The Aeneid (32 page)
You too, Ufens, Nersae’s foothills sent you to war
with your glowing fame, your brilliant luck in arms
and your Aequian clans, most rugged men alive,
seasoned to rough hunting in thicket groves
on their hardscrabble land. Armed to the hilt
they work the earth, their constant joy to haul
fresh booty home and live off all they seize.
Next,
from the Marsian stock a priest came marching in,
his helmet crowned with a leafy olive spray:
sent by King Archippus, Umbro, no man braver,
an old hand, with his touch and spells, at shedding
sleep on the vipers’ spawn and lake-snakes hissing death,
at soothing their anger, healing bites with his magic arts.
But he had no cure for the stab of a Trojan lance,
none of his drowsy incantations, no drugs culled
on the Marsian hills could heal him of his wounds.
For you the grove of Angitia wept, for you
the crystal swells of Fucinus Lake, for you
the clear quiet pools.
He rode to war as well,
Virbius, striking son of Hippolytus, sent to fight
by his mother Aricia: Virbius in his triumph, bred
in Egeria’s grove that rings the marshy banks
where Diana’s altar stands, rich with victims
fit to win her favor. For they say Hippolytus,
once his stepmother’s craft had laid him low
and he’d paid the price his father set in blood
and his horses went berserk and tore the man apart,
back he came, under the world of stars and windy sky,
reborn by the Healer’s potent herbs and Diana’s love.
Then Father Almighty, enraged that any mortal rise
from the shades below, return to the light of life,
Jove with his lightning bolt struck down Apollo’s son
who honed such healing skills, down to the Styx’s flood.
But kind Diana hides the man away in a secret haunt,
sends him off to Egeria, deep in the nymph’s grove
where, alone in Italian woods and all unsung—
Virbius, his new name—he might live out his time.
And so it is that horn-hoofed steeds are barred
from Diana Trivia’s shrine and holy groves
since horses, panicked by monsters of the deep,
scattered the man and chariot out along the shore.
Nevertheless his son was lashing fiery chargers
down the level fields, his chariot hurtling
Virbius into battle.
And there the man himself,
Turnus, his build magnificent, sword brandished,
marches among his captains, topping all by a head.
Triple-plumed, his high helmet raises up a Chimaera
with all the fires of Etna blasting from its throat
and roaring all the more, its searing flames more deadly
the more blood flows and the battle grows more fierce.
There on the burnished shield, Io, blazoned in gold,
her horns raised, her skin already bristly with hair,
already changed to a cow—
an awesome emblem—as Argus guards the girl and
Father Inachus pours his stream from a chased urn.
And following Turnus comes a cloud of troops on foot,
shield-bearing battalions swarming the whole plain.
Men in their prime from Argos, ranks of Auruncans,
Rutulians, Sicanian veterans on in years, Sacranians
in columns, Labicians bearing their painted shields,
men who plow your glades, old Tiber, the Numicus’
holy banks, whose plowshare turns the Rutulian slopes
and Circe’s high-ridged cape. Then men from fields
where Jove of Anxur reigns and Goddess Feronia
takes joy in her fine green grove, and troops
from Satura’s black marsh where the frigid Ufens
weaves his way through a valley’s bottom land
and plunges down to sea.
Topping off the armies
rides Camilla, sprung from the Volscian people,
heading her horsemen, squadrons gleaming bronze.
This warrior girl, with her young hands untrained
for Minerva’s spools and baskets filled with wool,
a virgin seasoned to bear the rough work of battle,
swift to outrace the winds with her lightning pace.
Camilla could skim the tips of the unreaped crops,
never bruising the tender ears in her swift rush
or wing her way, hovering over the mid-sea swell
and never dip her racing feet in the waves.
Young men all come pouring from homes and fields
and crowding mothers marvel, stare at her as she strides—
awestruck, breathless, how the beauty of royal purple
cloaks her glossy shoulders! How her golden brooch
binds up her hair—how she cradles a Lycian quiver,
her shepherd’s staff of myrtle spiked with steel.
with your glowing fame, your brilliant luck in arms
and your Aequian clans, most rugged men alive,
seasoned to rough hunting in thicket groves
on their hardscrabble land. Armed to the hilt
they work the earth, their constant joy to haul
fresh booty home and live off all they seize.
Next,
from the Marsian stock a priest came marching in,
his helmet crowned with a leafy olive spray:
sent by King Archippus, Umbro, no man braver,
an old hand, with his touch and spells, at shedding
sleep on the vipers’ spawn and lake-snakes hissing death,
at soothing their anger, healing bites with his magic arts.
But he had no cure for the stab of a Trojan lance,
none of his drowsy incantations, no drugs culled
on the Marsian hills could heal him of his wounds.
For you the grove of Angitia wept, for you
the crystal swells of Fucinus Lake, for you
the clear quiet pools.
He rode to war as well,
Virbius, striking son of Hippolytus, sent to fight
by his mother Aricia: Virbius in his triumph, bred
in Egeria’s grove that rings the marshy banks
where Diana’s altar stands, rich with victims
fit to win her favor. For they say Hippolytus,
once his stepmother’s craft had laid him low
and he’d paid the price his father set in blood
and his horses went berserk and tore the man apart,
back he came, under the world of stars and windy sky,
reborn by the Healer’s potent herbs and Diana’s love.
Then Father Almighty, enraged that any mortal rise
from the shades below, return to the light of life,
Jove with his lightning bolt struck down Apollo’s son
who honed such healing skills, down to the Styx’s flood.
But kind Diana hides the man away in a secret haunt,
sends him off to Egeria, deep in the nymph’s grove
where, alone in Italian woods and all unsung—
Virbius, his new name—he might live out his time.
And so it is that horn-hoofed steeds are barred
from Diana Trivia’s shrine and holy groves
since horses, panicked by monsters of the deep,
scattered the man and chariot out along the shore.
Nevertheless his son was lashing fiery chargers
down the level fields, his chariot hurtling
Virbius into battle.
And there the man himself,
Turnus, his build magnificent, sword brandished,
marches among his captains, topping all by a head.
Triple-plumed, his high helmet raises up a Chimaera
with all the fires of Etna blasting from its throat
and roaring all the more, its searing flames more deadly
the more blood flows and the battle grows more fierce.
There on the burnished shield, Io, blazoned in gold,
her horns raised, her skin already bristly with hair,
already changed to a cow—
an awesome emblem—as Argus guards the girl and
Father Inachus pours his stream from a chased urn.
And following Turnus comes a cloud of troops on foot,
shield-bearing battalions swarming the whole plain.
Men in their prime from Argos, ranks of Auruncans,
Rutulians, Sicanian veterans on in years, Sacranians
in columns, Labicians bearing their painted shields,
men who plow your glades, old Tiber, the Numicus’
holy banks, whose plowshare turns the Rutulian slopes
and Circe’s high-ridged cape. Then men from fields
where Jove of Anxur reigns and Goddess Feronia
takes joy in her fine green grove, and troops
from Satura’s black marsh where the frigid Ufens
weaves his way through a valley’s bottom land
and plunges down to sea.
Topping off the armies
rides Camilla, sprung from the Volscian people,
heading her horsemen, squadrons gleaming bronze.
This warrior girl, with her young hands untrained
for Minerva’s spools and baskets filled with wool,
a virgin seasoned to bear the rough work of battle,
swift to outrace the winds with her lightning pace.
Camilla could skim the tips of the unreaped crops,
never bruising the tender ears in her swift rush
or wing her way, hovering over the mid-sea swell
and never dip her racing feet in the waves.
Young men all come pouring from homes and fields
and crowding mothers marvel, stare at her as she strides—
awestruck, breathless, how the beauty of royal purple
cloaks her glossy shoulders! How her golden brooch
binds up her hair—how she cradles a Lycian quiver,
her shepherd’s staff of myrtle spiked with steel.
BOOK EIGHT
The Shield of Aeneas
Soon as Turnus hoisted the banner of war from Laurentum’s heights
and the piercing trumpets blared, soon as he whipped his horses
rearing for action, clashed his spear against his shield—
passions rose at once, all Latium stirred in frenzy
to swear the oath, and young troops blazed for war.
The chiefs in the lead, Messapus, Ufens, Mezentius,
scorner of gods, call up forces from all quarters
and strip the fields of men who worked the soil.
They send Venulus out to great Diomedes’ city
to seek reserves and announce that Trojan ranks
encamp in Latium: “Aeneas arrives with his armada,
bringing the conquered household gods of Troy,
claiming himself a king demanded now by Fate.
And the many tribes report to join the Dardan chief
and his name rings far and wide through Latian country.
But where does the build-up end? What does he long to gain,
if luck is on his side, from open warfare? Clearly,
Diomedes would know—better than King Turnus,
better than King Latinus.”
and the piercing trumpets blared, soon as he whipped his horses
rearing for action, clashed his spear against his shield—
passions rose at once, all Latium stirred in frenzy
to swear the oath, and young troops blazed for war.
The chiefs in the lead, Messapus, Ufens, Mezentius,
scorner of gods, call up forces from all quarters
and strip the fields of men who worked the soil.
They send Venulus out to great Diomedes’ city
to seek reserves and announce that Trojan ranks
encamp in Latium: “Aeneas arrives with his armada,
bringing the conquered household gods of Troy,
claiming himself a king demanded now by Fate.
And the many tribes report to join the Dardan chief
and his name rings far and wide through Latian country.
But where does the build-up end? What does he long to gain,
if luck is on his side, from open warfare? Clearly,
Diomedes would know—better than King Turnus,
better than King Latinus.”
So things went in Latium. Watching it all,
the Trojan hero heaved in a churning sea of anguish,
his thoughts racing, here, there, probing his options,
shifting to this plan, that—as quick as flickering light
thrown off by water in bronze bowls reflects the sun
or radiant moon, now flittering near and far, now
rising to strike a ceiling’s gilded fretwork.
The dead of night.
Over the earth all weary living things, all birds and flocks
were fast asleep when captain Aeneas, his heart racked
by the threat of war, lay down on a bank beneath
the chilly arc of the sky and at long last
indulged his limbs in sleep. Before his eyes
the god of the lovely river, old Tiber himself,
seemed to rise from among the poplar leaves,
gowned in his blue-grey linen fine as mist
with a shady crown of reeds to wreathe his hair,
and greeted Aeneas to ease him of his anguish:
the Trojan hero heaved in a churning sea of anguish,
his thoughts racing, here, there, probing his options,
shifting to this plan, that—as quick as flickering light
thrown off by water in bronze bowls reflects the sun
or radiant moon, now flittering near and far, now
rising to strike a ceiling’s gilded fretwork.
The dead of night.
Over the earth all weary living things, all birds and flocks
were fast asleep when captain Aeneas, his heart racked
by the threat of war, lay down on a bank beneath
the chilly arc of the sky and at long last
indulged his limbs in sleep. Before his eyes
the god of the lovely river, old Tiber himself,
seemed to rise from among the poplar leaves,
gowned in his blue-grey linen fine as mist
with a shady crown of reeds to wreathe his hair,
and greeted Aeneas to ease him of his anguish:
“Born of the stock of gods, you who bring back Troy
to us from enemy hands and save her heights forever!
How long we waited for you, here on Laurentine soil
and Latian fields. Here your home is assured, yes,
assured for your household gods. Don’t retreat.
Don’t fear the threats of war.
The swelling rage of the gods has died away.
I tell you now—so you won’t think me an empty dream—
that under an oak along the banks you’ll find a great sow
stretched on her side with thirty pigs just farrowed,
a snow-white mother with snow-white young at her dugs.
By this sign, after thirty years have made their rounds
Ascanius will establish Alba, bright as the city’s name.
All that I foresee has been decreed.
“But how to begin
this current struggle here and see it through,
victorious all the way?
I’ll explain in a word or so. Listen closely.
On these shores Arcadians sprung from Pallas—
King Evander’s comrades marching under his banner—
picked their site and placed a city on these hills,
Pallanteum, named for their famous forebear, Pallas.
They wage a relentless war against the Latin people.
Welcome them to your camp as allies, seal your pacts.
I myself will lead you between my banks, upstream,
making your way against the current under oars—
I’ll speed you on your journey. Up with you,
son of Venus! Now, as the first stars set,
offer the proper prayers to Juno, overcome
her anger and threats with vows and plead for help.
You will pay me with honors once you have won your way.
I am the flowing river that you see, sweeping the banks
and cutting across the tilled fields rich and green.
I am the river Tiber. Clear blue as the heavens,
stream most loved by the gods who rule the sky.
My great home is here,
my fountainhead gives rise to noble cities.”
With that,
the river sank low in his deep pool, heading down
to the depths as Aeneas, night and slumber over,
gazing toward the sunlight climbing up the sky,
rises, duly draws up water in cupped hands
and pours forth this prayer to heaven’s heights:
“You nymphs, Laurentine nymphs, you springs of rivers,
and you, Father Tiber, you and your holy stream,
embrace Aeneas, shield him from dangers, now at last.
You who pity our hardships—wherever the ground lies
where you come surging forth in all your glory—always
with offerings, always with gifts I’ll do you honor,
you great horned king of the rivers of the West.
Just be with me. Prove your will with works.”
to us from enemy hands and save her heights forever!
How long we waited for you, here on Laurentine soil
and Latian fields. Here your home is assured, yes,
assured for your household gods. Don’t retreat.
Don’t fear the threats of war.
The swelling rage of the gods has died away.
I tell you now—so you won’t think me an empty dream—
that under an oak along the banks you’ll find a great sow
stretched on her side with thirty pigs just farrowed,
a snow-white mother with snow-white young at her dugs.
By this sign, after thirty years have made their rounds
Ascanius will establish Alba, bright as the city’s name.
All that I foresee has been decreed.
“But how to begin
this current struggle here and see it through,
victorious all the way?
I’ll explain in a word or so. Listen closely.
On these shores Arcadians sprung from Pallas—
King Evander’s comrades marching under his banner—
picked their site and placed a city on these hills,
Pallanteum, named for their famous forebear, Pallas.
They wage a relentless war against the Latin people.
Welcome them to your camp as allies, seal your pacts.
I myself will lead you between my banks, upstream,
making your way against the current under oars—
I’ll speed you on your journey. Up with you,
son of Venus! Now, as the first stars set,
offer the proper prayers to Juno, overcome
her anger and threats with vows and plead for help.
You will pay me with honors once you have won your way.
I am the flowing river that you see, sweeping the banks
and cutting across the tilled fields rich and green.
I am the river Tiber. Clear blue as the heavens,
stream most loved by the gods who rule the sky.
My great home is here,
my fountainhead gives rise to noble cities.”
With that,
the river sank low in his deep pool, heading down
to the depths as Aeneas, night and slumber over,
gazing toward the sunlight climbing up the sky,
rises, duly draws up water in cupped hands
and pours forth this prayer to heaven’s heights:
“You nymphs, Laurentine nymphs, you springs of rivers,
and you, Father Tiber, you and your holy stream,
embrace Aeneas, shield him from dangers, now at last.
You who pity our hardships—wherever the ground lies
where you come surging forth in all your glory—always
with offerings, always with gifts I’ll do you honor,
you great horned king of the rivers of the West.
Just be with me. Prove your will with works.”
So he prays and choosing a pair of galleys
from the fleet, he mans them both with rowers
while fitting out his troops with battle gear.
But look,
suddenly, right before his awestruck eyes, a marvel,
shining white through the woods with a brood as white,
lying stretched out on a grassy bank for all to see—
a great sow. Devout Aeneas offers her up to you,
Queen Juno on high, a blood sacrifice to you,
standing her at your altar with her young.
And all night long the Tiber lulled his swell,
checking his current so his waves would lie serene,
silent, still as a clear lagoon or peaceful marsh,
soothing its surface smooth, no labor there for oars.
So they embark with cheers to speed them on their way
and the dark tarred hulls go gliding through the river,
amazing the tides, amazing the groves unused to the sight
of warriors’ shields, flashing far, and blazoned galleys
moving on upstream. And on and on they row, wearying
night and day as they round the long, winding bends,
floating under the mottled shade of many trees and
cleave the quiet stream reflecting leafy woods.
The fiery Sun had climbed to mid-career when,
off in the distance, they catch sight of walls,
a citadel, scattered roofs of houses: all that now
the imperial power of Rome has lifted to the skies,
but then what Evander held, his humble kingdom.
Quickly they swerve their prows and row for town.
from the fleet, he mans them both with rowers
while fitting out his troops with battle gear.
But look,
suddenly, right before his awestruck eyes, a marvel,
shining white through the woods with a brood as white,
lying stretched out on a grassy bank for all to see—
a great sow. Devout Aeneas offers her up to you,
Queen Juno on high, a blood sacrifice to you,
standing her at your altar with her young.
And all night long the Tiber lulled his swell,
checking his current so his waves would lie serene,
silent, still as a clear lagoon or peaceful marsh,
soothing its surface smooth, no labor there for oars.
So they embark with cheers to speed them on their way
and the dark tarred hulls go gliding through the river,
amazing the tides, amazing the groves unused to the sight
of warriors’ shields, flashing far, and blazoned galleys
moving on upstream. And on and on they row, wearying
night and day as they round the long, winding bends,
floating under the mottled shade of many trees and
cleave the quiet stream reflecting leafy woods.
The fiery Sun had climbed to mid-career when,
off in the distance, they catch sight of walls,
a citadel, scattered roofs of houses: all that now
the imperial power of Rome has lifted to the skies,
but then what Evander held, his humble kingdom.
Quickly they swerve their prows and row for town.
As luck would have it, that day Arcadia’s king
was holding solemn annual rites in honor of Hercules,
Amphitryon’s powerful son, and paying vows to the gods
in a grove before the city. Flanked by his son,
Pallas, the ranking men and the lowly senate,
all were offering incense now, and warm blood
was steaming on the altars. As soon as they saw
the tall ships gliding through the shadowed woods
and the rowers bending to pull the oars in silence—
alarmed by the unexpected sight, all rise as one
to desert the sacred feast. But Pallas forbids them
to cut short the rites, and fearless, seizes a spear
and runs to confront the new arrivals by himself.
“Soldiers,” he shouts from a barrow some way off,
“what drives you to try these unfamiliar paths?
Where are you going? Who are your people?
Where’s your home? Do you bring peace or war?”
was holding solemn annual rites in honor of Hercules,
Amphitryon’s powerful son, and paying vows to the gods
in a grove before the city. Flanked by his son,
Pallas, the ranking men and the lowly senate,
all were offering incense now, and warm blood
was steaming on the altars. As soon as they saw
the tall ships gliding through the shadowed woods
and the rowers bending to pull the oars in silence—
alarmed by the unexpected sight, all rise as one
to desert the sacred feast. But Pallas forbids them
to cut short the rites, and fearless, seizes a spear
and runs to confront the new arrivals by himself.
“Soldiers,” he shouts from a barrow some way off,
“what drives you to try these unfamiliar paths?
Where are you going? Who are your people?
Where’s your home? Do you bring peace or war?”
Then captain Aeneas calls from his high stern,
his hands extending the olive branch of peace:
“We’re Trojans born. The weapons you see are honed
for our foes, the Latins. They drive us here—as exiles—
with all the arrogance of war. We look for Evander.
Tell him this: Leading chiefs of Dardania come,
pressing to be his friends-in-arms.”
Dardania . . .
Pallas, awestruck by the famous name, cries out:
“Come down onto dry land, whoever you are,
speak with my father face-to-face.
Come under our roofs—our welcome guest.”
Clasping Aeneas’ right hand, he held it long
and heading up to the grove they leave the river.
his hands extending the olive branch of peace:
“We’re Trojans born. The weapons you see are honed
for our foes, the Latins. They drive us here—as exiles—
with all the arrogance of war. We look for Evander.
Tell him this: Leading chiefs of Dardania come,
pressing to be his friends-in-arms.”
Dardania . . .
Pallas, awestruck by the famous name, cries out:
“Come down onto dry land, whoever you are,
speak with my father face-to-face.
Come under our roofs—our welcome guest.”
Clasping Aeneas’ right hand, he held it long
and heading up to the grove they leave the river.
There Aeneas hails Evander with winning words:
“Best of the sons of Greece, Fortune has decreed
that I pray to you for help, extend this branch
of olive wound in wool. I had no fear of you
as a captain of the Greeks, Arcadia-born
and bound by blood to Atreus’ twin sons.
For I am bound to you by my own strength,
by oracles of the gods and by our fathers—
blood-kin—and your own fame that echoes
through the world. All this binds me to you,
and Fate drives me here, and glad I am to follow.
Dardanus, first and founding father of Ilium,
came to the land of Troy. A son, as Greeks will tell,
of Electra, that Electra, daughter of Atlas, mighty Atlas
who bears the grand orb of the heavens on his shoulders.
Your father is Mercury, conceived by radiant Maia
and born on a snow-capped peak of Mount Cyllene.
But Maia’s father—to trust what we have heard—
is Atlas, the same Atlas who lifts the starry skies.
So our two lines are branches sprung from the same blood.
“Best of the sons of Greece, Fortune has decreed
that I pray to you for help, extend this branch
of olive wound in wool. I had no fear of you
as a captain of the Greeks, Arcadia-born
and bound by blood to Atreus’ twin sons.
For I am bound to you by my own strength,
by oracles of the gods and by our fathers—
blood-kin—and your own fame that echoes
through the world. All this binds me to you,
and Fate drives me here, and glad I am to follow.
Dardanus, first and founding father of Ilium,
came to the land of Troy. A son, as Greeks will tell,
of Electra, that Electra, daughter of Atlas, mighty Atlas
who bears the grand orb of the heavens on his shoulders.
Your father is Mercury, conceived by radiant Maia
and born on a snow-capped peak of Mount Cyllene.
But Maia’s father—to trust what we have heard—
is Atlas, the same Atlas who lifts the starry skies.
So our two lines are branches sprung from the same blood.
“Counting on this, I planned my approach to you.
Not with envoys or artful diplomatic probes,
I come in person, put my life on the line,
a suppliant at your doors to plead for help.
The same people attack us both in savage war,
Rutulians under Turnus, and if they drive us out,
nothing, they do believe, can stop their forcing all
of Italy, all lands of the West beneath their yoke,
the masters of every seaboard north and south.
Take and return our trust. Brave hearts in war,
our tempers steeled, our armies proved in action.”
Not with envoys or artful diplomatic probes,
I come in person, put my life on the line,
a suppliant at your doors to plead for help.
The same people attack us both in savage war,
Rutulians under Turnus, and if they drive us out,
nothing, they do believe, can stop their forcing all
of Italy, all lands of the West beneath their yoke,
the masters of every seaboard north and south.
Take and return our trust. Brave hearts in war,
our tempers steeled, our armies proved in action.”
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