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In Book VII of the Aeneid, Aeneas sends a few of his men on a diplomatic mission to speak with King Latinus, with the aim of convincing him to allow them to settle there peacefully. Latinus asks them,

“What are you seeking? What is it that has brought you
Across the cerulean waters to our shore?
Is it that you have lost your way, or was it
Tempests acting upon you (for we are told
That this has happened to many upon the deep),
That you have entered in, between our river’s
Banks, and harbored your fleet within our port?
Do not refuse our welcome. Remember that we
Latins are of the race of Saturn, who
Following in the ways of our ancient father,
Need no external laws to obey or be
Forbidden by; we act of our own free wills.” (7.265-76; tr. Ferry)

Perhaps picking up on this reference to the unfettered will, the emissaries stress that no error has brought them to Italian shores: they have chosen to go there:

When the old king had finished speaking, then
Ilioneus said these words: “O king, illustrious
Descendant of the line of Faunus, it wasn’t
A black storm of winter nor was it surging seas
That drove us this way, nor was it that we mistook
A reading of the stars or of a coastline.
We came of our own free will… (7.286-92)

This insistence is interesting, because it stands in direct contradiction to something Aeneas himself said earlier in the book, on not just one but two occasions. The first comes in book four, when he attempts to placate Dido after telling her he must abandon her. (I’ve previous written about this scene here.) There, he says:

“And now the messenger of the gods, whom Jove
Himself has sent to me, has come down here
Upon the blowing winds—I swear, it happened—
It was full daylight when I saw him coming
Toward me, coming through the walls, and with
My very own ears I drank in what it was
That the messenger of Jove was sent to tell me.
So you must cease your protestations now.
I go not to Italy of my own free will.” (4.499-507)

And, in book six, he again tells Dido (her shade, this time) that his leaving her was not a free action:

Tears fell from his eyes and he spoke tenderly,
And lovingly to her: “Unhappy Dido,
Is it true, what I was told, that you were dead,
And with a sword had brought about your death?
And was it I, alas, who caused it? I
Swear by the stars, and by the upper world,
And by whatever here below is holy,
I left your shores unwillingly. (6.625-32)

We have, then, an interesting discrepancy. Aeneas’ men appear to view the journey to Italy as a chosen destiny, while Aeneas himself more than once insists that it is forced upon him against his will. What explains this?

One might offer a deflationary explanation of the difference, on two fronts. First, in discussing free will, Ilioneus and Aeneas are actually drawing subtly different contrasts. For Ilioneus, the Trojans have come to Latium out of free will as opposed to out of miscalculation or the overwhelming power of, say, a storm. Here it is noteworthy that it is precisely a storm that drove the Trojans to Carthage. His point is that they aimed deliberately at that destination, and intend to stay there. In that respect, he is perfectly correct.

Aeneas, meanwhile, denies that he goes to Italy of his own free will because he draws a contrast between his desire (to stay with Dido in Carthage) and his destiny (to found a new settlement in Latium). In this case, too, what he says is true—though in this case it’s complicated, since he does also desire the destiny that has been promised to him (I discuss this further in the earlier post linked above). There is, nonetheless, a substantial part of his will that would, if given the chance, stay in Carthage, and he goes to Italy only because this part of his will is fettered by destiny.

A second way of deflating the difference is to recognize the pragmatics of these utterances. None is a bare statement of fact: each has a definite social purpose. Ilioneus seeks Latinus’ favor, and therefore has an interest in presenting the Trojans as self-possessed. Aeneas, by contrast, is attempting both to placate Dido and to escape judgment—both hers and his own—for abandoning her. Thus he seeks to distance himself, as much as possible, from his evil act.

Both of these deflationary readings—which are compatible and indeed reinforce one another—are undoubtedly true. They do not, however, give the complete story, and we miss out on a major aspect of the Aeneid if we rest content with them alone. What we miss is this: even though Ilioneus’ and Aeneas’ claims are, strictly speaking, compatible, since they rest on different notions of free will, they nonetheless do capture a real difference in perspective. Ilioneus identifies wholeheartedly with the decision to settle in Latium. Aeneas does not.

To see why this is, consider Aeneas’ first speech to his men—not the first in time, but the first we encounter in the poem. Aeolus has, at Juno’s behest, unleashed a storm on the Trojans, and this has driven them to Carthage. Several ships appear to be lost, and it falls on Aeneas, as leader to the Trojans, “to ease their sorrow” (1.263):

“O my companions, O you who have undergone
Together with me, worse things than thise before,
The gods will bring this also to an end.
You who were there so close to Scylla’s frenzy,
Right in under her howling wailing cliffs,
And experienced the Cyclops throwing rocks,
Remember how brave you were. Be of good cheer,
Send fear away. Perhaps there will come a time
When you will remember these troubles with a smile.
Through many perils, through whatever mischance
We may encounter, our journey is toward Latium,
Where Fortune offers us a peaceful home.
There Troy will rise again. It is ordained.
Therefore endure, and expect a happier time.”
These were the words he used, though sick at heart;
His face simulates hopefulness and he
Endeavors to suppress his deep distress. (1. 264-80)

Here we see Aeneas attempting to cheer his followers, promising to them what the gods have promised to him. But it is a simulation, and to give this speech he must “suppress his deep distress.”

This shows Aeneas serving in one of his crucial roles in the Aeneid: he is a buffer. It is his job, as leader of the Trojans, to absorb all the doubts and uncertainties of the journey to found a new home, and in doing so to shield his followers from those doubts. Only in being forced to serve as such a buffer does Aeneas become the complicated man I love, the man both severed and inseparable from his fateful decisions.

Well, I am reading the Aeneid again (Ruden, this time). I was struck, as I read the fourth book, by a similarity that at first struck me as interesting though likely incidental, but that, as I read, came to seem more and more deliberate on Virgil’s part. In brief, I think Aeneas is, for Dido, a sort of Trojan horse.

Virgil gives the story of the Trojan horse in the second book. The Greeks build a massive wooden horse, with Greek soldiers hidden inside, then pretend to leave (in fact they hide on a nearby island). The Trojans, thinking the Greeks gone, come out to examine the horse, rightly suspecting some sort of ploy. Laocoön even throws a spear into the horse, eliciting a strange groaning sound. But a Greek youth is captured and brought before Priam. Pleading that he has escaped the Greeks, who wished to offer him as a sacrifice, he tells a fantastic tale that convinces the Trojans that the last thing the Greeks want is for the Trojans to take the horse to their citadel. Indeed, the Greeks made the horse so big precisely to prevent it from fitting through the entrances to Troy. This story is apparently confirmed when two snakes emerge from the sea and eat Laocoön and his sons, apparently a divine punishment for striking the horse with the spear. So the Trojans “cut the walls” (2.234) and bring the horse inside. At nightfall, of course, Troy goes up in flames, finished forever.

Abstractly put, the Trojans trust an apparent exile. On the basis of this trust, they weaken their defenses, taking into their city the very cause of their downfall.

What happens to Dido in book four? Just the same, more or less. Aeneas arrives at her city, and Jove softens Dido’s heart so that she accepts him. He tells, for two whole books, the sad story of his exile. The effect is to make Dido fall in love with him. Here we must back up, and revisit events from book one. There, we learned that Dido’s former husband was murdered, and that she has sworn never to love again, a vow she has until this point kept. Behind the scenes, however, Venus has swapped out Ascanius (Aeneas’ son) for Cupid, who breaches Dido’s defenses and makes her come to love Aeneas. Returning now to book four, Dido, against her better judgment, allows Aeneas into her hurt. But Fate impels him onward, and when he leaves, it drives her to suicide.

Abstractly put, Dido trusts an exile. On the basis of this trust, she weakens her defenses, taking into her heart the very cause of her downfall.

Are these mere loose parallels? At a high enough level of abstraction, anything can be made to seem similar to anything. What reason is there to think that Virgil intended these similarities? Or, if one distrusts intentionalism in interpretation, what reason is there to think that these similarities are salient to understanding Virgil’s poem?

For one thing, the similarities are not merely abstract. Dido’s struggle between the choices of loving Aeneas or squelching that love mirrors the discussion among the Trojans over what to do with the horse. In both cases, better judgment appears to have the upper hand. Dido emphatically rejects her passion:

But let the earth first gape to its foundation,
Or the all-powerful father’s lightning drive me
To the pale shades of Erebus and deep night,
Before I shamefully break Honor’s laws.
The man who first was part of me has taken
My love. He ought to keep it where he’s buried. (4.24-29)

But this resolve is weakened when her sister, Anna, points out to her the advantages of having Aeneas and the Trojans as allies. Carthage is in a precarious position, and could use the strength. This doesn’t convince Dido (she doesn’t love Aeneas for his soldiers, as it were), but it does make “the spark of passion blaze” (4.53).

Even still, this might not be enough. Dido does not “marry” (she and Aeneas rather disagree over the appropriateness of this word) Aeneas until their encounter in the cave, to which they were driven by “the all-powerful father’s lightning.” Just as in the case of Sinon, mere words from mere mortals do not suffice. Divine intervention is needed.

Moreover, the very terms in which Virgil describes Dido’s succumbing to her passion—Anna’s words “made the spark of passion blaze”—foreshadow her downfall. For when she kills herself, and when Rumor spreads the news throughout the city, Virgil makes this comparison:

Long-drawn-out shrieks of grief and women’s keening
Brimmed from the buildings. Anguish filled the sky,
As if invading troops brought Carthage down—
Or ancient Tyre were sacked—and flames were scaling
The rooftops of the houses and the temples. (4.667-71)

After this passage, there can be no doubt that we are to read the fall of Dido as akin to the fall of Troy.

Of course, there are differences. Sinon is a liar, an extension of Ulysses’ trademark Greek cunning. He is in on the trick. In the case of Dido, however, Aeneas is unaware of Venus’ plot, and unaware that Dido loves him against her will. He is, in this sense, innocent. (In other senses, he is manifestly not.) We may sympathize with Aeneas in a way we perhaps don’t with Sinon, though, in my view, this scene should make us at least somewhat more understanding of Sinon: we should not dismiss him simply because his interests do not match up with the interests of the Trojans.

Regardless of how book four reflects on our assessment of Sinon, however, it certainly forces us to recognize an inherent terribleness in Fate, and even more so an inherent injustice in the way the gods set about ensuring that Fate. And that recognition is essential to Virgil’s method throughout the Aeneid. As much as he makes Aeneas admirable, he never makes him unambiguously so, and he certainly never makes Aeneas’ fate unambiguously good. It is merely Fate: good for Aeneas because he is the immediate beneficiary, good for the Romans because they are the long-term beneficiaries, terrible, and unjustly so, for nearly everyone else.