The Battle on the Beach

Meanwhile the heavenly house omnipotent unfolds her doors, and the father of gods and king of men calls a council in the starry dwelling; whence he looks sheer down on the whole earth, the Dardanian camp, and the peoples of Latium. They sit down within from doorway to doorway: their lord begins:

Meanwhile, the almighty halls of heaven open their doors. The father of gods and king of men calls a council in his starry home. From there, he looks straight down on the whole earth, the Dardanian camp, and the peoples of Latium. The gods sit down throughout the hall, from one doorway to the other. Their lord begins:

'Lords of heaven, wherefore is your decree turned back, and your minds thus jealously at strife? I forbade Italy to join battle with the Teucrians; why this quarrel in face of my injunction? What terror hath bidden one or another run after arms and tempt the sword? The due time of battle will arrive, call it not forth, when furious Carthage shall one day sunder the Alps to hurl ruin full on the towers of Rome. Then hatred may grapple with hatred, then hostilities be opened; now let them be, and cheerfully join in the treaty we ordain.'

'Lords of heaven, why have you reversed your decision? Why are you fighting among yourselves out of jealousy? I forbade Italy to fight the Teucrians. Why are they fighting against my command? What fear has driven either side to take up arms and risk battle? The time for battle will come. Do not bring it on early. One day, furious Carthage will cross the Alps to bring ruin upon the towers of Rome. Then hatred may clash with hatred, and war may begin. For now, let them be, and gladly join in the treaty we decree.'

Thus Jupiter in brief; but not briefly golden Venus returns in answer: . . .

Jupiter spoke briefly. But golden Venus gave a longer answer: . . .

'O Lord, O everlasting Governor of men and things—for what else may we yet supplicate?—beholdest thou how the Rutulians brave it, and Turnus, borne charioted through the ranks, proudly sweeps down the tide of battle? Bar and bulwark no longer shelter the Trojans; nay, within the gates and even on the mounded walls they clash in battle and make the trenches swim with blood. Aeneas is away and ignorant. Wilt thou never then let our leaguer be raised? Again a foe overhangs the walls of infant Troy; and another army, and a second son of Tydeus rises from Aetolian Arpi against the Trojans. Truly I think my wounds are yet to come, and I thy child am keeping some mortal weapons idle. If the Trojans steered for Italy without thy leave and defiant of thy deity, let them expiate their sin; aid not such with thy succour. But if so many oracles guided them, given by god and ghost, why may aught now reverse thine ordinance or write destiny anew? Why should I recall the fleets burned on the coast of Eryx? why the king of storms, and the raging winds roused from Aeolia, or Iris driven down the clouds? Now hell too is stirred (this share of the world was yet untried) and Allecto suddenly let loose above to riot through the Italian towns. In no wise am I moved for empire; that was our hope while Fortune stood; let those conquer whom thou wilt. If thy cruel wife leave no region free to Teucrians, by the smoking ruins of desolated Troy, O father, I beseech thee, grant Ascanius unhurt retreat from arms, grant me my child's life. Aeneas may well be tossed over unknown seas and follow what path soever fortune open to him; him let me avail to shelter and withdraw from the turmoil of battle. Amathus is mine, high Paphos and Cythera, and my house of Idalia; here, far from arms, let him spend an inglorious life. Bid Carthage in high lordship rule Ausonia; there will be nothing there to check the Tyrian cities. What help was it for the Trojans to escape war's doom and thread their flight through Argive fires, to have exhausted all those perils of sea and desolate lands, while they seek Latium and the towers of a Troy rebuilt? Were it not better to have clung to the last ashes of their country, and the ground where once was Troy? Give back, I pray, Xanthus and Simoïs to a wretched people, and let the Teucrians again, O Lord, circle through the fates of Ilium.'

'O Lord, eternal ruler of people and all things, what else can we still pray for? Do you see how boldly the Rutulians fight? Turnus rides in his chariot through the ranks, proudly sweeping into battle. Walls and defenses no longer shelter the Trojans. They fight inside the gates and even on the raised walls, and the trenches run with blood. Aeneas is away and knows nothing of this. Will you never let the siege be lifted? Once again an enemy threatens the walls of young Troy. Another army rises against the Trojans, and a second son of Tydeus comes from Aetolian Arpi. Surely my wounds are still to come. I, your child, am waiting for some mortal to use his weapons against me. If the Trojans sailed for Italy without your permission and in defiance of your divine will, let them pay for their sin. Do not help them. But if so many prophecies from gods and spirits guided them, why can anything now overturn your decree or rewrite destiny? Why should I speak again of the fleets burned on the coast of Eryx? Or of the king of storms, the raging winds roused from Aeolia, and Iris sent down through the clouds? Now even hell has been stirred up. That part of the world had not yet been tried. Allecto has suddenly been set loose above to wreak havoc through the Italian towns. I no longer care about an empire. That was our hope while Fortune favored us. Let those you choose conquer. If your cruel wife leaves no land open to the Teucrians, then, father, I beg you by the smoking ruins of destroyed Troy: let Ascanius escape from battle unharmed. Let my child live. Aeneas may be tossed over unknown seas and follow whatever path fortune opens to him. But let me at least shelter Ascanius and take him away from the chaos of battle. Amathus, high Paphos, Cythera, and my home at Idalia are mine. Let him live an unglorious life there, far from battle. Command Carthage to rule Ausonia in supremacy. Nothing there will stand in the way of the Tyrian cities. What good did it do the Trojans to escape death in war and flee through the Argive fires? What good did it do them to endure every danger of the sea and empty lands, seeking Latium and the towers of a rebuilt Troy? Would it not have been better to cling to the last ashes of their country and the ground where Troy once stood? Give Xanthus and Simoïs back to a miserable people, I pray. Let the Teucrians, O Lord, go through the fate of Ilium again.'

Then Queen Juno, swift and passionate:

Then Queen Juno, quick and passionate:

'Why forcest thou me to break long silence and proclaim my hidden pain? Hath any man or god constrained Aeneas to court war or make armed attack on King Latinus? In oracular guidance he steered for Italy: be it so: he whom raving Cassandra sent on his way! Did we urge him to quit the camp or entrust his life to the winds? to give the issue of war and the charge of his ramparts to a child? to stir the loyalty of Tyrrhenia or throw peaceful nations into tumult? What god, what potent cruelty of ours, hath driven him on his hurt? Where is Juno in this, or Iris sped down the clouds? It shocks thee that Italians should enring an infant Troy with flame, and Turnus set foot on his own ancestral soil—he, grandchild of Pilumnus, son of Venilia the goddess: how, that the dark brands of Troy assail the Latins? that Trojans subjugate and plunder fields not their own? how, that they choose their brides and tear plighted bosom from bosom? that their gestures plead for peace, and their ships are lined with arms? Thou canst steal thine Aeneas from Grecian hands, and spread before them a human semblance of mist and empty air; thou canst turn his fleet into nymphs of like number: is it dreadful if we retaliate with any aid to the Rutulians? Aeneas is away and ignorant; away and ignorant let him be. Paphos is thine and Idalium, thine high Cythera; why meddlest thou with fierce spirits and a city big with war? Is it we who would overthrow the tottering state of Phrygia? we? or he who brought the Achaeans down on the hapless Trojans? who made Europe and Asia bristle up in arms, and whose theft shattered the alliance? Was it in my guidance the adulterous Dardanian broke into Sparta? or did I send the shafts of passion that kindled war? Then terror for thy children had graced thee; too late now dost thou rise with unjust complaints, and reproaches leave thy lips in vain.'

'Why do you force me to break my long silence and reveal my hidden pain? Did any man or god force Aeneas to seek war or attack King Latinus? An oracle guided him to Italy. So be it. He was sent on his way by the raving Cassandra! Did we urge him to leave his camp or entrust his life to the winds? Did we urge him to leave a child in charge of the war and his defenses? Did we tell him to win the loyalty of Tyrrhenia or throw peaceful nations into turmoil? What god, what mighty cruelty of ours, has driven him to his own destruction? Where are Juno and Iris, sent down through the clouds, in all this? It shocks you that Italians surround a new Troy with fire. It shocks you that Turnus sets foot on his own ancestral soil. He is the grandson of Pilumnus and the son of the goddess Venilia. But what about the Trojans, attacking the Latins with their smoking torches? What about their conquering and plundering fields that are not their own? What about their choosing brides and tearing apart couples pledged to each other? What about their gestures pleading for peace while their ships are loaded with weapons? You can snatch your Aeneas from Greek hands and leave a human shape of mist and empty air before them. You can turn each ship in his fleet into a nymph. Is it so terrible if we respond by offering any help to the Rutulians? Aeneas is away and knows nothing of this. Let him stay away and ignorant. Paphos is yours, and Idalium and lofty Cythera are yours. Why meddle with fierce people and a city on the brink of war? Are we the ones who would destroy the crumbling state of Phrygia? Are we? Or was it the one who brought the Achaeans down on the unfortunate Trojans? Who caused Europe and Asia to arm themselves for war? Whose theft shattered their alliance? Was I guiding the adulterous Dardanian when he broke into Sparta? Did I fire the arrows of passion that started the war? That was when you should have feared for your children. Now you rise too late with unjust complaints, and your reproaches are in vain.'

Thus Juno pleaded; and all the heavenly people murmured in diverse consent; even as rising gusts murmur when caught in the forests, and eddy in blind moanings, betraying to sailors the gale's approach. Then the Lord omnipotent and primal power of the world begins; as he speaks the high house of the gods and trembling floor of earth sink to silence; silent is the deep sky, and the breezes are stilled; ocean hushes his waters into calm.

Juno pleaded, and all the gods murmured in agreement, though in different ways. They sounded like rising gusts murmuring through a forest, swirling with unseen moans that warn sailors of an approaching gale. Then the almighty Lord, the first power of the world, began to speak. As he spoke, the gods’ high house and the trembling earth fell silent. The vast sky was quiet, the breezes stopped, and the ocean’s waters grew calm.

'Take then to heart and lay deep these words of mine. Since it may not be that Ausonians and Teucrians join alliance, and your quarrel finds no term, to-day, what fortune each wins, what hope each follows, be he Trojan or Rutulian, I will hold in even poise; whether it be Italy's fate or Trojan blundering and ill advice that holds the camp in leaguer. Nor do I acquit the Rutulians. Each as he hath begun shall work out his destiny. Jupiter is one and king over all; the fates will find their way.' By his brother's infernal streams, by the banks of the pitchy black-boiling chasm he signed assent, and made all Olympus quiver at his nod. Here speaking ended: thereon Jupiter rises from his golden throne, and the heavenly people surround and escort him to the doorway.

'Take my words to heart and remember them well. The Ausonians and Teucrians cannot form an alliance, and your quarrel has no end. So today I will treat each side equally, whatever fortune or hope they pursue, whether Trojan or Rutulian. I will do this whether it is Italy's fate or Trojan mistakes and bad advice that keep the camp under siege. But I do not excuse the Rutulians either. Each shall work out his own destiny as he has begun. Jupiter alone is king over all. The fates will find their way.' He swore to this by his brother's streams of the underworld and by the banks of the boiling, pitch-black abyss. His nod made all Olympus tremble. The speaking ended. Then Jupiter rose from his golden throne, and the heavenly people gathered around him and escorted him to the doorway.

Meanwhile the Rutulians press round all the gates, dealing grim slaughter and girdling the walls with flame. But the army of the Aeneadae are held leaguered within their trenches, with no hope of retreat. They stand helpless and disconsolate on their high towers, and their thin ring girdles the walls,—Asius, son of Imbrasus, and Thymoetes, son of Hicetaon, and the two Assaraci, and Castor, and old Thymbris together in the front rank: by them Clarus and Themon, both full brothers to Sarpedon, out of high Lycia. Acmon of Lyrnesus, great as his father Clytius, or his brother Mnestheus, carries a stone, straining all his vast frame to the huge mountain fragment. Emulously they keep their guard, these with javelins, those with stones, and wield fire and fit arrows on the string. Amid them he, Venus' fittest care, lo! the Dardanian boy, his graceful head uncovered, shines even as a gem set in red gold on ornament of throat or head, or even as gleaming ivory cunningly inlaid in boxwood or Orician terebinth; his tresses lie spread over his milk-white neck, bound by a flexible circlet of gold. Thee, too, Ismarus, proud nations saw aiming wounds and arming thy shafts with poison,—thee, of house illustrious in Maeonia, where the rich tilth is wrought by men's hands, and Pactolus waters it with gold. There too was Mnestheus, exalted in fame as he who erewhile had driven Turnus from the ramparts; and Capys, from whom is drawn the name of the Campanian city.

Meanwhile, the Rutulians press around every gate, killing mercilessly and surrounding the walls with fire. But the army of the Aeneadae is trapped inside its defenses, with no hope of retreat. They stand helpless and disheartened on their high towers, forming a thin line along the walls. In the front rank stand Asius, son of Imbrasus, Thymoetes, son of Hicetaon, the two Assaraci, Castor, and old Thymbris. Beside them are Clarus and Themon, both brothers of Sarpedon, from the highlands of Lycia. Acmon of Lyrnesus is as large as his father Clytius or his brother Mnestheus. He strains his enormous body to carry a stone, a huge fragment of a mountain. Eager to match one another, they stand guard. Some use javelins, others stones, while others wield fire or set arrows to their bows. Among them, the Dardanian boy shines, the one most worthy of Venus’ care. His graceful head is uncovered. He shines like a gem set in red gold in a necklace or headpiece. He is like gleaming ivory skillfully inlaid in boxwood or Orician terebinth. His hair falls over his milk-white neck, held by a flexible band of gold. Proud nations also saw you, Ismarus, aiming to wound and tipping your arrows with poison. You came from a distinguished house in Maeonia, where men work the rich fields and the Pactolus waters them with gold. Mnestheus was there too, famous for having earlier driven Turnus from the ramparts. And there was Capys, from whom the Campanian city takes its name.

They had closed in grim war's mutual conflict; Aeneas, while night was yet deep, clove the seas. For when, leaving Evander for the Etruscan camp, he hath audience of the king, and tells the king of his name and race, and what he asks or offers, instructs him of the arms Mezentius is winning to his side, and of Turnus' overbearing spirit, reminds him what is all the certainty of human things, and mingles all with entreaties; delaying not, Tarchon joins forces and strikes alliance. Then, freed from the oracle, the Lydian people man their fleet, laid by divine ordinance in the foreign captain's hand. Aeneas' galley keeps in front, with the lions of Phrygia fastened on her prow, above them overhanging Ida, sight most welcome to the Trojan exiles. Here great Aeneas sits revolving the changing issues of war; and Pallas, clinging on his left side, asks now of the stars and their pathway through the dark night, now of his fortunes by land and sea.

They had joined in grim battle with each other. Meanwhile, Aeneas sailed through the sea while the night was still deep. He had left Evander and gone to the Etruscan camp, where he met with the king. He told the king his name and ancestry, and what he sought and what he offered. He explained what forces Mezentius was gathering and spoke of Turnus' arrogance. He reminded the king how uncertain all human affairs are and added his pleas. Tarchon joined forces with him and made an alliance without delay. Then the Lydian people, freed from the oracle's restriction, manned their fleet. By divine command, the fleet was placed under the foreign captain's command. Aeneas' galley led the way. Lions of Phrygia adorned its prow, with Ida rising above them, a welcome sight for the Trojan exiles. There, great Aeneas sat considering the changing fortunes of war. Pallas stayed close beside him on his left. He asked Aeneas about the stars and their paths through the dark night. He also asked about Aeneas' adventures on land and sea.

Open now the gates of Helicon, goddesses, and stir the song of the band that come the while with Aeneas from the Tuscan borders, and sail in armed ships overseas.

Open the gates of Helicon now, goddesses, and inspire the song of the band. They come with Aeneas from the Tuscan borders, sailing overseas in armed ships.

First in the brazen-plated Tiger Massicus cuts the flood; beneath him are ranked a thousand men who have left Clusium town and the city of Cosae; their weapons are arrows, and light quivers on the shoulder, and their deadly bow. With him goes grim Abas, all his train in shining armour, and a gilded Apollo glittering astern. To him Populonia had given six hundred of her children, tried in war, but Ilva three hundred, the island rich in unexhausted mines of steel. Third Asilas, interpreter between men and gods, master of the entrails of beasts and the stars in heaven, of speech of birds and ominous lightning flashes, draws a thousand men after him in serried lines bristling with spears, bidden to his command from Pisa city, of Alphaean birth on Etruscan soil. Astyr follows, excellent in beauty, Astyr, confident in his horse and glancing arms. Three hundred more—all have one heart to follow—come from the householders of Caere and the fields of Minio, and ancient Pyrgi, and fever-stricken Graviscae.

First comes Massicus, cutting through the water in the bronze-plated Tiger. Under his command are a thousand men who have left Clusium town and the city of Cosae. They carry arrows, light quivers on their shoulders, and deadly bows. With him comes grim Abas, his whole company in shining armor and a gilded Apollo glittering at the stern. Populonia had given him six hundred of her sons, seasoned in war. But Ilva, an island rich in inexhaustible mines of steel, had given him three hundred. Third comes Asilas, an interpreter between men and gods. He is a master of reading the entrails of beasts, the stars in heaven, the speech of birds, and ominous flashes of lightning. He leads a thousand men in tight ranks, bristling with spears. They were called to serve under him from Pisa, a city of Alphaean origin on Etruscan soil. Astyr follows, outstanding in beauty, confident in his horse and shining arms. Three hundred more follow him, all united in purpose. They come from the households of Caere, the fields of Minio, ancient Pyrgi, and fever-stricken Graviscae.

Let me not pass thee by, O Cinyras, bravest in war of Ligurian captains, and thee, Cupavo, with thy scant company, from whose crest rise the swan plumes, fault, O Love, of thee and thine, and blazonment of his father's form. For they tell that Cycnus, in grief for his beloved Phaëthon, while he sings and soothes his woeful love with music amid the shady sisterhood of poplar boughs, drew over him the soft plumage of white old age, and left earth and passed crying through the sky. His son, followed on shipboard with a band of like age, sweeps the huge Centaur forward with his oars; he leans over the water, and threatens the waves with a vast rock he holds on high, and furrows the deep seas with his length of keel.

I must not pass over you, Cinyras, bravest in war of the Ligurian captains. Nor can I pass over you, Cupavo, with your small company. Swan feathers rise from your helmet, a mark of your father’s form and the work of you and yours, O Love. For they say that Cycnus mourned his beloved Phaëthon among the shady poplar branches, his sisters. There he sang and soothed his sorrowful love with music. Then he was covered in the soft white plumage of old age. He left the earth and flew crying through the sky. His son, followed aboard ship by a band of men his own age, drives the huge Centaur forward with his oars. The Centaur leans over the water, holding a vast rock high above the threatening waves. Its long keel cuts through the deep seas.

He too calls a train from his native coasts, Ocnus, son of prophetic Manto and the river of Tuscany, who gave thee, O Mantua, ramparts and his mother's name; Mantua, rich in ancestry, yet not all of one blood, a threefold race, and under each race four cantons; herself she is the cantons' head, and her strength is of Tuscan blood. From her likewise hath Mezentius five hundred in arms against him, whom Mincius, child of Benacus, draped in gray reeds, led to battle in his advancing pine. Aulestes moves on heavily, smiting the waves with the swinging forest of an hundred oars; the channels foam as they sweep the sea-floor. He sails in the vast Triton, who amazes the blue waterways with his shell, and swims on with shaggy front, in human show from the flank upward; his belly ends in a dragon; beneath the monster's breast the wave gurgles into foam. So many were the chosen princes who went in thirty ships to aid Troy, and cut the salt plains with brazen prow.

Ocnus, too, brings a force from his native shores. He is the son of the prophet Manto and the river of Tuscany. He gave you, Mantua, your walls and his mother’s name. Mantua has a rich ancestry, but its people are not all of one blood. They come from three races, each divided into four cantons. Mantua itself is the chief of these cantons, and its strength comes from Tuscan blood. From Mantua also come five hundred armed men to fight Mezentius. Mincius, son of Benacus and clothed in gray reeds, led them to battle in his advancing pine ship. Aulestes moves slowly forward, striking the waves with a swinging forest of a hundred oars. The channels foam as the oars sweep the sea floor. He sails in the huge Triton, whose shell startles the blue waterways. Triton swims on, with a shaggy front and a human form from the waist up. His belly ends in a dragon’s tail. Beneath the monster’s breast, the water gurgles into foam. These were the chosen princes who sailed in thirty ships to help Troy, cutting through the salt plains with bronze prows.

And now day had faded from the sky, and gracious Phoebe trod mid-heaven in the chariot of her nightly wandering: Aeneas, for his charge allows not rest to his limbs, himself sits guiding the tiller and managing the sails. And lo, in middle course a band of his own fellow-voyagers meets him, the nymphs whom bountiful Cybele had bidden be gods of the sea, and turn to nymphs from ships; they swam on in even order, and cleft the flood, as many as erewhile, brazen-plated prows, had anchored on the beach. From far they know their king, and wheel their bands about him, and Cymodocea, their readiest in speech, comes up behind, catching the stern with her right hand: her back rises out, and her left hand oars her passage through the silent water. Then she thus accosts her amazed lord: 'Wakest thou, seed of gods, Aeneas? wake, and loosen the sheets of thy sails. We are thy fleet, Idaean pines from the holy hill, now nymphs of the sea. When the treacherous Rutulian urged us headlong with sword and fire, unwillingly we broke thy bonds, and we search for thee over ocean. This new guise our Lady made for us in pity, and granted us to be goddesses and spend our life under the waves. But thy boy Ascanius is held within wall and trench among the Latin weapons and the rough edge of war. Already the Arcadian cavalry and the brave Etruscan together hold the appointed ground. Turnus' plan is fixed to bar their way with his squadrons, that they may not reach the camp. Up and arise, and ere the coming of the Dawn bid thy crews be called to arms; and take thou the shield which the Lord of Fire forged for victory and rimmed about with gold. To-morrow's daylight, if thou deem not my words vain, shall see Rutulians heaped high in slaughter.' She ended, and, as she went, pushed the tall ship on with her hand wisely and well; the ship shoots through the water fleeter than javelin or windswift arrow. Thereat the rest quicken their speed. The son of Anchises of Troy is himself deep in bewilderment; yet the omen cheers his courage. Then looking on the heavenly vault, he briefly prays: 'O gracious upon Ida, mother of gods, whose delight is in Dindymus and turreted cities and lions coupled to thy rein, do thou lead me in battle, do thou meetly prosper thine augury, and draw nigh thy Phrygians, goddess, with favourable feet.' Thus much he spoke; and meanwhile the broad light of returning day now began to pour in, and chased away the night. First he commands his comrades to follow his signals, brace their courage to arms and prepare for battle. And now his Trojans and his camp are in his sight as he stands high astern, when next he lifts the blazing shield on his left arm. The Dardanians on the walls raise a shout to the sky. Hope comes to kindle wrath; they hurl their missiles strongly; even as under black clouds cranes from the Strymon utter their signal notes and sail clamouring across the sky, and noisily stream down the gale. But this seemed marvellous to the Rutulian king and the captains of Ausonia, till looking back they see the ships steering for the beach, and all the sea as a single fleet sailing in. His helmet-spike blazes, flame pours from the cresting plumes, and the golden shield-boss spouts floods of fire; even as when in transparent night comets glow blood-red and drear, or the splendour of Sirius, that brings drought and sicknesses on wretched men, rises and saddens the sky with malignant beams.

Day had faded from the sky, and gracious Phoebe rode high in heaven in her chariot on her nightly journey. Aeneas himself sat at the tiller, managing the sails, for his duty allowed him no rest. In mid-voyage, a band of his own companions came to meet him. They were the nymphs whom generous Cybele had transformed from ships into sea goddesses. They swam in orderly ranks, cutting through the water. There were as many as the bronze-plated ships that had once anchored on the beach. From a distance, they recognized their king and turned toward him. Cymodocea, the quickest of them to speak, came up behind the ship and caught its stern with her right hand. Her back rose above the water, and she paddled through the silent sea with her left hand. Then she spoke to her astonished lord: 'Are you awake, Aeneas, descendant of gods? Wake up and loosen the ropes of your sails. We are your fleet, once Idaean pines from the sacred hill, now nymphs of the sea. When the treacherous Rutulian attacked us with sword and fire, we unwillingly broke our moorings. Now we search for you across the ocean. Our Lady took pity on us and gave us this new form. She granted us the life of goddesses beneath the waves. But your son Ascanius is trapped behind walls and trenches, surrounded by Latin weapons and the harsh fighting of war. The Arcadian cavalry and the brave Etruscan forces are already in their appointed place. Turnus plans to block them with his squadrons so that they cannot reach the camp. Get up, and before dawn, order your crews to take up arms. Take the shield the Lord of Fire forged for victory and edged with gold. If you do not think my words empty, tomorrow's daylight will show you Rutulians piled high in slaughter.' She finished speaking and, as she left, gave the tall ship a skillful push with her hand. It shot through the water faster than a javelin or a swift arrow. The other nymphs quickened their pace. The Trojan son of Anchises was deeply bewildered, yet the omen gave him courage. Looking up at the heavens, he prayed briefly: 'O gracious mother of gods, who watches over Ida and delights in Dindymus, turreted cities, and lions yoked to your reins, lead me in battle. Fulfill your omen, and come to the aid of your Phrygians, goddess, with favor.' As he finished speaking, the broad light of day began to pour in and drive away the night. First he ordered his comrades to follow his signals, summon their courage, and prepare for battle. Standing high on the stern, he could now see his Trojans and their camp. He raised the blazing shield on his left arm. The Dardanians on the walls raised a shout to the sky. Hope stirred their anger, and they hurled their weapons with all their strength. They were like cranes from the Strymon beneath black clouds, calling to one another as they fly across the sky and stream noisily before the wind. The Rutulian king and the captains of Ausonia wondered at the shouting. Then they looked back and saw the ships heading for the beach, the whole sea covered by one approaching fleet. Aeneas's helmet spike blazed, flames poured from its crest, and the boss of his golden shield streamed with fire. It was like the bloody, dreadful glow of comets in a clear night sky. Or it was like the rising splendor of Sirius, which brings drought and sickness to suffering people and darkens the sky with its deadly rays.

Yet gallant Turnus in unfailing confidence will prevent them on the shore and repel their approach to land. 'What your prayers have sought is given, the sweep of the sword-arm. The god of battles is in the hands of men. Now remember each his wife and home: now recall the high deeds of our fathers' honour. Let us challenge meeting at the water's edge, while they waver and their feet yet slip as they disembark. Fortune aids daring. . . .' So speaks he, and counsels inly whom he shall lead to meet them, whom leave in charge of the leaguered walls.

Yet brave Turnus remains confident that he will meet them on the shore and drive them back from the land. 'Your prayers have been answered. You can now wield your swords. The god of battle is in men's hands. Now each of you must remember his wife and home. Recall the glorious deeds of our fathers. Let us meet the enemy at the water's edge, while they are unsteady and their feet still slip as they land. Fortune favors the daring. . . .' So he speaks, then considers whom to lead against them and whom to leave in charge of the besieged walls.

Meanwhile Aeneas lands his allies by gangways from the high ships. Many watch the retreat and slack of the sea, and leap boldly into the shoal water; others slide down the oars. Tarchon, marking the shore where the shallows do not seethe and plash with broken water, but the sea glides up and spreads its tide unbroken, suddenly turns his bows to land and implores his comrades: 'Now, O chosen crew, bend strongly to your oars; lift your ships, make them go; let the prows cleave this hostile land and the keel plough herself a furrow. I will let my vessel break up on such harbourage if once she takes the land.' When Tarchon had spoken in such wise, his comrades rise on their oar-blades and carry their ships in foam towards the Latin fields, till the prows are fast on dry land and all the keels are aground unhurt. But not thy galley, Tarchon; for she dashes on a shoal, and swings long swaying on the cruel bank, pitching and slapping the flood, then breaks up, and lands her crew among the waves. Broken oars and floating thwarts entangle them, and the ebbing wave sucks their feet away.

Meanwhile, Aeneas lands his allies using gangways from the tall ships. Many watch for the sea to recede and grow calm, then leap boldly into the shallow water. Others slide down the oars. Tarchon spots a stretch of shore where the shallows do not churn and splash with breaking waves. There the sea glides in, spreading its tide smoothly. He suddenly turns his ship toward land and calls to his comrades: 'Now, chosen crew, pull hard on your oars. Lift your ships and drive them forward. Let the prows cut into this hostile land and the keels plough their own furrows. I would let my ship break up on such a shore, if only she reaches land.' At Tarchon's words, his comrades rise against their oars and drive their ships through the foam toward the Latin fields. The prows come to rest on dry land, and all the keels run aground without damage. But not your galley, Tarchon. She strikes a shoal and rocks for a long time on the cruel bank, pitching and slapping against the water. Then she breaks apart and throws her crew into the waves. Broken oars and floating benches entangle them, and the receding wave pulls their feet out from under them.

Nor does Turnus keep idly dallying, but swiftly hurries his whole array against the Trojans and ranges it to face the beach. The trumpets blow. At once Aeneas charges and confounds the rustic squadrons of the Latins, and slays Theron for omen of battle. The giant advances to challenge Aeneas; but through sewed plates of brass and tunic rough with gold the sword plunges in his open side. Next he strikes Lichas, cut from his mother already dead, and consecrated, Phoebus, to thee, since his infancy was granted escape from the perilous steel. Near thereby he struck dead brawny Cisseus and vast Gyas, whose clubs were mowing down whole files: naught availed them the arms of Hercules and their strength of hand, nor Melampus their father, ever of Alcides' company while earth yielded him sore travail. Lo! while Pharus utters weak vaunts the hurled javelin strikes on his shouting mouth. Thou too, while thou followest thy new delight, Clytius, whose cheeks are golden with youthful down—thou, luckless Cydon, struck down by the Dardanian hand, wert lying past thought, ah pitiable! of the young loves that were ever thine, did not the close array of thy brethren interpose, the children of Phorcus, seven in number, and send a sevenfold shower of darts. Some glance ineffectual from helmet and shield; some Venus the bountiful turned aside as they grazed his body. Aeneas calls to trusty Achates: 'Give me store of weapons; none that hath been planted in Grecian body on the plains of Ilium shall my hand hurl at Rutulian in vain.' Then he catches and throws his great spear; the spear flies grinding through the brass of Maeon's shield, and breaks through corslet and through breast. His brother Alcanor runs up and sustains with his right arm his sinking brother; through his arm the spear passes speeding straight on its message, and holds its bloody way, and the hand dangles by the sinews lifeless from the shoulder. Then Numitor, seizing his dead brother's javelin, aims at Aeneas, but might not fairly pierce him, and grazed tall Achates on the thigh. Here Clausus of Cures comes confident in his pride of strength, and with a long reach strikes Dryops under the chin, and, urging the stiff spear-shaft home, stops the accents of his speech and his life together, piercing the throat; but he strikes the earth with his forehead, and vomits clots of blood. Three Thracians likewise of Boreas' sovereign race, and three sent by their father Idas from their native Ismarus, fall in divers wise before him. Halesus and his Auruncan troops hasten thither; Messapus too, seed of Neptune, comes up charioted. This side and that strive to hurl back the enemy, and fight hard on the very edge of Ausonia. As when in the depth of air adverse winds rise in battle with equal spirit and strength; not they, not clouds nor sea, yield one to another; long the battle is doubtful; all stands locked in counterpoise: even thus clash the ranks of Troy and ranks of Latium, foot fast on foot, and man crowded up on man.

Turnus does not delay. He swiftly leads his whole army against the Trojans and draws it up facing the beach. The trumpets sound. At once Aeneas charges and throws the rustic Latin squadrons into confusion. As a sign of what is to come, he kills Theron. The giant steps forward to challenge Aeneas, but Aeneas plunges his sword into his exposed side, through sewn brass plates and a tunic stiff with gold. Next Aeneas strikes Lichas, who was cut from his mother's body after she had died. Lichas had been consecrated to you, Phoebus, because he had escaped the dangerous knife as an infant. Nearby, Aeneas kills brawny Cisseus and huge Gyas, whose clubs are mowing down whole ranks. Neither the weapons of Hercules nor their own powerful hands can save them. Nor can their father Melampus, who always accompanied Alcides while the earth still gave him hard labor. Look! As Pharus shouts feeble boasts, a thrown javelin strikes him in the mouth. You too, Cydon, are struck down by the Dardanian hand while pursuing your latest love, Clytius, whose cheeks are golden with youthful down. Unlucky Cydon, you would have lain there, poor wretch, no longer thinking of the young loves you always sought. But your seven brothers, the sons of Phorcus, close ranks before you and send a sevenfold shower of darts at Aeneas. Some glance harmlessly off his helmet and shield. Others graze his body, but generous Venus turns them aside. Aeneas calls to faithful Achates: "Give me plenty of weapons. Not one that has struck a Greek body on the plains of Ilium will my hand throw at a Rutulian in vain." He takes up his great spear and throws it. It grinds through the brass of Maeon's shield and breaks through his breastplate and chest. His brother Alcanor runs up and holds the dying Maeon with his right arm. The spear passes through Alcanor's arm, flying straight on its deadly course. It continues on its bloody way, and Alcanor's hand hangs lifeless from his shoulder, held by its sinews. Then Numitor seizes his dead brother's javelin and aims at Aeneas. But he cannot strike him cleanly, and the javelin grazes tall Achates on the thigh. Now Clausus of Cures comes forward, proud and confident of his strength. Reaching out, he strikes Dryops under the chin. He drives the stiff spear through his throat, ending his speech and his life at once. Dryops strikes the ground with his forehead and vomits clots of blood. Three Thracians of Boreas' royal line also fall before Clausus, along with three men sent by their father Idas from their native Ismarus. Each meets a different death. Halesus and his Auruncan troops hurry to the fight. Messapus, a son of Neptune, also arrives in his chariot. Each side struggles to drive back the other, and they fight fiercely at the very edge of Ausonia. It is like opposing winds rising to battle high in the air, equal in spirit and strength. Neither the winds, nor the clouds, nor the sea give way to one another. For a long time the struggle hangs in doubt, and everything remains locked in balance. So the ranks of Troy and Latium clash, foot pressed against foot, and man crowded against man.

But in another quarter, where a torrent had driven a wide path of rolling stones and bushes torn away from the banks, Pallas saw his Arcadians, unaccustomed to move as infantry, giving back before the Latin pursuit, when the roughness of the ground bade them dismount. This only was left in his strait, to kindle them to valour, now by entreaties, now by taunts: 'Whither flee you, comrades? by your deeds of bravery, by your leader Evander's name, by your triumphant campaigns, and my hope that now rises to rival my father's honour, trust not to flight. Our swords must hew a way through the enemy. Where yonder mass of men presses thickest, there your proud country calls you with Pallas at your head. No gods are they who bear us down; mortals, we feel the pressure of a mortal foe; we have as many lives and hands as he. Lo, the deep shuts us in with vast sea barrier; even now land fails our flight; shall we make ocean or Troy our goal?'

Elsewhere, a torrent had cut a wide path through rolling stones and bushes torn from its banks. There Pallas saw his Arcadians retreating before the pursuing Latins. The rough ground had forced the Arcadians to dismount, and they were not used to fighting on foot. In this desperate situation, Pallas had only one choice: to rouse their courage with pleas and taunts. 'Where are you fleeing, comrades? I call on your brave deeds, your leader Evander's name, and your victorious campaigns. I call on my hope, now rising, that I may equal my father's honor. Do not trust in flight. We must cut our way through the enemy with our swords. Your proud country calls you to follow Pallas into the thickest mass of men. No gods are pressing us back. We are mortals facing a mortal enemy. We have as many lives and hands as they do. Look, the deep sea forms a vast barrier around us. We are already running out of land to flee across. Shall we head for the ocean or for Troy?'

So speaks he, and bursts amid the serried foe. First Lagus meets him, drawn thither by malign destiny; him, as he tugs at a ponderous stone, hurling his spear where the spine ran dissevering the ribs, he pierces and wrenches out the spear where it stuck fast in the bone. Nor does Hisbo catch him stooping, for all that he hoped it; for Pallas, as he rushes unguarded on, furious at his comrade's cruel death, receives him on his sword and buries it in his distended lungs. Next he attacks Sthenius, and Anchemolus of Rhoetus' ancient family, who dared to violate the bridal chamber of his stepmother. You, too, the twins Larides and Thymber, fell on the Rutulian fields, children of Daucus, indistinguishable for likeness and a sweet perplexity to your parents. But now Pallas made cruel difference between you; for thy head, Thymber, is swept off by Evander's sword; thy right hand, Larides, severed, seeks its master, and the dying fingers jerk and clutch at the sword. Fired by his encouragement, and beholding his noble deeds, the Arcadians advance in wrath and shame to meet the enemy in arms. Then Pallas pierces Rhoeteus as he flies past in his chariot. This space, this much of respite was given to Ilus; for at Ilus he had aimed the strong spear from afar, and Rhoeteus intercepts its passage, in flight from thee, noble Teuthras and Tyres thy brother; he rolls from the chariot in death, and his heels strike the Rutulian fields. And as the shepherd, when summer winds have risen to his desire, kindles the woods dispersedly; on a sudden the mid spaces catch, and a single flickering line of fire spreads wide over the plain; he sits looking down on his conquest and the revel of the flames; even so, Pallas, do thy brave comrades gather close to sustain thee. But warrior Halesus advances full on them, gathering himself behind his armour; he slays Ladon, Pheres, Demodocus; his gleaming sword shears off Strymonius' hand as it rises to his throat; he strikes Thoas on the face with a stone, and drives the bones asunder in a shattered mass of blood and brains. Halesus had his father the soothsayer kept hidden in the woodland: when the old man's glazing eyes sank to death, the Fates laid hand on him and devoted him to the arms of Evander. Pallas aims at him, first praying thus: 'Grant now, lord Tiber, to the steel I poise and hurl, a prosperous way through brawny Halesus' breast; thine oak shall bear these arms and the dress he wore.' The god heard it; while Halesus covers Imaon, he leaves, alas! his breast unarmed to the Arcadian's weapon. Yet at his grievous death Lausus, himself a great arm of the war, lets not his columns be dismayed; at once he meets and cuts down Abas, the check and stay of their battle. The men of Arcadia go down before him; down go the Etruscans, and you, O Teucrians, invincible by Greece. The armies close, matched in strength and in captains; the rear ranks crowd in; weapons and hands are locked in the press. Here Pallas strains and pushes on, here Lausus opposite, nearly matched in age, excellent in beauty; but fortune had denied both return to their own land. Yet that they should meet face to face the sovereign of high Olympus allowed not; an early fate awaits them beneath a mightier foe.

He speaks and charges into the tightly packed enemy. Lagus is the first to meet him, drawn there by an evil fate. As Lagus struggles to lift a heavy stone, Pallas throws his spear at him. It strikes his spine, where it divides the ribs. Pallas wrenches the spear out where it has lodged in the bone. Hisbo hopes to catch Pallas while he is bent over, but fails. Furious at his comrade’s cruel death, Hisbo charges without guarding himself. Pallas meets him with his sword and buries it in his heaving lungs. Next Pallas attacks Sthenius and Anchemolus, a member of Rhoetus’ ancient family. Anchemolus had dared to violate his stepmother’s marriage bed. You too fell on the Rutulian fields, the twins Larides and Thymber, children of Daucus. You looked so alike that your parents could not tell you apart, a delightful puzzle to them. But now Pallas made a cruel difference between you. Thymber, Evander’s sword cut off your head. Larides, your severed right hand reaches for its master, and its dying fingers twitch and clutch at the sword. Encouraged by Pallas and seeing his noble deeds, the Arcadians advance against the armed enemy in anger and shame. Then Pallas pierces Rhoeteus as he speeds past in his chariot. This gave Ilus a brief reprieve. Pallas had aimed his powerful spear at Ilus from a distance, but Rhoeteus crossed its path. Rhoeteus was fleeing from you, noble Teuthras, and from your brother Tyres. He tumbles dead from the chariot, and his heels strike the Rutulian fields. A shepherd waits until the summer winds rise as he wants them to. Then he sets fires at scattered points in the woods. Suddenly the spaces between them catch fire, and a single flickering line spreads across the plain. He sits looking down at his victory and the wild flames. In the same way, Pallas, your brave comrades gather around you to support you. But the warrior Halesus advances straight at them, bracing himself behind his armor. He kills Ladon, Pheres, and Demodocus. His gleaming sword cuts off Strymonius’ hand as it rises toward his throat. He strikes Thoas in the face with a stone, shattering the bones into a mass of blood and brains. Halesus’ father, a soothsayer, had kept him hidden in the woods. When the old man’s eyes glazed over in death, the Fates seized Halesus and destined him to face Evander’s forces. Pallas aims at him, but first he prays: ‘Lord Tiber, grant the spear I balance and throw a clear path through the breast of powerful Halesus. Your oak shall bear his arms and the clothes he wore.’ The god heard the prayer. While Halesus shields Imaon, he leaves his own breast, alas, exposed to the Arcadian’s weapon. Yet Lausus, himself a great force in battle, does not let his ranks lose heart at Halesus’ grievous death. He immediately confronts and cuts down Abas, who held back the enemy and supported his own side in battle. The men of Arcadia fall before Lausus. The Etruscans fall too, and so do you, O Teucrians, whom Greece could not defeat. The armies meet, evenly matched in strength and leadership. The rear ranks crowd forward, and weapons and hands become entangled in the crush. On one side Pallas strains and pushes forward. On the other is Lausus. They are nearly the same age, and both are exceptionally beautiful. But fortune had denied them both a return to their own land. Yet the ruler of high Olympus did not allow them to meet face to face. An early death at the hands of a mightier enemy awaits them both.

Meanwhile Turnus' gracious sister bids him take Lausus' room, and his fleet chariot parts the ranks. When he saw his comrades, 'It is time,' he cried, 'to stay from battle. I alone must assail Pallas; to me and none other Pallas is due; I would his father himself were here to see.' So speaks he, and his Rutulians draw back from a level space at his bidding. But then as they withdrew, he, wondering at the haughty command, stands in amaze at Turnus, his eyes scanning the vast frame, and his fierce glance perusing him from afar. And with these words he returns the words of the monarch: 'For me, my praise shall even now be in the lordly spoils I win, or in illustrious death: my father will bear calmly either lot: away with menaces.' He speaks, and advances into the level ring. The Arcadians' blood gathers chill about their hearts. Turnus leaps from his chariot and prepares to close with him. And as a lion sees from some lofty outlook a bull stand far off on the plain revolving battle, and flies at him, even such to see is Turnus' coming. When Pallas deemed him within reach of a spear-throw, he advances, if so chance may assist the daring of his overmatched strength, and thus cries into the depth of sky: 'By my father's hospitality and the board whereto thou camest a wanderer, on thee I call, Alcides; be favourable to my high emprise; let Turnus even in death discern me stripping his blood-stained armour, and his swooning eyes endure the sight of his conqueror.' Alcides heard him, and deep in his heart he stifled a heavy sigh, and let idle tears fall. Then with kindly words the father accosts his son: 'Each hath his own appointed day; short and irrecoverable is the span of life for all: but to spread renown by deeds is the task of valour. Under high Troy town many and many a god's son fell; nay, mine own child Sarpedon likewise perished. Turnus too his own fate summons, and his allotted period hath reached the goal.' So speaks he, and turns his eyes away from the Rutulian fields. But Pallas hurls his spear with all his strength, and pulls his sword flashing out of the hollow scabbard. The flying spear lights where the armour rises high above the shoulder, and, forcing a way through the shield's rim, ceased not till it drew blood from mighty Turnus. At this Turnus long poises the spear-shaft with its sharp steel head, and hurls it on Pallas with these words: See thou if our weapon have not a keener point. He ended; but for all the shield's plating of iron and brass, for all the bull-hide that covers it round about, the quivering spear-head smashes it fair through and through, passes the guard of the corslet, and pierces the breast with a gaping hole. He tears the warm weapon from the wound; in vain; together and at once life-blood and sense follow it. He falls heavily on the ground, his armour clashes over him, and his bloodstained face sinks in death on the hostile soil. And Turnus standing over him . . .: 'Arcadians,' he cries, 'remember these my words, and bear them to Evander. I send him back his Pallas as was due. All the meed of the tomb, all the solace of sepulture, I give freely. Dearly must he pay his welcome to Aeneas.' And with these words, planting his left foot on the dead, he tore away the broad heavy sword-belt engraven with a tale of crime, the array of grooms foully slain together on their bridal night, and the nuptial chambers dabbled with blood, which Clonus, son of Eurytus, had wrought richly in gold. Now Turnus exults in spoiling him of it, and rejoices at his prize. Ah spirit of man, ignorant of fate and the allotted future, or to keep bounds when elate with prosperity!—the day will come when Turnus shall desire to have bought Pallas' safety at a great ransom, and curse the spoils of this fatal day. But with many moans and tears Pallas' comrades lay him on his shield and bear him away amid their ranks. O grief and glory and grace of the father to whom thou shalt return! This one day sent thee first to war, this one day takes thee away, while yet thou leavest heaped high thy Rutulian dead.

Meanwhile, Turnus' gracious sister tells him to take Lausus' place, and his swift chariot cuts through the ranks. When he sees his comrades, he cries, “It is time to stop fighting. I alone must attack Pallas. He is mine to face, and no one else's. I wish his father were here to see it.” At his command, his Rutulians draw back, leaving a clear, level space. As they withdraw, Pallas stands amazed at Turnus' arrogant command. He studies Turnus' huge frame, looking fiercely at him from a distance. Then he answers the king: “I will soon win praise either by taking your splendid armor or by dying gloriously. My father will bear either fate calmly. Enough with your threats.” With that, he advances into the cleared ring. The Arcadians' blood runs cold around their hearts. Turnus leaps from his chariot and prepares to meet him. From a high lookout, a lion might see a bull far off on the plain, readying himself for battle. The lion would rush at him. That is how Turnus looks as he comes forward. When Pallas thinks Turnus is within spear range, he advances, hoping chance may favor his courage against a stronger opponent. He cries out to the sky: “Alcides, I call on you, remembering my father's hospitality. You came as a wanderer and ate at his table. Favor my great undertaking. Let Turnus see me strip off his bloodstained armor as he dies. Let his fading eyes bear the sight of his conqueror.” Alcides hears him and stifles a heavy sigh deep in his heart. He sheds tears that can do nothing. Then the father speaks kindly to his son: “Each person has an appointed day. For everyone, life is short, and its time cannot be recovered. But courage can win lasting fame through great deeds. Many sons of gods fell beneath the walls of lofty Troy. Even my own child Sarpedon died. Turnus, too, is called by his fate. His allotted time has reached its end.” With that, he turns his eyes away from the Rutulian fields. Pallas hurls his spear with all his strength and draws his flashing sword from its hollow scabbard. The spear strikes where the armor rises high above Turnus' shoulder. It forces its way through the rim of his shield and draws blood from mighty Turnus. Then Turnus takes aim for a long moment with his steel-tipped spear and hurls it at Pallas. He says: See whether my weapon has a sharper point. The spear's quivering head smashes straight through the shield. It pierces the layers of iron and brass and the bull-hide covering them. It passes through Pallas' breastplate and makes a gaping hole in his chest. He pulls the warm weapon from the wound, but in vain. His lifeblood and consciousness leave him together. He falls heavily to the ground, his armor clashing around him. His bloodstained face sinks onto the enemy soil as he dies. Turnus stands over him . . . and cries, “Arcadians, remember my words and carry them to Evander. I send his Pallas back to him as was due. I freely grant him all the honors of a tomb and all the comfort of burial. He must pay dearly for welcoming Aeneas.” With that, he plants his left foot on the dead man. He tears away the broad, heavy sword-belt, richly worked in gold by Clonus, son of Eurytus. It bears the story of a crime: a company of grooms brutally murdered on their wedding night, and their bridal chambers stained with blood. Now Turnus delights in taking the belt and rejoices in his prize. Ah, human hearts know nothing of fate or the future appointed for them! Nor do they know how to keep within bounds when lifted up by good fortune. The day will come when Turnus will wish he had paid a great ransom to save Pallas. He will curse the spoils of this fatal day. But Pallas' comrades, weeping and moaning, lay him on his shield. They carry him away through their ranks. O Pallas, grief, glory, and joy of the father to whom you will return! This one day sent you to war for the first time, and this one day takes you away. Yet you leave your Rutulian dead piled high.

And now no rumour of the dreadful loss, but a surer messenger flies to Aeneas, telling him his troops are on the thin edge of doom; it is time to succour the routed Teucrians. He mows down all that meets him, and hews a broad path through their columns with furious sword, as he seeks thee, O Turnus, in thy fresh pride of slaughter. Pallas, Evander, all flash before his eyes; the board whereto but then he had first come a wanderer, and the clasped hands. Here four of Sulmo's children, as many more of Ufens' nurture, are taken by him alive to slaughter in sacrifice to the shade below, and slake the flames of the pyre with captive blood. Next he levelled his spear full on Magus from far. He stoops cunningly; the spear flies quivering over him; and, clasping his knees, he speaks thus beseechingly: 'By thy father's ghost, by Iülus thy growing hope, I entreat thee, save this life for a child and a parent. My house is stately; deep in it lies buried wealth of engraven silver; I have masses of wrought and unwrought gold. The victory of Troy does not turn on this, nor will a single life make so great a difference.' He ended; to him Aeneas thus returns answer: 'All the wealth of silver and gold thou tellest of, spare thou for thy children. Turnus hath broken off this thy trafficking in war, even then when Pallas fell. Thus judges the ghost of my father Anchises, thus Iülus.' So speaking, he grasps his helmet with his left hand, and, bending back his neck, drives his sword up to the hilt in the suppliant. Hard by is Haemonides, priest of Phoebus and Trivia, his temples wound with the holy ribboned chaplet, all glittering in white-robed array. Him he meets and chases down the plain, and, standing over his fallen foe, slaughters him and wraps him in great darkness; Serestus gathers the armour and carries it away on his shoulders, a trophy, King Gradivus, to thee. Caeculus, born of Vulcan's race, and Umbro, who comes from the Marsian hills, fill up the line. The Dardanian rushes full on them. His sword had hewn off Anxur's left arm, with all the circle of the shield—he had uttered brave words and deemed his prowess would second his vaunts, and perchance with spirit lifted up had promised himself hoar age and length of years—when Tarquitus in the pride of his glittering arms met his fiery course, whom the nymph Dryope had borne to Faunus, haunter of the woodland. Drawing back his spear, he pins the ponderous shield to the corslet; then, as he vainly pleaded and would say many a thing, strikes his head to the ground, and, rolling away the warm body, cries thus over his enemy: 'Lie there now, terrible one! no mother's love shall lay thee in the sod, or place thy limbs beneath thine heavy ancestral tomb. To birds of prey shalt thou be left, or borne down sunk in the eddying water, where hungry fish shall suck thy wounds.' Next he sweeps on Antaeus and Lucas, the first of Turnus' train, and brave Numa and tawny-haired Camers, born of noble Volscens, who was wealthiest in land of the Ausonians, and reigned in silent Amyclae. Even as Aegaeon, who, men say, had an hundred arms, an hundred hands, fifty mouths and breasts ablaze with fire, and arrayed against Jove's thunders as many clashing shields and drawn swords: so Aeneas, when once his sword's point grew warm, rages victorious over all the field. Nay, lo! he darts full in face on Niphaeus' four-horse chariot; before his long strides and dreadful cry they turned in terror and dashed back, throwing out their driver and tearing the chariot down the beach. Meanwhile the brothers Lucagus and Liger drive up with their pair of white horses. Lucagus valiantly waves his drawn sword, while his brother wheels his horses with the rein. Aeneas, wrathful at their mad onslaught, rushes on them, towering high with levelled spear. To him Liger . . . 'Not Diomede's horses dost thou discern, nor Achilles' chariot, nor the plains of Phrygia: now on this soil of ours the war and thy life shall end together.' Thus fly mad Liger's random words. But not in words does the Trojan hero frame his reply: for he hurls his javelin at the foe. As Lucagus spurred on his horses, bending forward over the whip, with left foot advanced ready for battle, the spear passes through the lower rim of his shining shield and pierces his left groin, knocks him out of the chariot, and stretches him in death on the fields. To him good Aeneas speaks in bitter words: 'Lucagus, no slackness in thy coursers' flight hath betrayed thee, or vain shadow of the foe turned them back; thyself thou leapest off the harnessed wheels.' In such wise he spoke, and caught the horses. His brother, slipping down from the chariot, pitiably outstretched helpless hands: 'Ah, by the parents who gave thee birth, great Trojan, spare this life and pity my prayer.' More he was pleading; but Aeneas: 'Not such were the words thou wert uttering. Die, and be brother undivided from brother.' With that his sword's point pierces the breast where the life lies hid. Thus the Dardanian captain dealt death over the plain, like some raging torrent stream or black whirlwind. At last the boy Ascanius and his troops burst through the ineffectual leaguer and issue from the camp.

Now more than a rumor of the dreadful loss reaches Aeneas. A more reliable messenger hurries to tell him that his troops are on the brink of destruction. It is time to help the routed Teucrians. Aeneas cuts down everyone in his path, hacking a broad way through their ranks with his furious sword. He is looking for you, Turnus, as you take fresh pride in your slaughter. Pallas and Evander flash before his eyes, along with the table where he had recently been welcomed as a wanderer, and the hands clasped in friendship. He takes four sons of Sulmo and four men raised by Ufens alive. He means to sacrifice them to the spirit below and quench the flames of the funeral pyre with their blood. Next, he aims his spear at Magus from a distance. Magus cleverly ducks, and the spear flies quivering over him. He clasps Aeneas by the knees and begs: 'By your father's spirit and by Iülus, your growing hope, I beg you. Spare my life for my child and my parent. My house is grand, and engraved silver lies buried deep inside it. I have masses of worked and unworked gold. Troy's victory does not depend on this, and one life will not make so great a difference.' When he finishes, Aeneas answers: 'Keep all the silver and gold you speak of for your children. Turnus put an end to such bargaining in war when Pallas fell. So judges the spirit of my father Anchises, and so does Iülus.' As he speaks, he grabs Magus's helmet with his left hand and bends his neck back. Then he drives his sword to the hilt into the man begging for mercy. Nearby stands Haemonides, priest of Phoebus and Trivia. A sacred wreath with ribbons encircles his temples, and he shines in his white robes. Aeneas meets him and chases him across the plain. Standing over his fallen enemy, he kills him and wraps him in deep darkness. Serestus gathers the armor and carries it away on his shoulders as a trophy for you, King Gradivus. Caeculus, descended from Vulcan, and Umbro, who comes from the Marsian hills, take their places in the line. The Dardanian charges straight at them. His sword has cut off Anxur's left arm and the entire circle of his shield. Anxur had spoken brave words and believed his strength would match his boasts. Perhaps, in high spirits, he had promised himself a long life and gray-haired old age. Then Tarquitus meets Aeneas's fiery charge, proud in his gleaming armor. The nymph Dryope had borne him to Faunus, who haunts the woods. Aeneas draws back his spear and pins Tarquitus's heavy shield to his breastplate. Tarquitus pleads in vain and tries to say many things, but Aeneas strikes his head to the ground. He rolls the warm body aside and cries over his enemy: 'Lie there now, you fearsome warrior! No loving mother will lay you in the earth or place your limbs beneath your heavy ancestral tomb. You will be left for birds of prey, or carried down and sunk in swirling water, where hungry fish will suck at your wounds.' Next he rushes at Antaeus and Lucas, foremost among Turnus' followers, and brave Numa and tawny-haired Camers. Camers was the son of noble Volscens, who was the wealthiest landowner among the Ausonians and ruled silent Amyclae. Aegaeon, men say, had a hundred arms and a hundred hands, and fifty mouths and chests blazing with fire. Against Jove's thunderbolts he raised as many clashing shields and drawn swords. Just so, once Aeneas's sword point grew warm, he rages victoriously across the whole field. Look, he charges straight at Niphaeus' four-horse chariot. Terrified by his long strides and dreadful cry, the horses turn and race back. They throw out their driver and drag the chariot down the beach. Meanwhile, the brothers Lucagus and Liger drive up with their pair of white horses. Lucagus bravely waves his drawn sword, while his brother turns the horses with the reins. Furious at their reckless attack, Aeneas charges them, towering over them with his spear leveled. Liger says to him . . . 'You do not see Diomede's horses or Achilles' chariot, nor are these the plains of Phrygia. Here on our soil, the war and your life will end together.' These are the wild words mad Liger throws at him. But the Trojan hero does not answer with words. He hurls his spear at his enemy. Lucagus is urging on his horses, leaning forward over the whip, with his left foot advanced for battle. The spear passes through the lower rim of his shining shield and pierces his left groin. It knocks him from the chariot and leaves him dead on the field. Good Aeneas speaks bitterly to him: 'Lucagus, your horses did not fail you by running too slowly, nor did a false image of an enemy turn them back. You leaped from the chariot yourself.' With those words, he catches the horses. Liger slips down from the chariot and stretches out his helpless hands in misery: 'Ah, by the parents who gave you life, great Trojan, spare me and pity my plea.' He goes on pleading, but Aeneas says: 'Those were not the words you spoke before. Die, and be joined with your brother.' With that, he drives his sword point into Liger's chest, where his life lies hidden. So the Dardanian captain spreads death across the plain, like a raging torrent or a black whirlwind. At last, the boy Ascanius and his troops break through the failed siege and come out of the camp.

Meanwhile Jupiter breaks silence to accost Juno: 'O sister and wife best beloved, it is Venus, as thou deemedst, nor is thy judgment astray, who sustains the forces of Troy; not their own valour of hand in war, and untamable spirit and endurance in peril.' To whom Juno beseechingly:

Meanwhile, Jupiter breaks his silence and speaks to Juno: 'My dearest sister and wife, you were right. It is Venus who sustains the forces of Troy. It is not their own courage in battle, their unconquerable spirit, or their endurance in danger.' Juno replies pleadingly:

'Why, fair my lord, vexest thou one sick at heart and trembling at thy bitter words? If that force were in my love that once was, and that was well, never had thine omnipotence denied me leave to withdraw Turnus from battle and preserve him for his father Daunus in safety. Now let him perish, and pay forfeit to the Trojans of his innocent blood. Yet he traces his birth from our name, and Pilumnus was his father in the fourth generation, and oft and again his bountiful hand hath heaped thy courts with gifts.'

'Why, my dear lord, do you torment me when my heart is sick and your bitter words make me tremble? My love once had power, and that was good. If it still had that power, you would never have used your supreme power to deny me permission to withdraw Turnus from battle and return him safely to his father Daunus. Now let him die and pay the Trojans with his innocent blood. Yet he is descended from our family, and Pilumnus was his great-great-grandfather. Time and again, his generous hand has filled your courts with gifts.'

To her the king of high heaven thus briefly spoke: 'If thy prayer for him is delay of present death and respite from his fall, and thou dost understand that I ordain it thus, remove thy Turnus in flight, and snatch him from the fate that is upon him. For so much indulgence there is room. But if any ampler grace mask itself in these thy prayers, and thou dreamest of change in the whole movement of the war, idle is the hope thou nursest.'

The king of high heaven replied briefly: 'If you pray only to delay his death and give him time before his fall, you may grant it. But understand that this is all I allow. Take your Turnus away in flight and snatch him from the fate closing in on him. I can grant you that much. But if your prayers conceal a request for greater mercy, your hope is useless. You cannot expect to change the whole course of the war.'

And Juno, weeping: 'Ah yet, if thy mind were gracious where thy lips are stern, and this gift of life might remain confirmed to Turnus! Now his portion is bitter and guiltless death, or I wander idly from the truth. Yet, oh that I rather deluded myself with false alarms, and thou who canst wouldst bend thy course to better counsels.'

And Juno wept: 'Ah, if only your heart were kind, though your words are stern. If only your gift of life could still be granted to Turnus! As things stand, he faces a bitter death he does not deserve, unless I am mistaken. Yet I wish my fears were wrong, and that you, who have the power, would choose a kinder course.'

These words uttered, she darted through the air straight from high heaven, cloud-girt in driving tempest, and sought the Ilian ranks and camp of Laurentum. Then the goddess, strange and ominous to see, fashions into the likeness of Aeneas a thin and pithless shade of hollow mist, decks it with Dardanian weapons, and gives it the mimicry of shield and divine helmet plume, gives unsubstantial words and senseless utterance, and the mould and motion of his tread: like shapes rumoured to flit when death is past, or dreams that delude the slumbering senses. But in front of the battle-ranks the phantom dances rejoicingly, and with arms and mocking accents provokes the foe. Turnus hastens up and sends his spear whistling from far on it; it gives back and turns its footsteps. Then indeed Turnus, when he believed Aeneas turned and fled from him, and his spirit madly drank in the illusive hope: 'Whither fliest thou, Aeneas? forsake not thy plighted bridal chamber. This hand shall give thee the land thou hast sought overseas.' So clamouring he pursues, and brandishes his drawn sword, and sees not that his rejoicing is drifting with the winds. The ship lay haply moored to a high ledge of rock, with ladders run out and gangway ready, wherein king Osinius sailed from the coasts of Clusium. Here the fluttering phantom of flying Aeneas darts and hides itself. Nor is Turnus slack to follow; he overleaps the barriers and springs across the high gangways. Scarcely had he lighted on the prow; the daughter of Saturn snaps the hawser, and the ship, parted from her cable, runs out on the ebbing tide. And him Aeneas seeks for battle and finds not, and sends many a man that meets him to death. Then the light phantom seeks not yet any further hiding-place, but, flitting aloft, melts in a dark cloud; and a blast comes down meanwhile and sweeps Turnus through the seas. He looks back, witless of his case and thankless for his salvation, and, wailing, stretches both hands to heaven: 'Father omnipotent, was I so guilty in thine eyes, and is this the punishment thou hast ordained? Whither am I borne? whence came I? what flight is this, or in what guise do I return? Shall I look again on the camp or walls of Laurentum? What of that array of men who followed me to arms? whom—oh horrible!—I have abandoned all amid a dreadful death; and now I see the stragglers and catch the groans of those who fall. What do I? or how may earth ever yawn for me deep enough? Do you rather, O winds, be pitiful, carry my bark on rock or reef; it is I, Turnus, who desire and implore you; or drive me on the cruel shoals of the Syrtis, where no Rutulian may follow nor rumour know my name.' Thus speaking, he wavers in mind this way and that: maddened by the shame, shall he plunge on his sword's harsh point and drive it through his side, or fling himself among the waves, and seek by swimming to gain the winding shore, again to return on the Trojan arms? Thrice he essayed either way; thrice queenly Juno checked and restrained him in pity of heart. Cleaving the deep, he floats with the tide down the flood, and is borne on to his father Daunus' ancient city.

Having said this, she flew straight down from high heaven through the air, surrounded by clouds and driving storms. She sought the Ilian ranks and the camp at Laurentum. There the goddess, strange and frightening to behold, made a thin, lifeless phantom from empty mist in the likeness of Aeneas. She dressed it in Dardanian armor and gave it a copy of his shield and his helmet’s divine plume. She gave it empty words and meaningless speech, and made it look and walk like him. It was like the shapes said to flit about after death, or the dreams that deceive sleeping minds. The phantom danced joyfully in front of the battle lines, provoking the enemy with its weapons and mocking cries. Turnus rushed forward and hurled his spear at it from a distance. The phantom drew back and turned away. Turnus believed Aeneas had turned and was fleeing from him, and his heart drank in the false hope. “Where are you fleeing, Aeneas? Do not abandon your promised marriage. This hand will give you the land you sought across the sea.” Shouting, he pursued the phantom, brandishing his drawn sword. He did not see that his joy was drifting away on the winds. By chance, a ship lay moored to a high rock, with ladders extended and a gangway ready. King Osinius had sailed in it from the shores of Clusium. The fluttering phantom of the fleeing Aeneas darted aboard and hid. Turnus was quick to follow, leaping over the barriers and rushing across the high gangways. No sooner had he landed on the prow than the daughter of Saturn snapped the mooring rope. Freed from its cable, the ship sailed out on the ebbing tide. Meanwhile, Aeneas looked for Turnus in battle but could not find him. He sent many men who confronted him to their deaths. The light phantom sought no further hiding place. It flew upward and dissolved into a dark cloud. Meanwhile, a blast of wind swept Turnus out to sea. He looked back, unaware of what had happened and ungrateful for his rescue. Crying out, he stretched both hands toward heaven. “Almighty Father, was I so guilty in your eyes? Is this the punishment you have chosen? Where am I being carried? Where have I come from? What kind of flight is this, and how can I return? Will I ever see the camp or the walls of Laurentum again? What of the men who followed me into battle? I have abandoned them all to a dreadful death. How terrible! Even now I see the stragglers and hear the groans of the dying. What am I to do? How could the earth ever open deep enough to hide me? Winds, take pity on me instead. Carry my ship onto a rock or reef. It is I, Turnus, who begs and pleads with you. Or drive me onto the cruel shoals of the Syrtis, where no Rutulian can follow and no rumor will carry my name.” As he spoke, his mind wavered between one choice and another. Maddened by shame, should he plunge onto his sword’s sharp point and drive it through his side? Or should he throw himself into the waves and swim for the winding shore, then return to fight the Trojan forces? Three times he tried one way or the other. Three times queenly Juno, moved by pity, stopped and restrained him. Cutting through the deep water, he floated with the current and was carried on to his father Daunus’ ancient city.

But meanwhile at Jove's prompting fiery Mezentius takes his place in the battle and assails the triumphant Teucrians. The Tyrrhene ranks gather round him, and all at once in unison shower their darts down on the hated foe. As a cliff that juts into the waste of waves, meeting the raging winds and breasting the deep, endures all the threatening force of sky and sea, itself fixed immovable, so he dashes to earth Hebrus son of Dolichaon, and with him Latagus, and Palmus as he fled; catching Latagus full front in the face with a vast fragment of mountain rock, while Palmus he hamstrings, and leaves him rolling helpless; his armour he gives Lausus to wear on his shoulders, and the plumes to fix on his crest. With them fall Evanthes the Phrygian, and Mimas, fellow and birthmate of Paris; for on one night Theano bore him to his father Amycus, and the queen, Cisseus' daughter, was delivered of Paris the firebrand; he sleeps in his fathers' city; Mimas lies a stranger on the Laurentian coast. And as the boar driven by snapping hounds from the mountain heights, many a year hidden by Vesulus in his pines, many an one fed in the Laurentian marsh among the reedy forest, once come among the nets, halts and snorts savagely, with shoulders bristling up, and none of them dare be wrathful or draw closer, but they shower from a safe distance their darts and cries; even thus none of those whose anger is righteous against Mezentius have courage to meet him with drawn weapon: far off they provoke him with missiles and huge clamour, and he turns slow and fearless round about, grinding his teeth as he shakes the spears off his shield. From the bounds of ancient Corythus Acron the Greek had come, leaving for exile a bride half won. Seeing him afar dealing confusion amid the ranks, in crimson plumes and his plighted wife's purple,—as an unpastured lion often ranging the deep coverts, for madness of hunger urges him, if he haply catches sight of a timorous roe or high-antlered stag, he gapes hugely for joy, and, with mane on end, clings crouching over its flesh, his cruel mouth bathed in reeking gore. . . . so Mezentius darts lightly among the thick of the enemy. Hapless Acron goes down, and, spurning the dark ground, gasps out his life, and covers the broken javelin with his blood. But the victor deigned not to bring down Orodes with the blind wound of his flying lance as he fled; full face to face he meets him, and engages man with man, conqueror not by stealth but armed valour. Then, as with planted foot, he thrust him off the spear: 'O men,' he cries, 'Orodes lies low, no slight arm of the war.' His comrades shout after him the glad battle chant. And the dying man: 'Not unavenged nor long, whoso thou art, shalt thou be glad in victory: thee too an equal fate marks down, and in these fields thou shalt soon lie.' And smiling on him half wrathfully, Mezentius: 'Now die thou. But of me let the father of gods and king of men take counsel.' So saying, he drew the weapon out of his body. Grim rest and iron slumber seal his eyes; his lids close on everlasting night. Caedicus slays Alcathoüs, Sacrator Hydaspes, Rapo Parthenius and the grim strength of Orses, Messapus Clonius and Erichaetes son of Lycaon, the one when his reinless horse stumbling had flung him to the ground, the other as they met on foot. And Agis the Lycian advanced only to be struck from horseback by Valerus, brave as his ancestry; and Thronius by Salius, and Salius by Nealces with treacherous arrow-shot that stole from far.

Meanwhile, at Jove’s urging, fiery Mezentius enters the battle and attacks the victorious Teucrians. The Tyrrhene ranks gather around him and together shower their darts on the hated enemy. A cliff juts out into the empty sea, facing the raging winds and bearing the force of the deep. It withstands all the fury of sky and sea without moving. So Mezentius strikes down Hebrus, son of Dolichaon, along with Latagus and Palmus as Palmus flees. He hits Latagus squarely in the face with a huge piece of mountain rock. He cuts the tendons behind Palmus’s knees and leaves him rolling helplessly. Mezentius gives Lausus the armor to wear on his shoulders and the plumes to fix to his crest. With them fall Evanthes the Phrygian and Mimas, Paris’s companion, born on the same night as him. That night Theano bore Mimas to his father Amycus. The queen, daughter of Cisseus, gave birth to Paris, the firebrand. Paris sleeps in his fathers’ city, while Mimas lies a stranger on the Laurentian coast. A boar is driven from the mountain heights by snapping hounds. For many years Vesulus sheltered him among its pines, or the Laurentian marsh fed him among its forest of reeds. Once he reaches the nets, he stops and snorts savagely, the bristles rising on his shoulders. None of the hunters dare show their anger or come closer. Instead, they shower him with darts and cries from a safe distance. Just so, none of those whose anger against Mezentius is justified dare face him with a drawn weapon. They challenge him from afar with missiles and loud cries. He turns slowly and fearlessly, grinding his teeth as he shakes the spears from his shield. Acron the Greek had come from the lands of ancient Corythus, leaving for exile a bride he had not yet fully won. Mezentius sees him in the distance, throwing the ranks into confusion. Acron wears crimson plumes and the purple of his promised bride. A starving lion often ranges through deep cover, driven mad by hunger. If he happens to see a timid roe or a high-antlered stag, he opens his jaws wide with joy. His mane stands on end as he crouches over the animal’s flesh, clinging to it. His cruel mouth is bathed in foul-smelling blood. . . . So Mezentius darts swiftly into the thick of the enemy. Unhappy Acron falls, kicks at the dark earth and gasps out his life. His blood covers his broken javelin. But the victor refuses to strike down Orodes as he flees with a spear thrown at his back. Mezentius meets him face to face, man against man. He wins through armed courage, not stealth. Then, planting his foot, he pushes Orodes off the spear. “Men,” he cries, “Orodes is down. He was no small strength in this war.” His comrades answer with a joyful battle chant. The dying man says: “Whoever you are, I will not go unavenged, and you will not enjoy your victory for long. The same fate awaits you, and soon you too will lie in these fields.” Mezentius smiles at him, half angry. “Now die. As for me, let the father of gods and king of men decide.” With that, he draws the weapon from Orodes’s body. Grim rest and iron sleep seal Orodes’s eyes. His lids close on everlasting night. Caedicus kills Alcathoüs, Sacrator kills Hydaspes, and Rapo kills Parthenius and mighty, grim Orses. Messapus kills Clonius and Erichaetes, son of Lycaon. Clonius falls when his horse, without reins, stumbles and throws him to the ground. Erichaetes falls when they meet on foot. Agis the Lycian advances, only to be knocked from his horse by Valerus, who is as brave as his ancestors. Salius kills Thronius, and Nealces kills Salius with a treacherous arrow sent from far away.

Now the heavy hand of war dealt equal woe and counterchange of death; in even balance conquerors and conquered slew and fell; nor one nor other knows of retreat. The gods in Jove's house pity the vain rage of either and all the agonising of mortals. From one side Venus, from one opposite Juno, daughter of Saturn, looks on; pale Tisiphone rages among the many thousand men. But now, brandishing his huge spear, Mezentius strides glooming over the plain, vast as Orion when, with planted foot, he cleaves his way through the vast pools of mid-ocean and his shoulder overtops the waves, or carrying an ancient mountain-ash from the hilltops, paces the ground and hides his head among the clouds: so moves Mezentius, huge in arms. Aeneas, espying him in the deep columns, makes on to meet him. He remains, unterrified, awaiting his noble foe, steady in his own bulk, and measures with his eye the fair range for a spear. 'This right hand's divinity, and the weapon I poise and hurl, now be favourable! thee, Lausus, I vow for the live trophy of Aeneas, dressed in the spoils stripped from the pirate's body.' He ends, and throws the spear whistling from far; it flies on, glancing from the shield, and pierces illustrious Antores hard by him sidelong in the flank; Antores, companion of Hercules, who, sent thither from Argos, had stayed by Evander, and settled in an Italian town. Hapless he goes down with a wound not his own, and in death gazes on the sky, and Argos is sweet in his remembrance. Then good Aeneas throws his spear; through the sheltering circle of threefold brass, through the canvas lining and fabric of triple-sewn bull-hide it went, and sank deep in his groin; yet carried not its strength home. Quickly Aeneas, joyful at the sight of the Tyrrhenian's blood, snatches his sword from his thigh and presses hotly on his struggling enemy. Lausus saw, and groaned deeply for love of his dear father, and tears rolled over his face. Here will I not keep silence of thy hard death-doom and thine excellent deeds (if in any wise things wrought in the old time may win belief), nor of thyself, O fitly remembered! He, helpless and trammelled, withdrew backward, the deadly spear-shaft trailing from his shield. The youth broke forward and plunged into the fight; and even as Aeneas' hand rose to bring down the blow, he caught up his point and held him in delay. His comrades follow up with loud cries, so the father may withdraw in shelter of his son's shield, while they shower their darts and bear back the enemy with missiles from a distance. Aeneas wrathfully keeps covered. And as when storm-clouds pour down in streaming hail, all the ploughmen and country-folk scatter off the fields, and the wayfarer cowers safe in his fortress, a stream's bank or deep arch of rock, while the rain falls, that they may do their day's labour when sunlight reappears; thus under the circling storm of weapons Aeneas sustains the cloud of war till it thunders itself all away, and calls on Lausus, on Lausus, with chiding and menace: 'Whither runnest thou on thy death, with daring beyond thy strength? thine affection betrays thee into rashness.' But none the less he leaps madly on; and now wrath rises higher and fiercer in the Dardanian captain, and the Fates pass Lausus' last threads through their hand; for Aeneas drives the sword strongly right through him up all its length: the point pierced the light shield that armed his assailant, and the tunic sewn by his mother with flexible gold: blood filled his breast, and the life left the body and passed mourning through the air to the under world. But when Anchises' son saw the look on the dying face, the face pale in wonderful wise, he sighed deeply in pity, and reached forth his hand, as the likeness of his own filial affection flashed across his soul. 'What now shall good Aeneas give thee, what, O poor boy, for this thy praise, for guerdon of a nature so noble? Keep for thine own the armour thou didst delight in; and I restore thee, if that matters aught at all, to the ghosts and ashes of thy parents. Yet thou shalt have this sad comfort in thy piteous death, thou fallest by great Aeneas' hand.' Then, chiding his hesitating comrades, he lifts him from the ground, dabbling the comely-ranged tresses with blood.

Now war’s heavy hand brought equal suffering and death to both sides. Victors and defeated alike killed and fell, and neither side knew retreat. The gods in Jove’s house pitied the futile rage of both sides and all the agony of mortals. Venus watched from one side, and Juno, daughter of Saturn, from the other. Pale Tisiphone raged among the many thousands of men. Now Mezentius strode grimly across the plain, brandishing his huge spear. He was as vast as Orion when he plants his foot and strides through the great depths of the ocean, his shoulders rising above the waves. Or as when Orion carries an ancient mountain ash from the hilltops and walks the earth with his head hidden among the clouds. So moved Mezentius, huge in his armor. Aeneas saw him among the dense ranks and went to meet him. Mezentius stood his ground, unafraid, and waited for his noble enemy. He stood firm in his massive frame and judged the right distance for a spear throw. “May the divine power of this right hand and the weapon I aim and throw now favor me! Lausus, I promise you the living Aeneas as a trophy, dressed in the armor stripped from the pirate’s body.” With that, he hurled his spear. It whistled through the air, glanced off Aeneas’ shield, and struck illustrious Antores nearby, piercing his side. Antores had been a companion of Hercules. He had been sent there from Argos, stayed with Evander, and settled in an Italian town. The unfortunate man fell to a wound meant for someone else. As he died, he gazed at the sky, and the memory of Argos was sweet to him. Then good Aeneas threw his spear. It passed through the shield’s three layers of bronze, its canvas lining, and its three layers of stitched bullhide. The spear sank deep into Mezentius’ groin, but it did not strike with full force. Glad to see the Tyrrhenian’s blood, Aeneas quickly drew the sword at his side and rushed at his struggling enemy. Lausus saw this and groaned deeply for love of his dear father. Tears rolled down his face. Here I will not keep silent about your cruel fate and your noble deeds, if deeds from long ago can win belief at all. Nor will I keep silent about you, Lausus, who deserve to be remembered. Mezentius, helpless and hindered, backed away with the deadly spear trailing from his shield. The young man rushed forward into the fight. Just as Aeneas raised his hand to strike, Lausus caught the sword’s point and held him off. His companions followed with loud cries, so that his father could withdraw under the protection of his son’s shield. They showered Aeneas with darts, driving him back with missiles from a distance. Furious, Aeneas stayed under cover. When storm clouds pour down hail, all the plowmen and country people scatter from the fields. The traveler shelters safely under a riverbank or a deep arch of rock while the rain falls. They wait so they can do their day’s work when the sunlight returns. In the same way, Aeneas endured the cloud of war beneath the circling storm of weapons, until it had spent all its thunder. Then he called to Lausus, rebuking and threatening him: “Why are you rushing to your death, daring more than your strength allows? Your love is leading you into recklessness.” But Lausus leaped madly forward all the same. Anger rose higher and fiercer in the Dardanian captain, and the Fates passed Lausus’ last threads through their hands. Aeneas drove his sword powerfully through him, up to the hilt. Its point pierced the light shield Lausus carried and the tunic his mother had sewn with flexible gold. Blood filled his breast. His life left his body and passed, mourning, through the air to the underworld. But when Anchises’ son saw the dying face, so strangely pale, he sighed deeply with pity and reached out his hand. He recognized his own love for his father in Lausus. “What can good Aeneas give you now, poor boy, to honor your courage and reward so noble a nature? Keep the armor you delighted in. And I return you, if that matters at all, to the spirits and ashes of your parents. Yet in your pitiful death you will have this sad comfort: you fall by the hand of great Aeneas.” Then he scolded Lausus’ hesitant companions and lifted him from the ground, staining his neatly arranged hair with blood.

Meanwhile his father, by the wave of the Tiber river, stanched his wound with water, and rested his body against a tree-trunk. Hard by his brazen helmet hangs from the boughs, and the heavy armour lies quietly on the meadow. Chosen men stand round; he, sick and panting, leans his neck and lets his beard spread down over his chest. Many a time he asks for Lausus, and sends many an one to call him back and carry a parent's sad commands. But Lausus his weeping comrades were bearing lifeless on his armour, mighty and mightily wounded to death. Afar the soul prophetic of ill knew their lamentation: he soils his gray hairs plenteously with dust, and stretches both hands on high, and clings on the dead. 'Was life's hold on me so sweet, O my son, that I let him I bore receive the hostile stroke in my room? Am I, thy father, saved by these wounds of thine, and living by thy death? Alas and woe! now at last exile is bitter! now the wound is driven deep! And I, even I, O my son, stained thy name with crime, driven in hatred from the throne and sceptre of my fathers. I owed vengeance to my country and my people's resentment; might mine own guilty life but have paid it by every form of death! Now I live, and leave not yet man and day; but I will.' As he speaks thus he raises himself painfully on his thigh, and though the violence of the deep wound cripples him, yet unbroken he bids his horse be brought, his beauty, his comfort, that ever had carried him victorious out of war, and says these words to the grieving beast: 'Rhoebus, we have lived long, if aught at all lasts long with mortals. This day wilt thou either bring back in triumph the gory head and spoils of Aeneas, and we will avenge Lausus' agonies; or if no force opens a way, thou wilt die with me: for I deem not, bravest, thou wilt deign to bear an alien rule and a Teucrian lord.' He spoke, and took his welcome seat on the back he knew, loading both hands with keen javelins, his head sheathed in glittering brass and shaggy horse-hair plumes. Thus he galloped in. Through his heart sweep together the vast tides of shame and mingling madness and grief. And with that he thrice loudly calls Aeneas. Aeneas knew the call, and makes glad invocation: 'So the father of gods speed me, so Apollo on high: do thou essay to close hand to hand. . . .' Thus much he utters, and moves up to meet him with levelled spear. And he: 'Why seek to frighten me, fierce man, now my son is gone? this was thy one road to my ruin. We shrink not from death, nor relent before any of thy gods. Cease; for I come to my death, first carrying these gifts for thee.' He spoke, and hurled a weapon at his enemy; then plants another and yet another as he darts round in a wide circle; but they are stayed on the boss of gold. Thrice he rode wheeling close round him by the left, and sent his weapons strongly in; thrice the Trojan hero turns round, taking the grim forest on his brazen guard. Then, weary of lingering in delay on delay, and plucking out spear-head after spear-head, and hard pressed in the uneven match of battle, with much counselling of spirit now at last he bursts forth, and sends his spear at the war-horse between the hollows of the temples. The creature raises itself erect, beating the air with its feet, throws its rider, and coming down after him in an entangled mass, slips its shoulder as it tumbles forward. The cries of Trojans and Latins kindle the sky. Aeneas rushes up, drawing his sword from the scabbard, and thus above him: 'Where now is gallant Mezentius and all his fierce spirit?' Thereto the Tyrrhenian, as he came to himself and gazing up drank the air of heaven: 'Bitter foe, why these taunts and menaces of death? Naught forbids my slaughter; neither on such terms came I to battle, nor did my Lausus make treaty for this between me and thee. This one thing I beseech thee, by whatsoever grace a vanquished enemy may claim: allow my body sepulture. I know I am girt by the bitter hatred of my people. Stay, I implore, their fury, and grant me and my son union in the tomb.' So speaks he, and takes the sword in his throat unfalteringly, and the lifeblood spreads in a wave over his armour.

Meanwhile, his father washed the blood from his wound in the Tiber river and rested against a tree trunk. Nearby, his bronze helmet hung from the branches, and his heavy armor lay still in the meadow. Chosen men stood around him. Sick and panting, he bowed his head, letting his beard spread over his chest. Again and again he asked for Lausus. He sent many men to call him back and carry his father's sad commands. But Lausus lay dead on his armor as his weeping comrades carried him. He was a mighty warrior, mightily wounded to death. From far off, his father heard their lament and sensed the evil news. He covered his gray hair with dust, stretched both hands toward the sky, and clung to the dead. 'Was life so sweet to me, my son, that I let my own child take the enemy's blow instead? Am I, your father, saved by your wounds and alive because you died? Alas, now at last exile is bitter! Now the wound cuts deep! And I, my son, stained your name with crime. My people hated me and drove me from my fathers' throne and scepter. I owed my country vengeance for my crimes, and my people had reason to hate me. If only my guilty life could have paid that debt through every kind of death! Now I live, and have not yet left the world of men and daylight. But I will.' As he spoke, he painfully raised himself on his thigh. The terrible deep wound crippled him, but his spirit was unbroken. He ordered his horse brought to him. The horse was his pride and comfort, and had always carried him victorious out of war. He spoke to the grieving animal: 'Rhoebus, we have lived a long time, if anything lasts long for mortals. Today you will either bring back Aeneas's bloody head and armor in triumph, and we will avenge Lausus's agony. Or, if no strength can open a way, you will die with me. For I do not think you, bravest of horses, would accept a foreigner's rule and a Teucrian master.' He spoke and took his welcome seat on the familiar back. He filled both hands with sharp javelins. His head was covered in glittering bronze and shaggy horsehair plumes. Then he galloped into battle. Great waves of shame, madness, and grief swept together through his heart. Three times he called loudly to Aeneas. Aeneas recognized his voice and cried out gladly: 'May the father of gods and Apollo on high grant it. Come, try to meet me hand to hand. . . .' With that, he moved to meet him, his spear aimed forward. Mezentius answered: 'Why try to frighten me, fierce man, now that my son is gone? That was your only way to destroy me. I do not shrink from death or yield to any of your gods. Stop, for I come to meet my death, but first I bring you these gifts.' He hurled a weapon at his enemy, then sent another and another as he rode in a wide circle. But the golden boss of Aeneas's shield stopped them. Three times he rode close around Aeneas to the left, hurling his weapons with force. Three times the Trojan hero turned, catching the grim forest of weapons on his bronze shield. At last Aeneas grew tired of the repeated delays and of pulling out spearhead after spearhead. Hard pressed in the unequal fight, he weighed his choices. Then he struck, hurling his spear at the warhorse between its temples. The animal reared, beating the air with its feet, and threw its rider. It fell on top of him in a tangled heap, dislocating its shoulder as it tumbled forward. The cries of Trojans and Latins filled the sky. Aeneas rushed forward, drawing his sword from its sheath. Standing over him, he said: 'Where is gallant Mezentius now, and all his fierce spirit?' The Tyrrhenian came to himself and gazed up, breathing the open air. He answered: 'Bitter enemy, why these taunts and threats of death? Nothing prevents you from killing me. I did not come to battle on any other terms, and my Lausus made no such bargain between us. I ask one thing, if a defeated enemy may claim any mercy. Let my body be buried. I know my people surround me with bitter hatred. Please hold back their fury and let my son and me be united in the tomb.' With those words, he took the sword in his throat without flinching. His lifeblood spread in a wave over his armor.