The Aeneid (35 page)

                With these words she threw a burning torch at the warrior
                and it lodged deep in his heart, smoking with black light. A
                great terror burst in upon his sleep, and the sweat broke out all
460         over his body and soaked him to the bone. In a frenzy of rage
                he roared for his armour. ‘My armour!’ he shouted, ransacking
                his bed and the whole palace for it. The lust for battle raged
                within him, the criminal madness of war and, above all, anger.
                It was as though a heap of brushwood were crackling and
                burning under the sides of a bronze vessel, making the water
                seethe and leap up, a great river of it raging in the pot, with
                boiling foam spilling over and dense steam flying into the air.
                The peace was violated. Turnus gave orders to the leaders of his
                army to march to king Latinus, to prepare for war, to defend
                Italy and thrust the enemy out of its borders. When he arrived,
470         that would be enough for the Trojans, and enough for the
                Latins. These were his words and he called upon the gods to
                witness them. The eager Rutulians urged each other to arms,
                some of them inspired by the rare grace of his youthful beauty,
                some by the long line of kings that were his ancestors, some by
                his brilliant feats of arms.

                While Turnus was filling the hearts of the Rutulians with
                boldness, Allecto flew off with all speed to the Trojans on her
                wings of Stygian black. Here, spying out the ground where
                lovely Iulus was hunting along the shore, trapping and coursing,
                she hatched a new plot. Into his hounds the virgin goddess of
480         Cocytus put a sudden fit of madness by touching their nostrils
                with the familiar scent of a stag and sending them after it in full
                
cry. This was the first cause of all the suffering. It was this that
                kindled the zeal for war in the hearts of the country people. It
                was a huge and beautiful stag with a fine head of antlers, which
                had been torn from the udders of its mother and fed by Tyrrhus
                and his young sons – Tyrrhus looked after the royal herds and
                was entrusted with the wardenship of the whole broad plain.
                Silvia, the boys’ sister, had given this wild creature every care
                and trained it to obey her. She would weave soft garlands for
490         its horns, combing and washing it in clear running water. It
                became tame to the hand and used to come to its master’s table.
                It would wander through the woods and come back home of its
                own accord to the door it knew so well, no matter how late the
                night. This is the creature that was roaming far from home,
                floating down a river, cooling itself in the green shade of the
                bank when it was startled by the maddened dogs of the young
                huntsman Iulus. He himself, Ascanius, burning with a passionate
                love of glory, bent his bow and aimed the arrow. The god
                was with him and kept his hand from erring. The arrow flew
                with a great hiss and passed straight through the flank into the
500         belly. Fleeing to the home it knew so well, the wounded stag
                came into its pen moaning, and stood there bleeding and filling
                the house with its cries of anguish, as though begging and
                pleading. Silvia was the first to call for help. She beat her own
                arms in grief and summoned the country people, who came long
                before she expected them, for savage Allecto was lurking in the
                silent woods. Some came armed with stakes burned to a point
                in the fire; some with clubs made from knotted tree trunks; each
                man searched for what he could find and anger taught him how
                to make a weapon of it. Tyrrhus was calling up the troops. He
510         had been driving in wedges to split an oak into four and he
                snatched up his axe, breathing furiously.

                The cruel goddess saw from her vantage point that this was a
                moment when harm might be done and, flying to the top of the
                farm roof, from the highest gable she sounded the herdsman’s
                signal with a loud call on the curved horn, and its voice was the
                voice of Tartarus. The trees shivered at the noise and the whole
                forest rang to its very depths. Far away the lake of Trivia heard
                it. The white sulphur-laden streams of the river Nar heard it
                
and its springs in Lake Velinus, and terrified mothers pressed
520         their babies to their breasts. Swift to answer the call of that
                dread horn, the hardy countrymen snatched up their weapons
                and gathered from every side. The Trojans, for their part, opened
                the gates of their camp and streamed out to help Ascanius. They
                drew up in line of battle, and this was no longer a village brawl
                with knotted clubs and stakes sharpened in the fire. They fought
                with two-edged steel, and a dark crop of drawn swords sprouted
                all over the field while bronze gleamed in answer to the challenge
                of the sun and threw its light up to the clouds, like the sea
                whitening at the first breath of wind and slowly stirring itself,
530         raising its waves higher and higher till it reaches from the depths
                of the sea-bed to the heights of heaven. Suddenly there was the
                hiss of an arrow and a young man standing out in front of the
                leading line of battle fell to the ground. It was Almo, the eldest
                son of Tyrrhus. The shaft had stuck deep in his throat, blocking
                the moist passage of the voice and closing off the narrow channel
                of his life in blood. The bodies of slain men soon lay around
                him, among them old Galaesus, who died when he stepped
                between the armies to make peace. He was the justest man in
                the broad fields of Ausonia in these far days, and the richest.
                Five flocks of sheep and five herds of cattle came back at evening
                to his stalls and he turned the soil with a hundred ploughs.

540         While the battle was evenly poised on the plain, the mighty
                goddess, having fulfilled her promise when the first blood was
                spilt in war and the first clash of arms had led to death, left
                Hesperia and returned through the breezes of the sky to address
                Juno in these words of proud triumph: ‘You asked and I have
                given. Discord is made perfect in the horror of war. Now tell
                them to come together and form alliances when I have sprinkled
                the Trojans with Italian blood! And I shall do more than this, if
                such be still your will for me. I shall spread rumours to draw
550         the neighbouring cities into the war. I shall set their hearts ablaze
                with a mad lust for battle and they will come from all sides to
                join in the fray. I shall sow a crop of weapons in all their fields.’
                Juno gave her answer: ‘There is enough terror and lying. The
                causes of war are established. They are fighting at close quarters
                and fresh blood is staining whatever weapons chance first puts
                
into their hands. Let this be the wedding they will celebrate, the
                noble son of Venus and great king Latinus. Let this be their
                wedding hymn. The Father of the Gods, the ruler of high
                Olympus, would not wish you to rove too freely over the breezes
                of heaven. You must withdraw. Should there be any need for
560         further effort, I shall take the guidance into my own hands.’ No
                sooner had the daughter of Saturn spoken these words than
                Allecto lifted up her wings, hissing with snakes, and flew down
                to her home on the banks of the Cocytus, leaving the steeps of
                the sky. At the foot of high mountains in the middle of Italy,
                there is a well-known place, whose fame has spread to many
                lands, the valley of Amsanctus. A dark forest presses in upon it
                from both sides with its dense foliage and in the middle a
                crashing torrent roars over the rocks, whipping up crests of
                foam. Here they point to a fearful cave which is a vent for the
                breath of Dis, the cruel god of the underworld. Into this cave
570         bursts Acheron and here a vast whirlpool opens its pestilential
                jaws, and here the loathsome Fury disappeared, lightening
                heaven and earth by her absence.

                But none the less the Queen of the Gods, the daughter of
                Saturn, was at that moment putting the finishing touches to
                the war. A whole crowd of herdsmen came rushing from the
                battlefield into the city, carrying the bodies of young Almo and
                Galaesus with his face mutilated. They were all imploring the
                help of the gods and appealing to Latinus. Turnus was there,
                and when the fire of their fury and the accusations of murder
                were at their height, he heaped fear upon fear by claiming that
                the Trojans were being invited to take a share in the kingdom;
                their own Latin blood would be adulterated by Phrygians while
                he was being turned from the door. At this there gathered from
                all sides, wearying Mars with their clamour for war, those whose
580         mothers had been crazed by Bacchus and were now dancing in
                wild rout in the pathless forests – the name of Amata had great
                weight with them. In an instant they were all demanding this
                wicked war against all the omens, against divine destiny and
                contrary to the will of the gods. They rushed to besiege the
                palace of king Latinus, who stood unmoved like a rock in the
                ocean, like a solid rock in the ocean pounded by breakers,
                
standing fast with the waves howling round it, while reefs and
590         foam-soaked scars roar in helpless anger and the seaweed is
                forced against its side, then streams back with the undertow.
                But there was no resisting the counsels of blind folly. All things
                were taking their course according to the nod of savage Juno.
                Again and again the king, the father of his people, called upon
                the gods and the empty winds to witness: ‘We are caught in the
                gale of Fate,’ he cried. ‘Our ship is breaking under us. You, my
                poor people, will pay for this sacrilege with your blood. You
                are the guilty one, Turnus, and a grim punishment lies in store
                for you. You will supplicate the gods but your prayers will be
                too late. I have already reached calm water and here at the
                harbour mouth I lose all the happiness I might have had in the
                hour of my death.’ He said no more, but shut himself away in
600         his palace and gave up the reins of power.

                In Hesperia, in the lands of Latium, there was a custom, later
                inherited and revered in the cities of Alba, and now observed by
                Rome, the greatest of the great, when men first rouse Mars for
                battle, whether they are preparing to bring the sorrows of war
                to the Getae, the Hyrcani or the Arabs, or whether they are
                heading for India and the rising of the sun and reclaiming the
                standards from the Parthians. There are two gates known as the
                Gates of War, sanctified by religion and the fear of savage Mars.
                These gates are closed by a hundred bolts of bronze and the
610         everlasting strength of iron, nor does their sentry Janus ever
                leave the threshold. When the Fathers are resolved on war, the
                consul himself, conspicuous in the short toga of Quirinus girt
                about him in the Gabine manner, unbars the doors. They grind
                in their sockets and he summons war. The whole army takes up
                the call and the bronze horns breathe their shrill assent. So too
                in those days Latinus was bidden to declare war upon the men
                of Aeneas by opening these grim gates. The old king, father of
                his people, would not lay his hand upon them, but recoiled from
                this wickedness and refused to perform the task, shutting himself
620         up in the darkness away from the sight of men. At this, the
                Queen of the Gods came down from the sky and struck the
                stubborn doors, bursting the iron-bound Gates of War and
                turning them in their sockets. Till that moment Ausonia had
                
been at peace and unalarmed, but now the foot-soldiers
                mustered on the plain and high in the saddle came the excited
                horsemen stirring up the dust. Every man was looking for
                weapons, polishing shields with rich fat till they were smooth,
                burnishing spears till they shone and grinding axes on the whetstone.
                What joy to raise the standards and hear the trumpets
630         sound! Five great cities, no less, set up anvils to forge new
                weapons, mighty Atina, proud Tibur, Ardea, Crustumerium
                and Antemnae with its towers. They hollowed out helmets to
                protect the heads of warriors. They wove frames of willow
                shoots to form shields. They made bronze breastplates and
                smooth shields of ductile silver. This is what had become of all
                their regard for the sickle and the share. This is what had become
                of all their love for the plough – the swords of their fathers were
                now retempered in the furnace. Now the trumpets blew and out
                went the signal that called them to war. In high excitement they
                tore down their helmets from the roof, yoked their trembling
640         horses to the chariot, buckled on their shields and their breastplates
                of triple-woven gold and girt their trusty swords about
                them.