But no blind spectator of the scene is sitting throned on high Olympus, even the father of men and gods. The sire urges Tarchon the Tuscan to the ruthless fray, and goads 25 him to wrath by no gentle stings. So among heaps of carnage and yielding bands Tarchon goes riding, and rouses the cavalry with words of diverse purport, calling each by his name, and gives the beaten new strength for battle. “What terror, O ye Tuscan hearts that will not 30 feel, that will still be sluggish, what strange cowardice has come on you? To what end is this steel, these idle weapons our right hands bear? But slow ye are not to hear the call of love, or when the wry-necked fife gives the word for the Bacchic dance: ay, there is your passion, there your 35 delight, till the favouring seer announce the sacrificial feast, and the fat victim invite you to the tall trees of the grove.” So saying, he spurs his steed into the midst, ready for the death he brings to others, and charges in fury on Venulus, snatches the foe from his horse, folds his arms round him, and carries him on his saddle before him with wild and violent speed. Upsoars a shout to heaven, and every Latian eye is turned to the scene. Over the 5 plain like lightning flies Tarchon, bearing the warrior and his arms. Then from the top of the chiefs own spear he breaks off the point, and feels for an unguarded part where to plant the deadly blow: the foe, struggling, keeps off Tarchon’s hand from his throat, and repels force with 10 force. As when the golden eagle soaring on high carries a serpent he has caught, trussing it in his claws, and adhering with his taloned gripe; the wounded reptile writhes its spiral coils, stiffens with erected scales, and hisses from its mouth, surging and swelling; the eagle, undismayed, 15 plies it despite its struggles with his hooked beak, while his pinions beat the air: even thus Tarchon carries his prize in triumph from the bands of Tibur’s folk. Following their chief’s auspicious lead, the sons of Mæonia charge the foe. Then Arruns, the man of fate, compasses swift 20 Camilla about, dart in hand, with many a forestalling wile, and tries what chance may be readiest. Wherever the fiery maid dashes into the midst of the battle, Arruns threads his way after her, and scans her steps in silence: wherever she returns in triumph, escaping safely from the 25 foe, that way the youth turns his swift and stealthy rein; now makes proof of this approach, now of that, and traverses the whole circle, and shakes with relentless malice his inevitable lance. It chanced that one Chloreus, sacred to Cybele and once her priest, was shining conspicuous 30 from afar in Phrygian armour, urging on a foaming charger, whose covering was a skin adorned with golden clasp and