P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid
Theodore C. Williams, Ed.

The warrior-maid Juturna, seeing this,
distraught with terror, strikes down from his place
Metiscus, Turnus' charioteer, who dropped
forward among the reins and off the pole.
Him leaving on the field, her own hand grasped
the loosely waving reins, while she took on
Metiscus' shape, his voice, and blazoned arms.
As when through some rich master's spacious halls
speeds the black swallow on her lightsome wing,
exploring the high roof, or harvesting
some scanty morsel for her twittering brood,
round empty corridors or garden-pools
noisily flitting: so Juturna roams
among the hostile ranks, and wings her way
behind the swift steeds of the whirling car.
At divers points she lets the people see
her brother's glory, but not yet allows
the final tug of war; her pathless flight
keeps far away. Aeneas too must take
a course circuitous, and follows close
his foeman's track; Ioud o'er the scattered lines
he shouts his challenge. But whene'er his eyes
discern the foe, and fain he would confront
the flying-footed steeds, Juturna veers
the chariot round and flies. What can he do?
Aeneas' wrath storms vainly to and fro,
and wavering purposes his heart divide.
Against him lightly leaped Messapus forth,
bearing two pliant javelins tipped with steel;
and, whirling one in air, he aimed it well,
with stroke unfailing. Great Aeneas paused
in cover of his shield and crouched low down
upon his haunches. But the driven spear
battered his helmet's peak and plucked away
the margin of his plume. Then burst his rage:
his cunning foes had forced him; so at last,
while steeds and chariot in the distance fly,
he plunged him in the fray, and called on Jove
the altars of that broken oath to see.
Now by the war-god's favor he began
grim, never-pitying slaughter, and flung free
the bridle of his rage.