Aeneid Book 7 — War in Latium

Come now, Erato, and I’ll tell of the kings, the times, the state of ancient Latium, when that foreign troop first landed on Ausonia’s shores, and I’ll recall the first fighting from its very beginning.

You goddess, you must prompt your poet.

I’ll tell of brutal war, I’ll tell of battle action, and princes driven to death by their courage, of Trojan armies, and all of Hesperia forced to take up arms. A greater order of things is being born, greater is the work that I attempt.

King Latinus, now old in years, ruled fields and towns, in the tranquillity of lasting peace.

We hear he was the child of Faunus and the Laurentine nymph, Marica.

Faunus’s father was Pictus, and he boasts you, Saturn, as his, you the first founder of the line. By divine decree, Latinus had no male heir, his son having been snatched from him in the dawn of first youth.

There was only a daughter to keep house in so noble a palace, now ready for a husband, now old enough to be a bride.

Many sought her hand, from wide Latium and all Ausonia, Turnus above all, the most handsome, of powerful ancestry, whom the queen hastened to link to her as her son-in-law with wonderful affection.

But divine omens, with their many terrors, prevented it. There was a laurel, with sacred leaves, in the high inner court in the middle of the palace, that had been guarded with reverence for many years.

It was said that Lord Latinus himself had discovered it, when he first built his fortress, and dedicated it to Apollo, and from it had named the settlers Laurentines.

A dense cloud of bees (marvellous to tell) borne through the clear air, with a mighty humming, settled in the very top of the tree, and hung there, their feet all tangled together, in a sudden swarm.

Immediately the prophet cried: ‘I see a foreign hero, approaching, and, from a like direction, an army seeks this same place, to rule from the high citadel.’ Then as he lit the altars with fresh pine torches, as virgin Lavinia stood there next to her father she seemed (horror!) to catch the fire in her long tresses, and all her finery to burn in crackling flame, her royally dressed tresses set alight, her crown alight, remarkable for its jewels: then wreathed in smoke and yellow light, she seemed to scatter sparks through all the palace. Truly it was talked of as a shocking and miraculous sight: for they foretold she would be bright with fame and fortune, but it signified a great war for her people.

Then the king, troubled by the wonder, visited the oracle of Faunus, his far-speaking father, and consulted the groves below high Albunea, mightiest of forests, that echoed with the sacred fountain, and breathed a deadly vapour from the dark.

The people of Italy, and all the Oenotrian lands, sought answers to their doubts, from that place: when the priest brought offerings there, and, found sleep, in the silent night, lying on spread fleeces of sacrificed sheep, he saw there many ghosts flitting in marvellous forms, and heard various voices, had speech with the gods, and talked with Acheron, in the depths of Avernus. And here the king, Latinus, himself seeking an answer, slaughtered a hundred woolly sheep according to the rite, and lay there supported by their skins and woolly fleeces: Suddenly a voice emerged from the deep wood: ‘O my son, don’t try to ally your daughter in a Latin marriage, don’t place your faith in the intended wedding: strangers will come to be your kin, who’ll lift our name to the stars by their blood, and the children of whose race shall see all, where the circling sun views both oceans, turning obediently beneath their feet.’ Latinus failed to keep this reply of his Father’s quiet, this warning given in the silent night, and already Rumour flying far and wide had carried it through the Ausonian cities, when the children of Laomedon came to moor their ships by the river’s grassy banks.

Turnus himself went to and from, among the front ranks, grasping his weapons, pre-eminent in form, overtopping the rest by a head.

His tall helmet was crowned with a triple plume, holding up a Chimaera, breathing the fires of Etna from its jaws, snarling the more, and the more savage with sombre flames the more violent the battle becomes, the more blood is shed.

But on his polished shield was Io, with uplifted horns, fashioned in gold, already covered with hair, already a heifer, a powerful emblem, and Argus, that virgin’s watcher, and old Inachus pouring his river out of an engraved urn.

A cloud of infantry followed, and the ranks with shields were thick along the plain, Argive men and Auruncan troops, Rutulians and old Sicanians, and the Sacranian lines, and Labicians, their shields painted: and those who farmed your woodland pastures, Tiber, and Numicius’s holy shore, and those whose ploughshare turns Rutulian hills or Circe’s headland, those whose fields Jupiter of Anxur guards, or Feronia, pleased with her green groves: those from where Satura’s black marsh lies, and from where chill Ufens finds his valley’s course, and is buried in the sea.

Besides all these came Camilla, of the Volscian race, leading her line of horse, and troops gleaming with bronze, a warrior girl, her hands not trained to Minerva’s distaff, and basket of wool, but toughened to endure a fight, and, with her quickness of foot, out-strip the winds.

She might have skimmed the tips of the stalks of uncut corn, and not bruised their delicate ears with her running: or, hanging above the swelling waves, taken her path through the heart of the deep, and not dipped her quick feet in the sea.

All of the young men flooding from houses and fields, and the crowds of women marvelled, and gazed, at her as she went by, in open-mouthed wonder at how the splendour of royal purple draped her smooth shoulders, how her brooch clasped her hair with gold, how she herself carried her Lycian quiver, and a shepherd’s myrtle staff, tipped with the point of a spear.

End of Book VII Previous Next Support Us $ € £ FOLLOW US: 𝕏 SHARE WITH: 𝕏 We use cookies for social media and essential site functions.

Learn more Accept Manage Cookies This website is operated and maintained by Poetry in Translation Ltd, a company registered in England & Wales with Company No. 16235918.

We use cookies for essential site functions and for social media integration.

You may accept or manage cookie usage at any time.

Usage of the Poetry in Translation website constitutes acceptance of our Privacy Policy . © Copyright 2000-2026 A.

S.

S.

S.

S.

S.

S.