5—
Characters
Homer's heroes do not really differ very much from each other on the battlefield;
they have no special traits of character. One may be stronger or more skilful or
quicker or braver than another: all these are attributes that affect the outcome of the
battle; it is exceptional for Homer to think of presenting a warrior as a human being
with his own individual character. But this was precisely what Virgil regarded as
important: even on the battlefield it is the purely human element that concerns him
most of all. Much that is relevant here has already been discussed: let us recapitu-
late. Aeneas is the ideal Roman man and Roman fighter: he is quick to acknowledge
magnanimity in an enemy (10.825), he can feel clementia (12.940) [clemency] even
towards his most bitter foe, he is a model of Roman virtus [manly valour] (and, in
true Roman fashion, prides himself on this, 12.435) and of moderatio [avoidance of
excess] (above p. 165), of fides (12.311) [honouring of solemn agreement] and of
iustitia (11.126) [justice], of pietas [dutifulness] towards the gods, and towards
Pallas, whose father has entrusted him to him, and who is his ally and his guest-
friend (10.516). It is only when he has to avenge the death of Pallas that the depth of
his sorrow makes him harsh, even scornful, towards his victims;[44] the thought of him
211 stifles any idea of mercy, and in the fury of his grief he kills Turnus despite all his
pleas. To have shown mercy on this occasion would have been a cowardly failure to
do what duty demanded.
His opponent Turnus[45] is his equal in strength and courage; but Aeneas has vis
temperata [controlled strength] while Turnus has vis consili expers [strength unac-
companied by judgement]; the gods deprive him of their support, although he, too,
piously respects them (9.24; 12.778). Above all, he is not fighting on behalf of his
people and their future, as Aeneas is, but is justifiably reproached for fighting to
defend his own personal claims, and it is immoral to provoke a war for reasons of
that kind.[46] It was Allecto who drove him to war: possessed by the Fury, he has lost
that clarity of vision and that self-control, without which boldness becomes mad-
ness; this works to the advantage of the Trojans, as we can see most clearly when he
is besieged in his camp and is so crazed with his rage to kill that it does not occur to
him to open the gate for his own men (9.760). He is animated by a lively sense of
honour (10.681; 12.645, 670), but this too expresses itself as an unhealthy type of
extravagance. The plain words spoken by the self-assured Aeneas contrast with
Turnus' loud boasts about his own strength and heroism (9.148; 11.393, 441;
12.360). He, too, respects the courage of the warrior he has slain (10.493); but he
does not possess the moderatio [self-control] to refrain from decorating himself with
spoils, and his elation in victory turns to crude barbarity when he cuts off the heads
of the men he has slain and decorates his chariot with them while they are still
dripping with blood (12.512). He does not stop to think before charging after Aeneas
(10.645), and declares himself ready for a duel as soon as he is challenged (11.434);
then, when he is taken at his word, he does not go back on it, in spite of the urgent
212 pleas of Latinus and Amata. However, it is not with calm resolve, but in a mood of
savage violence ( violentia [12.9], furiae [101] [madness]), that he prepares for the
fight, and it is a finely observed touch that immediately after this burst of feverish
excitement his courage ebbs away when he faces the decisive conflict (220).[47] The
danger is scarcely over when his rage for battle flares up again (325), but, not
altogether unwillingly and not altogether unconsciously, he allows his divine sister
to draw him away from Aeneas, until his former sense of honour slowly reawakens,
and he realizes that it is his duty to avenge his own people's suffering; this, together
with Saces' urgent appeal (653ff.), finally forces him to confront Aeneas: but now
his passions are running twice as high ( amens [622, 742] [crazed], amens formidine
[776] [crazed with fear], mixto insania luctu et furiis agitatus amor [667] [madness
and misery blending, love tormented by passion for revenge], hunc sine me furere
ante furorem [680] ['First, let me do this one mad deed before I die']) – and his fate
is sealed. As his enemy is already poising the fatal spear, Turnus snatches up a huge
rock, an ancient boundary stone, to fling at his opponent – Virgil here makes very
effective use of the Homeric contrast between the strength of his heroes, and
[those of his own generation], and even increases it – but it is too
heavy, his knees give way as he tries to run, and the blood freezes in his veins – and
the stone falls short of its target. A striking symbol of Turnus' fate: he has set
himself a task which was too great for him, despite his enormous strength. He had
not been able to go calmly to meet his enemy in the final duel; neither can he face
death with a steady mind now. He does not sink so low as to beg for his life ( nec
deprecor [931] [I make no appeal]), but his last words express a fervent desire to
live, and to save his skin he is even prepared to give up his claim to Lavinia (936):
Virgil implies that anyone capable of that, has never been worthy either of her or of
the throne.[48]
213 The figure of Mezentius stands in sharp contrast to Turnus. According to the
tradition, he was contemptor divom (7.648) [scorner of gods]: he is said to have
demanded from the Rutulians the first-fruits which were usually dedicated to the
gods; this led the Latins to pray to Jupiter to grant them victory if he wanted the
first-fruits for himself, as hitherto, instead of letting Mezentius have them.[49] The
tradition also said that Mezentius' son Lausus fell in battle, and that this was the
essential reason that led the king to urge that peace should be made. Virgil was not
able to make use of the traditional example of the Etruscan king's godlessness –
because there was no occasion for Mezentius to make such a demand in the scheme
of his poem – but he adapts the motif skilfully to his own ends. Traditionally,
Mezentius demanded that the honours due to the gods be paid to himself. In Virgil
(10.773) his only gods are his strong right arm and the weapon it bears.[50] It is to
these that he addresses his prayers: he wants to adorn his son with the armour of his
dead enemy and thus erect as it were a tropaeum [trophy] to himself, which the
pious Aeneas eventually dedicates to the gods instead (see above p. 165); other
blasphemous utterances also characterize him as contemptor divom [scorner of
gods].[51] However, in his account of the Lausus incident, Virgil portrays a particu-
larly close relationship between father and son, and it was easy to develop this
relationship so that Mezentius' love for his son becomes the only vulnerable spot in
an otherwise granite character, and also to represent this love as reciprocal, and to
214 transform Lausus' death in battle into a voluntary self-sacrifice undertaken for the
sake of his father. So as to increase our pity for Lausus, the poet portrays him as a
shining, heroic figure, and thus he stands in sharp contrast to his father (7.654).
Moreover, Virgil, who had decided to introduce the Etruscans as Aeneas' allies (see
p. 146 above), had to present them as independent of Mezentius: he achieves this by
inventing the story that he is a cruel tyrant who has been expelled by his subjects
because of all his brutal acts. Virgil attributes to him stories which Aristotle, and
Cicero after him, had told about the cruel behaviour of Etruscan pirates (8.485).
Virgil further exploits the split between Mezentius and his own people by using it as
the third motif in the combats in which he takes part: they begin with the tyrant
being attacked in hate and fury by his own subjects (10.691f.) – this gives new life
to the Homeric simile of the boar encircled by huntsmen; they culminate in Mezen-
tius' cry of misery when he realises that Lausus' death is the punishment for his own
actions and for the first time regrets them because they have brought shame and
destruction upon his son (851); and they end when he is defeated and begs that his
body should be protected from the wrath of his own people (903ff.): here too we
have a characteristically Virgilian contrast with Hector's plea that his body should
be returned to his own people. It may perhaps seem surprising that Virgil has
refrained from illustrating Mezentius' cruelty by making him perform some atrocity
during the battle – that would have been easy for him, but effects of this kind were
alien to his artistic ideals, which completely rejected 
[repulsive beha-
viour]; it makes a difference whether the poet puts accounts of such behaviour in the
mouth of, for example, Evander or Achaemenides, or narrates it himself, thus setting
it directly before the reader's eyes. Nevertheless, it is no mere accident that Mezen-
tius plants his foot on his fallen foe while he is still alive, leaning on the spear which
has pierced the dying man (10.736); and certainly, although the plot does not
demand that Mezentius should order his men in the midst of the battle to raise the
paean that the Achaeans sang when they returned to camp after the death of Hector,
the picture of the triumphal song reaching the ear of the dying man has a powerful
emotional effect (10.738). Similarly, there is a deliberate contrast between Aeneas,
who does not take Lausus' weapons as spoil, and Mezentius, who threatens to ride
215 away from the battlefield with Aeneas' severed head on display among the bloody
spoils on his horse (862). Furthermore, Virgil has carefully contrasted what we
might call the nervous courage of the youthful Turnus with the unshakeable iron
calm of this giant with his grey hair and his long beard, who withstands attacks from
every side like a rock which remains steadfast amidst the storms that rage around it
(693), who has no fear even of Aeneas and prepares to confront him et mole sua stat
(771) [solid in his own great bulk], and who can be thrown off balance only by the
death of his beloved son. And whereas Turnus at the moment of his death is afraid
of dying and is prepared to concede defeat in exchange for his life, Mezentius
himself calls on his enemy to strike the fatal blow: life is not worth living if he is
vanquished, and even his battle-steed would scorn to submit to a Trojan master
(865).
Camilla, the maiden who rejoices in battle, swift of foot, tireless, resolute, with a
pride that is easily inflamed (11.686, 709) and an innocence in the face of cunning,
fearless and conscious of her duty even at the moment of her death (825), makes a
stronger impression on our imagination than perhaps any other character in Virgil.[52]
The clearest indication of her irresistible strength is that her enemies do not dare to
confront her face to face in open battle: one tries to escape from her by a ruse,
another kills her by throwing his javelin at her from the safety of a hidden position
and does not even dare to go near her after he has wounded her. But for all her
heroism she remains a woman, and feminine weakness brings her death:[53] coveting
the gleaming armour of Chloreus she forgets everything else and so falls victim to
216 Arruns, who has been lying in wait for her after trying in vain for so long to find a
weak spot: she is so completely intent on acquiring the dazzling prize that she is the
only one who does not see and hear the fatal javelin hurtling towards her; her
faithful Volscians see disaster approaching but cannot prevent it, and she sinks to
the ground before her women can catch her in their arms.
The counterpart of Aeneas, the ideal of the mature warrior, is Pallas the ideal
youth. We see his achievements; we see how by word and example he makes his
wavering troops stand firm; we recognize in the words that he utters his sense of
honour (10.371) and his habitual piety (421ff., 460f.) which relies on supernatural
help; at one and the same time we admire and deplore the youthful boldness of spirit
which leads him to accept Turnus' challenge, though Turnus is a warrior of over-
whelming strength, and he knows very well how much weaker he is (459, cf.
11.153, 174). For him the highest good is not life but victory and a glorious death
(450); he himself says so, Jupiter comforts the sorrowful Hercules with the same
idea (467ff.), and the same thought is enough to make his grief-stricken father pull
himself together (11.166ff.); better to die in victory than to live on in shame: it is
this conviction that assuages Aeneas' pity for Pallas' father (55). Pallas, sent out to
battle from the future site of Rome, is the first great sacrifice made on Italian soil in
the sacred name of Rome; he was fighting not only against the ancient enemies of
his native city (8.474, 569), but also for the sake of its glorious future (11.168). His
lifeless body is brought back to his father, dolor atque decus magnum (10.507) [a
source of bitter pain and of high pride] as the poet puts it with the brevity of a
graven epitaph; times without number Rome's sons will fall in battle, and she will
look on them with the same bitter pride. The lamentations which now rise up around
the body of Pallas are lamentations for the generations to come; so too is the solemn
pomp of his funeral; anyone who is not aware of this is welcome to make cheap
criticisms of the poet for his sentimentality.
Pathos of a very different kind is evoked by the story of Nisus and Euryalus. Here
again it is instructive to compare it with its source, the Doloneia (Book 10 of the
217 Iliad ). It is quite clear that both the broad outline and the details[54] are derived from
Homer; but it is equally clear that Virgil always tends to reshape his material into
something new. Instead of a long and tedious exposition – Homer takes 200 lines to
bring his commanders together for a consultation – Virgil concentrates on the main
characters:[55] the narrative begins with them and remains with them, while the coun-
cil of the Trojan leaders, to which they wish to gain admittance, is described in a few
lines only (9.224-30). Whereas in Homer we have an epic narrative that unfolds in
one steady sweep, in Virgil we find lively pathos, dramatic movement, a peripateia
[reversal of fortune] at the peak of success, an increase in tension leading to the final
revenge and death of Nisus. But the greatest contrast is between Homer's portrayal
of the deed performed by two bold and cautious heroes, where the reader is charmed
by the deed itself and its success, and Virgil's emphasis on the psychological
development to which the outward events are a mere accompaniment. It is in Nisus'
ambitious and adventurous spirit that the plan for the enterprise is born (186, 194);
Euryalus agrees with it (205f.) and his determination overcomes his friend's reserva-
tions. But it is precisely this ambition, which is the driving force for their bold
enterprise, that leads to their downfall. Even before they set out, they are already
intending not simply to perform their mission but also to return cum spoliis ingenti
caede peracta (242) [with spoils, after wreaking a havoc of slaughter]; they have
chosen a route which will bring them safely through the enemy's lines, but they give
way to the temptation to turn the enemy camp, where all are asleep, into a blood-
218 bath.[56] The bold deed is successful: Nisus is intelligent enough to restrain Euryalus'
childish lack of foresight (354), but not intelligent enough to deny him the pleasure
of adorning himself with booty from the men he has killed. As a result, he escapes
the enemy cavalry himself, but Euryalus pays the price of his hybris : the shining
helmet betrays him, the weapons he has looted weigh him down (384), and he falls
into enemy hands. When Nisus loses him and then sees that he has been captured by
the Volscian cavalry, his only thought is his desire to rescue his friend; he tries to
give him an opportunity to escape by throwing his spears to create a diversion, but
this is unsuccessful; when he sees his friend in mortal danger, he loses his head: he
throws himself forward amens (424) [madly] and begs them to kill him and spare his
friend. In vain: he can only avenge his friend's death and then, mortally wounded,
219 cast himself onto his body. Thus they both meet their deaths not because of external
circumstances, or because of their hatred of the gods, but because of their own
passions: sua cuique deus fit dira cupido? (185) [or do we all attribute to a god what
is really an overmastering impulse of our own?], as Nisus himself had said with
unconscious prescience. Their mistake[57] was that they both allowed themselves to be
carried away and gave precedence to other passions over their immediate duty; but
this mistake arose from noble impulses, and they paid for it with their lives. Who
will find fault with Virgil because he does not add a narrow-minded moralizing
epilogue, 
[so perish any other man who shall do such a
deed], but gives full rein to sorrow and admiration?