The Aeneid (43 page)
Aeneas closed. They all stood silent, trading
startled glances fixed on each other, hushed.
startled glances fixed on each other, hushed.
Then aged Drances—always quick to attack
the young captain, Turnus—full of hatred
and accusations, breaks forth to have his say:
“Man of Troy, great in fame, greater in battle,
how can I sing your praises to the skies?
What to commend first? Your sense of justice,
your awesome works of war? Surely we’ll carry back
to our walls these words of yours with grateful hearts,
and if Fortune points the way, ally you with our king,
Latinus. Turnus can find his allies for himself.
We’ll even be glad to raise your mighty walls
ordained by Fate, glad to shoulder up
the foundation stones of Troy!”
All as one,
his comrades murmured Yes to Drances’ offer.
Now for a dozen days they made their truce and,
peace intervening, Trojans and Latins mingled safely,
ranging the woods and mountain ridges side by side.
And soaring ash trees ring to the two-edged iron axe
and they bring down pines that towered toward the skies.
There is no pause in the work as the wedges split
the oak and fragrant cedar, the groaning wagons
haul down from the slopes huge rowan trunks.
Rumor,
already in flight with the first alarms of sorrow,
fills Evander’s ears, Evander’s walls and palace,
Rumor that just had trumpeted Pallas’ Latian triumph.
Arcadians throng to gateways, grasping funeral brands
in the old archaic way. And the torches light the road,
searing a long line through flatlands far and wide.
Joining forces with them, the Trojan escorts mass
to form a growing column of mourners on the march.
Once Arcadia’s mothers saw them nearing their homes,
their wailing set the walls on fire with grief.
the young captain, Turnus—full of hatred
and accusations, breaks forth to have his say:
“Man of Troy, great in fame, greater in battle,
how can I sing your praises to the skies?
What to commend first? Your sense of justice,
your awesome works of war? Surely we’ll carry back
to our walls these words of yours with grateful hearts,
and if Fortune points the way, ally you with our king,
Latinus. Turnus can find his allies for himself.
We’ll even be glad to raise your mighty walls
ordained by Fate, glad to shoulder up
the foundation stones of Troy!”
All as one,
his comrades murmured Yes to Drances’ offer.
Now for a dozen days they made their truce and,
peace intervening, Trojans and Latins mingled safely,
ranging the woods and mountain ridges side by side.
And soaring ash trees ring to the two-edged iron axe
and they bring down pines that towered toward the skies.
There is no pause in the work as the wedges split
the oak and fragrant cedar, the groaning wagons
haul down from the slopes huge rowan trunks.
Rumor,
already in flight with the first alarms of sorrow,
fills Evander’s ears, Evander’s walls and palace,
Rumor that just had trumpeted Pallas’ Latian triumph.
Arcadians throng to gateways, grasping funeral brands
in the old archaic way. And the torches light the road,
searing a long line through flatlands far and wide.
Joining forces with them, the Trojan escorts mass
to form a growing column of mourners on the march.
Once Arcadia’s mothers saw them nearing their homes,
their wailing set the walls on fire with grief.
And no force in the world can stop Evander now.
Into the crowds he goes and as the bier is lowered,
throws himself on Pallas, clinging for dear life,
sobbing, groaning, his sorrow all but choking
his voice that thrusts a passage through at last:
“A far cry from the pledge you made your father, Pallas,
that you would do nothing rash the day you trusted
yourself to the savage God of War! How well
I knew the thrill of a boy’s first glory in arms,
the heady sweetness of one’s first fame in battle.
But how bitter the first fruits of a man’s youth,
the hard lessons learned in a war so near at hand,
and none of the gods would hear my vows, my prayers.
And you, my wife, most blessed woman in all the world,
how lucky you were to die, spared this wrenching grief!
But I defeated Fate, a father doomed to outlive his son.
If only I’d joined ranks with our Trojan comrades here
and Latin spears had hurled me down! And I had given
my own life, and the long last march brought me,
not Pallas, home! Not that I blame you, Trojans,
nor our pacts, our friendship sealed by a handclasp.
No, this fate was assigned to me in my old age.
But if my son was doomed to an early death,
to know he died after killing Volscian hordes
and died as he led the Trojans into Latium:
that will be my joy.
“Nor do I think you merit
any other burial rites than good Aeneas grants,
and the Trojan heroes, Tuscan chiefs as well
and Tuscan armies, bearing your great trophies
stripped from the men your right arm killed in war.
And you too, Turnus, would now be standing here,
a tremendous trunk of oak decked out in armor
if Pallas had had your years and strength to match.
But why in my torment hold the Trojans back from battle?
Go. Take this word to your king. Remember it well.
The reason I linger out this life I loathe, Aeneas,
now Pallas is dead and gone, is your right arm
that owes, as you well know, the life of Turnus
to son and father both. That is the only field
left free to you now, to prove your worth and fortune.
I look for no joy in life—the gods have ruled that out—
just to bear the news to my son among the dead.”
Soon
the Dawn had raised her light that gives men life,
wretched men, calling them back to labor
and mortal struggle. Now captain Aeneas, now
Tarchon erected pyres along the sweeping shore.
And here they carried the bodies of their dead
in the old ancestral way, as the dark funeral fires
blazed up from below to shroud the high skies
in pitch-dark smoke. Three times they ran
their ritual rounds about the burning pyres,
armed in gleaming bronze, three times they rode
on horseback, circling the fires lit in mourning,
lifting their wails of sorrow. Tears wet the earth,
tears wetting their armor. The shouting of fighters soars,
the clashing blare of trumpets.
Some heave on the flames
the plunder stripped from the Latin ranks they killed—
their helmets, burnished swords, bridles, chariot wheels
still glowing hot, while others burn the offerings
well-known to the dead, their shields, their spears
that had no luck. And round about they slaughter
droves of cattle, carcasses offered up to Death,
and bristling swine and beasts led in from the fields
are butchered over the flames. Then down the entire shore
they watch their comrades burn as men stand guard at the pyres
now dying out . . . Nor can they tear themselves away
till the dank night comes wheeling round the heavens
studded with fiery stars.
No less in another zone
the grieving Latins raise up countless pyres too.
For they had many dead, and some they bury in earth,
some they lift and bear off to the nearby fields
and the other dead they carry back to town.
All the rest they burn, unnumbered and unsung,
an enormous tangled mass of bloody carnage waits
and the wasteland far and wide lights up with fires,
with pyre on pyre striving to outblaze the last.
The third day rose, driving the night’s chill from the sky
as the mourners raked the embers, leveling off the ashes
mixed with bones, and piled the gravesite high
with mounds of earth still warm.
Now in the homes,
in King Latinus’ city that overflowed with wealth,
the breaking wails and the long dirges reach their climax.
Here the mothers and grief-stricken brides of the dead
and their loving sisters, hearts torn with sorrow,
and young boys robbed of their fathers—
curse this horrendous war and Turnus’ marriage.
“He himself,” they cry, “he should decide it all
with his own sword and shield, since he lays claim
to the realm of Italy, claims the lion’s share
of honor for himself!” And caustic Drances
lends weight to their side. He swears that Turnus
alone is summoned, he alone called forth to battle.
But opposing them at once, a mix of views and voices
rises up for Turnus. The famous name of the queen
holds out its shield, and the hero wins support
for his many feats, his trophies won in war.
Now
amid the din, as the fiery controversy flared,
look, to top it off, the grim-set envoys enter,
bearing the news from Diomedes’ noble city:
“Nothing has been won, for all our attempts.
Nothing achieved by all our gifts, our gold,
our fervent appeals. We Latins must look elsewhere,
hunt for other allies or press for peace at once
at the hands of the Trojan king.”
Crushing news.
Even King Latinus is overwhelmed. It’s clear,
Aeneas comes by the will of Fate, the word on high.
So the wrath of the gods declares, the fresh-dug graves
before Latinus’ eyes. And so he convenes a council,
all the leading captains mustered at his command,
inside the lofty gates. They all collected now,
crowding into the royal halls through milling streets.
Throned in their midst, greatest in years and first in power,
sits Latinus, the king’s brow hardly marked by joy.
He orders the envoys, home from Aetolia’s city,
to tell all, all the reports they carry back,
demanding the truth from each man in turn.
Into the crowds he goes and as the bier is lowered,
throws himself on Pallas, clinging for dear life,
sobbing, groaning, his sorrow all but choking
his voice that thrusts a passage through at last:
“A far cry from the pledge you made your father, Pallas,
that you would do nothing rash the day you trusted
yourself to the savage God of War! How well
I knew the thrill of a boy’s first glory in arms,
the heady sweetness of one’s first fame in battle.
But how bitter the first fruits of a man’s youth,
the hard lessons learned in a war so near at hand,
and none of the gods would hear my vows, my prayers.
And you, my wife, most blessed woman in all the world,
how lucky you were to die, spared this wrenching grief!
But I defeated Fate, a father doomed to outlive his son.
If only I’d joined ranks with our Trojan comrades here
and Latin spears had hurled me down! And I had given
my own life, and the long last march brought me,
not Pallas, home! Not that I blame you, Trojans,
nor our pacts, our friendship sealed by a handclasp.
No, this fate was assigned to me in my old age.
But if my son was doomed to an early death,
to know he died after killing Volscian hordes
and died as he led the Trojans into Latium:
that will be my joy.
“Nor do I think you merit
any other burial rites than good Aeneas grants,
and the Trojan heroes, Tuscan chiefs as well
and Tuscan armies, bearing your great trophies
stripped from the men your right arm killed in war.
And you too, Turnus, would now be standing here,
a tremendous trunk of oak decked out in armor
if Pallas had had your years and strength to match.
But why in my torment hold the Trojans back from battle?
Go. Take this word to your king. Remember it well.
The reason I linger out this life I loathe, Aeneas,
now Pallas is dead and gone, is your right arm
that owes, as you well know, the life of Turnus
to son and father both. That is the only field
left free to you now, to prove your worth and fortune.
I look for no joy in life—the gods have ruled that out—
just to bear the news to my son among the dead.”
Soon
the Dawn had raised her light that gives men life,
wretched men, calling them back to labor
and mortal struggle. Now captain Aeneas, now
Tarchon erected pyres along the sweeping shore.
And here they carried the bodies of their dead
in the old ancestral way, as the dark funeral fires
blazed up from below to shroud the high skies
in pitch-dark smoke. Three times they ran
their ritual rounds about the burning pyres,
armed in gleaming bronze, three times they rode
on horseback, circling the fires lit in mourning,
lifting their wails of sorrow. Tears wet the earth,
tears wetting their armor. The shouting of fighters soars,
the clashing blare of trumpets.
Some heave on the flames
the plunder stripped from the Latin ranks they killed—
their helmets, burnished swords, bridles, chariot wheels
still glowing hot, while others burn the offerings
well-known to the dead, their shields, their spears
that had no luck. And round about they slaughter
droves of cattle, carcasses offered up to Death,
and bristling swine and beasts led in from the fields
are butchered over the flames. Then down the entire shore
they watch their comrades burn as men stand guard at the pyres
now dying out . . . Nor can they tear themselves away
till the dank night comes wheeling round the heavens
studded with fiery stars.
No less in another zone
the grieving Latins raise up countless pyres too.
For they had many dead, and some they bury in earth,
some they lift and bear off to the nearby fields
and the other dead they carry back to town.
All the rest they burn, unnumbered and unsung,
an enormous tangled mass of bloody carnage waits
and the wasteland far and wide lights up with fires,
with pyre on pyre striving to outblaze the last.
The third day rose, driving the night’s chill from the sky
as the mourners raked the embers, leveling off the ashes
mixed with bones, and piled the gravesite high
with mounds of earth still warm.
Now in the homes,
in King Latinus’ city that overflowed with wealth,
the breaking wails and the long dirges reach their climax.
Here the mothers and grief-stricken brides of the dead
and their loving sisters, hearts torn with sorrow,
and young boys robbed of their fathers—
curse this horrendous war and Turnus’ marriage.
“He himself,” they cry, “he should decide it all
with his own sword and shield, since he lays claim
to the realm of Italy, claims the lion’s share
of honor for himself!” And caustic Drances
lends weight to their side. He swears that Turnus
alone is summoned, he alone called forth to battle.
But opposing them at once, a mix of views and voices
rises up for Turnus. The famous name of the queen
holds out its shield, and the hero wins support
for his many feats, his trophies won in war.
Now
amid the din, as the fiery controversy flared,
look, to top it off, the grim-set envoys enter,
bearing the news from Diomedes’ noble city:
“Nothing has been won, for all our attempts.
Nothing achieved by all our gifts, our gold,
our fervent appeals. We Latins must look elsewhere,
hunt for other allies or press for peace at once
at the hands of the Trojan king.”
Crushing news.
Even King Latinus is overwhelmed. It’s clear,
Aeneas comes by the will of Fate, the word on high.
So the wrath of the gods declares, the fresh-dug graves
before Latinus’ eyes. And so he convenes a council,
all the leading captains mustered at his command,
inside the lofty gates. They all collected now,
crowding into the royal halls through milling streets.
Throned in their midst, greatest in years and first in power,
sits Latinus, the king’s brow hardly marked by joy.
He orders the envoys, home from Aetolia’s city,
to tell all, all the reports they carry back,
demanding the truth from each man in turn.
A hush fell as Venulus, following orders,
tells his story: “My countrymen, we have seen
Diomedes, seen the Argive camp. We’ve made
the long march and survived its many dangers—
we have grasped the hand that toppled Troy.
The victor king was still building his city,
Argyripa, named for his father’s Argive stock—
in Iapyx’ realm, the fields round Mount Garganus.
Once we entered, allowed to appeal before the king,
we offered our gifts, told him our names, our native land,
and who had attacked us, what had drawn us to Arpi.
tells his story: “My countrymen, we have seen
Diomedes, seen the Argive camp. We’ve made
the long march and survived its many dangers—
we have grasped the hand that toppled Troy.
The victor king was still building his city,
Argyripa, named for his father’s Argive stock—
in Iapyx’ realm, the fields round Mount Garganus.
Once we entered, allowed to appeal before the king,
we offered our gifts, told him our names, our native land,
and who had attacked us, what had drawn us to Arpi.
“He heard our pleas and replied with calming words:
‘You happy, happy people, men of old Ausonia,
land where Saturn ruled, what drives you now
to shatter your blessed peace? What spurs you
to rouse the hells of war you’ve never known?
We who defiled the fields of Troy with swords—
why mention all the pain we drank to the dregs,
fighting beneath those walls, or the men we lost,
drowned in Simois River? Strewn across the world,
we all have borne unspeakable punishments, yes,
we’ve paid the price in full for all our crimes.
Even Priam might pity our embattled troops.
The grim star of Minerva, she bears witness,
so do Euboea’s crags and Caphereus’ vengeful cliffs.
Caught in that war’s wake, we have been driven
to many shores. Atreus’ son, Menelaus, right up
to the Pillars of Proteus—long an exile now.
Ulysses has seen the Cyclops on Mount Etna.
Shall I tell you of Neoptolemus’ brief reign?
The house of Idomeneus tumbled to the ground?
The Locrians stranded out on Libya’s coast?
Even he, the Mycenaean commander of all Greece:
the moment he crossed his threshold, down he went
at the hands of his wicked queen. The conqueror of Asia . . .
an adulterer crouched in wait to lay him low.
‘You happy, happy people, men of old Ausonia,
land where Saturn ruled, what drives you now
to shatter your blessed peace? What spurs you
to rouse the hells of war you’ve never known?
We who defiled the fields of Troy with swords—
why mention all the pain we drank to the dregs,
fighting beneath those walls, or the men we lost,
drowned in Simois River? Strewn across the world,
we all have borne unspeakable punishments, yes,
we’ve paid the price in full for all our crimes.
Even Priam might pity our embattled troops.
The grim star of Minerva, she bears witness,
so do Euboea’s crags and Caphereus’ vengeful cliffs.
Caught in that war’s wake, we have been driven
to many shores. Atreus’ son, Menelaus, right up
to the Pillars of Proteus—long an exile now.
Ulysses has seen the Cyclops on Mount Etna.
Shall I tell you of Neoptolemus’ brief reign?
The house of Idomeneus tumbled to the ground?
The Locrians stranded out on Libya’s coast?
Even he, the Mycenaean commander of all Greece:
the moment he crossed his threshold, down he went
at the hands of his wicked queen. The conqueror of Asia . . .
an adulterer crouched in wait to lay him low.
“‘Just think. The envious gods denied me my return
to my fathers’ altars, or one glimpse of the wife
I yearned for so, or the lovely hills of Calydon.
I’m still stalked by the sight of terrifying omens.
My comrades gone! Flown off to the sky on wings
or they roam the streams, as birds—how brutal,
the punishments all my people have endured—
and they make the cliffs re-echo with their cries.
Such disasters were in the stars, from that day on
that I like a maniac attacked an immortal’s body,
my sword defiled the hand of Venus with a wound!
to my fathers’ altars, or one glimpse of the wife
I yearned for so, or the lovely hills of Calydon.
I’m still stalked by the sight of terrifying omens.
My comrades gone! Flown off to the sky on wings
or they roam the streams, as birds—how brutal,
the punishments all my people have endured—
and they make the cliffs re-echo with their cries.
Such disasters were in the stars, from that day on
that I like a maniac attacked an immortal’s body,
my sword defiled the hand of Venus with a wound!
“‘No, don’t press me to face such battles now.
I’ve had no strife with Trojans since Troy fell,
nor do I think of those old griefs with any joy.
And as for the gifts you bring me from your homeland,
give them to Aeneas. I’ve stood up against his weapons,
we’ve gone man to man. Trust me, I know just how
fiercely the fighter rises up behind his shield,
what a whirlwind rides on that man’s spear!
If Troy had borne two others to match Aeneas,
Trojan troops would have marched on Greece’s cities,
Greece would now be grieving, Fate turned upside down.
Whatever the stand-off round the sturdy walls of Troy,
with Greek victory hanging fire until the tenth year came,
was all thanks to Aeneas’ and Hector’s strong right arms.
Both men shone in courage, both men blazed in combat,
Aeneas the more devout. Join hands in pacts of peace
while you still have the chance. Don’t join battle,
sword to sword. Be on your guard.’
“Now then,
you have heard, great king, the king’s response,
the view he takes of this mighty war of ours.”
I’ve had no strife with Trojans since Troy fell,
nor do I think of those old griefs with any joy.
And as for the gifts you bring me from your homeland,
give them to Aeneas. I’ve stood up against his weapons,
we’ve gone man to man. Trust me, I know just how
fiercely the fighter rises up behind his shield,
what a whirlwind rides on that man’s spear!
If Troy had borne two others to match Aeneas,
Trojan troops would have marched on Greece’s cities,
Greece would now be grieving, Fate turned upside down.
Whatever the stand-off round the sturdy walls of Troy,
with Greek victory hanging fire until the tenth year came,
was all thanks to Aeneas’ and Hector’s strong right arms.
Both men shone in courage, both men blazed in combat,
Aeneas the more devout. Join hands in pacts of peace
while you still have the chance. Don’t join battle,
sword to sword. Be on your guard.’
“Now then,
you have heard, great king, the king’s response,
the view he takes of this mighty war of ours.”
The envoys had barely closed when a troubled groan
came murmuring from the Italians’ anxious lips and
mounted as when the rocks resist a stream in spate
and the dammed-up tide goes churning, sounding out
as it beats from bank to bank with water roaring white.
Once their spirits calmed and the anxious din died down,
first the king salutes the gods from his high throne
and then begins: “If only before now, men of Latium,
we had resolved this dire crisis! How I wish
we had called a council then. Far better then,
not now, with the enemy camped before our walls.
What an ominous war we wage, my countrymen!
Fighting people descended from the gods,
unbeaten heroes, never wearied in battle,
even in defeat they can’t put down the sword.
If you had any hope of winning Aetolian allies,
give it up now. Each man to his own best hope,
but now you can see how slim your hopes have been.
The rest of your prospects? All lie in shambles—
look with your own eyes, feel with your own hands.
I blame no one. The most that valor could do,
valor has done. We have fought the good fight
with all our kingdom’s power.
“Now, at this point,
torn as I am with doubts, here is what I propose.
I will tell it in brief. Come, listen closely . . .
I have an age-old tract along the Tiber River,
stretching West, beyond the Sicanian border.
Here the Auruncans and Rutulians sow their crops,
plow the rugged hills and graze the wildest banks.
Let this entire spread, plus highlands ringed with pines,
be given the Trojans now to win their friendship.
And let us draft a treaty, just in every term,
and invite the Trojans in to share our kingdom.
Let them settle here, if so their hearts desire,
and build their city walls. But if they are bent
on seizing other countries, other people now,
and it’s in their power to put our land astern,
then we’ll build them twenty ships of Italian oak.
More, if they have the crews. The timber’s stacked ashore.
Let them set out the number, the class of ship they need.
We can supply the bronze, the shipwrights, docks and tackle.
I also propose—to bear the news, confirm the pact—
that a hundred envoys be dispatched, elite Latin stock,
their arms laden with boughs of peace and bearing gifts,
hundred-weights of gold and ivory, throne and robe,
our royal emblems. Confer among yourselves.
Shore up our shattered fortunes.”
Drances rises,
aggressive as always, stung by Turnus’ glory,
spurred by smarting, barely hidden envy—
a lavish spender, his rhetoric even looser,
but a frozen hand in battle. No small voice
in the public councils, always a shrewd adviser,
a power in party strife. On his mother’s side,
well born, but his father’s side remains a blank.
Drances rises now. His urgings fuel their fire:
“Our situation is clear for all to see,
and it needs no voice of ours in council now,
my noble king. The people know, they admit they know
what destiny has in store, but they flinch from speaking out.
Let
him
allow us to speak and quit his puffed-up pride,
that man whose unholy leadership and twisted ways—
Oh, I’ll let loose, he can threaten me with death!—
so many leading lights among us he’s snuffed out
that we see our entire city plunged in grief while he,
trusting that he can break and run, attacks the Trojans,
terrorizing the heavens with his spears!
“Just add
one gift to the hoards you tell us now to give and
pledge the Dardans. Just one more, my generous king!
Let no one’s violence overwhelm your power here
as a father to give his daughter to a man,
an outstanding man, a marriage earned in full
and sealed by pacts of peace that last forever.
But if such terror grips our hearts and minds,
let us beg a favor of our fine prince.
“Turnus,
surrender to king and country their due rights!
Why keep flinging your wretched people into naked peril?
You are the root and spring of all the Latins’ griefs!
There’s no salvation in war. Peace—we all beg you,
Turnus—bound with the one inviolate pledge of peace!
came murmuring from the Italians’ anxious lips and
mounted as when the rocks resist a stream in spate
and the dammed-up tide goes churning, sounding out
as it beats from bank to bank with water roaring white.
Once their spirits calmed and the anxious din died down,
first the king salutes the gods from his high throne
and then begins: “If only before now, men of Latium,
we had resolved this dire crisis! How I wish
we had called a council then. Far better then,
not now, with the enemy camped before our walls.
What an ominous war we wage, my countrymen!
Fighting people descended from the gods,
unbeaten heroes, never wearied in battle,
even in defeat they can’t put down the sword.
If you had any hope of winning Aetolian allies,
give it up now. Each man to his own best hope,
but now you can see how slim your hopes have been.
The rest of your prospects? All lie in shambles—
look with your own eyes, feel with your own hands.
I blame no one. The most that valor could do,
valor has done. We have fought the good fight
with all our kingdom’s power.
“Now, at this point,
torn as I am with doubts, here is what I propose.
I will tell it in brief. Come, listen closely . . .
I have an age-old tract along the Tiber River,
stretching West, beyond the Sicanian border.
Here the Auruncans and Rutulians sow their crops,
plow the rugged hills and graze the wildest banks.
Let this entire spread, plus highlands ringed with pines,
be given the Trojans now to win their friendship.
And let us draft a treaty, just in every term,
and invite the Trojans in to share our kingdom.
Let them settle here, if so their hearts desire,
and build their city walls. But if they are bent
on seizing other countries, other people now,
and it’s in their power to put our land astern,
then we’ll build them twenty ships of Italian oak.
More, if they have the crews. The timber’s stacked ashore.
Let them set out the number, the class of ship they need.
We can supply the bronze, the shipwrights, docks and tackle.
I also propose—to bear the news, confirm the pact—
that a hundred envoys be dispatched, elite Latin stock,
their arms laden with boughs of peace and bearing gifts,
hundred-weights of gold and ivory, throne and robe,
our royal emblems. Confer among yourselves.
Shore up our shattered fortunes.”
Drances rises,
aggressive as always, stung by Turnus’ glory,
spurred by smarting, barely hidden envy—
a lavish spender, his rhetoric even looser,
but a frozen hand in battle. No small voice
in the public councils, always a shrewd adviser,
a power in party strife. On his mother’s side,
well born, but his father’s side remains a blank.
Drances rises now. His urgings fuel their fire:
“Our situation is clear for all to see,
and it needs no voice of ours in council now,
my noble king. The people know, they admit they know
what destiny has in store, but they flinch from speaking out.
Let
him
allow us to speak and quit his puffed-up pride,
that man whose unholy leadership and twisted ways—
Oh, I’ll let loose, he can threaten me with death!—
so many leading lights among us he’s snuffed out
that we see our entire city plunged in grief while he,
trusting that he can break and run, attacks the Trojans,
terrorizing the heavens with his spears!
“Just add
one gift to the hoards you tell us now to give and
pledge the Dardans. Just one more, my generous king!
Let no one’s violence overwhelm your power here
as a father to give his daughter to a man,
an outstanding man, a marriage earned in full
and sealed by pacts of peace that last forever.
But if such terror grips our hearts and minds,
let us beg a favor of our fine prince.
“Turnus,
surrender to king and country their due rights!
Why keep flinging your wretched people into naked peril?
You are the root and spring of all the Latins’ griefs!
There’s no salvation in war. Peace—we all beg you,
Turnus—bound with the one inviolate pledge of peace!
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