The Aeneid

by Robert Fagles; Bernard Knox Virgil

  nor our pacts, our friendship sealed by a handclasp.

  No, this fate was assigned to me in my old age.

  But if my son was doomed to an early death,

  to know he died after killing Volscian hordes

  and died as he led the Trojans into Latium:

  that will be my joy.

  “Nor do I think you merit

  any other burial rites than good Aeneas grants,

  and the Trojan heroes, Tuscan chiefs as well

  and Tuscan armies, bearing your great trophies

  stripped from the men your right arm killed in war.

  And you too, Turnus, would now be standing here,

  a tremendous trunk of oak decked out in armor

  if Pallas had had your years and strength to match.

  But why in my torment hold the Trojans back from battle?

  Go. Take this word to your king. Remember it well.

  The reason I linger out this life I loathe, Aeneas,

  now Pallas is dead and gone, is your right arm

  that owes, as you well know, the life of Turnus

  to son and father both. That is the only field

  left free to you now, to prove your worth and fortune.

  I look for no joy in life—the gods have ruled that out—

  just to bear the news to my son among the dead.”

  Soon

  the Dawn had raised her light that gives men life,

  wretched men, calling them back to labor

  and mortal struggle. Now captain Aeneas, now

  Tarchon erected pyres along the sweeping shore.

  And here they carried the bodies of their dead

  in the old ancestral way, as the dark funeral fires

  blazed up from below to shroud the high skies

  in pitch-dark smoke. Three times they ran

  their ritual rounds about the burning pyres,

  armed in gleaming bronze, three times they rode

  on horseback, circling the fires lit in mourning,

  lifting their wails of sorrow. Tears wet the earth,

  tears wetting their armor. The shouting of fighters soars,

  the clashing blare of trumpets.

  Some heave on the flames

  the plunder stripped from the Latin ranks they killed—

  their helmets, burnished swords, bridles, chariot wheels

  still glowing hot, while others burn the offerings

  well-known to the dead, their shields, their spears

  that had no luck. And round about they slaughter

  droves of cattle, carcasses offered up to Death,

  and bristling swine and beasts led in from the fields

  are butchered over the flames. Then down the entire shore

  they watch their comrades burn as men stand guard at the pyres

  now dying out . . . Nor can they tear themselves away

  till the dank night comes wheeling round the heavens

  studded with fiery stars.

  No less in another zone

  the grieving Latins raise up countless pyres too.

  For they had many dead, and some they bury in earth,

  some they lift and bear off to the nearby fields

  and the other dead they carry back to town.

  All the rest they burn, unnumbered and unsung,

  an enormous tangled mass of bloody carnage waits

  and the wasteland far and wide lights up with fires,

  with pyre on pyre striving to outblaze the last.

  The third day rose, driving the night’s chill from the sky

  as the mourners raked the embers, leveling off the ashes

  mixed with bones, and piled the gravesite high

  with mounds of earth still warm.

  Now in the homes,

  in King Latinus’ city that overflowed with wealth,

  the breaking wails and the long dirges reach their climax.

  Here the mothers and grief-stricken brides of the dead

  and their loving sisters, hearts torn with sorrow,

  and young boys robbed of their fathers—

  curse this horrendous war and Turnus’ marriage.

  “He himself,” they cry, “he should decide it all

  with his own sword and shield, since he lays claim

  to the realm of Italy, claims the lion’s share

  of honor for himself!” And caustic Drances

  lends weight to their side. He swears that Turnus

  alone is summoned, he alone called forth to battle.

  But opposing them at once, a mix of views and voices

  rises up for Turnus. The famous name of the queen

  holds out its shield, and the hero wins support

  for his many feats, his trophies won in war.

  Now

  amid the din, as the fiery controversy flared,

  look, to top it off, the grim-set envoys enter,

  bearing the news from Diomedes’ noble city:

  “Nothing has been won, for all our attempts.

  Nothing achieved by all our gifts, our gold,

  our fervent appeals. We Latins must look elsewhere,

  hunt for other allies or press for peace at once

  at the hands of the Trojan king.”

  Crushing news.

  Even King Latinus is overwhelmed. It’s clear,

  Aeneas comes by the will of Fate, the word on high.

  So the wrath of the gods declares, the fresh-dug graves

  before Latinus’ eyes. And so he convenes a council,

  all the leading captains mustered at his command,

  inside the lofty gates. They all collected now,

  crowding into the royal halls through milling streets.

  Throned in their midst, greatest in years and first in power,

  sits Latinus, the king’s brow hardly marked by joy.

  He orders the envoys, home from Aetolia’s city,

  to tell all, all the reports they carry back,

  demanding the truth from each man in turn.

  A hush fell as Venulus, following orders,

  tells his story: “My countrymen, we have seen

  Diomedes, seen the Argive camp. We’ve made

  the long march and survived its many dangers—

  we have grasped the hand that toppled Troy.

  The victor king was still building his city,

  Argyripa, named for his father’s Argive stock—

  in Iapyx’ realm, the fields round Mount Garganus.

  Once we entered, allowed to appeal before the king,

  we offered our gifts, told him our names, our native land,

  and who had attacked us, what had drawn us to Arpi.

  “He heard our pleas and replied with calming words:

  ‘You happy, happy people, men of old Ausonia,

  land where Saturn ruled, what drives you now

  to shatter your blessed peace? What spurs you

  to rouse the hells of war you’ve never known?

  We who defiled the fields of Troy with swords—

  why mention all the pain we drank to the dregs,

  fighting beneath those walls, or the men we lost,

  drowned in Simois River? Strewn across the world,

  we all have borne unspeakable punishments, yes,

  we’ve paid the price in full for all our crimes.

  Even Priam might pity our embattled troops.

  The grim star of Minerva, she bears witness,

  so do Euboea’s crags and Caphereus’ vengeful cliffs.

  Caught in that war’s wake, we have been driven

  to many shores. Atreus’ son, Menelaus, right up

  to the Pillars of Proteus—long an exile now.

  Ulysses has seen the Cyclops on Mount Etna.

  Shall I tell you of Neoptolemus’ brief reign?

  The house of Idomeneus tumbled to the ground?

  The Locrians stranded out on Libya’s coast?

  Even he, the
Mycenaean commander of all Greece:

  the moment he crossed his threshold, down he went

  at the hands of his wicked queen. The conqueror of Asia . . .

  an adulterer crouched in wait to lay him low.

  “‘Just think. The envious gods denied me my return

  to my fathers’ altars, or one glimpse of the wife

  I yearned for so, or the lovely hills of Calydon.

  I’m still stalked by the sight of terrifying omens.

  My comrades gone! Flown off to the sky on wings

  or they roam the streams, as birds—how brutal,

  the punishments all my people have endured—

  and they make the cliffs re-echo with their cries.

  Such disasters were in the stars, from that day on

  that I like a maniac attacked an immortal’s body,

  my sword defiled the hand of Venus with a wound!

  “‘No, don’t press me to face such battles now.

  I’ve had no strife with Trojans since Troy fell,

  nor do I think of those old griefs with any joy.

  And as for the gifts you bring me from your homeland,

  give them to Aeneas. I’ve stood up against his weapons,

  we’ve gone man to man. Trust me, I know just how

  fiercely the fighter rises up behind his shield,

  what a whirlwind rides on that man’s spear!

  If Troy had borne two others to match Aeneas,

  Trojan troops would have marched on Greece’s cities,

  Greece would now be grieving, Fate turned upside down.

  Whatever the stand-off round the sturdy walls of Troy,

  with Greek victory hanging fire until the tenth year came,

  was all thanks to Aeneas’ and Hector’s strong right arms.

  Both men shone in courage, both men blazed in combat,

  Aeneas the more devout. Join hands in pacts of peace

  while you still have the chance. Don’t join battle,

  sword to sword. Be on your guard.’

  “Now then,

  you have heard, great king, the king’s response,

  the view he takes of this mighty war of ours.”

  The envoys had barely closed when a troubled groan

  came murmuring from the Italians’ anxious lips and

  mounted as when the rocks resist a stream in spate

  and the dammed-up tide goes churning, sounding out

  as it beats from bank to bank with water roaring white.

  Once their spirits calmed and the anxious din died down,

  first the king salutes the gods from his high throne

  and then begins: “If only before now, men of Latium,

  we had resolved this dire crisis! How I wish

  we had called a council then. Far better then,

  not now, with the enemy camped before our walls.

  What an ominous war we wage, my countrymen!

  Fighting people descended from the gods,

  unbeaten heroes, never wearied in battle,

  even in defeat they can’t put down the sword.

  If you had any hope of winning Aetolian allies,

  give it up now. Each man to his own best hope,

  but now you can see how slim your hopes have been.

  The rest of your prospects? All lie in shambles—

  look with your own eyes, feel with your own hands.

  I blame no one. The most that valor could do,

  valor has done. We have fought the good fight

  with all our kingdom’s power.

  “Now, at this point,

  torn as I am with doubts, here is what I propose.

  I will tell it in brief. Come, listen closely . . .

  I have an age-old tract along the Tiber River,

  stretching West, beyond the Sicanian border.

  Here the Auruncans and Rutulians sow their crops,

  plow the rugged hills and graze the wildest banks.

  Let this entire spread, plus highlands ringed with pines,

  be given the Trojans now to win their friendship.

  And let us draft a treaty, just in every term,

  and invite the Trojans in to share our kingdom.

  Let them settle here, if so their hearts desire,

  and build their city walls. But if they are bent

  on seizing other countries, other people now,

  and it’s in their power to put our land astern,

  then we’ll build them twenty ships of Italian oak.

  More, if they have the crews. The timber’s stacked ashore.

  Let them set out the number, the class of ship they need.

  We can supply the bronze, the shipwrights, docks and tackle.

  I also propose—to bear the news, confirm the pact—

  that a hundred envoys be dispatched, elite Latin stock,

  their arms laden with boughs of peace and bearing gifts,

  hundred-weights of gold and ivory, throne and robe,

  our royal emblems. Confer among yourselves.

  Shore up our shattered fortunes.”

  Drances rises,

  aggressive as always, stung by Turnus’ glory,

  spurred by smarting, barely hidden envy—

  a lavish spender, his rhetoric even looser,

  but a frozen hand in battle. No small voice

  in the public councils, always a shrewd adviser,

  a power in party strife. On his mother’s side,

  well born, but his father’s side remains a blank.

  Drances rises now. His urgings fuel their fire:

  “Our situation is clear for all to see,

  and it needs no voice of ours in council now,

  my noble king. The people know, they admit they know

  what destiny has in store, but they flinch from speaking out.

  Let him allow us to speak and quit his puffed-up pride,

  that man whose unholy leadership and twisted ways—

  Oh, I’ll let loose, he can threaten me with death!—

  so many leading lights among us he’s snuffed out

  that we see our entire city plunged in grief while he,

  trusting that he can break and run, attacks the Trojans,

  terrorizing the heavens with his spears!

  “Just add

  one gift to the hoards you tell us now to give and

  pledge the Dardans. Just one more, my generous king!

  Let no one’s violence overwhelm your power here

  as a father to give his daughter to a man,

  an outstanding man, a marriage earned in full

  and sealed by pacts of peace that last forever.

  But if such terror grips our hearts and minds,

  let us beg a favor of our fine prince.

  “Turnus,

  surrender to king and country their due rights!

  Why keep flinging your wretched people into naked peril?

  You are the root and spring of all the Latins’ griefs!

  There’s no salvation in war. Peace—we all beg you,

  Turnus—bound with the one inviolate pledge of peace!

  “I’ve come first, the man you think your enemy—

  and what if I am? I’m here to implore you now:

  pity your own people. Surrender your pride.

  You’re beaten, now retreat! Routed so,

  we have seen our fill of death. Vast tracts

  we have left a wasteland. Or if glory spurs you on,

  if your strength is still like oak, if the dowry

  of a palace seems so very dear to your heart,

  courage! Chest out, meet your enemy head-on!

  But of course—so Turnus can fetch his royal bride—

  our lives are cheap, scattered in piles across the field,

  unburied and unwept. Come, prince, if you have the spine,

  if you have any spark of your fathers’ warring spirit,

  look, your challenger calls you out t
o fight!”

  Turnus

  groans under that barrage, his fury breaks into fire

  and the outrage bursts from the soldier’s deep heart:

  “Always a mighty flood of words from you, Drances,

  when battle demands our fighting hands! Whenever

  the senate’s called, you’re first to show your face.

  But there is no earthly need to fill these halls

  with the talk that flies so bravely from your mouth,

  safe as you are while the ramparts keep the enemy out

  and the trenches still don’t overflow with blood. So,

  bluster away with your bombast—that’s your style!

  Brand me for cowardice, Drances, once your arm

  has left as many piles of slaughtered Trojans,

  decked as many fields with brilliant trophies. Now

  we’re free to see what courage and quickness can achieve.

  No long hunt for the foe. As you may have noticed,

  they camp around our walls on every side. Come,

  shall we march against them? You hang back—why?

  Will your warlust always lie in your windy words

  and your craven, racing feet? Beaten, am I?

  Who could rightly call me beaten—you, you swine—

  who bothers to see the Tiber crest with Trojan blood

  and Evander’s house uprooted, razed to the earth

  and all his Arcadian fighters stripped of arms?

  That’s hardly the man that Pandarus and Bitias

  met when those two giants confronted me—

  and the thousand men whom I, in a single day,

  sent down to hell in all my triumph, trapped

  as I was inside the enemy’s rugged walls.

  “So,

  ‘there’s no salvation in war,’ you say? Go sing that song,

  you fool, for the Trojan chief—your own prospects too.

  Keep on striking your huge panic in all our hearts,

  praising to high heaven the strength of a people

  beaten twice. Disdaining the forces of Latinus!

  Now, I suppose, the Myrmidon captains cringe before

  the Phrygian armies, now Diomedes, now Larisaean Achilles,

  and Aufidus’ rapids rush back from the Adriatic’s waves!

  But here’s Drances, feigning terror at my rebukes,

  a scoundrel’s shabby dodge,

  just to hone his charges hurled against me!

  You, you’ll never lose your life, such as it is,

  not by my right hand—fear not—just let it rest,

  beating inside that coward’s chest of yours!

  “But now,

  Father, I come back to you and your resolves . . .

  If you no longer harbor any hope for our armies,