So off you go now. Take this path to the queen’s gates.
I have good news. Your friends are restored to you,
your fleet’s reclaimed. The winds swerved from the North
and drove them safe to port. True, unless my parents
taught me to read the flight of birds for nothing.
Look at those dozen swans triumphant in formation!
The eagle of Jove had just swooped down on them all
from heaven’s heights and scattered them into open sky,
but now you can see them flying trim in their long ranks,
landing or looking down where their friends have landed—
home, cavorting on ruffling wings and wheeling round
the sky in convoy, trumpeting in their glory.
So homeward bound, your ships and hardy shipmates
anchor in port now or approach the harbor’s mouth,
full sail ahead. Now off you go, move on,
wherever the path leads you, steer your steps.”
At that,
as she turned away her neck shone with a rosy glow,
her mane of hair gave off an ambrosial fragrance,
her skirt flowed loose, rippling down to her feet
and her stride alone revealed her as a goddess.
He knew her at once—his mother—
and called after her now as she sped away:
“Why, you too, cruel as the rest? So often
you ridicule your son with your disguises!
Why can’t we clasp hands, embrace each other,
exchange some words, speak out, and tell the truth?”
Reproving her so, he makes his way toward town
but Venus screens the travelers off with a dense mist,
pouring round them a cloak of clouds with all her power,
so no one could see them, no one reach and hold them,
cause them to linger now or ask why they had come.
But she herself, lifting into the air, wings her way
toward Paphos, racing with joy to reach her home again
where her temples stand and a hundred altars steam
with Arabian incense, redolent with the scent
of fresh-cut wreaths.
Meanwhile the two men
are hurrying on their way as the path leads,
now climbing a steep hill arching over the city,
looking down on the facing walls and high towers.
Aeneas marvels at its mass—once a cluster of huts—
he marvels at gates and bustling hum and cobbled streets.
The Tyrians press on with the work, some aligning the walls,
struggling to raise the citadel, trundling stones up slopes;
some picking the building sites and plowing out their boundaries,
others drafting laws, electing judges, a senate held in awe.
Here they’re dredging a harbor, there they lay foundations
deep for a theater, quarrying out of rock great columns
to form a fitting scene for stages still to come.
As hard at their tasks as bees in early summer,
that work the blooming meadows under the sun,
they escort a new brood out, young adults now,
or press the oozing honey into the combs, the nectar
brimming the bulging cells, or gather up the plunder
workers haul back in, or close ranks like an army,
driving the drones, that lazy crew, from home.
The hive seethes with life, exhaling the scent
of honey sweet with thyme.
“How lucky they are,”
Aeneas cries, gazing up at the city’s heights,
“their walls are rising now!” And on he goes,
cloaked in cloud—remarkable—right in their midst
he blends in with the crowds, and no one sees him.
Now deep in the heart of Carthage stood a grove,
lavish with shade, where the Tyrians, making landfall,
still shaken by wind and breakers, first unearthed that sign:
Queen Juno had led their way to the fiery stallion’s head
that signaled power in war and ease in life for ages.
Here Dido of Tyre was building Juno a mighty temple,
rich with gifts and the goddess’ aura of power.
Bronze the threshold crowning a flight of stairs,
the doorposts sheathed in bronze, and the bronze doors
groaned deep on their hinges.
Here in this grove
a strange sight met his eyes and calmed his fears
for the first time. Here, for the first time,
Aeneas dared to hope he had found some haven,
for all his hard straits, to trust in better days.
For awaiting the queen, beneath the great temple now,
exploring its features one by one, amazed at it all,
the city’s splendor, the work of rival workers’ hands
and the vast scale of their labors—all at once he sees,
spread out from first to last, the battles fought at Troy,
the fame of the Trojan War now known throughout the world,
Atreus’ sons and Priam—Achilles, savage to both at once.
Aeneas came to a halt and wept, and “Oh, Achates,”
he cried, “is there anywhere, any place on earth
not filled with our ordeals? There’s Priam, look!
Even here, merit will have its true reward . . .
even here, the world is a world of tears
and the burdens of mortality touch the heart.
Dismiss your fears. Trust me, this fame of ours
will offer us some haven.”
So Aeneas says,
feeding his spirit on empty, lifeless pictures,
groaning low, the tears rivering down his face
as he sees once more the fighters circling Troy.
Here Greeks in flight, routed by Troy’s young ranks,
there Trojans routed by plumed Achilles in his chariot.
Just in range are the snow-white canvas tents of Rhesus—
he knows them at once, and sobs—Rhesus’ men betrayed
in their first slumber, droves of them slaughtered
by Diomedes splattered with their blood, lashing
back to the Greek camp their high-strung teams
before they could ever savor the grass of Troy
or drink at Xanthus’ banks.
Next Aeneas sees
Troilus in flight, his weapons flung aside,
unlucky boy, no match for Achilles’ onslaught—
horses haul him on, tangled behind an empty war-car,
flat on his back, clinging still to the reins, his neck
and hair dragging along the ground, the butt of his javelin
scrawling zigzags in the dust.
And here the Trojan women
are moving toward the temple of Pallas, their deadly foe,
their hair unbound as they bear the robe, their offering,
suppliants grieving, palms beating their breasts
but Pallas turns away, staring at the ground.
And Hector—
three times Achilles has hauled him round the walls of Troy
and now he’s selling his lifeless body off for gold.
Aeneas gives a groan, heaving up from his depths,
he sees the plundered armor, the car, the corpse
of his great friend, and Priam reaching out
with helpless hands . . .
He even sees himself
swept up in the melee, clashing with Greek captains,
sees the troops of the Dawn and swarthy Memnon’s arms.
And Penthesilea leading her Amazons bearing half-moon shields—
she blazes with battle fury out in front of her army,
cinching a golden breastband under her bared breast,
a girl, a warrior queen who dares to battle men.
And now
as Trojan Aeneas, gazing in awe at all the scenes of Troy,
stood there, spellbound, eyes fixed on the war alone,
the queen aglow with beauty approached the temple,
Dido, with massed escorts marching in her wake.
Like Diana urging her dancing troupes along
the Eurotas’ banks or up Mount Cynthus’ ridge
as a thousand mountain-nymphs crowd in behind her,
left and right—with quiver slung from her shoulder,
taller than any other goddess as she goes striding on
and silent Latona thrills with joy too deep for words.
Like Dido now, striding triumphant among her people,
spurring on the work of their kingdom still to come.
And then by Juno’s doors beneath the vaulted dome,
flanked by an honor guard beside her lofty seat,
the queen assumed her throne. Here as she handed down
decrees and laws to her people, sharing labors fairly,
some by lot, some with her sense of justice, Aeneas
suddenly sees his men approaching through the crowds,
Antheus, Sergestus, gallant Cloanthus, other Trojans
the black gales had battered over the seas
and swept to far-flung coasts.
Aeneas, Achates,
both were amazed, both struck with joy and fear.
They yearn to grasp their companions’ hands in haste
but both men are unnerved by the mystery of it all.
So, cloaked in folds of mist, they hide their feelings,
waiting, hoping to see what luck their friends have found.
Where have they left their ships, what coast? Why have they come?
These picked men, still marching in from the whole armada,
pressing toward the temple amid the rising din
to plead for some good will.
Once they had entered,
allowed to appeal before the queen—the eldest,
Prince Ilioneus, calm, composed, spoke out:
“Your majesty, empowered by Jove to found
your new city here and curb rebellious tribes
with your sense of justice—we poor Trojans,
castaways, tossed by storms over all the seas,
we beg you: keep the cursed fire off our ships!
Pity us, god-fearing men! Look on us kindly,
see the state we are in. We have not come
to put your Libyan gods and homes to the sword,
loot them and haul our plunder toward the beach.
No, such pride, such violence has no place
in the hearts of beaten men.
“There is a country—
the Greeks called it Hesperia, Land of the West,
an ancient land, mighty in war and rich in soil.
Oenotrians settled it; now we hear their descendants
call their kingdom Italy, after their leader, Italus.
Italy-bound we were when, surging with sudden breakers
stormy Orion drove us against blind shoals and from the South
came vicious gales to scatter us, whelmed by the sea,
across the murderous surf and rocky barrier reefs.
We few escaped and floated toward your coast.
What kind of men are these? What land is this,
that you can tolerate such barbaric ways?
We are denied the sailor’s right to shore—
attacked, forbidden even a footing on your beach.
If you have no use for humankind and mortal armor,
at least respect the gods. They know right from wrong.
They don’t forget.
“We once had a king, Aeneas . . .
none more just, none more devoted to duty, none
more brave in arms. If Fate has saved that man,
if he still draws strength from the air we breathe,
if he’s not laid low, not yet with the heartless shades,
fear not, nor will you once regret the first step
you take to compete with him in kindness.
We have cities too, in the land of Sicily,
arms and a king, Acestes, born of Trojan blood.
Permit us to haul our storm-racked ships ashore,
trim new oars, hew timbers out of your woods, so that,
if we are fated to sail for Italy—king and crews restored—
to Italy, to Latium we will sail with buoyant hearts.
But if we have lost our haven there, if Libyan waters
hold you now, my captain, best of the men of Troy,
and all our hopes for Iulus have been dashed,
at least we can cross back over Sicilian seas,
the straits we came from, homes ready and waiting,
and seek out great Acestes for our king.”
So Ilioneus closed. And with one accord
the Trojans murmured Yes.
Her eyes lowered,
Dido replies with a few choice words of welcome:
“Cast fear to the winds, Trojans, free your minds.
Our kingdom is new. Our hard straits have forced me
to set defenses, station guards along our far frontiers.
Who has not heard of Aeneas’ people, his city, Troy,
her men, her heroes, the flames of that horrendous war?
We are not so dull of mind, we Carthaginians here.
When he yokes his team, the Sun shines down on us as well.
Whatever you choose, great Hesperia—Saturn’s fields—
or the shores of Eryx with Acestes as your king,
I will provide safe passage, escorts and support
to speed you on your way. Or would you rather
settle here in my realm on equal terms with me?
This city I build—it’s yours. Haul ships to shore.
Trojans, Tyrians: they will be all the same to me.
If only the storm that drove you drove your king
and Aeneas were here now! Indeed, I’ll send out
trusty men to scour the coast of Libya far and wide.
Perhaps he’s shipwrecked, lost in woods or towns.”
Spirits lifting at Dido’s welcome, brave Achates
and captain Aeneas had long chafed to break free
of the mist, and now Achates spurs Aeneas on:
“Son of Venus, what feelings are rising in you now?
You see the coast is clear, our ships and friends restored.
Just one is lost. We saw him drown at sea ourselves.
All else is just as your mother promised.”
He’d barely ended when all at once the mist
around them parted, melting into the open air,
and there Aeneas stood, clear in the light of day,
his head, his shoulders, the man was like a god.
His own mother had breathed her beauty on her son,
a gloss on his flowing hair, and the ruddy glow of youth,
and radiant joy shone in his eyes. His beauty fine
as a craftsman’s hand can add to ivory, or aglow
as silver or Parian marble ringed in glinting gold.
Suddenly, surprising all, he tells the queen:
“Here I am before you, the man you are looking for.
Aeneas the Trojan, plucked from Libya’s heavy seas.
You alone have pitied the long ordeals of Troy—unspeakable—
and here you would share your city and your home with us,
this remnant left by the Greeks. We who have drunk deep
of each and every disaster land and sea can offer.
Stripped of everything, now it’s past our power
to reward you gift for gift, Dido, theirs as well,
whoever may survive of the Dardan people still,
strewn over the wide world now. But may the gods,
if there are Powers who still respect the good and true,
if justice still exi
sts on the face of the earth,
may they and their own sense of right and wrong
bring you your just rewards.
What age has been so blest to give you birth?
What noble parents produced so fine a daughter?
So long as rivers run to the sea, so long as shadows
travel the mountain slopes and the stars range the skies,
your honor, your name, your praise will live forever,
whatever lands may call me to their shores.”
With that,
he extends his right hand toward his friend Ilioneus,
greeting Serestus with his left, and then the others,
gallant Gyas, gallant Cloanthus.
Tyrian Dido marveled,
first at the sight of him, next at all he’d suffered,
then she said aloud: “Born of a goddess, even so
what destiny hunts you down through such ordeals?
What violence lands you on this frightful coast?
Are you that Aeneas whom loving Venus bore
to Dardan Anchises on the Simois’ banks at Troy?
Well I remember . . . Teucer came to Sidon once,
banished from native ground, searching for new realms,
and my father Belus helped him. Belus had sacked Cyprus,
plundered that rich island, ruled with a victor’s hand.
From that day on I have known of Troy’s disaster,
known your name, and all the kings of Greece.
Teucer, your enemy, often sang Troy’s praises,
claiming his own descent from Teucer’s ancient stock.
So come, young soldiers, welcome to our house.
My destiny, harrying me with trials hard as yours,
led me as well, at last, to anchor in this land.
Schooled in suffering, now I learn to comfort
those who suffer too.”
With that greeting
she leads Aeneas into the royal halls, announcing
offerings in the gods’ high temples as she goes.
Not forgetting to send his shipmates on the beaches
twenty bulls and a hundred huge, bristling razorbacks
and a hundred fatted lambs together with their mothers:
gifts to make this day a day of joy.
Within the palace
all is decked with adornments, lavish, regal splendor.
In the central hall they are setting out a banquet,
draping the gorgeous purple, intricately worked,
heaping the board with grand displays of silver
and gold engraved with her fathers’ valiant deeds,
a long, unending series of captains and commands,
traced through a line of heroes since her country’s birth.
The Aeneid Page 8