The Aeneid

by Virgil

This was the Carthaginian Hannibal, whose feats are also predicted by Jupiter in Book 10: “one day when savage Carthage will loose enormous ruin down on the Roman strongholds, breach and unleash the Alps against her walls.” (10.15–17) Hannibal moved from his base in Spain north to what is now the French coast and then, war elephants and all, crossed the Alps and came down on Italy. He defeated the Roman troops in one battle after another, at the Trebia River, at Lake Trasimenus, and in 216 at Cannae he annihilated a superior Roman force with tactics that were carefully studied by the German general staff in 1914. But though he remained in Italy until 202, he was unable to break the loyalty of the Latin cities to Rome’s federation and was gradually confined to a small area in the South of Italy. Meanwhile the Roman general Scipio took southern Spain from the Carthaginians as Hasdrubal made his way over the Alps with a relief force to join Hannibal.

But Carthage, with its superb harbor and trading contacts, soon began to revive, and the Roman senator Cato became famous for ending every speech he made in the Senate, no matter what the subject under discussion happened to be, with the words: “And furthermore, my opinion is that Carthage should be destroyed—delendam esse Carthaginem.” Finally, in 149 B.C., the Romans took his advice; the Third Punic War came to an end in 146 B.C. with the total defeat of Carthage and the destruction of the city.

Wars and a man I sing—an exile driven on by Fate, he was the first to flee the coast of Troy, destined to reach Lavinian shores and Italian soil, yet many blows he took on land and sea from the gods above—

if only the Fates were willing. This was Juno’s goal from the start, and so she nursed her city’s strength. But she heard a race of men, sprung of Trojan blood, would one day topple down her Tyrian stronghold, breed an arrogant people ruling far and wide, proud in battle, destined to plunder Libya. So the Fates were spinning out the future… This was Juno’s fear and the goddess never forgot the old campaign 30 that she had waged at Troy for her beloved Argos. No, not even now would the causes of her rage, her bitter sorrows drop from the goddess’ mind. They festered deep within her, galled her still: the Judgment of Paris, the unjust slight to her beauty, the Trojan stock she loathed, the honors showered on Ganymede ravished to the skies. Her fury inflamed by all this, the daughter of Saturn drove over endless oceans Trojans left by the Greeks and brute Achilles.

Here in a vast cave King Aeolus rules the winds, brawling to break free, howling in full gale force as he chains them down in their dungeon, shackled fast.

Aeneas will wage a long, costly war in Italy, crush defiant tribes and build high city walls for his people there and found the rule of law. Only three summers will see him govern Latium, three winters pass in barracks after the Latins have been broken.

And now as Trojan Aeneas, gazing in awe at all the scenes of Troy, stood there, spellbound, eyes fixed on the war alone, the queen aglow with beauty approached the temple, Dido, with massed escorts marching in her wake. 600 Like Diana urging her dancing troupes along the Eurotas’ banks or up Mount Cynthus’ ridge as a thousand mountain-nymphs crowd in behind her, left and right—with quiver slung from her shoulder, taller than any other goddess as she goes striding on and silent Latona thrills with joy too deep for words. Like Dido now, striding triumphant among her people, spurring on the work of their kingdom still to come. And then by Juno’s doors beneath the vaulted dome, flanked by an honor guard beside her lofty seat, 610 the queen assumed her throne.

Her gaze, her whole heart is riveted on him now, and at times she even warms him snugly in her breast, for how can she know, poor Dido, what a mighty god is sinking into her, to her grief? 860 But he, recalling the wishes of his mother Venus, blots out the memory of Sychaeus bit by bit, trying to seize with a fresh, living love a heart at rest for long—long numb to passion.

The day of infamy soon came… 170 the sacred rites were all performed for the victim, the salted meal strewn, the bands tied round my head. But I broke free of death, I tell you, burst my shackles, yes, and hid all night in the reeds of a marshy lake, waiting for them to sail—if only they would sail! Well, no hope now of seeing the land where I was born or my sweet children, the father I longed for all these years. Maybe they’ll wring from them the price for my escape, avenge my guilt with my loved ones’ blood, poor things. I beg you, king, by the Powers who know the truth, 180 by any trust still uncorrupt in the world of men, pity a man whose torment knows no bounds. Pity me in my pain. I know in my soul I don’t deserve to suffer.’

“Now that it pleased the gods to crush the power of Asia and Priam’s innocent people, now proud Troy had fallen— Neptune’s city a total ruin smoking on the ground— signs from the high gods drive us on, exiles now, searching earth for a home in some neglected land.

But the queen—too long she has suffered the pain of love, hour by hour nursing the wound with her lifeblood, consumed by the fire buried in her heart. The man’s courage, the sheer pride of his line, they all come pressing home to her, over and over.

Don’t you recall whose lands you settled here, the men who press around you? On one side the Gaetulian cities, fighters matchless in battle, unbridled Numidians—Syrtes, the treacherous Sandbanks. On the other side an endless desert, parched earth where the wild Barcan marauders range at will. Why mention the war that’s boiling up in Tyre, your brother’s deadly threats? I think, in fact, the favor of all the gods and Juno’s backing drove these Trojan ships on the winds that sailed them here. 60 Think what a city you will see, my sister, what a kingdom rising high if you marry such a man! With a Trojan army marching at our side, think how the glory of Carthage will tower to the clouds! Just ask the gods for pardon, win them with offerings. Treat your guests like kings. Weave together some pretext for delay, while winter spends its rage and drenching Orion whips the sea— the ships still battered, weather still too wild.”

They slaughter the pick of yearling sheep, the old way, to Ceres, Giver of Laws, to Apollo, Bacchus who sets us free and Juno above all, who guards the bonds of marriage. Dido aglow with beauty holds the bowl in her right hand, pouring wine between the horns of a pure white cow or gravely paces before the gods’ fragrant altars, under their statues’ eyes refreshing her first gifts, dawn to dusk. And when the victims’ chests are splayed, 80 Dido, her lips parted, pores over their entrails, throbbing still, for signs… But, oh, how little they know, the omniscient seers. What good are prayers and shrines to a person mad with love? The flame keeps gnawing into her tender marrow hour by hour and deep in her heart the silent wound lives on.

Straightway Rumor flies through Libya’s great cities, 220 Rumor, swiftest of all the evils in the world. She thrives on speed, stronger for every stride, slight with fear at first, soon soaring into the air she treads the ground and hides her head in the clouds.

“Oh, dear relics, dear as long as Fate and the gods allowed, receive my spirit and set me free of pain. 810 I have lived a life. I’ve journeyed through the course that Fortune charted for me. And now I pass to the world below, my ghost in all its glory. I have founded a noble city, seen my ramparts rise. I have avenged my husband, punished my blood-brother, our mortal foe. Happy, all too happy I would have been if only the Trojan keels had never grazed our coast.” She presses her face in the bed and cries out: “I shall die unavenged, but die I will! So— so—I rejoice to make my way among the shades. 820 And may that heartless Dardan, far at sea, drink down deep the sight of our fires here and bear with him this omen of our death!”

“Who, noble Cato, could pass you by in silence? Or you, Cossus? Or the Gracchi and their kin? Or the two Scipios, 970 both thunderbolts of battle, Libya’s scourge? Or you, Fabricius, reared from poverty into power? Or you, Serranus the Sower, seeding your furrow? You Fabii, where do you rush me, all but spent? And you, famous Maximus, you are the one man whose delaying tactics save our Roman state.

“Others, I have no doubt, will forge the bronze to breathe with suppler lines, draw from the block of marble features quick with life, plead their cases better, chart with their rods the stars 980 that climb the sky and foretell the times they rise. But you, Roman, remember, rule with all your power the peoples of the earth—these will be your arts: to put your stamp on the works and ways of peace, to spare the defeated, break the proud in war.”

Commands given, he called the gods to witness. His keen Rutulians spur each other to arms, some moved by his matchless build and youth, some by his royal bloodline, some by his sword-arm’s shining work in war.

Ruthless Mars was drawing the battle out, dead even now, equaling out the grief, the mutual slaughter. Victors and victims killing, killed in turn: both sides locked, not a thought of flight, not here. The gods in the halls of Jove are filled with pity, feeling the futile rage of both great armies, mourning the labors borne by mortal men… Here Venus, over against her, Juno gazing down, 900 as Tisiphone seethes amid the milling thousands, that livid, lethal Fury.

Now as Dawn rose up and left her Ocean bed, Aeneas, moved as he is by grief to pause and bury comrades, desolate with their deaths, still the victor pays his vows to the gods as first light breaks. An enormous oak, its branches lopped and trunk laid bare, he stakes on a mound and decks with the burnished arms he stripped from Mezentius, that strong captain:

Even he, the Mycenaean commander of all Greece: the moment he crossed his threshold, down he went at the hands of his wicked queen. The conqueror of Asia… an adulterer crouched in wait to lay him low.

roxana did not kill alexander the great just for the record

Like fires loosed from adverse sides into woodlands dry as tinder, 610 thickets of rustling laurel, or foaming rivers hurling down from a mountain ridge and roaring out to sea, each leaves a path of destruction in its wake. Just as furious now those two, Aeneas, Turnus rampaging through the battle, now their fury boils over inside them, now their warring hearts at the breaking point—they don’t concede defeat— and now they hack their wounding ways with all their force.

sometimes you just have to marvel at the language in fagles' translations more than usual