The Killing of Turnus

When Turnus sees the Latins broken and fainting in the thwart issue of war, his promise claimed for fulfilment, and men's eyes pointed on him, his own spirit rises in unappeasable flame. As the lion in Phoenician fields, his breast heavily wounded by the huntsmen, at last starts into arms, and shakes out the shaggy masses from his exultant neck, and undismayed snaps the brigand's planted weapon, roaring with blood-stained mouth; even so Turnus kindles and swells in passion. Then he thus addresses the king, and so furiously begins:

Turnus sees the Latins defeated and collapsing after the war has turned against them. His people demand that he fulfill his promise, and all eyes are on him. His spirit rises in a flame that nothing can quench. In the fields of Phoenicia, a lion is badly wounded in the chest by hunters. At last, it springs to fight and shakes the thick mane on its proud neck. Undaunted, it snaps the weapon the hunter has driven into it and roars with a bloodstained mouth. Just like the lion, Turnus burns and swells with rage. Then he addresses the king, beginning furiously:

'Turnus stops not the way; there is no excuse for the coward Aeneadae to take back their words or renounce their compact. I join battle; bring the holy things, my lord, and swear the treaty. Either this hand shall hurl to hell the Dardanian who skulks from Asia, and the Latins sit and see my single sword wipe out the nation's reproach; or let him rule his conquest, and Lavinia pass to his espousal.'

'Turnus will not stand in the way. The cowardly Aeneadae have no excuse to take back their words or break their agreement. I will fight. Bring the sacred objects, my lord, and swear to the treaty. Either I will send the Dardanian who fled from Asia to hell with my own hand, or he will rule the land he conquers and marry Lavinia. If I win, the Latins can sit and watch as my sword alone wipes away the nation's shame.'

To him Latinus calmly replied: 'O excellent young man! the more thy hot valour abounds, the more intently must I counsel, and weigh fearfully what may befall. Thou hast thy father Daunus' realm, hast many towns taken by thine hand, nor is Latinus lacking in gold and goodwill. There are other maidens unwedded in Latium and Laurentine fields, and of no mean birth. Let me unfold this hard saying in all sincerity: and do thou drink it into thy soul. I might not ally my daughter to any of her old wooers; such was the universal oracle of gods and men. Overborne by love for thee, overborne by kinship of blood and my weeping wife's complaint, I broke all fetters, I severed the maiden from her promised husband, I took up unrighteous arms. Since then, Turnus, thou seest what calamities, what wars pursue me, what woes thyself before all dost suffer. Twice vanquished in pitched battle, we scarce guard in our city walls the hopes of Italy: the streams of Tiber yet run warm with our blood, and our bones whiten the boundless plain. Why fall I away again and again? what madness bends my purpose? if I am ready to take them into alliance after Turnus' destruction, why do I not rather bar the strife while he lives? What will thy Rutulian kinsmen, will all Italy say, if thy death—Fortune make void the word!—comes by my betrayal, while thou suest for our daughter in marriage? Cast a glance on war's changing fortune; pity thine aged father, who now far away sits sad in his native Ardea.'

Latinus calmly replied: 'Excellent young man, the more fierce your courage, the more carefully I must consider what may happen. You have your father Daunus' kingdom and many towns you have conquered. Latinus has plenty of gold and goodwill to offer. There are other unmarried women of noble birth in Latium and the Laurentine fields. Let me speak plainly about a painful matter, and take my words to heart. I could not give my daughter in marriage to any of her former suitors. The gods and men all declared this. But my love for you, our kinship, and my wife's tearful pleas overwhelmed me. I cast aside every restraint, took the young woman from her promised husband, and went to war unjustly. Since then, Turnus, you have seen the disasters and wars that have followed me. You have suffered more than anyone. Twice defeated in open battle, we can barely protect Italy's hopes within our city walls. The streams of the Tiber still run warm with our blood, and our bones whiten the endless plain. Why do I keep turning away from my purpose? What madness makes me change my mind? If I am ready to make an alliance with them after Turnus is killed, why not stop the fighting while he lives? What will your Rutulian kinsmen and all Italy say if my betrayal causes your death? May Fortune prevent it! You are seeking our daughter's hand in marriage. Consider how quickly fortune can change in war. Have pity on your aged father, who now sits grieving far away in his native Ardea.'

In nowise do the words bend Turnus' passion: he rages the more fiercely, and sickens of the cure. So soon as he found speech he thus made utterance:

The words do nothing to calm Turnus's passion. He rages more fiercely and grows sick at the cure. As soon as he could speak, he said:

'The care thou hast for me, most gracious lord, for me lay down, I implore thee, and let me purchase honour with death. Our hand too rains weapons, our steel is strong; and our wounds too draw blood. The goddess his mother will be far from him to cover his flight, woman-like, in a cloud and an empty phantom's hiding.'

'Most gracious lord, I beg you to put aside your concern for me. Let me earn honor through death. We too can rain down weapons. Our steel is strong, and the wounds we inflict draw blood too. His goddess mother will be far away. She will not be there to hide his escape in a cloud and an empty phantom, as a woman would.'

But the queen, dismayed by the new terms of battle, wept, and clung to her fiery son as one ready to die: 'Turnus, by these tears, by Amata's regard, if that touches thee at all—thou art now the one hope, the repose of mine unhappy age; in thine hand is Latinus' honour and empire, on thee is the weight of all our sinking house—one thing I beseech thee; forbear to join battle with the Teucrians. What fate soever awaits thee in the strife thou seekest, it awaits me, Turnus, too: with thee will I leave the hateful light, nor shall my captive eyes see Aeneas my daughter's lord.' Lavinia tearfully heard her mother's words with cheeks all aflame, as deep blushes set her face on fire and ran hotly over it. Even as Indian ivory, if one stain it with sanguine dye, or where white lilies are red with many a rose amid: such colour came on the maiden's face. Love throws him into tumult, and stays his countenance on the girl: he burns fiercer for arms, and briefly answers Amata:

But the queen was horrified by the new terms of battle. Weeping, she clung to her fiery son as though she were ready to die: 'Turnus, I beg you by these tears and by Amata's love, if that means anything to you. You are now my only hope and the comfort of my unhappy old age. Latinus' honor and kingdom are in your hands. The whole burden of our declining house rests on you. I beg you for one thing: do not fight the Teucrians. Whatever fate awaits you in the battle you seek, Turnus, awaits me too. With you, I will leave this hateful light, and my captive eyes will not see Aeneas become my daughter's husband.' Lavinia listened tearfully to her mother. Deep blushes set her cheeks aflame and spread hotly across her face. Her face took on the color of Indian ivory stained with red dye, or white lilies surrounded by red roses. Love stirred Turnus' heart, and he fixed his gaze on the girl. He burned even more fiercely for battle and answered Amata briefly:

'Do not, I pray thee, do not weep for me, neither pursue me thus ominously as I go to the stern shock of war. Turnus is not free to dally with death. Thou, Idmon, bear my message to the Phrygian monarch in this harsh wording: So soon as to-morrow's Dawn rises in the sky blushing on her crimson wheels, let him not loose Teucrian or Rutulian: let Teucrian and Rutulian arms have rest, and our blood decide the war; on that field let Lavinia be sought in marriage.'

'Please, do not weep for me. Do not follow me with such ill omens as I go into the fierce clash of war. Turnus cannot afford to delay his meeting with death. Idmon, take this blunt message to the Phrygian king: Tomorrow, as soon as Dawn rises in the sky on her crimson wheels, let him send neither Teucrian nor Rutulian into battle. Let Teucrian and Rutulian weapons rest, and let our blood decide the war. On that field, let Lavinia be won in marriage.'

These words uttered, withdrawing swiftly homeward, he orders out his horses, and rejoicingly beholds them snorting before his face: those that Orithyia's self gave to grace Pilumnus, such as would excel the snows in whiteness and the gales in speed. The eager charioteers stand round and pat their chests with clapping hollowed hands, and comb their tressed manes. Himself next he girds on his shoulders the corslet stiff with gold and pale mountain-bronze, and buckles on the sword and shield and scarlet-plumed helmet-spikes: that sword the divine Lord of Fire had himself forged for his father Daunus and dipped glowing in the Stygian wave. Next, where it stood amid his dwelling leaning on a massy pillar, he strongly seizes his stout spear, the spoil of Actor the Auruncan, and brandishes it quivering, and cries aloud: 'Now, O spear that never hast failed at my call, now the time is come; thee princely Actor once, thee Turnus now wields in his grasp. Grant this strong hand to strike down the effeminate Phrygian, to rend and shatter the corslet, and defile in dust the locks curled with hot iron and wet with myrrh.' Thus madly he runs on: sparkles leap out from all his blazing face, and his keen eyes flash fire: even as the bull when before his first fight he bellows awfully, and drives against a tree's trunk to make trial of his angry horns, and buffets the air with blows or scatters the sand in prelude of battle.

After speaking, he hurried home and ordered his horses brought out. He looked on with joy as they snorted before him. Orithyia herself had given them to honor Pilumnus. They were whiter than snow and faster than the winds. The eager charioteers stood around them, patting their chests with cupped hands and combing their flowing manes. He then strapped on his breastplate, stiff with gold and pale mountain bronze. He buckled on his sword and shield and put on his helmet with its scarlet plumes. The divine Lord of Fire himself had forged the sword for his father Daunus. He had dipped it, still glowing, in the waters of the Styx. Next he seized his stout spear, which leaned against a massive pillar in his house. It was a prize taken from Actor the Auruncan. He brandished the quivering spear and cried aloud: 'Now, spear, you have never failed when I called on you. Now the time has come. Prince Actor once held you, and now Turnus holds you. Let this strong hand strike down the effeminate Phrygian and tear apart his breastplate. Let it drag through the dust his hair, curled with a hot iron and wet with myrrh.' He raged on like this, his whole face blazing with sparks and his fierce eyes flashing fire. He was like a bull bellowing terribly before its first fight. It charges a tree trunk to test its angry horns. It strikes at the air and scatters sand as it prepares for battle.

And therewithal Aeneas, terrible in his mother's armour, kindles for warfare and awakes into wrath, rejoicing that offer of treaty stays the war. Comforting his comrades and sorrowing Iülus' fear, he instructs them of destiny, and bids bear answer of assurance to King Latinus, and name the laws of peace.

Then Aeneas, fearsome in his mother's armor, burns with anger and a desire for battle. Yet he rejoices that the offer of a treaty stops the war. He comforts his comrades, grieves at Iülus' fear, and tells them of their destiny. He orders them to take King Latinus a reply assuring him of peace and stating its terms.

Scarcely did the morrow shed on the mountain-tops the beams of risen day, as the horses of the sun begin to rise from the deep flood and breathe light from their lifted nostrils; Rutulian and Teucrian men measured out and made ready a field of battle under the great city's ramparts, and midway in it hearth-fires and grassy altars to the gods of both peoples; while others bore spring water and fire, draped in priestly dress and their brows bound with grass of the field. The Ausonian army issue forth, and crowd through the gates in streaming serried columns. On this side all the Trojan and Tyrrhenian host pour in diverse armament, girt with iron even as though the harsh battle-strife called them forth. Therewith amid their thousands the captains dart up and down, splendid in gold and purple, Mnestheus, seed of Assaracus, and brave Asilas, and Messapus, tamer of horses, brood of Neptune: then each on signal given retired to his own ground; they plant their spears in the earth and lean their shields against them. Mothers in eager abandonment, and the unarmed crowd and feeble elders beset towers and house-roofs, or stand at the lofty gates.

The next day had barely begun to cast its light on the mountaintops. The horses of the sun were rising from the deep water, breathing light from their raised nostrils. Rutulian and Teucrian men measured out and prepared a battlefield beneath the great city’s walls. In the middle, they made hearth fires and grassy altars for the gods of both peoples. Others carried spring water and fire, wearing priestly robes and crowns of field grass. The Ausonian army came out, crowding through the gates in tightly packed columns. On the other side, all the Trojan and Tyrrhenian forces poured in, bearing a variety of weapons. They were armed with iron, just as if fierce battle had called them out. Among their thousands, the captains rode back and forth, splendid in gold and purple. There were Mnestheus, a descendant of Assaracus, brave Asilas, and Messapus, tamer of horses and son of Neptune. At a signal, each withdrew to his own ground. They planted their spears in the earth and leaned their shields against them. Mothers, carried away by excitement, crowded onto towers and rooftops, along with the unarmed crowd and frail elders. Others stood at the high gates.

But Juno, on the summit that is now called the Alban—then the mountain had neither name nor fame or honour—looked forth from the hill and surveyed the plain and double lines of Laurentine and Trojan, and Latinus' town. Straightway spoke she thus to Turnus' sister, goddess to goddess, lady of pools and noisy rivers: such worship did Jupiter the high king of air consecrate to her for her stolen virginity:

But Juno stood on the summit now called the Alban. At that time, the mountain had no name, fame, or honor. From the hill, she looked out over the plain, the opposing lines of Laurentine and Trojan, and Latinus' town. Then she spoke to Turnus' sister, one goddess to another. Turnus' sister was the goddess of pools and noisy rivers. Jupiter, the high king of the air, had granted her this honor in return for her stolen virginity:

'Nymph, grace of rivers, best beloved of our soul, thou knowest how out of all the Latin women that ever rose to high-hearted Jove's thankless bed, thee only have I preferred and gladly given part and place in heaven. Learn thy woe, that thou blame not me for it, Juturna. Where fortune seemed to allow and the Destinies granted Latinus' estate to prosper, I shielded Turnus and thy city. Now I see him joining battle with unequal fates, and the day of doom and deadly force draws nigh. Mine eyes cannot look on this battle and treaty: thou, if thou darest aught of more present help for the brother of thy blood, go on; it befits thee. Haply relief shall follow misery.'

'Nymph, grace of rivers, dearest to my heart, you know how I chose you alone. I chose you from all the Latin women who ever shared proud Jove's thankless bed. I gladly gave you a place in heaven. Learn of your sorrow, Juturna, so that you will not blame me for it. I protected Turnus and your city as long as fortune and the Destinies allowed Latinus' kingdom to prosper. Now I see Turnus entering a battle with fate against him. The day of his doom and deadly violence draws near. I cannot bear to watch this battle and treaty. But if you dare do anything to help your own brother more directly, go ahead. It is right for you to do so. Perhaps relief will follow suffering.'

Scarcely thus: when Juturna's eyes overbrimmed with tears, and thrice and again she smote her hand on her gracious breast. 'This is not time for tears,' cries Juno, daughter of Saturn: 'hasten and snatch thy brother, if it may be, from his death; or do thou waken war, and make the treaty abortive. I encourage thee to dare.' With such urgence she left her, doubting and dismayed, and grievously wounded in soul.

Hardly had Juno spoken when Juturna's eyes filled with tears. Again and again, she struck her graceful breast with her hand. 'This is no time for tears,' cried Juno, daughter of Saturn. 'Hurry and save your brother from death, if you can. Or stir up war and prevent the treaty from taking effect. I urge you to act boldly.' With these words, Juno left Juturna uncertain, dismayed, and deeply wounded in spirit.

Meanwhile the kings go forth; Latinus in mighty pomp rides in his four-horse chariot; twelve gilded rays go glittering round his brows, symbol of the Sun his ancestor; Turnus moves behind a white pair, clenching in his hand two broad-headed spears. On this side lord Aeneas, fount of the Roman race, ablaze in starlike shield and celestial arms, and close by Ascanius, second hope of mighty Rome, issue from the camp; and the priest, in spotless raiment, hath brought the young of a bristly sow and an unshorn sheep of two years old, and set his beasts by the blazing altars. They, turning their eyes towards the sunrising, scatter salted corn from their hands and clip the beasts with steel over the temples, and pour cups on the altars. Then Aeneas the good, with sword drawn, thus makes invocation:

Meanwhile, the kings come forward. Latinus rides in great splendor in a chariot drawn by four horses. Twelve golden rays glitter around his brow, a symbol of his ancestor, the Sun. Turnus rides in a chariot drawn by two white horses, gripping two broad-headed spears. On the other side, Aeneas, the founder of the Roman race, comes out of the camp. His shield shines like a star, and his armor is heavenly. Close beside him is Ascanius, the second hope of mighty Rome. A priest dressed in spotless robes brings a young pig and a two-year-old sheep that has never been shorn. He places them beside the blazing altars. The men turn toward the rising sun and scatter salted grain from their hands. They cut hair from the animals' temples with a blade and pour offerings from cups onto the altars. Then noble Aeneas draws his sword and calls upon the gods:

'Be the Sun now witness, and this Earth to my call, for whose sake I have borne to suffer so sore travail, and the Lord omnipotent, and thou his wife, at last, divine daughter of Saturn, at last I pray more favourable; and thou, mighty Mavors, who wieldest all warfare in lordship beneath thy sway; and on the Springs and Rivers I call, and the Dread of high heaven, and the divinities of the blue seas: if haply victory fall to Turnus the Ausonian, the vanquished make covenant to withdraw to Evander's city; Iülus shall quit the soil; nor ever hereafter shall the Aeneadae return in arms to renew warfare, or attack this realm with the sword. But if Victory grant battle to us and ours (as I think the rather, and so the rather may the gods seal their will), I will not bid Italy obey my Teucrians, nor do I claim the realm for mine; let both nations, unconquered, join treaty for ever under equal law. Gods and worship shall be of my giving: my father Latinus shall bear the sword, and have a father's prescribed command. For me my Teucrians shall establish a city, and Lavinia give the town her name.'

'I call the Sun and this Earth to witness. For this Earth, I have endured such terrible hardship. I call on the almighty Lord and on you, his wife, divine daughter of Saturn. I pray that you will at last be more favorable. I call on you, mighty Mavors, who rule over all warfare. I call on the Springs and Rivers, the Dread of high heaven, and the divinities of the blue seas. If victory should fall to Turnus the Ausonian, we who are defeated agree to withdraw to Evander's city. Iülus shall leave this land. The Aeneadae shall never again return in arms to renew the war or attack this realm with the sword. But victory may grant the battle to us and our people. I think that more likely, and may the gods choose it. If so, I will not command Italy to obey my Teucrians, nor do I claim the realm for myself. Let both nations remain unconquered and join in an everlasting treaty under equal laws. I will provide the gods and their worship. My father Latinus shall bear the sword and exercise the authority granted to a father. My Teucrians shall build a city for me, and Lavinia shall give the city her name.'

Thus Aeneas first: thereon Latinus thus follows:

Aeneas spoke first. Then Latinus replied:

'By these same I swear, O Aeneas, by Earth, Sea, Sky, and the twin brood of Latona and Janus the double-facing, and the might of nether gods and grim Pluto's shrine; this let our Father hear, who seals treaties with his thunderbolt. I touch the altars, I take to witness the fires and the gods between us; no time shall break this peace and truce in Italy, howsoever fortune fall; nor shall any force turn my will aside, not if it dissolve land into water in turmoil of deluge, or melt heaven in hell: so surely as this sceptre' (for haply he bore a sceptre in his hand) 'shall never burgeon into thin leafage and shady shoot, since once in the forest cut down right to the stem it lost its mother, and the steel lopped away its tressed arms: a tree of old: now the craftsman's hand hath bound it in adornment of brass and given it to our Latin fathers' bearing.'

'By these same powers I swear, Aeneas: by Earth, Sea, Sky, Latona's twin children, and Janus with his two faces. I swear by the power of the gods below and the shrine of grim Pluto. Let our Father hear this oath, he who seals treaties with his thunderbolt. I touch the altars and call the fires and gods between us as witnesses. No time will break this peace and truce in Italy, whatever fortune brings. No force will turn me from it, even if a flood dissolves the land into water or melts heaven into hell. This is as certain as that this scepter' (he happened to be holding a scepter) 'will never again grow delicate leaves or shady shoots. Once it was cut down to the stem in the forest, it lost its mother. The blade cut away its leafy branches. It was once a tree. Now a craftsman has bound it in bronze and given it to our Latin fathers to carry.'

With such words they sealed mutual treaty midway in sight of the princes. Then they duly slay the consecrated beasts over the flames, and tear out their live entrails, and pile the altars with laden chargers.

With these words, they sealed their treaty halfway between their forces, in sight of the princes. Then they sacrificed the consecrated animals over the flames, as the ritual required. They tore out their still living entrails and piled the altars with loaded platters.

But long ere this the Rutulians deemed the battle unequal, and their hearts are stirred in changeful motion; and now the more, as they discern nigher that in ill-matched strength . . . . heightened by Turnus, as advancing with noiseless pace he humbly worships at the altar with downcast eye, by his wasted cheeks and the pallor on his youthful frame. Soon as Juturna his sister saw this talk spread, and the people's mind waver in uncertainty, into the mid ranks, in feigned form of Camertus—his family was high in long ancestry, and his father's name for valour renowned, and himself most valiant in arms—into the mid ranks she glides, not ignorant of her task, and scatters diverse rumours, saying thus: 'Shame, O Rutulians! shall we set one life in the breach for so many such as these? are we unequal in numbers or bravery? See, Troy and Arcadia is all they bring, and those fate-bound bands that Etruria hurls on Turnus. Scarce is there an enemy to meet every other man of ours. He indeed will ascend to the gods for whose altars he devotes himself, and move living in the lips of men: we, our country lost, shall bow to the haughty rigour of our lords, if we now sit slackly on the field.'

But long before this, the Rutulians thought the battle unfair, and their feelings were unsettled. Now they felt this even more strongly, as they saw more closely how unevenly matched the fighters were . . . . Turnus heightened their concern. He approached the altar with quiet steps and worshiped humbly, his eyes lowered. His cheeks were sunken, and his youthful body was pale. As soon as his sister Juturna saw this talk spread and the people grow uncertain, she slipped into the middle ranks disguised as Camertus. His family had a long and noble ancestry, and his father was renowned for bravery. Camertus himself was also a great warrior. Juturna knew her task and spread various rumors, saying: 'Shame on you, Rutulians! Shall we risk one life against so many enemies? Are we inferior in numbers or courage? Look, all they bring are Troy and Arcadia, and those bands bound by fate that Etruria sends against Turnus. There is hardly one enemy for every two of our men. Turnus will rise to the gods, whose altars he is giving his life to defend. His name will live on in people's speech. But if we sit idle on the battlefield now, we will lose our country and bow to the harsh arrogance of our masters.'

By such words the soldiers' counsel was kindled yet higher and higher, and a murmur crept through their columns; the very Laurentines, the very Latins are changed; and they who but now hoped for rest from battle and rescue of fortune now desire arms and pray the treaty were undone, and pity Turnus' cruel lot. To this Juturna adds a yet stronger impulse, and high in heaven shews a sign more potent than any to confuse Italian souls with delusive augury. For on the crimsoned sky Jove's tawny bird flew chasing, in a screaming crowd, fowl of the shore that winged their column; then suddenly stooping to the water, pounces on a noble swan with merciless crooked talons. The startled Italians watch, while all the birds together clamorously wheel round from flight, wonderful to see, and dim the sky with their pinions, and in thickening cloud urge their foe through air, till, conquered by their attack and his heavy prey, he yielded and dropped it from his talons into the river, and winged his way deep into the clouds. Then indeed the Rutulians clamorously greet the omen, and their hands flash out. And Tolumnius the augur cries before them all: 'This it was, this, that my vows often have sought; I welcome and know a deity; follow me, follow, snatch up the sword, O hapless people whom the greedy alien frightens with his arms like silly birds, and with strong hand ravages your shores. He too will take to flight, and spread his sails afar over ocean. Do you with one heart close up your squadrons, and defend in battle your lost king.' He spoke, and darting forward, hurled a weapon full on the enemy; the whistling cornel-shaft sings, and unerringly cleaves the air. At once and with it a vast shout goes up, and all their rows are amazed, and their hearts hotly stirred. The spear flies on; where haply stood opposite in ninefold brotherhood all the beautiful sons of one faithful Tyrrhene wife, borne of her to Gylippus the Arcadian, one of them, midway where the sewn belt rubs on the flank and the clasp bites the fastenings of the side, one of them, excellent in beauty and glittering in arms, it pierces clean through the ribs and stretches on the yellow sand. But of his banded brethren, their courage fired by grief, some grasp and draw their swords, some snatch weapons to throw, and rush blindly forward. The Laurentine columns rush forth against them; again from the other side Trojans and Agyllines and Arcadians in painted armour flood thickly in: so hath one passion seized all to make decision by the sword. They pull the altars to pieces; through all the air goes a thick storm of weapons, and faster falls the iron rain. Bowls and hearth-fires are carried off; Latinus himself retreats, bearing the outraged gods of the broken treaty. The others harness their chariots, or vault upon their horses and come up with swords drawn. Messapus, eager to shatter the treaty, rides menacingly down on Aulestes the Tyrrhenian, a king in a king's array. Retreating hastily, and tripped on the altars that meet him behind, the hapless man goes down on his head and shoulders. But Messapus flies up with wrathful spear, and strikes him, as he pleads sore, a deep downward blow from horseback with his beam-like spear, saying thus: That for him: the high gods take this better victim. The Italians crowd in and strip his warm limbs. Corynaeus seizes a charred brand from the altar, and meeting Ebysus as he advances to strike, darts the flame in his face; his heavy beard flamed up, and gave out a scorched smell. Following up his enemy's confusion, the other seizes him with his left hand by the hair, and bears him to earth with a thrust of his planted knee, and there drives the unyielding sword into his side. Podalirius pursues and overhangs with naked sword the shepherd Alsus as he rushes amid the foremost line of weapons; Alsus swings back his axe, and severs brow and chin full in front, wetting his armour all over with spattered blood. Grim rest and iron slumber seal his eyes; his lids close on everlasting night.

These words stirred the soldiers’ feelings even more, and a murmur spread through their ranks. Even the Laurentines and Latins changed their minds. Just before, they had hoped for a rest from battle and a change in their fortunes. Now they wanted to fight, wished the treaty undone, and pitied Turnus’ cruel fate. Juturna stirred them further. High in the sky, she showed them a sign more powerful than any other false omen to mislead the Italians. Against the crimson sky, Jove’s golden-brown eagle chased a screaming flock of shorebirds. Then it suddenly swooped down to the water and seized a noble swan in its cruel, curved talons. The startled Italians watched as all the birds wheeled together and cried out. It was a wonder to see. Their wings darkened the sky, and their gathering cloud drove the eagle through the air. Overcome by their attack and the weight of its prey, it dropped the swan into the river. Then it flew deep into the clouds. The Rutulians greeted the omen with a roar and quickly reached for their weapons. Before them all, Tolumnius the augur cried: 'This is it, the sign I have so often prayed for. I welcome it and recognize a god at work. Follow me, follow me and seize your swords, unhappy people! The greedy foreigner frightens you with his weapons as if you were foolish birds, and ravages your shores by force. He too will flee and spread his sails far out over the ocean. Close your ranks with one heart and fight to defend your lost king.' He spoke, then rushed forward and hurled a spear straight at the enemy. The whistling cornel shaft sang as it cut unerringly through the air. At once a great shout went up. All the ranks were stunned, and their hearts burned with excitement. The spear flew on. Opposite stood nine brothers, all the handsome sons of Gylippus the Arcadian and his faithful Tyrrhene wife. One of them was exceptionally beautiful and wore shining armor. The spear struck him where his sewn belt rubbed his side and its clasp pressed against the fastenings. It pierced his ribs and stretched him on the yellow sand. His brothers’ courage flared with grief. Some seized their swords and drew them, while others snatched up weapons to throw. They rushed blindly forward, and the Laurentine ranks charged against them. From the other side, Trojans, Agyllines, and Arcadians in painted armor came pouring in. Everyone had been seized by the same desire to settle matters with the sword. They pulled the altars apart. A thick storm of weapons filled the air, and iron fell like ever heavier rain. The sacred bowls and altar fires were carried away. Latinus himself withdrew, carrying the images of the gods outraged by the broken treaty. Others harnessed their chariots or leaped onto their horses and advanced with swords drawn. Messapus, eager to break the treaty, rode threateningly at Aulestes the Tyrrhenian, a king dressed in royal robes. As Aulestes hurried backward, he tripped over the altars behind him and fell on his head and shoulders. Messapus rushed up on horseback with his spear raised in anger. Though Aulestes begged desperately, Messapus drove the beam-like spear deep into him and said: That is for him: the high gods receive a better victim. The Italians crowded around and stripped the armor from Aulestes’ still-warm body. Corynaeus seized a charred brand from an altar. As Ebysus advanced to strike him, Corynaeus thrust the flame into his face. His thick beard caught fire and gave off a scorched smell. While Ebysus was confused, Corynaeus seized his hair with his left hand and drove him to the ground with his knee. Then he plunged his unyielding sword into his side. Podalirius pursued the shepherd Alsus with a drawn sword and loomed over him as Alsus rushed among the foremost weapons. Alsus swung back his axe and struck Podalirius squarely in the face, splitting his brow and chin. Blood spattered all over his armor. Grim rest and iron sleep sealed his eyes, and his lids closed on everlasting night.

But good Aeneas, his head bared, kept stretching his unarmed hand and calling loudly to his men: 'Whither run you? What is this strife that so spreads and swells? Ah, restrain your wrath! truce is already stricken, and all its laws ordained; mine alone is the right of battle. Leave me alone, and my hand shall confirm the treaty; these rites already make Turnus mine.' Amid these accents, amid words like these, lo! a whistling arrow winged its way to him, sped from what hand or driven by what god, none knows, or what chance or deity brought such honour to the Rutulians; the renown of the high deed was buried, nor did any boast to have dealt Aeneas' wound. Turnus, when he saw Aeneas retreating from the ranks and his captains in dismay, burns hot with sudden hope. At once he calls for his horses and armour, and with a bound leaps proudly into his chariot and handles the reins. He darts on, dealing many a brave man's body to death; many an one he rolls half-slain, or crushes whole files under his chariot, or seizes and showers spears on the fugitives. As when by the streams of icy Hebrus Mavors kindles to bloodshed and clashes on his shield, and stirs war and speeds his furious coursers; they outwing south winds and west on the open plain; utmost Thrace groans under their hoof-beats; and around in the god's train rush the faces of dark Terror, and Wraths and Ambushes; even so amid the battle Turnus briskly lashes on his reeking horses, trampling on the foes that lie piteously slain; the galloping hoof scatters bloody dew, and spurns mingled gore and sand. And now hath he dealt Sthenelus to death, and Thamyrus and Pholus, him and him at close quarters, the other from afar; from afar both the sons of Imbrasus, Glaucus and Lades, whom Imbrasus himself had nurtured in Lycia and equipped in equal arms, whether to meet hand to hand or to outstrip the winds on horseback. Elsewhere Eumedes advances amid the fray, ancient Dolon's brood, illustrious in war, renewing his grandfather's name, his father's courage and strength of hand, who of old dared to claim Pelides' chariot as his price if he went to spy out the Grecian camp; to him the son of Tydeus told out another price for his venture, and he dreams no more of Achilles' horses. Him Turnus descried far on the open plain, and first following him with light javelin through long space of air, stops his double-harnessed horses and leaps from the chariot, and descends on his fallen half-lifeless foe, and, planting his foot on his neck, wrests the blade out of his hand and dyes its glitter deep in his throat, adding these words withal: 'Behold, thou liest, Trojan, meting out those Hesperian fields thou didst seek in war. Such guerdon is theirs who dare to tempt my sword; thus do they found their city.' Then with a spear-cast he sends Asbutes to follow him, and Chloreus and Sybaris, Dares and Thersilochus, and Thymoetes fallen flung over his horse's neck. And as when the Edonian North wind's wrath roars on the deep Aegean, and the wave follows it shoreward; where the blast comes down, the clouds race over the sky; so, wheresoever Turnus cleaves his way, columns retreat and lines turn and run; his own speed bears him on, and his flying plume tosses as his chariot meets the breeze. Phegeus brooked not his proud approach; he faced the chariot, and caught and twisted away in his right hand the mouths of his horses, spurred into speed and foaming on the bit. Dragged along and hanging by the yoke he is left uncovered; the broad lance-head reaches him, pins and pierces the double-woven breastplate, and lightly wounds the surface of his body. Yet turning, he advanced on the enemy behind his shield, and sought succour in the naked point; when the wheel running forward on its swift axle struck him headlong and flung him to ground, and Turnus' sword following it smote off his head between the helmet-rim and the upper border of the breastplate, and left the body on the sand.

But good Aeneas, his head bare, kept stretching out his unarmed hand and shouting to his men: 'Where are you running? Why is this fighting spreading and growing? Stop your anger! A truce has already been made, and all its terms are set. I alone have the right to fight. Leave me alone, and my hand will confirm the treaty. These rites already make Turnus mine.' As he spoke, a whistling arrow flew toward him. No one knows whose hand shot it or what god drove it. Nor does anyone know what chance or deity brought such honor to the Rutulians. The glory of the great deed was buried, and no one boasted of wounding Aeneas. When Turnus saw Aeneas retreating from the ranks and his captains in dismay, sudden hope set him on fire. He immediately called for his horses and armor. With a bound, he leaped proudly into his chariot and took the reins. He charged forward, killing many brave men. He knocked many others down, half dead, or crushed whole ranks beneath his chariot. He seized spears and showered them on the fleeing men. By the streams of icy Hebrus, Mavors stirs up bloodshed and clashes against his shield. He rouses war and drives his furious horses onward. On the open plain, they outrun the south and west winds. The farthest reaches of Thrace groan under their hoofbeats. Around the god rush the faces of dark Terror, and Wraths and Ambushes. Just so, Turnus swiftly whipped his steaming horses through the battle, trampling the pitifully slain enemies. Their galloping hoofs scattered bloody spray and kicked up a mixture of blood and sand. He killed Sthenelus, Thamyrus, and Pholus, two at close range and the other from a distance. From a distance he also killed both sons of Imbrasus, Glaucus and Lades. Imbrasus himself had raised them in Lycia and armed them alike. They were equipped to fight hand to hand or to outrun the winds on horseback. Elsewhere, Eumedes advanced into the fighting. He was the son of the aged Dolon and was famous in war. He bore his grandfather's name and shared his father's courage and strength of hand. Long ago, Dolon had dared to demand Pelides' chariot as his reward for spying on the Grecian camp. The son of Tydeus paid him a different reward for that venture. Dolon no longer dreams of Achilles' horses. Turnus spotted Eumedes far away on the open plain. First, he sent a light javelin flying after him across the distance. Then he stopped his two horses and leaped from the chariot. He came down upon his fallen, half-lifeless enemy and planted his foot on his neck. He tore the sword from Eumedes' hand and plunged its glittering blade deep into his throat. Then he said: 'Look, Trojan, you lie there measuring out the Hesperian fields you sought in war. That is the reward for those who dare to face my sword. That is how they found their city.' Then he hurled a spear and sent Asbutes after Eumedes, along with Chloreus, Sybaris, Dares, and Thersilochus. He also killed Thymoetes, who fell, thrown over his horse's neck. When the angry Edonian North wind roars over the deep Aegean, waves follow it toward shore. Wherever the blast descends, clouds race across the sky. So, wherever Turnus cut his way through, columns fell back and ranks turned and fled. His own speed carried him onward, and his streaming plume tossed as his chariot met the wind. Phegeus could not bear Turnus' proud advance. He faced the chariot and seized the mouths of the horses in his right hand, twisting them aside. The horses had been urged to full speed and were foaming at the bit. Phegeus was dragged along, hanging from the yoke and left exposed. The broad head of a lance struck him, piercing his double-woven breastplate and lightly wounding his body. Still, he turned and advanced on his enemy behind his shield, seeking help from his drawn sword. Then the wheel, racing on its axle, struck him headlong and threw him to the ground. Turnus' sword followed, cutting off his head between the rim of his helmet and the top of his breastplate. His body lay on the sand.

And while Turnus thus victoriously deals death over the plains, Mnestheus meantime and faithful Achates, and Ascanius by their side, set down Aeneas in the camp, dabbled with blood and leaning every other step on his long spear. He storms, and tries hard to pull out the dart where the reed had broken, and calls for the nearest way of remedy, to cut open the wound with broad blade, and tear apart the weapon's lurking-place, and so send him back to battle. And now Iapix son of Iasus came, beloved beyond others of Phoebus, to whom once of old, smitten with sharp desire, Apollo gladly offered his own arts and gifts, augury and the lyre and swift arrows: he, to lengthen out the destiny of a parent given over to die, chose rather to know the potency of herbs and the practice of healing, and deal in a silent art unrenowned. Aeneas stood chafing bitterly, propped on his vast spear, mourning Iülus and a great crowd of men around, unstirred by their tears. The aged man, with garment drawn back and girt about him in Paeonian fashion, makes many a hurried effort with healing hand and the potent herbs of Phoebus, all in vain; in vain his hand solicits the arrow-head, and his pincers' grasp pulls at the steel. Fortune leads him forward in nowise; Apollo aids not with counsel; and more and more the fierce clash swells over the plains, and the havoc draws nigher on. Already they see the sky a mass of dust, the cavalry approaching, and shafts falling thickly amid the camp; the dismal cry uprises of warriors fighting and falling under the War-god's heavy hand. At this, stirred deep by her son's cruel pain, Venus his mother plucked from Cretan Ida a stalk of dittamy with downy leaves and bright-tressed flowers, the plant not unknown to wild goats when winged arrows are fast in their body. This Venus bore down, her shape girt in a dim halo; this she steeps with secret healing in the river-water poured out and sparkling abrim, and sprinkles life-giving juice of ambrosia and scented balm. With that water aged Iapix washed the wound, unwitting; and suddenly, lo! all the pain left his body, all the blood in the deep wound was stanched. And now following his hand the arrow fell out with no force, and strength returned afresh as of old. 'Hasten! arms for him quickly! why stand you?' cries Iapix aloud, and begins to kindle their courage against the enemy; 'this comes not by human resource or schooling of art, nor does my hand save thee, Aeneas: a higher god is at work, and sends thee back to higher deeds.' He, eager for battle, had already clasped on the greaves of gold right and left, and scorning delay, brandishes his spear. When the shield is adjusted by his side and the corslet on his back, he clasps Ascanius in his armed embrace, and lightly kissing him through the helmet, cries: 'Learn of me, O boy, valour and toil indeed, fortune of others. Now mine hand shall give thee defence in war, and lead thee to great reward: do thou, when hereafter thine age ripens to fulness, keep this in remembrance, and as thou recallest the pattern of thy kindred, let thy spirit rise to thy father Aeneas, thine uncle Hector.'

While Turnus swept victoriously across the plains, killing as he went, Mnestheus and faithful Achates brought Aeneas into the camp, with Ascanius beside them. Aeneas was spattered with blood and leaned on his long spear every other step. Furious, he struggled to pull out the dart where its shaft had broken. He demanded the quickest cure: cut open the wound with a broad blade, tear out the hidden weapon, and send him back to battle. Then Iapix, son of Iasus, arrived. Phoebus loved him above all others. Long ago, Apollo, overcome with desire for him, had gladly offered him his own arts and gifts: prophecy, the lyre, and swift arrows. But Iapix wanted to prolong the life of a parent destined to die. So he chose instead to learn the power of herbs and the practice of healing, a quiet art that brought no fame. Aeneas stood there, bitterly impatient, propped on his great spear. Mourning Iülus and a great crowd of men stood around him, but their tears did not move him. The old healer pulled back his garment and tied it around him in Paeonian fashion. With his healing hand and Phoebus's powerful herbs, he tried again and again, but in vain. In vain he probed for the arrowhead with his hand and tugged at the steel with pincers. Fortune gave him no help, and Apollo offered no guidance. Meanwhile, the fierce clash grew louder across the plains, and the slaughter drew nearer. They could already see the sky thick with dust, the cavalry approaching, and arrows falling thickly inside the camp. A mournful cry rose from warriors fighting and falling under the War-god's heavy hand. Deeply moved by her son's cruel pain, his mother Venus picked a stalk of dittamy from Cretan Ida. It had downy leaves and flowers with bright tufts. Wild goats know the plant when winged arrows have lodged in their bodies. Venus brought the stalk down, her form surrounded by a dim halo. Unseen, she steeped it in the sparkling river water that had been poured into a basin filled to the brim. She also sprinkled in the life-giving juice of ambrosia and fragrant balm. Old Iapix washed the wound with that water, unaware of what Venus had done. Suddenly all the pain left Aeneas's body, and all the bleeding from the deep wound stopped. The arrow came out at the touch of Iapix's hand, without force, and Aeneas's strength returned as before. 'Hurry! Bring him his arms, quickly! Why are you standing there?' Iapix cried. He began to stir their courage against the enemy. 'No human skill or training has done this, and my hand has not saved you, Aeneas. A higher god is at work and sends you back to greater deeds.' Eager for battle, Aeneas had already fastened the gold greaves on both legs. Scorning delay, he brandished his spear. Once his shield was in place at his side and his armor on his back, he embraced Ascanius in his arms. He kissed him lightly through his helmet and cried: 'Learn courage and hard work from me, my boy, but learn good fortune from others. Now my hand will protect you in war and lead you to great rewards. When you are grown, remember this. Think of the example of your family, and let your spirit rise to match your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector.'

These words uttered, he issued towering from the gates, brandishing his mighty spear: with him in serried column rush Antheus and Mnestheus, and all the throng streams forth of the camp. The field drifts with blinding dust, and the startled earth trembles under the tramp of feet. From his earthworks opposite Turnus saw and the Ausonians saw them come, and an icy shudder ran deep through their frame; first and before all the Latins Juturna heard and knew the sound, and in terror fled away. He flies on, and hurries his dark column over the open plain. As when in fierce weather a storm-cloud moves over mid sea to land, with presaging heart, ah me, the hapless husbandmen shudder from afar; it will deal havoc to their trees and destruction to their crops, and make a broad path of ruin; the winds fly before it, and bear its roar to the beach; so the Rhoetean captain drives his army full on the foe; one and all they close up in wedges, and mass their serried ranks. Thymbraeus smites massive Osiris with the sword, Mnestheus slays Arcetius, Achates Epulo, Gyas Ufens: Tolumnius the augur himself goes down, he who had hurled the first weapon against the foe. Their cry rises to heaven, and in turn the routed Rutulians give backward in flight over the dusty fields. Himself he deigns not to cut down the fugitives, nor pursue such as meet him fair on foot or approach in arms: Turnus alone he tracks and searches in the thick haze, alone calls him to conflict. Then panic-stricken the warrior maiden flings Turnus' charioteer out over his reins, and leaving him far where he slips from the chariot-pole, herself succeeds and turns the wavy reins, tones and limbs and armour all of Metiscus' wearing. As when a black swallow flits through some rich lord's spacious house, and circles in flight the lofty halls, gathering her tiny food for sustenance to her twittering nestlings, and now swoops down the spacious colonnades, now round the wet ponds; in like wise dart Juturna's horses amid the enemy, and her fleet chariot passes flying over all the field. And now here and now here she displays her triumphant brother, nor yet allows him to close, but flies far and away. None the less does Aeneas thread the circling maze to meet him, and tracks his man, and with loud cry cries on him through the scattered ranks. Often as he cast eyes on his enemy and essayed to outrun the speed of the flying-footed horses, so often Juturna wheeled her team away. Alas, what can he do? Vainly he tosses on the ebb and flow, and in his spirit diverse cares make conflicting call; when Messapus, who haply bore in his left hand two tough spear-shafts topped with steel, runs lightly up and aims and hurls one of them upon him with unerring stroke. Aeneas stood still, and gathered himself behind his armour, sinking on bended knee; yet the rushing spear bore off his helmet-spike, and dashed the helmet-plume from the crest. Then indeed his wrath swells; and forced to it by their treachery, while chariot and horses disappear, he calls Jove oft and again to witness, and the altars of the violated treaty, and now at last plunges amid their lines. Sweeping terrible down the tide of battle he wakens fierce indiscriminate carnage, and flings loose all the reins of wrath.

After speaking, he strode out through the gates, towering above the others and brandishing his mighty spear. Antheus and Mnestheus rushed out with him in a close column, and the whole crowd streamed from the camp. Blinding dust drifted across the field, and the startled earth trembled beneath their marching feet. Turnus saw them coming from the earthworks opposite, and so did the Ausonians. An icy shudder ran through them. Before any of the Latins, Juturna heard and recognized the sound and fled in terror. Aeneas sped onward, driving his dark column across the open plain. In fierce weather, a storm cloud moves across the open sea toward land. From far away, the unfortunate farmers sense what is coming and shudder. Alas, the storm will ravage their trees, destroy their crops, and leave a broad path of ruin. Winds race ahead of it and carry its roar to the shore. So the Rhoetean captain drove his army straight at the enemy. All of them closed into wedges and packed their ranks tight. Thymbraeus struck down the massive Osiris with his sword. Mnestheus killed Arcetius, Achates killed Epulo, and Gyas killed Ufens. Tolumnius the augur also fell. He had been the first to hurl a weapon at the enemy. Their cry rose to heaven, and the routed Rutulians fled back across the dusty fields. Aeneas himself would not bother to cut down the fugitives. Nor would he pursue those who faced him on foot or came at him with weapons. Through the thick haze, he searched and hunted for Turnus alone, calling on him alone to fight. Then the warrior maiden, seized by panic, threw Turnus' charioteer forward over his reins. She left him far behind, fallen beside the chariot pole, and took his place. She took up the reins, adopting Metiscus' voice, appearance, and armor. A black swallow flits through a rich lord's spacious house, circling its lofty halls. She gathers tiny morsels to feed her chirping nestlings. Now she swoops through the broad colonnades, now around the pools. In the same way, Juturna's horses darted among the enemy, and her swift chariot flew across the field. Now here, now there, she showed off her triumphant brother. But she would not let him engage Aeneas and instead sped far away. Even so, Aeneas worked his way through the twisting confusion to meet Turnus. He tracked him and shouted for him through the scattered ranks. Whenever Aeneas caught sight of his enemy and tried to outrun the swift horses, Juturna wheeled them away. Alas, what could he do? He struggled in vain with the shifting tide of battle, torn by conflicting thoughts. Then Messapus happened to come forward, carrying two tough spears with steel tips in his left hand. He ran up lightly, aimed one, and hurled it with unerring force at Aeneas. Aeneas stopped, crouched behind his armor, and sank to one knee. Even so, the speeding spear tore off his helmet spike and knocked the plume from its crest. Then his anger swelled. Forced to act by their treachery, he watched the chariot and horses disappear. Again and again, he called on Jove and the altars of the broken treaty to witness. At last he plunged into their ranks. Charging terribly through the battle, he unleashed fierce slaughter on all sides and gave his anger free rein.

What god may now unfold for me in verse so many woes, so many diverse slaughters and death of captains whom now Turnus, now again the Trojan hero, drives over all the field? Was it well, O God, that nations destined to everlasting peace should clash in so vast a shock? Aeneas meets Sucro the Rutulian; the combat stayed the first rush of the Teucrians, but delayed them not long; he catches him on the side, and, when fate comes quickest, drives the harsh sword clean through the ribs where they fence the breast. Turnus brings down Amycus from horseback with his brother Diores, and meets them on foot; him he strikes with his long spear as he comes, him with his sword-point, and hangs both severed heads on his chariot and carries them off dripping with blood. The one sends to death Talos and Tanaïs and brave Cethegus, three at one meeting, and gloomy Onites, of Echionian name, and Peridia the mother that bore him; the other those brethren sent from Lycia and Apollo's fields, and Menoetes the Arcadian, him who loathed warfare in vain; who once had his art and humble home about the river-fisheries of Lerna, and knew not the courts of the great, but his father was tenant of the land he tilled. And as fires kindled dispersedly in a dry forest and rustling laurel-thickets, or foaming rivers where they leap swift and loud from high hills, and speed to sea each in his own path of havoc; as fiercely the two, Aeneas and Turnus, dash amid the battle; now, now wrath surges within them, and unconquerable hearts are torn; now in all their might they rush upon wounds. The one dashes Murranus down and stretches him on the soil with a vast whirling mass of rock, as he cries the names of his fathers and forefathers of old, a whole line drawn through Latin kings; under traces and yoke the wheels spurned him, and the fast-beating hoofs of his rushing horses trample down their forgotten lord. The other meets Hyllus rushing on in gigantic pride, and hurls his weapon at his gold-bound temples; the spear pierced through the helmet and stood fast in the brain. Neither did thy right hand save thee from Turnus, O Cretheus, bravest of the Greeks; nor did his gods shield Cupencus when Aeneas came; he gave his breast full to the steel, nor, alas! was the brazen shield's delay aught of avail. Thee likewise, Aeolus, the Laurentine plains saw sink backward and cover a wide space of earth; thou fallest, whom Argive battalions could not lay low, nor Achilles the destroyer of Priam's realm. Here was thy goal of death; thine high house was under Ida, at Lyrnesus thine high house, on Laurentine soil thy tomb. The whole battle-lines gather up, all Latium and all Dardania, Mnestheus and valiant Serestus, with Messapus, tamer of horses, and brave Asilas, the Tuscan battalion and Evander's Arcadian squadrons; man by man they struggle with all their might; no rest nor pause in the vast strain of conflict.

What god can now help me tell in verse of so many sorrows, so many different slaughters, and the deaths of captains? First Turnus and then the Trojan hero bring death to them across the whole field. Was it right, O God, for nations destined to live in everlasting peace to clash so terribly? Aeneas meets Sucro the Rutulian. Their fight checks the Teucrians’ first charge, but not for long. Aeneas strikes Sucro in the side. He drives his cruel sword through the ribs that protect his chest, where death comes quickest. Turnus brings Amycus and his brother Diores down from horseback and faces them on foot. He strikes Amycus with his long spear as he approaches, and Diores with his sword’s point. He hangs both severed heads on his chariot and carries them away, dripping with blood. Aeneas sends Talos, Tanaïs, and brave Cethegus to their deaths, all three in a single encounter. He also kills gloomy Onites, who bore an Echionian name and whose mother was Peridia. Turnus kills the brothers sent from Lycia and Apollo’s fields. He also kills Menoetes the Arcadian, who hated war, but in vain. Menoetes had once practiced his trade and lived in a humble home near the river fisheries of Lerna. He knew nothing of the courts of the great. His father had rented the land he farmed. Aeneas and Turnus rage through the battle like fires spreading through a dry forest and rustling laurel thickets. They rush like foaming rivers that plunge swiftly and loudly from high hills. Each river races to the sea, leaving destruction in its own path. Now, now anger surges within the two warriors and tears at their unconquerable hearts. Now they rush forward with all their strength to deal wounds. Murranus cries out the names of his father and his ancestors, a whole line descended from Latin kings. Aeneas hurls a great, spinning rock at him, knocking him to the ground. The wheels strike him beneath the harness and yoke. His racing horses trample their forgotten master under their pounding hooves. Hyllus charges in enormous pride, and Turnus meets him. Turnus hurls his spear at Hyllus’s temples, bound with gold. It pierces his helmet and lodges in his brain. Nor did your right hand save you from Turnus, O Cretheus, bravest of the Greeks. Nor did Cupencus’s gods protect him when Aeneas came. He met the steel full in the chest. Alas, his bronze shield delayed the blow, but did him no good. The Laurentine plains also saw you fall backward, Aeolus, covering a broad stretch of earth. You fell, though neither the Argive battalions nor Achilles, destroyer of Priam’s realm, could bring you down. Here was where you were destined to die. Your great house stood beneath Ida. Your great house stood at Lyrnesus, but your tomb is on Laurentine soil. The whole battle line gathers, all Latium and all Dardania. Mnestheus and valiant Serestus are there, with Messapus, tamer of horses, and brave Asilas. The Tuscan battalion and Evander’s Arcadian squadrons join them. Each man struggles with all his strength. There is no rest or pause in the immense strain of battle.

At this Aeneas' mother most beautiful inspired him to advance on the walls, directing his columns on the town and dismaying the Latins with sudden and swift disaster. As in search for Turnus he bent his glance this way and that round the separate ranks, he descries the city free from all this warfare, unpunished and unstirred. Straightway he kindles at the view of a greater battle; he summons Mnestheus and Sergestus and brave Serestus his captains, and mounts a hillock; there the rest of the Teucrian army gathers thickly, still grasping shield and spear. Standing on the high mound amid them, he speaks: 'Be there no delay to my words; Jupiter is with us; neither let any be slower to move that the design is sudden. This city to-day, the source of war, the royal seat of Latinus, unless they yield them to receive our yoke and obey their conquerors, will I raze to ground, and lay her smoking roofs level with the dust. Must I wait forsooth till Turnus please to stoop to combat, and choose again to face his conqueror? This, O citizens, is the fountain-head and crown of the accursed war. Bring brands speedily, and reclaim the treaty in fire.' He ended; all with spirit alike emulous form a wedge and advance in serried masses to the walls. Ladders are run up, and fire leaps sudden to sight. Some rush to the separate gates, and cut down the guards of the entry, others hurl their steel and darken the sky with weapons. Aeneas himself among the foremost, upstretching his hand to the city walls, loudly reproaches Latinus, and takes the gods to witness that he is again forced into battle, that twice now do the Italians choose warfare and break a second treaty. Discord rises among the alarmed citizens: some bid unbar the town and fling wide their gates to the Dardanians, and pull the king himself towards the ramparts; others bring arms and hasten to defend the walls: as when a shepherd tracks bees to their retreat in a recessed rock, and fills it with stinging smoke, they within run uneasily up and down their waxen fortress, and hum louder in rising wrath; the smell rolls in darkness along their dwelling, and a blind murmur echoes within the rock as the smoke issues to the empty air.

At this, Aeneas' beautiful mother inspired him to advance on the walls. He directed his columns toward the town, bringing sudden, swift disaster to the Latins and throwing them into fear. As he searched the separate ranks for Turnus, his gaze fell on the city. It was untouched by the fighting, unpunished and undisturbed. At once, the sight fired him with the desire for a greater battle. He summoned his captains, Mnestheus, Sergestus, and brave Serestus, and climbed a small hill. The rest of the Teucrian army gathered thickly around him, still holding their shields and spears. Standing among them on the high mound, he spoke: 'Act on my words without delay. Jupiter is with us. Let no one hesitate because the plan is sudden. This city is the source of the war and the royal seat of Latinus. Unless its people submit to our rule and obey their conquerors, I will destroy it today. I will raze it to the ground and level its smoking roofs in the dust. Must I really wait until Turnus chooses to fight and face his conqueror again? Citizens, this city is the source and crown of the accursed war. Bring torches quickly, and reclaim the treaty through fire.' He finished, and all eagerly formed a wedge and advanced in tight ranks toward the walls. They raised ladders, and flames suddenly leaped into sight. Some rushed to the gates and cut down the guards at the entrances. Others hurled their weapons, darkening the sky with them. Aeneas himself was among the foremost. Stretching his hand toward the city walls, he loudly accused Latinus. He called the gods to witness that he was being forced into battle again. Twice now the Italians had chosen war and broken a treaty. Discord rose among the frightened citizens. Some urged them to unbar the town and throw open its gates to the Dardanians. They dragged the king himself toward the walls. Others took up arms and hurried to defend the walls. It was like a shepherd tracking bees to their hiding place in a hollow rock and filling it with stinging smoke. Inside, the bees run restlessly through their waxen fortress, humming louder as their anger grows. The smell spreads through their dark dwelling, and a confused murmur echoes within the rock as smoke pours into the open air.

This fortune likewise befell the despairing Latins, this woe shook the whole city to her base. The queen espies from her roof the enemy's approach, the walls scaled and firebrands flying on the houses; and nowhere Rutulian ranks, none of Turnus' columns to meet them; alas! she deems him destroyed in the shock of battle, and, distracted by sudden anguish, shrieks that she is the source of guilt, the spring of ill, and with many a mad utterance of frenzied grief rends her purple attire with dying hand, and ties from a lofty beam the ghastly noose of death. And when the unhappy Latin women knew this calamity, first her daughter Lavinia tears her flower-like tresses and roseate cheeks, and all the train around her madden in her suit; the wide palace echoes to their wailing, and from it the sorrowful rumour spreads abroad throughout the town. All hearts sink; Latinus goes with torn raiment, in dismay at his wife's doom and his city's downfall, defiling his hoary hair with soilure of sprinkled dust.

The despairing Latins suffered the same fate. The disaster shook the whole city to its foundations. From the roof, the queen saw the enemy approaching, scaling the walls, and throwing burning torches onto the houses. But she saw no Rutulian ranks, none of Turnus' forces, coming to meet them. Alas, she believed he had been killed in battle. Distraught with sudden grief, she shrieked that she was to blame, the source of all this suffering. Raving in her grief, she tore her purple clothes with a dying hand. Then she tied a dreadful noose to a high beam. When the unhappy Latin women learned of the disaster, her daughter Lavinia was the first to tear at her flower-like hair and rosy cheeks. All the women around her followed, frantic with grief. Their wailing echoed through the great palace, and the sad news spread from there throughout the city. All hearts sank. Latinus walked with his clothes torn, in dismay at his wife's death and his city's downfall. He sprinkled dust over his gray hair.

Meanwhile on the skirts of the field Turnus chases scattered stragglers, ever slacker to battle, ever less and less exultant in his coursers' victorious speed. The confused cry came to him borne in blind terror down the breeze, and his startled ears caught the echoing tumult and disastrous murmur of the town. 'Ah me! what agony shakes the city? or what is this cry that fleets so loud from the distant town?' So speaks he, and distractedly checks the reins. And to him his sister, as changed into his charioteer Metiscus' likeness she swayed horses and chariot-reins, thus rejoined: 'This way, Turnus, let us pursue the brood of Troy, where victory opens her nearest way; there are others whose hands can protect their dwellings. Aeneas falls fiercer on the Italians, and closes in conflict; let our hand too deal pitiless death on his Teucrians. Neither in tale of dead nor in glory of battle shalt thou retire outdone.' Thereat Turnus: . . .

Meanwhile, Turnus chased scattered stragglers at the edge of the battlefield. He fought with less and less energy, and took less and less pride in the victorious speed of his horses. A confused cry, driven by blind terror, reached him on the breeze. Startled, he heard the echoing uproar and the ominous rumble from the town. 'Oh no! What anguish is shaking the city? What is that cry coming so loudly from the distant town?' Distracted, he pulled on the reins. His sister had taken the form of Metiscus, his charioteer, and was guiding the horses and the chariot reins. She answered him: 'This way, Turnus. Let us pursue the brood of Troy, where victory lies closest. Others can defend their homes. Aeneas is attacking the Italians more fiercely and engaging them in battle. Let us show his Teucrians no mercy either. You will not leave the battle with fewer dead to your name or less glory than he has won.' Turnus replied: . . .

'Ah my sister, long ere now I knew thee, when first thine arts shattered the treaty, and thou didst mingle in the strife; and now thy godhead conceals itself in vain. But who hath bidden thee descend from heaven to bear this sore travail? was it that thou mightest see thy hapless brother cruelly slain? for what do I, or what fortune yet gives promise of safety? Before my very eyes, calling aloud on me, I saw Murranus, than whom none other is left me more dear, sink huge to earth, borne down by as huge a wound. Hapless Ufens is fallen, not to see our shame; corpse and armour are in Teucrian hands. The destruction of their households, this was the one thing yet lacking; shall I suffer it? Shall my hand not refute Drances' jeers? shall I turn my back, and this land see Turnus a fugitive? Is Death all so bitter? Do you, O Shades, be gracious to me, since the powers of heaven are estranged; to you shall I go down, a pure spirit and ignorant of your blame, never once unworthy of my mighty fathers of old.'

'Ah, my sister, I recognized you long ago. I knew you when you first broke the treaty through your arts and joined the battle. Now you hide your divine nature in vain. But who ordered you down from heaven to endure this painful ordeal? Was it so you could see your unhappy brother cruelly killed? For what can I do, or what hope of safety does fortune still offer? Before my eyes, I saw Murranus fall to the ground, his huge body brought down by an equally huge wound. He was calling out to me, and no one left to me is dearer. Unhappy Ufens has fallen, spared the sight of our shame. His body and armor are in Teucrian hands. Only one thing remains: the destruction of their households. Shall I allow it? Shall I not answer Drances' jeers with my own hand? Shall I turn my back and let this land see Turnus flee? Is death really so bitter? Be kind to me, O Shades, since the powers of heaven have turned against me. I shall go down to you as a pure spirit, innocent of any act you would condemn. I have never been unworthy of my mighty ancestors.'

Scarce had he spoken thus; lo! Saces, borne flying on his foaming horse through the thickest of the foe, an arrow-wound right in his face, darts, beseeching Turnus by his name. 'Turnus, in thee is our last safety; pity thy people. Aeneas thunders in arms, and threatens to overthrow and hurl to destruction the high Italian fortress; and already firebrands are flying on our roofs. On thee, on thee the Latins turn their gazing eyes; King Latinus himself mutters in doubt, whom he is to call his sons, to whom he shall incline in union. Moreover the queen, thy surest stay, hath fallen by her own hand and in dismay fled the light. Alone in front of the gates Messapus and valiant Atinas sustain the battle-line. Round about them to right and left the armies stand locked and the iron field shivers with naked points; thou wheelest thy chariot on the sward alone.' At the distracting picture of his fortune Turnus froze in horror and stood in dumb gaze; together in his heart sweep the vast mingling tides of shame and maddened grief, and love stung to frenzy and resolved valour. So soon as the darkness cleared and light returned to his soul, he fiercely turned his blazing eyeballs towards the ramparts, and gazed back from his wheels on the great city. And lo! a spire of flame wreathing through the floors wavered up skyward and held a turret fast, a turret that he himself had reared of mortised planks and set on rollers and laid with high gangways. 'Now, O my sister, now fate prevails: cease to hinder; let us follow where deity and stern fortune call. I am resolved to face Aeneas, resolved to bear what bitterness there is in death; nor shalt thou longer see me shamed, sister of mine. Let me be mad, I pray thee, with this madness before the end.' He spoke, and leapt swiftly from his chariot to the field, and darting through weapons and through enemies, leaves his sorrowing sister, and bursts in rapid course amid their columns. And as when a rock rushes headlong from some mountain peak, torn away by the blast, or if the rushing rain washes it away, or the stealing years loosen its ancient hold; the reckless mountain mass goes sheer and impetuous, and leaps along the ground, hurling with it forests and herds and men; thus through the scattering columns Turnus rushes to the city walls, where the earth is wettest with bloodshed and the air sings with spears; and beckons with his hand, and thus begins aloud: 'Forbear now, O Rutulians, and you, Latins, stay your weapons. Whatsoever fortune is left is mine: I singly must expiate the treaty for you all, and make decision with the sword.' All drew aside and left him room.

He had scarcely finished speaking when Saces came racing through the thickest of the enemy. His horse was foaming, and he had an arrow wound in his face. He called out, pleading with Turnus by name. 'Turnus, you are our last hope of safety. Have pity on your people. Aeneas thunders forward in arms, threatening to overthrow and destroy the towering Italian fortress. Already, firebrands are flying onto our roofs. All the Latins are looking to you, to you alone. King Latinus himself mutters in doubt over whom to call his sons and whose alliance to choose. And the queen, your surest support, has killed herself, fleeing the light in despair. Only Messapus and brave Atinas hold the battle line before the gates. On both sides of them, the armies are locked in combat. The iron-clad field bristles with bare spearpoints, while you drive your chariot alone across the grass.' At this bewildering picture of his fate, Turnus froze in horror and stared in silence. Shame, maddened grief, love driven to frenzy, and determined courage swept together through his heart. As soon as the darkness cleared and light returned to his soul, he fiercely turned his blazing eyes toward the ramparts. From his chariot he looked back at the great city. There, a column of flame rose through the floors of a tower and flickered toward the sky. The fire had seized the tower, which Turnus himself had built from fitted planks. He had set it on rollers and added high walkways. 'Now, my sister, now fate prevails. Stop holding me back. Let us follow where the gods and stern fortune call. I am resolved to face Aeneas and to bear whatever bitterness death holds. You will no longer see me disgraced, my sister. Let me, I beg you, be mad with this madness before the end.' He spoke and leapt swiftly from his chariot to the ground. Leaving his grieving sister, he raced through weapons and enemies and burst between their ranks. A rock may plunge from a mountain peak, torn loose by a blast, washed away by rushing rain, or freed from its ancient hold by creeping years. The vast mass of rock rushes recklessly down the mountainside and bounces across the ground. It carries forests, herds, and men along with it. In the same way, Turnus rushed through the scattering ranks toward the city walls. There the ground was wettest with blood, and spears sang through the air. He raised his hand and cried aloud: 'Stop now, Rutulians, and you, Latins, lower your weapons. Whatever fortune remains is mine. I alone must pay for the broken treaty on behalf of you all and settle the matter with my sword.' Everyone drew aside and made room for him.

But lord Aeneas, hearing Turnus' name, abandons the walls, abandons the fortress height, and in exultant joy flings aside all hindrance, breaks off all work, and clashes his armour terribly, vast as Athos, or as Eryx, or as the lord of Apennine when he roars with his tossing ilex woods and rears his snowy crest rejoicing into air. Now indeed Rutulians and Trojans and all Italy turned in emulous gaze, and they who held the high city, and they whose ram was battering the foundations of the wall, and unarmed their shoulders. Latinus himself stands in amaze at the mighty men, born in distant quarters of the world, met and making decision with the sword. And they, in the empty level field that cleared for them, darted swiftly forward, and hurling their spears from far, close in battle shock with clangour of brazen shields. Earth utters a moan; the sword-strokes fall thick and fast, chance and valour joining in one. And as in broad Sila or high on Taburnus, when two bulls rush to deadly battle forehead to forehead, the herdsmen retire in terror, all the herd stands dumb in dismay, and the heifers murmur in doubt which shall be lord in the woodland, which all the cattle must follow; they violently deal many a mutual wound, and gore with their stubborn horns, bathing their necks and shoulders in abundant blood; all the woodland moans back their bellowing: even thus Aeneas of Troy and the Daunian hero rush together shield to shield; the mighty crash fills the sky. Jupiter himself holds up the two scales in even balance, and lays in them the different fates of both, trying which shall pay forfeit of the strife, whose weight shall sink in death. Turnus darts out, thinking it secure, and rises with his whole reach of body on his uplifted sword; then strikes; Trojans and Latins cry out in excitement, and both armies strain their gaze. But the treacherous sword shivers, and in mid stroke deserts its eager lord. If flight aid him not now! He flies swifter than the wind, when once he descries a strange hilt in his weaponless hand. Rumour is that in his headlong hurry, when mounting behind his yoked horses to begin the battle, he left his father's sword behind and caught up his charioteer Metiscus' weapon; and that served him long, while Teucrian stragglers turned their backs; when it met the divine Vulcanian armour, the mortal blade like brittle ice snapped in the stroke; the shards lie glittering upon the yellow sand. So in distracted flight Turnus darts afar over the plain, and now this way and now that crosses in wavering circles; for on all hands the Teucrians locked him in crowded ring, and the dreary marsh on this side, on this the steep city ramparts hem him in.

But when lord Aeneas hears Turnus' name, he leaves the walls and the heights of the fortress. Exulting, he throws aside everything that holds him back and abandons all his work. His armor clashes terribly. He is as vast as Athos, Eryx, or lord Apennine. Apennine roars as its ilex woods toss, and it lifts its snowy peak joyfully into the air. Now Rutulians, Trojans, and all Italy compete to watch. Those defending the high city watch, as do those battering the wall's foundations with a ram. They take the arms from their shoulders. Latinus himself stands amazed that these mighty men, born in distant parts of the world, have met to settle their conflict by the sword. The two men rush forward across the level field cleared for them. They hurl their spears from a distance, then clash in battle, their bronze shields ringing. The earth groans. Sword blows fall thick and fast, with chance and courage working together. In broad Sila or high on Taburnus, two bulls may charge into deadly combat, forehead against forehead. The herdsmen retreat in terror, and the whole herd stands silent in dismay. The heifers murmur, uncertain which bull will rule the woodland and lead all the cattle. The bulls fiercely wound each other again and again, goring with their unyielding horns. Blood streams over their necks and shoulders, and the whole woodland echoes their bellowing. Just so, Aeneas of Troy and the Daunian hero charge together, shield against shield. The great crash fills the sky. Jupiter himself holds two scales evenly balanced. In them he places the two men's different fates, testing who will pay the price of the struggle, whose weight will sink in death. Turnus lunges, confident of success. He raises his sword, stretching to his full height, and strikes. Trojans and Latins cry out in excitement, and both armies watch intently. But the treacherous sword shatters in midstroke, failing its eager master. Now only flight can save him! When he sees an unfamiliar hilt in his hand, with no blade attached, he flees faster than the wind. Rumor says that Turnus had left his father's sword behind in his headlong haste. As he climbed aboard behind his yoked horses to begin the battle, he took his charioteer Metiscus' weapon instead. It served him well for a long time, while Teucrian stragglers turned their backs. But when it struck the divine armor made by Vulcan, the mortal blade snapped like brittle ice. Its pieces lie glittering on the yellow sand. Distraught, Turnus flees across the plain, veering this way and that in uncertain circles. The Teucrians have closed around him in a crowded ring. On one side a gloomy marsh hems him in, and on the other rise the city's steep ramparts.

Therewith Aeneas pursues, though ever and anon his knees, disabled by the arrow, hinder and stay his speed; and foot hard on foot presses hotly on his hurrying enemy: as when a hunter courses with a fleet barking hound some stag caught in a river-loop or girt by the crimson-feathered toils, and he, in terror of the snares and the high river-bank, darts back and forward in a thousand ways; but the keen Umbrian clings agape, and just catches at him, and as though he caught him snaps his jaws while the baffled teeth close on vacancy. Then indeed a cry goes up, and banks and pools answer round about, and all the sky echoes the din. He, even as he flies, chides all his Rutulians, calling each by name, and shrieks for the sword he knew. But Aeneas denounces death and instant doom if one of them draw nigh, and doubles their terror with threats of their city's destruction, and though wounded presses on. Five circles they cover at full speed, and unwind as many this way and that; for not light nor slight is the prize they seek, but Turnus' very lifeblood is at issue. Here there haply had stood a bitter-leaved wild olive, sacred to Faunus, a tree worshipped by mariners of old; on it, when rescued from the waves, they were wont to fix their gifts to the god of Laurentum and hang their votive raiment; but the Teucrians, unregarding, had cleared away the sacred stem, that they might meet on unimpeded lists. Here stood Aeneas' spear; hither borne by its own speed it was held fast stuck in the tough root. The Dardanian stooped over it, and would wrench away the steel, to follow with the weapon him whom he could not catch in running. Then indeed Turnus cries in frantic terror: 'Faunus, have pity, I beseech thee! and thou, most gracious Earth, keep thy hold on the steel, as I ever have kept your worship, and the Aeneadae again have polluted it in war.' He spoke, and called the god to aid in vows that fell not fruitless. For all Aeneas' strength, his long struggling and delay over the tough stem availed not to unclose the hard grip of the wood. While he strains and pulls hard, the Daunian goddess, changing once more into the charioteer Metiscus' likeness, runs forward and passes her brother his sword. But Venus, indignant that the Nymph might be so bold, drew nigh and wrenched away the spear where it stuck deep in the root. Erect in fresh courage and arms, he with his faithful sword, he towering fierce over his spear, they face one another panting in the battle shock.

Aeneas pursues him, though his knees, weakened by the arrow, keep slowing and stopping him. He follows close on the heels of his fleeing enemy. He is like a hunter chasing a stag with a swift, barking hound. The stag is trapped in a bend of a river or surrounded by nets with crimson feathers. Terrified of the traps and the high riverbank, it darts back and forth in a thousand directions. But the eager Umbrian hound stays close, jaws open, and nearly catches it. The dog snaps as if it has caught the stag, but its teeth close on empty air. Then a shout goes up. The banks and pools echo it, and the whole sky resounds with the noise. As he flees, Turnus rebukes all his Rutulians, calling each by name. He cries out for his familiar sword. But Aeneas threatens death and immediate doom to anyone who comes near. He increases their terror by threatening to destroy their city, and though wounded, he keeps up the chase. They race five times around the course, then cover the same ground again, turning this way and that. The prize they seek is no small or trivial thing. Turnus' very lifeblood is at stake. A bitter-leaved wild olive tree sacred to Faunus had once stood there. Sailors had worshipped it in ancient times. When rescued from the waves, they used to fasten their gifts to the god of Laurentum on it. They also hung up clothing as offerings. But the Teucrians had shown no regard for the tree and cleared away its sacred trunk. They wanted an open field for the contest. Aeneas' spear stood there now. Its own force had driven it into the tough root, where it stuck fast. The Dardanian bent over it and tried to pull the steel free. He wanted to use the weapon against the man he could not catch on foot. Then Turnus cried out in frantic terror: 'Faunus, have pity, I beg you! And you, gracious Earth, keep your hold on the steel. I have always honored your worship, and the Aeneadae have now defiled it in war.' He spoke and made vows calling on the god for help, and his prayers were not in vain. Despite all Aeneas' strength, his long struggle with the tough root could not loosen the wood's hard grip. As he strained and pulled, the Daunian goddess once more took the form of the charioteer Metiscus. She ran forward and handed her brother his sword. But Venus was indignant that the Nymph dared do this. She came forward and pulled the spear from where it was buried deep in the root. Armed again and filled with fresh courage, the two men faced each other. One held his trusty sword, and the other stood tall and fierce over his spear. Both were panting as they met in combat.

Meanwhile the King of Heaven's omnipotence accosts Juno as she gazes on the battle from a sunlit cloud. 'What yet shall be the end, O wife? what remains at the last? Heaven claims Aeneas as his country's god, thou thyself knowest and avowest to know, and fate lifts him to the stars. With what device or in what hope hangest thou chill in cloudland? Was it well that a deity should be sullied by a mortal's wound? or that the lost sword—for what without thee could Juturna avail?—should be restored to Turnus and swell the force of the vanquished? Forbear now, I pray, and bend to our entreaties; let not the pain thus devour thee in silence, and distress so often flood back on me from thy sweet lips. The end is come. Thou hast had power to hunt the Trojans over land or wave, to kindle accursed war, to put the house in mourning, and plunge the bridal in grief: further attempt I forbid thee.' Thus Jupiter began: thus the goddess, daughter of Saturn, returned with looks cast down:

Meanwhile, Jupiter, the all-powerful King of Heaven, spoke to Juno as she watched the battle from a sunlit cloud. 'What will be the end of this, my wife? What remains now? Heaven claims Aeneas as the god of his people. You know this and admit it, and fate is raising him to the stars. What plan or hope keeps you hovering cold among the clouds? Was it right for a god to be defiled by a mortal wound? Was it right to restore the lost sword to Turnus and strengthen the defeated man? What could Juturna have done without you? Stop now, I beg you, and grant my request. Do not let your pain devour you in silence, or let your sweet lips bring me distress again and again. The end has come. You had the power to chase the Trojans over land and sea, to start a cursed war, to bring mourning upon the house, and to turn the wedding to grief. I forbid you to do anything more.' So Jupiter spoke. The goddess, daughter of Saturn, answered with her eyes lowered:

'Even because this thy will, great Jupiter, is known to me for thine, have I left, though loth, Turnus alone on earth; nor else wouldst thou see me now, alone on this skyey seat, enduring good and bad; but girt in flame I were standing by their very lines, and dragging the Teucrians into the deadly battle. I counselled Juturna, I confess it, to succour her hapless brother, and for his life's sake favoured a greater daring; yet not the arrow-shot, not the bending of the bow, I swear by the merciless well-head of the Stygian spring, the single ordained dread of the gods in heaven. And now I retire, and leave the battle in loathing. This thing I beseech thee, that is bound by no fatal law, for Latium and for the majesty of thy kindred. When now they shall plight peace with prosperous marriages (be it so!), when now they shall join in laws and treaties, bid thou not the native Latins change their name of old, nor become Trojans and take the Teucrian name, or change their language, or alter their attire: let Latium be, let Alban kings endure through ages, let Italian valour be potent in the race of Rome. Troy is fallen; let her and her name lie where they fell.'

'Great Jupiter, I knew this was your will, so I left Turnus alone on earth, though I was unwilling. Otherwise, you would not see me alone on this heavenly seat, bearing good and bad alike. Instead, I would be standing amid flames beside their very battle lines, dragging the Teucrians into deadly combat. I confess that I urged Juturna to help her unfortunate brother. To save his life, I supported a bolder act. But I did not urge her to bend the bow or shoot the arrow. I swear it by the merciless source of the Stygian spring, the one thing the gods in heaven are destined to fear. And now I withdraw, leaving the battle in disgust. I beg you for one thing, which no law of fate forbids. I ask it for Latium and for the honor of your own people. When they seal a prosperous peace through marriage, and I accept that they will, they will also unite under laws and treaties. Then do not command the native Latins to change their ancient name. Do not make them become Trojans, take the Teucrian name, change their language, or alter their dress. Let Latium remain. Let Alban kings endure through the ages. Let Italian valor be a strong force in the race of Rome. Troy has fallen. Let Troy and her name lie where they fell.'

To her smilingly the designer of men and things:

The creator of men and all things smiled and said to her:

'Jove's own sister thou art, and second seed of Saturn, such surge of wrath tosses within thy breast! But come, allay this madness so vainly stirred. I give thee thy will, and yield thee ungrudged victory. Ausonia shall keep her native speech and usage, and as her name is, it shall be. The Trojans shall sink mingling into their blood; I will add their sacred law and ritual, and make all Latins and of a single speech. Hence shall spring a race of tempered Ausonian blood, whom thou shalt see outdo men and gods in duty; nor shall any nation so observe thy worship.' To this Juno assented, and in gladness withdrew her purpose; meanwhile she quits her cloud, and retires out of the sky.

'You are Jove's own sister, the second child of Saturn, and such anger rages in your heart! But come, put aside this madness that has been stirred up in vain. I grant your wish and gladly concede victory to you. Ausonia will keep her native language, customs, and name. The Trojans will be absorbed into her people. I will add their sacred laws and rituals and make them all Latins, speaking one language. From this blending will come a race of Ausonian blood. You will see them surpass men and gods in devotion to duty. No nation will honor you so faithfully.' Juno agreed and gladly abandoned her plan. Then she left her cloud and withdrew from the sky.

This done, the Father revolves inly another counsel, and prepares to separate Juturna from her brother's arms. Twin monsters there are, called the Dirae by their name, whom with infernal Megaera the dead of night bore at one single birth, and wreathed them in like serpent coils, and clothed them in windy wings. They appear at Jove's throne and in the courts of the grim king, and quicken the terrors of wretched men whensoever the lord of heaven deals sicknesses and dreadful death, or sends terror of war upon guilty cities. One of these Jupiter sent swiftly down from heaven's height, and bade her meet Juturna for a sign. She wings her way, and darts in a whirlwind to earth. Even as an arrow through a cloud, darting from the string when Parthian hath poisoned it with bitter gall, Parthian or Cydonian, and sped the immedicable shaft, leaps through the swift shadow whistling and unknown; so sprung and swept to earth the daughter of Night. When she espies the Ilian ranks and Turnus' columns, suddenly shrinking to the shape of a small bird that often sits late by night on tombs or ruinous roofs, and vexes the darkness with her cry, in such change of likeness the monster shrilly passes and repasses before Turnus' face, and her wings beat restlessly on his shield. A strange numbing terror unnerves his limbs, his hair thrills up, and the accents falter on his tongue. But when his hapless sister knew afar the whistling wings of the Fury, Juturna unbinds and tears her tresses, with rent face and smitten bosom. 'How, O Turnus, can thine own sister help thee now? or what more is there if I break not under this? What art of mine can lengthen out thy day? can I contend with this ominous thing? Now, now I quit the field. Dismay not my terrors, disastrous birds; I know these beating wings, and the sound of death, nor do I miss high-hearted Jove's haughty ordinance. Is this his repayment for my maidenhood? what good is his gift of life for ever? why have I forfeited a mortal's lot? Now assuredly could I make all this pain cease, and go with my unhappy brother side by side into the dark. Alas mine immortality! will aught of mine be sweet to me without thee, my brother? Ah, how may Earth yawn deep enough for me, and plunge my godhead in the under world!'

When this was done, the Father considered another plan. He prepared to separate Juturna from her brother’s embrace. There are twin monsters called the Dirae. Night gave birth to them and infernal Megaera at the same time. She wrapped them all in serpent coils and clothed them with wings swift as the wind. They appear at Jove’s throne and in the courts of the grim king. They heighten the fears of wretched people whenever the lord of heaven sends sickness and dreadful death. They also do so when he sends the terror of war upon guilty cities. Jupiter sent one of the Dirae swiftly down from heaven and ordered her to confront Juturna as a sign. She flew down, rushing to earth in a whirlwind. A Parthian or Cydonian shoots an arrow poisoned with bitter gall. The deadly shaft whistles unseen through the swift-moving shadows and passes through a cloud. In the same way, the daughter of Night sprang down and swept toward earth. When she saw the Ilian ranks and Turnus’ columns, she suddenly shrank into the shape of a small bird. Such a bird often sits late at night on tombs or ruined roofs, disturbing the darkness with its cry. In this shape, the monster flew shrieking back and forth before Turnus’ face, beating her wings restlessly against his shield. A strange, numbing terror weakened his limbs. His hair stood on end, and his words faltered on his tongue. But his hapless sister Juturna recognized the Fury’s whistling wings from afar. She loosened and tore her hair, scratched her face, and beat her breast. 'How can your own sister help you now, Turnus? What more can I do, if this does not break me? What skill of mine can prolong your life? Can I fight this creature that brings such an ominous sign? Now, now I leave the field. Do not frighten me, birds of disaster. I know those beating wings and the sound of death. I understand proud Jove’s haughty command. Is this how he repays me for taking my virginity? What good is his gift of eternal life? Why have I lost the fate of a mortal? If I were mortal, I could surely end all this pain now. I could go into the dark beside my unhappy brother. Alas, my immortality! Can anything be sweet to me without you, my brother? Ah, how can the earth open deep enough to plunge my immortal self into the underworld?'

So spoke she, and wrapping her head in her gray vesture, the goddess moaning sore sank in the river depth.

After she spoke, the goddess wrapped her head in her gray robe. Moaning bitterly, she sank into the river’s depths.

But Aeneas presses on, brandishing his vast tree-like spear, and fiercely speaks thus: 'What more delay is there now? or why, Turnus, dost thou yet shrink away? Not in speed of foot, in grim arms, hand to hand, must be the conflict. Transform thyself as thou wilt, and collect what strength of courage or skill is thine; pray that thou mayest wing thy flight to the stars on high, or that sheltering earth may shut thee in.' The other, shaking his head: 'Thy fierce words dismay me not, insolent! the gods dismay me, and Jupiter's enmity.' And no more said, his eyes light on a vast stone, a stone ancient and vast that haply lay upon the plain, set for a landmark to divide contested fields: scarcely might twelve chosen men lift it on their shoulders, of such frame as now earth brings to birth: then the hero caught it up with trembling hand and whirled it at the foe, rising higher and quickening his speed. But he knows not his own self running nor going nor lifting his hands or moving the mighty stone; his knees totter, his blood freezes cold; the very stone he hurls, spinning through the empty void, neither wholly reached its distance nor carried its blow home. And as in sleep, when nightly rest weighs down our languorous eyes, we seem vainly to will to run eagerly on, and sink faint amidst our struggles; the tongue is powerless, the familiar strength fails the body, nor will words or utterance follow: so the disastrous goddess brings to naught all Turnus' valour as he presses on. His heart wavers in shifting emotion; he gazes on his Rutulians and on the city, and falters in terror, and shudders at the imminent spear; neither sees he whither he may escape nor how rush violently on the enemy, and nowhere his chariot or his sister at the reins. As he wavers Aeneas poises the deadly weapon, and, marking his chance, hurls it in from afar with all his strength of body. Never with such a roar are stones hurled from some engine on ramparts, nor does the thunder burst in so loud a peal. Carrying grim death with it, the spear flies in fashion of some dark whirlwind, and opens the rim of the corslet and the utmost circles of the sevenfold shield. Right through the thigh it passes hurtling on; under the blow Turnus falls huge to earth with his leg doubled under him. The Rutulians start up with a groan, and all the hill echoes round about, and the width of high woodland returns their cry. Lifting up beseechingly his humbled eyes and suppliant hand: 'I have deserved it,' he says, 'nor do I ask for mercy; use thy fortune. If an unhappy parent's distress may at all touch thee, this I pray; even such a father was Anchises to thee; pity Daunus' old age, and restore to my kindred which thou wilt, me or my body bereft of day. Thou art conqueror, and Ausonia hath seen me stretch conquered hands. Lavinia is thine in marriage; press not thy hatred farther.'

But Aeneas presses on, brandishing his great spear, tall as a tree. He speaks fiercely: 'Why delay any longer? Why do you still shrink away, Turnus? This contest must be fought hand to hand with deadly weapons, not won by running. Change yourself however you wish. Gather all your courage and skill. Pray that you can fly up to the stars, or that the earth will close around you and shelter you.' Turnus shakes his head. 'Your fierce words do not frighten me, insolent man! The gods frighten me, and Jupiter's hatred.' He says no more. His eyes fall on a huge stone, an ancient stone that happened to lie on the plain. It had been set there as a landmark to divide disputed fields. Twelve chosen men of the kind the earth now produces could hardly lift it onto their shoulders. Turnus seizes it with a trembling hand and hurls it at his enemy, rising to his full height and quickening his pace. But he is unaware of himself running or walking, raising his hands or moving the mighty stone. His knees buckle, and his blood runs cold. The stone spins through the empty air, but it neither reaches its target nor strikes home. In sleep, when nightly rest weighs down our heavy eyes, we seem to try desperately to run. But our efforts are useless, and we sink helpless in the struggle. Our tongues cannot move, our bodies lose their usual strength, and no words or sounds come. Just so, the goddess of disaster makes all Turnus' courage useless as he presses on. His heart wavers between changing emotions. He looks at his Rutulians and at the city, falters in terror, and shudders at the spear poised to strike. He can see neither where to escape nor how to charge his enemy. His chariot is nowhere in sight, nor is his sister at the reins. As Turnus hesitates, Aeneas aims his deadly weapon. Seeing his chance, he hurls it from a distance with all his strength. Stones thrown from a machine on the ramparts never roar so loudly, nor does thunder burst with such a great crash. The spear flies like a dark whirlwind, carrying deadly destruction. It pierces the edge of Turnus' armor and the outer layers of his seven-layered shield. It drives straight through his thigh. The blow brings the huge Turnus to the ground, his leg folded beneath him. The Rutulians rise with a groan. The whole hillside echoes, and the broad, tall woodland sends their cry back. Turnus lifts his humbled eyes and raises a pleading hand. 'I deserve this,' he says, 'and I do not ask for mercy. Use your victory as you wish. But if a grieving parent's pain can touch you, I beg you to pity Daunus in his old age. Anchises was such a father to you. Return me to my family, or return my body without life, whichever you choose. You have won, and Ausonia has seen me stretch out my hands in defeat. Lavinia is yours to marry. Do not carry your hatred any further.'

Aeneas stood wrathful in arms, with rolling eyes, and lowered his hand; and now and now yet more the speech began to bend him to waver: when high on his shoulder appeared the sword-belt with the shining bosses that he knew, the luckless belt of the boy Pallas, whom Turnus had struck down with mastering wound, and wore on his shoulders the fatal ornament. The other, as his eyes drank in the plundered record of his fierce grief, kindles to fury, and cries terrible in anger: 'Mayest thou, thou clad in the spoils of my dearest, escape mine hands? Pallas it is, Pallas who now strikes the sacrifice, and exacts vengeance in thy guilty blood.' So saying, he fiercely plunges the steel full in his breast. But his limbs grow slack and chill, and the life with a moan flies indignantly into the dark.

Aeneas stood armed and furious, his eyes rolling, and lowered his hand. Turnus’s words were beginning to make him hesitate more and more. Then Aeneas saw a sword belt high on Turnus’s shoulder. He recognized its shining studs. It was the unlucky belt of the boy Pallas, whom Turnus had struck down with a deadly wound. Turnus now wore the fatal trophy on his shoulder. As Aeneas took in the stolen belt, a reminder of his bitter grief, he burst into fury and cried out in terrible anger: 'Can you escape my hands, dressed in the spoils of the one I loved most? Pallas, it is Pallas who strikes you down as a sacrifice and takes vengeance in your guilty blood.' With those words, he fiercely plunged his sword into Turnus’s breast. But Turnus’s limbs grew limp and cold. With a groan, his life fled resentfully into the darkness.

THE END.

THE END.