The Aeneid (31 page)
Savage Allecto, high on a lookout, spots her chance
to wreak some havoc. Winging up to the stable’s steep roof,
she lights on the highest peak and sounds the herdsman’s
call to arms, a hellish blast from her twisted horn,
and straightway all the copses shiver, all the woods
resound to their darkest depths. Far in the distance
Trivia’s lake could hear it, the glistening sulfur stream
of the Nar could hear it, so could the springs of Lake Velinus
and anxious mothers clutched their babies to their breasts.
Then, quick to the call that cursed trumpet gave,
the wild herdsmen gather from every quarter,
snatching arms in haste. Young Trojans too,
their camp gates spread wide, come pouring out
to help Ascanius now. The battle lines form up.
No rustic free-for-all with clubs and charred stakes—
they’ll fight to the finish now with two-edged swords.
A black harvest of naked steel bristles far and wide,
and the bronze struck by the sun gleams bright
and hurls its light to the clouds
like a billow whitening under the wind’s first gust as
crest on crest the ocean rises, its breakers rearing higher
until it surges up from its depths to hit the skies.
Here
a youngster breaks from the front—
and an arrow whizzes in
and down he goes, Almo, the eldest son of Tyrrhus—the point
lodges deep in his throat and chokes off the moist path
for his voice and his faint life breath with blood.
Around him, heaps of dead, and among them old Galaesus
killed as he set himself in their midst to beg for peace,
the most righteous man in all the Italian fields,
long ago, the richest too. Five flocks of cattle
he had in tow and five came home from pasture,
a hundred plowshares made his topsoil churn.
to wreak some havoc. Winging up to the stable’s steep roof,
she lights on the highest peak and sounds the herdsman’s
call to arms, a hellish blast from her twisted horn,
and straightway all the copses shiver, all the woods
resound to their darkest depths. Far in the distance
Trivia’s lake could hear it, the glistening sulfur stream
of the Nar could hear it, so could the springs of Lake Velinus
and anxious mothers clutched their babies to their breasts.
Then, quick to the call that cursed trumpet gave,
the wild herdsmen gather from every quarter,
snatching arms in haste. Young Trojans too,
their camp gates spread wide, come pouring out
to help Ascanius now. The battle lines form up.
No rustic free-for-all with clubs and charred stakes—
they’ll fight to the finish now with two-edged swords.
A black harvest of naked steel bristles far and wide,
and the bronze struck by the sun gleams bright
and hurls its light to the clouds
like a billow whitening under the wind’s first gust as
crest on crest the ocean rises, its breakers rearing higher
until it surges up from its depths to hit the skies.
Here
a youngster breaks from the front—
and an arrow whizzes in
and down he goes, Almo, the eldest son of Tyrrhus—the point
lodges deep in his throat and chokes off the moist path
for his voice and his faint life breath with blood.
Around him, heaps of dead, and among them old Galaesus
killed as he set himself in their midst to beg for peace,
the most righteous man in all the Italian fields,
long ago, the richest too. Five flocks of cattle
he had in tow and five came home from pasture,
a hundred plowshares made his topsoil churn.
As the battle draws dead even across the plain
the Fury’s power has lived up to her promise.
She’s fleshed the war in blood, inaugurated
the slaughter with a kill and now she leaves
Hesperia, wheeling round in the heavens to report
success to Juno—the Fury’s voice triumphant:
“Look, I’ve done your bidding,
perfected a work of strife with ghastly war!
Go tell them to join in friendship, seal their pacts,
now I’ve spattered the Trojans red with Italian blood.
I’ll add this too, if I can depend on your good will:
With rumors I will draw the border towns into war,
ignite their hearts with a maddening lust for battle.
They’ll rush to the rescue now from every side—
I’ll sow their fields with swords!”
the Fury’s power has lived up to her promise.
She’s fleshed the war in blood, inaugurated
the slaughter with a kill and now she leaves
Hesperia, wheeling round in the heavens to report
success to Juno—the Fury’s voice triumphant:
“Look, I’ve done your bidding,
perfected a work of strife with ghastly war!
Go tell them to join in friendship, seal their pacts,
now I’ve spattered the Trojans red with Italian blood.
I’ll add this too, if I can depend on your good will:
With rumors I will draw the border towns into war,
ignite their hearts with a maddening lust for battle.
They’ll rush to the rescue now from every side—
I’ll sow their fields with swords!”
“Enough terror,” Juno counters, “treachery too.
The causes of war stand firm. Man to man they fight
and the weapons luck first brought are dyed with fresh blood now.
Let them sing of such an alliance, such a wedding hymn,
the matchless son of Venus and that grand King Latinus!
You’re roving far too freely, high on the heavens’ winds,
and the Father, king of steep Olympus, won’t allow it.
You must give way. Whatever struggle is still to come,
I’ll manage it myself.”
Quick to Juno’s command,
she lifts her wings, hissing with snakes, and quitting
the airy heights of heaven, seeks her home in hell.
Deep in Italy’s heart beneath high mountains
lies a famous place renowned in many lands:
the Valley of Amsanctus. A dark wooded hillside
thick with foliage closes around it right and left,
with a crashing torrent amidst it roaring over boulders,
rapids roiling white. And here they display a cavern,
an awesome breathing-vent for the savage God of Death,
and a vast swirling gorge spreads wide its lethal jaws
where the Acheron bursts through, and here the Fury
hid her hateful power, releasing earth and sky.
The causes of war stand firm. Man to man they fight
and the weapons luck first brought are dyed with fresh blood now.
Let them sing of such an alliance, such a wedding hymn,
the matchless son of Venus and that grand King Latinus!
You’re roving far too freely, high on the heavens’ winds,
and the Father, king of steep Olympus, won’t allow it.
You must give way. Whatever struggle is still to come,
I’ll manage it myself.”
Quick to Juno’s command,
she lifts her wings, hissing with snakes, and quitting
the airy heights of heaven, seeks her home in hell.
Deep in Italy’s heart beneath high mountains
lies a famous place renowned in many lands:
the Valley of Amsanctus. A dark wooded hillside
thick with foliage closes around it right and left,
with a crashing torrent amidst it roaring over boulders,
rapids roiling white. And here they display a cavern,
an awesome breathing-vent for the savage God of Death,
and a vast swirling gorge spreads wide its lethal jaws
where the Acheron bursts through, and here the Fury
hid her hateful power, releasing earth and sky.
But no letup yet. Saturn’s queenly daughter
is just now putting the final touches to the war.
Out of the field of battle, streaming into town
whole troops of herdsmen are bringing home the dead—
Almo the young boy, Galaesus with his butchered face—
and they beg the gods for rescue, pleading with Latinus.
But there stands Turnus now, and amid their hot fury
and rising cries of murder, he fires up their fears:
“Trojans are called to share our realm! Phrygian blood
will corrupt our own, and I, I’m driven from the doors!”
And all whose mothers, maddened by Bacchus, dance in frenzy
through the trackless woods—Amata’s name has no lightweight—
swarm in from all sides, wearying Mars with war cries.
Suddenly all are demanding this accursed war,
against all omens, against the divine power of Fate,
they’re spurred by a wicked impulse. They rush to ring
the palace of King Latinus round, but he stands fast
like a rock at sea, a seabound rock that won’t give way:
when a big surge hits and the howling breakers pound it hard,
its bulk stands fast though its foaming reefs and spurs roar on,
all for nothing, as seaweed dashing against its flanks
swirls away in the backwash.
But finding he lacks
the power to quash their blind fanatic will,
and the world rolls on at a nod from brutal Juno,
time and again he calls the gods and empty winds
to witness: “Crushed by Fate,” the father cries,
“we’re wrenched away by the tempest! My poor people,
you will pay for your outrage with your blood. You,
Turnus, the guilt is yours, and a dreadful end awaits you—
you will implore the gods with prayers that come too late!
Myself, now that I’ve reached my peaceful haven, here
at the harbor’s mouth I’m robbed of a happy death.”
is just now putting the final touches to the war.
Out of the field of battle, streaming into town
whole troops of herdsmen are bringing home the dead—
Almo the young boy, Galaesus with his butchered face—
and they beg the gods for rescue, pleading with Latinus.
But there stands Turnus now, and amid their hot fury
and rising cries of murder, he fires up their fears:
“Trojans are called to share our realm! Phrygian blood
will corrupt our own, and I, I’m driven from the doors!”
And all whose mothers, maddened by Bacchus, dance in frenzy
through the trackless woods—Amata’s name has no lightweight—
swarm in from all sides, wearying Mars with war cries.
Suddenly all are demanding this accursed war,
against all omens, against the divine power of Fate,
they’re spurred by a wicked impulse. They rush to ring
the palace of King Latinus round, but he stands fast
like a rock at sea, a seabound rock that won’t give way:
when a big surge hits and the howling breakers pound it hard,
its bulk stands fast though its foaming reefs and spurs roar on,
all for nothing, as seaweed dashing against its flanks
swirls away in the backwash.
But finding he lacks
the power to quash their blind fanatic will,
and the world rolls on at a nod from brutal Juno,
time and again he calls the gods and empty winds
to witness: “Crushed by Fate,” the father cries,
“we’re wrenched away by the tempest! My poor people,
you will pay for your outrage with your blood. You,
Turnus, the guilt is yours, and a dreadful end awaits you—
you will implore the gods with prayers that come too late!
Myself, now that I’ve reached my peaceful haven, here
at the harbor’s mouth I’m robbed of a happy death.”
He said no more. He sealed himself in his house
and dropped the reins of power.
and dropped the reins of power.
There was a custom in Latium, Land of the West,
and ever after revered in Alban towns and now
great Rome that rules the world reveres it too,
when men first rouse the war-god into action,
whether bent on bringing the griefs of war
to the Getae, the Hyrcanians, or the Arabs
or marching on India, out to stalk the Dawn
and reclaim the standards taken by the Parthians.
There are twin Gates of War—so they are called—
consecrated by awe and the dread of savage Mars,
closed fast by a hundred brazen bolts and iron
strong forever, nor does Janus the watchman
ever leave the threshold. And here it is,
when the fathers’ will is set on all-out war,
the consul himself, decked out in Romulus’ garb,
his toga girt up in the ceremonial Gabine way,
will unbar the screeching gates and cry for war.
The entire army answers his call to arms and
brazen trumpets blast their harsh assent.
Then too
Latinus was pressed to declare war on Aeneas’ sons
with the same custom, to unbar the deadly gates.
But the father of his people refused to touch them,
cringed at the horrid duty, locked himself from sight
in his shadowed palace. So the Queen of the Gods,
Saturn’s daughter swooping down from the heavens,
struck the unyielding doors with her own hand,
swinging them on their hinges, bursting open
the iron Gates of War. All Italy blazed—
until that instant all unstirred, inert. Now
some gear up to cross the plains on foot, some,
riding high on their horses, wildly churn the dust
and all shout out “To arms!”—polishing shields smooth,
burnishing lances bright with thick rich grease,
honing their axes keen on grindstones.
Ah what joy
to advance the banners, hear the trumpets blare!
Five great cities, in fact, plant their anvils,
forge new weapons: staunch Atina, lofty Tibur,
Ardea, Crustumerium, Antemnae proud with towers.
They beat the helmets hollow to guard the head,
they weave the wicker tight to rib their shields,
others are pounding breastplates out of bronze,
hammering lightweight greaves from pliant silver.
So it has given way to this, this: all their pride
in the scythe and harrow, all their love of the plow.
They reforge in the furnace all their fathers’ swords.
Now the trumpets blare. The watchword’s out for war.
One warrior wildly tears a helmet from his house,
one yokes his panting, stamping team to a chariot,
donning his shield and mail, triple-meshed in gold
and he straps a trusty sword around his waist.
and ever after revered in Alban towns and now
great Rome that rules the world reveres it too,
when men first rouse the war-god into action,
whether bent on bringing the griefs of war
to the Getae, the Hyrcanians, or the Arabs
or marching on India, out to stalk the Dawn
and reclaim the standards taken by the Parthians.
There are twin Gates of War—so they are called—
consecrated by awe and the dread of savage Mars,
closed fast by a hundred brazen bolts and iron
strong forever, nor does Janus the watchman
ever leave the threshold. And here it is,
when the fathers’ will is set on all-out war,
the consul himself, decked out in Romulus’ garb,
his toga girt up in the ceremonial Gabine way,
will unbar the screeching gates and cry for war.
The entire army answers his call to arms and
brazen trumpets blast their harsh assent.
Then too
Latinus was pressed to declare war on Aeneas’ sons
with the same custom, to unbar the deadly gates.
But the father of his people refused to touch them,
cringed at the horrid duty, locked himself from sight
in his shadowed palace. So the Queen of the Gods,
Saturn’s daughter swooping down from the heavens,
struck the unyielding doors with her own hand,
swinging them on their hinges, bursting open
the iron Gates of War. All Italy blazed—
until that instant all unstirred, inert. Now
some gear up to cross the plains on foot, some,
riding high on their horses, wildly churn the dust
and all shout out “To arms!”—polishing shields smooth,
burnishing lances bright with thick rich grease,
honing their axes keen on grindstones.
Ah what joy
to advance the banners, hear the trumpets blare!
Five great cities, in fact, plant their anvils,
forge new weapons: staunch Atina, lofty Tibur,
Ardea, Crustumerium, Antemnae proud with towers.
They beat the helmets hollow to guard the head,
they weave the wicker tight to rib their shields,
others are pounding breastplates out of bronze,
hammering lightweight greaves from pliant silver.
So it has given way to this, this: all their pride
in the scythe and harrow, all their love of the plow.
They reforge in the furnace all their fathers’ swords.
Now the trumpets blare. The watchword’s out for war.
One warrior wildly tears a helmet from his house,
one yokes his panting, stamping team to a chariot,
donning his shield and mail, triple-meshed in gold
and he straps a trusty sword around his waist.
Now throw Helicon open, Muses, launch your song!
What kings were fired for war, what armies at their orders
thronged the plains? What heroes sprang into bloom,
what weapons blazed, even in those days long ago,
in Italy’s life-giving land? You are goddesses,
you remember it all, and you can tell it all—
all we catch is the distant ring of fame.
First
to march to war is brutal Mezentius, scorner of gods,
fresh from the Tuscan coasts to deploy his troops for battle.
Beside him, his son, Lausus, second in build and beauty
to Latian Turnus alone: Lausus, breaker of horses,
hunter of wild game. From Agylla town he led
a thousand men—who could not save his life—
a son who deserved more joy in a father’s rule,
anyone but Mezentius for a father.
Following them
comes Aventinus, handsome Hercules’ handsome son,
parading his victor’s team across the field, his chariot
crowned with the victor’s palm, his shield emblazed
with his father’s sign: the Hydra’s hundred snakes,
the serpents twisting round. Deep in the woods
on Aventine hill the priestess Rhea bore him
all in secret, into the world of light.
A woman matched with a god, with Hercules,
hero of Tiryns come to the Latin land in glory,
fresh from cutting the monster Geryon down,
to wash the herds of Spain in the Tiber River.
The men bear spears and grim pikes into battle,
fight with sword-blades ground to a razor edge
and Sabellian hurling spears. The man himself
came out on foot, swirling a giant lion’s hide,
its shaggy head hooding his head with its white teeth,
a terrible sight as he marched up to the palace,
the wild battle-dress of his father Hercules
wrapped around his shoulders.
Next in the march
come twin brothers, leaving Tibur’s walls and
people named for their brother’s name, Tiburtus—
Catillus and fearless Coras, boys from Argos.
Out of the front lines,
into the thick-and-fast of spears they’d charge
as two Centaurs born in the clouds come bolting
headlong down from a steep summit, speeding down from
Homole or from Othrys’ snowy slopes, and the tall timber
cleaves wide at their onrush, thickets split
with a huge resounding crash.
Nor was Praeneste’s
founder lacking from the ranks: King Caeculus born
to Vulcan among the flocks, all ages still believe,
and found on a burning hearth. His rustic bands
escort him now from near and far, the men who live
on Praeneste’s heights, on the fields of Gabine Juno,
men from the Anio’s icy stream, the Hernici’s dripping rocks,
men you nourish, rich Anagnia—bathed in your river,
Father Amasenus. Not all of them march to war
with armor, shields and chariots rumbling on.
Mostly slingers spraying pellets of livid lead,
some brandish a pair of lances, all heads cowled
with tawny wolfskin caps, their left feet planted,
making a naked print, their right feet shod
with a rugged rawhide boot.
Next Messapus,
breaker of horses, Neptune’s son, a king
whom neither fire nor iron could bring down:
he suddenly grasps his fighting sword again,
calls back to arms his people long at peace,
his rusty contingents long at rest from battle.
Men who hold Fescennia’s ridge, Aequi Falisci too,
the steep slopes of Soracte and all Flavina’s fields,
the lake of Ciminus rimmed with hills, and Capena’s groves.
They marched in cadence and sang their ruler’s praise
like snowy swans you’ll see in the misting clouds,
winging back from their feeding grounds, their song
bursting out of their long throats with beat on beat,
resounding far from the river banks and Asian marsh
that their pulsing chorus pounds.
You’d never think such a throng of men in bronze
were massing for battle now, but high in the sky
a cloud of birds with their raucous song were surging
home from open sea to shore.
But look—Clausus,
born of the age-old Sabine blood, heading a mighty force,
a mighty force himself. From Clausus spreads through Latium
both the Claudian tribe and clan, once Rome had long
been shared with Sabine people. Under his command
came huge divisions from Amiternum, the first Quirites,
all the ranks from Eretum, Mutusca green with olives, all
who live in Nomentum city, the Rosean fields by Lake Velinus,
all on Tetrica’s shaggy spurs and grim-set Mount Severus,
all in Casperia, Foruli, on the Himella River’s banks,
men who drink the Tiber and Fabaris, men dispatched
from icy Nursia, musters from Orta, the Latin tribes,
men that the Allia—ominous name—divides as it flows on.
Men as many as breakers rolling in from the Libyan sea
when savage Orion sets low in the winter waves or
dense as the ears of corn baked by an early sun
on Hermus’ plain or Lycia’s burnished fields.
Shields clang and under the trampling feet
the earth quakes in fear.
Next Agamemnon’s man
who hated the very name of Troy—Halaesus,
yoking his team to a chariot, speeds along
a thousand diehard clans in Turnus’ cause.
Men whose mattocks till the Massic earth for wine,
Auruncans their fathers sent from the rising hills
and Sidicine flats close by, and men just come from Cales,
men who make their homes along the Volturnus’ shoals
and beside them rough Saticulans, squads of Oscans.
Their weapons are long, pointed stakes they like
to fit with a supple thong for swifter hurling.
They have bucklers to shield their left side,
sickle-swords for combat, cut-and-thrust.
Nor will you,
Oebalus, go unsung in our songs. You, they say,
the river-nymph Sebethis once bore Telon,
an old man now, when Telon ruled over Capreae,
the Teleboean isle. But the son unlike the father,
not content with his forebears’ holdings, even now
held sway over broader realms: the Sarrastian clans,
their meadows washed by the Sarnus, men from Rufrae,
Batulum and Celemna’s farms, and soldiers overseen
by the high walls of Abella rife with apples,
fighters who whirl the barbed lance, Teutonic style,
their heads wrapped with the bark they strip from cork-trees,
bronze shields gleaming—gleaming bronze, their swords.
What kings were fired for war, what armies at their orders
thronged the plains? What heroes sprang into bloom,
what weapons blazed, even in those days long ago,
in Italy’s life-giving land? You are goddesses,
you remember it all, and you can tell it all—
all we catch is the distant ring of fame.
First
to march to war is brutal Mezentius, scorner of gods,
fresh from the Tuscan coasts to deploy his troops for battle.
Beside him, his son, Lausus, second in build and beauty
to Latian Turnus alone: Lausus, breaker of horses,
hunter of wild game. From Agylla town he led
a thousand men—who could not save his life—
a son who deserved more joy in a father’s rule,
anyone but Mezentius for a father.
Following them
comes Aventinus, handsome Hercules’ handsome son,
parading his victor’s team across the field, his chariot
crowned with the victor’s palm, his shield emblazed
with his father’s sign: the Hydra’s hundred snakes,
the serpents twisting round. Deep in the woods
on Aventine hill the priestess Rhea bore him
all in secret, into the world of light.
A woman matched with a god, with Hercules,
hero of Tiryns come to the Latin land in glory,
fresh from cutting the monster Geryon down,
to wash the herds of Spain in the Tiber River.
The men bear spears and grim pikes into battle,
fight with sword-blades ground to a razor edge
and Sabellian hurling spears. The man himself
came out on foot, swirling a giant lion’s hide,
its shaggy head hooding his head with its white teeth,
a terrible sight as he marched up to the palace,
the wild battle-dress of his father Hercules
wrapped around his shoulders.
Next in the march
come twin brothers, leaving Tibur’s walls and
people named for their brother’s name, Tiburtus—
Catillus and fearless Coras, boys from Argos.
Out of the front lines,
into the thick-and-fast of spears they’d charge
as two Centaurs born in the clouds come bolting
headlong down from a steep summit, speeding down from
Homole or from Othrys’ snowy slopes, and the tall timber
cleaves wide at their onrush, thickets split
with a huge resounding crash.
Nor was Praeneste’s
founder lacking from the ranks: King Caeculus born
to Vulcan among the flocks, all ages still believe,
and found on a burning hearth. His rustic bands
escort him now from near and far, the men who live
on Praeneste’s heights, on the fields of Gabine Juno,
men from the Anio’s icy stream, the Hernici’s dripping rocks,
men you nourish, rich Anagnia—bathed in your river,
Father Amasenus. Not all of them march to war
with armor, shields and chariots rumbling on.
Mostly slingers spraying pellets of livid lead,
some brandish a pair of lances, all heads cowled
with tawny wolfskin caps, their left feet planted,
making a naked print, their right feet shod
with a rugged rawhide boot.
Next Messapus,
breaker of horses, Neptune’s son, a king
whom neither fire nor iron could bring down:
he suddenly grasps his fighting sword again,
calls back to arms his people long at peace,
his rusty contingents long at rest from battle.
Men who hold Fescennia’s ridge, Aequi Falisci too,
the steep slopes of Soracte and all Flavina’s fields,
the lake of Ciminus rimmed with hills, and Capena’s groves.
They marched in cadence and sang their ruler’s praise
like snowy swans you’ll see in the misting clouds,
winging back from their feeding grounds, their song
bursting out of their long throats with beat on beat,
resounding far from the river banks and Asian marsh
that their pulsing chorus pounds.
You’d never think such a throng of men in bronze
were massing for battle now, but high in the sky
a cloud of birds with their raucous song were surging
home from open sea to shore.
But look—Clausus,
born of the age-old Sabine blood, heading a mighty force,
a mighty force himself. From Clausus spreads through Latium
both the Claudian tribe and clan, once Rome had long
been shared with Sabine people. Under his command
came huge divisions from Amiternum, the first Quirites,
all the ranks from Eretum, Mutusca green with olives, all
who live in Nomentum city, the Rosean fields by Lake Velinus,
all on Tetrica’s shaggy spurs and grim-set Mount Severus,
all in Casperia, Foruli, on the Himella River’s banks,
men who drink the Tiber and Fabaris, men dispatched
from icy Nursia, musters from Orta, the Latin tribes,
men that the Allia—ominous name—divides as it flows on.
Men as many as breakers rolling in from the Libyan sea
when savage Orion sets low in the winter waves or
dense as the ears of corn baked by an early sun
on Hermus’ plain or Lycia’s burnished fields.
Shields clang and under the trampling feet
the earth quakes in fear.
Next Agamemnon’s man
who hated the very name of Troy—Halaesus,
yoking his team to a chariot, speeds along
a thousand diehard clans in Turnus’ cause.
Men whose mattocks till the Massic earth for wine,
Auruncans their fathers sent from the rising hills
and Sidicine flats close by, and men just come from Cales,
men who make their homes along the Volturnus’ shoals
and beside them rough Saticulans, squads of Oscans.
Their weapons are long, pointed stakes they like
to fit with a supple thong for swifter hurling.
They have bucklers to shield their left side,
sickle-swords for combat, cut-and-thrust.
Nor will you,
Oebalus, go unsung in our songs. You, they say,
the river-nymph Sebethis once bore Telon,
an old man now, when Telon ruled over Capreae,
the Teleboean isle. But the son unlike the father,
not content with his forebears’ holdings, even now
held sway over broader realms: the Sarrastian clans,
their meadows washed by the Sarnus, men from Rufrae,
Batulum and Celemna’s farms, and soldiers overseen
by the high walls of Abella rife with apples,
fighters who whirl the barbed lance, Teutonic style,
their heads wrapped with the bark they strip from cork-trees,
bronze shields gleaming—gleaming bronze, their swords.
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