The Aeneid (54 page)

                Whom first did your spear bring down from his horse? Whom
                last, fierce warrior maiden? How many bodies of dying men did
                you strew on the ground? Eunaeus, son of Clytius, was the first.
                When he stood face to face with Camilla and she drove the long
                pine shaft of her spear through his unprotected chest, he vomited
                rivers of blood and champed the gory earth with his teeth,
670         twisting himself round his wound as he died. Then she brought
                
down Liris and Pagasus on top of him: Liris when he was trying
                to collect the reins after his wounded horse had reared and
                thrown him, Pagasus when he came and stretched out an undefended
                right hand to support Liris as he fell; but they both
                went flying head over heels. Then she sent Amastrus, the son of
                Hippotas, to join them, and raced after Tereus and Harpalycus,
                Demophoon and Chromis, pressing them hard even at long
                range with her spear, and for every dart that flew from her hand,
                a Trojan hero fell. The huntsman Ornytus was rushing past in
                strange armour, mounted on his horse Iapyx. This was a warrior
680         who wore on his broad shoulders the hide of a bullock, while
                his head was encased in the huge gaping jaws of a wolf, complete
                with cheekbones and white teeth. A country spear shaped like
                a sickle armed his hand as he moved in the middle of the press,
                taller by a head than them all. She caught him – it was not
                difficult, for the whole column had turned and run – and when
                she had pierced him through, she spoke these bitter taunts over
                him: ‘So you thought you were driving game in the woods, my
                Etruscan friend? The day has come when you have been proved
                wrong by a woman’s weapons! But it is no mean name you will
                be taking to your fathers when you tell them you fell by the
                spear of Camilla.’

690         Instantly then she struck Orsilochus and Butes, the two tallest
                of the Trojans. Butes was turned away from her and the tip of
                her spear went in between helmet and breastplate where his
                neck shone white as he sat in the saddle with the shield hanging
                loose on his left arm. She fled from Orsilochus, but after he had
                driven her in a great circle, she cut inside the arc and began to
                pursue her pursuer. Then, rising above him, she struck again
                and again with her mighty axe, hacking through his armour and
                his bones as he begged and pleaded with her and the axe-blows
700         spilt the hot brains down his face. The warrior son of Aunus of
                the Apennines then came upon her and stood stock still in
                sudden terror at the sight. He was not the least of the Ligurians
                while the Fates gave him leave to tell his lies. So, when he saw
                that it was too late to save himself by running away, and that
                the princess was upon him and would not be deflected, he began
                to play his tricks, using all his cunning and calculation. ‘What
                
is so wonderful,’ he said, ‘if a woman depends on the courage
                of a horse? Give up your chance of running away, and risk your
                life in close combat with me on level ground. Gird yourself to
                fight on foot and you will soon discover that the winds are
                blowing you only the illusion of glory.’ These words stung
710         Camilla to a burning fury of resentment. Handing her horse to
                a companion, she stood there to face him without a trace of
                fear, armed like her enemy with a naked sword and a plain light
                shield. The moment he thought his ruse had succeeded, the
                warrior took to his heels himself. Jerking the reins around, he
                made off, driving his horse to the gallop with steel spurs. ‘You
                Ligurian fool!’ she cried. ‘You are the one who has been carried
                away by the empty winds of pride! You have taken to the
                slippery arts of your ancestors, but little good will they do you.
                Trickery will not bring you safe back home to your treacherous
                father Aunus.’ These were her words, and on nimble feet she
                ran as swift as fire in front of the horse and stood full in its path.
720         Then, seizing the reins, she exacted punishment from her enemy
                in blood, as easily as the sacred falcon flies from his crag to
                pursue a dove high in the clouds, catches it, holds it and rips out
                its entrails with hooked claws while blood and torn feathers
                float down from the sky.

                But the Father of Gods and Men was not blind to this as he
                sat high above on the top of Olympus, and he roused Tarchon
                the Etruscan to bitter battle, laying on him the sharp goad of
730         anger. So Tarchon rode among the slaughter in the ranks of his
                retreating squadrons, whipping them up with all manner of
                cries, calling on each man by name and rallying the routed to
                do battle: ‘What are you afraid of, you Etruscans? Will you
                never know shame? Will you always be so spiritless? This is
                rank cowardice! One woman has turned this whole army and is
                scattering you to all points of the compass! What are weapons
                for? Why do we carry swords in our hands and not use them?
                You are not so sluggish when it comes to lovemaking and night
                campaigns, or when the curved pipe calls you up to the dancing
                chorus of Bacchus! Wait, then, for feasts and goblets from
                groaning tables. That is what you love. That is what you care
                about. Do nothing till the soothsayer gives his blessing and
740         
announces the festival and the fat victim calls you into the deep
                groves.’ When this harangue was over, he spurred his horse into
                the thick of the enemy – he too was willing to die – and made a
                wild charge at Venulus. Tearing him off his horse and clasping
                him in his right arm, he rode off at full gallop with his enemy
                held in front of him. A shout rose to the sky and all the Latins
                turned to look as Tarchon flew like fire across the plain carrying
                man and armour with him. Then he broke off the steel head of
                Venulus’ spear and with it probed for exposed flesh where
750         he could give the fatal wound. Venulus fought back to keep
                Tarchon’s hand from his throat, pitting strength against violence,
                just as when a tawny eagle has seized a snake and flown
                up into the sky, winding its talons round it and digging in its
                claws; meanwhile the wounded serpent writhes in sinuous coils,
                its scales stiff and rough, and hisses as it reaches up with its
                head; but for all its struggles, the eagle never stops tearing at it
                with its great hook of a beak, beating the air all the time with
                its wings – just like such an eagle did the victorious Tarchon
                carry off his prey from the Tiburtine ranks. Following their
                leader’s example, and seeking like success, the Etruscans, the
                men from Maeonia, rushed into battle. Then Arruns, whose life
760         was owed to the Fates, circled round Camilla to find where
                Fortune would offer the easiest approach. She was swift of foot,
                but he was more than her equal with the javelin and far superior
                in cunning. Wherever she went on her wild forays through the
                thick of battle, Arruns was behind her, quietly following in her
                tracks. Wherever she went as she returned in triumph and
                withdrew from her enemies, Arruns pulled on his swift reins
                and kept out of sight. Round a whole circle he went, trying now
                one approach, now another, brandishing the fatal spear that
                never missed its mark.

                It then so chanced that Chloreus appeared, a man who had
                been consecrated to Cybele on her mountain, and in days long
                past had been a priest. She saw him a long way off, resplendent
770         in his Phrygian armour and spurring his foaming warhorse. The
                horse-cloth was of hide with gold stitching and overlapping
                brass scales in the shape of feathers. He himself shone with
                exotic indigo and purple. The arrows he shot from his Lycian
                
bow were from Gortyn in Crete and the bow hanging from his
                shoulder was of gold. Gold too was the helm on the head of the
                priest, and on that day he had gathered the rustling linen folds
                of his saffron-yellow cloak into a knot with a golden brooch. He
                wore an embroidered tunic and barbaric embroidered trousers
                covered his legs. Whether her intention was to nail his Trojan
                armour to the temple doors or to sport captive gold on her
780         hunting expeditions, she picked him out in the press of battle,
                and blind to all else and unthinking, she tracked him through
                the whole army, burning with all a woman’s passion for spoil
                and plunder. At last the lurking Arruns saw his moment and
                hurled his spear, offering up this prayer to heaven: ‘O highest
                of the gods, guardian of the holy mountain of Soracte, Apollo,
                we are the first to worship you. We heap up the wood of the
                pine to feed your flames, and in your holy rites, sure in our faith,
                we walk on fire, sinking our feet deep in the hot ash. Grant
790         now, All-powerful Father, that our arms be wiped clean of this
                disgrace. My mind is not set on spoils won from a girl or a
                trophy set up for routing her or for any form of booty. My fame
                will come from my other feats of arms. But let this deadly
                scourge be defeated and fall to my spear, and I shall go back to
                the cities of my fathers and claim no credit.’

                Phoebus Apollo heard, and part of his prayer he decided to
                answer, part he scattered to the swift breezes of air. He granted
                his prayer to surprise Camilla and lay her low in death, but did
                not allow the mountains of his native land to see him ever again.
                A sudden squall took these words and blew them far away to
                the winds of the south. So, when the spear that left his hand
                went whirring through the air and the Volscians, all of them,
800         turned their minds and eyes intently to their queen, she was not
                thinking of whirring or of air or of weapons coming out of the
                sky, and the shaft struck home beneath her naked breast and
                lodged there drinking deep of her virgin blood. Her companions
                rushed in panic to support their falling queen, and Arruns fled,
                more terrified than anyone, joy mixed with his fear. He had lost
                his faith in his spear and was afraid to face the weapons of the
                warrior maiden. As when a wolf has killed a shepherd or a great
810         ox, and goes at once to hide high in the trackless hills before the
                
avenging spears can come to look for him; he knows what he
                has done, and takes fright, comforting his quivering tail by
                tucking it under his belly as he makes for the woods – just so
                did Arruns disappear from sight in wild confusion, happy to
                escape and mingle in the press of battle. Camilla was dying. She
                tried to pull out the spear, but its steel point stood deep in the
                wound between the bones of her ribs. She was swooning from
                loss of blood, her eyes dimming in the chill of death, and the
820         flush had faded from her cheeks. With her dying breath she
                spoke to Acca, alone of all her young friends. She was her most
                faithful companion and to her alone she used to open her heart.
                ‘I can do no more, Acca, my sister. This cruel wound is taking
                all my strength, and everything is going dark around me. Run
                from this place and take my last commands to Turnus. He must
                come into battle and keep the Trojans away from the city. And
                now, farewell.’ Even as she was speaking she was losing her
                hold on her reins and in spite of all her efforts she slid to the
                ground. Then, growing cold, she little by little freed herself
830         from her body. Her neck drooped and she laid down her head,
                yielding to death and letting go her weapons, as her life left her
                with a groan and fled in anger down to the shades. At this a
                measureless clamour rose and struck the golden stars. Now that
                Camilla had fallen, the battle raged as never before. Charging
                in one solid mass came the whole army of the Trojans, the
                Etruscan nobles and the Arcadian squadrons of Evander.

                Opis, Diana’s sentinel, had long been at her post high in the
                mountains, watching the fighting and knowing no fear. But
                when, far beneath her in the press of warriors shouting in the
                frenzy of battle, she saw Camilla receive the bitter stroke of
840         death, she groaned and spoke these words from the depths of
                her heart: ‘Alas, Camilla! You have paid too cruel a price for
                daring to challenge the Trojans in war, nor has it profited you
                that alone in the wild woods you have worshipped Diana and
                worn our quiver on your shoulder. But your queen has not left
                you unhonoured now at your last hour. This death of yours will
                not be forgotten among the peoples of this earth, and no one
                shall say that you have died unavenged. Whoever has desecrated
                your body with a wound will pay just penalty with his life.’