The Aeneid (41 page)
Plunging on he goes, overtaking their finest,
Turnus’ front-line troops: Antaeus, Lucas
and stalwart Numa and Camers with tawny locks,
magnanimous Volcens’ son, the richest landholder
in all Italy once, the lord of Amyclae, quiet town.
Aeneas like Aegaeon who, they say, had a hundred arms
and a hundred hands, and flames blazed from his fifty maws
and chests when he fought down Jupiter’s bolts of lightning,
clashing as many matching shields, unsheathing as many swords—
so Aeneas now, rampaging in triumph all across the plain,
once his sword had warmed to the slaughter. Look there,
he heads for Niphaeus’ car and his four horses raising
their chests against him, but as they see him ramping
on in his loping strides and hear him groan in fury,
round they wheel in terror, rearing backward, spilling
their driver out the chariot, whirling it down to shore.
Turnus’ front-line troops: Antaeus, Lucas
and stalwart Numa and Camers with tawny locks,
magnanimous Volcens’ son, the richest landholder
in all Italy once, the lord of Amyclae, quiet town.
Aeneas like Aegaeon who, they say, had a hundred arms
and a hundred hands, and flames blazed from his fifty maws
and chests when he fought down Jupiter’s bolts of lightning,
clashing as many matching shields, unsheathing as many swords—
so Aeneas now, rampaging in triumph all across the plain,
once his sword had warmed to the slaughter. Look there,
he heads for Niphaeus’ car and his four horses raising
their chests against him, but as they see him ramping
on in his loping strides and hear him groan in fury,
round they wheel in terror, rearing backward, spilling
their driver out the chariot, whirling it down to shore.
While into the melee hurry Lucagus and his brother Liger,
chariot-borne by two white steeds, the brother reinsman
guiding the team as Lucagus flaunts his naked steel.
But Aeneas could not suffer their fiery charge—
he charged
them
, looming, huge, his spear poised
as Liger shouted out: “What you see here are not
Diomedes’ team, Achilles’ car, or the plains of Troy—
now on our own land you see the end of your wars,
of your own life too!”
Such maddened words
he hurls but no words come from Aeneas now—
he hurls his spear in reply against his foe and
then as Lucagus, bending into the stroke, slaps
the team with his flat sword, his left foot thrust out,
braced for attack, Aeneas’ weapon pierces the bottom plies
of his gleaming buckler, ripping into his left groin.
Flung from the car he writhes on the field in death
as righteous Aeneas sends some bitter words his way:
“Lucagus, no panicked pair has let your chariot down,
no horses shying away from an enemy’s empty shade—
it’s you, tumbling off your chariot, you desert your team!”
He seized the yoke as the luckless brother, slipping
off the war-car, flinging his helpless arms toward
Aeneas, prayed: “I beg you, beg by the ones who bore
a son like you, great man of Troy, now spare my life,
pity my prayers!” Praying on as Aeneas broke in:
“A far cry from the words you mouthed before—
die! No brother deserts a brother here!” Then
with his blade he carved wide open Liger’s chest,
his hidden cache of life.
So much slaughter
the Trojan commander spreads throughout the plain
like a stream in spate or black tornado storming on
till at last the young Ascanius and his troops break free
and put the camp behind. The great blockade is over.
chariot-borne by two white steeds, the brother reinsman
guiding the team as Lucagus flaunts his naked steel.
But Aeneas could not suffer their fiery charge—
he charged
them
, looming, huge, his spear poised
as Liger shouted out: “What you see here are not
Diomedes’ team, Achilles’ car, or the plains of Troy—
now on our own land you see the end of your wars,
of your own life too!”
Such maddened words
he hurls but no words come from Aeneas now—
he hurls his spear in reply against his foe and
then as Lucagus, bending into the stroke, slaps
the team with his flat sword, his left foot thrust out,
braced for attack, Aeneas’ weapon pierces the bottom plies
of his gleaming buckler, ripping into his left groin.
Flung from the car he writhes on the field in death
as righteous Aeneas sends some bitter words his way:
“Lucagus, no panicked pair has let your chariot down,
no horses shying away from an enemy’s empty shade—
it’s you, tumbling off your chariot, you desert your team!”
He seized the yoke as the luckless brother, slipping
off the war-car, flinging his helpless arms toward
Aeneas, prayed: “I beg you, beg by the ones who bore
a son like you, great man of Troy, now spare my life,
pity my prayers!” Praying on as Aeneas broke in:
“A far cry from the words you mouthed before—
die! No brother deserts a brother here!” Then
with his blade he carved wide open Liger’s chest,
his hidden cache of life.
So much slaughter
the Trojan commander spreads throughout the plain
like a stream in spate or black tornado storming on
till at last the young Ascanius and his troops break free
and put the camp behind. The great blockade is over.
At the same moment Jove adeptly spurs on Juno:
“My own sister, my sweet wife as well, it’s Venus,
just as you thought, your judgment never fails.
She is the one who supports the Trojan forces,
not their own strong hands that clutch for combat,
not their unflinching spirits seasoned hard to peril.”
“My own sister, my sweet wife as well, it’s Venus,
just as you thought, your judgment never fails.
She is the one who supports the Trojan forces,
not their own strong hands that clutch for combat,
not their unflinching spirits seasoned hard to peril.”
And Juno replies, her head bent low: “My dearest husband,
why rake my anxious heart? I dread your grim commands.
Your love for me, if it held the force it once held
and should hold still, you’d never deny me this,
All-powerful One: the power to spirit Turnus
clear of battle, save him all unscathed
for his father, Daunus. But now, as it is,
let him die and pay his debt to the Trojans,
pay with his own loyal blood. Still, Turnus
takes his birth from our own breed, his name too—
Pilumnus was his forebear, four generations back—
and his lavish hand has heaped your threshold high
with treasure troves of gifts!”
why rake my anxious heart? I dread your grim commands.
Your love for me, if it held the force it once held
and should hold still, you’d never deny me this,
All-powerful One: the power to spirit Turnus
clear of battle, save him all unscathed
for his father, Daunus. But now, as it is,
let him die and pay his debt to the Trojans,
pay with his own loyal blood. Still, Turnus
takes his birth from our own breed, his name too—
Pilumnus was his forebear, four generations back—
and his lavish hand has heaped your threshold high
with treasure troves of gifts!”
The king of lofty Olympus countered briefly:
“If what you want is reprieve from instant death,
some breathing space for the doomed young man,
and you acknowledge the limits I lay down,
then whisk your Turnus away,
pluck him out of the closing grip of Fate.
That much room for indulgence I will give you.
But if some deeper longing for mercy stirs beneath
your prayers, some notion the whole thrust of the war
can shift and change, you’re feeding empty hopes.”
“If what you want is reprieve from instant death,
some breathing space for the doomed young man,
and you acknowledge the limits I lay down,
then whisk your Turnus away,
pluck him out of the closing grip of Fate.
That much room for indulgence I will give you.
But if some deeper longing for mercy stirs beneath
your prayers, some notion the whole thrust of the war
can shift and change, you’re feeding empty hopes.”
Juno replies in tears: “What if your heart should grant
what you begrudge in words, and the life of Turnus
were firmly set for years to come? For now,
a crushing end awaits an innocent man,
unless I’m lost to the truth and swept away.
Oh, if only my fears were false and I deceived!
If only you—you have the power—would bend
your will to a better goal!”
With that appeal,
headlong down from the heights of heaven she dove,
girt up in clouds, unfurling a whirlwind through the air
and winging straight at the Trojan ranks and Latian camp.
Then, out of thin mist the goddess creates a phantom:
Aeneas’ double, but a strange, unearthly sight,
a shadow stripped of power,
and decking it out in Trojan armor, matching
the shield and crest on Aeneas’ godlike head,
she fills it with hollow words, gives it a voice,
sound without sense, and it apes his marching stride.
Like ghosts that after our death, they say, will flutter on
or dreams that deceive our senses lost in sleep . . .
But the buoyant shade parades before the front,
shaking a spear in his enemy’s face and taunting—
Turnus attacks it, rifling a vibrant lance, a long cast
but the phantom swerves away and Turnus in turmoil,
thinking
Aeneas
had really turned tail and fled,
and drinking deep of the vapid cup of hope,
cries out: “Where are you racing, Aeneas?
Don’t abandon your sworn bride! My right hand
will give you the earth you crossed the seas to find.”
what you begrudge in words, and the life of Turnus
were firmly set for years to come? For now,
a crushing end awaits an innocent man,
unless I’m lost to the truth and swept away.
Oh, if only my fears were false and I deceived!
If only you—you have the power—would bend
your will to a better goal!”
With that appeal,
headlong down from the heights of heaven she dove,
girt up in clouds, unfurling a whirlwind through the air
and winging straight at the Trojan ranks and Latian camp.
Then, out of thin mist the goddess creates a phantom:
Aeneas’ double, but a strange, unearthly sight,
a shadow stripped of power,
and decking it out in Trojan armor, matching
the shield and crest on Aeneas’ godlike head,
she fills it with hollow words, gives it a voice,
sound without sense, and it apes his marching stride.
Like ghosts that after our death, they say, will flutter on
or dreams that deceive our senses lost in sleep . . .
But the buoyant shade parades before the front,
shaking a spear in his enemy’s face and taunting—
Turnus attacks it, rifling a vibrant lance, a long cast
but the phantom swerves away and Turnus in turmoil,
thinking
Aeneas
had really turned tail and fled,
and drinking deep of the vapid cup of hope,
cries out: “Where are you racing, Aeneas?
Don’t abandon your sworn bride! My right hand
will give you the earth you crossed the seas to find.”
He shouts in hot pursuit, flashing his naked sword,
blind to the winds that scatter all his triumph.
blind to the winds that scatter all his triumph.
A ship chanced to be moored to a spur of cliff,
her ladders and gangways set for action. King Osinius
sailed her here, straight from the shores of Clusium.
Here Aeneas’ frightened shadow throws itself into hiding,
Turnus hard on its heels, nothing can keep him back,
bounding over the gangways, leaping the high decks.
He had barely touched the prow when Juno bursts the cables,
rips the ship from her moorings, blows her out to sea
on the tide ebbing fast. And now the misty phantom,
no longer hunting for cover, flutters up on high,
dissolving into a dark cloud. And all the while
Aeneas calls on Turnus to fight but the man is gone,
so the many men who block his way he sends to death
as Juno’s winds are spinning Turnus around in mid-sea
and glancing backward, knowing nothing, no thanks for escape,
he lifts his hands in prayer, his voice to the stars:
“Almighty Father, so, you find my guilt so great?
You’re dead set on my paying such a price?
Where have I come from? Where am I racing now?
What is this flight that takes me home?—a coward!—
Will I ever see my Laurentine walls and camp again?
What of those gallant men who backed my sword and me?
All of them—what disgrace—I deserted them all to die
an unspeakable death. Now I see them straggling, lost,
I hear them groaning as they go under. What shall I do?
If only the earth gaped deep enough to take me down.
Better, pity me, winds! Turnus begs you with all his heart,
dash this ship on a reef or cliff or run her aground
on the Syrtes’ savage shoals where no Rutulian,
no rumor that knows my shame can dog my heels!”
her ladders and gangways set for action. King Osinius
sailed her here, straight from the shores of Clusium.
Here Aeneas’ frightened shadow throws itself into hiding,
Turnus hard on its heels, nothing can keep him back,
bounding over the gangways, leaping the high decks.
He had barely touched the prow when Juno bursts the cables,
rips the ship from her moorings, blows her out to sea
on the tide ebbing fast. And now the misty phantom,
no longer hunting for cover, flutters up on high,
dissolving into a dark cloud. And all the while
Aeneas calls on Turnus to fight but the man is gone,
so the many men who block his way he sends to death
as Juno’s winds are spinning Turnus around in mid-sea
and glancing backward, knowing nothing, no thanks for escape,
he lifts his hands in prayer, his voice to the stars:
“Almighty Father, so, you find my guilt so great?
You’re dead set on my paying such a price?
Where have I come from? Where am I racing now?
What is this flight that takes me home?—a coward!—
Will I ever see my Laurentine walls and camp again?
What of those gallant men who backed my sword and me?
All of them—what disgrace—I deserted them all to die
an unspeakable death. Now I see them straggling, lost,
I hear them groaning as they go under. What shall I do?
If only the earth gaped deep enough to take me down.
Better, pity me, winds! Turnus begs you with all his heart,
dash this ship on a reef or cliff or run her aground
on the Syrtes’ savage shoals where no Rutulian,
no rumor that knows my shame can dog my heels!”
Praying, his mind at sea, wavering here, there,
crazed by his own disgrace—should he fling himself
on his sword and thrust the ruthless blade through his ribs?
Or plunge in the heavy swells and swim back to the bay
and pitch himself at the Trojan spears once more?
Three times he probed each way, three times Juno
with all her power held the prince’s fury down,
pitying him in her heart, and kept him hard on course,
cutting the deep as favoring tide and current sweep him
home to his father Daunus’ ancient city.
But now
Mezentius’ turn. That moment at Jove’s command
he carries on the fight, attacks the victorious Trojans,
true, but his own Etruscan troops with all their hate
and showering weapons rush to attack
him
quite alone,
their one and only target. He, like a headland jutting
into the ocean wastes and bared to the winds’ rage,
braving the breakers, weathering out all force
and fury of sea and sky, stands firm himself.
He hacks to ground Dolichaon’s son, Hebrus,
Latagus with him and Palmus who spins and runs—
he smashes Latagus square in the face and mouth
with a rock, a crag of a rock, and cuts the knees
from under the racing Palmus, leaves him slowly
writhing in pain and gives his armor to Lausus,
bronze for his shoulders, plumes to crown his crest.
crazed by his own disgrace—should he fling himself
on his sword and thrust the ruthless blade through his ribs?
Or plunge in the heavy swells and swim back to the bay
and pitch himself at the Trojan spears once more?
Three times he probed each way, three times Juno
with all her power held the prince’s fury down,
pitying him in her heart, and kept him hard on course,
cutting the deep as favoring tide and current sweep him
home to his father Daunus’ ancient city.
But now
Mezentius’ turn. That moment at Jove’s command
he carries on the fight, attacks the victorious Trojans,
true, but his own Etruscan troops with all their hate
and showering weapons rush to attack
him
quite alone,
their one and only target. He, like a headland jutting
into the ocean wastes and bared to the winds’ rage,
braving the breakers, weathering out all force
and fury of sea and sky, stands firm himself.
He hacks to ground Dolichaon’s son, Hebrus,
Latagus with him and Palmus who spins and runs—
he smashes Latagus square in the face and mouth
with a rock, a crag of a rock, and cuts the knees
from under the racing Palmus, leaves him slowly
writhing in pain and gives his armor to Lausus,
bronze for his shoulders, plumes to crown his crest.
The next to die? Euanthes the Phrygian, Mimas too,
a comrade of Paris just his age. On the same night
Theano brought into light the son of Amycus,
Hecuba, great with the torch, bore Paris.
Paris lies dead in the city of his fathers,
Mimas lies unsung on the Latian shores.
Mezentius . . .
Picture the wild boar that’s harried down from a ridge
by snapping packs of hounds, some beast Mount Vesulus
shielded for long or long the Latian forests fed
on the reeds that crowd their marshes:
once stampeded into the nets he jolts to a halt,
snorts, at bay, the hackles rising up on his neck,
no hunter bold enough to approach him, take him on,
at a safe remove they attack with spears and shouts.
But the boar stands fast, unflinching—where to charge?—
anywhere—grinding his tusks and shaking spears from his back.
So Mezentius now, for all his attackers’ rightful fury,
none of them has the spine to fight him, swords drawn,
they just bait him with missiles, far-flung cries,
all at a safe remove.
Now Acron, a Greek,
had just arrived from Corythus’ old frontier,
an exile, leaving his marriage in the lurch.
As Mezentius spied him routing the lines far off,
crested in purple plumes, the blue of his bride-to-be—
like a famished lion stalking the cattle pens for prey,
for the hunger will often drive him mad, just let him spot
some goat on the run or a stag’s antlers branching high:
his big jaws gape at the sport, his mane bristles, then
a pouncing assault! and he clenches his quarry’s flesh
as the sopping gore soaks his ruthless maw—just so
Mezentius pounces hotly onto the enemy masses.
He lays unlucky Acron low, his heels pounding
the dark earth as he gasps his life away and dyes
the weapon splintered off in his body blood-red.
a comrade of Paris just his age. On the same night
Theano brought into light the son of Amycus,
Hecuba, great with the torch, bore Paris.
Paris lies dead in the city of his fathers,
Mimas lies unsung on the Latian shores.
Mezentius . . .
Picture the wild boar that’s harried down from a ridge
by snapping packs of hounds, some beast Mount Vesulus
shielded for long or long the Latian forests fed
on the reeds that crowd their marshes:
once stampeded into the nets he jolts to a halt,
snorts, at bay, the hackles rising up on his neck,
no hunter bold enough to approach him, take him on,
at a safe remove they attack with spears and shouts.
But the boar stands fast, unflinching—where to charge?—
anywhere—grinding his tusks and shaking spears from his back.
So Mezentius now, for all his attackers’ rightful fury,
none of them has the spine to fight him, swords drawn,
they just bait him with missiles, far-flung cries,
all at a safe remove.
Now Acron, a Greek,
had just arrived from Corythus’ old frontier,
an exile, leaving his marriage in the lurch.
As Mezentius spied him routing the lines far off,
crested in purple plumes, the blue of his bride-to-be—
like a famished lion stalking the cattle pens for prey,
for the hunger will often drive him mad, just let him spot
some goat on the run or a stag’s antlers branching high:
his big jaws gape at the sport, his mane bristles, then
a pouncing assault! and he clenches his quarry’s flesh
as the sopping gore soaks his ruthless maw—just so
Mezentius pounces hotly onto the enemy masses.
He lays unlucky Acron low, his heels pounding
the dark earth as he gasps his life away and dyes
the weapon splintered off in his body blood-red.
Orodes darts away but Mezentius would not stoop
to killing him on the run with a spearcast from behind,
stabbing him, unseen, no, he dueled him man to man,
proving himself the better man by force of arms,
not stealth, and next, stamping his foot on the corpse
and leaning hard on the spear, Mezentius shouts out:
“Here, men, lies no mean part of their battle strength,
Orodes, once so tall!” And his comrades shout back,
redoubling the victor’s cry as Orodes pants his last:
“You don’t have long to crow, whoever you are, my victor!
Vengeance waits, the same fate watches over you too,
you’ll lie here in the same field—very soon.”
“Die now!” Mezentius cries,
grinning through his rage: “As for my own death,
the Father of Gods and King of Men will see to that.”
Mezentius, vaunting, pries the spear from Orodes’ body.
Grim repose and an iron sleep press down his eyes
and seal their light in a night that never ends.
to killing him on the run with a spearcast from behind,
stabbing him, unseen, no, he dueled him man to man,
proving himself the better man by force of arms,
not stealth, and next, stamping his foot on the corpse
and leaning hard on the spear, Mezentius shouts out:
“Here, men, lies no mean part of their battle strength,
Orodes, once so tall!” And his comrades shout back,
redoubling the victor’s cry as Orodes pants his last:
“You don’t have long to crow, whoever you are, my victor!
Vengeance waits, the same fate watches over you too,
you’ll lie here in the same field—very soon.”
“Die now!” Mezentius cries,
grinning through his rage: “As for my own death,
the Father of Gods and King of Men will see to that.”
Mezentius, vaunting, pries the spear from Orodes’ body.
Grim repose and an iron sleep press down his eyes
and seal their light in a night that never ends.
Caedicus chops Alcathous down—Sacrator, Hydaspes—
Rapo kills Parthenius, then the indestructible Orses.
Messapus levels Clonius, then Lycaon’s son, Erichaetes,
one thrown from a reinless horse and sprawled aground,
the other fighting on foot. On foot a Lycian too,
one Agis strode up now but Valerus, no poor heir
to his fathers’ battle prowess, hurled him down
as Thronius fell to Salius, Salius to Nealces,
crack marksman with spears and arrows both,
blindsiding in front afar.
Ruthless Mars
was drawing the battle out, dead even now,
equaling out the grief, the mutual slaughter.
Victors and victims killing, killed in turn:
both sides locked, not a thought of flight, not here.
The gods in the halls of Jove are filled with pity,
feeling the futile rage of both great armies,
mourning the labors borne by mortal men . . .
Here Venus, over against her, Juno gazing down,
as Tisiphone seethes amid the milling thousands,
that livid, lethal Fury.
But here Mezentius comes,
brandishing high his massive spear and storming on
like a whirlwind down the plain, and enormous as Orion
marching in mid-sea, plowing a path through the deep swells,
his shoulders rearing over the waves, or hauling down
from a ridge the trunk of an age-old mountain ash,
as he treads the ground he hides his head in clouds—
so vast, Mezentius marching on in gigantic armor.
Aeneas, spotting him out in the long front ranks,
comes up to cross his path. But he holds firm,
unafraid, awaiting his great-hearted foe,
stands firm in all his mass. His eyes narrow,
gauging the length his spear will need, he cries:
“Let this right arm—my only god—and the spear I hurl
be with me now! I dedicate you, Lausus, decked
in the spoils I strip from that pirate’s corpse—
my son, my living trophy over Aeneas!”
Enough.
He hurled his spear and whizzing in from a distance,
winging on, it ricocheted off Aeneas’ shield to hit
that hardy fighter Antores, yards away, between
the flank and groin: Antores sent from Argos,
Hercules’ aide who bound himself to Evander,
settling down in the king’s Italian city.
Laid low by a wound aimed for another,
luckless man, he looks up at the heavens,
longing for his dear Argos as he dies.
Next
the grave Aeneas flings a spear at Mezentius—
right through the buckler’s three round plates of bronze,
through the linen plies and bull’s-hide triply stitched
the spear pierced, plunging deep in the man’s groin
but its force stopped short of home. In a flash Aeneas,
overjoyed now at the sight of the Tuscan’s blood,
sweeps his sword from its sheath and closes fast
on his staggered foe. But Lausus, seeing it all,
groaned low with the love he bore his father,
tears poured down his face and now, Lausus,
your fated, brutal death and your brave deeds—
if glorious work long ages old can win belief—
neither your record nor yourself will I ever fail
to sing, young soldier, you deserve our praise.
Now
his father was backing off, defenseless, weighed down,
dragging his enemy’s spearshaft trailing from his shield,
so the son sprang forward, darting into the moil and
just as Aeneas rose up, his arm reared for attack,
Lausus, ducking under the stroke, parried the sword,
holding the Trojan off while shouting comrades
harried Aeneas with missiles pelting in from afar
till under his son’s shield the father could escape.
Aeneas keeps down, huddling under his own shield, enraged . . .
Think of a cloudburst bearing down with gusts of hail
and every plowman, every farmhand quits the fields
and the traveler keeps safe in a welcome refuge
under some river’s banks or cavern’s rocky arch
while rain pelts the earth, so when the sun returns
they can all get on with the day’s work. So Aeneas,
overpowered by missiles left and right, braves out
the cloudburst of war till its thunder dies away
and then he taunts Lausus, threatens Lausus:
“Why hurry your death? Daring beyond your powers!
Your love for your father lures you into folly.”
Rapo kills Parthenius, then the indestructible Orses.
Messapus levels Clonius, then Lycaon’s son, Erichaetes,
one thrown from a reinless horse and sprawled aground,
the other fighting on foot. On foot a Lycian too,
one Agis strode up now but Valerus, no poor heir
to his fathers’ battle prowess, hurled him down
as Thronius fell to Salius, Salius to Nealces,
crack marksman with spears and arrows both,
blindsiding in front afar.
Ruthless Mars
was drawing the battle out, dead even now,
equaling out the grief, the mutual slaughter.
Victors and victims killing, killed in turn:
both sides locked, not a thought of flight, not here.
The gods in the halls of Jove are filled with pity,
feeling the futile rage of both great armies,
mourning the labors borne by mortal men . . .
Here Venus, over against her, Juno gazing down,
as Tisiphone seethes amid the milling thousands,
that livid, lethal Fury.
But here Mezentius comes,
brandishing high his massive spear and storming on
like a whirlwind down the plain, and enormous as Orion
marching in mid-sea, plowing a path through the deep swells,
his shoulders rearing over the waves, or hauling down
from a ridge the trunk of an age-old mountain ash,
as he treads the ground he hides his head in clouds—
so vast, Mezentius marching on in gigantic armor.
Aeneas, spotting him out in the long front ranks,
comes up to cross his path. But he holds firm,
unafraid, awaiting his great-hearted foe,
stands firm in all his mass. His eyes narrow,
gauging the length his spear will need, he cries:
“Let this right arm—my only god—and the spear I hurl
be with me now! I dedicate you, Lausus, decked
in the spoils I strip from that pirate’s corpse—
my son, my living trophy over Aeneas!”
Enough.
He hurled his spear and whizzing in from a distance,
winging on, it ricocheted off Aeneas’ shield to hit
that hardy fighter Antores, yards away, between
the flank and groin: Antores sent from Argos,
Hercules’ aide who bound himself to Evander,
settling down in the king’s Italian city.
Laid low by a wound aimed for another,
luckless man, he looks up at the heavens,
longing for his dear Argos as he dies.
Next
the grave Aeneas flings a spear at Mezentius—
right through the buckler’s three round plates of bronze,
through the linen plies and bull’s-hide triply stitched
the spear pierced, plunging deep in the man’s groin
but its force stopped short of home. In a flash Aeneas,
overjoyed now at the sight of the Tuscan’s blood,
sweeps his sword from its sheath and closes fast
on his staggered foe. But Lausus, seeing it all,
groaned low with the love he bore his father,
tears poured down his face and now, Lausus,
your fated, brutal death and your brave deeds—
if glorious work long ages old can win belief—
neither your record nor yourself will I ever fail
to sing, young soldier, you deserve our praise.
Now
his father was backing off, defenseless, weighed down,
dragging his enemy’s spearshaft trailing from his shield,
so the son sprang forward, darting into the moil and
just as Aeneas rose up, his arm reared for attack,
Lausus, ducking under the stroke, parried the sword,
holding the Trojan off while shouting comrades
harried Aeneas with missiles pelting in from afar
till under his son’s shield the father could escape.
Aeneas keeps down, huddling under his own shield, enraged . . .
Think of a cloudburst bearing down with gusts of hail
and every plowman, every farmhand quits the fields
and the traveler keeps safe in a welcome refuge
under some river’s banks or cavern’s rocky arch
while rain pelts the earth, so when the sun returns
they can all get on with the day’s work. So Aeneas,
overpowered by missiles left and right, braves out
the cloudburst of war till its thunder dies away
and then he taunts Lausus, threatens Lausus:
“Why hurry your death? Daring beyond your powers!
Your love for your father lures you into folly.”
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