.
No, no; do not invite me to such battles.
The walls of Troy have fallen; I have no quarrel
With any Trojans any more. Those evils
I have forgotten, or, if I remember,
I find no pleasure in them. Take Aeneas
The gifts you bring me from your native country.
I have stood up against his terrible weapons,
I have fought him hand to hand. Believe an expert,
Take it from one who knows, how huge he rises
Above that shield of his, with what a whirlwind
He rifles out that spear. If Troy had only
Two other men as good, Greece would be mourning
With doom the other way, and the towns of Argos
Admit the conqueror. For ten long years
They kept us waiting at that stubborn city,
And the Greek victory was at a standstill
Through Hector and Aeneas; both were famous
In spirit, both in feats of arms, Aeneas
The more devoted man. I tell you, join them
In treaty, on what terms you can. I warn you,
Beware, beware, of facing them in battle.’
So you have heard, great king, Diomede’s answer
And what he thinks of this great war.”
The sound
Rose, as he ended, like the sound of water
When rocks delay a flood, and the banks re-echo
The stir and protest of the angry river,
Confusion, argument, in swirl and eddy,--
So the Ausonians brawled among each other,
Muttered, and then subsided; and king Latinus
Spoke from his lofty throne:--“I wish, O Latins,
Decision had been taken in such matters
A long while since; that would have been much better.
This is no time for councils to be summoned.
The enemy is at the gate. We are waging
A most unhappy war against a people
Descended from the gods; we cannot beat them.
No battles wear them down; if they are conquered,
They cannot let the sword fall from the hand.
Whatever hope you had in Diomede,
Forget it. All your hope is what you are,
But you can see how little that amounts to.
You have it all before your eyes; you have it
In your own hands, and most of it is ruin.
I lay no blame on any man; what valor
Could do, it has done: the body of our kingdom
Has fought with all its strength. We are bled to the white.
Hear, then, what I propose; I am not yet certain
Entirely--here it is, in brief. We have
An ancient tract of land, far to the west,
Touching the Tuscan river, where our natives,
Rutulians, Auruncans, sow and harrow
The stubborn hills, rough land and cattle country.
Let all this region and its high pine-forest
Be ceded to the Trojans out of friendship;
Let us make fair terms and have them share our kingdom.
Here they may build and settle if they want to.
But if their minds are bent on other borders,
On any other nation, if they are able
To leave our soil, let us build a navy for them,
Twenty good ships of oak, more if they need them.
We have the timber at the water’s edge;
All they need tell us is what kind, how many,
For us to give them workmen, bronze, and dockyards.
A hundred spokesmen from the noblest Latins
Should go with boughs of olive, bearing presents,
Talents of gold and ivory, the robe,
The throne, of state, symbols of our dominion.
Consult together; help our weary fortunes.”
Then Drances, hostile still, whom Turnus’ glory
Goaded with envy’s bitter sting, arose,
A man of wealth, better than good with his tongue;
If not so fierce in war, no fool in council,
A trouble-maker, though; his mother was noble,
His father no-one much. He spoke in anger:--
“Good king, you ask our guidance in a matter
Obscure to none, needing no word of ours.
All know, admit they know, what fortune orders,
Yet mutter rather than speak. Let him abate
That bluster of his, through whose disastrous ways
Evil has come upon us, and bad omens.
I will speak out, however much he threaten.
Let us have freedom to speak frankly. Mourning
Has settled on the town, the light of the leaders
Dies out in darkness, while that confident hero,
Confident, but in flight, attacks the Trojans
And frightens heaven with arms. To all these gifts
Promised and sent the Trojans, add, O king,
One more: let no one’s violence dissuade you
From giving your daughter in a worthy marriage,
An everlasting covenant between us.
But if such terror holds our hearts, then let us
Beseech this prince, sue for his royal favor,
Let him give up his claim, for king and country.
Why, Turnus, fountain-head of all our troubles
Consign us, wretches that we are, to danger
Open and often? In war there is no safety.
Turnus, we ask for peace, and, to confirm it,
The only proper pledge. You know I hate you,
Make no mistake in that regard. But still,
I, first of all, implore you, pity your people!
Put off that pride: give in, give up, and leave us!
We have seen enough of death and desolation.
If glory moves you, you with the heart of oak,
Or if the royal dowry is your passion,
Be bold, have confidence,--and face Aeneas!
So Turnus have his royal bride, no matter
If we, cheap souls, a herd unwept, unburied,
Lie strewn across the field. O son of Mars,
If son you really are, the challenger
Is calling: dare you look him in the face?”
And Turnus’ violence blazed out in fury,
A groan or a growl and savage words erupting:--
“A flow of talk is what you have, O Drances,
Always, when wars need men; and you come running
The first one there, whenever the senate gathers.
But this is not the time for words, that fly
From your big mouth in safety, in a meeting,
While the walls keep off the foe, and the dry trenches
Have not yet swum in blood. As usual,
Orator, thunder on! Convict me, Drances,
Of cowardice, you having slain so many
Tremendous heaps of Trojans, all the fields
Stacked with your trophies! Try your courage, Drances:
The enemy are not far to seek, our walls
Are circled with them. Coming? Why the coyness?
Will your idea of Mars be found forever
In windy tongue and flying feet? I, beaten?
Who says so? What foul liar calls me beaten,
Seeing the Tiber red with blood, Evander
Laid low with all his house, and the Arcadians
Stripped of their arms? Ask Pandarus and Bitias,
The thousands I have sent to hell, cut off
Inside their walls, hedged by a ring of foemen.
_In war there is no safety._ Sing that song,
Madman, to your own cause and prince Aeneas!
Keep on, don’t stop, confound confusion further
With panic fear, and praise those noble heroes
Of that twice-beaten race, despite the arms
Of King Latinus. Now the Myrmidons,
Or so we hear, are trembling, and their river
Runs backward in sheer fright, and Diomedes
Turns pale, and I suppose Achilles also!
Now he pretends my threats, my anger, scare him--
A nice artistic piece of work!--he sharpens
Slander with apprehension. Listen to him!
Listen to me: I tell you, you will never
Lose such a life as yours by this right hand,
Quit worrying, keep that great and fighting spirit
Forever in that breast! And now, my father,
I turn to you and more important counsels.
If you have hope no longer in our arms,
If we are so forsaken, if we are lost,
Utterly, over one repulse, if fortune
Cannot retrace her steps, let us pray for peace,
Let us hold out helpless hands in supplication.
But still, if only some of our valor, something--
Happy the men who died before they saw it!
But if we still have any power, warriors
Standing unhurt, any Italian city,
Any ally at all, if any Trojans
Have ever died (their glory has been costly
As well as ours, and the storm has no more spared them),
Why do we fail like cowards on the edge
Of victory? Why do we shudder and tremble
Before the trumpet sounds? Many an evil
Has turned to good in time; and many a mortal
Fate has despised and raised. Diomede, Arpi,
Refuse us help; so be it. There are others,
There is Messapus for one, Tolumnius
Whose luck is good, and all those other leaders
Sent by so many nations, and great glory
Will follow Latium’s pride. We have Camilla
Of Volscian stock, leading her troop of horsemen,
Her warriors bright in bronze. If I am summoned
Alone to meet Aeneas, if I alone
Am obstinate about the common welfare,
If such is your decision, my hands have never
Found victory so shrinking or elusive
That I should fear the risk. Bring on your Trojan!
Let him surpass Achilles, and wear armor
Made by the hands of Vulcan! Second to no one
Of all my ancestors in pride and courage,
I, Turnus, vow this life to you, Latinus,
My king, my father. _The challenger is calling_--
Well, let him call, I hope he does. No Drances,
If heaven’s wrath is here, will ever appease it,
No Drances take away my honor and glory.”
So, in the midst of doubt, they brawled and quarreled,
And all the time Aeneas’ line came forward.
A messenger rushed through the royal palace,
Through scenes of noise and uproar, through the city
Filling the town with panic: _They are coming_,
He cries, _they are ready for battle, all the Trojans,
All the Etruscans, rank on rank, from Tiber,
All over the plain!_ And the people’s minds are troubled,
Their hearts are shaken, their passion and their anger
Pricked by no gentle spur. However frightened,
They call for arms, they make impatient gestures,
The young men shout, and the old ones moan and mutter;
The noise, from every side, goes up to heaven
Loud and discordant, the way jays rasp and chatter
Or swans along Padusa’s fishy river
Utter their raucous clamor over the pools.
And Turnus, seizing on the moment, cries:--
“A fine time, citizens, to call a council,
To sit there praising peace. The enemy
Is up in arms against us!” That was all,
And he went rushing from the lofty palace.
“Volusus, arm the squadrons of the Volscians,
Lead the Rutulians forth! Messapus, Coras,
Deploy the horsemen over the plains! You others,
Some of you, guard the city gates and towers!
The rest, be ready to charge where I direct you!”
So Turnus gave excited orders: quickly,
The rush to the walls was on, all over the city.
Latinus left the council, sorely troubled
In that sad hour, put off the plan he hoped for,
Blaming himself in that he had not welcomed,
More eagerly, his Trojan son Aeneas
For the welfare of the city. And his men
Were digging trenches, trundling stones, or setting
Stakes in the ground, and pitfalls; and the trumpet
Sounded for bloody war; and boys and mothers
Filled in the gaps along the walls. Amata,
The queen, with a great throng of matrons, rode
To Pallas’ temple on the heights; beside her
The girl Lavinia, cause of all that evil,
Went with head bowed and downcast eyes. The women
Climbed on, and made the temple steam with incense,
And from the threshold chanted sorrowful prayers:--
“O mighty power in war, Tritonian virgin,
Break off his spear, lay low the Trojan robber,
Stretch him in death before our lofty portals!”
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.
Camilla’s squadron
Was first to flee, their leader lost; Atinas,
Keen though he was, sped off; in reel and rout
Rutulians followed; captains and troops uncaptained,
Shattered and broken, turned and wheeled their horses
On a gallop toward the walls. No one can halt
The Trojans now, nor stand against the havoc;
They carry unstrung bows on nerveless shoulders,
And the horses drum in the rush in the dust of the plain.
A cloud of dust, black murk, rolls toward the walls,
And from the watch-towers mothers wail to heaven,
Beating their breasts, screaming in lamentation.
The first ones stumble through the gates; upon them
The enemy presses hard, and friend and foe
Are all confused together. Men are dying,
Gasping away their lives on their own threshold,
In sight of home and shelter, unprotected
Within their native walls. Some close the gates,
Dare not admit their wretched comrades, pleading,
Nor take them to the town. And slaughter follows,
Most pitiful: the sword that guards the portals
Kills citizens who try to rush in blindly.
Their parents, weeping, see them shut from the city,
And some, who are driven back, go rolling headlong
Into the trenches, and others, dashing wildly
With loosened rein, crash into gates and portals
Locked tight against them. Along the walls the mothers
Try to be fighters (love of country taught them)
And, as they saw Camilla do, fling weapons
With trembling hands, or grasp at stakes or oak-poles
To do the work that steel should do, poor creatures,
Eager to die, before the walls, in the vanguard.
Meanwhile, to Turnus in his forest ambush
The terrible news is borne: Acca reports it,
The Volscian ranks destroyed, Camilla fallen,
The enemy, deadly, massing thick, and sweeping
All things before them in triumphant warfare,
Fear at the very walls. And Turnus, raging--
(As Jupiter’s relentless will commanded)
Forsook the ambush in the hills, abandoned
The rugged woodland, and scarcely had he done so,
Passing from sight to valley, when Aeneas
Entered the pass in safety, crossed the mountain,
Came out of the dark woods. And both were striving
To reach the city, swiftly, in full column
And almost side by side: in a single moment
Aeneas saw the plain and the dust rising
And Turnus saw Aeneas, fierce for battle,
And heard the stamp and snorting of the horses.
There was almost time for fighting, but the Sun-god,
Colored in crimson, brought his weary horses
To bathe in the Western ocean; day was over,
Night coming on. They camped before the city.