The Aeneid
Page 42
So Turnus blazes up into full explosive fury,
bursting out at the king with reckless words:
“Turnus spurns all delay! Now there’s no excuse
for those craven sons of Aeneas to break their word,
to forsake the pact we swore. I’ll take him on, I will!
Bring on the sacred rites, Father, draft our binding terms.
Either my right arm will send that Dardan down to hell,
that rank deserter of Asia—my armies can sit back
and watch, and Turnus’ sword alone will rebut
the charge of cowardice trained against them all.
Or let him reign over those he’s beaten down.
Let Lavinia go to him—his bride!”
Latinus replied in a calming, peaceful way:
“Brave of the brave, my boy, the more you excel
in feats of daring, the more it falls to me to weigh
the perils, with all my fears, the lethal risks we run.
The realms of your father, Daunus, are yours to manage,
so are the many towns your right arm took by force.
Latinus, too, has wealth and the will to share it.
We’ve other unwed girls in Latian and Laurentine fields,
and no mean stock at that. So let me offer this,
hard as it is, yet free and clear of deception.
Take it to heart, I urge you. For me to unite
my daughter with any one of her former suitors
would have been wrong, forbidden:
all the gods and prophets made that plain.
But I bowed to my love of you, bowed to our kindred blood
and my wife’s heartrending tears. I broke all bonds,
I tore the promised bride from her waiting groom,
I brandished a wicked sword.
“Since then, Turnus,
you see what assaults, what crises dog my steps,
what labors you have shouldered, you, first of all.
Beaten twice in major battles, our city walls
can scarcely harbor Italy’s future hopes.
The rushing Tiber still steams with our blood,
the endless fields still glisten with our bones.
Why do I shrink from my decision? What insanity
shifts my fixed resolve? If, with Turnus dead,
I am ready to take the Trojans on as allies,
why not stop the war while he is still alive?
What will your Rutulians, all the rest of Italy
say if I betray you to death—may Fortune forbid!—
while you appeal for my daughter’s hand in marriage?
Oh, think back on the twists and turns of war.
Pity your father, bent with years and grief,
cut off from you in your native city Ardea
far away.”
Latinus’ urgings deflect the fury
of Turnus not one bit—it only surges higher.
The attempts to heal enflame the fever more.
Soon as he finds his breath the prince breaks out:
“The anguish you bear for my sake, generous king,
for my sake, I beg you, wipe it from your mind.
Let me barter death as the price of fame.
I have weapons too, old father, and no weak,
untempered spears go flying from my right hand—
from the wounds we deal the blood comes flowing too.
His mother, the goddess, she’ll be far from his side
with her woman’s wiles, lurking in stealthy shadows,
hiding him in clouds when her hero cuts and runs!”
But the queen, afraid of the new rules of engagement,
wept, and bent on her own death embraced her ardent
son-in-law to be: “Turnus, by these tears of mine,
by any concern for Amata that moves your heart,
you are my only hope, now, you the one relief
to my wretched old age. In your hands alone
the glory and power of King Latinus rest,
you alone can shore our sinking house.
One favor now, I pray you.
Refrain from going hand to hand with the Trojans!
Whatever dangers await you in that one skirmish,
Turnus, await me too. With you I will forsake
the light of this life I hate—never in shackles
live to see Aeneas as my son!”
As Lavinia heard
her mother’s pleas, her warm cheeks bathed in tears,
a blush flamed up and infused her glowing features.
As crimson as Indian ivory stained with ruddy dye
or white lilies aglow in a host of scarlet roses,
so mixed the hues that lit the young girl’s face.
Turnus, struck with love, fixing his eyes upon her,
fired the more for combat, tells Amata, briefly:
“Don’t, I beg you, mother, send me off with tears,
with evil omens as I go into the jolting shocks of war,
since Turnus is far from free to defer his death.
Be my messenger, Idmon. Take my words to Aeneas,
hardly words to please that craven Phrygian king!
Soon as the sky goes red with tomorrow’s dawn,
riding Aurora’s blood-red chariot wheels,
he’s not to hurl his Trojans against our Latins,
he must let Trojan and Latian armies stand at ease.
Our blood will put an end to this war at last—
that’s the field where Lavinia must be won!”
No more words.
Rushing back to the palace Turnus calls for his team
and thrills to see them neighing right before him,
gifts from Orithyia herself to glorify Pilumnus,
horses whiter than snow, swifter than racing winds.
Restless charioteers flank them, patting their chests,
slapping with cupped hands, and groom their rippling manes.
Next Turnus buckles round his shoulders the breastplate,
dense with its golden mesh and livid mountain bronze,
and straps on sword, shield, and helmet with horns
for its bloody crest—that sword the fire-god forged
for Father Daunus, plunged red-hot in the river Styx.
And next with his powerful grip he snatches up
a burly spear aslant an enormous central column—
plunder seized from an enemy, Actor—shakes it hard
till the haft quivers and “Now, my spear,” he cries,
“you’ve never failed my call, and now our time has come!
Great Actor wielded you once. Now you’re in Turnus’ hands.
Let me spill his corpse on the ground and strip his breastplate,
rip it to bits with my bare hands—that Phrygian eunuch—
defile his hair in the dust, his tresses crimped
with a white-hot curling-iron dripping myrrh!”
Frenzy drives him, Turnus’ whole face is ablaze,
showering sparks, his dazzling glances glinting fire—
terrible, bellowing like some bull before the fight begins,
trying to pour his fury into his horns, he rams a tree-trunk,
charges the winds full force, stamping sprays of sand
as he warms up for battle.
At the same time, Aeneas,
just as fierce in the arms his mother gave him,
hones his fighting spirit too and incites his anger,
glad the war will end with the pact that Turnus offers.
Then he eases his friends’ and anxious Iulus’ fears,
explaining the ways of Fate, commanding envoys now
to return his firm reply to King Latinus,
state the terms of peace.
A new day was just
about to dawn, scattering light on the mountaintops,
the horses of the Sun just rearing up from the Ocean’s depths,
bre
athing forth the light from their flaring nostrils when
the Latins and Trojans were pacing off the dueling-ground
below the great city’s walls, spacing the braziers out
between both armies, mounding the grassy altars high
to the gods they shared in common. Others, cloaked
in their sacred aprons, brows wreathed in verbena,
brought out spring water and sacramental fire.
The Italian troops march forth, pouring out
of the packed gates in tight, massed ranks
and fronting them, the entire Trojan and Tuscan
force comes rushing up, decked out in a range of arms,
no less equipped with iron than if the brutal war-god
called them forth to battle. And there in the midst
of milling thousands, chiefs paraded left and right,
resplendent in all their purple-and-gold regalia:
Mnestheus, blood kin of Assaracus, hardy Asilas,
then Messapus, breaker of horses, Neptune’s son.
The signal sounds. All withdraw to their stations,
plant spears in the ground and cant their shields against them.
Then in an avid stream the mothers and unarmed crowds
and frail old men find seats on towers and rooftops,
others take their stand on the high gates.
But Juno,
looking out from a ridge now called the Alban Mount—
then it had neither name, renown nor glory—gazed
down on the plain, on Italian and Trojan armies
face-to-face, and Latinus’ city walls.
At once she called to Turnus’ sister, goddess
to goddess, the lady of lakes and rilling brooks,
an honor the high and mighty king of heaven bestowed
on Juturna once he had ravished the virgin girl:
“Nymph, beauty of streams, our heart’s desire,
well you know how I have favored you, you
above all the Italian women who have mounted
that ungrateful bed of our warm-hearted Jove—
I gladly assigned you a special place in heaven.
So learn, Juturna, the grief that comes your way
and don’t blame me. While Fortune seemed to allow
and Fate to suffer the Latian state to thrive,
I guarded Turnus, guarded your city walls.
But now I see the soldier facing unequal odds,
his day of doom, his enemy’s blows approaching . . .
That duel, that deadly pact—I cannot bear to watch.
But if you dare help your brother at closer range,
go and do so, it becomes you. Who knows?
Better times may come to those in pain.”
Juno
had barely closed when tears brimmed in Juturna’s eyes
and three, four times over she beat her lovely breast.
“No time for tears, not now,” warned Saturn’s daughter.
“Hurry! Pluck your brother from death, if there’s a way,
or drum up war and abort that treaty they conceived.
The design is mine. The daring, yours.”
Spurring her on,
Juno left Juturna torn, distraught with the wound
that broke her heart.
As the kings come riding in,
a massive four-horse chariot draws Latinus forth,
his glistening temples ringed by a dozen gilded rays,
proof he owes his birth to the sun-god’s line,
and a snow-white pair brings Turnus’ chariot on,
two steel-tipped javelins balanced in his grip.
And coming to meet them, marching from the camp,
the great founder, Aeneas, source of the Roman race,
with his blazoned starry shield and armor made in heaven.
And at his side, his son, Ascanius, second hope of Rome’s
imposing power, while a priest in pure white robes leads on
the young of a bristly boar and an unshorn yearling sheep
toward the flaming altars. Turning their eyes to face
the rising sun, the captains reach out their hands,
pouring the salted meal, and mark off the brows
of the victims, cutting tufts with iron blades,
and tip their cups on the sacred altar fires.
Then devoted Aeneas, sword drawn, prays:
“Now let the Sun bear witness here
and this, this land of Italy that I call.
For your sake I am able to bear such hardships.
And Jove almighty, and you, his queen, Saturnia—
goddess, be kinder now, I pray you, now at last!
And you, Father, glorious Mars, you who command
the revolving world of war beneath your sway!
I call on the springs and streams, the gods enthroned
in the arching sky and gods of the deep blue sea!
If by chance the victory goes to the Latin, Turnus,
we agree the defeated will depart to Evander’s city,
Iulus will leave this land. Nor will Aeneas’ Trojans
ever revert in times to come, take up arms again
and threaten to put this kingdom to the sword.
But if Victory grants our force-in-arms the day,
as I think she may—may the gods decree it so—
I shall not command Italians to bow to Trojans,
nor do I seek the scepter for myself.
May both nations, undefeated, under equal laws,
march together toward an eternal pact of peace.
I shall bestow the gods and their sacred rites.
My father-in-law Latinus will retain his armies,
my father-in-law, his power, his rightful rule.
The men of Troy will erect a city for me—
Lavinia will give its walls her name.”
So Aeneas begins, and so Latinus follows,
eyes lifted aloft, his right hand raised to the sky:
“I swear by the same, Aeneas, earth and sea and stars,
by Latona’s brood of twins, by Janus facing left and right,
by the gods who rule below and the shrine of ruthless Death,
may the Father hear my oath, his lightning seals all pacts!
My hand on his altar now, I swear by the gods and fires
that rise between us here, the day will never dawn
when Italian men will break this pact, this peace,
however fortune falls. No power can bend awry
my will, not if that power sends the country
avalanching into the waves, roiling all in floods
and plunging the heavens into the dark pit of hell.
Just as surely as this scepter”—raising the scepter
he chanced to be grasping in his hand—“will never
sprout new green or scatter shade from its tender leaves,
now that it’s been cut from its trunk’s base in the woods,
cleft from its mother, its limbs and crowning foliage lost
to the iron axe. A tree, once, that a craftsman’s hands
have sheathed in hammered bronze and given the chiefs
of Latium’s state to wield.”
So, on such terms
they sealed a pact of peace between both sides,
witnessed by all the officers of the armies.
Then they slash the throats of the hallowed victims
over the flames, and tear their pulsing entrails out
and heap the altars high with groaning platters.
But in fact the duel had long seemed uneven
to all the Rutulians, long their hearts were torn,
wavering back and forth, and they only wavered more
as they viewed the two contenders at closer range,
poorly matched in power . . .
Turnus adds to their anguish, quietly moving toward
the altar, eyes downcast, to pray. A supp
liant now,
his fresh cheeks and his strong young body pallid.
Soon as his sister Juturna saw such murmurs rise
and the hearts of people slipping into doubt,
into the lines she goes like Camers to the life,
a soldier sprung from a grand ancestral clan:
his father a name for valor, brilliant deeds,
and he himself renowned for feats of arms.
Into the center lines Juturna strides,
alert to the work at hand,
and she sows a variety of rumors, urging:
“Aren’t you ashamed, Rutulians, putting at risk
the life of one to save us all? Don’t we match them
in numbers, power? Look, these are all they’ve got—
Trojans, Arcadians, and all the Etruscan forces,
slaves to Fate—to battle Turnus in arms! Why,
if only half of us went to war, each soldier
could hardly find a foe. But Turnus, think,
he’ll rise on the wings of fame to meet the gods,
gods on whose altars he has offered up his life:
he will live forever, sung on the lips of men!
But we, if we lose our land, will bow to the yoke,
enslaved by our new high lords and masters—
we who idle on amid our fields!”
Stinging taunts
inflame the will of the fighters all the more
till a low growing murmur steals along the lines.
Even Laurentines, even Latins change their tune,
men who had just now longed for peace and safety
long for weapons, pray the pact be dashed
and pity the unjust fate that Turnus faces.
Then, crowning all, Juturna adds a greater power.
She displays in the sky the strongest sign that ever
dazed Italian minds and deceived them with its wonders.
The golden eagle of Jove, in flight through the blood-red sky,
was harrying shorebirds, routing their squadron’s shrieking ranks
when suddenly down he swoops to the stream and grasps a swan,
out in the lead, in his ruthless talons. This the Italians
watch, enthralled as the birds all scream and swerving
round in flight—a marvel, look—they overshadow
the sky with wings, and forming a dense cloudbank,
force their enemy high up through the air until,
beaten down by their strikes and his victim’s weight,
his talons dropped the kill in the river’s run
and into the clouds the eagle winged away.
Struck,
the Italians shout out, saluting that great omen,
all hands eager to take up arms, and the augur
Tolumnius urges first: “This, this,” he cries,