by Virgil
prayed but for rest and safety, clamored loud
for arms, desired annulment of the league,
and pitied Turnus’ miserable doom.
Whereon Juturna tried a mightier stroke,
a sign from heaven, which more than all beside
confused the Latins and deceived their hearts
with prodigy. For through the flaming skies
Jove’s golden eagle swooped, and scattered far
a clamorous tribe of river-haunting birds;
then, swiftly to the waters falling, seized
one noble swan, which with keen, curving claws
he ruthless bore away: th’ Italians all
watched eagerly, while the loud-screaming flock
wheeled upward (wondrous sight!), with host of wings
shadowed the sky, and in a legion-cloud
chased through the air the foe; till, overborne
by heavier odds, the eagle from his claws
flung back his victim to the waves, and fled
to the dim, distant heaven. The Rutules then
hailed the good omen with consenting cry,
and grasped the sword and shield. Tolumnius
the augur spake first: “Lo, the sign I sought
with many a prayer! I welcome and obey
the powers divine. Take me for captain, me!
And draw your swords, ye wretches, whom th’ assault
of yonder foreign scoundrel puts in fear
like feeble birds, and with his violence
lays waste your shore. He too shall fly away,
spreading his ships’ wings on the distant seas.
Close up your ranks — one soul in all our breasts!
Defend in open war your stolen King.”
So saying, he hurled upon th’ opposing foe
his javelin, running forward. The strong shaft
of corner whistled shrill, and clove the air
unerring. Instantly vast clamor rose,
and all th’ onlookers at the spectacle
leaped up amazed, and every heart beat high.
The spear sped flying to the foeman’s line,
where stood nine goodly brethren, pledges all
of one true Tuscan mother to her lord,
Gylippus of Arcadia; it struck full
on one of these at his gold-belted waist,
and where the clasp clung, pierced the rib clean through.
And stretched the fair youth in his glittering arms
full length and lifeless on the yellow sand.
His brothers then, bold band to wrath aroused
by sorrow, seize the sword or snatch the spear
and blindly charge. Opposing them, the host
Laurentine makes advance, and close-arrayed
the Trojans like a torrent pour, enforced
by Tuscans and the gay-accoutred clans
of Arcady. One passion moved in all
to try the judgment of the sword. They tore
the altars down: a very storm of spears
rose angrily to heaven, in iron rain
down-pouring: while the priests bore far away
the sacrificial bowls and sacred fires.
Even Latinus fled; his stricken gods
far from his violated oath he bore.
Some leaped to horse or chariot and rode
with naked swords in air. Messapus, wild
to break the truce, assailed the Tuscan King,
Aulestes, dressed in kingly blazon fair,
with fearful shock of steeds; the Tuscan dropped
helplessly backward, striking as he fell
his head and shoulders on the altar-stone
that lay behind him. But Messapus flew,
infuriate, a javelin in his hand,
and, towering o’er the suppliant, smote him strong
with the great beam-like spear, and loudly cried:
“Down with him! Ah! no common victim he
to give the mighty gods!” Italia’s men
despoiled the dead man ere his limbs were cold.
Then Corynaeus snatched a burning brand
out of the altar, and as Ebysus
came toward him for to strike, he hurled the flame
full in his face: the big beard quickly blazed
with smell of singeing; while the warrior bold
strode over him, and seized with firm left hand
his quailing foe’s Iong hair; then with one knee
he pushed and strained, compelled him to the `ground —
and struck straight at his heart with naked steel.
The shepherd Alsus in the foremost line
came leaping through the spears; when o’er him towered
huge Podalirius with a flashing sword
in close pursuit; the mighty battle-axe
clove him with swinging stroke from brow to chin,
and spilt along his mail the streaming gore:
so stern repose and iron slumber fell
upon that shepherd’s eyes, and sealed their gaze
in endless night. But good Aeneas now
stretched forth his unarmed hand, and all unhelmed
thus Ioudly to his people called: “What means
this frantic stir, this quarrel rashly bold?
Recall your martial rage! The pledge is given
and all its terms agreed. ‘T is only I
do lawful battle here. So let me forth,
and tremble not. My own hand shall confirm
the solemn treaty. For these rites consign
Turnus to none but me.” Yet while he spoke,
behold, a winged arrow, hissing loud,
the hero pierced; but what bold hand impelled
its whirling speed, none knew; nor if it were
chance or some power divine that brought this fame
upon Rutulia; for the glorious deed
was covered o’er with silence: none would boast
an arrow guilty of Aeneas’ wound.
When Turnus saw Aeneas from the line
retreating, and the captains in dismay,
with sudden hope he burned: he called for steeds,
for arms, and, leaping to his chariot,
rode insolently forth, the reins in hand.
Many strong heroes he dispatched to die,
as on he flew, and many stretched half-dead,
or from his chariot striking, or from far
raining his javelins on the recreant foe.
As Mars, forth-speeding by the wintry stream
of Hebrus, smites his sanguinary shield
and whips the swift steeds to the front of war,
who, flying past the winds of eve and morn,
scour the wide champaign; the bounds of Thrace
beneath their hoof-beats thunder; the dark shapes
of Terror, Wrath, and Treachery move on
in escort of the god: in such grim guise
bold Turnus lashed into the fiercest fray
his streaming steeds, that pitiful to see
trod down the slaughtered foe; each flying hoof
scattered a bloody dew; their path was laid
in mingled blood and sand. To death he flung
Pholus and Sthenelus and Thamyris:
two smitten in close fight and one from far:
also from far he smote with fatal spear
Glaucus and Lades, the Imbrasidae,
whom Imbrasus himself in Lycia bred,
and honored them with arms of equal skill
when grappling with a foe, or o’er the field
speeding a war-horse faster than the wind.
Elsewhere Eumedes through a throng of foes
to battle rode, the high-born Dolon’s child,
famous in war, who bore his grandsire’s name,
but seemed in might and courage like his sire:
that prince, who reconnoitring crept so near
the Argive camp, he dared to claim for spoil
&nbs
p; the chariot of Achilles; but that day
great Diomed for such audacious deed
paid wages otherwise, — and he no more
dreamed to possess the steeds of Peleus’ son.
When Turnus recognized in open field
this warrior, though far, he aimed and flung
his javelin through the spacious air; then stayed
his coursers twain, and, leaping from his car,
found the wretch helpless fallen; so planted he
his foot upon his neck, and from his hand
wrested the sword and thrust it glittering
deep in the throat, thus taunting as he slew:
“There’s land for thee, thou Trojan! Measure there
th’ Hesperian provinces thy sword would find.
Such reward will I give to all who dare
draw steel on me; such cities they shall build.”
To bear him company his spear laid low
Asbutes, Sybaris, Thersilochus,
Chloreus and Dares, and Thymoetes thrown
sheer off the shoulders of his balking steed.
As when from Thrace the north wind thunders down
the vast Aegean, flinging the swift flood
against the shore, and where his blasts assail
the cloudy cohorts vanish out of heaven:
so before Turnus, where his path he clove,
the lines fell back, the wheeling legions fled.
The warrior’s own wild impulse swept him on,
and every wind that o’er his chariot blew
shook out his plume in air. But such advance
so bold, so furious, Phegeus could not brook,
but, fronting the swift chariot’s path, he seized
the foam-flecked bridles of its coursers wild,
while from the yoke his body trailed and swung;
the broad lance found his naked side, and tore
his double corselet, pricking lightly through
the outer flesh; but he with lifted shield
still fought his foe and thrust with falchion bare;
but the fierce pace of whirling wheel and pole
flung him down prone, and stretched him on the plain.
Then Turnus, aiming with relentless sword
between the corselet’s edge and helmet’s rim
struck off his whole head, leaving on the sands
the mutilated corpse. While thus afield
victorious Turnus dealt out death and doom,
Mnestheus, Achates true, and by their side
Ascanius, have carried to the camp
Aeneas, gashed and bleeding, whose long lance
sustained his limping step. With fruitless rage
he struggled with the spear-head’s splintered barb,
and bade them help him by the swiftest way
to carve the wound out with a sword, to rip
the clinging weapon forth, and send him back
to meet the battle. Quickly to his side
came Iapyx, dear favorite and friend
of Phoebus, upon whom the god bestowed
his own wise craft and power, Iove-impelled.
The gifts of augury were given, and song,
with arrows of swift wing: he when his sire
was carried forth to die, deferred the doom
for many a day, by herbs of virtue known
to leechcraft; and without reward or praise
his silent art he plied. Aeneas stood,
bitterly grieving, propped upon his spear;
a throng of warriors were near him, and
Iulus, sorrowing. The aged man
gathered his garments up as leeches do,
and with skilled hand and Phoebus’ herbs of power
bustled in vain; in vain his surgery
pried at the shaft, and with a forceps strong
seized on the buried barb. But Fortune gave
no remedy, nor did Apollo aid
his votary. So more and more grim fear
stalks o’er the field of war, and nearer hies
the fatal hour; the very heavens are dust;
the horsemen charge, and in the midmost camp
a rain of javelins pours. The dismal cry
of men in fierce fight, and of men who fall
beneath relentless Mars, rends all the air.
Then Venus, by her offspring’s guiltless woe
sore moved, did cull from Cretan Ida’s crest
some dittany, with downy leaf and stem
and flowers of purple bloom — a simple known
to mountain goats, when to their haunches clings
an arrow gone astray. This Venus brought,
mantling her shape in cloud; and this she steeped
in bowls of glass, infusing secretly
ambrosia’s healing essence and sweet drops
of fragrant panacea. Such a balm
aged Iapyx poured upon the wound,
though unaware; and sudden from the flesh
all pain departed and the blood was staunched,
while from the gash the arrow uncompelled
followed the hand and dropped: his wonted strength
flowed freshly through the hero’s frame. “Make haste!
Bring forth his arms! Why tarry any more?”
Iapyx shouted, being first to fire
their courage ‘gainst the foe. “This thing is done
not of man’s knowledge, nor by sovereign skill;
nor has my hand, Aeneas, set thee free.
Some mighty god thy vigor gives again
for mighty deeds.” Aeneas now put on,
all fever for the fight, his golden greaves,
and, brooking not delay, waved wide his spear.
Soon as the corselet and the shield were bound
on back and side, he clasped Ascanius
to his mailed breast, and through his helmet grim
tenderly kissed his son. “My boy”, he cried,
“What valor is and patient, genuine toil
learn thou of me; let others guide thy feet
to prosperous fortune. Let this hand and sword
defend thee through the war and lead thee on
to high rewards. Thou also play the man!
And when thy riper vigor soon shall bloom,
forget not in thy heart to ponder well
the story of our line. Heed honor’s call,
like Sire Aeneas and Hector thy close kin.”
After such farewell word, he from the gates
in mighty stature strode, and swung on high
his giant spear. With him in serried line
Antheus and Mnestheus moved, and all the host
from the forsaken fortress poured. The plain
was darkened with their dust; the startled earth
shook where their footing fell. From distant hill
Turnus beheld them coming, and the eyes
of all Ausonia saw: a chill of fear
shot through each soldier’s marrow; in their van
Juturna knew full well the dreadful sound,
and fled before it, shuddering. But he
hurried his murky cohorts o’er the plain.
As when a tempest from the riven sky
drives landward o’er mid-ocean, and from far
the hearts of husbandmen, foreboding woe,
quake ruefully, — for this will come and rend
their trees asunder, kill the harvests all,
and sow destruction broadcast; in its path
fly roaring winds, swift heralds of the storm:
such dire approach the Trojan chieftain showed
before his gathered foes. In close array
they wedge their ranks about him. With a sword
Thymbraeus cuts huge-limbed Osiris down;
Mnestheus, Arcetius; from Epulo
Achates shears the head; from Ufens, Gyas;
Tolumnius the augur falls, the same
who fl
ung the first spear to the foeman’s line.
Uprose to heaven the cries. In panic now
the Rutules in retreating clouds of dust
scattered across the plain. Aeneas scorned
either the recreant or resisting foe
to slaughter, or the men who shoot from far:
for through the war-cloud he but seeks the arms
of Turnus, and to single combat calls.
The warrior-maid Juturna, seeing this,
distraught with terror, strikes down from his place
Metiscus, Turnus’ charioteer, who dropped
forward among the reins and off the pole.
Him leaving on the field, her own hand grasped
the loosely waving reins, while she took on
Metiscus’ shape, his voice, and blazoned arms.
As when through some rich master’s spacious halls
speeds the black swallow on her lightsome wing,
exploring the high roof, or harvesting
some scanty morsel for her twittering brood,
round empty corridors or garden-pools
noisily flitting: so Juturna roams
among the hostile ranks, and wings her way
behind the swift steeds of the whirling car.
At divers points she lets the people see
her brother’s glory, but not yet allows
the final tug of war; her pathless flight
keeps far away. Aeneas too must take
a course circuitous, and follows close
his foeman’s track; Ioud o’er the scattered lines
he shouts his challenge. But whene’er his eyes
discern the foe, and fain he would confront
the flying-footed steeds, Juturna veers
the chariot round and flies. What can he do?
Aeneas’ wrath storms vainly to and fro,
and wavering purposes his heart divide.
Against him lightly leaped Messapus forth,
bearing two pliant javelins tipped with steel;
and, whirling one in air, he aimed it well,
with stroke unfailing. Great Aeneas paused
in cover of his shield and crouched low down
upon his haunches. But the driven spear
battered his helmet’s peak and plucked away
the margin of his plume. Then burst his rage:
his cunning foes had forced him; so at last,
while steeds and chariot in the distance fly,
he plunged him in the fray, and called on Jove
the altars of that broken oath to see.
Now by the war-god’s favor he began
grim, never-pitying slaughter, and flung free
the bridle of his rage.
What voice divine
such horror can make known? What song declare
the bloodshed manifold, the princes slain,
or flying o’er the field from Turnus’ blade,
or from the Trojan King? Did Jove ordain
