The Fleet's Games

Meanwhile Aeneas and his fleet in unwavering track now held mid passage, and cleft the waves that blackened under the North, looking back on the city that even now gleams with hapless Elissa's funeral flame. Why the broad blaze is lit lies unknown; but the bitter pain of a great love trampled, and the knowledge of what woman can do in madness, draw the Teucrians' hearts to gloomy guesses.

Meanwhile, Aeneas and his fleet sailed steadily through the open sea, cutting through waves darkened by the north wind. They looked back at the city, still glowing with the flames of unfortunate Elissa's funeral pyre. They did not know why such a great fire had been lit. But they knew the bitter pain of a great love scorned and what a woman can do in madness. These thoughts led the Teucrians to dark guesses.

When their ships held the deep, nor any land farther appears, the seas all round, and all round the sky, a dusky shower drew up overhead, carrying night and storm, and the wave shuddered and gloomed. Palinurus, master of the fleet, cries from the high stern: 'Alas, why have these heavy storm-clouds girt the sky? lord Neptune, what wilt thou?' Then he bids clear the rigging and bend strongly to the oars, and brings the sails across the wind, saying thus:

When their ships reached the open sea, no land was in sight. Sea and sky stretched all around them. A dark raincloud gathered overhead, bringing darkness and a storm. The waves shuddered and grew dark. From the high stern, Palinurus, master of the fleet, cried: 'Alas, why have these heavy storm clouds surrounded the sky? Lord Neptune, what do you intend?' Then he ordered the crew to clear the rigging and row hard. He turned the sails across the wind and said:

'Noble Aeneas, not did Jupiter give word and warrant would I hope to reach Italy under such a sky. The shifting winds roar athwart our course, and blow stronger out of the black west, and the air thickens into mist: nor are we fit to force our way on and across. Fortune is the stronger; let us follow her, and turn our course whither she calls. Not far away, I think, are the faithful shores of thy brother Eryx, and the Sicilian haven, if only my memory retraces rightly the stars I watched before.'

'Noble Aeneas, even if Jupiter promised and guaranteed it, I would not hope to reach Italy under a sky like this. The shifting winds roar across our course, blowing harder from the black west, and mist fills the air. We cannot force our way through. Fortune is stronger than we are. Let us follow her and turn our course where she calls us. I think the friendly shores of your brother Eryx and the Sicilian harbor are not far away. That is, if I remember correctly the stars I watched before.'

Then good Aeneas: 'Even I ere now discern the winds will have it so, and thou urgest against them in vain. Turn thou the course of our sailing. Could any land be welcomer to me, or where I would sooner choose to put in my weary ships, than this that hath Dardanian Acestes to greet me, and laps in its embrace lord Anchises' dust?' This said, they steer for harbour, while the following west wind stretches their sails; the fleet runs fast down the flood, and at last they land joyfully on the familiar beach. But Acestes high on a hill-top, amazed at the friendly squadron approaching from afar, hastens towards them, weaponed and clad in the shaggy skin of a Libyan she-bear. Him a Trojan mother conceived and bore to Crimisus river; not forgetful of his parentage, he wishes them joy of their return, and gladly entertains them on his rustic treasure and comforts their weariness with his friendly store. So soon as the morrow's clear daylight had chased the stars out of the east, Aeneas calls his comrades along the beach together, and from a mounded hillock speaks:

Then good Aeneas said: 'I too can see that the winds will have it so, and you struggle against them in vain. Change our course. What land could be more welcome to me? Where would I rather bring my weary ships to shore than here? Here Dardanian Acestes will greet me, and the land holds the ashes of lord Anchises in its embrace.' With that, they steered for the harbor. The west wind filled their sails from behind, and the fleet sped over the water. At last they landed joyfully on the familiar beach. From a hilltop, Acestes saw the friendly fleet approaching in the distance and was amazed. He hurried toward them, carrying weapons and wearing the shaggy skin of a Libyan she-bear. His mother was a Trojan, and his father was the river Crimisus. Mindful of his ancestry, he welcomed them on their return. He gladly shared his humble wealth with them and refreshed them from his generous stores. As soon as the clear light of morning had chased the stars from the eastern sky, Aeneas gathered his comrades along the beach. Then he spoke from a small mound:

'Great people of Dardanus, born of the high blood of gods, the yearly circle of the months is measured out to fulfilment since we laid the dust in earth, all that was left of my divine father, and sadly consecrated our altars. And now the day is at hand (this, O gods, was your will), which I will ever keep in grief, ever in honour. Did I spend it an exile on Gaetulian quicksands, did it surprise me on the Argolic sea or in Mycenae town, yet would I fulfil the yearly vows and annual ordinance of festival, and pile the altars with their due gifts. Now we are led hither, to the very dust and ashes of our father, not as I deem without divine purpose and influence, and borne home into the friendly haven. Up then and let us all gather joyfully to the sacrifice: pray we for winds, and may he deign that I pay these rites to him year by year in an established city and consecrated temple. Two head of oxen Acestes, the seed of Troy, gives to each of your ships by tale: invite to the feast your own ancestral gods of the household, and those whom our host Acestes worships. Further, so the ninth Dawn uplift the gracious day upon men, and her shafts unveil the world, I will ordain contests for my Trojans; first for swift ships; then whoso excels in the foot-race, and whoso, confident in strength and skill, comes to shoot light arrows, or adventures to join battle with gloves of raw hide; let all be here, and let merit look for the prize and palm. Now all be hushed, and twine your temples with boughs.'

'Great people of Dardanus, descended from the noble blood of gods, a full year has passed since we buried my divine father's remains and sadly dedicated our altars. And now the day is near. O gods, this was your will. I will always observe the day with grief and honor. Even if I spent it in exile on the Gaetulian quicksands, or it found me on the Argolic sea or in the town of Mycenae, I would still fulfill my yearly vows and hold the annual festival. I would pile the altars with the gifts owed to him. Now we have been led here, to our father's very dust and ashes, and brought home to this friendly harbor. I believe the gods have guided us here for a purpose. So come, let us all gather joyfully for the sacrifice. Let us pray for winds. And may my father grant that I honor him with these rites every year, in a settled city and a dedicated temple. Acestes, descended from Troy, gives each of your ships two oxen. Invite your own ancestral household gods to the feast, along with those our host Acestes worships. And when the ninth Dawn brings her welcome day to humankind and her rays reveal the world, I will hold contests for my Trojans. First there will be a race for swift ships. Then let everyone come who excels at running, or trusts his strength and skill enough to shoot light arrows or fight with rawhide gloves. Let all be here, and let those who prove worthy expect the prize and the victor's palm. Now let everyone be silent and crown your heads with branches.'

So speaks he, and shrouds his brows with his mother's myrtle. So Helymus does, so Aletes ripe of years, so the boy Ascanius, and the rest of the people follow. He advances from the assembly to the tomb among a throng of many thousands that crowd about him; here he pours on the ground in fit libation two goblets of pure wine, two of new milk, two of consecrated blood, and flings bright blossoms, saying thus: 'Hail, holy father, once again; hail, ashes of him I saved in vain, and soul and shade of my sire! Thou wert not to share the search for Italian borders and destined fields, nor the dim Ausonian Tiber.' Thus had he spoken; when from beneath the sanctuary a snake slid out in seven vast coils and sevenfold slippery spires, quietly circling the grave and gliding from altar to altar, his green chequered body and the spotted lustre of his scales ablaze with gold, as the bow in the cloud darts a thousand changing dyes athwart the sun: Aeneas stood amazed at the sight. At last he wound his long train among the vessels and polished cups, and tasted the feast, and again leaving the altars where he had fed, crept harmlessly back beneath the tomb. Doubtful if he shall think it the Genius of the ground or his father's ministrant, he slays, as is fit, two sheep of two years old, as many swine and dark-backed steers, pouring the while cups of wine, and calling on the soul of great Anchises and the ghost rearisen from Acheron. Therewithal his comrades, as each hath store, bring gifts to heap joyfully on the altars, and slay steers in sacrifice: others set cauldrons arow, and, lying along the grass, heap live embers under spits and roast the flesh.

He speaks, then covers his brow with his mother's myrtle. Helymus does the same, as do the elderly Aletes and the boy Ascanius. The rest of the people follow their example. Aeneas leaves the assembly and approaches the tomb, surrounded by a crowd of many thousands. There he pours proper offerings onto the ground: two cups of pure wine, two of fresh milk, and two of consecrated blood. He scatters bright flowers and says: 'Hail, holy father, once again. Hail, ashes of the father I saved in vain, and soul and shade of my father! You were not meant to join the search for Italy's shores and the fields promised by fate, or the dim Ausonian Tiber.' As he finishes speaking, a snake slides out from beneath the sanctuary. Its body forms seven huge, slippery coils. It circles the grave quietly and glides from altar to altar. Its green, patterned body and spotted, shining scales blaze with gold. They shine like a rainbow in a cloud, flashing a thousand changing colors against the sun. Aeneas stands amazed at the sight. At last the snake winds its long body among the vessels and polished cups and tastes the feast. Then it leaves the altars where it has fed and creeps harmlessly back beneath the tomb. Aeneas is unsure whether the snake is the Genius of the place or a servant of his father. He sacrifices two sheep, both two years old, as is proper. He also sacrifices two pigs and two dark-backed bulls. Meanwhile, he pours cups of wine and calls on the soul of great Anchises, his ghost risen again from Acheron. His companions bring what gifts they can and joyfully pile them on the altars. They sacrifice bulls as well. Others set cauldrons in a row and lie on the grass, piling live coals under spits to roast the meat.

The desired day came, and now the ninth Dawn rode up clear and bright behind Phaëthon's coursers; and the name and renown of illustrious Acestes had stirred up all the bordering people; their holiday throng filled the shore, to see Aeneas' men, and some ready to join in contest. First of all the prizes are laid out to view in the middle of the racecourse; tripods of sacrifice, green garlands and palms, the reward of the conquerors, armour and garments dipped in purple, talents of silver and gold: and from a hillock in the midst the trumpet sounds the games begun. First is the contest of rowing, and four ships matched in weight enter, the choice of all the fleet. Mnestheus' keen oarsmen drive the swift Dragon, Mnestheus the Italian to be, from whose name is the Memmian family; Gyas the huge bulk of the huge Chimaera, a floating town, whom her triple-tiered Dardanian crew urge on with oars rising in threefold rank; Sergestus, from whom the Sergian house holds her name, sails in the tall Centaur; and in the sea-coloured Scylla Cloanthus, whence is thy family, Cluentius of Rome.

The longed-for day came. The ninth Dawn rose clear and bright behind Phaëthon's horses. The fame and renown of illustrious Acestes had stirred up all the neighboring people. A holiday crowd filled the shore to watch Aeneas' men, and some were ready to compete. First, the prizes were displayed in the middle of the racecourse: sacrificial tripods, green garlands and palms for the winners, armor, purple-dyed garments, and talents of silver and gold. Then a trumpet sounded from a hillock in the middle, announcing the start of the games. The first contest was a rowing race. Four ships of equal weight entered, the finest in the fleet. Mnestheus' skilled rowers drove the swift Dragon. Mnestheus would one day become an Italian, and the Memmian family takes its name from him. Gyas commanded the immense Chimaera, a floating city. Its Dardanian crew propelled it with oars in three tiers. Sergestus, from whom the Sergian family takes its name, sailed in the tall Centaur. Cloanthus sailed in the sea-colored Scylla. From him comes your family, Cluentius of Rome.

Apart in the sea and over against the foaming beach, lies a rock that the swoln waves beat and drown what time the north-western gales of winter blot out the stars; in calm it rises silent out of the placid water, flat-topped, and a haunt where cormorants love best to take the sun. Here lord Aeneas set up a goal of leafy ilex, a mark for the sailors to know whence to return, where to wheel their long course round. Then they choose stations by lot, and on the sterns their captains glitter afar, beautiful in gold and purple; the rest of the crews are crowned with poplar sprays, and their naked shoulders glisten wet with oil. They sit down at the thwarts, and their arms are tense on the oars; at full strain they wait the signal, while throbbing fear and heightened ambition drain their riotous blood. Then, when the clear trumpet-note rang, all in a moment leap forward from their line; the shouts of the sailors strike up to heaven, and the channels are swept into foam by the arms as they swing backward. They cleave their furrows together, and all the sea is torn asunder by oars and triple-pointed prows. Not with speed so headlong do racing pairs whirl the chariots over the plain, as they rush streaming from the barriers; not so do their charioteers shake the wavy reins loose over their team, and hang forward on the whip. All the woodland rings with clapping and shouts of men that cheer their favourites, and the sheltered beach eddies back their cries; the noise buffets and re-echoes from the hills. Gyas shoots out in front of the noisy crowd, and glides foremost along the water; whom Cloanthus follows next, rowing better, but held back by his dragging weight of pine. After them, at equal distance, the Dragon and the Centaur strive to win the foremost room; and now the Dragon has it, now the vast Centaur outstrips and passes her; now they dart on both together, their stems in a line, and their keels driving long furrows through the salt water-ways. And now they drew nigh the rock, and were hard on the goal; when Gyas as he led, winner over half the flood, cries aloud to Menoetes, the ship's steersman: 'Whither away so far to the right? This way direct her path; kiss the shore, and let the oarblade graze the leftward reefs. Others may keep to deep water.' He spoke; but Menoetes, fearing blind rocks, turns the bow away towards the open sea. 'Whither wanderest thou away? to the rocks, Menoetes!' again shouts Gyas to bring him back; and lo! glancing round he sees Cloanthus passing up behind and keeping nearer. Between Gyas' ship and the echoing crags he scrapes through inside on his left, flashes past his leader, and leaving the goal behind is in safe water. Then indeed grief burned fierce through his strong frame, and tears sprung out on his cheeks; heedless of his own dignity and his crew's safety, he flings the too cautious Menoetes sheer into the sea from the high stern, himself succeeds as guide and master of the helm, and cheers on his men, and turns his tiller in to shore. But Menoetes, when at last he rose struggling from the bottom, heavy with advancing years and wet in his dripping clothes, makes for the top of the crag, and sits down on a dry rock. The Teucrians laughed out as he fell and as he swam, and laugh to see him spitting the salt water from his chest. At this a joyful hope kindled in the two behind, Sergestus and Mnestheus, of catching up Gyas' wavering course. Sergestus slips forward as he nears the rock, yet not all in front, nor leading with his length of keel; part is in front, part pressed by the Dragon's jealous prow. But striding amidships between his comrades, Mnestheus cheers them on: 'Now, now swing back, oarsmen who were Hector's comrades, whom I chose to follow me in Troy's extremity; now put forth the might and courage you showed in Gaetulian quicksands, amid Ionian seas and Malea's chasing waves. Not the first place do I now seek for Mnestheus, nor strive for victory; though ah!—yet let them win, O Neptune, to whom thou givest it. But the shame of coming in last! Win but this, fellow-citizens, and avert that disaster!' His men bend forward, straining every muscle; the brasswork of the ship quivers to their mighty strokes, and the ground runs from under her; limbs and parched lips shake with their rapid panting, and sweat flows in streams all over them. Mere chance brought the crew the glory they desired. For while Sergestus drives his prow furiously in towards the rocks and comes up with too scanty room, alas! he caught on a rock that ran out; the reef ground, the oars struck and shivered on the jagged teeth, and the bows crashed and hung. The sailors leap up and hold her with loud cries, and get out iron-shod poles and sharp-pointed boathooks, and pick up their broken oars out of the eddies. But Mnestheus, rejoicing and flushed by his triumph, with oars fast-dipping and winds at his call, issues into the shelving water and runs down the open sea. As a pigeon whose house and sweet nestlings are in the rock's recesses, if suddenly startled from her cavern, wings her flight over the fields and rushes frightened from her house with loud clapping pinions; then gliding noiselessly through the air, slides on her liquid way and moves not her rapid wings; so Mnestheus, so the Dragon under him swiftly cleaves the last space of sea, so her own speed carries her flying on. And first Sergestus is left behind, struggling on the steep rock and shoal water, and shouting in vain for help and learning to race with broken oars. Next he catches up Gyas and the vast bulk of the Chimaera; she gives way, without her steersman. And now on the very goal Cloanthus alone is left; him he pursues and presses hard, straining all his strength. Then indeed the shouts redouble, as all together eagerly cheer on the pursuer, and the sky echoes their din. These scorn to lose the honour that is their own, the glory in their grasp, and would sell life for renown; to these success lends life; power comes with belief in it. And haply they had carried the prize with prows abreast, had not Cloanthus, stretching both his open hands over the sea, poured forth prayers and called the gods to hear his vows: 'Gods who are sovereign on the sea, over whose waters I run, to your altars on this beach will I bring a snow-white bull, my vow's glad penalty, and will cast his entrails into the salt flood and pour liquid wine.' He spoke, and far beneath the flood maiden Panopea heard him, with all Phorcus' choir of Nereids, and lord Portunus with his own mighty hand pushed him on his way. The ship flies to land swifter than the wind or an arrow's flight, and shoots into the deep harbour. Then the seed of Anchises, summoning all in order, declares Cloanthus conqueror by herald's outcry, and dresses his brows in green bay, and gives gifts to each crew, three bullocks of their choice, and wine, and a large talent of silver to take away. For their captains he adds special honours; to the winner a scarf wrought with gold, encircled by a double border of deep Meliboean purple; woven in it is the kingly boy on leafy Ida, chasing swift stags with javelin and racing feet, keen and as one panting; him Jove's swooping armour-bearer hath caught up from Ida in his talons; his aged guardians stretch their hands vainly upwards, and the barking of hounds rings fierce into the air. But to him who, next in merit, held the second place, he gives to wear a corslet triple-woven with hooks of polished gold, stripped by his own conquering hand from Demoleos under tall Troy by the swift Simoïs, an ornament and safeguard among arms. Scarce could the straining shoulders of his servants Phegeus and Sagaris carry its heavy folds; yet with it on, Demoleos at full speed would chase the scattered Trojans. The third prize he makes twin cauldrons of brass, and bowls wrought in silver and rough with tracery. And now all moved away in the pride and wealth of their prizes, their brows bound with scarlet ribbons; when, hardly torn loose by all his art from the cruel rock, his oars lost, rowing feebly with a single tier, Sergestus brought in his ship jeered at and unhonoured. Even as often a serpent caught on a highway, if a brazen wheel hath gone aslant over him or a wayfarer left him half dead and mangled with the blow of a heavy stone, wreathes himself slowly in vain effort to escape, in part undaunted, his eyes ablaze and his hissing throat lifted high; in part the disabling wound keeps him coiling in knots and twisting back on his own body; so the ship kept rowing slowly on, yet hoists sail and under full sail glides into the harbour mouth. Glad that the ship is saved and the crew brought back, Aeneas presents Sergestus with his promised reward. A slave woman is given him not unskilled in Minerva's labours, Pholoë the Cretan, with twin boys at her breast.

Out at sea, opposite the foaming shore, lies a rock. In winter, when northwesterly gales blot out the stars, swollen waves batter and submerge it. In calm weather, it rises silently from the still water. Its top is flat, and cormorants love to sun themselves there. Lord Aeneas set up a leafy ilex branch on the rock as a marker. It showed the sailors where to turn their ships and begin the long course back. The crews drew lots for their starting positions. Their captains stood on the sterns, shining in gold and purple, visible from far away. The other crewmen wore crowns of poplar sprigs, and their bare shoulders glistened with oil. They sat on the rowing benches, their arms tense against the oars. Straining forward, they waited for the signal. Fear throbbed in them, and fierce ambition stirred their blood. Then the clear trumpet sounded, and all the ships leaped forward from the line at once. The sailors' shouts rose to heaven, and their swinging arms churned the water into foam. The ships cut through the water together, tearing the sea apart with their oars and three-pointed prows. Not even racing pairs of horses sweep their chariots across the plain so fast as they stream from the barriers. Nor do their drivers shake the flowing reins so wildly or lean so far forward with their whips. The whole woodland rang with applause and the shouts of men cheering their favorites. The sheltered beach sent their cries swirling back, and the noise struck the hills and echoed from them. Gyas shot ahead of the noisy fleet and glided first over the water. Cloanthus followed close behind. His crew rowed better, but the weight of his pine ship held him back. Behind them, the Dragon and the Centaur fought for the lead, both equally distant from the front. Now the Dragon pulled ahead. Now the huge Centaur overtook and passed her. Then they raced on side by side, their prows level and their keels cutting long furrows through the salt water. They were drawing near the rock and closing on the marker. Gyas, leading at the halfway point, shouted to Menoetes, his helmsman: “Why are you heading so far to the right? Steer this way. Hug the shore, and let the oar blades graze the reefs on the left. The others can keep to deep water.” But Menoetes feared hidden rocks and turned the bow toward the open sea. “Why are you wandering away? Head for the rocks, Menoetes!” Gyas shouted again, trying to bring him back. Then he looked around and saw Cloanthus coming up behind, closer to shore. Cloanthus scraped through on the left, between Gyas' ship and the echoing rocks. He flashed past the leader, rounded the marker, and reached safe water. Grief burned through Gyas' strong body, and tears sprang to his eyes. Forgetting his dignity and his crew's safety, he hurled the overly cautious Menoetes from the high stern into the sea. Gyas took his place at the helm, urged on his men, and turned the ship toward shore. At last Menoetes struggled up from the depths. Weighed down by age and his dripping clothes, he made for the top of the crag and sat on a dry rock. The Teucrians laughed when he fell and as he swam. They laughed again when they saw him coughing salt water from his chest. Seeing this, the two captains behind him, Sergestus and Mnestheus, took joyful hope. They might catch Gyas as his ship veered off course. Sergestus edged forward as he neared the rock, though his whole ship was not yet ahead. Part of it led, while the rest was pressed by the Dragon's rival prow. Mnestheus strode among his comrades amidships and urged them on: “Now, now pull hard, oarsmen who fought beside Hector! I chose you to follow me in Troy's last desperate hour. Show the strength and courage you showed in the Gaetulian quicksands, the Ionian seas, and Malea's pursuing waves. I no longer seek first place for Mnestheus, nor do I strive for victory. Though, ah! But let those win, O Neptune, to whom you grant it. Only spare us the shame of coming last! Win at least this, fellow citizens, and keep that disaster from us!” His men leaned forward, straining every muscle. The ship's brass fittings shook under their mighty strokes, and the ground raced away beneath her. Their limbs and dry lips trembled as they gasped for breath, and sweat streamed over their bodies. Pure chance brought the crew the glory they wanted. Sergestus drove his prow furiously toward the rocks, leaving too little room. Alas, his ship struck a jutting rock. The reef scraped against her, the oars hit its jagged teeth and shattered, and the bow crashed and stuck fast. The sailors leaped up and braced the ship, shouting loudly. They brought out iron-tipped poles and sharp boathooks and gathered their broken oars from the swirling water. Mnestheus rejoiced, flushed with triumph. With his oars dipping swiftly and the winds at his command, he sailed into deeper water and sped across the open sea. A pigeon has her home and beloved young in a hollow rock. If suddenly startled from her cave, she flies over the fields, rushing from home in fear with loudly clapping wings. Then she glides silently through the air, slipping along her smooth course without moving her swift wings. So Mnestheus, and the Dragon beneath him, swiftly cut through the last stretch of sea. Her own speed carried her flying forward. First he left Sergestus behind. Sergestus was struggling on the steep rock in shallow water, shouting in vain for help and learning to race with broken oars. Next Mnestheus caught Gyas and the huge Chimaera. Without her helmsman, she fell behind. Now, close to the finish, only Cloanthus remained ahead. Mnestheus pursued him and pressed him hard, using all his strength. The shouts doubled as everyone eagerly cheered on the pursuer, and the sky echoed with their noise. Cloanthus' crew scorned the thought of losing the honor that was already theirs and the glory within their grasp. They would give their lives for fame. Success gave Mnestheus' crew fresh strength, and belief in their power made them powerful. Perhaps they would have finished with their prows level and shared the prize. But Cloanthus stretched both open hands over the sea and prayed, calling on the gods to hear his vows: “Gods who rule the sea, whose waters I sail, I will bring a snow-white bull to your altars on this beach. It will be the joyful offering I owe for my vow. I will cast its entrails into the salt water and pour out wine.” He spoke, and far beneath the waves the maiden Panopea heard him, along with all the Nereids in Phorcus' company. Lord Portunus pushed the ship onward with his own mighty hand. She flew toward land faster than the wind or a flying arrow and shot into the deep harbor. Then the son of Anchises summoned everyone in order and had a herald proclaim Cloanthus the winner. He crowned him with green laurel and gave each crew three bullocks of their choice, wine, and a large talent of silver to take away. He gave their captains special prizes as well. For the winner, there was a scarf embroidered with gold and edged with a double border of deep Meliboean purple. Woven into it was a royal boy on leafy Ida. He was chasing swift stags with a javelin and racing on foot, eager and apparently out of breath. Jove's swooping armor-bearer had seized him from Ida in his talons. The boy's aged guardians reached upward in vain, while fierce barking rose from their hounds. To the captain who had earned second place, Aeneas gave a breastplate to wear. It was made of three layers of links of polished gold. Aeneas himself had stripped it from Demoleos, whom he defeated below tall Troy, by the swift Simoïs. It would be both an ornament and protection in battle. His servants Phegeus and Sagaris could hardly carry its heavy folds, even with their shoulders straining. Yet Demoleos had worn it while chasing the scattered Trojans at full speed. The third prize was a pair of bronze cauldrons and silver bowls with raised patterns. By now all the crews had departed, proud and rich with prizes, their brows tied with scarlet ribbons. Then Sergestus came in with his ship, mocked and without honor. Only with all his skill had he managed to pull her free of the cruel rock. Her oars were lost, and he rowed feebly with a single bank of oars. A serpent caught on a highway may be crushed by a bronze wheel passing over it, or left mangled and half dead by a traveler's heavy stone. It slowly writhes in a vain attempt to escape. Part of it is still defiant, with blazing eyes and a raised, hissing throat. But its crippling wound makes the rest coil into knots and twist back on itself. So the ship rowed slowly onward. Yet she raised her sail and glided under full sail into the harbor mouth. Glad that the ship was saved and the crew had returned, Aeneas gave Sergestus his promised reward. He received a slave woman, Pholoë the Cretan, who was skilled in Minerva's crafts. She had twin boys at her breast.

This contest sped, good Aeneas moved to a grassy plain girt all about with winding wooded hills, and amid the valley an amphitheatre, whither, with a concourse of many thousands, the hero advanced and took his seat on a mound. Here he allures with rewards and offer of prizes those who will try their hap in the fleet foot-race. Trojans and Sicilians gather mingling from all sides, Nisus and Euryalus foremost . . . Euryalus in the flower of youth and famed for beauty, Nisus for pure love of the boy. Next follows renowned Diores, of Priam's royal line; after him Salius and Patron together, the one Acarnanian, the other Tegean by family and of Arcadian blood; next two men of Sicily, Helymus and Panopes, foresters and attendants on old Acestes; many besides whose fame is hid in obscurity. Then among them all Aeneas spoke thus: 'Hearken to this, and attend in good cheer. None out of this number will I let go without a gift. To each will I give two glittering Gnosian spearheads of polished steel, and an axe chased with silver to bear away; one and all shall be honoured thus. The three foremost shall receive prizes, and have pale olive bound about their head. The first shall have a caparisoned horse as conqueror; the second an Amazonian quiver filled with arrows of Thrace, girt about by a broad belt of gold, and on the link of the clasp a polished gem; let the third depart with this Argolic helmet for recompense.' This said, they take their place, and the signal once heard, dart over the course and leave the line, pouring forth like a storm-cloud while they mark the goal. Nisus gets away first, and shoots out far in front of the throng, fleeter than the winds or the winged thunderbolt. Next to him, but next by a long gap, Salius follows; then, left a space behind him, Euryalus third . . . and Helymus comes after Euryalus; and close behind him, lo! Diores goes flying, just grazing foot with foot, hard on his shoulder; and if a longer space were left, he would creep out past him and win the tie. And now almost in the last space, they began to come up breathless to the goal, when unfortunate Nisus trips on the slippery blood of the slain steers, where haply it had spilled over the ground and wetted the green grass. Here, just in the flush of victory, he lost his feet; they slid away on the ground they pressed, and he fell forward right among the ordure and blood of the sacrifice. Yet forgot he not his darling Euryalus; for rising, he flung himself over the slippery ground in front of Salius, and he rolled over and lay all along on the hard sand. Euryalus shoots by, wins and holds the first place his friend gave, and flies on amid prosperous clapping and cheers. Behind Helymus comes up, and Diores, now third for the palm. At this Salius fills with loud clamour the whole concourse of the vast theatre, and the lords who looked on in front, demanding restoration of his defrauded prize. Euryalus is strong in favour, and beauty in tears, and the merit that gains grace from so fair a form. Diores supports him, who succeeded to the palm, so he loudly cries, and bore off the last prize in vain, if the highest honours be restored to Salius. Then lord Aeneas speaks: 'For you, O boys, your rewards remain assured, and none alters the prizes' order: let me be allowed to pity a friend's innocent mischance.' So speaking, he gives to Salius a vast Gaetulian lion-skin, with shaggy masses of hair and claws of gold. 'If this,' cries Nisus, 'is the reward of defeat, and thy pity is stirred for the fallen, what fit recompense wilt thou give to Nisus? to my excellence the first crown was due, had not I, like Salius, met Fortune's hostility.' And with the words he displayed his face and limbs foul with the wet dung. His lord laughed kindly on him, and bade a shield be brought forth, the workmanship of Didymaon, torn by him from the hallowed gates of Neptune's Grecian temple; with this special prize he rewards his excellence.

When this contest was over, good Aeneas went to a grassy plain surrounded by winding, wooded hills. An amphitheater lay in the middle of the valley. The hero entered it with a crowd of many thousands and took his seat on a mound. There he offered rewards and prizes to anyone willing to try their luck in a footrace. Trojans and Sicilians gathered from every side, with Nisus and Euryalus foremost among them . . . Euryalus was in the flower of youth and famous for his beauty. Nisus was known for his pure love of the boy. Next came the renowned Diores, of Priam's royal line. After him came Salius and Patron together. Salius was Acarnanian, while Patron was from a Tegean family of Arcadian blood. Next came two men of Sicily, Helymus and Panopes, foresters and attendants of old Acestes. Many others came whose fame is lost to obscurity. Then Aeneas addressed them all: 'Listen to me, and take heart. I will not let any of you leave without a gift. To each of you I will give two glittering Gnosian spearheads of polished steel and an axe decorated with silver. Every one of you will be honored in this way. The first three will receive prizes and have pale olive leaves bound around their heads. The winner will receive a horse with its trappings. The second will receive an Amazonian quiver filled with arrows of Thrace. A broad gold belt encircles it, and a polished gem adorns its clasp. The third will leave with this Argolic helmet as his prize.' With these words, they took their places. When they heard the signal, they darted from the line and raced down the course. They streamed forward like a storm cloud, keeping their eyes on the goal. Nisus broke away first and shot far ahead of the crowd, faster than the winds or a winged thunderbolt. Salius followed next, but a long way behind him. Euryalus came third, some distance behind Salius . . . Helymus followed Euryalus, and look, Diores flew close behind Helymus. He was at his shoulder, their feet almost touching. If the course had been longer, Diores would have edged past him and won their close race. Now, almost at the end, they began to approach the goal, breathless. Then unfortunate Nisus slipped on the blood of the slaughtered steers. By chance, it had spilled onto the ground and soaked the green grass. Just as victory was within his grasp, he lost his footing. His feet slipped beneath him, and he fell forward into the dung and blood of the sacrifice. Yet he did not forget his beloved Euryalus. As he rose, he threw himself across the slippery ground in front of Salius. Salius fell and lay sprawled on the hard sand. Euryalus shot past and took the lead his friend had given him. He raced on to victory amid loud applause and cheers. Helymus came in behind him, and Diores took third place and its prize. At this, Salius filled the vast theater and the lords watching in front with loud protests. He demanded the prize he had been cheated of. But Euryalus had strong support, as did his tearful beauty and the merit made more appealing by such a lovely form. Diores supported him too. He loudly declared that he had won his place and claimed the last prize. It would all be for nothing if the highest honors were given back to Salius. Then lord Aeneas spoke: 'Your rewards are secure, boys, and no one will change the order of the prizes. Let me show pity for a friend's innocent misfortune.' With these words, he gave Salius a huge Gaetulian lion skin, with thick, shaggy hair and golden claws. 'If this is the reward for defeat,' cried Nisus, 'and you feel pity for the fallen, what fitting prize will you give Nisus? My skill deserved the first crown, if Fortune had not turned against me, as she did against Salius.' As he spoke, he showed his face and limbs, filthy with wet dung. His lord laughed kindly at him and ordered a shield to be brought out. It was the work of Didymaon, who had torn it from the sacred gates of Neptune's Grecian temple. With this special prize, Aeneas rewarded his skill.

Thereafter, when the races are finished and the gifts fulfilled: 'Now,' he cries, 'come, whoso hath in him valour and ready heart, and lift up his arms with gauntleted hands.' So speaks he, and sets forth a double prize of battle; for the conqueror a bullock gilt and garlanded; a sword and beautiful helmet to console the conquered. Straightway without pause Dares issues to view in his vast strength, rising amid loud murmurs of the people; he who alone was wont to meet Paris in combat; he who, at the mound where princely Hector lies, struck down as he came the vast bulk upborne by conquering Butes, of Amycus' Bebrycian line, and stretched him in death on the yellow sand. Such was Dares; at once he raises his head high for battle, displays his broad shoulders, and stretches and swings his arms right and left, lashing the air with blows. For him another is required; but none out of all the train durst approach or put the gloves on his hands. So he takes his stand exultant before Aeneas' feet, deeming he excelled all in victories; and thereon without more delay grasps the bull's horn with his left hand, and speaks thus: 'Goddess-born, if no man dare trust himself to battle, to what conclusion shall I stand? how long is it seemly to keep me? bid me carry off thy gifts.' Therewith all the Dardanians murmured assent, and bade yield him the promised prize. At this aged Acestes spoke sharply to Entellus, as he sate next him on the green cushion of grass: 'Entellus, bravest of heroes once of old in vain, wilt thou thus idly let a gift so great be borne away uncontested? Where now prithee is divine Eryx, thy master of fruitless fame? where thy renown over all Sicily, and those spoils hanging in thine house?' Thereat he: 'Desire of glory is not gone, nor ambition checked by fear; but torpid age dulls my chilly blood, and my strength of limb is numb and outworn. If I had what once was mine, if I had now that prime of years, yonder braggart's boast and confidence, it had taken no prize of goodly bullock to allure me; nor heed I these gifts.' So he spoke, and on that flung down a pair of gloves of giant weight, with whose hard hide bound about his wrists valiant Eryx was wont to come to battle. They stood amazed; so stiff and grim lay the vast sevenfold oxhide sewed in with lead and iron. Dares most of all shrinks far back in horror, and the noble son of Anchises turns round this way and that their vast weight and voluminous folds. Then the old man spoke thus in deep accents: 'How, had they seen the gloves that were Hercules' own armour, and the fatal fight on this very beach? These arms thy brother Eryx once wore; thou seest them yet stained with blood and spattered brains. In them he stood to face great Alcides; to them was I used while fuller blood supplied me strength, and envious old age had not yet strewn her snows on either temple. But if Dares of Troy will have none of these our arms, and good Aeneas is resolved on it, and my patron Acestes approves, let us make the battle even. See, I give up the gauntlets of Eryx; dismiss thy fears; and do thou put off thy Trojan gloves.' So spoke he, and throwing back the fold of his raiment from his shoulders, he bares the massive joints and limbs, the great bones and muscles, and stands up huge in the middle of the ground. Then Anchises' lordly seed brought out equal gloves and bound the hands of both in matched arms. Straightway each took his stand on tiptoe, and undauntedly raised his arms high in air. They lift their heads right back and away out of reach of blows, and make hand play through hand, inviting attack; the one nimbler of foot and confident in his youth, the other mighty in mass of limb, but his knees totter tremulous and slow, and sick panting shakes his vast frame. Many a mutual blow they deliver in vain, many an one they redouble on chest and side, sounding hollow and loud: hands play fast about ear and temple, and jawbones clash under the hard strokes. Old Entellus stands immoveable and astrain, only parrying hits with body and watchful eye. The other, as one who casts mounts against some high city or blockades a hill-fort in arms, tries this and that entrance, and ranges cunningly over all the ground, and presses many an attack in vain. Entellus rose and struck clean out with his right downwards; his quick opponent saw the descending blow before it came, and slid his body rapidly out of its way. Entellus hurled his strength into the air, and all his heavy mass, overreaching, fell heavily to the earth; as sometime on Erymanthus or mighty Ida a hollow pine falls torn out by the roots. Teucrians and men of Sicily rise eagerly; a cry goes up, and Acestes himself runs forward, and pityingly lifts his friend and birthmate from the ground. But the hero, not dulled nor dismayed by his mishap, returns the keener to battle, and grows violent in wrath, while shame and resolved valour kindle his strength. All afire, he hunts Dares headlong over the lists, and redoubles his blows now with right hand, now with left; no breath nor pause; heavy as hailstones rattle on the roof from a storm-cloud, so thickly shower the blows from both his hands as he buffets Dares to and fro. Then lord Aeneas allowed not wrath to swell higher or Entellus to rage out his bitterness, but stopped the fight and rescued the exhausted Dares, saying thus in soothing words: 'Unhappy! what height of madness hath seized thy mind? Knowest thou not the strength is another's and the gods are changed? Yield thou to Heaven.' And with the words he proclaimed the battle over. But him his faithful mates lead to the ships dragging his knees feebly, swaying his head from side to side, and spitting from his mouth clotted blood mingled with teeth. At summons they bear away the helmet and shield, and leave palm and bull to Entellus. At this the conqueror, swelling in pride over the bull, cries: 'Goddess-born, and you, O Trojans! learn thus what my strength of body was in its prime, and from what a death Dares is saved by your recall.' He spoke, and stood right opposite in face of the bullock as it stood by, the prize of battle; then drew back his hand, and swinging the hard gauntlet sheer down between the horns, smashed the bones in upon the shattered brain. The ox rolls over, and quivering and lifeless lies along the ground. Above it he utters these deep accents: 'This life, Eryx, I give to thee, a better payment than Dares' death; here I lay down my gloves and unconquered skill.'

After the races were over and the prizes awarded, Aeneas cried, “Now, let anyone with courage and a willing heart come forward and raise his gloved fists.” He offered two prizes for the fight: a bullock adorned with gold and garlands for the winner, and a sword and beautiful helmet to console the loser. At once Dares stepped forward, showing his great strength as the crowd murmured loudly. He alone had been accustomed to fight Paris. At the mound where noble Hector lies, he had struck down the huge Butes as he approached. Butes was a conqueror from the Bebrycian line of Amycus, and Dares stretched him dead on the yellow sand. Such was Dares. He now held his head high, ready to fight, and displayed his broad shoulders. He stretched and swung his arms from side to side, striking the air. An opponent was needed, but no one in the whole company dared approach or put on the gloves. Certain that he surpassed all others in victory, Dares stood proudly before Aeneas. Without further delay, he seized the bull by the horn with his left hand and said, “Son of a goddess, if no one dares face me, how will this end? How long must I stand here? Tell them to let me take your gifts.” All the Dardanians murmured their agreement and called for him to receive the promised prize. Then the aged Acestes spoke sharply to Entellus, who sat beside him on the green grass. “Entellus, once the bravest of heroes, was all that courage for nothing? Will you sit idle and let such a prize be carried off without a fight? Where now is divine Eryx, your teacher, whose fame has come to nothing? Where is your fame throughout Sicily, and where are those trophies hanging in your house?” Entellus replied, “My desire for glory has not gone, nor has fear checked my ambition. But sluggish old age has cooled and dulled my blood, and my limbs are numb and worn out. If I still had what was once mine, if I were in my prime, as that braggart boasts he is and confidently believes, no fine bullock would be needed to tempt me. I care nothing for these gifts.” With that, he threw down a pair of immensely heavy gloves. Brave Eryx used to wear them in battle, their hard leather bound around his wrists. Everyone stared in amazement at the huge, stiff, fearsome gloves. They were made of seven layers of oxhide, with lead and iron sewn in. Dares recoiled in horror most of all, while the noble son of Anchises turned the heavy gloves and their great folds over and over. Then the old man spoke in a deep voice. “What if they had seen the gloves that Hercules himself wore, and the deadly fight on this very beach? Your brother Eryx once wore these gloves. You can still see the stains of blood and splattered brains. Wearing them, he faced great Alcides. I used them too, when fuller blood gave me strength and jealous old age had not yet covered my temples with snow. But if Dares of Troy refuses these gloves, and good Aeneas insists, and my patron Acestes agrees, let us make the fight even. Look, I give up the gloves of Eryx, so put aside your fears. You, in turn, must take off your Trojan gloves.” He threw back his robe from his shoulders, baring his massive limbs, great bones, and muscles. Then he stood up, huge, in the middle of the ground. The lordly son of Anchises brought out matching gloves and bound them on both fighters’ hands. At once they stood on tiptoe and fearlessly raised their fists. They drew their heads back out of reach and moved their hands, inviting an attack. One was quicker on his feet and confident in his youth. The other had massive limbs, but his knees shook and moved slowly, and his huge frame heaved with painful gasps. They aimed many blows at each other in vain. Many others landed again and again on chest and side, making a loud, hollow sound. Fists flew around ears and temples, and jaws clashed under the hard blows. Old Entellus stood firm and tense, using only his body and watchful eyes to avoid the punches. Dares was like a man building siege works against a high city or besieging a hill fort. He tested one approach and then another, moving cleverly around the whole ground and pressing attack after attack in vain. Entellus rose and swung his right fist straight down. His quick opponent saw the blow coming and swiftly slipped out of its path. Entellus threw all his strength into empty air. He overreached and fell heavily to the ground, like a hollow pine torn up by the roots on Erymanthus or mighty Ida. The Teucrians and the men of Sicily sprang to their feet, and a shout went up. Acestes himself ran forward and, pitying his friend and fellow countryman, lifted him from the ground. But the fall neither dulled nor discouraged Entellus. He returned to the fight with greater determination, growing fierce with anger. Shame and resolute courage gave him strength. Ablaze with rage, he drove Dares headlong around the fighting ground, striking him again and again with right hand and left. There was no break or pause. As hailstones rattle on a roof from a storm cloud, blows showered from both his hands, beating Dares back and forth. Then lord Aeneas would not let their anger grow or Entellus vent his fury any longer. He stopped the fight and rescued the exhausted Dares. “Unhappy man,” he said gently, “what madness has taken hold of you? Do you not see that the strength belongs to another now, and that the gods have changed sides? Yield to Heaven.” With those words, he declared the fight over. Dares’ faithful companions led him to the ships. His knees dragged weakly, his head swayed from side to side, and he spat out clotted blood mixed with teeth. When called, they carried away the helmet and shield, leaving the palm and the bull to Entellus. Proud of his victory and the bull, Entellus cried, “Son of a goddess, and you Trojans, see what strength I had in my prime. See, too, what death you have saved Dares from by stopping the fight.” He stood directly in front of the bullock, the prize of battle. Then he drew back his hand and swung the hard glove down between its horns, smashing its bones into its shattered brain. The ox rolled over and lay on the ground, lifeless and twitching. Standing over it, Entellus spoke in a deep voice. “Eryx, I give you this life, a better offering than the death of Dares. Here I lay down my gloves and my unconquered skill.”

Forthwith Aeneas invites all that will to the contest of the swift arrow, and proclaims the prizes. With his strong hand he uprears the mast of Serestus' ship, and on a cord crossing it hangs from the masthead a fluttering pigeon as mark for their steel. They gather, and a helmet of brass takes the lots as they throw them in. First in rank, and before them all, amid prosperous cheers, comes out Hippocoön son of Hyrtacus; and Mnestheus follows on him, but now conqueror in the ship race, Mnestheus with his chaplet of green olive. Third is Eurytion, thy brother, O Pandarus, great in renown, thou who of old, when prompted to shatter the truce, didst hurl the first shaft amid the Achaeans. Last of all, and at the bottom of the helmet, sank Acestes, he too venturing to set hand to the task of youth. Then each and all they strongly bend their bows into a curve and pull shafts from their quivers. And first the arrow of the son of Hyrtacus, flying through heaven from the sounding string, whistles through the fleet breezes, and reaches and sticks fast full in the mast's wood: the mast quivered, and the bird fluttered her feathers in affright, and the whole ground rang with loud clapping. Next valiant Mnestheus took his stand with bow bent, aiming high with levelled eye and arrow; yet could not, unfortunate! hit the bird herself with his steel, but cut the knotted hempen bands that tied her foot as she hung from the masthead; she winged her flight into the dark windy clouds. Then Eurytion, who ere now held the arrow ready on his bended bow, swiftly called in prayer to his brother, marked the pigeon as she now went down the empty sky exultant on clapping wings; and as she passed under a dark cloud, struck her: she fell breathless, and, leaving her life in the aery firmament, slid down carrying the arrow that pierced her. Acestes alone was over, and the prize lost; yet he sped his arrow up into the air, to display his lordly skill and resounding bow. At this a sudden sign meets their eyes, mighty in augural presage, as the high event taught thereafter, and in late days boding seers prophesied of the omen. For the flying reed blazed out amid the swimming clouds, traced its path in flame, and burned away on the light winds; even as often stars shooting from their sphere draw a train athwart the sky. Trinacrians and Trojans hung in astonishment, praying to the heavenly powers; neither did great Aeneas reject the omen, but embraces glad Acestes and loads him with lavish gifts, speaking thus: 'Take, my lord: for the high King of heaven by these signs hath willed thee to draw the lot of peculiar honour. This gift shalt thou have as from aged Anchises' own hand, a bowl embossed with figures, that once Cisseus of Thrace gave my father Anchises to bear, in high token and guerdon of affection.' So speaking, he twines green bay about his brows, and proclaims Acestes conqueror first before them all. Nor did gentle Eurytion, though he alone struck the bird down from the lofty sky, grudge him to be preferred in honour. Next comes for his prize he who cut the cord; he last, who pierced the mast with his winged reed.

At once, Aeneas invites everyone willing to compete in an archery contest and announces the prizes. With his strong hand, he raises the mast of Serestus' ship. From its top, he hangs a fluttering pigeon on a cord as a target for their arrows. The contestants gather and throw their lots into a bronze helmet. The first drawn, to cheers of good fortune, is Hippocoön, son of Hyrtacus. Next comes Mnestheus, who has just won the ship race and wears a crown of green olive. Third is Eurytion, your brother, O Pandarus, whose fame was great. Long ago, when urged to break the truce, you fired the first arrow among the Achaeans. Last of all, from the bottom of the helmet, comes Acestes. He too dares to take part in a contest for the young. Then they all bend their bows and draw arrows from their quivers. First, the son of Hyrtacus shoots. His arrow whistles through the swift air from the ringing string and strikes deep into the mast. The mast shakes, and the frightened bird flutters her feathers. Loud applause rings out across the whole field. Next, brave Mnestheus takes his place. He bends his bow and aims high, fixing his eye and arrow on the bird. But, unluckily, he cannot hit her. Instead, he cuts the knotted hemp cords that bind her foot to the masthead. She flies into the dark, windy clouds. Eurytion has already drawn his bow and holds his arrow ready. He quickly calls on his brother in prayer and aims at the pigeon. She is descending through the empty sky, rejoicing as she beats her wings. As she passes beneath a dark cloud, he strikes her. She falls lifeless from the sky, sliding down with the arrow still in her body. Only Acestes remains, and the prize is already lost. Still, he shoots his arrow into the air to display his noble skill and the ringing sound of his bow. Suddenly, they see a sign of great prophetic power. Later events would reveal its meaning, and in days to come seers would interpret the omen. For the flying arrow bursts into flame among the drifting clouds. It traces a fiery path and burns away on the light winds. So, too, stars often shoot from their place and draw a trail across the sky. The Trinacrians and Trojans stand astonished and pray to the heavenly powers. Great Aeneas does not dismiss the omen. He embraces the delighted Acestes, showers him with gifts, and says: 'Take this, my lord. For the high King of heaven has shown that he wishes you to receive a special honor. You shall have this gift as if from the hand of aged Anchises himself. It is a bowl embossed with figures. Cisseus of Thrace once gave it to my father Anchises as a great token and reward of affection.' With these words, Aeneas places a crown of green laurel on Acestes' head. He proclaims him the winner, above all the others. Gentle Eurytion does not begrudge him the greater honor, though he alone shot the bird from the high sky. Next, the man who cut the cord comes forward for his prize. Last comes the one whose feathered arrow pierced the mast.

But lord Aeneas, ere yet the contest is sped, calls to him Epytides, guardian and attendant of ungrown Iülus, and thus speaks into his faithful ear: 'Up and away, and tell Ascanius, if he now holds his band of boys ready, and their horses arrayed for the charge, to defile his squadrons to his grandsire's honour in bravery of arms.' So says he, and himself bids all the crowding throng withdraw from the long racecourse and leave the lists free. The boys move in before their parents' faces, glittering in rank on their bitted horses; as they go all the people of Troy and Trinacria murmur and admire. On the hair of them all rests a garland fitly trimmed; each carries two cornel spear-shafts tipped with steel; some have polished quivers on their shoulders; above their breast and round their neck goes a flexible circlet of twisted gold. Three in number are the troops of riders, and three captains gallop up and down; following each in equal command rides a glittering division of twelve boys. One youthful line goes rejoicingly behind little Priam, renewer of his grandsire's name, thy renowned seed, O Polites, and destined to people Italy; he rides a Thracian horse dappled with spots of white, showing white on his pacing pasterns and white on his high forehead. Second is Atys, from whom the Latin Atii draw their line, little Atys, boy beloved of the boy Iülus. Last and excellent in beauty before them all, Iülus rode in on a Sidonian horse that Dido the bright had given him for token and pledge of love. The rest of them are mounted on old Acestes' Sicilian horses. . . . The Dardanians greet their shy entrance with applause, and rejoice at the view, and recognise the features of their parents of old. When they have ridden merrily round all the concourse of their gazing friends, Epytides shouts from afar the signal they await, and sounds his whip. They gallop apart in equal numbers, and open their files three and three in deploying bands, and again at the call wheel about and bear down with levelled arms. Next they start on other charges and other retreats in corresponsive spaces, and interlink circle with circle, and wage the armed phantom of battle. And now they bare their backs in flight, now turn their lances to the charge, now plight peace and ride on side by side. As once of old, they say, the labyrinth in high Crete had a tangled path between blind walls, and a thousand ways of doubling treachery, where tokens to follow failed in the maze unmastered and irrecoverable: even in such a track do the children of Troy entangle their footsteps and weave the game of flight and battle; like dolphins who, swimming through the wet seas, cut Carpathian or Libyan. . . .

But before the contest is over, lord Aeneas calls Epytides, the guardian and attendant of young Iülus. He speaks privately to his faithful servant: 'Go quickly and tell Ascanius to lead out his squadrons in arms to honor his grandfather. Tell him to do so if he has his band of boys ready and their horses prepared for the charge.' Aeneas then tells the crowd to withdraw from the long racecourse and leave the course clear. The boys ride in before their parents, gleaming in formation on their bridled horses. As they pass, all the people of Troy and Trinacria murmur in admiration. Each boy wears a carefully arranged garland in his hair and carries two cornel-wood spears tipped with steel. Some have polished quivers on their shoulders. Each wears a flexible band of twisted gold around his neck and across his chest. There are three troops of riders, and three captains gallop up and down. Behind each captain rides a gleaming division of twelve boys, all under his command. One young troop follows little Priam with joy. He bears his grandfather's name, and is your renowned son, O Polites, destined to people Italy. He rides a Thracian horse dappled with white spots, with white on its pasterns and high forehead. The second captain is little Atys, whom the boy Iülus loves. The Latin Atii trace their family line back to him. Last comes Iülus, the most beautiful of them all. He rides a Sidonian horse that bright Dido gave him as a token and pledge of love. The rest ride the Sicilian horses of old Acestes. . . . The Dardanians applaud the boys' shy entrance. They rejoice at the sight and recognize the familiar features of their parents. The boys ride happily around the whole gathering of friends who watch them. Then Epytides shouts the signal they have been waiting for and cracks his whip from a distance. They gallop apart in equal numbers, spreading out in three separate bands. At the next signal they wheel around and charge with their weapons leveled. Then they make more charges and retreats across matching stretches of ground. They weave circles within circles, staging a mock battle with their weapons. Now they turn their backs in flight, now they turn and charge with their lances. Now they make peace and ride side by side. Long ago, people say, the labyrinth in high Crete had a tangled path between walls with no openings. Its thousand twisting passages led travelers astray. In that maze, no signs could guide them, and no one could master it or find a way back. In just such a pattern, the children of Troy weave their paths in their game of flight and battle. They are like dolphins swimming through the waters of the Carpathian or Libyan seas. . . .

This fashion of riding, these games Ascanius first revived, when he girt Alba the Long about with walls, and taught their celebration to the Old Latins in the way of his own boyhood, with the youth of Troy about him. The Albans taught it their children; on from them mighty Rome received it and kept the ancestral observance; and now it is called Troy, and the boys the Trojan troop.

Ascanius first revived this style of riding and these games when he built walls around Alba the Long. He taught the Old Latins to celebrate the games as he had in his own boyhood, surrounded by the youth of Troy. The Albans taught the games to their children. From them, mighty Rome received the games and kept the ancestral tradition. Now the games are called Troy, and the boys are called the Trojan troop.

Thus far sped the sacred contests to their holy lord. Just at this Fortune broke faith and grew estranged. While they pay the due rites to the tomb with diverse games, Juno, daughter of Saturn, sends Iris down the sky to the Ilian fleet, and breathes a gale to speed her on, revolving many a thought, and not yet satiate of the ancient pain. She, speeding her way along the thousand-coloured bow, runs swiftly, seen of none, down her maiden path. She discerns the vast concourse, and traverses the shore, and sees the haven abandoned and the fleet left alone. But far withdrawn by the solitary verge of the sea the Trojan women wept their lost Anchises, and as they wept gazed all together on the fathomless flood. 'Alas! after all those weary waterways, that so wide a sea is yet to come!' such is the single cry of all. They pray for a city, sick of the burden of their sea-sorrow. So she darts among them, not witless to harm, and lays by face and raiment of a goddess: she becomes Beroë, the aged wife of Tmarian Doryclus, who had once had birth and name and children, and in this guise goes among the Dardanian matrons. 'Ah, wretched we,' she cries, 'whom hostile Achaean hands did not drag to death beneath our native city! ah hapless race, for what destruction does Fortune hold thee back? The seventh summer now declines since Troy's overthrow, while we pass measuring out by so many stars the harbourless rocks over every water and land, pursuing all the while over the vast sea an Italy that flies us, and tossing on the waves. Here are our brother Eryx' borders, and Acestes' welcome: who denies us to cast up walls and give our citizens a city? O country, O household gods vainly rescued from the foe! shall there never be a Trojan town to tell of? shall I nowhere see a Xanthus and a Simoïs, the rivers of Hector? Nay, up and join me in burning with fire these ill-ominous ships. For in sleep the phantom of Cassandra the soothsayer seemed to give me blazing brands: Here seek your Troy, she said; here is your home. Now is the time to do it; nor do these high portents allow delay. Behold four altars to Neptune; the god himself lends the firebrand and the nerve.' Speaking thus, at once she strongly seizes the fiery weapon, and with straining hand whirls it far upreared, and flings: the souls of the Ilian women are startled and their wits amazed. At this one of their multitude, and she the eldest, Pyrgo, nurse in the palace to all Priam's many children: 'This is not Beroë, I tell you, O mothers; this is not the wife of Doryclus of Rhoeteum. Mark the lineaments of divine grace and the gleaming eyes, what a breath is hers, what a countenance, and the sound of her voice and the steps of her going. I, I time agone left Beroë apart, sick and fretting that she alone must have no part in this our service, nor pay Anchises his due sacrifice.' So spoke she. . . . But the matrons at first, dubious and wavering, gazed on the ships with malignant eyes, between the wretched longing for the land they trod and the fated realm that summoned them: when the goddess rose through the sky on poised wings, and in her flight drew a vast bow beneath the clouds. Then indeed, amazed at the tokens and driven by madness, they raise a cry and snatch fire from the hearths within; others plunder the altars, and cast on brushwood boughs and brands. The Fire-god rages with loose rein over thwarts and oars and hulls of painted fir. Eumelus carries the news of the burning ships to the grave of Anchises and the ranges of the theatre; and looking back, their own eyes see the floating cloud of dark ashes. And in a moment Ascanius, as he rode gaily before his cavalry, spurred his horse to the disordered camp; nor can his breathless guardians hold him back. 'What strange madness is this?' he cries; 'whither now hasten you, whither, alas and woe! O citizens? not on the foe nor on some hostile Argive camp; it is your own hopes you burn. Behold me, your Ascanius!' and he flung before his feet the empty helmet, put on when he roused the mimicry of war. Aeneas and the Trojan train together hurry to the spot. But the women scatter apart in fear all over the beach, and stealthily seek the woods and the hollow rocks they find: they loathe their deed and the daylight, and with changed eyes know their people, and Juno is startled out of their breast. But not thereby do the flames of the burning lay down their unconquered strength; under the wet oak the seams are alive, spouting slow coils of smoke; the creeping heat devours the hulls, and the destroyer takes deep hold of all: nor does the heroes' strength avail nor the floods they pour in. Then good Aeneas rent away the raiment from his shoulders and called the gods to aid, stretching forth his hands: 'Jupiter omnipotent, if thou hatest not Troy yet wholly to her last man, if thine ancient pity looks at all on human woes, now, O Lord, grant our fleet to escape the flame, and rescue from doom the slender Teucrian estate. Or do thou plunge to death this remnant, if I deserve it, with levelled thunderbolt, and here with thine own hand smite us down.' Scarce had he uttered this, when a black tempest rages in streaming showers; earth trembles to the thunder on plain and steep; the water-flood rushes in torrents from the whole heaven amid black darkness and volleying blasts of the South. The ships are filled from overhead, the half-burnt timbers are soaking; till all the heat is quenched, and all the hulls, but four that are lost, are rescued from destruction.

So far, the sacred games in honor of their revered lord had gone well. Just then Fortune turned against them. While they honored the tomb with various games, Juno, daughter of Saturn, sent Iris down from the sky to the Ilian fleet. She sent a favorable wind to speed her journey. Juno was turning over many plans, and her old bitterness was still not satisfied. Iris sped along the rainbow’s thousand colors, unseen on her maiden path. She saw the vast crowd, crossed the shore, and found the harbor deserted and the fleet left alone. Far away, on a lonely stretch of coast, the Trojan women mourned the loss of Anchises. As they wept, they all gazed at the fathomless sea. “Alas! After all those weary journeys by water, such a wide sea still lies ahead!” This was the cry of all. They prayed for a city, weary of the burden of their sorrow at sea. Iris rushed among them, knowing well how to do harm. She set aside her goddess’s face and clothing and took the form of Beroë. Beroë was the aged wife of Tmarian Doryclus, and had once enjoyed high birth, a good name, and children. In this guise, Iris went among the Dardanian women. “Ah, wretched women,” she cried, “whom hostile Achaean hands did not drag to death beneath our native city! Ah, unhappy people, what destruction is Fortune saving you for? The seventh summer since Troy fell is now drawing to a close. We have spent those years crossing every sea and land, passing harborless rocks and steering by countless stars. All the while, we have chased an Italy that retreats from us, tossed on the waves of the vast sea. Here are the lands of our brother Eryx, and Acestes welcomes us. Who is stopping us from building walls and giving our people a city? O homeland, O household gods, rescued from the enemy for nothing! Will there never be a Trojan town to speak of? Will I never see a Xanthus and a Simoïs, the rivers of Hector? Come, join me in burning these ill-omened ships. In my sleep, the ghost of Cassandra the soothsayer seemed to give me blazing torches. Seek your Troy here, she said. Here is your home. Now is the time to act. These great signs allow no delay. Look, there are four altars to Neptune. The god himself gives us fire and courage.” With those words, she seized a blazing torch, lifted it high, swung it with all her strength, and threw it. The Ilian women were startled and bewildered. Then Pyrgo, the oldest among them, spoke. She had been the palace nurse to all of Priam’s many children. “Mothers, I tell you, this is not Beroë. This is not the wife of Doryclus of Rhoeteum. Look at her graceful, divine features and her shining eyes. Notice her breath, her face, the sound of her voice, and the way she walks. I left Beroë some time ago, ill and grieving. She was upset that she alone could not join this ceremony or offer Anchises the sacrifice he was due.” So she spoke. . . . At first the women hesitated, looking bitterly at the ships. They were torn between their desperate longing for the land beneath their feet and the destined kingdom calling them onward. Then the goddess rose into the sky on outstretched wings. As she flew, she traced a vast rainbow beneath the clouds. Amazed by these signs and driven mad, the women raised a cry and snatched fire from the hearths. Others stripped the altars, throwing on brushwood, branches, and burning sticks. The Fire-god raged unchecked through the benches, oars, and painted fir hulls. Eumelus carried news of the burning ships to Anchises’ tomb and the rows of seats at the games. The people looked back and saw the dark cloud of ashes for themselves. Ascanius was riding happily at the head of his cavalry. At once, he spurred his horse toward the camp in turmoil. His breathless guardians could not hold him back. “What strange madness is this?” he cried. “Where are you rushing now, where, alas, where? O citizens, you are not burning an enemy or a hostile Argive camp. You are burning your own hopes. Look at me, your Ascanius!” He threw down at his feet the empty helmet he had put on to lead the mock battle. Aeneas and the Trojans hurried to the spot together. But the women scattered in fear across the beach. They slipped away to the woods and took shelter in hollow rocks. They hated what they had done and shrank from the daylight. Their eyes were opened, and they recognized their own people. Juno’s influence was shaken from their hearts. But the flames did not lose their unconquered strength. Fire lived in the seams beneath the wet oak, sending up slow coils of smoke. Heat crept through the hulls, and the destructive fire took deep hold of everything. The heroes’ strength was useless, and so were the floods of water they poured on it. Then faithful Aeneas tore the clothing from his shoulders. He stretched out his hands and called on the gods for help. “Jupiter almighty, if you do not yet hate Troy down to its last man, hear me. If your ancient pity still regards human suffering, Lord, let our fleet escape the flames. Rescue what little the Teucrians have left from destruction. Or, if I deserve it, strike this remnant dead with your thunderbolt. Strike us down here with your own hand.” He had scarcely finished speaking when a dark storm broke in streaming rain. Thunder shook the earth on plains and slopes. Water poured in torrents from the whole sky, amid black darkness and violent blasts of the South Wind. Rain flooded the ships from above and soaked the half-burned timbers. At last the fire was put out, and all but four of the hulls were saved from destruction.

But lord Aeneas, dismayed by the bitter mischance, revolved at heart this way and that his shifting weight of care, whether, forgetting fate, he should rest in Sicilian fields, or reach forth to the borders of Italy. Then old Nautes, whom Tritonian Pallas taught like none other, and made famous in eminence of art—she granted him to reply what the gods' heavy anger menaced or what the order of fate claimed—he then in accents of comfort thus speaks to Aeneas:

But lord Aeneas, shaken by the bitter misfortune, weighed his troubling choices. Should he forget fate and stay in the fields of Sicily, or press on to Italy’s shores? Then old Nautes spoke to comfort Aeneas. Tritonian Pallas had taught Nautes as she had taught no one else, and made him famous for his skill. She had given him the power to explain what the gods’ fierce anger threatened or what fate demanded:

'Goddess-born, follow we fate's ebb and flow, whatsoever it shall be; fortune must be borne to be overcome. Acestes is of thine own divine Dardanian race; take him, for he is willing, to join thee in common counsel; deliver to him those who are over, now these ships are lost, and those who are quite weary of thy fortunes and the great quest. Choose out the old men stricken in years, and the matrons sick of the sea, and all that is weak and fearful of peril in thy company. Let this land give a city to the weary; they shall be allowed to call their town Acesta by name.'

'Child of a goddess, let us follow fate wherever it leads. We must endure fortune to overcome it. Acestes is of your own divine Dardanian race. He is willing to help you plan, so take him into your counsel. Leave with him those who no longer have a place now that these ships are lost. Leave him also those who are utterly weary of your fortunes and the great quest. Choose the old men advanced in years and the matrons sick of the sea. Choose also all those in your company who are weak and afraid of danger. Let the weary have a city in this land. They shall be allowed to name their town Acesta.'

Then, indeed, kindled by these words of his aged friend, his spirit is distracted among all his cares. And now black Night rose chariot-borne, and held the sky; when the likeness of his father Anchises seemed to descend from heaven and suddenly utter thus:

Then his old friend's words stirred him, and his mind was torn among all his cares. Dark Night rose in her chariot and filled the sky. Then the image of his father Anchises seemed to descend from heaven and suddenly speak:

'O son, more dear to me than life once of old while life was yet mine; O son, hard wrought by the destinies of Ilium! I come hither by Jove's command, who drove the fire from thy fleets, and at last had pity out of high heaven. Obey thou the fair counsel aged Nautes now gives. Carry through to Italy thy chosen men and bravest souls; in Latium must thou war down a people hard and rough in living. Yet ere then draw thou nigh the nether chambers of Dis, and in the deep tract of hell come, O son, to meet me. For I am not held in cruel Tartarus among wailing ghosts, but inhabit Elysium and the sweet societies of the good. Hither with much blood of dark cattle shall the holy Sibyl lead thee. Then shalt thou learn of all thy line, and what city is given thee. And now farewell; dank Night wheels her mid-career, and even now I feel the stern breath of the panting horses of the East.' He ended, and retreated like a vapour into thin air. 'Ah, whither hurriest thou?' cries Aeneas; 'whither so fast away? From whom fliest thou? or who withholds thee from our embrace?' So speaking, he kindles the sleeping embers of the fire, and with holy meal and laden censer does sacrifice to the tutelar of Pergama and hoar Vesta's secret shrine.

'My son, you were once dearer to me than life itself, when I was still alive. My son, you have suffered under the fate of Ilium! I come by Jove's command. He drove the fire from your ships and finally took pity on you from high heaven. Follow the good advice that old Nautes now gives you. Take your chosen men and bravest souls to Italy. In Latium you must fight and overcome a people hardened by a rough life. But first, come down to the lower chambers of Dis. Meet me, my son, in the depths of hell. For I am not held in cruel Tartarus among the wailing ghosts. I live in Elysium, in the sweet company of the good. The holy Sibyl will lead you here, after much blood is shed from dark cattle. Then you will learn about all your descendants and the city destined for you. And now farewell. Damp Night is halfway through her course, and already I feel the harsh breath of the panting horses of the East.' He finished speaking and vanished like mist into thin air. 'Ah, where are you hurrying?' Aeneas cries. 'Why are you leaving so quickly? Whom are you fleeing? Or who keeps you from my embrace?' As he speaks, he stirs the dying embers of the fire. With sacred meal and a filled censer, he offers sacrifices to the guardian of Pergama and the secret shrine of ancient Vesta.

Straightway he summons his crews and Acestes first of all, and instructs them of Jove's command and his beloved father's precepts, and what is now his fixed mind and purpose. They linger not in counsel, nor does Acestes decline his bidden duty: they enrol the matrons in their town, and plant a people there, souls that will have none of glory. The rest repair the thwarts and replace the ships' timbers that the flames had gnawed upon, and fit up oars and rigging, little in number, but alive and valiant for war. Meanwhile Aeneas traces the town with the plough and allots the homesteads; this he bids be Ilium, and these lands Troy. Trojan Acestes, rejoicing in his kingdom, appoints a court and gathers his senators to give them statutes. Next, where the crest of Eryx is neighbour to the stars, a dwelling is founded to Venus the Idalian; and a priest and breadth of holy wood is attached to Anchises' grave.

He immediately summoned his crews, calling Acestes first. He told them of Jove's command, his beloved father's instructions, and his own firm decision. They did not prolong their discussion, and Acestes did not refuse the duty given him. They enrolled the matrons in their town and settled a people there who had no desire for glory. The rest repaired the ships' crossbenches and replaced the timbers the flames had damaged. They also fitted the ships with oars and rigging. Though few in number, they were full of life and brave in war. Meanwhile, Aeneas marked out the town with a plough and assigned plots for homes. He ordered that the town be called Ilium and the surrounding lands Troy. Trojan Acestes, rejoicing in his kingdom, established a court and gathered his senators to give them laws. Next, they built a temple to Venus the Idalian near the starry summit of Eryx. They also appointed a priest and set aside a broad sacred grove for Anchises' grave.

And now for nine days all the people hath feasted, and offering been paid at the altars; quiet breezes have smoothed the ocean floor, and the gathering south wind blows, calling them again to sea. A mighty weeping arises along the winding shore; a night and a day they linger in mutual embraces. The very mothers now, the very men to whom once the sight of the sea seemed cruel and the name intolerable, would go on and endure the journey's travail to the end. These Aeneas comforts with kindly words, and commends with tears to his kinsman Acestes' care. Then he bids slay three steers to Eryx and a she-lamb to the Tempests, and loose the hawser as is due. Himself, his head bound with stripped leaves of olive, he stands apart on the prow holding the cup, and casts the entrails into the salt flood and pours liquid wine. A wind rising astern follows them forth on their way. Emulously the crews strike the water, and sweep through the seas.

For nine days, all the people have feasted and made offerings at the altars. Gentle breezes have smoothed the sea, and a rising south wind calls them back to sea. Loud cries rise along the winding shore. For a night and a day, they linger, embracing one another. Even the mothers and the men who once found the sight of the sea cruel and its name unbearable now wish to go. They would endure the hardships of the voyage to the end. Aeneas comforts them with kind words and, in tears, entrusts them to the care of his kinsman Acestes. Then he orders three bulls sacrificed to Eryx and a ewe lamb to the Tempests. He also orders the mooring rope cast off, as custom requires. With stripped olive leaves bound around his head, he stands apart on the prow, holding a cup. He casts the entrails into the salt water and pours out wine. A wind rises behind them and carries them on their way. The crews compete as they strike the water with their oars and sweep through the seas.

But Venus meanwhile, wrought upon with distress, accosts Neptune, and thus pours forth her heart's complaint: 'Juno's bitter wrath and heart insatiable compel me, O Neptune, to sink to the uttermost of entreaty: neither length of days nor any goodness softens her, nor doth Jove's command and fate itself break her to desistence. It is not enough that her accursed hatred hath devoured the Phrygian city from among the people, and exhausted on it the stores of vengeance; still she pursues this remnant, the bones and ashes of murdered Troy. I pray she know why her passion is so fierce. Thyself art my witness what a sudden stir she raised of late on the Libyan waters, flinging all the seas to heaven in vain reliance on Aeolus' blasts; this she dared in thy realm. . . . Lo too, driving the Trojan matrons into guilt, she hath foully burned their ships, and forced them, their fleet lost, to leave the crews to an unknown land. Let the remnant, I beseech thee, give their sails to thy safe keeping across the seas; let them reach Laurentine Tiber; if I ask what is permitted, if fate grants them a city there.'

Meanwhile, Venus, deeply distressed, approached Neptune and poured out her complaint: 'Neptune, Juno's bitter anger and insatiable heart force me to beg you with all my might. Neither the passage of time nor any act of goodness softens her. Not even Jove's command or fate itself can make her stop. Her cursed hatred has destroyed the Phrygian city and spent all its vengeance on it. But that is not enough. She still pursues this remnant, the bones and ashes of murdered Troy. I only hope she knows why her anger is so fierce. You yourself witnessed the sudden storm she recently raised on the Libyan waters. She hurled the whole sea skyward, relying in vain on Aeolus' winds. She dared to do this in your realm. . . . And look, she has driven the Trojan women to wrongdoing and shamefully burned their ships. With their fleet lost, she has forced them to leave the crews in an unknown land. I beg you, let the survivors sail safely across the seas under your protection. Let them reach the Laurentine Tiber, if what I ask is permitted, if fate grants them a city there.'

Then the son of Saturn, compeller of the ocean deep, uttered thus: 'It is wholly right, O Cytherean, that thy trust should be in my realm, whence thou drawest birth; and I have deserved it: often have I allayed the rage and full fury of sky and sea. Nor less on land, I call Xanthus and Simoïs to witness, hath been my care of thine Aeneas. When Achilles pursued the Trojan armies and hurled them breathless on their walls, and sent many thousands to death,—when the choked rivers groaned and Xanthus could not find passage or roll out to sea,—then I snatched Aeneas away in sheltering mist as he met the brave son of Peleus outmatched in strength and gods, eager as I was to overthrow the walls of perjured Troy that mine own hands had built. Now too my mind rests the same; dismiss thy fear. In safety, as thou desirest, shall he reach the haven of Avernus. One will there be alone whom on the flood thou shalt lose and require; one life shall be given for many. . . .'

Then the son of Saturn, ruler of the deep ocean, said: 'It is entirely right, Cytherean, that you trust my realm, where you were born. I have earned your trust. I have often calmed the rage and full fury of the sky and sea. I have cared no less for your Aeneas on land. I call Xanthus and Simoïs as witnesses. Achilles pursued the Trojan armies and drove them breathless back to their walls. He sent many thousands to their deaths. The clogged rivers groaned, and Xanthus could not find a way through or flow out to sea. Then Aeneas faced the brave son of Peleus, though Aeneas was weaker and had fewer gods on his side. I snatched him away in a protective mist. I did this even though I was eager to destroy the walls of faithless Troy, which I had built with my own hands. I feel the same way now, so put aside your fear. As you wish, he will reach the haven of Avernus safely. Only one will be lost to you at sea, and you will seek him. One life will be given for many. . . .'

With these words the goddess' bosom is soothed to joy. Then their lord yokes his wild horses with gold and fastens the foaming bits, and letting all the reins run slack in his hand, flies lightly in his sea-coloured chariot over the ocean surface. The waves sink to rest, and the swoln water-ways smooth out under the thundering axle; the storm-clouds scatter from the vast sky. Diverse shapes attend him, monstrous whales, and Glaucus' aged choir, and Palaemon, son of Ino, the swift Tritons, and Phorcus with all his army. Thetis and Melite keep the left, and maiden Panopea, Nesaea and Spio, Thalia and Cymodoce.

These words soothe the goddess and fill her with joy. Then their lord harnesses his wild horses with gold and fastens their foaming bits. Holding the reins loosely, he glides over the ocean in his sea-colored chariot. The waves settle, and the swollen waters smooth out beneath the thundering axle. Storm clouds scatter from the vast sky. Many different creatures accompany him: monstrous whales, the aged choir of Glaucus, and Palaemon, son of Ino. The swift Tritons are there too, along with Phorcus and all his army. Thetis and Melite keep to his left, along with the maiden Panopea, Nesaea, Spio, Thalia, and Cymodoce.

At this lord Aeneas' soul is thrilled with soft counterchange of delight. He bids all the masts be upreared with speed, and the sails stretched on the yards. Together all set their sheets, and all at once slacken their canvas to left and again to right; together they brace and unbrace the yard-arms aloft; prosperous gales waft the fleet along. First, in front of all, Palinurus steered the close column; the rest under orders ply their course by his. And now dewy Night had just reached heaven's mid-cone; the sailors, stretched on their hard benches under the oars, relaxed their limbs in quiet rest: when Sleep, sliding lightly down from the starry sky, parted the shadowy air and cleft the dark, seeking thee, O Palinurus, carrying dreams of bale to thee who dreamt not of harm, and lit on the high stern, a god in Phorbas' likeness, dropping this speech from his lips: 'Palinurus son of Iasus, the very seas bear our fleet along; the breezes breathe steadily; for an hour rest is given. Lay down thine head, and steal thy worn eyes from their toil. I myself for a little will take thy duty in thy stead.' To whom Palinurus, scarcely lifting his eyes, returns: 'Wouldst thou have me ignorant what the calm face of the brine means, and the waves at rest? Shall I have faith in this perilous thing? How shall I trust Aeneas to deceitful breezes, and the placid treachery of sky that hath so often deceived me?' Such words he uttered, and, clinging fast to the tiller, slackened hold no whit, and looked up steadily on the stars. Lo! the god shakes over either temple a bough dripping with Lethean dew and made slumberous with the might of Styx, and makes his swimming eyes relax their struggles. Scarcely had sleep begun to slacken his limbs unaware, when bending down, he flung him sheer into the clear water, tearing rudder and half the stern away with him, and many a time crying vainly on his comrades: himself he rose on flying wings into the thin air. None the less does the fleet run safe on its sea path, and glides on unalarmed in lord Neptune's assurance. Yes, and now they were sailing in to the cliffs of the Sirens, dangerous once of old and white with the bones of many a man; and the hoarse rocks echoed afar in the ceaseless surf; when her lord felt the ship rocking astray for loss of her helmsman, and himself steered her on over the darkling water, sighing often the while, and heavy at heart for his friend's mischance. 'Ah too trustful in sky's and sea's serenity, thou shalt lie, O Palinurus, naked on an alien sand!'

At this, lord Aeneas felt a tender answering thrill of joy. He ordered the masts raised quickly and the sails spread on the yards. Together, the crews set the ropes and loosened the sails, first to the left and then to the right. Together, they adjusted the yardarms overhead. Favorable winds carried the fleet along. Palinurus steered at the head of the close column. The others followed his course, as ordered. Dewy Night had just reached the middle of the sky. The sailors lay on their hard benches beneath the oars, relaxing in quiet rest. Then Sleep glided down from the starry sky, parting the shadowy air and cutting through the darkness. He sought you, Palinurus, bringing dreams of evil to you, who suspected no harm. The god landed on the high stern in the likeness of Phorbas and spoke: 'Palinurus, son of Iasus, the seas themselves carry our fleet along. The breezes blow steadily. You may rest for an hour. Lay down your head and let your weary eyes escape their work. I will take your place for a little while.' Palinurus barely raised his eyes as he answered: 'Would you have me forget what the calm face of the sea and the quiet waves mean? Should I put my faith in something so dangerous? How can I trust Aeneas to deceptive breezes and the calm treachery of a sky that has so often deceived me?' As he spoke, he clung tightly to the tiller, without loosening his grip, and kept his eyes on the stars. Then the god shook a branch over both his temples. It dripped with Lethean dew and carried the sleep-inducing power of Styx. Palinurus struggled to keep his swimming eyes open, but the god made them close. Sleep had barely begun to relax his limbs before he knew it. Then the god leaned down and flung him into the clear water, tearing away the rudder and half the stern with him. Palinurus called again and again to his comrades, but in vain. The god himself rose on swift wings into the thin air. Even so, the fleet sailed safely on its course, gliding without fear under lord Neptune's protection. Now they were nearing the cliffs of the Sirens. These cliffs had once been dangerous and were white with the bones of many men. The hoarse rocks echoed far and wide with the ceaseless surf. Then Aeneas felt the ship veering off course because its helmsman was gone. He took the helm himself and steered her over the dark water. He sighed often, his heart heavy over his friend's misfortune. 'Ah, Palinurus, you trusted too much in the calm sky and sea. You shall lie naked on a foreign shore!'