With illustrations and embedded recordings. Anchor question numbers in the left margin go with a matching worksheet.

                                                            B O O K   T W O




     The Final Hours
     of Troy

     S nence . All fell hushed, their eyes fixed on Aeneas now
     as the founder of his people, high on a seat of honor,
     set out on his story: " Sorrow, unspeakable sorrow,
Q1   my queen, you ask me to bring to life once more,
     how the Greeks uprooted Troy in all her power,
     our kingdom mourned forever. What horrors I saw,
     a tragedy where I played a leading role myself.
     Who could tell such things-not even a Myrmidon,
     a Dolopian, or comrade of iron-hearted Ulysses-
     and still refrain from tears? And now, too,                          10

     the dank night is sweeping down from the sky
     and the setting stars incline our heads to sleep .
     But if you long so deeply to know what we went through,
     to hear, in brief, the last great agony of Troy,
     much as I shudder at the memory of it all-
     1 shrank back in grief-I'll try to tell it now . . .

     74


     / 1 3-40]                      B O OK TW O : THE FINAL HOURS OF TROY   75

          " Ground down by the war and driven back by Fate,
     the Greek captains had watched the years slip by
     until, helped by Minerva 's superhuman skill,
Q2   they built that mammoth horse, immense as a mountain,                  20

     lining its ribs with ship timbers hewn from pine .
     An offering to secure safe passage home, or so
     they pretend, and the story spreads through Troy.
     B ut they pick by lot the best, most able -bodied men
     and stealthily lock them into the horse's dark flanks
     till the vast hold of the monster's womb is packed
     with soldiers bristling weapons .
                                           "Just in sight of Troy
     an island rises, Tenedos, famed in the old songs,
     powerful, rich, while Priam's realm stood fast.
     Now it's only a bay, a treacherous cove for ships.                     30

     Well there they sail, hiding out on its lonely coast
     while we thought-gone ! Sped home on the winds to Greece .
     So all Troy breathes free, relieved of her endless sorrow.
     We fling open the gates and stream out, elated to see
     the Greeks' abandoned camp, the deserted beachhead.
     Here the D olopians formed ranks-
                                             "Here savage Achilles
     pitched his tents-
                          " Over there the armada moored
     and here the familiar killing- fields of battle .
     S ome gaze wonderstruck at the gift for Pallas,
     the virgin never wed-transfixed by the horse,                          40

     its looming mass, our doom. Thymoetes leads the way.
     'Drag it inside the walls, ' he urges, 'plant it high
     on the city heights ! ' Inspired by treachery now
     or the fate of Troy was moving toward this end.
     B ut Capys with other saner heads who take his side,
     suspecting a trap in any gift the Greeks might offer,
     tells us: ' Fling it into the sea or torch the thing to ash
     or bore into the depths of its womb where men can hide ! '
     The common people are split into warring factions .


          "But now, out in the lead with a troop of comrades,               so


     76    VIRGI L : THE AENEID                                    [4 1-6 7]


     down Laocoon runs from the heights in full fury,
     calling out from a distance : 'Poor doomed fools,
     have you gone mad, you Troj ans?
     You really believe the enemy's sailed away?
     Or any gift of the Greeks is free of guile?
     Is that how well you know Ulysses? Trust me,
Q3
     either the Greeks are hiding, shut inside those beams,
     or the horse is a battle-engine geared to breach our walls,
     spy on our homes, come down on our city, overwhelm us­
     or some other deception's lurking deep inside it.                   60

     Troj ans, never trust that horse. Whatever it is,
     I fear the Greeks, especially bearing gifts. '

        " In that spirit, with all his might he hurled
     a huge spear straight into the monster's flanks,
     the mortised timberwork of its swollen belly.
     Q uivering, there it stuck, and the stricken womb
     came booming back from its depths with echoing groans .
     If Fate and our own wits had not gone against us,
     surely Laocoon would have driven us on, now,
     to rip the Greek lair open with iron spears                         70

     and Troy would still be standing-
     proud fortress of Priam, you would tower still !


         " S uddenly, in the thick of it all, a young soldier,
     hands shackled behind his back, with much shouting
     Troj an shepherds were haling him toward the king.
     They'd come on the man by chance, a total stranger.
     He'd given himself up, with one goal in mind:
     to open Troy to the Greeks and lay her waste .
     He trusted to courage, nerved for either end,
     to weave his lies or face his certain death .                       80

     Young Troj an recruits, keen to have a look,
     came scurrying up from all sides, crowding round,
     outdoing each other to make a mockery of the captive .
     Now, hear the treachery of the Greeks and learn
     from a single crime the nature of the beast . . .
     Haggard, helpless, there in our midst he stood,


     [68-96]                        B OO K TWO : TH E     FINAL   HOURS O F TROY   77

     all eyes riveted on him now, and turning a wary glance
     at the lines of Troj an troops he groaned and spoke :
     'Where can I find some refuge, where on land, on sea?
     What's left for me now? A man of so much misery !                              90

     Nothing among the Greeks, no place at all. And worse,
     I see my Troj an enemies crying for my blood . '
                                                             " His groans
     convince us, cutting all our show of violence short.
     We press him: 'Tell us where you were born, your family.
     What news do you bring? Tell us what you trust to,
     such a willing captive . '
                                  '"All of it, my king,
     I'll tell you, come what may, the whole true story.
     Greek I am, I don't deny it. No, that first.
     Fortune may have made me a man of misery
     but, wicked as she is,                                                        1 00
Q4   she can't make Sinon a lying fraud as well.
                                                          " 'Now,
     perhaps you've caught some rumor of Palamedes,
     B elus' son, and his shining fame that rings in song.
     The Greeks charged him with treason, a trumped- up charge,
     an innocent man, and j ust because he opposed the war
     they put him to death, but once ',h e's robbed of the light,
     they mourn him sorely. Now I was his blood kin,
     a youngster when my father, a poor man, sent me
     off to the war at Troy as Palamedes' comrade .
     Long as he kept his royal status, holding forth                               1 10

     in the councils of the kings, I had some standing too,
     some pride of place . B ut once he left the land of the living,
     thanks to the j ealous, forked tongue of our Ulysses­
     you're no stranger to his story-I was shattered,
     I dragged out my life in the shadows, grieving,
     seething alone, in silence . . .
     outraged by my innocent friend's demise until
     I burst out like a madman, swore if I ever returned
     in triumph to our native Argos, ever got the chance
     I'd take revenge, and my oath provoked a storm of hatred.                     1 20


78     VIRGIL: THE AENEID                                        [97-12 1]


That was my first step on the slippery road to ruin .
From then on, Ulysses kept tormenting me, pressing
charge on charge; from then on, he bruited about
his two- edged rumors among the rank and file .
Driven by guilt, he looked for ways to kill me,
he never rested until, making C alchas his henchman-
but why now? Why go over that unforgiving ground again?
Why waste words? If you think all Greeks are one,
if hearing the name Greek is enough for you,
it's high time you made me pay the price .                            1 30

How that would please the man of Ithaca,
how the sons of Atreus would repay you ! '
                                           "Now, of course,
we burn to question him, urge him to explain-
blind to how false the cunning Greeks could be .
All atremble, he carries on with his tale,
lying from the cockles of his heart:
                                       " 'Time and again
the Greeks had yearned to abandon Troy-bone - tired
from a long hard war-to put it far behind and
beat a clean retreat. Would to god they had.
But time and again, as they were setting sail,                        1 40

the heavy seas would keep them confined to port
and the Southwind filled their hearts with dread
and worst of all, once this horse, this mass of timber
with locking planks, stood stationed here at last,
the thunderheads rumbled up and down the sky.
So, at our wit's end, we send Eurypylus off
to question Apollo's oracle now, and back
he comes from the god's shrine with these bleak words:
" With blood you appeased the winds, with a virgin's sacrifice
when you, you Greeks, first sought the shores of Troy.                1 so

With blood you must seek fair winds to sail you home,
must sacrifice one more Greek life in return . "


     '"As the word spread, the ranks were struck dumb
and icy fear sent shivers down their spines .
Whom did the god demand? Who'd meet his doom?


     [122-50]                      B O O K TWO :   THE   FINAL   HOURS   OF TROY   79


     Just that moment the Ithacan haled the prophet,
     C alchas, into our midst-he'd twist it out of him,
     what was the gods' will? The army rose in uproar.
     Even then our soldiers sensed that I was the one,
     the target of that Ulysses' vicious schemes-                                  1 60

     they saw it coming, still they held their tongues.
     For ten days the seer, silent, closed off in his tent,
     refused to say a word or betray a man to death.
     B ut at last, goaded on by Ulysses' mounting threats
     but in fact conniving in their plot, he breaks his silence
     and dooms me to the altar. And the army gave consent.
     The death that each man dreaded turned to the fate
     of one poor soul: a burden they could bear.


         " 'The day of infamy soon came . . .
     the sacred rites were all performed for the victim,                           1 70

     the salted meal strewn, the bands tied round my head.
     B ut I broke free of death, I tell you, burst my shackles,
     yes, and hid all night in the reeds of a marshy lake,
     waiting for them to sail-if only they would sail !
     Well, no hope now of seeing the land where I was born
     or my sweet children, the father I longed for all these years .
     Maybe they'll wring from them the price for my escape,
     avenge my guilt with my loved ones ' blood, poor things.
     I beg you, king, by the Powers who know the truth,
     by any trust still uncorrupt in the world of men,                             1 80

     pity a man whose torment knows no bounds.
     Pity me in my pain.
     I know in my soul I don't deserve to suffer. '


Q5       " He wept and won his life-o ur pity, too.
     Priam takes command, has him freed from the ropes
     and chains that bind him fast, and hails him warmly:
     'Whoever you are, from now on, now you've lost the Greeks,
     put them out of your mind and you'll be one of us.
     B ut answer my questions. Tell me the whole truth.
     Why did they raise up this giant, monstrous horse?                            1 90

     Who conceived it? What's it for? its purpose?


80      VIRGI L :   THE   AENEID                                   [1 51-77]


A gift to the gods? A great engine of battle? '


     " He broke off. Sinon, adept at deceit,
with all his Greek cunning lifted his hands,
j ust freed from their fetters, up to the stars
and prayed: 'Bear witness, you eternal fires of the sky
and you inviolate will of the gods ! B ear witness,
altar and those infernal knives that I escaped
and the sacred bands I wore myself: the victim.
It's right to break my sworn oath to the Greeks,                       200

it's right to detest those men and bring to light
all they're hiding now. No laws of my native land
can bind me here . Just keep your promise, Troy,
and if I can save you, you must save me too-
if I reveal the truth and pay you back in full.


     '"All the hopes of the Greeks, their firm faith
in a war they'd launched themselves
had always hinged on Pallas Athena 's help .
B ut from the moment that godless D iomedes,
flanked by Ulysses, the mastermind of crime,                            210

attacked and tore the fateful image of Pallas
out of her own hallowed shrine, and cut down
the sentries ringing your city heights and seized
that holy image and even dared touch the sacred bands
on the virgin goddess' head with hands reeking blood­
from that hour on, the high hopes of the Greeks
had trickled away like a slow, ebbing tide . . .
They were broken, beaten men,
the will of the goddess dead set against them.
Omens of this s he gave in no uncertain terms.                          220

They'd hardly stood her image up in the Greek camp
when flickering fire shot from its glaring eyes
and salt sweat ran glistening down its limbs
and three times the goddess herself-a marvel-
blazed forth from the ground, shield clashing, spear brandished.
The prophet spurs them at once to risk escape by sea :
"You cannot root out Troy with your Greek spears unless


     /1 78-203]                    B O O K TWO : THE FINAL H O U R S O F TROY   81

     you seek new omens in Greece and bring the god back here"­
     the image they'd borne across the sea in their curved ships.
     So now they've sailed away on the wind for home shores,                    230

     j ust to rearm, recruit their gods as allies yet again,
     then measure back their course on the high seas and
     back they'll come to attack you all off guard .


Q6       '" So Calchas read the omens . At his command
     they raised this horse, this effigy, all to atone
     for the violated image of Pallas, her wounded pride,
     her power-and expiate the outrage they had done .
     B ut he made them do the work on a grand scale,
     a tremendous mass of interlocking timbers towering
     toward the sky, so the horse could not be trundled                         240

     through your gates or hauled inside your walls
     or guard your people if they revered it well
     in the old, ancient way. For if your hands
     should violate this great offering to Minerva,
     a total disaster-if only god would turn it
     against the seer himself !-will wheel down
     on Priam's empire, Troy, and all your futures.
     B ut if your hands will rear it up, into your city,
     then all Asia in arms can invade Greece, can launch
     an all- out war right up to the walls of Pelops.                           250

     That's the doom that awaits our sons' sons . '


         "Trapped by his craft, that cunning liar Sinon,
     we believed his story. His tears, his treachery seized
     the men whom neither Tydeus' son nor Achilles could defeat,
     nor ten long years of war, nor all the thousand ships.


         "But a new portent strikes our doomed people
Q7
     now-a greater omen, far more terrible, fatal,
     shakes our senses, blind to what was coming.
     Laocoon, the priest of Neptune picked by lot,
     was sacrificing a massive bull at the holy altar                           260

     when-I cringe to recall it now-look there !
     Over the calm deep straits off Tenedos swim


     82     V I R G I L : THE AENEID                                  [204-36]


Q7   twin, giant serpents, rearing in coils, breasting
     the sea - swell side by side, plunging toward the shore,
     their heads, their blood-red crests surging over the waves,
     their bodies thrashing, backs rolling in coil on mammoth coil
     and the wake behind them churns in a roar of foaming spray,
     and now, their eyes glittering, shot with blood and fire,
     flickering tongues licking their hissing maws, yes, now
     they're about to land. We blanch at the sight, we scatter.           270

     Like troops on attack they're heading straight for Laocoon­
     first each serpent seizes one of his small young sons,
     constricting, twisting around him, sinks its fangs
     in the tortured limbs, and gorges . Next Laocoon
     rushing quick to the rescue, clutching his sword-
     they trap him, bind him in huge muscular whorls,
     their scaly backs lashing around his midriff twice
     and twice around his throat-their heads, their flaring necks
     mounting over their victim writhing still, his hands
     frantic to wrench apart their knotted trunks,                        280

     his priestly bands splattered in filth, black veno �
     and all the while his horrible screaming fills the skies,
     bellowing like some wounded bull struggling to shrug
     loose from his neck an axe that's struck awry,
     to lumber clear of the altar . . .
     Only the twin snakes escape, sliding off and away
     to the heights of Troy where the ruthless goddess
     holds her shrine, and there at her feet they hide,
     vanishing under Minerva 's great round shield.
                                                          "At once,
Q8   I tell you, a stranger fear runs through the harrowed crowd.         2 90

     Laocoon deserved to pay for his outrage, so they say,
     he desecrated the sacred timbers of the horse,
     he hurled his wicked lance at the beast's back.
     'Haul Minerva 's effigy up to her house, ' we shout,
     ' Offer up our prayers to the power of the goddess ! '
     We breach our own ramparts, fling our defenses open,
     all pitch into the work. Smooth running rollers
     we wheel beneath its hoofs, and heavy hempen ropes
     we bind around its neck, and teeming with men-at-arms


     [23 7-64]                       B O O K TWO : THE FINAL H O U R S OF TROY    83

     the huge deadly engine climbs our city walls . . .                          3 00

     And round it boys and unwed girls sing hymns,
     thrilled to lay a hand on the dangling ropes
     as on and on it comes, gliding into the city,
     looming high over the city's heart.
                                              " Oh my country !
     Troy, home of the gods ! You great walls of the Dardans
     long renowned in war !
                                 "Four times it lurched to a halt
     at the very brink of the gates-four times the armor
Q9
     clashed out from its womb. B ut we, we forged ahead,
     oblivious, blind, insane, we stationed the monster
     fraught with doom on the hallowed heights of Troy.                          3 10

     Even now Ca ssandra revealed the future, opening
     lips the gods had ruled no Trojan would believe .
     And we, poor fools-on this, our last day-we deck
     the shrines of the gods with green holiday garlands
     all throughout the city . . .
                                      "But all the while
     the skies keep wheeling on and night comes sweeping in
     from the Ocean Stream, in its mammoth shadow swallowing up
     the earth, and the pole star, and the treachery of the Greeks .
     D ead quiet. The Troj ans slept on, strewn throughout
     their fortress, weary bodies embraced by slumber.                           320

     But the Greek armada was under way now, crossing
     over from Tenedos, ships in battle formation
     under the moon 's quiet light, their silent ally,
     homing in on the berths they know by heart-
     when the king's flagship sends up a signal flare,
     the cue for Sinon, saved by the Fates' unj ust decree,
     and stealthily loosing the pine bolts of the horse,
     he unleashes the Greeks shut up inside its womb .
     The horse stands open wide, fighters in high spirits
     pouring out of its timbered cavern into the fresh air:                      3 30

     the chiefs, Thessandrus, Sthenelus, ruthless Ulysses
     rappeling down a rope they dropped from its side,
     and Acamas, Thoas, Neoptolemus, son of Achilles,
     captain Macha on, Menelaus, Epeus himself,


      84     VIRGIL:   THE   AENEID                                     [264-94]


      the man who built that masterpiece of fraud.
      They steal on a city buried deep in sleep and wine,
      they butcher the guards, fling wide the gates and hug
      their cohorts poised to combine forces . Plot complete .


           "This was the hour when rest, that gift of the gods
      most heaven- sent, first comes to beleaguered mortals,                3 40

      creeping over us now . . . when there, look,
      I dreamed I saw Prince Hector before my eyes,
      my comrade haggard with sorrow, streaming tears,
      j ust as he once was, when dragged behind the chariot,
      black with blood and grime, thongs piercing his swollen feet­
      what a harrowing sight ! What a far cry from the old Hector
      home from battle, decked in Achilles' arms-his trophies-
      or fresh from pitching Troj an fire at the Greek ships.
      His beard matted now, his hair clotted with blood,
      bearing the wounds, so many wounds he suffered                        3 50

      fighting round his native city's walls . . .
      I dreamed I addressed him first, in tears myself
      I forced my voice from the depths of all my grief:
      ' Oh light of the Troj ans-last, best hope of Troy !
      What's held you back so long? How long we 've waited,
      Hector, for you to come, and now from what far shores?
      How glad we are to see you, we battle -weary men,
      after so many deaths, your people dead and gone,
      after your citizens, your city felt such pain .
      B ut what outrage has mutilated your face                             360

      so clear and cloudless once? Why these wounds?'


           "Wasting no words, no time on empty questions,
      heaving a deep groan from his heart he calls out:
Q10   'Escape, son of the goddess, tear yourself from the flames !
      The enemy holds our walls . Troy is toppling from her heights .
      You have paid your debt to our king and native land.
      If one strong arm could have saved Troy, my arm
      would have saved the city. Now, into your hands
      she entrusts her holy things, her household gods .
      Take them with you as comrades in your fortunes .                     370


      [295-320]                     B OOK TWO : THE FINAL HOURS OF TROY   85

      Seek a city for them, once you have roved the seas,
      erect great walls at last to house the gods of Troy ! '


          " Urging so, with his own hands he carries Vesta forth
      from her inner shrine, her image clad in ribbons,
      filled with her power, her everlasting fire .
                                                      " B ut now,
      chaos-the city begins to reel with cries of grief,
      louder, stronger, even though father's palace
      stood well back, screened off by trees, but still
      the clash of arms rings clearer, horror on the attack.
Q11   I shake off sleep and scrambling up to the pitched roof             380

      I stand there, ears alert, and I hear a roar like fire
      assaulting a wheatfield, whipped by a Southwind's fury,
      or mountain torrent in full spate, flattening crops,
      leveling all the happy, thriving labor of oxen,
      dragging whole trees headlong down in its wake-
      and a shepherd perched on a sheer rock outcrop
      hears the roar, lost in amazement, struck dumb .
      No doubting the good faith of the Greeks now,
      their treachery plain as day.
                                       "Already, there,
      the grand house of D eiphobus stormed by fire,                      390

      crashing in ruins-
                           " Already his neighbor Ucalegon
      up in flames-
                      "The S igean straits shimmering back the blaze,
      the shouting of fighters soars, the clashing blare of trumpets .
      O ut of my wits, I seize my arms-what reason for arms?
      Just my spirit burning to muster troops for battle,
      rush with comrades up to the city's heights,
      fury and rage driving me breakneck on
      as it races through my mind
      what a noble thing it is to die in arms !
                                                  " B ut now, look,
      j ust slipped out from under the Greek barrage of spears,           400

      Panthus, Othrys' son, a priest of Apollo's shrine
      on the citadel-hands full of the holy things,


      86      VIRGIL:   THE   AENEID                             [320-49]


      the images of our conquered gods-he's dragging along
      his little grandson, making a wild dash for our doors .
      'Panthus, where's our stronghold? our last stand? '­
      words still on my lips as he groans in answer:
Q12   'The last day has come for the Troj an people,
      no escaping this moment . Troy's no more .
      Ilium, gone-our awesome Trojan glory.
      Brutal Jupiter hands it all over to Greece,                    410

      Greeks are lording over our city up in flames .
      The horse stands towering high in the heart of Troy,
      disgorging its armed men, with Sinon in his glory,
      gloating over us-Sinon fans the fires.
      The immense double gates are flung wide open,
      Greeks in their thousands mass there, all who ever
      sailed from proud Mycenae . Others have choked
      the cramped streets, weapons brandished now
      in a battle line of naked, glinting steel
      tense for the kill . Only the first guards                     420

      at the gates put up some show of resistance,
      fighting blindly on . '


           " Spurred by Panthus' words and the gods' will,
      into the blaze I dive, into the fray, wherever
      the din of combat breaks and war cries fill the sky,
      wherever the battle -fury drives me on and now
      I'm j oined by Rhipeus, Epytus mighty in armor,
      rearing up in the moonlight-
      Hypanis comes to my side, and Dymas too,
      flanked by the young C oroebus, Mygdon 's son.                 430

      Late in the day he'd chanced to come to Troy
      incensed with a mad, burning love for Cassandra :
      son -in-law to our king, he would rescue Troy. Poor man,
      if only he'd marked his bride's inspired ravings !


           " Seeing their close -packed ranks, hot for battle,
      I spur them on their way: ' Men, brave hearts,
      though bravery cannot save u s-if you're bent on
      following me and risking all to face the worst,


      [3 50-80]                      B O O K TWO :   THE   FINAL HOURS   OF TROY   87

      look around you, see how our chances stand .
      The gods who shored our empire up have left us,                              440

      all have deserted their altars and their shrines .
      You race t o defend a city already lost in flames .
      B ut let us die, g o plunging into the thick o f battle .
      One hope saves the defeated: they know they can 't be saved ! '
      That fired their hearts with the fury of despair.
                                                              "Now
Q13
      like a wolfpack out for blood on a foggy night,
      driven blindly on by relentless, rabid hunger,
      leaving cubs behind, waiting, j aws parched-
      so through spears, through enemy ranks we plow
      to certain death, striking into the city's heart,                            450

      the shielding wings of the darkness beating round us.
      Who has words to capture that night's disaster,
      tell that slaughter? What tears could match
      our torments now? An ancient city is falling,
      a power that ruled for ages, now in ruins .
      Everywhere lie the motionless bodies of the dead,
      strewn in her streets, her homes and the gods' shrines
      we held in awe . And not only Troj ans pay the price in blood­
      at times the courage races back in their conquered hearts
      and they cut their enemies down in all their triumph.                        460

      Everywhere, wrenching grief, everywhere, terror
      and a thousand shapes of death.
                                             "And the first Greek
      to cross our path? Androgeos leading a horde of troops
      and taking us for allies on the march, the fool,
      he even gives us a warm salute and calls out:
      'Hurry up, men. Why holding back, why now,
      why drag your heels? Troy's up in flames,
      the rest are looting, sacking the city heights.
      B ut you, have you j ust come from the tall ships?'
      S uddenly, getting no password he can trust,                                 470

      he sensed he'd stumbled into enemy ranks !
      Stunned, he recoiled, swallowing back his words
      like a man who threads his way through prickly brambles,
      pressing his full weight on the ground, and blindly treads


      88     VIRGI L :   THE   AENEID                                     [380-408]


      on a lurking snake and back he shrinks in instant fear
      as it rears in anger, puffs its blue -black neck.
      Just so Androgeos, seeing us, cringes with fear,
      recoiling, struggling to flee but we attack,
      flinging a ring of steel around his cohorts-
      panic takes the Greeks unsure of their ground                            480

      and we cut them all to pieces.
      Fortune fills our sails in that first clash
      and C oroebus, flushed, fired with such success,
      exults : ' C omrades, wherever Fortune points the way,
      wherever the first road to safety leads, let's soldier on.
      Exchange shields with the Greeks and wear their emblems .
      Call it cunning or courage : who would ask in war?
      Our enemies will arm us to the hilt . '
                                                    "With that h e dons
      Androgeos' crested helmet, his handsome blazoned shield
Q14
      and straps a Greek sword to his hip, and comrades,                       490

      spirits rising, take his lead. Rhipeus, Dymas too
      and our corps of young recruits-each fighter
      arms himself in the loot that he j ust seized
      and on we forge, blending in with the enemy,
      battling time and again under strange gods,
      fighting hand-to - hand in the blind dark
      and many Greeks we send to the I<ing of Death.
      Some scatter back to their ships, making a run
      for shore and safety. Others disgrace themselves,
      so panicked they clamber back inside the monstrous horse,                500

      burying into the womb they know so well.
                                                          "B ut, oh
      how wrong to rely on gods dead set against you !
      Watch: the virgin daughter of Priam, C assandra,
      torn from the sacred depths of Minerva's shrine,
      dragged by the hair, raising her burning eyes
      to the heavens, j ust her eyes, so helpless,
      shackles kept her from raising her gentle hands .
      C oroebu s could not bear the sight of it-mad with rage
      he flung himself at the Greek lines and met his death.


[409-36]                      B OOK   TWO :   THE   FINAL   HOURS   O F TR O Y   89


Closing ranks we charge after him, into the thick of battle                      510

and face our first disaster. Down from the temple roof
come showers of lances hurled by our own comrades there,
duped by the look of our Greek arms, our Greek crests
that launched this grisly slaughter. And w o rse still,
the Greeks roaring with anger-we had saved Cassandra­
attack us from all sides ! Aj ax, fiercest of all and
Atreus' two sons and the whole D olopian army,
wild as a rampaging whirlwind, gusts clashing,
the West- and the South- and Eastwind riding high
on the rushing horses of the Dawn, and the woods howl                            520

and Nereus, thrashing his savage trident, churns up
the sea exploding in foam from its rocky depths.
And those Greeks we had put to rout, our ruse
in the murky night stampeding them headlong on
throughout the city-back they come, the first
to see that our shields and spears are naked lies,
to mark the words on our lips that j ar with theirs .
In a flash, superior numbers overwhelm us.
C oroebus is first to go,
cut down by Peneleus' right hand he sprawls                                      5 30

at Minerva's shrine, the goddess, power of armies.
Rhipeus falls too, the most righteous man in Troy,
the most devoted to j ustice, true, but the gods
had other plans .
                     "Hypanis, Dymas die as well,
run through by their own men-
                                      " And you, Panthus,
not all your piety, all the sacred bands you wore
as Apollo's priest could save you as you fell.
Ashes of Ilium, last flames that engulfed my world­
! swear by you that in your last hour I never shrank
from the Greek spears, from any startling hazard of war­                         540

if Fate had struck me down, my sword- arm earned it all.
Now we are swept away, Iphitus, Pelias with me,
one weighed down with age and the other slowed
by a wound Ulysses gave him-heading straight


90      VIRGIL:   THE   AENEID                                   /43 7-65/


for Priam's palace, driven there by the outcries .


     "And there, I tell you, a pitched battle flares !
You'd think no other battles could match its fury,
nowhere else in the city were people dying so.
Invincible Mars rears up to meet us face-to-face
with waves of Greeks assaulting the roofs, we see them                5 50

choking the gateway, under a tortoise -shell of shields,
and the scaling ladders cling to the steep ramparts-
j ust at the gates the raiders scramble up the rungs,
shields on their left arms thrust out for defense,
their right hands clutching the gables .
Over against them, Troj ans ripping the tiles
and turrets from all their roofs-the end is near,
they can see it now, at the brink of death, desperate
for weapons, some defense, and these, these missiles they send
reeling down on the Greeks' heads-the gilded beams,                   560

the inlaid glory of all our ancient fathers .
C omrades below, posted in close-packed ranks,
block the entries, swordpoints drawn and poised.
My courage renewed, I rush to relieve the palace,
brace the defenders, bring the defeated strength .


     "There was a secret door, a hidden passage
linking the wings of Priam's house-remote,
far to the rear. Long as our realm still stood,
Andromache, poor woman, would often go this way,
unattended, to Hector's parents, taking the boy                       5 70

Astyanax by the hand to see grandfather Priam.
I slipped through the door, up to the j utting roof
where the doomed Trojans were hurling futile spears .
There was a tower soaring high at the peak toward the sky,
our favorite vantage point for surveying all of Troy
and the Greek fleet and camp . We attacked that tower
with iron crowbars, j ust where the upper-story planks
showed loosening j oints-we rocked it, wrenched it free
of its deep moorings and all at once we heaved it toppling
down with a crash, trailing its wake of ruin to grind                 580


[466-96]                     B O OK TWO : THE     FINAL   HOURS OF TROY   91

the massed Greeks assaulting left and right. B ut on
came Greek reserves, no letup, the hail of rocks,
the missiles of every kind would never cease .


    "There at the very edge of the front gates
springs Pyrrhus, son of Achilles, prancing in arms,
aflash in his shimmering brazen sheath like a snake
buried the whole winter long under frozen turf,
swollen to bursting, fed full on poisonous weeds
and now it springs into light, sloughing its old skin
to glisten sleek in its newfound youth, its back slithering,              590

coiling, its proud chest rearing high to the sun,
its triple tongue flickering through its fangs.
Backing him now comes Periphas, giant fighter,
Automedon too, Achilles ' henchman, charioteer
who bore the great man 's armor-backing Pyrrhus,
the young fighters from Scyros raid the palace,
hurling firebrands at the roofs . Out in the lead,
Pyrrhus seizes a double -axe and batters the rocky sill
and ripping the bronze posts out of their sockets,
hacking the rugged oaken planks of the doors,                             600

makes a breach, a gaping maw, and there, exposed,
the heart of the house, the sweep of the colonnades,
the palace depths of the old kings and Priam lie exposed
and they see the armed sentries bracing at the portals .


    "But all in the house is turmoil, misery, groans,
the echoing chambers ring with cries of women,
wails of mourning hit the golden stars.
Mothers scatter in panic down the palace halls
and embrace the pillars, cling to them, kiss them hard.
B ut on he comes, Pyrrhus with all his father's force,                    610

no bolts, not even the guards can hold him back­
under the ram's repeated blows the doors cave in,
the doorposts, prised from their sockets, crash flat.
Force makes a breach and the Greeks come storming through,
butcher the sentries, flood the entire place with men-at-arms .
No river so wild, so frothing in spate, bursting its banks


      92     VIRGIL:   THE   AENEID                                   [497-525]


      to overpower the dikes, anything in its way, its cresting
      tides stampeding in fury down on the fields to sweep
      the flocks and stalls across the open plain .
      I saw him myself, Pyrrhus crazed with carnage                        620

      and Atreus' two sons j ust at the threshold-
                                                         "I saw
      Hecuba with her hundred daughters and daughters -in-law,
      saw Priam fouling with blood the altar fires
      he himself had blessed.
                                       "Those fifty bridal-chambers
      filled with the hope of children's children still to come,
      the pillars proud with trophies, gilded with Eastern gold,
      they all come tumbling down-
      and the Greeks hold what the raging fire spares .


Q15        " Perhaps you wonder how Priam met his end.
      When he saw his city stormed and seized, his gates                   6 30

      wrenched apart, the enemy camped in his palace depths,
      the old man dons his armor long unused, he clamps it
      round his shoulders shaking with age and, all for nothing,
      straps his useless sword to his hip, then makes
      for the thick of battle, out to meet his death .
      At the heart of the house an ample altar stood,
      naked under the skies,
      an ancient laurel bending over the shrine,
      embracing our household gods within its shade .
      Here, flocking the altar, Hecuba and her daughters                   640

      huddled, blown headlong down like doves by a black storm-
      clutching, all for nothing, the figures of their gods.
      Seeing Priam decked in the arms he'd worn as a young man,
      'Are you insane? ' she cries, 'poor husband, what impels you
      to strap that sword on now? Where are you rushing?
      Too late for such defense, such help . Not even
      my own Hector, if he came to the rescue now . . .
      Come to me, Priam. This altar will shield us all
      or else you'll die with us . '
                                         "With those words,
      drawing him toward her there, she made a place                       650


      [525-53)                      BOOK   TW O :   THE   FINAL HOURS   O F TR O Y   93

      for the old man beside the holy shrine .
                                                     " S uddenly,
      look, a son of Priam, Polites, j ust escaped
      from slaughter at Pyrrhus' hands, comes racing in
      through spears, through enemy fighters, fleeing down
      the long arcades and deserted hallways-badly wounded,
      Pyrrhus hot on his heels, a weapon poised for the kill,
      about to seize him, about to run him through and pressing
      home as Polites reaches his parents and collapses,
      vomiting out his lifeblood before their eyes.
      At that, Priam, trapped in the grip of death,                                  660

      not holding back, not checking his words, his rage :
      'You ! ' he cries, 'you and your vicious crimes !
      If any power on high recoils at such an outrage,
      let the gods repay you for all your reckless work,
      grant you the thanks, the rich reward you 've earned.
      You 've made me see my son's death with my own eyes,
      defiled a father's sight with a son's lifeblood .
      You say you're Achilles' son? You lie ! Achilles
      never treated his enemy Priam so. No, he honored
      a suppliant's rights, he blushed to betray my trust,                           670

      he restored my Hector's bloodless corpse for burial,
      sent me safely home to the land I rule ! '
                                                     "With that
      and with all his might the old man flings his spear­
      but too impotent now to pierce, it merely grazes
      Pyrrhus' brazen shield that blocks its way
      and clings there, dangling limp from the boss,
      all for nothing. Pyrrhus shouts back: 'Well then,
      down you go, a messenger to my father, Peleus' son !
      Tell him about my vicious work, how Neoptolemus
      degrades his father's name-don't you forget.                                   680

      Now-die ! '
                     "That said, he drags the old man
Q15
      straight to the altar, quaking, slithering on through
End
      slicks of his son's blood, and twisting Priam's hair
      in his left hand, his right hand sweeping forth his sword­
      a flash of steel-he buries it hilt- deep in the king's flank.


      94       VIRGIL:    THE   AENEID                                     [554-79]


           " S uch was the fate of Priam, his death, his lot on earth,
      with Troy blazing before his eyes, her ramparts down,
      the monarch who once had ruled in all his glory
      the many lands of Asia, Asia's many tribes .
      A powerful trunk is lying on the shore .                                 690

      The head wrenched from the shoulders .
      A corpse without a name .
                                            "Then, for the first time
      the full horror came home to me at last . I froze .
      The thought of my own dear father filled my mind
      when I saw the old king gasping out his life
      with that raw wound-both men were the same age­
      and the thought of my Creusa, alone, abandoned,
      our house plundered, our little Iulus' fate .
      I look back-what forces still stood by me?
      None . Totally spent in war, they'd all deserted,                        700

      down from the roofs they'd flung themselves to earth
      or hurled their broken bodies in the flames .
Q16                                                            [ " So, *
      at j ust that moment I was the one man left
      and then I saw her, clinging to Vesta's threshold,
      hiding in silence, tucked away-Helen of Argos .
      Glare of the fires lit my view a s I looked down,
      scanning the city left and right, and there she was . . .
      terrified of the Troj ans ' hate, now Troy was overpowered,
      terrified of the Greeks' revenge, her deserted husband's rage­
      that universal Fury, a curse to Troy and her native land                 710

      and here she lurked, skulking, a thing of loathing
      cowering at the altar: Helen . Out it flared,
      the fire inside my soul, my rage ablaze to avenge
      our fallen country-pay Helen back, crime for crime .


           " ' So, this woman, ' it struck me now, 'safe and sound
      she'll look once more on Sparta, her native Greece?
      She'll ride like a queen in triumph with her trophies?
      Feast her eyes on her husband, parents, children too?


           *See Introduction, pp . 1 1 - 1 2 .


      [580-609]                    BOOK   TWO :   THE   FINAL HOURS   OF TROY   95


Q16   Her retinue fawning round her, Phrygian ladies, slaves?
End   That-with Priam put to the sword? And Troy up in flames?                  720

      And time and again our Dardan shores have sweated blood?
      Not for all the world. No fame, no memory to be won
      for punishing a woman: such victory reaps no praise
      but to stamp this abomination out as she deserves,
      to punish her now, they'll sing my praise for that.
      What j oy, to glut my heart with the fires of vengeance,
      bring some peace to the ashes of my people ! '


Q17       "Whirling words-I was swept away by fury now]
      when all of a sudden there my loving mother stood
      before my eyes, but I had never seen her so clearly,                      7 30

      her pure radiance shining down upon me through the night,
      the goddess in all her glory, j ust as the gods behold
      her build, her awesome beauty. Grasping my hand
      she held me back, adding this from her rose - red lips:
      'My son, what grief could incite such blazing anger?
      Why such fury? And the love you bore me once,
      where has it all gone? Why don't you look first
      where you left your father, Anchises, spent with age?
      D o your wife, C reusa, and son Ascanius still survive?
      The Greek battalions are swarming round them all,                         740

      and if my love had never rushed to the rescue,
      flames would have swept them off by now or
      enemy sword-blades would have drained their blood.
      Think: it's not that beauty, Helen, you should hate,
      not even Paris, the man that you should blame, no,
      it's the gods, the ruthless gods who are tearing down
      the wealth of Troy, her toppling crown of towers.
      Look around. I'll sweep it all away, the mist
      so murky, dark, and swirling around you now,
      it clouds your vision, dulls your mortal sight .                          7 50

      You are my son. Never fear my orders .
Q18   Never refuse to bow to my commands.
                                                   " 'There,
      yes, where you see the massive ramparts shattered,
      blocks wrenched from blocks, the billowing smoke and ash-


      96      VIRGIL:   THE   AENEID                                    [61 0-36]


      it's Neptune himself, prising loose with his giant trident
      the foundation- stones of Troy, he's making the walls quake,
      ripping up the entire city by her roots.
                                                     '"There's Juno,
      cruelest in fury, first to commandeer the S caean Gates,
      sword at her hip and mustering comrades, shock troops
      streaming out of the ships.
                                       " 'Already up on the heights­         760

      turn around and look-there's Pallas holding the fortress,
      flaming out of the clouds, her savage Gorgon glaring.
      Even Father himself, he's filling the Greek hearts
      with courage, stamina-Jove in person spurring the gods
      to fight the Troj an armies !

Q19                                    " 'Run for your life, my son .
      Put an end to your labors . I will never leave you,
      I will set you safe at your father's door. '


           " Parting words. She vanished into the dense night.
      And now they all come looming up before me,
      terrible shapes, the deadly foes of Troy,                              770

      the gods gigantic in power.
                                       "Then at last
      I saw it all, all Ilium settling into her embers,
      Neptune 's Troy, toppling over now from her roots
      like a proud, veteran ash on its mountain summit,
      chopped by stroke after stroke of the iron axe as
      woodsmen fight to bring it down, and over and
      over it threatens to fall, its boughs shudder,
      its leafy crown quakes and back and forth it sways
      till overwhelmed by its wounds, with a long last groan
      it goes-torn up from its heights it crashes down                       780

      in ruins from its ridge . . .
      Venus leading, down from the roof I climb
      and win my way through fires and massing foes.
      The spears recede, the flames roll back before me.


           "At last, gaining the door of father's ancient house,
      my first concern was to find the man, my first wish


     [636-63)                      B O O K TW O :   THE   FINAL HOURS   OF TROY   97


     to spirit him off, into the high mountain range,
     but father, seeing Ilium razed from the earth,
     refused to drag his life out now and suffer exile.
Q20 'You, ' he argued, 'you in your prime, untouched by age,                      790

    your blood still coursing strong, you hearts of oak,
     you are the ones to hurry your escape. Myself,
     if the gods on high had wished me to live on,
     they would have saved my palace for me here .
     Enough-more than enough-that I have seen
     one sack of my city, once survived its capture .
     Here I lie, here laid out for death . C ome say
     your parting salutes and leave my body so.
     I will find my own death, sword in hand:
     my enemies keen for spoils will be so kind.                                  800

     D eath without burial? A small price to pay.
     For years now, I've lingered out my life,
     despised by the gods, a dead weight to men,
     ever since the Father of Gods and I<ing of Mortals
     stormed at me with his bolt and scorched me with its fire . '


         " So he said, planted there . Nothing could shake him now.
     B ut we dissolved in tears, my wife, C reusa, Ascanius,
     the whole household, begging my father not to pull
     our lives down with him, adding his own weight
     to the fate that dragged us down.                                            810

     He still refuses, holds to his resolve,
     clings to the spot. And again I rush to arms,
     desperate to die myself. Where could I turn?
     What were our chances now, at this point?
     'What ! ' I cried. ' Did you, my own father,
     dream that I could run away and desert you here?
     How could such an outrage slip from a father's lips?
     If it please the gods that nothing of our great city
     shall survive-if you are bent on adding your own death
     to the deaths of Troy and of all your loved ones too,                        820

     the doors of the deaths you crave are spread wide open.
     Pyrrhus will soon be here, bathed in Priam's blood,
     Pyrrhus who butchers sons in their fathers' faces,


      98     VIRGIL:   THE   AENEID                                 [663-89]


      slaughters fathers at the altar. Was it for this,
      my loving mother, you swept me clear of the weapons,
      free of the flames ? Just to see the enemy camped
      in the very heart of our house, to see my son, Ascanius,
      see my father, my wife, Creusa, with them, sacrificed,
      massacred in each other's blood?
                                              'Arms, my comrades,
      bring me arms ! The last light calls the defeated.                830

      Send me back to the Greeks, let me go back
      to fight new battles. Not all of us here
      will die today without revenge . '
                                             " Now buckling on
      my sword again and working my left arm through
      the shieldstrap, grasping it tightly, j ust as I
      was rushing out, right at the doors my wife, Creusa,
      look, flung herself at my feet and hugged my knees
      and raised our little Iulus up to his father.
      'If you are going off to die, ' she begged,
      'then take us with you too,                                       840

      to face the worst together. B ut if your battles
      teach you to hope in arms, the arms you buckle on,
      your first duty should be to guard our house .
      Desert us, leave us now-to whom? Whom?
      Little Iulus, your father and your wife,
      so I once was called. '
                                " So C reusa cries,
      her wails of anguish echoing through the house
      when out of the blue an omen strikes-a marvel !
      Now as we held our son between our hands
      and both our grieving faces, a tongue of fire,                    850

Q21   watch, flares up from the crown of Iulus' head,
      a subtle flame licking his downy hair, feeding
      around the boy's brow, and though it never harmed him,
      panicked, we rush to shake the flame from his curls
      and smother the holy fire, damp it down with water.
      But Father Anchises lifts his eyes to the stars in j oy
      and stretching his hands toward the sky, sings out:
      'Almighty Jove ! If any prayer can persuade you now,


[690-718]                         BOOK   TWO :   THE   FINAL   HOURS   OF   TROY   99

look down on us-that's all I ask-if our devotion
has earned it, grant us another omen, Father,                                      860

seal this first clear sign . '
                                  "No sooner said
than an instant peal of thunder crashes on the left
and down from the sky a shooting star comes gliding,
trailing a flaming torch to irradiate the night
as it comes sweeping down. We watch it sailing
over the topmost palace roofs to bury itself,
still burning bright, in the forests of Mount Ida,
blazing its path with light, leaving a broad furrow,
a fiery wake, and miles around the smoking sulfur fumes .
Won over at last, my father rises to his full height                               870

and prays to the gods and reveres that holy star:
'No more delay, not now ! You gods of my fathers,
now I follow wherever you lead me, I am with you .
S afeguard our house, safeguard my grandson Iulus !
This sign is yours : Troy rests in your power.
I give way, my son. No more refusals .
I will go with you, your comrade . '
                                            " So he yielded
but now the roar of flames grows louder all through Troy
and the seething floods of fire are rolling closer.
' So come, dear father, climb up onto my shoulders !                               880

I will carry you on my back. This labor of love
will never wear me down . Whatever falls to us now,
we both will share one peril, one pa th to safety.
Little Iulus, walk beside me, and you, my wife,
fallow me at a distance, in my footsteps .
S ervants, listen closely . . .
Just past the city walls a grave -mound lies
where an old shrine of forsaken C eres stands
with an ancient cypress growing close beside it­
our fathers' reverence kept it green for years .                                   890

C oming by many routes, it's there we meet,
our rendezvous . And you, my father, carry
our hearth-gods now, our fathers' sacred vessels .
I, j ust back from the war and fresh from slaughter,


      1 00      V I R GI L :   THE   AENEID                            [71 9-49]


      I must not handle the holy things-it's wrong­
      not till I cleanse myself in running springs . '
                                                         "With that,
      over my broad shoulders and round my neck I spread
      a tawny lion's skin for a cloak, and bowing down,
      I lift my burden up. Little Iulus, clutching
      my right hand, keeps pace with tripping steps .                       900

      My wife trails on behind. And so we make our way
      along the pitch- dark paths, and I who had never flinched
      at the hurtling spears or swarming Greek assaults-
      now every stir of wind, every whisper of sound
      alarms me, anxious both for the child beside me
      and burden on my back. And then, nearing the gates,
      thinking we've all got safely through, I suddenly
      seem to catch the steady tramp of marching feet
      and father, peering out through the darkness, cries :
      'Run for it now, my boy, you must . They're closing in,               910

      I can see their glinting shields, their flashing bronze ! '


             "Then in my panic something strange, some enemy power
      robbed me of my senses. Lost, I was leaving behind
      familiar paths, at a run down blind dead ends
      when-
                 " Oh dear god, my wife, C reusa­
Q22
      torn from me by a brutal fate ! What then,
      did she stop in her tracks or lose her way?
      Or exhausted, sink down to rest? Who knows?
      I never set my eyes on her again.
      I never looked back, she never crossed my mind­                       920

      Creusa, lost-not till we reached that barrow
      sacred to ancient C eres where, with all our people
      rallied at last, she alone was missing. Lost
      to her friends, her son, her husband-gone forever.
      Raving, I blamed them all, the gods, the human race­
      what crueler blow did I feel the night that Troy went down?
      Ascanius, father Anchises, and all the gods of Troy,
      entrusting them to my friends, I hide them well away
      in a valley's shelter, don my burnished gear


      [74 9-78]                      B OOK   TWO :   THE   FINAL   HOURS   OF TROY   101


Q23   and back I go to Troy . . .                                                    930

      my mind steeled to relive the whole disaster,
      retrace my route through the whole city now
      and put my life in danger one more time.
                                                           "First then,
      back to the looming walls, the shadowy rear gates
      by which I'd left the city, back I go in my tracks,
      retracing, straining to find my footsteps in the dark,
      with terror at every turn, the very silence makes me cringe.
      Then back to my house I go-if only, only she's gone there­
      but the Greeks have flooded in, seized the entire place .
      All over now. D evouring fire whipped by the winds                             940

      goes churning into the rooftops, flames surging
      over them, scorching blasts raging up the sky.
      On I go and again I see the palace of Priam
      set on the heights, but there in colonnades
      deserted now, in the sanctuary of Juno, there
      stand the elite watchmen, Phoenix, ruthless Ulysses
      guarding all their loot. All the treasures of Troy
      hauled from the burning shrines-the sacramental tables,
      bowls of solid gold and the holy robes they'd seized
      from every quarter-Greeks, piling high the plunder.                            950

      Children and trembling mothers rounded up
      in a long, endless line.
                                    "Why, I even dared fling
      my voice through the dark, my shouts filled the streets
      as time and again, overcome with grief I called out
      ' C reusa ! ' Nothing, no reply, and again 'Creusa ! '
      B ut then as I madly rushed from house to house,
      no end in sight, abruptly, right before my eyes
      I saw her stricken ghost, my own Creusa's shade .
      B ut larger than life, the life I'd known so well .
      I froze . My hackles bristled, voice choked in my throat,                      960

      and my wife spoke out to ease me of my anguish:
      'My dear husband, why so eager to give yourself
      to such mad flights of grief? It's not without
      the will of the gods these things have come to pass.
      B ut the gods forbid you to take Creusa with you,


      1 02    VIRGIL: THE AENEID                                   /779-804]


      bound from Troy together. The king of lofty Olympus
      won't allow it. A long exile is your fate . . .
      the vast plains of the sea are yours to plow
      until you reach Hesperian land, where Lydian Tiber
      flows with its smooth march through rich and loamy fields,        970

      a land of hardy people . There great j oy and a kingdom
      are yours to claim, and a queen to make your wife .
      Dispel your tears for Creusa whom you loved.
      I will never behold the high and mighty pride
      of their palaces, the Myrmidons, the D olopians,
      or go as a slave to some Greek matron, no, not I,
      daughter of Dardanus that I am, the wife of Venus' son.
      The Great Mother of Gods detains me on these shores.
      And now farewell. Hold dear the son we share,
Q24   we love together. '
                            "These were her parting words               980

      and for all my tears-I longed to say so much­
      dissolving into the empty air she left me now.
      Three times I tried to fling my arms around her neck,
      three times I embraced-nothing . . . her phantom
      sifting through my fingers,
      light as wind, quick as a dream in flight.
                                                        " Gone-
      and at last the night was over. Back I went to my people
      and I was amazed to see what throngs of new companions
      had poured in to swell our numbers, mothers, men,
      our forces gathered for exile, grieving masses .                  990

      They had come together from every quarter,
      belongings, spirits ready for me to lead them
      over the sea to whatever lands I'd choose .
      And now the morning star was mounting above
      the high crests of Ida, leading on the day.
      The Greeks had taken the city, blocked off every gate .
      No hope of rescue now. So I gave way at last and
      lifting my father, headed toward the mountains . "


                                                            B O O K   T W O




     The Final Hours
     of Troy

     S nence . All fell hushed, their eyes fixed on Aeneas now
     as the founder of his people, high on a seat of honor,
     set out on his story: " Sorrow, unspeakable sorrow,
Q1   my queen, you ask me to bring to life once more,
     how the Greeks uprooted Troy