The Aeneid (11 page)
So Ilioneus closed. And with one accord
the Trojans murmured Yes.
Her eyes lowered,
Dido replies with a few choice words of welcome:
“Cast fear to the winds, Trojans, free your minds.
Our kingdom is new. Our hard straits have forced me
to set defenses, station guards along our far frontiers.
Who has not heard of Aeneas’ people, his city, Troy,
her men, her heroes, the flames of that horrendous war?
We are not so dull of mind, we Carthaginians here.
When he yokes his team, the Sun shines down on us as well.
Whatever you choose, great Hesperia—Saturn’s fields—
or the shores of Eryx with Acestes as your king,
I will provide safe passage, escorts and support
to speed you on your way. Or would you rather
settle here in my realm on equal terms with me?
This city I build—it’s yours. Haul ships to shore.
Trojans, Tyrians: they will be all the same to me.
If only the storm that drove you drove your king
and Aeneas were here now! Indeed, I’ll send out
trusty men to scour the coast of Libya far and wide.
Perhaps he’s shipwrecked, lost in woods or towns.”
the Trojans murmured Yes.
Her eyes lowered,
Dido replies with a few choice words of welcome:
“Cast fear to the winds, Trojans, free your minds.
Our kingdom is new. Our hard straits have forced me
to set defenses, station guards along our far frontiers.
Who has not heard of Aeneas’ people, his city, Troy,
her men, her heroes, the flames of that horrendous war?
We are not so dull of mind, we Carthaginians here.
When he yokes his team, the Sun shines down on us as well.
Whatever you choose, great Hesperia—Saturn’s fields—
or the shores of Eryx with Acestes as your king,
I will provide safe passage, escorts and support
to speed you on your way. Or would you rather
settle here in my realm on equal terms with me?
This city I build—it’s yours. Haul ships to shore.
Trojans, Tyrians: they will be all the same to me.
If only the storm that drove you drove your king
and Aeneas were here now! Indeed, I’ll send out
trusty men to scour the coast of Libya far and wide.
Perhaps he’s shipwrecked, lost in woods or towns.”
Spirits lifting at Dido’s welcome, brave Achates
and captain Aeneas had long chafed to break free
of the mist, and now Achates spurs Aeneas on:
“Son of Venus, what feelings are rising in you now?
You see the coast is clear, our ships and friends restored.
Just one is lost. We saw him drown at sea ourselves.
All else is just as your mother promised.”
and captain Aeneas had long chafed to break free
of the mist, and now Achates spurs Aeneas on:
“Son of Venus, what feelings are rising in you now?
You see the coast is clear, our ships and friends restored.
Just one is lost. We saw him drown at sea ourselves.
All else is just as your mother promised.”
He’d barely ended when all at once the mist
around them parted, melting into the open air,
and there Aeneas stood, clear in the light of day,
his head, his shoulders, the man was like a god.
His own mother had breathed her beauty on her son,
a gloss on his flowing hair, and the ruddy glow of youth,
and radiant joy shone in his eyes. His beauty fine
as a craftsman’s hand can add to ivory, or aglow
as silver or Parian marble ringed in glinting gold.
around them parted, melting into the open air,
and there Aeneas stood, clear in the light of day,
his head, his shoulders, the man was like a god.
His own mother had breathed her beauty on her son,
a gloss on his flowing hair, and the ruddy glow of youth,
and radiant joy shone in his eyes. His beauty fine
as a craftsman’s hand can add to ivory, or aglow
as silver or Parian marble ringed in glinting gold.
Suddenly, surprising all, he tells the queen:
“Here I am before you, the man you are looking for.
Aeneas the Trojan, plucked from Libya’s heavy seas.
You alone have pitied the long ordeals of Troy—unspeakable—
and here you would share your city and your home with us,
this remnant left by the Greeks. We who have drunk deep
of each and every disaster land and sea can offer.
Stripped of everything, now it’s past our power
to reward you gift for gift, Dido, theirs as well,
whoever may survive of the Dardan people still,
strewn over the wide world now. But may the gods,
if there are Powers who still respect the good and true,
if justice still exists on the face of the earth,
may they and their own sense of right and wrong
bring you your just rewards.
What age has been so blest to give you birth?
What noble parents produced so fine a daughter?
So long as rivers run to the sea, so long as shadows
travel the mountain slopes and the stars range the skies,
your honor, your name, your praise will live forever,
whatever lands may call me to their shores.”
With that,
he extends his right hand toward his friend Ilioneus,
greeting Serestus with his left, and then the others,
gallant Gyas, gallant Cloanthus.
Tyrian Dido marveled,
first at the sight of him, next at all he’d suffered,
then she said aloud: “Born of a goddess, even so
what destiny hunts you down through such ordeals?
What violence lands you on this frightful coast?
Are you that Aeneas whom loving Venus bore
to Dardan Anchises on the Simois’ banks at Troy?
Well I remember . . . Teucer came to Sidon once,
banished from native ground, searching for new realms,
and my father Belus helped him. Belus had sacked Cyprus,
plundered that rich island, ruled with a victor’s hand.
From that day on I have known of Troy’s disaster,
known your name, and all the kings of Greece.
Teucer, your enemy, often sang Troy’s praises,
claiming his own descent from Teucer’s ancient stock.
So come, young soldiers, welcome to our house.
My destiny, harrying me with trials hard as yours,
led me as well, at last, to anchor in this land.
Schooled in suffering, now I learn to comfort
those who suffer too.”
With that greeting
she leads Aeneas into the royal halls, announcing
offerings in the gods’ high temples as she goes.
Not forgetting to send his shipmates on the beaches
twenty bulls and a hundred huge, bristling razorbacks
and a hundred fatted lambs together with their mothers:
gifts to make this day a day of joy.
Within the palace
all is decked with adornments, lavish, regal splendor.
In the central hall they are setting out a banquet,
draping the gorgeous purple, intricately worked,
heaping the board with grand displays of silver
and gold engraved with her fathers’ valiant deeds,
a long, unending series of captains and commands,
traced through a line of heroes since her country’s birth.
“Here I am before you, the man you are looking for.
Aeneas the Trojan, plucked from Libya’s heavy seas.
You alone have pitied the long ordeals of Troy—unspeakable—
and here you would share your city and your home with us,
this remnant left by the Greeks. We who have drunk deep
of each and every disaster land and sea can offer.
Stripped of everything, now it’s past our power
to reward you gift for gift, Dido, theirs as well,
whoever may survive of the Dardan people still,
strewn over the wide world now. But may the gods,
if there are Powers who still respect the good and true,
if justice still exists on the face of the earth,
may they and their own sense of right and wrong
bring you your just rewards.
What age has been so blest to give you birth?
What noble parents produced so fine a daughter?
So long as rivers run to the sea, so long as shadows
travel the mountain slopes and the stars range the skies,
your honor, your name, your praise will live forever,
whatever lands may call me to their shores.”
With that,
he extends his right hand toward his friend Ilioneus,
greeting Serestus with his left, and then the others,
gallant Gyas, gallant Cloanthus.
Tyrian Dido marveled,
first at the sight of him, next at all he’d suffered,
then she said aloud: “Born of a goddess, even so
what destiny hunts you down through such ordeals?
What violence lands you on this frightful coast?
Are you that Aeneas whom loving Venus bore
to Dardan Anchises on the Simois’ banks at Troy?
Well I remember . . . Teucer came to Sidon once,
banished from native ground, searching for new realms,
and my father Belus helped him. Belus had sacked Cyprus,
plundered that rich island, ruled with a victor’s hand.
From that day on I have known of Troy’s disaster,
known your name, and all the kings of Greece.
Teucer, your enemy, often sang Troy’s praises,
claiming his own descent from Teucer’s ancient stock.
So come, young soldiers, welcome to our house.
My destiny, harrying me with trials hard as yours,
led me as well, at last, to anchor in this land.
Schooled in suffering, now I learn to comfort
those who suffer too.”
With that greeting
she leads Aeneas into the royal halls, announcing
offerings in the gods’ high temples as she goes.
Not forgetting to send his shipmates on the beaches
twenty bulls and a hundred huge, bristling razorbacks
and a hundred fatted lambs together with their mothers:
gifts to make this day a day of joy.
Within the palace
all is decked with adornments, lavish, regal splendor.
In the central hall they are setting out a banquet,
draping the gorgeous purple, intricately worked,
heaping the board with grand displays of silver
and gold engraved with her fathers’ valiant deeds,
a long, unending series of captains and commands,
traced through a line of heroes since her country’s birth.
Aeneas—a father’s love would give the man no rest—
quickly sends Achates down to the ships to take
the news to Ascanius, bring him back to Carthage.
All his paternal care is focused on his son.
He tells Achates to fetch some gifts as well,
plucked from the ruins of Troy: a gown stiff
with figures stitched in gold, and a woven veil
with yellow sprays of acanthus round the border.
Helen’s glory, gifts she carried out of Mycenae,
fleeing Argos for Troy to seal her wicked marriage—
the marvelous handiwork of Helen’s mother, Leda.
Aeneas adds the scepter Ilione used to bear,
the eldest daughter of Priam; a necklace too,
strung with pearls, and a crown of double bands,
one studded with gems, the other, gold. Achates,
following orders, hurries toward the ships.
quickly sends Achates down to the ships to take
the news to Ascanius, bring him back to Carthage.
All his paternal care is focused on his son.
He tells Achates to fetch some gifts as well,
plucked from the ruins of Troy: a gown stiff
with figures stitched in gold, and a woven veil
with yellow sprays of acanthus round the border.
Helen’s glory, gifts she carried out of Mycenae,
fleeing Argos for Troy to seal her wicked marriage—
the marvelous handiwork of Helen’s mother, Leda.
Aeneas adds the scepter Ilione used to bear,
the eldest daughter of Priam; a necklace too,
strung with pearls, and a crown of double bands,
one studded with gems, the other, gold. Achates,
following orders, hurries toward the ships.
But now Venus is mulling over some new schemes,
new intrigues. Altered in face and figure, Cupid
would go in place of the captivating Ascanius,
using his gifts to fire the queen to madness,
weaving a lover’s ardor through her bones.
No doubt Venus fears that treacherous house
and the Tyrians’ forked tongues,
and brutal Juno inflames her anguish too
and her cares keep coming back as night draws on.
So Venus makes an appeal to Love, her winged son:
“You, my son, are my strength, my greatest power—
you alone, my son, can scoff at the lightning bolts
the high and mighty Father hurled against Typhoeus.
Help me, I beg you. I need all your immortal force.
Your brother Aeneas is tossed round every coast on earth,
thanks to Juno’s ruthless hatred, as you well know,
and time and again you’ve grieved to see my grief.
But now Phoenician Dido has him in her clutches,
holding him back with smooth, seductive words,
and I fear the outcome of Juno’s welcome here . . .
She won’t sit tight while Fate is turning on its hinge.
So I plan to forestall her with ruses of my own
and besiege the queen with flames,
and no goddess will change her mood—she’s mine,
my ally-in-arms in my great love for Aeneas.
new intrigues. Altered in face and figure, Cupid
would go in place of the captivating Ascanius,
using his gifts to fire the queen to madness,
weaving a lover’s ardor through her bones.
No doubt Venus fears that treacherous house
and the Tyrians’ forked tongues,
and brutal Juno inflames her anguish too
and her cares keep coming back as night draws on.
So Venus makes an appeal to Love, her winged son:
“You, my son, are my strength, my greatest power—
you alone, my son, can scoff at the lightning bolts
the high and mighty Father hurled against Typhoeus.
Help me, I beg you. I need all your immortal force.
Your brother Aeneas is tossed round every coast on earth,
thanks to Juno’s ruthless hatred, as you well know,
and time and again you’ve grieved to see my grief.
But now Phoenician Dido has him in her clutches,
holding him back with smooth, seductive words,
and I fear the outcome of Juno’s welcome here . . .
She won’t sit tight while Fate is turning on its hinge.
So I plan to forestall her with ruses of my own
and besiege the queen with flames,
and no goddess will change her mood—she’s mine,
my ally-in-arms in my great love for Aeneas.
“Now how can you go about this? Hear my plan.
His dear father has just sent for the young prince—
he means the world to me—and he’s bound for Carthage now,
bearing presents saved from the sea, the flames of Troy.
I’ll lull him into a deep sleep and hide him far away
on Cythera’s heights or high Idalium, my shrines,
so he cannot learn of my trap or spring it open
while it’s being set. And you with your cunning,
forge his appearance—just one night, no more—put on
the familiar features of the boy, boy that you are,
so when the wine flows free at the royal board
and Dido, lost in joy, cradles you in her lap,
caressing, kissing you gently, you can breathe
your secret fire into her, poison the queen
and she will never know.”
Cupid leaps at once
to his loving mother’s orders. Shedding his wings
he masquerades as Iulus, prancing with his stride.
But now Venus distills a deep, soothing sleep
into Iulus’ limbs, and warming him in her breast
the goddess spirits him off to her high Idalian grove
where beds of marjoram breathe and embrace him with aromatic
flowers and rustling shade.
Now Cupid is on the move,
under her orders, bringing the Tyrians royal gifts,
his spirits high as Achates leads him on.
Arriving, he finds the queen already poised
on a golden throne beneath the sumptuous hangings,
commanding the very center of her palace. Now Aeneas,
the good captain, enters, then the Trojan soldiers,
taking their seats on couches draped in purple.
Servants pour them water to rinse their hands,
quickly serving them bread from baskets, spreading
their laps with linens, napkins clipped and smooth.
In the kitchens are fifty serving-maids assigned
to lay out foods in a long line, course by course,
and honor the household gods by building fires high.
A hundred other maids and a hundred men, all matched in age,
are spreading the feast on trestles, setting out the cups.
And Tyrians join them, bustling through the doors,
filling the hall with joy, to take invited seats
on brocaded couches. They admire Aeneas’ gifts,
admire Iulus now—the glowing face of the god
and the god’s dissembling words—and Helen’s gown
and the veil adorned with a yellow acanthus border.
His dear father has just sent for the young prince—
he means the world to me—and he’s bound for Carthage now,
bearing presents saved from the sea, the flames of Troy.
I’ll lull him into a deep sleep and hide him far away
on Cythera’s heights or high Idalium, my shrines,
so he cannot learn of my trap or spring it open
while it’s being set. And you with your cunning,
forge his appearance—just one night, no more—put on
the familiar features of the boy, boy that you are,
so when the wine flows free at the royal board
and Dido, lost in joy, cradles you in her lap,
caressing, kissing you gently, you can breathe
your secret fire into her, poison the queen
and she will never know.”
Cupid leaps at once
to his loving mother’s orders. Shedding his wings
he masquerades as Iulus, prancing with his stride.
But now Venus distills a deep, soothing sleep
into Iulus’ limbs, and warming him in her breast
the goddess spirits him off to her high Idalian grove
where beds of marjoram breathe and embrace him with aromatic
flowers and rustling shade.
Now Cupid is on the move,
under her orders, bringing the Tyrians royal gifts,
his spirits high as Achates leads him on.
Arriving, he finds the queen already poised
on a golden throne beneath the sumptuous hangings,
commanding the very center of her palace. Now Aeneas,
the good captain, enters, then the Trojan soldiers,
taking their seats on couches draped in purple.
Servants pour them water to rinse their hands,
quickly serving them bread from baskets, spreading
their laps with linens, napkins clipped and smooth.
In the kitchens are fifty serving-maids assigned
to lay out foods in a long line, course by course,
and honor the household gods by building fires high.
A hundred other maids and a hundred men, all matched in age,
are spreading the feast on trestles, setting out the cups.
And Tyrians join them, bustling through the doors,
filling the hall with joy, to take invited seats
on brocaded couches. They admire Aeneas’ gifts,
admire Iulus now—the glowing face of the god
and the god’s dissembling words—and Helen’s gown
and the veil adorned with a yellow acanthus border.
But above all, tragic Dido, doomed to a plague
about to strike, cannot feast her eyes enough,
thrilled both by the boy and gifts he brings
and the more she looks the more the fire grows.
But once he’s embraced Aeneas, clung to his neck
to sate the deep love of his father, deluded father,
Cupid makes for the queen. Her gaze, her whole heart
is riveted on him now, and at times she even warms him
snugly in her breast, for how can she know, poor Dido,
what a mighty god is sinking into her, to her grief?
But he, recalling the wishes of his mother Venus,
blots out the memory of Sychaeus bit by bit,
trying to seize with a fresh, living love
a heart at rest for long—long numb to passion.
Then,
with the first lull in the feast, the tables cleared away,
they set out massive bowls and crown the wine with wreaths.
A vast din swells in the palace, voices reverberating
through the echoing halls. They light the lamps,
hung from the coffered ceilings sheathed in gilt,
and blazing torches burn the night away.
The queen calls for a heavy golden bowl,
studded with jewels and brimmed with unmixed wine,
the bowl that Belus and all of Belus’ sons had brimmed,
and the hall falls hushed as Dido lifts a prayer:
“Jupiter, you, they say, are the god who grants
the laws of host and guest. May this day be one
of joy for Tyrians here and exiles come from Troy,
a day our sons will long remember. Bacchus,
giver of bliss, and Juno, generous Juno,
bless us now. And come, my people, celebrate
with all good will this feast that makes us one!”
about to strike, cannot feast her eyes enough,
thrilled both by the boy and gifts he brings
and the more she looks the more the fire grows.
But once he’s embraced Aeneas, clung to his neck
to sate the deep love of his father, deluded father,
Cupid makes for the queen. Her gaze, her whole heart
is riveted on him now, and at times she even warms him
snugly in her breast, for how can she know, poor Dido,
what a mighty god is sinking into her, to her grief?
But he, recalling the wishes of his mother Venus,
blots out the memory of Sychaeus bit by bit,
trying to seize with a fresh, living love
a heart at rest for long—long numb to passion.
Then,
with the first lull in the feast, the tables cleared away,
they set out massive bowls and crown the wine with wreaths.
A vast din swells in the palace, voices reverberating
through the echoing halls. They light the lamps,
hung from the coffered ceilings sheathed in gilt,
and blazing torches burn the night away.
The queen calls for a heavy golden bowl,
studded with jewels and brimmed with unmixed wine,
the bowl that Belus and all of Belus’ sons had brimmed,
and the hall falls hushed as Dido lifts a prayer:
“Jupiter, you, they say, are the god who grants
the laws of host and guest. May this day be one
of joy for Tyrians here and exiles come from Troy,
a day our sons will long remember. Bacchus,
giver of bliss, and Juno, generous Juno,
bless us now. And come, my people, celebrate
with all good will this feast that makes us one!”
With that prayer, she poured a libation to the gods,
tipping wine on the board, and tipping it, she was first
to take the bowl, brushing it lightly with her lips,
then gave it to Bitias—laughing, goading him on
and he took the plunge, draining the foaming bowl,
drenching himself in its brimming, overflowing gold,
and the other princes drank in turn. Then Iopas,
long-haired bard, strikes up his golden lyre
resounding through the halls. Giant Atlas
had been his teacher once, and now he sings
the wandering moon and laboring sun eclipsed,
the roots of the human race and the wild beasts,
the source of storms and the lightning bolts on high,
Arcturus, the rainy Hyades and the Great and Little Bears,
and why the winter suns so rush to bathe themselves in the sea
and what slows down the nights to a long lingering crawl . . .
And time and again the Tyrians burst into applause
and the Trojans took their lead. So Dido, doomed,
was lengthening out the night by trading tales
as she drank long draughts of love—asking Aeneas
question on question, now about Priam, now Hector,
what armor Memnon, son of the Morning, wore at Troy,
how swift were the horses of Diomedes? How strong was Achilles?
tipping wine on the board, and tipping it, she was first
to take the bowl, brushing it lightly with her lips,
then gave it to Bitias—laughing, goading him on
and he took the plunge, draining the foaming bowl,
drenching himself in its brimming, overflowing gold,
and the other princes drank in turn. Then Iopas,
long-haired bard, strikes up his golden lyre
resounding through the halls. Giant Atlas
had been his teacher once, and now he sings
the wandering moon and laboring sun eclipsed,
the roots of the human race and the wild beasts,
the source of storms and the lightning bolts on high,
Arcturus, the rainy Hyades and the Great and Little Bears,
and why the winter suns so rush to bathe themselves in the sea
and what slows down the nights to a long lingering crawl . . .
And time and again the Tyrians burst into applause
and the Trojans took their lead. So Dido, doomed,
was lengthening out the night by trading tales
as she drank long draughts of love—asking Aeneas
question on question, now about Priam, now Hector,
what armor Memnon, son of the Morning, wore at Troy,
how swift were the horses of Diomedes? How strong was Achilles?
“Wait, come, my guest,” she urges, “tell us your own story,
start to finish—the ambush laid by the Greeks, the pain
your people suffered, the wanderings you have faced.
For now is the seventh summer that has borne you
wandering all the lands and seas on earth.”
start to finish—the ambush laid by the Greeks, the pain
your people suffered, the wanderings you have faced.
For now is the seventh summer that has borne you
wandering all the lands and seas on earth.”
BOOK TWO
The Final Hours of Troy
Silence. All fell hushed, their eyes fixed on Aeneas now
as the founder of his people, high on a seat of honor,
set out on his story: “Sorrow, unspeakable sorrow,
my queen, you ask me to bring to life once more,
how the Greeks uprooted Troy in all her power,
our kingdom mourned forever. What horrors I saw,
a tragedy where I played a leading role myself.
Who could tell such things—not even a Myrmidon,
a Dolopian, or comrade of iron-hearted Ulysses—
and still refrain from tears? And now, too,
the dank night is sweeping down from the sky
and the setting stars incline our heads to sleep.
But if you long so deeply to know what we went through,
to hear, in brief, the last great agony of Troy,
much as I shudder at the memory of it all—
I shrank back in grief—I’ll try to tell it now . . .
as the founder of his people, high on a seat of honor,
set out on his story: “Sorrow, unspeakable sorrow,
my queen, you ask me to bring to life once more,
how the Greeks uprooted Troy in all her power,
our kingdom mourned forever. What horrors I saw,
a tragedy where I played a leading role myself.
Who could tell such things—not even a Myrmidon,
a Dolopian, or comrade of iron-hearted Ulysses—
and still refrain from tears? And now, too,
the dank night is sweeping down from the sky
and the setting stars incline our heads to sleep.
But if you long so deeply to know what we went through,
to hear, in brief, the last great agony of Troy,
much as I shudder at the memory of it all—
I shrank back in grief—I’ll try to tell it now . . .
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