now makes proof of this approach, now of that, and traverses
the whole circle, and shakes with relentless malice
his inevitable lance. It chanced that one Chloreus, sacred
to Cybele and once her priest, was shining conspicuous 30
from afar in Phrygian armour, urging on a foaming charger,
whose covering was a skin adorned with golden clasp and
brazen scales set plume-wise. He, in the blaze of foreign
purple, was launching Gortynian shafts from a Lycian bow;
golden was the bow that rang from his shoulder, golden the 35
helm on his sacred head; his saffron scarf with its rustling