Aeneid Book VI

The Trojans would have kept standing, fascinated

By all on display, except that just then Achates,

Who’d been sent on ahead, came back accompanied

By the Sibyl, Deiphobe, daughter of Glaucus, priestess

Of Diana and Phoebus. Who addressed the prince:

“This is no time to be standing staring here.

It would be better now to pick out for sacrifice

Seven bullocks from a herd that has not been yoked,

And an equal number of properly chosen ewes.”

Having spoken these words to Aeneas (whose men

Are quick to obey her instructions) the priestess

Summons the Trojans into her high inner sanctum.

At Cumae, behind the broad cliff, an enormous cave

Has been quarried: a hundred entrances, a hundred

Wide-open mouths lead in, and out of them scramble

A hundred echoing voices, the Sibyl’s responses.

They arrived at that threshold and the vestal cried,

“Now! Now you must ask what your fate is. The god

Is here with us! Apollo!” Her countenance suddenly

Paled and convulsed, hair got dishevelled,

Breast was aheave, heart beating wilder and wilder.

Before their eyes she grows tall, something not mortal

Enters, she is changed by the breath of the god

Breathing through her. “Aeneas of Troy,” she demands,

“Your vows and your prayers, why do you wait? Pray,

For until you have prayed, the jaws of this cavern

Won’t echo or open.” And there she fell silent.

The hardy Trojans feel a cold shiver go through them,

Their prince from the depths of his heart beseeches

The god:

“Phoebus, you always had pity for Troy

And her troubles, it was you who steadied

Paris’ aim and directed the arrow

Into Achilles, you who were pilot

As I entered sea after sea, skirting the coasts

Of distant land masses, remotest Massylia,

The sandbanked Syrtian gulfs. Here then at last

We set foot on Italia that seemed for so long

The unreachable: henceforth let Trojan ill fortune

Be a thing of the past. For now, all you gods

And goddesses, you to whom Troy’s name and fame

Gave affront, divine law constrains you

To spare us, the last of its relicts. And you,

Seeress most holy, to whom the future lies open,

Grant what I ask (no more in the end than my fate

Has assigned): home ground for my people

In Latium, refuge for our wandering gods

And all Troy ever held sacred. Then to Phoebus

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Apollo, and Diana, I will set up a temple

In solid marble and inaugurate feast days

In the god’s honour. And for you, O all gracious one,

A sanctuary will be established, a vault

Where I shall preserve divinations from lots

And oracles you’ll have vouchsafed to my people;

And in your service I shall ordain chosen men.

Yet one thing I ask of you: not to inscribe

Your visions in verse on the leaves

In case they go frolicking off

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In the wind. Chant them yourself, I beseech you.”

So saying, Aeneas fell silent.

Meanwhile, the Sibyl,

Resisting possession, storms through the cavern,

In the throes of her struggle with Phoebus

Apollo. But the more she froths at the mouth

And contorts, the more he controls her, commands her

And makes her his creature. Then of their own accord

Those hundred vast tunnel-mouths gape and give vent

To the prophetess’s responses:

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“O you who survived,

In the end, the sea’s dangers (though worse still await

On the land), you and your Trojans will come

Into your own in Lavinium: have no fear of that.

But the day is one you will rue. I see wars,

Atrocious wars, and the Tiber surging with blood.

A second Simois river, a second Xanthus,

A second enemy camp lie ahead. And already

In Latium a second Achilles comes forth, he too

The son of a goddess. Nor will Trojans ever be free

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Of Juno’s harassments, while you, without allies,

Dependent, will go through Italia petitioning

Cities and peoples. And again the cause of such pain

And disaster for Trojans will be as before: a bride

Culled in a host country, an outlander groom.

But whatever disasters befall, do not flinch.

Go all the bolder to face them, follow your fate

To the limit. A road will open to safety

From the last place you would expect: a city of Greeks.”

Thus from her innermost shrine the Sibyl of Cumae

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Chanted menacing riddles and made the cave echo

With sayings where truths and enigmas were twined

Inextricably, while Apollo reined in her spasms

And curbed her, or sank the spurs in her ribs.

Then as her fit passed away and her raving went quiet,

Heroic Aeneas began: “No ordeal, O Sibyl, no new

Test can dismay me, for I have foreseen

And foresuffered all. But one thing I pray for

Especially: since here the gate opens, they say,

To the King of the Underworld’s realms, and here

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In these shadowy marshes the Acheron floods

To the surface, vouchsafe me one look,

One face-to-face meeting with my dear father.

Point out the road, open the holy doors wide.

On these shoulders I bore him through flames

And a thousand enemy spears. In the thick of fighting

I saved him, and he was at my side then

On all my sea-crossings, battling tempests and tides,

A man in old age, worn out, not meant for duress.

He too it was who half-prayed and half-ordered me

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To make this approach, to find and petition you.

Wherefore have pity, O most gracious one,

On a son and a father, for you have the power,

You whom Hecate named mistress of wooded Avernus.

If Orpheus could call back the shade of a wife

By trusting and tuning the strings of his Thracian lyre,

If Pollux could win back a brother by taking the road

Repeatedly in and out of the land of the dead,

If Theseus and Hercules too … But why speak of them?

I myself am of highest birth, a descendant of Jove.”

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He was praying like that and holding on to the altar

When the Sibyl started to speak: “Blood relation

Of gods, Trojan, son of Anchises,

It is easy to descend into Avernus.

Death’s dark door stands open day and night.

But to retrace your steps and get back to upper air,

That is the task, that is the undertaking.

Only a few have prevailed, sons of gods

Whom Jupiter favoured, or heroes exalted to glory

By their own worth. At the centre it is all forest

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And a ring of dark waters, the river Cocytus, furls

And flows round it. Still, if love so torments you,

If your need to be ferried twice across the Styx

And twice to explore that deep dark abyss

Is so overwhelming, if you will and must go

That far, understand what else you must do.

Hid in the thick of a tree is a golden bough,

Gold to the tips of its leaves and the base of its stem,

Sacred (tradition declares) to the queen of that place.

It is safe there, roofed in by forests, in the pathless

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Shadowy valleys. No one is ever allowed

Down to earth’s hidden places unless he has first

Plucked this sprout of fledged gold from its tree

And handed it over to fair Proserpina

To whom it belongs, by decree, her own special gift.

And when it is plucked, a second one grows every time

In its place, golden again, emanating

That same sheen and shimmer. Therefore look up

And search deep, and as soon as you find it

Take hold of it boldly and duly. If fate has called you,

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The bough will come away in your hand.

Otherwise, no strength you muster will break it,

Nor the hardest forged blade lop it off.

“But while you linger here on my doorstep,

Consulting and suing, sad news, alas,

Awaits: the body of one of your friends

Lies emptied of life, and his death pollutes

The whole fleet. Carry this man to a right

Resting place, lay him into his tomb,

Sacrifice herds of black sheep as your first

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Votive offerings. Then and then only

Will you view the forests of Styx, those realms

Barred to the living.” She said these things,

Pressed her lips shut and went silent.

Aeneas, his face sadder now, looking downcast,

Walked away from the cave, not sure what to think

Or expect. Trusty Achates walked at his side,

In step with his friend, apprehensive,

Intense, the give and take of their talk

Uncertain yet urgent: who, for example, might be

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The dead comrade the Sibyl enjoined them

To bury? And then they saw him, Misenus,

On a dry stretch of beach—they came up and saw

The son of Aeolus, unfairly, peremptorily

Called to his death, this man unsurpassed

At rallying fighters, blaring the war call

On his bronze trumpet. Once he had been

Great Hector’s comrade, standing by him in battle,

Unmistakable, known by his trumpet and spear.

Then after Achilles had savaged Hector to death

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This staunchest of heroes, unwilling to join

A less worthy cause, chose to follow Aeneas.

But a mad moment came when the trumpeter blew

Resonant notes from a conch shell over the waves,

Intending to challenge the gods

To a musical contest. Triton was shaken

With envy (hard as it is to believe) and surged up

And drowned him in a sudden backwash of foam.

So the Trojans assembled and lifted their voices

In mourning, none louder, more devout than Aeneas;

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Then, still in tears, they set to at once, eager

To follow the Sibyl’s instruction, piling up logs,

Building an altar-pyre that rose toward the heavens.

High in the virgin forest, near dens of wild beasts,

Holm oaks echo the crack of their axes, spruce trees

Get felled, they hammer in wedges, split open

Beams of the ash and the tougher cross-grain of oak.

Big rowan trees crash and roll from the hilltop down.

As all this proceeded, Aeneas was to the fore,

Geared out like the rest, cheering everyone on.

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But he kept gazing up at that high stretch of forest,

Sadly preoccupied, pondering things in his heart

Until a prayer rose to his lips and he said:

“If only that golden bough would show itself

On its tree in the deep forest den—for everything

The prophetess said about you, Misenus, was true,

Altogether too true!” And almost immediately

A pair of doves chanced down from the sky

In full view, and settled on the green grass;

In them the great hero knew his own mother’s birds

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And prayed and rejoiced: “O, if a way can be found.

Be you my guides. Hold course through the air,

Lead on to the grove where that opulent bough

Overshadows the rich forest floor. And you,

O my goddess mother, do not abandon me

In this time of confusion.” With that he halted

To watch for what signs they might give, what place

They might make for. But the doves kept on going,

Now feeding, now flying ahead, at all times

Staying in view of the eyes that pursued them.

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Then when they came to the fuming gorge at Avernus

They swept up through clear air and back down

To their chosen perch, a tree that was two trees

In one, green-leafed yet refulgent with gold.

Like mistletoe shining in cold winter woods,

Gripping its tree but not grafted, always in leaf,

Its yellowy berries in sprays curled round the bole—

Those flickering gold tendrils lit up the dark

Overhang of the oak and chimed in the breeze.

There and then Aeneas took hold of the bough

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And although it resisted greedily tore it off,

Then carried it back to the Sibyl’s cavern.

On the beach the Trojans were mourning

Misenus as sorely as ever, paying

Their last respects to the inert ash.

With resinous pinewood and cut-off sections of oak

They constructed first a huge pyre, dressing its flanks

With branches darkly in leaf, fencing the base

With funereal cypress, crowning all

With resplendent armour and weapons. Some heated

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Water in bubbling vats above open fires, washed

And anointed the corpse, then raised the lament.

Next, when the weeping was over, they laid him out

On the ritual couch, his remains swathed in purple,

Familiar robes of the dead. Some stepped in

To lift high the great bier—a grievous observance—

And with eyes averted, as ancestral custom required,

Touched a blazing torch to the base of the pyre.

Gifts of food, piled offerings, incense, and bowls

Brimming over with oil went up in the flames.

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Then when the fire had died, collapsing to ash,

They poured wine on his parched dust; and Corynaeus

Collected the bones in a bronze urn and sealed them.

Three times he moved round the company, sprinkling

Clean water for purification, asperging men lightly

From an olive branch, dewy with promise; then gave

The farewell. And under a high airy hill

Aeneas reared a magnificent tomb

Hung with the dead man’s equipment, his oar

And his trumpet, so the hill is now called

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Misenus, a name that will live down the ages.

Once this was done, Aeneas quickly proceeded

To follow the Sibyl’s instructions. There was a cave,

A deep rough-walled cleft, stone jaws agape

Above a dark lake, with the lake and a grove

For protection and shelter. No creature of air

Could wing its way safely over that water,

Such were the noxious fumes spewing up

From the murky chasm into the vault of the heavens.

(The Greeks therefore called it Avernus, “place

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Without birds.”)

The first thing the priestess did here

Was line up four black heifers, pour libations of wine

On their foreheads, clip off the bristles that sprouted

Between their horns and commence sacrifice,

Offering them on the flames, all the while praying

Her clamorous prayers to Hecate, she who has power

Under the earth and above it. Others draw blades,

Catching warm blood in vessels. Aeneas himself

With a stroke of his sword, to honour Dark Night

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And her sister, the Earth, slays a black-fleeced lamb,

And to honour you, Proserpina, a heifer,

Infertile. Then for the King of the Underworld

He illumines the dark, consecrating an altar

Where he burns whole carcasses and pours

Sluggish oil on the glowing entrails of bulls.

But all of a sudden, between the first glimmer

And full rise of the sun, the ground at their feet

Starts rumbling and shaking, the wooded heights

Are atremble, and in the uncanny light what they hear

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Sounds like the howling of dogs as Hecate approaches.

“Out from here,” the seeress is shouting, “out,

Anyone here not initiate—all such,

Depart from the grove. But not you, Aeneas:

Take you the sword from your scabbard, go ahead

On the road. Now will spirit be tested,

Now, now your courage must hold.” So saying, rapt

And unstoppable, she hurled herself into the mouth

Of the wide-open cave, and he, without fear,

Kept in step as she guided him forward.

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Gods who rule over souls! Shades who subsist

In the silence! Chaos and Phlegethon, O you hushed

Nocturnal expanses, let assent be forthcoming

As I tell what’s been given to tell, let assent be divine

As I unveil things profoundly beyond us,

Mysteries and truths buried under the earth.

On they went then in darkness, through the lonely

Shadowing night, a nowhere of deserted dwellings,

Dim phantasmal reaches where Pluto is king—

Like following a forest path by the hovering light

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Of a moon that clouds and unclouds at Jupiter’s whim,

While the colours of the world pall in the gloom.

In front of the house of the dead,

Between its dread jambs, is a courtyard where pain

And self-wounding thoughts have ensconced themelves.

Here too are pallid diseases, the sorrows of age,

Hunger that drives men to crime, agonies of the mind,

Poverty that demeans—all of these haunting nightmares

Have their beds in the niches. Death too, and sleep,

The brother of death, and terror, and guilty pleasures

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That memory battens on. Also close by that doorway:

The iron cells of the Furies, death-dealing War

And fanatical Violence, her viper-tresses astream

In a bloodstained tangle of ribbons.

Right in the middle

Stands an elm, copious, darkly aflutter, old branches

Spread wide like arms, and here, it is said,

False dreams come to roost, clinging together

On the undersides of the leaves. At the gates,

Monstrosities brood in their pens, bewildering beasts

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Of every form and description: two-natured Centaurs

And Scyllas, hundred-headed Briareus, the beast of Lerna,

Loathsome and hissing, and fire-fanged Chimaera;

Gorgons and Harpies too, and the looming menace

Of triple-framed Geryon. Faced with this rout,

Aeneas is thrown into panic, pulls out his sword,

Swings it round in defence, and had not his guide

In her wisdom forewarned him

That these were lives without substance, phantoms,

Apparitional forms, he would have charged

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And tried to draw blood from shadows.

A road starts here that leads to Acheron river.

Here too is the roiling abyss, heaving with mud,

Venting a silty upsurge into Cocytus,

And beside these flowing streams and flooded wastes

A ferryman keeps watch, surly, filthy and bedraggled

Charon. His chin is bearded with unclean white shag;

The eyes stand in his head and glow; a grimy cloak

Flaps out from a knot tied at the shoulder.

All by himself he poles the boat, hoists sail

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And ferries dead souls in his rusted craft,

Old but still a god, and in a god old age

Is green and hardy.

Hereabouts a crowd

Came pouring to the banks, women and men,

And noble-minded heroes separated now

From their living flesh, young boys, unmarried girls,

And sons cremated before their fathers’ eyes:

Continuous as the streaming leaves nipped off

By first frost in the autumn woods, or flocks of birds

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Blown inland from the stormy ocean, when the year

Turns cold and drives them to migrate

To countries in the sun. There they stood, those souls,

Begging to be the first allowed across, stretching out

Arms that hankered towards the farther shore.

The stern boatman permits one group to board

And now another, but the rest he denies passage,

Driving them back, away from the sandy banks.

Amazed and then moved by all this press and pleading,

Aeneas asks his guide: “What does it mean, O Sibyl,

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This push to the riverbank? What do these souls desire?

What decides that one group is held back, another

Rowed across the muddy waters?”

“Son of Anchises,”

The venerable one replied, “O true born son of heaven,

What you see here are the standing pools

Of Cocytus and the Stygian marsh.

These are the names invoked when gods swear oaths

They will never dare to break. That crowd in front of you

Died but were left unburied, with no help or hope.

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The ferryman is Charon. The ones on board his craft

Are the buried. Not until bones have found a last

Resting place will shades be let across

These gurgling currents, their doom instead to wander

And haunt about the banks for a hundred years.

Then and then only are they again allowed

To approach the brink and waters that they long for.”

Aeneas stopped and stood there, lost in thought,

Comprehending, pity in his heart

At their misfortune, then caught sight of Leucaspis

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And Orontes, who’d captained the Lycian fleet,

Downcast men, denied the rites of the dead:

On their journey out from Troy, a southern gale

Struck ship and crew in heavy seas, and both

Were swept away, overwhelmed in the turmoil.

And now there appears his helmsman, Palinurus,

Who not long since had pitched and tumbled off

The stern into open sea, as he held course

From Africa, eyes fixed upon the stars.

To whom Aeneas, once he recognised

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His sad form in the congregating dark,

Spoke first: “Which god snatched you from us,

Palinurus, and drowned you in the deep?

Tell, O tell what happened. Never until now

Did Apollo’s oracle prove false, but this time

He deceived me: you would survive the waves,

He prophesied, and land safe on the shore

Of Italia. Is this how he keeps his word?”

But Palinurus answered, “My captain, son

Of Anchises, the god Apollo’s oracle

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Did not play you false, nor did any god

Plunge me into the waves. What happened was this:

The steering oar I held and was in charge of

Snapped in a sudden gale and as I fell

I dragged it down with me. But I swear by Ocean

The fear I had for myself then was as nothing

To the fear I had for your ship.

Stripped of her tackle, her steersman overboard,

Would she not wallow and founder

In those mountainous seas? For three nights,

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Through horizonless surge, a south wind

Hurled me and burled me. The fourth day at dawn,

I rose on a swell and got my first glimpse

Of Italia. Little by little then I was making headway,

Slugging towards land in my waterlogged clothes,

Getting a grip on the razor-backed ridges,

When savage locals appeared with drawn swords,

A pack who for want of knowing assumed

That I’d be rich pickings. Now surf keeps me dandled,

The shore winds loll me and roll me.

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You, therefore, you the unbowed, the unbroken,

I implore, by the cheerful light of the sky

And its breezes, by your father and your hopes

As the father of Iulus, get me away

From this place, put an end to my woes.

Either scatter the handful of earth

On my corpse, which you easily can

Once you’re back in the harbour at Velia,

Or else—if there be a way, if your goddess-mother

Can direct you to one—for I believe you are bound

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To enjoy the favour of heaven, prepared as you are

To face these vast waterways and set sail

On the Stygian marsh—reach out your hand

To one who is suffering, take me with you

Over the waves, so that in death at the least

I shall find a calm haven.”

That was his plea

To Aeneas, and this was the answer he got

From the Sibyl: “What madness is this, Palinurus?

You who aren’t even buried, what makes you think

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You can look on the waters of Styx or the Furies’

Grim river? You have not been called to the bank.

Banish the thought that praying can ever affect

The edicts of gods. Your plight is a hard one,

But hear and remember my words: they should be

A comfort. What will happen is this:

Your bones will be reverenced; the sky

Will reveal signs and portents, in cities

On every side populations will know

To build you a tomb and observe solemn custom

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With offerings year after year. And the place

For all time will bear the name Palinurus.”

These words lifted his heart and raised,

For a moment, his spirits. The thought

Of the land in his name makes him happy.

So now they resumed their journey and kept going

Until they were near the river, moving through

Silent woodland towards the bank, when Charon

From his boat out on the water spied them

And began to remonstrate, on the attack

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Before they even spoke: “You, whoever you are,

Approaching our river under arms, stop there,

Not one step farther, and say what brings you:

This is the country of the shades, of heavy-lidded

Night and sleep. It is a thing forbidden

To load the Stygian ferry with living bodies.

I rue the day I carried Hercules

And Theseus and Pirithous, sons of gods as they were,

Strongmen, invincibles. Hercules arrived

To chain up and restrain the hellmouth watchdog,

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To steal him from the very throne of the king—

And did carry the panicked beast away. The others

Tried to abduct the queen from Pluto’s bed.”

To which the soothsaying priestess made reply:

“Nothing like that is being plotted here. These arms

And weapons present you with no threat, so be calm.

Let the monster cave-dog howl his howl forever

And keep on terrifying bloodless shades,

Proserpina be her pure self behind her uncle’s doors.

Aeneas of Troy, renowned for his right life

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And warrior prowess, descends among the shades,

Down to death’s deepest regions, to see his father.

If the sight of such devotedness won’t move you,

You nevertheless must recognise this bough,”

And she shows the bough concealed by her cloak.

Charon quietens then, his bad temper subsides,

He says no more. It is long since he beheld

The holy proffer of that fateful branch. He turns

His dark barge round and steers for the shore.

Other souls ensconced on the long thwarts

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He hurries off up gangways, then at once

Hands mighty Aeneas down into the vessel.

Under that weight the boat’s plied timbers groan

And thick marsh water oozes through the leaks,

But in the end it is a safe crossing, and he lands

Soldier and soothsayer on slithery mud, knee-deep

In grey-green sedge.

Here Cerberus keeps watch,

Growling from three gullets, his brute bulk couched

In the cave, facing down all comers. But the Sibyl,

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Seeing snake-hackles bristle on his necks,

Flings him a dumpling of soporific honey

And heavily drugged grain. The ravenous triple maw

Yawns open, snaffles the sop it has been thrown

Until next thing the enormous flanks go slack

And the inert form slumps to the cave floor.

Thus, with the watchdog sunk in a deep sleep,

Aeneas gains entry and is quick to put behind him

The bank of that river none comes back across.

At once a sound of crying fills the air, the high wails

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And weeping of infant souls, little ones denied

Their share of sweet life, torn from the breast

On life’s very doorstep. A dark day bore them off

And sank them in untimely death. Next to them

Are those condemned to death on false charges,

Although here they are assigned their proper verdicts

By a rightly chosen jury. Minos, the judge,

Presides and shakes the urn, convenes a panel

Of the silent dead, seeking to establish

Men’s characters and crimes. Farther on

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Is the dwelling place of those unhappy spirits

Who died by their own hand, simply driven

By life to a fierce rejection of the light.

How they long now for the open air above,

How willingly they would endure the lot

Of exhausted workers and the hard-wrought poor.

But their way is barred by laws of gods. The waste

And desolate marsh water laps round,

River Styx with its nine loops binds and bounds them.

Not far from here the fields called the Fields

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Of Mourning stretch out in all directions.

On these plains, hidden on shadowy paths,

Secluded and embowered in myrtle groves,

Are those who suffered hard and cruel decline

In thrall to an unremitting love. Their griefs

Do not relent, not even in death. Here Aeneas saw

Among other lovers Phaedra and Procris,

And sad Eriphyle, pointing to the wounds

Dealt by her callous son. Evadne too,

And Pasiphaë. And moving in step with them

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Laodamia, and Caeneus who in her time had known

Life as a man, though fate had now restored

The figure of the woman she once was.

Along with these, still nursing her raw wound,

Dido of Carthage strayed in the great forest.

As soon as the Trojan came close and made out

Her dimly wavering form among the shadows,

He was like one who sees or imagines he has seen

A new moon rising up among the clouds

On the first day of the month; there and then

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He wept and spoke these loving, tender words:

“Unhappy Dido! So the news I got was true,

That you had left the world, had taken a sword

And bade your last farewell. Was I, O was I to blame

For your death? I swear by the stars, by the powers

Above and by any truth there may be under earth,

I embarked from your shore, my queen, unwillingly.

Orders from the gods, which compel me now

To travel among shades in this mouldering world,

This bottomless pit of night, dictated

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Obedience then as well. How could I believe

My going would devastate you with such grief?

Stay a moment, don’t slip out of our sight.

Is there someone you are trying to avoid?

These words I’m saying to you are the last

Fate will permit me, ever.”

Pleading like this,

Tears welling up inside him, Aeneas tried

To placate her fiery spirit and soften

Her fierce gaze; but she, averting her face,

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Her eyes fixed steadily on the ground, turned

And showed no sign of having heard, no more

Than if her features had been carved in flint

Or Parian marble. At length she swept away

And fled, implacable, into the dappling shadows

Of the grove, where Sychaeus, her husband

In another earlier time, feels for her pain

And reciprocates the love she bears him still;

While Aeneas, no less stricken by the injustice

Of her fate, gazes into the distance after her,

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Gazes through tears, and pities her as she goes.

Then he braces himself for the journey still to come

And soon they arrive in the farthest outlying fields,

The hosting grounds of those renowned in war.

In one place Tydeus meets him, in another

Parthenopaeus, glorious in arms, and the bloodless

Shade of Adrastus; elsewhere the Trojan chieftains

Who fell in battle, much mourned in the world above.

And now he also moaned to see them

Thronging in such numbers: Glaucus, Medon

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And Thersilochus, Antenor’s three sons; Polyboetes,

The priest of Ceres; and Idaeus, still

The chariot driver, still dressed in his armour.

From right and left souls crowd and jostle close,

Eager for more than just a look at him; they want

His company, the joy of keeping in step, talking,

Learning why he has come. But the Greek captains

And the gleaming cohorts once led by Agamemnon

Cowered in panic when they saw Aeneas

Advance in dazzling armour through the gloom.

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Some turned to flee as they had once to the ships,

Some raised a spectral cry that came to nothing,

Dying away as it left their gaping mouths.

And here Aeneas caught sight of Priam’s son,

Deiphobus, mutilated in every part, his face

In shreds—his face and his two hands—

Ears torn from his head, and his nostrils

(A low dishonourable wounding, this)

His nostrils cut away: unrecognisable almost

As he shivered and shrank into himself to hide

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The cruel laceration. Aeneas,

In a voice well known to him, spoke first, resolutely:

“Deiphobus, mightiest in the field, offspring

Of Teucer’s ancient line, who was there capable

Of such mutilation? Who let themselves

Run so ruthlessly amok? The story I heard was this:

On the last night in Troy, you waded in Greek blood

Till you fell exhausted, fell like a dead man

On a heap of their slobbered corpses. That is why

I raised an empty tomb for you at Rhoetum,

680

On the shore, and with my three loud cries

Invoked your spirit. Your name now and your arms

Hallow that spot. But not you in the flesh, my friend,

Whom I could neither see as I embarked

Nor bury in home ground.”

Priam’s son replied:

“And you, my friend, you left no thing undone.

You paid the right attention to Deiphobus,

Dead man and shade. It was my destiny

And the criminal, widowing schemes of my lady

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Of Sparta wrecked and ruined me. What you see

Are the love bites she left me in remembrance

Of that last night, of all our city’s nights

The most jubilant and most deluded. But this you know

Too well already, for how could you forget?

When the horse that was our fate came at a leap

On to the heights of Troy, big in the belly

With armed men, she was to the fore, involved

In the dance, contriving to lead our women

In the loud frenzy of the bacchanal.

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Up she went to our citadel, in her hand

A torch conspicuously ablaze,

Signalling to the Greeks. And me then! Me

In my god-cursed marriage-bed, lying dead beat,

Far gone, giving in to sleep, sweet, welcoming,

Drowsy sleep, serene almost as death. Meanwhile,

My paragon of a bride had cleared the house

Of every weapon and even stolen the sword

From underneath my head; and now she opened doors

And called for Menelaus to come in, hoping, no doubt,

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That this grand favour to her lover boy

Would blot out memories of old betrayals.

But why say more? They broke into the bedroom,

Ulysses with them, the insidious and malignant …

O gods, as my plea for vengeance is a just one. Gods!

Retaliate! Strike the Greeks with all due punishment.

But you, what of you? It is time I heard your story:

What turn of events has brought you here alive?

Do you come as a survivor, tempest-tossed,

Or at the gods’ behest? What destiny hounds you

720

Down to these sunless, poor abodes, this land

Of troubles?”

Dawn in her rose-flushed chariot

Had taken her airy drive up half the sky

As they talked together, and in all likelihood

They would have talked on for whatever time

Had been allotted, but that the Sibyl at Aeneas’ side

Reproved him in a few brief words. “Night, Aeneas,

Has begun to fall. We are wasting time lamenting.

This is the fork of the road, here it divides.

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To the right, where it runs beneath the walls

Of mighty Pluto’s fortress, that one we take

To Elysium; the one to the left sends evil-doers

To punishment in merciless Tartarus.”

Deiphobus

Then replied, “Do not, high priestess, be angry.

I will be gone, will take my place with the rest, yield

Once more to the dark. But you, the glory of Troy, go,

Go you to a happier fate.”

He had said

740

His say, and as he spoke turned on his heel.

Aeneas suddenly looks back and sees

A broad-based fortress under a cliff to the left,

Set behind three rings of wall, encircled

By a hurtling torrent, a surge and rush of flame,

Rock-rumbling, thunder-flowing Phlegethon, the fiery

Bourne of Tartarus. A gate rears up in front,

Flanked by pillars of solid adamant, so massive

No human force, nor even the sky-gods’ squadrons

Could dislodge them. There too stands an iron tower

750

And from its top Tisiphone the Fury

Oversees the entrance day and night, unsleeping

And on guard, her bloody dress hitched up.

Sounds of groaning could be heard inside, the savage

Application of the lash, the fling and scringe and drag

Of iron chains. Aeneas stopped short, petrified,

Taking in the turmoil and the shouting,

Then asked the Sibyl: “What wrong-doing

Is being dealt with here? What punishments

Afflict the wrong-doers? What is this wailing

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High upon the wind?”

And the prophetess

Answered him: “Famed chieftain of the Trojans,

Know it is forbidden for the pure in spirit

To set foot on the god-cursed threshold. And yet

When Hecate gave me charge of Avernus’ woods

She took me through this whole place and explained

The punishments gods impose. Rhadamanthus

Of Knossos rules here, unforgiving, castigating,

Hearing admissions of guilt and exacting

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Confession from those self-deceiving souls

Who thought to hide wrongs done in the world above

And left them unatoned for till too late.

Vengeful Tisiphone keeps bearing down, a whiplash

Lapped and lithe in her right hand, in her left

A flail of writhing snakes, scourging the guilty,

Summoning her ferocious claque of sisters.

Next comes a grinding scrunch and screech

Of hinges as the dread doors open

And you see what waits inside, the shape

780

And threat of the guard who haunts the threshold.

Farther in and more ruthless still, the Hydra lurks,

Monstrous, with her fifty gaping mouth-holes

And black gullets. And beyond, the sheer plunge

Of Tartarus down to the depths, to darkness, a drop

Twice as far beneath the earth as Olympus

Appears to soar above it.

In the bottom of the pit,

In the very lowest sump, felled by Jove’s thunderbolt,

Earth’s ancient sons, the Titans, writhe, abased.

790

Here too I saw the sons of Aloeus, giant twins

Who attempted to grapple with high heaven

And depose the Father of the Skies.

Salmoneus too I saw, paying dear

For having played at being Jupiter, wielding fire

And imitating the thunders of Olympus.

He rode in triumph through the Greek nations

And his own city in Elis, drawn by four horses

And flourishing a torch, assuming to himself

The honour due to gods. It was madness:

800

To think that the batter of bronze and the clatter

Of horses’ hoofs could mimic Jupiter’s

Absolute thunder and his scowling storms!

But the all-powerful Father—no fake lightning for him

From torches or smoky guttering pine-brands—

Hurled his bright bolt from behind the cloud murk

And blasted Salmoneus headlong down

In an overwhelming whirlwind. There as well

You’d see Tityos, foster-son of Earth,

The mother of all. Tityos, his body stretching out

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Over nine whole acres while a huge, horrendous

Vulture puddles forever with hooked beak

In his liver and entrails teeming with raw pain.

It burrows deep below the breastbone, feeding

And foraging without respite, for the gnawed-at

Gut and gutstrings keep renewing.

And the Lapiths,

Ixion and Parothous, should I mention them?

Eternally menaced by a looming boulder, black

And eternally about to fall. Golden headrests

820

Gleam on their high banquet couches, a sumptuous

Royal feast is spread to tempt them; but nearby

The arch-Fury occupies her place, warding off

Hands that long to reach out to the meal, ever ready

To spring, with her lifted torch and terrifying yells.

“Also incarcerated, those who for a lifetime

Hated a brother, abused a parent, or ruined

The good name of a client; those who gloated

On wealth they’d secretly amassed and hoarded

And failed to share with kith and kin (they comprised

830

The biggest crowd); those killed as adulterers;

Those who broke oaths of loyalty to masters

In violent rebellions: all were confined there

Awaiting punishment. What that punishment would be,

What fault or fate entailed it, do not seek to know.

Some roll a massive boulder or hang spreadeagled,

Tied to the spokes of wheels. Theseus, unlucky soul,

Sits unmoving and will sit like that forever,

While Phlegyas, most stricken of all, cautions all,

A constant proof of what his voice proclaims

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Loudly through the darkness: ‘Take warning by me;

Learn to do right; learn not to scorn the gods.’

Here too was one who sold his country’s freedom,

Leaving her in thrall to a tyrant lord;

Here one who would fix laws for a price and for a price

Unfix them; here another who forced a daughter

In her bed and into an abominable marriage.

All dared to commit great wrong and were fit

For what they dared. If I had a hundred tongues,

If I had a hundred mouths and an iron voice,

850

I could neither spell out the foul catalogue

Of those crimes nor name their punishments.”

Here Apollo’s venerable priestess paused

Before continuing: “But enough. Be quick. You must

Conclude your undertaking now. We both must hurry.

I see ramparts fashioned in Cyclopic foundries

And gates there in the arch in front of us

Where the powers that be require us to deposit

Proserpina’s gift.” That said, they proceed in step

Along the dark of pathways, then hurry out

860

Across the open ground that fronts the doors.

Aeneas takes his stand in the entrance, purifies

His body with fresh water, and there and then

Plants the bough in the threshold.

With this ritual

Finally performed and honour done to the goddess,

They came into happy vistas and the green welcome

Of the Groves of the Fortunate Ones who dwell in joy.

Here a more spacious air sheds brightness

Over the land; they enjoy their own sun here

870

And their own stars—some at their exercises

On the grass, some competing in earnest, wrestling

On yellow sand; others are dancing dances

And singing songs, Orpheus among them

In his long musician’s robe, keeping time,

Plucking his seven notes from the seven-stringed lyre

Now with his fingers, now with an ivory plectrum.

Here too were members of Teucer’s ancient stock,

That noblest of families, magnificent heroes

Born in better days—Illus and Assaracus

880

And Dardanus who founded Troy. Aeneas gazed

In wonder at their armour and the chariots beside them

Standing idle, their spears struck tall in the ground

And their horses loosed out, free to graze the plain

Anywhere they liked. The pride they took when alive

In armour and chariots, the care they gave

To their glossy well-groomed teams, it is still the same

Now they have gone away under the earth. Others too

He sees on every side, feasting in lush meadows

Or singing songs together to Apollo

890

Deep in a laurel grove, where the Eridanus

Courses through on its way to the earth above.

Here was a band of those who suffered wounds

Fighting for their country; those who lived the pure life

Of the priest; those who were dedicated poets

And made songs fit for Apollo; others still

Whose discoveries improved our arts or ease, and those

Remembered for a life spent serving others—

All of them with headbands white as snow

Tied round their brows. These the Sibyl now addressed

900

As they bustled close around her, Musaeus

In particular, who stood out at the centre of the crowd,

The one looked up to, towering head and shoulders

Over them. “Tell us, happy spirits,” she began,

“And you, the best of the poets, tell us

Where does Anchises lodge, in which quarter?

For his sake we have crossed the mighty waterways

To be here.” Her question the great hero answered

Briefly: “None of us has one definite home place.

We haunt the shadowy woods, bed down on riverbanks,

910

On meadowland in earshot of running streams.

But you, if your heart is set upon it, climb this ridge

And I’ll direct you soon on an easy path.” He spoke,

Walked on ahead and showed the fields of light.

Aeneas and the Sibyl came down the hill.

Elsewhere Anchises,

Fatherly and intent, was off in a deep green valley

Surveying and reviewing souls consigned there,

Those due to pass to the light of the upper world.

It so happened he was just then taking note

920

Of his whole posterity, the destinies and doings,

Traits and qualities of descendants dear to him,

But seeing Aeneas come wading through the grass

Towards him, he reached his two hands out

In eager joy, his eyes filled up with tears

And he gave a cry: “At last! Are you here at last?

I always trusted that your sense of right

Would prevail and keep you going to the end.

And am I now allowed to see your face,

My son, and hear you talk, and talk to you myself?

930

This is what I imagined and looked forward to

As I counted the days; and my trust was not misplaced.

To think of the lands and the outlying seas

You have crossed, my son, to receive this welcome.

And after such dangers! I was afraid that Africa

Might be your undoing.” But Aeneas replied:

“Often and often, father, you would appear to me,

Your sad shade would appear, and that kept me going

To this end. My ships are anchored in the Tuscan sea.

Let me take your hand, my father, O let me, and do not

940

Hold back from my embrace.” And as he spoke he wept.

Three times he tried to reach arms round that neck.

Three times the form, reached for in vain, escaped

Like a breeze between his hands, a dream on wings.

Meanwhile, at the far end of a valley, Aeneas saw

A remote grove, bushy rustling thickets,

And the river Lethe somnolently flowing,

Lapping those peaceful haunts along its banks.

Here a hovering multitude, innumerable

Nations and gathered clans, kept the fields

950

Humming with life, like bees in meadows

On a clear summer day alighting on pied flowers

And wafting in mazy swarms around white lilies.

Aeneas startled at this unexpected sight

And in his bewilderment asked what was happening,

What was the river drifting past beyond them,

Who were the ones in such a populous throng

Beside it?

“Spirits,” Anchises answered,

“They are spirits destined to live a second life

960

In the body; they assemble here to drink

From the brimming Lethe, and its water

Heals their anxieties and obliterates

All trace of memory. For a long time now

I have looked forward to telling you about them,

Letting you see them face to face, but most of all

I wished to call the roll of my descendants, parade

My children’s children, so you could all the more

Share my joy at your landfall in Italia.”

“Are we to believe then, father, there are souls

970

Who rise from here to the sky of the upper world

And re-enter the sluggish drag of the body?

What possesses the poor souls? Why this mad desire

To get back to the light?” “To put you out of doubt,”

Anchises answers, “I shall explain it straightaway.”

And point by point he then outlines the doctrine.

“To begin at the beginning: a nurturing inner spirit

Works to sustain sky, earth, the fields of ocean,

The moon’s bright disc and Titan’s star, the sun;

And mind, operative in every part, imbues

980

The massive whole, blending with world’s body.

From which are born races of men and beasts,

Creatures that fly, and prodigies ocean breeds

Beneath the molten marble of its surface.

The seeds of life are strong sparks out of fire,

Their origin divine, so to that extent

They are immune to the heavy toll of the body,

Their quickness unaffected by the toil

Of human limbs and the mortal clothing

Of the flesh. It is from body

990

That fear and desire, grief and delight derive,

And in the darkness of its prison house

Those first pure elements are shut off and screened

From the light of heaven. Besides which, at the end

When life departs, they remain sadly infested

By every evil and every bodily ill,

For inevitably, in the course of time,

Many flaws mysteriously coalesce, hard set

And deep ingrained. Therefore souls are visited

With due chastisements and affliction, to atone

1000

For past offences. Some are hung racked

And raked by vacuous winds; for others, the stain

Is washed away beneath whirling torrents

Or burnt off in fire. Each of us suffers

The death we’re due, then given the freedom

Of broad Elysium—the few, that is, who’ll dwell

In those blessèd fields until the end of time

When length of days will remove the deep-dyed taint,

Purify the aethereal sense and that sheer original stuff

Of fire and spirit. The rest, when they have trod

1010

Time’s mill for a thousand years, the god commands

Wave upon wave into the Lethe river, so at that stage

Their memory is effaced and they go once more

To dwell beneath sky’s dome and start again

To long for the old life of flesh and blood.”

Anchises concluded and led his son

Accompanied by the Sibyl into the crowd,

Into the thick and buzzing throb of it,

Then took his stand on a height where he could inspect

The long, drawn-out procession and take note

1020

Of every face as it approached and passed.

“So now I will instruct you in what is to be,

The future glory of the Trojan race,

Descendants due to be born in Italia,

Souls who in time will make our name illustrious—

I speak of them to reveal your destiny to you.

The lad you see there, who leans on his untipped spear,

Placed next and nearest to the light, he will be

The first to ascend to upper air, the first

Of our people with mixed Italian blood.

1030

He’ll be known as Silvius, an Alban name,

And be the last of your children; when you are old

Your wife Lavinia will rear him in the woods

To be a king and to father kings our stock

Will issue from and rule in Alba Longa.

Next to him stands Procas, pride and joy

Of the Trojan nation, then Capys and Numitor

And the one in whose name you will survive, Silvius

Aeneas, no less distinguished as a warrior than you

And no less devoted, though he’ll be waiting long

1040

To rule in Alba. Look at them! Marvellous, strong

Young men, wearing their civic honours, oak wreaths

Like shadowy crowns. These, when you are gone,

Will build Nomentum and Gabii and the city of Fidena,

Fortify hill towns, wall the citadels

Of Collatia, found Pometii, Bola and Cora

And Camp Inuus: unheard-of today, unsignified,

Their name and fame will come. And Romulus, yes,

Son of Mars, grandson of Numitor, whom Illia

Is to bear, Romulus will stand firm by his grandfather.

1050

Do you see how the twin plumes wave above his head,

How the Father of the gods has marked him out

With his own insignia for singular majesty?

Once he inaugurates the power of Rome,

She in her glory will push an empire’s bounds

To the ends of earth and harbour aspirations

High as heaven; seven hills she will girdle with a wall

Into a single city and be blessed with heroic sons.

She will be like Cybele with her crown of towers,

The Great Mother borne in her chariot

1060

Through the cities of Phrygia, happy and fulfilled

To have given birth to gods, grandchildren

By the score in her generous arms,

All of them sky-dwellers, tenants of the heights.

“Now look this way, take good note of this clan,

Your own bloodline in Rome: there is Caesar

And the whole offspring of Iulus, destined one day

To issue forth beneath the dome of heaven.

This is he whose coming you’ve heard foretold

So often: Augustus Caesar, child of the divine one,

1070

Who will establish in Latium, in Saturn’s old domain,

A second golden age. He will advance his empire

Beyond the Garamants and the Indians

To lands unseen beneath our constellations

Beyond the sun’s path through the zodiac,

Away where sky-braced Atlas pivots on his shoulder

The firmament, inlaid with glittering stars.

Already the Caspian kingdoms and Maeotia

Know of his coming and begin to tremble

At the oracles of their gods; the waters of the Nile

1080

Quail in alarm and roil through their seven mouths.

Not even Hercules pursued his labours over

So much of earth’s surface, not when he stalked

And shot the bronze-toed deer, silenced the boar

In the woods of Erymanthus and left the air of Lerna

Vibrating to his bowstring; not Bacchus either

Careering in triumph, the vine-reins in his grip,

Driving his tiger team down the heights of Nysa.

So why should we then hesitate to test

And prove our worth in action or be afraid

1090

To stake and stand our ground in Italia?

“But that one in the crown of olive sprays,

Offering sacrifice—that grey head

And grizzled beard I recognise as Numa’s,

King of Rome, sprung from the humble town

Of Cures, called from its poor land to wield high power

And frame the city’s first system of laws.

To be succeeded next by Tullus, who will wreck

His country’s peace, turn an easygoing people

Militant and drill an army long out of the field

1100

For victory. After him, that’s Ancus, swaggering,

Too full of himself already, overly susceptible

To the wind of popularity in his sails.

And there, if you care to look, are the regal Tarquins

And haughty Brutus, called Avenger, who’ll arrange

The handover of the fasces—first consul

To be installed and given authority

As custodian of the pitiless axes.

Then as a father, when his sons foment their plot,

He will decree their summary execution

1110

In the fair name of liberty—stricken in this

No matter how future generations may comprehend it:

Love of country will prevail and the overwhelming

Desire for fame.

“Now over there you see

The Decii and the Drusi, Torquatus who will behead

His son, and Camillus who’ll recapture the standards.

But alas for that pair in their burnished armour,

Well-matched champions, twin souls in accord

As long as they stay pent in this shadowland,

1120

But once promoted to the light above

What mutual destruction they will wreak,

The internecine savagery and slaughter

Of a civil war: Caesar, the bride’s father,

Bearing down from the northern Alps,

Pompey, the husband, with his legions in formation

Advancing from the east. Do not, O my sons,

Inure yourselves to such dreadful consequence, do not

Bloody the bosom of your country with vicious,

Valiant battle. And you, child of my blood,

1130

Of the gods on high Olympus, be you the first

In clemency: rid your hands of those weapons.

“Yonder too is Mummius, conqueror

Of Corinth, who will ride his victor’s chariot

Up to the Capitol, a hero for having brought

Ruination on the Greeks. That other at his side

Will destroy Argos and Agamemnon’s Mycenae,

Defeat descendants of arch-warrior Achilles,

Avenge his Trojan forebears and the rape

Of Cassandra in Minerva’s temple.

1140

Next, great Cato, you, who could not sing your praise

Or, Cossus, yours? Or the family of the Gracchi;

Or those two Scipios, two warrior thunderbolts

Who will strike down bellicose Carthage; or Fabricius,

The indomitable and frugal; or you, Serranus,

Sowing your furrowed fields? Nor is there a quick

Or easy way to scan the long line of the Fabii,

Down to the greatest, Fabius Maximus,

He who’ll contrive to stall and thereby save our state.

Others, I have no doubt, with a more delicate touch

1150

Will beat bronze into breathing likenesses,

Conjure living features out of marble,

Argue cases more effectively, and with their compass

Plot the heavens’ orbit and predict

The rising of the constellations. But you, Roman,

Remember: to you will fall the exercise of power

Over the nations, and these will be your gifts—

To impose peace and justify your sway,

Spare those you conquer, crush those who overbear.”

Here Anchises paused; then, while they wondered

1160

At his words, continued: “Look now, there goes

Marcellus, head and shoulders above all the rest,

Victorious in armour of the general he killed.

He will help Rome to stand firm while it bears the brunt

Of fierce invasion, he will ride high over

Carthaginians and insurgent Gauls, then dedicate

Those rich, rare spoils won only twice before

To Father Quirinus.”

At which point Aeneas saw

A young man in step with Marcellus, arrayed

1170

In glittering arms, exceedingly handsome

But with lowered eyes, unhappy looking, so he asked,

“Who, father, is that companion at his side?

A son, or another of his great descendants?

What crowds and clamour follow him! What presence

He has! But black night wreathes his brow

With dolorous shadow.”

Choking back his tears,

Anchises answered, “Do not, O my son,

Seek foreknowledge of the heavy sorrow

1180

Your people will endure. Fate will allow the world

Only to glimpse him, then rob it of him quickly.

It’s as if the gods decided the Roman people

Would be manifestly too powerful, were the gift

Of his life to last. How the city will re-echo

Massed laments from the brave on the Field of Mars!

What a funeral procession, Tiber, you will witness

As you go flowing past the new built tomb!

No boy born from our Trojan stock will ever raise

The hopes of his Latin ancestors so high

1190

Nor the land of Romulus take such pride in a son.

Alas for his goodness! His antique loyalties!

His strong right arm unbeaten in the battle!

No foe would have faced and fought him and survived,

Whether he marched on foot or sank his spurs

In the flanks of some foaming, lathering warhorse.

O son of pity! Alas that you cannot strike

Fate’s cruel fetters off! For you are to be Marcellus …

Load my arms with lilies, let me scatter

Purple flowers, let me lavish these gifts at least

1200

On the soul of my inheritor and perform

My unavailing duty.”

And so

Far and wide in those fields, through regions of air,

They go wandering at will, surveying all.

Then after Anchises has conducted Aeneas

Across the whole expanse, scene after scene,

And fired his mind with promise of future glory,

He tells of wars that will first have to be waged,

Of the Laurentines and the town of King Latinus,

1210

How he should face or flee each undertaking.

There are two gates of Sleep, one of which, they say,

Is made of horn and offers easy passage

To true visions; the other has a luminous, dense

Ivory sheen, but through it, to the sky above,

The spirits of the dead send up false dreams.

Anchises, still guiding and discoursing,

Escorts his son and the Sibyl on their way

And lets them both out by the ivory gate.

Aeneas hurries to the ships and rejoins his comrades,

1220

Then sails, hugging the shore, to the port of Caietae.

Anchors are cast from the prow; sterns cushion on sand.