The Aeneid (57 page)

290         Messapus, eager to wreck the treaty, rode straight at the
                Etruscan Aulestes, a king wearing the insignia of a king, and the
                charging horse drove him back in terror. He fell as he retreated,
                and crashed violently head and shoulders into the altar behind
                him. Riding furiously, Messapus flew to him and, towering over
                him with a lance as long as a housebeam, he struck him his
                death blow even as he poured out prayers for mercy. ‘So much
                for Aulestes!’ cried Messapus. ‘This is a better victim to offer to
                the great gods!’ and the men of Italy ran to strip the body while
                it was still warm. Corynaeus came to meet them, snatching a
                half-burnt torch from an altar. Ebysus made for him, but before
300         he could strike a blow, Corynaeus filled his face with fire.
                His great beard flared up and gave off a stench as it burned.
                Corynaeus pressed his attack and, clutching the hair of his
                helpless enemy in his left hand, he forced him to the ground,
                kneeling on him with all his weight, and sunk the hard steel
                in his flank. Meanwhile Podalirius had been following the
                shepherd Alsus as he rushed through the hail of missiles in the
                front line of battle and was now poised over him with the naked
                sword. But, drawing back his axe, Alsus struck him full in
                the middle of the forehead and split it to the chin, bathing all
                his armour in a shower of blood. It was a cruel rest then for
310         Podalirius. An iron sleep bore down upon him and closed his
                eyes in everlasting night.

                
But true to his vow Aeneas, unhelmeted, stretched out his
                weaponless right hand and called to his allies: ‘Where are you
                rushing? What is this sudden discord rising among you? Control
                your anger! The treaty is already struck and its terms agreed. I
                alone have the right of conflict. Leave me to fight and forget
                your fears. We have a treaty, and my right hand will make it
                good. The rituals we have performed have made Turnus mine.’
                While he was still speaking, while words like these were still
                passing his lips, an arrow came whirring in its flight and struck
320         him, unknown the hand that shot it and the force that spun it
                to its target, unknown what chance or what god brought such
                honour to the Rutulians. The shining glory of the deed is lost in
                darkness, and no man boasted that he had wounded Aeneas.

                When Turnus saw him leaving the field and the leaders of the
                allies in dismay, a sudden fire of hope kindled in his heart.
                Horses and arms he demanded both at once, and in a flash he
                leapt on his chariot with spirits soaring and gathered up the
                reins. Then many a brave hero he sent down to death as he flew
330         along, and many half-dead bodies he sent rolling on the ground,
                crushing whole columns of men under his chariot wheels as he
                caught up their spears and showered them on those who had
                taken to flight. Just as Mars, spattered with blood, charges along
                the banks of the icy river Hebrus, clashing sword on shield and
                giving full rein to his furious horses as he stirs up war; they fly
                across the open plain before the winds of the south and the
                west, till Thrace roars to its furthest reaches with the drumming
                of their hooves as his escort gallops all round him, Rage, Treachery
                and the dark faces of Fear – just so did bold Turnus lash his
                horses through the thick of battle till they smoked with sweat,
                and as he trampled the pitiable bodies of his dead enemies, the
340         flying hooves scattered a dew of blood and churned the gore
                into the sand. Sthenelus he sent to his death with a throw from
                long range; then Thamyrus and Pholus, both in close combat.
                From long range, too, he struck down the Imbrasidae, Glaucus
                and Lades, whom their father Imbrasus himself had brought up
                in Lycia, and gave them armour that equipped them either to
                do battle or to outstrip the winds on horseback.

                In another part of the field, Eumedes was charging into the
                
fray. He was a famous warrior, son of old Dolon, bearing his
                grandfather’s name, but his spirit and his hand for war were his
350         father’s. It was Dolon who dared to ask for the chariot of
                Achilles as a reward for going to spy on the camp of the Greeks.
                But Diomede provided a different reward for his daring, and he
                soon ceased to aspire to the horses of Achilles. When Turnus
                caught sight of Eumedes far off on the open plain, he struck him
                first with a light javelin thrown over the vast space that lay
                between. Then, halting the two horses that drew his chariot, he
                leapt down and stood over his dying enemy with his foot on his
                neck. He wrenched the sword out of Eumedes’ hand, and it
                flashed as he dipped it deep in his throat, saying: ‘There they
360         are, Trojan. These are the fields of Hesperia you tried to take
                by war. Lie there and measure them! This is my reward for those
                who test me by the sword. This is how they build their cities.’
                Next, with a throw of his javelin, he sent Asbytes to join him,
                then Chloreus, Sybaris, Dares, Thersilochus and Thymoetes,
                whose horse had fallen and thrown him over its head. Just as
                when the breath of Thracian Boreas sounds upon the deep
                Aegean as he pursues the waves to the shore, and wherever the
                winds put out their strength the clouds take to flight across the
                sky, just so, wherever Turnus cut his path, the enemy gave way
                before him, their ranks breaking and running, and his own
370         impetus carried him forward with the plumes on his helmet
                tossing as he drove his chariot into the wind. Phegeus could not
                endure this onslaught of Turnus and his wild shouting, but leapt
                in front of the chariot and pulled round the horses’ heads as
                they galloped at him, foaming at their bits. Then, as he was
                dragged along hanging from the yoke, the broad blade of
                Turnus’ lance struck his unprotected side, piercing and breaking
                the double mesh of his breastplate and grazing the skin of his
                body. He put up his shield and was twisting round to face his
380         enemy when he fell and was caught by the flying wheel and axle
                and stretched out on the ground. Turnus, following up, struck
                him between the bottom of the helmet and the top edge of the
                breastplate, cutting off his head and leaving the trunk on
                the sand.

                While the victorious Turnus was dealing death on the plain,
                
Aeneas was taken into the camp by Mnestheus and faithful
                Achates. Ascanius was with them. Aeneas was bleeding and
                leaning on his long spear at every other step. He was in a fury,
                tugging at the arrowhead broken in the wound and demanding
                that they should take the quickest way of helping him, make a
390         broad cut with the blade of a sword, slice open the flesh where
                the arrow was embedded and get him back into battle. But now
                there came Iapyx, son of Iasus, whom Phoebus Apollo loved
                above all other men. Overcome by this fierce love, Apollo had
                long since offered freely and joyfully to give him all his arts and
                all his powers, prophecy, the lyre, the swift arrow, but, in order
                to prolong the life of his dying father, Iapyx chose rather to ply
                a mute, inglorious art and know the virtues of herbs and the
400         practice of healing. There, with the grieving Iulus, in the middle
                of a great crowd of warriors, stood Aeneas, growling savagely,
                leaning on his great spear and unmoved by their tears. The old
                man, with his robe caught up and tied behind him after the
                fashion of Apollo Paeon, tried anxiously and tried in vain all he
                could do with his healing hands and the potent herbs of Apollo.
                In vain his right hand worked at the dart. In vain the forceps
                gripped the steel. Fortune did not show the way and his patron
                Apollo gave no help. And all the time the horror of battle grew
                fiercer and fiercer on the plain, and nearer and nearer drew
                the danger. They soon could see a wall of dust in the sky. The
                cavalry rode up, and showers of missiles were falling into
                the middle of the camp. A hideous noise of shouting rose to
410         the heavens as young men fought and fell under the iron hand
                of Mars.

                At this Venus, dismayed by her son’s undeserved suffering,
                picked some dittany on Mount Ida in Crete. The stalk of this
                plant has a vigorous growth of leaves and its head is crowned
                by a purple flower. It is a herb which wild goats know well and
                feed on when arrows have flown and stuck in their backs. This
                Venus brought down, veiled in a blinding cloud, and with it
                tinctured the river water they had poured into shining bowls,
                impregnating it secretly and sprinkling in it fragrant panacea
420         and the health-giving juices of ambrosia. Such was the water
                with which old Iapyx, without knowing it, bathed the wound,
                
and suddenly, in that moment, all the pain left Aeneas’ body
                and the blood was staunched in the depths of the wound. Of its
                own accord the arrow came away in the hand of Iapyx and fresh
                strength flowed into Aeneas, restoring him to his former state.
                It was Iapyx who was the first to fire their spirits to face the
                enemy. ‘Bring the warrior his arms, and quickly!’ he cried. ‘Why
                stand there? This cure was not effected by human power, nor
                by the guidance of art. It is not my right hand that saved you,
                Aeneas. Some greater power, some god, is driving you and
430         sending you back to greater deeds.’ Aeneas was hungry for
                battle. He had already sheathed his calves in his golden greaves
                and was brandishing his flashing spear, impatient of delay. When
                the shield was fitted to his side and the breastplate to his back,
                he took Ascanius in an armed embrace and kissed him lightly
                through the helmet, saying: ‘From me, my son, you can learn
                courage and hard toil. Others will teach you about Fortune. My
                hand will now defend you in war and lead you where the prizes
                are great. I charge you, when in due course your years ripen and
                you become a man, do not forget, but as you go over in your mind
440         the examples of your kinsmen, let your spirit rise at the thought
                of your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector.’

                When he had finished speaking, he moved through the gates
                in all his massive might, brandishing his huge spear, and there
                rushed with him in serried ranks Antheus and Mnestheus and
                all his escort, streaming from the camp. A blinding dust then
                darkened the plain. The very earth was stirred and trembled
                under the drumming of their feet. As they advanced, Turnus
                saw them from the rampart opposite. The men of Ausonia also
                saw them and cold tremors of fear ran through the marrow of
                their bones. But before all the Latins, Juturna heard the sound
450         and knew its meaning. She fled, trembling, but Aeneas came
                swiftly on, leading his dark army over the open plain. Just as
                when a cloud blots out the sun and begins to move from mid-ocean
                towards the land; long-suffering farmers see it in the far
                distance and shudder to the heart, knowing what it will bring,
                the ruin of trees, the slaughter of their crops and destruction
                everywhere; the flying winds come first, and their sound is first
                to reach the shore – just so the Trojan leader from Rhoeteum
                
drove his army forward against the enemy in wedge formation,
                each man shoulder to shoulder with his neighbour. Fierce Osiris
                was struck by the sword of Thymbraeus. Mnestheus cut down
460         Arcetius, Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens. Tolumnius himself
                fell, the augur who had been the first to hurl a spear against his
                enemies. The shouting rose to the sky and now it was the
                Rutulians who turned and fled over the fields, raising the dust
                on their backs. Aeneas did not think fit to cut down men who
                had turned away from him, nor did he go after those who stood
                to meet him in equal combat or carried spears. He was looking
                for Turnus, and only Turnus, tracking him through the thick
                murk. Turnus was the only man he asked to fight.