Aeneid XII.843-952

The end of the poem, and the beginning of Rome.

This done, the Father turns something else over in his mind

and prepares to take Juturna from her brother’s side.

Men speak of twin plagues, named the Dread Ones,

whom Night bore untimely in one birth with Tartarean Megaera,¹

wreathing them equally in snaky coils and adding wings swift

as the wind. They wait by Jove’s throne on the fierce king’s

threshold² and sharpen the fears of weak mortals

whenever the king of the gods sends plagues

and death’s horrors or terrifies guilty cities with war.

Jupiter sent one of them quickly down from heaven’s heights

and ordered her to meet with Juturna as a sign:

she flew, and darted to earth in a swift whirlwind.

Like an arrow loosed from the string through the clouds,

that a Parthian, a Parthian or a Cydonian,³ fired,

hissing, and leaping unseen through the swift shadows,

a shaft beyond all cure, armed with cruel poison’s venom:

so sped the daughter of Night, seeking the earth.

As soon as she saw the Trojan ranks and Turnus’s troops,

she changed her shape, suddenly shrinking to the form of that

small bird that, perching at night on tombs or deserted rooftops,

often sings her troubling song so late among the shadows—

and the fiend flew screeching to and fro in front

of Turnus’s face and beat at his shield with her wings.

A strange numbness loosed his limbs in dread,

his hair stood up in terror, and his voice clung to his throat.

But when his wretched sister Juturna recognised the Dread One’s

whirring wings in the distance, she tore at her loosened hair, marring

her face with her nails, and beat her breasts with her clenched hands:

“What help can your sister give you now, Turnus?

What is left for me who have suffered so? With what art

can I prolong your life? Can I stand against such a portent?

Now at last I leave the ranks.⁴ Bird of ill-omen, you do not

terrify me who already am afraid: I know your wing-beats

and their fatal sound, and I do not mistake the proud command

of great-hearted Jupiter. Is this his reward for my virginity?

Why did he grant me eternal life? Why is the mortal condition

taken from me? Then, at least, I could end such pain

and go through the shadows at my poor brother’s side!

An immortal, I? Can anything be sweet to me without you,

my brother? Oh, what earth can gape deep enough for me,

to send a goddess down to the deepest Shades?”

So saying, she veiled her head in a grey mantle, and the goddess,

with many a cry of grief, plunged⁵ into the river’s depths.

Aeneas pressed on, brandishing his great spear like a tree,

and, angered at heart, he cried out in this way:

“Why now yet more delay? Why do you still retreat, Turnus?

We must compete hand to hand with fierce weapons, not by running.

Change into every form: summon up all your powers

of mind and art, wing your way if you wish

to the high stars, or hide in earth’s hollow prison.”

Turnus shook his head: “Fierce man, your fiery words

don’t frighten me; the gods terrify me, and Jupiter’s enmity.”

Saying no more, he looked round, seeing a great rock,

a vast ancient stone, that happened to lie there in the plain,

set up as a boundary marker to distinguish fields in dispute.

Twelve picked men, men of such form as Earth

now produces, could scarcely have lifted it on their shoulders;⁶

but the hero, grasping it quickly, rising to his full height

and as swiftly as he could, hurled it at his enemy.

But he did not know himself, running or moving,

raising the great rock in his hands or throwing;

his knees gave way, his blood was frozen cold.

The stone itself, whirled by the warrior through the empty air,

failed to travel the whole distance or drive home with force.

As in dreams when languid sleep weighs down our eyes at night,

we seem to try in vain to follow our eager path

and collapse helpless in the midst of our efforts,

the tongue won’t work, the usual strength is lacking

from our limbs, and neither word nor voice will come:

so the dread goddess denied Turnus success,

however courageously he sought to find a way.

Then shifting visions whirled through his brain;

he gazed at the Rutulians and at the city, faltered

in fear, and shuddered at the death that neared,

he saw no way to escape, no power to attack his enemy,

nor sign of his chariot, nor his sister, his charioteer.

As he wavered, Aeneas shook his fateful spear,

seeing a favourable chance, and hurled it from the distance

with all his might. Stone shot from a siege engine

never roared so loud, such mighty thunder never burst

from a lightning bolt. Like a black hurricane the spear flew on,

bearing dire destruction, and pierced the outer circle

of the seven-fold shield, the breastplate’s lower rim,

and, hissing, passed through the centre of the thigh.

Great Turnus sank, his knee bent beneath him, under the blow.

The Rutulians rose up and groaned, and all the hills around

re-echoed, and far and wide the woods returned the sound.

He lowered his eyes in submission and stretched out his right hand:

“I have earned this, I ask no mercy,” he said,

“seize your chance. If any concern for a parent’s grief

can touch you (you too had such a father in Anchises),

I beg you to pity Daunus’s old age and return me,

or, if you prefer it, my body robbed of life, to my people.⁷

You are the victor, and the Ausonians have seen me

stretch out my hands in defeat; Lavinia is your wife,

don’t extend your hatred further.” Aeneas stood, fierce

in his armour, his eyes flickered, and he held back his hand;

and even now, as he paused, the words began to move him

more deeply, when high on Turnus’s shoulder young Pallas’s

luckless sword-belt met his gaze, the strap glinting with its familiar

decorations, he whom Turnus, now wearing his enemy’s emblems

on his shoulder, had wounded and thrown defeated to the earth.

As soon as his eyes took in the trophy, a memory of cruel grief,

Aeneas, blazing with fury and terrible in his anger, cried:

“Shall you be snatched from my grasp, wearing the spoils

of one who was my own? Pallas it is, Pallas, who sacrifices you

with this stroke and exacts retribution from your guilty blood.”

So saying, burning with rage, he buried⁸ his sword deep

in Turnus’s breast; and then Turnus’s limbs grew slack

with death, and his life fled, with a moan, angrily, to the Shades.⁹

---

His actis aliud genitor secum ipse volutat

Iuturnamque parat fratris dimittere ab armis.

dicuntur geminae pestes cognomine Dirae,               845

quas et Tartaream Nox intempesta Megaeram

uno eodemque tulit partu, paribusque revinxit

serpentum spiris ventosasque addidit alas.

hae Iovis ad solium saevique in limine regis

apparent acuuntque metum mortalibus aegris,               850

si quando letum horrificum morbosque deum rex

molitur, meritas aut bello territat urbes.

harum unam celerem demisit ab aethere summo

Iuppiter inque omen Iuturnae occurrere iussit:

illa volat celerique ad terram turbine fertur.               855

non secus ac nervo per nubem impulsa sagitta,

armatam saevi Parthus quam felle veneni,

Parthus sive Cydon, telum immedicabile, torsit,

stridens et celeris incognita transilit umbras:

talis se sata Nocte tulit terrasque petivit.               860

postquam acies videt Iliacas atque agmina Turni,

alitis in parvae subitam collecta figuram,

quae quondam in bustis aut culminibus desertis

nocte sedens serum canit importuna per umbras—

hanc versa in faciem Turni se pestis ob ora               865

fertque refertque sonans clipeumque everberat alis.

illi membra novus soluit formidine torpor,

arrectaeque horrore comae et vox faucibus haesit.

At procul ut Dirae stridorem agnovit et alas,

infelix crinis scindit Iuturna solutos               870

unguibus ora soror foedans et pectora pugnis:

'quid nunc te tua, Turne, potest germana iuvare?

aut quid iam durae superat mihi? qua tibi lucem

arte morer? talin possum me opponere monstro?

iam iam linquo acies. ne me terrete timentem,               875

obscenae volucres: alarum verbera nosco

letalemque sonum, nec fallunt iussa superba

magnanimi Iovis. haec pro virginitate reponit?

quo vitam dedit aeternam? cur mortis adempta est

condicio? possem tantos finire dolores               880

nunc certe, et misero fratri comes ire per umbras!

immortalis ego? aut quicquam mihi dulce meorum

te sine, frater, erit? o quae satis ima dehiscat

terra mihi, Manisque deam demittat ad imos?'

tantum effata caput glauco contexit amictu               885

multa gemens et se fluvio dea condidit alto.

Aeneas instat contra telumque coruscat

ingens arboreum, et saevo sic pectore fatur:

'quae nunc deinde mora est? aut quid iam, Turne, retractas?

non cursu, saevis certandum est comminus armis.               890

verte omnis tete in facies et contrahe quidquid

sive animis sive arte vales; opta ardua pennis

astra sequi clausumque cava te condere terra.'

ille caput quassans: 'non me tua fervida terrent

dicta, ferox; di me terrent et Iuppiter hostis.'               895

nec plura effatus saxum circumspicit ingens,

saxum antiquum ingens, campo quod forte iacebat,

limes agro positus litem ut discerneret arvis.

vix illum lecti bis sex cervice subirent,

qualia nunc hominum producit corpora tellus;               900

ille manu raptum trepida torquebat in hostem

altior insurgens et cursu concitus heros.

sed neque currentem se nec cognoscit euntem

tollentemve manu saxumve immane moventem;

genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis.               905

tum lapis ipse viri vacuum per inane volutus

nec spatium evasit totum neque pertulit ictum.

ac velut in somnis, oculos ubi languida pressit

nocte quies, nequiquam avidos extendere cursus

velle videmur et in mediis conatibus aegri               910

succidimus; non lingua valet, non corpore notae

sufficiunt vires nec vox aut verba sequuntur:

sic Turno, quacumque viam virtute petivit,

successum dea dira negat. tum pectore sensus

vertuntur varii; Rutulos aspectat et urbem               915

cunctaturque metu letumque instare tremescit,

nec quo se eripiat, nec qua vi tendat in hostem,

nec currus usquam videt aurigamve sororem.

Cunctanti telum Aeneas fatale coruscat,

sortitus fortunam oculis, et corpore toto               920

eminus intorquet. murali concita numquam

tormento sic saxa fremunt nec fulmine tanti

dissultant crepitus. volat atri turbinis instar

exitium dirum hasta ferens orasque recludit

loricae et clipei extremos septemplicis orbis;               925

per medium stridens transit femur. incidit ictus

ingens ad terram duplicato poplite Turnus.

consurgunt gemitu Rutuli totusque remugit

mons circum et vocem late nemora alta remittunt.

ille humilis supplex oculos dextramque precantem               930

protendens 'equidem merui nec deprecor' inquit;

'utere sorte tua. miseri te si qua parentis

tangere cura potest, oro (fuit et tibi talis

Anchises genitor) Dauni miserere senectae

et me, seu corpus spoliatum lumine mavis,               935

redde meis. vicisti et victum tendere palmas

Ausonii videre; tua est Lavinia coniunx,

ulterius ne tende odiis.' stetit acer in armis

Aeneas volvens oculos dextramque repressit;

et iam iamque magis cunctantem flectere sermo               940

coeperat, infelix umero cum apparuit alto

balteus et notis fulserunt cingula bullis

Pallantis pueri, victum quem vulnere Turnus

straverat atque umeris inimicum insigne gerebat.

ille, oculis postquam saevi monimenta doloris               945

exuviasque hausit, furiis accensus et ira

terribilis: 'tune hinc spoliis indute meorum

eripiare mihi? Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas

immolat et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit.'

hoc dicens ferrum adverso sub pectore condit               950

fervidus; ast illi solvuntur frigore membra

vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras.

---

Find the glossary for Aeneid Daily here… and we’re done.

1. The Dirae, or Furies; Megaera is the third one, the others being Tisiphone and Alecto.

2. My professor reads this as another distinctly wrong/pessimistic moment—the Furies are creatures of the Underworld, as the poem shows when Juno descends into Hell to use them to start the war in the first place, so why are they sitting at the foot of the throne of the almightiest god in Rome?

3. Cretan

4. cf. Iliad 22, in which Hector is abandoned by a(n Athena-created) vision of his brother Deiphobus—except this is Turnus’s real sibling, and she doesn’t want to abandon him. As my professor said, it’s part of a long pattern of characters in the poem being forced into roles they don’t want to play.

5. Hey, there’s that condidit word again!

6. “Only men of the past could have lifted this huge boulder; men today are too weak” is a common Homeric refrain, but the boundary marker detail is distinctly Roman.

7. cf. Hector’s words to Achilles in Iliad 22: “Come, let us swear an oath before the gods, for they are the best witnesses of such things. If Zeus lets me kill you and survive, then when I’ve stripped you of your glorious armour I’ll not mistreat your corpse, I’ll return your body to your people, if you will do the same for me.”

8. And we hit that terribly lethal play on words: condo, condere means to plunge/bury, but also to found; Aeneas founds Rome by burying his sword in Turnus’s chest.

9. The same phrasing is used in Aeneas’s introduction in the first 100 lines of the poem: “Extemplo Aeneae solvuntur frigore membra: / ingemit,” “Instantly Aeneas groans, his limbs slack with cold.”