The Aeneid

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The Aeneid Page 20

by Robert Fagles; Bernard Knox Virgil


  So strong, this Dares, first to cock his head for combat,

  flaunting his broad shoulders, sparring, lefts and rights,

  beating the air with blows.

  Who will take him on?

  Not one in the whole crowd would dare go up against him,

  strap the gloves on. So, certain that all contenders

  had withdrawn, the trophy his alone, he strode up

  to Aeneas now and never pausing, full of swagger,

  grasps the bull’s horn with his left hand and boasts:

  “Son of Venus, since no one dares to face me in the ring,

  how long do I have to stand here? How long’s right?

  Just say the word—I’ll lead my prize away.”

  With one accord the Trojans roared assent:

  Give the man the prize that he’d been promised.

  But now Acestes rebukes Entellus sharply,

  sitting side by side on a grassy rise of ground:

  “Entellus, once our bravest hero, where’s it gone?

  Look at this prize! How can you just sit back,

  feckless, and let them cart it off without a fight?

  Where’s that god of ours, that Eryx, tell me—

  our teacher once, renowned for nothing now?

  Where’s your fame that thrilled all Sicily once?

  What of the trophies hanging from your rafters?”

  Entellus returns: “My love of glory, my pride

  still holds strong, not beaten down by fear.

  It’s slow old age, that’s what dogs me now.

  My blood runs cold, my body’s chill, played out.

  But if I were now the man I was, full of the youth

  that spurs that bantam there, cocksure and strutting so—

  I’d need no bribe of a prize bull to bring me out.

  I have no use for trophies.”

  Fighting words.

  Down in the ring he threw his pair of gauntlets,

  massive weights that violent Eryx used to sport,

  binding his fists to fight with rawhide taut and tough.

  The crowd was dazed—seven welted plies of enormous oxhide

  stitched in ridges of lead and iron to make them stiff.

  Dares, dazed the most, shrinks back from the bout.

  But the hearty son of Anchises tests their heft,

  turning over and over the heavy coiling straps.

  Now old Entellus’ voice comes rising from his chest:

  “What if you’d seen the gloves of Hercules himself

  and the grim fight he fought on these very sands?

  This is the gear your brother Eryx used to wield,

  look, still crusted with blood and spattered brains—

  with these he stood up against great Hercules,

  and I used to wear them too,

  when the blood ran warmer in me, made me strong

  before old age, my rival, flecked my brows with gray.

  But if this Trojan, Dares, cringes before my weapons,

  if good Aeneas decides and Acestes my promoter nods,

  we’ll fight as equals here. These gloves of Eryx,

  I’ll give them up for your sake, Dares. Come,

  nothing to fear, pull off your Trojan gauntlets!”

  With that challenge Entellus stripped his pleated cloak

  from his shoulders, baring his great sinewy limbs,

  his great bones and joints, and stood gigantic

  in the center of the ring.

  Officiating, Aeneas

  produced two pairs of gauntlets matched in weight

  and bound both fighters’ hands with equal weapons.

  At once each struck his stance, up on his toes,

  fists raised high—not a twinge of fear now—

  heads rearing back, out of range of the fists,

  they mix punches, left, right, probe for openings,

  Dares trusting to young blood and fancy footwork,

  Entellus to brawn, to brute force, but his knees quake,

  his huge, lumbering frame is racked with labored breathing.

  Wasting blow after blow at each other, thrown but missed

  then blow, blow upon hollow ribs, landing fast and furious,

  pounding chestbones, flurry of blows to head and ears,

  jaws cracking under the crush of hammering jabs—

  massive Entellus, stock-still in his tracks, merely

  rolls to avoid the salvos, eyes fixed on his rival.

  Dares like some captain assaulting a steep city wall

  or laying siege to a mountain stronghold under arms,

  now this approach, now that, exploring the whole fort

  with skill, with every kind of assault, and all no use.

  Entellus towers up for a stunning roundhouse right

  and Dares seeing it coming,

  ducks, quick,

  he’s gone—

  but the giant’s full force poured in the crashing blow

  lands on empty air and his own weight brings him down,

  a colossal man, a colossal fall, he slammed the earth,

  toppled, as often a hollow pine, ripped up by the roots

  on steep Mount Ida or Erymanthus, topples down to ground.

  The crowd springs up, Sicilians, Trojans, rival outcries

  hit the sky. Acestes, first to rush to his aged friend,

  pities Entellus, hoists him off the ground.

  The champion,

  never slowed by a fall, unshaken, goes back to fight

  and all the fiercer, anger fueling his power now,

  shame fires him up, and a sense of his own strength.

  So in a blaze of fury he pummels Dares headlong over

  the whole wide ring, lefts and rights, doubling blows,

  no lull, no letup, thick and fast as the hailstones

  pelting down from a stormcloud, rattling roofs,

  so dense the champion’s blows, both fists pounding

  over and over, battering Dares reeling round—

  Enough.

  Aeneas, the good captain, could not permit the fury,

  the blind rage of Entellus to rampage any longer.

  He stopped the fight, pulled the battle-weary Dares

  out of the bout and consoled him with these words:

  “Poor man, what insanity’s got you in its grip?

  You’re up against superhuman power, can’t you see?

  The will of God’s against you. Bow to God.”

  With that command he parted both contenders.

  Trusty friends conducted Dares back to the ships,

  dragging his wobbly knees, his head lolling side to side,

  spitting clots from his mouth, blood mixed with teeth.

  His mates, called back, receive his sword and helmet,

  leaving the bull and the victor’s palm to Entellus.

  Overflowing with pride, glorying over his bull

  the old champion shouts: “Son of the goddess,

  see, you Trojans too,

  what power I had when I was in my prime,

  and from what a death you rescue Dares now!”

  With that,

  standing over against the bull’s head steadied there,

  the battle’s prize, he drew the iron gauntlet back

  and rearing up for the blow, swings it square between

  both horns, crushing the skull and dashing out the brains,

  and dying, quivering, down on the ground the great beast sprawls.

  And rising over it now the champion’s voice comes

  pouring from his heart: “Here, Eryx,

  I pay your spirit a better life than Dares’!

  Here, in victory, I lay down my gloves, my skill.”

  At once Aeneas invites all those who wish

  to contend with winging shafts and names the prizes.

  With powerful hands he steps the mast from Serestus’ ship

  and tethers atop it, looped by a cord, a fluttering
dove,

  a mark for steel-shod arrows. The archers gather now,

  cast lots in a bronze helmet, and first to leap out,

  to partisan shouts, is Hippocoön, son of Hyrtacus.

  Next, Mnestheus, flushed with victory in the ships,

  his brow still crowned with an olive wreath of green.

  Third, Eurytion—your brother, famous Pandarus,

  archer who once under orders broke that truce,

  the first to whip an arrow into the Argive ranks.

  The last lot, deep in the helm, was Acestes’ own,

  who dared to try his hand at young men’s work.

  Now

  as they flex their bows to a curve with all their force,

  all each man can muster, drawing shafts from quivers,

  young Hippocoön shot first, his bowstring twanged,

  his whizzing arrow ripped through the swift air

  and struck home, fixed deep in the timber mast.

  The mast shuddered, the dove fluttered in fright

  and the whole arena round rang out with cheers.

  And next, keen Mnestheus took his stand, bow drawn,

  aiming higher, his eye and shaft both trained on the mark

  but he had no luck, he missed the bird itself, his shaft

  just slit a knot in the hempen cord that tied her foot

  as the dove dangled high from the soaring mast and

  off she flew to the South and the dark clouds.

  Quick as a wink Eurytion, bow long bent and arrow

  set for release, prayed to his archer brother,

  aimed at the dove that reveled in open sky,

  winging under a black cloud—

  and struck—

  and down

  she dropped, dead weight, leaving her life in the stars

  and bringing home the shaft that shot her through.

  Now Acestes alone remained, and his prize lost.

  Still he whipped an arrow high in the lofting air

  to display his seasoned art and make his bow ring out.

  Suddenly, right before their eyes, look, a potent marvel

  destined to shape the future! So the outcome proved

  when the awestruck prophets sang the signs to later ages.

  Flying up to the swirling clouds the arrow shot into flames,

  blazing its way in fire, burning out into thin air,

  lost like the shooting stars that often break loose,

  trailing a mane of flames to sweep across the sky.

  Transfixed, the men of Troy and Sicily froze and

  prayed the gods on high. Nor did Prince Aeneas

  hold back from the omen. He embraced Acestes

  in all his glory, heaping splendid gifts

  on the old king and urging: “Take them, father!

  By this sign the great lord of Olympus has decreed

  that you should bear off honors far from all the rest.

  Here, you’ll have a gift from old Anchises himself.

  A mixing-bowl, richly engraved, the proud trophy

  that Thracian Cisseus one day gave my father.

  A memento of his host, a pledge of his affection.”

  With that, he crowns his brows with laurel leaves

  and declares Acestes first, the winner over all.

  Good Eurytion never grudged him this distinction,

  though he alone shot down the dove from the high sky.

  Next in the prizes comes the one who slit the cord

  and last the man whose shaft had drilled the mast.

  Even before the contest ended, great Aeneas calls

  Epytides over, friend and bodyguard of the young Iulus,

  and whispers in his trusted ear: “Go, and if Ascanius

  has his troupe of boys prepared, their horses mustered

  to ride through their maneuvers, have him parade

  his squadrons now, to honor Anchises here

  and display himself in arms.”

  Aeneas commands

  the flooding crowds to clear the whole broad arena,

  leave the field wide open. Then in ride the boys,

  trim in their ranks before their parents’ eyes,

  mounted on bridled steeds and glittering in the light

  and as they pass, the men of Troy and Sicily

  murmur a hum of admiration. All the riders,

  following custom, wear their hair bound tight

  with close-cut wreaths, each bearing a pair of lances,

  cornel, tipped with steel. Some sling burnished quivers

  over their shoulders, high on their necks the torques

  of flexible, braided gold encircle each boy’s neck.

  Three squadrons with three captains weave their ways,

  each leading a column of twelve, six boys in double file,

  a trainer beside each troupe, all shining in the sun.

  The first young squadron parades along in triumph

  led by little Priam, who bore his forebear’s name—

  your noble son, Polites, destined to sire Italians—

  riding a Thracian stallion dappled white, his pasterns

  white and prancing, high brow flashing a blaze of white.

  Next comes Atys, soon the source of the Latin Atians,

  little Atys, a boy the boy Prince Iulus loved.

  Last, handsomest captain of them all, comes Iulus

  riding a mount from Sidon, radiant Dido’s gift,

  a memento of the queen, a pledge of her affection.

  The rest of the youngsters ride Sicilian horses,

  old Acestes’ gifts, the riders awed by applause

  the Dardans give their fine dressage, delighted

  to see in their looks their own lost parents’ faces.

  Now, once they’d paraded past the assembled crowd,

  triumphant on horseback, bright in the eyes of kinsmen,

  all riders took their places and Epytides from afar

  called out

  “Get set”—

  a crack of his whip, and watch,

  the long column, split into three equal squads,

  splits into rows of six, in bands dancing away,

  then recalled at the next command they wheeled

  and charged each other, lances tense for attack,

  wheeling charge into countercharge, return and turn

  through the whole arena, enemies circling, swerving back

  in their armor, acting out a mock display of war,

  now baring their backs in flight, now turning spears

  for attack, now making peace and riding file by file.

  So complex the labyrinth once in hilly Crete, they say,

  where the passage wove between blind walls and wavered on

  in numberless cunning paths that broke down every clue,

  with nothing to trace and no way back—a baffling maze.

  Complex as the course the sons of Troy now follow, weaving

  their way through mock escapes and clashes all in sport

  as swiftly as frisky dolphins skim the rolling surf,

  cleaving the Libyan or Carpathian seas in play.

  This tradition of drill and these mock battles:

  Ascanius was the first to revive the Ride

  when he girded Alba Longa round with ramparts,

  teaching the early Latins to keep these rites,

  just as he and his fellow Trojan boys had done,

  and the Albans taught their sons, and in her turn

  great Rome received the rites and preserved our fathers’ fame.

  The boys are now called Troy, their troupe the Trojan Corps.

  Here came to an end the games in honor of Aeneas’

  hallowed father.

  But here for the first time Fortune

  veered in its course and turned against the Trojans.

  While they consecrated the tomb with various games,

  Saturnian Juno hurries Iris down from the sky

 
; to the Trojan fleet, breathing gusts at her back

  to wing her on her way. Juno brooding, scheming,

  her old inveterate rancor never sated. Iris flies,

  arcing down on her rainbow showering iridescence,

  and no one sees the virgin glide along the shore,

  past the huge assembly, catching sight of the harbor

  all deserted now, and the fleet they left unguarded.

  But there, far off on a lonely stretch of beach

  the Trojan women wept for the lost Anchises.

  Gazing out on the deep dark swells they wept

  and wailed: “How many reefs, how many sea-miles

  more that we must cross! Heart-weary as we are!”

  They cried with one voice. A city is what they pray for.

  All were sick of struggling with the sea.

  So down

  in their midst speeds Iris—no stranger to mischief—

  putting aside the looks and gown of a goddess,

  turning into Beroë, aged wife of Doryclus

  the Tmarian, a woman of fine, noble birth

  who once had fame and sons. Like Beroë now,

  Iris mingles in among all the Trojan mothers.

  “How wretched we are,” she cries, “that no Greek soldier

  dragged us off to die in the war beneath our country’s walls.

  Oh, my poor doomed people! What is Fortune saving you for,

  what death-blow? Seven summers gone since Troy went down

  and still we’re swept along, measuring out each land, each sea—

  how many hostile rocks and stars?—scanning an endless ocean,

  chasing an Italy fading still as the waves roll us on.

  Here is our brother Eryx’ land. Acestes is our host.

  What prevents us from building walls right here,

  presenting our citizens with a city? Oh, my country,

  gods of the hearth we tore from enemies, all for nothing,

  will no walls ever again be called the walls of Troy?

  We’re never again to see the rivers Hector loved,

  the Simois and the Xanthus? No, come, action!

  Help me burn these accursed ships to ashes.

  The ghost of Cassandra came to me in dreams,

  the prophetess gave me flaming brands and said:

  ‘Look for Troy right here, your own home here!’

  Act now. No delay in the face of signs like these.

  You see? Four altars to Neptune. The god himself

  is giving us torches, building our courage, too.”

  Spurring them on and first to seize a deadly brand,

 

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