From Virgil’s Works, The Aeneid, Eclogues, Georgics translated by J. W. Mackail, Introduction by Charles L. Durham, Ph.D., New York: the Modern Library; 1934; pp. 82-103.
Trojan Horse
Mixed Metal Sculpture by Serena Thirkell
© Serena Thirkell
(Image used with permission).
[1-31] MEANWHILE Aeneas and his fleet in unwavering track now held mid passage, and cleft the waves that blackened under the North, looking back on the city that even now gleams with hapless Elissa’s funeral flame. Why the broad blaze is lit lies unknown; but the bitter pain of a great love trampled, and the knowledge of what woman can do in madness, draw the Teucrians’ hearts to gloomy guesses.
When their ships held the deep, nor any land farther appears, the seas all round, and all round the sky, a dusky shower drew up over his head, carrying night and storm, and the wave shuddered and gloomed. Palinurus, master of the fleet, cries from the high stern: ‘Alas, why have these heavy storm-clouds girt the sky? lord Neptune, what wilt thou do?’ Then he bids clear the rigging and bend strongly to the oars, and brings the sails across the wind, saying thus:
‘Noble Aeneas, not did Jupiter give word and warrant would I hope to reach Italy under such a sky. The shifting winds roar athwart our course, and blow stronger out of the black west, and the air thickens into mist: not are we fit to beat up against them or force a passage. Fortune is the stronger; let us follow her, and turn our course whither she calls. Not far away, I think, are the faithful shores of thy brother Eryx, and the Sicilian haven, if my memory retraces rightly the stars I watched but now.’
Then good Aeneas: ‘Even I ere now discern that the winds will have it so, and thou urgest against them in vain. Turn thou the course of our sailing. Could any land be welcomer to me, or where I would sooner choose to put in my weary ships, than this that has Dardanian Acestes to greet me, and laps in its embrace lord Anchises’ dust?’ This said, they steer for harbour, 83[32-71] while the following west wind stretches their sails; the fleet runs fast down the flood, and at last they land joyfully on the familiar beach. But Acestes, espying from a high hill-top the friendly squadron approaching from afar, hastens towards them, weaponed and clad in the shaggy skin of a Libyan she-bear. Him a Trojan mother conceived and bore to Crinisus river; not forgetful of his parentage, he wishes them joy of their return, and gladly entertains them on his rustic treasure and comforts their weariness with his friendly store. So soon as the morrow’s clear daylight had chased the stars out of the east, Aeneas calls his comrades along the beach together, and from a mounded hillock speaks:
‘Great people of Dardanus, born of high blood of gods, the yearly circle of the months is measured out to fulfilment since we laid the dust in earth, all that was left of my divine father, and consecrated our mourning altars. And now the day, if I mistake not, is at hand (this, O gods, was your will), which I will ever keep in grief, ever in honour. Did I spend it an exile on Gaetulian quicksands, or hemmed in on the Argolic sea or in Mycenae town, yet would I fulfil the yearly vows and annual ordinance of festival, and pile the altars with their due gifts. Now we are led hither, to the very dust and ashes of my father, not as I deem without divine purpose and influence, and borne home into the friendly haven. Up then and let us all gather joyfully to the sacrifice: pray we for winds, and that he may grant me to pay these rites to him year by year in an established city and consecrated temple. Two head of oxen Acestes, the seed of Troy, gives to each of your ships by tale: invite to the feast your own ancestral gods of the household, and those whom our host Acestes worships. Further, so the ninth Dawn uplift the gracious day upon men, and her shafts unveil the world, I will ordain contests for my Trojans; first for swift ships; then whoso excels in the foot-race, and whoso, confident in strength, comes forward as champion in shot of light arrows, or adventures to join battle with gloves of raw hide; let all be here, and let merit look for the prize and palm. Now all be hushed, and twine your temples with boughs.’
84[72-113]So speaks he, and shrouds his brows with his mother’s myrtle. So Helymus does, so Acestes ripe of years, so the boy Ascanius, and the rest of the people follow. He advances from the assembly to the tomb among a throng of many thousands that crowd about him; here he pours on the ground in fit libation two goblets of pure wine, two of new milk, two of consecrated blood, and scatters bright blossoms, saying thus: ‘Hail, holy father, hail once again, ashes of him I saved in vain, and soul and shade of my sire! Thou were not to share the search for Italian borders and destined fields, nor the dim Ausonian Tiber.’ Thus had he spoken; when from beneath the sanctuary a snake slid out in seven vast coils and sevenfold slippery spires, quietly circling the grave and gliding from altar to altar, his green chequered body and the spotted lustre of his scales ablaze with gold, as the bow in the cloud darts a thousand changing dyes athwart the sun: Aeneas stood amazed at the sight. At last he wound his long train among the vessels and polished cups, and tasted the feast, and again leaving the altars where he had fed, crept harmlessly back beneath the tomb. Therefore he renews more devoutly the rites begun for his sire; doubtful if he shall think it the Genius of the ground or his father’s ministrant, he slays, as is fit, two sheep of two years old, as many swine and dark-backed steers, pouring the while cups of wine, and calling on the soul of the great Anchises and the ghost re-arisen from Acheron. Therewithal his comrades joyfully bring gifts each of his own store, heap the altars, and slay steers in sacrifice: others set caldrons arow, and, lying along the grass, put live embers under spits and roast the flesh.
The desired day came, and now Phaëthon’s coursers bore up the ninth Dawn clear and bright; and the name and renown of illustrious Acestes had stirred up all the bordering people; their holiday throng had filled the shore, to see Aeneas’ men, and some ready to join in contest. First of all the prizes are laid out to view in the middle of the racecourse; tripods of sacrifice, green garlands and palms, the reward of the conquerors, armour and garments dipped in purple, a talent of silver and one of gold: and from a bank in the midst a trumpet-note 85[114-156] proclaims the games begun. For the first contest four matched ships, the pick of all the fleet, enter with their heavy oars. Mnestheus’ keen rowers drive the swift Sea-Dragon, Mnestheus the Italian to be, from whose name is the Memmian family; Gyas the huge bulk of the huge Chimaera, a floating town, whom her triple-tiered Dardanian crew urge on with oars rising in threefold rank; Sergestus, from whom the Sergian house holds her name, sails in the tall Centaur; and in the sea-green Scylla Cloanthes, whence is thy family, Cluentius of Rome.
Apart in the sea and over against the foaming beach, lies a rock that the swoln waves beat and drown what time the winter north-westers blot out the stars; in calm it rises silent out of the still water, flat-topped, and a haunt where cormorants love best to take the sun. Here lord Aeneas set up a goal of leafy ilex, a mark for the sailors to know whence to return, where to wheel their long course round. Then they choose stations by lot, and on the sterns their captains glitter afar in array of gold and scarlet; the rest of the crews are crowned with poplar sprays, and their naked shoulders glisten wet with oil. They sit down at the thwarts, and their arms are tense on the oars; at full strain they wait the signal, while throbbing fear and high passion of glory drain their riotous blood. Then, when the clear trumpet-note sounds, all in a moment leap forward from the line; the shouts of the sailors strike up to heaven, and the channels are swept into foam by straining arms. They cleave their furrows abreast, and all the sea is torn asunder by oars and triple-pointed prows. Not with speed so headlong do racing pairs whirl the chariots over the course, as they rush streaming from the barriers; not so do their charioteers shake the wavy reins loose over their team, and hang forward on the whip. All the woodland rings with clapping and shouts of men that cheer their favourites, and the sheltered beach eddies back their cries; the noise buffets and re-echoes from the hills. Gyas shoots out in front of the noisy crowd, and glides foremost along the water; whom Cloanthus follows next, rowing better, but held back by his dragging 86[157-193] weight of pine. After them, at equal distance, the Sea-Dragon and the Centaur strive to win the foremost room; and now the Sea-Dragon has it, now the vast Centaur outstrips and passes her; now they dart on both together, their figureheads in a line, and their long keels furrowing the salt water-ways. And now they drew nigh the rock, and were hard on the goal; when Gyas as he led, winner over half the flood, cries aloud to Menoetes, the ship’s steersman: ‘Whither away so far to the right? This way direct her path; kiss the shore, and let the oarblade on the left graze the reefs. Others may keep to deep water.’ He spoke; but Menoetes, fearing blind rocks, turns the prow away toward the open sea. ‘Whither wanderest thou away? head for the rocks, Menoetes!’ again shouts Gyas to bring him back; and lo! glancing round he sees Cloanthus close behind and keeping nearer. Between Gyas’ ship and the echoing crags he scrapes through inside on his left, flashes past his leader, and leaving the goal behind is safe in open sea. Then indeed grief turned fierce through his strong frame, and his cheeks ran with tears; heedless of his own dignity and his crew’s safety, he flings the too cautious Menoetes sheer into the sea from the high stern, himself succeeds as guide and master of the helm, and cheers on his men, and turns his tiller in to shore. But old Menoetes, when at last he rose struggling from the sea-bottom, wet in his dripping clothes, climbs to the top of the crag, and sits down on a dry rock. The Teucrians laughed out as he fell and as he swam, and laugh to see him spitting the salt water from his chest. At this a joyful hope kindled in the two behind, Sergestus and Mnestheus, of catching up Gyas’ wavering course. Sergestus gets the nearer station, closing in on the rock, yet not leading with his whole length of keel; part is ahead, in part the Sea-Dragon’s prow overlaps her rival. But striding amidships between his comrades, Mnestheus cheers them on: ‘Now, now rise to the oars, comrades of Hector, whom I chose to follow me in Troy’s extremity; now put forth the might and courage you showed in Gaetulian quicksands, amid Ionian seas and Malea’s chasing waves. Not the first place do I now seek for Mnestheus, nor 87[194-234] strive to conquer; yet ah! — but be the victory theirs, O Neptune, to whom thou hast given it. To come back last were shame. Win but this, fellow-citizens, and avert that disaster!’ His men bent forward, straining every muscle; the brass-plated hull quivers to their mighty strokes, and the ground runs from under her; limbs and parched lip shake with their rapid panting, and sweat flows in streams all over them. Mere chance brought the crew the praise they desired. For while Sergestus drives his prow furiously in towards the rocks and comes up with too scanty room, alas! he grounded on an outstretching reef; the rocks crashed, the oars struck and jarred on the jagged edge, and the broken prow jammed. The sailors leap up and hold her with loud cries, and get out iron-shod poles and sharp-pointed boathooks, and pick up their broken oars out of the eddies. But Mnestheus, rejoicing and flushed by his triumph, with oars fast-dipping and winds at his call, issues into the shelving water and runs down the open sea. As a pigeon suddenly scared from a cavern, whose house and sweet nestlings are in the rock’s recesses, wings her flight over the fields and rushes frightened from their house with loud clapping pinions; then gliding noiselessly through the air, slides on her liquid way and moves not her rapid wings; so Mnestheus, so the sea-Dragon under him swiftly cleaves the last space of sea, so her own speed carries her flying on. And first Sergestus is left behind, struggling on the steep rock and shoal water, and shouting in vain for help and learning to race with broken oars. Next he catches up Gyas and the vast bulk of the Chimaera; she gives way, bereft of a steersman. And now on the very goal Cloanthus alone is left; him he pursues and presses hard, straining all his strength. Then indeed the shouts redouble, as all together eagerly cheer on the pursuer and the sky echoes their clapping. These scorn to lose the honour that is their own, the glory in their grasp, and would sell life for renown; to these success lends life; they can, because they believe they can. And haply they had carried the prize with prows abreast, had not Cloanthus, stretching both his open hands over the sea, poured forth prayers and called the gods 88[235-277] to hear his vows: ‘Gods who are sovereign on the sea, over whose waters I run, to your altars on this beach will I joyfully bring a snow-white bull, my vow’s penalty and will cast his entrails into the salt flood and pour liquid wine.’ He spoke, and far beneath the flood maiden Panopea heard him, with all Phorcus’ choir of Nereids, and lord Portunus with his own mighty hand pushed him on his way. The ship flies to land swifter than the wind or an arrow’s flight, and shoots into the deep harbour. Then the seed of Anchises, summoning all in order, declares Cloanthus conqueror by herald’s outcry, and dresses his brows in green bay, and gives gifts to each crew, three bullocks of their choice, and wine, and a large talent of silver to take away. For their captains he adds special honours; to the winner a scarf wrought with gold, encircled by a deep double border of Meliboean purple; embroidered on it is the kingly boy on leafy Ida, chasing swift stags with javelin and racing feet, eager and as one panting; him Jove’s swooping armour-bearer has caught up aloft from Ida in his talons; his aged guardians stretch their hands vainly upwards, and the baying of hounds rings fierce into the air. But to him who, next in merit, held the second place, he gives to wear a corslet of smooth link-mail triple-woofed with gold, stripped by his own conquering hand from Demoleos under tall Troy by the swift Simoïs, for his ornament and safeguard among arms. Scarce could the straining shoulders of his servants Phegeus and Sagaris carry its heavy folds; yet with it on, Demoleos at full speed would chase the scattered Trojans. The third prize he makes twin caldrons of brass, and bowls wrought in silver and rough with tracery. And now all moved away in the pride and wealth of their prizes, their brows bound with scarlet ribbons; when, hardly torn loose by all his art from the cruel rock, his oars lost, rowing feebly with a single tier, Sergestus brought in his ship jeered at and unhonoured. Even as often a serpent caught on a highway, if a brazen wheel has gone aslant over him or a wayfarer left him half dead and mangled with the blow of a heavy stone, wreathes himself slowly in vain effort to escape, in part undaunted, his eyes ablaze and his hissing 89[278-321] throat lifted high; part crippled by the wound keeps him back, coiling in knots and twisting on his own body; so the ship moved rowing slowly on; but she hoists sail and under full sail glides into the harbour mouth. Glad that the ship is saved and the crew brought back, Aeneas presents Sergestus with his promised reward. A slave woman is given him not unskilled in Minerva’s labours, Pholoë the Cretan, with twin boys at her breast.
This contest sped, good Aeneas moved to a grassy plain girt all about with winding wooded hills, and amid the valley an amphitheatre, whither, with many thousands, the hero advanced amid the concourse and took his seat on a platform. Here he allures with rewards and offer of prizes those who will try their hap in the fleet foot-race. Trojans and Sicilians gather mingling from all sides, Nisus and Euryalus foremost . . . Euryalus famed for beauty and fresh youth, Nisus for pure affection towards the boy. Next follows renowned Diores, of Priam’s royal line; after him Salius and Patron together, the one Acarnanian, the other Tegean by family and of Arcadian blood; next two men of Sicily, Helymus and Panopes, foresters and attendants on old Acestes; many besides whose fame is hid in obscurity. Then among them all Aeneas spoke thus: ‘Hearken to this, and attend in good cheer. None out of this number will I let go without a gift. To each will I give two Gnosian shafts glittering with polished steel, and an axe chased with silver to bear away; one and all shall be honoured thus. The three foremost shall receive prizes, and have pale olive bound about their head. The first shall have a caparisoned horse, as conqueror; the second an Amazonian quiver filled with arrows of Thrace, girt about by a broad belt of gold, and on the link of the clasp a polished gem; let the third depart satisfied with this helmet of Argolis.’ This said, they take their place, and the signal once heard, dart over the course and leave the line, pouring forth like a storm-cloud while they mark the goal. Nisus gets away first, and shoots out far in front of the throng, fleeter than the winds or the winged thunderbolt. Next to him, but next by a long gap, Salius follows; 90[322-361] then, left a space behind him, Euryalus third . . . and Helymus comes after Euryalus; and close behind him, lo! Diores goes flying, just grazing foot with foot, hard on his shoulder; and if a longer space were left, he would slip forward and outpass him, or leave the race drawn. And now almost in the last lap, they began to come up exhausted to the goal, when luckless Nisus trips on the slippery blood of the slain steers, where haply it had spilled over the ground and wetted the green grass. Here, just in the flush of victory, he lost his feet; they slid away on the ground they pressed, and he fell forward right among the ordure and blood of the sacrifice. Yet forgot he not his darling Euryalus; for rising, he flung himself over the slippery ground in front of Salius, and he rolled over and lay all along on the hard sand. Euryalus shoots by and holds the first place, winner by his friend’s gift, and flies on amid pursuing claps and cheers. Behind him Helymus comes up, and Diores, now third for the palm. At this Salius fills with loud clamour the whole concourse of the vast ring, and the lords who looked on in front, demanding back his defrauded prize. Euryalus is strong in favour, and beauty in tears, and the merit that gains grace from so fair a form. Diores supports him, who succeeded to the palm, so he loudly cries, and bore off the last prize in vain, if the highest honours shall be given to Salius. Then lord Aeneas speaks: ’For you your rewards remain assured, and none moves the boy’ prize from its order: let me be allowed to pity a friend’s innocent mischance.’ So speaking, he gives to Salius a vast Gaetulian lion-skin, with shaggy masses of hair and claws of gold. ‘If this,’ cries Nisus, ’is the reward of defeat, and thy pity is stirred for the fallen, what fit recompense wilt thou give to Nisus? to my excellence the first crown was due, had not I, like Salius, met Fortune’s hostility.’ And with the words he displayed his face and limbs befouled with the wet dung. His lord laughed kindly on him, and bade a shield be brought forth, the workmanship of Didymaon, taken from the hallowed gates of Neptune’s Grecian temple; with this special prize he rewards his excellence.
91[362-402]Thereafter, when the races are finished and the gifts fulfilled: ‘Now,’ he cries, ‘come, whoso has in him valour and ready heart, and lift up his arms with gauntleted hands.’ So speaks he, and sets forth a double prize of battle; for the conqueror a bullock gilt and garlanded; a sword and beautiful helmet to consol the conquered. Straightway without pause Dares issues to view in his vast strength, rising amid loud murmurs of the people; he who alone was wont to meet Paris in combat; he who, at the mound where princely Hector lies, struck down as he came the vast bulk upborne by conquering Butes, of Amycus’ Bebrycian line, and stretched him dying on the yellow sand. Such was Dares; at once he raises his head high for battle, displays his broad shoulders, and stretches and swings his arms right and left, lashing the air with blows. For him another is required; but none out of all the train durst approach or put the gloves on his hands. So he takes his stand exultant before Aeneas’ feet, deeming that all waived the palm; and thereon without more delay grasps the bull’s horn with his left hand, and speaks thus: ‘Goddess-born, if no man dare trust himself to battle, to what conclusion shall I stand? how long is it seemly to keep me? bid me carry off thy gifts.’ Therewith all the Dardanians murmured assent, and bade yield him the promised prize.
At this aged Acestes spoke sharply to Entellus, as he sate next him on the green cushion of grass: ‘Entellus, bravest of heroes once of old in vain, wilt thou thus idly let a gift so great be borne away uncontested? Where now prithee is divine Eryx, thy master of fruitless fame? where thy renown over all Sicily, and those spoils hanging in thine house?’ Thereat he: ‘Desire of glory is not gone, nor ambition checked by fear; but torpid age dulls my chilly blood, and my strength of limb is numb and outworn. If I had what once was mine, if I had now the youth that is yonder braggart’s boast and confidence, it had taken no prize of goodly bullock to allure me; nor do I heed gifts.’ So he spoke, and thereon flung down a pair of gloves of giant weight, with whose hard hide bound about his wrist valiant Eryx was wont to come armed to battle. They 92[403-446] stood amazed; so stiff and grim lay the vast sevenfold oxhide sewn in with lead and iron. Dares most of all shrinks far back in horror, and the noble son of Anchises turns round this way and that their ponderous weight and the vast swathings of their straps. Then the old man thus uttered speech: ‘How, had they seen the gloves that were Hercules’ own arms, and the fatal fight on this very beach? These arms thy brother Eryx once wore; thou seest them yet stained with blood and spattered brains. In them he stood to face great Alcides; to them was I used while fuller blood supplied me strength, and envious old age had not yet strewn her snows on either temple. But if Dares of Troy will have none of these our arms, and good Aeneas is resolved on it, and Acestes deigns his approval, let us make the battle even. I give up to thee the gauntlets of Eryx; dismiss thy fears; and do thou strip off thy Trojan gloves.’ So spoke he, and throwing back the fold of his raiment from his shoulders, he bares the massive joints and limbs, the great bones and muscles, and stands up huge in the middle of the ground. Then Anchises’ lordly seed brought out matched gloves and bound the hands of both in equal arms. Straightway each took his stand on tiptoe, and undauntedly raised his arms high in air. They lift their heads right back and away out of reach of blows, and fence hand to hand in preluding skirmish; the one nimbler of foot and confident in his youth, the other mighty in mass of limb, but his knees totter tremulous and slow, and uneasy panting shakes his vast frame. Many a mutual blow the champions deliver in vain, many an one they redouble on chest and side, sounding hollow and loud: hands play fast about ear and temple, and jawbones clash under the hard strokes. Old Entellus stands immovable and astrain, only parrying hits with body and watchful eye. The other, as one who casts mounts against some high city or blockades a hill-fort in arms, tries this and that entrance, and ranges cunningly over all the ground, and presses many an attack in vain. Entellus rose and struck clean out with his right downwards; his quick opponent saw the descending blow before it came, and slid his body rapidly out of its way. Entellus hurled his 93[447-487] strength into the air, and all his heavy mass, over-reaching, fell heavily to the earth; as sometime on Erymanthus or mighty Ida falls a hollow uprooted pine. Teucrians and men of Sicily rise eagerly; a cry goes up, and Acestes himself runs forward, and pityingly lifts his friend and birthmate from the ground. But the hero, not balked or dismayed by his mishap, returns the keener to battle, and grown violent in wrath, while shame and resolved valour kindle his strength. All afire, he hunts Dares headlong over the lists, and redoubles his blows now with right hand, now with left; no breath nor pause; heavy as hailstones rattle on the roof from a storm-cloud, so thickly shower the blows from both his hands as he buffets Dares to and fro. Then lord Aeneas allowed not wrath to swell higher or Entellus to rage out his bitterness, but stopped the fight and rescued the exhausted Dares, saying thus in soothing words; ‘Unhappy! what madness is this that has seized thy mind? Knowest thou not the strength is another’s and the gods are changed? Yield thou to Heaven.’ And with the words he proclaimed the battle over. But him his faithful mates lead to the ships dragging his knees feebly, swaying his head from side to side, and spitting from his mouth clotted gore and teeth mixed with blood. At summons they bear away the helmet and shield, and leave palm and bull to Entellus. At this the conqueror, high in pride and glorying over the bull, cries: ‘Goddess-born, and you, O Trojans! learn thus what my strength of body was in its prime, and from what a death Dares is saved by your recall.’ He spoke, and stood right opposite in face of the bullock standing by, the prize of battle; then drew back his hand and swinging the hard gauntlet sheer down between the horns, smashed the bone in upon the shattered brain. The ox rolls over, and quivering and lifeless lies along the ground. Above it he utters speech thus: ‘This life, Eryx, I give to thee, a better payment than Dares’ death; here I lay down my gloves and skill unconquered.’
Forthwith Aeneas invites all who will to the contest of the swift arrow, and proclaims the prizes. With his mighty hand he uprears the mast of Serestus’ ship, and on a cord passed across 94[488-530] it hangs from the masthead a fluttering pigeon as mark for their steel. They gather, and a helmet of brass takes the lots as they throw them in. First before them all, amid prosperous cheers, comes out the place of Hippocoön son of Hyrtacus; and Mnestheus follows on him, but now conqueror in the ship race, Mnestheus with his chaplet of green olive. Third is Eurytion, thy brother, O Pandarus great in renown, thou who of old, when prompted to shatter the truce, didst hurl the first shaft amid the Achaeans. Last of all Acestes sank back at the bottom of the helmet, he too venturing to set hand to the task of youth. Then each and all they strongly bend their bows into a curve and pull shafts from their quivers. And first the arrow of the son of Hyrtacus, passing through the sky, smites the air asunder as it flies from the twanging string, and reaches and sticks fast full in the mast’s wood: the mast quivered, and the bird fluttered her feathers in affright, and the whole ground rang with loud clapping. Next valiant Mnestheus took his stand with bow bent, aiming high with levelled eye and arrow; yet could not, unfortunate! hit the bird herself with his steel, but cut the knotted hempen bands that tied her foot as she hung from the masthead; she winged her flight into the high windy clouds. Then swiftly Eurytion, who ere now held the arrow ready on his bended bow, called in prayer to his brother, marked the pigeon as she now went down the empty sky exultant on clapping wings; and as she passed under a dark cloud, struck her: she fell breathless, and, leaving her life in the aëry firmament, slid down carrying the arrow that pierced her. Acestes alone was over, and the prize lost; yet he sped his arrow up into the air, to display his lordly skill and resounding bow. At this a sudden sign meets their eyes, mighty in augural presage, as the high event taught thereafter, and in late days boding seers prophesied of the omen. For the flying reed blazed out amid the swimming clouds, traced its path in flame, and burned away on the light winds; even as often stars fall shooting from the sky and draw a flying tail. Trinacrians and Trojans hung in astonishment, praying to the heavenly powers; neither does great 95[531-570] Aeneas reject the omen, but embraces glad Acestes and loads him with lavish gifts, speaking thus: ‘Take, my lord: for the high King of heaven by these signs has willed thee to draw a prize uncompeted for. This gift shalt thou have as from aged Anchises’ own hand, a bowl embossed with figures, that once Cisseus of Thrace gave my father Anchises to take as a precious gift, the record and pledge of his amity.’ So speaking, he twines green bay about his brows, and proclaims Acestes conqueror first before them all. Nor did gentle Eurytion, though he alone struck the bird down from the lofty sky, grudge him his superior honour. Next comes for his prize he who cut the cord; he last, who pierced the mast with his winged reed.
But lord Aeneas, ere yet the contest is sped, calls to him Epytides, guardian and attendant of ungrown Iülus, and thus speaks into his faithful ear: ‘Up and away, and tell Ascanius, if he now holds his band of boys ready, and their horses arrayed for the charge, to defile his squadrons to his grandsire’s honour in bravery of arms.’ So says he, and himself bids all the crowding throng withdraw from the long racecourse and leave the lists free. The boys move in before their parents’ faces, glittering in rank on their bitted horses; as they go all the people of Troy and Trinacria murmur and admire. On the hair of them all rests a garland fitly trimmed; each carries two cornel spear-shafts tipped with steel; some have polished quivers on their shoulders; above their breast and round their neck goes a flexible circlet of twisted gold. Three in number are the troops of horsemen, and three captains ride out ahead; twice six boys following each glitter in separate files under matched leaders. One youthful line goes rejoicingly behind little Priam, renewer of his grandsire’s name, thy renowned seed, O Polites, destined to people Italy; he rides a Thracian horse dappled with spots of white, showing white on his pacing pasterns and white on his high forehead. Second is Atys, from whom the Latin Atii drawn their line, little Atys, boy beloved of the boy Iülus. Last and excellent in beauty before them all, Iülus rode in on a Sidonian 96[571-612] steed that Dido the fair had given him for token and pledge of love. The rest of the band are mounted on old Acestes’ Sicilian horses. . . . The Dardanians greet their shy entrance with applause, and rejoice at the view, and recognise the features of their parents of old. When they have ridden joyously round all the concourse of their gazing friends, Epytides from afar gives the signal that they await, with shout and crack of whip. They gallop apart in pairs, and open their files three and three in deploying bands, and again at the call wheel about and bear down with levelled arms. Next they enter on other charges and other retreats in opposite spaces, and interlink circle with circle, and wage the armed phantom of battle. And now they discover their backs in flight, now turn their lances to the charge, now plight peace and gallop side by side. As once of old, they say, the labyrinth in high Crete had a tangled patch between blind walls, and a thousand ways of doubling treachery, where marks to follow broke off in the maze unmastered and irretraceable: even in such a chase do the children of Troy entangle their footsteps and weave the game of flight and battle; like dolphins who, swimming through the wet seas, cut Carpathian or Libyan. . . .
This manner of riding, these games Ascanius first revived, when he girt Alba the Long about the walls, and taught their celebration to the Old Latins in the fashion of his own boyhood, with the youth of Troy about him. The Albans taught it their children; on from them mighty Rome received it and kept the ancestral observance; and now the boys are called Troy, and the trooping Trojan.
Thus far sped the sacred contests to their holy lord. First from this point Fortune broke faith and grew estranged. While they pay the due rites to the tomb with diverse games, Juno, daughter of Saturn, sends Iris down the sky to the Ilian fleet, and breathes a gale to speed her on, revolving many a device, and not yet satiate of the ancient pain. She, speeding her way along the thousand-coloured bow, runs swiftly, seen of none, down her maiden path. She discerns the vast concourse, and traverses the shore, and sees the haven abandoned and the 97[613-650] fleet left alone. But far withdrawn by the solitary verge of the sea the Trojan women wept their lost Anchises, and as they wept gazed all together on the fathomless flood. ‘Alas, that so many straits and so vast a sea yet awaits the weary!’ such is the single cry of all. They pray for a city, sick of their burden of ocean-toil. So she darts among them, not witless to harm, and lays by force and raiment of a goddess: she becomes Beroë, the aged wife of Tmarian Doryclus, who had once had birth and name and children, and in this guise goes among the Dardanian matrons. ‘Ah, wretched we!’ she cries, ‘whom hostile Achaean hands did not drag to death beneath our native city! ah hapless race, for what destruction does Fortune hold thee back? The seventh summer now rolls on since Troy’s overthrow, while we pass measuring out by so many stars the harbourless rocks over every water and land, pursuing all the while over the vast sea an Italy that flies us, and tossing on the waves. Here is the brotherly realm of Eryx, and Acestes’ welcome: who denies us to cast up walls and give our citizens a city? O country, O household gods vainly rescued from the foe! shall there never be a Trojan town to tell of? shall I nowhere see a Xanthus and a Simoïs, the rivers of Hector? Nay, up and join me in burning with fire these ill-starred ships. For in sleep the phantom of Cassandra the soothsayer seemed to give me blazing brands: Here seek your Troy, she said; here is your home. Now is the time to do it; nor do these high portents allow delay. Behold four altars to Neptune; the god himself lends the firebrand and the intent.’ Speaking thus, at once she strongly seizes the fiery weapon, and with straining hand whirls it far upreared, and flings: the souls of the Ilian women are startled and their wits amazed. At this one of their multitude, and she the eldest, Pyrgo, nurse in the palace to all Priam’s many children: ‘This is not Beroë, I tell you, O matrons; this is not the wife of Doryclus of Rhoeteum. Mark the lineaments of divine grace and the gleaming eyes, what a breath is hers, what a countenance, and the sound of her voice and the steps of her going. I, I time agone left Beroë apart, sick and fretting that she alone must have 98[651-690] no part in this our service, nor pay Anchises his due sacrifice.’ So spoke she. . . . But the matrons at first gazed dubious on the ships with malignant eyes, wavering between the wretched longing for the land they trod and the call of the destined realm: when the goddess rose through the sky on poised wings, and in her flight drew a vast bow beneath the clouds. Then indeed, amazed at the tokens and driven by madness, they raise a cry and snatch fire from the sacred hearths within; others plunder the altars, and heap on leafy brushwood and faggots. The Fire-god rages with loose rein over thwarts and oars and hulls of painted fir. Eumelus carries the news of the burning ships to the grave of Anchises and the ranges of the theatre; and looking back, their own eyes see the floating cloud of dark ashes. And in a moment Ascanius, even as he rode gaily before his cavalry, spurred his horse to the disordered camp; nor can his breathless guards hold him back. ‘What strange madness is this?’ he cries; ‘whither now hasten you, whither, alas my poor countrywomen? not on the foe nor on some hostile Argive camp; it is your own hopes you burn. Behold me, your Ascanius!’ and he flung before his feet the empty helmet, put on when he roused the mimicry of war. Aeneas and the Trojan train together hurry to the spot. But the women scatter apart in fear all over the beach, and slink away to the woods or any cavern among the rocks: they loath their deed and the daylight, and with changed eyes know their people, and Juno is startled out of their breast. But not thereby does the flame of the burning lay down its untamed strength; under the wet oak the seams are alive, spouting slow coils of smoke; the creeping heat devours the hulls, and the destroyer takes deep hold of all: nor does the heroes’ strength avail nor the floods they pour in. Then good Aeneas rent away the raiment from his shoulders and called the gods to aid, stretching forth his hands; ‘Jupiter omnipotent, if thou hatest not Troy yet wholly to her last man, if thine ancient pity looks at all on human woes, now, O Lord, grant our fleet to escape the flame and rescue from doom the slender Teucrian estate; or do thou 99[691-730] plunge to death this remnant, if I deserve it, with levelled thunderbolt, and here with thine own hand smite us down.’ Scarce had he uttered this, when a black tempest rages in streaming showers; highland and plain tremble to the thunder; the water-flood rushes in torrents from the whole heaven amid black darkness and volleying blasts of the South. The ships are filled from overhead, the half-burnt timbers are soaking; until all the heat is quenched, and all the hulls, but four that are lost, are rescued from destruction.
But lord Aeneas, dismayed by the bitter mischance, shifted this way and that his weight of care, inly revolving whether, forgetting fate, he should rest in Sicilian fields, or reach forth to the borders of Italy. Then old Nautes, whom Tritonian Pallas taught like none other, and made famous in eminence of art — she granted him to reply what the gods’ heavy anger menaced or what the order of fate claimed — he then in comforting speech thus begins to Aeneas:
‘Goddess-born, follow we fate’s ebb and flow, whatsoever it shall be; all fortune may be overcome by being borne. Acestes is of thine own divine Dardanian race; take him, a willing helpmate, into common counsel; deliver to him the remainder, now these ships are lost, and those who are quite weary of thy fortunes and the great quest. Choose out the old men stricken in years, and the matrons sick of the sea, and all that is weak and fearful of peril in thy company. Let this land give a city to the weary; they shall be allowed to call their town Acesta by name.’
Then indeed, though kindled by these words of his aged friend, his spirit is distracted among all his cares. And now black Night rose chariot-borne, and held the sky; when the likeness of his father Anchises seemed to descend from heaven and suddenly utter this:
‘O son, dearer to me than life once of old while life was yet mine; O son, hard wrought by the destinies of Ilium! I come hither by Jove’s command, who drove the fire from thy fleets, and at last had pity out of high heaven. Obey thou the fair counsel that aged Nautes now gives. Carry through to Italy 100[731-767] thy chosen men and bravest souls; in Latium must thou war down a people hard and rough in living. Yet ere then draw thou nigh the nether chambers of Dis, and through deep Avernus come, O son, to meet me. For I am not held in evil Tartarus among wailing ghosts, but inhabit Elysium and the sweet societies of the good. Hither with much blood of dark cattle shall the holy Sibyl lead thee. Then shall thou learn of all thy line, and what city is given thee. And now farewell; dank Night wheels her mid-career, and even now I feel the stern breath of the panting horses of the East.’ He ended, and retreated like a vapour into thin air. ‘Ah, whither hurriest thou?’ cries Aeneas; ‘whither so fast away? From whom fliest thou? or who withholds thee from our embrace?’ So speaking, he kindles the sleeping embers of the fire, and with holy meal and laden censer does sacrifice to the tutelar of Pergama and hoar Vesta’s secret shrine.
Straightway he summons his crews and Acestes first of all, and instructs them of Jove’s command and his beloved father’s precepts, and what is now his fixed mind and purpose. They linger not in counsel, nor does Acestes decline his bidden duty: they enrol the matrons in their town, and plant a people there, souls that are content to have none of glory. The rest repair the thwarts and replace the ships’ timber that the flames had fed upon, and fit up oars and rigging, little in number, but alert and valiant for war. Meanwhile Aeneas traces the town with the plough and allots the homesteads; this he bids be Ilium, and these lands Troy. Trojan Acestes, rejoicing in his kingdom, appoints a court and gathers his senators to give them statutes. Next, where the crest of Eryx is neighbour to the stars, a sanctuary is founded to Venus the Idalian; and a priest and breadth of holy grove is attached to Anchises’ grave.
And now for nine days all the people have feasted, and offering been paid at the altars; quiet breezes have smoothed the ocean floor, and the gathering south wind blows, calling them again to sea. A mighty weeping arises along the winding shore; a night and a day they linger in mutual embraces. The very 101[768-805] mothers now, the very men to whom once the sight of the sea seemed cruel, and God’s will not to be borne, would go on and endure the journey’s toil to the end. These Aeneas comforts with kindly words, and commends with tears to his kinsman Acestes’ care. Then he bids slay three steers to Eryx and a she-lamb to the Tempests, and loose the hawser as is due. Himself, his head bound with stripped leaves of olive, he stands apart on the prow holding the cup, and casts the entrails into the salt flood and pours liquid wine. A wind rising astern follows them forth on their way. Emulously the crews strike the water, and sweep through the seas.
But Venus meanwhile, wrought upon with distress, accosts Neptune, and thus pours forth her heart’s complaint: ‘Juno’s bitter wrath and heart insatiable compel me, O Neptune, to sink to the uttermost of entreaty: neither length of days nor any goodness softens her, nor does Jove’s command nor fate itself break her to desistance. It is not enough that her accursed hatred has devoured the Phrygian city from among the people, and dragged the remnant of Troy through every punishment; still she pursues the bones and ashes of her victim. I pray she knows why her passion is so fierce. Thyself art my witness what a sudden coil she raised of late on the Libyan waters, confounding ocean and sky in vain reliance on Aeolus’ blasts; this she dared in thy realm. . . . Lo too, driving the Trojan matrons into guilt, she has foully burned their ships, and forced them, their fleet lost, to leave the crews to an unknown land. Let the remnant, I beseech thee, give their sails to thy safe keeping across the seas; let them reach Laurentine Tiber; if I ask what is permitted, if the Fates grant them a city there.’
Then the son of Saturn, compeller of the ocean deep, uttered thus: ‘It is wholly right, O Cytherean, that thy trust should be in my realm, whence thou drawest birth; and I have deserved it: often have I allayed the rage and full fury of sky and sea. Nor less on land, I call Xanthus and Simoïs to witness, has been my care of thine Aeneas. When Achilles pursued the Trojan armies and hurled them breathless on their walls, 102[806-845] and sent many thousands to death, when the choked rivers groaned and Xanthus could not find passage or roll out to sea, then I snatched Aeneas away in sheltering mist as he met the brave son of Peleus outmatched in strength and gods, eager though I was to overthrow the walls of perjured Troy that mine own hands had built. Now too my mind rests the same; dismiss thy fears. In safety, as thou desirest, shall he reach the haven of Avernus. One alone thou shalt miss, lost on the flood; one life shall be given for many. . . . ’
With these words the goddess’ bosom is soothed to joy. Then their lord yokes his wild horses with gold and fastens the foaming bits, and letting all the reins run slack in his hand, flies lightly in his sea-green chariot over the ocean surface. The waves sink to rest, and the swelling sea smooths out its waters under the thundering axle; the storm-clouds scatter from the vast sky. Diverse shapes attend him, monstrous whales, and Glaucus’ aged choir, and Palaemon, son of Ino, the swift Tritons, and Phorcus with all his army. Thetis and Melite keep the left, and maiden Panopea, Nesaea and Spio, Thalia and Cymodoce.
Now joy in turn overspreads and lulls lord Aeneas’ anxious soul. He bids all the masts be upreared with speed, and the sails stretched on the yards. Together all set their sheets, and all at once slacken their canvas to left and again to right; together they brace and unbrace the yard-arms aloft; prosperous gales waft the fleet along. Foremost, in front of all, Palinurus steered the close column; the rest under orders ply their course by his. And now dewy Night had just reached heaven’s mid-cone; the sailors, stretched on their hard benches under the oars, relaxed their limbs in quiet rest: when Sleep, sliding lightly down from the starry sky, parted the shadowy air and cleft the dark, seeking thee, O Palinurus, carrying dreams of bale to thee who dreamt not of harm, and lit on the high stern, a god in Phorbas’ likeness, dropping this speech from his lips: ‘Palinurus son of Iasus, the very seas bear our fleet along; the breezes breathe steadily; an hour of rest is given. Lay down thine head, and steal thy worn eyes from toil. I myself 103[846-871] for a little will take thy duty in thy stead.’ To whom Palinurus, scarcely lifting his eyes, returns: ‘Wouldst thou have me ignorant what the calm face of the brine means, and the stilled wave? Shall I have faith in this perilous thing? How shall I trust Aeneas to fickle breezes and sky, I so often deceived by the treachery of a calm?’ Such words he uttered, and clinging fast to the tiller, slackened hold no whit, and fixed his eyes on the stars overhead. Lo! the god shakes over either temple a bough dripping with Lethean dew and made slumberous with the might of Styx, and makes his swimming eyes relax their struggles. Scarcely had sleep begun to slacken his limbs unaware, when bending down, he flung him sheer into the clear water, tearing rudder and half the stern away with him, and many a time crying vainly on his comrades: himself he rose on flying wings into the thin air. None the less does the fleet run safe on its sea-path, and glides on unalarmed in lord Neptune’s assurance. And even now they were sailing in to the cliffs of the Sirens, dangerous once of old and white with the bones of many a man; and the hoarse rocks echoed afar in the ceaseless surf; when her lord felt the ship rocking astray for loss of her helmsman, and himself steered her on over the darkling water, sighing often the while and heavy at heart for his friend’s mischance. ‘Ah too trustful in calm skies and seas, thou shalt lie, O Palinurus, naked on an alien sand.’
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by Elfinspell