Ilioneus strikes down
Lucetius
with a great fragment of mountain rock
as, carrying fire, he draws [571-606]nigh the gate.
as, carrying fire, he draws [571-606]nigh the gate.
Virgil - Aeneid
.
.
Elsewhere in dreadful guise Mezentius brandishes his Etruscan pine and
hurls smoking brands; but Messapus, tamer of horses, seed of Neptune,
tears away the palisading and calls for ladders to the ramparts.
Thy sisterhood, O Calliope, I pray inspire me while I sing the
destruction spread then and there by Turnus' sword, the deaths dealt
from his hand, and whom each warrior sent down to the under world; and
unroll with me the broad borders of war.
A tower loomed vast with lofty gangways at a point of vantage; this all
the Italians strove with main strength to storm, and set all their might
and device to overthrow it; the Trojans in return defended it with
stones and hurled showers of darts through the loopholes. Turnus,
leading the attack, threw a blazing torch that caught flaming on the
[536-570]side wall; swoln by the wind, the flame seized the planking
and clung devouring to the standards. Those within, in hurry and
confusion, desire retreat from their distress; in vain; while they
cluster together and fall back to the side free from the destroyer, the
tower sinks prone under the sudden weight with a crash that thunders
through all the sky. Pierced by their own weapons, and impaled on hard
splinters of wood, they come half slain to the ground with the vast mass
behind them. Scarcely do Helenor alone and Lycus struggle out; Helenor
in his early prime, whom a slave woman of Licymnos bore in secret to the
Maeonian king, and sent to Troy in forbidden weapons, lightly armed with
sheathless sword and white unemblazoned shield. And he, when he saw
himself among Turnus' encircling thousands, ranks on this side and ranks
on this of Latins, as a wild beast which, girt with a crowded ring of
hunters, dashes at their weapons, hurls herself unblinded on death, and
comes with a bound upon the spears; even so he rushes to his death amid
the enemy, and presses on where he sees their weapons thickest. But
Lycus, far fleeter of foot, holds by the walls in flight midway among
foes and arms, and strives to catch the coping in his grasp and reach
the hands of his comrades. And Turnus pursuing and aiming as he ran,
thus upbraids him in triumph: 'Didst thou hope, madman, thou mightest
escape our hands? ' and catches him as he clings, and tears him and a
great piece of the wall away: as when, with a hare or snowy-bodied swan
in his crooked talons, Jove's armour-bearer soars aloft, or the wolf of
Mars snatches from the folds some lamb sought of his mother with
incessant bleating. On all sides a shout goes up. They advance and fill
the trenches with heaps of earth; some toss glowing brands on the roofs.
Ilioneus strikes down Lucetius with a great fragment of mountain rock
as, carrying fire, he draws [571-606]nigh the gate. Liger slays
Emathion, Asylas Corinaeus, the one skilled with the javelin, the other
with the stealthy arrow from afar. Caeneus slays Ortygius; Turnus
victorious Caeneus; Turnus Itys and Clonius, Dioxippus, and Promolus,
and Sagaris, and Idas where he stood in front of the turret top; Capys
Privernus: him Themillas' spear had first grazed lightly; the madman
threw down his shield to carry his hand to the wound; so the arrow
winged her way, and pinning his hand to his left side, broke into the
lungs with deadly wound. The son of Arcens stood splendid in arms, and
scarf embroidered with needlework and bright with Iberian blue, the
beautiful boy sent by his father Arcens from nurture in the grove of our
Lady about the streams of Symaethus, where Palicus' altar is rich and
gracious. Laying down his spear, Mezentius whirled thrice round his head
the tightened cord of his whistling sling, pierced him full between the
temples with the molten bullet, and stretched him all his length upon
the sand.
Then, it is said, Ascanius first aimed his flying shaft in war, wont
before to frighten beasts of the chase, and struck down a brave
Numanian, Remulus by name, but lately allied in bridal to Turnus'
younger sister. He advancing before his ranks clamoured things fit and
unfit to tell, and strode along lofty and voluble, his heart lifted up
with his fresh royalty.
'Take you not shame to be again held leaguered in your ramparts, O
Phrygians twice taken, and to make walls your fence from death? Behold
them who demand in war our wives for theirs! What god, what madness,
hath driven you to Italy? Here are no sons of Atreus nor glozing
Ulysses. A race of hardy breed, we carry our newborn children to the
streams and harden them in the bitter icy water; as boys they spend
wakeful nights over the chase, and tire out the woodland; but in
manhood, [607-639]unwearied by toil and trained to poverty, they subdue
the soil with their mattocks, or shake towns in war. Every age wears
iron, and we goad the flanks of our oxen with reversed spear; nor does
creeping old age weaken our strength of spirit or abate our force. White
hairs bear the weight of the helmet; and it is ever our delight to drive
in fresh spoil and live on our plunder. Yours is embroidered raiment of
saffron and shining sea-purple. Indolence is your pleasure, your delight
the luxurious dance; you wear sleeved tunics and ribboned turbans.
Elsewhere in dreadful guise Mezentius brandishes his Etruscan pine and
hurls smoking brands; but Messapus, tamer of horses, seed of Neptune,
tears away the palisading and calls for ladders to the ramparts.
Thy sisterhood, O Calliope, I pray inspire me while I sing the
destruction spread then and there by Turnus' sword, the deaths dealt
from his hand, and whom each warrior sent down to the under world; and
unroll with me the broad borders of war.
A tower loomed vast with lofty gangways at a point of vantage; this all
the Italians strove with main strength to storm, and set all their might
and device to overthrow it; the Trojans in return defended it with
stones and hurled showers of darts through the loopholes. Turnus,
leading the attack, threw a blazing torch that caught flaming on the
[536-570]side wall; swoln by the wind, the flame seized the planking
and clung devouring to the standards. Those within, in hurry and
confusion, desire retreat from their distress; in vain; while they
cluster together and fall back to the side free from the destroyer, the
tower sinks prone under the sudden weight with a crash that thunders
through all the sky. Pierced by their own weapons, and impaled on hard
splinters of wood, they come half slain to the ground with the vast mass
behind them. Scarcely do Helenor alone and Lycus struggle out; Helenor
in his early prime, whom a slave woman of Licymnos bore in secret to the
Maeonian king, and sent to Troy in forbidden weapons, lightly armed with
sheathless sword and white unemblazoned shield. And he, when he saw
himself among Turnus' encircling thousands, ranks on this side and ranks
on this of Latins, as a wild beast which, girt with a crowded ring of
hunters, dashes at their weapons, hurls herself unblinded on death, and
comes with a bound upon the spears; even so he rushes to his death amid
the enemy, and presses on where he sees their weapons thickest. But
Lycus, far fleeter of foot, holds by the walls in flight midway among
foes and arms, and strives to catch the coping in his grasp and reach
the hands of his comrades. And Turnus pursuing and aiming as he ran,
thus upbraids him in triumph: 'Didst thou hope, madman, thou mightest
escape our hands? ' and catches him as he clings, and tears him and a
great piece of the wall away: as when, with a hare or snowy-bodied swan
in his crooked talons, Jove's armour-bearer soars aloft, or the wolf of
Mars snatches from the folds some lamb sought of his mother with
incessant bleating. On all sides a shout goes up. They advance and fill
the trenches with heaps of earth; some toss glowing brands on the roofs.
Ilioneus strikes down Lucetius with a great fragment of mountain rock
as, carrying fire, he draws [571-606]nigh the gate. Liger slays
Emathion, Asylas Corinaeus, the one skilled with the javelin, the other
with the stealthy arrow from afar. Caeneus slays Ortygius; Turnus
victorious Caeneus; Turnus Itys and Clonius, Dioxippus, and Promolus,
and Sagaris, and Idas where he stood in front of the turret top; Capys
Privernus: him Themillas' spear had first grazed lightly; the madman
threw down his shield to carry his hand to the wound; so the arrow
winged her way, and pinning his hand to his left side, broke into the
lungs with deadly wound. The son of Arcens stood splendid in arms, and
scarf embroidered with needlework and bright with Iberian blue, the
beautiful boy sent by his father Arcens from nurture in the grove of our
Lady about the streams of Symaethus, where Palicus' altar is rich and
gracious. Laying down his spear, Mezentius whirled thrice round his head
the tightened cord of his whistling sling, pierced him full between the
temples with the molten bullet, and stretched him all his length upon
the sand.
Then, it is said, Ascanius first aimed his flying shaft in war, wont
before to frighten beasts of the chase, and struck down a brave
Numanian, Remulus by name, but lately allied in bridal to Turnus'
younger sister. He advancing before his ranks clamoured things fit and
unfit to tell, and strode along lofty and voluble, his heart lifted up
with his fresh royalty.
'Take you not shame to be again held leaguered in your ramparts, O
Phrygians twice taken, and to make walls your fence from death? Behold
them who demand in war our wives for theirs! What god, what madness,
hath driven you to Italy? Here are no sons of Atreus nor glozing
Ulysses. A race of hardy breed, we carry our newborn children to the
streams and harden them in the bitter icy water; as boys they spend
wakeful nights over the chase, and tire out the woodland; but in
manhood, [607-639]unwearied by toil and trained to poverty, they subdue
the soil with their mattocks, or shake towns in war. Every age wears
iron, and we goad the flanks of our oxen with reversed spear; nor does
creeping old age weaken our strength of spirit or abate our force. White
hairs bear the weight of the helmet; and it is ever our delight to drive
in fresh spoil and live on our plunder. Yours is embroidered raiment of
saffron and shining sea-purple. Indolence is your pleasure, your delight
the luxurious dance; you wear sleeved tunics and ribboned turbans.
