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Iliad IV ll 100ff
(Fagles, p 148)
Athena merged in the Trojan columns like a fighter,
like Antenor's son the rugged spearman Laodocus,
hunting for Pandarus, hoping to find the archer.
Find him she did, Lycaon's skilled, fearless son,
standing by, flanked by the bands of shielded men
who'd trooped with him from Aesepus' dark rapids.
Athena halted beside him, let her challenge fly:
"Here's glory, son of Lycaon—let me tempt you,
you with your archer's skill! Have you the daring
to wing an arrow at Menelaus? Just think what thanks,
what fame you'd win in the eyes of all the Trojans,
Prince Paris most of all. The first among all,
you'd bear off shining, priceless gifts from him.
Just let him see Menelaus, Atreus' fighting son
brought down by your shaft and hoisted onto his pyre,
mourned with grief and tears! Come, up with you,
whip an arrow at this invincible Menelaus—now!
But swear to Apollo, Wolf-god, glorious Archer,
you'll slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs
when you march home to Zelea's sacred city."
So Athena
fired the fool's heart inside him.
Then and there he unstrapped his polished bow,
the horn of a wild goat he'd shot in the chest
one day as the springy ibex clambered down a cliff.
Lurking there under cover, he hit it in the heart
and the fine kill went sprawling down the rocks.
The horns on its head ran sixteen hands in length
and a bowyer good with goat-horn worked them up,
fitted, clasped them tight, sanded them smooth
and set the golden notch-rings at the tips.
Superb equipment—bending it back hard
the archer strung his bow . . .
propping an end against the ground as cohorts
braced their shields in a tight wedge to hide him,
fearing bands of Argives might just leap to their feet
before he could hit Menelaus, Atreus' fighting son.
He flipped the lid of his quiver, plucked an arrow
fletched and never shot, a shaft of black pain.
Quickly notching the sharp arrow on the string
he swore to Apollo, Wolf-god, glorious Archer,
he'd slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs
when he marched home to Zelea's sacred city.
Squeezing the nock and string together, drawing
the gut back to his nipple, iron head to the handgrip
till he flexed the great weapon back in a half-circle curve—
the bow sprang! the string sang out, arrow shot away
razor-sharp and raging to whip through Argive ranks!
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