  As Turnus saw the Latins failing, broken, With Mars against them, and all eyes upon him Awaiting the fulfillment of his promise, He burned with wrath, implacable, and lifted His spirit high, as in the fields of Carthage A 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 mouth Roars out defiance, even so in Turnus The violent spirit raged. He spoke to the king In angry words:—“Turnus won’t keep them waiting; No reason for these cowards to renounce Their 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 alone Answer the argument that calls us cowards, And he takes Lavinia home.” Latinus answered With quiet in his heart:—“O youth, distinguished Above them all in spirit, the more your courage Rises to fierceness, the more I find it needful To 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 country There 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 daughter To any of her former native suitors, And gods and men so prophesied. I loved you, Turnus, and I gave in: we are related By 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 battle And now we hold, just barely, in our city The hopes of Italy. The streams of Tiber Are warm with blood of ours, and the broad fields White with our bones. In what direction Do I keep turning, back and forth? What madness Changes my purpose? If, with Turnus dead, I stand prepared to join them to me as allies, What will they say, all your Rutulian kinsmen, All Italy, if I (may fortune keep The word I say from coming true!) betray you To death, the suitor of my only daughter? Consider war’s uncertainties, and pity Your aged father, far from us and grieving In Ardea, his homeland.” The king’s appeal Moved 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 me Lay down, for my sake; let me have permission To trade death for renown. I too, dear father, Toss no mean dart, swing no mean sword, and blood Follows the wounds I give. His goddess-mother Will not be there, this time, to hide him, running To the folds of her gown and cloud and empty shadows.” But Queen Amata, sick and almost dying From fear of the new battle-chance, was weeping; He was the son she wanted; she would not let him Risk 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’ kingdom Rest in your keeping, and our sinking house Depends on you to shore it up from ruin. If tears of mine can move you, if my daughter Merits the least devotion, I implore you, I beg one favor: do not fight the Trojan! Awaits me also, Turnus; I shall leave The hateful light when you do, I shall never Be such a captive as to see Aeneas Come to my home as son-in-law.” Lavinia Listened and wept and blushed, her maiden features Suffused with color, as the stain of crimson Adds hue to Indian ivory, or lilies Lose something of their whiteness, mixed with roses. And Turnus, troubled enough, was troubled further Watching the girl, and burned the more for battle, And spoke, however briefly, to Amata:— “Do not, O mother, follow me with tears Or any such omen as I go to battle. Turnus can not delay his death.” He turned To Idmon, then, and told him:—“Be my herald: Deliver to that Phrygian usurper These words from me—I know that he will hate them— When dawn to-morrow, riding in the heaven In crimson chariot, glows and reddens, let him Hold back his Trojans, let their weapons and ours Have rest, let us end the war, two of us only; There let Lavinia be sought, her husband The victor on that field!” And he went home To his own quarters, hurrying, demanding His horses, given Pilumnus by Orithyia, Whiter than snow, swifter than wind. And he was happy Looking at them, all spirit, as they nickered Seeing their master. The drivers stood about them, Fits to his shoulders the stiff coat of armor, The gold, the bronze, and tests the readiness Of sword and shield and the horns of the ruddy crest Vulcan had made the sword for Daunus, metal Glowing white-hot and plunged in Stygian water. The spear stood leaning on a mighty pillar And finally Thymoetes, slain on horseback. As the north wind roars over the deep Aegean Piling the combers shoreward, and in heaven Clouds flee the blast of the gale, so, before Turnus, The columns yield, the lines give way, and his onrush Bears him along, and the wind of his going tosses The nodding plume. And Phegeus tried to stop him, Flinging himself before the car, and grabbing, With his right hand, the bridle, twisting, wrenching The foaming jaws, and while he rode the yoke The spear-point found his side uncovered, piercing The mail with grazing wound, but Phegeus managed To keep the shield before him and for safety Tried to keep coming forward—the drawn sword Would be the best protection, but the axle Caught him, the wheels went over him, and Turnus Swept by and the scythe of Turnus’ sword cut through him Lay 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-point No 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 Apollo Who 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 him Through 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 others Standing around, and anxious. The old doctor Tucked 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, Thickens, and evil nears. They see the sky Standing on dust; horsemen come on, and arrows Are falling thick, and a mournful din arises As fighting men go down, with Mars relentless. Then Venus, shaken with a mother’s anguish Over a suffering son, from Cretan Ida Plucked dittany, a plant with downy leaves And crimson blossom: the wild goats know and use it As cure for arrow-wounds. This herb the goddess Brought down, her presence veiled in cloud, and steeped it With secret healing in the river-water Poured in the shining caldrons, and she added Ambrosia’s healing juice, and panacea, And agÈd Iapyx washed the wound, unknowing The virtues of that balm, and all the pain Suddenly, and by magic, left the body; The blood was staunched, deep in the wound; the arrow Dropped from the flesh, at the least touch; the hero Felt all his strength return. “Quick! Bring his weapons!” Iapyx cries out, the first to fire their spirit Against the foe, “Why are you standing there, What are you waiting for? These things have happened By 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 you To greater deeds.” Aeneas, eager for battle, Had the gold shin-guards on while he was talking, Makes the spear flash, impatient, gets the armor Ready at the left side, and through the helmet Stoops down to kiss Iulus:—“Learn, my son, What I can show you, valor and real labor: Learn about luck from others. Now my hand Will 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 warrior Wielding a mighty spear, and all the column Came pouring forth; Mnestheus, Antheus, others, Leave the forsaken camp. The dust is blinding Over the plain, the tramp of armies marching Makes the earth tremble, and from the opposite hillside Turnus and the Ausonians saw them coming And a cold chill ran through their bones; Juturna, Quicker than all the Latins, heard the sound, Knew it, and fled in terror. And Aeneas Rushed his dark column over open country As a cloud-burst sweeps to land across the ocean And farmers know it, far away, and shudder Fearful and sure of ruin to woods and cornfield, And the winds fly on before the storm and herald The roaring sound to the shore; so, like a cloud-burst, Aeneas brings his armies on; they gather, Each company, at his side. Thymbraeus’ sword Strikes down Osiris; Mnestheus slays Arcetius; Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens. Tolumnius, that augur whose spear had broken The Rutulians turn back in rout; the dust-clouds Follow them over the field in flight. Aeneas Disdains to kill retreating men, refuses Attack on such as face him; it is Turnus He watches for, hunts through the gloom of battle, It is Turnus, Turnus only, whom he summons. And this Juturna knows, and in her panic She flings Metiscus, ive great circles, Around and back: no game, with silly prizes, Are they playing now; the life and blood of Turnus Go to the winner. A wild olive-tree Stood here, with bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus, Revered by rescued sailors, who used to offer Ex-votos to the native gods, their garments In token of gratitude. For this the Trojans Cared nothing, lopped the branches off to clear The run of the field. Aeneas’ spear had fastened Deep 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 Turnus In speed of foot but the javelin is wingÈd. And Turnus, in a terrible moment of panic, If ever I was reverent, as Aeneas And 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, Juturna Rushed forward, once again Metiscus’ double, With the good sword for her brother. Then Venus, angry Over such wanton interference, enters And the root yields. The warriors, towering high, Each one renewed in spirit, one with sword, One with the spear, both breathing hard, are ready For what Mars has to send. And Juno, gazing From 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 else Remains? You know, and you admit you know it, Aeneas is heaven-destined, the native hero Become a god, raised by the fates, exalted. What are you planning? with what hope lingering on In the cold clouds? Was it proper that a mortal Should wound a god? that the sword, once lost, be given Turnus again?—Juturna, of course, is nothing Without your help—was it proper that the beaten Increase in violence? Stop it now, I tell you; Listen to my entreaties: I would not have you Devoured by grief in silence; I would not have you Bring me, again, anxiety and sorrow, However sweet the voice. The end has come. To light up war unspeakable, to defile A home with grief, to mingle bridal and sorrow,— All this you were permitted. Go no farther! That is an absolute order.” And Juno, downcast In 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 me Lonely 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 Trojans To battle with their enemies. Juturna, I urged, I own, to help her wretched brother, And I approved, I own, her greater daring For his life’s sake, but I did not approve, And this I swear by Styx, that river whose name Binds all the gods to truth, her taking weapons, Aiming the bow. I give up now, I leave These battles, though I hate to. I ask one favor For 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 settle Their 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 name The great creator answered:—“You are truly True sister of Jove and child of Saturn, nursing Such 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 be Even as now it is. Their sacred laws, Their ritual, I shall add, and make all Latins Men of a common tongue. A race shall rise All-powerful, of mingled blood; you will see them By virtue of devotion rise to glories Not men nor gods have known, and no race ever Will pay you equal honor.” And the goddess Gave her assent, was happy, changed her purpose, Left heaven and quit the cloud. This done, the father Formed yet another purpose, that Juturna Should leave her fighting brother. There are, men say, Twin fiends, or triple, sisters named the Furies, Daughters of Night, with snaky coils, and pinions Like those of wind. They are attendant spirits Before the throne of Jove and whet the fears Of sickly mortals, when the king of heaven Contrives disease or dreadful death, or frightens The guilty towns in war. Now he dispatches One of the three to earth, to meet Juturna, An omen visible; and so from heaven She flew with whirlwind swiftness, like an arrow Loosed from a Parthian quiver, cleaving shadows Swifter than man may know, a shaft no power Has power of healing over:—so Night’s daughter Came down to earth, and when she saw the Trojans And 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-tops Or over tombs, insistent through the darkness. And so the |
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