The Aeneid

Introduction

The Aeneid.

This is a modern-English reading of The Aeneid, based on J. W. Mackail’s 1885 English translation.

Written by the Roman poet Virgil more than two thousand years ago, during the age of Augustus, this epic poem tells of the aftermath of the Trojan War and the legendary origins of Rome. Across twelve books, it follows Aeneas, a survivor of Troy, as he leads his people across the Mediterranean in search of a new homeland. Along the way, he faces storms, war, loss, and the demands of gods and fate. At its heart is a story of exile and sacrifice, of the struggle between personal longing and duty, and of the human cost of building a future that one may never see.

This is The Aeneid.

Book One

I sing of arms and the man who long ago came from the coasts of Troy, an exile driven by fate, to Italy and the shore of Lavinium. Cruel Juno's unrelenting anger drove him hard over land and sea through the violence of heaven. He suffered greatly in war as well, before he could found a city and carry his gods into Latium. From him came the Latin race, the lords of Alba, and the majestic city of Rome.

Muse, tell me why. What injury to her divinity, what grievance, made the Queen of heaven drive a man of such outstanding goodness through so many afflictions, to face so many hardships? Can heavenly spirits feel such fierce anger?

There was an ancient city inhabited by settlers from Tyre: Carthage, facing Italy and the distant mouths of the Tiber. Rich in resources and formidable in the fierce work of war, this, they say, was Juno's chosen dwelling above all other lands. She loved it even more than Samos. Here were her weapons, here her chariot. Even now the goddess strives, if fate permits, to nurture it into the ruler of nations.

But she had heard that a race was springing from Trojan blood which would one day overthrow her Tyrian citadel. From that race would come a people ruling many lands, dominant in war, who would destroy Libya: so the destinies unfolded. Saturn's daughter feared this. She remembered the old war she had fought at Troy for her beloved Argos. Nor had she forgotten the causes of her anger or her bitter resentment. Deep in her heart lay the judgment of Paris, the insult to her rejected beauty, her hatred of the Trojan race, and the honors given to Ganymede after he was carried away.

Inflamed by all this as well, she tossed over every sea the Trojan remnant that had survived the Greek army and merciless Achilles, keeping them far from Latium. For many years they wandered, driven by fate around all the seas. Such effort it took to found the Roman people.

They had barely sailed out of sight of Sicily, joyfully turning up the salt foam with their bronze prows, when Juno, the undying wound still deep in her heart, broke out alone:

“Must I abandon my frustrated purpose, powerless to keep the Teucrian king from Italy, because fate forbids me? Could Pallas burn the Argive fleet to ashes and drown the Argives in the sea for one man's guilt, the madness of Oilean Ajax? With her own hand she hurled Jove's flying fire from the clouds, scattered their ships, and churned the sea into a tempest. Ajax, his pierced breast still breathing flame, she caught in a whirlwind and impaled on a sharp rock. Yet I, who walk as queen among the immortals, Jove's sister and his wife, have waged war all these years against one people. Will anyone still worship Juno's divinity, or kneel to offer sacrifice at my altars?”

Turning such thoughts within her burning heart, the goddess reaches Aeolia, home of storm clouds, a land heavy with furious southern gales. Here, in a desolate cavern, King Aeolus holds the struggling winds and roaring storms under his rule, yoked in dungeon chains. They rage angrily around their mountain barriers with mighty groans. High in his citadel Aeolus sits with his scepter, calming their temper and soothing their fury. Otherwise they would carry seas and lands and the depths of heaven away with them, sweeping everything through space in their flight.

Fearing this, the almighty lord has hidden them in cavernous darkness, piled a mountain high above them, and appointed a ruler who, under a fixed law, knows when to tighten or loosen their reins at his command. Juno now speaks to him in pleading tones:

“Aeolus, the father of gods and king of men has given you power over the wind that stills the waves and the wind that lifts them. A people hostile to me is sailing the Tyrrhene sea, carrying the defeated gods of its Ilian home into Italy. Rouse your winds to fury. Overwhelm their sinking ships, or drive them apart and scatter their bodies across the sea. I have fourteen nymphs of surpassing loveliness. Deiopea, the most beautiful of them all, I will unite with you in marriage to be yours forever. In return for this service, she will spend all her years at your side and make you the father of beautiful children.”

Aeolus answers: “Your task, Queen, is to consider what you desire; mine is to obey your orders. From you I hold this humble kingdom, my scepter, and Jove's favor. You allow me to sit at the gods' feasts and make me sovereign over clouds and storms.”

Even as he speaks, he turns his spear and strikes the side of the hollow mountain. The winds pour through the opening like an army in formation, covering the earth with swirling blasts. The east and west winds together, and the gusty southwest wind, fall upon the sea, stirring it from its deepest chambers and rolling huge waves toward the shore. Behind them rise the shouts of men and the whistling of the rigging. In an instant clouds blot out sky and daylight from the Teucrians' eyes; black night broods over the sea. Thunder sounds from pole to pole, and the air trembles with unceasing flashes. Everything threatens immediate death.

At once Aeneas' limbs grow cold and weak. Stretching both hands to heaven, he cries aloud: “Three and four times happy those who met their death beneath Troy's high walls before their fathers' eyes! Son of Tydeus, bravest of the Greek race, why could I not have fallen on the plains of Ilium and breathed out my life beneath your hand? There fierce Hector lies beneath the spear of Aeacides; there mighty Sarpedon lies; there Simois so often rolled shields and helmets and the brave bodies of men beneath its whirling waves!”

As the cry leaves his lips, a shrill northern gust strikes the sail head-on and lifts the waves to heaven. The oars snap. The prow swings away, exposing the ship's side to the waves, and a broken mountain of water crashes down upon it. Some ships hang on the ridge of a wave; for others the billow gapes open, showing the seabed among the surges, where the water churns with sand.

The south wind catches three ships and hurls them onto hidden rocks: the rocks the Italians call the Altars, a huge reef rising across the sea. Three more the east wind forces from deep water into shallows and quicksands, a pitiful sight, dashing them onto shoals and fencing them in with a sandbank. Before their leader's eyes, a huge descending sea strikes the stern of the ship carrying loyal Orontes and his Lycians. The helmsman is hurled away and flung forward headlong. As the ship lies there, the billow spins it round three times and swallows it in the rushing whirlpool. Scattered swimmers appear in the vast eddy, with men's armor, timbers, and Trojan treasure among the waves.

Already the strong ship of Ilioneus, the ship of brave Achates, the one carrying Abas, and the one carrying old Aletes have yielded to the storm. Through the loosened fastenings in their sides they all take in the deadly water, and their opening seams give way.

Meanwhile Neptune notices with astonishment the roaring of the troubled sea, the storm released from prison, and the once still water boiling from its depths. He lifts his calm head above the waves and looks out across the sea. He sees the whole ocean strewn with Aeneas' fleet, the Trojans overwhelmed by waves and the crashing sky. Her brother clearly sees Juno's deceit and anger. He summons the east and west winds before him, then speaks:

“Does your birth give you such confidence? Winds, do you dare disregard my divinity, throw heaven and earth into confusion, and raise this enormous uproar? You whom I—But it is better to calm the waves you have roused. For a second offense you will pay me a different penalty. Fly away, and tell your king this: the stern trident and command of the ocean were allotted to me, not him. His stronghold is among the monstrous rocks where you, east wind, and your companions live. Let Aeolus boast of that palace and rule within the locked prison of his winds.”

He speaks, and before his words are finished he soothes the swollen sea, scatters the gathered clouds, and restores the sunlight. Cymothoe and Triton together push the ships hard off the sharp reef. Neptune himself lifts them with his trident, cuts channels through the vast quicksands, and calms the water, gliding across it on light wheels.

Often, when strife breaks out in a crowd and the common people rage furiously, firebrands and stones begin to fly; madness supplies weapons. Then, if they happen to see a man respected for goodness and public service, they fall silent and stand listening closely. His words govern their anger and soothe their hearts. So the ocean's thunder falls silent as the lord of the sea drives forward beneath a cloudless sky, turns his horses, and lets his gliding chariot fly with loosened reins.

The exhausted followers of Aeneas hurry toward the nearest shore and turn to the coast of Libya. There is a deeply sheltered place, where an island stretches its sides to form a harbor. Against it the waves from the open sea break and divide into the recesses of the bay. On either side enormous cliffs rise threateningly toward heaven, twin crags beneath whose summits the sheltered water lies broad and calm. Above them hangs a backdrop of flickering forest and the dark shade of rustling groves. Beneath the seaward rock face lies a cavern with fresh springs and seats in the living stone, a haunt of nymphs. Here tired ships need neither mooring ropes nor the crooked bite of an anchor to hold them.

With seven ships gathered from his whole fleet, Aeneas enters. The Trojans land on the shore they have longed for, reach the chosen beach, and set their feet, dripping with brine, upon the land. At once Achates strikes a spark from flint and catches it on leaves, then lays dry fuel around it and kindles a flame. Weary of their fortunes, they bring out the grain spoiled by seawater and their tools for preparing it, and begin to parch the rescued kernels over the fire and grind them between stones.

Meanwhile Aeneas climbs the crag and searches the wide view over the ocean, hoping to catch sight of Antheus and his storm-tossed Phrygian galleys, of Capys, or of the armor high on Caicus' stern. No ship is in sight. He sees three stags wandering on the shore. Behind them whole herds follow, grazing in a long line across the valley. He stops and snatches up a bow and swift arrows, the weapons faithful Achates was carrying. First he brings down the leaders, their proud heads crowned with branching antlers; then he shoots the common herd, driving them in a scattered crowd through the leafy woods. He does not stop until seven great animals lie on the grass, matching the number of his ships.

Then he returns to the harbor and divides them among all his company. Afterward he shares out the casks of wine that good Acestes filled on the Trinacrian beach, the hero's parting gift, and with these words calms their grieving hearts:

“Comrades, we know hardship, both now and from before. You have endured heavier trials, and God will bring this last one too to an end. You have come close to Scylla's fury and the roaring hollows of her cliffs; you have walked on the rocks of the Cyclops. Recall your courage and put numbing fear away. Perhaps someday we will take pleasure in remembering even this. Through changing fortunes and so many dangerous paths, we steer for Latium, where destiny promises us a peaceful home. There Troy's kingdom may rise again without hindrance. Keep your courage, and endure until good fortune comes.”

These are his words. Sick with deep distress, he puts hope on his face and hides his anguish deep in his heart. The others attend to the meat for their feast. They tear the backbones from the ribs and lay bare the flesh. Some cut it into pieces and pierce the still quivering meat with spits; others set cauldrons on the beach and feed the fire beneath them. Then they restore their strength with food. Lying on the grass, they fill themselves with old wine and rich venison.

When the feast has driven hunger away and the meal is cleared, they speak with lingering sorrow of their lost companions. They waver between hope and fear: should they believe them still alive, or in their final agony already, beyond the reach of a human call? Most deeply, good Aeneas mourns within himself for brave Orontes and Amycus, for the cruel fate of Lycus, of brave Gyas, and brave Cloanthus.

Now they fell silent. From the height of the air Jupiter looked down on the sea winged with sails, the spread of lands, the shores and broad countries. Standing on heaven's summit, he turned his eyes upon the kingdom of Libya. Venus, her heart troubled and her bright eyes brimming with tears, spoke sorrowfully to him:

“You who rule all mortal and immortal things with eternal command and the terror of your thunderbolt, what terrible wrong can my Aeneas have done you? What wrong can his Trojans have done? They have escaped so many deaths, yet for Italy's sake the whole world is closed to them. Surely, as the years rolled on, the Romans were to spring from them. From them were to come rulers who would renew Teucer's blood and hold sea and land under universal command. You promised this. Father, why has your decree been changed?

“This consoled me for the wretched destruction of fallen Troy: I weighed one destiny against the other. Now they have suffered so much, and the same fortune still pursues them. Lord and King, what limit do you set to their agony?

“Antenor could escape the surrounding Achaeans, sail safely through the Illyrian bays and the inmost kingdom of the Liburnians, and reach Timavus' source. There, through nine mouths, the bursting tide pours out amid the mountain's mournful groaning, covering the fields with roaring waters. Yet there he founded the town of Patavium, a home for his Teucrians, gave his name to a nation, and hung up the arms of Troy. Now settled in peace, he rests in quiet. But we, your children, whom you invite to the heights of heaven, have lost our fleet miserably through a single enemy's anger. We are betrayed and kept far from Italy's shores. Is this goodness' reward? Is this how you restore our throne?”

The father of men and gods smiled at her with the look that clears the sky and storms, lightly kissed his daughter's lips, and answered:

“Set your fear aside, Cytherean. Your people's destiny remains unshaken. Your eyes will see Lavinium, their promised city and home. You will lift your noble Aeneas to the starry heavens. My decree has not changed.

“Since this anxiety keeps tormenting you, I will speak and unroll the secret records of fate still further. The man you love will fight a great war in Italy and crush warrior nations. He will give his people laws and a city, until the third summer sees him reigning in Latium and three winters of encampment have passed over the conquered Rutulians. But the boy Ascanius, whose surname is now Iulus—he was Ilus while the Ilian kingdom still stood in power—will complete thirty great cycles of the revolving months in government. He will transfer the kingdom from its stronghold in Lavinium and build the mighty fortress of Alba the Long.

“There the kingdom will endure for a full three hundred years under the line of Hector's kin, until the royal priestess Ilia, embraced by Mars, gives birth to twins. Then Romulus, proudly wearing the tawny hide of the she-wolf that nursed him, will take up their line and call the people Romans after his own name. For these I appoint neither a limit of time nor a boundary to their empire. I have given them dominion without end.

“Even harsh Juno, who in her fear now troubles earth and sea and sky, will change to wiser purposes and join me in cherishing the masters of the world, the toga-clad race of Rome. So it is willed. In the passage of the ages a day will come when the house of Assaracus will enslave Phthia and famous Mycenae and rule over conquered Argos. From Troy's noble line a Caesar will arise, whose empire will reach the ocean, whose glory will reach the stars: Julius, inheriting great Iulus' name. One day, your anxiety ended, you will welcome him to heaven, laden with the spoils of the East. To him too prayers will be offered.

“Then wars will cease, and the iron ages grow gentle. Ancient Faith and Vesta, Quirinus and Remus, brothers once more, will give the laws. The terrible gates of war, riveted with iron, will be shut tight. Inside, seated upon murderous weapons, savage Fury will have his hands bound behind him with a hundred bronze chains, and shriek with dreadful, bloodstained lips.”

With these words he sends Maia's son down from heaven so that Carthage, the new city, its land and towers, will welcome the Trojans openly. Dido, ignorant of destiny, must not bar them from her country. The swift messenger flies through the depths of air on winged oars and alights upon the Libyan coast. At once he carries out the command. At once, because a god wills it, the Phoenicians lay aside their proud temper. The queen above all opens her heart to kindness and compassion for the Teucrians.

But good Aeneas has spent the night turning many thoughts over and over. As soon as kindly daylight comes, he goes out to explore this strange country. He resolves to discover what coast the wind has carried him to and who lives there, men or wild beasts, for everything he sees is wilderness. He will bring his comrades back certain knowledge. He hides the fleet close within sheltering groves beneath a caverned rock, amid the forest's trembling shadows. Then, with only Achates following, he strides forward, gripping two broad-headed spears.

In the forest his mother crosses his path, wearing the face and clothes of a maiden and carrying the weapons of a Spartan girl. Or she is like Harpalyce of Thrace when she outruns her horses and, in flight, outstrips the winged speed of Hebrus. Like a huntress she has slung her ready bow from her shoulder, let her hair fly free, bared her knee, and tied the flowing folds of her clothes in a knot.

“Hello, my men,” she begins. “Tell me, have you happened to see a sister of mine wandering here, wearing a quiver and a spotted lynx skin, or shouting as she follows a foaming boar?”

So Venus spoke, and Venus' son began his answer:

“I have neither heard nor seen any sister of yours, maiden—what should I call you? Your face is not mortal, and your voice has no human sound. Surely you are a goddess: perhaps Phoebus' sister, or one of the nymphs? Whoever you are, be gracious and lighten our suffering. Tell us, please, beneath what skies, on what coast of the world we have been thrown. Driven here by wind and desolate waves, we wander in a strange country among unknown people. Many a victim will fall by our hands in sacrifice before your altars.”

Then Venus said: “No, I claim no such offerings. Tyrian maidens always carry the quiver and lace the purple hunting boot high above their ankles. You see a Punic kingdom, a Tyrian people, and the city of Agenor's descendants; but around them are Libyans, a people unconquerable in war. Dido rules here. She fled her brother and sailed from the city of Tyre. The tale of crime is long and tangled, but I will trace it briefly.

“Her husband was Sychaeus, the richest landowner among the Phoenicians, whom she loved with a passion doomed to sorrow. Her father had given her to him in marriage with the rites of a virgin bride. But her brother Pygmalion held the kingdom of Tyre, a monster unequaled in guilt. Madness came between these men. The unnatural brother, blinded by lust for gold and heedless of his sister's love, strikes Sychaeus down before the altars with a secret, unexpected weapon. For a long time he hid the deed, deceiving her lovesick heart with empty hopes through many cunning pretenses.

“But the very ghost of her unburied husband came to her in sleep. Raising a face strangely pale, he revealed the merciless altars and his breast pierced by steel, unraveling the whole hidden web of guilt within the family. Then he urges her to flee the country quickly. To help her journey he reveals treasures long hidden underground, an immense hoard of silver and gold.

“Roused by this, Dido gathered companions for her flight. All who fiercely hated the tyrant or feared him keenly assemble. They seize ships that happen to be ready and load them with gold. Pygmalion's hoarded wealth is carried overseas. A woman leads the undertaking.

“At last they reached the land where you will see a city already great, New Carthage, and its rising citadel. They bought a plot of ground, afterward called Byrsa, as much as a bull's hide could enclose. But who, may I ask, are you? From what shores do you come? Where are you heading?”

At her question he sighed, drawing his words from deep within his breast, and answered:

“Ah, goddess, if I began at the beginning, and you had leisure to hear the story of our suffering, the evening star would put the day to sleep behind heaven's closed gates before I finished. We were sailing from ancient Troy—if Troy's name has happened to reach your ears—across foreign seas, when the storm at its own wild pleasure drove us onto the Libyan coast. I am Aeneas the good. In my fleet I carry the household gods I rescued from the enemy. My fame is known high in heaven. I seek Italy, my country, and my kin of Jove's supreme blood.

“With twenty ships I embarked upon the Phrygian sea, led by the signs of oracles; my goddess mother pointed out the way. Barely seven survive the shattering force of wind and waves. Unknown and destitute, driven out of Europe and Asia, I wander through the Libyan wilderness.”

But Venus interrupted his unfinished sorrows, preventing further complaint:

“Whoever you are, I think the immortals do not hate you, since you live and have reached this Tyrian city. Go on now and make your way from here to the queen's palace. I tell you that your comrades have been restored and your fleet driven back to safety by the change of the northern winds—unless my parents were false teachers and the art of prophecy they taught me is worthless.

“Look at those twelve swans in a joyful line. Jove's bird swooped down from heaven and scattered them through the open sky. Now in a long procession they seem either to be settling on the earth or already looking down upon the place where they settled. As they play again with beating wings and call out while circling the sky together, so your ships and crews are either lying safe in harbor or entering its mouth under full sail. Only go on and follow where the path leads you.”

As she spoke she turned away. Her neck shone rosy; her immortal hair breathed a divine fragrance. Her clothes flowed down to her feet, and her walk revealed the goddess. He recognized his mother and called after her as she left:

“You too are merciless! Why do you so often mock your son with a false appearance? Why may we not clasp hands, hear each other, and speak in our true voices?”

With these reproaches he turns toward the city. But as they go, Venus surrounds them with dim mist, spreading a deep, divine cloak of cloud around them, so no one can see or touch them, delay them, or ask why they have come. She herself speeds through the sky to Paphos and joyfully revisits her home. There her temple and its hundred altars steam with Sabaean incense and breathe the fresh scent of garlands offered in her worship.

Meanwhile the men have hurried along the path. Now they were climbing the enormous hill that overhangs the city and looks down upon its facing towers. Aeneas marvels at the mass of buildings where once there were shepherds' huts, marvels at the gates and the clatter of the paved streets. The Tyrians work eagerly, marking out walls, building the citadel and rolling great stones up by hand, or choosing a site for a house and enclosing it with a furrow. They establish laws, magistrates, and the honored senate. Here some are digging harbors; there others lay the deep foundations of a theater, cutting huge columns from the rock as lofty ornaments for the future stage.

So bees work beneath the sun when summer is fresh over the flowering countryside. They lead out the grown young of their nation, or press the liquid honey and swell their cells with sweet nectar, or relieve the returning bees of their loads, or muster to drive the idle drones far from their homes. They swarm at their work, and the fragrant honey smells sweetly of thyme.

“Happy those whose city is already rising!” cries Aeneas, looking down upon the roofs. Wrapped in cloud, he passes through them, wonderful to tell, and mingles with the crowd unseen.

In the heart of the town stood a grove rich in deep shade. Here the Phoenicians, battered by waves and whirlwinds, first dug up the sign Queen Juno had appointed: the head of a warhorse. This meant that their race would be renowned in war and prosperous in life through all the ages. Here Sidonian Dido was founding a vast temple to Juno, rich in offerings and in the sacred presence of the goddess. Bronze steps rose at the threshold, bronze clamped the pillars, and bronze doors swung on grating hinges.

Here in the grove an unexpected sight first met his steps and calmed his fear. Here for the first time Aeneas dared hope for safety and take greater confidence in his shattered fortunes. While he studies the towering temple, awaiting the queen, and admires the fortunate city, the competing skill and elaborate work of its craftsmen, he sees the battles of Ilium depicted in order. The fame of that war had already spread throughout the world. Here are the sons of Atreus, Priam, and Achilles, whom both sides found merciless.

He stopped and cried through his tears: “Achates, what land, what part of the earth, is not filled with our suffering? Look, Priam! Here too honor receives its due; here the human condition touches hearts with tears. Set your fears aside. This fame will somehow bring you safety.”

He speaks and fills his heart with the painted scenes, sighing often, his face wet with a full river of tears. He saw the fighting around the Trojan citadel: here the Greeks fleeing with the men of Troy close behind; there the Phrygians in flight, pursued by plumed Achilles in his chariot. Not far away he recognizes the snowy canvas of Rhesus' tents. Betrayed in their first sleep, they were ravaged by the bloodstained son of Tydeus amid heaps of slaughter. He turns the fiery horses toward the Greek camp before they ever tasted Trojan fodder or drank from Xanthus.

Elsewhere Troilus, his weapons thrown away in flight—unlucky boy, no match for Achilles!—is carried along by his horses. Thrown backward and entangled in his empty chariot, he still clutches the reins. His neck and hair drag over the ground; his reversed spear scores the dust.

Meanwhile the women of Ilium, their hair disordered, went to the temple of hostile Pallas, carrying a garment as an offering and sadly beating their breasts with their palms. The goddess turned away and kept her eyes fixed on the ground. Achilles had dragged Hector three times around Troy's walls and was selling the lifeless body for gold. Then at last Aeneas heaves a loud groan from the depths of his heart, as he sees the spoils, the chariot, Hector's dear body, and Priam stretching out his unarmed hands.

He recognized himself too, meeting the foremost Achaeans in battle, the ranks from the East, and the armor of dark Memnon. Penthesilea leads her crescent-shielded columns of Amazons in furious battle, surrounded by thousands. A golden belt fastened beneath her bare breast, the warrior maiden dares to fight with men.

While Dardanian Aeneas gazes at these wonders, absorbed and dizzy with his long, unbroken stare, Queen Dido entered the precinct, surpassingly beautiful, with a crowd of young attendants around her. She was like Diana leading the dance on Eurotas' banks or along the ridges of Cynthus, while a thousand mountain nymphs gather on either side behind her. Diana carries a quiver on her shoulder and, as she moves, outshines them all in divinity. Latona's heart thrills with silent joy. Such was Dido, advancing joyfully among the crowd and urging on the work of her growing kingdom.

Then at the goddess's doors, beneath the central vault of the temple roof, she sat high on her throne with armed guards around her. She gave judgments and laws to her people, assigning or allotting their work in fair shares.

Suddenly Aeneas sees Antheus, Sergestus, brave Cloanthus, and other Trojans approaching with a large crowd around them. The black squall had separated them at sea and carried them far off along the coast. Stunned with joy and fear, he and Achates both burned to clasp their hands. But in their confused uncertainty they remain hidden, clothed in the sheltering cloud, waiting to learn what has happened to their friends, where they have left their ships on shore, and why they now come. Chosen men from every ship, they were advancing toward the temple with loud cries, pleading for kindness.

After they entered and were given leave to speak, old Ilioneus calmly began:

“Queen, Jupiter has granted you the founding of this new city and the task of placing proud tribes beneath the yoke of justice. We beg you, wretched Trojans driven by storms over every sea: keep the dreadful flames from our ships, spare an innocent people, and look kindly on our fortunes. We have not come to spread slaughter through Libyan homes or carry stolen plunder to the shore. Such violence is far from our thoughts, nor are a conquered people so arrogant.

“There is a place the Greeks call Hesperia, an ancient land, mighty in arms and in the fruitfulness of its soil. Oenotrian people lived there. Now, we hear, a younger race has called it Italy after its leader's name. That was our course . . . when Orion rose through the torn clouds, bearing sudden waves against us. With violent winds and overwhelming seas he drove us onto hidden shoals and scattered us far across the waves and trackless reefs. A scant remnant of us floated up to your shores.

“What race of men, what country, however barbarous, permits such a custom? We are denied the shelter of the beach. They rise against us in arms and forbid us even to set foot on the edge of their land. If you disregard human kinship and mortal weapons, still remember the gods, who do not forget innocence or guilt.

“Aeneas was our king, foremost of men in justice, unequaled in goodness and in war. If fate still preserves him, if he breathes heaven's air and does not yet lie in pitiless darkness, we have no fear. You will not regret competing with him in generosity. In Sicily too there are fields and a city, and famous Acestes himself is of Trojan blood.

“Allow us to beach our storm-shattered fleet, shape forest trees into beams, and trim them for oars. Then, if we can sail to Italy with our king and comrades found, we will gladly seek Italy and Latium. But if all hope of rescue is gone, if the Libyan gulf holds you, dear lord of your Trojans, and Iulus, our hope, no longer lives, then let us at least seek the straits of Sicily, the welcoming homes from which we sailed here, and Acestes as our king.”

So Ilioneus spoke, and the whole Dardanian company murmured its agreement. . . . Then Dido lowered her face and spoke briefly:

“Take courage, Teucrians, and put your anxieties aside. Hard circumstances in a strange kingdom force me to do this, to keep watch over my broad frontiers. Who could be ignorant of Aeneas' people, of Troy's city, its heroes and their deeds, or of the consuming fire of that great war? Our Punic hearts are not so dull, nor does the sun harness his horses so far from our Tyrian town.

“Whether you choose broad Hesperia, the lands Saturn ruled, or Eryx for your country and Acestes for your king, my escort will send you safely on your way, and my stores will supply your needs. Or would you like to settle here with me and share my kingdom? The city I am building is yours. Draw up your ships. I will hold Trojan and Tyrian in equal regard. If only your king Aeneas himself were here, driven by the storm into this same harbor! But I will send messengers along the coast and order them to search Libya to its farthest limits, in case he is wandering shipwrecked through a forest or town.”

These words had already kindled both brave Achates and lord Aeneas with eagerness to break through the cloud. Achates spoke first to Aeneas:

“Goddess-born, what intention rises in your heart now? You see that all is safe: our fleet and comrades are restored. Only one is missing, the one we saw swallowed by the waves. Everything else agrees with your mother's words.”

He had barely spoken when the surrounding cloud suddenly parts and dissolves into clear air. Aeneas stood revealed in a blaze of light, like a god in face and shoulders. His mother herself had bestowed upon her son the beauty of clustering hair, the radiance of youth, and the brightness of joyful eyes. So ivory grows beautiful beneath a craftsman's hand, or silver or Parian marble when set in gold. Then, interrupting them all with unexpected words, he addresses the queen:

“I whom you seek am here before you: Aeneas of Troy, snatched from the Libyan waves. You alone have pitied Troy's unspeakable suffering. We are the remnant that escaped the Greek enemy, already exhausted by every hardship land and sea can bring, utterly destitute; yet you share your city and home with us. Dido, neither we nor all the survivors of our Dardanian race scattered across the world can repay you as you deserve.

“May the gods reward you worthily, if divine powers have any regard for goodness, if justice and a conscience clear of guilt count for anything. What happy age gave you birth? What noble parents brought such virtue into the world? While rivers run into the sea, while mountain shadows travel across the slopes, while stars have pasture in heaven, your honor, your name, and your praise will endure, whatever unknown lands may call me.”

With these words he offers his right hand to dear Ilioneus, his left to Serestus, then greets the others, brave Gyas and brave Cloanthus.

Sidonian Dido stood astonished, first at the sight of him, then at his strange fortunes. These words left her lips:

“What fate pursues you through such dangerous paths, goddess-born? What violence brings you to this monstrous coast? Are you that Aeneas whom kindly Venus bore to Dardanian Anchises beside the waters of Phrygian Simois?

“I well remember Teucer's coming to Sidon. Exiled from his native country, he sought Belus' help in winning a new kingdom. My father Belus was then ravaging rich Cyprus and holding it beneath his conquering rule. Since that time I have known of the Trojan city's fall, your name, and the Pelasgian princes. Your very enemy would praise the Teucrians to the skies and boasted that he himself was a branch of the ancient Teucrian stock.

“Come then, men, and enter our house. A similar fortune has driven me too through many sorrows and willed that I should at last find rest in this land. Having known suffering, I learn to help those who suffer.”

With these words she leads Aeneas into the royal house and orders sacrifices in the gods' temples. Meanwhile she sends his comrades on the shore twenty bulls, a hundred great bristly-backed pigs, and a hundred fat lambs with their mothers, gifts to celebrate the happy day. . . . Inside, the palace is decorated with royal splendor, and a banquet is prepared in the halls. The coverings are elaborately worked in magnificent purple. The tables bear heavy silver and golden engravings of ancestral valor: the long course of history traced through many heroic names from the nation's earliest beginnings.

A father's love would not let Aeneas' heart rest. He sends Achates swiftly to the ships to tell Ascanius the news and bring him to the city, for all the father's loving care is centered on Ascanius. He also orders him to bring gifts rescued from the destruction of Ilium: a mantle stiff with gold embroidery and a veil bordered with woven yellow acanthus flowers. These had once adorned Helen of Argos, a marvelous gift from her mother Leda. Helen brought them from Mycenae when she sought Troy's towers and an unlawful marriage. He also asks for the scepter once carried by Ilione, Priam's eldest daughter, a necklace of beads, and a double crown of gold and jewels. Eager to carry out his errand, Achates set off toward the ships.

But new devices and new plans turn within the Cytherean's heart: Cupid, his form and features changed, might take sweet Ascanius' place and, with the gifts, kindle the queen to madness, setting her innermost heart aflame. Venus fears this uncertain household, the double-tongued people of Tyre. Cruel Juno troubles her, and at nightfall her anxiety returns in a flood. So she speaks these words to winged Love:

“Son, you alone are my strength and power; son, you who scorn the mighty father's bolts that struck Typhoeus, I turn to you for help and humbly plead with your divinity. You know how bitter Juno's malice drives your brother Aeneas around every coast, and you have often grieved with us. Now Phoenician Dido detains him with gentle words. I tremble to think how this welcome in Juno's house may end. She will not be idle at this great turning point in our fortunes.

“So I propose to forestall her tricks and surround the queen with flame, so that no divine power can change her and her passionate love for Aeneas will bind her firmly to me. Now hear my plan. The royal boy, my greatest care, is preparing to answer his dear father's summons to the Sidonian city, carrying gifts that have survived the sea and Troy's flames. I will hide him in deep sleep within my sacred dwelling, high in the hills of Cythera or in Idalium, so he can neither discover nor disrupt our plot.

“For just one night, take his shape. You are a boy yourself: wear the familiar face of a boy. Then, when Dido takes you in her lap amid the joy of the feast, the royal delicacies and the juice of Bacchus, when she folds you in her arms and kisses you closely and sweetly, you can breathe hidden fire and unsuspected poison into her.”

Love obeys his dear mother, lays aside his wings, and walks joyfully with Iulus' step. But Venus pours the gentle dew of sleep over Ascanius' limbs and, lifting the sleeping boy in her lap, carries him to her tall sacred groves in Idalium. There soft marjoram folds him in the fragrant shade of its sweet blossoms.

Now, obedient to her words, Cupid went happily with Achates as his guide, carrying the royal gifts for the Tyrians. By the time he arrives, the queen has seated herself in the center on her golden throne beneath splendid tapestries. Lord Aeneas and then the men of Troy gather, all reclining on the spread purple coverings. Servants pour water over their hands, bring grain from baskets, and provide napkins with a closely cropped nap. Within are fifty maidservants, whose duties in turn are to keep the food supply plentiful and kindle the household fire. A hundred other women, and as many young male servants all of the same age, load the tables with food and set out the wine cups.

Meanwhile the Tyrians fill the spacious banqueting hall and take their appointed places on embroidered cushions. They marvel at Aeneas' gifts, marvel at Iulus, at the god's glowing face and counterfeit words, at the mantle and veil worked with yellow acanthus flowers. Above all the unhappy Phoenician queen, doomed to coming ruin, cannot satisfy her heart. Moved by the boy and the gifts alike, she gazes and catches fire. After he has hung about Aeneas' neck and satisfied all the deceived father's love, the boy makes his way to the queen. Her eyes and whole heart cling to him. Again and again she fondles him in her lap. Ah, poor Dido, unaware how mighty a god is entering her breast! Mindful of his Acidalian mother, he begins little by little to erase Sychaeus and sows the surprise of living love in a spirit long unstirred, a heart that has forgotten love.

As soon as the noise of the banquet ceased and the tables were cleared, they set down great bowls and crown the wine with garlands. The house fills with the murmur of voices eddying through the spacious rooms. Lighted lamps hang from golden chains, and blazing tapers drive out the night.

Now the queen called for a heavy cup of jeweled gold and filled it with unmixed wine, as Belus and all his descendants were accustomed to do. The hall fell silent. “Jupiter,” she cries, “you are said to give the laws of hospitality. Grant that this be a happy day for the Tyrians and the voyagers from Troy, a day to live in our children's memory. Bacchus, giver of joy, be with us, and generous Juno. And you, Tyrians, look kindly on our gathering.”

She spoke and poured an offering of wine on the table. Then she first touched the cup lightly with her own lips and handed it to Bitias, urging him to drink. He boldly drained the foaming cup, flooding himself from the brimming gold. The other princes followed.

Long-haired Iopas fills the room with his gilded lyre and the songs ancient Atlas taught him. He sings of the wandering moon and the sun's labors; the origins of humankind and animals, of water and fire; of Arcturus, the rainy Hyades, and the twin Oxen; why winter suns hurry to sink into the ocean, and what delay makes the lingering nights drag on. The Tyrians, and the Trojans after them, redouble their applause.

All the while Dido wore the night away in changing conversation, alas, drinking deep draughts of love. She asked many things about Priam, many about Hector: what armor the son of the Morning wore, what Diomede's horses were like, and about mighty Achilles.

“Come,” she cries, “my guest, tell us from the very beginning the treachery of the Greeks, your people's suffering, and your own wanderings. This is now the seventh summer that has carried you wandering over all the lands and seas.”

Book Two

All fell silent and sat gazing steadily. Then lord Aeneas, high upon his cushioned seat, began:

Queen, you ask me to recall a dreadful sorrow: how the Greeks brought Troy's wealth and power to pitiable ruin. I saw all those horrors myself and played a great part in them. What Myrmidon or Dolopian, what soldier of stern Ulysses, could tell such a story and restrain his tears? Already dewy night is falling from the heights of heaven, and the setting stars urge us to sleep. Yet if you so desire to know our suffering and hear a brief account of Troy's last agony, I will try, though my heart shudders at the memory and recoils in pain.

Broken by war and driven back by fate, after so many years had slipped away, the Greek commanders, through Pallas' divine skill, build a horse as huge as a mountain, its ribs made of sawn fir. They pretend it is an offering for their homeward voyage, and this rumor spreads. Secretly, inside its dark sides, they shut away chosen men, picked one by one, filling the vast cavern of its belly with armed soldiers.

Within sight lies the famous island of Tenedos, rich in resources while Priam's kingdom lasted, now only a bay and an anchorage treacherous to ships. There they sail and hide on the lonely shore. We imagined they had gone, running before the wind toward Mycenae. So the whole Teucrian land laid its long grief aside. The gates are flung open; people go rejoicing to see the Dorian camp, its deserted positions, its abandoned shore. Here the Dolopian soldiers had their tents; here cruel Achilles; here their fleet lay; here the lines used to meet in battle.

Some stare in wonder at virgin Minerva's deadly gift, astonished at the horse's size. Thymoetes begins urging us to drag it inside the walls and place it in the citadel, whether through treachery or because Troy's destiny was already moving toward this end. But Capys and those with wiser judgment tell us to throw the Greeks' treacherous, sinister gift straight into the sea, or pile flames beneath it and burn it, or pierce the hollow hiding place in its belly and search inside. The wavering crowd divides in heated argument.

Then Laocoon runs down furiously from the high citadel, foremost among a great crowd, and shouts from a distance: “Unhappy citizens, what madness has seized you? Do you believe the enemy has gone? Do you think any Greek gift is free of treachery? Is this how well we know Ulysses? Either Achaeans are hidden in this wooden cage, or this machine was built against our walls, to look over our houses and come down upon the city. Some deception lurks inside. Do not trust the horse, Trojans. Whatever it may be, I fear the Greeks even when they bring gifts.”

With these words he hurls his mighty spear with great force into the creature's side, into the curved framework of its belly. The spear stands trembling. The struck cavern within sounds hollow and gives a groan. If heaven's decree had allowed it, if our minds had not been deluded, he would have persuaded us to attack that Argive hiding place with steel. Troy would still stand, and you, high towers of Priam, would still remain.

Meanwhile Dardanian shepherds noisily dragged a man before the King, his hands tied behind his back. To accomplish this very thing, to open Troy to the Achaeans, he had deliberately put himself in the path of the unsuspecting shepherds. Confident in spirit, he was prepared for either outcome: to spin his web of deceit or face certain death. From every side the Trojans stream in, eager to see, competing in their mockery of the prisoner. Learn now the treachery of the Greeks; from this single crime, understand them all. . . .

He stood bewildered beneath our gaze, unarmed, looking around the Phrygian ranks. “Alas,” he cried, “what land, what sea can receive me now? What final doom still awaits my misery? I have no place among the Greeks, and here too the Dardanians angrily demand my blood.”

His lament changed our feelings, and all violence stopped. We encourage him to speak, to tell us his ancestry and what grounds he has for asking his captors' trust.

“In everything, King,” he says, “whatever happens, I will tell you the truth. First, I will not deny my Argive birth. Though Fortune has made Sinon miserable, her malice will not make him a cheat and liar.

“Has the name of Palamedes, son of Belus, perhaps reached your ears, and the report of his fame and glory? Because he opposed the war, the Pelasgians sent that innocent man to his death on false evidence and wicked testimony. Now that he has left the light, they mourn him. My father, poor as he was, sent me here to serve in war beside him from my earliest years, for we were close in blood. While his royal standing remained unshaken and he was powerful in the councils of the kings, we too possessed reputation and honor.

“When subtle Ulysses' malice sent him from the upper world—I tell no unknown story—my shattered life dragged on in darkness and grief. Within, I raged at my innocent friend's fate. In my madness I did not keep silent. If ever an opportunity arose, if I returned victorious to my native Argos, I vowed to avenge him. My words stirred bitter hatred in Ulysses. That was the beginning of my misfortune. From then on he threatened me with fresh charges, spread dark rumors among the people, and sought allies against me. He never rested until, with Calchas' help—but why go on unfolding a useless tale? Why delay you, if you judge all Achaeans alike and the name alone is enough? Take your long-delayed revenge. The Ithacan would wish it, and the sons of Atreus would pay a great price for it.”

Then we press him to explain, questioning the cause, unaware of such wickedness and Pelasgian cunning. Trembling, the liar continues:

“Often the Greeks wanted to flee, leave Troy behind, and abandon the long war in their weariness. If only they had! But just as often fierce storms at sea blocked their way, and the gale frightened them from departure. Most of all, when this horse already stood framed in maple beams, storm clouds roared across the whole sky.

“In our uncertainty we send Eurypylus to consult Phoebus' oracle. He brings back these terrifying words from the sanctuary: ‘Greeks, when you first came to the Ilian coast, you appeased the winds with the blood of a slain maiden. With blood you must seek your return, and an Argive life must be the accepted sacrifice.’

“When the crowd heard this answer, their hearts stopped and a cold shudder ran through their deepest being. For whom was this doom intended? Whom did Apollo demand? Then the Ithacan, loudly shouting, drags Calchas the prophet into their midst and demands to know what the gods mean. Already many people warned me of the villain's cruel design and silently saw what was coming. For ten days Calchas remains speechless in his tent, refusing to name anyone for death or surrender him by a word. At last, under the Ithacan's loud insistence, he speaks as they had planned and appoints me for the altar.

“Everyone agreed. The fear each man had felt for himself was turned, alas, toward my destruction alone. Now the dreadful day was near. The rites were being prepared for me, the salted grain, the garlands to encircle my temples. I escaped death, I admit it. I broke my bonds and hid all night in the darkness among the reeds of a marshy pool, waiting for them to set sail, if they ever would. I have no hope now of seeing my old home, my dear children, or the father I long for. Perhaps the Greeks will even take revenge on them for my escape, washing away this crime in their miserable deaths.

“By the heavenly powers, the gods who know the truth, by all the uncorrupted faith that still remains anywhere among mortals, I beg you: pity such suffering. Pity a man whose suffering is undeserved.”

His tears win him his life and our pity. Priam himself immediately orders his shackles and tight bonds removed, and speaks kindly: “Whoever you are, from this time onward put the Greeks out of your mind and forget them. You will be one of us. Now answer my question truthfully. Why have they built this enormous horse? Who advised them? What is their purpose? What offering of atonement, or what engine of war, is this?”

He ended. The other, filled with treacherous Pelasgian cunning, raises his freed hands to heaven. “Everlasting fires,” he cries, “let you and your inviolable holiness be my witnesses! You too, altars and accursed swords from which I fled, and sacred garlands I wore as a victim! Without blame I may break my oath of allegiance to Greece, hate the Greeks, and reveal everything they hide. No law of country binds me now. Only keep your promise, Troy. Keep faith with your preserver, as my news proves true and my reward is great.

“All Greece's hope, all the confidence with which the war began, always rested on Pallas' help. But the wicked son of Tydeus and Ulysses, inventor of crimes, dared to tear the fateful Palladium from its sanctuary and cut down the guards upon the towering height. They seized the sacred image and dared touch the goddess's virgin garlands with bloody hands. From that time Greece's hope ebbed and slipped backward. Its strength was broken, and the goddess's heart turned away.

“The Tritonian gave unmistakable signs of this. The image had barely been placed in the camp when sparkling flame shot from its lifted eyes and salty sweat broke out over its body. Three times, wonderful to tell, it leaped from the ground, its shield and spear trembling. Immediately Calchas declares that they must flee across the sea. The towers of Troy cannot be overthrown by Argive weapons unless they renew their auspices at Argos and bring back the divine presence they have carried away over the sea in their curved ships.

“Now they have sailed before the wind toward their native Mycenae to gather arms and gods to accompany them. They will cross the ocean again and fall upon you unawares. This is how Calchas interprets the omens. On his advice they built this image to make amends for the Palladium and the injured goddess, to atone for the horror of sacrilege. But Calchas told them to make it enormous, with oak crossbeams, and build it high toward heaven, so that it could not enter your gates or be dragged into your city and protect your people under its ancient sanctity.

“If your hands should violate Minerva's offering, utter destruction would fall on Priam's kingdom and the Phrygian people—may the gods turn that prophecy against Calchas himself instead! But if your hands brought it up into your city, Asia would advance in mighty war to the walls of Pelops, and a similar fate would await our children's children.”

So Sinon's tricks, cunning, and perjury made the story believable. We were caught by deceit and false tears, we whom neither Tydeus' son nor Achilles of Larissa, whom neither ten years nor a thousand ships, had brought down.

Now another sight meets us, greater, alas, and far more terrible, striking terror into our unsuspecting hearts. Laocoon, chosen by lot as Neptune's priest, was sacrificing a great bull at the customary altars. Then, from Tenedos across the calm depths—I shudder to remember—two snakes with enormous coils press through the sea and make together for the shore. Their breasts rise through the surge; their blood-red crests tower above the waves. The rest trails through the sea behind, curling in huge loops. The salt water gurgles and foams.

Now they reached the land. Their bloodshot eyes blazed with fire, and their tongues lapped and flickered in their hissing mouths. We scatter, pale at the sight. They make straight for Laocoon without swerving. First the two serpents wrap his two little children in their embrace and bite deep into their miserable limbs. Then, as he comes to help with weapons in his hands, they seize him too and bind him in their enormous coils. Twice around his waist, twice around his neck, their scaly bodies clasp him, while their heads and necks tower above him. He strains with his hands to tear their knots apart, his sacred bands spattered with foul black venom, and at the same time raises dreadful cries to heaven, like the bellowing of a bull that shakes a badly struck axe from its neck and runs wounded from the altar.

But the two snakes glide away to the high sanctuary and seek the fierce Tritonian's citadel. They shelter beneath the goddess's feet, under the circle of her shield. Then a strange terror truly thrills through all our astonished hearts. Laocoon, people say, has paid the penalty for his crime: piercing the sacred wood and hurling his guilty spear into its body. Everyone cries that the image must be brought to its home and the goddess entreated. . . .

We break through the walls and open the inner city. Everyone joins the work. They fix rolling wheels beneath its feet and tie hempen ropes around its neck. The fatal engine climbs our walls, pregnant with weapons. Around it boys and unmarried girls sing hymns and joyfully place their hands upon the rope. It moves up and glides threateningly into the heart of the town.

My homeland! Ilium, home of gods! Dardanian city renowned in war! Four times it stopped in the very gateway, and four times armor rang within its belly. Yet we press on, thoughtless and deluded, and set the ominous thing in our sacred citadel. Even then Cassandra opens her lips to foretell the coming doom, lips that a god decreed the Trojans would never believe. We unhappy people, for whom this was the last day, deck the gods' shrines throughout the city with festive branches.

Meanwhile the heavens turn, and night rises from the sea, wrapping earth, sky, and the Myrmidons' treachery in her vast shadow. Throughout the town the Teucrians lie silent. Sleep embraces their tired limbs.

Now the Argive fleet was sailing in formation from Tenedos, seeking the familiar shores in the favoring stillness of the quiet moon. When the royal galley sends up a flame, Sinon, protected by the gods' cruel decrees, secretly releases the imprisoned Greeks from their pine barriers. The horse opens and restores them to the air. Joyfully they emerge from the hollow wood and slide down the hanging rope: the commanders Thessander and Sthenelus, terrible Ulysses, Acamas, Thoas, Neoptolemus son of Peleus, Machaon first of all, Menelaus, and Epeus himself, the craftsman of the deception. They sweep through the city buried in drunken sleep. The watchmen are cut down. At the opened gates they welcome all their comrades and unite their allied forces.

It was the hour when, by God's gift, rest first steals upon unhappy men, sweetest in its coming. In sleep Hector seemed to stand before my eyes, deeply grieving and shedding abundant tears. He was torn by the chariot, as he had been before, black with bloody dust, his swollen feet pierced by the thongs. Ah, what a sight he was! How changed from that Hector who returns wearing Achilles' spoils or hurling Trojan fire upon the Greek ships! His beard was ragged, his hair clotted with blood; upon him were all the many wounds he had received around his ancestral walls.

Weeping myself, I seemed to address him before he spoke, uttering these sorrowful words: “Light of Dardania, surest hope of the Trojans, what long delay has kept you? From what region do you come, Hector, whom we long for? With what weary eyes we see you, after so many deaths among your kin, after such varied suffering of people and city! What outrage has marred your calm face? Why do I see these wounds?”

He makes no reply and pays no attention to my useless questions. Heavily he draws a groan from his deepest heart. “Flee, goddess-born,” he says, “and save yourself from these flames. The enemy holds our walls. Troy is toppling from her high towers. Your country and Priam ask no more of you. If strength of hand could defend Troy's towers, this hand too would have defended them. Troy entrusts her sacred objects and household gods to you. Take them as companions of your destiny. Seek a city for them, which at last you will establish in strength after every sea has known your wanderings.”

He speaks and carries out in his hands, from the inner shrine, the sacred bands, Vesta's power, and the everlasting fire.

Meanwhile mingled anguish stirs the city. Although my father Anchises' house lay far back, sheltered by trees, the sounds grow clearer and clearer, and the clash of weapons swells. I shake off sleep, climb above the sloping roof, and stand listening closely. So, when the south winds rage and fire catches a grainfield, or a racing mountain torrent sweeps across the fields, carries off the flourishing crops and all the oxen's labor, and hurls the forest headlong with it, a shepherd hears the roar from a cliff top in bewildered astonishment.

Now the proof is plain, and Greek treachery stands revealed. Already Deiphobus' house has crashed into widespread ruin beneath the conquering flames. Already our neighbor Ucalegon is ablaze. The broad Sigean bay glows with the fire. Men's cries and the blare of trumpets rise. Madly I seize my weapons, though weapons offer little purpose. My heart burns to gather a fighting band and charge for the citadel with my comrades. Fury and anger drive me headlong. I think how noble it is to die in battle.

Then Panthus, escaping the Achaean weapons—Panthus, son of Othrys, Phoebus' priest in the citadel—comes hurrying with the sacred vessels, the defeated gods, and his little grandchild in his hand. Distraught, he runs toward my gates.

“How does the city stand, Panthus? What stronghold are we to occupy?”

I had barely spoken when he answered with a groan: “The final day has come, the irreversible hour of the Dardanian land. We Trojans are no more. Ilium and the Teucrians' great glory are no more. Angry Jupiter has thrown everything into Argos' scale. The Greeks are masters of the burning town. The horse, towering in the city's midst, pours out armed men, and Sinon scatters fire, insolent in victory. Some are at the wide-open gates, all the thousands who ever came from populous Mycenae. Others block the narrow streets with leveled weapons. The blade and glittering point of steel stand drawn, ready to slaughter. Barely at the entrance do the gate guards attempt resistance and hold out in the hopeless fight.”

Heaven's will, declared in this way by Othrys' son, drives me among flames and weapons, where deadly Fury calls and the tumult of shouting rises. Rhipeus and Epytus, mighty in arms, join me. Hypanis and Dymas meet us in the moonlight and come to our side, with young Coroebus, Mygdon's son. He had come to Troy in those days, burning with mad love for Cassandra, and was helping Priam and the Phrygians like a son. Unhappy man, who did not heed his raving bride's advice! . . .

Seeing them close-ranked and daring for battle, I began: “Men of supreme and useless courage, if you are resolved to follow one who dares the utmost, you see our country's fortune. All the gods whose power sustained this kingdom have left, abandoning shrine and altar. You come to help a burning city. Let us die and rush upon the weapons surrounding us. The conquered have one safety: to hope for none.”

So their spirits rise to fury. Like wolves ravening in a black fog, driven blindly out by hunger's raging malice, while the cubs they leave behind wait with unsatisfied throats, we march through enemy weapons toward certain death, making straight for the heart of town. Night's sheltering shadow flutters darkly around us.

Who could unfold that night's horror and death agony in words, or measure its sorrows with tears? The ancient city falls after her long years of rule. Stiff bodies lie everywhere through the streets and houses and the gods' dreadful courts. Nor do Teucrians alone pay with their blood. Again and again courage returns even to conquered hearts, and the victorious Greeks fall. Everywhere cruel anguish, everywhere terror, everywhere the sight of death.

First Androgeus meets us with a great band of Greeks, unknowingly mistaking us for allies. He begins with friendly words: “Hurry, men! Why are you lingering idly so late? Others are plundering and ravaging the burning citadel. Are you only now coming from the tall ships?”

He spoke, and immediately, because we gave no convincing answer, he realized he had fallen among enemies. In astonishment he checked his step and voice. So a man struggling through rough brambles unknowingly treads upon a snake, then suddenly recoils in fright as it rises angrily and swells its green throat. Just so Androgeus drew back, startled by the sight.

We rush in, surround them with closely massed weapons, and cut them down as they scatter, seized with panic and unfamiliar with the ground. Fortune favors our first effort. Here Coroebus, flushed with success and spirit, cries: “Comrades, follow me where Fortune points out a path of safety and shows her favor. Let us exchange shields and dress ourselves in Greek armor. Cunning or courage—who asks which, when dealing with an enemy? The enemy will arm our hands.”

He speaks and puts on Androgeus' plumed helmet and beautifully decorated shield, fastening the Argive sword at his side. Rhipeus does the same, and Dymas likewise. Delighted, all our men put on the fresh spoils one by one. We advance mingling with the Greeks, protected by armor that is not our own, and fight many encounters with those we meet in the blind night. Many Greeks we send down to the underworld. Some scatter to the ships and run for safety on the shore. Some, in cowardly fear, climb back into the huge horse and hide in its familiar belly. Alas, no one can trust gods who have turned away!

Look: Cassandra, Priam's maiden daughter, was being dragged with disordered hair from Minerva's temple and sanctuary. In vain she raised her blazing eyes toward heaven—her eyes, because chains locked her delicate hands. At this sight Coroebus breaks out in fury and hurls himself upon death among their ranks. We all follow and charge with massed weapons.

Here for the first time our own people's weapons overwhelm us from the temple's high roof. A most pitiful slaughter begins because of our armor's appearance and the Greek crests mistaken for the enemy's. Then the Greeks, shouting angrily over the maiden's rescue, gather from all sides and fall upon us: Ajax in all his valor, the two sons of Atreus, and the whole Dolopian army. So West and South often burst in a whirlwind, clashing with opposing blasts, and East exults upon the horses of the Dawn. The forests cry, and Nereus, fierce in foam, stirs the seas from their deepest bed with his trident.

Those whom our deception routed through the dark, dim night and drove all about the town appear as well. At once they recognize the shields and counterfeit weapons and hear the foreign sound of our speech. We go down, overwhelmed by numbers. First Coroebus is laid low by Peneleus' hand at the altar of the mighty goddess of war. Rhipeus falls, the most righteous man among the Teucrians, the most steadfast in justice: the gods' ways are not ours. Hypanis and Dymas die, pierced by friendly hands. Panthus, neither all your goodness nor Apollo's sacred band protected you from death.

Ashes of Ilium, flames that consumed my people, I call you to witness: in your ruin I avoided no Greek weapon, no encounter. My hand earned my death, had destiny willed it so. We tear ourselves away, I with Iphitus and Pelias—Iphitus already burdened with age, Pelias limping from Ulysses' wound—and the shouting calls us onward to Priam's house.

Here the battle is fiercest, as though no fighting existed elsewhere, no slaughter anywhere else in the city. Such is the war's fury before our eyes: Greeks rushing against the building, their shielded column driving toward the besieged entrance. Ladders cling to the walls. Close beside the doors, standing on the rungs, they raise shields in their left hands to ward off our weapons, and clutch the battlements with their right.

The Dardanians tear down turrets and roof coverings against them. Seeing the end has come, they use these as weapons and prepare to defend themselves even at the point of death. They hurl down gilded beams, the splendid ornaments their ancestors made. Others with drawn swords hold the doorway below, guarding it in a crowded column. We renew our courage to help the royal dwelling, bring our support, and strengthen the conquered.

There was a hidden doorway, a passage through Priam's halls by a lonely back entrance. While our kingdom lasted, unhappy Andromache would often slip through it unattended to her father-in-law's house, carrying the boy Astyanax to his grandfather. I climb out onto the sloping height of the roof, where the wretched Teucrians were hurling their ineffective weapons.

A tower stood at the sheer edge, its roof rising high toward heaven. From there one used to see all Troy, the Greek ships, and the Achaean camp. Attacking it all around with iron tools where the joints of the high flooring yielded, we wrench it from its deep foundations and shake it loose. It gives way and suddenly falls in thundering ruin, crashing far across the Greek ranks. But others swarm up, and meanwhile stones and every kind of missile keep coming without pause. . . .

Directly before the vestibule, at the front doorway, Pyrrhus moves exultantly in sparkling armor and gleaming bronze. So a snake, fed on poisonous herbs, which cold winter kept hidden and swollen underground, now fresh from shedding its old skin and shining with youth, coils its slippery body into the daylight. Its raised breast meets the sun, and its three-forked tongue flickers in its mouth.

With him are huge Periphas and Automedon, the armor-bearer who drove Achilles' horses. With him all his Scyrian men climb the roof and hurl fire onto the house. Among the foremost, he himself seizes a battle-axe, smashes through the strong doorway, and wrenches the bronze-plated doors from their hinges. Now he has cut a plank from the solid oak and opened a vast, gaping hole. The interior stands exposed; the long halls lie plain. Priam's private rooms and those of the kings of old are revealed, and the attackers see armed men standing before the doorway.

But inside the house there is a confusion of shrieks and misery. The court echoes deeply with women's wailing; the din strikes the golden stars. Frightened mothers wander through the vast house, clinging to the doors and covering them with kisses. Pyrrhus presses on with his father's strength. Neither guards nor barriers can hold. The gate shakes beneath the hard-driven ram, and the doors fall flat, torn from their hinges.

Force finds a way. The Greeks burst through the entrance, slaughter those in front, and fill the space with a broad stream of soldiers. A foaming river is no more furious when it bursts its banks, overflows, and beats down the opposing dikes with whirling water, piling across the fields and sweeping herds and pens over the plains.

With my own eyes I saw Neoptolemus raging in slaughter at the gateway and the two sons of Atreus. I saw Hecuba and the hundred daughters of her household, and Priam staining with his blood the altar fires he himself had consecrated. The fifty bridal chambers—such had been the hope of his children's children—with doors magnificent in the golden spoils of foreign lands, have fallen into ruin. Where the fire fails, the Greeks take possession.

Perhaps you may ask as well what fate befell Priam. When he saw his captured city's ruin, the gates of his house broken open, and the enemy in his innermost rooms, the old man uselessly fastens his long-neglected armor around his trembling, aged shoulders. He girds on the powerless sword and advances toward death among the swarming enemy.

Inside the palace, beneath the open sky, stood a great altar. Beside it an ancient laurel leaned, embracing the household gods in its shade. Here Hecuba and her daughters crowded vainly around the altar stones, like doves driven headlong by a black storm. They crouched, clasping the gods' images.

When she saw her husband Priam wearing the armor of his youth, she cried: “What madness, my poor husband, has driven you to put on these weapons? Where are you running? This is not the help, these are not the defenders this hour requires, even if my Hector himself were here beside us. Come here, I beg you. This altar will protect us all, or you will share our death.”

With these words she drew the old man to her and placed him on the sacred seat.

Then Polites, one of Priam's sons, escapes the slaughtering Pyrrhus through the enemy's weapons. Wounded, he runs down the long colonnades and through the empty halls. Pyrrhus pursues him fiercely, aiming to strike, almost catching him, pressing close with his spear. Just as Polites comes before his parents' eyes and faces, he falls and pours out his life in a pool of blood.

Though already caught in death's net, Priam does not restrain or spare his angry cry: “For your crime, for this audacity, may the gods, if there is goodness in heaven that cares for such things, repay you fully as you deserve and give you your due reward! You have forced me to watch my child's murder face-to-face and stained a father's sight with death. Achilles, whose son you falsely claim to be, did not treat his enemy like this. He respected a suppliant's rights and trust, restored Hector's pale body for burial, and sent me back to my kingdom.”

So the old man spoke and threw his weak, unwounding spear. It recoiled at once from the ringing bronze and hung uselessly from the shield above its boss. Then Pyrrhus said: “Go, then, and tell this to my father, Peleus' son. Remember to tell him of my wicked deeds, and how Neoptolemus has degenerated. Now die.”

As he speaks he drags Priam, trembling, to the very altar, slipping in his child's pooled blood. He twists his left hand in the old man's hair. In his right the sword flashes and plunges to the hilt into Priam's side.

This was the end of Priam's fortunes. So his appointed fate found him, burning Troy and its fallen towers before his eyes, once magnificent ruler over so many Asian peoples and lands. The great corpse lies upon the shore, a head severed from its shoulders, a body without a name.

Then a dreadful terror began to surround me. I stood stunned. The image of my dear father rose before me when I saw the king, as old as he, sobbing out his life beneath that terrible wound. I saw Creusa abandoned, my house plundered, little Iulus in danger. I look back and examine the force around me. All have given up, exhausted, and leaped headlong to the ground or flung themselves miserably into the fire.

Now I alone was left. Then I see Tyndarus' daughter close within Vesta's courts, silently crouching in a recess of the shrine. The bright glow of the fires lights my wandering gaze as my eyes search everywhere. Fearing the Trojans' anger for their overthrown towers, the Greeks' vengeance, and the wrath of the husband she had abandoned, she, the common Fury of Troy and her own native country, had hidden herself unseen beside the altars.

My spirit bursts into flame. I rise in anger to avenge my dying country and exact payment for her crimes. Is she really to see Sparta and her native Mycenae unharmed, departing as a triumphant queen? Will she see husband and home, parents and children, with a crowd of Trojan women and Phrygians attending her as servants, while Priam has fallen by the sword, Troy has blazed in fire, and Dardania's shore has been soaked so often in blood? No. Though there is no name or fame in punishing a woman, no honor in that victory, still I shall win praise for extinguishing a guilty life and exacting just repayment. It will be good to fill my heart with the fire of vengeance and satisfy my people's ashes. So I burst out and advanced in fury.

Then my mother appeared visibly before me, clearer than I had ever seen her. She shone through the night in pure radiance, gracious, plainly divine, in the shape and stature she wears among the gods of heaven. She caught my hand and stopped me, speaking from her rosy lips:

“Son, what overwhelming pain has roused this anger? Why do you rage? Where has your care for us gone? Will you not first see where you have left Anchises, your aged, exhausted father, or whether your wife Creusa and the boy Ascanius still live? All around them the Greek battalions roam. Without my protecting care, the flames would already have consumed them and the enemy's sword drunk their blood.

“Neither the hated face of the Spartan woman, Tyndarus' daughter, nor Paris is to blame. The gods, the angry gods, overturn this magnificence and bring Troy crashing down. Look: I will tear from before your eyes all the cloud that now veils your sight and dims mortal vision with its damp, surrounding mist. Do not fear your mother's commands or refuse to obey her counsel.

“Here, where you see shattered masonry, rocks violently torn from rocks, and smoke swirling with dust, Neptune shakes walls and foundations out of place with his great trident, overturning the whole city from its base. Here Juno, in all her terror, holds the entrance of the Scaean gates. Armed with steel, she furiously calls her allied army from its ships. . . . Look back: even now Tritonian Pallas stands upon the citadel's height, glittering with radiance and the Gorgon's terror. Their lord himself pours courage and victorious strength into the Greeks; he himself rouses the gods against Dardania's arms.

“Hurry away, my son, and end this struggle. I will never abandon you. I will bring you safely to your father's house.”

She finished and vanished into the night's dense blackness. Dreadful faces shine out, divine powers arrayed against Troy. . . .

Then at last I saw all Ilium sinking in flame, Neptune's Troy uprooted from its base. So an ancient ash on the mountain heights, hacked all around by steel and swiftly falling axes as farmers strain against one another to cut it down, hangs threateningly, its crown shaking and its leafy hair trembling. At last, slowly overcome by wounds, it gives one final groan, tears itself free, and falls in ruin along the ridge.

I descend and, guided by a god, find a clear way between enemy and flame. Weapons give way before me; the fires draw back.

Now I have reached the courts of my ancestral dwelling, our old home. My father, whom I first sought and longed above all to carry high into the hills, refuses to prolong his life through the misery of exile now that Troy has been uprooted.

“You,” he cries, “whose blood is in its prime, whose strength remains firm in its natural vigor, you must flee. . . . If the lords of heaven had wished to prolong my life, they should have preserved this home. One destruction is enough and more than enough for us, survivors of a captured city. Say farewell to me as I lie here, yes, here, like a body laid out for burial, and go. My own hand will find me death. The enemy will be merciful and seek my spoils. The loss of a tomb is little. Hated by heaven for so long, I uselessly drag out my years, ever since the father of gods and king of men struck me with his thunder's blast and scorching flame.”

He continued to speak like this, remaining obstinate. We plead with him through floods of tears: my wife Creusa, Ascanius, all our household, begging our father not to drag us all into his ruin and add his weight to the sinking scale of doom. He refuses and sits unmoving in his purpose.

Again I rush toward battle, choosing death in my misery. What could either planning or chance still offer? Father, did you think I could turn my steps away and abandon you? Could such unnatural words fall from a parent's lips?

“If heaven wills that nothing remain of our mighty city, if this is your settled purpose, your pleasure to throw yourself and all your family into Troy's destruction, the door stands wide for that death. Even now Pyrrhus will be here, fresh from bathing in Priam's blood: Pyrrhus, who slaughters the son before the father's eyes, the father upon his altars. Was this why you rescued me through fire and sword, gracious mother? So I might see the enemy in my innermost rooms, Ascanius and my father, Creusa at their side, cut down in one another's blood? My weapons, men! Bring my weapons! The last day calls to the conquered. Send me back to the Greeks. Let me return and renew the fight. We shall not all die unavenged today.”

Then I buckle on my sword again, slide my left arm into the shield's straps, and stride from the house. But my wife clung around my feet on the threshold, holding little Iulus up before his father's eyes.

“If you are going to die, let us hurry with you to the end. But if you know of any hope in weapons, defend this household first. To what fate do you leave little Iulus and your father? To what fate do you leave me, once called your wife?”

So she shrieked and filled the house with weeping, when suddenly a sign appeared, marvelous to tell. Between the hands and before the faces of his grieving parents, a light seemed to stream above Iulus' head in a shining cone. A harmless flame flickered in his soft hair and played around his temples. In alarm we shook out the burning hair and quenched the holy fire with spring water.

But lord Anchises lifted his eyes joyfully. Stretching his hands toward heaven, he cries: “Almighty Jupiter, if any prayer can move you, look upon us this once. If our goodness deserves it, give us your help hereafter, lord, and confirm this omen of yours.”

The old man had barely spoken when a sudden crash of thunder sounded on the left. A star shot from heaven through the darkness, drawing a bright trail of light. We watch it glide over the roof of the house, marking its path, and bury its brilliance in the woods of Ida. The long track shines; all the region around fumes with sulfur.

Then at last my father yields. He rises to address the gods and worship the holy star. “Now, now there is no more delay. I follow. Where you lead, I come. Gods of my fathers, save my house, save my grandchild. This is your omen; in your divine power Troy stands. I yield, my son. I no longer refuse to go with you.”

He ended. Now the fire roars more loudly through the city, and the burning tides roll nearer.

“Come, dear father, put your arms around my neck. These shoulders will carry you; so dear a burden will not weigh me down. Whatever fortune brings, our danger will be one and undivided, our escape shared. Little Iulus will walk beside me, and my wife will follow our steps at a distance. You, my household, listen to what I say. Outside the city stands a mound with an ancient temple of Ceres alone upon it. Nearby is an aged cypress, preserved for many years by our ancestors' reverence. Let us gather at this meeting place from our different directions.

“Father, take the sacred objects and our ancestors' household gods in your hands. I have just come from desperate battle and am still stained with slaughter. It would be a sin for me to touch them until I wash the pollution away in a flowing stream. . . .”

So I spoke, spread a tawny lion skin over my neck and broad shoulders, and stoop beneath my burden. Little Iulus holds my hand and follows his father with uneven steps. Behind us my wife comes. We move on through the shadows. I, who moments ago was unmoved by any weapon thrown against me or by the crowded ranks of my Greek enemies, now tremble at every breath, start at every sound, fearing alike for my companion and my burden.

I was nearing the gates and thought I had escaped the whole way, when suddenly the crowded trampling of feet reached our ears. My father looked into the darkness and cried: “My son, my son, run! They are coming. I see the gleaming shields and the flash of bronze.”

In my confusion and alarm some hostile god robbed me of my senses. As I plunge into byways and turn away from the familiar streets, alas, Creusa—did she stop, torn by fate from her unhappy husband? Did she lose her way? Did she sink down exhausted? I do not know. Never again was she restored to our eyes. I did not turn to search for my lost wife or think to look behind until we reached ancient Ceres' mound and sacred seat. Here at last, when everyone gathered, one was missing, gone from the company of her child and husband. What man or god did I spare in my frantic reproaches? What crueller sight met me in our city's fall?

I entrust Ascanius, lord Anchises, and the Teucrian gods to my comrades, hiding them in the winding valley. I put on my shining armor and return to the city, determined to face every danger again, retrace my path throughout Troy, and throw myself once more into its perils.

First I return to the walls and the dark gateway through which I had come. With searching eyes I examine and follow my footprints back through the night. Everywhere my heart shudders, alarmed by the very silence. Then I go home, hoping that perhaps—if only perhaps!—her steps have led her there. The Greeks had poured in and filled the house. The devouring fire rolls high before the wind to the roof. Flames tower above it, and the heat surges into the air.

I move on and revisit the citadel and Priam's dwelling. There, in the broad colonnades of Juno's sanctuary, Phoenix and accursed Ulysses, the chosen guards, were watching the plunder. Here from every direction Troy's treasures are flung in heaps: spoils torn from burning shrines, the gods' tables, bowls of solid gold, and the captives' clothing. Boys and frightened mothers stand around in a long line. . . .

Yes, I even dared cry out through the darkness. I filled the streets with my calls, and again and again, repeating her name in vain, cried pitifully for Creusa. While I raged and searched for her endlessly among the city's houses, a sorrowful phantom rose before my eyes: the ghost of Creusa herself, larger than her familiar form. I stood motionless. My hair rose, and the words faltered on my tongue. Then she spoke to me and calmed my distress:

“What help is this wild passion of grief, my dear husband? This does not happen without divine power. It cannot be, nor does the high lord of Olympus permit, that you should take Creusa from here with you. Your exile will be long. You must plow through weary expanses of sea, and you will come to the land of Hesperia, where the Lydian Tiber flows gently through rich and populous fields. There prosperity awaits you, a kingdom and a king's daughter for your wife. Put away these tears for your dear Creusa.

“I shall never see the proud homes of the Myrmidons or Dolopians, or become the slave of Greek wives, I, a daughter of Dardania and daughter-in-law of the goddess Venus. . . . But the mighty mother of the gods keeps me here within her borders. Now farewell, and always love our child, yours and mine.”

She finished speaking. While I wept and longed to say so much, she left me and withdrew into thin air. Three times I tried to put my arms around her neck. Three times the vision I vainly clasped escaped my hands, like light breezes, most like fluttering sleep. At last, when night is spent, I return to my companions.

Here I find an astonishingly large company newly gathered: mothers and men, a people assembled for exile, a pitiable crowd. From every direction they have come, ready in spirit and fortune to follow me to whatever land I lead them across the sea. Now the morning star rose above Ida's high ridges and brought on the day. The Greeks held the gates under siege; no hope of help remained. I withdrew, lifted my father, and made for the mountain.

Book Three

After the lords of heaven chose to overthrow Asia's power and Priam's innocent people, proud Ilium fell, and Neptune's Troy lies smoking all along the ground. Divine omens drive us to seek distant places of exile in empty lands. Right below Antandros and the mountains of Phrygian Ida we build a fleet, uncertain where fate is carrying us or where we are allowed to rest, and gather our people together.

The first summer had barely begun when lord Anchises tells us to spread our sails to fortune. Weeping, I leave my country's shores and harbors and the plains where Troy once stood. I sail out to sea an exile, with my comrades, my son, and the gods of household and state.

Apart from us lies a land of vast plains, home of Mavors, cultivated by Thracians and once ruled by warlike Lycurgus. It had long been friendly to Troy, its gods allied with ours while our fortune lasted. I cross there and, against the will of fate, lay the first foundations of a city on the winding shore. From my own name I shape its name: Aeneadae.

I was offering sacrifice to my mother, Dione's daughter, and all the gods, asking them to favor the work we had begun. On the shore I slew a gleaming bull to the high lord of heaven's people. Nearby happened to stand a mound crowned with cornel thickets and bristling with dense myrtle shoots. I approached and tried to pull green wood from the earth to cover the altar with leafy branches. Then I see a sign, ominous and marvelous to tell. From the first tree, its roots torn and broken from the soil, black drops of blood trickle and stain the earth with gore. An icy shudder shakes my limbs. My blood curdles cold with fear.

Yet I try again, tearing a tough shoot from another tree to learn the full secret. From that bark too black blood flows. Deeply troubled, I prayed to the woodland nymphs and lord Gradivus, ruler of the Getic fields, to make this sight favorable, as was fitting, and lighten its warning. But when I attack a third shaft with greater force, bracing my knees against the sand as I pull—shall I speak or be silent?—a pitiful groan is heard beneath the mound, and a voice reaches my ears:

“Why do you tear me, Aeneas, to my sorrow? At last spare me in my grave. Spare your innocent hands this pollution. Troy bore me; I am no stranger to you, nor is this blood that oozes from the stem. Flee this cruel land, this greedy shore! I am Polydorus. Here an iron harvest of weapons has covered my pierced body and sprung up in sharp javelins.”

Then, overwhelmed by bewildered terror, I stood motionless. My hair rose, and words faltered on my tongue.

This was the Polydorus whom unhappy Priam had once secretly sent with a great weight of gold to be raised by the Thracian king. Already Priam was losing trust in Dardania's arms and saw his city surrounded by siege. When Teucrian power was broken and fortune withdrew, the king followed Agamemnon's cause and victorious arms. He broke every bond of duty, murdered Polydorus, and seized the gold. Accursed hunger for gold, to what do you not drive human hearts!

When the terror left my senses, I lay the divine signs before our chosen leaders, my father at their head, and ask their judgment. All agree that we must leave this guilty land, abandon a polluted home, and let the winds carry our fleet away. So we bury Polydorus anew, heaping the earth high over his mound. Altars rise to his spirit, mournful with dark garlands and black cypress. Around them stand the Trojan women with hair unbound, as is their custom. We offer foaming bowls of warm milk and cups of consecrated blood, lay the spirit to rest in the tomb, and loudly utter the final call.

Then, as soon as the ocean can be trusted, the winds leave the seas quiet, and the softly whispering south wind calls us out, my comrades launch the ships and crowd the shores. We leave the harbor, and lands and towns sink from view.

In midsea lies a sacred land, especially dear to the mother of the Nereids and to Neptune of Aegae. It wandered from coast to coast until the Archer god, in his affection, chained it fast to high Myconos and Gyaros, making it immovable, able to disregard the winds. There I steer. It welcomes my weary crew into the quiet shelter of a safe harbor. We land and worship in Apollo's town.

King Anius, at once king of the people and priest of Phoebus, comes to meet us, his brow crowned with sacred bands and holy laurel. He recognizes Anchises, his old friend. We clasp hands in welcome and enter his palace. I worshipped at the god's temple, an ancient building of stone.

“Lord of Thymbra, give us an enduring home. Grant your weary servants a house and family, and a lasting city. Preserve Troy's second fortress, the remnant left by the Greeks and merciless Achilles. Whom should we follow? Where do you tell us to go? Where should we settle? Give us a sign, lord, and inspire our minds.”

I had barely spoken when suddenly everything seemed to shake: all the god's courts and laurels, the whole hill stirring around us, and the cauldron groaning in the opened sanctuary. We sink low to the ground. A voice comes to our ears:

“Enduring race of Dardanus, the land that first bore your ancestors will receive you again upon her generous breast. Seek your ancient mother. From there the house of Aeneas will rule all regions, his children's children and those born of them.”

So Phoebus spoke. Mingled cries of great joy rose. Everyone asks: what city is this? Where is Phoebus calling us wanderers and telling us to return? Then my father unfolds the traditions of ancient people.

“Listen, leaders,” he says, “and learn your hopes. In the midst of the sea lies Crete, the island of high Jove. There is Mount Ida, the cradle of our race. A hundred great cities are inhabited in that rich kingdom. From there our forefather Teucer sailed long ago to the Rhoetean coast and chose a place for his kingdom, if I remember the story rightly. Ilium and the towers of Pergama had not yet risen; people lived in the valley bottoms. From there came our Lady, who haunts Cybele, the Corybantic cymbals and Ida's grove; from there the rites of inviolable secrecy, and the lions yoked beneath their mistress's chariot.

“Come, let us follow where divine commands lead. Let us appease the winds and seek the kingdom of Gnosus. The journey is not far. If only Jupiter favors us, the third day will bring our fleet to anchor on the Cretan coast.”

So he spoke and slew fitting sacrifices upon the altars: a bull to Neptune, a bull to you, fair Apollo, a black sheep to Tempest and a white one to the favorable West winds.

Rumor spreads that the commander Idomeneus has been driven from his father's kingdom, that Crete's shores are deserted, its houses empty of enemies, its dwellings standing vacant for us. We leave Ortygia's harbor and fly over the sea, past Naxos' ridges trodden in revelry, green Donusa, Olearos and snow-white Paros, and the Cyclades scattered across the water, threading the rushing channels among the crowded islands. The sailors' competing cries rise in discord, each urging his comrade: “Let us seek Crete and our ancestors!” A wind rises behind and follows us on our way. At last we glide to the ancient Curetean coast.

Eagerly I begin the walls of my chosen town and call it Pergamea. I urge my people, delighted with the name, to cherish their homes and raise the citadel's buildings. Already the ships were drawn onto the dry beach, the people occupied with marriages and their new fields, and I was assigning laws and homesteads, when suddenly a tainted region of sky sent pestilence and a year of death. It was deadly to human bodies and pitiful in its effect on trees and crops. People surrendered their sweet lives or dragged on in misery. Sirius scorched the fields barren. The grass dried up, and the sickly harvest refused us food.

My father advises us to cross the sea again and return to Phoebus at his Ortygian oracle. We should pray for grace and ask what outcome he ordains for our exhausted people: where he tells us to seek help for our suffering, where we should turn our course.

Night fell, and sleep held all living things on earth. The sacred images of the gods, the household deities of Phrygia I had carried with me from Troy out of the burning city's midst, seemed to stand before my eyes as I lay sleepless. They were clear in the broad light of the full moon pouring through the latticed windows. Then they addressed me, calming my distress with these words:

“What Apollo would tell you when you reached Ortygia, he speaks here. Unasked, he sends us to your threshold. We followed you and your arms when Dardania fell in fire; under your leadership we have crossed the swelling sea in ships. We will likewise raise your future children to heaven and give empire to their city. Prepare a mighty town for a mighty people. Do not shrink from the long, exhausting pursuit. You must change your dwelling. The god of Delos did not direct you to these shores; Apollo did not tell you to settle in Crete.

“There is a region the Greeks call Hesperia, an ancient land, mighty in arms and in its soil's abundance. Oenotrian people live there; now, rumor says, a younger race has called it Italy after its leader's name. This is our true home. From there sprang Dardanus and lord Iasius, the first founders of our race. Rise and gladly tell your aged father this plain message: seek Corythus and the lands of Ausonia. Jupiter denies you the Dictaean fields.”

I was astonished by the vision and the gods' words. This was no sleep: I seemed to recognize their faces openly, their covered hair and gracious looks, and a cold sweat broke out over my whole body. I spring from bed, raise my voice and upturned hands to heaven, and lay a pure offering upon the hearth. When the sacrifice is finished, I joyfully tell Anchises and relate everything in order.

He recognizes the double descent, our two lines of ancestry, and the later wanderings that had misled him about the ancient lands. Then he speaks: “Son, so sorely tried by Ilium's destinies, Cassandra alone foretold this fortune to me. Now I remember how she prophesied that this was our race's fate, often speaking of Hesperia, often of an Italian kingdom. But who could have believed the Teucrians would reach Hesperian shores? Whom could Cassandra's prophecy move then? Let us yield to Phoebus and follow the better path he advises.”

So he says, and all of us joyfully obey. We abandon this home as well. Leaving a few people behind, we spread our sails and run across the empty sea in our hollow wooden ships.

After our ships reached the open sea, with no land yet visible, sky all around us and sea all around us, a dark rain cloud rose overhead, carrying night and storm. The waves shuddered and darkened. At once the winds overturn the sea, and great waves rise. We are tossed apart over the dismal gulf. Storm clouds wrap the day; rainy darkness blots out the sky. Flash after flash of fire bursts from the clouds. Driven off course, we wander over the blind waves. Palinurus himself says he cannot distinguish day from night in the sky or find his way through the water.

For three uncertain days we wander in sightless darkness over the deep, and as many starless nights. Only on the fourth day did land at last appear to rise, revealing distant hills and sending up curls of smoke. The sails come down; we turn back to the oars. Without delay the sailors toss the foam high with powerful strokes and sweep through the green water.

The shores of the Strophades first receive me, rescued in this way from the sea. Strophades is their Greek name, islands in the great Ionian sea, inhabited by ominous Celaeno and the other Harpies since Phineus' house was closed to them and they fled in terror from his table. No deadlier monster, no fiercer plague of divine anger, has ever come from the Stygian waters. They are winged creatures with maidens' faces, bellies dripping filth, clawed hands, and faces forever pale with hunger. . . .

When we arrive and enter the harbor, we see fine herds of cattle scattered over the plains and goats flocking untended across the grass. We attack them with the sword and invite the gods and Jove himself to share our spoil. Then we build seats along the winding shore and feast upon the delicious food.

But suddenly the Harpies are upon us, swooping dreadfully from the mountains. Their beating wings clash loudly as they plunder the feast and foul everything they touch, spreading a stench and uttering horrible cries. Again, in a deep recess beneath a caverned rock, enclosed by the forest's waving shadows, we lay out our meal and renew the altar fires. Again, from hidden ambushes in different parts of the sky, the noisy flock flutters with clawed feet around its prey, defiling the feast with their mouths.

Then I order my comrades to arm themselves and declare war on the accursed creatures. They do as I command, placing their swords under cover in the grass and hiding their shields out of sight. When the Harpies swoop noisily down along the winding shore, Misenus gives the signal on hollow bronze from his high lookout. My comrades rush in and attempt the strange battle, seeking to stain the winged horrors of the sea with steel. But their feathers take no violence, their bodies no wounds. Soaring swiftly into the sky, they leave their foul traces on the half-eaten spoil.

Celaeno alone, prophetess of evil, settles on a towering cliff and breaks out in deep tones:

“War for the cattle you have slaughtered, the steers you have cut down, children of Laomedon? Is it war you would declare, driving the innocent Harpies from their ancestral kingdom? Then take these words to heart and fix them firmly there. What the almighty Lord foretold to Phoebus, and Phoebus Apollo told me, I, eldest of the Furies, reveal to you.

“Italy is your goal. Courting the winds, you will go to Italy and enter its harbors unhindered. But you will not surround your appointed city with walls before this murderous outrage against us forces you, in a monstrous hunger, to gnaw and eat your very tables.”

She spoke and flew back to the shelter of the wood. Sudden fear froze my comrades' blood. Their spirits fell. They urge me to seek favor with vows and prayers rather than weapons, whether these are goddesses or foul, ill-omened winged creatures. From the beach lord Anchises spreads his hands and calls upon the mighty gods, ordering fitting sacrifices:

“Gods, avert their threats! Gods, turn this evil away and graciously save the righteous!”

Then he orders the cable pulled from shore and the sheets let loose. Southern winds stretch our sails. We speed over the foam-flecked water, where wind and pilot direct our course. Now wooded Zacynthos appears among the waves, with Dulichium, Same, and Neritos' sheer rocks. We fly past Ithaca's cliffs, Laertes' kingdom, and curse the land that nursed cruel Ulysses. Soon the clouded peaks of Mount Leucata appear, and Apollo, feared by sailors. We steer there wearily and draw in toward the little town. The anchor is dropped from the prow; the sterns are grounded on the beach.

At last, having reached land beyond our hopes, we purify ourselves in Jove's worship, light sacrificial altars, and brighten the Actian shore with Trojan games. My comrades strip and, slippery with oil, practice their ancestral contests. They are glad to have passed so many Argive towns and continued their flight through surrounding enemies. Meanwhile the sun completes the year's great circle, and icy winter ruffles the water with northern gales.

I fasten a hollow bronze shield that tall Abas had carried against the doorway and mark its story with a verse: “These arms Aeneas took from the conquering Greeks.” Then I order the men to leave the harbor and sit at the rowing benches. Competing with one another, my comrades strike the water and sweep through the sea. Soon we see the cloud-capped Phaeacian towers sink from view. We skirt Epirus' coast, enter the Chaonian harbor, and approach the high town of Buthrotum.

Here an unbelievable story reaches our ears: Helenus, Priam's son, rules over Greek towns, possessing both the bride and the scepter of Pyrrhus the Aeacid; Andromache has once more been given to a husband of her own people. I stood amazed, my heart kindling with an extraordinary desire to speak to him and learn of this strange fortune.

Leaving the fleet on shore, I walk from the harbor. Just then, in a grove before the town beside the waters of an imitation Simois, Andromache happened to be pouring an offering to the dead. She was calling Hector's ghost to a tomb that bore his name, an empty green mound with two altars she had dedicated, a wellspring of tears.

When she caught sight of me approaching and, bewildered, saw Trojan arms around me, terror at the marvelous vision fixed her gaze and drained the warmth from her body. She faints. Only after a long time can she finally speak:

“Is yours a real face, goddess-born? Are you a real messenger come to me? Are you alive? Or if sweet daylight has fled, where is Hector?”

She spoke and burst into tears, filling the place with her cries. Deeply moved, I force out a few words, gasping in broken phrases: “I live indeed. I live on through every hardship. Have no doubt: the forms you see are real. . . . Alas, after such a husband, what fate has received you in your fall? What worthier fortune has returned to you? Do you, Hector's Andromache, remain bound in marriage to Pyrrhus?”

She lowered her face and spoke quietly:

“How supremely fortunate, alone of us all, was that maiden daughter of Priam, condemned to die beneath Troy's high walls at an enemy's grave! She never endured the humiliation of being allotted by lot, never came as a captive to her conqueror's bed.

“We sailed across foreign seas from our burning homeland and endured the arrogant pride of Achilles' young offspring, bearing children in slavery. Later, seeking Leda's Hermione and a Spartan marriage, he handed me to Helenus' keeping, a slave woman to a slave man. But Orestes, burning with passion for his stolen bride and driven by the Furies of crime, catches him unguarded and murders him at his ancestral altars. At Neoptolemus' death part of his kingdom fell into Helenus' hands. He named the plains Chaonian and called the whole land Chaonia after Chaon of Troy. He also built a Pergama and this Ilian citadel upon the hills.

“But what winds, what fate, brought you here? What god landed you unknowingly on our shores? What of the boy Ascanius? Does he still live and breathe, your darling, whom Troy's . . . Does the child still love the mother he has lost? Do his father Aeneas and his uncle Hector stir him to ancient courage and the spirit of manhood?”

Weeping, she poured out these words and prolonged her fruitless lament. Then the hero Helenus, Priam's son, approaches from the town with a great company. He recognizes us as kin and leads us joyfully toward his gates, shedding many tears at every word.

I advance and recognize a little Troy, a copy of great Pergama, and a dry stream named Xanthus. I embrace a Scaean gate. Meanwhile my Teucrians make holiday in the friendly town. The king entertained them in his broad colonnades. In the central hall they poured goblets of wine as offerings, holding their cups while the meal was served on gold.

Now one day and another have passed. Breezes invite our sails, and the canvas swells before the rising south wind. I address the prophet with this request:

“Son of Troy, interpreter of the gods, your spirit is open to Phoebus' inspiration, his tripods and laurels, to the stars, the speech of birds, and the signs of favorable flight. Tell me now: revelation has always favored my course, and every divine influence has urged me to seek Italy and explore distant lands. Only Celaeno the Harpy foretells strange omens, a horror to speak of, crying of anger, ruin, and foul hunger. What dangers must I avoid first? By what guidance can I overcome these cruel hardships?”

First Helenus seeks divine favor with fitting sacrifices of bulls and unbinds the sacred bands from his head. He takes me by the hand and leads me to your courts, Phoebus. Thrilled with the god's full presence, he speaks these prophecies from his inspired lips:

“Goddess-born, there is clear assurance that you voyage through the deep under high omens. So the king of the gods assigns destiny and unfolds its changes; such is the cycle of his decrees. I will explain a few things out of many, so you can cross the seas of your wandering more safely and rest in an Ausonian harbor. The destinies forbid Helenus to know more, and Juno, Saturn's daughter, forbids him to speak more.

“First, the Italy you now believe so near, the harbors you unwittingly think close at hand: a long, trackless path through far-reaching lands separates them from you. First the Trinacrian waves must weigh upon your oars. Your ships must cross the salt Ausonian plain, past the pools of the underworld and Aeaean Circe's island, before you can safely build your city in a peaceful land.

“I will tell you the sign; hold it close in your heart. In your uncertainty, beside the waters of a secluded river, you will discover a great sow lying beneath the oaks on the bank with her newborn litter of thirty: white upon the ground, her white young around her teats. That will be the place for your city, your appointed rest from hardship. Do not shrink from the gnawed tables that await you. Fate will find a way, and Apollo will help when you call.

“Avoid these lands along the nearest edge of Italy's coast, washed by the tide of our own sea. Wicked Greeks inhabit all their towns. Here the Locrians of Narycos have founded their city. Here Lyctian Idomeneus has occupied the Sallentine plains with troops. Here is the town of the Meliboean commander, Philoctetes' little Petelia, defended by its wall.

“When your fleet has crossed the sea and lies at anchor, and you raise altars and fulfill vows upon the beach, cover your hair with a purple garment. Then no hostile face will confront you amid the holy fires as you worship and invalidate the omens. You and your comrades must keep this form of sacrifice; let your descendants remain faithful to this pure observance.

“But when the wind carries you onward to Sicily's coast and the barred straits of Pelorus open before you, steer for the land on the left and take the long circuit of the seas to your left. Avoid the shore and waters on your right. These lands, they say, once broke apart, torn and thrust upward by enormous force when both countries had been one undivided land. The ocean burst between them, cutting the Hesperian coast from Sicily with its waves. Now a narrow tide washes fields and towns along the divided shores.

“On the right Scylla guards the way; on the left is relentless Charybdis. Three times she swallows the enormous flood straight into her whirling gulf, then hurls it up again, lashing the sky with water. Scylla lies enclosed in the dark recesses of her cave, thrusting out her mouth and drawing ships onto the rocks. In front her face is human and her breast fair as a maiden's down to the waist. Behind she is a monstrously formed sea dragon, with dolphins' tails joined to her wolf-girdled belly. Better to take your course toward Trinacrian Pachynus, delaying and circling through long distances, than once catch sight of misshapen Scylla deep in her dismal cave, or of the rocks that echo with her sea-colored hounds.

“If Helenus has any foresight, any certainty in prophecy, if Apollo fills his spirit with truth, this one thing, goddess-born, this one above all I foretell and urge upon you again and again: let your first prayer and worship be to great Juno's divinity. Offer Juno willing vows. Overcome your mighty mistress with gifts and supplications. So at last you will leave Trinacria behind and be carried triumphantly to Italy's shores.

“When you reach them and approach the Cymaean city, the haunted lakes and rustling woods of Avernus, you will see the raving prophetess who chants of fate deep in the rock and marks her words on leaves. The verses she writes upon them she puts in order and leaves shut within the cave. They remain in place, unmoving, keeping their order. But when the door swings and a light wind from the entrance stirs and scatters the delicate leaves, she never afterward troubles to catch them as they flutter around the hollow rock, restore their places, or join the verses together. People leave without guidance, hating the Sibyl's dwelling.

“Here do not value the time lost in delay so highly that you fail to approach the prophetess. Though your company complains, though the passage strongly calls your sails to sea and you can fill their folds as you desire, approach her. Pray and plead that she speak her oracles herself, agreeing to release the words from her lips. She will explain the peoples of Italy, the wars to come, and how every hardship may be avoided or endured. To her worshipper she will grant a fortunate passage.

“This much my voice is allowed to tell you. Go your way, and raise Troy to heaven by your deeds.”

The prophet spoke these friendly words. Then he orders gifts carried to my ships: heavy gold and sawn ivory. He loads the hulls with massive silver, cauldrons from Dodona, a coat of mail woven threefold with golden hooks, and a magnificent helmet with a spike and flowing plumes, the armor of Neoptolemus. My father receives gifts as well. He also brings horses and grooms . . . fills out the number of our oarsmen and equips my crews with weapons.

Meanwhile Anchises ordered the fleet to set sail, so the fair wind would not be delayed. Phoebus' interpreter addresses him with great courtesy:

“Anchises, honored by the splendor of marriage with Venus, protected by the gods, twice rescued from Troy's fallen towers, the land of Ausonia lies before you. Sail and take possession. Yet you must pass it by upon the sea: far away lies that part of Ausonia which Apollo reveals. Go, happy in your son's affection. Why should I prolong my words and delay the rising winds?”

Andromache too, grieving at this final farewell, brings clothing patterned in golden thread and a Phrygian scarf for Ascanius. Tireless in kindness, she loads him with woven gifts.

“Take these too, my child,” she says, “as reminders of my hands, to bear witness long from now to the love of Andromache, Hector's wife. Take these last gifts of your kin, you, my only surviving likeness of my own Astyanax! So he looked, in eyes and hands and features. Were he now your equal in years, he would be growing toward manhood as you are.”

As I departed, tears sprang to my eyes, and I said to them: “Live happily, as those may whose fortunes are complete. We are forever summoned from one destiny to another. For you there is rest in store: no ocean plain to plow, no Ausonian fields forever retreating before your pursuit. You see an image of Xanthus and a Troy built by your own hands, with better omens, I pray, and less exposed to Greeks.

“If ever I enter the Tiber and its neighboring fields and see a city granted to my people, then in our hearts we will make a single Troy of these kindred towns and allied peoples in Epirus and Hesperia. Both have the same founder, Dardanus; both share one history. Let this charge await our descendants.”

We put out to sea, keeping close to the Ceraunian mountains, from which lies the shortest crossing to Italy. Meanwhile the sun sets and the shadowed hills grow dim. We choose a place and throw ourselves upon earth's lap at the water's edge. Assigning the oars, we spread out upon the dry beach to rest. The dew of sleep falls over our weary limbs.

Night, driven by the Hours, had not yet climbed the middle of her arch when Palinurus rises lightly from his bed. He studies all the winds and listens for a breeze. He observes the constellations moving together through the silent sky: Arcturus, the rainy Hyades, and the twin Oxen, then examines Orion in his golden armor. When he sees that the clear sky is entirely unbroken, he gives his shrill signal from the stern. We break camp, begin the crossing, and spread the wings of our sails.

Now reddening Dawn had chased the stars away when we see distant, dim hills and the low line of Italy. Achates is first to cry “Italy!” My comrades greet Italy with joyful shouts. Then lord Anchises wreathed a great bowl, filled it with wine, and stood high on the stern to call upon the gods. . . .

“Gods who rule sea, land, and weather, bring wind to ease our way and breathe favorably!”

The breezes freshen at his prayer. Now a harbor opens nearer at hand, and a temple appears on Minerva's Fort. My comrades furl the sails and turn the prows toward shore. The eastern waves have hollowed the harbor into an arch. Reefs project and foam with salt spray. The harbor itself lies hidden; towering rock walls stretch their arms down on either side, and the temple stands back from the beach.

Here, our first prophetic sight, four snow-white horses graze freely upon the grassy plain. Lord Anchises says: “Land of our arrival, you bring war. Horses are armed for war, and this herd threatens war. Yet these same beasts in time accept harness and carry yoke and bit in harmony. There is hope of peace as well.”

Then we pray to the sacred goddess Pallas of the clashing weapons, the first to welcome our cheers. Before the altars we veil our heads with Phrygian garments. Following the advice Helenus had most urgently impressed upon us, we duly offer the commanded burnt sacrifice to Argive Juno.

Without delay, once our vows are fully paid, we turn the arms of our sail yards and leave the Greek people's homes and threatening fields. Next the bay of Tarentum comes into sight, a town of Hercules, if rumor is true. Facing it, the goddess of Lacinium raises her head, with the towers of Caulon and Scylaceum, wrecker of ships.

Then far away Trinacrian Aetna appears, rising from the waves. From a distance we hear a mighty roar of sea upon battered rocks and broken sounds along the shore. The channels boil; the surge churns with sand. Lord Anchises cries: “Surely this is that Charybdis! These are the cliffs, the dreadful rocks, Helenus foretold. Pull away, comrades, rise together to the oars!”

They do as commanded. First Palinurus swung the gurgling prow left through the water; the whole fleet turns left with oar and wind. We are lifted skyward on the arching wave, then sink deep toward the underworld as the water is sucked away. Three times the cliffs cried within their rocky caverns; three times we see the foam hurled up, and the stars through a dripping veil. Meanwhile the wind falls at sunset. Weary and ignorant of the way, we glide onto the Cyclopes' coast.

There is a great harbor sheltered from the winds' entrance. But nearby Aetna thunders dreadfully in ruin. Again and again it hurls a black cloud skyward, smoking with boiling pitch and white-hot embers, and lifts balls of flame flickering toward the stars. Again and again it vomits crags high from the mountain's torn entrails, tosses masses of molten rock up with a groan, and boils from its lowest depths.

They say this mass presses on Enceladus' body, half consumed by the thunderbolt. Mighty Aetna, laid above him, breathes out the flame that bursts from its furnaces. Whenever he shifts his weary side, all Trinacria shudders and groans, veiling the sky with smoke. We spend that night under forest cover among dreadful portents, unable to see where the noise comes from. No stars showed their fires, and the vault of the starry sky was not clear. Vapors blotted out heaven, and a storm cloud held the moon through the dead of night.

Now morning was rising in the early east and Dawn was rolling the dewy darkness from the sky. Suddenly a strange, unknown human figure advances from the forest, wasted by utter hunger and pitifully dressed, stretching pleading hands toward the shore. We look back. Filthy and miserable, with a shaggy beard and a coat pinned together with thorns, he was nevertheless a Greek, sent to Troy long ago in his father's armor.

When he saw Dardanian clothing and Trojan weapons from a distance, he hesitated in terror and stopped. Then he ran headlong to the beach, weeping and pleading:

“By the heavens, by the heavenly powers and this bright sky that gives us breath, I beg you, Trojans, take me aboard. Carry me away to any land whatever. That will be enough. I know I come from the Greek fleet. I confess I fought against Ilium's household gods. For that, if our crime and guilt are so great, tear me apart and throw me on the waves, or plunge me into the open sea. If I must perish, I will gladly perish at human hands.”

He ended and grovelled at our feet, clinging to our knees. We encourage him to tell us who he is, his ancestry, and how Fortune has pursued him since then. After a short pause lord Anchises offers his hand, strengthening the man's courage with this visible pledge. At last he lays his fear aside and speaks:

“I come from Ithaca; Achemenides is my name. I set out for Troy with unlucky Ulysses. My father Adamastus was poor—if only our fortune had remained so! Here my comrades abandoned me in the Cyclops' vast cave, forgetting me as they hurried away from his barbarous doorway. His dwelling is huge and dark inside, a house of gore and bloodstained feasts. He himself is enormous and strikes against the lofty sky. Gods, remove such a curse from the earth! He has neither a kindly appearance nor courteous speech for anyone. He feeds upon the flesh and black blood of miserable men.

“With my own eyes I saw him seize two of us in his huge hand. Lying back in the middle of the cave, he crushed their bodies on the rock, and the floor splashed and swam with blood. I saw him chew flesh dripping with dark clots, and the warm limbs quivered beneath his teeth. Yet they were not unavenged. Ulysses would not endure this. Even in that extremity the Ithacan did not forget himself.

“As soon as the Cyclops, gorged with his feast and buried in wine, lay with bent neck, sprawling enormously through the cave and vomiting gore and chunks of flesh mixed with wine and blood in his sleep, we prayed to the great gods. Each with his task assigned, we rush around him together and pierce with a sharp weapon the huge single eye sunk beneath his savage brow, like an Argive shield or the moon's lamp. At last, exulting, we avenge our comrades' spirits.

“But flee, unhappy men, flee and tear your cable from the beach! . . . A hundred other horrible Cyclopes, like Polyphemus in shape and size when he pens his fleecy flocks and drains their udders in the shelter of his cave, live along this shore and wander the mountain heights. Three times now the horned moon has filled her light while I cling to life in lonely lairs and the woodland haunts of wild beasts. From a rock I watch the giant Cyclopes and shudder at their cries and echoing footsteps. Branches yield me miserable food, berries and hard sloes; plants torn up by the roots feed me.

“Searching the whole view, at last I saw this fleet drawing toward the shore. Whatever it might be, I threw myself upon it. It is enough to escape that accursed race. Rather destroy this life of mine yourselves, by any death you choose.”

He had barely finished when on the mountain top we see a huge moving mass, shepherding his flocks: Polyphemus himself, seeking the familiar shore, an ominous horror, shapeless, enormous, robbed of sight. A pine stripped by his own hand guides and steadies his steps. His fleecy sheep accompany him, his only pleasure and comfort in his suffering. . . .

After he reaches the deep water and comes to the sea, he washes away the blood oozing from his eye socket, grinding his teeth and groaning. Now he strides waist-deep through the sea, yet the waves do not wet his towering sides. We hurry far away in headlong flight, taking the suppliant who has so well earned rescue. Silently we cut the cable and, bending forward, sweep the sea with competing oars.

He heard and turned his steps toward the echoing sound. Unable to lay hands on us or feel the bottom of the Ionian waves in pursuit, he raises an immense cry. At it the sea and all its waves shuddered, Italy's deep interior started with fear, and Aetna's vaulted caverns groaned.

Roused from the high, wooded hills, the Cyclopes run to the harbor and fill the shore. We see the Aetnean brotherhood standing helpless with scowling eyes, their majestic heads reaching heaven, a dreadful assembly. They are like oaks towering on a mountain summit or conical cypresses, a high forest of Jove or a grove of Diana.

Sharp fear drives us to let loose the sheets in reckless haste and spread our sails to the favorable wind. Yet Helenus' commands warn us against taking the passage between Scylla and Charybdis, the edge of death on either side. We decide to turn our canvas back. Then from Pelorus' narrow passage the north wind comes down and reaches us.

I sail past Pantagias' mouth and its living rock, the Megarian bay, and low-lying Thapsus. These names Achemenides, unlucky Ulysses' companion, pointed out as he retraced his wanderings along the shores we passed again.

An island lies stretched before a Sicilian bay, facing wave-beaten Plemyrium. The ancients called it Ortygia. Here, they say, Alpheus, the river of Elis, cut a secret passage beneath the sea. Now through your spring, Arethusa, he mingles with the Sicilian waters. As directed, we worship the great gods of the place. From there I pass the fertile marshland of Helorus. Next we skirt Pachynus' high reefs and jutting rocks. Far off appears Camarina, which oracles forever forbid to be moved, the Geloan plains, and great Gela, named for its river.

Then steep Acragas, once a breeder of noble horses, shows its massive walls in the distance. With a granted breeze I leave you behind, palm-ringed Selinus, and thread Lilybaeum's difficult shoals and hidden reefs. Then Drepanum receives me in its harbor and joyless country.

Here, after escaping so many stormy seas, I lose, alas, my father Anchises, my comfort in every care and change of fortune. Here, dear lord, you abandon me in my weariness, alas, rescued in vain from peril and death! Neither the prophet Helenus, though he warned of so many terrors, nor ominous Celaeno foretold this grief. This was my last agony, the endpoint of my long journey. I had departed from there when God brought me to your shores.

So lord Aeneas, while all listened closely, alone recounted the divine decree and the story of his wanderings. At last he fell quiet, and here in silence ended.

Book Four

But the Queen, long since pierced by grievous pain, feeds the wound with her lifeblood and catches an unseen fire. Again and again his courage and his family's renown flood back into her heart. His face and voice cling there, and the pain allows her limbs neither peace nor rest. The next dawn had carried Phoebus' torch across the earth and rolled the dewy darkness from the sky when, scarcely herself, she confides in her sister:

“Anna, my sister, what terrifying dreams run through me! What unknown guest has entered our home? How noble his bearing, how brave in heart and battle! I firmly believe, and not without reason, that his blood is divine. Fear reveals an ignoble spirit. Alas, what destinies drive him! What wars he has endured and recounted!

“If my mind were not settled, fixed and immovable, against joining anyone in marriage since my first love betrayed me through treacherous death; if bridal torch and chamber did not sicken my heart, I might perhaps yield to this temptation alone. Anna, I confess it: since my husband Sychaeus met his pitiful end and a brother's murder shattered our home, this man alone has touched my heart and disturbed my soul's balance. I recognize the traces of the old flame.

“But first, I pray, may the earth gape deep for me, or the almighty Lord hurl me with his thunderbolt into darkness, the pale darkness and deep night of Erebus, before I stain you, my honor, or break your laws. The man who first joined me to himself took my love away. Let him keep it with him and guard it in the tomb.”

She spoke, and welling tears filled the breast of her gown.

Anna answers: “You are dearer to your sister than daylight. Will you waste all your youth, grieving and alone, without knowing the sweetness of motherhood or love's bounty? Do you think the ashes care about that, or the spirit in the grave? Granted, in earlier days no suitor moved your sorrow, neither in Libya nor before that in Tyre. You rejected Iarbas and the other princes raised by Africa's triumphant land. But will you fight a love that pleases you as well?

“Do you never think who occupies the lands around your home? On one side are the Gaetulian towns, a people unconquerable in war. Numidian riders without bridles and the grim Syrtis hem you in. On the other lies a thirsty desert tract swept by the raiders of Barca. Why speak of the war gathering from Tyre, and your brother's threats? . . .

“I believe the gods' auspices and Juno's favor brought the Trojan fleet here before the gale. What a city you will see here, sister! What a kingdom will rise from such a union! With Troy's weapons joined to ours, what glory will lift the Punic state! Only seek divine favor with offerings of peace, welcome him generously, and prolong the reasons for delay, while the storm rages at sea, Orion is wet, his ships are shattered, and the sky forbids sailing.”

With these words she fanned the fire of love in her sister's heart, gave hope to her wavering spirit, and let honor slip away.

First they visit the shrines, seeking favor from altar to altar. They sacrifice carefully chosen sheep to Ceres the Lawgiver, to Phoebus and lord Lyaeus, and above all to Juno, guardian of marriage. Dido herself, surpassingly beautiful, holds the cup and pours an offering between a milk-white cow's horns. Or she moves majestically to the rich altars before the gods' images, renewing her gifts day after day and gazing eagerly into the opened breasts of cattle, seeking guidance in their throbbing entrails.

Ah, the unknowing minds of prophets! How can vows or shrines help her madness? All the while a subtle flame consumes her within. Deep in her breast the wound lives silently. Stung with misery, Dido wanders wildly through the city, like a deer struck by an arrow. Far away among the Cretan woods, an archer shepherd has pierced her as she wandered unaware, leaving the flying steel in her without knowing it. She ranges in flight over the forest clearings of Dicte; the deadly shaft clings fast in her side.

Now Dido leads Aeneas through the town, displaying her Sidonian wealth and ordered city. She tries to speak and stops halfway through her words. Now, as daylight fades, she seeks the banquet once again, madly begging again to hear Ilium's suffering, hanging again upon the teller's lips. Afterward, when everyone has gone, the dim moon in turn quenches her light and the setting stars urge sleep. Alone in the empty house, she mourns and throws herself upon the couch he left. Though he is far away, she hears and sees him in the distance. Or, captivated by his resemblance to his father, she holds Ascanius on her lap, hoping to steal some of the love she cannot speak.

The unfinished towers rise no more. The people no longer drill in arms or work upon harbor and fortifications to make themselves safe in war. The projects stand abandoned: vast looming walls and engines towering into the sky.

As soon as she sees Dido caught in this snare, recklessly heedless of her reputation, Jove's beloved wife, Saturn's daughter, speaks to Venus:

“A noble fame indeed, splendid spoils and mighty divine renown, for you and that boy of yours: two gods have defeated one woman by deceit! Nor am I blind to your fear of our town, your old distrust of Carthage's high house. But where will this end? Why all this rivalry now? Let us instead make an enduring peace and a marriage pact. You have everything your heart desired. Dido burns with love; the madness has seized her through and through. Let us rule this people together with equal authority. Allow her to be a Phrygian husband's slave and to place her Tyrians in your hand as her dowry.”

Venus knew the concealed purpose of her words: to divert the Teucrian kingdom to the Libyan coast. She began her answer:

“Who would be mad enough to reject such terms or prefer to try the fortunes of war against you? If only fortune follows the result as you say! But I am uncertain of Jove's decree: does he wish the Tyrians and the wanderers from Troy to form one city? Will he approve the mixing of peoples and the treaty that joins them? You are his wife; your prayers can sound out his mind. Lead on. I will follow.”

Then Queen Juno replied: “That task will be mine. Listen, and I will briefly explain how we can accomplish what is needed now. Aeneas and Dido—alas, poor woman!—will hunt together in the woods when tomorrow's rising sun comes forth and its rays uncover the world. While the beaters run about and nets surround the clearings, I will pour a black rain cloud mixed with hail upon them and startle the whole sky with thunder. Their companions will scatter for shelter in the dark gloom. Dido and the Trojan leader will take refuge in the same cave. I will be there. If I can be certain of your goodwill, I will join them in marriage and make her wholly his. Here Hymen will be present.”

The Cytherean readily agreed to her request and laughed at the cunning invention.

Meanwhile Dawn rises from the ocean. While the morning star is high, a chosen company leaves the gates. They pour out with woven nets, hunting snares, broad-headed spears, Massylian riders, and muscular tracking hounds. At her doorway Carthage's leaders await their queen, who still lingers in her room. Her horse stands splendid in gold and purple, stamping its feet and champing its foaming bit.

At last she appears amid a great throng of attendants, wrapped in a Sidonian mantle embroidered with needlework. Her quiver is gold, her hair tied with gold, a golden clasp fastens her crimson gown. Meanwhile the Phrygian company advances with joyful Iulus. Aeneas himself, first and foremost among them all, joins her company and unites his party with hers.

He is like Apollo when he leaves wintry Lycia and the streams of Xanthus to visit his mother's Delos and renew the dance. Cretans, Dryopes, and painted Agathyrsians mingle noisily around his altars, while he himself walks the Cynthian ridges, weaving soft, heavy branches into his flowing hair and binding it with gold. The arrows rattle on his shoulder. Aeneas went as lightly as the god, such brightness and beauty upon his princely face.

When they reach the mountain heights and trackless coverts, wild goats driven from the cliff tops run down the ridge. Elsewhere stags race over the open plain and gather their fleeing column in a cloud of dust as they leave the hills. But young Ascanius is in the valleys, exultant on his fiery horse, galloping past one party and another, praying that a foaming boar will emerge among the harmless herds or a tawny lion descend the hill.

Meanwhile the sky begins to darken and roar. A rain cloud descends, mixed with hail. The Tyrian company, the men of Troy, and the Dardanian grandson of Venus scatter in fear, seeking shelter far across the fields. Streams pour from the hills. Dido and the Trojan leader take refuge in the same cave. Primeval Earth and Juno, the bridesmaid, give the sign. Fires flash high in the air as witnesses to their union, and nymphs cry out upon the mountaintop.

That day opened the gate of death and the sources of evil. For now Dido cares nothing for watching eyes or gossiping tongues and no longer keeps her love secret. She calls it marriage, veiling her fall with that name.

At once Rumor runs through Libya's great cities, Rumor, swifter than any other bringer of harm. She thrives on restlessness and gains strength by moving. Small and fearful at first, she soon raises herself high and walks upon the ground with her head hidden among the clouds. Mother Earth, they say, enraged against the gods, bore her last, sister to Coeus and Enceladus: fleet of foot, swift of wing, ominous, terrible, enormous. Beneath every feather on her body lies a waking eye, wonderful to tell, a tongue, and as many loud mouths and listening ears.

At night she flies between earth and sky, shrieking through the dusk, never closing her eyelids in sweet sleep. By day she sits watchfully upon high towers or the ridge of a roof and terrifies great cities. She clings as stubbornly to distortion and invention as she carries truth.

Then she joyfully filled the countries with many stories, proclaiming alike what had happened and what had not. A man called Aeneas had come, of Trojan blood; beautiful Dido felt no shame in throwing herself upon him; now they spent the winter in prolonged caresses, heedless of their kingdoms and enslaved by shameful passion. The pestilent goddess spreads this through human mouths, turns straight toward King Iarbas, and with her words kindles his spirit and swells his anger.

Iarbas, Ammon's offspring by a Garamantian nymph whom he had violated, had built a hundred great temples and a hundred altars to Jove throughout his broad kingdom. He had consecrated the wakeful fire that keeps endless watch before the gods by night, where the earth is rich with animals' blood and the courts blossom with multicolored garlands. Distraught and burning at the bitter news, he often, they say, bowed before his altars among the gods' images and prayed to Jove with lifted hands:

“Almighty Jupiter, the Maurusian people pour Lenaean wine offerings to you now from the embroidered cushions of their banqueting halls. Do you see this? Or do we tremble for nothing when our father hurls his thunderbolt? Do blind fires in the clouds and meaningless rumblings terrify our hearts?

“A woman wandered onto our coast and founded a little town on purchased ground. We gave her fields by the shore and laws for settlement. She has rejected marriage with us and taken Aeneas as lord of her kingdom. Now this Paris, with his effeminate company, his chin and perfumed hair wrapped in a Maeonian turban, takes and keeps her, while we bring offerings to your temples and worship an empty name.”

He pleaded in these words, clasping the altars. The almighty Lord heard and turned his eyes upon the royal city and the lovers, forgetful of their better reputation. Then he gives Mercury this command:

“Rise and go, my son! Summon the breezes and glide down them on your wings. Speak to the Dardanian leader who lingers now in Tyrian Carthage without a thought for his destined cities. Carry my words down through the swift air.

“His most beautiful mother did not promise us such a man, nor twice rescue him from Greek arms for this. He was to rule an Italy teeming with empire and loud with war, continue Teucer's royal bloodline, and bring the whole world beneath his law. If these glories do not stir him, if he takes no trouble for his own honor, does a father begrudge his Ascanius the towers of Rome? With what purpose, with what hope, does he linger among a hostile people, never looking toward his Ausonian descendants and Lavinium's fields? Let him sail. That is the whole command. Carry it as my messenger.”

He ended. His son prepared to obey the high command. First he laces to his feet the golden shoes that carry him on wings over sea or land as swiftly as the wind. Then he takes the wand with which he summons pale souls from Orcus or sends them back into the mournful depths below, gives and takes away sleep, and unseals dead eyes. By its power he rides the winds and swims across the rolling clouds.

Now in flight he sees the summit and steep flanks of laboring Atlas, whose crest supports the sky. Atlas' pine-covered head is always wrapped in black clouds and beaten by wind and rain. Snow covers his shoulders; rivers tumble over his aged chin, and his rough beard is stiff with ice. Here the Cyllenian, balanced on his wings, first came to rest. From here he shot straight down toward the water. Like a bird flying low around the rocky shores of its fishing grounds, so Cyllene's child left his mother's father and flew along Libya's sandy shore, cutting the winds between earth and sky.

As soon as his winged feet reach the settlement, he sees Aeneas founding towers and arranging new buildings. His sword glittered with yellow jasper; from his shoulders hung a cloak blazing with Tyrian sea-purple, a rich gift Dido had made, threading its fabric with fine gold.

At once he interrupts him: “Are you laying the foundations of high Carthage, building a splendid city for the sake of love, forgetful of your own kingdom and country? I come to you from bright Olympus at the express command of heaven's ruler, whose divinity governs sky and earth. He expressly orders me to bring this charge through the swift air: with what purpose, with what hope, do you linger idly in Libya? If these glories do not stir you, at least look upon growing Ascanius, Iulus, your hope and heir, to whom Italy's kingdom and the Roman land are due.”

As these words left his lips, the Cyllenian vanished from mortal sight while still speaking, dissolving into thin air before Aeneas' eyes.

Aeneas truly stood speechless with astonishment. His hair rose, and the words faltered on his tongue. He burns to flee and leave this pleasant land, appalled by the high warning and divine decree. Alas, what should he do? How can he dare put the story gently to the maddened queen? What opening can he find? Quickly he throws his mind this way and that, turning in every direction with swiftly changing thoughts.

In his uncertainty this seemed the wiser plan: he summons Mnestheus, Sergestus, and brave Serestus, ordering them to equip the fleet quietly, gather their crews on shore, and prepare their weapons, concealing the cause of the activity. Meanwhile, because kindly Dido neither knows nor expects that so strong a love might break, he will try to approach her when the news can be told most gently and the opportunity is favorable. At once they all gladly carry out his orders and obey his command.

But the Queen—who can deceive a lover?—guessed his plans beforehand and immediately caught the warning signs of activity. Even safety itself was fear. Evil Rumor had also brought her the maddening news that they were equipping the fleet and preparing to sail. Helpless at heart, burning with rage, she reels through the whole city, like a Thyiad roused in the frenzy of the rites held every third year, when the sacred vessels are brought out, Bacchus' cry resounds, and Cithaeron calls her with its noise throughout the night. At last she confronts Aeneas:

“Did you hope, traitor, to hide this crime and slip silently from my country? Does our love not hold you, or the hand you once gave me, or the bitter death that alone remains for Dido? You even labor over your fleet beneath the winter stars and hurry to launch upon the sea amid northern gales. Cruel man! Even if you were not seeking foreign fields and unknown homes, even if your ancient Troy still stood, would you seek Troy across such stormy seas?

“Are you fleeing me? By these tears, by your own hand, I beg you—for nothing else, alas, have I kept as my own—by our union and the marriage rites being prepared, if I have shown you any kindness, if anything of mine was ever sweet to you, pity our falling house. If prayers still have any power, give up this purpose.

“For your sake the Libyan peoples and Nomad kings hate me; my own Tyrians are estranged. For your sake, yours, my honor is lost, and my former reputation, my only claim to the stars. To what death do you leave me, my guest? For that is all that remains of the name of husband. What am I waiting for? For Pygmalion to overthrow his sister's city, or Gaetulian Iarbas to lead me captive?

“If only, before your flight, I had held a child of yours in my arms, if a tiny Aeneas played in my hall, his face at least recalling yours, I would not feel utterly trapped and abandoned.”

She ended. Following Jove's counsel, he held his gaze steady and pressed his anguish deep within his heart. At last he answers briefly:

“Queen, I will never deny that your kindness has been as great as your words can make it. Nor will I remember Elissa ungratefully while I remember myself and breath moves this body. I will say little in reply. I never hoped to slip away in secret flight: do not imagine that. Nor did I ever offer you the marriage torch or enter such a union.

“If fate allowed me to direct my life by my own will and settle my sorrows as I wished, my first duty would be to Troy and the dear survivors of my family. Priam's high house would still stand; my hand would have rebuilt Troy's towers for a conquered people. But now Apollo of Grynos has ordered me to sail for great Italy; the Lycian oracles have ordered Italy. There is my desire. There is my native country.

“If your Phoenician eyes rest on Carthage's towers and your Libyan city, what wrong is it, I ask, for us Trojans to find rest in Ausonian land? We too are allowed to seek a foreign kingdom. In my sleep, whenever night's damp shadows veil the earth, whenever the stars lift their fires, the troubled ghost of my father Anchises comes to warn and frighten me. And my boy Ascanius—how I wrong someone so dear by cheating him of a Hesperian kingdom and his destined fields!

“Now even the gods' interpreter, sent directly by Jove—I call them both to witness—has carried his commands down through the swift air. In broad daylight I myself saw the god entering these walls. These ears drank his words. Stop tormenting both yourself and me with complaints. I do not seek Italy of my own will. . . .”

Long before he finished she was staring at him sidelong, turning her eyes this way and that and examining him silently. Then she speaks in anger:

“No goddess was your mother, nor was Dardanus the founder of your line, traitor! Rough Caucasus bore you on his iron cliffs, and Hyrcanian tigresses nursed you. Why should I hide my feelings? What further outrage am I waiting for? Has our weeping cost him a sigh, a lowered glance? Has he shed tears or pitied the woman who loves him? Where, where should I begin? Now neither Queen Juno nor our Saturnian lord looks upon us with justice. Nowhere is faith secure.

“I welcomed him, cast ashore and destitute. In my madness I gave him a place and share in my kingdom. I recovered his lost fleet and saved his crews from death. Alas, the fire of madness drives me on! Now prophetic Apollo, now the Lycian oracles, now the gods' own interpreter, sent directly from Jove through the air, brings these harsh commands! Truly, that is work for the gods, a concern to disturb their peace!

“I do not detain you or challenge your words. Go, follow your Italy before the wind. Seek your kingdom overseas. Yet I hope that midway, if righteous gods have any power, you will drain the cup of punishment upon the rocks, crying Dido's name again and again. In dark fires I will follow you from afar. When cold death has parted body from soul, my ghost will haunt you everywhere. Wretch, you will pay! I will hear. Deep in the underworld the news will reach me.”

Even as she speaks she breaks off unfinished. Sick at heart, she escapes the open air, turns and sweeps away out of sight, leaving him afraid and deeply hesitant, with much still in his mind to say. Her women catch her in their arms, carry her fainting to her marble room, and lay her on the bed.

Good Aeneas longs to soothe and comfort her grief, to talk away her distress. Sighing often, his soul softened by great love, he nevertheless obeys the gods' commands and returns to his fleet. Then the Teucrians truly set to work, hauling their tall ships down all along the shore. The hulls are oiled and afloat. In their haste to leave, they carry green branches from the woods for oars and heavy, untrimmed logs. . . .

You could see them changing their quarters and streaming from every part of town. So ants, remembering winter, plunder a great heap of wheat and store it in their home. A black column advances across the plain, carrying its spoil home along a narrow track through the grass. Some strain and shove big grains with their shoulders; some marshal the ranks and punish delay. The whole path swarms with work.

What were your thoughts then, Dido, as you watched? What sighs did you utter, looking from the fortress roof at the broad, swarming beach, seeing the whole sea stirred before your eyes by their noisy activity? Cruel Love, to what do you not drive mortal hearts! Again she must break into tears, again try entreaty, and bend her spirit beneath love, leaving nothing untried before going in vain to death.

“Anna, you see the bustle filling the shore. They have gathered from every direction. Already their canvas invites the breezes, and the happy sailors have garlanded the sterns. Sister, I shall have strength to bear this great pain, just as I have had strength to foresee it.

“Yet do this one thing, Anna, for love and pity. You alone pleased the traitor; to you he confided even his secret thoughts. You alone knew his moods and tender moments. Go, my sister, and humbly approach the proud stranger. I did not swear the Greek oath at Aulis to destroy the Trojan race. I sent no fleet against Troy's towers. Nor have I dug up his father Anchises' ashes and spirit from the grave, that he should refuse my words entrance to his stubborn ears.

“Where is he running? Let him grant his lover this favor, alas, the last: wait for fair winds and an easy passage. I no longer ask for the old, delusive marriage, or for him to give up beautiful Latium and abandon a kingdom. I ask a breathing space, time and room to rest my madness, until my very fortune teaches my grief submission. This last favor I beg. Sister, have pity. Grant me this, and I will repay it in full when I die.”

So she pleaded, and so her sister carries and carries back the pitiful tale of tears. But no weeping moves him. He remains unbending before every word he hears. Fate stands against it, barring mortal ears with divine power so they remain unmoved.

So the swirling blasts of northern Alpine winds compete to uproot a mighty oak in its age-long strength. It groans on, its trunk trembles, and its high leaves strew the ground. Yet the tree holds fast upon the rocks. As high as its crown reaches heaven, so deep its roots strike toward the underworld. So the hero is battered by changing, unceasing appeals. Anguish runs through his mighty breast, but his purpose stays firm, and tears fall in vain.

Then, unhappy and terrified by doom, Dido truly prays for death. She is tired of looking upon heaven's arch. To drive her further toward her purpose of leaving the light, when she laid gifts upon the incense-burning altars she saw, dreadful to tell, the sacred liquids blacken and the pouring wine turn to horrible blood. She told no one of this sight, not even her sister.

Within the house stood a marble shrine to her former husband, kept by her in extraordinary honor, decked with snowy fleeces and festive branches. From it she seemed to hear his voice calling and crying when night lay dim upon the earth. Alone upon the roofs a screech owl often moaned a funeral note, a long, sobbing cry. Many warnings from ancient prophets also frighten her with dreadful foreboding.

In her sleep fierce Aeneas drives her wildly. Always she seems left alone, always traveling uncompanioned along a weary path, seeking her Tyrians in a solitary land. So frantic Pentheus sees the Furies drawn up and a double sun, while Thebes appears twofold before his eyes. So Orestes, Agamemnon's son, famed in tragedy, sees his mother pursue him armed with torches and black snakes, while the avenging Fatal Sisters crouch in the doorway.

Overcome by pain, she gives way to madness and resolves to die. Secretly she plans the time and manner. Concealing her purpose with a calm, hopeful face, she speaks to her sorrowing sister:

“My dear sister, I have found a way—rejoice with me as a sister should—to bring him back or free me from my love for him. Near the ocean's boundary and the setting sun lies the farthest Ethiopian country. There ancient Atlas turns heaven's burning, starry axle upon his shoulders. From that country a priestess of the Massylian race has been made known to me, guardian of the Hesperides' temple. She fed the dragon and protected the sacred branches on the tree, sprinkling sticky honey and sleep-bringing poppy seed.

“She claims her spells can release any heart she chooses from its cares, or bring passion and pain upon others. She can stop flowing rivers and turn the stars backward. At night she calls up spirits. You will see the earth groan beneath your feet and mountain ash trees descend from the hills.

“Sweet sister, my dearest, I call heaven and you to witness: I do not willingly arm myself with magic. Secretly build a pyre in the inner court. Have them place upon it the weapons that accursed man left hanging in our room, all the clothing he wore, and the bridal bed where I fell. It is good to erase every trace of the wretch; the priestess commands it.”

She speaks and falls silent as pallor spreads over her face. Yet Anna does not suspect her sister is hiding death behind these strange rites. She does not grasp the wild purpose or fear anything worse than at Sychaeus' death. So she prepares everything as ordered. . . .

The pyre is built of piled branches and sawn holm oak in the innermost part of the house. The Queen hangs the room with garlands and wreathes it with funeral boughs. Upon the pillow she lays the clothing he wore, the sword he left, and an image of him, knowing what is to come.

Altars stand around. The priestess, her hair unbound, three times cries out the hundred gods of Erebus and Chaos, Hecate in her three forms, the triple-faced maidenhood of Diana. She had also sprinkled water pretending to come from Avernus' spring. Rank herbs are sought, cut by moonlight with bronze sickles, dark with milky poison. So too is the charm torn from a newborn horse's forehead before its mother can snatch it away. . . .

Dido herself stands near the altars with the sacred cake in her pure hands, one foot bare, her clothes loose. Before she dies she calls upon the gods and the stars that know fate. Then she prays to whatever deity looks justly upon lovers unhappily joined and remembers them.

Night fell. Weary creatures took peaceful sleep throughout the earth, and forests and wild waters sank to rest. Now the stars turn midway along their gliding course; now all the countryside is silent. Beasts and brightly colored birds, whether they haunt the lakes' watery plains or thorny country thickets, lie asleep beneath the still night.

But not the tormented Phoenician queen. She never sinks into sleep or receives the night upon her eyes or heart. Her pain redoubles, her love swells into fresh madness, and she tosses upon a mighty tide of anger. So she begins, turning these thoughts over in her heart alone:

“See, what am I doing? Shall I try my old suitors again, only to be scorned? Shall I stoop to beg a Numidian marriage from men I have rejected as husbands over and over? Or shall I follow the Trojan fleet, obeying every last command of the Teucrians, because I enjoy remembering how my help once saved them, or because my past kindness is still fresh in their minds?

“Even if I wished, how would they allow me? How would they take a hated woman aboard their proud ships? Alas, even in ruin do you remain ignorant? Have you still not learned the perjured race of Laomedon? And then? Shall I accompany the victorious sailors as a solitary fugitive? Or sail out surrounded by all my Tyrians? They were so hard to tear away from Sidon. Must I drive them to sea again and tell them to spread their sails to the storm?

“No, die as you deserve. Let steel end your pain. It began with you, my sister. Overcome by my tears, you load me with this madness and agony and expose me to the enemy. Could I not have spent an unstained life in the wilds, far from the marriage chamber, untouched by suffering like this? How ill I kept the faith pledged to Sychaeus' ashes!”

So her heart broke in long lamentation.

Now Aeneas was resolved to leave. Everything duly arranged, he was taking a hurried sleep high upon the stern. As he slept, the god appeared again with the same face and seemed to repeat his warning, like Mercury in every detail: voice, complexion, golden hair, and limbs lovely with youth.

“Goddess-born, can you sleep in such danger? Madman, do you not see the coming perils surrounding you or hear the breezes blowing fair? She is resolved on death and grimly turning plots and crimes within her heart, swelling the changing surge of anger. Will you not flee headlong while headlong flight is still possible? You will soon see the ocean churning with broken timbers, the fierce glare of torches, and the shore in a riot of flame if dawn finds you still lingering in this country. Up! Delay no longer! Woman is always fickle and changeable.”

So he spoke and dissolved into the black night.

Then Aeneas, startled by the sudden vision, leaps from sleep and rouses his crew. “Hurry, wake, men, and sit at the rowing benches. Quickly shake out the sails. Look, a god sent from high heaven again urges us to speed our flight and cut the twisted cables. We follow you, holy power of heaven, whoever you are, and gladly obey your command once again. Be favorable, give us gracious help, and bring fair skies and weather.”

He spoke. Snatching his sword from its sheath like lightning, he strikes the hawser with the naked steel. The same zeal seizes them all at once. Rushing and tearing free, they leave the shore. Their fleet hides the sea. Strongly they fling up the foam and sweep the blue water.

Now Dawn broke, leaving Tithonus' saffron bed and shedding fresh radiance upon the world. From her watchtower the Queen saw the first light whitening, the fleet standing out with squared sails, and shore and harbor empty of all its oarsmen. Three and four times she struck her lovely breast and tore her golden hair.

“God!” she cries. “Will he go? Will a foreigner mock our kingdom? Will no one hurry from the whole city in armed pursuit? Will no one launch ships from the yards? Go, bring fire quickly! Distribute weapons! Swing out the oars!

“What am I saying? Where am I? What mad change has seized my purpose? Alas, Dido, now you feel your wickedness. This feeling would have served you once, when you gave your crown away. Look at his faith, his pledged hand! They say he carries his ancestral household gods with him! They say he bowed his shoulders beneath his father, exhausted with age!

“Could I not have torn his body apart and scattered it over the waves? Slaughtered his comrades and his dear Ascanius with the sword, serving the boy at his father's feast? But the outcome of battle would have been uncertain. What if it had? Whom had I to fear, with death upon me? I should have carried firebrands into his camp, filled his decks with flames, destroyed father, son, and race together, and flung myself on top of all.

“Sun, whose fires light every work of the world; Juno, mediator and witness of my distress; Hecate, called upon by night at city crossroads; you avenging sisters of fate, and gods of dying Elissa: hear me now. Turn your righteous power toward my suffering and listen to my prayers.

“If the accursed man must reach his harbor and float ashore, if Jove's decrees demand it and this is the appointed end, still let a brave, armed nation distress him with war. Drive him homeless beyond his borders, tear him from Iulus' embrace, force him to beg for aid and see untimely death after death among his people. When he has submitted to the terms of a harsh peace, let him have no joy of his kingdom or the pleasant light. Let him fall before his time, unburied upon a waste of sand. This I pray. This last utterance I pour out with my blood.

“And you, Tyrians, pursue his descendants with hatred through every age to come. Send this gift to my ashes. Let there be no kindness, no truce between the nations. Rise from my dust, unnamed avenger, to pursue the Dardanian settlement with fire and steel! Now, then, whenever strength is granted, I invoke hostility of shore against shore, wave against water, sword against sword. Let their battles pass down to their children's children.”

So she speaks, turning her mind in every direction, searching for the quickest way to escape the hateful light. Then she speaks briefly to Barce, Sychaeus' nurse, for her own nurse lay in a mound of dark ashes in her old homeland:

“Dear nurse, bring my sister Anna here. Tell her to hurry, sprinkle river water upon her body, and bring the animals appointed for atonement. Let her come like this, and you too cover your brow with a pure garland. I wish to complete the rites of Stygian Jove, which I have duly prepared and begun, to put an end to my distress and surrender the Dardanian's funeral pyre to the flames.”

She speaks; the old woman went eagerly, quickening her pace. But Dido, trembling and fierce in her terrible purpose, her restless eyes bloodshot and burning spots upon her quivering cheeks showing through death's approaching pallor, bursts into the inner courts. In madness she climbs the high funeral pyre and draws the Dardanian sword, a gift requested for no such use.

Then her eyes fell upon the Trojan clothes and familiar bed. Through her tears she delayed her purpose a little, sank upon the pillow, and spoke her final words:

“Clothes he wore, sweet while fate and the gods allowed, receive my spirit now and free me from my pain. I have lived and completed Fortune's allotted course. Now I shall go beneath the earth a queenly shade. I have built a famous city, seen my ramparts rise, avenged my husband against his enemy by punishing my brother. Happy, alas, more than happy, if only the Trojan ships had never touched our shores!”

She spoke and buried her face in the pillow. “It will be death,” she cries, “and unavenged; but let it be death. So, so it is good to pass into darkness. Let the pitiless Dardanian drink in this fire with his eyes from out at sea. Let him carry the omen of my death upon his way.”

She ceased. Even as she spoke, her people see her fallen upon the steel, the sword steaming with blood and her hands spattered. A cry rises in the high halls. Rumor races wildly through the shaking city. The house resounds with lamentation, sobbing, and women's bitter cries. Heaven echoes their loud wailing, as if all Carthage or ancient Tyre were falling beneath an invading enemy and furious flames rolled over the roofs of houses and temples.

Faint at the sound, her sister runs in terrified confusion, her face torn and her breast beaten. She darts through them all and calls the dying woman by her name.

“Was it this, my dear? Was my summons a trap? Is this what your pyre, alas, and your altar fires meant? How shall I begin my desolate lament? Did you scorn your sister's company in death? You should have called me to share your fate. The same hour, the same stroke of steel would have been ours. Did these very hands build it? Did my voice call upon our father's gods, so that while you lay like this I should be absent, as if without pity? Sister, you have destroyed yourself and me together, the Sidonian lords and people, and this city of yours. Bring water for her wounds. I will wash them and catch upon my lips whatever last breath may still remain.”

As she spoke she had climbed the high steps. Weeping, she clasped her half-lifeless sister to her breast, caressed her, and stopped the dark streams of blood with her gown. Dido tries to lift her heavy eyes and faints back. The deep wound gurgles in her breast. Three times she rose, straining to lift herself upon her elbow. Three times she fell back upon the pillow. With wandering eyes she searched for the light of high heaven and moaned when she found it.

Then almighty Juno, pitying her long suffering and difficult death, sent Iris down from heaven to release the struggling life from the body to which it clung. She was dying neither by fate nor because she had earned her death, but miserably before her time, inflamed by sudden madness. So Proserpine had not yet taken the lock from her golden head or condemned her to the Stygian underworld.

On dewy saffron wings Iris flies down through the sky across the sun, trailing a thousand changing colors. She stops above Dido's head. “This hair, sacred to Dis, I take as commanded, and release you from your body.”

She speaks and cuts it with her hand. With that, all Dido's warmth ebbed away, and her life passed upon the winds.

Book Five

Meanwhile Aeneas and his fleet held steadily to their course in mid-passage, cutting the waves that blackened under the north wind. They looked back at the city, which even now gleams with unfortunate Elissa's funeral fire. They do not know why the broad blaze has been lit. But the bitter pain of a great love trampled underfoot, and their knowledge of what a woman can do in madness, lead the Teucrians' hearts to gloomy guesses.

When their ships had reached the open sea and no land appears any longer, with sea on every side and sky on every side, a dark rain cloud gathered overhead, bringing night and storm, and the water shuddered and grew black. Palinurus, commander of the fleet, cries from the high stern: 'Alas, why have these heavy storm clouds surrounded the sky? Lord Neptune, what is your will?' Then he orders the men to clear the rigging and pull hard at the oars, and turns the sails across the wind, saying:

'Noble Aeneas, even if Jupiter gave his promise and assurance, I would not hope to reach Italy under such a sky. The shifting winds roar across our course and blow more strongly from the black west; the air thickens into mist. We cannot force our way forward against them. Fortune is stronger; let us follow her and turn our course where she calls. Not far away, I think, are the faithful shores of your brother Eryx and the Sicilian harbor, if my memory correctly retraces the stars I watched before.'

Then devoted Aeneas replies: 'I too can already see that the winds insist on this, and that you struggle against them in vain. Change the course of our voyage. Could any land be more welcome to me, or any place where I would sooner choose to bring my weary ships to shore, than this land, where Dardanian Acestes will greet me and which holds the dust of my father Anchises in its embrace?' With these words they steer for the harbor, while the west wind following them fills their sails. The fleet races down the water, and at last they land joyfully on the familiar beach. High on a hilltop, Acestes marvels at the friendly squadron approaching from afar and hurries toward them, armed and wearing the shaggy skin of a Libyan she-bear. A Trojan mother conceived him by the river Crimisus and gave him birth.

Remembering his ancestry, he welcomes their return with joy, gladly entertains them with his rustic wealth, and relieves their weariness with his friendly provisions. As soon as the next morning's clear daylight had driven the stars from the east, Aeneas calls his comrades together along the beach and speaks from a raised hillock:

'Great people of Dardanus, born from the noble blood of gods, the months have completed their yearly circle since we buried the dust, all that remained of my divine father, and sadly dedicated our altars. Now the day is here—such, O gods, was your will—which I will always observe in grief, always in honor. Even if I spent it in exile on the Gaetulian quicksands, even if it found me on the Argolic sea or in the city of Mycenae, I would still fulfill the yearly vows and the festival's annual rites and heap the proper gifts upon the altars. Now we have been led here, to our father's very dust and ashes, and carried home to this friendly harbor: not, I believe, without divine purpose and guidance. Come, then, let us all gather joyfully for the sacrifice. Let us pray for winds; may he grant that I pay him these rites year after year in an established city and a dedicated temple.

Acestes, a descendant of Troy, gives two oxen to every one of your ships. Invite to the feast your own ancestral household gods, and those whom our host Acestes worships. Further, if the ninth Dawn raises a kindly day for mortals and her rays unveil the world, I will arrange contests for my Trojans: first for swift ships; then for whoever excels in the footrace, for whoever trusts his strength and skill in shooting light arrows, or dares to fight with gloves of rawhide. Let everyone be here, and let excellence look for its prize and palm. Now let everyone be silent, and bind branches around your temples.'

So he speaks, and covers his brow with his mother's myrtle. Helymus does the same, and Aletes, mature in years, and the boy Ascanius; the rest of the people follow. From the assembly he advances to the tomb, surrounded by many thousands crowding around him. Here, as a proper libation, he pours on the ground two cups of pure wine, two of fresh milk, and two of consecrated blood, and scatters bright blossoms, saying: 'Hail once again, holy father; hail, ashes of the man I saved in vain, and soul and shade of my father! You were not destined to share our search for Italy's shores and our allotted fields, or for the dark Ausonian Tiber.' He had spoken when a snake slid out from beneath the shrine in seven great coils and seven winding spirals. Quietly it circled the grave and glided from altar to altar, its green patterned body and the spotted brightness of its scales blazing with gold, as the rainbow in a cloud flashes a thousand changing colors across the sun.

Aeneas stood amazed at the sight. At last the snake wound its long body among the vessels and polished cups, tasted the feast, then left the altars where it had fed and crept harmlessly back beneath the tomb. Unsure whether to regard it as the guardian spirit of the place or his father's attendant, Aeneas duly kills two two-year-old sheep, as many pigs, and dark-backed steers, pouring cups of wine meanwhile and calling on the soul of great Anchises and his ghost, risen again from Acheron. His comrades too, each according to his resources, bring gifts to heap joyfully on the altars and slaughter steers in sacrifice. Others set cauldrons in a row and, lying along the grass, heap live embers beneath spits and roast the meat.

The longed-for day came. Now the ninth Dawn rode up clear and bright behind Phaethon's horses; the name and fame of illustrious Acestes had roused all the neighboring peoples. Their holiday crowd filled the shore to see Aeneas' men, some ready to join the contests themselves. First the prizes are displayed in the middle of the racecourse: sacrificial tripods, green wreaths and palms, the victors' rewards, armor and garments dyed purple, and talents of silver and gold. From a hillock in their midst, a trumpet sounds the opening of the games. First comes the rowing contest, which four ships enter, matched in weight and the finest in the fleet. Mnestheus' eager oarsmen drive the swift Dragon: Mnestheus, destined to become an Italian, whose name the Memmian family bears. Gyas commands the enormous bulk of the enormous Chimaera, a floating city, which her Dardanian crew drives with oars rising in three tiers.

Sergestus, from whom the Sergian house takes its name, sails in the tall Centaur; and Cloanthus sails in the sea-colored Scylla, the ancestor of your family, Cluentius of Rome.

Out in the sea, facing the foaming beach, lies a rock that the swollen waves beat upon and submerge when the north-western gales of winter blot out the stars; in calm it rises silent out of the placid water, flat-topped, and a haunt where cormorants love best to take the sun. Here lord Aeneas set up a turning post of leafy holm oak, a mark for the sailors to know where to turn back, where to wheel around on their long course. Then they choose stations by lot, and on the sterns their captains glitter afar, beautiful in gold and purple; the rest of the crews are crowned with poplar sprays, and their naked shoulders glisten wet with oil. They sit down on the rowing benches, and their arms are tense on the oars; at full strain they wait the signal, while throbbing fear and heightened ambition draw the blood from their excited bodies.

Then, when the clear trumpet-note rang, they all leap forward from their starting line in a moment; the shouts of the sailors strike up to heaven, and the channels are swept into foam by the oarsmen as their arms swing backward. They cleave their furrows together, and all the sea is torn asunder by oars and triple-pointed prows. Not even at such headlong speed do pairs of racing horses whirl chariots across the plain, as they rush streaming from the barriers; not so do their charioteers shake the wavy reins loose over their team, and hang forward on the whip. All the woodland rings with clapping and shouts of men that cheer their favourites, and the sheltered beach eddies back their cries; the noise buffets and re-echoes from the hills. Gyas shoots out in front of the noisy crowd, and glides foremost along the water; Cloanthus follows him next, rowing better, but held back by his heavy pine-built ship.

After them, at equal distance, the Dragon and the Centaur struggle to take the place in front; and now the Dragon has it, now the vast Centaur outstrips and passes her; now they dart on both together, their stems in a line, and their keels driving long furrows through the salt water-ways. And now they drew near the rock and were close to the turning post; when Gyas as he led, the leader through half the course, cries aloud to Menoetes, the ship's steersman: 'Why so far away to the right? Steer her this way; kiss the shore, and let the oar blade graze the reefs on our left. Others may keep to deep water.' He spoke; but Menoetes, fearing hidden rocks, turns the bow away towards the open sea. 'Where are you wandering off to? toward the rocks, Menoetes!' again shouts Gyas to bring him back; and look! glancing around he sees Cloanthus passing up behind and keeping nearer.

Between Gyas' ship and the echoing crags he scrapes through inside on his left, flashes past his leader, and leaving the turning post behind is in safe water. Then indeed grief burned fierce through his strong frame, and tears sprang out on his cheeks; heedless of his own dignity and his crew's safety, he flings the too cautious Menoetes sheer into the sea from the high stern, takes over the guidance and command of the helm himself, and cheers on his men, and turns his tiller in to shore. But Menoetes, when at last he rose struggling from the bottom, heavy with advancing years and wet in his dripping clothes, makes for the top of the crag, and sits down on a dry rock. The Teucrians laughed out as he fell and as he swam, and laugh to see him coughing the salt water from his chest.

At this a joyful hope kindled in the two behind, Sergestus and Mnestheus, of catching up Gyas' wavering course. Sergestus slips forward as he nears the rock, yet not completely ahead or leading by a whole ship's length; part of his ship is ahead, and part is pressed close by the Dragon's rival prow. But striding amidships between his comrades, Mnestheus cheers them on: 'Now, now swing back, oarsmen who were Hector's comrades, whom I chose to follow me in Troy's final crisis; now put forth the might and courage you showed in Gaetulian quicksands, amid Ionian seas and Malea's pursuing waves. I am not now seeking first place for Mnestheus or striving for victory; though ah!—yet let them win, O Neptune, to whom you give it. But the shame of coming in last! Win me only this, fellow citizens, and avert that disaster!' His men bend forward, straining every muscle; the brasswork of the ship quivers to their mighty strokes, and the water seems to race from beneath her; limbs and parched lips shake with their rapid panting, and sweat flows in streams all over them.

Mere chance brought the crew the glory they desired. For while Sergestus drives his prow furiously in towards the rocks and approaches with too little room, alas! he caught on a rock that ran out; the reef ground, the oars struck and splintered on the jagged teeth, and the bows crashed and hung. The sailors leap up and hold her with loud cries, and get out iron-shod poles and sharp-pointed boathooks, and pick up their broken oars out of the eddies. But Mnestheus, rejoicing and flushed by his triumph, with rapidly dipping oars and favorable winds, emerges into the shallowing water and runs down the open sea. As a pigeon whose house and sweet nestlings are in the rock's recesses, if suddenly startled from her cavern, wings her flight over the fields and rushes frightened from her house with loud clapping pinions; then gliding noiselessly through the air, slides on her liquid way and moves not her rapid wings; so Mnestheus, so the Dragon under him swiftly cleaves the last stretch of sea, so her own speed carries her flying on.

And first Sergestus is left behind, struggling on the steep rock and shoal water, and shouting in vain for help and learning to race with broken oars. Next he catches up Gyas and the vast bulk of the Chimaera; she gives way, without her steersman. And now at the very finish only Cloanthus remains ahead; Mnestheus pursues him and presses hard, straining all his strength. Then indeed the shouts redouble, as all together eagerly cheer on the pursuer, and the sky echoes their din. Cloanthus' men scorn to lose the honor already theirs, the glory in their grasp, and would exchange life for fame; Mnestheus' men draw life from success, gaining strength because they believe they have it. And perhaps they would have won the prize with their prows abreast, had not Cloanthus, stretching both his open hands over the sea, poured forth prayers and called the gods to hear his vows: 'Gods who are sovereign on the sea, over whose waters I run, to your altars on this beach will I bring a snow-white bull, the joyful payment of my vow, and will cast his entrails into the salt flood and pour liquid wine.' He spoke, and far beneath the water maiden Panopea heard him, with all Phorcus' company of Nereids, and lord Portunus with his own mighty hand pushed him on his way.

The ship flies to land swifter than the wind or an arrow's flight, and shoots into the deep harbour. Then Anchises' son, summoning all in order, declares Cloanthus conqueror through the herald's proclamation, and dresses his brows in green bay, and gives gifts to each crew, three bullocks of their choice, and wine, and a large talent of silver to take away. For their captains he adds special honours; to the winner a scarf wrought with gold, encircled by a double border of deep Meliboean purple; woven in it is the kingly boy on leafy Ida, chasing swift stags with javelin and racing feet, keen and as one panting; Jove's swooping armor-bearer has caught him up from Ida in his talons; his aged guardians stretch their hands vainly upwards, and the barking of hounds rings fierce into the air. But to him who, next in merit, held the second place, he gives to wear a corslet triple-woven with hooks of polished gold, stripped by his own conquering hand from Demoleos under tall Troy by the swift Simois, an ornament and safeguard among arms.

The straining shoulders of his servants Phegeus and Sagaris could scarcely carry its heavy folds; yet with it on, Demoleos at full speed would chase the scattered Trojans. For third prize he gives two cauldrons of bronze, and bowls wrought in silver and rough with tracery. And now all moved away in the pride and wealth of their prizes, their brows bound with scarlet ribbons; when, hardly torn loose by all his skill from the cruel rock, his oars lost, rowing feebly with a single tier of oars, Sergestus brought in his ship mocked and without honors. Just as a serpent caught on a highway, if a brazen wheel has gone aslant over him or a traveler has left him half dead and mangled with the blow of a heavy stone, twists slowly in a vain attempt to escape, in part undaunted, his eyes ablaze and his hissing throat lifted high; in part the disabling wound keeps him coiling in knots and twisting back on his own body; so the ship kept rowing slowly on, yet hoists sail and under full sail glides into the harbour mouth.

Glad that the ship is saved and the crew brought back, Aeneas presents Sergestus with his promised reward. A slave woman is given him skilled in Minerva's crafts, Pholoe the Cretan, with twin boys at her breast.

With this contest finished, good Aeneas moved to a grassy plain surrounded by winding wooded hills, with an amphitheater in the valley, and there the hero advanced with many thousands and took his seat on a mound. Here he draws in with rewards and the promise of prizes anyone willing to try his luck in the swift footrace. Trojans and Sicilians gather mingling from all sides, Nisus and Euryalus foremost . . . Euryalus in the flower of youth and famed for beauty, Nisus for pure love of the boy. Next follows renowned Diores, of Priam's royal line; after him Salius and Patron together, the one Acarnanian, the other Tegean by family and of Arcadian blood; next two men of Sicily, Helymus and Panopes, foresters and attendants on old Acestes; many besides whose fame is hidden in obscurity. Then among them all Aeneas said this: 'Listen to this, and attend in good heart.

I will let none of you go without a gift. To each will I give two glittering Gnosian spearheads of polished steel, and an axe chased with silver to bear away; every one shall be honoured thus. The three foremost shall receive prizes, and have pale olive bound about their head. The first shall have a horse in full trappings as winner; the second an Amazonian quiver filled with arrows of Thrace, bound around by a broad belt of gold, and on the link of the clasp a polished gem; let the third depart with this Argolic helmet as his reward.' This said, they take their place, and the signal once heard, dart over the course and leave the line, pouring forth like a storm-cloud with their eyes on the finish. Nisus gets away first, and shoots out far in front of the throng, fleeter than the winds or the winged thunderbolt.

Next to him, though a long way behind, Salius follows; then, left a space behind him, Euryalus third . . . and Helymus comes after Euryalus; and close behind him, look! Diores comes flying, just grazing foot with foot, hard on his shoulder; and if a longer space were left, he would creep out past him and carry off the prize. And now almost in the last space, they began to come up breathless to the goal, when unfortunate Nisus trips on the slippery blood of the slain steers, where perhaps it had spilled over the ground and wetted the green grass. Here, just in the flush of victory, he lost his feet; they slid away on the ground they pressed, and he fell forward right among the dung and blood of the sacrifice. Yet he did not forget his beloved Euryalus; for rising, he flung himself over the slippery ground in front of Salius, and Salius rolled over and lay stretched on the hard sand.

Euryalus shoots by, wins and holds the first place his friend gave, and flies on amid prosperous clapping and cheers. Behind Helymus comes up, and Diores, now third for the palm. At this Salius fills with loud clamour the whole concourse of the vast theatre, and the leaders watching from the front, demanding the prize of which he had been cheated. Euryalus has popular favor on his side, and beauty in tears, and excellence that wins charm from so fair a form. Diores supports him, loudly declaring that he has gained a place among the winners and has carried off the last prize in vain if the highest honors are restored to Salius. Then lord Aeneas speaks: 'For you, O boys, your rewards remain assured, and no one changes the order of the prizes: let me be allowed to pity a friend's innocent mischance.' With these words, he gives to Salius a vast Gaetulian lion-skin, with shaggy masses of hair and claws of gold.

'If this,' cries Nisus, 'is the reward of defeat, and your pity is stirred for the fallen, what fit recompense will you give to Nisus? my performance deserved the first crown, had not I, like Salius, met Fortune's hostility.' And with these words he displayed his face and limbs foul with the wet dung. His leader laughed kindly at him and ordered a shield brought out, the workmanship of Didymaon, torn by him from the hallowed gates of Neptune's Grecian temple; with this special prize he rewards his excellence.

Afterwards, when the races are finished and the gifts awarded: 'Now,' he cries, 'let whoever has courage and a willing heart come forward and raise his arms with gloves on his hands.' So he speaks, and sets forth two prizes for the fight; for the conqueror a bullock decorated with gold and garlands; a sword and beautiful helmet to console the conquered. Immediately without pause Dares comes into view in his enormous strength, rising amid loud murmurs of the people; he who alone used to face Paris in combat; he who, at the mound where princely Hector lies, struck down the approaching giant frame of victorious Butes, of Amycus' Bebrycian line, and stretched him in death on the yellow sand. Such was Dares; at once he raises his head high for battle, displays his broad shoulders, and stretches and swings his arms right and left, lashing the air with blows.

For him another is required; but none of all the company dared approach or put the gloves on his hands. So he takes his stand exultant before Aeneas' feet, believing his victories placed him above them all; and then without more delay grasps the bull's horn with his left hand, and says this: 'Goddess-born, if no man dare trust himself to battle, what outcome am I to stand here waiting for? How long is it proper to keep me? bid me carry off your gifts.' With that all the Dardanians murmured assent, and called for him to receive the promised prize. At this aged Acestes spoke sharply to Entellus, as he sat next him on the green cushion of grass: 'Entellus, once the bravest of heroes, now to no purpose, will you thus idly let a gift so great be borne away uncontested? Where now, I ask you, is divine Eryx, your teacher, whose fame has come to nothing? where your renown over all Sicily, and those spoils hanging in your house?' At this he replies: 'Desire of glory is not gone, nor ambition checked by fear; but sluggish age dulls my cold blood, and my strength of limb is numb and outworn.

If I had what once was mine, if I had now that prime of years, yonder braggart's boast and confidence, it would have taken no prize of a fine bullock to tempt me; I do not care about these gifts.' So he spoke, and on that flung down a pair of gloves of giant weight, with their hard hide bound around his wrists valiant Eryx used to come into battle. They stood amazed; so stiff and grim lay the vast sevenfold oxhide sewed in with lead and iron. Dares most of all shrinks far back in horror, and the noble son of Anchises turns round this way and that their vast weight and voluminous folds. Then the old man said this in deep accents: 'What would they have done if they had seen the gloves that were Hercules' own armour, and the fatal fight on this very beach?

Your brother Eryx once wore these weapons; you see them yet stained with blood and spattered brains. In them he stood to face great Alcides; I too used them while fuller blood supplied me strength, and envious old age had not yet strewn her snows on either temple. But if Dares of Troy will have none of these our arms, and good Aeneas is resolved on it, and my patron Acestes approves, let us make the fight equal. See, I give up the gauntlets of Eryx; dismiss your fears; and do you put off your Trojan gloves.' So he spoke, and throwing back the fold of his clothing from his shoulders, he bares the massive joints and limbs, the great bones and muscles, and stands up huge in the middle of the ground. Then Anchises' lordly seed brought out equal gloves and bound the hands of both in matched arms.

Immediately each took his stand on tiptoe, and undauntedly raised his arms high in air. They lift their heads right back and away out of reach of blows, and make hand play through hand, inviting attack; the one nimbler of foot and confident in his youth, the other mighty in mass of limb, but his knees totter tremulous and slow, and sick panting shakes his vast frame. Many a mutual blow they deliver in vain, many an one they redouble on chest and side, sounding hollow and loud: hands play fast about ear and temple, and jawbones clash under the hard strokes. Old Entellus stands immovable and straining, only parrying blows with his body and watchful eye. The other, as one who raises siege mounds against some lofty city or blockades a hill-fort in arms, tries this and that entrance, and ranges cunningly over all the ground, and presses many an attack in vain.

Entellus rose and struck clean out with his right downwards; his quick opponent saw the descending blow before it came, and slid his body rapidly out of its way. Entellus hurled his strength into the air, and all his heavy mass, overreaching, fell heavily to the earth; as sometime on Erymanthus or mighty Ida a hollow pine falls torn out by the roots. Teucrians and men of Sicily rise eagerly; a cry goes up, and Acestes himself runs forward, and pityingly lifts his friend and companion of the same age from the ground. But the hero, not dulled nor dismayed by his mishap, returns to battle more eagerly, and grows violent in wrath, while shame and resolved valour kindle his strength. All afire, he hunts Dares headlong over the lists, and redoubles his blows now with right hand, now with left; without breath or pause; heavy as hailstones rattle on the roof from a storm-cloud, so thickly shower the blows from both his hands as he buffets Dares back and forth.

Then lord Aeneas did not allow anger to rise higher or Entellus to rage out his bitterness, but stopped the fight and rescued the exhausted Dares, saying in soothing words: 'Unhappy! what height of madness has seized your mind? Do you not see that another has the greater strength and the gods have changed sides? Yield to Heaven.' And with these words he proclaimed the battle over. His faithful comrades lead Dares to the ships dragging his knees feebly, swaying his head from side to side, and spitting from his mouth clotted blood mingled with teeth. At summons they bear away the helmet and shield, and leave palm and bull to Entellus. At this the conqueror, swelling in pride over the bull, cries: 'Goddess-born, and you, O Trojans! learn thus what my strength of body was in its prime, and from what a death Dares is saved by your intervention.' He spoke, and stood right opposite in face of the bullock as it stood by, the prize of battle; then drew back his hand, and swinging the hard gauntlet sheer down between the horns, smashed the bones in upon the shattered brain.

The ox rolls over, and quivering and lifeless lies along the ground. Over it he speaks in a deep voice: 'This life, Eryx, I give to you, a better payment than Dares' death; here I lay down my gloves and unconquered skill.'

Immediately Aeneas invites everyone willing to the contest of the swift arrow, and proclaims the prizes. With his strong hand he raises the mast of Serestus' ship, and on a cord crossing it hangs from the masthead a fluttering pigeon as a target for their arrowheads. They gather, and a bronze helmet receives the lots they throw in. First in rank, and before them all, amid prosperous cheers, comes out Hippocoon son of Hyrtacus; and Mnestheus follows on him, so recently a winner in the ship race, Mnestheus with his chaplet of green olive. Third is Eurytion, your brother, O Pandarus, great in renown, you who long ago, when prompted to shatter the truce, did hurl the first shaft amid the Achaeans. Last of all, from the bottom of the helmet, came Acestes' lot, he too venturing to set hand to the task of youth.

Then they all strongly bend their bows into a curve and pull shafts from their quivers. And first the arrow of the son of Hyrtacus, flying through the sky from the sounding string, whistles through the fleet breezes, and reaches and sticks fast full in the mast's wood: the mast quivered, and the bird fluttered her feathers in affright, and the whole ground rang with loud clapping. Next valiant Mnestheus took his position with bow bent, aiming high with levelled eye and arrow; yet, unfortunate man, could not hit the bird itself with his arrowhead, but cut the knotted hempen bands that tied her foot as she hung from the masthead; she winged her flight into the dark windy clouds. Then Eurytion, who already held the arrow ready on his bent bow, swiftly called in prayer to his brother, marked the pigeon as she now went down the empty sky exultant on clapping wings; and as she passed under a dark cloud, struck her: she fell breathless, and, leaving her life in the airy heavens, slid down carrying the arrow that pierced her.

Acestes alone remained, with the prize already lost; yet he sped his arrow up into the air, to display his lordly skill and resounding bow. At this a sudden sign meets their eyes, mighty in augural presage, as the great event later showed, and prophetic seers interpreted the omen in later days. For the flying reed blazed out amid the swimming clouds, traced its path in flame, and burned away on the light winds; even as often stars shooting from their sphere draw a train across the sky. Trinacrians and Trojans stood suspended in astonishment, praying to the heavenly powers; neither did great Aeneas reject the omen, but embraces glad Acestes and loads him with lavish gifts, speaking thus: 'Take, my lord: for the high King of heaven by these signs has willed you to receive the lot of special honor. You will have this gift as from aged Anchises' own hand, a bowl embossed with figures, that once Cisseus of Thrace gave my father Anchises to bear, in high token and reward of affection.' With these words, he twines green bay about his brows, and proclaims Acestes conqueror first before them all.

Nor did gentle Eurytion, though he alone struck the bird down from the lofty sky, resent his being given preference in honor. Next comes for his prize he who cut the cord; he last, who pierced the mast with his winged reed.

But lord Aeneas, before the contest is finished, calls to him Epytides, guardian and attendant of young Iulus, and thus speaks into his faithful ear: 'Up and away, and tell Ascanius, if he now holds his band of boys ready, and their horses arrayed for the charge, to lead his squadrons in procession to honor his grandfather in the splendor of their arms.' So he says, and himself bids all the crowding throng withdraw from the long racecourse and leave the field clear. The boys move in before their parents' faces, glittering in rank on their bitted horses; as they go all the people of Troy and Trinacria murmur and admire. On the hair of them all rests a garland fitly trimmed; each carries two cornel spear-shafts tipped with steel; some have polished quivers on their shoulders; above their breast and round their neck goes a flexible circlet of twisted gold.

Three in number are the troops of riders, and three captains gallop up and down; following each in equal command rides a glittering division of twelve boys. One youthful line goes rejoicingly behind little Priam, renewer of his grandsire's name, your renowned seed, O Polites, and destined to people Italy; he rides a Thracian horse dappled with spots of white, with white on the pasterns of his stepping feet and white on his high forehead. Second is Atys, from whom the Latin Atii draw their line, little Atys, a boy beloved by the boy Iulus. Last, surpassing them all in beauty, Iulus rode in on a Sidonian horse that Dido the bright had given him for token and pledge of love. The rest of them are mounted on old Acestes' Sicilian horses. . . . The Dardanians greet their shy entrance with applause, and rejoice at the view, and recognise the features of the boys' ancestors.

When they have ridden merrily round all the concourse of their gazing friends, Epytides shouts from afar the signal they await, and cracks his whip. They gallop apart in equal numbers, and open their files three and three in deploying bands, and again at the call wheel about and bear down with levelled arms. Next they start on other charges and other retreats at corresponding intervals, and interlink circle with circle, and enact an armed imitation of battle. And now they bare their backs in flight, now turn their lances to the charge, now pledge peace and ride on side by side. As once long ago, they say, the labyrinth in high Crete had a tangled path between blind walls, and a thousand ways of doubling treachery, where signs to follow failed in the maze, which could not be mastered or retraced: even in such a track do the children of Troy entangle their footsteps and weave the game of flight and battle; like dolphins who, swimming through the wet seas, cleave Carpathian or Libyan waters. . . .

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

So far the sacred contests for their holy father had progressed. Just at this Fortune broke faith and grew estranged. While they pay the due rites to the tomb with diverse games, Juno, daughter of Saturn, sends Iris down the sky to the Ilian fleet, and breathes a gale to speed her on, turning many thoughts over in her mind, and not yet satisfied in her ancient resentment. She, speeding her way along the thousand-coloured bow, runs swiftly, seen by no one, down her maiden path. She discerns the vast concourse, and traverses the shore, and sees the haven abandoned and the fleet left alone. But far withdrawn beside the solitary edge of the sea the Trojan women wept their lost Anchises, and as they wept gazed all together on the fathomless flood. 'Alas! after all those weary waterways, that so vast a sea still lies ahead!' such is the single cry of all.

They pray for a city, sick of the burden of their sea-sorrow. So she darts among them, well skilled in doing harm, and sets aside her divine face and clothing: she becomes Beroe, the aged wife of Tmarian Doryclus, who had once possessed birth, reputation, and children, and in this guise goes among the Dardanian matrons. 'Ah, wretched women that we are,' she cries, 'whom hostile Achaean hands did not drag to death beneath our native city! ah unfortunate race, for what destruction is Fortune holding you back? The seventh summer now declines since Troy's overthrow, while we pass from water to water and land to land, measuring the harborless rocks beneath so many stars, pursuing all the while over the vast sea an Italy that flees from us, and tossing on the waves. Here are our brother Eryx' borders, and Acestes' welcome: who prevents us from raising walls and giving our citizens a city?

O country, O household gods vainly rescued from the foe! shall there never be a Trojan town to tell of? shall I nowhere see a Xanthus and a Simois, the rivers of Hector? Come, rise and join me in burning with fire these ill-ominous ships. For in sleep the phantom of Cassandra the soothsayer seemed to give me blazing brands: Here seek your Troy, she said; here is your home. Now is the time to do it; nor do these mighty portents allow delay. Look four altars to Neptune; the god himself supplies the firebrand and the courage.' Speaking thus, at once she firmly seizes the fiery weapon, and with straining hand whirls it far raised, and throws it: the souls of the Ilian women are startled and their wits amazed. At this one of their multitude, the oldest among them, Pyrgo, nurse in the palace to all Priam's many children: 'This is not Beroe, I tell you, O mothers; this is not the wife of Doryclus of Rhoeteum.

Mark the lineaments of divine grace and the gleaming eyes, what breath she has, what a face, and the sound of her voice and the way she walks. I myself left Beroe apart some time ago, sick and fretting that she alone must have no part in this service of ours, nor pay Anchises his due sacrifice.' So spoke she. . . . But the women at first, doubtful and wavering, gazed on the ships with malignant eyes, between the wretched longing for the land they trod and the fated realm that summoned them: when the goddess rose through the sky on balanced wings, and in her flight drew a vast bow beneath the clouds. Then indeed, amazed at the tokens and driven by madness, they raise a cry and snatch fire from the hearths within; others plunder the altars, and cast branches and burning logs onto the brushwood.

The Fire-god rages with loose rein over thwarts and oars and hulls of painted fir. Eumelus carries the news of the burning ships to Anchises' grave and the theater's rows of seats; and looking back, their own eyes see the floating cloud of dark ashes. And in a moment Ascanius, as he rode gaily before his cavalry, spurred his horse to the disordered camp; nor can his breathless guardians hold him back. 'What strange madness is this?' he cries; 'where are you hurrying now, where, alas and woe, my people? you are not attacking the enemy or some hostile Argive camp; it is your own hopes you are burning. Look me, your Ascanius!' and he flung before his feet the empty helmet, which he had put on to rouse the mock battle. Aeneas and the Trojan train together hurry to the spot. But the women scatter apart in fear all over the beach, and stealthily seek the woods and the hollow rocks they find: they loathe their deed and the daylight, and with changed eyes recognize their own people, and Juno is shaken out of their hearts.

But this does not make the flames of the fire give up their undefeated strength; under the wet oak the seams are alive, spouting slow coils of smoke; the creeping heat devours the hulls, and the destroyer takes deep hold of all: neither the heroes' strength nor the water they pour in helps. Then good Aeneas tore away the clothing from his shoulders and called the gods to aid, stretching forth his hands: 'Jupiter omnipotent, if you do not yet hate Troy utterly, down to her last man, if your ancient pity looks at all upon human suffering, now, O Lord, grant our fleet to escape the flame, and rescue from doom the frail remnant of Teucrian fortunes. Or do you plunge to death this remnant, if I deserve it, with levelled thunderbolt, and here with your own hand smite us down.' Scarcely had he said this, when a black tempest rages in streaming showers; earth trembles to the thunder on plain and steep; the water-flood rushes in torrents from the whole heaven amid black darkness and volleying blasts of the South.

The ships are filled from overhead, the half-burnt timbers are soaking; till all the heat is quenched, and all the hulls, but four that are lost, are rescued from destruction.

But lord Aeneas, dismayed by the bitter mischance, turned the shifting weight of his anxiety this way and that in his heart, whether, forgetting fate, he should rest in Sicilian fields, or press on toward the borders of Italy. Then old Nautes, whom Tritonian Pallas taught as she taught no other, making him famous for exceptional skill—she granted him to explain what the gods' heavy anger threatened or what the order of fate required—he now speaks these comforting words to Aeneas:

'Goddess-born, let us follow fate's ebb and flow, whatever it shall be; fortune must be endured if it is to be overcome. Acestes is of your own divine Dardanian race; take him as a willing partner in your deliberations; deliver to him those left over, now these ships are lost, and those who are quite weary of your fortunes and the great quest. Choose out the old men advanced in years, and the matrons sick of the sea, and everyone in your company who is weak and afraid of danger. Let this land give a city to the weary; they shall be allowed to call their town Acesta by name.'

Then, indeed, kindled by these words of his aged friend, his mind is torn among all his concerns. And now black Night rose chariot-borne, and held the sky; when the likeness of his father Anchises seemed to descend from heaven and suddenly say this:

'O son, once dearer to me than life, while life was still mine; O son, hard pressed by the destinies of Ilium! I come here by Jove's command, who drove the fire from your fleets, and at last had pity out of high heaven. Follow the good advice aged Nautes now gives. Carry through to Italy your chosen men and bravest souls; in Latium you must conquer in war a people tough and rough in their way of life. Yet before then approach the lower chambers of Dis, and in the deep regions of the underworld come, O son, to meet me. For I am not held in cruel Tartarus among wailing ghosts, but inhabit Elysium and the sweet company of the good. The holy Sibyl will lead you here with abundant blood of dark cattle. Then will you learn of all your line, and what city is given you.

And now farewell; damp Night wheels through the midpoint of her course, and even now I feel the stern breath of the panting horses of the East.' He ended, and retreated like a vapour into thin air. 'Ah, where are you hurrying?' cries Aeneas; 'where so fast away? From whom are you fleeing? or who withholds you from our embrace?' With these words, he kindles the sleeping embers of the fire, and with holy meal and laden censer sacrifices to Pergama's guardian god and at ancient Vesta's secret shrine.

Immediately he summons his crews and Acestes first of all, and informs them of Jove's command and his beloved father's precepts, and what is now his fixed mind and purpose. They do not linger over their deliberations, nor does Acestes decline the duty asked of him: they register the women as citizens of their town, and plant a people there, souls with no desire for glory. The rest repair the thwarts and replace the ships' timbers that the flames had gnawed upon, and fit up oars and rigging, few in number, but full of life and brave for war. Meanwhile Aeneas traces the town with the plough and allots the homesteads; he orders that this be called Ilium and these lands Troy. Trojan Acestes, rejoicing in his kingdom, appoints a court and gathers his senators to give them statutes. Next, where the crest of Eryx is neighbour to the stars, a shrine is founded for Venus the Idalian; and a priest and a tract of sacred woodland are assigned to Anchises' grave.

And now for nine days all the people have feasted, and offerings have been paid at the altars; quiet breezes have smoothed the ocean floor, and the gathering south wind blows, calling them again to sea. A mighty weeping arises along the winding shore; a night and a day they linger in mutual embraces. Now even the mothers, even the men to whom once the sight of the sea seemed cruel and the name intolerable, would go on and endure the journey's hardship to the end. These Aeneas comforts with kindly words, and entrusts with tears to the care of his kinsman Acestes. Then he bids slay three steers to Eryx and a she-lamb to the Tempests, and loose the hawser as is proper. He himself stands apart, his head bound with stripped olive leaves on the prow holding the cup, and casts the entrails into the salt flood and pours liquid wine.

A wind rising astern follows them forth on their way. In rivalry the crews strike the water, and sweep through the seas.

But Venus meanwhile, overcome by distress, addresses Neptune, and thus pours forth her heart's complaint: 'Juno's bitter wrath and insatiable heart compel me, O Neptune, to turn to the most extreme entreaties: neither length of days nor any goodness softens her, nor do Jove's command and fate itself force her to desist. It is not enough that her accursed hatred has devoured the Phrygian city from among the people, and exhausted on it the stores of vengeance; still she pursues this remnant, the bones and ashes of murdered Troy. May she know why her passion is so fierce. You yourself are my witness what a sudden stir she raised of late on the Libyan waters, flinging all the seas to heaven in futile reliance on Aeolus' blasts; this she dared in your realm. . . . Look, too, driving the Trojan matrons into guilt, she has foully burned their ships, and forced them, their fleet lost, to abandon their crews on an unknown land.

Let the remnant, I beseech you, entrust their sails to your protection across the seas; let them reach Laurentine Tiber; if I ask what is permitted, if fate grants them a city there.'

Then the son of Saturn, ruler of the deep ocean, said this: 'It is wholly right, O Cytherean, that your trust should be in my realm, from which you were born; and I have deserved it: often have I allayed the rage and full fury of sky and sea. No less on land, as I call Xanthus and Simois to witness, has been my care for your Aeneas. When Achilles pursued the Trojan armies and hurled them breathless on their walls, and sent many thousands to death,—when the choked rivers groaned and Xanthus could not find passage or roll out to sea,—then I snatched Aeneas away in sheltering mist as he met the brave son of Peleus outmatched in strength and divine support, eager as I was to overthrow the walls of perjured Troy that my own hands had built. Now too my mind rests the same; dismiss your fear.

In safety, as you desire, shall he reach the haven of Avernus. There will be just one whom you will lose and mourn upon the water; one life shall be given for many. . . .'

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

At this lord Aeneas' soul thrills with a gentle answering change to delight. He bids all the masts be raised with speed, and the sails stretched on the yards. Together all set their sheets, and all at once slacken their canvas to left and again to right; together they brace and unbrace the yard-arms aloft; prosperous gales waft the fleet along. First, in front of all, Palinurus steered the close column; the rest under orders ply their course by his. And now dewy Night had just reached the midpoint of heaven; the sailors, stretched on their hard benches under the oars, relaxed their limbs in quiet rest: when Sleep, sliding lightly down from the starry sky, parted the shadowy air and cleft the dark, seeking you, O Palinurus, carrying dreams of disaster to you who had no thought of harm, and lit on the high stern, a god in Phorbas' likeness, dropping this speech from his lips: 'Palinurus son of Iasus, the very seas bear our fleet along; the breezes breathe steadily; for an hour rest is given.

Lay down your head, and give your weary eyes a stolen respite from their toil. I myself for a little will take your duty in your place.' To whom Palinurus, scarcely lifting his eyes, returns: 'Would you have me ignorant of what the calm surface of the sea means, and the waves at rest? Shall I have faith in this perilous thing? How shall I trust Aeneas to deceitful breezes, and the placid treachery of sky that has so often deceived me?' Such words he uttered, and, clinging fast to the tiller, did not slacken his grip at all, and looked up steadily on the stars. Look! The god shakes over each temple a bough dripping with Lethean dew and made sleep-inducing by the power of Styx, and makes his swimming eyes relax their struggles. Scarcely had sleep begun to slacken his limbs unaware, when the god bent down and flung him headlong into the clear water, tearing rudder and half the stern away with him as Palinurus called repeatedly to his comrades in vain; the god himself rose on flying wings into thin air.

Nevertheless the fleet runs safely on its sea path, and glides on unalarmed in lord Neptune's assurance. Yes, and now they were sailing in to the cliffs of the Sirens, dangerous once long ago and white with the bones of many a man; and the hoarse rocks echoed afar in the ceaseless surf; when her lord felt the ship rocking astray because her helmsman was gone, and himself steered her on over the darkening water, sighing often meanwhile, and heavy at heart for his friend's mischance. 'Ah, too trusting in the calm of sky and sea, you will lie, O Palinurus, naked on an alien sand!'

Book Six

He speaks through his tears, and gives his fleet free rein, and at last glides in to Euboic Cumae's coast. They turn the prows seaward; the ships were held fast by their anchors' teeth, and the curving ships line the beach. The warrior band leaps forth eagerly on the Hesperian shore; some seek the seeds of flame hidden in veins of flint, some scour the woods, the thick coverts of wild beasts, and find and show the streams. But good Aeneas seeks the fortress where Apollo sits high enthroned, and the secluded mystery of the awe-inspiring Sibyl's deep cavern, over whose mind and soul the prophetic Delian breathes high inspiration and reveals the future.

Now they draw near the groves of Trivia and the roof of gold. Daedalus, as the story runs, when in flight from Minos' realm he dared to spread his fleet wings to the sky, glided on his unwonted way towards the icy northern star, and at length alighted gently on the Chalcidian stronghold. Here, on the first land he set foot on again, he dedicated the oarlike wings to you, O Phoebus, in the vast temple he built. On the doors is Androgeus' death; beside it the children of Cecrops, commanded, alas, to pay seven of their sons' lives as a yearly ransom; the urn stands there, and the lots are drawn. Right opposite the land of Gnosus rises from the sea; on it is the cruel passion for the bull, Pasiphae's stealthy disguise, and the mixed breed and double nature of the Minotaur, record of a shameful passion; on it the famous dwelling's intricate, inescapable maze; but Daedalus, pitying the great love of the princess, himself unlocked the tangled treachery of the palace, guiding her lover's blind footsteps with a thread.

You too would have had no small part in the work he made, Icarus, had grief allowed it. Twice he had tried to portray your fate in gold; twice the father's hands dropped down. Indeed, their eyes would have scanned the whole story in order, had Achates not already returned from his errand, and with him the priestess of Phoebus and Trivia, Deiphobe daughter of Glaucus, who addresses the king in these words: 'The moment demands other sights than these: now it would be well to sacrifice seven unbroken bullocks of the herd, as many fitly chosen sheep of two years old.' So she speaks to Aeneas; nor do they delay to do her sacred bidding; and the priestess calls the Teucrians into the lofty shrine.

A vast cavern has been hollowed into the side of the Euboic cliff. A hundred broad passageways lead into it through a hundred gates, and from them the Sibyl's answers ring out in as many voices. They had reached the threshold when the maiden cries: 'It is time to ask your fate: the god! Look, the god!' As she spoke in the gateway, her face, her color, and her ordered hair suddenly changed. Her wild heart heaves madly in her panting breast; she seems to grow in stature, and her voice is more than mortal, now that the god breathes upon her with his divine presence closer. 'Are you slow to vow and pray,' she cries, 'Aeneas of Troy? Are you slow? For until you do, the great portals of the spellbound house will not swing open.' So she spoke and fell silent. A cold shudder ran through the Teucrians' iron frames, and the king pours out a prayer from deep in his heart:

'Phoebus, who have always pitied Troy's bitter hardships, who guided the Dardanian shaft from Paris' hand full on the son of Aeacus, under your guidance I have crossed all these seas that skirt mighty lands, the Massylian nations far withdrawn, and the fields fringed by the Syrtes; let Troy's fortune follow us this far, and no farther. You too may now, without hindrance, spare the nation of Pergama, gods and goddesses whoever among you Ilium and the great glory of Dardania did wrong. And you, O prophetess most holy, foreknower of the future, grant (for no unearned realm does my destiny claim) a resting-place in Latium to the Teucrians, to their wandering gods and the storm-tossed deities of Troy. Then I will dedicate a temple of solid marble to Phoebus and Trivia, and festal days in Phoebus' name. A mighty sanctuary awaits you too in our realm.

For here I will place your oracles and the secrets of destiny uttered to my people, and consecrate chosen men, O gracious one. Only do not entrust your verses to leaves, lest they fly disordered, the sport of rushing winds; speak them yourself, I beseech you.' His lips finished speaking.

But the prophetess, not yet tamed by Phoebus' hand, rages fiercely in the cavern, trying to shake the mighty god from her breast; so much the more does he wear down her maddened mouth and subdue her wild breast and shape her to his pressure. And now the hundred mighty portals of the house open of their own accord, and bring through the air the answer of the soothsayer:

'You have passed at last through the great perils of the sea, though still heavier ones await you on land. The Dardanians will come to the kingdom of Lavinium; relieve your heart of this anxiety. But they will not rejoice in their arrival. Wars, grim wars I see, and the Tiber foaming with streams of blood. You will not lack a Simois, a Xanthus, or a Dorian camp; another Achilles has already been found for Latium, he too born of a goddess. Nor will Juno's presence ever leave the Teucrians. And in your need, to what nations or towns of Italy will you not appeal! Again a foreign bride is the source of all that Teucrian suffering, again a foreign marriage chamber. . . . Do not yield to suffering, but go forward all the more boldly to meet it, as your fortune allows you passage.

The path of rescue, little as you expect it, will first open from a Greek town.'

In such words the Sibyl of Cumae chants from the shrine her perplexing terrors, echoing through the cavern truth wrapped in obscurity: so Apollo rattles the reins and drives the goad within her maddened breast. So soon as the spasm ceased and the raving lips sank to silence, Aeneas the hero begins: 'No kind of hardship, maiden, appears strange or unexpected to my sight; I have already foreseen all this and rehearsed it inwardly in my mind. One thing I pray; since here stands the gate called the underworld king's, and the darkening marsh of Acheron's overflow, grant me leave to go to my beloved father, to see him face to face; show me the way, and open the consecrated portals. On these shoulders I rescued him from encircling flames and a thousand pursuing weapons, and brought him safe from amid the enemy; he accompanied my way over all the seas, and bore with me all the threats of ocean and sky, in his weakness, beyond what his age could be expected to endure.

Indeed, he himself begged and commanded me to seek your grace and approach your courts. Have pity, I beseech you, on son and father, O gracious one! for you are all-powerful, nor in vain has Hecate given you rule in the groves of Avernus. If Orpheus could call up his wife's ghost in the strength of his Thracian lyre and the music of the strings,—if Pollux redeemed his brother by taking turns in death, and passes and repasses so often,—why should I mention great Theseus, why of Alcides? I too am of Jove's sovereign race.'

In such words he pleaded and clasped the altars; when the prophetess began to speak:

'You who spring from the blood of gods, son of Trojan Anchises, the descent into the underworld is easy. All night and day the gate of dark Dis stands open; but to retrace your steps and emerge into the upper air—that is the task and the burden. A few of divine descent have succeeded, those whom Jupiter's kindly favor or the ardor of their excellence has raised to heaven. Between lies a shrouding forest, and the black coils of Cocytus encircle it. Yet if your spirit is so passionate and so eager to cross the Stygian lake twice, to see dark Tartarus twice, and you delight in plunging into this mad undertaking, learn what you must accomplish first. Hidden in a shady tree is a bough whose leaves and flexible shoot are all gold. It is dedicated to the Juno of the underworld, wrapped in deep woodland and enclosed by dim, shadowy valleys.

Only someone who has first plucked the golden foliage from the tree is permitted to enter the earth's hidden places. Beautiful Proserpine has ordained that it be brought to her as her own gift. When the first is torn away, a second fills its place in gold, and the branch sprouts again with the same precious metal. So track it down with your eyes, and duly pluck it with your hand when you find it. It will follow lightly and willingly if fate is calling you; otherwise no strength of yours can overcome it, nor can hard steel cut it away. There is something else: a friend of yours lies dead, alas, unknown to you, and pollutes the whole fleet with death while you seek our counsel and linger in our courts. First lay him in his resting place and conceal him in a tomb.

Lead black cattle there; let this be your first act of purification. Then at last you will see the Stygian groves and the realm untrodden by the living.' She spoke, and her lips closed in silence.

Aeneas goes forth, and leaves the cavern with a fixed gaze and a sad face, turning the hidden outcome over inwardly. By his side goes faithful Achates, and walks in equal perplexity. They went on for a long time exchanging words; of what dead comrade had the prophetess spoken, of what body for burial? And even as they came, they see on the dry beach Misenus cut off by untimely death, Misenus the Aeolid, surpassed by no one in rousing men with breath through bronze and kindling battle with his trumpet-note. He had been attendant on mighty Hector; in Hector's train he waged battle, renowned alike for bugle and spear: after victorious Achilles robbed Hector of life the valiant hero had joined Dardanian Aeneas' company, and followed no meaner leader. But now, while he makes his hollow shell echo over the seas, foolish man! and calls the gods to rival his blast, jealous Triton, if the story can be believed, had caught him among the rocks and sunk him in the foaming waves.

So all surrounded him with loud murmur and cries, good Aeneas the foremost. Then weeping they quickly hasten on the Sibyl's orders, and work hard to pile trees for the altar of burial, and heap it up into the sky. They move into the ancient forest, the deep coverts of game; pitch-pines fall flat, ilex rings to the stroke of axes, and ashen beams and oak are split in clefts with wedges; they roll in huge mountain-ashes from the hills. Aeneas likewise is first in the work, and cheers on his crew and takes up the same tools as theirs. And alone with his sad heart he ponders it all, gazing on the endless forest, and utters this prayer: 'If only that golden bough would now show itself to us on the tree in this depth of woodland! since all the soothsayer's tale of you, Misenus, was, alas! too truly spoken.' Scarcely had he said thus, when twin doves perhaps came flying down the sky, and lit on the green sod right under his eyes.

Then the kingly hero knows them for his mother's birds, and joyfully prays: 'Ah, be my guides, if there is a way, and direct your airy passage into the groves where the rich bough overshadows the fertile ground! and you, O goddess mother, fail not our wavering fortune.' So he spoke and stayed his steps, marking what they signify, where they urge their way. Feeding and flying they advance at such distance as following eyes could keep them in view; then, when they came to Avernus' pestilent gorge, they tower swiftly, and sliding down through the liquid air, choose a resting place and settle side by side on a tree, through whose boughs shone out the contrasting flicker of gold. As in chill mid-winter the woodland often blossoms with the strange leafage of the mistletoe, sown on an alien tree and wreathing the smooth stems with burgeoning saffron; so on the shadowy ilex seemed that leafy gold, so the golden leaves tinkled in the light breeze.

Immediately Aeneas seizes it and eagerly breaks it off as it resists, and carries it beneath the Sibyl's roof.

And at the same time the Teucrians on the beach wept Misenus, and paid the last rites to the unresponsive ashes. First they build up a vast pyre of resinous billets and sawn oak, whose sides they entwine with dark leaves and plant funereal cypresses in front, and adorn it above with his shining armour. Some prepare warm water in cauldrons bubbling over the flames, and wash and anoint the chill body, and utter their lament; then, their weeping done, lay his limbs on the pillow, and spread over it crimson clothing, the accustomed pall. Some lift the heavy bier, a melancholy service, and with averted faces in their ancestral fashion hold and thrust in the torch. Gifts of frankincense, food, and bowls of olive oil, are poured and piled upon the fire. After the embers sank in and the flame died away, they soaked with wine the remnant of thirsty ashes, and Corynaeus gathered the bones and shut them in an urn of bronze; and he too went around his comrades three times with fresh water, and cleansed them with light spray sprinkled from a bough of fruitful olive, and spoke the last words of all.

But good Aeneas heaps a mighty mounded tomb over him, with his own armour and his oar and trumpet, beneath a sky-high mountain that now is called Misenus after him, and keeps his name immortal from age to age.

This done, he hurries to carry out the Sibyl's command. A deep cave yawned dreary and vast, shingle-strewn, sheltered by the black lake and the gloom of the forests; over it no flying things could wing their way unharmed, such a vapour streamed from the dark gorge and rose into the overarching sky. Here the priestess first lines up four black-bodied bullocks and pours wine upon their forehead; and plucking the topmost hairs from between the horns, lays them on the sacred fire for first-offering, calling aloud on Hecate, mistress of heaven and hell. Others apply knives beneath their throats, and catch the warm blood in cups. Aeneas himself smites with the sword a black-fleeced she-lamb to the mother of the Eumenides and her mighty sister, and a barren heifer, Proserpine, to you. Then he raises dark altars to the Stygian king, and lays whole carcases of bulls upon the flames, pouring fat oil over the blazing entrails.

And look! about the first rays of sunrise the ground moaned underfoot, and the woodland ridges began to stir, and dogs seemed to howl through the dusk as the goddess came. 'Keep away, keep away, you who are not consecrated!' cries the soothsayer; 'withdraw entirely from the grove; and you, stride on and unsheath your steel; now there is need of courage, O Aeneas, now of strong resolve.' With these words she plunged madly into the cavern's opening; he with unflinching steps keeps pace with his advancing guide.

Gods who are sovereign over souls! silent ghosts, and Chaos and Phlegethon, the wide, speechless realm of night! as I have heard, so let me tell, and according to your will reveal things buried deep beneath the earth in darkness.

They went in darkness through the dusk beneath the solitary night, through the empty dwellings and bodiless realm of Dis; even as one walks in the forest beneath the grudging light of an uncertain moon, when Jupiter shrouds the sky in shadow and black night blots out the world. Right in front of the doorway and in the entry of the jaws of hell Grief and avenging Cares have made their bed; there dwell wan Sicknesses and gloomy Old Age, and Fear, and ill-counselling Hunger, and loathsome Want, shapes terrible to see; and Death and Toil, and beside them Sleep, Death's kinsman, and the Soul's guilty Joys, and death-dealing War full in the gateway, and the Furies in their iron cells, and mad Discord with bloodstained ribbons wrapped around her snake-filled hair.

Midway an elm, shadowy and high, spreads its boughs and age-old limbs, where, it is said, idle Dreams dwell clustering, and cling under every leaf. And monstrous creatures besides, many and diverse, hide at the gates, Centaurs and double-shaped Scyllas, and the hundredfold Briareus, and the beast of Lerna hissing horribly, and the Chimaera armed with flame, Gorgons and Harpies, and the form of the three-bodied shade. Here Aeneas snatches at his sword in a sudden flutter of terror, and turns the naked edge on them as they come; and if his wise companion had not reminded him that these lives flit thin and bodiless in the hollow likeness of form, he would have rushed forward and slashed in vain through phantoms with his steel.

Hence a road leads to Tartarus and Acheron's wave. Here the dreary pool swirls thick in muddy eddies and disgorges into Cocytus with its load of sand. Charon, the dread ferryman, guards these flowing streams, ragged and awful, his chin covered with untrimmed masses of white hair, and his glassy eyes aflame; his soiled clothing hangs knotted from his shoulders. He himself plies the pole and trims the sails of his vessel, the steel-blue boat freighted with the dead; now advanced in years, though a god's old age is vigorous and fresh. Here all crowded, and rushed streaming to the bank, matrons and men and high-hearted heroes dead and done with life, boys and unwedded girls, and children laid young on the bier before their parents' eyes, multitudinous as leaves fall dropping in the forests at autumn's earliest frost, or birds swarm landward from the deep gulf, when the chill of the year routs them overseas and drives them to sunny lands.

They stood pleading for the first passage across, and stretched forth passionate hands to the farther shore. But the grim sailor admits now one and now another, while some he pushes back far apart on the strand. Moved to wonder at the mingled throng: 'Say, O maiden,' cries Aeneas, 'what means this flocking to the river? what do these souls desire so eagerly? or what distinction makes some withdraw from the banks and others go with sweeping oars over the leaden waterways?'

To him the long-lived priestess briefly replied: 'Seed of Anchises, most certain offspring of gods, you see the deep pools of Cocytus and the Stygian marsh, by whose divinity the gods fear to swear falsely. All this crowd you see is helpless and unburied; Charon is the ferryman; those who ride across the water have found a tomb. Nor is it given to cross the awful banks and hoarse streams before their dust has found a resting-place. A hundred years they wander here flitting about the shore; then at last they gain entrance, and revisit the pools so passionately desired.'

Anchises' son stood still, and halted in thought, pitying at heart their cruel lot. There he discerns, mournful and unhonoured dead, Leucaspis and Orontes, captains of the Lycian squadron, whom, as they sailed together from Troy over gusty seas, the south wind overwhelmed and wrapped the waters round ship and men.

Look, there passed Palinurus the steersman, who recently, while he watched the stars on their Libyan passage, had slipped from the stern and fallen amid the waves. To him, when he first recognized the sorrowful form in that depth of shade, he begins to speak: 'What god, O Palinurus, tore you from us and sank you amid the seas? come, tell me. For in this single answer Apollo deceived me, never found false before, when he prophesied safety for you on the ocean and arrival on the Ausonian coasts. See, is this his promise-keeping?'

And he replies: 'Neither did Phoebus on his oracular seat delude you, O prince, Anchises' son, nor did any god drown me in the sea. For while I clung to my appointed charge and governed our course, I pulled the tiller with me in my fall, and the shock as I slipped wrenched it away. By the rough seas I swear, fear for myself never tormented me as much as fear for your ship, lest, the rudder lost and the pilot struck away, those gathering waves might master it. Three wintry nights in the water the blustering south wind drove me over the endless sea; only on the fourth dawn did I sight Italy as I rose on the climbing wave. Little by little I swam shoreward; already I clung safe; but while, encumbered with my dripping clothing, I caught with crooked fingers at the jagged needles of mountain rock, the barbarous people attacked me with weapons, ignorantly mistaking me for a prize.

Now the wave holds me, and the winds toss me on the shore. By heaven's pleasant light and breezes I beseech you, by your father, by Iulus your rising hope, rescue me from these distresses, O unconquered one! Either, since you can, cast earth over me and again seek the haven of Velia; or, if in any way that may be, if in any way the goddess who bore you shows a way,—for I do not think you will float without divine will across these vast rivers and the Stygian pool,—lend me a pitying hand, and bear me over the waves in your company, that at least in death I may find a quiet resting-place.'

Thus he ended, and the soothsayer thus began: 'Where does this fierce longing come from, Palinurus? Will you without burial see the Stygian waters and the awful river of the Furies? Stop hoping that prayers can bend the decrees of heaven. But take my words to your memory, for comfort in your woeful case: far and wide shall the bordering cities be driven by celestial portents to appease your dust; they shall rear a tomb, and pay the tomb a yearly offering, and for evermore shall the place keep Palinurus' name.' The words soothed away his distress, and for a while drove grief away from his sorrowing heart; he is glad at the land that will bear his name.

So they complete their journey's beginning, and draw near the river. Just then the ferryman caught sight of them from the Stygian wave advancing through the silent woodland and turning their feet towards the bank, and challenges them with these words: 'Whoever you are, marching armed toward our river, speak where you stand, say why you have come, and halt your advance. This is the land of Shadows, of Sleep, and slumberous Night; the Stygian hull may carry no living body. Nor, indeed, did I rejoice in taking Alcides on the lake for passenger, nor Theseus and Pirithous, born of gods though they were and unconquered in might. Alcides laid a binding hand upon the guardian of Tartarus, and dragged him cowering from the throne of my lord the King; the others tried to abduct our mistress from the bridal chamber of Dis.' To this the Amphrysian prophetess briefly replied: 'No such plot is here; do not be disturbed; nor do our weapons offer violence; the huge gatekeeper may bark on for ever in his cavern and frighten the bloodless ghosts; Proserpine may keep her honour within her uncle's gates.

Aeneas of Troy, renowned in goodness as in arms, goes down to meet his father in the deep shades of Erebus. If the sight of such affection does not move you at all, yet this bough' (she reveals the bough hidden in her clothing) 'you must know.' Then the anger in his heaving breast subsides, and he says no more; but marvelling at the awful gift, the fated rod so long unseen, he steers in his dusky vessel and draws to shore. Next he routs out the souls that sat on the long benches, and clears the rowing benches, while he takes mighty Aeneas on board. The galley groaned under the weight in all her seams, and the marsh-water leaked fast in. At length prophetess and prince are landed unscathed on the ugly ooze and livid sedge.

This realm rings with the triple-throated baying of vast Cerberus, lying huge in the cavern opposite; to whom the prophetess, seeing the serpents already bristling up on his neck, throws a cake made sleep-inducing with honey and drugged grain. He, with threefold jaws gaping in ravenous hunger, catches it when thrown, and sinks to earth with monstrous body outstretched, and sprawling huge over all his den. With the guardian overcome, Aeneas makes entrance, and quickly leaves the bank of the water that no one crosses back.

At once loud wailing fills their ears: the souls of babies cry on the doorway sill, torn from the breast and given no share in life's sweetness, cut off by a dark day and drowned in bitter death. Close beside them are those condemned to death on false accusation. These dwellings, too, are assigned by lot and judgment. Minos presides and shakes the urn; he summons a council of the silent people and inquires into their lives and the charges against them. Next in order dwell those mourners whose own innocent hands dealt them death, who flung away their souls in hatred of the day. How gladly they would now endure their poverty and bitter hardships in the upper air! It cannot be: the unlovely pool locks them in its gloomy waters, and Styx pours its ninefold barrier between. Not far from here the Wailing Fields stretch on every side; that is the name they are given.

Here those whom pitiless love has wasted in cruel decay hide among untrodden paths, enclosed in myrtle thickets; not even death ends their suffering. In this region he sees Phaedra and Procris and sorrowful Eriphyle, displaying the wounds her merciless son inflicted, and Evadne and Pasiphae. Laodamia goes in their company, and the woman who was once Caeneus, a man, but is now a woman again, restored by fate to her former shape. Among them Dido the Phoenician, fresh from her death-wound, wandered in the vast forest. The Trojan hero stood beside her and recognized her dim form through the darkness, as someone sees, or thinks he sees, the moon rising through the mist at the beginning of the month. He let tears fall and spoke to her with gentle, loving words:

'Alas, Dido! so the news was true that reached me; you did perish, and the sword sealed your doom! Ah me, was I the cause of your death? By the stars I swear, by the heavenly powers and all that is sacred beneath the earth, unwillingly, O queen, I left your shore. But the gods, at whose orders now I pass through this shadowy place, this land of mouldering overgrowth and deep night, the gods' commands drove me forth; nor could I think my departure would bring you pain so great as this. Stop your steps, and do not withdraw from my sight. From whom are you fleeing? This is the last chance fate allows me to speak to you.'

In such words and with tears springing to his eyes Aeneas soothed the burning and fierce-eyed soul. She turned away with looks fixed fast on the ground, her face no more moved by the speech he attempts than if she stood in hard flint or Marpesian marble. At length she started, and fled wrathfully into the shadowy woodland, where Sychaeus, her former husband, responds to her sorrows and returns her love. Yet Aeneas, dismayed by her cruel doom, follows her far on her way with pitying tears.

Thence he pursues his appointed path. And now they trod those utmost fields where the renowned in war have their haunt apart. Here Tydeus meets him; here Parthenopaeus, glorious in arms, and the pallid phantom of Adrastus; here the Dardanians long wept on earth and fallen in the war; sighing he discerns all their long array, Glaucus and Medon and Thersilochus, the three children of Antenor, and Polyphoetes, Ceres' priest, and Idaeus still in his chariot, still holding his weapons. The souls throng round him to right and left; nor is one look enough; lingering delighted, they pace by his side and ask why he has come. But the princes of the Grecians and Agamemnon's armies, when they see him glittering in arms through the gloom, hurry terror-stricken away; some turn backward, as when long ago they fled to the ships; some raise their voice faintly, and gasp out a broken ineffectual cry.

And here he saw Deiphobus son of Priam, with face cruelly torn, face and both hands, and ears lopped from his mangled temples, and nostrils maimed by a shameful wound. He barely recognized the cowering form that hid its dreadful punishment; then he springs to address him in familiar words:

'Deiphobus mighty in arms, seed of Teucer's royal blood, whose ruthless vengeance was so cruel? who was allowed to use you thus? Rumour reached me that on that last night, outwearied with endless slaughter, you had sunk on the heap of mingled carnage. Then my own hand reared an empty tomb on the Rhoetean shore, my own voice thrice called aloud upon your ghost. Your name and armour keep the spot; I could not find you, my friend, or lay you in the native earth I left behind.'

To this Priam's son replies: 'You failed in nothing, my friend; you have paid Deiphobus and his dead shade their full due. But my fate and the Laconian woman's murderous guilt dragged me down to this doom; these are the marks she left behind. For how we spent that last night in delusive gladness you know, and must remember too well. When the fated horse leapt down on the steep towers of Troy, bearing armed infantry for the burden of its womb, she led our Phrygian women around in a sham procession with Bacchic cries; herself she raised a mighty flame amid them, and signaled to the Greeks from the fortress height. Then I lay fast asleep in my ill-fated bridal chamber, deep asleep and worn out by my duties, and lay overwhelmed in slumber sweet and profound and most like to easeful death. Meanwhile that crown of wives removes all the arms from my dwelling, and slips out the faithful sword from beneath my head: she calls Menelaus into the house and flings wide the gateway: no doubt she hoped her lover would value the gift highly, and so she might quench the fame of her ill deeds long ago.

Why do I linger? They burst into the chamber, they and the Aeolid, counsellor of crime, in their company. Gods, recompense the Greeks even thus, if with righteous lips I call for vengeance! But come, tell in turn what chance has brought you here still alive. Have you come driven by wanderings over the ocean, or by promptings from heaven? or what fortune keeps you from rest, that you should draw near these sad sunless dwellings, this disordered land?'

During this exchange Dawn had already crossed heaven's central axis on her rose-charioted way; and perhaps they would have spent all the allotted time this way; but the Sibyl made brief warning speech to her companion: 'Night falls, Aeneas; we waste the hours in weeping. Here is the place where the road divides; by this that runs to the right under great Dis' city is our path to Elysium; but the leftward wreaks vengeance on the wicked and sends them to unrelenting hell.' But Deiphobus: 'Be not angered, mighty priestess; I will depart, I will resume my place and return into darkness. Go, glory of our people, go, enjoy a fairer fate than mine.' Thus much he spoke, and with these words turned away his footsteps.

Aeneas looks swiftly back, and sees beneath the cliff on the left hand a wide city, surrounded by a triple wall and encircled by a racing river of boiling flame, Tartarean Phlegethon, that echoes over its rolling rocks. In front is the gate, huge and pillared with solid adamant, that no attacking human force or even the inhabitants of heaven can overthrow; a tower of iron rises above it, and Tisiphone sitting wrapped in a bloodstained robe keeps sleepless watch at the entry by night and day. Hence moans are heard and fierce lashes resound, with the clank of iron and dragging chains. Aeneas stopped and stood transfixed in dismay at the tumult. 'What shapes of crime are here? declare, O maiden; or what the punishment that pursues them, and all this upsurging wail?' Then the soothsayer thus began to speak: 'Illustrious chief of Troy, no pure foot may tread these guilty courts; but to me Hecate herself, when she gave me rule over the groves of Avernus, taught how the gods punish, and guided me through all her realm.

Gnosian Rhadamanthus here holds unyielding rule, punishes hidden crimes brought to light and compels confession whenever someone in the upper world, vainly rejoicing in undetected guilt, has avoided acknowledgment of the evil he committed until the dusk of death. Immediately avenging Tisiphone, armed with her whip, tramples down the shivering sinners, menaces them with the grim snakes in her left hand, and summons forth her sisters in merciless company. Then at last the sacred gates are flung open and grate on the jarring hinge. Do you notice what sentry is seated in the doorway? what shape guards the threshold? More grim within sits the monstrous Hydra with her fifty black yawning throats: and Tartarus' self gapes sheer and strikes into the gloom through twice the space that one looks upward to Olympus and the lofty heaven. Here Earth's ancient children, the Titans' brood, hurled down by the thunderbolt, lie wallowing in the abyss.

Here likewise I saw the twin sons of Aloeus, enormous of frame, who tried with violent hands to pluck down high heaven and thrust Jove from his upper realm. Likewise I saw Salmoneus paying the cruel penalty for mocking Jove's flame and Olympus' thunders. Borne by four horses and brandishing a torch, he rode in triumph midway through the populous city of Grecian Elis, and claimed for himself the worship of deity; madman! who would mimic the storm-cloud and the inimitable bolt with bronze that rang under his trampling horse-hoofs. But the Lord omnipotent hurled his shaft through thickening clouds (his was no firebrand or smoky blaze of torches) and dashed him headlong in the fury of the whirlwind. At the same time Tityos might be seen, fosterling of Earth the mother of all, whose body stretches over nine full acres, and a monstrous vulture with crooked beak eats away the imperishable liver and the entrails that renew themselves in suffering, and plunges deep into the breast that gives it food and dwelling; nor is any rest given to the tissues that always grow anew.

Why tell of the Lapithae, of Ixion and Pirithous? over them a stone hangs, just slipping, seemingly about to fall; or the high banqueting couches gleam golden-pillared, and the feast is spread in royal luxury before their faces; lying close beside them, the eldest of the Furies guards the tables against their touch and rises with torch raised and thunderous lips. Here are they who hated their brethren while life endured, or struck a parent or wronged a client, or who brooded alone over found treasure and did not share it with their fellows, this the greatest multitude of all; and they who were slain for adultery, and who followed unrighteous arms, and did not fear to betray their masters' pledged trust. Imprisoned they await their doom. Do not seek an account of that doom, the kind of fate into which they have sunk. Some roll a vast stone, or hang outstretched on the spokes of wheels; unfortunate Theseus sits and shall sit for ever, and Phlegyas in his misery gives counsel to all and testifies aloud through the gloom, Learn by this warning to do justly and not to slight the gods.

One man sold his country for gold, and laid her under a tyrant's sway; he set up and pulled down laws at a price; this other forced his daughter's bridal chamber and a forbidden marriage; all dared some monstrous wickedness, and had success in what they dared. Not even if I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths, and a voice of iron could I sum up all the shapes of crime or name all their punishments.'

Thus spoke Phoebus' long-lived priestess; then 'But come now,' she cries; 'hurry on our way and complete the rite we have begun; let us go faster; I see the ramparts cast in Cyclopean furnaces, and in front the arched gateway where they bid us lay the appointed gifts.' She ended, and advancing side by side along the shadowy ways, they pass over and draw near the gates. Aeneas makes entrance, and sprinkling his body with fresh water, plants the bough full in the gateway.

Now at length, this fully done, and the goddess' rite completed, they came to the happy place, the green parks and blissful dwellings of the Fortunate Woodlands. Here an ampler air clothes the meadows in lustrous sheen, and they know their own sun and a starlight of their own. Some exercise their limbs in tournament on the greensward, contend in games, and wrestle on the yellow sand. Some dance with beating footfall and lips that sing; with them is the Thracian priest in sweeping robe, and makes music to their measures on the seven intervals of the notes, the notes struck now with his fingers, now with his ivory rod. Here is Teucer's ancient brood, a generation excellent in beauty, high-hearted heroes born in happier years, Ilus and Assaracus, and Dardanus, founder of Troy. Afar he marvels at the armour and chariots empty of their lords: their spears stand fixed in the ground, and their unyoked horses pasture at large over the plain: their life's delight in chariot and armour, their care in pasturing their sleek horses, follows them in the same way deep beneath the earth.

Others, look! he sees feasting on the sward to right and left, and singing in chorus the glad Paean-cry, within a scented laurel-grove from where Eridanus river surges upward full-volumed through the wood. Here is the band of them who bore wounds in fighting for their country, and they who were pure in priesthood while life endured, and the good poets whose words did not dishonor Apollo; and they who made life beautiful by the arts of their invention, and who won by service a memory among men, all their brows bound with snow-white ribbons. To their encircling throng the Sibyl said this, and to Musaeus before them all; for he is in the center of the whole multitude, and stands out head and shoulders above them as they gaze upward:

'Tell, O blissful souls, and you, poet most gracious, what region, what place has Anchises for his own? For his sake we have come, and have sailed across the wide rivers of Erebus.'

And to her the hero thus made brief reply: 'No one has a fixed dwelling; we live in the shady woodlands; soft-swelling banks and meadows fresh with streams are our habitation. But you, if this be your heart's desire, scale this ridge, and I will set you at once on an easy pathway.' He spoke, and paced on before them, and from above shows the shining plains; afterwards they leave the mountain heights.

But lord Anchises, deep in the green valley, was thoughtfully surveying the imprisoned souls destined to the daylight above, and perhaps reviewing his beloved children and the full number of his people, them and their fates and fortunes, their works and ways. And he, when he saw Aeneas advancing to meet him over the greensward, stretched forth both hands eagerly, while tears rolled over his cheeks, and his lips parted in a cry: 'Have you come at last, and has your love, O my longed-for child, conquered the difficult road? Is it granted, O my son, to gaze on your face and hear and answer in familiar tones? This indeed I foresaw in my mind, counting the days between; nor has my care misled me. What lands, what stretches of sea have you crossed to reach me, through what surge of perils, O my son!

How I dreaded the realm of Libya might work you harm!'

And he replies: 'Your melancholy phantom, yours, O my father, came before me often and often, and drove me to steer to these portals. My fleet is anchored on the Tyrrhenian brine. Give your hand to clasp, O my father, give it, and do not withdraw from my embrace.'

So he spoke, his face wet with abundant weeping. Three times he tried there to throw his arms around his neck; three times the phantom, grasped in vain, fled from his hands like a light wind, most like a fluttering dream.

Meanwhile Aeneas sees far back in the shelter of the valley a woodland and rustling forest thickets, and the river of Lethe that floats past their peaceful dwellings. Around it flitted nations and peoples innumerable; even as in the meadows when in clear summer weather bees settle on the variegated flowers and stream round the snow-white lilies, all the plain is murmurous with their humming. Aeneas starts at the sudden view, and asks about what he does not understand; what are those spreading streams, or who are they whose vast train fills the banks? Then lord Anchises: 'Souls destined and due for second bodies drink the untroubled water of long forgetfulness from the current of Lethe. I have long desired to tell you of these and show them to you face to face, and to count the entire line of your descendants, that so you may the more rejoice with me in finding Italy.'—'O father, must we think that any souls travel hence into upper air, and return again to bodily fetters? why this strange, sad longing of theirs for the light?' 'I will tell,' rejoins Anchises, 'nor will I hold you in suspense, my son.' And he unfolds all things in order one by one.

'First, a spirit sustains from within heaven and earth and the watery fields, the shining orb of the moon and the Titanian star. A soul, diffused throughout them, moves all their parts and mingles with their mighty frame. From it spring humankind and beasts, the life of winged creatures, and the monstrous forms that the ocean breeds beneath its glittering surface. Those seeds have fiery power and divine origin, to the extent that the body's corruption does not clog them or earthly frames and mortal limbs dull them. That is why they fear and desire, grieve and rejoice; they cannot see through to the air while shut in the blind darkness of their prison. Indeed, even when the last ray of life is gone, alas, not all their suffering or all the body's plagues wholly release them: many long-ingrained evils must inevitably have struck astonishingly deep roots.

Therefore they are disciplined with punishments and pay the full penalty for a lifetime's evil. Some are hung outstretched to the unseen winds; some have guilt's corruption washed away beneath the desolate deep or burned away by fire. We suffer, each as a separate spirit; afterward we are sent into the wide spaces of Elysium, a few of us to possess the happy fields, until the long passage of days, completing time's circle, removes the ingrained stain and leaves the ethereal sense untainted and the pure flame of spirit. All these before you, when a thousand years have fully revolved, a god summons in a vast company to the river Lethe, so that in forgetfulness they may return to the slopes of the upper earth and begin to desire a return into the body.'

Anchises ceased, and leads his son and the Sibyl likewise amid the assembled murmurous throng, and mounts a hillock from where he might scan all the long ranks and learn their faces as they came.

'Now come, the glory hereafter to follow our Dardanian progeny, the posterity to abide in our Italian people, illustrious souls and inheritors of our name to be, these I will recount, and teach you your destinies. He yonder, do you see? the warrior leaning on his pointless spear, holds the nearest place allotted in our groves, and shall rise first into the air of heaven from the mingling blood of Italy, Silvius of Alban name, the child of your old age, whom your wife Lavinia will nurture late in your long years in the woodland, king and father of kings; through him our house will rule in Alba the Long. The man beside him is Procas, glory of the Trojan race; and Capys and Numitor; and he who shall renew your name, Silvius Aeneas, eminent alike in goodness or in arms, if ever he shall receive his kingdom in Alba.

Men among men! see what strength they display, and wear the civic oak shading their brows. They shall establish Nomentum and Gabii and Fidena city, they the Collatine hill-fortress, Pometii and the Fort of Inuus, Bola and Cora: these shall be names that are now nameless lands. Indeed, Romulus likewise, son of Mavors, shall join his grandsire's company, nurtured by his mother Ilia, of Assaracus' blood. Do you see how the twin plumes straighten on his crest, and his father's own emblazonment already marks him for upper air? Look, O son! under his auspices renowned Rome will fill earth with her empire and heaven with her pride, and gird about seven fortresses with a single wall, prosperous mother of men; even as our lady of Berecyntus rides in her chariot turret-crowned through the Phrygian cities, glad in the gods she has borne, clasping a hundred of her children's children, all inhabitants of heaven, all dwellers on the upper heights.

Turn both your eyes here now; see this people, the Romans who are yours. Here is Caesar and all Iulus' posterity that shall arise under heaven's mighty vault. Here is he, the man whose promised coming you hear of again and again, Caesar Augustus, a god's son, who shall again establish the ages of gold in Latium over the fields that once were Saturn's realm, and carry his empire afar to the Garamantes and Indians, to the land that lies beyond our stars, beyond the sun's yearlong ways, where Atlas the sky-bearer wheels on his shoulder the glittering star-spangled pole. Before his coming even now the kingdoms of the Caspian shudder at oracular answers, and the Maeotic land and the mouths of sevenfold Nile flutter in alarm. Nor indeed did Alcides traverse such spaces of earth, though he pierced the brazen-footed deer, or though he brought peace to the Erymanthian woodlands and made Lerna tremble at his bow: nor he who sways his team with reins of vine, Liber the conqueror, when he drives his tigers from Nysa's lofty crest.

And do we yet hesitate to give valour scope in deeds, or shrink in fear from setting foot on Ausonian land? Ah, and who is he apart, marked out with sprays of olive, offering sacrifice? I know the locks and hoary chin of the king of Rome who shall establish the infant city in his laws, sent from little Cures' sterile land to the majesty of empire. To him Tullus shall next succeed, who shall break the peace of his country and stir to arms men grown rusty in warfare and armies now disused to triumphs; and close behind him boastful Ancus follows, even now too elated by popular acclaim. Will you see also the Tarquin kings, and the haughty soul of Brutus the Avenger, and the restored fasces? He shall first receive a consul's power and the merciless axes, and when his children would stir fresh war, the father, for fair freedom's sake, will summon them to their death.

Unhappy! yet however posterity shall take the deed, love of country and limitless passion for honour shall prevail. Indeed, look apart at the Decii and the Drusi, Torquatus with his cruel axe, and Camillus returning with the standards. Yonder souls likewise, whom you discern gleaming in equal arms, now united while enclosed in Night, ah me! what mutual war, what battle-lines and bloodshed shall they arouse, when they reach the light of the living! the father-in-law descending from the Alpine barriers and the fortress of the Dweller Alone, the son-in-law facing him with the embattled East. No, my children, do not harden your hearts to such warfare, do not turn your country's conquering might against her own heart; and you, be the first to forgive, who draw your descent from heaven; cast down the weapons from your hand, O blood of mine. . . .

He shall drive his conquering chariot to the Capitoline height triumphant over Corinth, glorious in Achaean slaughter. He shall uproot Argos and Agamemnonian Mycenae, and the Aeacid's own heir, the seed of Achilles mighty in arms, avenging his ancestors in Troy and Minerva's polluted temple. Who might leave you, lordly Cato, or you, Cossus, to silence? who the Gracchan family, or these two sons of the Scipios, a double thunderbolt of war, Libya's destruction? and Fabricius potent in poverty, or you, Serranus, sowing in the furrow? Where do you whirl me, all breathless, O Fabii? you are he, the most mighty, the one man whose delaying restores our State. Others shall beat out the breathing bronze to softer lines, I believe it well; shall draw living lineaments from the marble; they will plead cases more eloquently; their instrument will trace the paths of heaven and tell the risings of the stars: let it be your task, Roman, to rule the nations under your empire; let this be your art, to lay down the law of peace, to be merciful to the conquered and beat the haughty down.'

Thus lord Anchises, and as they marvel, he continues: 'Look how Marcellus the conqueror marches glorious in the splendid spoils, towering high above them all! He will support the Roman State, reeling beneath the invading shock, shall ride down Carthaginian and insurgent Gaul, and a third time hang up the captured armour before lord Quirinus.'

And at this Aeneas, for he saw beside Marcellus a young man of outstanding beauty and glittering armor, though his brow showed little joy, and his eyes looked down:

'Who, O my father, is he who thus attends him on his way? his son, or another of his descendants' princely line? How his comrades murmur around him! how noble his presence is! but dark Night flutters round his head with melancholy shade.'

Then lord Anchises with welling tears began: 'O my son, ask not of the great sorrow of your people. Fate will only show him to the earth and will not allow him to stay longer. Lords of heaven, you judged Rome's descendants too mighty if this gift of yours had lasted. What moaning of men shall arise from the Field of Mavors by the imperial city! what a funeral train will you see, O Tiber, as you flow by the new-made grave! No youth of Ilian descent will raise his Latin forefathers' hopes so high; nor shall the land of Romulus ever boast of any fosterling like this. Alas his goodness, alas his antique honour, and right hand invincible in war! no one would have faced him unscathed in armed combat, whether he met the foe on foot, or ran his spurs into the flanks of his foaming horse.

Ah me, the pity of you, O boy! if in any way you break through fate's grim barrier, you will be Marcellus. Give me lilies by the handful; let me strew bright blossoms, and let me at least lavish these gifts on my descendant's soul, and do the unavailing service.'

Thus they wander up and down over the whole region of broad vaporous plains, and scan all the scene. And when Anchises had led his son over it, each point by each, and kindled his spirit with passion for the glories on their way, he tells him afterwards of the war he next must wage, and instructs him of the Laurentine peoples and the city of Latinus, and how each hardship may be avoided or endured.

There are two gates of Sleep, one said to be made of horn, and through it true shades find an easy way out; the other shines white with polished ivory, and through it false visions rise from the world of ghosts. With these words then Anchises escorts his son and the Sibyl there together, and dismisses them by the ivory gate. He pursues his way to the ships and revisits his comrades; then makes his way to Caieta's harbor straight along the shore. The anchor is cast from the prow; the sterns are grounded on the beach.

Book Seven

You too, Caieta, nurse of Aeneas, gave our shores an everlasting renown in death; and your honor still dwells at your resting place, and a name in broad Hesperia, if that be glory, marks your dust. But when the last rites are duly paid, and the mound smoothed over the grave, good Aeneas, now the high seas are hushed, continues under sail and leaves his haven. Breezes blow into the night, and the white moonshine speeds them on; the sea glitters in her quivering radiance. Soon they skirt the shores of Circe's land, where the wealthy daughter of the Sun makes her untrodden groves echo with ceaseless song; and her stately house glows nightlong with burning odorous cedarwood, as she passes the ringing comb over her delicate weaving. From there the angry cries of lions are heard far away as they chafe at their fetters and roar in the deep night; bears and bristly swine rage in their pens, and vast shapes of wolves howl; these the deadly goddess Circe, with her potent herbs, had transformed in face and body from human likeness into wild beasts.

But lest the good Trojans might suffer so dread a change, might enter her haven or approach the ominous shores, Neptune filled their sails with favourable winds, and gave them escape, and bore them past the seething shallows.

And now the sea reddened with shafts of light, and high in heaven the yellow dawn shone rose-charioted; when the winds fell, and every breath suddenly died, and the oar-blades toil through the heavy surface of the ocean. And on this Aeneas sees from the sea a mighty forest. Midway in it the pleasant Tiber stream breaks to sea in swirling eddies, laden with yellow sand. Around and above birds of many kinds that frequent its banks and channel delighted heaven with song and flew about the forest. He orders his crew to bend their course and turn their prows to land, and glides joyfully into the shady river.

Come now, Erato! and I will unfold who were the kings, what tides of circumstance prevailed, how it was with ancient Latium when first that foreign army drew their fleet ashore on Ausonia's coast; I will recall the prelude to battle. You, divine one, inspire your poet. I will tell of grim wars, tell of embattled lines, of kings whom honor drove to their death, of the Tyrrhenian forces, and all Hesperia enrolled in arms. A greater history opens before me, I attempt a greater work.

Latinus the King, now growing old, ruled in a long peace over quiet farmland and town. He, men say, was sprung of Faunus and the nymph Marica of Laurentum. Faunus' father was Picus; and Picus boasts that he is your son, Saturn; you are the first source of their blood. By divine decree he had no surviving son or male descendant; his son had been cut off in the first spring of youth. One child alone preserved the household and its august home, a daughter now ripe for a husband and of full years for marriage. Many wooed her from wide Latium and all Ausonia. Fairest and foremost of all is Turnus, of long and lordly ancestry; but boding signs from heaven, many and terrible, bar the way. Within the palace, in the lofty inner courts, was a laurel of sacred foliage, guarded in awe through many years, which lord Latinus, it was said, himself found and dedicated to Phoebus when first he would build his citadel; and from it gave his settlers their name, Laurentines.

High atop of it, wonderful to tell, bees borne with loud humming across the liquid air clustered thickly around it, and with interlinked feet hung in a sudden swarm from the leafy bough. Immediately the prophet cries: 'I see a foreigner approach, an army from the same direction seek this same place, and rule high in our fortress.' Furthermore, while maiden Lavinia stands beside her father feeding the altars with holy fuel, she was seen, oh, horror! to catch fire in her long tresses, and burn with flickering flame in all her array, her queenly hair lit up, lit up her jewelled circlet; till, enwreathed in smoke and lurid light, she scattered fire over all the palace. That sight was rumoured wonderful and terrible. For her, they prophesied, there would be glorious fame and fortune; but a great war was foreshadowed for her people.

But the King, troubled by the omen, visits the oracle of his father Faunus the soothsayer, and the groves deep under Albunea, where, queen of the woods, she echoes from her holy well, and breathes forth a dim and deadly vapour. Here the tribes of Italy and all the Oenotrian land seek answers in their perplexity; here the priest bears his gifts, and when he has lain down and sought slumber under the silent night on the spread fleeces of slaughtered sheep, sees many flitting phantoms of wondrous kinds, hears manifold voices, and attains conversation with the gods, and has speech with Acheron and the deep regions of the underworld. Here then, likewise seeking an answer, lord Latinus duly sacrificed a hundred woolly ewes, and lay couched on the strewn fleeces they had worn. Out of the lofty grove a sudden voice was uttered: 'Do not seek, my child, to unite your daughter in a Latin marriage, nor trust her to the bridal chambers ready to your hand; foreigners shall come to be your sons, whose blood shall raise our name to heaven, and the children of whose race shall see, where the circling sun looks on either ocean, the whole circling world ruled beneath their feet.' Latinus does not keep silent about this answer and counsel that his father Faunus gave in the still night; but wide-flitting Rumour had already borne it round among the Ausonian cities, when the children of Laomedon moored their fleet to the grassy slope of the river bank.

Aeneas, with the foremost of his captains and fair Iulus, lay down under the boughs of a high tree and set out the feast. They spread wheaten cakes along the sward under their meats—so Jove on high prompted—and crown the platter of corn with wild fruits. Here perhaps when the rest was spent, and scantness of food set them to eat their thin bread, and with their hands and daring teeth break into the round cakes laden with destiny and do not spare the flattened squares: Ha! Are we eating our tables too? cries Iulus jesting, and stops. At once those words, heard aloud, set a limit to their hardships; and at once as he spoke his father caught it from his lips and hushed him, in amazement at the omen. Immediately 'Hail, O land!' he cries, 'my destined inheritance! and hail, O household gods, faithful to your Troy! here is home; this is our native country.

For my father Anchises, now I remember it, bequeathed me this secret of fate: "When hunger shall drive you, O son, to consume your tables when the meal runs short, on the unknown shores where you will sail; then, though outwearied, hope for home, and there at last let your hand remember to set your house's foundations and bulwarks." This was the hunger, this the last that awaited us, to set the promised end to our desolations . . . Up then, and, glad with the first sunbeam, let us explore and search all abroad from our harbour, what is the country, who its inhabitants are, where is the town of the nation. Now pour your cups to Jove, and call in prayer on Anchises our father, setting the wine again upon the board.' So he speaks, and binding his brows with a leafy bough, he makes supplication to the guardian spirit of the place, and Earth first of deities, and the Nymphs, and the Rivers yet unknown; then calls on Night and Night's rising signs, and next on Jove of Ida, and our lady of Phrygia, and on both his parents, in heaven and in the under world.

At this the Lord omnipotent thrice thundered sharp from high heaven, and with his own hand shook out for a sign in the sky a cloud ablaze with luminous shafts of gold. A sudden rumour spreads among the Trojan array, that the day is come to found their destined city. Eagerly competing, they renew the feast, and, glad at the high omen, set out the flagons and crown the wine with garlands.

Soon as the morrow bathed the lands in its dawning light, they separate to explore the town, and the borders and shores of the nation: these are the pools and spring of Numicus; this is the Tiber river; here dwell the brave Latins. Then Anchises' son commands a hundred envoys chosen from every rank to go to the stately royal city, all with the wreathed boughs of Pallas, to carry gifts to him and ask his favor for the Teucrians. Without delay they hurry on their mission, and advance with swift step. He himself traces the city walls with a shallow trench, and builds on it; and as in a camp surrounds this first settlement on the shore with mound and battlements. And now his men had traversed their way; they espied the towers and steep roofs of the Latins, and drew near the wall.

Before the city boys and men in their early bloom exercise on horseback, and break in their teams on the dusty ground, or draw ringing bows, or hurl tough javelins from the shoulder, and contend in running and boxing: when a messenger riding forward brings news to the ears of the aged King that mighty men are come there in unknown clothing. He gives orders to call them within his house, and takes his seat in the midst on his ancestral throne. His house, stately and vast, crowned the city, raised on a hundred columns, once the palace of Laurentian Picus, amid awe-inspiring groves sacred from ancestral times. Here their kings receive the inaugural sceptre, and have the bundles of rods first raised before them; this temple was their senate-house; this their sacred banqueting-hall; here, after sacrifice of rams, the elders used to sit down at long tables.

Further, there stood in a row in the entry images of the forefathers long ago in ancient cedar, Italus, and lord Sabinus, planter of the vine, still shown holding the curved pruning hook, and gray Saturn, and the likeness of Janus the double-facing, and the rest of their primal kings, and they who had borne wounds of war in fighting for their country. Armour besides hangs thickly on the sacred doors, captured chariots and curved axes, helmet-crests and massy gateway-bars, lances and shields, and beaks torn from warships. He too sat there, with the divining-rod of Quirinus, dressed in the short augur's robe, and carrying on his left arm the sacred shield, Picus the tamer of horses; he whom Circe, desperate with amorous desire, smote with her golden rod and turned by her poisons into a bird with patches of colour on his wings. Such was the temple of the gods in which Latinus, sitting on his father's seat, summoned the Teucrians to his house and presence; and when they entered in, he thus opened with a calm expression:

'Tell, O Dardanians, for we are not ignorant of your city and race, nor do you make your way overseas unknown to us, what do you seek? What cause or need has brought you over all these blue waterways to the Ausonian shore? Whether you have strayed from your course or been driven by a storm (such perils manifold on the high seas do sailors suffer), you have entered the river banks and lie in harbour; do not shun our welcome, and know that the Latins are Saturn's people, whom no laws bind to justice, but who are upright by their own free will and the ancient god's custom. And now I remember, though the story is dimmed with years, as Auruncan elders told it, how Dardanus, born in this our country, made his way to the towns of Phrygian Ida and to the Thracian Samos that is now called Samothrace.

Here was the home he left, Tyrrhenian Corythus; now the palace of heaven, glittering with golden stars, enthrones and adds him to the ranged altars of the gods.'

He ended; and Ilioneus followed his speech with these words:

'King, Faunus' illustrious progeny, neither has black tempest driven us with stress of waves to shelter in your lands, nor has star or shore misled us on the way we went. With deliberate purpose and willing minds we approach this city of yours, outcasts from a realm once the greatest that the sun looked on as he came from Olympus' utmost border. Our race begins with Jove; in Jove the men of Dardania rejoice as ancestor; our King himself of Jove's supreme race, Aeneas of Troy, has sent us to your courts. How terrible the tempest that burst from fierce Mycenae over the plains of Ida, by what fate Europe and Asia were driven to meet in the clash of two worlds, even the man isolated in the farthest land where the ocean's surge recoils has heard, as has the man kept apart by the zone of intolerable sun that stretches amid the earth's four zones.

Borne by that flood over many desolate seas, we crave a scant dwelling for our country's gods, an unmolested landing-place, and the air and water that are free to all. We shall not disgrace the kingdom; nor will the rumour of your renown be lightly gone or the grace of all you have done fade away; nor will Ausonia be sorry to have taken Troy to her breast. By the fortunes of Aeneas I swear, by that right hand mighty, whether tried in friendship or in warlike arms, many and many a people and nation—scorn us not because we advance with hands offering wreaths and words of supplication—has sought us for itself and desired our alliance; but your land is the one that heaven's high command drove us out to find. Dardanus sprang from here: here Apollo recalls us, and pushes us on with imperious orders to Tyrrhenian Tiber and the holy pools of Numicus' spring.

Further, he presents to you these small gifts from our former fortunes, relics saved from burning Troy. From this gold vessel lord Anchises poured libations at the altars; this was Priam's array when he gave laws to the peoples assembled in their ranks; the sceptre, the sacred mitre, the clothing wrought by the women of Ilium. . . .'

At these words of Ilioneus Latinus holds his countenance in a steady gaze, and remains motionless on the floor, casting his intent eyes around. The embroidered purple and Priam's scepter do not move the king so much as his daughter's marriage and bridal chamber absorb him, and the oracle of ancient Faunus stirs deep in his heart. This is he, the wanderer from a foreign home, foretold by fate as his son-in-law, and called to a realm of equal dominion, whose race would excel in courage and whose strength would overcome the whole world. At last he speaks with good heart:

'May the gods prosper our undertaking and their own augury! What you desire, Trojan, shall be given; nor do I spurn your gifts. While Latinus reigns you shall not lack an abundance of fertile land nor Troy's own riches. Only let Aeneas himself come here, if his desire for us is so strong, if he be in haste to join our friendship and be called our ally. Let him not shrink in terror from a friendly face. For me, one term of peace will be to clasp your king's hand. Do you now convey in answer my message to your King. I have a daughter whom the oracles of my father's shrine and many a celestial token alike forbid me to unite to one of our own nation; sons shall come, they prophesy, from foreign coasts, such is the destiny of Latium, whose blood shall exalt our name to heaven.

He is the one whom fate calls; this I think, this I choose, if there be any truth in my soul's foreshadowing.'

Thus he speaks, and chooses horses for all the company. Three hundred stood sleek in their high stalls; for all the Teucrians in order he immediately commands them to be led forth, fleet-footed, covered with embroidered purple: golden chains hang drooping over their chests, their trappings are golden, and they champ on bits of ruddy gold: for the absent Aeneas a chariot and pair of chariot horses of celestial breed, with nostrils breathing flame; descendants of those which cunning Circe bred by deceiving her father, the bastard issue of a stolen union. With these gifts and words the Aeneadae ride back from Latinus carrying peace.

And look! the fierce wife of Jove was returning from Inachian Argos, and held her way along the air, when out of the distant sky, far as from Sicilian Pachynus, she espied the rejoicing of Aeneas and the Dardanian fleet. She sees them already house-building, already trusting in the land, their ships left empty. She stops, pierced with sharp pain; then shaking her head, she pours forth these words:

'Ah, hated brood, and destiny of the Phrygians that thwarts our destiny! Could they ever perish on the Sigean plains? Could they be ensnared when taken? Did the fires of Troy consume her people? Through the midst of armies and through the midst of flames they have found their way. But, I think, my divine power lies exhausted at last, or my hatred sleeps and is satisfied? Indeed, I have fiercely pursued them over the waves when hurled from their country, and on all the seas have crossed their flight. Against the Teucrians the forces of sky and sea are spent. What help have the Syrtes or Scylla been to me, or desolate Charybdis? they find shelter in their desired Tiber-bed, careless of ocean and of me. Mars could destroy the giant race of the Lapithae; the very father of the gods gave over ancient Calydon to Diana's wrath: as punishment for what crime in the Lapithae, what in Calydon?

But I, Jove's imperial consort, who have endured, alas, leaving nothing unattempted, who have turned to every device, I am vanquished by Aeneas. If my deity is not great enough, I will not assuredly falter to seek help wherever it may be; if the powers of heaven are inflexible, I will stir up Acheron. It may be impossible to bar him from a Latin kingdom; well; and Lavinia is destined his bride unalterably. But it may yet be possible to delay, to make all this unfold slowly; it may yet be possible to wear away the people of both kings; at such a cost to their peoples may son-in-law and father-in-law enter into union. Blood of Troy and Rutulia shall be your dower, O maiden, and Bellona is the bridesmaid who awaits you. Nor did Cisseus' daughter alone conceive a firebrand and the anguish of a fiery marriage.

Indeed, Venus has such a child of her own, a second Paris, another destructive fire for Troy's towers reborn.'

These words uttered, she descends to earth in all her terrors, and calls Allecto, who brings sorrow, from the home of the Fatal Sisters in the gloom below, whose delight is in woeful wars, in wrath and treachery and evil feuds: hateful to lord Pluto himself, hateful and horrible to her hell-born sisters; she takes so many faces, each so savage in form, and black vipers bristle so thickly over her. Juno spurs her on with words, saying:

'Grant me, virgin born of Night, this task and service that belong to you, that the rumour of our renown may not crumble away, nor the Aeneadae have power to win Latinus by marriage or beset the borders of Italy. You can set once-united brothers against each other in armed conflict, and overturn families with hatreds; you can launch into houses your whips and deadly brands; yours are a thousand names, a thousand devices of injury. Rouse your teeming heart, shatter the peace they have made, and sow seeds of quarrel; let all at once desire and demand and seize on arms.'

Then Allecto, steeped in Gorgonian venom, first seeks Latium and the high house of the Laurentine monarch, and silently sits down before Amata's doors. Amata was heated to frenzy by a woman's distress and anger over the Teucrians' coming and the marriage of Turnus. At her the goddess flings a snake out of her dusky tresses, and slips it into her bosom to her very inmost heart, that she may embroil all her house under its maddening magic. Sliding between her clothing and smooth breasts, it coils without being felt, and instils its viperous breath unseen; the great serpent turns into the twisted gold about her neck, turns into the long ribbon of her chaplet, weaves itself into her hair, and winds slippery over her body. And while the gliding infection of the clammy poison begins to penetrate her sense and run in fire through her frame, before her whole breast has yet caught fire, she spoke softly in the way mothers usually do, with many a tear over her daughter and the Phrygian bridal:

'Is it to exiles, to Teucrians, that Lavinia is proffered in marriage, O father? and have you no compassion on your daughter and on yourself? no compassion on her mother, whom with the first northern wind the treacherous rover will abandon, steering to sea with his maiden prize? Was it not in this way that the Phrygian herdsman made his way to Lacedaemon, and carried Leda's Helen to the Trojan towns? Where is your plighted faith? Where is your ancient care for your people, and the hand Turnus your kinsman has so often clasped? If one of alien race from the Latins is sought for our son, if this stands fixed, and your father Faunus' commands are heavy upon you, every land whose freedom separates it from our rule is to my mind alien, and this is what the divine word means. And Turnus, if one retrace the earliest source of his line, is born of Inachus and Acrisius, and from the very heart of Mycenae.'

When after this unsuccessful attempt at persuasion she sees Latinus fixed against her, and the serpent's maddening poison is sunk deep in her vitals and runs through and through her, then indeed, stung by infinite horrors, unfortunate and frenzied, she rages wildly through the endless city. As a top sometimes flying under the twisted whipcord, which boys busy at their play drive circling wide round an empty hall, runs before the lash and spins in wide gyrations; the uncomprehending young band hovers over it in wonder and admires the whirling boxwood; the strokes lend it life: at no slower pace she is carried midway through towns and valiant nations. Indeed, she flees into the woodland under feigned Bacchic influence, assumes a greater guilt, arouses a greater frenzy, and hides her daughter in the mountain coverts to rob the Teucrians of their bridal and stay the marriage torches.

'Hail, Bacchus!' she shrieks and clamours; 'you alone are worthy of the maiden; for you she takes up the supple wands, for you she circles in the dance, for you she grows and dedicates her hair.' Rumour flies abroad; and the matrons, their breasts kindled by the furies, run all at once with a single ardour to seek out strange dwellings. They have left their homes empty, they throw neck and hair free to the winds; while others fill the air with ringing cries, wrapped in fawnskins, and carrying spears of vine. Amid them the infuriate queen holds her blazing pine-torch on high, and chants the wedding of Turnus and her daughter; and rolling her bloodshot gaze, cries sudden and harsh: 'Hear, O mothers of Latium, wherever you be; if unhappy Amata has yet any favour in your affection, if concern for a mother's rights moves you, untie the chaplets from your hair, begin the orgies with me.' Thus, amid woods and wild beasts' solitary places, does Allecto goad the queen with the encircling Bacchic madness.

When their frenzy seemed heightened and her first task complete, Latinus' purpose and his whole household overturned, the goddess who brings sorrow flies on thence, soaring on dusky wing, to the walls of the gallant Rutulian, the city which Danae, they say, borne down on the boisterous south wind, built and planted with Acrision's people. The place was called Ardea once long ago; and still Ardea remains a mighty name; but its fortune is no more. Here in his high house Turnus now took rest in the black midnight. Allecto lays aside her grim face and the body of a Fury; she transforms her face to an aged woman's, and furrows her brow with ugly wrinkles; she puts on white tresses chaplet-bound, and entwines them with an olive spray; she becomes aged Calybe, priestess of Juno's temple, and presents herself before his eyes, uttering thus:

'Turnus, will you endure all these toils poured out in vain, and the transfer of your crown to Dardanian settlers? The King denies you your bride and the dower your blood had earned; and a foreigner is sought for heir to the kingdom. Go on now, dupe, and face thankless perils; go on, cut down the Tyrrhenian lines; give the Latins peace in your protection. Saturn's almighty daughter appeared in person and commanded me to declare this to you, as you were lying in the still night. Therefore arise, and make ready with good heart to arm your people and march through your gates to battle; consume those Phrygian captains that lie with their painted hulls in the beautiful river. All the force of heaven orders you on. Let King Latinus himself know of it, unless he consents to give you your bridal, and abide by his words, when at last he feels the force of Turnus' arms.'

But he, deriding her inspiration, answers her with these words:

'The fleets ride on the Tiber wave; that news has not, as you think, escaped my ears. Do not set such terrors before me. Neither is Queen Juno forgetful of us. . . . But exhausted and unreliable old age, mother, torments you with empty fears, and amid embattled kings mocks your powers of prophecy with false dismay. Your duty is to keep the divine image and temple; war and peace shall be in the hands of men and warriors.'

At such words Allecto's wrath blazed out. But amid his utterance a quick shudder overruns his limbs; his eyes are fixed in horror; so thickly hiss the snakes of the Fury, so vast her form expands. Then rolling her fiery eyes, she thrust him back as he would stammer out more, raised two serpents in her hair, and, cracking her whip, resumed with furious tone:

'Look at me, the exhausted one! me whom old age, exhausted and untrue, mocks with false dismay amid embattled kings! Look on this! I have come from the home of the Dread Sisters: war and death are in my hand. . . .'

With these words, she hurled her torch at him, and pierced his breast with the lurid smoking brand. He breaks from sleep in overpowering fear, his limbs and body bathed in sweat that breaks out all over him; he shrieks madly for arms, searches for arms on his bed and in his palace. The passion of the sword rages high, the accursed fury of war, and wrath over all: even as when flaming sticks are heaped roaring loud under the sides of a seething cauldron, and the boiling water leaps up; the river of water within smokes furiously and swells high in overflowing foam, and now the wave contains itself no longer; the dark steam flies aloft. So, to avenge the stain of the broken peace, he orders his chief warriors to march on King Latinus, and bids prepare for battle, to defend Italy and drive the foe from their borders; he himself will be enough to face Trojans and Latins together.

When he uttered these words and called the gods to hear his vows, the Rutulians stir one another up to arms. One is moved by the splendour of his youthful beauty, one by his royal ancestry, another by the noble deeds of his hand.

While Turnus fills the Rutulian minds with valour, Allecto on Stygian wing hastens towards the Trojans. With fresh wiles she marked the spot where beautiful Iulus was trapping and coursing game on the bank; here the infernal maiden suddenly brings a familiar scent maddeningly across his hounds' path, and drives them hotly on the stag-hunt. This was the source and spring of ill, and kindled the country-folk to war. The stag, beautiful and high-antlered, was stolen from his mother's udder and raised by Tyrrheus' boys and their father Tyrrheus, master of the royal herds, and keeper of the plain. Their sister Silvia tamed him to her rule, and lavished her care on his adornment, twining his antlers with delicate garlands, and combed his wild coat and washed him in the clear spring. Tame to her hand, and familiar to his master's table, he would wander the woods, and, however late the night, return home to the door he knew.

Far astray, he floated idly down the stream, and allayed his heat on the green bank, when Iulus' mad hounds started him in their hunting; and Ascanius himself, kindled with desire of the chief honour, aimed a shaft from his bent bow. A deity present there did not allow his hand to stray, and the loud whistling reed came driven through his belly and flanks. But the wounded beast fled within the familiar roof and crept moaning to the courtyard, spattered with blood, and filling all the house with moans as of one beseeching. Sister Silvia, smiting her arms with open hands, begins to call for aid, and gathers the hardy rustics with her cries. They, for a deadly destroyer is hidden in the silent woodland, arrive sooner than she expected, one armed with a stake hardened in the fire, one with a heavy knotted trunk; what each one searches and finds, wrath turns into a weapon.

Tyrrheus cheers on his array, panting hard, with his axe caught up in his hand, as he was perhaps splitting an oaken log in four clefts with cross-driven wedges.

But the grim goddess, seizing from her watch-tower the moment of mischief, seeks the steep farm-roof and sounds the pastoral war-note from the ridge, straining the infernal cry on her twisted horn; it spread shuddering over all the woodland, and echoed through the deep forests: the lake of Trivia heard it afar; Nar river heard it with white sulphurous water, and the springs of Velinus; and startled mothers clasped their children to their breast. Then, hurrying to the voice of the terrible trumpet-note, on all sides the wild rustics snatch their arms and stream in: at the same time the men of Troy pour out from their camp's open gates to succour Ascanius. The lines are ranged; they no longer fight in a rustic quarrel with hard trunks or burned stakes; the two-edged steel sways the fight, the broad cornfields bristle dark with drawn swords, and bronze flashes as sunlight strikes it, and casts a gleam high into the cloudy air: as when the wind begins to blow and the flood to whiten, gradually the sea lifts his waves higher and yet higher, then rises from the bottom right into the air.

Here in the front rank young Almo, once Tyrrheus' eldest son, is struck down by a whistling arrow; for the wound lodged in his throat, choking with blood the passage of his moist voice and his fragile life. Many lie dead around him, aged Galaesus among them, slain as he throws himself between them for a peacemaker, once incomparable in justice and wealth of Ausonian fields; for him five flocks bleated, a five-fold herd returned from pasture, and a hundred ploughs upturned the soil.

But while thus in even battle they fight on the broad plain, the goddess, her promise fulfilled, when she has dyed the war in blood, and mingled death in the first encounter, quits Hesperia, and, flashing through the sky, addresses Juno in exultant tone:

'Look, discord has ripened at your desire into baleful war: tell them now to mingle in friendship and join alliance. Since I have steeped the Trojans in Ausonian blood, I will add this too, if I have assurance of your will. With my rumours I will sweep the bordering towns into war, and kindle their spirit with furious desire for battle, that from all quarters help may come; I will sow the land with arms.'

Then Juno answers: 'Terror and harm have been wrought abundantly. The springs of war are flowing: they fight with arms in their grasp, the arms that chance first supplied, that fresh blood stains. Let this be the union, this the bridal that Venus' illustrious progeny and Latinus the King shall celebrate. Our Lord who reigns on Olympus' summit would not have you stray too freely in heaven's upper air. Withdraw your presence. Whatever future remains in this struggle, I myself will guide it.'

So spoke Saturn's daughter; and the other raises her rustling snaky wings and darts away from the high upper air to Cocytus her home. There is a place in the heart of Italy, deep in the hills, notable and renowned in report in many a country, the Vale of Amsanctus; on either hand a wooded ridge, dark with thick foliage, hems it in, and midway a torrent in swirling eddies shivers and echoes over the rocks. Here is shown a ghastly pool, a breathing-hole of the grim lord of hell, and a vast chasm breaking into Acheron yawns with pestilential throat. In it the Fury sank, and relieved earth and heaven of her hateful influence.

But at the same time the queenly daughter of Saturn puts the last touch to war. The shepherds pour in with all their numbers from the battlefield into the town, bearing back their slain, the boy Almo and Galaesus' disfigured face, and cry on the gods and call on Latinus. Turnus is there, and amid the heat and outcry at the slaughter redoubles his terrors, crying that Teucrians are bidden to the kingdom, that a Phrygian race is mingling its taint with theirs, and he is thrust out of their gates. They too, whose womenfolk, struck by Bacchus, trample in dancing bands through the pathless woods—and Amata's name carries no small weight—they too gather together from all sides and weary themselves with the battle-cry. Omens and oracles of gods go down before them, and all under malign influence clamour for awful war. Competing in eagerness, they surround Latinus' royal house.

He withstands, even as a rock in ocean unremoved, as a rock in ocean when the great crash comes down, firm in its own mass among many waves slapping all about: in vain the crags and boulders hiss round it in foam, and the seaweed on its side is flung up and sucked away. But when he can in no way overcome their blind resolve, and all goes at fierce Juno's beck, with many an appeal to gods and void sky, 'Alas!' he cries, 'we are crushed by fate and driven helpless in the storm. With your very blood will you pay the price of this, O wretched men! You, Turnus, your crime awaits; you, your terrible punishment awaits; too late will you address to heaven your prayers and supplication. For my rest was won, and my haven close at hand; I am robbed but of a happy death.' And without further speech he shut himself in the palace, and dropped the reins of state.

There was a custom in Hesperian Latium, which the Alban towns kept in holy observance, now Rome keeps, the mistress of the world, when they stir the War-God to enter battle; whether their hands prepare to carry war and weeping among Getae or Hyrcanians or Arabs, or to reach to India and pursue the Dawn, and reclaim their standards from the Parthian. There are two gates of War, so runs their name, consecrate in grim Mars' sanctity and terror. A hundred bolts of bronze and masses of everlasting iron shut them fast, and Janus the guardian never sets foot from their threshold. There, when the decision of the Fathers stands fixed for battle, the Consul, arrayed in the robe of Quirinus and the Gabine arrangement of the robe, with his own hand unbars the grating doors, with his own lips calls battles forth; then all the rest follow on, and the brazen trumpets blare harsh with consenting breath.

By this same custom they bade Latinus proclaim war on the Aeneadae, and open the baleful gates. He withheld his hand, and shrank away averse from the abhorred service, and hid himself blindly in the dark. Then the Saturnian queen of heaven glided from the sky, with her own hand thrust open the lingering gates, and swung sharply back on their hinges the iron-bound doors of war. Ausonia is ablaze, till then unstirred and immovable. Some make ready to march afoot over the plains; some, mounted on tall horses, ride swiftly in clouds of dust. All seek out arms; and now they rub their shields smooth and make their spearheads glitter with fat lard, and grind their axes on the whetstone: rejoicingly they advance under their standards and hear the trumpet note. Five great cities set up the anvil and sharpen the sword, strong Atina and proud Tibur, Ardea and Crustumeri, and turreted Antemnae.

They hollow out head-gear to guard them, and plait wickerwork round shield-bosses; others forge breastplates of bronze or smooth greaves of flexible silver. To this has come the honor of plowshare and pruning hook, to this all the love of the plow: they re-temper their fathers' swords in the furnace. And now the trumpets blare; the watchword for war passes along. One snatches a helmet hurriedly from his house, another backs his neighing horses into the yoke; and arrays himself in shield and mail-coat triple-linked with gold, and girds on his trusty sword.

Open now the gates of Helicon, goddesses, and stir the song of the kings that rose for war, the array that followed each and filled the plains, the men who already flourished then, the arms that blazed in Italy the bountiful land: for you remember, divine ones, and you can recall; to us only a breath of rumor, scant and slight, drifts down.

First from the Tyrrhene coast savage Mezentius, scorner of the gods, opens the war and arrays his columns. By him is Lausus, his son, unexcelled in bodily beauty by any save Laurentine Turnus, Lausus tamer of horses and destroyer of wild beasts; he leads a thousand men who followed him in vain from Agylla town; worthy of happier fortune under ancestral rule, and to have other than Mezentius for father.

After them beautiful Aventinus, born of beautiful Hercules, displays on the sward his palm-crowned chariot and victorious horses, and carries on his shield his father's device, the hundred snakes of the Hydra's serpent-wreath. Rhea the priestess secretly bore him into the daylight in the woodland of the Aventine hill, a woman mingled with a god, after the Tirynthian Conqueror had slain Geryon and set foot on the fields of Laurentum, and bathed his Iberian oxen in the Tuscan river. His men carry into war javelins and grim stabbing weapons, and fight with the round shaft and sharp point of the Sabellian pike. He himself went on foot swathed in a vast lion skin, shaggy with bristling terrors, whose white teeth encircled his head; in such wild dress, the garb of Hercules clasped over his shoulders, he entered the royal house.

Next the twin Argive brothers, Catillus and valiant Coras, leave Tibur town and the people named after their brother Tiburtus, and advance in the forefront of battle among the throng of spears: as when two cloud-born Centaurs descend from a lofty mountain peak, leaving Homole or snowy Othrys in rapid race; the mighty forest yields before them as they go, and the crashing thickets give them way.

Nor was the founder of Praeneste city absent, the king who, as every age has believed, was born of Vulcan among the pasturing herds, and found beside the hearth, Caeculus. A rustic battalion follows him in loose order, they who dwell in steep Praeneste and the fields of Juno of Gabii, on the cool Anio and the Hernican rocks dewy with streams; those whom rich Anagnia sustains, and those whom you, lord Amasenus, sustain. Not all of them have armour, nor shields and clattering chariots. The most part shower bullets of dull lead; some wield in their hand two darts, and have for head-covering caps of tawny wolfskin; their left foot is bare to plant their steps; the other is covered with a boot of raw hide.

But Messapus, tamer of horses, the son of Neptune, whom none might ever strike down with steel or fire, calls quickly to arms his long unstirred peoples and bands disused to war, and again handles the sword. These are of the Fescennine ranks and of Aequi Falisci, these of Soracte's fortresses and the fields of Flavina, and Ciminus' lake and hill, and the groves of Capena. They marched in even time, singing their King; like snowy swans sometimes among the thin clouds, when they return from pasturage, and utter resonant notes through their long necks; far off echoes the river and the Asian marsh struck by the sound. . . . Nor would one think these vast streaming masses were ranks clad in bronze; rather that, high in air, a cloud of hoarse birds from the deep gulf was pressing to the shore.

Look, Clausus of the ancient Sabine blood, leading a great host, a great host himself; from whom the Claudian tribe and family have now spread abroad since Rome was shared with the Sabines. Alongside is the broad battalion of Amiternum, and the Old Latins, and all the force of Eretum and the Mutuscan oliveyards; they who dwell in Nomentum town, and the Rosean countryside by Velinus, who keep the crags of rough Tetrica and Mount Severus, Casperia and Foruli, and the river of Himella; they who drink of Tiber and Fabaris, they whom cold Nursia has sent, and the squadrons of Horta and the tribes of Latinium; and they whom Allia, the ill-ominous name, severs with its current; as many as the waves that roll on the Libyan sea-floor when fierce Orion sets in the wintry surge; as thick as the ears that ripen in the morning sunlight on the plain of the Hermus or the yellowing Lycian tilth.

Their shields clatter, and earth is amazed under the trampling of their feet.

Here Agamemnonian Halaesus, foe of the Trojan name, yokes his chariot horses, and draws a thousand warlike peoples to Turnus; those who turn with spades the Massic soil that is glad with wine; whom the elders of Aurunca sent from their high hills, and the Sidicine lowlands close by; and those who leave Cales, and the dweller by the shallows of Volturnus river, and side by side the rough Saticulan and the Oscan bands. Polished maces are their weapons, and these they are accustomed to fit with a tough thong; a small shield covers their left side, and for close fighting they have crooked swords.

Nor will you, Oebalus, pass unmentioned in our verses, whom, men say, the nymph Sebethis bore to Telon, when Telon grew old ruling Capreae the Teleboic realm: but not content with his ancestral fields, his son already held under his broad rule the Sarrastian peoples and the meadows watered by Sarnus, and the dwellers in Rufrae and Batulum, and the fields of Celemnae, and they on whom from her apple orchards Abella city looks down. They used to hurl lances in Teutonic fashion; their head covering was stripped bark of the cork tree, their shield-plates glittering bronze, glittering bronze their sword.

You too, Ufens, mountainous Nersae sent forth to battle, of noble fame and prosperous arms, whose people on the hard Aequiculan soil are rougher than all others, and bred to continual hunting in the woodland; they till the soil in arms, and it is ever their delight to drive in fresh spoils and live on plunder.

Furthermore there came, sent by King Archippus, the priest of the Marruvian people, adorned with auspicious olive leaves over his helmet, Umbro excellent in valour, who used charms and touch to sprinkle sleep-inducing dew on the viper's brood and water-snakes of noisome breath. Yet he could not heal the stroke of the Dardanian spear-point, nor was his wound helped by his sleepy charms and herbs culled on the Massic hills. For you the woodland of Angitia, for you Fucinus' glassy water, for you the clear pools wept. . . .

Likewise the son of Hippolytus marched to war, Virbius most excellent in beauty, sent by his mother Aricia. The groves of Egeria nursed him round the spongy shore where Diana's altar stands rich and gracious. For they say in story that Hippolytus, after he fell by his stepmother's treachery, torn apart by his frightened horses to fulfil a father's revenge, came again to the daylight and heaven's upper air, recalled by Diana's love and the drugs of the Healer. Then the Lord omnipotent, indignant that any mortal should rise from the nether shades to the light of life, launched his thunder and hurled down to the Stygian water the son of Phoebus, the discoverer of such craft and cure. But Trivia the bountiful hides Hippolytus in a secret habitation, and sends him away to the nymph Egeria and the woodland's keeping, where, solitary in Italian forests, he should spend an inglorious life, and have Virbius for his altered name.

For this reason also hoofed horses are kept away from Trivia's temple and consecrated groves, because, frightened at the portents of the sea, they overturned the chariot and flung him out upon the shore. Nevertheless his son trained his reddish horses on the level plain, and sped charioted to war.

Turnus himself too, among the foremost and splendid in bodily beauty, moves armed and towers a whole head over all. His lofty helmet, triple-tressed with horse-hair, holds high a Chimaera breathing from her throat Aetnean fires, raging ever more fiercely with deadly flames, as the battle and bloodshed grow fiercer. But on his polished shield was emblazoned in gold Io with uplifted horns, already a heifer and overgrown with hair, a lofty design, and Argus the maiden's guardian, and lord Inachus pouring his stream from his embossed urn. Behind comes a cloud of infantry, and shielded columns thicken over all the plains; the Argive men and Auruncan forces, the Rutulians and old Sicanians, the Sacranian ranks and Labicians with painted shields; they who till your dells, O Tiber, and Numicus' sacred shore, and whose ploughshare goes up and down on the Rutulian hills and the Circaean headland, over whose fields Jupiter of Anxur watches, and Feronia glad in her greenwood: and where the marsh of Satura lies black, and cold Ufens winds his way along the valley-bottoms and sinks into the sea.

At the same time came Camilla the Volscian, leading a train of cavalry, squadrons splendid with bronze: a warrior maiden who had never accustomed her woman's hands to Minerva's distaff or wool baskets, but was hardened to endure the battle shock and outstrip the winds with racing feet. She might have flown across the topmost blades of unmown corn and left the tender ears unhurt as she ran; or sped her way over mid sea upborne by the swelling flood, without dipping her swift feet in the water. All the people pour from house and field, and mothers crowd to wonder and gaze at her as she goes, in rapturous astonishment at the royal lustre of purple that drapes her smooth shoulders, at the clasp of gold that intertwines her tresses, at the Lycian quiver she carries, and the pastoral myrtle shaft topped with steel.

Book Eight

When Turnus ran up the flag of war on the towers of Laurentum, and the trumpets blared with harsh music, when he spurred his fiery steeds and clashed his armour, immediately men's hearts are in tumult; all Latium at once stirs in a united uprising, and her warriors rage furiously. Their chiefs, Messapus, and Ufens, and Mezentius, scorner of the gods, begin to enrol forces on all sides, and strip the wide fields of farmers. Venulus too is sent to the town of mighty Diomede to seek succour, to inform him that Teucrians set foot in Latium; that Aeneas in his fleet invades them with the vanquished gods of his home, and proclaims himself the King summoned by fate; that many tribes join the Dardanian, and his name swells high in Latium. What he will rear on these foundations, what outcome of battle he desires, if Fortune favors him, lies clearer to his own sight than to King Turnus or King Latinus.

Thus was it in Latium. And the hero of Laomedon's blood, seeing it all, is tossed on a heavy surge of anxiety, and throws his mind rapidly this way and that, and turns it on all hands in swift change of thought: even as when the quivering light of water brimming in a bronze vessel, struck back from the sunlight or the moon's glittering reflection, flickers abroad over all the room, and now mounts aloft and strikes the high panelled roof. Night fell, and over all lands weary creatures were fast in deep slumber, the race of fowl and of cattle; when lord Aeneas, sick at heart of the dismal warfare, stretched himself on the river bank under the vault of the cold sky, and let sleep, though late, overspread his limbs. To him the god of the place himself, the pleasant Tiber stream, seemed to raise his aged form among the poplar boughs; fine linen veiled him in a gray covering, and shadowy reeds hid his hair.

Then he addressed him thus, and with these words allayed his distresses:

'O born of the family of the gods, you who bring our Trojan city back from hostile hands and keep Troy's towers alive forever; O long looked for on Laurentine ground and Latin fields! here your home is assured, your home's gods assured. Do not draw back, nor be alarmed by menace of war. All the anger and wrath of the gods is passed away . . . And even now for your assurance, so that you do not think this an idle creation of sleep, a great sow shall be found lying under the oaks on the shore, with her new-born litter of thirty head: white she lies on the ground, and the brood about her teats is white. In accordance with this sign, after thirty circling years Ascanius will found a city, Alba of bright name. My prophecy is sure. Now listen, and I will briefly instruct you how you may unravel and overcome your present task.

An Arcadian people sprung of Pallas, following in their king Evander's company beneath his banners, have chosen a place in these coasts, and set a city on the hills, called Pallanteum after Pallas their forefather. These wage perpetual war with the Latin race; take these as allies of your camp, and join with them in league. I myself will lead you by my banks and straight along my stream, so that you can row upward against the river. Up and arise, goddess-born, and even with the setting stars address your prayers to Juno as is proper, and vanquish her wrath and menaces with humble vows. To me you will pay a conqueror's sacrifice. I am he whom you see washing the banks with full flood and dividing the rich farmland, glassy Tiber, best beloved by heaven of rivers. Here is my stately home; my fountain-head is among high cities.'

Thus spoke the River, and sank in the depth of the pool: night and sleep left Aeneas. He arises, and, looking towards the radiant sky of the sunrising, holds up water from the river in his properly cupped palms, and pours out these words to heaven:

'Nymphs, Laurentine Nymphs, from whom rivers are born, and you, O father Tiber, with your holy flood, receive Aeneas and deign to save him out of danger. Whatever pool holds your source, you who pity our troubles, from whatever soil you spring in surpassing beauty, my worship will always, my gifts will always come to you, the horned river lord of Hesperian waters. Ah, only stand beside me, and graciously confirm your will.' So he speaks, and chooses two galleys from his fleet, and mans them with rowers, and also equips a crew with arms.

And look! suddenly, ominous and wonderful to tell, the milk-white sow, of one colour with her white brood, is espied through the forest lying on the green bank; Aeneas dutifully offers her in sacrifice to you, yes to you, queenly Juno, and sets her with her offspring before your altar. All that night long Tiber assuaged his swelling stream, and silently stayed his refluent wave, smoothing the surface of his waters into the likeness of a still pool and quiet lake, to spare labour to the oar. So they set out and speed on their way with joyful cries; the painted fir-built ships glide along the waterway; the waves and unaccustomed woods marvel at their far-gleaming shields, and the gay hulls afloat on the river. They spend a night and a day rowing, ascend the long reaches, and pass under the chequered shadows of the trees, and cut through the green woodland in the calm water.

The fiery sun had climbed midway in the circle of the sky when they see afar fortress walls and scattered house roofs, where now the might of Rome has risen high as heaven; then Evander ruled a humble state. Quickly they turn their prows to land and draw near the town.

On that day, as it happened, the Arcadian king was paying his accustomed sacrifice to the great son of Amphitryon and all the gods in a grove before the city. With him his son Pallas, with him all the chiefs of his people and his poor senate were offering incense, and the blood steamed warm at their altars. When they saw the high ships, saw them glide up between the shady woodlands and rest on their silent oars, the sudden sight appals them, and all at once they rise and stop the banquet. Pallas courageously forbids them to break off the rites; snatching up a spear, he flies forward, and from a hillock cries afar: 'O men, what cause has driven you to explore these unknown ways? or where do you steer? What is your ancestry, where is your home? Is it peace or arms you carry here?' Then from the lofty stern lord Aeneas thus speaks, stretching forth in his hand a peace-bearing olive branch:

'You see men born of Troy and arms hostile to the Latins, who have driven us to flight in insolent warfare. We seek Evander; carry this message, and tell him that chosen men of the Dardanian captains have come pleading for an armed alliance.'

Pallas stood amazed at the august name. 'Descend,' he cries, 'whoever you are, and speak with my father face to face, and enter our home and hospitality.' And giving him the grasp of welcome, he caught his hand and held it fast. Advancing, they enter the grove and leave the river. Then Aeneas in courteous words addresses the King:

'Best of the Grecian race, you whom fortune has willed me to approach in supplication, holding before me branches dressed in ribbons, no fear stayed me because you were a Grecian chief and an Arcadian, or allied by descent to the twin sons of Atreus. Indeed, my own courage and the sanctity of divine oracles, our ancestral kinship, and the fame of you that is spread abroad over the earth, have allied me to you and led me willingly on the path of fate. Dardanus, who sailed to the Teucrian land, the first father and founder of the Ilian city, was born, as Greeks relate, of Electra the Atlantid; Electra's sire is ancient Atlas, whose shoulder sustains the heavenly spheres. Your father is Mercury, whom white Maia conceived and bore on the cold summit of Cyllene; but Maia, if we give any credence to report, is daughter of Atlas, that same Atlas who bears up the starry heavens; so both our families branch from a single blood.

In this confidence I sent no embassy, I framed no crafty overtures; I have presented myself in person, and come a suppliant to your courts. The same Daunian race pursues us and you in merciless warfare; once we have been expelled, they trust nothing will withhold them from laying all Hesperia wholly beneath their yoke, and holding the seas that wash it above and below. Accept and return our friendship. We can give brave hearts in war, high souls and men proved by their deeds.'

Aeneas ended. The other had already been studying for a long time the face and eyes and all the form of the speaker; then briefly replies:

'How gladly, bravest of the Teucrians, I greet and acknowledge you! how I recall your father's words and the very tone and glance of great Anchises! For I remember how Priam son of Laomedon, when he sought Salamis on his way to the realm of his sister Hesione, went on to visit the cold borders of Arcadia. Then the first bloom of youth clothed my cheeks. I admired the Teucrian captains, admired their lord, the son of Laomedon; but Anchises moved high above them all. My heart burned with youthful passion to address him and clasp hand in hand; I made my way to him, and led him eagerly to Pheneus' high town. Departing he gave me an adorned quiver and Lycian arrows, a scarf inwoven with gold, and a pair of golden bits that now my Pallas possesses. Therefore my hand is already joined in the alliance you seek, and soon as to-morrow's dawn rises again over earth, I will send you away rejoicing in my aid, and supply you from my store.

Meanwhile, since you have come here in friendship, solemnise with us these yearly rites which we may not defer, and even now learn to feel at home at your comrades' table.'

This said, he commands the feast and the wine-cups to be returned to the places from which they were taken, and with his own hand ranges them on the grassy seat, and welcomes Aeneas to the place of honour, with a lion's shaggy skin for cushion and a hospitable chair of maple. Then chosen men with the priest of the altar in eager rivalry bring roasted flesh of bulls, and pile baskets with the gift of ground corn, and serve the wine. Aeneas and the men of Troy with him feed on the long cuts of oxen's back meat and the entrails of the sacrifice.

After hunger is driven away and their appetite for food satisfied, King Evander speaks: 'No empty superstition ignorant of the ancient gods has ordained these solemn rites of ours, this customary feast, this altar of august sanctity; we worship because we were saved from bitter perils, Trojan guest, and the rites we established are most fully deserved. Look now first on this overhanging cliff of stone, where shattered masses lie strewn, and the mountain dwelling stands desolate, and rocks are torn away in vast ruin. Here was a cavern, awe-inspiring and deeply secluded, impenetrable to the sunbeams, where the monstrous half-human shape of Cacus had his lair: the ground was ever wet with fresh slaughter, and pallid faces of men, ghastly with gore, hung nailed on the haughty doors. This monster was the son of Vulcan, and spouted his black fires from his mouth as he moved in giant bulk.

For us too, in our longing, time brought the arrival and aid of a god. For princely Alcides the avenger came glorious in the spoils of triple Geryon slain; this way the Conqueror drove the huge bulls, and his oxen filled the river valley. But savage Cacus, madly resolved to leave no trick or crime unattempted or untried, drives four bulls of choice shape away from their pasturage, and as many heifers of excellent beauty. And these, that there should be no straightforward footprints, he dragged by the tail into his cavern, reversing the tracks of their forced journey, and hid them behind the screen of rock. No marks were there to lead a seeker to the cavern. Meanwhile the son of Amphitryon, his herds filled with food, was now leaving his pasture and making ready to go. The oxen low as they depart; all the woodland is filled with their complaint as they clamorously quit the hills.

One heifer returned the cry, and, lowing from the depth of the dreary cave, from her imprisonment defeated Cacus' hope. At this the grief and anger of Alcides blazed forth dark and infuriate. Seizing in his hand his club of heavy knotted oak, he seeks with swift pace the airy mountain height. Then, as never before, did we see Cacus afraid and his countenance troubled; he goes flying swifter than the wind and seeks his cavern; fear wings his feet. As he shut himself in, and, bursting the chains, dropped the vast rock slung in iron by his father's craft, and blocked the doorway with its pressure, look! the Tirynthian came in furious wrath, and, scanning all the entry, turned his face this way and that and ground his teeth. Thrice, hot with rage, he circles all Mount Aventine; thrice he assails the rocky portals in vain; thrice he sinks down outwearied in the valley.

There stood a sharp rock of flint with sides cut sheer away, rising over the cavern's ridge a vast height to see, fit haunt for foul birds to build on. This—for, sloping from the ridge, it leaned on the left towards the river—he loosened, urging it from the right till he tore it loose from its deep foundations; then suddenly shook it free; with the shock the vast sky thunders, the banks leap apart, and the amazed river recoils. But the den, Cacus' huge palace, lay open and revealed, and the depths of the gloomy cavern were revealed; even as though some force tearing earth apart should unlock the infernal house, and disclose the pale realms abhorred by heaven, and deep down the monstrous gulf could be seen where the ghosts flutter in the streaming daylight. Then Alcides hurls missiles from above at Cacus, surprised by unexpected light, trapped in the rock's recesses and howling strangely; Alcides calls all his arms to aid, and presses hard on him with boughs and enormous millstones.

And Cacus, since no other escape from danger remains, vomits from his throat vast jets of smoke, wonderful to tell, and enwreathes his dwelling in blind gloom, blotting view from the eyes, while in the cave's depth night thickens with smoke-bursts in a darkness shot with fire. Alcides broke forth in anger, and with a bound hurled himself sheer amid the flames, where the smoke rolls billowing and voluminous, and the cloud surges black through the enormous den. Here, as Cacus in the darkness spouts forth his idle fires, he seizes him and winds himself tightly around him, till his eyes start out and his throat is drained of blood under the strangling pressure. Immediately the doors are torn open and the dark house laid plain; the stolen oxen and plunder dishonestly denied are shown forth to heaven, and the misshapen carcase dragged forward by the feet.

Men cannot satisfy their soul with gazing on the terrible eyes, the monstrous face and shaggy bristling chest, and the throat with its quenched fires. Since then this sacrifice has been celebrated, and a younger race have gladly kept the day; Potitius the inaugurator, and the Pinarian family, guardians of the rites of Hercules, have set in the grove this altar, which shall ever be called by us Most Mighty, and shall be our mightiest evermore. So arise, O men, and enwreathe your hair with leafy sprays, and stretch forth the cups in your hands; call on our common god and pour the glad wine.' He ended; then the two-colored poplar of Hercules covered his hair in shade with hanging, woven leaves, and the sacred goblet filled his hand. Speedily all pour glad libation on the board, and supplicate the gods.

Meanwhile the evening star draws nearer down the slope of heaven, and now the priests went forth, Potitius at their head, dressed in skins after their fashion, and bore torches aflame. They renew the banquet, and bring the grateful gift of a second repast, and heap the altars with loaded platters. Then the Salii stand round the lit altar-fires to sing, their brows bound with poplar boughs, one chorus of young men, one of elders, and extol in song the praises and deeds of Hercules; how first he strangled in his grasp the twin terrors, the snakes of his stepmother; how he likewise shattered in war famous cities, Troy and Oechalia; how under Eurystheus the King he bore the toil of a thousand labours by Juno's malign decrees. Your hand, unconquered, slays the cloud-born double-bodied race, Hylaeus and Pholus, the Cretan monster, and the huge lion in the hollow Nemean rock.

Before you the Stygian pools shook for fear, before you the warder of hell, couched on half-gnawed bones in his blood-stained cavern; to you no form was terrible, not Typhoeus' self towering in arms; you were not at a loss for a plan when the snake of Lerna encompassed you with thronging heads. Hail, true seed of Jove, deified glory! graciously visit us and these your rites with favoring steps. Such are their songs of praise; they crown all with the cavern of Cacus and its fire-breathing lord. All the woodland echoes with their clamour, and the hills resound.

Then, the sacred rites accomplished, they all at once retrace their way to the city. The age-worn King walked holding Aeneas and his son by his side for companions on his way, and lightened the road with varied conversation. Aeneas admires and turns his eyes lightly round about, pleased with the country; and gladly asks about spot after spot and hears of the memorials of earlier men. Then King Evander, founder of the fortress of Rome:

'In these woodlands dwelt Fauns and Nymphs sprung of the soil, and a tribe of men born of tree trunks and hard oak; who had neither law nor civilized ways of life, nor did they know to yoke bulls or lay up stores or save their gains, but were nurtured by the forest boughs and the hard living of the huntsman. Long ago Saturn came from heaven on high in flight before Jove's arms, an exile from his lost realm. He gathered together the unruly race scattered on the mountain heights, and gave them statutes, and chose Latium to be their name, since in these borders he had found a safe hiding-place. Under his reign were the ages called golden; thus, in peace and quietness, did he rule the nations; till gradually there crept in a degraded and corrupted age, the rage of war, and the lust of possession.

Then came the Ausonian clan and the tribes of Sicania, and many times Saturn's land gave up its name. Then there were kings, and fierce Thybris with his giant bulk, from whose name we of Italy afterwards called the Tiber river, after it lost its original, true name, Albula. Cast out from my country and following the sea's farthest limits, I was settled in this region by all-powerful Fortune and irreversible destiny; and my mother the Nymph Carmentis' awe-inspiring warnings and Apollo's divine counsel drove me here.'

Scarcely had he said this; next advancing he points out the altar and the Carmental Gate, which the Romans call by that ancient name in honour of the Nymph Carmentis, seer and soothsayer, who sang long ago the coming greatness of the Aeneadae and the glory of Pallanteum. Next he points out the wide grove where valiant Romulus set his sanctuary, and the Lupercal in the cool hollow of the rock, dedicated to Lycean Pan after the manner of Parrhasia. At the same time he shows the holy wood of Argiletum, and calls the spot to witness as he tells the slaying of his guest Argus. Hence he leads him to the Tarpeian house, and the Capitol golden now, long ago rough with forest thickets. Even then men trembled before the wood and rock. 'This grove,' he cries, 'this hill with its leafy crown, is a god's dwelling, though we do not know which god's; the Arcadians believe Jove himself has been visible, when often he shook the darkening aegis in his hand and gathered the storm-clouds.

You see these two towns likewise with walls overthrown, relics and memorials of men of former times. Lord Janus built this fortress, Saturn that one; the name of this was once Janiculum, of that Saturnia.'

With such mutual words they drew near the house of poor Evander, and saw scattered herds lowing on the Roman Forum and down the gay Carinae. When they reached his dwelling, 'This threshold,' he cries, 'Alcides the Conqueror stooped to cross; in this palace he rested. Dare, my guest, to despise riches; shape yourself to a like divine dignity, and come without demands to our poverty.' He spoke, and led tall Aeneas under the low roof of his narrow dwelling, and laid him on a couch of stuffed leaves and the skin of a Libyan she-bear. Night falls and clasps the earth in her dusky wings.

But Venus, stirred in spirit by a mother's far from groundless alarms, and moved by the threats and stern uprising of the Laurentines, addresses herself to Vulcan, and in her golden bridal chamber begins thus, breathing divine passion in her speech:

'While Argolic kings wasted in war the doomed towers of Troy, the fortress fated to fall in hostile fires, I required no help for her wretched people, no weapons from your craft and aid: nor would I burden you or your labors in vain, my dear husband, though I owed many and many a debt to the children of Priam, and had often wept the sore labour of Aeneas. Now by Jove's commands he has set foot in the Rutulian borders; I now therefore come with entreaty, and ask armour of the god I worship. For her son, the tears of Nereus' daughter could melt your heart, as could those of Tithonus' consort for hers. Look what nations are gathering, what cities bar their gates and sharpen the sword against me for the desolation of my children.'

The goddess ended, and, as he hesitates, clasps him round in the soft embrace of her snowy arms. He suddenly caught the familiar flame, and the heat known long ago pierced him to the heart and overran his melting frame: even as when, bursting from the thunder peal, a sparkling cleft of fire shoots through the storm-clouds with dazzling light. His wife understood, rejoiced in her wiles, and felt her beauty. Then her lord speaks, enchained by Love the immortal:

'Why these far-fetched pleas? Where has your trust in me gone, goddess? Had such distress been yours, even then we might have armed your Trojans without blame; neither fate nor the almighty Lord forbade Troy to stand, and Priam to survive yet ten other years. And now, if you intend war, and this is your counsel, whatever charge I can undertake in my craft, in anything that may be made of iron or molten electrum, whatever fire and air can do, stop pleading as though you doubted your influence.' These words spoken, he clasped his wife in the desired embrace, and, sinking in her lap, wooed quiet slumber to overspread his limbs.

Then, as soon as sleep had given rest and departed, midway through the course of waning night; soon as a woman, whose task is to sustain life with her distaff and the slender labours of the loom, kindles the ashes of her slumbering fire, her toil encroaching on the night, and sets a long task of fire-lit spinning to her maidens, that so she may keep her husband's bed unsullied and nourish her little children,—even so the Lord of Fire, no less punctual than she, rises from his soft couch to the work of his smithy. An island rises by the side of Sicily and Aeolian Lipare, steep with smoking cliffs, beneath which the vaulted and thunderous Aetnean caverns are hollowed out for Cyclopean forges, the strong strokes on the anvils echo in groans, ore of steel hisses in the vaults, and the fire pants in the furnaces: the house of Vulcan, and Vulcania the land's name.

Here now the Lord of Fire descends from heaven's height. In the vast cavern the Cyclopes were forging iron, Brontes and Steropes and Pyracmon with bared limbs. Shaped in their hands was a thunderbolt, in part already polished, such as the Father of Heaven hurls down on earth in multitudes, part yet unfinished. Three coils of frozen rain and three of watery mist they had worked into it, three of red fire and winged south wind; now they were mingling in their work the awful splendours, the sound and terror, and the angry pursuing flames. Elsewhere they hurried on a chariot for Mars with flying wheels, with which he rouses men and cities; and burnished the golden serpent-scales of the awful aegis, the armour of wrathful Pallas, and the entwined snakes on the breast of the goddess, the Gorgon head with severed neck and rolling eyes.

'Away with all!' he cries: 'stop your tasks unfinished, Cyclopes of Aetna, and attend to this; a warrior's armour must be made. Now strength must be tested, now quickness of hand, now all our skill must guide us. Fling off delay.' He spoke no more; but they all bent rapidly to the work, allotting their labours equally. Bronze and ore of gold flow in streams, and wounding steel is molten in the vast furnace. They shape a mighty shield, to receive alone all the weapons of the Latins, and weld it sevenfold, circle on circle. Some fill and empty the air-filled bellows of their blast, some dip the hissing bronze in the trough. They raise their arms mightily in answering rhythm, and turn the mass of metal about in the grasp of their tongs.

While the lord of Lemnos is thus busy in the borders of Aeolia, Evander is roused from his low dwelling by the gracious daylight and the morning songs of birds from the eaves. The old man arises, and draws on his body clothing, and ties the Tyrrhene shoe straps about his feet; then buckles to his side and shoulder his Tegeaean sword, and swathes himself in a panther skin that droops upon his left. At the same time two watch-dogs go before him from the high threshold, and accompany their master's steps. The hero sought his guest Aeneas in the privacy of his dwelling, mindful of their talk and his promised bounty. Nor did Aeneas fail to be astir with the dawn. With the one went his son Pallas, with the other Achates. They meet and clasp hands, and, sitting down within the house, at length enjoy uninterrupted conversation.

The King begins thus: . . .

'Princely chief of the Teucrians, in whose lifetime I will never concede that Troy's state or kingdom is defeated, our strength is too small to offer military help worthy of so great a name. On this side the Tuscan river shuts us in; on that the Rutulian drives us hard, and thunders in arms about our walls. But I intend to unite with you mighty peoples and the camp of a wealthy realm; an unforeseen chance offers this for your salvation. Fate summons you to approach. Not far from here stands the firm city of Agylla, an ancient pile of stone, where long ago the Lydian race, eminent in war, settled on the Etruscan ridges. For many years it flourished, till King Mezentius ruled it with insolent sway and armed terror. Why should I relate the horrible murders, the savage deeds of the monarch? May the gods keep them in store for himself and his line!

Indeed, he would even link dead bodies to living, fitting hand to hand and face to face (the torture!), and in the oozing filth and decay of that dreadful embrace kill them by a lingering death. But at last his citizens, outwearied by his mad excesses, surround him and his house in arms, cut down his comrades, and hurl fire on his roof. Amid the massacre he escaped to the refuge of Rutulian land and the armed defence of Turnus' friendship. So all Etruria has risen in righteous fury and demands its king for punishment in immediate battle. I will make you chief over these thousands, O Aeneas; for their noisy ships crowd all the shore, and they bid the standards advance, while the aged diviner stays them with prophecies: "Chosen men of Maeonia, its ancient flower and strength, whom righteous anger urges on the enemy, and Mezentius inflames with deserved wrath, to no Italian is it permitted to hold this great nation in control: choose foreigners to lead you." At that, terrified by the divine warning, the Etruscan lines have encamped on the plain; Tarchon himself has sent ambassadors to me with the crown and sceptre of the kingdom, and offers the royal robes if I will only enter their camp and take the Tyrrhene realm.

But old age, frozen to dulness, and exhausted with length of life, denies me the load of empire, and my prowess is past its day. I would urge it on my son if his mixed blood through his Sabellian mother did not make this half his native land. You, to whose years and race alike the fates extend their favour, on whom fortune calls, enter as a leader supreme in bravery over Teucrians and Italians. My own Pallas likewise, our hope and comfort, I will send with you; let him grow used to endure warfare and the stern work of battle under your teaching, to observe your actions, and from his earliest years look up to you. I will give him two hundred Arcadian cavalry, the choice of our warlike strength, and Pallas will give you as many more in his own name.'

Scarce had he ended; Aeneas, son of Anchises, and trusty Achates gazed with steadfast face, and, sad at heart, would have gone on inwardly turning over many hardships, had the Cytherean not sent a sign from the clear sky. For suddenly a flash and peal comes quivering from heaven, and all seemed in a moment to totter, and the Tyrrhene trumpet-blast to roar along the sky. They look up; again and yet again the heavy crash re-echoes. They see in the serene space of sky armour gleam red through a cloud in the clear air, and ring clashing out. The others stood in amazement; but the Trojan hero recognized the sound as the promise of his goddess mother; then he speaks: 'Do not ask, my friend, do not ask at all what fortune this presage announces; it is I who am summoned by heaven. The goddess who bore me foretold that she would send this sign if war assailed me, and would bring through the air to my aid armor from Vulcan's hands. . . .

Ah, what slaughter awaits the wretched Laurentines! what a price, O Turnus, will you pay me! how many shields and helmets and brave bodies of men will you, Lord Tiber, roll under your waves! Let them call for armed array and break the league!'

These words uttered, he rises from the high seat, and first wakes with fresh fire the slumbering altars of Hercules, and gladly draws near his guardian god of the night before and the small deities of the household. Evander and the men of Troy alike offer up, as is right, choice sheep of two years old. Afterwards he goes to the ships and revisits his crew, of whose company he chooses the foremost in valour to attend him to war; the rest glide down the water and float idly with the descending stream, to come with news to Ascanius of his father's state. They give horses to the Teucrians who seek the fields of Tyrrhenia; a chosen one is brought for Aeneas, covered in a tawny lion skin that glitters with claws of gold. Rumour flies suddenly, spreading over the little town, that they ride in haste to the courts of the Tyrrhene king.

Mothers redouble their prayers in terror, as fear treads closer on peril and the likeness of the War God looms larger in sight. Then Evander, clasping the hand of his departing son, clings to him weeping inconsolably, and says this:

'Oh, if Jupiter would restore to me the years that are past, as I was when, close under Praeneste, I cut down their foremost ranks and burned the piled shields of the conquered! Then this right hand sent King Erulus down to hell, though to him at his birth his mother Feronia (awful to tell) had given three lives and triple arms to wield; three times he had to be laid low in death; yet then this hand took all his lives and as often stripped him of his arms. I should never now, my son, be separated from your dear embrace; never would the insolent sword of Mezentius have on my borders dealt so many cruel deaths, widowed the city of so many citizens. But you, O heavenly powers, and you, Jupiter, Lord and Governor of Heaven, have compassion, I pray, on the Arcadian king, and hear a father's prayers.

If your deity and decrees keep my Pallas safe for me, if I live that I may see him and meet him yet, I pray for life; I have patience to endure any hardship whatever. But if, O Fortune, you threaten some dread calamity, now, ah now, may I break off a cruel life, while anxiety still wavers and expectation is in doubt, while you, dear boy, my one last delight, are still clasped in my embrace; let no bitterer message wound my ear.' These words the father poured forth at the final parting; his servants bore him swooning within.

And now the cavalry had issued from the open gates, Aeneas and trusty Achates among the foremost, then others of the Trojan princes, Pallas conspicuous amid the column in scarf and inlaid armour; like the Morning Star, when, newly washed in the ocean wave, he shows his holy face in heaven, and melts the darkness away. Fearful mothers stand on the walls and follow with their eyes the cloud of dust and the squadrons gleaming in bronze. They take the shortest way to their destination through the brushwood in armed formation. Forming in column, they advance noisily, and the horse hoof shakes the crumbling plain with four-footed trampling. There is a high grove by the cold river of Caere, widely revered in ancestral awe; sheltering hills shut it in all about and girdle the woodland with their dark firs. Rumour is that the old Pelasgians, who once long ago held the Latin borders, consecrated the grove and its festal day to Silvanus, god of farmland and flock.

Not far from it Tarchon and his Tyrrhenians were encamped in a protected place; and now from the hill-top the tents of all their army might be seen outspread on the fields. Lord Aeneas and his chosen warriors draw here and refresh their weary horses and limbs.

But Venus the white goddess drew near, bearing her gifts through the clouds of heaven; and when she saw her son withdrawn far apart in the valley's recess by the cold river, cast herself in his way, and addressed him thus: 'See, complete, the gifts of my husband's promised craftsmanship: so, my child, you need not shrink from soon challenging the haughty Laurentines or fiery Turnus to battle.' The Cytherean spoke, and sought her son's embrace, and laid the armour glittering under an oak opposite him. He, rejoicing in the magnificence of the goddess' gift, cannot have his fill of turning his eyes over it piece by piece, and admires and handles between his arms the helmet, dread with plumes and spouting flame, as when a blue cloud takes fire in the sunbeams and gleams afar; then the smooth greaves of electrum and refined gold, the spear, and the shield's indescribable design.

There the Lord of Fire had fashioned the story of Italy and the triumphs of the Romans, well acquainted with prophecy and the age to come; there all the race of Ascanius' future seed, and their wars fought one by one. He had likewise fashioned the she-wolf couched after the birth in the green cave of Mars; round her teats the twin boys hung playing, and fearlessly mouthed their foster-mother; she, with round neck bent back, stroked them by turns and shaped their bodies by licking them. Also, not far from this he had set Rome and the lawless abduction of the Sabine women in the concourse of the theatre when the great Circensian games were celebrated, and a fresh war suddenly arising between the people of Romulus and aged Tatius and austere Cures. Next these same kings laid down their mutual strife and stood armed before Jove's altar with cup in hand, and made a treaty over a slain sow.

Not far from there four-horse chariots driven apart had torn Mettus apart (but you, O Alban, should have kept your word!), and Tullus tore the flesh of the liar through the forest, his splashed blood dripping from the briars. At the same time Porsena demanded that the exiled Tarquin be admitted, and held the city in the grasp of a strong blockade; the Aeneadae rushed on the sword for liberty. You could see him as though raging and threatening, because Cocles dared to tear down the bridge, and Cloelia broke her bonds and swam the river. Highest of all Manlius, guardian of the Tarpeian fortress, stood with the temple behind him and held the high Capitoline; and the thatch of Romulus' palace stood rough and fresh. And here the silver goose, fluttering in the gilded colonnades, cried that the Gauls were there on the threshold.

The Gauls were there among the brushwood, hard on the fortress, secure in the darkness and the dower of shadowy night. Their clustering locks are of gold, and of gold their attire; their striped cloaks glitter, and their milk-white necks are entwined with gold. Two Alpine pikes sparkle in the hand of each, and long shields guard their bodies. Here he had embossed the dancing Salii and the naked Luperci, the crests wreathed in wool, and the sacred shields that fell from heaven; in cushioned cars the virtuous matrons led on their rites through the city. Far from there he adds the habitations of hell also, the high gates of Dis and the punishments of guilt; and you, O Catiline, clinging on the overhanging rock, and shuddering at the faces of the Furies; and far apart the good, and Cato giving them laws. Amidst it all flows wide the likeness of the swelling sea, wrought in gold, though the foam surged gray upon blue water; and round about dolphins, in shining silver, swept the seas with their tails in circle as they cleft the tide.

In the centre were visible the brazen war-fleets of Actium; you might see all Leucate swarm in embattled array, and the waves gleam with gold. Here Caesar Augustus, leading Italy to battle with Fathers and People, with gods of household and of state, stands on the lofty stern; prosperous flames jet round his brow, and his ancestral star dawns overhead. Elsewhere Agrippa, with favouring winds and gods, proudly leads on his column; on his brows glitters the naval crown encircled with ship prows, the proud emblem of the war. Here Antonius with barbarian aid and motley arms, from the conquered nations of the Dawn and the shore of the southern sea, carries with him Egypt and the Eastern forces of utmost Bactra, and the shameful Egyptian woman goes as his consort. All at once rush on, and the whole ocean is torn into foam by straining oars and triple-pointed prows.

They steer to sea; one might think that the Cyclades were torn up and floating on the sea, or that lofty mountains clashed with mountains, so mightily do their crews urge on the turreted ships. Flaming tow and the winged steel of darts shower thickly from their hands; the fields of ocean redden with fresh slaughter. In the midst the Queen calls on her squadron with her country's tambourine, nor yet casts back a glance on the twin snakes behind her. Howling Anubis, and gods monstrous and multitudinous, level their arms against Neptune and Venus and against Minerva; Mars rages amid the havoc, graven in iron, and the Fatal Sisters hang aloft, and Discord strides rejoicing with garment rent, and Bellona attends her with blood-stained scourge. Looking at this, Actian Apollo above drew his bow; with the terror of it all Egypt and India, every Arab and Sabaean, turned back in flight.

The Queen herself seemed to call the winds and spread her sails, and even now let her sheets run slack. The Lord of Fire had fashioned her amid the carnage, wan with the shadow of death, borne along by the waves and the north-west wind; and opposite her the vast bulk of mourning Nile, opening out his folds and calling with all his clothing the conquered people into his blue lap and the shelter of his streams. But Caesar rode into the city of Rome in triple triumph, and dedicated his vowed offering to the gods to stand for ever, three hundred stately shrines all about the city. The streets were loud with gladness and games and shouting. In all the temples was a band of matrons, in all were altars, and before the altars slain steers strewed the ground. He himself sits on the snowy threshold of Phoebus the bright, reviews the gifts of the nations and ranges them on the haughty doors.

The conquered tribes move in long line, as varied in their dress and armor as in their languages. Here Mulciber had designed the Nomad race and the ungirt Africans, here the Leleges and Carians and archer Gelonians. Euphrates went by now with smoother waves, and the Morini utmost of men, and the horned Rhine, the untamed Dahae, and Araxes chafing under his bridge.

These things he admires on the shield of Vulcan, his mother's gift, and rejoicing in the portrayal of history unknown to him, lifts on his shoulder the destined glories of his children.

Book Nine

While these events unfold far away, Juno, daughter of Saturn, sent Iris down from the sky to gallant Turnus, who happened to be sitting in his forefather Pilumnus' sacred wooded valley. The daughter of Thaumas spoke to him with rosy lips:

'Turnus, what no god had dared promise in answer to your prayer is now brought to you unasked by the passing day. Aeneas has left town and comrades and fleet to seek Evander's throne and Palatine dwelling-place. And that is not enough: he has penetrated to Corythus' furthest cities, and is mustering in arms a force of Lydian countrymen. Why hesitate? Now, now is the time to call for chariot and horses. Break through all hindrance and seize the bewildered camp.'

She spoke, and rose into the sky on poised wings, and flashed under the clouds in a long, flying rainbow. He knew her, and lifting both hands to heaven, with this cry pursued her flight: 'Iris, grace of the sky, who has sent you down through the clouds to me and brought you to earth? Where does this sudden brightness in the air come from? I see the sky splitting open, and the wandering stars in the firmament. I follow the high omen, whoever you may be that call me to arms.' And with these words he approached the water, and scooped up water from its brimming eddy, making many prayers to the gods and burdening the air with vows.

And now all the army was advancing on the open plain, with splendid horses and splendid clothing of embroidered gold. Messapus rules the foremost ranks, the sons of Tyrrheus the rear. Turnus commands the centre: like the Ganges swelling high and silent when its seven streams are still, or the rich flood of Nile when he ebbs from the plains, and is now sunk into his channel. On this the Teucrians see a sudden cloud of dark dust gathering, and the blackness rising on the plain. Caicus raises a cry from the mound in front: 'Citizens, what mass of mist and darkness is rolling toward us? To arms, quickly! Hand out weapons, climb the walls. The enemy approaches, ho!' With mighty clamour the Teucrians pour in through all the gates and fill the works. For so at his departure Aeneas the great captain had ordered; if anything should happen in the meantime, they should not venture to form a battle line or trust themselves to the open plain, but keep their camp and the safety of the entrenched walls. So, though shame and wrath beckon them on to battle, they yet bar the gates and do his bidding, and await the foe armed and in shelter of the towers. Turnus, who had flown forward in advance of his tardy column, comes up suddenly to the town with an escort of twenty chosen horsemen, borne on a Thracian horse dappled with white, and covered by a golden helmet with scarlet plume. 'Who will be with me, my men, to be first on the foe? Look!' he cries; and sends a javelin spinning into the air to open battle, and advances towering on the plain. His comrades take up the cry, and follow with dreadful din, wondering at the Teucrians' cowardly hearts, because they do not come out on level ground or face them in battle, but keep in shelter of the camp. He rides furiously back and forth, tracing the walls, and seeking an entrance where there is no way in. And as a wolf prowling about some crowded sheepfold, when, battered by wind and rain, he howls at the pens by midnight; safe beneath their mothers the lambs keep bleating on; he, savage and insatiate, rages in anger against the flock he cannot reach, worn out by hunger's long-growing frenzy and a throat still unquenched by blood: even so the Rutulian, as he gazes on the walled camp, kindles in anger, and indignation is hot in his iron frame. How can he try to enter? By what route can he hurl the imprisoned Trojans from the rampart and fling them on the plain? Close under the flanking camp lay the fleet, fenced about with mounds and the waters of the river; he attacks it, and calls for fire to his exultant comrades, and eagerly seizes a blazing pine torch in his hand. Then indeed they press on, quickened by Turnus' presence, and the whole band arms itself with black bundles of wood. The hearth-fires are plundered; the smoky brand trails a resinous glare, and the Fire-god sends clouds of glowing ashes upward.

What god, O Muses, guarded the Trojans from the rage of the fire? who repelled the fierce flame from their ships? Tell it; the witness to it is ancient, but its fame lasts forever. When Aeneas began to shape his fleet on Phrygian Ida, and prepared to seek the high seas, the Berecyntian, they say, the very Mother of gods, spoke to high Jove in these words: 'My son, grant my prayer, as your love for the mother who bore you and laid Olympus beneath your feet deserves. My pine forest, beloved to me for many years, stood on the mountain's summit, where men brought my sacred objects: a grove dark with dusky pines and maples like pillars. These, when he required a fleet, I gave gladly to the Dardanian; now fear wrings me with sharp distress. Relieve my terrors, and grant a mother's prayers such power that the ships may yield to no hardship of voyaging or blast of storm: let their birth on our hills protect them.'

Her son, who turns the starry worlds, answered: 'Mother, where are you calling fate? or what do you ask for these ships of yours? Can hulls fashioned by mortal hands have the right to immortality? Can Aeneas pass through dangers with danger unable to touch him? What god has been granted such power? But when their duty is done and they lie at last in their Ausonian harbor, I will take their mortal form from all the ships that have survived the waves and carried their Dardanian captain to Laurentum's fields. I will command them to become goddesses of the mighty sea, even as Doto the Nereid and Galatea, when they cut the sea that falls away from their breasts in foam.' He ended; and by his brother's Stygian streams, by the banks of the pitchy black-boiling chasm he confirmed his promise with a nod, and shook all Olympus with his nod.

So the promised day had arrived, and the destinies had fulfilled their due time, when Turnus' violence stirred the Mother to keep the burning brands from her sacred ships. First then a strange light flashed on all eyes, and a great glory from the Dawn seemed to dart over the sky, with the choirs of Ida; then an awful voice fell through air, filling the Trojan and Rutulian ranks: 'Do not trouble yourselves, Teucrians, to guard my ships or arm your hands for them: sooner shall Turnus burn the seas than these holy pines. You ships, go free; go, goddesses of the sea; the Mother bids it.' And immediately each ship breaks the bond that held it, as with dipping prows they plunge like dolphins deep into the water: from it again (O wonderful and strange!) they rise with maidens' faces in the same number, and move out to sea.

The Rutulians stood dumb: Messapus himself is terror-stricken among his disordered cavalry; even the stream of Tiber pauses with hoarse murmur, and recoils from sea. But bold Turnus loses none of his confidence; indeed, he lifts their courage with words and even scolds them: 'These omens are aimed at the Trojans; Jupiter himself has bereft them of their usual help; they cannot withstand Rutulian sword and fire. Now the Teucrians have no road across the sea, nor is there any hope in flight; they have lost half their world. And we hold the land: in all their thousands the nations of Italy are under arms. In no way am I dismayed by those divine oracles of doom the Phrygians insolently advance. Fate and Venus are satisfied, now that the Trojans have touched our fruitful Ausonian fields. I too have my fate in reply to theirs, to put utterly to the sword the guilty nation who have robbed me of my bride; the sons of Atreus are not the only ones to feel that pain, nor is Mycenae alone entitled to take up arms. But it is enough to have perished once, you say! They should have been content to sin once, unless they utterly despise all women. Their courage comes from trusting the rampart that separates us and the obstacle of their trenches: so little stands between them and death: yet have they not seen Troy town, the work of Neptune's hand, sink into fire? But you, my chosen, who of you makes ready to breach their palisade at the sword's point, and join my attack on their terrified camp? I have no need of Vulcanian arms, of a thousand ships, to meet the Teucrians. Let all Etruria join them in alliance: nor let them fear the darkness, and the cowardly theft of their Palladium, and the guards cut down on the fortress height. Nor will we hide ourselves unseen in a horse's belly; in daylight and unconcealed are we resolved to girdle their walls with flame. I will show them they are dealing with more than Greeks, more than a Pelasgic force that Hector kept at bay until the tenth year. Now, since the better part of day is spent, use what remains to refresh your bodies, glad that we have done so well, and expect the order of battle.'

Meanwhile orders are given to Messapus to blockade the gates with pickets of sentries, and encircle the works with watchfires. Fourteen are chosen to guard the walls with Rutulian soldiery; but each leads a hundred men, crimson-plumed and sparkling in gold. They spread themselves about and take turns at watch, and, lying along the grass, drink deeply and tilt their bronze drinking bowls. The fires glow, and the sentinels spend the night awake in games...

The Trojans look down on this from their rampart, as they hold the height in arms; and in fearful haste they test the gates and lay gangways from bastion to bastion, and bring up missiles. Mnestheus and valiant Serestus speed the work, whom lord Aeneas had appointed, if disaster should require it, to be rulers of the people and guardians of the state. All their battalions, sharing the danger, keep watch along the walls, and take alternate charge of all that requires defence.

Nisus, son of Hyrtacus, was guarding the gate, most valiant in arms, whom Ida the huntress had sent with Aeneas, skilled in swift javelins and light arrows; and Euryalus was beside him, fairest of all the Aeneadae and the wearers of Trojan arms, showing on his boyish face, still without a beard, the first bloom of youth. These two were united in love, and charged in battle together; and now they shared the watch at the gate. Nisus cries: 'Euryalus, do the gods give our souls this fire? or does each man's deadly passion become his own god? For a long time now my soul has been restless to begin some great deed of arms, and quiet peace does not delight it. You see how confident in fortune the Rutulians stand. Their lights glimmer far apart; buried in drunken sleep they have sunk to rest; silence stretches all about. Learn then what doubt, what purpose, now rises in my spirit. The people and senate all call that Aeneas be summoned, and men be sent to carry him news. If they promise what I ask in your name—for to me the glory of the deed is enough—I think I can find beneath that distant hillock a path to the walls of Pallanteum town.'

Euryalus stood fixed, struck through with high ambition, and with that speaks to his eager friend: 'Are you excluding me, Nisus, from sharing your greatest deeds? Am I to send you alone into such great dangers? My warrior father Opheltes did not raise and nurture me that way amid the Argive terror and the agony of Troy, nor have I conducted myself that way by your side while following noble Aeneas to his utmost fate. Here is a spirit, yes, here, that scorns the light of day, that thinks the honor you aspire to cheap even at the price of a life.'

To this Nisus: 'Certainly I had no such fear about you; no, nor could I; so may great Jupiter, or whoever looks on earth with equal eyes, restore me to you triumphant. But if perhaps—as you see often and often in so desperate an enterprise—if perhaps chance or deity sweep me to adverse doom, I would want you to survive; your youth deserves life more. Let someone give me a proper burial, rescued or ransomed from the battlefield: or, if fortune denies that, let him perform my funeral rites from afar and honor me with a tomb. Neither would I bring such pain on your poor mother, who alone among so many mothers has dared to follow her boy to the end, and has rejected great Acestes' city.'

Euryalus replies: 'You pile up empty reasons in vain; my resolve will not give way or change so readily. Let us make haste.' He speaks, and rouses the watch; they come up, and relieve the guard; leaving their post, he and Nisus stride on to seek the prince.

The rest of living things over all lands were soothing their cares in sleep, and their hearts forgot their pain; the foremost Trojan captains, a chosen band, held a council about the state's affairs; what should they do, or who would now be their messenger to Aeneas? They stand, leaning on their long spears and grasping their shields, in the camp's open central space. Then Nisus and Euryalus together pray with quick urgency to be given audience; their matter is weighty and will be worth the delay. Iulus at once heard their hurried plea, and asked Nisus to speak. Then the son of Hyrtacus said: 'Hear, O people of Aeneas, with favourable mind, do not judge our proposal by our years. Sunk in sleep and wine, the Rutulians are silent; we have stealthily spied the open ground that lies in the path through the gate next the sea. The line of fires is broken, and their smoke rises darkly upwards. If you allow us to use this chance to seek Aeneas in Pallanteum town, you will soon see us here at hand with the spoils of the great slaughter we have dealt. We will not lose our way; up the dim valleys we have seen the town's outskirts, and learned every part of the river through constant hunting.'

Then aged Aletes, wise in counsel, said: 'Gods of our fathers, under whose deity Troy ever stands, you do not yet mean completely to destroy the Trojan race, when you have brought us young honour and hearts so sure as this.' So speaking, he caught both by shoulder and hand, with tears showering down over face and feature. 'What reward can I think worthy of you, men, what recompense for these noble deeds? First and fairest shall be your reward from the gods and your own conduct; and Aeneas the good shall speedily repay the rest, and young Ascanius will never forget so great a service.'—'No,' breaks in Ascanius, 'I whose sole safety is in my father's return, I implore you and him, O Nisus, by our great household gods, by the guardian spirit of Assaracus and ancient Vesta's sanctuary—on your knees I lay all my fortune and trust—recall my father; let us see him again; all sorrow disappears in his recovery. I will give a pair of cups my father took in vanquished Arisba, wrought in silver and rough with tracery, twin tripods, and two large talents of gold, and an ancient bowl that Sidonian Dido gave. If it be indeed our lot to possess Italy and grasp a conquering sceptre, and to assign the spoil; you saw the horse and armour of Turnus as he went all in gold; that same horse, the shield and the ruddy plume, will I reserve from partition, your reward, O Nisus, even from now. My father will give besides twelve mothers of the choicest beauty, and male captives, all properly equipped; above these, the space of meadow-land that is now King Latinus' own domain. You, O noble boy, whose age is closer to mine, even now I welcome to all my heart, and embrace as my companion in every fortune. No glory shall be sought for my state without you; whether we direct peace or war, I will place my chief trust in you for action and counsel.'

Euryalus answers: 'Only may the day never come that proves me unworthy of this daring courage; fortune may fall prosperous or adverse. But above all your gifts, one thing I ask of you. My poor mother of Priam's ancient race, whom neither the land of Troy nor King Acestes' city kept from following me, her I now leave in ignorance of this danger, such as it is, and without a farewell, because—let the night and your hand bear witness!—I cannot bear a parent's tears. But you, I pray, provide for her needs and relieve her loneliness. Let me take this hope in you with me; I shall face any fortune more boldly.' Deeply stirred at heart, the Dardanians shed tears, fair Iulus before them all, as this image of his own love for his father wrung his soul. Then he speaks thus: ... 'Be assured of all that is due to your mighty enterprise; for she shall be a mother to me, and only in name fail to be Creusa; and no small honor is reserved for the mother of such a son. Whatever chance follows this deed, I swear by this head by which my father used to swear, what I promise to you on your prosperous return will remain the same for your mother and kindred.' So speaks he weeping, and unfastens from his shoulder the sword inlaid with gold, fashioned with marvellous skill by Lycaon of Gnosus and fitly set in a sheath of ivory. Mnestheus gives Nisus the shaggy spoils of a lion's hide; faithful Aletes exchanges his helmet. They advance onward in arms, and as they go all the company of captains, young and old, speed them to the gates with vows. Likewise fair Iulus, with a man's thought and a spirit beyond his years, gave many messages to be carried to his father. But the breezes shred all apart and give them unfulfilled to the clouds.

They go out and cross the trenches, and through the shadow of night seek the fatal camp, destined first to bring death to many men. All about they see bodies scattered along the grass in drunken sleep, chariots tilted on the shore, the men lying among their traces and wheels, with their armour by them, and their wine. The son of Hyrtacus began thus: 'Euryalus, now we need daring hands; everything invites them; here lies our way; make sure no one attacks us from behind, and keep a sharp lookout. Here I will deal destruction, and make a broad path for you to follow.' He says this and falls silent; with that he drives his sword at lordly Rhamnes, who happened to be drawing the full breath of sleep on carpets heaped high; a king himself, and King Turnus' best-beloved augur, but not all his augury could avert his doom. Three of his household beside him, lying carelessly among their arms, and the armor-bearer and charioteer of Remus go down before him, caught at the horses' feet. Their drooping necks he severs with the sword, then beheads their lord likewise and leaves the trunk spouting blood; the dark warm gore soaks ground and cushions. With them he kills Lamyrus and Lamus, and beautiful young Serranus, who that night had played long and late, and lay with the conquering wine god heavy on every limb; happy, if only he had played through the night and continued his game until day! Even thus an unfed lion rages through crowded sheepfolds, for the madness of hunger urges him, and bites and tears the fleecy flock that are dumb with fear, and roars with blood-stained mouth. Euryalus' slaughter is no less fierce; he too rages all aflame; an unnamed multitude go down before his path, and Fadus and Herbesus and Rhoetus and Abaris, unaware; Rhoetus was awake and saw everything, but hid in fear behind a great bowl; as Rhoetus rose close beside him, Euryalus plunged the whole sword straight into his breast, and drew it back heavy with death. He vomits forth the crimson life-blood, and throws up wine mixed with blood in the death agony. Euryalus presses fiercely on with his stealthy mission, and now bent his way towards Messapus' comrades, where he saw the last flicker of the fires go down, and the horses tethered in order cropping the grass; when Nisus briefly speaks thus, for he saw him carried away by excess of murderous desire; 'Let us stop; for unfriendly daylight draws near. Vengeance is sated to the full; a path is cut through the enemy.' Much they leave behind, men's armour wrought in solid silver, along with bowls, and beautiful carpets. Euryalus tears away the decorations of Rhamnes and his sword-belt embossed with gold, gifts that Caedicus, the wealthiest of men long ago, sent to Remulus of Tibur when pledging friendship from afar; Remulus gave them to his grandson on his deathbed; after his death the Rutulians captured them as spoil of war; Euryalus fits these on his shoulders, whose courage will be in vain, then puts on Messapus' light helmet with its graceful plumes. They leave the camp and make for safety.

Meanwhile an advanced guard of cavalry were on their way from the Latin city, while the rest of their marshalled battalions linger on the plains, and bore a reply to King Turnus; three hundred men all under shield, under Volscens' command. And now they approached the camp and drew near the wall, when they see the two turning away by the pathway to the left; and in the glimmering darkness of night the helmet he had forgotten he wore betrayed Euryalus, glittering as it met the light. Their appearance did not seem accidental. Volscens cries aloud from his column: 'Stand, men! why are you on the march, and why are you armed? Where are you heading?' They offer nothing in reply, but quicken their flight into the forest, and throw themselves on the night. On this side and that the horsemen bar the familiar crossways, and encircle every outlet with sentinels. The forest spread wide in tangled thickets and dark ilex; thick growth of briars choked it all about, and the muffled pathway glimmered in a broken track. Hampered by the shadowy boughs and his cumbersome spoil, Euryalus in his fright misses the line of way. Nisus gets clear; and now unthinkingly he had passed the enemy, and the place afterwards called Albani from Alba's name; then the deep coverts were of King Latinus' domain; when he stopped, and looked back in vain for his lost friend. 'Euryalus, unhappy! where have I left you? or where shall I follow, again unwinding all the entanglement of the treacherous woodland way?' With that he marks and retraces his footsteps, and wanders down the silent thickets. He hears the horses, hears the clatter and signal-notes of the pursuers. Nor had he long to wait, when shouts reach his ears, and he sees Euryalus, whom even now, in the perplexity of ground and darkness, the whole squadron have borne down in a sudden rush, and seize despite all his futile struggles. What shall he do? with what force, with what weapons can he dare to rescue him? or shall he rush on his doom amid their swords, and find in their wounds a speedy and glorious death? Quickly he draws back his arm with poised spear, and looking up to the moon on high, utters this prayer: 'Give immediate aid to our enterprise, O Latonian goddess, glory of the stars and guardian of the woodlands: by all the gifts my father Hyrtacus ever bore for my sake to your altars, by all my own hand has added from my hunting, or hung in your dome, or fixed on your holy roof, grant that I may throw these ranks into confusion, and guide my javelin through the air.' He ended, and with all the force of his body hurls the steel. The flying spear whistles through the darkness of the night, and comes full on the shield of Sulmo, and there snaps, and the broken shaft passes on through his heart. Spouting a warm tide from his breast he rolls over chill in death, and his sides throb with long-drawn gasps. They look around in every direction. But with still greater fury Nisus was poising another weapon high by his ear; while they hesitate, the spear went whizzing through both Tagus' temples, and pierced and stuck fast in the warm brain. Volscens is mad with rage, and nowhere sees the sender of the weapon, nor where to direct his fury. 'Yet meanwhile your warm blood shall pay me vengeance for both,' he cries; and unsheathing his sword, he made at Euryalus. Then indeed frantic with terror Nisus shrieks out; he could no longer hide himself in darkness or endure such agony. 'On me, on me, I am here, I did it, on me turn your steel, O Rutulians! Mine is all the guilt; he dared nothing, no, and could do nothing; I appeal to this heaven and the stars that know; he only loved his hapless friend too well.' While Nisus was uttering these words, the sword, driven hard home, had passed clean through Euryalus' ribs and pierced his white breast. Euryalus rolls over in death, and the blood runs over his lovely limbs, and his neck sinks and settles on his shoulder; even as when a lustrous flower cut away by the plough droops in death, or weary-necked poppies bow down their head if overweighted with a random shower. But Nisus rushes amidst them, and alone among them all attacks Volscens, presses on Volscens alone: round him the foe cluster, and on this side and that hurl him back: none the less he presses on, and whirls his sword like lightning, till he plunges it full in the face of the shrieking Rutulian, and slays his enemy as he dies. Then, stabbed through and through, he flung himself above his lifeless friend, and there at last found the quiet sleep of death.

Happy pair! if my verse has any power, no length of days shall ever blot you from memory, as long as the house of Aeneas dwells by the Capitoline's steadfast stone, and the lord of Rome holds sovereign power.

The victorious Rutulians, with their spoils and the plunder regained, carried dead Volscens back to camp in tears. The wailing in the camp was no less, when Rhamnes was found a bloodless corpse, and Serranus and Numa and all their princes destroyed in a single slaughter. Crowds throng towards the corpses and the men wounded to death, the ground fresh with warm bloodshed and the swollen rivulets of frothing blood. They recognize among them the spoils, Messapus' shining helmet and the decorations that cost such sweat to win back.

And now Dawn, leaving the saffron bed of Tithonus, scattered over earth her fresh shafts of early light; now the sunlight streams in, now daylight unveils the world. Turnus, himself fully armed, rouses his men to arms, and each leader marshals to battle his brazen lines and whets their ardour with varying rumours. And, a pitiful sight! they fix on spear points, raise high and follow with loud shouts the heads of Euryalus and Nisus... The Aeneadae stubbornly face them, lining the left hand wall (for their right is girdled by the river), hold the deep trenches and stand gloomily on the high towers, stirred as well by the faces they know, alas, too well, in their dark dripping gore. Meanwhile Rumour on fluttering wings rushes with the news through the alarmed town and glides to the ears of Euryalus' mother. But instantly the warmth leaves her woeful body, the shuttle starts from her hand and the threads unroll. She darts forth in agony, and with woman's wailing and torn hair runs distractedly towards the walls and the foremost columns, heedless of men, heedless of danger or weapons; at that she fills the air with her complaint: 'Is this how I see you, O Euryalus? Could you, the latest solace of my age, leave me alone so cruelly? when you were sent into such danger, was your unhappy mother allowed no final word from you? Alas, you lie in a strange land, given for a prey to the dogs and fowls of Latium! nor was I, your mother, there as chief mourner, to lay you out or close your eyes or wash your wounds, and cover you with the garment I hurried to weave for you through whole nights and days, an anxious old woman taking comfort from the loom. Where shall I follow? or what land now holds your mangled corpse, your body torn limb from limb? Is this all of what you were that returns to me, O my son? is this what I have followed over land and sea? Pierce me out of pity; cast all your weapons at me, Rutulians; make me the first sacrifice of your steel. Or do you, mighty lord of heaven, be merciful, and with your own weapon hurl this hateful life into the depths below, since I have no other way to escape from life's cruelty.' At this weeping cry their courage falters, and a sigh of sorrow passes all along; their strength is benumbed and broken for battle. As her grief blazes, Ilioneus and the weeping Iulus order Idaeus and Actor to lift her and carry her home in their arms.

But far away the terrible trumpet call rang from shrill bronze; a shout follows, and is echoed from the sky. The Volscians hasten up in even line under their advancing roof of shields, and set to fill up the trenches and tear down the palisades. Some seek entrance by scaling the walls with ladders, where the defenders' battle-line is thin, and light shows through gaps in the ring of men. The Teucrians in return shower weapons of every sort, and push them down with stiff poles, trained by long warfare in defending their ramparts: and fiercely hurl heavy stones, hoping to break the shielded line; while they, crowded under their shell, easily endure the whole downpour. But now they fail; for where the vast mass presses close, the Teucrians roll a huge block tumbling down that makes a wide gap in the Rutulians and crashes through their armour-plating. The bold Rutulians no longer wish to continue a battle fought blindly, but strive to clear the rampart with missiles... Elsewhere Mezentius, terrible to see, brandishes his Etruscan pine and hurls smoking brands; but Messapus, tamer of horses, seed of Neptune, tears away the palisading and calls for ladders to the ramparts.

Calliope, I pray that you and your sisters inspire me while I sing the destruction spread then and there by Turnus' sword, the deaths dealt from his hand, and which men each warrior sent down to the under world; and unfold with me the vast expanse of war.

A vast tower with high gangways loomed in a commanding position; all the Italians strove with all their strength to storm it, and put all their strength and ingenuity into overthrowing it; the Trojans in return defended it with stones and hurled showers of darts through the loopholes. Turnus, leading the attack, threw a blazing torch that caught flaming on the side wall; swollen by the wind, the flame seized the wooden planking and clung devouring to the standards. Those within, in hurry and confusion, long to escape their peril; in vain; while they cluster together and fall back to the side untouched by the devouring fire, the tower falls forward under the sudden weight with a crash that thunders through all the sky. Pierced by their own weapons, and impaled on hard splinters of wood, they come half slain to the ground with the vast mass behind them. Only Helenor and Lycus barely struggle out; Helenor in his early prime, whom a slave woman of Licymnos bore in secret to the Maeonian king, and sent to Troy in forbidden weapons, armed only with sheathless sword and white unmarked shield. When Helenor saw himself among Turnus' thousands, with Latin ranks surrounding him on every side, he was like a wild beast that, girt with a crowded ring of hunters, dashes at their weapons, hurls herself knowingly at death, and comes with a bound upon the spears; so he rushes to his death amid the enemy, and presses on where he sees their weapons thickest. But Lycus, much swifter on foot, flees along the walls through enemies and weapons, and strives to catch the coping in his grasp and reach the hands of his comrades. And Turnus pursuing and aiming as he ran, thus upbraids him in triumph: 'Did you hope, madman, you might escape our hands?' and seizes him as he clings, and tears him and a great piece of the wall away: as when, with a hare or snowy-bodied swan in his crooked talons, Jove's armor-bearer soars aloft, or the wolf of Mars snatches from the folds some lamb sought by its mother with incessant bleating. On all sides a shout goes up. They advance and fill the trenches with heaps of earth; some toss glowing brands on the roofs. Ilioneus strikes down Lucetius with a great fragment of mountain rock as, carrying fire, he draws near the gate. Liger kills Emathion, Asylas kills Corinaeus, the one skilled with the javelin, the other with the stealthy arrow from afar. Caeneus kills Ortygius; victorious Turnus kills Caeneus; Turnus kills Itys and Clonius, Dioxippus, and Promolus, and Sagaris, and Idas where he stood in front of the turret top; Capys kills Privernus: Themillas' spear had first grazed him lightly; the madman threw down his shield to carry his hand to the wound; so the arrow flew, and pinning his hand to his left side, broke into the lungs with deadly wound. The son of Arcens stood splendid in arms, and scarf embroidered with needlework and bright with Iberian blue, the beautiful boy sent by his father Arcens from his upbringing in our Lady's grove about the streams of Symaethus, where Palicus' altar is rich and gracious. Laying down his spear, Mezentius whirled three times round his head the tightened cord of his whistling sling, pierced him full between the temples with the molten sling bullet, and stretched him all his length upon the sand.

Then, it is said, Ascanius first aimed his flying shaft in war, previously used only to frighten wild game, and struck down a brave Numanian, Remulus by name, only recently joined in marriage to Turnus' younger sister. Advancing before his ranks, Remulus shouted things both fit and unfit to repeat, and strode along haughty and talkative, his heart lifted up with his fresh royalty.

'Are you not ashamed to be again held besieged in your ramparts, O Phrygians twice taken, and to make walls your fence from death? Look at the men who demand in war our wives for theirs! What god, what madness, has driven you to Italy? Here are no sons of Atreus nor deceitful Ulysses. A race of hardy breed, we carry our newborn children to the streams and harden them in the bitter icy water; as boys they spend wakeful nights over the chase, and wear out the woodland with their hunting; but in manhood, unwearied by toil and trained to poverty, they subdue the soil with their mattocks, or shake towns in war. Men of every age wear iron, and we goad the flanks of our oxen with reversed spear; nor does creeping old age weaken our strength of spirit or abate our force. White hairs bear the weight of the helmet; and it is ever our delight to drive in fresh spoil and live on our plunder. Yours is embroidered clothing of saffron and shining sea-purple. Indolence is your pleasure, your delight the luxurious dance; you wear sleeved tunics and ribboned turbans. You true Phrygian women, not even Phrygian men! go across the heights of Dindymus, where the double flute breathes familiar music. The drums call you, and the Berecyntian boxwood flute of Ida's Mother; leave arms to men, and lay down the sword.'

As he flung forth such ill-omened words, Ascanius could not bear it, and aimed an arrow at him from the taut horse-sinew bowstring; and as he drew his arms apart, first paused to ask Jove's favor in a humble prayer: 'Jupiter omnipotent, favor this daring deed. My hands shall bear yearly gifts to you in your temple, and bring to stand before your altars a steer with gilded forehead, snow-white, carrying his head high as his mother's, already pushing with his horn and making the sand fly up under his feet.' The Father heard and from a clear space of sky thundered on the left; at once the fateful bow rings, the grim-whistling arrow flies from the tense string, and goes through the head of Remulus, the steel piercing through from temple to temple. 'Go, mock valour with insolence of speech! Phrygians twice taken return this answer to Rutulians.' Ascanius said this and no more; the Teucrians respond in cheers, and shout for joy in rising height of courage. At that moment long-haired Apollo sat in the expanse of heaven looking down from his cloud on the Ausonian ranks and town, and thus addresses triumphant Iulus: 'Good fortune to your youthful courage, boy! this is the way to heaven, child of gods and parent of gods to be! Rightly shall all wars fated to come sink to peace beneath the line of Assaracus; and you are not confined within a Troy.' So speaking, he darts from heaven's height, and cleaving the breezy air, seeks Ascanius. Then he changes the fashion of his countenance, and becomes aged Butes, armor-bearer long ago to Dardanian Anchises, and the faithful keeper of his doorway; afterward his lord gave him for Ascanius' attendant. Apollo came exactly like the old man, voice and colour, white hair, and grimly clashing arms, and speaks these words to eager Iulus:

'Let it be enough, son of Aeneas, that the Numanian has fallen unavenged beneath your arrows; this first honour great Apollo allows you, and does not begrudge weapons that rival his own. Beyond this, boy, leave war alone.' Apollo spoke, and while still speaking retreated from mortal view, vanishing into thin air away out of their eyes. The Dardanian princes knew the god and the arms of deity, and heard the clash of his quiver as he went. So they restrain Ascanius' keenness for battle by Phoebus' declared will; they themselves again close in battle, and cast their lives into the perilous breach. Shouts run all along the battlemented walls; ringing bows are drawn and javelin thongs twisted: all the ground is scattered with missiles. Shields and hollow helmets ring to blows; the battle swells fierce; as heavily as the rain that lashes the ground when the setting Kids bring storms; thick as hail pours down from storm-clouds on the shallows, when the rough lord of the winds freezes his flood of rain and breaks up the hollow vapours in the sky.

Pandarus and Bitias, sprung of Alcanor of Ida, whom woodland Iaera bore in the grove of Jupiter, grown now tall as their ancestral pines and hills, fling open the gates barred by their captain's order, and confident in arms, deliberately invite the enemy within the walls. They themselves stand inside to right and left in front of the towers, sheathed in iron, the plumes flickering over their stately heads: even as high in air around the gliding streams, whether on Padus' banks or by pleasant Athesis, twin oaks rise lifting their unshorn heads into the sky, their high tops swaying. The Rutulians pour in when they see the entrance open. Straightway Quercens and Aquicolus beautiful in arms, and desperate Tmarus, and Haemon, seed of Mars, either retreat in rout with all their columns, or in the very gateway lay down their lives. Then the spirits of the combatants swell in rising wrath, and now the Trojans gather swarming to the spot, and dare to close hand to hand and to sally farther out.

News is brought to Turnus the captain, as he rages afar among the routed foe, that the enemy surges forth into fresh slaughter and flings wide his gates. He breaks off his unfinished work, and, fired with immense anger, rushes towards the proud brothers at the Dardanian gate. First he hurls his javelin at Antiphates, who was first to meet him, the illegitimate son of mighty Sarpedon by a Theban mother, and strikes him down; the Italian cornel-wood shaft flies through the yielding air, and, piercing the gullet, runs deep into his breast; a frothing tide pours from the dark yawning wound, and the steel grows warm where it pierces the lung. Then Meropes and Erymas, then Aphidnus fall by his hand; then Bitias, fiery-eyed and exultant, not with a javelin; for he would not have surrendered his life to a javelin; but the loud-whistling pike came hurled with a thunderbolt's force; neither twofold bull's hide kept it back, nor the trusty breastplate's double scales of gold: his vast limbs sink in a heap; earth utters a groan, and the great shield clashes over him: even as once and again on the Euboic shore of Baiae falls a mass of stone, built up of great blocks and so cast into the sea; thus does it tumble prone, crashes into the shoal water and sinks deep to rest; the seas are stirred, and the dark sand eddies up; with that the depth of Prochyta quivers at the sound, and the reclining rocks of Inarime, heaped above Typhoeus by Jove's commands.

On this Mars mighty in arms raised the spirit and strength of the Latins, and goaded their hearts to rage, and sent Flight and dark Fear among the Teucrians. From all quarters they gather, since battle is freely offered; and the warrior god inspires... Pandarus, at his brother's fall, sees how fortune stands, what chance controls the day; and swinging the gate round on its hinge with all his force, pushes it to with his broad shoulders, leaving many of his own people shut outside the walls in the desperate conflict, but shutting others in with him as they pour back in retreat. Madman! He did not see the Rutulian prince burst in amid their columns, and actually shut him inside the town, like a monstrous tiger among the helpless flocks. At once strange light flashed from his eyes, and his armour rang terribly; the blood-red plumes flicker on his head, and lightnings shoot sparkling from his shield. In sudden dismay the Aeneadae know the hated form and giant limbs. Then tall Pandarus leaps forward, in burning rage at his brother's death: 'This is not the palace of Amata's dower,' he cries, 'nor does Ardea enclose Turnus in her native walls. You see a hostile camp; escape hence is hopeless.' To him Turnus, smiling and cool: 'Begin with all your courage, and close hand to hand; here too shall you tell that a Priam has found his Achilles.' He ended; the other, putting out all his strength, hurls his rough spear, knotty and unpeeled. The breezes caught it; Juno, daughter of Saturn, made the wound glance off as it came, and the spear sticks fast in the gate. 'But this weapon that my strong hand whirls, this you shall not escape; for the man who sends this weapon and wound is a different man.' So speaks he, and rises high on his uplifted sword; the steel severs the forehead midway right between the temples, and divides the beardless cheeks with ghastly wound. He crashes down; earth shakes under the vast weight; dying limbs and brain-spattered armour tumble in a heap to the ground, and the head, evenly severed, dangles this way and that from either shoulder. The Trojans scatter and turn in hasty terror; and if the conqueror had immediately thought to burst the bars and let in his comrades at the gate, that would have been the last day of the war and of the nation. But rage and mad thirst of slaughter drive him like fire on the foe... First he catches up Phalaris; then Gyges, and hamstrings him; he plucks away their spears, and hurls them on the backs of the flying crowd; Juno gives strength and courage. He sends Halys to join them, and Phegeus, pierced through his shield; then Alcander and Halius, Noemon and Prytanis, as they raise their war cry on the walls, unaware of him. Lynceus advanced to meet him, calling up his comrades; from the rampart the glittering sword sweeps to the left and catches him; struck off by the one downright blow, head and helmet lay far away. Next Amycus falls, the deadly huntsman, incomparable in skill of hand to anoint his arrows and arm their steel with venom; and Clytius the Aeolid, and Cretheus beloved of the Muses, Cretheus of the Muses' company, whose delight was ever in songs and harps and composing verse; ever he sang of steeds and armed men and battles.

At last, hearing of the slaughter of their men, the Teucrian captains, Mnestheus and gallant Serestus, come up, and see their comrades in disordered flight and the foe let in. And Mnestheus: 'Where next, where are you rushing in flight? what other walls, what further city do you still have? Fellow citizens, shall one man, surrounded on every side by your entrenchments, deal such unchecked destruction throughout our city, and send all our best warriors to the under world? Have you no pity, no shame, cowards, for your unhappy country, for your ancient gods, for great Aeneas?'

Kindled by such words, they take heart and rally in dense array. Little by little Turnus drew away from the fight towards the river, and the side encircled by the stream: the Teucrians press on him all the more boldly with loud shouts and thickening masses, even as a band that fall on a wrathful lion with levelled weapons, but he, frightened back, retreats sullenly, glaring fiercely; and neither does wrath nor courage let him turn his back, nor can he stand his ground, for all that he desires it, against the surrounding arms and men. Even thus Turnus draws slowly backward, with unhastened steps, and soul boiling in anger. Indeed, even then he charged twice amid the enemy, twice he drove them in flying rout along the walls. But all the force of the camp gathers hastily up; and Juno, daughter of Saturn, does not dare to give him strength to hold them off; for Jupiter sent Iris down through the airy sky, bearing stern orders to his sister that Turnus shall withdraw from the high Trojan town. Therefore neither with shield nor hand can he keep his ground, so overwhelming is the storm of weapons that falls on him from every side. About the hollows of his temples the helmet rings with incessant clash, and the solid brass is riven beneath the stones; the horsehair crest is torn away; the shield's central boss gives no protection under the blows; Mnestheus thunders on with his Trojans, and pours in a storm of spears. All over him the sweat trickles and pours in a dark stream, and no breathing space is given; sick gasps shake his exhausted limbs. Then at last, with a headlong bound, he leapt fully armed into the river; the river's yellow eddies opened for him as he came, and the buoyant water brought him up, and, washing away the blood of slaughter, returned him triumphant to his comrades.

Book Ten

Meanwhile the almighty house of heaven opens its doors, and the father of gods and king of men calls a council in the starry dwelling; from there he looks straight down on the whole earth, the Dardanian camp, and the peoples of Latium. They sit inside, filling the hall from door to door, and their lord begins:

'Lords of heaven, why has your decree been reversed, and why do your minds clash with such jealousy? I forbade Italy to join battle with the Teucrians; why this quarrel in defiance of my command? What fear has made one side or the other rush for weapons and challenge the sword? The due time of battle will arrive, do not summon it early, when furious Carthage shall one day break through the Alps to hurl ruin full on the towers of Rome. Then hatred may grapple with hatred, then hostilities be opened; now let them be, and cheerfully join in the treaty we decree.'

Jupiter speaks briefly; golden Venus gives no brief answer: ...

'O Lord, O everlasting Governor of men and things—for what else may we yet supplicate?—do you see how the Rutulians behave boldly, and Turnus, borne charioted through the ranks, proudly sweeps down the tide of battle? Bar and bulwark no longer shelter the Trojans; no, within the gates and even on the mounded walls they clash in battle and make the trenches swim with blood. Aeneas is away and ignorant. Will you never then let the siege against us be lifted? Again an enemy threatens the walls of infant Troy; and another army, and a second son of Tydeus rises from Aetolian Arpi against the Trojans. Truly I think more wounds await me, and that I, your daughter, am keeping some mortal weapons waiting. If the Trojans steered for Italy without your leave and defiant of your deity, let them expiate their sin; do not help them in that case. But if so many oracles guided them, given by god and ghost, why can anything now reverse your decree or rewrite destiny? Why should I recall the fleets burned on the coast of Eryx? why the king of storms, and the raging winds roused from Aeolia, or Iris driven down the clouds? Now hell too is stirred (this share of the world was yet untried) and Allecto suddenly let loose above to riot through the Italian towns. I am not pleading for empire; that was our hope while Fortune stood; let those conquer whom you will. If your cruel wife leave no region free to Teucrians, by the smoking ruins of desolated Troy, O father, I beg you, grant Ascanius unhurt retreat from arms, grant me my child's life. Aeneas may well be tossed across unknown seas and follow whatever path fortune opens for him; but let me have the power to shelter the boy and remove him from the turmoil of battle. Amathus is mine, high Paphos and Cythera, and my house of Idalia; here, far from arms, let him spend an inglorious life. Bid Carthage in high lordship rule Ausonia; there will be nothing there to check the Tyrian cities. What help was it for the Trojans to escape war's doom and thread their flight through Argive fires, to have exhausted all those perils of sea and desolate lands, while they seek Latium and the towers of a Troy rebuilt? Would it not have been better to have clung to the last ashes of their country, and the ground where once was Troy? Give back, I pray, Xanthus and Simois to a wretched people, and let the Teucrians, O Lord, go through the sufferings of Ilium again.'

Then Queen Juno replies, swiftly and passionately:

'Why do you force me to break long silence and proclaim my hidden pain? Has any man or god constrained Aeneas to court war or make armed attack on King Latinus? In oracular guidance he steered for Italy: be it so: he whom raving Cassandra sent on his way! Did we urge him to leave the camp or entrust his life to the winds? to give the issue of war and the charge of his ramparts to a child? to stir the loyalty of Tyrrhenia or throw peaceful nations into tumult? What god, what mighty and cruel act of ours, has driven him to his harm? Where is Juno in this, or Iris sped down the clouds? It shocks you that Italians should surround an infant Troy with flame, and Turnus set foot on his own ancestral soil—he, grandchild of Pilumnus, son of Venilia the goddess: but what of the dark brands of Troy assailing the Latins? that Trojans subjugate and plunder fields not their own? What of their choosing their brides and tearing pledged lovers from each other's arms? What of their gestures pleading for peace while their ships are lined with weapons? You can steal your Aeneas from Grecian hands, and spread before them a human semblance of mist and empty air; you can turn his fleet into nymphs of like number: is it dreadful if we retaliate with any aid to the Rutulians? Aeneas is away and ignorant; away and ignorant let him be. Paphos and Idalium are yours, and high Cythera; why do you interfere with fierce warriors and a city filled with war? Is it we who would overthrow the tottering state of Phrygia? we? or he who brought the Achaeans down on the hapless Trojans? who made Europe and Asia bristle up in arms, and whose theft shattered the alliance? Was it under my guidance that the adulterous Dardanian broke into Sparta? or did I send the shafts of passion that kindled war? Then fear for your children would have become you; now you rise too late with unjust complaints, and reproaches leave your lips in vain.'

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

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

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

While they were locked together in grim war, Aeneas, in the depth of night, was cleaving the sea. For after leaving Evander for the Etruscan camp, he gains an audience with the king. He tells the king his name and race, what he asks, and what he offers. He explains the armed forces Mezentius is winning to his side and Turnus' overbearing spirit, reminds him how uncertain all human affairs are, and mingles everything with entreaties. Without delay Tarchon joins forces and makes an alliance. Then, released from the oracle's restriction, the Lydian people man their fleet, laid by divine ordinance in the foreign captain's hand. Aeneas' galley keeps in front, with the lions of Phrygia fastened on her prow, above them overhanging Ida, sight most welcome to the Trojan exiles. Here great Aeneas sits considering the changing fortunes of war; and Pallas, clinging on his left side, asks now of the stars and their pathway through the dark night, now of his fortunes by land and sea.

Open now the gates of Helicon, goddesses, and stir the song of the force that comes meanwhile with Aeneas from the Tuscan borders, and sails in armed ships overseas.

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

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

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

And now day had faded from the sky, and gracious Phoebe trod mid-heaven in the chariot of her nightly wandering: Aeneas, for his responsibilities allow his limbs no rest, himself sits guiding the tiller and managing the sails. And look, in middle course a band of his own fellow-voyagers meets him, the nymphs whom bountiful Cybele had bidden be gods of the sea, and turn to nymphs from ships; they swam on in even order, and cleft the flood, as many as a little earlier, brazen-plated prows, had anchored on the beach. From far they know their king, and wheel their bands about him, and Cymodocea, their readiest in speech, comes up behind, catching the stern with her right hand: her back rises out, and her left hand oars her passage through the silent water. Then she thus addresses her amazed lord: 'Are you awake, son of gods, Aeneas? wake, and loosen the sheets of your sails. We are your fleet, Idaean pines from the holy hill, now nymphs of the sea. When the treacherous Rutulian urged us headlong with sword and fire, against our will we broke your mooring ropes, and we search for you over ocean. Our Lady gave us this new form in pity, and granted us to be goddesses and spend our life under the waves. But your boy Ascanius is held within wall and trench among the Latin weapons and the rough edge of war. Already the Arcadian cavalry and the brave Etruscan together hold the appointed ground. Turnus' plan is fixed to bar their way with his squadrons, that they may not reach the camp. Up and arise, and before the coming of the Dawn bid your crews be called to arms; and take the shield which the Lord of Fire forged for victory and rimmed about with gold. To-morrow's daylight, if you do not think my words empty, shall see Rutulians heaped high in slaughter.' She ended, and, as she went, pushed the tall ship onward with a skillful, powerful hand; the ship shoots through the water fleeter than javelin or windswift arrow. At that the rest quicken their speed. The son of Anchises of Troy is himself deep in bewilderment; yet the omen cheers his courage. Then looking on the heavenly vault, he briefly prays: 'Mother of gods, gracious on Ida, whose delight is in Dindymus and turreted cities and lions coupled to your rein, lead me in battle; bring your prophecy to its proper fulfillment, and approach your Phrygians, your footsteps bringing favor, goddess.' So much he said; and meanwhile the broad light of returning day now began to pour in, and chased away the night. First he commands his comrades to follow his signals, brace their courage to arms and prepare for battle. And now his Trojans and his camp are in his sight as he stands high astern, when next he lifts the blazing shield on his left arm. The Dardanians on the walls raise a shout to the sky. Hope comes to kindle wrath; they hurl their missiles strongly; even as under black clouds cranes from the Strymon utter their signal notes and sail clamouring across the sky, and noisily stream down the gale. But this seemed marvellous to the Rutulian king and the captains of Ausonia, till looking back they see the ships steering for the beach, and the whole sea filled by a fleet sailing in. His helmet-spike blazes, flame pours from the cresting plumes, and the golden shield-boss spouts floods of fire; even as when in transparent night comets glow blood-red and dreadful, or the splendour of Sirius, that brings drought and sicknesses on wretched men, rises and saddens the sky with malignant beams.

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

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

Nor does Turnus delay idly, but swiftly hurries his whole array against the Trojans and ranges it to face the beach. The trumpets blow. At once Aeneas charges and confounds the rustic squadrons of the Latins, and slays Theron as an omen for the battle. The giant advances to challenge Aeneas; but through sewed plates of brass and tunic rough with gold the sword plunges in his open side. Next he strikes Lichas, cut from his mother already dead, and consecrated, Phoebus, to you, since his infancy was granted escape from the perilous steel. Near thereby he struck dead brawny Cisseus and vast Gyas, whose clubs were mowing down whole files: neither the weapons of Hercules nor their strength of hand helped them, nor did their father Melampus, ever of Alcides' company while earth yielded him painful toil. Look! while Pharus utters weak vaunts the hurled javelin strikes on his shouting mouth. You too, luckless Cydon, while following your new love Clytius, whose cheeks are golden with youthful down, would have lain struck down by the Dardanian's hand, past all thought—how pitiful!—of the young loves that were always yours, had the close ranks of your brothers not intervened—the seven sons of Phorcus—sending a sevenfold shower of darts. Some glance ineffectual from helmet and shield; some Venus the bountiful turned aside as they grazed his body. Aeneas calls to trusty Achates: 'Give me plenty of weapons; my hand will not hurl any weapon uselessly at a Rutulian that once struck a Greek body on the plains of Ilium.' Then he catches and throws his great spear; the spear flies grinding through the brass of Maeon's shield, and breaks through breastplate and through breast. His brother Alcanor runs up and supports his sinking brother with his right arm; through his arm the spear passes speeding straight on its message, and holds its bloody way, and the hand dangles by the sinews lifeless from the shoulder. Then Numitor, seizing his dead brother's javelin, aims at Aeneas, but might not fairly pierce him, and grazed tall Achates on the thigh. Here Clausus of Cures comes confident in his pride of strength, and with a long reach strikes Dryops under the chin, and, urging the stiff spear-shaft home, stops his speech and his life together, piercing the throat; but he strikes the earth with his forehead, and vomits clots of blood. Three Thracians likewise of Boreas' sovereign race, and three sent by their father Idas from their native Ismarus, fall in different ways before him. Halesus and his Auruncan troops hasten there; Messapus too, seed of Neptune, comes up charioted. Both sides strive to hurl back the enemy, and fight hard on the very edge of Ausonia. As when in the depth of air adverse winds rise in battle with equal spirit and strength; not they, not clouds nor sea, yield one to another; long the battle is doubtful; everything stands locked in balance: even thus clash the ranks of Troy and ranks of Latium, foot fast on foot, and man crowded up on man.

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

So speaks he, and bursts amid the serried foe. First Lagus meets him, drawn there by malign destiny; as Lagus tugs at a heavy stone, Pallas hurls his spear where the spine divides the ribs, pierces him, and wrenches the spear from where it sticks fast in the bone. Hisbo does not catch him bending down, though he had hoped to do so; for Pallas, as he rushes unguarded on, furious at his comrade's cruel death, receives him on his sword and buries it in his distended lungs. Next he attacks Sthenius, and Anchemolus of Rhoetus' ancient family, who dared to violate the bridal chamber of his stepmother. You, too, the twins Larides and Thymber, fell on the Rutulian fields, children of Daucus, indistinguishable for likeness and a sweet puzzle to your parents. But now Pallas made cruel difference between you; for your head, Thymber, is swept off by Evander's sword; your right hand, Larides, severed, seeks its master, and the dying fingers jerk and clutch at the sword. Fired by his encouragement, and beholding his noble deeds, the Arcadians advance in wrath and shame to meet the enemy in arms. Then Pallas pierces Rhoeteus as he flies past in his chariot. This space, this much of respite was given to Ilus; for at Ilus he had aimed the strong spear from afar, and Rhoeteus intercepts its passage, in flight from you, noble Teuthras and Tyres your brother; he rolls from the chariot in death, and his heels strike the Rutulian fields. And as the shepherd, when summer winds have risen to his desire, kindles the woods dispersedly; on a sudden the mid spaces catch, and a single flickering line of fire spreads wide over the plain; he sits looking down on his conquest and the revel of the flames; even so, Pallas, do your brave comrades gather close to sustain you. But warrior Halesus advances full on them, gathering himself behind his armour; he slays Ladon, Pheres, Demodocus; his gleaming sword shears off Strymonius' hand as it rises to his throat; he strikes Thoas on the face with a stone, and drives the bones apart in a shattered mass of blood and brains. His father the soothsayer had kept Halesus hidden in the woodland: when the old man's glazing eyes sank to death, the Fates laid hand on him and consigned him to Evander's weapons. Pallas aims at him, first praying thus: 'Grant now, lord Tiber, to the steel I poise and hurl, a prosperous way through brawny Halesus' breast; your oak shall bear these arms and the dress he wore.' The god heard it; while Halesus covers Imaon, he leaves, alas! his breast unarmed to the Arcadian's weapon. Yet at his grievous death Lausus, himself a great arm of the war, lets not his columns be dismayed; at once he meets and cuts down Abas, the bulwark and support of their battle line. The men of Arcadia go down before him; down go the Etruscans, and you, O Teucrians, invincible by Greece. The armies close, matched in strength and in captains; the rear ranks crowd in; weapons and hands are locked in the press. Here Pallas strains and pushes on, here Lausus opposite, nearly matched in age, excellent in beauty; but fortune had denied both return to their own land. Yet that they should meet face to face the sovereign of high Olympus did not allow; an early fate awaits them beneath a mightier foe.

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

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

Meanwhile Jupiter breaks silence to address Juno: 'O sister and wife best beloved, it is Venus who supports the Trojan forces, as you thought—and your judgment is not mistaken; rather than their own courage in battle, their untamable spirit, and their endurance in danger.' Juno replies imploringly:

'Why, my noble lord, do you torment one sick at heart and trembling at your bitter words? If my love still had the power it once had, as it rightly did, your omnipotence would never have refused me permission to withdraw Turnus from battle and preserve him for his father Daunus in safety. Now let him perish, and pay the Trojans the penalty of his innocent blood. Yet he traces his birth from our name, and Pilumnus was his ancestor in the fourth generation, and often and again his bountiful hand has heaped your courts with gifts.'

To her the king of high heaven thus briefly spoke: 'If your prayer for him is to delay his immediate death and grant him a respite from his fall, and you do understand that I ordain it thus, remove your Turnus in flight, and snatch him from the fate that is upon him. There is room for that much indulgence. But if some greater favor hides within these prayers of yours, and you dream of change in the whole movement of the war, the hope you nurse is empty.'

And Juno, weeping: 'Ah yet, if only your heart were gracious where your lips are stern, and this gift of life might remain confirmed to Turnus! Now his portion is bitter and guiltless death, unless I stray idly from the truth. Yet, oh that I rather deluded myself with false alarms, and that you, who have the power, would turn your course toward better counsels.'

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

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

Now the heavy hand of war dealt equal woe and an exchange of deaths; in even balance conquerors and conquered slew and fell; neither side knows retreat. The gods in Jove's house pity the vain rage of either and all the agonising of mortals. From one side Venus, from one opposite Juno, daughter of Saturn, looks on; pale Tisiphone rages among the many thousand men. But now, brandishing his huge spear, Mezentius strides darkly over the plain, vast as Orion when, with planted foot, he cleaves his way through the vast pools of mid-ocean and his shoulder overtops the waves, or carrying an ancient mountain-ash from the hilltops, paces the ground and hides his head among the clouds: so moves Mezentius, huge in arms. Aeneas, seeing him in the deep columns, advances to meet him. He remains, unterrified, awaiting his noble foe, steady in his great size, and measures with his eye the fair range for a spear. 'May the divinity of this right hand and the weapon I poise to throw now favor me! Lausus, I vow to make you the living trophy of Aeneas, dressed in the spoils stripped from the pirate's body.' He ends, and throws the spear whistling from far; it flies on, glancing from the shield, and pierces illustrious Antores hard by him sidelong in the flank; Antores, companion of Hercules, who, sent there from Argos, had stayed by Evander, and settled in an Italian town. Hapless he goes down from a wound not meant for him, and in death gazes on the sky, and Argos is sweet in his remembrance. Then good Aeneas throws his spear; through the sheltering circle of threefold brass, through the canvas lining and fabric of triple-sewn bull-hide it went, and sank deep in his groin; but did not drive its full force home. Quickly Aeneas, joyful at the sight of the Tyrrhenian's blood, snatches his sword from his thigh and presses hotly on his struggling enemy. Lausus saw, and groaned deeply for love of his dear father, and tears rolled over his face. Here I will not pass over your harsh death and excellent deeds in silence (if in any way things wrought in the old time may win belief), nor you yourself, worthy to be remembered! Mezentius, helpless and encumbered, drew back, the deadly spear-shaft trailing from his shield. The youth broke forward and plunged into the fight; and even as Aeneas' hand rose to bring down the blow, Lausus met the sword point and held Aeneas back. His comrades follow up with loud cries, so the father may withdraw in shelter of his son's shield, while they shower their darts and bear back the enemy with missiles from a distance. Aeneas wrathfully keeps covered. And as when storm-clouds pour down in streaming hail, all the ploughmen and country-folk scatter off the fields, and the wayfarer cowers safe in his fortress, a stream's bank or deep arch of rock, while the rain falls, that they may do their day's labour when sunlight reappears; thus under the circling storm of weapons Aeneas sustains the cloud of war till it thunders itself all away, and calls on Lausus, on Lausus, with chiding and menace: 'Where are you rushing to your death, daring beyond your strength? your affection betrays you into rashness.' But none the less he leaps madly on; and now wrath rises higher and fiercer in the Dardanian captain, and the Fates pass Lausus' last threads through their hand; for Aeneas drives the sword strongly right through him up all its length: the point pierced the light shield that armed his assailant, and the tunic sewn by his mother with flexible gold: blood filled his breast, and the life left the body and passed mourning through the air to the under world. But when Anchises' son saw the look on the dying face, the face pale in a wondrous way, he sighed deeply in pity, and reached forth his hand, as the likeness of his own filial affection flashed across his soul. 'What now shall good Aeneas give you, what, O poor boy, for this your praise, as a reward for a nature so noble? Keep for your own the armor you delighted in; and I restore you, if that matters anything at all, to the ghosts and ashes of your parents. Yet you shall have this sad comfort in your pitiful death, you fall by great Aeneas' hand.' Then, chiding his hesitating comrades, he lifts him from the ground, staining the beautifully arranged hair with blood.

Meanwhile his father, by the wave of the Tiber river, stanched his wound with water, and rested his body against a tree-trunk. Hard by his brazen helmet hangs from the boughs, and the heavy armour lies quietly on the meadow. Chosen men stand round; he, sick and panting, leans his neck and lets his beard spread down over his chest. Many a time he asks for Lausus, and sends many an one to call him back and carry a parent's sad commands. But his weeping comrades were carrying Lausus lifeless on his armor, mighty and mightily wounded to death. From afar his soul, foreseeing evil, recognized their lamentation: he soils his gray hairs abundantly with dust, and stretches both hands on high, and clings on the dead. 'Was life's hold on me so sweet, O my son, that I let him I bore receive the hostile stroke in my place? Am I, your father, saved by these wounds of yours, and living by your death? Alas and woe! now at last exile is bitter! now the wound is driven deep! And I, even I, O my son, stained your name with crime, driven in hatred from the throne and sceptre of my fathers. I owed vengeance to my country and my people's resentment; if only my own guilty life could have paid it by every form of death! Now I live, and have not yet left the world of men and daylight; but I will.' As he speaks thus he raises himself painfully on his thigh, and though the violence of the deep wound cripples him, yet unbroken he bids his horse be brought, his beauty, his comfort, that ever had carried him victorious out of war, and says these words to the grieving beast: 'Rhoebus, we have lived long, if anything at all lasts long with mortals. This day will you either bring back in triumph the gory head and spoils of Aeneas, and we will avenge Lausus' agonies; or if no force opens a way, you will die with me: for I do not think, bravest of horses, that you will consent to bear an alien rule and a Teucrian lord.' He spoke, and took his welcome seat on the back he knew, loading both hands with keen javelins, his head sheathed in glittering brass and shaggy horse-hair plumes. Thus he galloped in. Through his heart sweep together the vast tides of shame and mingling madness and grief. And with that he three times loudly calls Aeneas. Aeneas knew the call, and makes glad invocation: 'May the father of gods and Apollo on high grant me success: try to close with me hand to hand...' Thus much he utters, and moves up to meet him with levelled spear. And he: 'Why seek to frighten me, fierce man, now my son is gone? this was your one road to my ruin. I do not shrink from death or yield to any of your gods. Cease; for I come to my death, first carrying these gifts for you.' He spoke, and hurled a weapon at his enemy; then plants another and yet another as he darts round in a wide circle; but they are stayed on the boss of gold. Three times he rode wheeling close round him by the left, and sent his weapons strongly in; three times the Trojan hero turns round, taking the grim forest of spears on his bronze shield. Then, weary of lingering in delay on delay, and plucking out spear-head after spear-head, and hard pressed in the uneven match of battle, after much thought now at last he bursts forth, and sends his spear at the war-horse between the hollows of the temples. The creature raises itself erect, beating the air with its feet, throws its rider, and coming down after him in an entangled mass, slips its shoulder as it tumbles forward. The cries of Trojans and Latins kindle the sky. Aeneas rushes up, drawing his sword from the scabbard, and thus above him: 'Where now is gallant Mezentius and all his fierce spirit?' The Tyrrhenian answers, as he came to himself and gazing up drank the air of heaven: 'Bitter foe, why these taunts and menaces of death? Nothing prevents you from killing me; I did not come to battle on terms that spared my life, nor did my Lausus make treaty for this between me and you. This one thing I beg you, by whatever grace a vanquished enemy may claim: allow my body burial. I know I am girt by the bitter hatred of my people. Stay, I implore, their fury, and grant that my son and I be united in the tomb.' So speaks he, and takes the sword in his throat unfalteringly, and the lifeblood spreads in a wave over his armour.

Book Eleven

Meanwhile Dawn rose out of Ocean. Aeneas, though duty presses him to make time to bury his comrades, and his mind is troubled by death, began to pay the gods his vows of victory as daylight broke in the east. He plants on a mound a mighty oak with boughs lopped away on every hand, and arrays it in the gleaming arms stripped from Mezentius the captain, a trophy to you, mighty Lord of War; he fixes on it the plumes dripping with blood, the broken spears, and the breastplate struck and pierced in twelve places; he ties the shield of brass on its left side, and hangs from its neck the ivory sword. Then among his joyous comrades (for all the throng of his captains surrounded him closely) he begins in these words of cheer:

'The greatest deed is done, men; let all fear for what remains be gone. These are the spoils of a haughty king, the first-fruits won from him; my hands have set Mezentius here. Now our way lies to the walls of the Latin king. Prepare your arms in courage, and let your hopes run ahead of the battle; let no delay through ignorance hinder us, and no lingering fears hold us back, as soon as heaven allows us to pluck up the standards and lead our army from the camp. Meanwhile let us commit to earth the unburied bodies of our comrades, since in Acheron's depths this honor alone is left to them. Go,' says he, 'honor with the final gifts those noble souls whose blood won us this land for ours; and first let Pallas be sent to Evander's mourning city—Pallas, whose courage did not fail when the day of darkness took him, and the bitter wave of death.'

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

'Did Fortune in her joyous coming,' he cries, 'O luckless boy, grudge you the sight of our realm, and a triumphal entry to your father's dwelling? This was not the promise I had given your father Evander about you at my departure, when he embraced me as I went and bade me speed to a wide empire, and yet warned me in fear that the men were valiant, the people obstinate in battle. And now he, held fast by empty hope, perhaps offers vows and heaps gifts on his altars; we, a mourning procession, go in empty honor beside the body of one who now owes nothing more to any power in heaven. Unhappy! you will see your son cruelly slain; is this the triumphal return he awaited? is this my strong assurance? Ah me, what a shield is lost, my Iulus, to Ausonia and to you!'

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

And now envoys were there from the Latin city with wreathed boughs of olive, begging him in his kindness to restore the dead that lay scattered by the sword over the plain, and let them go to their earthy grave: war does not continue against men defeated and deprived of breath; let this indulgence be given to men once called friends and fathers of their brides. To them Aeneas grants leave kindly and courteously, without rejecting their prayer, and goes on in these words: 'What malice of fortune, O Latins, has entangled you in the toils of war, and made you flee our friendship? Do you plead for peace to the lifeless bodies that the battle-lot has slain? I would gladly grant it even to the living. I came only because destiny had given me this place to live; I am not waging war against your people; it is your king who has broken our covenant and preferred to trust himself to Turnus' arms. It would have been better for Turnus to face death today. If he will fight out the war and expel the Teucrians, he should have met me here in arms; then the man to whom heaven or his own right hand granted life would have lived. Now go, and kindle the fire beneath your hapless countrymen.' Aeneas ended: they stood dumb in silence, with faces bent steadfastly in mutual gaze. Then aged Drances, always attacking young Turnus with hatred and accusation, answers him:

'O Trojan, great in renown, yet greater in arms, what praises can exalt your divine goodness? Should I first marvel at your righteousness, or your toils in war? We indeed will gratefully carry these words to our fathers' city, and, if fortune grant a way, will reconcile you with King Latinus. Let Turnus seek his own alliances. Indeed, it will be our delight to rear the massive walls of destiny and stoop our shoulders under the stones of Troy.'

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

And now flying Rumour, harbinger of the heavy woe, fills Evander and Evander's house and city with the same voice that but now told of Pallas victorious over Latium. The Arcadians stream to the gates, snatching funeral torches according to their ancient custom; the road gleams with the long line of flame, and parts the fields with a broad pathway of light; the arriving crowd of Phrygians meets them and mingles in mourning array. When the matrons saw all the train approach their dwellings they kindle the town with loud wailing. But no force can restrain Evander; he comes amid them; the bier is set down; he flings himself on Pallas, and clasps him with tears and sighs, and only at last does grief scarcely release his voice. 'Pallas, this was not the promise you made your father, that you would not plunge recklessly into the fury of battle. I knew well how strong was the fresh pride of arms and the sweetness of honour in a first battle. Ah, unhappy first-fruits of his youth and bitter prelude of the war upon our borders! ah, vows and prayers of mine that no god heard! and you, pure crown of wifehood, happy that you are dead and were not kept alive for this sorrow! But by living I have outlived my allotted fate, to stay here the survivor of my child. If only I had followed the allied arms of Troy, to be overwhelmed by Rutulian weapons! If only my life had been given, and I and not my Pallas were borne home in this procession! I would not blame you, O Teucrians, nor our treaty and the friendly hands we clasped: my old age had this appointed debt to pay. Yet if untimely death awaited my son, it will be good to think he fell leading the Teucrians into Latium, and slew his Volscian thousands before he fell. No other funeral would I think your due, my Pallas, than the one good Aeneas gives, with the mighty Phrygians, the Tyrrhene captains, and all the army of Tyrrhenia. Great are the trophies they bring from those your hand has killed; you too, Turnus, would now stand as a great trunk dressed in armor, if his age and the strength of his years had equaled yours. But why, unhappy, do I delay the Trojan arms? Go, and do not forget to carry this message to your king: It is your hand that keeps me lingering in a life that is hateful since Pallas fell, and Turnus is the debt you see both son and father demand: for your virtue and your fortune this scope alone is left. I do not ask for joy in life; I cannot; I ask only to carry this news to my son deep in the underworld.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Drances again, whose jealous ill will was roused to anger and stung with bitterness by Turnus' fame, lavish of wealth and quick of tongue though his hand was inactive in war, considered no worthless counselor and powerful in political factions—his mother's rank ennobled a lineage whose paternal source was obscure—rises, and with these words adds to and heightens their passion:

'Gracious king, the matter on which you ask advice is clear to everyone and needs no voice of ours. All confess they know how our nation's fortune sways; but their words are choked. Let him grant freedom of speech and restrain his arrogance, he by whose disastrous government and perverse way (I will speak out, though he threaten me with arms and death) we see so many stars of battle gone down and all our city sunk in mourning; while he, confident in flight, assails the Trojan camp and makes heaven quail before his arms. Add just one thing to those gifts of yours, to all the riches you bid us send or promise to the Dardanians, most gracious of kings, but one; let no man's passion prevent you from giving your own daughter to an illustrious son and a worthy marriage, and binding this peace by perpetual treaty. Yet if we are thus terror-stricken heart and soul, let us implore him in person, plead with him personally in his kindness to give way, to restore king and country their proper right. Why again and again do you hurl these unhappy citizens on peril so evident, O source and spring of Latium's woes? There is no safety in war; peace we all implore of you, O Turnus, and the one pledge that makes peace inviolable. I the first, I whom you picture your enemy, and I do not care if I am, see, I bow at your feet. Pity your allies; relent, and retire before your conqueror. Enough have we seen of rout and death, and desolation over our broad lands. Or if glory stir you, if such strength kindle in your breast, and if a palace so delight you for your dower, be bold, and advance stout-hearted upon the foe. We, indeed, so that Turnus may have his royal bride, must lie scattered on the plains, worthless lives, a crowd unburied and unwept. You too, if you have any strength, if the War-god be in you as in your fathers, look him in the face who challenges...'

At these words Turnus' passion blazed out. He utters a groan, and bursts out in a deep voice:

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

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

'Turnus, if courage has any right to confidence, I dare and promise to engage Aeneas' cavalry, and advance to meet the Tyrrhene horse. Permit my hand to try war's first perils: keep by the walls on foot and guard the city.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At once the light squadron of Camilla retreat now they have lost their mistress; the Rutulians retreat in confusion, brave Atinas retreats. Scattered captains and thinned companies make for safety, and turn their horses backward to the town. No one can make a stand against the swarming death-dealing Teucrians, or bear their shock in arms; but their unstrung bows droop on their shoulders, and the galloping four-footed horses' hooves shake the crumbling plain. The eddying dust rolls up thick and black towards the walls, and on the watch-towers mothers beat their breasts and the cries of women rise up to heaven. The enemy crowd, mingling with them, follows hard on those who first break through the open gates in the rout; nor do they escape death, alas! but in the very gateway, within their native city and amid their sheltering homes, they are pierced through and gasp out their life. Some shut the gates, and dare not open to their pleading comrades nor receive them in the town; and a most pitiful slaughter begins between armed men who guard the entry and others who rush upon their arms. Barred out before their weeping parents' eyes and faces, some, swept on by the rout, roll headlong into the trenches; some, blindly rushing with loosened rein, batter at the gates and stiffly-bolted doorway. The very mothers from the walls in eager heat (true love of country shows the way when they see Camilla) dart weapons with shaking hand, and eagerly make hard stocks of wood and fire-hardened poles serve for steel, and burn to die among the foremost for their city's sake.

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

Book Twelve

When Turnus sees the Latins broken and failing under the adverse outcome of war, his promise called on for fulfillment and every eye fixed on him, his own spirit rises in unappeasable flame. As the lion in Phoenician fields, his breast heavily wounded by the huntsmen, at last springs into battle, and shakes out the shaggy masses from his exultant neck, and undismayed snaps the huntsman's embedded 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 does not stand in 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 let the Latins sit and see my single sword wipe out the nation's reproach; or let him rule his conquest, and Lavinia become his bride.'

To him Latinus calmly replied: 'O excellent young man! the more your hot valour abounds, the more carefully I must advise, and weigh fearfully what may befall. You have your father Daunus' realm, have many towns taken by your 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 take it into your soul. I was not permitted to marry my daughter to any of her old suitors; such was the universal oracle of gods and men. Overborne by love for you, 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, you see what calamities, what wars pursue me, what woes you yourself suffer above all. 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 do I waver 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 stop the strife while he lives? What will your Rutulian kinsmen, will all Italy say, if your death—Fortune make void the word!—comes by my betrayal, while you ask for our daughter in marriage? Cast a glance on war's changing fortune; pity your aged father, who now far away sits sad in his native Ardea.'

The words do nothing to bend Turnus' passion: he rages the more fiercely, and grows sicker from the remedy. As soon as he found his voice, he spoke:

'Lay aside the concern you have for me, most gracious lord, I implore you, and let me purchase honour with death. My hand too rains weapons, my steel is strong, and the wounds I give draw blood too. His divine mother will be far away and unable to hide his womanish flight in a cloud and the shelter of an empty phantom.'

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 you at all—you are now the one hope, the repose of my unhappy age; in your hand is Latinus' honour and empire, on you is the weight of all our sinking house—one thing I beg you; forbear to join battle with the Teucrians. Whatever fate awaits you in the battle you seek, it awaits me, Turnus, too: with you I will 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 someone stains it with blood-red dye, or when white lilies are reddened by the many roses among them: such colour came on the maiden's face. Love throws him into tumult, and fixes his gaze on the girl: he burns fiercer for arms, and briefly answers Amata:

'Do not, I pray you, do not weep for me, nor follow me with such ill-omened words as I go to the stern shock of war. Turnus is not free to dally with death. You, Idmon, bear my message to the Phrygian monarch in this harsh wording: As soon as tomorrow's Dawn rises in the sky blushing on her crimson wheels, let him send neither Teucrian nor Rutulian into battle: let Teucrian and Rutulian arms have rest, and our blood decide the war; on that field let Lavinia be sought in marriage.'

These words uttered, withdrawing swiftly homeward, he orders out his horses, and rejoicingly sees them snorting before his face: those that Orithyia herself 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. Next he himself fastens about his shoulders the breastplate 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 massive pillar, he strongly seizes his stout spear, the spoil of Actor the Auruncan, and brandishes it quivering, and cries aloud: 'Now, spear that has never failed at my call, now the time has come; princely Actor once held you, and now Turnus wields you. Grant this strong hand to strike down the effeminate Phrygian, to rend and shatter the breastplate, and defile in dust the locks curled with hot iron and wet with myrrh.' So he rages madly 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.

And with that 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 the fears of sorrowing Iulus, he tells them of destiny, and orders a reassuring answer to be carried to King Latinus, and the laws of peace to be stated.

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 comes out and crowds 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. With that 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 abandon, and the unarmed crowd and feeble elders beset towers and house-roofs, or stand at the lofty 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. At once she spoke to Turnus' sister, goddess to goddess, lady of pools and noisy rivers: such divine honor Jupiter, high king of the air, had granted her in return for her stolen virginity:

'Nymph, grace of rivers, best beloved of our soul, you know how out of all the Latin women that ever rose to high-hearted Jove's thankless bed, you alone have I favored and gladly given part and place in heaven. Learn your woe, so that you do not blame me for it, Juturna. Where fortune seemed to allow and the Destinies granted Latinus' estate to prosper, I shielded Turnus and your city. Now I see him joining battle with unequal fates, and the day of doom and deadly force draws near. My eyes cannot look on this battle and treaty: you, if you dare to give more immediate help for the brother of your blood, go on; it befits you. Perhaps relief shall follow misery.'

Scarcely had she spoken when Juturna's eyes overbrimmed with tears, and three times and again she struck her hand on her gracious breast. 'This is no time for tears,' cries Juno, daughter of Saturn: 'hasten and snatch your brother, if it may be, from his death; or rouse war, and make the treaty abortive. I encourage you to dare.' With such urgency she left her, doubting and dismayed, and grievously wounded in soul.

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, source of the Roman race, ablaze in starlike shield and celestial arms, and close by Ascanius, second hope of mighty Rome, come out of the camp; and the priest, in spotless clothing, has 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 cut hairs with steel from the beasts' foreheads, and pour cups of drink on the altars. Then Aeneas the good, with sword drawn, thus makes invocation:

'Let the Sun and this Earth now witness my prayer, for whose sake I have borne to suffer such painful toil, and the Lord omnipotent, and you his wife, at last, divine daughter of Saturn, at last I pray more favourable; and you, mighty Mavors, who hold all warfare under your sovereign sway; and on the Springs and Rivers I call, and the Dread of high heaven, and the divinities of the blue seas: if perhaps victory fall to Turnus the Ausonian, the vanquished make covenant to withdraw to Evander's city; Iulus shall leave 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 more likely, and may the gods confirm their will all the more), 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. I will provide the gods and their worship: my father Latinus shall bear the sword, and exercise a father's appointed authority. For me my Teucrians shall establish a city, and Lavinia will give the town her name.'

Aeneas spoke first; Latinus then followed:

'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 lower 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, however fortune falls; nor shall any force turn my will aside, not even if it dissolves land into water in turmoil of deluge, or melts heaven in hell: so surely as this sceptre' (for he happened to hold a sceptre in his hand) 'shall never sprout with delicate leaves and shady shoots, 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 long ago: now the craftsman's hand has bound it in adornment of brass and given it for our Latin fathers to bear.'

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 loaded platters.

But long before this the Rutulians deemed the battle unequal, and their hearts waver; and all the more now, as they see at closer range the unequal strength ... Their unease is heightened by Turnus, as he advances with silent steps and humbly worships at the altar with downcast eyes, by his wasted cheeks and the pallor of his youthful body. Soon as Juturna his sister saw this talk spread, and the people's mind waver in uncertainty, into the mid ranks, in the assumed 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 are 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 live on the lips of men: we, our country lost, shall bow to the haughty rigour of our lords, if we now sit idle on the field.'

By such words the soldiers' resolve 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 shows 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 leap to their weapons. And Tolumnius the augur cries before them all: 'This was it, this, that my prayers have often 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 helpless 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. Opposite him happened to stand nine brothers, all the beautiful sons whom one faithful Tyrrhene wife had borne to Gylippus the Arcadian. It strikes one of them where the sewn belt rubs his flank and the clasp bites the fastenings at his side: one outstanding in beauty and glittering in armor. It pierces clean through his ribs and stretches him 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 has 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 desperately, a deep downward blow from horseback with his beam-like spear, saying thus: That is for him: the high gods receive 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 threatens with drawn 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.

But good Aeneas, his head bared, kept stretching his unarmed hand and calling loudly to his men: 'Where are you running? What is this strife that so spreads and swells? Ah, restrain your wrath! the truce has already been struck, 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, look! 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 death to many a brave man; 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 has he dealt Sthenelus to death, and Thamyrus and Pholus, him and him at close quarters, the other from afar; from afar he strikes both 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 long ago dared to claim Pelides' chariot as his price if he went to spy out the Grecian camp; to him the son of Tydeus paid out a different price for his venture, and he dreams no more of Achilles' horses. Turnus saw him 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 as well: 'Look, Trojan, there you lie, measuring out those Hesperian fields you sought in war. Such reward 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, wherever 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 could not endure 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 help in his drawn sword point; when the wheel running forward on its swift axle struck him headlong and flung him to ground, and Turnus' sword following it struck off his head between the helmet-rim and the upper border of the breastplate, and left the body 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 quickest means of treatment, 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 long ago, 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 abandoned to death, 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, with mourning Iulus and a great crowd of men around him, 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 gives him no progress; Apollo offers no guiding counsel; and more and more the fierce clash swells over the plains, and the destruction draws nearer. 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, look! 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 his old strength returned afresh. 'Hasten! arms for him quickly! why are you standing still?' cries Iapix aloud, and begins to kindle their courage against the enemy; 'this does not come through human resourcefulness or learned skill, nor does my hand save you, Aeneas: a higher god is at work, and sends you 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 breastplate on his back, he clasps Ascanius in his armed embrace, and lightly kissing him through the helmet, cries: 'Learn courage and hard work from me, boy; learn good fortune from others. Now my hand shall give you defence in war, and lead you to great reward: when your age later ripens to maturity, keep this in remembrance, and as you recall the pattern of your kindred, let your spirit rise to your father Aeneas, 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. Aeneas rushes 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 kills Epulo, and Gyas kills 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. He himself does not stoop to cut down the fugitives, nor pursue such as meet him fair on foot or approach in arms: he tracks and searches for Turnus alone 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 the same way 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. As 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 conflicting concerns call within his spirit; when Messapus, who happened to carry 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 often 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.

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 Tanais and brave Cethegus, three at one meeting, and gloomy Onites, of Echionian lineage, whom his mother Peridia bore; the other kills those brothers 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 long ago, 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 your right hand save you from Turnus, O Cretheus, bravest of the Greeks; nor did his gods shield Cupencus when Aeneas came; Cupencus received the steel full in his breast, and, alas, the delay his bronze shield gave did him no good. You likewise, Aeolus, the Laurentine plains saw sink backward and cover a wide space of earth; you fall, whom Argive battalions could not lay low, nor Achilles the destroyer of Priam's realm. Here was your goal of death; your high house was under Ida, at Lyrnesus your high house, on Laurentine soil your 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; there is no rest or pause in the vast strain of conflict.

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 sees 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: 'Let my words suffer no delay; Jupiter is with us; let no one be slower to move because the plan is sudden. This city to-day, the source of war, the royal seat of Latinus, unless they surrender to accept our yoke and obey their conquerors, I will raze to the ground, and lay her smoking roofs level with the dust. Must I really wait until Turnus chooses to stoop to combat, and chooses 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 equally eager to excel 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 call for the town to be unbarred 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.

This fortune likewise befell the despairing Latins, this woe shook the whole city to her base. The queen sees 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 tears 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 rosy cheeks, and all the train around her go mad following her example; 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 clothing, in dismay at his wife's doom and his city's downfall, soiling his gray hair with scattered dust.

Meanwhile on the skirts of the field Turnus chases scattered stragglers, ever less eager for 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 flies 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 the count of dead nor in battle glory will you withdraw outdone.' At that Turnus: ...

'Ah my sister, long before now I knew you, when first your arts shattered the treaty, and you did mingle in the strife; and now your godhead conceals itself in vain. But who has bidden you descend from heaven to bear this painful toil? was it that you might see your hapless brother cruelly slain? for what am I doing, or what fortune yet gives promise of safety? Before my very eyes, calling aloud on me, I saw Murranus, than whom no one left to me was dearer, 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 free of any blame from you, never once unworthy of my mighty fathers long ago.'

Scarce had he spoken thus; look! Saces, borne flying on his foaming horse through the thickest of the foe, an arrow-wound right in his face, darts, begging Turnus by his name. 'Turnus, our last safety lies in you; pity your 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 you, on you the Latins turn their gazing eyes; King Latinus himself mutters in doubt, whom he is to call his sons-in-law, to whom he shall incline in union. Moreover the queen, your surest stay, has 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; you wheel your 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. As 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 look! 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 shall you longer see me shamed, sister of mine. Let me be mad, I pray you, 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 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. Whatever fortune is left is mine: I alone must atone for the broken treaty for you all, and make decision with the sword.' All drew aside and left him room.

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 Rutulians and Trojans and all Italy turn to watch eagerly, both those holding the high city and those whose battering ram is striking the wall's foundations; they remove the armor from their shoulders. Latinus himself stands in amaze at the mighty men, born in distant quarters of the world, meeting and deciding 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. Unless flight helps him now! He flies swifter than the wind, when once he sees 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 crosses this way and now that 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.

With that Aeneas pursues, though every now and then 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 snares marked with crimson feathers, and he, in terror of the snares and the high river-bank, darts back and forward in a thousand ways; but the eager Umbrian hound follows with jaws open, and just catches at him, and as though he caught him snaps his jaws while the baffled teeth close on empty air. 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 near, 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 had happened to stand a bitter-leaved wild olive, sacred to Faunus, a tree worshipped by mariners long ago; on it, when rescued from the waves, they used to fix their gifts to the god of Laurentum and hang their votive clothing; but the Teucrians, heedless, had cleared away the sacred stem, that they might meet on an unobstructed fighting ground. Here stood Aeneas' spear; here 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 pursue with the weapon the man he could not catch by running. Then indeed Turnus cries in frantic terror: 'Faunus, have pity, I beg you! and you, most gracious Earth, keep your hold on the steel, as I have always honored 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 struggle and delay over the tough trunk could not open 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 near and wrenched away the spear where it stuck deep in the root. Erect in fresh courage and arms, Turnus with his faithful sword, Aeneas towering fiercely over his spear, they face one another panting in the battle shock.

Meanwhile the almighty King of Heaven addresses Juno as she gazes on the battle from a sunlit cloud. 'What will the end be, O wife? what remains at the last? Heaven claims Aeneas as his country's god, as you yourself know and admit, and fate lifts him to the stars. With what device or in what hope do you linger coldly among the clouds? Was it well that a deity should be sullied by a mortal's wound? or that the lost sword—for what could Juturna have done without you?—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 you in silence, and distress so often flood back on me from your sweet lips. The end is come. You have 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: I forbid any further attempt.' Thus Jupiter began: thus the goddess, daughter of Saturn, returned with looks cast down:

'Precisely because I know this is your will, great Jupiter, I have unwillingly left Turnus alone on earth; otherwise you would not see me now, alone on this skyey seat, enduring good and bad; but clothed in flame I would be standing by their very lines, and dragging the Teucrians into the deadly battle. I counselled Juturna, I confess it, to help her hapless brother, and for his life's sake favoured a greater daring; but I did not advise the arrow shot or 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 beg you, that is bound by no fatal law, for Latium and for the majesty of your kindred. When now they shall plight peace with prosperous marriages (be it so!), when now they shall join in laws and treaties, do not command the native Latins to change their ancient name, 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.'

The designer of men and things smiles and replies:

'You are Jove's own sister and Saturn's second child, such surge of wrath tosses within your breast! But come, allay this madness so vainly stirred. I give you your will, and yield you 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 them all Latins, speaking a single language. Hence shall spring a race of tempered Ausonian blood, whom you shall see outdo men and gods in duty; nor shall any nation so observe your worship.' To this Juno assented, and gladly abandoned her purpose; meanwhile she leaves her cloud, and retires out of the sky.

This done, the Father revolves inwardly 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 whenever 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 a Parthian has poisoned it with bitter gall, a Parthian or Cydonian, and sped the incurably poisoned shaft, leaps through the swift shadow whistling and unknown; so sprung and swept to earth the daughter of Night. When she sees 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 rises, 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 torn face and beaten breast. 'How, O Turnus, can your own sister help you now? what more is left, if I do not break under this? What art of mine can lengthen out your day? can I contend with this ominous thing? Now, now I leave the field. Do not add to my terror, 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? Then I could surely make all this pain cease, and go with my unhappy brother side by side into the dark. Alas for my immortality! will anything of mine be sweet to me without you, my brother? Ah, how may Earth yawn deep enough for me, and plunge my godhead in the under world!'

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

But Aeneas presses on, brandishing his vast tree-like spear, and fiercely speaks thus: 'What more delay is there now? or why do you still shrink away, Turnus? The contest must be fought hand to hand with grim weapons, rather than by speed of foot. Transform yourself as you will, and collect what strength of courage or skill is yours; pray that you may wing your flight to the stars on high, or that sheltering earth may shut you in.' The other, shaking his head: 'Your fierce words do not dismay me, insolent! the gods dismay me, and Jupiter's enmity.' And no more said, his eyes light on a vast stone, an ancient, vast stone that happened to lie upon the plain, set for a landmark to divide contested fields: scarcely could twelve chosen men of the size Earth now brings to birth lift it on their shoulders: then the hero caught it up with trembling hand and whirled it at the foe, rising higher and quickening his speed. But he does not recognize himself as he runs, moves, lifts his hands, or shifts 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 nothing 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; he sees neither where to escape nor how to rush violently on the enemy, and nowhere sees 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 breastplate 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 imploringly his humbled eyes and suppliant hand: 'I have deserved it,' he says, 'nor do I ask for mercy; use your victory. If an unhappy parent's distress may at all touch you, this I pray; even such a father was Anchises to you; pity Daunus' old age, and restore to my kindred whichever you wish: me or my body deprived of daylight. You are conqueror, and Ausonia has seen me stretch conquered hands. Lavinia is yours in marriage; press your hatred no further.'

Aeneas stood wrathful in armor, his eyes rolling, and lowered his hand. More and more, Turnus' speech began to make him waver. Then, high on Turnus' shoulder, he saw the sword belt with its familiar shining bosses: the ill-fated belt of the boy Pallas, whom Turnus had struck down with an overpowering wound. Turnus wore that fatal ornament on his shoulders. As Aeneas' eyes drank in the plundered reminder of his fierce grief, he blazes with fury and cries, terrible in anger: 'Are you, clothed in the spoils of my dearest, to escape my hands? It is Pallas, Pallas who now strikes the sacrificial victim, and exacts vengeance in your guilty blood.' Saying this, he fiercely drives the steel deep into Turnus' breast. But Turnus' limbs grow slack and cold, and his life flies with a moan, indignant, into the dark.