While all this happened far away, queen JunoSent Iris down from heaven to bold Turnus.She found him resting in a sacred valley,Pilumnus’ grove, his ancestor; all radiantShe spoke to him:—“No god would promise, Turnus,This answer to your prayers, but the turn of timeHas put it in your hands. Aeneas has gone,Leaving the town, the fleet, and his companions,Seeking the realm of Palatine Evander,And more than that: he has won some cities over,He calls the Etruscan countrymen to arms.What are you waiting for? Now is the timeFor chariot and horse. Break off delay,Take the bewildered camp!” She spoke, and roseSkyward on even wings, and under the cloudsCut her great soaring arc. And Turnus knew her,And raised his hands to the sky, and followed her flight:—“O Iris, pride of heaven, who sent you to meThrough clouds to earth? Whence comes this storm of brightness?I see the heavens part, and the stars wheelingAcross the sky. I follow these great omens,Whoever calls to arms.” And, with the word,He went to the stream, took water up, prayed often,Making his vows to all the gods of heaven.And now, over all the plain, the army was coming,Rich in caparison, and rich in horses,In gold and broidered robes, Messapus leading,And Turnus in the center, and Tyrrhus’ sonsAs captains in the rear: they stream as GangesStreams when his seven quiet tides flood over,Or Nile resents his deep confining channel.The Trojans see the sudden cloud, black dustThickening over the plain, and darkness rising,And Caicus cries from the rampart:—“What is this,O fellow-citizens, this rolling darkness?Bring the swords quickly, bring weapons, climb the walls,Here comes the enemy, yea! Hurry, hurry!”Trojans, and noise, pour through the gates together.Men fill the walls. For so, on his departure,Aeneas had given orders: if something happened,They should not risk a battle in the open,They should only guard the camp, protect the ramparts.So, much as they would love to mix in battle,Anger and shame give way to prompt obedience.They bar the gates; protected by their towersThey wait while the foe comes on. And Turnus, ridingImpatient past his dawdling column, is thereBefore the city knows it. He has twentyFast riders with him, his mount a piebald Thracian,His helmet gold with crimson crest. He cries,“Who will be first with me? Will anybodyBe first with me against them? Let them have it!”And with the word, he lets the javelin fly,First sign of battle; and they cheer and followAnd wonder a little at the Trojans, cowardsWho dare not fight in the open, man to man,Who hug their walls for comfort. Round and round,Turnus, a wild man, rides, seeking an entrance,But there is no way in. He is like a wolfLurking about a sheep-fold, snarling at midnightBeside the pens, enduring wind and rain,While the bleating lambs are safe beneath the ewes,And he, unable to get at them, ragesFierce and dry-throated in the drive of hunger;So Turnus looks at wall and camp, and passionBurns hot within him, burns to his very bones.How to get in? or how to yank the TrojansOut of their cloister, smear them over the plain?Ah, but the fleet is there, beside the camp,Sheltered by earthworks and the flowing river:There lies the chance! He calls for fire, he hurls it,The burning torch, and his hand, almost, is burning,And all of them pitch in—Turnus has shown them,And Turnus eggs them on—they are armed with firebrands,They rob the hearths; the tar flares lurid yellowAgainst the grey of the cloud, the soot and ashes.What god, O Muses, turned the fire? Who savedThe Trojan ships? Remind me—the story is old,Men have believed it long, its glory endless.When first Aeneas built the fleet on Ida,Preparing for deep seas, the mother of gods,Queen Cybele, spoke to Jove:—“Grant me, my son,Lord of Olympus now, a mother’s prayer.I had a pine-wood on the mountain-top,And men, for many years, brought offerings there,I loved that forest, dark with fir and maple,But when the Trojan lacked a fleet, I gave himMy timber gladly; now my heart is troubled.Relieve my fear, and let a mother’s pleadingKeep them from wreck on any course, unshakenBy any whirlwind. Grown upon our mountains,They should have privilege.” Her son, the swayerOf the stars of the world, replied, “What call, O mother,Is this you make on fate? What are you seeking?Should keels laid down by mortal hand have titleTo life immortal? Should Aeneas travelThrough danger, unendangered? Such power is givenNo god in heaven. But I make this promise:After their course is run, after the harborsIn Italy receive them, safe from ocean,And with Aeneas landed in Laurentum,I will take away their mortal shape, I will make themGoddesses of the sea, like Nereus’ daughter,Like Galatea, the nymphs who breast the foam.”So Jupiter promised, and, as gods do, took oath,By the rivers of his brother under the world,The banks that seethe with the black pitchy torrent,And made Olympus tremble with his nod.The promised day had come, the fates had finishedThe allotted span, when Turnus’ desecrationWarned Cybele to keep the torch and firebrandFar from her holy vessels. A new light blazedIn mortal sight, and from the east a cloudRan across heaven, and choirs from Ida followed,And a dread voice came down the air:—“O Trojans,Be in no hurry to defend my vessels,You have no need of arms; Turnus, most surely,Will burn the seas before he burns these pine-trees.Go forth in freedom, goddesses of ocean,The Mother wills it so.” And each ship partedCable from bank, and dove to the deep waterAs dolphins dive, and reappeared as maiden,—Oh marvel!—and all of them bore out to ocean.Rutulian hearts were stunned, their captains shaken,Their steeds confused and frightened; even TiberShrank back from the sea, and the murmuring stream protested.But Turnus kept his nerve, his words rang loudIn challenge to their courage:—“These are portentsTo make the Trojans timid; Jove has takenTheir comfort from them; the ships they always fled inRun from Rutulian fire and sword; the oceansAre pathless for the Trojans now, their hopeOf flight all gone: half of their world is taken,And the earth is in our hands, Italians, thousands,Thousands of us in arms. I am not frightened,However they boast of oracles from heaven.Venus and fate have had their share: the TrojansHave done enough even to touch our richness,The Ausonian fields. I have my omens, also,To match with theirs, a sword to slay the guilty,Death for the rape of brides! Not Atreus’ sons,Not only Menelaus and Mycenae,Know what this hurt can be, this need for vengeance,This right to take up arms. Once to have perished,They tell us, is enough. Once to have sinnedOught to have been enough and more. HereafterAll women should be hateful to them, cowardsHiding behind the sheltering moat and rampart,The little barriers that give them courage!Have they not seen the walls that Neptune built themSink in the fires? Which one of you is ready,Brave hearts, to slash their barriers with the sword,To join me in the onrush? I do not needThe arms of Vulcan, nor a thousand vesselsAgainst the Trojans. Let them have Etruria!One thing, at least, they need not fear,—the darkness,The sneaking theft of their Palladium image,Guards slain in the dark, hiders in horse’s belly;I fight in open daylight, I have fireTo put around their walls, I will teach them something,—Their business now is not with those Greek heroesWhom Hector kept at bay for ten long years.Now day is almost over; you have doneGood work; rest now; be happy, be preparing,Be hopeful for the battles of to-morrow.”Meanwhile, the guards were posted, under ordersOf Messapus, their officer; and the wallsWere ringed with fire. Fourteen Rutulian captainsLed, each, a hundred men, bright in their gold,Plumed in their crimson, on patrol or resting,Or sprawling on the grass, gambling or drinking;The fires burn bright, the sentinels are watchful.Above them, from the wall, the Trojans, waiting,Maintain the heights with arms, and, anxious, testThe strength of the gates, link bridge and battlement,Warriors in harness. Mnestheus and SerestusUrge on the work; they were to be the leaders,Aeneas said, in the event of trouble.Along the walls the host mounts guard; they shareRelief and danger in turn, each at his post.Nisus, quick-handed with the javelinAnd the light arrows, very keen in arms,Stood guard beside the gate, Nisus, a sonOf Hyrtacus, sent by the huntress IdaTo join Aeneas; and near-by his friendEuryalus; no Trojan was more handsomeThan he was, that first bloom of youth. They sharedAssignments always, side by side in the charge,And side by side defenders. Here they wereTogether on sentry-duty at the gate.Nisus burst out:—“Euryalus, what is it?Do the gods put this ardor in our heartsOr does each man’s desire become his god?I want much more than this, I am not contentedWith all this peace and calm; my mind keeps callingTo battle, or something big. Look! The RutuliansAre far too confident: their lights are scattered;They lie asleep or drunk; and all is silent.Listen! I have a plan. People and fathersDemand Aeneas, ask that men be sent himWith information. If I can make them promiseTo let you go—(the glory of the actionIs all I want myself)—I think that ICan find the way around that hill, can manageTo reach the walls and fort of Pallanteum.”This shook Euryalus: a great love of praiseSpoke in his answer to his eager comrade:—“What, Nisus? Are you planning to leave me outIn this bold scheme, planning to go aloneInto such dangers? No; no, no. I amOpheltes’ son, a warrior trained amongGreek terror and Trojan suffering; and I follow,With you, great-souled Aeneas and his fortunes.I have a spirit, not too fond of living,Not too dissatisfied to buy with deathThe honor that you strive for.” Nisus answered:—“I had no fear on your account, be certain;That would be shameless of me: so may Jove,Or any god that looks on this with favor,Bring me back home triumphant. But disaster,As well you know, or god, or chance, might take me:If so, your youth being worthier, I’d have youBe my survivor, give to earth my body,Rescued or ransomed, or pay the final honorTo, it might be, an empty tomb. I would notCause sorrow to the only woman of manyWho scorned Acestes’ city, and came onWith you, her only son.” But then the otherReplied:—“There is no use in all this talking.My mind is fixed, and we had better hurry.”He roused the guards; new men came on; togetherEuryalus and Nisus seek their leader.All other creatures over all the worldWere easing their troubles in slumber, and hearts forgotSorrow and pain; not so the Trojan leadersMeeting in council. Here were things of moment;What should they do? how would they reach Aeneas?They stood there, leaning on long spears, most gravely,Holding their shields. Euryalus and NisusCrave instant audience; the matter is urgent,They say, and worth a little interruption.Iulus takes the lead, meets their impatience,Tells Nisus to speak out. “Give us a hearing,O men of Troy,” says Nisus, “do not holdOur years against us: we have something for you.All the Rutulians are drunk or sleeping,They are quiet now. There is a place, we know it,We have seen it with our eyes, a place that cunningCan take advantage of: you know the gateNearest the sea, and how the road splits off there.The watchfires there die down, and the black smoke risesDark to the sky out there. Give us a chance!Let us go to find Aeneas and Pallanteum.You will see us here again; it will not be longTill we come back, weighed down with spoil. We will kill them.We will not miss the way; we have seen the cityFar in the distant valleys. We go huntingAlong here often; we know all the river.We know it all by heart.” And old Aletes,A wise man in a council, gave the answer:—“Gods of our ancestors, under whose guidanceTroy is and has been, always, our destructionMust be far off, seeing your care has brought usYoung men of such high heart and lofty spirit.”In deep emotion, his hands reached out for theirs,His arms went round their shoulders. “What can I give you,Young men,” he cried, “worthy your praise and glory?The best rewards come from the gods, the finestFrom your own character, but good AeneasWill not forget your service, and your peerIn age, Ascanius, surely will remember.”And that young man broke in, “Most truly, Nisus,I trust my fortune to you. My only safetyLies in my sire’s return. By all our gods,I beg you both, I pray, bring back my father.Our trouble goes when he is here. I promiseTwo silver wine-cups, captured from Arisba,A pair of tripods, two great talents of gold,An ancient bowl, the present of queen Dido.And if we capture Italy, if we liveTo wield the sceptre and divide the spoil,You know the horse that Turnus rides, the armorHe carries on his back, all gold—that armor,The shield, the crimson plumes, and the war-horse, Nisus,Are your reward; even now, I so declare them.My father will give twelve women, beautiful captives,And captive men, equipped with arms, and landNow held by king Latinus; and I cherishWith all my heart, Euryalus, your courage.Your years are near my own, and all my lifeYour glory will be mine; in peace or war,In word and deed, I trust in you, completely.”Euryalus replied:—“No day will everProve me unworthy of brave deeds, if fortuneIs kind, not cruel, to me. I ask one thingBetter than any gift: I have a motherOf Priam’s ancient line, and she came with me,Poor soul, from Troy, and king Acestes’ cityWas powerless to keep her. I leave her nowWith never a word about what I am doing,Whatever its danger is, with no farewell.I cannot bear a mother’s tears. I beg you,Comfort her helplessness, relieve her sorrow.Let me take with me that much hope; it will help meFace any risk more boldly.” They were weepingAt this, the Trojans, all of them, IulusMore deeply touched than any. And he spoke:—“Be reassured, Euryalus; all we doWill prove as worthy as your glorious mission.Your mother shall be mine, in all but name;Great honor waits the mother of a sonSo great in honor. Whatever fortune follows,I vow and swear it, with an oath as solemnAs any my father ever took, I promise,When you return to us, safe and successful,Your triumph and your glory and your prizesShall be for her as well, for all your house.”He spoke with tears, and from his sword-belt tookA present in farewell, the golden sword,The ivory scabbard, wonderfully fashionedBy old Lycaon’s talent; Mnestheus gaveA lion-skin to Nisus, and AletesExchanged his helmet with him. As they started,All the great company, young men and old ones,Went with them to the gate, and out beyond itThe hopeful prayers attended them. Iulus,Mature beyond his years, gave many a messageTo carry to Aeneas, but the windsBore these away and swept them off to cloudland.And now they have crossed the trench, and through night’s shadowInvade the hostile camp; they are bound to beThe doom of many. They see the bodies sprawlingIn drunken sleep, the chariots half turned over,Men lying under the wheels and among the reins,And Nisus whispers:—“Euryalus, we mustBe bold; the chance is given; here lies our way.Watch and keep back, lest some one steal upon usAlong the trail behind. I lead, you followWhere I have cut the way; it will be a broad one.”His voice was silent; and he drew the swordAt Rhamnes, cushioned on high covers, lyingIn a deep slumber, breathing deep, a kingAnd Turnus’ favorite augur, but his doomNo augury prevented. Nisus struckThree slaves, and then the armor-bearer of Remus,And Remus’ charioteer—their necks were severedWith steel, and their lord Remus was beheaded.The trunk spurts blood, the earth and couch are darkenedWith blood, black-flowing. Lamyrus and LamusAre slain, and young Serranus, handsome gamblerWho had won high stakes that night, and slept contentedSmiling at the gods’ favor, luckier surelyIf he had lost all night. A starving lionLoose in a sheepfold with the crazy hungerUrging him on, gnashing and dragging, ragingWith bloody mouth against the fearful feeble,So Nisus slaughters. And his savage comradeKeeps pace with him: Fadus is slain, Herbesus,Rhoetus, Abaris, all of them unconscious,Murdered in sleep. One of them, Rhoetus, wakenedA little, saw, and tried to hide, and crouchingBehind a wine-bowl, took the sword, and rose,Stumbled and sprawled and belched, the red life spurtingOut of the mouth, red wine, red blood. All hotlyEuryalus went on. Messapus’ quartersAre next in line; the fires burn low, the horses,Tether-contented, graze. Then, briefly, Nisus,Sensing his comrade’s recklessness in slaughter,Calls:—“Light is near, our enemy; give over,We have killed enough, we have cut the path we needed.No more of this!” They left behind them armorOf solid silver, bowls, rich-woven carpets,But must take something: Rhamnes’ golden sword-beltEuryalus held on to, all that armorThat went with long tradition, from father to son,From son to enemy, once more a trophyFor young Euryalus. He dons the armor,Picks up, puts on, besides, a shapely helmet,The spoil of Messapus, the long plume flowing.They leave the camp, are on their way to safety.Meanwhile, sent forward from the Latin city,Horsemen were coming, while the legion restedBehind them on the plain, three hundred horsemenWith word for Turnus, under their captain Volcens,All armed with shields and riding at the ready.They are near the camp, the wall, and in the distanceSee two men turning left along a pathway,And a helmet glittering among the shadows,Euryalus’ prize and foolishness. They noticeAt once, of course, and challenge. From the columnVolcens cried out:—“Halt! Who goes there? Who are you?What are you doing in arms? Upon what mission?”No answer: flight to wood and trust in darkness.But the horsemen, fanning out, block every cross-road,Circle and screen each outlet. Wide with bramblesAnd dark with holm-oak spreads the wood; the briarsFill it on every side, but the path glimmersIn the rare intervals between the shadows.Euryalus is hindered by the branches,The darkness, and the spoil he carries; terrorMakes him mistake the path. Nisus is clear,Reaching the site that later men called Alba,Where king Latinus had his lofty stables.He halts, looks back to find his friend: in vain.“Euryalus, Euryalus, where are you?Where have I lost you? How am I to followBack through the tangled wood, the treacherous thickets?Euryalus, Euryalus!” He turns,Tries to retrace his step, is lost in the woods,And hears the horses, hears the shouts and signalsAs the pursuit comes closer, and he hearsA cry, he sees Euryalus, dragged alongOut of the treason of the night and darkness,Bewildered by the uproar, fighting vainlyIn the hands of Volcens’ squadron. There is nothingNisus can do, or is there? With what arms,What force, redeem his friend? Or is it betterTo hurl himself to death, dash in, regardless,To glorious wounds? His spear is poised, his armDrawn back; he looks to the moon on high, and prays:—“Dear goddess, daughter of Latona, aid me,Pride of the stars and glory of the groves,If ever my father Hyrtacus brought honorsIn my name to the altar, if ever IHave brought gifts home from my own hunting, aid me!Let me confound that troop, direct my weapon!”The straining body flung the spear; it whistledAcross the shadow of night, and Sulmo took itIn his turned back; the point snaps off; it lodgesWith part of the splintered wood deep in the lungs.Sulmo goes down, his mouth spurts blood, his bodySobs, straining, in the gasp and chill and shudderOf a cold death. They look in all directions,See nothing. And another spear is flying,Fiercer this time. This pierces Tagus’ temples,Clings, warm, in the split brain. And Volcens rages,And cannot find the spearman, and his angerHas no sure place to go, but for his vengeanceTurns on Euryalus, sword drawn, and rushingHe cries:—“You will pay for both of them, your bloodBe the atonement.” Nisus, from the darkness,Shrieks in his terror:—“Here I am, I did it,The guilt is mine, let him alone, come get me,Rutulians! How could he have dared or done it?God knows, the only thing he did was loveA luckless friend too well.” But the sword is drivenDeep in the breast. Euryalus rolls over,Blood veins the handsome limbs, and on the shoulderThe neck droops over, as a bright-colored flowerDroops when the ploughshare bends it, or as poppiesSink under the weight of heavy summer rainfall.And Nisus rushes them; he is after Volcens,Volcens alone. They mass around him, cluster,Batter him back, but through them all he charges,Whirling the blade like fire, until he drives itFull in the face while the Rutulian, shrieking,Goes down, and Nisus, dying, sees him die,Falls over his lifeless friend, and there is quietIn the utter peace of death.Fortunate boys!If there is any power in my verses,You will not be forgotten in time and storyWhile rock stands firm beneath the Capitol,While the imperial house maintains dominion.With victory and tears, with spoil and plunder,They brought Rutulian Volcens home to camp-ground,And a great wail arose, for Rhamnes slaughtered,For Numa, for Serranus, for so manySlain in one fight. They rush to see the bodies,To heroes dead or dying, to the groundReeking with carnage, the red foaming rivers.They recognize the spoil, the shining helmetBrought back for Messapus, and all the trappingsIt cost them sweat to win.And the Dawn-goddessCame from her husband’s saffron couch, bestowingFresh light across the world. Turnus, in armor,Summoned his men to arms, and every leaderMarshalled his ranks of bronze, and each man sharpensHis anger with one rumor or another.And more than that, a pitiful sight, they fixOn spears upraised, and follow with loud shouting,The heads of Nisus and Euryalus.On the left of the wall the Trojans form their lineWhose right rests on the river. They hold the trenches,Stand on the high towers, sorrowing; they know,And all too well, those heads with spears for bodies,And the black blood running down.And meanwhile RumorGoes flying through the panic of the city,Comes to Euryalus’ mother. That poor womanIs cold as death; the shuttle falls from her hands,The yarn is all unwound. She rushes, shrieking,Tearing her hair, out to the walls, in frenzy,Heedless of men, heedless of darts and dangerTo fill the air with terrible lamentation:—“Is this thing you I see, Euryalus?Could you, a poor old woman’s only comfort,Leave her to loneliness? O cruel, cruel!To go to danger, and never a farewell wordBetween the mother and son! And now you lieOn a strange land for dogs and birds to pick at,No mother to bathe the wounds, or close the eyes,To veil the body with the robe I worked onFor quite another purpose, night and day,Comforting, so, the cares of age. Where can IGo now, to find you? In what land are lyingThe limbs, dismembered, and the mangled body?Is this thing all you bring me from the wars,Is this what I have followed on land and sea?If you have anything of decent feeling,Rutulians, kill me; hurl your weapons on me,All of you, all of them: let steel destroy me.Or, father of the gods, have pity on meAnd strike with the bolt of lightning; hurl to HellThe life I hate; no other way is left meTo break the cruel thread.” And at her wailingThe Trojan spirit sank, and a groan of sorrowPassed through the ranks, their will to battle broken.She kindles mourning; the leaders give an order,Idaeus and Actor, taking her between them,Lead her away.And the loud terrible trumpetBlared in bronze-throated challenge, and the shoutingRose to the sky. And on they came, the VolsciansUnder their tortoise-shield, in a wild hurryTo fill the moat, tear down the wall: some soughtA quick way in, or over, with scaling-laddersWhere the ring of men is thin, and light breaks inWhere no men stand. And in reply the TrojansRain every kind of weapon down—long warHas taught them how the walls must be defended.They use crude poles to push men off the ladders,They roll tremendous boulders to crush the ranksCovered by shields, and glad of that protection,Too little now, too small for the great rockThe Trojans heave and pry and dump down on themWhere the clump of men is thickest. The back of the tortoiseIs broken, like the bodies of men beneath it.No more blind war, like this, for the Rutulians!They change their tactics, sweep the wall with arrows,Mezentius, grim to look at, works with firebrands,While Neptune’s son, Messapus, tamer of horses,Keeps tearing at the walls, and screaming for ladders.Help me, Calliope, with the song: what killingTurnus dealt out that day, the roll of victimsWhom every warrior sent to Hell: O, aid meTo unfold it all, the war’s great panorama.There was a tower, high overhead, well chosenTo suit the ground, equipped with lofty gangways;On this the Italians spent their every effortTo tear it down, the Trojans to defend itWith stones from above, and arrows through the loopholes.A firebrand, flung by Turnus, found a lodgingAlong one side, and the wind blew and fanned it,And lintel and planking burned, and the men huddledWithin, and found no way to flee, and shiftedToward the undamaged portion, when all of a sudden,Lopsided under the weight, it toppled crashingAnd filled all heaven with thunder. Half dead alreadyMen reached the ground, and the tower came down upon them,Pierced through and through by shafts of their own making,Their chests transfixed by jagged broken timbers.Two manage to escape, Lycus, Helenor,The latter a young warrior, the sonOf a Maeonian king and a slave-girl mother,Who sent him off to Troy in arms (forbidden,Since arms were not for slaves), a naked sword,A shield with no device. He saw himselfNow in the midst of Turnus’ thousands, marshalledBefore him and behind him. There he stoodLike a wild animal, ringed in by hunters,Raging against their weapons, and sure of death,Leaping upon them,—so Helenor, certainTo die, rushed where the weapons were the thickest.Lycus was swifter afoot: through men, through weapons,He gained the wall, reached up to pull himself over,Reached up for hands to help him. But Turnus cameHot on his heels:—“You fool,” he cried in triumph,“Did you think you were out of reach?” And as he hung there,Turnus grabbed him, tore him loose, and the wall came with him.An eagle, so, sweeps up again to heavenWith a white swan or rabbit in his talons;Or so a wolf snatches a lamb from the sheepfoldTo the bleating of the ewe. A shout arises;Men from all sides come on; they fill the trenches,Keep firebrands flying at the tower and rooftop.Ilioneus knocks over one, Lucetius,Who came to the gates with fire; he bowled him overWith a rock as big as a mountain. Liger slewEmathion with a javelin; AsilasShot Corynaeus down. Caeneus wonOver Ortygius, lost to Turnus. TurnusKilled half a dozen, Clonius, Dioxippus,Itys, Promolus, Sagaris, and Idas.Capys cut down Privernus: a spear had grazed him,And the fool had flung his shield aside, to carryHis hand to his side, and an arrow pinned it there,And went on through, a mortal wound in the bowels.A young man in the battle, the son of Arcens,Stood out conspicuous in arms, a tunicEmbroidered bright, Iberian blue; his fatherHad sent him from his mother’s grove alongSymaethus stream and Palicus’ rich altars.Mezentius saw him there, laid down his spear,Whirled the sling thrice around his head, let fly,And the slug of the sling-shot split the victim’s temples,Stretching his blue in the deep yellow sand.Then, so they say, was the first time IulusBrought down a man in war; he had hunted onlyWild beasts, before this time, with bow and arrows.There was a youngster, Remulus by name,Or, it might be, Numanus, lately marriedTo Turnus’ younger sister, very proudAnd pleased with his new royalty. He strodeAlong the foremost battle-line, and taunted,Shouting indecencies, a swollen hero:—“What, once again, O Phrygians twice-besieged?Have you no shame, to hide behind the rampartsA second time, a second time with wallsTo ward off death? Look at the silly warriorsWho claim our brides with steel! What god, what madness,Brought you to Italy? No sons of AtreusAre here, no lying glib Ulysses. WeAre a tough race, we bring our new-born sonsTo the ice-cold river, dip them in to make themTough as their fathers, make them wake up earlyTo hunt till they wear the forests out; they ride,They shoot, and love it; they tame the earth, they battleTill cities fall: and all our life is iron,The spear, reversed, prods on the ox; old agePulls on the helmet over the whitest hair;We live on what we plunder, we revel in booty.But you—O wonderful in purple and saffron!—Love doing nothing, you delight in dancing,And oh, those fancy clothes, sleeves on the tunics,And ribbons in the bonnets! Phrygian women,By God, not Phrygian men! Be gone foreverOver the heights of Dindymus; pipe and timbrelCall you to female rites: leave arms to men,The sword to warriors!”But Ascanius loosenedAn arrow from the quiver, held the shaftNocked to the bow-string, and with arms outspreadFor shot, made prayer:—“Almighty Jupiter,Favor my bold beginning. I shall offerThe temple every year a snow-white bullockWith gilded horns, a young one, but alreadyTall as his dam, butting with horn, and pawingThe sand with restless hoof.” The father heard him,There was thunder on the left, and in that instantThe fatal bow-string twanged. The shaft came flyingThrough air, and the steel split the hollow templesOf that young bragger Remulus. “Go on,Mock valor with arrogant words! This is the answerThe Phrygians twice-besieged, the Phrygian women,Send back to Remulus.” The Trojans cheered himWith joyful shouts and spirits raised to heaven.And it so happened from the realm of skyLong-haired Apollo, throned with cloud, looked downAnd saw the Ausonian battle-lines and city,And had a word of blessing for Iulus:—“Good for your prowess, youngster! That’s the wayTo reach the stars, a son of gods, a fatherOf gods to be. In time the wars will endUnder that royal line. Troy sets you freeFor greater destinies.” And he left the heaven,Came through the stir of air, and sought Iulus,Disguised as ancient Butes, armor-bearer,Once, to Anchises, a guardian at his threshold,Later Ascanius’ servant. With his voice,His grizzled hair, his color, his sounding arms,Apollo came and spoke to the hot young warrior:—“Let that be plenty, son of great Aeneas:Numanus slain and unavenged; your arrowHas done its work. Apollo grants this praise,Your first, and does not envy the little archer.But now, my son, refrain from war.” He vanished,Before the speech was ended, into thin air,And the Trojan captains knew the god, his weapons,The clang of the quiver of the god ascending,And at his will and order keep AscaniusOut of the fight for which he longs, themselvesGo back to the work, charge at the jaws of danger.The loud cry runs from tower to tower, all downThe avenue of the walls, and they bend the bows,And catapults hum as the great stone goes flying.The ground is sown with weapons; shield and helmetRing with the clanging; the fight is a swell and a surgeLike the rise of a wind from the west, with rainstorm peltingHard on the ground, thicker than hail on ocean,When Jupiter lashes the gales and cloud-burst thunders from heaven.Two young men, tall as pine-trees, tall as hillsThat gave them birth, Alcanor’s sons, their motherThe Oread Iaera, stood at the gate,Obeying orders, Pandarus and Bitias,And had their own idea, and flung it open,Relying on their arms, an invitation—Here’s open house for all, come in, come in!To right and left they stood before the towers,Armed with the steel, and with the high plumes tossing,Like twin oaks towering by pleasant rivers.The Rutulians saw the entrance open, rushed in,Were beaten back: Haemon, the son of Mars,Tmarus the headstrong, Quercens, AquicolusHandsome in arms, fled with their columns routed,Or perished in the gateway. And anger mountedIn all those battling spirits: the Trojans gathered,Daring in closer combat now, and riskingBrief sallies past the walls.Turnus, far off,Raging and rioting, heard the glad tidingsOf enemies gone wild with slaughter, gatesFlung open wide. Whatever he was doingHe broke off gladly, burned with monstrous anger,Rushed to the Trojan gate and those proud brothers.Antiphates came to meet him, bastard sonOf tall Sarpedon and a Theban mother,And Turnus’ javelin laid him low: it flew,Italian cornel-wood, through the soft air,Lodged in the throat, pierced deep into the chest.The wound’s dark hollow filled with foaming red,The steel grew warm in the lung. And Turnus’ handBrought down Meropes, Erymas, Aphidnus,Then Bitias blazing-eyed and hot in spirit.No javelin brought him down, no common javelinWould ever have killed that giant, but a pikestaff,Rifled and whirring loud, driven like lightning,Cut through the double leather, the double mailWith scales of gold, and the huge limbs sprawl and tumble,Earth groans, and his great shield clangs down above him,The way a pillar of rock comes down, at Baiae,When men have pried it loose and shoved it overInto the ocean, and, crashing down in ruin,It lies in shallow water, confusion of sea,Eruption of black sand, and the shock of soundMakes the high mountains tremble, and the earthShudder under the oceans.And Mars addedNew strength and spirit to the Latins, raked themWith the sharp sting of the spur, and sent the TrojansPanic and runaway fear. The Latins, givenThe chance of fight, come on, as the war-god rides them.Pandarus, seeing his brother’s fallen body,Seeing the turn of fortune, puts his shoulderWith all his strength to the gate, and slowly, slowly,Swings it on stubborn hinge, to leave his comrades,Many of them, shut out, beyond the rampart,Fighting in desperate battle; others he welcomesAs they come pouring in, the fool, not seeingOne of them was no Trojan! That was Turnus,Shut up in the town, as welcome as a tigerPenned in a flock of sheep. And Turnus’ eyesShone with new light, his arms rang loud, his plumeNodded blood-red, and his great shield flashed lightning.Sudden confusion fastened on the Trojans;They knew him as he was, gigantic, hateful,But Pandarus flashed forward toward him, burningWith vengeance for a brother’s death, and shouting:—“Why, this is not Amata’s bridal palace,Nor yet the center of your father’s city!This is a hostile camp you see here, Turnus,And not a chance to leave it.” Turnus onlySmiled at him with untroubled heart:—“Start something,If there is any fighting spirit in you;Come closer; I have a message for king Priam:Tell him Achilles was here.” And Pandarus flungHis spear, rough-knotted, the unpeeled bark still on it,And the winds bore it off, and Juno parriedThe threat of the coming wound, and it fastened, harmless,Stuck in the wooden gate.“And here’s a weaponThat will not miss, seeing my right hand swings it,”And with his answer Turnus rose full heightTo the sword upraised, and brought it down, and the steelSplit the head clean apart between the temples,And Pandarus came crashing down, and the earthShook underneath his weight, and he lay there, dying,Limbs buckled underneath him, and his armorSpattered with brains, and the head’s halves, divided,Dangling on either shoulder.And the TrojansRan every way, in rout and sudden terror.That day might well have been their last, that battleThe end of war, had Turnus ever botheredTo break the bars of the gate, let in his comrades.But no: his fury and mad desire of slaughterDrove him one way, and one way only, forward.He caught Phaleris, and he hamstrung Gyges,And snatched their spears and flung them at the TrojansWho fled with nothing but their backs for target.Juno supplied him fire and strength. He addedHalys to the dead roster of his comrades,Pierced Phegeus through his shield and mail. Four others,Alcander, Halius, Prytanis, Noemon,Ignorant of his presence, roused the fightersAlong the walls, and fell before they knew it.Lynceus, calling his comrades, came to meet him,And Turnus, standing higher, slashed and swung,Close in, and the flashing blade swept head and helmetTogether from the shoulders; then he slaughteredAmycus, hunter of beasts, a clever craftsmanIn arming darts with poison; and Aeolus’ son,Clytius; and Cretheus, the Muses’ comrade,Lover of music and song, whose theme was alwaysWarfare and warhorse, arms of men, and battle.And the Trojan leaders heard about the slaughter,And met, Serestus, keen in arms, and Mnestheus,And saw their comrades wheeling and Turnus welcomed,And Mnestheus tried to halt them:—“Where do you aimThat flight?” he cried, “What other ramparts have you?What walls beyond these walls? Shall one man, circled,Hemmed in on every side, deal out destructionUnscathed through all the city? Will you let himSend down to Hell so many brave young fighters?What kind of cowards are you? Have you no pity,No shame at all, for your unhappy country,Your ancient household gods, and great Aeneas?”That gave them courage; and the column thickened,And they were firm, and stood. And very slowlyTurnus drew back, retreating toward the river,And they came on, more boldly now, with yellingAnd massing rank on rank, a crowd of huntersWith deadly spears, after a deadly lion,And the beast they hunt is frightened, but still deadly,Still dangerous, still glaring, and neither angerNor courage lets him turn his back, and forwardHe cannot go, however much he wants to,Through all that press of men and spears. So Turnus,Doubtful, kept stepping back, little by little,Burning, inside, with anger. Two more timesHe made a sudden charge, sent the foe flyingAlong the walls, but they came back, and JunoDared not assist him further; Jove had sentIris from heaven, with no uncertain messageIf Turnus does not leave the Trojan ramparts,He can no longer hold his own against them,The shield and sword-arm falter; darts like hailRain down from everywhere. The helmet ringsAround his temples, and the brass cracks openUnder the storm of stones; the horsehair crestIs shot away; the boss of the shield is dented;Mnestheus, with lightning force, and other TrojansMultiply spears. The sweat all over his bodyRuns in a tarry stream; he cannot breathe.At last, with one great leap, in all his armor,He plunges into the stream, and Tiber takes himOn the yellow flood, held up by the buoyant water,Washing away the stains of war, a hero,Returning happily to his warrior-comrades.
While all this happened far away, queen JunoSent Iris down from heaven to bold Turnus.She found him resting in a sacred valley,Pilumnus’ grove, his ancestor; all radiantShe spoke to him:—“No god would promise, Turnus,This answer to your prayers, but the turn of timeHas put it in your hands. Aeneas has gone,Leaving the town, the fleet, and his companions,Seeking the realm of Palatine Evander,And more than that: he has won some cities over,He calls the Etruscan countrymen to arms.What are you waiting for? Now is the timeFor chariot and horse. Break off delay,Take the bewildered camp!” She spoke, and roseSkyward on even wings, and under the cloudsCut her great soaring arc. And Turnus knew her,And raised his hands to the sky, and followed her flight:—“O Iris, pride of heaven, who sent you to meThrough clouds to earth? Whence comes this storm of brightness?I see the heavens part, and the stars wheelingAcross the sky. I follow these great omens,Whoever calls to arms.” And, with the word,He went to the stream, took water up, prayed often,Making his vows to all the gods of heaven.And now, over all the plain, the army was coming,Rich in caparison, and rich in horses,In gold and broidered robes, Messapus leading,And Turnus in the center, and Tyrrhus’ sonsAs captains in the rear: they stream as GangesStreams when his seven quiet tides flood over,Or Nile resents his deep confining channel.The Trojans see the sudden cloud, black dustThickening over the plain, and darkness rising,And Caicus cries from the rampart:—“What is this,O fellow-citizens, this rolling darkness?Bring the swords quickly, bring weapons, climb the walls,Here comes the enemy, yea! Hurry, hurry!”Trojans, and noise, pour through the gates together.Men fill the walls. For so, on his departure,Aeneas had given orders: if something happened,They should not risk a battle in the open,They should only guard the camp, protect the ramparts.So, much as they would love to mix in battle,Anger and shame give way to prompt obedience.They bar the gates; protected by their towersThey wait while the foe comes on. And Turnus, ridingImpatient past his dawdling column, is thereBefore the city knows it. He has twentyFast riders with him, his mount a piebald Thracian,His helmet gold with crimson crest. He cries,“Who will be first with me? Will anybodyBe first with me against them? Let them have it!”And with the word, he lets the javelin fly,First sign of battle; and they cheer and followAnd wonder a little at the Trojans, cowardsWho dare not fight in the open, man to man,Who hug their walls for comfort. Round and round,Turnus, a wild man, rides, seeking an entrance,But there is no way in. He is like a wolfLurking about a sheep-fold, snarling at midnightBeside the pens, enduring wind and rain,While the bleating lambs are safe beneath the ewes,And he, unable to get at them, ragesFierce and dry-throated in the drive of hunger;So Turnus looks at wall and camp, and passionBurns hot within him, burns to his very bones.How to get in? or how to yank the TrojansOut of their cloister, smear them over the plain?Ah, but the fleet is there, beside the camp,Sheltered by earthworks and the flowing river:There lies the chance! He calls for fire, he hurls it,The burning torch, and his hand, almost, is burning,And all of them pitch in—Turnus has shown them,And Turnus eggs them on—they are armed with firebrands,They rob the hearths; the tar flares lurid yellowAgainst the grey of the cloud, the soot and ashes.What god, O Muses, turned the fire? Who savedThe Trojan ships? Remind me—the story is old,Men have believed it long, its glory endless.When first Aeneas built the fleet on Ida,Preparing for deep seas, the mother of gods,Queen Cybele, spoke to Jove:—“Grant me, my son,Lord of Olympus now, a mother’s prayer.I had a pine-wood on the mountain-top,And men, for many years, brought offerings there,I loved that forest, dark with fir and maple,But when the Trojan lacked a fleet, I gave himMy timber gladly; now my heart is troubled.Relieve my fear, and let a mother’s pleadingKeep them from wreck on any course, unshakenBy any whirlwind. Grown upon our mountains,They should have privilege.” Her son, the swayerOf the stars of the world, replied, “What call, O mother,Is this you make on fate? What are you seeking?Should keels laid down by mortal hand have titleTo life immortal? Should Aeneas travelThrough danger, unendangered? Such power is givenNo god in heaven. But I make this promise:After their course is run, after the harborsIn Italy receive them, safe from ocean,And with Aeneas landed in Laurentum,I will take away their mortal shape, I will make themGoddesses of the sea, like Nereus’ daughter,Like Galatea, the nymphs who breast the foam.”So Jupiter promised, and, as gods do, took oath,By the rivers of his brother under the world,The banks that seethe with the black pitchy torrent,And made Olympus tremble with his nod.The promised day had come, the fates had finishedThe allotted span, when Turnus’ desecrationWarned Cybele to keep the torch and firebrandFar from her holy vessels. A new light blazedIn mortal sight, and from the east a cloudRan across heaven, and choirs from Ida followed,And a dread voice came down the air:—“O Trojans,Be in no hurry to defend my vessels,You have no need of arms; Turnus, most surely,Will burn the seas before he burns these pine-trees.Go forth in freedom, goddesses of ocean,The Mother wills it so.” And each ship partedCable from bank, and dove to the deep waterAs dolphins dive, and reappeared as maiden,—Oh marvel!—and all of them bore out to ocean.Rutulian hearts were stunned, their captains shaken,Their steeds confused and frightened; even TiberShrank back from the sea, and the murmuring stream protested.But Turnus kept his nerve, his words rang loudIn challenge to their courage:—“These are portentsTo make the Trojans timid; Jove has takenTheir comfort from them; the ships they always fled inRun from Rutulian fire and sword; the oceansAre pathless for the Trojans now, their hopeOf flight all gone: half of their world is taken,And the earth is in our hands, Italians, thousands,Thousands of us in arms. I am not frightened,However they boast of oracles from heaven.Venus and fate have had their share: the TrojansHave done enough even to touch our richness,The Ausonian fields. I have my omens, also,To match with theirs, a sword to slay the guilty,Death for the rape of brides! Not Atreus’ sons,Not only Menelaus and Mycenae,Know what this hurt can be, this need for vengeance,This right to take up arms. Once to have perished,They tell us, is enough. Once to have sinnedOught to have been enough and more. HereafterAll women should be hateful to them, cowardsHiding behind the sheltering moat and rampart,The little barriers that give them courage!Have they not seen the walls that Neptune built themSink in the fires? Which one of you is ready,Brave hearts, to slash their barriers with the sword,To join me in the onrush? I do not needThe arms of Vulcan, nor a thousand vesselsAgainst the Trojans. Let them have Etruria!One thing, at least, they need not fear,—the darkness,The sneaking theft of their Palladium image,Guards slain in the dark, hiders in horse’s belly;I fight in open daylight, I have fireTo put around their walls, I will teach them something,—Their business now is not with those Greek heroesWhom Hector kept at bay for ten long years.Now day is almost over; you have doneGood work; rest now; be happy, be preparing,Be hopeful for the battles of to-morrow.”Meanwhile, the guards were posted, under ordersOf Messapus, their officer; and the wallsWere ringed with fire. Fourteen Rutulian captainsLed, each, a hundred men, bright in their gold,Plumed in their crimson, on patrol or resting,Or sprawling on the grass, gambling or drinking;The fires burn bright, the sentinels are watchful.Above them, from the wall, the Trojans, waiting,Maintain the heights with arms, and, anxious, testThe strength of the gates, link bridge and battlement,Warriors in harness. Mnestheus and SerestusUrge on the work; they were to be the leaders,Aeneas said, in the event of trouble.Along the walls the host mounts guard; they shareRelief and danger in turn, each at his post.Nisus, quick-handed with the javelinAnd the light arrows, very keen in arms,Stood guard beside the gate, Nisus, a sonOf Hyrtacus, sent by the huntress IdaTo join Aeneas; and near-by his friendEuryalus; no Trojan was more handsomeThan he was, that first bloom of youth. They sharedAssignments always, side by side in the charge,And side by side defenders. Here they wereTogether on sentry-duty at the gate.Nisus burst out:—“Euryalus, what is it?Do the gods put this ardor in our heartsOr does each man’s desire become his god?I want much more than this, I am not contentedWith all this peace and calm; my mind keeps callingTo battle, or something big. Look! The RutuliansAre far too confident: their lights are scattered;They lie asleep or drunk; and all is silent.Listen! I have a plan. People and fathersDemand Aeneas, ask that men be sent himWith information. If I can make them promiseTo let you go—(the glory of the actionIs all I want myself)—I think that ICan find the way around that hill, can manageTo reach the walls and fort of Pallanteum.”This shook Euryalus: a great love of praiseSpoke in his answer to his eager comrade:—“What, Nisus? Are you planning to leave me outIn this bold scheme, planning to go aloneInto such dangers? No; no, no. I amOpheltes’ son, a warrior trained amongGreek terror and Trojan suffering; and I follow,With you, great-souled Aeneas and his fortunes.I have a spirit, not too fond of living,Not too dissatisfied to buy with deathThe honor that you strive for.” Nisus answered:—“I had no fear on your account, be certain;That would be shameless of me: so may Jove,Or any god that looks on this with favor,Bring me back home triumphant. But disaster,As well you know, or god, or chance, might take me:If so, your youth being worthier, I’d have youBe my survivor, give to earth my body,Rescued or ransomed, or pay the final honorTo, it might be, an empty tomb. I would notCause sorrow to the only woman of manyWho scorned Acestes’ city, and came onWith you, her only son.” But then the otherReplied:—“There is no use in all this talking.My mind is fixed, and we had better hurry.”He roused the guards; new men came on; togetherEuryalus and Nisus seek their leader.All other creatures over all the worldWere easing their troubles in slumber, and hearts forgotSorrow and pain; not so the Trojan leadersMeeting in council. Here were things of moment;What should they do? how would they reach Aeneas?They stood there, leaning on long spears, most gravely,Holding their shields. Euryalus and NisusCrave instant audience; the matter is urgent,They say, and worth a little interruption.Iulus takes the lead, meets their impatience,Tells Nisus to speak out. “Give us a hearing,O men of Troy,” says Nisus, “do not holdOur years against us: we have something for you.All the Rutulians are drunk or sleeping,They are quiet now. There is a place, we know it,We have seen it with our eyes, a place that cunningCan take advantage of: you know the gateNearest the sea, and how the road splits off there.The watchfires there die down, and the black smoke risesDark to the sky out there. Give us a chance!Let us go to find Aeneas and Pallanteum.You will see us here again; it will not be longTill we come back, weighed down with spoil. We will kill them.We will not miss the way; we have seen the cityFar in the distant valleys. We go huntingAlong here often; we know all the river.We know it all by heart.” And old Aletes,A wise man in a council, gave the answer:—“Gods of our ancestors, under whose guidanceTroy is and has been, always, our destructionMust be far off, seeing your care has brought usYoung men of such high heart and lofty spirit.”In deep emotion, his hands reached out for theirs,His arms went round their shoulders. “What can I give you,Young men,” he cried, “worthy your praise and glory?The best rewards come from the gods, the finestFrom your own character, but good AeneasWill not forget your service, and your peerIn age, Ascanius, surely will remember.”And that young man broke in, “Most truly, Nisus,I trust my fortune to you. My only safetyLies in my sire’s return. By all our gods,I beg you both, I pray, bring back my father.Our trouble goes when he is here. I promiseTwo silver wine-cups, captured from Arisba,A pair of tripods, two great talents of gold,An ancient bowl, the present of queen Dido.And if we capture Italy, if we liveTo wield the sceptre and divide the spoil,You know the horse that Turnus rides, the armorHe carries on his back, all gold—that armor,The shield, the crimson plumes, and the war-horse, Nisus,Are your reward; even now, I so declare them.My father will give twelve women, beautiful captives,And captive men, equipped with arms, and landNow held by king Latinus; and I cherishWith all my heart, Euryalus, your courage.Your years are near my own, and all my lifeYour glory will be mine; in peace or war,In word and deed, I trust in you, completely.”Euryalus replied:—“No day will everProve me unworthy of brave deeds, if fortuneIs kind, not cruel, to me. I ask one thingBetter than any gift: I have a motherOf Priam’s ancient line, and she came with me,Poor soul, from Troy, and king Acestes’ cityWas powerless to keep her. I leave her nowWith never a word about what I am doing,Whatever its danger is, with no farewell.I cannot bear a mother’s tears. I beg you,Comfort her helplessness, relieve her sorrow.Let me take with me that much hope; it will help meFace any risk more boldly.” They were weepingAt this, the Trojans, all of them, IulusMore deeply touched than any. And he spoke:—“Be reassured, Euryalus; all we doWill prove as worthy as your glorious mission.Your mother shall be mine, in all but name;Great honor waits the mother of a sonSo great in honor. Whatever fortune follows,I vow and swear it, with an oath as solemnAs any my father ever took, I promise,When you return to us, safe and successful,Your triumph and your glory and your prizesShall be for her as well, for all your house.”He spoke with tears, and from his sword-belt tookA present in farewell, the golden sword,The ivory scabbard, wonderfully fashionedBy old Lycaon’s talent; Mnestheus gaveA lion-skin to Nisus, and AletesExchanged his helmet with him. As they started,All the great company, young men and old ones,Went with them to the gate, and out beyond itThe hopeful prayers attended them. Iulus,Mature beyond his years, gave many a messageTo carry to Aeneas, but the windsBore these away and swept them off to cloudland.And now they have crossed the trench, and through night’s shadowInvade the hostile camp; they are bound to beThe doom of many. They see the bodies sprawlingIn drunken sleep, the chariots half turned over,Men lying under the wheels and among the reins,And Nisus whispers:—“Euryalus, we mustBe bold; the chance is given; here lies our way.Watch and keep back, lest some one steal upon usAlong the trail behind. I lead, you followWhere I have cut the way; it will be a broad one.”His voice was silent; and he drew the swordAt Rhamnes, cushioned on high covers, lyingIn a deep slumber, breathing deep, a kingAnd Turnus’ favorite augur, but his doomNo augury prevented. Nisus struckThree slaves, and then the armor-bearer of Remus,And Remus’ charioteer—their necks were severedWith steel, and their lord Remus was beheaded.The trunk spurts blood, the earth and couch are darkenedWith blood, black-flowing. Lamyrus and LamusAre slain, and young Serranus, handsome gamblerWho had won high stakes that night, and slept contentedSmiling at the gods’ favor, luckier surelyIf he had lost all night. A starving lionLoose in a sheepfold with the crazy hungerUrging him on, gnashing and dragging, ragingWith bloody mouth against the fearful feeble,So Nisus slaughters. And his savage comradeKeeps pace with him: Fadus is slain, Herbesus,Rhoetus, Abaris, all of them unconscious,Murdered in sleep. One of them, Rhoetus, wakenedA little, saw, and tried to hide, and crouchingBehind a wine-bowl, took the sword, and rose,Stumbled and sprawled and belched, the red life spurtingOut of the mouth, red wine, red blood. All hotlyEuryalus went on. Messapus’ quartersAre next in line; the fires burn low, the horses,Tether-contented, graze. Then, briefly, Nisus,Sensing his comrade’s recklessness in slaughter,Calls:—“Light is near, our enemy; give over,We have killed enough, we have cut the path we needed.No more of this!” They left behind them armorOf solid silver, bowls, rich-woven carpets,But must take something: Rhamnes’ golden sword-beltEuryalus held on to, all that armorThat went with long tradition, from father to son,From son to enemy, once more a trophyFor young Euryalus. He dons the armor,Picks up, puts on, besides, a shapely helmet,The spoil of Messapus, the long plume flowing.They leave the camp, are on their way to safety.Meanwhile, sent forward from the Latin city,Horsemen were coming, while the legion restedBehind them on the plain, three hundred horsemenWith word for Turnus, under their captain Volcens,All armed with shields and riding at the ready.They are near the camp, the wall, and in the distanceSee two men turning left along a pathway,And a helmet glittering among the shadows,Euryalus’ prize and foolishness. They noticeAt once, of course, and challenge. From the columnVolcens cried out:—“Halt! Who goes there? Who are you?What are you doing in arms? Upon what mission?”No answer: flight to wood and trust in darkness.But the horsemen, fanning out, block every cross-road,Circle and screen each outlet. Wide with bramblesAnd dark with holm-oak spreads the wood; the briarsFill it on every side, but the path glimmersIn the rare intervals between the shadows.Euryalus is hindered by the branches,The darkness, and the spoil he carries; terrorMakes him mistake the path. Nisus is clear,Reaching the site that later men called Alba,Where king Latinus had his lofty stables.He halts, looks back to find his friend: in vain.“Euryalus, Euryalus, where are you?Where have I lost you? How am I to followBack through the tangled wood, the treacherous thickets?Euryalus, Euryalus!” He turns,Tries to retrace his step, is lost in the woods,And hears the horses, hears the shouts and signalsAs the pursuit comes closer, and he hearsA cry, he sees Euryalus, dragged alongOut of the treason of the night and darkness,Bewildered by the uproar, fighting vainlyIn the hands of Volcens’ squadron. There is nothingNisus can do, or is there? With what arms,What force, redeem his friend? Or is it betterTo hurl himself to death, dash in, regardless,To glorious wounds? His spear is poised, his armDrawn back; he looks to the moon on high, and prays:—“Dear goddess, daughter of Latona, aid me,Pride of the stars and glory of the groves,If ever my father Hyrtacus brought honorsIn my name to the altar, if ever IHave brought gifts home from my own hunting, aid me!Let me confound that troop, direct my weapon!”The straining body flung the spear; it whistledAcross the shadow of night, and Sulmo took itIn his turned back; the point snaps off; it lodgesWith part of the splintered wood deep in the lungs.Sulmo goes down, his mouth spurts blood, his bodySobs, straining, in the gasp and chill and shudderOf a cold death. They look in all directions,See nothing. And another spear is flying,Fiercer this time. This pierces Tagus’ temples,Clings, warm, in the split brain. And Volcens rages,And cannot find the spearman, and his angerHas no sure place to go, but for his vengeanceTurns on Euryalus, sword drawn, and rushingHe cries:—“You will pay for both of them, your bloodBe the atonement.” Nisus, from the darkness,Shrieks in his terror:—“Here I am, I did it,The guilt is mine, let him alone, come get me,Rutulians! How could he have dared or done it?God knows, the only thing he did was loveA luckless friend too well.” But the sword is drivenDeep in the breast. Euryalus rolls over,Blood veins the handsome limbs, and on the shoulderThe neck droops over, as a bright-colored flowerDroops when the ploughshare bends it, or as poppiesSink under the weight of heavy summer rainfall.And Nisus rushes them; he is after Volcens,Volcens alone. They mass around him, cluster,Batter him back, but through them all he charges,Whirling the blade like fire, until he drives itFull in the face while the Rutulian, shrieking,Goes down, and Nisus, dying, sees him die,Falls over his lifeless friend, and there is quietIn the utter peace of death.Fortunate boys!If there is any power in my verses,You will not be forgotten in time and storyWhile rock stands firm beneath the Capitol,While the imperial house maintains dominion.With victory and tears, with spoil and plunder,They brought Rutulian Volcens home to camp-ground,And a great wail arose, for Rhamnes slaughtered,For Numa, for Serranus, for so manySlain in one fight. They rush to see the bodies,To heroes dead or dying, to the groundReeking with carnage, the red foaming rivers.They recognize the spoil, the shining helmetBrought back for Messapus, and all the trappingsIt cost them sweat to win.And the Dawn-goddessCame from her husband’s saffron couch, bestowingFresh light across the world. Turnus, in armor,Summoned his men to arms, and every leaderMarshalled his ranks of bronze, and each man sharpensHis anger with one rumor or another.And more than that, a pitiful sight, they fixOn spears upraised, and follow with loud shouting,The heads of Nisus and Euryalus.On the left of the wall the Trojans form their lineWhose right rests on the river. They hold the trenches,Stand on the high towers, sorrowing; they know,And all too well, those heads with spears for bodies,And the black blood running down.And meanwhile RumorGoes flying through the panic of the city,Comes to Euryalus’ mother. That poor womanIs cold as death; the shuttle falls from her hands,The yarn is all unwound. She rushes, shrieking,Tearing her hair, out to the walls, in frenzy,Heedless of men, heedless of darts and dangerTo fill the air with terrible lamentation:—“Is this thing you I see, Euryalus?Could you, a poor old woman’s only comfort,Leave her to loneliness? O cruel, cruel!To go to danger, and never a farewell wordBetween the mother and son! And now you lieOn a strange land for dogs and birds to pick at,No mother to bathe the wounds, or close the eyes,To veil the body with the robe I worked onFor quite another purpose, night and day,Comforting, so, the cares of age. Where can IGo now, to find you? In what land are lyingThe limbs, dismembered, and the mangled body?Is this thing all you bring me from the wars,Is this what I have followed on land and sea?If you have anything of decent feeling,Rutulians, kill me; hurl your weapons on me,All of you, all of them: let steel destroy me.Or, father of the gods, have pity on meAnd strike with the bolt of lightning; hurl to HellThe life I hate; no other way is left meTo break the cruel thread.” And at her wailingThe Trojan spirit sank, and a groan of sorrowPassed through the ranks, their will to battle broken.She kindles mourning; the leaders give an order,Idaeus and Actor, taking her between them,Lead her away.And the loud terrible trumpetBlared in bronze-throated challenge, and the shoutingRose to the sky. And on they came, the VolsciansUnder their tortoise-shield, in a wild hurryTo fill the moat, tear down the wall: some soughtA quick way in, or over, with scaling-laddersWhere the ring of men is thin, and light breaks inWhere no men stand. And in reply the TrojansRain every kind of weapon down—long warHas taught them how the walls must be defended.They use crude poles to push men off the ladders,They roll tremendous boulders to crush the ranksCovered by shields, and glad of that protection,Too little now, too small for the great rockThe Trojans heave and pry and dump down on themWhere the clump of men is thickest. The back of the tortoiseIs broken, like the bodies of men beneath it.No more blind war, like this, for the Rutulians!They change their tactics, sweep the wall with arrows,Mezentius, grim to look at, works with firebrands,While Neptune’s son, Messapus, tamer of horses,Keeps tearing at the walls, and screaming for ladders.Help me, Calliope, with the song: what killingTurnus dealt out that day, the roll of victimsWhom every warrior sent to Hell: O, aid meTo unfold it all, the war’s great panorama.There was a tower, high overhead, well chosenTo suit the ground, equipped with lofty gangways;On this the Italians spent their every effortTo tear it down, the Trojans to defend itWith stones from above, and arrows through the loopholes.A firebrand, flung by Turnus, found a lodgingAlong one side, and the wind blew and fanned it,And lintel and planking burned, and the men huddledWithin, and found no way to flee, and shiftedToward the undamaged portion, when all of a sudden,Lopsided under the weight, it toppled crashingAnd filled all heaven with thunder. Half dead alreadyMen reached the ground, and the tower came down upon them,Pierced through and through by shafts of their own making,Their chests transfixed by jagged broken timbers.Two manage to escape, Lycus, Helenor,The latter a young warrior, the sonOf a Maeonian king and a slave-girl mother,Who sent him off to Troy in arms (forbidden,Since arms were not for slaves), a naked sword,A shield with no device. He saw himselfNow in the midst of Turnus’ thousands, marshalledBefore him and behind him. There he stoodLike a wild animal, ringed in by hunters,Raging against their weapons, and sure of death,Leaping upon them,—so Helenor, certainTo die, rushed where the weapons were the thickest.Lycus was swifter afoot: through men, through weapons,He gained the wall, reached up to pull himself over,Reached up for hands to help him. But Turnus cameHot on his heels:—“You fool,” he cried in triumph,“Did you think you were out of reach?” And as he hung there,Turnus grabbed him, tore him loose, and the wall came with him.An eagle, so, sweeps up again to heavenWith a white swan or rabbit in his talons;Or so a wolf snatches a lamb from the sheepfoldTo the bleating of the ewe. A shout arises;Men from all sides come on; they fill the trenches,Keep firebrands flying at the tower and rooftop.Ilioneus knocks over one, Lucetius,Who came to the gates with fire; he bowled him overWith a rock as big as a mountain. Liger slewEmathion with a javelin; AsilasShot Corynaeus down. Caeneus wonOver Ortygius, lost to Turnus. TurnusKilled half a dozen, Clonius, Dioxippus,Itys, Promolus, Sagaris, and Idas.Capys cut down Privernus: a spear had grazed him,And the fool had flung his shield aside, to carryHis hand to his side, and an arrow pinned it there,And went on through, a mortal wound in the bowels.A young man in the battle, the son of Arcens,Stood out conspicuous in arms, a tunicEmbroidered bright, Iberian blue; his fatherHad sent him from his mother’s grove alongSymaethus stream and Palicus’ rich altars.Mezentius saw him there, laid down his spear,Whirled the sling thrice around his head, let fly,And the slug of the sling-shot split the victim’s temples,Stretching his blue in the deep yellow sand.Then, so they say, was the first time IulusBrought down a man in war; he had hunted onlyWild beasts, before this time, with bow and arrows.There was a youngster, Remulus by name,Or, it might be, Numanus, lately marriedTo Turnus’ younger sister, very proudAnd pleased with his new royalty. He strodeAlong the foremost battle-line, and taunted,Shouting indecencies, a swollen hero:—“What, once again, O Phrygians twice-besieged?Have you no shame, to hide behind the rampartsA second time, a second time with wallsTo ward off death? Look at the silly warriorsWho claim our brides with steel! What god, what madness,Brought you to Italy? No sons of AtreusAre here, no lying glib Ulysses. WeAre a tough race, we bring our new-born sonsTo the ice-cold river, dip them in to make themTough as their fathers, make them wake up earlyTo hunt till they wear the forests out; they ride,They shoot, and love it; they tame the earth, they battleTill cities fall: and all our life is iron,The spear, reversed, prods on the ox; old agePulls on the helmet over the whitest hair;We live on what we plunder, we revel in booty.But you—O wonderful in purple and saffron!—Love doing nothing, you delight in dancing,And oh, those fancy clothes, sleeves on the tunics,And ribbons in the bonnets! Phrygian women,By God, not Phrygian men! Be gone foreverOver the heights of Dindymus; pipe and timbrelCall you to female rites: leave arms to men,The sword to warriors!”But Ascanius loosenedAn arrow from the quiver, held the shaftNocked to the bow-string, and with arms outspreadFor shot, made prayer:—“Almighty Jupiter,Favor my bold beginning. I shall offerThe temple every year a snow-white bullockWith gilded horns, a young one, but alreadyTall as his dam, butting with horn, and pawingThe sand with restless hoof.” The father heard him,There was thunder on the left, and in that instantThe fatal bow-string twanged. The shaft came flyingThrough air, and the steel split the hollow templesOf that young bragger Remulus. “Go on,Mock valor with arrogant words! This is the answerThe Phrygians twice-besieged, the Phrygian women,Send back to Remulus.” The Trojans cheered himWith joyful shouts and spirits raised to heaven.And it so happened from the realm of skyLong-haired Apollo, throned with cloud, looked downAnd saw the Ausonian battle-lines and city,And had a word of blessing for Iulus:—“Good for your prowess, youngster! That’s the wayTo reach the stars, a son of gods, a fatherOf gods to be. In time the wars will endUnder that royal line. Troy sets you freeFor greater destinies.” And he left the heaven,Came through the stir of air, and sought Iulus,Disguised as ancient Butes, armor-bearer,Once, to Anchises, a guardian at his threshold,Later Ascanius’ servant. With his voice,His grizzled hair, his color, his sounding arms,Apollo came and spoke to the hot young warrior:—“Let that be plenty, son of great Aeneas:Numanus slain and unavenged; your arrowHas done its work. Apollo grants this praise,Your first, and does not envy the little archer.But now, my son, refrain from war.” He vanished,Before the speech was ended, into thin air,And the Trojan captains knew the god, his weapons,The clang of the quiver of the god ascending,And at his will and order keep AscaniusOut of the fight for which he longs, themselvesGo back to the work, charge at the jaws of danger.The loud cry runs from tower to tower, all downThe avenue of the walls, and they bend the bows,And catapults hum as the great stone goes flying.The ground is sown with weapons; shield and helmetRing with the clanging; the fight is a swell and a surgeLike the rise of a wind from the west, with rainstorm peltingHard on the ground, thicker than hail on ocean,When Jupiter lashes the gales and cloud-burst thunders from heaven.Two young men, tall as pine-trees, tall as hillsThat gave them birth, Alcanor’s sons, their motherThe Oread Iaera, stood at the gate,Obeying orders, Pandarus and Bitias,And had their own idea, and flung it open,Relying on their arms, an invitation—Here’s open house for all, come in, come in!To right and left they stood before the towers,Armed with the steel, and with the high plumes tossing,Like twin oaks towering by pleasant rivers.The Rutulians saw the entrance open, rushed in,Were beaten back: Haemon, the son of Mars,Tmarus the headstrong, Quercens, AquicolusHandsome in arms, fled with their columns routed,Or perished in the gateway. And anger mountedIn all those battling spirits: the Trojans gathered,Daring in closer combat now, and riskingBrief sallies past the walls.Turnus, far off,Raging and rioting, heard the glad tidingsOf enemies gone wild with slaughter, gatesFlung open wide. Whatever he was doingHe broke off gladly, burned with monstrous anger,Rushed to the Trojan gate and those proud brothers.Antiphates came to meet him, bastard sonOf tall Sarpedon and a Theban mother,And Turnus’ javelin laid him low: it flew,Italian cornel-wood, through the soft air,Lodged in the throat, pierced deep into the chest.The wound’s dark hollow filled with foaming red,The steel grew warm in the lung. And Turnus’ handBrought down Meropes, Erymas, Aphidnus,Then Bitias blazing-eyed and hot in spirit.No javelin brought him down, no common javelinWould ever have killed that giant, but a pikestaff,Rifled and whirring loud, driven like lightning,Cut through the double leather, the double mailWith scales of gold, and the huge limbs sprawl and tumble,Earth groans, and his great shield clangs down above him,The way a pillar of rock comes down, at Baiae,When men have pried it loose and shoved it overInto the ocean, and, crashing down in ruin,It lies in shallow water, confusion of sea,Eruption of black sand, and the shock of soundMakes the high mountains tremble, and the earthShudder under the oceans.And Mars addedNew strength and spirit to the Latins, raked themWith the sharp sting of the spur, and sent the TrojansPanic and runaway fear. The Latins, givenThe chance of fight, come on, as the war-god rides them.Pandarus, seeing his brother’s fallen body,Seeing the turn of fortune, puts his shoulderWith all his strength to the gate, and slowly, slowly,Swings it on stubborn hinge, to leave his comrades,Many of them, shut out, beyond the rampart,Fighting in desperate battle; others he welcomesAs they come pouring in, the fool, not seeingOne of them was no Trojan! That was Turnus,Shut up in the town, as welcome as a tigerPenned in a flock of sheep. And Turnus’ eyesShone with new light, his arms rang loud, his plumeNodded blood-red, and his great shield flashed lightning.Sudden confusion fastened on the Trojans;They knew him as he was, gigantic, hateful,But Pandarus flashed forward toward him, burningWith vengeance for a brother’s death, and shouting:—“Why, this is not Amata’s bridal palace,Nor yet the center of your father’s city!This is a hostile camp you see here, Turnus,And not a chance to leave it.” Turnus onlySmiled at him with untroubled heart:—“Start something,If there is any fighting spirit in you;Come closer; I have a message for king Priam:Tell him Achilles was here.” And Pandarus flungHis spear, rough-knotted, the unpeeled bark still on it,And the winds bore it off, and Juno parriedThe threat of the coming wound, and it fastened, harmless,Stuck in the wooden gate.“And here’s a weaponThat will not miss, seeing my right hand swings it,”And with his answer Turnus rose full heightTo the sword upraised, and brought it down, and the steelSplit the head clean apart between the temples,And Pandarus came crashing down, and the earthShook underneath his weight, and he lay there, dying,Limbs buckled underneath him, and his armorSpattered with brains, and the head’s halves, divided,Dangling on either shoulder.And the TrojansRan every way, in rout and sudden terror.That day might well have been their last, that battleThe end of war, had Turnus ever botheredTo break the bars of the gate, let in his comrades.But no: his fury and mad desire of slaughterDrove him one way, and one way only, forward.He caught Phaleris, and he hamstrung Gyges,And snatched their spears and flung them at the TrojansWho fled with nothing but their backs for target.Juno supplied him fire and strength. He addedHalys to the dead roster of his comrades,Pierced Phegeus through his shield and mail. Four others,Alcander, Halius, Prytanis, Noemon,Ignorant of his presence, roused the fightersAlong the walls, and fell before they knew it.Lynceus, calling his comrades, came to meet him,And Turnus, standing higher, slashed and swung,Close in, and the flashing blade swept head and helmetTogether from the shoulders; then he slaughteredAmycus, hunter of beasts, a clever craftsmanIn arming darts with poison; and Aeolus’ son,Clytius; and Cretheus, the Muses’ comrade,Lover of music and song, whose theme was alwaysWarfare and warhorse, arms of men, and battle.And the Trojan leaders heard about the slaughter,And met, Serestus, keen in arms, and Mnestheus,And saw their comrades wheeling and Turnus welcomed,And Mnestheus tried to halt them:—“Where do you aimThat flight?” he cried, “What other ramparts have you?What walls beyond these walls? Shall one man, circled,Hemmed in on every side, deal out destructionUnscathed through all the city? Will you let himSend down to Hell so many brave young fighters?What kind of cowards are you? Have you no pity,No shame at all, for your unhappy country,Your ancient household gods, and great Aeneas?”That gave them courage; and the column thickened,And they were firm, and stood. And very slowlyTurnus drew back, retreating toward the river,And they came on, more boldly now, with yellingAnd massing rank on rank, a crowd of huntersWith deadly spears, after a deadly lion,And the beast they hunt is frightened, but still deadly,Still dangerous, still glaring, and neither angerNor courage lets him turn his back, and forwardHe cannot go, however much he wants to,Through all that press of men and spears. So Turnus,Doubtful, kept stepping back, little by little,Burning, inside, with anger. Two more timesHe made a sudden charge, sent the foe flyingAlong the walls, but they came back, and JunoDared not assist him further; Jove had sentIris from heaven, with no uncertain messageIf Turnus does not leave the Trojan ramparts,He can no longer hold his own against them,The shield and sword-arm falter; darts like hailRain down from everywhere. The helmet ringsAround his temples, and the brass cracks openUnder the storm of stones; the horsehair crestIs shot away; the boss of the shield is dented;Mnestheus, with lightning force, and other TrojansMultiply spears. The sweat all over his bodyRuns in a tarry stream; he cannot breathe.At last, with one great leap, in all his armor,He plunges into the stream, and Tiber takes himOn the yellow flood, held up by the buoyant water,Washing away the stains of war, a hero,Returning happily to his warrior-comrades.
While all this happened far away, queen JunoSent Iris down from heaven to bold Turnus.She found him resting in a sacred valley,Pilumnus’ grove, his ancestor; all radiantShe spoke to him:—“No god would promise, Turnus,This answer to your prayers, but the turn of timeHas put it in your hands. Aeneas has gone,Leaving the town, the fleet, and his companions,Seeking the realm of Palatine Evander,And more than that: he has won some cities over,He calls the Etruscan countrymen to arms.What are you waiting for? Now is the timeFor chariot and horse. Break off delay,Take the bewildered camp!” She spoke, and roseSkyward on even wings, and under the cloudsCut her great soaring arc. And Turnus knew her,And raised his hands to the sky, and followed her flight:—“O Iris, pride of heaven, who sent you to meThrough clouds to earth? Whence comes this storm of brightness?I see the heavens part, and the stars wheelingAcross the sky. I follow these great omens,Whoever calls to arms.” And, with the word,He went to the stream, took water up, prayed often,Making his vows to all the gods of heaven.
And now, over all the plain, the army was coming,Rich in caparison, and rich in horses,In gold and broidered robes, Messapus leading,And Turnus in the center, and Tyrrhus’ sonsAs captains in the rear: they stream as GangesStreams when his seven quiet tides flood over,Or Nile resents his deep confining channel.The Trojans see the sudden cloud, black dustThickening over the plain, and darkness rising,And Caicus cries from the rampart:—“What is this,O fellow-citizens, this rolling darkness?Bring the swords quickly, bring weapons, climb the walls,Here comes the enemy, yea! Hurry, hurry!”Trojans, and noise, pour through the gates together.Men fill the walls. For so, on his departure,Aeneas had given orders: if something happened,They should not risk a battle in the open,They should only guard the camp, protect the ramparts.So, much as they would love to mix in battle,Anger and shame give way to prompt obedience.They bar the gates; protected by their towersThey wait while the foe comes on. And Turnus, ridingImpatient past his dawdling column, is thereBefore the city knows it. He has twentyFast riders with him, his mount a piebald Thracian,His helmet gold with crimson crest. He cries,“Who will be first with me? Will anybodyBe first with me against them? Let them have it!”And with the word, he lets the javelin fly,First sign of battle; and they cheer and followAnd wonder a little at the Trojans, cowardsWho dare not fight in the open, man to man,Who hug their walls for comfort. Round and round,Turnus, a wild man, rides, seeking an entrance,But there is no way in. He is like a wolfLurking about a sheep-fold, snarling at midnightBeside the pens, enduring wind and rain,While the bleating lambs are safe beneath the ewes,And he, unable to get at them, ragesFierce and dry-throated in the drive of hunger;So Turnus looks at wall and camp, and passionBurns hot within him, burns to his very bones.How to get in? or how to yank the TrojansOut of their cloister, smear them over the plain?Ah, but the fleet is there, beside the camp,Sheltered by earthworks and the flowing river:There lies the chance! He calls for fire, he hurls it,The burning torch, and his hand, almost, is burning,And all of them pitch in—Turnus has shown them,And Turnus eggs them on—they are armed with firebrands,They rob the hearths; the tar flares lurid yellowAgainst the grey of the cloud, the soot and ashes.
What god, O Muses, turned the fire? Who savedThe Trojan ships? Remind me—the story is old,Men have believed it long, its glory endless.When first Aeneas built the fleet on Ida,Preparing for deep seas, the mother of gods,Queen Cybele, spoke to Jove:—“Grant me, my son,Lord of Olympus now, a mother’s prayer.I had a pine-wood on the mountain-top,And men, for many years, brought offerings there,I loved that forest, dark with fir and maple,But when the Trojan lacked a fleet, I gave himMy timber gladly; now my heart is troubled.Relieve my fear, and let a mother’s pleadingKeep them from wreck on any course, unshakenBy any whirlwind. Grown upon our mountains,They should have privilege.” Her son, the swayerOf the stars of the world, replied, “What call, O mother,Is this you make on fate? What are you seeking?Should keels laid down by mortal hand have titleTo life immortal? Should Aeneas travelThrough danger, unendangered? Such power is givenNo god in heaven. But I make this promise:After their course is run, after the harborsIn Italy receive them, safe from ocean,And with Aeneas landed in Laurentum,I will take away their mortal shape, I will make themGoddesses of the sea, like Nereus’ daughter,Like Galatea, the nymphs who breast the foam.”So Jupiter promised, and, as gods do, took oath,By the rivers of his brother under the world,The banks that seethe with the black pitchy torrent,And made Olympus tremble with his nod.
The promised day had come, the fates had finishedThe allotted span, when Turnus’ desecrationWarned Cybele to keep the torch and firebrandFar from her holy vessels. A new light blazedIn mortal sight, and from the east a cloudRan across heaven, and choirs from Ida followed,And a dread voice came down the air:—“O Trojans,Be in no hurry to defend my vessels,You have no need of arms; Turnus, most surely,Will burn the seas before he burns these pine-trees.Go forth in freedom, goddesses of ocean,The Mother wills it so.” And each ship partedCable from bank, and dove to the deep waterAs dolphins dive, and reappeared as maiden,—Oh marvel!—and all of them bore out to ocean.
Rutulian hearts were stunned, their captains shaken,Their steeds confused and frightened; even TiberShrank back from the sea, and the murmuring stream protested.But Turnus kept his nerve, his words rang loudIn challenge to their courage:—“These are portentsTo make the Trojans timid; Jove has takenTheir comfort from them; the ships they always fled inRun from Rutulian fire and sword; the oceansAre pathless for the Trojans now, their hopeOf flight all gone: half of their world is taken,And the earth is in our hands, Italians, thousands,Thousands of us in arms. I am not frightened,However they boast of oracles from heaven.Venus and fate have had their share: the TrojansHave done enough even to touch our richness,The Ausonian fields. I have my omens, also,To match with theirs, a sword to slay the guilty,Death for the rape of brides! Not Atreus’ sons,Not only Menelaus and Mycenae,Know what this hurt can be, this need for vengeance,This right to take up arms. Once to have perished,They tell us, is enough. Once to have sinnedOught to have been enough and more. HereafterAll women should be hateful to them, cowardsHiding behind the sheltering moat and rampart,The little barriers that give them courage!Have they not seen the walls that Neptune built themSink in the fires? Which one of you is ready,Brave hearts, to slash their barriers with the sword,To join me in the onrush? I do not needThe arms of Vulcan, nor a thousand vesselsAgainst the Trojans. Let them have Etruria!One thing, at least, they need not fear,—the darkness,The sneaking theft of their Palladium image,Guards slain in the dark, hiders in horse’s belly;I fight in open daylight, I have fireTo put around their walls, I will teach them something,—Their business now is not with those Greek heroesWhom Hector kept at bay for ten long years.Now day is almost over; you have doneGood work; rest now; be happy, be preparing,Be hopeful for the battles of to-morrow.”
Meanwhile, the guards were posted, under ordersOf Messapus, their officer; and the wallsWere ringed with fire. Fourteen Rutulian captainsLed, each, a hundred men, bright in their gold,Plumed in their crimson, on patrol or resting,Or sprawling on the grass, gambling or drinking;The fires burn bright, the sentinels are watchful.
Above them, from the wall, the Trojans, waiting,Maintain the heights with arms, and, anxious, testThe strength of the gates, link bridge and battlement,Warriors in harness. Mnestheus and SerestusUrge on the work; they were to be the leaders,Aeneas said, in the event of trouble.Along the walls the host mounts guard; they shareRelief and danger in turn, each at his post.
Nisus, quick-handed with the javelinAnd the light arrows, very keen in arms,Stood guard beside the gate, Nisus, a sonOf Hyrtacus, sent by the huntress IdaTo join Aeneas; and near-by his friendEuryalus; no Trojan was more handsomeThan he was, that first bloom of youth. They sharedAssignments always, side by side in the charge,And side by side defenders. Here they wereTogether on sentry-duty at the gate.Nisus burst out:—“Euryalus, what is it?Do the gods put this ardor in our heartsOr does each man’s desire become his god?I want much more than this, I am not contentedWith all this peace and calm; my mind keeps callingTo battle, or something big. Look! The RutuliansAre far too confident: their lights are scattered;They lie asleep or drunk; and all is silent.Listen! I have a plan. People and fathersDemand Aeneas, ask that men be sent himWith information. If I can make them promiseTo let you go—(the glory of the actionIs all I want myself)—I think that ICan find the way around that hill, can manageTo reach the walls and fort of Pallanteum.”This shook Euryalus: a great love of praiseSpoke in his answer to his eager comrade:—“What, Nisus? Are you planning to leave me outIn this bold scheme, planning to go aloneInto such dangers? No; no, no. I amOpheltes’ son, a warrior trained amongGreek terror and Trojan suffering; and I follow,With you, great-souled Aeneas and his fortunes.I have a spirit, not too fond of living,Not too dissatisfied to buy with deathThe honor that you strive for.” Nisus answered:—“I had no fear on your account, be certain;That would be shameless of me: so may Jove,Or any god that looks on this with favor,Bring me back home triumphant. But disaster,As well you know, or god, or chance, might take me:If so, your youth being worthier, I’d have youBe my survivor, give to earth my body,Rescued or ransomed, or pay the final honorTo, it might be, an empty tomb. I would notCause sorrow to the only woman of manyWho scorned Acestes’ city, and came onWith you, her only son.” But then the otherReplied:—“There is no use in all this talking.My mind is fixed, and we had better hurry.”He roused the guards; new men came on; togetherEuryalus and Nisus seek their leader.
All other creatures over all the worldWere easing their troubles in slumber, and hearts forgotSorrow and pain; not so the Trojan leadersMeeting in council. Here were things of moment;What should they do? how would they reach Aeneas?They stood there, leaning on long spears, most gravely,Holding their shields. Euryalus and NisusCrave instant audience; the matter is urgent,They say, and worth a little interruption.Iulus takes the lead, meets their impatience,Tells Nisus to speak out. “Give us a hearing,O men of Troy,” says Nisus, “do not holdOur years against us: we have something for you.All the Rutulians are drunk or sleeping,They are quiet now. There is a place, we know it,We have seen it with our eyes, a place that cunningCan take advantage of: you know the gateNearest the sea, and how the road splits off there.The watchfires there die down, and the black smoke risesDark to the sky out there. Give us a chance!Let us go to find Aeneas and Pallanteum.You will see us here again; it will not be longTill we come back, weighed down with spoil. We will kill them.We will not miss the way; we have seen the cityFar in the distant valleys. We go huntingAlong here often; we know all the river.We know it all by heart.” And old Aletes,A wise man in a council, gave the answer:—“Gods of our ancestors, under whose guidanceTroy is and has been, always, our destructionMust be far off, seeing your care has brought usYoung men of such high heart and lofty spirit.”In deep emotion, his hands reached out for theirs,His arms went round their shoulders. “What can I give you,Young men,” he cried, “worthy your praise and glory?The best rewards come from the gods, the finestFrom your own character, but good AeneasWill not forget your service, and your peerIn age, Ascanius, surely will remember.”And that young man broke in, “Most truly, Nisus,I trust my fortune to you. My only safetyLies in my sire’s return. By all our gods,I beg you both, I pray, bring back my father.Our trouble goes when he is here. I promiseTwo silver wine-cups, captured from Arisba,A pair of tripods, two great talents of gold,An ancient bowl, the present of queen Dido.And if we capture Italy, if we liveTo wield the sceptre and divide the spoil,You know the horse that Turnus rides, the armorHe carries on his back, all gold—that armor,The shield, the crimson plumes, and the war-horse, Nisus,Are your reward; even now, I so declare them.My father will give twelve women, beautiful captives,And captive men, equipped with arms, and landNow held by king Latinus; and I cherishWith all my heart, Euryalus, your courage.Your years are near my own, and all my lifeYour glory will be mine; in peace or war,In word and deed, I trust in you, completely.”Euryalus replied:—“No day will everProve me unworthy of brave deeds, if fortuneIs kind, not cruel, to me. I ask one thingBetter than any gift: I have a motherOf Priam’s ancient line, and she came with me,Poor soul, from Troy, and king Acestes’ cityWas powerless to keep her. I leave her nowWith never a word about what I am doing,Whatever its danger is, with no farewell.I cannot bear a mother’s tears. I beg you,Comfort her helplessness, relieve her sorrow.Let me take with me that much hope; it will help meFace any risk more boldly.” They were weepingAt this, the Trojans, all of them, IulusMore deeply touched than any. And he spoke:—“Be reassured, Euryalus; all we doWill prove as worthy as your glorious mission.Your mother shall be mine, in all but name;Great honor waits the mother of a sonSo great in honor. Whatever fortune follows,I vow and swear it, with an oath as solemnAs any my father ever took, I promise,When you return to us, safe and successful,Your triumph and your glory and your prizesShall be for her as well, for all your house.”He spoke with tears, and from his sword-belt tookA present in farewell, the golden sword,The ivory scabbard, wonderfully fashionedBy old Lycaon’s talent; Mnestheus gaveA lion-skin to Nisus, and AletesExchanged his helmet with him. As they started,All the great company, young men and old ones,Went with them to the gate, and out beyond itThe hopeful prayers attended them. Iulus,Mature beyond his years, gave many a messageTo carry to Aeneas, but the windsBore these away and swept them off to cloudland.
And now they have crossed the trench, and through night’s shadowInvade the hostile camp; they are bound to beThe doom of many. They see the bodies sprawlingIn drunken sleep, the chariots half turned over,Men lying under the wheels and among the reins,And Nisus whispers:—“Euryalus, we mustBe bold; the chance is given; here lies our way.Watch and keep back, lest some one steal upon usAlong the trail behind. I lead, you followWhere I have cut the way; it will be a broad one.”His voice was silent; and he drew the swordAt Rhamnes, cushioned on high covers, lyingIn a deep slumber, breathing deep, a kingAnd Turnus’ favorite augur, but his doomNo augury prevented. Nisus struckThree slaves, and then the armor-bearer of Remus,And Remus’ charioteer—their necks were severedWith steel, and their lord Remus was beheaded.The trunk spurts blood, the earth and couch are darkenedWith blood, black-flowing. Lamyrus and LamusAre slain, and young Serranus, handsome gamblerWho had won high stakes that night, and slept contentedSmiling at the gods’ favor, luckier surelyIf he had lost all night. A starving lionLoose in a sheepfold with the crazy hungerUrging him on, gnashing and dragging, ragingWith bloody mouth against the fearful feeble,So Nisus slaughters. And his savage comradeKeeps pace with him: Fadus is slain, Herbesus,Rhoetus, Abaris, all of them unconscious,Murdered in sleep. One of them, Rhoetus, wakenedA little, saw, and tried to hide, and crouchingBehind a wine-bowl, took the sword, and rose,Stumbled and sprawled and belched, the red life spurtingOut of the mouth, red wine, red blood. All hotlyEuryalus went on. Messapus’ quartersAre next in line; the fires burn low, the horses,Tether-contented, graze. Then, briefly, Nisus,Sensing his comrade’s recklessness in slaughter,Calls:—“Light is near, our enemy; give over,We have killed enough, we have cut the path we needed.No more of this!” They left behind them armorOf solid silver, bowls, rich-woven carpets,But must take something: Rhamnes’ golden sword-beltEuryalus held on to, all that armorThat went with long tradition, from father to son,From son to enemy, once more a trophyFor young Euryalus. He dons the armor,Picks up, puts on, besides, a shapely helmet,The spoil of Messapus, the long plume flowing.They leave the camp, are on their way to safety.
Meanwhile, sent forward from the Latin city,Horsemen were coming, while the legion restedBehind them on the plain, three hundred horsemenWith word for Turnus, under their captain Volcens,All armed with shields and riding at the ready.They are near the camp, the wall, and in the distanceSee two men turning left along a pathway,And a helmet glittering among the shadows,Euryalus’ prize and foolishness. They noticeAt once, of course, and challenge. From the columnVolcens cried out:—“Halt! Who goes there? Who are you?What are you doing in arms? Upon what mission?”No answer: flight to wood and trust in darkness.But the horsemen, fanning out, block every cross-road,Circle and screen each outlet. Wide with bramblesAnd dark with holm-oak spreads the wood; the briarsFill it on every side, but the path glimmersIn the rare intervals between the shadows.Euryalus is hindered by the branches,The darkness, and the spoil he carries; terrorMakes him mistake the path. Nisus is clear,Reaching the site that later men called Alba,Where king Latinus had his lofty stables.He halts, looks back to find his friend: in vain.“Euryalus, Euryalus, where are you?Where have I lost you? How am I to followBack through the tangled wood, the treacherous thickets?Euryalus, Euryalus!” He turns,Tries to retrace his step, is lost in the woods,And hears the horses, hears the shouts and signalsAs the pursuit comes closer, and he hearsA cry, he sees Euryalus, dragged alongOut of the treason of the night and darkness,Bewildered by the uproar, fighting vainlyIn the hands of Volcens’ squadron. There is nothingNisus can do, or is there? With what arms,What force, redeem his friend? Or is it betterTo hurl himself to death, dash in, regardless,To glorious wounds? His spear is poised, his armDrawn back; he looks to the moon on high, and prays:—“Dear goddess, daughter of Latona, aid me,Pride of the stars and glory of the groves,If ever my father Hyrtacus brought honorsIn my name to the altar, if ever IHave brought gifts home from my own hunting, aid me!Let me confound that troop, direct my weapon!”The straining body flung the spear; it whistledAcross the shadow of night, and Sulmo took itIn his turned back; the point snaps off; it lodgesWith part of the splintered wood deep in the lungs.Sulmo goes down, his mouth spurts blood, his bodySobs, straining, in the gasp and chill and shudderOf a cold death. They look in all directions,See nothing. And another spear is flying,Fiercer this time. This pierces Tagus’ temples,Clings, warm, in the split brain. And Volcens rages,And cannot find the spearman, and his angerHas no sure place to go, but for his vengeanceTurns on Euryalus, sword drawn, and rushingHe cries:—“You will pay for both of them, your bloodBe the atonement.” Nisus, from the darkness,Shrieks in his terror:—“Here I am, I did it,The guilt is mine, let him alone, come get me,Rutulians! How could he have dared or done it?God knows, the only thing he did was loveA luckless friend too well.” But the sword is drivenDeep in the breast. Euryalus rolls over,Blood veins the handsome limbs, and on the shoulderThe neck droops over, as a bright-colored flowerDroops when the ploughshare bends it, or as poppiesSink under the weight of heavy summer rainfall.And Nisus rushes them; he is after Volcens,Volcens alone. They mass around him, cluster,Batter him back, but through them all he charges,Whirling the blade like fire, until he drives itFull in the face while the Rutulian, shrieking,Goes down, and Nisus, dying, sees him die,Falls over his lifeless friend, and there is quietIn the utter peace of death.
Fortunate boys!If there is any power in my verses,You will not be forgotten in time and storyWhile rock stands firm beneath the Capitol,While the imperial house maintains dominion.
With victory and tears, with spoil and plunder,They brought Rutulian Volcens home to camp-ground,And a great wail arose, for Rhamnes slaughtered,For Numa, for Serranus, for so manySlain in one fight. They rush to see the bodies,To heroes dead or dying, to the groundReeking with carnage, the red foaming rivers.They recognize the spoil, the shining helmetBrought back for Messapus, and all the trappingsIt cost them sweat to win.
And the Dawn-goddessCame from her husband’s saffron couch, bestowingFresh light across the world. Turnus, in armor,Summoned his men to arms, and every leaderMarshalled his ranks of bronze, and each man sharpensHis anger with one rumor or another.And more than that, a pitiful sight, they fixOn spears upraised, and follow with loud shouting,The heads of Nisus and Euryalus.On the left of the wall the Trojans form their lineWhose right rests on the river. They hold the trenches,Stand on the high towers, sorrowing; they know,And all too well, those heads with spears for bodies,And the black blood running down.
And meanwhile RumorGoes flying through the panic of the city,Comes to Euryalus’ mother. That poor womanIs cold as death; the shuttle falls from her hands,The yarn is all unwound. She rushes, shrieking,Tearing her hair, out to the walls, in frenzy,Heedless of men, heedless of darts and dangerTo fill the air with terrible lamentation:—“Is this thing you I see, Euryalus?Could you, a poor old woman’s only comfort,Leave her to loneliness? O cruel, cruel!To go to danger, and never a farewell wordBetween the mother and son! And now you lieOn a strange land for dogs and birds to pick at,No mother to bathe the wounds, or close the eyes,To veil the body with the robe I worked onFor quite another purpose, night and day,Comforting, so, the cares of age. Where can IGo now, to find you? In what land are lyingThe limbs, dismembered, and the mangled body?Is this thing all you bring me from the wars,Is this what I have followed on land and sea?If you have anything of decent feeling,Rutulians, kill me; hurl your weapons on me,All of you, all of them: let steel destroy me.Or, father of the gods, have pity on meAnd strike with the bolt of lightning; hurl to HellThe life I hate; no other way is left meTo break the cruel thread.” And at her wailingThe Trojan spirit sank, and a groan of sorrowPassed through the ranks, their will to battle broken.She kindles mourning; the leaders give an order,Idaeus and Actor, taking her between them,Lead her away.
And the loud terrible trumpetBlared in bronze-throated challenge, and the shoutingRose to the sky. And on they came, the VolsciansUnder their tortoise-shield, in a wild hurryTo fill the moat, tear down the wall: some soughtA quick way in, or over, with scaling-laddersWhere the ring of men is thin, and light breaks inWhere no men stand. And in reply the TrojansRain every kind of weapon down—long warHas taught them how the walls must be defended.They use crude poles to push men off the ladders,They roll tremendous boulders to crush the ranksCovered by shields, and glad of that protection,Too little now, too small for the great rockThe Trojans heave and pry and dump down on themWhere the clump of men is thickest. The back of the tortoiseIs broken, like the bodies of men beneath it.No more blind war, like this, for the Rutulians!They change their tactics, sweep the wall with arrows,Mezentius, grim to look at, works with firebrands,While Neptune’s son, Messapus, tamer of horses,Keeps tearing at the walls, and screaming for ladders.
Help me, Calliope, with the song: what killingTurnus dealt out that day, the roll of victimsWhom every warrior sent to Hell: O, aid meTo unfold it all, the war’s great panorama.
There was a tower, high overhead, well chosenTo suit the ground, equipped with lofty gangways;On this the Italians spent their every effortTo tear it down, the Trojans to defend itWith stones from above, and arrows through the loopholes.A firebrand, flung by Turnus, found a lodgingAlong one side, and the wind blew and fanned it,And lintel and planking burned, and the men huddledWithin, and found no way to flee, and shiftedToward the undamaged portion, when all of a sudden,Lopsided under the weight, it toppled crashingAnd filled all heaven with thunder. Half dead alreadyMen reached the ground, and the tower came down upon them,Pierced through and through by shafts of their own making,Their chests transfixed by jagged broken timbers.Two manage to escape, Lycus, Helenor,The latter a young warrior, the sonOf a Maeonian king and a slave-girl mother,Who sent him off to Troy in arms (forbidden,Since arms were not for slaves), a naked sword,A shield with no device. He saw himselfNow in the midst of Turnus’ thousands, marshalledBefore him and behind him. There he stoodLike a wild animal, ringed in by hunters,Raging against their weapons, and sure of death,Leaping upon them,—so Helenor, certainTo die, rushed where the weapons were the thickest.Lycus was swifter afoot: through men, through weapons,He gained the wall, reached up to pull himself over,Reached up for hands to help him. But Turnus cameHot on his heels:—“You fool,” he cried in triumph,“Did you think you were out of reach?” And as he hung there,Turnus grabbed him, tore him loose, and the wall came with him.An eagle, so, sweeps up again to heavenWith a white swan or rabbit in his talons;Or so a wolf snatches a lamb from the sheepfoldTo the bleating of the ewe. A shout arises;Men from all sides come on; they fill the trenches,Keep firebrands flying at the tower and rooftop.Ilioneus knocks over one, Lucetius,Who came to the gates with fire; he bowled him overWith a rock as big as a mountain. Liger slewEmathion with a javelin; AsilasShot Corynaeus down. Caeneus wonOver Ortygius, lost to Turnus. TurnusKilled half a dozen, Clonius, Dioxippus,Itys, Promolus, Sagaris, and Idas.Capys cut down Privernus: a spear had grazed him,And the fool had flung his shield aside, to carryHis hand to his side, and an arrow pinned it there,And went on through, a mortal wound in the bowels.A young man in the battle, the son of Arcens,Stood out conspicuous in arms, a tunicEmbroidered bright, Iberian blue; his fatherHad sent him from his mother’s grove alongSymaethus stream and Palicus’ rich altars.Mezentius saw him there, laid down his spear,Whirled the sling thrice around his head, let fly,And the slug of the sling-shot split the victim’s temples,Stretching his blue in the deep yellow sand.
Then, so they say, was the first time IulusBrought down a man in war; he had hunted onlyWild beasts, before this time, with bow and arrows.There was a youngster, Remulus by name,Or, it might be, Numanus, lately marriedTo Turnus’ younger sister, very proudAnd pleased with his new royalty. He strodeAlong the foremost battle-line, and taunted,Shouting indecencies, a swollen hero:—“What, once again, O Phrygians twice-besieged?Have you no shame, to hide behind the rampartsA second time, a second time with wallsTo ward off death? Look at the silly warriorsWho claim our brides with steel! What god, what madness,Brought you to Italy? No sons of AtreusAre here, no lying glib Ulysses. WeAre a tough race, we bring our new-born sonsTo the ice-cold river, dip them in to make themTough as their fathers, make them wake up earlyTo hunt till they wear the forests out; they ride,They shoot, and love it; they tame the earth, they battleTill cities fall: and all our life is iron,The spear, reversed, prods on the ox; old agePulls on the helmet over the whitest hair;We live on what we plunder, we revel in booty.But you—O wonderful in purple and saffron!—Love doing nothing, you delight in dancing,And oh, those fancy clothes, sleeves on the tunics,And ribbons in the bonnets! Phrygian women,By God, not Phrygian men! Be gone foreverOver the heights of Dindymus; pipe and timbrelCall you to female rites: leave arms to men,The sword to warriors!”
But Ascanius loosenedAn arrow from the quiver, held the shaftNocked to the bow-string, and with arms outspreadFor shot, made prayer:—“Almighty Jupiter,Favor my bold beginning. I shall offerThe temple every year a snow-white bullockWith gilded horns, a young one, but alreadyTall as his dam, butting with horn, and pawingThe sand with restless hoof.” The father heard him,There was thunder on the left, and in that instantThe fatal bow-string twanged. The shaft came flyingThrough air, and the steel split the hollow templesOf that young bragger Remulus. “Go on,Mock valor with arrogant words! This is the answerThe Phrygians twice-besieged, the Phrygian women,Send back to Remulus.” The Trojans cheered himWith joyful shouts and spirits raised to heaven.
And it so happened from the realm of skyLong-haired Apollo, throned with cloud, looked downAnd saw the Ausonian battle-lines and city,And had a word of blessing for Iulus:—“Good for your prowess, youngster! That’s the wayTo reach the stars, a son of gods, a fatherOf gods to be. In time the wars will endUnder that royal line. Troy sets you freeFor greater destinies.” And he left the heaven,Came through the stir of air, and sought Iulus,Disguised as ancient Butes, armor-bearer,Once, to Anchises, a guardian at his threshold,Later Ascanius’ servant. With his voice,His grizzled hair, his color, his sounding arms,Apollo came and spoke to the hot young warrior:—“Let that be plenty, son of great Aeneas:Numanus slain and unavenged; your arrowHas done its work. Apollo grants this praise,Your first, and does not envy the little archer.But now, my son, refrain from war.” He vanished,Before the speech was ended, into thin air,And the Trojan captains knew the god, his weapons,The clang of the quiver of the god ascending,And at his will and order keep AscaniusOut of the fight for which he longs, themselvesGo back to the work, charge at the jaws of danger.The loud cry runs from tower to tower, all downThe avenue of the walls, and they bend the bows,And catapults hum as the great stone goes flying.The ground is sown with weapons; shield and helmetRing with the clanging; the fight is a swell and a surgeLike the rise of a wind from the west, with rainstorm peltingHard on the ground, thicker than hail on ocean,When Jupiter lashes the gales and cloud-burst thunders from heaven.
Two young men, tall as pine-trees, tall as hillsThat gave them birth, Alcanor’s sons, their motherThe Oread Iaera, stood at the gate,Obeying orders, Pandarus and Bitias,And had their own idea, and flung it open,Relying on their arms, an invitation—Here’s open house for all, come in, come in!To right and left they stood before the towers,Armed with the steel, and with the high plumes tossing,Like twin oaks towering by pleasant rivers.The Rutulians saw the entrance open, rushed in,Were beaten back: Haemon, the son of Mars,Tmarus the headstrong, Quercens, AquicolusHandsome in arms, fled with their columns routed,Or perished in the gateway. And anger mountedIn all those battling spirits: the Trojans gathered,Daring in closer combat now, and riskingBrief sallies past the walls.
Turnus, far off,Raging and rioting, heard the glad tidingsOf enemies gone wild with slaughter, gatesFlung open wide. Whatever he was doingHe broke off gladly, burned with monstrous anger,Rushed to the Trojan gate and those proud brothers.Antiphates came to meet him, bastard sonOf tall Sarpedon and a Theban mother,And Turnus’ javelin laid him low: it flew,Italian cornel-wood, through the soft air,Lodged in the throat, pierced deep into the chest.The wound’s dark hollow filled with foaming red,The steel grew warm in the lung. And Turnus’ handBrought down Meropes, Erymas, Aphidnus,Then Bitias blazing-eyed and hot in spirit.No javelin brought him down, no common javelinWould ever have killed that giant, but a pikestaff,Rifled and whirring loud, driven like lightning,Cut through the double leather, the double mailWith scales of gold, and the huge limbs sprawl and tumble,Earth groans, and his great shield clangs down above him,The way a pillar of rock comes down, at Baiae,When men have pried it loose and shoved it overInto the ocean, and, crashing down in ruin,It lies in shallow water, confusion of sea,Eruption of black sand, and the shock of soundMakes the high mountains tremble, and the earthShudder under the oceans.
And Mars addedNew strength and spirit to the Latins, raked themWith the sharp sting of the spur, and sent the TrojansPanic and runaway fear. The Latins, givenThe chance of fight, come on, as the war-god rides them.Pandarus, seeing his brother’s fallen body,Seeing the turn of fortune, puts his shoulderWith all his strength to the gate, and slowly, slowly,Swings it on stubborn hinge, to leave his comrades,Many of them, shut out, beyond the rampart,Fighting in desperate battle; others he welcomesAs they come pouring in, the fool, not seeingOne of them was no Trojan! That was Turnus,Shut up in the town, as welcome as a tigerPenned in a flock of sheep. And Turnus’ eyesShone with new light, his arms rang loud, his plumeNodded blood-red, and his great shield flashed lightning.Sudden confusion fastened on the Trojans;They knew him as he was, gigantic, hateful,But Pandarus flashed forward toward him, burningWith vengeance for a brother’s death, and shouting:—“Why, this is not Amata’s bridal palace,Nor yet the center of your father’s city!This is a hostile camp you see here, Turnus,And not a chance to leave it.” Turnus onlySmiled at him with untroubled heart:—“Start something,If there is any fighting spirit in you;Come closer; I have a message for king Priam:Tell him Achilles was here.” And Pandarus flungHis spear, rough-knotted, the unpeeled bark still on it,And the winds bore it off, and Juno parriedThe threat of the coming wound, and it fastened, harmless,Stuck in the wooden gate.
“And here’s a weaponThat will not miss, seeing my right hand swings it,”And with his answer Turnus rose full heightTo the sword upraised, and brought it down, and the steelSplit the head clean apart between the temples,And Pandarus came crashing down, and the earthShook underneath his weight, and he lay there, dying,Limbs buckled underneath him, and his armorSpattered with brains, and the head’s halves, divided,Dangling on either shoulder.
And the TrojansRan every way, in rout and sudden terror.That day might well have been their last, that battleThe end of war, had Turnus ever botheredTo break the bars of the gate, let in his comrades.But no: his fury and mad desire of slaughterDrove him one way, and one way only, forward.He caught Phaleris, and he hamstrung Gyges,And snatched their spears and flung them at the TrojansWho fled with nothing but their backs for target.Juno supplied him fire and strength. He addedHalys to the dead roster of his comrades,Pierced Phegeus through his shield and mail. Four others,Alcander, Halius, Prytanis, Noemon,Ignorant of his presence, roused the fightersAlong the walls, and fell before they knew it.Lynceus, calling his comrades, came to meet him,And Turnus, standing higher, slashed and swung,Close in, and the flashing blade swept head and helmetTogether from the shoulders; then he slaughteredAmycus, hunter of beasts, a clever craftsmanIn arming darts with poison; and Aeolus’ son,Clytius; and Cretheus, the Muses’ comrade,Lover of music and song, whose theme was alwaysWarfare and warhorse, arms of men, and battle.
And the Trojan leaders heard about the slaughter,And met, Serestus, keen in arms, and Mnestheus,And saw their comrades wheeling and Turnus welcomed,And Mnestheus tried to halt them:—“Where do you aimThat flight?” he cried, “What other ramparts have you?What walls beyond these walls? Shall one man, circled,Hemmed in on every side, deal out destructionUnscathed through all the city? Will you let himSend down to Hell so many brave young fighters?What kind of cowards are you? Have you no pity,No shame at all, for your unhappy country,Your ancient household gods, and great Aeneas?”
That gave them courage; and the column thickened,And they were firm, and stood. And very slowlyTurnus drew back, retreating toward the river,And they came on, more boldly now, with yellingAnd massing rank on rank, a crowd of huntersWith deadly spears, after a deadly lion,And the beast they hunt is frightened, but still deadly,Still dangerous, still glaring, and neither angerNor courage lets him turn his back, and forwardHe cannot go, however much he wants to,Through all that press of men and spears. So Turnus,Doubtful, kept stepping back, little by little,Burning, inside, with anger. Two more timesHe made a sudden charge, sent the foe flyingAlong the walls, but they came back, and JunoDared not assist him further; Jove had sentIris from heaven, with no uncertain messageIf Turnus does not leave the Trojan ramparts,He can no longer hold his own against them,The shield and sword-arm falter; darts like hailRain down from everywhere. The helmet ringsAround his temples, and the brass cracks openUnder the storm of stones; the horsehair crestIs shot away; the boss of the shield is dented;Mnestheus, with lightning force, and other TrojansMultiply spears. The sweat all over his bodyRuns in a tarry stream; he cannot breathe.At last, with one great leap, in all his armor,He plunges into the stream, and Tiber takes himOn the yellow flood, held up by the buoyant water,Washing away the stains of war, a hero,Returning happily to his warrior-comrades.