The Fight Between Atneas and Turnus

Turnus had declared himself ready to decide the struggle in single combat with Æneas. The time had now come for him to redeem his pledge. The Latins were beaten and discouraged, and all eyes were fixed upon him as the author and cause of the war. The fiery spirit of the young Rutulian rose under this trial; he sought an interview with Latinus, and bade him send a herald to demand a truce and arrange the preliminaries of his duel with Æneas. Latinus strove in vain to deter him from his purpose; in vain Amata besought him with tears and prayers not to drive matters to so desperate an issue. Turnus fixed his eyes on the lovely form and blushing features of Lavinia, who was standing a silent witness of the scene, and, carried away by passion, he answered in excited tones: “Urge me no further, dear lady! The die is cast; I have given my word, and cannot draw back now.” Then he called an officer, and sent him with a flag of truce to the Trojan camp, appointing the next day for the encounter which was to settle his claim to the hand of Lavinia and the scepter of Latium. * * * * * The fatal day is come, and with the first gleam of light Turnus leaps from his couch and prepares himself for battle. Every tone and gesture of the turbulent Rutulian betray wild exaltation of spirits. “Come,” he cries, seizing a ponderous lance, which quivered like a reed in his powerful grasp, “come, good spear, that hast never failed me yet! To-day thou shalt drink deep of a coward’s blood, and the curled darling of Venus shall stain his scented locks in the dust of Latium.” On the other side Æneas armed himself with calm confidence, secure in the sense of his lofty mission. The lists were measured, and altars of turf erected for the customary sacrifice. On either side of the field the Trojans and Latins were drawn up in battle array, and the walls of Laurentum were thronged with women and old men, the passive spectators of the approaching combat. A loud shout from the ranks of the Latins announces that the king is at hand, and soon Latinus appears in the center of the arena, seated in a four-horse car, and wearing his royal crown. Turnus follows close behind, sheathed in complete armor, and drawn by two snow-white steeds. Æneas stands ready to receive them; the victims are brought, the salted meal is sprinkled, and the sacred forelock cut off from the forehead of the victims. Then Æneas lifts up his hands, and makes a solemn appeal to Jupiter and Juno and Mars, and all the powers of earth and sky and sea: “Witness, all ye eternal gods, and hear my vow: if Turnus gains the mastery to-day the Trojans shall go back to Evander’s city, and never bear arms against this realm again; but if, as I hope and believe, Heaven favors my sword, I claim not the sovereignty of Latium, nor seek aught for myself and my people but the right to dwell here in peace as a friend and ally of the old inhabitants.” The oath was solemnly repeated by Latinus and ratified by sacrifice and prayer. But the combat was not to proceed without interruption. On a lofty hill, known in after days as the Alban Mount, sat Juno, watching the scene with jealous eyes. She observed with pity the pale and downcast face of Turnus, whose courage began to fail him as the fatal moment drew near; and, resolved to make one more effort on his behalf, she went in search of Juturna, a sister of Turnus, who had been raised to divine honors by the special favor of Jove, and made a presiding deity over the fountains and rivers of Latium. “Up, Juturna,” said the goddess, when she had found her sitting pensively by a dear fountain-head; “go help thy brother in his dire need. I can do no more.” Starting up at the summons Juturna made haste to obey, and a moment after she was standing invisible among the Rutulians who fought under Turnus. By their looks and words she soon perceived that they were ripe for mischief; and putting on the likeness of Camers, a brave warrior, and friend of Turnus, she gave voice to the general sentiment thus: “Are ye not ashamed, Rutulians, that one man should give his life for you all? Shall we, who outnumber the enemy by two to one, sit idly by and see our leader slain and a chain forged for our own necks?” The words were caught up, and passed from rank to rank; threatening murmurs arose among the Rutulians, and even the Latins began to regret that they had left their fate to be decided by the sword of Turnus. In the midst of this excitement a flight of wild swans was seen passing overhead, pursued by an eagle, who swooped suddenly on one of the finest of the birds, and began to bear him off in his talons. Hereupon the whole troop rallied to the rescue of their comrade, and so belabored and buffeted the robber with their powerful wings that he was compelled to drop his prey and seek safety in flight. “Hear me,” cried Tolumnius, a famous augur, “while I read you the omen. The eagle is Æneas, and the swans who beat him off are ourselves, the free sons of Italy, who will forthwith drive this marauder across the sea again.” Suiting the action to the word he ran forward, and flung his spear. It flew hissing across the open space which separated the two armies, and struck a tall Arcadian, one of nine brothers, in the side. He fell, mortally wounded, and his brethren, with a cry of rage and grief, seized their weapons, and rushed to avenge him. A general advance now began on both sides; thick and fast flew the javelins; and Latinus left the field in haste to escape from that iron shower. Æneas made desperate efforts to check the furious passions which were raging around him. Bareheaded and unarmed he flung himself into the thick of the combatants, crying: “Are ye mad, good people? Drop your weapons, and leave me to seal the treaty with the blood of Turnus; his life is now forfeited to me.” While thus he pleaded and protested there came an arrow, shot by an unknown hand, and struck him in the hip. Grievously hurt Æneas was compelled to seek shelter behind a friendly shield, and retired to the rear, leaving the field open to Turnus. Great was the joy of the fierce Rutulian when he saw his enemy disabled and the bravest of the Trojan leaders withdrawn from the conflict, in anxious attendance on their injured chief. Mounting his car he lashed his coursers to a gallop, and scoured the plain, ravaging the ranks of the Trojans and trampling them down by scores. Meanwhile Æneas had retreated to the camp, and was standing, surrounded by his friends, with the arrow still planted deep in his flesh. The most skilful leech in the Trojan army was a certain Iapis, whom Apollo had loved in his youth, and offered to endow with his own gifts as archer, harper, and seer; but he, that he might prolong the life of his father, who was sick unto death, chose rather to learn the virtues of healing herbs and all the physician’s lore. He now arrived, in answer to a hasty summons, and employed all his skill to draw the barbed arrow from the wound. But all his efforts were in vain; the arrow clung fast, and refused to stir. Louder and louder grew the roar of battle; nearer and nearer came the dense columns of the enemy, and their javelins began to fall thick in the very center of the camp. Venus saw her son’s dire strait, and came to his aid, bearing in her hand a bunch of dittany, a plant of wondrous healing powers, with downy leaves and purple flower, often cropped by the wild goats when they are wounded by the hunter’s shaft. Unseen of any Venus drew near, and dropped the magic herb into the vessel containing the water with which Iapis was bathing the wound. The leech, all unknowing, continued his ministrations; and instantly, at the first touch of that powerful remedy, all pain departed, the flow of blood was stanched, and the arrow dropped harmless to the ground. “This is no work of my skill,” said Iapis in a voice full of awe; “the hand of a god has been here.” Completely healed, with all his pristine vigor restored, Æneas resumed his armor, and kissing Iulus, who was standing near, he seized his spear, and charged into the thickest of the fight, followed close by the other Trojan chiefs. Juturna saw him coming, and, trembling for her brother’s life, she approached the car of Turnus, and flinging Metiscus, his charioteer, in the dust, herself put on his likeness, and seized the reins. Driven now by no mortal hand, the car flew hither and thither with miraculous speed, wheeling and darting in giddy circles, like a swallow pursuing her tiny prey. Æneas panted in pursuit, scorning every other foe, with eye and foot and hand all directed against Turnus, and Turnus alone; now he seemed to be gaining, and pressed forward, calling on his enemy to stand; and the next moment his prey was snatched from his grasp, like a hare doubling to avoid the fangs of a hound. Messapus, seeing him absorbed in the chase, and thinking to catch him unawares, flung a javelin, and struck off the plumes from his helmet. Then at last Æneas gave reins to his anger, and, abandoning the pursuit of Turnus, fell upon the foes who were nearest, and strewed the field with indiscriminate carnage. Thus fate for the moment kept the two rivals apart, and they fought in different parts of the field, like devastating fires which fall upon a forest from opposite quarters, wasting the timber, till with a roar they meet. At length Æneas paused from the work of destruction, and, glancing backward at the city, saw the walls feebly manned and the path to the gates lying open. Such an opportunity was not to be neglected. Hastily summoning those next to himself in command he pointed to the walls, and said: “There is the point at which we must strike, and that speedily. If the Latins will not confess themselves beaten, this day I will raze their city to the ground. Gather your men, and prepare to carry the place by storm.” Wild was the dismay among the inhabitants of Laurentum when they saw the Trojans and Tuscans advancing in full force, with scaling ladders, battering-rams, and torches, to the assault. Some rushed to the battlements, determined to resist to the last; others cried that the gates must be opened to the enemy; and a third party broke into the palace, and dragged the unhappy Latinus into the streets, vowing that they would hand him over to the vengeance of Æneas. All was panic, confusion, and uproar, as in a nest of wild bees smoked to death by a shepherd who seeks to rifle their store. In the midst of this disorder an event occurred which gave the last blow to those who still favored the cause of Turnus. When the queen saw the approaching attack on the city she at once concluded that Turnus had fallen, and, full of remorse for the part which she had played, she went and hanged herself from a high beam in her chamber.