WELL-WAGED WAR WAS ONCE A WOMAN’S WORK, 

And I request that you, my reader, in 

Your modern mind now tune these lines to sing 

Camilla’s war-work and her end. Begin,

Attentive muse, on that auspicious day

Camilla stood before Lavinia 

And sought the council of the Latin princess.

In Latium, where King Latinus reigned,

Within the white-walled castle of the King,

The princess sat in tension, caught between

Two rival suits of princes: Turnus, first—

By blood and by alliance he had claim 

And local right to wed her and to draw

The Latins and Ritullians into

A lasting friendship based on blended thrones.

But from the East another suitor rose:

Aeneas, son of Venus, prince of Troy

To whom the prophets said high Jupiter

Had promised all the land of Latium

And his descents after him until

His grandson’s grandsons, nursed by wolves, would lift

The walls of Rome that time could hardly raze.

Lavinia, beleaguered by these suits,

Had hidden, waiting in her father's courts

To hear reports from war outside those walls

Where Turnus and Aeneas hurled their men

Against each other, hoping battle would

Decide her husband and the fate of Rome.

But now before her came another of

Her age and sex; instead of lace she wore

A leather doublet, copper breastplate, spear

Of knotted myrtle like a shepherd's staff, 

But tipped in iron for the death of men. 

“I come as ally from the Volcians,”

Camilla said, and bowed as men will bow

Before exacting generals or kings.

“The royal Turnus has accepted my

Request to serve as cavalry in his

Attempt tomorrow on the Trojan lines.”

Lavinia, amused and curious

Asked: “Why, if Turnus is your ally do

You come before me, acting, as I sense,

As if you need permission from myself?

For Turnus is commander of the troops

Of Latins and Ritullians, and I 

Am little better than a captive here,

Unable to go out because of battle,

Unable to be calm because of worry,

Unable to give comfort to the king,

My father, who has shut himself away,

In anger and confusion at the war

That’s waged before his gates without consent

Of him who rules the gates. I have no strength

To give permissions or rescind them now;

I am a thing distilled into a milk

Of patience, hoping for single wedding  

To end this war, and not two funerals.”

“I do not come,” Camilla answered her,

“To ask permission, but instead your will.

I also am a thing distilled. Since birth

My father trained me in the arts of war.  

For while I was an infant, civil strife

Arose in Volci, drove my father to

Abandon—sore but sure—his rightful throne 

His royal armor, and his luxuries,

And flee with me into the wilderness

Escaping from the mobs that marched to burn 

His golden palace and our holy shrines.

His enemies had found our route, and came

Upon us in the wilderness where we

Were backed up to a river’s bank; it held

Black water and black night and blacker death.

The journey to the blackest underworld

Seemed certain, when my father through his fear

Discovered his defiance and his faith.  

For there he prayed: ‘Diana, goddess of

The hunt, and virgin patron of these glades,

I call upon you now to guide my spear

Across this river, deep as sleep. The child 

I bind unto this shaft I bind as well

Unto your virgin service if you save

Her life and guide her to the further shore!’

He tied me in a bundle to the shaft,

And kissed with tenderness my little fists

In blessing. Then he hurled me out of reach  

Of those oncoming enemies. I soared

Like Jove’s own eagles soar above the Alps,

Above the Amazonian waters, past

Their further bank, and landed on the soil

That I would call my home for many years. 

He swam across then, hoping with each stroke 

To find me on the shore and not in depths 

Untouched by time. At last he saw my face

Alive with smiles and safely on the land.

Behind me stood the woodlands and the hills  

Where sheep and wolves and feral tigers roam,

Contending for their lives among the wilds

Which Jove’s own daughter calls her earthly home.

My father swore forever to renounce

His royal claim and seek a simple life  

As shepherd and as tutor to myself,

My tutor in the arts of hunt and arms

And all the strengths of women sacred to

Diana, who retains her virgin might.

He taught my feet to run as swiftly as  

The wind across the Adriatic waves;

I learned the sweat of labor in the close

And shadowed trees, the thrill of hunting blind

At midnight where the scent of tiger's breath

Brought me so near the jaws of death that I  

Could smell the drying flowers on the crown

Of Hecate herself; but drawing back

From her eternal arms, I plunged my blade

And made the beast that would have killed me mine

For warmth in winter and a coat of glory."

ND as she heard these words, Lavinia

Became aware Camilla wore striped furs

Around her shoulders—yes, indeed it was

A coat of glory, and the princess saw

In her imagination those dark woods, 

That wild tiger gushing out his life

And stout above him, glistening in triumph

The armed Camilla, heir of Amazons. 

Camilla searched Lavinia for some

True indication of her will, and said:

“I say these things to give assurance of

My might, my chance of turning this whole war

To my own will, if only for a time. And so I ask:

What is your will, my princess? Turnus chose

To let me lead the cavalry, so he 

Might win your hand. But what is your own will?

If I withhold my might, I can allow

Aeneas’ spear to pierce Prince Turnus’ breast

And gain you Trojan offspring for all time.

Or I can ride, and in my riding loose  

The power of Diana to the cause

Of local Turnus. My conclusion is:

I have a work of war to do before

I greet the goddess Hecate below,

And I will spend it in the aid of those

Who need it most. And so: what is your will?"

Then in Camilla's eyes Lavinia

Discerned a woman unafraid to die  

Unwed, and having given birth to none,

And unregretful of these things, which seemed

A loss—perhaps the greatest loss—to her.

“And do you truly mean that you will choose

The life of arms instead of that of wife? 

Or were you scorned in love, which made you seek

A final death in glory on the field?"

Camilla answered, “When I came of age,

And I displayed the womanhood that men

All crave to see, and hold, and call their own,

My father entertained a dozen suits

And more from local noblemen and knights.

But I would choose not one among them all,

And though my father begged me to repent

In front of each young man who came to call,

When I refused and they had sulked away,

Then he would praise me, lead me to the glens

That held Diana's altars; we would light

The votive flames together, thanking her,

Diana, for the gifts she gives to girls—

And chief of these, virginity: the life

That, undistracted, can pursue the hunt,

Preserve the hand for only grasping spears,

And never shackled to the wedding ring.

“I did once wonder, deep within the woods,

If I had chosen rightly, for I had

Pursued a stag for days, and, weary with

Hard hunting, thirsting for a stream, I cried

Into the shadowed woods: ‘What is this life?

A lonely one of waiting, for the chase

Will never find reward nor will achieve

A work of victory to match the years

I spent in training in these wasted woods!’

I heard in answer to my echoed cries

A far, faint song, as of a girl, or stream.

I searched to find the source of song, footsore,

Arms black with dust except where streaked with sweat.

As I drew back a leaf-thick olive bough,

I saw the sight that none have seen and lived:

The virgin goddess, bright and bathing in

A pool of perfect water. Perfect form

Inhered in every limb and living breath,

And how her skin shone did not hide her, but

Revealed each inch of her more sharp than life,

As if the sun had never lit the world

Until it shone on her: her brow, her deep

Black hair… I cannot tell you further, for

Description would fall short and would arouse

In any mortal mind impious thoughts.

But on that day I looked on her and lived.

“I noticed, shying eyes away from her,

That all around her sat her singing nymphs:

Each wore an armor never seen on Earth,

Their adamants of green, and black, and orange

Like summer sunset. One of them, I saw

With shock, was looking straight at me, and held

A golden bow bent back so far its tips

Were touching one another, yet she held

It almost casually as if amused

At me, and curious what I would do.

Diana looked at her, then looked along

Her eyebeams toward me, and the goddess’ eyes,

In seeing me, were soft. She beckoned with

Her fingers, each so dextrous-graceful that

I seemed to be the bowstring pulled by them.

‘Oh Oris, vigilant, put down your bow,

And let my suppliant approach my pool,’

She said, and I was wading in, and I

Unclasped my tunic, dropped my bow, as if

It were the proper thing to be unclothed

There in the gaze of she who drew my gaze.

“I now remember that I heaved with sobs,

As I was wading out to her, but then

It seemed that I was happier than words,

And could not cry while looking on her face.

I stood before her, lank, and smudged, and bare,

My copper skin, compared to hers, a shade.

She smiled and took a deep, low breath, and—what 

Was I beholding? For it seemed to me

The surface of the pool itself rose up,

Became a cloud around me, and she twirled

Her hand across my shoulders, breasts, then waist,

And I was clothed again in living mist.

‘Though you may see me, child, I give this dress

To you to hide you from all other eyes.’

And then she stooped and raised two hands like cups

Of brimming water, and she washed my arms,

My forehead, and my feet; and at her touch

I felt the years of weary training change

And sweeten into surety and strength.

At last she pressed my breastbone with her palm. 

“At first I felt as if a blade had pierced

My chest, but that soon passed. Replacing it,

A thundering rang through my shivered frame

As if the hooves of every deer pursued

By every hunter bounded through my bones.

And now I felt my skin from neck to thighs

En-traced by sharp, thin rivulets of cold

As if a hundred rivers crossed my form.

I looked down at the cloud around me and

It seemed to all be moving: mounting high

And dark in places, and in ragged strands

In others, till I saw before me not

The body of a girl, but that of Earth.

Then over me the winter passed: the rain

Of continents was cool upon my back

Until it was a pool and then a stream

That wound around my waist and found the sea

That bloomed between my ribs. And deeper in,

I felt my bones like earthquakes shift and ache,

As if there were a restlessness below,

A molten hunger at the core of me.

“I was the Earth while high Diana held

My self transformed within in her hand, and I

Experienced a spring, I think, at last:

For every sinew, every pore was filled

With that deep hunger till I felt I could

No longer hold it in, and I let forth

A cry that was not cry, but rather life:

I was a bud becoming leaves and vines,

And trees which aged millennia while I

Was gasping from the suddenness and still

I saw myself becoming every grove,

And every forest that there ever was

Or will be, and I saw within each grove

An altar to Diana, and a pool

In which two stood, a goddess and a girl.

And looking at the girl, I found myself.

Then I was standing in a little stream

Alone, and I was clad as usual,

Except my arms and feet were clean, and I

No longer feared I’d lead a wasted life.”

MAZED at her, Lavinia replied:

“Though so devoted to Diana's aims,

And blessed by her with surety of your call

You still would fight to win for me a husband

Though you will never take one for your own?”

Camilla, filled with confidence replied: 

“Diana guides her servants to assist 

The woman who is forced to choose against

A life that wakes the deepest work in them— 

And you are such a woman. Here I stand

And seek from you a battle where I may 

Express the gift Diana gave me for 

The scrum and strife. When I have died or won

I hope to be convinced that it was worth

The height of art I plan to exercise.

I do not know why some have chosen to

Devote themselves to Venus or to Juno.

They seem to me the gods of other girls,

But if a devotee of them could need

My arrows of Diana in her aid,

I could, I think, serve Jupiter's high wife

By serving well his daughter in the fray."

“In present war,” Lavinia explained,

“I fear that Juno is in conflict with

Aeneas—for, if prophets speak the truth,

He is the son of Venus, and the one

Who wins his hand will be enraptured by

That goddess who brings deepest sweetness to

The living, sweetness that will last past death

And be the memory we treasure when

All light has left, and we are only shades.

But I am torn by this, for Turnus is

A man beloved of Juno, who is fierce

In war against her enemies as she

Is kind in blessing wives who marry well.”

“If you are torn between the two, then choose

To favor neither with your choice. You could

Join me, and fight with me—for I have drawn

A host of women to my virgin cause,

And in the coming fight their arrows will

Pierce throats, pin limbs, spark fear in hearts of men.”

“I have no arms for fighting, nor a heart.

I want the wedding and the family

That Juno gives and blesses—but which man?

I have known Turnus since my youth and think

Him strong and proud like men in ancient tales

Who wed a wife and kill a king and give

New laws to lawless peoples. I do not

Know this Aeneas; I have seen him, seen

A weariness within his eyes, but fire

To find a home and rest from wandering.

Too many of my sisters were informed

Who they would wed, and when, and had no say.

But I have seen in you a woman who

Would have her choice though all may stand against

Her will. If I could do the same, I would.

I will attempt a choice then: fight for me.

Assume the leadership of cavalry

Beside prince Turnus. Let the war decide,

But war with woman's element within.

They say that Pentheselia was there

Within the Trojan ranks before the end

Of all the Trojan race. Why should my war

Be less than that of Helen? I would have

An Amazon upon the bloody plain.”

SATISFACTION filled Camilla’s eyes,

As if the war she sought to wage appeared

To her a poem stressed with victories.

But fear arose within Lavinia—

She saw she was condemning this brave girl

To death, perhaps, regardless of which man

Would win. For woman's place, she thought at last,

Was not in arms upon the field, but in

Some place apart from men, where neither wars

Of men nor suits of men could swerve

Them from their chosen daily tasks: the loom,

The lyre, the planting, and the harvesting.

Or else, if men could be redeemed from war

And warlike wooing, then a woman may 

Accept them so redeemed. All this she thought 

As pleased Camilla left, but did not say.