No doubtful rumor to Aeneas breaks
the direful news, but a sure messenger
tells him his followers' peril, and implores
prompt help for routed Troy. His ready sword
reaped down the nearest foes, and through their line
clove furious path and broad; the valiant blade
through oft-repeated bloodshed groped its way,
proud Turnus, unto thee! His heart beholds
Pallas and Sire Evander, their kind board
in welcome spread, their friendly league of peace
proffered and sealed with him, the stranger-guest.
So Sulmo's sons, four warriors, and four
of Ufens sprung, he took alive—to slay
as victims to the shades, and pour a stream
of captives' blood upon a flaming pyre.
Next from afar his hostile shaft he threw
at Mago, who with wary motion bowed
beneath the quivering weapon, as it sped
clean over him; then at Aeneas' knees
he crouched and clung with supplicating cry:
“O, by thy father's spirit, by thy hope
in young Iulus, I implore thee, spare
for son and father's sake this life of mine.
A lofty house have I, where safely hid
are stores of graven silver and good weight
of wrought and unwrought gold. The fate of war
hangs not on me; nor can one little life
thy victory decide.”
In answer spoke
Aeneas: “Hoard the silver and the gold
for thy own sons. Such bartering in war
finished with Turnus, when fair Pallas fell.
Thus bids Anchises' shade, Iulus—thus!”
He spoke: and, grasping with his mighty left
the helmet of the vainly suppliant foe,
bent back the throat and drove hilt-deep his sword.
A little space removed, Haemonides,
priest of Phoebus and pale Trivia, stood,
whose ribboned brows a sacred fillet bound:
in shining vesture he, and glittering arms.
Him too the Trojan met, repelled, and towered
above the fallen form, o'ermantling it
in mortal shade; Serestus bore away
those famous arms a trophy vowed to thee,
Gradivus, lord of war! Soon to fresh fight
came Caeculus, a child of Vulcan's line,
and Umbro on the Marsic mountains bred:
these met the Trojan's wrath. His sword shore off
Anxur's left hand, and the whole orbed shield
dropped earthward at the stroke: though Anxur's tongue
had boasted mighty things, as if great words
would make him strong, and lifting his proud heart
as high as heaven, had hoped perchance to see
gray hairs and length of days.
Then Tarquitus
strode forth, exulting in his burnished arms
(Him Dryope, the nymph, to Faunus bore),
and dared oppose Aeneas' rage. But he
drew back his lance and, charging, crushed at once
corselet and ponderous shield; then off he struck
the supplicating head, which seemed in vain
preparing speech; while o'er the reeking corpse
the victor stood, and thrusting it away
spoke thus with wrathful soul: “Now lie thou there,
thou fearsome sight! No noble mother's hand
shall hide thee in the ground, or give those limbs
to their ancestral tomb. Thou shalt be left
to birds of ravin; or go drifting far
along yon river to engulfing seas,
where starving fishes on those wounds shall feed.”
Antceus next and Lucas he pursues,
though all in Turnus' van; and Numa bold
and Camers tawny-tressed, the son and heir
of Volscens the stout-hearted, whose domain
surpassed the richest of Ausonia's lords,
when over hushed Amyclae he was king.
Like old Aegaeon of the hundred arms,
the hundred-handed, from whose mouths and breasts
blazed fifty fiery blasts, as he made war
with fifty sounding shields and fifty swords
against Jove's thunder;—so Aeneas raged
victorious o'er the field, when once his steel
warmed to its work. But lo, he turns him now
where come Niphaeus' bold-advancing wheels
and coursers four, who, when at furious speed
they faced his giant stride and dreadful cry,
upreared in panic, and reversing spilled
their captain to the ground, and bore away
the chariot to the river's distant shore.
Meanwhile, with two white coursers to their car,
the brothers Lucagus and Liger drove
into the heart of battle: Liger kept
with skilful hand the manage of the steeds;
bold Lucagus swung wide his naked sword.
Aeneas, by their wrathful brows defied,
brooked not the sight, but to the onset flew,
huge-looming, with adverse and threatening spear.
Cried Liger, “Not Achilles' chariot, ours!
Nor team of Diomed on Phrygia's plain!
The last of life and strife shall be thy meed
upon this very ground.”
Such raving word
flowed loud from Liger's lip: not with a word
the Trojan hero answered him, but flung
his whirling spear; and even as Lucagus
leaned o'er the horses, goading them with steel,
and, left foot forward, gathered all his strength
to strike—the spear crashed through the under rim
of his resplendent shield and entered deep
in the left groin; then from the chariot fallen,
the youth rolled dying on the field, while thus
pious Aeneas paid him taunting words:
“O Lucagus, thy chariot did not yield
because of horses slow to fly, or scared
by shadows of a foe. It was thyself
leaped o'er the wheel and fled.” So saying, he grasped
the horses by the rein. The brother then,
spilled also from the car, reached wildly forth
his helpless hands: “O, by thy sacred head,
and by the parents who such greatness gave,
good Trojan, let me live! Some pity show
to prostrate me!” But ere he longer sued,
Aeneas cried, “Not so thy language ran
a moment gone! Die thou! Nor let this day
brother from brother part!” Then where the life
hides in the bosom, he thrust deep his sword.
Thus o'er the field of war the Dardan King
moved on, death-dealing: like a breaking flood
or cloudy whirlwind seemed his wrath. Straightway
the boy Ascanius from the ramparts came,
his warriors with him; for the siege had failed.
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