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passed through his skull and cut off his tongue. The hero fell in the dust, teeth biting the cold bronze.
    Eurypylus killed Hypsenor, the priest of Scamander, who was venerated by all the people as a god; he pursued him as he tried to flee, and when he reached him drew his sword and sliced through one shoulder, cutting off the arm. The bloody arm fell on the ground, and over the eyes of the hero dark death and implacable fate descended.
Pandarus
    We fled and, fleeing, found death. The worst was when Diomedes, the son of Tydeus, appeared, right in the midst of the fray. Diomedes, the brave Achaean commander: the armor gleamed on his shoulders and his head, he sparkled like the autumn star as it rises from Ocean. He descended from his chariot and raged across the plain like a torrent in flood, swollen by rains. Nor could you tell if he was among the Achaeans or us Trojans: he was a river that had broken its banks and flowed swiftly onward, destroying everything in its path. It seemed nothing could stop him: I watched him fighting, and it was as if a god had decided to fight at his side.
    Then I took my bow yet again. I stretched the ox sinew with all my strength and let the arrow fly. It struck him in the right shoulder, on the breastplate. The arrow pierced the flesh and went straight through to the other side. His breastplatewas stained with blood. I shouted, “Attack, Trojans, Diomedes is wounded, I’ve hit him!” But I saw that he didn’t fold, didn’t fall. One of his companions pulled the arrow out of his shoulder: the blood spurted on the armor and all around. And then I saw him return to the fight, looking for me, like a lion who, though wounded, doesn’t die but, rather, triples his fury. He attacked the Trojans as if we were a flock of terrorized sheep.
    I saw him kill Astynous and Hypiron: the first he struck in the chest with his spear; with his sword he cut off the arm of the second. Nor did he stop to strip their armor but went after Abas and Polyidus. They were the two sons of Eurydamas, an old man who knew how to interpret dreams: but he was unable to read those of his sons, the day they left home, and Diomedes killed them both. I saw him attack Xanthus and Thoon, the only sons of old Phaenops: Diomedes took them from him, leaving him alone with his tears and his grief. I saw him slaughter Echemmon and Chromius, sons of Priam. He leaped into their chariot the way lions tackle bulls to break their necks, and killed them.
    At that point Aeneas came looking for me. “Pandarus,” he said, “where is your bow, and your winged arrows and your reputation? Did you see that man who is raging through the fighting, killing all our brave men? Maybe he’s a god who’s angry with us. Take an arrow and strike him as you alone can do.”
    “I don’t know if he’s a god,” I answered. “But that crested helmet, and the shield, and those horses—I know them, they belong to the son of Tydeus, Diomedes. I shot an arrow at him and hit him in the shoulder, but he returned to the fight. I thought I had killed him, and instead … This damnedbow of mine makes the blood of the Achaeans run but doesn’t kill them. And I have no horses, no chariot, to ride into battle.”
    Then Aeneas said to me, “We’ll fight together. Climb into my chariot, take the reins and the whip, and lead me to Diomedes. I’ll get out of the chariot to fight him.”
    “You take the reins,” I said. “If for some reason we’re forced to flee, the horses will take us away more quickly if it’s your voice that’s guiding them. You drive the chariot and leave the fighting to me and my spear.”
    So we mounted the shining chariot and, full of fury, urged the swift horses toward Diomedes. They were the best horses ever seen under the light of the sun: they came from a race that Zeus himself had created as a gift for Tros. In battle they were terrifying. But Diomedes wasn’t frightened. He saw us coming and he didn’t run. When we reached him