The Aeneid (55 page)

                
At the foot of a high mountain there was a huge mound of
850         earth shaded by dense ilex trees. It was the tomb of Dercennus,
                an ancient king of the Laurentines. Here the lovely goddess first
                alighted on her swift flight, keeping watch for Arruns from the
                high mound. When she saw him gleaming in his armour and
                swollen with empty pride, she called out: ‘Why are you leaving?
                Turn round and come in this direction. Come here and die! You
                must receive your reward for Camilla. Come, even a man can die
                by the weapons of Diana!’ When she had spoken, the Thracian
860         nymph took a winged arrow from her gilded quiver and drew
                her deadly bow. Far back she stretched the string until the
                curved horns of the bow were close together, her hands level,
                the left on the steel point of the arrow, the right holding the
                string against her breast. Arruns heard the hiss of the arrow and
                the whirr in the air, and in that same moment the steel was
                planted in his flesh. His comrades paid no heed. They left him
                breathing his last and groaning in some place unknown in the
                dust of the plain, while Opis soared on her wings to heavenly
                Olympus.

                The light-armed squadron of Camilla were the first to flee
870         when they lost their queen; then the Rutulians in a rout; then
                bold Asilas and all the scattered leaders and leaderless columns
                made for safety, wheeling their horses and galloping for the
                walls. No weapon could check the deadly onset of the Trojans
                and no one could stand against them. Back rode the Latins with
                slack bowstrings on slumped shoulders, and the four-hooved
                beat of their galloping horses drummed on the crumbling plain.
                As the black cloud of swirling dust rolled up to the walls, the
                mothers stood on the watch-towers beating their breasts and
                the wailing of women rose to the stars in the sky. The first Latins
880         to burst into the open gates were pressed hard by a pursuing
                column of enemies mingled with friends and did not escape a
                pitiable death. There, on the very threshold, within the walls of
                their native city and in the safe refuge of their own homes, their
                bodies were pierced and they breathed out their life’s breath.
                Some shut the gates and dared not open them to take their own
                people within the walls for all their pleading, and there was
                piteous slaughter of the armed men guarding the approaches
                
and of men rushing to death on their weapons. Of those who
                were shut out before the weeping eyes of their own parents,
                some rolled headlong down into the ditches with the weight of
                the rout behind them, while others came on blindly at full gallop
890         and crashed into the massive gates with their firm-set posts.
                Even the mothers strove their utmost – the true love of their
                native land showed them the way and Camilla was their example.
                Wildly they hurled missiles from the walls and rushed to
                do the work of steel with stumps and stakes of oak wood
                hardened in the fire, longing to be the first to die in defence of
                the walls of their city.

                Meanwhile the warrior Turnus was still in the wood when
                the bitter news came and filled his heart to overflowing. The
                words of Acca brought him great turmoil of spirit: the battle
                forces of the Volscians were destroyed; Camilla had fallen;
900         the enemy were attacking fiercely and had carried everything
                irresistibly before them; panic was already reaching the city
                walls. In a frenzy – and this is what the implacable will of Jupiter
                decreed – he came down from the hills where he had kept his
                ambush and left the wild woods behind him. Scarcely was he
                out of sight and moving on to the plains when Father Aeneas
                entered the open pass, came over the ridge and then emerged
                from the woods. So then they were both making for the walls at
                speed, with their whole armies marching not many paces from
                each other. Aeneas saw the Laurentine columns and the long
                line of dust smoking on the plains at one and the same moment
910         as Turnus recognized Aeneas advancing relentlessly under arms
                and heard the drumming of approaching hooves and the
                breathing of horses. They would have joined battle instantly
                and tried the fortunes of war if the rose-red sun had not been
                dipping its weary horses in the Iberian sea, drawing down the
                light of day and bringing on the night. They both encamped
                before the city and built stockades on their ramparts.

                When Turnus saw the line of the Latins broken, the battle going
                against them and their spirits flagging, when he realized that the
                time had come to honour his promises and that all eyes were
                upon him, no more was needed. He burned with implacable
                rage and his courage rose within him. Just as a lion in the fields
                round Carthage, who does not move into battle till he has
                received a great wound in his chest from the hunters, and then
                revels in it, shaking out the thick mane on his neck; fearlessly
                he snaps off the shaft left in his body by the ruffian that threw
                it, and opens his gory jaws to roar – just so did the violent
10           passion rise in Turnus. At last he spoke these wild words to the
                king: ‘Turnus keeps no man waiting. There is no excuse for
                Aeneas and his cowards to go back on their word or fail to keep
                their agreement. I am coming to meet them. Bring out the
                sacraments, father, and draw up the terms of the treaty. Either
                this right hand of mine will send this Trojan who has deserted
                Asia down into Tartarus – the Latins can sit and watch – and
                one man’s sword shall refute a charge brought against a whole
                people, or else he can rule over those he has defeated and have
                Lavinia as his wife.’

20           Latinus answered him, and his voice was calm: ‘You are a
                great-hearted young warrior. The more you excel in fierce courage,
                the more urgent is my duty to take thought, to weigh all
                possible chances and to be afraid. You have the kingdom of
                your father Daunus. You have all the cities your right hand has
                taken. I too, Latinus, have some wealth and some generosity of
                spirit. In Latium and the Laurentine fields there are other women
                for you to marry, and of the noblest families. This is not easy to
                
say. Allow me to speak openly and honestly, and as you listen,
                lay these words to your heart. For me it would have been wrong
                to unite my daughter with any of those who came to ask for her
                in the past. It was forbidden by all the prophecies of gods and
30           men. But I gave way to my love for you. I gave way to the
                kinship of blood and to the grief and tears of my wife. Breaking
                all the ties that bound me, I seized Lavinia from the man to
                whom she had been promised and took up arms in an unjust
                cause. From that moment you see the calamities of war that fall
                upon me, and the suffering that you bear more than any other.
                Twice we have been crushed in great battles, and we can scarcely
                protect within our city the future hopes of Italy. The current of
                the Thybris is even now warm with our blood and the broad
                plains white with our bones. Why do I always give way? Why
                do I change my resolve? What folly this is! I am ready to accept
                them as allies if Turnus is killed; why not put an end to the war
40           while he is still alive? What will your kinsmen the Rutulians,
                what will the whole of the rest of Italy say if I betray you and
                send you to your death – which Fortune forbid – when you are
                asking to marry my daughter? Remember the many accidents
                of war and take pity on your old father waiting with heavy heart
                far away in your native Ardea.’ These words had no effect on
                Turnus. The violence of his fury mounted. The healing only
                heightened the fever. As soon as he could bring himself to speak,
                out came his reply: ‘This concern you are so kind as to show for
                my sake, I beg of you for my sake, forget it, and allow me to
50           barter my life for glory. We too have weapons, father. We too
                have some strength in our right arm to throw the steel around,
                and when we strike a man, the blood flows from the wound.
                His mother the goddess will not be at hand with her woman’s
                tricks, lurking in the treacherous shadows and trying to hide
                him in a cloud when he turns tail!’

                Terrified by this new turn in the fortunes of battle, queen
                Amata began to weep. Seeing her own death before her, she
                tried to check the frenzy of Turnus, the man she had chosen to
                be the husband of her daughter: ‘By these tears, Turnus, by any
60           respect for me that touches your heart, Amata begs of you this
                one thing. You are the one hope and the one relief of my old
                
age. In your hands rest the honour and the power of Latinus.
                Our whole house is falling and you are its one support. Do not
                persist in meeting the Trojans in battle. Whatever fate awaits
                you in that encounter, waits also for me. If you die, I too will
                leave the light I loathe. I shall never live to be a captive and see
                Aeneas married to Lavinia.’ When Lavinia heard these words
                of her mother, her burning cheeks were bathed in tears and the
                deep flush glowed and spread over her face. As when Indian
                ivory has been stained with blood-red dye, or when white lilies
                are crowded by roses and take on their red, such were the
70           colours on the maiden’s face. Turnus was distraught with love
                and fixed his eyes on Lavinia. Burning all the more for war, he
                then spoke these few words to Amata: ‘Do not, I beg of you,
                mother, send me to the harsh encounters of war with tears and
                with such an evil omen. Turnus is not free to hold back the day
                of his death. Go as my messenger, Idmon, and take these words
                of mine to the leader of the Phrygians, and little pleasure will
                they give him: when tomorrow’s dawn reddens in the sky, borne
                on the crimson wheels of Aurora’s chariot, let him not lead
                Trojans against Rutulians. Let the Trojan and Rutulian armies
80           be at peace. His blood, or mine, shall decide this war. This is
                the field where the hand of Lavinia shall be won.’

                When he had finished speaking and rushed back into the
                palace, he called for his horses and it gladdened his heart to see
                them standing there before him neighing. Orithyia, wife of
                Boreas, had given them to Turnus’ grandfather Pilumnus to
                honour him, and they were whiter than the snow and swifter
                than the winds. The impatient charioteers stood round them,
                drumming on the horses’ chests with cupped hands and combing
                their streaming manes. Then Turnus himself drew over his
                shoulders the breastplate with scales of gold and pale copper
                and fitted on his sword and shield and his helmet with its red
90           crests in horned sockets. The God of Fire himself had made the
                sword for Turnus’ father Daunus, dipping it white-hot in the
                waters of the Styx. Then instantly he snatched up his mighty
                spear which was leaning there against a great column in the
                middle of the palace, spoil taken from Actor the Auruncan, and
                brandished it till it quivered, shouting: ‘You, my spear, have
                
never failed me when I have called upon you. Now the time is
                here. Mighty Actor once wielded you. Now it is the right of
                Turnus. Grant me the power to bring down that effeminate
                Phrygian, to tear the breastplate off his body and rend it with
100         my bare hands, to foul in the dust the hair he has curled with
                hot steel and steeped in myrrh!’ Such was the blazing fury that
                drove him on. Sparks flew from his whole face and his piercing
                eyes flashed fire. He was like a bull coming into his first battle,
                bellowing fearfully and gathering his anger into his horns by
                goring a tree trunk and slashing the air, pawing the sand and
                making it fly as he rehearses for battle.