Terrible trials awaited the little band of adventurers. Juno
was again the cause of the trouble. She made the most
powerful peoples of the country, the Latins and the Rutulians, fiercely opposed
to the Trojans settling there. If it had not been for her, matters would have
gone well. The aged Latinus, a great-grandson of Saturn and King of the City of
Latium, had been warned by the spirit of his father, Faunus, not to marry his
daughter Lavinia, his only child, to any man of the country, but to a stranger
who was soon to arrive. From that union would be born a race destined to hold
the entire world under their sway. Therefore, when an embassy arrived from
Aeneas asking for a narrow resting place upon the coast and the common liberty
of air and water, Latinus received them with great good will. He felt convinced
that Aeneas was the son-in-law Faunus had predicted, and he said as much to the
envoys. They would never lack a friend while he lived, he told them. To Aeneas
he sent this message, that he had a daughter forbidden by heaven to wed with any
except a foreigner, and that he believed the Trojan chief was this man of
destiny.
But here Juno stepped in. She summoned Alecto, one of the
Furies, from Hades and bade her loose bitter war over the land. She obeyed
gladly. First she inflamed the heart of Queen Amata, wife of Latinus, to oppose
violently a marriage between her daughter and Aeneas. Then she flew to the King
of the Rutulians, Turnus, who up to now had been the most favored among the many
suitors for Lavinia’s hand. Her visit to arouse him against the Trojans was
hardly necessary. The idea of anyone except himself marrying Lavinia was enough
to drive Turnus to frenzy. As soon as he heard of the Trojan embassy to the King
he started with his army to march to Latium and prevent
by force any treaty between the Latins and the strangers.
Alecto’s third effort was cleverly devised. There was a pet
stag belonging to a Latin farmer, a beautiful creature, so tame that it would
run free by day, but at nightfall always come to the well-known door. The
farmer’s daughter tended it with loving care; she would comb its coat and
wreathe its horns with garlands. All the farmers far and near knew it and
protected it. Anyone, even of their own number, who had harmed it would have
been severely punished. But for a foreigner to dare such a deed was to enrage
the whole countryside. And that is what Aeneas’s young son did under the guiding
hand of Alecto. Ascanius was out hunting and he and his hounds were directed by
the Fury to where the stag was lying in the forest. He shot at it and wounded it
mortally, but it succeeded in reaching its home and its mistress before it died.
Alecto took care that the news should spread quickly, and fighting started at
once, the furious farmers bent upon killing Ascanius and the Trojans defending
him.
This news reached Latium just after Turnus had arrived. The
fact that his people were already in arms and the still more ominous fact that
the Rutulian Army had encamped before his gates were too much for King Latinus.
His furious Queen, too, undoubtedly played a part in his final decision. He shut
himself up in his palace and let matters go as they would. If Lavinia was to be
won Aeneas could not count on any help from his future father-in-law.
There was a custom in the city that when war was determined
upon, the two folding-gates of the temple of the god
Janus, always kept closed in time of peace, should be unbarred by the King while
trumpets blared and warriors shouted. But Latinus, locked in his palace, was not
available for the sacred rite. As the citizens hesitated as to what to do, Juno
herself swept down from heaven, smote with her own hand the bars and flung wide
the doors. Joy filled the city, joy in the battle-array, the shining armor and
spirited chargers and proud standards, joy at facing a war to the death.
A formidable army, Latins and Rutulians together, were now
opposed to the little band of Trojans. Their leader, Turnus, was a brave and
skilled warrior; another able ally was Mezentius, an excellent soldier, but so
cruel that his subjects, the great Etruscan people, had rebelled against him and
he had fled to Turnus. A third ally was a woman, the maiden Camilla, who had
been reared by her father in a remote wilderness, and as a baby, with a sling or
a bow in her tiny hand, had learned to bring down the swift-flying crane or the
wild swan, herself hardly less swift of foot than they of wing. She was mistress
of all the ways of warfare, unexcelled with the javelin and the two-edged ax as
well as with the bow. Marriage she disdained. She loved the chase and the battle
and her freedom. A band of warriors followed her, among them a number of
maidens.
In this perilous situation for the Trojans, Father Tiber, the
god of the great river they were encamped near, visited Aeneas in a dream. He
bade him go swiftly upstream to where Evander dwelt, a King of a poor little
town which was destined to become in future ages the proudest of earth’s cities,
whence the towers of Rome should soar up to the skies. Here, the river-god promised, Aeneas would get the help he needed. At dawn he
started with a chosen few and for the first time a boat filled with armed men
floated on the Tiber. When they reached Evander’s home a warm welcome was given
them by the King and his young son, Pallas. As they led their guests to the rude
building which served as palace they pointed out the sights: the great Tarpeian
rock; near it a hill sacred to Jove, now rough with brambles, where some day the
golden, glittering Capitol would rise; a meadow filled with lowing cattle, which
would be the gathering place of the world, the Roman Forum. “Once fauns and
nymphs lived here,” the King said, “and a savage race of men. But Saturn came to
the country, a homeless exile fleeing from his son Jupiter. Everything then was
changed. Men forsook their rude and lawless ways. He ruled with such justice and
in such peace that ever since his reign has been called ‘the Golden Age.’ But in
later times other customs prevailed; peace and justice fled before the greed for
gold and the frenzy for war. Tyrants ruled the land until fate brought me here,
an exile from Greece, from my dear home in Arcady.”
As the old man ended his story they reached the simple hut
where he lived and there Aeneas spent the night on a couch of leaves with a
bear’s skin to cover him. Next morning, awakened by the dawn and the call of
birds, they all arose. The King went forth with two great dogs following him,
his sole retinue and bodyguard. After they had broken their fast he gave Aeneas
the advice he had come to seek. Arcady—he had called his new country after his
old—was a feeble state, he said, and could do little to help the Trojans. But on
the farther bank of the river lived the rich and powerful
Etruscans, whose fugitive king, Mezentius, was helping Turnus. This fact alone
would make the nation choose Aeneas’ side in the war, so intense was the hatred
felt for their former ruler. He had shown himself a monster of cruelty; he
delighted in inflicting suffering. He had devised a way of killing people more
horrible than any other known to man: he would link dead and living together,
coupling hand with hand and face with face, and leave the slow poison of that
sickening embrace to bring about a lingering death.
All Etruria had finally risen against him, but he had
succeeded in escaping. They were determined, however, to get him back and punish
him as he deserved. Aeneas would find them willing and powerful allies. For
himself, the old king said, he would sent Pallas who was his only son, to enter
the service of the War-god under the Trojan hero’s guidance, and with him a band
of youths, the flower of the Arcadian chivalry. Also he gave each of his guests
a gallant steed, to enable them to reach quickly the Etruscan Army and enlist
their help.
Meantime the Trojan camp, fortified only by earthworks and
deprived of its leader and its best warriors, was hard-pressed. Turnus attacked
it in force. Throughout the first day the Trojans defended themselves
successfully, following the strict orders which Aeneas at his departure had
given them on no account to undertake an offensive. But they were greatly
outnumbered; the prospect was dark unless they could get word to Aeneas what was
happening. The question was whether this was possible, with the Rutulians
completely surrounding the fort. However, there were two men in that little band
who scorned to weigh the chances of success or failure,
to whom the extreme peril of the attempt was a reason for making it. These two
resolved to try to pass through the enemy under the cover of the night and reach
Aeneas.
Nisus and Euryalus were their names, the first a valiant and
experienced soldier, the other only a stripling, but equally brave and full of
generous ardor for heroic deeds. It was their habit to fight side by side.
Wherever one was, whether on guard or in the field, there the other would always
be found. The idea of the great enterprise came first to Nisus as he looked over
the ramparts at the enemy and observed how few and dim the lights were and how
deep a silence reigned as of men fast asleep. He told his plan to his friend,
but with no thought of his going too. When the lad cried out that he would never
be left behind, that he scorned life in comparison with death in so glorious an
attempt, Nisus felt only grief and dismay. “Let me go alone,” he begged. “If by
chance something goes amiss—and in such a venture as this there are a thousand
chances—you will be here to ransom me or to give me the rites of burial.
Remember too that you are young; life is all before you.” “Idle words,” Euryalus
answered. “Let us start and with no delay.” Nisus saw the impossibility of
persuading him and sorrowfully yielded.
They found the Trojan leaders holding a council, and they put
their plan before them. It was instantly accepted and the princes with choked
voices and falling tears thanked them and promised them rich rewards. “I want
only one,” said Euryalus. “My mother is here in the camp. She would not stay
behind with the other women. She would follow me. I am all she has. If I die—” “She will be my mother,” Ascanius broke in. “She shall
have the place of the mother I lost that last night in Troy. I swear it to you.
And take this with you, my own sword. It will not fail you.”
Then the two started, through the trench and on to the enemy’s
camp. All around lay sleeping men. Nisus whispered, “I am going to clear a path
for us. Do you keep watch.” With that he killed man after man, so skillfully
that not one uttered a sound as he died. Not a groan gave the alarm. Euryalus
soon joined in the bloody work. When they reached the end of the camp they had
cleared as it were a great highway through it, where only dead men were lying.
But they had been wrong to delay. Daylight was dawning; a troop of horses coming
from Latium caught sight of the shining helmet of Euryalus and challenged him.
When he pushed on through the trees without answering they knew he was an enemy
and they surrounded the wood. In their haste the two friends got separated and
Euryalus took the wrong path. Nisus wild with anxiety turned back to find him.
Unseen himself he saw him in the hands of the troopers. How could he rescue him?
He was all alone. It was hopeless and yet he knew it was better to make the
attempt and die than leave him. He fought them, one man against a whole company,
and his flying spear struck down warrior after warrior. The leader, not knowing
from what quarter this deadly attack was coming, turned upon Euryalus shouting,
“You shall pay for this!” Before his lifted sword could strike him, Nisus rushed
forward. “Kill me, me,” he cried. “The deed is all mine. He only followed me.”
But with the words still on his lips, the sword was thrust into the lad’s breast. As he fell dying, Nisus cut down the man who had
killed him; then pierced with many darts he too fell dead beside his friend.
The rest of the Trojans’ adventures were all on the
battlefield. Aeneas came back with a large army of Etruscans in time to save the
camp, and furious war raged. From then on, the story turns into little more than
an account of men slaughtering each other. Battle follows battle, but they are
all alike. Countless heroes are always slain, rivers of blood drench the earth,
the brazen throats of trumpets blare, arrows plenteous as hail fly from
sharp-springing bows, hoofs of fiery steeds spurting gory dew trample on the
dead. Long before the end, the horrors have ceased to horrify. All the Trojans’
enemies are killed, of course. Camilla falls after giving a very good account of
herself; the wicked Mezentius meets the fate he so richly deserves, but only
after his brave young son is killed defending him. Many good allies die, too,
Evander’s son Pallas among them.
Finally Turnus and Aeneas meet in single combat. By this time
Aeneas, who in the earlier part of the story seemed as human as Hector or
Achilles, has changed into something strange and portentous; he is not a human
being. Once he carried tenderly his old father out of burning Troy and
encouraged his little son to run beside him; when he came to Carthage he felt
what it meant to meet with compassion, to reach a place where “There are tears
for things”; he was very human too when he strutted about Dido’s palace in his
fine clothes. But on the Latin battlefields he is not a man, but a fearful
prodigy. He is “vast as Mount Athos, vast as Father Apennine himself when he
shakes his mighty oaks and lifts his snow-topped peace to
the sky”; like “Aegaeon who had a hundred arms and a hundred hands and flashed
five through fifty mouths, thundering on fifty strong shields and drawing fifty
sharp swords—even so Aeneas slakes his victorious fury the whole field over.”
When he faces Turnus in the last combat there is no interest in the outcome. It
is as futile for Turnus to fight Aeneas as to fight the lightning or an
earthquake.
Virgil’s poem ends with Turnus’ death. Aeneas, we are given to
understand, married Lavinia and founded the Roman race—who, Virgil said, “left
to other nations such things as art and science, and ever remembered that they
were destined to bring under their empire the peoples of earth, to impose the
rule of submissive nonresistance, to spare the humbled and to crush the
proud.”
0 коментара:
Постави коментар