Trying to Be a Man

How many times have we passed over the ancient epic stories told about guys with unpronounceable names because they’re bo-o-o-o-ring? But why do we keep judging books by their covers and stories by their characters’ names? The epic poems are really chocked full of pertinent lessons for the children reared in aerospace technology and 3-D animation.

Take the Aeneid for example. So many nuggets of symbolism lay scattered among the details of action in the Aeneid. But first some groundwork must be laid. Aeneas and his men had landed on the shore of the Tiber River in the land of the Latins. After due homage to their gods, these displaced Trojans chose one hundred ambassadors wearing olive shoots as an embassy to petition the Latin king for a plot of land to live in peace. Their commissioned request was simply for “a modest settlement of the gods of home, a strip of coast that will bring harm to no one.”[1] This is not so different from our own Pilgrim fathers desiring a strip of land to worship in peace their God of faraway home. And just like our Pilgrim fathers who met with the tolerant chief Powhatan, these war-weary Trojans met with the honorable king Latinus who was very willing to grant a parcel of land to these newcomers.

But this analogy breaks down here; for sadly, the Trojan immigrants did not meet with a helpful Squanto. Instead, they met their formidable foe Turnus, the fiancé of the king’s only daughter. Although Aeneas was “heartsick at the woe of war,” Turnus recognized him as the rival who would take both the princess and the kingdom. Egged on by the vengeful goddess, Turnus declared war on the displaced Trojans, overruling the commandment of the king. Aeneas was directed by the gods to journey to the Arcadians to recruit the assistance of King Evander against the Latins under the wild leadership of Turnus.

The Trojan camp had been fortified with walls; and reminiscent of the late Trojan War, the Trojans had been ordered to remain within the walls of the camp. “Aeneas, had instructed them: if any emergency arose, not to do battle, not to entrust their fortunes to the field, but safe behind their walls to hold the camp.”[2] Turnus and his army arose on the horizon like “black dust mounting up” forcing the terrified Trojans within the fortification of the camp. Around and around the walls, Turnus snorted like a raging bull; but when he found no weakness to breach, he headed to the shore to torch the anchored ships.

Trojan guards had been stationed at each of the gates. One such young man of honorable parentage stood guard as appointed. This young Nisus spoke to his fellow guard Eurylaus about his desire for action. Surely, Nisus reasoned, this desire is from the gods. “For all these hours I’ve longed to engage in battle, or to try some great adventure.”[3] And so a plan blossomed between these two young guards. If they could get to Aeneas and all the seasoned warriors to apprise them of Turnus’ onslaught, they would receive great recognition for their bravery. “The glory of the feat’s enough for me,” touted young Nisus.

Now it’s time to consider the young Euryalus. This comrade of Nisus was described as “handsomer than any other soldier of Aeneas wearing the Trojan gear.” Being handsome is not a perquisite of one considering a dangerous sallying forth against orders through enemy-infested territory. But Euryalus’s good looks rested, at that moment, on his extreme youthfulness—“a boy whose cheek bore though unshaven manhood’s early down.”[4] The boy absolutely refused to be left out of the adventure: “Your reasoning is all a waste of breath. Not by an inch has my position changed. Let us be off.”[5] So off they go, but not before Euryalus confirmed that his honorable, old mother must be left in the dark and to set off on the mission of a life-time and leave her clueless.

As the pair of insubordinate guards left their assigned posts and made their way into the darkness, they were met with the surprising revelation that Turnus’s watchmen were lying about sound asleep in a drunken stupor. Drawing their swords, they whacked at the snoring Latins, slashing and slaughtering. Consumed with their uncontested slaughter, they hadn’t realized the dawn had crept in. Their mission would never be accomplished with them still in the enemies’ camp outside their own walls. But the rich loot scattered about was too much for Euryalus. He stripped medals and a golden studded belt from a slain warrior and put them on himself. Then he removed a shiny, plumed helmet and placed it on his own head. Only then did the two dash off into the darkness of the woods.

Some enemy horsemen arrived and gave chase, but the trails in the darkened woods were unfamiliar to the boys. Poor Euryalus was slowed by the weight of the loot, and Nisus was unaware that he had left the boy behind. Although Nisus managed to escape the enemies, he realized he had outrun Euryalus. Backtracking, he heard the horses and the clanging of the armor. Euryalus’s shiny helmet had betrayed his hiding place in the moonlight. Poor Nisus had cleared himself of the enemy’s grasp, but he was forced to go back to help a friend weighted down by the doodads that had charmed his senses. Sacrificing his own position, Nisus cried out in the darkness: “No me! Me! Here I am! I did it! Take your swords to me…”[6]

What an action story! And what a tale of heroism in the sacrifice of Nisus. But what lessons are so clearly illustrated by the foolish insubordination of two young men seeking for glory. The plan of Nisus seemed so perfect. He forgot that to leave his post and foster insubordination in his comrade was an inexcusable offense. He ignored the callousness of his plan toward those who trusted his watchful eye to warn of attack. His foolishness longed for war without counting the cost of such an endeavor. Only too late did he realize it as his pierced body collapsed across the silent, bloody chest of his friend.

Then the boy Euryalus, zealously embracing a comedy of errors, left his post with no more regard than a kid sneaking off to go fishing. He would do what he wanted, when and how he wanted; and on his return, everyone would ecstatically shower him with praise for such unparalleled bravery. In the spunk of his youth, he insisted on being included. He judged himself a valuable son by not informing his mother. Since he already knew what she’d say, why bother with her tears. Nothing would change his mind.

So off he went under the cover of darkness to be a man. It’s always difficult to be a man while continuing to think childish thoughts. In his smooth-faced ignorance of life, how could he really judge the anger of Turnus or calculate a confrontation with seasoned warriors who played for keeps. The foolish romanticism that overruled his underdeveloped reason prompted his bold declaration of his readiness to face death. The illusion of heroism and the spoils of conquest drew him irresistibly. But left to the guidance of his own selfish interests and promoted beyond the ability of his maturity and having spurned the counsel of his mother and overruled the orders of his commanding officer, Euryalus ventured into the settled consequences of his own choice.

But then, what really killed Euryalus—the culmination of all his youthful flubs that cost him the ultimate? Oh dear—the allure of the medals. When the boys had slaughtered the sleeping men, Virgil described a quantity of valuable plunder lying around. Silver, lovely rugs, wine bowls—even armor was strewn about. But it was the medals Euryalus coveted. The armor passed to a grandson was sacrilegiously stripped from the dead body to adorn the undeveloped, softness of Euryalus. Then his eye caught the feathery plume of a Latin leader’s shiny helmet—now a complete outfit!

It was the weight of his plunder that slowed him down, entangling him in the underbrush of the dark woods. It was the shiny helmet that would reveal his hiding place. Euryalus did not know the warning of Hebrews 12:1: “Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us…” It was enemies who surrounded Euryalus, but it was the weight of his own covetousness that beset him.

How many times does the enemy of our souls overthrow us by subterfuge? Right in the midst of the warfare, he beguiles us with shiny baubles that enrapture us and take our time, our money, and our care for others. They attach to us like great, heavy weights, keeping us submerged in our sea of self-gratification and self-vindication. Euryalus hadn’t even fought a battle; and how often do we, too, fall so easily. It doesn’t even require a battle.

Euryalus’s mother hadn’t wanted a shiny helmet. Her comfort wasn’t in the baubles of the battlefield. She would have told that to her son, if he’d been willing to listen. But our reminder is written down. We are to lay aside every weight. We are to run the race with patience—patience to stay at our post and to look for our Commander. Then we will be more than conquerors!

Teresa Suttles

June 2016