Near them, Aventinus Paraded over the field his horses, victors In many a fight, his chariots, crowned with palm-leaves. His shield portrayed a hundred snakes, and the Hydra, Serpent-surrounded, a token of his father, For this was Hercules’ son, whose manly beauty Was like his father’s. His mother was a priestess, Rhea, whom Hercules had known when, victor, He had slain Geryon, reached Laurentian country, And bathed Iberian cattle in the Tiber. His birthplace was the forest on the hillside That men call Aventine; his birth was secret. His men go into battle with pikes and javelins, Fight with the tapering sabre, and a curious Sabellan type of dart. And Aventinus Strode out on foot, the skin of a lion swinging Across his shoulders; the bristling mane was shaggy, And the head rose above it like a helmet, With the white teeth bared and snarling. So he entered The royal halls, and everything about him Gave sign of Hercules. Next came two brothers, Twins from the town of Tibur, named Catillus And Coras; through the throng of spears they entered As Centaurs, born from clouds, come down the mountains, Crashing through wood and thicket in their onrush. There was Caeculus, the founder of Praeneste, A king who, legend says, was born to Vulcan In a country that raised cattle, found, untended, Beside a campfire. His men were country fellows From every here and there, from steep Praeneste, From Juno’s Gabian fields, from the cold river, The Anio, Anagnia, Amasenus, Hernician rocks, and dewy stream and meadow. Some of them had no arms, no shields, no chariots, Their weapons, for the most part, being slingshots And bullets of dull lead, but some of them carried A couple of darts apiece, and for their headgear Wore tawny wolfskins; they kept the left foot bare, They wore a rawhide shinguard on the other. And there was Messapus, a son of Neptune, A tamer of horses, a man whom none in battle Could hurt with fire or sword; his people came To war from years and years of peaceful living, Men from Fescennium, Soracte’s mountains, Flavinian fields, Ciminus’ lake and hillside, Capena’s groves. They sang as they were marching, Hailing their king in measured step and rhythm, Their music like the sound of swans, bound home, White through white cloud, as they return from feeding, And the long throats pour echoing music over Meadow and river. You would not think of warriors, Marshalled in bronze, in that array, but a cloud Of raucous birds, driven from sea to shore.