“Mightiest leader of the Teucrians, whom while heaven preserves I shall never own that Troy’s powers are vanquished or her realm overturned, we ourselves have but small means of martial aid to back our great name; on this side we are bounded by the Tuscan river: on that our Rutulian foe beleaguers us, and thunders in arms around our walls. But I have a mighty nation, a host with an imperial heritage, which I am ready to unite with 5 you—a gleam of safety revealed by unexpected chance. It is at the summons of destiny that you bend your steps thither. Not far hence, built of ancient stone, is the inhabited city of Agylla, where of old the Lydian nation, renowned in war, took its seat on Etruscan mountains. 10 This city, after long and prosperous years, was held by king Mezentius, by stress of tyrant rule and the terror of the sword. Why should I recount the despot’s dreadful murders and all his savage crimes? may the gods preserve 15 them in mind, and bring them on his own head and his family’s! Nay, he would even link together the dead and the living, coupling hand with hand and face with face—so inventive is the lust of torture—and in the slime and poison of that sickening embrace would destroy them thus by a lingering dissolution. At last, wearied 20 by oppression, his subjects in arms besiege the frantic monster himself and his palace, slay his retainers, shower firebrands on his roof. He, mid the carnage, escapes to Rutulian territory, and shelters himself under Turnus’ friendly power. So all Etruria has risen in righteous 25 wrath; at once, at the sword’s point, they demand that the king be surrendered to their vengeance. Of these thousands, Æneas, I will make you general. For along the seaboard’s length their ships are swarming and panting for the fray, and calling on the trumpet to sound, 30 while an aged soothsayer is holding them back by his fateful utterance: ‘Chosen warriors of Mæonian land, the power and soul of an ancient nation, whom just resentment launches against the foe and Mezentius inflames with righteous fury, no Italian may take the reins of a race so 35 proud: choose foreigners to lead you.’ At this the Etruscan army settled down on yonder plain, awed by the heavenly warning. Tarchon[o] himself has sent me ambassadors with the royal crown and sceptre, and given to my hands the ensigns of power, bidding me join the camp, and assume the Tyrrhene throne. But age, with its enfeebling chill and the exhaustion of its long term of years, grudges me the honour of command; my day of martial 5 prowess is past. Fain would I encourage my son to the task, but that the blood of a Sabine mother blending with mine makes his race half Italian. You, in years and in race alike the object of Fate’s indulgence—you, the