The Aeneid (44 page)
“I’ve come first, the man you think your enemy—
and what if I am? I’m here to implore you now:
pity your own people. Surrender your pride.
You’re beaten, now retreat! Routed so,
we have seen our fill of death. Vast tracts
we have left a wasteland. Or if glory spurs you on,
if your strength is still like oak, if the dowry
of a palace seems so very dear to your heart,
courage! Chest out, meet your enemy head-on!
But of course—so Turnus can fetch his royal bride—
our lives are cheap, scattered in piles across the field,
unburied and unwept. Come, prince, if you have the spine,
if you have any spark of your fathers’ warring spirit,
look, your challenger calls you out to fight!”
Turnus
groans under that barrage, his fury breaks into fire
and the outrage bursts from the soldier’s deep heart:
“Always a mighty flood of words from you, Drances,
when battle demands our fighting hands! Whenever
the senate’s called, you’re first to show your face.
But there is no earthly need to fill these halls
with the talk that flies so bravely from your mouth,
safe as you are while the ramparts keep the enemy out
and the trenches still don’t overflow with blood. So,
bluster away with your bombast—that’s your style!
Brand
me
for cowardice, Drances, once your arm
has left as many piles of slaughtered Trojans,
decked as many fields with brilliant trophies. Now
we’re free to see what courage and quickness can achieve.
No long hunt for the foe. As you may have noticed,
they camp around our walls on every side. Come,
shall we march against them? You hang back—why?
Will your warlust always lie in your windy words
and your craven, racing feet? Beaten, am I?
Who could rightly call me beaten—you, you swine—
who bothers to see the Tiber crest with Trojan blood
and Evander’s house uprooted, razed to the earth
and all his Arcadian fighters stripped of arms?
That’s hardly the man that Pandarus and Bitias
met when those two giants confronted me—
and the thousand men whom I, in a single day,
sent down to hell in all my triumph, trapped
as I was inside the enemy’s rugged walls.
“So,
‘there’s no salvation in war,’ you say? Go sing that song,
you fool, for the Trojan chief—your own prospects too.
Keep on striking your huge panic in all our hearts,
praising to high heaven the strength of a people
beaten twice. Disdaining the forces of Latinus!
Now, I suppose, the Myrmidon captains cringe before
the Phrygian armies, now Diomedes, now Larisaean Achilles,
and Aufidus’ rapids rush back from the Adriatic’s waves!
But here’s Drances, feigning terror at my rebukes,
a scoundrel’s shabby dodge,
just to hone his charges hurled against me!
You, you’ll never lose your life, such as it is,
not by my right hand—fear not—just let it rest,
beating inside that coward’s chest of yours!
“But now,
Father, I come back to you and your resolves . . .
If you no longer harbor any hope for our armies,
if we are so alone, and at one repulse our forces
are totally overwhelmed, good fortunes lost forever,
let us reach out our helpless arms and plead for peace.
Oh, if only we had a shred of our old courage left!
I rate that man the luckiest one among us, first
in the work of war, first in strength of heart,
who spurning the sight of our surrender, falls,
dying, and bites the dust for one last time.
But if we have troops and provisions still intact
and the towns and men of Italy still support our side,
if the Trojans have also paid a bloody price for glory—
they have their burials too, the same storm’s struck us both—
then why this shameful collapse before it all begins?
Why tremble so before the trumpet blares?
“Many things
the run of the days and shifting works of fickle time
have turned from bad to good. Many men has two-faced
Fortune cheated, only to come back and set them up
on solid ground once more. Diomedes, true,
and his city, Arpi, will offer us no relief.
But Messapus will, I trust, Tolumnius will,
that soldier of fortune, and all the captains
sent by so many lands, and no small glory waits
for the men picked out from Latian and Laurentine fields.
And Camilla too, our ally sprung from Volscian stock,
heading her horsemen, squadrons gleaming bronze.
and what if I am? I’m here to implore you now:
pity your own people. Surrender your pride.
You’re beaten, now retreat! Routed so,
we have seen our fill of death. Vast tracts
we have left a wasteland. Or if glory spurs you on,
if your strength is still like oak, if the dowry
of a palace seems so very dear to your heart,
courage! Chest out, meet your enemy head-on!
But of course—so Turnus can fetch his royal bride—
our lives are cheap, scattered in piles across the field,
unburied and unwept. Come, prince, if you have the spine,
if you have any spark of your fathers’ warring spirit,
look, your challenger calls you out to fight!”
Turnus
groans under that barrage, his fury breaks into fire
and the outrage bursts from the soldier’s deep heart:
“Always a mighty flood of words from you, Drances,
when battle demands our fighting hands! Whenever
the senate’s called, you’re first to show your face.
But there is no earthly need to fill these halls
with the talk that flies so bravely from your mouth,
safe as you are while the ramparts keep the enemy out
and the trenches still don’t overflow with blood. So,
bluster away with your bombast—that’s your style!
Brand
me
for cowardice, Drances, once your arm
has left as many piles of slaughtered Trojans,
decked as many fields with brilliant trophies. Now
we’re free to see what courage and quickness can achieve.
No long hunt for the foe. As you may have noticed,
they camp around our walls on every side. Come,
shall we march against them? You hang back—why?
Will your warlust always lie in your windy words
and your craven, racing feet? Beaten, am I?
Who could rightly call me beaten—you, you swine—
who bothers to see the Tiber crest with Trojan blood
and Evander’s house uprooted, razed to the earth
and all his Arcadian fighters stripped of arms?
That’s hardly the man that Pandarus and Bitias
met when those two giants confronted me—
and the thousand men whom I, in a single day,
sent down to hell in all my triumph, trapped
as I was inside the enemy’s rugged walls.
“So,
‘there’s no salvation in war,’ you say? Go sing that song,
you fool, for the Trojan chief—your own prospects too.
Keep on striking your huge panic in all our hearts,
praising to high heaven the strength of a people
beaten twice. Disdaining the forces of Latinus!
Now, I suppose, the Myrmidon captains cringe before
the Phrygian armies, now Diomedes, now Larisaean Achilles,
and Aufidus’ rapids rush back from the Adriatic’s waves!
But here’s Drances, feigning terror at my rebukes,
a scoundrel’s shabby dodge,
just to hone his charges hurled against me!
You, you’ll never lose your life, such as it is,
not by my right hand—fear not—just let it rest,
beating inside that coward’s chest of yours!
“But now,
Father, I come back to you and your resolves . . .
If you no longer harbor any hope for our armies,
if we are so alone, and at one repulse our forces
are totally overwhelmed, good fortunes lost forever,
let us reach out our helpless arms and plead for peace.
Oh, if only we had a shred of our old courage left!
I rate that man the luckiest one among us, first
in the work of war, first in strength of heart,
who spurning the sight of our surrender, falls,
dying, and bites the dust for one last time.
But if we have troops and provisions still intact
and the towns and men of Italy still support our side,
if the Trojans have also paid a bloody price for glory—
they have their burials too, the same storm’s struck us both—
then why this shameful collapse before it all begins?
Why tremble so before the trumpet blares?
“Many things
the run of the days and shifting works of fickle time
have turned from bad to good. Many men has two-faced
Fortune cheated, only to come back and set them up
on solid ground once more. Diomedes, true,
and his city, Arpi, will offer us no relief.
But Messapus will, I trust, Tolumnius will,
that soldier of fortune, and all the captains
sent by so many lands, and no small glory waits
for the men picked out from Latian and Laurentine fields.
And Camilla too, our ally sprung from Volscian stock,
heading her horsemen, squadrons gleaming bronze.
“But if the Trojans call me to single combat,
if that’s your will as well, and I am such a bar
to the public good, then Victory has not spurned
or so hated these hands of mine that I would
shrink from any risk when hopes are riding high.
I will take him on with a will. Let him outfight
the great Achilles, strap on armor the match for his,
forged by Vulcan’s hands. Bring him on, I say!
To all, to Latinus, the father of my bride,
I, Turnus, second in fighting strength to none
of the men who came before me—I devote my life.
Aeneas challenges me alone? Challenge away,
I beg you. And if the gods are raging now,
don’t let Drances appease them with his death
instead of mine. If courage and glory are at stake,
don’t let Drances carry off the prize!”
But now,
while they debated their heated, divisive issues,
sparring back and forth, Aeneas struck camp
and deployed his lines for battle.
Then in the thick of the din, suddenly, look,
a messenger rushes in through the royal palace,
spreading panic across the city: “Armies marching!
Trojan and Tuscan allies pouring down from the Tiber,
sweeping the whole plain!”
Confusion reigns at once,
the people’s spirits distraught, raked by the spur of rage.
Shaking fists, they shout “To arms!” “Arms!” the ranks shout out
while their fathers weep and groan. And now from all sides
an enormous uproar, cries in conflict lift on the winds—
like cries of bird-flocks landing in some tall grove by chance
or swans with their hoarse calls clamoring out across
the sounding pools of Padusa River stocked with fish.
“All right then, citizens!” seizing his moment Turnus
calls: “Summon your councils, sit there praising peace!
Our enemies swoop down on our country, full force!”
No more for them. Up he leapt and raced from the halls,
shouting: “You, Volusus, call your Volscian units to arms,
move your Rutulians out. Messapus, array the cavalry—
you and your brother Coras, range them down the plains.
Another contingent guard the gates and man the towers.
The rest attack with me where I command!”
At once
they rush to the walls from all parts of the city.
King Latinus himself, shocked by the sudden crisis,
leaves the council, delays his own noble plans
till a better hour, over and over faults himself
for not embracing Trojan Aeneas with open arms,
adopting him as his son to shield the city.
Others are digging trenches before the gates,
hauling up on their shoulders stones and pikes.
And the raucous trumpet sounds the signal—bloody war!
Then a mixed cordon of boys and mothers rings the walls
as the long last struggle calls them all to gather.
Here is the queen, with a grand cortege of ladies
bearing gifts and riding up to Minerva’s temple,
set on the heights, and beside her rides the girl,
the princess Lavinia, cause of all their grief,
her lovely eyes bent low . . .
Taking their lead, the ladies fill the shrine
with the smoke of incense, pouring out their wails
from the steep threshold: “You, power of armies,
queen of the battle, Pallas, virgin goddess,
shatter that Phrygian pirate’s spear! Himself?
Hurl him headlong down, sprawled at our high gates!”
if that’s your will as well, and I am such a bar
to the public good, then Victory has not spurned
or so hated these hands of mine that I would
shrink from any risk when hopes are riding high.
I will take him on with a will. Let him outfight
the great Achilles, strap on armor the match for his,
forged by Vulcan’s hands. Bring him on, I say!
To all, to Latinus, the father of my bride,
I, Turnus, second in fighting strength to none
of the men who came before me—I devote my life.
Aeneas challenges me alone? Challenge away,
I beg you. And if the gods are raging now,
don’t let Drances appease them with his death
instead of mine. If courage and glory are at stake,
don’t let Drances carry off the prize!”
But now,
while they debated their heated, divisive issues,
sparring back and forth, Aeneas struck camp
and deployed his lines for battle.
Then in the thick of the din, suddenly, look,
a messenger rushes in through the royal palace,
spreading panic across the city: “Armies marching!
Trojan and Tuscan allies pouring down from the Tiber,
sweeping the whole plain!”
Confusion reigns at once,
the people’s spirits distraught, raked by the spur of rage.
Shaking fists, they shout “To arms!” “Arms!” the ranks shout out
while their fathers weep and groan. And now from all sides
an enormous uproar, cries in conflict lift on the winds—
like cries of bird-flocks landing in some tall grove by chance
or swans with their hoarse calls clamoring out across
the sounding pools of Padusa River stocked with fish.
“All right then, citizens!” seizing his moment Turnus
calls: “Summon your councils, sit there praising peace!
Our enemies swoop down on our country, full force!”
No more for them. Up he leapt and raced from the halls,
shouting: “You, Volusus, call your Volscian units to arms,
move your Rutulians out. Messapus, array the cavalry—
you and your brother Coras, range them down the plains.
Another contingent guard the gates and man the towers.
The rest attack with me where I command!”
At once
they rush to the walls from all parts of the city.
King Latinus himself, shocked by the sudden crisis,
leaves the council, delays his own noble plans
till a better hour, over and over faults himself
for not embracing Trojan Aeneas with open arms,
adopting him as his son to shield the city.
Others are digging trenches before the gates,
hauling up on their shoulders stones and pikes.
And the raucous trumpet sounds the signal—bloody war!
Then a mixed cordon of boys and mothers rings the walls
as the long last struggle calls them all to gather.
Here is the queen, with a grand cortege of ladies
bearing gifts and riding up to Minerva’s temple,
set on the heights, and beside her rides the girl,
the princess Lavinia, cause of all their grief,
her lovely eyes bent low . . .
Taking their lead, the ladies fill the shrine
with the smoke of incense, pouring out their wails
from the steep threshold: “You, power of armies,
queen of the battle, Pallas, virgin goddess,
shatter that Phrygian pirate’s spear! Himself?
Hurl him headlong down, sprawled at our high gates!”
And Turnus in matchless fury gears himself for war.
Now he’s buckled his breastplate, gleaming, ruddy bronze
with its bristling metal scales—encased his legs in gold,
his temples still bare, but his sword was strapped to his side
as down from the city heights he speeds in a flash of gold
in all his glory, in all his hopes already locked fast
with the enemy—wild as a stallion bolting the paddock,
burst free of the reins at last
he commands the open plain, making for pasture,
out for the herds of mares or keen for a plunge
in the river runs he knows so well, he charges off,
his proud head flung back, neighing, racing on,
reveling in himself, his mane sporting over
his neck and shoulders.
Rushing to meet him came
Camilla, riding up with her armed Volscian ranks
and under the gates the princess sprang from her horse,
and following suit her entire troop dismounted
in one gliding flow as their captain speaks out:
“Turnus, if the brave deserve to trust themselves,
I’m steeled, I swear, to engage the cavalry of Aeneas,
foray out alone to confront the Tuscan squadrons.
Permit me to risk the first shock of battle.
You stay here on foot and guard the walls.”
Turnus,
his eyes trained on the awesome young girl, responded:
“Pride of Italy, Princess, what can I do or say
to show my thanks? But since that courage of yours
would leap all bounds, come share the struggle with me.
Aeneas, as rumor has it and posted scouts report,
has recklessly sent his light horse on ahead
to harass the plains, while he himself, crossing
the mountain heights by a lonely, desolate ridge,
he’s moving on the city. I am setting an ambush
deep in a hollowed woody path and posting troops
to block the passage through at both ends of the gorge.
You take on the Etruscan cavalry—frontal assault,
flanked by brave Messapus, the Latin horsemen
and squadrons of Tiburtus. You too assume
a captain’s joint command.” With equal zeal
he rallies Messapus, rallies allied chiefs and
spurring them into battle, marches on the foe.
Now he’s buckled his breastplate, gleaming, ruddy bronze
with its bristling metal scales—encased his legs in gold,
his temples still bare, but his sword was strapped to his side
as down from the city heights he speeds in a flash of gold
in all his glory, in all his hopes already locked fast
with the enemy—wild as a stallion bolting the paddock,
burst free of the reins at last
he commands the open plain, making for pasture,
out for the herds of mares or keen for a plunge
in the river runs he knows so well, he charges off,
his proud head flung back, neighing, racing on,
reveling in himself, his mane sporting over
his neck and shoulders.
Rushing to meet him came
Camilla, riding up with her armed Volscian ranks
and under the gates the princess sprang from her horse,
and following suit her entire troop dismounted
in one gliding flow as their captain speaks out:
“Turnus, if the brave deserve to trust themselves,
I’m steeled, I swear, to engage the cavalry of Aeneas,
foray out alone to confront the Tuscan squadrons.
Permit me to risk the first shock of battle.
You stay here on foot and guard the walls.”
Turnus,
his eyes trained on the awesome young girl, responded:
“Pride of Italy, Princess, what can I do or say
to show my thanks? But since that courage of yours
would leap all bounds, come share the struggle with me.
Aeneas, as rumor has it and posted scouts report,
has recklessly sent his light horse on ahead
to harass the plains, while he himself, crossing
the mountain heights by a lonely, desolate ridge,
he’s moving on the city. I am setting an ambush
deep in a hollowed woody path and posting troops
to block the passage through at both ends of the gorge.
You take on the Etruscan cavalry—frontal assault,
flanked by brave Messapus, the Latin horsemen
and squadrons of Tiburtus. You too assume
a captain’s joint command.” With equal zeal
he rallies Messapus, rallies allied chiefs and
spurring them into battle, marches on the foe.
There is a valley full of twists and turns,
a perfect spot for the lures and subterfuge of battle,
both of its sides closed off and dark with thick brush.
A cramped path leads the way, a tightening pass,
a difficult entry takes you in—a ready trap.
And over it all, amid the hilltop lookout points
there’s high ground, hidden, good safe shelter.
Whether you’d like to attack from left or right
or stand on the ridge and roll huge boulders down.
Now here Turnus heads, by a track he knows by heart
and staking his ground, he lurks in the woods, in ambush.
a perfect spot for the lures and subterfuge of battle,
both of its sides closed off and dark with thick brush.
A cramped path leads the way, a tightening pass,
a difficult entry takes you in—a ready trap.
And over it all, amid the hilltop lookout points
there’s high ground, hidden, good safe shelter.
Whether you’d like to attack from left or right
or stand on the ridge and roll huge boulders down.
Now here Turnus heads, by a track he knows by heart
and staking his ground, he lurks in the woods, in ambush.
While high on Olympus, Diana called swift Opis,
one of her virgin comrades, one of her sacred troop,
and the goddess spoke in tears: “Camilla’s moving out
to a brutal war, dear girl, strapping on our armor
all for nothing. I love her like no one else!
And it’s no new love, you know, that stirs Diana,
no sweet lightning bolt of passion . . .
“Once,
when that tyrant, Metabus, loathed by people
for his abuse of power, was drummed from his kingdom,
leaving Privernum’s ancient town, he took his daughter,
a baby, with him, fleeing the thick-and-fast of battle,
a friend to share his exile. Camilla, he called her,
changing her mother’s name, Casmilla, just a bit.
Holding her in his arms, he made for the ridges,
wild, dense with woods, with enemy weapons raining
down around them, Volscian forces closing for the kill.
And suddenly as they flew, the Amasenus overflowed, look,
foaming over its banks, such violent cloudbursts broke.
About to swim for it, Metabus stops short, stayed
by love for his child, fear for that dear burden.
As he racked his brains, desperate, deeply torn,
he lit on a quick decision. His own huge spear—
the fighter luckily bore it in his grip—
rugged with knots, the oakwood charred hard.
Rolling her up in cork-bark stripped from trees,
he lashed her fast to the weapon, just mid-haft and
balancing both in his right hand, he prays to the skies:
‘Bountiful one, to you, lover of groves, Latona’s daughter,
a father devotes his baby girl. Yours is the first spear
she grasps as she flees the enemy through the air,
pleading for your mercy!
Receive her, goddess—your very own—I pray you,
now I commit my child to the fickle winds!’
“With that,
cocking back his arm he sends the javelin whirring on
and the river roars out as over the churning rapids
poor Camilla flies along on the whizzing shaft.
But now as enemy fighters harry Messapus even more,
he flings himself in the stream and, flushed with triumph,
pries from the turf his spear and baby girl as one,
his gift to you, Diana, Goddess of the Crossroads.
No homes, no city walls would give them shelter,
nor would he have consented, fierce man that he was,
no, a shepherd’s life on the lonely mountains,
that’s the life he led. There in the brush
and the rough lairs of beasts he nursed his child
on raw milk from the dugs of a wild brood-mare,
milking its udders into her tender lips. And then,
when the toddler had taken her first hesitant steps,
Metabus armed her hand with a well-honed lance
and slung from her tiny shoulder bow and arrows.
No gold band for her hair, no long flaring cape,
a tiger-skin that covered her head hung down her back.
With a hand uncallused still she flung her baby spears,
swirled a sling-shot round her head with its supple strap
and bagged a crane or snowy swan by the Strymon’s banks.
Many a mother in Tuscan cities yearned for her
as a daughter. Futile. Diana’s her only passion.
She nurses a lifelong love of chastity and the hunt
while she remains untouched. If only she’d never
been carried away to serve in such a war—
bent on challenging Trojans. She’d still be
one of my loyal comrades, still my own dear girl.
one of her virgin comrades, one of her sacred troop,
and the goddess spoke in tears: “Camilla’s moving out
to a brutal war, dear girl, strapping on our armor
all for nothing. I love her like no one else!
And it’s no new love, you know, that stirs Diana,
no sweet lightning bolt of passion . . .
“Once,
when that tyrant, Metabus, loathed by people
for his abuse of power, was drummed from his kingdom,
leaving Privernum’s ancient town, he took his daughter,
a baby, with him, fleeing the thick-and-fast of battle,
a friend to share his exile. Camilla, he called her,
changing her mother’s name, Casmilla, just a bit.
Holding her in his arms, he made for the ridges,
wild, dense with woods, with enemy weapons raining
down around them, Volscian forces closing for the kill.
And suddenly as they flew, the Amasenus overflowed, look,
foaming over its banks, such violent cloudbursts broke.
About to swim for it, Metabus stops short, stayed
by love for his child, fear for that dear burden.
As he racked his brains, desperate, deeply torn,
he lit on a quick decision. His own huge spear—
the fighter luckily bore it in his grip—
rugged with knots, the oakwood charred hard.
Rolling her up in cork-bark stripped from trees,
he lashed her fast to the weapon, just mid-haft and
balancing both in his right hand, he prays to the skies:
‘Bountiful one, to you, lover of groves, Latona’s daughter,
a father devotes his baby girl. Yours is the first spear
she grasps as she flees the enemy through the air,
pleading for your mercy!
Receive her, goddess—your very own—I pray you,
now I commit my child to the fickle winds!’
“With that,
cocking back his arm he sends the javelin whirring on
and the river roars out as over the churning rapids
poor Camilla flies along on the whizzing shaft.
But now as enemy fighters harry Messapus even more,
he flings himself in the stream and, flushed with triumph,
pries from the turf his spear and baby girl as one,
his gift to you, Diana, Goddess of the Crossroads.
No homes, no city walls would give them shelter,
nor would he have consented, fierce man that he was,
no, a shepherd’s life on the lonely mountains,
that’s the life he led. There in the brush
and the rough lairs of beasts he nursed his child
on raw milk from the dugs of a wild brood-mare,
milking its udders into her tender lips. And then,
when the toddler had taken her first hesitant steps,
Metabus armed her hand with a well-honed lance
and slung from her tiny shoulder bow and arrows.
No gold band for her hair, no long flaring cape,
a tiger-skin that covered her head hung down her back.
With a hand uncallused still she flung her baby spears,
swirled a sling-shot round her head with its supple strap
and bagged a crane or snowy swan by the Strymon’s banks.
Many a mother in Tuscan cities yearned for her
as a daughter. Futile. Diana’s her only passion.
She nurses a lifelong love of chastity and the hunt
while she remains untouched. If only she’d never
been carried away to serve in such a war—
bent on challenging Trojans. She’d still be
one of my loyal comrades, still my own dear girl.
“Action! Watch, a terrible destiny drives her on!
Down you dive from the high skies, Opis my nymph,
light out for the Latin lands where battle flares
and the omens all are bad. These weapons, take them,
pluck from the quiver an arrow fletched for vengeance!
Use it. Whoever defiles her sacred body with a wound—
Trojan, Italian: make him pay me an equal price in blood!
Then I will fold her in cloud, poor girl, with all her gear
and bear Camilla’s unsullied body home to a tomb
and lay her to rest in her own native land.”
At that,
Opis dove down from the sky through a light breeze,
her body wrapped in a whirlwind dark as night
and whirring on her way.
But all the while
the Trojan forces are closing on the walls,
Etruscan chiefs and a massed army of cavalry
squaring off in squadrons rank by rank. Across
the entire field the snorting chargers stamping,
fighting their tight reins and veering left and right
and the plains are bristling a jagged crop of iron spears,
everywhere, fields ablaze with weapons brandished high.
At the same time, grouping against the Trojan lines,
Messapus, the swift Latins, Coras, his brother too
and young Camilla’s wing—all march into sight,
right arms cocked back, thrusting javelins forward,
shaking vibrant lances, infantry tramping into position,
battle stallions panting, plains mounting to fever pitch.
And once both armies had closed to a spearcast away
they reined back to a halt—
then abruptly surge forward, shouting, whipping
their teams into combat frenzy, weapons pelting
thick as a snowstorm shrouds the skies in darkness.
At once Tyrrhenus and fierce Aconteus charge each other
full tilt with their spears, and both are first to crash,
shattering down with tremendous impact, splintering ribs
of their battle stallions ramming chest to chest.
Aconteus, hurled off, drops like a lightning bolt
or a dead weight shot forth from a siege engine,
heaving headlong far away from his charger,
gasping out his life breath on the winds.
That moment
the lines of fighters buckle, Latins, routed, sling
their shields on their backs and wheel their horses
round to the walls as the Trojans drive them on
with Asilas in the lead, his squadrons charging.
Now they are nearing the gates when again the Latins
raise a war cry, wrenching the horses’ supple necks around
while the Trojans, all reins slack, beat a deep retreat . . .
Picture an ocean rolling, waves ebbing and flowing,
now flooding onto the shore, smashing over the cliffs
in a burst of foam and drenching the bay’s sandy edge—
now rushing in fast retreat, swallowing down the scree
lost in the backwash, leaving the shallows high and dry:
so twice the Etruscans hurled the Latins toward their walls,
twice routed, glancing round they cover their backs with shields.
But when at the third assault the whole front locked fast,
fighting hand-to-hand, and each man picked out his man,
then, truly, the groans of the dying men break loose,
weapons, bodies, a sea of blood, massacred riders,
half-dead horses writhing together now in death
and the pitched battle peaks.
Orsilochus fearing
to face the horseman Remulus, whirls a lance
at his horse instead, planting the point below its ear
and furious, wild with the wound, it cannot bear the agony,
rearing back, chest high, its hoofs thrashing the air
as Remulus, thrown free, rolls around in the dust.
And Catillus brings down Iollas, then Herminius,
massive in courage, immense in brawn and armor,
his blond locks flowing bare and his shoulders bare,
no fear of wounds, so huge his body exposed to spears.
But Catillus’ shaft goes hammering through him, quivering out
his broad back and it doubles up the man impaled with pain.
Everywhere, black tides of blood, iron clashing, slaughter,
fighters striving for death with glory through their wounds.
Down you dive from the high skies, Opis my nymph,
light out for the Latin lands where battle flares
and the omens all are bad. These weapons, take them,
pluck from the quiver an arrow fletched for vengeance!
Use it. Whoever defiles her sacred body with a wound—
Trojan, Italian: make him pay me an equal price in blood!
Then I will fold her in cloud, poor girl, with all her gear
and bear Camilla’s unsullied body home to a tomb
and lay her to rest in her own native land.”
At that,
Opis dove down from the sky through a light breeze,
her body wrapped in a whirlwind dark as night
and whirring on her way.
But all the while
the Trojan forces are closing on the walls,
Etruscan chiefs and a massed army of cavalry
squaring off in squadrons rank by rank. Across
the entire field the snorting chargers stamping,
fighting their tight reins and veering left and right
and the plains are bristling a jagged crop of iron spears,
everywhere, fields ablaze with weapons brandished high.
At the same time, grouping against the Trojan lines,
Messapus, the swift Latins, Coras, his brother too
and young Camilla’s wing—all march into sight,
right arms cocked back, thrusting javelins forward,
shaking vibrant lances, infantry tramping into position,
battle stallions panting, plains mounting to fever pitch.
And once both armies had closed to a spearcast away
they reined back to a halt—
then abruptly surge forward, shouting, whipping
their teams into combat frenzy, weapons pelting
thick as a snowstorm shrouds the skies in darkness.
At once Tyrrhenus and fierce Aconteus charge each other
full tilt with their spears, and both are first to crash,
shattering down with tremendous impact, splintering ribs
of their battle stallions ramming chest to chest.
Aconteus, hurled off, drops like a lightning bolt
or a dead weight shot forth from a siege engine,
heaving headlong far away from his charger,
gasping out his life breath on the winds.
That moment
the lines of fighters buckle, Latins, routed, sling
their shields on their backs and wheel their horses
round to the walls as the Trojans drive them on
with Asilas in the lead, his squadrons charging.
Now they are nearing the gates when again the Latins
raise a war cry, wrenching the horses’ supple necks around
while the Trojans, all reins slack, beat a deep retreat . . .
Picture an ocean rolling, waves ebbing and flowing,
now flooding onto the shore, smashing over the cliffs
in a burst of foam and drenching the bay’s sandy edge—
now rushing in fast retreat, swallowing down the scree
lost in the backwash, leaving the shallows high and dry:
so twice the Etruscans hurled the Latins toward their walls,
twice routed, glancing round they cover their backs with shields.
But when at the third assault the whole front locked fast,
fighting hand-to-hand, and each man picked out his man,
then, truly, the groans of the dying men break loose,
weapons, bodies, a sea of blood, massacred riders,
half-dead horses writhing together now in death
and the pitched battle peaks.
Orsilochus fearing
to face the horseman Remulus, whirls a lance
at his horse instead, planting the point below its ear
and furious, wild with the wound, it cannot bear the agony,
rearing back, chest high, its hoofs thrashing the air
as Remulus, thrown free, rolls around in the dust.
And Catillus brings down Iollas, then Herminius,
massive in courage, immense in brawn and armor,
his blond locks flowing bare and his shoulders bare,
no fear of wounds, so huge his body exposed to spears.
But Catillus’ shaft goes hammering through him, quivering out
his broad back and it doubles up the man impaled with pain.
Everywhere, black tides of blood, iron clashing, slaughter,
fighters striving for death with glory through their wounds.
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