'Path of retreat, though his mind's at a furious boil with resentment.
Twice, even then, he rushed into the thicj of his cordoning foemen,
Twice sent them reeling all over walls in disorder and panic.
But reinforcements speed from the camp and the front coalesces;
Juno, the daughter of Saturn, no longer dares give him extra
Strength to resist, because Jupiter's now sent Iris from heaven,
Bringing his sister commands that allow her no subtle amendments
If Turnus fails to withdraw from the Teucrians' towered defences.
So, the youth hasn't the power in his shield and the force in his right hand
Even to stand his own ground. Spears hurled in from so many quarters
Now overwhelm him. The concave helmet encasing his temples
Constantly clangs, the bombardment of stones leaves its solid bronze gaping,
Shipped of its plumes, and its boss can't shelter his head from relentless
Pounding. The Trojans and Mnestheus himself, now lighting in action,
Double their spear-volleys. Sweat oozes out over Turnu's body,
Forms into soot-blackened rivers (he'd had no chance for a breather).
Laboured gasping for air shudders of his joints. He, at long last,
Leaps, fully armed, from the walls, thus entrusting himself to the Tiber's
Streaming flow. As he touched it, the river-god caught him and raised him
Up in his tawny swirls and he swept him away upon gentle
Currents:returned to his allies content, fully cleansed of his slaughter.'
'Slowly but surely, the words take effect. He's begun hesitating,
But when a harness catches his gaze, high on Turnus's shoulder,
Gleaming with amulet studs, those pleas have no chance of fulfilment:
Pallas's oh so familiar belt, which Turnus had shouldered
After defeating and killing the boy. It's the mark of a hated
Personal foe. As his eyes drink in these mementoes of savage
Pain, these so bitter spoils, Aeneas grows fearsome in anger,
burning with fire of the Furies. "You, dressed in the spoils of my dearest,
Think that you could escape me? Pallas gives you this death-stroke, yes Pallas
Makes you the sacrifice, spills your criminal blood in atonement!"
And, as he speaks, he buries the steel in the heart that confronts him,
Boiling with rage. Cold shivers send Turnus' limbs into spasm.
Life flutters off on a groan, under protest, down among shadows.'
Virgil, Aeneid: A New Translation by Frederick Ahl, publisher: Oxford University Press