the sense of his lofty mission. The lists were measured, and altars of
turf erected for the customary sacrifice. On either side of the field
the Trojans and Latins were drawn up in battle array, and the walls of
Laurentum were thronged with women and old men, the passive spectators of
the approaching combat.
A loud shout from the ranks of the Latins announces that the king is
at hand, and soon Latinus appears in the center of the arena, seated
in a four-horse car, and wearing his royal crown. Turnus follows close
behind, sheathed in complete armor, and drawn by two snow-white steeds.
Æneas stands ready to receive them; the victims are brought, the salted
meal is sprinkled, and the sacred forelock cut off from the forehead of
the victims. Then Æneas lifts up his hands, and makes a solemn appeal
to Jupiter and Juno and Mars, and all the powers of earth and sky and
sea: “Witness, all ye eternal gods, and hear my vow: if Turnus gains the
mastery to-day the Trojans shall go back to Evander’s city, and never
bear arms against this realm again; but if, as I hope and believe, Heaven
favors my sword, I claim not the sovereignty of Latium, nor seek aught
for myself and my people but the right to dwell here in peace as a
friend and ally of the old inhabitants.” The oath was solemnly repeated
by Latinus and ratified by sacrifice and prayer.
But the combat was not to proceed without interruption. On a lofty hill,
known in after days as the Alban Mount, sat Juno, watching the scene
with jealous eyes. She observed with pity the pale and downcast face of
Turnus, whose courage began to fail him as the fatal moment drew near;
and, resolved to make one more effort on his behalf, she went in search
of Juturna, a sister of Turnus, who had been raised to divine honors by
the special favor of Jove, and made a presiding deity over the fountains
and rivers of Latium. “Up, Juturna,” said the goddess, when she had found
her sitting pensively by a dear fountain-head; “go help thy brother in
his dire need. I can do no more.”
Starting up at the summons Juturna made haste to obey, and a moment after
she was standing invisible among the Rutulians who fought under Turnus.
By their looks and words she soon perceived that they were ripe for
mischief; and putting on the likeness of Camers, a brave warrior, and
friend of Turnus, she gave voice to the general sentiment thus: “Are ye
not ashamed, Rutulians, that one man should give his life for you all?
Shall we, who outnumber the enemy by two to one, sit idly by and see our
leader slain and a chain forged for our own necks?”
The words were caught up, and passed from rank to rank; threatening
murmurs arose among the Rutulians, and even the Latins began to regret
that they had left their fate to be decided by the sword of Turnus. In
the midst of this excitement a flight of wild swans was seen passing
overhead, pursued by an eagle, who swooped suddenly on one of the finest
of the birds, and began to bear him off in his talons. Hereupon the
whole troop rallied to the rescue of their comrade, and so belabored and
buffeted the robber with their powerful wings that he was compelled to
drop his prey and seek safety in flight. “Hear me,” cried Tolumnius, a
famous augur, “while I read you the omen. The eagle is Æneas, and the
swans who beat him off are ourselves, the free sons of Italy, who will
forthwith drive this marauder across the sea again.”
Suiting the action to the word he ran forward, and flung his spear. It
flew hissing across the open space which separated the two armies, and
struck a tall Arcadian, one of nine brothers, in the side. He fell,
mortally wounded, and his brethren, with a cry of rage and grief, seized
their weapons, and rushed to avenge him. A general advance now began on
both sides; thick and fast flew the javelins; and Latinus left the field
in haste to escape from that iron shower.
Æneas made desperate efforts to check the furious passions which were
raging around him. Bareheaded and unarmed he flung himself into the thick
of the combatants, crying: “Are ye mad, good people? Drop your weapons,
and leave me to seal the treaty with the blood of Turnus; his life is
now forfeited to me.” While thus he pleaded and protested there came an
arrow, shot by an unknown hand, and struck him in the hip. Grievously
hurt Æneas was compelled to seek shelter behind a friendly shield, and
retired to the rear, leaving the field open to Turnus.
Great was the joy of the fierce Rutulian when he saw his enemy disabled
and the bravest of the Trojan leaders withdrawn from the conflict, in
anxious attendance on their injured chief. Mounting his car he lashed his
coursers to a gallop, and scoured the plain, ravaging the ranks of the
Trojans and trampling them down by scores.
Meanwhile Æneas had retreated to the camp, and was standing, surrounded
by his friends, with the arrow still planted deep in his flesh. The most
skilful leech in the Trojan army was a certain Iapis, whom Apollo had
loved in his youth, and offered to endow with his own gifts as archer,
harper, and seer; but he, that he might prolong the life of his father,
who was sick unto death, chose rather to learn the virtues of healing
herbs and all the physician’s lore. He now arrived, in answer to a
hasty summons, and employed all his skill to draw the barbed arrow from
the wound. But all his efforts were in vain; the arrow clung fast, and
refused to stir. Louder and louder grew the roar of battle; nearer and
nearer came the dense columns of the enemy, and their javelins began to
fall thick in the very center of the camp.
Venus saw her son’s dire strait, and came to his aid, bearing in her hand
a bunch of dittany, a plant of wondrous healing powers, with downy leaves
and purple flower, often cropped by the wild goats when they are wounded
by the hunter’s shaft. Unseen of any Venus drew near, and dropped the
magic herb into the vessel containing the water with which Iapis was
bathing the wound. The leech, all unknowing, continued his ministrations;
and instantly, at the first touch of that powerful remedy, all pain
departed, the flow of blood was stanched, and the arrow dropped harmless
to the ground. “This is no work of my skill,” said Iapis in a voice full
of awe; “the hand of a god has been here.” Completely healed, with all
his pristine vigor restored, Æneas resumed his armor, and kissing Iulus,
who was standing near, he seized his spear, and charged into the thickest
of the fight, followed close by the other Trojan chiefs.
Juturna saw him coming, and, trembling for her brother’s life, she
approached the car of Turnus, and flinging Metiscus, his charioteer,
in the dust, herself put on his likeness, and seized the reins. Driven
now by no mortal hand, the car flew hither and thither with miraculous
speed, wheeling and darting in giddy circles, like a swallow pursuing her
tiny prey. Æneas panted in pursuit, scorning every other foe, with eye
and foot and hand all directed against Turnus, and Turnus alone; now he
seemed to be gaining, and pressed forward, calling on his enemy to stand;
and the next moment his prey was snatched from his grasp, like a hare
doubling to avoid the fangs of a hound. Messapus, seeing him absorbed
in the chase, and thinking to catch him unawares, flung a javelin, and
struck off the plumes from his helmet. Then at last Æneas gave reins to
his anger, and, abandoning the pursuit of Turnus, fell upon the foes who
were nearest, and strewed the field with indiscriminate carnage.
Thus fate for the moment kept the two rivals apart, and they fought in
different parts of the field, like devastating fires which fall upon a
forest from opposite quarters, wasting the timber, till with a roar they
meet. At length Æneas paused from the work of destruction, and, glancing
backward at the city, saw the walls feebly manned and the path to the
gates lying open. Such an opportunity was not to be neglected. Hastily
summoning those next to himself in command he pointed to the walls, and
said: “There is the point at which we must strike, and that speedily. If
the Latins will not confess themselves beaten, this day I will raze their
city to the ground. Gather your men, and prepare to carry the place by
storm.”
Wild was the dismay among the inhabitants of Laurentum when they saw
the Trojans and Tuscans advancing in full force, with scaling ladders,
battering-rams, and torches, to the assault. Some rushed to the
battlements, determined to resist to the last; others cried that the
gates must be opened to the enemy; and a third party broke into the
palace, and dragged the unhappy Latinus into the streets, vowing that
they would hand him over to the vengeance of Æneas. All was panic,
confusion, and uproar, as in a nest of wild bees smoked to death by a
shepherd who seeks to rifle their store. In the midst of this disorder an
event occurred which gave the last blow to those who still favored the
cause of Turnus. When the queen saw the approaching attack on the city
she at once concluded that Turnus had fallen, and, full of remorse for
the part which she had played, she went and hanged herself from a high
beam in her chamber.
THE DEATH OF TURNUS
By H. L. Havell
Turnus, whose car was still driven by the disguised Juturna, had been
carried in pursuit of some straggling Trojans to the farthest verge of
the plain. Suddenly his ears were caught by a wild, tumultuous cry from
the distant city, and, laying his hand on the reins, he brought the
chariot to a stand. “Why haltest thou?” asked the pretended Metiscus.
“Leave thy comrades to defend the walls, and continue the work of
slaughter here, where there is none to oppose thee.” Turnus answered:
“Sister, I knew thee from the first, and recognized thy hand in all the
wild havoc of this day. But vain are all thy labors; Heaven is against
me, and I must bow to the will of fate. I have seen all the noblest of my
comrades slain before my eyes; shall I suffer this royal city to be given
up to fire and slaughter for my sake? Shall I play coward, and make my
name a byword for Drances and his crew? No, if Heaven is against me, be
ye at least with me, ye noble spirits of the dead! Prepare to receive me,
a stainless soul, worthy to be numbered among the mightiest of my line.”
Scarcely had he spoken when a Rutulian horseman, wounded in the face
by an arrow, came galloping towards him, shouting: “Turnus, what doest
thou here? Thou art our last hope and refuge; the city is beset, Amata
has died by her own hand; but few of thy friends remain to keep up a
desperate defence. Come quickly, for dire is the need.” As if to give
point to his words, at this very moment the flames were seen leaping
from a huge wooden tower built on a projection of the walls. For a while
Turnus stood as if stupefied, overcome by the conflicting passions which
surged within him. Then, collecting himself with a strong effort, he
said: “’Tis enough; my fate calls me, and I obey. Let me strike one
good blow first, and then let death take his due.” Thereupon he sprang
from the chariot, and, running at full speed, broke his way through the
fighting lines, like a great boulder sapped in its foundations by the
winter rains and toppled from a mountain’s crest. “Make way,” he cried;
“drop your weapons, ye Rutulians and Latins. This is my quarrel, not
yours, and I am come to pay the price.”
Both sides fell back, and left an open space for the final encounter
between the two great champions. “At last!” murmured Æneas as he came
towering on, and took his stand, “like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved,”
face to face with his giant foe. First they flung their spears, and,
these not taking effect, they drew their swords, and engaged hand to
hand. Loud clashed the steel, and a stream of lightning seemed to play
about their heads, so fast and furious were the strokes. Like two bulls
fighting for the sovereignty of the herd, while the kine stand lowing
near, so strove the Italian and the Trojan for the mastery, foot to foot
and shield to shield. At length Turnus lifted high his sword, and, coming
down with the whole weight of his body, discharged a tremendous blow at
the crest of Æneas. The weapon belonged to Metiscus, his charioteer,
and he had snatched it up in mistake for his own good blade, which had
been tempered by the hand of Vulcan himself. And now the faithless sword
proved its mortal temper, and was shivered to the hilt like glass. With a
bitter curse the Rutulian turned his back, and fled, and Æneas followed
close, though still somewhat disabled by his recent wound. Hither and
thither they sped, pursuer and pursued, as a keen hound chases the flying
deer, brought to bay by a high rocky mountain-side; the stag wheels and
doubles, and the hound’s jaws close with a snap, as his quarry eludes him
again.
Turnus shouted to his comrades, imploring them to bring his sword, but
Æneas warned them off with threatening gestures; and so the race went on,
which was run for no common stake, but for the very life blood of Turnus.
When Æneas flung his spear at the beginning of the duel the weapon had
sunk deep into the stump of an olive-tree; the tree itself, which was
sacred to Faunus, had been felled by the Trojans, and rolled out of the
way, on the morning before the battle. Catching sight of the spear as he
ran past in pursuit of Turnus, Æneas paused, and strove to tear it out.
In wild terror Turnus watched his efforts, and cried: “Faunus, god of my
fathers, hold the weapon fast, and preserve thy worshiper!” Faunus heard
his prayer, and kept the iron point close pinned in the knotted roots of
his sacred tree; and while Æneas was still tugging and straining at the
shaft, Juturna, again disguised as Metiscus, ran up to Turnus, and gave
him back his sword. Thereupon Venus, angered by the presumption of the
nymph, drew near in her turn, wrenched out the lance, and handed it to
her son. Their weapons thus restored the champions stood face to face
once more, prepared to renew the battle.
But the end was now at hand. Jove sat watching the rival warriors,
and weary that the inevitable issue should be so long delayed he thus
addressed his haughty consort: “Juno, how long must I suffer thee to
thwart my high purpose? Thou knowest that it is in vain. Surely thy hate
should now be satisfied, after so many years in which thy malice has
ranged unchecked and strewn the path of Æneas with death and disaster.
The word must now be spoken: Cease; I forbid thee to go further.” Juno
answered humbly: “Be it so! I also am weary of the fray, and will resist
no more. One thing only I ask, which fate forbids thee not to grant: when
the two peoples have united into one, let the language and the dress
and the customs of Italy survive, and let the whole nation be called
the Latins. Troy has perished; let her name perish also.” Jove smiled
indulgently as he replied: “True daughter of Saturn, still unappeasable
in thine ire, it shall be as thou sayest. Latins they shall be called,
and they shall be thy people, mighty in word and deed, and laud and honor
thy name for ever.”
The old quarrel thus happily concluded, Jove prepared to end the conflict
between Æneas and Turnus. Close by his throne two hideous warders lie
couched day and night, sisters of the Furies, and armed with the same
attributes of terror, with serpent tresses, and windy wings. One of
these the monarch of heaven sent to warn Juturna that she must leave her
brother’s side. Like a poisoned arrow shot from a Parthian’s bow the
daughter of Night sped down to earth, and as she came in sight of the
Trojan and Latin armies, she took the shape of that ill-omened bird who
sits among tombs and ruined towers, and sends her moaning cry through
the darkness. In such shape the fiend dashed herself against the face of
Turnus, and buffeted his shield with her wings.
Turnus was paralyzed with horror; his hair bristled, and the passage
of his voice was choked. But when Juturna heard the beating of those
fatal pinions she tore her hair, and beat her breast, knowing that her
brother’s hour was come. “Turnus, I can do no more,” she cried. “Would
that I might die with thee! But, alas! Jove has made me immortal, and
doomed me to eternal sorrow.” Then, veiling her face in her azure mantle,
the nymph left the battlefield, and sat rocking herself in anguish by the
river-side.
Æneas came on, brandishing his massy spear, and crying: “Now at last thou
art delivered into my hands, unless thou canst fly up to heaven or dig
thee a burrow in the earth.” “Thy words have no terrors for me,” replied
Turnus, “but much I fear that Heaven is against me.” And without more
words he looked round him, and saw a huge ancient stone, set up long
ago as a boundary mark. Stooping he caught up the ponderous mass, which
scarce twelve men could lift, as men are in our times; with one hand he
heaved it above his head, and poised and flung it, running at full speed.
It was his last effort, and he felt as he made it that his powers were
failing. The stone fell short, and Turnus stood gazing, struck with a
strange impotence, like one in a trance; the whole scene swam before his
eyes, woods, hills, and city walls, and the faces of his friends, like
visions in a fevered dream.
While thus he faltered Æneas poised his lance, took steady aim and flung.
Like some vast missile hurled by a siege engine the giant spear rushed to
its mark, pierced through the lower edge of the sevenfold shield, and,
rending the border of the corslet with a grating sound, transfixed the
middle of his thigh. A deep groan went up from the ranks of the Rutulians
when they saw their young hero lying, helpless and bleeding, on the sand.
With hands outstretched and eyes imploring mercy Turnus uttered this
humble prayer: “Thou hast conquered; Lavinia is thine; now pity my
father’s gray hairs, and give him back his son, or if thou must have my
life at least restore my body to him for burial.” Æneas paused, lowering
his sword and rolling his eyes, in doubt whether to strike or spare; and
pity began to prevail more and more in his heart when his gaze fastened
on the fatal belt, which Turnus had won from the youthful Pallas, and was
wearing on his shoulder. Then grief and anger blazed up in his soul, and
he cried in a terrible voice: “Wretch, dost thou ask for mercy with that
emblem of sorrow on thy breast? Pallas, Pallas claims thee as his victim,
and cries aloud for thy guilty blood.”
The avenging steel was lifted, and flashed, and fell; and that mighty
frame lay shuddering in death, while his soul, indignant, fled moaning to
the shades.
STORIES FROM ROMAN HISTORY
FROM LIVY
THE STORY OF ROMULUS AND OF NUMA
By Alfred J. Church
Æneas of Troy, coming to the land of Italy, took to wife Lavinia,
daughter of King Latinus, and built him a city, which he called Lavinium,
after the name of his wife. And, after thirty years, his son Ascanius
went forth from Lavinium with much people, and built him a new city,
which he called Alba. In this city reigned kings of the house and lineage
of Æneas for twelve generations. Of these kings the eleventh in descent
was one Procas, who, having two sons, Numitor and Amulius, left his
kingdom, according to the custom, to Numitor, the elder. But Amulius
drave out his brother, and reigned in his stead. Nor was he content with
this wickedness, but slew all the male children of his brother. And the
daughter of his brother, that was named Rhea Silvia, he chose to be a
priestess of Vesta, making as though he would do the maiden honor, but
his thought was that the name of his brother should perish, for they that
serve Vesta are vowed to perpetual virginity.
But it came to pass that Rhea bare twin sons, whose father, it was said,
was the god Mars. Very wroth was Amulius when he heard this thing; Rhea
he made fast in prison, and the children he gave to certain of his
servants that they should cast them into the river. Now it chanced that
at this season Tiber had overflowed his banks, neither could the servants
come near to the stream of the river; nevertheless they did not doubt
that the children would perish, for all that the overflowing of the water
was neither deep nor of a swift current. Thinking then that they had
duly performed the commandment of the king, they set down the babes in
the flood and departed. But after a while the flood abated, and left the
basket wherein the children had been laid on dry ground. And a she-wolf,
coming down from the hill to drink at the river (for the country in those
days was desert and abounding in wild beasts), heard the crying of the
children and ran to them. Nor did she devour them, but gave them suck;
nay, so gentle was she that Faustulus, the king’s shepherd, chancing to
go by, saw that she licked them with her tongue. This Faustulus took the
children and gave them to his wife to rear; and these, when they were
of age to go by themselves, were not willing to abide with the flocks
and herds, but were hunters, wandering through the forests that were in
those parts. And afterward, being now come to full strength, they were
not content to slay wild beasts only, but would assail troops of robbers,
as these were returning laden with their booty, and would divide the
spoils among the shepherds. Now there was held in those days, on the
hill that is now called the Palatine, a yearly festival to the god Pan.
This festival King Evander first ordained, having come from Arcadia, in
which land, being a land of shepherds, Pan that is the god of shepherds
is greatly honored. And when the young men and their company (for they
had gathered a great company of shepherds about them, and led them in
all matters both of business and of sport) were busy with the festival,
there came upon them certain robbers that had made an ambush in the
place, being very wroth by reason of the booty which they had lost.
These laid hands on Remus, but Romulus they could not take, so fiercely
did he fight against them. Remus, therefore, they delivered up to King
Amulius, accusing him of many things and chiefly of this, that he and
his companions had invaded the land of Numitor, dealing with them in the
fashion of an enemy and carrying off much spoil. To Numitor, therefore,
did the king deliver Remus, that he might put him to death. Now Faustulus
had believed from the beginning that the children were of the royal
house, for he knew that the babes had been cast into the river by the
king’s command, and the time also of his finding them agreed thereto.
Nevertheless he had not judged it expedient to open the matter before due
time, but waited till occasion or necessity should arise. But now, there
being such necessity, he opened the matter to Romulus. Numitor also,
when he had the young man Remus in his custody, knowing that he and his
brother were twins, and that the time agreed, and seeing that they were
of a high spirit, bethought him of his grandsons; and, indeed, having
asked many questions of Remus, was come nigh to knowing of what race he
was. And now also Romulus was ready to help his brother. To come openly
with his whole company he dared not, for he was not a match for the
power of King Amulius; but he bade sundry shepherds make their way to the
palace, each as best he could, appointing to them a time at which they
should meet. And now came Remus also, with a troop of youths gathered
together from the household of Numitor. Then did Romulus and Remus slay
King Amulius. In the meanwhile Numitor gathered the youth of Alba to the
citadel, crying out that they must make the place safe, for that the
enemy was upon them; but when he perceived that the young men had done
the deed, forthwith he called an assembly of the citizens, and set forth
to them the wickedness which his brother had wrought against him, and how
his grandsons had been born and bred and made known to him, and then, in
order, how the tyrant had been slain, himself having counselled the deed.
When he had so spoken the young men came with their company into the
midst of the assembly, and saluted him as King; to which thing the whole
multitude agreeing with one consent, Numitor was established upon the
throne.