The Aeneid (43 page)

                Meanwhile there was no less slaughter from the hand of
                Euryalus. He too was in a blazing frenzy as he crept up on a
                great crowd of nameless warriors lying unconscious in his path,
                Fadus and Herbesus, Rhoetus and Abaris. Rhoetus was awake
                
and saw it all, so hid in panic behind a great mixing bowl. But
                when Euryalus came near him, he rose and Euryalus plunged
                his sword to the hilt in his chest. When he withdrew it, the
                whole life of Rhoetus flooded out after it. As he lay there dying,
350         still vomiting his crimson life’s breath and bringing up wine and
                gore together, Euryalus was already prowling on, hot for blood.
                He was soon making for Messapus and his comrades, where he
                saw the dying embers of the watch-fires and the horses tethered
                in good order cropping the grass, when Nisus had a few words
                to say to him – for he noticed that Euryalus was being carried
                away by bloodlust and greed: ‘Let us make an end,’ he said.
                ‘Daylight is no friend of ours and it will soon be here. Our
                enemies have taken enough punishment and we have cut our
                path through the middle of them.’ They left behind them many
                pieces of men’s armour wrought in solid silver, and mixing
                bowls besides, and lovely rugs, but Euryalus took Rhamnes’
360         medallions and his gold-studded belt. Long ago the wealthy
                Caedicus had sent them from his home as gifts to Remulus of
                Tibur to form a guest-friendship with him. When Remulus was
                dying, he gave them to his grandson, and after his death they
                passed to the Rutulians as spoils of war. Euryalus now snatched
                them up and put them round his brave shoulders, but little good
                were they to do him. He also put on the helmet of Messapus
                with its gorgeous plumes, and they left the camp and made
                for safety.

                At this moment, while the rest of the Latin army was waiting
                in battle order on the plain, a detachment of cavalry had been
                sent out from their city and was now on its way with dispatches
370         to Turnus, three hundred of them, all carrying shields, under
                the command of Volcens. They were approaching the camp and
                coming up to its ramparts when they saw Nisus and Euryalus
                in the distance, veering off along the road to the left. Euryalus
                had forgotten about the helmet, and its glittering betrayed him,
                reflecting the rays of the moon in the dim shadows of the night.
                The enemy saw and did not fail to act. ‘Halt there, you men!’
                shouted Volcens from the head of his column. ‘Why are you on
                the road? Who are you? Why are you armed? Where are you
                going?’ They offered no reply, but ran off into the trees, putting
                
their trust in the darkness of the night. The horsemen spread
380         out along each side of the wood they knew so well, blocking the
                tracks that led in, and putting guards on every approach. It was
                a rough wood full of dense undergrowth and dark ilex trees, all
                of it choked with thick brambles, and the path glimmered only
                here and there among the faint tracks left by animals. Euryalus
                was held back by the darkness under the trees and by the weight
                of his booty, and in his fright he lost his way. But Nisus escaped.
                Without knowing it he had come through the enemy and the
                area later to be known as Alban, taking its name from the
                city of Alba, but in those days king Latinus had high-fenced
                enclosures there for his cattle. He now stopped and looked back
390         for his friend, but could not see him. ‘Poor Euryalus,’ he cried.
                ‘Where have I left you? Where can I look for you?’ and even as
                he spoke, he was beginning to go back over his path through
                the wood with all its deceptive twists and turns, retracing every
                remembered step as he wandered through the silent undergrowth.
                He heard horses. He heard the noise of the pursuers
                and their signals, and in no time shouts reached his ears and he
                saw Euryalus. Lost in the treacherous darkness of the wood and
                confused by the sudden tumult, he had been caught by the whole
                enemy troop and was now being carried off, still struggling
                desperately against all the odds. What was Nisus to do? How
                could he rescue his young friend? How should he attack? What
400         weapons could he use? Should he throw himself into the thick
                of their swords and rush through wound upon wound to a
                glorious death? In that instant he drew back his arm, and
                brandishing his throwing spear, he looked up to the moon in
                heaven and prayed in these words: ‘O goddess, daughter of
                Latona, O glory of the stars and guardian of the groves, be with
                me now and help me in my hour of trouble. If ever my father
                Hyrtacus has offered gifts for me at your altars, if ever I myself
                have enriched them with the spoils of my hunting, hanging my
                offerings in the dome of your temple or nailing them on your
                holy gables, guide my weapons through the air and grant that I
410         may throw this troop of my enemies into confusion.’ When he
                had spoken, he hurled his spear with the whole force of his
                body. Parting the shadows of the night it flew towards Sulmo,
                
whose back was turned, and there it struck and broke, sending
                a splinter through his diaphragm. He rolled over, vomiting a
                stream of warm blood from his chest in the chill of death, and
                heaving his flanks in deep-drawn agonies. While the enemy were
                looking round in all directions, there was Nisus, emboldened
                by his success, with another shaft ready by his ear, poised to
                aim. They were still in tumult when the spear came whistling
                and caught Tagus in the middle of the forehead, went through
420         the brain, and stuck there, growing warm. Volcens was wild
                with rage, but nowhere could he see the thrower and he could
                not decide where to direct the fury of his assault. ‘Never mind!’
                he shouted. ‘For the moment, you and your warm blood will
                pay me for both of them!’ and he drew his sword and rushed at
                Euryalus. This was too much for Nisus. Out of his mind with
                terror and unable to endure his anguish, he broke cover, shouting
                at the top of his voice: ‘Here I am! Here I am! I am the one
                who did it! Aim your weapons at me, you Rutulians! The whole
                scheme was mine. He is innocent. He could not have done it. I
                swear by this sky above me and the stars who know the truth,
430         his only offence is to have loved the wrong friend too much!’
                He was still speaking as the sword was driven through the ribs
                of Euryalus, full force, shattering his white breast. He rolled on
                the ground in death, the blood flowed over his beautiful body,
                his neck grew limp and the head drooped on his shoulders, like
                a scarlet flower languishing and dying when its stem has been
                cut by the plough, or like poppies bowing their heads when the
                rain burdens them and their necks grow weary. But Nisus rushed
                into the thick of the enemy, looking only for Volcens. Volcens
440         was the only thought in his mind. The Rutulians gathered round
                their leader and in close fighting threw Nisus back again and
                again as he came at them from one side after another, but he
                bore on none the less, whirling a sword like lightning till he met
                the Rutulian face to face and buried it in his mouth as he opened
                it to shout. So, in the moment of his own dying, he cut off the
                breath of his enemy. Then, pierced through and through, he
                hurled himself on the dead body of his friend and rested there
                at last in the peace of death.

                Fortune has favoured you both! If there is any power in my
                
poetry, the day will never come when time will erase you from
                the memory of man, while the house of Aeneas remains by the
                immovable rock of the Capitol and the Father of the Romans
                still keeps his empire.

450         The victorious Rutulians had collected their booty and their
                spoils and carried the body of Volcens to their camp, weeping
                as they went. There was no less sorrow waiting for them there,
                when they found Rhamnes dead, and with him Serranus and
                Numa and all their other leaders who had been killed in that
                one night of slaughter. A great crowd gathered round the dead
                and dying heroes and the ground was running with rivers of
                newly shed blood, still warm and foaming. Between them they
                recognized the spoils, the shining helmet of Messapus, and the
                medallions which had cost so much sweat to recover.

460         By now Aurora was just leaving the saffron bed of Tithonus
                and sprinkling her new light upon the world. The sun was soon
                streaming over the earth and soon all things stood revealed in
                its light. Turnus, in full armour himself, was rousing his men to
                arms, and each of the leaders was taking his own troop into
                battle in ranks of bronze, whipping up their anger with different
                accounts of the night’s work. They even stuck the heads of
                Euryalus and Nisus on spears – what a sight that was! – and
                paraded along behind them shouting. Aeneas’ men, long-enduring,
                drew up in battle order to face them on the walls on
                their left flank – the right was guarded by the river – and they
470         manned their great ditches and stood on their high towers
                stricken with grief and shocked by the sight of the heads of the
                comrades they knew so well, impaled on spears and dripping
                black gore.

                Meanwhile Rumour flew with the news on her swift wings
                through the whole terrified city of the Trojans, and came gliding
                into the ears of the mother of Euryalus. In that instant the
                warmth left her very bones, the shuttle was dashed from her
                fingers and its thread unwound. Crazed with grief she rushed
                out, and wailing as women do and tearing her hair, she made
                for the front ranks of the army on the walls. With no thought
480         for the presence of men, with no thought of the danger of flying
                weapons, she stood there on the ramparts and filled heaven with
                
her cries of mourning: ‘Is this you I am looking at, Euryalus?
                How could you leave me alone, so cruelly, you who were the
                last comfort of my old age? Could not your poor mother have
                been allowed a few last words with you, before you went on
                that dangerous expedition? So now you lie in a strange land,
                and your body is food for the dogs and the birds of Latium! I
                am your mother and did not walk before you at your funeral;
                nor close your eyes, nor wash your wounds, nor cover you with
                the robe I have been weaving for you day and night with what
                speed I could, finding in my loom some solace for the cares of
490         age. Where am I to go to look for you, my son? What piece of
                earth holds your mutilated body and dismembered limbs? Is this
                head all you bring back to me? Is that what I have followed over
                land and sea? Strike me, you Rutulians, if you have any human
                feelings! Throw all your spears at me! Let me be the first to die.
                Or will you take pity on me, Great Father of the Gods, and blast
                my detested body into Tartarus with your lightning, since I can
                find no other way to end this bitter life?’ Sorrow like this was
                too much for the Trojans to bear. The sound of mourning was
                heard all through the army. Their strength was broken. They
                were losing their appetite for battle and her presence was fanning
500         the flames of their grief. At a word from Ilioneus and the bitterly
                weeping Iulus, Idaeus and Actor came and took her between
                them back into her house.

                The ringing bronze of the trumpet gave out its shrill and
                terrible note from close at hand. The shouting rose and the
                heavens bellowed in reply. The Volsci all at once rushed the
                walls with their shields locked in tortoise formation and tried
                to fill in the ditches and tear down the rampart. Some were
                looking for a point of access and putting up scaling ladders
                where the line of defenders was strung out along the walls, and
                light could be seen in the breaks between them. From their side
510         the Trojans showered down missiles of every kind, and pushed
                the ladders off with stout poles – in their long war they had
                learned how to defend walls – and they rolled great heavy rocks
                down on the enemy to try to break their armoured formations,
                but in their close-packed tortoise they cheerfully endured whatever
                fell on them. But they still did not succeed. For where a
                
solid mass of Rutulians was threatening the walls, the Trojans
                rolled along a huge block of stone and sent it crashing down on
                them to loosen their interlocking shields and cut a great swathe
                through them. After this the bold Rutulians no longer cared to
                fight blind under cover of their shields but strove to clear the
520         defenders off the ramparts with a barrage of missiles. At another
                section of the wall Mezentius was brandishing a torch of Etruscan
                pine and a fearful sight he was as he came at them with fire
                and smoke. Messapus, son of Neptune and tamer of horses, was
                cutting a way through the rampart and shouting for scaling
                ladders.