Caeculus, born of Vulcan’s race, and Umbro, From Marsian mountains, rallied the ranks. Aeneas Came storming toward them, hot from wounding Anxur, Who had been boasting loud, hoping that words Would make him more aggressive: there was no limit To promises he made himself, long years, A ripe old age--if so, he would be a cripple, A man with no left hand: Aeneas lopped it Off at the wrist, and the shield’s round circle with it. Tarquitus, son of Dryope and Faunus, Proud in his gleaming arms, stood up against him Briefly; the spear drove through the shield’s huge weight Nailing it to the breastplate; all in vain Tarquitus pleaded, stammering and choking. Aeneas gave his head a shove; the body, Still warm, turned halfway over under his foot. Dying, Tarquitus heard:--“Lie there, and scare me, Terrible warrior! No loving mother Will ever bury your bones, no father build A sepulchre above them. The birds of prey Will take you, or the waters of the flood, And greedy fishes nibble your wounds and mouth them.” Four more were slaughtered, Lucas and Antaeus, Conspicuous in Turnus’ ranks, and Numa, And sun-burnt Camers, son of noble Volcens, Richest in land of all Ausonians, ruler Over Amyclae, the city known for silence. Men say there was a giant once, Aegaeon, Who had a hundred arms, and fifty mouths From each of which came fire, and fifty swords And fifty shields, and rattled them together, Defying Heaven’s thunderbolts and lightning,-- Such was Aeneas now, a victor raging All up and down the field, with one sword only But that one hot and red. He saw Niphaeus Driving his four swift horses, and went toward them With terrible strides and cursing, and they bolted, Shook off the driver, dragged the car, a ruin, Down to the shore of the sea. And then two brothers Bring their white chariot on, Lucagus, Liger, Of whom Lucagus whirls the sword in fighting, And Liger plies the reins; they burn with fury, More than Aeneas can stand: he rushes, monstrous, A giant with a spear. And Liger taunts him:-- “Whoa! This is not Achilles’ car, these fields Not Troy, these horses Diomedes’. You will get it now, the end of life and battle, Here on this ground.” Poor crazy-talking Liger! Aeneas wastes no words; his lance comes flying, And while Lucagus, leaning over the chariot, Makes of his sword a whip, his left foot forward, Setting himself for action, the point comes through The low rim of his shield, drives on, and pierces The groin on the left side. Lucagus topples, Writhes on the ground, and dies; and then Aeneas Has words for him, and bitter ones:--“Lucagus, Your horses have not run away; they are brave, They are no traitors, shying at a shadow. You are the one, it seems, the cheap deserter,