Aeneas of Troy, in Homer’s Iliad, survives the Trojan War that kills most of his fellow-countrymen. A warrior of notable skill and bravery, he is nonetheless just about to be killed by Achilles when, in Book 20 of the Iliad, the sea-god Poseidon “poured a mist across Achilles’ eyes…and hoisting Aeneas off the earth he slung him far…” At that point, Aeneas simply disappears from the poem – and in the formulation of the Roman poet Virgil, Aeneas’ disappearance can be explained in terms of his being destined to lead a band of fellow Trojan survivors in founding a new and greater Troy, in the form of mighty Rome.
Virgil (70-19 B.C.) stands alone among the poets of classical Rome, like Homer among the Greeks. No other classical writer composing in Latin is thought to share Virgil’s gift for wielding the language in such a way as to produce work that is both forceful and graceful. His talent for poetry was recognized, and encouraged, from his youth. At the same time – perhaps unavoidably, considering the times in which he was living – Virgil was caught up in the turbulence of Roman politics as Rome careened through one crisis after another, on its way from republic to empire.
He is said to have been born near present-day Mantua, in northern Italy – a region where Octavian, after his defeat of Brutus and Cassius at Philippi in 42 B.C., rewarded his soldiers with land that he took from local landowners. One of those landowners may have been the then-28-year-old Virgil, and some scholars have seen Virgil’s Eclogues as containing pointed references to Octavian’s act of land theft.
Yet even if Virgil resented what Octavian did in northern Italy, he must have known which side his puls (or focaccia) was buttered on. Within five years, he was part of the retinue of Maecenas, a trusted advisor to Octavian and patron of poets. Maecenas encouraged Virgil to compose the Georgics. This poetic cycle further enhanced Virgil’s reputation for poetry, and Virgil and Maecenas are said to have read the Georgics to Octavian, after Octavian had returned from defeating Antony and Cleopatra at the Battle of Actium in 31 B.C.
It must be nice – it must be nice – to have a future emperor on your side. The poet Propertius tells us that Octavian, once he had officially become the first Emperor of Rome as Augustus Caesar, commissioned the composition of the Aeneid by Virgil, so that the poet could spend the last decade of his life working on the epic poem that would forever be considered his masterpiece. Reading the Aeneid, one gets the sense of how Virgil is building upon the Homeric tradition – and, in some ways, changing it by incorporating a contemporary political inflection that no doubt pleased his imperial patron.
There are many great translations of the Aeneid. I favour the Penguin Classics deluxe-edition translation by Robert Fagles. A classics professor at Princeton University, Fagles had a gift for rendering the Greek of Homer and the Latin of Virgil into muscular, evocative English, in a Shakespearean-sounding blank-verse iambic pentameter that captures the musicality of both poets while avoiding both pedantry and excessive informality. His work found a wide and appreciative audience, and deservedly so.
Fagles starts his translation of The Aeneid by writing, “Wars and a man I sing” (p. 71) – not the traditional “Of arms and the man I sing” – and in a way I like Fagles’s version better. The reason is that his translation – “a” rather than “the” – emphasizes Aeneas as a specific individual with a destined historical role, in a way that seems to comport well with Virgil’s historical vision and poetic sensibility. Aeneas, after all, is “an exile driven on by Fate…destined to reach Lavinian shores and Italian soil”, and to face “many losses…in battle…before he could found a city” (p. 71) at what would one day be Rome.
The world of The Aeneid is, like that of The Iliad and The Odyssey, a world where the Olympian gods intervene regularly and forcefully in human affairs. Jupiter himself, the king of the gods, has made clear that it is Aeneas’ ultimate destiny to defeat any enemies he may encounter in Italy, and to found the Roman state:
Aeneas will wage
A long, costly war in Italy, crush defiant tribes
And build high city walls for his people there
And found the rule of law….
On them I set no limits, space or time:
I have granted them power, empire without end….
From that noble blood [of Troy] will arise a Trojan Caesar,
His empire bound by the Ocean, his glory by the stars:
Julius, a name passed down from [Aeneas’ son] Iulus, his great forebear. (pp. 81-82)
Aeneas faces the constant and unyielding opposition of Juno, the queen of the gods, whose hatred for the Trojans did not end with the destruction of Troy; but he enjoys the protection of other Olympian deities, such as Venus (goddess of love, and Aeneas’ mother) and the sea-god Neptune. When Juno persuades the wind-god Aeolus to send wild winds to strike the Trojan ships at sea, threatening the wreck of the entire Trojan expedition to Italy, Neptune goes with his son Triton and the sea-nymph Cymothoë to calm the seas and rescue the Trojans – an event that Virgil recounts via an elaborate simile that emphasizes the Roman “rage for order” and fear of chaos:
Just as, all too often,
Some huge crowd is seized by a vast uprising,
The rabble runs amok, all slaves to passion,
Rocks, firebrands flying. Rage finds them arms
But then, if they chance to see a man among them,
One whose devotion and public service lend him weight,
They stand there, stock-still with their ears alert as
He rules their furor with his words and calms their passion. (pp. 76-78)
Driven to Carthage, the Trojans are granted sanctuary by the Carthaginian queen Dido. Hearing Aeneas’ recounting of the Trojans’ travails during and after the fall of their city, she says, “Schooled in suffering, now I learn to comfort/Those who suffer too” (p. 97). While Virgil depicts Venus as making Dido fall in love with Aeneas by having the love-god Cupid shoot Dido with arrows of love, in accordance with a well-known trope of classical epic, doing so hardly seems necessary. It makes perfect sense that Dido – like Aeneas, an exile who has successfully led her people to safe harbour in a new land – might come to feel passion for someone who is brave and strong like her, and with whom she has so much in common.
In Book Two of the Aeneid, Aeneas provides Dido and the Carthaginian court with a detailed recounting of the fall of Troy, and he emphasizes in the process the treachery of the Greeks in securing victory through the subterfuge of the Trojan Horse. Aeneas tells how Laocoön, priest of Troy, tried to dissuade the Trojans from taking the horse into the city, saying, “Trojans, never trust that horse. Whatever it is,/I fear the Greeks, especially bearing gifts” (p. 105).
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts – another idea from Virgil that one hears spoken throughout the modern world, often by people who have never read Virgil. But the Trojans, as Aeneas reminds us, did not take Laocoön’s advice, because two giant sea-serpents, sent by the gods, swam up onto the land and promptly killed Laocoön and his two sons – a tableau that one can see recreated in a magnificent, and grim, statue preserved today at the Vatican Museum. Always we are reminded that the Olympian gods are perfectly able and willing to intervene in human affairs, in a manner that we mortals might find to be fundamentally unjust.
As Aeneas tells it, he was ready to give his life in Troy’s defence, until his mother Venus intervened and told him to focus on trying to save his wife Creusa, their son Ascanius, and Aeneas’ father Anchises. For good measure, Venus made it clear that there was no more use in Aeneas’ fighting for Troy, a city whose fall had been ordained by the gods: “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” (p. 127). And so Aeneas left Troy, carrying father Anchises on his back, holding the hand of his young son Ascanius. Wife Creusa trailed behind, her ultimate fate an unhappy one.
This part of the Aeneid, with its emphasis on how the gods arrange the love affair of Aeneas and Dido – even using the weather to trap the two together, alone in a cave, at the critical moment – creates a decided sense of sympathy for Dido. There is a desperate quality to Dido’s love for Aeneas:
This was the first day of her death, the first of grief,
The cause of it all. From now on, Dido cares no more
For appearances, nor for her reputation, either.
She no longer thinks to keep the affair a secret –
No, she calls it a marriage,
Using the word to cloak her sense of guilt. (p. 173)
Their love is passionate – and it is should be no surprise that more than a dozen composers have been inspired to bring to the operatic stage the story of Dido and Aeneas. Understandably, Aeneas is in no hurry to leave his Queen of Carthage. It takes a visit from the messenger-god Mercury to Aeneas to induce the prince of Troy to flee from his Carthaginian love interlude and return to the performance of his divinely established duty. Mercury may offer a frankly sexist assessment that “Woman’s a thing/That’s always changing, shifting like the wind” (p. 190), but one gets a sense of how much Virgil sympathizes with Dido.
Aeneas follows the directive of the gods and leaves. Dido curses her departed lover, prophesying eternal enmity between Carthage and Rome – a perfectly correct prophecy that anticipates the three Punic Wars of 246-164 B.C., and the total destruction of Carthage – and then takes her own life.
It soon becomes clear that Aeneas will not be able to complete his quest and fulfill his destiny unless he descends into the underworld, the realm of Pluto and abode of the dead, to receive crucial information from his now-dead father Anchises on how to conduct the rest of his mission. In passages of singular grimness, Virgil sets forth a vivid picture of the underworld, with particular emphasis on the cruel punishments facing those who have sinned against the gods.
These passages from Book 6 of the Aeneid are said to have caused Augustus’ sister Octavia to faint when the poem was read to her. And, centuries later, they inspired the poet Dante Aligheri. In the first two books of his Divine Comedy, Dante the Poet makes Virgil the guide for Dante the Pilgrim through Hell and Purgatory; and anyone who has read the Aeneid will see at once how strongly Virgil’s poem influenced Dante’s vision of Hell in the Inferno.
Like Odysseus in the Odyssey, Aeneas in the Aeneid successfully makes his way through the underworld, and finds his father Anchises, who gives him advice regarding how things are to go, in a way that looks ahead to the Roman Empire and the Roman “destiny” to rule the world:
“But you, Roman, remember, rule with all your power
The peoples of the Earth – these will be your arts:
To put your stamp on the works and ways of peace,
To spare the defeated, break the proud in war.” (p. 266)
Armed with that new knowledge, Aeneas returns to the world of the living, and goes forth to fulfill his destiny. And while Latinus, king of the Latins, is willing to heed the wishes of the gods, forge an alliance with the Trojans, and marry his daughter Lavinia to Aeneas, there are some formidable antagonists still to be faced. Turnus, king of the Rutuli, was the man whom Latinus’ wife Amata wanted to see marry Lavinia, and he is angry at the prospect that both his bride-to-be and his prospective future kingdom are to be taken from him by some Johnny-come-lately from defeated troy. Turnus – “his build magnificent, sword brandished,/Marches among his captains, topping all by a head” (p. 300) – is likely to be a formidable enemy for any warrior. And among the greatest of Turnus’ supporters is the Volscian leader Camilla; “This warrior girl, with her young hands untrained/For Minerva’s spools and baskets filled with wool,/A virgin seasoned to bear the rough work of battle” (p. 301).
Virgil has a gift for interweaving elements of incisive characterization, even in the midst of bloody scenes of battle. One of the pre-eminent villains of The Aeneid is Mezentius, an Etruscan king who is notorious for his cruelty, and who revels in the chance to spill Trojan blood – until his son Lausus bravely and selflessly gives his own life stopping a sword thrust that would have killed Mezentius. The grieving father regrets living on once his son has died: “Was I so seized by the lust for life, my son,/I let you take my place before the enemy’s sword?...I owed a price to my land and people who despise me./If only I’d paid with my own guilty life” (p. 400). Aeneas takes on Mezentius in single combat and defeats him soundly, asking, “Where’s the fierce Mezentius now?/Where’s his murderous fury?” (p. 401). And the despicable Mezentius achieves a measure of dignity in his last moments, asking to be buried next to his beloved son Lausus as “he offers up his throat to the sword” (p. 401).
And thus the Aeneid moves toward a conclusion that may be divinely pre-ordained but nonetheless makes for suspenseful reading. While the political element – the recurrent need for Virgil to throw in a reference or two to what great leaders Julius Caesar and Augustus Caesar are going to be – is jarring, it may also have been inevitable, considering the hyper-politicized nature of a Roman state that had been through so much political turbulence during the century of which Virgil was a part. But a modern reader can look past the politics and enjoy the richness of the poetry.
If you have a friend who enjoys classical literature, then someday you may see on their bookshelf Fagles’ Penguin Classics translations of the Iliad (with a blue cover), the Odyssey (with a red cover), and the Aeneid (with a gold cover). If your friend has bought those editions and read them, then their time and their money were well-spent.