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I shouted, “Diomedes, son of Tydeus, my swift arrow, my bitter dart, didn’t bring you down. Now my spear will.” And I threw it. I saw the bronze tip pierce the shield and strike his breastplate. Then I shouted again. “I’ve won, Diomedes, I got you in the stomach, stuck you straight through.” But he, fearless, said, “You think you got me. But you missed the target. And now you won’t leave here alive.” He raised his spear and hurled it. The bronze tip entered near the eye, went through the white teeth, cut the tongue cleanly at the base, and came out the neck. I fell from the chariot—I, a hero—and the bright shining armor thundered down upon me. The last thing I recall is the swift, terrible horses as they swerved in panic. Then my strength abandoned me, and, with it, life.
Aeneas
    The bronze tip entered near the eye, went through the white teeth, cut the tongue cleanly at the base, and came out the neck. Pandarus, the hero, fell, and the bright shining armor thundered down upon him. His strength abandoned him, and, with it, life. I knew that I had to get him away, that I couldn’t let the Achaeans have his body and his armor. So I jumped down from the chariot and stood beside him, raising spear and shield, and shouting at all who approached. I found myself facing Diomedes. He did something incredible. He picked up a rock that two men, I swear, could never have lifted. And yet he did it, he lifted it up over his head and threw it at me. It struck me in the hip where it meets the thigh. The sharp stone ripped the skin and tore the tendons. I fell to my knees, placed one hand on the ground, felt a dark night descend over my eyes:
and I discovered suddenly what my destiny was: to never die.
I heard Diomedes approaching, to kill me and strip me of my armor. Three times I heard him arrive, and yet I was still alive. Around me my companions fought, shouting, “Diomedes, what do you think you are, an immortal god?” I heard the voice of Acamas, the commander of the Thracians, calling, “Sons of Priam, don’t you see that Aeneas needs you? How long will you let the Achaeans go on killing your men? Will you let them drive you back to the walls of the city?” And as someone pulled me back, I heard the voice of Sarpedon, prince of the Lycians, shouting, “Hector, where is your courage? You said that you would save your city without the help of allies, you alone, you and your brothers. But I don’t see any of you here fighting. You’re cowering somewhere, like dogs around a lion. And it’s up to us, your allies, to lead the battle. Look atme, I’ve come from far away, I have nothing here for the Achaeans to plunder, and yet I urge my soldiers on to defend Aeneas and battle Diomedes—while you, on the other hand, aren’t even moving, or commanding your men to resist. You’ll end up the prey of your enemies, you and your city.”
    When I opened my eyes again I saw Hector jump down from his chariot, brandishing his weapons and calling his men to battle. Sarpedon’s words had stung his heart, and he rekindled the harsh fight. Finally the Trojans attacked. And the Achaeans waited, white with the dust stirred up by the hooves of their horses. Fearlessly they waited, as still as the clouds that Zeus gathers above a mountain peak on a calm day.
    I am Aeneas, and I cannot die. For that reason I was back in the battle. Wounded but not dead. Saved by the fold of some god’s shining robe, hidden from my enemies, and then pushed, again, into the heart of the battle, against Crethon and Orsilochus, valiant warriors in the prime of life, who followed the Achaeans on their black ships to honor Agamemnon and Menelaus. I killed them with my spear, and they fell like tall fir trees. Menelaus saw them fall and took pity on them. Clothed in shining bronze he moved toward me, brandishing his spear. Antilochus came, too, to help him. When I saw them, together, I retreated. When they reached the bodies of Crethon and