The Aeneid (47 page)
But in fact the duel had long seemed uneven
to all the Rutulians, long their hearts were torn,
wavering back and forth, and they only wavered more
as they viewed the two contenders at closer range,
poorly matched in power . . .
Turnus adds to their anguish, quietly moving toward
the altar, eyes downcast, to pray. A suppliant now,
his fresh cheeks and his strong young body pallid.
Soon as his sister Juturna saw such murmurs rise
and the hearts of people slipping into doubt,
into the lines she goes like Camers to the life,
a soldier sprung from a grand ancestral clan:
his father a name for valor, brilliant deeds,
and he himself renowned for feats of arms.
Into the center lines Juturna strides,
alert to the work at hand,
and she sows a variety of rumors, urging:
“Aren’t you ashamed, Rutulians, putting at risk
the life of one to save us all? Don’t we match them
in numbers, power? Look, these are all they’ve got—
Trojans, Arcadians, and all the Etruscan forces,
slaves to Fate—to battle Turnus in arms! Why,
if only half of us went to war, each soldier
could hardly find a foe. But Turnus, think,
he’ll rise on the wings of fame to meet the gods,
gods on whose altars he has offered up his life:
he will live forever, sung on the lips of men!
But we, if we lose our land, will bow to the yoke,
enslaved by our new high lords and masters—
we who idle on amid our fields!”
Stinging taunts
inflame the will of the fighters all the more
till a low growing murmur steals along the lines.
Even Laurentines, even Latins change their tune,
men who had just now longed for peace and safety
long for weapons, pray the pact be dashed
and pity the unjust fate that Turnus faces.
Then, crowning all, Juturna adds a greater power.
She displays in the sky the strongest sign that ever
dazed Italian minds and deceived them with its wonders.
The golden eagle of Jove, in flight through the blood-red sky,
was harrying shorebirds, routing their squadron’s shrieking ranks
when suddenly down he swoops to the stream and grasps a swan,
out in the lead, in his ruthless talons. This the Italians
watch, enthralled as the birds all scream and swerving
round in flight—a marvel, look—they overshadow
the sky with wings, and forming a dense cloudbank,
force their enemy high up through the air until,
beaten down by their strikes and his victim’s weight,
his talons dropped the kill in the river’s run
and into the clouds the eagle winged away.
Struck,
the Italians shout out, saluting that great omen,
all hands eager to take up arms, and the augur
Tolumnius urges first: “This, this,” he cries,
“is the answer to all my prayers! I embrace it,
I recognize the gods! I, I will lead you—
reach for your swords now, my poor people!
Like helpless birds, terrorized by the war
that ruthless invader brings you,
devastating your shores by force of arms.
He too will race in flight and wing away,
setting his sails to cross the farthest seas.
Close ranks. Every man of you mass with one resolve!
Fight to save your king the marauder seized!”
Enough.
Lunging out he whips a spear at the foes he faced
and the whizzing javelin hisses, rips the air dead-on—
and at that instant a huge outcry, ranks in a wedge
in disarray, lines buckling, hearts at a fever pitch
as the shaft wings on where a band of nine brothers
with fine bodies chanced to block its course. One
mother bore them all, a Tuscan, loyal Tyrrhena wed
to Gylippus, her Arcadian husband. And one of these,
in the waist where the braided belt chafes the flesh
and the buckle clasps the strap from end to end—
a striking, well-built soldier in burnished bronze—
the spear splits his ribs and splays him out on the sand.
But his brothers, a phalanx up in arms, enflamed by grief,
some tear swords from sheaths and some snatch up their spears
and all press blindly on. As the Latian columns charge them,
charging
them
come Agyllines and Trojans streaming up
with Arcadian ranks decked out in blazoned gear and
one lust drives them all: to let the sword decide.
Altars plundered for torches, down from menacing clouds
a torrent of spears, and the iron rain pelts thick-and-fast
as they carry off the holy bowls and sacred braziers.
Even Latinus flees, cradling his defeated gods and
shattered pact of peace. Others harness teams
to chariots, others vault up onto their horses,
swords brandished, tense for attack.
Messapus,
keen to disrupt the truce, whips his charger straight
at Tuscan Aulestes, king adorned with his kingly emblems,
forcing him back in terror. And back he trips, poor man,
stumbling, crashing head over shoulders into the altar
rearing behind him there, and Messapus, fired up now.
flies at him, looming over him, high in the saddle
to strike him dead with his rugged beamy lance,
the king begging for mercy, Messapus shouting:
“This one’s finished! Here,
a choicer victim offered up to the great gods!”—
and the Latins rush to strip the corpse still warm.
Rushing to block them, Corynaeus grabs a flaming torch
from the altar—just so Ebysus can’t strike first—and hurls
fire in the Latin’s face and his huge beard flares up,
reeking with burnt singe. And following on that blow
he seizes his dazed foe’s locks in his left hand and
pins him fast to the ground with a knee full force
and digs his rigid blade in Ebysus’ flank.
Podalirius,
tracking the shepherd Alsus, hurtles through the front
where the spears shower down, he’s rearing over him now
with his naked sword but Alsus, swirling his axehead back,
strikes him square in the skull, cleaving brow to chin
and convulsive sprays of blood imbrue his armor.
Grim repose and an iron sleep press down his eyes
and shut their light in a night that never ends.
But Aeneas,
bound to his oath, his head exposed and the hand unarmed
he was stretching toward his comrades, shouted out:
“Where are you running? Why this sudden outbreak,
why these clashes? Rein your anger in!
The pact’s already struck, its terms are set.
Now I alone have the right to enter combat.
Don’t hold me back. Cast your fears to the wind!
This strong right arm will put our truce to the proof.
Our rites have already made the life of Turnus mine.”
to all the Rutulians, long their hearts were torn,
wavering back and forth, and they only wavered more
as they viewed the two contenders at closer range,
poorly matched in power . . .
Turnus adds to their anguish, quietly moving toward
the altar, eyes downcast, to pray. A suppliant now,
his fresh cheeks and his strong young body pallid.
Soon as his sister Juturna saw such murmurs rise
and the hearts of people slipping into doubt,
into the lines she goes like Camers to the life,
a soldier sprung from a grand ancestral clan:
his father a name for valor, brilliant deeds,
and he himself renowned for feats of arms.
Into the center lines Juturna strides,
alert to the work at hand,
and she sows a variety of rumors, urging:
“Aren’t you ashamed, Rutulians, putting at risk
the life of one to save us all? Don’t we match them
in numbers, power? Look, these are all they’ve got—
Trojans, Arcadians, and all the Etruscan forces,
slaves to Fate—to battle Turnus in arms! Why,
if only half of us went to war, each soldier
could hardly find a foe. But Turnus, think,
he’ll rise on the wings of fame to meet the gods,
gods on whose altars he has offered up his life:
he will live forever, sung on the lips of men!
But we, if we lose our land, will bow to the yoke,
enslaved by our new high lords and masters—
we who idle on amid our fields!”
Stinging taunts
inflame the will of the fighters all the more
till a low growing murmur steals along the lines.
Even Laurentines, even Latins change their tune,
men who had just now longed for peace and safety
long for weapons, pray the pact be dashed
and pity the unjust fate that Turnus faces.
Then, crowning all, Juturna adds a greater power.
She displays in the sky the strongest sign that ever
dazed Italian minds and deceived them with its wonders.
The golden eagle of Jove, in flight through the blood-red sky,
was harrying shorebirds, routing their squadron’s shrieking ranks
when suddenly down he swoops to the stream and grasps a swan,
out in the lead, in his ruthless talons. This the Italians
watch, enthralled as the birds all scream and swerving
round in flight—a marvel, look—they overshadow
the sky with wings, and forming a dense cloudbank,
force their enemy high up through the air until,
beaten down by their strikes and his victim’s weight,
his talons dropped the kill in the river’s run
and into the clouds the eagle winged away.
Struck,
the Italians shout out, saluting that great omen,
all hands eager to take up arms, and the augur
Tolumnius urges first: “This, this,” he cries,
“is the answer to all my prayers! I embrace it,
I recognize the gods! I, I will lead you—
reach for your swords now, my poor people!
Like helpless birds, terrorized by the war
that ruthless invader brings you,
devastating your shores by force of arms.
He too will race in flight and wing away,
setting his sails to cross the farthest seas.
Close ranks. Every man of you mass with one resolve!
Fight to save your king the marauder seized!”
Enough.
Lunging out he whips a spear at the foes he faced
and the whizzing javelin hisses, rips the air dead-on—
and at that instant a huge outcry, ranks in a wedge
in disarray, lines buckling, hearts at a fever pitch
as the shaft wings on where a band of nine brothers
with fine bodies chanced to block its course. One
mother bore them all, a Tuscan, loyal Tyrrhena wed
to Gylippus, her Arcadian husband. And one of these,
in the waist where the braided belt chafes the flesh
and the buckle clasps the strap from end to end—
a striking, well-built soldier in burnished bronze—
the spear splits his ribs and splays him out on the sand.
But his brothers, a phalanx up in arms, enflamed by grief,
some tear swords from sheaths and some snatch up their spears
and all press blindly on. As the Latian columns charge them,
charging
them
come Agyllines and Trojans streaming up
with Arcadian ranks decked out in blazoned gear and
one lust drives them all: to let the sword decide.
Altars plundered for torches, down from menacing clouds
a torrent of spears, and the iron rain pelts thick-and-fast
as they carry off the holy bowls and sacred braziers.
Even Latinus flees, cradling his defeated gods and
shattered pact of peace. Others harness teams
to chariots, others vault up onto their horses,
swords brandished, tense for attack.
Messapus,
keen to disrupt the truce, whips his charger straight
at Tuscan Aulestes, king adorned with his kingly emblems,
forcing him back in terror. And back he trips, poor man,
stumbling, crashing head over shoulders into the altar
rearing behind him there, and Messapus, fired up now.
flies at him, looming over him, high in the saddle
to strike him dead with his rugged beamy lance,
the king begging for mercy, Messapus shouting:
“This one’s finished! Here,
a choicer victim offered up to the great gods!”—
and the Latins rush to strip the corpse still warm.
Rushing to block them, Corynaeus grabs a flaming torch
from the altar—just so Ebysus can’t strike first—and hurls
fire in the Latin’s face and his huge beard flares up,
reeking with burnt singe. And following on that blow
he seizes his dazed foe’s locks in his left hand and
pins him fast to the ground with a knee full force
and digs his rigid blade in Ebysus’ flank.
Podalirius,
tracking the shepherd Alsus, hurtles through the front
where the spears shower down, he’s rearing over him now
with his naked sword but Alsus, swirling his axehead back,
strikes him square in the skull, cleaving brow to chin
and convulsive sprays of blood imbrue his armor.
Grim repose and an iron sleep press down his eyes
and shut their light in a night that never ends.
But Aeneas,
bound to his oath, his head exposed and the hand unarmed
he was stretching toward his comrades, shouted out:
“Where are you running? Why this sudden outbreak,
why these clashes? Rein your anger in!
The pact’s already struck, its terms are set.
Now I alone have the right to enter combat.
Don’t hold me back. Cast your fears to the wind!
This strong right arm will put our truce to the proof.
Our rites have already made the life of Turnus mine.”
Just in the midst of these, these outcries, look,
a winging arrow whizzes in and it hits Aeneas.
Nobody knows who shot it, whirled it on to bring
the Rutulians such renown—what luck, what god—
the shining fame of the feat is shrouded over now.
Nobody boasted he had struck Aeneas. No one.
Turnus,
soon as he saw Aeneas falling back from the lines,
his chiefs in disarray, ignites with a blaze of hope.
He demands his team and arms at once, in a flash of pride
he leaps up onto his chariot, tugging hard on the reins
and races on and droves of the brave he hands to death
and tumbles droves of the half-dead down to earth
or crushes whole detachments under his wheels or
seizing their lances, cuts down all who cut and run.
Amok as Mars by the banks of the Hebrus frozen over—
splattered with blood, fired to fury, drumming his shield
as he whips up war and gives his frenzied team free rein and
over the open fields they outstrip the winds from South and West
till the far frontiers of Thrace groan to their pounding hoofs
and round him the shapes of black Fear, Rage and Ambush,
aides of the war-god gallop on and on. Just so madly
Turnus whips his horses into the heart of battle,
chargers steaming sweat, trampling enemy fighters
killed in agony—kicking gusts of bloody spray,
their hoofs stamping into the sand the clotted gore.
Now he’s dealing death to Sthenelus, Thamyris, Pholus:
Sthenelus speared at long-range, the next two hand-to-hand,
at a distance too both sons of Imbrasus, Glaucus and Lades.
Imbrasus had reared them himself in Lycia once and
equipped them both with matching weapons either
to fight close-up or outrace the winds on horseback.
a winging arrow whizzes in and it hits Aeneas.
Nobody knows who shot it, whirled it on to bring
the Rutulians such renown—what luck, what god—
the shining fame of the feat is shrouded over now.
Nobody boasted he had struck Aeneas. No one.
Turnus,
soon as he saw Aeneas falling back from the lines,
his chiefs in disarray, ignites with a blaze of hope.
He demands his team and arms at once, in a flash of pride
he leaps up onto his chariot, tugging hard on the reins
and races on and droves of the brave he hands to death
and tumbles droves of the half-dead down to earth
or crushes whole detachments under his wheels or
seizing their lances, cuts down all who cut and run.
Amok as Mars by the banks of the Hebrus frozen over—
splattered with blood, fired to fury, drumming his shield
as he whips up war and gives his frenzied team free rein and
over the open fields they outstrip the winds from South and West
till the far frontiers of Thrace groan to their pounding hoofs
and round him the shapes of black Fear, Rage and Ambush,
aides of the war-god gallop on and on. Just so madly
Turnus whips his horses into the heart of battle,
chargers steaming sweat, trampling enemy fighters
killed in agony—kicking gusts of bloody spray,
their hoofs stamping into the sand the clotted gore.
Now he’s dealing death to Sthenelus, Thamyris, Pholus:
Sthenelus speared at long-range, the next two hand-to-hand,
at a distance too both sons of Imbrasus, Glaucus and Lades.
Imbrasus had reared them himself in Lycia once and
equipped them both with matching weapons either
to fight close-up or outrace the winds on horseback.
Another sector. Eumedes charges into the melee,
grandson of old Eumedes, bearing that veteran’s name
but famed for his father Dolon’s heart and hand in war.
Dolon, who once dared to ask for Achilles’ chariot,
his reward for spying out the Achaean camp
but Diomedes paid his daring a different reward—
now he no longer dreams of the horses of Achilles.
Eumedes . . . spotting him far out on the open meadow,
Turnus hits him first with a light spear winged across
that empty space then races up to him, halts his team, and
rearing over the dying Trojan, plants a foot on his neck
and tears the sword from his grip—a flash of the blade—
he stains it red in the man’s throat, and to top it off
cries out: “Look here, Trojan, here are the fields,
the great Land of the West you fought to win in war.
Lie there, take their measure. That’s the reward
they all will carry off who risk my blade,
that’s how they build their walls!”
A whirl of his spear
and Turnus sends Asbytes to join him, Chloreus too
and Sybaris, Dares, Thersilochus, then Thymoetes,
pitched down over the neck of his bucking horse.
Like a blast of the Thracian Northwind howling over
the deep Aegean, whipping the waves toward shore, wherever
the winds burst down the clouds take flight through the sky,
so Turnus, wherever he hacks his path, the lines buckle in
and the ranks turn tail and run as his own drive sweeps him on,
his rushing chariot charging the gusts that toss his crest.
Phegeus could not face his assault, his deafening cries;
he flung himself before the chariot, right hand wrestling
the horses’ jaws around as they came charging into him,
frothing at their bits, then dragged him dangling down
from the yoke as Turnus’ spearhead hit his exposed flank
and ripping the double links of his breastplate, there it stuck,
just grazing the fighter’s skin. But raising his shield,
swerving to brave his foe, he strained to save himself
with his naked sword—when the wheel and whirling axle
knocked him headlong, ground him into the dust. Turnus,
finishing up with a stroke between the helmet’s base
and the breastplate’s upper rim, hacked off his head
and left his trunk in the sand.
And now, while Turnus
is spreading death across the plains in all his triumph,
Mnestheus and trusty Achates, Ascanius at their side,
are setting Aeneas down in camp—bleeding, propping
himself on his lengthy spear at every other step . . .
Furious, struggling to tear the broken arrowhead out,
he insists they take the quickest way to heal him:
“Cut the wound with a broadsword, open it wide,
dig out the point where it’s bedded deep
and put me back into action!”
grandson of old Eumedes, bearing that veteran’s name
but famed for his father Dolon’s heart and hand in war.
Dolon, who once dared to ask for Achilles’ chariot,
his reward for spying out the Achaean camp
but Diomedes paid his daring a different reward—
now he no longer dreams of the horses of Achilles.
Eumedes . . . spotting him far out on the open meadow,
Turnus hits him first with a light spear winged across
that empty space then races up to him, halts his team, and
rearing over the dying Trojan, plants a foot on his neck
and tears the sword from his grip—a flash of the blade—
he stains it red in the man’s throat, and to top it off
cries out: “Look here, Trojan, here are the fields,
the great Land of the West you fought to win in war.
Lie there, take their measure. That’s the reward
they all will carry off who risk my blade,
that’s how they build their walls!”
A whirl of his spear
and Turnus sends Asbytes to join him, Chloreus too
and Sybaris, Dares, Thersilochus, then Thymoetes,
pitched down over the neck of his bucking horse.
Like a blast of the Thracian Northwind howling over
the deep Aegean, whipping the waves toward shore, wherever
the winds burst down the clouds take flight through the sky,
so Turnus, wherever he hacks his path, the lines buckle in
and the ranks turn tail and run as his own drive sweeps him on,
his rushing chariot charging the gusts that toss his crest.
Phegeus could not face his assault, his deafening cries;
he flung himself before the chariot, right hand wrestling
the horses’ jaws around as they came charging into him,
frothing at their bits, then dragged him dangling down
from the yoke as Turnus’ spearhead hit his exposed flank
and ripping the double links of his breastplate, there it stuck,
just grazing the fighter’s skin. But raising his shield,
swerving to brave his foe, he strained to save himself
with his naked sword—when the wheel and whirling axle
knocked him headlong, ground him into the dust. Turnus,
finishing up with a stroke between the helmet’s base
and the breastplate’s upper rim, hacked off his head
and left his trunk in the sand.
And now, while Turnus
is spreading death across the plains in all his triumph,
Mnestheus and trusty Achates, Ascanius at their side,
are setting Aeneas down in camp—bleeding, propping
himself on his lengthy spear at every other step . . .
Furious, struggling to tear the broken arrowhead out,
he insists they take the quickest way to heal him:
“Cut the wound with a broadsword, open it wide,
dig out the point where it’s bedded deep
and put me back into action!”
Now up comes Iapyx, Iasius’ son, and dear
to Apollo, more than all other men, and once,
in the anguished grip of love, the god himself
gladly offered him all his own arts, his gifts,
his prophetic skills, his lyre, his flying shafts.
But he, desperate to slow the death of his dying father,
preferred to master the power of herbs, the skills that cure,
and pursue a healer’s practice, silent and unsung. But Aeneas,
pressed by a crowd of friends and Iulus grieving sorely—
the fighter stood there bridling, fuming, hunched
on his rugged spear, unmoved by all their tears.
The old surgeon, his robe tucked back and cinched
in the healer’s way, with his expert, healing hands
and Apollo’s potent herbs he works for all he’s worth.
No use, no use as his right hand tugs at the shaft
and his clamping forceps grip the iron point.
No good luck guides his probes,
Apollo the Master lends no help, and all the while
the ruthless horror of war grows greater, grimmer
throughout the field, a disaster ever closer . . .
Now they see a pillar of dust upholding the sky
and the horsemen riding on and dense salvos of weapons
raining down in the camp’s heart, and the cries of torment
reach the heavens as young men fight and die beneath
the iron fist of Mars.
At this point, Venus,
shocked by the unfair pain her son endures,
culls with a mother’s care some dittany fresh
from Cretan Ida, spear erect with its tender leaves
and crown of purple flowers. No stranger to wild goats
who graze it when flying arrows are planted in their backs.
This she bears away, her features veiled in a heavy mist,
this she distils in secret into the river water poured
in burnished bowls, and fills them with healing power
and sprinkles ambrosial juices bringing health,
and redolent cure-all too. With this potion,
aged Iapyx laved the wound, quite unaware, and
suddenly all the pain dissolved from Aeneas’ body, all
the blood that pooled in his wound stanched, and the shaft,
with no force required, slipped out in the healer’s hand
and the old strength came back, fresh as it was at first.
“Quick, fetch him his weapons! Don’t just stand there!”—
Iapyx cries, the first to inflame their hearts against the foe.
“This strong cure, it’s none of the work of human skills,
no expert’s arts in action. My right hand, Aeneas,
never saved your life. Something greater—
a god—is speeding you back to greater exploits.”
to Apollo, more than all other men, and once,
in the anguished grip of love, the god himself
gladly offered him all his own arts, his gifts,
his prophetic skills, his lyre, his flying shafts.
But he, desperate to slow the death of his dying father,
preferred to master the power of herbs, the skills that cure,
and pursue a healer’s practice, silent and unsung. But Aeneas,
pressed by a crowd of friends and Iulus grieving sorely—
the fighter stood there bridling, fuming, hunched
on his rugged spear, unmoved by all their tears.
The old surgeon, his robe tucked back and cinched
in the healer’s way, with his expert, healing hands
and Apollo’s potent herbs he works for all he’s worth.
No use, no use as his right hand tugs at the shaft
and his clamping forceps grip the iron point.
No good luck guides his probes,
Apollo the Master lends no help, and all the while
the ruthless horror of war grows greater, grimmer
throughout the field, a disaster ever closer . . .
Now they see a pillar of dust upholding the sky
and the horsemen riding on and dense salvos of weapons
raining down in the camp’s heart, and the cries of torment
reach the heavens as young men fight and die beneath
the iron fist of Mars.
At this point, Venus,
shocked by the unfair pain her son endures,
culls with a mother’s care some dittany fresh
from Cretan Ida, spear erect with its tender leaves
and crown of purple flowers. No stranger to wild goats
who graze it when flying arrows are planted in their backs.
This she bears away, her features veiled in a heavy mist,
this she distils in secret into the river water poured
in burnished bowls, and fills them with healing power
and sprinkles ambrosial juices bringing health,
and redolent cure-all too. With this potion,
aged Iapyx laved the wound, quite unaware, and
suddenly all the pain dissolved from Aeneas’ body, all
the blood that pooled in his wound stanched, and the shaft,
with no force required, slipped out in the healer’s hand
and the old strength came back, fresh as it was at first.
“Quick, fetch him his weapons! Don’t just stand there!”—
Iapyx cries, the first to inflame their hearts against the foe.
“This strong cure, it’s none of the work of human skills,
no expert’s arts in action. My right hand, Aeneas,
never saved your life. Something greater—
a god—is speeding you back to greater exploits.”
Starved for war, Aeneas had cased his calves in gold,
left and right, and spurning delay, he shakes his glinting spear.
Once he has fitted shield to hip and harness to his back,
he clasps Ascanius fast in an iron-clad embrace
and kissing him lightly through his visor, says:
“Learn courage from me, my son, true hardship too.
Learn good luck from others. My hand will shield you
in war today and guide you toward the great rewards.
But mark my words. Soon as you ripen into manhood,
reaching back for the models of your kin, remember—
father Aeneas and uncle Hector fire your heart!”
left and right, and spurning delay, he shakes his glinting spear.
Once he has fitted shield to hip and harness to his back,
he clasps Ascanius fast in an iron-clad embrace
and kissing him lightly through his visor, says:
“Learn courage from me, my son, true hardship too.
Learn good luck from others. My hand will shield you
in war today and guide you toward the great rewards.
But mark my words. Soon as you ripen into manhood,
reaching back for the models of your kin, remember—
father Aeneas and uncle Hector fire your heart!”
Urgings over, out of the gates he strode,
immense in strength, waving his massive spear.
Antheus and Mnestheus flank him closely, dashing on
and from the deserted camp roll all their swarming ranks.
The field is a swirl of blinding dust, the earth quaking
under their thundering tread. From the opposing rampart
Turnus saw them coming on, his Italians saw them too
and an icy chill of dread ran through their bones.
First in the Latin ranks, Juturna caught the sound,
she knew what it meant and, seized with trembling, fled.
But Aeneas flies ahead, spurring his dark ranks on and storming
over the open fields like a cloudburst wiping out the sun,
sweeping over the seas toward land, and well in advance
the poor unlucky farmers, hearts shuddering, know
what it will bring—trees uprooted, crops destroyed,
their labor in ruins far and wide—and the winds come first,
churning in uproar toward the shore. So the Trojans storm in,
their commander heading them toward the foe, their tight ranks
packed in a wedge, comrade linked with comrade massing hard.
A slash of a sword—Thymbraeus finished giant Osiris,
Mnestheus kills Arcetius, Achates hacks Epulo down
and Gyas, Ufens. Even the seer Tolumnius falls,
the first to wing a lance against the foe.
Cries hit the heavens—now it’s the Latins’ time
to turn tail and flee across the fields in a cloud of dust.
Aeneas never stoops to leveling men who show their backs
or makes for the ones who fight him fairly, toe-to-toe,
or the ones who fling their spears at longer range.
No, it’s Turnus alone he’s tracking, eyes alert
through the murky haze of battle, Turnus alone
Aeneas demands to fight.
Juturna, terror-struck
at the thought, the woman warrior knocks Metiscus,
Turnus’ charioteer, from between the reins he grasps
and leaves him sprawling far from the chariot pole
as she herself takes over, shaking the rippling reins
like Metiscus to the life, his voice, his build, his gear.
Quick as a black swift darts along through the great halls
of a wealthy lord, and scavenging morsels, banquet scraps
for her chirping nestlings, all her twitterings echo now
in the empty colonnades, now round the brimming ponds.
So swiftly Juturna drives her team at the Trojan center,
darts along in her chariot whirling through the field,
now here, there, displaying her brother in his glory, true,
but she never lets him come to grips, she swerves far away.
But Aeneas, no less bent on meeting up with the enemy,
stalks his victim, circling round him, turn by turn
and his shrill cries call him through the broken ranks.
As often as he caught sight of his prey and strained
to outstrip the speed of that team that raced the wind,
so often Juturna wheeled the chariot round and swooped away.
What should he do? No hope. He seethes on a heaving sea
as warring anxieties call him back and forth.
Then Messapus,
just sprinting along with a pair of steel-tipped spears
in his left hand, training one on the Trojan, lets it fly—
right on target. Aeneas stopped in his tracks and huddled
under his shield, crouching down on a knee but the spear
in its onrush swiped the peak of his helmet off and
swept away the plumes that crowned his crest.
Aeneas erupts in anger, stung by treachery now
and seeing Turnus’ horses swing his chariot round
and speed away, over and over he calls out to Jove,
to the altars built for the treaty now a shambles.
Then, at last, he hurtles into the thick of battle
as Mars drives him on, and terrible, savage, inciting
slaughter, sparing none, he gives his rage free rein.
immense in strength, waving his massive spear.
Antheus and Mnestheus flank him closely, dashing on
and from the deserted camp roll all their swarming ranks.
The field is a swirl of blinding dust, the earth quaking
under their thundering tread. From the opposing rampart
Turnus saw them coming on, his Italians saw them too
and an icy chill of dread ran through their bones.
First in the Latin ranks, Juturna caught the sound,
she knew what it meant and, seized with trembling, fled.
But Aeneas flies ahead, spurring his dark ranks on and storming
over the open fields like a cloudburst wiping out the sun,
sweeping over the seas toward land, and well in advance
the poor unlucky farmers, hearts shuddering, know
what it will bring—trees uprooted, crops destroyed,
their labor in ruins far and wide—and the winds come first,
churning in uproar toward the shore. So the Trojans storm in,
their commander heading them toward the foe, their tight ranks
packed in a wedge, comrade linked with comrade massing hard.
A slash of a sword—Thymbraeus finished giant Osiris,
Mnestheus kills Arcetius, Achates hacks Epulo down
and Gyas, Ufens. Even the seer Tolumnius falls,
the first to wing a lance against the foe.
Cries hit the heavens—now it’s the Latins’ time
to turn tail and flee across the fields in a cloud of dust.
Aeneas never stoops to leveling men who show their backs
or makes for the ones who fight him fairly, toe-to-toe,
or the ones who fling their spears at longer range.
No, it’s Turnus alone he’s tracking, eyes alert
through the murky haze of battle, Turnus alone
Aeneas demands to fight.
Juturna, terror-struck
at the thought, the woman warrior knocks Metiscus,
Turnus’ charioteer, from between the reins he grasps
and leaves him sprawling far from the chariot pole
as she herself takes over, shaking the rippling reins
like Metiscus to the life, his voice, his build, his gear.
Quick as a black swift darts along through the great halls
of a wealthy lord, and scavenging morsels, banquet scraps
for her chirping nestlings, all her twitterings echo now
in the empty colonnades, now round the brimming ponds.
So swiftly Juturna drives her team at the Trojan center,
darts along in her chariot whirling through the field,
now here, there, displaying her brother in his glory, true,
but she never lets him come to grips, she swerves far away.
But Aeneas, no less bent on meeting up with the enemy,
stalks his victim, circling round him, turn by turn
and his shrill cries call him through the broken ranks.
As often as he caught sight of his prey and strained
to outstrip the speed of that team that raced the wind,
so often Juturna wheeled the chariot round and swooped away.
What should he do? No hope. He seethes on a heaving sea
as warring anxieties call him back and forth.
Then Messapus,
just sprinting along with a pair of steel-tipped spears
in his left hand, training one on the Trojan, lets it fly—
right on target. Aeneas stopped in his tracks and huddled
under his shield, crouching down on a knee but the spear
in its onrush swiped the peak of his helmet off and
swept away the plumes that crowned his crest.
Aeneas erupts in anger, stung by treachery now
and seeing Turnus’ horses swing his chariot round
and speed away, over and over he calls out to Jove,
to the altars built for the treaty now a shambles.
Then, at last, he hurtles into the thick of battle
as Mars drives him on, and terrible, savage, inciting
slaughter, sparing none, he gives his rage free rein.
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