The Aeneid (35 page)
Here Vulcan pounded out the Salii, dancing priests of Mars,
the Luperci, stripped, their peaked caps wound with wool,
bearing their body-shields that dropped from heaven,
and chaste matrons, riding in pillowed coaches,
led the sacred marches through the city.
Far apart
on the shield, what’s more, he forged the homes of hell,
the high Gates of Death and the torments of the doomed,
with you, Catiline, dangling from a beetling crag,
cringing before the Furies’ open mouths.
And set apart,
the virtuous souls, with Cato giving laws.
And amidst it all
the heaving sea ran far and wide, its likeness forged
in gold but the blue deep foamed in a sheen of white
and rounding it out in a huge ring swam the dolphins,
brilliant in silver, tails sweeping the crests
to cut the waves in two.
And here in the heart
of the shield: the bronze ships, the battle of Actium,
you could see it all, the world drawn up for war,
Leucata Headland seething, the breakers molten gold.
On one flank, Caesar Augustus leading Italy into battle,
the Senate and People too, the gods of hearth and home
and the great gods themselves. High astern he stands,
the twin flames shoot forth from his lustrous brows and
rising from the peak of his head, his father’s star.
On the other flank, Agrippa stands tall as he steers
his ships in line, impelled by favoring winds and gods
and from his forehead glitter the beaks of ships
on the Naval Crown, proud ensign earned in war.
the Luperci, stripped, their peaked caps wound with wool,
bearing their body-shields that dropped from heaven,
and chaste matrons, riding in pillowed coaches,
led the sacred marches through the city.
Far apart
on the shield, what’s more, he forged the homes of hell,
the high Gates of Death and the torments of the doomed,
with you, Catiline, dangling from a beetling crag,
cringing before the Furies’ open mouths.
And set apart,
the virtuous souls, with Cato giving laws.
And amidst it all
the heaving sea ran far and wide, its likeness forged
in gold but the blue deep foamed in a sheen of white
and rounding it out in a huge ring swam the dolphins,
brilliant in silver, tails sweeping the crests
to cut the waves in two.
And here in the heart
of the shield: the bronze ships, the battle of Actium,
you could see it all, the world drawn up for war,
Leucata Headland seething, the breakers molten gold.
On one flank, Caesar Augustus leading Italy into battle,
the Senate and People too, the gods of hearth and home
and the great gods themselves. High astern he stands,
the twin flames shoot forth from his lustrous brows and
rising from the peak of his head, his father’s star.
On the other flank, Agrippa stands tall as he steers
his ships in line, impelled by favoring winds and gods
and from his forehead glitter the beaks of ships
on the Naval Crown, proud ensign earned in war.
And opposing them comes Antony leading on
the riches of the Orient, troops of every stripe—
victor over the nations of the Dawn and blood-red shores
and in his retinue, Egypt, all the might of the East
and Bactra, the end of the earth, and trailing
in his wake, that outrage, that Egyptian wife!
All launch in as one, whipping the whole sea to foam
with tugging, thrashing oars and cleaving triple beaks
as they make a run for open sea. You’d think the Cyclades
ripped up by the roots, afloat on the swells, or mountains
ramming against mountains, so immense the turrets astern
as sailors attack them, showering flaming tow and
hot bolts of flying steel, and the fresh blood running
red on Neptune’s fields. And there in the thick of it all
the queen is mustering her armada, clacking her native rattles,
still not glimpsing the twin vipers hovering at her back,
as Anubis barks and the queen’s chaos of monster gods
train their spears on Neptune, Venus, and great Minerva.
And there in the heart of battle Mars rampages on,
cast in iron, with grim Furies plunging down the sky
and Strife in triumph rushing in with her slashed robes
and Bellona cracking her bloody lash in hot pursuit.
And scanning the melee, high on Actium’s heights
Apollo bent his bow and terror struck them all,
Egypt and India, all the Arabians, all the Sabaeans
wheeled in their tracks and fled, and the queen herself—
you could see her calling, tempting the winds, her sails
spreading and now, now about to let her sheets run free.
Here in all this carnage the God of Fire forged her pale
with imminent death, sped on by the tides and Northwest Wind.
And rising up before her, the Nile immersed in mourning opens
every fold of his mighty body, all his rippling robes,
inviting into his deep blue lap and secret eddies
all his conquered people.
But Caesar in triple triumph,
borne home through the walls of Rome, was paying
eternal vows of thanks to the gods of Italy:
three hundred imposing shrines throughout the city.
The roads resounded with joy, revelry, clapping hands,
with bands of matrons in every temple, altars in each
and the ground before them strewn with slaughtered steers.
Caesar himself, throned at brilliant Apollo’s snow-white gates,
reviews the gifts brought on by the nations of the earth
and he mounts them high on the lofty temple doors
as the vanquished people move in a long slow file,
their dress, their arms as motley as their tongues.
Here Vulcan had forged the Nomad race, the Africans
with their trailing robes, here the Leleges, Carians,
Gelonian archers bearing quivers, Euphrates flowing now
with a humbler tide, the Morini brought from the world’s end,
the two-horned Rhine and the Dahae never conquered,
Araxes River bridling at his bridge.
Such vistas
the God of Fire forged across the shield
that Venus gives her son. He fills with wonder—
he knows nothing of these events but takes delight
in their likeness, lifting onto his shoulders now
the fame and fates of all his children’s children.
the riches of the Orient, troops of every stripe—
victor over the nations of the Dawn and blood-red shores
and in his retinue, Egypt, all the might of the East
and Bactra, the end of the earth, and trailing
in his wake, that outrage, that Egyptian wife!
All launch in as one, whipping the whole sea to foam
with tugging, thrashing oars and cleaving triple beaks
as they make a run for open sea. You’d think the Cyclades
ripped up by the roots, afloat on the swells, or mountains
ramming against mountains, so immense the turrets astern
as sailors attack them, showering flaming tow and
hot bolts of flying steel, and the fresh blood running
red on Neptune’s fields. And there in the thick of it all
the queen is mustering her armada, clacking her native rattles,
still not glimpsing the twin vipers hovering at her back,
as Anubis barks and the queen’s chaos of monster gods
train their spears on Neptune, Venus, and great Minerva.
And there in the heart of battle Mars rampages on,
cast in iron, with grim Furies plunging down the sky
and Strife in triumph rushing in with her slashed robes
and Bellona cracking her bloody lash in hot pursuit.
And scanning the melee, high on Actium’s heights
Apollo bent his bow and terror struck them all,
Egypt and India, all the Arabians, all the Sabaeans
wheeled in their tracks and fled, and the queen herself—
you could see her calling, tempting the winds, her sails
spreading and now, now about to let her sheets run free.
Here in all this carnage the God of Fire forged her pale
with imminent death, sped on by the tides and Northwest Wind.
And rising up before her, the Nile immersed in mourning opens
every fold of his mighty body, all his rippling robes,
inviting into his deep blue lap and secret eddies
all his conquered people.
But Caesar in triple triumph,
borne home through the walls of Rome, was paying
eternal vows of thanks to the gods of Italy:
three hundred imposing shrines throughout the city.
The roads resounded with joy, revelry, clapping hands,
with bands of matrons in every temple, altars in each
and the ground before them strewn with slaughtered steers.
Caesar himself, throned at brilliant Apollo’s snow-white gates,
reviews the gifts brought on by the nations of the earth
and he mounts them high on the lofty temple doors
as the vanquished people move in a long slow file,
their dress, their arms as motley as their tongues.
Here Vulcan had forged the Nomad race, the Africans
with their trailing robes, here the Leleges, Carians,
Gelonian archers bearing quivers, Euphrates flowing now
with a humbler tide, the Morini brought from the world’s end,
the two-horned Rhine and the Dahae never conquered,
Araxes River bridling at his bridge.
Such vistas
the God of Fire forged across the shield
that Venus gives her son. He fills with wonder—
he knows nothing of these events but takes delight
in their likeness, lifting onto his shoulders now
the fame and fates of all his children’s children.
BOOK NINE
Enemy at the Gates
Now, while off in the distance much was under way,
Saturnian Juno hurried Iris down from the sky
to Turnus brash in arms, seated then by chance
in a hallowed glen, his forebear Pilumnus’ grove.
The messenger with her rosy lips bestirred the king:
“Turnus, what no god would dare to promise you—
the answer to your prayers—
time in its rounds has brought you all unasked.
Yes, Aeneas has quit his camp, his comrades and
his fleet, he’s lighted out for the Palatine hill,
Evander’s royal home. But still not satisfied,
he’s made his way to the farthest towns of Corythus,
arming a band of Tuscans, countryfolk he’s mustered.
Why hold back? Now’s the time for horse and chariot.
Away with delay! Attack their shattered camp!”
Saturnian Juno hurried Iris down from the sky
to Turnus brash in arms, seated then by chance
in a hallowed glen, his forebear Pilumnus’ grove.
The messenger with her rosy lips bestirred the king:
“Turnus, what no god would dare to promise you—
the answer to your prayers—
time in its rounds has brought you all unasked.
Yes, Aeneas has quit his camp, his comrades and
his fleet, he’s lighted out for the Palatine hill,
Evander’s royal home. But still not satisfied,
he’s made his way to the farthest towns of Corythus,
arming a band of Tuscans, countryfolk he’s mustered.
Why hold back? Now’s the time for horse and chariot.
Away with delay! Attack their shattered camp!”
She towered into the sky on balanced wings,
cleaving a giant rainbow, flying beneath the clouds.
And Turnus knew her and raised both hands to the stars,
calling after the goddess, trailing her flight with cries:
“Iris, pride of the sky! Who has sped you here to me,
swooping down from the clouds to reach the earth?
Why this sudden radiance lighting the heavens?
I can see the clouds parting, the stars riding
the arching skies. I follow a sign so clear,
whoever you are who calls me into action.”
cleaving a giant rainbow, flying beneath the clouds.
And Turnus knew her and raised both hands to the stars,
calling after the goddess, trailing her flight with cries:
“Iris, pride of the sky! Who has sped you here to me,
swooping down from the clouds to reach the earth?
Why this sudden radiance lighting the heavens?
I can see the clouds parting, the stars riding
the arching skies. I follow a sign so clear,
whoever you are who calls me into action.”
In that spirit he went to the river’s edge,
drew pure water up from the brimming banks
and prayed to the gods, over and over,
weighing down the heavens with his vows.
And next
his entire army was moving out across the plain,
rich in cavalry, rich in braided cloaks, bright gold.
Messapus heads the column, the rear’s brought up
by the sons of Tyrrhus, Turnus commands the center:
a force like the Ganges rising, fed by seven quiet streams
or the life-giving Nile ebbing back from the plains
to settle down at last in its own banks and bed.
Suddenly, far off, a massive dust-cloud rises
black as night, darkness sweeping across the plain.
The Trojans spot it, and first from the landward wall
Caicus calls out: “What’s that mass, my countrymen,
blackness rolling toward us? Quick, take arms,
pass out weapons, mount the walls,
the enemy’s all but on us! Battle stations!”
drew pure water up from the brimming banks
and prayed to the gods, over and over,
weighing down the heavens with his vows.
And next
his entire army was moving out across the plain,
rich in cavalry, rich in braided cloaks, bright gold.
Messapus heads the column, the rear’s brought up
by the sons of Tyrrhus, Turnus commands the center:
a force like the Ganges rising, fed by seven quiet streams
or the life-giving Nile ebbing back from the plains
to settle down at last in its own banks and bed.
Suddenly, far off, a massive dust-cloud rises
black as night, darkness sweeping across the plain.
The Trojans spot it, and first from the landward wall
Caicus calls out: “What’s that mass, my countrymen,
blackness rolling toward us? Quick, take arms,
pass out weapons, mount the walls,
the enemy’s all but on us! Battle stations!”
With a deafening roar the Trojans all come pouring in
through the gates for shelter, mount the ramparts now.
So ran his parting orders, Aeneas, best of captains:
“If any crisis comes while I am away, don’t risk
a pitched battle, no, don’t trust to the open field,
just guard the camp and ramparts, safe behind the walls.”
through the gates for shelter, mount the ramparts now.
So ran his parting orders, Aeneas, best of captains:
“If any crisis comes while I am away, don’t risk
a pitched battle, no, don’t trust to the open field,
just guard the camp and ramparts, safe behind the walls.”
So, though shame and anger spur them to all-out war,
still they bar the gates, they follow their orders,
armed to the hilt, protected inside the turrets,
bracing for the foe.
But Turnus flying on ahead
of his slower column, flanked by a picked troop
of twenty horsemen, gains the town in no time,
borne by a Thracian charger blazed with white,
and helmed in his golden casque with crimson crest.
“Who’s with me, men, who’s first to attack the enemy?
Just watch!” he cries and hurls his javelin into the sky—
the opening shot of war—and high in his saddle races
down the plain as his shouting comrades speed him on,
riding in his wake with their war cries striking terror,
amazed at the Trojans’ bloodless hearts, and calling:
“No trusting themselves to a level field of battle!
No braving our infantry, grappling hand to hand,
the cowards cling to camp!”
Wildly, back and forth,
Turnus gallops along the walls—a way in?—no way in.
As a wolf prowling in wait around some crowded sheepfold,
bearing the wind and rain in the dead of night, howls
at chinks in the fence, and the lambs keep bleating on,
snug beneath their dams. The wolf rages, desperate,
how can he maul a quarry out of reach? Exhausted,
frenzied with building hunger, starved so long,
his jaws parched for blood.
So wildly Turnus,
scanning the camp and rampart, flares in anger,
brute resentment sears him to the bone.
What tactic to try, to make a breakthrough, how
to shake those penned-up Trojans clear of their walls
and strew them down the plain? The armada, there.
Hard by the camp it lay tied up, riding at anchor,
shielded round by the high redoubts and river currents—
here he attacks, shouting out to his cheering comrades:
“Bring up fire!” A man on fire, he seizes a blazing
pine-tar torch in his fist and now, watch, his men
pitch into the work as Turnus urges them on in person
and whole battalions equip themselves with smoking brands.
They’ve plundered the hearthfires, sooty torches ignite
a murky glare, and the God of Fire hurls at the skies
a swirl of sparks and ash.
What god, you Muses,
warded off such savage flames from the Trojans?
Who drove from the ships such raging fire? Tell me.
Trust in the tale is old, yet its fame will never die . . .
In the early days on Phrygian Ida’s slopes when Aeneas
first built his fleet, gearing up for the high seas,
they say the Berecynthian Mother of Gods herself
appealed to powerful Jove with pleading words:
“Grant this prayer, my son, that your loving mother
makes to you, since now you rule on Olympus’ heights.
I had a grove on the mountain’s crest where men
would bring me gifts, a pinewood loved for long,
dark with pitch-pine, shady with maple timber.
These woods I gladly gave the Dardan prince
when the prince lacked a fleet—
now dread and anguish have me in their grip.
Dissolve my fears, let a mother’s prayers prevail!
May these galleys never be wrecked on any passage out
or overpowered by whirling storms at sea,
let their birth on our mountains be a blessing!”
still they bar the gates, they follow their orders,
armed to the hilt, protected inside the turrets,
bracing for the foe.
But Turnus flying on ahead
of his slower column, flanked by a picked troop
of twenty horsemen, gains the town in no time,
borne by a Thracian charger blazed with white,
and helmed in his golden casque with crimson crest.
“Who’s with me, men, who’s first to attack the enemy?
Just watch!” he cries and hurls his javelin into the sky—
the opening shot of war—and high in his saddle races
down the plain as his shouting comrades speed him on,
riding in his wake with their war cries striking terror,
amazed at the Trojans’ bloodless hearts, and calling:
“No trusting themselves to a level field of battle!
No braving our infantry, grappling hand to hand,
the cowards cling to camp!”
Wildly, back and forth,
Turnus gallops along the walls—a way in?—no way in.
As a wolf prowling in wait around some crowded sheepfold,
bearing the wind and rain in the dead of night, howls
at chinks in the fence, and the lambs keep bleating on,
snug beneath their dams. The wolf rages, desperate,
how can he maul a quarry out of reach? Exhausted,
frenzied with building hunger, starved so long,
his jaws parched for blood.
So wildly Turnus,
scanning the camp and rampart, flares in anger,
brute resentment sears him to the bone.
What tactic to try, to make a breakthrough, how
to shake those penned-up Trojans clear of their walls
and strew them down the plain? The armada, there.
Hard by the camp it lay tied up, riding at anchor,
shielded round by the high redoubts and river currents—
here he attacks, shouting out to his cheering comrades:
“Bring up fire!” A man on fire, he seizes a blazing
pine-tar torch in his fist and now, watch, his men
pitch into the work as Turnus urges them on in person
and whole battalions equip themselves with smoking brands.
They’ve plundered the hearthfires, sooty torches ignite
a murky glare, and the God of Fire hurls at the skies
a swirl of sparks and ash.
What god, you Muses,
warded off such savage flames from the Trojans?
Who drove from the ships such raging fire? Tell me.
Trust in the tale is old, yet its fame will never die . . .
In the early days on Phrygian Ida’s slopes when Aeneas
first built his fleet, gearing up for the high seas,
they say the Berecynthian Mother of Gods herself
appealed to powerful Jove with pleading words:
“Grant this prayer, my son, that your loving mother
makes to you, since now you rule on Olympus’ heights.
I had a grove on the mountain’s crest where men
would bring me gifts, a pinewood loved for long,
dark with pitch-pine, shady with maple timber.
These woods I gladly gave the Dardan prince
when the prince lacked a fleet—
now dread and anguish have me in their grip.
Dissolve my fears, let a mother’s prayers prevail!
May these galleys never be wrecked on any passage out
or overpowered by whirling storms at sea,
let their birth on our mountains be a blessing!”
Her son who makes the starry world go round
replied: “Mother, what are you asking Fate to grant?
What privilege are you begging for your ships? Think,
should keels laid by a mortal hand enjoy an immortal’s rights?
Should Aeneas go through scathing dangers all unscathed—
Aeneas? What god commands such power? Nevertheless,
one day, when their tour of duty is done at last
and they moor in a Western haven, all the ships
that survived the waves and bore the Trojan prince
to Latium’s fields—I will strip them of mortal shape
and command them all to be goddesses of the deep
like Doto, Nereus’ daughter, and Galatea too,
breasting high, cleaving the frothing waves.”
Jove had spoken.
Sealing his pledge by the Styx, his brother’s stream,
by the banks that churn with pitch-black rapids,
whirlpools swirling dark, he nodded his assent
and his nod made all of Mount Olympus quake.
And so
the promised day had arrived and the Fates filled out
the assigned time, when Turnus’ rampage warned the Mother
to drive his brands from her consecrated ships. And first
a strange radiance flashed in all eyes and a great cloud
appearing out of the dawn came sweeping down the sky,
trailed by the Goddess’ dancing troupes from Ida.
Then an awesome voice descended through the air,
surrounding the Trojan and Rutulian ranks alike:
“No frantic rush to defend my ships, you Trojans,
no rising up in arms! Turnus can sooner burn
the Ocean dry than burn these sacred pines of mine.
Run free, my ships—run, you nymphs of the sea!
Your Mother commands you now!”
And all at once,
each vessel snapping her cables free of the bank,
they dive like dolphins, plunging headlong beaks
to the bottom’s depths, then up they surface,
turned into lovely virgins—wondrous omen—
each a sea-nymph sweeping out to sea.
replied: “Mother, what are you asking Fate to grant?
What privilege are you begging for your ships? Think,
should keels laid by a mortal hand enjoy an immortal’s rights?
Should Aeneas go through scathing dangers all unscathed—
Aeneas? What god commands such power? Nevertheless,
one day, when their tour of duty is done at last
and they moor in a Western haven, all the ships
that survived the waves and bore the Trojan prince
to Latium’s fields—I will strip them of mortal shape
and command them all to be goddesses of the deep
like Doto, Nereus’ daughter, and Galatea too,
breasting high, cleaving the frothing waves.”
Jove had spoken.
Sealing his pledge by the Styx, his brother’s stream,
by the banks that churn with pitch-black rapids,
whirlpools swirling dark, he nodded his assent
and his nod made all of Mount Olympus quake.
And so
the promised day had arrived and the Fates filled out
the assigned time, when Turnus’ rampage warned the Mother
to drive his brands from her consecrated ships. And first
a strange radiance flashed in all eyes and a great cloud
appearing out of the dawn came sweeping down the sky,
trailed by the Goddess’ dancing troupes from Ida.
Then an awesome voice descended through the air,
surrounding the Trojan and Rutulian ranks alike:
“No frantic rush to defend my ships, you Trojans,
no rising up in arms! Turnus can sooner burn
the Ocean dry than burn these sacred pines of mine.
Run free, my ships—run, you nymphs of the sea!
Your Mother commands you now!”
And all at once,
each vessel snapping her cables free of the bank,
they dive like dolphins, plunging headlong beaks
to the bottom’s depths, then up they surface,
turned into lovely virgins—wondrous omen—
each a sea-nymph sweeping out to sea.
The Rutulians shrank in panic. Messapus himself
was stunned with terror, his stallions reared, and the river,
roaring, checked its currents, Tiber summoned his outflow
back from open sea. But dauntless Turnus never loses
faith in his daring, he flares up more at his men,
inflaming their spirits more: “All these omens
threaten the Trojans! Jove himself has whisked away
their trusted line of defense. No waiting for us,
for Rutulian sword and torch to strike their ships!
So now the open sea is blocked to the Trojans,
no escape, no hope. They’re robbed of half the world
and the other half, dry land, is in our grasp,
so many thousand Italians take up arms.
All their fateful oracles—words from the gods
these Phrygians bandy about—alarm me not at all.
Let it be quite enough for Fate and Venus both
that Trojans reach the rich green land of Italy—
Trojans!
“I have my own fate too, counter to theirs,
to stamp out these accursed people with my sword—
they’ve stolen away my bride! Atreus’ sons,
they’re not alone in suffering such a wound,
not only Mycenae has a right to go to war.
‘To die once is enough’?
The crime they committed once should be enough!
If only they hated most all womankind so deeply!
These Trojans who borrow courage, build their trust
on the walls they raise, the ditch they dig between us—
what a flimsy buffer to shield them all from slaughter!
Haven’t they seen Troy’s ramparts, built by Neptune’s hands,
collapse in flames?
“But you, my elite ones, who is ready
to hack their ramparts down with the sword, to join me now
and storm their panicked camp? I have no use for all
the armor Vulcan forged, nor for a thousand ships
to go against these Trojans. Let all the Etruscans
join them at once as allies! They need not fear our
stealing up on them in the dark like skulking cowards
to rob them of their Palladium, butcher their sentries
posted on the heights. No hiding ourselves away
in a horse’s blind dark flanks. In naked daylight
I am determined now to ring their walls with fire!
I’ll make certain they never think they’re fighting
Greek and Pelasgian boys, the recruits that Hector
warded off ten years.
“But now, my comrades,
seeing the best part of the day is done,
for the rest, refresh yourselves, hearts high.
You’ve done good work. And trust to it now,
we’re heading for a battle.”
All the while
Messapus is ordered to cordon off the gates
with a sentry-line and gird the walls with fire.
Fourteen Rutulians are picked to guard the ramparts,
each commanding a hundred troops, their helmets crested
with purple plumes, their war-gear glinting gold.
They scatter to posts and man the watch by turns
or stretching out on the grass, enjoy their wine,
tilting the bronze bowls while the fires burn on
and the watchmen dice away a sleepless night . . .
was stunned with terror, his stallions reared, and the river,
roaring, checked its currents, Tiber summoned his outflow
back from open sea. But dauntless Turnus never loses
faith in his daring, he flares up more at his men,
inflaming their spirits more: “All these omens
threaten the Trojans! Jove himself has whisked away
their trusted line of defense. No waiting for us,
for Rutulian sword and torch to strike their ships!
So now the open sea is blocked to the Trojans,
no escape, no hope. They’re robbed of half the world
and the other half, dry land, is in our grasp,
so many thousand Italians take up arms.
All their fateful oracles—words from the gods
these Phrygians bandy about—alarm me not at all.
Let it be quite enough for Fate and Venus both
that Trojans reach the rich green land of Italy—
Trojans!
“I have my own fate too, counter to theirs,
to stamp out these accursed people with my sword—
they’ve stolen away my bride! Atreus’ sons,
they’re not alone in suffering such a wound,
not only Mycenae has a right to go to war.
‘To die once is enough’?
The crime they committed once should be enough!
If only they hated most all womankind so deeply!
These Trojans who borrow courage, build their trust
on the walls they raise, the ditch they dig between us—
what a flimsy buffer to shield them all from slaughter!
Haven’t they seen Troy’s ramparts, built by Neptune’s hands,
collapse in flames?
“But you, my elite ones, who is ready
to hack their ramparts down with the sword, to join me now
and storm their panicked camp? I have no use for all
the armor Vulcan forged, nor for a thousand ships
to go against these Trojans. Let all the Etruscans
join them at once as allies! They need not fear our
stealing up on them in the dark like skulking cowards
to rob them of their Palladium, butcher their sentries
posted on the heights. No hiding ourselves away
in a horse’s blind dark flanks. In naked daylight
I am determined now to ring their walls with fire!
I’ll make certain they never think they’re fighting
Greek and Pelasgian boys, the recruits that Hector
warded off ten years.
“But now, my comrades,
seeing the best part of the day is done,
for the rest, refresh yourselves, hearts high.
You’ve done good work. And trust to it now,
we’re heading for a battle.”
All the while
Messapus is ordered to cordon off the gates
with a sentry-line and gird the walls with fire.
Fourteen Rutulians are picked to guard the ramparts,
each commanding a hundred troops, their helmets crested
with purple plumes, their war-gear glinting gold.
They scatter to posts and man the watch by turns
or stretching out on the grass, enjoy their wine,
tilting the bronze bowls while the fires burn on
and the watchmen dice away a sleepless night . . .
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