Sitting near where the streams of our intellectual heritage—Athens and Jerusalem—flow into each other is The Aeneid. Written just before the age of Christ, the epic entered the world at a time when Rome was in upheaval. Fresh off discarding a republican form of government in favor of a nation run by autocrats, Emperor Caesar Augustus sought to unify the Roman people with a shared story of a nation they could rally around.
Enlisting the help of the greatest Roman poet, Virgil (70-19 B.C.), Augustus was eager to give Rome their own version of The Iliad and The Odyssey. Under these instructions, Virgil wrote The Aeneid. Arguably the most influential literary work of Western civilization outside the Bible, the epic almost never was, with Virgil ordering on his deathbed that the unfinished manuscript he’d spent the last ten years of his life working on was to be burned.
Against the dying poet’s wishes, Augustus had the poem—which follows Aeneas as he leads a group of refugees fleeing the flaming ruins of Troy across the sea to establish Rome as a new home—published.
As was customary in the epic literary tradition, the story starts with Virgil invoking the Muse (just as Homer had done with Achilles and Odysseus before him). In these opening lines, Aeneas—the model of Roman virtue—is introduced to us as a man “famous for his devotion,”1 or, in other translations, as pious. It’s a claim to fame that the prince of Troy had even in The Iliad, when Poseidon cites Aeneas’ loyalty as his reason for saving him from the wrath of Achilles.
As used in Latin, piety was the virtue that signaled not just devotion to the divine (as we think of the word in modern English) but also referenced, more broadly, the act of being mindful of one’s duty in life—not only to the gods but also to family and country. And it is a virtue Aeneas displays in spades throughout the epic, as emphasized by the text’s many references to the hero as devout, duty-bound, or pious Aeneas.
Time and time again, Aeneas is told of his destiny and the sorrow that awaits. And time and time again, Aeneas remains devoted to his duty even when it goes against his individual desire and comes at great personal cost. It starts in Book 2, when Aeneas encounters the shade of fallen Hector, who tells Aeneas: “Escape, son of the goddess… you have paid your debt to our king and native land… seek a city for them, once you have roved the seas, erect great walls at last to house the gods of Troy!”2 Heeding Hector’s words, Aeneas then runs through the flames of Troy to retrieve his family—putting his father on his shoulders and taking his son’s hand, they run toward safety, with his wife following close behind. And when his wife is lost, Aeneas is quick to rush, even if futile in the end, back into the flames to find her, like a firefighter into a burning building.
In Book 4, we see his devotion to his country and his destiny to found Rome on full display. After seven long years of harsh conditions and disappointing attempts at finding their new home, Aeneas and the Trojan refugees finally come to a friendly land in Carthage. There, Aeneas and his people are welcomed by Queen Dido, who falls hard and fast (under the influence of Cupid) for the prince of Troy.
After a brief but intense romance between Aeneas and Dido, Aeneas receives an unpleasant visit from the divine messenger Mercury (a.k.a. Hermes, who, to Carl Jung, was the god of the unconscious):
Wasting time in Libya—what hope misleads you so?
If such a glorious destiny cannot fire your spirit,
If you will not shoulder the task for your own fame,
at least remember [your son] rising into his prime,
the hopes you lodge in [your son], your only heir—
you owe him Italy’s realm, the land of Rome!3
Shaken by the encounter, Aeneas commits himself once again to his duty and makes preparations for a swift departure. When Dido learns of his plans, she confronts Aeneas and hurls every insult and appeal to his emotions that she can in an attempt to get him to abandon his duty and stay with her. Virgil’s description of Aeneas’ response offers an image of a Stoic man:
As firm as a sturdy oak grown tough with age
when the Northwinds blasting off the Alps compete,
when fighting left and right, to wrench it from the earth,
and the winds scream, the trunk shudders, its leafy crest
showers across the ground but it clings firm to its rock,
its roots stretching as deep into the dark world below
as its crown goes towering toward the gale of heaven—
so firm the hero stands: buffeted left and right
by storms of appeals, he takes the full force
of love and suffering deep in his great heart.
His will stands unmoved.4
For all critiques of Aeneas that might be offered around this moment when he picks duty over Dido—taking the “full force of love and suffering deep in his great heart”—he stands firm in his convictions and remains uncompromisingly committed to his calling. With this decision at the end of his seven-year exile, the last major test of his commitment, Aeneas proves that neither high seas nor rough waters. Neither monsters nor maidans nor seven long years of unfruitful wandering could pull pious Aeneas from his purpose. Nothing could convince him, even if he stumbles, to abandon his post or shirk his station.
Even the harshest critic of the hero is forced to admit he’s nothing if not devoted. And as someone who falls in the camp of being convinced (rightly or wrongly) that they’ve zeroed in on their calling—defined here as that place where one’s deepest joy meets the world’s greatest need—I can’t help but admire Aeneas.
In him, I can’t help but see something of the man that I hope to be. Somebody so absolutely dedicated to going wherever called that, once the instructions are received, they always have the courage to go, regardless of the fate that awaits.
There was once another moved by Aeneas’ devotion. A man named Clive who sprinkled many references to the ancient epic throughout his own body of work and wrote more than once about the poem’s deep influence on his own professional life.
Clive Staples Lewis. Better known to us today by initials C.S., he wrote after re-reading The Aeneid: “[t]he effect is one of the immense costliness of a vocation combined with a complete conviction that it is worth it.” Reflecting on the weight of one’s calling, Lewis continued: “To follow the vocation does not mean happiness: but once it has been heard, there is no happiness for those who do not follow.”
That, I think, is the real message of The Aeneid (at least in this season of my life). Find your calling; follow it relentlessly and accept the personal cost; go willingly where the divine orders send thee and trust the instructions when you’re lucky enough to receive them; serve those around you to the best of your ability; fulfill your destiny or die trying.
There is no other way to live. This is the way. To borrow from Nietzsche: “I know of no better life purpose than to perish in attempting the great and the impossible.”
P.S. Aeneas’ story is one that reminds us not only of Odysseus’ adventures in The Odyssey, but also of the Biblical narrative surrounding Moses and the Isrealites’ exile from Egypt throughout Exodus and of America’s founding—in both cases, a group of determined people crossing seas to establish a new home. These parallels, and more, will be discussed in my second book “This Way to the Stars: A History of the Hero.”
Until next time,
Fiat Lux.
Virgil, Aeneid, Book 1, line 11, p. 47 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition).
Virgil, Aeneid, Book 2, lines 364-72, p. 84 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition).
Virgil, Aeneid, Book 4, lines 330-45, p. 136-37 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition).
Virgil, Aeneid, Book 4, lines 555-65, p. 143 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition).