And now the expected day was come; the steeds of Phaethon[186] were ushering in the goddess of the ninth dawn through a heaven of clear light; the rumoured spectacle 15 and the great name of Acestes had brought the neighbouring people from their homes; the holiday crowd was flooding the shore, to gaze on the family of Æneas, and some, too, ready to dispute the prizes. First, in sight of all, the gifts are bestowed in the midst of the ring—hallowed 20 tripods and verdant chaplets, and palms, the conquerors’ special guerdon—armour and raiment of purple dye—a talent’s[187] weight of silver and gold; and from a mound in the centre the shrill trumpet proclaims the sports begun. The first contest, waged with labouring 25 oars, is entered by four ships, the flower of the entire fleet. There is Mnestheus, with his fiery crew, speeding along the swift Shark—Mnestheus, hereafter a prince of Italy, who gives his name to the Memmian line; there is Gyas with his monster Chimæra, that monster mass[D] 30 which three tiers of stout Dardans are pulling on, the oars rising in a triple bank; Sergestus, from whom the Sergian house gains the name it keeps, sails in the mighty Centaur; and in the sea-green Scylla Cloanthus, your great forefather, Cluentius of Rome. 35 At a distance in the sea is a rock, over against the spray-washed shore—sometimes covered by the swelling waves that beat on it, when the wintry north winds hide the stars from view—in a calm it rests in peace, and rises over the unruffled waters, a broad table-land, a welcome basking-ground 5 for the sea-bird. Here Æneas set up a green stem of leafy oak with his own royal hand—a sign for the sailors, that they might know whence to begin their return, and where to double round their long voyage. Then they choose their places by lot: there are the captains on the sterns, 10 a glorious sight, gleaming far with gold and purple; the crews are crowned with thick poplar leaves, and their bare shoulders shine with the oil that has rubbed them. They seat them on the benches, every arm is strained on the oar—straining they expect the signal, and their beating 15 hearts are drained at each stroke by panting fear and high-strung ambition. Then, when the shrill trumpet has uttered its voice, all in a moment dart forward from their bounds, the seaman’s shout pierces the sky; the upturned seas foam as the arm is drawn back to the chest. With 20 measured strokes they plough their furrows; the water is one yawning chasm, rent asunder by the oar and the pointed beak. Not such the headlong speed when in two-horse race the chariots dash into the plain and pour along from their floodgates, or when the drivers shake the streaming 25