The Aeneid (48 page)
Now what god can unfold for me so many terrors?
Who can make a song of slaughter in all its forms—
the deaths of captains down the entire field,
dealt now by Turnus, now by Aeneas, kill for kill?
Did it please you so, great Jove, to see the world at war,
the peoples clash that would later live in everlasting peace?
Who can make a song of slaughter in all its forms—
the deaths of captains down the entire field,
dealt now by Turnus, now by Aeneas, kill for kill?
Did it please you so, great Jove, to see the world at war,
the peoples clash that would later live in everlasting peace?
Aeneas takes on Rutulian Sucro—here was the first duel
that ground the Trojan charge to a halt—and meets the man
with no long visit, just a quick stab in his flank and
the ruthless sword-blade splits the ribcage, thrusting
into the heart where death comes lightning fast.
Turnus,
hurling the brothers Amycus and Diores off their mounts,
attacks them on foot and one he strikes with a long spear,
rushing at Turnus, one he runs through with a sword and
severing both their heads, he dangles them from his car
as he carts them off in triumph dripping blood.
Aeneas
packs them off to death, Talos, Tanais, staunch Cethegus,
all three at a single charge, then grim Onites too,
named for his Theban line, his mother called Peridia.
Turnus
kills the brothers fresh from Apollo’s Lycian fields
and next Menoetes who, in his youth, detested war
but war would be his fate. An Arcadian angler
skilled at working the rivers of Lerna stocked with fish,
his lodgings poor, a stranger to all the gifts of the great,
and his father farmed his crops on rented land.
Like fires
loosed from adverse sides into woodlands dry as tinder,
thickets of rustling laurel, or foaming rivers hurling
down from a mountain ridge and roaring out to sea,
each leaves a path of destruction in its wake.
Just as furious now those two, Aeneas, Turnus
rampaging through the battle, now their fury
boils over inside them, now their warring hearts
at the breaking point—they don’t concede defeat—
and now they hack their wounding ways with all their force.
that ground the Trojan charge to a halt—and meets the man
with no long visit, just a quick stab in his flank and
the ruthless sword-blade splits the ribcage, thrusting
into the heart where death comes lightning fast.
Turnus,
hurling the brothers Amycus and Diores off their mounts,
attacks them on foot and one he strikes with a long spear,
rushing at Turnus, one he runs through with a sword and
severing both their heads, he dangles them from his car
as he carts them off in triumph dripping blood.
Aeneas
packs them off to death, Talos, Tanais, staunch Cethegus,
all three at a single charge, then grim Onites too,
named for his Theban line, his mother called Peridia.
Turnus
kills the brothers fresh from Apollo’s Lycian fields
and next Menoetes who, in his youth, detested war
but war would be his fate. An Arcadian angler
skilled at working the rivers of Lerna stocked with fish,
his lodgings poor, a stranger to all the gifts of the great,
and his father farmed his crops on rented land.
Like fires
loosed from adverse sides into woodlands dry as tinder,
thickets of rustling laurel, or foaming rivers hurling
down from a mountain ridge and roaring out to sea,
each leaves a path of destruction in its wake.
Just as furious now those two, Aeneas, Turnus
rampaging through the battle, now their fury
boils over inside them, now their warring hearts
at the breaking point—they don’t concede defeat—
and now they hack their wounding ways with all their force.
Here’s Murranus sounding off the names of his forebears,
all his fathers’ fathers’ line from the start of time,
his entire race come down from the Latin kings . . .
Headlong down Aeneas smashes the braggart with a rock,
a whirling boulder’s power that splays him on the ground,
snarled in the reins and yoke as the wheels roll him on
and under their thundering hoofbeats both his galloping horses—
all thought of their master vanished—trample him to death.
Here’s Hyllus rushing in with his bloodcurdling rage
but Turnus rushing to block him whips a spear at his brow
that splits his gilded helmet, sticks erect in his brain.
And your sword-arm, Cretheus, bravest Greek afield—
it could not snatch you from Turnus,
nor did the gods he worshipped save Cupencus’ life
when Aeneas came his way: he thrust his chest at the blade
but his brazen shield, poor priest, could not put off his death.
And Aeolus, you too, the Laurentine fields saw you go down
and your body spread across the earth. Down you went,
whom neither the Greek battalions could demolish,
nor could Achilles, who razed the realms of Priam.
Here was your finish line, the end of life.
Your halls lie under Ida, high halls at Lyrnesus
but here in Laurentine soil lies your tomb.
All on attack—
the armies wheeling around for combat, all the Latins,
all the Trojans—Mnestheus, fierce Serestus,
Messapus breaker of horses, brawny Asilas—
the Etruscan squadron, Evander’s Arcadian wings,
each fighter at peak strength, all force put to the test
as they soldier on, no rest, no letup—total war.
And now
his lovely mother impelled Aeneas to storm the ramparts,
hurl his troops at the city—fast, frontal assault—
and panic the Latins faced with swift collapse.
And he, stalking Turnus through the moil of battle,
Aeneas’ glances roving left and right, sights the town
untouched by this ruthless war, immune, at peace and
an instant vision of fiercer combat fires his soul.
He summons Mnestheus, Sergestus, staunch Serestus,
chosen captains, takes his stand on a high rise
where the rest of the Trojan fighters cluster round,
tight ranks that don’t throw down their shields and spears
as Aeneas, rising amidst them, urges from the earthwork:
“No delay in obeying my orders—Jove backs us now!
No slowing down, I tell you, we must strike at once!
That city, the cause of the war, the heart of Latinus’ realm—
unless they bow to the yoke, brought low this very day,
I’ll topple their smoking rooftops to the ground.
What, wait till Turnus deigns to take me on?
Consents to fight me again, defeated as he is?
That city, my people, there’s the core and crux
of this accursed war. Quick, bring torches!
Restore our truce with fire!”
A call to arms
and they pack in wedge formation bent on battle,
advancing toward the walls in a dense fighting mass—
in a moment you see ladders slanted, brands aflame.
Some charge at the gates and cut the sentries down
and others whirl their steel, blot out the sky with spears.
Aeneas himself, up in the lead beneath the ramparts,
raises his arm and thunders out, upbraiding Latinus,
calling the gods: “Bear witness, I’ve been dragged
into battle once again! The Latins are our enemies
twice over—this is the second pact they’ve shattered!”
And Discord surges up in the panic-stricken citizens,
some insisting the gates be flung wide to the Dardans,
yes, and they hale the king himself toward the walls.
Others seize on weapons, rush to defend the ramparts . . .
Picture a shepherd tracking bees to their rocky den,
closed up in the clefts he fills with scorching smoke
and all inside, alarmed by the danger, swarming round
through their stronghold walled with wax, hone sharp
their rage to a piercing buzz and the black reek
goes churning through their house and the rocks hum
with a blind din and the smoke spews out into thin air.
all his fathers’ fathers’ line from the start of time,
his entire race come down from the Latin kings . . .
Headlong down Aeneas smashes the braggart with a rock,
a whirling boulder’s power that splays him on the ground,
snarled in the reins and yoke as the wheels roll him on
and under their thundering hoofbeats both his galloping horses—
all thought of their master vanished—trample him to death.
Here’s Hyllus rushing in with his bloodcurdling rage
but Turnus rushing to block him whips a spear at his brow
that splits his gilded helmet, sticks erect in his brain.
And your sword-arm, Cretheus, bravest Greek afield—
it could not snatch you from Turnus,
nor did the gods he worshipped save Cupencus’ life
when Aeneas came his way: he thrust his chest at the blade
but his brazen shield, poor priest, could not put off his death.
And Aeolus, you too, the Laurentine fields saw you go down
and your body spread across the earth. Down you went,
whom neither the Greek battalions could demolish,
nor could Achilles, who razed the realms of Priam.
Here was your finish line, the end of life.
Your halls lie under Ida, high halls at Lyrnesus
but here in Laurentine soil lies your tomb.
All on attack—
the armies wheeling around for combat, all the Latins,
all the Trojans—Mnestheus, fierce Serestus,
Messapus breaker of horses, brawny Asilas—
the Etruscan squadron, Evander’s Arcadian wings,
each fighter at peak strength, all force put to the test
as they soldier on, no rest, no letup—total war.
And now
his lovely mother impelled Aeneas to storm the ramparts,
hurl his troops at the city—fast, frontal assault—
and panic the Latins faced with swift collapse.
And he, stalking Turnus through the moil of battle,
Aeneas’ glances roving left and right, sights the town
untouched by this ruthless war, immune, at peace and
an instant vision of fiercer combat fires his soul.
He summons Mnestheus, Sergestus, staunch Serestus,
chosen captains, takes his stand on a high rise
where the rest of the Trojan fighters cluster round,
tight ranks that don’t throw down their shields and spears
as Aeneas, rising amidst them, urges from the earthwork:
“No delay in obeying my orders—Jove backs us now!
No slowing down, I tell you, we must strike at once!
That city, the cause of the war, the heart of Latinus’ realm—
unless they bow to the yoke, brought low this very day,
I’ll topple their smoking rooftops to the ground.
What, wait till Turnus deigns to take me on?
Consents to fight me again, defeated as he is?
That city, my people, there’s the core and crux
of this accursed war. Quick, bring torches!
Restore our truce with fire!”
A call to arms
and they pack in wedge formation bent on battle,
advancing toward the walls in a dense fighting mass—
in a moment you see ladders slanted, brands aflame.
Some charge at the gates and cut the sentries down
and others whirl their steel, blot out the sky with spears.
Aeneas himself, up in the lead beneath the ramparts,
raises his arm and thunders out, upbraiding Latinus,
calling the gods: “Bear witness, I’ve been dragged
into battle once again! The Latins are our enemies
twice over—this is the second pact they’ve shattered!”
And Discord surges up in the panic-stricken citizens,
some insisting the gates be flung wide to the Dardans,
yes, and they hale the king himself toward the walls.
Others seize on weapons, rush to defend the ramparts . . .
Picture a shepherd tracking bees to their rocky den,
closed up in the clefts he fills with scorching smoke
and all inside, alarmed by the danger, swarming round
through their stronghold walled with wax, hone sharp
their rage to a piercing buzz and the black reek
goes churning through their house and the rocks hum
with a blind din and the smoke spews out into thin air.
Now a new misfortune assailed the battle-weary Latins,
rocking their city to its roots with grief. The queen—
when from her house she sees the enemy coming strong,
walls assaulted, flames surging up to the roofs and no
Rutulian force in sight to block their way, no troops of Turnus,
then, poor woman, she thinks him killed in the press of war
and suddenly lost in the frenzied grip of sorrow, claims
that she’s the cause, the criminal, source of disaster—
shrilling wild words in her crazed, grieving fit and
bent on death, ripping her purple gown for a noose,
she knots it high to a rafter, dies a gruesome death.
As soon as the wretched Latin women hear the worst,
the queen’s daughter Lavinia is the first to tear
her golden hair and score her lustrous cheeks,
the rest of the women round her mad with grief and
the long halls resound with trilling wails of sorrow.
From here the terrible news goes racing through the city,
spirits plunge—Latinus, rending his robes to tatters,
stunned by his wife’s death and his city’s fall,
fouls his white hair with showers of dust.
Turnus
at this point, fighting off on the outskirts of the field,
is hunting a few stragglers. Yet he’s less avid now,
exulting less and less when his horses win the day.
But the winds bring him a hint of hidden terrors,
mingled cries drifting out of the town in chaos.
A muffled din. He cocks his ears, listening . . .
hardly the sound of joy. “What am I hearing,
why this enormous grief that rocks the walls,
this clamor echoing from the city far away?”
rocking their city to its roots with grief. The queen—
when from her house she sees the enemy coming strong,
walls assaulted, flames surging up to the roofs and no
Rutulian force in sight to block their way, no troops of Turnus,
then, poor woman, she thinks him killed in the press of war
and suddenly lost in the frenzied grip of sorrow, claims
that she’s the cause, the criminal, source of disaster—
shrilling wild words in her crazed, grieving fit and
bent on death, ripping her purple gown for a noose,
she knots it high to a rafter, dies a gruesome death.
As soon as the wretched Latin women hear the worst,
the queen’s daughter Lavinia is the first to tear
her golden hair and score her lustrous cheeks,
the rest of the women round her mad with grief and
the long halls resound with trilling wails of sorrow.
From here the terrible news goes racing through the city,
spirits plunge—Latinus, rending his robes to tatters,
stunned by his wife’s death and his city’s fall,
fouls his white hair with showers of dust.
Turnus
at this point, fighting off on the outskirts of the field,
is hunting a few stragglers. Yet he’s less avid now,
exulting less and less when his horses win the day.
But the winds bring him a hint of hidden terrors,
mingled cries drifting out of the town in chaos.
A muffled din. He cocks his ears, listening . . .
hardly the sound of joy. “What am I hearing,
why this enormous grief that rocks the walls,
this clamor echoing from the city far away?”
So he wonders, madly tugging the reins back
and makes the chariot stop.
But his sister, changed
to look like his charioteer, Metiscus, handling the car
and team and reins, she faced him with this challenge:
“This way, Turnus! We’ll hunt these Trojans down
where victory opens up the first way in.
Other hands can defend our city walls. Aeneas
hurtles down on the Latins—all-out assault—
but we can deal out savage death to his Trojans.
You’ll return from the front no less than Aeneas
in numbers killed and battle honors won!”
“My sister,”
Turnus replies, “I recognized you long ago, yes,
when you first broke up our treaty with your wiles
and threw yourself into combat. No hiding your godhood,
you can’t fool me now. But what Olympian wished it so,
who sent you down to bear such heavy labor? Why,
to witness your luckless brother’s painful death?
What do I do now? What new twist of Fortune
can save me now? I’ve seen with my own eyes,
calling out to me ‘Turnus!’ as he fell . . .
Murranus—no one dearer to me survived,
a great soldier taken down by a great wound.
Unlucky Ufens died before he could see my shame
and the Trojans commandeered his corpse and weapons.
Must I bear the sight of Latinus’ houses razed—
the last thing I needed—and not rebut
the ugly slander of Drances with my sword?
Shall I cut and run? Shall the country look
on Turnus in full retreat? To die, tell me,
is that the worst we face? Be good to me now,
you shades of the dead below, for the gods above
have turned away their favors. Down to you I go,
a spirit cleansed, utterly innocent as charged,
forever worthy of my great fathers’ fame!”
and makes the chariot stop.
But his sister, changed
to look like his charioteer, Metiscus, handling the car
and team and reins, she faced him with this challenge:
“This way, Turnus! We’ll hunt these Trojans down
where victory opens up the first way in.
Other hands can defend our city walls. Aeneas
hurtles down on the Latins—all-out assault—
but we can deal out savage death to his Trojans.
You’ll return from the front no less than Aeneas
in numbers killed and battle honors won!”
“My sister,”
Turnus replies, “I recognized you long ago, yes,
when you first broke up our treaty with your wiles
and threw yourself into combat. No hiding your godhood,
you can’t fool me now. But what Olympian wished it so,
who sent you down to bear such heavy labor? Why,
to witness your luckless brother’s painful death?
What do I do now? What new twist of Fortune
can save me now? I’ve seen with my own eyes,
calling out to me ‘Turnus!’ as he fell . . .
Murranus—no one dearer to me survived,
a great soldier taken down by a great wound.
Unlucky Ufens died before he could see my shame
and the Trojans commandeered his corpse and weapons.
Must I bear the sight of Latinus’ houses razed—
the last thing I needed—and not rebut
the ugly slander of Drances with my sword?
Shall I cut and run? Shall the country look
on Turnus in full retreat? To die, tell me,
is that the worst we face? Be good to me now,
you shades of the dead below, for the gods above
have turned away their favors. Down to you I go,
a spirit cleansed, utterly innocent as charged,
forever worthy of my great fathers’ fame!”
The words were still on his lips when, look,
Saces, riding his lathered horse through enemy lines
and slashed where an arrow raked his face, comes racing up,
calling for help, crying the name of Turnus: “Turnus,
you are our last best hope! Pity your own people.
Aeneas strikes like lightning! Up in arms he threatens
to topple Italy’s towers, bring them down in ruins,
already the flaming brands go winging toward the roofs.
The Latins, their eyes, their looks are trained on you.
Latinus, the king himself, moans and groans with doubt—
whom to call his sons? Which pact can he embrace?
And now the queen, whose trust lay all in you,
she’s dead by her own hand,
terrified, she’s fled the light of life.
Alone before the gates Messapus and brave Atinas
hold our front lines steady, ringed by enemy squadrons
packed tight, bristling a jagged crop of naked blades!
While look at you, wheeling your chariot round
the abandoned grassy fields!”
Stunned by pictures
of these disasters blurring through his mind,
Turnus stood there, staring, speechless, churning
with mighty shame, with grief and madness all aswirl
in that one fighting heart: with love spurred by rage
and a sense of his own worth too. As soon as the shadows
were dispersed and the light restored to his mind,
he turned his fiery glance toward the ramparts,
glaring back from his chariot to the town.
But now,
look, a whirlwind of fire goes rolling story to story,
billowing up the sky, and clings fast to a mobile tower,
a defense he built himself of wedged, rough-hewn beams,
fitting the wheels below it, gangways reared above.
“Now, now, my sister, the Fates are in command.
Don’t hold me back. Where God and relentless
Fortune call us on, that’s the way we go!
I’m set on fighting Aeneas hand-to-hand,
set, however bitter it is, to meet my death.
You’ll never see me disgraced again—no more.
Insane as it is, I beg you, let me rage before I die!”
Saces, riding his lathered horse through enemy lines
and slashed where an arrow raked his face, comes racing up,
calling for help, crying the name of Turnus: “Turnus,
you are our last best hope! Pity your own people.
Aeneas strikes like lightning! Up in arms he threatens
to topple Italy’s towers, bring them down in ruins,
already the flaming brands go winging toward the roofs.
The Latins, their eyes, their looks are trained on you.
Latinus, the king himself, moans and groans with doubt—
whom to call his sons? Which pact can he embrace?
And now the queen, whose trust lay all in you,
she’s dead by her own hand,
terrified, she’s fled the light of life.
Alone before the gates Messapus and brave Atinas
hold our front lines steady, ringed by enemy squadrons
packed tight, bristling a jagged crop of naked blades!
While look at you, wheeling your chariot round
the abandoned grassy fields!”
Stunned by pictures
of these disasters blurring through his mind,
Turnus stood there, staring, speechless, churning
with mighty shame, with grief and madness all aswirl
in that one fighting heart: with love spurred by rage
and a sense of his own worth too. As soon as the shadows
were dispersed and the light restored to his mind,
he turned his fiery glance toward the ramparts,
glaring back from his chariot to the town.
But now,
look, a whirlwind of fire goes rolling story to story,
billowing up the sky, and clings fast to a mobile tower,
a defense he built himself of wedged, rough-hewn beams,
fitting the wheels below it, gangways reared above.
“Now, now, my sister, the Fates are in command.
Don’t hold me back. Where God and relentless
Fortune call us on, that’s the way we go!
I’m set on fighting Aeneas hand-to-hand,
set, however bitter it is, to meet my death.
You’ll never see me disgraced again—no more.
Insane as it is, I beg you, let me rage before I die!”
He leapt from his chariot, hit the ground at a run
through enemies, Trojan spears, and left his sister
grieving as he went bursting through the lines.
Wild as a boulder plowing headlong down from a summit,
torn out by the tempests—whether the stormwinds washed it free
or the creeping years stole under it, worked it loose,
down the cliff it crashes, ruthless crag of rock
bounding over the ground with enormous impact,
churning up in its onrush woods and herds and men.
So Turnus bursts through the fractured ranks, charging
toward the walls where the earth runs red with blood
and the winds hiss with spears and, hand flung up,
he cries with a ringing voice: “Hold back now,
you Rutulians! Latins, keep your arms in check!
Whatever Fortune sends, it’s mine. Better
for me alone to redeem the pact for you
and let my sword decide!”
All ranks scattered,
leaving a no-man’s-land between them both.
But Aeneas,
the great commander, hearing the name of Turnus,
deserts the walls, deserts the citadel’s heights
and breaks off all operations, jettisons all delay—
he springs in joy, drums his shield and it thunders terror.
As massive as Athos, massive as Eryx or even Father
Apennine himself, roaring out with his glistening oaks,
elated to raise his snow-capped brow to the winds. And then,
for a fact, the Rutulians, Trojans, all the Italians,
those defending the high ramparts, those on attack
who batter the walls’ foundations with their rams:
all armies strained to turn their glances round
and lifted their battle-armor off their shoulders.
Latinus himself is struck that these two giant men,
sprung from opposing ends of the earth, have met,
face-to-face, to let their swords decide.
But they,
as soon as the battlefield lay clear and level,
charge at speed, rifling their spears at long range,
then rush to battle with shields and clanging bronze.
The earth groans as stroke after stroke they land
with naked swords: fortune and fortitude mix
in one assault. Charging like two hostile bulls
fighting up on Sila’s woods or Taburnus’ ridges,
ramping in mortal combat, both brows bent for attack
and the herdsmen back away in fear and the whole herd
stands by, hushed, afraid, and the heifers wait and wonder,
who will lord it over the forest? who will lead the herd?—
while the bulls battle it out, horns butting, locking,
goring each other, necks and shoulders roped in blood
and the woods resound as they grunt and bellow out.
So they charge, Trojan Aeneas and Turnus, son of Daunus,
shields clang and the huge din makes the heavens ring.
Jove himself lifts up his scales, balanced, trued,
and in them he sets the opposing fates of both . . .
Whom would the labor of battle doom? Whose life
would weigh him down to death?
Suddenly Turnus
flashes forward, certain he’s in the clear and
raising his sword high, rearing to full stretch
strikes—as Trojans and anxious Latins shout out,
with the gaze of both armies riveted on the fighters.
But his treacherous blade breaks off, it fails Turnus
in mid-stroke—enraged, his one recourse, retreat,
and swifter than Eastwinds, Turnus flies as soon
as he sees that unfamiliar hilt in his hand,
no defense at all. They say the captain, rushing
headlong on to harness his team and board his car
to begin the duel, left his father’s sword behind
and hastily grabbed his charioteer Metiscus’ blade.
Long as the Trojan stragglers took to their heels and ran,
the weapon did its work, but once it came up against
the immortal armor forged by the God of Fire, Vulcan,
the mortal sword burst at a stroke, brittle as ice,
and glinting splinters gleamed on the tawny sand.
So raging Turnus runs for it, scours the field,
now here, now there, weaving in tangled circles
as Trojans crowd him hard, a dense ring of them
shutting him in, with a wild swamp to the left
and steep walls to the right.
Nor does Aeneas flag,
though slowed down by his wound, his knees unsteady,
cutting his pace at times but he’s still in full fury,
hot on his frantic quarry’s tracks, stride for stride.
Alert as a hunting hound that lights on a trapped stag,
hemmed in by a river’s bend or frightened back by the ropes
with blood-red feathers—the hound barking, closing, fast
as the quarry, panicked by traps and the steep riverbanks,
runs off and back in a thousand ways but the Umbrian hound,
keen for the kill, hangs on the trail, his jaws agape—
and now, now he’s got him, thinks he’s got him, yes
and his jaws clap shut, stymied, champing the empty air.
Then the shouts break loose, and the banks and rapids round
resound with the din, and the high sky thunders back. Turnus—
even in flight he rebukes his men as he races, calling
each by name, demanding his old familiar sword.
Aeneas, opposite, threatens death and doom at once
to anyone in his way, he threatens his harried foes
that he’ll root their city out and, wounded as he is,
keeps closing for the kill. And five full circles
they run and reel as many back, around and back,
for it’s no mean trophy they’re sporting after now,
they race for the life and the lifeblood of Turnus.
through enemies, Trojan spears, and left his sister
grieving as he went bursting through the lines.
Wild as a boulder plowing headlong down from a summit,
torn out by the tempests—whether the stormwinds washed it free
or the creeping years stole under it, worked it loose,
down the cliff it crashes, ruthless crag of rock
bounding over the ground with enormous impact,
churning up in its onrush woods and herds and men.
So Turnus bursts through the fractured ranks, charging
toward the walls where the earth runs red with blood
and the winds hiss with spears and, hand flung up,
he cries with a ringing voice: “Hold back now,
you Rutulians! Latins, keep your arms in check!
Whatever Fortune sends, it’s mine. Better
for me alone to redeem the pact for you
and let my sword decide!”
All ranks scattered,
leaving a no-man’s-land between them both.
But Aeneas,
the great commander, hearing the name of Turnus,
deserts the walls, deserts the citadel’s heights
and breaks off all operations, jettisons all delay—
he springs in joy, drums his shield and it thunders terror.
As massive as Athos, massive as Eryx or even Father
Apennine himself, roaring out with his glistening oaks,
elated to raise his snow-capped brow to the winds. And then,
for a fact, the Rutulians, Trojans, all the Italians,
those defending the high ramparts, those on attack
who batter the walls’ foundations with their rams:
all armies strained to turn their glances round
and lifted their battle-armor off their shoulders.
Latinus himself is struck that these two giant men,
sprung from opposing ends of the earth, have met,
face-to-face, to let their swords decide.
But they,
as soon as the battlefield lay clear and level,
charge at speed, rifling their spears at long range,
then rush to battle with shields and clanging bronze.
The earth groans as stroke after stroke they land
with naked swords: fortune and fortitude mix
in one assault. Charging like two hostile bulls
fighting up on Sila’s woods or Taburnus’ ridges,
ramping in mortal combat, both brows bent for attack
and the herdsmen back away in fear and the whole herd
stands by, hushed, afraid, and the heifers wait and wonder,
who will lord it over the forest? who will lead the herd?—
while the bulls battle it out, horns butting, locking,
goring each other, necks and shoulders roped in blood
and the woods resound as they grunt and bellow out.
So they charge, Trojan Aeneas and Turnus, son of Daunus,
shields clang and the huge din makes the heavens ring.
Jove himself lifts up his scales, balanced, trued,
and in them he sets the opposing fates of both . . .
Whom would the labor of battle doom? Whose life
would weigh him down to death?
Suddenly Turnus
flashes forward, certain he’s in the clear and
raising his sword high, rearing to full stretch
strikes—as Trojans and anxious Latins shout out,
with the gaze of both armies riveted on the fighters.
But his treacherous blade breaks off, it fails Turnus
in mid-stroke—enraged, his one recourse, retreat,
and swifter than Eastwinds, Turnus flies as soon
as he sees that unfamiliar hilt in his hand,
no defense at all. They say the captain, rushing
headlong on to harness his team and board his car
to begin the duel, left his father’s sword behind
and hastily grabbed his charioteer Metiscus’ blade.
Long as the Trojan stragglers took to their heels and ran,
the weapon did its work, but once it came up against
the immortal armor forged by the God of Fire, Vulcan,
the mortal sword burst at a stroke, brittle as ice,
and glinting splinters gleamed on the tawny sand.
So raging Turnus runs for it, scours the field,
now here, now there, weaving in tangled circles
as Trojans crowd him hard, a dense ring of them
shutting him in, with a wild swamp to the left
and steep walls to the right.
Nor does Aeneas flag,
though slowed down by his wound, his knees unsteady,
cutting his pace at times but he’s still in full fury,
hot on his frantic quarry’s tracks, stride for stride.
Alert as a hunting hound that lights on a trapped stag,
hemmed in by a river’s bend or frightened back by the ropes
with blood-red feathers—the hound barking, closing, fast
as the quarry, panicked by traps and the steep riverbanks,
runs off and back in a thousand ways but the Umbrian hound,
keen for the kill, hangs on the trail, his jaws agape—
and now, now he’s got him, thinks he’s got him, yes
and his jaws clap shut, stymied, champing the empty air.
Then the shouts break loose, and the banks and rapids round
resound with the din, and the high sky thunders back. Turnus—
even in flight he rebukes his men as he races, calling
each by name, demanding his old familiar sword.
Aeneas, opposite, threatens death and doom at once
to anyone in his way, he threatens his harried foes
that he’ll root their city out and, wounded as he is,
keeps closing for the kill. And five full circles
they run and reel as many back, around and back,
for it’s no mean trophy they’re sporting after now,
they race for the life and the lifeblood of Turnus.
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