The mail with grazing wound, but Phegeus managed To keep the shield before him and for safety Tried to keep coming forward--the drawn sword Would be the best protection, but the axle Caught him, the wheels went over him, and Turnus Swept by and the scythe of Turnus’ sword cut through him Between the shield and helmet, and the body Lay headless on the sand. While Turnus, winning, Slaughtered across the field of war, Achates, With Mnestheus at his side, and young Iulus, Brought back Aeneas to camp, bleeding and limping, Using the spear as crutch, struggling, in anger, To pull the barb from the wound; the shaft had broken. The thing to do, he tells them over and over, The quickest way would be to cut around it, Let the sword do the probing, find the spear-point No matter how deep it tries to hide, expose it, Get it out of there, and send him back to battle. And Iapyx came to help, the son of Iasus, Dearest beyond all others to Apollo Who once had offered him his arts, his powers, His augury, his lyre, the lore of arrows, But Iapyx made another choice; his father, It seemed, was dying, and he chose to save him Through what Apollo had the power to offer, Knowledge of simples and the arts of healing, And so he chose the silent craft, inglorious. So there was Iapyx, trying to be helpful, Aeneas, leaning on his spear, and cursing, Indifferent to Iulus’ tears, and others Standing around, and anxious. The old doctor Tucked up his robe, compounded potent herbs, Applied them, fussed around, all to no purpose; Tried to extract the dart by hand, and then by forceps,-- No luck at all: Apollo does not guide him, And more and more across the plains the horror Thickens, and evil nears. They see the sky Standing on dust; horsemen come on, and arrows Are falling thick, and a mournful din arises As fighting men go down, with Mars relentless.