The Aeneid (49 page)

                As soon as the goddess had finished speaking, she flew down
                from the heights of heaven swathed in cloud and driving a great
                storm before her towards the battle line of the Trojans and the
                Laurentine camp. Then she fashioned out of empty vapour an
                effigy in the form of Aeneas, a weird sight, a shade without
                strength or substance, armed with Trojan weapons. She copied
                his shield and the crest on his godlike head and gave the phantom
640         power to speak its empty words. Sound without thought she
                gave it, and moulded its strides as it moved. It was like the
                flitting shapes which men say are the ghosts of the dead, or like
                the dreams which delude our sleeping senses. There in high glee
                in front of the first line of warriors pranced this apparition
                and goaded Turnus by brandishing weapons and shouting
                
challenges. Turnus attacked, throwing his whirring spear from
                long range. The apparition turned tail and fled. At that moment
                Turnus believed that Aeneas had turned his back on him and
                was running away. Taking a wild draught from the empty cup
                of hope, he cried: ‘Where are you running to, Aeneas? You must
                not leave. Your marriage is arranged. This is the land you
650         crossed the seas to find and my right hand will give it to you!’
                Shouting such taunts, he went in pursuit with his sword drawn
                and flashing and did not see that all his exultation was scattering
                to the winds.

                The ship which king Osinius had sailed from the land of
                Clusium happened to be moored to a high shelf of rock, with
                her ladders and gangway out. Here the panic-stricken phantom
                of Aeneas fled and hid itself, with Turnus hard behind it. Nothing
                could delay him. He leapt across the gangways, high above
                the water, and scarcely had he set foot on the prow when
660         Saturnian Juno tore the ship from her moorings, breaking the
                ropes, and took her quickly out to sea on the ebbing tide. But
                by this time the phantom was no longer looking for a place to
                hide. It had flown high into the air and melted into a black
                cloud. Meanwhile, Aeneas was calling on Turnus to fight, and
                there was no Turnus, but every man who crossed his path he
                sent down to death, and all the time the wind was blowing
                Turnus round and round in mid-ocean. Looking back to the
                shore in bewilderment and thanking no one for his safety, he
                raised his arms in prayer and lifted up his voice to the stars of
                heaven: ‘All-powerful Father, have you decided that I deserve
                this disgrace? Have you decreed that I must endure this punishment?
670         Where am I being taken? What have I left behind me?
                How can I go back after running away? What sort of Turnus
                would that be? Shall I ever see my camp and the walls of the
                Laurentines again? And what about that band of great warriors
                who have followed me and followed my sword? The horror of
                it – I have left them all to die! I see them wandering about
                without a leader. I hear them groaning as they fall. What am I
                to do? If only the earth could open deep enough to swallow me!
                Or rather I pray to the winds, and pray to them from my heart,
                to take pity on me and drive my ship on to the rocks and cliffs,
                
or run it aground on some shoal of deadly sand, where there
                will be no Rutulian and no word of my shame can follow me.’
680         Even as he spoke, his mind was tossed this way and that, in
                despair at his disgrace. Should he fall on his sword and drive
                the raw steel through his ribs? Should he throw himself into the
                sea and try to swim from mid-ocean back into the curve of the
                bay to face the weapons of the Trojans once again? Three times
                he tried each way, and three times mighty Juno held him back,
                pitying the young man in her heart, and would not let him move.
                Cutting the deep water, he floated on a favouring tide and
                following waves, and came to land in the ancient city of his
                father Daunus.

                But Mezentius meanwhile, by the promptings of Jupiter, took
690         the place of Turnus in the battle and fell furiously on the triumphant
                Trojans. Instantly all the Etruscan troops converged on
                him alone, united in their hatred, and pressed him hard under a
                hail of weapons. He stood like a rock jutting out into the ocean
                wastes, exposed to the threats and fury of wind and wave and
                bearing all the violence of sea and sky, unmoved. He felled
                Hebrus, son of Dolichaon, and Latagus with him, and Palmus
                as he ran. Latagus he stopped by hitting him full in the face and
                mouth with a rock, a huge block broken off a mountain, but he
700         cut the hamstrings of Palmus and left him rolling helpless on
                the ground. His armour he gave to Lausus to put on his shoulders,
                and his crest to fix on his helmet. Then it was the turn of
                Euanthes the Phrygian, and Mimas, the same age as Paris and
                his comrade in war. In one night Theano, wife of Amycus,
                brought him into the light of life, while Hecuba, daughter of
                Cisseus, pregnant with a torch, was giving birth to Paris. Paris
                fell in the city of his fathers, but Mimas lies a stranger on the
                Laurentine shore. Like the wild boar who has long kept his
                citadel among the pines of Mount Vesulus, and long have the
710         Laurentine marshes fed him in the reed beds of the forest; when
                the great beast is driven down from the mountains with the dogs
                snapping at him, and is caught between the nets, he stands at
                bay snorting, and the bristles rise on his shoulders and no one
                has the courage to clash with him or go near him, but they
                attack from a safe distance with javelins and shouts, while he
                
stands his ground unafraid and wondering in which direction
                to charge, grinding his teeth and shaking the spears out of his
                back – even so, none of those men who had just cause of anger
                against Mezentius was minded to draw the sword and run upon
                him, but instead they stood well back and bombarded him with
                missiles and deafening shouts.

720         Acron was a Greek who had come from the ancient land
                of Corythus, driven into exile while waiting to be married.
                Mezentius saw him from a distance causing havoc in the middle
                of the battle line in the purple feathers and purple cloak given
                him by his promised bride. Just as a ravening lion scouring the
                deep lairs of wild beasts, driven mad by the pangs of hunger, if
                he sights a frightened she-goat, or sees a stag’s antlers rising, he
                opens his great jaws in delight, his mane bristles, and he springs
                and fastens on the flesh with foul gore washing his pitiless mouth
                – just so did Mezentius charge hot-haste into the thick of the
730         enemy and felled the unlucky Acron, who breathed out his life
                drumming the black earth with his heels and blooding the
                weapons broken in his body. Orodes fled, but Mezentius did
                not deign to cut him down as he ran, or deal him a wound,
                unseen, from the back, but came to bar his way and meet him
                face to face, proving himself the better man by strength in arms
                and not by stealth. He then put his foot on his prostrate enemy
                and leaned on his spear, calling out: ‘Here, comrades, lies no
                small part of their battle strength, Orodes, that stood so tall.’
                His men shouted their glad paean of victory after him, but with
                his dying breath Orodes replied: ‘Whoever you are that have
740         conquered me, I shall be revenged. You will not enjoy your
                victory for long. The same fate is looking out for you, and we
                shall soon be lying in the same fields.’ Half smiling, half in anger,
                Mezentius replied: ‘Die now. As for me, that will be a matter
                for the Father of the Gods and the King of Men,’ and at these
                words he drew his spear out of the body of Orodes. A cruel rest
                then came to him, and an iron sleep bore down upon his eyes
                and closed them in everlasting night.

                Caedicus cut down Alcathous, Sacrator Hydaspes; Rapo
                killed Parthenius and Orses, a strong and hardy warrior. Messapus
                put an end to Clonius and Erichaetes, son of Lycaon,
750         
Erichaetes being on foot, but Clonius lying on the ground,
                having lost his reins and fallen from his horse. On foot also was
                Agis the Lycian, who had come out in front of the battle line,
                but Valerus had some spark of his family’s courage and overthrew
                him. Thronius was killed by Salius, and Salius by Nealces,
                famed for his javelin and far-shot arrows.

                Pitiless Mars was now dealing grief and death to both sides
                with impartial hand. Victors and vanquished killed and were
                killed and neither side thought of flight. In the halls of Jupiter
                the gods pitied the futile anger of the two armies and grieved
760         that men had so much suffering, Venus looking on from one
                side and Saturnian Juno from the other, while in the thick of all
                the thousands raged the Fury Tisiphone, pale as death.

                Then came Mezentius storming over the plain, brandishing a
                huge spear, and as tall as Orion who walks in mid-ocean cleaving
                his path through its deepest pools with his shoulders rising clear
                of the waves, or strides along carrying an ancient ash from the
                mountain tops with his feet on the ground and his head hidden
                in the clouds – so did Mezentius advance in his massive armour.
770         Aeneas had picked him out in the long ranks of men in front of
                him and was going to meet him. Mezentius held his ground,
                unafraid, and the huge bulk of him stood fast waiting to receive
                his great-hearted enemy. Measuring a spear-cast with his eye,
                he cried: ‘Let the right hand which is my god not fail me now,
                nor the spear which I brandish to throw. My vow is to strip the
                armour from that brigand’s body and clothe you with it, Lausus.
                My trophy over Aeneas will be my own son!’ With these words
                he threw his spear from long range. Hissing as it flew, it bounced
                off Aeneas’ shield and struck the noble Antores as he stood
                some distance away, entering his body between flank and groin.
                Antores had been a comrade of Hercules. He had come from
780         Argos but attached himself to Evander, settling with him in his
                city in Italy. And so, falling cruelly by a wound intended for
                another, he looked up at the sky and remembered his beloved
                Argos as he died.

                Then the devout Aeneas hurled his spear. Through the circle
                of Mezentius’ convex shield it flew, the triple bronze, the
                layers of linen, the three stitched bull-hides, and it stuck low in
                
Mezentius’ groin, but it had lost its force. Exultant at the sight
                of the Etruscan’s blood, Aeneas tore the sword from the scabbard
790         at this thigh. Seeing Mezentius in distress and Aeneas
                bearing down on him in hot fury, Lausus moaned bitterly for
                the father whom he loved and the tears rolled down his face.
                Now Lausus, I shall tell of your cruel death and glorious deeds
                in the hope that the distance of time may lead men to believe
                your great exploit. Never will it be my wish to be silent about
                you, Lausus – you are a warrior who does not deserve to be
                forgotten. Mezentius was falling back, defenceless and encumbered,
                dragging his enemy’s spear behind him, stuck in his
                shield, when young Lausus leapt forward and threw himself
                between them. Just as Aeneas was standing to his full height and
                raising his arm to strike, he came in beneath the sword blade,
                blocking Aeneas and checking his advance. Lausus’ comrades
                raised a great shout and supported him by bombarding Aeneas
800         and harassing him with their missiles from long range, till the
                father could withdraw protected by the shield of the son. Aeneas,
                enraged, kept under cover. Just as when the clouds descend in a
                sudden storm of hail, and all the ploughmen and all the workers
                in the fields scatter across the open ground and the traveller
                finds a sure fortress to hide in under a river bank or the arch of
                some high-vaulted rock till the rain stops falling on the earth,
                so that they can continue to do the work of the day when the
                sunshine is restored – just so Aeneas, overwhelmed by missiles
810         from all sides, weathered the storm of war till the last roll of its
                thunder, and then it was Lausus he challenged, and Lausus he
                threatened: ‘Why are you in such a haste to die? Why do you
                take on tasks beyond your strength? You are too rash. Your
                love for your father is deceiving you.’ But Lausus was in full cry
                and his madness knew no check. At this the anger rose even
                higher in the heart of the leader of the Trojans and the Fates
                gathered up the last threads for Lausus. Aeneas drove his mighty
                sword through the middle of the young man’s body, burying it
                to the hilt, the point going straight through his light shield, no
                proper armour to match the threats he had uttered. It pierced,
                too, the tunic his mother had woven for him with a soft thread
                of gold and filled the folds of it with blood. Then did his life
820         
leave his body and go in sorrow through the air to join the
                shades.