The Aeneid (53 page)

                In an instant they poured on to the walls from all over the
470         city. Father Latinus himself left the council and abandoned his
                high designs till a later time, in deep distress at the troubles of
                the hour. Again and again he blamed himself for not eagerly
                welcoming Trojan Aeneas and taking him into the city as his
                son-in-law. Meanwhile men were digging pits in front of the
                gates and bringing up rocks and stakes. The shrill trumpet blew
                the signal for bloody battle and mothers and sons went to make
                a motley ring round the walls of the city. Their last labour called
                them and they came. The queen too, with a great retinue of the
                mothers of the city, rode in her carriage to bring offerings to the
                temple of Pallas on the heights of the citadel. With her went the
480         maiden Lavinia, the cause of all this suffering, her lovely eyes
                downcast. The mothers followed them and filled the temple
                with the smoke of incense, pouring out their sad prayers from
                its high threshold: ‘Mighty in arms, ruler of the battle, Tritonian
                maiden, break with your hand the spear of the Phrygian pirate
                and throw him to the ground. Spread out his body beneath your
                
high gates.’ Turnus in a fury was eagerly arming himself for
                battle, and soon had on his breastplate glowing red with bristling
                scales of bronze, and his golden greaves. His head was still bare,
490         but the sword was girt to his side as he ran down from the
                heights of the citadel in a blaze of gold, ardent and exulting and
                already grappling with the enemy in hope and expectation. He
                was like a stallion that has broken his tether and burst from his
                stall; free at last he gains the open plain and runs to the fields
                where the herds of mares are pastured or gallops off to bathe in
                the river which he used to know so well, tossing high his head
                and whinnying with delight while the mane streams over his
                neck and flanks.

                The princess Camilla came to meet him with her Volscians in
                battle order. Under the very gates of the city she leapt down
500         from her horse, and all her squadron followed her example,
                dismounting in one flowing movement. These were her words:
                ‘Turnus, if the brave are right to have faith in themselves, I dare
                to meet the Trojan cavalry – this is my undertaking – and go
                alone against the horsemen of Etruria. Give me leave to try the
                first hazard of war, while you stay on foot by the walls and
                guard the city.’

                At these words Turnus fixed his eyes on this formidable
                warrior maiden and replied: ‘O Camilla, glory of Italy, I cannot
510         hope to express my gratitude in words or deeds. But now, since
                that spirit of yours knows no limits, come share with me the
                heat of battle. According to a firm report my scouts have brought
                me, that scoundrel Aeneas has sent his light-armed cavalry
                ahead to scour the plains, while he himself is coming to the city
                along a ridge in deserted mountain country. I am planning an
                ambush where there is a sunken path through a wood, and shall
                post armed men where the road enters and where it leaves the
                gorge. You go to meet the Etruscan cavalry and engage them.
                Bold Messapus will be with you with the horsemen of Latium
                and the squadron of Tiburtus, and you will have the task of
520         leading them.’ So he spoke and with like words urged Messapus
                and the leaders of his allies into battle, while he went to meet
                his enemy.

                There is a winding valley well suited to stealth and stratagem
                
in war. Hemmed in on both sides, it is darkened by the dense
                foliage of trees, and a narrow path leads into it making a
                treacherous approach through a ravine. Above this valley,
                among the viewpoints on the hilltop, there lies a little-known
                plateau which gives safe cover whether you wish to engage the
                enemy on your right flank or on your left or stand on the
530         ridges rolling down great boulders. Marching by paths he knew,
                Turnus took up position here and settled into ambush in this
                dangerous forest.

                Meanwhile in the palace of the heavens Diana, daughter of
                Latona, spoke to swift Opis, one of the sacred company of girls
                who were her companions, and these were her sad words:
                ‘Camilla is going to a cruel war. Dear as she is to me above all
                others, she has put on our armour, and it will avail her nothing.
                This is no new love, believe me, that has come to move the heart
540         of Diana with sudden sweetness. When Metabus, hated by his
                people for his arrogant use of power, was driven from his throne,
                he left the ancient city of Privernum and took his infant daughter
                with him through all his wars and battles, to be his companion
                in exile. He called her Camilla, changing part of her mother’s
                name, Casmilla. Carrying her in his arms, he made for the long
                ridges and the lonely woods, cruel spears pressing him hard on
                every side and Volscian soldiers on the move all about him.
                Suddenly he found his way blocked by the river Amasenus in
                full spate, foaming to the top of its banks – such a deluge of rain
                had burst from the clouds. He was about to leap into the water
550         to swim across, but checked himself out of love for his child and
                fear for the burden he so loved. As he pondered all the dangers,
                a painful resolve soon formed in his mind. He took the warrior’s
                spear he chanced to have in his hand, a mighty weapon of
                solid, knotted, well-seasoned wood, and wrapping the baby in
                cork-tree pith and bark, he lashed her tightly to the middle of
                the spear. Then brandishing it in his mighty hand, he cried out
                to heaven: “To you, kindly maiden, lover of woods and daughter
                of Latona, I dedicate my daughter as your handmaiden. She is
                your suppliant, and as she flies through the air to escape her
560         enemies, the first weapon she holds is yours. O goddess, I
                solemnly pray, receive her as your own as I now commit her to
                
the hazard of the winds.” At these words he drew back his arm
                and sent the weapon spinning. The waters rang with the sound
                as helpless Camilla flew over the wild river on the whistling
                javelin. But by now a great throng of his enemies was pressing
                Metabus even closer, and he threw himself into the water. Then,
                in triumph on the other side, he wrenched from the turf spear
                and the maiden with it, his dedication to Diana.

                ‘No cities took him under their roofs or within their walls –
                he himself was too savage to have submitted to them – but he
570         spent his whole life on the lonely mountains among the herdsmen.
                There in the scrub among the rough dens of beasts he fed
                his daughter with milk from the udders of wild brood-mares,
                putting the teats to her soft lips, and as soon as she had taken
                the first steps on her infant feet, he put a keen-edged javelin in
                her hand and slung a bow and arrows from her little shoulder.
                Instead of gold in her hair and a long cloak to cover her, a tiger
                skin hung from her head all down her back. While her hand was
                still soft, she was spinning her baby javelins and whirling the
580         sling round her head on its tapering thong to shoot the white
                swan or crane from the river Strymon. Many a mother in the
                towns of Etruria longed in vain to see her married to her son,
                but all she cared for was Diana. Undefiled, she preserved a
                constant love for her weapons and her chastity. If only she had
                never been caught up in such a war as this, daring to challenge
                the Trojans! I would have loved her and she would now have
                been one of my companions. But come now, since a bitter fate
                is closing in on her, glide down from the sky, Opis my nymph,
                and visit the land of Latium, where a dreadful battle is being
590         fought and all the omens are adverse. Take these weapons, and
                draw an avenging arrow from my quiver. Then, with that same
                shaft, whoever violates that sacred body with a wound, be he
                Trojan or Italian, must pay to me an equal penalty in blood.
                Then I shall put a cloud round her poor body and her armour
                and take them undespoiled to lie in a tomb in her own country.’
                The goddess spoke, and Opis, veiled in a dark storm, glided
                lightly down through the breezes of the sky, whirring as she
                flew.

                But all this time nearer and nearer to the walls came the
                
Trojan column, the Etruscan leaders and the whole cavalry
600         army drawn up in regular squadrons. Horses were prancing and
                snorting all over the plain, fretting at the reins that held them in
                and plunging to one side after another. Far and wide the field
                bristled with the steel of the spears, and all the land was a blaze
                of light from uplifted weapons. There too, coming to oppose
                them, appeared Messapus and the swift Latins, Coras with his
                brother, and the squadron of Camilla. Their right arms were
                drawn back, their lances thrust forward with tips quivering.
                Men were arriving. Horses were neighing. The whole plain was
                ablaze. They had now come within a spear-cast of each other
                and stopped. Then, with a sudden shout, they galloped forward,
610         urging their horses to frenzy, and showering weapons thick as
                snow till the sky was curtained with shadow. Tyrrhenus and
                bold Aconteus were first to charge each other, riding full force
                with levelled spears, and great was the din and fearful the fall
                as they crashed their warhorses against each other, smashing
                breast on breast. Aconteus was thrown forward a great distance
                and fell like a thunderbolt, or a rock hurled from a catapult,
                scattering his life’s breath into the breezes.

                In that instant the battle lines were thrown into disorder.
                Putting their shields on to their backs, the Latins turned and
620         rode back towards the city walls driven by the Trojan squadrons
                under Asilas. But when they were almost at the gates, they raised
                another shout and pulled round the supple necks of their horses,
                while the Trojans fled in their turn, galloping with slack reins in
                a long retreat. As the sea advances wave by wave, now rushing
                to the land, throwing foam over the rocks and soaking the edge
                of the sand in the bay; now turning and hurrying back, sucking
                down the stones and rolling them along in its undertow while
                the shallows retreat and the shore is left dry – just so the
                Etruscans twice turned and drove the Rutulians to the city walls,
630         and twice they were repulsed and had to cover their backs with
                their shields and look over their shoulders at their enemies. But
                when they clashed in battle for the third time, and all the ranks
                were embroiled together, each man singled out his own enemy,
                and then the groans of the dying could be heard, weapons
                and bodies lay deep in blood, half-dead horses rolled about
                
entangled with the corpses of men, and ever fiercer and fiercer
                grew the battle. Orsilochus did not dare go near Remulus, but
                hurled his spear at his horse and its steel point stuck under its
                ear. Maddened by the blow, it reared, heaving its chest high and
                lashing its hooves, unable to endure the pain of the wound.
640         Remulus was thrown and sent rolling on the ground, Catillus
                felled Iollas and then Herminius, great in stature, in spirit, and
                in arms. His head of golden hair was bare, his shoulder bare,
                and he had no fear of wounds, so vast he stood and open to the
                weapons of his enemies. Catillus’ spear drove right through
                him and stood out between his broad shoulders quivering, and
                Herminius doubled up in agony. Black blood was flowing everywhere
                as they dealt out slaughter with the steel, searching for
                death and glory among the wounds.

                There in the middle of all this bloodshed, exulting in it, was
                the Amazon Camilla with the quiver on her shoulder, and one
650         side bared for battle. Sometimes the pliant spears came thick
                from her hand; sometimes, unwearied, she caught up her mighty
                double axe, and the golden bow and arrows of Diana rang on
                her shoulder. Whenever she was forced to retreat, she turned
                her bow and aimed her arrows while still in flight. The girls she
                had chosen as her companions were all about her, Larina, Tulla,
                and Tarpeia brandishing her bronze axe, all of them daughters
                of Italy, chosen by the servant of the gods Camilla to do her
                honour by their beauty and to be her own trusted attendants in
                peace and war. They were like the Amazons of Thrace whose
660         horses’ hooves drum on the frozen waters of the river Thermodon
                when they fight round Hippolyte in their brightly coloured
                armour, or when Penthesilea, daughter of Mars, rides home in
                her chariot and her army of women with their crescent shields
                exult in a great howling tumult.