The Death of Tornus

Turnus, whose car was still driven by the disguised Juturna, had been carried in pursuit of some straggling Trojans to the farthest verge of the plain. Suddenly his ears were caught by a wild, tumultuous cry from the distant city, and, laying his hand on the reins, he brought the chariot to a stand. “Why haltest thou?” asked the pretended Metiscus. “Leave thy comrades to defend the walls, and continue the work of slaughter here, where there is none to oppose thee.” Turnus answered: “Sister, I knew thee from the first, and recognized thy hand in all the wild havoc of this day. But vain are all thy labors; Heaven is against me, and I must bow to the will of fate. I have seen all the noblest of my comrades slain before my eyes; shall I suffer this royal city to be given up to fire and slaughter for my sake? Shall I play coward, and make my name a byword for Drances and his crew? No, if Heaven is against me, be ye at least with me, ye noble spirits of the dead! Prepare to receive me, a stainless soul, worthy to be numbered among the mightiest of my line.” Scarcely had he spoken when a Rutulian horseman, wounded in the face by an arrow, came galloping towards him, shouting: “Turnus, what doest thou here? Thou art our last hope and refuge; the city is beset, Amata has died by her own hand; but few of thy friends remain to keep up a desperate defence. Come quickly, for dire is the need.” As if to give point to his words, at this very moment the flames were seen leaping from a huge wooden tower built on a projection of the walls. For a while Turnus stood as if stupefied, overcome by the conflicting passions which surged within him. Then, collecting himself with a strong effort, he said: “’Tis enough; my fate calls me, and I obey. Let me strike one good blow first, and then let death take his due.” Thereupon he sprang from the chariot, and, running at full speed, broke his way through the fighting lines, like a great boulder sapped in its foundations by the winter rains and toppled from a mountain’s crest. “Make way,” he cried; “drop your weapons, ye Rutulians and Latins. This is my quarrel, not yours, and I am come to pay the price.” Both sides fell back, and left an open space for the final encounter between the two great champions. “At last!” murmured Æneas as he came towering on, and took his stand, “like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved,” face to face with his giant foe. First they flung their spears, and, these not taking effect, they drew their swords, and engaged hand to hand. Loud clashed the steel, and a stream of lightning seemed to play about their heads, so fast and furious were the strokes. Like two bulls fighting for the sovereignty of the herd, while the kine stand lowing near, so strove the Italian and the Trojan for the mastery, foot to foot and shield to shield. At length Turnus lifted high his sword, and, coming down with the whole weight of his body, discharged a tremendous blow at the crest of Æneas. The weapon belonged to Metiscus, his charioteer, and he had snatched it up in mistake for his own good blade, which had been tempered by the hand of Vulcan himself. And now the faithless sword proved its mortal temper, and was shivered to the hilt like glass. With a bitter curse the Rutulian turned his back, and fled, and Æneas followed close, though still somewhat disabled by his recent wound. Hither and thither they sped, pursuer and pursued, as a keen hound chases the flying deer, brought to bay by a high rocky mountain-side; the stag wheels and doubles, and the hound’s jaws close with a snap, as his quarry eludes him again. Turnus shouted to his comrades, imploring them to bring his sword, but Æneas warned them off with threatening gestures; and so the race went on, which was run for no common stake, but for the very life blood of Turnus. When Æneas flung his spear at the beginning of the duel the weapon had sunk deep into the stump of an olive-tree; the tree itself, which was sacred to Faunus, had been felled by the Trojans, and rolled out of the way, on the morning before the battle. Catching sight of the spear as he ran past in pursuit of Turnus, Æneas paused, and strove to tear it out. In wild terror Turnus watched his efforts, and cried: “Faunus, god of my fathers, hold the weapon fast, and preserve thy worshiper!” Faunus heard his prayer, and kept the iron point close pinned in the knotted roots of his sacred tree; and while Æneas was still tugging and straining at the shaft, Juturna, again disguised as Metiscus, ran up to Turnus, and gave him back his sword. Thereupon Venus, angered by the presumption of the nymph, drew near in her turn, wrenched out the lance, and handed it to her son. Their weapons thus restored the champions stood face to face once more, prepared to renew the battle. But the end was now at hand. Jove sat watching the rival warriors, and weary that the inevitable issue should be so long delayed he thus addressed his haughty consort: “Juno, how long must I suffer thee to thwart my high purpose? Thou knowest that it is in vain. Surely thy hate should now be satisfied, after so many years in which thy malice has ranged unchecked and strewn the path of Æneas with death and disaster. The word must now be spoken: Cease; I forbid thee to go further.” Juno answered humbly: “Be it so! I also am weary of the fray, and will resist no more. One thing only I ask, which fate forbids thee not to grant: when the two peoples have united into one, let the language and the dress and the customs of Italy survive, and let the whole nation be called the Latins. Troy has perished; let her name perish also.” Jove smiled indulgently as he replied: “True daughter of Saturn, still unappeasable in thine ire, it shall be as thou sayest. Latins they shall be called, and they shall be thy people, mighty in word and deed, and laud and honor thy name for ever.” The old quarrel thus happily concluded, Jove prepared to end the conflict between Æneas and Turnus. Close by his throne two hideous warders lie couched day and night, sisters of the Furies, and armed with the same attributes of terror, with serpent tresses, and windy wings. One of these the monarch of heaven sent to warn Juturna that she must leave her brother’s side. Like a poisoned arrow shot from a Parthian’s bow the daughter of Night sped down to earth, and as she came in sight of the Trojan and Latin armies, she took the shape of that ill-omened bird who sits among tombs and ruined towers, and sends her moaning cry through the darkness. In such shape the fiend dashed herself against the face of Turnus, and buffeted his shield with her wings. Turnus was paralyzed with horror; his hair bristled, and the passage of his voice was choked. But when Juturna heard the beating of those fatal pinions she tore her hair, and beat her breast, knowing that her brother’s hour was come. “Turnus, I can do no more,” she cried. “Would that I might die with thee! But, alas! Jove has made me immortal, and doomed me to eternal sorrow.” Then, veiling her face in her azure mantle, the nymph left the battlefield, and sat rocking herself in anguish by the river-side. Æneas came on, brandishing his massy spear, and crying: “Now at last thou art delivered into my hands, unless thou canst fly up to heaven or dig thee a burrow in the earth.” “Thy words have no terrors for me,” replied Turnus, “but much I fear that Heaven is against me.” And without more words he looked round him, and saw a huge ancient stone, set up long ago as a boundary mark. Stooping he caught up the ponderous mass, which scarce twelve men could lift, as men are in our times; with one hand he heaved it above his head, and poised and flung it, running at full speed. It was his last effort, and he felt as he made it that his powers were failing. The stone fell short, and Turnus stood gazing, struck with a strange impotence, like one in a trance; the whole scene swam before his eyes, woods, hills, and city walls, and the faces of his friends, like visions in a fevered dream. While thus he faltered Æneas poised his lance, took steady aim and flung. Like some vast missile hurled by a siege engine the giant spear rushed to its mark, pierced through the lower edge of the sevenfold shield, and, rending the border of the corslet with a grating sound, transfixed the middle of his thigh. A deep groan went up from the ranks of the Rutulians when they saw their young hero lying, helpless and bleeding, on the sand. With hands outstretched and eyes imploring mercy Turnus uttered this humble prayer: “Thou hast conquered; Lavinia is thine; now pity my father’s gray hairs, and give him back his son, or if thou must have my life at least restore my body to him for burial.” Æneas paused, lowering his sword and rolling his eyes, in doubt whether to strike or spare; and pity began to prevail more and more in his heart when his gaze fastened on the fatal belt, which Turnus had won from the youthful Pallas, and was wearing on his shoulder. Then grief and anger blazed up in his soul, and he cried in a terrible voice: “Wretch, dost thou ask for mercy with that emblem of sorrow on thy breast? Pallas, Pallas claims thee as his victim, and cries aloud for thy guilty blood.” The avenging steel was lifted, and flashed, and fell; and that mighty frame lay shuddering in death, while his soul, indignant, fled moaning to the shades. STORIES FROM ROMAN HISTORY FROM LIVY