#10 Death of Lausus/Mezentius

Episode #10:  The Death of the Italians Lausus & his Father Mezentius

Vergil Aeneid Book 10 (lines 762-908)

[summarized in ‘Search for a Homeland’ pp. 97-98]

And now Mezentius shaking his mighty spear,

advanced like a whirlwind over the field. Great as Orion,

when he strides through Ocean’s deepest chasms, forging a way,

his shoulders towering above the waves, or carrying

an ancient ash tree down from the mountain heights,

walking the earth, with his head hidden in the clouds,

so Mezentius advanced in his giant’s armor.

Aeneas, opposite, catching sight of him in the far ranks

prepared to go and meet him.

Mezentius stood there unafraid,

waiting for his great-hearted enemy, firm in his great bulk:

and measuring with his eye what distance would suit his spear,

saying: ‘Now let this right hand that is my god, and the weapon

I level to throw, aid me! I vow that you yourself, Lausus, as token

of my victory over Aeneas, shall be dressed in the spoils stripped

from that robber’s corpse.’ He spoke, and threw the hissing spear

from far out. But, flying on, it glanced from the shield,

and pierced the handsome Antores, nearby, between flank

and thigh, Antores, friend of Hercules, sent from Argos

who had joined Evander, and settled in an Italian city.

Unhappy man, he fell to a wound meant for another,

and dying, gazing at the sky, remembered sweet Argos.

Then virtuous Aeneas hurled a spear: it passed through

Mezentius’ curved shield of triple-bronze, through linen,

and the interwoven layers of three bull’s hides, and lodged

deep in the groin, but failed to drive home with force.

Aeneas, joyful at the sight of the Tuscan blood,

snatched the sword from his side, and pressed

his shaken enemy hotly. Lausus, seeing it, groaned heavily

for love of his father Mezentius, and tears rolled down his cheeks –

(and here I’ll not be silent, for my part, about your harsh death,

through fate, nor, if future ages place belief in such deeds, your actions,

so glorious, nor you yourself, youth, worthy of remembrance) –

Mezentius was retreating, yielding ground, helpless,

hampered, dragging the enemy lance along with his shield.

The youth ran forward, and plunged into the fray,

and, just as Aeneas’s right hand lifted to strike a blow,

he snatched at the sword-point, and checked him in delay:

his friends followed with great clamor, and, with a shower

of spears, forced the enemy to keep his distance till the father Mezentius

could withdraw, protected by his son Lausus’ shield.

Aeneas raged, but kept himself under cover,

and rebuked Lausus, and threatened Lausus, saying:

‘Why are you rushing to death, with courage beyond your strength?

Your loyalty is leading you into foolishness.’ Nevertheless

the youth raged madly, and now fierce anger rose higher

in the Trojan leader’s heart, and the Fates gathered together

the last threads of Lausus’ life. For Aeneas drove his sword

firmly through the youth’s body, and buried it to the hilt:

the point passed through his shield, too light for his threats,

and the tunic of soft gold thread his mother had woven,

blood filled its folds: then life left the body and fled,

sorrowing, through the air to the spirits below.

And when Anchises’ son Aeneas saw the look on his dying face,

Lausus’ face pale with the wonderment of its ending,

he groaned deeply with pity and stretched out his hand,

as that reflection of his own love for his father touched

his heart. ‘Unhappy child, what can loyal Aeneas grant

to such a nature, worthy of these glorious deeds of yours?

Keep the weapons you delighted in: and if it is something you are

anxious about, I return you to the shades and ashes of your ancestors.

This too should solace you, unhappy one, for your sad death:

you died at the hands of great Aeneas.’ Also he rebuked

Lausus’ comrades, and lifted their leader from the earth,

where he was soiling his well-ordered hair with blood.

Meanwhile the father, Mezentius, staunched his wounds

by the waters of Tiber’s river, and rested his body

by leaning against a tree trunk. His bronze helmet hung

on a nearby branch, and his heavy armor lay peacefully on the grass.

The pick of his warriors stood around: he himself, weak and panting

eased his neck, his flowing beard streaming over his chest.

Many a time he asked for Lausus, and many times sent men

to carry him a sorrowing father’s orders and recall him.

But his weeping comrades were already carrying the dead Lausus,

on his armor, a great man conquered by a mighty wound.

Mezentius darkened his white hair with dust, and lifted

both hands to heaven, clinging to the body:

‘My son, did such delight in living possess me,

that I let you face the enemy force in my place,

you whom I fathered? Is this father of yours alive

through your death, saved by your wounds? Ah, now at last

my exile is wretchedly driven home: and my wound, deeply!

My son, I have also tarnished your name by my crime,

driven in hatred from my fathers’ throne and scepter.

I have long owed reparation to my country and my people’s hatred:

I should have yielded my guilty soul to death in any form!

Now I live: I do not leave humankind yet, or the light,

but I will leave.’

So saying Mezentius raised himself weakly on his thigh,

and, despite all, ordered his horse to be brought, though his strength

ebbed from the deep wound. His horse was his pride,

and it was his solace, on it he had ridden victorious from every battle.

He spoke to the sorrowful creature, in these words:

‘O, my horse Rhaebus, we have lived long, if anything lasts long

for mortal beings. Today you will either carry the head of Aeneas

and his blood-stained spoils, in victory, and avenge Lausus’ pain

with me, or die with me, if no power opens that road to us:

I don’t think that you, the bravest of creatures, will deign

to suffer a stranger’s orders or a Trojan master.’

He spoke, then, mounting, disposed his limbs as usual,

and weighted each hand with a sharp javelin,

his head gleaming with bronze, bristling with its horsehair crest.

So he launched himself quickly into the fray. In that one heart

a vast flood of shame and madness merged with grief.

And now he called to Aeneas in a great voice.

Aeneas knew him and offered up a joyous prayer:

‘So let the father of the gods himself decree it, so

noble Apollo! You then begin the conflict….’

He spoke those words and moved against him with level spear.

But Mezentius replied: ‘How can you frighten me, most savage

of men, me, bereft of my son? That was the only way you could

destroy me: I do not shrink from death, or halt for any god.

Cease, since I come here to die, and bring you, first,

these gifts.’ He spoke, and hurled a spear at his enemy Aeneas:

then landed another and yet another, wheeling

in a wide circle, but the golden shield withstood them.

He rode three times round his careful enemy, swiftly,

throwing spears from his hand: three times the Trojan hero

dragged round the huge thicket of spears fixed in his bronze shield.

Then, tired of all that drawn-out delay, and burdened

by the unequal conflict, Aeneas thought hard, and finally broke free,

hurling his spear straight between the war horse’s curved temples.

The horse Rhaebus reared, and lashed the air with its hooves,

and throwing its rider, followed him down, from above,

entangling him, collapsing headlong onto him, its shoulder thrown.

Trojans and Latins ignited the heavens with their shouts.

Aeneas ran to him, plucking his sword from its sheath

and standing over him, cried: ‘Where is fierce Mezentius, now,

and the savage force of that spirit?’ Mezentius replied, lifting

his eyes to the sky, gulping the air, organizing his thoughts:

‘Bitter enemy, why taunt, or threaten me in death?

There is no sin in killing: I did not come to fight believing so,

nor did my Lausus agree any treaty between you and me.

I only ask, I beg you, let me share a tomb with my son.’

So he spoke and, in full awareness, received the sword in his throat,

and poured out his life, over his armor, in a wave of blood.