TURNUS ATTACKS THE TROJAN ENCAMPMENT.
Æneas had been right in his forebodings of danger. Turnus has heard of
the chief’s absence, and takes advantage of it to lead his force at once
against the new-built fortification in which the rest of the Trojans
lie. His first attempt is to burn their galleys, where they lie drawn
ashore on the river-bank, close to their lines. But the ships are built
of the sacred pines of Ida, the special favourites of the great goddess
Cybele; and she has endued them, by favour of Jupiter, with the power of
transformation into sea-nymphs when their work is done. No sooner do the
torches of the enemy touch them than they slide off into the water, and
in their new shape float out to sea. Even this portent does not scare
the leader of the Rutuli. “Lo!” he cries--“Heaven takes from our enemies
even their hopes of flight!” He does but draw his leaguer all the closer
round the Trojan lines. Throughout the night the watch-fires blaze at
close intervals, and captains of the guard, each with a hundred men, are
set at their several posts to prevent the escape of the prey before the
general attack which is ordered for the morning.
But the Rutulian chieftains grow weary of a monotonous duty. They have
store of wine in their camp, and they bring it out to cheer their
night-watch. The sounds of noisy revelry soon rise from every station,
until, as the revellers are gradually overpowered by sleep, all is
lulled into unusual silence.
Two Trojan sentinels have watched anxiously every sound and movement in
the enemy’s lines. They are Nisus and his young friend Euryalus,--late
among the competitors in the foot-race--inseparable in peace or war.
Nisus sees, as he thinks, an opportunity for stealing through the
Rutulian guards, and bearing news to Æneas at Pallanteum of the peril in
which his son and his companions lie. He is a keen sportsman, and knows
the forest by-paths well. He confides his design to Euryalus, but has no
notion of taking the youth with him to share the danger. He, on the
other hand, insists upon accompanying his friend. The consent of Iulus
and his elder counsellors is readily obtained. Let them but bring back
Æneas to the rescue, and no rewards and honours shall be too great for
the pair. Turnus’s horse and armour, Latinus’s royal demesne, captives
of price, shall be the guerdon of Nisus: for Euryalus,--the prince will
adopt him henceforth as his personal esquire and companion in arms. One
only request the youth has to make. He has an aged mother in the
camp--the only one of the elder matrons who refused to be left in safety
with Acestes in Sicily, and whom no dangers could separate from her
son. Will the prince promise her solace and protection, should harm
befall Euryalus on the way? The answer of Iulus is given in tears; he
has no mother left, and the mother of Euryalus shall be to him as his
own. He girds the youth with the sword from his own side, and the
friends set out upon their perilous errand, escorted to the gates by the
Trojan captains with prayers and blessings.
The enterprise might have succeeded, had not the two friends been
tempted, by the helpless state in which they found the Rutulian camp, to
slaughter their sleeping enemies as they passed. Rhamnes and
Remus--names to be borne hereafter by more historic actors in the
history of Rome--with a crowd of victims of lesser note, fall by the
swords of Nisus and his companion. Euryalus even stops, with a young
man’s vanity, to put on the glittering belt which he has stripped from
one of his victims, and the helmet of the sleeping Messapus. Thus
precious time is lost, and the moonlight streams upon them as they clear
the Rutulian lines, and take the path, which Nisus knows, for
Pallanteum.
A detachment of the enemy’s cavalry is on the march to join Turnus. The
glimmer of the moonlight on Euryalus’s helmet--his new prize--betrays
the friends as they try to steal by, and they are challenged at once by
Volscens, the commander. They fly to the neighbouring wood; but the
horsemen surround it, and though Nisus escapes them, it is only to find
that his friend has fallen into their hands. He rushes back, and in the
wild hope of effecting a rescue, hides himself in the thicket, whence
he launches two spears with fatal effect upon the party who are dragging
along their prisoner. Enraged at the sudden attack, and seeing no enemy
in the darkness, Volscens lays hold upon Euryalus, and vows revenge.
Nisus rushes from his cover, and implores them to turn their swords on
him, and to spare a youth whose only crime has been his friendship.
“In vain he spoke: the sword, fierce driven,
That alabaster breast had riven.
Down falls Euryalus, and lies
In death’s enthralling agonies:
Blood trickles o’er his limbs of snow;
His head sinks gradually low:
Thus, severed by the ruthless plough,
Dim fades a purple flower:
Their weary necks so poppies bow,
O’erladen by the shower.
But Nisus on the midmost flies,
With Volscens, Volscens in his eyes:
In clouds the warriors round him rise,
Thick hailing blow on blow:
Yet on he bears, no stint, no stay;
Like thunderbolt his falchion’s sway:
Till as for aid the Rutule shrieks
Plunged in his throat the weapon reeks:
The dying hand has reft away
The lifeblood of its foe.
Then, pierced to death, asleep he fell
On the dead breast he loved so well.”
With the first dawn Turnus leads his forces to the attack--the heads of
Nisus and Euryalus borne in front upon the points of spears, so savage
is the Rutulian at the slaughter made by them amongst his sleeping
comrades. The mother of Euryalus has heard the news, and sees the
ghastly trophies from the ramparts, Iulus performs his promise, and the
frantic woman is, under his personal directions, tenderly removed. He
himself becomes the hero of the day. The archer’s craft, his love of
which had led to the feud with the Latins, is turned to good service in
the defence of the camp. Numanus, a brother-in-law of Turnus, is loudly
taunting the Trojans in front of their lines:--
“Twice captured Phrygians! to be pent
Once more in leaguered battlement,
And plant unblushingly between
Yourselves and death a stony screen!
Lo, these the men that draw their swords
To part our ladies from their lords!
What god, what madness brings you here
To taste of our Italian cheer?
No proud Atridæ leads our vans:
No false Ulysses talks and plans:
E’en from the birth a hardy brood,
We take our infants to the flood,
And fortify their tender mould
With icy wave and ruthless cold.
Early and late our sturdy boys
Seek through the woods a hunter’s joys:
Their pastime is to tame the steed,
To bend the bow and launch the reed.
Our youth, to scanty fare inured,
Made strong by labour oft endured,
Subdue the soil with spade and rake,
Or city walls with battle shake.
Through life we grasp our trusty spear:
It strikes the foe, it goads the steer:
Age cannot chill our valour: no,
The helmet sits on locks of snow;
And still we love to store our prey,
And eat the fruits our arms purvey.
You flaunt your robes in all men’s eyes,
Your saffron and your purple dyes,
Recline on downy couch, or weave
The dreamy dance from morn to eve:
Sleeved tunics guard your tender skins,
And ribboned mitres prop your chins.
Phrygians!--nay rather Phrygian fair!
Hence, to your Dindymus repair!
Go where the flute’s congenial throat
Shrieks through two doors its slender note,
Where pipe and cymbal call the crew;
These are the instruments for you:
Leave men, like us, in arms to deal,
Nor bruise your lily hands with steel.”
Iulus, after brief prayer to Jupiter, sends an arrow through the
boaster’s temples. But Apollo, taking the shape of the boy’s guardian,
Butes, warns him to be content with this first triumph: such weapons,
says he of the silver bow, with that jealousy of mortals common to all
pagan divinities, are not for boys.
Attack and defence are maintained vigorously on either side. Turnus is
everywhere, dealing death where he comes. Mezentius, the infidel, tries
to fire the palisade: Messapus, “the horse-tamer,” calls for ladders to
scale it. A detachment of Volscians form a “tortoise,” by linking their
shields like a penthouse over their heads, and under this cover try to
plant their ladders; but the Trojans hoist a huge rock aloft, and dash
it down with murderous effect upon the roof of shields, crushing the
bearers underneath. A tall wooden flanking-tower is set on fire by
Turnus, and falls over, with its defenders, among the enemy. Two only
survive the fall, one of whom--a slave-born warrior, who bears a blank
shield--flings himself into the Rutulian ranks, and dies there fighting
against overwhelming numbers. The other, Lycus, a swift and active
runner, reaches the rampart of the intrenchment, and nearly succeeds in
climbing over amongst his friends, when Turnus grasps him and bears him
off, in spite of the missiles showered down by his sympathising
comrades.
Pandarus and Bitias, two brothers of gigantic stature, have charge of
one of the gateways of the intrenched camp. They throw the double gates
wide open, and take their stand, one on either side, within. Fast as the
more venturous spirits among the enemy rush through, they are either
felled by the giant warders, or, if they escape these first, are slain
inside by the other Trojans, who even carry the battle outside the
gates. Word comes to Turnus of the increasing boldness of the enemy. He
rushes to the rescue, slays right and left, and brings Bitias to the
ground by hurling at him a huge _falarica_--a spear used in the great
catapults which formed the artillery of those days. His brother Pandarus
by main strength closes the great gates, shutting out some of his
unfortunate friends as well as his enemies, and shutting in, to the
dismay of the Trojans, their terrible enemy. When he sees Turnus,
however, he rushes upon him to avenge his brother’s death; but the
Rutulian cleaves him with his keen falchion down to the chin. Then he
turns on the dismayed defenders, and smites them right and left. Had he
but bethought himself then to open the gates once more, and let his
comrades in, so cowed were the Trojans at the moment that their defeat
was certain. But all his heart is set on slaughter, and the Trojans,
rallied by Mnestheus (the hero of the galley-race), soon find out that
he is alone. Nevertheless he fights his way gallantly towards the river.
“The Trojans follow, shouting loud,
And closer still and closer crowd.
So when the gathering swains assail
A lion with their brazen hail,
He, glaring rage, begins to quail,
And sullenly departs:
For shame his back he will not turn,
Yet dares not, howsoe’er he yearn,
To charge their serried darts:
So Turnus lingeringly retires,
And glows with ineffectual fires.
Twice on the foe e’en then he falls,
Twice routs and drives them round the walls:
But from the camp in swarms they pour,
Nor Juno dares to help him more.
* * * * *
At length, accoutred as he stood,
Headlong he plunged into the flood.
The yellow flood the charge received,
With buoyant tide his weight upheaved,
And cleansing off the encrusted gore,
Returned him to his friends once more.”