INGO GILDENHARD AND JOHN HENDERSON

INGO GILDENHARD AND JOHN HENDERSON

Virgil's poetry and the most recent scholarly thought.

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A dead boy (Pallas) and the death of a girl (Camilla) loom over the opening and the closing part of the eleventh book of the *Aeneid*. Following the savage slaughter in *Aeneid* 10, the book opens in a mournful mood as the warring parti es revisit yesterday's killing fi elds to att end to their dead. One casualty in parti cular commands att enti on: Aeneas' protégé Pallas, killed and despoiled by Turnus in the previous book. His death plunges his father Evander and his surrogate father Aeneas into heart-rending despair – and helps set up the foundati onal act of sacrifi cial brutality that caps the poem, when Aeneas seeks to avenge Pallas by slaying Turnus in wrathful fury. Turnus' departure from the living is prefi gured by that of his ally Camilla, a maiden schooled in the marti al arts, who sets the mold for warrior princesses such as Xena and Wonder Woman. In the fi nal third of *Aeneid* 11, she wreaks havoc not just on the batt lefi eld but on gender stereotypes and the conventi ons of the epic genre, before she too succumbs to a premature death. In the porti ons of the book selected for discussion here, Virgil off ers some of his most emoti ve (and disturbing) meditati ons on the tragic nature of human existence – but also knows how to lighten the GILDENHARD

AND HENDERSON

Virgil, *Aeneid* 

11

(Pallas & Camilla)

**OBP**

Latin text, study aids with vocabulary, and commentary

Virgil, *Aeneid* 11 (Pallas & Camilla)

1–224, 498–521, 532–96, 648–89, 725–835

This course book off ers the original Lati n text, vocabulary aids, study questi ons, and an extensive commentary. Designed to stretch and sti mulate readers, this resource is of parti cular interest to students of Lati n studying for A-Level or on undergraduate courses. It extends beyond detailed linguisti c analysis to encourage criti cal engagement with

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Virgil, *Aeneid* 11 (Pallas & Camilla) 1–224, 498–521, 532–96, 648–89, 725–835

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## VIRGIL, *AENEID* 11 (PALLAS & CAMILLA)

# Virgil, *Aeneid* 11 (Pallas & Camilla) 1–224, 498–521, 532–96, 648–89, 725–835

Latin text, study aids with vocabulary, and commentary

*Ingo Gildenhard and John Henderson*

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© 2018 Ingo Gildenhard and John Henderson

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Classics Textbooks, vol. 7 | ISSN: 2054-2437 (Print) | 2054-2445 (Online) ISBN Paperback: 978-1-78374-600-2 ISBN Hardback: 978-1-78374-601-9 ISBN Digital (PDF): 978-1-78374-602-6 ISBN Digital ebook (epub): 978-1-78374-603-3 ISBN Digital ebook (mobi): 978-1-78374-604-0 ISBN XML: 978-1-78374-605-7 DOI: 10.11647/OBP.0158

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## Contents


The sections from *Aeneid* 11 included in the present textbook will serve as two of the set texts for the OCR Latin AS- and A-Level specifications from 2019–2021. The part on Pallas (1–224) forms a unified whole; from the story of Camilla, the prescribed portion only includes significant bits: pieces of her *aristeia* and the aftermath of the death are not on the Latin syllabus (and are therefore not included in the present commentary), but are of course to be read in English. The recent commentaries on *Aeneid* 11 by Gransden (1991), Horsfall (2003), and Fratantuono (2009) facilitate engagement with this relatively neglected book of the poem and inform the present volume as well. As in earlier contributions to the Classical Textbook Series from Open Book Publishers, the following pages tend to summarize and cite (at length), rather than just refer to primary sources and pieces of secondary literature: for our primary audience a 'see e.g.' or a 'cf.' followed by a reference is at best tantalizing, but most likely just irritating. Unless otherwise indicated, translations of Greek and Latin texts are (based on) those in the Loeb Classical Library. Gestures to further readings (in particular in the Introduction) are not entirely absent, however, to render the commentary useful also for readers who have more time on their hands and can get access to scholarly literature, such as students wishing to do an EPQ.

The textbook tries to cater for various backgrounds: it contains detailed explication of grammar and syntax, bearing in mind students who study the text off-syllabus; and it endeavours to convey a flavour of Latin studies at undergraduate level for those who are thinking of pursuing classical studies at university. The commentary also tries to bring into view a feature of Virgil's poetry that the drive towards lexicalized entries inherent in the genre often overlooks: the overall design — and the 'building blocks' — of larger textual units (here often illustrated through different mark-ups). Awareness of Virgil's 'Legopoetics' should enhance appreciation of his craftsmanship as a literary artist and the 'architectural' dimension of his verse- (and world-) making. In addition, we have introduced images alongside relevant texts in the expectation that the visual 'commentary' will generate lively intermedial discussion.

The commentary is a joint venture, but it seemed helpful to mark some comments with the siglum JH, to be taken as the equivalent of what educationalists brand with the label S&C (= 'Stretch & Challenge'). Like the series it belongs to, this volume would have been inconceivable without Open Book Publishers and their customary flexibility and speed, and we are profoundly grateful to Alessandra Tosi and her team.

*Aeneid* 11 immortalizes two victims of *mors immatura*, and the book is dedicated to the memory of a colleague whose death too was tragically premature.

A dead boy (Pallas) and the death of a girl (Camilla) dominate the opening and the closing third of *Aeneid* 11 — one from each side of the conflict in prehistoric Italy between the Trojan migrants (and their allies) and the Rutulian Turnus (and his allies). In the middle segment, Turnus and his nemesis Drances mouth off in the council of King Latinus — but OCR's selection of passages skips over their diplomatic tiff: the exam board goes in for those narrative stretches that have given *Aeneid* 11 the reputation of being the saddest of the epic.1 With some of the zany material from the Camilla part in mind, it is arguably also the weirdest. But before we can zoom in on the chosen bits — the funerals, the fighting, and the fun — it is worth getting the whole into view.

<sup>1</sup> Anderson (1999: 195).

# 1.Virgil & Homer, or: The OverallDesign of the *Aeneid* (and Book 11's Place Within It)

At the beginning of the *Aeneid* (in many ways a rewrite of the Greek poetry of Homer in Latin) Virgil announces: 'Arms and the man I sing…' (*Arma virumque cano*…). He goes on to do so in twelve books of epic verse.2 Conventional wisdom divides this total into an 'Odyssean' and an 'Iliadic' half. Books 1–6, so the story goes, elaborate on the 'man' (*virum*) of the keynote and constitute an *Odyssey* of sorts (the first word of which is ἄνδρα/*andra*, the accusative of *anêr* = man = *vir*), covering Aeneas' travels from Troy to Italy (via Carthage). And Books 7–12 pick up on 'arms' (*arma*) and narrate the ferocious fighting that breaks out upon his arrival in Italy as the indigenous people rise up in arms against the Trojan newcomers (a replay of Homer's *Iliad*).

The facts of the matter, however, are more complex (of course — always, especially with Virgil). Thus Book 2 of the *Aeneid*, which comprises Aeneas' account to Dido of the fall of Troy (including the story of the Trojan Horse), is in some ways as 'Iliadic' as the *Aeneid* gets, while the funeral games for Patroclus in *Iliad* 23 are remixed in Book 5 (the penultimate book of the *first* half of the *Aeneid*), which features the funeral games for Anchises. Importantly, too, the plot of the *Odyssey* continues to resonate powerfully through the *second* half of the *Aeneid*: Aeneas is an invader (resembling the Greeks of the *Iliad*) but also

<sup>2</sup> For Homer and Virgil see e.g. Knauer (1964/1979) and (1964/1990) and Barchiesi (1984/2015).

someone who is coming home (according to one genealogy, Dardanus, one of Aeneas' ancestors, hails from Italy).3 In so doing, he turns 'home' into a killing field, very much like the Odysseus of the *Odyssey*: we shouldn't forget that the *Odyssey* does not end with a romantic embrace between Odysseus and his wife Penelope, but on an 'Iliadic' note, with mass murder and civil war, back home.4

Still, even though both *Iliad* and *Odyssey* echo in the intertextual interstices throughout, the *Aeneid* is (also) a poem of two halves — as Virgil himself flags up via a 'proem in the middle', where he genuflects to the idea that the non-plus-ultra of heroic epic is battlefield slaughter — rather than travel adventures (7.37–45):5

Nunc age, qui reges, Erato, quae tempora, rerum quis Latio antiquo fuerit status, advena classem cum primum Ausoniis exercitus appulit oris, expediam, et primae revocabo exordia pugnae. 40 tu vatem, tu, diva, mone. dicam horrida bella, dicam acies actosque animis in funera reges, Tyrrhenamque manum totamque sub arma coactam Hesperiam. maior rerum mihi nascitur ordo, maius opus moveo. 45

[Come now, Erato! Who were the kings, what were the times, what the state of affairs in ancient Latium, when first that foreign army landed its fleet on Ausonian shores – this will I unfold; and the prelude to the first battle will I recall. And you, goddess, prompt your bard! I will tell of grim wars, will tell of battle lines, and kings in their courage driven into death – of Tyrrhenian troops, and all Hesperia mustered in arms. Greater is the order of things that comes into being for me; greater is the work that I set into motion.]

Yet however 'greater' (*maius*) the work becomes in the second half, it remains an intricately interrelated whole. In the *Aeneid*, each book, while a meaningful unit in its own right, stands in 'intratextual' dialogue with all the others, across a range of different patterns.6 The 'classical' number

<sup>3</sup> See *Aeneid* 8.126–51.

<sup>4</sup> See further Cairns (1989), ch. 8: 'The *Aeneid* as *Odyssey*' and Pogorzelski (2009).

<sup>5</sup> For the notion of 'proem in the middle' see Conte (2007: 219–31).

<sup>6</sup> For the notion of 'intratextuality' see the introduction to Sharrock and Morales (2000).

of 12 — apart from gesturing to the 'Homeric' 24: both *Iliad* and *Odyssey* consist of 24 books, one for each letter in the Greek alphabet — divides not just into 2 x 6 but also various other multiples. It thus enables the following divisions and groupings among others (with those units including Book 11 highlighted in bold):

1 x **12**

2 x 6: [1-6] + [**7-12**] ~ 1–7; 2–8; 3–9; 4–10; **5–11**; 6–12 3 x 4: [1-4] + [5-8] + [**9-12**] ~ 1–5–9; 2–6–10; **3–7–11**; 4–8–12 4 x 3: [1-3] + [4-6] + [7-9] + [**10-12**] ~ 1–4–7–10; **2–5–8–11**; 3–6–9–12 6 x 2: [1-2] + [3-4] + [5-6] + [7-8] + [9-10] + [**11-12**] ~ **1–3–5–7–9–11**; 2–4–6–8–10–12 12 x 1: correlation of 1–12, **2–11** [= second and next to last], 3–10, 4–9, 5–8, 6–7 and contiguity of **11** with **10** and **12**

There are, for instance, striking thematic correspondences and structural links between the funeral games for Aeneas' father Anchises in Book 5 and the funeral of his 'adoptive' son Pallas in Book 11; between the catalogue of Italic forces with Camilla as tailpiece that rises up against Aeneas in Book 7 and the rest of Camilla's story which forms part of Book 11; between Book 2, which features the hair of Aeneas' son Ascanius (a.k.a. Iulus) sprouting propitious flames that signal a prosperous future, and Book 11, in which the hair of Aeneas' surrogate son Pallas is about to go up in flames on his funeral pyre; or across the three final books of the poem, which build to the epic's shattering climax. And each book makes a distinctive contribution to the narrative arc of the *Aeneid* as a whole, which Virgil bookends by correlating the first and the last glimpse we get of the epic's eponymous hero.

## First Impressions Matter

After an extended proem (1.1–33), Virgil begins the actual narrative of the *Aeneid* with Juno spotting the Trojan fleet at sea just off the coast of Sicily. The hissy fit she throws about perceived slights to her dignity segues seamlessly into a visit to Aeolus, the minor divinity whom Jupiter put in charge of the winds: him she bribes into unleashing a primordial tempest to drown Aeneas. Chaos ensues: the storms sweep over the earth in a terrifying whirl (1.83: *ruunt et terras turbine perflant*), black night starts to brood over the sea (1.89: *ponto nox incubat atra*), the poles thunder and the sky flashes with frequent lightening (1.90: *intonuere poli*, *et crebris micat ignibus aether*).7 Frightful stuff, and when the narrative spotlight falls on Aeneas, this atmospheric commotion happens to scare the living daylights out of our hero (1.92–101):

Extemplo Aeneae solvuntur frigore membra: ingemit, et duplicis tendens ad sidera palmas talia voce refert: 'O terque quaterque beati, quis ante ora patrum Troiae sub moenibus altis 95 contigit oppetere! O Danaum fortissime gentis Tydide! Mene Iliacis occumbere campis non potuisse, tuaque animam hanc effundere dextra, saevus ubi Aeacidae telo iacet Hector, ubi ingens Sarpedon, ubi tot Simois correpta sub undis 100 scuta virum galeasque et fortia corpora volvit?'

[Straightway Aeneas' limbs loosen with chilling dread; he groans and, stretching his two upturned hands to the stars, thus cries aloud: 'O thrice and four times blest, whose lot it was to meet death before their fathers' eyes beneath the lofty walls of Troy! O son of Tydeus [= Diomedes], bravest of the Danaan race, that I could not fall on the Ilian plains and gasp out this lifeblood at your hand — where, under the spear of Aeacides [= Achilles], fierce Hector lies prostrate, and mighty Sarpedon; where Simois seizes and sweeps beneath his waves so many shields and helmets and bodies of brave men!']8

Aeneas is not the first epic character with a death wish early on in his narrative. Virgil has modelled his passage on Odysseus' reaction when faced with similar circumstances (*Odyssey* 5.297–312):

Then were the knees of Odysseus loosened and his heart (καὶ τότ᾽ Ὀδυσσῆος λύτο γούνατα καὶ φίλον ἦτορ), and groaning he spoke to his own mighty spirit: 'Ah me, wretched that I am! What is to befall me at the last? I fear that all the goddess said was true, when she declared

<sup>7</sup> Keep the cited Latin (and in particular the underlined words) in mind for future reference.

<sup>8</sup> Note that line 100 glosses the opening keynote *arma virumque*: *arma* = *scuta galeasque*; *virum* = *fortia corpora* + *virum* (which here is the syncopated genitive plural form of *vir* [= *vir* / *or* / *um*] modifying all three accusative objects). Put differently, the storms mess up, and are about to drown, Virgil's epic…

#### *1. Virgil & Homer 7*

that on the sea, before I came to my native land, I should fill up the measure of woes; all this now is being brought to pass. In such wise does Zeus overcast the broad heaven with clouds, and has stirred up the sea, and the blasts of all manner of winds sweep upon me; now is my utter destruction sure. *Thrice blessed*, *four times blessed are those Danaans who of old perished in the wide land of Troy* (τρὶς μάκαρες Δαναοὶ καὶ τετράκις, οἳ τότ᾽ ὄλοντο | Τροίῃ ἐν εὐρείῃ), doing the pleasure of the sons of Atreus. I wish I had died thus and met my fate on that day when the throngs of the Trojans hurled upon me bronze-tipped spears, fighting around the body of the dead son of Peleus. Then should I have received funeral rites, and the Achaeans would have spread my fame, but now by a miserable death was it appointed me to be cut off.

But in a sense, the Homeric precedent aggravates, rather than lessens the problems. When the storm bears down on Odysseus, he is alone. By (negative) contrast, Aeneas is oblivious of both his men and his mission — and is a proto-Roman hero not supposed to outperform his Greek counterparts anyway, soldiering on in the face of hardship, with a stiff upper lip and all that? It is of course worth stressing that soon after the storm *Aeneas dux* comes fully into his own: unlike Achilles, who wishes for his fellow Greeks to be punished for the slight he suffered from Agamemnon, and unlike Odysseus, who loses all of his men on his way home (through no fault of his own, or so Homer is keen to stress — but come on!), our Trojan hero ultimately manages to lead most of his motley crew of Trojan castaways to a new life in Italy. Virgil's hero thus exhibits powerful pro-social qualities and care for his subordinates — unlike his Homeric predecessors, with their antisocial tendencies and desire for singularity and uniqueness. (Now go and look for pro-social elements in Homeric heroes and anti-social aspects in Aeneas: never let a binary like this stand unchallenged…) Yet again, these considerations simply make the question more urgent: why has Virgil chosen to have Aeneas enter the narrative at his weakest and most unimpressive — an unheroic wretch who fails to live up to the demands of the occasion? Only time will tell: we have to read on… till the end.

## So Do Last

The *Aeneid* closes on the showdown between Aeneas and his Italian rival Turnus. If we encountered, at the opening of Book 1, Aeneas as a victim of Juno caught *in* a whirlwind, the closing moments of Book 12 feature him (or his weapon) *as* a whirlwind: the spear that Aeneas hurls at Turnus roars louder than the crashes bursting from a thunderbolt (12.922–23: *nec fulmine tanti* | *dissultant crepitus*; cf. 1.90, cited above) and flies 'like a black whirlwind, bearing fell destruction' (12.923–24: *volat atri turbinis instar* | *exitium dirum hasta ferens*). In other words, it storms towards its target with all the qualities of Juno's initial tempest, an (impersonal) agent of doom and destruction. The missile lays Turnus low — but does not kill him. Wounded and defeated, he pleads for mercy. Will Aeneas oblige? Generic precedent suggests he won't: Homer's heroes routinely kill their suppliant foes. Yet Aeneas also received very precise instructions from his father Anchises earlier in the epic on what to do in a situation such as this: a Roman is to *spare* the vanquished and war down the proud (6.851–53: *tu…*, *Romane*, *memento*… *parcere subiectis et debellare superbos*). And lo and behold, Aeneas, good son that he is, is about to let Turnus, proud once, but now warred down and vanquished, off the hook (12.940–41: *et iam iamque magis cunctantem flectere sermo* | *coeperat* — 'and now as he hesitated the words began to sway him more and more'). But the moment of mercy passes when Aeneas' wandering eyes fall suddenly on the sword-belt of Pallas that his enemy is wearing; the sword-belt, in other words, of his surrogate son, whom Turnus had slaughtered and despoiled back in Book 10. This visual reminder of his failure to protect his protégé on behalf of another father-figure, Evander, causes Aeneas (good son that he is) to explode in a fit of wrath that overpowers whatever part of his self was about to opt for a more considerate response — and in hot blood he kills Turnus cold (12.945–52):9

<sup>9</sup> For more on the end (a never-ending story) see e.g. West (1974), Gillis (1983: 85–115) (for resonances of Dido and Pallas in the final scene), Springer (1987), Spence (1999), who argues that *Pallas Athena* is present as a second reference in Aeneas' invocation of Pallas, Lowrie (2005–2006) (brilliant out-of-the-box think-piece!), Freund (2008), Esposito (2016), and the commentary by Tarrant (2012), with further bibliography.


[Aeneas, as soon as his eyes drank in the trophy, that memorial of savage grief, ablaze with fury10 and terrible in his wrath: 'Clad in the spoils of one of mine, are you to be snatched from my hands? Pallas it is, Pallas who sacrifices you with this stroke, and exacts retribution from your guilty blood!' So saying, in burning rage he buries his sword full in Turnus' breast. His limbs grew slack and chill and with a moan his life fled resentfully to the Shades below.]

In his final moment, Aeneas thus turns into a figure of vengeance, cruelty, and rage — or, put differently, becomes the spitting image of the female characters from whom he has been fleeing throughout the poem (Juno, Dido), but who somehow manage to catch him up at the very end. Lexical and thematic parallels continue to invite us to relate the end to the beginning. If at the start of the epic Aeneas had his own limbs chilled and loosened (1.92: *solvuntur frigore membra*), he now loosens and chills the limbs of Turnus (12.951: *solvuntur frigore membra*) — whereas he himself is on fire (946: *accensus*) and metes out Junoesque death and destruction: the phrase *saevi monimenta doloris* at 12.945 (applied to Aeneas) recalls the *irae* and *saevi dolores* of Juno at 1.25, the wrath she feels at injustices suffered and her desire for vengeance, that got the narrative of the *Aeneid* going.11 In the words of Highet (1974: 229):

<sup>10</sup> Recently, Fontaine (2016: 146–48) has proposed that the phrase *F / furiis accensus* (946) contains a double ambiguity and should be understood both in the sense of 'ablaze with madness / the fire of the Furies' (with *accensus* the perfect passive participle of *accendere*, and *F / furiis* in the ablative) and 'harbinger of the Furies' (with *accensus* as noun meaning 'official attendant to', construed with the dative).

<sup>11</sup> See *Aen*. 1.25–6: *necdum etiam causae irarum saevique dolores* | *exciderant animo* with de Grummond (1981) and, more recently and generally, Fratantuono (2007a).

It would be more humane to view Aeneas here as a judge executing a righteous sentence, *debellans superbos*. But that is not how Vergil describes him: he is killing a suppliant in a fit of passionate rage. When we first see Aeneas, in Book One, he is deathly cold. When we last see him, he is burning.

In one sense, Aeneas' transformation could not be more radical, as he measures out the extremes of humanity: the epic tracks his mutation from victim to victor, from miserable human to larger-than-life hero, from all-too-human wretchedness to inhuman (or also all-too-human?) wrath, from supine to sublime.12 It mirrors the plot announced in the prologue, which 'is all one long flowing sentence and one thought: from Troy to Rome, from past to present, from defeat to victory.'13 And yet, *plus ça change*: in one respect, Aeneas has very much stayed the same. In both scenes he exhibits emotional incontinence that results in problematic, impulsive action grounded in instinct rather than reason. If, during the storm in Book 1, he fails in his role as leader of the Trojan migrants, in Book 12 he fails to live up to the injunction he received from his father Anchises. Put differently, the epic opens and closes on scenes that show us Aeneas in the thrall of emotions that determine his actions even if these emotions (despair and anger) differ radically.

The powerful bracketing and interrelation of the opening and the end of the *Aeneid* operate not only on the level of characterization, but also on the level of plot. Virgil connects Aeneas' execution of Turnus in an act of sacrificial vengeance to the future founding of Rome through the highly resonant verb *condere*, which means both 'to bury' and 'to found': Aeneas 'buries' his sword into Turnus' chest (12.950: …*ferrum adverso sub pectore condit*), inviting us to recall the last line of the extended proem (1.33: *tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem!*: 'such was the burden of founding the Roman race').14 Aeneas' last action thus amounts to a foundational gesture that recalls the epic's programmatic opening as well as its future beyond, pointing both backwards and forwards (as good endings tend to do): after the death of Turnus (and the end of the *Aeneid*), the rest is (Roman) history…

<sup>12</sup> For Aeneas' assimilation to the divine sphere in the second half of the *Aeneid* see Bacon (1986).

<sup>13</sup> Mendelsohn (2018), https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/10/15/is-the-aeneid -a-celebration-of-empire-or-a-critique

<sup>14</sup> For *condere* in the *Aeneid* see James (1995); on 1.33 (and the potentially offensive singular *Romanam … gentem*) Gildenhard (2007).

## And What Happens in-between Matters too

The *Aeneid*, then, lacks definitive closure: as J. K. Rowling would put it, 'it opens at the close'. But the trajectory undergone by Aeneas is complete insofar as it comprises diametrically opposed, yet thematically interrelated extremes. And each book of the epic marks a distinct stage on this trajectory. To trace this development in detail here is impossible, but some particularly fraught moments (not least for a reading of Book 11) are worth noting. Halfway through the poem, Aeneas finally finds his bearings: after (almost) losing the plot in Carthage (Books 1–4) and celebrating funeral games for his dad (Book 5), he begins to focus on the future as soon as he first steps on Italian soil at the beginning of Book 6. From then on, his obsessive focus on Troy, the city he was forced to flee while it was sacked, turns into anticipation of the city he is destined to help found, even though the netherworld journey he undergoes in *Aeneid* 6 yet comprises both, a confrontation with his (Trojan, Carthaginian) past and his (Roman) future. In *Aeneid* 7, he sends ambassadors to King Latinus to arrange for a peaceful settlement in Italy (which is not to be; the return embassy happens in *Aeneid* 11), and in *Aeneid* 8 he visits Pallanteum, a settlement on the future site of Rome, where he strikes up an alliance with the resident king Evander, a migrant from Arcadia, and his teenage son Pallas, before setting out to war. At this moment, he rephrases his opening prayer: instead of wishing death on himself, he wishes it on others.15 And he also shoulders all of Roman history, on ecphrastic display on Vulcan's shield (8.626–728). The episode of Nisus and Euryalus in *Aeneid* 9 offers Virgil the occasion to pioneer the aesthetics of youthful death in battle, in a warm-up act for the battle in *Aeneid* 10 that sees Turnus kill Pallas. When news of Pallas' death reaches Aeneas, he turns into a veritable berserker, interrupting his killing spree only to take some captives for future (human) sacrifice at Pallas' funeral. His last victims are the teenaged Lausus and his father Mezentius (along with his horse Rhaebus).

<sup>15</sup> *Aen*. 8.538–40: *quas poenas mihi*, *Turne*, *dabis! quam multa sub undas* | *scuta virum galeasque et fortia corpora volves*, | *Thybri pater!* ('What penalties, Turnus, will you pay me, how many shields and helmets and bodies of brave men will Father Thybris roll beneath the waves!').

By the start of Book 11, Aeneas has come back to his senses: he is only a marginal character in the book, but appears poised and kingly.16 And yet together with Book 10, Book 11 adds an important element in Aeneas' gradual transformation from pathetic whiner to furious winner: the (seemingly) paradoxical combination of *pietas* and *furor* that animates his killing of Turnus originates in his failure to return his protégé Pallas to his father Evander alive. And *Aeneid* 11 dwells — and dwells — and dwells some more on the dead Pallas. It is this book that cements the incommensurable obligations — and prepares for the fit of wrath — that Aeneas experiences in the final scene: he will inevitably fail to live up to the expectations of *either* Evander *or* Anchises, and can act *either* on his impulse to be merciful *or* his sense of grief and guilt. (Note that the end dramatizes conflicts not just *within* the respective spheres of ethics and emotions but also *between* them, with destructive emotions arguably winning out, even over — or at the very least fuelling — an ethics of revenge: Aeneas resembles a wrathful fury in the way he administers terminal 'justice'. But is that 'ethical'? or, differently, should we allow for or resist the possibility that emotions overpower ethics?) His unenviable plight at the close, at any rate, slots ineluctably into place in Book 11, in the speech of Evander.

All this goes to show: what is true of a modern novel applies also to ancient epic. For a proper appreciation of the work as a piece of creative writing, you would not just read select passages from the penultimate book. So do get yourself a translation — those by G. P. Goold in the Loeb Classical Library and by D. West in the Penguin Classics Series are excellent — and don't miss the rest of Book 11, for a start (the *Aeneid* really does hang together as far, far more than the sum of its parts). This will provide the requisite background for the more detailed work on the Latin passages set by OCR — and enable you to situate them properly within the work as a whole.

<sup>16</sup> For the elements that comprise the stereotype of the good king see Cairns (1989: 19–21). They include such qualities as preeminence in virtue, care for — and overseeing the affairs of — his people, devotion to peace and harmony, using good advisers, being well informed, and divine endorsement.

Penultimate books occupy an odd position: they offer the build-up (or, as it were, the lull) before the grand finale. The narrative is nearing its end, so the denouement, the telos, the high drama of closure is near — but we are not quite there yet. *Aeneid* 11 does its penultimate status justice: it features powerful elements of (false) closure and (meaningful) continuation. After all, both the funeral of Pallas and the death of Camilla could constitute an epic end in their own right and/ or provide effective *anticipation* of a withheld conclusion: intertextually, Pallas' funeral reworks the funeral of Patroclus in *Iliad* 23 across into 24, the final books of the epic; and the line that sends off Camilla to the shades is identical to the last line of the *Aeneid* (11.831 = 12.952; Homer helps to imbricate Pallas and Camilla here: the reiteration of the death-sentence of Camilla for the death of Turnus alludes to Homer's reiteration of the death-sentence for Patroclus, Pallas' most conspicuous intertextual alter ego, at the death of Hector: *Iliad* 16.857 = 22.363). But in fact both only prefigure or, indeed, set up the final scene of the epic, Aeneas' sacrificial slaughter of Turnus in retaliation for his killing of Pallas, though we are to witness neither the aftermath of his demise nor his funeral in *their* own right.

Apart from making a specific contribution to the epic overall, each book of the *Aeneid* also features its own internal design. A famous illustrated manuscript of Virgil dating to around 500 CE contains singleline and ten-line hexameter summaries of each of the twelve books of the *Aeneid*, written by an anonymous author (though impersonating none other than Ovid).17 For Book 11, the one-liner runs *Vndecimo victa est non aequo Marte Camilla* ('In the eleventh Camilla is defeated in uneven warfare') and the ten-liner goes as follows:

Constituit Marti spoliato ex hoste tropaeum exanimumque patri feretro Pallanta remittit. iura sepulturae tribuit tempusque Latinis Evander patrios affectus edit in urbe. corpora caesa virum passim disiecta cremantur. legati referunt, Diomeden arma negasse. Drances et Turnus leges aequante Latino concurrunt dictis. Aeneas imminet urbi. Pugnatur. vincunt Troes. cadit icta Camilla. Dein reduces castris nocti cessere monenti.

[Aeneas sets up a trophy to Mars made of enemy spoils and sends the dead Pallas back to his father on a bier. He grants the Latins the right and the time to bury their dead. In his city, Evander pours out his paternal grief. The bodies of the slain men, scattered everywhere, are burnt. Ambassadors report that Diomedes refuses to join the fray. Drances and Turnus clash in debate while Latinus weighs the terms. Aeneas threatens the city. Fighting. The Trojans are on top. Camilla, struck, falls. At nightfall, they pause and return to camp.]

As with any digest, such summaries — while handy as an *aide de mémoire* — are a poor substitute for the real thing. But the ten-line version usefully hints at a tripartite structure of *Aeneid* 11. While scholars haggle over where precisely to draw the dividing lines, they tend to agree that the book falls roughly into three parts (plus, perhaps, an epilogue). As Horsfall (2003: xi) puts it: '**11** is formally, and formidably, tripartite:18 (a) funerals (**1–224**), (b) debate (**225–444**), and (c) battle (**445–915**), with complex links to the books preceding and following, and exceptionally careful transitions between the three parts.' One possible breakdown is as follows:

<sup>17</sup> The so-called Codex Romanus (Vat. lat. 3867), printed in Shackleton Bailey's edition of the *Anthologia Latina* (1982). For discussion see McGill (2018).

<sup>18</sup> Cf. Duckworth (1961: 7).

**Part I: 1–224**: Dealing with the fallout from Book 10 1–99: Aftermath of the battle, with a focus on Pallas 100–138: Embassy of Latins 139–224: Grief of Evander; burial of the dead

**Part II: 225–444**: Looking towards Book 12: Council of the Latins 225–295: Speech of Venulus 296–375: Latinus' speech and Drances' reply 376–467: Turnus' speech.

**Part III: 445–867/915**: (Preparation for) battle, with a focus on Camilla 445–521: Strategic manoeuvres, including a meeting of Turnus and Camilla (498–521) 522–867: Fighting, with a focus on Camilla 522–531: First bout; Camilla excels 532–596: Diana recounts Camilla's backstory (and looming doom)

> 597–867: Further martial feats and death of Camilla, followed by that of her killer Arruns

**Epilogue** (to be considered part of Part III?)

868–915: Rout of the Italic forces; transition to Book 12

The fact that the book does not end with Camilla's death feeds into the theme of 'penultimaticity' — of closure approaching, but not yet having quite arrived — though it is easy to be misled: 'To the hasty reader, it might seem that bks. 10, 11 and 12 all lead up to deaths [those of Mezentius, Camilla, and Turnus], but Camilla's is placed very deliberately not at the book's end (one thinks of the delayed prooemium in **7**! [cited above]), but with **832–915** to follow, that apparent inconcinnity will lead us to a clearer view of **11**'s importance in the economy of the "plot"' (Horsfall 2003: xi). At the same time, the pair of Pallas, the young boy on the side of Aeneas, and Camilla, the young girl on the side of Turnus, who both aspire to be warriors and meet an untimely death, still form some sort of bracket. As Fratantuono (2009: 29) puts it, with reference to some unrealized narrative potential (some opportunities for fan fiction here!): '[Camilla's] death at the end of the book somewhat balances Pallas' requiem at the beginning, so that Book XI is framed by the deaths of young proxies (and frustrated lovers) of the two central figures in the epic. No romantic or sexual relationship between Aeneas and Pallas, to be sure, and none either between Turnus and Camilla: Virgil's point is that both pairs of potential lovers are kept from the joys of interpersonal relationships by the present war in Italy.' (A significant death functions as a device of (preliminary) closure also elsewhere in the epic: at the end of Book 2, we get the death or disappearance of Aeneas' first wife Creusa, followed by the death of Anchises (end of 3), the death of Dido (end of 4), the death of Marcellus (end of 6), and the death of Mezentius (end of 10) — all building up to the death of Turnus (end of 12).)

Aeneas' role in *Aeneid* 11 is important, yet marginal when compared to the way he dominates the narrative elsewhere in the epic. (The temporary marginalization of the protagonist has Homeric precedents: in the *Iliad*, Achilles sulks in his tent for long stretches and Odysseus does not enter the narrative of the *Odyssey* until Book 5.) There is no one single character who unifies the book: Aeneas, Evander, Drances, Turnus, Tarchon, Diomedes, and Diana all play more or less significant roles. But the two figures who provide the parts of the book chosen by OCR with a bipolar centre of gravity are Pallas and Camilla.

## Part I: Pallas

The son of the Greek exile Evander and his Italian wife, Pallas is also a distant relative of Aeneas, with Atlas as common ancestor. His line produced both Dardanus, the founder of Troy and one of the ancestors of Aeneas, and (with Maia and Mercury in the lineage) Evander and hence Pallas.19 (At *Aeneid* 8.134–41, Aeneas invokes their common ancestry in his appeal to Evander to enter into a military alliance; in the Greek world in particular such appeals to kinship, however remote or mythical, constituted a pervasive element in international diplomacy.)

The etymology of the (loquaciously speaking) name combines, among other options, a nod to his youth (the Greek term πάλλαξ designates a person in their teens) with a reference to warfare, more specifically the brandishing of a spear (πάλλω: 'to poise or sway a spear'), which is what Pallas does on his first encounter with Aeneas; and that's how he dies.20 The name also evokes a Latin term for mantle (*palla*), a Greek term for girl (παλλακή), the name of the legendary settlement on the Tiber that will morph into Rome (Pallanteum) and the Palatine Hill, which, in the *Aeneid*, is central 'to the power of Rome' (Spence 1999: 154). Pallas also has a divine *alter ego*, Pallas Athene; together they are part of an important process of transformation that runs through the entire poem: 'in the first half of the poem the name Pallas refers only to Minerva; in the last half, with one exception, it refers only to Evander's son. The glissage is important as it suggests a shift in register from Trojan to Italian. On the literal, linguistic level "Pallas" never disappears: she is transformed from an Olympian force to an Italian one' (155).21 Other key themes of the *Aeneid* associated with Pallas include his role in Virgil's creative transformation of Homer (his most important intertextual alter ego is the figure of Patroclus in the *Iliad*) and his multiethnic background — as offspring of a migrant Greek father and an indigenous Italic mother he is part of the melting pot of prehistoric Italy, even before the Trojans are thrown into the mix.

<sup>19</sup> Clausen (2002: 217–18).

<sup>20</sup> Paschalis (1997: 278–80).

<sup>21</sup> Spence (1999: 155).

Pallas enters the narrative at 8.102–25, at the moment Aeneas arrives at the future site of Rome:22

Forte die sollemnem illo rex Arcas honorem Amphitryoniadae magno divisque ferebat ante urbem in luco. Pallas huic filius una, una omnes iuvenum primi pauperque senatus 105 tura dabant, tepidusque cruor fumabat ad aras. ut celsas videre rates atque inter opacum adlabi nemus et tacitos incumbere remis, terrentur visu subito cunctique relictis consurgunt mensis. audax quos rumpere Pallas 110 sacra vetat raptoque volat telo obvius ipse, et procul e tumulo: 'iuvenes, quae causa subegit ignotas temptare vias? quo tenditis?' inquit. 'qui genus? unde domo? pacemne huc fertis an arma?' tum pater Aeneas puppi sic fatur ab alta 115 paciferaeque manu ramum praetendit olivae: 'Troiugenas ac tela vides inimica Latinis, quos illi bello profugos egere superbo. Evandrum petimus. ferte haec et dicite lectos Dardaniae venisse duces socia arma rogantis.' 120 obstipuit tanto percussus nomine Pallas: 'egredere o quicumque es' ait 'coramque parentem adloquere ac nostris succede penatibus hospes.' excepitque manu dextramque amplexus inhaesit; progressi subeunt luco fluviumque relinquunt. 125

[It happened that on that day the Arcadian king [= Evander] was performing customary rites in honour of Amphitryon's mighty son [= Hercules] and the gods in a grove outside the city. With him his son Pallas, with him all the foremost of the young men and his humble senate were offering incense, and warm blood smoked at the altars. When they saw the tall ships [of Aeneas], saw them gliding up through the shady woods and plying their oars in silence, they are alarmed by the sudden sight, and rise

<sup>22</sup> For this initial meeting, see e.g. Smith (2005: 91–6) and the commentary by Fratantuono and Smith (2018), with a much more extensive bibliography.

up as one, abandoning the tables. But Pallas, boldly, forbids them to break off the rites and, seizing his spear, rushes to meet the strangers himself, and from a mound at a distance calls: 'Men, what is it that has driven you to try unknown paths? Where are you going? What race are you? From what home? Are you bringing us peace or war?' Then father Aeneas replied from the high stern, holding out in his hand a branch of peaceful olive:23 'You see men of Trojan stock and arms hostile to Latins — exiles whom they have driven here by insolent warfare. We seek Evander; bear this message, and say that chosen captains of Dardania have come, seeking alliance in arms." Pallas was astounded, struck by that mighty name. 'Come forth', he cries, 'whoever you are; speak to my father face to face, and come as a guest into our house!' And with a grasp of welcome he caught and clung to his hand. Advancing, they enter the grove and leave the river.]

At the moment of departure for war, he shines as bright as the Morning Star (8.585–91; at 11.1–4, the actual Morning Star continues to shine brightly, whereas Pallas' star has flamed out):


[And now the horsemen had departed through the open gates, Aeneas among the first with loyal Achates, then other leaders of Troy; Pallas himself rides in the middle of the column, conspicuous in mantle and brightly coloured armour — just like the Morning Star, whom Venus loves above all the starry fires, when, bathed in Ocean's wave, he lifts up his sacred head in heaven and dispels the darkness.]

The reference to Venus has an ominous ring: Pallas is not someone the goddess of love particularly cares about: she is invested above all in Aeneas' 'real' son Ascanius, who, as Iulus, vouchsafes her centrality in the story of Rome. By contrast, the death of Aeneas' surrogate son

<sup>23</sup> At 7.154, Virgil refers to this contraption with the phrase *ramis… Palladis*, since the olive tree was sacred to *Pallas* Athene. The use of any such phrase here would have been too excruciatingly obvious, but we are meant to understand that Aeneas is extending 'Pallas' to Pallas.

Pallas does not seem to affect her personally — however much it will traumatise and brutalise Aeneas. On the battlefield, an 'almost encounter' of Pallas with Lausus, the son of Mezentius, offers Virgil the opportunity to linger on the beauty and the tragedy of these two teenage warriors (10.433–38):24

 hinc Pallas instat et urget, hinc contra Lausus, nec multum discrepat aetas, egregii forma, sed quis Fortuna negarat 435 in patriam reditus. ipsos concurrere passus haud tamen inter se magni regnator Olympi; mox illos sua fata manent maiore sub hoste.

[On one side Pallas presses and strains, on the other Lausus; they were almost of the same age, and outstanding in beauty, but to them fortune had denied return to their homeland. But the king of great Olympus did not permit them to meet face to face; soon his own fate awaits each at the hands of a greater enemy.]

For Lausus, the 'greater enemy' is Aeneas; for Pallas, it is Turnus, who kills him in an unequal duel (10.439–509). Virgil adds narratorial comments on the future trajectory of both the killer and the killed. As Turnus glories over the belt he stripped from Pallas, an authorial aside prefigures his downfall in a reversal of fortune (10.501–2):

nescia mens hominum fati sortisque futurae et servare modum rebus sublata secundis!

[The mind of humans is ignorant of fate and what the future holds in store and observes no measure when it is raised up by good fortune.]

Pallas receives the following tragic ovation (10.507–9):

o dolor atque decus magnum rediture parenti, haec te prima dies bello dedit, haec eadem aufert, cum tamen ingentis Rutulorum linquis acervos!

<sup>24</sup> Virgil hails Lausus as the most beautiful among the young warriors of Italy save Turnus (also a *iuvenis*) at 7.649–50: *quo pulchrior alter* | *non fuit excepto Laurentis corpore Turni*. For Turnus' youthful good looks (and other qualities) see also 7.473–74: *hunc decus egregium formae movet atque iuventae*, | *hunc atavi reges*, *hunc claris dextera factis*.

[Great grief and great glory about to return to your father! This day first gave you to war, this same day takes you away, and yet you still leave behind enormous heaps of Rutulians killed.]

As a teenage warrior killed in battle, Pallas joins other youthful figures who suffer a 'premature death' (*mors immatura*), such as Icarus, Marcellus, the son of King Latinus, Euryalus, Lausus, Camilla, and Turnus:25 'The *puer*, innocent and inexperienced, is drawn to the attractions of heroism; the rewards and values of the heroic world emerge as illusions, which threaten and finally destroy childhood and the values it represents' (Petrini 1997: 48). Pallas thus personifies the inextricable imbrication of *dolor* ('grief') and *decus* ('glory') that is a tragic hallmark of the *Aeneid*. The themes of grievous death and its (potential) sublimation in glory pervade Book 11 as well.

As Aeneas' surrogate son he is a complementary figure to Aeneas' biological son Ascanius/Iulus: they are (inverted) doubles of each other. Ascanius embodies the prospects of a prosperous future realized, whereas Pallas entombs the hope of a future foiled.26 As representatives of triumph and tragedy, they ensure that Aeneas is a particularly complex father figure as he shares equally in both plots. As father of Ascanius/Iulus, the one young warrior who defies the odds (though is still associated with death and destruction, but of the collateral kind), he partakes in purposeful history and the story of teleological success; as father of Pallas, he experiences piercing personal loss. Together, Ascanius/Iulus and Pallas highlight both the continuity of lineage and the fragility of generational succession — a live topic not least in the late 20s BCE after the untimely death of Augustus' heir apparent, Marcellus!

## A Glance at Part II

The opening portion of the book is unremittingly bleak as the two warring parties attend to their dead. At the very centre of the funeral proceedings are the two father figures of Pallas: his biological father Evander and his surrogate father Aeneas — bound to each other previously in friendship

<sup>25</sup> Latinus' son died young: 7.50–1.

<sup>26</sup> For Ascanius see e.g. Merriam (2002), Rogerson (2017) and, for the contrast, Petrini (1997: 48–86 on Pallas and 87–110 on Ascanius / Iulus) and Paschalis (2018: 181).

and alliance and now also through Pallas' corpse, the agony of guilt, and hatred for his killer. Tragic and destructive emotions prevail, from inconsolable grief to savage wrath to an all-consuming desire for vengeance. The middle part of the book (finessed from the OCR selection) lays the groundwork for the renewal of hostilities. Even though the Latin ambassadors are unable to secure the services of Diomedes (a Greek hero who fought at Troy and has now settled in Italy — and proves unwilling to fight Aeneas a second time), the Latin war council, which pitches the pro-Trojan appeaser Drances against Turnus, gets nowhere near settling what to do about the conflict before it is interrupted by the enemy at the gate and then it's action stations.

## Part III: Camilla

After some preliminary war-talk and strategic manoeuvres, battle resumes in Part III.27 While Turnus lies in ambush, the Volscian princess Camilla takes centre stage. Before turning into an ancient prototype of such contemporary action heroines as Wonder Woman, Jennifer Lawrence' Katniss Everdeen (*The Hunger Games*), or Lucy Lawless' Xena Warrior Princess, she lived her life as a devotee of the goddess Diana — and soon after her entry on the battlefield, Diana herself appears in Virgil's narrative to give us this backstory (as well as what the future has in store): Camilla is doomed to die, and Diana instructs her divine attendant Opis to avenge her death instantly, killing the killer.

As far as we can tell, Camilla is (very much like Nisus and Euryalus and various other characters in the *Aeneid*) a Virgilian invention, even though she too has an entire host of intertextual alter egos: 'the general category of "warrior princess" rests massively upon (i) heroic figures of early Roman legend such as Cloelia, (ii) Artemisia, princess of Caria in Xerxes' time (perhaps), and (iii) Greek mythological figures, Amazons in general (e.g. Penthesilea and Hippolyte) and other devotees of Artemis such as Hippolytus and (Call. *H*. 3.204) Opis.'28 Camilla's first

<sup>27</sup> Discussions include Schönberger (1966), Köves-Zulauf (1978), Horsfall (1988) (2003) (2016: 56–60), La Penna (1988), Boyd (1992), and Alessio (1993: 121–50). For early chapters in Camilla's history of reception see Fratantuono (2005) and (2006).

<sup>28</sup> Horsfall (2016: 56). See also Köves-Zulauf (1978: 409).

entry into the narrative occurs in Book 7, where she occupies an exposed position at the end of — indeed beyond — the catalogue of Italic forces that gather to fight the Trojan arrivals (7.803–17, the concluding lines of the book):

Hos super advenit Volsca de gente Camilla agmen agens equitum et florentis aere catervas, bellatrix, non illa colo calathisve Minervae 805 femineas adsueta manus, sed proelia virgo dura pati cursuque pedum praevertere ventos. illa vel intactae segetis per summa volaret gramina nec teneras cursu laesisset aristas, vel mare per medium fluctu suspensa tumenti 810 ferret iter celeris nec tingeret aequore plantas. illam omnis tectis agrisque effusa iuventus turbaque miratur matrum et prospectat euntem, attonitis inhians animis ut regius ostro velet honos levis umeros, ut fibula crinem 815 auro internectat, Lyciam ut gerat ipsa pharetram et pastoralem praefixa cuspide myrtum.

[Last of all Camilla of the Volscan race arrived, leading a squadron of cavalry shining in bronze, a warrior maiden, who never trained her female hands to Minerva's distaff or basket of wool, but was a tough maiden able to endure battle and in speed of foot outpace the winds. She could have flown across the top of an unmowed cornfield and not have damaged the tender ears in her course or sped across the middle of the sea poised above the swelling wave and not touched the water with her feet. All the youth, pouring forth from homes and fields, and a crowd of mothers gaze at her in amazement as she comes, stricken and dumbfounded at how royal splendour veils her smooth shoulders in purple, how a clasp entwines her hair with gold, how she carries a Lycian quiver and the pastoral myrtle with the tip of a spear.]

Camilla thus rides into the narrative fully dressed in royal purple and gold, leading a cavalry squadron of her people, the Volscians — though despite appearing on horseback, the poet is keen to stress the supernatural swiftness of her foot-speed, which brings to mind Achilles.29 Curiously, given what we are told in Book 11, the only (very oblique) hint of her affiliation with Diana in the catalogue entry is the Lycian quiver she is wearing, which might be an allusion to Grattius, *Cynegetica* 124–6, where this particular piece of equipment is specifically associated with the goddess:30

ipsa arcu Lyciaque suos Diana pharetra armavit comites: ne tela relinquite divae: magnum opus et volucres quondam fecere sagittae.

Diana herself has armed her companions with bow and Lycian quiver: do not set aside the weapons of the goddess: at times also swift arrows accomplished a great deed.

As Kayachev (2018: 99) points out, 'this short passage sums up, as it were, the career of Camilla in the *Aeneid*' — though since the date of Grattius' composition is uncertain it is impossible to establish with certainty who is alluding to whom here.31 Still, also on the intratextual level, the Lycian quiver puts Diana (however indirectly) into the picture: her twin brother Apollo is said at *Aeneid* 4.145 to leave 'wintry Lycia' (*hibernam Lyciam*) in a simile that compares him to Aeneas.32

Already in *Aeneid* 7 Camilla is a figure of (false) closure. As Rogerson (2017: 143) puts it: 'Camilla can be viewed as an appendix to the miniepic provided by the Italian catalogue in Book Seven, which mirrors the opening and close of the *Aeneid* by beginning with *primus… ab oris* (647) and ending with an act of foundation (*conditur*, 802). She is thus also "outside" the epic in a meta-literary sense, being relegated to a position beyond the end of the mirror within the text that the catalogue

<sup>29</sup> Both via his Homeric epithet 'quick-footed' and its Catullan gloss at 64.340–1: *qui persaepe vago victor certamina cursus* | *flammea praevertet celeris vestigia cervae* ('[Achilles], who often as winner in the wide-ranging foot-race will outrun the flaming footsteps of the quick hind'). Supersonic speed (plus a weakness for gold) also associates Camilla with the Atalanta of the Hesiodic *Catalogue of Women* (who is herself modelled on Achilles).

<sup>30</sup> The *Cynegetica* is a didactic epic on hunting most likely written sometime between 29 BCE and 8 CE. See Henderson (2001b) and the papers in Green (2018).

<sup>31</sup> Kayachev goes on to consider influence either way.

<sup>32</sup> For the Apollo simile see Gildenhard (2012: 150–57, https://www.openbook publishers.com/product/162). Note that her killer Arruns also carries a Lycian quiver.

provides.' Her extraneousness extends to the realm of ideology (Xinyue 2017: 170):

set against the background of a conventional and typically Roman public occasion, filled with a nameless but familiar crowd of married women and youths, the entry of Camilla — a strikingly dressed *bellatrix* — destabilises the roles of men and women in military-political rituals. For the contemporary readers of the *Aeneid*, the entry of the cross-dressed Camilla can be seen as a transgression of Roman norms, an intrusion of the 'other' into the male domain of warfare and military rituals that challenges the power, prominence, and authority of men.

Camilla's appearance in an appendix to a catalogue has important interand intratextual parallels, recalling the catalogue of ships in *Iliad* 2, the position of Artemisia in Herodotus' catalogue of the forces of Xerxes (*Histories* 7.99), and the placement of Penthesilea in the ecphrasis of the decorative reliefs that adorn Juno's temple in *Aeneid* 1.33 This passage is worth a closer look since Virgil (as part of the set text) calls Camilla an 'Amazon' and compares her explicitly to Penthesilea who gets her own moment of monumental glory at 1.488–97:

Se quoque principibus permixtum adgnovit Achivis, Eoasque acies et nigri Memnonis arma. Ducit Amazonidum lunatis agmina peltis 490 Penthesilea furens, mediisque in milibus ardet, aurea subnectens exsertae cingula mammae, bellatrix, audetque viris concurrere virgo.

[He also recognized himself intermingled with the Greek leaders and the Eastern ranks and the armour of swarthy Memnon. Penthesilea in fury leads the ranks of the Amazons with their crescent shields and blazes amid her thousands, wearing a golden belt beneath her exposed breast and, as warrior princess, dares to clash with men as a maiden.]

Both figures operate as *virgo* in a world of men (*viri*), which turns each into a *virago* and *bellatrix*. And just as Camilla forms an appendix to the catalogue, Penthesilea is the last image of the ecphrasis: 'Like Penthesilea, Camilla will be one of the last to come to the defense of the

<sup>33</sup> See Boyd (1992).

beleaguered city, late in the war. Like Penthesilea, Camilla will have a retinue of female Amazonian warriors. Like Penthesilea, Camilla is doomed to die.'34 Her appearance on Juno's temple in Dido's Carthage associates Penthesilea with Dido (and hence also with her historical counterpart Cleopatra), and all four characters — Penthesilea, Dido, Camilla, Cleopatra — are 'significant others' of each other as doomed female leaders in a male world. No wonder the Italian mothers, who will reappear in Camilla's story at regular intervals, are dumbfounded!

After this promising introduction, however, Camilla completely disappears again from the narrative until we are way into Book 11. Turnus reintroduces her during his speech at the war council (11.432–33) in essentially the same terms as the narrator did in Book 7:

est et Volscorum egregia de gente Camilla agmen agens equitum et florentis aere catervas.

[There is also Camilla of the outstanding nation of the Volscians, leading her troop of horsemen and squadrons gleaming with bronze.]

These lines — and 463, where Turnus orders his underling Volusus to tell the Volscian squadrons to arm themselves (*tu*, *Voluse*, *armari Volscorum edice maniplis*) cue her re-entry a couple of lines later, when the set text starts up again.

Turnus hails her as *decus Italiae* (11.508). Devoted to the cause of Italy against the proto-Roman invaders from Troy as Camilla is, this is an appropriate label. For some scholars Camilla actually *is* (primitive) Italy (Pyy 2010: 188):

Her untameable savagery, her close connection with nature and rustic practice of religion, her violent nature and her battle-endurance could all be considered characteristics that, in the Roman mindset, were more or less attributed to the primitive past of Italy. Camilla's romantic yet controversial role as a female warrior makes her an excellent character through which to articulate the idealised, prejudiced, and patronising views Romans held towards Italy. In a way, she seems to embody Virgil's

<sup>34</sup> Fratantuono (2007b: 272). In one important respect, the Penthesilea / Camilla analogy turns out to be misleading: the Amazon queen came to the aid of Troy only to be slain by Achilles, which might lead one to expect (wrongly!) that Camilla, who comes to the aid of Turnus, will be slain by Aeneas…

literary version of the Roman practice of visually presenting defeated peoples and nations through female personifications.

Her death thus prefigures early Roman expansion in Italy: 'Her destruction figuratively breaks the spine of the headstrong warrior peoples and makes their assimilation to the Roman nation and subsequent oppression under Roman rule possible' (Pyy 2010: 189). As such she also brings to mind Furius Camillus — however much scholars protest.35 While Bruun (2000: 54) is of course right to say that Camilla's name has no significance for the question of the historicity of M. Furius' cognomen, given that 'the name is an invention of Virgil and does not derive from any ancient legends', the inverse is not the case. In some form or another, Virgil's epic pretends to offer a comprehensive aetiology and prefiguration of all of Roman history, from beginning to end, and part of what he creates in the figure of Camilla is a suggestive anticipation of the legendary time when Furius Camillus will establish Roman dominance over the Italian peninsula in the late fourth and early third century BCE, including a successful campaign against the Volscians, i.e. Camilla's people. (On one level, the entire second half of the *Aeneid* is an aetiological prequel of Rome's conquest of Latium and Italy: see below.) In light of Virgil's Camilla episode, his name thereby emerges as a proleptic triumphal epithet: 'In a way, she seems to embody Virgil's literary version of the Roman practice of visually presenting defeated peoples and nations through female personifications' (Pyy 2010: 188).

Just when Camilla is about to prove her prowess on the battlefield, the goddess Diana makes a sudden appearance in the narrative to recount her backstory — her parents, the origin of her name, her early years (11.532–596). What the goddess relates oozes appeal quite different in flavour from standard epic fare, starting with her father Metabus' lastditch decision to hitch his baby to a massive spear and hurl her across a swollen river on it, but also including her subsequent bucolic nursing on unpasteurized mare's milk, which Metabus squirts straight from the teats into her mouth (short of lactating himself, he is both father and mother to his baby girl at once). While Diana fills in much, her story also contains — indeed creates — significant gaps. In particular, she never explains how Camilla managed to morph from a Diana-devotee dressed

<sup>35</sup> See e.g. Horsfall (2000: 521): 'nothing to do with the Furii Camilli'.

in hides and hunting wild game in the woods into the bejewelled warrior princess who explodes onto the scene in *Aeneid* 7, decked out in purple (7.814–15) and gold (7.815–16).36 As Pyy (2010: 182) puts it: 'Although Virgil explicitly mentions in 11, 568–572 that Camilla was raised in the wilderness, as no city welcomed Metabus and his daughter, at the end of Book 7 she is depicted as sovereign leader of the Volscian troops, and as a warrior-queen highly identified with her people. Without further explanation, a savage hermit and daughter of a hated tyrant is transformed into a plenipotentiary member of society and the self-evident leader of her people.' On the principle that clothes make the (wo)man, her decision to spruce up her sylvan attire carries a doubly negative charge grounded in prejudices to do with ethnicity and gender: her opulent dress associates her with the East, which carried connotations of effeminacy in Roman thought, and suggests that under the tough exterior of the *virago* lurks a 'feminine' sensibility, according to the gender stereotype that women are particularly liable to fall for the lure of luxury.37

When Camilla goes to war, gender continues to bend: she is one epic oddball, who adds to the book's battle scenes a spectacularly wrongfooting feminine touch. In her presence, the easy binary of 'male' and 'female' partially disintegrates, as she proves herself superior to her male counterparts, embarking on a seemingly unstoppable killing spree. It takes an intervention by Jupiter to rally the Trojans and their allies by instilling a sense of shame in the Etruscan commander Tarchon — but even the invective abuse Tarchon hurls at his men feeds into the fun: he employs vituperative stereotypes that other characters in the poem use to question the masculinity of Aeneas (and the Trojans more generally) to challenge the male pride of his troops. To prove his own mettle, he launches himself into a curious circus act (call it 'Death Drag') right after his speech, lifting Venulus ('the little son of Venus') off his horse in full gallop and, while still on horseback, (s)mothering him in a tight embrace before snuffing him with a spear-tip.

After this remarkable stunt, matters get even more bizarre with the appearance of the Trojan Chloreus — a one-time devotee of the goddess Cybele (as such presumably a eunuch) and now all decked out in gold with a plume helmet and riding a horse covered in equally precious metal formed into the shape of feathers. The attire makes rider and

<sup>36</sup> Giovanni Boccaccio, *Famous Women* 39 fills in some details missing from Diana's narrative, such as the fate of her mother.

<sup>37</sup> See Xinyue (2017: 171).

horse look like some monstrous fowl — but this strange bird attracts the murderous attention of Camilla who fancies the outfit herself. The attempt to trap her prey, however, cooks her goose: distracted, she falls victim to the spear of Arruns, no less of an epic misfit, even though he proclaims allegiance to the protocols of generic propriety: he trades his life to bring an end to the embarrassment caused by Camilla. There is, then, a sparkling parade of irreverent mischief going on in the narrative, blending in with — indeed leavening — the tragedy. If the opening section of the book is all funeral and no fun, with high diplomacy at half time, and then battlefield slaughter, not laughter, at the end, the quizzical moments of facetious license Virgil is taking with the limits of gender and genre surely throws into relief the sombre tone of the book — *light* relief.

Fig. 1 THIS STRANGE BIRD... Cataphract on camel in light scale armour. Image by Sebacalka, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Concept\_of\_catpahract\_ on\_camel.jpg

After she meets her death in battle, Opis quickly dispatches her killer Arruns (11.836–67) and Camilla's body is carried away to safety. Mothers admire Camilla in *Aeneid* 7, mothers wish Camilla to be their daughter-in-law in Diana's inset narrative, mothers reappear on the scene when Camilla's corpse is brought back to the city (11.892). While Camilla's mother may have disappeared from the life of her daughter early on, she seems to acquire a collectivity of surrogate mothers — the mothers of Italy.38

Camilla is a challenging figure to come to terms with — interstitial, liminal, riddling. As Pyy (2010), Xinyue (2017) and others have highlighted, the ambiguities of gender inscribed in her character manifest themselves both at the level of the individual and society: Camilla alternately endorses and distances herself from her femininity, which manifests itself not least in her adoption of different dress codes — from solitary huntress and mistress of the woods dressed in hides to fashion-conscious glamour girl and warrior queen glittering with gold; and despite the fact that she is an untamed tomboy and ferocious fighter, many Etruscan mothers deem her a desirable match for their sons even though Camilla has no truck with wool-making. As the arch-typical warrior princess and virgin-virago endowed with seemingly supernatural qualities, she is an androgynous monstrosity, who combines virtuous conduct with lethal danger and defies pigeonholes and boundaries: she is unclassifiable, threatening, potent, both *decus* (Turnus' view) and *de-decus* (Arruns' conviction), a *horrenda virgo* (11.507), *aspera virgo* (11.664), *furens virgo* (11.762; cf. 709), or *dira pestis* (11.792). Her masculine side enables her to triumph temporarily; her feminine side will be responsible for her ultimate tragedy. She is an enigma and paradox full of internal contradictions, oscillating between (gender) roles and different stages of civilization, uniting rustic simplicity and royal splendour; she stars in a travesty and a tragedy, is 'enarmoured' by her mother and mothered by her father, is passionately ruthless in fighting and ruined by her passion for finery.39

In the end we might ask: is Camilla just another woman on whom Virgil lets loose his lurid patriarchal imagination? Does she manage to break the mould or does this experimentation with subversion result in reaffirmation of ideological conventions (so Xinyue 2017: 174) — while adding a sense of frisson (perhaps even a bit of frivolous fun) to the narrative?

<sup>38</sup> See Rossi (2004: 117).

<sup>39</sup> See further Basson (1986).

## 3. Further Themes: Battle, Death, Ethnicity

To conclude this introduction it is worth drawing attention to some themes that register powerfully in Book 11 and are also important for an appreciation of the *Aeneid* overall.

## Battle

In his proem in the middle, Virgil announces that he will sing of 'grim wars, battle lines, and kings in their valour rushing upon death' (7.41– 2: *dicam horrida bella*, | *dicam acies actosque animis in funera reges* — the passage is cited in full above, page 4). And he makes good on this promise, with just a few moments of respite such as the visit to Rome in Book 8 or the extended coverage of funerals and diplomacy at the outset of Book 11 (before we rev up again in the final third). Battle descriptions tend not to be the part of the epic that endears the poem to modern readers.

For many, the first impulse in coming to terms with this material is to establish some historical distance between 'us' and 'them'. As we all know, Roman culture was profoundly militaristic, operated according to a code of values that placed a premium on battlefield prowess as the supreme articulation of manliness (*virtus*), indulged in blood sports and gladiatorial spectacles as popular entertainment, and continued a longstanding tradition of battle description as the ne-plus-ultra of the literary sublime (since Homer). But such historicizing efforts will only get us so far in coming to terms with Virgil's text.

There may well have been, among Virgil's Roman readers, 'connoisseurs of carnage', who licked their chops in nostalgic euphoria when he serves up squirting blood, spilling guts, and severed limbs.40 But reader responses to literary violence will have been as varied in antiquity as they are today. We know from Ovid (who is of course hardly an unbiased witness) that the favourite bit of the *Aeneid* for many Roman readers was the love affair and cave romp of Dido and Aeneas in Book 4 (*Tristia* 2.533–6). Conversely, the graphic depiction of battle or blood-curdling violence at mind-numbing length has remained part and parcel of cultural production, across such media and genres as DVD nasties, video games, shockumentaries, but also Hollywood blockbusters. The spectacular cinematography of the landing at Omaha Beach on 6 June 1944 in the 'epic war film' *Saving Private Ryan* (1998, directed by Steven Spielberg) is as gut-wrenching and horrifying as anything in Virgil, with its hyperrealistic portrayal of the realities of modern-day combat.

So instead of opting for an all-too-easy dichotomy of 'them' and 'us', literary depictions of battle invite exercises in comparing and contrasting that explore similarities and differences across time and cultures. Battle is an extreme situation, in which one and the same deed can be both admirable (in terms of skills or courage) and abhorrent (the casualties and the carnage, humans killing humans); and Virgil may work to 'moralize' his choreography of killing, but he also brings on so many of the dark sides of 'dirty war' and concocts so many unhinged, mutant versions of combat, you have to wonder if he means this to stick.

## Death

Death is a key aspect of the human condition: ultimately, every one of us is destined to die;41 yet ideas about what death 'means' and how best to cope with it vary significantly (Edwards 2007: 9):

Death is of course a universal phenomenon. It is a truism that the consciousness of death is what renders us specifically human. Martin

<sup>40</sup> Cf. Harrison (1991: xxi–xxii).

<sup>41</sup> General studies include: Whaley (1981), Agamben (1991), Metcalf and Huntington (1991), Baumann (1992), Morris (1992), Tarlow (1999), Holst-Warhaft (2000), Harrison (2003), Robben (2009).

Heidegger's *Being and Time*, for instance, articulates a distinction between *verenden* 'perishing' — what animals do — and *sterben* 'dying' — what humans do, which underlies his characterisation of human existence. Schopenhauer termed death 'the must of philosophy'. For some critics much of what might be termed culture is precisely a response to the fact of death. Different cultures have developed radically different ways of making sense of death.

This coincidence of ineluctable universality and cultural specificity again invites contrastive comparison of the diverse and complex protocols that cultures have evolved to cope with the prospect, the experience and, for the survivors, the aftermath of death.42 As a biological and social event that constitutes a radical and irrevocable rupture, death also helps to bring a host of other concerns sharply into focus. The Roman discourse on death, for instance, 'is rooted in other aspects of Roman culture — anxieties about gender difference, social differentiation, personal identity, national identity, political change. The language Romans use to talk about death is of fundamental importance here […] for instance, the idea of death as a particularly testing form of combat for the soldier-subject; death as an aesthetic artefact wrought by a selfconscious artist; death as a brutal act of rape.'43

Epic poetry is a privileged site for exploring death — from Homer onwards, and not just because of the serial killings that happen on the battlefield.44 The *Iliad* stars a hero who faces the choice between a long life in obscurity and death at a young age in return for immortal epic fame (*kleos*); and the *Odyssey*, which celebrates the ultimate survivor, includes an interview with Achilles in the Underworld that renegotiates his previous preferences: praised by Odysseus for the royal status and respect he enjoys in the nether regions, Achilles

<sup>42</sup> Fascination with the cultural diversity of funerary customs is as old as Herodotus. Studies focused on death in ancient Greece (and its legacy) include Loraux (1986), Sourvinou-Inwood (1996), Derderian (2001), Garland (2001), Alexiou (1971/2002), and Tatum (2003).

<sup>43</sup> Edwards (2007: 6). Studies focused on Rome (and its legacy) include: Toynbee (1971), Hopkins (1983), Shaw (1991), Flower (1996), Bodel (1999), Edwards (2007), Hope (2007) (2009), Erasmo (2008) (2012), the papers in Rüpke and Scheid (2009), Favro and Johanson (2010). On (the influence of) Etruria: see e.g. Prayon (2004), Taylor (2011), and the papers in Amann (2012).

<sup>44</sup> For a recognition of Homer's GIs, who experience a moment of epic glory only to be killed in the same instant, see Alice Oswald, *Memorial*: *A Version of Homer's Iliad* (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2012).

cuts through the empty verbiage by stating that he would exchange his kingship among the dead for servant status among the living (11.465–503). Death and its significance also forms a privileged site of Virgil's creative engagement with Homeric precedents. To pick out just one striking example: for the overall ideology of both the *Iliad* and the *Odyssey* it is absolutely vital that the fathers of Achilles and Odysseus are still alive when their epics end: in *Iliad* 24, it is Achilles' recognition that his father Peleus back home will soon grieve for his slain son in exactly the same way that Priam is now grieving for Hector that enables his feeling of sympathy with his bitter foe; and the final scene of *Odyssey* 24 features three generations — Laertius, Odysseus, Telemachus — shoulder to shoulder in a celebration of agnatic lineage. It is therefore striking that Virgil begins the narrative portion of the *Aeneid* right after Aeneas 'lost' his father Anchises: after the extended proem, we see the Trojan fleet off the coast of Sicily (1.34); the last thing to happen before they set sail (as we find out at the end of Book 3, in the final chapter of Aeneas' long retrospect) is the *death* of Anchises. Why did Virgil start his epic here — and not (say) with the sack of Troy and Aeneas carrying his ageing father from the burning city, with his own son in hand (probably the most famous image of our hero)? Part of the reason for this narrative arrangement (and the poignant departure from Homer it entails) might have to do with the strikingly patriarchal outlook of Roman culture, where a son, however old himself, remained technically speaking under paternal jurisdiction (*patria potestas*) as long as his father was alive. Put differently, the *Aeneid* begins at precisely the moment when, in Roman terms, Aeneas' legal status changed from *alieni iuris* (being under the legal control of someone else) to *sui iuris* (being a legally independent person) on account of his father's death. (The fact that he starts up a love affair with a foreign queen and forgets about his mission right after Anchises and his *patria potestas* died flags up the importance of paternal discipline and guidance…)

If the first half of the *Aeneid* focuses on Aeneas in his role as son, the second half shifts the emphasis to his role as father. Here, too, as we already had occasion to note, death remains a potent theme. But whereas the first half of the poem predominantly features the 'natural' sequence of children burying their parents (Aeneas celebrates elaborate funeral games for his father in *Aeneid* 5), the second half focuses on the inverse, as parents bury their children, who have died a premature death (*mors immatura*) in violation of the natural order.45 By conflating two arch-Roman institutions, the aristocratic funeral procession for former magistrates (*pompa funebris*) and the victory parade (*pompa triumphalis*), in his account of Pallas' return to Pallanteum on a bier, Virgil entwines triumph and tragedy, grief and glory, in a meditation on the (public) benefits and (personal) costs of martial exploits and imperial ambition. The premature deaths of both Pallas and Camilla also enable Virgil to construe an interface between (erotic) beauty and (lethal) violence and explore the ethics and emotions of revenge killings.

## Ethnicity

In the second half of the *Aeneid*, the Trojan troopers around Aeneas have a paradoxical status: they are, simultaneously, both wretched refugees of war and entitled imperialists — aggressive arrivals who have fled from their war-torn native land but in turn impose themselves on the indigenous population of their new home country, in a step towards the foundation of a city destined to conquer the globe. Historically speaking, the first step in the gradual assimilation of Rome and the world, *urbs* and *orbis*, was the conquest and enfranchisement of Italy — a process not concluded until the first century BCE, involving a long, brutal, and complex history of interaction, spanning more than half a millennium.46

The second half of the *Aeneid* (p)reconceives this chapter in Roman history, by celebrating the multi-ethnic composition of primitive Italy, dramatizing the clashes with (proto-)Rome, and anticipating the gradual emergence of Italy unified under Roman rule. In his catalogue of the Italian forces in *Aeneid* 7, for instance, which concludes with the figure of Camilla, Virgil brings out 'the diversity of Italy's peoples, who range from romantic figures with the aura of Grecian mythology about them to rough bandits from the hills.'47 Faced with an Italic alliance, Aeneas responds

<sup>45</sup> A widespread motif in sepulchral epigrams: see Griessmair (1966: 44–7) and Conte (1986: 189–90). For death *ante ora parentum* in the *Aeneid* see Sullivan (2009).

<sup>46</sup> Italy and Rome: Crawford (1981), Millar (1995), David (1997), Ando (2002), Bradley (2007).

<sup>47</sup> Jenkyns (1989: 36).

by forming an alliance of immigrants: the Etruscans, the Arcadians, the Trojans — while the Greeks who fought in Troy and have settled in Italy now hold their peace (and, through this abstention, tacitly support Aeneas). But lines between indigenous people and new arrivals are anyway persistently blurred: Aeneas' ancestor Dardanus hails from Italy and even before his arrival (or 'return'), Italy had been the destination of settlers from the East who intermarry with the native population.48 The Arcadian Evander took a Sabine wife, the mother of his son Pallas, and the Etruscans, who originally also came to Italy from the Greek East, experience an internal division, in which their exiled tyrant Mezentius ends up on the side of Turnus, whereas the king-priest Tarchon, in many ways an alter ego of Aeneas (Nielson 1984), abides by the divine order to look to foreign leaders in the quest for justice (8.502–3).

While acknowledging diversity and differences in ethnic background, Virgil nevertheless configures *Italia*, however proleptically, as a unified geopolitical entity — in anticipation of late-republican figures such as Cicero and, in particular, Augustus, who used the notion of *tota Italia* to authorize his campaigns against Antony at Actium (*Res Gestae* 25).49 Virgil writes with this historical telos firmly in mind. See Patterson (2006b: 622), who also identifies Virgil's own place in this story:

According to the *Res Gestae*, 'all Italy of its own accord' swore an oath of allegiance to Octavian (*RG* 25.2). The Italy of Augustus was, however, strikingly different from the Italy of three centuries, or even one century, previously. Local languages, forms of funerary commemoration, and other traces of local identity were rapidly disappearing, swept away by decades of civil war, enforced military service, and the settlement of veterans. The peninsula now formed a unified political unit […]. The Italian elites now looked to Rome, and more specifically to the Princeps, rather than to the Greek world, for models to follow in a new phase of urban embellishment. No longer could it be said that the Italians lacked a voice, however: the Augustan era was in many ways the golden age of the Italian elites, as the new Princeps was surrounded by ambitious and upwardly mobile Italians and the new regime was commemorated, honored, and satirized by poets and historians from all over the peninsula: Virgil from Mantua, Ovid from Sulmo, Horace from Venusia, Propertius from Asisium, and Livy from Patavium.

<sup>48</sup> As Jenkyns (1989: 36, n. 42) stresses, with reference to 8.331–2.

<sup>49</sup> See Fletcher (2014: 243–7 and passim).

The second half of the *Aeneid* explores the multi-ethnic diversity of pre-Roman Italy; and prefigures the (partial) erasure of specific local identities and ethnic groupings, as all of Italy (*tota Italia*) will ultimately be subsumed under Roman hegemony.50 The Trojans around Aeneas make an important contribution to this story: they import many a prototypical variant of cultural scripts that will mingle with indigenous customs to evolve into Roman culture (although remember: many of the Trojan elements that the epic presents as proto-Roman are only identifiable as such via the aetiological confections of Virgil's *Aeneid…*). In this process, the Trojans will lose significant aspects of their original cultural identity, such as language and dress.

<sup>50</sup> For the continuing cultivation of distinct regional identities and local history also in the imperial period see Bradley (2007: 310–19).

## Extra Information: The Ultimate Deal

The ethnic discourse of Book 11 helps prepare the final bargain between Jupiter and Juno towards the end of *Aeneid* 12. Just before the terminal showdown between Aeneas and Turnus, Jupiter requests that Juno cease her opposition to fate, which includes the successful settlement of the Trojans in Italy and Aeneas' marriage to Latinus' daughter Lavinia, as a stepping stone towards the eventual founding of Rome. Here is the tailend of their ensuing exchange (*Aeneid* 12.819–40, Juno speaking):

'… illud te, nulla fati quod lege tenetur, pro Latio obtestor, pro maiestate tuorum: 820 cum iam conubiis pacem felicibus (esto) component, cum iam leges et foedera iungent, ne vetus indigenas nomen mutare Latinos neu Troas fieri iubeas Teucrosque vocari aut vocem mutare viros aut vertere vestem. 825 sit Latium, sint Albani per saecula reges, sit Romana potens Itala virtute propago: occidit, occideritque sinas cum nomine Troia.' olli subridens hominum rerumque repertor: 'es germana Iovis Saturnique altera proles, 830 irarum tantos volvis sub pectore fluctus. verum age et inceptum frustra summitte furorem: do quod vis, et me victusque volensque remitto. sermonem Ausonii patrium moresque tenebunt, utque est nomen erit; commixti corpore tantum 835 subsident Teucri. morem ritusque sacrorum adiciam faciamque omnis uno ore Latinos. hinc genus Ausonio mixtum quod sanguine surget, supra homines, supra ire deos pietate videbis, nec gens ulla tuos aeque celebrabit honores.' 840

['… This boon, banned by no law of fate, I beg of you for Latium's sake, for your own kin's greatness: when at last with happy bridal rites—so be it!—they fashion peace, when at last they join in laws and treaties, do not command the native Latins to change their ancient name, nor to become Trojans and be called Teucrians, nor to change their language and alter their attire: let Latium be, let Alban kings endure through ages, let it be a Roman stock, strong in Italian manliness: Troy is fallen, and fallen let her be, together with her name!' Smiling on her, the creator of men and things replied: 'You are Jupiter's true sister, and Saturn's other child: such waves of wrath surge deep within your breast! But come, allay the anger that was stirred in vain. I grant your wish and relent, willingly won over. Ausonia's sons shall keep their fathers' speech and ways, and as it is now, so shall their name be: the Teucrians shall sink down, merged in the mass. I will give them their sacred laws and rites and make them all Latins of one tongue. From them shall arise a race, blended with Ausonian blood, which you will see surpass men, surpass gods in loyalty, and no nation will celebrate your worship with equal zeal.']

Juno assents and the bargain is struck. But who gets the upper hand here? Jupiter or Juno? Isobel Arnaud offers the following evaluation of the divine diplomacy that unfolds in this passage:51

It is not immediately obvious where the real power lies in this exchange. The concession Juno wins seems to be substantial; the Trojans may technically conquer the Latins, but they will be subsumed within the indigenous population as though they themselves were the conquered party, contributing neither name, nor language, nor dress. As Juno herself puts it in 829, Troy and her name stay fallen. If Jupiter is really so omnipotent, how can Juno demand such a great concession? There are several indications that Jupiter manages the situation to give Juno the impression that she is winning concessions, whereas in fact he does not compromise on anything important to him. Juno's conspicuous rhetorical efforts, and her hasty insistence that her request is not contrary to fate before she has even asked (819), suggest that she is not confident of her demands being met. In contrast, Jupiter shows not the slightest hesitation in granting her request. His immediate reaction is one of humour: *olli subridens*. The choice of the striking epithet *hominum rerumque repertor* highlights Jupiter's supremacy and makes his laughter seem condescending and indulgent. His straightforward, unadorned use of language also contrasts with Juno's oratorical display. This is particularly obvious at the very moment of granting the concession in 833, which is unique in the *Aeneid* for its succession of five monosyllables: *do quod vis*, *et me victusque volensque remitto*. Jupiter's plain use of language

<sup>51</sup> In an essay written during her first year as an undergraduate at King's College, Cambridge.

suggests he is at ease, completely comfortable with this outcome, and feels no need to dress it up with rhetoric. The second half of the line ostensibly admits defeat, but it is worded so matter-of-factly that it seems more like a generous verbal gesture than a genuine concession. This impression is confirmed by *volens*, underlined by its alliterative juxtaposition with the antithetical *victus*, casually and understatedly revealing Jupiter's real attitude towards Jupiter's demands. Significantly, Jupiter rephrases Juno's request in more extreme terms: *commixti corpore tantum/subsident Teucri*: the Trojans will sink, mingling in body only (835–6). It is not psychologically plausible that Jupiter would exaggerate a request which he had been unwilling to grant in the first place. Moreover, in 794 Jupiter had referred to Aeneas as *indigetem*. This is a term for quintessentially Roman gods and suggests that Jupiter had already planned the absorption of Aeneas into the indigenous culture. It seems as though Juno has demanded something inevitable, or at most immaterial, which Jupiter can easily grant at no cost to his plan, but so comfortable is he in his superior power that he magnanimously chooses to present the concession as a real victory for Juno. Furthermore, there is a suggestion in 836–7 that Jupiter's concession is not as straightforward as it seems. He vaguely states that he will add 'custom and sacred rites' (*morem ritusque sacrorum*), despite just having promised sweepingly that the Ausonians will keep their customs (*Ausonii patrium moresque tenebunt*). He has agreed to Juno's request in broad outline, but he does not allow it to get in the way of his own plans. The use of the first person in *adiciam* (837) is diplomatically vague, as the custom and sacred rites presumably refer to *Trojan* religious ritual, namely the Penates which Aeneas has been carrying from Troy and on which great emphasis has been placed throughout the poem. In accordance with Jupiter's will, an element of Trojan custom is to be introduced to Latin culture. Far from being forced into compromise, Jupiter makes a show of conceding what is unimportant to him while his original plan remains unchanged.

## TEXT

#### **11.1–4: The Morning After**

Oceanum interea surgens Aurora reliquit: Aeneas, quamquam et sociis dare tempus humandis praecipitant curae turbataque funere mens est, vota deum primo victor solvebat Eoo.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.5–11: Epic DIY, or: How to Build a Victory Trophy**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.12–16:** *Sic Semper Tyrannis* **@TakeNoteTurnus**

tum socios (namque omnis eum stipata tegebat turba ducum) sic incipiens hortatur ovantis: 'maxima res effecta, viri; timor omnis abesto, quod superest; haec sunt spolia et de rege superbo 15 primitiae manibusque meis Mezentius hic est.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.17–21: Going (Again) for the Jugular…**

nunc iter ad regem nobis murosque Latinos. arma parate, animis et spe praesumite bellum, ne qua mora ignaros, ubi primum vellere signa adnuerint superi pubemque educere castris, 20 impediat segnisve metu sententia tardet.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**

• Throughout the speech, and in this segment in particular (*regem–murosque*, *arma–bellum*, *parate–praesumite*, *animis–spe*, *ignaros–segnis*, *vellere signa–educere castris*), Aeneas uses a series of near-synonymous words or expressions: what is the rhetorical effect?



#### **11.22–28: …But not Before Tending to the Dead**

interea socios inhumataque corpora terrae mandemus, qui solus honos Acheronte sub imo est. ite', ait 'egregias animas, quae sanguine nobis hanc patriam peperere suo, decorate supremis 25 muneribus, maestamque Evandri primus ad urbem mittatur Pallas, quem non virtutis egentem abstulit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo.'

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.29–41: Necrophilia, Anyone?**


#### **Study Questions**



#### **Stylistic Appreciation**



Fig. 2 NARRATIVE EPISODE TURNS INTO MORAL LESSON: LOOK WHAT WE LOSE. Anne Louis Girodet-Trioson, *The Mourning of Pallas* (ca.1790–93), *Aeneid* 11. 57–58. The Elisha Whittelsey Collection, The Elisha Whittelsey Fund, 1996. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Public domain, https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/337206

#### **11.42–48: Of a Promise Broken**

'tene', inquit 'miserande puer, cum laeta veniret, invidit Fortuna mihi, ne regna videres nostra neque ad sedes victor veherere paternas? non haec Evandro de te promissa parenti 45 discedens dederam, cum me complexus euntem mitteret in magnum imperium metuensque moneret acris esse viros, cum dura proelia gente.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.49–58: How Do I Break this to Dad? Well, at Least Pallas Wasn't a Cold-Footed, Useless Swine!**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.59–63: The Final Escort**

Haec ubi deflevit, tolli miserabile corpus imperat et toto lectos ex agmine mittit 60 mille viros, qui supremum comitentur honorem intersintque patris lacrimis, solacia luctus exigua ingentis, misero sed debita patri.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• Quite a few words and phrases from the speeches Aeneas just gave recur in this passage: 60: *mittit* (~ 27: *mittatur*; 47: *mitteret*); 61: *supremum honorem* (~ 23: *solus honos*); 61: *comitentur* (~ 52: *comitamur*); 62: *debita* (~ 52: *debentem*). See also 64: *haud segnes* (~ 21: *segnis*) and 67: *iuvenem … sublimem* (~ 51: *iuvenem exanimum*). Was Virgil (i) 'bored' or 'rushed'; (ii) intended to revise in due course; (iii) or used such repetition 'to convey a unity of tone within a sad, slow, heavy movement of the action'? (These are the alternatives mooted by Horsfall 2003: 85. Can you think of others?)


#### **11.64–71: The Aesthetics of Death-floration**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.72–84: The Return of the Dead & Dead Men Walking**


#### **Study Questions**



#### **Stylistic Appreciation**



Fig. 3 FRONTAL HE, PROFILE SHE – SEE, THEY COULD NEVER LAND ON THE SAME SQUARE. Wenceslas Hollar (1607-1677), *Dido and Aeneas*. Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto. Public domain, https:// commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wenceslas\_Hollar\_-\_Dido\_and\_Aeneas\_ (State\_5).jpg

#### **11.85–93: The Grief Parade**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.94–99: The Parting of the Ways**

postquam omnis longe comitum praecesserat ordo, substitit Aeneas gemituque haec addidit alto: 95 'nos alias hinc ad lacrimas eadem horrida belli fata vocant: salve aeternum mihi, maxime Palla, aeternumque vale.' nec plura effatus ad altos tendebat muros gressumque in castra ferebat.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.100–7: Latin Oratory**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.108–21: 'No Hero in History Has Been Treated More Unfairly!'**


#### **Study Questions**



#### **Stylistic Appreciation**



Fig. 4 THIS IS NOT THE END; THIS IS NOT THE BEGINNING OF THE END; AND THIS DOES NOT LOOK LIKE THE END OF THE BEGINNING? Wenceslas Hollar, T*he last fight of Aeneas and Turnus*. Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto. Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia. org/w/index.php?title=Special:Search&limit=20&offset=20&profile=default&se arch=Hollar%2C+Aeneas#/media/File:Wenceslas\_Hollar\_-\_The\_last\_fight\_of\_ Aeneas\_and\_Turnus\_(State\_1)\_2.jpg

#### **11.122–32: Drances Lets Rip**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




Fig. 5 HARD OR SOFT? PRIMITIVE POLITICS OR SAGE WISDOM? QUOT HOMINES, TOT SENTENTIAE? Wenceslas Hollar, *King Latinus in council*. Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto. Public domain, https:// commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wenceslas\_Hollar\_-\_King\_Latinus\_in\_ council\_(State\_1).jpg

#### **11.133–38: An Epic Case of Peaceful Deforestation**

bis senos pepigere dies, et pace sequestra per silvas Teucri mixtique impune Latini erravere iugis. ferro sonat alta bipenni 135 fraxinus, evertunt actas ad sidera pinus, robora nec cuneis et olentem scindere cedrum nec plaustris cessant vectare gementibus ornos.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.139–51: Mourning Becomes Evander**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.152–63: O Pallas, Ardent for Some Desperate Glory…**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.164–72: The Old Lie:** *dulce et decorum est pro patria mori*


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**

• What are the stylistic devices Virgil uses to underscore Evander's failure to endow Pallas' death with meaning?



#### **11.173–81: Vengeance is Yours!**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**

• Why does Evander deviate from natural word order to the extent that he does? (Cf. the post-positive position of *si* (174), *quid* (175), *quam* (179), the hyperbata *tu quoque … Turne* (173–75) and *hic … solus … locus* (179–80) and the anastrophe *manis … sub imos* (181)?

#### **Discussion Point**

• Do the terms (ethical, economical) of the revenge killing Evander here commissions make sense to you?


#### **11.182–92: Fire Darkness**

Aurora interea miseris mortalibus almam extulerat lucem referens opera atque labores: iam pater Aeneas, iam curvo in litore Tarchon constituere pyras. huc corpora quisque suorum 185 more tulere patrum, subiectisque ignibus atris conditur in tenebras altum caligine caelum. ter circum accensos cincti fulgentibus armis decurrere rogos, ter maestum funeris ignem lustravere in equis ululatusque ore dedere. 190 spargitur et tellus lacrimis, sparguntur et arma, it caelo clamorque virum clangorque tubarum.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**



#### **Discussion Point**

• Virgil uses a lot of 'foundational' imagery in this passage, to do with Roman (religious) identity. What is it doing in a funerary context?

#### **11.193–202: Flames, Blood, and Ashes**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• In lines 197–99, we get a prototype of one of the most solemn rites of Roman religion, the sacrifice of a pig, a sheep, and a bull. What do you make of the fact that the Trojans already perform it here?


#### **11.203–12: The Latin Dead**

Nec minus et miseri diversa in parte Latini innumeras struxere pyras, et corpora partim multa virum terrae infodiunt, avectaque partim 205 finitimos tollunt in agros urbique remittunt. cetera confusaeque ingentem caedis acervum nec numero nec honore cremant; tunc undique vasti certatim crebris conlucent ignibus agri. tertia lux gelidam caelo dimoverat umbram: 210 maerentes altum cinerem et confusa ruebant ossa focis tepidoque onerabant aggere terrae.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• Compare and contrast Virgil's depiction of the Latin funerals with those performed by Aeneas and his allies in the previous section.


#### **11.213–24: Necropolitics: Stop the War!**

iam vero in tectis, praedivitis urbe Latini, praecipuus fragor et longi pars maxima luctus. hic matres miseraeque nurus, hic cara sororum 215 pectora maerentum puerique parentibus orbi dirum exsecrantur bellum Turnique hymenaeos; ipsum armis ipsumque iubent decernere ferro, qui regnum Italiae et primos sibi poscat honores. ingravat haec saevus Drances solumque vocari 220 testatur, solum posci in certamina Turnum. multa simul contra variis sententia dictis pro Turno, et magnum reginae nomen obumbrat, multa virum meritis sustentat fama tropaeis.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• Does Turnus get a fair hearing? (Read on: is he going to get one? You be his advocate; argue his case.)


#### **11.498–506: Enter Camilla**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**



#### **Discussion Point**

• This is Camilla's first appearance in Book 11 and first short speech (two to follow): how does she come across? And does her entry here confirm the expectations a reader might have on the basis of her catalogue entry at 7.803–17 (see above 23)?

#### **11.507–21: Turnus' Turn**


#### **Study Questions**




#### **Stylistic Appreciation**



Fig. 6 THEY COME FROM DIFFERENT WORLDS, BUT THEY ARE THE SAME? Wenceslas Hollar, *The meeting of Turnus and Camilla*. Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto. Public domain, https://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wenceslas\_Hollar\_-\_The\_meeting\_of\_Turnus\_and\_ Camilla\_(State\_2)\_2.jpg

#### **11.532–38: A Virginal Threesome (Diana, Opis, Camilla)**

Velocem interea superis in sedibus Opim, unam ex virginibus sociis sacraque caterva, compellabat et has tristis Latonia voces ore dabat: 'graditur bellum ad crudele Camilla, 535 o virgo, et nostris nequiquam cingitur armis, cara mihi ante alias. neque enim novus iste Dianae venit amor subitaque animum dulcedine movit.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• What is the nature of the relationship between the three characters that come into focus here (Diana, Opis, Camilla)?


#### **11.539–46: 'They F\*\*\* You up, Your Mum and Dad. They May not Mean to, but They Do.'**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**

• Why might the design of the sentence *pulsus … Camillam* (539–43) be so convoluted?

#### **Discussion Point**

• What faults did Camilla's mum and dad fill her with? Which ones did they add as extras, just for her?


#### **11.547–56: A Stroke of Inspearation**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**





Fig. 7 HOW *IS* THIS GOING TO WORK? (*BELIEVE*!) Woodcut illustration of Camilla and Metabus escaping into exile, from an incunable German translation by Heinrich Steinhöwel of Giovanni Boccaccio's *De mulieribus claris*, printed by Johannes Zainer at Ulm (ca.1474). Penn Libraries, CC 2.0, https://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Woodcut\_illustration\_of\_Camilla\_and\_Metabus\_ escaping\_into\_exile\_-\_Penn\_Provenance\_Project.jpg#/media/File:Woodcut\_ illustration\_of\_Camilla\_and\_Metabus\_escaping\_into\_exile\_-\_Penn\_Provenance\_ Project.jpg

#### **11.557–66: Camilla Speared**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• What is the theology that underwrites Metabus' prayer to Diana here?


#### **11.567–72: Got Milk?**

non illum tectis ullae, non moenibus urbes accepere (neque ipse manus feritate dedisset), pastorum et solis exegit montibus aevum. hic natam in dumis interque horrentia lustra 570 armentalis equae mammis et lacte ferino nutribat teneris immulgens ubera labris.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**

• How does Virgil interrelate the themes of 'Sure Start' and 'Feral' stylistically?

#### **Discussion Point**

• What is the point of Metabus and Camilla undergoing a space/time journey into the pre-agricultural human past?


#### **11.573–86: How to Raise a Wild Warrior Princess**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**





Fig. 8 DON'T EVEN TRY? WHAT DOES THE IMAGE GET WRONG? Roman marble statue of a wounded Amazon (1st–2nd century A.D.). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/ wiki/File:Marble\_statue\_of\_a\_wounded\_Amazon\_MET\_DP278757.jpg

#### **11.587–96: Lady Vengeance, or: Diana's Black Ops Commando**

verum age, quandoquidem fatis urgetur acerbis, labere, nympha, polo finisque invise Latinos, tristis ubi infausto committitur omine pugna. haec cape et ultricem pharetra deprome sagittam: 590 hac, quicumque sacrum violarit vulnere corpus, Tros Italusque, mihi pariter det sanguine poenas. post ego nube cava miserandae corpus et arma inspoliata feram tumulo patriaeque reponam.' dixit, at illa levis caeli delapsa per auras 595 insonuit nigro circumdata turbine corpus.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.648–63: Camilla's Martial Arts**


#### **Study Questions**




#### **Stylistic Appreciation**



Fig. 9 YOU CAN TELL SHE'S THE QUEEN? Gabriel-Vital Dubray, *Penthesilea* (1862). East façade of the Cour Carrée in the Louvre palace, Paris. Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index. php?search=Penthesilea&title=Special:Search&profile=default&fulltext=1#/ media/File:Penthesilea\_Dubray\_cour\_Carree\_Louvre.jpg

#### **11.664–69: Getting the Massacre Underway**

Quem telo primum, quem postremum, aspera virgo, deicis? aut quot humi morientia corpora fundis? 665 Eunaeum Clytio primum patre, cuius apertum adversi longa transverberat abiete pectus. sanguinis ille vomens rivos cadit atque cruentam mandit humum moriensque suo se in vulnere versat.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• Is this what we've been waiting for? Can style redeem theme here?


#### **11.670–83: The Death Toll Rises**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**





Fig. 10 THAT MARE IS WATCHING US. TO SEE IF WE GET CAMILLA – VIRGIL'S CAMILLA. Giacomo del Po, *Camillia* [sic!] *at War from Virgil's Aeneid* (1708–10). Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Public domain, https://useum. org/artwork/Camillia-at-War-from-Virgil-s-Aeneid-Giacomo-del-Po

#### **11.684–89: The Hunter Hunted**

hunc illa exceptum (neque enim labor agmine verso) traicit et super haec inimico pectore fatur: 685 'silvis te, Tyrrhene, feras agitare putasti? advenit qui vestra dies muliebribus armis verba redargueret. nomen tamen haud leve patrum manibus hoc referes, telo cecidisse Camillae.'

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.725–40: Shaming, Naming, Blaming: Tarchon Rallies the Troops**


#### **Study Questions**




#### **Stylistic Appreciation**



Fig. 11 SPEED KILLS – EASY TO WRITE, TOUGH TO DRAW. Wenceslas Hollar, *Camilla slaying [the son of] Aunus*. Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto. Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/ File:Wenceslas\_Hollar\_-\_Camilla\_slaying\_Aunus\_(State\_2)\_2.jpg

#### **11.741–50: Venulus Gets Carried Away**

haec effatus equum in medios moriturus et ipse concitat, et Venulo adversum se turbidus infert dereptumque ab equo dextra complectitur hostem et gremium ante suum multa vi concitus aufert. tollitur in caelum clamor cunctique Latini 745 convertere oculos. volat igneus aequore Tarchon arma virumque ferens; tum summa ipsius ab hasta defringit ferrum et partis rimatur apertas, qua vulnus letale ferat; contra ille repugnans sustinet a iugulo dextram et vim viribus exit. 750

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.751–61: Exemplary Combat: Eagle vs. Snake**

utque volans alte raptum cum fulva draconem fert aquila implicuitque pedes atque unguibus haesit, saucius at serpens sinuosa volumina versat arrectisque horret squamis et sibilat ore arduus insurgens, illa haud minus urget obunco 755 luctantem rostro, simul aethera verberat alis: haud aliter praedam Tiburtum ex agmine Tarchon portat ovans. ducis exemplum eventumque secuti Maeonidae incurrunt. tum fatis debitus Arruns velocem iaculo et multa prior arte Camillam 760 circuit, et quae sit fortuna facillima temptat.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**





Fig. 12 A LOSE-LOSE SITUATION, COULD IT BE? Antoine-Louis Barye, *Eagle and snake*, bronze plaque (ca.1824–26). Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. Public domain, https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c3/Eck\_et\_Durand\_-\_Eagle\_ and\_Snake\_-\_Walters\_27189.jpg

#### **11.762–67: Stalking Camilla**

qua se cumque furens medio tulit agmine virgo, hac Arruns subit et tacitus vestigia lustrat; qua victrix redit illa pedemque ex hoste reportat, hac iuvenis furtim celeris detorquet habenas. 765 hos aditus iamque hos aditus omnemque pererrat undique circuitum et certam quatit improbus hastam.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• Since the entire story of Camilla is Virgil's invention, he could have had her killed by anybody (indeed, the Greek epic precedent suggests that this is a job for Aeneas – Penthesilea is slain *by Achilles* after all). Why, then, is he casting such a detestable figure as Arruns for the part?


#### **11.768–77: Spot the Queer Bird**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**

• What formal devices does Virgil use to highlight Chloreus' garish outfit?




Fig. 13 and 14 THE ORIGINAL ROMAN CATWALK... Clothing of two Phrygian males and females from Friedrich Hottenroth, *Trachten, Haus-, Feld- und Kriegsgeräthschaften der Völker alter und neuer Zeit* (details of table 24). Stuttgart: Gustav Weise, 1884. Digitally altered. Public domain, https://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hottenroth\_I-024\_-\_3-4\_-\_Phrygian\_males.jpg https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hottenroth\_I-024\_-\_11-12\_-\_ Phrygian\_females.jpg

#### **11.778–84: The Stalker Stalks the Stalked Stalking**

hunc virgo, sive ut templis praefigeret arma Troia, captivo sive ut se ferret in auro venatrix, unum ex omni certamine pugnae 780 caeca sequebatur totumque incauta per agmen femineo praedae et spoliorum ardebat amore, telum ex insidiis cum tandem tempore capto concitat et superos Arruns sic voce precatur:

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.785–93: The Hunter's Prayer**

'summe deum, sancti custos Soractis Apollo, 785 quem primi colimus, cui pineus ardor acervo pascitur, et medium freti pietate per ignem cultores multa premimus vestigia pruna, da, pater, hoc nostris aboleri dedecus armis, omnipotens. non exuvias pulsaeve tropaeum 790 virginis aut spolia ulla peto, mihi cetera laudem facta ferent; haec dira meo dum vulnere pestis pulsa cadat, patrias remeabo inglorius urbes.'

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.794–804: A Prayer Half-Answered Hitting Home**


ergo ut missa manu sonitum dedit hasta per auras, convertere animos acris oculosque tulere 800 cuncti ad reginam Volsci. nihil ipsa nec aurae nec sonitus memor aut venientis ab aethere teli, hasta sub exsertam donec perlata papillam haesit virgineumque alte bibit acta cruorem.

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




#### **11.805–15: Arruns Turns Tail**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• Why should Arruns be terrified (806: *exterritus*; 807: *metu*) and flee (806: *fugit*)? Don't epic warriors tend to gloat over their kill?


#### **11.816–22: Appointment with Death**

illa manu moriens telum trahit, ossa sed inter ferreus ad costas alto stat vulnere mucro. labitur exsanguis, labuntur frigida leto lumina, purpureus quondam color ora reliquit. tum sic exspirans Accam ex aequalibus unam 820 adloquitur, fida ante alias quae sola Camillae quicum partiri curas, atque haec ita fatur:

#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**


#### **Discussion Point**

• Where does Acca come from? And what is her narrative function?


#### **11.823–31: Passing on the Torch**


#### **Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




Fig. 15 AFTER ALL, JUST A GIRL? Carlo Cignani, *The Death of Camilla*  (1703). Yekaterinburg Museum of Fine Arts. Public domain, https://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Смерть\_Камиллы\_(Чиньяни).jpg

#### **11.832–35: 'The Fight Goes on' —** *No End in Sight*

tum vero immensus surgens ferit aurea clamor sidera: deiecta crudescit pugna Camilla; incurrunt densi simul omnis copia Teucrum Tyrrhenique duces Evandrique Arcades alae. 835

**Study Questions**


#### **Stylistic Appreciation**




## COMMENTARY

The long and bloody fighting of *Aeneid* 10 concludes with the death of the Etruscan king Mezentius, whom Aeneas kills in a duel that prefigures his showdown with Turnus. Mezentius is a complex figure, who contributes much to the thematic economy of the *Aeneid*. He enters the epic as a wicked tyrant whom his own people drove from his kingdom because of his savage reign. To regain his throne, Mezentius joins the Italic forces that fight Aeneas (7.647–54, 8.6–8), while his former subjects side with the Trojan castaways. Aeneas learns about Mezentius' evil ways from Evander, including his fiendish habit of tying his (living) adversaries to corpses and letting them rot to death, 'one of the most repugnant and perverse instruments of death ever devised by the human mind', among other atrocities (8.478–95).1 He is explicitly singled out as a 'despiser of the gods' (7.648: *contemptor divum*; 8.7: *contemptor deum*) — what in Greek would be called *theomachos*, 'one who fights [*machos*] the gods [*theo*]'. Indeed, one of the (many) etymologies for his name is Μὴ Ζὴν τίων [*Mê–Zèn-tíôn*], which translates, literally, as 'He who does not honour Zeus' (Rivero García and Librán Moreno 2011: 464). And if one changes the accent from Ζὴν [*Zèn*] to Ζῆν [*Zên*], one gets 'He who does not honour life' — a reference to his nasty habit of tying living humans to rotting corpses as a form of punishment. Ultimately, however, he does not quite manage 'to live up to this own billing' as a blasphemous monster in human form.2 In *Aeneid* 10 he proves his martial prowess on the battlefield, joins the ranks of bereaved parents when Aeneas kills

<sup>1</sup> Rosati (2017: 377), who shows that Mezentius suffers a variant of his own preferred method of torture, as he ends up clinging to his own dead son Lausus shortly before getting killed by Aeneas.

<sup>2</sup> See the discussion by Chaudhuri (2014: 69–77), citation from 76.

his son Lausus (who is trying to protect his father), interacts movingly with his warhorse Rhaebus (also dispatched by Aeneas), and faces his own death in calm defiance. Over the course of the narrative he thus recovers his humanity, dying as an 'old, tired, grief-stricken, animalloving, bereaved father.'3 Here is the final exchange between the two warriors and the ensuing bloodbath (10.896–908):

advolat Aeneas vaginaque eripit ensem et super haec: 'ubi nunc Mezentius acer et illa effera vis animi?' contra Tyrrhenus, ut auras suspiciens hausit caelum mentemque recepit: 'hostis amare, quid increpitas mortemque minaris? 900 nullum in caede nefas, nec sic ad proelia veni, nec tecum meus haec pepigit mihi foedera Lausus. unum hoc per si qua est victis venia hostibus oro: corpus humo patiare tegi. scio acerba meorum circumstare odia: hunc, oro, defende furorem 905 et me consortem nati concede sepulcro.' haec loquitur, iuguloque haud inscius accipit ensem undantique animam diffundit in arma cruore.

[Aeneas rushes forward, rips his sword from its sheath and, towering above, cries: 'Where is bold Mezentius now and that fierce force of his soul?' In answer the Tuscan says, as looking up to the sky he drank in the breeze and regained his senses: 'Bitter enemy, why do you taunt me and threaten me with death? There is no sacrilege in slaughter; I did not come to battle on such terms, nor did my son Lausus pledge such a pact between me and you. This alone I ask, if the vanquished can ask a favour from their enemies: allow my body to be properly buried. I know that the harsh hatred of my people surrounds me: protect me, I beg, from this fury and grant me fellowship with my son in the tomb.' So he speaks and receives the sword in his throat head-on and pours forth his soul over his armour with streams of blood.]

<sup>3</sup> Quotations from Cowan (2005: 23). For exploration of this intriguing trajectory and the figure more generally, see e.g. Burke (1974), Thome (1979), Basson (1984), Gotoff (1984), Kronenberg (2005), and Rivero García and Librán Moreno (2011). *Pace* Fratantuono (2009: 13), Mezentius is *not* 'Pallas' killer'.

Virgil also deploys a decisive kill as a device of closure at the very end of the *Aeneid*: he notoriously shuts his epic down on a scene of shock and awe, Aeneas' slaying of Turnus. In contrast to the terminal closure of *Aeneid* 12, however, the aftermath of the high drama that concludes *Aeneid* 10 receives narrative attention — in *Aeneid* 11. As a book of 'premature' resolution, it offers a *transitional* variant of what we might have expected after the death of Turnus too (but don't get): attention to the dead, mourning for those killed in battle, a depiction of burials, diplomatic activity between the warring parties resulting in a (temporary) truce.4 Halfway through the book, of course, the war restarts — and in the second half of *Aeneid* 11 we get yet another highprofile kill that — just like the death of Mezentius — serves as a further prequel to the epic's final curtain call: the death of Camilla, followed by the death of her killer, Arruns.

The transition between *Aeneid* 10 and 11, between the gushing blood of Mezentius and the rise of Aurora, is arguably the most abrupt in the poem — but is hardly evidence for its unfinished state.5 Interstices, like those caused by book divisions, matter: they enable the poet to generate narrative gaps, which we as readers are invited to ponder and perhaps fill. In particular, you might want to ask yourself: what has happened to Mezentius' body between the end of *Aeneid* 10 and the opening of *Aeneid* 11? Did Mezentius get what he prayed for? (How does it compare with Turnus' last request? Does this narrative device tell us *both* what they have in common *and* where they part company?)

## 1

**Oceanum interea surgens Aurora reliquit**: this is the only occasion when an *Aeneid* book opens with a 'repeat verse'. Virgil uses the same line at 4.129, where it introduces the day of venery (= hunting and sex) in Carthage during which Dido and Aeneas find themselves seeking

<sup>4</sup> The neo-Latin poet Maffeo Vegio (1407–1458) wrote a supplement to the *Aeneid* (*Aeneid* 13!), which contains all of the material that Virgil (wisely?) decided to leave in the narrative beyond. For Vegio see Putnam (2004). His original Latin text and a translation are also available on the web. See http://virgil.org/supplementa/vegiolatin.htm. Check it out – and impress your friends with knowledge of *Aeneid* 13 and some Virgilian fan fiction!

<sup>5</sup> Cf. the discussion by Camps (1969: 127–8).

shelter from the rain in a cave, a divinely engineered coincidence that leads to an encounter of the carnal kind. He calls that day the source of all evil (4.169–70: *ille dies primus leti primusque malorum* | *causa fuit*), and that pronouncement may well resonate here as Aeneas, despite emerging victoriously from combat, surveys the devastation and prepares for heartbreaking funerals. See Moskalew (1982: 182): 'The same dawn had in 4.129 introduced the day of the fateful hunt and the *conubium* in the cave, but it was a day begun on a joyous note. The lively and colorful pageant of the hunting party stands in stark contrast to the solemn funeral procession of the present scene. Dido's horse is richly caparisoned (*ostroque insignis et auro*, 134); Pallas' horse Aethon is unadorned (*positis insignibus*, 89) as it sadly follows the chariot.' The spectre of Dido, who, with her curse, is arguably responsible for many of the trials and tribulations that Aeneas faces in the second half of the poem, raises its head explicitly at 72–75 (see below).6

**Oceanum**: *Oceanus* is a transliteration of the Greek Ôkeanos [Ὠκεανός]. The Ô scans long since it represents the Greek '*big* ô' [Ω, ω], last letter in their alphabet, called ô-*mega* (in contrast to the '*little* o' [Ο, ο], which is called o-*micron*).

**interea**: '*interea* indicates that the dawn took place between the time of the last event of Book x and that of the events of line 6 of Book xi' (Kinsey 1979: 264) and tells us to interrelate the two scenarios of Dawn and Aeneas up early — same as in a simile. By thus providing a temporal bridge between the end of the last and the beginning of this book, the adverb encourages us to look back and connect the dots — or not, as the case may be: Fratantuono (2009: 11), for instance, argues that the real import of *interea* is 'to contrast the carefree world of the immortals as they carry out their daily journeys across the heavens with the horrific sufferings of mortals that were just embodied in the bloody violence that marked Book X, and to reflect on the almost obscenely casual way life continues after such bloody violence as was witnessed in the previous book.' Words to ponder — but one wonders how 'carefree' the world

<sup>6</sup> See also Newman (1986: 164), who links 4.129 (the day of the fateful hunt) to 11.1 (the day of the tragic haunt) as follows: 'Dido is not perhaps hunting Aeneas so much as haunting him, spoiling and frustrating his efforts, forever re-enacting her own fiery death' (with reference to Pallas' imminent cremation).

of the immortals truly is, not least where Aurora is concerned (see next note). JH: aspects of Virgil's cosmos are tragically implicated in human plight, importing empathetic sublimity along with melodramatic amplification. In Virgil, all time-setting formulae store tonal impact and modulate the episode they introduce: here as usual he works well away from a set Homeric figure, from 'rosy-fingered Dawn'. 'Meanwhile', we must reckon, the finale of Book 10 is very much a diptych with the hinge in the waves of blood spraying out over the book division and on into the rosy dawn (the last word of Book 10 is *cruore*…).

**Aurora**: the goddess of dawn, who spends her nights with her ageing husband Tithonus, for whom she requested immortality, but forgot to ask for eternal youth as well. Virgil alludes to the myth explicitly at 4.584–5: *et iam prima novo spargebat lumine terras* | *Tithoni croceum linquens Aurora cubile* ('And now early Dawn, leaving the saffron bed of Tithonus, was sprinkling the earth with fresh light'). Here, *surgens* (in the double sense of 'getting up' and 'emerging above the horizon') may bring to mind Aurora's daily matutinal rise from her tragic bedchamber and increasingly decrepit husband. The eternal lack of funerary rites for immortalized Tithonus also provides a sharp contrast to the upcoming series of burials in the human sphere. The respective sufferings of mortals and immortals put each other in perspective.

**reliquit**: JH: Book 11 will leave us behind, in death: but these 'minor characters' will leave something behind them. (The story of their) funeral rites mean/s we don't leave them behind (the Pallas episode), and their stories, the memory of their stories (the Camilla episode), leave/s them with the fame attached to their name, *because* they never made it home, but because, too, they map out the calculus of epic glory: first the sea in retreat leaves the shore, 628, and a spear is left in a mount's ear, 637; then the colour leaves Arruns' face, 819, and dying Camilla leaves both reins and weapons, 827, 830, before his comrades leave Arruns' corpse in the dust, 866, and Turnus leaves his ambush on receiving news of Camilla's death, 902. Their moment is done, but they never quite leave the story, still around to figure in our bid to make sense of the showdown in Book 12.

## 2–4

**Aeneas,** *quamquam et sociis dare tempus humandis | praecipitant curae turbataque funere mens est***, | vota deum primo victor solvebat Eoo**: Aeneas is the subject of the main clause (underlined), which spells out what our hero *does* (*vota … solvebat*). In the concessive subordinate clause introduced by *quamquam* (in italics), we learn about his psychic condition, which happens to be at variance with the image of the victorious (cf. *victor*) action hero who has taken charge in the main clause: he suffers from anxiety attacks and has a troubled mind. (The connectives *et* and *–que* coordinate and synchronize the two segments of the *quamquam*-clause, i.e. *praecipitant* and *turbata … est*.) The depiction of Aeneas' action thus encases, but also clashes with, insights Virgil gives us into the soul-stirring forces that ruffle his inner self — but are not necessarily evident to the characters with whom Aeneas interacts in the world of the *Aeneid*. The ability to suppress worries (*curae*) and negative emotions in order to perform in his role as epic leader is a hallmark of Virgil's protagonist from his first episode (which we will find at the end of Book 3 was his debut as leader of the Trojan boat-people after the death of his father Anchises). After the sea-storm washed up the Trojan fleet on the shores of Carthage, Aeneas delivers a pep talk to buoy his troops (1.198–207), all the while keeping his own sense of desperation under wraps (1.208–9):

Talia voce refert, curisque ingentibus aeger spem vultu simulat, premit altum corde dolorem.

[Thus he spoke, but he was sick with his enormous cares. He feigned a look of hope, and suppressed his misery deep in his heart.]

Not much has changed between then and now. In Virgil's epic, cares and sorrows are a constant for Aeneas. Here we get an oblique meditation on the troubling impact of war on both victors and vanquished. What adds to the complexity of Virgil's characterization are those privileged moments in the narrative when Aeneas' inner and outer selves *are* in perfect harmony. In his first narrative appearance, Aeneas, caught in the whirlstorm unleashed by an enraged Juno and so released from inhibitions under cover of the racket, utters a deathwish in utter despair, as his limbs go cold; and in his last narrative appearance, enraged, he unleashes death upon Turnus. Tellingly, in each instance, powerful passions (despair and rage) overpower Aeneas' rational self and bring actions and emotions into (perverse) harmony…

**praecipitant curae**: the verb and subject of the first segment of the bipartite *quamquam*-clause; the direct object (*eum*, sc. Aeneas) has to be supplied. The placement of *praecipitant* in enjambment at the beginning of the line — and the inversion of the normal word order, with the verb coming before the subject — is a minor form of enactment: the signifier '*praecipitant*' does what the word means, i.e. it doesn't stop at the end of the verse, but 'falls over' into the next and 'rushes ahead'.

**turbataque funere mens est**: the second component of the *quamquam*clause elaborates on the first: it explicates what impact the need to see to his comrades' funeral has on Aeneas' mind: *turbata* picks up *curae* and *funere* the gerundive *sociis humandis*.

**funere**: the meaning of *funus* ranges from 'death' to its outcome ('corpse') to human means of dealing with it ritually ('funeral'). Probably all three meanings are active here. Toynbee (1971: 43) gives a sense of why Aeneas felt impelled to act as quickly as possible on religious grounds: 'All Roman funerary practice was influenced by two basic notions — first, that death brought pollution and demanded from the survivors acts of purification and expiation; secondly, that to leave a corpse unburied had unpleasant repercussions on the fate of the departed soul. The throwing of a little earth upon the body was the minimum requirement for burial, could nothing more be done. But custom ordained that in normal circumstances the obsequies should be carried out with as much solemnity as circumstances in every case allowed.'

**vota deum … solvebat**: here as elsewhere, Virgil uses technical religious idiom suitably adjusted to the requirements of literary discourse. Invocation of divine help at Rome followed a strict protocol and a quasi-legalistic logic. A mortal would utter a prayer asking for support from the gods while offering something in return should the prayer be answered. The Latin for 'making a vow' is *vota facere* (or *suscipere* or *nuncupare*). Someone who had made a vow was deemed to be *voti reus* ('debtor of a vow') in the sense that he had committed himself to some form of 'repayment', i.e. to carry out a certain course of action if the gods chose to answer his prayers. ('"Reus" is used in Roman law with a gen. of the thing in respect of which a person is bound': Conington / Nettleship *ad Aen*. 5.237; see further Henriksén 2012: 185–6.) Someone who had been granted what he had prayed for was considered bound to fulfil his part of the bargain and do what he had vowed. Fulfilling a vow was called *vota solvere* (or *reddere*).

**vota deum**: the syncopated genitive *deum* (= *deorum*) is best understood as possessive: the prayers for divine support apparently uttered by Aeneas in the battle just concluded ('apparently', since Virgil does not feature them in his narrative) are now 'owned' by the gods since they accepted the bargain: Aeneas, after all, emerged from the battle victoriously. Vows and prayers in general always imply (the possibility of) reciprocal obligation between humans and deities. The placement of the phrase at the beginning of the verse is programmatic: 'The object is thrust forward to give due prominence to Aeneas' preference' (Horsfall 2003: 51): the repayment of direct debt to the gods overrides any other consideration (which may also be religious in nature, like seeing to the proper burial of fallen comrades).

**vota … victor**: the alliteration underscores the thematic nexus between (the need for) divine support and victory in warfare. There are other touches that underscore Aeneas' *pietas*: see the notes above on *vota deum* (4) and *primo … Eoo* (4), which complement his military prowess: Virgil, with elegant simplicity, tags him as *victor* (4).

**primo … Eoo**: at the first sign of dawn, i.e. literally at the earliest possible opportunity: *primo*, reinforced by hyperbaton, is yet another stylistic touch to prime the reader that when it comes to religious obligations, Aeneas doesn't cut any corners. *Eous* is a loanword from the Greek *êoios* [ἠοῖος] or *eôios* [ἑῷος]. The two alternative spellings account for the fact that the initial *E* of the Latin equivalent can be either short (transliterating the Greek *epsilon*) or long (transliterating the Greek êta). Here it is the former. The first o scans long since it represents the long Greek letter ô-mega. JH: Notice how the 'new day / episode' formula is bracketed between Latin *Aurora* and Greek *Eous*, the cosmic and the human parallel levels as close and as distinct as in the transaction of translation, from the live but everyday Latin Personificatrix to the precious but matt Greek dummy-substantive 'the Dawnish' = Morning Star. What *E-o-o* leaves to echo on through Book 11, however, is the un-Latin howling *noise* it makes, open long vowels to set a funereal note. Indeed, the imagery recalls the simile in Book 8 that compared Pallas upon his departure for war to the Morning Star (cited above 19), and the celestial references thus bracket his trajectory from rising to fallen prodigy.

**solvebat**: the standard aspects of the Latin imperfect are duration, iteration, or attempt in the past (durative, iterative, conative); here a fourth possible aspect — inchoative or inceptive — is in play: Aeneas *began* to take care of his religious duties at first Dawn (and then continued doing so until all were properly dispatched).

The passage overall features an expressive use of metre, as Virgil deploys dactyls and spondees in neat alignment with his thematic concerns:

```
2 – – | – – | – u u | – u u | – u u | – x
3 – u u | – – | – – | – u u | – u u | – x
4 – u u | – – | – – | – – | – u u | – x
```
The opening spondees in line 2 (*Aeneas quamquam et*) arguably hint at the mental conflict Aeneas is experiencing, as he is pulled in different directions: he should see to the customary duties owed to his fallen comrades awaiting burial, but must also repay the contractual debts with the gods he incurred personally by praying for their support in battle and receiving it. The dilemma is a serious one, especially for someone sporting the epithet *pius*: it pitches two types of religious obligations against one another. In the rest of line 2 and the opening of line 3, the metre speeds along in dactyls, enacting the main verb of the *quamquam*-clause, *praecipitant*. It slows down in foot 2 and 3 of line 3, around the spondaic *curae*, which bridges the second and third foot. While his sorrows urge Aeneas towards one course of action, Virgil gives the impression that this would have been a rash mis-judgment of priorities, and in line 4, which returns us to the main clause, the countervailing spondees of foot 2, 3, and 4 convey the sense that Aeneas managed to put a brake on the course of action his anxieties and his troubled mind push him to pursue. The stately metre suits Aeneas' conscientious fulfilment of his religious obligations: he has emerged victorious (*victor*) and hence needs to take care of his part of the bargain and fulfil the pledges he made to the gods before the battle in return for victory (*vota deum*).

Fig. 16 Wenceslaus Hollar (1607–1677), *Aeneas erects a trophy of the weapons of Mezentius* [n.d.], Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto, https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mezentius#/media/File:Wenceslas\_Hollar\_-\_ Aeneas\_erects\_a\_trophy\_of\_the\_weapons\_of\_Mezentius\_(State\_2)\_2.jpg

# 11.5–11: EpicDIY, or: How to Build aVictory Trophy

Among the momentous events recounted in *Aeneid* 10, Turnus' slaying of Pallas, son of Evander, king of *Pallan*teum (the Arcadian settlement at the future site of Rome visited by Aeneas in *Aeneid* 8) stands out: Virgil devotes the entire first-third of *Aeneid* 11 to meditate on its implications. Turnus' victory over the teenager (and how he dealt with it) will come back to haunt him at the end: struck down in his final face-off with Aeneas, he pleads for mercy and is about to succeed in swaying the mind of his opponent; but then Aeneas catches sight of Pallas' swordbelt, which Turnus inadvisably donned in his arrogance, and sees red: flying into a royal rage, he buries his sword in his enemy, sending him to the shades below. At the end of *Aeneid* 10, Aeneas disposed of another Italic warrior-tyrant, of a far nastier calibre than Turnus, the Etruscan king Mezentius (after his likeable son Lausus, who was slain trying to protect his father). In victory Aeneas recovers control and remembers his obligations towards the gods. These include the proper disposal of *spolia*, i.e. armour stripped from a defeated enemy (in this case Mezentius). Within the *Aeneid*, it is decidedly not OK to wear such spoils yourself. Those who do so (notably Turnus) are going to die. What you can do is to carry spoils in a triumph, nail them up on your doorpost, burn them on the battlefield — or use them to construct an effigy of your enemy as a victory monument (a so-called *tropaeum*), which is best dedicated to a divinity. This is precisely what we see Aeneas doing with methodical efficiency in lines 5–11. Setting aside his worries and personal obligations (which, it is important to note, also involve ties of *pietas*), he sets to work as if following a construction manual for a *tropaeum*. As Cleary (1982: 21) points out: 'Note the verbs *induit* (6), *aptat* (8), *subligat* and *suspendit* (11). Each denotes the careful handling used with these weapons, and each reinforces the idea that enemy *spolia* adorn, are fitted or tied to, or are hung from a replica of the warrior, a *tropaeum* made from an oak tree, but they are not fitted to a living person [got this, Turnus?], nor are they used again in battle.'

Lines 5–11 form one long sentence, with a bit of a — thematically appropriate — breather after *bellipotens*, halfway through. The basic syntax is resolutely paratactic: it does not present significant problems. But there are tricky patches to do with connectives and the cluster of accusative objects. Overall, the passage has a 'Lego-feel' to it, of different parts of hardware ritually assembled into the artificial equivalent of a real (if now dead) individual. The mark-up underscores the craftsmanship of Virgil's lego-poetics:


Key:


Let's begin by sorting out the connectives (some of which link verbs, others accusative objects):


But as always, what's not in the text is just as important as what is: do note the absence of a connective between *induit* and *aptat*: the asyndetic continuation generates a powerful stop after *bellipotens*, reinforced by metre: the word forms a self-contained metrical unit known as a choriamb (– u u –). The apostrophe of Mars, set up by *tibi*, *magne*, stands at the very centre of this block of verses.

Lines 5–7 explain the construction of the victory monument in general terms; lines 8–11 give details of the design: *aptat*, *subligat*, and *suspendit* all elaborate on *induit arma*. The main verbs are symmetrically distributed across the block, with the first two (connected via homoioteleuton: –*tuit … –duit*) and the last two (connected via alliteration: *su–… su*–) sharing one line and similar distribution across the verse (beginning and penultimate position), whereas the single *aptat* is located more centrally. The accusative objects manifest a similar distribution: the verbs *constituit* (*quercum*) and *induit* (*arma*, expanded via two appositions: *exuvias*, *tropaeum*) govern one accusative object each; *aptat* governs three (*cristas*, *tela*, *thoraca*); *subligat* (*clipeum*) and *suspendit* (*ensem*) again one each. JH: Mezentius is to be re-membered as a 'fully-developed' star epic figure worth Virgil's engineering: no blankly negative *exemplum* he, nor to be dismissed lightly, this heart*less* oak tree effigy presiding over Book 11 (and through to The End).

## 5

**ingentem quercum**: the oak is a tree sacred to Jupiter and plays an important role in the imagery of the *Aeneid*. Virgil connects the tree with the Cyclopes (3.680), Aeneas standing firm against Dido's pleading (4.441), preparation for battle (7.509), the arms Venus gets for Aeneas

from Vulcan (8.615–16), the giant figures of Pandarus and Bitias (9.681), and as recipient of the spoils of Halaesus that Pallas promises to hang up in honour of *pater Thybris* (10.423). See further Fratantuono and Smith (2018: 642), with additional bibliography.

**decisis undique ramis**: an ablative absolute: the oak-trunk is shorn of its branches and is hence '*trunca*' — just like Mezentius' weapons (9: *telaque trunca*).

## 6–7

**arma | … exuvias … tropaeum**: *arma* is the direct object of *induit*; the (implied) indirect object is the oak, i.e. *quercui*. Both *exuvias* and *tropaeum* stand in apposition to *arma*. All three words refer to the same objects, which undergo symbolic transformation: initially they are weapons meant for fighting (*arma*); once their wearer has been killed in battle, they become the spoils of the victor (*exuviae*); and in a final step, the spoils are turned into a victory monument (*tropaeum*). JH: No doubt Virgil welcomes the hint of rhetorical / poetic 'trope' in the Greek word *tropos* (naturalised in Latin as *tropus*)*.* Dressing up a mock-Mezentius *is* a ritual *of* metaphor, a *translatio*, and dressing up warrior monuments is just what epic poets do. The word graced the poem for the first time in Book 10 (x 2); the remaining occurrences (5) stud the text of Book 11.

Mezentius ending up as a *tropaeum* is a case of cosmic irony (and justice?), in the light of his blasphemous pronouncement just before his fatal showdown with Aeneas (10.773–76):

'dextra mihi deus et telum, quod missile libro, nunc adsint! voveo praedonis corpore raptis indutum spoliis ipsum te, Lause, tropaeum Aeneae.'

['May this right hand, my deity, and the hurtling weapon I poise, now aid me! I vow you, Lausus, your very self, clad in spoils stripped from the robber's corpse, as my trophy over Aeneas.']

As Nielson (1983: 28) explains: 'Mezentius, as *contemptor deorum*, is parodying the usual formula one finds occurring in Homeric heroism prior to single combat. He names his right arm as the god whose strength he is invoking, and also calls upon his spear. He then proceeds in an extraordinary manner to dedicate his spoils to his son, Lausus, who will become a living trophy, clad in the arms torn from the body of Aeneas. Mezentius thus blasphemes the gods and the terrible power that the armor of the dead enemy holds, and would further include his son in the danger of clothing him in Aeneas' arms.'

**tropaeum**: a Latin loanword from the Greek (τρόπαιον / *tropaion*), etymologically related to *trope*, i.e. 'turning point', specifically the place on the battlefield where the enemy first turned to flee. The Greek practice of erecting a trophy right after a victorious encounter seems to have started in the wake of the Persian Wars in imitation of an Eastern custom: it is not a Homeric practice. See Trundle (2018: 123–4), who argues that 'trophies emerged at a time when, and as a result of the fact that, in the results of pitched battles it became less easy to determine the winner from the loser. Trophies became a means for one side to claim a victory in an age when warfare had become more destructive, longerlasting and generally more chaotic, and when distinguishing the winner from the loser in a set-piece engagement had actually become more complicated. Trophies became a mechanism, albeit a symbolic one, for a victor to claim the victory no matter how real that victory actually was'. How much of this resonates in Virgil is unclear: he foregrounds the aspect of religious obligation, merging the Greek practice of erecting a *tropaeum* with the Roman religious speech-act of uttering a pre-battle vow (*votum*). JH: In the process he allows this fictional founding moment to include a Greek term at the core of his (aetiological?) account of a precious Roman institution (the triumph-cum-funeral complex). (Would Ennius' epic of Rome saddle his Romulus with a *tropaion*?)

## 7–8

**tibi, magne, … | bellipotens**: Virgil here addresses himself directly to the god Mars: *magne* (and *bellipotens*: but see below) are in the vocative, set up by the second personal pronoun *tibi*. The compound adjective *bellipotens* (*bellum* + *potens*), here used substantivally, is first attested

in Virgil's epic predecessor Ennius, but was perhaps already used by Ennius' predecessor Naevius: see *Annals* fr. 197–98 (Skutsch): *stolidum genus Aeacidarum*: | *Bellipotentes sunt magis quam sapientipotentes* ('the blockhead clan descended from Aeacus: they are strong in war more so than strong in wisdom'), with Skutsch's commentary *ad locum*.

#### Extra information

Some scholars feel that Aeneas ought to have dedicated the spoils to Jupiter (who is associated with the oak) and construe the lines differently, with *magne* alone in the vocative (addressing Jupiter) and *bellipotens* modifying *tropaeum*. See Rivero García and Librán Moreno (2011: 473–4) who, in a discussion that suggests a close link between (indeed, a virtual identification of) Mezentius and Mars, note that 'the reference to a *quercus* would have been more appropriate for *spolia opima*, ritually dedicated to Jupiter, and not for the *spolia secunda* that are dedicated to Mars' [but what about Turnus, you may well ask: the top billing is still to come] and that '*magne* is an invocation — though not an official one — that is more suited to Jupiter' — and suggest (474–5):

Now it is quite revealing that Virgil's text, clearly addressed to Mars, can be read *at the same time* with a different syntactic configuration and, consequently, with a different meaning. It would be sufficient, in fact, not to punctuate after *bellipotens*: *Mezenti ducis exuuias*, *tibi*, *Magne*, *tropaeum / bellipotens* ('spoils of the general Mezentius, for you, Great one, a trophy / mighty in war'). In accordance with this equally grammatical reading, Aeneas would be offering up to Jupiter (*Magne*) the spoils of Mezentius (*Mezenti ducis exuuias*) in the form of a *tropaeum bellipotens*, an expression which would reactivate the Mezentius-Mars link […] the *tropaeum* of Mezentius would symbolize the banishing of war itself, in a ritual conducted by the priest Aeneas…

## 8–10

**aptat rorantis sanguine cristas | telaque trunca viri, et bis sex thoraca petitum | perfossumque locis**: the subject of *aptat* is Aeneas. The verb governs three accusative objects: *cristas*, *tela*, *thoraca*. Each of the first two is modified by a participle (*rorantis*, *trunca*), in chiastic order; the third (*thoraca*) is modified by two (*petitum*, *perfossum*: 'struck and pierced through') linked by alliteration. The genitive *viri* goes with all three.

**rorantis**: NOT the genitive singular, but the alternative third declension accusative plural ending (= *rorantes*). That the plume of the helmet is still dripping with blood the morning after the battle (rather than clinging to it in coagulated form) is a strikingly vivid detail that recalls the 'rivers of blood' that Mezentius shed when Aeneas pierced his jugular (*Aen*. 10.907–9, cited above): what tends to drip (with dew) in the morning is the Dawn, so the imagery here also recalls and implicates the opening line of the book and (once more) reinforces the meaning of *primo … Eoo* (4): Aeneas is at it so early that the blood is still fresh… As Fratantuono (2009: 18) points out, we are dealing with a 'strikingly jarring image'; he cites Boedeker (1984: 64) to explain: '*Ros* [= dew] is […] used in Latin poetry to designate pure, fresh water used in rituals…'

**telaque trunca**: Horsfall (2003: 54) speaks of 'marked alliterative brutality'.

**bis sex … locis**: the adverb *bis* (= two times) and the indeclinable numeral *sex* (= six) modify the ablative of place *locis*. The fact that Mezentius' cuirass (and hence also his body?) has been pierced a dozen times puzzles: in the duel itself, he was only wounded twice — once below his thorax, once above it (10.783–6, 856–7, 907–8). So where do the additional wounds come from? Was Mezentius' body mutilated post mortem? As Thomas (2001: 138) and many others have noted, the 'twelve perforations suggested to readers as early as Servius a ritual desecration of the corpse by each of the twelve Etruscan cities — from which Mezentius had asked Aeneas' protection at the end of Book 10.' Whatever the case, there is a shocking exactness to the numerals, rendered more unsettling because the holes remain unexplained in the narrative, a gap Virgil leaves to the imagination of the reader to fill, here pointing up the erasure of the corpse once stripped (soon to be followed by a whole queue of them, see on 81–2 below).

#### Extra information

There is also a Homeric intertext that encourages us to think of the physical mutilation of Mezentius' corpse. Aeneas' speech at 12–28 is modelled on Achilles' speech right after his duel with Hector at *Iliad* 22.378–94 (see further below) — and just before this speech (369–75), Homer records how the other Greeks would gather round Hector's corpse: initially too afraid to draw near and further wound his body, they then encourage each other, step up, and inflict wounds on the corpse.

**thoraca**: *thorax*, -*acis* (m.) is a Greek loanword (the Latin equivalent would be *lorica*); the form here is the (Greek) accusative singular (the final –*a* scans short).

**perfossum**: as Lyne (1989: 113) observes, *perfodio*, a prosaic word, occurs only here in Virgil, and is used in prose literature 'for various manual and technological tasks: digging channels through land obstructions and the like', whereas 'Vergil transfers it to the action of a weapon'. Arguably, its striking nature is designed to draw attention to the posthumous mutilation that Mezentius' corpse may have suffered (see note on *bis sex … locis*).

## 10–11

**clipeumque ex aere sinistrae | subligat atque ensem collo suspendit eburnum**: Aeneas continues his construction work by attaching Mezentius' shield on the left side of the *tropaeum* (with *sinistrae* supply *parti*) and hanging his sword around the 'neck' of the trunk. As Gransden (1991: 70) notes, '*collo* continues the identification of the tree-trunk with the dead hero of whom it is a symbol'. JH: Notice the decorative twist in *sub-ligat … su*(*b*)*s-pendit*, for opposite forms of attaching, underscored by the decorative opposition of metals, *ex aere*  <=> *eburnum.*

**ex aere**: indicates the material out of which the *clipeus* was fashioned: 'a shield made of bronze'.

**eburnum**: this ivory necklace is a sword-*hilt*, i.e. the blade is decommissioned, and we're dressing up a dolly.

Much in the description of the victory monument is chilling, not least the conflation of nature and death. See Reckford (2012: 78):

The spoils of Mezentius are hung on the bare trunk as trophies. That is normal Roman procedure […] But now everything is somehow mutilated. Branches are lopped from the living tree, blazing arms put in their place. A short while back, the wounded-yet-living Mezentius rested against a tree and hung his helmet from its branches; now he is dead. The helmet's plumes shed a bloody dew, and the spears are 'truncated.' It is as though the grotesque quality of death in battle had communicated itself to nature. The tree is a death tree…

# 12–28: Aeneas' First Speech (Overview)

As in all ancient epics, Virgil gives over a significant percentage of the text to other characters speaking — the longest instance is the account Aeneas gives Dido of his adventures, which makes up virtually all of Books 2 and 3 of the *Aeneid*. 7 As Laird (1999: 153) notes, 'the relationship between the discourse of the poem's narrative and the discourse of its characters — Virgil's "rhetoric of epic" — has a significant role in engineering the distinctive pathos and disturbing political message of the *Aeneid*.' The most impressive speeches of *Aeneid* 11 occur in its middle section, dedicated as it is to the Latin war council. It 'includes Turnus' longest speech and the second longest formal speech in the *Aeneid*' (Fantham 1999a: 259).8 But the first four speeches of the book belong to Aeneas: 14–28, to his men and allies; 42–58 and 96–8, both addressed to Pallas; and 108–19, responding to the Latin ambassadors. All in all 46 lines — which, for Aeneas, is a mouthful. As Mackie points out (1984: 308, n.1): 'Aeneas utters 4 speeches, 46 lines in Book 11. The hero's comparative taciturnity in the Iliadic *Aeneid* [= Books 7–12] is shown by the fact that only in Book 12 does he speak more — 47 lines.' See more generally Highet (1972).

<sup>7</sup> See Laird (1999: 154) for a comparative discussion and bibliography.

<sup>8</sup> Apart from Fantham, see also Hardie (1998).

The overall design of his first speech is as follows: tum socios (namque omnis eum stipata tegebat turba ducum) sic incipiens hortatur ovantis: 'maxima res effecta, viri; timor omnis abesto, quod superest; haec sunt spolia et de rege superbo 15 primitiae manibusque meis Mezentius hic est. *nunc iter ad regem nobis murosque Latinos.* **arma parate, animis et spe praesumite bellum, ne qua mora ignaros, ubi primum vellere signa adnuerint superi pubemque educere castris, 20 impediat segnisve metu sententia tardet.** *interea socios inhumataque corpora terrae mandemus, qui solus honos Acheronte sub imo est.* **ite', ait 'egregias animas, quae sanguine nobis hanc patriam peperere suo, decorate supremis** 25 **muneribus, maestamque Evandri primus ad urbem mittatur Pallas, quem non virtutis egentem abstulit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo.'**

sic ait inlacrimans...

Key:


The speech has a clear structure:


As we move through the speech, the way in which Aeneas engages his audience changes. Deictic pronouns (*haec*, *hic*) and apodeictic pronouncements (*maxima res effecta*; *timor omnis abesto*; *haec sunt*; *hic est*) dominate the initial and first transitional segment. In segment three, he switches to imperatives in the second person plural (18: *parate*, *praesumite*), without excluding himself from the challenges ahead (17: *nobis*). The inclusive first person plural registers in segment four, with the exhortatory subjunctive *mandemus* (23), before Aeneas switches back to the second person plural imperative (*ite*, *decorate*) in segment five, saving a vague and poignant impersonal exhortatory subjunctive (*mittatur*) for Pallas. In segments (i)–(iv) especially, Aeneas uses a series of near-synonymous expressions: *spolia–primitiae*, *regem–murosque*, *arma–bellum*, *parate–praesumite*, *animis–spe*, *ignaros–segnis*, *vellere signa– educere castris*, *impediat–tardet*, *socios–corpora*, *abstulit–mersit*. They endow his speech with a deliberate and measured regularity. It almost sounds as if a supremely assured Aeneas is going through the motions as he performs his roles of *victor* and *imperator* (Horsfall 2003: 57). As we see next, he *needs* to. Tellingly, apart from one occurrence in the closing line (a 'citation' of *Aeneid* 6.429: see below), the repetitive beat of virtual synonyms fades in the final segment, where emotions of gratitude (for the ultimate sacrifice made by those fallen in combat) mingled with grief (for Pallas in particular) come to the fore. The overall design reinforces this change in stylistic registers: we have three principal (i, iii, v) and two transitional (ii, iv) segments, and all gradually and climactically increase (from 3 to 4 to 5 lines; and from 1 to 2 lines, respectively), as we move from the fulfilment of his vows (i) to future efforts in war (iii) to the burial rites that will dominate the opening section of the book (v). The design indicates that, despite giving priority to the trophy in honour of Mars and his ongoing commitment to the war, Aeneas' mind and heart are clearly focused on the dead, and Pallas above all. In the final showdown with Turnus, of course, the two concerns will powerfully coalesce: the killing of Turnus is the last rite in Pallas' funeral.

Virgil's Homeric model is the speech of Achilles after his showdown with Hector at *Iliad* 22.378–94, which features a similar tripartite structure: it begins with reflections on his victory in the duel, moves on to an exhortation to test the resolve of the Trojans now that their strongest human bulwark is no more, before stopping himself upon remembering that the corpse of dear Patroclus still lies by the ships, unwept, unburied.

## 11.12–16: *Sic Semper Tyrannis* @TakeNoteTurnus

A speech requires an audience — and so Virgil, who has so far depicted Aeneas building his victory monument as if he was all alone, surrounds him with a crowd of cheering (and distinguished) bystanders (12–13), whom he can address (14–).

## 12–13

**tum** *socios* **(namque** *omnis* **eum** *stipata tegebat turba ducum***) sic incipiens hortatur** *ovantis***:**

Key:


In the main clause, Aeneas is the subject and the allies the accusative object; in the parenthesis the grammatical relations are inverted: Aeneas is the object and the throng of allied leaders the subject. The mark-up also illustrates the touch of enactment: the word order, and in particular the two hyperbata *socios … ovantis* and *omnis … turba*, reproduces the sense of *stipata* and *tegebat* on the level of verse design: the allied leaders crowd around him as Aeneas and his voice rise out of their midst.

**socios … ovantis**: *ovantis* is a present participle in the accusative masculine plural (= *ovantes*). *ovo* can have the technical sense of celebrating an *ovatio*, which the Romans granted for a significant military victory that did not quite merit the award of the more prestigious triumph, but could be a stepping stone towards one. This gradation is appropriate to the narrative situation: after Mezentius, Turnus awaits (as diagrammed in the catalogue of *those* allies in Book 7: top and tail). It is symptomatic that the allies only react to his past and present actions, focusing on the victory in combat, rather than the anxieties about the future that preoccupy Aeneas. Tellingly, while they cheer, Aeneas ends up weeping when his speech draws to a close (29: *sic ait inlacrimans*). The contrast highlights one of Virgil's favourite themes: the close proximity, indeed ineluctable imbrication, of triumph and tragedy in human affairs; but it reserves the full force of this realization to a few choice individuals, not the hoi polloi of Virgil's narrative. The *socii* in question are both Aeneas's Trojan comrades and his Italic allies, i.e. Evander's Arcadians and the contingent from Etruria.

**namque omnis eum stipata tegebat | turba ducum**: Virgil often gives us Aeneas first in the seemingly splendid isolation of the lone hero before zooming out and recognizing that other figures are part of the picture.9 Here it seems that Aeneas has been all alone on the battlefield while constructing the victory trophy; but now we learn that he had been operating for some time (see the imperfect *tegebat*) within a crowd of cheering allies. Virgil places the emphasis on their elevated status: like Aeneas himself, those around him are leaders (*duces*). Aeneas thereby emerges as the 'leader of leaders', or as they say in Italian, 'il capo di tutti capi'. With his emphasis on a crowd of *leaders*, Virgil offers a prototypical anticipation not just of friends and clients gathering around their patron (which is such a familiar phenomenon of Roman public life throughout the republican and imperial eras), but also of the more specific scenario of the principate, with patrons in their own right gathering (like clients) around a super-patron. (*duco* will, besides, emerge as the constantly reinforced 'guiding principle' of the whole funeral episode, cf., already, 7 *ducis*, and note on 84 below.)

<sup>9</sup> Gildenhard (2012: 240–43, https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0023) on the opening of *Aeneid* 6.

## 14–16

**'maxima res effecta [***est***], viri; timor omnis** *abesto***, | quod** *superest***; haec**  *sunt* **spolia et de rege superbo | primitiae manibusque meis Mezentius hic** *est*: the first segment of the speech is very matter of fact, with a decided preference for *esse* (or compounds thereof) as verb, including an initial ellipse. As Horsfall (2003: 58) puts it: 'Ellipse of copula … strips great deeds of trivial words.' The announcement that the greatest (note the superlative *maxima*) deed has been accomplished might sound strange given that the climactic duel with Turnus still awaits. We might chalk up this hyperbole to Aeneas' psychologically shrewd endeavour to rally his troops ('it's all downhill from now on…'), whatever the facts of the matter, and perhaps also see in it a sly reference by Virgil to his model in Homer, i.e. Achilles' speech after his killing of Hector at *Iliad* 22.378–94, which is indeed the *maxima res* of that particular epic.

**abesto**: third person singular future imperative active.

**de rege superbo**: the expression is again elliptical — a participle like *ereptae* ('snatched from') or *sumptae* ('taken from') is implied; it goes with both *spolia* and *primitiae* (an 'apo-koinou' construction). JH: While we're talking 'over-bearing' pride and downfall, we should tag together *superest … superbo* here, with 10.897 (cited above, 172), *super haec*, to see what the poet can do with a cliché, melding words, deeds, and ideas. We might also contemplate the etymology some have proposed for Mezentius, from *meizôn*, Greek for 'bigger, greater'.

**primitiae**: Aeneas' description of Mezentius as *primitiae* (literally, 'first fruits') is 'puzzling': 'Mezentius is neither the first worthy fighter killed by the Trojans, nor is he the first killed by Aeneas' (Nielson 1983: 29). He argues that 'Mezentius is *primitiae* not in the literal sense of being the first offering to Mars […], but in the sense of being the most outstanding example of the *superbus rex*, a proper and dramatic fulfilment of the charge of Anchises [*Aeneid* 6.851–53]' (ibid.). An ancient explanation, advanced by the late-antique author Macrobius, links the term to a blasphemous action of the king, found in Cato the Elder's *Origines* (and here alluded to by Virgil), namely that Mezentius forced the Rutulians to offer to him the first fruits that they used to offer to the gods, which

fits his characterization as a 'despiser of the gods' (Macrobius, *Saturnalia* 3.5.10–11):

sed veram huius contumacissimi nominis causam in primo libro originum Catonis diligens lector inveniet: ait enim Mezentium Rutulis imperasse ut sibi offerrent quas dis primitias offerebant, et Latinos omnes similis imperii metu ita vovisse: 'Iuppiter, si tibi magis cordi est nos ea tibi dare potius quam Mezentio, uti nos victores facias.' ergo quod divinos honores sibi exegerat, merito dictus a Vergilio contemptor deorum. hinc pia illa insultatio sacerdotis: … *haec sunt spolia et de rege superbo* | *primitiae*, ut nomine contumaciae cui poenas luit raptas de eo notaret exuvias.

[But the attentive reader will find the true origin of this phrase, which denotes the worst sort of defiance, in Book 1 of Cato's *Origins* [*FRHist* F9]: Mezentius had commanded the Rutulians to offer to him the first fruits that they usually offered to the gods, and the people of Latium, fearing a similar command, made the following vow: 'Jupiter, if you prefer that we make that offering to you rather than Mezentius, we pray that you make us victorious.' Because he demanded divine honors for himself, then, he earned Virgil's description as 'despiser of the gods': hence the priest's [= Aeneas'!] pious abuse, '…these are the spoils and first fruits taken from the arrogant king…', signifying that the spoils were taken from him because of the defiance for which he paid the penalty.]

Put differently, the god-defiant recipient of first-fruit offerings has himself been transformed into a first-fruit offer to a god. The link to agriculture is also at the heart of Lyne's reading (1989: 160): 'Aeneas exploits "perversion of agriculture" imagery in bitter, one might say, cynical recognition of the destructiveness of what he has been doing. Spoils for Mars are termed first-agricultural fruits; offerings that issue from destruction and war are clothed in language of productiveness and peace. Aeneas recognizes his action to be a ghastly parody of a mighthave-been and labels it accordingly, in a grimly exultant irony'.

The striking lexeme recurs in Evander's apostrophe of Pallas at 11.156 (see below) — a repetition that hints at the analogous narrative function of Pallas and Mezentius: both prefigure (the figure of) the end, i.e. (the death of) Turnus. See Panoussi (2009: 31): 'The death of Mezentius, the Etruscan leader fighting on the side of the Latins, repeats Pallas' death in its function as preliminary sacrifice to that of Turnus. This repetition attests the persistence of the problem of ritual perversion. Pallas and Mezentius may appear unlikely partners in this, yet they embody two contradictory aspects important in the portrait of Turnus: his appearance as at once a virginal figure who fails initiation and as a seasoned warrior and opponent worthy of Aeneas.'

**manibus meis Mezentius hic est**: *manibus meis* is an ablative of agency: 'this is Mezentius [as made] by my hands', i.e. 'Look here, I've killed the man and turned him into a victory trophy in honour of Mars.'

#### Extra information

JH: Here Aeneas clinches his required performance as exultant trophybuilder with savage mockery, answering his primitive 'revenge is mine' dig yelled over his fallen foe at 10.897–98, '*Ubi nunc Mezentius acer et illa* | *effera vis animi*?'. Answer: 'Here he is — get it!' There, Mezentius' response at once tagged Aeneas' jibe as crude hatred ('*hostis amare*'), while making sure we get what's going on, as well as he does, in his own check-out pseudo-question ('*quid increpitas mortemque minaris*?', 10.900; see 10.810, where Aeneas chides and threatens Lausus). He nails Aeneas' in-themoment lapse to try to reach his better self, briskly scorning death as the stake of battle before appealing in the name of the shared bond of paternity to *defend* Mezentius & Son from savage revenge — at the hands of their own people (*acerba meorum … odia*: *… defende furorem*, 904–05) = by *yielding* them a shared grave (*concede*, 906). Mezentius nailed vengeance as the stake (*ultor*, 864), and tries to bring a crowing Aeneas back to civilized negotiation (as if 'accepting' death pledges his half of a bargain, *accipit*, 907). Unsympathetically, we could observe that tyrants trying to save their skin are forever trying to strike a *private* 'deal' with their people to save their hide (just the kind of *foedera* Mezentius renounces, 10.902); and this is often allowed to happen in order to keep civil blood off the hands of the new régime. (Gladhill (2016) puts the logic of the *foedus* at the core of Roman world-shaping.) For the ritualized 'locker-room' protocols of alpha-male monomachy Roman-style, see Oakley (1985). Note that back in the day a Roman 'David' could decapitate his 'Goliath' opponent, but Augustan Livy must explicitly *cut* this barbarity from his revise (see 7.10.11). For a juicy low-down anecdotal version, see Phaedrus, *Fables*, *Appendix Perottina* 10 with Henderson (2001a, Ch. 5: 'The Price of Fame: *Pompey the Great* and the Queen's Shilling (*App*. 10)').

# 11.17–21: Going (Again)for the Jugular…

In Homer, Achilles, after slaying Hector, also encourages his fellow Greeks to make trial of Troy, to see whether the city might surrender now that its greatest warrior is dead (*Iliad* 22.381–84):

εἰ δ᾽ ἄγετ᾽ ἀμφὶ πόλιν σὺν τεύχεσι πειρηθῶμεν, ὄφρά κ᾽ ἔτι γνῶμεν Τρώων νόον ὅν τιν᾽ ἔχουσιν, ἢ καταλείψουσιν πόλιν ἄκρην τοῦδε πεσόντος, ἦε μένειν μεμάασι καὶ Ἕκτορος οὐκέτ᾽ ἐόντος.

[Come, let us make trial in arms about the city, so that we may know what the Trojans have in mind, whether they will leave their high city now that this man is fallen or are minded to remain, even though Hector is no more.]

## 17

**nunc iter** [faciendum est] **ad regem nobis murosque Latinos**: the first transitional segment, marked by the temporal adverb *nunc*. Aeneas is again sparse with words, suppressing the verb.

**nobis:** dative of authorship with the understood gerundive *faciendum est*.

**ad regem**: the *rex* here is Latinus, who dwells in — some city or other, somewhere: 'Latinus' city is neither explicitly named nor precisely located in Virgil's text…, perhaps deliberately' (Horsfall 2003: 105). In Book 7.170–91, Virgil described the palace of Latinus as a majestic proto-Roman house, a *tectum augustum* (!). Situated in no-man's land, his city is an imaginary placeholder for Aeneas' own foundation(s) — as announced in the proem (1.5–7):

multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem, 5 inferretque deos Latio, genus unde Latinum, Albanique patres, atque altae moenia Romae.

[much he suffered also in war before he could found the city and carry his gods into Latium. This was the beginning of the Latin race, the Alban fathers and the walls of high Rome.]

(The city that Aeneas founds is Lavinium, the mother-city of Alba Longa, the birthplace of the twins Romulus and Remus, the legendary founders of Rome.)

## 18–21

**arma parate animis et spe praesumite bellum |** *ne qua mora ignaros***,**  ubi primum vellere signa | adnuerint superi pubemque educere castris **|** *impediat segnisve metu sententia tardet***.**

Key:


The imperatives *parate* and *praesumite* (18) segue into a negative indirect command clause introduced by *ne*, which consists of two parts, linked by the enclitic –*ve* after *segnis* (21). The two subjects of the *ne*-clause are *qua mora* and *sententia*, the verbs *impediat* and *tardet*. *ignaros* and *segnis* are in the accusative (though see below). *ubi primum* introduces a further (temporal) subordinate clause, with *adnuerint* as verb and *superi* as subject. The –*que* after *pubem* links the infinitive phrases *vellere signa* and *pubem educere castris*. The phrasing in the first component of the *ne*-clause is a bit awkward: 'lest some delay obstructs those unaware' = 'lest those unaware cause any delay'.

**arma parate, animis et spe praesumite bellum**: the design looks like a perfect chiasmus: accusative object + verb + ablative :: ablative + verb + accusative object, with the two halves linked by *et*. But many scholars, including Mynors, the editor of the Oxford Classical Text (the prescribed edition), put a comma after *parate* – in which case the *et* does not link the two verbs *parate* and *praesumite*, but the two ablatives *animis* and *spe*, both to be construed with *praesumite* (which follows on *parate* asyndetically). JH: In this case, the formulation is an instance of Virgilian 'theme and variation', where a proposition is phrased and then rephrased with a new spin on it, within a single verse unit, here riffing precisely on the (still chiastic) *sequencing*, and so acting out the point (*arma ~ bellum*; *animis => spe*; *parate => prae-sumite*). To 'ready arms', the good soldier always already *anticipates* the engagement ahead, steeling his mettle by *looking forward* to the chances of achieving the objective.

Nisbet (1990: 387–88) characterizes this part of Aeneas' speech as follows (in a more general discussion of his qualities as proto-Roman *imperator*): 'He gives commands to his army with the menacing understatement of a successful soldier (17 "nunc iter ad regem nobis murosque Latinos"); in the manner of the later Roman army, which [officially] avoided unconsidered offensives, he aims at careful material and psychological preparation (18 "arma parate, animis et spe praesumite bellum").'

**animis et spe**: approximates to a hendiadys ('with hopeful courage').

**ne qua mora**: *qua* = *aliqua*, modifying *mora* ('any delay'). (Remember that after *si*, *nisi*, *num* and *ne*, the *ali*- of the indefinite pronoun isn't used.)

**vellere signa**: pulling the standards to march into battle had augural significance in Rome: if they came out easily, it was considered an auspicious sign of divine approval; if they refused to budge, disaster loomed (see further Konrad 2004). In other words, Aeneas, by using technical terminology and figures of thought from Rome's civic religion, here prefigures aspects of the political culture of the community he is destined to found.

**adnuerint superi**: The Romans developed various means of ascertaining the will of the gods, which were thought to communicate with mortals by means of (empirical) signs. Consultation of the gods before any weighty decision, especially in military matters, was de rigueur. This exercise, which tended to involve not just the magistrates in charge but also religious functionaries and attendants, also had social benefits: it was a way to build up consensus around a course of action that could very well backfire and thus enabled the magistrate in charge to manage (= reduce) risk. Someone who went to war without consulting the will of the gods, or did so perhaps even in defiance of divine dissuasion, was alone responsible for any ensuing defeat; those who abided by the protocols of Rome's civic religion and consensual decisionmaking, by checking with their divine fellow citizens first via the approved procedures, were less exposed in case matters went awry. In short, this is another instance where Virgil's Aeneas, by highlighting the importance of seeking divine approval before embarking on a course of action, manifests proto-Roman religious sensibilities. (See also above on *vota deum*.)

**segnis**: could be either nominative singular (modifying *sententia* in predicative position) or accusative plural (as a freestanding adjective used as a noun); given that it yields a parallel construction with the unambiguous *ignaros*, the latter is perhaps more likely. Just as *ignaros* looks back to *arma parate* (don't be caught unawares!), *segnis* looks back to *praesumite bellum* (prepare yourselves mentally for war: don't be paralyzed by fear!).

**metu**: to be taken either with *segnis* ('those sluggish because of fear') or *sententia* ('deliberation arising from fear') — or indeed both.

## 11.22–28: …But not Before Tending to theDead

Just like Achilles before him Aeneas puts his desire to go after the enemy onto momentary hold in remembrance of the dead. Yet unlike Achilles, who only thinks of Patroclus, Aeneas also remembers all the other allies who were killed in the preceding day's battle. And when his thoughts turn to Pallas, he focuses on the dead boy and his grieving father — unlike Achilles, who (at least initially) only thinks of himself. In line with this show of emotional control that feeds into an image of good leadership, Aeneas does not accompany Pallas' corpse to Pallanteum — again in contrast to Achilles. See *Iliad* 22.385–90:


[But why does my heart speak to me thus? A corpse lies by the ships, unwept, unburied: Patroclus. Him I shall not forget as long as I remain among the living and my knees are quick. But if in the house of Hades men forget their dead, even there I shall remember my dear comrade.]

## 22–23

**interea socios inhumataque corpora terrae | mandemus, qui solus honos Acheronte sub imo est**: the second transitional segment, marked by the temporal adverb *interea*. In his speech, Aeneas moves from preparation for further warfare to taking care of the dead. He switches from imperatives addressed to his subordinates to the first person plural exhortative subjunctive (*mandemus*). Yet while the army sorts its dead, Aeneas and his troops are busy all the while gearing up, geeing themselves up, for the march on Latinus' city, for what they're going to do to 'them'. This solemn trip *Evandri … ad urbem* | 26 is going to fan the fire in their bellies for the sortie ahead *ad regem … murosque Latinos*, 17, and don't forget it: they shan't.

JH: 'Meanwhile', notice that the responsion of *interea socios inhumataque corpora terrae* (22) with *interea … sociis dare tempus humandis* | *prae-cipitant* (2–3) reminds us that the pressing priority of getting the fallen interred was postponed by the call for earliest payment of religious dues (esp. in the shape and size of the *tropaeum* offering to Mars). We will find that dealing with the dead, enemy and friend alike, are two sides of the same coin, linked by a bridge between the Greek trophy claiming the battlefield and its Roman mobile adaptation in the form of floats at the triumph and their reprise in the funeral parade. Mezentius and Pallas share a single 'co-present' episode.

**socios inhumataque corpora**: hendiadys (= *inhumata corpora sociorum*).

**terrae**: dative, the indirect object of *mandemus* (23).

**qui solus honos … est**: the relative pronoun *qui*, while agreeing with the subject of the relative clause (*honos*) refers back to the action of proper burial.

**Acheronte sub imo**: anastrophe (= *sub imo Acheronte*). The Greek term Ἀχέρων / *Acheron*, which designates one of the Underworld rivers of Greek mythology, brings to mind Aeneas' trip to Hell in *Aeneid* 6. He is one of the handful of mortals to walk the earth with first-hand experience of the beyond (or below). His unique autopsy of underworld topography endows his discourse here with special authority.

## 24–28

**ite', ait 'egregias animas, quae sanguine nobis | hanc patriam peperere suo, decorate supremis | muneribus, maestamque Evandri primus ad urbem | mittatur Pallas, quem non virtutis egentem | abstulit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo.'**: the final part of the speech, marked off as special by *ait*, divides the fallen into two distinct sets — everyone else and Pallas. (The –*que* after *maestam* links *decorate* and *mittatur*.) By and large, parallel syntax with subtle variations underscores the common fate as well as Pallas' special status in Aeneas' thoughts. In the first segment we get two imperatives in asyndetic sequence (*ite*, *decorate*), the dead as accusative object (*egregias animas*), and a relative clause, with the *animae* as subject, that elaborates on their special achievement (*quae … suo*); in the second segment, we get an exhortative subjunctive in the third person singular passive (*mittatur*), the dead as subject (*Pallas*), and a relative clause, with Pallas as accusative object, that offers an apologetic gloss on his premature death (*quem … acerbo*).

**ite … decorate**: asyndeton: 'go honour'

**egregias animas**: perhaps reminiscent of Homer's 'strong souls' (ἰφθίμους ψυχὰς / *iphthimous psuchas*) at *Iliad* 1.2 — a poem that starts by invoking the descent of a host of heroic souls to Hades because of a conflict *within* the Greek camp. The Latin adjective sets *them* up as already 'standing out of the herd', but Pallas will emerge as *the* special one (sc. standing out from *their* herd).

**quae sanguine nobis | hanc patriam peperere suo**: the antecedent of *quae*, the subject of the relative clause, is *animas*. Aeneas here points out that the Italian allies, through their selfless sacrifice (a notion enhanced by the hyperbaton *sanguine … suo*) created a new homeland (*patria*) for the Trojans. The deictic pronoun *hanc* reinforces the sense that there is no way back: the refugees from Troy have come to stay and (their claim is that they) have already taken ownership of the land, paid for in blood.

**peperere**: the alternative third-person plural perfect indicative active (= *pepererunt*).

**maestamque Evandri … ad urbem**: The *urbs maesta* is none other than the prototype of Rome, Evander's foundation Pallanteum, though we are arguably dealing with a transposed epithet (not unlike *Aeneid* 1.7: *altae moenia Romae*). The constant use of the epithet *maestus* ('sad') is 'the most striking example of repetition in Book XI' (Gransden 1991: 28) and, employed eleven times (more than in any other book), a crucial leitmotif in *Aeneid* 11.

**primus … | mittatur Pallas**: Aeneas switches from the second person plural imperative active to the third person singular subjunctive passive: 'first of all (*primus* is an adjective in lieu of adverb), let Pallas be sent…' The more indirect exhortative subjunctive articulates grief. JH: A specially lacerating pun may lurk here, as if Pallas 'the spearlauncher' (Greek *pallô*) was always destined to wind up as a missile launched (*mittatur*) at his father and their people('s hearts) — sure as 'Pallas-to-Pallanteum'.

**non virtutis egentem**: JH: litotes that parades more sadomasochistic name punning, as *Eu-ander*'s son naturally inherited his share of *uirtus* (Greek *eu*-, 'well, plentiful' cashing out *non … egentem*, and *andreia* translating 'manliness, courage, virtue' as *virtus*. We here are all feeling the pain, but some ice-cold commentator would note that the father's etymology embraces his son's, and another that compound-plentiful Greek regularly requires such rhetorical shifts as this for conversion to emphatically simple Latinity.

**abstulit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo**: The line is a repetition of 6.429. The context in which it occurs there is worth citing in full (6.426–29):

Continuo auditae voces vagitus et ingens infantumque animae flentes, in limine primo quos dulcis vitae exsortis et ab ubere raptos abstulit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo

[At once are heard voices and enormous wailing — the souls of infants weeping, whom, on the very threshold of the sweet life they shared not, torn from the breast, the black day swept off and plunged in bitter death.]

The transposition of a line that was previously part of authorial narration into Aeneas' speech arguably highlights his enhanced knowledge and experience, not unlike his earlier reference to the river Acheron (which is picked up by *mersit*). Aeneas has emerged from his trip to hell as an authoritative expert in underworld matters — and tells it like Virgil did. The repetition also conveys the sense that Aeneas considers Turnus guilty of infanticide — a slaughter of an innocent nursling rather than a fledgling warrior. This is a distorted point of view — Aeneas' sense of reality is compromised by grief — but it arguably helps to explain the emotional explosion of *furor* and *pietas* that pushes him into sinking his sword into the pleading Turnus in the notorious final scene of the epic.

More generally, Moskalew (1982: 100) points out that such emphatic repetitions have a universalizing thrust, functioning 'in much the same way as a traditional heroic epithet that is applied to a man, not to single out some individual trait, but rather to put him in the same class with all other bearers of that epithet' — and uses 'the recurrent theme of *praematura mors* — of youth cut down before its prime' to illustrate the point: 'Pallas is the example that immediately comes to mind, but the same tragic destiny also awaits Lausus, Euryalus, and Marcellus.' And (we're bound to add) Camilla.

**atra dies**: *dies ater* means 'day of misfortune'. For a discussion of the origins of the phrase and its meanings see Rüpke (2014: 102–08). (Note that the grammatical gender of *dies* oscillates between feminine and masculine.)

**acerbo**: JH: bitter, we noted, because unripe. The boy getting taken away leaves us with the taste in Aeneas' mouth here to stay, lingering on, past the triple *a*-lliteration, in the long *-o* of his last word. We now share (in funere *mersit acerbo*) just what was doing Aeneas' head in back where we came in (3 *turbata …* funere *mens*).

As the mark-up illustrates, Virgil has organized this passage in a loose form of ring composition, reminiscent of Homeric poetry:



(*servabat*), then on Aeneas' gaze (*vidit*). The correspondence extends to syntax: see below on 39–41.

• D (Shaded): In addition to Acoetes and Aeneas, an anonymous crowd of mourners, including in particular the Trojan women, is part of the picture: they are first introduced as surrounding the corpse of Pallas attended to by Acoetes and then start howling in grief upon Aeneas' arrival.

So the overall order is A1 – B1 – C1 – D1 – B2 – D2 – C2 – A2 , yielding two interlaced chiastic patterns: A1 B1 B2 A2 , covering Aeneas' speech and movement, and C1 D1 D2 C2 , covering Pallas' corpse and the mourning crowd in attendance. The arrangement recalls Homer's penchant for ring composition, without committing the aesthetic sin of slavish imitation. (Homer would likely have opted for the perfectly symmetrical A1 – B1 – C1 – D1 –D2 – C2 – B2 – A2 .)

## 29–33

The passage starts off with a long sentence comprising five verses. The syntax is fairly straightforward: after the bipartite main clause, which features Aeneas as subject (the –*que* after *recipit* links the two main verbs *ait* and *recipit*), we get a spatial *ubi*-clause (picking up on *ad limina*), which describes Acoetes keeping watch over the corpse of Pallas (30–1: *corpus … senior*), followed by a bipartite relative clause (with *Acoetes* as antecedent): *qui … fuit*, *sed … ibat*…

## 29

**inlacrimans**: Aeneas wells up at the end of the speech he has just given and then again at the beginning of the speech he is about to deliver (41: *lacrimis ita fatur obortis*). Heroism and weeping are not incompatible. The 'stiff upper lip' or the Stoic sage who has his emotions under perfect control, responding to whatever life throws at him with mental equanimity, are notions that do not belong, or at least not initially, in the Graeco-Roman literary tradition. In the *Iliad*, we meet Achilles weeping at the shores of the sea after the slight he suffered at the hands of Agamemnon. Our first sight of Odysseus in Homer's *Odyssey* has the protagonist sitting at a beach on the island of Ogygia crying his heart out as he longs for a return home. And, to choose an example from a non-epic genre, much of Sophocles' tragedy *Philoctetes* features the hero wailing in pain on an abandoned island. Aeneas, though, usually keeps his emotions in check, especially in the second half of the poem. We are therefore dealing with a marked exception, as Highet (1974: 228) points out: 'Aeneas rarely speaks under the pressure of the softer emotions at any time after his entry into the underworld. Twice more he weeps bitterly: once when addressing the ghost of Dido (6. 455 + 476) and once when speaking of the dead Pallas (11. 29 + 41, 11.59).' His physical response highlights the intensity of Aeneas' grief, recalling Achilles' grief over Patroclus in the *Iliad*. It is the breeding ground for the red mist that descends on Aeneas in his final showdown with Pallas' killer Turnus. The degree of emotional intensity here matches the degree of emotional intensity there, as inconsolable grief transforms into uncontrollable wrath. There is then an apologetic subtext running throughout the grief-sodden stretches of *Aeneid* 11, which prepares the ground for Pallas' sudden reappearance at the end of the poem, where Aeneas announces 'It is Pallas who kills you' before sinking his sword into Turnus. This is not just violence breeding violence: in principle, Aeneas is quite willing to spare Turnus. It is his grief and sense of guilt that fuel the cycle of revenge killings.

JH: By the time we reach this dénouement, we will have been handed so many considerations and 'deals' to weigh up that even the most ethically driven among us might find themselves prepared to absolve *any* of Aeneas' motivations as means to a (greater) end. Everything that happens on the *Aeneid*'s killing fields will feed into that final decisive moment, without benefit of epilogue or follow-up. Pallas and Camilla both pay into the reckoning we all have to make. Through the tears, and the rage. The outrage: 'In World War II the average age of the combat soldier was twenty-six | In inininininin Vietnam s/he was nineteen…'.

**ad limina**: the passage contains a number of architectural terms; apart from *limina*, see *foribus … altis* (36) and *regia* (38). They all refer to what will have been Aeneas' headquarters, which Virgil implicitly likens to a royal palace.

## 30–31

*corpus* **ubi exanimi** *positum* **Pallantis Acoetes | servabat senior**: the *ubi*-clause features carefully interlaced word order, with two words each (always separated by an intervening lexeme) for the accusative object (*italics*: the laid-out corpse), the genitive attribute (underlined: life-less Pallas) and the subject (shaded: old Acoetes). The meticulous design, reinforced by alliteration (*positum Pallantis*, *servabat senior*) and the measured metre at the opening of 31 (five spondees), suggest that Pallas' corpse has been carefully laid out, with Acoetes in dutiful attendance. The imperfect *servabat* – as well as the etymology of his name – indicates the uninterrupted duration of Acoetes' watch.

**Acoetes**: for an appreciation of this (Greek) speaking name see Paschalis (1997: 371): '"Acoetes" is the proper-name form of *akoitês*; it literally means "bedfellow", "husband" and hints at a close relationship between "Acoetes" and Pallas, possibly an erotic one. The semantic content of this relationship is distorted following the death of Pallas. "Acoetes" is assigned the task of "watching over" Pallas' body that has been "laid out" for burial: the cluster "corpus … positum … Acoetes" suggests *keîmai* ("be laid", "lie dead"); the cluster "Acoetes seruabat" implies that "Acoetes" may have remained "sleepless" [*akoitos*] all night long.' JH: Too late to keep his charge safe, but here to take his share of the guilt along with Aeneas — and just about everybody. He is introduced in person in readiness for his vital cameo at 85–87.

## 31–33

As Moskalew (1982: 182) notes, 11.31–33 stand in dialogue with 9.647– 49, which depict Butes, the armour-bearer of Ascanius (and formerly of Anchises):

 qu*i* P*ar*rh*a*s*io* Euandro *armiger ante fuit*, sed non felicibus aeque *tum comes* auspiciis caro *datus* ibat alumno (11.31–33)

 h*i*c D*ar*dan*io* Anchisae *armiger ante fuit* fidusque ad limina custos; *tum com*item Ascanio pater *addidit*. (9.647–49)

[He (sc. Butes) in time past was armour bearer to Dardan Anchises, and trusty watcher at his gate; thereafter the child's father made him associate to Ascanius.]

The italics are those of Moskalew and highlight the intratextual correspondences. He adds: 'It is in the shape of Butes that Apollo had restrained Ascanius from plunging into the heat of the battle, and thereby probably saved him from a fate like Pallas'.' Ascanius and Pallas are complementary figures, one representing triumph, the other tragedy, one profiting from divine guardianship, the other perishing unprotected, with the divinities turning a blind eye and deaf ear to the piteous supplications of his father Evander. The pair ensure that Aeneas is a particularly complex father-figure. See Introduction 34–5.

## 31

**Parrhasio Evandro**: the phrase contains two metrical peculiarities: a hiatus (the final –*o* of *Parrhasio* and the initial *E*- of *Evandro* are both read, without elision); and a spondaic fifth foot: – u u | – – | – –. According to Dainotti (2015: 186), 'hiatus and spondaic line-end emphasize Evander's royalty'. (You might ask yourself how and why.) *Parrhasio*, which refers to Parrhasia, a region of Arcadia in mainland Greece, is the first such ethnic-geographical marker in this passage. We also get references to Troy (34: *Troianaque turba*; 35: *Iliades*) and Italy (41: *cuspidis Ausoniae*). Pallas, who died as protégé of the Trojan Aeneas, was the son of an exiled Greek dwelling at the future site of Rome (Evander) and his Italic spouse — he thus represents the three different strands out of which Virgil fashions Roman identity in the *Aeneid*, an epic that is, not least, about migration and ethnic mingling as the genepool for a non-racist society: the exiled Trojan, the exiled Greek, and the native Italic, all three reconceived as proto-Roman. This complex identity defies any easy binary that pitches Greeks against Trojans or the Trojans and their allies against their Italic enemies, rendering it difficult to differentiate the self from the other in any clear-cut way. In a sense, then, Pallas is the victim of a civil war — the kind of grievous self-mutilation that Dido (who awaits us one more time round the next narrative corner: see 74 below) wished down on Aeneas and his people. (See 4.584–629, esp. 617–8: *videatque indigna suorum* | *funera*.) JH: At the same time, magically, Virgil the poet who started out foregrounding the bucolic world of a primitivist Arcadia winds up featuring them as victim players in the mix he masters in order to generate the imperial superpower of Rome. He couldn't have known what he would do, he must have lived it.

## 32

**armiger ante fuit**: literally, *armi-ger* means 'armour-bearer'. Virgil uses the noun six times in the *Aeneid* (2.477, 5.255, 9.330, 564 and 648, 11.32) and may have 'introduced the role of the armor-bearer, not a Homeric type, into heroic epic. In Homer, we hear of charioteers and companions, free men who help the heroes, not armor-bearers (which seem more apt for hoplite warfare)' (Anderson 1983: 11 n.1).

## 32–33

**sed non felicibus aeque … auspiciis … ibat**: literally, 'but he went with not-equally happy auspices'. In the political culture of republican Rome, *auspicia publica* designated the right of high magistrates (holders of *imperium*, 'the rightful power to issue commands') or certain priests to ascertain the will of the gods (especially Jupiter's) on behalf of the commonwealth through certain prescribed procedures. See e.g. Drogula (2015: 69): '*Auspicium* was absolutely essential to military commanders, who needed to consult the will of the gods before committing their armies to war or other dangerous undertakings that would have a critical effect on the well-being of the state.' Divine will manifested itself in empirical signs: *ex caelo* = from the sky (thunder and lightening), *ex avibus* = from the flight of birds, *ex tripudio* = the way chickens ate when fed from a tripedal vessel, which religious functionaries interpreted as 'favourable' or 'unfavourable'. Virgil does not imply that any such formal procedure as taking the auspices was in place in archaic Pallanteum; but he uses technical vocabulary from the Roman system of ascertaining the presence (or absence) of divine support before risky ventures to suggest that Pallas' participation in the war took place without divine backing.

## 33

**tum … ibat**: corresponds to *ante* and *fuit*.

**comes … caro datus … alumno**: literally, 'having been given / appointed (*datus* — the perfect passive participle of *do*, *dare*) as companion (*comes*) to the beloved son'. There is, perhaps, an upgrade from the servant role of *armiger*, in which Acoetes performed with respect to his coeval Evander, to the status of *comes* (a peer, lower in rank but superior in seniority) to Pallas. The hyperbaton *caro … alumno* produces an affectionate alliteration (*comes … caro*); both devices underscore stylistically *how* beloved Pallas was. *comes* links back to Dido through her sister Anna (4.77) and on to Turnus through his sister Juturna (12.881).

**alumno**: note the assonance and quasi-rhyme with *Evandro* (31). Aeneas' *acerbo* echoes on.

## 34–35

**circum omnis famulumque manus Troianaque turba | et maestum Iliades crinem de more solutae**: the sentence lacks a verb: we need to supply something like *stabant* or *erant*. The subjects, linked by the two –*que* and the *et*, are (i) *omnis famulum manus*; (ii) *Troiana turba*; (iii) *Iliades*. Technically speaking, the –*que* after *famulum* is superfluous, but the polysyndeton adds to the image of mourning groups crowding indiscriminately around the body.

**famulum**: = *famulorum*, i.e. the older form of the genitive plural of the second declension.

**crinem … solutae**: reflexive (or 'middle') use of the perfect passive participle modifying *Iliades*, with *crinem* as accusative object.

## 36

**foribus sese intulit altis**: a minor form of enactment, with the word order mirroring Aeneas passing through the door frames.

## 39–41

**ipse caput nivei fultum Pallantis et ora | ut vidit levique patens in pectore vulnus | cuspidis Ausoniae**: the temporal *ut*-clause (with a much-postponed conjunction) echoes the interlaced word-order Virgil already used in 30–1 to describe the corpse of Pallas. The *et* (epexegetical: 'the second phrase parallels, explains or paraphrases the first rather than adding to it': Gransden 1991: 73) in 39 links *caput* and *ora*, the –*que* after *levi*, links *ora* and *vulnus*. *caput*, *ora*, and *vulnus* are all accusative objects of *vidit*. The word order arguably tracks Aeneas' gaze across his fallen protégé. *ipse* sets him up as the subject of the sentence, but before we even reach the conjunction *ut*, the propped-up head — and more specifically the snow-white face — of Pallas comes suddenly into view, an effect enhanced by the staggering of *caput et ora* and the transferred epithet *nivei*; and when the gaze moves down from the face the fatal wound that gapes in his chest comes into Aeneas' ken, as we transition from an image of deathly beauty to one of lethal brutality.

After 30–31, this is the second time the corpse of Pallas comes into focus, and the two passages purposefully mirror each other. Similarities include:


*cuspidis Ausoniae*, with the exception being *et ora*, which hence stands out even further)

The moment is fraught: Aeneas' gaze meets the propped-up corpse of Pallas, which manifests beauty and brutality in equal degree: its appearance is aesthetically pleasing in its youthful shiny smoothness and (if you swing that way) may even carry a sensual erotic charge (see below on *nivei* and *levi*); at the same time, there is that gaping hole in his chest… In significant contrast to the dummy of Mezentius and his body, then, which vanished from the narrative, Virgil dwells in obsessive detail on the corpse of Pallas. He mentions his *corpus* (30) and his *caput* (39), with a specific reference to his face (39: *ora*), and we get a detailed description of the wound in his 'smooth' chest (40: *levique patens in pectore vulnus*). Despite being, or because lifeless, his complexion holds fair (*exanimi … Pallantis*; *nivei … Pallantis*). The doubling of his name highlights identity and difference between the person and the body of a human being.

**nivei**: the late-antique commentator Servius notes the wide semantic spectrum (and ideological connotations) of this colour term (from *nix*, *nivis*, f. snow), from smooth-skinned beauty to the pallor of death: *late patet hoc epitheton*: *referri enim potest ad candorem pristinae pulchritudinis*, *et ad pallorem ex morte venientem*, *et ad frigus quod proprium mortuorum est*. ('The semantic range of the attribute is wide: it can refer to the white glow of his former beauty or to the pallor that comes from death or to the coldness characteristic of corpses.') Putnam reads *niveus* together with *levis* as amounting to a sensual appreciation of Pallas' erotic appeal (1985: 10–11): 'Two words are gratuitous in this description — *niveus*, snowy, and *levis*, smooth — and both are highly sensual. What Aeneas takes note of is the adolescent, androgynous beauty of the youth. *Niveus* has nothing to do with the whiteness of death (Virgil would have used *pallidus*) and everything to do with physical allure […] Smoothness of skin is also a mark of youthful beauty.' Some details of the argument are questionable — as Servius' comment shows, the apodeictic rejection that *niveus* has anything to do with death is off the mark; and to use *pallidus* with reference to *Pall*as would have been a trifle ham-fisted, quite unworthy of Virgil who delights in teasing riddles: *niveus* puns on Pallas, without ramming the point home. But the sensuality of Virgil's language here is well appreciated. Reed (2009: 20–1) develops it further, with explicit reference to Greek homoeroticism: 'One might add that mention of *ora*, Pallas' face, reminds us of his youthful, beardless appearance, a requisite of the junior partner in a male-male relationship — in Greek terms, the *erômenos*, the "beloved." Elsewhere we encounter the downy male faces of Euryalus (9.181) and Clytius (10.324), *erômenoi* both. The "smooth chest" of "snowy Pallas" reminds us of Euryalus' *candida pectora*, and this connection reinforces the erotic slant of both scenes.' In contrast, Fratantuono (2009: 29) declares 'no romantic or sexual relationship between Aeneas and Pallas, to be sure' — which may be right; but the Homeric analogue, the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus, appeared to quite a few ancient readers as sexually charged and the intertextual echo invites us to ponder Aeneas' protective instincts for Pallas in a similar light — if only to reject the possibility as irrelevant. What remains striking is Virgil's investment in the pathos of youthful death both on the battlefield (Lausus, Pallas, Camilla, Turnus) and elsewhere (Icarus, Marcellus). JH: And what Pallas may never dissociate from entirely, dead or alive, is that other etymology hung on him, 'from' *pallakê*, 'girl', or, more 'sensually', 'concubine' (but see on 68 below).

**levi … in pectore**: anastrophe (= *in levi pectore*), here reinforced by the intrusion of *patens* (which does what it means, i.e. opens up a gap). Note that the *e* in *levi* is long. JH: The cult of militarist courage fetishes the noble wound 'in front' — it's no good getting hit in the back — or, apparently, in the head … or guts. No one's gonna love you for *that* (55–56).

**cuspidis Ausoniae**: *vulnus* is frequently construed with a genitive 'indicating cause or source': see *OLD* s.v. 1b. 'There is bitterness or paradox in the adj.: Pallas is himself half-Arcadian, half-Samnite (8.510) and Italian-born, just as Turnus's Greek origins had had their moment of importance (7.371f.); he has therefore in some sense died in civil war (for his *magister*, the "invader" Aeneas, is likewise — 7.205ff. — not altogether *externus*' (Horsfall 2003: 73–4).

## 41

**lacrimis fatetur obortis**: JH: the phrasing echoes the opening of Anchises' speech at 6.882, on Marcellus, Augustus' nephew-son-in-law-and-heirapparent, whose death at 21 in 23 BCE came just as Virgil was finishing up the *Aeneid*, but who nonetheless forced his way into the poem to join his mythical avatars. The news bulletin became the flashforward of the foundation narrative. See further Reed (2009: 182) on cross-generational assimilation and Aeneas' co-option of authoritative idiom (narratorial or paternal).

# 42–58: Aeneas' Speech (Overview)

*(i) Address to Pallas – and meditation on his unfulfiled promise:*


*(ii) Flashback: Recollection of his promise to Evander and Evander's fears:*


*(iii) The situation now: fears have come true, hope (and religious efforts) have been in vain, promise has been broken:*


*(iv) Addresses to Evander, rhetorical questions addressed to himself, and addresses to Italy and Iulus:*


Key to mark-up and letters:


The speech explores the implications of Pallas' death for Pallas himself, as well as Aeneas and Evander (including their respective relationships with Pallas and with each other). Aeneas devotes 3 lines to Pallas (*bold italics*), 6.5 lines to his own involvement in the tragedy (**bold**), and 7.5 lines to Pallas' father Evander (*italics*). The slight privileging of Evander in terms of verse quantity is counterbalanced by the way in which Aeneas interweaves a focus on himself with a focus on Evander: he begins and ends by foregrounding the impact of the tragedy on himself, both in terms of its implications for his character (he believes he has broken a promise) and his mission (Italy and his own son have suffered a grievous loss).

The overall design of the speech again features ring composition with variation: A1 – B1 – C1 – D1 – D2 – C2 – E1 – B2 – C3 – E2 – A2 . There are two variations that upset the otherwise orderly sequence of A1 B1 C1 D1 D2 C2 B2 A2 , namely E1 , C3 , E2 , i.e. a *third* reference to his broken promise framed by two direct addresses to Evander. The departures from perfect symmetry carry emotional and thematic significance and yield insight into Aeneas' character.

To appreciate Aeneas' speech fully (as well as Evander's lament over Pallas, coming up at 151–81), we need a flashback to *Aeneid* 8, where Evander bids farewell to his son Pallas with a moving prayer to the gods that he return alive (8.558–84):



[Then father Evander, clasping the hand of his departing son, clings to him weeping inconsolably and speaks thus: 'If only Jupiter gave me back the years that are past, and restored me to how I was when under Praeneste's very walls I struck down the front row of the enemy's battle-line, burned the piled-up shields as victor, and with this right hand sent down to Tartarus King Erulus…, then never should I now be torn, my son, from your sweet embrace. Never on this his neighbour's head would Mezentius have heaped scorn, handed out so many cruel deaths with his sword, nor widowed the city of so many of her citizens! But you powers above, and you, Greatest Jupiter, ruler of the gods, pity, I pray, the Arcadian king, and hear a father's prayer. If your will, if destiny keep Pallas safe for me, if I live still to see him, still to meet him, I pray for life; I have patience to endure any toil. But if, Fortune, you threaten some unspeakable mischance, now, oh, now may I break off cruel life — while fears are doubtful, while hope faces an uncertain future, while you, beloved boy, my one pleasure late in life, are held in my arms; and may no heavier news wound my ear!' These words the father poured forth at their last parting; his servants bore him collapsed into the palace.]

Aeneas' speech here recalls 'Achilles' pre-rampage lament over Patroklos, just before he vowed to accomplish human sacrifice in his anger' (Callen King 1982: 52) at *Iliad* 18.324–27:

ὢ πόποι ἦ ῥ᾽ ἅλιον ἔπος ἔκβαλον ἤματι κείνῳ θαρσύνων ἥρωα Μενοίτιον ἐν μεγάροισι: φῆν δέ οἱ εἰς Ὀπόεντα περικλυτὸν υἱὸν ἀπάξειν Ἴλιον ἐκπέρσαντα, λαχόντα τε ληΐδος αἶσαν.

[Alas, the word I uttered on that day was in vain, when I tried to hearten the warrior Menoetius in our halls; and said that when I had sacked Ilios I would bring him his glorious son back to Opoeis with the share of the spoil that should fall to his lot.]

This echo of destructive fury about to be unleashed does not disable Aeneas from acting in a statesmanlike fashion shortly thereafter in his reception of Latin emissaries (see below 100–21). It is, rather, part of an ongoing dialectic of assimilation and differentiation between Aeneas and Achilles throughout this part of the poem: 'In Books 10 and 11, then, we see a repeated alternation in Aeneas' character. He moves from beneficent *pietas* to a furiously destructive perversion of *pietas* and back to controlled beneficence as Vergil merges him with and then separates him from the character of the grief-stricken Homeric Achilles' (Callen King 1982: 53). But matters might be more complex: instead of speaking of beneficent *pietas* and its perversion, it must be more appropriate (if more unsettling) to think of *pietas* as comprising both a beneficent and a destructive potential.

## 42–44

**'tene', inquit 'miserande puer, cum laeta veniret, | invidit Fortuna mihi, ne regna videres | nostra neque ad sedes victor veherere paternas?**: the main verb *invidit* here governs three constructions. We get:


The target of Fortune's envy is not (as one might have expected) Pallas, but Aeneas. There is a close parallel to the end of *Aeneid* 6: when Anchises laments the untimely death of Augustus' heir apparent Marcellus (see on 41 above), he identifies as the reason the desire for some kind of cosmic balance: Marcellus himself had done nothing wrong, but he had to die nevertheless for Rome to avoid the charge of hubris. From Aeneas' self-centred point of view, Pallas is not the prime target; it is a means by which Fortune can get at himself. Pallas is an innocent victim within a plot that revolves around Aeneas alone. Powell (2008: 151) argues that these verses suggest a homoerotic relationship between Aeneas and Pallas, within an overall approach to the erotic that surfaces in the *Aeneid* only in tragic settings: 'Virgil's eroticism in the mortal sphere is reserved for contexts of misery and death.'

**tene**: not the present imperative singular of *teneo*, but the personal pronoun in the accusative (*te*) + the interrogative particle –*ne*.

**inquit**: strictly speaking quite unnecessary, given *fatur* in the previous line. But the repetition of the verb of speaking further increases the pronounced pathos invested in *te*: 'No greater emphasis could have been given: "so it was you, was it, … that Fortune?"' (Horsfall 2003: 74).

**miserande puer**: *miserande* is the (2nd declension) vocative singular of the gerundive of *miseror*: 'o boy who must be pitied' = 'pitiable boy'. The address flags up the rhetorical mood of the speech under way. Aeneas uses the same noun in his apostrophe as Evander in his departure speech (581: … *te*, *care puer*…), though the attribute has changed. Pallas is not the first character thus addressed in the poem: Anchises uses the same phrase of Marcellus (6.882) and Aeneas of Lausus (10.825): 'These are the three main characters whom Vergil addresses as *miserande* ["to be pitied"]; the link among the three seems even stronger than merely linguistic. Both Pallas and Lausus represent Marcellus; they, however, die with the glory of achievement, which in Marcellus' case was never attained, only forecast' (Benario 2000: 202, noting a fourth instance of the phrase at 10.327, where it is used of the minor character Cydon). For the age range of *puer* as a form of address see Dickey (2002: 192): 'The addressee may be a baby, a boy, or a youth just old enough to enter battle, like Vergil's Pallas. In such uses *puer* is a friendly address, normally indicating the kind of generalized fondness that adults feel for the young. It is often modified by terms of affection (*care puer* "dear boy", Sil. 6. 537), pity (*miserande puer* "pitiable boy", Verg. *A*. 6. 882), or praise (*fortunate puer* "fortunate boy", Verg. *Ecl*. 5. 49).' In the encounter with Turnus, Pallas was clearly overmatched. See 10.459: *viribus imparibus*.

**cum laeta veniret**: the subject of the *cum*-clause is Fortuna, with *laeta* in predicative position: 'when she came smiling [on me]'.

**laeta – Fortuna – invidit**: Aeneas' question presupposes a theology of Fortuna — an interesting goddess, not least in a Roman context and in the *Aeneid* in particular. In light of Aeneas' musings that she might have acted out of jealousy in depriving Pallas of a triumphant return home, we have to reckon with four rather different understandings of the deified concept.


*tuche*, who acts according to her whim and will. She is random happenstance personified, a cosmic principle of chaos, and delights in turmoil for the sake of turmoil. Any attempts at 'domestication' are pointless.

• Fortuna:3 Aeneas here 'anthropomorphizes' this chaotic Fortuna / Tuche by endowing her with the capacity to feel 'envy'. The notion that divine beings look upon (excessive) human success invidiously — or at the very least reserve the right to thwart human aspirations — dates back to early Greek thought, though what the phrase *phthonos theôn* (conventionally glossed as 'envy of the gods') actually means remains controversial: 'It has been interpreted as a blast of malice, likely to be wholly undeserved by its targets; a revelation of godly avarice; an instrument of divine justice, delivered as punishment for some impiety (be it action or character); a godly slapdown intended to keep mortals under control; and/or a mechanism for the maintenance of cosmic boundaries.'10 In the Hellenistic period, notably in Polybius, *Tuche* becomes a force that imposes some kind of cosmic equilibrium on the mortal sphere.11 She grants favours (*cum laeta veniret*), but ensures that they are counterbalanced by misfortunes. She thereby embodies the coincidence of tragedy and triumph, joy and grief, that is also a hallmark of Virgil's poetry. Here her calibrating powers recall the analogous scenario at the end of *Aeneid* 6: Marcellus, the nephew of Augustus and his heir apparent, has to die young, otherwise Roman might would reach hubristic, theomachic proportions. (For Marcellus see e.g. the sensitive discussion by Reed 2009: 148–72.)

<sup>10</sup> Eidinow (2016: 207); in her view 'narratives of divine *phthonos* can be said to provide a negotiation of meaning with the unseen: they were used to clarify the sense of apparently random events of fortune and misfortune by offering justifications, validations, consolations and explanations' with reference to the social dynamics of gift exchange, however futile this endeavour ultimately turned out to be (231). See further Lloyd-Jones (1971), Walcott (1978), and Lanzilotta (2010), who argues that the notion of *phthonos theôn* is best understood as 'a "divine refusal" to grant human aspirations' (92).

<sup>11</sup> See Polybius 39.8.2 with Aalders (1979).

• Fortuna:4 in the context of the *Aeneid* more generally and here in particular, Fortuna also brings to mind the figure of Dido — who is a figure of *fortuna*, just as much as Aeneas is a figure of *fatum* (though the binary breaks down in interesting ways: through her suicide, she turned her miserable fortune into part of Aeneas' fate).

**regna … nostra**: Aeneas' choice of vocabulary recalls his earlier use of *patriam* (25), but now also includes an entitlement to (future) kingship: he is confident that his mission will succeed and that he will ultimately end up in charge of an empire in Italy. The phrase picks up on *laeta* and *mihi*: Aeneas imagines Fortune as favouring him — she will grant him his sought-after *regna* — but also feeling a kickback of envy at the prospect of such success, which causes her to spoil his happiness with the tragedy of Pallas. (Is there a hint that Lady Luck sees this as a *quid pro quo* rather than a tit-for-tat?) Egocentrism reigns: this is about him — and about him seeing Pallas seeing him as king in his kingdom. The fact that this item takes pole position in the *ne*-clause seems to imply that he considers himself being king basking in the admiration of his charges a greater source of joy than seeing Pallas return victoriously to his father.

**ad sedes … paternas**: after pondering his own role in the affair Aeneas proceeds to consider the impact of Pallas' death on his father Evander (cf. *paternas*).

**victor veherere**: *veherere* is the alternative form of the 2nd person singular imperfect subjunctive passive (= *vehereris*). Aeneas imagines Pallas as victorious imperator who returns home riding on a triumphal chariot. The connection to the arch-Roman ritual of the triumph is spelled out explicitly in 54: *exspectatique triumphi*. Instead of a victory procession, we get its dark shadow, a funeral parade.

## 45–48

**non haec Evandro de te promissa parenti | discedens dederam, cum me complexus euntem | mitteret in magnum imperium metuensque moneret | acris esse viros, cum dura proelia gente**: the main-clause (*non*  *… dederam*) is followed by an extensive *cum*-clause (*cum me … gente*), which concludes with an indirect statement introduced by *moneret* (*acris … gente*). (Note that *cum* in 46 is a conjunction, while *cum* in 48 is the preposition + ablative.) The *cum*-clause features a lot of verbal activity. Of the three circumstantial participles, two, i.e. *complexus* and *metuens*, modify the subject of the clause (Evander) and form a chiasmus with the two finite verbs *mitteret* and *moneret* linked by the –*que* after *metuens*; one modifies the object, i.e. *me* (*euntem*, the accusative masculine singular of the present active participle of *eo*, *ire*, to go).

Aeneas continues his address to Pallas (*de te*), but, following up on the last word of the previous line (44: *paternas*), now brings Pallas' father Evander forcefully into the picture. He revisits (perhaps also reimagines) the moment of departure from Pallanteum, with Evander sending the war party reluctantly on its way. (In Virgil's account of the scene in *Aeneid* 8.558–59, Aeneas does not make any promises to Evander to bring Pallas back alive — though Aeneas' words here clearly echo those of Virgil: *tum pater Evandrus dextram complexus euntis* | *haeret inexpletus lacrimans ac talia fatur*). Aeneas here recalls that Evander experienced dire foreboding of the tragedy that would befall him and his son. His sense of guilt seems to affect his recollection. This is subtle psychology on Virgil's part. His protagonist hasn't broken his promises, but *feels* he has: objectively, he has done nothing wrong; subjectively, he is racked by guilt. His urge to expiate his perceived failure to keep his word will climax in the final scene of the poem.

Aeneas uses syntax to project a tragic sense of foreboding into the farewell, with an oblique set of antitheses between finite verbs and participles. There are latent tensions between *discedens* and (*promissa*) … *dederam*, between *complexus* and *euntem* (holding back — going away) and between *mitteret* and *metuensque moneret* (sending off — with a fearful warning). The heavy *m*-alliteration arguably intensifies the anticipation of doom that hovers over the sentence.

**haec Evandro de te promissa parenti**: note the interlaced word order: A1 (*haec*) – B1 (*Evandro*) – A2 (*promissa*) – B2 (*parenti*), with the reference to Pallas (in direct address) dead centre (*de te*).

**in magnum imperium**: The original meaning of *imperium* was 'the right to command'; during the late republic it then also acquired the sense of 'territory over which one had the right to issue orders', i.e. 'empire'. Here the territorial sense is to the fore — Evander sends Aeneas *against* a great empire, peopled by fierce fighters and a hardy people (see the *acres viri* and the *dura gens* in the following line), i.e. proto-Roman in outlook. The phrasing, in which the resident king of proto-Rome sends forth his son and his Trojan ally against proto-Romans thus feeds the ironic complexities of Romano-Italic and polyethnic nation building that Virgil explores throughout the second half of the *Aeneid*. The lexeme *imperium* thus joins *patria* (25) and *regna* (43) in flagging up the fact that Virgil is giving us an epic aetiology of the geopolitical realities of *all* of Roman history, here in a nascent state. The phrasing perhaps also hints at hierarchies in the world of command, designated by the comparatives *maius* and *minus* (*imperium*), a live issue also in Augustan times: does the *imperium* of the princeps outrank that of the consuls or provincial governors?

**acris esse viros, cum dura proelia gente**: an accusative + infinitive, in two parts, depending on *moneret* (47). There is a slight shift in the meaning of *esse*, which needs to be supplied in the second part, from auxiliary to full verb. *acres viri* and *dura gens* are virtual synonyms. Both resonate powerfully in Roman ideology. Aeneas and his men go to war with a people that represent the tough Italic stock that will form the foundation of Rome. Fratantuono (2009: 31) spots a contrast between 'the power and strength of the native Italians' and 'Trojan effeminacy', though in the two passages he cites in support of the latter (4.206–18, Iarbas speaking; and 9.598–620, Numanus speaking) we get the views of sworn enemies of Aeneas and his Trojans. The fact of the matter is that the Trojans — and Aeneas in particular — prove just as hardy as their enemies (even though they may have their softie moments).

**acris**: the alternative accusative plural ending of the third declension, scanning long (= *acres*).

**cum dura proelia gente**: scanning the line will reveal the long –*a* of *dura*, hence modifying the feminine ablative singular *gente* (not the short neuter accusative plural *proelia*).

11.49–58: How Do I Break this toDad? Well, at Least Pallas Wasn't aCold-Footed, Useless Swine!

## 49–52

**et nunc ille quidem spe multum captus inani | fors et vota facit cumulatque altaria donis, | nos iuvenem exanimum et nil iam caelestibus ullis | debentem vano maesti comitamur honore**: Aeneas' thoughts turn from past to the present (*et nunc*). The quartet of verses revolves around a brutal antithesis (49: *ille quidem* – 51: *nos*), rendered all the more effective by the absence of any adversative link or particle. In 49–50 Aeneas conjures up Evander still doing his utmost to please the gods to ensure a safe return home for his son, though he already marks his efforts delusional (*spe multum captus inani*); in 51–52 Evander's religious investments clash with reality: his endeavours to cultivate divine support have proven vain. The language again harks back to Evander's speech in *Aeneid* 8, more specifically the desire to be spared the news of his son's death — which includes the wish, in the event of Pallas' death, to be struck dead before this is confirmed (580: *dum curae ambiguae*, *dum spes incerta futuri*).

**et nunc**: *et* is here best translated in an adversative, rather than additive, sense: 'even now'.

**ille quidem**: the particle *quidem* highlights the preceding pronoun *ille* and thereby reinforces the differential in knowledge between Evander, who still harbours hope, and Aeneas, who knows that these hopes are groundless. It also introduces a colloquial touch: Harrison (2010: 277).

**spe multum captus inani**: *multum* is an adverb. The hyperbaton *spe … inani*, with the attribute cancelling out the noun it modifies, underscores Aeneas' despair. In a sense, the phrase *spes inanis* stands in contrapost to the ideology of the *Aeneid* overall: 'The *Aeneid* is, among other things, a poem about the founding of Rome, but it casts that past event into the future, and so hope plays a significant role in the epic: throughout the narrative, *spes* is a primary marker of Rome's future glory, focalized in a number of different ways and with a number of different effects' (Fulkerson 2017: 211, who goes on to show that *within* the narrative, hope is often an act, misplaced, or disappointed). JH: The *Aeneid* text is studded with the palindromic marker of the hollow emptiness of human experience echoing on at verse-ending: *in-a-ni* |. Humanists are here to underline that all representations (art, text…) are containers of signs with their referents absent — and reality often feels that way (cf. 1.465): but 'emptiness' functions for characters and readers both as part of the ordeal of making sense even of 'meaninglessness'.

**fors**: here used in an adverbial sense ('maybe'), modifying both *facit* and *cumulat*: Aeneas does not know for sure what Evander is currently up to, but his speculation is hardly far off the mark. For this adverbial use of *fors*, see Austin (1964: 76) on *Aeneid* 2.139: 'a Virgilian innovation, perhaps an archaism'.

**et vota facit cumulatque altaria donis**: *et* and –*que* coordinate the two main verbs *facit* and *cumulat* ('both … and…'). Aeneas imagines Evander trying his best to involve the gods in an exchange of services, uttering vows and offering sacrifices in return for the safe homecoming of his son, clinging on to the hope that Pallas is still alive: Aeneas imagines that the news has not yet reached him. In Virgil's literary universe in particular and Roman culture more generally, a positive response by the gods to human overtures is not a given. Another character who tries her utmost (albeit also in vain) to win divine approval for her chosen course of action is Dido. See *Aeneid* 4.54–67 with Gildenhard (2012). The line issues a tacit rebuke to the divinities, who refuse to accept Evander's offerings.

The passage thus continues the religious argument that started with the opening gesture to jealous Fortune: for someone known for his *pietas*, the unwillingness of gods to enter into predictable reciprocities according to the principle *do-ut-des* ('I give, so that you give', in this case vows and gifts in exchange for Pallas' safe return) is a particularly bitter experience. *vota* continues the theme of failed verbal bonds: unlike the promises Aeneas thinks to have broken, the promises Evander made to the gods were never 'countersigned', insofar as the gods refused to take them up.

**nos**: nominative plural of the first person pronoun: technically speaking superfluous, its use here generates a strong antithesis with *ille* (49).

**iuvenem exanimum et**: the double elision that turns the phrase into a blur is arguably expressive of the speaker's mental state: 'Aeneas can hardly bear to speak the words' (Fratantuono 2009: 32).

**nil iam caelestibus ullis | debentem**: bitterly dismissive: the religious reciprocities that sustain life are here all broken in death. Death renders *all* religious obligations to *any* divinity, even those who might have favoured the deceased in life and would thus be 'creditors', null and void. The focus of Aeneas' musings about reciprocal bonds between mortals and immortals shifts from father to son, in tragic symmetry: just as the gods refused to put themselves in Evander's 'debt' by accepting his vows and sacrifices, so Pallas' death has cancelled out any 'debt' he may have had with any supernatural agent. (Aeneas, though, has acquired a debt to the shades below…)

**vano … honore**: in chiastic response to *spe … inani* (49). The hope feels as hollow as the honour.

**maesti**: nominative plural, in predicative position to the subject of the sentence ('we').

**infelix, nati funus crudele videbis!**: heavy spondees, apart from the fifth foot, again expressive of the speaker's outlook, as Fratantuono (2009: 32) notes: 'Appropriately spondaic, with an early caesura [after *infelix*] that reflects Aeneas' emotional ruin.' Virgil uses *infelix* of those undergoing a tragic experience in the *Aeneid*, starting with Dido. The sentence also recalls one of the most pathos-fraught moments in Aeneas' underworld journey. As Reed (2009: 183) notes: 'Line 53 […] is a reminiscence of Anchises over Brutus, executioner of his own sons (6.822): *infelix*, *utcumque ferent ea facta minores* ("unhappy, however posterity will judge his deed"); it also picks up the various other deaths of sons, sometimes at their fathers' hands, in the Pageant of Heroes.' See further Petrini (1997: 57–8): 'In the *Aeneid* the love between parents and children (and the domestic world generally) cannot coexist with the *virtus* of civic life', with note 32: 'Polybius (6.54) suggests that fathers condemning their sons is a characteristically Roman sort of civic piety; e.g. Val. Max. 5.8.3–5 and Accius *Brutus*.' This, of course, is precisely what Evander wished to avoid at all costs: his staggered plea to the gods (and Fortune) included a Plan B in case the best case scenario, i.e. a safe return of his son, was not in the offing, namely to be struck dead before Pallas' departure so as to be spared watching his funeral: 8.579: *nunc*, *nunc o liceat crudelem abrumpere vitam*. Aeneas reuses the key attribute *crudelis*, shifting it from life to death.

**crudelem**: the notion of *crudelitas* invoked here captures the unpredictable vagaries of the human condition. Elsewhere it is an ethnic quality that Romans associated with barbarian tribes, the exact opposite of civilized values.

## 54

**hi nostri reditus exspectatique triumphi?**: supply *sunt*. '*Nostri* and *exspectati* are both, naturally, to be understood with both nouns, just as the nouns themselves are to be understood in virtual hendiadys' (Horsfall 2003: 81). The –*que* after *exspectati* links *reditus* (nominative plural of the fourth declension noun) and *triumphi*.

## 55

**haec mea magna fides**: *fides* — an arch-Roman value: see Hölkeskamp (2004) — here refers to Aeneas' (misplaced) trust in the gods as well as his own (now compromised) trustworthiness. See Monti (1981) 94: '*Fides* requires of him [sc. Aeneas] not the return of a corpse, but a victor's parade. By Evander's and Aeneas' recognition of the obligations of their *foedus*, Vergil indicates that the killing of Turnus is an act of violence undertaken in the vindication of *fides*.' This is not the first time Aeneas takes issue with the reliability of divine support: when he encounters Palinurus dead in the underworld, he accuses Apollo of misleading him, concluding his protest with the exclamation *en haec promissa fides est*? (6.346), only to be corrected by Palinurus.

## 55–57

**at non, Evandre, pudendis | vulneribus pulsum aspicies, nec sospite dirum | optabis nato funus pater**: the adversative particle *at* marks Aeneas' pivot from grief and remonstration to consolation. Pallas is dead, but at least he died honourably, showing courage on the battlefield. *non pudendis vulneribus* harks back to 40: *levi patens in pectore vulnus*. The apostrophe of the absent Evander is symptomatic of Aeneas' 'understandable obsession with Evander's reaction' (Reed 2007: 183).

**nec sospite dirum | optabis nato funus pater**: the consolatory discourse continues by means of a slightly bizarre hypothetical scenario. Aeneas seems to be saying that there is something worse than having to bury a son, especially a son who has died an honourable death — namely to wish a son dead who disgraced himself. What this disgrace would consist in is left open — in the context of the battle perhaps a shameful retreat. What resonates here is the *dira cupido* of Brutus from *Aeneid* 6 — and the Roman *patria potestas* + *exempla* of fathers executing or disowning their sons for actions against the *res publica*. But Virgil nowhere implies that Pallas deserves a paternal death-wish. In fact, anyone else, and in particular Aeneas who recommends as much to Lausus, would have understood if he had backed away from a confrontation with Turnus.

The pattern adjective1 (*sospite*) – adjective2 (*dirum*) – verb (*optabis*) – noun1 (*nato*) – noun2 (*funus*) is akin to the pattern of a so-called golden line, an Alexandrian mannerism celebrating beauty, balance, and craftsmanship. Here of course it is distorted by the verse-break — and the trailing *pater*, who is responsible for the abominable desire to see his own disgraced son dead. The fractured and distorted verse design thus arguably enacts the content.

## 57–58

**ei mihi quantum | praesidium, Ausonia,** [sc. perdis] **et quantum** [praesidium] **tu perdis, Iule!'**: *Ausonia* (initially a Greek term for Magna Graecia, then extended to cover all of Italy: see further Dalby 2002: 21–81) and *Iule* are two further apostrophes. In his concluding thought, Aeneas links the death of Pallas to two components of his proto-Augustan political vision, i.e. Italy and the *gens Iulia*. Both have to do without Pallas' support — just as Augustan Rome has to do without Marcellus. The relation of Pallas to Ausonia is tragic: see Fratantuono (2009: 34): 'From victim of an Ausonian spear-point (41) to her bulwark: deliberate emphasis on the civil nature of the war in Italy; had Pallas lived he would have defended the very people who have killed him.' That Aeneas brings his own son Iulus into play here, however, injects a note of (unconscious — uncalled-for?) optimism into his discourse: in many ways, Pallas functions as a surrogate victim for Ascanius / Iulus, the boy partly responsible for causing the outbreak of the war, but the one young hero who emerges from it unscathed, striding forward into the future. And by situating the death of Pallas in relation to wider geographical and genealogical coordinates, he begins the transformation of acute grief into lasting memory. As Seider (2013: 151) puts it: 'Aeneas provides a model of commemoration for an audience larger than Evander in these lines. His address of Ausonia and Iulus imagines a future community ruled over by his son. Within this expansive context, Aeneas strives to define the standardized memory of Pallas. Pallas' defeat remains a loss, but it is also an act of glorious heroism that shatters neither the group's spirit nor its bond.' The common construction (*quantum … et quantum*) says otherwise, but what matters most (*'mihi* => emphatic *tu'*) is saved for last: *'Iule'* |.

**ei**: *not* the dative of the demonstrative pronoun *is*, *ea*, *id*, but an interjection that expresses anguish.

## 11.59–71: Overview

This section falls into three segments, which form a symmetrical pattern (5 + 3 + 5):


At the centre (64–66) stands the description of the bier. It is flanked by two portrayals of the dead Pallas, referred to programmatically at the outset of each as, respectively and in poignant contrast, *miserabile corpus* (59) and *iuvenem … sublimem* (67). In generic terms, the first segment features him in the world of high epic — of military command (60: *imperat*), impressive entourage (60–61: *toto lectos ex agmine … mille viros*), rank and standing (61: *honorem*), and social obligations (63: … *debita*  *patri*). The middle segment effects a transition to the world of nature, with a detailed description of the bier and its construction out of tree branches, including its shading through foliage (66: *obtentu frondis inumbrant*). The third segment continues this imagery with the simile of the plucked flower that, while fatally separated from life-sustaining mother earth, has not yet lost its vigour and beauty.

But by means of allusion, Virgil already anticipates the bucolic turn in segment one. The phrase 'wretched body' — as well as other charged diction to do with weeping, mourning, funerals, and lamenting the injustices of this world — arguably recalls the lament for Daphnis from *Eclogue* 5.20–3:

Exstinctum Nymphae crudeli funere Daphnin 20 flebant (vos coryli testes et flumina Nymphis), cum complexa sui **corpus miserabile** nati atque deos atque astra vocat crudelia mater.

[The Nymphs wept for Daphnis, cut off by a cruel death (you hazels and rivers bear witness to the Nymphs), when, clasping her son's pitiable corpse, his mother calls both gods and stars cruel.]

Horsfall (2003: 84) suggests that this passage resonates in *Aeneid* 11: 'Possibly self-quotation (of Daphnis) *sui corpus miserabile nati* (*Buc*. 5.22), though not distinctively bucolic in tone.' If the lament for Daphnis (a cipher for Caesar?) raises the humble bucolic discourse of the *Eclogues* to the level of high politics, so the allusion to the *Eclogues* here resituates epic action in nature, more specifically a landscape of loss and mourning.

After the first segment, a sub-epic idiom takes over that is variously reminiscent of Virgil's previous poetry (the pastoral *Eclogues* and the agricultural *Georgics*, which explore the worlds of herdsmen and farming) as well as the highly personal *oeuvre* of Catullus — even before the flower-simile in the third segment. References to the world of nature, farming, and artisanship abound (*crates*, *feretrum*, *arbuteis … virgis*, *vimine querco*, *obtentu frondis*, *agresti … stramine*, *mollis violae*, *languentis hyacinthi*, *tellus*), supported by terms of a distinctly non-epic mood and sensibility (*inumbrant*, *molle*, *mollis*, *virgineo*). We are returning from high epic endeavours to dealing with their aftermath in a different sphere as Virgil combines the high honours of a state funeral with the invocation of individual tragedy and grief.

In this passage, epic embraces bucolic and georgic imagery, or, in generic terms, the genres that Virgil wrote in (the bucolic *Eclogues* and the agricultural *Georgics*) before moving on to the *Aeneid* — though it is important to bear in mind that all three works employ the 'epic' hexameter and, as such, can be deemed to constitute different variants of epic poetry. From this point of view, Virgil's oeuvre appears as a continuous crescendo that keeps in touch with itself from start to finish. Here he puts neoteric (cf. 63: *exigua*) and bucolic miniatures to work in creating exequies of epic, if grief-stricken ('tragic') monumentality.

## 59

**haec ubi deflevit**: *haec* (neuter accusative plural of the demonstrative pronoun *hic*, *haec*, *hoc*) sums up the preceding speech; it belongs **in** the *ubi*-clause as the accusative object of *deflevit*.

## 59–60

**tolli miserabile corpus | imperat**: the verb is 'enjambed in the first dactyl to suggest energetic command' (Horsfall 2003: 84). Usually, *impero* governs an *ut*-clause; here it is the passive infinitive *tolli*. See above on the allusion to Virgil, *Eclogue* 5.20–3.

## 60–61

**toto lectos ex agmine mittit | mille viros**: a rephrasing of the sentence in prose — *mille viros ex toto agmine lectos mittit* — brings out the multiple inversions of usual word order and hyperbata. The design underscores the key fact that Aeneas *selected* (*lectos*) these men from the *entirety* (*toto*) of his army: they are representatives of the multi-ethnic host (Etruscans, Greeks, Trojans) that went to battle with him. Here the set piece is revving up for the fullest treatment.

## 61–62

**qui supremum comitentur honorem | intersintque patris lacrimis**: *comitentur* and *intersint*, the two verbs of the relative clause (the antecedent of *qui* is *mille viros*), are in the present subjunctive, indicating purpose (… *mille viros mittit ut ii supremum honorem comitentur*…: '…he sends a thousand men to attend the last rites…' Note that the superlative adjective *supremus* combines 'last' with 'highest', and the line announces the rhetoric of ritual pathos cranked up to eleven. The words recall a line from the preceding speech (51–52: *nil iam caelestibus ullis* | *debentem vano maesti comitamur honore*), with a telling shift in focus that opens up a contrast between Aeneas' (self-reflective) words and his thoughts: the respect (*honor*) he pays to the dead Pallas is ultimately pointless (*vanus*): it will make no difference to him; but he wills the stately funeral procession he has put together to assuage Evander's grief.

## 62–63

**solacia luctus | exigua ingentis, misero sed debita patri**: the accusative phrase *solacia … exigua*, *sed … debita* stands in apposition to *mille viros* and the ideas contained in the following *qui*-clause. The first part consists of two interlaced antitheses, with both nouns (*solacia*, *luctus*) and their modifying adjectives (*exigua*, *ingentis*) clashing. *debita* recalls *debentem* at 52 (for full citation see previous note), with Aeneas shifting the focus from what Pallas and Evander owe the gods: nothing; to what he owes Evander and Pallas: utmost respect and support in grief and a glorious funeral.

## 11.64–71: The Aesthetics of Death-Floration

The flower simile at 67–71 stands in a rich tradition of literary history that is worth exploring. The use of flower imagery to depict the death of a warrior dates back to Homer. When Teucer shoots an arrow into the chest of peerless Gorgythion, one of Priam's valiant sons, Homer compares him to a poppy (μήκων) to capture the consequences (*Iliad* 8.306–8):12

μήκων δ᾽ ὡς ἑτέρωσε κάρη βάλεν, ἥ τ᾽ ἐνὶ κήπῳ καρπῷ βριθομένη νοτίῃσί τε εἰαρινῇσιν, ὣς ἑτέρωσ᾽ ἤμυσε κάρη πήληκι βαρυνθέν.

[And he bowed his head to one side like a poppy that in a garden is weighed down by its fruit and the rains of spring; so to one side he bowed his head, heavy with his helmet.]

Other authors, such as Sappho and Apollonius Rhodius, followed. Another important predecessor for Virgil was Catullus who invested in the flower as a symbol of his personal voice, of (ephemeral) youth, (artistic) beauty, and (sexual) innocence. In *carmen* 11, he imagines his beloved Lesbia breaking the balls of three hundred Romans in the city's back-alleys in an orgiastic outburst of sexual energy utterly devoid of love, while his own tender feelings — indeed he himself — wither away like a flower mortally wounded by a passing plough (11.21–4):

<sup>12</sup> See also *Iliad* 17.50–60, where the death of Euphorbus (slain by Menelaus) is compared to the uprooting of a young olive tree.

nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem, qui illius culpa cecidit velut prati ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam tactus aratro est.

[And let her not look back to my love, as previously, which by her fault has dropped like a flower on the edge of a meadow, after it has been touched by a passing plough.]

In a similar spirit, the girl chorus of *carmen* 62 invoke the planted and flourishing flower as a symbol of their virginity, which guarantees admiration and attention — whereas the loss thereof is equivalent to a plucked flower that no-one cares about (62.39–47):13

Ut flos in saeptis secretus nascitur hortis, ignotus pecori, nullo convulsus aratro, quem mulcent aurae, firmat sol, educat imber; multi illum pueri, multae optavere puellae: idem cum tenui carptus defloruit ungui, nulli illum pueri, nullae optavere puellae: sic virgo, dum intacta manet, dum cara suis est; cum castum amisit polluto corpore florem, nec pueris iucunda manet, nec cara puellis.

[As a flower springs up secretly in a fenced garden, unknown to the cattle, torn up by no plough, which the winds caress, the sun strengthens, the rain makes grow, many boys, many girls desire it; when the same flower fades, plucked by a sharp nail, no boys, no girls desire it: so a maiden, as long as she remains untouched, she is dear to her own; when she has lost her chaste flower with her body tainted, she remains neither pleasing to boys nor dear to girls.]

More generally, in Catullus, the flower is a symbol for an unorthodox way of life at variance with the norms of gender that prevail in (Homeric) epic and Roman aristocratic culture, defined as they are by a celebration of masculine prowess and the imperative of (hetero-) sexual reproduction (which does not rule out instances of promiscuous and repulsive romping). Against these realities, Catullus musters an ideology of genuine love (the discarded flower — himself — of *carmen* 11), of virginal (yet biologically sterile) innocence (the flower of the girls' chorus in *carmen* 62), and of ephebic (and ephemeral) male beauty that may well inspire homoerotic longings but irrevocably fades with the onset of manhood (even if one tries to arrest this development as does Attis, the *gymnasi flos* of *carmen* 63, in an ecstatic act of devotion through self-castration). These moments are intimations of a Greek aesthetics that celebrates youthful exuberance, authentic feelings, the fluidity of gender roles and sexual preferences, and a fragile ideal of beauty, all situated in an imaginary world of fleeting relevance, deathbound and destined to be brutalized by Roman realities. In Catullus, the *flos* becomes representative of a gender-bending individual who claims virginal purity, at least of intent if not of action, and is ultimately cast aside to die at the margin.

The *Aeneid* is one huge epic tomb for such 'Catullan' heroes—budding warriors, male and female, who died young trampled on by (Roman) history on the march: Marcellus – (Nisus and) Euryalus – Lausus – Pallas – Camilla – Turnus. Virgil kills, but does not discard them: his narrative endows them with epic immortality, in a wider meditation on (Greek) beauty and (Roman) power prefigured by Catullus. Before reaching Pallas, Virgil already used this aesthetics of death-floration to capture the death of young Euryalus (9.433–37):

volvitur Euryalus leto, pulchrosque per artus it cruor; inque umeros cervix conlapsa recumbit: purpureus veluti cum flos succisus aratro languescit moriens, lassove papavera collo demisere caput pluvia cum forte gravantur.

[Euryalus rolled in death, the blood flowed over his beautiful limbs, his neck collapsed and his head came to rest on his shoulders, like a scarlet flower droops dying, cut by a plough, or like poppies bow their heads with weary necks when rain weighs them down.]

Johnson (1976: 64) brings out the incongruous nature of Virgil's intertextual **/** intersexual poetics, his seemingly perverse merging of Homeric and Catullan sensibilities to produce an aesthetic experience entirely unique:

Where Homer had allowed us only to guess at Gorgythion's looks from his descriptions of [his mother] Castianeira and from the indirect and terse imagery that evokes the poppy, Vergil emphatically asserts the beauty of Euryalus (*pulchros per artus*) and elaborates on it further by his handling of *purpureus flos* and *papavera*. This beauty is not merely vulnerable, it is utterly defenseless, and its pitiful demise is unrelieved by wider perspectives: we are locked into a sweet, tained melancholy […]. The echo of Catullus' self-mocking, pathetic lover, a dear little flower mangled by Vagina Dentata, merges (or, rather, fails to merge) with the echo of Homer's unfortunate young warrior.

The moment of poetic delicacy is bound to be trampled by the leadboots of commentary, mangled by exposition.

## 64

**haud segnes alii**: litotes. *alii* must refer to those not chosen for Pallas' guard of honour.

## 64–65

**crates et molle feretrum | … texunt**: *crates* and *feretrum* (linked by *et*) are the objects of *texunt* — what the *alii* weave together out of branches from the strawberry tree and the oak. What the *crates* are — or how they relate to the *feretrum* — is not entirely straightforward: try (perhaps) 'wicker-works forming a soft bier', and reckon that the 'softness' is the product of giving the bier special bucolic treatment, a touch in a military epic, but at home in this 'soft primitivist' moment of all-out sentimentality. Note that the keynote verb *fero* will weave through the parade as due process is carried out (73 *extulit*, 82 *inferiae*, 84 *ferre*, 91 *ferunt*, on to the very last word of the episode at 99: *ferebat*).

## 65

**arbuteis … virgis et vimine querno**: the two ablative phrases (linked by *et*) specify the material out of which Aeneas' men weave the *crates* and the *feretrum*. Their arrangement is chiastic: adjective – noun – noun – adjective. The *arbutus* is what's known as the wild strawberry tree. See *Eclogue* 3.82, where it is identified as agreeable nourishment for weaned kids, and 7.46. JH: It has evergreen leaves and thick foliage (hence *inumbrat*?) and with *querno*, from *quercus*, oak, it brackets the bier as itself a well-wrought poetic icon, boasting the interleaved dovetailing, as promised, of 'the exiguous' with the 'mighty': alliteratively, chiastically, 'building up' this textual bed with a whole second verse to match the first, before telling us this is what's afoot, 'shading' the poetry with affective chiar-oscuro (| *exstructos … inumbrant* |).

## 66

**inumbrant**: the ambiguity inherent in *umbra* — a soothing protection against the heat on a blazing summer day, an ominous anticipation of the end, recalling the shades of the dead — resonates throughout Virgil's poetry, in particular the *Eclogues*, and, not least, the programmatic first: at its opening we find Tityrus relaxing in the shade (4: *lentus in umbra*); the end of the poem builds to nightfall (83: *maioresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae*), prequel, it turns out, to the end of the *Aeneid*: the entire narrative is heading towards the shadows: in the last line of the poem, the life of Turnus flees indignantly to the shades below (12.952: *vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras*). See further Davis (2015) and Theodorakopoulos (1997: 162–64) on *umbra* as a term of (terminal) closure in Virgil's oeuvre.

## 67

**hic**: the adverb, not the demonstrative pronoun.

**iuvenem agresti sublimem stramine**: another stark contrast, given special force and poignancy by the interlacing of nouns (*iuvenem*, *stramine*) and adjectives (*agresti*, *sublimem*), here also in chiastic order, which produces the sharp clash between *agresti* and *sublimem* and between *sublimem* and *stramine* (etymologically speaking, the exact opposite of 'lofty': it comes from *sterno*, to lay flat, level, strike down). Straw fit for a prince? Yes, it fits, in the 'purple passage' of *pathos*.

**ponunt**: JH: the verse captures what 64–66 have just 'laid down' and 'put up', as prelude to the graphic set piece of the full-grown 'Homeric simile' ahead. As billed, Virgil will craft sublimity from flowery

miniaturism (note that softening refrain: *mollis* 69). Laying out the dead *does* call for stage management of an artful tableau.

## 68–69

**qualem … florem | seu mollis violae seu languentis hyacinthi**: syntactically, *florem* stands in apposition to *iuvenem*, with *qualem* setting up the simile ('…the young man, like a flower…'). The genitives *violae* and *hyacinthi* indicate that *florem*, on which they depend, here has the sense of 'blossom'. Both flowers have associations with death. Latin *viola* is never far from viole(n)t overtones, from violation and bloodred-through-purple; and Greek *hyacinthus* has its mythological origins in the tragic death of the youthful Hyacinthus, who was accidentally killed by his lover Apollo (Ovid, *Metamorphoses* 10.162–219). At *Eclogue* 3.62, mention of this flower adds 'a touch of sorrow to the joyous picture of spring' (Coleman 1977: 118). JH: The 'alternative' image, *seu languentis hyacinthi*, need not — as you might worry — blur the sharpness of the picture; rather, its exotic rhythms allied with semantic content are here to make us linger and *drool* over the length of the limp cadaver.

**virgineo … pollice**: as Catullus, whose flower in the parallel passage in 62 is plucked by a fingernail (62.43: *ungui*), Virgil uses synecdoche — the thumb stands in for the hand: see Gransden (1991: 76), who also notes that the adjective *virgineo* (instead of *virginis*) 'is particularly poignant, for the reader will transfer it from the maiden who plucks the flower, to Pallas, the flower itself': both the thumb that does the plucking is virginal (after all, the perpetrator of Pallas' death-floration, Turnus (and his thumb), may count as 'virginal', unmarried as he is) and the flower that is being plucked. JH: Looming over the princeling and lurking in *both* words is, always, *the parthenos* (virgin), *P*a*ll*as Athene.

**demessum … florem**: *demeto* ('to mow down') is a peculiar verb to use here, better suited to agriculture and harvesting than the cultivation and plucking of flowers. The verb occurs only once in Virgil — and once in Catullus, which renders it likely that we are dealing with an allusive gesture (so also Horsfall 2003: 90: 'presumably a precise and specific borrowing'), especially since the contexts in which the authors use the word is identical: a simile from the world of nature to illustrate the brutality of epic bloodshed. In Catullus' *carmen* 64, the verb captures Achilles' indiscriminate slaughter of innumerable Trojans (64.353–55):

namque velut densas praecerpens messor aristas sole sub ardenti flaventia demetit arva, Troiugenum infesto prosternet corpora ferro.

[For as the farmer cropping the thick ears of corn mows down the yellow fields under the burning sun, so he will lay low the bodies of the sons of Troy with hostile sword.]

But whereas the image of Achilles as grim reaper of bodies on the battlefield renders the idiom of harvest fitting in Catullus, the same is not the case in Virgil: flowers don't get reaped. The dissonance opens a gap for Catullan ideology to flood into Virgil's narrative: the song of the Parcae from *carmen* 64 to which *demessum* alludes stains in the strongest possible terms the world of epic, its quintessential hero Achilles, and his glorifier Homer. Yes, Virgil is Rome's Homer — but there on his palette he can always call on the anti-Homeric 'lyric' sensibilities of Catullus — of Catullan epic.

## 70–71

**cui neque fulgor adhuc nec dum sua forma recessit: | non iam mater alit tellus viresque ministrat**: the state of the flowers after they have been plucked is tragically liminal: they have not yet lost their beauty and vigor, but are to droop soon, having been cut off from the source of their strength and nourishment. The alliterative pairing *fulgor* and *forma* refers to appearance and shape. *mater* is used adjectivally here: 'mother earth', the subject of both *alit* and *ministrat* (linked by –*que*). There is an implied contrast here, unmarked by an adversative particle: see West (1990: 274): 'There he lay like a flower cut by the thumbnail of a young girl, a soft violet or drooping lily, still with its sheen and its shape, *though* Mother Earth no longer feeds it and gives it strength' (my italics). Logically we are dealing with a *husteron proteron*: the thought that mother earth no longer provides nourishment precedes the idea that the plucked flower has so far been retaining its *fulgor* and *forma*. JH: The viewing lengthens, the moment prolongs, 'no, no, nothing' can interrupt our fascinated — enchanted — gaze, here to drink in sheen and shape, and shudder at the switch-off of life support of this mother's son.

## 11.72–84: TheReturn of theDead & Dead MenWalking

Just like the previous block of verses, this chunk of text features a tripartite structure, though this time the central unit is one verse longer than those that flank it (4 + 5 + 4) — but one could also divide the passage in two halves (72–77, 78–84), according to theme (see below). There are also a significant number of lexical and grammatical doublets that give this narrative stretch coherence: 74: *suis … manibus* ~ 81: *manus*; 75: *telas* ~ 80: *tela*; 77: *induit* ~ 83: *indutos*; 77: *arsuras* ~ 82: *sparsurus – flammas*; 77: *obnubit* ~ 81: *umbris*; 79: *duci* ~ 84: *duces*; 80: *tela – hostem* ~ 83: *hostilibus armis*; 80: *hostem* ~ 84: *inimicaque nomina*; 79: *iubet* ~ 83: *iubet*.

(*i*) *Flashback to Dido – and Aeneid 4*

tum geminas vestis auroque ostroque rigentis extulit Aeneas, quas illi laeta laborum ipsa suis quondam manibus Sidonia Dido *fecerat et tenui telas discreverat auro*. 75

(*ii*) *Shrouding the corpse and arranging the* (*material*) *spoils for the procession*

harum unam iuveni supremum maestus honorem induit arsurasque comas obnubit amictu, multaque praeterea Laurentis praemia pugnae aggerat et longo praedam iubet ordine duci; addit equos et tela quibus spoliaverat hostem. 80 (*iii*) *Arranging the human element of the procession*: *prisoners of war destined for sacrifice and army leaders displaying spolia*

vinxerat et post terga manus, quos mitteret umbris inferias, caeso sparsurus sanguine flammas, indutosque iubet truncos hostilibus armis ipsos ferre duces inimicaque nomina figi.

Virgil here brings together discrete (and extreme) areas of experience: the spectre of passionate love turned into murderous passion; funerary rites blending with the ritual of the triumph; and a person parading the epithet *pius* making preparations for perpetrating human sacrifice. A potent subtext unifies this cluster of themes: the power of Dido's curse to shape the narrative of the *Aeneid* — and the history of Rome.

In a supreme act of personal and material sacrifice in honour of Pallas, Aeneas turns one of the two luxury robes he received back in Carthage from Dido, who fashioned the garments herself in a labour of love, into a burial shroud for his surrogate son. Unbeknowst to him, the gesture is fraught with symbolic significance: the unexpected reappearance of the suicidal queen at this moment of profound doom and desperation cannot help but bring to mind the vicious curse she sent after her departing lover. Virgil weaves together the narrative fates of Dido and Pallas by the intratextual reiteration of an entire verse: line 11.75 is identical to 4.264, which is part of a passage that decks Aeneas out in Punic finery founding the wrong city (4.261–64):

 atque illi stellatus iaspide fulva ensis erat Tyrioque ardebat murice laena demissa ex umeris, dives quae munera Dido *fecerat*, *et tenui telas discreverat auro*.

[And his sword was starred with yellow jasper, and a cloak hung from his shoulders ablaze with Tyrian purple — a gift that wealthy Dido had wrought, interweaving the web with thread of gold.]

The metaphorical fire ablaze in the passage (cf. 262: *ardebat*) will soon ignite for real — and we can trace a trajectory from Dido's funeral pyre bursting into flames back in Carthage to the death and upcoming cremation of Pallas, from Dido devoting herself to vengeance in her suicidal sacrifice to the human sacrifice that awaits us just down the line — and the sacrificial killing that Aeneas will perform at the epic's end. As Moskalew (1982: 182–83) observes:

As an act honoring Pallas (*supremum honorem*, 76) it recalls the shrouding of Sarpedon, Patroclus, and Hector in the *Iliad*, but there is no Homeric precedent to explain why Pallas should be covered with a very special mantle. This allusion to Dido transforms a common burial rite into a symbolic gesture. The memory of a happier past (*laeta laborum*) intensifies the present grief, but the mantle also evokes Aeneas' neglect of his mission and his paternal duty to Ascanius, for when Mercury approaches him to relay the message of Jupiter, he finds him decked out in Tyrian finery supervising the building of Carthage (4.262–64). […] Aeneas must choose, and he chooses his son. As Dido's love changes to hate, her gifts become destructive symbols of her wrath. They perpetuate her memory and cast an ominous shadow on later events. Ascanius leads the war games mounted on Dido's stallion; Nisus does not live to claim the Carthaginian crater (*quem dat Sidonia Dido*, 9.266) he was promised. But the baleful implications of her gifts find their most vivid expression in the present scene, where Dido's mantle, which once witnessed dereliction of duty and a painful choice, becomes a shroud for the sonfigure Pallas, as if in recognition of her role in Troy's enduring agony.

The spectre of Dido evoked in lines 72–75 continues to hover over the subsequent sections. In 76–80, we get the conflation of two distinct rituals: the funerary procession; and the victory parade. The coincidence of tragedy and triumph produces a confused semiotics peculiarly apt for the occasion. Pallas distinguished himself on the battlefield before running into Turnus and Aeneas managed to secure a military victory overall, a turning point even in the war — but at a deadly price, also to his humanity. Lines 81–84 pick up on the passage in *Aeneid* 10, where Aeneas (ablaze in fury rather than purple) takes eight prisoners of war to sacrifice them at Pallas' funeral (10.513–20):

proxima quaeque metit gladio latumque per agmen ardens limitem agit ferro, te, Turne, superbum caede nova quaerens. Pallas, Evander, in ipsis 515 omnia sunt oculis, mensae quas advena primas

tunc adiit, dextraeque datae. Sulmone creatos quattuor hic iuvenes, totidem quos educat Ufens, viventis rapit, inferias quos immolet umbris captivoque rogi perfundat sanguine flammas. 520

[With his sword he (sc. Aeneas) mows down everyone close by and ablaze drives a broad path through the enemy rank with his sword, seeking you, Turnus, glorying in your recent slaughter. Pallas, Evander, everything is before his eyes — the feasts he first approached as stranger and the right hands given. Then he captures alive four youths born of Sulmo, and as many reared by Ufens, to sacrifice as offerings to the shades below and to douse the flames of the pyre with captive blood.]

This atrocity has a Homeric precedent, negatively magnified by Catullus 64. In the *Iliad*, Achilles states his desire to sacrifice twelve Trojans at Patroclus' funeral pyre (18.336–37), then methodically captures his victims (21.26–33), reiterates his intent (23.22–23), before perpetrating the slaughter (23.175–83). He indulges in this form of bestial barbarity even after his own death (and chronicled by a writer who came after Homer). In a climactic act of inhumanity that concludes the catalogue of savage deeds enumerated by the Parcae in Catullus 64, Achilles insists, from beyond the grave, on the sacrifice of the Trojan princess Polyxena at his tomb, in a perverse wedding to death (64.366–70), this quintessential tragic theme of human life imploding:

nam simul ac fessis dederit fors copiam Achivis urbis Dardaniae Neptunia solvere vincla, alta Polyxenia madefient caede sepulcra; quae, velut ancipiti succumbens victima ferro, proiciet truncum summisso poplite corpus.

[For as soon as Chance shall give to the exhausted Achaens the power to loose the Neptune-built circle of the Dardanian town [= Troy], the high tomb will be wetted with the blood of slaughtered Polyxena, who like a sacrificial victim falling under the two-edged steel, will prostrate her decapitated body, with her knees buckling.]

In Catullus' anti-epic, Achilles' postmortem savagery entails a worldhistorical rupture: revolted by human trangression, the gods decide to withdraw from mortal affairs, leaving us to our own vices. Catullus makes it explicit that the new era that comes into being in the aftermath of the Trojan War is his own — a prescient diagnosis at least as far as human sacrifice is concerned. For in addition to the Homeric model, there is a historical prequel (or sequel) to Aeneas' sacrificial vengeance. During the Perusine War — fought between Caesar Octavianus (the future princeps Augustus) and Lucius Antonius (the brother of the triumvir Mark Antony) and Fulvia (Mark Antony's wife) in 40–41 BCE, Octavian is rumoured to have slaughtered a line-up of captured forces at an altar dedicated to the deified Julius Caesar (his adoptive father). See Suetonius, *Life of Augustus* 15:14

Perusia capta in plurimos animadvertit, orare veniam vel excusare se conantibus una voce occurrens 'moriendum esse'. scribunt quidam **trecentos** ex dediticiis electos utriusque ordinis ad aram Divo Julio exstructam Idibus Martiis hostiarum more mactatos.

[After the capture of Perugia he took vengeance on many, meeting all attempts to beg for pardon or to make excuses with the one reply, 'You must die.' Some write that three hundred men of both orders were selected from the prisoners of war and slaughtered on the Ides of March like sacrificial victims at the altar raised to the Deified Julius.]

Human sacrifice — that contradiction in terms — is an extreme form of savagery in Graeco-Roman thought. It is therefore shocking that Virgil has his protagonist perpetrate this sickening outrage, Homeric precedent or not. Some scholars argue that he uses the figure of Aeneas and his actions to offer a fierce critique of the princeps and his past. Others wonder whether he embeds the brutality of human sacrifice within apologetic scripts that, while not justifying the practice as such (it is unjustifiable), explain why it may happen nevertheless. Homer configures the hero at the intersection of transcendence and transgression, a paradigm no longer (fully) applicable to Virgil's Roman narrative; still, it remains present as a powerful literary pedigree and (a moralizing) meditation on the potential of humanity for good and for evil — and offers a narrative horizon against which *even* (?) someone like Aeneas can be pushed to extremes by acute experiences and emotions.

<sup>14</sup> For discussion see Owen Lee (1979: 14–16) and Farron (1985).

Likewise, the analogous relation between Aeneas' human sacrifice and that allegedly committed by his distant descendant Octavian at Perugia offers a striking illustration that Dido's curse remains efficacious long after the epic itself has come to an end. The *Aeneid* may close on another act of sacrificial (as well as foundational) violence, but — right in line with the epic's aetiological spirit — the history of (sacrificial) bloodshed that unfolded in its opening chapters will then repeat itself, with the foundational fratricide by Romulus, Rome's interminable wars against outside foes (in particular Dido's Carthage and her avenger Hannibal), and the century of internecine bloodshed that only comes to an end with Actium and Augustus. Only at that point, Virgil's generation hoped against hope, has Dido's curse arguably run its course.

*Further thoughts on the* (*larger*) *structure*: JH: I would break 72–77 with *amictu* as a section where Virgil pulls out all the stops for a blast of his tragic epic mode; after that we troop off to the military ceremonial world of Roman imperial historical epic after Ennius in the procession of 78–94, which is in two halves, 78–84 captured enemy (and) spoils, 85–94 grieving comrades and allies, enveloped by 78–79 ~ 94. The third leg of the procession of epic honorifics begins here at 78, outdoing both the neoteric-lyric flower simile and the tragic-romantic dressing up with cloth by crashing through to imperial-martial amassing of big numbers and grand scale (prequelled at 60–61, *ex agmine … mille viros*)*.* What follows is a double whammy of a march-past on parade, first spoils, then comrades, to be closed with the responsion 94, *longe … praecesserat ordo* to 79, *longo praedam … ordine*. But the main thrust in this ordering of 'loads and loads' of 'heaps' plus 'the rest of the hardware' (*multa … aggerat … addit … et*) is their marshalling into a single 'long procession' (of ranks, in lines — of verse). *This* Virgil rolls out the might of epic *arma* to honour one more *virum*, drawing out a drumroll catalogue of *praemia*, *praedam*, *equos*, *tela*, captives, trophies, joined by ex-*armiger*, *currus*, *equus*, *hastam … galeamque*, *phalanx*, allies *et* his own people (78–83). All summed up in the last word: *armis* (93).

## 72–75

**tum geminas vestis auroque ostroque rigentis | extulit Aeneas, quas illi laeta laborum | ipsa suis quondam manibus Sidonia Dido | fecerat et tenui telas discreverat auro**: both *vestis* and the present participle *rigentis*, which modifies *vestis*, are in the accusative plural (the alternative forms for *vestes* and *rigentes*). *vestis*, the accusative object of *extulit*, is the antecedent of the relative pronoun *quas*. *illi* (dative singular) refers to Aeneas. The deftly alliterative phrase *laeta laborum* stands in apposition to the subject of the relative clause, i.e. *Sidonia Dido*.

The lines recall *Iliad* 24.580–91, in which handmaiden leave two robes and a tunic for Achilles, who uses one of the two robes (and the tunic) to shroud the corpse of Hector before returning it to Priam; but, more importantly, they transport us back to Carthage and *Aeneid* 4. Here Aeneas and Dido meet again. Aeneas is the subject of the main clause; Dido the subject of the relative clause. The position of subjects and verbs is suitably chiastic *extulit Aeneas – ipsa … Sidonia Dido fecerat*, a symmetrical design further reinforced by the enjambment of both verbs, which occur in the same metrical position, taking up the first foot of lines 73 and 75. Aeneas and Dido also share the same accusative object: he was her man, he wore her robes, until death and destruction did them part. The garments constitute a last(ing) tie that binds them together. Something of Dido and Carthage has clearly rubbed off during his stay (or was there from the start — their respective places of origin, Troy and Phoenicia, are located in the same part of the world) that manifests itself in an esteem for luxury items: Aeneas here veils the rustic simplicity of the Italic countryside that has furnished the material for the bier in 'Eastern' opulence. As Petrini (1997: 68) puts it: 'Dido's gold and purple cloaks stand out sharply against the crude bier on which Pallas lies (*agresti stramine*, *A*. 11.67, and lines 64–66) and draw attention to the distance between Carthage, with all that it exemplifies, and the idealized simplicity of Pallas' life and realm.'

**tum geminas vestis … rigentis**: the fact that Aeneas has two cloaks from Dido has puzzled commentators. Reed (2009: 82) offers the following interpretation: 'What does he do with the other [sc. cloak]? Presumably that is his own, the one he was wearing in Book 4 and will continue to use; he honors Pallas with the spare, and both wear the Orientalness that Dido still can impose on the embryonic nation. Yet Dido surely did not weave him an extra cloak in case of a fancy funeral; she wove two — twins — so that they could both wear them together on twin thrones in Carthage (one thinks of her hunting attire at 4.139, a purpledyed garment with a golden clasp).' But why would the cloak she meant for herself end up in Aeneas' treasure chest? There is no suggestion that he plundered her wardrobe before his departure. It is more likely that the intended recipient was Ascanius: see Fratantuono (2004: 862–63). Dido wished him dead — not something she can achieve — and in a sense Pallas stands in for Ascanius; him her curse *can* lay low. Supporting evidence comes from the fact that the lines here recall specifically 4.261–64 (cited above 256), which portray Aeneas founding the wrong city (Carthage instead of Rome), which outrages Jupiter, who accuses Aeneas of sacrificing Ascanius' (Roman) future. JH: Coming from another angle, Dido laid on Aeneas a portable permanent reminder that someone was missing, and when would he miss anyone more than his soulmate (her)?

It is also worth noting that Dido, in weaving robes for Aeneas, reciprocates: among the treasures that Aeneas gifts to Dido in return for her hospitality is 'a mantle stiff with figures wrought in gold' (1.648: … *pallam signis auroque rigentem*). If Aeneas regaled Dido with a stiff *palla* at the start of their romance, Dido, in her wrath, reciprocates with a stiff Pallas. Her curse certainly manifests itself here, though in robing Pallas in a triumphal gown Aeneas perhaps also wishes to transfer some of his destined glory upon his dead ward (so Delvigo 1999).

**extulit**: JH: Aeneas is 'burying' (*effero*) his twin 'loves', Pallas wrapped in Dido.

**auroque ostroque**: the double –*que* coordinates the instrumental ablatives: 'both … and …'. See Harrison (1991: 83) on *Aeneid* 10.91 (*Europamque Asiamque*): 'this use of –*que*… –*que*, has Ennian colour and imitates the Homeric τε … τε' (with reference to further literature). The royal purple dye (an extremely expensive substance to make) and the gold evoke Dido's ethnic background as well as her personal story: she is from Phoenicia — a land of wealth and luxury — and she fled the land after having recuperated the household gold. At 4.134, her horse is described as *ostroque insignis et auro*. 'Sidonian' (below) underlines 'Phoenician', which means '(dyed) red-purple'.

**illi**: these are not any old garments but ones that Dido made specially for Aeneas (the referent of *illi*) — a labour of love, in other words.

**laeta laborum**: the alliterative phrase is pregnant with meaning. See e.g. Gross (2003–4: 143–44): 'Although Dido was certainly *laeta* (happy) as she wove in book 4, that adjective is absent from the text. By inserting *laeta* into the recollected image of Dido creating the mantles, Vergil not only brings her to life again but also revives the reader's memory of the hero's transient happiness. The moment and the image of Dido weaving are frozen in time with *laeta* signifying the reciprocal love of Dido and Aeneas' or Reed (2009: 83): 'In the quick, faint focalization of *laeta laborum* is the queen of Carthage herself, somehow both viewer and corpse. Here most clearly the ghost of Dido returns to reenact her happiness and her tragedy.'

**Sidonia Dido**: *Sidonia* is an adjective formed from the place-name Sidon, located in Phoenicia — hence 'Phoenician Dido' or 'Dido from Sidon'. The passage abounds in wordplay. See Paschalis (1997: 49): 'The epithet "Sidonia" is applied to "Dido" when she offers gifts [in Greek 'give' is '*didomi*'], while the name "Dido" associates her with Giving in a broader sense (including gift-giving). Her story starts when her father "gave" her ("dederat") to Sychaeus and when Sychaeus gave her his gold as "aid" for the voyage. In Carthage she appears as a Giver, a feature manifested in her hospitable reception of Aeneas. A semantic component of "(Si*don*ia) Dido", and of Carthage and the Carthaginians in general, is Wealth, which can be traced back to her marriage to "ditissimus" Sychaeus.' He goes on to discuss insidious and inflaming gifts — what we have here is just the last instance of this phenomenon, with Dido reaching out from beyond the grave, haunting Aeneas, seeing to the fulfilment of her curse. In his economic reading of the *Aeneid*, Coffee (2009: 67) argues that exchange relations with the Carthaginian queen are inherently skewed — despite her name: 'Dido's failure at reciprocity comes with a heavy irony. Vergil often clusters the words *Sidonia*, *Dido*, and *dona*, creating through repetition of the second syllable of the queen's name an encapsulation of her difficulties as a Phoenician (*Sidonia*) in managing reciprocal relations (*dona*). Dido's name is associated with the very word for gifts only to emphasize her inability to handle them properly.' More generally speaking, Dido comes with a range of epithets, and each tells part of her story. As Daniels (1930: 168) notes: 'The life-history of Dido could be deduced from the descriptive adjectives applied to her and, in particular, from the order in which some of them occur in the poem: *Tyria*, *Sidonia*, *Phoenissa*, *laetissima*, *pulcherrima*, *optima*, *inops*, *moritura*, *demens*, *effera*, *infelix*.' Our lines here recall her entire background and narrative fate in the *Aeneid*, from her ethnic origins to her happy love with Aeneas to the ensuing tragedy (and vicious curse) that has just struck home (again). What Laocoon says of the Greek (*timeo Danaos et dona ferentes* — I fear the Greeks even [or rather: especially] when they bring gifts) holds true of Dido as well. See *Aeneid* 5.571 with Fratantuono and Smith (2015: 554–55) and 9.266 (one of the gifts that Anchises promises to Nisus and Euryalus ahead of their ill-omened night mission is an 'ancient bowl which Sidonian Dido gives' (*cratera antiquum quem dat Sidonia Dido*). JH: Where the bier was Virgil's tribute of emotive poetry to Pallas, this one comes from Aeneas, from the heart. It bears more than he can say, or know.

**tenui telas discreverat auro**: JH: picking up on *auroque ostroque rigentis*, discriminating detail complementing the lavish backdrop fit for royalty, once more matching the 'exiguous' to the 'mighty' (63). Only *very* overwrought readers will hear the *tela* (80) in these *telas*. Ouch!

## 76–80

**harum unam iuveni supremum maestus honorem | induit arsurasque comas obnubit amictu, | multaque praeterea Laurentis praemia pugnae | aggerat et longo praedam iubet ordine duci; | addit equos et tela quibus spoliaverat hostem**: a series of four main clauses (*induit*, *obnubit*, *aggerat*, *iubet*) linked by the two –*que* (attached to *arsuras* and *multa*) and the *et* (after *aggerat*). *iubet* governs an indirect statement with *praedam* as subject accusative and *duci* as (present passive) infinitive. Virgil then 'adds' a fifth main clause in asyndetic parataxis (*addit*). There is a whiff of enactment here: the addition of another element even after everything had been set out in order (*longo … ordine*: note the hyperbaton for emphasis) brings out Aeneas' inability to leave well enough alone when it comes to honouring Pallas.

**harum unam**: picking up *geminas vestis*.

**supremum … honorem**: the accusative stands in apposition to the sentence: Horsfall (2003: 94). Aeneas shrouds Pallas in Dido's cloak *as a last* — untoppable *— honour* (reprising the entrée at 61).

**maestus**: adjective instead of adverb, modifying the subject of the sentence (Aeneas).

**arsuras**: the future active participle of *ardeo*, modifying *comas* and anticipating Pallas' cremation. Hair that is ablaze is another image in the *Aeneid* that conflates the triumphant and the tragic. See Reed (2009: 82–83): 'Pallas' "hair that was soon to burn" on the pyre unites a remembrance (together with the other allusions) of Dido's pyre with a melancholy echo of the miraculously flaming hair of Ascanius and Lavinia (2.679–91, 7.71–80), which is prophetic of a divinely approved national foundation.'

**obnubitque amictu**: this 'veiling' applies to the body what the flora brought to the bier (66: *obtentu frondis inumbrant*). As Newman and Newman (2005: 163) note, Virgil's choice of verb here is pregnant with the sense of a future foiled and unrealized erotic potential: '*obnubit* (unique in the poem) at the end is suggestive. It was perhaps a term originally associated with the bride at the Roman marriage rite, *nuptiae*.'

**multaque praeterea Laurentis praemia pugnae | aggerat**: the interlaced word order (*multa … praemia*; *Laurentis … pugnae*) mimics Aeneas' heaping of spoils. The adjective *Laurens*, *-ntis* ('of or belonging to Laurentum') refers to the people and the region over which King Latinus holds sway, historically an ancient settlement in Latium. See further Nussbaum (1973).

**quibus spoliaverat hostem**: the antecedents of the relative pronoun *quibus* (in the ablative of separation with *spoliaverat*) are *equos et tela*. The subject of the relative clause remains unclear: is it Aeneas, the subject of all main clauses in this passage, or perhaps Pallas, which would pair him with Dido, the subject of another (comparable) relative clause in

this passage: 73–75? The fact that Virgil uses pluperfect verbs with Dido as subject in 75 (*fecerat*, *discreverat*) and a pluperfect here (*spoliaverat*) is — *pace* Fratantuono (2009: 42) — hardly an argument in favour of Pallas, given that we get Aeneas as the subject of a pluperfect verb (*vinxerat*) in the following line: see next comment.

## 81–84

**vinxerat et post terga manus** [eorum]**, quos mitteret umbris | inferias, caeso sparsurus sanguine flammas, | indutosque iubet truncos hostilibus armis | ipsos ferre duces inimicaque nomina figi**: there is an odd break in syntax between 80 and 81. The sacrificial victims form part of the catalogue of items that Aeneas adds to the procession of spoils. Indeed, the pluperfect *vinxerat* indicates that the binding of the victims took place at about the same time as the despoiling of the slain enemies (*spoliaverat*), referring back to the scene in Book 10.517–20 (quoted above). Put differently, a 'natural' sequence would have featured the action of binding in a relative clause: *addit* (*a*) *equos et tela quibus spoliaverat hostem et* (b) *eos quorum manus vinxerat post terga*… Virgil, however, here returns to the level of the main sentence, linking *vinxerat* to *addit* (80) via the postponed *et*, irrespective of the odd chronological (and logical) sequence that ensues as we move from present (80: *addit*) to pluperfect (81: *vinxerat*) back to present (83: *iubet*, linked to *vinxerat* by the –*que* after *indutos*).

What do you think: is this a fault (a sign of hasty composition or, perhaps, unfinished business) or a feature (a deliberate rupture in sense and syntax to highlight Aeneas' arguably most repellent action in the *Aeneid*)?

**manus**: accusative plural of the fourth declension noun *manus*, *–us*, f. ('hands') — the object of *vinxerat*.

**quos mitteret umbris | inferias**: a relative clause of purpose (hence the subjunctive). The antecedent has to be supplied: the genitive plural of *is* (*eorum*) dependent on *manus* ('the hands of those, whom…'). *umbris* is a dative of destination ('…to the shades'). JH: Now is the moment to cash out that loudly alliterative com-mmmmisssioning in 47 which opened with | *mitteret.* Pallas' grisly final send-off by Aeneas is pinned to Evander's hug and adieu: he won't lack for company.

**inferias**: in apposition to the relative pronoun (and accusative object) *quos*: 'as offerings to the spirits of the underworld'. For the phenomenon see Lott (2012: 185):

*Inferiae* (always plural) are offerings or gifts to the Manes (or Di Manes, always plural), the spirits of the dead either collectively or, as here, of a particular person (cf. Paulus 112M/99L: *inferiae sacrificia*, *quae dis Manibus inferebant*). Ordinarily, *inferiae* were private devotions offered by family members or well-wishers at the tomb or cremation site of the deceased rather than public rituals of state. They could be offered whenever someone visited a tomb (e.g. Catullus (101.2, 8) writes of offering them to his brother when he visited his tomb at Troy), but they were especially associated with the birthday of the deceased and with Parentalia (or *dies parentales*), a collection of festal days from February 13 to 21 ending in Feralia, a holiday when Romans visited family graves.

In our context, the term signals ghastly perversion of customary rites. See Panoussi (2009: 34): 'Both the use of the word *inferias* to indicate human offerings and the sprinkling of the funeral flames with blood are inconsistent with regular funerary ritual (see Toynbee 1971: 50).'

**caeso sparsurus sanguine flammas**: *sparsurus* is the future active participle of *spargo*, modifying the subject of the sentence — which is slightly odd since Aeneas won't be present during the funeral. But there is no alibi here: the construction ensures that he retains agency over — and so responsibility for — the human sacrifice if only figuratively. *caeso … sanguine* means literally 'with slaughtered blood', sc. 'with the blood of those who have been slaughtered' and manifests the theme of perverted sacrifice: 'Vergil's verb for slaughter, *caedo*, is associated with animal sacrifice elsewhere in the *Aeneid*' (Wiltshire 1989: 25). JH: Now here's another sick thought lurking in the poetry: *sparsurus … flammas* is the counterpart of *arsuras … comas*, 77. There'll be blood on Dido's 'veil'. With this pointer to the butchery ahead, in the course of a two-pronged sentence linked at verse-junction by a mere *–que* (between | in*ferias* … and | in*dutos*…), we finesse the massacre in cold blood, and suture the cut by returning to the topic 'spoils of war' (*…tela quibus spoliaverat hostem* => <= *indutos … hostilibus armis*). Seamlessly, the missing prisoners yield to the figure of the old retainer, 'led' in the line as if himself another prisoner (| *ducitur*… | *sternitur*, 85, 87). Meantime, you could reckon that we have already anticipated the (Achillean massacre) 'harvesting' imagery displaced into the floral simile (68); cremation of Pallas' hair has melded into the blood set to sputter in the fire (77, 82). And, next, enter more captives, already soaked red in blood (sc. back before Aeneas' atrocity, back in the battle: *sanguine*, 82 ~ *perfusos sanguine*, 88; as often, *Rutulians* are named for their semantic value as 'Men of *scarlet*'). So the massacre remains obstinately there, poking clean through Virgil's 'fade'. This dirty war won't be exactly how we thought Arms and Heroes would play out — but the *Aeneid* will pull much the same kind of fast one at the death, when the poem 'cuts out' — cuts reckoning up the outcome of Turnus' execution, as such, leaving us to feed into the deal everything we learned through Mezentius, Pallas, Camilla, and the rest.

**indutosque iubet truncos hostilibus armis | ipsos ferre duces inimicaque nomina figi**: the main verb *iubet* introduces a bipartite indirect statement, with *ferre* and *figi* as infinitives, linked by the –*que* after *inimica*. There is some debate over the subjective accusative of the first part: is it *truncos* (so Fratantuono 2009: 44, following the lateantique commentator Servius) or *ipsos duces*? If we take *truncos* as subject accusative and *ipsos duces* as accusative object of *ferre*, we get intimations of crucifixion and a parade of (dead?) princes affixed to tree-trunks (not so shocking, perhaps, given that Aeneas also plans human sacrifice); alternatively, take *ipsos … duces* as subject accusative and *truncos* as accusative object of *ferre*: 'he ordered leaders of the army to carry tree trunks dressed up with weapons captured from the enemy…' Perhaps Virgil is deliberately ambiguous? So Dyson (2001: 187, stepping around the issue of crucifixion through the nimble use of brackets): 'A meaningful grammatical ambiguity here further confuses men with trees: the two accusatives make it unclear whether Aeneas commands "the leaders to bear the trunks" or "the trunks to bear the (spoils and hence identities of the) leaders," as the trunk with which the book opens "is" Mezentius.' This is, at any rate, not the first time that the *duces* appear in this part. See also Virgil's persistent use of the verb *ducere* here: 79: *duci*, 85: *ducitur*; 88: *ducunt*.

**indutosque … truncos hostilibus armis**: essentially portable variants of the *tropaeum* that Virgil constructed for Aeneas at the beginning of the book, which itself constitutes the supremely portable and infinitely replicable representation of his win. *hostilibus armis* = *armis hostium*.

**ferre … inimicaque nomina figi**: a *husteron proteron*. Aeneas orders the names of the slain enemies to be attached (*figi*) to the effigies, which he wants the leaders to carry (*ferre*) in the procession. *inimica nomina* = *nomina inimicorum* / *hostium*. The images continue to be reminiscent of the ritual of the triumph, which often involved the display of labeled spoils. (JH: Let's look back: did Aeneas post up 'MEZENTIUS', and point, at 16 (*hic*)?)

The creative use of tenses in this narrative stretch underlines the presence of the (epic past): we begin with a perfect (73: *extulit*) and pluperfects (75: *fecerat*; *discreverat*). The main verbs in 76–80 (*induit*, *obnuit*, *aggerat*, *iubet*, *addit*) are all in the present tense, but the section concludes with a pluperfect in a subordinate clause (80: *spoliaverat*). The next *main* verb — 81: *vinxerat* — is also in the pluperfect (it refers to the same moment in time as *spoliaverat*). The future participle *sparsurus* (82) seems poorly integrated in terms of sense and syntax: it picks up on 10.520 (cited above), specifically Aeneas' intent to douse Pallas' funeral pyre in sacrificial blood, but by now it is clear that he will not be present at the cremation: he does not join the procession back to Pallanteum. Virgil concludes with a main verb in the present tense (83: *iubet*).

## 11.85–93: The Grief Parade


victor habet. tum maesta **phalanx Teucri**que sequuntur **Tyrrheni**que omnes et versis **Arcades** armis.

Key:


Virgil's depiction of the procession begins with three blocks of three lines each. The first two bring into focus Pallas' tutor Acoetes (85–87) and his war horse Aethon (88–90) and show significant elements of symmetry in their design:

(a) Grammar and syntax:

• Each triplet features a main verb in the first (85: *ducitur*; 88: *ducunt*) and the third (87: *sternitur*; 90: *it*) line.


(b) Inversion of natural sequence: in the case of Acoetes, it is easier to imagine him sprawled on the ground first (*sternitur*) before he is being led as part of the procession (*ducitur*); in the case of Aethon, he has been displaced from pulling chariots to following them.

(c) Loss of agency not involving the expression of grief: Acoetes does not walk on his own accord — he is being led; others move the chariots: Aethon walks behind them.

The stylistic and thematic bond between 85–87 and 88–90 also emerges by negative contrast to the three lines that follow, which feature an entirely different design. We get six different subjects (*alii*, *Turnus victor*, *maesta phalanx*, *Teucri*, *Tyrrheni omnes*, and *Arcades*); the main verbs occur in the middle of the line (91: *ferunt*; 92: *habet*) or at the end (92: *sequuntur*) rather than the beginning. The one identical item is therefore particularly striking, even though it also heightens the contrast: Virgil has placed the perpetrator that has reduced Acoetes and Aethon to such a wretched state at verse end too (91: *Turnus*). His presence here, in the middle of a catalogue of different groups marching in Pallas' funeral procession, sticks out like a sore thumb; and to add insult to injury, Virgil adds the galling descriptor *victor* (92) in enjambment.

## 85–87

**ducitur infelix aevo confectus Acoetes, | pectora nunc foedans pugnis, nunc unguibus ora, | sternitur et toto proiectus corpore terrae**: the three lines paint a disturbing picture of Pallas' comrade Acoetes in an extreme state of emotional distress, caught in between the individual articulation of his unfathomable grief and modes of social coercion that channel the experience of bereavement into culturally acceptable forms. Tellingly, Virgil has inverted what would have been a natural sequence that begins with personal denial, moves on to (ritual) self-harm, and concludes with (aided) participation in a collective exercise (the funeral procession). Instead, we begin with Acoetes being led (85), then encounter him actively mutilating himself (having broken free of his guides?) (86), and end with him lying prostrate on the ground, grinding any movement to a halt (87) — and undoing the social reintegration of the mourner. Put differently, the procession gets off to a fitful and halting start, as Virgil recombines conventional elements in unconventional ways.

#### Extra information

On the semiotics of self-harm in the context of grief see Glucklich (2001) 35: 'Self-mutilation is extremely pervasive in rites of mourning around the world. A recent survey of seventy-eight societies has documented thirty-one in which self-injury prevails and thirty-two in which it is attempted in varying degrees of success. Acts of self-hurting vary from mild hair-pulling and chest-beating to extremely violent forms of selfabuse.' The meaning and function of such self-inflicted pain are open to various interpretations, from the psychological to the sociological: 'If the hurt is understood as a spontaneous display of grief it could be conceived in terms of psychological explanations […]. For instance, extreme grief may consist of an uneasy balance of guilt and anger, and if this is so, self-hurt may be imagined in terms of the punitive aspects of the juridical model. But if the self-mutilation is rigorously scripted in order to provoke strong emotions or even beliefs, its meaning would have to be conceptualized in a different manner. For instance, such pain might belong in the communal-vicarious model, as a sacrificial act that is aimed at furthering the journey of the departed spirit, or easing the emotional burden of the surviving relatives' (36).

**infelix**: Virgil's standard epithet for characters destined for tragedy (in particular Dido). Like her, the superannuated armour-bearer will bear no sons, both have lost the boys they never had (*felix* properly connotes fertility). See further Rebert (1928) on the 'felicity of *infelix*' in the *Aeneid*, which, he argues, 'lies in the singularly effective way it sets forth, artistically, dramatically, and tragically, a poetical concept which lay very close to the poet's heart' (71).

**pectora nunc foedans pugnis, nunc unguibus ora**: a finely wrought line featuring anaphora of *nunc* and chiastic arrangement of accusative objects (*pectora*, *ora*) and instrumental ablatives (*pugnis*, *unguibus*). The placement of *foedans*, which is somewhat off-centre, and the slightly asymmetrical placement of the two *nunc* introduce an element of unpredictability and disturbance into the design. The expression of grief here is as ritualized as it is personal.

**sternitur et**: the post-positive *et* links *ducitur* and *sternitur* (= *et sternitur*).

## 88

**ducunt et Rutulo perfusos sanguine currus**: the odd scenario of anonymous individuals leading (or pulling?) either Pallas' own (empty) chariot or the chariots of slain Rutulians darkly resembles the image of the triumphant Roman general, who is carried on his chariot along the *via triumphalis*, behind the captured enemy chieftains. (Cf. Cicero, *in Verrem* 5.67: *archipiratam … quem ante currum tuum duceres*; Livy 3.29.4: *ducti ante currum hostium duces*; Ovid, *Tristia* 4.2.47: *hos super in curru*, *Caesar*, *victore veheris*.)

## 89–90

**post bellator equus positis insignibus Aethon | it lacrimans guttisque umectat grandibus ora**: the *–que* after *guttis* links *it* (the third person present active indicative of *eo*, *ire*) and *umectat*. Line 90 recalls 86, the grief of the horse matching the grief of Acoetes. Note the homoioteleuta (*guttis ~ pugnis*, *grandibus ~ unguibus*) and the use of *ora* in the final foot of the hexameter as well as the repeated sound patterns, as set out by Moskalew (1982: 100):

11.86: pectora nunc foedáns p*u*gnís, nunc u*n*gu*ibus* óra

11.90: it lacrimáns g*u*ttísque umectat gra*n*d*ibus* óra,

who sees the parallels as 'intensifying the feeling of universal loss at the death of Pallas'.

It is unclear whether Virgil here recognizes the fact that animals can experience emotions such as grief or engages in anthropomorphizing Pallas' horse. The special relationship of the epic warrior and his steed(s) has at any rate excellent Homeric credentials: Achilles' horses weep at the death of Patroclus (*Iliad* 17.426–28) and his horse Xanthus later on predicts his master's downfall (*Iliad* 19.405–18). Likewise, the relationship of Mezentius with his faithful horse Rhaebus was, along with his paternal love, one of the more agreeable features of the tyrant (*Aeneid* 10.860–69).15 Even if it *does* mark him an outcast from *human* sociality…

**post**: an adverb (rather than a preposition).

**bellator equus**: Virgil had already used the phrase at *Georgics* 2.145 (*bellator equus campo sese arduus infert*). JH: Just as the horse is in counterpoise with the enemy *equos* (80), so Pallas' armour *not* stripped from him by Turnus (91–92) will see and outbid the *tela* stripped from the foe (80).

**positis insignibus**: an ablative absolute; *positis = depositis*, i.e. Virgil uses the simple form of the verb *ponere* in lieu of the composite *de-ponere*. The lack of shining armour reinforces the sombre mood; contrast Cicero's boast upon his triumphant return from exile in his speech of thanksgiving to the senate (*Red. Sen*. 28): *equis insignibus et curru aurato reportati* (*sumus*). Aethon of course remains an *equus insignis*, but is no longer wearing *insignia*.

**Aethon**: the Greek name means 'blazing', 'burning', 'fiery red' (extinguished by his wet (red-hot) tears). See Paschalis (1997: 371–72): 'In relation to Pallas' chariot reeking with Rutulian blood, the horse-name "Aethon" marks the horse's (and the hero's) "fiery spirit" displayed

<sup>15</sup> For current thinking on grieving animals (though for their own kind) see King, B. J. (2013), 'When Animals Mourn' [http://ioniandolphinproject.org/wp-content/ uploads/2013/06/0713062.pdf] and further King (2013).

in battle: the cluster "bellator equus … Aethon" (= "ardens") varies 7. 781–82 "ardentis … bella". But in relation to the funeral procession, "Aethon" anticipates the cremation of Pallas' body at Pallanteum (77 "arsurasque comas"; 82 "caeso sparsurus sanguine flammas"): War–fire is distorted into its outcome, Pyre–fire.'

**it lacrimans**: the monosyllable *it*, placed for maximum emphasis in enjambment at the beginning of the line, followed by the circumstantial participle *lacrimans* form a metrical unit: the pattern – u u – is called a choriamb. The purpose of the design is to shock with poignant pathos. JH: The cortège (or cavalcade) resumes without fuss as the mount makes a dignified, disciplined, 'trooper', whereas the bodyguard broke down before everybody, spoiling the show, but did it for one and all, Aeneas included. *Someone* had to bare their grief, so no one will wonder if it was there. (Someone, but not the *dux*, the *imperator*, who's more like the trusty steed, cf. 29: *il-lacrimans*).

**guttisque umectat grandibus ora**: the rest of the verse glosses *lacrimans* and assimilates *Aethon* to *Acoetes* (see above 271–2). JH: Even without his rosettes, this high-tone *bellator equus* is bound to weep 'huge droplets', add them to the list of variants on *exigua* weighing in as *ingentis* (63, just after 62: *lacrimis*).

## 91–93

**hastam alii galeamque ferunt, nam cetera Turnus | victor habet. tum maesta phalanx Teucrique sequuntur | Tyrrhenique omnes et versis Arcades armis**: Virgil continues with a seemingly innocuous and rather bland enumeration of other pieces of Pallas' equipment which anonymous 'others' (*alii*) carry. But the opening half verse *hastam … ferunt* sets up a shocker: the laconic and brutal reminder, so consequential for what follows, that Pallas was partially despoiled by his killer Turnus (before Aeneas trumped him, 80 above). See Henry (1989: 27): 'One of the reasons why Pallas' funeral appears so desolate is that the men who follow his weeping horse Aethon can carry only his spear and helmet […]. This reference to Turnus and the plunder which will (as the reader was warned at X. 504) one day be hateful to him leads readily to Aeneas' change of focus.' (Turnus made off with the baldric.) The subsequent sentence features four nouns (*phalanx*, *Teucri*, *Tyrrheni*, *Arcades*) and one verb (*sequuntur*). The –*que* after *Teucri* links *phalanx* and *Teucri*, the –*que* after *Tyrrheni*, *Teucri* and *Tyrrheni*. Virgil continues to emphasize the multiculturalism of Aeneas' army, which comprises contingents of Trojans (*Teucri*), Etruscans (*Tyrrheni*), and Greeks from Arcadia (*Arcades*). JH: The peaceful *Ar*cadians jar loudly against these *ar*ma at the end of their parade (indeed *versis* signals the punful oxymoron: the epic has turned everything upside-down, back-to-front).

**phalanx**: a Greek loanword (*phalanx*), referring originally to the Macedonian infantry, which was armed with long pikes and advanced as a closely arrayed unit. There is verbal responsion in *sequuntur*, since the formation attacked by tramping forward unstoppably. Virgil uses the term for any closely packed body of men. (See 2.254, 6.489, 12.277.)

**versis … armis**: ablative absolute. JH: As we have seen throughout the episode, funeral rites for dead soldiers find their own symbolic ways to turn warfare into their own idiom, replaying back the gains and losses involved in the particular case through the formulae devised for casualties in general. The hero's *arma* provide the vocabulary for this prize purpose, but with a difference. The first word of the epic, here they seal the tribute as the last.

## 11.94–99: The Parting of theWays

postquam omnis longe comitum praecesserat ordo, *substitit* Aeneas gemituque haec **addidit** alto: *motion* | **speech** 'nos alias hinc ad lacrimas eadem horrida belli fata vocant: salve aeternum mihi, maxime Palla, aeternumque vale.' nec plura **effatus** ad altos **speech** *tendebat* muros *gressum*que in castra *ferebat*. *motion*

Virgil uses a triple chiasmus to mark the parting of the ways. The first frames Aeneas' farewell speech. In 95, movement ends (*substitit*) and speech begins: (*haec addidit*); after the speech has come to an end (98: *nec plura effatus*) movement restarts: *tendebat … gressum … ferebat* (99). Within the speech, Aeneas uses chiasmus twice: the figure underscores the parting of himself and Pallas: *nos* (personal pronoun in oblique case) – *hinc* (spatio-temporal adverb) – *vocant* (verb) :: *salve* (verb) – *aeternum* (temporal adverb) – *mihi* (personal pronoun in oblique case); and, reinforced by gemination, brings out the terminal finality of his final greeting (*salve aeternum* :: *aeternum vale*). It is telling that Aeneas features himself only in oblique cases (accusative, dative): in what unfolds here, his agency is compromised — he is unable to do anything else for Pallas; forces beyond his control call him away.

Among other models, Aeneas' speech recalls two famous farewell addresses to the dead in particular: that of Achilles to Patroclus in Homer's *Iliad*; and that of Catullus to his brother. Here is Achilles, who is worth listening to not least because his last words to his fallen comrade, coming right after butchering the captive Trojans at Patroclus' pyre, differ decisively from those of Aeneas (*Iliad* 23.178–83; cf. 23.19–23):

ᾤμωξέν τ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἔπειτα, φίλον δ᾽ ὀνόμηνεν ἑταῖρον: 'χαῖρέ μοι ὦ Πάτροκλε καὶ εἰν Ἀΐδαο δόμοισι: πάντα γὰρ ἤδη τοι τελέω τὰ πάροιθεν ὑπέστην, δώδεκα μὲν Τρώων μεγαθύμων υἱέας ἐσθλοὺς τοὺς ἅμα σοὶ πάντας πῦρ ἐσθίει: Ἕκτορα δ᾽ οὔ τι δώσω Πριαμίδην πυρὶ δαπτέμεν, ἀλλὰ κύνεσσιν.'

[Then he groaned and called on his dear comrade by name: 'Farewell, Patroclus, I hail you even in the House of Hades, for now I am bringing to pass all that I have previously promised you. Twelve noble sons of the great-hearted Trojans, all of them together with you the fire devours: but Hector, son of Priam, I shall not give to the fire to feed on, but to dogs.']

And here Catullus, which opens with a miniature odyssey (*carmen* 101):


*atque in perpetuum*, *frater*, *ave atque vale*.

[Having wandered through many peoples and across many seas, I arrive, brother, at these wretched funeral rites, to present you with the last gift of death and address, though in vain, your silent ashes, since fortune has taken your own self away from me — alas, my wretched brother so cruelly torn from me. Still, meanwhile receive these offerings now, which by the custom of our fathers have been handed down as a sad gift for funeral rites, dripping with many a fraternal tear *and forever*, *brother*, *hail and farewell*.]

## 94–95

**postquam omnis longe comitum praecesserat ordo, | substitit Aeneas gemituque haec addidit alto**: the subject of the *postquam*-clause is *omnis … ordo*; the –*que* after *gemitu* links *substitit* and *addidit*. The two phrases featuring hyperbaton (*omnis – ordo* :: *gemitu – alto*) are arranged chiastically (adjective – noun :: noun – adjective); in each case, the hyperbaton reinforces the meaning of the attribute. The ring back to 60–1: *tot … ex agmine … qui comitentur* now closes.

**postquam … praecesserat**: Horsfall (2003: 103) notes that 'the use of *postquam* with pluperfect is extremely rare'. (It is usually construed with the perfect tense.) The implied object of *praecesserat* is Aeneas: 'the procession passes *him* by'. The words are livened up by the conceptual clash of 'post-' coming *before* 'prae-'.

**comitum**: genitive plural of *comes*, dependent on *ordo*.

**substitit Aeneas**: the inversion of natural word order and the placement of *substitit* at the beginning of the line generate a bump of enactment, achieving an iconic depiction of Aeneas coming to a halt. (The momentum in 89–92 *post … tum … sequuntur* runs the grand file on the move *into* the commander, who stops the train by abrupt standstill. As 98–89 makes pretty clear, Aeneas, unable to let go, has gone with the procession out of the camp, if at lower speed.) But he herewith draws a line under proceedings.

**haec**: 'the following' — looking forward to the speech.

## 96–98

**'nos alias hinc ad lacrimas eadem horrida belli | fata vocant: salve aeternum mihi, maxime Palla, | aeternumque vale.'**: Aeneas adds a final brief farewell, including an (apologetic) explanation why he will now take his leave from the procession: he has been bumped along from everywhere he's stopped at since leaving Troy, and still ineluctable fate requires him to proceed with the war; there is to be no respite, no rest, for *him*. The little speech thus splits in half: first Aeneas outlines what is in store for him in the idiom of the authorial narrator (*nos … vocant*); then he utters his final farewell to Pallas in a statement that is the last word in rhetorical polish (*salve … vale*). The first part of the speech acquires its punch through intratextual echoes, the second through intertextual echoes (details in the lemmata below): in under one verse length, Aeneas packs in the double whammy of a Virgilian, then a Catullan voice.

**nos**: accusative plural of the first person personal pronoun, the object of *vocant*. Aeneas contrasts his obligations as commanding general with the dead Pallas (obviously relieved of any further military duties) and the members of the guard of honour that accompanies his corpse back to Pallanteum. By now he knows that he is 'on call' when the fates beckon: the formulation recalls what the Sibyl told him when clueing him in on the fateful Golden Bough: it will come off the tree easily *si te fata vocant* (6.147: 'if the fates call you').

**alias … ad lacrimas**: hyperbaton and anastrophe (= *ad alias lacrimas*). *Lacrimae* ('tears') have been a programmatic presence tearing through the poem from 1.462 onwards, when Aeneas, as part of his reaction to the murals of the Trojan war on display at Juno's temple in Dido's Carthage, coins the *mot*: *sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt* ('The world is a world of tears, and the burdens of mortality touch the heart'; trans. Fagles), and especially at the opening of this bleak Book 11. See 41, 86, 90: everyone is wretched. For Aeneas, future warfare means an escalator to further tragedy, not to glory.

**eadem horrida belli | fata**: *fata* is the subject of *vocant* (and this is etymologically reinforced since *fatum says* 'what has been *vocalized*' (from the verb *for*, *fari*); it is modified by two attributes (*eadem* and *horrida*) and the genitive *belli*. This is the only place in the poem in which *horrida* modifies *fata*. After 6.86–87 (the Sybil speaking to Aeneas): *bella*, *horrida bella*, | *et Thybrim multo spumantem sanguine cerno* and 7.41 (the proem in the middle, Virgil addressing the Muse): *tu vatem*, *tu*, *diva*, *mone. dicam horrida bella*, we would surely expect the adjective to go with *bellum*: both the Sibyl and Virgil use *horridus* ('dreadful') as an attribute of war. Aeneas, however, coins the new phrase *horrida belli fata* ('the dreadful destinies of warfare'), perhaps recalling Dido's horrified phrase *horrida iussa* (4.378, outraged at Aeneas' claim of a divine injunction to leave Carthage). By mixing and mingling the language of the Sibyl, the narrator, and perhaps Dido, Aeneas manages to taint the *fata* and convey his bleak outlook on his mission. Elsewhere, the fates might be dire, but when they call they do so with purpose (as with the Golden Bough; see also 10.113: *fata viam invenient*). By switching *horrida* from *bella* to *fata*, Aeneas poignantly evokes his continuing *struggle* with his destiny, which he finds *horrific*: he is at war with it: 'the same (cf. *eadem* — often omitted by translators) fates that have been on my case ever since and are now set to generate more dreadful slaughter call me.'

**salve … vale**: Aeneas addresses Pallas directly, engaging in dialogue with the dead. For the phenomenon see Poccetti (2010: 106–7):

Another type of fictitious dialogue, much more common among ordinary people in the Hellenistic and Roman world, is that found in sepulchral inscriptions with greetings to or from the deceased. The Romans, like other populations of ancient Italy, imitated the Greek convention of addressing the dead with greetings also used to living persons, such as Greek χαῖρε and Latin *salve*, (*h*)*ave*, *vale*. In Greek this custom is attested as far back as Homer, who depicts Achilles saying to Patroclus' corpse 'Farewell, Patroklos, I hail you even in the House of Hades' (*Il*. 23.19 [= 23.179]). […] In the Roman world, an enormous quantity of Latin inscriptions from the late Republican period onwards attests this practice of imitating oral greeting. […] A particularly Latin feature of this practice is the combination of two different greeting expressions. […] Literary poetry also contains examples of this compound greeting, as Catullus' lament to his brother […] or Virgil's depiction of Aeneas' farewell to Pallas.

Poccetti proceeds to discuss the seemingly paradoxical nature of such greetings — but goes on to argue that the point here is that no meaningful interaction is any longer possible. For the importance of Catullus 101 (cited above), see Brenk (1999: 125): 'Vergil intentionally evokes the pathos of Catullus' famous verses on the death of his brother (*accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu* | *atque in perpetuum*, *frater*, *ave atque vale* (101.9–10). Thus, Vergil's *salve* is rooted both in the religious tradition of Greek and Latin literature and in the semi-religious usage of secular poetry.' (At *Aeneid* 5.80–81, Aeneas, after pouring libations at his father's tomb, greets him with *salve*, *sancte parens*, *iterum*; *salvete*, *recepti* | *nequiquam cineres animaeque umbraeque paternae…* ('Hail, holy father, once again; hail, ashes, rescued though in vain, and you, paternal soul and shade…') There is no 'fare forever well' — after all, Aeneas is going to see his dad again in the subsequent book.)

## 98–99

**nec plura effatus ad altos | tendebat muros gressumque in castra ferebat**: *effatus* is the past participle of the deponent *effari*, modifying the subject of the sentence (Aeneas) and taking *plura* as accusative object. The –*que* after *gressum* links the two (somewhat tautological) main verbs *tendebat* and (*gressum*) *ferebat*.

**nec plura effatus**: JH: no inert formula, this points to the gem of rhetorical compression to maximum expressiveness that Virgil just hit us with. So short a farewell, so repetitive the circular 'so long', yet all of time in it (twice). As from the moment he left burning Troy, Aeneas must cut out from the past and face the future.

**ad altos | … muros … in castra**: the phrase anticipates the future Rome; *castra* captures the nature of the present arrangement. JH: We climb back up to epic grandeur in its own right (from deep groaning for a dead kid to those towering walls a-building for Rome: *gemitu …* alto | 95 => altos | … *muros* 98), closing the timeout to give Pallas his sendoff by retracking in *gressumque in castra ferebat* to 29: *recipitque ad limina gressum* |. The 'theme and variation' unpacks 'heading for the city' as 'trudging into war' (back, again). Verbally the pairing of *ad* with *in* leads into the chiasmus that pairs off *muros* with *castra*, and *tendebat* with *gressum … ferebat*. (There is even a hint of verbal bleeding between the two formulations, since soldiers in camps 'pitch tents', and that is what *tendo* would mean in *that* scenario.) Where *Aeneid* 1–6 turned on the state figured as ship(s), Books 7–12 image the Trojan-Roman mission as *castra*, the mobile core image of *imperium Romanum*, the precursor to the walled settlement, *Urbs*. Our narrative trajectory melds camp into polity and along the way we run into all manner of manifestations and transmogrifications of the theme, including the dramatized ins and outs of our truce.

Aeneas' enemies present no unified front. Internal tensions and divisions are rife within the Latin alliance, starting with the troubled relationship of Turnus and Latinus. Initially, Latinus, forewarned by prophecies, welcomed Aeneas as his future son-in-law, though he had already foolishly betrothed his daughter Lavinia to the up-andcoming local strongman Turnus. Conflict is thus pre-programmed, especially since Latinus' wife Amata, set upon by the Fury Allecto, Juno's agent from Hell, supports Turnus. (Sadly, Lavinia has no say in all this.) And Turnus manages to upset the accord that had been all but brokered if not yet fully ratified. All-out war ensues, even though Turnus never gained the unanimous support of the Latins. Now, in the wake of the disastrous battle, his enemies stir again. Their first move is to send an embassy to Aeneas, led by Drances, cast as Turnus' inveterate adversary, to plead for an armistice to bury the dead and perhaps also for a return to the negotiation table to broker a peace for legendary times.

This passage divides neatly into 2 + 4 + 2 verses, with the first two announcing the arrival of envoys with the task to beg for a temporary truce to bury the dead (100–1). Their speech follows, in indirect discourse (102–5). The final two lines (106–7) give Aeneas' positive reaction to the request and set up his verbal response (which follows in direct speech from 108–19). The envoys' brief is not entirely clear. Are they simply meant to ask for a 'soft' temporary truce or rather to plead for a 'hard' permanent peace? The first two lines of their speech only concern the need to make proper arrangements for burying those who are already dead. The speech then broadens out from the dead to the (defeated) living — and the final line (105) could be taken either as emotive support of their plea for a temporary truce or as paving the way for more long-term diplomacy that might lead to the restoration of the status quo before the outbreak of hostilities, when the Latins were hosts to the Trojans (*hospites*) and indeed prospective fathers-in-law (*soceri*).

## 100–1

**Iamque oratores aderant ex urbe Latina | velati ramis oleae veniamque rogantes**: the focus shifts from past to future, from matters internal to the Trojan community (and their allies) to negotiations with the enemy, from emotions to politics: an embassy appears, dispatched from the city of King Latinus (though it remains unclear who is responsible for dispatching it: Latinus? or Turnus? or a groundswell of popular opinion?).

**iamque … aderant**: in Latin, the adverbs *adhuc*, *etiam*, and (as here) *iam* 'denote the relative position in time of two different events' (English equivalents are 'already', 'still', 'yet': Pinkster 2015: 856). Here it is Aeneas' return to the camp after the departure of Pallas and the arrival of the Latin envoys. The series of pointers to where Aeneas is headed is instead met by those heading in his direction: *ad lacrimas* … *ad altos … muros … in castra* 96–99 <=> *aderant ex urbe*. The pluperfect *aderant* ('were present', 'had arrived') may even suggest that Aeneas kept the ambassadors waiting until Pallas was properly on his way and thus underscores his sense of priorities.

**oratores**: in settings of international diplomacy, *orator* tends to mean 'envoy', 'ambassador' (rather than 'orator' or 'public speaker', even though envoys of course come charged with the task of representing their community in speech). The noun derives from the verb *oro*, –*are*, –*avi*, –*atum*, the primary meaning of which is 'to pray to', 'beseech', 'supplicate' — and this sense comes alive in the case of envoys of a faltering (already losing?) side (see on 111). The scene here has a counterpart at 7.152–55, where Aeneas, upon arrival in Latium, chooses a hundred of his men as envoys (*oratores*) to send to Latinus on a peacekeeping mission:

tum satus Anchisa delectos ordine ab omni centum oratores augusta ad moenia regis ire iubet, ramis velatos Palladis omnis, donaque ferre viro pacemque exposcere Teucris.

[Then Anchises' son [= Aeneas] ordered a hundred envoys, chosen from every rank, to go to the august walls of King (Latinus), all bearing boughs of Pallas [= branches of the olive tree] wreathed in wool, to bear gifts to the man [= Latinus], and ask for peace for the Trojans.]

And it sets up the desperate attempt on the part of Latinus to sue for peace later on in the book (11.330–34, Latinus speaking):

centum oratores prima de gente Latinos ire placet pacisque manu praetendere ramos, munera portantis aurique eborisque talenta et sellam regni trabeamque insignia nostri.

[I also hold that a hundred envoys, Latins of highest birth, go and hold out the boughs of peace in their hands, bearing gifts, talents of gold and ivory and a throne and robe, emblems of our kingship.]

Meantime, we are waiting for the upshot of the corresponding diplomatic mission designed to summon reinforcements to join the Latins' fight against the Trojan invaders, sent off *Diomedis ad urbem* way back at the start of the war (8.9) but about to return empty-handed *Diomedis ab urbe* (11.226). See further Hine (1987: 177):

In the second half of the poem the issue of whether to resolve conflict by words or by force becomes prominent. When Aeneas realizes that he has reached his destination he opens negotiations with the Italians (7.153–54 'centum oratores augusta ad moenia regis | ire iubet'), and the negotiations are continuing successfully until Allecto intervenes at Juno's command. When Aeneas receives the Italian envoys in book 11, he expresses the wish that war had never started (11.108–19, especially 110–11 'pacem me exanimis et Martis sorte peremptis | oratis? equidem et vivis concedere vellem'). Later, the Latin envoys return unsuccessfully from Diomedes, reporting that he recommends a treaty rather than armed struggle (11.292–93). Latinus then proposes that they negotiate peace with the Trojans: 11.330–32 'praeterea, qui dicta ferant et foedera firment | centum oratores prima de gente Latinos | ire placet pacisque manu praetendere ramos, | …' This echoes the *centum oratores* sent by Aeneas in 7.153–54, quoted above; orators would have been better than armies.

**ex urbe Latina**: The text here recalls Aeneas' earlier exhortation: *nunc iter ad regem nobis murosque Latinos* (17), just reversing the direction (and intent).

**velati ramis oleae veniamque rogantes**: the –*que* after *veniam* links the two participles *velati* and *rogantes*, placed at either end of the line. A literal translation of *velati ramis oleae* would be 'crowned with branches of the olive-tree' and that is how the *OLD* seems to understand this passage (as well as its parallel 7.154 cited above): see s.v. *velo* 3: 'to cover (esp. the head) for ritual or ceremonial purposes'. But the ancient commentator Servius (followed by Horsfall) disagrees, noting: *non coronati* […] *sed instructi et ornati*, *id est in manibus olivae ramos ferentes*, which means, loosely, 'not crowned […] but equipped with the sign of suppliants, namely carrying branches of the olive-tree (covered in wool) in their hands'. The reference here is to the *velamentum*, which is an olive-branch wrapped in wool, that functioned as an emblem of peace carried by a suppliant. On this reading, the envoys aren't wrapped or covered, the olive branches are. Cf. Livy's 'prose equivalent' (29.16.6): *velamenta supplicum*, *ramos oleae*, *ut Graecis mos est*, *porrigentes*. JH: The motif pointedly riffs on the straightforwardness of Aeneas' would-be disarming 'We come in peace' approach to the Arcadians at the site of Rome, *paciferae* […] *manu ramum praetendit olivae* (8.116). Things are by now moving on…

**veniam**: the semantics of *venia*, the lexeme that frames the passage (101 ~ 107), depends on the situation: is it specific kindness or more general mercy (= *clementia*)? The ambiguity here surely picks up divisions within the Latin camp that later on in the book will come forcefully to the fore. Some want to sue for peace; others only want a temporary truce, to keep on fighting after the burial. Either way, in the first instance the envoys do not plead for peace, let alone mercy. They want to arrange for proper burial of their fallen comrades: and what sort of party to a parlay could turn *that* down?

## 102–5

The plea of the Latin envoys is given in indirect speech, but Virgil initially blurs the boundaries: the first verb we encounter, *iacebant*, the verb of the relative clause introduced by *quae*, is in the indicative. According to the rules of indirect discourse this is odd (strictly speaking, it ought to be in the subjunctive), so at the end of verse 102, readers might be forgiven for thinking that they are listening to direct speech. It is only with imperfect subjunctive *redderet* in the following line (which corresponds to the imperative *redde* in direct speech) that the type of discourse Virgil has chosen to represent the speech of the Latins becomes clear.

## 102–3

**corpora, per campos ferro quae fusa iacebant, | redderet ac tumulo sineret succedere terrae**: the design of the relative clause is of poignant beauty, with the delayed relative pronoun *quae* in central position, doubly framed by the alliterative participial construction *ferro … fusa* and the formulation *per campos … iacebant*. The inner and the outer frame interrelate in a chronological sequence: struck down by the sword, the bodies are now lying where they fell. The choice of the imperfect indicative enhances the iconic quality of the construction, as it lifts the clause above the normal rules of indirect speech, endowing it with a 'deictic' (Horsfall 2003: 107) force, almost in the voice of the narrator: the unburied corpses on the battlefield are an indisputable fact, which the envoys in turn use to enhance the emotional appeal of their address to Aeneas. The main clause *corpora … redderet* supplies a third frame, with both accusative object and verb taking up the emphatic initial position in their respective lines. The enjambment nicely underscores the shift from the plaintive invocation of the battlefield realities to the exhortation that Aeneas do his part towards remedying the outrage. Prettily put and impossible to ignore = well-executed negotiation.

## 104

**nullum cum victis certamen et aethere cassis**: the verb of the sentence (*esse*, in the infinitive since we are still in indirect speech, used as a full verb: 'there is no…') needs to be supplied; the subject accusative is *nullum … certamen*, with *nullum* placed emphatically up front. The *et* links *victis* and *cassis* — those vanquished (and still alive), and those killed in the recent battle.

**aethere**: ablative of separation with *cassis*. The ambassadors dignify the dead with high-flown phrasing.

## 105

**parceret hospitibus quondam socerisque vocatis**: *parco* takes an object in the dative (*eis*), which has been elided. The implied pronoun governs the perfect passive participle *vocatis*, with *hospitibus* and *soceris* (linked by –*que*) in predicative position: 'those who were once called hosts and in-laws (or more precisely 'fathers-in-law)'. To be lenient towards conquered enemies is famously part of Anchises' 'mission statement' towards the end of *Aeneid* 6.853, when he advises 'the Roman' 'to spare the conquered and war down the proud' (*parcere subiectis et debellare superbos*). Here, as elsewhere, Aeneas is quite good at putting both principles into practice, though he of course famously fails to spare the vanquished Turnus at the end. The orators here recall (and reformulate) a line from the speech Latinus gave in *Aeneid* 7 (See 7.264–65: *si iungi hospitio properat sociusque vocari* | *adveniat* — 'if Aeneas is keen to be joined in friendship and be called our alley, let him come in person', with Scholz 1999: 459). Speech acts instantly create 'guest-friendships', but they pledge intermarriage for later.

**quondam**: the adverb goes with the participle *vocatis* and refers back to the situation in Book 7.

## 106–7

**quos bonus Aeneas haud aspernanda precantis | prosequitur venia et verbis haec insuper addit**: *quos* is a connecting relative (= *et eos*), the accusative object of the main verb *prosequitur*, which also governs the ablative *venia*. The present participle *precantis* (= *precantes*) agrees with *quos* and takes (*ea*) *haud aspernanda* as its accusative object. (The final –*a* of *aspernanda* scans short: it is the neuter accusative plural of the gerundive.) Literally: 'Aeneas honours (*prosequitur*) them (*quos*), as they were asking (*precantis*) things not to be spurned (*haud aspernanda*), with kindness (*venia*) = grants them their request.'

**bonus Aeneas**: the seemingly banal attribute *bonus* is in fact high praise. *Vir bonus* congratulates a person of outstanding character and principled ethics. Cf. Cairns (1989: 73): 'When the Latin ambassadors ask a truce for the burial of their dead, Aeneas, like the virtuous king he is (cf. esp. *bonus Aeneas*, 11.106), offers them a permanent peace (11.108–19). He follows up his offer by proposing the means to peace, single combat between himself and Turnus.' JH: Virgil makes sure we can't miss the return of a civilised Aeneas after the barbarities of killing and trophy through the genteel protocols of diplomacy. He could 'not scorn' the ritual formalities of 101, but was obliged to see them and raise them: *rogantes ~ precantis*; *veniam ~ venia*; *prosequitur … et insuper addit*. Aeneas' answer 'follows' the wording of the request and is courteous into the bargain (*prosequor*).

**insuper**: a compound adverb, made up of the prepositions *in* and *super*: 'in addition', 'besides', 'over and above'. It is technically speaking redundant since the idea of 'adding something on' is already expressed by the verb (*addit*): see Sangmeister (1978: 29), who speaks of 'poetic redundancy'. But rhetorically speaking, the addition makes good on the ethical claim to qualify as *bonus*.

**verbis … addit**: after conveying his benevolence through body-language and/or gesture, Aeneas 'adds' another, differently weighted, speech, here glossing and nuancing his initial response: *addit* matches *addidit* (95).

## 11.108–121: 'No Hero In History Has Been Treated More Unfairly!'

The design of Aeneas' speech (his fourth and last in Book 11) is as follows:


Aeneas here positions himself vis-à-vis his interlocutors, the *oratores* who are representatives of the *gens Latina*, king Latinus (the 'head of state'), and Turnus. He explains his own position and involvement, clarifying a few issues, apportioning praise and blame, reaching out to the people. The formatting illustrates how his discourse alternates between longer sections in which he provides commentary on the current situation (kept in **bold**) and shorty, punchy sentences that state a wish (111), a gnomic assessment (115), and an order (119) (held in *italics*). These one-liners either play a transitional role by providing a thematic link between sections (111: Aeneas' apology, picking up on *me* in 110 and setting up *nec veni* etc. in 112–14; 115: Turnus' failure to face him in single combat, picking up *Turni ... armis* in 114, with Turnus' name in the same metrical position in both verses (Wills 1996: 389–90), and setting up the past and future possibility of a duel discussed in 117–19) or provide ring-composition and closure (120):


In quantitative terms, the alternation falls into a fairly regular pattern of 3 + 1 (x3), with the only (minor) departure occurring in 111 with the enjambment of *oratis*. Lyne, who takes the speech to be an illustration of Aeneas the magnanimous, summarizes it as follows (2007: 121): 'Peace is his desire for the living Latins. His own role in Italy is imposed upon him by fate. The war, for which he professes no desire or enthusiasm, has occurred only because Latinus and Turnus abandoned the peace that had been agreed, and obstructed his fate-ordained role. He and Turnus (he suggests rationally) should fight it out in a duel — the fairest, most expeditious solution. Again, therefore, we have the Stoicimperial hero — with that added ingredient, a measured sympathy: *miseris supponite ciuibus ignem*.'

## 108–9

**'quaenam vos tanto fortuna indigna, Latini, | implicuit bello, qui nos fugiatis amicos?**: Aeneas' opening gambit contains a twofold apologetic thrust: he emphasizes that he never had anything but friendly intentions towards the Latins (thus rejecting any responsibility for the recent hostilities); but he also prudently refrains from blaming his counterparts outright (which would have served no purpose in the present context). The goddess (or the concept) of happenstance is a handy ploy to bring into play whenever it seems fitting to downplay responsibility of human agents: chance is capricious, unpredictable, and perhaps even malicious — and certainly uninterested in justice (which is the point of the adjective *indigna*). (Note that Aeneas a couple of lines further down pinpoints a human culprit nonetheless: Turnus. But his issue is explicitly with a particular individual, not the Latin nation. So the opening of his speech is a *captatio benevolentiae*, designed to drive a wedge between Turnus and the civic community he represents.)

The mention of *fortuna* here also sets up his invocation of *fatum* at 112: the two terms offer two extreme and complementary perspectives on the human condition, with the former emphasizing chaotic unpredictability and the latter ineluctable, predetermined destiny. The former, *fortuna*, enables human choice — the latter, *fatum*, eliminates it. Again, Aeneas exculpates himself and incriminates his opponents: whereas his hands are bound by supernatural strings, the Latins (and Turnus) operate in a realm of contingency and have freedom of will. (He is of course unaware of the supernatural meddling — amounting to compulsion — by Juno and Allecto.)

**quaenam**: a combination of the interrogative adjective (*quae*), modifying *fortuna*, and the particle (*nam*), which provides 'an occasional intensification of the simple interrogative' (Horsfall 2003: 109) and here arguably introduces a touch of irritation, either at the Latins, who needlessly broke up friendly relations with the Trojans, or at Fortune (or both). As far as Aeneas is concerned, the recent bloodshed was utterly unnecessary. He certainly is no friend of Fortune: see above 228.

**tanto … bello**: the war that broke out was indeed of massive scale, involving all of central Italy and resulting in the death of powerful

and distinguished individuals (Pallas, Mezentius). So the hyperbaton (putting further stress on *tanto*) is entirely appropriate.

**Latini**: vocative plural.

**implicuit**: *implico* 'to involve (a person, etc.) in circumstances from which it is hard to withdraw' is 'a favorite verb' of Virgil: 'The connotation is of a morass; the Latin have found themselves ensnared in something unwieldy and beyond their capacity to handle, and completely without necessity, since Aeneas seems to have desired only friendship with them' (Fratantuono 2009: 51). The winding word order (*quaenam*<sup>a</sup> *vos*<sup>b</sup>  *tanto*<sup>c</sup>  *fortuna*<sup>a</sup>  *indigna*<sup>a</sup> , *Latini*<sup>b</sup> , *implicuit*d *bello*<sup>c</sup> ) together with the enjambment vividly mimics the mess (of their own making) that the Latins find themselves in.

**qui nos fugiatis amicos?**: Aeneas concludes his opening rhetorical question with a consecutive relative clause (hence the subjunctive). The verb *fugio* can be either intransitive (to flee) or (as here) transitive: *nos* is the accusative object, with the emphatically placed *amicos* in predicative position and adversative force (*nos … ami-cos* are also linked by homoioteleuton): '…so that you shun us (as if we are adversaries even though we are) friends.' JH: the match of *quae … vos* to *qui nos* lays on thick the 'unfitting' contrast between the positions imposed on the parties: the paradox that 'entanglement' has caused 'flight' imports a touch of the absurd; you're supposed to 'run' *to*, not *from*, 'friends'.

## 110–11

**pacem me exanimis et Martis sorte peremptis | oratis?**: the opening of this second rhetorical question, *pacem me*, corresponds metrically to the opening of the first, *quaenam vos*, formally correlating the Latin envoys (*vos*) and their interlocutor (*me*). *oro* here governs a double accusative — of the person addressed (*me*) and of the thing requested (*pacem*) — as well as a dative object (*exanimis et Martis sorte peremptis*). The tone of irritation continues, reinforced by the emphatic placement of both *pacem* and *peremptis*, linked by alliteration, at the beginning and the end of the line: 'we were (and should be) friends and allies — and now you come *begging* me for *a truce* to bury your *dead*?' These spokesmen have lowered themselves to 'pleading' (cf. on 100 *oratores*), and this — *oratis* — is the keyword to the rhetorical colour of the speech.

**exanimis et Martis sorte peremptis**: an elaborate tautology (*exanimis* and *Martis sorte peremptis* are virtually synonymous), stylistically unified by means of homoioteleuton (*exani*mis – peremptis) and arranged climactically: the rather flat *exanimus* ('lifeless'), which simply states the condition, is followed by a vivid evocation of what caused death. Sound play reinforces the *rh*e*t*orical effect: witness the reiteration of 'r' and 't' across all three words of the phrase *Ma*rt*is so*rt*e pe*r*emp*t*is*. Aeneas here picks up on, in chiastic variation, the equally elaborate tautology '*nullum cum victis certamen et aethere cassis*' (104) uttered by the Latin envoys: *exanimis* correlates with *aethere cassis* and *Martis sorte peremptis* caps *victis*.

**Martis sorte**: the phrase can be understood either literally, with the god of war, Mars, portioning out death on the battlefield, or figuratively, with Mars as metonym for 'battle' or 'war' ('through the vagaries of warfare'), i.e. the sphere of operation under his control. Given that the formulation occurs in a speech, one could even entertain the possibility of divergent focalization: what looks like a trope to us, Aeneas might be taken to mean literally. On the other hand, Aeneas was doing his best in Book 10 to make sure to inflict maximum casualties, and for all that the notion that warfare is a particularly unpredictable environment is a common theme (e.g. Cicero, *pro Marcello* 6), so that each battle was a throw of the dice (cf. *fortuna*, 108), with the outcome uncertain, along a spectrum defined by the ultimate extremes of life and death, he doesn't mean those soldiers were plain unlucky to run into him — they shouldn't have been there to start with.

#### Extra information

Matzner (2016: 202) notes that 'the names of gods are often used as stock examples of metonymy in rhetorical handbooks' (Venus = love; Dionysus = wine; Ceres = grain, this sort of thing), but at the same time recognizes 'the impossibility of determining the exact semantic range of what is denoted (or else metonymically implied) by the name of a god', given the peculiarities of ancient religious belief and practice. The

phenomenon occurs from Homer onwards, already with considerable ambiguity. At *Iliad* 2.426, for instance, the Greeks roast innards 'holding them over Hephaistos' (… ὑπείρεχον Ἡφαίστοιο), the god of fire, where the god clearly is / stands for the flame — but at *Iliad* 9.468 (where swine are singed 'over the flame of Hephaistos': διὰ φλογὸς Ἡφαίστοιο), and 17.88 (where bronze is said to flash 'like the flame of Hephaistos': φλογὶ εἴκελος Ἡφαίστοιο), Hephaistos is imagined as presiding over the domain of fire (rather than being identical with it). From Homer onwards, then, it is often tricky to decide whether the name of a god is used literally or figuratively, not least when the divinity concerned is (Greek) Ares / (Roman) Mars. Instances from Greek tragedy illustrate the point: when Aeschylus writes 'Ares will clash with Ares, justice with justice' (*Libation Bearers* 461), 'when Ares turns domestic' (*Eumenides* 355–56), or 'internecine Ares that emboldens them to fight each other' (*Eumenides* 862), modern translators tend to substitute the name of the god with a concept such as 'Violence' (as Sommerstein does in all three instances in his Loeb translation); yet if we understand Ares to refer to one or more demonic spirits, such a figurative reading is not inevitable. Thus, according to Untersteiner (2002: 315), in the line from the *Libation Bearers* spoken by Orestes, the first Ares corresponds, literally, to the 'avenging spirit' (Alastor in Greek) of his father Agamemnon and the second to the 'avenging spirit' of his mother Clytaemnestra. (For Ares as a demonic force bent on slaughter see Aeschylus, *Agamemnon* 1509–11: 'black Ares forces his way, with further streams of kindred blood'.)

## 111

**equidem et vivis concedere vellem**: the preceding rhetorical question so obviously implies its answer ('of course I grant peace to the dead!') that Aeneas does not spell it out — instead, he counters what he considers an absurdly minimalist request on the part of the Latins with a counterfactual wish (*vellem*, in the imperfect subjunctive). As far as he is concerned, he would *also* (*et*) make peace (*pacem* is the implied accusative object of *concedere*) *with the living*. (The adjective *vivus* is here used as a noun, which contrasts sharply with *exanimis et Martis sorte peremptis* in the previous line.) Granting their (rather more modest) request for a temporary break in the fighting thus goes here literally without saying (though Aeneas makes it explicit in the last line of his speech: 119). With *concedere* Aeneas presses home that their 'pleading' hands him the upper hand — and (nb) he accepts it.

**equidem**: with a first person singular, the particle *equidem* is used for 'emphasizing an implied or expressed *ego* in various ways', often introducing a contrast between the views of the speaker and those of others, not least in replies to requests (*OLD* s.v. 1): 'I for my part'. Aeneas here contrasts his own generosity and the broad vision of his strategic thinking with the vapid and uninspired mission of the Latins, which — so he implies — reflects unfavourably on him, grounded as it is in a completely wrongheaded understanding of himself and his mission: they must think of him as a ruthless warlord, who might even stoop to refusing his fallen foes a proper burial if he is not suitably supplicated. But at the same time, his exclamation does presume that he's in the driving seat, with their lives or deaths in his gift. There are two sides, so (let's not forget) there are two sides to every dividing line between them.

## 112–3

**nec veni, nisi fata locum sedemque dedissent, | nec bellum cum gente gero**: Aeneas makes two points here: (i) Look, I wouldn't have come to your country at all if the fates had not compelled me to do so; (ii) but now that I am here (*nolens volens*, compelled by fate), I have absolutely no desire to wage war against your people. But in the event, he gets his grammar a bit muddled up: the first point calls for a past unreal conditional sequence, which would have required a pluperfect or imperfect subjunctive in the protasis as well as the apodosis, i.e. *nec venissem / venirem*, *nisi fata locum sedemque dedissent*; in turn, the perfect indicative (*veni*) that we do get might lead one to suppose that Aeneas wanted to continue with a purpose clause: 'I didn't come to wage war with your people': *nec veni*, *ut bellum cum gente gererem / geram*. 16 But Aeneas, after the *nisi*-clause, continues with another main

<sup>16</sup> So Fiachra Mac Góráin *per litteras*. For counterfactuals in the *Aeneid* see further Frizzarin (2016), https://pure.royalholloway.ac.uk/portal/files/27956880/thesispdf3. pdf, whose dissertation underwrites the discussion here.

clause (the *nec* links the perfect *veni* and the present *gero*) that neatly sidesteps the untoward implications of a purpose clause, by which he *would* have conceded that he has been waging war with the Latins. Instead, he asserts that this is precisely *not* the case: his enmity towards the Latins is a misunderstanding, promulgated by the FAKE NEWS media (a.k.a. Fama). Aeneas is either unaware of — or deliberately misrepresents — the facts of the matter, namely that the Latins were keen to go to war, whereas their king Latinus was not. See 7.583–86 (*ilicet infandum cuncti contra omina bellum*, | *contra fata deum perverso numine poscunt*. | *certatim regis circumstant tecta Latini*; | *ille velut pelago rupes immota resistit* — 'Straightway they all, against the omens, against the prophetic utterances of the gods, with perverse will clamour for unholy war. With emulous zeal they surround the palace of King Latinus. He, like an unmoved cliff in the ocean, resists') and 7.616–22 (Juno opening the gates of war in the temple of Janus since Latinus refuses). But concentrating animus on individuals — rather than an entire people — is a smart rhetorical move.

What are we to make of the grammatical mess here? The 'irregular' conditional sequence (perfect indicative active — pluperfect subjunctive) is arguably indicative of Aeneas' conflicting outlook, caught as he is between a counterfactual ideal (see 4.340–44: if he had his wish, he would still live in Troy) and the need to adjust to present realities. The possible substitution of a main clause for a potential clause of purpose is smart rhetoric, advancing the main objective of his speech, i.e. to drive a wedge between the Latins and Turnus; but the tricky grammar, compounded by more at 115, may (also) be a give-away: see below on 120–21.

**locum sedemque**: *locus* refers to a geographical location; *sedes* implies the right to settle. JH: So this –*que* is meant to smear into one equivocation the (glaring) trouble with Aeneas' pitch: the Trojan refugees have 'landed' in Italy, fine; but their claim to a right to 'settle' there is precisely what is in dispute. No wonder his rhetoric is 'entangling' him here, because there's no getting away from the fact that the Trojans are by now an elite fighting force who mean to stay, and call it Destiny! Right now, any patriotic Latin could easily hear Might dictating terms for what is Right. Diplomacy is, of course, also war, the war with words, grandiloquence from generalissimos, a major part of Virgil's presentation of *arma virumque*.

## 113–14

**rex nostra reliquit | hospitia**: interlaced word order, with *rex … reliquit* (reinforced by alliteration) and *nostra … hospitia* (broken up by the enjambment) going together: the ties of hospitality initially brokered in Book 7 have come apart. On the institution of *hospitium*, see e.g. Patterson (2006a: 141): 'Essentially this was a relationship between two men of similar (elite) status who belonged to different communities, and entailed the obligation to provide each other with hospitality and (if appropriate) other forms of assistance. The relationship could be symbolised by the casting of a bronze plaque known as a *tessera hospitalis*.' He notes that 'although *hospitium* was originally — and continued to be — a relationship between individuals, we can also see during the Republic the development of formalised links between leading men at Rome and communities collectively, which we find continuing (in a way) in the ties of civic patronage familiar from the late Republic and Empire'; or Lomas (2012: 202–3): '*Hospitium* appears to be a relationship which could cover a wide range of different uses and degrees of contact. Its basic function was to provide a relationship of reciprocal hospitality, which could be solemnised and recorded by an inscribed *tessera hospitalis*, which may have been kept as proof of the relationship. *Hospitium* was a hereditary relationship, and could link families together over several generations. There is persuasive evidence that from an early date many communities in Italy were linked together by personal relationships of this type between leading citizens.'

## 114

**et Turni potius se credidit armis**: The genitive *Turni* depends on *armis*. The sentence works an antithesis between *nostra* and *Turni* and *hospitia* and *armis*, with the two verbs *reliquit* and *se credidit* mapping out Latinus' apparent change of mind. JH: Latinus faced and was faced down by a demo of protesting patriots led by Turnus, and washed his hands of the whole show with a suitable volley of doomy execrations in 7. If Latinus was running his kingdom when he negotiated with Aeneas to make them a 'we' (*nostra*), and he's still running it now, then what could explain why the Latins have marched out to fight the Trojans other than that he has broken this 'us' apart and hooked up with Turnus instead? Unlike us, Aeneas hasn't been told that Latinus has 'dropped the reins' of power (7.600), and 'was ordered to formally declare war on Aeneas' people' (7.616–17).

## 115

**aequius huic Turnum fuerat se opponere morti**: the main clause is *aequius … fuerat*, which is pluperfect indicative, where one could have expected the pluperfect subjunctive (*fuisset*). But Virgil might have opted for the former to express a past (if unrealized) obligation on Turnus' part. *aequius … fuerat* introduces an indirect statement with *Turnum* as subject accusative and *opponere* as infinitive. *huic* goes with *morti*: the deictic pronoun accompanies a gesture by Aeneas to the corpses still littering the battlefield: this death here, which, (so the implication) afflicted undeserving others because of Turnus' cowardice. This rhetoric playing between (and with) realities and hypotheticals latches onto that of 112–13.

**aequius**: the notion that Aeneas brings into play here—*aequitas*—calls up a fundamental principle of Roman legal thought. *iustitia* means 'justice', *aequitas* 'fairness'—if *iustitia* is associated with (positive) law (*ius*), *aequitas* refers to the 'spirit of the law' in guaranteeing equal and fair treatment (cf. the principle *summum ius summa iniuria*—the interpretation of law strictly by the letter can lead to injustice; *aequitas* provides a countervailing force). See e.g. Adolf Berger's definition of *aequitas* (*aequum*) in *Encyclopedic Dictionary of Roman Law* (1953: 354): 'Related to justice (*iustitia*, *iustum*) but distinguished from positive law, *ius*. One of the fundamental principles which direct or should direct the development of law; it is the corrective and creative element in such development. A law which is guided by *aequitas* is *ius aequum* its antonym is *ius iniquum*. In the legal sphere *aequitas* may be realized either by interpreting the existing law or by supplementing it where an exact legal provision is missing. *Aequitas*, as the word itself indicates, implies the element of equality.' Turnus was under no legal obligation to seek out single combat with Aeneas; but it would have been in the spirit of heroic ethics to face up to the challenge rather than let others die on his behalf. The statement implies that the Latins were badly let down by their leader. For *aequitas* as an imperial virtue, see Noreña (2001: 157–58; and 2011: 63–67).

## 116–17

**si bellum finire manu, si pellere Teucros | apparat, his mecum decuit concurrere telis**: a mixed condition with the protasis in the present indicative (*apparat*: Turnus is still planning to repulse the Trojans), and the apodosis in the perfect indicative (*decuit*: referring to the opportunity just missed to confront Aeneas in single combat on the battlefield). *apparat* governs two infinitive constructions, with the verbs and their accusative objects in chiastic order: *bellum finire* :: *pellere Teucros*. The double construction contains the implied message that any peaceful resolution to the war, without resort to further violence (cf. *manu*), would mean conceding that the Trojans are here to stay (see on 112–13).

## 118

**vixet cui vitam deus aut sua dextra dedisset**: *vixet* the contracted form of the pluperfect subjunctive (= *vixisset*). The antecedent (*is*) of the relative pronoun *cui* is implied: 'He would have lived, to whom…'). The subjects of the relative clause, linked by *aut*, are *deus* and *sua dextra*, with the singular verb (*dedisset*) agreeing with the closest. Aeneas recognizes that in warfare martial prowess alone (*sua dextra*), while essential, may not suffice to secure victory — another (rather more intangible) factor is divine support or sheer luck (*deus*).

## 119

**nunc ite et miseris supponite civibus ignem**. Saunders (1925: 354) draws attention to the fact that the Latin envoys begged for the bodies of their fallen warriors to be entombed (11.102–3): 'The expression *tumulo succedere terrae* does not preclude burning the dead and putting the ashes in the *tumulus* but the choice of the word *corpora* as its subject lends color to the belief that the *oratores* had inhumation in view. Moreover, the gracious tone of Aeneas' reply makes it probable that his command to burn the Latins was not a refusal to allow them to employ their particular rites but was merely an unconscious reflection of his own familiar practice.'

## 120–21

**dixerat Aeneas. illi obstipuere silentes | conversique oculos inter se atque ora tenebant**: Heavy tautology: *obstipuere*, *silentes*, and *ora tenebant* are virtual synonyms: they were dumbstruck, standing in silence and averting their eyes, and kept their voices in check. The –*que* after *conversi* links the two participles *silentes* and *conversi*, the *atque* the two main verbs *obstipuere* and *tenebant*. The reaction of the envoys could indicate that they acknowledge that Aeneas has a point: they are shamed into silence, confronted with a mixture of rebuke and generosity, realizing that they have done Aeneas an injustice — by holding an unjustifiably negative opinion of him. They are shamefaced: put to shame by Aeneas' magnanimity, and now feel shame at their unwarranted negative views of his character.

JH: On the other hand, silence in narratives is indeed always pregnant, there to prompt us to fill it in. And so, the excessive emphasis here amounts to an invitation, a prod even, to find difference in — between — these reactions: these envoys have got more than they bargained — or asked — for, from this response to their request/s. For example, this Trojan Strong Man has told them what's what, iron fist in velvet glove / he betrays telltale discomfort with his own spin through his tricksy grammar / he totally misreads the political situation in HQ Latium / he gets Turnus' role as the rival he needs to dispose of dead right / he's out to drive wedges between the Latins / he's delivered a challenge as an ultimatum (see further on 132). As for us readers, we are being told in no uncertain terms, for one more of the umpteenth times in *Aeneid* 7–12, that settling a war was once upon a time doable through man–at–arms–to–man–at–arms single combat. Making like the Wild West, or the Later Roman Empire, or… . In the end, Book 12 will set about forcing us to get on board with this and accept both that this must happen and, into the bargain, we (must) want it to.

**obstipuere**: the alternative third person plural perfect indicative active (= *obstipuerunt*).

#### Extra information

Virgil's scenario here had an interesting afterlife in later epic. See e.g. Statius, *Thebaid* 2.173–75 and Valerius Flaccus, *Argonautica* 4.187–92 (with Murgatroyd 2009: 114) — as well as Juvencus, a fourth-century-CE poet, who versified the Gospels in an epic entitled *Evangeliorum Libri Quattuor* with the help of much Virgilian idiom. In Matthew 22, Jesus engages in learned disputation with the Pharisees and other religious groups and ends up besting them in argument, ultimately striking them dumb: 'And no man was able to answer him a word: neither durst any man from that day forth ask him any more questions' (Mt 22:46: *et nemo poterat respondere ei verbum neque ausus fuit quisquam ex illa die eum amplius interrogare*). Juvencus' versified account of this incident reads as follows (4.51):

talia salvator; cuncti obstipuere silentes

[So spoke the Savior; all stood silent, stunned.]

For a reading, see McGill (2016: 239): 'The description of the response to Jesus varies Mt 22:46, which states that no one could reply to his words and that no one afterward dared to ask him more questions. "All stood silent, stunned" is *cuncti obstipuere silentes*. This recasts *illi obstipuere silentes* at Virgil, *Aen*. 11.120, describing the reaction of the members of the Latin embassy when Aeneas grants them a truce to bury the dead, states that he would have always preferred peace, and offers to fight Turnus in single combat to settle the war. While modern critics find ambiguity in the Latin reaction, Juvencus could well have followed the lead of Drances, the embassy's head, and seen in their thunderstruck silence admiration for Aeneas (see *Aen*. 11.123–26). Juvencus might have then wished through allusion to imply that all felt similar admiration for Jesus.'

The introduction of the character Drances and his speech can be divided into four components of 2+ lines each, with one significant departure from the pattern:

122–24a: Drances 124b–26: Drances' praise of Aeneas 127–29a: Drances' promise of support for Aeneas and his Trojans 129b: dismissal of Turnus 130–31: Drances' promise of support for Aeneas and his Trojans (cont.) 132: unanimous support for Drances' speech

#### **Tum senior semperque odiis et crimine Drances infensus iuveni Turno sic ore vicissim orsa refert:**

 *'o fama ingens, ingentior armis, vir Troiane, quibus caelo te laudibus aequem?* 125 *iustitiaene prius mirer belline laborum?*

*nos vero haec patriam grati referemus ad urbem et te, si qua viam dederit Fortuna, Latino iungemus regi.*

quaerat sibi foedera Turnus.


**dixerat haec unoque omnes eadem ore fremebant**.

Put differently, we first get Drances (**bold**) and Aeneas (*italics*) separately (122–26 = 6 lines); but the two parties merge (*bold italics*) (127–31 = 6 lines). The odd one out is Turnus (underlined), whom Drances sends packing: once he is eliminated, nothing stands in the way of the peaceful integration of Latins and Trojans. Turnus is effectively isolated and dismissed in a syntactic unit that sharply contrasts in mood and tense (*quaerat* is in the present subjunctive) with the futures *referemus*, *iungemus*, and *iuvabit*. Interestingly, Virgil couches the run-up to Drances' response in the same language he used to set up Turnus' reply to Allecto in *Aeneid* 7.435–36: *Hic iuvenis vatem inridens sic orsa vicissim* | *ore refert* ('now the youth, mocking the seer, thus in turn takes up the speech').

## A closer look at Drances:

Drances is 'a purely Vergilian invention who does not appear in other accounts of Aeneas' adventures in Latium' (Burke 1978: 15). Virgil makes him one of the highest-ranking Latin statesmen: in the great war council later on in the book, he speaks right after the king.17 The run-up to this speech includes a more extensive portrait of his character, worth a closer look (11.336–42):

Tum Drances idem infensus, quem gloria Turni obliqua invidia stimulisque agitabat amaris, largus opum et lingua melior, sed frigida bello dextera, consiliis habitus non futtilis auctor, seditione potens (genus huic materna superbum 340 nobilitas dabat, incertum de patre ferebat), surgit et his onerat dictis atque aggerat iras:

[Then Drances, hostile as before, whom the renown of Turnus goaded with the bitter stings of furtive envy, lavish with his wealth and even better with his tongue, though his hand was cold in battle, in counsel deemed no mean adviser, strong in stirring discord (his mother's high birth ennobled his lineage; from his father he drew obscure rank), rises and with these words loads and heaps high their anger.]

<sup>17</sup> Cf. Scholz (1999: 457).

In terms of agnatic lineage (paternal ancestry), his pedigree is obscure; on the (less important) maternal side (cognatic lineage), he belongs to the socio-political elite (*nobilitas* is an anachronism: in its technical sense, it refers to the segment of the Roman republican ruling elite that had a consul in its ancestry). He cannot hack it in warfare: Turnus, in his reply, mocks him for his unwarlike character (11.389–91: *imus in adversos—quid cessas*? *an tibi Mavors* | *ventosa in lingua pedibusque fugacibus istis* | *semper erit*?).18 But he is rich, eloquent, and a pretty effective counsellor — though liable to stir up unsettling emotions (*seditione potens*: not necessarily revolution, but still engaging in unhelpful agitation). He argues for peace and reconciliation, but does so at least in part because of gnawing envy and hatred of Turnus' (military) glory. One of his Homeric equivalents is Thersites — the ugly commoner who ignominiously abused his betters, only to receive a beating by Odysseus (*Iliad* 2.225–67). In comparison to his memorable counterpart in the *Iliad*, plenty of scholars have deemed Drances eminently forgettable, owing to Virgil's inability to endow his minor characters with enduring appeal. See, for instance, Highet (1972: 251):

Yet why is it that everyone knows Thersites, while only a few know Drances? In the *Iliad* Thersites is a rootless character, who appears for a few minutes and then vanishes. But the Greeks after Homer eagerly invented stories about him. They gave him noble ancestry, making him a kinsman of Diomede; they had him crippled by Meleager, killed by Achilles, and sent to the underworld. He lived on in paintings and proverbs and fantasies. After many centuries he was reborn in Shakespeare's *Troilus and Cressida*, railing at Greeks and Trojans and even himself, 'bastard in mind, bastard in valour.' But Drances? Why did he never win such fame? Vergil could not create minor characters who came alive. The name Drances sounds unpleasant, suggesting *draco* and *rancens* ['snake' + 'stinker'], but Thersites, Bragson, is more vivid and apt. Of Drances we can form no clear picture: we know his mind and emotions, not his face and form. Thersites is pictured with incomparable clarity; and while Drances merely *aggerat iras*, Thersites can actually be heard ὀξέα κεκληγώς / *oxéa keklêgós*. Nothing happens to Drances, who

<sup>18</sup> On the contrast between Drances the orator and Turnus the general see Connolly (2007: 83): 'In Rome, as in most western cultures, manly men are better known for war-making than wordplay. […] Tricked by Juno in book 10, Turnus had abandoned the battlefield; here, with his belligerent equation of Drances' oratorical powers with unmanly cowardice, Turnus redeems himself as a man of action…'

fades into the background with the ineffectual elders; but Thersites is publicly thrashed with a golden scepter, and sits wiping away his tears. Drances and Turnus are enemies but almost equals. Thersites makes a superb contrast with Achilles the bravest, with Agamemnon the royallest, and with Odysseus the wisest of the Achaeans. Exaggerated though he is, he is the first impressive comic figure in literature; Drances, like so many of Vergil's people, is a voice without a body. Drances makes a better speech; Thersites is a more vital and memorable character.

At the same time, as Burke (1978: 19) suggests, he complements Turnus: 'Drances is a bad man who supports the good cause (cessation of war); Turnus is essentially a good man who is committed to a bad cause.' Another line of interpretation to consider is that Drances somehow prefigures Cicero — or at least the *type* of politician that Cicero represents — i.e. someone whose career is based above all on the mastery of persuasive oratory. See e.g. McDermott (1980) or Scholz (1999). JH: And Virgil presents politicking not in the primitive terms of a bunch of face-to-face chieftains, but with the well-developed institutions and strategies of the postlapsarian culture that his Roman readers share with us. Homer had no eye on aetiological, historicist linkage and continuity.

## 122–24

**Tum senior semperque odiis et crimine Drances | infensus iuveni Turno sic ore vicissim | orsa refert**: the –*que* after *semper* links the two attributes that modify Drances in predicative position, i.e. *senior* and *infensus*. Translators disagree on whether to construe *infensus* actively ('Then Drances, an older man who had always hated the young warrior Turnus, and spoken against him, began to make his reply': West) or passively ('Then old Drances, loathed by the youthful Turnus for his hatred and accusations replied aloud to his speech': Horsfall). If the former, the ablatives *odiis et crimine* are instrumental and the dative *iuveni Turno* goes with *infensus*; if the latter, the ablatives are causal, and the dative is one of agency. Why choose? Suppose Virgil's syntax is studiously ambiguous, and then the loathing Drances and Turnus have for each other is entirely reciprocal. This *ought* to make them deserve each other, as pot and kettle. But when we see and hear them clash, we *might* have to reconsider (336–444, picking up the thread with *tum Drances idem infensus*, *quem gloria Turni*…).

**senior … Drances | … iuveni Turno**: a generational contrast reinforces the mutual hatred. JH: *This* contrast *ought* to load things along ageist lines and cash out to mean that Drances should be a responsibly hardened counsellor (as encapsulated in the semantics of *senator*) and Turnus a hothead. In itself that *ought* after all to predispose us to expect to go along with the lead Drances is about to take.

**infensus**: personal enmity in republican politics was dysfunctional in a system grounded in consensus. See Joseph (2012: 9, n. 27) for Virgil's preference (shared by Tacitus) for *infensus* over *infestus* (preferred by the prose writers Cicero, Sallust, Livy, and Seneca).

**orsa**: the perfect passive participle of *ordior* here used substantivally. JH: 'Initiative' may be implied here, as Drances' mouth opens where his colleagues still hold theirs (*ora*, 121); inset with *vicissim … refert*, the jingle *ore … orsa* may signal that his return of Aeneas' serve matches him in 'starting up' more of a move than required by the job in hand. Whereabouts exactly will Drances see Aeneas, in upping the ante?

## 124–26

**'o fama ingens, ingentior armis, | vir Troiane, quibus caelo te laudibus aequem? | iustitiaene prius mirer belline laborum?**: As Hardie (2012: 137) notes, 'the first two lines of [Drances'] address to Aeneas are an encapsulation of the subject of the *Aeneid* viewed as praise poetry'. Drances indeed indulges in some succulent panegyric here, of the sort that might make you retch, but while you reach for the bucket remember that in antiquity orators had (and have) a tendency to lay it on with a trowel. As a result, it is quite difficult to draw a line between conventional and ironic hyperbole (and at times the latter may hide within the former). The late republican and early imperial periods in particular saw the need to develop an idiom in which to capture preeminent figures in (flattering) discourse, but any such attempt should not be reducible to flattery (or, indeed, the dichotomy between fulsome flattery and ironic subversion, authentic praise and insincere refusal). In his speech of thanksgiving addressed to Caesar for the dictator's pardoning of his inveterate enemy Marcellus (cos. 51), Cicero uses similarly hymnic language, including, like Drances, the self-reflexive question 'with what praise shall we extol you?' (*pro Marcello* 10: *quibus laudibus efferemus*?). These were attempts by the subalterns to acknowledge, negotiate and hence also to limit power by establishing common ground across steep hierarchies of authority and integrating the omnipotent other into some form of dialogue and exchange. The sentence from Cicero is a case in point: the format and content resembles a hymn addressed to a divine being — but Cicero will end the speech by emphasizing Caesar's humanity and mortality, stressing that the only kind of immortality open to him is a good reputation among future generations: whereas the sentence suggests that Caesar has stepped over the mortal-immortal divide, the speech as a whole — from the Senate's senior statesman — retrenches the boundary. The dynamics of inflation and deflation, elevation and cutting down to size, is typical of panegyric discourse in late-republican and early-imperial Rome, where the ideals of the emperor as the *primus inter pares* or a *princeps civilis* set the politicos such an excruciating challenge.

**fama ingens, ingentior armis**: a spectacular chiasmus, designed climactically, with the ablatives of specification flanking the repetition of *ingens*. Drances' move from positive to comparative sets up his 'superlative' elevation to the heaven that follows. *ingens* is 'Virgil's preferred epithet of greatness' (Worstbrock 1963: 65); there is regularly a hint of 'genetic' programming, as here in anticipation of *Troiane*, which supposedly amplifies the degree of greatness of reputation implicit in the award of the status of *vir*.

**armis | vir**: JH: in *this* reprise of the poem's thematic slogan, we are reminded that (this) epic is 'all about' settling the terms for glory (*fama*) in the register of militarism. Obviously another Thersites could never do, but would you accept Drances as the one to voice the message of *your Aeneid*?

**vir Troiane**: Aeneas was already the recipient of this 'flatteringly honorific' address at 10.598 (Harrison 1991: 220, who notes that *vir* here has the sense of 'hero').

**quibus caelo te laudibus aequem?**: the interrogative adjective *quibus* modifies *laudibus*. Here, Drances suggests that Aeneas deserves to be elevated to the heavens, but is unsure which words of praise are best suited for the task. He thereby tweaks two orthodox panegyric ploys: the rhetorical question and the protestation that discourse is unable to capture the greatness under consideration. In panegyric, the sky's the limit, though potentially a perilous one. As long as the elevation in question remained figurative, we are dealing with rhetorical hyperbole. But in the Graeco-Roman imaginary, rising up to the sky was also literally possible: witness the giants' attack on Mt. Olympus and the practice of deification. Drances' phrasing suggests that he conceives of the elevation (primarily) in terms of a rhetorical exercise; but the words he uses render Aeneas larger than life, an ontological category apart. (*Pace* Horsfall and Fratantuono, who seem curiously certain that we don't even catch a whiff of flirting with deification here.) JH: The score so far? Drances pushed the boat out in 124, which acknowledges that Aeneas just spoke from a position of superior military strength (*armis*), but pulled away from that by *designating* his words as panegyric while so far leaving the honorifics at the unvarnished 'You're from Troy', which may not amount to much in terms of a reputation as a warrior. How much glory Aeneas is going to secure in Latium from his deeds up to Book 10 remains to be seen, but is meanwhile claimed as *in Drances' gift*.

**prius**: the primary sense of the adverb is temporal ('at an earlier time'), but it also can be used (as here) to weigh preferences ('rather'): see *OLD* s.v. 2.

**mirer**: a deliberative subjunctive; *miror* (a deponent) is here construed with the genitives *iustitiae* and *laborum*, coordinated by the interrogative particles *ne … ne*… . The genitive of specification *belli* is dependent on *laborum*. JH: Here Drances the encomiast elegantly converts the 'stunning' impact of Aeneas' speech on the envoys into wonderstruck 'amazement', as he seizes the opportunity to dramatize his rhetorical mastery of the calculus of (pseudo-)'dilemma': first he pretends to separate out (i) from 'repetition' (of *ingens*) *fama* vs (ii) comparatively greater *arma* as (if) a 'gradation', then he sets his problem as (iii) one of 'equating' (to (iv) the 'superlative' within *caelum*), and now (v) he (re-) formulates this as a challenge to 'prioritize'. But in setting up his first two-pronged phrasing in 124 he already obliged himself to 'prioritize' *fama* above *armis* as preceding it, and now he performatively answers his own question by setting 'justice' *before* 'war record'. Indeed he only concocted his question in order to advertise his 'answer'. Nice one: he meant all along to reverse his upfront ranking of *armis* as trumping *fama* in order to position *arma within* an overall rating in terms of *fama*, which we now realise preceded, so outranked, the followup phrase. For the orator, what a soldier *does* is always going to be represented in terms of the praise awarded his *virtus.* And what Drances chooses to peddle is (epic) *fama* — while in fact *belittling arma*, as *belli … labores*, which in the ambience of *vir Troiane* still speaks to the Trojans as, however 'just', defeated losers, rather than prospectively the triumphant victors as they are to emerge, thanks to the *Aeneid*, between Books 10 and 12. Ovid makes a Big Deal out of this (scandalous?) view that oratorical rehearsal of epic deeds trumps those deeds themselves when Ulysses trounces Ajax in pitting their rival claims to inherit Achilles' arms, and in the process re-narration of the *Iliad* is displaced in this rebel epic by rhetorical *controversia* (staged debate) (*Metamorphoses* Book 13).

**iustitiae … laborum**: Drances, self-servingly, rates Aeneas' ethical qualities higher than — or as high as — his martial deeds. Cicero opts for the same panegyric strategy with respect to Caesar in the *pro Marcello*. At issue is the phenomenon of self-restrained omnipotence. JH: Appositely, Drances undercuts his acknowledgment of the upper hand Aeneas' recent victory has (may have?) handed him, by casting victory as 'toils' — and the present negotiations are indeed precisely marking one phase in a so-far unconcluded chain of 'sufferings', which has resulted in losses inflicted on *both* sides, a Pallas for every Mezentius. That is the immediate, and maybe the *only*, business in hand.

## 127–29

**nos vero haec patriam grati referemus ad urbem | et te, si qua viam dederit Fortuna, Latino | iungemus regi**: after his praise of Aeneas, Drances' focus shifts to himself and the Latin envoys. The prominently placed *nos* (first person pronoun in the nominative plural) claims right away that he speaks for all of them and he asserts his authority through the discourse particle *vero* ('in truth'). *haec*, the accusative object of *referemus*, are the words (and attitude) of Aeneas. *patriam* turns out to be NOT the accusative singular of the noun *patria*, –*ae*, f. ('native land'), as we are bound to anticipate, but the accusative singular of the adjective *patrius* (*pater + ius*), modifying *urbem* in pronounced hyperbaton and anastrophe (regular word order would be *ad patriam urbem*), a design that foregrounds *urbem*, placed climactically at the end of the verse and thus feeding into alignment of Drances' speech with the authorial discourse of the proem. *grati* is an adjective in the nominative plural, in predicative position to *nos* ('as grateful ones') in lieu of an adverb ('gratefully').

The *et* joins the two main verbs *referemus* and *iungemus*, the latter taking *te* as accusative object and *Latino* … *regi* (dative singular of *rex*, rather than the present passive infinitive of *regere*) as indirect object. The word order is mimetic: at the moment, Aeneas (*te*) and King Latinus (*regi*) stand far apart — a distance Drances is intent on bridging.

*iungemus* also functions as the apodosis of a conditional sequence. *qua* = *aliqua* (after *si*, *nisi*, *num*, and *ne*, the '*ali*–' gets dropped). The idiom is somewhat odd: one would expect the adjective to modify *via*, rather than *Fortuna*: 'if Fortune has granted any kind of way', rather than 'if any kind of Fortune has granted a way', which implies a curious fragmentation of the divinity. The type of 'coming together' covered by *iungere* covers a range of possibilities: the basic meaning is 'to put animals together in the yoke', but *iungere* can refer to the (physical) joining of any two things and in socio-political contexts often has the meaning of 'to unite' (in marriage, in friendship, in alliance). In a sexual sense, it means 'to join in intercourse' (*venerem iungere* = to have sex). The notion of two discrete units being joined together is a vital concern of the entire poem: the aborted mingling (in all senses of the word) of Trojans and Carthaginians constituted an unsuccessful dress rehearsal for the drama that plays itself out in the second half of the poem and sets up the (more or less successful) integration of the Trojan refugees in Italy. JH: Here though, in responding (as if) empathetically to Aeneas' speech (*quaenam … fortuna*, 108), Drances insinuates that when he 'joins together' the two separate matters of reporting back to base and intervening in Latinus' future state policy, it will be on the same — *non*conditional — terms, as surely as *iungemus* joins *referemus*, and as surely as | *et* joins the two promises, | *nos … ad urbem* | to *te … Latino* |. Once again Virgil's orator signals what he is doing, as he does it, so as to do it. This is more flash rhetoric redoubled.

**Latino | … regi**: another hyperbaton, this time reinforced by enjambment. There is an ambiguity in meaning here: *Latinus rex* could mean either 'King Latinus' (with *Latinus* as proper name) or 'the Latin king' (with *Latinus* as geographical adjective); Drances' point, however, is that he is making a (bragging) claim that *he* will direct policy, he can guarantee it, for all that *Latinus* is (supposedly) *king*.

## 129

**quaerat sibi foedera Turnus**: *quaerat* is a iussive subjunctive. Drances dismisses Turnus and his concerns with spiteful glee. Essentially, Turnus is here cast out — ostracized from his community, left to fend for himself. *foedus* is a term that affords deep insights into the way the Romans thought about the world, carrying associations of a formalized ritual alliance: see further Gladhill (2016). JH: Notice that Drances again smuggles in acquiescence to the idea that the deputation implicitly represents a plea, as if cap-in-hand: as he offers Aeneas a deal off his own bat (read: submission, throwing in the towel…), he lets him understand that that's what the delegation has come to 'request', to 'get for' — Latium.

## 130–31

**quin et fatalis murorum attollere moles | saxaque subvectare umeris Troiana iuvabit.'** The –*que* after *saxa* links the two infinitives governed by *iuvabit*, i.e. *attollere* and *subvectare*. Drances, in his eagerness to show what a willing subordinate he wishes to be, uses a *husteron proteron* by speaking of the construction (walls) before the building material (stones). The phrases resemble each other in design, both featuring a hyperbaton (*fatalis … moles*; *saxa … Troiana*) in chiastic order (adjective : noun :: noun : adjective) and alliteration (*murorum*, *moles*; *saxa*, *subvectare*). Drances' idiom, and in particular the phrase *fatalis murorum … moles*, recalls the (extended) proem, combining the references to fate (1.2: *fato profugus*) and walls (1.7: *altae moenia Romae*) in the opening lines with the reference to tremendous effort (*moles*) in the proem's concluding verse (1.33: *tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem*). As Smith (2005: 140) puts it (though underplaying the extent to which the proem here resonates): 'Drances evokes the *Aeneid*'s prologue through his allusion to wall building, an activity evocative of the entire mission. The synecdoche of walls for the city of Rome indicates the extent of Drances' desire for his people to be among those who lay the very foundations of Aeneas' new empire.' JH: Drances again parrots Aeneas back to him (*fata* 112), accepting his claim to be set on 'a spot to settle' (112), and in this final flourish he thoroughly enjoys coming up with the answer to his own rhetorical question of 125: *These phrases* are the praises he showers on Aeneas, prioritizing 'lifting him to heaven' by picturing his vanquished enemies 'raising up his massive walls' for him, before *and above* the scenario of those same enemies 'submitting' themselves to hard labour (post-war, contrast 126 *belli laborum*). When Drances joins *these* two propositions together, they team up *vertically*, 'lifting up' by 'shouldering under'. He may be promising (as if) on behalf of *nos* (127), not just himself, not just the envoys, not just 'King' Latinus, but the whole Latin people: the impersonal verb *iuvabit* allows the equivocation. But one thing's for sure, *he*'s really been enjoying himself already.

**quin**: *quin* here functions as an emphatic adverb (rather than a conjunction), 'introducing a statement that corroborates and amplifies what precedes' (*OLD* s.v. 2): not only does Drances hold out the prospect of a 'working alliance'; he even offers hands-on, servile support for Aeneas' project of empire-building.

**murorum … moles**: JH: this is where the envoys came in (100, cf. 98–99 *ad altos* | … *muros*), and as we have noted it is where the epic project lifts us, to the proem's goal, *altae moenia Romae* | (1.7), building with every verse. The famous epic topos that is up next will feature the *alta … fraxinus* and *actas ad sidera pinus*, amplified by intertextual weight, and sensory overdrive (sound, smell, anthropomorphization), and keeps the rhetorical amplification a-swelling. It both tops off the 'truce' episode and is (only) preparatory for the extended series of pyres built and lit by first Arcadian–Trojan–and–allies, and then the corresponding Latin versions (139–224). We will be put through a staggered ordeal of community-wide grief culminating in a chorus of heartfelt execration of war — and encouraged to join in.

**saxa … Troiana**: a truly abject surrender of cultural identity: the stones are, if anything, Italian, but in Drances' discourse already turn into Trojan building material. Drances essentially bows his native knee to the colonial master. He accepts the yoke — and takes pleasure from it (*iuvabit*).

**subvectare**: the so-called frequentative or intensive form of *subveho*: Gildersleeve & Lodge 138. Virgil also uses it for motion from river bank to river bank at *Aeneid* 6.303: *ipse* (Charon) … *ferruginea subvectat corpora cumba* ('in his murky skiff he ferries the bodies'). Drances here asserts that the Latins will gladly undertake an equally menial and mindless, repetitive and laborious, task on behalf of Aeneas and his Trojans, as if already reduced to *sub*ject status. Virgil's choice of the frequentative here nicely feeds into his characterization of Drances as unctuously *sub*servient.

## 132

**dixerat haec unoque omnes eadem ore fremebant**: the –*que* after *uno* links the two main verbs *dixerat* and *fremebant*. The arrangement of the verbs and their accusative objects (*haec*, *eadem*) is chiastic. After the articulate discourse of Drances, the group are only up to making indistinct if supportive noises.

**uno … omnes … ore**: a powerful show of unity and support enhanced via stylistic means, such as the juxtaposition of one (*uno*) and all (*omnes*), hyperbaton (*uno … ore*, a phrase that embraces *omnes* and *eadem* — one + all + the same), and alliteration (*omnes*, *ore*). At face value, all of the Rutulians suddenly speak with one voice: that of Drances. JH: But they 'bay', they don't 'speak', they still keep their 'voice' to themselves, or rather they consent to report back faithfully *haec* (127), namely Aeneas' agreement to a truce for burying the fallen plus *his* challenge to Turnus. How many more of Drances' effusions (*haec*) their unanimous nonverbal 'hear-hear' commits them to (in *eadem*) is still for us to speculate on: Drances pops up here to do the dirty work in the name of the deputation standing there awkwardly. As you recall they are (variously?) stunned or unwilling to come out with the response required by Aeneas' surprise extension of the field of reference in the negotiation — which must include an element of (unauthorized, undignified) submission — and they are waiting for someone to utter the words out loud, looking round the faces in their circle to see whose mouth will open (nb *os* = 'face', featuring eyes, *and* = 'mouth') and betray the thinking behind those searching eyes. Are they all on the same wavelength, or not, and will whoever speaks *mean* what any, or all, of the rest would want them to… ? (= 120–21). 'One baying mouth' lets the mission nail the truce, which is what (**or** all?) they came for — but how much else of Drances' 'mouthing' were they owning, with what element of affirmation? *Any*? The envoys have suffered a double whammy: wrongfooted by Aeneas' 'overtures', they were then wrongfooted by Drances' 'initiative', which goes way beyond their commission. Agreeing with Drances puts *anyone* else in a bind: even if you weren't against what he sponsors, you might loathe how he puts it, and hate his cheek / panache in daring to come out with it just like that on the spot. So, as he regularly does, Virgil has plunged us right inside the politicking in diplomacy. And the *Aeneid* is, throughout, at least as invested in the cut-and-thrust of position-taking as in hardware.

**fremebant**: Moskalew (1982: 96) lists other instances in the poem (1.559– 60 = 5.385–86:… *cuncti simul ore fremebant* | *Dardanidae*) and explicates the Homeric background (*Iliad* 1.22 = 1.376: ἔνθ᾽ ἄλλοι μὲν πάντες ἐπευφήμησαν Ἀχαιοὶ: 'Then all the rest of the Achaians shouted assent'; and 7.403 = 9.50: ὣς ἔφαθ᾽, οἳ δ᾽ ἄρα πάντες ἐπίαχον υἷες Ἀχαιῶν: 'so he spoke, and all the sons of the Achaeans shouted aloud'). Varro, *Lingua Latina* 6.67, includes *fremere* in a list of onomatopoetic words.

## 11.133–138: An EpicCase of PeacefulDeforestation

The abrupt transition from talks to action coincides with a change in narrative pace, well captured by Adema (2017: 80): 'Once the Latins and Trojans have made their arrangements, they immediately start with the actions following from their arrangements. There seems to be no time for talking any more and the only sounds presented by the narrator are the sounds of axes and falling trees (*ferro sonat*; *evertunt … pinus*). The narrator of the *Aeneid* here varies the rhythm of his text in order to highlight the main points in the discussion between Aeneas and, on the Latin side, Drances.' JH: All the same, the approving noises finally emanating from the envoys, *fremebant* |, echo through into the pathetic fallacy—a.k.a. the empathetic poetry—in the groans of the wood hacked down to make the funeral pyres, as advertised in *f-erro sonat*, echoed in | *fr-axinus* (as if from *frango*, break, smash, as explicitly in Ennius' version of the topos, see below), and carried on into the finale with *gementibus.*  And to confirm that the embassy was all along on a quest for *this*, there is audible continuity in displacement when first the pines 'raised to the stars' are thrown down, whereas Drances looked forward to raising mighty walls (*actas ad sidera* 136 overturning *attollere moles*, 130) only to give away to the *plosive* wagons (*plaustrum* as if from *plaudo*, beat, clap, etc) 'shoulder' their load of timber to build up the pyres (*vectare*), where Drances conjured up Latins building up Trojan battlements by 'shouldering' their rocks (*subvectare* 131). Now, however, the oratorical jawing over and done with, the communities level with each other, their differences dissolved by pact and common purpose (134).

## 133–35

**bis senos pepigere dies, et pace sequestra | per silvas Teucri mixtique impune Latini | erravere iugis**: Virgil uses paratactic syntax: we get two main clauses linked by *et*. *pepigere* is the third person plural perfect indicative active of *pango* (= *pepigerunt*), *erravere* of *erro* (= *erraverunt*). The –*que* after *mixti* links the two subjects of the sentence, i.e. *Teucri* and *Latini*. Virgil brings out the current parity of the two peoples by not opting for the construction 'x mixed with y', which would feature one of the parties in an oblique case. The *Teucri* and *Latini* are studiously presented as grammatical equals: *mixti* is used in an absolute sense: intermingled, Trojans and Latins roamed…'. For *mixti* as 'a key ethnographic term' see Fratantuono and Smith (2015: 350). Here we have a 'salad bowl' intermingling, with each item retaining its discrete (racial) identity; the *Aeneid* will lead up to a 'melting pot' intermingling: Trojans and Latins end up intermarrying. Note that *pax* derives from a 'pact' (*pango*).

**bis senos … dies**: the adverb *bis* (twice) modifies the numerical adjective *senos* (six) which agrees in case, number, and gender with the noun it modifies, i.e. *dies*: twice six = twelve days. JH: 'Twelve' (*duodecim*) won't scan in dactylic verse; but 'twice 6' blesses the pact with an enabling / mood-setting touch of reciprocal equality between the two parties to the bargain. It's as if they volunteered one week each, but didn't discriminate to which side each week belonged — now this fortnight was theirs to share. And ours to enjoy, straightforwardly, airbrushing Drances right out of mind: Dilke (1967: 325) even saw meta-literary meaning in the emphatic placement of *bis senos* at the opening of the tableau, in numerically pinpointing Virgilian design: the previous six verses (127–132) covered Drances' *promise* to report back to base *re* the truce and now the following six verses (133–38) *deliver* on said truce, i.e. we are dealing with a segment made up of 2 x 6 verses (which, as noted, end respectively with *subvectare* … *ore fremebant* | and *vectare … gementibus ornis* |). This may be corroborated at once in the phrasing of *pace sequestra*, which has 'the truce *follow*' as the upshot of the negotiations.

**pace sequestra**: nominal ablative absolute (i.e. an ablative absolute missing the participle — 'with peace as mediator/ by the mediation of peace'). The phrase is challenging. Peace, personified, functions as mediator and guarantor between the warring parties that the terms of the agreed truce will be kept. Gebhardt (2009: 254, n. 25) notes that in Roman civil law the sequester is a trusted person charged with keeping safe an item that has become the object of a legal quarrel, citing the *Digest* 50.16.110 ("*sequester*" *dicitur*, *apud quem plures eandem rem*, *de qua controversia est*, *deposuerunt*: *dictus ab eo*, *quod occurrenti aut quasi sequenti eos qui contendunt committitur*). On this basis he argues that in our passage here 'peace' (as it were) functions as arbiter between the two warring parties ('Bei Vergil fungiert der Friede gleichsam als Vermittler zwischen den beiden Kriegsparteien').

In what one might call a paxadox given Rome's zest for military conquest, *pax* is a key Roman value. But its semantics, especially in late-republican times, are anything but simple.19 As Lavan (2017: 102–3) puts it:

It is clear that Romans saw no contradiction in idealising peace and militarism simultaneously. Many scholars who have noted these incongruities have explained them by positing that *pax* means different things in the spheres of domestic politics and foreign relations, denoting concord in the former and the subjugation of enemies in the latter. Although it has its uses as a first approximation for those unfamiliar with the Latin language of *pax*, this dichotomy is reductive. It collapses the ambiguities that gave the language of peace such enduring appeal. Even when writing about subject peoples, Roman writers often use *pax* to denote the absence of internal conflict and external threat as well as conformity to the Roman order. Moreover, the distinction between domestic and foreign spheres is often blurred. Indeed, it is precisely its capacity to denote any or all of civic concord, stability in the provinces and expansion in the periphery that made it such a strong and persuasive word for both rulers and subjects.

(i) *pax* was usually the outcome of military conquest that established Rome as the superior party in the agreement. A fragment of Suetonius (citing our passage from the *Aeneid*) rehearses possible modes of suspending or ending a state of war, such as armistice, treaty, or peace (Suetonius, *Reliquiae*, fr. 276 Reiff):

<sup>19</sup> See e.g. Woolf (1993) and, more recently, the studies by Cornwell (2017a) (2017b) and Lavan (2017).

INDVCIAS FOEDUS et PACEM hoc interest, quod induciae numero dierum finiuntur, quod et sequestram pacem appellant ut 'pace sequestra bis senos pepigere dies'; foedus in perpetuum aut in annorum certum numerum feritur; pax cum eo populo conponitur, qui imbecillior est altero praevalente, qui existimet tutius esse sibi descendere in condicionis pacis quam dubiam belli fortunam experiri.

[The difference between Armistice, Treaty and Peace is that an armistice (*induciae*) is for a limited number of days, which they also call a 'truce' (*sequestra pax*) as does Virgil: 'through a truce they arranged a twelve-day cessation of hostilities'. A treaty (*foedus*) is struck forever or a certain number of years; peace (*pax*) is established with a people that is weaker than the other more powerful one and considers it safer for itself to enter into the condition of peace than to gamble on the uncertain outcome of war.]

As Gladhill (2016: 23) notes: 'Suetonius focuses on the differing ways a cessation of war might come about. *Pax* establishes a recognized and accepted imbalance of power between *victores* (conquerors) and *victi* (conquered). *Indutiae* is a cessation of violence until a later point in time when *pax* can be settled. *Foedus*, here, potentially negates the brutal consequences of *pax* by preemptive measures of alliance, which in most cases acknowledges a superior party, and like *pax*, an *aeternum foedus* institutes this imbalance in perpetuity.' The notion that *pax* is the result of a decisive military victory remains a crucial element also in Augustan ideology: as the first princeps says himself in his *Res Gestae* (13), his was a peace secured by victories (*parta victoriis pax*) — very much in line with the prevalent idea that victory on the battlefield manifests more than anything else the support of the gods and the divinely sanctioned right to rule.20

(ii) But *not just* subjugation: a cynical take on the Roman politics of peace on the basis of military conquest could stop here. At least in discourse, however, the correlation of peace and power in ancient Rome turn out to be more complex: '*Pax* was no longer a pact among equals or peace but submission to Rome, just as *pacare* began to refer to conquest. But submission guaranteed peaceful life and the Romans liked to stress

<sup>20</sup> For discussion see e.g. de Souza (2008), the commentary by Cooley (2009), and Havener (2016a).

this point.'21 As Lavan (2017: 112, n. 9) notes, citing Weinstock, much subsequent scholarship ignores the qualification in his last sentence and exclusively emphasizes domination and subjection, without regard to the benefits the Romans thought (their) peace would bring, brushing this aspect aside as mere rhetoric. But, he goes on to argue, there is no such thing as 'mere' rhetoric: we should take the language of power seriously.22 As Lavan (2017: 112) points out, the ideology informs the actions and (self-) perceptions of both rulers and subjects: 'The language of peace-making is obviously ideological in that it ascribes a larger purpose to Roman expansion. If anyone was "duped" by this, it was surely the imperial elite as much as their provincial subjects. It allowed them to see themselves as working in the service of a grand project of almost cosmological ambition.' For what it is worth, some passages, even in the work of an author as cynical as Tacitus, concede that the provinces came to see the benefits of peace guaranteed by autocratic presence. And for our purposes (with the focus on the analysis of a literary text) discourse and ideology are just as important as the imperial realities on the ground — and the question to what extent Roman rule lived up to Roman ideology.

(iii) The language of *pax* and the paradoxes of civil warfare: if initially *bellum* was between the Roman *populus* and another (foreign) people, increasingly violent conflicts erupted that pitched one element of the Roman community (broadly conceived) against another. Internal conflict in late-republican Rome included instances of politically motivated murder, outright civil war between different factions of the Roman oligarchy, but also the Social War between Rome and its allies (91–89 BCE), which led to an extension of Roman citizenship. (The legal inclusion of large swathes of the population of Italy, which had first turned from ally into enemy, only to become an integral part of the enlarged civic community, challenged historical notions and boundaries of 'self' and 'other'.) In this period, terms traditionally used to define the relation between Rome and foreign powers (*bellum*, *pax*, *hostis*, but also such institutions as the triumph: can you triumph in civil war?)

<sup>21</sup> Weinstock (1960: 45).

<sup>22</sup> Lavan here draws on Scott (1990), Jameson (1971: 380): 'Ideology is designed to promote the human dignity and clear conscience of a given class at the same time as it discredits their adversaries'), and Woolf (1994: 118–19).

came to be applied to scenarios internal to Rome.23 The (paradoxical) phrases *bellum civile* and *bellum sociale* began to be bandied about to capture the realities of communal infighting;24 and citizens were turned into enemies by means of legal (and rhetorical) '*hostis*-declarations', joining other measures such as the *senatus consultum ultimum*, designed to empower consuls at moments of (internal) crisis. Conversely, *pax* (as the antithesis of *bellum*) also acquired prominence in domestic discourse to describe a desired condition of internal peace. See Cornwell (2017b: 88): 'War (*bellum*) and peace (*pax*) were part of the language through which one described the enemies and subjects of the *res publica*. The fear of the situation in the 40s drew on the language of war and its external aspect to contextualise relations between Romans, and in turn brought the concept of *pax* more explicitly into discussions of domestic stability.' Both Cicero and Caesar are much invested in the concept in the run-up to (and during) the renewed outbreak of civil war in 49 BCE, the former in an attempt to play the role of peace-broker, the latter in order to cast his enemies as the true warmongers.

(iv) *The Augustan settlement*: complex tussles over the meaning (and the proprietorship) of internal peace remained part of Roman political discourse after Caesar's victory (and his assassination: Cicero notably interrelates 'genuine' *pax* and *libertas* in the *Philippics*) and continued until the battle of Actium in 31 BCE, culminating in the way Octavian chose to represent the conflict: by casting the confrontation as one between East and West (*tota Italia*), Egypt and Italy, he re-established clear faultlines between 'self' and 'other' — while recognizing that there were (debased) Roman elements fighting on the other side. The solution to the confrontation remained complete military victory (rather than reconciliation). It formed the basis for peace (*pax*) and a revival of aristocratic *concordia* in an autocratic key.

(v) The *Aeneid*: Virgil's epic offers a profound engagement with this complex history of war and peace on various levels, not least in the way he conflates external and internal warfare in the second half of

<sup>23</sup> For recent work on civil-war triumphs see Lange (2013) (2018) and Havener (2016b). For the phenomenon of (Roman) civil war more generally see e.g. Henderson (1998), Lange (2008), and Armitage (2017).

<sup>24</sup> Brown (2003).

the poem. The status of the conflict between Trojans and Rutulians (or, more broadly, Latins) is unequivocally ambiguous: is it a war between two distinct peoples — or a variant of civil war? After all, it turns out, much to our surprise, that Aeneas' lineage, according to the poem, hailed initially from Italy — and the warring parties will ultimately merge into one people. Even on the intertextual level, internal and external confrontations resonate in equal measure: if we read the second half of the *Aeneid* against the *Iliad*, we get a foreign invasion (with the Trojans cast as conquerors); if against the *Odyssey*, a homecoming that results in suicidal slaughter. In addition to these large-scale analogies with late-republican developments, in particular the situation in which two parties belonging to the same entity are at loggerheads with one another, Virgil's epic invites us to ponder issues of relevance in early Augustan Rome, such as the willingness to resolve conflict without resorting to arms (as Caesar presented himself doing in his *commentarii de bello civili* and Cicero pursued as well); the possibility (some would call it inevitability) of armed conflict and the emergence of an undisputed victor as the only lasting solution; or the need to find terms of coexistence and integration for a community split apart by violent conflict. The advantage of the aetiological idiom is always that it systematically eludes secure discrimination between what was once but has changed since, and what persists, however much original clarities have lost shape, altered formulation, or got buried on the way; but pertinence is never lost, nor active power in understanding and (re-)creating the future by reflecting back through the centuries and ruminating on the (hi)story.

**per silvas… | erravere iugis**: lit. 'through the woods … they roamed on the ridges'. Virgil splits the idea of 'wooded mountain-ranges' into *per silvas* ('through the woods') and *iugis* ('on the ridges'). The scenario brings to mind the opening of *Aeneid* 6 when Aeneas and his men arrive in Italy and engage in similar freedom of movement: see Gildenhard (2012: 240–43). JH: As peace follows, it unfolds into an evocative scene (*p-ace s-equestra* | > | *p-er s-ilvas* – overturned twice in *s-onat .. bi-p-enni* | … *s-idera p-inus* |, 135–36) — and here in this temporary island of innocence the woods are full of precisely *these* sounds, from *s*tart to *p*eroration, without cessation (… *nec p-laustris ce-ss-ant*, 138). Right away, however, *both* sides commit drastic 'mistakes' by 'wandering' recklessly out in the woods and getting 'mixed up' with enemy troops; but neither pays for their indiscipline because both 'let each other off'. The truce effects the temporary 'mercy' just negotiated (*venia*, 101, 107 ~ *impune*, 134).

## 135–38

**ferro sonat alta bipenni |** *fraxinus***, evertunt actas ad sidera** *pinus***, |**  *robora* **nec cuneis et olentem scindere** *cedrum* **| nec plaustris cessant vectare gementibus** *ornos*: parataxis continues with three main clauses (*sonat* – *evertunt* – *cessant*), the first two in asyndeton, the second and third linked by *et*. The *nec … nec*… coordinates the two infinitives (*scindere*, *vectare*) governed by *cessant*.

Virgil here intertwines two catalogues, one featuring trees, one the different steps it takes to fell them (Schmidt 1997: 64–65). Presented in the form of a table we have the following sequence (see Schmidt 1997: 65):


As Schmidt points out, though all trees of course undergo the full procedure, each tree is associated with a specific (and specifically appropriate) activity: the tough wood of the ash tree (*fraxinus*) resounds when set upon with axes; the tallness of the pine trees (*actas ad sidera*…) makes them a fitting object of *evertunt*; the oak tree (*robur*) is particularly 'fissile', and splitting the cedar (*cedrus*) has distinct odiferous consequences. The catalogue comes full circle with another reference to a (specific kind of) ash tree, the mountain ash (*ornus*), which is a particularly heavy kind of wood — hence it serves nicely to underscore the effort involved in carrying off the timber.

**ferro … alta bipenni | fraxinus**: note the interlaced word order (*ferro … bipenni*, *alta … fraxinus*), reinforced by enjambment and the chiastic sequence of nouns and adjectives (noun : adjective :: adjective : noun). As a result, the twin blades of the axe (*bipenni*) are firmly embedded in — and are cutting apart — the tall (*alta*) ash tree (*fraxinus*).

**fraxinus … pinus**: both *fraxinus* and *pinus* are nouns of *feminine* gender, but *fraxinus* (second declension) is in the nominative singular (the subject of *sonat*), whereas *pinus* (fourth declension) is in the accusative plural (the object of *evertunt*; the subject is 'they', i.e. both Trojans and Rutulians).

**actas ad sidera pinus**: with plants, *ago* (basic meaning: 'to drive') in the passive can have the meaning 'to grow' — so 'pine trees having shot up to the stars'.

**vectare**: the frequentative form of *veho* (see on *subvectare*, 131 above).

**gementibus**: JH: recall that heroic warriors are routinely likened to trees in the wood (esp. *robora*, 137): the violence inflicted on this primeval forest loudly evokes the carnage that produced the sterling corpses in need of cremation, in turn resulting in 'toppled' and 'cleft' dead trees now being loaded onto their own kind of 'bier' as they are carried off to (make) the pyres, and setting off 'groans' of grief. Already in the description of the felling, epic narration has flown at supersonic speed (*Fama volans*) to prequel and give notice of the scene ahead, which develops the keening that marks the arrival of Pallas' cadaver (*tanti praenuntia luctus*). Just as *fremebant* was to leak into the truce's *gementibus*, so *plaustris … gementibus* will now leak straight into *plangentia … agmina …*, *clamoribus*, *gemens* (145–50), as the Arcadians 'crash down' (*ruere*, 142), snatch pinewood torches, and set the street alight with flames, with all this epic noise as good as 'setting the city on fire' (*incendunt clamoribus urbem*, 147, like another pyre), with their king 'crashing down' on his son's body (*procubuit*, 150, like another Virgilian pitch pine) and winding up this section with climactic 'groaning' of his own (*gemensque* |, 150), to match the end of the previous section's close with *gementibus ornos* |, 138).

**ornos**: as we noted, the *ornus* is a particular type of ash tree (*fraxinus*).

#### Extra information

The massive deforestation here depicted by Virgil has intertextual and intratextual precedents, as his ancient readers realized. The prototype of the scene occurs in the penultimate book of the *Iliad*, when the Greeks make preparations for the funeral of Patroclus (*Iliad* 23.110–24):


[But the lord Agamemnon sent forth mules and men from all sides from out the huts to fetch wood; and a man of valour watched thereover, Meriones, squire of kindly Idomeneus. And they went forth bearing in their hands axes for the cutting of wood and well-woven ropes, and before them went the mules; and ever upward, downward, sideward, and aslant they fared. But when they were come to the spurs of many-fountained Ida, forthwith they set them to fell high-crested oaks with the long-edged bronze in busy haste; and with a mighty crash the trees kept falling. Then the Achaeans split the trunk asunder and bound them behind the mules, and these tore up the earth with their feet as they hasted toward the plain through the thick underbrush. And all the woodcutters bore logs; for so were they bidden of Meriones, squire of kindly Idomeneus.]

The first surviving literary tree-felling in Latin comes from Ennius' epic *Annals* (the precise context is unfortunately unknown, though Skutsch imagines the fragment as coming from Book 6, which covered Rome's war against Pyrrhus). See *Annals* 175–79 Skutsch:

Incedunt arbusta per alta, securibus caedunt, percellunt magnas quercus, exciditur ilex, fraxinus **frangitur** atque abies consternitur alta, pinus proceras pervortunt: omne sonabat arbustum **fremitu** silvai frondosai.

[They stride through the lofty copses. They hack with their axes: they send great oaks flying, the holm oak is cut down, the ash smashed and the towering fir laid low, they overturn tall pines: the whole copse resounds with the leafy wood's rumbling.]

Some critics have felt that Ennius' art is over the top (Newman 1967: 93):

The irregular rhythms here give a strange effect. In the first hexameter we start with spondees and the solemn processional word *incedunt*, but this slowness is followed by a weak, light caesura and dactylic fourth and fifth feet. A spondaic line ensues, then comes a largely dactylic third line with much coincidence of accent and ictus. In the fourth line we are back to spondees, with heavy alliteration. In the last line there is another unexpected development: after a straightforward beginning with spondee and dactyl we find at the end a spondaic fifth foot and violent assonance. There is throughout the lines emphatic repetition of sounds, notably s, c, p, fr. What is wrong with this passage of Ennius is that there is too much art. The slow march through the forest, the quicker dactyls for the wielding of the axes, again spondees for the felling of the mighty oaks, the more rapid fall of the lighter ashes and firs, back to spondees for the pines, s alliteration for the rustle of leaves in the forest, and the final triumphant flourish of the assonance in *silvai frondosai*.

In *Aeneid* 6 (another funerary context: Aeneas and the Trojans need to bury the bugle-player Misenus), Virgil rewrites the exuberant Ennian passage in a modernizing key (6.176–82):25

<sup>25</sup> One might want to add *Aen*. 2.627 to the mix, where Virgil uses the simile of treefelling to illustrate the fall of Troy.

tum iussa Sibyllae,

down huge ash trees.]

haud mora, festinant flentes aramque sepulcri congerere arboribus caeloque educere certant. itur in antiquam silvam, stabula alta ferarum; **procumbunt** piceae, sonat icta securibus ilex 180 fraxineaeque trabes cuneis et fissile robur scinditur, advolvunt ingentis montibus ornos.

[Then, weeping, they hasten to carry out the Sibyl's orders without delay and strive to pile up trees for the altar of his tomb and raise it to the sky. Into the ancient forest they go, the deep lairs of wild beasts; the pitchy pines fall, and the ilex rings to the stroke of the axe; ashen logs and splintering oak are cleft with wedges, and from the mountains they roll

The two accounts have offered prime material for 'compare and contrast' exercises ever since antiquity.26 See for instance Williams (1968: 260–67) or Goldberg (1995: 83–84): 'Vergil recalls Ennius through the borrowing of significant details, the strategic placement of key words, and more generally through his greater interest in the trees than the woodcutters. He deftly modernizes the prosody (thus *fraxineae* replaces the archaic scansion *fraxinŭs*), and he lightens the metrical effects, or at least brings his own passage to closure with a less extraordinary set of spondees. One great poet thus pays homage to another and in doing so declares both the ancestry and the progress of Latin epic.' Hinds (1998: 13) offers a metapoetic reading of the allusive relationship: '*Itur in antiquam silvam*: on this interpretation the allusion includes its self-annotation; the epic project of the poet is seen to move in step with the epic project of the hero. As Aeneas finds his *silva*, so too does Virgil: the *tour de force* of allusion to poetic material from the *Aeneid*'s archaic predecessor, the *Annales*, is figured as a harvest of mighty timber from an old-growth forest — in a landscape (that of *Aeneid* 6) charged with associations of awe and venerability.' JH: Similarly, watch Book 11's ensemble cast wander in amongst the lumber that constitutes the 'raw materials' (*silvae*) from which the epic topos is assembled — and 'pay no penalty' for so doing. It's all in a good cause.

<sup>26</sup> See Macrobius, *Saturnalia* 6.2.27.

## 11.139–151: Mourning Becomes Evander

The funeral procession for Pallas reaches his hometown Pallanteum, anticipated by news of his death. In addition to the narrative sequence, the verses also map out a topography of grief, with distinct positions for individuals and collectives in an overall chiastic order that brings out different degrees of affiliation and affliction:


Key:


The passage begins and ends (A1 and A2 ) with a focus on father (Evander) and son (Pallas). In between, we get the Arcadians as a collective, first generically (B1 ), then with reference to a specific subgroup (mothers: B2 ). And at the very centre (also in terms of line-distribution: 6 + 1 + 6), we get a reference to the Trojans (*turba Phrygum*) that accompany the corpse (C). The sequence of 3 + 3 + 3 + 4 verses ensures that the forceful framing receives further quantitative emphasis: Virgil dwells more on the father Evander (7 verses) than the rest of the Arcadians and the Trojans (6 verses). The mourning procession towards the city, which is met by mourners streaming out of it, and the fields ablaze with funeral torches form the apocalyptic backdrop for the father Evander coming face-to-face with the corpse of his son Pallas. In fact, the passage oscillates, and blurs the distinction, between city and countryside: *domos et moenia* (140), *ad portas* (142), *agros* (144), *tectis* (146), *maestam … urbem* (147); and it alternates in its emphasis on sound and sight, including some synaesthetic blurring in the striking formulation *maestam incendunt clamoribus urbem*, which imports the visual effects of the funeral torches (cf. *incendunt*) into the auditory articulation of grief (cf. *clamoribus*).

## 139–41

**Et iam Fama volans, tanti praenuntia luctus, | Evandrum Evandrique domos et moenia replet, | quae modo victorem Latio Pallanta ferebat**: Virgil here returns to the narrative sequence involving Pallas. Depending on the speed with which *Fama* operates, *iam* can either be understood as referring to the time that has elapsed since (*a*) Pallas' death in Book 10 or (*b*) the departure of the procession accompanying the corpse at 11.99.

**Fama volans**: *volans* is the present active participle of *volo*, *volare*, 'to fly' (to be kept distinct from *volens*, the present active participle of *volo*, *velle*, 'to want'. Rumour flies elsewhere in the poem (3.121, 4.184, 8.554) and in her personification in *Aeneid* 4, one of Fama's features are wings. But her role has shifted: 'Fama, so constantly associated with marriage earlier in the epic, brings news of the youth's death' (Nelis 2001: 324). This, so Nelis argues, is part of a larger thematic nexus in the *Aeneid* that intertwines wedding and death: 'Employing a motif from Greek tragedy, Vergil shows Pallas is marrying Death rather than a human beloved. Pallas, like Nisus, Euryalus and Camilla, is an example of doomed youth and the death of all these tragic figures is inextricably connected with their sexuality' (321). For the role of Fama in and *as* the epic (and more specifically Book 11) see further Hardie (2012) and Clément-Tarantino (2017).

**tanti praenuntia luctus**: *praenuntia* stands in apposition to *Fama* (or *fama*), governing the objective genitive *tanti … luctus*.

**Evandrum Evandrique**: the archetype of this kind of polyptoton 'where a proper name is repeated, although a genitive or possessive pronoun would have sufficed' (Wills 1996: 34) goes back to Homeric formulae. See e.g. *Iliad* 1.255: ἦ κεν γηθήσαι Πρίαμος Πριάμοιό τε παῖδες ['Priam surely would rejoice and the sons of Priam'] or *Iliad* 4.47: καὶ Πρίαμος καὶ λαὸς ἐϋμμελίω Πριάμοιο ['and Priam and the people of Priam, armed with a good ashen spear']. He argues that the Homeric formulae constitute an intertext here: 'The parallel in sense between Evander, king of the new Troy, and Priam is so clear that no verbal echo is needed, for the repetition device is sufficiently marked to make the association: *Euandrum Euandrique domos* ~ Πρίαμος Πριάμοιό τε παῖδες. Although Evander has parallels to Priam, the mere mention of Evander's name does not alone evoke Priam; nor is *domus* entirely the Latin equivalent for the Greek παῖδες or λαός. Rather, some other marking must be added — here it is the repetition of the king's name in an unusual syntagm, grammatically otiose but literarily allusive' (1996: 37–38).

**replet**: *repleo* tends to feature as a two-unit verb, with an accusative being (re-)filled by an ablative; and in instances without one or the other, the missing component can often be easily understood. The usage here is not quite so straightforward. We have three accusative objects, linked and grouped (1 + 2) by –*que* and *et* (i.e. *Evandrum*, *domos*; *moenia*) that Fama fills up — but with what? Herself? Or grief (*luctus*)? Or both? The ambiguity may be deliberate, to reinforce the meaning of *tanti praenuntia luctus* — what is filling up Evander and his city is not yet grief itself, but the *foreboding* of grief. The phrase *tanti praenuntia luctus* thus serves as an elegant substitute for two missing ablatives (say, *rumore* and *luctu*). What's not in doubt is that this marker rhetorically programmes the new scene, which will couch communal grief for the fallen in terms of 'family and polity', articulated through the king as father: Virgil promises a 'fully packed' epic tableau of properly organized high-octane exsequies.

**quae**: the antecedent of the relative pronoun is *Fama* (139). We are dealing with a different — indeed antithetical — piece of rumour, disseminated by one and the same Fama.

**modo**: here in the temporal sense of 'just recently': the sudden shift from triumph to tragedy is a pointed reminder of the vagaries of fortune in warfare.

**victorem … Pallanta**: *victor*, here as predicative complement to *Pallanta* ('she carried Pallas as victor'), is a key noun in the *Aeneid*, and also in Book 11 (see also 4, 44, 92, 247, 397, 565). At 10.463 Pallas imagines himself in a prayer to Hercules as victor over Turnus (*victoremque ferant morientia lumina Turni*): naturally, Fama has overheard the utterance and picks up on Pallas' own wishful thinking.

**Latio**: commentators debate whether we are dealing with an ablative to be construed with *victorem* — *in* Latium (indicating location, though some suppose an adversative sense: 'The talk was no longer of Pallas, conqueror of Latium' — so West) or a dative to be construed with *ferebat* (*to* Latium).

**ferebat**: 'The force of the imperfect is that the news of the victory was still being disseminated when the reversal of his fortune started to be announced' (Fratantuono 2009: 60). The use of *ferre* here, in the sense of 'to announce', with reference to insubstantial and ultimately unsubstantiated news, anticipates *referre* at 163, where it refers to the bringing back of Pallas' body, on the *feretro* of 149 (linking back to the cortège as it left us, cf. on 64–65). The grim irony twists the knife in the mental wound, as the two uses highlight this sick conceptual punning made from the difference between 'fake news' and 'material presence'.

## 142–43

**Arcades ad portas ruere et de more vetusto | funereas rapuere faces**: the *husteron proteron* (the Arcadians will first have snatched the funeral torches and then rushed to the gates) enacts the haste and confusion that takes hold of the community in reaction to the grievous news.

**ruere … et … rapuere**: alternative forms of the third person plural perfect indicative active (= *ruerunt*, *rapuerunt*).

**de more vetusto**: some relate this to the Roman custom to bury children at night but Pallas' cremation (or inhumation) does not seem to have taken place until the following dawn (see below 182–202) and the movement of the corpse here is anyway not out of, but into, the city. These torches anyhow bear their general significance, beyond highlighting Pallas' youth. On the use of torches during funerals (by day or night) see Ochs (1993: 90):

The phenomenon of fire, for the Romans, was a reality inspiring worship. […] Fire, as a fact of nature, was both friend and foe, boon and bane. When controlled, fire warmed, lighted, and aided; uncontrolled, fire devastated and destroyed. As a symbol, fire could be both light and life as well as destruction and death. Few symbols have the richness of ambiguity that fire has. When used as a significant feature in the Roman funeral procession the lighted torches, therefore, are equally rich in rhetorical impact. The living control the torches; the deceased, like the flame, is controlled. Flames move; the deceased is moved. Torches dispel darkness; the deceased is carried into darkness. The mourners, as a collective, share the beneficial effects of the flames; the deceased is ushered toward his or her new state of existence with a visual symbol denoting both life and death. Rhetorically, the torchlit procession along with the other symbolic behaviors of marginalization, work to take the living to the edge of life and the dead to the threshold of their new state of existence. Boundaries are symbolically and actually established.

As often in this epic we find that back at the origins tradition was already age-old (so, we are to twig: timeless?). And Arcadia was typically regarded as the cradle of primeval culture.

## 143–44

**lucet via longo | ordine flammarum et late discriminat agros**: the enjambment *longo* | *ordine* nicely enacts the drawn-out nature of the torch-lit procession of mourners that comes out to meet Pallas, and matches the parade we saw leave as it reaches journey's end (cf. 79 *longo … ordine*). By lining the roadside, the stampeding inhabitants of Pallanteum automatically form an ordered procession of their own (see *ordine* here and *agmina* at 146 below). Thus it is true as well as graphic that the *via* 'marks out' (*discriminat*) the fields far and wide, lit by the *longus ordo flammarum*.

## 145–46

**contra turba Phrygum veniens plangentia iungit | agmina**: Again, one would have expected the onrushing Arcadians to form a 'crowd' (*turba*) and the arriving Trojans to march as an *agmen*. Instead, it is the other way around: the Trojans arrive as a crowd, joining in with the seemingly well-ordered formations that meet them from the city. Virgil confuses matters further by turning the long file of torch-bearers on the path into several distinct groupings in motion (*agmina*). The terse depiction of the Trojans comes across as emotionally deadpan (*veniens*, indeed!), especially in contrast to the highly charged portrayal of the Arcadians. The contrast is reinforced by the nondescript *turba* vis-à-vis the highly specific *agmina* (a technical military term). Also, in the chiastic design of nouns and present participles (*turba veniens* — *plangentia agmina*), the second half overpowers the first in terms of both quantity of syllables and quality of semantic interest. A further emphatic touch is the enjambment of *plangentia*… | *agmina*, which mirrors that of *longo* | *ordine* at 143–44. The emphasis is appropriate. As Horsfall (2003: 129) notes, 'above all, it is an Arcadian tragedy.' At the same time, the phrase *turba Phrygum*  also resonates powerfully — and links up with other passages in the *Aeneid*, such as 2.580: *Iliadum turba*. (At Seneca, *Agamemnon* 757, *turba … Phrygum* refers to the *Troades*, the crowd of grieving Trojan women.) JH: yet the phrasing of *turba Phrygum* can unpack to disgorge a primal 'horde' of wild Asiatic worshippers of the mother goddess Cybele (as e.g. prayed to by Aeneas on arrival in Italy, 7.139). These are as yet no Romans, they retain within them trademark exotic otherness — and can always connote the apogee of orgiastic ecstasy. It may not show, but Aeneas' grieving Trojans are wild inside.

**contra**: used adverbially, with the present participle *veniens*.

## 146–47

**quae postquam matres succedere tectis | viderunt, maestam incendunt clamoribus urbem**: this sentence suddenly introduces a gender angle into the processing of the grievous news of Pallas' death: the *Arcades* (142) who rushed out to meet the returnees, we here learn, did not include these respectable matrons (*matres*), who watched the encounter between the two groups and then saw the joined forces approach their homes before filling the city with their wails. The scene recalls the moment in Book 8 when the army departed, watched anxiously by the mothers who remained behind (8.592–93): *stant pavidae in muris matres oculisque sequuntur* | *pulveream nubem et fulgentis aere catervas* ('On the walls mothers stand trembling, and follow with their eyes the dusty cloud and the squadrons gleaming with bronze'). Grieving mothers haunt Greek and Latin literature from Homer onwards, of course, but they have a particular presence in elegy and tragedy—or in such anti-epic endeavours as Catullus 64 (see 348–49: *illius egregias virtutes claraque facta* | *saepe fatebuntur natorum in funere matres*: 'his outstanding qualities and famous deeds mothers will often admit at the funeral of their sons'). In the *Aeneid*, the grieving mother par excellence is Euryalus' (9.473–502). Pallas' own mother has already passed away, but the collective of mothers always undertook the function of performing a community's lamentations out in public view; here they provide the right choir of extras to back and enhance the entry of the grieving father — also a time-honoured figure, going back to Homer's Priam (and Achilles' father Peleus). Mothers are also very much in evidence around Camilla: see below 454. More generally, grief management tends to be gendered (in the ancient world): 'Lament is preeminently the women's contribution to celebrating the life and death of a man or a community' (Fantham 1999b: 221).27

<sup>27</sup> For lament in the Greek world, and in particular 'the nexus between lament and vengeance', see Alexiou (1971/2002), Danforth (1982), and Holst-Warhaft (1992), cited by Fantham (1999b: 221). For a recent study of mourning as a means of symbolic communication in Rome see Degelmann (2018).

**quae**: a connecting relative (= *et ea*), which refers back to the *agmina* (now joined by the *turba*) and belongs in the *postquam*-clause (= *et postquam ea…*). It is the subject accusative of the indirect statement governed by *viderunt*.

**incendunt**: *incendunt* arguably continues the fire imagery and the whole progress towards the pyre, but transposes it into the different discursive realm of emotional release. As heralded at the outset (140, *Evandrum Evandrique domos et moenia*), through the behaviour of 'Evander's city' Virgil stokes up the temperature for 'Evander's own' virtuoso aria. See Harrison (1991: 281) on the similar formulation *clamore incendunt caelum* at *Aeneid* 10.895: 'sound is described in terms of bright heat, mixing the aural and the visual senses, a device known as … *synaesthesia* found in both Latin and Greek poetry' (with further bibliography).

**maestam … urbem**: a transferred epithet (from *matres*, the subject of the sentence) or a touch of personification.

## 148–49

**at non Evandrum potis est vis ulla tenere, | sed venit in medios**: the subject of the first clause is *vis*, modified by *non … ulla* (= *nulla*), with *est* as verb and the adjective *potis* as predicative complement ('no power was able to'). *potis* takes the supplementary infinitive *tenere* (Virgil uses the simple verb for the composite *retinere*), which takes *Evandrum* as accusative object. The subject of *venit* is Evander. Virgil manages to have his king 'come' out to join his people plainly (undemonstratively, with dignity…), but inside he's beyond all control. (We're not to picture anyone actually trying to hold him back by force.)

**potis est**: = *potest*.

## 149–51

**feretro Pallante reposto | procubuit super atque haeret lacrimansque gemensque, | et via vix tandem voci laxata dolore est**: the inclusion of *Pallante* (or *Pallanta*: see below), to be construed with *procubuit*, within the ablative absolute *feretro … reposto* violates standard prose word order, but achieves an iconic and poignant juxtaposition (and assimilation) of corpse and bier. Commentators are divided as to whether the intermingling of two different ablative constructions is defensible — and some prefer to read *Pallanta* (accusative) instead, governed by the (much delayed) preposition *super* (= *feretro reposto*, *Evander super Pallanta procubuit*). Those who retain the ablative *Pallante* construe *super* adverbially. JH: The instant that the bier and, laid on it, the son arrive, there *is* nothing on earth, no protocol or self-control, that could hold the dam of emotional expression. The call of the name explodes the human from within the father from within the king; and first his body acts out grief, then this releases the words. The speech is going to take some mighty powers of delivery… when you try doing it justice… when reading it out.

#### **lacrimansque gemensque**: *et lacrimans et gemens*.

**et** v**ia** v**i**x **tandem** v**oci la**x**ata dolore est**: the alliterative pattern of 'v' and 'x' is perhaps expressive of 'the convulsive sobs that choke his utterance' (Page 1909: 368), though one could also argue the contrary, namely that 'the voice's alliterative way is widened by another v-' in *voci* (Horsfall 2003: 132; he construes *dolore* as an ablative of separation). As always, you will want to worry how wayward it is to wrest potentially whimsical meanings from Virgil's (wilful?) alliterative wonders; but Virgil did promise to 'pack' this tableau 'chock-full' of intensity…

**vix tandem**: 'hardly at last' — the two adverbs clash in antithesis, as each compromises the other. The friction generated by their juxtaposition conveys a sense of stress and emotional choking. JH: The shift from *non … vis ulla* to *vix tandem* and *non … tenere* to *laxata … est* maintains the king's devotion to complete decorum as the measure of his 'collapse' into ungovernable 'pain'. His *threnos* (lament) will be a true 'epikedion' (speech delivered over a dead body), but it will have a very distinctive twist of impassioned aggression to it, aptly in a martial epic. (Contrast material in Alexiou 1971/2002.)

# 152–181: Evander's Speech (Overall Analysis)

*Note of advice*: Evander's stand-out speech is long and difficult. Commentators have chewed over an unusually high number of '"strained", "contorted" or "difficult" constructions or connexions of thought in these lines; they are likely to be intended as a sign of the strain under which Evander is speaking' (Horsfall 2003: 133). The following pages try to bring the speech as a whole into view, ahead of the line-by-line commentary. But you may wish to work through the verses in detail first, before engaging with the more comprehensive analysis offered here.

## 1. First Orientation

The speech falls into three basic parts (with further subdivisions indicated in brackets):

Part (i) 152–63 (3 x 4) = 12 verses Part (ii) 164–72 (5 + 4) = 9 verses Part (iii) 173–82 (4 + 5) = 9 verses

The overriding concern of (i) is *dolor* ('grief'); of (ii) the attempt to transform *dolor* into *decus* ('honour' or 'glory'); of (iii) revenge. At the end of each part, Evander uses the verb *ferre* or one of its composites (*referre*, *perferre*), which signal the (broken) to and fro between father and son in the wider context of desire for glory in warfare and premature death.

Cutting across this tripartite structure, certain themes register throughout, including:


A third notable feature is the sequence of (changing) audiences that Evander addresses, between stretches in which he reflects on his own situation: his dead son Pallas, his deceased wife, the Trojans, Turnus (the killer of his son), and Aeneas (the avenger). As Barchiesi (2015: 166) points out: 'The originality of the monologic structure is evident if one considers the articulation of the apostrophes; Evander addresses successively his dead wife (158), the Trojans present at the funeral rites (164), then again his deceased son Pallas (169), and finally the absent Turnus and Aeneas (173–75; 177–79). With this final turn Evander's lament assumes a narrative function in the economy of the poem; not simply a manifestation of grief as an end in itself but also a message (*mandata*, 176) that makes Aeneas confront the necessity to exact vengeance from Turnus.'

The following is an attempt to bring out these organizing principles visually: the tripartite structure (with further subdivisions) is indicated by titles and spacing; the highlights are designed to bring out the thematic economy of the speech; the various addressees are listed in the right margin:

#### (i) *dolor*


#### (ii) From *dolor* to *decus*


## (iii) Revenge


*NB*: Some phrases belong to more than one semantic field, and where possible this is reflected in the highlighting: for instance, socia *arma* (160) 'allied arms', invokes 'social relations and obligations' (adjective *socia*) and 'warfare' (noun *arma*) and the highlights reflect this polyvalence. In some cases, the highlighting wasn't so straightforward: *saevo…Marti* belongs to both 'warfare' and '(supernatural) environment'. More generally, grouping words into semantic fields is *not* an exact science, and you may well come up with a somewhat different thematic fabric from the one teased out here.

## 2. Structure

The speech moves from grief (*dolor*) in part (i) to an attempt at its sublimation (*decus*) in part (ii) before concluding with a single-minded focus on revenge (*ultio*) in part (iii). Differences in grammar and syntax (especially in the use of moods and tenses — though the subjunctive features in all three parts, symptomatic of Evander protesting against reality) as well as style endow each of the three parts with a coherence of its own.

Part (i) is about the core family of father, mother, and son in a mood of personal anguish (cf. 159: *in* hunc *… dolorem*). Evander moves from a focus on Pallas (4 verses: 152–55) to a series of exclamations relating to Pallas, himself, and his wife (4 verses: 156–59) to a focus on himself (4 verses: 160–63), more specifically the unbearable scenario that Pallas is dead while he is alive. The tenses and moods convey something of Evander's difficult relation with reality: he manages to do without using the present tense in this opening part, opting for a series of highly emotive exclamations consisting of a sequence of nouns in the vocative without a corresponding verb. In his struggle to come to terms with the facts, he opts for past indicatives (perfect / imperfect / pluperfect) in revisiting key moments on the road to disaster, often in a counterfactual key: *dederas* (152), *eram* (154), *vici* (160), *debita erat* (166), *manebat* (in *si*-clause).

Part (ii) features an attempt (however feeble) to transform grief into glory. Evander strains and stretches to transform *dolor* into *decus*, to see the heroic in the tragic. This part of the speech features all three temporal levels (past – future – present), with the one future indicative *iuvabit* as pivot. The present indicatives (settling down) and one future indicative (prospects) signal his efforts to cope with grief *productively*: the discourse becomes factual about the present as Evander comes to terms with reality, before focusing on the actions to be taken. In addition to present indicatives — *ferunt* (172), *demoror* (175), *moror* (177), *est* (178), *vides* (179), *vacat* (179), *quaero* (180) — Evander resorts to imperatives: *vadite et … referte* (176). He is polite enough to restrict the use of the bossy mood to his interaction with the Trojan representatives; it is not part of his message to Aeneas himself. But in many ways, the use of the indicative to state his expectation that Aeneas is now obliged to kill Turnus is as cutting as it is polite. The prospect of future joy is squeezed out — and the future figures in a really odd conditional clause (166–68: *quod si … iuvabit*), which marks the transition from the block of 5 verses devoted to the Trojans, to the block of 4 dedicated to Pallas.

Part (iii): Revenge: the final part consists — in chiastic inversion — of a block of 4 verses (with a focus on Turnus and an address to the Trojans), followed by a block consisting of 5 (with the focus on Aeneas). Present counterfactuals, imperatives, and indicatives dominate as Evander now copes with grief *destructively*: he surrenders to an implacable desire for remorseless retribution. A novel — and deadly — sense of purpose arises from the wreckage of grief and infects the epic's eponymous hero: if Aeneas wishes to escape the opprobrium of disloyalty and (further) failure, he needs to bring Turnus to terminal justice: a spectre of the poem's nightmarish end, which dovetails sacrificial violence and the dawn of Roman civilization, starts haunting the narrative inexorably from now on.

## 3. Thematic Coherence

Several interrelated themes prevail throughout and sustain a larger, overall argument:

(a) Life and Death, Beginning and End, Youth and Old Age

Unsurprisingly, much of Evander's thought revolves around the basic dichotomy of life and death:


References to beginnings, novel experiences, and youth (154: nova *gloria*; 155: primo *certamine*; 156: *primitiae iuvenis*; 157: *rudimenta*; 174: *par aetas*) as well as old age (165: *senectae*) map out a natural trajectory of growing up and growing old. Yet in Evander's speech a chilling inversion of these basic coordinates occurs: he twins old age (or himself) with life, painfully prolonged, and youth (or Pallas) with death, traumatic and premature. Timely death becomes associated with happiness (cf. 159, about his deceased wife: *felix morte tua*); continued existence — as well as untimely death — with unhappiness (cf. 156: *primitiae iuvenis* miserae; 175: *infelix*).

#### (b) (Supernatural) environment

Evander situates his tragedy within wider parameters, not least the unpredictability of fortune. He is coping with contingency. The battlefield in particular is an unpredictable environment (153: *saevo … Marte*, with commentary ad loc.). He rails against his lot in life (160: *mea fata*; 165: *sors ista*): in and for him, any sense of cosmic order has become unhinged. He is explicit about the fact that the gods have refused to listen to his prayers (157–58: *nulli exaudita deorum* | *vota precesque meae*) — and given that communication with the supernatural sphere has failed, it is unsurprising that he is not interested in the divine law that sustains the universe (181: *fas*). His only concern are the shades that dwell in the underworld (181: *manis … sub imos*). The only concession to a positive sense of supernatural involvement is the choice of the attribute *pius* with reference to Aeneas (170), though this *pietas* is now being put to the test: for Evander, it boils down to his (sacrificial) termination of Turnus (in direct conflict with Anchises' injunction earlier on in the epic to spare conquered foes…). But apart from reminding the reader of Virgil's opening question (1.8–11), which heralds a (literary) world in which the gods do not inevitably reward piety and justice, its use here has more to do with Aeneas' trustworthiness in human relations than his privileged position vis-à-vis the gods. (Put differently, it probably ought to be shaded, rather than underlined.)

#### (c) Warfare:

Lexemes to do with warfare occur on a regular basis throughout (most) of the speech: 153: *saevo … Marte*; 154: *in armis*; 155: *primo certamine*; 156: *bellique propinqui*; 161: *socia arma*; 162: *telis*; 167: *caesis … milibus*; 171: *duces*; 171: *exercitus omnis*; 172: *magna tropaea*. But given the topic, there is one significant gap: in the third part, we get only one reference to warfare (175: *armis*) and none at all in the final subdivision (177–81), at precisely the moment when Evander insists that it is Aeneas' obligation to avenge Pallas by killing Turnus. This reticence about the bloodshed he desires arguably enhances the ominous nature of his discourse — and

situates the revenge killing beyond the bounds of ordinary warfare, on a deeper, personal level, more sinister and primal.

(d) Warring parties:

Throughout the speech, Evander references individuals and collectives involved in the current conflict:


The scaling back and eventual disappearance of references to the accoutrements of warfare coincide with a shift in personnel. While Evander has Pallas in mind throughout (152: *Palla*; 163: *Pallanta*; 169: *Palla*; 177: *Pallante*), his focus gradually shifts from collectives in parts (i) and (ii) (161: *Troum*; 162: *Rutuli*; 164: *Teucri*; 167: *Volscorum*; 168: *Teucros*; 170: *Phryges*; 171: *Tyrrheni duces* and *Tyrrhenum exercitus*) to a pair of individuals in part (iii) (175: *Turne*; 176: *regi* [sc. Aeneas]; 178: *Turnum*). The exceptions are a reference to Aeneas at the end of part (ii) (170: *Aeneas*), which enables Evander to bring Aeneas obliquely into play, and a reference to the Trojans (175: *Teucros*) in part (iii), where they function as messengers and intermediaries between him and Aeneas (rather than as a warring party). In a sense, Evander's discourse thus offers a small-scale reenactment of the second half of the *Aeneid*, which also begins with large-scale warfare between diverse ethnic groupings only to culminate in the duel between Turnus and Aeneas. The two heroes clash as representatives of a wider geopolitical conflict and as individuals linked on a personal level through Turnus' killing of Pallas.

(e) Valour

Since Homer, one way to cope with the battlefield death of a brave and youthful warrior is to see it as a source of glory — a way to acquire immortality through postmortem fame. In the first part of his speech, where the focus is very much on grief, Evander uses two key Roman terms to capture this outcome — *gloria* and *decus*. And in this opening section both qualities are modified by adjectives that depress their seemingly self-evident status as desirables: *nova gloria* and *praedulce decus*. Evander's rhetoric tries to defy reality — and founders miserably. The terms designed to sublimate the harrowing anguish do not come fully into their own, endowed as they are with attributes that suggest that Pallas' pursuit of battlefield fame was mistimed and misconceived. As a result the rhetoric supposed to sustain them as values appears insecure and brittle. *gloria* and *decus* are feeble proxies for a living son, and the valour he showed in the way he died affords little consolation and reassurance for the grieving father. The second part makes a valiant effort to locate some triumph in the tragedy, as Evander recalls Pallas' heroic deeds within the wider context of Aeneas' historical mission. He died for a worthy cause (169: *digner*) and with honour after an impressive performance on the battlefield (172: *magna tropaea*; *tua dextera*). Evander also tells himself that Pallas, too, will find the thought pleasing — though the use of *iuvabit* (168) is decidedly odd (see below). So the attempt at transforming *dolor* into *decus* remains feeble and arguably fails. As Seider (2013: 152) puts it: 'When Evander does eventually view his son's body, his words match the bitterness of Euryalus' mother's and forgo the expansive perspective of Aeneas'. Evander's grief has the potential to indict any celebratory view of Pallas' death even more forcefully than the words of Euryalus' mother, for Evander speaks as one who is an elite member of society and who himself sent Pallas off to war.'

The last term belonging to this semantic field occurs in part (iii): 179: *meritis*. Evander employs it to single out the killing of Turnus as the last item still missing from Aeneas' CV — implying at the same time that failure to complete this task would gravely compromise his previous achievements. Again, heroism gets refocused: the end is not glory, but the remorseless pursuit of revenge. The telos of Evander's narrative is not the founding of Rome, but the termination of Turnus…

#### (f) Social relations and obligations

Evander dwells on his core family of father, mother, and son: 152: *parenti*; 158: *sanctissima coniunx*; 161: *genitor*; 167: *gnatum*; 178: *gnatoque patrique*; 181: *gnato*. But just as his prayers proved inefficacious, the promises he received from his son turned out to be empty (162: *dederas promissa*). Pallas was too trusting (153: *credere*). The breakdown of his family unit, with him as sole survivor, was ultimately caused through his alliance with the Trojans (161: *socia arma*). He emphasizes that he does not hold the Trojans responsible for the death of his son and his personal tragedy (164–65: *arguerim*; *foedera*; *quas* | *iunximus hospitio dextras*) — even to the point of blaming himself for living too long (166: *debita*). But he does insist, in the third part, that Aeneas is now under an obligation to avenge his son (176: *mandata*; 179: *debere*). The right hand (165, 178) bonds and kills — and in Aeneas' case, it needs to do both: he cannot shy away from his responsibility to kill Turnus as Evander will hold him to account for his failure to bring his son back alive.

## 4. Overall Argument — And How it Fits into the Poem as a Whole

A cluster of themes, then, resounds throughout, adding up to an argument about the world Evander lives in, as defined by his most recent experiences (the arrival of Aeneas and the Trojans, the tragic alliance, the loss of his son) — and the ensuing challenges to position himself within it, both on the personal and the socio-political level. He remains committed to a normative vision of the world that has turned out to be counterfactual — and accordingly rails, counterfactually, against reality, invoking notions of equity, parity, justice in the human sphere (174: *par aetas*), all grounded in a cosmic order guaranteed by responsive divinities (157–58: *deorum*, *vota precesque*; 181: *fas*): for him, any sense of this cosmic order has collapsed. He lives in a world of rampant contingency, brutal disruptions, unfair encounters, and inattentive gods — and attempts to redress the balance by righting the wrongs through further death and destruction — but none of this is oriented towards a bright future: it is cast as a commitment to the dead. At the end, there is only darkness visible. Evander is one of Virgil's several characters who is profoundly disillusioned and harmed to the core of their being. Like Dido, he henceforth avowedly finds a raison d'être in revenge, as the only meaningful pursuit in a joyless existence.

It is not the celebratory pomp that dominates Evander's grief; what keeps him going is the desire for revenge. Hatred, not pride, triumphs over despair. We get the sequence of deep despondency — pathetic pride — relentless hate. In his speech the prospect of glory flashes up briefly before being drowned again in a toxic brew of grievous and implacable wrath, as he signs off by issuing Aeneas with a straightforward mandate: terminate Turnus. As such, Evander gives fresh impetus to the pursuit of warfare for purely personal reasons: he is not interested in *foedera* or *pax*; all he wants at this stage is revenge. The logic of payback on the individual level runs alongside the geopolitical agenda in which Aeneas and Turnus represent their respective peoples. The intertwining also operates here: in Evander's speech the patchwork ethnic profile of pre-Roman Italy is very much to the fore: Etruscans, Rutulians, Volscians, etc. The multiplicity of peoples will eventually disappear, subsumed within an emergent Roman identity. But, at the moment, and within the epic narrative more generally, the 'human interest' level takes precedence: on this level, violent emotions are even more difficult to keep in check than on the socio-political level. Throughout the *Aeneid* explores the impact of the personal (often in the form of women: Dido, Amata) on the political, tapping into experiences and emotions to which readers cannot fail to relate. If kings are especially useful to traditional narratives because they span the person and the symbolic metonym (standing for a people), nonetheless, in Augustus, Virgil's Rome was rapidly sampling the structural logic of monarchy for real, after many centuries of a system run on Republican sociopolitical lines.

Evander here seals the tragedy of Turnus. His keynote (and, indeed, his entire discourse) pick up on Virgil's gnomic conclusion to Pallas' fatal showdown with Turnus at 10.500–9, when the *Aeneid*'s narrator breaks cover for a rare — exclamatory — intrusion:

quo nunc Turnus ovat spolio gaudetque potitus. nescia mens hominum fati sortisque futurae et servare modum rebus sublata secundis! Turno tempus erit magno cum optaverit emptum intactum Pallanta, et cum spolia ista diemque oderit. at socii multo gemitu lacrimisque 505 impositum scuto referunt Pallanta frequentes. o dolor atque decus magnum rediture parenti, haec te prima dies bello dedit, haec eadem aufert, cum tamen ingentis Rutulorum linquis acervos!

[In this spoil Turnus now exults and glories in its capture. O the mind of mortals, ignorant of fate and what the future holds in store and how to keep a measure when uplifted by favouring fortune! To Turnus shall come the time when for a great price he will wish Pallas had been ransomed unharmed, and when he will loathe those spoils and that day. But with many moans and tears his comrades throng round Pallas and bear him back laid out on his shield. O Pallas, about to return home as a great grief and a great glory to your father, this day first gave you to war, this also takes you from it, the day when yet you leave behind vast piles of dead Rutulians!]

Virgil here ponders the future implications of the showdown between Turnus and Pallas (as well as its immediate aftermath, Turnus' despoiling of the corpse).

# 11.153–163: O Pallas, Ardentfor someDesperate Glory…

In youthful exuberance, Pallas entered the duel with Turnus confidently predicting that his father Evander would be fine with either a glorious victory or a praiseworthy death in defeat (10.449–51):

'aut spoliis ego iam raptis laudabor opimis aut leto insigni: sorti pater aequus utrique est. tolle minas.'

['Soon I shall either be praised for having won supreme spoils or for a glorious death: my father is equal to either lot. Away with your threats!']

He is, in other words, blithely oblivious to the nature and depth of Evander's paternal affection. Tellingly, in the opening third of his speech, Evander initially dwells on the foolish rashness that tends to overcome young warriors like his son when faced with their first experience of battle. Ignorance and youthful naiveté result in the tragedy of a premature death. He anticipated the possibility of a tragic outcome at the moment Pallas and Aeneas departed for war, and in lines 157–63 he revisits his parting words from *Aeneid* 8.572–84 (cited above 225–6). At the moment of departure, Evander prayed for either one of two scenarios. Option A had both him and Pallas come out of this alive (and if Pallas returned, Evander would have happily endured any kind of toil or misery). The 'unspeakable' (578: *infandum*) Option B saw both of them dead: if it was Pallas' fortune to get killed in battle, Evander yearned for instant death (or at least before he had to hear the

news). What he absolutely did not want was to survive the demise of his son — but this is precisely what has come to pass, as he himself intuited when he broke down at the end of his speech.

The outlook he adopts in this opening part resembles that of Euryalus' mother grieving for her son in *Aeneid* 9.473–502. But then his discourse takes a decisive turn. See Fantham (1999b: 225): 'In his anguish the old man utters a speech almost identical in its opening movement to that of Euryalus' mother, longing for his own death […], but it moves ahead from backward-looking grief to the need for vengeance on Turnus. Rather than delay the Trojans from renewing the action, Evander thinks as a commander and addresses his chosen successor, sending a last message or challenge to Aeneas: it is his duty to father and son to take Turnus's life.'

## 152–53

**'non haec, o Palla, dederas promissa parenti, | cautius ut saevo velles te credere Marti**: commentators disagree on how to connect lines 152 and 153. Two possible solutions are:


The supplementary infinitive *credere* takes both an accusative object (the reflexive personal pronoun *te*) and a dative (*saevo … Marti*): 'to commit yourself to savage warfare'.

Evander's address to Pallas forcefully recalls that of Aeneas at 11.42– 48, in particular lines 45–46: *non haec Evandro de te promissa parenti* | *discedens dederam* ('Not these were the promises about you [sc. Pallas] that I gave to Evander when I parted'). Aeneas blames himself; Evander shifts the blame onto his son (and thereby implicitly exculpates Aeneas — he will do so explicitly later on in his speech). For him, the causes of Pallas' death are the reckless enthusiasm of youth and the villainy of Turnus. The mourning of Aeneas and Evander, lexically intertwined as it is, is therefore, in Alessandro Barchiesi's words, 'reciprocally integrated and strategic, weaving a sort of dialogue from afar that prepares and makes necessary the concluding vendetta' (Barchiesi 2015: 166). In so doing, he departs from Homeric precedent: 'Vergil has reworked the literary form of the funeral lament into an instrument of narrative anticipation; in this lies its absolute independence from the *Iliad*, where the laments for Hector are rather an effective means of conclusion and closure' (ibid.).

**haec … promissa**: *promissa* ('assurances', 'promises') is the perfect passive participle of *promitto*, here used as a noun.

**cautius**: the adverb (in the comparative) belongs in the *ut*-clause; its proleptic placement at the beginning of the line gives it the requisite emphasis.

**saevo … Marti**: For the metonymy see above 297. The hyperbaton is arguably expressive of the all-enveloping nature of war.

## 154–55

**haud ignarus eram quantum nova gloria in armis | et praedulce decus primo certamine posset**: Evander now explains why he beseeched his son to be cautious before letting him go into battle: the swell of pride in armed combat and the opportunity to distinguish oneself in battle tend to overpower any level-headed risk assessment. As Conte (1986: 190) observes: 'Deaths suffered with naive confidence, with disenchantment, are all the more bitter because of the contrast between what the heart had wished and what reality, with heedless cruelty, has imposed — and precisely during the first experience, when enthusiasm is greatest.'

**haud ignarus eram**: 'I was not ignorant' = 'I knew full well': a negative (*haud*) and a negative (*ignarus*) cancel each other out, producing a forceful positive — a stylistic device known as litotes. So '| You didn't, … | I *wasn't*…'.

**quantum … posset**: an indirect question (hence the imperfect subjunctive *posset*), with two subjects (*gloria* and *decus*): 'how potent are…'

**nova gloria in armis**: the basic meaning of *gloria* is 'honour' or 'glory' actually earned, but it can also refer to 'prospective glory' or shade into the (negative) sense of '(false) feeling of pride', which the term has here: Pallas glories in his armour, which he wears into battle for the first time, and perhaps also his initial victories, and therefore begins to overestimate his abilities. For negative *gloria* (vainglory) see also 11.708.

**praedulce decus primo certamine**: *decus* is an unequivocally positive synonym of the basic sense of *gloria*, i.e. (shining) 'honour' or 'glory'. Evander manages to introduce a touch of negativity via the attribute *praedulce*. The '*prae*–' introduces the notion of excess ('oversweet'), again implying that the rush of adrenaline (or, to stay with the image of *praedulce*, sugar high) Pallas experienced after winning his first few encounters clouded his judgment and he threw caution to the winds; and a denunciatory barrage also starts here, pre-suming pre-mature ambition and juvenile pre-cocity in the kid debutant (*primo*, *primitiae*, *rudimenta*).

## 156–58

**primitiae iuvenis miserae bellique propinqui | dura rudimenta, et nulli exaudita deorum | vota precesque meae!**: Evander bursts into a series of vocatives:


The cola of the tricolon crescens are linked by the –*que* after *belli* and *et*. The –*que* after *preces* links *vota* and *preces*.

**primitiae iuvenis miserae**: a difficult phrase. The basic meaning of *primitiae* is 'first-fruits', and the word, which Aeneas had used with respect to Mezentius (see 15–16 above), here arguably refers to Pallas' initial victories, which caused him to overestimate his abilities and to take on Turnus despite his youth — with disastrous results (hence *miserae*). To gloss, rather than translate: 'o wretched first-fruits of victory that cause the young to get themselves killed'.

**bellique propinqui | dura rudimenta**: *rudimentum* here means 'a first attempt' or 'initial trial'. Richardson (1933: 6) notes that the adjective *propinqui* 'has been taken either of place — *e.g*. "bitter prelude of the war upon our borders"… — or of time — *e.g*. "cruel essay of impending war"'. He argues that the sense here continues the emphasis Virgil lays on Pallas' inexperience of war and translates: 'his harsh noviciate in war brought home to him.' (Cf. 8.556, before the outbreak of hostilities: *propiusque periclo* | *it timor et maior Martis iam apparet imago*: fear comes closer because of the danger and the image of Mars now looms larger.)

**nulli exaudita deorum | vota precesque meae**: the perfect passive participle *exaudita* is in the nominative neuter plural, agreeing with *vota* (but also to be construed with *preces*). A *votum* is a 'vow', i.e. a solemn promise made to a god to do something (such as building a temple or performing a sacrifice) in return for a service or favour; a *prex* is a prayer or entreaty to a divinity. The former appeals to the gods' sense of utilitarian reciprocity, the latter to their kindness and pity towards those who turn to them for support. In Evander's case, the gods proved indifferent to both the bargain and the plea. *nulli* is dative of agency with the participle *exaudita* ('… granted by none of the gods').

## 158–59

**tuque, o sanctissima coniunx, | felix morte tua neque in hunc servata dolorem!**: Evander continues in vocative mode, now calling on his dead wife: her timely death has saved her from the pain of seeing her son dead. Put differently, she was granted (*felix* does imply divine blessing) what he asked for in vain, i.e. a timely death that would have spared him the news that his son has fallen.

Virgil plays with the language of Roman funerary epitaphs, in which husbands mourn for their deceased wives. Here the emphasis shifts from a premature death to be mourned to a timely death to be celebrated — because it spares the deceased excruciating anguish in the here and now. (A parallel is the opening of Cicero's *Brutus*, where Cicero argues that Hortensius died just in time, on the eve of Caesar's crossing of the Rubicon, thus sparing himself the painful experience of civil war and the rise of autocracy in Rome; for the topos of 'timely death so as to eschew the experience of acute grief', see also *de Oratore* 3.7.)

**sanctissima**: the attribute captures the sanctity of marriage as an institution. See Ferri (2003: 368) and Brenk (1999a: 128): 'What is absent from Vergil is the Homeric sense of the sacredness of all nature. [Unlike Homer's use of the Greek equivalent *hieros*,] Vergil restricts the application of *sanctus* to objects, which have a special relationship with the divine.' With specific reference to our passage, he notes that 'in the case of *coniunx* the primary stress is probably on "faithful," "chaste," but with the added connotation of "revered dead"' (131).

**neque**: links *felix* and *servata*.

**in hunc servata dolorem!**: *servo* here means 'to keep', 'reserve' for a specified purpose. To articulate this purpose, Latin can use various constructions: the dative or the prepositions + acc. *ad* and (as here) *in*. See *OLD* s.v. *seruo* 8. *in hunc … dolorem* refers to the grief over the premature death of their son.

## 160–61

**contra ego vivendo vici mea fata, superstes | restarem ut genitor**: *ego* and *mea fata* correlate antithetically with *tu* (158) and *morte tua* (159): after the addresses to his dead son and his dead wife, Evander's thoughts turn to himself as he articulates his despair at being alive. The diction recalls the words of Mezentius weeping over the body of his dead son Lausus, who died protecting his father (10.846–49):

'tantane me tenuit vivendi, nate, voluptas, ut pro me hostili paterer succedere dextrae, quem genui? tuane haec genitor per vulnera servor morte tua vivens?…'

['My son, did such desire to live get hold of me that in my place I suffered you, whom I fathered, to meet the enemy's hand? Am I, your father, saved by these wounds of yours, living on through your death?…']

**vivendo vici mea fata**: *OLD* s.v. *fata* 4. The formulation is doubly paradoxical: it turns on its head the idea that no one is able to outlive their allotted time on earth (see *Appendix Vergiliana*, *Catalepton* 13a: *ferrea sed nulli vincere fata datur:* 'but to no-one it is given to overcome iron fate'); and the unnatural notion that the natural order of a mortal's destiny has been broken is further enhanced by the ablative of means *vivendo* — simply by living. The phrasing further exacerbates the contradiction by running together the ideas of life / winning and death / destiny*.* 

**superstes | restarem ut genitor**: the anastrophe of *ut* and the unusual word order foreground the paradox that the father (*genitor*, emphatically and effectively placed at the end of the *ut*-clause) is alive (*superstes*), while the son is dead. *superstes* (…) and *restarem* (…) play etymologically with *stare* and the prepositions *super*– and *re*–: over and above, and left behind.

## 161–62

**Troum socia arma secutum | obruerent Rutuli telis!**: *Rutuli* is the subject, *obruerent* the verb; the accusative object is an implied *me*, agreeing with the past participle *secutum*, which takes *socia arma* as accusative object. Scholars differ in how to explain the (somewhat unusual) imperfect subjunctive *obruerent*. Page (1909: 369) gives two options, potential or half-imperative: '(1) *obruere debebant* or (2) *utinam obruerent* — (1) "following the Trojan arms ('tis me) the Rutuli should o'erwhelm with darts, myself I should have yielded up the ghost…"; or (2) "O that the Rutuli o'erwhelmed me".' One could also take it as a past counterfactual wish (= *utinam me obruissent*), with imperfect for pluperfect subjunctive to enhance its passionate urgency. But the sentiment and the syntax remain undeniably weird; the thought Evander may be trying to articulate is: 'I wish I had been able to follow Aeneas so that I could

have died in battle.' *Troum socia arma secutum* certainly harks back to the opening of Evander's parting speech back in the day, in which he expressed a desire for rejuvenation (8.560: '*o mihi praeteritos referat si Iuppiter annos*…': 'if only Jupiter would bring me back the years…'), so he could join in the expedition. But anguish and clarity of thought rarely coincide, and what he says may well reflect his fraught state of mind, with the notion of the enemy's overwhelming onslaught dominating the sentence, and the suppression of the personal pronoun *me* enacting the physical annihilation Evander wishes for.

## 162–63

**animam ipse dedissem | atque haec pompa domum me, non Pallanta, referret!**: the past counterfactual wishes continue, in (chrono-)logical sequence: Evander's wish to have given up his life on behalf of his son (see *ipse*) naturally precedes (pluperfect: *dedissem*) his wish to be the one who is carried back home in the funeral procession (imperfect: *referret*). Like Mezentius (see 10.853–54: *debueram patriae poenas odiisque meorum*: | *omnis per mortis animam sontem ipse dedissem!*), Evander is a father who would gladly have died to save his son. JH: The reprise of 141, *Pallanta ferebat* |, brings back the taste of that sick pun.

**domum**: accusative of direction towards.

**Pallanta**: the (Greek) accusative singular of Pallas.

## 11.164–172: The Old Lie: *dulceet decorumest pro patriamori*

In the second part of the speech, Evander tries hard to wrest some meaning out of Pallas' premature death, by exculpating the Trojans (and, perversely, blaming his own longevity) and attempting an appreciation of Pallas' heroism, not least by inscribing his son into the world-historical plot that animates the *Aeneid*. But the hyperboles to which he resorts ring hollow.

## 164–66

**nec vos arguerim, Teucri, nec foedera nec quas | iunximus hospitio dextras: sors ista senectae | debita erat nostrae**. *arguerim*, which Page (1909: 369) identifies as 'the polite perfect subjunctive of modest statement' and Horsfall (2003: 138) as a 'standard perfect subjunctive of tentative assertion', takes three accusative objects: *vos*, *foedera*, and *dextras* joined together by polysyndeton (*nec – nec – nec*). *dextras*, despite being placed after the relative clause *quas iunximus hospitio*, is the antecedent of *quas*. *senectae … nostrae* is dative with *debita erat* ('… was owed to…').

**Teucri**: Evander now directly addresses the Trojan contingent of Pallas' escort; he will use them to send a message to Aeneas in the final part of the speech (see below).

**hospitio**: see 113–14.

**sors ista senectae | debita erat nostrae**: two nouns linked by alliteration (*sors*, *senectae*), each followed by a pronominal specification (*ista*, *nostrae*) that personalizes the tragedy and renders a general statement about the lot of old age acutely specific: *ista* refers to the fact that he is forced to mourn his son (and, as Page (1909: 369) suggests, is 'pointing to the corpse'), and *nostrae* picks up on his earlier point that he has outlived his allotted years: there is, therefore, a protest built into the juxtaposition of *sors* and *senectae*, with *debita erat* complementing *arguerim* and explaining why he does not fault the Trojans: 'my (excessive) age is to blame for the lot that has befallen me.'

## 166–68

**quod si immatura manebat | mors gnatum, caesis Volscorum milibus ante | ducentem in Latium Teucros cecidisse iuvabit**: the conditional sequence (with imperfect indicative in the protasis: *manebat*), and future tense in the apodosis (*iuvabit*) sounds out of place: there is, after all, nothing 'conditional' about Pallas' *immatura mors*. That Evander nevertheless uses this construction (rather than, say, a causal subordinate clause) is perhaps symptomatic of his struggle to adjust to the facts — though the use of the indicative shows that he has moved beyond denial (although he suppresses the *mihi* with *iuvabit*, which virtually all translators add). Evander singles out two elements about the circumstances of Pallas' death, which may eventually sublimate grief into glory: his son has had his 'Homeric' moment, his *aristeia*, on the battlefield; and he lost his life while taking the lead in establishing the Trojans in Latium (thus turning himself into a key figure in the nascent story of Rome — or, more precisely, its prehistory).

Some readers extrapolate optimism from these verses. See e.g. Henry (1989: 152): 'This passage shocks modern readers. […] In the future, Aeneas and Evander are saying, these events will not be the appalling scenes of waste and suffering that they are now; the waste and suffering will not be forgotten, but the fulfilment of divinely willed historic purpose will make them otherwise.' True, Virgil places *iuvabit* at the central location (at the end of line 5 in a section of 9 lines) in the central section of the tripartite speech: it sits right at the heart of Evander's discourse. But as an attempt at self-consolation, it is tenuous — even though the scenario that a future retrospective of a traumatic present might turn out to be a source of pleasure is established as a theme early on in the poem: Aeneas famously mooted the possibility to his stormtossed troops washed up on the shore of Carthage that 'perhaps it will be pleasing to remember even this at some indefinite time in the future' (1.203: *forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit*). The phenomenon that time and memory can turn pain into pleasure is an interesting one, and underwrites the power of (epic) poetry as a genre of commemoration. In this particular instance, however, the dynamic evoked by Aeneas in Book 1 arguably fails to kick in. He was talking to survivors with the capacity to look back on their own experiences. Whether the (heroic) death of Pallas will ever turn into a source of pleasure for Evander is quite another question. Hurt has filled this ancient peaceable Arcadian refugee with wholehearted bloodlust.

**immatura manebat | mors gnatum**: the intrusion of *manebat* and the placement of *mors* in enjambment (where the monosyllable comes down heavily after the polysyllabic conclusion to the previous line) are suggestive of Evander's endeavour to delay the finality of death, at least rhetorically. Whitton (2013: 80) draws attention to the 'lugubrious' assonance in the phrase *immatura mors*, which is widespread in Latin literature (see e.g. Catullus 96.5, Lucretius 5.221, Livy 2.40.9, Pliny, *Epistles* 2.1). No less important are parallels from epigraphy: see Nielsen (1997: 200–2). Seneca wrote an entire treatise on the topic (*de Immatura Morte*), which, appropriately enough, has not survived (see Lausberg 1970: 153–67).

**gnatum**: an alternative spelling of *natum* ('son', from the stem \**gen*–), frequent in Roman comedy (Plautus, Terence); its use by later authors tends to be 'archaizing', not least in emotionally wrought contexts such as this one.

**caesis Volscorum milibus ante**: an ablative absolute, though with loose word order; *Volscorum* is a partitive genitive dependent on *milibus* (from *milia*: thousands). The (paradoxical) placement of the adverbial *ante* ('beforehand') *after* the participle it modifies (and outside the usual noun–participle bracket formed by ablative absolutes) arguably follows the same logic as the hyperbaton and enjambment of *immatura*… | *mors*: Evander dwells on Pallas' moment of glory and tries to stave off thoughts of what followed for as long as possible. The Volsci were one of primordial Italy's ancient tribes, who inhabited the region south of Latium. After centuries of warfare, they gradually succumbed to Roman might. (In 493, Gaius Marcius *Coriolanus*, he of Shakespearean fame, acquired his cognomen for sacking the Volscian town of *Corioli*.) Their most famous representative in the *Aeneid* is Camilla.

**ducentem in Latium Teucros**: *ducentem* is a present active participle in the accusative singular modifying the implied subject accusative *eum* and governing the accusative object *Teucros*.

## 169–71

**quin ego non alio digner te funere, Palla, | quam pius Aeneas et quam magni Phryges et quam | Tyrrhenique duces, Tyrrhenum exercitus omnis**: after gesturing towards the possibility of future pleasure in his son's military deeds, Evander refocuses his attention on the massive funeral procession that accompanies the body of Pallas, to give voice to another positive emotion he is now able to feel, i.e. paternal pride in the postmortem honours accorded to his son by Aeneas, his troop of Trojans, and their Etruscan allies (both leaders and the army more generally). The triple anaphora of *quam* interrelates four elements in parallelism (with variation) as Virgil moves from the (single) leader of the Trojans (Aeneas) to the Trojans more generally (*magni Phryges*) and then uses the third *quam* to add the leaders (plural) of the Etruscans (*Tyrrheni duces*) and the Etruscan army more generally (*Tyrrhenum exercitus omnis*): 'And yes, Pallas, I could think you worthy of no other funeral than loyal Aeneas, [and] than the mighty Phrygians, [and] than both the Etruscan captains and the entire Etruscan army.' As Gransden (1991: 86) points out, the repetition *Tyrrheni* – *Tyrrhenum* 'replaces the second –*que*'. At this moment, the personal and the political intertwine, as *funera* reinforce *foedera*, forging a link between three Eastern ethnicities that wind up settling in Italy: Evander's Greek Arcadians, Aeneas' Trojans, and the Etruscans (who originally hail from Lydia in Asia Minor). See Gladhill (2016: 144):

The body of Pallas is the binding link that actualizes the *foedus*, a symbol recognized by Evander. […] The Arcadian king accepts both Phrygians and Etruscans, two ethnicities that have migrated from Phrygia and Lydia respectively. The death of Pallas binds the three nonindigenous peoples of Italy into a unified group. That Evander's language moves from *pius* Aeneas, then to the Phrygians and Etruscans, suggests a broader realization of the political consequences of the private *foedus* made between Aeneas and Evander; it has come to encompass all the non-Italian people.

**quin**: here 'an emphatic adverb, introducing a statement that corroborates and amplifies what precedes' (OLD s.v. 2): 'And yes', 'indeed'.

**ego non alio digner te funere, Palla, | quam**: the deponent *dignor* (here in the 1st person singular present subjunctive, with potential force) is here construed with an accusative and an ablative: to consider someone (here: *te*) worthy of (here: *alio … funere*).

**Palla**: the (highly emotive) vocative of Pallas.

**pius Aeneas**: it is important to realize that *pietas* in late-republican Rome (and Virgil's *Aeneid*) is not an equivalent of Judeo-Christian 'piety'. It did involve dutiful worship of the gods — but also the need to honour socio-political obligations, not least the duty to exact revenge on behalf of one's kin. See Clausen (2002: 208): '*Pietas*, his awareness of a sacred obligation, requires that Aeneas — "pius Aeneas", as Evander calls him on receiving Pallas' body (11.170) — take vengeance on Turnus. So Evander expects, so Virgil's Roman reader would expect. *Pietas*, the password at the Battle of Munda (45 BC), obliged Pompey's sons to avenge their father's death. And *pietas* obliged Octavian, the adopted son, to take vengeance on Caesar's assassins.'

## 172

**magna tropaea ferunt quos dat tua dextera leto**: scholars dispute what precisely this line means, more specifically, who the subject of *ferunt* is. Is it *magna tropaea* (in which case supply *eos* as accusative object and antecedent of *quos*): 'great trophies bear those who…' (so Fratantuono 2009: 69); or members of the entourage listed in the previous lines (in which case supply *eorum* as antecedent of *quos*): 'they carry the spoils of those whom Pallas has slain' (so Horsfall 2003: 141)? The subject of the relative clause is *tua dextera*, which gives over (*dat*: note the vivid use of the present tense) the men (*quos*) to death (*leto*).

The central theme of the third and final part of Evander's speech is revenge. The economic idiom here (esp. 179: *debere*; *meritis*) recalls Turnus' taunt to (the absent) Evander after he killed his son. See 10.492: *qualem meruit*, *Pallanta remitto*. For Turnus, the kill is payback for the hospitality father and son extended to Aeneas (10.494–95: *haud illi stabunt Aeneïa parvo* | *hospitia*). See Stahl (2016: 113–14):

The experienced warrior Turnus has not granted young Pallas the dignity of taking seriously his courage on his first day (10.508) of fighting on the battlefield. For superior Turnus the unequal fight was nothing but a welcome opportunity to make father Evander pay a price he 'owed' Turnus (cf. mihi … debeatur 442f.), in other words: for Turnus Pallas' death was a commercial transaction, a payment in blood for hospitality granted to Aeneas.

Evander now in turn holds Turnus to account: his 'transaction' will come back to haunt him. And just as the still young but already battlehardened Turnus gets the upper hand over the novice in warfare Pallas (*iuvenis* over *puer*, as it were), so he himself get his comeuppance when he has to face up to a yet more senior warrior. See Chaudhuri (2014: 71–72, n. 41):

The question of one's prime is a recurring feature of the second half of the *Aeneid*. Evander regrets his old age and the consequent necessity for young Pallas to fight (*Aen*. 8.560–71), and after his son's death he claims that if Pallas had been in his prime he would have defeated Turnus (*Aen*. 11.173–75). Whether this claim is true or merely the emotional words of a bereaved yet proud father, nevertheless it raises the question of the timing of one's involvement in events. Apollo permits the young Ascanius one deadly intervention in the war before ordering him to cease because he is too young (*Aen*. 9.653–56). And, perhaps most importantly, the repeated stress on Turnus' youth (called *iuuenis* fourteen times, at *Aen*. 7.420, 435, 446, 456; 9.16, 806; 10.623, 686; 11.123, 530, 897; 12.19, 149, 598; *iuuentae* 7.473) assimilates him to the other doomed young warriors, Euryalus, Pallas, and Lausus, and suggests that he cannot hope to have parity with the seasoned combatant Aeneas. Behind Juno's use of *iuuenem* lies this pattern of fateful timing: *nunc iuuenem imparibus uideo concurrere fatis* ('now I see the young man meeting unequal fates', *Aen*. 12.149).

## 173–75a

**tu quoque nunc stares immanis truncus in arvis, | esset par aetas et idem si robur ab annis, | Turne**: Evander turns to Turnus in a textbook present counterfactual condition, with both the protasis (*esset*) and apodosis (*stares*) in the imperfect subjunctive: he is convinced that if Pallas and Turnus had been coevals (they were not), his son would have emerged victorious from the encounter — and he would now be able to write Turnus' epitaph, as in a sense he does anyway. See Horsfall (2000: 46) on *tu quoque* as a common element of epitaphs, both literary and epigraphical, and Dinter (2013: 312): 'This pre-epitaph […] constitutes an epitaphic gesture which, framed by the epitaphic marker *tu quoque* and the name of the would-be-deceased Turnus, foreshadows the end of the *Aeneid* with the death of Aeneas' antagonist.'

**tu quoque … Turne**: Horsfall (2003: 142): 'The prodigious hyperbaton (two whole lines) casts the greatest possible emphasis on the name of Pallas' killer.' *Et* | *tu* –… | *Tu-rne*.

**immanis truncus**: Evander envisions a victory monument similar to that put together by Aeneas at the beginning of the book after his defeat of Mezentius (11.5–11), with similar ambiguities: *truncus* may refer to the tree trunk used for the *tropaeum* or Turnus' mutilated body (recalling the fate of Priam at *Aen*. 2.557–58: *iacet ingens litore truncus* | *avulsumque umeris caput et sine nomine corpus*: 'he lies, a huge trunk upon the shore, a head severed from the neck, a corpse without a name'). The attribute *immanis* captures both Turnus' powerful physique (and hence sets up the *si*-clause: Pallas, in due course, would have acquired an equally heroic stature) and his savage nature.

**in arvis**: an alternative reading is *in armis*. Either way, the end of verse rhyme adds resonance: in arv / mis | ~ ab annis |.

**esset par aetas et idem si robur ab annis**: the conjunction (*si*) of the conditional clause is much delayed. The singular verb (*esset*) goes with both subjects (*par aetas* and *idem … robur*, linked by *et*).

**ab annis**: an ablative of origin. Equal strength originates from an equal number of years of growth.

## 175b

**sed infelix Teucros quid demoror armis?**: Evander here addresses himself as *infelix* (in explicit contrast to his deceased spouse whom he calls *felix*: 159): it refers both to his general condition and specifically to the delay his grief imposes on the resumption of warfare. *demoror* governs an accusative object and an ablative (of separation): 'why (*quid*) do I keep the Trojans (acc.) from their arms (abl.)?' The word order mirrors sense with *demoror* standing between *Teucros* and *armis*. Likewise, much like the *si* in 174, the interrogative *quid* is much delayed, located (perhaps not coincidentally) next to the verb (*demoror*), which means precisely this.

## 176

**vadite et haec memores regi mandata referte**: Evander now gives two orders to the Trojans (*vadite et … referte*). *referte* governs both an accusative object (*haec … mandata*) and an indirect object in the dative (*regi*, i.e. Aeneas). *memores* is in the nominative plural, agreeing with the addressees of the imperatives. What the Trojans are to be mindful of are the *mandata* Evander is about to issue: 'Go and remember to take these orders to your king!' Aeneas' absence, which ensures the need for intermediaries, enables Evander to boss the messengers with imperatives but address Aeneas in the indicative. See Adema (2017: 262): 'The message is embedded as a direct speech within this larger speech. Thus, Euander quotes himself, as it were, and is able to use the second person to address Aeneas.'

## 177–79a

**quod vitam moror invisam Pallante perempto | dextera causa tua est, Turnum gnatoque patrique | quam debere vides**: 'The reason (*causa*) why I hold on to life even though it is hateful (*invisam*) now that Pallas has been killed, is your right hand…' The antecedent of the relative clause, introduced by the relative pronoun *quam* (yet another instance of 'post-positivism' in the speech, here reinforced through enjambment), is *dextera*. The seemingly innocuous phrase *dextera tua* is emotionally profoundly charged, designed to cut to the quick in more ways than one. As Seider (2013: 152–53) observes: 'The phrase bites Aeneas in two ways. Most obviously, "right hand" (*dextera*) refers to Aeneas' fighting skills, which ought to have kept Pallas safe before and which ought to kill Turnus now. Yet the right hand also ratifies a treaty (8.169) and serves as a marker of hospitality (11.165), and Aeneas had just seen an image of his hand joined with Evander's. According to Evander, Aeneas ought to feel doubly responsible for Pallas' death: his right hand initiated Pallas' entry into war and then failed to protect him once battle began.'

**quod vitam moror invisam**: – – | – u u | – – | –… Arguably the spondaic opening (with the exception of the two shorts in *moror*, all syllables scan long) is expressive of the way Evander drags out his life. JH: Does the jingle of *vitam … invisam* help you hear *morior* in *vitam moror*?

**Pallante perempto**: a plaintively alliterative ablative absolute.

**dextera causa tua est**: *tua* modifies *dextera*: 'the interwoven order lends strong emphasis to three successive words' (Horsfall 2003: 144).

**Turnum gnatoque patrique | quam debere vides**: the relative pronoun *quam* is both the direct object of *vides* and the subject accusative of the indirect statement: '… which, you see, owes Turnus to both son and father'. *debere* is part of the terminology that defines the contractual nature of socio-political relationships at Rome. See Monti (1981: 29): 'Evander claims the death of Turnus as a debt owed to him for his *foedus* with Aeneas. The rendering of one service demands repayment by the performance of another service in return. This is the essence of *gratia*.' As Gebhardt (2009: 264–65) notes, Virgil avoids the notion of punishment as debt throughout the final book of the poem — until the very end when it forcefully reappears in the moment Aeneas kills Turnus (12.948–49: *Pallas … poenam sumit*, which, like *poenas debere*, is a legal phrase that articulates guilt).

## 179b–180a

**meritis vacat hic tibi solus | fortunaeque locus**: the subject is *hic … solus … locus*; the –*que* links the two datives *meritis* and *fortunae*, which are dependent on *locus*: 'this place [in the sense of 'room', 'scope', 'opening', 'opportunity'] alone for merits and fortune is left open to you (*vacat tibi*).' The attribute *solus* receives emphasis through hyperbaton and enjambment. Put differently, everything else (the foundation of Rome, his place in history, etc.) is in the bag. See Fratantuono (2007a: 328): 'Whether Turnus lives or dies, Rome will be founded. No, Evander is right; this "place," this "opening," is what is left to Aeneas as he accumulates merits and fortune (i.e., it is good fortune to see your enemies vanquished, and bad fortune for your friends to die unavenged).'

## 180b–81

**non vitae gaudia quaero, | nec fas, sed gnato manis perferre sub imos.'**: 'I do not seek joys for life (this would be in violation of divine law), but to carry joyful news to my son down to the shades below [sc. once I am dead].' *quaero* governs both an accusative object (*gaudia*) and an infinitive (*perferre*, perhaps with an implied *gaudia* as accusative object); the constructions are linked by *sed*. *vitae* could be either dative or genitive; the former has the advantage of generating a parallel between *vitae* and *gnato*. *nec fas* is an abbreviated gloss (*nec fas est*) on the idea of Evander seeking any joy in life: he dismisses this as perverse.

**gnato**: = *nato*.

**per-ferre**: JH: closing the ring back to 141, this time reprising that sick pun about 'fetching the news', but completing the cortège scene to THE final destination. With the superlative *imus*, we reach the bottom, the end of the line, and this is where Evander already wants to be, back with his son forever. His hellbound cry of pain was always heading there.

**manis … sub imos**: anastrophe with additional inversion of noun and attribute (= *sub imos manis*); *manis* is the alternative third conjugation accusative plural (= *manes*).

# 11.182–202: Overview: Time to Blaze it Up!

The passage takes us from dawn (182: *Aurora*) to dusk (201–2: *nox umida*; *stellis ardentibus*). These markers of time (kept in **bold**) provide the chronological frame for the description of the funeral proceedings (kept in *italics*), which are interspersed with references to their impact on the natural environment, in particular the sky (also kept in **bold**):

## **Aurora interea miseris mortalibus almam extulerat lucem referens opera atque labores:**


**it caelo clamorque virum clangorque tubarum.**

*hic alii spolia occisis derepta Latinis*

*coniciunt igni, galeas ensisque decoros frenaque ferventisque rotas; pars munera nota,* 195 *ipsorum clipeos et non felicia tela.*

*multa boum circa mactantur corpora Morti, saetigerosque sues raptasque ex omnibus agris in flammam iugulant pecudes. tum litore toto ardentis spectant socios semustaque servant* 200 busta, neque avelli possunt, **nox umida donec invertit caelum stellis ardentibus aptum**.

The passage thus alternates between depictions of the natural environment (**bold**) and human endeavours (*italics*), yielding another instance of literary architecture. The first half of the passage (182–92) is designed symmetrically: 2 + 3 + 1 + 3 + 2. The last line of these 11 verses (192; **bold underlined**) occupies the exact middle of the passage as a whole (10 + 1 + 10). Importantly, the two realms of nature and culture interact. We start in the sky and repeatedly return to it: sunrise spurs the mortals into action to proceed with the funeral, which in turn results in a clouding of the sky by the smoke that issues forth from the pyres (187). Likewise, the ensuing ritual 'spills over' into nature (191: *spargitur et tellus lacrimis*) and again impacts on the heavens (192: *it caelo*…). Ultimately the two spheres merge here: 'The repeated references to air, earth, fire, give the whole passage an elemental quality which is not broken by introducing the name of any god. The offerings are not made to Vulcan or Mars, but to the universal Death, just as "wretched mankind" in the first line makes lamentation universal' Henry (1989: 25).

The lengthy description of the funerary rites draws on different sources, well surveyed by Henry (1989: 25):

In the ritual followed by Aeneas' men, some details are Iliadic (the burning of the hero's weapons with him, and the leading of horses round the pyre), while some actions follow Arcadian or Etruscan practice (the burning of the enemy shields, as Evander earlier said he did when young, and as Livy said Tarquinius Priscus did when he defeated the Sabines). The Homeric and Italian details are followed by animal sacrifices, the oxen, pigs, and sheep of the Roman *suovetaurilia*, a ritual which had no military associations, although the offerings at the Ambarualia and at the censorial *lustrum* were made to Mars. The purpose of the *suovetaurilia* was, in both these cases, a purificatory one (*lustratio*). Virgil's choice of *lustrare* as the verb for the ceremonial ride round the blazing pyre is evocative.

She argues that we here see a proto-Roman unity emerging out of diverse cultural (and literary) traditions. It is symptomatic of the narrative that foundational imagery occurs in a funerary setting. After the Dido episode, death is written into the foundation of Rome.

## 182–83

**Aurora interea miseris mortalibus almam | extulerat lucem referens opera atque labores**: the second dawn of the book: see 11.1 above. After heavy use of *ferre* and various of its compounds in Evander's speech, Virgil continues to draw on different forms of this lexeme here with *extulerat* and *referens*. A contrast opens up: the unique and fraught transactions that dominate Evander's discourse are here repositioned within wider, unassuming parameters: the daily rhythm of sunrise and the (ensuing) return to the tasks of the day (*opera atque labores*). The transition is abruptness itself. See Adema (2017: 262): 'The narrator does not *explicitly* [N.B.] conclude Euander's speech. Instead, he switches back to the site of the war and describes the return of dawn […]. This motif from Greek literature of the return of dawn bringing labour to mortals befits Euander's call to action and marks the transition from mourning to the actions of burial, anticipating also another, inevitable, transition, viz. that of burials back to fighting (Verg. *Aen*. 11.445ff).' Indeed, the invocation of a natural, quotidian routine, which announces that, however focused on terminal revenge Evander may be, ordinary life carries on (*re-fero* is reclaimed from the funereal, vs e.g. 163), soon loses its redemptive force: the sun doesn't shine for long…

## Extra information

Gransden (1979: 161) calls this the 'Dawn-work topos' and compares A. E. Housman, *Last Poems* 11:

Yonder see the morning blink: The sun is up and so must I, To wash and dress and eat and drink And look at things and talk and think And work, and God knows why.

**miseris mortalibus**: 'wretched mortals' is a standard notion from Homer onwards. See e.g. *Iliad* 21.463–64, 22.31, Lucretius, *De Rerum Natura* 5.944 and 6.1 (*mortalibus aegris*), or Virgil, *Georgics* 3.66. But why are mortals called 'wretched'? Perhaps Virgil reflects on the human condition more generally, using Evander's tragedy as a case in point and point of departure for a universalizing comment on what it means to be human; or the adjective may be proleptic: yes, daylight is life-giving and nurturing, but it also signals that the peace and quiet of nightly rest are over and the day's toils beckon. The anthropological idiom here has its origins in the Homeric distinction between 'wretched mortals' and 'blessed immortals', which is such an essential hallmark of his — 'timeless' — epic world. JH: Yes, this is a cliché of the genre, but you still may suck up sound-play, and savour 'mournful' *m*-alliteration, arguably resolved by the soothing *m*s in the phrase *almam … lucem*, the opening syllables of which also resonate with the preceding *mort–al–ibus*. Clichés can come alive when the time is right and ban-al-ity can itself enhance pathos.

**almam … lucem**: the adjective reinforces the association of 'light' with 'life'. (You might be familiar with it in the phrase *alma mater*.) Compare e.g. Virgil, *Georgics* 4.255: *corpora luce carentum*; *Aeneid* 12.873: *qua tibi lucem arte morer*?

## 184–85

**iam pater Aeneas, iam curvo in litore Tarchon | constituere pyras**: the anaphora of *iam* signals that both Aeneas and Tarchon are up and about at the break of dawn, renewing their labours. The (long delayed) *pyras* is a Latin loan word from the Greek (*pura*, i.e. the 'fire' we've been igniting for so long, '*pur*'; Virgil uses the equivalent Latin term (*rogus*) in 189): it ensures that death remains squarely on the agenda.

**curvo in litore**: an instance of anastrophe ('inversion'). The standard word order would be *in curvo litore*. JH: Why 'curved', you ask? If you can find room in your heart for implicit clichés lurking in the language, then Latin *bays* are 'sinus', which are also the folds in clothing which cover the heart, so a standard metonym for 'heartfelt feelings'.

**Tarchon**: Etruscan king (indeed the Etruscan *for* 'king', as in the Tarquin dynasty of Roman kings), founder of Mantua (Virgil's birthplace), brother of Tyrrhenios, the first king of the Etruscans. He is in many ways the good counterpart of Mezentius, and a double of Aeneas in his association with religious observance, as 'the eponymous founder of Tarquinia, religious center of the twelve cities comprising the Etruscan league, and father of the *gens Tarquinia*' and hence 'the human repository of Etruscan *pietas*' (Nielson 1984: 29). His first appearance occurs in 8.502–11, and he then resurfaces at regular intervals (e.g. 10.148–56 and, notably, 11.727–50, for which see below). For an overall assessment of his character before Book 11 see Nielson (1984: 30):

Vergil, even in these few passages, has created a character of integrity and maturity, a man who honors the gods and seeks to fulfill fate. He is a man of action […] Tarchon's similarity to Aeneas even at this point is thus established through similar functions; both are leaders with *pietas*, who have the ability to act decisively when necessary or right. Tarchon and his men are not indigenous to Italian soil, like the Trojans, yet have sought to raise a civilization there, a civilization based upon strict religious principles. And both leaders are closely connected with the notion of fate.

**constituere**: alternative form of the third person plural perfect indicative active (= *constituerunt*).

## 185–87

**huc corpora quisque suorum | more tulere patrum, subiectisque ignibus atris | conditur in tenebras altum caligine caelum**: the verses feature two main clauses (*huc … patrum*; *conditur … caelum*), linked by the –*que* after *subiectis*, the participle of the ablative absolute *subiectis ignibus atris*. The word order is very unsettled and rendered more difficult by the ambiguous status of *suorum*: is it pronominal and dependent on *corpora* or adjectival and modifying *patrum* — or both? Rephrased in prose, the Latin might read: *quisque corpora* [*suorum*] *more*  [*suorum*] *patrum huc tulere et*, *ignibus atris subiectis*, *altum caelum caligine in tenebras conditur*. In each case, we get a hyperbaton (*corpora … suorum*; *suorum more … patrum*). The overall effect is an iconic representation of the many individuals moving about, each looking after the cremation of their kin, according to ancestral custom. The second clause changes voice (from active to passive) and focus (from the human realm to nature), but continues to defy regular word order, with the inversion of subject-verb in the ablative absolute and the second main clause, here reinforced by the positioning of alliterative verb (*conditur*) and subject (*caelum*) at the very beginning and end of the line.

**(suorum) more … patrum**: *mos* ('custom') is a central aspect of Rome's political culture (*mores maiorum*) — and of culture more generally, a counterpart to ethnicity (which emphasizes blood kinship). Cultural diversity is a key issue in Roman republican history (the gradual rise of Rome to hegemonic status over a culturally and ethnically diverse Italy, culminating in the Social War of 91–89, arguably anticipated and pre-enacted in the second half of the *Aeneid*) and in the *Aeneid* itself, not least in the final bargain struck between Juno and Jupiter, in which Juno seems to get her wish of annihilating the cultural dimensions of Trojan identity even if the Trojan stock lives on in the ethnic melting pot of Rome. See the note on 142 above.

**quisque … tulere**: the first main clause features a singular subject and a plural verb since *quisque* implies a plurality of individuals (each one of several). *tulere* is the alternative form of the third person plural perfect indicative active (*tulerunt*).

**ignibus atris**: *ater*, notoriously, is the first colour term in the *Aeneid*, used to describe the darkness of the storm that gets the poem going and will brood over the whole 'oceanic' text (1.89: *ponto nox incubat ater*). It is associated with chaos and rage, death and darkness.

**conditur in tenebras altum caligine caelum**: the entire second clause is a gloss on *ignibus atris*, more specifically the effect of the dark smoke that billows up sky-high from the pyres and plunges the entire world into darkness, cancelling out the *alma lux* of dawn. A literal translation of the seemingly tautological *in tenebras* and *caligine* is challenging: 'high heaven is veiled in the gloom of darkness' (Gold); 'the sky was plunged into darkness as blackness reached its heights' (Horsfall, who encourages us to understand *caligine* not as an instrumental or local ablative but as an 'ablative in explanation of an adjective' (148), i.e. *altum*).

## 188–90

**ter circum accensos cincti fulgentibus armis | decurrere rogos, ter maestum funeris ignem | lustravere in equis ululatusque ore dedere**: Virgil gives us a double (rather than triple) anaphora of *ter*, though the basic design of these three verses is the tricolon, with three main verbs: *decurrere* – *lustravere* – *dedere* (all in the third person plural perfect indicative active = *decurrerunt*, *lustraverunt*, *dederunt*). The first two cola are juxtaposed asyndetically and the second and third colon are linked by the –*que* after *ululatus*. The massive hyperbaton + enjambment *circum accensos … rogos* neatly enact the circling motion of the mourners.

**cincti fulgentibus armis**: *cincti* is a perfect passive participle in the nominative plural modifying the implied subject: 'girt in shining armour'. JH: The soldiers' arms gleam proudly on duty, but they gleam all the more in the flames from dead soldiers burning on the pyres. The spectacular rituals choreograph sorrow; they reflect it, they don't banish it.

**maestum funeris ignem lustravere**: they ceremonially circle 'the sad fire of the funeral-pyre' (*funeris* is genitive singular of *funus*). The verb *lustravere* evokes the ritual of *lustratio*, performed in ancient Rome to purify (re-found) the civic community and on occasion involving a *suovetaurilia* (the sacrifice of a pig, a sheep, and a bull), a prototypical variant of which Virgil goes on to sketch out below.

**in equis**: 'on horseback'.

**ululatusque … dedere**: *ululatus* is in the accusative plural, the object of *dedere*.

## 191–92

**spargitur et tellus lacrimis, sparguntur et arma, | it caelo clamorque virum clangorque tubarum**: after *conditur*, we have another switch into the passive voice. Despite the proliferation of connective particles, the tricolon of verbs *spargitur – sparguntur – it* (all heading their clauses) is asyndetic: the two *et* after *spargitur* and *sparguntur* have the sense of 'also' or 'even', i.e. are to be taken with the following nouns (*tellus* and *arma*); and the –*que…–que* in the third colon do not link *it* with the preceding verb, but coordinate the two subject phrases *clamor virum* and *clangor tubarum* ('both … and…'). The tricolon also falls into two halves (191 + 192), a division reinforced by the repetition *spargitur – sparguntur* (on which see Wills 1996: 291) and the antithesis of *tellus* (191) and *caelo* (192): together the tears and the tumult measure out the cosmos in both directions, from earth to heaven.

Line 192 recalls, somewhat incongruously, 2.313 (*exoritur clamorque virum clangorque tubarum*), which comes from Virgil's description of the destruction of Troy. See Moskalew (1982: 125) on the meaning of this intratextual reminiscence: '*Clamor virum* and *clangor tubarum* tend to evoke a martial rather than a funereal setting, and perhaps this was part of Vergil's intention. The apparent incongruity makes the line stand out from its context so as to recall the destruction of Troy, linking this most traumatic and bitter memory of the Trojans with their present grief over their fallen comrades and over the tragic death of Pallas.' As he goes on to note, 'reminiscences of Troy tend to occur at moments of pain and grief', whereas 'Italy generally has more positive associations'. JH: Alternatively, *these* funeral rites are being handled with emphatically military precision, indeed like clockwork, putting Evander's torrent of feelings behind us: the deafening line would belong in Ennius' epic of Roman campaigns, exactly the note wanted in the present context (and the Armageddon of Troy is the odd man out).

**it caelo clamorque virum clangorque tubarum**: Fratantuono (2009: 74) calls this 'a line of alliterative resonance and stately power'. JH: It is *also* epic seizing the moment to pull out all the stops to make its 'arms' lift its 'heroes' to 'epic heights': tear-splashed *arma …* fanfare for *virum* (191–92). These blaring brass are of course — think skirling bagpipes — 'instruments of war' (cf. Hector's bugler Misenus, 6.165–66). **caelo**: 'to the sky'; Virgil uses a local dative (denoting 'the place whither'), instead of the more usual *in caelum*. See Gildersleeve & Lodge 228. They note: 'This construction begins with Accius, and is not uncommon in the Augustan poets. […] As a poetical construction it seems to have sprung from personification.'

## 193–95

**hic alii spolia occisis derepta Latinis | coniciunt igni, galeas ensisque decoros | frenaque ferventisque rotas**: the generic accusative object *spolia* ('war spoils') finds specification in the list of concrete items given in apposition: *galeas*, *ensis*, *frena*, *rotas*, linked to each other by the sequence of –*que*. Virgil generates variety by alternating between giving the bare noun (*galeas*, *frena*) and supplying the noun with an attribute (*ensis decoros*, *ferventis rotas*), though *decoros* can easily be understood to cover each of the objects.

**hic**: not the demonstrative pronoun *hic*, *haec*, *hoc*, but the adverb ('at this stage', 'here'), which has a long i (*hîc*).

**spolia occisis derepta Latinis**: the perfect passive participle *derepta* agrees with *spolia* and governs the ablative of separation *Latinis*, which is further modified by the perfect passive participle *occisis*: 'spoils stripped from slaughtered Latins'. Put differently, *occisis … Latinis* is NOT an ablative absolute.

**coniciunt igni**: = *in ignem*.

**ensis**: the alternative accusative plural form of the third declension (= *enses*).

**ferventisque rotas**: *ferventis* is the alternative accusative plural form of the third declension (= *ferventes*). Lyne (1989: 23) brings out brilliantly how much (tragic) meaning Virgil manages to pack into a single,

well-chosen word: 'As Servius saw, *feruentis* is designed to recall a general characteristic of chariot wheels, their heat in vigorous use […]; this is confirmed by *decoros* which performs a similar function for *enses*. In the immediate vicinity of *igni*, however, *feruentis* must also bring to mind their imminent literal burning on the pyre […]. It intimates therefore both past vigour and present annihilation, and so contains within itself the sort of contrast which it is a main intention of this part of the poem to convey.'

## 195–96

**pars** [conicit igni] **munera nota, | ipsorum clipeos et non felicia tela**: *pars* correlates with *alii*, and we need to supply *conicit igni* from the previous sentence. Virgil again opts for a generic accusative object (*munera*), rendered more specific by concrete items in apposition (*clipeos*, *tela*). Whereas *spolia* are items taken from the enemy, the *munera* are pieces of their own equipment as the genitive of the reflexive pronoun *ipsorum* makes clear: shields that did not protect their owner (one assumes) and spears that did not find their target (*non felicia*).

## 197–99

**multa boum circa mactantur corpora Morti, | saetigerosque sues raptasque ex omnibus agris | in flammam iugulant pecudes**: sacrificial bloodshed on a massive scale, rhetorically underscored by massive hyperbata (*multa … corpora*; *raptas … pecudes*). We get a tricolon of sacrificial victims (*multa boum … corpora*; *saetigeros sues*; *pecudes*), but only two verbs (*mactantur*; *iugulant*), which are linked by the –*que* after *saetigeros*. (The –*que* after *raptas* links *sues* and *pecudes*.) Stylistic touches reinforce the ceremonial qualities of the sacrificial ritual. Note the alternating alliterations *multa – mactantur – m / Morti* and *circa – corpora*, which give the entire line a striking phonetic coherence. Alliteration continues with *saetigeros … sues*. The second clause is designed concentrically, with the victims at the margins (*saetigerosque sues raptasque … pecudes*) framing the phrases that indicate origin (*ex omnibus agris*) and final destination (*in flammam*).

Virgil here describes a key sacrificial rite of ancient Rome called *suovetaurilia*, which consisted of the sacrifice of a pig (*sus*), a sheep (*ovis* — here presented by the alternative word *pecudes*) and a bull (*taurus* — Virgil uses the periphrasis *boum … corpora*). (The use of alternative labels for the sacrificial victims may be deliberate: we are, after all, dealing with an epic prototype of the real thing, which is — like Roman identity more generally — only just in the process of coming into its own.) The addressee of the sacrifice was Mars and its purpose was the purification (*lustratio*) of the citizen-body: see above on *lustravere* (190). One of the most famous depictions of the *suovetaurilia* occurs on the Ara Pacis of Augustus, which the sarcophagus relief shown below imitates:

Fig. 17 *Suovetaurilia* (sacrifice of a pig, a sheep and a bull) to the god Mars, relief from the panel of a sarcophagus. Marble, Roman artwork, first half of the 1st century CE. Photo by Marie-Lan Nguyen, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Suovetaurilia#/media/File:Suovetaurile\_Louvre.jpg

**Morti**: either a personification or (if spelled with a minuscule) another local dative, which is perhaps the preferable reading: *morti* would indicate the place whither — just like *caelo* in 192. The two points of destination create another 'totalizing' expression: the funeral proceedings 'reach out' in all directions, affecting the entire universe, from Heaven to Hell.

**ex omnibus agris**: a totalizing expression and as such hyperbolic, but in keeping with Virgil's vision of all-encompassing grief and universal sacrifice.

JH: At some stage in the course of this pronounced pile-up of enemy spoils, friendly gifts, mass slaughter, you'll hear sustained echoes of the opening scenes of the book through to the funeral cortège for Pallas, only this time reduced to silently efficient organization, army style, for the generalized casualties, without histrionics: 'spoils' minus Mezentius, 'gifts' but no Dido, a 'multitude' of symbolic props, ritual despatch of blood from the throats of legion victims slit over the fire (*spolia*, 193 ~ *spoliaverat*, 80; *munera*, 195 ~ 73–77; | *multa*, 197 ~ 78; *coniciunt igni …. in flammam iugulant*, 194, 199 ~ *sparsurus sanguine flammas*, 82); and there are more instances of surreal forms of 'catching fire' (the chariot wheels are 'white-hot' now because they are on the pyre not because they are careering along, 195; and the comrades once so 'fiery' do finally 'burn', 200 ~ the same way that Pallas' locks were 'going to burn', 77). *This time*, because the sacrifice consisted of regulation captive animals, rather than local prisoners of war, the scene *shows* throats cut, rather than being deferred and then ending up on the cutting-room floor. Our concatenation of episodes so far builds into a single 'funeral procession' through the string of transposed variations that top pain focussed round close-up individualised pathos with broadside mass epic scale.

## 199–202

**tum litore toto | ardentis spectant socios semustaque servant | busta, neque avelli possunt, nox umida donec | invertit caelum stellis ardentibus aptum**: the main clause consists of a tricolon (*spectant*; *servant*; *possunt*) linked by the –*que* after *semusta* and *neque*. It is followed by a temporal subordinate clause introduced by *donec*. (The subject of the *donec*-clause is *nox umida*, pulled out in front of the conjunction, perhaps to emphasize the fact that the spectators could not tear themselves away from the tearful sight until night was truly upon them.) Virgil again uses alliteration and the jingling paronomasia *semustaque – busta* has a grisly sound-pattern to match the ritual activities and a picky 'figura etymologica', with *bustum* as if from *bene-ustum*, aptly coming after the 'blazing comrades' have been well and truly combusted.

**litore toto**: another totalizing expression: see above on *ex omnibus agris*. The tableau draws to a close, ringed and completed as *curvo … litore*, 184 steps up to *litore toto* |.

**ardentis … socios**: *ardentis* is the alternative form of the third declension accusative plural (= *ardentes*), modifying *socios* in predicative position: 'they watch their comrades burning' (rather than: 'they watch their burning comrades'). The expression is shockingly graphic — and reinforced by the recurrence of the word in the phrase *stellis ardentibus* (202), marked as a 'perversion' (*invertit*, 202): such blatant 'bad taste', as Virgil tears us, too, away from these pyres, blotting out the flaming bodies with cosmic cool. For *stellae* are supposed to be ablaze, they 'fit'; *socii* aren't; and the blaze of constellations will always eventually get a dampener from night, no matter how hard you try to 'keep watch' as if you could kill time (*servant*, 200). The 'change' arrives without fail — and so does the 'turnaround' at the paragraph juncture it signals (*invertit*, 202). *This* poet takes huge risks as he sees fit.

**neque avelli possunt**: the present passive infinitive supplements *possunt*: 'they cannot be torn away'. The motif rhymes, clearly, with Evander's *non … potis est vis ulla tenere*, etc, 148, though now the men won't leave, whereas the king tried his hardest not to approach the fallen, before toppling onto the corpse.

**caelum stellis ardentibus aptum**: *aptum* modifies the accusative object *caelum* in predicative position and governs the ablative *stellis ardentibus*: 'the heaven fitted with gleaming stars'.

After paying attention to the Arcadians (139–81), then Trojans and Etruscans (182–202), Virgil now depicts the funeral activities of the Latins, giving due notice that this passage is 'just as' loaded with meaning, whatever its brevity (*nec minus*), but 'radically different' from what has preceded (*diversa in parte*) — and not just because of the length: 'the two scenes show two modes of grief, the one intently ceremonial, the other haphazard and despairing' (Henry 1989: 25). She continues (ibid): 'For the Latins, there is no possibility of attention to the order of things; they cannot identify or even count their dead. No spoils or treasures are mentioned in their fires, burning for three days in makeshift funerals. No form of ritual is used, so there is no sense of commemoration or of continuing national identity.' The rhetorical tone is working up to a pitch of intensity, colouring these exequies throughout with *loathing* (217).

## 203–6

**Nec minus et miseri diversa in parte Latini | innumeras struxere pyras, et corpora partim | multa virum terrae infodiunt, avectaque partim | finitimos tollunt in agros urbique remittunt**: The sentence maps out a diverse set of activities organized around the four main verbs, the first in the perfect, the others in the present: *struxere* – *infodiunt* – *tollunt* – *remittunt*. But the first is set apart from the remaining three in terms of both grammar and syntax: the perfect *struxere* takes *innumeras pyras* as accusative object and is linked to *infodiunt* by *et*. *infodiunt*, *tollunt*, and *remittunt* are all in the present tense, are linked to each other by

–*que* (attached to *avecta* and *urbi*), and share the same accusative object (*corpora … multa*). As the next sentence makes clear, the pyres have been built for the multitude of anonymous corpses. The focus here is on the bodies of those men (the genitive plural *virum* is poignant) who are deemed deserving of special attention. These *corpora* receive either one of two treatments, a bipartite division coordinated by *partim … partim* (both prominently placed at the line's end): burial on the spot or return to their home city. (It remains unclear what happens to the corpses there.)28 So overall we have four main verbs, two accusative objects, and three ways of dealing with the corpses (cremation, inhumation, dispatch to their city of origin). The syntax thus mirrors the cultural and ethnic diversity of pre-Roman Italy that Virgil flags up throughout this section of text (cf. above on *suorum more … patrum*).

**Nec minus et**: Virgil uses a litotes to mark the transition to the final part in the funeral sequence. *et* here means 'too'.

**diversa in parte**: anastrophe (= *in diversa parte*). The combatants, who intermingled in fetching wood for the pyres, are now again separated for the burials.

**miseri … Latini** + **innumeras … pyras**: two emphatic hyperbata, designed to underscore the general wretchedness and its cause, the countless number of battlefield victims.

**struxere**: alternative form of the third person perfect indicative active (= *struxerunt*).

**corpora… | multa virum**: *virum* is the syncopated genitive plural form of *vir* (= *vir*|*or*|*um*) dependent on *corpora*. The enjambment and the quantifying *multa* reinforce the point that heroes too end up as corpses. After *struxere pyras et corpora*, reprising *constituere pyras. huc corpora*… (185), the phrasing blurs, shockingly, into | *multa boum … corpora* (197). Dead comrades, like so many… cattle!

<sup>28</sup> Horsfall (2003: 156) draws the lines differently on thematic grounds: 'common soldiers are cremated or buried where they fall, while warriors of note and their kin are returned home for more elaborate burial.'

**avectaque partim | finitimos tollunt in agros**: the accusative object of *tollunt* is still *corpora*, here further modified by the past participle *avecta*, which forms a sort of *husteron proteron* with the main verb: the lifting up of the bodies (*tollunt*) obviously precedes their transport (*avecta*). *avecta* governs the prepositional phrase *finitimos … in agros* (anastrophe: = *in finitimos agros*). In translating, you may wish to turn the participle into a main verb and arrange the actions in a logical sequence: 'some (*partim*) bodies they lift up and carry to the neighbouring fields'. JH: Again, these fields were raided for animal victims (198 *ex omnibus agris***);** this time the human [victims] are returned, in one piece, only to torch those same fields (206, 209).

## 207–8

**cetera confusaeque ingentem caedis acervum | nec numero nec honore cremant**: the –*que* after *confusae* links the two accusative objects of *cremant*, i.e. *cetera* (sc. *corpora*) and *acervum*. JH: 'Pyres' *are* just piles, but the casualties until now have been properly 'individuated' and 'honoured' — with spoils they seized and their very own weapons, whereas this lot are only 'myriad' lumps of 'carnage', dug into the ground or else carted off home (*partim … partim* ~ *alii … pars*, 193, 195).

**confusaeque ingentem caedis acervum**: a massive phrase with the interlacing pattern of attributes (*confusae*, *ingentem*) and the nouns they modify (*caedis*, *acervum*), arguably generating an iconic representation of the indiscriminately heaped-up corpses. The link via *c*-alliteration to the preceding *cetera* (*con*–, *cae*–, –*cer*–) further enhances the effect.

**nec numero nec honore**: *nec numero* picks up *innumeras struxere pyras* (204), whereas *nec honore* stands in contrast to those corpses that receive inhumation on the spot or are dispatched to their home cities.

## 208–9

**tunc undique vasti | certatim crebris conlucent ignibus agri**: a concentric design, slightly unsettled (and reinforced) by the enjambment: in the middle stands the verb, *conlucent*, related by alliteration to the preceding *certatim* and *crebris*. It is framed by the instrumental ablative phrase *crebris … ignibus*. And at the beginning and end, forming a vast (!) hyperbaton and thereby glossing on the formal level the sense of the adverb *undique*, we get the subject phrase *vasti … agri* (note that both the adjective and the noun it modifies conclude their verse), which form the geographical setting within which the fires shine.

**certatim**: different parts of the fields blaze 'in rivalry' as each group of Latins tries to fire up the most impressive funeral pyre. JH: But the wide sweep prevails over the different details, to ram home the huge cost of the engagement by counting it: *innumeras*, *multa*, *ingentem … acervum*, *nec numero*, *vasti*, *crebris*.

## 210

**tertia lux gelidam caelo dimoverat umbram**: a tranquil line to savour for its craftsmanship and sound effects: standard prose word order would be quite similar: *tertia lux gelidam umbram caelo dimoverat*, though without the sparkling musicality. Note, in particular, the repetition of the identical vowel sequence in *tertia* and *gelidam*, both leading up to words that end in the deep and dark vowels 'u' or 'o' (*lux*, *caelo*). In addition, *gelidam* also resonates via homoioteleuton with the noun it modifies (*umbram*), whereas the placement of *umbram*, the opposite of *lux* to which it gives way) in the final foot endows the entire verse with nice antithetical tension.

**gelidam … umbram**: picking up, with deft variation, *nox umida* (201), with *umbram* bringing to mind both *nox* and (via assonance) *umida*.

## 211–12

**maerentes altum cinerem et confusa ruebant | ossa focis tepidoque onerabant aggere terrae**: two main clauses linked by –*que* after *tepido*. The *et* links the two accusative objects *altum cinerem* and *confusa*… | *ossa*. The *ossa* are also the accusative object of *onerabant*. In the transitive sense, *ruo* means 'to churn or plough up', 'disturb violently' (*OLD* s.v. 9) or 'to cause to collapse', 'overthrow', 'lay flat' (*OLD* s.v. 10, where our passage is listed). So literally Virgil is saying 'They flattened the high/deep ash and the scattered bones from the pyres (*focis*)' — which 'means' that 'they flattened the ash-heaps *to collect* the bones from the pyres (sc. for proper burial)'. As Fratantuono points out (2009: 78) the unorthodox usage is not coincidental: '*Ruere* is usually of hostile or destructive forces; this nuance is precisely the point: the Trojan / Arcadian funerals are stately and Homeric, while the Latin funerals are Lucretian in their horror (cf. *DRN* VI, 1278–1286).' JH: Virgil repeats *confus*– and *terrae* from 207, 205, which would likely not be admired in other poems, but if he can wire you into the story, into the 'muddle' — of bones now, not bodies — you'll see exactly why he's laying it on here with a trowel.

**maerentes**: a circumstantial participle, modifying the subject of the sentence: 'grieving'.

## 11.213–224: Necropolitics: Stop theWar!

The mourning scene in Pallanteum ended with Evander's injunction to Aeneas to bring Pallas' killer Turnus to justice. In the city of King Latinus, we have a similar transition from the articulation of grief over the recent casualties to the consequences, again adumbrating the end — a final showdown between Turnus and Aeneas. If Evander put the emphasis on the personal (without losing sight of the political), here the balance is inverted: personal motives (esp. Drances' hatred of Turnus) will resonate, but the setting is public and political, as we move from various grieving constituencies and a groundswell of opinion against Latinus' designated son-in-law, which is channelled and given a coherent voice by Drances, to a public debate on what to do, as yet still uncoordinated, but leading up to a proper war council (225–444, not part of the set text).

## 213–14

**iam vero in tectis, praedivitis urbe Latini, | praecipuus fragor et longi pars maxima luctus**: the two subjects are *fragor* and *pars*, with the verb (*est*) elided. With a sudden shift in focus, set up by *iam vero* (for *iam*, strengthened by *vero*, in a transition to a new topic, see *OLD* s.v. *iam* 8), the narrative turns its attention to the city of King Latinus. The transition leads up to a climax that comes into its own in *praecipuus* (set up by *praedivitis*, another four-syllable *prae*-compound): the mourning on the killing fields is profound — but it is topped by the grief in the city.

The superlative attributes *praecipuus* and *maxima* continue the notion of competitive grieving from 209 (*certatim*): the payoff draws near.

**prae-divitis urbe Latini**: 'in the city of superrich (King) Latinus': see above 201–2. Is this a case of 'One brave down for every million pounds'?

**prae-cipuus fragor**: the 'noisy clamour' or 'din' signified by *fragor* captures both the wailing of the Latins and, as we shall hear presently, their discontent with current policy as the following verses make clear. *Nothing* like the militarized soundtrack of 192, the decibel count.

**longi pars maxima luctus**: 'the greatest part of the prolonged grief'. *luctus*, modified by *longi*, is a fourth declension genitive singular, trumping 139, *tanti prae-nuntia luctus* |; these Latins wail loudest and longest (*miseri*, *maerentes*, *miserae*, *maerentum*, get it?).

## 215–17

**hic matres miseraeque nurus, hic cara sororum | pectora maerentum puerique parentibus orbi | dirum exsecrantur bellum Turnique hymenaeos**: the subjects of the sentence are four groups of aggrieved mourners split into two pairs by the anaphoric *hîc* (adverbial: 'here'). The two groups in each pair are linked by –*que*, after *miserae* and *pueri* respectively. What follows is a line containing the two accusative objects *bellum* and *hymenaeos* (linked by the –*que* after *Turni*) and the verb (*exsecrantur*). The metre of 215 (– – | – u u | – u u | – – | – u u | – –) and 216 (– u u | – – | – u u | – u u | – u u | – –) is predominantly dactylic; but it grinds to a spondaic halt in 217, where dactyls are limited to the fifth foot (– – | – – | – – | – – | – u u | – –). The heavy spondees (and elision of *dirum* and *exsecrantur*) lend gravity to the curse. The groups of mourners singled out are dependants, not buddies in uniform — women in three categories: mothers; young and yet unmarried women; and sisters; plus their children who have now lost their father. The sequence *matres – sorores – pueri* covers three generations within a family, whereas *nurus* invokes the notion of a marital union (and procreation) denied — and in one word rubs in that this war could be finessed by a single wedding.

**matres miseraeque nurus**: *miserae*, which is anyway linked to the preceding *matres* by mournful alliteration, is best understood as modifying both nouns (*apo koinou*).

**cara sororum | pectora maerentum**: an intricately patterned phrase with an interlacing of nominatives (*cara* … *pectora*) and genitives (*sororum* … *maerentum*), but a chiastic arrangement of attributes (*cara*, *maerentum*) and nouns (*sororum*, *pectora*), pivoting around the enjambment and gaining further in stylistic appeal and coherence through the homoioteleuta (– *ra*, –*ra*; –*rum*, –*tum*). Goold translates *cara … pectora* with 'loving hearts', but the phrase *also* evokes the beating of breasts by female mourners. See Kraggerud (2016: 155): 'The most pitiful scene are the *matres* and *miserae nurus*; these have lost their sons and their husbands, and the sisters are beating their breasts in desperate sorrow because they have lost their brothers. They are all pitied, but apparently most of all the sisters of the fallen men. To whom are they dear? As the passage seems to suggest: the city's population sharing their sorrow and taking pity on them because of their love of both their fallen brothers and the bereaved sisters.' But this moment is also full of outrage and anger, and these womenfolk outmatch the Arcadian *matres* in *their* city (146–47), because they will step into the foreground to speak *their* truth to power. They channel the bad blood of their city.

**dirum exsecrantur bellum Turnique hymenaeos**: the women cash out the scene; they move from ritual lament during the truce and on to curse war, on the grounds insinuated throughout the narrative; herewith they cross the line, they enter politics, aping Drances' escalation of the pressing issue to include Aeneas' challenge to Turnus. *hymenaeus* = 'wedding refrain' (or, personified as Hymenaeus, the Greek god of wedding) and in the plural (as here), 'wedding', 'marriage'. The mourning Latins curse the ill-omened (*dirum*) war, together with the equally ill-omened match between Turnus and Lavinia (one of its principal causes). As Putnam (1995: 167) notes: 'The meaning of the *coniugium* for the war is a constant subject of the last four books.' JH: And as we have seen, that follows out the logic of any form of monarchy, where personal politics decide alliance, integration, legitimacy or their negation.

**Turnique hymenaeos**: on the *hymenaeus* (or as here in the plural *hymenaei*), the wedding cry or song, and its inauspicious connotations in Latin poetry see Hersch (2010: 239–40): 'The evidence in Roman poetry suggests that the singing of the *hymenaeus* (or *hymenaei*) was performed during the procession of the bride to her new home. […] It is notable that in most of the later sources, the mentions of *hymenaei* often signal trouble, and perhaps mortal danger […] Virgil uses the word *hymenaei* metonymically to refer to three unhappy weddings-that-never-were in the *Aeneid* (the weddings of Helen and Paris, Dido and Aeneas, and Lavinia and Turnus) as well as a joyful wedding that has not yet occurred when the book ends (that of Aeneas and Lavinia).'

## 218–19

**ipsum armis ipsumque iubent decernere ferro, | qui regnum Italiae et primos sibi poscat honores**: *iubent* introduces an indirect statement with *ipsum* (2x) and *decernere* as verb (to be read also with *ipsum armis*: the – *que* after *ipsum* links the two parts of the indirect statement), followed by a relative clause of characteristic or cause (hence the subjunctive mood of *poscat*). Taking their cue from Aeneas (see above 115–18), these Latins have come to believe that Turnus alone ought to fight.

**regnum Italiae**: a gesture of expansive proto-Augustan geography which *sends up* Turnus, as if Italia was already an organized nation back at — before — the origins of Rome. There never was such a thing (before Caesar, and Augustus…).

## 220–21

**ingravat haec saevus Drances solumque vocari | testatur, solum posci in certamina Turnum**: The main clause falls into two parts (*ingravat – testatur*) linked by the –*que* after *solum*. *testatur* introduces a bipartite indirect statement with the emphatically delayed *Turnum* as subject accusative and two passive infinitives (*vocari* and *posci*; *in certamina* is to be understood with both verbs). Drances maliciously picks up and reinforces the groundswell of opinion from the group of mourners, shifting from the active 'he should fight himself' to the passive 'actually, he alone (repeated twice: *solum … solum* mirrors the earlier *ipsum … ipsum*) is being called to a single combat'. The killer here is the reuse of *poscere*, which the mourners used to describe Turnus' personal ambitions (219: … *sibi poscat*…), but here recurs in the passive: he is demanded (*posci*). The metrical design of the verses is similarly reminiscent of what came before and is again expressive of the theme. They scan as follows:

– u u | – – | – – | – – | – u u | – – – – | – – | – – | – – | – u u | – –

The only dactyls in these two lines, with the exception of those in the fifth foot, occur in the opening foot of verse 220. In fact, *ingravat haec* forms a metrical unit called a choriamb (– u u –), and while the nimble shorts would seem out of place for a word that signifies 'to weigh down on', the swift rhythm arguably conveys something of the speed by which Drances pounces upon the incriminations leveled against Turnus. And after the speedy opening, the metre indeed slows down as Virgil elaborates on (and adds prosodic weight to) 'savage' Drances' concerted efforts to aggravate the ill will towards his antagonist. He implies that Turnus flinches from the confrontation in a cowardly manner and lets others do the dirty work for him, sending them to fight and die in his stead and for his benefit.

**saevus Drances**: for Drances (and his savage hatred of Turnus), see above on 122–25. JH: The epithet bleeds from what he is in this intervention into what he always is. The women and children were full of hate but no way hateful, but here they are now, stuck in Drances' camp as he takes his chance, takes it upon himself to report straight to the people the deal proposed by the enemy chieftain. Like the other envoys, we can't deny it, we were there (*testatur*), so we know how Drances jumped straight into bed with Aeneas, already cosying up to him. No one can enjoy thinking like Drances, as the warped way he rephrases what Aeneas actually said exposes to view, but if you won't go along with it, you're leaving those mums and kids in the lurch, and the ghastly business of disposing of the mass casualties hasn't touched you at all. But still and all, Drances taints any cause he backs and he's capitalizing on the waves of emotion stirred up by the truce. Virgil signals to us what Drances is up to, jazzing it up, twisting the knife, beyond what Aeneas 'said' and how the dependants 'put it' (*ingravat*). Next, he takes a moment to give us honorary Latins a nudge and a kick: we must formulate 'sundry proposals' of our own around which policy, strategy, might be agreed (*sententia*); and a major consideration to take into account will be all the 'many' successful weaponized trophies lining Turnus' cabinet, as he writes up an 'epic' of his own (*fama*). Is there one 'view' for every 'feat'? What counts for what with the hordes of readers of the *Aeneid*? Isn't there a '*Turniad*' in here too?

## 222–24

**multa simul contra variis sententia dictis | pro Turno, et magnum reginae nomen obumbrat, | multa virum meritis sustentat fama tropaeis**: three difficult lines of awkward Latin, consisting of three main clauses: (i) *multa … pro Turno*, with the verb to be supplied; (ii) *et … obumbrat*; (iii) *multa … tropaeis*; (i) and (ii) are linked by *et*; but there is no connective between (ii) and (iii). The three subject phrases — *multa … sententia*; *magnum … nomen*; *multa … fama* — resemble each other, especially the first and the third, which are linked by the anaphora of *multa*, in which *magnum* partially shares via alliteration. Also in terms of metre, lines 222 (– u u | – – | – u u | – – | – u u | – –) and 224 (– u u | – u u | – – | – – | – u u | – –) resemble each other with their three dactylic feet, whereas the intervening 223 is spondaic except in the fifth (– – | – – | – – | – – | – u u | – –). The lines feature various hyperbata (in addition to the subject phrases, we get *variis … dictis* and *meritis … tropaeis*). They surely capture the fractious mood and dissonance among the Latins. After Drances stepped in to capitalize on and fan further the anti-Turnus sentiments, we now hear that he by no means managed to sway everyone: Turnus still commands considerable backing, not least because he enjoys the support and protection of Queen Amata.

**multa simul contra variis sententia dictis | pro Turno**: expressions of solidarity with Turnus are instant, manifold, and uncoordinated: 'Many an opinion (*multa … sententia*) all at once (*simul*) in opposition (*contra* is an adverb) expressed in varied statements (*variis … dictis*) for Turnus'. The absence of the verb is expressive of the supportive hubbub.

**magnum reginae nomen obumbrat**: the accusative object — sc. *Turnum* — needs to be supplied here: the august reputation of the queen (Amata) 'shelters' or 'protects' Turnus (see *OLD* s.v. *obumbro* 2b, on the figurative use of the verb, which literally means 'to cover with shade', 'darken', 'overshadow' — cf. *umbra*). Monarchy gives *some* women a slice of the political cake, the royals. Virgil's Augustan Rome would get very used to its Empress Livia's role in 'palace politics'.

**multa … fama**: 'many a famous tale'.

**meritis … tropaeis**: there is a faint echo here of the end of Evander's speech, where he singles out the killing of Turnus as the last *meritum* still missing on Aeneas' CV (179–80: *meritis vacat hic tibi solus* | *fortunaeque locus*). The phrase sits slightly awkwardly in the sentence: nominally, it is an instrumental ablative to be construed with *sustentat*, but specifies what it is about the *multa fama* that generates support: 'many a famous tale supports the hero with well-won victories' = 'many a famous tale about his well-won victories supports the hero'. The episode closes on this watchword of proceedings so far through Book 11 — where we started, with Mezentius as Aeneas' *tropaeum*.

## CAMILLA

The protracted war council that followed upon the funeral scenes (225– 444) ends in alarm at the news that Aeneas and his army are on the move, sweeping down on the city. No agreement has been reached, but Turnus and his contemporaries decide to take matters into their own hands and prepare to renew the fight. A key ally is Camilla, whom Turnus meets at the gate to talk strategy. JH: She spells 'mounted division' to the rescue (433, *agmen agens equitum*). Her entrance is detonated by an elaborate simile with Turnus as the runaway horse (nb, 492: *fugit*) ranging free from the pen and out in his element on the plain, with pasture, mares, river-bathing on his mind. He's 'a rich specimen, mane *s*playing over shoulders and neck' (492–97), warming us up for 'his' filly and her playmates. Where we come (back) in.

## 498–501

**Obvia cui Volscorum acie comitante Camilla | occurrit portisque ab equo regina sub ipsis | desiluit, quam tota cohors imitata relictis | ad terram defluxit equis**: *cui* is a connecting relative (= *et ei*, i.e. Turnus); the dative goes with *obvia* or *occurrit*. The two main verbs *occurrit* and *desiluit* are linked by the –*que* after *portis*. A relative clause (*quam … equis*) follows, with Camilla as antecedent. She arrives at the head of either a full squadron of cavalry or a personal escort on horseback (scholarly opinion on the meaning of *cohors* here is divided), who appear very much beholden to their queen. As Frantantuono (2009: 167) points out, the 'description delineates well the Italian hierarchy: Camilla shows respect to Turnus, after which her Volscians show their respect both to her and to him by imitating their leader.' JH: She was last but not least of the Italian allies picked out by Turnus just now as 'so many' reasons not to despair of turning the tables on the Trojans (429–33), presented in her own supplement, capping the rest as when we first met her, immediately after Turnus, in the Italian catalogue (7.803–17): the repeat introduction here demands that our first impressions are meant to lodge with us (including a whole verse doublet: *hos* super *advenit Volsca de gente Camilla* | *agmen agens equitum et florentis aere catervas*, 7.803–4 ~ *est*  et Volscorum *egregia de gente Camilla* | *agmen agens equitum et florentis aere catervas*, 11.432–33). Her role is thus indicated as a key prop for Turnus, here to die for and before him.

**Volscorum acie comitante**: the genitive *Volscorum* is dependent on *acie* and belongs in the ablative absolute (standard prose order would be *acie Volscorum comitante*). JH: *This* theme tune bolsters the cue to rewind to 432–33, and then to Turnus' call to resistance with the enemy at the gate, *armari* Volscorum *edice maniplis*, 463; griefstricken Evander had wished his son could have fallen after chopping down these crack troops, 167, *caesis* Volscorum *milibus*; and news will indeed reach Turnus, 898: *deletas* Volscorum acies, *cecidisse Camillam*.

**Camilla | occurrit … regina… | desiluit**: the two enjambed verbs underscore Camilla's forcefulness and energy.

**portisque ab equo regina sub ipsis**: the massive hyperbaton + anastrophe *portis … sub ipsis* (= *sub portis ipsis*) is iconic, forming a notional 'arch' under which the queen and her horse are located. JH: The Latin mothers who gawped in amazement, on sight, at Camilla's turnout on parade (7.813–17), were a moment ago praying to Athena to smash that 'freebooter' Aeneas and stretch him flat out on the ground, 'spill him under this very gateway' (*portis …. effunde sub altis*, 485). Ominous, then, that her squadron immediately 'pour' from the saddle (next n.). These same mothers will shortly be wailing unto heaven when everything goes belly-up, and these cavalrymen, routed, stampede for safety behind 'these very' gates — the first arrivals successful, the rest shut out, battering away to get in while the mothers chuck makeshift missiles from the battlements (*matres … portas … portas … portas … matres*, 877–91).

**desiluit – defluxit**: there seems more energy packed into *desiluit* (Camilla) than *defluxit* (her cohort): we were emphatically—unbearably—warned of her lightness of being on first acquaintance (7.808–11). But Camilla, too, will soon 'flow' from her horse — against her will: 11.828: … *ad terram non sponte fluens*. See the commentary below on the water imagery.

**quam tota cohors imitata relictis | ad terram defluxit equis**: a syntactically and stylistically very elaborate and intricate way of saying 'her troops dismounted too'. The antecedent of the relative pronoun *quam* is *Camilla*; *quam* is the accusative object of the past participle *imitata* (a deponent verb); and *relictis … equis* is an ablative absolute. A literal translation might be: 'imitating whom the entire force slid to the ground, after the horses had been dismounted', though for the sake of elegance it is best to turn (at the very least) the ablative absolute from passive to active: 'having dismounted their horses'. Other improvements might involve the translation of the relative clause as a new main clause ('following her example, the entire force dismounted and slid to the ground…'. JH: Her troops take their cue from their leaderene — soon they will be watching her when she fails to watch out for herself, and bolt for it the instant they've lost the boss (800–1, 868, *amissa domina*). Virgil notes how unRoman military detachments — 'hordes' — *could* get it together: Camilla leads no *cohors* here, but brings on her *catervae* (a Gallic word for *un*Roman units, it was reckoned; 7.804, 11.433).

## 501

**tum talia fatur**: the alliteration and assonance *tum ta– –tur* deftly sets up the first words of Camilla's speech (*Turne*).

## 502–4

**'Turne, sui merito si qua est fiducia forti, | audeo et Aeneadum promitto occurrere turmae | solaque Tyrrhenos equites ire obvia contra**: Camilla is already setting about doing what she promises, as her anticipated hostile encounter with the Trojans on the battlefield (*occurrere*, *obvia*) that Virgil used to describe her meeting with Turnus (498: *obvia*; 499: *occurrit*). Likewise, *sola* recalls Drances' insistence that Turnus alone is called upon to fight, back at 220–21: *solumque vocari* | *testatur*, *solum posci in certamina Turnum*, and Turnus' offer to accept that challenge in the council, 434: *quod si me solum*… 442: *solum Aeneas vocat*?). She clearly has a mind (and strategic vision) of her own and tries to persuade Turnus to agree to her plan in authoritative / authorial language on Turnus' wavelength: these are *buddies* (next n.). And she sure knows how to get straight to the point: 'The initial vocative [*Turne*] is visibly abrupt and urgent' (Horsfall 2003: 298).

**sui merito si qua est fiducia forti**: Gossrau rephrases the *si*-clause as follows: *si qui fortis merito aliquam habere potest sui fiduciam*….: 'if anyone brave can justly have any trust in himself'. Virgil opts for *fiducia* as the subject, expresses possession through *esse* + dative (*forti*), and separates the genitive *sui* from the noun on which it depends (*fiducia*) through a striking hyperbaton, reinforced by the postposition of the conjunction *si*. The pronominal attribute *qua* is in the nominative feminine singular modifying *fiducia* (= *aliqua*; but after *si*, *nisi*, *ne* and *num*, the *ali–* disappears). *fiducia* (and 'daring': cf. *audeo*) is a key quality of Turnus, among others: see e.g. 9.126: *at non audaci Turno fiducia cessit* ('but confidence did not abandon daring Turnus'), 10.276–77: *Haud tamen audaci Turno fiducia cessit* | *litora praecipere et venientis pellere terra* ('But confidence did not abandon daring Turnus to reach the shore first and drive the incomers from land'), and 10.284 (where he speaks himself): *audentis Fortuna iuvat* ('Fortune favours the daring'). Camilla continues to speak *Turnuswise*, though in the case of 'daring' they're both bold to a fault. Audacity (*audacia*) is courage (*fortitudo*) mixed with rashness (*temeritas*) and a quality that (as both Camilla and Turnus are about to prove) seals an early death — or, in other terms, a 'dashing' epic role… The distinction between *fortitudo* and *audacia* is of course a fine one, and it is telling that Camilla invokes both, side by side, with *forti* in the gnomic *si*-clause and *audeo* in the main clause.

**audeo et … promitto occurrere… –que ire obvia contra**: the two infinitives (linked by –*que* after *sola*) follow both main verbs (even though one would expect an indirect statement after *promitto*).

**Aeneadum … turmae**: the genitive plural *Aeneadum* (*Aeneades* = the people of Aeneas) depends on *turmae* (in the dative singular, to be construed with *occurrere*).

**obvia contra**: JH: In flies this speed-merchant volunteer Camilla (7.807, punning at once *Volsca … de gente ~ volaret*, 803 ~ 808; cf. 11.546, *volitabant … Volsci*; a mounted unit was a 'wing' in Latin, 11.604: ala *Camillae*). Always already 'on-the-road', she's again putting her confrontational self in Turnus' shoes, taking her lead from him (438, *ibo animis* contra).

## 505–6

**me sine prima manu temptare pericula belli, | tu pedes ad muros subsiste et moenia serva.'**: a tricolon of alliterative imperatives — *sine*, *subsiste*, *serva* — with the first concerning what Turnus is supposed to let Camilla do and the second and third telling Turnus what he should do himself. Camilla devotes a line each to herself and to Turnus and marks the pivot through antithesis (*me – tu*, placed prominently at the beginning of their respective lines) and asyndeton: there is no connective between the first and second colon (whereas the second and third are linked by *et*).

**me sine … temptare**: the imperative *sine* governs both an accusative object (*me*) and an infinitive (*temptare*): 'Allow me to try…'

**prima … pericula belli**: the accusative object of *temptare*. (At first sight, it might seem possible to construe *prima* with *manu* (*manu*, after all, is a feminine noun in the ablative), but attention to metre snuffs this option out quickly enough: for *prima* to be an ablative, the final –*a* would have to scan long — instead of short, as it does, hence it is the neuter accusative plural form.) The phrase *prima pericula* has a nice assonance going for it, with four of the five letters of *prima* recurring in *pericula* (and in the same order) and the homoioteleuton –*ma*, –*la*. JH: This hussar looks down on the foot-sloggers just the way she should, always in the vanguard, first in the line of fire, and she knows epic conflict should work this way — devil take the hindmost — whereas Virgil often eschews heroics and espouses the caution of Roman-style discipline (the ethos of *castra*, to which is devoted a whole book's celebration: *Aeneid* 9, see next n.).

**tu pedes ad muros subsiste et moenia serva**: Camilla envisions a cavalry engagement in the open fields for herself, while enjoining Turnus to protect the city with its walls. The emphasis on *muri* and *moenia* is fitting for Aeneas' counterpart, destined to lay the foundations for the *altae moenia Romae* (1.8). With her dying breath (825–26), Camilla reiterates her earlier advice that Turnus safeguard the city. JH: But he didn't get the lesson of Book 9, where the Trojans turned down challenges to come out from their camp and fight because under orders not to… and now he does not — cannot — listen.

The Volsci bring an exciting 'charge' to the scenes of combat ahead; Virgil determines to freshen up his '*Iliad*' with a cavalcade strike-force. There is indeed a certain homology with the Roman army of Virgil's lifetime, where units of mounted citizens had long lapsed in favour of squads of 'natives' signed up from within and beyond the imperial frontiers*.* But he has brought in the Etruscans under Tarchon and Volscians under Camilla to ring the changes on regular (epic) battle, and he has given the affair a thorough twist of surreal strangeness by featuring our Amazonian visitor from the Italian jungle. While Aeneas is away, a daring / devil-may-care Virgil comes out to play (from 184, and then we lie in wait for the main man, from 511 until 904). And, starting with Camilla's synchronized troopers (nb *imitata*, 500), the fantasy choreography verges on thrilling… parody. This is going to be melodrama right out of left field. For more on the warhorse in antiquity see Sidnell (2007).

While appreciative of Camilla's stalwart offer of support, Turnus, drawing on recent military intelligence provided by his scouts, does precisely the opposite of what Camilla advises him to do: instead of protecting the city with his army, he devises a stratagem that has him go off into the mountains to lay an ambush for Aeneas (not, that is, to meet him in single combat). The plan will misfire badly — when Turnus rushes to the city to protect it from attack — but that will in part be reckless Camilla's fault, getting herself killed so that her grief-stricken buddy drops his stratagem just when the trap was about to bite.

## 507

**Turnus ad haec oculos horrenda in virgine fixus**: the sentence lacks a main verb, which is easily supplied (sc. *dicit* or *fatur* or some such verb of speaking) and governs *ad haec* ('in response to this'). *oculos horrenda in virgine* go with the past participle *fixus*, which is passive in form, but active in meaning, with *oculos* as accusative object ('having fixed his eyes / his gaze on the awe-inspiring maiden'). JH: Everyone must stare at Camilla (from the very start, 7.813–17), and that includes *us*. Already she packs into one sensational frame a chain of 'maidens' spanning from (the helpless prize in martial epic) *Lavinia virgo* | (479), in with those Latin mothers praying to (the eternal epic Big Gun Athena entirely at home) *armipotens* … *Tritonia virgo* | (483). Virginity is, across the scale, *dangerous.* It bears saying it twice here: *virgine … virgo*. As we shall find (n. on 531), a whole regiment of *virgines* with their lieutenant *virgo* and their leaderene Diana, *Latonis virgo* 533–6, 557), are watching the scene from up in the gods, pledging vengeance for, say it again, our star *virgo*  devoted to *virginitas* (565, 583). 'Camilla' is indeed marked out as *the* maiden voyage for 'Epic turned Fantasy'.

## 508–9

**'o decus Italiae virgo, quas dicere grates | quasve referre parem?**: *decus Italiae* stands in apposition to the vocative *virgo*: 'maiden, glory of Italy…'. The following question has a bipartite design, with the anaphoric repetition of the interrogative adjective *quas* agreeing with *grates*. The two parts are linked by –*ve*, and the accusative object *grates* (placed in the first part) and the main verb *parem* (placed in the second part) have to be supplied, respectively, in the other part as well: *quas grates dicere parem*, *quasve grates referre parem*? The step from *grates dicere* to *grates referre* is climactic: from rendering thanks verbally to *returning* favours received.

**decus Italiae**: as a figure from Latium, but with links to other parts of Italy, Camilla is a geopolitical heroine who entirely justifies Turnus' address to her as *decus Italiae*. In many ways she is (an embodiment of) Italy: the peninsula's political and geographical features have come to life in her. See Introduction 26–7.

**parem**: first person singular present subjunctive active. Horsfall (2003: 302) identifies it as 'polite "deliberative"'. JH: Turnus called on rhetoric to duel with Drances in the debate, but antirhetoric is called for between buddies. As his next unsophisticated jumble of words acts out:

## 509–10

**sed nunc, est omnia quando | iste animus supra, mecum partire laborem**: the main verb of the sentence is *partire*, the present imperative of the deponent verb *partior*, *partiri*. The causal subordinate clause (*est … supra*) introduced by the post-positive *quando* couldn't be more jumbled up. Sorted into something resembling standard word order it might read: *quando iste animus supra omnia est*: 'since this spirit (of yours) soars above all else'. The postponement of the preposition *supra* and its separation from the word it governs (*omnia*) is particularly striking (if not all that unusual). 'All *that*', is the thought behind the phrasing — but the only words that matter to Turnus in *this* company are *mecum* and *laborem*.

**quando**: Adams (2007: 159): 'as an interrogative, indefinite or causal conjunction the word is common in classical Latin'. Here the meaning is causal.

## 511–13

**Aeneas, ut fama fidem missique reportant | exploratores, equitum levia improbus arma | praemisit, quaterent campos**: subject and verb of the main sentence are *Aeneas* … *praemisit*. *improbus* modifies Aeneas in predicative position ('being the villain that he is'). *ut* introduces a parenthetical subordinate clause in the indicative (*ut* = as) with *fama* (the final –*a* scans short) and *missi … exploratores* as subjects linked by the –*que* after *missi* and *reportant* as verb (plural, matching the number of the closer of the two subjects). The sentence concludes with a iussive clause (*quaterent campos*) with the conjunction (*ut* + subjunctive) elided.

**ut fama fidem missique reportant | exploratores**: *fidem*, the accusative object of *reportant*, here has the sense of 'trustworthy piece of military intelligence', referring to what Aeneas and his army are currently up to: 'as word-of-mouth and scouts sent out (on reconnaissance) report back as <no longer (dubious)**>** word-of-mouth, but <confirmed)> trustworthy information'. Turnus is talking fast; he knows his stuff.

## 513–14

**ipse ardua montis | per deserta iugo superans adventat ad urbem**: there are various ways to sort out the topographical indicators and the verbs (the participle *superans* and the main verb *adventat*). *ardua* and *deserta* are both in the neuter plural, either both used substantively (with *ardua montis* the accusative object of *superans* and *per deserta* going with *adventat*), or with one as attribute of the other in a phrase governed by the preposition *per*: *per ardua deserta / deserta ardua montis*: 'overcoming the steep heights of the mountain (*montis* is a partitive genitive), he marches on the ridge through deserted regions to the city'. Or one could contemplate construing *ardua*  *montis per deserta iugo* all with *superans* ('overcoming the steep heights of the mountain (by moving) through deserted areas on / over the ridge'), thus adding drama to his sudden appearance at the city gates (*adventat ad urbem*). JH: Virgil again catches a savvy commander's grasp of military procedure and thinking: where speed is of the essence, there is not a moment to lose in jazzing up some tricksy speechifying when you have a cunning plan to cook up, a *trick*, yes, but right out of the manual, a *bona fide* aspect of waging *war* (515: *furta … belli*, a phrase quoted from Sallust, *Historiae* in Servius' note here; *parem*, 509 ~ *paro*, 515).

## 515–16

**furta paro belli convexo in tramite silvae, | ut** *bivias* **armato obsidam milite** *fauces*: the *ut*-clause features a symmetrical design with *bivias* modifying *fauces*, *armato* agreeing with *milite*, and the verb (*obsidam*) at the centre: adjectivea – adjectiveb – verb – nounb – nouna .

**convexo in tramite silvae**: anastrophe (= *in convexo tramite silvae*). Horsfall (1982: 50) draws attention to the conventional nature of topographical descriptions, with reference to similarities between this passage and Livy's account of the Caudine Forks episode, in which the Romans were trapped like rats and soundly humiliated by Italian guerrillas (9.2.7). According to Stahl (1990: 186) the topography feeds into characterization: '[…]Turnus leaves the battle for a ruse. In the eyes of the reader, the discrepancy between words and deeds certainly discredits Turnus.' The following description of the place where Turnus plans to set up his ambush reinforces the negative impression (11.522– 25 — not part of the set text but worth a look here):

Est curvo anfractu valles, accommoda fraudi armorumque dolis, quam densis frondibus atrum urget utrimque latus, tenuis quo semita ducit angustaeque ferunt fauces aditusque maligni. 525

[There is a valley with a winding curve, suited to deceit and the stratagems of warfare; darkened by dense foliage, it is hemmed in on either side; a narrow path leads into it, the entry points of the ravine are narrow and the approach is treacherous.]

Stahl also points out that Virgil's '*parecphrasis* ascribes predicates of human deceit to the place of the ambush. […] the procedure of characterizing is indirect, but the reader can hardly avoid drawing conclusions from the quality of the landscape — *fraudi*; *dolis*; *maligni*; cf. *silvis … iniquis*, 531 — regarding the character of its user Turnus who is familiar with the area (*nota … regione*, 530) when planning his *furta belli* (515).' JH: But using your superior knowledge of the terrain isn't in itself a failing in a general, and 'discrediting' Turnus in order to 'credit' Aeneas is in the end a disappointingly flat response to Virgil's mix of excitement and gravity in his dramatization of the complexities of war. The *Aeneid* can be as multi-perspectival as *War & Peace* (if a whole lot *shorter*). Besides, the Caudine Forks episode presents a telling conundrum: the Samnites had to decide between letting the Romans go free, thus putting them under an obligation, and wiping them out, thus winning this war at a stroke; but they chose the for once ill-advised middle way of letting them go but humiliating them, thus ensuring the need for tergiversation and revenge, and getting the worst of all worlds. It's plain to see how the shifty and disputatious parable bears loudly on the 'end' of the *Aeneid*, on the 'logic' of *Roman* imperialism. Can any war be terminated *without bloodshed*? And/or *without humiliation*?

**armato … milite**: a collective singular: 'soldiers in arms'.

## 517

**tu Tyrrhenum equitem conlatis excipe signis**: the emphatic vocative *tu* is superfluous from a grammatical point of view, but brings out the very different tasks that Turnus has in mind for himself and Camilla. JH: *She* had her ideas for a twin-strike campaign (| *me…* | *tu*, 504, 505), but Turnus countermands (<I>, 515–16, | *tu*… | *tecum* …. *tu*, 517–18) — 'I set an ambush, you engage in a frontal clash with their enemy's cavalry'. *excipio*, however, is what a huntress should do, awaiting the game the beaters stampede toward her. The pair of them are going to find that 'entering' into an ambush can be a 'malign' *boomerang* — and, in case we missed it, that was our tipoff in the last word of the setup at 525*.*

**Tyrrhenum equitem**: like *milite* (516), *equitem* is a collective singular: 'the Tyrrhenian cavalry' (the accusative object of *excipe*).

**conlatis … signis**: an ablative absolute.

## 518–19

**tecum acer Messapus erit turmaeque Latinae | Tiburtique manus, ducis et tu concipe curam.'**: the first main clause (*tecum … manus*) has a tripartite subject — *Messapus*, *turmae*, *manus* — linked by the –*que* after *turmae* and *Tiburti*, with *erit* as verb (singular, matching in number the closest of the three subjects). After this tricolon Virgil uses a different connective (*et*) to add another main clause with the (again, strictly speaking superfluous) vocative *tu* as subject and the imperative *concipe* as verb.

**Messapus**: according to Horsfall (2000: 451) Messapus is 'a major figure in *Aeneid* 7–12, possibly once of greater importance in the Aeneas-legend'. He certainly has his moments (alongside Camilla again at 11.603–4), starting with his impressive entry in the catalogue of Latin troops in *Aeneid* 7.691–705. In Virgil's narrative, however, he never really comes into his own — ceding much of the limelight to Camilla. As Ash (2002: 259) puts it: 'Messapus speaks only once (*Aeneid* 12.296), when he kills Achates in battle, and we certainly never see him conversing with Turnus in direct speech. Instead, Camilla tends to play that role, as we can see when Turnus explains to her his plan to set up an ambush for Aeneas' men (*Aeneid* 11.508–19). Moreover, although Messapus appears in the narrative on numerous occasions, he is almost always described as doing something: only twice does Virgil offer any insight into what Messapus is feeling.' JH: Nevertheless, he is the first warrior listed by Turnus as a reason why the Latins need not be down-hearted, and his apparent survival of the *Aeneid*, along with the other character named, the augur 'lucky Tolumnius' (11.429, cf. 464), as between them they help to wreck the first truce arranged for the Turnus-Aeneas duel (12.258–65; 289–96), means that the casualties, Camilla and Turnus, left the confederate cause still up and running, to participate in the *Italian* future (see n. on 11.831). In Messapus' case, we heard first of him that nobody could lay him low 'with fire or steel', so he was always an odds-on survivor (7.691–94).

**Tiburti … manus**: Tiburtus was one of the three sons of the Argive Catillus, who came to Italy after the death of his father and is said to have founded Tibur. See *Aeneid* 7.670–77.

**ducis … curam**: the genitive *ducis* (referring to Camilla: the genitive is subjective), in emphatic front position, depends on *curam*.

## 520–21

**sic ait, et paribus Messapum in proelia dictis | hortatur sociosque duces et pergit in hostem**: a sequence of three main verbs — *ait*, *hortatur*, *pergit* — linked by the two *et*. The –*que* after *socios* links the two accusative objects of *hortatur*, i.e. *Messapum* and *duces*. These include those *duces* cited by Turnus in the debate (11.430).

## 11.532–596: The Story ofCamilla (as Told byDiana): Overview

532–35a: the narrative frame: Diana gets ready to address Opis (3+ lines)

	- 535b–37a: the current situation: Camilla, her favourite servant, is going to war (2)
		- 537b–38: Diana shifts into expository mode (cf. *enim*) (1+)

539–84a: the aetiological tale proper (45+ verses)


595–96: Opis acts at Diana's behest (2)

Diana begins her discourse in the present, proceeds to sketch in Camilla's backstory, and returns to the present by uttering a counterfactual wish, which in turn sets up the last part of her speech, which anticipates Camilla's impending death on the battlefield, with instructions for the aftermath. 584b–86 stand out: this is the moment Camilla's story takes a tragic turn, highlighted on the lexical level in particular at the beginning and the end of the speech: *tristis … voces* (534); *bellum … crudele* (535); *fatis … acerbis* (587); *tristis … pugna* (589); *infausto … omine* (589). Camilla herself is given two attributes that underscore the tragic nature of her story: *infelix* (563 — about midway through the speech: line 29 of 60) and *miserandae* (593).

The overall design of Diana's discourse is fairly symmetrical, especially the central part (539–94): 8 – 20 – 17.5 + 2.5 – 8. Despite the sense of foreboding and doom that hangs over the tale, there are also touches that are dramatic (without being tragic) or even playful, such as Diana's authorial voice (the goddess is of the 'Me, myself, and I' persuasion and somehow manages to feature herself in her discourse in the first, second, and third person); the ambiguous figure of Metabus, who is chased out by the Volscians in what appears to be an all-out revolt (there are parallels to Mezentius, but he is a far less obnoxious figure); the disappearing mother, and her partial replacement by her father, who not only ensconces Camilla in two womb-like encasings (the fold of his garment; the bark of an oak-tree), but also nurses her: we get a detailed description of suckling milk; the fast-and-loose narrative, with some implausible touches, well (but not quite fully) glossed over (*forte*); the way Diana lingers on circumstantial details: the swollen river, the immense spear. In fact, if one turns Diana's speech into a word cloud (see below) (http://www.wordclouds.com/), the word for spear (*telum*) takes centre stage: since the tableau foregrounds cavalry fighting we expect the epic's standard weaponry to be varied, and with it many of the formulaic expectations and valuations attached to our reading of them: Camilla spells as challenging a diversion from *arma* as *virgo* from *vir* (see n. on 542–43).

Diana's epiphany is in many ways surprising. See de Grummond (1997: 161):

Then suddenly, with no more warning than an *interea* (532), the poet introduces the goddess Diana herself. The shift of scene to a heavenly setting is, of course, typically Virgilian in manner. The actions of the human protagonists are continually reflected, paralleled, or symbolically embodied in the speech and action of the gods in the *Aeneid*, and these Olympian scenes are in many ways firmly modelled on Homeric precedent. Diana's entry, nonetheless, comes as something of a surprise. Although Dido has been compared to Diana in a famous simile (1. 498– 504) […] and although there are […] a number of indirect references to Diana in the *Aeneid*, nowhere in the poem previously has the goddess herself actually appeared — nor is she to be found again, after this passage. And what is more, the spoken narrative of Diana which follows, sixty lines long (11. 535–94), is utterly without Homeric precedent: Artemis speaks twice in the *Iliad*, in brief exchanges with the other gods, and never in the *Odyssey*.

He argues that Diana has a significant subliminal presence throughout the *Aeneid* — and, while it appears that her role here is to introduce and foreground Camilla, one could also view it the other way around: the figure of Camilla serves to bring Diana and her world to the narrative surface: 'far from dragging Diana into the poem as an artificial way of enhancing the role of Camilla, Virgil has introduced Camilla into the *Aeneid* largely for the purpose of making manifest and intelligible the importance — the power — of Diana' (de Grummond (1997: 163).

Whatever the relative importance of the two characters may be (and why can't they mutually enrich each other in their respective contributions to the world of the *Aeneid*?), they are joined by a third, equally mysterious figure, Opis, who first acts as text-internal audience for Diana's disquisition and then enters the action at her mistress' behest. Opis is a nymph from Diana's entourage who here figures as the text-internal addressee of Diana's tale about Camilla and will be charged with killing Camilla's killer. She is arguably picked out for these tasks since she serves as Camilla's double, not least in her swiftness (532: *velocem*; cf. 7.807–11 for Camilla's speed). That both are maidens (536: *o virgo*) goes without saying(!). The association of Diana with Opis (indeed Diana *as* Opis) goes back to the Greek poet Callimachus. See Thomas (1999: 133). Yet the Latin (N.B. *Latin*) noun *ops*, *opis*, f. ('help', 'resources', 'power', 'wealth') may also resonate in the name, as a case of 'etymology *e contrario*': despite her name, Opis does not, cannot help Camilla. She therefore represents a theological paradox (even a goddess named 'Help' may be — at least partially — disempowered) that goes well with the adverb *nequiquam* in 536 (for which see below). For this 'leading principle of ancient etymological practice, namely that things that sound even vaguely similar are the same in origin', see Katz (2010: 342). JH: At the same time, the (N.B. *Greek*) word-truth that 'Op-is' imports poetic 'optics', since she's here to be sent down to 'visit' the battlefield and get whoever kills Camilla (*in-vise*, 588) she *also* 'helps' *us* 'see' that no power on earth or heaven is any 'help' to her. All through Camilla's Big Scene we'll be (un)comfortably aware of Diana watching as Opis watches for her cue from her seat in the front row of the gods (836–37: *in montibus…* | *summis alta sedet*) before moving to the wings ready for her entrance (853: *tumulo … ab alto*). And what this watching amounts to is, finally, (swift) 'vengeance' (*opis* in *Greek*): *ultricem … sagittam*, 590, *neque … inultae*, 845–47. There can be a lot in a name (a lottery, indeed).

# 11.532–538: AVirginal Threesome (Diana, Opis,Camilla)

After Turnus finished his speech, he is off to his ambush and positions himself in the treacherous woods, in wait for Aeneas. Before we return to any further action, Diana suddenly appears in the narrative to fill us in on Camilla's backstory.

**532–35: Velocem interea superis in sedibus Opim, | unam ex virginibus sociis sacraque caterva, | compellabat et has tristis Latonia voces | ore dabat**: the (long-delayed) subject of the sentence is *Latonia* = the daughter of Latona, i.e. Diana. Before we reach her and the first verb, Virgil devotes two lines to the accusative object of *compellabat*: *velocem … Opim*, who receives a one-line gloss in apposition (533: *unam…*). The second part of the sentence sets up Diana's speech: *has* (*tristis*) *voces* is the accusative object of *dabat*. Given that the last syllable of *tristis* scans long by position here, it could be either the alternative third declension accusative plural form (= *tristes*) modifying *voces* or the nominative singular modifying *Latonia* — or (best) both: the goddess gives voice to her sadness.

**velocem … Opim**: a massive hyperbaton spanning the entire line, with the attribute speeding ahead of the noun it modifies.

**interea**: marks the next step in the narrative sequence and/or this scene in heaven unfolds simultaneously with the events on earth just narrated…

**superis in sedibus**: anastrophe (= *in superis sedibus*): the action moves skywards.

**unam ex virginibus sociis sacraque caterva**: *ex* is here used in the partitive sense after the cardinal number *unam* — 'one (out) of…' — governing two chiastically arranged (noun + adjective :: adjective + noun) but essentially synonymous phrases, linked by the –*que* after *sacra* and forming a hendiadys: Diana tends to move about with an entourage (*caterva*) of virgin maidens (*virginibus*). The 'vowel score' of the two phrases, and the way Virgil has fitted them into his metre, is another instance of the musicality of his verse: the dactylic *virginibus sociis* (– u u | – u u | –) features five syllables with the 'light' vowel 'i', whereas heavier 'a' sounds dominate in the more spondaic *sacraque caterva* (– | – u u | – –). Both phrases take up two-and-a-half feet, though the first opens at the beginning of a foot and comes to an end in the middle of one, whereas the inverse is the case with second, thus reinforcing the chiastic design and providing a proper moment of closure. The two attributes, linked via alliteration, emphasize the close-knit nature of the coterie (*sociis*) and its purity and holiness (*sacra*). JH: So this bunch of girls, *don't* get this wrong, is, at once, one holy horde. We have here one more in Virgil's long line of phrases linked by –*que*, which indicates 'more than one idea, less than two', as much '=' as 'and', so two ways to freight the same unit.

**compellabat … dabat**: both main verbs are in the imperfect, but for different reasons: in *compellabat* the tense signifies iteration, in *dabat* inception. The enjambment and placement of the two verbs at the beginning of their respective lines reinforces the jingling homoioteleuton –*labat*, *dabat* (though note that the metrical stress shifts from –*la*– to –*bat*).

**has tristis … voces**: all syllables in this phrase scan long, in line with the sombre mood of Diana's upcoming speech. Camilla's fate is a tragic one (with *tristis* invoking the genre).

**ore dabat**: the metrical pattern (– u u –), called a choriamb, brings the longish run up to Diana's direct speech to a well-defined end.

$$535 \text{--} 37$$

**'graditur bellum ad crudele Camilla, | o virgo, et nostris nequiquam cingitur armis, | cara mihi ante alias**: two main clauses linked by *et*, the first followed by a direct address to Opis (*o virgo*), the second by a phrase in apposition to Camilla (*cara mihi ante alias*), though *virgo* would also suit Camilla (as well as Diana of course) and Opis, too, is a privileged member of Diana's entourage, so we have a deliberate triangulation and assimilation of the goddess, her divine confidante, and her human protégée. As Fratantuono (2009: 181) elaborates: '*o uirgo* applies to all three women: is Diana specifically addressing Opis here (probably), or emotionally sighing over the virgin Camilla (perhaps)? As usual in such cases, we must not rush to insist on one at the expense of the other.' JH: We *are* told to get on with it, from the start: *Velocem* … So *I* think we *should* rush in, and not play the fool.

**graditur bellum ad crudele Camilla**: the inversion of normal word order in the first clause, where the verb (*graditur*) comes first and the subject (*Camilla*) last (rather than vice versa), can perhaps be read as indicative of Diana's reluctance to see her darling go to her death — just as the anastrophe and inversion of the regular word order in the phrase *bellum ad crudele* (= *ad crudele bellum*) foregrounds the prophetic power of the adjective, not least by placing it right next to Camilla: the juxtaposition produces both stylistic (*c*-alliteration) and thematic effects: *crudele* anticipates her death in the savage slaughter of the battlefield.

**nostris … armis**: Diana's weaponry, via hyperbaton, seems to clad Camilla (the subject of *cingitur*) in protective armour, but Diana knows that any sense of security is misplaced (*nequiquam*). JH: There's a touch in *graditur <-> bellum* of Mars 'marching off to war' (hence his name '*Gradivus*'), and the cockpit of *arma virum* is no place for Diana's weapons (*vir-go … armis*).

**nequiquam**: Horsfall's note brings out the wider theological and literary background invoked by the adverb: 'Artemis had not been able to save Hippolytus […]; from Homer on, the gods, even when concerned to help, were powerless in the face of death, even that of their own offspring […]; Diana's inability to help her beloved servant (and her awareness thereof), derive from a long and tragic tradition (Zeus-Sarpedon, Thetis-Achilles), etc.)' (2003: 315).

*ca***r***a mi***hi ante a***l***i***a***s**: JH: the phrase stands in apposition to — and phonically embraces — Ca-ami-i-()-()-a**-**l-i-a (even the elisions help the effect). We are going to savour this fancy name. [And *I* think there's a touch of rhetorical *upgrading* in the step up from *Camilla* | to *caramihantalias*. Emotional upgrading, too, as Diana's fancy rhetoric intensifies the bittersweet taste of her own words, which fire as well as express a shot of love: *dulcedine* is 'in tension with' *tristis* (which includes 'bitter'.]

**ante alias**: *ante* here functions as preposition + accusative: 'above others'.

## 537–38

**neque enim novus iste Dianae | venit amor subitaque animum dulcedine movit**: Diana (referring to herself in the third person, with Caesarian grandeur and/or tragic pathos) now explains why Camilla commands the top spot in her affection. (Her preferences change from text to text: in Ovid, *Metamorphoses* 2, her favourite is Callisto. But this could be *a* top spot, 'above (some, not necessarily all) others'!). The – *que* after *subita* links *venit* and *movit*. The denial of novelty through the negation of *novus amor* and *subita dulcedine* amounts to a meta-literary joke (reinforced, perhaps, by the switch into the third person, which makes these lines read like an authorial comment): given that the figure of Camilla is a Virgilian creation, the love Diana feels for her is anything but long-established, whatever her protestations: the love *is* new, her delightful charm *is* sudden, the tradition she here tries to invoke *is* an invention. JH: And, brags the *Aeneid*, the tableau beats any other Artemis myth hands down — including, though not limited to, the instantly 'moving' fairytale we are now moving on to (… *movit*. |).

**novus iste … amor**: the adjective *novus*, modifying *amor*, is perhaps best rendered adverbially ('this love of Diana has not arrived *recently*…'). Commentators debate whether the genitive is subjective (Diana loves Camilla) or objective (Camilla's love for Diana), but the ambiguity *instantly delights*. The noun *amor* features with paraded frequency in a tale from and about a supposedly asexual virgin goddess and her coterie of acolytes. See also 549: Metabus' love for his daughter and 583: Camilla's love for Diana('s lifestyle). JH: Welcome to the sorority — *arma virumque* is going out on a limb: this special pang gets special (*novus*) treatment, reserving the word *dulcedo* for its one and only use here.

11.539–546: 'They F\*\*\* You up, Your Mum andDad. They May not Mean to, but TheyDo.'1

Since Camilla is a Virgilian invention, all aspects of her story, and in particular all names, are meaningful choices. Diana starts Camilla's tale with her parents — the local tyrant Metabus (driven out from Privernum by his subjects while his daughter was still a baby) and the nymph Casmilla, from whom she got her name. Parental background and influence during her early years prove formative: 'Even before she is abandoned to the care of Diana, Camilla is bred to a life of pride and hatred amid warfare and, later, exile' (de Grummond 1997: 165). The names of her parents offer further clues about Camilla's 'nature'.

Metabus: tricky to decode. One namesake from Greek myth is the legendary founder of Metapontium, a city in Southern Italy: see Strabo, *Geography* 6.1.15. Metabos of Meta*pontium* yields a bilingual pun: *pontos* is Greek for vast expanse of water ('the sea'), whereas *pons* is Latin for bridge — Metabos, the founder of the city beyond (*meta*) the sea, will provide 'a (makeshift) bridge over troubled water' for his daughter. More generally, he is someone who crosses boundaries, whether imaginary or real: he is trangressive in his pride and exercise of power,

<sup>1</sup> Cf. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This\_Be\_The\_Verse

but also in the 'motherly' care he lavishes upon his baby daughter. Like her dad, Camilla will grow into a figure of trangression who bends gender norms and exhibits haughtiness as she glories in her martial prowess.

Casmilla: JH: Pressure on etymologists to hunt down this high-profile specimen mounts! An elaborate chain of far-fetched argumentation stemming from Varro, maestro of Latin linguistics (*De lingua Latina* 7.34) tracks to the wanted result: 'The initial part of Casmilla, can be identified with a Greek element which meant or connoted "arms" or "armor". "Casmilla", accordingly, should mean something like "armor woman"' (Egan 1983: 20). As we noted, the Camilla episode bristles with words for 'weapons', pride of place taken by *nostris … armis* (536). The name-*change* (metonomasia) could indicate an element of *translation* involved; but '*camilla*' is also a regular Latin word for a girl acolyte in temple cult (what her father will dub a *famula*, 557; cf. 533: *sacra … caterva*, 591: *sacrum … corpus*), and Camilla's story will track her through her own chain of changes, as she swiftly grows up from tyrant's baby to huntress and Diana's favourite; she has by now become her people's queen of hearts and a killer warrior: our first stare at her showed how her 'pastoral myrtle' (Venus' plant) comes now 'ready-tipped with a spear-point' (7.817, end of the Book). She's by nature, then, elusive, morphic, a symbolic figure; reconfigured, indeed, by being hurled into the *Aeneid*'s epic carnage. In her case, it's more the (re-)naming, less the name, that signifies.

## 539–43

**pulsus ob invidiam regno virisque superbas | Priverno antiqua Metabus cum excederet urbe, | infantem fugiens media inter proelia belli | sustulit exsilio comitem, matrisque vocavit | nomine Casmillae mutata parte Camillam**: rephrased in prose the sentence would go: *cum Metabus*, *ob invidiam virisque superbas regno pulsus*, *Priverno*, *antiqua urbe*, *excederet*, *inter media proelia belli fugiens infantem exsilio comitem sustulit et nomine matris Casmillae*, *parte* [*sc. nominis*] *mutata*, *Camillam vocavit*. In other words, we have:

• a temporal *cum*-clause (though the word *cum* is difficult to spot, hidden away as it is in 540 (and appearing suspiciously close to the ablative *urbe*: don't get fooled into thinking that you are dealing with the preposition…), with *Metabus* as subject and *excederet* as verb;


The sentence gives us dramatically confusing glimpses of Camilla's earliest infancy. We start with the exile of her father, which is orderly without any implication of bloodshed and violence in the initial *cum*clause (*pulsus*, *excederet*), before turning into a flight during skirmishes in an all-out war (*fugiens media inter proelia belli*). Within this chaos and confusion Camilla appears as an unnamed infant whom Metabus carries off with himself into exile, seemingly naming her in that very act after her mother Casmilla — but Diana curiously glosses over what became of Casmilla herself: did she perhaps die in childbirth (or) on the battlefield? Diana passes over these details in silence. You might ask yourself why.

**ob invidiam … virisque superbas**: *viris* is NOT the ablative or dative plural of *vir*, but the accusative plural (= *vires*) of *vis*. The phrase (a hendiadys of sorts in the form of a *husteron proteron*) supplies the reason why the inhabitants of Privernum drove out Metabus: they felt hatred for him (*invidia*) owing to his arrogant or hubristic (cf. *superbas*) abuse of power (the term *vis* signifies illegitimate use of physical force). For *invidia* see further Kaster (2005), for *superbia* Baraz (2008) (2014). JH: That Lausus seems not to inherit his father Mezentius' tyrannical nature may be enough to exonerate Camilla too; but patrilinear continuities are the engine of aetiological-aristocratic (hi)story, and Virgil risks all in disturbing their presumption.

**Priverno antiqua … urbe**: *antiqua … urbe* stands in apposition to *Priverno*, an ablative of separation. Privernum was a city in Latium. Adkin (2010), cited by O'Hara (2016: xxiv), etymologizes the name of the city (and the eponymous warrior Privernus) from *primus* and *vis*, which would turn *viris superbas* in the previous line into an anticipating gloss of the name of the town (and Metabus' relationship to it).

**media inter proelia belli**: here the anastrophe enacts the meaning of the preposition *inter*, which is placed 'between' the attribute (*media*) and noun (*proelia*) it governs.

**infantem… | sustulit exsilio comitem**: *infantem* is the accusative object of *sustulit* with *comitem* in predicative position ('… as companion in exile'). JH: Verbal tension between *in-fantem*, 'outside language' and *vocavit* | *nomine*, 'made the noise that brought her into language by conferring a social identity', stresses that *this* speech is itself 'all about' naming-as-faming. Normal Roman fathers acknowledged their children by 'lifting them in their arms' (*sustulit*, 542, *sinu prae se portans*, 544) at the hearth, and naming a girl would, so they say, happen at nine days old (a boy at eight days).

**matrisque vocavit | nomine Casmillae mutata parte Camillam**: *Casmillae* stands in apposition to the possessive genitive *matris*, which is dependent on *nomine*, an ablative of origin: 'he called her Camilla, from her mother's name, Casmilla'. *vocavit* here governs a double accusative ('to call somebody something'), so *eam* or *infantem* has to be supplied from the previous clause. The inversion of standard word order ensures the climactic placement of Camilla's name at the end of the sentence.

## 544–46

**ipse sinu prae se portans iuga longa petebat | solorum nemorum: tela undique saeva premebant | et circumfuso volitabant milite Volsci**: dramatic parataxis with an asyndetic shift in focus after *nemorum* from Metabus to the weapons (*tela*) as well as their wielders, the Volscians. The elided accusative objects (supply *eam* – sc. *Camillam* – with the participle *portans* as well as *eos* – sc. *Metabum et Camillam* – with *premebant*) add further urgency to the narration.

**ipse sinu prae se portans**: gender matters start to register as Metabus is 'almost feminized by the absence of Casmilla', with Virgil's phrase evoking 'marsupial shades' (Fratantuono 2009: 185).

**iuga longa… | solorum nemorum**: the sonorous homoioteleuton – *lorum*, –*morum* is Diana's way of hamming up her habitat: she is the deity who presides over wild woods and peaks. (Metabus will call on her as *cultrix nemorum* at 557 below.) JH: Does Artemis step into the story, too, by becoming a weird 'second mother' to Camilla, as goddess of childbirth (see Horace, *Odes* 3.22, *Montium custos nemorumque virgo*, | *quae laborantis utero puellas* | *ter vocata audis adimisque leto*, | *diva triformis*)?

**circumfuso … milite**: ablative absolute; *milite* is a collective singular.

**volitabant … Volsci**: an alliteration involving the entire first syllable, as good as a *figura etymologica* (see n. on 504 above).

## 11.547–556: A Stroke of Inspearation

In mid-flight Metabus finds himself thwarted by the river Amasenus, which is swollen to torrential size after a recent downpour and hence uncrossable with a baby in wrap. A flash of genius comes to the rescue: he ties Camilla to his massive spear. The *telum immane* (552) stands at the very centre of this block of verses (5 + 5). The narrative adds further faux-aetiological details about the figure of Camilla, starting with the river's name: 'Virgil seems to have introduced the swollen "Amasenus" into the story of "Amazon" Camilla because it evokes μαστός (μαζός) [the Greek word for 'breast']' (Paschalis 1997: 378). He further suggests (and you might want to debate how plausibly): '"Metabus" and his activities relate to the crossing of boundaries; the spear-cast *across* the "swollen" "Amasenus" suggests that Camilla's breasts will never be swollen with milk. Hence, the spear that lodges beneath Camilla's nipple ("papillam") suckles not milk (cf. 571–72) but a maiden's blood ("uirgineum … bibit … cruorem" (804)).'

## 547–49

**ecce fugae medio summis Amasenus abundans | spumabat ripis, tantus se nubibus imber | ruperat**: the sentence dramatizes the moment (*ecce*!) when Metabus reaches the river Amasenus, which is impossible to cross with Camilla in tow. Diana stresses the impasse through circumstantial detail of a recent downpour (*tantus … ruperat*).

**ecce**: 'Insofar as it [sc. *ecce*] has a definable meaning, it is that of expressing immediacy and engagement, in relation to happenings, people or thoughts, whether visible or not' (Dionisotti 2007: 83).

**summis Amasenus abundans | spumabat ripis**: after the friction between juxtaposed *medio* and *summis*, the massive hyperbaton *summis … ripis*, reinforced by enjambment is iconic: the riverbanks frame and (barely) contain the swollen river, which foams within. (There is further expressive soundplay in *abundans* (*unda* hides within) *spumabat*.)

**tantus se nubibus imber | ruperat**: Diana now adds, in asyndetic parataxis, the reason why the Amasenus river is almost overflowing its banks: a downpour of epic proportions (cf. *tantus*: 'so torrential a downpour'). *ruperat*, deftly placed in enjambment for explosive effect, reinforced by the diairesis after the first foot, is pluperfect indicative, indicating an earlier stage than the imperfect *spumabat*. To have the rain as subject, 'bursting itself' (see the reflexive pronoun *se*) out of the clouds (*nubibus* is an ablative of separation), may sound passing strange: compare *Aeneid* 9.670–71: *Iuppiter*… | … *caelo cava nubila rumpit*: 'Jupiter bursts the hollow clouds in heaven'. But our divine narrator Diana might have been disinclined to feature another god in her narrative. (Those learning German might be inclined to think of the word for 'downpour', i.e. 'Wolkenbruch', which also uses the image of clouds bursting apart.) JH: Instead, this locale of Privernum and the Amasenus (cf. 7.685), either of them scarcely troubling history with a mention, comes alive, as does so much of Italy in Virgil's devoted hands; and becomes grand, too, with this epic flash flood (in a tall-tale teacup): but you might suspect that it insinuates 'Amazon' into Camilla's text at her 'baptism' (cf. 647) with the distinctive Italic twist of an intervocalic –s– (in Latin, this becomes –r–).

## 549–50

**ille innare parans infantis amore | tardatur caroque oneri timet**: another instance of metrical enactment: as Metabus prepares himself to jump into the river and swim across, the thought of his baby s l o w s h i m d o w n: there is a telling caesura after *parans*, which sets up the alliterative antithesis between his intention to swim (*in-nare parans*: – | – u u | –) and love of his newborn baby girl (*in-fantis amo-re*: – | – u u | – u), two phrases that resemble each other from a metrical point of view. Love wins out, and Metabus comes to an enjambed halt with the three spondees of *tardatur* (– – | –) that lead up to the caesura, followed by two more in *caro* (– | –). JH: If you like, the father in the story carries the child to a 'second birth' (*onus* meaning a pregnancy), matching the 'stepmother' narrator's (un)natural affection (*caro* ~ *cara*, 537, 586).

## 550–51

**omnia secum | versanti subito vix haec sententia sedit**: *versanti* is a present participle in the dative singular modifying an implied *ei*.

**subito vix … sedit**: for the apparently contradictory force of the two adverbs, see Horsfall (2003: 322): 'the solution came to Metabus "in a flash" [*subito*], but "the resolution was arrived at with reluctance" [*vix*] (so Page), for obvious reasons.' *sedit* is a shock, given the nature of the plan, but this is a final tweak to the paradox-mongering storyteller's flourish.

## 552–55

**telum immane manu valida quod forte gerebat | bellator, solidum nodis et robore cocto, | huic natam libro et silvestri subere clausam | implicat atque habilem mediae circumligat hastae**: the narrative now homes in on the saving piece of equipment: a massive spear (*telum immane*). To give this key object due prominence, Diana elaborates on it further with (*a*) a relative clause introduced by *quod* (*manu … bellator*) with *telum* as antecedent and (*b*) an adjectival phrase in predicative position (*solidum*, governing the two ablatives *nodis* and *robore cocto*). Then — off breaks the sentence, incomplete as it is, in an anacoluthon, as we restart with the demonstrative pronoun *huic*, which picks up *telum*, but in the dative (with *implicat*): 'the giant javelin, which the warrior happened to wield in his stalwart paw, hard as it was because of its knots and the fire-tempered wood — to this (sc. javelin), he tied his daughter…'

**manu valida**: the phrase belongs in the relative clause introduced by *quod*, but its positioning up front generates the satisfying juxtaposition of the giant javelin with the mighty hand that wields it, an effect reinforced by the assonance of *im-man-e* and *man-u*.

**forte**: the adverb means 'by chance' or 'as it happens', and might just be a facetious signal that the facts of Diana's tale are a bit unlikely: how fortuitous that Metabus, who was carrying his baby hugged to his chest just a moment ago, has also managed to bring along a mighty spear.

**bellator**: in context something of a surprise touch, made more prominent by the enjambment and the caesura right after it (a trithemimeres). From a syntactical point of view, the noun is quite superfluous; and from a thematic point of view, it could even appear a tad ironic, given that our valiant warrior is now in full flight. But Diana knows what she is doing: the *bellator* has fathered a *bellatrix* (cf. 7.785), and the noun reinforces the family's epic credentials and helps to gloss over the implausibility of him being equipped with a *telum immane* at this very moment: a *bellator* is fitted with such equipment as standard.

**solidum nodis et robore cocto**: the two ablatives express both quality of material and cause: the spear is virtually unbreakable (*solidum*) because it consists of oak-wood (*robur*) that features many knots (*nodis*) and whose wood (*robore*) has been hardened in the fire (*cocto*).

## Extra information

The *nodi* in question are those that wood experts refer to as 'tight knots' that toughen up the surrounding timber: 'As a tree grows and increases the circumference of its trunk, the growing trunk begins to overtake the branches that grow out from it. Knots form around these branches, building up trunk material as the tree continues to expand. Since the branches are still growing as they are overtaken by the trunk, the knot that forms is solid and contains living wood throughout. *The wood of the knot is typically tougher than the surrounding wood* [our italics!] and may form a bulge around the branch emerging from its center.'2

**libro et silvestri subere clausam**: the past participle *clausam* modifies *natam*. *libro et silvestri subere* is a hendiadys: for the occasion, Camilla has been wrapped 'in bark of forest oak'. It is the second womb-like

<sup>2</sup> http://homeguides.sfgate.com/causes-knot-form-tree-trunk-67275.html

enclosure for Camilla on this flight: previously she enjoyed transport in her father's *sinus* (544). The Freudians among you will be titillated by the fact that the Latin term for this particular type of oak (*suber*) contains within itself the Latin term for lactating teat (*uber*). Again Metabus emerges as mum and dad in one.

**habilem mediae circumligat hastae**: *habilem* describes baby Camilla, who, ensconced as she is in protective bark, is now 'easy to handle', 'eminently transportable by spear', or 'with her seatbelt fastened and ready for departure' (or whatever *habilis* is supposed to mean here). Her father, at any rate, ties her to the middle of the javelin for safe dispatch and proper balance: *mediae … hastae* is a dative with *circumligat*.

## 556

**quam dextra ingenti librans ita ad aethera fatur**: *quam* is a connecting relative (= *et eam*), referring back to *hasta* (555). The form *aethera* (short –*a* for accusative singular) follows Greek morphology (fittingly so, as *aether* is a loanword from the Greek αἰθήρ). JH: *Librans* is **not** involved in wordplay with *libro* (552); **nor** has this the slightest nuance of metatextuality, binding Metabus's baby / story into the middle of the book (*liber*) and launching it beyond, making a splash. **But** stories about birth do have a well-known knack of delivering the birth of stories.

Belted to the spear, Camilla is now ready for takeoff, but Metabus does not let her fly without the requisite prayer to Diana to spare her a crash landing. Diana accepts the bargain Metabus offers: if his daughter gets down safely, he will ensure that she will become a devotee of the goddess. In a sense, then, she remains tied to the spear for life (and death).

## 557–60

**"alma, tibi hanc, nemorum cultrix, Latonia virgo, | ipse pater famulam voveo; tua prima per auras | tela tenens supplex hostem fugit. accipe, testor, | diva tuam, quae nunc dubiis committitur auris."**: Diana now quotes — in direct speech — Metabus' prayer to herself. Parataxis dominates: the prayer consists of three main clauses (*voveo – fugit – accipe*) in asyndetic sequence.

**alma … nemorum cultrix … Latonia virgo**: Metabus interlaces his vow with three invocations of Diana, and here's another touch of the maternal (*alma*, cf. n. on 545). She'll not stop watching over her 'nursling'.

**tibi hanc … ipse pater famulam voveo**: the self-referential *ipse pater* is grammatically speaking superfluous, but underscores the aspect of Metabus' identity of particular relevance to the vow: he acts as a prototypical *paterfamilias* who is legally in charge of every member of his household and has the right to decree their destiny — up to and including the imposition of capital punishment or devoting one of his children to religious service (the so-called *ius vitae necisque*). Camilla's very name brings precisely such a practice to mind: as we saw, the Latin term *camillus* (or, for female devotees, *camilla*) designates a religious acolyte. *famulam* is a predicative complement of *hanc*: 'I, the very father, vow her to you *as servant*.' Roman vows operate on the *do-ut-des* ('I give so that you may give') principle (thus Roman generals regularly vowed to build a temple in the heat of battle in return for victory). The exchange Metabus proposes consists of him giving his daughter Camilla to Diana in return for her safety.

**tua prima … tela tenens**: the participle agrees with the subject of *fugit*, i.e. Camilla. Technically speaking, the spear holds her rather than the other way around, but Metabus here thinks of the spear as belonging to Diana (*tua … tela*) and of Camilla as already a devotee of the goddess of the hunt, here wielding her first (*prima … tela*) weapon.

**per auras … supplex hostem fugit**: the prepositional phrase *per auras* goes with *fugit*, with *supplex* in predicative position ('she flees … *as a suppliant*'). *hostis* is technically speaking an external enemy: put differently, Metabus here disenfranchises himself and his child, labelling their former community as enemies. JH: This is Camilla's launch: never forget that whenever she 'flees', a warhead is whizzing on its way (see below on *infelix*).

**accipe … tuam**: sc. *famulam*.

**testor**: Metabus underscores again that he means what he says: if his baby daughter survives the flight and lands safely, she will become Diana's.

**diva**: another vocative.

**nunc … committitur**: dramatic present tense: as he utters the last sentence, Metabus has his daughter already in mid-air.

## 561–63

**dixit, et adducto contortum hastile lacerto | immittit: sonuere undae, rapidum super amnem | infelix fugit in iaculo stridente Camilla**: as Metabus concludes his speech (*dixit*), the narrative focuses on the decisive throw. The rest of line 561 is devoted to building up tension as Metabus prepares to throw his javelin; the verb of throwing follows — as so often in descriptions of sudden action — in enjambment (562: *immittit* — three spondees: the metre lingers on the action, generating suspense as to its outcome). The shift in focus to the resounding waters of the river is a deft touch of drama: it is as if the waves roar up in protest, keen to snatch the child (an effect sharpened by the asyndetic juxtaposition of *immittit* and *sonuere*). The next clause also follows in asyndeton: *rapidum super amnem* rephrases *undae*, but the waters now get demoted from subject to a prepositional phrase.

**adducto … lacerto**: a circumstantial ablative absolute.

**contortum hastile**: cf. 578: *torsit* — like father like daughter.

**sonuere**: the alternative third person plural perfect indicative active form (*sonuerunt*).

**rapidum super amnem**: anastrophe (= *super rapidum amnem*). JH: By the sounds of it, the spate seems to want to make a 'grab' for the flying babe on her way over (*rapidus* from *rapio*). But she's already doing her hovercraft thing, contactless whizzing 'over fields of corn or choppy waves' (7.808–11).

**infelix**: the spondaic *infelix* (– – | –) at the opening of 562 generates a moment of lingering doubt before it becomes clear that Diana is using the attribute proleptically, in anticipation of Camilla's fate in the here and now: within the inset narrative she speeds without further ado or caesura to safety (after *infelix*, the rest of the line is predominantly dactylic: u u | – u u | – – | – u u | – u).

**fugit**: JH: after *fugiens*, 541, *fugae*, 547, *fugit*, 558, we are unlikely to forget that this superphallic father-daughter christening stunt will be the making of Camilla (see n. on 654). Seriously, once this superbabe starts flying into action, she'll be a chip off the block of her 'runaway warrior' dad. Don't miss this when the Volscians ride into town. (In her own weird and disconcerting way, this people's princess is on board with the *Aeneid* and its refugee hero 'on the run' from Troy all the way to Rome and world conquest, *fato profugus*, 1.2).

**in iaculo stridente**: *in* here in the sense of 'tied onto'. *stridente* is a present participle in the neuter ablative singular modifying *iaculo*.

## 564–66

**at Metabus magna propius iam urgente caterva | dat sese fluvio, atque hastam cum virgine victor | gramineo, donum Triviae, de caespite vellit**: after throwing his baby over the river, Metabus sees to his own safety. The verse design shows the familiar dramatic pattern of the action-verb (*dat*) in enjambment. With Metabus in the water, Diana fast-forwards, despite the impression of tight sequence generated by *atque*: right from the start of the second main clause, the narrative focus has shifted back to the missile and the baby (*hastam cum virgine*), which Metabus, having somehow managed to cross the river, extracts from the ground (*vellit*).

**magna propius iam urgente caterva**: an ablative absolute with *caterva* (modified by *magna*) as noun and *urgente* as participle.

**victor**: in predicative position to the subject of the sentence, i.e. Metabus. The noun has alliterative (and thematic) links with *virgine* and *vellit*. Metabus has emerged victorious since he is able to pluck the spear with his maiden-daughter from the ground. In the militarist culture of Rome, the attribute *victor* resonated in powerfully triumphalist key. See above 231.

**gramineo … de caespite**: anastrophe (= *de gramineo caespite*). This must count as a soft landing. Diana is already Camilla's fairy godmother.

**donum Triviae**: Trivia is an alternative designation for Diana, who is herself telling us this gift consists in finding his daughter (and the spear) safe and sound, exactly what he prayed for. Her selected name underlines that this is a 'crossroads' moment (and temples were regularly sited at these).

After the miraculous rescue, Metabus and Camilla go primitive: eschewing all human settlements (or contact even), they lead a nomadic existence of bucolic bliss on the wild mountain ranges, as daddy feeds his daughter on a steady diet of mare's milk. We are right back at the dawn of civilization. In the ethnographic tradition, the consumption of mare's milk is characteristic of savage people with ecologically sound but nonetheless revolting customs who lead a nomadic existence at the very periphery of the known world. Here is Herodotus on the Scythians and their ways of milking mares (not an easy thing to do) (*Histories* 4.2):

Now the Scythians blind all their slaves, by reason of the milk whereof they drink; and this is the way of their getting it: taking pipes of bone very like flutes, they thrust these into the secret parts of the mares and blow into them, some blowing and others milking. By what they say, their reason for so doing is that the blowing makes the mare's veins to swell and her udder to be let down. When milking is done, they pour the milk into deep wooden buckets, and make their slaves to stand about the buckets and shake the milk; the surface part of it they draw off, and this they most value; what lies at the bottom is less esteemed. It is for this cause that the Scythians blind all prisoners whom they take; for they are not tillers of the soil, but wandering nomads.

Camilla is not the only infant in the epic nurtured on unusual dairy products: a scene on the shield of Aeneas in Book 8 depicts the she-wolf suckling the twins while licking them into shape (8.630–34). What you suckled on is as much what you are as what you eat.

## 567–69

**non illum tectis ullae, non moenibus urbes | accepere (neque ipse manus feritate dedisset), | pastorum et solis exegit montibus aevum**: it is again useful to rephrase the two main clauses in prose to bring out the rhetorical design of the verses: *nullae urbes illum tectis aut moenibus acceperunt … et solis montibus pastorum aevum exegit*. Diana dramatizes the apparent inability of Metabus and Camilla to find shelter in a city through the anaphora of *non*, but the impression that father and daughter did the rounds of Italy's cities begging for admission only to be turned away is quickly revealed as misleading: as emerges in the parenthesis, Metabus seems not to have tried! *dedisset* is the apodosis of a truncated past counterfactual conditional sequence, which runs as follows: 'and even if cities had extended an offer to receive them, he would not have given in because of his wildness.' So the statement that no city welcomed them remains factually correct, but the reason lies just as much with Metabus for not asking as with the cities.

**accepere**: the alternative third person plural perfect indicative active form (= *acceperunt*).

**manus … dedisset**: *manus* is in the accusative plural. The phrase *manus dare* means 'to yield', 'to surrender': *OLD* s.v. *do* 18.

**feritate**: an ablative of cause.

**pastorum et solis exegit montibus aevum**: the genitive *pastorum* depends on *aevum*: 'and he led a life of / akin to shepherds on the lonely mountains'.

## 570–72

**hic natam in dumis interque horrentia lustra | armentalis equae mammis et lacte ferino | nutribat teneris immulgens ubera labris**: the main verb here is *nutribat* (long in the coming and in enjambment), which takes *natam* (placed strategically at the outset of the sentence) as accusative object. In between we get two prepositional phrases linked by –*que* after *inter* that indicate location (*in dumis*, *inter horrentia lustra*) and two instrumental ablatives linked by *et* (*mammis et lacte ferino*); the genitive *armentalis equae* goes with both. The present participle *immulgens*, which agrees with the subject of the sentence (i.e. Metabus), governs the accusative *ubera* and the dative *teneris … labris*.

**armentalis equae mammis et lacte ferino**: a hendiadys: 'with the free-range milk from the udders of a rustic mare'. *armentalis* ('rustic') inevitably brings to mind *arma*. See Egan (1983: 23–24): 'Here the poet uses the rare adjective *armentalis* (a *hapax* in Vergil, and in Latin before Statius) to describe the mare which suckles the armor-child Camilla. The adjective is of course semantically appropriate here, but it is likely that Vergil had additional considerations which prompted him to use it, perhaps indeed to coin it, for describing the source of nourishment of a child who is being reared with weapons.' Also, these wild 'Cossacks' live so close to their horses, they're programmed to be natural riders.

**teneris immulgens ubera labris**: Camilla sucks horse-milk straight from the udder, with daddy Metabus as facilitator: what an image of bucolic bliss and fecundity! JH: Who needs 'civilization'? Not our current hostess Diana. (By the way it has been suggested that the name 'Meta-bos' may also speak to a 'shift to bu-colic' register).

## 11.573–586: How to Raise a Wild Warrior Princess

After bringing the escape narrative to an end, Diana proceeds to trace the different stages of Camilla growing up, from birth to infancy to childhood to nubile age. Camilla consistently deviates from the norm:


See de Grummond (1997: 166): 'From her father Camilla learned to live with and among wild animals, feeding upon them and slaying them—in short she lived as an animal herself, without human intercourse and without the refinements and softening influences with which other girls her age were normally surrounded.' Other scholars insist that the notion that Camilla rejects all social relationships requires modification; she is not entirely 'othered': 'Camilla spent her childhood with her father, her adolescence in the society of Diana and the hunting nymphs, and then her short adulthood as an army officer in her conventional and ancestral position as warlord of her people. For all its wildness and symbolic rejection of norms, this is still a very different background from the deviant female society of Amazons' (Sharrock 2015: 162 — as Sharrock recognizes, of course, Camilla is *likened* to an Amazon (queen) later on in the narrative: see below on 648–63).

JH: Rather, this upbringing locks Camilla into her place as another *Achilles*, who was entrusted for childcare to the centaur Chiron by one of his parents, either *his* father Peleus or *his* mother the goddess Thetis). In our surviving narrative, the mini-epic *Achilleid* by Statius, the making of the speed-merchant warrior from whom there is no escape in flight is traced (by Achilles himself) from infancy through toddlerdom to puberty, all lion and wolf offal babyfood, deer racing, tiger and lion hunting, bows and arrows followed by martial arts and arms training (*Ach.* 2.96–167). That this tough guy in short trousers is famously delivered from Chiron's nursery to the island of Skyros for secondary education to live as one sister in a palace full of princesses, learning what girls learn in readiness for wifedom, before his masculinity outs itself and is outed, is a story-pattern lurking behind our ferociously wild heroine's (see *Ach*. 1): Diana's Camilla may now be lost to the world of *arma virumque* but she's *still* a growing woman 'underneath' (see n. on 778–84). She'd make a lovely bride, gawped those Italian mums, undeterred by her regal battledress (7. 813–17).

## 573–75

**utque pedum primis infans vestigia plantis | institerat, iaculo palmas armavit acuto | spiculaque ex umero parvae suspendit et arcum**: Diana uses a temporal *ut*-clause (with *infans* as subject and *institerat* as verb), followed by two main clauses linked by –*que* after *spicula* (*armavit*, *suspendit*: in each case the subject is Metabus), to describe Camilla's period as toddler. The *et* links the two accusative objects of *suspendit*, i.e. *spicula* and *arcum*. She toddles around armed to her teeth. The hyperbaton *iaculo … acuto* and the separation of the two accusative objects *spicula … et arcum* give an iconic impression of Camilla as a walking arsenal.

**pedum primis … plantis**: JH: Once again we recap Camilla's début tiptoeing into the poem (*pedum … plantas*. | (7.807, 811)

**ex umero parvae**: lit. 'from the shoulder of the small one'. Horsfall (2003: 335) suggests taking *parvae* in a concessive sense: 'small though she was'.

## 576–77

**pro crinali auro, pro longae tegmine pallae | tigridis exuviae per dorsum a vertice pendent**: Camilla isn't your ordinary princess: she is more action figure than Barbie doll: instead of prettifying jewellery and enveloping female garments she is covered from head to waist in the skin of a tigress. *exuviae* is the subject, *pendent* the verb. JH: No, not sure where this wild bunch can have got a tigress skin from in however primeval a central Italy; but we get the point. And the hint that she never stops being a girl, however the get-up as a brave might, rightly but wrongly, tell some people not to treat her as one. She'll keep puzzling us, if not Diana.

Meantime, for a decent attempt at a *solution* to the conundrum of the tigress skin see Reed (2009: 58–59: 'Whence did she acquire this rarity? Are there tigers in Italy? No, according to Virgil in his praise of Italy at *Georgics* 2.151–52: "raging tigers and the fierce race of lions are absent" (*at rabidae tigres absunt et saeva leonum / semina*). Camilla's attire has nothing to do with her life as a forest-dwelling huntress, but rather envisions a trade route stretching from the Italian woodlands to the furthest East and back, the satisfaction of far-reaching desires. Their taste for Eastern luxury goods in general folds the Italians into an Oriental identity: the poem's encoding of royal wealth and power as Oriental holds true in Latium as elsewhere.'

**pro … pro**: negative anaphora ('instead of'), recalling the *non … non…* of 567: Diana likes to define Camilla's peculiar identity negatively, specifying in what ways she deviates from the norm.

**longae … pallae**: the genitive depends on *tegmine*.

## 578–80

**tela manu iam tum tenera puerilia torsit | et fundam tereti circum caput egit habena | Strymoniamque gruem aut album deiecit olorem**: three main clauses (linked by *et* and the –*que* after *Strymoniam*) offer a paratactic description of Camilla's advanced childhood (see *puerilia*), which she seems to have spent chasing birds with an array of weapons. The verses contain three hyperbata: *tela … puerilia*; *manu … tenera*; *tereti … habena*.

**Strymoniamque gruem**: the adjective *Strymonius* refers to the Strymon river in Thrace (which was famous for its cranes), but also to the region more generally. See Harrison (1991: 144) on *Aeneid* 10.265, where Virgil already used the phrase *Strymoniae … grues*; he notes that '*grus* […] is an onomatopoeic name based on the bird's cry.' Thrace is an appropriate point of geographical reference, as the notorious habitat of Amazons and other uncivilised tribes.

## 581–82

**multae illam frustra Tyrrhena per oppida matres | optavere nurum**: Camilla is now of nubile age, which in ancient Rome coincided with sexual maturity, so *young* (early teens). *multae* modifies *matres* in a hyperbaton spanning the entire line ('many — and I mean *many* — mothers…'); the verb comes in enjambment and takes *illam* as accusative object with *nurum* as predicative complement ('they desired her *as* daughter-in-law'). The sentence re-cites Camilla's début again, where the crowd of Italian mothers gawp at her stunning turn-out (7.813–14), but contains a touch of Catullus 62, which is a flyting match between a chorus of boys, who argue in favour of marriage, and a chorus of girls, who reject marriage in the strongest possible terms. The girls' song includes those lines comparing a girl to a flower (Catullus 62.39–47, cited above n. on 64–71). According to the girls, the loss of virginity in marriage constitutes an act of pollution that entails the loss of appeal and attraction more generally.

**Tyrrhena per oppida**: anastrophe: = *per Tyrrhena oppida*. The reference is to the cities of Tuscany.

## 582–84

**sola contenta Diana | aeternum telorum et virginitatis amorem | intemerata colit**: the two predicative attributes *contenta* and *intemerata* frame and gloss the majestic accusative object of *colit* (and the objective genitives dependent on it), which take up all of line 583: *sola contenta Diana* anticipates *telorum* and *intemerata* picks up *virginitatis*.

**sola contenta Diana**: *sola* (the final syllable scans long, so it has to be in the ablative) modifies *Diana*. The ablative phrase depends on *contenta* (in the nominative: the final syllable scans short): 'satisfied with Diana alone'.

**aeternum telorum et virginitatis amorem**: the attribute *aeternum* modifies *amorem* on which the two genitives (linked by *et*) depend. *telum* + *virginitas* = 'virgin huntress', i.e. Diana. Put differently, Diana, just after naming herself as the sole focus of Camilla's existence, glosses herself with reference to her two quintessential hallmarks, to which Camilla has committed herself with everlasting passion. The phrase *virginitatis amorem* sounds more than a little paradoxical (*amor*, after all, is the domain of Diana's antithetical counterpart in the divine realm, i.e. Venus: think Euripides, *Hippolytus*). In this timeout from *arma virumque* epic, its usual parameters don't apply: should we feel something approaching an 'incestuous / homoerotic' charge in this as in all relationships between the virgin goddess and her single-sex community of devotees?

## 584–85

**vellem haud correpta fuisset | militia tali conata lacessere Teucros**: *vellem* (first person singular imperfect subjunctive active of *volo*, I wish) introduces a present counterfactual wish, with the *ut* elided: 'I wish she had not been carried away…' (but she was). *conata* modifies the subject of the wish clause, i.e. Camilla, and governs the infinitive *lacessere*, which takes *Teucros* as accusative object. As frequently, the past participle of the deponent indicates contemporaneous action. The ablative phrase *militia tali* is poised between *correpta fuisset* and *conata lacessere* and best construed with both (*apo koinou*). JH: Telling how all those bourgeois mothers, who 'wished' to hook Camilla for their sons, cue Diana to have done with narration and come right out with what she'd 'wish' right now — that Camilla had stayed away, stayed with her, and hadn't got snarled up in the *Aeneid* (*optavere … vellem*). We've already had more than enough connotations smuggled in with 'Opis', but here's one more — *option* (from *Latin* 'opto').

**correpta fuisset**: third person singular pluperfect subjunctive passive of *corripere*, which here means something like 'swept away by enthusiasm for military action'.

## 586

**cara mihi comitumque foret nunc una mearum**: *foret* is the third person singular imperfect subjunctive active of *fore* and forms part of the apodosis of a conditional sequence for which the protasis has to be supplied from the previous sentence: (if she had not been carried away…), 'she would now be precious to me and one of my companions'. (The –*que* after *comitum* links *cara* and *una*.) But she *has* been carried away: hence, as vexed, thwarted, guardian angel and owner Diana may be implying, Camilla is no longer equally precious to her (though she will avenge her death) and has at any rate ceased to be a member of her coterie. JH: At the least, she intimates that being *cara mihi* (535) ought to equate to staying in the gang exclusively. The recall of the Catullus 62 passage — so crucial in bonding Pallas to Camilla as such affecting wastage in war — underlines this, as the girl chorus rams home that the moment of 'defloration' turns any maiden from *cara suis* to no draw for the boys *nec cara puellis* (45, 47).

The present counterfactual thus concludes the story of their lifelong companionship: somehow Camilla, who has spent her entire life in the wilds in devoted service to the goddess, re-enters the sociopolitical domain, gets drawn into the military fray triggered by the arrival of Aeneas, and renders herself vulnerable to the vagaries of battle. Not at all in keeping with her father's 'vow' (558). How much here is her decision, i.e. did she retain an element of free will and independent agency? How much was prescripted destiny (as Diana implies in the following sentence)? Why would she rejoin the Volscians after the people almost killed her father and herself? Diana's narrative is highly allusive — and leaves much to your imagination! What we *know*, and no thanks to Diana, is that the Volscian nation now rides with the Italians, with Turnus, under their queen, and she caps the lot of them (7.803–17).

## 11.587–596: LadyVengeance, or: Diana's Black OpsCommando

After rehearsing Camilla's past and regretting her present situation, Diana brings her account to a close with an intervention into her (former) ward's tragic future. She knows that Camilla's death is imminent (even though she is in the dark about details) and prepares for the aftermath: she plans to secure possession of her body and weaponry and mete out instant punishment to her killer — the mission she assigns to Opis, who descends upon earth in a black whirlwind.

## 587–89

**verum age, quandoquidem fatis urgetur acerbis, | labere, nympha, polo finisque invise Latinos, | tristis ubi infausto committitur omine pugna**: the sequence of subordinate clause (introduced by *quandoquidem*) with passive verb (*urgetur*) :: imperative (*labere*) :: imperative (*invise*) :: subordinate clause (introduced by *ubi*) with passive verb (*committitur*) deftly mirrors Diana's scope for action within predetermined coordinates over which she has no control: she cannot prevent the bitter destiny that inexorably leads Camilla to her death in the upcoming battle; but she can issue orders to her subordinate to oversee the event and 'visit' punishment on the killer.

**polo**: an ablative of separation (with *labere*).

**verum age**: 'But come'

**finis … Latinos**: *finis* is the alternative accusative plural ending of the third declension (= *fines*). *finis Latinos* is the accusative object of the imperative *invise*.

**tristis ubi infausto committitur omine pugna**: a beautifully crafted verse, with two attributes (*tristis*, *infausto*) up front, the verb (*committitur*) holding together the centre, and two nouns (*omine*, *pugna*), picking up the attributes in chiastic order (*tristis … pugna*, *infausto … omine*), at the end. The postponement of the conjunction *ubi* places extra stress on *tristis*, which points back to 534: *has tristis Latonia voces*.

## 590–92

**haec cape et ultricem pharetra deprome sagittam: | hac, quicumque sacrum violarit vulnere corpus, | Tros Italusque, mihi pariter det sanguine poenas**: The imperatives (*cape*, *deprome*) continue. Diana now sets up Opis for a revenge killing. Interestingly, she only knows Camilla's destiny in rough outline: neither the identity of her killer nor the precise nature of her death form part of her knowledge. There are two possible reasons for this: (i) her degree of insight into the workings of fate, while substantial, does not amount to complete omniscience; (ii) Camilla's fate has only been fixed in rough outline: the precise details remain open; in other words, nobody knows what exactly will happen to her. The instruction to remove an arrow from her quiver might seem somewhat premature, but it fits in with Diana's fixation on weaponry and anticipates (seemingly unbeknownst to the goddess) the manner of Camilla's death: she is laid low by a missile, which endows *pariter* with tragic irony.

**pharetra**: an ablative of separation.

**ultricem … sagittam**: *ultricem* modifies *sagittam*: the attribute ('avenging') personifies the arrow, turning it into the agent of vengeance: the end will come arrowing in 'swift' as the archer (532).

**sacrum … corpus**: Camilla's body is sacred to Diana since Metabus signed over his daughter to the goddess.

**Tros Italusque**: the –*que* here has a disjunctive sense ('or'): Camilla is facing an alliance of Trojans and Italians, and her killer could come from either ethnic grouping. Diana doesn't care who it is, or in what cause; she wants revenge (in one of so many refigurations of the end of the *Aeneid* in vengeance slaughter).

**violarit vulnere**: an expressive *figura etymologica*; *violarit* is the syncopated form of the future perfect (*viola/ve/rit*).

## 593–94

**post ego nube cava miserandae corpus et arma | inspoliata feram tumulo patriaeque reponam.'**: two main clauses linked by the –*que* after *patriae*. While Diana is unsure about the identity of Camilla's killer, she does know that her charge will return from battle in a body bag: the future tense of *feram* and *reponam* is unconditional.

**post**: the adverb ('thereafter') rather than the preposition.

**nube cava**: hollow clouds are a common device for divine action hidden from mortal eyes.

**miserandae corpus et arma | inspoliata**: the genitive *miserandae* (sc. *Camillae*) goes with both accusative objects (linked by *et*). Diana plans to remove and repatriate (*patriae … reponam*) the body and weaponry of her charge before any despoilment can take place. *inspoliata*, placed emphatically in enjambment, recalls *intemerata* (584), which occupies the same metrical position and scans identically (– u u | – u), though there is a telling shift from nominative feminine singular to accusative neuter plural: all that's left of Camilla now are her corpse and her weapons. or rather, she maintains her purity in both life and death, forever: *aeternum telorum et virginitatis amorem* (583).

$$595\text{--}96$$

**dixit, at illa levis caeli delapsa per auras | insonuit nigro circumdata turbine corpus**: The lines convey the audio-visual effect of Opis' descent from heaven to earth, as she turns into a cosmic force of vengeance at the behest of her mistress. Virgil again places the main verb in enjambment; the design of the verse, with a caesura after *insonuit*, which forms a metrical unit (a choriamb: – u u –) in its own right, gives added

prominence to *insonuit*, which is flanked on either side by a participle construction (*delapsa*, *circumdata*).

**illa… | insonuit**: the intransitive use of *insono* with a person as subject is somewhat unusual. Elsewhere in the *Aeneid*, features of the landscape tend to resound, such as hollow caves (2.53: *cavae … cavernae*) or deep woods (7.515: *silvae … profundae*). The less spectacular option is that she *causes* the noise through the impact of her supersonic fall on the surrounding atmosphere; but if Opis herself resounds, she collects an extra dose of awe-inspiring numinosity.

**levis caeli + delapsa + per auras**: = *per levis auras caeli delapsa*: here the anastrophe generates an iconic representation of the action, with *delapsa* right in the middle of the phrase that describes the medium through which she descends. *levis* is an alternative accusative plural ending (= *leves*).

**nigro circumdata turbine corpus**: Opis' transition from the divine to the human sphere is not only marked by an impressive soundtrack; the visuals, too, are something to behold: Opis, having shrouded her virginal body (the passive participle *circumdata* is best understood as middle-reflexive) in a black whirlwind, resembles a tornado. And tornadoes make an almighty chaotic racket. No fewer decibels than our *chérie* Camilla deserves.

After Diana's disquisition on Camilla, the narrative (with another transitional *interea*: 597: *at manus interea muris Troiana propinquat* — 'but meanwhile the Trojan troop approaches the walls') moves straight to the opposing armies. Hostilities break out without much further ado, and after a panoptic view of the ongoing battle, Virgil zooms in on Camilla, who can be found in the thick of it. The initial section of this narrative stretch (= 16 verses), which will end with her death and that of her killer Arruns at 867 (but only 648–89 and 725–835 are set in Latin), falls into three parts:

> 648–54: focus on Camilla (7 lines) 655–58: focus on her entourage (4 lines) 659–63: focus on *both* Camilla *and* her entourage (5 lines)

The use of the striking verb *exsultare* in the first and last line of the passage (648: *exsultat*; 663: *exsultant*) reinforces thematic coherence: Camilla and her personally selected band of female stormtroopers are at the very centre of the fighting and love every minute of it: the semantic range of *exsultare* stretches from 'to skip, dance, prance about' to 'to be (overjoyed)', 'burst with delight', with the distinct possibility of unbridled excess. These women clearly find bloodshed intoxicating. Camilla in particular is depicted as showing off her dazzling skills with improbably diverse weapons in attack and retreat.

## 648–51

**At medias inter caedes exsultat Amazon | unum exserta latus pugnae, pharetrata Camilla, | et nunc lenta manu spargens hastilia denset, | nunc validam dextra rapit indefessa bipennem**: three main clauses: the first describes the general joy of Camilla in the middle of the carnage (*exsultat*); Virgil uses the connective *et* to link it to the second (*denset*) and third (*rapit*), each devoted specifically to one of the weapons Camilla handles. They are marked by the anaphora of *nunc* and juxtaposed in asyndeton, perhaps to bring out the speed with which Camilla makes strategic adjustment in her choice of weaponry in the heat of the battle. She puts the whole array of her martial arts on display: equipped with bow and quiver (cf. *pharetrata*), she throws javelins (*lenta … hastilia*), and wields a two-edged battle-axe (*validam … bipennem*) — as the occasion demands or permits.

**medias inter caedes**: anastrophe (= *inter medias caedes*), which ensures that the placement and meaning of the preposition coincide.

**exsultat Amazon**: inversion of subject and verb, with *exsultat* doing what it means, i.e. 'leaping forwards'. Camilla, in a 'compressed comparison' (Sayce 2008: 33) or rather metaphorical gloss ('the Amazon Camilla' — ignoring the fact that she actually is a Volscian princess), has seemingly turned into one of the notorious female warriors of Greek myth. JH: As we have seen, she is a match for her *alter ego* Achilles, given their wilderness upbringing, but she gets a shoddy deal when her killer, unlike her Homeric cycle equivalent Penthesilea, Troy's last hope, turns out to be a skulking rat. In some versions, Achilles falls for his Amazon queen as she falls dying on his sword-thrust, and something of this sick weakness for the attraction of slaughter is powering our reading of Camilla throughout. Enjoy!

**unum exserta latus pugnae**: *exserta* is a past passive participle, but active in meaning, with retained accusative object (*unum … latus*): like an Amazon, Camilla has one side of her chest (*unum … latus*) bared for the fight (*pugnae* is a dative of purpose). David West (as reported by O'Hara 1996: 292) suggests that the phrase glosses *Amazon* in the previous line (the Greek word for *latus* is μᾶζα). Some readers (I am sure) will claim to find this kind of learned bilingual pun more thrilling than Camilla's sex appeal in this passage, which is toned down in comparison to that of her counterpart Penthesilea in *Aeneid* 1. Sharrock (2015: 163) tries valiantly to save us:

Vergil reuses the image of the exposed breast with regard to Camilla (11.648–49), but in her case its main purpose seems to be to enable the etymological play on Amazons being breastless, with exposure standing for mutilation. It is for the sake of this play that here, Vergil gives Camilla the epithet "Amazon," which is clearly not intended as a literal ethnographic designation. Although surely designed for minor titillation under the guise of a learned game, Camilla's exposed breast lacks the voyeuristic directness of Penthesilea's, with its golden frame and Aeneas's transfixed gaze. The replacement of the explicit word *mammae* (literally "breasts") for Penthesilea with the indirect *latus* (literally "side") for Camilla softens the tone […].

JH: But Aeneas back then was falling for Dido as the sight of her merged into the image of Penthesilea, and he is doomed to play the *Aeneid*'s reluctant Achilles, responsible for killing both our 'Amazons' without delivering the blow himself. *We* are protected much more by cutting a chunk of Camilla's meaty killing spree from the set text than we are by withdrawal into scholarship, which actually heads from 'the right breast was traditionally exposed (perhaps originally mutilated)' straight to Amazons in art, clocking 'some with the left breast exposed, some with the right' (Gransden's note here). Virgil's fault: 'one' is going to make anyone ask '*which* one?' And he must take some flak, too, for shoving in our direction a mastectomy by extruding <the scar where there once was> a breast?

**pharetrata Camilla**: Camilla comes 'equipped with a quiver' — the adjective *pharetratus*, *–a*, *–um* derives from the noun *pharetra* ('quiver'), a loanword from the Greek (φαρέτρα).

**et nunc… | nunc…**: The two clauses introduced by anaphoric *nunc* are similar in design: (i) temporal adverb: *nunc* – (ii) attribute of the respective weapon: *lenta*, *validam* – (iii) reference to the hand that wields it: *manu*, *dextra* (sc. *manu*) – (iv) participle modifying the subject of the sentence: *spargens*, *indefessa* – (v) the weapon: *hastilia*, *bipennem* – (vi) main verb: *denset*, *rapit*.

## 652

**aureus ex umero sonat arcus et arma Dianae**: an extensive gloss on *pharetrata* in the previous line, which celebrates, in an attempt at metrical light-heartedness through a completely dactylic verse (at once ruined by recall of Diana's take on her lost cadet), the one weapon not yet portrayed in active use — just in time for the following couplet when bow and arrow will come in handy. The reference to her golden bow reminds the reader of the chapter cut from Diana's biography: her transformation from *venatrix* into the *imperatrix* we first encounter in *Aeneid* 7, which went along with a change in clothes and equipment — from animal hides and rustic weapons to purple garments and deluxe regalia. The mention of the expensive hardware here links Camilla to the description of Aeneas and Dido in *Aeneid* 4 (the day of the fateful hunt that sees both of them end up in the same cave) and anticipates her equally fateful encounter with Chloreus, who too has a golden bow on his shoulder (774: *aureus ex umeris erat arcus*…). (Note that at *Aeneid* 7.815–17, cited in the Introduction 23, her quiver was not yet described as golden — only the brooch in her hair.) For *ex umero / is* in the sense of 'on the shoulder(s)' see Heyworth (2007: 160).

## 653–54

**illa etiam, si quando in tergum pulsa recessit, | spicula converso fugientia derigit arcu**: *si quando* introduces the protasis of an indefinite condition ('whenever'); one might expect the subjunctive, but Virgil opts for the perfect indicative (*recessit*), followed by present indicative in the apodosis (*derigit*) for increased vividness.

**quando**: = *aliquando* (after *si*, *nisi*, *ne* and *num*, *ali*– disappears).

**spicula … fugientia**: the accusative object of *derigit*; the present participle *fugientia* captures the phenomenon that the arrows and the shooter move in opposite directions, so it is as it were a transferred epithet: as Camilla withdraws (*fugiens*), she shoots arrows at her attackers — a tactic associated with Amazons (as well as Parthians). JH: Follow the motif, heralded in the runaway horse simile that lets her loose on the saga (492: *fugit*), together with its complement, *sequor*, 'chase down', and you'd find Camilla, who gallops in now, after we caught up with the Latins in full flight (623: *fugiunt*), herself giving chase (674: *sequitur*), and using the trick for fun at 694–95: *fugiens … sequitur … sequentem*; she then overtakes a trickster trying to escape her at 706: *fugam*, 713, *fugax*, 723, *consequitur*. It is by giving chase that she is herself caught (781: *sequebatur*), but the sequence in turn overtakes her killer (806: *fugit*, cf. 809: *sequantur*, 815: *fuga*); and Camilla's last words will tell her sister to escape and alert Turnus (825: *effuge*). Triggered by her death, the real rout ensues at 869–70: *fugit … fugiunt … fugit*, but there's no escape, 881, *nec … effugiunt*. The party trick ends in wholesale massacre. A suitably weird Virgilian 'tribute' to her.

**converso … arcu**: an ablative absolute.

655–58

**at circum lectae comites, Larinaque virgo | Tullaque et aeratam quatiens Tarpeia securim, | Italides, quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla | delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras**: the narrative focus shifts from Camilla to her companions. Virgil refers to them collectively at the beginning and the end (*lectae comites*, *Italides*) and singles out three for special mention: Larina, Tulla, and Tarpeia, linked in polysyndeton by the two –*que* after *Larina* and *Tulla* and *et*. The main verb (sc. *sunt*, with the adverbial *circum*) has to be supplied. The two –*que* after *pacis* and *belli* coordinate, again in polysyndeton, the two objective genitives dependent on *bonas ministras* (*et pacis et belli*).

**Larina – Tulla – Tarpeia**: for the meaning of the names see Sharrock (2015: 164):

These daughters of Italy have significant names. Amazons, too, often have "speaking" names, but these appellations indicate their martial and violent nature: Antiope, Penthesilea, Hippolyte, Andromache. Vergil's female soldiers, by contrast, have names that place them in Italian and pre-Roman geographical and genealogical history. As Servius says (ad loc.): "these are names of the most noble women of Italy." The first derives from the Samnian town (modern Larino) from which Cicero's client Cluentius came. Tulla is the feminine form of a Roman praenomen held by the third king of Rome, Tullus Hostilius. […] According to the normal practice of Vergilian name games (and accepted etymology), Tulla could also offer a hint at the more common Roman name famously held by M. Tullius Cicero. Third comes Tarpeia, the most immediately obvious and most problematic of companions, since the first famous holder of this Roman appellation was the young woman who betrayed Rome to the Sabines (Liv. 1.11.5–9).

**aeratam quatiens Tarpeia securim**: at 7.804, the forces of Camilla are described as 'flowering in bronze' (*florentis aere catervas*).

**quas … decus … delegit**: *delegit* governs a double accusative.

**Italides**: the lexeme *Italis*, –*idis*, f. (pl. *Italides*) = 'an Italian woman' follows Greek morphology (the equivalent in Latin morphology would be *Italae*).

**ipsa … dia Camilla**: like *Dia*na, *dia* is a calque on Greek *dîos*, *–a*, *–on*, domesticated by Ennius in his *Annals* (frs. 19, 60, 106 Skutsch): see Horsfall (2003: 368).

**pacisque bonas bellique ministras**: the phrase stands in apposition to *quas*.

## 659–63

**quales Threiciae cum flumina Thermodontis | pulsant et pictis bellantur Amazones armis, | seu circum Hippolyten seu cum se Martia curru | Penthesilea refert, magnoque ululante tumultu | feminea exsultant lunatis agmina peltis**: Virgil illustrates the appearance and action of Camilla and her troop of female warriors through a simile, which continues the assimilation of the women to Amazons. The antecedent of *quales*, i.e. *tales* (*erant*), is elided. The design of the simile itself is expressive of the Amazons' hustle and bustle. Note in particular:


• the –*que* after *magno* links *refert* and *exsultant*.Hence: '[They were such] as the Thracian Amazons, when they make [the banks of: but we can also imagine the *flumina* frozen] the streams of Thermodon resound and engage themselves in war in their coloured weaponry, either around Hippolyte or when Penthesilea, offspring of Mars, returns in her chariot and the female formations with their crescent shields do their mounted war-dance in joy, among a great whooping hubbub.' The links between narrative and simile are complex. See Sayce (2008: 32–33): this simile 'contains both general and particular comparisons: that of Camilla and her attendants with Amazons in general, and by implication that of Camilla herself with individual named Amazons. In XI. 648 *Amazon* stands in apposition to *Camilla* in the following line and identifies Camilla as an Amazon-like figure […]. The passage beginning with *quales* in XI. 659 refers to *lectae comites* and *ministras*: Camilla's followers are likened to the Thracian Amazons surrounding Hippolyte or Penthesilea, but this implicitly compares Camilla herself to the figures of Hippolyte and Penthesilea, around whom they gather.' The choice of these two names is hardly coincidental: both were killed by their male adversaries (Hippolyte by Hercules, Penthesilea by Achilles) and thereby partly foreshadow Camilla's fate — partly, because she too gets killed, but not, as the intertextual analogy would suggest, by the A-list superhero Aeneas (the Hercules and Achilles of the *Aeneid*), but by his contemptible double Arruns — think Danny DeVito to Arnold Schwarzenegger in *Twins* (1988). Cf. Bär (2009: 183, n. 519). JH: Yes, this is as good as it's going to get. Actually Amazons ride into classical stories to be routed by epic heroes — Hercules, Theseus, and… not Aeneas, as we shall see. Poor Camilla!

**flumina Thermodontis**: a so-called *versus spondiacus* (with a spondee in the fifth foot; *Thermodontis* scans – – – –). In the geographical imaginary of ancient Greece, the river Thermodon belongs to the North-East of Asia Minor and not to Thrace — though both locations, which Virgil here conflates (inducing the late-antique commentator Servius to relocate the Thermodon in Thrace), are situated at the periphery of the Graeco-Roman world and hence suitable habitats for Amazons. Apollonius Rhodius in his *Argonautica* (an epic poem about Jason's quest for the golden fleece and his abduction of Medea) gives an extended description of the River Thermodon and its estuary joined up with an ethnography of the local tribes of Amazons (2.962–1001). For more on the Thermodon see Bär (2009: 169–72; 454).

**bellantur**: the passive form is perhaps best taken in a reflexive ('middle') sense.

**Hippolyten**: a queen of the Amazons, who featured in one of Hercules' labours (he had to win her belt). Her name literally means 'she who sets horses loose' (so, think 'Wild Horses'). She is also a character in Shakespeare's *A Midsummer Night's Dream*, stars as a superheroine in *DC Comics*, and appeared on screen in *Wonder Woman* (2017, played by Connie Inge-Lise Nielsen).

**Martia … Penthesilea**: another queen of the Amazons (in some variants the sister of Hippolyte, whom she ended up killing accidentally), fathered by Ares / Mars (hence the attribute *Martia*). But in the so-called Epic Cycle, she came to the aid of Troy, only to be killed by Achilles — a tale summarised in *Aeneid* 1, where she is one of the figures depicted on the temple of Juno at Carthage (491–93). See Introduction 25–6. Here she appears as a *triumphatrix*, returning (victoriously from war?) on her chariot (*curru*), to the cheers of the crowd.

**magnoque ululante tumultu**: an onomatopoeic ablative absolute in the present tense. As Horsfall (2003: 370) observes: 'It is the actual *tumultus* that howls, by […] transference' transference' – into the mighty soprano yelling of the next verse. Listen: **f e m i n e a exs***ULTANT LUNAT***is a-gm-i-n-a pe***LT***is:**

**feminea exsultant lunatis agmina peltis**: the pattern adjectivea – verb – adjectiveb – nouna – nounb is almost 'golden' and generates a sense of closure. Penthesilea and her maiden troopers are also represented as wearing moon-shaped shields (*lunatis … peltis*) on the temple of Juno at Carthage (*Aeneid* 1.490–91: *ducit Amazonidum lunatis agmina peltis* | *Penthesilea furens*…). These two are our two earliest *literary* instances of Amazons coming equipped with moon-shaped shields (Bär 2009: 422– 25) — perhaps a means by which Virgil strengthens their association with the moon-goddess Diana.

## 11.664–689: The Opening Part of Camilla's *Aristeia* (Overview)


hunc illa exceptum (neque enim labor agmine verso)

traicit et super haec inimico pectore fatur: 685 'silvis te, Tyrrhene, feras agitare putasti? advenit qui vestra dies muliebribus armis verba redargueret. nomen tamen haud leve patrum manibus hoc referes, telo cecidisse Camillae.'

These 26 verses constitute the opening part of Camilla's killing spree (also known by the Greek term *aristeia* = an epic description of a warrior's most outstanding moments on the battlefield that attest to superior martial prowess). Their overall design is symmetrical: 6 + 14 [7 + 7] + 6 verses. After the traditional opening tag of the epic narrator for such a catalogue of kills (664–65), the opening section focuses on one individual, Eunaeus. The middle section has its centre in the correlation of *tot – quot* (676–67), with 670–75 listing victim after victim in quick succession (Liris, Pagasus, Amastrus, Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon, Chromis), summed up in the collective *Phrygii viri* (677) — as the saying goes, every bullet finds a billet. We then get a moment of respite from Camilla's industrial slaughter as the narrative lingers lovingly on Ornytus, who stands out head and shoulders from the rest (677–83). But he too will (of course) become a victim of Camilla's bloodlust in the closing six verses of this section (684–89), correlating with Eunaeus. JH: But no, not so fast, this is a foreclosure, Camilla still has another three kills to thrill us with before we reach the end of the line (*postremum*), sealed by the full simile shimmering and shivering in the sky (721–24). The catalogue breaks up celebrating just 'how easy' it's all been for her (721: *quam facile*…).

## 11.664–669: Getting the Massacre Underway

As noted above, kill catalogues are a defining feature of 'heroic' epic poetry. In this particular instance, one of the models is the *aristeia* of Patroclus in *Iliad* 16, which begins with a similar address to the character, followed by an enumeration of his victims (16.692–97):

ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον τίνα δ᾽ ὕστατον ἐξενάριξας Πατρόκλεις, ὅτε δή σε θεοὶ θάνατον δὲ κάλεσσαν; Ἄδρηστον μὲν πρῶτα καὶ Αὐτόνοον καὶ Ἔχεκλον καὶ Πέριμον Μεγάδην καὶ Ἐπίστορα καὶ Μελάνιππον, αὐτὰρ ἔπειτ᾽ Ἔλασον καὶ Μούλιον ἠδὲ Πυλάρτην: τοὺς ἕλεν:…

[Then whom first, whom last did you kill, Patroclus, when the gods called you deathward? Adrastus first, and Autonous, and Echeclus, and Perimus, son of Megas, and Epistor, and Melanippus, and thereafter Elasus, and Mulius, and Pylartes: these he killed…]

## 664–65

**Quem telo primum, quem postremum, aspera virgo, | deicis? aut quot humi morientia corpora fundis?**: Virgil addresses Camilla in apostrophe, choosing a paradoxical expression to capture her quintessential nature as a savage maiden. The question is of course entirely rhetorical: Virgil knows and Camilla can't answer! Still, the personal rapport between author and character that such an apostrophe suggests is an effective rhetorical gambit: it enhances the drama and immediacy of the narrative. The main verb *deicis*, in vivid present tense, is placed in enjambment, taking the interrogative pronouns *quem – quem* (an emphatic anaphora in asyndeton) as accusative objects. *primum* and *postremum* function as predicative complements of their respective *quem*, but are perhaps best translated adverbially ('whom are you laying low first, whom last…'?). After a focus on specific individuals, the next rhetorical question goes for quantity. The phrase *morientia corpora*, a neuter accusative plural agreeing with the indeclinable interrogative adjective *quot*, which reduces individual humans, each with a distinct personality and 'soul', to a mass of dying bodies, well brings out the volume killing that heroes (and, as here, the odd heroine) are compelled to perpetrate to merit immortality through epic fame.

**aspera virgo**: there is a pun in the sound-sequence –*ra virgo* = *virago*, a term denoting a female warrior distinct for her virility, and thereby transgressing the norms traditionally associated with her gender. (Turnus' sister and driver will be one such at 12.468.) *aspera* signals the rhetorical turn given to the set piece ahead. It *will* be a rough ride.

## 666–67

**Eunaeum Clytio primum patre, cuius apertum | adversi longa transverberat abiete pectus**: Virgil now answers his own rhetorical questions. The verb of the main clause (*deiecit*) has to be supplied from the previous sentence. It takes *Eunaeum* as accusative object, who is the antecedent of the relative pronoun *cuius* — a genitive of possession dependent on *apertum* … *pectus*, the accusative object of *transverberat*. The adjective *adversi* agrees with *cuius*, in predicative position: 'whose unprotected chest she pierced as he faces her'.

**Clytio … patre**: either an ablative of origin or a nominal ablative absolute.

**primum**: delivering on 664, with a second adjective in predicative position (modifying *Eunaeum*) best translated adverbially ('first').

**apertum | … longa transverberat abiete pectus**: the hyperbaton of *apertum* … *pectus*, with attribute and noun both placed prominently at line's end, 'opens up' a gap within which Virgil places the phrase for the lethal weapon (*longa … abiete*) and, centrally, the verb of piercing (*transverberat*): an iconic representation of the kill. JH: The going gets rough, and the rough gets going: you have been warned. Virgil, as promised, roughs us up with appalling rhetorical choreography. This poor guy's father('s name) tells us he was 'Into Fame' (*klut-ios*), and (that's why) he called his boy 'In Bed' (*eunaios* is an ordinary Greek adjective). So although the 'movie' shows a mounted cavalry(wo)man hurl a spear into her opposite number's chest, and he falls face down in death throes, the language tells us instead how the first of these many corpses 'poured on the ground' (665: *humi morientia … fundis*) got there when a virgin (664) came up and metaphorically pinned him flat on his back (*apertum* | *adversi … pectus*) with an almighty huge and straight lump of tree, right through the *heart* (*pectus*); instead of merely 'pouring out', he 'vomited streams of blood' (*rivos*), and instead of falling 'on the ground', he 'died chewing the ground' mixed with his own blood (*mandit humum moriens*); no last chance to claim a stake in epic 'fame' for him, his mouth is stuffed, and instead of mixing it in bed, the only 'humping' he gets is his own body impaled on the girl's enormous pole (*se … versat*); no son for *him*. Thanks to unrelenting poetic obscenity, No. 1 thus entirely confirms Diana's story that defined Camilla as born(e) on and as *her* father's huge hard pole wanging across the *river* in spate.

**transverberat**: this is what a hunter (huntress) would love to do to her quarry.

**longa … abiete**: an instrumental ablative. Note that *abiete* scans as three syllables (*abjete*). JH: This 'fir-tree' of a spear is the sort of grotesque (unprecedented?) abuse of taste that Virgil somehow gets away with. 'Playing' with ideas needn't mean they don't hurt any more.

## 668–69

**sanguinis ille vomens rivos cadit atque cruentam | mandit humum moriensque suo se in vulnere versat**: Virgil continues in brutal realism: the javelin skewered Eunaeus' lungs and now he is vomiting blood, before biting the bloodied earth (the Latin equivalent of 'biting the dust'; the English idiom is biblical in origin: Psalm 72, King James Version,

1611: 'They that dwell in the wilderness shall bow before him and his enemies shall lick the dust') and writhing in his own blood. The idiom and imagery have impeccable epic pedigree. See e.g. *Iliad* 16.345–50 and earlier kill scenes in the *Aeneid* (e.g. 9.349–50, 10.348–49).

**sanguinis … vomens rivos**: the genitive *sanguinis* is dependent on *rivos*, which is the accusative object of the present participle *vomens*, agreeing with *ille*.

**suo … in vulnere**: anastrophe (= *in suo vulnere*). The placement of the reflexive pronoun *se* in between *suo* and *in vulnere* not only generates the alliteration *suo – se* (matched by *vulnere versat*), but also highlights that the centre of Eunaeus' life (and body) has become the wound through his chest. This is what prey such as wild boar will do, wriggle up the spear that impales them; hunters even devised a special bar to stop them doing it.

## 670–73a

**tum Lirim Pagasumque super, quorum alter habenas | suffuso revolutus equo dum colligit, alter | dum subit ac dextram labenti tendit inermem, | praecipites pariterque ruunt**: an involved, therefore difficult sentence. For the translation, it is perhaps best to rewrite it in prose: *tum Camilla Lirim Pagasumque super fudit*, *quorum alter suffuso equo revolutus*, *dum habenas colligit*, [*interfectus est*], *alter* [*interfectus est*], *dum subit ac labenti inermem dextram tendit*, *et pariter praecipitesque ruunt*. Things to note include:


Hence, very literally: 'Then on top (*super*) she laid low Liris and Pagasus, of whom the one [who is *not* a mythic horse, P*e*gasus — was killed] while he gathered up the reins, having been rolled backwards (*revolutus*) as his horse had been sprawled underneath (or, reading *suffosso*, had been stabbed), the other [was killed] while he came up and stretched out an unarmed hand to the one who was falling (*labenti*) and they fall headlong together.' JH: The cannon-fodder are objects piling up (*super*), and they're two-a-penny: however polarized the way they die it makes no difference, first it's two at a time, with both X and Y plunging headfirst together simultaneously (*pariterque*) as a pair, for all that one must go first: X's horse goes down from under him, Y tries to support X from underneath (*suf-fuso … sub-it*); X grabs reins <in his hands>, the other <jettisons weapons> and lends a hand instead to Y on his way down. So together they fall! And we'll never quite know if and how Camilla brought that horse down, landing two for the price of one. Next, indiscriminate slaughter 'adds' to the count.

**super**: JH: Does fiendish Camilla kindly (poetically?) provide the flatout Mr In Bed with a couple of coverlets 'on top', to tuck him up in death?

## 673b–75

**his addit Amastrum | Hippotaden, sequiturque incumbens eminus hasta | Tereaque Harpalycumque et Demophoonta Chromimque**: the list goes on: 'to these she adds Amastrus, the son of Hippotas, and, applying herself vigorously (*incumbens*), pursues from afar (*eminus*) with her spear Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon, and Chromis.' The –*que* after *sequitur* links *addit* and *sequitur*. Line 675, which consists entirely of the names of four of Camilla's victims, with its polysyndeton, elisions (… *que Har* … , … *que et*), and lack of clear caesura, brings out well how swiftly and efficiently our warrior princess turned killing machine slaughters her foes.

Our first victim here fits the bill twice over, as 'Near-Amazon and Horse-son', and three of the other four names (Tereus, Harpalycus, and Demophoon) recall characters in Greek myth that have a connection to Thrace. Cf. Saunders (1940: 542): 'In view of the close relations existing between Thrace and Troy, it is satisfying to find at least 4 names of Vergil's Trojans (Demophoön, Harpalycus, Itys, Tereus) associated with Thracian myths, but no Latin names with this connection.' It is no coincidence that the Italian lady responsible for their slaughter has just been assimilated with the Thracian Amazons (659–60: *Threiciae … Amazones*): the dire reputation of Thrace as a particularly savage corner of the globe (but also the trans-global savagery of warfare) and intimations of civil war (but also the apparent superiority of the Italic stock) might all play into this 'Thracian moment'.

**sequitur**: JH: 'follow', yes — but 'chase down'. Camilla comes nowhere close; she lays it on with her throwing spear, first one, at least given his parentage, then a row of them, without bothering who or how, it's just one after another but all the same. Compensating for non-glorious scalps by a multiplication effect. We're crossing over to Virgil's second question at 665, *quot…* 

**Hippotaden**: the suitably 'horsey' Greek patronymic sports a Greek accusative ending.

**Terea – Demophoonta – Chromim**: Greek accusatives. The last named is, appropriately in the circumstances, 'Sir Non-Descript', the 'generic' name of an array of assorted characters in myth.

## 676–77a

**quotque emissa manu contorsit spicula virgo, | tot Phrygii cecidere viri**: *quot* and *tot* are indeclinable and, respectively, modify *spicula* and *viri*: 'and as many weapons as the maiden drew up and sent flying from her hand, so many Phrygian men fell dead.' The etymological play with *virgo – viri* encapsulates the gendered paradox embodied by a warrior princess who lays low enemies of the opposite sex, supposedly endowed with superior *virtus* ('manliness' in the sense of 'martial prowess'). The past participle *emissa* (modifying *spicula* and chiming with *eminus*, 674) and the main verb *contorsit* form a *husteron proteron* (weapons tend to be drawn up first before being sent on their way), which is an entirely appropriate enactment of the breakneck speed at which Camilla operates. Her launch frequency resembles a machine-gun, and Virgil's syntax is hard put to keep up.

## 677b–82

**procul Ornytus armis | ignotis et equo venator Iapyge fertur, | cui pellis latos umeros erepta iuvenco | pugnatori operit, caput ingens oris hiatus | et malae texere lupi cum dentibus albis, | agrestisque manus armat sparus; ipse catervis | vertitur in mediis et toto vertice supra est**: after some lines devoted to conveyor-belt killing, Virgil now counterbalances quantity with quality: Camilla's next victim, Ornytus, gets singled out for special attention before he bites the dust. The syntax again plays fast and loose:



In his text, Virgil varies the sequence of these elements, shifting the subject ever further back, from subject + direct object + verb (colon 1) to direct object + subject + verb (colon 2) to direct object + verb + subject (colon 3).

• The description concludes with another main clause (underlined), in asyndetic juxtaposition.

**armis | ignotis et equo … Iapyge**: Ornytus comes 'in unknown armour and on an Iapygian horse', referring to his undistinguished lineage and CV and his region of origin: the geographical label *Iapyx* refers to Apulia, a region in South-East Italy. JH: Camilla comes a long way over to make contact with him, and hand him reflected glory (*armis* | *ignotis* ~ *nomen*, 689). Having silenced the pedigreed Eunaeus, she talks to this one, womxn to man, if only to tell him he's in the wrong place with the wrong head on.

**venator**: in apposition to Ornytus, correlating with *pugnatori* (see below): Ornytus, who has so far (only) proved his mettle in the hunt now finds himself on a battlefield, having undergone a similar transformation as Camilla, whom he resembles in various ways (but, in his wolf-attire he is also a double of Arruns, her killer: see below).

**pellis … erepta iuvenco**: a hide stripped from a steer (*iuvenco* is ablative of separation). JH: In his time this tearaway has taken on a challenge or two, and now sports *calfhide* (not even a bull), which says it all. Message received, loud and clear: these 'broad shoulders' make an easy target. Some 'fighter'!

**pugnatori**: the noun in the dative modifies the relative pronoun *cui* ('whom, as a fighter…') and plays off *venator*, to bring out the inappropriate nature of his attire — he goes to war as if dressed for the hunt. In conflating the two domains of warfare (*pugnator*) and hunting (*venator*), he mirrors Camilla, who (remember) is introduced as a warrior (*bellatrix*) in *Aeneid* 7, but began as a huntress (*venatrix*) according to *Aeneid* 11. In this particular encounter, she will retain the upper hand, but she too will fall prey to a huntsman-like figure (Arruns).

**ingens oris hiatus | et malae texere lupi cum dentibus albis**: *hiatus*, further modified by the attribute *ingens* and the genitive *oris* and *malae* are the two subjects of *texere* (the alternative third person plural perfect indicative active form = *texerunt*), linked by *et*. *lupi* is genitive singular modifying both *hiatus* and *malae*: 'a huge gape of the mouth and the white-fanged jaws of a wolf.' (JH: Theoretically, *ingens* could modify *caput*, but was the tall and broad Ornytus *literally* big-headed? The 'poetic' point is that this mutt sports a '*Big Gob*', with rows of 'healthy gnashers', but he's a pushover for our maiden ('no sweat', 684), who's going to do all the talking here, and her words are going to hurt bad, for real.)

**agrestisque manus … sparus**: *agrestis* could be the alternative third declension accusative plural ending (= *agrestes*), modifying *manus* (accusative plural of the fourth declension noun), but 'rustic hands' does not yield much sense. Better to take it as a nominative singular modifying *sparus*: 'a rustic pike'. Lightweight!

#### **catervis … in mediis**: anastrophe (= *in mediis catervis*).

**toto vertice supra est**: JH: whatever the size of his cranium, Ornytus is a head *taller* than anybody else: he sticks out — just like Turnus as leader bringing up the rear of the catalogue in 7.783–84, *ipse inter primos praestanti corpore Turnus* | *vertitur arma tenens et toto vertice supra est*, but a garish impostor who's skulking in the safety of the formation around him, and is just asking to be cut down to size. When Virgil chooses *vertex* for someone's head, he'll often touch off the etymology from *verto*, 'turn', and this must apply here; this head is 'spinning', as its owner presumes he's made the change from huntsman to epic battler. Camilla at once turns the tables on him (*agmine verso*), it's a breeze, and squishes his non-verbal brag with an attention-grabbing 'look at me' climax to this first section of the *aristeia* that is bringing her epic fame. Trouble is, the same great splash of rig-out that attracts her to out of his depth Ornytus is soon enough to sucker her into chasing Chloreus, take her eye off the ball, and cause her own comeuppance (see below). She should read this story more carefully, and listen to what she's about to come out with. Biters ask to get bitten. 'Big Gob, yourself, Camilla!'

Camilla makes swift work of Ornytus and sends him to the shades with a pretty (ugly: *aspera*) taunt: he was plain out of his depth when he tested his mettle on the battlefield, but has the honour of being killed by Camilla as consolation prize. As Egan (1983: 22) notes with reference to *exceptum* (648), the weapon-fanatic Camilla seems to pick Ornytus out, 'precisely because of his unorthodox arms'.

## 684–85

**hunc illa exceptum (neque enim labor agmine verso) | traicit et super haec inimico pectore fatur**: the verse design enacts the swiftness of the kill. Virgil juxtaposes Camilla and her victim via the demonstrative pronouns *hunc* and *illa* up front, followed by the past participle that signifies the end of the chase ('him … having being caught'). A retarding parenthesis follows that explains why Camilla caught up with her foe so effortlessly: there was a general rout going on. *agmine verso* is an ablative absolute; the verb (*erat*) in the parenthesis needs to be supplied. The killing verb comes in dramatic enjambment: there is not one whiff of resistance on Ornytus' part.

**super**: probably adverbial, rather than the preposition + accusative. The *haec* that follows is the direct object of the deponent *fatur*. Yes, right now Camilla's right 'on top' (670, *super*, 674, *incumbens*).

**inimico pectore**: 'with hostile heart'.

## 686

**'silvis te, Tyrrhene, feras agitare putasti?**: *putasti* is syncopated second person singular perfect indicative active (*puta / vi / sti*). It introduces an indirect statement with *te* as subject accusative and *agitare* as infinitive (*feras* is accusative object of *agitare*, *silvis* an ablative of place). Even though Ornytus is riding a horse from Southern Italy, Camilla addresses him, perhaps erroneously, as 'Tuscan' (*Tyrrhene* is in the vocative singular). Virgil does not tell us how she knows — or why she gets it wrong (if she does). JH: But he does make us wonder if she's blathering, and liking the idea that this jumped-up weirdo is some (sleek, idle, voluptuary, rich) Etruscan (732–40 below), just as out of place in the jungle here, she taunts, as a giant herdsman, so much that she's the one not 'thinking' straight any more.

## 687–89

**advenit qui vestra dies muliebribus armis | verba redargueret. nomen tamen haud leve patrum | manibus hoc referes, telo cecidisse Camillae.'**: the antecedent of the relative pronoun *qui* is *dies* (which has been sucked into the relative clause). *vestra* modifies *verba*: 'The day has come that refutes your words with weapons worn by women.' With *nomen … haud leve* (a litotes) Camilla refers either to herself or perhaps the 'fame' that Ornytus acquired by being one of Camilla's victims (so Horsfall 2003: 381: 'C. starts with fame, defines it as ample, then eventually specifies it as *hoc*, directly before explaining that she is herself the source of this ample and consolatory fame; word-order as a powerful instrument of soldierly pride'). Hence: 'You shall nevertheless carry a famous name **/** significant fame to the shades (*manibus* is from *manes*, **not** from *manus*) of your ancestors, namely this (*hoc*), that you fell by the spear of CAMILLA.' (I.e. Camilla uses her own name as exclamation mark at the end of her speech.)

Her 'consolatory taunt' is notably different in tone from Aeneas' words of noble pity addressed to the dying Lausus (10.825–30):


['What now, pitiable boy, will righteous Aeneas give you in recognition of these glorious deeds? What reward worthy of such a heart? Keep your armour in which you took joy; and if you care at all for this, I return you to the shades and ashes of your ancestors. This at least, unfortunate boy, will console you for your wretched death: you fall by the hand of great Aeneas.']

JH: Camilla's words, we heard, come from a heart consumed with hostility (685). But she's also in love with the very best preciosities known to Hellenistic / Roman scholarship, since 'Ornytus' worthless name means 'to start game' (*ornumai*), and though he's spoken not one word out loud, he's going to take a name down to his dead ancestors (he must have some: *patrum*), and the two of them are going to share this *figura etymologica* together, because her own name is also her weapon; it always has been since she was bound to that missile of her father's, since 'Camilla', as we saw, *means* 'weapon' (*telo … Camillae* ||). And, again, 'all of you', our (Villanelle-style) heroine wants this job, this moment, this episode, to shove 'all your (plural) words right back at you (plural)'. Not just poor Ornytus, but through him all the *viri* who think 'womxn's weapons' are out of place in the glorious world of *arma virumque*: *vestra muliebribus armis* | *verba redargueret*. Ornytus already has his revenge, though: to snaffle him Camilla had to turn (back) huntress (684: *exceptum*), and so…

The saga is turning, from Diana's *tristis* (534), through Virgil's *aspera* (664), to Camilla's own *acerbum* for her showdown (823).

**muliebribus armis**: the phrase is marked, and has given rise to much gender-anxious commentary since antiquity. See Keith (2000: 28):

The emphasis on gender deviance is particularly striking in Camilla's own reference to her 'woman's weapons', the sole appearance of the adjective *muliebris* in the Virgilian corpus […]. Servius carefully [= inventively] explains that Virgil uses *muliebris* here not in the strict sense of 'belonging to a married woman' but in the looser sense of 'belonging to the female sex', and Donatus paraphrases 'recognise that you are now such that women can conquer you, women kill you' (2.519.21–22). Donatus underscores the shame inherent in this inversion of the natural hierarchy of gender in his commentary on Camilla's vaunt: 'She herself out of anger deprecates her own action by saying that it is a great disgrace for men to die by a woman's arms … for she says you receive the greatest reproach because a woman brought you to death' (2.159.24–30).

# 11.725–740: Shaming, Naming, Blaming: Tarchon Rallies the Troops

OCR spares us all another 34 lines of sexy slaughterhouse action gone wacky by Camilla (690–724), as she slays Butes, Orsilochus, and the disgusting Ligurian son of Aunus (who manages to get her off her horse so he can escape on his, but finds she can outrace horses and she overtakes easy as pie). By now, she's really wheeled out her martial arts repertoire: from *abies*, *hasta*, *spicula*, *telum*, on to *cuspis*, and *securis*, 'axe', and finally *ensis*, 'sword'. We rejoin the narrative at the point when Jupiter has seen enough of her battlefield dominance and decides to put an end to it. His intervention takes the form of imperceptibly stirring the wrath of the Etruscan commander Tarchon.

JH: The joust we missed is wittily couched as the 'finale' to Camilla's *aristeia*, by selecting a Ligurian fall guy, come all this way from the 'last frontier' of Italy to be her 'last but not least' (*haud Ligurum extremus*, 701). Camilla, at least, underlined his behaviour as confirming one more 'ethnographic' stereotype / slur: Aunus' son's, and his father's cheating proves, she claims, to be typical of their *fatherland*! (*fallere*, 701, *dolos et astu*, 705, '*fidis … crede*, *fraudem*', 706–8, *dolo*, 712; '*nequiquam* patrias *temptasti lubricus artis … fraus … fallaci … Auno*', 716–17). Servius on 700 quoted Cato: '*Ligures autem omnes* fallaces *sunt*'! (Farney 2007: 197). But let's not miss the important qualification of Camilla's heroic standing and the part this last tableau makes in building the economy of Book 11 as a whole. Camilla finally outstrips her nameless victim, calling him out as 'vain' (*vane*, 715) in answer to his con 'You'll find out whom windy (*ventosa*, 708) (vain)glory brings deception'. We know Camilla 'outstrips the winds' (*ventos*, 7.807) and when she brings the cheater down off his high horse (*frustra … elate*, 715), she proves him a non-entity, with a father but with no name / fame (in complete contrast with her last scalp, Ornytus). BUT he has in the exchange brought *her* down to earth too (*aequo … solo*, 706–7), and it's never wise to denounce anyone else's vanity, which always boomerangs (as we saw at 686–89, where Camilla thought *she* was warring, not hunting (the guy dolled up in calfhide and wolf fangs), but then at once proceeded to 'track down', hunt, her next victim, *sequiturque sequentem*, 695): a duel always draws out the latent similarity between opponents, as the basic polarity 'cavalry' vs 'infantry' deconstructed (*par* in Latin, 'a pair / equals') — just at the point when their disparity is clinched (cf. *paribus … in armis*, 710). This is what became of (savage, vaunting) Aeneas as the killer of Mezentius at the start of Book 11, programmatically setting the agenda for the smaller bouts featuring small-fry ahead. News of Camilla's victim's rubbing out will reach *his* father — just as Pallas' did Evander (cf. vano … *honore*, 52; *nova* gloria, 153; domum … *Pallanta* referret, 163; *nato manis* perferre *sub imos*, 181). So with Ornytus, *nomen* … *patrum* | *manibus hoc referes* (688–89), and then in turn his nameless successor, exercising patrias *… artis* … *nec fraus te* … perferet *Auno*, 716–17. The same counters shuffle through the tightwound chain of episodes, to create a rich discourse on the core issue of cost / benefit of armed conflict: *arma virumque*. The stakes of monomachy will go on to reach an ultimate extreme when Arruns' deal forfeits honour, but he prays to get home (re*ducem ut* patria alta videret, 797) and means to get there in one piece (patrias re*meabo* inglorius *urbes*, 793): his people erase his memory and *leave him there*, dust to dust (*obliti ignoto camporum in pulvere linquunt*, 866). Which is where we came in: see n. on 1, *reliquit*.

## 725–26

**At non haec nullis hominum sator atque deorum | observans oculis summo sedet altus Olympo**: The adversative particle *at* signals a shift in focus from the human to the divine sphere. In keeping with the narrative appearance of the cosmic boss, the craftsmanship of these lines is deliberate and majestic. Note in particular the pervasive use of alliteration (*non – nullis*, *sator – summo – sedet*, *observans – oculis – Olympo*) and hyperbaton (*haec … observans*, *nullis … oculis*, *sator … altus*, *summo … Olympo*). JH: The immediate referent in *haec* is the wondrous simile for how easily the predatory hawk Camilla (*ac-cipiter*, 'hawk', is another 'huntress', cf. *ex-cipio*) stuck it to her latest — in fact sneaky — 'dove' victim. What drew Jupiter's (so many) eyes to the scene was this hawk swooping *ab alto* on the dove 'high in the clouds', ripping it to pieces so 'blood tips, and (so many) plucked feathers flutter down *ab aethere*'. The prompt in turn presages what his intervention is going to do down below, where the bloody plumage is touching down.

**non … nullis… | observans oculis**: *non nullis* seems an oddly contrived litotes (a double negation, emphasizing that Jupiter was indeed observing the battle with his eyes — a tautological and seemingly superfluous ablative phrase with *observans*: he could hardly have used another part of his anatomy). It is given further prominence by the placement of *haec* (the accusative object of *observans*) between *non* and *nullis*, the hyperbaton *nullis … oculis* across the verse break, and the *n*- and *o*-alliteration. The spreading about of the phrase must be iconic of Jupiter's panoptic view from above. The tautological phrasing also reflects mischievous engagement with a Homeric formula. In the *Iliad* and the *Odyssey*, various gods are said *not* to keep 'blind watch', which compelled a scholiast to comment that this is a proverbial expression to be understood figuratively, that is, not in the sense of 'blind in observation', but 'looking the other way'.

**hominum sator atque deorum**: such a periphrasis of Jupiter is a standard feature in the Graeco-Roman epic tradition, going back to the Homeric πατὴρ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε (e.g. *Iliad* 1.544, 5.246, 15.47, etc.). Ennius renders it as *pater divumque hominumque* (*Annals* fr. 203 Skutsch). Variations also include *divum pater atque hominum rex* (see e.g. Virgil, *Aeneid* 1.65, 2.648, 10.2, 10.743; and cf. 12.829 in the Introduction 38). Note the polarity between mortals and immortals (here subsumed under Jupiter's procreational powers), which is again a hallmark of epic poetry: human affairs unfold within a supernatural horizon. The emphasis is on Jupiter's seminal capacity to procreate and rule over all higher forms of life in the universe.

**summo … Olympo**: As Allen and Greenough point out (§293), 'Superlatives (and more rarely Comparatives) denoting order and succession […] usually designate not *what object*, but *what part of it*, is meant' — hence *summus mons* = the top of the hill (rather than 'the highest hill'), *in colle medio* = halfway up the hill (rather than 'on the middle hill'), etc. Here, however, both senses are in play: Jupiter sits *on top of* Mt. Olympus, which is also deemed to be the tallest mountain in the Graeco-Roman imaginary, hence he also sits on Olympus, the *highest* mountain.

**altus**: an adjective for an adverb, here somewhat strange since usually Jupiter commands superlatives rather than positives (e.g. in his cult title Jupiter Optimus Maximus; but cf. 1.7: *altae moenia Romae*). In combination with *summo*, *altus* may appear somewhat tautological, but may refer to Jupiter's elevated status, not just his elevated position.

## 727–28

**Tyrrhenum genitor Tarchonem in proelia saeva | suscitat et stimulis haud mollibus inicit iras**: the two main clauses, linked by *et*, are arranged in rough chiastic order: accusative object (*Tyrrhenum … Tarchonem*) – verb (*suscitat*) – verb (*inicit*) – accusative object (*iras*). Both verbs are preceded by a further specification: the prepositional phrase *in proelia saeva* and the instrumental ablative *stimulis haud mollibus*, both in the pattern of noun + attribute. The arrangement helps to generate the alliterative sequence *saeva – suscitat – stimulis* (joining *Tyrrhenum … Tarchonem* and *inicit iras* in adding alliterative colour) and places emphasis on *saeva* and *haud mollibus* — as well as (via enjambment) *suscitat*.

**Tyrrhenum … Tarchonem**: the adjective *Tyrrhenus* (= 'Etruscan') derives from the figure of Tyrrhenus, who according to Greek legend headed a group of colonists from Lydia who came to settle in Italy (Herodotus 1.94, Timaeus *FGrHist* 566 F62). In some sources Tarchon is the brother of Tyrrhenus (Lycophron, *Alexandra* 1245–49). In his *Origines*, Cato the Elder makes Tarchon Tyrrhenus' son (see *FRHist* F70). And in Strabo (5.2.19) Tyrrhenus puts Tarchon in charge of founding the Etruscan cities, though some authors consider the Etruscans autochthonous: see e.g. Dionysius of Halicarnassus 1.28.1. JH: Roman aetiology had always faced a challenge in dealing with the Etruscan legacy, since so much they wanted to be foundational for their culture (e.g. haruspicy, 739–40) was traditionally ascribed to the period of the kings, including Tarquinius Priscus; yet the foundation of the republic meant expulsion of autocracy along with the last Tarquin (Rex) and all his clan. The *Aeneid* splits Etruscans between bad king Mezentius, already expelled for tyranny, and good commander and statesman 'Tarchon', who earlier stepped forward to sign a foreigner for head of state in accordance with an oracle (8.506), linked Aeneas with the role of striking a treaty (8.603, 10.153), and has now matched Camilla in coming to bail out the Trojan side in time of need (10.290). With his entry into the war, conflict *between* Italians kicks in, Etruscans v Latins, Volscians, etc., for all Augustans to feel as well as to see — after lifetimes filled with waves of civil war that cut every which way, and an apparent end to conflict reached at the price of a new monarchy lacking just the name.

**genitor**: another standard way of referring to Jupiter, virtually synonymous with *sator*.

## Extra information

Because of the virtual tautology of *sator* and *genitor*, some readers have even felt the need to posit an interpolation. See Mackail (1930: 452): 'There is a certain awkwardness in the repetition of the subject (*sator*, *genitor*), and it may be noticed that if the words *summo sedet altus Olympo Tyrrhenum genitor* were omitted, the remaining three lines of the sentence would be both clear and complete.' A cop-out, surely? Try this: Virgil is here engaging in allusive theological polemics, correcting a conception of Jupiter such as that propounded by Valerius Soranus in the following two hexameters:

Iuppiter omnipotens, regum rerumque deumque progenitor genetrixque deum, deus unus et omnes.

[Almighty Jupiter, begetter of kings and things and gods; at once one god and all gods.]

In his *de Civitate Dei* 7.9, Augustine cites these lines together with their explication by Varro in his *de Cultu Deorum* (*Worship of the Gods*): *cum marem existimarent qui semen emitteret*, *feminam quae acciperet*, *Iovemque esse mundum et eum omnia semina ex se emittere et in se recipere*, *cum causa*, *inquit*, *scripsit Soranus 'Iuppiter progenitor genetrixque'*, *nec minus cum causa unum et omnia idem esse*; *mundus enim unus et in eo omnia sunt* ('since they believe that it was the male who expelled the seed and the female who received it, and Jupiter is the world and both expels all seeds out of him and receives them into him, it is "with good reason", Varro says, "that Soranus described Jupiter as both father and mother", and with no less justification also said that he was both one and all, for the world is one, and within that one all things are contained').3 Valerius Soranus conceives of Jupiter in Stoic terms as a universal androgynous divinity necessarily embodying both maternal and paternal principles as he assumes the dual role of seed-expelling procreater and seed-receiving generative matrix; by contrast, Virgil casts his own god in unequivocally masculine terms, as sower (*sator*) and begetter (*genitor*), who moreover uses his (toxic?) masculinity to strengthen patriarchy and male pride by intervening against the battlefield career of a woman who has so successfully challenged traditional notions of male superiority.

**stimulis haud mollibus**: another litotes (cf. 452, same phrase); an ablative of means or instrument. Here the double negative subtly anticipates the vituperation — Tarchon upbraids his Etruscans for their unwarlike *mollitia* ('softness'). JH: You'd think he's just been listening to Camilla's misguided putdown of Ornytus (686–89)… But the verbal 'lashing' will pass on Jupiter's injection of wrath, aptly 'whipping' and 'spurring' these horsemen (*instigat*), and converting the Almighty's power into a 'spraygun' rhetorical performance (*variis … vocibus*). Controlled composition is not the rhetoric for this moment (the register is 'wrath').

<sup>3</sup> Text and translation are those of Walsh (2010). Cf. Courtney (1993: 66), who punctuates *progenitor genetrixque*, *deum deus*, *unus et omnes*.

## 729–31

**ergo inter caedes cedentiaque agmina Tarchon | fertur equo variisque instigat vocibus alas | nomine quemque vocans, reficitque in proelia pulsos**: three main clauses (*fertur – instigat – reficit*), linked by the two –*que* after *variis* and *reficit*. The placement of the verbs in the sentence mirrors the circumstances and impact of Tarchon's intervention:


So the (initially fleeing) troops and their divinely goaded leader Tarchon undergo inverse trajectories, as he gradually re-establishes his authority and command.

**caedes cedentiaque**: JH: the jingle suggests that *caedo* and *cedo* amount to two sides of the same coin. And that *is* the idea.

**fertur equo**: JH: the cavalry engagement continues, along with Virgil's exercise of apppropriately far-out fantasy for surprise distortions of 'regular' epic combat. The workout after Camilla's entrée at 498 includes: *equus* x 17 (x 4 in 1–497; *equa* at 494), *sonipes* x 2, *quadripedans* / -*es* x 2, *eques* x 2 (+ Camilla at 433); add *turma* x 4, *ala* x 3; *habenae* x 5, *frena*, x 2 (+ 195), ungula x 1 (+ *iubae*, *colla*, *armos*, at 497). In fact as everyone foots it or *rides* to the Latins' city (911), chargers will make a paddock of Book 11 to the very end… of the day, when the Sun wets *his* horses in the river of the far west (914)…

**nomine quemque vocans, reficitque in proelia pulsos**: JH: even in this context, the phrasing whispers that 'expelled' *Tarquins* try to 'recover' their kingdom in Rome. And tells us that this is what it's whispering: the only name check we have here is *Tarchon*'s, who just got the call from Big Daddy, and this is smuggled in by recourse to the formulaic indicator of any good officer rallying his troops by the personal touch of fitting individual names to faces. In aetiology, contrary positive and negative aspects are held co-present through every instantiation — it was always already all there.

## 732–33

**'quis metus, o numquam dolituri, o semper inertes | Tyrrheni, quae tanta animis ignavia venit?**: Two rhetorical questions frame two invocations of the Etruscans (*o … o*…). *animis* and *venit* also go with *quis metus*. Both *metus* ('fear') and *ignavia* ('idleness', or, more specifically 'slothful avoidance of duties coupled with cowardice') frequently register as antonyms of the arch-Roman quality of *virtus* ('manliness', especially courage in war and martial prowess): see e.g. Ennius, *Hectoris Lytra* fr. 155 Jocelyn; Cicero, *Tusculan Disputations* 3.17; Sallust, *Bellum Catilinae* 20.2; or Livy 24.44.8.

**o numquam dolituri, o semper inertes | Tyrrheni**: *dolituri* is the future active participle in the vocative masculine plural of *doleo*, modifying *Tyrrheni*: 'O Etruscans, never to feel any discomfort, always slothful.' The antithetical extremes *numquam* and *semper* nicely underscore the Etruscans' seemingly total inertia.

## 734

**femina palantis agit atque haec agmina vertit!**: a *husteron proteron*: we first get Camilla driving the army in disorder (*femina palantis agit*) before she turns the ranks (*haec agmina vertit*). As often, *husteron proteron*, a figure of speech that inverts the natural sequence of events, is used to articulate the topsy-turvy, the chaotic, or the perverse.

**agit … agmina vertit**: JH: Straggler-harassing is one thing, but taking on troops in formation, that's something else entirely! (cf. 684, *agmine*  *verso*). The rhyme *… venit*? | *… vertit*? | carries on the derisory chanting effect of the reduplication in *quis … quae* around *o numquam … o semper*  and reinforced in this sarcastic verse by the internal rhyme and quasipun of *femina … agit* ~ *agmina vertit.*

#### **femina**: contemptuous

**palantis**: the accusative masculine plural of the present participle (= *palantes*), modifying an implied *vos* (the accusative object of *agit*: a woman drives you, who…).

## 735

**quo ferrum quidve haec gerimus tela inrita dextris?**: two rhetorical questions linked by the enclitic –*ve* after *quid*. *gerimus* (and perhaps *dextris*) go also with *quo ferrum*: lit. 'to what purpose (are we carrying) steel (in our right hands) and why are we carrying these spears in our hands?' JH: The chain of redoubled phrases continues here, this time signalled as such: *quo … quid*ve*…*. Tarchon is also indicating in the shift from *haec* to *haec* that his weapons are same as theirs; the regiment should watch what he does with his, then do likewise. In just the one touch needed, his speech rustles up a 'we-here-now' from within its second-person address (*gerimus*). They are all in this together (*agmina … alas*, 729–30 ~ *agmina*, 734) — aren't 'you' (*exspectate*, 738)? See how inclusion / exclusion works in a solidarity speech? And how the officer turns his charge list report on his horrible shower into a parodic *order*, the expected climax to his rallying call.

## 736–37

**at non in Venerem segnes nocturnaque bella, | aut ubi curva choros indixit tibia Bacchi**: the subject (*vos*) and the verb (*estis*) need to be supplied; *segnes* (nominative masculine plural) is the predicative complement: *non* (*vos*) *estis segnes in … aut ubi…*: 'you are not slow for … or where…'. Sexual license and alcohol-fuelled lack of inhibition animate debauchery.

**at non segnes**: JH: i.e. he was letting them off lightly in calling them *semper inertes*! Similarly, the one *time* and *place* they aren't afraid (*metus*, 732) is *in bed*, *at night*, where they indeed 'never will mind, or even *feel*, the knocks' you're bound to pick up in the heat of 'battle' (*numquam dolituri* ~ *nocturna … bella*). Tarchon does manage to 'inject' a sergeantmajor's jovial drollery into his outrage!

**in Venerem … nocturnaque bella**: the preposition *in* governs both accusative phrases (linked by the –*que* after *nocturna*), another 'reduplicative' phrase referring to one and the same thing: 'erotic passion' manifesting itself in 'coital hanky-panky'. The idea of sex as war between the genders is peculiarly appropriate here: the Etruscans are quite happy to engage females in their bedrooms, but refuse to face Camilla on the battlefield. They comport themselves like the pyjama warriors of love elegy, happy to partake in a bedroom joust in the pursuit of erotic conquest but turning tail in a real military encounter. See e.g. Propertius 2.1.45, 3.8.32 or Ovid, *Amores* 1.9.1: *militat omnis amans et habet sua castra Cupido* ('Every lover serves as soldier, and Cupid, too, has his camps').

**aut**: another doublet, then, to expand on –*ve* (735).

**aut ubi curva choros indixit tibia Bacchi**: *curva* modifies *tibia*, which is the subject of the *ubi*-clause. The genitive *Bacchi* could be attached to *choros* and/or *tibia*. Dancing, especially of the orgiastic kind associated with such divinities as Bacchus or Cybele, was hard to reconcile with the comportment deemed appropriate for a member of Rome's ruling elite with its emphasis on *gravitas*. The very dress code of a senator limited any free-flowing movement. Put differently, togas don't dance. It was a Greek practice that never ceased to amaze Roman observers. JH: What the galloping major is on about here, mind, is the shambles of a squadron his troopers amount to: here they are 'backing off' (*cedentia*, 729), but if the bugle sounded 'Charge', this crack unit would at once and as one launch off in perfect formation exactly the way they're meant to! As it is, you bet, they'd jump to it in a perfectly synchronized highstepping chorus line the instant the top brass calls party time. No, the army doesn't use a '*bent* reed' — guess why, or read on!

## 738–40

**exspectate dapes et plenae pocula mensae | (hic amor, hoc studium) dum sacra secundus haruspex | nuntiet ac lucos vocet hostia pinguis in altos!'**: a sudden, contemptuous imperative (*exspectate*…), followed by an equally scornful parenthesis (*hic amor*, *hoc studium*), and a subordinate *dum*-clause. JH: In Bacchus' army, a feast is 'declared' (the correct object of *indixit* was *bella*, the wrong referent). And instead of battle, the signal posts one more of Tarchon's flood of two-pronged hendiadys phrasings — the boozed-up spread. Instead of *caedes* (729), here's to Bacchus, and the cup that always overflows. Tally-ho.

**(hic amor, hoc studium)**: the verb (*est*) needs to be supplied. The elision, the repetition of the demonstrative pronoun (*hic – hoc*), and the asyndeton give the periphrasis proper rhetorical punch: once more Virgil rubs in Tarchon's double-take technique, insulting the men with the charge that their vocation for the regiment is really a cover for living it up, when their *studium* ought precisely to be their *amor*.

**dum sacra secundus haruspex | nuntiet ac lucos vocet hostia pinguis in altos**: JH: the wing commander winds up with a last flourish to cap his volley of assorted doublets denouncing the ways these two-faced frauds risk blotting the regiment's escutcheon. It's a brilliant signing off, too: Jupiter gave Tarchon the personal going-over, and that's what the officer is now doing to his guys, addressing them personally but collectively (*nomine quemque …* , *Tyrrheni*), just as he will now act out himself, one for all. His job is to call them out, call them to attention, and to call them to action, to stop turning their backs and (so) getting butchered (*caedes cedentiaque*, 729) and instead sally forth and do their sacred duty for their own, for their unit's, and for their country's, sake (*vocans* => *vocet*). In this rhetorical stunt, sarcastic Tarchon gets to play the Etruscan priest who's in charge of when it's right to perform the rites, as the *haruspex* did in any Roman army's decision to march off on campaign, into any dangerous jungle in any dangerous defile through mountain terrain. Like any dashing charismatic officer, Tarchon's attitude to soldiering is to head off madly into the 'field' as if going to a wild rave, knowing perfectly well that the likely result will be to provide the enemy with a juicy victim to cut to pieces, and to provide his own side with a sacrificial victim that will ensure victory. They all know, too, that battle is just as topsy-turvy a world as Bacchus': myth has Bacchus invade the western world with a crazed horde of wild devotees, before he is incorporated into culture as the joker in the polytheism pack, his nighttime rites up on the mountains requiring the city's womenfolk to range loose, ripping animals apart and who knows what. In fact Tarchon & co. know perfectly well that troops do head into action well-feasted as if it's their last meal and well-primed with appropriate chemicals, whether alcoholic or otherwise. The end result of all this exhortatory fantasizing is to 'deliver the message' (for Jupiter) and 'sound the charge' in one 'full, fat' parabolic summons to prefer the better script on offer and grab the right side of Tarchon's alternative worlds, not the wrong. And this horseman, set on his mount among the rest, underlines how well he knows how war works, since sending men out as beasts for sacrifice is the primal scene of conflict, enshrined in the bind of *hostia*, 'victim' to *hostis*, 'enemy' (743). See Servius on *Aeneid* 1.334: hostiae *dicuntur sacrificia quae ab his fiunt qui in* hostem *pergunt*. Once more, Virgil contrives to make his text *signal* the importance of the message, loud and clear (*nuntiet*): listen to Tarchon 'say the word', and the word is *hostia*! Next we get to watch him do it.

**nuntiet ac … vocet**: present subjunctives, anticipating a future state of affairs. See Gildersleeve & Lodge 366–67.

**secundus haruspex**: the attribute *secundus*, while not out of place with *haruspex*, would more naturally go with *sacra*: *sacra secunda* ('favourable auspices obtained through the inspection of the entrails of a sacrificial victim') is what a *haruspex* was supposed to produce. In his chapter entitled 'Anatomy of a Style', Gian Biago Conte discusses the phrasing as an instance of 'expressive defamiliarization', a moment where Virgil thwarts the reader's expectation, forcing us (or at least the commentators) to stop, think, and consider: it remains unclear whether we are dealing point blank with a transferred epithet (so for instance Gransden 1991: 132: 'the adjective is predicative, having been, as it were, transferred from the omens (the *sacra*) to the soothsayers) or a more complex semantic interactivity: Horsfall (2003: 400), for instance, maintains that the attribute may well apply to both the signs from the gods (*secunda sacra*) and their interpreter (*secundus haruspex*); and it could not have done such double duty, or at least not as strikingly, if it had modified *sacra*. JH: Tarchon's feat will precisely be to get his men to 'follow' his blessed lead and do likewise (*secundus ~ secuti*, 758). And they will be doing the bidding of the Almighty.

**lucos … in altos**: anastrophe (= *in altos lucos*).

Similar to the speech of Numanus Remulus at *Aeneid* 9.598–620 ('a powerful piece of epideictic rhetoric, using the techniques of praise and invective in order to elaborate contrasting racial stereotypes of the Italians and the Trojans': Hardie 1994: 188; see further Horsfall (1971) and Dickie (1985)), Tarchon's speech opens with scornful rhetorical questions and closes with a scornful imperative. Tarchon here applies to his own people the abusive idiom of effeminacy and luxury that the enemies of the Trojans (Iarbas, Turnus, Numanus Remulus, etc.) use against Aeneas and his followers. While proprietors of haruspicy, they also have a reputation for being lecherous cowards, interested in food, drink, and debauchery, and effeminate in their indulgence in luxury. The set of shared vituperative stereotypes is not a coincidence if one considers that the Etruscans and Trojans both hail from Asia Minor — and that in turn Aeneas' lineage is ultimately of Etruscan origins. See Reed (2009: 11):

In tracing Aeneas' lineage back to this place [i.e. the Etruscan place of Corythus, the alleged hometown of Aeneas' ancestor Dardanus, who ended up as Trojan royalty], Virgil awakens the possibility that his ancestry is Etruscan — in conformity, one might suppose, with the generally sympathetic treatment of Etruscans in the poem. But that sympathetic treatment must also be read alongside the Etruscans' originally being Lydian or Maeonian — Asiatic, Oriental like the Trojans — in this poem, in accordance with an account first read in Herodotus 1.94. Etruscans cannot claim Italian soil by virtue of their origins. If Dardanus was Etruscan [he could also be Greek or native Italian], and the Etruscans are originally Lydian, we are sent back to Anatolia and the Trojan sphere.

Arguably the abusive idiom and its geopolitical implications resonated in a contemporary key for Virgil's original readers. See Viparelli (2008: 15–16):

[…] in the rhetoric of Tarchon's and Arruns' invective, there is an echo of the innuendo and arguments that Augustan propaganda used, a short time before, in war-mongering and nationalistic terms, against Cleopatra, a historical queen and enemy of the Romans, who personified a *hostis publicus*. In other words, the innuendo and arguments are similar to those with which Octavian justified the war against Cleopatra. Octavian sparked off the war against Cleopatra and Antonius by transforming the civil war into a defensive war of men against the tyranny of a woman. […] Opposition to the queen was set not only as the struggle for freedom by the West against the East, but also and primarily by a man against the dangerous despotism of a woman.

JH: Here the special twist is that this is an Etruscan putting down Etruscans *to* Etruscans, so the rhetorical strategy is to turn on them — re-cite — the (snide) smears of Etruscans *by* non-Etruscans in order to spur them to refute the (false) smears. It *doesn't* amount to any admission that they tell true — as Tarchon will now prove, but means to get the rest to follow his example and smash the stereotype (758–59). Up to them to prove that he's not the exception that proves the rule. (Virgil, however, may admit reservations: *variis … vocibus* could include an iffy valuation in the arguments he gets Tarchon to air. In complementary fashion, in 9.595–96 Remulus Numanus' taunts at the Trojan nambypambies were dubbed *digna atque indigna relatu* |, and if you sling enough mud loud enough (| *vociferans*), some will stick: which leaves us to see if we can tell which of the gibes are above and which below the belt — and which hit, which miss; and which hit / miss what targets.)

## 11.741–750: Venulus Gets Carried Away

Tarchon practises what he preaches and takes instant action (*in altos ~ in medios*; cf. *incurrunt*, 759: attack, attack, attack). The narrative stretch that follows recalls, matches and trumps the last part of Camilla's *aristeia* (718–24, just before Jupiter's intervention, which is not part of the set text):

haec fatur virgo, et pernicibus ignea plantis transit equum cursu frenisque adversa prehensis congreditur poenasque inimico ex sanguine sumit: 720 quam facile accipiter saxo sacer ales ab alto consequitur pennis sublimem in nube columbam comprensamque tenet pedibusque eviscerat uncis; tum cruor et vulsae labuntur ab aethere plumae.

[Thus the maiden speaks and on her swift feet, quick as fire, ran across the horse in its path and, seizing the reins, confronts him face to face and exacts punishment from his hostile blood: as easily as a falcon, a sacred bird, from a rock up high pursues on its wings a dove high in the clouds, catches it, holds it in his clutch, and with crooked claws rips out its entrails, while blood and torn-out feathers fall from the sky.]

After his speech (741: *haec effatus*) Tarchon too is going to fly over the plain on fire (746: … *volat igneus aequore Tarchon*) and that inspires the poet to compare him to a bird of prey in an extended simile (751– 56) — and while Camilla was compared to a hawk (*accipiter*) victimizing a dove, Virgil ups the ante by opting for an eagle fighting a snake in mid-air to illustrate Tarchon's prowess. Before the aerial acrobatics of the simile, however, we get a spectacular stunt on horseback, in what must be one of the most bizarre passages in the entire poem as Tarchon carries off Venulus in tight, yet lethal embrace. If in his speech we had martial imagery applied to the erotic sphere, we now get erotic imagery applied to the martial sphere. See Lyne (1989: 37):

Then, interestingly (with an effect which I find hard to pin down), Vergil turns Tarchon's imagery on its head. Tarchon had used military language of love: Vergil uses amatory imagery of war. Tarchon promptly rides against the suggestively named "Venulus" (742), "embraces" his foe ("complectitur hostem"), and bears him off "gremium ante suum". Some might like to make something of "gremium" — and indeed much other detail in this section of text. I leave it like this, with the point made: Vergil turns Tarchon's imagery round, ironically using amatorily suggestive words of war.

There are other features that render this a remarkable passage, including constant shifts in perspective. See Adema (2017: 295, n. 138):

The shifts in perspective in this brief killing scene are swift and manifold. First the narrator narrates how Tarchon seizes Venulus and drives away […] Then, the attention of the Latins is drawn by cries and they turn to watch Tarchon flying over the battlefield with Venulus under his arm […] Tarchon's perspective is used in the indirect presentation of his deliberation on where to strike […] , after which the narrator first turns to Venulus […] and then uses his own perspective in the ensuing simile and the clause that indicates the return to the narrative [751–57].

## 741–44

**haec effatus equum in medios moriturus et ipse | concitat, et Venulo adversum se turbidus infert | dereptumque ab equo dextra complectitur hostem | et gremium ante suum multa vi concitus aufert**: after the speech, we return to (highly peculiar) action. The syntax takes on a paratactic flavour, with just a sprinkling of participles (*effatus*, *moriturus*, *dereptum*, *concitus*) but no subordinate clauses. The sequence of main verbs, all linked to each other through a straightforward connective (= polysyndeton), is *concitat* – *infert* – *complectitur* (linked to *infert* by the –*que* after *dereptum*) – *aufert*.

**moriturus et ipse**: *moriturus* is the future participle of *mori* ('to die') modifying the implied subject of the sentence (i.e. Tarchon) and *et* here has the sense of 'also'. The literal meaning is 'about to to die himself as well', and that's what we are expecting, with Tarchon offering himself up as the sacrificial victim that will secure victory. We are set up for the legendary scenario of *devotio*, a favourite Roman ritual in which a commander would 'devote' his own life (or some of his soldiers' lives) to the gods of the netherworld *in return for* victory. The bargain at the centre of the ritual only kicked in if the devoted person(s) actually died in battle, and to achieve this they would deliberately rush headlong into the thick of the enemy army. (Our sources report that the Greek Pyrrhus, whom Rome fought in Southern Italy at the beginning of the third-century BCE, gave instructions to his soldiers to capture such self-sacrificing kamikaze warriors alive…) The alliterative connection with the preceding *in medios moriturus* confirms the thematic point; but—spoiler alert—Virgil will in the event *not* confirm that this is where Tarchon dies to become a paragon. He won't reappear in the poem, but, notice, *moriturus can* mean '*ready* to die', and Tarchon's willingness to die does set *some* sort of example for the platoon; yet *devotio* does require confirmation by dying, so there's a gap that we're expecting to fill in when we reach the end of the story.

**equum in medios** (sc. *hostes*)**… | concitat**: note the enjambment. The lines actively reformulate 729–30: *ergo inter caedes cedentiaque agmina Tarchon* | *fertur equo*. There is a lot of 'stirring' going on in this stretch of the poem. After Jupiter's stir of Tarchon (728: *suscitat*; *stimulis haud mollibus*) and Tarchon's stir of the Etruscan cavalry (730: *instigat … alas* + the rousing speech at 732–40), we now have Tarchon stirring his horse, as we move down another notch on the *scala naturae* ('the ladder of nature'); lower still, the pits Arruns stirs his spear Camilla-wards (784: *concitat*). And all this, like any storyteller's parable, is out to 'stimulate' the audience, to do thou likewise.

**Venulo adversum**: *adversum* is either an adverb or an adjective referring to Tarchon and standing in predicative position to the reflexive pronoun *se*; if so, it governs *Venulo* as a dative of reference ('opposite to, i.e. facing, Venulus'; but *Venulo* could also be construed with *infert*). Either way, the elision enacts the clash. Venulus = 'Venus' (little) one' brings

to mind Cupid (or even Aeneas) — and recalls Tarchon's rebuke of his men, whom he chides for being not at all slothful to get involved in venery (736: *non in Venerem segnes*). JH: Venulus, mark, was the leader of the unsuccessful Latin embassy to Diomedes, hence himself a telling 'messenger' (740). What a way for him to get ridden out of the story…

**turbidus**: with reference to persons, the adjective refers to highly agitated speech or comportment and elsewhere in the *Aeneid* is used to describe such unsettled individuals as Turnus (9.57, 10.648, 12.10, 12.671) or Mezentius (10.763). It has thematic (and etymological) affinities with words signifying social (*turba*) and cosmic (*turbo*) commotion: matters can get unhinged at the level of the individual, society, or the world at large. As Horsfall puts it (2003: 401): 'On Venulus, Tarchon descends like a storm.'

**dereptumque ab equo dextra complectitur hostem**: remember that *complector* is a deponent verb, passive in form but active in meaning: it takes (the long-delayed) *hostem* as accusative object; the subject remains Tarchon, who gets it into his head to snatch Venulus from his horse, only to hug him with his right hand (the final –*a* of *dextra* scans long: it is an ablative of means). *complector* tends to be used in an affectionate sense rather than of a situation in which two enemies wrestle with — and try to kill — each other: it belongs to the terms Virgil here transfers from the sphere of (erotic) intimacy to the sphere of warfare. JH: Spectacularly grotesque, indeed, but *also* one of Virgil's most 'ethnographic' Italian moments, bringing out the underlying 'nature' of the Etruscans, sound or evil, through the linkage to tyrant Mezentius' worst atrocity, another case — only more protracted — of hugging fellow Italians / citizens face-to-face (8.485–88):

mortua quin etiam iungebat corpora vivis componens manibusque manus atque *oribus ora*, tormenti genus, et sanie taboque fluentis *complexu in misero* longa sic morte necabat.

[He would even link dead bodies with the living, attaching hand to hand and face to face as a type of torture and kill them thus in slow death as they disintegrated in decay and putrefaction in this wretched embrace.]

## 745–46

**tollitur in caelum clamor cunctique Latini | convertere oculos**: the two main clauses are linked by the –*que* after *cuncti* and a pronounced *c*-alliteration. The sentence here anticipates 11.799–801, where the whistling of Arruns' spear on the way to Camilla's heart turns the minds and eyes of all Volscians (*cuncti … Volsci*) towards the queen. The soundtrack dials up to eleven, as all at once *everyone's* eyes are on the clash.

**convertere**: the alternative third person plural perfect indicative active form (= *converterunt*; it might look identical to the present active infinitive, but the penultimate syllable — *convertêre* — scans long), effectively placed in enjambment, which produces a mild form of metapoetic enactment: the eyes of the reader need to 'revert' to the beginning of the next line to complete the sentence.

## 746–47

**volat igneus aequore Tarchon | arma virumque ferens**: The impression that Tarchon 'flies' (*volat*) across the plain sets up the eagle-snakesimile to follow at 751–58 — apart from conjuring (at least for those readers affected by Virgil's persistent use of erotic imagery in this passage…) Ganymede, i.e. the handsome Trojan prince whom Jupiter (N.B.!) carried off in the shape of an eagle. Indeed, the proemial tag *arma virumque* might just help the reader to recall that the Ganymede story figures in the extended proem, as the deepest reason Juno loathes the Trojans (1.28: *rapti Ganymedis honores*; cf. 5.252–57, the ecphrasis of a cloak which features a visual rendition of Ganymede being snatched away by the eagle).

**igneus**: a polyvalent attribute, which most obviously refers to Tarchon's ardent desire to prove himself in battle, but can also carry erotic connotations and goes rather well with *volat*, conjuring the (fiery) ether (see next note).

**aequore**: an ablative of location; the noun doesn't have the meaning you might be most familiar with ('sea'), but has the more general sense of 'plain surface, plane', hence in the ablative, 'on the plain'. Given the preceding reference to air (through *volat*: 'he flies') and fire (through *igneus*: Tarchon is a fiery character), one might just wonder, however, whether *aequore*, by simultaneously hinting at water and signifying earth, is meant to complete the list of the four basic elements.

**arma virumque ferens**: Virgil repeats the opening tag of the poem (*Aeneid* 1.1: *arma virumque cano*: 'I sing of arms and the man'; we just missed Camilla's version *per arma viro*, 696). The intratextual gesture is particularly appropriate if we understand Venulus ('son? of Venus') literally: Virgil sings about one son of Venus; Tarchon carries off another. See further Kraggerud (2016: 130):

Twelve times the combination of *arma* with a form of *vir* is found in the *Aeneid* […]. In only two of these instances *arma* and *vir* are combined with –*que*: 1.1 and 11.747. The latter case is altogether different from *arma virumque cano*: *Volat igneus aequore Tarchon* / *arma virumque ferens*. Here the separateness of the two objects is clear, all too clear one might say, *arma* having its proper meaning of 'arms', the equipment of Venulus on the battlefield, whereas the man himself (*virum*) is seen as wholly at the mercy of his foe. *A*. 1.1. is, on the other hand, a unit, whereby *arma* has its figurative meaning, 'combat', 'fighting', 'warlike deeds', and is inseparable from the *vir* combined with it. Thus an Iliadic-Ennian allusion is stressed in the first word of the epic. As to the Eleventh Book, I have no doubt that Vergil was well aware that he quoted his own opening words and reckoned that others would notice this as well. The point of the echo was to show how differently he handled the syntagm that functions as the title of his epic poem.

JH: We just saw, however, that this 'hot' moment is marked out for special, engrossed attention: over before it's arrived (*volat igneus*), it brings us in a tiny miniature cameo a 'still' that can stand for the whole epic work. This latest twist on the polythetic relationships to be discovered within the iconic 'man-at-arms' template has the conceit that this version has our man skip using his weapons against his opponent's, not bothering with the kill first, but instead proceeding straight to bringing back the booty, corpse and all, in triumph (757–58). You're *meant* to kill, then strip, then leave behind your foe, and collect the applause when you rejoin the ranks. What we might detect is how emphatically this cut redefines the poem as turning into 'civil' war in Italy, here between Latins and Etruscans (745–46), wherein neither side should face the other as a *hostis*. As the Trojans begin their destined disappearance into the melting pot, Tarchon hugging Venulus to death makes the perfect 'badge'.

## 747–49

**tum summa ipsius ab hasta | defringit ferrum et partis rimatur apertas, | qua vulnus letale ferat**: the sentence elaborates on both parts of *arma virumque*: Tarchon somehow manages the impressive feat of reducing the unwieldy spear of Venulus to a knife-size stabbing tool by breaking off the tip (all the while holding his enemy in tight embrace) and then probing for a place in his armour to penetrate. This continues to be unorthodox, let's say: a *vir* normally uses his own *arma*. But Tarchon's a lancer *in a hurry* (*volat*) — we heard from him once before, pumping up his crew with his 'gallant' idea of bringing a ship to shore, namely by crashing it into the beach, happy to trade in his own smashed vessel if he can only grab a hold of enemy land (10.290–307: *arrepta tellure* ~ 11.743, *dereptum*). Arise, Sir Impetuosity. The verse design, with *defringit ferrum* in enjambment, separating it from *summa ipsius ab hasta*, enacts the breaking-off of the iron tip from the wooden part of the spear — just as the placement of *rimatur* in between *partis* (accusative plural = *partes*) and *apertas* conveys a sense of Tarchon's probing for open fissures in Venulus' armour.

**partis rimatur apertas**: JH: Tarchon competes here with Camilla's hawk, ripping out the dove's innards (pedibus … *eviscerat* uncis, 723). Camilla's version will kill *ossa … inter … ad costas*; whereas Arruns gets no pathos, just *haesit in corpore ferrum*, and nobody cares (864).

**qua vulnus letale ferat**: *qua* ('where') introduces an indirect question (hence the subjunctive *ferat*).

**summa … ab hasta**: anastrophe (= *ab summa hasta*); as with *summo … Olympo* at 726, *summa* here does not compare this particular spear to others ('the highest'), but refers to *the tip of* the spear.

**ipsius**: the genitive masculine singular of *ipse*, referring to Venulus. Hence *summa ipsius ab hasta … ferrum* = 'the steel head of Venulus' spear' (West).

## 749–50

**contra ille repugnans | sustinet a iugulo dextram et vim viribus exit**: *contra* (adverbially, with *repugnans*) sets up a shift in subject from Tarchon to Venulus. Standard prose order would be *ille contra repugnans dextram* [*eius*] *a iugulo* [*suo*] *sustinet*. The placement of *dextram* at the very end of the clause pinpoints Venulus' effort to keep the right hand of Tarchon, armed with the dastardly spear-tip, away from his throat.

**vim viribus exit**: *exit* is here used transitively, taking *vim* as accusative object: 'he eschews force with strength'. For the idiom see Wills (1996: 199): 'Fighting "hand-to-hand" is infrequent, probably because it was idiomatic (Veget. 1.20 *manu ad manum gladiis pugnatur*, 3.23 *comminus*, *hoc est manu ad manum*, *pugnatur*, 4.44). One poetic option is lexical replacement, as when Venulus wrestles with Tarchon on horseback at *Aen*. 11.750.' He adds in note 29: 'In addition to transitive *exit*, Virgil uses the plural to poeticize the usual idiom *uim ui arcere*.' JH: *This* 'exit' is as syntactically weird as it is referentially graphic: it's *not* all over with, not yet: in *vim* <-> *viribus* the plural outbids the singular (matching and trumping *multa vi*, 744). Just at the critical moment, there's a 'dissolve', into simile, telling us what it was *like* instead of what it was:

# 11.751–761: ExemplaryCombat: Eagle vs. Snake

If in Tarchon's 'flight' over the plain *volare* was used metaphorically, Virgil's narrative now truly takes off in a long, convoluted animal simile that compares the wrestling match on horseback between Tarchon and Venulus to an eagle (*aquila*) struggling in mid-air with a snake (*draco*) it snatched in its claws. The design of the simile as a whole reinforces the plot (751–58):

**utque volans alte raptum cum fulva draconem fert aquila implicuitque pedes atque unguibus haesit**, *saucius at serpens sinuosa volumina versat arrectisque horret squamis et sibilat ore arduus insurgens*, **illa haud minus urget obunco** 755 **luctantem rostro, simul aethera verberat alis**: **haud aliter** praedam Tiburtum ex agmine Tarchon portat ovans.

*utque…cum…* ('and just as when…') in 751 and *haud aliter* ('no differently…) in 757 coordinate the comparison. The *cum*-clause is complex, mirroring the remorseless fight between eagle and snake:


We are dealing with a closely matched encounter, though the eagle gets slightly more verses in subject position (3.5 *v*. 2.5 for the snake) and its lines sandwich those of its adversary. Other touches underscore the superiority of the eagle: whereas the snake appears as accusative object in the eagle passages (751: *raptum … draconem*; 756: *luctantem*), the inverse is not the case: unlike Venulus (in 749–50), the snake never gets grammatical purchase on its predator. Likewise, whereas the snake is reduced to twisting (753: *versat*), writhing (754: *horret*), and hissing (754: *sibilat*), the eagle is depicted as using his claws (752: *pedes*), talons (752: *unguibus*) and beak (756: *rostro*) to tear into his prey.

There is a neat pattern of participles in the nominative and main verbs across the entire simile:


We first get the eagle and the snake in chiastic variation (participle + tricolon of main verbs :: tricolon of main verbs + participle); and whereas *urget – verberat – portat* is not technically speaking a tricolon, given the shift in construction and subject, the continuation of the pattern both helps to embed the simile within the surrounding narrative and to introduce a touch of closure, with *ovans* gesturing back to *volans*, both in terms of grammar and assonance.

## 751–52

**utque volans alte raptum cum fulva draconem | fert aquila implicuitque pedes atque unguibus haesit**: you just might be tempted to think, especially if you misconstrue *cum*, that *fulva* is in the ablative. But when you scan the line, you'll realize that the –*a* is short, so that can't be. In fact, *fulva* is nominative feminine singular — and the attribute modifies *aquila* in the following line: the predator is a tawny eagle. The interlaced word order (*raptum*: modifying the snake; *fulva*: modifying the eagle; *draconem*: snake; *aquila*: eagle) anticipates the intertwining of the two animals during their aerial combat. The syntax is by and large paratactic (with the –*que* linking *fert* and *implicuit*), but note the shift from present (*fert*) to perfect (*implicuit* and *haesit*), which highlights the *husteron proteron*. (Latin does not have a separate tense equivalent to the English present perfect to indicate an action that began in the past and continues in the present, but both *implicuit* and *haesit* should be taken in that sense.)

**volans … raptum**: grounding the simile in its 'illustrandum', *dereptum … volat* (743, 746).

**cum**: this is *not* the preposition + ablative, but the conjunction + indicative, introducing a temporal clause.

**draconem + aquila**: both animals are symbolically highly charged: 'The eagle is the symbol of Jupiter. Snakes have, with one exception, been symbols of destruction in the *Aeneid*' (Nielson 1984: 32, with reference to Knox (1966) and Nethercut (1974)).

**implicuit … pedes**: the eagle has folded its feet (= talons) around the snake. Usually, of course, snakes do the enfolding.

**unguibus**: an ablative of means.

## 753–55

*s***auciu***s* **at** *s***erpen***s s***inuo***s***a volumina ver***s***at | arrecti***s***que horret**  *s***quami***s* **et** *s***ibilat ore | arduu***s* **in***s***urgen***s*: those of you who get a kick out of onomatopoeic alliterations (and who doesn't — but it is a hermeneutic passion to be indulged with caution…) should have a field day with these *verses*: they *s*-hiss (and *v*-twist) for all their worth, as snake fights back vs. eagle. As with the eagle, we get three main verbs and a participle; the –*que* after *arrectis* links *versat* and *horret*.

**volumina versat**: the snake is twisting its coils with all its might: (alliterating) noun and verb reinforce each other: *volumen* derives from the verb *volvo*, which means with respect to snakes 'to move with a sinuous motion'.

**arduus**: adjective in lieu of adverb: the snake is rising high.

## 755–56

**illa haud minus urget obunco | luctantem rostro, simul aethera verberat alis**: *illa* (nominative feminine singular) refers to the eagle (*aquila*), which hacks away at the struggling serpent with its hooked beak while trying to remain airborne: the phrase *obunco … rostro* frames the participle *luctantem*, which agrees with an implied *eum* [*sc. draconem*] — the accusative object of *urget* — in another instance of iconic word order.

**aethera verberat**: *aether* is a loanword from the Greek (αἰθήρ) and here occurs in the (Greek) accusative singular. The near-identical vowel sequence in *aethera* and *verberat* — (a)e–e–a –, the assonance in the ending (–*ra*, –*rat*), and the coincidence of verse-ictus and accent (both words scan as dactyls (– u u) and occupy their very own metrical foot) convey something of the flapping wings. JH: Jupiter's eagle gets us back up in the sky (724: *ab aethere*), where we left Camilla for Jupiter: Tarchon has stopped the ro(u)t, but won no easy victory. The simile has got to grips with the killing, and when we exit from it and rejoin the narrative, it looks very much like that was curtains for our snake in the bosom, Venulus, who is now instantly converted into 'booty', so presumed dead. But there's many a slip: *eventus* can equivocate between neutral 'outcome' and positive 'success', and the difference, as we saw, might matter a whole lot. Does Tarchon sacrifice his life to become and so set an 'example'; and does the success of his exploit depend on it? We might just point out that a dead snake can still be a killer: so Tarchon brings his quarry back and everyone whoops; but was this snake a constrictor, as you might gather from its taking the 'outside' track (*vim viribus exit* vs the 'insider' fumbling of *partis rimatur apertas*, 748) and then applying *sinuosa volumina*? Or does *arrectis … horret squamis* image lifting for a strike — and was this in fact *venomous*? (Besides, venomous constrictors are common enough!) Does (your) Virgil leave it with us to decide whether a double death clinches or burnishes the success of his exemplary parable?

## 757–58

**haud aliter praedam Tiburtum ex agmine Tarchon | portat ovans**: with the participle *ovans* ('glorying triumphantly') Virgil introduces another proto-Roman touch: '*Ovatio* was a form of victory celebration less lavish and impressive than a triumph, probably of native Roman or Latin origin' (*OCD*). In this context, *praeda* carries the double sense of 'prey' and 'booty' (of the kind one would display in the parade).

**Tiburtum**: syncopated genitive plural (= *Tiburt*|*or*|*um*), dependent on *ex agmine*.

## 758–59

**ducis exemplum eventumque secuti | Maeonidae incurrunt**: Tarchon distinguishes himself as *dux* by setting an example (*exemplum*). Note the deft paronomasia *exemplum ~ eventum*: an *exemplum* consists of a name + a deed. *Maeonidae* = the men from Maeonia; Maeonia is an alternative name for Lydia (in Asia Minor), from where the Etruscans originally hailed. JH: The effect of Tarchon's exploit powered by the Almighty (in all his epic pomp, 725–26) is to turn his troops from effete layabouts into their original grand selves, fit to share a home(r)land with the father of epic (*Maeonia* was one of Homer's several claimed birthplaces). So the scene proudly signs itself off as fit to step into the grandest war poem ever.

We rejoin the switchback Camilla story abruptly, but now Jupiter has passed the initiative through Tarchon to her foes. Hidden in the text where you needn't miss it, the clinch to death continues on into the story of her last ride, as a snake in the grass does a (no?) less Etruscan, but nevertheless unorthodox job *on her*. The first thing we learn is that he'll prove just as much of a kamikaze in fact as Tarchon meant to be:

## 759–61

**tum fatis debitus Arruns | velocem iaculo et multa prior arte Camillam | circuit, et quae sit fortuna facillima temptat**: another instance of iconic word order, which mirrors Arruns' prowling around a rapidly moving Camilla, probing for an opening: **Arruns** | *velocem* iaculo et multa **prior** arte *Camillam* | **circuit**: subject and verb, placed strategically at the end of 759 and the beginning of 760 bracket the accusative object *velocem … Camillam*: the placement of attribute and noun at the beginning and end of the line generates a striking hyperbaton, which enacts Camilla's speed — and the difficulty Arruns has in pinning her down prior to attack. *iaculo et multa … arte*, two ablatives of instrument connected by *et* in a 'zeugma of concrete and abstract' (Horsfall 2003: 407), indicate, however, his deadly intent and suggest that he has the requisite skills to carry it out.

**fatis debitus**: *fatis* is in the dative dependent on *debitus*. As we know from Diana's speech, whoever kills Camilla is doomed as well: his destiny has become fixed, he is 'owed to the fates'. He'll take this 'exchange', too, though *his* successful outcome isn't going to buy him positive exemplarity (whereas Camilla already inspires the Latin mothers to pitch in from their battlements at 892).

**Arruns**: Arruns is a shady figure—'deliberately introduced enigmatically and suddenly at the very end of the line, with the briefest of introductions […] to balance the prey he stalks, Camilla, at 760' (Fratantuono 2009: 247). His name points to Etruscan origins, but there were also Volscian Arruntii, and there is something to be said for imagining that Camilla gets killed by someone from her own people (as she will be, *qua* 'Italid', 657, whether or not more precisely *qua* Volscian; for this is 'civil war', and in that winners are losers and so are losers). The most (in)famous Arruns in Roman history and legend is the eponymous son of Tarquinius Superbus, but the name was still in use during Virgil's time, with one particularly suggestive Lucius Arruntius who started out as an associate of Sextus Pompey in the 40s BCE, but ended up as one of Octavian's commanders at Actium in 31 BCE: see Fratantuono (2009: 247–50), who explores these and other possibilities of historical allegoresis. In many ways, he is also a distorted double of Aeneas: Kepple (1976) shows the many parallels between the showdown of Arruns and Camilla in Book 11 and that of Aeneas and Turnus in Book 12.

**prior**: there are various ways to understand Arruns' 'priority': (i) temporal: he seeks out Camilla 'first' (and kills her before she gets her chance at preying on him); (ii) spatial: '*prior circuit* is a condensed way of saying "follows her track through its windings, keeping a little ahead of her", so that when opportunity is given he may check his horse and take a steady aim at her as she passes' (Mackail 1930: 453); (iii) qualitative, in the sense of 'having the advantage' with *iaculo et multa … arte* as ablatives of respect: 'in (wielding) the javelin and much craftiness'. (So West, who translates: 'She was swift of foot, but he was more than her equal with the javelin and far superior in cunning.') Which solution do you prefer — and why?

**circuit**: JH: remember that 'snake' taking the 'outside' route (*vi viribus* exit) ? Keep it in mind when you get to 765–66: *omnemque pererrat* | *undique* circuitum. Arruns is looking for an 'inside' way in, the complementary inversion of Camilla's own party piece of 694–95: *magnum … per orbem* | *eludit gyro interior*.

**quae sit fortuna facillima**: indirect question (hence the subjunctive). *facillima* is the superlative of *facilis* in the nominative feminine singular modifying *fortuna*: 'which opportunity (to attack) is the easiest'. JH: Quite some ask, given how easily the hawk Camilla crushed her dove, *quam facile*, 721). But recall that eagle 'ferreting out whereabouts to strike home': *rimatur … qua vulnus letale ferat* (748–49; *fortuna* comes from *fero*). That dove managed to trick Camilla down from her horse, and now she's on foot, she'll be hunted down by another horseman, so she must have been too hasty in thinking she'd brought him down from overweening pride and that was the end of it (715).

The three couplets describe Arruns' stalking of Camilla; their regularity — see esp. the double anaphora of *qua* (762, 764) with corresponding anaphora of *hac* (763, 765) as well as the repetition *hos aditus iamque hos aditus* (766) — captures the systematic and resolute approach he adopts in his pursuit of his prey. Wills (1996: 411–12) argues that the interlocking pattern generated by the anaphoras of *qua* and *hac* mimics the layout of erotic-elegiac verse, in which hexameter alters with pentameter in regular sequence: 'The *iuuenis* Arruns pursues the *uirgo* Camilla; perhaps the elegiac interlocking adds a touch of the amatory chase.'

## 762–63

**qua se cumque furens medio tulit agmine virgo, | hac Arruns subit et tacitus vestigia lustrat**: Camilla moves hither and thither, neatly mirrored by the systematic separation of items that go together: *qua … cumque*, *se … tulit*, *furens … virgo*, *medio … agmine*, with the concentric design of *furens medio tulit agmine virgo* expressive of her central location in the ranks. By contrast, the main clause is straightforward and steady as Arruns keeps track of his victim.

**qua … cumque**: a so-called tmesis ('cutting apart'): *quacumque*.

**hac**: ablative of place (just like its counterpart in 765).

**tacitus**: adjective in lieu of adverb ('stealthily') modifying the subject of the sentence (Arruns).

## 764–65

**qua victrix redit illa pedemque ex hoste reportat, | hac iuvenis furtim celeris detorquet habenas**: the –*que* after *pedem* links the virtually synonymous *redit* and *reportat*: 'where she returns victorious (*victrix* is the female equivalent to *victor*) and returns (*pedem* is an internal accusative with *reportat*) from an encounter with the enemy (*ex hoste*), there (*hac*) the young man stealthily turns his swift reins.' *celeris* is the alternative third declension accusative plural form of *celer* (= *celeres*), modifying *habenas*. The phrasing, it seems, notches up another successful encounter of Camilla *on foot*.

## 766–67

**hos aditus iamque hos aditus omnemque pererrat | undique circuitum et certam quatit improbus hastam**: *pererrat* governs three accusatives linked by the two –*que* after *iam* and *omnem*: *hos aditus*, *hos aditus*, *omnem … circuitum*. The design *omnemque pererrat* | *undique circuitum* with hyperbaton and enjambment is emblematic of Arruns' circular motion around Camilla: 'he tests (*pererrat*) these openings and then those openings and every possible way in (*omnem … circuitum*) from all sides (*undique*)…'. JH: Have we forgotten that eagle Tarchon yet, feeling around for where to get the best 'access', the best 'opening', to his snake's vitals: *partis rimatur apertas* | *qua vulnus letale ferat* ~ *hos aditus iamque hos aditus omnemque pererrat* | *undique circuitum*? By now, surely we have had it confirmed that this is cavalry hunting infantry?

**certam … hastam**: as Horsfall (2003: 409) notes, the epithet *certam* is here used 'in tragic anticipation of the fatal throw'. Arruns, however, knows he has one chance and must get that right, however long it takes to set it up.

**improbus**: Arruns is another sneak, and he has no shame, as he cowardly skulks around his victim, trying to get close enough to kill her from afar with a spear since he would not dare to confront Camilla face-to-face in single combat. He's right too; he's no death-and-glory Tarchon, and Camilla's last victim thought *he* was safe from her once she'd dismounted, only to find she outran his steed and saw him off in no time flat (705–20). There is a latent clash between *certam* and

*improbus* that poses troubling questions about Virgil's theology: why did he choose to have the seemingly glorious Camilla killed by such a dislikeable and inglorious character as Arruns? Why does he turn a creep into an agent of fate?

The narrative continues in a zany key with the appearance of Chloreus — in all likelihood a eunuch (Anderson 1999: 206–7) and at any rate a distinct oddball on the battlefield, 'a walking pile of gold and weapons' (Dinter 2005: 163), 'the embodiment of the worst Troy has to offer' (Fratantuono 2007a: 345). Travestied as he is in the garish attire of a (former) priest of Cybele, whose devotees were required to unman themselves, and sporting an array of decorative — rather than functional — weaponry, he is the spitting image of the invective caricature of an effeminate Trojan as sketched out by figures like Iarbas (*Aen*. 4.206–18), Turnus' brother-in-law Numanus Remulus (9.598–620), or Turnus himself (12.95–100).4 Indeed, he would have been a perfect addressee for Tarchon's earlier outburst against his own troops (11.732– 40). Chloreus personifies all of the national characteristics that Aeneas' enemies like to ascribe to the arrivals from Phrygia — from ritual emasculation (the worshippers of the Phrygian goddess Cybele were eunuchs) to effeminacy, from moral decay to indulgence in luxury (in the form of expensive garments, jewellery, and bejewelled gold), from general slothfulness to a penchant for (orgiastic) dancing. Much here also resonates with Augustan propaganda against the 'decadent' and 'effeminate' East, represented by the Egyptian queen Cleopatra and her emasculated Roman lover Antony, though Virgil can also rely on Homeric precedents, not least the Carians Amphimachus and Nastes, one of whom came to the aid of Troy in garb similar to that of Chloreus (*Iliad* 2.872–75) — 'like a girl':

ὃς καὶ χρυσὸν ἔχων πόλεμον δ᾽ ἴεν ἠΰτε κούρη νήπιος, οὐδέ τί οἱ τό γ᾽ ἐπήρκεσε λυγρὸν ὄλεθρον, ἀλλ᾽ ἐδάμη ὑπὸ χερσὶ ποδώκεος Αἰακίδαο ἐν ποταμῷ, χρυσὸν δ᾽ Ἀχιλεὺς ἐκόμισσε δαΐφρων.

[And he came to the war all decked with gold, like a girl, fool that he was; but his gold in no wise availed to ward off woeful destruction; no, he was slain in the river beneath the hands of the son of Aeacus, swift of foot; and Achilles, wise of heart, carried off the gold.]

Chloreus' geographical origins and cultural pedigree are either explicitly specified or revealed through the use of Greek loanwords. Overall, the passage here features a symmetrical design, with 4 + 2 + 4 verses.

## 768–71

**Forte sacer Cybelo Chloreus olimque sacerdos | insignis longe Phrygiis fulgebat in armis | spumantemque agitabat equum, quem pellis aenis | in plumam squamis auro conserta tegebat**: the lines give a detailed description of Chloreus and his horse in two main clauses (*fulgebat — agitabat*, linked by the –*que* after *spumantem*), followed by a relative clause (*quem … tegebat*). The second main clause provides the transition between the portrayal of Chloreus (first main clause) and that of his horse (relative clause). The –*que* after *olim* links *sacer Cybelo* and (*olim*) *sacerdos*; both phrases stand in apposition to Chloreus: 'Chloreus, sacred to Cybelus and once a priest…'

**Forte**: 'by chance' — Virgil is writing tongue-in-cheek: it is he who is making it all up, this tale of destiny (759).

**sacer Cybelo**: *sacer* belongs among those adjectives ('of likeness, fitness, friendliness, nearness, and the like, with their opposites': Gildersleeve & Lodge 228) construed with the dative. Cybelus is a mountain in Phrygia, the epicentre of the cult of Cybele (and the region of Troy!). See further Roller (1999). The phrase is formulaic of gifts dedicated to divinities — and indeed, Dinter (2005: 163) considers Chloreus 'a dedicatory epigram in the making': 'This dedicatory impression is reinforced by his description as *sacer Cybelo Chloreus* (11.768), a formula also used for dedicatory gifts to gods. Furthermore the reader realizes in the end that we see Chloreus in the same way Camilla focalizes him, eventually pondering the possibility of dedicating his armour (*hunc virgo*, *sive ut templis praefigeret arma / Troia … sequebatur* 11.778–81).'

**Chloreus**: the Greek name for a bird that is impossible to identify: see Saunders (1940: 552) and Paschalis (1997: 367). The name also brings to mind the colour yellow (*chlôrós* in Greek): see below on *croceam*. JH: The name sparkles just as much as the bird-man (*in plumam*), who is next in line after Camilla's last scalp, that dove, the son of *Ap*penni*nicolae* … Auni (cf. 723: *consequitur* pennis). He will eventually luck out on a hit list of Turnus' (12.363). If we're on the hunt for techniques borrowed from hunting, then the clown costume may paradoxically configure Chloreus as a human '*formido*', the dazzling net used to scare prey into a hunter's net: Grattius (*Cynegetica* 75–89) gives a flash impressionistic description, featuring vulture and swan plumage: 'when the pliant feathers are dyed with African scarlet and the flaxen cord gleams from its projecting poles, it is rare for any beast to escape the fake terrors…'.

**insignis longe … fulgebat**: *insignis* modifies the subject: 'he glittered resplendent far and wide.'

**Phrygiis … in armis**: anastrophe (= *in Phrygiis armis*), further emphasized by the separation of the adjective from the noun it modifies through the intrusion of *fulgebat*, which places extra stress on *Phrygiis*. The word order is therefore also explanatory: Chloreus glitters like a Christmas tree *because* he and his horse are decked out in *Phrygian* armour. See Jenkyns (1998: 418) for the potentially contemptuous connotations of 'Phrygian'.

**quem pellis aenis | in plumam squamis auro conserta tegebat**: Chloreus' horse is draped in scale-armour (see *aenis … squamis*: 'overlapping brass scales', here in the shape of feathers: *in plumam*), which in antiquity was used by the cavalry contingents of various Near Eastern peoples, notably (from Virgil's readers' point of view) the Parthians. This piece of equipment would make the horse look like a monstrous bird, in line with the name of its rider.

## 772–73

**ipse peregrina ferrugine clarus et ostro | spicula torquebat Lycio Gortynia cornu**: *clarus* stands in apposition to *ipse* ('he himself, shining…) and governs the ablatives *peregrina ferrugine* and *ostro* (of description or specification, or perhaps instrument or cause), linked by *et*. *spicula*, modified by the attribute *Gortynia*, is the accusative object of *torquebat*; *Lycio … cornu* is an instrumental ablative. The two phrases form an intertwined chiasmus that places the two geographical markers next to each other at the centre: nouna : adjectiveb :: adjectivea nounb . (Lines that contain two nouns, two corresponding adjectives, and a verb (as does 773) are a neoteric mannerism, much cultivated by Catullus in *carmen* 64.) In all: 'He himself, shining in an exotic dark-red hue and purple, kept launching Gortynian arrows from a Lycian bow.' Gortyn is a city in Crete; Lycia a region in Asia Minor. Significantly, Camilla also has a Lycian bow (*Aeneid* 7.816: *Lyciam … pharetram*).

**peregrina ferrugine clarus et ostro**: perhaps a hendiadys (Goold translates: 'himself ablaze in the deep hue of foreign purple'). Ancient colour-terms are difficult to pin down and *ferrugo* (noun) or *ferrugineus* (adjective) has variously been thought of as referring to 'red', 'blue', 'purple or violet', 'black', 'green' or just 'dark': see Edgeworth (1978: 297–301). He goes on to suggest 'that all the pertinent data can be reconciled with the hypothesis that (a.) the term designates a single shade of a single hue — namely, dark red, and (b.) there is a shift in emphasis from "dark RED" in earlier centuries to "DARK red" in later centuries' (301).

## 774–77

**aureus ex umeris erat arcus et aurea vati | cassida; tum croceam chlamydemque sinusque crepantis | carbaseos fulvo in nodum collegerat auro | pictus acu tunicas et barbara tegmina crurum**: Virgil continues to go through Chloreus' exotic accoutrements: we get (elaborate) references to a bow (*arcus*), a helmet (*cassida*), a saffroncoloured cape (*chlamys*), further upper garments (*tunicae*) and trousers (*tegmina crurum*). These items are distributed across three syntactical units:


The lines interweave clothing and the articulation of ethnic identity: whatever designer clothes from the Asian East the formidable Chloreus (and the Trojans more generally) may have in their fancy wardrobe is ultimately bargained away by Jupiter who assents to the request by Juno to eradicate markers of Trojan cultural identity (12.821–28; see Introduction 38–40). The outcome of the *Aeneid*'s plot will be a people dressed in togas, not one wearing trousers: the *gens togata* of Jupiter's initial prophecy (1.282).

**vati**: that Virgil should refer to Chloreus as *vates* is odd. At 7.41 (cited above 4), he self-identifies as a *vates*. There and elsewhere in the *Aeneid* the basic meaning of the term is 'inspired poet-prophet with privileged access to divine knowledge'; here its meaning seems to be simply 'priest', without any indication that Chloreus has special talents in poetry or prophecy (though the fact that he is a devotee of Cybele establishes some affinity with the ecstatic mental state that other *vates*-figures in the poem experience when they are under divine influence).

**croceam**: in the Roman imagination, yellow was 'the colour of the women and the effeminates' (Horsfall 1971: 1114).

**chlamydem**: the *chlamys* (a Greek loanword in Latin) was a short cloak or cape, originally designed for riding on horseback, not least in military contexts. But you don't really want to be seen wearing a *chlamys* in the *Aeneid*. See Putnam (1998: 222, n.14):

The chlamys is associated with six figures in the course of the epic, because it is either worn or received as a gift. The only woman is Dido (4.137), preparing for the hunt (as a man would?). The others are Iulus (3.484, a gift from Andromache), Evander (8.167, a gift from Anchises), Pallas (8.588), the unnamed son of Arcens (9.582), and the priest Chloreus (11.775). We thus have a woman about to depart on an adventure that will lead to her death, three pubescent youths (the father of one of whom will soon lose his son in battle while one other is the son himself), and two warriors (connected verbally: with 9.582 cf. 11.772), one of whom is about to die, the other to become the cynosure of Camilla but who in fact proves her undoing. The garb as associated with the latter two seems to imply effeminacy.

And further Fratantuono and Smith (2018: 314): 'The garment is thus always linked to the Trojans and their allies, and except for Cloanthus and Ascanius (who are replaced, as it were, by the sacrifices of Camilla and Pallas respectively), all of its wearers die.'

**sinusque crepantis | carbaseos**: the noun *carbasus*, *–i*, m. (another loanword from the Greek: *karpasos*) means 'sail', 'canvas', 'linen cloth', hence *carbaseus* = made of linen.

**crepantis**: the alliteration of *c*(*r*) (see underlining) amounts to soundplay that enacts the meaning of the participle: in particular it 'detonates' the rare word *carbaseus* across the verse-break.

**tunicas**: garments worn under the *chlamys*, but still visible: Chloreus flashes for all he is worth. The plural too is significant: 'multiple tunics (Augustus wore four when it was cold, Suet. *Aug*. 82.2) are a relatively late development and their presence on the heroic battlefield can hardly have failed to arouse some sort of smile of amused disapproval. That they were then also embroidered is naturally another detail of effeminate extravagance' (Horsfall 2003: 416).

**barbara tegmina crurum**: *tegmina* here refers to 'trousers', which Romans considered barbarian legwear. Horsfall (2003: 416) draws attention to 'the natural disgust of any civilized Roman at the very idea of trousers (let alone oriental pantaloons)' built into the phrase.

## 11.778–784: The Stalker Stalks the Stalked Stalking

778–84 form one long sentence, comprising seven lines in a symmetrical design:

**hunc virgo**, *sive ut templis praefigeret arma Troia, captivo sive ut se ferret in auro venatrix*, **unum ex omni certamine pugnae** 780 **caeca sequebatur totumque incauta per agmen femineo praedae et spoliorum ardebat amore**, telum ex insidiis cum tandem tempore capto concitat et superos Arruns sic voce precatur:

We start with the beginning of the main clause (= **bold**), with a foregrounding of the accusative object (*hunc*, referring to Chloreus) and the subject (*virgo*, i.e. Camilla). A subordinate detour into a bipartite *ut*-clause follows (*sive ut…, sive ut*…: = *italics*), which supplies speculation as to the motivation for Camilla's stalking of Chloreus. The main clause then continues (the two main verbs are *sequebatur* and *ardebat*, linked by the –*que* after *totum* – the *et* links the two genitives dependent on *amore*, i.e. *praedae* and *spoliorum*). The sentence concludes with a *cum*clause in the indicative (a so-called *cum-inversum*) (= underlined). In all, Virgil devotes two lines each to the subordinate *ut*- and *cum*-clauses, which sandwich the three lines dedicated to the main clause (= 2 + 3 + 2, not least since *hunc virgo* (– – –) and *venatrix* (– – –) scan identically). The syntax and verse design, with the proleptic *hunc virgo* at the start and the surprising reappearance of Arruns at the end, re-enact the narrative situation: Camilla is fully focused on Chloreus, whereas Arruns is literally and grammatically an afterthought — if that. But it is precisely this marginal position on the battlefield (and in the sentence) that enables him to strike the fatal blow. The verse at the centre (781) features the two attributes that will prove to be Camilla's undoing: she is blind (*caeca*) and careless (*incauta*).

**hunc virgo … | … |… unum… | caeca sequebatur**: the main clause stretches across four verses. Virgil's grammar re-enacts Camilla's stalking of Chloreus: against normal word order, the subject *virgo* here 'follows' (cf. *sequebatur*) the accusative object *hunc*, just as the predicative attribute that modifies the subject, *caeca*, 'follows' the predicative attribute that modifies the accusative object, i.e. *unum*. *hunc unum* = 'this one only': English prefers the adverb to the adjective here.

**sive ut templis praefigeret arma | Troia, captivo sive ut se ferret in auro | venatrix**: Virgil gives us two different explanations for Camilla's singular obsession with Chloreus, both having to do with the wealth of his attire. Her intention is either to dedicate the spoils in a temple (to Diana?) or to wear them herself. (The way Virgil has distributed *arma Troia* and *captivo auro*, two phrases that refer to the same materials, across the two options comprises a nice piece of psychology: Camilla thinks of the functional aspects of the weaponry primarily with reference to the gods and of their decorative dimension primarily with respect to herself — and how they would look on her.) Strutting around with or in spoils stripped of a fallen foe is a bad idea in the *Aeneid*: it dooms Euryalus and, ultimately, Turnus as well. (By contrast, Aeneas knows what to do with this stuff: see the opening of Book 11 and his dedication of the armour of Mezentius to Mars in the form of a victory monument.) Virgil himself disqualifies Camilla's second motivation instantly by referring to her as huntress (*venatrix*; the enjambment heightens the ensuing paradox): she would cut a strange figure in the woods decked out in Trojan finery. Either the sight of Chloreus has addled Camilla's brains (she's *caeca* and *incauta*, 781: nb. neither good on a hunt) or she's been set up the way a hunter lures a predator quarry, and Chloreus is the bait she goes for (as 780–81 may signal (*venatrix … sequebatur*; but see n. on 768: Chloreus). Virgil, then, makes us ponder which should be the right motivation for *our* Camilla, one way or the other — in an each-way bet.

**arma | Troia**: *Troia* (in the neuter accusative plural, modifying *arma*) here has three syllables, and scans – u u.

**ex omni certamine pugnae**: the combination of *certamen* and *pugna* generates a tautology (underscoring the heaving and moving chaos of the battle), best solved in translation by a similar combination of virtual synonyms, such as 'from the entire *fray* of the *battle*'.

**caeca**: adjective where we use an adverb: 'blindly'.

**totum … per agmen |… ardebat**: *ardebat* here signifies both a condition (Camilla *is* ablaze with desire for Chloreus' equipment) and an activity (she *burns* or *rages through* the entire battle. (Virgil uses anastrophe, inverting the normal word order in the prepositional phrase: *per totum agmen*.)

**incauta**: like *caeca*, an adjective in lieu of an adverb: 'recklessly', 'without regard for her safety', 'without due precaution'.

**femineo praedae et spoliorum … amore**: iconic word order: the attribute *femineo* and the noun it modifies, *amore*, 'embrace' the two objective genitives *praedae* and *spoliorum* (again two virtual synonyms). The attribute *femineus* has given rise to much scholarly debate, not least since its interpretation has serious implications for (the degree of) the *Aeneid*'s misogyny. Here is West (1985: 24–5), for whom considerations of gender feed into Virgil's re-evaluation of traditional Homeric heroism, in particular the desire for conspicuous spoils:

In the immediate context Camilla's desire for spoil can be called feminine because in this case the booty itself has an effeminate cast. But if we accept Vergil's bald pronouncement that this is a feminine love of plunder and try to understand it as part of a wider argument about heroism, we come to see that it transforms our perception of what the desire for spoil means. By characterizing the love of booty as feminine, Vergil makes it so. That is, at the least, he requires us to confront an apparent paradox concerning the nature of *virtus*. The fact that Chloreus and Camilla are themselves revealed as travesties of heroic warriors further trivializes the very heroism they unwittingly parody.

By contrast, Anderson (1999: 208) argues that the emphasis should be on the passion rather than the spoils:

The adjective 'female' and its noun 'love' frame the entire clause, with the seemingly pejorative 'female' setting up everything that follows. We might assume Vergil's point to be that it is just like a woman to lust for plunder and spoils in war, but this interpretation is not consistent with his general portrayal of Camilla, especially after Vergil's telling us that Camilla's desires were unsure and otherwise giving us no womanwarrior as a paradigm […]. We must, I think, separate the adjective 'female' and its prejudicial implications of 'just like a woman' from the words 'booty' and 'spoils' and restrict it to its noun 'love.' I suggest a translation along these lines: 'she burned with desire for plunder and spoils; she blazed with a woman's passion.' Female passion is the point, not what she desired; this we already know from the case of Dido. The passion of the aptly named Amata, devoid of materialism, is also highly feminine and fatal. Blind, heedless pursuit of one's goal, fits the Graeco-Roman stereotype of the passionate woman, and it belongs to the decorum of epic and tragedy, regularly disastrous, if not fatal.

**ardebat amore**: through this passage we have a conflation of erotic and epic imagery that also characterizes Camilla's death scene (for which see below). As Kennedy (2012: 190) notes: 'Camilla's "love" of booty is characterized by "burning" (*ardebat*, 782), and a "blindness" (cf. *caeca*, 781) marks the "pursuit" (cf. *sequebatur*, 781) of the object of her desire. This equation of love and war is no less an insistent feature of the *Aeneid* than it is of elegy.'

**telum … cum… | concitat et … Arruns … precatur**: the syntax enacts the ambush (cf. *ex insidiis*): we don't know until the middle of verse 783 that we are in a *cum*-clause and not until the beginning of verse 784 in what *kind* of *cum*-clause; and we have to read on even further, till *Arruns*, until we find out who the subject is: first the missile comes suddenly out of nowhere — isn't it Camilla's as she seizes her chance to get Chloreus? — but then it is claimed by Arruns, also (as it were) coming from nowhere.

**tempore capto**: an ablative absolute (literally, 'the right time / opportunity having been seized').

## 11.785–793: The Hunter's Prayer

Before Arruns hurls his spear, he tries to elicit divine support by means of a prayer to Apollo. The block of verses again features a symmetrical design (4 + 1 + 4):


Arruns' prayer consists of three components:


• After the request, Arruns adds an extensive gloss on it, and in particular on his agency (and motivation for his prayer) (*italics*). He reassures the divinity that he is not seeking divine aid to acquire spoils (see *exuvias*, *tropaeum*, *spolia*) or glory (see *laudem*), which he is glad to forego if only he is able to eliminate the abomination (*haec dira … pestis*) that he deems the warriorvirgin to be. It constitutes a variant of the *do-ut-des* ('I give so that you give') logic that underwrites Roman interactions with their gods: the mortal 'gives' the divinity something (in this case, his claim to glory) in order that the immortal shall 'give' something in return (in this case, the death of Camilla). The problem is that Arruns offers up glory he hasn't yet acquired (*ferent* is in the future) — 'a bit of hubris that will manifest itself again, tellingly, soon enough' (Fratantuono 2007a: 348).

The utterance may appear to be one of self-effacing modesty. And yet, Arruns does make potentially pretentious assumptions about the future (over which, as a human, he has no control): (*a*) that he will acquire fame through other deeds (791–92: *mihi cetera laudem* | *facta ferent*); (*b*) that he will return home alive if inglorious (793: *patrias remeabo inglorius urbes*). It is, furthermore, not entirely clear how the exchange of future glory for the death of Camilla is supposed to work in practice: even if he gets no credit for killing Camilla, if he were to acquire glory through other deeds, he would not return from the war ingloriously. So in essence, Arruns simply says: 'If I manage to kill her with your help, I won't take any credit for the deed.' In light of these qualifications (and why does he need to put them into the prayer, the fool?), what Arruns offers Apollo is nothing at all. Moreover, he takes it for granted that he will come out of this affair alive: note that he does not even explicitly pray for this — though Virgil will proceed as if he did: see below.

## 785–90


The core of this sentence is the actual prayer: *da … hoc nostris aboleri dedecus armis* ('grant that this disgrace be eliminated by our arms'). Arruns pads out this request with elements typical of ancient prayers: he invokes the divinity in a variety of flattering ways and elaborates on these invocations in relative clauses.

The Homeric model is *Iliad* 16.233–53, where Achilles entreats Zeus of Dodona to grant Patroclus battlefield glory and a safe return; as here, only half of the wish is met with divine approval.

## 785

**summe deum, sancti custos Soractis Apollo**: *summe* is the vocative singular of *summus*, *deum* the syncopated genitive plural of *deus* (= *deorum*). *custos*, which governs the genitive *sancti … Soractis*, stands in apposition to Apollo: 'Apollo, highest of the gods, guardian of holy Soracte'. Given that *summe deum* is a phrase that usually occurs in invocations of Jupiter and that 'in extant pre-Augustan literature, with the exception of Hercules, the epithet [*sanctus*] seems only to be applied to Apollo' (Brenk 1999: 128), we might be dealing with two partially transferred or conflated or misapplied epithets (Apollo is just as holy as Soracte and Soracte just as high as Apollo) in what will turn out to be an only partially felicitous prayer. At the same time, Apollo often carries out the will of Jupiter (purveyor of destiny) in the *Aeneid*: 'While it is hardly remarkable, in the light of Greek and Roman religions and

other literature, to depict Apollo acting in accordance with Jupiter's will, Virgil's Apollo not infrequently mirrors the words and actions of the chief Olympian' (Miller 2009: 167).

Soracte is a mountain in Southern Etruria. Arguably, in Etruscan religion this manifestation of Apollo had connections with the realms of both the living and the dead: 'In Etruria, however, [Apollo] was the god of Mount Soracte north of Rome, who is called in Latin sources Apollo Soranus and Dis Pater, god of the Underworld. In the *Aeneid* of Vergil (11.785) the Etruscan Arruns prays to him' (Thomson de Grummond and Simon 2006: 48).

## 786

**quem primi colimus**: *primi* refers not to chronological precedence (which would be difficult to claim), but to the fact that they worship Apollo above all others ('whose chief worshippers are we': Goold), as shown by the invocation *summe deum* and the extreme ritual described in the subsequent relative clause. Pliny the Elder describes the rite in question as follows (*Natural History* 7.2.19):

Haut procul urbe Roma in Faliscorum agro familiae sunt paucae quae vocantur Hirpi; hae sacrificio annuo quod fit ad montem Soractem Apollini super ambustam ligni struem ambulantes non aduruntur, et ob id perpetuo senatus consulto militiae omniumque aliorum munerum vacationem habent.

[There are a few families in the Faliscan territory, not far from the city of Rome, named the Hirpi, which at the yearly sacrifice to Apollo performed on Mount Soracte walk over a charred pile of logs without being scorched, and who consequently enjoy exemption under a perpetual decree of the senate from military service and all other burdens.]

## 786–87a

**cui pineus ardor acervo | pascitur**: lit. 'for whom a blaze fuelled by pinewood from a heap is nourished': *pineus ardor* refers to a fire made with pinewood and is an 'admirable instance of abstract for concrete' (Horsfall 2003: 421). See Miller (2009: 165) for the ritual-historical background: 'In question is apparently a Faliscan cult of the dead in which Apollo was fused with the toponymic divinity pater Soranus. The (expiatory) fire-ritual on Soracte was practiced by priests called Hirpi — *hirpus* is a Sabine word for wolf (cf. Apollo's epithet *Lykeios*). This gives added point to the comparison of the evident Hirpus Arruns to a *lupus* immediately after he wounds Camilla (809–13).'

## 787b

**et medium freti pietate per ignem**: the anastrophe combined with hyperbaton generates an iconic word order in which the faithful believers (*freti pietate*) are placed in the middle of the fire (*medium … per ignem* = *per medium ignem*). *fretus* here governs the ablative *pietate* ('trusting in our faith', i.e. trusting that our faith will shield us from harm since it will entail divine protection).

## 788

**cultores multa premimus vestigia pruna**: *cultores* (the noun derives from the verb *colo*; cf. *colimus*) stands in apposition to the subject: 'we, the worshippers, …'. To construe the line correctly, scanning helps: it will show up the final –*a* of *multa* as long, hence modifying *pruna*. (The final –*a* of *vestigia* scans short, as is right and proper for an accusative neuter plural.) Hence: 'we, the worshippers, plant our feet on many an ember'. JH: Camilla, we recall, was introduced as special for 'outstripping the winds *cursu pedum* and whizzing over terrestrial or marine surfaces without damage to crops *cursu* or wetting her *celeris* … plantas. |' (7.807, 809, 810); she weaponized once she could tiptoe, *pedum primis … vestigia* plantis | *institerat* (11.573); we were just reminded what she could do on foot, outstripping a horse, *pernicibus* ignea plantis | *transit equum* cursu (718). Arruns tracks her *vestigia … pedemque* (763–64): now we learn how his own fireproof soles mean Camilla's met her match, per ignem | … *premimus* vestigia. His (solar) sect in fact specialises in using heat to nullify heat — including hers (*per agmen* | … ardebat, 782 ~ *pineus* ardor, 786).

## 789–90

**da … hoc nostris aboleri dedecus armis**: the imperative *da* (from *do*, *dare*, 'to give', 'to grant') introduces an indirect statement with *hoc … dedecus* as subject accusative and *aboleri* as (passive) infinitive. The words making up the indirect statement are arranged in a so-called 'golden' pattern: adjectivea (*hoc*) – adjectiveb (*nostris*) – verb (*aboleri*) – nouna (*dedecus*) – nounb (*armis*). The noun *de-decus* picks up and inverts Turnus' acclamation of Camilla as *decus Italiae* at 11.508 (see above).

**nostris … armis**: an instrumental ablative.

**pater… | omnipotens**: like *summe deum*, usually a periphrasis used of Jupiter.

## 790–92

**non exuvias pulsaeve tropaeum | virginis aut spolia ulla peto, mihi cetera laudem | facta ferent**: *exuvias*, *tropaeum*, and *spolia* (linked by the –*ve* after *pulsae* and *aut*) are all accusative objects of *non … peto*: Arruns renounces any (lasting) visual manifestation of his potential triumph over Camilla. His desire to see the virgin-warrior struck down has nothing to do with personal glory. He seems genuinely outraged by Camilla's battlefield prowess, which upsets deep-seated hierarchies of gender — and is willing to efface his own claim to fame as long as this enables him to restore the natural order. His motivations seem primarily to originate from his gender ideology rather than a desire for heroic stature. JH: Thematically, though, the motif further bolts Book 11 into a robust unit, brokering these tokens of epic success through a range of variations and — here — mutations, from lines 6–7 onwards.

**ferent**: third person plural future indicative active. Arruns is confident that he shall acquire glory through other deeds — which is a pretty foolish thing to put into his address to Apollo since it implicitly minimizes the sacrifice he is willing to make in return for divine help. He seems to assume that Apollo shares his outrage and will therefore accept his prayer on those terms.

## 792–93

**haec dira meo dum vulnere pestis | pulsa cadat, patrias remeabo inglorius urbes**: *dum* here introduces a conditional wish (hence the subjunctive *cadat*): 'if only', 'provided that'. The subject is *haec dira … pestis*, which is further modified by the past participle *pulsa*, which governs *meo … vulnere*: 'if only this abominable scourge falls, stricken down by a wound I inflict…'

**patrias … urbes**: accusative of direction ('to my native cities'), with *remeabo* (first person singular future active).

**inglorius**: 'without glory / epic fame'. JH: This prayer loudly riffs on Camilla's exchange with her sneaky Appennine victim, who dared her down from her horse 'to find out which of them is getting tricked by vain *gloria*', only to have his balloon popped when she tells him 'trickery won't fetch him home to his father in one piece' (708, 717).

## 11.794–804: A Prayer Half-Answered Hitting Home

Virgil takes five verses to detail Apollo's response to Arruns' prayer. The immediate focus is on the part of the prayer that Apollo grants: the killing of Camilla. But we are also told right away that the killer will get his comeuppance, as far as he is concerned (Opis, sent by Diana, is anyway already lurking):

**Audiit et voti Phoebus** *succedere partem mente dedit*, partem volucris dispersit in auras: 795 *sterneret ut subita turbatam morte Camillam adnuit oranti*; reducem ut patria alta *videret* non dedit, inque Notos vocem vertere procellae.

Key:


We start with a sequence of main clauses (*audiit – dedit – dispersit*). Then we get, twice, the combination of an *ut*-clause followed by a main clause (*sterneret ut …* – *adnuit*; *reducem ut … videret – non dedit*). The passage concludes with another main clause, with *procellae* as subject and *vertere* as verb (linked to *non dedit* by the –*que* after *in*). Each part of Arruns' utterance (the killing of Camilla; his safe return home) receives about the same amount of attention from Apollo; and both parts feature the same syntax: a main verb of granting (*adnuit* **/** *non dedit*) that governs an *ut*-clause. But there are features that foreground the killing of Camilla. Four of the five verses feature main verbs at the beginning: *audiit*, *mente dedit*, *adnuit*, *non dedit*; they are joined in the middle verse (796) by the verb of the first *ut*-clause, *sterneret*. (The verb of the second *ut*-clause, *videret*, is by contrast placed at the end.) And the final component of the unfulfilled wish is a distinct anti-climax: Arruns is displaced as subject in the *ut*-clause; *non dedit* reiterates, negatively, *dedit* of 795; and in the final part, *inque Notos vocem vertere procellae*, which simply reiterates *partem volucris dispersit in auras*, Apollo has already disappeared again from the narrative.

## 794–95

**Audiit et voti Phoebus succedere partem | mente dedit, partem volucris dispersit in auras**: Phoebus is the subject of all three verbs: *audiit*, *dedit*, and *dispersit*. The first signals that Phoebus took note of the entirety of Arruns' speech, the second and third specify his differentiated reception (appropriately in 'clashing' asyndeton). The genitive *voti* modifies both instances of *partem*. Miller (2009: 167) compares Jupiter's response to a prayer by Iulus at *Aeneid* 9.630–31: *audiit et caeli genitor de parte serena* | *intonuit laevum*, noting: 'these are the only two times in all of Virgil that the collocation *audiit et* is used as a transitional formula, and accompanied by a form of the word *pars*, albeit in different senses.'

**volucris … in auras**: *volucris* is the alternative accusative plural form of the third declension adjective *volucris* (= *volucres*). The anastrophe, by which *volucris* ends up in front position (further enhanced by the intervening *dispersit*), helps to underscore the meaning of the adjective.

## 796–97

**sterneret ut subita turbatam morte Camillam | adnuit oranti**: *oranti* is a present participle in the dative modifying an implied *ei* (referring back to Arruns): 'he nodded his assent to him praying / his prayer that…' Line 796 is a self-contained syntactical unit, with interlaced word order (*subita*a1 *turbatam*a2 *morte*n1 *Camillam*n2) and all the components of a golden line (two adjectives, two nouns, a verb).

## 797–98

**reducem ut patria alta videret | non dedit, inque Notos vocem vertere procellae**: *reducem* belongs in the *ut*-clause as accusative object (modifying an implied *eum* in predicative position) of *videret*. The subject is *patria alta*: 'he did not grant that his lofty homeland see him as returnee'. *alta* is, again, an attribute of cities from the proem onwards (1.7: *altae moenia Romae*), but here also brings to mind Mt Soracte mentioned in Arruns' prayer.

**vertere**: the alternative third person plural perfect indicative active form (= *verterunt*), neatly alliterative with the accusative object *vocem*. The subject is *procellae*.

## 799–804

#### **ergo ut missa manu sonitum dedit hasta per auras**,

convertere animos acris oculosque tulere 800 cuncti ad reginam Volsci. *nihil ipsa nec aurae nec sonitus memor aut venientis ab aethere teli, hasta sub exsertam donec perlata papillam haesit virgineumque alte bibit acta cruorem***.**

Key:


The architecture of this passage re-enacts the trajectory of the fatal spear as if in slow motion. The overall design is symmetrical and chiastic: temporal subordinate clause (introduced by *ut*) + main clause :: main clause + temporal subordinate clause (introduced by *donec*). The two main clauses are dedicated, respectively, to the reactions of the Volscians and of Camilla to the spear that whirs through the air: in the case of the former, the sound and sight of the missile gradually focus all eyes on the queen; by contrast, the latter, thus set up as the target, remains entirely oblivious to her surroundings — until the missile hits home. If the two main clauses at the centre are more or less equal in length (1.5 lines each), Virgil gives quantitative prominence to the fatal and fateful moment of the spear's impact by devoting two full lines to it (as opposed to one for the launch).

## 799–801a

**ergo ut missa manu sonitum dedit hasta per auras, | convertere animos acris oculosque tulere | cuncti ad reginam Volsci**: the *ut*-clause is temporal ('when…'), with *hasta* as subject, modified by the present participle *missa* (in the nominative: the final –*a* in *missa* scans short), which governs the ablative *manu* and the prepositional phrase *per auras*. The hyperbaton *missa … per auras* generates an apposite frame around the core of the clause, i.e. *sonitum dedit hasta* (object – verb – subject: the order corresponds to the fact that the spear first registers by way of sound rather than sight), by generating an iconic image of the spear's trajectory, from the hand — through the air. In the first — bipartite — main clause (the verbs are *convertere* and *tulere*, linked by the –*que* after *oculos*), the subject (*cuncti … Volsci*) is much delayed.

**convertere … tulere**: alternative third person plural perfect indicative active forms (= *converterunt* – *tulerunt*).

**animos acris**: *acris* is the alternative accusative plural ending of the third declension (= *acres*).

**cuncti ad reginam Volsci**: portentously spondaic. JH: The match between Tarchon and Camilla further solidifies with the pick-up between this 'book-ended' scene and his: convertere *animos acris* oculos*que tulere* | cuncti *ad reginam* Volsci. (800–1) **+** *tum vero immensus surgens ferit aurea*  clamor | *sidera* (832–33) ~ tollitur in *caelum* clamor cunctique Latini | convertere oculos (745–46).

## 801b–4

**nihil ipsa nec aurae | nec sonitus memor aut venientis ab aethere teli, | hasta sub exsertam donec perlata papillam | haesit virgineumque alte bibit acta cruorem**: Virgil elides the verb of the main clause (*erat*). The subject is *ipsa* (sc. Camilla) with *memor* as predicative complement, which governs the three objective genitives *aurae*, *sonitus*, and *venientis ab aethere teli*: they faithfully recapitulate *sonitum*, *hasta*, and *per auras* from the *ut*-clause. The subsequent temporal clause is introduced by *donec*, a much delayed conjunction: the clause begins with *hasta* (803) and is bipartite: the –*que* after *virgineum* links *haesit* and *bibit*. The subject is *hasta* throughout, modified by the past participles *perlata* and *acta*. The recall of lexemes, which is such a striking feature of the main clause, continues in the *donec*-clause: its subject (*hasta*) is the same as that of the *ut*-clause and it is modified by the past participle *perlata*, which corresponds syntactically to *missa manu … per auras*: the spear put in flight in 799–801a and in focus throughout has now completed its trajectory and hit its unwary target; and having been thrown powerfully (*manu*) high into the air from which it descended with force (*ab aethere*) the spear is driven in (*acta*) deep and hence also drinks deeply (the idea contained in *alte* goes with both *acta* and *bibit*).

**nihil**: used here with adverbial force (see *OLD* s.v. 11a): 'in no respect', 'not at all'.

**hasta… | haesit**: Virgil places the (alliterating) subject and (first) verb prominently at the beginning of successive lines. The arrangement underscores the point that the spear has struck Camilla under (*sub*) her breast.

**sub exsertam … papillam |… virgineum … cruorem**: the prepositional phrase and the accusative object are parallel in design. In the case of *exsertam* the hyperbaton enacts the meaning of the attribute ('revealed', 'exposed'). The imagery here continues Virgil's practice of bleeding together the spheres of war and sex, in a (perverse) erotics of the battlefield. Fowler (1987: 195) offers some supporting thoughts: 'The mention of the nipple rather than the breast in general is a Vergilian innovation in the Penthesilea tradition which lies behind Camilla, and there seem to be two images combined. The arrow "drinks deep";

from this point of view, Heuzé [1985: 176] rightly sees that we think of a suckling child […]. But *virgineus cruor* also points us towards defloration…' As to what the connection in the *Aeneid* between the killing of a virgin warrior and defloration ultimately *means* — here is Fowler (1987: 196–97) arguing for the invocation of pathos and horror:

In the case of Camilla it could be said that the perversity of her becoming a wife (defloration) and mother (suckling) only at the moment of death constitutes a reproach to her way of life. She should have stayed at home to become a wife and mother in the normal way: her death shows the abnormality of her life. Such a moral does not seem consistent, however, with the view of sexuality that we find elsewhere in Vergil's works, and it fails to explain the use of the imagery with the male virgins Euryalus, Pallas, Lausus, Turnus. The emphasis is on pathos rather than moralizing criticism. Certainly the deaths of these virgins are perverted deflorations; they should have lived on to marry and deflower their brides on their wedding nights. It is sad that they do not, but it is a reproach to the universe, or at least to mankind in general, rather than a sign of individual error. The pathos is intensified by our sense of horror. There is no need to see these reactions as opposed, as is often claimed, but it is undoubtedly true that part of the horror is not just at the perversion of defloration in the killing but is built into the idea of defloration itself.

Other critics have offered darker readings. See e.g. Oliensis (1997: 308): 'Martial and marital wounds are consanguineous throughout the epic. This convergence is most fully realised in the ghastly "penetration" of the only female fighter of the epic; the spear that pierces Camilla's nipple and drinks her blood […] figures a grotesquely accelerated sexual maturation, from virgin to bride to nursing mother.' Or Fratantuono (2009: 272): 'Virgil lingers briefly but effectively on what we can only call the ghoulish aestheticism of the violent, sexualized death of a beautiful young woman: there is something here of the perverse fascination that can be traced from Achilles' necrophilia to even the modern "giallo" films, with their emphasis on artistically creative death "tableaux" for nubile victims.'

JH: We really must note that the saga of mother-less Camilla's amazing breast does not end here; with poetic justice and in divinely ordered revenge, the rat whose spear scored a bullseye 'under the nipple' will in next to no time have Diana's hitwoman Opis fire the fatal flying shaft at him Amazon-wise, the bow arched to the max, 'left hand touching the arrowhead, right hand and bowstring touching *the nipple*' (861–62). Virgil has so many ways to lock his motifs into place. Here he inflicts maximum damage, inviting us to back revenge killing.

Arruns flees in utter shock at what he has done, being compared to a wolf, who has killed a shepherd or young bull. Wolves feature frequently in epic similes, though the closest Homeric parallel features an unspecified wild beast. See *Iliad* 15.585–89 (describing Antilochus withdrawing from Hector after killing Melanippus):

Ἀντίλοχος δ᾽ οὐ μεῖνε θοός περ ἐὼν πολεμιστής, ἀλλ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἔτρεσε θηρὶ κακὸν ῥέξαντι ἐοικώς, ὅς τε κύνα κτείνας ἢ βουκόλον ἀμφὶ βόεσσι φεύγει πρίν περ ὅμιλον ἀολλισθήμεναι ἀνδρῶν: ὣς τρέσε Νεστορίδης…

[But Antilochos did not linger, swift warrior though he was, but fled like a wild beast that did harm, that killed a dog or a herdsman next to his cattle and fled before the crowd of men gathered together: even so the son of Nestor fled…]

## 805–806a

**concurrunt trepidae comites dominamque ruentem | suscipiunt**: the –*que* after *dominam* links *concurrunt* and *suscipiunt*, the two verbs that frame the sentence. The subject *trepidae comites* (attribute : noun) relates chiastically to the accusative object *dominam ruentem* (noun : attribute). The placement of *suscipiunt* in enjambment in the line below enacts the meaning of the verb: the Womxn's Brigade comrades catch Camilla 'from below'.

## 806b–8

**fugit ante omnis exterritus Arruns | laetitia mixtoque metu, nec iam amplius hastae | credere nec telis occurrere virginis audet**: in the corresponding description of Arruns, Virgil also uses the two main verbs (*fugit* and *audet*) as frame. *audet* governs the two infinitives *credere* and *occurrere*, coordinated by *nec* … *nec…* Both take a dative (*hastae*; *telis*). Arruns' reaction is curious: he instantly realizes that there is hell to pay for his battlefield success and suffers an utter loss of confidence. The successful strike has clearly affected his ability to think straight. There is really no need for him to trust in his lance any longer or to confront the weapons of the virgin: Camilla is dying.

**ante omnis**: *omnis* is the alternative accusative plural ending of the third declension = *omnes*. It is unclear whether to take the phrase with *fugit* ('he flees above all others') or *exterritus* ('he is frightened above all others') — or with both. Commentators prefer the former, which is more natural Latin — but the sense is dubious: who else is fleeing? With *exterritus*, *ante omnis* makes perfect sense and heightens the paradox: everyone is emotionally affected by Camilla's mortal wound, especially her followers — but the one terrified most is the very person responsible for the fatal blow.

**laetitia mixtoque metu**: an ablative absolute, with the participle *mixto* going with both nouns, which are linked by *et* (= *laetitia et metu mixto* ~ *metu cum laetitia mixto*). Arruns experiences at least some joy (*laetitia*) at his successful throw (as one would), but the alliteration *mixto metu* suggests that, surprisingly, the overpowering emotion in the light of what he has done is fear.

## 809–15: The Wolf-Simile


Virgil illustrates the reaction of Arruns to a wolf that realizes it has overreached itself by killing a shepherd or prize calf. The simile takes up five lines and is quite intricate: the *velut*-clause (**bold**) contains a tricolon of main verbs (810: *abdidit*, 813: *subiecit*, *petivit*) linked by the –*que* after *caudam* and *silvas*, an appositional phrase *conscius audacis facti* and the present participle *remulcens*. *caudam*, modified by the present participle *pavitantem*, stands *apo koinou* as accusative object of both *remulcens* and *subiecit*. The simile is padded out by a temporal subordinate clause (*italics*) and a 'split' ablative absolute (shaded). The participle – *occiso* – goes with both *pastore* and *iuvenco*: against the protocols of prose word order, but to good poetic effect, the wolf (*lupus*), long anticipated by the demonstrative pronoun *ille* (809), is situated in-between his victims. The subsequent main clause (underlined) is comparatively simple, with two main verbs (*abstulit*, *immiscuit*) linked by the –*que* after *contentus* and no subordination.

**prius quam tela inimica sequantur**: *prius quam* = *priusquam*, introducing a temporal subordinate clause with *tela inimica* as subject. The verb *sequantur* is in the subjunctive expressing future potential action.

**in montis … altos**: *montis* is the alternative accusative plural ending of the third declension (= *montes*). The epithet ironically recalls the *patria alta* (797) that is not to see Arruns again as well as the Mt. Soracte of Arruns' prayer.

**avius**: a transferred epithet. Grammatically, *avius* modifies the subject of the sentence, i.e. *lupus*, but it is not the wolf that is trackless, but the mountain range that serves as his refuge. Here the correspondence between narrative and simile breaks down: Arruns hides in the crowd, the wolf in solitude.

**occiso pastore … magnove iuvenco**: an ablative absolute. The –*ve* after *magno* links the two nouns *pastore* and *iuvenco* (the participle *occiso* goes with both).

**conscius audacis facti**: anthropomorphism: the mental awareness of the wolf resembles that of a human, insofar as it recognizes the transgression of boundaries: his deed (*factum*) was 'rash' (*audax*). As we saw, above 412, *audacia* is an ambiguous quality, covering the spectrum from 'boldness' to 'rashness', but in the late republic it became associated in particular with hot-headed political revolutionaries. Moreover, 'the adjective *audacis* draws *facti* into the sense of *facinus* which is an un-epic word, so that "crime" is nearer to the meaning than "deed"' so Williams (1983: 176), who goes on to note that 'the word *conscius* completes the idea that Arruns has good reason to have a guilty conscience.' Put differently, in the anthropomorphic touches of the simile we capture Arruns' state of mind in the wake of his dastardly deed.

**se turbidus abstulit Arruns**: the *a*-alliteration here recalls line 810 from the simile: … *in montis sese avius abdidit altos*. The adjective *turbidus* recalls 796 where Camilla is described as *turbatam* by sudden death. On its semantic range see Tarrant (2012: 88): '"raging" or "storming", literally applied to wind, rain, or rushing water and figuratively to human beings. Only Turnus is called *turbidus* more than once.'

## 11.816–822: Appointment WithDeath

As Camilla struggles with Arruns' lethal spear, she prepares to address her confidante Acca with what will be her dying breath.

## 816–17

**illa manu moriens telum trahit, ossa sed inter | ferreus ad costas alto stat vulnere mucro**: the first part of 816 features an orderly pattern: *illa … moriens … trahit*, with the instrumental ablative *manu* and the accusative object *telum* that go with *trahit* inserted so as to yield two alliterations (*manu moriens*; *telum trahit*) and framing the present participle *moriens* at the centre of the design, which, in its absolute and unconditional finality, cancels out Camilla's desperate attempt to pull the arrow from the wound. Order disintegrates after the bucolic diaeresis following *trahit*: *ossa sed inter* sports a startling inversion of normal word order, with the preposition following rather than preceding the noun it governs, here with the additional perturbing nuance that another lexeme (*sed*) has entered in-between (*inter*) *ossa* and *inter* (a seemingly insignificant word but here carrying a powerful punch especially in its exposed position at the end of the line)—not unlike the iron tip that has penetrated Camilla's ribcage. Line 817 features a similar combination of order and disorder: much of it consists of a symmetrical arrangement that resembles a golden line: adjectivea (*ferreus*) : adjectiveb (*alto*) : verb (*stat*) : nounb (*vulnere*) : nouna (*mucro*). The words that do not fit into the pattern are *ad costas*, a prepositional phrase that provides an unnerving anatomical detail just

like its counterpart *ossa sed inter* in the previous line. Put differently, the iron tip (*ferreus … mucro*) that stands (*stat*) deep in the wound (*alto … vulnere*) tears apart body and life, order and beauty. (The monosyllabic *stat* evokes associations of fixity and finality — contrasting sharply with the impact it has: everything around the spear-tip collapses; see 818: *labitur … labuntur*.) Translate in the sequence: *sed ferreus mucro stat alto vulnere inter ossa ad costas*.

## 818–19

**labitur exsanguis, labuntur frigida leto | lumina, purpureus quondam color ora reliquit**: an exquisite *tricolon crescens* of main clauses (*labitur* – *labuntur* – *reliquit*) in asyndetic sequence that features three different subjects: Camilla (implied in *labitur*); her eyes (*lumina*); and the colour (*color*) of her face. Colons 1 and 2, which are stylistically interrelated through the anaphoric fronting of the verbs in the present tense, the polyptoton *labitur – labuntur*, the persistent *l*-alliteration (*labitur*, *labuntur*, *leto*, *lumina*), and the well-nigh synonymous sense of *exsanguis* and *frigida*, are very much 'in the moment', capturing Camilla's collapse — and thereby contrast sharply with the terminal colon 3, which features a verb in the perfect tense, placed at the end, and recalling a time now past (cf. the temporal adverb *quondam*) when Camilla's face was full of life: *purpureus … color*, signifying life, blood, and warmth, stands in antithesis to both *ex-sanguis* and *frigida*. What is left with us is the memory-image of life leaving her (see n. on 1).

**labitur exsanguis**: *exsanguis* modifies the implied subject Camilla in predicative positions: she collapses bloodless. The attribute picks up the disturbing image of the spear sucking the blood out of Camilla (804).

**frigida leto | lumina**: *frigida* modifies *lumina* (note the enjambment) in predicative position. *leto* could be understood either as a circumstantial or causal ablative with *frigida*: cold in / because of death.

**ora**: as so often, Virgil uses the plural of *os* in lieu of the singular; *ora* (neuter accusative plural) is the direct object of *reliquit*.

## 820–22

**tum sic exspirans Accam ex aequalibus unam | adloquitur, fida ante alias quae sola Camillae | quicum partiri curas, atque haec ita fatur**: the two main verbs, linked by *atque*, are *adloquitur* and *fatur*. The intervening part (*fida … curas*) is difficult, and scholars are divided on how to construe it. One possibility is to assume two relative clauses as follows: *Accam* … , *quae*, *fida Camillae* (with *Camillae* as dative dependent on *fida*) *ante alias*, [*erat*] *sola*, *quicum partiri* (understood as a historic infinitive with Camilla as subject) *curas*, i.e. '…who, faithful to Camilla above all others, was the only one, with whom Camilla shared her cares'. By contrast, we might follow Horsfall (2003: 43) in translating: '…Acca, who, trustworthy beyond the rest, alone was used to share Camilla's problems with her'. This implies: there is only one relative clause introduced by *quae* with *Accam* as antecedent; *fida ante alias* stands in apposition to *quae*; the verb is *partiri* (as a historical infinitive with Acca as subject); *Camillae* is a genitive dependent on *curas*; and *quicum* is to be understood in the sense of *cum ea* (with *ea* = Camilla). Fratantuono turns the complex syntax into a feature, arguing that Virgil 'hereby syntactically enacts the close relationship between C. and A.; the fact that Acca has not been introduced heretofore also obliges Virgil to underscore their intimacy now as effectively as possible' (2009: 278–79), which may account for 'the rather heavy build-up of words describing Acca (*unam*, *fida*, *sola*, *quicum*)' (278).

**sic exspirans**: as in 816 (*moriens*), Virgil uses a present participle to underscore that Camilla is dying — that she is, literally, on her last breath (*sic exspirans*) when she launches into her speech.

**Accam**: Acca stands in the same relation to Camilla as Camilla to Diana: see 11.537–38. The relationship between Acca and Camilla re-enacts that of Anna and Dido in Book 4 ('sisters'). See Fratantuono (2007a: 352): 'Acca, Camilla's closest friend, was not mentioned among the *Italides* who joined Camilla in battle. Virgil meant to evoke A*nn*a with this new character, Acca; like Anna, she will be present for the last moments of her sister's life (823 *soror*). Not blood, but an eternal loyalty to Diana, links the two women.' See also Williams (2012: 73): 'Acca is a passing but memorable figure. As far as we can tell, she is (like Camilla herself) an invention of Virgil's, and she exists in this text only in her connection with Camilla, her only other appearance being when she complies with Camilla's final request by bringing the news of the Volscians' defeat and Camilla's death to Turnus at the end of Book 11' (11.896–900). He argues that Virgil's text activates 'the discourse of *amicitia* [even though the concept itself is not mentioned] by means of the term *aequales*, the invocation of *fides*, and the motif of a leader sharing burdens with a comrade (*quicum partiri curas*).' Acca further binds Camilla to Turnus, whose own sister Juturna gets to do her level best to keep him in one piece, away from facing up to Aeneas through Book 12.

**ex aequalibus unam**: the partitive use of the preposition *ex*. *aequales* refers to Camilla's sisterhood — a likeminded group of warrior-virgins all devoted to the lifestyle of Diana, among whom Acca apparently stood out nevertheless as her most intimate and trustworthy companion.

**quicum**: *qui* is the archaic ablative of all three genders.

Virgil has so far used a variety of perspectives to bring the death of Camilla into focus; the concluding one — Camilla's personal voice — is the most intimate (Adema 2017: 298):

The narrator takes up a bird's-eye view to narrate how Camilla's fellow warriors try to help her and how, elsewhere, Arruns attempts to flee (Verg. *Aen*. 11.805–15). Then, he returns to Camilla and, finally, gives some insight into her inner world. He does so by presenting a direct speech in which she addresses Acca. Acca is Camilla's only confidante, as the narrator explicitly states (Verg. *Aen*. 11.821–22) and thus the only way to hear more about Camilla's emotions. Even now, Camilla spends only two lines on what the outcome of this is like for her, focusing on the physical aspects alone. Most of her speech concerns the problems of the Italians and, more importantly, Camilla's solution for them. Her very best friend has to make do with a farewell of merely two words, *iamque vale*.

In her final moments, Camilla's thoughts turn to Turnus. Her death anticipates his: it is his turn, now that the divertissements of the penultimate book begin to draw to a close.

## 823–24

**'hactenus, Acca soror, potui: nunc vulnus acerbum | conficit, et tenebris nigrescunt omnia circum**: the direct speech invigorates the pathos of the passage: the preceding verses described Camilla dying; now we hear from her how she has struggled against death — but is losing the fight. The polysyllabic adverb *hactenus* (conveying a sense of Camilla's prolonged struggle to keep death at bay) is placed up front to prepare the watershed moment or tipping point expressed by the monosyllabic adverb *nunc*. Virgil does not supply a supplementary infinitive with *potui* (such as 'endure') or a direct object for *conficit* (sc. *me*). The condensed mode of expression, leaving anything inessential or obvious unsaid, fits the situation: we are approaching Camilla's last breath; every word counts. The same mood animates the asyndetic parataxis *hactenus … potui* : *nunc … conficit* and the undifferentiated totalizing *omnia* (the subject of *nigrescunt*), the change in tense from perfect (*potui*, *conficit*) to present (*nigrescunt*), and the exposed adverbial *circum* at the end of the line: the darkness of death is closing in on Camilla all around.

**Acca soror**: our passage is the earliest instance of the kinship term *soror* ('sister') as a form of address between unrelated female friends cited by Dickey (2002: 125). The concept naturalizes and strengthens the degree of personal affection and loyalty between the two characters and hints at Camilla's entourage forming a community sustained by a special sense of 'sisterhood'.

**vulnus acerbum | conficit**: an effective enjambment: the perfect *conficit* exudes finality: the implied accusative object disappears in the verse break: what remains is the subject (the personified wound), its attribute (focalized through Camilla: in *acerbum* her emotions burst out), and the verb.

**nigrescunt**: a so-called inceptive verb, marked by the suffix –*sc*–, which indicates that the action is in the process of beginning or becoming. It has a correlative in 833: *crudescit*. If the inceptive *nigrescunt* signals the beginning of the end of Camilla, the inceptive *crudescit* signals that the end of Camilla is resulting in a new beginning: we have not yet reached the end of the epic, though the death of Camilla foreshadows it.

## 825

**effuge et haec Turno mandata novissima perfer**: the two imperatives *effuge* and *perfer*, linked by *et*, frame the line; the words in between form a syllabic climax that articulates Camilla's desperation and urgency: *haec* (1) *Turno* (2) *mandata* (3) *novissima* (4). Her last thoughts (note the superlative *novissima*) are devoted to Acca and, above all, Turnus — her closest associates — and the cause of Italy.

## 826–27

**'succedat pugnae Troianosque arceat urbe. | iamque vale.'**: *succedat* and *arceat* are iussive subjunctives (following up on *mandata*: 'orders'): 'he is to take my place in battle and keep the Trojans away from the city.' *urbe* is an ablative of separation with *arceat*.

**iamque vale**: 'and now fare well': a second moment of terminal departure in the book, aligning Camilla this time with Pallas (see n. on 98). These tit-for-tat premature casualties mount up and/or cancel each other out.

## 827–28

**simul his dictis linquebat habenas | ad terram non sponte fluens**: the imperfect *linquebat* and the present participle *fluens* (here used without ablative and with reference to the person as such rather than parts of the body) poignantly underscore the gradual transition of Camilla from life to death as she loses control of her body and slides to the ground. *Habenas* serves as a corrective, for Camilla, who dismounted at 718 since when there has been no mention of a mount, proves to have been back on her horse, where she belongs, the way she came in. The 'equivocation' began at 702, where *cursu* meant 'on horse', but is trumped at 719 (*cursu*, feet overtake horse. This encounter was riddled with trickery and deceit!). The motif sets up *ad terram … fluens*. Cf. Lucretius 4.919: *dissolvuntur enim tum demum membra fluuntque*. The language recalls a passage from Virgil's *Georgics* 3, where an ox afflicted by the plague dies in a similar idiom (3.522–24):

 … at ima solvuntur latera, atque oculos stupor urget inertis ad terramque fluit devexo pondere cervix.

[But his flanks are unstrung throughout, numbness weighs upon his languid eyes, and his neck sinks with drooping weight to earth.]

For the thematic point of the parallel passage see Jones (2005: 32–33): 'Both Camilla and the ox represent an idyllic Italy before the advent of war (or plague) and, as such, they cannot survive the destruction of that landscape. In death, they become part of the natural world physically, transformed metaphorically via water. The sick ox has no interest in his surroundings […], but as he dies he becomes closer to the land not only through downward motion, but also through the language that describes it (*ad terramque fluit*). The same happens to Camilla (*ad terram non sponte fluens*).'

**non sponte**: the noun *spons*, *spontis* (the nominative is not in use) means 'will', 'volition**',** and usually occurs in the ablative. *sua sponte* designates an act or a decision taken 'of one's own accord', 'voluntarily'. By using the negated variant, Virgil keeps emphasizing that Camilla struggles with all her might against her fatal wound. She does not want to go. The phrasing occurs elsewhere in the *Aeneid*, notably at 4.361 where Aeneas assures Dido: *Italiam non sponte sequor* ('I don't seek Italy of my own volition'). The theme continues in 831 with *indignata*. The *Aeneid* depicts a world in which individuals are forced to yield to (supernatural) forces beyond their control, however mightily they struggle against them.

## 828–31

**tum frigida toto | paulatim exsolvit se corpore, lentaque colla | et captum leto posuit caput, arma relinquens, | vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras**: a tricolon of main clauses (*exsolvit* – *posuit* – *fugit*) linked by the two –*que* after *lenta* and *vita*. The subject throughout is Camilla, but the way she comes into focus undergoes subtle variation: in the first colon, Camilla separates herself from her body (cf. the selfreflexive *se*); in the second, she lays key body parts aside (*colla* and *caput* are the accusative objects of *posuit*): it is a bit unclear as to whether this moment glosses the action of *se exsolvere* or already presupposes its completion; in the third, Camilla's now fully immaterial self comes into focus as her 'life-force' (*vita*): it departs — with great reluctance but compelled by the laws of nature — for the shades below. The description thus presupposes an anthropology (a conception of human nature) and a thanatology (a theory of what happens at the moment of death), which is inspired by Homer and informed by Lucretius: Virgil operates with a soul / body dualism (though without using the standard Latin term for soul, *anima*; but *vita* here 'translates' the Homeric ψυχή / *psuchê*), with the soul constituting our 'self' and inhabiting our (entire) body while we are alive and withdrawing itself for a predetermined trip to hell the moment we die. The notion that our soul animates our body has a Lucretian ring to it, but in Epicurean philosophy the 'life atoms' do not form a coherent self that can exist outside the body; they simply disperse upon death.

**tum frigida toto | paulatim exsolvit se corpore**: Camilla is already in the chill of death, though *frigida*, which is in the nominative feminine singular and modifies the self that extricates itself from the body, is technically speaking a quality of the body that is being left behind. The hyperbaton *toto* |… *corpore*, reinforced by enjambment, underscores the sense of *paulatim* — the extrication of the 'soul-self' from the body is a gradual and protracted process. *toto … corpore* is an ablative of separation.

**lentaque colla | et captum leto posuit caput**: the *et* links the two accusative objects of *posuit*, i.e. *lenta colla* and *captum leto caput*. The *l*– and *c*– alliteration highlights thematic affinities between *lenta* and *leto* (the *colla* are 'yielding' in death) and *colla* and *caput*. The participle *captum* and the noun it modifies, *caput*, form an (again alliterative) paronomasia: it is as if Camilla has lost her fight with death over the ownership of her head: captured as it now is by death (*leto* is an ablative of agency without *a* / *ab*), she lays it aside.

**colla**: *colla* is the accusative neuter plural of *collum*, meaning 'neck': poets often use the plural instead of the singular.

**arma relinquens**: the tricolon of main clauses ensures that the participle phrase *arma relinquens* stands out: it is not part of the 'background' design. Tellingly, the very last thing Camilla lets go of, even after her neck and her head, are her *arma* (we might say — her *vir-ago* self, metonymic of the whole *poem*).

**vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras**: Camilla gets the same death sentence as Turnus (which doubles as the last line of the poem). It has a (double) Homeric pedigree (*Iliad* 16.856–57 = 22.362–63):

ψυχὴ δ᾽ ἐκ ῥεθέων πταμένη Ἄϊδος δὲ βεβήκει ὃν πότμον γοόωσα λιποῦσ᾽ ἀνδροτῆτα καὶ ἥβην.

[And his soul fleeting from his limbs was gone to Hades, bewailing her fate, leaving manliness and youth.]

The repetition of verses is a device used by both Homer and Virgil to flag up thematic parallels between scenes and characters — and in this case Homer's doubling informs Virgil's. See Knauer (1964/1979: 113):

this line […] is a translation of the two lines describing Patroclus' death, which are repeated in the description of Hector's death (*Il*. 16.856f. = 22.362f.). This reason for this well-considered Vergilian repetition will be found again in Turnus' blind obsession that is comparable to Camilla's. Overwhelmed by his *violentia* (*cf*. 12.9 and 45) he is not able to see that victory is destined to Aeneas. So only in his last forlorn monologue do his ἀτασθαλίαι (*Il*. 22.104) dawn upon Hector, i.e. that he was blinded like Patroclus. The poetical *motivation* of Patroclus' death is the same as that of Hector's. Therefore Vergil connected Camilla's and Turnus' deaths in the way in which Homer indicates parallel events, namely by repeating verses.

Significantly, this line does **not** conclude Book 11 — as some readers who like neat and tidy patterns would perhaps like to suppose, to fit the book in with those whose finale is a major death: see Introduction above 15–16. It is of course true that Camilla's death occurs *towards* the end of *Aeneid* 11. But the emphasis on 'towards' is important: penultimate books are not supposed to steal the thunder of the grand finale, and the fact that the sense of closure generated by the death of Camilla is not reinforced by a prominent place right at the end of the book accords with her role as an interlude — and warm-up act before the final turn. As we have seen, *fugio* is *her* speciality, and when she seems to be done for, she's at her most dangerous…

**indignata**: Camilla protests against her fate: 'She feels, and the poem encourages us to feel, that she has been cheated and has died a death not worthy of her. Unlike Lausus […], she cannot content herself with the thought that she has died at the hands of great Aeneas, for Arruns is contemptible' (Fulkerson 2008: 26).

## 11.832–835: 'The Fight Goes On'—*No End in Sight*

After the death tableau of Camilla, which offered a moment of reflective calm within the raging battle, the fighting continues even more ferociously than before. The set text (but not the book, let alone the poem: do read on…!) concludes on the image of the triple alliance of Arcadians, Etruscans, and Trojans rushing back into the fray.

## 832–33

**tum vero immensus surgens ferit aurea clamor | sidera**: Virgil seems to ring a variation on the 'golden line' here. The pattern adjectivea (*immensus*) : verb (*ferit*) : adjectiveb (*aurea*) : nouna (*clamor*) : nounb (*sidera*) gives special prominence to *surgens*: the action of the present participle bridges the distance between the *immensus … clamor* in the human sphere and the *aurea … sidera* in the sky. In the case of *immensus … clamor*, the hyperbaton underscores the immeasurability of the din that arises; in the case of *aurea … sidera*, it conveys a sense of *even* the (unmovable and immobile) golden stars being struck and shaken. The line commences with heavy spondees, reinforced by the assonance of the central lexeme *immensus* with the words that precede (*tum ~ imm*–) and follow (–*sus ~ sur*–; –*ens– ~ –ens*). In the second half of the line the boundless shoutout to the departed warrior queen by the fighting armies explodes into a series of dactyls, reinforced by the unsettled word order (verb – subject, positioned effectively at the end of line – accusative object), and enjambment.

**aurea… | sidera**: the phrase stands in antithesis to *tenebris nigrescunt omnia circum* in 824 and *sub umbras* in 831. Virgil here covers the Underworld, (hell on) Earth, and the Sky, with the dynamics in the sphere of mortals affecting all other layers of the cosmos as well.

**deiecta crudescit pugna Camilla**: the picture of cosmic turmoil provides an apposite backdrop for the ongoing battle, which further heightens in intensity and brutality. *deiecta … Camilla* is an ablative absolute, with *deiecta* ('having been struck down') picking up on and inverting *surgens ferit* of the previous line and recalling her lapse to the ground. The subject is *pugna*. The alliteration *crudescit … Camilla* and the poetic word order (with the main clause inserted in the ablative absolute) reinforce a thematic link between the death of the maiden and the increasing savagery of the battle — Virgil is suggesting that her fall unleashes even more murderous energies among the combatants (*post hoc*, *ergo propter hoc*). This rhythm twins our 'Camilla' and 'Pallas' episodes as individualised close-ups followed up by repeats in the epic idiom of mass broadside versions (see n. on 197–99).

## 834–35

**incurrunt densi simul omnis copia Teucrum | Tyrrhenique duces Evandrique Arcades alae**: the line begins dramatically with the verb in the present tense (*incurrunt*) followed by the spatial adjective *densi*, which, together with its temporal equivalent *simul*, modifies and collectively anticipates the three subjects that rush together into battle. They are linked by the two –*que* after *Tyrrheni* and *Evandri*: (i) *omnis copia Teucrum* = the Trojan forces; (ii) *Tyrrheni duces* = the Etruscan leaders; (iii) *Evandri Arcades alae* = the Arcadian cavalry squadrons of Evander. We would of course be mistaken to assume that *copia* applies only to the Trojan forces, *duces* to the commanders from Etruria, and *alae* to the Arcadian horsemen. Rather, all parties in the conflict comprise *duces*, *copia*, and *alae* — it's just that Virgil, in supreme economy of expression, mentions each component only once, distributed across the three contingents involved. Note the balance: the two elements of quantity (*copia*, *alae*), which refer to the allied forces of Aeneas and Evander, frame the one element of quality (*duces*). The framing effect is enhanced by the combination of parallelism (all three phrases feature an attribute: *omnis*, *Tyrrheni*, *Arcades*, followed by the noun: *copia*, *duces*, *alae*) and chiasmus: the genitive *Teucrum* comes after, the genitive *Evandri* before the noun phrase — and the item in the middle does without one. The design thus enacts the ideas expressed in *simul* and *densi*, which is in the masculine plural, though agreeing in sense with a feminine singular (*copia*), masculine plural (*duces*), and feminine plural (*alae*).

**incurrunt**: the outcome solders Camilla to Tarchon with one last parting shot: cf. *Maeonidae incurrunt*… (759).

**Tyrrheni … duces**: the Tyrrhenians were a 'Pelasgian people' (i.e. people who inhabited the Aegean sea region in prehistoric times), who migrated to Italy and evolved into the Etruscans. Their king Tarchon was Aeneas' lieutenant as Camilla was Turnus', and as Pallas never lived to be. Over and out.


Armitage, D. (2017), *Civil Wars*: *A History in Ideas*, New Haven.

Ash, R. (2002), 'Epic Encounters? Ancient Historical Battle Narratives and the Epic Tradition', in D. S. Levene and D. P. Nelis (eds.), *Clio and the Poets*:

*Augustan Poetry and the Traditions of Ancient Historiography*, Leiden, Boston, Cologne, 253–74.


Hainsworth, B. (1993), *The Iliad*: *A Commentary. Volume III*: *books 9–12*, Cambridge.

Hardie, P. (1994), *Virgil*, *Aeneid IX*, Cambridge.


La Penna, A. (1988), 'Gli archetipi epici di Camilla', *Maia* 40, 228–50.


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## Virgil, *Aeneid* 11 (Pallas & Camilla) 1–224, 498–521, 532–96, 648–89, 725–835

Latin text, study aids with vocabulary, and commentary

GILDENHARD

AND HENDERSON

Virgil, *Aeneid* 

11

(Pallas & Camilla)

**OBP**

## INGO GILDENHARD AND JOHN HENDERSON

A dead boy (Pallas) and the death of a girl (Camilla) loom over the opening and the closing part of the eleventh book of the *Aeneid*. Following the savage slaughter in *Aeneid* 10, the book opens in a mournful mood as the warring parti es revisit yesterday's killing fi elds to att end to their dead. One casualty in parti cular commands att enti on: Aeneas' protégé Pallas, killed and despoiled by Turnus in the previous book. His death plunges his father Evander and his surrogate father Aeneas into heart-rending despair – and helps set up the foundati onal act of sacrifi cial brutality that caps the poem, when Aeneas seeks to avenge Pallas by slaying Turnus in wrathful fury. Turnus' departure from the living is prefi gured by that of his ally Camilla, a maiden schooled in the marti al arts, who sets the mold for warrior princesses such as Xena and Wonder Woman. In the fi nal third of *Aeneid* 11, she wreaks havoc not just on the batt lefi eld but on gender stereotypes and the conventi ons of the epic genre, before she too succumbs to a premature death. In the porti ons of the book selected for discussion here, Virgil off ers some of his most emoti ve (and disturbing) meditati ons on the tragic nature of human existence – but also knows how to lighten the mood with a bit of drag.

This course book off ers the original Lati n text, vocabulary aids, study questi ons, and an extensive commentary. Designed to stretch and sti mulate readers, this resource is of parti cular interest to students of Lati n studying for A-Level or on undergraduate courses. It extends beyond detailed linguisti c analysis to encourage criti cal engagement with Virgil's poetry and the most recent scholarly thought.

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Cover image: Jean-Bapti ste Peytavin, *Metabus and Camilla* (1808)*.*  Cover design: Anna Gatti .

Virgil, *Aeneid* 11 (Pallas & Camilla)

INGO GILDENHARD AND JOHN HENDERSON

1–224, 498–521, 532–96, 648–89, 725–835

Latin text, study aids with vocabulary, and commentary