BOOK XII
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
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.
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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.