Translation by David Hadbawnik; illustrations by Omar Al-Nakib

Read Kent Johnson’s interview with David Hadbawnik here.

From Aeneid, Book 11

After a great deal of bloody fighting, both Latins and Trojans pause to bury their dead; Pallas, killed by Turnus, is brought back to King Evander. Emissaries arrive with a message for King Latinus.

I. …et quantum tu perdis, Iule!   

Dawn finds Aeneas thinking about burying his friends
and death plays the devil with his mind.
So as day comes he vows victory
to the gods and gets to work.
A huge oak,
branches all trimmed, 
he plants on a mound and sets there
shining weapons stripped
from Mezentius. A prize for you,
great god of war. Tied to it:
bloody crests. Broken spears.
Battered breastplate and bronze shield.
Hanging over the neck:
the man’s ivory sword.

Allies press round him. He says:
“We’ve done great things.
Don’t fear for the future.
These are the spoils of
an arrogant king, arranged
by my hand. Now 
let’s go again to the walls
of the Latins. No fear.
No hesitation. Let nothing
take us unawares.
Meanwhile
let’s remand the unburied bodies
of our friends to the earth…
Their honor lies deep
in Acheron. Go”
he says
“grace these chosen souls
whose blood won us
this country. Let Pallas
be sent back to sad Evander.
He lacked no courage as
the day dipped him 
in harsh death.”

Breaking up as he speaks, he strolls
back to the threshold where Pallas’s body lies.
All the Trojans crowd around. 
The women let loose hair for mourning.

Then Aeneas comes in through the high doorway
beating his breast
gives a great cry to the stars
and the whole house resounds with grief.
When he sees the propped-up head and the white
visage of Pallas and
on his smooth chest the raw wound
from Ausonian dart, wailing
he speaks:
“Was it you, poor boy,
that Fortune happily snatched away
lest you see my realm and ride
victorious back to your father?
This isn’t what I promised him!
Evander, when he hugged me
as I left, and sent me to win
a throne, and warned me 
about these tough hombres
and the harsh race we’d battle.
Now he sits home in empty hope.
Probably right now he’s making
an offering and topping off the altar
with gifts. Meanwhile here we are
with the dead youth who owes
nothing more to heaven.
Poor little guy, you’ll see the funeral
of your own son! Is this the victory
we’d hoped for? Is this how it all
shakes out? But no, Evander,
at least you won’t have to witness
his awful wounds, nor wish for
a tough death if your son still lived.
O, how great a shield you’ve lost,
Ausonia, what a friend to you, Julus!”

When he’s cried it out, Aeneas orders
the awful corpse lifted. Sends 1000 guys
chosen from the whole force who’ll attend
the last rites, add their tears to the father’s.
Small solace for such huge grief, but
the least they could do.

They make a light wicker bier with a leafy canopy.
Lay the young man on top, soft as a violet.
Aeneas brings out a couple of robes
spun by Dido in happier times.
One of these he sadly spreads over the youth,
a final honor. With a finger he flicks back
the hair that’ll burn in the fire.
Heaps on spoils, a long line of them.
Horses and weapons stripped from the foe.
And those he intends to send to the shades
in sacrifice, their hands tied behind their backs.
Sprinkles the flames with the blood of the dead,
and orders his captains to carry blocks of wood
covered in enemy weapons and names of enemies.

Oceanum interea surgens Aurora reliquit:
Aeneas, quamquam et sociis dare tempus humandis
praecipitant curae turbataque funere mens est,
vota deum primo victor solvebat Eoo.
ingentem quercum decisis undique ramis.
constituit tumulo fulgentiaque induit arma,
Mezenti ducis exuvias, tibi magne tropaeum
bellipotens; aptat rorantis sanguine cristas
telaque trunca viri, et bis sex thoraca petitum
perfossumque locis, clipeumque ex aere sinistrae            
subligat atque ensem collo suspendit eburnum.
tum socios (namque omnis eum stipata tegebat
turba ducum) sic incipiens hortatur ovantis:
'maxima res effecta, viri; timor omnis abesto,
quod superest; haec sunt spolia et de rege superbo               
primitiae manibusque meis Mezentius hic est.
nunc iter ad regem nobis murosque Latinos.
arma parate, animis et spe praesumite bellum,
ne qua mora ignaros, ubi primum vellere signa
adnuerint superi pubemque educere castris,               
impediat segnisve metu sententia tardet.
interea socios inhumataque corpora terrae
mandemus, qui solus honos Acheronte sub imo est.
ite,' ait 'egregias animas, quae sanguine nobis
hanc patriam peperere suo, decorate supremis               
muneribus, maestamque Evandri primus ad urbem
mittatur Pallas, quem non virtutis egentem
abstulit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo.'

Sic ait inlacrimans, recipitque ad limina gressum
corpus ubi exanimi positum Pallantis Acoetes               
servabat senior, qui Parrhasio Evandro
armiger ante fuit, sed non felicibus aeque
tum comes auspiciis caro datus ibat alumno.
circum omnis famulumque manus Troianaque turba
et maestum Iliades crinem de more solutae.               
ut vero Aeneas foribus sese intulit altis
ingentem gemitum tunsis ad sidera tollunt
pectoribus, maestoque immugit regia luctu.
ipse caput nivei fultum Pallantis et ora
ut vidit levique patens in pectore vulnus               
cuspidis Ausoniae, lacrimis ita fatur obortis:
'tene,' inquit 'miserande puer, cum laeta veniret,
invidit Fortuna mihi, ne regna videres
nostra neque ad sedes victor veherere paternas?
non haec Evandro de te promissa parenti               
discedens dederam, cum me complexus euntem
mitteret in magnum imperium metuensque moneret
acris esse viros, cum dura proelia gente.
et nunc ille quidem spe multum captus inani
fors et vota facit cumulatque altaria donis,               
nos iuvenem exanimum et nil iam caelestibus ullis
debentem vano maesti comitamur honore.
infelix, nati funus crudele videbis!
hi nostri reditus exspectatique triumphi?
haec mea magna fides? at non, Evandre, pudendis              
vulneribus pulsum aspicies, nec sospite dirum
optabis nato funus pater. ei mihi quantum
praesidium, Ausonia, et quantum tu perdis, Iule!'

Haec ubi deflevit, tolli miserabile corpus
imperat, et toto lectos ex agmine mittit
mille viros qui supremum comitentur honorem
intersintque patris lacrimis, solacia luctus
exigua ingentis, misero sed debita patri.
haud segnes alii cratis et molle feretrum
arbuteis texunt virgis et vimine querno
exstructosque toros obtentu frondis inumbrant.
hic iuvenem agresti sublimem stramine ponunt:
qualem virgineo demessum pollice florem
seu mollis violae seu languentis hyacinthi,
cui neque fulgor adhuc nec dum sua forma recessit,
non iam mater alit tellus virisque ministrat.
tum geminas vestis auroque ostroque rigentis
extulit Aeneas, quas illi laeta laborum
ipsa suis quondam manibus Sidonia Dido
fecerat et tenui telas discreverat auro.
harum unam iuveni supremum maestus honorem
induit arsurasque comas obnubit amictu,
multaque praeterea Laurentis praemia pugnae
aggerat et longo praedam iubet ordine duci;
addit equos et tela quibus spoliaverat hostem.
vinxerat et post terga manus, quos mitteret umbris
inferias, caeso sparsurus sanguine flammas,
indutosque iubet truncos hostilibus armis
ipsos ferre duces inimicaque nomina figi.

Old Acoetes, deeply moved, beats his breast
and scratches his own face and falls face-first
on the earth. There are chariots spattered
with blood. The boy’s war horse Aethon, insignia
stripped, trots by crying. Others carry spear
and helmet – to the victor, Turnus, go
the rest. Then
a long line of mourning Teucrians
and Tuscans and Arcadians with arms turned.
When they’ve all passed, Aeneas groans
and says:
“The awful fates of war call me
to other tears. Hail,
great Pallas, so long forever!”
And he goes back to camp.

Messengers from the Latins.
“The battlefield’s littered with bodies,
let’s take a break for proper burial…”

Goodly Aeneas readily agrees.
He goes further:
“Latins, what bad luck
drove you into this war, 
that you’d run from my friendship?
You ask peace for the dead?
I’d offer the same to the living.
I wouldn’t have come if the fates
hadn’t invited me. I have no quarrel
with the people; it’s the king 
who picked Turnus over me.
Better for Turnus, this death.
If he wanted to force the matter
and drive us out, let’s do it
one on one. That way, victory
goes to whoever the gods want
or who wins it with his own hand.
Now go, and light fires beneath
your poor cives.”

The emissaries stand stupefied,
glancing amongst themselves.
Then the old guy Drances,
who’s always spewed hatred
and bitterness behind Turnus’s back,
says,
“Oh, great in fame, greater in arms,
Man of Troy – how can I praise you
enough?
Should I marvel more at your sense of justice
or achievements in war? Indeed,
we’ll graciously bear these words back
to our town, and if fortune finds a way,
you’ll be reconciled with Latinus, our king.
Let Turnus go his own way. 
It’d bring joy to raise these walls you speak of,
and carry on our shoulders the stones of Troy.”

ducitur infelix aevo confectus Acoetes,               
pectora nunc foedans pugnis, nunc unguibus ora,
sternitur et toto proiectus corpore terrae;
ducunt et Rutulo perfusos sanguine currus.
post bellator equus positis insignibus Aethon
it lacrimans guttisque umectat grandibus ora.               
hastam alii galeamque ferunt, nam cetera Turnus
victor habet. tum maesta phalanx Teucrique sequuntur
Tyrrhenique omnes et versis Arcades armis.
postquam omnis longe comitum praecesserat ordo,
substitit Aeneas gemituque haec addidit alto:               
'nos alias hinc ad lacrimas eadem horrida belli
fata vocant: salve aeternum mihi, maxime Palla,
aeternumque vale.' nec plura effatus ad altos
tendebat muros gressumque in castra ferebat.

Iamque oratores aderant ex urbe Latina               
velati ramis oleae veniamque rogantes:
corpora, per campos ferro quae fusa iacebant,
redderet ac tumulo sineret succedere terrae;
nullum cum victis certamen et aethere cassis;
parceret hospitibus quondam socerisque vocatis.               
quos bonus Aeneas haud aspernanda precantis
prosequitur venia et verbis haec insuper addit:
'quaenam vos tanto fortuna indigna, Latini,
implicuit bello, qui nos fugiatis amicos?
pacem me exanimis et Martis sorte peremptis               
oratis? equidem et vivis concedere vellem.
nec veni, nisi fata locum sedemque dedissent,
nec bellum cum gente gero; rex nostra reliquit
hospitia et Turni potius se credidit armis.
aequius huic Turnum fuerat se opponere morti.               
si bellum finire manu, si pellere Teucros
apparat, his mecum decuit concurrere telis:
vixet cui vitam deus aut sua dextra dedisset.
nunc ite et miseris supponite civibus ignem.'
dixerat Aeneas. illi obstipuere silentes               
conversique oculos inter se atque ora tenebant.

Tum senior semperque odiis et crimine Drances
infensus iuveni Turno sic ore vicissim
orsa refert: 'o fama ingens, ingentior armis,
vir Troiane, quibus caelo te laudibus aequem?
iustitiaene prius mirer belline laborum?
nos vero haec patriam grati referemus ad urbem
et te, si qua viam dederit Fortuna, Latino
iungemus regi. quaerat sibi foedera Turnus.
quin et fatalis murorum attollere moles
saxaque subvectare umeris Troiana iuvabit.'

So he speaks, and the others murmur agreement.
For 12 days they hold the truce.
Latins and Trojans roam the woods together
with impunity.
The high ash tree resounds with axe-blows.
They bring down pines that stretch
to the stars, and their blades chop
oak and sweet cedar, wagons loaded with wood.

The Rumor reaches the ears of Evander,
even as news of Pallas’s victories flies
to the Latins. The Arcadians rush to the gates
torches aloft for funeral – the road glows
in a long line of flame across the fields.

II. Militia ex illa diversum ad litus abacti… 

The marching Trojans join the line of mourners.
When the mothers see them coming up 
to the houses, shrieking inflames the sad town.
Nothing can hold back Evander.
He flies into their midst, and when
the bier’s put down he flings himself
over Pallas with groans and tears.
Grief hardly allows him to speak.
“Not for this, O Pallas,
did you give your pledge to papa –
that you would take some care
about yourself in tough war. 
I know. I know. There’s such 
new glory in arms and sweetness
in the distinction of first battles.
Ah for the vicissitudes of youth
and harsh lessons of war, my prayers
unheard by any gods!
And you, dear wife – happy
in death that spares you
from this sorrow! I, living,
have outstripped my fates. 
A father outliving his son.
Would that I’d followed Trojans
into battle and fallen to 
Rutulian arms. That way
the procession would bring
me back, not you, Pallas…
Alas. I don’t begrudge you,
Trojans, nor the treaty we made.
This falls on my head alone.
But at least my son died
leading Trojans into Latium.
I mean… look at all these spoils!
Turnus, if you’d been closer to Pallas
in age, you’d be here too!
Alas, don’t let miserable old me
delay the Trojans in battle.
Go, and take your king this message:
The only reason I keep living
is your right hand, which owes
Turnus to father and son.
The field is clear for you.
No joy in life for me – that’s
not possible – but I’ll bear
the good news to Pallas
down in hell.”

Now, dawn. Light spreads
over tired souls reminding them
of their work and toil. 
Father Aeneas and Tarchon have set up pyres
on the curving shore. Just as their dads did,
they lay the bodies of their kin on top
and as the flames spark underneath, heaven
is bathed in mist and shadows.

dixerat haec unoque omnes eadem ore fremebant.
bis senos pepigere dies, et pace sequestra
per silvas Teucri mixtique impune Latini
erravere iugis. ferro sonat alta bipenni
fraxinus, evertunt actas ad sidera pinus,
robora nec cuneis et olentem scindere cedrum
nec plaustris cessant vectare gementibus ornos.

Et iam Fama volans, tanti praenuntia luctus,
Evandrum Evandrique domos et moenia replet,
quae modo victorem Latio Pallanta ferebat.
Arcades ad portas ruere et de more vetusto
funereas rapuere faces; lucet via longo
ordine flammarum et late discriminat agros.
contra turba Phrygum veniens plangentia iungit
agmina. quae postquam matres succedere tectis
viderunt, maestam incendunt clamoribus urbem.
at non Evandrum potis est vis ulla tenere,
sed venit in medios. feretro Pallante reposto
procubuit super atque haeret lacrimansque gemensque,
et via vix tandem voci laxata dolore est:
'non haec, o Palla, dederas promissa parenti,
cautius ut saevo velles te credere Marti.
haud ignarus eram quantum nova gloria in armis
et praedulce decus primo certamine posset.
primitiae iuvenis miserae bellique propinqui
dura rudimenta, et nulli exaudita deorum
vota precesque meae! tuque, o sanctissima coniunx,
felix morte tua neque in hunc servata dolorem!
contra ego vivendo vici mea fata, superstes
restarem ut genitor. Troum socia arma secutum
obruerent Rutuli telis! animam ipse dedissem
atque haec pompa domum me, non Pallanta, referret!
nec vos arguerim, Teucri, nec foedera nec quas
iunximus hospitio dextras: sors ista senectae
debita erat nostrae. quod si immatura manebat
mors gnatum, caesis Volscorum milibus ante
ducentem in Latium Teucros cecidisse iuvabit.
quin ego non alio digner te funere, Palla,
quam pius Aeneas et quam magni Phryges et quam  
Tyrrhenique duces, Tyrrhenum exercitus omnis.
magna tropaea ferunt quos dat tua dextera leto;
tu quoque nunc stares immanis truncus in arvis,
esset par aetas et idem si robur ab annis,
Turne. sed infelix Teucros quid demoror armis?               
vadite et haec memores regi mandata referte:
quod vitam moror invisam Pallante perempto
dextera causa tua est, Turnum gnatoque patrique
quam debere vides. meritis vacat hic tibi solus
fortunaeque locus. non vitae gaudia quaero,               
nec fas, sed gnato manis perferre sub imos.'

Aurora interea miseris mortalibus almam
extulerat lucem referens opera atque labores:
iam pater Aeneas, iam curvo in litore Tarchon
constituere pyras. huc corpora quisque suorum
more tulere patrum, subiectisque ignibus atris
conditur in tenebras altum caligine caelum.

Three times with arms blazing they wheel around
the burning pyres. Over the funeral fires
groans of lamentation. Tears
fall on the land. Tears fall on weapons.
The sky resounds with crying and clamor
of trumpets. Now some toss war-spoils
into the flames, helmets and swords.
Others load on cattle and swine
snatched from the countryside.
All along the shore the allies
watch their friends burn and keep
the fires going. They can’t tear themselves
away even when night spins stars overhead.

Elsewhere the Latins are doing the same thing.
Funeral pyres everywhere, spotting the fields
with the burning of indiscriminate dead.

On the third day the mourners rush
from the pyres and pick out bones
from ash, piling them on the warm earth.
And in the homes of rich Latium,
there’s a particular din of mourning:
Mothers, miserable daughters, sisters
beating their breasts. Boys crying
for lost fathers. All lamenting
the tough war and the marriage
of Turnus.
“Let him,” they say,
“with his own sword
decide who rules Italy.”

Tough Drances eagerly weighs in,
confirming Turnus alone is required in battle.
Various others speak up for Turnus, though,
and everyone knows he’s the queen’s favorite.
In the midst of all this there’s a message from Diomede:
Nothing. Nada.
No help. No hope. No gold,
despite a lot of fruitless effort.
The Latins will have to look elsewhere, 
or sue for peace with Aeneas.
Even King Latinus sags at the news.
The gig’s up: Aeneas is called by fate,
guided by heaven. All the evidence Latinus needs
are the fresh graves right before his eyes.

He calls a council. The best and brightest
of his folk, and he, first in age and royal
authority, in their midst, brow creased
with anxiety. Envoys edge forward 
fresh from the Aetolian town, 
each ordered to disclose what they know.

Then, silence.
Venulus steps up and speaks.
“We’ve seen, O cives, Diomedes
and his Argive camp.
It was a tough journey.
We found him founding a city
called Argyripa, named after
his father’s race. When he
granted an audience, we
gave gifts and told him
our business, the who
what and why of our
troubles at home.

He listened in silence, and said:
‘O well-off folk, realm of Saturn,
ancient Ausonians, why
does fate urge you to unknown war?
Whoever desecrated the Trojan fields
(not to mention the shit we saw
under their high walls 
and the great men drowned in 
the Simois) has paid for it
in every way all over the world.
We’re a sorry band even Priam
might feel sorry for. 
From that war driven to diverse shores,
Menelaus is exiled beyond the pillars of Proteus;
Ulysses has seen the Cyclopes of Aetna;
even Agamemnon, leader of Achaeans,
upon reaching his threshold was killed
by his own wife’s hand.
Should I keep going?
Plenty of other sad tales to choose from.
How about the one where the gods
won’t let me go home to my own wife,
lovely Calydon?
To this day, evil portents pursue me.
Allies lost. Friends drowned. My god,
the horrible suffering of my folk.
All this followed from my decision
to assault divine limbs with my sword,
strike a blow against Venus’s son.
So don’t talk to me about Trojans.
I’ve got no argument with them.
No good memories of them either.
Take these gifts you’ve brought –
give them to Aeneas instead.
And take it from one who knows –
you want no part of him in battle.
If Troy had produced two more
like him, we’d be singing a different tune.
It was always him and Hector
who held us back, till the end
of year ten.
For spirit and worthiness in arms,
there’s none better. Make treaty
with him if you can. If you can’t,
beware crossing swords with him.’

Such was the response, great king,
and all he had to say on the subject.”

ter circum accensos cincti fulgentibus armis
decurrere rogos, ter maestum funeris ignem
lustravere in equis ululatusque ore dedere.
spargitur et tellus lacrimis, sparguntur et arma,
it caelo clamorque virum clangorque tubarum.
hic alii spolia occisis derepta Latinis
coniciunt igni, galeas ensisque decoros
frenaque ferventisque rotas; pars munera nota,
ipsorum clipeos et non felicia tela.
multa boum circa mactantur corpora Morti,
saetigerosque sues raptasque ex omnibus agris
in flammam iugulant pecudes. tum litore toto
ardentis spectant socios semustaque servant
busta, neque avelli possunt, nox umida donec
invertit caelum stellis ardentibus aptum.

Nec minus et miseri diversa in parte Latini
innumeras struxere pyras, et corpora partim
multa virum terrae infodiunt, avectaque partim
finitimos tollunt in agros urbique remittunt.
cetera confusaeque ingentem caedis acervum
nec numero nec honore cremant; tunc undique vasti
certatim crebris conlucent ignibus agri.
tertia lux gelidam caelo dimoverat umbram:
maerentes altum cinerem et confusa ruebant
ossa focis tepidoque onerabant aggere terrae.
iam vero in tectis, praedivitis urbe Latini,
praecipuus fragor et longi pars maxima luctus.
hic matres miseraeque nurus, hic cara sororum
pectora maerentum puerique parentibus orbi
dirum exsecrantur bellum Turnique hymenaeos;
ipsum armis ipsumque iubent decernere ferro,
qui regnum Italiae et primos sibi poscat honores.
ingravat haec saevus Drances solumque vocari
testatur, solum posci in certamina Turnum.
multa simul contra variis sententia dictis
pro Turno, et magnum reginae nomen obumbrat,
multa virum meritis sustentat fama tropaeis.

Hos inter motus, medio in flagrante tumultu,
ecce super maesti magna Diomedis ab urbe
legati responsa ferunt: nihil omnibus actum
tantorum impensis operum, nil dona neque aurum
nec magnas valuisse preces, alia arma Latinis
quaerenda, aut pacem Troiano ab rege petendum.
deficit ingenti luctu rex ipse Latinus:
fatalem Aenean manifesto numine ferri
admonet ira deum tumulique ante ora recentes.
ergo concilium magnum primosque suorum
imperio accitos alta intra limina cogit.
olli convenere fluuntque ad regia plenis
tecta viis. sedet in mediis et maximus aevo
et primus sceptris haud laeta fronte Latinus.
atque hic legatos Aetola ex urbe remissos
quae referant fari iubet, et responsa reposcit
ordine cuncta suo. tum facta silentia linguis,
et Venulus dicto parens ita farier infit:

'Vidimus, o cives, Diomedem Argivaque castra,
atque iter emensi casus superavimus omnis,
contigimusque manum qua concidit Ilia tellus.
ille urbem Argyripam patriae cognomine gentis
victor Gargani condebat Iapygis agris.
postquam introgressi et coram data copia fandi,
munera praeferimus, nomen patriamque docemus,
qui bellum intulerint, quae causa attraxerit Arpos.
auditis ille haec placido sic reddidit ore:
"o fortunatae gentes, Saturnia regna,
antiqui Ausonii, quae vos fortuna quietos
sollicitat suadetque ignota lacessere bella?
quicumque Iliacos ferro violavimus agros
(mitto ea quae muris bellando exhausta sub altis,
quos Simois premat ille viros) infanda per orbem
supplicia et scelerum poenas expendimus omnes,
vel Priamo miseranda manus; scit triste Minervae
sidus et Euboicae cautes ultorque Caphereus.
militia ex illa diversum ad litus abacti
Atrides Protei Menelaus adusque columnas
exsulat, Aetnaeos vidit Cyclopas Ulixes.
regna Neoptolemi referam versosque penatis
Idomenei? Libycone habitantis litore Locros?
ipse Mycenaeus magnorum ductor Achivum
coniugis infandae prima inter limina dextra
oppetiit, devictam Asiam subsedit adulter.
invidisse deos, patriis ut redditus aris
coniugium optatum et pulchram Calydona viderem?
nunc etiam horribili visu portenta sequuntur
et socii amissi petierunt aethera pennis
fluminibusque vagantur aves (heu, dira meorum
supplicia!) et scopulos lacrimosis vocibus implent.
haec adeo ex illo mihi iam speranda fuerunt
tempore cum ferro caelestia corpora demens
appetii et Veneris violavi vulnere dextram.
ne vero, ne me ad talis impellite pugnas.
nec mihi cum Teucris ullum post eruta bellum
Pergama nec veterum memini laetorve malorum.
munera quae patriis ad me portatis ab oris
vertite ad Aenean. stetimus tela aspera contra
contulimusque manus: experto credite quantus
in clipeum adsurgat, quo turbine torqueat hastam.
si duo praeterea talis Idaea tulisset
terra viros, ultro Inachias venisset ad urbes
Dardanus, et versis lugeret Graecia fatis.
quidquid apud durae cessatum est moenia Troiae,
Hectoris Aeneaeque manu victoria Graium
haesit et in decimum vestigia rettulit annum.
ambo animis, ambo insignes praestantibus armis,
hic pietate prior. coeant in foedera dextrae,
qua datur; ast armis concurrant arma cavete."
et responsa simul quae sint, rex optime, regis
audisti et quae sit magno sententia bello.'

III. Dicam equidem, licet arma mini mortemque minetur  

Scarcely had the emissaries stopped speaking
when a huge hubbub runs through the people,
voices clashing as when rocks block up a river
and waves crash. When at last they’ve fallen
silent the king, first calling on the gods, speaks.
“Frankly, friends, I wish we hadn’t
called this meeting. Such an ill-starred war,
with a divine folk, unconquerable men
who don’t tire from battle. They can’t stop
and they won’t stop. If you had any hope
in alliance with Aetolian arms, give it up.
I mean, there’s always hope, but 
things look pretty bleak. As for the rest,
you see for yourselves the state of play.
I don’t blame anyone. We’ve already
done our best. 
Now listen to what’s
bouncing around in my brain.
I’ll unfold it in a few words if
you promise to hear it with your hearts.
There’s an old farm of mine beside
the Tuscan river, which winds a long way,
beyond the Sicanian border. Rutulians
and Auruncans both work this tough land.
Let’s hand over this, along with a strip
of pine-covered mountain, and call it
a day. We’ll go in friendship to the Trojans
and consider them allies in rule. Let them settle,
if that’s their wish, and build a town.
If on the other hand they want to strike out
in conquest, hell, let’s help them do that, too!
We’ll build 20 ships – or however many
they want! – parts and labor courtesy of us.
Meanwhile, let a hundred of our best orators
approach them bearing the olive branch,
not to mention gifts of gold and ivory,
a throne and a robe, symbols of our realm.
Listen to what I say and end this sorry affair.”

Next up, Drances. Always angry. Always envious
of Turnus in his majesty and manhood.
Big in riches and tongue, but not so good in battle.
Not a bad adviser, well-connected 
(the high blood of his mother giving him
noble status, though his father’s rank obscure).
He rises and says:
“You hardly need me to state the obvious,
O good king. It’s clear enough to us all.
Everyone knows but they won’t say.
If his blustering pride allows me to speak
freely, despite his inauspicious and sinister habits
(yes, damn it, I’ll talk, though he threatens me
with arms and death), let me mention:
The leaders we’ve watched die. 
The whole town sunk in mourning.
Meanwhile he tries the Trojan camp,
frightening heaven with his guns,
knowing he can always run away.
So let’s toss in one more gift for the Trojan.
Don’t let anyone stop you with threats.
You have the right to give your daughter
to a worthy son-in-law and seal the deal.
But if such terror seizes our minds and hearts,
let’s beg this guy, grovel for his indulgence:
Quit, and give up your so-called ‘rights.’
Why do you drag all us wretches down with you
and bring such evil to Latium? All we ask of you
is peace, Turnus, peace.
First I, whom you consider an enemy (guilty
as charged) am here as a suppliant.
Take pity on us. You’ve been beaten.
Give up! We’ve seen enough death.
Enough desolate fields. Or,
if fame moves you, if you’ve got the balls
for it or if you want a princess’s dowry
that much, go fight him yourself.
Surely for the sake of Turnus’s bride,
all of us inconsequential bastards
are happy to sprinkle our blood
all over the landscape? No,
goddamnit! If you want it so bad,
if you’re half the man your father was,
go face your foe one on one!”

Such words spark violence in Turnus.
He speaks with a blood-groan from deep
in his chest:
“Always the big words, Drances,
when war demands hands. 
And when the Senate’s called,
you’re first on the scene.
But let’s not fill the court with words–
such big, beautiful words that fly
from you when you’re safe, while
walls fend off the enemy and the trenches
aren’t yet full of blood. So
keep ranting eloquently (as usual)
and accuse me of cowardice, Drances,
while your hand has produced
so many dead Trojans and rendered spoils
all over the field. Whatever heroic deeds
you’d like to explore, please do!
And you don’t have to look far
for the enemy – he’s right here.
Should we go meet them?
What’s stopping you? Or
will the fighting spirit always stay
in your tongue, and not those
fleeing feet?
I’m beaten?
Really?
Or will anyone claim, you bastard,
I’m beaten when they see the Tiber
thick with Trojan blood? Evander’s
whole line and home laid low
and Arcadians stripped of arms?
‘Beaten’… that’s not how Bitias and huge Pandarus
experienced me, not to mention those
thousand men I sent to hell in victory.
Trapped though I was behind 
enemy lines. No safety in war?
Sing such nonsense, moron.
For the Dardan’s head, for your
own property. 
So
don’t 
stop 
bothering everyone with your fear
and faith in a twice-beaten folk,
while pooh-poohing Latin arms.
Now the leaders of Myrmidons tremble
before Trojans. And this guy
says he’s scared of my words –
this motherless cretin – and hones
his accusation of feigned fears!
You don’t have to worry about me
taking your life. I’d rather you live
in freakish misery with your cowardly heart.

Vix ea legati, variusque per ora cucurrit
Ausonidum turbata fremor, ceu saxa morantur
cum rapidos amnis, fit clauso gurgite murmur
vicinaeque fremunt ripae crepitantibus undis.
ut primum placati animi et trepida ora quierunt,
praefatus divos solio rex infit ab alto:

'Ante equidem summa de re statuisse, Latini,
et vellem et fuerat melius, non tempore tali
cogere concilium, cum muros adsidet hostis.
bellum importunum, cives, cum gente deorum
invictisque viris gerimus, quos nulla fatigant
proelia nec victi possunt absistere ferro.
spem si quam ascitis Aetolum habuistis in armis,
ponite. spes sibi quisque; sed haec quam angusta videtis.
cetera qua rerum iaceant perculsa ruina,
ante oculos interque manus sunt omnia vestras.
nec quemquam incuso: potuit quae plurima virtus
esse, fuit; toto certatum est corpore regni.
nunc adeo quae sit dubiae sententia menti,
expediam et paucis (animos adhibete) docebo.
est antiquus ager Tusco mihi proximus amni,
longus in occasum, finis super usque Sicanos;
Aurunci Rutulique serunt, et vomere duros
exercent collis atque horum asperrima pascunt.
haec omnis regio et celsi plaga pinea montis
cedat amicitiae Teucrorum, et foederis aequas
dicamus leges sociosque in regna vocemus:
considant, si tantus amor, et moenia condant.
sin alios finis aliamque capessere gentem
est animus possuntque solo decedere nostro,
bis denas Italo texamus robore navis;
seu pluris complere valent, iacet omnis ad undam
materies: ipsi numerumque modumque carinis
praecipiant, nos aera, manus, naualia demus.
praeterea, qui dicta ferant et foedera firment
centum oratores prima de gente Latinos
ire placet pacisque manu praetendere ramos,
munera portantis aurique eborisque talenta
et sellam regni trabeamque insignia nostri.
consulite in medium et rebus succurrite fessis.'

Tum Drances idem infensus, quem gloria Turni
obliqua invidia stimulisque agitabat amaris,
largus opum et lingua melior, sed frigida bello
dextera, consiliis habitus non futtilis auctor,
seditione potens (genus huic materna superbum
nobilitas dabat, incertum de patre ferebat),
surgit et his onerat dictis atque aggerat iras:
'rem nulli obscuram nostrae nec vocis egentem
consulis, o bone rex: cuncti se scire fatentur
quid fortuna ferat populi, sed dicere mussant.
det libertatem fandi flatusque remittat,
cuius ob auspicium infaustum moresque sinistros
(dicam equidem, licet arma mihi mortemque minetur)
lumina tot cecidisse ducum totamque videmus
consedisse urbem luctu, dum Troia temptat
castra fugae fidens et caelum territat armis.
unum etiam donis istis, quae plurima mitti
Dardanidis dicique iubes, unum, optime regum,
adicias, nec te ullius violentia vincat
quin natam egregio genero dignisque hymenaeis
des pater, et pacem hanc aeterno foedere iungas.
quod si tantus habet mentes et pectora terror,
ipsum obtestemur veniamque oremus ab ipso:
cedat, ius proprium regi patriaeque remittat.
quid miseros totiens in aperta pericula civis
proicis, o Latio caput horum et causa malorum?
nulla salus bello, pacem te poscimus omnes,
Turne, simul pacis solum inviolabile pignus.
primus ego, invisum quem tu tibi fingis (et esse
nil moror), en supplex venio. miserere tuorum,
pone animos et pulsus abi. sat funera fusi
vidimus ingentis et desolavimus agros.
aut, si fama movet, si tantum pectore robur
concipis et si adeo dotalis regia cordi est,
aude atque adversum fidens fer pectus in hostem.
scilicet ut Turno contingat regia coniunx,
nos animae viles, inhumata infletaque turba,
sternamur campis. etiam tu, si qua tibi vis,
si patrii quid Martis habes, illum aspice contra
qui vocat.'

Talibus exarsit dictis violentia Turni.
dat gemitum rumpitque has imo pectore voces:
'larga quidem semper, Drance, tibi copia fandi
tum cum bella manus poscunt, patribusque vocatis
primus ades. sed non replenda est curia verbis,
quae tuto tibi magna volant, dum distinet hostem
agger murorum nec inundant sanguine fossae.
proinde tona eloquio (solitum tibi) meque timoris
argue tu, Drance, quando tot stragis acervos
Teucrorum tua dextra dedit, passimque tropaeis
insignis agros. possit quid vivida virtus
experiare licet, nec longe scilicet hostes
quaerendi nobis; circumstant undique muros.
imus in adversos—quid cessas? an tibi Mavors
ventosa in lingua pedibusque fugacibus istis
semper erit?
pulsus ego? aut quisquam merito, foedissime, pulsum
arguet, Iliaco tumidum qui crescere Thybrim
sanguine et Evandri totam cum stirpe videbit
procubuisse domum atque exutos Arcadas armis?
haud ita me experti Bitias et Pandarus ingens
et quos mille die victor sub Tartara misi,
inclusus muris hostilique aggere saeptus.
nulla salus bello? capiti cane talia, demens,
Dardanio rebusque tuis. proinde omnia magno
ne cessa turbare metu atque extollere viris
gentis bis victae, contra premere arma Latini.
nunc et Myrmidonum proceres Phrygia arma tremescunt,
nunc et Tydides et Larisaeus Achilles,
amnis et Hadriacas retro fugit Aufidus undas.
vel cum se pavidum contra mea iurgia fingit,
artificis scelus, et formidine crimen acerbat.
numquam animam talem dextra hac (absiste moveri)
amittes: habitet tecum et sit pectore in isto.

Now, father, to come back to your great matter.
If there’s really no hope in fighting,
if we’re so bereft and one battle
breaks us, and fortune can’t come our way,
I say, enough! Let’s beg peace and stretch forth
dying hands. But if…
O, if there were anything left
of our usual gusto! Blessed is he
who’s already gone to death and bitten
the dust rather than seeing this.
If on the other hand we’ve any manhood
intact, and if the people and cities of Italy
are still with us, and if the Trojans win glory
with much blood (for the war-storm has swept
over all of us alike), why should we fall apart
like cowards at the first punch? Why
does a tremor rattle our limbs at the call
of the trumpet? Things get better.
Fortune’s knocked you down today?
Tomorrow you’ll stand on your feet.
Diomedes isn’t walking through that door.
But Messapus is. And lucky Tolumnius.
And leaders sent by many folks.
There’s no small fame to be won
by Latins in Laurentine fields.
And there’s Camilla, of the famous
Volscan folk, driving her troop of horse
and squadrons flashing bronze.
But hell. If I have to do it myself –
if I’m such a barrier to the commonweal –
I will. Victory has not fled these hands.
I’ll face him, even if he’s greater than Achilles
and wielding divine weapons.
I, Turnus, second to none of my forebears
in valor, pledge my life to you, Latinus.
Aeneas alone calls me? Great. I hope
he does. And I hope it’s me rather than
Drances who with his death appeases
the gods if they’re angry or wins glory
with virtu, if that’s the price.”

IV. Cogite concilium et pacem laudate sedentes

So Turnus says, and the debate rages on.
Meanwhile, Aeneas is on the move.
A messenger arrives causing a great tumult.
Royal house, city fill up with fear.
The Trojans and their hordes stream down
(he says) and swamp the field. The spirits
of the folk are agitated, their hearts
stricken. They cry arms. Arms, they cry,
the youth, and their sad fathers moan. 
From every side now a din rises.
It’s like when birds alight by chance
all in one tree, or when by a fish-filled
stream swans noise about in small pools–
“No,” says Turnus, seizing the moment,
“O cives, by all means call a council
and sit around praising peace.
Here come the warm jets.”
And he says no more.
Instead he shoots up and out
from the high hall.
“You, Volusus, call the Volscan bands to arm,”
he shouts, “and lead the Rutulians. Messapus
and Coras, with armed cavalry, deploy
over the broad plains. You all, fortify
the city walls and occupy towers. 
The rest – with me.”

It is accomplished as Turnus commands.
Father Latinus, seriously bummed, walks away
from the council and abandons his plans.
“I should’ve been a better host to Aeneas,
welcomed him as son and heir,” he thinks
to himself.
Everything points to war.
Now the last labor calls everyone–
even the queen, with a great company
of women, drives up to the tower of Minerva
with gifts. And with them, the virgin 
Lavinia, the cause of all this evil.
Her lovely eyes downcast.
Silent.
Dejected.
As they go, the mothers
fill the temple with smoke of incense
and from the high threshold their sad voices:
“Mighty goddess, first in war, 
Tritonian Virgin, break
with your hand the Phyrgian pirate’s 
weapons and scatter him prone
on the ground, stretching him
under our high gate.”

nunc ad te et tua magna, pater, consulta revertor.
si nullam nostris ultra spem ponis in armis,
si tam deserti sumus et semel agmine verso
funditus occidimus neque habet Fortuna regressum,
oremus pacem et dextras tendamus inertis.
quamquam o si solitae quicquam virtutis adesset!
ille mihi ante alios fortunatusque laborum
egregiusque animi, qui, ne quid tale videret,
procubuit moriens et humum semel ore momordit.
sin et opes nobis et adhuc intacta iuventus
auxilioque urbes Italae populique supersunt,
sin et Troianis cum multo gloria venit
sanguine (sunt illis sua funera, parque per omnis
tempestas), cur indecores in limine primo
deficimus? cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
multa dies variique labor mutabilis aevi
rettulit in melius, multos alterna revisens
lusit et in solido rursus Fortuna locavit.
non erit auxilio nobis Aetolus et Arpi:
at Messapus erit felixque Tolumnius et quos
tot populi misere duces, nec parva sequetur
gloria delectos Latio et Laurentibus agris.
est et Volscorum egregia de gente Camilla
agmen agens equitum et florentis aere catervas.
quod si me solum Teucri in certamina poscunt
idque placet tantumque bonis communibus obsto,
non adeo has exosa manus Victoria fugit
ut tanta quicquam pro spe temptare recusem.
ibo animis contra, vel magnum praestet Achillem
factaque Volcani manibus paria induat arma
ille licet. vobis animam hanc soceroque Latino
Turnus ego, haud ulli veterum virtute secundus,
devovi. solum Aeneas vocat? et vocet oro;
nec Drances potius, sive est haec ira deorum,
morte luat, sive est virtus et gloria, tollat.'

Illi haec inter se dubiis de rebus agebant
certantes: castra Aeneas aciemque movebat.
nuntius ingenti per regia tecta tumultu
ecce ruit magnisque urbem terroribus implet:
instructos acie Tiberino a flumine Teucros
Tyrrhenamque manum totis descendere campis.
extemplo turbati animi concussaque vulgi
pectora et arrectae stimulis haud mollibus irae.
arma manu trepidi poscunt, fremit arma iuventus,
flent maesti mussantque patres. hic undique clamor
dissensu vario magnus se tollit in auras,
haud secus atque alto in luco cum forte catervae
consedere avium, piscosove amne Padusae
dant sonitum rauci per stagna loquacia cycni.
'immo,' ait 'o cives,' arrepto tempore Turnus,
'cogite concilium et pacem laudate sedentes;
illi armis in regna ruunt.' nec plura locutus
corripuit sese et tectis citus extulit altis.
'tu, Voluse, armari Volscorum edice maniplis,
duc' ait 'et Rutulos. equitem Messapus in armis,
et cum fratre Coras latis diffundite campis.
pars aditus urbis firment turrisque capessant;
cetera, qua iusso, mecum manus inferat arma.'

Ilicet in muros tota discurritur urbe.
concilium ipse pater et magna incepta Latinus
deserit ac tristi turbatus tempore differt,
multaque se incusat qui non acceperit ultro
Dardanium Aenean generumque asciverit urbi.
praefodiunt alii portas aut saxa sudesque
subvectant. bello dat signum rauca cruentum
bucina. tum muros varia cinxere corona
matronae puerique, vocat labor ultimus omnis.
nec non ad templum summasque ad Palladis arces
subvehitur magna matrum regina caterva
dona ferens, iuxtaque comes Lavinia virgo,
causa mali tanti, oculos deiecta decoros.
succedunt matres et templum ture vaporant
et maestas alto fundunt de limine voces:
'armipotens, praeses belli, Tritonia virgo,
frange manu telum Phrygii praedonis, et ipsum
pronum sterne solo portisque effunde sub altis.'

Turnus, working himself into a frenzy,
straps up for battle. First
he slides into gleaming breastplate.
His legs encased in gold.
For the moment, his temples exposed,
sword fixed to his hip. Watch him 
as he runs down from the stronghold,
gold flashing through the streets,
wild stallion breaking free and shaking
his mane in triumph.
Camilla 
meets him, leaps from 
her horse at the gates and
the whole Volscan army
does likewise. She says:
“Turnus, I’m your man.
I’ve got the balls to ride out
and meet Aeneas and his men
solo. Let me do that, while you
stay by the walls and guard them.”

Turnus glares at the tough maiden.
“O glorious woman of Italy,
I can’t thank you enough.
Since your spirit soars
above the rest, I’ll tell you 
what: We’ll ride out together.
Aeneas, so our spies tell us,
foolishly sends out a light cavalry
to menace the fields while he
picks his way along the hills
into town. I’m laying a war-trap
in the woods, where I’ll block
the two-throated gorge
with troops. You, battle-ready,
wait for the Trojan cavalry.
With you, tough Messapus
and the Latin force, also
Tiburtus’s band. Take charge
as captain.”
So he speaks and with similar words
pumps up Messapus and the other leaders.
They march. 
There’s a long, low valley, perfect
for fighting in, covered on both sides
by dense foliage. The way there’s
a narrow path with a straight gorge
and tough approach.
Along the way amidst the high hills
lies a secluded spot – from here,
you could attack to the right
or left, or hurl down huge rocks
from the ridge. It’s to here
the young guy rushes and waits
in the dark woods.

Meanwhile in the heavens
Diana calls swift Opis,
one of her fellow virgins and part
of her squad. She says:
“Camilla is marching to war,
O maid, and fruitlessly puts on
our arms. I love her above
all others, and it’s not a recent thing,
either. A long time ago Metabus
was chased from his realm
by his subjects. Amidst the clash
of battle, he grabbed his baby,
and from her mother’s name,
‘Casmilla,’ dropped one letter
and called her ‘Camilla.’
Lugging her on his chest
he found himself surrounded
in a lonely wood, Volscan weapons
threatening from all sides.
Then it got worse.
The river overflowed and boiled over
its high bands after a sudden
storm. Metabus, about to jump in,
hesitated out of love for his daughter.
Thinking fast, he took a huge spear
he happened to have, a tough
old piece of oak. He tied it to 
his daughter. He called
to the heavens: ‘Dear Lady,
Cultivator of Woods,
Latonian Maid, to you
I promise this girl. For you
this first weapon she holds,
I beg you accept and protect her, 
flying
through the dubious air.’
And pulling back his arm, he let loose
and launched poor Camilla over roaring waves
on the twisting shaft. Then Metabus
with a great leap gave himself 
to the water. He made it!
And he pulled the shaft and girl
from the grass, his gift to Trivia.
No home, no city would take him
(he was too wild to give himself up anyway).
So he hung out with shepherds.
Lived on the land, in the mountains,
nursing his daughter on the bitter milk
of a wild mare. From the baby’s first
steps he armed her with a sharp lance,
hung a bow and quiver around her
tiny neck. No gold for her hair,
no pretty robe; instead what hung
down her back was a tiger’s pelt.
With a toddler’s hands she tossed
baby spears and swung round her head
a sling, taking down cranes and swans.
A lot of moms in the Tyrrhenian town
wanted her for a daughter. But she
was only content with Diana, mad
for a life of weapon-lust and virginity.
I wish she’d not been snatched
by this war or tried to take on
the Trojans. She’d still be one of my posse,
and the dearest one.
So get going. Seeing that she’s driven by
harsh fates, slide down and seek out
the Latin frontier where they clash
in bitter feud. Take these, and draw
from the quiver an avenging arrow
for whoever violates her blessed flesh
with a wound. Whether Trojan or Italian,
render to me a blood payment. I’ll come down
in a cloud and bear the body and arms
of my sweet child to be buried unspoiled
in her own land.”

She speaks, and Opis slips down 
through the air with a whirring sound,
her body enclosed in a dark whirlwind.

cingitur ipse furens certatim in proelia Turnus.
iamque adeo rutilum thoraca indutus aenis
horrebat squamis surasque incluserat auro,
tempora nudus adhuc, laterique accinxerat ensem,
fulgebatque alta decurrens aureus arce
exsultatque animis et spe iam praecipit hostem:
qualis ubi abruptis fugit praesepia vinclis
tandem liber equus, campoque potitus aperto
aut ille in pastus armentaque tendit equarum
aut adsuetus aquae perfundi flumine noto
emicat, arrectisque fremit cervicibus alte
luxurians luduntque iubae per colla, per armos.

Obvia cui Volscorum acie comitante Camilla
occurrit portisque ab equo regina sub ipsis
desiluit, quam tota cohors imitata relictis
ad terram defluxit equis; tum talia fatur:
'Turne, sui merito si qua est fiducia forti,
audeo et Aeneadum promitto occurrere turmae
solaque Tyrrhenos equites ire obvia contra.
me sine prima manu temptare pericula belli,
tu pedes ad muros subsiste et moenia serva.'
Turnus ad haec oculos horrenda in virgine fixus:
'o decus Italiae virgo, quas dicere grates
quasve referre parem? sed nunc, est omnia quando
iste animus supra, mecum partire laborem.
Aeneas, ut fama fidem missique reportant
exploratores, equitum levia improbus arma
praemisit, quaterent campos; ipse ardua montis
per deserta iugo superans adventat ad urbem.
furta paro belli conuexo in tramite silvae,
ut bivias armato obsidam milite fauces.
tu Tyrrhenum equitem conlatis excipe signis;
tecum acer Messapus erit turmaeque Latinae
Tiburtique manus, ducis et tu concipe curam.'
sic ait, et paribus Messapum in proelia dictis
hortatur sociosque duces et pergit in hostem.

Est curvo anfractu valles, accommoda fraudi
armorumque dolis, quam densis frondibus atrum
urget utrimque latus, tenuis quo semita ducit
angustaeque ferunt fauces aditusque maligni.
hanc super in speculis summoque in vertice montis
planities ignota iacet tutique receptus,
seu dextra laevaque velis occurrere pugnae
sive instare iugis et grandia volvere saxa.
huc iuvenis nota fertur regione viarum
arripuitque locum et silvis insedit iniquis.

Velocem interea superis in sedibus Opim,
unam ex virginibus sociis sacraque caterva,
compellabat et has tristis Latonia voces
ore dabat: 'graditur bellum ad crudele Camilla, 
o virgo, et nostris nequiquam cingitur armis,
cara mihi ante alias. neque enim novus iste Dianae
venit amor subitaque animum dulcedine movit.
pulsus ob invidiam regno virisque superbas
Priverno antiqua Metabus cum excederet urbe,
infantem fugiens media inter proelia belli
sustulit exsilio comitem, matrisque vocavit
nomine Casmillae mutata parte Camillam.
ipse sinu prae se portans iuga longa petebat
solorum nemorum: tela undique saeva premebant
et circumfuso volitabant milite Volsci.
ecce fugae medio summis Amasenus abundans
spumabat ripis, tantus se nubibus imber
ruperat. ille innare parans infantis amore
tardatur caroque oneri timet. omnia secum
versanti subito vix haec sententia sedit:
telum immane manu valida quod forte gerebat
bellator, solidum nodis et robore cocto,
huic natam libro et silvestri subere clausam
implicat atque habilem mediae circumligat hastae;
quam dextra ingenti librans ita ad aethera fatur:
"alma, tibi hanc, nemorum cultrix, Latonia virgo,
ipse pater famulam voveo; tua prima per auras
tela tenens supplex hostem fugit. accipe, testor,
diva tuam, quae nunc dubiis committitur auris."
dixit, et adducto contortum hastile lacerto
immittit: sonuere undae, rapidum super amnem
infelix fugit in iaculo stridente Camilla.
at Metabus magna propius iam urgente caterva
dat sese fluvio, atque hastam cum virgine victor
gramineo, donum Triviae, de caespite vellit.
non illum tectis ullae, non moenibus urbes
accepere (neque ipse manus feritate dedisset),
pastorum et solis exegit montibus aevum.
hic natam in dumis interque horrentia lustra
armentalis equae mammis et lacte ferino
nutribat teneris immulgens ubera labris.
utque pedum primis infans vestigia plantis
institerat, iaculo palmas armavit acuto
spiculaque ex umero parvae suspendit et arcum.
pro crinali auro, pro longae tegmine pallae
tigridis exuviae per dorsum a vertice pendent.
tela manu iam tum tenera puerilia torsit
et fundam tereti circum caput egit habena
Strymoniamque gruem aut album deiecit olorem.
multae illam frustra Tyrrhena per oppida matres
optavere nurum; sola contenta Diana
aeternum telorum et virginitatis amorem
intemerata colit. vellem haud correpta fuisset
militia tali conata lacessere Teucros:
cara mihi comitumque foret nunc una mearum.
verum age, quandoquidem fatis urgetur acerbis,
labere, nympha, polo finisque invise Latinos,
tristis ubi infausto committitur omine pugna.
haec cape et ultricem pharetra deprome sagittam:
hac, quicumque sacrum violarit vulnere corpus,
Tros Italusque, mihi pariter det sanguine poenas.
post ego nube cava miserandae corpus et arma
inspoliata feram tumulo patriaeque reponam.'
dixit, at illa levis caeli delapsa per auras
insonuit nigro circumdata turbine corpus.

V. Quem telo primum, quem postremum, aspera virgo, deices?

The Trojans near the Latin walls.
Etruscan chiefs and their whole army
bristle around them in squads. Noise
of warhorse, snorting and prancing hooves,
turning here and there on tight reins.
Glitter of spear-tips and flashing swords
light up the field. 
MESSAPUS
on the other side, the swift Latins
plus CORAS and his brother, 
also 
CAMILLA
and her band, all with their hands
cocked back ready to toss spears.
There’s an angry sound almost like
ice about to break. NOW
in their march each army stops
a spear’s throw from the other.

They break
with a shout. Urge
angry horses forward.
Missiles fly
every which way, thick
as snowflakes making the sky go dark.

At manus interea muris Troiana propinquat,
Etruscique duces equitumque exercitus omnis
compositi numero in turmas. fremit aequore toto
insultans sonipes et pressis pugnat habenis
huc conversus et huc; tum late ferreus hastis
horret ager campique armis sublimibus ardent.
nec non Messapus contra celeresque Latini
et cum fratre Coras et virginis ala Camillae
adversi campo apparent, hastasque reductis
protendunt longe dextris et spicula vibrant,
adventusque virum fremitusque ardescit equorum.
iamque intra iactum teli progressus uterque
substiterat: subito erumpunt clamore furentisque
exhortantur equos, fundunt simul undique tela
crebra nivis ritu, caelumque obtexitur umbra.

Tyrrhenus and tough Aconteus
clash spears and shatter their mounts
coming down with a great ruckus.
They knock breastplates and Aconteus
is tossed headfirst a long ways
and his life scatters in the air.

At this the lines waver. The Latins
are swept back, tossing shields and turning
horses towards their walls.
Trojans follow led by Asilas.
The Latins are close to the gates
when they shout and turn their horses
again, while others flee wherever.
It’s like
ocean crashing against cliffs
scattering spray and foam on the sands.
Twice the Tuscans drive the fleeing Rutulians
to the walls, twice they’re repulsed–
but the third time the lines are locked up
man against man their whole length.

There’s a huge groan of death
arms
bodies horses
fallen
and mixed up with dying
men–
the bitter fight surges.

Orsilochus tosses a spear at Remulus’s horse
(afraid to face the man himself) and hits
the horse under the ear. At this unbearable wound
the animal rages and tosses its legs up high–
the rider’s thrown to the turf.

Catillus beats Iollas, great of spirit, great
in body and arms: curls cover his bare head
and his shoulders are bare. No fear of wounds,
he’s such a badass. The spear goes through
his wide shoulders and trembles, fixing him
there in pain.

All over the place blood
spurts as they deal out death,
seeking a pretty end among all the hurt.

But like an Amazon amidst the fighting,
one breast bare, Camilla
exults. One minute she’s hurling hard spears
from her hand. The next she seizes a battle-axe
in her steady grip. The golden bow,
Diana’s weapon, rattles on her shoulder.
And when pressed from behind she whirls about
and draws the bow while moving.
Around her, her allies – the maids Larina
and Tulla and Tarpeia wielding a bronze axe.
Italian girls all of them, who goddess-like Camilla
handpicked as helpers in war and peace.
They really are just like Thracian Amazons,
who drive over Thermodon’s streams
and fight in shining armor – either round Hippolyte
or when Penthesilea, daughter of Mars, swings through
in a chariot, and with great shouting the women
rally with crescent shields.

Tell me, tough babe, who you’ll kill first, who’s 
the last one you’ll strike down? How many 
body bags will you fill before you’re through?

First there’s Euneus, son of Clytius, whose bare chest
she runs through with a long spear as he faces her.
Vomiting blood he dies, chewing the gory ground
and writhing atop his own wound.
Then Liris, and Pagasus, one on top
of the other, tumbling down in a mass
of horse, reins, armor.
To these, Camilla adds
Amastrus, son of Hippotas. 
Really getting into it now she locks on
Tereus from a long way off with her spear
and Harpalycus
and Demophoon
and Chromis

as many spears as she hurls from her hand
that’s how many Phyrgians die.
From distance the hunter Ornytus rides
in strange arms on a Iapygian horse
a steer hide across his broad shoulders,
his head covered by a wolf’s huge gaping mouth
white teeth clicking
and rustic spear in his hand.
He whirls about amidst the ranks, a head above all.
Him she takes down 
(and it’s not that tough the way he sticks out)
 running him through with an angry heart, crying:
“You, Tuscan, you thought it was fun
to chase animals in the woods? 
Well, it’s a woman’s blade that responds
to your boasts. But your dead ancestors
will be proud – you die by great Camilla’s hand.”

Next up: Orsilochus and Butes, two Teucrians 
of unusual size. Butes she stabs in the back
between shield and corslet where his fat neck
shows – Orsilochus she flees
in a great circle and turning about, the hunted
becomes the hunter.
She gets him with the axe. Rising high
on her horse she splits his helmet
and bone and his face is covered
in hot brains, all while he makes vows
and prays for mercy. NOW
in her path falls the soldier son
of Aunus, a race of notorious liars
(and he the biggest liar of them all).
When he sees there’s no hope
of escape, the lying kicks into gear
and he starts spinning a scheme:
“How is it impressive,
sweetie, to fight little old me
from atop that horse? Hop off
and meet me on level ground.
Soon enough you’ll find out
who’s fooled by fickle glory.”

She’s enraged. Tired of men putting her down.
She hands her horse off to a pal and leaps
to face him on equal footing, teeth
and sword bared, pure and unafraid.
The young guy, believing his plan worked,
splits the scene.
He whirls his horse around and digs
spurs into its flanks to make it go faster.

“Ligurian fool,” she says,
“in vain you’ve tried a trick
from your homeland. It won’t
work, and you’ll never see
Aunus, land of the liars,
again.”

continuo adversis Tyrrhenus et acer Aconteus
conixi incurrunt hastis primique ruinam
dant sonitu ingenti perfractaque quadripedantum
pectora pectoribus rumpunt; excussus Aconteus
fulminis in morem aut tormento ponderis acti
praecipitat longe et vitam dispergit in auras.

Extemplo turbatae acies, versique Latini
reiciunt parmas et equos ad moenia vertunt;
Troes agunt, princeps turmas inducit Asilas.
iamque propinquabant portis rursusque Latini
clamorem tollunt et mollia colla reflectunt;
hi fugiunt penitusque datis referuntur habenis.
qualis ubi alterno procurrens gurgite pontus
nunc ruit ad terram scopulosque superiacit unda
spumeus extremamque sinu perfundit harenam,
nunc rapidus retro atque aestu revoluta resorbens
saxa fugit litusque vado labente relinquit:
bis Tusci Rutulos egere ad moenia versos,
bis reiecti armis respectant terga tegentes.
tertia sed postquam congressi in proelia totas
implicuere inter se acies legitque virum vir,
tum vero et gemitus morientum et sanguine in alto
armaque corporaque et permixti caede virorum
semianimes volvuntur equi, pugna aspera surgit.
Orsilochus Remuli, quando ipsum horrebat adire,
hastam intorsit equo ferrumque sub aure reliquit;
quo sonipes ictu furit arduus altaque iactat
vulneris impatiens arrecto pectore crura,
volvitur ille excussus humi. Catillus Iollan
ingentemque animis, ingentem corpore et armis
deicit Herminium, nudo cui vertice fulva
caesaries nudique umeri nec vulnera terrent;
tantus in arma patet. latos huic hasta per armos
acta tremit duplicatque virum transfixa dolore.
funditur ater ubique cruor; dant funera ferro
certantes pulchramque petunt per vulnera mortem.

At medias inter caedes exsultat Amazon
unum exserta latus pugnae, pharetrata Camilla,
et nunc lenta manu spargens hastilia denset,
nunc validam dextra rapit indefessa bipennem;
aureus ex umero sonat arcus et arma Dianae.
illa etiam, si quando in tergum pulsa recessit,
spicula converso fugientia derigit arcu.
at circum lectae comites, Larinaque virgo
Tullaque et aeratam quatiens Tarpeia securim,
Italides, quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla
delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras:
quales Threiciae cum flumina Thermodontis
pulsant et pictis bellantur Amazones armis,
seu circum Hippolyten seu cum se Martia curru
Penthesilea refert, magnoque ululante tumultu
feminea exsultant lunatis agmina peltis.

Quem telo primum, quem postremum, aspera virgo,
deicis? aut quot humi morientia corpora fundis?
Eunaeum Clytio primum patre, cuius apertum
adversi longa transverberat abiete pectus.
sanguinis ille vomens rivos cadit atque cruentam
mandit humum moriensque suo se in vulnere versat.
tum Lirim Pagasumque super, quorum alter habenas
suffuso revolutus equo dum colligit, alter
dum subit ac dextram labenti tendit inermem,
praecipites pariterque ruunt. his addit Amastrum
Hippotaden, sequiturque incumbens eminus hasta
Tereaque Harpalycumque et Demophoonta Chromimque;
quotque emissa manu contorsit spicula virgo,
tot Phrygii cecidere viri. procul Ornytus armis
ignotis et equo venator Iapyge fertur,
cui pellis latos umeros erepta iuvenco
pugnatori operit, caput ingens oris hiatus
et malae texere lupi cum dentibus albis,
agrestisque manus armat sparus; ipse catervis
vertitur in mediis et toto vertice supra est.
hunc illa exceptum (neque enim labor agmine verso)
traicit et super haec inimico pectore fatur:
'silvis te, Tyrrhene, feras agitare putasti?
advenit qui vestra dies muliebribus armis
verba redargueret. nomen tamen haud leve patrum
manibus hoc referes, telo cecidisse Camillae.'

Protinus Orsilochum et Buten, duo maxima Teucrum
corpora, sed Buten aversum cuspide fixit
loricam galeamque inter, qua colla sedentis
lucent et laevo dependet parma lacerto;
Orsilochum fugiens magnumque agitata per orbem
eludit gyro interior sequiturque sequentem;
tum validam perque arma viro perque ossa securim
altior exsurgens oranti et multa precanti
congeminat; vulnus calido rigat ora cerebro.
incidit huic subitoque aspectu territus haesit
Appenninicolae bellator filius Auni,
haud Ligurum extremus, dum fallere fata sinebant.
isque ubi se nullo iam cursu evadere pugnae
posse neque instantem reginam avertere cernit,
consilio versare dolos ingressus et astu
incipit haec: 'quid tam egregium, si femina forti
fidis equo? dimitte fugam et te comminus aequo
mecum crede solo pugnaeque accinge pedestri:
iam nosces ventosa ferat cui gloria fraudem.'
dixit, at illa furens acrique accensa dolore
tradit equum comiti paribusque resistit in armis
ense pedes nudo puraque interrita parma.
at iuvenis vicisse dolo ratus avolat ipse
(haud mora), conversisque fugax aufertur habenis
quadripedemque citum ferrata calce fatigat.
'vane Ligus frustraque animis elate superbis,
nequiquam patrias temptasti lubricus artis,
nec fraus te incolumem fallaci perferet Auno.'

She moves lightning-quick and bolts
in front of his horse, grabbing the reins
a falcon
shooting
down from high rock
dove
caught talons
eviscerate
blood
feathers
falling
sky

VI.  …partem mente dedit, partem volucris dispersit in auras

But meanwhile 
the Father of Men and Gods
watches from high Olympus, breathing
life into Tyrrhenian Tarchon for the harsh
battle and inciting anger inside him.
So Tarchon amidst the mayhem
rides his horse and inspires his troops
calling each soldier by name and
reconstructing the jumbled lines:
“What fear, you shameless laggards,
what idleness seizes your spirits?
A woman drives you apart and makes you
go helter-skelter? Why bother carrying
swords – why hold weapons at all?
But you’re not too lazy for love
and ‘night moves,’ or when the flute
calls you to dance with Bacchus.
You keep an eye out for dinner
and cups on the full table
(no laziness when it’s time to feast)
and listen for the priest chanting
over the fat sacrifice in the woods!”

So he chides them, spurring his horse
straight towards the foe, ready to die.
He lands like a whirlwind on Venulus
and tears him right off his horse.
A hubbub rises to heaven as the Latins
all stare – like lightning Tarchon flies
over the field carrying the guy. 
He breaks off the tip of the man’s spear
and looks for a bare patch of skin where
he might deal the mortal wound –
Venulus, fighting him off, grapples
for his throat. It’s like when an eagle
flies high with a huge snake tangled
up in its claws, writhing and hissing
but ultimately helpless as the eagle
beats its wings – like that, Tarchon
carries his prey, rejoicing. Others
follow his lead. The Maeonian boys
rush in. 
Then Arruns, trusting to fate,
zooms around fast Camilla with his spear
and tries his luck. Wherever the she-warrior
rages along the lines, he follows, creeping
quietly on her path. When she withdraws
in triumph from the enemy, he’s there.
But quietly, quietly. Watching, waiting.
Trying here and there for a chance 
to strike. 
And by chance Chloreus, former priest
and sacred to Cybelus, glows from far off.
His bright insignia and arms flash as he darts
to and fro on his horse. Gold, purple, saffron,
bright plumage and embroidery sparkle
in the sun as he rides. Camilla locks on him,
fantasizing about setting up Trojan arms
in a temple or perhaps wearing them herself.
She’s in huntress mode, charging recklessly
through the ranks with a female lust for spoils.

This is the break Arruns has been waiting for.
He prays aloud to the gods:
“Highest divinity, guardian 
of holy Soracte, Apollo,
whom we worship first
and to whom we offer
the burning pine, while 
we, your cultivators, pass
through fire trusting to
piety and press our feet
on burning coals – grant
that our shame be wiped out
with this weapon. I seek
no spoils nor any trophies
from the virgin’s downfall.
I can be remembered for
other deeds. If it be your will
this tough woman fall
at my strike, I’m happy
to go back to my hometown
sans glory.”

The god hears and grants that part
of the prayer will succeed, another part
blow away in the breeze. In other words,
the warrior princess is going down.
But Arruns isn’t going anywhere
ever again.
SO
when the spear flies from his hand 
and hums
through the air
the Volscians turn their eager eyes
to the queen. She doesn’t notice a thing
however, and the spear
strikes
just below her bare breast
and the wound gurgles up virgin blood.
Her frightened allies rush together
to catch the fallen queen.
Arruns flees.
He’s jacked up more than anyone,
adrenaline goosing the fear
in his veins as he flies, not bothering
to celebrate or hang around
to face avenging weapons.
It’s just like when a juvenile delinquent
stabs a woman and robs her and then
runs, all the hair on his neck standing up
as he scampers off for the shadows.
So Arruns makes himself scarce,
his soul in turmoil, trying to blend in
with the crowd of soldiers. 

VII. “Iamque vale.”

CAMILLA
dying, pulls at the spear but the iron
is dug in and it’s a sucking wound
just below her ribs. She slips,
out of blood, and her eyes sink,
and the glow goes out of her cheeks.
With her dying breath she addresses
Acca, one of her age-mates, faithful
before all others and confidant to
all her woes:
“Till now, sister Acca, it’s been doable.
Now the bitter wound takes me down
and shadows gather. Run away
and bring my last mandate to Turnus:
Join the battle and seal off the city
from Trojans. Goodbye.”

Then the reins slip from her hands
and she drops from her horse.
She lets go of her body. Her neck
folds and weapons fall from 
her hands and with a groan
her life flees to the shades.

There’s a huge shout – Camilla’s dead! –
the fighting grows frenzied, everyone’s
throwing themselves into it pell-mell,
the whole Trojan army and the Tyrrhene chiefs
and Evander’s Arcadian squadrons.
Opis has been watching this whole time.
From far off she sees Camilla bite the dust
and groaning she says:
“You didn’t deserve such punishment,
sweet maid, for starting a fight with Trojans!
And the fact that you worshipped Diana
in the lonely brambles and carried 
her quiver on your shoulder didn’t help you
in the end. BUT…
your queen hasn’t forgotten you.
You’ll not be dishonored in death.
Your name will live on, and
you’ll be avenged. Whoever did this
to you will pay with his life.”

There under the mountain is a huge
mound of earth. It’s the tomb of Dercennus,
an old Laurentine king. Here the pretty goddess
settles her feet and scans the horizon till
she sees Arruns prancing in shining arms
and pumping himself up with pride.

“Why do you wander so far?” she asks.
“Come to mama, and taste death
from Diana’s darts.”

She draws a winged arrow from her quiver.
Slides it into the bow and stretches it, drawing
with ill intent until the curved ends touch.
Perfectly calm, she touches the iron tip
with her left hand while her right brushes her 
bare nipple.
TWANG
and Arruns hears a whizzing
in the air and the arrow pierces his body.
He moans out his last breath while his friends
leave him behind in the dust. OPIS
flies back to Olympus.

haec fatur virgo, et pernicibus ignea plantis
transit equum cursu frenisque adversa prehensis
congreditur poenasque inimico ex sanguine sumit:
quam facile accipiter saxo sacer ales ab alto
consequitur pennis sublimem in nube columbam
comprensamque tenet pedibusque eviscerat uncis;
tum cruor et vulsae labuntur ab aethere plumae.

At non haec nullis hominum sator atque deorum
observans oculis summo sedet altus Olympo.
Tyrrhenum genitor Tarchonem in proelia saeva
suscitat et stimulis haud mollibus inicit iras.
ergo inter caedes cedentiaque agmina Tarchon
fertur equo variisque instigat vocibus alas
nomine quemque vocans, reficitque in proelia pulsos.
'quis metus, o numquam dolituri, o semper inertes
Tyrrheni, quae tanta animis ignavia venit?
femina palantis agit atque haec agmina vertit!
quo ferrum quidve haec gerimus tela inrita dextris?
at non in Venerem segnes nocturnaque bella,
aut ubi curva choros indixit tibia Bacchi.
exspectate dapes et plenae pocula mensae
(hic amor, hoc studium) dum sacra secundus haruspex
nuntiet ac lucos vocet hostia pinguis in altos!'
haec effatus equum in medios moriturus et ipse
concitat, et Venulo adversum se turbidus infert
dereptumque ab equo dextra complectitur hostem
et gremium ante suum multa vi concitus aufert.
tollitur in caelum clamor cunctique Latini
convertere oculos. volat igneus aequore Tarchon
arma virumque ferens; tum summa ipsius ab hasta
defringit ferrum et partis rimatur apertas,
qua vulnus letale ferat; contra ille repugnans
sustinet a iugulo dextram et vim viribus exit.
utque volans alte raptum cum fulva draconem
fert aquila implicuitque pedes atque unguibus haesit,
saucius at serpens sinuosa volumina versat
arrectisque horret squamis et sibilat ore
arduus insurgens, illa haud minus urget obunco
luctantem rostro, simul aethera verberat alis:
haud aliter praedam Tiburtum ex agmine Tarchon
portat ovans. ducis exemplum eventumque secuti
Maeonidae incurrunt. tum fatis debitus Arruns
velocem iaculo et multa prior arte Camillam
circuit, et quae sit fortuna facillima temptat.
qua se cumque furens medio tulit agmine virgo,
hac Arruns subit et tacitus vestigia lustrat;
qua victrix redit illa pedemque ex hoste reportat,
hac iuvenis furtim celeris detorquet habenas.
hos aditus iamque hos aditus omnemque pererrat
undique circuitum et certam quatit improbus hastam.

Forte sacer Cybelo Chloreus olimque sacerdos
insignis longe Phrygiis fulgebat in armis
spumantemque agitabat equum, quem pellis aenis
in plumam squamis auro conserta tegebat.
ipse peregrina ferrugine clarus et ostro
spicula torquebat Lycio Gortynia cornu;
aureus ex umeris erat arcus et aurea vati
cassida; tum croceam chlamydemque sinusque crepantis
carbaseos fulvo in nodum collegerat auro
pictus acu tunicas et barbara tegmina crurum.
hunc virgo, sive ut templis praefigeret arma
Troia, captivo sive ut se ferret in auro
venatrix, unum ex omni certamine pugnae
caeca sequebatur totumque incauta per agmen
femineo praedae et spoliorum ardebat amore,
telum ex insidiis cum tandem tempore capto
concitat et superos Arruns sic voce precatur:
'summe deum, sancti custos Soractis Apollo,
quem primi colimus, cui pineus ardor acervo
pascitur, et medium freti pietate per ignem
cultores multa premimus vestigia pruna,
da, pater, hoc nostris aboleri dedecus armis,
omnipotens. non exuvias pulsaeve tropaeum
virginis aut spolia ulla peto, mihi cetera laudem
facta ferent; haec dira meo dum vulnere pestis
pulsa cadat, patrias remeabo inglorius urbes.'

Audiit et voti Phoebus succedere partem
mente dedit, partem volucris dispersit in auras:
sterneret ut subita turbatam morte Camillam
adnuit oranti; reducem ut patria alta videret
non dedit, inque Notos vocem vertere procellae.
ergo ut missa manu sonitum dedit hasta per auras,
convertere animos acris oculosque tulere
cuncti ad reginam Volsci. nihil ipsa nec aurae
nec sonitus memor aut venientis ab aethere teli,
hasta sub exsertam donec perlata papillam
haesit virgineumque alte bibit acta cruorem.
concurrunt trepidae comites dominamque ruentem
suscipiunt. fugit ante omnis exterritus Arruns
laetitia mixtoque metu, nec iam amplius hastae
credere nec telis occurrere virginis audet.
ac velut ille, prius quam tela inimica sequantur,
continuo in montis sese avius abdidit altos
occiso pastore lupus magnove iuvenco,
conscius audacis facti, caudamque remulcens
subiecit pavitantem utero silvasque petivit:
haud secus ex oculis se turbidus abstulit Arruns
contentusque fuga mediis se immiscuit armis.
illa manu moriens telum trahit, ossa sed inter
ferreus ad costas alto stat vulnere mucro.
labitur exsanguis, labuntur frigida leto
lumina, purpureus quondam color ora reliquit.
tum sic exspirans Accam ex aequalibus unam
adloquitur, fida ante alias quae sola Camillae
quicum partiri curas, atque haec ita fatur:
'hactenus, Acca soror, potui: nunc vulnus acerbum
conficit, et tenebris nigrescunt omnia circum.
effuge et haec Turno mandata novissima perfer:
succedat pugnae Troianosque arceat urbe.
iamque vale.' simul his dictis linquebat habenas
ad terram non sponte fluens. tum frigida toto
paulatim exsoluit se corpore, lentaque colla
et captum leto posuit caput, arma relinquens,
vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras.
tum vero immensus surgens ferit aurea clamor
sidera: deiecta crudescit pugna Camilla;
incurrunt densi simul omnis copia Teucrum
Tyrrhenique duces Evandrique Arcades alae.

At Triviae custos iamdudum in montibus Opis
alta sedet summis spectatque interrita pugnas.
utque procul medio iuvenum in clamore furentum
prospexit tristi mulcatam morte Camillam,
ingemuitque deditque has imo pectore voces:
'heu nimium, virgo, nimium crudele luisti
supplicium Teucros conata lacessere bello!
nec tibi desertae in dumis coluisse Dianam
profuit aut nostras umero gessisse pharetras.
non tamen indecorem tua te regina reliquit
extrema iam in morte, neque hoc sine nomine letum
per gentis erit aut famam patieris inultae.
nam quicumque tuum violavit vulnere corpus
morte luet merita.' fuit ingens monte sub alto
regis Dercenni terreno ex aggere bustum
antiqui Laurentis opacaque ilice tectum;
hic dea se primum rapido pulcherrima nisu
sistit et Arruntem tumulo speculatur ab alto.
ut vidit fulgentem armis ac vana tumentem,
'cur' inquit 'diversus abis? huc derige gressum,
huc periture veni, capias ut digna Camillae
praemia. tune etiam telis moriere Dianae?'
dixit, et aurata volucrem Threissa sagittam
deprompsit pharetra cornuque infensa tetendit
et duxit longe, donec curvata coirent
inter se capita et manibus iam tangeret aequis,
laeva aciem ferri, dextra nervoque papillam.
extemplo teli stridorem aurasque sonantis
audiit una Arruns haesitque in corpore ferrum.
illum exspirantem socii atque extrema gementem
obliti ignoto camporum in pulvere linquunt;
Opis ad aetherium pennis aufertur Olympum.

Their domina lost, Camilla’s troops run away first.
The Rutulians take off in a crowd; tough Atinus runs.
Erstwhile leaders and leaderless men rush
for the safety of walls, turning horses that way.
No one can stop what’s coming. It’s Trojans,
Trojans, Trojans – weapons are tossed, horses’ hooves
pound the turf. 
From the watchtowers they see:
a dust cloud, headed this way. Mothers
beat their breasts and send a hue and cry
up to the heavens. Some reach the open gates
but the enemy’s hot on their heels – they die
right there on the threshold, home so close
they can taste it. Others close the gates,
not heeding the screams of friends who get
cut down inches away from them.
Right in front of the eyes of weeping parents,
some roll straight into the trenches. Others
charge blindly at the closed gates and doors.
The mothers – through love of country and
having learned from the example of Camilla –
get busy with poles and stakes, burning
to be first to die defending the walls.

MEANWHILE
the bad news fills Turnus’s ears in the woods
as Acca tells her tumultuous tale: Camilla’s death,
scattering of her lines, influx of the enemy
favored by Mars, the imminent fall of the whole town.
Raging he breaks off his watch on the hills 
(Jove indeed so ordains) and scarcely have his feet
touched the plain when who should pop up
but Aeneas, threading his way through the very pass
where Turnus had been waiting. They both
make a beeline for the walls, quick-like
and loaded for bear, and there’s barely 
a field’s length between them. Aeneas
from far off sees the plain boiling with dust
and the whole Laurentine host, and Turnus
is not unaware of Aeneas in arms. 
They’d settle the whole thing right then and there…
but the sun’s fading and night’s coming on.
So they camp out before the city
and dig in.

—End Book 11—

Prima fugit domina amissa levis ala Camillae,
turbati fugiunt Rutuli, fugit acer Atinas,
disiectique duces desolatique manipli
tuta petunt et equis aversi ad moenia tendunt.
nec quisquam instantis Teucros letumque ferentis
sustentare valet telis aut sistere contra,
sed laxos referunt umeris languentibus arcus,
quadripedumque putrem cursu quatit ungula campum.
volvitur ad muros caligine turbidus atra
pulvis, et e speculis percussae pectora matres
femineum clamorem ad caeli sidera tollunt.
qui cursu portas primi inrupere patentis,
hos inimica super mixto premit agmine turba,
nec miseram effugiunt mortem, sed limine in ipso,
moenibus in patriis atque inter tuta domorum
confixi exspirant animas. pars claudere portas,
nec sociis aperire viam nec moenibus audent
accipere orantis, oriturque miserrima caedes
defendentum armis aditus inque arma ruentum.
exclusi ante oculos lacrimantumque ora parentum
pars in praecipitis fossas urgente ruina
volvitur, immissis pars caeca et concita frenis
arietat in portas et duros obice postis.
ipsae de muris summo certamine matres
(monstrat amor verus patriae, ut videre Camillam)
tela manu trepidae iaciunt ac robore duro
stipitibus ferrum sudibusque imitantur obustis
praecipites, primaeque mori pro moenibus ardent.

Interea Turnum in silvis saevissimus implet
nuntius et iuveni ingentem fert Acca tumultum:
deletas Volscorum acies, cecidisse Camillam,
ingruere infensos hostis et Marte secundo
omnia corripuisse, metum iam ad moenia ferri.
ille furens (et saeva Iovis sic numina poscunt)
deserit obsessos collis, nemora aspera linquit.
vix e conspectu exierat campumque tenebat,
cum pater Aeneas saltus ingressus apertos
exsuperatque iugum silvaque evadit opaca.
sic ambo ad muros rapidi totoque feruntur
agmine nec longis inter se passibus absunt;
ac simul Aeneas fumantis pulvere campos
prospexit longe Laurentiaque agmina vidit,
et saevum Aenean agnovit Turnus in armis
adventumque pedum flatusque audivit equorum.
continuoque ineant pugnas et proelia temptent,
ni roseus fessos iam gurgite Phoebus Hibero
tingat equos noctemque die labente reducat.
considunt castris ante urbem et moenia vallant.

Publius Vergilius Maro, known to us as Virgil (70 B.C.-19 C.E.), is best remembered for his masterpiece, The Aeneid, in which he represented the Emporer Augustus as a descendant of the half-divine Aeneas, a refugee from the fall of Troy and legendary founder of Rome. Virgil claimed on his deathbed that The Aeneid was unfinished and expressed a desire to have it burned, but it became the national epic of ancient Rome, a monument of Latin literature, and has been regarded as one of the great classics of Western literature ever since. Virgil’s other works include the Eclogues and the Georgics, also considered masterpieces. 

Omar Al-Nakib is a Kuwaiti visual artist and poet. He has exhibited locally, and his poetry has been published in Dispatches from the Poetry Wars and the AUKuwait Review.