BOOK XIITHEFINAL COMBAT

As Turnus saw the Latins failing, broken,With Mars against them, and all eyes upon himAwaiting the fulfillment of his promise,He burned with wrath, implacable, and liftedHis spirit high, as in the fields of CarthageA lion, sorely wounded by the hunters,Fights harder for the hurt, the happier for it.And the mane rises on the neck and shoulders,And the jaws break off the weapon, and the bloody mouthRoars out defiance, even so in TurnusThe violent spirit raged. He spoke to the kingIn angry words:—“Turnus won’t keep them waiting;No reason for these cowards to renounceTheir bargain. Start the holy ritual, father,Arrange the terms. I go to meet the Trojan;Let the Latins sit and watch it if they want to,And this right arm will send him down to Hell,The renegade from Asia. I aloneAnswer the argument that calls us cowards,I, with one single sword. Or we are beatenAnd he takes Lavinia home.”Latinus answeredWith quiet in his heart:—“O youth, distinguishedAbove them all in spirit, the more your courageRises to fierceness, the more I find it needfulTo take slow counsel, to balance every hazard.You have the kingdom of your father Daunus,And many a captured town; and I, Latinus,Lack neither gold nor spirit. In our countryThere are other girls, unwed, and not ignoble.Let me say this—I know it is not easy—As frankly as I can, and listen to me:It was not right for me to give my daughterTo any of her former native suitors,And gods and men so prophesied. I loved you,Turnus, and I gave in: we are relatedBy blood, I know, and when Amata sorrowed,I broke off every bond, cancelled the promise,Took up unholy arms. From that day, Turnus,You see what wars pursue me, and what dangers,What sufferings you, above all men, submit to.We have been beaten twice in a great battleAnd now we hold, just barely, in our cityThe hopes of Italy. The streams of TiberAre warm with blood of ours, and the broad fieldsWhite with our bones. In what directionDo I keep turning, back and forth? What madnessChanges my purpose? If, with Turnus dead,I stand prepared to join them to me as allies,Why not, while he still lives, break off the conflict?What will they say, all your Rutulian kinsmen,All Italy, if I (may fortune keepThe word I say from coming true!) betray youTo death, the suitor of my only daughter?Consider war’s uncertainties, and pityYour aged father, far from us and grievingIn Ardea, his homeland.” The king’s appealMoved Turnus not at all; his temper worsened,Was aggravated by the attempt at healing.He managed, with an effort, to say something:—“Most kindly father, the care you have for meLay down, for my sake; let me have permissionTo trade death for renown. I too, dear father,Toss no mean dart, swing no mean sword, and bloodFollows the wounds I give. His goddess-motherWill not be there, this time, to hide him, runningTo the folds of her gown and cloud and empty shadows.”But Queen Amata, sick and almost dyingFrom fear of the new battle-chance, was weeping;He was the son she wanted; she would not let himRisk that heroic life, and, clinging to him,She made her plea:—“Turnus, our only hope,Our only comfort in our sad old age,The pride and honor of Latinus’ kingdomRest in your keeping, and our sinking houseDepends on you to shore it up from ruin.If tears of mine can move you, if my daughterMerits the least devotion, I implore you,I beg one favor: do not fight the Trojan!Whatever danger waits you in that duelAwaits me also, Turnus; I shall leaveThe hateful light when you do, I shall neverBe such a captive as to see AeneasCome to my home as son-in-law.” LaviniaListened and wept and blushed, her maiden featuresSuffused with color, as the stain of crimsonAdds hue to Indian ivory, or liliesLose something of their whiteness, mixed with roses.And Turnus, troubled enough, was troubled furtherWatching the girl, and burned the more for battle,And spoke, however briefly, to Amata:—“Do not, O mother, follow me with tearsOr any such omen as I go to battle.Turnus can not delay his death.” He turnedTo Idmon, then, and told him:—“Be my herald:Deliver to that Phrygian usurperThese words from me—I know that he will hate them—When dawn to-morrow, riding in the heavenIn crimson chariot, glows and reddens, let himHold back his Trojans, let their weapons and oursHave rest, let us end the war, two of us only;There let Lavinia be sought, her husbandThe victor on that field!”And he went homeTo his own quarters, hurrying, demandingHis horses, given Pilumnus by Orithyia,Whiter than snow, swifter than wind. And he was happyLooking at them, all spirit, as they nickeredSeeing their master. The drivers stood about them,Grooming the manes, patting the chests. And TurnusFits to his shoulders the stiff coat of armor,The gold, the bronze, and tests the readinessOf sword and shield and the horns of the ruddy crestVulcan had made the sword for Daunus, metalGlowing white-hot and plunged in Stygian water.The spear stood leaning on a mighty pillarIn the great hall, a trophy won from Actor;He seized it poised it, shook it, cried aloud:—“Be with me now, good spear that never failed me!The time has come. Let me lay low that body,Let my tough hands rip off his coat of armor,Let me shove that eunuch’s crimped and perfumed tressesDeep in the dust!” So he was driven by fury,Sparks leaping from his countenance, and fireFlashing at every glance; he is like a bullBellowing before battle, charging tree-trunksTo get the anger into his horns, head loweredAs if to gore the winds, and pawing sand.And in the other camp Aeneas, likewise,Fierce in the arms his mother brought from Vulcan,Sharpens his fighting spirit and rejoicesThat the war’s end is near through this agreement.He comforts comrades, reassures Iulus,Sad in his fear, tells them the fates, and ordersDefinite answer brought to King LatinusWith proper terms of armistice.And dawnHad scarcely touched the mountain-tops with lightAnd the Sun-god’s horses risen from the ocean,When Trojans and Rutulians left the cityAnd came to the great plain, the field of combat,Under the walls, and in the midst erectedThe hearths and altars for their common gods.Others, their temples bound with holy vervain,Veiled with the sacred robes, brought fire and water.Through the full gates the Ausonian host came streaming,And from the other side, Trojans, Etruscans,Harnessed in steel, as if a battle called them,With leaders flashing there, amid their thousands,Brilliant in gold and purple, brave Asilas,Mnestheus, Assaracus’ high-souled descendant,Messapus, tamer of horses, son of Neptune.Each, at a signal, found his post; the spearsWere fixed in the earth, and the shields rested on them.Then came the mothers in their eagerness,And the unarmed throng, and the weak old men, all crowdingTowers and house-tops, or standing by the portals.But Juno, from the summit now called Alban,Nameless in those days, lacking fame and glory,Looked over the plain, the lines of Latin and Trojan,The city of Latinus, and she turned,A goddess to a goddess, to Juturna,Sister of Turnus, guardian of still poolsAnd sounding rivers; Jupiter had givenThis honor to her, for the honor taken,The lost virginity. Juno addressed her:—“O glory of the rivers, dear Juturna,You know you are the only one I have favoredOf all the Latin girls who have made their wayTo great-souled Jove’s ungrateful couch; I gave you,Gladly, a place in Heaven; learn, Juturna,A sorrow of yours; do not reproach me for it.Where fortune seemed to grant it, and the FatesLet things go well for Latium, I protectedYour brother and your city. Now I see himFaced with unequal destiny. The dayOf doom and enemy violence draws near.I cannot watch this battle and this treaty;You, it may be, have in you greater daring,Resourceful for your brother’s sake. Go on;That much is only decent. Happier fortunesWill follow the unfortunate, if only—”As she broke off, Juturna wept; her handStruck thrice, four times, her lovely breast. And JunoCried:—“This is not the time for tears, Juturna!Hurry; and if there is some way to save him,Snatch him from death; or stir up war, break offThe covenant: be daring—you are grantedAuthority from Juno!” And she left herDoubtful and suffering, with wounded spirit.Meanwhile, the kings were riding forth, LatinusImposing in his four-horse car, his foreheadGleaming with twelve gold rays of light, the symbolOf his ancestral Sun, and Turnus comingBehind a snow-white team, and Turnus’ handBrandishing spears with two broad heads of steel.And on this side, burning with starry shieldAnd arms from Heaven, came Aeneas, fatherOf Rome to be, and from the camp Iulus,The second hope of Roman greatness, followed.In robes immaculate, the priest was waitingBeside the blazing altars, swine and oxenAnd sheep, unshorn, ready for sacrifice,And the leaders faced the rising sun, and sprinkledThe salted meal, and marked the victims’ foreheadsWith knives that took the holy lock, and pouredLibations on the altars, and Aeneas,Drawing his sword, made prayer:—“Sun, be my witness,And Earth be witness to me in my praying,This Earth, for whom I have been able to bearSuch toil and suffering, Almighty Father,Queen Juno, now, I pray, a kinder goddess,Be witness, and Mars, renownèd god of battles,Rivers and Fountains, too, I call, and PowersOf lofty Heaven and deep blue ocean, witness:If victory comes to Turnus, the Trojans, beaten,Go to Evander’s city, and IulusWill quit these lands forever, and hereafterNo son or follower of Aeneas everWill rise again in warfare, or with swordAttack these kingdoms. But if Victory grants us,As I expect, and may the gods confirm it,To win the battle, I will not have ItaliansBe subject to the Trojans; I crave no kingdom,Not for myself: let both, unbeaten nations,On equal terms enter eternal concord.I will establish gods and ceremonial;My sire, Latinus, keep his arms, his sceptre.The Trojans will build walls for me; LaviniaShall give the city her name.”And so AeneasMade solemn pledge, and after him Latinus,Lifting his eyes to heaven, and outstretchingHis right hand to the stars, confirmed the treaty:—“By these same Powers I swear, Aeneas, by Earth,Sea, Stars, Latona’s offspring, two-faced Janus,The power of the world below, and Pluto’s altars;May the Almighty Father, who sanctions treatiesWith lightning, hear my words: I touch the altars,I call these fires and presences to witness:No day shall break this peace, this pact, Italians,However things befall; no force shall turn meFrom this intention, not if the force of delugeConfounded land and water, Heaven and Hell.Even as this sceptre” (and he gestured with it)“Shall never bloom with leaf in branch or shadow,Once it has left its forest-trunk, its mother,And lost to steel its foliage, a treeNo more, when once the artist’s hand has edged itWith proper bronze, for Latin sires to carry.”So they affirmed the covenant, in sightOf leaders and people, and duly, over the flame,Made sacrifice of victims, and tore outThe entrails while the beasts yet lived, and loadedThe altars high with offerings.But more and moreRutulian hearts were wavering; the fightBegan to seem unequal, and they stirred,Shifted and doubted. And Turnus moved them strangely,Coming on silent footstep to the altar,Looking down humbly, with a meek devotion,Cheeks drawn and pale. Juturna heard the whispers,The muttered talk, and sensed the stir in the crowd,And suddenly plunged into their midst, disguisedAs Camers, noble in birth and brave in arms, and sonOf a brave father. She knew what she was doing,Putting the fuel of rumor on the fire,And crying:—“Are you not ashamed, Rutulians,That one should be exposed for all this army?In strength, in numbers, are we not their equal?Here they all are, the Trojans, the Arcadians,The Etruscans, all the lot of them: and weAre almost twice as many; man to man,Two against one! But no: we are willing to let himRise to the skies on deathless praise; the godsReceive him, by his own decision bound,An offering at their altars, and we sit hereSluggish as stone on ground, our country lost,Ready to bow to any arrogant master.”They are moved; at least the young are, and a murmurRuns through the ranks: the Latins and LaurentiansAre ripe for change. Rest from the war, and safetyCount less than arms. They want the treaty broken,They pity Turnus. It’s not fair, this bargain.And now Juturna adds a greater warning,A sign from heaven, and nothing could have stirred themWith more immediate impetus to folly.For, flying through the sky, an eagle, orangeIn the red light, was bearing down, pursuingThe birds along the shore, and they were noisyIn desperate flight, and the eagle struck, and the talonsSeized the conspicuous swan. And as the ItaliansLooked up in fascination, all the birds,Most wonderful to tell, wheeled, and their outcryClanged, and their wings were a dark cloud in heaven,A cloud that drove their enemy before them,Till, beaten down by force, by weight, the eagleFaltered, let go the prey, which fell to the riverAs the great bird flew far to the distant clouds.This omen the Rutulians cheered with shouting,With hands that cry for action. And their augur,Tolumnius, roused them further:—“I have prayedOften for this, and here it is! I own it,I recognize the gods. With me as leader,With me, I say, take arms, unhappy people,Whom, like frail birds, the insolent marauderFrightens in war, despoils your shores. He alsoWill take to flight, far to the distant oceans.Combine, come massing on, defend in battleThe king snatched from you!”He went rushing forward,Let fly his spear: the whistling shaft of cornelSang its determined way through air, and with itA mighty shout arose, formations broken,Hearts hot for battle, as the spear went flying.Nine handsome brothers, their mother a Tuscan woman,Good wife to the Arcadian Gylippus,Stood in its path, and one of them, distinguishedIn looks and gleaming armor, fell; the spear-pointStruck where the belt was buckled over the bellyAnd went on through the ribs. The brothers, angry,Grieving, drew swords, or picked up spears in frenzy,Went blindly rushing in, and the Latin columnsCame charging at them; from their side the Trojans,Men from Agylla, brightly-armed Arcadians,Poured in a rushing flood. One passion held them,—Decide it with the sword!They strip the altars,The sky is dark, it seems, with a storm of weapons,The iron rain is a deluge. Bowls and hearth-firesAre carried off; Latinus flees: the godsAre beaten, the treaty ruined by corruption.Other men rein their chariots, leap on horses,Come with drawn swords.Messapus, most eagerTo break the truce, rides down a king, Aulestes,Wearing the emblem of a Tuscan monarch.Staggering backward from that charge, and reeling,He falls upon the altars, there behind him,Comes down on head and shoulders. And like fireMessapus flashes toward him, spear in hand,And, from the horse, strikes heavily down; the spearIs like a plunging beam. For all his pleadingAulestes hears no more than this:—“He has it!Here is a better victim for the altars!”His limbs are warm as the Italians rob them.Ebysus aims a blow at CorynaeusWho snatches up a firebrand from the altarAnd thrusts it in his face, and his beard blazesWith a smell of fire. And Corynaeus follows,Clutches the hair with the left hand, and grounds himWith knee-thrust; the relentless steel goes home.And Podalirius, sword in hand, looms overThe shepherd Alsus, rushing through the weaponsIn the front line, but Alsus, arm drawn back,Swings the axe forward, cleaving chin and forehead,Drenching the armor with blood. An iron slumberSeals Podalirius’ eyes; they close foreverIn everlasting night.But good Aeneas,Head bare, holds out his hand, unarmed, calls loudlyIn hope to check his men:—“Where are you rushing?What sudden brawl is rising? Control your anger!The treaty is made, and all the terms agreed on,The fight my right alone. Let me take over;Lay down your fear: this hand will prove the treaty,Making it sure. These rites owe Turnus to me.”And even as he cried, an arrow flewWinging against him; no one knew the handThat turned it loose with whirlwind force; if manOr god, nobody knew; and no man boastedOf having been the one to wound Aeneas.And Turnus saw him leave the field, and captainsAnd ranks confused, and burned with sudden spirit.He is hopeful now; he calls for arms, for horses,Leaps proudly into his chariot, plies the reins,Drives fiercely, gives to death many brave heroes,Rolls many, half alive, under the wheels,Crushes the columns under his car, and showersSpear after spear at men who try to flee him.Even as Mars, along the icy Hebrus,In blood-red fury thunders with his shieldAnd rousing war gives rein to his wild horsesFaster than winds over the open plainAs Thrace groans under their gallop, and around himBlack Terror’s forms are driven, and Rage, and Ambush,Attendants on the god,—with equal frenzySo Turnus rages through the midst of battle,Lashing the steeds that steam with sweat, and killingAnd riding down the slain; the swift hooves spatterA bloody dew and the sand they pound is bloody.He has given Sthenelus to death, and Pholus,And Thamyrus, by spear or sword, close in,Far off, no matter; Glaucus also, Lades,Imbrasus’ sons, from Lycia, where their fatherReared them and gave them either kind of armor,For fighting hand to hand, on foot, or mountedOn chargers swift as wind.Elsewhere EumedesComes riding to the battle, son of Dolon,Named after Dolon’s father, and in daringTrue son of Dolon, who claimed Achilles’ chariotFor spying on the Grecian camp, and went thereAnd Diomedes paid him for his daringWith somewhat different tokens, so that DolonNo longer craved the horses of Achilles.And Turnus saw that son of his, Eumedes,Far on the open plain, and overtook himWith the light javelin, through long emptiness,And stopped his horses, and leaped down, and landedOn a man fallen, half-alive, and stood there,Foot on Eumedes’ neck, twisted the swordFrom Eumedes’ right hand, and changed its silverTo red, deep in Eumedes’ throat, and told him:—“Lie down there, Trojan; measure off the acresYou sought in war! Any who dare attack meAre paid rewards like these; they build their wallsOn such foundations!” He flung the spear and brought himCompanions in his death, Asbytes, Chloreus,Thersilochus and Sybaris and DaresAnd finally Thymoetes, slain on horseback.As the north wind roars over the deep AegeanPiling the combers shoreward, and in heavenClouds flee the blast of the gale, so, before Turnus,The columns yield, the lines give way, and his onrushBears him along, and the wind of his going tossesThe nodding plume. And Phegeus tried to stop him,Flinging himself before the car, and grabbing,With his right hand, the bridle, twisting, wrenchingThe foaming jaws, and while he rode the yokeThe spear-point found his side uncovered, piercingThe mail with grazing wound, but Phegeus managedTo keep the shield before him and for safetyTried to keep coming forward—the drawn swordWould be the best protection, but the axleCaught him, the wheels went over him, and TurnusSwept by and the scythe of Turnus’ sword cut through himBetween the shield and helmet, and the bodyLay headless on the sand.While Turnus, winning,Slaughtered across the field of war, Achates,With Mnestheus at his side, and young Iulus,Brought back Aeneas to camp, bleeding and limping,Using the spear as crutch, struggling, in anger,To pull the barb from the wound; the shaft had broken.The thing to do, he tells them over and over,The quickest way would be to cut around it,Let the sword do the probing, find the spear-pointNo matter how deep it tries to hide, expose it,Get it out of there, and send him back to battle.And Iapyx came to help, the son of Iasus,Dearest beyond all others to ApolloWho once had offered him his arts, his powers,His augury, his lyre, the lore of arrows,But Iapyx made another choice; his father,It seemed, was dying, and he chose to save himThrough what Apollo had the power to offer,Knowledge of simples and the arts of healing,And so he chose the silent craft, inglorious.So there was Iapyx, trying to be helpful,Aeneas, leaning on his spear, and cursing,Indifferent to Iulus’ tears, and othersStanding around, and anxious. The old doctorTucked up his robe, compounded potent herbs,Applied them, fussed around, all to no purpose;Tried to extract the dart by hand, and then by forceps,—No luck at all: Apollo does not guide him,And more and more across the plains the horrorThickens, and evil nears. They see the skyStanding on dust; horsemen come on, and arrowsAre falling thick, and a mournful din arisesAs fighting men go down, with Mars relentless.Then Venus, shaken with a mother’s anguishOver a suffering son, from Cretan IdaPlucked dittany, a plant with downy leavesAnd crimson blossom: the wild goats know and use itAs cure for arrow-wounds. This herb the goddessBrought down, her presence veiled in cloud, and steeped itWith secret healing in the river-waterPoured in the shining caldrons, and she addedAmbrosia’s healing juice, and panacea,And agèd Iapyx washed the wound, unknowingThe virtues of that balm, and all the painSuddenly, and by magic, left the body;The blood was staunched, deep in the wound; the arrowDropped from the flesh, at the least touch; the heroFelt all his strength return. “Quick! Bring his weapons!”Iapyx cries out, the first to fire their spiritAgainst the foe, “Why are you standing there,What are you waiting for? These things have happenedBy more than mortal aid or master talent,It is not my hand, Aeneas, that has saved you,Some greater god is working here, to send youTo greater deeds.” Aeneas, eager for battle,Had the gold shin-guards on while he was talking,Makes the spear flash, impatient, gets the armorBuckled about the body, and the swordReady at the left side, and through the helmetStoops down to kiss Iulus:—“Learn, my son,What I can show you, valor and real labor:Learn about luck from others. Now my handWill be your shield in war, your guide to glory,To great rewards. When you are grown, remember;You will have models for your inspiration,Your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector.”So from the gates he rushed, a mighty warriorWielding a mighty spear, and all the columnCame pouring forth; Mnestheus, Antheus, others,Leave the forsaken camp. The dust is blindingOver the plain, the tramp of armies marchingMakes the earth tremble, and from the opposite hillsideTurnus and the Ausonians saw them comingAnd a cold chill ran through their bones; Juturna,Quicker than all the Latins, heard the sound,Knew it, and fled in terror. And AeneasRushed his dark column over open countryAs a cloud-burst sweeps to land across the oceanAnd farmers know it, far away, and shudderFearful and sure of ruin to woods and cornfield,And the winds fly on before the storm and heraldThe roaring sound to the shore; so, like a cloud-burst,Aeneas brings his armies on; they gather,Each company, at his side. Thymbraeus’ swordStrikes down Osiris; Mnestheus slays Arcetius;Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens.Tolumnius, that augur whose spear had brokenThe armistice, lies low. A shout arises:The Rutulians turn back in rout; the dust-cloudsFollow them over the field in flight. AeneasDisdains to kill retreating men, refusesAttack on such as face him; it is TurnusHe watches for, hunts through the gloom of battle,It is Turnus, Turnus only, whom he summons.And this Juturna knows, and in her panicShe flings Metiscus, charioteer of Turnus,Out of the car, far from the reins and axle,And takes his place, plying the supple reins,Calls with Metiscus’ voice, assumes his armor.As a dark swallow through a rich man’s mansionFlies winging through great halls, hunting for crumbsFor the young birds at home, and now chirps underThe empty courts, now over the quiet pool,Even so, Juturna, by the horses carried,Darts here and there, quarters the field, and proudlyMakes a great show of Turnus, her cheering brother,Yet never lets him close in fight or grapple,Forever wheeling and turning. But AeneasIs dogged in pursuit and loud in challenge.Whenever he sees that car, and runs to meet it,Juturna shifts the course. What can he do?Nothing, it seems, but boil in rage; one angerMakes conflict in his heart against another.Messapus comes against him; his left handHolds two tough lances, tipped with steel: advancing,He levels one, well-aimed; Aeneas crouchesOn one knee under the shield, but the spear, flying,Picks off the crested plume from the top of the helmet.Aeneas’ anger swells; this treachery rankles.Messapus’ chariot and steeds, withdrawing,Are far away. He has made appeal to JoveAnd the broken treaty’s altars all too often,And now he fights in earnest; Mars beside him,He rouses terrible carnage, giving angerFree rein: he makes no choice of opposition.What singer or what god could tell the storyOf all these deaths? Both Turnus and Aeneas,In turn, drive victims over all the plain.Jupiter willed it so, that mighty nations,Destined, in time, for everlasting friendship,Should meet in that great struggle. A Rutulian,Sucro, held off Aeneas for a little,And died more quickly, with the sword-point drivenThrough ribs’ protecting framework. Turnus metAmycus, and unsaddled him; his brother,Diores, fought on foot, and Turnus killed them,The one by spear, the one by sword; his chariotBore off their severed heads, blood dripping from them.Aeneas, in one charge, brought down three warriors,Talos and Tanais and brave Cethegus,And then one more, the sorrowful Onites,Whose mother was Peridia; and TurnusKilled brethren, Lycian born, and young MenoetesWho hated war, in vain, and once loved fishingIn Lerna’s rivers; his Arcadian dwellingHad been a cottage, and his father plantedLand that he did not own. Like fire through forestWhen underbrush is dry, and laurel crackles,Or like two mountain-torrents roaring seaward,Each leaving devastation, so AeneasAnd Turnus swept the battle, anger surging,Surging in those great hearts, swollen to bursting,Not knowing how to yield, all strength devotedTo death and wounds.There was a man, Murranus,Whose pride of ancestry was loud and boastful,Last of a line of Latin kings. AeneasBrought him to earth and laid him low; a stone,A mighty whirling rock served as the weapon,And under reins and under yoke the wheelsRolled him along, and over him the horsesTrampled in earth the lord they had forgotten.Hyllus rushed Turnus, and a javelin met himThrough the gold temple-band, and pierced the helmetAnd lodged there, in the brain. A brave man, Cretheus,Had no defense against the might of Turnus,And no god saved Cupencus from Aeneas,No shield of bronze delayed the speeding weapon.Aeolus fell, stretched on the plains, a heroToo powerful for all the Greek battalions,Whom even Achilles, overthrower of Troy,Could not bring down. He reached his goal of deathHere in Laurentum, a man whose home, Lyrnesus,Lay at the foot of Ida, but his tombWas on Italian soil. So all the linesTurned to the battle, Mnestheus, Serestus,Messapus, tamer of horses, brave Asilas,Etruscan columns and Evander’s squadrons,Latins and Trojans, all of them contendingWith all their might, no rest, no pause, no slacking.And now his goddess-mother sent AeneasA change of purpose, to direct his columnMore quickly toward the town, confuse the LatinsWith sudden onslaught. He was tracking TurnusHere, there, all up and down the columns, watching,Shifting his gaze, and so he saw that cityImmune from that fierce warfare, calm and peaceful.The vision of a greater fight comes to him:He calls Sergestus, Mnestheus, brave Serestus,And takes position on a mound; the TrojansCome massing toward him, shield and spear held ready.And as he stands above them, he gives the orders:—“Let there be no delay: great Jove is with us.Let no man go more slackly, though this ventureIs new and unexpected. That city yonder,The cause of war, the kingdom of Latinus,Unless they own our mastery, acknowledgeDefeat, declare obedience, I will topple,Level its smoking roof-tops to the ground.Or should I wait until it suits prince TurnusTo face the duel with me, and, once beaten,Consent to fight again? This is the head,O citizens, this the evil crown of warfare.Hurry, bring firebrands, win from fire the treaty!”His words inflame their zeal, and, all togetherThey form a wedge; a great mass moves to the wall,Ladders and sudden fire appear from nowhere;The guards at the gate are butchered; steel is flying,The sky is dark with arrows. Toward the cityAeneas lifts his hand, rebukes Latinus,Calling the gods to witness that his willWas not for battle, it was forced upon himBy the Italians, double treaty-breakers,His foes for now the second time. The townsmenQuarrel among themselves: “Open the town!”,Cry some, “Admit the Trojans!” and would dragThe king himself to the ramparts. Others hurryWith arms, man the defenses. When a shepherdTrails bees to their hive in the cleft of a rock and fills itWith smarting smoke, there is fright and noise and furyWithin the waxen camp, and anger sharpenedWith buzzing noises, and a black smell risesWith a blind sound, inside the rock, and rollingSmoke lifts to empty air.Now a new sorrowCame to the weary Latins, shook the cityTo its foundations, utterly. The queenHad seen the Trojans coming and the wallsUnder attack and fire along the gablesAnd no Rutulian column, nowhere TurnusComing to help. He had been killed, her hero,She knew at last. Her mind was gone; she criedOver and over:—“I am the guilty one,I am the cause, the source of all these evils!”And other wilder words. And then she toreHer crimson robes, and slung a noose and fastenedThe knot of an ugly death to the high rafter.The women learned it first, and then Lavinia:The wide hall rings with grief and lamentation;Nails scratch at lovely faces, beautiful hairIs torn from the head. And Rumor spreads the storyAll up and down the town, and poor Latinus,Rending his garments, comes and stares,—wife gone,And city falling, an old man’s hoary hairGreyer with bloody dust.And meanwhile TurnusOut on the plain pursues the stragglers, slowerAnd slower now, and less and less exultantIn his triumphant car. From the city comesA wind that bears a cry confused with terror,Half heard, but known,—confusion, darkness, sorrow,An uproar in the town. He checks the horses,Pauses and listens. And his sister prompts him:—“This way, this way! The Trojans run, we followWhere victory shows the path. Let others guardThe houses with their valor. The ItaliansFall in the fight before Aeneas. Let usSend death to the Trojans, in our turn. You will notCome off the worse, in numbers or in honor.”Turnus replies:—“O sister, I have known,A long while since, that you were no Metiscus,Since first you broke the treaty and joined the battle.No use pretending you are not a goddess.But who, from high Olympus, sent you downTo bear such labors? Was it to see your brotherIn pitiful cruel death? What am I doing,What chance will fortune grant me? I have seenA man I loved more than the rest, Murranus,A big man, slain by a big wound, go down.Ufens is fallen, lucky or unlucky,In that he never saw our shame; the TrojansHave won his body and arms. Our homes are burning,The one thing lacking up to now,—and shall IEndure this, not refute the words of DrancesWith this right hand? Shall I turn my back upon them?Is it so grim to die? Be kind, O shadows,Since the high gods have turned their favor from me.A decent spirit, undisgraced, no coward,I shall descend to you, never unworthyOf all my ancient line.”He had hardly spokenWhen a warrior, on foaming steed, came ridingThrough all the enemy. His name was Saces,And his face was badly wounded by an arrow.He called the name of Turnus, and implored him:—“We have no other hope; pity your people!Aeneas is a lightning-bolt; he threatensItaly’s topmost towers; he will bring them downIn ruins; even now the brands are flyingAlong the roof-tops. They look to you, the Latins,They look for you; and king Latinus mumblesIn doubt—who are his sons, who are his allies?The queen, who trusted you the most, has perishedBy her own hand, has fled the light in terror.Alone before the gates the brave AtinasAnd Messapus hold the line. Around them, squadronsCrowd close on either side, and the steel harvestBristles with pointed swords. And here is TurnusWheeling his car across a plain deserted.”Bewildered by disaster’s shifting image,Turnus is silent, staring; shame and sadnessBoil up in that great heart, and grief and loveDriven by frenzy. He shakes off the shadows;The light comes back to his mind. His eyes turn, blazing,From the wheels of the car to the walls of that great cityWhere the flame billowed upward, the roaring blastCatching a tower, one he himself had fashionedWith jointed beams and rollers and high gangways.“Fate is the winner now; keep out of my way,My sister: now I follow god and fortune.I am ready for Aeneas, ready to bearWhatever is bitter in death. No longer, sister,Shall I be shamed, and you behold me. Let me,Before the final madness, be a madman!”He bounded from the chariot, came rushingThrough spears, through enemies; his grieving sisterHe left behind, forgotten. As a boulderTorn from a mountain-top rolls headlong downward,Impelled by wind, or washed by storm, or loosenedBy time’s erosion, and comes down the hillsideA mass possessed of evil, leaping and bounding,And rolling with it men and trees and cattle,So, through the broken columns, Turnus rushesOn to the city, where the blood goes deepestInto the muddy ground, and the air whistlesWith flying spears. He makes a sudden gesture,Crying aloud:—“No more, no more, Rutulians!Hold back your weapons, Latins! Whatever fortuneThere may be here is mine. I am the one,Not you, to make the treaty good, to settleThe issue with the sword. That will be better.”They all made way and gave him room.Aeneas,Hearing the name of Turnus, leaves the city,Forsakes the lofty walls; he has no patienceWith any more delay, breaks off all projects,Exults, a terrible thunderer in armor,As huge as Athos, or as huge as Eryx,Or even father Apennine, that mountainRoaring above the oaks, and lifting highHis crown of shimmering trees and snowy crest.Now all men turned their eyes, Rutulians, Trojans,Italians, those who held the lofty ramparts,Those battering at the wall below; their shouldersWere eased of armor now. And king LatinusCould hardly, in amazement, trust his sensesSeeing these two big men, born worlds apartMeeting to make decision with the sword.The plain was cleared, and they came rushing forward,Hurling, far off, their spears; the fight is on,The bronze shields clang and ring. Earth gives a groan.The swords strike hard and often; luck and courageAre blent in one. And as on mighty SilaOr on Taburnus’ mountain, when two bullocksCharge into fight head-on, and trembling herdsmenFall back in fear, and the herd is dumb with terror,And heifers, hardly lowing, stare and wonderWhich one will rule the woodland, which one the herdWill follow meekly after, and all the timeThey gore each other with savage horns, and shouldersAnd necks and ribs run streams of blood, and bellowingFills all the woodland,—even so, AeneasAnd Daunus’ son clash shield on shield; the clamorFills heaven. And Jupiter holds the scales in balanceWith each man’s destiny as weight and counter,And one the heavier under the doom of death.Confident, Turnus, rising to the swordFull height, is a flash of light; he strikes. The Trojans,The Latins, cry aloud and come up standing.But the sword is treacherous; it is broken offWith the blow half spent: the fire of Turnus findsNo help except in flight. Swift as the windHe goes, and stares at a broken blade, a handUnarmed. The story is that in that hurry,That rush of his, to arms, when the steeds were harnessed,He took Metiscus’ sword, not the one DaunusHad left him. For a while it served its purposeWhile the Trojans ran away, but when it metThe armor Vulcan forged, the mortal bladeSplit off, like brittle ice, with glittering splintersLike ice on the yellow sand. So Turnus fliesMadly across the plain in devious circles:The Trojans ring him round, and a swamp on one side,High walls on the other.Aeneas, the pursuer,Is none too swift: the arrow has left him hurt;His knees give way, but he keeps on, keeps comingAfter the panting enemy, as a hound,Running a stag to bay, at the edge of the waterOr hedged by crimson plumes, darts in, and barks,And snaps his jaws, closes and grips, is shakenOff from the flanks again, and once more closes,And a great noise goes up the air; the watersResound, and the whole sky thunders with the clamor.Turnus has time, even in flight, for callingLoud to Rutulians, each by name, demanding,In terrible rage, the sword, the sword, the good one,The one he knows. Let anybody bring it,Aeneas threatens, and death and doom await him,And the town will be a ruin. Wounded, stillHe presses on. They go in five great circles,Around and back: no game, with silly prizes,Are they playing now; the life and blood of TurnusGo to the winner.A wild olive-treeStood here, with bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus,Revered by rescued sailors, who used to offerEx-votos to the native gods, their garmentsIn token of gratitude. For this the TrojansCared nothing, lopped the branches off to clearThe run of the field. Aeneas’ spear had fastenedDeep in the trunk where the force of the cast had brought it,Stuck in the grip of the root. Aeneas, stooping,Yanks at the shaft; he cannot equal TurnusIn speed of foot but the javelin is wingèd.And Turnus, in a terrible moment of panic,Cries:—“Faunus, pity me, and Earth, most kindly,If ever I was reverent, as AeneasAnd those he leads have not been, hold the steel,Do not let go!” He prayed, and he was answered.Aeneas tugged and wrestled, pulled and hauled,But the wood held on. And, while he strained, JuturnaRushed forward, once again Metiscus’ double,With the good sword for her brother. Then Venus, angryOver such wanton interference, entersAnd the root yields. The warriors, towering high,Each one renewed in spirit, one with sword,One with the spear, both breathing hard, are readyFor what Mars has to send.And Juno, gazingFrom a golden cloud to earth, watching the duel,Heard the all-powerful king of high Olympus:—“What will the end be now, O wife? What elseRemains? You know, and you admit you know it,Aeneas is heaven-destined, the native heroBecome a god, raised by the fates, exalted.What are you planning? with what hope lingering onIn the cold clouds? Was it proper that a mortalShould wound a god? that the sword, once lost, be givenTurnus again?—Juturna, of course, is nothingWithout your help—was it proper that the beatenIncrease in violence? Stop it now, I tell you;Listen to my entreaties: I would not have youDevoured by grief in silence; I would not have youBring me, again, anxiety and sorrow,However sweet the voice. The end has come.To harry the Trojans over land and ocean,To light up war unspeakable, to defileA home with grief, to mingle bridal and sorrow,—All this you were permitted. Go no farther!That is an absolute order.” And Juno, downcastIn gaze, replied:—“Great Jove, I knew your pleasure:And therefore, much against my will, left Turnus,Left earth. Were it not so, you would not see meLonely upon my airy throne in heaven,Enduring things both worthy and unworthy,But I would be down there, by flame surrounded,Fighting in the front ranks, and hauling TrojansTo battle with their enemies. Juturna,I urged, I own, to help her wretched brother,And I approved, I own, her greater daringFor his life’s sake, but I did not approve,And this I swear by Styx, that river whose nameBinds all the gods to truth, her taking weapons,Aiming the bow. I give up now, I leaveThese battles, though I hate to. I ask one favorFor Latium, for the greatness of your people,And this no law of fate forbids: when, later,And be it so, they join in peace, and settleTheir laws, their treaties, in a blessèd marriage,Do not command the Latins, native-born,To change their language, to be known as Trojans,To alter speech or garb; let them be Latium,Let Alban kings endure through all the ages,Let Roman stock, strong in Italian valor,Prevail: since Troy has fallen, let her namePerish and be forgotten.” Smiling on her,The great creator answered:—“You are trulyTrue sister of Jove and child of Saturn, nursingSuch tides of anger in the heart! Forget it!Abate the rise of passion. The wish is granted.I yield, and more than that,—I share your purpose.Ausonians shall keep their old tradition,Their fathers’ speech and ways; their name shall beEven as now it is. Their sacred laws,Their ritual, I shall add, and make all LatinsMen of a common tongue. A race shall riseAll-powerful, of mingled blood; you will see themBy virtue of devotion rise to gloriesNot men nor gods have known, and no race everWill pay you equal honor.” And the goddessGave her assent, was happy, changed her purpose,Left heaven and quit the cloud.This done, the fatherFormed yet another purpose, that JuturnaShould leave her fighting brother. There are, men say,Twin fiends, or triple, sisters named the Furies,Daughters of Night, with snaky coils, and pinionsLike those of wind. They are attendant spiritsBefore the throne of Jove and whet the fearsOf sickly mortals, when the king of heavenContrives disease or dreadful death, or frightensThe guilty towns in war. Now he dispatchesOne of the three to earth, to meet Juturna,An omen visible; and so from heavenShe flew with whirlwind swiftness, like an arrowThrough cloud from bowstring, armed with gall or poison,Loosed from a Parthian quiver, cleaving shadowsSwifter than man may know, a shaft no powerHas power of healing over:—so Night’s daughterCame down to earth, and when she saw the TrojansAnd Turnus’ columns, she dwindled, all of a sudden,To the shape of that small bird, which, in the night-time,Shrills its late song, ill-omened, on the roof-topsOr over tombs, insistent through the darkness.And so the fiend, the little screech-owl, flyingAt Turnus, over and over, shrilled in warning,Beating the wings against the shield, and TurnusFelt a strange torpor seize his limbs, and terrorMade his hair rise, and his voice could find no utterance.But when, far off, Juturna knew the FuryBy whir of those dread wings, she tore her tresses,Clawed at her face, and beat her breast, all anguishOver her brother:—“What can a sister doTo help you now, poor Turnus? What remainsFor me to bear? I have borne so much already.What skill of mine can make the daylight longerIn your dark hour? Can I face such a portent?Now, now, I leave the battle-line forever.Foul birds, I fear enough; haunt me no further,I know that beat of the wings, that deadly whirring;I recognize, too well, Jove’s arrogant orders,His payment for my maidenhood. He gave meEternal life, but why? Why has he takenThe right of death away from me? I might haveEnded my anguish, surely, with my brother’s,Gone, at his side, among the fearful shadows,But, no,—I am immortal. What is left meOf any possible joy, without my brother?What earth can open deep enough to take me,A goddess, to the lowest shades?” The mantle,Grey-colored, veiled her head, and the goddess, sighing,Sank deep from sight to the greyness of the river.And on Aeneas presses: the flashing spear,Brandished, is big as a tree; his anger cries:—“Why put it off forever, Turnus, hang-dog?We must fight with arms, not running. Take what shapeYou will, gather your strength or craft; fly upTo the high stars, or bury yourself in earth!”And Turnus shook his head and answered:—“Jove,Being my enemy, scares me, and the gods,Not your hot words, fierce fellow.” And his vision,Glancing about, beheld a mighty boulder,A boundary-mark, in days of old, so hugeA dozen men in our degenerate eraCould hardly pry it loose from earth, but TurnusLifts it full height, hurls it full speed and, acting.Seems not to recognize himself, in running,Or moving, or lifting his hands, or letting the stoneFly into space; he shakes at the knees, his bloodRuns chill in the veins, and the stone, through wide air going,Falls short, falls spent. As in our dreams at night-time,When sleep weighs down our eyes, we seem to be running,Or trying to run, and cannot, and we falter,Sick in our failure, and the tongue is thickAnd the words we try to utter come to nothing,No voice, no speech,—so Turnus finds the wayBlocked off, wherever he turns, however bravely.All sorts of things go through his mind: he staresAt the Rutulians, at the town; he trembles,Quails at the threat of the lance; he cannot seeAny way out, any way forward. Nothing.The chariot is gone, and the charioteer,Juturna or Metiscus, nowhere near him.The spear, flung by Aeneas, comes with a whirLouder than stone from any engine, louderThan thunderbolt; like a black wind it flies,Bringing destruction with it, through the shield-rim,Its sevenfold strength, through armor, through the thigh.Turnus is down, on hands and knees, huge TurnusStruck to the earth. Groaning, the stunned RutuliansRise to their feet, and the whole hill resounds,The wooded heights give echo. A suppliant, beaten,Humbled at last, his hands reach out, his voiceIs low in pleading:—“I have deserved it, surely,And I do not beg off. Use the advantage.But if a parent’s grief has any powerTo touch the spirit, I pray you, pity Daunus,(I would Anchises), send him back my body.You have won; I am beaten, and these hands go outIn supplication: everyone has seen it.No more. I have lost Lavinia. Let hatredProceed no further.”Fierce in his arms, with darting glance, AeneasPaused for a moment, and he might have weakened,For the words had moved him, when, high on the shoulder,He saw the belt of Pallas, slain by Turnus,Saw Pallas on the ground, and Turnus wearingThat belt with the bright studs, of evil omenNot only to Pallas now, a sad reminder,A deadly provocation. TerribleIn wrath, Aeneas cries:—“Clad in this treasure,This trophy of a comrade, can you cherishHope that my hands would let you go? Now Pallas,Pallas exacts his vengeance, and the blowIs Pallas, making sacrifice!” He struckBefore he finished speaking: the blade went deepAnd Turnus’ limbs were cold in death; the spiritWent with a moan indignant to the shadows.

As Turnus saw the Latins failing, broken,With Mars against them, and all eyes upon himAwaiting the fulfillment of his promise,He burned with wrath, implacable, and liftedHis spirit high, as in the fields of CarthageA lion, sorely wounded by the hunters,Fights harder for the hurt, the happier for it.And the mane rises on the neck and shoulders,And the jaws break off the weapon, and the bloody mouthRoars out defiance, even so in TurnusThe violent spirit raged. He spoke to the kingIn angry words:—“Turnus won’t keep them waiting;No reason for these cowards to renounceTheir bargain. Start the holy ritual, father,Arrange the terms. I go to meet the Trojan;Let the Latins sit and watch it if they want to,And this right arm will send him down to Hell,The renegade from Asia. I aloneAnswer the argument that calls us cowards,I, with one single sword. Or we are beatenAnd he takes Lavinia home.”Latinus answeredWith quiet in his heart:—“O youth, distinguishedAbove them all in spirit, the more your courageRises to fierceness, the more I find it needfulTo take slow counsel, to balance every hazard.You have the kingdom of your father Daunus,And many a captured town; and I, Latinus,Lack neither gold nor spirit. In our countryThere are other girls, unwed, and not ignoble.Let me say this—I know it is not easy—As frankly as I can, and listen to me:It was not right for me to give my daughterTo any of her former native suitors,And gods and men so prophesied. I loved you,Turnus, and I gave in: we are relatedBy blood, I know, and when Amata sorrowed,I broke off every bond, cancelled the promise,Took up unholy arms. From that day, Turnus,You see what wars pursue me, and what dangers,What sufferings you, above all men, submit to.We have been beaten twice in a great battleAnd now we hold, just barely, in our cityThe hopes of Italy. The streams of TiberAre warm with blood of ours, and the broad fieldsWhite with our bones. In what directionDo I keep turning, back and forth? What madnessChanges my purpose? If, with Turnus dead,I stand prepared to join them to me as allies,Why not, while he still lives, break off the conflict?What will they say, all your Rutulian kinsmen,All Italy, if I (may fortune keepThe word I say from coming true!) betray youTo death, the suitor of my only daughter?Consider war’s uncertainties, and pityYour aged father, far from us and grievingIn Ardea, his homeland.” The king’s appealMoved Turnus not at all; his temper worsened,Was aggravated by the attempt at healing.He managed, with an effort, to say something:—“Most kindly father, the care you have for meLay down, for my sake; let me have permissionTo trade death for renown. I too, dear father,Toss no mean dart, swing no mean sword, and bloodFollows the wounds I give. His goddess-motherWill not be there, this time, to hide him, runningTo the folds of her gown and cloud and empty shadows.”But Queen Amata, sick and almost dyingFrom fear of the new battle-chance, was weeping;He was the son she wanted; she would not let himRisk that heroic life, and, clinging to him,She made her plea:—“Turnus, our only hope,Our only comfort in our sad old age,The pride and honor of Latinus’ kingdomRest in your keeping, and our sinking houseDepends on you to shore it up from ruin.If tears of mine can move you, if my daughterMerits the least devotion, I implore you,I beg one favor: do not fight the Trojan!Whatever danger waits you in that duelAwaits me also, Turnus; I shall leaveThe hateful light when you do, I shall neverBe such a captive as to see AeneasCome to my home as son-in-law.” LaviniaListened and wept and blushed, her maiden featuresSuffused with color, as the stain of crimsonAdds hue to Indian ivory, or liliesLose something of their whiteness, mixed with roses.And Turnus, troubled enough, was troubled furtherWatching the girl, and burned the more for battle,And spoke, however briefly, to Amata:—“Do not, O mother, follow me with tearsOr any such omen as I go to battle.Turnus can not delay his death.” He turnedTo Idmon, then, and told him:—“Be my herald:Deliver to that Phrygian usurperThese words from me—I know that he will hate them—When dawn to-morrow, riding in the heavenIn crimson chariot, glows and reddens, let himHold back his Trojans, let their weapons and oursHave rest, let us end the war, two of us only;There let Lavinia be sought, her husbandThe victor on that field!”And he went homeTo his own quarters, hurrying, demandingHis horses, given Pilumnus by Orithyia,Whiter than snow, swifter than wind. And he was happyLooking at them, all spirit, as they nickeredSeeing their master. The drivers stood about them,Grooming the manes, patting the chests. And TurnusFits to his shoulders the stiff coat of armor,The gold, the bronze, and tests the readinessOf sword and shield and the horns of the ruddy crestVulcan had made the sword for Daunus, metalGlowing white-hot and plunged in Stygian water.The spear stood leaning on a mighty pillarIn the great hall, a trophy won from Actor;He seized it poised it, shook it, cried aloud:—“Be with me now, good spear that never failed me!The time has come. Let me lay low that body,Let my tough hands rip off his coat of armor,Let me shove that eunuch’s crimped and perfumed tressesDeep in the dust!” So he was driven by fury,Sparks leaping from his countenance, and fireFlashing at every glance; he is like a bullBellowing before battle, charging tree-trunksTo get the anger into his horns, head loweredAs if to gore the winds, and pawing sand.And in the other camp Aeneas, likewise,Fierce in the arms his mother brought from Vulcan,Sharpens his fighting spirit and rejoicesThat the war’s end is near through this agreement.He comforts comrades, reassures Iulus,Sad in his fear, tells them the fates, and ordersDefinite answer brought to King LatinusWith proper terms of armistice.And dawnHad scarcely touched the mountain-tops with lightAnd the Sun-god’s horses risen from the ocean,When Trojans and Rutulians left the cityAnd came to the great plain, the field of combat,Under the walls, and in the midst erectedThe hearths and altars for their common gods.Others, their temples bound with holy vervain,Veiled with the sacred robes, brought fire and water.Through the full gates the Ausonian host came streaming,And from the other side, Trojans, Etruscans,Harnessed in steel, as if a battle called them,With leaders flashing there, amid their thousands,Brilliant in gold and purple, brave Asilas,Mnestheus, Assaracus’ high-souled descendant,Messapus, tamer of horses, son of Neptune.Each, at a signal, found his post; the spearsWere fixed in the earth, and the shields rested on them.Then came the mothers in their eagerness,And the unarmed throng, and the weak old men, all crowdingTowers and house-tops, or standing by the portals.But Juno, from the summit now called Alban,Nameless in those days, lacking fame and glory,Looked over the plain, the lines of Latin and Trojan,The city of Latinus, and she turned,A goddess to a goddess, to Juturna,Sister of Turnus, guardian of still poolsAnd sounding rivers; Jupiter had givenThis honor to her, for the honor taken,The lost virginity. Juno addressed her:—“O glory of the rivers, dear Juturna,You know you are the only one I have favoredOf all the Latin girls who have made their wayTo great-souled Jove’s ungrateful couch; I gave you,Gladly, a place in Heaven; learn, Juturna,A sorrow of yours; do not reproach me for it.Where fortune seemed to grant it, and the FatesLet things go well for Latium, I protectedYour brother and your city. Now I see himFaced with unequal destiny. The dayOf doom and enemy violence draws near.I cannot watch this battle and this treaty;You, it may be, have in you greater daring,Resourceful for your brother’s sake. Go on;That much is only decent. Happier fortunesWill follow the unfortunate, if only—”As she broke off, Juturna wept; her handStruck thrice, four times, her lovely breast. And JunoCried:—“This is not the time for tears, Juturna!Hurry; and if there is some way to save him,Snatch him from death; or stir up war, break offThe covenant: be daring—you are grantedAuthority from Juno!” And she left herDoubtful and suffering, with wounded spirit.Meanwhile, the kings were riding forth, LatinusImposing in his four-horse car, his foreheadGleaming with twelve gold rays of light, the symbolOf his ancestral Sun, and Turnus comingBehind a snow-white team, and Turnus’ handBrandishing spears with two broad heads of steel.And on this side, burning with starry shieldAnd arms from Heaven, came Aeneas, fatherOf Rome to be, and from the camp Iulus,The second hope of Roman greatness, followed.In robes immaculate, the priest was waitingBeside the blazing altars, swine and oxenAnd sheep, unshorn, ready for sacrifice,And the leaders faced the rising sun, and sprinkledThe salted meal, and marked the victims’ foreheadsWith knives that took the holy lock, and pouredLibations on the altars, and Aeneas,Drawing his sword, made prayer:—“Sun, be my witness,And Earth be witness to me in my praying,This Earth, for whom I have been able to bearSuch toil and suffering, Almighty Father,Queen Juno, now, I pray, a kinder goddess,Be witness, and Mars, renownèd god of battles,Rivers and Fountains, too, I call, and PowersOf lofty Heaven and deep blue ocean, witness:If victory comes to Turnus, the Trojans, beaten,Go to Evander’s city, and IulusWill quit these lands forever, and hereafterNo son or follower of Aeneas everWill rise again in warfare, or with swordAttack these kingdoms. But if Victory grants us,As I expect, and may the gods confirm it,To win the battle, I will not have ItaliansBe subject to the Trojans; I crave no kingdom,Not for myself: let both, unbeaten nations,On equal terms enter eternal concord.I will establish gods and ceremonial;My sire, Latinus, keep his arms, his sceptre.The Trojans will build walls for me; LaviniaShall give the city her name.”And so AeneasMade solemn pledge, and after him Latinus,Lifting his eyes to heaven, and outstretchingHis right hand to the stars, confirmed the treaty:—“By these same Powers I swear, Aeneas, by Earth,Sea, Stars, Latona’s offspring, two-faced Janus,The power of the world below, and Pluto’s altars;May the Almighty Father, who sanctions treatiesWith lightning, hear my words: I touch the altars,I call these fires and presences to witness:No day shall break this peace, this pact, Italians,However things befall; no force shall turn meFrom this intention, not if the force of delugeConfounded land and water, Heaven and Hell.Even as this sceptre” (and he gestured with it)“Shall never bloom with leaf in branch or shadow,Once it has left its forest-trunk, its mother,And lost to steel its foliage, a treeNo more, when once the artist’s hand has edged itWith proper bronze, for Latin sires to carry.”So they affirmed the covenant, in sightOf leaders and people, and duly, over the flame,Made sacrifice of victims, and tore outThe entrails while the beasts yet lived, and loadedThe altars high with offerings.But more and moreRutulian hearts were wavering; the fightBegan to seem unequal, and they stirred,Shifted and doubted. And Turnus moved them strangely,Coming on silent footstep to the altar,Looking down humbly, with a meek devotion,Cheeks drawn and pale. Juturna heard the whispers,The muttered talk, and sensed the stir in the crowd,And suddenly plunged into their midst, disguisedAs Camers, noble in birth and brave in arms, and sonOf a brave father. She knew what she was doing,Putting the fuel of rumor on the fire,And crying:—“Are you not ashamed, Rutulians,That one should be exposed for all this army?In strength, in numbers, are we not their equal?Here they all are, the Trojans, the Arcadians,The Etruscans, all the lot of them: and weAre almost twice as many; man to man,Two against one! But no: we are willing to let himRise to the skies on deathless praise; the godsReceive him, by his own decision bound,An offering at their altars, and we sit hereSluggish as stone on ground, our country lost,Ready to bow to any arrogant master.”They are moved; at least the young are, and a murmurRuns through the ranks: the Latins and LaurentiansAre ripe for change. Rest from the war, and safetyCount less than arms. They want the treaty broken,They pity Turnus. It’s not fair, this bargain.And now Juturna adds a greater warning,A sign from heaven, and nothing could have stirred themWith more immediate impetus to folly.For, flying through the sky, an eagle, orangeIn the red light, was bearing down, pursuingThe birds along the shore, and they were noisyIn desperate flight, and the eagle struck, and the talonsSeized the conspicuous swan. And as the ItaliansLooked up in fascination, all the birds,Most wonderful to tell, wheeled, and their outcryClanged, and their wings were a dark cloud in heaven,A cloud that drove their enemy before them,Till, beaten down by force, by weight, the eagleFaltered, let go the prey, which fell to the riverAs the great bird flew far to the distant clouds.This omen the Rutulians cheered with shouting,With hands that cry for action. And their augur,Tolumnius, roused them further:—“I have prayedOften for this, and here it is! I own it,I recognize the gods. With me as leader,With me, I say, take arms, unhappy people,Whom, like frail birds, the insolent marauderFrightens in war, despoils your shores. He alsoWill take to flight, far to the distant oceans.Combine, come massing on, defend in battleThe king snatched from you!”He went rushing forward,Let fly his spear: the whistling shaft of cornelSang its determined way through air, and with itA mighty shout arose, formations broken,Hearts hot for battle, as the spear went flying.Nine handsome brothers, their mother a Tuscan woman,Good wife to the Arcadian Gylippus,Stood in its path, and one of them, distinguishedIn looks and gleaming armor, fell; the spear-pointStruck where the belt was buckled over the bellyAnd went on through the ribs. The brothers, angry,Grieving, drew swords, or picked up spears in frenzy,Went blindly rushing in, and the Latin columnsCame charging at them; from their side the Trojans,Men from Agylla, brightly-armed Arcadians,Poured in a rushing flood. One passion held them,—Decide it with the sword!They strip the altars,The sky is dark, it seems, with a storm of weapons,The iron rain is a deluge. Bowls and hearth-firesAre carried off; Latinus flees: the godsAre beaten, the treaty ruined by corruption.Other men rein their chariots, leap on horses,Come with drawn swords.Messapus, most eagerTo break the truce, rides down a king, Aulestes,Wearing the emblem of a Tuscan monarch.Staggering backward from that charge, and reeling,He falls upon the altars, there behind him,Comes down on head and shoulders. And like fireMessapus flashes toward him, spear in hand,And, from the horse, strikes heavily down; the spearIs like a plunging beam. For all his pleadingAulestes hears no more than this:—“He has it!Here is a better victim for the altars!”His limbs are warm as the Italians rob them.Ebysus aims a blow at CorynaeusWho snatches up a firebrand from the altarAnd thrusts it in his face, and his beard blazesWith a smell of fire. And Corynaeus follows,Clutches the hair with the left hand, and grounds himWith knee-thrust; the relentless steel goes home.And Podalirius, sword in hand, looms overThe shepherd Alsus, rushing through the weaponsIn the front line, but Alsus, arm drawn back,Swings the axe forward, cleaving chin and forehead,Drenching the armor with blood. An iron slumberSeals Podalirius’ eyes; they close foreverIn everlasting night.But good Aeneas,Head bare, holds out his hand, unarmed, calls loudlyIn hope to check his men:—“Where are you rushing?What sudden brawl is rising? Control your anger!The treaty is made, and all the terms agreed on,The fight my right alone. Let me take over;Lay down your fear: this hand will prove the treaty,Making it sure. These rites owe Turnus to me.”And even as he cried, an arrow flewWinging against him; no one knew the handThat turned it loose with whirlwind force; if manOr god, nobody knew; and no man boastedOf having been the one to wound Aeneas.And Turnus saw him leave the field, and captainsAnd ranks confused, and burned with sudden spirit.He is hopeful now; he calls for arms, for horses,Leaps proudly into his chariot, plies the reins,Drives fiercely, gives to death many brave heroes,Rolls many, half alive, under the wheels,Crushes the columns under his car, and showersSpear after spear at men who try to flee him.Even as Mars, along the icy Hebrus,In blood-red fury thunders with his shieldAnd rousing war gives rein to his wild horsesFaster than winds over the open plainAs Thrace groans under their gallop, and around himBlack Terror’s forms are driven, and Rage, and Ambush,Attendants on the god,—with equal frenzySo Turnus rages through the midst of battle,Lashing the steeds that steam with sweat, and killingAnd riding down the slain; the swift hooves spatterA bloody dew and the sand they pound is bloody.He has given Sthenelus to death, and Pholus,And Thamyrus, by spear or sword, close in,Far off, no matter; Glaucus also, Lades,Imbrasus’ sons, from Lycia, where their fatherReared them and gave them either kind of armor,For fighting hand to hand, on foot, or mountedOn chargers swift as wind.Elsewhere EumedesComes riding to the battle, son of Dolon,Named after Dolon’s father, and in daringTrue son of Dolon, who claimed Achilles’ chariotFor spying on the Grecian camp, and went thereAnd Diomedes paid him for his daringWith somewhat different tokens, so that DolonNo longer craved the horses of Achilles.And Turnus saw that son of his, Eumedes,Far on the open plain, and overtook himWith the light javelin, through long emptiness,And stopped his horses, and leaped down, and landedOn a man fallen, half-alive, and stood there,Foot on Eumedes’ neck, twisted the swordFrom Eumedes’ right hand, and changed its silverTo red, deep in Eumedes’ throat, and told him:—“Lie down there, Trojan; measure off the acresYou sought in war! Any who dare attack meAre paid rewards like these; they build their wallsOn such foundations!” He flung the spear and brought himCompanions in his death, Asbytes, Chloreus,Thersilochus and Sybaris and DaresAnd finally Thymoetes, slain on horseback.As the north wind roars over the deep AegeanPiling the combers shoreward, and in heavenClouds flee the blast of the gale, so, before Turnus,The columns yield, the lines give way, and his onrushBears him along, and the wind of his going tossesThe nodding plume. And Phegeus tried to stop him,Flinging himself before the car, and grabbing,With his right hand, the bridle, twisting, wrenchingThe foaming jaws, and while he rode the yokeThe spear-point found his side uncovered, piercingThe mail with grazing wound, but Phegeus managedTo keep the shield before him and for safetyTried to keep coming forward—the drawn swordWould be the best protection, but the axleCaught him, the wheels went over him, and TurnusSwept by and the scythe of Turnus’ sword cut through himBetween the shield and helmet, and the bodyLay headless on the sand.While Turnus, winning,Slaughtered across the field of war, Achates,With Mnestheus at his side, and young Iulus,Brought back Aeneas to camp, bleeding and limping,Using the spear as crutch, struggling, in anger,To pull the barb from the wound; the shaft had broken.The thing to do, he tells them over and over,The quickest way would be to cut around it,Let the sword do the probing, find the spear-pointNo matter how deep it tries to hide, expose it,Get it out of there, and send him back to battle.And Iapyx came to help, the son of Iasus,Dearest beyond all others to ApolloWho once had offered him his arts, his powers,His augury, his lyre, the lore of arrows,But Iapyx made another choice; his father,It seemed, was dying, and he chose to save himThrough what Apollo had the power to offer,Knowledge of simples and the arts of healing,And so he chose the silent craft, inglorious.So there was Iapyx, trying to be helpful,Aeneas, leaning on his spear, and cursing,Indifferent to Iulus’ tears, and othersStanding around, and anxious. The old doctorTucked up his robe, compounded potent herbs,Applied them, fussed around, all to no purpose;Tried to extract the dart by hand, and then by forceps,—No luck at all: Apollo does not guide him,And more and more across the plains the horrorThickens, and evil nears. They see the skyStanding on dust; horsemen come on, and arrowsAre falling thick, and a mournful din arisesAs fighting men go down, with Mars relentless.Then Venus, shaken with a mother’s anguishOver a suffering son, from Cretan IdaPlucked dittany, a plant with downy leavesAnd crimson blossom: the wild goats know and use itAs cure for arrow-wounds. This herb the goddessBrought down, her presence veiled in cloud, and steeped itWith secret healing in the river-waterPoured in the shining caldrons, and she addedAmbrosia’s healing juice, and panacea,And agèd Iapyx washed the wound, unknowingThe virtues of that balm, and all the painSuddenly, and by magic, left the body;The blood was staunched, deep in the wound; the arrowDropped from the flesh, at the least touch; the heroFelt all his strength return. “Quick! Bring his weapons!”Iapyx cries out, the first to fire their spiritAgainst the foe, “Why are you standing there,What are you waiting for? These things have happenedBy more than mortal aid or master talent,It is not my hand, Aeneas, that has saved you,Some greater god is working here, to send youTo greater deeds.” Aeneas, eager for battle,Had the gold shin-guards on while he was talking,Makes the spear flash, impatient, gets the armorBuckled about the body, and the swordReady at the left side, and through the helmetStoops down to kiss Iulus:—“Learn, my son,What I can show you, valor and real labor:Learn about luck from others. Now my handWill be your shield in war, your guide to glory,To great rewards. When you are grown, remember;You will have models for your inspiration,Your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector.”So from the gates he rushed, a mighty warriorWielding a mighty spear, and all the columnCame pouring forth; Mnestheus, Antheus, others,Leave the forsaken camp. The dust is blindingOver the plain, the tramp of armies marchingMakes the earth tremble, and from the opposite hillsideTurnus and the Ausonians saw them comingAnd a cold chill ran through their bones; Juturna,Quicker than all the Latins, heard the sound,Knew it, and fled in terror. And AeneasRushed his dark column over open countryAs a cloud-burst sweeps to land across the oceanAnd farmers know it, far away, and shudderFearful and sure of ruin to woods and cornfield,And the winds fly on before the storm and heraldThe roaring sound to the shore; so, like a cloud-burst,Aeneas brings his armies on; they gather,Each company, at his side. Thymbraeus’ swordStrikes down Osiris; Mnestheus slays Arcetius;Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens.Tolumnius, that augur whose spear had brokenThe armistice, lies low. A shout arises:The Rutulians turn back in rout; the dust-cloudsFollow them over the field in flight. AeneasDisdains to kill retreating men, refusesAttack on such as face him; it is TurnusHe watches for, hunts through the gloom of battle,It is Turnus, Turnus only, whom he summons.And this Juturna knows, and in her panicShe flings Metiscus, charioteer of Turnus,Out of the car, far from the reins and axle,And takes his place, plying the supple reins,Calls with Metiscus’ voice, assumes his armor.As a dark swallow through a rich man’s mansionFlies winging through great halls, hunting for crumbsFor the young birds at home, and now chirps underThe empty courts, now over the quiet pool,Even so, Juturna, by the horses carried,Darts here and there, quarters the field, and proudlyMakes a great show of Turnus, her cheering brother,Yet never lets him close in fight or grapple,Forever wheeling and turning. But AeneasIs dogged in pursuit and loud in challenge.Whenever he sees that car, and runs to meet it,Juturna shifts the course. What can he do?Nothing, it seems, but boil in rage; one angerMakes conflict in his heart against another.Messapus comes against him; his left handHolds two tough lances, tipped with steel: advancing,He levels one, well-aimed; Aeneas crouchesOn one knee under the shield, but the spear, flying,Picks off the crested plume from the top of the helmet.Aeneas’ anger swells; this treachery rankles.Messapus’ chariot and steeds, withdrawing,Are far away. He has made appeal to JoveAnd the broken treaty’s altars all too often,And now he fights in earnest; Mars beside him,He rouses terrible carnage, giving angerFree rein: he makes no choice of opposition.What singer or what god could tell the storyOf all these deaths? Both Turnus and Aeneas,In turn, drive victims over all the plain.Jupiter willed it so, that mighty nations,Destined, in time, for everlasting friendship,Should meet in that great struggle. A Rutulian,Sucro, held off Aeneas for a little,And died more quickly, with the sword-point drivenThrough ribs’ protecting framework. Turnus metAmycus, and unsaddled him; his brother,Diores, fought on foot, and Turnus killed them,The one by spear, the one by sword; his chariotBore off their severed heads, blood dripping from them.Aeneas, in one charge, brought down three warriors,Talos and Tanais and brave Cethegus,And then one more, the sorrowful Onites,Whose mother was Peridia; and TurnusKilled brethren, Lycian born, and young MenoetesWho hated war, in vain, and once loved fishingIn Lerna’s rivers; his Arcadian dwellingHad been a cottage, and his father plantedLand that he did not own. Like fire through forestWhen underbrush is dry, and laurel crackles,Or like two mountain-torrents roaring seaward,Each leaving devastation, so AeneasAnd Turnus swept the battle, anger surging,Surging in those great hearts, swollen to bursting,Not knowing how to yield, all strength devotedTo death and wounds.There was a man, Murranus,Whose pride of ancestry was loud and boastful,Last of a line of Latin kings. AeneasBrought him to earth and laid him low; a stone,A mighty whirling rock served as the weapon,And under reins and under yoke the wheelsRolled him along, and over him the horsesTrampled in earth the lord they had forgotten.Hyllus rushed Turnus, and a javelin met himThrough the gold temple-band, and pierced the helmetAnd lodged there, in the brain. A brave man, Cretheus,Had no defense against the might of Turnus,And no god saved Cupencus from Aeneas,No shield of bronze delayed the speeding weapon.Aeolus fell, stretched on the plains, a heroToo powerful for all the Greek battalions,Whom even Achilles, overthrower of Troy,Could not bring down. He reached his goal of deathHere in Laurentum, a man whose home, Lyrnesus,Lay at the foot of Ida, but his tombWas on Italian soil. So all the linesTurned to the battle, Mnestheus, Serestus,Messapus, tamer of horses, brave Asilas,Etruscan columns and Evander’s squadrons,Latins and Trojans, all of them contendingWith all their might, no rest, no pause, no slacking.And now his goddess-mother sent AeneasA change of purpose, to direct his columnMore quickly toward the town, confuse the LatinsWith sudden onslaught. He was tracking TurnusHere, there, all up and down the columns, watching,Shifting his gaze, and so he saw that cityImmune from that fierce warfare, calm and peaceful.The vision of a greater fight comes to him:He calls Sergestus, Mnestheus, brave Serestus,And takes position on a mound; the TrojansCome massing toward him, shield and spear held ready.And as he stands above them, he gives the orders:—“Let there be no delay: great Jove is with us.Let no man go more slackly, though this ventureIs new and unexpected. That city yonder,The cause of war, the kingdom of Latinus,Unless they own our mastery, acknowledgeDefeat, declare obedience, I will topple,Level its smoking roof-tops to the ground.Or should I wait until it suits prince TurnusTo face the duel with me, and, once beaten,Consent to fight again? This is the head,O citizens, this the evil crown of warfare.Hurry, bring firebrands, win from fire the treaty!”His words inflame their zeal, and, all togetherThey form a wedge; a great mass moves to the wall,Ladders and sudden fire appear from nowhere;The guards at the gate are butchered; steel is flying,The sky is dark with arrows. Toward the cityAeneas lifts his hand, rebukes Latinus,Calling the gods to witness that his willWas not for battle, it was forced upon himBy the Italians, double treaty-breakers,His foes for now the second time. The townsmenQuarrel among themselves: “Open the town!”,Cry some, “Admit the Trojans!” and would dragThe king himself to the ramparts. Others hurryWith arms, man the defenses. When a shepherdTrails bees to their hive in the cleft of a rock and fills itWith smarting smoke, there is fright and noise and furyWithin the waxen camp, and anger sharpenedWith buzzing noises, and a black smell risesWith a blind sound, inside the rock, and rollingSmoke lifts to empty air.Now a new sorrowCame to the weary Latins, shook the cityTo its foundations, utterly. The queenHad seen the Trojans coming and the wallsUnder attack and fire along the gablesAnd no Rutulian column, nowhere TurnusComing to help. He had been killed, her hero,She knew at last. Her mind was gone; she criedOver and over:—“I am the guilty one,I am the cause, the source of all these evils!”And other wilder words. And then she toreHer crimson robes, and slung a noose and fastenedThe knot of an ugly death to the high rafter.The women learned it first, and then Lavinia:The wide hall rings with grief and lamentation;Nails scratch at lovely faces, beautiful hairIs torn from the head. And Rumor spreads the storyAll up and down the town, and poor Latinus,Rending his garments, comes and stares,—wife gone,And city falling, an old man’s hoary hairGreyer with bloody dust.And meanwhile TurnusOut on the plain pursues the stragglers, slowerAnd slower now, and less and less exultantIn his triumphant car. From the city comesA wind that bears a cry confused with terror,Half heard, but known,—confusion, darkness, sorrow,An uproar in the town. He checks the horses,Pauses and listens. And his sister prompts him:—“This way, this way! The Trojans run, we followWhere victory shows the path. Let others guardThe houses with their valor. The ItaliansFall in the fight before Aeneas. Let usSend death to the Trojans, in our turn. You will notCome off the worse, in numbers or in honor.”Turnus replies:—“O sister, I have known,A long while since, that you were no Metiscus,Since first you broke the treaty and joined the battle.No use pretending you are not a goddess.But who, from high Olympus, sent you downTo bear such labors? Was it to see your brotherIn pitiful cruel death? What am I doing,What chance will fortune grant me? I have seenA man I loved more than the rest, Murranus,A big man, slain by a big wound, go down.Ufens is fallen, lucky or unlucky,In that he never saw our shame; the TrojansHave won his body and arms. Our homes are burning,The one thing lacking up to now,—and shall IEndure this, not refute the words of DrancesWith this right hand? Shall I turn my back upon them?Is it so grim to die? Be kind, O shadows,Since the high gods have turned their favor from me.A decent spirit, undisgraced, no coward,I shall descend to you, never unworthyOf all my ancient line.”He had hardly spokenWhen a warrior, on foaming steed, came ridingThrough all the enemy. His name was Saces,And his face was badly wounded by an arrow.He called the name of Turnus, and implored him:—“We have no other hope; pity your people!Aeneas is a lightning-bolt; he threatensItaly’s topmost towers; he will bring them downIn ruins; even now the brands are flyingAlong the roof-tops. They look to you, the Latins,They look for you; and king Latinus mumblesIn doubt—who are his sons, who are his allies?The queen, who trusted you the most, has perishedBy her own hand, has fled the light in terror.Alone before the gates the brave AtinasAnd Messapus hold the line. Around them, squadronsCrowd close on either side, and the steel harvestBristles with pointed swords. And here is TurnusWheeling his car across a plain deserted.”Bewildered by disaster’s shifting image,Turnus is silent, staring; shame and sadnessBoil up in that great heart, and grief and loveDriven by frenzy. He shakes off the shadows;The light comes back to his mind. His eyes turn, blazing,From the wheels of the car to the walls of that great cityWhere the flame billowed upward, the roaring blastCatching a tower, one he himself had fashionedWith jointed beams and rollers and high gangways.“Fate is the winner now; keep out of my way,My sister: now I follow god and fortune.I am ready for Aeneas, ready to bearWhatever is bitter in death. No longer, sister,Shall I be shamed, and you behold me. Let me,Before the final madness, be a madman!”He bounded from the chariot, came rushingThrough spears, through enemies; his grieving sisterHe left behind, forgotten. As a boulderTorn from a mountain-top rolls headlong downward,Impelled by wind, or washed by storm, or loosenedBy time’s erosion, and comes down the hillsideA mass possessed of evil, leaping and bounding,And rolling with it men and trees and cattle,So, through the broken columns, Turnus rushesOn to the city, where the blood goes deepestInto the muddy ground, and the air whistlesWith flying spears. He makes a sudden gesture,Crying aloud:—“No more, no more, Rutulians!Hold back your weapons, Latins! Whatever fortuneThere may be here is mine. I am the one,Not you, to make the treaty good, to settleThe issue with the sword. That will be better.”They all made way and gave him room.Aeneas,Hearing the name of Turnus, leaves the city,Forsakes the lofty walls; he has no patienceWith any more delay, breaks off all projects,Exults, a terrible thunderer in armor,As huge as Athos, or as huge as Eryx,Or even father Apennine, that mountainRoaring above the oaks, and lifting highHis crown of shimmering trees and snowy crest.Now all men turned their eyes, Rutulians, Trojans,Italians, those who held the lofty ramparts,Those battering at the wall below; their shouldersWere eased of armor now. And king LatinusCould hardly, in amazement, trust his sensesSeeing these two big men, born worlds apartMeeting to make decision with the sword.The plain was cleared, and they came rushing forward,Hurling, far off, their spears; the fight is on,The bronze shields clang and ring. Earth gives a groan.The swords strike hard and often; luck and courageAre blent in one. And as on mighty SilaOr on Taburnus’ mountain, when two bullocksCharge into fight head-on, and trembling herdsmenFall back in fear, and the herd is dumb with terror,And heifers, hardly lowing, stare and wonderWhich one will rule the woodland, which one the herdWill follow meekly after, and all the timeThey gore each other with savage horns, and shouldersAnd necks and ribs run streams of blood, and bellowingFills all the woodland,—even so, AeneasAnd Daunus’ son clash shield on shield; the clamorFills heaven. And Jupiter holds the scales in balanceWith each man’s destiny as weight and counter,And one the heavier under the doom of death.Confident, Turnus, rising to the swordFull height, is a flash of light; he strikes. The Trojans,The Latins, cry aloud and come up standing.But the sword is treacherous; it is broken offWith the blow half spent: the fire of Turnus findsNo help except in flight. Swift as the windHe goes, and stares at a broken blade, a handUnarmed. The story is that in that hurry,That rush of his, to arms, when the steeds were harnessed,He took Metiscus’ sword, not the one DaunusHad left him. For a while it served its purposeWhile the Trojans ran away, but when it metThe armor Vulcan forged, the mortal bladeSplit off, like brittle ice, with glittering splintersLike ice on the yellow sand. So Turnus fliesMadly across the plain in devious circles:The Trojans ring him round, and a swamp on one side,High walls on the other.Aeneas, the pursuer,Is none too swift: the arrow has left him hurt;His knees give way, but he keeps on, keeps comingAfter the panting enemy, as a hound,Running a stag to bay, at the edge of the waterOr hedged by crimson plumes, darts in, and barks,And snaps his jaws, closes and grips, is shakenOff from the flanks again, and once more closes,And a great noise goes up the air; the watersResound, and the whole sky thunders with the clamor.Turnus has time, even in flight, for callingLoud to Rutulians, each by name, demanding,In terrible rage, the sword, the sword, the good one,The one he knows. Let anybody bring it,Aeneas threatens, and death and doom await him,And the town will be a ruin. Wounded, stillHe presses on. They go in five great circles,Around and back: no game, with silly prizes,Are they playing now; the life and blood of TurnusGo to the winner.A wild olive-treeStood here, with bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus,Revered by rescued sailors, who used to offerEx-votos to the native gods, their garmentsIn token of gratitude. For this the TrojansCared nothing, lopped the branches off to clearThe run of the field. Aeneas’ spear had fastenedDeep in the trunk where the force of the cast had brought it,Stuck in the grip of the root. Aeneas, stooping,Yanks at the shaft; he cannot equal TurnusIn speed of foot but the javelin is wingèd.And Turnus, in a terrible moment of panic,Cries:—“Faunus, pity me, and Earth, most kindly,If ever I was reverent, as AeneasAnd those he leads have not been, hold the steel,Do not let go!” He prayed, and he was answered.Aeneas tugged and wrestled, pulled and hauled,But the wood held on. And, while he strained, JuturnaRushed forward, once again Metiscus’ double,With the good sword for her brother. Then Venus, angryOver such wanton interference, entersAnd the root yields. The warriors, towering high,Each one renewed in spirit, one with sword,One with the spear, both breathing hard, are readyFor what Mars has to send.And Juno, gazingFrom a golden cloud to earth, watching the duel,Heard the all-powerful king of high Olympus:—“What will the end be now, O wife? What elseRemains? You know, and you admit you know it,Aeneas is heaven-destined, the native heroBecome a god, raised by the fates, exalted.What are you planning? with what hope lingering onIn the cold clouds? Was it proper that a mortalShould wound a god? that the sword, once lost, be givenTurnus again?—Juturna, of course, is nothingWithout your help—was it proper that the beatenIncrease in violence? Stop it now, I tell you;Listen to my entreaties: I would not have youDevoured by grief in silence; I would not have youBring me, again, anxiety and sorrow,However sweet the voice. The end has come.To harry the Trojans over land and ocean,To light up war unspeakable, to defileA home with grief, to mingle bridal and sorrow,—All this you were permitted. Go no farther!That is an absolute order.” And Juno, downcastIn gaze, replied:—“Great Jove, I knew your pleasure:And therefore, much against my will, left Turnus,Left earth. Were it not so, you would not see meLonely upon my airy throne in heaven,Enduring things both worthy and unworthy,But I would be down there, by flame surrounded,Fighting in the front ranks, and hauling TrojansTo battle with their enemies. Juturna,I urged, I own, to help her wretched brother,And I approved, I own, her greater daringFor his life’s sake, but I did not approve,And this I swear by Styx, that river whose nameBinds all the gods to truth, her taking weapons,Aiming the bow. I give up now, I leaveThese battles, though I hate to. I ask one favorFor Latium, for the greatness of your people,And this no law of fate forbids: when, later,And be it so, they join in peace, and settleTheir laws, their treaties, in a blessèd marriage,Do not command the Latins, native-born,To change their language, to be known as Trojans,To alter speech or garb; let them be Latium,Let Alban kings endure through all the ages,Let Roman stock, strong in Italian valor,Prevail: since Troy has fallen, let her namePerish and be forgotten.” Smiling on her,The great creator answered:—“You are trulyTrue sister of Jove and child of Saturn, nursingSuch tides of anger in the heart! Forget it!Abate the rise of passion. The wish is granted.I yield, and more than that,—I share your purpose.Ausonians shall keep their old tradition,Their fathers’ speech and ways; their name shall beEven as now it is. Their sacred laws,Their ritual, I shall add, and make all LatinsMen of a common tongue. A race shall riseAll-powerful, of mingled blood; you will see themBy virtue of devotion rise to gloriesNot men nor gods have known, and no race everWill pay you equal honor.” And the goddessGave her assent, was happy, changed her purpose,Left heaven and quit the cloud.This done, the fatherFormed yet another purpose, that JuturnaShould leave her fighting brother. There are, men say,Twin fiends, or triple, sisters named the Furies,Daughters of Night, with snaky coils, and pinionsLike those of wind. They are attendant spiritsBefore the throne of Jove and whet the fearsOf sickly mortals, when the king of heavenContrives disease or dreadful death, or frightensThe guilty towns in war. Now he dispatchesOne of the three to earth, to meet Juturna,An omen visible; and so from heavenShe flew with whirlwind swiftness, like an arrowThrough cloud from bowstring, armed with gall or poison,Loosed from a Parthian quiver, cleaving shadowsSwifter than man may know, a shaft no powerHas power of healing over:—so Night’s daughterCame down to earth, and when she saw the TrojansAnd Turnus’ columns, she dwindled, all of a sudden,To the shape of that small bird, which, in the night-time,Shrills its late song, ill-omened, on the roof-topsOr over tombs, insistent through the darkness.And so the fiend, the little screech-owl, flyingAt Turnus, over and over, shrilled in warning,Beating the wings against the shield, and TurnusFelt a strange torpor seize his limbs, and terrorMade his hair rise, and his voice could find no utterance.But when, far off, Juturna knew the FuryBy whir of those dread wings, she tore her tresses,Clawed at her face, and beat her breast, all anguishOver her brother:—“What can a sister doTo help you now, poor Turnus? What remainsFor me to bear? I have borne so much already.What skill of mine can make the daylight longerIn your dark hour? Can I face such a portent?Now, now, I leave the battle-line forever.Foul birds, I fear enough; haunt me no further,I know that beat of the wings, that deadly whirring;I recognize, too well, Jove’s arrogant orders,His payment for my maidenhood. He gave meEternal life, but why? Why has he takenThe right of death away from me? I might haveEnded my anguish, surely, with my brother’s,Gone, at his side, among the fearful shadows,But, no,—I am immortal. What is left meOf any possible joy, without my brother?What earth can open deep enough to take me,A goddess, to the lowest shades?” The mantle,Grey-colored, veiled her head, and the goddess, sighing,Sank deep from sight to the greyness of the river.And on Aeneas presses: the flashing spear,Brandished, is big as a tree; his anger cries:—“Why put it off forever, Turnus, hang-dog?We must fight with arms, not running. Take what shapeYou will, gather your strength or craft; fly upTo the high stars, or bury yourself in earth!”And Turnus shook his head and answered:—“Jove,Being my enemy, scares me, and the gods,Not your hot words, fierce fellow.” And his vision,Glancing about, beheld a mighty boulder,A boundary-mark, in days of old, so hugeA dozen men in our degenerate eraCould hardly pry it loose from earth, but TurnusLifts it full height, hurls it full speed and, acting.Seems not to recognize himself, in running,Or moving, or lifting his hands, or letting the stoneFly into space; he shakes at the knees, his bloodRuns chill in the veins, and the stone, through wide air going,Falls short, falls spent. As in our dreams at night-time,When sleep weighs down our eyes, we seem to be running,Or trying to run, and cannot, and we falter,Sick in our failure, and the tongue is thickAnd the words we try to utter come to nothing,No voice, no speech,—so Turnus finds the wayBlocked off, wherever he turns, however bravely.All sorts of things go through his mind: he staresAt the Rutulians, at the town; he trembles,Quails at the threat of the lance; he cannot seeAny way out, any way forward. Nothing.The chariot is gone, and the charioteer,Juturna or Metiscus, nowhere near him.The spear, flung by Aeneas, comes with a whirLouder than stone from any engine, louderThan thunderbolt; like a black wind it flies,Bringing destruction with it, through the shield-rim,Its sevenfold strength, through armor, through the thigh.Turnus is down, on hands and knees, huge TurnusStruck to the earth. Groaning, the stunned RutuliansRise to their feet, and the whole hill resounds,The wooded heights give echo. A suppliant, beaten,Humbled at last, his hands reach out, his voiceIs low in pleading:—“I have deserved it, surely,And I do not beg off. Use the advantage.But if a parent’s grief has any powerTo touch the spirit, I pray you, pity Daunus,(I would Anchises), send him back my body.You have won; I am beaten, and these hands go outIn supplication: everyone has seen it.No more. I have lost Lavinia. Let hatredProceed no further.”Fierce in his arms, with darting glance, AeneasPaused for a moment, and he might have weakened,For the words had moved him, when, high on the shoulder,He saw the belt of Pallas, slain by Turnus,Saw Pallas on the ground, and Turnus wearingThat belt with the bright studs, of evil omenNot only to Pallas now, a sad reminder,A deadly provocation. TerribleIn wrath, Aeneas cries:—“Clad in this treasure,This trophy of a comrade, can you cherishHope that my hands would let you go? Now Pallas,Pallas exacts his vengeance, and the blowIs Pallas, making sacrifice!” He struckBefore he finished speaking: the blade went deepAnd Turnus’ limbs were cold in death; the spiritWent with a moan indignant to the shadows.

As Turnus saw the Latins failing, broken,With Mars against them, and all eyes upon himAwaiting the fulfillment of his promise,He burned with wrath, implacable, and liftedHis spirit high, as in the fields of CarthageA lion, sorely wounded by the hunters,Fights harder for the hurt, the happier for it.And the mane rises on the neck and shoulders,And the jaws break off the weapon, and the bloody mouthRoars out defiance, even so in TurnusThe violent spirit raged. He spoke to the kingIn angry words:—“Turnus won’t keep them waiting;No reason for these cowards to renounceTheir bargain. Start the holy ritual, father,Arrange the terms. I go to meet the Trojan;Let the Latins sit and watch it if they want to,And this right arm will send him down to Hell,The renegade from Asia. I aloneAnswer the argument that calls us cowards,I, with one single sword. Or we are beatenAnd he takes Lavinia home.”

Latinus answeredWith quiet in his heart:—“O youth, distinguishedAbove them all in spirit, the more your courageRises to fierceness, the more I find it needfulTo take slow counsel, to balance every hazard.You have the kingdom of your father Daunus,And many a captured town; and I, Latinus,Lack neither gold nor spirit. In our countryThere are other girls, unwed, and not ignoble.Let me say this—I know it is not easy—As frankly as I can, and listen to me:It was not right for me to give my daughterTo any of her former native suitors,And gods and men so prophesied. I loved you,Turnus, and I gave in: we are relatedBy blood, I know, and when Amata sorrowed,I broke off every bond, cancelled the promise,Took up unholy arms. From that day, Turnus,You see what wars pursue me, and what dangers,What sufferings you, above all men, submit to.We have been beaten twice in a great battleAnd now we hold, just barely, in our cityThe hopes of Italy. The streams of TiberAre warm with blood of ours, and the broad fieldsWhite with our bones. In what directionDo I keep turning, back and forth? What madnessChanges my purpose? If, with Turnus dead,I stand prepared to join them to me as allies,Why not, while he still lives, break off the conflict?What will they say, all your Rutulian kinsmen,All Italy, if I (may fortune keepThe word I say from coming true!) betray youTo death, the suitor of my only daughter?Consider war’s uncertainties, and pityYour aged father, far from us and grievingIn Ardea, his homeland.” The king’s appealMoved Turnus not at all; his temper worsened,Was aggravated by the attempt at healing.He managed, with an effort, to say something:—“Most kindly father, the care you have for meLay down, for my sake; let me have permissionTo trade death for renown. I too, dear father,Toss no mean dart, swing no mean sword, and bloodFollows the wounds I give. His goddess-motherWill not be there, this time, to hide him, runningTo the folds of her gown and cloud and empty shadows.”

But Queen Amata, sick and almost dyingFrom fear of the new battle-chance, was weeping;He was the son she wanted; she would not let himRisk that heroic life, and, clinging to him,She made her plea:—“Turnus, our only hope,Our only comfort in our sad old age,The pride and honor of Latinus’ kingdomRest in your keeping, and our sinking houseDepends on you to shore it up from ruin.If tears of mine can move you, if my daughterMerits the least devotion, I implore you,I beg one favor: do not fight the Trojan!Whatever danger waits you in that duelAwaits me also, Turnus; I shall leaveThe hateful light when you do, I shall neverBe such a captive as to see AeneasCome to my home as son-in-law.” LaviniaListened and wept and blushed, her maiden featuresSuffused with color, as the stain of crimsonAdds hue to Indian ivory, or liliesLose something of their whiteness, mixed with roses.And Turnus, troubled enough, was troubled furtherWatching the girl, and burned the more for battle,And spoke, however briefly, to Amata:—“Do not, O mother, follow me with tearsOr any such omen as I go to battle.Turnus can not delay his death.” He turnedTo Idmon, then, and told him:—“Be my herald:Deliver to that Phrygian usurperThese words from me—I know that he will hate them—When dawn to-morrow, riding in the heavenIn crimson chariot, glows and reddens, let himHold back his Trojans, let their weapons and oursHave rest, let us end the war, two of us only;There let Lavinia be sought, her husbandThe victor on that field!”

And he went homeTo his own quarters, hurrying, demandingHis horses, given Pilumnus by Orithyia,Whiter than snow, swifter than wind. And he was happyLooking at them, all spirit, as they nickeredSeeing their master. The drivers stood about them,Grooming the manes, patting the chests. And TurnusFits to his shoulders the stiff coat of armor,The gold, the bronze, and tests the readinessOf sword and shield and the horns of the ruddy crestVulcan had made the sword for Daunus, metalGlowing white-hot and plunged in Stygian water.The spear stood leaning on a mighty pillarIn the great hall, a trophy won from Actor;He seized it poised it, shook it, cried aloud:—“Be with me now, good spear that never failed me!The time has come. Let me lay low that body,Let my tough hands rip off his coat of armor,Let me shove that eunuch’s crimped and perfumed tressesDeep in the dust!” So he was driven by fury,Sparks leaping from his countenance, and fireFlashing at every glance; he is like a bullBellowing before battle, charging tree-trunksTo get the anger into his horns, head loweredAs if to gore the winds, and pawing sand.And in the other camp Aeneas, likewise,Fierce in the arms his mother brought from Vulcan,Sharpens his fighting spirit and rejoicesThat the war’s end is near through this agreement.He comforts comrades, reassures Iulus,Sad in his fear, tells them the fates, and ordersDefinite answer brought to King LatinusWith proper terms of armistice.

And dawnHad scarcely touched the mountain-tops with lightAnd the Sun-god’s horses risen from the ocean,When Trojans and Rutulians left the cityAnd came to the great plain, the field of combat,Under the walls, and in the midst erectedThe hearths and altars for their common gods.Others, their temples bound with holy vervain,Veiled with the sacred robes, brought fire and water.Through the full gates the Ausonian host came streaming,And from the other side, Trojans, Etruscans,Harnessed in steel, as if a battle called them,With leaders flashing there, amid their thousands,Brilliant in gold and purple, brave Asilas,Mnestheus, Assaracus’ high-souled descendant,Messapus, tamer of horses, son of Neptune.Each, at a signal, found his post; the spearsWere fixed in the earth, and the shields rested on them.Then came the mothers in their eagerness,And the unarmed throng, and the weak old men, all crowdingTowers and house-tops, or standing by the portals.

But Juno, from the summit now called Alban,Nameless in those days, lacking fame and glory,Looked over the plain, the lines of Latin and Trojan,The city of Latinus, and she turned,A goddess to a goddess, to Juturna,Sister of Turnus, guardian of still poolsAnd sounding rivers; Jupiter had givenThis honor to her, for the honor taken,The lost virginity. Juno addressed her:—“O glory of the rivers, dear Juturna,You know you are the only one I have favoredOf all the Latin girls who have made their wayTo great-souled Jove’s ungrateful couch; I gave you,Gladly, a place in Heaven; learn, Juturna,A sorrow of yours; do not reproach me for it.Where fortune seemed to grant it, and the FatesLet things go well for Latium, I protectedYour brother and your city. Now I see himFaced with unequal destiny. The dayOf doom and enemy violence draws near.I cannot watch this battle and this treaty;You, it may be, have in you greater daring,Resourceful for your brother’s sake. Go on;That much is only decent. Happier fortunesWill follow the unfortunate, if only—”

As she broke off, Juturna wept; her handStruck thrice, four times, her lovely breast. And JunoCried:—“This is not the time for tears, Juturna!Hurry; and if there is some way to save him,Snatch him from death; or stir up war, break offThe covenant: be daring—you are grantedAuthority from Juno!” And she left herDoubtful and suffering, with wounded spirit.

Meanwhile, the kings were riding forth, LatinusImposing in his four-horse car, his foreheadGleaming with twelve gold rays of light, the symbolOf his ancestral Sun, and Turnus comingBehind a snow-white team, and Turnus’ handBrandishing spears with two broad heads of steel.And on this side, burning with starry shieldAnd arms from Heaven, came Aeneas, fatherOf Rome to be, and from the camp Iulus,The second hope of Roman greatness, followed.In robes immaculate, the priest was waitingBeside the blazing altars, swine and oxenAnd sheep, unshorn, ready for sacrifice,And the leaders faced the rising sun, and sprinkledThe salted meal, and marked the victims’ foreheadsWith knives that took the holy lock, and pouredLibations on the altars, and Aeneas,Drawing his sword, made prayer:—“Sun, be my witness,And Earth be witness to me in my praying,This Earth, for whom I have been able to bearSuch toil and suffering, Almighty Father,Queen Juno, now, I pray, a kinder goddess,Be witness, and Mars, renownèd god of battles,Rivers and Fountains, too, I call, and PowersOf lofty Heaven and deep blue ocean, witness:If victory comes to Turnus, the Trojans, beaten,Go to Evander’s city, and IulusWill quit these lands forever, and hereafterNo son or follower of Aeneas everWill rise again in warfare, or with swordAttack these kingdoms. But if Victory grants us,As I expect, and may the gods confirm it,To win the battle, I will not have ItaliansBe subject to the Trojans; I crave no kingdom,Not for myself: let both, unbeaten nations,On equal terms enter eternal concord.I will establish gods and ceremonial;My sire, Latinus, keep his arms, his sceptre.The Trojans will build walls for me; LaviniaShall give the city her name.”

And so AeneasMade solemn pledge, and after him Latinus,Lifting his eyes to heaven, and outstretchingHis right hand to the stars, confirmed the treaty:—“By these same Powers I swear, Aeneas, by Earth,Sea, Stars, Latona’s offspring, two-faced Janus,The power of the world below, and Pluto’s altars;May the Almighty Father, who sanctions treatiesWith lightning, hear my words: I touch the altars,I call these fires and presences to witness:No day shall break this peace, this pact, Italians,However things befall; no force shall turn meFrom this intention, not if the force of delugeConfounded land and water, Heaven and Hell.Even as this sceptre” (and he gestured with it)“Shall never bloom with leaf in branch or shadow,Once it has left its forest-trunk, its mother,And lost to steel its foliage, a treeNo more, when once the artist’s hand has edged itWith proper bronze, for Latin sires to carry.”So they affirmed the covenant, in sightOf leaders and people, and duly, over the flame,Made sacrifice of victims, and tore outThe entrails while the beasts yet lived, and loadedThe altars high with offerings.

But more and moreRutulian hearts were wavering; the fightBegan to seem unequal, and they stirred,Shifted and doubted. And Turnus moved them strangely,Coming on silent footstep to the altar,Looking down humbly, with a meek devotion,Cheeks drawn and pale. Juturna heard the whispers,The muttered talk, and sensed the stir in the crowd,And suddenly plunged into their midst, disguisedAs Camers, noble in birth and brave in arms, and sonOf a brave father. She knew what she was doing,Putting the fuel of rumor on the fire,And crying:—“Are you not ashamed, Rutulians,That one should be exposed for all this army?In strength, in numbers, are we not their equal?Here they all are, the Trojans, the Arcadians,The Etruscans, all the lot of them: and weAre almost twice as many; man to man,Two against one! But no: we are willing to let himRise to the skies on deathless praise; the godsReceive him, by his own decision bound,An offering at their altars, and we sit hereSluggish as stone on ground, our country lost,Ready to bow to any arrogant master.”They are moved; at least the young are, and a murmurRuns through the ranks: the Latins and LaurentiansAre ripe for change. Rest from the war, and safetyCount less than arms. They want the treaty broken,They pity Turnus. It’s not fair, this bargain.And now Juturna adds a greater warning,A sign from heaven, and nothing could have stirred themWith more immediate impetus to folly.For, flying through the sky, an eagle, orangeIn the red light, was bearing down, pursuingThe birds along the shore, and they were noisyIn desperate flight, and the eagle struck, and the talonsSeized the conspicuous swan. And as the ItaliansLooked up in fascination, all the birds,Most wonderful to tell, wheeled, and their outcryClanged, and their wings were a dark cloud in heaven,A cloud that drove their enemy before them,Till, beaten down by force, by weight, the eagleFaltered, let go the prey, which fell to the riverAs the great bird flew far to the distant clouds.This omen the Rutulians cheered with shouting,With hands that cry for action. And their augur,Tolumnius, roused them further:—“I have prayedOften for this, and here it is! I own it,I recognize the gods. With me as leader,With me, I say, take arms, unhappy people,Whom, like frail birds, the insolent marauderFrightens in war, despoils your shores. He alsoWill take to flight, far to the distant oceans.Combine, come massing on, defend in battleThe king snatched from you!”

He went rushing forward,Let fly his spear: the whistling shaft of cornelSang its determined way through air, and with itA mighty shout arose, formations broken,Hearts hot for battle, as the spear went flying.Nine handsome brothers, their mother a Tuscan woman,Good wife to the Arcadian Gylippus,Stood in its path, and one of them, distinguishedIn looks and gleaming armor, fell; the spear-pointStruck where the belt was buckled over the bellyAnd went on through the ribs. The brothers, angry,Grieving, drew swords, or picked up spears in frenzy,Went blindly rushing in, and the Latin columnsCame charging at them; from their side the Trojans,Men from Agylla, brightly-armed Arcadians,Poured in a rushing flood. One passion held them,—Decide it with the sword!They strip the altars,The sky is dark, it seems, with a storm of weapons,The iron rain is a deluge. Bowls and hearth-firesAre carried off; Latinus flees: the godsAre beaten, the treaty ruined by corruption.Other men rein their chariots, leap on horses,Come with drawn swords.

Messapus, most eagerTo break the truce, rides down a king, Aulestes,Wearing the emblem of a Tuscan monarch.Staggering backward from that charge, and reeling,He falls upon the altars, there behind him,Comes down on head and shoulders. And like fireMessapus flashes toward him, spear in hand,And, from the horse, strikes heavily down; the spearIs like a plunging beam. For all his pleadingAulestes hears no more than this:—“He has it!Here is a better victim for the altars!”His limbs are warm as the Italians rob them.Ebysus aims a blow at CorynaeusWho snatches up a firebrand from the altarAnd thrusts it in his face, and his beard blazesWith a smell of fire. And Corynaeus follows,Clutches the hair with the left hand, and grounds himWith knee-thrust; the relentless steel goes home.And Podalirius, sword in hand, looms overThe shepherd Alsus, rushing through the weaponsIn the front line, but Alsus, arm drawn back,Swings the axe forward, cleaving chin and forehead,Drenching the armor with blood. An iron slumberSeals Podalirius’ eyes; they close foreverIn everlasting night.

But good Aeneas,Head bare, holds out his hand, unarmed, calls loudlyIn hope to check his men:—“Where are you rushing?What sudden brawl is rising? Control your anger!The treaty is made, and all the terms agreed on,The fight my right alone. Let me take over;Lay down your fear: this hand will prove the treaty,Making it sure. These rites owe Turnus to me.”And even as he cried, an arrow flewWinging against him; no one knew the handThat turned it loose with whirlwind force; if manOr god, nobody knew; and no man boastedOf having been the one to wound Aeneas.

And Turnus saw him leave the field, and captainsAnd ranks confused, and burned with sudden spirit.He is hopeful now; he calls for arms, for horses,Leaps proudly into his chariot, plies the reins,Drives fiercely, gives to death many brave heroes,Rolls many, half alive, under the wheels,Crushes the columns under his car, and showersSpear after spear at men who try to flee him.Even as Mars, along the icy Hebrus,In blood-red fury thunders with his shieldAnd rousing war gives rein to his wild horsesFaster than winds over the open plainAs Thrace groans under their gallop, and around himBlack Terror’s forms are driven, and Rage, and Ambush,Attendants on the god,—with equal frenzySo Turnus rages through the midst of battle,Lashing the steeds that steam with sweat, and killingAnd riding down the slain; the swift hooves spatterA bloody dew and the sand they pound is bloody.He has given Sthenelus to death, and Pholus,And Thamyrus, by spear or sword, close in,Far off, no matter; Glaucus also, Lades,Imbrasus’ sons, from Lycia, where their fatherReared them and gave them either kind of armor,For fighting hand to hand, on foot, or mountedOn chargers swift as wind.

Elsewhere EumedesComes riding to the battle, son of Dolon,Named after Dolon’s father, and in daringTrue son of Dolon, who claimed Achilles’ chariotFor spying on the Grecian camp, and went thereAnd Diomedes paid him for his daringWith somewhat different tokens, so that DolonNo longer craved the horses of Achilles.And Turnus saw that son of his, Eumedes,Far on the open plain, and overtook himWith the light javelin, through long emptiness,And stopped his horses, and leaped down, and landedOn a man fallen, half-alive, and stood there,Foot on Eumedes’ neck, twisted the swordFrom Eumedes’ right hand, and changed its silverTo red, deep in Eumedes’ throat, and told him:—“Lie down there, Trojan; measure off the acresYou sought in war! Any who dare attack meAre paid rewards like these; they build their wallsOn such foundations!” He flung the spear and brought himCompanions in his death, Asbytes, Chloreus,Thersilochus and Sybaris and DaresAnd finally Thymoetes, slain on horseback.As the north wind roars over the deep AegeanPiling the combers shoreward, and in heavenClouds flee the blast of the gale, so, before Turnus,The columns yield, the lines give way, and his onrushBears him along, and the wind of his going tossesThe nodding plume. And Phegeus tried to stop him,Flinging himself before the car, and grabbing,With his right hand, the bridle, twisting, wrenchingThe foaming jaws, and while he rode the yokeThe spear-point found his side uncovered, piercingThe mail with grazing wound, but Phegeus managedTo keep the shield before him and for safetyTried to keep coming forward—the drawn swordWould be the best protection, but the axleCaught him, the wheels went over him, and TurnusSwept by and the scythe of Turnus’ sword cut through himBetween the shield and helmet, and the bodyLay headless on the sand.

While Turnus, winning,Slaughtered across the field of war, Achates,With Mnestheus at his side, and young Iulus,Brought back Aeneas to camp, bleeding and limping,Using the spear as crutch, struggling, in anger,To pull the barb from the wound; the shaft had broken.The thing to do, he tells them over and over,The quickest way would be to cut around it,Let the sword do the probing, find the spear-pointNo matter how deep it tries to hide, expose it,Get it out of there, and send him back to battle.And Iapyx came to help, the son of Iasus,Dearest beyond all others to ApolloWho once had offered him his arts, his powers,His augury, his lyre, the lore of arrows,But Iapyx made another choice; his father,It seemed, was dying, and he chose to save himThrough what Apollo had the power to offer,Knowledge of simples and the arts of healing,And so he chose the silent craft, inglorious.So there was Iapyx, trying to be helpful,Aeneas, leaning on his spear, and cursing,Indifferent to Iulus’ tears, and othersStanding around, and anxious. The old doctorTucked up his robe, compounded potent herbs,Applied them, fussed around, all to no purpose;Tried to extract the dart by hand, and then by forceps,—No luck at all: Apollo does not guide him,And more and more across the plains the horrorThickens, and evil nears. They see the skyStanding on dust; horsemen come on, and arrowsAre falling thick, and a mournful din arisesAs fighting men go down, with Mars relentless.

Then Venus, shaken with a mother’s anguishOver a suffering son, from Cretan IdaPlucked dittany, a plant with downy leavesAnd crimson blossom: the wild goats know and use itAs cure for arrow-wounds. This herb the goddessBrought down, her presence veiled in cloud, and steeped itWith secret healing in the river-waterPoured in the shining caldrons, and she addedAmbrosia’s healing juice, and panacea,And agèd Iapyx washed the wound, unknowingThe virtues of that balm, and all the painSuddenly, and by magic, left the body;The blood was staunched, deep in the wound; the arrowDropped from the flesh, at the least touch; the heroFelt all his strength return. “Quick! Bring his weapons!”Iapyx cries out, the first to fire their spiritAgainst the foe, “Why are you standing there,What are you waiting for? These things have happenedBy more than mortal aid or master talent,It is not my hand, Aeneas, that has saved you,Some greater god is working here, to send youTo greater deeds.” Aeneas, eager for battle,Had the gold shin-guards on while he was talking,Makes the spear flash, impatient, gets the armorBuckled about the body, and the swordReady at the left side, and through the helmetStoops down to kiss Iulus:—“Learn, my son,What I can show you, valor and real labor:Learn about luck from others. Now my handWill be your shield in war, your guide to glory,To great rewards. When you are grown, remember;You will have models for your inspiration,Your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector.”

So from the gates he rushed, a mighty warriorWielding a mighty spear, and all the columnCame pouring forth; Mnestheus, Antheus, others,Leave the forsaken camp. The dust is blindingOver the plain, the tramp of armies marchingMakes the earth tremble, and from the opposite hillsideTurnus and the Ausonians saw them comingAnd a cold chill ran through their bones; Juturna,Quicker than all the Latins, heard the sound,Knew it, and fled in terror. And AeneasRushed his dark column over open countryAs a cloud-burst sweeps to land across the oceanAnd farmers know it, far away, and shudderFearful and sure of ruin to woods and cornfield,And the winds fly on before the storm and heraldThe roaring sound to the shore; so, like a cloud-burst,Aeneas brings his armies on; they gather,Each company, at his side. Thymbraeus’ swordStrikes down Osiris; Mnestheus slays Arcetius;Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens.Tolumnius, that augur whose spear had brokenThe armistice, lies low. A shout arises:The Rutulians turn back in rout; the dust-cloudsFollow them over the field in flight. AeneasDisdains to kill retreating men, refusesAttack on such as face him; it is TurnusHe watches for, hunts through the gloom of battle,It is Turnus, Turnus only, whom he summons.

And this Juturna knows, and in her panicShe flings Metiscus, charioteer of Turnus,Out of the car, far from the reins and axle,And takes his place, plying the supple reins,Calls with Metiscus’ voice, assumes his armor.As a dark swallow through a rich man’s mansionFlies winging through great halls, hunting for crumbsFor the young birds at home, and now chirps underThe empty courts, now over the quiet pool,Even so, Juturna, by the horses carried,Darts here and there, quarters the field, and proudlyMakes a great show of Turnus, her cheering brother,Yet never lets him close in fight or grapple,Forever wheeling and turning. But AeneasIs dogged in pursuit and loud in challenge.Whenever he sees that car, and runs to meet it,Juturna shifts the course. What can he do?Nothing, it seems, but boil in rage; one angerMakes conflict in his heart against another.Messapus comes against him; his left handHolds two tough lances, tipped with steel: advancing,He levels one, well-aimed; Aeneas crouchesOn one knee under the shield, but the spear, flying,Picks off the crested plume from the top of the helmet.Aeneas’ anger swells; this treachery rankles.Messapus’ chariot and steeds, withdrawing,Are far away. He has made appeal to JoveAnd the broken treaty’s altars all too often,And now he fights in earnest; Mars beside him,He rouses terrible carnage, giving angerFree rein: he makes no choice of opposition.

What singer or what god could tell the storyOf all these deaths? Both Turnus and Aeneas,In turn, drive victims over all the plain.Jupiter willed it so, that mighty nations,Destined, in time, for everlasting friendship,Should meet in that great struggle. A Rutulian,Sucro, held off Aeneas for a little,And died more quickly, with the sword-point drivenThrough ribs’ protecting framework. Turnus metAmycus, and unsaddled him; his brother,Diores, fought on foot, and Turnus killed them,The one by spear, the one by sword; his chariotBore off their severed heads, blood dripping from them.Aeneas, in one charge, brought down three warriors,Talos and Tanais and brave Cethegus,And then one more, the sorrowful Onites,Whose mother was Peridia; and TurnusKilled brethren, Lycian born, and young MenoetesWho hated war, in vain, and once loved fishingIn Lerna’s rivers; his Arcadian dwellingHad been a cottage, and his father plantedLand that he did not own. Like fire through forestWhen underbrush is dry, and laurel crackles,Or like two mountain-torrents roaring seaward,Each leaving devastation, so AeneasAnd Turnus swept the battle, anger surging,Surging in those great hearts, swollen to bursting,Not knowing how to yield, all strength devotedTo death and wounds.

There was a man, Murranus,Whose pride of ancestry was loud and boastful,Last of a line of Latin kings. AeneasBrought him to earth and laid him low; a stone,A mighty whirling rock served as the weapon,And under reins and under yoke the wheelsRolled him along, and over him the horsesTrampled in earth the lord they had forgotten.Hyllus rushed Turnus, and a javelin met himThrough the gold temple-band, and pierced the helmetAnd lodged there, in the brain. A brave man, Cretheus,Had no defense against the might of Turnus,And no god saved Cupencus from Aeneas,No shield of bronze delayed the speeding weapon.Aeolus fell, stretched on the plains, a heroToo powerful for all the Greek battalions,Whom even Achilles, overthrower of Troy,Could not bring down. He reached his goal of deathHere in Laurentum, a man whose home, Lyrnesus,Lay at the foot of Ida, but his tombWas on Italian soil. So all the linesTurned to the battle, Mnestheus, Serestus,Messapus, tamer of horses, brave Asilas,Etruscan columns and Evander’s squadrons,Latins and Trojans, all of them contendingWith all their might, no rest, no pause, no slacking.

And now his goddess-mother sent AeneasA change of purpose, to direct his columnMore quickly toward the town, confuse the LatinsWith sudden onslaught. He was tracking TurnusHere, there, all up and down the columns, watching,Shifting his gaze, and so he saw that cityImmune from that fierce warfare, calm and peaceful.The vision of a greater fight comes to him:He calls Sergestus, Mnestheus, brave Serestus,And takes position on a mound; the TrojansCome massing toward him, shield and spear held ready.And as he stands above them, he gives the orders:—“Let there be no delay: great Jove is with us.Let no man go more slackly, though this ventureIs new and unexpected. That city yonder,The cause of war, the kingdom of Latinus,Unless they own our mastery, acknowledgeDefeat, declare obedience, I will topple,Level its smoking roof-tops to the ground.Or should I wait until it suits prince TurnusTo face the duel with me, and, once beaten,Consent to fight again? This is the head,O citizens, this the evil crown of warfare.Hurry, bring firebrands, win from fire the treaty!”His words inflame their zeal, and, all togetherThey form a wedge; a great mass moves to the wall,Ladders and sudden fire appear from nowhere;The guards at the gate are butchered; steel is flying,The sky is dark with arrows. Toward the cityAeneas lifts his hand, rebukes Latinus,Calling the gods to witness that his willWas not for battle, it was forced upon himBy the Italians, double treaty-breakers,His foes for now the second time. The townsmenQuarrel among themselves: “Open the town!”,Cry some, “Admit the Trojans!” and would dragThe king himself to the ramparts. Others hurryWith arms, man the defenses. When a shepherdTrails bees to their hive in the cleft of a rock and fills itWith smarting smoke, there is fright and noise and furyWithin the waxen camp, and anger sharpenedWith buzzing noises, and a black smell risesWith a blind sound, inside the rock, and rollingSmoke lifts to empty air.

Now a new sorrowCame to the weary Latins, shook the cityTo its foundations, utterly. The queenHad seen the Trojans coming and the wallsUnder attack and fire along the gablesAnd no Rutulian column, nowhere TurnusComing to help. He had been killed, her hero,She knew at last. Her mind was gone; she criedOver and over:—“I am the guilty one,I am the cause, the source of all these evils!”And other wilder words. And then she toreHer crimson robes, and slung a noose and fastenedThe knot of an ugly death to the high rafter.The women learned it first, and then Lavinia:The wide hall rings with grief and lamentation;Nails scratch at lovely faces, beautiful hairIs torn from the head. And Rumor spreads the storyAll up and down the town, and poor Latinus,Rending his garments, comes and stares,—wife gone,And city falling, an old man’s hoary hairGreyer with bloody dust.

And meanwhile TurnusOut on the plain pursues the stragglers, slowerAnd slower now, and less and less exultantIn his triumphant car. From the city comesA wind that bears a cry confused with terror,Half heard, but known,—confusion, darkness, sorrow,An uproar in the town. He checks the horses,Pauses and listens. And his sister prompts him:—“This way, this way! The Trojans run, we followWhere victory shows the path. Let others guardThe houses with their valor. The ItaliansFall in the fight before Aeneas. Let usSend death to the Trojans, in our turn. You will notCome off the worse, in numbers or in honor.”Turnus replies:—“O sister, I have known,A long while since, that you were no Metiscus,Since first you broke the treaty and joined the battle.No use pretending you are not a goddess.But who, from high Olympus, sent you downTo bear such labors? Was it to see your brotherIn pitiful cruel death? What am I doing,What chance will fortune grant me? I have seenA man I loved more than the rest, Murranus,A big man, slain by a big wound, go down.Ufens is fallen, lucky or unlucky,In that he never saw our shame; the TrojansHave won his body and arms. Our homes are burning,The one thing lacking up to now,—and shall IEndure this, not refute the words of DrancesWith this right hand? Shall I turn my back upon them?Is it so grim to die? Be kind, O shadows,Since the high gods have turned their favor from me.A decent spirit, undisgraced, no coward,I shall descend to you, never unworthyOf all my ancient line.”

He had hardly spokenWhen a warrior, on foaming steed, came ridingThrough all the enemy. His name was Saces,And his face was badly wounded by an arrow.He called the name of Turnus, and implored him:—“We have no other hope; pity your people!Aeneas is a lightning-bolt; he threatensItaly’s topmost towers; he will bring them downIn ruins; even now the brands are flyingAlong the roof-tops. They look to you, the Latins,They look for you; and king Latinus mumblesIn doubt—who are his sons, who are his allies?The queen, who trusted you the most, has perishedBy her own hand, has fled the light in terror.Alone before the gates the brave AtinasAnd Messapus hold the line. Around them, squadronsCrowd close on either side, and the steel harvestBristles with pointed swords. And here is TurnusWheeling his car across a plain deserted.”

Bewildered by disaster’s shifting image,Turnus is silent, staring; shame and sadnessBoil up in that great heart, and grief and loveDriven by frenzy. He shakes off the shadows;The light comes back to his mind. His eyes turn, blazing,From the wheels of the car to the walls of that great cityWhere the flame billowed upward, the roaring blastCatching a tower, one he himself had fashionedWith jointed beams and rollers and high gangways.“Fate is the winner now; keep out of my way,My sister: now I follow god and fortune.I am ready for Aeneas, ready to bearWhatever is bitter in death. No longer, sister,Shall I be shamed, and you behold me. Let me,Before the final madness, be a madman!”He bounded from the chariot, came rushingThrough spears, through enemies; his grieving sisterHe left behind, forgotten. As a boulderTorn from a mountain-top rolls headlong downward,Impelled by wind, or washed by storm, or loosenedBy time’s erosion, and comes down the hillsideA mass possessed of evil, leaping and bounding,And rolling with it men and trees and cattle,So, through the broken columns, Turnus rushesOn to the city, where the blood goes deepestInto the muddy ground, and the air whistlesWith flying spears. He makes a sudden gesture,Crying aloud:—“No more, no more, Rutulians!Hold back your weapons, Latins! Whatever fortuneThere may be here is mine. I am the one,Not you, to make the treaty good, to settleThe issue with the sword. That will be better.”They all made way and gave him room.

Aeneas,Hearing the name of Turnus, leaves the city,Forsakes the lofty walls; he has no patienceWith any more delay, breaks off all projects,Exults, a terrible thunderer in armor,As huge as Athos, or as huge as Eryx,Or even father Apennine, that mountainRoaring above the oaks, and lifting highHis crown of shimmering trees and snowy crest.Now all men turned their eyes, Rutulians, Trojans,Italians, those who held the lofty ramparts,Those battering at the wall below; their shouldersWere eased of armor now. And king LatinusCould hardly, in amazement, trust his sensesSeeing these two big men, born worlds apartMeeting to make decision with the sword.The plain was cleared, and they came rushing forward,Hurling, far off, their spears; the fight is on,The bronze shields clang and ring. Earth gives a groan.The swords strike hard and often; luck and courageAre blent in one. And as on mighty SilaOr on Taburnus’ mountain, when two bullocksCharge into fight head-on, and trembling herdsmenFall back in fear, and the herd is dumb with terror,And heifers, hardly lowing, stare and wonderWhich one will rule the woodland, which one the herdWill follow meekly after, and all the timeThey gore each other with savage horns, and shouldersAnd necks and ribs run streams of blood, and bellowingFills all the woodland,—even so, AeneasAnd Daunus’ son clash shield on shield; the clamorFills heaven. And Jupiter holds the scales in balanceWith each man’s destiny as weight and counter,And one the heavier under the doom of death.

Confident, Turnus, rising to the swordFull height, is a flash of light; he strikes. The Trojans,The Latins, cry aloud and come up standing.But the sword is treacherous; it is broken offWith the blow half spent: the fire of Turnus findsNo help except in flight. Swift as the windHe goes, and stares at a broken blade, a handUnarmed. The story is that in that hurry,That rush of his, to arms, when the steeds were harnessed,He took Metiscus’ sword, not the one DaunusHad left him. For a while it served its purposeWhile the Trojans ran away, but when it metThe armor Vulcan forged, the mortal bladeSplit off, like brittle ice, with glittering splintersLike ice on the yellow sand. So Turnus fliesMadly across the plain in devious circles:The Trojans ring him round, and a swamp on one side,High walls on the other.

Aeneas, the pursuer,Is none too swift: the arrow has left him hurt;His knees give way, but he keeps on, keeps comingAfter the panting enemy, as a hound,Running a stag to bay, at the edge of the waterOr hedged by crimson plumes, darts in, and barks,And snaps his jaws, closes and grips, is shakenOff from the flanks again, and once more closes,And a great noise goes up the air; the watersResound, and the whole sky thunders with the clamor.Turnus has time, even in flight, for callingLoud to Rutulians, each by name, demanding,In terrible rage, the sword, the sword, the good one,The one he knows. Let anybody bring it,Aeneas threatens, and death and doom await him,And the town will be a ruin. Wounded, stillHe presses on. They go in five great circles,Around and back: no game, with silly prizes,Are they playing now; the life and blood of TurnusGo to the winner.

A wild olive-treeStood here, with bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus,Revered by rescued sailors, who used to offerEx-votos to the native gods, their garmentsIn token of gratitude. For this the TrojansCared nothing, lopped the branches off to clearThe run of the field. Aeneas’ spear had fastenedDeep in the trunk where the force of the cast had brought it,Stuck in the grip of the root. Aeneas, stooping,Yanks at the shaft; he cannot equal TurnusIn speed of foot but the javelin is wingèd.And Turnus, in a terrible moment of panic,Cries:—“Faunus, pity me, and Earth, most kindly,If ever I was reverent, as AeneasAnd those he leads have not been, hold the steel,Do not let go!” He prayed, and he was answered.Aeneas tugged and wrestled, pulled and hauled,But the wood held on. And, while he strained, JuturnaRushed forward, once again Metiscus’ double,With the good sword for her brother. Then Venus, angryOver such wanton interference, entersAnd the root yields. The warriors, towering high,Each one renewed in spirit, one with sword,One with the spear, both breathing hard, are readyFor what Mars has to send.

And Juno, gazingFrom a golden cloud to earth, watching the duel,Heard the all-powerful king of high Olympus:—“What will the end be now, O wife? What elseRemains? You know, and you admit you know it,Aeneas is heaven-destined, the native heroBecome a god, raised by the fates, exalted.What are you planning? with what hope lingering onIn the cold clouds? Was it proper that a mortalShould wound a god? that the sword, once lost, be givenTurnus again?—Juturna, of course, is nothingWithout your help—was it proper that the beatenIncrease in violence? Stop it now, I tell you;Listen to my entreaties: I would not have youDevoured by grief in silence; I would not have youBring me, again, anxiety and sorrow,However sweet the voice. The end has come.To harry the Trojans over land and ocean,To light up war unspeakable, to defileA home with grief, to mingle bridal and sorrow,—All this you were permitted. Go no farther!That is an absolute order.” And Juno, downcastIn gaze, replied:—“Great Jove, I knew your pleasure:And therefore, much against my will, left Turnus,Left earth. Were it not so, you would not see meLonely upon my airy throne in heaven,Enduring things both worthy and unworthy,But I would be down there, by flame surrounded,Fighting in the front ranks, and hauling TrojansTo battle with their enemies. Juturna,I urged, I own, to help her wretched brother,And I approved, I own, her greater daringFor his life’s sake, but I did not approve,And this I swear by Styx, that river whose nameBinds all the gods to truth, her taking weapons,Aiming the bow. I give up now, I leaveThese battles, though I hate to. I ask one favorFor Latium, for the greatness of your people,And this no law of fate forbids: when, later,And be it so, they join in peace, and settleTheir laws, their treaties, in a blessèd marriage,Do not command the Latins, native-born,To change their language, to be known as Trojans,To alter speech or garb; let them be Latium,Let Alban kings endure through all the ages,Let Roman stock, strong in Italian valor,Prevail: since Troy has fallen, let her namePerish and be forgotten.” Smiling on her,The great creator answered:—“You are trulyTrue sister of Jove and child of Saturn, nursingSuch tides of anger in the heart! Forget it!Abate the rise of passion. The wish is granted.I yield, and more than that,—I share your purpose.Ausonians shall keep their old tradition,Their fathers’ speech and ways; their name shall beEven as now it is. Their sacred laws,Their ritual, I shall add, and make all LatinsMen of a common tongue. A race shall riseAll-powerful, of mingled blood; you will see themBy virtue of devotion rise to gloriesNot men nor gods have known, and no race everWill pay you equal honor.” And the goddessGave her assent, was happy, changed her purpose,Left heaven and quit the cloud.

This done, the fatherFormed yet another purpose, that JuturnaShould leave her fighting brother. There are, men say,Twin fiends, or triple, sisters named the Furies,Daughters of Night, with snaky coils, and pinionsLike those of wind. They are attendant spiritsBefore the throne of Jove and whet the fearsOf sickly mortals, when the king of heavenContrives disease or dreadful death, or frightensThe guilty towns in war. Now he dispatchesOne of the three to earth, to meet Juturna,An omen visible; and so from heavenShe flew with whirlwind swiftness, like an arrowThrough cloud from bowstring, armed with gall or poison,Loosed from a Parthian quiver, cleaving shadowsSwifter than man may know, a shaft no powerHas power of healing over:—so Night’s daughterCame down to earth, and when she saw the TrojansAnd Turnus’ columns, she dwindled, all of a sudden,To the shape of that small bird, which, in the night-time,Shrills its late song, ill-omened, on the roof-topsOr over tombs, insistent through the darkness.And so the fiend, the little screech-owl, flyingAt Turnus, over and over, shrilled in warning,Beating the wings against the shield, and TurnusFelt a strange torpor seize his limbs, and terrorMade his hair rise, and his voice could find no utterance.

But when, far off, Juturna knew the FuryBy whir of those dread wings, she tore her tresses,Clawed at her face, and beat her breast, all anguishOver her brother:—“What can a sister doTo help you now, poor Turnus? What remainsFor me to bear? I have borne so much already.What skill of mine can make the daylight longerIn your dark hour? Can I face such a portent?Now, now, I leave the battle-line forever.Foul birds, I fear enough; haunt me no further,I know that beat of the wings, that deadly whirring;I recognize, too well, Jove’s arrogant orders,His payment for my maidenhood. He gave meEternal life, but why? Why has he takenThe right of death away from me? I might haveEnded my anguish, surely, with my brother’s,Gone, at his side, among the fearful shadows,But, no,—I am immortal. What is left meOf any possible joy, without my brother?What earth can open deep enough to take me,A goddess, to the lowest shades?” The mantle,Grey-colored, veiled her head, and the goddess, sighing,Sank deep from sight to the greyness of the river.

And on Aeneas presses: the flashing spear,Brandished, is big as a tree; his anger cries:—“Why put it off forever, Turnus, hang-dog?We must fight with arms, not running. Take what shapeYou will, gather your strength or craft; fly upTo the high stars, or bury yourself in earth!”And Turnus shook his head and answered:—“Jove,Being my enemy, scares me, and the gods,Not your hot words, fierce fellow.” And his vision,Glancing about, beheld a mighty boulder,A boundary-mark, in days of old, so hugeA dozen men in our degenerate eraCould hardly pry it loose from earth, but TurnusLifts it full height, hurls it full speed and, acting.Seems not to recognize himself, in running,Or moving, or lifting his hands, or letting the stoneFly into space; he shakes at the knees, his bloodRuns chill in the veins, and the stone, through wide air going,Falls short, falls spent. As in our dreams at night-time,When sleep weighs down our eyes, we seem to be running,Or trying to run, and cannot, and we falter,Sick in our failure, and the tongue is thickAnd the words we try to utter come to nothing,No voice, no speech,—so Turnus finds the wayBlocked off, wherever he turns, however bravely.All sorts of things go through his mind: he staresAt the Rutulians, at the town; he trembles,Quails at the threat of the lance; he cannot seeAny way out, any way forward. Nothing.The chariot is gone, and the charioteer,Juturna or Metiscus, nowhere near him.The spear, flung by Aeneas, comes with a whirLouder than stone from any engine, louderThan thunderbolt; like a black wind it flies,Bringing destruction with it, through the shield-rim,Its sevenfold strength, through armor, through the thigh.Turnus is down, on hands and knees, huge TurnusStruck to the earth. Groaning, the stunned RutuliansRise to their feet, and the whole hill resounds,The wooded heights give echo. A suppliant, beaten,Humbled at last, his hands reach out, his voiceIs low in pleading:—“I have deserved it, surely,And I do not beg off. Use the advantage.But if a parent’s grief has any powerTo touch the spirit, I pray you, pity Daunus,(I would Anchises), send him back my body.You have won; I am beaten, and these hands go outIn supplication: everyone has seen it.No more. I have lost Lavinia. Let hatredProceed no further.”Fierce in his arms, with darting glance, AeneasPaused for a moment, and he might have weakened,For the words had moved him, when, high on the shoulder,He saw the belt of Pallas, slain by Turnus,Saw Pallas on the ground, and Turnus wearingThat belt with the bright studs, of evil omenNot only to Pallas now, a sad reminder,A deadly provocation. TerribleIn wrath, Aeneas cries:—“Clad in this treasure,This trophy of a comrade, can you cherishHope that my hands would let you go? Now Pallas,Pallas exacts his vengeance, and the blowIs Pallas, making sacrifice!” He struckBefore he finished speaking: the blade went deepAnd Turnus’ limbs were cold in death; the spiritWent with a moan indignant to the shadows.

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