BOOK IX

IN THE ABSENCE OF AENEAS

While all this happened far away, queen Juno Sent Iris down from heaven to bold Turnus. She found him resting in a sacred valley, Pilumnus’ grove, his ancestor; all radiant She spoke to him:--“No god would promise, Turnus, This answer to your prayers, but the turn of time Has put it in your hands. Aeneas has gone, Leaving the town, the fleet, and his companions, Seeking the realm of Palatine Evander, And more than that: he has won some cities over, He calls the Etruscan countrymen to arms. What are you waiting for? Now is the time For chariot and horse. Break off delay, Take the bewildered camp!” She spoke, and rose Skyward on even wings, and under the clouds Cut her great soaring arc. And Turnus knew her, And raised his hands to the sky, and followed her flight:-- “O Iris, pride of heaven, who sent you to me Through clouds to earth? Whence comes this storm of brightness? I see the heavens part, and the stars wheeling Across the sky. I follow these great omens, Whoever calls to arms.” And, with the word, He went to the stream, took water up, prayed often, Making his vows to all the gods of heaven.

And now, over all the plain, the army was coming, Rich in caparison, and rich in horses, In gold and broidered robes, Messapus leading, And Turnus in the center, and Tyrrhus’ sons As captains in the rear: they stream as Ganges Streams when his seven quiet tides flood over, Or Nile resents his deep confining channel. The Trojans see the sudden cloud, black dust Thickening over the plain, and darkness rising, And Caicus cries from the rampart:--“What is this, O fellow-citizens, this rolling darkness? Bring the swords quickly, bring weapons, climb the walls, Here comes the enemy, yea! Hurry, hurry!” Trojans, and noise, pour through the gates together. Men fill the walls. For so, on his departure, Aeneas had given orders: if something happened, They should not risk a battle in the open, They should only guard the camp, protect the ramparts. So, much as they would love to mix in battle, Anger and shame give way to prompt obedience. They bar the gates; protected by their towers They wait while the foe comes on. And Turnus, riding Impatient past his dawdling column, is there Before the city knows it. He has twenty Fast riders with him, his mount a piebald Thracian, His helmet gold with crimson crest. He cries, “Who will be first with me? Will anybody Be first with me against them? Let them have it!” And with the word, he lets the javelin fly, First sign of battle; and they cheer and follow And wonder a little at the Trojans, cowards Who dare not fight in the open, man to man, Who hug their walls for comfort. Round and round, Turnus, a wild man, rides, seeking an entrance, But there is no way in. He is like a wolf Lurking about a sheep-fold, snarling at midnight Beside the pens, enduring wind and rain, While the bleating lambs are safe beneath the ewes, And he, unable to get at them, rages Fierce and dry-throated in the drive of hunger; So Turnus looks at wall and camp, and passion Burns hot within him, burns to his very bones. How to get in? or how to yank the Trojans Out of their cloister, smear them over the plain? Ah, but the fleet is there, beside the camp, Sheltered by earthworks and the flowing river: There lies the chance! He calls for fire, he hurls it, The burning torch, and his hand, almost, is burning, And all of them pitch in--Turnus has shown them, And Turnus eggs them on--they are armed with firebrands, They rob the hearths; the tar flares lurid yellow Against the grey of the cloud, the soot and ashes.

What god, O Muses, turned the fire? Who saved The Trojan ships? Remind me--the story is old, Men have believed it long, its glory endless. When first Aeneas built the fleet on Ida, Preparing for deep seas, the mother of gods, Queen Cybele, spoke to Jove:--“Grant me, my son, Lord of Olympus now, a mother’s prayer. I had a pine-wood on the mountain-top, And men, for many years, brought offerings there, I loved that forest, dark with fir and maple, But when the Trojan lacked a fleet, I gave him My timber gladly; now my heart is troubled. Relieve my fear, and let a mother’s pleading Keep them from wreck on any course, unshaken By any whirlwind. Grown upon our mountains, They should have privilege.” Her son, the swayer Of the stars of the world, replied, “What call, O mother, Is this you make on fate? What are you seeking? Should keels laid down by mortal hand have title To life immortal? Should Aeneas travel Through danger, unendangered? Such power is given No god in heaven. But I make this promise: After their course is run, after the harbors In Italy receive them, safe from ocean, And with Aeneas landed in Laurentum, I will take away their mortal shape, I will make them Goddesses of the sea, like Nereus’ daughter, Like Galatea, the nymphs who breast the foam.” So Jupiter promised, and, as gods do, took oath, By the rivers of his brother under the world, The banks that seethe with the black pitchy torrent, And made Olympus tremble with his nod.

The promised day had come, the fates had finished The allotted span, when Turnus’ desecration Warned Cybele to keep the torch and firebrand Far from her holy vessels. A new light blazed In mortal sight, and from the east a cloud Ran across heaven, and choirs from Ida followed, And a dread voice came down the air:--“O Trojans, Be in no hurry to defend my vessels, You have no need of arms; Turnus, most surely, Will burn the seas before he burns these pine-trees. Go forth in freedom, goddesses of ocean, The Mother wills it so.” And each ship parted Cable from bank, and dove to the deep water As dolphins dive, and reappeared as maiden,-- Oh marvel!--and all of them bore out to ocean.

Rutulian hearts were stunned, their captains shaken, Their steeds confused and frightened; even Tiber Shrank back from the sea, and the murmuring stream protested. But Turnus kept his nerve, his words rang loud In challenge to their courage:--“These are portents To make the Trojans timid; Jove has taken Their comfort from them; the ships they always fled in Run from Rutulian fire and sword; the oceans Are pathless for the Trojans now, their hope Of flight all gone: half of their world is taken, And the earth is in our hands, Italians, thousands, Thousands of us in arms. I am not frightened, However they boast of oracles from heaven. Venus and fate have had their share: the Trojans Have done enough even to touch our richness, The Ausonian fields. I have my omens, also, To match with theirs, a sword to slay the guilty, Death for the rape of brides! Not Atreus’ sons, Not only Menelaus and Mycenae, Know what this hurt can be, this need for vengeance, This right to take up arms. Once to have perished, They tell us, is enough. Once to have sinned Ought to have been enough and more. Hereafter All women should be hateful to them, cowards Hiding behind the sheltering moat and rampart, The little barriers that give them courage! Have they not seen the walls that Neptune built them Sink in the fires? Which one of you is ready, Brave hearts, to slash their barriers with the sword, To join me in the onrush? I do not need The arms of Vulcan, nor a thousand vessels Against the Trojans. Let them have Etruria! One thing, at least, they need not fear,--the darkness, The sneaking theft of their Palladium image, Guards slain in the dark, hiders in horse’s belly; I fight in open daylight, I have fire To put around their walls, I will teach them something,-- Their business now is not with those Greek heroes Whom Hector kept at bay for ten long years. Now day is almost over; you have done Good work; rest now; be happy, be preparing, Be hopeful for the battles of to-morrow.”

Meanwhile, the guards were posted, under orders Of Messapus, their officer; and the walls Were ringed with fire. Fourteen Rutulian captains Led, each, a hundred men, bright in their gold, Plumed in their crimson, on patrol or resting, Or sprawling on the grass, gambling or drinking; The fires burn bright, the sentinels are watchful.

Above them, from the wall, the Trojans, waiting, Maintain the heights with arms, and, anxious, test The strength of the gates, link bridge and battlement, Warriors in harness. Mnestheus and Serestus Urge on the work; they were to be the leaders, Aeneas said, in the event of trouble. Along the walls the host mounts guard; they share Relief and danger in turn, each at his post.

Nisus, quick-handed with the javelin And the light arrows, very keen in arms, Stood guard beside the gate, Nisus, a son Of Hyrtacus, sent by the huntress Ida To join Aeneas; and near-by his friend Euryalus; no Trojan was more handsome Than he was, that first bloom of youth. They shared Assignments always, side by side in the charge, And side by side defenders. Here they were Together on sentry-duty at the gate. Nisus burst out:--“Euryalus, what is it? Do the gods put this ardor in our hearts Or does each man’s desire become his god? I want much more than this, I am not contented With all this peace and calm; my mind keeps calling To battle, or something big. Look! The Rutulians Are far too confident: their lights are scattered; They lie asleep or drunk; and all is silent. Listen! I have a plan. People and fathers Demand Aeneas, ask that men be sent him With information. If I can make them promise To let you go--(the glory of the action Is all I want myself)--I think that I Can find the way around that hill, can manage To reach the walls and fort of Pallanteum.” This shook Euryalus: a great love of praise Spoke in his answer to his eager comrade:-- “What, Nisus? Are you planning to leave me out In this bold scheme, planning to go alone Into such dangers? No; no, no. I am Opheltes’ son, a warrior trained among Greek terror and Trojan suffering; and I follow, With you, great-souled Aeneas and his fortunes. I have a spirit, not too fond of living, Not too dissatisfied to buy with death The honor that you strive for.” Nisus answered:-- “I had no fear on your account, be certain; That would be shameless of me: so may Jove, Or any god that looks on this with favor, Bring me back home triumphant. But disaster, As well you know, or god, or chance, might take me: If so, your youth being worthier, I’d have you Be my survivor, give to earth my body, Rescued or ransomed, or pay the final honor To, it might be, an empty tomb. I would not Cause sorrow to the only woman of many Who scorned Acestes’ city, and came on With you, her only son.” But then the other Replied:--“There is no use in all this talking. My mind is fixed, and we had better hurry.” He roused the guards; new men came on; together Euryalus and Nisus seek their leader.

All other creatures over all the world Were easing their troubles in slumber, and hearts forgot Sorrow and pain; not so the Trojan leaders Meeting in council. Here were things of moment; What should they do? how would they reach Aeneas? They stood there, leaning on long spears, most gravely, Holding their shields. Euryalus and Nisus Crave instant audience; the matter is urgent, They say, and worth a little interruption. Iulus takes the lead, meets their impatience, Tells Nisus to speak out. “Give us a hearing, O men of Troy,” says Nisus, “do not hold Our years against us: we have something for you. All the Rutulians are drunk or sleeping, They are quiet now. There is a place, we know it, We have seen it with our eyes, a place that cunning Can take advantage of: you know the gate Nearest the sea, and how the road splits off there. The watchfires there die down, and the black smoke rises Dark to the sky out there. Give us a chance! Let us go to find Aeneas and Pallanteum. You will see us here again; it will not be long Till we come back, weighed down with spoil. We will kill them. We will not miss the way; we have seen the city Far in the distant valleys. We go hunting Along here often; we know all the river. We know it all by heart.” And old Aletes, A wise man in a council, gave the answer:-- “Gods of our ancestors, under whose guidance Troy is and has been, always, our destruction Must be far off, seeing your care has brought us Young men of such high heart and lofty spirit.” In deep emotion, his hands reached out for theirs, His arms went round their shoulders. “What can I give you, Young men,” he cried, “worthy your praise and glory? The best rewards come from the gods, the finest From your own character, but good Aeneas Will not forget your service, and your peer In age, Ascanius, surely will remember.” And that young man broke in, “Most truly, Nisus, I trust my fortune to you. My only safety Lies in my sire’s return. By all our gods, I beg you both, I pray, bring back my father. Our trouble goes when he is here. I promise Two silver wine-cups, captured from Arisba, A pair of tripods, two great talents of gold, An ancient bowl, the present of queen Dido. And if we capture Italy, if we live To wield the sceptre and divide the spoil, You know the horse that Turnus rides, the armor He carries on his back, all gold--that armor, The shield, the crimson plumes, and the war-horse, Nisus, Are your reward; even now, I so declare them. My father will give twelve women, beautiful captives, And captive men, equipped with arms, and land Now held by king Latinus; and I cherish With all my heart, Euryalus, your courage. Your years are near my own, and all my life Your glory will be mine; in peace or war, In word and deed, I trust in you, completely.” Euryalus replied:--“No day will ever Prove me unworthy of brave deeds, if fortune Is kind, not cruel, to me. I ask one thing Better than any gift: I have a mother Of Priam’s ancient line, and she came with me, Poor soul, from Troy, and king Acestes’ city Was powerless to keep her. I leave her now With never a word about what I am doing, Whatever its danger is, with no farewell. I cannot bear a mother’s tears. I beg you, Comfort her helplessness, relieve her sorrow. Let me take with me that much hope; it will help me Face any risk more boldly.” They were weeping At this, the Trojans, all of them, Iulus More deeply touched than any. And he spoke:-- “Be reassured, Euryalus; all we do Will prove as worthy as your glorious mission. Your mother shall be mine, in all but name; Great honor waits the mother of a son So great in honor. Whatever fortune follows, I vow and swear it, with an oath as solemn As any my father ever took, I promise, When you return to us, safe and successful, Your triumph and your glory and your prizes Shall be for her as well, for all your house.” He spoke with tears, and from his sword-belt took A present in farewell, the golden sword, The ivory scabbard, wonderfully fashioned By old Lycaon’s talent; Mnestheus gave A lion-skin to Nisus, and Aletes Exchanged his helmet with him. As they started, All the great company, young men and old ones, Went with them to the gate, and out beyond it The hopeful prayers attended them. Iulus, Mature beyond his years, gave many a message To carry to Aeneas, but the winds Bore these away and swept them off to cloudland.

And now they have crossed the trench, and through night’s shadow Invade the hostile camp; they are bound to be The doom of many. They see the bodies sprawling In drunken sleep, the chariots half turned over, Men lying under the wheels and among the reins, And Nisus whispers:--“Euryalus, we must Be bold; the chance is given; here lies our way. Watch and keep back, lest some one steal upon us Along the trail behind. I lead, you follow Where I have cut the way; it will be a broad one.” His voice was silent; and he drew the sword At Rhamnes, cushioned on high covers, lying In a deep slumber, breathing deep, a king And Turnus’ favorite augur, but his doom No augury prevented. Nisus struck Three slaves, and then the armor-bearer of Remus, And Remus’ charioteer--their necks were severed With steel, and their lord Remus was beheaded. The trunk spurts blood, the earth and couch are darkened With blood, black-flowing. Lamyrus and Lamus Are slain, and young Serranus, handsome gambler Who had won high stakes that night, and slept contented Smiling at the gods’ favor, luckier surely If he had lost all night. A starving lion Loose in a sheepfold with the crazy hunger Urging him on, gnashing and dragging, raging With bloody mouth against the fearful feeble, So Nisus slaughters. And his savage comrade Keeps pace with him: Fadus is slain, Herbesus, Rhoetus, Abaris, all of them unconscious, Murdered in sleep. One of them, Rhoetus, wakened A little, saw, and tried to hide, and crouching Behind a wine-bowl, took the sword, and rose, Stumbled and sprawled and belched, the red life spurting Out of the mouth, red wine, red blood. All hotly Euryalus went on. Messapus’ quarters Are next in line; the fires burn low, the horses, Tether-contented, graze. Then, briefly, Nisus, Sensing his comrade’s recklessness in slaughter, Calls:--“Light is near, our enemy; give over, We have killed enough, we have cut the path we needed. No more of this!” They left behind them armor Of solid silver, bowls, rich-woven carpets, But must take something: Rhamnes’ golden sword-belt Euryalus held on to, all that armor That went with long tradition, from father to son, From son to enemy, once more a trophy For young Euryalus. He dons the armor, Picks up, puts on, besides, a shapely helmet, The spoil of Messapus, the long plume flowing. They leave the camp, are on their way to safety.

Meanwhile, sent forward from the Latin city, Horsemen were coming, while the legion rested Behind them on the plain, three hundred horsemen With word for Turnus, under their captain Volcens, All armed with shields and riding at the ready. They are near the camp, the wall, and in the distance See two men turning left along a pathway, And a helmet glittering among the shadows, Euryalus’ prize and foolishness. They notice At once, of course, and challenge. From the column Volcens cried out:--“Halt! Who goes there? Who are you? What are you doing in arms? Upon what mission?” No answer: flight to wood and trust in darkness. But the horsemen, fanning out, block every cross-road, Circle and screen each outlet. Wide with brambles And dark with holm-oak spreads the wood; the briars Fill it on every side, but the path glimmers In the rare intervals between the shadows. Euryalus is hindered by the branches, The darkness, and the spoil he carries; terror Makes him mistake the path. Nisus is clear, Reaching the site that later men called Alba, Where king Latinus had his lofty stables. He halts, looks back to find his friend: in vain. “Euryalus, Euryalus, where are you? Where have I lost you? How am I to follow Back through the tangled wood, the treacherous thickets? Euryalus, Euryalus!” He turns, Tries to retrace his step, is lost in the woods, And hears the horses, hears the shouts and signals As the pursuit comes closer, and he hears A cry, he sees Euryalus, dragged along Out of the treason of the night and darkness, Bewildered by the uproar, fighting vainly In the hands of Volcens’ squadron. There is nothing Nisus can do, or is there? With what arms, What force, redeem his friend? Or is it better To hurl himself to death, dash in, regardless, To glorious wounds? His spear is poised, his arm Drawn back; he looks to the moon on high, and prays:-- “Dear goddess, daughter of Latona, aid me, Pride of the stars and glory of the groves, If ever my father Hyrtacus brought honors In my name to the altar, if ever I Have brought gifts home from my own hunting, aid me! Let me confound that troop, direct my weapon!” The straining body flung the spear; it whistled Across the shadow of night, and Sulmo took it In his turned back; the point snaps off; it lodges With part of the splintered wood deep in the lungs. Sulmo goes down, his mouth spurts blood, his body Sobs, straining, in the gasp and chill and shudder Of a cold death. They look in all directions, See nothing. And another spear is flying, Fiercer this time. This pierces Tagus’ temples, Clings, warm, in the split brain. And Volcens rages, And cannot find the spearman, and his anger Has no sure place to go, but for his vengeance Turns on Euryalus, sword drawn, and rushing He cries:--“You will pay for both of them, your blood Be the atonement.” Nisus, from the darkness, Shrieks in his terror:--“Here I am, I did it, The guilt is mine, let him alone, come get me, Rutulians! How could he have dared or done it? God knows, the only thing he did was love A luckless friend too well.” But the sword is driven Deep in the breast. Euryalus rolls over, Blood veins the handsome limbs, and on the shoulder The neck droops over, as a bright-colored flower Droops when the ploughshare bends it, or as poppies Sink under the weight of heavy summer rainfall. And Nisus rushes them; he is after Volcens, Volcens alone. They mass around him, cluster, Batter him back, but through them all he charges, Whirling the blade like fire, until he drives it Full in the face while the Rutulian, shrieking, Goes down, and Nisus, dying, sees him die, Falls over his lifeless friend, and there is quiet In the utter peace of death.

Fortunate boys! If there is any power in my verses, You will not be forgotten in time and story While rock stands firm beneath the Capitol, While the imperial house maintains dominion.

With victory and tears, with spoil and plunder, They brought Rutulian Volcens home to camp-ground, And a great wail arose, for Rhamnes slaughtered, For Numa, for Serranus, for so many Slain in one fight. They rush to see the bodies, To heroes dead or dying, to the ground Reeking with carnage, the red foaming rivers. They recognize the spoil, the shining helmet Brought back for Messapus, and all the trappings It cost them sweat to win.

And the Dawn-goddess Came from her husband’s saffron couch, bestowing Fresh light across the world. Turnus, in armor, Summoned his men to arms, and every leader Marshalled his ranks of bronze, and each man sharpens His anger with one rumor or another. And more than that, a pitiful sight, they fix On spears upraised, and follow with loud shouting, The heads of Nisus and Euryalus. On the left of the wall the Trojans form their line Whose right rests on the river. They hold the trenches, Stand on the high towers, sorrowing; they know, And all too well, those heads with spears for bodies, And the black blood running down.

And meanwhile Rumor Goes flying through the panic of the city, Comes to Euryalus’ mother. That poor woman Is cold as death; the shuttle falls from her hands, The yarn is all unwound. She rushes, shrieking, Tearing her hair, out to the walls, in frenzy, Heedless of men, heedless of darts and danger To fill the air with terrible lamentation:-- “Is this thing you I see, Euryalus? Could you, a poor old woman’s only comfort, Leave her to loneliness? O cruel, cruel! To go to danger, and never a farewell word Between the mother and son! And now you lie On a strange land for dogs and birds to pick at, No mother to bathe the wounds, or close the eyes, To veil the body with the robe I worked on For quite another purpose, night and day, Comforting, so, the cares of age. Where can I Go now, to find you? In what land are lying The limbs, dismembered, and the mangled body? Is this thing all you bring me from the wars, Is this what I have followed on land and sea? If you have anything of decent feeling, Rutulians, kill me; hurl your weapons on me, All of you, all of them: let steel destroy me. Or, father of the gods, have pity on me And strike with the bolt of lightning; hurl to Hell The life I hate; no other way is left me To break the cruel thread.” And at her wailing The Trojan spirit sank, and a groan of sorrow Passed through the ranks, their will to battle broken. She kindles mourning; the leaders give an order, Idaeus and Actor, taking her between them, Lead her away.

And the loud terrible trumpet Blared in bronze-throated challenge, and the shouting Rose to the sky. And on they came, the Volscians Under their tortoise-shield, in a wild hurry To fill the moat, tear down the wall: some sought A quick way in, or over, with scaling-ladders Where the ring of men is thin, and light breaks in Where no men stand. And in reply the Trojans Rain every kind of weapon down--long war Has taught them how the walls must be defended. They use crude poles to push men off the ladders, They roll tremendous boulders to crush the ranks Covered by shields, and glad of that protection, Too little now, too small for the great rock The Trojans heave and pry and dump down on them Where the clump of men is thickest. The back of the tortoise Is broken, like the bodies of men beneath it. No more blind war, like this, for the Rutulians! They change their tactics, sweep the wall with arrows, Mezentius, grim to look at, works with firebrands, While Neptune’s son, Messapus, tamer of horses, Keeps tearing at the walls, and screaming for ladders.

Help me, Calliope, with the song: what killing Turnus dealt out that day, the roll of victims Whom every warrior sent to Hell: O, aid me To unfold it all, the war’s great panorama.

There was a tower, high overhead, well chosen To suit the ground, equipped with lofty gangways; On this the Italians spent their every effort To tear it down, the Trojans to defend it With stones from above, and arrows through the loopholes. A firebrand, flung by Turnus, found a lodging Along one side, and the wind blew and fanned it, And lintel and planking burned, and the men huddled Within, and found no way to flee, and shifted Toward the undamaged portion, when all of a sudden, Lopsided under the weight, it toppled crashing And filled all heaven with thunder. Half dead already Men reached the ground, and the tower came down upon them, Pierced through and through by shafts of their own making, Their chests transfixed by jagged broken timbers. Two manage to escape, Lycus, Helenor, The latter a young warrior, the son Of a Maeonian king and a slave-girl mother, Who sent him off to Troy in arms (forbidden, Since arms were not for slaves), a naked sword, A shield with no device. He saw himself Now in the midst of Turnus’ thousands, marshalled Before him and behind him. There he stood Like a wild animal, ringed in by hunters, Raging against their weapons, and sure of death, Leaping upon them,--so Helenor, certain To die, rushed where the weapons were the thickest. Lycus was swifter afoot: through men, through weapons, He gained the wall, reached up to pull himself over, Reached up for hands to help him. But Turnus came Hot on his heels:--“You fool,” he cried in triumph, “Did you think you were out of reach?” And as he hung there, Turnus grabbed him, tore him loose, and the wall came with him. An eagle, so, sweeps up again to heaven With a white swan or rabbit in his talons; Or so a wolf snatches a lamb from the sheepfold To the bleating of the ewe. A shout arises; Men from all sides come on; they fill the trenches, Keep firebrands flying at the tower and rooftop. Ilioneus knocks over one, Lucetius, Who came to the gates with fire; he bowled him over With a rock as big as a mountain. Liger slew Emathion with a javelin; Asilas Shot Corynaeus down. Caeneus won Over Ortygius, lost to Turnus. Turnus Killed half a dozen, Clonius, Dioxippus, Itys, Promolus, Sagaris, and Idas. Capys cut down Privernus: a spear had grazed him, And the fool had flung his shield aside, to carry His hand to his side, and an arrow pinned it there, And went on through, a mortal wound in the bowels. A young man in the battle, the son of Arcens, Stood out conspicuous in arms, a tunic Embroidered bright, Iberian blue; his father Had sent him from his mother’s grove along Symaethus stream and Palicus’ rich altars. Mezentius saw him there, laid down his spear, Whirled the sling thrice around his head, let fly, And the slug of the sling-shot split the victim’s temples, Stretching his blue in the deep yellow sand.

Then, so they say, was the first time Iulus Brought down a man in war; he had hunted only Wild beasts, before this time, with bow and arrows. There was a youngster, Remulus by name, Or, it might be, Numanus, lately married To Turnus’ younger sister, very proud And pleased with his new royalty. He strode Along the foremost battle-line, and taunted, Shouting indecencies, a swollen hero:-- “What, once again, O Phrygians twice-besieged? Have you no shame, to hide behind the ramparts A second time, a second time with walls To ward off death? Look at the silly warriors Who claim our brides with steel! What god, what madness, Brought you to Italy? No sons of Atreus Are here, no lying glib Ulysses. We Are a tough race, we bring our new-born sons To the ice-cold river, dip them in to make them Tough as their fathers, make them wake up early To hunt till they wear the forests out; they ride, They shoot, and love it; they tame the earth, they battle Till cities fall: and all our life is iron, The spear, reversed, prods on the ox; old age Pulls on the helmet over the whitest hair; We live on what we plunder, we revel in booty. But you--O wonderful in purple and saffron!-- Love doing nothing, you delight in dancing, And oh, those fancy clothes, sleeves on the tunics, And ribbons in the bonnets! Phrygian women, By God, not Phrygian men! Be gone forever Over the heights of Dindymus; pipe and timbrel Call you to female rites: leave arms to men, The sword to warriors!”

But Ascanius loosened An arrow from the quiver, held the shaft Nocked to the bow-string, and with arms outspread For shot, made prayer:--“Almighty Jupiter, Favor my bold beginning. I shall offer The temple every year a snow-white bullock With gilded horns, a young one, but already Tall as his dam, butting with horn, and pawing The sand with restless hoof.” The father heard him, There was thunder on the left, and in that instant The fatal bow-string twanged. The shaft came flying Through air, and the steel split the hollow temples Of that young bragger Remulus. “Go on, Mock valor with arrogant words! This is the answer The Phrygians twice-besieged, the Phrygian women, Send back to Remulus.” The Trojans cheered him With joyful shouts and spirits raised to heaven.

And it so happened from the realm of sky Long-haired Apollo, throned with cloud, looked down And saw the Ausonian battle-lines and city, And had a word of blessing for Iulus:-- “Good for your prowess, youngster! That’s the way To reach the stars, a son of gods, a father Of gods to be. In time the wars will end Under that royal line. Troy sets you free For greater destinies.” And he left the heaven, Came through the stir of air, and sought Iulus, Disguised as ancient Butes, armor-bearer, Once, to Anchises, a guardian at his threshold, Later Ascanius’ servant. With his voice, His grizzled hair, his color, his sounding arms, Apollo came and spoke to the hot young warrior:-- “Let that be plenty, son of great Aeneas: Numanus slain and unavenged; your arrow Has done its work. Apollo grants this praise, Your first, and does not envy the little archer. But now, my son, refrain from war.” He vanished, Before the speech was ended, into thin air, And the Trojan captains knew the god, his weapons, The clang of the quiver of the god ascending, And at his will and order keep Ascanius Out of the fight for which he longs, themselves Go back to the work, charge at the jaws of danger. The loud cry runs from tower to tower, all down The avenue of the walls, and they bend the bows, And catapults hum as the great stone goes flying. The ground is sown with weapons; shield and helmet Ring with the clanging; the fight is a swell and a surge Like the rise of a wind from the west, with rainstorm pelting Hard on the ground, thicker than hail on ocean, When Jupiter lashes the gales and cloud-burst thunders from heaven.

Two young men, tall as pine-trees, tall as hills That gave them birth, Alcanor’s sons, their mother The Oread Iaera, stood at the gate, Obeying orders, Pandarus and Bitias, And had their own idea, and flung it open, Relying on their arms, an invitation-- Here’s open house for all, come in, come in! To right and left they stood before the towers, Armed with the steel, and with the high plumes tossing, Like twin oaks towering by pleasant rivers. The Rutulians saw the entrance open, rushed in, Were beaten back: Haemon, the son of Mars, Tmarus the headstrong, Quercens, Aquicolus Handsome in arms, fled with their columns routed, Or perished in the gateway. And anger mounted In all those battling spirits: the Trojans gathered, Daring in closer combat now, and risking Brief sallies past the walls.

Turnus, far off, Raging and rioting, heard the glad tidings Of enemies gone wild with slaughter, gates Flung open wide. Whatever he was doing He broke off gladly, burned with monstrous anger, Rushed to the Trojan gate and those proud brothers. Antiphates came to meet him, bastard son Of tall Sarpedon and a Theban mother, And Turnus’ javelin laid him low: it flew, Italian cornel-wood, through the soft air, Lodged in the throat, pierced deep into the chest. The wound’s dark hollow filled with foaming red, The steel grew warm in the lung. And Turnus’ hand Brought down Meropes, Erymas, Aphidnus, Then Bitias blazing-eyed and hot in spirit. No javelin brought him down, no common javelin Would ever have killed that giant, but a pikestaff, Rifled and whirring loud, driven like lightning, Cut through the double leather, the double mail With scales of gold, and the huge limbs sprawl and tumble, Earth groans, and his great shield clangs down above him, The way a pillar of rock comes down, at Baiae, When men have pried it loose and shoved it over Into the ocean, and, crashing down in ruin, It lies in shallow water, confusion of sea, Eruption of black sand, and the shock of sound Makes the high mountains tremble, and the earth Shudder under the oceans.

And Mars added New strength and spirit to the Latins, raked them With the sharp sting of the spur, and sent the Trojans Panic and runaway fear. The Latins, given The chance of fight, come on, as the war-god rides them. Pandarus, seeing his brother’s fallen body, Seeing the turn of fortune, puts his shoulder With all his strength to the gate, and slowly, slowly, Swings it on stubborn hinge, to leave his comrades, Many of them, shut out, beyond the rampart, Fighting in desperate battle; others he welcomes As they come pouring in, the fool, not seeing One of them was no Trojan! That was Turnus, Shut up in the town, as welcome as a tiger Penned in a flock of sheep. And Turnus’ eyes Shone with new light, his arms rang loud, his plume Nodded blood-red, and his great shield flashed lightning. Sudden confusion fastened on the Trojans; They knew him as he was, gigantic, hateful, But Pandarus flashed forward toward him, burning With vengeance for a brother’s death, and shouting:-- “Why, this is not Amata’s bridal palace, Nor yet the center of your father’s city! This is a hostile camp you see here, Turnus, And not a chance to leave it.” Turnus only Smiled at him with untroubled heart:--“Start something, If there is any fighting spirit in you; Come closer; I have a message for king Priam: Tell him Achilles was here.” And Pandarus flung His spear, rough-knotted, the unpeeled bark still on it, And the winds bore it off, and Juno parried The threat of the coming wound, and it fastened, harmless, Stuck in the wooden gate.

“And here’s a weapon That will not miss, seeing my right hand swings it,” And with his answer Turnus rose full height To the sword upraised, and brought it down, and the steel Split the head clean apart between the temples, And Pandarus came crashing down, and the earth Shook underneath his weight, and he lay there, dying, Limbs buckled underneath him, and his armor Spattered with brains, and the head’s halves, divided, Dangling on either shoulder.

And the Trojans Ran every way, in rout and sudden terror. That day might well have been their last, that battle The end of war, had Turnus ever bothered To break the bars of the gate, let in his comrades. But no: his fury and mad desire of slaughter Drove him one way, and one way only, forward. He caught Phaleris, and he hamstrung Gyges, And snatched their spears and flung them at the Trojans Who fled with nothing but their backs for target. Juno supplied him fire and strength. He added Halys to the dead roster of his comrades, Pierced Phegeus through his shield and mail. Four others, Alcander, Halius, Prytanis, Noemon, Ignorant of his presence, roused the fighters Along the walls, and fell before they knew it. Lynceus, calling his comrades, came to meet him, And Turnus, standing higher, slashed and swung, Close in, and the flashing blade swept head and helmet Together from the shoulders; then he slaughtered Amycus, hunter of beasts, a clever craftsman In arming darts with poison; and Aeolus’ son, Clytius; and Cretheus, the Muses’ comrade, Lover of music and song, whose theme was always Warfare and warhorse, arms of men, and battle.

And the Trojan leaders heard about the slaughter, And met, Serestus, keen in arms, and Mnestheus, And saw their comrades wheeling and Turnus welcomed, And Mnestheus tried to halt them:--“Where do you aim That flight?” he cried, “What other ramparts have you? What walls beyond these walls? Shall one man, circled, Hemmed in on every side, deal out destruction Unscathed through all the city? Will you let him Send down to Hell so many brave young fighters? What kind of cowards are you? Have you no pity, No shame at all, for your unhappy country, Your ancient household gods, and great Aeneas?”

That gave them courage; and the column thickened, And they were firm, and stood. And very slowly Turnus drew back, retreating toward the river, And they came on, more boldly now, with yelling And massing rank on rank, a crowd of hunters With deadly spears, after a deadly lion, And the beast they hunt is frightened, but still deadly, Still dangerous, still glaring, and neither anger Nor courage lets him turn his back, and forward He cannot go, however much he wants to, Through all that press of men and spears. So Turnus, Doubtful, kept stepping back, little by little, Burning, inside, with anger. Two more times He made a sudden charge, sent the foe flying Along the walls, but they came back, and Juno Dared not assist him further; Jove had sent Iris from heaven, with no uncertain message If Turnus does not leave the Trojan ramparts, He can no longer hold his own against them, The shield and sword-arm falter; darts like hail Rain down from everywhere. The helmet rings Around his temples, and the brass cracks open Under the storm of stones; the horsehair crest Is shot away; the boss of the shield is dented; Mnestheus, with lightning force, and other Trojans Multiply spears. The sweat all over his body Runs in a tarry stream; he cannot breathe. At last, with one great leap, in all his armor, He plunges into the stream, and Tiber takes him On the yellow flood, held up by the buoyant water, Washing away the stains of war, a hero, Returning happily to his warrior-comrades.