THE FINAL COMBAT
As Turnus saw the Latins failing, broken,
With Mars against them, and all eyes upon him
Awaiting the fulfillment of his promise,
He burned with wrath, implacable, and lifted
His spirit high, as in the fields of Carthage
A lion, sorely wounded by the hunters,
Fights harder for the hurt, the happier for it.
And the mane rises on the neck and shoulders,
And the jaws break off the weapon, and the bloody mouth
Roars out defiance, even so in Turnus
The violent spirit raged. He spoke to the king
In angry words:--“Turnus won’t keep them waiting;
No reason for these cowards to renounce
Their bargain. Start the holy ritual, father,
Arrange the terms. I go to meet the Trojan;
Let the Latins sit and watch it if they want to,
And this right arm will send him down to Hell,
The renegade from Asia. I alone
Answer the argument that calls us cowards,
I, with one single sword. Or we are beaten
And he takes Lavinia home.”
Latinus answered
With quiet in his heart:--“O youth, distinguished
Above them all in spirit, the more your courage
Rises to fierceness, the more I find it needful
To take slow counsel, to balance every hazard.
You have the kingdom of your father Daunus,
And many a captured town; and I, Latinus,
Lack neither gold nor spirit. In our country
There are other girls, unwed, and not ignoble.
Let me say this--I know it is not easy--
As frankly as I can, and listen to me:
It was not right for me to give my daughter
To any of her former native suitors,
And gods and men so prophesied. I loved you,
Turnus, and I gave in: we are related
By blood, I know, and when Amata sorrowed,
I broke off every bond, cancelled the promise,
Took up unholy arms. From that day, Turnus,
You see what wars pursue me, and what dangers,
What sufferings you, above all men, submit to.
We have been beaten twice in a great battle
And now we hold, just barely, in our city
The hopes of Italy. The streams of Tiber
Are warm with blood of ours, and the broad fields
White with our bones. In what direction
Do I keep turning, back and forth? What madness
Changes my purpose? If, with Turnus dead,
I stand prepared to join them to me as allies,
Why not, while he still lives, break off the conflict?
What will they say, all your Rutulian kinsmen,
All Italy, if I (may fortune keep
The word I say from coming true!) betray you
To death, the suitor of my only daughter?
Consider war’s uncertainties, and pity
Your aged father, far from us and grieving
In Ardea, his homeland.” The king’s appeal
Moved Turnus not at all; his temper worsened,
Was aggravated by the attempt at healing.
He managed, with an effort, to say something:--
“Most kindly father, the care you have for me
Lay down, for my sake; let me have permission
To trade death for renown. I too, dear father,
Toss no mean dart, swing no mean sword, and blood
Follows the wounds I give. His goddess-mother
Will not be there, this time, to hide him, running
To the folds of her gown and cloud and empty shadows.”
But Queen Amata, sick and almost dying
From fear of the new battle-chance, was weeping;
He was the son she wanted; she would not let him
Risk that heroic life, and, clinging to him,
She made her plea:--“Turnus, our only hope,
Our only comfort in our sad old age,
The pride and honor of Latinus’ kingdom
Rest in your keeping, and our sinking house
Depends on you to shore it up from ruin.
If tears of mine can move you, if my daughter
Merits the least devotion, I implore you,
I beg one favor: do not fight the Trojan!
Whatever danger waits you in that duel
Awaits me also, Turnus; I shall leave
The hateful light when you do, I shall never
Be such a captive as to see Aeneas
Come to my home as son-in-law.” Lavinia
Listened and wept and blushed, her maiden features
Suffused with color, as the stain of crimson
Adds hue to Indian ivory, or lilies
Lose something of their whiteness, mixed with roses.
And Turnus, troubled enough, was troubled further
Watching the girl, and burned the more for battle,
And spoke, however briefly, to Amata:--
“Do not, O mother, follow me with tears
Or any such omen as I go to battle.
Turnus can not delay his death.” He turned
To Idmon, then, and told him:--“Be my herald:
Deliver to that Phrygian usurper
These words from me--I know that he will hate them--
When dawn to-morrow, riding in the heaven
In crimson chariot, glows and reddens, let him
Hold back his Trojans, let their weapons and ours
Have rest, let us end the war, two of us only;
There let Lavinia be sought, her husband
The victor on that field!”
And he went home
To his own quarters, hurrying, demanding
His horses, given Pilumnus by Orithyia,
Whiter than snow, swifter than wind. And he was happy
Looking at them, all spirit, as they nickered
Seeing their master. The drivers stood about them,
Grooming the manes, patting the chests. And Turnus
Fits to his shoulders the stiff coat of armor,
The gold, the bronze, and tests the readiness
Of sword and shield and the horns of the ruddy crest
Vulcan had made the sword for Daunus, metal
Glowing white-hot and plunged in Stygian water.
The spear stood leaning on a mighty pillar
In the great hall, a trophy won from Actor;
He seized it poised it, shook it, cried aloud:--
“Be with me now, good spear that never failed me!
The time has come. Let me lay low that body,
Let my tough hands rip off his coat of armor,
Let me shove that eunuch’s crimped and perfumed tresses
Deep in the dust!” So he was driven by fury,
Sparks leaping from his countenance, and fire
Flashing at every glance; he is like a bull
Bellowing before battle, charging tree-trunks
To get the anger into his horns, head lowered
As if to gore the winds, and pawing sand.
And in the other camp Aeneas, likewise,
Fierce in the arms his mother brought from Vulcan,
Sharpens his fighting spirit and rejoices
That the war’s end is near through this agreement.
He comforts comrades, reassures Iulus,
Sad in his fear, tells them the fates, and orders
Definite answer brought to King Latinus
With proper terms of armistice.
And dawn
Had scarcely touched the mountain-tops with light
And the Sun-god’s horses risen from the ocean,
When Trojans and Rutulians left the city
And came to the great plain, the field of combat,
Under the walls, and in the midst erected
The hearths and altars for their common gods.
Others, their temples bound with holy vervain,
Veiled with the sacred robes, brought fire and water.
Through the full gates the Ausonian host came streaming,
And from the other side, Trojans, Etruscans,
Harnessed in steel, as if a battle called them,
With leaders flashing there, amid their thousands,
Brilliant in gold and purple, brave Asilas,
Mnestheus, Assaracus’ high-souled descendant,
Messapus, tamer of horses, son of Neptune.
Each, at a signal, found his post; the spears
Were fixed in the earth, and the shields rested on them.
Then came the mothers in their eagerness,
And the unarmed throng, and the weak old men, all crowding
Towers and house-tops, or standing by the portals.
But Juno, from the summit now called Alban,
Nameless in those days, lacking fame and glory,
Looked over the plain, the lines of Latin and Trojan,
The city of Latinus, and she turned,
A goddess to a goddess, to Juturna,
Sister of Turnus, guardian of still pools
And sounding rivers; Jupiter had given
This honor to her, for the honor taken,
The lost virginity. Juno addressed her:--
“O glory of the rivers, dear Juturna,
You know you are the only one I have favored
Of all the Latin girls who have made their way
To great-souled Jove’s ungrateful couch; I gave you,
Gladly, a place in Heaven; learn, Juturna,
A sorrow of yours; do not reproach me for it.
Where fortune seemed to grant it, and the Fates
Let things go well for Latium, I protected
Your brother and your city. Now I see him
Faced with unequal destiny. The day
Of doom and enemy violence draws near.
I cannot watch this battle and this treaty;
You, it may be, have in you greater daring,
Resourceful for your brother’s sake. Go on;
That much is only decent. Happier fortunes
Will follow the unfortunate, if only--”
As she broke off, Juturna wept; her hand
Struck thrice, four times, her lovely breast. And Juno
Cried:--“This is not the time for tears, Juturna!
Hurry; and if there is some way to save him,
Snatch him from death; or stir up war, break off
The covenant: be daring--you are granted
Authority from Juno!” And she left her
Doubtful and suffering, with wounded spirit.
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.”
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.
Confident, Turnus, rising to the sword
Full height, is a flash of light; he strikes. The Trojans,
The Latins, cry aloud and come up standing.
But the sword is treacherous; it is broken off
With the blow half spent: the fire of Turnus finds
No help except in flight. Swift as the wind
He goes, and stares at a broken blade, a hand
Unarmed. The story is that in that hurry,
That rush of his, to arms, when the steeds were harnessed,
He took Metiscus’ sword, not the one Daunus
Had left him. For a while it served its purpose
While the Trojans ran away, but when it met
The armor Vulcan forged, the mortal blade
Split off, like brittle ice, with glittering splinters
Like ice on the yellow sand. So Turnus flies
Madly across the plain in devious circles:
The Trojans ring him round, and a swamp on one side,
High walls on the other.
Aeneas, the pursuer,
Is none too swift: the arrow has left him hurt;
His knees give way, but he keeps on, keeps coming
After the panting enemy, as a hound,
Running a stag to bay, at the edge of the water
Or hedged by crimson plumes, darts in, and barks,
And snaps his jaws, closes and grips, is shaken
Off from the flanks again, and once more closes,
And a great noise goes up the air; the waters
Resound, and the whole sky thunders with the clamor.
Turnus has time, even in flight, for calling
Loud to Rutulians, each by name, demanding,
In terrible rage, the sword, the sword, the good one,
The one he knows. Let anybody bring it,
Aeneas threatens, and death and doom await him,
And the town will be a ruin. Wounded, still
He presses on. They go in five great circles,
Around and back: no game, with silly prizes,
Are they playing now; the life and blood of Turnus
Go to the winner.
A wild olive-tree
Stood here, with bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus,
Revered by rescued sailors, who used to offer
Ex-votos to the native gods, their garments
In token of gratitude. For this the Trojans
Cared nothing, lopped the branches off to clear
The run of the field. Aeneas’ spear had fastened
Deep in the trunk where the force of the cast had brought it,
Stuck in the grip of the root. Aeneas, stooping,
Yanks at the shaft; he cannot equal Turnus
In speed of foot but the javelin is wingèd.
And Turnus, in a terrible moment of panic,
Cries:--“Faunus, pity me, and Earth, most kindly,
If ever I was reverent, as Aeneas
And those he leads have not been, hold the steel,
Do not let go!” He prayed, and he was answered.
Aeneas tugged and wrestled, pulled and hauled,
But the wood held on. And, while he strained, Juturna
Rushed forward, once again Metiscus’ double,
With the good sword for her brother. Then Venus, angry
Over such wanton interference, enters
And the root yields. The warriors, towering high,
Each one renewed in spirit, one with sword,
One with the spear, both breathing hard, are ready
For what Mars has to send.
And Juno, gazing
From a golden cloud to earth, watching the duel,
Heard the all-powerful king of high Olympus:--
“What will the end be now, O wife? What else
Remains? You know, and you admit you know it,
Aeneas is heaven-destined, the native hero
Become a god, raised by the fates, exalted.
What are you planning? with what hope lingering on
In the cold clouds? Was it proper that a mortal
Should wound a god? that the sword, once lost, be given
Turnus again?--Juturna, of course, is nothing
Without your help--was it proper that the beaten
Increase in violence? Stop it now, I tell you;
Listen to my entreaties: I would not have you
Devoured by grief in silence; I would not have you
Bring me, again, anxiety and sorrow,
However sweet the voice. The end has come.
To harry the Trojans over land and ocean,
To light up war unspeakable, to defile
A home with grief, to mingle bridal and sorrow,--
All this you were permitted. Go no farther!
That is an absolute order.” And Juno, downcast
In gaze, replied:--“Great Jove, I knew your pleasure:
And therefore, much against my will, left Turnus,
Left earth. Were it not so, you would not see me
Lonely upon my airy throne in heaven,
Enduring things both worthy and unworthy,
But I would be down there, by flame surrounded,
Fighting in the front ranks, and hauling Trojans
To battle with their enemies. Juturna,
I urged, I own, to help her wretched brother,
And I approved, I own, her greater daring
For his life’s sake, but I did not approve,
And this I swear by Styx, that river whose name
Binds all the gods to truth, her taking weapons,
Aiming the bow. I give up now, I leave
These battles, though I hate to. I ask one favor
For Latium, for the greatness of your people,
And this no law of fate forbids: when, later,
And be it so, they join in peace, and settle
Their laws, their treaties, in a blessèd marriage,
Do not command the Latins, native-born,
To change their language, to be known as Trojans,
To alter speech or garb; let them be Latium,
Let Alban kings endure through all the ages,
Let Roman stock, strong in Italian valor,
Prevail: since Troy has fallen, let her name
Perish and be forgotten.” Smiling on her,
The great creator answered:--“You are truly
True sister of Jove and child of Saturn, nursing
Such tides of anger in the heart! Forget it!
Abate the rise of passion. The wish is granted.
I yield, and more than that,--I share your purpose.
Ausonians shall keep their old tradition,
Their fathers’ speech and ways; their name shall be
Even as now it is. Their sacred laws,
Their ritual, I shall add, and make all Latins
Men of a common tongue. A race shall rise
All-powerful, of mingled blood; you will see them
By virtue of devotion rise to glories
Not men nor gods have known, and no race ever
Will pay you equal honor.” And the goddess
Gave her assent, was happy, changed her purpose,
Left heaven and quit the cloud.
This done, the father
Formed yet another purpose, that Juturna
Should leave her fighting brother. There are, men say,
Twin fiends, or triple, sisters named the Furies,
Daughters of Night, with snaky coils, and pinions
Like those of wind. They are attendant spirits
Before the throne of Jove and whet the fears
Of sickly mortals, when the king of heaven
Contrives disease or dreadful death, or frightens
The guilty towns in war. Now he dispatches
One of the three to earth, to meet Juturna,
An omen visible; and so from heaven
She flew with whirlwind swiftness, like an arrow
Through cloud from bowstring, armed with gall or poison,
Loosed from a Parthian quiver, cleaving shadows
Swifter than man may know, a shaft no power
Has power of healing over:--so Night’s daughter
Came down to earth, and when she saw the Trojans
And Turnus’ columns, she dwindled, all of a sudden,
To the shape of that small bird, which, in the night-time,
Shrills its late song, ill-omened, on the roof-tops
Or over tombs, insistent through the darkness.
And so the fiend, the little screech-owl, flying
At Turnus, over and over, shrilled in warning,
Beating the wings against the shield, and Turnus
Felt a strange torpor seize his limbs, and terror
Made his hair rise, and his voice could find no utterance.
But when, far off, Juturna knew the Fury
By whir of those dread wings, she tore her tresses,
Clawed at her face, and beat her breast, all anguish
Over her brother:--“What can a sister do
To help you now, poor Turnus? What remains
For me to bear? I have borne so much already.
What skill of mine can make the daylight longer
In your dark hour? Can I face such a portent?
Now, now, I leave the battle-line forever.
Foul birds, I fear enough; haunt me no further,
I know that beat of the wings, that deadly whirring;
I recognize, too well, Jove’s arrogant orders,
His payment for my maidenhood. He gave me
Eternal life, but why? Why has he taken
The right of death away from me? I might have
Ended my anguish, surely, with my brother’s,
Gone, at his side, among the fearful shadows,
But, no,--I am immortal. What is left me
Of any possible joy, without my brother?
What earth can open deep enough to take me,
A goddess, to the lowest shades?” The mantle,
Grey-colored, veiled her head, and the goddess, sighing,
Sank deep from sight to the greyness of the river.
And on Aeneas presses: the flashing spear,
Brandished, is big as a tree; his anger cries:--
“Why put it off forever, Turnus, hang-dog?
We must fight with arms, not running. Take what shape
You will, gather your strength or craft; fly up
To the high stars, or bury yourself in earth!”
And Turnus shook his head and answered:--“Jove,
Being my enemy, scares me, and the gods,
Not your hot words, fierce fellow.” And his vision,
Glancing about, beheld a mighty boulder,
A boundary-mark, in days of old, so huge
A dozen men in our degenerate era
Could hardly pry it loose from earth, but Turnus
Lifts it full height, hurls it full speed and, acting.
Seems not to recognize himself, in running,
Or moving, or lifting his hands, or letting the stone
Fly into space; he shakes at the knees, his blood
Runs chill in the veins, and the stone, through wide air going,
Falls short, falls spent. As in our dreams at night-time,
When sleep weighs down our eyes, we seem to be running,
Or trying to run, and cannot, and we falter,
Sick in our failure, and the tongue is thick
And the words we try to utter come to nothing,
No voice, no speech,--so Turnus finds the way
Blocked off, wherever he turns, however bravely.
All sorts of things go through his mind: he stares
At the Rutulians, at the town; he trembles,
Quails at the threat of the lance; he cannot see
Any way out, any way forward. Nothing.
The chariot is gone, and the charioteer,
Juturna or Metiscus, nowhere near him.
The spear, flung by Aeneas, comes with a whir
Louder than stone from any engine, louder
Than thunderbolt; like a black wind it flies,
Bringing destruction with it, through the shield-rim,
Its sevenfold strength, through armor, through the thigh.
Turnus is down, on hands and knees, huge Turnus
Struck to the earth. Groaning, the stunned Rutulians
Rise to their feet, and the whole hill resounds,
The wooded heights give echo. A suppliant, beaten,
Humbled at last, his hands reach out, his voice
Is low in pleading:--“I have deserved it, surely,
And I do not beg off. Use the advantage.
But if a parent’s grief has any power
To touch the spirit, I pray you, pity Daunus,
(I would Anchises), send him back my body.
You have won; I am beaten, and these hands go out
In supplication: everyone has seen it.
No more. I have lost Lavinia. Let hatred
Proceed no further.”
Fierce in his arms, with darting glance, Aeneas
Paused for a moment, and he might have weakened,
For the words had moved him, when, high on the shoulder,
He saw the belt of Pallas, slain by Turnus,
Saw Pallas on the ground, and Turnus wearing
That belt with the bright studs, of evil omen
Not only to Pallas now, a sad reminder,
A deadly provocation. Terrible
In wrath, Aeneas cries:--“Clad in this treasure,
This trophy of a comrade, can you cherish
Hope that my hands would let you go? Now Pallas,
Pallas exacts his vengeance, and the blow
Is Pallas, making sacrifice!” He struck
Before he finished speaking: the blade went deep
And Turnus’ limbs were cold in death; the spirit
Went with a moan indignant to the shadows.
APPENDIX
[Illustration: text decoration]
VIRGIL’S LIFE AND TIMES
Publius Vergilius Maro, whom we call Virgil, was born up north in Italy,
somewhere in the vicinity of Mantua, in the year 70 B.C. Julius Caesar,
that year, was a man of thirty. The poet’s father was a landholder,
sufficiently affluent to afford his son a pretty extensive course of
education. Virgil grew up to be tall, dark, perhaps a little rawboned
and loose-jointed, never very robust, quiet, no doubt, but with more fun
in him, and malice, too, if the ascription of the minor poems is
correct, than we sometimes think. As a youth, he studied first at
Cremona, then at Milan, and in this he was fortunate, for the scholars
of the north seemed to have laid more emphasis on the humanistic side of
education, on arts, letters, and philosophy, than did the
materialist-minded rhetoricians of Rome. To Rome, in his late teens,
Virgil did go for pre-legal study, for him a not very congenial
experience; it is on record, according to Donatus, that he pleaded
exactly one case, and that unsuccessfully. He was twenty-one when Julius
Caesar crossed the Rubicon, and the Civil War flared up between Caesar
and Pompey, and it seems probable that he was pressed into service with
Caesar’s forces, not too much against his political sympathies, however
distasteful to his temperament. His service was not long: the state of
his health may have brought him early leave or discharge; in his younger
twenties he turned to the study of philosophy at Naples.
He found good teachers there, Siro, Philodemus, highly trained men of
the Epicurean school, versed not only in Greek thought but familiar,
also, with the wisdom of the East. He found good fellow-students, too, a
remarkable list of influential Romans, men who were to be his lifelong
friends, as Naples was to be made his permanent home, in spite of
traveling, later, and the honor of an official residence at Rome. Naples
was a pleasant place to be during those years, above the battles that
broke and raged not only up and down the peninsula, but to east and
west, in Spain, in Gaul, in Thessaly, in Africa. The republican
institutions which had sufficed an agrarian economy were breaking down
under the pressures of the new rising mercantile and almost industrial
society; there had even been something like a primitive proletarian
revolution under Spartacus; no Epicurean scorn for political ambitions
could keep men’s consciences from being deeply troubled. Virgil,
conservative at heart, yet with a great admiration for Julius Caesar the
man, seems not to have been too bitter about the imminence of a
dictatorship; he would have preferred it not to be so called, and he
hoped, with all his soul and spirit, that it would be wisely and
mercifully administered, and he said so. He was twenty-six when Caesar
was assassinated on the Ides of March in 44 B.C., and the shock of that
event was enough to drive from his mind the ideas he had formed, in a
groping and immature wishfulness, of writing a national epic.
Virgil was not much over thirty when his first substantial work was
given publication. This consisted of the Eclogues, or Bucolics, ten
longish poems, ostensibly pastoral, modelled, to a certain extent, on
the Greek poet Theocritus. These poems were by no means purely escapist
literature; they were full of allusions to recent political events,
sympathy for the victims of civil war, appeals to the victors for
compassion, gratitude that the patrimonial estates had suffered less
severely than some others under the policy of rewarding the veterans
with places on the land. The young Octavian, victor, with Mark Antony,
over the Caesaricides Brutus and Cassius at Philippi, was impressionable
enough to be guided in decent ways, following his great-uncle’s
tradition of clemency; and Octavian, on his part, was sufficiently
tactful, as well as shrewd, to want to have the poets on his side. The
great success of the Eclogues rendered it highly desirable that Virgil,
along with other poets, be given something like official status; the
wealthy counsellor Maecenas, patron of the arts and member of the inner
circle, put a villa in his own gardens at the poet’s disposal. Here
Virgil found new friends, notably the poet Horace, five years his
junior--it lay much to the credit of Octavian’s decency that place could
be made for a young satirist who had fought against him at Philippi
(probably not very hard, if we can believe Horace’s own account) and
whose published work had been caustic about the government. So Virgil
had security, recognition, freedom to travel with the distinguished on
official journeys, or to come and go as he pleased, with the privilege
of staying, whenever he was so minded, in his quieter gardens near
Naples.
It was nearly a decade before the publication of his next major work,
the Georgics, a long poem, in four books, on the subject of husbandry.
Those returned veterans, settled by tens of thousands on the land, knew,
it seemed, little of farming, and, for that matter, probably cared less.
It was Virgil’s responsibility, under Octavian’s sanction, to instruct
them, to see to it that they should both know and care, have practical
information as to what must be done with crops and cattle and bees, and
at the same time develop faith and pride in what they were doing, return
to the simple virtues of the fathers, the good old republican ways. For
all its official status, however, the poem was just a little too honest
to be what we should consider ideal propaganda. There is no sentimental
rapture in the Georgics, no idolization, idealization, or idyllization
of what life on a farm is like; the sober-minded citizen, in fact, might
easily be dissuaded from agriculture entirely by the accurate
description of the various kinds of hell farming would put him through.
By the time Virgil was putting the finishing touches to this book, the
unsettled condition of the Roman state had begun to change for the
better. A decade’s opposition to Octavian, led by the sons of Pompey and
his old partner Antony, had come to an end with the defeat of Antony and
Cleopatra at the battle of Actium in 31 B.C. The East and West could
join again; there could now be one world, under the tempered principate
of the man who had matured from the young Octavian into Caesar Augustus.
And Virgil could turn to the project he had never forgotten, fulfill the
longings that, as allusions in both Eclogues and Georgics had shown,
still occupied at least his unconscious mind, the composition of an epic
poem that should justify this great nation, remind her citizens of all
she had cost, inspire them to be worthy of their tradition. To this
work, the Aeneid, Virgil devoted the rest of his life. He did not ever
consider it finished; he had still three years’ work ahead of him, he
estimated, when he went to Greece, at the age of fifty, to study more
carefully the scenes of the book in which he described the wanderings
of Aeneas. There he fell ill, was brought back to Brundisium, on the
heel of Italy, where he died in 19 B.C. In his dissatisfaction with the
unfinished state of his work, he left instructions that the manuscript
of the Aeneid should be burned; Augustus, however, in the words of Tenny
Frank, “interposed the supreme authority of the state to annul that
clause of the will.” No dictator, ever, has exercised a happier veto.
R. H.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
In the fighting between the Greeks and Trojans around Troy, Virgil calls
both sides by tribal names as well as national names, and sometimes uses
patronymics: thus the Greeks are also called Achaeans, Argives, Danaans,
Dolopes, Ithacans, Myrmidons, and so on; and the Trojans are called
Dardanians, Ilians, Teucrians, Phrygians. I have used these terms much
less than Virgil did, and tried, for the sake of avoiding confusion and
clutter, to stick to the terms Greek and Trojan, wherever possible.
Likewise, in the wars between the Trojans and Latins in Italy, we find
the enemies of Aeneas described as Italians, Latins, Rutulians, and
Etruscans. But there were also some Etruscans on his side; these were
led by Tarchon, the anti-Aeneas faction by Mezentius. His other
principal allies were the Arcadians, whose king was Evander.
The principal Greek warriors were Agamemnon, Menelaus, Ulysses,
Diomedes, and Ajax; the most conspicuous on the Trojan side Aeneas,
Hector, and possibly Paris.
Of the gods and goddesses, Juno, in the Aeneid, is actively opposed to
Aeneas, and Venus equally active on his behalf. Apollo gives the Trojans
considerable help with counsel, especially in the course of their
wanderings; Vulcan makes armor for Aeneas when he arrives in Italy, and
Neptune helps put down a storm that all but wrecked the Trojan fleet.
Jupiter maintains neutrality, in so far as the pressure applied by Venus
and Juno will permit.
* * * * *
A list of the important characters in the narrative follows:--
Aenéas, son of Anchises and Venus, leader of the Trojans, hero of
the poem.
Amáta, wife of king Latinus, mother of Lavinia; favors Turnus,
opposes Aeneas as suitor for her daughter.
Anchíses, son of Capys, father of Aeneas.
Andrómache, widow of Hector, subsequently wife of Helenus, settler,
after the fall of Troy, at Buthrotum in Epirus.
Anna, sister of Dido, queen of Carthage.
Ascánius, or Iúlus, son of Aeneas and Creusa.
Camílla, daughter of Metabus and Casmilla, a Latin warrior-maid,
ally of Turnus in the fight against Aeneas in Italy.
Creúsa, daughter of Priam, wife of Aeneas, mother of Ascanius, lost
in the confusion following the last night of Troy.
Deíphobe, a Sibyl, priestess of Apollo and guide to Aeneas during
his visit to the Lower World.
Dído, queen of Carthage.
Diomede, or Diomédes, an important Greek warrior, founder, after
the fall of Troy, of Arpi in Italy; declines to help the Latins in
their warfare against Aeneas.
Dránçes, an eloquent Latin orator, opposed to Turnus.
Euryalus, son of Opheltes, a young Trojan athlete and warrior, boon
companion of Nisus.
Evánder, king of Pallanteum, father of Pallas, ally of Aeneas in
the fighting in Italy.
Helenus, son of Priam, husband of Andromache, ruler of Buthrotum in
Epirus, priest and prophet of Apollo.
Ilionéus, a Trojan, responsible spokesman for his people on
missions to Dido and Latinus.
Iúlus, also known as Ascanius, son of Aeneas and Creusa.
Jutúrna, a nymph, sister of Turnus.
Latínus, king of Latium, husband of Amata, father of Lavinia,
favors Aeneas as his daughter’s suitor.
Laúsus, a young Etruscan warrior, son of the exiled king Mezentius.
Lavínia, daughter of king Latinus and Amata, sought in marriage by
both Turnus and Aeneas.
Mezéntius, an Etruscan king, exiled by his people for barbarity,
despiser of the gods, ally of Turnus against the Trojans.
Neoptólemus, or Pyrrhus, a son of Achilles, killer of King Priam,
war-lord of Hector’s widow Andromache.
Nísus, a young Trojan athlete and warrior, son of Hyrtacus, boon
companion of the younger Euryalus.
Palinúrus, pilot of the fleet of Aeneas.
Pállas, son of king Evander, ally of Aeneas in the Latin wars,
slain by Turnus.
Sinon, a Greek, principal agent in the scheme to bring the wooden
horse inside the walls of Troy.
Tárchon, an Etruscan prince, ally of Aeneas against Turnus and
Mezentius.
Túrnus, son of Daunus and the nymph Venilia, prince of the
Rutulians, principal enemy of Aeneas in Italy.
Vénulus, an Italian leader, sent by the Latins on a fruitless
mission for the help of Diomede.