Aeneid/VIII.The Site of Rome

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VII. War in Latium Aeneid
VIII.The Site of Rome
written by Virgil, translated by A. S. Kline
IX. The Siege



When Turnus raised the war-banner on the Laurentine
citadel, and the trumpets blared out their harsh music,
when he roused his fiery horses and clashed his weapons,
hearts were promptly stirred, all Latium together
swore allegiance in restless commotion, and young men
raged wildly. The main leaders, Messapus, Ufens
and Mezentius, scorner of gods, gathered their forces
from every side, stripping the broad acres of farmers.
And Venulus was sent to great Diomedes’s city, Arpi,
to seek help, and explain that the Trojans were planted in Latium,
Aeneas had arrived with his fleet, carrying his vanquished gods,
and pronouncing himself a king summoned by destiny,
that many tribes were joining the Trojan hero,
and his name was spreading far and wide in Latium.
What Aeneas was intending given these beginnings,
what outcome he desired from the war, if fortune
followed him, might be seen more clearly by Diomedes,
himself, than by King Turnus or King Latinus.
So it was in Latium. Meanwhile the Trojan hero of Laomedon’s
line, seeing all this, tosses on a vast sea of cares,
and swiftly casts his mind this way and that, seizing
on various ideas, turning everything over:
as when tremulous light from the water in a bronze bowl,
thrown back by sunshine, or the moon’s radiant image,
flickers far and wide over everything, then angles
upwards, and strikes the panelled ceiling overhead.
It was night, and through all the land, deep sleep gripped weary
creatures, bird and beast, when Aeneas, the leader, lay down
on the river-bank, under the cold arch of the heavens, his heart
troubled by war’s sadness, and at last allowed his body to rest.
Old Tiberinus himself, the god of the place, appeared to him,
rising from his lovely stream, among the poplar leaves
(fine linen cloaked him in a blue-grey
mantle, and shadowy reeds hid his hair),
Then he spoke, and with his words removed all cares:
‘O seed of the race of gods, who bring our Trojan city
back from the enemy, and guard the eternal fortress,
long looked-for on Laurentine soil, and in Latin fields,
here is your house, and your house’s gods, for sure
(do not desist), don’t fear the threat of war,
the gods’ swollen anger has died away.
And now, lest you think this sleep’s idle fancy, you’ll find
a huge sow lying on the shore, under the oak trees,
that has farrowed a litter of thirty young, a white sow,
lying on the ground, with white piglets round her teats,
That place shall be your city, there’s true rest from your labours.
By this in a space of thirty years Ascanius
will found the city of Alba, bright name.
I do not prophesy unsurely. Now (attend), in a few words
I’ll explain how you can emerge the victor from what will come.
Arcadians have chosen a site on this coast, a race descended
from Pallas, friends of King Evander, who followed
his banner, and located their city in the hills,
named, from their ancestor Pallas, Pallantium.
They wage war endlessly with the Latin race: summon them
as allies to your camp, and join in league with them.
I’ll guide you myself along the banks by the right channels,
so you can defeat the opposing current with your oars.
Rise, now, son of the goddess, and, as the first stars set,
offer the prayers due to Juno, and with humble vows
overcome her anger and her threats. Pay me honour as victor.
I am him whom you see scouring the banks,
with my full stream, and cutting through rich farmlands,
blue Tiber, the river most dear to heaven. Here is
my noble house, my fount flows through noble cities.’
He spoke: then the river plunged into a deep pool,
seeking its floor: night and sleep left Aeneas.
He rose and, looking towards the heavenly sun’s
eastern light, raised water from the stream
in his cupped hands, and poured out this prayer to heaven:
‘Nymphs, Laurentine Nymphs, from whom come the tribe
of rivers, and you, O Father Tiber, and your sacred stream,
receive Aeneas, and shield him at last from danger.
In whatever fountain the water holds you, pitying our trials,
from whatever soil you flow in your supreme beauty,
you will always be honoured by my tributes, by my gifts,
horned river, ruler of the Hesperian waters.
O, only be with me and prove your will by your presence.’
So he spoke, and chose two galleys from his fleet, manned them
with oarsmen, and also equipped his men with weapons.
But behold a sudden wonder, marvellous to the sight,
gleaming white through the trees, a sow the same colour
as her white litter, seen lying on the green bank: dutiful Aeneas,
carrying the sacred vessel, sets her with her young before the altar
and sacrifices her to you, to you indeed, most powerful Juno.
Tiber calmed his swelling flood all that night long,
and flowing backwards stilled his silent wave, so that
he spread his watery levels as in a gentle pool,
or placid swamp, so it would be effortless for the oars.
Therefore they sped on the course begun, with happy
murmurs, the oiled pine slipped through the shallows:
the waves marvelled, the woods marvelled, unused to the far-gleaming
shields of heroes, and the painted ships floating in the river.
They wore out a night and a day with their rowing
navigated long bends, were shaded by many kinds of trees,
and cut through the green woods, over the calm levels.
The fiery sun had climbed to the mid-point of the sky’s arc,
when they saw walls and a fort in the distance, and the scattered
roofs of houses, which Roman power has now raised heavenwards:
then Evander owned a poor affair. They turned the prows
quickly towards land, and approached the town.
By chance that day the Arcadian king was making solemn offering
to Hercules, Amphitryon’s mighty son, and other gods in a grove
in front of the city. His son Pallas was with him, and with him
were all the leading young men, and his impoverished senate
offering incense, and the warm blood smoked on the altars.
When they saw the noble ships: that they were gliding
through the shadowy woods, rowing with silent oars:
they were alarmed at the sudden sight and rose together,
leaving the tables. But proud Pallas ordered them not to break off
the rites, and seizing his spear flew off to meet the strangers himself,
and at some distance shouted from a hillock: ‘Warriors what motive
drives you to try unknown paths? Where are you heading?
What people are you? Where from? Do you bring peace or war?’
Then Aeneas the leader spoke from the high stern,
holding out a branch of olive in peace: ‘You are looking
at men of Trojan birth, and spears hostile to the Latins,
men whom they force to flee through arrogant warfare.
We seek Evander. Take my message and say that the chosen
leaders of Troy have come, asking for armed alliance.’
Pallas was amazed, awestruck by that great name:
‘O whoever you may be, disembark, and speak to my father
face to face, and come beneath our roof as a guest.’
And he took his hand and gripped it tight in welcome:
they left the river, and went on into the grove.
Then Aeneas spoke to King Evander, in words of friendship:
‘Noblest of the sons of Greece, whom Fortune determines me
to make request of, offering branches decked with sacred ribbons:
indeed I did not fear your being a leader of Greeks,
an Arcadian, and joined to the race of the twin sons of Atreus,
since my own worth, and the god’s holy oracles,
our fathers being related, your fame known throughout the world,
connect me to you, and bring me here willingly, through destiny.
Dardanus, our early ancestor, and leader of Troy’s city,
born of Atlantean Electra, as the Greeks assert, voyaged
to Troy’s Teucrian people: and mightiest Atlas begot Electra,
he who supports the heavenly spheres on his shoulders.
Your ancestor is Mercury, whom lovely Maia conceived,
and gave birth to on Cyllene’s cold heights:
and Atlas, if we credit what we hear, begot Maia,
that same Atlas who lifts the starry sky.
So both our races branch from the one root.
Relying on this, I decided on no envoys, no prior attempts
through diplomacy: myself, I set before you, myself
and my own life, and come humbly to your threshold.
The same Daunian race pursues us with war, as you yourself,
indeed they think if they drive us out, nothing will stop them
bringing all Hesperia completely under their yoke,
and owning the seas that wash the eastern and western shores.
Accept and offer friendship. We have brave hearts
in battle, soldiers and spirits proven in action.’
Aeneas spoke. Evander scanned his face, eyes
and form, for a long time with his gaze, as he was speaking.
Then he replied briefly, so: ‘How gladly I know, and
welcome you, bravest of Trojans! How it brings back
your father’s speech, the voice and features of noble Anchises!
For I recall how Priam, son of Laomedon, visiting the realms
of his sister, Hesione, and seeking Salamis,
came on further to see the chill territories of Arcadia.
In those days first youth clothed my cheeks with bloom,
and I marvelled at the Trojan leaders, and marvelled
at the son of Laomedon himself: but Anchises as he walked
was taller than all. My mind burned with youthful desire
to address the hero, and clasp his hand in mine:
I approached and led him eagerly inside the walls of Pheneus.
On leaving he gave me a noble quiver
of Lycian arrows, a cloak woven with gold,
and a pair of golden bits, that my Pallas now owns.
So the hand of mine you look for is joined in alliance,
and when tomorrow’s dawn returns to the earth,
I’ll send you off cheered by my help, and aid you with stores.
Meanwhile, since you come to us as friends, favour us
by celebrating this annual festival, which it is wrong
to delay, and become accustomed to your friends’ table.’
When he had spoken he ordered the food and drink
that had been removed to be replaced, and seated
the warriors himself on the turf benches.
He welcomed Aeneas as the principal guest, and invited him
to a maple-wood throne covered by a shaggy lion’s pelt.
Then the altar priest with young men he had chosen
competed to bring on the roast meat from the bulls,
pile the baked bread in baskets, and serve the wine.
Aeneas and the men of Troy feasted on an entire
chine of beef, and the sacrificial organs.
When hunger had been banished, and desire for food sated,
King Evander said: ‘No idle superstition, or ignorance
of the ancient gods, forced these solemn rites of ours,
this ritual banquet, this altar to so great a divinity, upon us.
We perform them, and repeat the honours due,
Trojan guest, because we were saved from cruel perils.
Now look first at this rocky overhanging cliff, how its bulk
is widely shattered, and the mountain lair stands deserted,
and the crags have been pulled down in mighty ruin.
There was a cave here, receding to vast depths,
untouched by the sun’s rays, inhabited by the fell shape
of Cacus, the half-human, and the ground was always warm
with fresh blood, and the heads of men, insolently
nailed to the doors, hung there pallid with sad decay.
Vulcan was father to this monster: and, as he moved
his massive bulk, he belched out his dark fires.
Now at last time brought what we wished, the presence
and assistance of a god. Hercules, the greatest of avengers,
appeared, proud of the killing and the spoils of three-fold
Geryon, driving his great bulls along as victor,
and his cattle occupied the valley and the river.
And Cacus, his mind mad with frenzy, lest any
wickedness or cunning be left un-dared or un-tried
drove off four bulls of outstanding quality, and as many
heifers of exceptional beauty, from their stalls.
and, so there might be no forward-pointing spoor, the thief
dragged them into his cave by the tail, and, reversing
the signs of their tracks, hid them in the stony dark:
no one seeking them would find a trail to the cave.
Meanwhile, as Hercules, Amphitryon’s son, was moving
the well-fed herd from their stalls, and preparing to leave,
the cattle lowed as they went out, all the woods were filled
with their complaining, and the sound echoed from the hills.
One heifer returned their call, and lowed from the deep cave,
and foiled Cacus’s hopes from her prison.
At this Hercules’s indignation truly blazed, with a venomous
dark rage: he seized weapons in his hand, and his heavy
knotted club, and quickly sought the slopes of the high mountain.
Then for the first time my people saw Cacus afraid, confusion
in his eyes: he fled at once, swifter than the East Wind,
heading for his cave: fear lent wings to his feet.
As he shut himself in, and blocked the entrance securely,
throwing against it a giant rock, hung there in chains
by his father’s craft, by shattering the links, behold
Hercules arrived in a tearing passion, turning his head
this way and that, scanning every approach, and gnashing
his teeth. Hot with rage, three times he circled the whole
Aventine Hill, three times he tried the stony doorway in vain,
three times he sank down, exhausted, in the valley.
A sharp pinnacle of flint, the rock shorn away
on every side, stood, tall to see, rising behind
the cave, a suitable place for vile birds to nest.
He shook it, where it lay, it’s ridge sloping towards the river
on the left, straining at it from the right, loosening its deepest
roots, and tearing it out, then suddenly hurling it away,
the highest heavens thundered with the blow,
the banks broke apart, and the terrified river recoiled.
But Cacus’s den and his vast realm stood revealed,
and the shadowy caverns within lay open,
no differently than if earth, gaping deep within,
were to unlock the infernal regions by force, and disclose
the pallid realms, hated by the gods, and the vast abyss
be seen from above, and the spirits tremble at incoming light.
So Hercules, calling upon all his weapons, hurled missiles
at Cacus from above, caught suddenly in unexpected daylight,
penned in the hollow rock, with unaccustomed howling,
and rained boughs and giant blocks of stone on him.
He on the other hand, since there was no escape now
from the danger, belched thick smoke from his throat
(marvellous to tell) and enveloped the place in blind darkness,
blotting the view from sight, and gathering
smoke-laden night in the cave, a darkness mixed with fire.
Hercules in his pride could not endure it, and he threw himself,
with a headlong leap, through the flames, where the smoke
gave out its densest billows, and black mist heaved in the great cavern.
Here, as Cacus belched out useless flame in the darkness,
Hercules seized him in a knot-like clasp, and, clinging, choked him
the eyes squeezed, and the throat drained of blood.
Immediately the doors were ripped out, and the dark den exposed,
the stolen cattle, and the theft Cacus denied, were revealed
to the heavens, and the shapeless carcass dragged out
by the feet. The people could not get their fill of gazing
at the hideous eyes, the face, and shaggy bristling chest
of the half-man, and the ashes of the jaw’s flames.
Because of that this rite is celebrated, and happy posterity
remembers the day: and Potitius, the first, the founder, with
the Pinarian House as guardians of the worship of Hercules,
set up this altar in the grove, which shall be spoken of for ever
by us as ‘The Mightiest’, and the mightiest it shall be for ever.
Come now, O you young men, wreathe your hair with leaves,
hold out wine-cups in your right hands, in honour of such great glory,
and call on the god we know, and pour out the wine with a will.’
He spoke, while grey-green poplar veiled his hair
with Hercules’s own shade, hanging down in a knot of leaves,
and the sacred cup filled his hand. Quickly they all poured
a joyful libation on the table, and prayed to the gods.
Meanwhile, evening drew nearer in the heavens,
and now the priests went out, Potitius leading,
clothed in pelts as customary, and carrying torches.
They restarted the feast, bringing welcome offerings
as a second course, and piled the altars with heaped plates.
Then the Salii, the dancing priests, came to sing round
the lighted altars, their foreheads wreathed with sprays
of poplar, one band of youths, another of old men, who praised
the glories and deeds of Hercules in song: how as an infant he strangled
the twin snakes in his grip, monsters sent by Juno his stepmother:
how too he destroyed cities incomparable in war,
Troy and Oechalia: how he endured a thousand hard labours
destined for him by cruel Juno, through King Eurystheus:
‘You, unconquerable one, you slew the cloud-born Centaurs,
bi-formed Hylaeus and Pholus, with your hand: the monstrous
Cretan Bull: and the huge lion below the cliffs of Nemea.
The Stygian Lake trembled before you: Cerberus, Hell’s guardian,
lying on half-eaten bones in his blood-drenched cave:
No shape, not Typheus himself, armed and towering
upwards, daunted you: your brains were not lacking
when Lerna’s Hydra surrounded you with its swarm of heads.
Hail, true child of Jove, a glory added to the gods,
visit us and your rites with grace and favouring feet.’
Such things they celebrated in song, adding to all this
Cacus’s cave, and the fire-breather himself.
All the grove rang with sound, and the hills echoed.
Then they all returned to the city, the sacred rites complete.
The king walked clothed with years, and kept Aeneas and his son
near him for company, lightening the road with various talk.
Aeneas marvelled, and scanned his eyes about
eagerly, captivated by the place, and delighted
to enquire about and learn each tale of the men of old.
So King Evander, founder of Rome’s citadel, said:
‘The local Nymphs and Fauns once lived in these groves,
and a race of men born of trees with tough timber,
who had no laws or culture, and didn’t know how
to yoke oxen or gather wealth, or lay aside a store,
but the branches fed them, and the hunter’s wild fare.
Saturn was the first to come down from heavenly Olympus,
fleeing Jove’s weapons, and exiled from his lost realm.
He gathered together the untaught race, scattered among
the hills, and gave them laws, and chose to call it Latium,
from latere, ‘to hide’, since he had hidden in safety on these shores.
Under his reign was the Golden Age men speak of:
in such tranquil peace did he rule the nations,
until little by little an inferior, tarnished age succeeded,
with war’s madness, and desire for possessions.
Then the Ausonian bands came, and the Siconian tribes,
while Saturn’s land of Latium often laid aside her name:
then the kings, and savage Thybris, of vast bulk,
after whom we Italians call our river by the name
of Tiber: the ancient Albula has lost her true name.
As for me, exiled from my country and seeking
the limits of the ocean, all-powerful Chance,
and inescapable fate, settled me in this place,
driven on by my mother the Nymph Carmentis’s
dire warnings, and my guardian god Apollo.’
He had scarcely spoken when advancing he pointed out
the altar and what the Romans call the Carmental Gate,
in ancient tribute to the Nymph Carmentis,
the far-seeing prophetess, who first foretold
the greatness of Aeneas’s sons, the glory of Pallanteum.
Next he pointed to a vast grove, which brave Romulus would restore
as a sanctuary, and the Lupercal, the Wolf’s Cave, under a cold cliff,
named in the Arcadian way for the wolf-god, Lycaean Pan.
And he also pointed out the grove of sacred Argiletum
calling the place to witness, relating the death of Argus his guest.
He leads him from here to the Tarpeian Rock and the Capitol,
now all gold, once bristling with wild thorns.
Even then the dreadful holiness of the place awed the fearful
country folk, even then they trembled at the wood and the rock.
‘A god inhabits this grove,’ he said, ‘ and this hill with its leafy summit,
(which god is unknown): my Arcadians believe they have seen
Jove himself, as his right hand has often shaken
his darkening shield, and called up the storm clouds.
Moreover you can see in these two townships
with broken walls, the memorials and relics of men of old.
Father Janus built this fort, Saturn that:
this was named the Janiculum, that the Saturnia.’
Talking among themselves they came to the house
of the impoverished Evander, and saw cattle here and there, lowing
where the Roman Forum and the fashionable Carinae would be.
When they reached the house, Evander said: ‘Victorious Hercules
stooped to entering this doorway, this palace charmed him.
My guest, dare to scorn wealth, and make yourself worthy too
to be a god: don’t be scathing about the lack of possessions.’
He spoke, and led mighty Aeneas beneath the confines
of his sloping roof, and allotted him a mattress
stuffed with leaves, and the pelt of a Libyan bear:
Night fell, and embraced the earth with her darkening wings.
Now Venus, a mother fearful, and not without reason, in her mind,
troubled by the Laurentine threats, and fierce uprising,
spoke to Vulcan, her husband, in their golden bridal chamber,
beginning this way, breathing divine passion into her words:
‘I didn’t ask weapons of your skill or power, dearest husband,
nor any help for my poor people, while the Argive kings
destroyed doomed Troy in the war, her citadel fated
to fall to hostile flames: no, I didn’t want to exercise
you or your skills in vain, though I owed much indeed
to Priam’s sons, and often wept at Aeneas’s cruel suffering.
Now at Jove’s command he has set foot on Rutulian shores,
so I come likewise as a suppliant and ask arms of the power
sacred to me, a mother on behalf of her son. Thetis, Nereus’s
daughter, and Aurora, Tithonus’s wife, could move you with tears.
See what nations gather, what cities, closing their gates,
are sharpening their swords against me, to destroy my people.’
She had spoken, and as he hesitated, the goddess caressed him
in a tender embrace, on this side and on that, in her snowy arms.
At once he felt the familiar flame, and that warmth he knew
penetrated him to the marrow, and ran through his melting bones,
no differently than when, with a peal of thunder, a forked
streak of fire tears through the storm-clouds with dazzling light:
his partner felt it, delighted with her cleverness and conscious
of her beauty. Then old Vulcan spoke, chained by immortal love:
‘Why do you seek instances from the past? Goddess, where
has your faith in me gone? If your anxiety then was the same,
it would have been right for me too to arm the Trojans then:
neither fate nor the almighty Father refused to let Troy stand,
or Priam live, ten years more. And so now, if war is your intent,
and your mind is set on it, cease to doubt your powers, entreating
whatever care I can promise in my craft, whatever can be made
of iron and molten electrum, whatever fire and air can do.’
Saying these words he gave her a desired embrace, and sinking
onto his wife’s breast, sought gentle sleep in every limb.
When, in vanishing night’s mid-course, first rest
has conquered the need for sleep: when a woman,
who supports life with distaff and the humble work
Minerva imposes, first wakes the ashes, and slumbering flames,
adding night hours to her toil, and maintains her servants
at their endless task, by lamplight, to keep her husband’s bed
pure, and raise her young sons: just so, the god,
with the power of fire, rose now from his soft bed,
no idler at that hour, to labour at the forge.
An island, its rocks smoking, rises steeply by
the Sicilian coast, near the flanks of Aeolian Lipare.
Beneath it a cave, and the galleries of Etna, eaten at
by the Cyclopean furnaces, resound, and the groans from
the anvils are heard echoing the heavy blows,
and masses of Chalybean steel hiss in the caverns,
and fire breathes through the furnaces. It is Vulcan’s home
and called Vulcania. Here then the god
with the power of fire descended from the heavens.
In the huge cave the Cyclopes, Brontes, Steropes,
and bare-limbed Pyrcamon, were forging iron.
They held a lightning-bolt, shaped with their hands,
like many of those the Father hurls from all over
the sky, part of it polished, part still left to do.
They’d added three shafts of spiralling rain, three of watery
cloud, three of reddening fire, and the winged south wind.
now they were blending terrifying flashes, into the work,
sounds and fears, and fury with following flames.
Elsewhere they pressed on with a chariot for Mars, with winged wheels,
with which he rouses men, with which he rouses cities:
and a chilling aegis, the breastplate of Pallas,
competing to burnish its serpent scales of gold,
its interwoven snakes, and the Gorgon herself
on the goddess’s breast, with severed neck and rolling eyes:
‘Away with all this,’ he shouts, ‘remove the work
you’ve started, Cyclopes of Etna, and turn your minds to this:
you’re to make arms for a brave hero. Now you
need strength, swift hands now, all the art now of a master.
An end to delay.’ He said no more, but they all
bent quickly to the toil, and shared the labour equally.
Bronze and golden ore flowed in streams,
and steel, that deals wounds, melted in a vast furnace.
They shaped a giant shield, one to stand against all
the weapons of Latium, layering it seven times,
disc on disc. Some sucked in air and blew it out
again with panting bellows, others dipped the hissing bronze
in the lake: the cavern groaned beneath the weight of anvils.
With mighty force they lifted their arms together in rhythm,
and turned the mass of metal, gripping it with pincers.
While the lord of Lemnos hastened the work on the Aeolian
shore, the kindly light, and the dawn song of the birds
beneath the eaves, called Evander from his humble house.
The old man rose, clothed his body in a tunic
and strapped Tyrrhenian sandals to the soles of his feet.
Then he fastened his Tegaean sword over his shoulder
and to his side, flinging back a panther’s hide on the left.
Two guard dogs besides ran ahead from the high
threshold, and accompanied their master’s steps.
The hero made his way to his guest Aeneas’s
secluded lodging, thinking of his words,
and the help he had promised. Aeneas was no less
early to rise: his son Pallas walked with the one,
Achates with the other. They clasped hands as they met,
sat down among the houses, and finally enjoyed
open conversation. The king was the first to begin, so:
‘Greatest leader of the Teucrians, for my part while you’re safe
and sound I’ll never accept that the kingdom and power of Troy
have been overthrown, our strength in war is inadequate to such
a name: on this side we are shut in by the Tuscan river, while on that
the Rutulian presses us, and thunders in arms round our walls.
But I propose to affiliate mighty peoples to you,
and a war-camp rich in kingships, help that chance
unpredictably reveals. You arrive at fate’s command.
Not far from here is the site of Argylla’s city,
built of ancient stone, where the Lydian race,
famous in war, once settled the Etruscan heights.
For many years it flourished, until King Mezentius
ruled it with arrogant power, and savage weaponry.
Why recount the tyrant’s wicked murders and vicious acts?
May the gods reserve such for his life and race!
He even tied corpses to living bodies, as a means
of torture, placing hand on hand and face against face,
so killing by a lingering death, in that wretched
embrace, that ooze of disease and decomposition.
But the weary citizens at last armed themselves
surrounded the atrocious madman in his palace,
mowed down his supporters, and fired the roof.
Amongst the carnage he escaped and fled
to Rutulian soil, protected by Turnus’s allied army.
So all Etruria has risen in rightful anger, demanding
the king for punishment, with the threat of immediate war.
Aeneas, I’ll make you leader of those thousands.
For their ships clamour densely on the shore,
and they order the banners to advance, but an aged
soothsayer holds them back, singing of destiny:
‘O chosen warriors of Maeonia, the flower, the honour
of our ancient race, whom just resentment sends against
the enemy, and whom Mezentius fires with rightful anger,
no man of Italy may control such a people as you: choose
foreigners as leaders.’ So the Etruscan ranks camped
on that plain, fearful of this warning from the gods.
Tarchon himself has sent ambassadors to me, with the royal
sceptre and crown, entrusting me with the insignia:
I to come to the camp, and take the Tuscan throne.
But the slow frost of old age wearied by the years, and strength
now beyond acts of valour, begrudge me the command.
I would urge my son to it, except that of mixed blood
with a Sabine mother, he takes part of his nationality from her.
You, O bravest leader of Trojans and Italians, to whose race
and years destiny is favourable, whom the divine will calls,
accept. Moreover I’ll add Pallas here, our hope and comfort:
let him become accustomed under your guidance
to endure military service, and the grave work of war,
witness your actions, and admire you from his early years.
I’ll grant him two hundred Arcadian horsemen, the choice flower
of our manhood, and Pallas will grant the same to you himself.’
He had scarcely finished, and Aeneas, Anchises’s son,
and loyal Achates, with eyes downcast, were thinking
of many a difficulty, in their own sombre minds,
when Cytherea sent a sign from a cloudless sky.
For lightning came flashing unexpectedly from heaven,
with thunder, and suddenly all seemed to quake,
and, through the air, a Tyrrhenian trumpet blast seemed to bray.
They looked upwards, a great crash sounded again and again.
In a calm region of the sky among the clouds they saw
weapons reddening in the bright air, and heard the noise of blows.
The others were astounded but the Trojan hero knew
the sounds as those of things which his mother had promised.
Then he cried: ‘My friend, indeed, do not wonder I beg you
as to what these marvels might prophesy: I am called
by Olympus. The goddess who bore me foretold
she would send this sign if war was near, and bring
weapons from Vulcan through the air to aid me.
Alas what slaughter awaits the wretched Laurentines!
What a price you’ll pay me, Turnus! What shields and helmets
and bodies of the brave you’ll roll beneath your waves,
father Tiber! Let them ask for battle and break their treaties.’
Having spoken, he raised himself from his high throne,
and firstly revived the dormant altars with Herculean fire,
then gladly visited yesterday’s Lar and the humble
household gods. Evander and the Trojan warriors
equally sacrificed chosen ewes according to the rite.
Next he went to the ships and met again with his comrades,
choosing the most outstanding in courage to follow him
to war: the others slipped downstream, floating effortlessly
on the helpful current, carrying news to Ascanius
of his father and his fortunes. Horses were granted
to the Trojans who were to take the Tyrrhenian field:
They lead out a choice mount for Aeneas, clothed
in a tawny lion’s pelt with gleaming gilded claws.
A rumour suddenly flew through the little town, proclaiming
that horsemen were riding fast to the Tyrrhene king’s shores.
Mothers, in alarm, redoubled their prayers, and fear drew near
with danger, and now the war god’s image loomed larger.
Then old Evander, clasping his son’s hand as he departed,
clung to him weeping incessantly and spoke as follows:
‘O, if Jupiter would bring back the years that have vanished,
I to be as I was when I felled the foremost ranks under Praeneste’s
very walls, and as victor heaped up the shields,
and sent King Erulus down to Tartarus, by this right hand,
he to whom at his birth his mother Feronia (strange to tell)
gave three lives, triple weapons to wield – to be three times
brought low in death: who at last in a moment this right hand
stripped of all his lives, and equally of all his weapons:
I would never be torn as now from your sweet embrace, my son,
never would Mezentius have poured insults on
this neighbour’s head, caused so many cruel deaths
with the sword, or widowed the city of so many of her sons.
But you, powers above, and you, Jupiter, mighty ruler of the gods,
take pity I beg you on this Arcadian king, and hear
a father’s prayer. If your will, and fate, keep my Pallas safe,
if I live to see him and be together with him, I ask for life:
I have the patience to endure any hardship.
But if you threaten any unbearable disaster, Fortune,
now, oh now, let me break the thread of cruel existence,
while fear hangs in doubt, while hope’s uncertain of the future.
while you, beloved boy, my late and only joy, are held
in my embrace, and let no evil news wound my ears.’
These were the words the father poured out at their last parting:
then his servants carried him, overcome, into the palace.
And now the horsemen had ridden from the opened gates,
Aeneas, and loyal Achetes, among the first: then the other
princes of Troy, Pallas himself travelling mid-column,
notable in his cloak and engraved armour,
like the Morning-Star, whom Venus loves above all
the other starry fires, when, having bathed in Ocean’s wave,
he raises his sacred head in heaven, and melts the dark.
Mothers stand fearfully on the battlements, and with their eyes
follow the cloud of dust, the squadrons bright with bronze.
The armed men pass through the undergrowth where the route
is most direct: a shout rises, and they form column,
and with the thunder of their hooves shake the broken ground.
There’s a large grove by the chilly stream of Caere, held sacred
far and wide, in ancestral reverence: the hollow hills enclose it
on all sides, and surround the wood with dark fir trees.
The tale is that the ancient Pelasgians, who once held
the Latin borders, dedicated this wood and a festive day
to Silvanus, god of the fields and the herds.
Not far from here, Tarchon and the Tyrrhenians were camped
in a safe place, and now all their troops could be seen,
from the high ground, scattered widely over the fields.
Aeneas, the leader, and the young men chosen for war,
arrived, and refreshed their horses and their weary bodies.
Then Venus, bright goddess, came bearing gifts through
the ethereal clouds: and when she saw her son from far away
who had retired in secret to the valley by the cool stream,
she went to him herself, unasked, and spoke these words:
‘See the gifts brought to perfection by my husband’s
skill, as promised. You need not hesitate, my son, to quickly
challenge the proud Laurentines, or fierce Turnus, to battle.’
Cytherea spoke, and invited her son’s embrace, and placed
the shining weapons under an oak tree opposite.
He cannot have enough of turning his gaze over each item,
delighting in the goddess’s gift and so high an honour,
admiring, and turning the helmet over with hands and arms,
with its fearsome crest and spouting flames,
and the fateful sword, the stiff breastplate of bronze,
dark-red and huge, like a bluish cloud when it’s lit
by the rays of the sun, and glows from afar:
then the smooth greaves, of electrum and refined gold,
the spear, and the shield’s indescribable detail.
There the lord with the power of fire, not unversed
in prophecy, and knowledge of the centuries to come,
had fashioned the history of Italy, and Rome’s triumphs:
there was every future generation of Ascanius’s stock,
and the sequence of battles they were to fight.
He had also shown the she-wolf, having just littered,
lying on the ground, in the green cave of Mars,
the twin brothers, Romulus and Remus, playing, hanging
on her teats, and fearlessly sucking at their foster-mother.
Bending her neck back smoothly she caressed them
in turn, and licked their limbs with her tongue.
Not far from that he had placed Rome, the Sabine women,
lawlessly snatched from the seated crowd, when the great games
were held in the Circus: and the sudden surge of fresh warfare
between Romulus’s men, and the aged Tatius and his austere Cures.
Next, the same two kings stood armed in front of Jove’s altar,
holding the wine-cups and joined in league, sacrificing a sow,
the new-built palace bristling with Romulus’s thatch.
Then, not far from that, four-horse chariots driven
in different directions tore Mettus apart (Alban, you should
have kept your word, though!), and Tullus dragged the liar’s
entrails through the woods, the briars wet with sprinkled blood.
There was Porsenna too, ordering Rome to admit the banished
Tarquin, and gripping the city in a mighty siege:
the scions of Aeneas running on the sword for freedom’s sake.
You could see Porsenna in angry, and in threatening, posture,
because Cocles dared to tear down the bridge,
because Cloelia broke her restraints and swam the river.
At the top Manlius, guardian of the Tarpeian Citadel,
stood before the temple, defending the high Capitol.
And there the silvery goose, flying through the gilded
colonnades, cackled that the Gauls were at the gate.
The Gauls were there in the gorse, taking the Citadel,
protected by the dark, the gift of shadowy night.
Their hair was gold, and their clothes were gold,
they shone in striped cloaks, their white necks
torqued with gold, each waving two Alpine javelins
in his hand, long shields defending their bodies.
Here he had beaten out the leaping Salii and naked Luperci,
the woolly priest’s caps, and the oval shields that fell
from heaven, chaste mothers in cushioned carriages
leading sacred images through the city. Far from these
he had added the regions of Tartarus, the high gates of Dis,
the punishment for wickedness, and you Catiline, hanging
from a threatening cliff, trembling at the sight of the Furies:
and the good, at a distance, Cato handing out justice.
The likeness of the swollen sea flowed everywhere among these,
in gold, though the flood foamed with white billows,
and dolphins in bright silver swept the waters
round about with arching tails, and cut through the surge.
In the centre bronze ships could be seen, the Battle of Actium,
and you could make out all Leucate in feverish
preparation for war, the waves gleaming with gold.
On one side Augustus Caesar stands on the high stern,
leading the Italians to the conflict, with him the Senate,
the People, the household gods, the great gods, his happy brow
shoots out twin flames, and his father’s star is shown on his head.
Elsewhere Agrippa, favoured by the winds and the gods
leads his towering column of ships, his brow shines
with the beaks of the naval crown, his proud battle distinction.
On the other side Antony, with barbarous wealth and strange weapons,
conqueror of eastern peoples and the Indian shores, bringing Egypt,
and the might of the Orient, with him, and furthest Bactria:
and his Egyptian consort follows him (the shame).
All press forward together, and the whole sea foams,
churned by the sweeping oars and the trident rams.
They seek deep water: you’d think the Cycladic islands were uprooted
and afloat on the flood, or high mountains clashed with mountains,
so huge the mass with which the men attack the towering sterns.
Blazing tow and missiles of winged steel shower from their hands,
Neptune’s fields grow red with fresh slaughter.
The queen in the centre signals to her columns with the native
sistrum, not yet turning to look at the twin snakes at her back.
Barking Anubis, and monstrous gods of every kind
brandish weapons against Neptune, Venus,
and Minerva. Mars rages in the centre of the contest,
engraved in steel, and the grim Furies in the sky,
and Discord in a torn robe strides joyously, while
Bellona follows with her blood-drenched whip.
Apollo of Actium sees from above and bends his bow: at this
all Egypt, and India, all the Arabs and Sabaeans turn and flee.
The queen herself is seen to call upon the winds,
set sail, and now, even now, spread the slackened canvas.
The lord with the power of fire has fashioned her pallid
with the coming of death, amidst the slaughter,
carried onwards by the waves and wind of Iapyx,
while before her is Nile, mourning with his vast extent,
opening wide his bays, and, with his whole tapestry, calling
the vanquished to his dark green breast, and sheltering streams.
Next Augustus, entering the walls of Rome in triple triumph,
is dedicating his immortal offering to Italy’s gods,
three hundred great shrines throughout the city.
The streets are ringing with joy, playfulness, applause:
a band of women in every temple, altars in every one:
before the altars sacrificial steers cover the ground.
He himself sits at the snow-white threshold of shining Apollo,
examines the gifts of nations, and hangs them on the proud gates.
The conquered peoples walk past in a long line, as diverse
in language as in weapons, or the fashion of their clothes.
Here Vulcan has shown the Nomad race and loose-robed Africans,
there the Leleges and Carians and Gelonians with their quivers:
Euphrates runs with quieter waves, and the Morini,
remotest of mankind, the double-horned Rhine,
the untamed Dahae, and Araxes, resenting its restored bridge.
Aeneas marvels at such things on Vulcan’s shield, his mother’s gift,
and delights in the images, not recognising the future events,
lifting to his shoulder the glory and the destiny of his heirs.