The Aeneid

by Virgil

Armor must be forged for a man of courage!

They are forging one tremendous shield, one against all the Latin spears—welding seven plates, circular rim to rim.

You are the one whose age and breed the Fates approve, the one the Powers call.

My goddess mother promised to send this sign 630 if war were breaking out, and bring me armor down through the air, forged by Vulcan himself to speed me on in battle.

But the goddess Venus, lustrous among the cloudbanks, bearing her gifts, approached and when she spotted her son alone, off in a glade’s recess by the frigid stream, 720 she hailed him, suddenly there before him: “Look, just forged to perfection by all my husband’s skill: the gifts I promised! There’s no need now, my son, to flinch from fighting swaggering Latin ranks or challenging savage Turnus to a duel!”

Venus reached to embrace her son and set the brilliant armor down before him under a nearby oak.

And here in the heart of the shield: the bronze ships, the battle of Actium, you could see it all, the world drawn up for war, Leucata Headland seething, the breakers molten gold. On one flank, Caesar Augustus leading Italy into battle, the Senate and People too, the gods of hearth and home and the great gods themselves.

On the other flank, Agrippa stands tall as he steers 800 his ships in line, impelled by favoring winds and gods and from his forehead glitter the beaks of ships on the Naval Crown, proud ensign earned in war.

But Caesar in triple triumph, borne home through the walls of Rome, was paying eternal vows of thanks to the gods of Italy: three hundred imposing shrines throughout the city.

Such vistas the God of Fire forged across the shield that Venus gives her son. He fills with wonder— he knows nothing of these events but takes delight in their likeness, lifting onto his shoulders now the fame and fates of all his children’s children.

Just watch!” he cries and hurls his javelin into the sky— 60 the opening shot of war—and high in his saddle races down the plain as his shouting comrades speed him on, riding in his wake with their war cries striking terror, amazed at the Trojans’ bloodless hearts, and calling: “No trusting themselves to a level field of battle!

“I have my own fate too, counter to theirs, to stamp out these accursed people with my sword— they’ve stolen away my bride! Atreus’ sons, they’re not alone in suffering such a wound, not only Mycenae has a right to go to war. ‘To die once is enough’?

“Euryalus,” Nisus asks, “do the gods light this fire in our hearts 220 or does each man’s mad desire become his god?

I pray you, Calliope—Muses—inspire me as I sing what carnage and death the sword of Turnus spread that day, what men each fighter speeded down to darkness. Come, help me unroll the massive scroll of war!

Jove starts in: “You great gods of the sky, why have you turned against your own resolve? Why do you battle so? Such warring hearts! 10 I ordered Italy not to fight with Troy.

Jove is just that brief, but golden Venus is far from brief as she replies: “Oh Father, everlasting king over men and all the world, what other force could we implore to save us now? You see the Rutulians on the rampage? Turnus amidst them, proud in his chariot, puffed up with his new success, spurring the war-lust on!

“As for Aeneas, let the man be tossed on strange new seas, follow the course where Fortune leads the way. 60 Just give me the strength to shield my grandson, bear him quite unscathed from the raw clash of arms.

Then the almighty Father, power that rules the world, begins, and as he speaks the lofty house of the gods falls silent, earth rocks to its roots, the heights of the sky are hushed and the Western breezes drop and the Ocean calms its waters into peace: “So then, take what I say to heart and stamp it in your minds.

How each man weaves his web will bring him to glory or to grief.

As pressures gave no rest to his limbs, Aeneas sat astern, guiding the tiller, trimming sail, when suddenly, look—a troop of his comrades comes to meet him, halfway home, the nymphs that kindly Cybebe told to rule the sea in power, changing the ships to sea-nymphs swimming abreast, cutting the waves, 270 as many as all the bronze prows berthed at anchor once.

Cymodocea swims in on his wake and grips his stern with her right hand, arching her back above the swells as her left hand rows the silent waves, and she calls out to Aeneas, lost to it all: “Awake, Aeneas, son of the gods? Wake up! Fling your sheets to the winds, sail free!

She closed with a dive and drove the tall ship on with her right hand—how well she knew the ropes! and on it flies, faster than spear or wind-swift shaft 300 while the rest race on in her wake.

Aeneas prays a few strong words: “Ida’s generous queen and Mother of the Gods, by Dindyma dear to your heart, by towered cities, the double team of lions yoked to your reins, lead me in war, bring on the omen, goddess, speed the Trojans home with your victor’s stride!”

Now Aeneas, standing high astern, no sooner catches a glimpse of his own Trojan camp than he quickly hoists his burnished, brazen shield in his left hand.

The Rutulian king and the Latin captains marvel till, glancing back, they see an armada heading toward the shore and the whole sea rolling down on them now in a tide of ships.

But dauntless Turnus never lost his faith in his daring, certain to seize the beaches first and hurl the invader off the land:

Fortune speeds the bold!”

Aeneas cries to Achates: “Give me a sheaf of weapons! I won’t miss a single Rutulian with my spear, just as my spears impaled the Greeks at Troy!”

Pallas attacks him, praying first: “Now, Father Tiber, grant the spear I’m about to hurl a lucky path through rugged Halaesus’ chest— 500 I’ll strip him of weapons, hang them on your oak!” The Tiber heard his prayer. As Halaesus guarded Imaon, the hapless fighter left his chest defenseless, bared to the Arcadian lance.

Pallas marches out to the center of the field and the blood runs cold in each Arcadian heart.

When Pallas judged him just in range of his spear he moved up first—if only Fortune would speed his daring, pitting himself against unequal odds, and he cries out to the arching heavens: “Hercules, by my father’s board, the welcome you met as a stranger, I beg you, stand by the great task I’m tackling now.

“Each man has his day, and the time of life is brief for all, and never comes again. But to lengthen out one’s fame with action, that’s the work of courage. How many sons of gods went down under Troy’s high wall! Why, I lost a son of my own with all the rest—Sarpedon. For Turnus too, his own fate calls, and the man 560 has reached the end of all his days on earth.”

Now a trusted herald, no empty rumor, wings the news to Aeneas: His men stand on the razor edge of death— now is the time to rescue his routed Trojans.

At the same moment Jove adeptly spurs on Juno: “My own sister, my sweet wife as well, it’s Venus, just as you thought, your judgment never fails. She is the one who supports the Trojan forces, not their own strong hands that clutch for combat, 720 not their unflinching spirits seasoned hard to peril.”

Turnus attacks it, rifling a vibrant lance, a long cast but the phantom swerves away and Turnus in turmoil, thinking Aeneas had really turned tail and fled, and drinking deep of the vapid cup of hope, 770 cries out: “Where are you racing, Aeneas? Don’t abandon your sworn bride! My right hand will give you the earth you crossed the seas to find.”

Shield me, I implore you, from their fury! Let me rest in the grave beside my son, in the comradeship of death.” With those words, fully aware, he offers up his throat to the sword and across his armor pours his life in waves of blood.

Dismiss all fears for what’s still left to do.

Sharpen your swords with heart and pin your hopes on war!

They won this land for us with their own blood.

Aeneas, gazing at Pallas resting there, his head, his face bled white, and his smooth chest splayed apart by a Latin spear, the tears came welling up with words of sorrow: “Child of heartbreak, was it you whom Fortune denied me, coming to me all smiles? 50 Now you will never live to see our kingdom born, never ride in triumph home to your father’s house. A far cry from the pledge I made Evander for his son!

Then Aeneas carried out twin robes, stiff with purple and gold braid, that Dido of Sidon made with her own hands once, just for Aeneas, loving every stitch of the work and weaving into the weft a glinting mesh of gold. Heartsick, he cloaks the boy with one as a final tribute, covering locks that soon will face the fire.

Behind their backs he strapped their hands, the captives he planned to send below as gifts to appease the shades, sprinkling Latin blood on the pyre that burned their corpses.

Ignite the pyre beneath your luckless dead.”

They all stood silent, trading startled glances fixed on each other, hushed.

But how bitter the first fruits of a man’s youth, the hard lessons learned in a war so near at hand, and none of the gods would hear my vows, my prayers.

Tears wet the earth, tears wetting their armor. The shouting of fighters soars, the clashing blare of trumpets.

Then down the entire shore they watch their comrades burn as men stand guard at the pyres now dying out…Nor can they tear themselves away 240 till the dank night comes wheeling round the heavens studded with fiery stars.

We Latins must look elsewhere, hunt for other allies or press for peace at once at the hands of the Trojan king.”

Even King Latinus is overwhelmed. It’s clear, Aeneas comes by the will of Fate, the word on high.

Even Priam might pity our embattled troops.