While all this happened far away, queen Juno Sent Iris down from heaven to bold Turnus. She found him resting in a sacred valley, Pilumnus’ grove, his ancestor; all radiant She spoke to him:--“No god would promise, Turnus, This answer to your prayers, but the turn of time Has put it in your hands. Aeneas has gone, Leaving the town, the fleet, and his companions, Seeking the realm of Palatine Evander, And more than that: he has won some cities over, He calls the Etruscan countrymen to arms. What are you waiting for? Now is the time For chariot and horse. Break off delay, Take the bewildered camp!” She spoke, and rose Skyward on even wings, and under the clouds Cut her great soaring arc. And Turnus knew her, And raised his hands to the sky, and followed her flight:-- “O Iris, pride of heaven, who sent you to me Through clouds to earth? Whence comes this storm of brightness? I see the heavens part, and the stars wheeling Across the sky. I follow these great omens, Whoever calls to arms.” And, with the word, He went to the stream, took water up, prayed often, Making his vows to all the gods of heaven. And now, over all the plain, the army was coming, Rich in caparison, and rich in horses, In gold and broidered robes, Messapus leading, And Turnus in the center, and Tyrrhus’ sons As captains in the rear: they stream as Ganges Streams when his seven quiet tides flood over, Or Nile resents his deep confining channel. The Trojans see the sudden cloud, black dust Thickening over the plain, and darkness rising, And Caicus cries from the rampart:--“What is this, O fellow-citizens, this rolling darkness? Bring the swords quickly, bring weapons, climb the walls, Here comes the enemy, yea! Hurry, hurry!” Trojans, and noise, pour through the gates together. Men fill the walls. For so, on his departure, Aeneas had given orders: if something happened, They should not risk a battle in the open, They should only guard the camp, protect the ramparts. So, much as they would love to mix in battle, Anger and shame give way to prompt obedience. They bar the gates; protected by their towers They wait while the foe comes on. And Turnus, riding Impatient past his dawdling column, is there Before the city knows it. He has twenty Fast riders with him, his mount a piebald Thracian, His helmet gold with crimson crest. He cries, “Who will be first with me? Will anybody Be first with me against them? Let them have it!” And with the word, he lets the javelin fly, First sign of battle; and they cheer and follow And wonder a little at the Trojans, cowards Who dare not fight in the open, man to man, Who hug their walls for comfort. Round and round, Turnus, a wild man, rides, seeking an entrance, But there is no way in. He is like a wolf