The Latin Council and Camilla's Life and Death

Meanwhile Dawn arose forth of Ocean. Aeneas, though the charge presses to give a space for burial of his comrades, and his mind is in the tumult of death, began to pay the gods his vows of victory with the breaking of the East. He plants on a mound a mighty oak with boughs lopped away on every hand, and arrays it in the gleaming arms stripped from Mezentius the captain, a trophy to thee, mighty Lord of War; he fixes on it the plumes dripping with blood, the broken spears, and the corslet struck and pierced in twelve places; he ties the shield of brass on his left hand, and hangs from his neck the ivory sword. Then among his joyous comrades (for all the throng of his captains girt him close about) he begins in these words of cheer:

Meanwhile, Dawn rose from Ocean. Aeneas was pressed to make time to bury his comrades, and his mind was troubled by their deaths. Even so, at daybreak he began to fulfill his vows to the gods for victory. He set a great oak on a mound and cut off its branches. He dressed it in the gleaming armor stripped from Mezentius the captain, a trophy to you, mighty Lord of War. On it he placed the plumes dripping with blood, the broken spears, and the breastplate pierced in twelve places. He tied the bronze shield to its left side and hung the ivory sword from its neck. Then he spoke these encouraging words among his joyful comrades, with all his captains gathered close around him:

'The greatest deed is done, O men; be all fear gone for what remains. These are the spoils of a haughty king, the first-fruits won from him; my hands have set Mezentius here. Now our way lies to the walls of the Latin king. Prepare your arms in courage, and let your hopes anticipate the war; let no ignorant delay hinder or tardy thoughts of fear keep us back, so soon as heaven grant us to pluck up the standards and lead our army from the camp. Meanwhile let us commit to earth the unburied bodies of our comrades, since deep in Acheron this honour is left alone. Go,' says he, 'grace with the last gifts those noble souls whose blood won us this land for ours; and first let Pallas be sent to Evander's mourning city, he whose valour failed not when the day of darkness took him, and the bitter wave of death.'

'The greatest deed is done, men. Let go of all fear about what remains. These are the spoils of a proud king, the first we have taken from him. My own hands have laid Mezentius here. Now our path leads to the walls of the Latin king. Take courage and prepare your weapons. Look forward to the war with hope. As soon as heaven allows, we will raise our standards and lead our army out of camp. Let no delay born of uncertainty or late thoughts of fear hold us back. Meanwhile, let us bury the bodies of our fallen comrades. This honor alone remains for them deep in Acheron. Go,' he says, 'and give these noble souls their final gifts. Their blood won this land for us. First, let Pallas be sent to Evander's mourning city. His courage did not fail when the dark day and the bitter wave of death took him.'

So speaks he weeping, and retraces his steps to the door, where aged Acoetes watched Pallas' lifeless body laid out for burial; once armour-bearer to Evander in Parrhasia, but now gone forth with darker omens, appointed attendant to his darling foster-child. Around is the whole train of servants, with a crowd of Trojans, and the Ilian women with hair unbound in mourning after their fashion. When Aeneas entered at the high doorway they beat their breasts and raise a loud wail aloft, and the palace moans to their grievous lamentation. Himself, when he saw the pillowed head and fair face of Pallas, and on his smooth breast the gaping wound of the Ausonian spear-head, speaks thus with welling tears:

He speaks through tears, then retraces his steps to the door. There, the aged Acoetes watched over Pallas' lifeless body, laid out for burial. Acoetes had once been Evander's armor-bearer in Parrhasia. But now he had set out under darker omens, appointed to attend his beloved foster child. The whole company of servants was gathered around him, along with a crowd of Trojans. The Ilian women were there too, with their hair loose in mourning, as was their custom. When Aeneas entered through the high doorway, they beat their breasts and raised a loud wail. The palace echoed with their sorrowful cries. Aeneas saw Pallas' head resting on a pillow and his fair face. He saw the gaping wound the Ausonian spearhead had made in Pallas' smooth breast. With tears welling in his eyes, he spoke:

'Did Fortune in her joyous coming,' he cries, 'O luckless boy, grudge thee the sight of our realm, and a triumphal entry to thy father's dwelling? Not this promise of thee had I given to Evander thy sire at my departure, when he embraced me as I went and bade me speed to a wide empire, and yet warned me in fear that the men were valiant, the people obstinate in battle. And now he, fast ensnared by empty hope, perchance offers vows and heaps gifts on his altars; we, a mourning train, go in hollow honour by his corpse, who now owes no more to aught in heaven. Unhappy! thou wilt see thy son cruelly slain; is this our triumphal return awaited? is this my strong assurance? Ah me, what a shield is lost, mine Iülus, to Ausonia and to thee!'

'Did Fortune, even as she brought us joy, deny you, unlucky boy, the sight of our kingdom and a triumphant entry into your father's home?' he cries. 'This is not what I promised your father, Evander, when I left. He embraced me as I went and wished me success in gaining a vast empire. Yet he also warned me fearfully that the men were brave and the people stubborn in battle. And now, trapped by false hope, perhaps he offers prayers and piles gifts on his altars. Meanwhile, we follow his son's body in a mourning procession, offering empty honors to one who owes nothing more to heaven. Unhappy father! You will see your son cruelly killed. Is this the triumphant return you awaited? Is this what my confident promise has come to? Alas, what a shield Ausonia and you, my Iülus, have lost!'

This lament done, he bids raise the piteous body, and sends a thousand men chosen from all his army for the last honour of escort, to mingle in the father's tears; a small comfort in a great sorrow, yet the unhappy parent's due. Others quickly plait a soft wicker bier of arbutus rods and oak shoots, and shadow the heaped pillows with a leafy covering. Here they lay him, high on their rustic strewing; even as some tender violet or drooping hyacinth-blossom plucked by a maiden's finger, whose sheen and whose grace is not yet departed, but no more does Earth the mother feed it or lend it strength. Then Aeneas bore forth two purple garments stiff with gold, that Sidonian Dido's own hands, happy over their work, had once wrought for him, and shot the warp with delicate gold. One of these he sadly folds round him, a last honour, and veils in its covering the tresses destined to the fire; and heaps up besides many a Laurentine battle-prize, and bids his spoils pass forth in long train; with them the horses and arms whereof he had stripped the enemy, and those, with hands tied behind their back, whom he would send as nether offering to his ghost, and sprinkle the blood of their slaying on the flame. Also he bids his captains carry stems dressed in the armour of the foe, and fix on them the hostile names. Unhappy Acoetes is led along, outworn with age, he smites his breast and rends his face, and flings himself forward all along the ground. Likewise they lead forth the chariot bathed in Rutulian blood; behind goes weeping Aethon the war-horse, his trappings laid away, and big drops wet his face. Others bear his spear and helmet, for all else is Turnus' prize. Then follow in mourning array the Teucrians and all the Tyrrhenians, and the Arcadians with arms reversed. When the whole long escorting file had taken its way, Aeneas stopped, and sighing deep, pursued thus: 'Once again war's dreadful destiny calls us hence to other tears: hail thou for evermore, O princely Pallas, and for evermore farewell.' And without more words he bent his way to the high walls and advanced towards his camp.

When he had finished lamenting, Aeneas ordered the pitiful body to be lifted. He chose a thousand men from his whole army to escort it and pay their last respects. They would share in the father's tears, a small comfort in great sorrow, but one the unhappy parent was owed. Others quickly wove a soft wicker bier from arbutus rods and oak shoots. They piled cushions on it and shaded them with a leafy covering. They laid him high on this rustic bed. He was like a tender violet or a drooping hyacinth blossom plucked by a maiden. The flower has not yet lost its beauty or grace, but Mother Earth no longer feeds or strengthens it. Then Aeneas brought out two purple garments stiff with gold. Sidonian Dido had once made them for him with her own hands, happily weaving delicate gold into the cloth. Sadly, he wrapped one around him as a last honor, covering the hair that would be burned. He also piled up many prizes taken in battle from the Laurentines. He ordered the spoils to be carried in a long procession. Along with them went the horses and weapons he had taken from the enemy. Prisoners with their hands tied behind their backs went too. He would sacrifice them as an offering to the dead man's spirit and sprinkle their blood on the funeral fire. He also ordered his captains to carry poles dressed in enemy armor, with the enemies' names fixed to them. Unhappy Acoetes, worn out with age, was led along. He beat his breast, tore at his face, and threw himself flat on the ground. They also led out the chariot, soaked in Rutulian blood. Behind it walked Aethon, the warhorse, with his trappings removed. He wept, and large tears ran down his face. Others carried the dead man's spear and helmet, for everything else was Turnus' prize. Then came the Teucrians, all the Tyrrhenians, and the Arcadians, mourning with their weapons reversed. When the whole long procession had set out, Aeneas stopped. With a deep sigh, he said: 'Once again, war's dreadful fate calls us away to other tears. Hail forever, princely Pallas, and forever farewell.' Without another word, he turned toward the high walls and went on to his camp.

And now envoys were there from the Latin city with wreathed boughs of olive, praying him of his grace to restore the dead that lay strewn by the sword over the plain, and let them go to their earthy grave: no war lasts with men conquered and bereft of breath; let this indulgence be given to men once called friends and fathers of their brides. To them Aeneas grants leave in kind and courteous wise, spurning not their prayer, and goes on in these words: 'What spite of fortune, O Latins, hath entangled you in the toils of war, and made you fly our friendship? Plead you for peace to the lifeless bodies that the battle-lot hath slain? I would fain grant it even to the living. Neither have I come but because destiny had given me this place to dwell in; nor wage I war with your people; your king it is who hath broken our covenant and preferred to trust himself to Turnus' arms. Fitter it were Turnus had faced death to-day. If he will fight out the war and expel the Teucrians, it had been well to meet me here in arms; so had he lived to whom life were granted of heaven or his own right hand. Now go, and kindle the fire beneath your hapless countrymen.' Aeneas ended: they stood dumb in silence, with faces bent steadfastly in mutual gaze. Then aged Drances, ever young Turnus' assailant in hatred and accusation, with the words of his mouth thus answers him again:

Now envoys from the Latin city arrived, carrying olive branches bound with wreaths. They begged Aeneas to return their dead, who lay scattered across the plain, killed by the sword. They asked to bury them in the earth. There was no more war with men who had been defeated and were dead. They asked him to grant this favor to men once called friends and fathers of their brides. Aeneas kindly and courteously granted their request. Then he said: 'What cruel turn of fortune, O Latins, has trapped you in war and made you reject our friendship? Do you ask for peace for the lifeless bodies of those killed in battle? I would gladly grant it to the living too. I came here only because destiny gave me this place to live. Nor am I waging war against your people. It was your king who broke our agreement and chose to rely on Turnus' arms. 'It would have been more fitting for Turnus to face death today. If he wants to fight this war and drive out the Teucrians, he should have met me here in combat. Then the one granted life by heaven or by his own right hand would have lived. Now go and light the funeral fires for your unfortunate countrymen.' Aeneas finished. They stood speechless and silent, staring steadily at one another. Then the elderly Drances answered him. He was always attacking the young Turnus with hatred and accusations:

'O Trojan, great in renown, yet greater in arms, with what praises may I extol thy divine goodness? Shall thy righteousness first wake my wonder, or thy toils in war? We indeed will gratefully carry these words to our fathers' city, and, if fortune grant a way, will make thee at one with King Latinus. Let Turnus seek his own alliances. Nay, it will be our delight to rear the massy walls of destiny and stoop our shoulders under the stones of Troy.'

'O Trojan, famous though you are, you are even greater in battle. How can I praise your divine goodness enough? Should I marvel first at your righteousness or at your struggles in war? We will gratefully carry these words to our fathers' city. If fortune provides a way, we will make peace between you and King Latinus. Let Turnus seek his own allies. We will gladly build the massive walls decreed by fate and shoulder the stones of Troy.'

He ended thus, and all with one voice murmured assent. Twelve days' truce is struck, and in mediation of the peace Teucrians and Latins stray mingling unharmed on the forest heights. The tall ash echoes to the axe's strokes; they overturn pines that soar into the sky, and busily cleave oaken logs and scented cedar with wedges, and drag mountain-ashes on their groaning waggons.

He finished speaking, and all murmured their agreement as one. A twelve-day truce was made. While peace was being negotiated, Teucrians and Latins wandered together unharmed on the wooded heights. The tall ash trees echoed with the blows of axes. They felled pines that soared into the sky. They worked to split oak logs and fragrant cedar with wedges, and hauled mountain ash trees on groaning wagons.

And now flying Rumour, harbinger of the heavy woe, fills Evander and Evander's house and city with the same voice that but now told of Pallas victorious over Latium. The Arcadians stream to the gates, snatching funeral torches after their ancient use; the road gleams with the long line of flame, and parts the fields with a broad pathway of light; the arriving crowd of Phrygians meets them and mingles in mourning array. When the matrons saw all the train approach their dwellings they kindle the town with loud wailing. But no force may withhold Evander; he comes amid them; the bier is set down; he flings himself on Pallas, and clasps him with tears and sighs, and scarcely at last does grief leave his voice's utterance free. 'Other than this, O Pallas! was thy promise to thy father, that thou wouldst not plunge recklessly into the fury of battle. I knew well how strong was the fresh pride of arms and the sweetness of honour in a first battle. Ah, unhappy first-fruits of his youth and bitter prelude of the war upon our borders! ah, vows and prayers of mine that no god heard! and thou, pure crown of wifehood, happy that thou art dead and not spared for this sorrow! But I have outgone my destiny in living, to stay here the survivor of my child. Would I had followed the allied arms of Troy, to be overwhelmed by Rutulian weapons! Would my life had been given, and I and not my Pallas were borne home in this procession! I would not blame you, O Teucrians, nor our treaty and the friendly hands we clasped: our old age had that appointed debt to pay. Yet if untimely death awaited my son, it will be good to think he fell leading the Teucrians into Latium, and slew his Volscian thousands before he fell. Nay, no other funeral than this would I deem thy due, my Pallas, than good Aeneas does, than the mighty Phrygians, than the Tyrrhene captains and all the army of Tyrrhenia. Great are the trophies they bring on whom thine hand deals death; thou also, Turnus, wert standing now a great trunk dressed in arms, had his age and his strength of years equalled thine. But why, unhappy, do I delay the Trojan arms? Go, and forget not to carry this message to your king: Thine hand it is that keeps me lingering in a life that is hateful since Pallas fell, and Turnus is the debt thou seest son and father claim: for thy virtue and thy fortune this scope alone is left. I ask not joy in life; I may not; but to carry this to my son deep in the under world.'

Now flying Rumour, the messenger of terrible grief, fills Evander, his house, and his city with the news. Only moments before, the same voice had told them that Pallas had defeated Latium. The Arcadians rush to the gates, snatching up funeral torches, as their ancient custom requires. The long line of flames lights up the road, dividing the fields with a broad path of light. The arriving crowd of Phrygians meets them, and they join together in mourning. When the matrons see the whole procession approaching their homes, they fill the town with loud cries. But nothing can hold Evander back. He comes out among them, and the bier is set down. He throws himself on Pallas and embraces him, weeping and sighing. At last, grief barely allows him to speak. 'Pallas, this was not what you promised your father. You promised not to rush recklessly into the fury of battle. I knew well how powerful the new pride of bearing arms could be. I knew, too, how sweet honour would seem in your first battle. Alas, what a tragic first outcome of his youth, what a bitter beginning to the war on our borders! Alas, no god heard my vows and prayers! And you, my wife, pure crown of womanhood, are fortunate to be dead and spared this sorrow! But I have lived beyond my appointed time, staying here to outlive my child. If only I had followed our Trojan allies into battle and been struck down by Rutulian weapons! If only my life had been given instead, and I, not my Pallas, were being carried home in this procession! 'I would not blame you, Teucrians, or our treaty, or the hands we clasped in friendship. This was a debt my old age was destined to pay. Yet if an untimely death awaited my son, I can take comfort in knowing how he fell. He led the Teucrians into Latium and killed thousands of Volscians before he fell. Pallas, I would consider no other funeral worthy of you than the one you are given. Good Aeneas, the mighty Phrygians, the Tyrrhene captains, and the whole army of Tyrrhenia share that judgment. They bring great trophies from those you killed. You too, Turnus, would now be standing as a great trunk dressed in arms, if his age and strength had equalled yours. 'But why do I, in my misery, delay the Trojan forces? Go, and do not forget to carry this message to your king: Your hand alone keeps me in this life, which I have hated since Pallas fell. You see that Turnus is the debt you owe both son and father. This alone remains for your courage and good fortune to accomplish. I do not ask for joy in life. I cannot. I ask only to carry this news to my son, deep in the underworld.'

Meanwhile Dawn had raised her gracious light on weary men, bringing back task and toil: now lord Aeneas, now Tarchon, have built the pyres on the winding shore. Hither in ancestral fashion hath each borne the bodies of his kin; the dark fire is lit beneath, and the vapour hides high heaven in gloom. Thrice, girt in glittering arms, they have marched about the blazing piles, thrice compassed on horseback the sad fire of death, and uttered their wail. Tears fall fast upon earth and armour; cries of men and blare of trumpets roll skyward. Then some fling on the fire Latin spoils stripped from the slain, helmets and shapely swords, bridles and glowing chariot wheels; others familiar gifts, the very shields and luckless weapons of the dead. Around are slain in sacrifice oxen many in number, and bristly swine and cattle gathered out of all the country are slaughtered over the flames. Then, crowding the shore, they gaze on their burning comrades, and guard the embers of the pyres, and cannot tear themselves away till dewy Night wheels on the star-spangled glittering sky.

Meanwhile, Dawn brought her welcome light to weary men, returning them to work and toil. Lord Aeneas and Tarchon each built funeral pyres along the winding shore. Each brought the bodies of his kin there, following the customs of their ancestors. They lit dark fires beneath the bodies, and smoke hid the sky in gloom. Wearing glittering armor, they marched three times around the blazing pyres. Three times they rode on horseback around the mournful fires of death, crying out in grief. Tears fell on the ground and on their armor. Men's cries and the blare of trumpets rose to the sky. Then some threw Latin spoils stripped from the dead onto the fires: helmets, finely made swords, bridles, and glowing chariot wheels. Others added familiar gifts, the dead men's own shields and weapons that had failed them. Many oxen were sacrificed around the pyres. Bristly pigs and cattle gathered from all the countryside were slaughtered over the flames. Then the mourners crowded the shore, watching their comrades burn and guarding the embers of the pyres. They could not tear themselves away until dewy Night brought the glittering, star-filled sky.

Therewithal the unhappy Latins far apart build countless pyres and bury many bodies of men in the ground; and many more they lift and bear away to the neighbouring country, or send them back to the city; the rest, a vast heap of undistinguishable slaughter, they burn uncounted and unhonoured; on all sides the broad fields gleam with crowded rivalry of fires. The third Dawn had rolled away the chill shadow from the sky; mournfully they piled high the ashes and mingled bones from the embers, and heaped a load of warm earth above them. Now in the dwellings of rich Latinus' city the noise is loudest and most the long wail. Here mothers and their sons' unhappy brides, here beloved sisters sad-hearted and orphaned boys curse the disastrous war and Turnus' bridal, and bid him his own self arm and decide the issue with the sword, since he claims for himself the first rank and the lordship of Italy. Drances fiercely embitters their cry, and vouches that Turnus alone is called, alone is claimed for battle. Yet therewith many a diverse-worded counsel is for Turnus, and the great name of the queen overshadows him, and he rises high in renown of trophies fitly won.

Meanwhile, the unhappy Latins built countless funeral pyres far apart and buried many men in the ground. They carried many more to the neighboring countryside or sent them back to the city. The rest lay in a vast, unrecognizable heap of the slain. They burned them without counting or honoring them. On every side, crowded fires competed in brightness across the broad fields. The third dawn had driven the cold darkness from the sky. In sorrow, they gathered the ashes and mixed bones from the embers and piled warm earth over them. Nowhere was the noise louder or the wailing longer than in the homes of rich Latinus' city. Mothers, grieving brides, sorrowful sisters, and orphaned boys cursed the disastrous war and Turnus' marriage. They demanded that Turnus arm himself and decide the matter with his sword. After all, he claimed the highest rank and rule over Italy for himself. Drances fiercely stirred up their cries. He declared that Turnus alone was called upon and demanded for battle. Yet many others spoke in support of Turnus. The queen's great name protected him, and his rightly earned trophies brought him great renown.

Among their stir, and while confusion is fiercest, lo! to crown all, the envoys from great Diomede's city bring their gloomy message: nothing is come of all the toil and labour spent; gifts and gold and strong entreaties have been of no avail; Latium must seek other arms, or sue for peace to the Trojan king. For heavy grief King Latinus himself swoons away. The wrath of heaven and the fresh graves before his eyes warn him that Aeneas is borne on by fate's evident will. So he sends imperial summons to his high council, the foremost of his people, and gathers them within his lofty courts. They assemble, and stream up the crowded streets to the royal dwelling. Latinus, eldest in years and first in royalty, sits amid them with cheerless brow, and bids the envoys sent back from the Aetolian city tell the news they bring, and demands a full and ordered reply. Then tongues are hushed; and Venulus, obeying his word, thus begins to speak:

Amid the turmoil, when the confusion is at its worst, the envoys return from great Diomede's city with grim news. All their hard work has come to nothing. Gifts, gold, and desperate pleas have failed. Latium must seek other military help or ask the Trojan king for peace. King Latinus himself faints with grief. The anger of heaven and the fresh graves before his eyes warn him that fate clearly favors Aeneas. So he summons his high council, the foremost men of his people, to his great palace. They gather and stream through the crowded streets to the royal dwelling. Latinus, the oldest and highest in rank, sits among them with a gloomy face. He tells the envoys returned from the Aetolian city to give their news. He demands a full and orderly account. Then everyone falls silent, and Venulus obeys the king and begins to speak:

'We have seen, O citizens, Diomede in his Argive camp, and outsped our way and passed all its dangers, and touched the hand whereunder the land of Ilium fell. He was founding a town, named Argyripa after his ancestral people, on the conquered fields of Iapygian Garganus. After we entered in, and licence of open speech was given, we lay forth our gifts, we instruct him of our name and country, who are its invaders, and why we are drawn to Arpi. He heard us, and replied thus with face unstirred:

'Citizens, we have seen Diomede in his Argive camp. We made our way swiftly, passed all its dangers, and touched the hand that brought down Ilium. He was founding a town on the conquered fields of Iapygian Garganus. He named it Argyripa after his ancestral people. After we entered and were allowed to speak freely, we laid out our gifts. We told him our name and where we came from, who was invading our country, and why we had come to Arpi. He listened and replied with an unchanged expression:

'"O fortunate races, realm of Saturn, Ausonians of old, how doth fortune vex your quiet and woo you to tempt wars you know not? We that have drawn sword on the fields of Ilium—I forbear to tell the drains of war beneath her high walls, the men sunken in yonder Simoïs—have all over the world paid to the full our punishment and the reward of guilt, a crew Priam's self might pity; as Minerva's baleful star knows, and the Euboïc reefs and Caphereus' revenge. From that warfaring driven to alien shores, Menelaus son of Atreus is in exile far as Proteus' Pillars, Ulysses hath seen the Cyclopes of Aetna. Shall I make mention of the realm of Neoptolemus, and Idomeneus' household gods overthrown? or of the Locrians who dwell on the Libyan beach? Even the lord of Mycenae, the mighty Achaeans' general, sank on his own threshold edge under his accursed wife's hand, where the adulterer crouched over conquered Asia. Aye, or that the gods grudged it me to return to my ancestral altars, to see the bride of my desire, and lovely Calydon! Now likewise sights of appalling presage pursue me; my comrades, lost to me, have soared winging into the sky, and flit birds about the rivers—ah me, dread punishment of my people!—and fill the cliffs with their melancholy cries. This it was I had to look for even from the time when I madly assailed celestial limbs with steel, and sullied the hand of Venus with a wound. Do not, ah, do not urge me to such battles. Neither have I any war with Troy since her towers are overthrown, nor do I remember with delight the woes of old. Turn to Aeneas with the gifts you bear to me from your ancestral borders. We have stood to face his grim weapons, and met him hand to hand; believe one who hath proved it, how mightily he rises over his shield, in what a whirlwind he hurls his spear. Had the land of Ida borne two more like him, Dardanus had marched to attack the towns of Inachus, and Greece were mourning fate's reverse. In all our delay before that obstinate Trojan city, it was Hector and Aeneas whose hand stayed the Grecian victory and bore back its advance to the tenth year. Both were splendid in courage, both eminent in arms; Aeneas was first in duty. Let your hands join in treaty as they may; but beware that your weapons close not with his."

'"O fortunate races, people of Saturn's realm, Ausonians of old, why does fortune disturb your peace and tempt you into unfamiliar wars? We fought on the fields of Ilium. I will not speak of the losses beneath her high walls or the men drowned in the Simoïs. Across the whole world, we have paid in full the penalty for our guilt. We are a band that Priam himself might pity. Minerva's deadly star knows it, and so do the Euboïc reefs and the vengeance of Caphereus. Driven to foreign shores after that war, Menelaus, son of Atreus, is exiled as far away as Proteus' Pillars. Ulysses has seen the Cyclopes of Aetna. Should I speak of Neoptolemus' kingdom and Idomeneus' household gods, now overthrown? Or of the Locrians who live on the Libyan shore? Even the lord of Mycenae, the general of the mighty Achaeans, fell on his own threshold. His accursed wife struck him down, while her lover crouched over conquered Asia. And the gods denied me a return to my ancestral altars, to the bride I longed for and lovely Calydon! Even now, terrifying signs pursue me. My companions are lost to me. They have risen into the sky on wings and fly as birds along the rivers. Alas, what a dreadful punishment for my people! They fill the cliffs with their mournful cries. I should have expected this from the moment I foolishly attacked a divine body with my sword and stained my hand by wounding Venus. Do not, please do not, urge me into such battles. Now that Troy's towers have fallen, I have no quarrel with her. Nor do I take pleasure in remembering the troubles of the past. Take to Aeneas the gifts you bring me from your ancestral lands. I have faced his fearsome weapons and met him hand to hand. Believe someone who has tested him. How powerfully he rises over his shield! What a whirlwind he makes as he hurls his spear! If the land of Ida had borne two more like him, Dardanus would have marched against the towns of Inachus. Greece would be mourning the reversal of fate. Throughout our long struggle before that stubborn Trojan city, Hector and Aeneas held back the Greek victory. They delayed it until the tenth year. Both were splendid in courage, both outstanding in battle, but Aeneas was first in duty. Join hands in a treaty if you can, but beware of meeting his weapons with your own."'

'Thou hast heard, most gracious king, at once what is the king's answer, and what his counsel for our great struggle.'

'You have now heard, gracious king, both the king's answer and his advice for our great struggle.'

Scarcely thus the envoys, when a diverse murmur ran through the troubled lips of the Ausonians; even as, when rocks delay some running river, it plashes in the barred pool, and the banks murmur nigh to the babbling wave. So soon as their minds were quieted, and their hurrying lips hushed, the king, first calling on the gods, begins from his lofty throne:

The envoys had scarcely finished speaking when a mixed murmur rose among the troubled Ausonians. It was like a river blocked by rocks, splashing in the pool behind them, while the nearby banks echo its babbling waves. At last their minds settled and their hurried voices fell silent. Then the king called on the gods and began to speak from his high throne:

'Ere now could I wish, O Latins, we had determined our course of state, and it had been better thus; not to meet in council at such a time as now, with the enemy seated before our walls. We wage an ill-timed war, fellow-citizens, with a divine race, invincible, unbroken in battle, who brook not even when conquered to drop the sword. If you had hope in appeal to Aetolian arms, abandon it; though each man's hope is his own, you discern how narrow a path it is. Beyond that you see with your eyes and handle with your hands the total ruin of our fortunes. I blame no one; what valour's utmost could do is done; we have fought with our whole kingdom's strength. Now I will unfold what I doubtfully advise and purpose, and with your attention instruct you of it in brief. There is an ancient land of mine bordering the Tuscan river, stretching far westward beyond the Sicanian borders. Auruncans and Rutulians sow on it, work the stiff hills with the ploughshare, and pasture them where they are roughest. Let all this tract, with a pine-clad belt of mountain height, pass to the Teucrians in friendship; let us name fair terms of treaty, and invite them as allies to our realm; let them settle, if they desire it so, and found a city. But if they have a mind to try other coasts and another people, and can abide to leave our soil, let us build twice ten ships of Italian oak, or as many more as they can man; timber lies at the water's edge for all; let them assign the number and fashion of the vessels, and we will supply brass, labour, dockyards. Further, it is our will that an hundred ambassadors of the highest rank in Latium shall go to bear our words and ratify the treaty, holding forth in their hands the boughs of peace, and carrying for gifts weight of gold and ivory, and the chair and striped robe, our royal array. Give counsel openly, and succour our exhausted state.'

'I wish, Latins, that we had decided on our course of action before now. It would have been better than meeting in council at a time like this, with the enemy camped outside our walls. Fellow citizens, we are waging a war at the wrong time against a divine race. They are invincible and unbroken in battle, and even when defeated, they refuse to lay down their swords. If you hoped for help from Aetolian arms, give up that hope. Each man must decide what to hope for, but you can see how slim that hope is. Beyond that, you can see and touch the complete ruin of our fortunes. I blame no one. We have done all that courage could do, and we have fought with the strength of our whole kingdom. Now I will briefly explain the course I propose, though I am uncertain about it. Please give me your attention. I have an ancient land bordering the Tuscan river. It stretches far westward beyond the Sicanian borders. Auruncans and Rutulians sow crops there, plow its hard hills, and graze their animals on its roughest ground. Let us give all this land to the Teucrians in friendship, along with a belt of pine-covered mountain heights. Let us offer fair treaty terms and invite them to join our kingdom as allies. If they wish, let them settle and found a city. But perhaps they want to seek other shores and another people, and are willing to leave our land. If so, let us build twenty ships of Italian oak, or as many more as they can crew. There is timber for all of them at the water's edge. Let them choose the number and design of the ships. We will supply the bronze, labor, and dockyards. We also wish to send a hundred ambassadors of the highest rank in Latium. They will carry our message and ratify the treaty. They will hold out branches of peace and bring gifts of gold and ivory, along with the chair and striped robe of our royal attire. Speak openly and give your advice, and help our exhausted state.'

Then Drances again, he whose jealous ill-will was wrought to anger and stung with bitterness by Turnus' fame, lavish of wealth and quick of tongue though his hand was cold in war, held no empty counsellor and potent in faction—his mother's rank ennobled a lineage whose paternal source was obscure—rises, and with these words heaps and heightens their passion:

Then Drances rose again. Turnus' fame had stirred his jealous ill will into anger and left him bitter. He spent his wealth freely and spoke readily, though he held back in war. He was no insignificant adviser and held great influence among his supporters. His mother's rank gave his family noble status, though his father's origins were obscure. With these words, he stirred their passions still further:

'Dark to no man and needing no voice of ours, O gracious king, is that whereon thou takest counsel. All confess they know how our nation's fortune sways; but their words are choked. Let him grant freedom of speech and abate his breath, he by whose disastrous government and perverse way (I will speak out, though he menace me with arms and death) we see so many stars of battle gone down and all our city sunk in mourning; while he, confident in flight, assails the Trojan camp and makes heaven quail before his arms. Add yet one to those gifts of thine, to all the riches thou bidst us send or promise to the Dardanians, most gracious of kings, but one; let no man's passion overbear thee from giving thine own daughter to an illustrious son and a worthy marriage, and binding this peace by perpetual treaty. Yet if we are thus terror-stricken heart and soul, let us implore him in person, in person plead him of his grace to give way, to restore king and country their proper right. Why again and again hurlest thou these unhappy citizens on peril so evident, O source and spring of Latium's woes? In war is no safety; peace we all implore of thee, O Turnus, and the one pledge that makes peace inviolable. I the first, I whom thou picturest thine enemy, as I care not if I am, see, I bow at thy feet. Pity thine allies; relent, and retire before thy conqueror. Enough have we seen of rout and death, and desolation over our broad lands. Or if glory stir thee, if such strength kindle in thy breast, and if a palace so delight thee for thy dower, be bold, and advance stout-hearted upon the foe. We verily, that Turnus may have his royal bride, must lie scattered on the plains, worthless lives, a crowd unburied and unwept. Do thou also, if thou hast aught of might, if the War-god be in thee as in thy fathers, look him in the face who challenges. . . .'

'Gracious king, everyone understands the matter you are considering. You do not need us to explain it. All admit they know how our nation's fortunes stand, but they cannot speak freely. Let the man responsible allow us to speak and hold his tongue. His disastrous leadership and stubborn ways have brought down so many stars of battle. They have plunged our whole city into mourning. I will speak out, though he threatens me with weapons and death. Confident he can escape, he attacks the Trojan camp and makes heaven tremble before his arms. Most gracious king, add one gift to the riches you ask us to send or promise the Dardanians. Let no man's passion keep you from giving your daughter to a noble son in a worthy marriage. Let no one keep you from securing this peace with a lasting treaty. But if we are so terrified in heart and soul, let us beg him in person. Let us plead with him to give way and restore the rights of king and country. Why do you keep throwing these unhappy citizens into such obvious danger? You are the source of Latium's suffering. There is no safety in war. Turnus, we all beg you for peace and for the one pledge that will make peace secure. I will be the first to plead. You call me your enemy, and I do not care if I am. Look, I bow at your feet. Pity your allies. Give way and withdraw before the man who has conquered you. We have seen enough defeat and death, enough ruin across our wide lands. Or if glory moves you, if such strength burns in your heart, and if a palace as your dowry delights you, be bold. March bravely against the enemy. So that Turnus can have his royal bride, we must lie scattered across the plains. Our lives count for nothing, and we will be left unburied and unmourned. But you too, if you have any strength, if the War-god is in you as he was in your fathers, face the man who challenges you. . . .'

At these words Turnus' passion blazed out. He utters a groan, and breaks forth thus in deep accents:

At these words, Turnus' anger flared. He groaned and spoke in a deep voice:

'Copious indeed, Drances, and fluent is ever thy speech at the moment war calls for action; and when the fathers are summoned thou art there the first. But we need no words to fill our senate-house, safely as thou wingest them while the mounded walls keep off the enemy, and the trenches swim not yet with blood. Thunder on in rhetoric, thy wonted way: accuse thou me of fear, Drances, since thine hand hath heaped so many Teucrians in slaughter, and thy glorious trophies dot the fields. Trial is open of what live valour can do; nor indeed is our foe far to seek; on all sides they surround our walls. Are we going to meet them? Why linger? Will thy bravery ever be in that windy tongue and those timorous feet of thine? . . . My conqueror? Shall any justly flout me as conquered, who sees Tiber swoln fuller with Ilian blood, and all the house and people of Evander laid low, and the Arcadians stripped of their armour? Not such did Bitias and huge Pandarus prove me, and the thousand men whom on one day my conquering hand sent down to hell, shut as I was in their walls and closed in the enemy's ramparts. In war is no safety. Fool! be thy boding on the Dardanian's head and thine own fortunes. Go on; cease not to throw all into confusion with thy terrors, to exalt the strength of a twice vanquished race, and abase the arms of Latinus before it. Now the princes of the Myrmidons tremble before Phrygian arms, now Tydeus' son and Achilles of Larissa, and Aufidus river recoils from the Adriatic wave. Or when the scheming villain pretends to shrink at my abuse, and sharpens calumny by terror! never shall this hand—keep quiet!—rob thee of such a soul; with thee let it abide, and dwell in that breast of thine. Now I return to thee, my lord, and thy weighty resolves. If thou dost repose no further hope in our arms, if all hath indeed left us, and one repulse been our utter ruin, and our fortune is beyond recovery, let us plead for peace and stretch forth unarmed hands. Yet ah! had we aught of our wonted manhood, his toil beyond all other is blessed and his spirit eminent, who rather than see it thus, hath fallen prone in death and once bitten the ground. But if we have yet resources and an army still unbroken, and cities and peoples of Italy remain for our aid; but if even the Trojans have won their glory at great cost of blood (they too have their deaths, and the storm fell equally on all), why do we shamefully faint even on the threshold? Why does a shudder seize our limbs before the trumpet sound? Often do the Days and the varying change of toiling Time restore prosperity; often Fortune in broken visits makes man her sport and again establishes him. The Aetolian of Arpi will not help us; but Messapus will, and Tolumnius the fortunate, and the captains sent by many a nation; nor will fame be scant to follow the flower of Latium and the Laurentine land. Camilla the Volscian too is with us, leading her train of cavalry, squadrons splendid in brass. But if I only am claimed by the Teucrians for combat, if that is your pleasure, and I am the barrier to the public good, Victory does not so hate and shun my hands that I should renounce any enterprise for so great a hope. I shall meet him in courage, did he outmatch great Achilles and wear arms like his forged by Vulcan's hands. To you and to my father Latinus I Turnus, unexcelled in bravery by any of old, consecrate my life. Aeneas calls on him alone: let him, I implore: let not Drances rather appease with his life this wrath of heaven, if such it be, or win the renown of valour.'

'Your speeches are always plentiful and fluent, Drances, just when war calls for action. When the elders are summoned, you are the first to arrive. But we need no words to fill our senate-house. You can safely let them fly while our raised walls keep the enemy out and the trenches do not yet run with blood. Thunder on with your usual rhetoric. Accuse me of fear, Drances, since your own hand has slaughtered so many Teucrians, and your glorious trophies dot the fields. You have every chance to show what real courage can do. The enemy is not far away. They surround our walls on every side. Are we going to meet them? Why wait? Will your courage always lie in that windy tongue and those timid feet of yours? . . . My conqueror? Can anyone who sees the Tiber swollen with Ilian blood rightly mock me as defeated? Can anyone who sees all Evander's house and people laid low, and the Arcadians stripped of their armor? Bitias and huge Pandarus did not find me defeated. Nor did the thousand men my victorious hand sent down to hell in a single day, though I was shut inside their walls and trapped within the enemy's ramparts. In war is no safety. Fool! May that grim prophecy fall on the Dardanian's head and on your own fortunes. Go on. Keep throwing everything into confusion with your fears. Keep praising the strength of a race twice defeated and belittling the arms of Latinus before them. Now the princes of the Myrmidons tremble before Phrygian arms. So do Tydeus' son and Achilles of Larissa. Even the river Aufidus recoils from the Adriatic wave. And now the scheming villain pretends to shrink from my insults, using fear to sharpen his slander! Keep quiet! This hand will never rob you of a soul like yours. Let it stay with you, there in your breast. Now I return to you, my lord, and your weighty decisions. If you no longer trust our arms, let us plead for peace and stretch out unarmed hands. Let us do so if all has truly deserted us, if one defeat has utterly ruined us, and if our fortunes cannot recover. Yet if we had any of our old manhood, the man who has fallen would be blessed above all others for his effort. His spirit would stand above all others. Rather than see things come to this, he fell face down in death and bit the earth once and for all. But what if we still have resources and an unbroken army? What if cities and peoples of Italy still stand ready to help us? And what if the Trojans too have won their glory at great cost in blood? They too have lost men, and the storm fell equally on all. Why, then, do we lose heart so shamefully on the very threshold? Why do our limbs tremble before the trumpet sounds? Often the passing days and the shifting course of laboring Time restore prosperity. Often Fortune makes sport of a man, visiting him only now and then, before setting him on his feet again. The Aetolian of Arpi will not help us. But Messapus will, and fortunate Tolumnius, and the captains sent by many a nation. Nor will the flower of Latium and the Laurentine land lack fame. Camilla the Volscian is also with us. She leads her cavalry, squadrons splendid in brass. But suppose the Teucrians demand that I alone fight. Suppose that is your wish, and that I stand in the way of the public good. Victory does not so hate and shun my hands that I would refuse any undertaking with so great a prize in sight. I will meet him bravely, even if he surpasses great Achilles and wears armor like his, forged by Vulcan's hands. To you and to my father Latinus, I, Turnus, dedicate my life. No one in times past surpassed me in courage. Aeneas calls on him alone: Let him do so, I beg you. Do not let Drances instead give his life to appease this wrath of heaven, if that is what it is, or win the glory of courage.'

Thus they one with another strove together in uncertainty; Aeneas moved from his camp to battle. Lo, a messenger rushes spreading confusion through the royal house, and fills the town with great alarms: the Teucrians, ranged in battle-line with the Tyrrhene forces, are marching down by the Tiber river and filling the plain. Immediately spirits are stirred and hearts shaken and wrath roused in fierce excitement among the crowd. Hurrying hands grasp at arms; for arms their young men clamour; the fathers shed tears and mutter gloomily. With that a great noise rises aloft in diverse contention, even as when flocks of birds haply settle on a lofty grove, or swans utter their hoarse cry among the vocal pools on the fish-filled river of Padusa. 'Yes, citizens!' cries Turnus, seizing his time: 'gather in council and sit praising peace, while they rush on dominion in arms!' Without more words he sprung up and issued swiftly from the high halls. 'Thou, Volusus,' he cries, 'bid the Volscian battalions arm, and lead out the Rutulians. Messapus, and Coras with thy brother, spread your armed cavalry widely over the plain. Let a division entrench the city gates and man the towers: the rest of our array attack with me where I command.' The whole town goes rushing to the walls; lord Latinus himself, dismayed by the woeful emergency, quits the council and puts off his high designs, and chides himself sorely for not having given Aeneas unasked welcome, and made him son and bulwark of the city. Some entrench the gates, or bring up supply of stones and poles. The hoarse clarion utters the ensanguined note of war. A motley ring of boys and matrons girdle the walls. Therewithal the queen with a crowd of mothers ascends bearing gifts to Pallas' towered temple, and by her side goes maiden Lavinia, source of all that woe, her beautiful eyes cast down. The mothers enter in, and while the temple steams with their incense, pour from the high doorway their mournful cry: 'Maiden armipotent, Tritonian, sovereign of war, break with thine hand the spear of the Phrygian plunderer, hurl him prone to earth and dash him down beneath our lofty gates.' Turnus arrays himself in hot haste for battle, and even now hath done on his sparkling breastplate with its flickering scales of brass, and clasped his golden greaves, his brows yet bare and his sword buckled to his side; he runs down from the fortress height glittering in gold, and exultantly anticipates the foe. Thus when a horse snaps his tether, and, free at last, rushes from the stalls and gains the open plain, he either darts towards the pastures of the herded mares, or bathing, as is his wont, in the familiar river waters, dashes out and neighs with neck stretched high, glorying, and his mane tosses over collar and shoulder. Camilla with her Volscian array meets him face to face in the gateway; the princess leaps from her horse, and all her squadron at her example slide from horseback to the ground. Then she speaks thus:

As they argued among themselves, uncertain what to do, Aeneas led his army out of camp to battle. Suddenly, a messenger rushed into the royal house, spreading confusion and raising a great alarm throughout the town. The Teucrians had formed battle lines with the Tyrrhene forces. They were marching down the Tiber river and filling the plain. At once, the crowd was stirred to fierce excitement. Hearts trembled and anger rose. Hands hurried to seize weapons, and the young men clamored for arms. The fathers wept and muttered gloomily. Then a great clamor of conflicting voices rose up. It was like the noise when flocks of birds settle in a tall grove, or swans cry hoarsely among the echoing pools of the fish-filled river Padusa. “Yes, citizens!” cried Turnus, seizing his chance. “Gather in council and sit praising peace, while they rush to seize power by force!” Without another word, he sprang up and hurried out of the great halls. “Volusus,” he cried, “order the Volscian battalions to arm, and lead out the Rutulians. Messapus, and Coras with your brother, spread your armed cavalry across the plain. Let one division fortify the city gates and man the towers. The rest will attack with me, wherever I command.” The whole town rushed to the walls. Lord Latinus himself was dismayed by the dreadful crisis. He left the council and abandoned his grand plans. He bitterly reproached himself for not welcoming Aeneas without being asked, and making him his son and the city's defender. Some fortified the gates, while others brought stones and poles. The hoarse trumpet sounded the bloody call to war. A mixed crowd of boys and women lined the walls. Meanwhile, the queen went up to Pallas' towered temple with a crowd of mothers, bearing gifts. Beside her walked the maiden Lavinia, the cause of all this sorrow, her beautiful eyes lowered. The mothers entered the temple, and as it filled with the smoke of their incense, they raised a mournful cry from the high doorway: “Powerful maiden, Tritonian, sovereign of war, break the spear of the Phrygian plunderer with your hand. Hurl him to the ground and strike him down beneath our lofty gates.” Turnus armed himself for battle in great haste. He had already put on his glittering breastplate, with its gleaming scales of brass, and fastened his golden greaves. His head was still bare, and his sword was buckled at his side. Glittering in gold, he ran down from the fortress on the heights, eagerly anticipating the enemy. He was like a horse that breaks its tether and rushes free from the stalls into the open plain. The horse darts toward the pastures of the mares gathered there. Or, after bathing as usual in the familiar river waters, he dashes out and neighs with his neck held high. Exulting, he tosses his mane over his collar and shoulders. At the gateway, Camilla met Turnus face to face with her Volscian troops. The princess leaped from her horse, and her whole squadron followed her example, sliding down to the ground. Then she spoke:

'Turnus, if bravery hath any just self-confidence, I dare and promise to engage Aeneas' cavalry, and advance to meet the Tyrrhene horse. Permit my hand to try war's first perils: do thou on foot keep by the walls and guard the city.'

'Turnus, if courage gives me any right to be confident, I dare to face Aeneas' cavalry. I promise to advance against the Tyrrhene horse. Let me be the first to face the dangers of war. You stay on foot by the walls and guard the city.'

To this Turnus, with eyes fixed on the terrible maiden: 'O maiden flower of Italy, how may I essay to express, how to prove my gratitude? But now, since that spirit of thine excels all praise, share thou the toil with me. Aeneas, as the report of the scouts I sent assures, hath sent on his light-armed horse to annoy us and scour the plains; himself he marches on the city across the lonely ridge of the mountain steep. I am arranging a stratagem of war in his pathway on the wooded slope, to block a gorge on the highroad with armed troops. Do thou receive and join battle with the Tyrrhene cavalry; with thee shall be gallant Messapus, the Latin squadrons, and Tiburtus' division: do thou likewise assume a captain's charge.'

Turnus fixed his eyes on the fearsome maiden and replied: 'O maiden, flower of Italy, how can I express or prove my gratitude? But your spirit is beyond all praise, so share this struggle with me. My scouts report that Aeneas has sent his lightly armed cavalry ahead to harass us and sweep across the plains. He himself is marching toward the city across the lonely mountain ridge. I am preparing an ambush along his route on the wooded slope. I will block a gorge on the road with armed troops. Meet the Tyrrhene cavalry and engage them in battle. Gallant Messapus, the Latin squadrons, and Tiburtus' division will be with you. You too must take command as a captain.'

So speaks he, and with like words heartens Messapus and the allied captains to battle, and advances towards the enemy. There is a sweeping curve of glen, made for ambushes and devices of arms. Dark thick foliage hems it in on either hand, and into it a bare footpath leads by a narrow gorge and difficult entrance. Right above it on the watch-towers of the hill-top lies an unexpected level, hidden away in shelter, whether one would charge from right and left or stand on the ridge and roll down heavy stones. Hither he passes by a line of way he knew, and, seizing his ground, occupies the treacherous woods.

He speaks, and with similar words encourages Messapus and the allied commanders to fight. Then he advances toward the enemy. A valley curves broadly, making it ideal for ambushes and military traps. Thick, dark foliage surrounds it on both sides. A bare footpath leads into the valley through a narrow gorge with a difficult entrance. High above the valley, on the lookout heights of the hilltop, lies a hidden, sheltered level area. From there, men could charge from either side or stand on the ridge and roll down heavy stones. He follows a route he knows to reach the place. There he seizes his position and occupies the woods, ready to spring his trap.

Meanwhile in the heavenly dwellings Latona's daughter addressed fleet Opis, one of her maiden fellowship and sacred band, and sadly uttered these accents: 'Camilla moves to fierce war, O maiden, and vainly girds on our arms, dear as she is beyond others to me. For her love of Diana is not newly born, nor her spirit stirred by sudden affection. Driven from his kingdom through jealousy of his haughty power, Metabus left ancient Privernum town, and bore his infant with him in his flight through war and battle, the companion of his exile, and called her by her mother Casmilla's name, with a little change, Camilla. Carrying her before him on his breast, he sought a long ridge of lonely woodland; on all sides angry weapons pressed on him, and Volscian soldiery spread hurrying round about. Lo, in mid flight swoln Amasenus ran foaming with banks abrim, so heavily had the clouds burst in rain. He would swim it; but love of the infant holds him back in alarm for so dear a burden. Inly revolving all, he settled reluctantly on a sudden resolve: the great spear that the warrior haply carried in his stout hand, of hard-knotted and seasoned oak, to it he ties his daughter swathed in cork-tree bark of the woodland, and binds her balanced round the middle of the spear; poising it in his great right hand he thus cries aloft: "Gracious one, haunter of the woodland, maiden daughter of Latona, a father devotes this babe to thy service; thine is this weapon she holds, thine infant suppliant, flying through the air from her enemies. Accept her, I implore, O goddess, for thine own, whom now I entrust to the chance of air." He spoke, and drawing back his arm, darts the spinning spear-shaft: the waters roar: over the racing river poor Camilla shoots on the whistling weapon. But Metabus, as a strong band now presses nigher, plunges into the river, and triumphantly pulls spear and girl, his gift to Trivia, from the grassy turf. No cities ever received him within house or rampart, nor had his savagery submitted to it; he led his life on the lonely pastoral hills. Here he nursed his daughter in the underwood among tangled coverts, on the milk of a wild brood-mare's teats, squeezing the udder into her tender lips. And so soon as the baby stood and went straight on her feet, he armed her hands with a sharp javelin, and hung quiver and bow from her little shoulders. Instead of gold to clasp her tresses, instead of the long skirted gown, a tiger's spoils hang down her back. Even then her tender hand hurled childish darts, and whirled about her head the twisted thong of her sling, and struck down the crane from Strymon or the milk-white swan. Many a mother among Tyrrhenian towns destined her for their sons in vain; content with Diana alone, she keeps unsoiled for ever the love of her darts and maidenhood. Would she had not plunged thus into warfare and provoked the Trojans by attack! so were she now dear to me and one of my company. But since bitter doom is upon her, up, glide from heaven, O Nymph, and seek the Latin borders, where under evil omen they join in baleful battle. Take these, and draw from the quiver an avenging shaft; by it shall he pay me forfeit of his blood, whoso, Trojan or Italian alike, shall sully her sacred body with a wound. Thereafter will I in a sheltering cloud bear body and armour of the hapless girl unspoiled to the tomb, and lay them in her native land.' She spoke; but the other sped lightly down the aery sky, girt about with dark whirlwind on her echoing way.

Meanwhile, in the heavenly dwellings, Latona's daughter spoke sadly to swift Opis, a maiden of her sacred band: 'Camilla goes to fierce war, my maiden, and puts on our armor in vain. Yet she is dearer to me than any other. Her love for Diana is not new, nor did her devotion arise suddenly. Metabus was driven from his kingdom because people resented his proud power. He fled ancient Privernum through war and battle, carrying his infant daughter into exile with him. He named her Camilla, slightly changing the name of her mother, Casmilla. Holding her against his chest, he sought a long ridge in the lonely woods. Weapons threatened him on all sides, and Volscian soldiers hurried around him. In the middle of his flight, he came to the Amasenus. Heavy rain had swollen the river until it foamed at the tops of its banks. He wanted to swim across, but fear for his beloved child held him back. He considered every possibility and reluctantly made a sudden decision. He happened to be carrying a great spear in his strong hand. It was made of seasoned oak, hard and knotted. He wrapped his daughter in woodland cork-tree bark and tied her securely around the middle of the spear. Balancing it in his great right hand, he called out: "Gracious goddess, dweller in the woods, maiden daughter of Latona, a father dedicates this child to your service. This weapon she holds is yours. She is your infant suppliant, flying through the air from her enemies. I beg you, goddess, accept her as your own. I now entrust her to the uncertain air." He spoke, drew back his arm, and hurled the spinning spear. The waters roared as poor Camilla flew across the rushing river on the whistling weapon. A strong band was closing in on Metabus, so he plunged into the river. On the other side, he triumphantly pulled the spear and the girl, his gift to Trivia, from the grassy ground. No city ever took him within its walls or homes, nor would his wild nature have submitted to it. He lived on lonely hills among the flocks. There, in the undergrowth among tangled thickets, he fed his daughter milk from a wild mare. He squeezed the udder so the milk flowed into her tender lips. As soon as the child could stand and walk steadily, he put a sharp javelin in her hands. He hung a quiver and bow from her little shoulders. A tiger's skin hung down her back instead of a long gown and gold to bind her hair. Even then, her tender hand threw little darts. She spun the twisted cord of her sling around her head and struck down cranes from Strymon and milk-white swans. Many mothers in Tyrrhenian towns hoped to make her their sons' bride, but in vain. Content with Diana alone, she keeps her love of her darts and her maidenhood forever unstained. If only she had not plunged into war and provoked the Trojans by attacking them! She would still be dear to me and one of my company. But a bitter fate awaits her. Rise, Nymph, and glide down from heaven to the Latin borders. There, under an evil omen, they are joining in deadly battle. Take these and draw an avenging arrow from the quiver. Whoever wounds her sacred body, Trojan or Italian, shall pay me with his blood. Then I will carry the unfortunate girl's body and armor, unspoiled, in a protective cloud to the tomb. I will lay them in her native land.' She spoke, and Opis sped lightly down through the sky. A dark whirlwind surrounded her as she went, and her passage echoed.

But meanwhile the Trojan force nears the walls, with the Etruscan captains and their whole cavalry arrayed in ordered squadrons. Their horses' trampling hoofs thunder on all the field, as, swerving this way and that, they chafe at the reins' pressure; the iron field bristles wide with spears, and the plain is aflame with uplifted arms. Likewise Messapus and the Latin horse, and Coras and his brother, and maiden Camilla's squadron, come forth against them on the plain, and draw back their hands and level the flickering points of their long lances, in a fire of neighing horses and advancing men. And now each had drawn within javelin-cast of each, and drew up; with a sudden shout they dart forth, and urge on their furious horses; from all sides at once weapons shower thick like snow, and veil the sky with their shadow. In a moment Tyrrhenus and fiery Aconteus charge violently with crossing spears, and are the first to fall; they go down with a heavy crash, and their beasts break and shatter chest upon chest. Aconteus, hurled off like a thunderbolt or some mass slung from an engine, is dashed away, and scatters his life in air. Immediately the lines waver, and the Latins wheeling about throw their shields behind them and turn their horses towards the town. The Trojans pursue; Asilas heads and leads on their squadrons. And now they drew nigh the gates, and again the Latins raise a shout and wheel their supple necks about; the pursuers fly, and gallop right back with loosened rein: as when the sea, running up in ebb and flow, now rushes shoreward and strikes over the cliffs in a wave of foam, drenching the edge of the sand in its curving sweep; now runs swirling back, and the surge sucks the rolling stones away. Twice the Tuscans turn and drive the Rutulians towards the town; twice they are repelled, and look back behind them from cover of their shields. But when now meeting in a third encounter, the lines are locked together all their length, and man singles out his man; then indeed, amid groans of the dying, deep in blood roll armour and bodies, and horses half slain mixed up with slaughtered men. The battle swells fierce. Orsilochus hurled his spear at the horse of Remulus, whom himself he shrank to meet, and left the steel in it under the ear; at the stroke the charger rears madly, and, mastered by the wound, lifts his chest and flings up his legs: the rider is thrown and rolls over on the ground. Catillus strikes down Iollas, and Herminius mighty in courage, mighty in limbs and arms, bareheaded, tawny-haired, bare-shouldered; undismayed by wounds, he leaves his vast body open against arms. Through his broad shoulders the quivering spear runs piercing him through, and doubles him up with pain. Everywhere the dark blood flows; they deal death with the sword in battle, and seek a noble death by wounds.

Meanwhile, the Trojan force approaches the walls with the Etruscan captains and all their cavalry, drawn up in orderly squadrons. Their horses’ hooves thunder across the field. The horses swerve this way and that, straining against the reins. Spears bristle across the iron-clad field, and raised weapons make the plain seem aflame. Against them on the plain ride Messapus and the Latin horsemen, Coras and his brother, and the maiden Camilla’s squadron. They draw back their arms and level the flickering points of their long lances. Horses neigh and men advance in a rush of fury. Now the two sides are within a javelin’s throw and draw up. With a sudden shout, they charge, driving their furious horses forward. Weapons shower from every side, thick as snow, and cast a shadow over the sky. At once, Tyrrhenus and fiery Aconteus charge with their spears crossed, and they are the first to fall. They come down with a heavy crash as their horses collide chest to chest and break against each other. Aconteus is thrown like a thunderbolt or a great stone from a siege engine. He is hurled away and breathes his last in the air. At once the lines falter. The Latins wheel around, throw their shields behind them, and turn their horses toward the town. The Trojans pursue, with Asilas leading their squadrons. But as they near the gates, the Latins shout again and turn their horses’ supple necks around. Now the pursuers flee, galloping straight back with loose reins. They are like the sea, surging back and forth. At one moment it rushes toward shore and breaks over the cliffs in a wave of foam. Its curving sweep drenches the edge of the sand. Then it swirls back, sucking away the rolling stones. Twice the Tuscans turn and drive the Rutulians toward the town. Twice they are driven back, looking behind them from the cover of their shields. But when the armies meet a third time, their lines clash along their entire length, and each man picks an opponent. Now, amid the groans of the dying, armor and bodies roll in deep blood. Half-dead horses lie mixed with slaughtered men. The battle grows fierce. Orsilochus fears to face Remulus himself, so he hurls his spear at Remulus’s horse. The steel lodges beneath its ear. At the blow, the wounded horse rears wildly, lifting its chest and flinging up its legs. The rider is thrown and rolls on the ground. Catillus strikes down Iollas and Herminius, who is mighty in courage and mighty in body and arms. Herminius has tawny hair, and his head and shoulders are bare. Unafraid of wounds, he leaves his huge body exposed to weapons. A spear pierces his broad shoulders and quivers as it passes through him, doubling him over in pain. Dark blood flows everywhere. In battle they kill with their swords and seek a noble death from wounds.

But amid the slaughter Camilla rages, a quivered Amazon, with one side stripped for battle, and now sends tough javelins showering from her hand, now snatches the strong battle-axe in her unwearying grasp; the golden bow, the armour of Diana, clashes on her shoulders; and even when forced backward in retreat, she turns in flight and aims darts from her bow. But around her are her chosen comrades, maiden Larina, Tulla, Tarpeia brandishing an axe inlaid with bronze, girls of Italy, whom Camilla the bright chose for her own escort, good at service in peace and war: even as Thracian Amazons when the streams of Thermodon clash beneath them as they go to war in painted arms, whether around Hippolyte, or while martial Penthesilea returns in her chariot, and the crescent-shielded columns of women dance with loud confused cry. Whom first, whom last, fierce maiden, does thy dart strike down? First Euneus, son of Clytius; for as he meets her the long fir shaft crashes through his open breast. He falls spouting streams of blood, and bites the gory ground, and dying writhes himself upon his wound. Then Liris and Pagasus above him; who fall headlong and together, the one thrown as he reins up his horse stabbed under him, the other while he runs forward and stretches his unarmed hand to stay his fall. To these she joins Amastrus, son of Hippotas, and follows from far with her spear Tereus and Harpalycus and Demophoön and Chromis: and as many darts as the maiden sends whirling from her hand, so many Phrygians fall. Ornytus the hunter rides near in strange arms on his Iapygian horse, his broad warrior's shoulders swathed in the hide stripped from a bullock, his head covered by a wolf's wide-grinning mouth and white-tusked jaws; a rustic pike arms his hand; himself he moves amid the squadrons a full head over all. Catching him up (for that was easy amid the rout), she runs him through, and thus cries above her enemy: 'Thou wert hunting wild beasts in the forest, thoughtest thou, Tyrrhenian? the day is come for a woman's arms to refute thy words. Yet no light fame shalt thou carry to thy fathers' ghosts, to have fallen under the weapon of Camilla.' Next Orsilochus and Butes, the two mightiest of mould among the Teucrians; Butes she pierces in the back with her spear-point between corslet and helmet, where the neck shews as he sits, and the shield hangs from his left shoulder; Orsilochus she flies, and darting in a wide circle, slips into the inner ring and pursues her pursuer; then rising her full height, she drives the strong axe deep through armour and bone, as he pleads and makes much entreaty; warm brain from the wound splashes his face. One met her thus and hung startled by the sudden sight, the warrior son of Aunus haunter of the Apennine, not the meanest in Liguria while fate allowed him to deceive. And he, when he discerns that no fleetness of foot may now save him from battle or turn the princess from pursuit, essays to wind a subtle device of treachery, and thus begins: 'How hast thou glory, if a woman trust in her horse's strength? Debar retreat; trust thyself to level ground at close quarters with me, and prepare to fight on foot. Soon wilt thou know how windy boasting brings one to harm.' He spoke; but she, furious and stung with fiery indignation, hands her horse to an attendant, and takes her stand in equal arms on foot and undismayed, with naked sword and shield unemblazoned. But he, thinking his craft had won the day, himself flies off on the instant, and turning his rein, darts off in flight, pricking his beast to speed with iron-armed heel. 'False Ligurian, in vain elated in thy pride! for naught hast thou attempted thy slippery native arts, nor will thy craft bring thee home unhurt to treacherous Aunus.' So speaks the maiden, and with running feet swift as fire crosses his horse, and catching the bridle, meets him in front and takes her vengeance in her enemy's blood: as lightly as the falcon, bird of bale, swoops down from aloft on a pigeon high in a cloud, and pounces on and holds her, and disembowels her with taloned feet, while blood and torn feathers flutter down the sky.

Amid the slaughter, Camilla rages like an Amazon, a quiver at her side and one side bare for battle. Now she showers the enemy with stout javelins. Now she seizes her heavy battle-axe in her tireless hand. Her golden bow, Diana's weapon, clashes against her shoulders. Even when forced to retreat, she turns as she flees and shoots arrows from her bow. Around her are her chosen companions: the maiden Larina, Tulla, and Tarpeia, who brandishes a bronze-inlaid axe. Camilla the radiant chose these Italian girls as her personal escort, skilled in service in peace and war. They are like the Thracian Amazons, who go to war in painted armor while the waters of the Thermodon roar beneath them. Whether they gather around Hippolyte or the warlike Penthesilea returns in her chariot, their ranks dance with crescent-shaped shields and loud, confused cries. Whom does your dart strike down first, fierce maiden, and whom last? First comes Euneus, son of Clytius. As he faces her, a long fir shaft crashes through his exposed chest. He falls, blood pouring from him, and bites the bloody ground. As he dies, he writhes on his wound. Then Liris and Pagasus fall headlong together on top of him. Liris is thrown as he reins in his horse, stabbed beneath him. Pagasus falls as he runs forward and stretches out his unarmed hand to catch him. She adds Amastrus, son of Hippotas, to their number. Then she pursues Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoön, and Chromis with her spear from a distance. For every dart the maiden sends spinning from her hand, a Phrygian falls. Nearby, Ornytus the hunter rides his Iapygian horse, wearing strange armor. An oxhide covers his broad warrior's shoulders. A wolf's wide, grinning mouth and white-toothed jaws cover his head. He carries a rustic pike, and he moves among the squadrons a full head taller than everyone else. Camilla catches him easily in the rout and runs him through. Standing over her enemy, she cries: 'Did you think you were hunting wild beasts in the forest, Tyrrhenian? The day has come for a woman's weapons to prove your words false. Yet you will carry no small fame to your fathers' ghosts, having fallen to Camilla's weapon.' Next come Orsilochus and Butes, the two largest men among the Teucrians. Camilla strikes Butes in the back with her spear. It pierces his neck between his breastplate and helmet, where his neck shows as he sits, and his shield hangs from his left shoulder. She flees from Orsilochus, then circles wide and cuts inside him, pursuing the man who was pursuing her. Rising to her full height, she drives her heavy axe deep through his armor and bone. He begs and pleads, but warm brains splash from the wound onto his face. Then a warrior meets her and stops, startled by the sudden sight. He is the son of Aunus, who haunts the Apennine. He was no insignificant man in Liguria, while fate let him practice deceit. He sees that he cannot run fast enough to escape the fight or turn the princess from pursuit. So he tries to devise a cunning trick. He begins: 'What glory can you gain if you rely on your horse's strength? Give up your chance to retreat. Face me on level ground at close quarters, and prepare to fight on foot. Soon you will learn how empty boasting brings harm.' His words sting her, and she burns with anger. She gives her horse to an attendant and takes her stand on foot, armed like him and unafraid, with a bare sword and a plain shield. But he thinks his trick has won the day. He immediately turns his reins and flees, urging his horse on with his iron-spurred heel. 'False Ligurian, your pride is misplaced! You have tried your slippery native tricks in vain. Your cunning will not bring you home unhurt to treacherous Aunus.' So says the maiden. Running as swiftly as fire, she cuts across his horse's path and catches the bridle. She faces him and takes her vengeance in his blood. She is as swift as a falcon, a bird of death, swooping from above onto a pigeon high in a cloud. It seizes and holds the pigeon, tearing out its insides with its talons, while blood and torn feathers drift down through the sky.

But the creator of men and gods sits high on Olympus' summit watching this, not with eyes unseeing: he kindles Tyrrhenian Tarchon to the fierce battle, and sharply goads him on to wrath. So Tarchon gallops amid the slaughter where his squadrons retreat, and urges his troops in changing tones, calling man on man by name, and rallies the fliers to fight. 'What terror, what utter cowardice hath fallen on your spirits, O never to be stung to shame, O slack alway? a woman drives you in disorder and routs our ranks! Why wear we steel? for what are these idle weapons in our hands? Yet not slack in Venus' service and wars by night, or, when the curving flute proclaims Bacchus' revels, to look forward to the feast and the cups on the loaded board (this your passion, this your desire!) till the soothsayer pronounce the offering favourable, and the fatted victim invite you to the deep groves.' So speaking, he spurs his horse into the midmost, ready himself to die, and bears violently down full on Venulus; and tearing him from horseback, grasps his enemy and carries him away with him on the saddle-bow by main force. A cry rises up, and all the Latins turn their eyes. Tarchon flies like fire over the plain, carrying the armed man, and breaks off the steel head from his own spear and searches the uncovered places, trying where he may deal the mortal blow; the other struggling against him keeps his hand off his throat, and strongly parries his attack. And, as when a golden eagle snatches and soars with a serpent in his clutch, and his feet are fast in it, and his talons cling; but the wounded snake writhes in coiling spires, and its scales rise and roughen, and its mouth hisses as it towers upward; the bird none the less attacks his struggling prize with crooked beak, while his vans beat the air: even so Tarchon carries Tiburtus out of the ranks, triumphant in his prize. Following their captain's example and issue the men of Maeonia charge in. Then Arruns, due to his doom, circles in advance of fleet Camilla with artful javelin, and tries how fortune may be easiest. Where the maiden darts furious amid the ranks, there Arruns slips up and silently tracks her footsteps; where she returns victorious and retires from amid the enemy, there he stealthily bends his rapid reins. Here he approaches, and here again he approaches, and strays all round and about, and untiringly shakes his certain spear. Haply Chloreus, sacred to Cybele and once her priest, glittered afar, splendid in Phrygian armour; a skin feathered with brazen scales and clasped with gold clothed the horse that foamed under his spur; himself he shone in foreign blue and scarlet, with fleet Gortynian shafts and a Lycian horn; a golden bow was on his shoulder, and the soothsayer's helmet was of gold; red gold knotted up his yellow scarf with its rustling lawny folds; his tunics and barbarian trousers were wrought in needlework. Him, whether that she might nail armour of Troy on her temples, or herself move in captive gold, the maiden pursued in blind chase alone of all the battle conflict, and down the whole line, reckless and fired by a woman's passion for spoils and plunder: when at last out of his ambush Arruns chooses his time and darts his javelin, praying thus aloud to heaven: 'Apollo, most high of gods, holy Soracte's warder, to whom we beyond all do worship, for whom the blaze of the pinewood heap is fed, where we thy worshippers in pious faith print our steps amid the deep embers of the fire, grant, O Lord omnipotent, that our arms wipe off this disgrace. I seek not the dress the maiden wore, nor trophy or any spoil of victory; other deeds shall bring me praise; let but this dread scourge fall stricken beneath my wound, I will return inglorious to my native towns.' Phoebus heard, and inly granted half his vow to prosper, half he shred into the flying breezes. To surprise and strike down Camilla in sudden death, this he yielded to his prayer; that his high home might see his return he gave not, and a gust swept off his accents on the gale. So, when the spear sped from his hand hurtled through the air, all the Volscians marked it well and turned their eyes on the queen; and she alone knew not wind or sound of the weapon on its aery path, till the spear passed home and sank where her breast met it, and, driven deep, drank her maiden blood. Her companions run hastily up and catch their sinking mistress. Arruns takes to flight more alarmed than all, in mingled fear and exultation, and no longer dares to trust his spear or face the maiden's weapons. And as the wolf, some shepherd or great bullock slain, plunges at once among the trackless mountain heights ere hostile darts are in pursuit, and knows how reckless he hath been, and drooping his tail lays it quivering under his belly, and seeks the woods; even so does Arruns withdraw from sight in dismay, and, satisfied to escape, mingles in the throng of arms. The dying woman pulls at the weapon with her hand; but the iron head is fixed deep in the wound up between the rib-bones. She swoons away with loss of blood; chilling in death her eyes swoon away; the once lustrous colour leaves her face. Then gasping, she thus accosts Acca, one of her birthmates, who alone before all was true to Camilla, with whom her cares were divided; and even so she speaks: 'Thus far, Acca my sister, have I availed; now the bitter wound overmasters me, and all about me darkens in haze. Haste away, and carry to Turnus my last message; to take my place in battle, and repel the Trojans from the town. And now goodbye.' Even with the words she dropped the reins and slid to ground unconscious. Then the unnerving chill overspread her, her neck slackened, her head sank overpowered by death, and her arms fell, and with a moan the life fled indignant into the dark. Then indeed an infinite cry rises and smites the golden stars; the battle grows bloodier now Camilla is down; at once in serried rants all the Teucrian forces pour in, with the Tyrrhene captains and Evander's Arcadian squadrons.

But the creator of men and gods sits high on the summit of Olympus, watching with clear eyes. He rouses Tyrrhenian Tarchon to fierce battle and spurs him to anger. So Tarchon gallops through the slaughter as his squadrons retreat. He urges his troops on in changing tones, calling them one by one by name, and rallies the fleeing men to fight. "What terror, what utter cowardice has taken hold of you? You can never be stung to shame, you are always so sluggish! A woman throws you into disorder and routs our ranks! Why do we wear steel? Why do we hold these useless weapons? Yet you are not sluggish in Venus' service and the wars of the night. Nor are you sluggish when the curving flute announces Bacchus' revels. Then you look forward to the feast and the cups on the loaded table. This is your passion, this is your desire! You wait until the soothsayer declares the offering favorable and the fattened victim invites you into the deep groves." With these words, he spurs his horse into the thick of battle, ready to die himself. He charges straight at Venulus and tears him from his horse. With all his strength, he holds his enemy and carries him away across the front of his saddle. A cry goes up, and all the Latins turn to look. Tarchon flies like fire across the plain, carrying the armed man. He breaks the steel head from his own spear and searches for an exposed place to strike a fatal blow. Venulus struggles against him, keeping his hand away from his throat and fiercely blocking the attack. It is like a golden eagle that snatches a serpent in its grip and soars upward. Its feet hold the serpent fast, and its talons cling to it. But the wounded snake twists in coils, its scales bristle, and its mouth hisses as it rises up. The eagle keeps attacking its struggling prize with its hooked beak, beating the air with its wings. Just so, Tarchon carries Tiburtus out of the ranks, triumphant with his prize. Following their captain's example and his success, the men of Maeonia charge in. Then Arruns, who is doomed to die, circles ahead of swift Camilla with his cunning javelin. He looks for the easiest chance fortune will offer him. Wherever the maiden darts fiercely among the ranks, Arruns slips up and silently follows her steps. Wherever she turns back victorious and withdraws from the enemy, he stealthily guides his horse after her. He approaches from one side, then another, circling all around her and tirelessly shaking his unerring spear. By chance, Chloreus glittered in the distance, splendid in Phrygian armor. He was sacred to Cybele and had once been her priest. His horse, foaming under his spurs, wore a skin covered with bronze scales and fastened with gold. Chloreus himself shone in foreign blue and scarlet. He carried swift Gortynian arrows and a Lycian horn. A golden bow hung from his shoulder, and the soothsayer's helmet was gold. Red gold fastened his yellow scarf, with its rustling folds of fine linen. His tunics and barbarian trousers were embroidered. Camilla pursued him alone through the whole battle and along the entire line. Perhaps she wanted to nail his Trojan armor to her temples, or perhaps she wanted to wear his captured gold. Blind and reckless, she was fired by a woman's passion for spoils and plunder. At last Arruns chose his moment. From his hiding place, he hurled his javelin and prayed aloud to heaven: "Apollo, highest of the gods, guardian of holy Soracte, we worship you above all others. For you we feed the blazing pile of pinewood. In faithful devotion, we your worshippers walk through its deep embers. Grant, all powerful lord, that our weapons wipe away this disgrace. I do not seek the maiden's clothing, or a trophy, or any spoils of victory. Other deeds will bring me praise. Only let this terrible scourge fall to my blow, and I will return without glory to my native towns." Phoebus heard him. In his heart, he granted half the prayer and scattered the other half to the flying breezes. He allowed Arruns to surprise Camilla and strike her down in sudden death. But he did not grant that Arruns should return to his lofty home. A gust swept those words away on the wind. The spear sped from Arruns' hand and hurtled through the air. All the Volscians saw it and turned their eyes toward the queen. Camilla alone knew nothing of the weapon's rush or sound as it flew. Then the spear struck her breast, sank deep, and drank her maiden blood. Her companions rushed up and caught their sinking mistress. Arruns fled, more terrified than anyone, caught between fear and triumph. He no longer dared trust his spear or face the maiden's weapons. A wolf that has killed a shepherd or a great bullock plunges at once into the trackless mountain heights. It flees before hostile spears can pursue it, knowing how reckless it has been. It drops its tail, tucks it trembling beneath its belly, and seeks the woods. Just so, Arruns withdrew from sight in terror. Satisfied to escape, he mingled with the armed crowd. The dying woman pulled at the weapon, but its iron head was fixed deep in the wound between her ribs. She fainted from loss of blood. Her eyes grew dim as death chilled her, and the once bright color faded from her face. Then, gasping, she spoke to Acca, one of the companions of her birth. Acca alone, above all others, had been true to Camilla and had shared her cares. "I have done what I could until now, Acca, my sister. The bitter wound is overcoming me, and everything around me is growing dark. Hurry and carry my last message to Turnus. Tell him to take my place in battle and drive the Trojans away from the town. And now goodbye." Even as she spoke, she dropped the reins and slid unconscious to the ground. Then a weakening chill spread over her. Her neck went limp, her head sank, overcome by death, and her arms fell. With a moan, her life fled angrily into the dark. Then a boundless cry rose and struck the golden stars. With Camilla down, the battle grew bloodier. All the Teucrian forces poured in at once in close ranks, along with the Tyrrhene captains and Evander's Arcadian squadrons.

But Opis, Trivia's sentinel, long ere now sits high on the hill-tops, gazing on the battle undismayed. And when afar amid the din of angry men she espied Camilla done woefully to death, she sighed and uttered forth a deep cry: 'Ah too, too cruel, O maiden, the forfeit thou hast paid for daring armed attack on the Teucrians! and nothing hath availed thee thy lonely following of Diana in the woodlands, nor wearing our quiver on thy shoulder. Yet thy Queen hath not left thee unhonoured now thy latter end is come; nor will this thy death be unnamed among the nations, nor shalt thou bear the fame of one unavenged; for whosoever hath sullied thy body with a wound shall pay death for due.' Under the mountain height was a great earthen mound, tomb of Dercennus, a Laurentine king of old, shrouded in shadowy ilex. Hither the goddess most beautiful first swoops down, and marks Arruns from the mounded height. As she saw him glittering in arms and idly exultant: 'Why,' she cries, 'wanderest thou away? hitherward direct thy steps; come hither to thy doom, to receive thy fit reward for Camilla. Shalt thou die, and by Diana's weapons?' The Thracian spoke, and slid out a fleet arrow from her gilded quiver, and stretched it level on the bow, and drew it far, till the curving tips met one another, and now her hands touched in counterpoise, the left the steel edge, the string in the right her breast. At once and in a moment Arruns heard the whistle of the dart and the resounding air, as the steel sank in his body. His comrades leave him forgotten on the unknown dust of the plain, moaning his last and gasping his life away; Opis wings her flight to the skyey heaven.

But Opis, Trivia's sentinel, had long been sitting high on the hilltops, watching the battle without fear. From far away, amid the uproar of angry men, she saw Camilla killed in a cruel death. She sighed and cried out in anguish: 'Ah, maiden, the price you paid for daring to attack the Teucrians in arms was far too cruel! Your solitary devotion to Diana in the woods did you no good, nor did wearing our quiver on your shoulder. Yet your Queen has not left you without honor at your death. Your death will not go unmentioned among the nations, nor will you be known as one who went unavenged. Whoever has defiled your body with a wound will pay for it with his life.' Below the mountain stood a great earthen mound, the tomb of Dercennus, an ancient king of Laurentum. Dark ilex trees shaded it. The beautiful goddess first swooped down to the mound and spotted Arruns from its height. She saw him gleaming in his armor and exulting to no purpose. 'Why are you wandering away?' she cried. 'Turn your steps this way. Come here to your doom and receive your fitting reward for Camilla. Will you die by Diana's weapons?' The Thracian spoke and drew a swift arrow from her gilded quiver. She laid it level on her bow and pulled the bowstring back until the curved tips met. Her hands were balanced against each other, her left at the steel arrowhead, her right holding the string against her breast. In an instant, Arruns heard the arrow whistle and the air ring as the steel sank into his body. His comrades left him forgotten on the unfamiliar dust of the plain. He moaned for the last time, gasping as his life ebbed away. Opis flew up into the heavens.

At once the light squadron of Camilla retreat now they have lost their mistress; the Rutulians retreat in confusion, brave Atinas retreats. Scattered captains and thinned companies make for safety, and turn their horses backward to the town. Nor does any avail to make stand against the swarming death-dealing Teucrians, or bear their shock in arms; but their unstrung bows droop on their shoulders, and the four-footed galloping horse-hoof shakes the crumbling plain. The eddying dust rolls up thick and black towards the walls, and on the watch-towers mothers beat their breasts and the cries of women rise up to heaven. On such as first in the rout broke in at the open gates the mingling hostile throng follows hard; nor do they escape death, alas! but in the very gateway, within their native city and amid their sheltering homes, they are pierced through and gasp out their life. Some shut the gates, and dare not open to their pleading comrades nor receive them in the town; and a most pitiful slaughter begins between armed men who guard the entry and others who rush upon their arms. Barred out before their weeping parents' eyes and faces, some, swept on by the rout, roll headlong into the trenches; some, blindly rushing with loosened rein, batter at the gates and stiffly-bolted doorway. The very mothers from the walls in eager heat (true love of country points the way, when they see Camilla) dart weapons with shaking hand, and eagerly make hard stocks of wood and fire-hardened poles serve for steel, and burn to die among the foremost for their city's sake.

At once, Camilla’s lightly armed squadron retreats, now that it has lost its mistress. The Rutulians retreat in confusion, and brave Atinas retreats. Scattered captains and their diminished companies turn their horses back toward the town, seeking safety. No one can stand against the swarming, deadly Teucrians or withstand their charge in battle. Instead, their slackened bows hang from their shoulders, and galloping hooves shake the crumbling plain. Thick, dark clouds of dust swirl up toward the walls. On the watchtowers, mothers beat their breasts, and the cries of women rise to heaven. The enemy crowd follows close behind the first fugitives through the open gates, mingling with them. But, alas, the fugitives do not escape death. They are pierced and gasp out their lives in the gateway itself, within their native city and among their sheltering homes. Some shut the gates and dare not open them to admit their pleading comrades. A pitiful slaughter begins between the armed men guarding the entrance and those who rush against their weapons. Barred from the town before their weeping parents’ eyes, some are swept along by the fleeing crowd and tumble headfirst into the trenches. Others rush blindly forward with loose reins and batter at the gates and their firmly bolted doors. Even the mothers on the walls eagerly hurl weapons with trembling hands. When they see Camilla, true love of country shows them the way. They eagerly use hard wooden shafts and fire-hardened poles in place of steel. They burn to die among the first for their city.

Meanwhile among the forests the terrible news pours in on Turnus, and Acca brings him news of the mighty invasion; the Volscian lines are destroyed; Camilla is fallen; the enemy thicken and press on, and have swept all before them down the tide of battle. Raging he leaves the hills he had beset—Jove's stern will ordains it so—and quits the rough woodland. Scarcely had he marched out of sight and gained the plain when lord Aeneas enters the open defiles, surmounts the ridge, and issues from the dim forest. So both advance swiftly to the town with all their columns, no long march apart, and at once Aeneas descried afar the plains all smoking with dust, and saw the Laurentine columns, and Turnus knew Aeneas terrible in arms, and heard the advancing feet and the neighing of the horses. And straightway would they join battle and essay the conflict, but that ruddy Phoebus even now dips his weary coursers in the Iberian flood, and night draws on over the fading day. They encamp before the city, and draw their trenches round the walls.

Meanwhile, terrible news reached Turnus in the forest. Acca told him of the great invasion. The Volscian lines had been destroyed, and Camilla had fallen. The enemy were gathering and pressing forward, sweeping all before them in the rush of battle. Furious, Turnus left the hills where he had set his ambush and abandoned the rough woodland. Jove’s stern will had decreed it. Turnus had barely disappeared from sight and reached the plain when lord Aeneas entered the open passes. He crossed the ridge and emerged from the dark forest. Both men hurried toward the town with all their troops, only a short distance apart. Aeneas soon saw the plains in the distance, clouded with dust, and spotted the Laurentine troops. Turnus recognized Aeneas, fearsome in his armor, and heard the advancing footsteps and the neighing of horses. They would have fought at once, but ruddy Phoebus was already dipping his weary horses into the Iberian waters. Night was falling over the fading day. They camped before the city and dug trenches around its walls.