But now a new adversity befellthe weary Latins, which with common woeshook the whole city to its heart. The Queen,when at her hearth she saw the close assaultof enemies, the walls beset, and firespreading from roof to roof, but no defencefrom the Rutulian arms, nor front of warwith Turnus leading,—she, poor soul, believedher youthful champion in the conflict slain;and, mad with sudden sorrow, shrieked aloudagainst herself, the guilty chief and causeof all this ill; and, babbling her wild woein endless words, she rent her purple pall,and with her own hand from the rafter swunga noose for her foul death. The tidings direamong the moaning wives of Latium spread,and young Lavinia's frantic fingers toreher rose-red cheek and hyacinthine hair.Then all her company of women shriekedin anguish, and the wailing echoed faralong the royal seat; from whence the taleof sorrow through the peopled city flew;hearts sank; Latinus rent his robes, appalledto see his consort's doom, his falling throne;and heaped foul dust upon his hoary hair. Meanwhile the warrior Turnus far afieldpursued a scattered few; but less his speed,for less and less his worn steeds worked his will;and now wind-wafted to his straining eara nameless horror came, a dull, wild roar,the city's tumult and distressful cry.“Alack,” he cried, “what stirs in yonder wallssuch anguish? Or why rings from side to sidesuch wailing through the city?” Asking so,he tightened frantic grasp upon the rein.To him his sister, counterfeiting stillthe charioteer Metiscus, while she swayedrein, steeds, and chariot, this answer made:“Hither, my Turnus, let our arms pursuethe sons of Troy. Here lies the nearest wayto speedy triumph. There be other swordsto keep yon city safe. Aeneas nowstorms against Italy in active war;we also on this Trojan host may hurlgrim havoc. Nor shalt thou the strife give o'erin glory second, nor in tale of slain.”Turnus replied, “O sister, Iong agoI knew thee what thou wert, when guilefullythou didst confound their treaty, and enlistthy whole heart in this war. No Ionger nowthy craft divine deceives me. But what godcompelled thee, from Olympus fallen so far,to bear these cruel burdens? Wouldst thou seethy wretched brother slaughtered? For what elseis in my power? What flattering hazard stillholds forth deliverance? My own eyes have seenMurranus (more than any now on earthmy chosen friend) who, calling on my name,died like a hero by a hero's sword.Ill-fated Ufens fell, enduring notto Iook upon my shame; the Teucriansdivide his arms for spoil and keep his bones.Shall I stand tamely, till my hearth and homeare levelled with the ground? For this would bethe only blow not fallen. Shall my swordnot give the lie to Drances' insolence?Shall I take flight and let my country seeher Turnus renegade? Is death a thingso much to weep for? O propitious dead,O spirits of the dark, receive and blessme whom yon gods of light have cast away!Sacred and guiltless shall my soul descendto join your company; I have not beenunworthy offspring of my kingly sires.” Scarce had he said, when through the foeman's lineSaces dashed forth upon a foaming steed,his face gashed by an arrow. He cried loudon Turnus' name: “O Turnus, but in theeour last hope lies. Have pity on the woeof all thy friends and kin! Aeneas hurlshis thunderbolt of war, and menacesto crush the strongholds of all Italy,and lay them low; already where we dwellhis firebrands are raining. Unto theethe Latins Iook, and for thy valor call.The King sits dumb and helpless, even he,in doubt which son-in-law, which cause to choose.Yea, and the Queen, thy truest friend, is fallenby her own hand; gone mad with grief and fear,she fled the light of day. At yonder gatesMessapus only and Atinas bearthe brunt of battle; round us closely drawthe serried ranks; their naked blades of steelare thick as ripening corn; wilt thou the whilespeed in thy chariot o'er this empty plain?”Dazed and bewildered by such host of ills,Turnus stood dumb; in his pent bosom stirredshame, frenzy, sorrow, a despairing lovegoaded to fury, and a warrior's prideof valor proven. But when first the lightof reason to his blinded soul returned,he strained his flaming eyeballs to beholdthe distant wall, and from his chariot gazedin wonder at the lordly citadel.For, lo, a pointed peak of flame uprolledfrom tier to tier, and surging skyward seizeda tower—the very tower his own proud handshad built of firm-set beams and wheeled in place,and slung its Iofty bridges high in air.“Fate is too strong, my sister! Seek no moreto stay the stroke. But let me hence pursuethat path where Heaven and cruel Fortune call.Aeneas I must meet; and I must bearthe bitterness of death, whate'er it be.O sister, thou shalt look upon my shameno longer. But first grant a madman's will!”He spoke; and leaping from his chariot, spedthrough foes and foemen's spears, not seeing nowhis sister's sorrow, as in swift careerhe burst from line to line. Thus headlong fallsa mountain-boulder by a whirlwind flungfrom lofty peak, or loosened by much rain,or by insidious lapse of seasons gone;the huge, resistless crag goes plunging downby leaps and bounds, o'erwhelming as it fliestall forests, Bocks and herds, and mortal men:so through the scattered legions Turnus ranstraight to the city walls, where all the groundwas drenched with blood, and every passing airshrieked with the noise of spears. His lifted handmade sign of silence as he loudly called:“Refrain, Rutulians! O ye Latins all,your spears withhold! The issue of the frayis all my own. I only can repairour broken truce by judgment of the sword.”Back fell the hostile lines, and cleared the field.
But Sire Aeneas, hearing Turnus' name,down the steep rampart from the citadelunlingering tried, all lesser task laid by,with joy exultant and dread-thundering arms.Like Athos' crest he loomed, or soaring topof Eryx, when the nodding oaks resound,or sovereign Apennine that lifts in air his forehead of triumphant snow. All eyesof Troy, Rutulia, and Italy
were fixed his way; and all who kept a guardon lofty rampart, or in siege belowwere battering the foundations, now laid bytheir implements and arms. Latinus toostood awestruck to behold such champions, bornin lands far-sundered, met upon one fieldfor one decisive stroke of sword with sword.Swift striding forth where spread the vacant plain,they hurled their spears from far; then in close fightthe brazen shields rang. Beneath their treadEarth groaned aloud, as with redoubling blowstheir falchions fell; nor could a mortal eye'twixt chance and courage the dread work divide.As o'er Taburnus' top, or spacious hillsof Sila, in relentless shock of war,two bulls rush brow to brow, while terror-palethe herdsmen fly; the herd is hushed with fear;the heifers dumbly marvel which shall betrue monarch of the grove, whom all the kineobedient follow; but the rival twain,commingling mightily wound after wound,thrust with opposing horns, and bathe their necksin streams of blood; the forest far and widerepeats their bellowing rage: not otherwiseTrojan Aeneas and King Daunus' sonclashed shield on shield, till all the vaulted skyfelt the tremendous sound. The hand of Joveheld scales in equipoise, and threw thereonth' unequal fortunes of the heroes twain:one to vast labors doomed and one to die. Soon Turnus, reckless of the risk, leaped forth,upreached his whole height to his lifted sword,and struck: the Trojans and the Latins palecried mightily, and all eyes turned one wayexpectant. But the weak, perfidious swordbroke off, and as the blow descended, failedits furious master, whose sole succor nowwas flight; and swifter than the wind he flew.But, lo! a hilt of form and fashion strangelay in his helpless hand. For in his haste,when to the battle-field his team he drove,his father's sword forgotten (such the tale),he snatched Metiscus' weapon. This enduredto strike at Trojan backs, as he pursued,but when on Vulcan's armory divineits earthly metal smote, the brittle bladebroke off like ice, and o'er the yellow sandsin flashing fragments scattered. Turnus nowtakes mad flight o'er the distant plain, and windsin wavering gyration round and round;for Troy's close ring confines him, and one waya wide swamp lies, one way a frowning wall. But lo! Aeneas—though the arrow's woundstill slackens him and oft his knees refusetheir wonted step—pursues infuriatehis quailing foe, and dogs him stride for stride.As when a stag-hound drives the baffled roeto torrent's edge (or where the flaunting snareof crimson feathers fearfully confines)and with incessant barking swift pursues;while through the snared copse or embankment highthe frightened creature by a thousand waysdoubles and turns; but that keen Umbrian houndwith wide jaws, undesisting, grasps his prey,or, thinking that he grasps it, snaps his teethcracking together, and deludes his rage,devouring empty air: then peal on pealthe cry of hunters bursts; the lake and shorereecho, and confusion fills the sky:—such was the flight of Turnus, who reviledthe Rutules as he fled, and loudly suedof each by name to fetch his own lost sword.Aeneas vowed destruction and swift deathto all who dared come near, and terrifiedtheir trembling souls with menace that his powerwould raze their city to the ground. Straightway,though wounded, he gave chase, and five times roundin circles ran; then winding left and rightcoursed the swift circles o'er. For, lo! the prizeis no light laurel or a youthful game:for Turnus' doom and death their race is run.
But haply in that place a sacred tree,a bitter-leaved wild-olive, once had grown,to Faunus dear, and venerated oftby mariners safe-rescued from the waves,who nailed their gifts thereon, or hung in airtheir votive garments to Laurentum's god.But, heeding not, the Teucrians had shornthe stem away, to clear the field for war.'T was here Aeneas' lance stuck fast; its speedhad driven it firmly inward, and it claveto the hard, clinging root. Anchises' sonbent o'er it, and would wrench his weapon free,and follow with a far-flung javelinthe swift out-speeding foe. But Turnus then,bewildered and in terror, cried aloud:“O Faunus, pity me and heed my prayer!Hold fast his weapon, O benignant Earth!If ere these hands have rendered offering due,where yon polluting Teucrians fight and slay.”He spoke; invoking succor of the god,with no Iost prayer. For tugging valiantlyand laboring long against the stubborn stem,Aeneas with his whole strength could but failto Ioose the clasping tree. While fiercely thushe strove and strained, Juturna once again,wearing the charioteer Metiscus' shape,ran to her brother's aid, restoring himhis own true sword. But Venus, wroth to seewhat license to the dauntless nymph was given,herself came near, and plucked from that deep rootthe javelin forth. So both with lofty mienstrode forth new-armed, new-hearted: one made boldby his good sword, the other, spear in hand,uptowered in wrath, and with confronting browsthey set them to the war-god's breathless game.
Meanwhile th' Olympian sovereign supremeto Juno speaks, as from an amber cloudthe strife she views: “My Queen, what end shall be?What yet remains? Thou seest Aeneas' namenumbered with tutelary gods of power;and well thou know'st what station in the skyhis starward destiny intends. What schemevexes thy bosom still? What stubborn hope,fostered in cloud and cold? O, was it wellto desecrate a god with mortal wound;or well (what were a nymph unhelped by thee?)to give back Turnus his lost sword, and lendstrength unavailing to the fallen brave?Give o'er, and to our supplication yield;let not such grief thy voiceless heart devour;nor from thy sweet lips let thy mournful careso oft assail my mind. For now is comethe last decisive day. Thy power availedto vex the Trojans upon land and sea,to wake abominable war, bring shameupon a royal house, and mix the songsof marriage and the grave: but further actI thee refuse.” Such was the word of Jove.Thus Saturn's daughter answered, drooping lowher brows divine: “Because, great Jove, I knewthy pleasure, I from yonder earth retiredand Turnus' cause, tho, with unwilling mind.Else shouldst thou not behold me at this hourUpon my solitary throne of airenduring fair and foul; I should be foundflame-girded on the battle's deadly verge,tempting the Teucrians to a hated war.Yea, 't was my motion thrust Juturna forthto help her hapless brother. I approved—to save his life—that she should be too bold;but bade no whirl of spear nor bending bow:I swear it by th' inexorable fountwhence flow the Stygian rivers, the sole seatwhere gods of light bow down in awful prayer.I yield me now; heart-sick I quit the war.But ask one boon, which in the book of fateis not denied; for Latium's good I sue,and high prerogatives of men that bethy kith and kin: when happy wedlock vows(aye, be it so!) shall join them by strong lawsof chartered peace, let not the Latins Iosetheir ancient, native name. Bid them not passfor Trojans, nor be hailed as Teucer's sons;no alien speech, no alien garb impose.Let it be Latium ever; let the lordsof Alba unto distant ages reign;let the strong, master blood of Rome receivethe manhood and the might of Italy.Troy perished: let its name and glory die!”The Author of mankind and all that is,smiling benignant, answered thus her plea:“Jove's sister true, and Saturn's second child,what seas of anger vex thy heart divine!But come, relinquish thy rash, fruitless rage:I give thee this desire, and yield to theefree submission. The Ausonian tribesshall keep the speech and customs of their sires;the name remains as now; the Teucrian race,abiding in the land, shall but infusethe mixture of its blood. I will bestowa league of worship, and to Latins giveone language only. From the mingled breeda people shall come forth whom thou shalt seesurpass all mortal men and even outviethe faithfulness of gods; for none that liveshall render to thy name an equal praise.”So Juno bowed consent, and let her willbe changed, as with much comfort in her breastshe left Olympus and her haunt of cloud. After these things Jove gave his kingly mindto further action, that he might forthwithcut off Juturna from her brother's cause.Two plagues there be, called Furies, which were spawnedat one birth from the womb of wrathful Nightwith dread Megaera, phantom out of hell;and of their mother's gift, each Fury wearsgrim-coiling serpents and tempestuous wings.These at Jove's throne attend, and watch the doorsof that stern King—to whet the edge of fearfor wretched mortals, when the King of godshurls pestilence and death, or terrifiesoffending nations with the scourge of war.'T was one of these which Jove sent speeding downfrom his ethereal seat, and bade her crossthe pathway of Juturna for a sign.Her wings she spread, and earthward seemed to rideupon a whirling storm. As when some shaft,with Parthian poison tipped or Cretan gall,a barb of death, shoots cloudward from the bow,and hissing through the dark hastes forth unseen:so earthward flew that daughter of the night.Soon as she spied the Teucrians in arrayand Turnus' lines, she shrivelled to the shapeof that small bird which on lone tombs and towerssits perching through the midnight, and prolongsin shadow and deep gloom her troubling cry.In such disguise the Fury, screaming shrill,flitted in Turnus' face, and with her wingssmote on his hollow shield. A strange affrightpalsied his every limb; each several hairlifted with horror, and his gasping voicedied on his lips. But when Juturna knewfrom far the shrieking fiend's infernal wing,she loosed her tresses, and their beauty tore,to tell a sister's woe; with clenching handsshe marred her cheeks and beat her naked breast. “What remedy or help, my Turnus, nowis in a sister's power? What way remainsfor stubborn me? Or with what further guilethy life prolong? What can my strength opposeto this foul thing? I quit the strife at last.Withdraw thy terror from my fearful eyes,thou bird accurst! The tumult of thy wingsI know full well, and thy death-boding call.The harsh decrees of that large-minded JoveI plainly see. Is this the price he paysfor my lost maidenhood? Why flatter mewith immortality, and snatch awaymy property of death? What boon it wereto end this grief this hour, and hie awayto be my brother's helpmeet in his grave!I, an immortal? O, what dear delightis mine, sweet brother, living without thee?O, where will earth yawn deep enough and wideto hide a goddess with the ghosts below?”She spoke; and veiled in glistening mantle grayher mournful brow; then in her stream divinethe nymph sank sighing to its utmost cave.
Aeneas now is near; and waving widea spear like some tall tree, he called aloudwith unrelenting heart: “What stays thee now?Or wherefore, Turnus, backward fly? Our workis not a foot-race, but the wrathful strifeof man with man. Aye, hasten to put ontricks and disguises; gather all thou hastof skill or courage; wish thou wert a birdto fly to starry heaven, or hide thy headsafe in the hollow ground!” The other thenshook his head, saying: “It is not thy words,not thy hot words, affright me, savage man!Only the gods I fear, and hostile Jove.”Silent he stood, and glancing round him sawa huge rock Iying by, huge rock and old,a landmark justly sundering field from field,which scarce six strong men's shoulders might upraise,such men as mother-Earth brings forth to-day:this grasped he with impetuous hand and hurled,stretched at full height and roused to all his speed,against his foe. Yet scarcely could he feelit was himself that ran, himself that movedwith lifted hand to fling the monster stone;for his knees trembled, and his languid bloodran shuddering cold; nor could the stone he threw,tumbling in empty air, attain its goalnor strike the destined blow. But as in dreams,when helpless slumber binds the darkened eyes,we seem with fond desire to tread in vainalong a lengthening road, yet faint and fallwhen straining to the utmost, and the tongueis palsied, and the body's wonted powerobeys not, and we have no speech or cry:so unto Turnus, whatsoever wayhis valiant spirit moved, the direful Fiendstopped in the act his will. Swift-changing thoughtsrush o'er his soul; on the Rutulian host,then at the town he glares, shrinks back in fear,and trembles at th' impending lance; nor seeswhat path to fly, what way confront the foe:—no chariot now, nor sister-charioteer!
Above his faltering terror gleams in airAeneas' fatal spear; whose eye perceivedthe moment of success, and all whose strengthstruck forth: the vast and ponderous rock outflungfrom engines which make breach in sieged wallsnot louder roars nor breaks in thunder-soundmore terrible; like some black whirlwind flewthe death-delivering spear, and, rending widethe corselet's edges and the heavy rimof the last circles of the seven-fold shield,pierced, hissing, through the thigh. Huge Turnus sinkso'erwhelmed upon the ground with doubling knee.Up spring the Rutules, groaning; the whole hillroars answering round them, and from far and widethe lofty groves give back an echoing cry.Lowly, with suppliant eyes, and holding forthhis hand in prayer: “I have my meed,” he cried,“Nor ask for mercy. Use what Fate has given!But if a father's grief upon thy hearthave power at all,—for Sire Anchises onceto thee was dear,—I pray thee to show graceto Daunus in his desolate old age;and me, or, if thou wilt, my lifeless clay,to him and his restore. For, lo, thou artmy conqueror! Ausonia's eyes have seenme suppliant, me fallen. Thou hast madeLavinia thy bride. Why further urgeour enmity?”With swift and dreadful armsAeneas o'er him stood, with rolling eyes,but his bare sword restraining; for such wordsmoved on him more and more: when suddenly,over the mighty shoulder slung, he sawthat fatal baldric studded with bright goldwhich youthful Pallas wore, what time he fellvanquished by Turnus' stroke, whose shoulders nowcarried such trophy of a foeman slain.Aeneas' eyes took sure and slow surveyof spoils that were the proof and memoryof cruel sorrow; then with kindling rageand terrifying look, he cried, “Wouldst thou,clad in a prize stripped off my chosen friend,escape this hand? In this thy mortal wound't is Pallas has a victim; Pallas takesthe lawful forfeit of thy guilty blood!”He said, and buried deep his furious bladein the opposer's heart. The failing limbssank cold and helpless; and the vital breath with moan of wrath to darkness fled away.