Book 11 of the Iliad is filled with action. But it begins with a sunrise. This particular dawn resets the action for the poem and is a good example of how much resonance with myth and other traditions the Homeric narrator can create with just a few words.
Iliad 11.1-14
Then Dawn rose from her bed alongside glorious Tithonos In order to bring light to the immortal and mortals alike. But Zeus sent Strife to the swift ships of the Achaeans, Harsh strife, clutching an omen of war in its hands. It stood on the dark sear-faring vessel of Odysseus, And then bellowed in the middle in both directions. First to the shelters of Ajax, the son of Telamon And then to those of Achilles—they had pulled their ships up At the farthest ends, because they trusted in their bravery and strength. She stood there tall and shouted terribly, loudly, And imbued the heart of each Achaean who hear her With the great strength needs to fight and battle without end. For them, war became sweeter than returning home In their hollow ships to their dear fatherland.”
When I returned to this passage, I was at first a bit perplexed by the beginning. It is not uncommon to reset the plot or mark changes in the action with daybreaks in Homer. Indeed, dawn often anticipates the beginning of an assembly (divine or mortal, cf. Iliad 8.1 “When yellow-robed Dawn stretched over the whole earth…” ᾿Ηὼς μὲν κροκόπεπλος ἐκίδνατο πᾶσαν ἐπ’ αἶαν [cf. 19.1; 24.295]). There are some variations in the expressions, and the introductory dawn is much more regular in the Odyssey (see, e.g. ἦμος δ’ ἠριγένεια φάνη ῥοδοδάκτυλος ᾿Ηώς, 4.306) But there’s really no parallel for what happens in this passage: the mention of Tithonos, followed by the immediate divine intervention described here.
There are a few ways to understand what this passage is doing, I think. First, this exceptional re-beginning marks the epic’s longest day. As I will discuss in a post on book 13, books 11-18 comprise a majority of the central action of the epic, but cover a single day in the action (day 29, depending on how you count). So, an exceptional introduction would be called for here. But I don’t think that covers it.
In addition to the length of the day, Zeus sending Eris may have thematic and generic implications as well. As I discuss in an article from YAGE, eris is both a thematic marker and a titling function in Greek epic. It is the kind of story that is typical of Homeric epic while also being characteristic of the cultural force that generated epic. Here, I think we can imagine the reinvocation of eris here as emphasizing the conflict about to come, but also as refocusing the cosmic nature of this poem.
The proem to the Iliad mentions eris twice: first, it asks the Muse to start the tale from a time when “those two men first fell out in strife” (ἐξ οὗ δὴ τὰ πρῶτα διαστήτην ἐρίσαντε, 1.6) and then “what god first set them to struggle in strife” (Τίς τάρ σφωε θεῶν ἔριδι ξυνέηκε μάχεσθαι; 1.8). The answer to the second question is disharmonious with what happens after book 1, when Zeus takes over the plot and causes the Greeks to lose in order to honor Achilles. This redeployment of a personified strife here, at the beginning of book 11, re-instantiates the conflict at Zeus’ behest and between the Greeks and Trojans, rather than between Agamemnon and Achilles. This reinitiates questions about the relationship between human agency and Zeus’ plan as well.
But wait, there’s more! Note as well the pains taken to describe Achilles’ and Ajax’s dwellings as on either end of the Greek fleet with Odysseus in the middle. As Jenny Strauss Clay shows in Homer’s Trojan Theater (2011), the battle books following Iliad 11 are consistent in the way they lay out the actions across the imagined geography of the poem. This opening resituates the audience in time and space before the most complex and prolonged violence of the poem.
From the Homer’s Trojan Theater Website
And the last question, the one that got be started to begin with, is why is Tithonos invoked here and not elsewhere in the poem. The scholia to the Iliad are not incredibly helpful here, but they do bring up some salient points: first, Tithonos was a Trojan, and famously so. Second, he is known from the story told in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite for being the unwitting victim of an apotheosis gone wrong. Dawn famously asked Zeus to make Tithonos immortal (that is, deathless) but not eternally young (or ageless). In the poetics of Greek myth, divine immortality is bipartite, requiring both deathlessness (a-thanatoi, immortals, literally means deathless ones) and agelessness (a-gerws). As a result, Tithonos grows older and older until he turns into (something like) a cicada and can only be heard.
Attic red-figure kylix (drinking cup) with Eos and Tithonos in the tondo. c. 550 BCE
It is hard to see at first glance how this can be appropriate for the beginning of book 11, but I suspect it works like this; Tithonos is a Trojan and he is in a place in mediasres in relationship to his overall narrative, the story most people know. He is not a cicada yet, because he is still glorious and in bed with dawn. His appearance both invokes the closeness of the Trojans to the gods but also subtly implies that their story too is in the midst of its telling and everyone knows it is going to turn out badly.
(Some may suggest that this also recalls the child of Dawn and Tithonos, Memnon, who leads the fight for the Trojans after Hektor’s death. The Iliad and the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite both seem rather uninterested in Memnon’s very existence.)
Hydria with the Fight of Achilles and Memnon, The Walters. c. 560 BCE
If my interpretation is right, there may also be a connection to Zeus here: as an agent he is uniquely responsible for Trojan prominence (lover of Ganymede, judge who caused Apollo and Poseidon to build the Trojan walls) and as the chief god he is also uniquely responsible for the mixed promises and tricky plans that yield unexpected consequences. There’s a warning here, but also a metaphysical reinforcement. Like the old man who briefly lived alongside a goddess, the Trojan successes will be brief. The cicada’s song remains alongside Troy’s tragic fame, after the worse part of the stories have ended.
One might reasonably ask whether this is simply a reflection on the mortal condition.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, one of the most important parts of book 11 is when Nestor tells a long story to Patroklos that seems result in Patroklos volunteering to take Achilles’ place in battle. As we learn from Zeus’ speeches, this is an essential part of re-targeting Achilles’ rage toward Hektor and completing the plot of the Iliad. Whether or not persuading Patroklos is Nestor’s goal has at times been a hot topic of Homeric scholarship. Karl Reinhardt would not be the first or the last scholar to sense something insidious in Nestor’s story.
Nestor’s speech in book 11 provides the longest persuasive story from myth (a paradeigmata) in the Iliad, longer still than Phoenix’s story of Meleager. Julia Haig Gaisser does a great job of laying out the structure of the speech (9-13) and emphasizes the difference in style between the somewhat confusing story he tells and the relatively direct advice he provides at the end.
But on what criteria to we base an evaluation of Nestor’s speech? I have posted before about persuasive examples in Homeric speeches—so-called paradeigmata—and have argued that they rarely result in what the speaker intends. This helps to demonstrate to external audiences that narrative often goes awry and that its effect on the world and listeners can be unpredictable because audiences bring experiences and knowledge to the story that the teller may not anticipate. As I discuss in post on Iliad 9, one cognitive approach to literature can be useful in helping to understand what is going on here.
A heroic blend: Original artwork by Brittany Beverung
In his book The Literary Mind, Mark Turner argues that when we hear (or read) a story, we cannot experience the narrative created by the teller of the tale. Instead, the story unfolds in a cognitive blend in a space between the world of the narrative and the reader’s mind. What this means, in effect, is that our actual mental picture of narrative blends our own experiences and memories with the sketches we receive from stories and generates a new thing, a tale wholly in our own minds.
My general approach to all of the stories told by Homeric speakers is to try to understand that tension between the story that is told and the reaction it elicits by imagining how other characters might mis-read or re-read the story they hear based on their own perspectives or desires. At the same time, however, if we are thinking about Homeric characters telling stories, we also have to think of the way they blend traditional elements with their current circumstances and their own desired outcomes. This tripling and then doubling again of perspectives in turn provides really useful lessons in how to read Homeric poetry which is a prolonged adaptation of received material in particular contexts for diverse and changing audiences.
Let’s get to Nestor: he is positioned by the Iliad as an effective if not an ideal speaker. He has previously used paradigmatic narratives to persuade his audiences to different outcomes. In book 1, he fails to reconcile Achilles and Agamemnon; in book 7 he shames Achaeans into standing up to face Hektor’s challenge. When Nestor speaks to Patroklos, he takes a personal approach: he dismisses Achilles’ concern and provides a catalogue of the wounded Greeks. His opening assertion—that Achilles has no concern for the Greeks—is then balance by a wish to be young again the way he was during some cattle wars. He tells a story of a cattle raid in his youth that led to the Epeians attacking Pylos following the seizure of herds to make up for some stolen horses. Neleus, Nestor’s father, would not allow him to go to war, but he did it any way and killed many men, earning glory for himself.
Nestor moves from his long story to dismiss Achilles as someone whose bravery is only for himself—he “toils for his virtue alone” (αὐτὰρ ᾿Αχιλλεὺς / οἶος τῆς ἀρετῆς ἀπονήσεται, 11.763). Nestor then reminds Patroklos of his own father Menoitios who advised Patroklos to calm Achilles, to advise him. So Nestor asks him to try to persuade Achilles to return or, if Achilles is holding back for some secret reason, to go to war himself and provide some respite to the Greeks. The narrative lets us know that Nestor “raised the spirit in Patroklos’ chest” ( ῝Ως φάτο, τῷ δ’ ἄρα θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ὄρινε,) with this speech. Stanley Lombardo translates this line as “This speech put great notions in Patroclus’ head”.
Before thinking about Patroklos, I think it is useful to focus first on how Nestor is adapting this story. The scholia have a few summaries of the events contextualizing Nestor’s tale:
Schol. D ad Hom. Il. 11.672
“Neleus was the son of Poseidon was the best equestrian of his time and he sent horses to Elis for the contest conducted by Augeas. When those horses were victorious, Augeas became envious and took them. He sent the charioteers off untouched. When Neleus learned of this, he maintained peace. But Nestor, his youngest child, gathered an army and attached Elis. He killed many people and regained the horses. They also took more than a little booty from the enemy. Pherecydes tells this story.”
I am not sure how much this little narrative does for us! (and if you want much, much more on this, I think Doug Frame’s Hippota Nestorwill never be surpassed) I do think we can see the opening and closing of Nestor’s speech as instructive. He focuses on responsibility, friendship, and community in framing his narrative: then, he tells a story about individual glory that seems to redound positively on the community. The most important detail that jumps out is his selection of a particular course of action against his father’s wishes. (Indeed, Patroklos as somehow a child to Achilles, despite his older age, is important to the opening scene in book 16 where Achilles compares him to a little girl tugging at her mother’s apron strings).
Nestor’s request/advice near the end is couched in the caveat: unless Achilles has special knowledge. I think if we remember book 9 correctly, we have no reason to believe that Nestor knows Achilles has sworn an oath not to return to battle. Patroklos, however, certainly knows this. Given his own experience of Achilles’ character and Nestor’s story plus the option of leading the Achaeans to battle, we have to imagine Patroklos as accepting that advice as the only option.
Victoria Pedrick usefully contextualizes this speech in the scholarship of paradeigmata and addresses the question of the ‘lesson’s’ target. According to Pedrick, Nestor’s speech in book 11 differs from other persuasive speeches: She notes that “The absence of both command and direct comparison is not normal in paradigmatic speeches and it makes Nestor’s exhortation in 11 unusually indirect” and suggests that “The implicit character of Nestor’s exhortation can be explained by the fact that Nestor is talking not to Achilles, but to Patroklos. The observation is obvious, but it ought to be emphasized”(59). This interpretation, as she implies, is not fully in accord with the situation: Nestor’s long description of his own accomplishments in battle amount to an aristeia that may be scene as an example of heroic behavior for Achilles. The lesson, Pedrick concludes following Karl Reinhardt, is for Patroklos, or, at least he takes it as a model. One of the difficulties in this argument for me, is following the conclusion (67-68) that Achilles has “misread the situation” and expects an appeal from the Greeks. Achiles has perhaps correctly read the situation, he just does not expect Patroklos to appeal to him and make the request he does.
One of the bugbears stalking this debate is to what extent Nestor adapts or innovates in the telling of his tale and, to make it more complex, how much we can imagine the Homeric narrator adapting and innovating in positioning Nestor to do so. There was a time in Homeric scholarship when some argues that innovation or ‘ad hoc’ invention was difficult to imagine for traditional poetry. This is where cognitive approaches have been helpful in showing how narrative moves and changes based on the audience. Elizabeth Minchin’s article on this speech is especially good: she concludes that “his episode reflects the narrator’s skill in turning traditional material to communicative advantage” (285). Nestor is shown here arguing for two possible outcomes: Achilles returns and receives glory through his aristeia (not through goods, as Phoinix argues), or, if he cannot return for some reason, Patroklos takes his place and wins glory too, providing a break to the Greeks.
Rather than being a trick or insidious, Nestor is hedging his bets. He is clear about the problem, offers potential solutions, and uses himself as an example of winning glory in messed-up situations. We, as the audience, think there is something off here, because we know (1) what Achilles asked of Zeus (to punish the Achaeans) and (2) that Patroklos’ death will bring Achilles back to war.
Gaisser, Julia Haig. “A Structural Analysis of the Digressions in the Iliad and the Odyssey.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 73 (1969): 1–43. https://doi.org/10.2307/311147.
Louden, D. Bruce. “Iliad 11 : healing, healers, Nestor, and Medea.” Yearbook of Ancient Greek Epic, vol. 2, 2018, pp. 151-164. Doi: 10.1163/24688487-00201005
Minchin, Elizabeth. “Speaker and listener, text and context : some notes on the encounter of Nestor and Patroklos in Iliad II.” Classical World, vol. LXXXIV, 1990-1991, pp. 273-285.
Pedrick, Victoria. “The paradigmatic nature of Nestor’s speech in Iliad 11.” TAPA, vol. CXIII, 1983, pp. 55-68.
Karl Reinhardt, Die Iliad und ihr Dichter (Gottingen 1961) 258-64;
Roisman, Hanna M.. “Nestor the good counsellor.” Classical Quarterly, N. S., vol. 55, no. 1, 2005, pp. 17-38. Doi: 10.1093/cq/bmi002
Strauss Clay, Jenny. “Iliad 1.282-284 and Nestor’s rhetoric of compromise.” Mnemosyne, Ser. 4, vol. 67, no. 6, 2014, pp. 987-993. Doi: 10.1163/1568525X-12301444
Willcock, M. M. “Ad Hoc Invention in the Iliad.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 81 (1977): 41–53. https://doi.org/10.2307/311110.
Some things to read on paradeigmata
Andersen, Øivind. 1987. “Myth Paradigm and Spatial Form in the Iliad.” In Homer Beyond Oral Poetry: Recent Trends in Homeric Interpretation, edited by Jan Bermer and Irene J. F. De Jong. John Benjamins.’
Barker, Elton T. E. and Christensen, Joel P. 2011. “On Not Remembering Tydeus: Agamemnon, Diomedes and the Contest for Thebes.” MD: 9–44.
Brenk, F. 1984 “Dear Child: the Speech of Phoinix and the Tragedy of Achilles in the Ninth Book of the Iliad.” Eranos, 86: 77–86.
Braswell, B. K. 1971. “Mythological Innovation in the Iliad.” CQ, 21: 16-26.
Book 11 of the Iliadis one of those battle books that often get lost in conversations about the whole. But the poem does contribute critically to the plot: enough of the prominent Greeks are wounded that the battle begins to turn definitively in the Trojans’ favor. Achilles, watching from the sidelines, notices, and sends Patroklos to investigate. Nestor tells Patroklos a rather long story to persuade him to either convince Achilles to return to war or to lead the Myrmidons to battle in Achilles’ place.
These contributions to the plot make Iliad 11 essential. But the book has some other, more nuanced aspects as well. As I discussed in the first post on book 11, the wounding of heroes, particularly Diomedes, engages with extra-Iliadic traditions in fascinating ways. The book also advances the epic’s strategy of deferring Achilles’ appearance. This time, however, Achilles appears briefly. And what we make of his actions changes how we approach his character.
We find Achilles eagerly watching the action, despite the fact that it is taking place on the other side of the Achaean fortifications.
Homer, Iliad 11.596-615
“So they were struggling like a burning fire And Neleus’ horses were bringing Nestor out of the war, Covered in sweat as they also drove Makhaon, the shepherd of the host. Shining Achilles recognized him when he saw him. For he was standing on the stern of his huge-hulled ship, Watching the terrible conflict and the lamentable retreat. He quickly turned to his companion Patroklos and spoke To him next to the ship. He heard as he came from their dwelling Like Ares himself, and this was the beginning of his trouble.
So, the brave son of Menoitios spoke first: Why are you calling me, Achilles? What need do you have of me?
Swift footed Achilles spoke to him in answer:
“Shining son of Menoitios, most cherished to my own heart, Now I think that the Achaeans are about to stand begging Around my knees. For a need comes upon them, and it is no longer tolerable.
But come, now Patroklos dear to Zeus, go ask Nestor Who that man is he leads wounded from the war. Certainly he looks from this angle in every way like Makhaon, Asclepius’ son, bit I cannot see the man’s eyes, Since the horses raced past me in their eager stride.”
There are some interesting responses from ancient scholars. Variously, they see Achilles’ viewing of the battle as an indication of his character and a creation of suspense.
Schol Tb ad Hom. Il. 11. 600-1 ex
“Achilles is shown to be a lover of war here by his viewing of the battle. Still, the poet crafts this in anticipation for Achilles’ return.”
But many comments attend to the brief narrative foreshadowing “and that was the beginning of evil for him” (κακοῦ δ’ ἄρα οἱ πέλεν ἀρχή).
Schol. bT ad Hom. Il. 11.605 ex
“The declaration makes the audience eager to learn what this evil might be. The poet creates this with a brief indication. If he had done more, he would have ruined the order of events and weakened the poem.”
These comments on Achilles’ character show something of a limited understanding. There is an argument to be made throughout the Iliad that when characters who are not engaged in the conflict are watching the battle they function in part as stand-ins for the external audience, helping us to see the action in a different way. In this, I think about the function of the chorus in Greek tragedy—the choruses are far from neutral parties in Athenian drama, but they are nonetheless capable of acting as vehicles between the main story and the audience. Achilles, standing on the stern of his ship, watching with interest both helps us remember that these events are extraordinary and provides us with a few moments respite from the conflict.
Achilles, however, is not like any other character: when he watches, his interest is something altogether different. His stance in part reminds me of those moments when Zeus retreats to watch the battle from somewhere else. A primary difference is that Achilles’ interest is not neutral: as he himself expresses in this passage, the increased suffering of the Achaeans makes it likely that they will appeal to them again. Indeed, ancient scholars have commented on Achilles standing and watching the battle as evidence of his love of war (he just likes to watch fighting, I guess) or his love of honor (is he rooting for the Achaeans to suffer more quickly so that they will offer him more to return?)
As is usually the case, the ambiguity of the scene is part of the point. While Achilles does say that the Greeks will be begging him soon, he swore an oath not to return to battle until the fire reaches his ships in Iliad 9. That recent action makes it difficult to argue that Achilles is simply waiting to be compensated or glorified. He is concerned about a particular person being injured and wants to know what is actually happening in the conflict. Achilles’ limited knowledge here echoes that part of him that is not super human: his knowledge of others’ deaths and fates. Indeed, this scene’s narrative commentary “and it was the beginning of his trouble” points to the limits of human knowledge. The irony we as the audience know is that Achilles prayed for the Achaeans to suffer to make up for his dishonor and he is just now about to send his own cherished Patroklos out there to become part of the comeuppance.
As Jinyo Kim writes in her 2001 book The Pity of Achilles, the hero’s watching of the conflict is a confirmation of Achilles’ concern for the Greeks: the primary arguments that moved him in the earlier embassy (see especially 103-113). She notes that Achilles’ language about how dire the situation is (λισσομένους· χρειὼ γὰρ ἱκάνεται οὐκέτ’ ἀνεκτός) repeats what Nestor said in the previous book. As Kim notes, Achilles knows the situation is bad and does not need to send Patroklos to confirm it. Instead, he is demonstrating a concern for others that is consonant with his characterization in book 9 and his final turn to empathy in book 24.
Objections to this argument will point out that Achilles himself remains distant: Kim argues that Patroklos here begins to function as a ritual replacement for Achilles in book 11, rather than 16. I think this argument works well to help us understand that Achilles is showing his concern for the Achaeans through Patroklos because he is constrained by the oath he took at the end of book 9. Achilles looks like he is cruel and Nestor expresses criticism to that effect. But Patroklos anticipates this when he says to Nestor: “Divine old man, you know what kind of guy that terrible man is. He would quickly blame the blameless” (εὖ δὲ σὺ οἶσθα γεραιὲ διοτρεφές, οἷος ἐκεῖνος / δεινὸς ἀνήρ· τάχα κεν καὶ ἀναίτιον αἰτιόῳτο (11.653-654). A scholiast explains Patroklos’ comments as somewhat self-defensive: “He is pointing to Achilles’ irascibility, gaining for himself some pardon for not persuading him” ἐπιτείνει δὲ αὐτοῦ τὸ θυμικόν, συγγνώμην ἑαυτῷ ποριζόμενος τοῦ μὴ πεῖσαι αὐτόν, Schol. bT Ad Hom. Il. 11.654).
But I suspect that there is something more personal. The adjective deinos—which famously can mean ‘terrible, marvelous, amazing’—is only applied to mortals in limited conditions in the Iliad. At its root, it is related to verbs of fear and amazement. Gods leaving or entering battle often receive this description, but Helen uses it in addressing Priam in book 3 (171). There’s a familiar sense to this personal use, indicating that the speaker is full of amazement and confusion at the target’s behavior. Patroklos not understand Achilles’ behavior, just as the members of the Embassy in book 9 are confused.
Two handled amphora with Achilles and Ajax, c. 520 BCE, Museum of Fine Arts,
Book 11 of the Iliad returns us to the violence of war and begins one of the longest sequences of battle in ancient literature: although there are moments of respite and distraction, day 19 of the Iliad takes us from dawn at the start of book 11 and goes until dusk at the end of book 19. Counting inclusively, this means that one full third of the epic, a battle sequence that includes the death of Patroklos and the struggle over his body, corresponds to one bloody day on the plains before Troy.
As I see it, the action of this book falls into three very different scenes: the conflict renewed by Zeus, resulting in the wounding of all the major Greek leaders; a brief return to Achilles where we see him responding to their suffering with concern, sending Patroklos to investigate; the long speech Nestor offers to try to persuade Patroklos to convince Achilles to return to war (or come himself in Achilles’ place). Patroklos does not return to report back to Achilles until the beginning of book 16
The plot of this book engages critically with the major themes I have noted to follow in reading the Iliad: (1) Politics, (2) Heroism; (3) Gods and Humans; (4) Family & Friends; (5) Narrative Traditions, but the central themes I emphasize in reading and teaching book 11 are Family & Friends and Narrative Traditions.
PENN Museum INV MS3442 540-530 BCE
Diomedes’ Foot Wound, And a Digression about Monro’s Law
As I have discussed in other posts, part of the art of the Iliad is how it integrates into its narrative arc motifs, scenes, and even episodes that belong to different parts of the Trojan War timeline. There are different ways to view this: the way Elton Barker and I have long thought about it is that the performance of mythical narrative was an essentially competitive market and the Homeric epics developed near the end of a performance tradition that both relied on repeated structures for complex compositions and prized the appropriation of narrative structures and details from rival traditions.
In establishing itself as the final epic about the war at Troy, the Iliad endeavors to tell the whole story of the war. This helps us to understand Homeric anachronisms, like the integration of episodes proper to the beginning of the whole conflict to the beginning of the story of the 9th year of the war (e.g., the catalogue of ships, the teichoskopia, the dual between Paris and Menelaos, the building of the Greek fortifications). There are somewhat fewer clear adaptations of episodes subsequent to the death of Hektor, but we have already seen in book 7 mention of the destruction of the walls around the ships and earlier in 6 echoes of the future death of Astyanax.
There’s a ‘law’ about Homeric representation (Monro’s Law, perhaps better called Niese’s) that goes something like this in its simplest form: the Homeric epics do not directly refer to actions contained in each other; the Odyssey will frequently refer to prior events of the Trojan War. D. B. Monro added that the Odyssey appears to demonstrate “tacit recognition” of the Iliad, while the Iliad reveals almost no recognition of the events of Odyssey. Scholars have often taken this observation to help support arguments for the later composition of the Odyssey.
I suspect that if we tally up references to narratives outside the scope of each epic we would find instead that both display a marked tendency to refer to antecedent events and only limited, often occluded knowledge of any futures. I think that rather than being an indication of later composition, this is a reflection of human cognition, a limited sense of realism that roots each epic in its own events but makes the stories before them active motifs in informing and shaping the narrative at hand. This is, I suggest, an extension of human narrative psychology. For the participants of the Iliad and its audiences, certain references are available only to what has already happened. Events posterior to the story being told, even when known, are obscured and refracted.
This digression helps us think in part about the way book 11 engages with narrative traditions. Frequently, when I read the Iliad with people for the first time, they express surprise that the poem has neither the death of Achilles nor the trick of the wooden horse. The Iliad strains at logic to refer to Achilles’ death many times without actually showing it: From Thetis’ mention in book 1, Achilles’ own in book 9, to echoes of Achilles’ death through Patroklos’, the epic provides ample evidence that Achilles’ death at the hands of Paris and Apollo was well known (and predicted by Hektor!) But while the scene itself must be left aside, the Iliad can’t resist toying with it in the wounding of Diomedes in book 11.
It is fairly well established in Homeric scholarship that Diomedes functions as a “replacement Achilles” from books 2 through 15 (see Von der Mühll 1952, 195-6; Lohmann 1970, 251; Nagy 1979, 30-1; Griffin 1980, 74; and Schofield 1999, 29 for a recent bibliography). In Iliad 11, after Paris wounds Diomedes in the right foot, he boasts and Diomedes flips out, before departing the battlefield. This curious scene has served has been seen as echoing the death of Achilles in the Aithiopis (based on Paris’ agency, the wound location and the substitution of Diomedes for Achilles elsewhere in the Iliad: see cf. Kakridis 1949, 85-8; Kakridis 1961, 293 n.1; and Burgess 2009, 74-5.)
Homer, Il. 11. 368-83
Then Alexander, the husband of well-coiffed Helen, stretched his bow at Tydeus’ son, the shepherd of the host, as he leaned on the stele on the man-made mound of Ilus the son of Dardanios, the ancient ruler of the people. While [Diomedes] took the breastplate of strong Agastrophes from his chest and the shining shield from his shoulders along with the strong helmet. Paris drew back the length of his bow and shot: a fruitless shot did not leave his hand, he hit the flat of his right foot, and the arrow stuck straight through into the earth. Paris laughed so very sweetly as he left his hiding place and spoke in boast: “You’re hit! The shot did not fly in vain! I wish that I hit you near the small of you back and killed you: that way the Trojans would retreat from their cowardice, those men who scatter before you like she-goats before a lion!”
I think this speech indicates in part a Homeric dismissiveness against the death of Achilles in the tradition, as I argue in a paper from around a decade ago. Paris tries to boast wishes that Diomedes were actually killed. This is not a standard battlefield taunt; even as Paris celebrates a the wound everyone in the audience knows is fatal for others, he asserts that it is not so now. The nervous laughter and admission of Trojan cowardice highlights the awkwardness of this scene and its lack of verisimilitude.
Diomedes’ response supports this, to an extent
Homer, Il. 11.384-400
Unafraid, strong Diomedes answered him: “Bowman, slanderer shining with your horn, girl-watcher— if you were to be tried in force with weapons, your strength and your numerous arrows would be useless. But now you boast like this when you have scratched the flat of my foot. I don’t care, as if a woman or witless child had struck me— for the shot of a cowardly man of no repute is blunt. Altogether different is my sharp shot: even if barely hits it makes a man dead fast; then the cheeks of his wife are streaked with tears and his children orphans. He dyes the earth red with blood and there are more birds around him than women.”
So he spoke, and spear-famed Odysseus came near him and stood in front of him. As he sat behind him, he drew the sharp shaft from his foot and a grievous pain came over his skin. He stepped into the chariot car and ordered the charioteer to drive to the hollow ships since he was vexed in his heart.
There’s a lot going on in this speech! It simultaneously attempts to minimize Paris’ accomplishment (as minor, as emasculating, etc.) and allows Diomedes to vaunt about his own martial prowess while also acknowledging that the foot wound is still serious enough to sideline Diomedes from battle. Perhaps part of the point is to ridicule Paris and emphasize that Achilles’ future death has more to do with fate and Apollo; on the other hand, I think it can equally position the Iliad as engaging critically with the tradition of the Trojan War. Given the scale of violence in this epic and the brutal loss of life throughout, a foot wound taking out the most powerful warrior may seem absurd. Indeed, in this epic, Achilles takes himself out of the battle. Yet, even given potential mockery, I have to concede that the allusion to Achilles’ death might also acknowledge how the most powerful forces can be undone by surprisingly minor things.
The meaning of Diomedes’ foot wound, however, shifts based on what audiences know and how they are reacting to the story in play. Some might take the familiar details as comforting, as invoking an ending they know well; for others, it may be a moment of consternation, playing on that tension between ‘Homeric realism’ and the fantasy of broader myth.
Reading Questions for Book 11
How are the interventions of the gods different in this book from books 9 and 10? Why?
How do the events of the book shape the characterization of the characters? Pay special attention to speeches from Agamemnon and Diomedes?
What is Nestor’s speech to Patroklos like and how does it influence his action?
A short bibliography on Diomedes and book 11
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Andersen, Öivind. 1978. Die Diomedesgestalt in der Ilias. Oslo.
Barker, E. T.E. and Christensen, Joel P. 2008. “Oidipous of Many Pains: Strategies of Contest in the Homeric Poems.” LICS 7.2. http://www.leeds.ac.uk/classics/lics/).
Burgess, Jonathan. 2001. The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle. Baltimore.
—,—. 2009. The Death and Afterlife of Achilles. Baltimore.
Christensen, Joel P. 2009. “The End of Speeches and a Speech’s End: Nestor, Diomedes, and the telos muthôn.” in Kostas Myrsiades (ed.). Reading Homer: Film and Text. Farleigh Dickinson University Press, 136-62.
Christensen, Joel P. and Barker, Elton T. E.. “On not remembering Tydeus: Agamemnon, Diomedes and the contest for Thebes.” Materiali e Discussioni per l’Analisi dei Testi Classici, no. 66, 2011, pp. 9-44.
Christensen, Joel P. 2015. “Diomedes’ Foot-wound and the Homeric Reception of Myth.” In Diachrony, Jose Gonzalez (ed.). De Gruyter series, MythosEikonPoesis. 2015, 17–41.
Gantz, Timothy. 1993. Early Greek Myth. Baltimore.
Griffin, Jasper. 1980. Homer on Life and Death. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
—,—.2001. “The Epic Cycle and the Uniqueness of Homer.” in Cairns 2001: 363-84.
Irby-Massie. Georgia. 2009. “The Art of Medicine and the Lowly Foot: Treating Aches, Sprains, and Fractures in the Ancient World.” Amphora 8: 12-15.
Irene J. F. de Jong. “Convention versus Realism in the Homeric Epics.” Mnemosyne 58, no. 1 (2005): 1–22. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4433613.
Kakridis, Johannes Th. 1949. Homeric Researches. Lund.
Kakridis, Phanis, J. 1961. “Achilles’ Rüstung.” Hermes 89: 288-97.
Lohmann, Dieter. 1970. Dieter Lohmann. Die Komposition der Reden in der Ilias. Berlin.
Morris, I. and Powell, B., eds. 1997. A New Companion to Homer. Leiden.
Mühll, Peter von der. 1952. Kritisches Hypomena zur Ilias. Basel.
Nagy, Gregory. 1979. The Best of the Achaeans. Baltimore.
Nickel, Roberto. 2002. “Euphorbus and the Death of Achilles.” Phoenix 56: 215-33.
Pache, Corinne. 2009. “The Hero Beyond Himself: Heroic Death in Ancient Greek Poetry and Art.” in Sabine Albersmeir (ed.). Heroes: Mortals and Myths in ancient Greece. Baltimore (Walters Art Museum): 89-107.
Redfield, James. 1994. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hektor. Chicago.
Schofield, M.1999. Saving the City: Philosopher Kings and Other Classical Paradigms. London.
Vernant, J.-P. 1982. “From Oidipous to Periander: Lameness, Tyranny, Incest, in Legend and History.” Arethusa 15: 19-37.
—,—. 2001. “A ‘Beautiful Death’ and the Disfigured Corpse.” in Cairns 2001: 311-41.
Willcock, M. 1977. 1977. “Ad hoc invention in the Iliad.” HSCP 81: 41-53.
As I mention in an earlier post, much of the debate around book 10 of the Iliad centers around its “fit” to our Iliad and our concept of what the Iliad should contain. Even the most strident critic of Iliad 10—M. L. West—concedes its antiquity, insisting that it was added to an authentic text by later editors. From my perspective, this argument is nullified if we see the Iliad as a composition in performance that intentionally brings together disparate pieces to evoke the whole story of the Trojan War. Recent studies of the language of book 10 using statistical models have come to different conclusions about its ‘authenticity’. The analysis of Chiara Bozzone’s and Ryan Sandell shows notable differences between the Iliad and the Odyssey; that Iliad 10 seems to be an outlier linguistically, and that some of Odyssean books are closer to the Iliad.
Yet, from another perspective in the work of John Pavlopoulos and Maria Konstantinidou, the language of book 10 is no more anomalous for the rest of the Iliad than book 11, and certainly more regular than book 9 (which no one disputes as Homeric).
As any student of oral poetry knows, language follows theme. The contents of book 10 are thematically and lexically different from the rest of the epic because they describe events that are dissimilar to those that unfold elsewhere. Any decision about the ‘fit’ of book 10 is therefore based on its content and preformed ideas of what the Iliadshould be like. As I said in that earlier post, Casey Dué and Mary Ebbott have pretty much made the best case for the traditionality of the Iliad 10 in their Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary.
Book 10, structurally, occupies the night between thee failed embassy to Achilles in book 10 and the resumption of warfare in book 11. The day that follows occupies nine books of the epic (11-18). The book itself furnishes an opportunity to reflect again on differences in politics between the Achaeans and Trojans, differences in characterization, and differences in tone. But I also suspect that it is playing with mythical traditions that pair Odysseus and Diomedes together.
When Agamemnon and Nestor gather the Achaean chieftains to consider spying on the Trojans. Diomedes volunteers and Agamemnon gives him enigmatic advice about whom to choose as a companion.
Iliad 10.234-239
“Indeed, choose a companion, whomever you want, the best one of those who are present, since many are eager at least. Do not, because you are keeping shame in your thoughts, leave behind the better man, but choose the lesser man because you yield to shame when you consider his birth, not even if he is kinglier.”
A scholion suggest that Agamemnon provides this advice because he is worried that Diomedes will feel pressured to choose Menelaos. Diomedes’ response indicates that Agamemnon probably didn’t have much to worry about.
Iliad 10.242-247
“If you are really asking me to choose my own companion, How could I then overlook divine Odysseus, Whose heart and proud energy are preeminent In all toils. And Pallas Athena loves him. If he’s accompanying me, then we would both come back Even from a burning fire, since he really knows how to think.”
There are not many moments in the Iliad that pair these two heroes together. And, if we follow what happens in the plot here, the two men sneak into the Trojan camp after capturing and killing Dolon, then they kill a bunch of men in their sleep and steal their horses. Diomedes is the one who does most of the murdering, but it seems to be Odysseus who has a plan.
I suspect that part of what is going on in this seen is an echo of stories that put Diomedes and Odysseus together in the Trojan War tradition. In part, Diomedes as a stand in for Achilles may invite consideration of the rivalry between the two iconoclastic heroes. As the figures of force (Achilles) and wit (Odysseus) the two have been seen as in rivalry (Gregory Nagy lays this out memorably in The Best of the Achaeans). Such a feature of myth is confirmed to a degree by the unexplained song of the “strife of Achilles and Odysseus” mentioned in the Odyssey.
Odyssey 8.73-78
“The Muse moved the singer to sing the tales of men, The story whose fame had reached to the wide heaven, The strife of Odysseus and Peleus’ son Achilles, How they were in conflict at a sacred feast of the gods With harsh words for one another, and the lord of men, Agamemnon Took delight in his heart, that the best of the Achaeans were in conflict.”
But how does a potential rivalry between Achilles and Odysseus translate into a nighttime buddy-comedy of murder? Here we may also want to consider a tradition of difficulties between Diomedes and Odysseus from the lost Little Iliad According to Apollodorus, Diomedes and Odysseus were paired together to go get the bow of Herakles from Philoktetes and then went together again to sneak into the city to steal the Palladion. In that summary, Diomedes waits and watches while Odysseus disguises himself as a beggar to infiltrate the city.
The basic story is that, in order to take Troy, the Greeks needed to steal the Palladion, an image of Athena. In other traditions, Odysseus showed himself to be less than a team player. On the way back from the city, Odysseus tried to kill Diomedes. According to other accounts (summarized by Servius in his commentary on the Aeneid, see Gantz 1992, 643-5), Odysseus just wanted the glory all to himself.
We can see the Palladion-tale is a re-doubling of other Trojan War motifs: the requirement of Herakles’ bow and Philoktetes or the need to have Neoptolemus present, for example, are similar talismanic possessions to end the long war. Odysseus’ conflict with Diomedes, here, is not dissimilar either to his quarrel with Ajax or his feud with Achilles (mentioned in the Odyssey). I suspect that part of what is going on in book 10 is an echoing of these other traditions. I would go so far as to suggest that ancient audiences may have wondered whether Odysseus would betray Diomedes here. Instead of an act of betrayal, however, we see a scheming Odysseus who manages to get Diomedes to do most of the bloody work himself.
There is one fragment from the Little Iliad about this moment:
“It was the middle of the night, and the bright moon lay on them”
As I have suggested in the last two posts on Iliad 10, confusion about whether or not Iliad 10 is an essential part of the epic is rooted in part to different concepts of textuality, fixity, and unity. The primary issues scholars have with book 10 are (1) we have a scholion saying it is “Homer’s” but not “part of the Iliad, (2) the action of the book does not advance the main part of the story; and (3) the events of the book are not mentioned in other books. To this, we can add (4) West’s insistence that “Nothing suggests that the story of the night foray and the killing of Rhesos had any traditional basis. Rhesos achieves nothing at Troy and therefore has no place in the war.”
Each of these points relies in some way on core assumptions about what the Iliad is. Qualm 4 posits that a story requires traditional basis to be part of our Iliad. This is not at all true of a lot of the Iliad and patently absurd in the face of our limited evidence. The Iliad is best where it capitalizes on a tension between what people think they know about the Trojan War and what happens in the poem. For issue #3: there are also many, many parts of the epic that are not mentioned anywhere else in the poem. For #1, well, ancient scholiasts say lots of things: perhaps Iliad 10 was not a well-known and common part of the Iliad as some audiences knew it: but it has been around and part of our poem long enough that Alexandrian scholars framed it as a Peisistratean interpolation. All of our texts of the Iliad went through some kind of an Athenian ‘recension’!
The only substantial argument I can see is #2, that the book does not advance the main part of the story. This is an entirely subjective statement, supposing that there is a main story to advance and, further, that “advancing the story” is the chief purpose of any book of the epic. As I discuss in an earlier post, I think that book 10 does important work in creating suspense after book 9 and the embassy to Achilles; in addition, Dolon himself offers some interesting echoes of Achilles.
Thinking about those echoes has made me reflect again on exactly how book 10 “advances” the poem. It is not necessarily about the action—since the death of Dolon, Rhesos, and the loss of those marvelous horses does not change the balance of the war at all. But the actions do advance the plot of the epic.
Let me address this by starting from the first line of the poem: Μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω ᾿Αχιλῆος. “Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles.” I think we are so familiar with this opening that we forget it could have gone another way. Imagine knowing about Achilles as a man of rage, a demigod with superhuman strength and overflowing emotions. In art, he appears poised in a game with his cousin, killing Penthesileia, ambushing Troilos, abusing Hektor’s body. His rage may have been primarily known as a reaction to the death of Patroklos (in the Iliad) or over Antilokhos (in the lost Aethiopis). The opening line could have introduced any number of a range of stories.
Here’s a translation of the proem:
Goddess, sing the rage of Achilles, the son of Peleus, The ruinous [rage] which made countless griefs for the Achaeans And sent many stout souls to Hades And made the heroes’ bodies pickings for the dogs And all the birds, while Zeus’ plan was being fulfilled, From the time indeed when those two first stood apart in conflict The son of Atreus, lord of men, and shining Achilles.
Note how new details are added with each line. We don’t actually hear who suffers from Achilles’ rage until halfway through the second line. Audiences hearing this version of the story of Achilles’ rage may not have been shocked at its focus, but they certainly would have been clued in to the fact that this song is not necessarily about the death of a friend. This is a poem about Achilles’ anger against his own people and the deaths he causes among them. It becomes about his friend’s death because Achilles causes it.
Achilles receiving his armor from his mother. 520 BC (Allard Pierson Museum inv. 13.346)
So let’s go back to book 10. Or, let’s start a little earlier: book 8 ends a day of fighting with the trojans camping outside their city for the first time in the war. This act prompts Agamemnon to suggest going home, but results in political assembly and council to send the embassy to Achilles. This action and the embassy itself is a product of a political consensus, of group activity. When Achilles refuses, the group does not fracture. The main players—Diomedes, Nestor, Odysseus, and Agamemnon—maintain the Achaean coalition despite Achilles’ absence.
Book 10 continues this long night and the action of book 9. Everyone else goes to sleep, but Agamemnon stays away, stressed about what he’s going to do. He tosses, looking from the Trojan fires to the ships, and calls Nestor to make a plan to protect the Greeks. Nestor gathers the captains together and suggests reconnaissance to see if the Trojans are really going to stay outside the walls. He offers a small prize and the promise of glory in exchange, after describing the task. Diomedes volunteers: a bunch of others do too, but Diomedes picks Odysseus.
Contrast this with what happens on the Trojan side: Hektor is depicted as keeping the Trojans awake at night, calling the best of them together, and then starting with a promise of pay, a “big gift”: the best horses among the Achaeans. Hektor does this without support from a council; Dolon goes forward alone, without help, wholly motivated by the promise of the prize he will receive in return.
These scenes contrast in the way that the assemblies of book 7 do: they show a more collective-focused, collaborative leadership for the Achaean than the authoritarian, limited politics of the Trojans. In this case, in particular, the outcomes of the actions matter as much as the characterization. Dolon’s isolation and vulnerability contrasts with Diomedes and Odysseus.
And his ‘swift feet’ but “wicked form” (ὃς δή τοι εἶδος μὲν ἔην κακός, ἀλλὰ ποδώκης) may just be a subtle commentary on Achilles, who stands alone during book 10 while his people face the danger he put them in. As a method of ‘advancing the Iliad,” this certainly engages critically with the epic’s themes of politics and heroism. I think it may also engage with the “rage of Achilles” as well. As Lenny Muellner, my first Greek teacher, argues in his book The Anger of Achillesthat mênis is a sanctioning response against the violation of cosmic order—and for Achilles it separates him from friendship, from friends. Dolon’s echoing of Achilles may thus be far from accidental: book 10 provides another opportunity to reflect on the importance of communities and friendship.
Like Achilles, Dolon stands alone. Unlike Achilles, he meets a quick death, because, while he may be swift-footed, but he’s far from divine. And the point of book 10 is in part thinking through these contrasts.
Bibliography on book 10 and the Doloneia
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Davidson, Olga Merck. “Dolon and Rhesus in the ‘Iliad.’” Quaderni Urbinati Di Cultura Classica 1 (1979): 61–66. https://doi.org/10.2307/20538562.
Dué, Casey, and Mary Ebbott. 2010. Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary. Hellenic Studies Series 39. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Fenik, B. 1964. Iliad X and the Rhesus: The Myth. Collection Latomus 73. Brussels.
Haft, Adele J. “‘The City-Sacker Odysseus’ in Iliad 2 and 10.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 120 (1990): 37–56. https://doi.org/10.2307/283977.
Stagakis, George. “DOLON, ODYSSEUS AND DIOMEDES IN THE ‘DOLONEIA.’” Rheinisches Museum Für Philologie 130, no. 3/4 (1987): 193–204. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41233632.
STEINER, D. “‘Wolf’s Justice’: The Iliadic Doloneia and the Semiotics of Wolves.” Classical Antiquity 34, no. 2 (2015): 335–69. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26362659.
West. M.L. 2011. The Making of the Iliad: Disquisition and Analytical Commentary. Oxford.
As I write about in my first post on book 10, the so-called Doloneia has given interpreters fits (why is it there at all?), but I think there are very, very good reasons to consider it part of the whole. One structural reason I argue there, is that it provides a rest and a bit of anticipation of what will come when the fighting begins again. I think there are also important thematic and compositional reasons to consider it an integral part of the Iliad.
In their commentary on book 10 of the Iliad, Casey Dué and Mary Ebbott do a great job of teasing out the meaning available from each phrase. As they discuss in their introduction, the character of Dolon, who appears as the Trojan spy in book 10, is not well-established in the tradition. Part of the way we know that is that he is introduced with a somewhat enigmatic, but detailed passage. Homeric speech introductions can be formulaic—in a way, they are a kind of type scene signaling what kind of speech should be expected. But within the regular patterns, we find room for new, even strange information. When I teach Homer, I tell students to pay particular attention to introductions because they bring in surprising yet almost always relevant information.
In television we have the concept of a ‘red-shirt’, a character from Star Trek who appears and dies shortly after being introduced. Some of them are like NPCs (non-player characters) with barely a name, but others receive longer stories, narratives that engage with the larger story in a way. Dolon’s introduction is a good example of a kind of Homeric redshirt (but he probably deserves some description that rates him a little higher than such disposable characters). And his introduction also helps us think about Homeric composition. In particular it illustrates how characterization within a speech can be anticipated by the introduction.
Hom. Iliad 10.314-317
“There was among the Trojans a certain son of Eumedes, The divine herald, a man all about gold, all about bronze, Dolon. He was pretty base in form, but fleet-footed, But he was the only son after five sisters. Then he spoke among the Trojans and to Hektor. Hektor my heart and proud spirit urges me To go near the shift ships and learn from them. But come, raise your scepter to me and swear to me That you will give the horses and the chariot decorated with bronze, Those things that usually carry the blameless son of Peleus. I won’t be a useless spy nor unaccomplished. I will go straight into the army until I come To Agamemnon’s ship where I bet that the best men Are taking counsel over their plans whether they will leave or fight.”
The line of introduction itself (ἦν δέ τις ἐν Τρώεσσι Δόλων Εὐμήδεος υἱὸς) has a bit of a meandering suddenness to it: as West notes in his commentary (2011) the opening is “the means for introducing a new character. A scholiast confirms this and then explains the details prefigure what he will do in the text.
Schol. ad Hom. bT ad Il. 10.314 ex 1-3
“There’s a need for some description to explain what is unknown about the man. Nonetheless, he is the kind of person who lusts after Achilles’ horses and turns out to be a turncoat in a little bit.”
There are three themes in this passage: the first is Dolon’s appearance (he is ugly but fast), the second is his relationship to wealth (he likes it!), and the fourth is his status as a single son with five sisters. One scholiast quips that he has so much cash because of the dowries of his sisters! West (again, 2011) suggests that this detail is important because it increases his value in a potential ransom (Cf. Dué and Ebbott: Certainly Dolon’s wealth comes into play after his capture: when he promises Diomedes and Odysseus a great ransom (10.378–381) the traditional characteristic of his wealth indicates that he could indeed pay handsomely in exchange for his life.” As Dué and Ebbott also note, the patronymic here is an indication of some kind of traditional character.
Ancient scholars draw interesting connections between Dolon’s wealth and his interest in Achilles’ horses:
Schol T. ad Hom. Il. 10.315b ex
“All about gold”: This is because he loves gold. Or because of some other boasting he performed for gold. For being wealthy also creates a longing for the raising of horses
But his appearance and his wealth are also related to his sisters and his efficacy in war:
“This shows that he is unmanly because he was raised in wealth.”
ἵνα καὶ ὡς ἐν πλούτῳ τεθραμμένος ἄνανδρος ᾖ,
Schol. In Hom. Il. 10.317b
“Because he is terribly like a woman and reckless”
ὡς γυναικοτραφὴς δειλὸς ἦν καὶ ῥιψοκίνδυνος.
Schol T. ad Hom. Il. 10.316
“He is base in his form: this is so he can sneak by you because he’s unremarkable. But he does want to be conveyed in the place of Achilles on his horses!”
As I have discussed in connection to Thersites, Greek physiognomy posits an overlap between looks and ethics. An ugly person, the logic goes, is also a bad person. In the mind of the scholiasts, Dolon’s wealth is a marker of Greed and corruption (which is a later belief rather than a Homeric one) and his greed indicates a craven or corruptible character. Again, Dué and Ebbott note “Dolon’s ugliness, by comparison, is not dwelled upon, and does not seem to provoke any particular strong reaction, whether ridicule, repulsion, or irritation.” I think this is a smart observation that points to the kakos (‘ugly, base’) perhaps more indicating a problematic character. The scholiasts take the mention of Dolon’s sisters as a potential indication that he is unmanly (or cowardly) because he was always with girls; while they also use wealth as an explanation for his character.
The striking combination of acknowledging that Dolon is ugly/base but swift-footed also binds him in some way to Achilles who receives a similar description twenty-two times in the epic (again, following Dué and Ebbott). I think this anticipates his speech in inviting us to compare him to Achilles before he makes the hubristic request of receiving the hero’s horses as a reward.
I think one could almost say that Dolon’s entire narrative is anticipated by this speech introduction and the value judgments implied therein. But this passage is not just a good overview of Homeric structures (the device of introducing a new character, value judgments for that character, anticipation of those themes) but it also implies a complexity of composition. I don’t think that we would see such correlation of speech and introduction nor such significant anticipation of a brief character’s outcome, with a passage that was not in some way repeated or traditional. What I mean by this is that the compositional ties of the Doloneia are integrated enough to suggest strongly that this is a well-structured and planned episode and has been performed on many occasions. For me, this complexity countermands any academic concern that Dolon is ‘untraditional’. (Whatever that really means: Dolon appears in unconnected images like the vase below and he is a rather different character in the Rhesus attributed to Euripides.)
Homeric poetry can introduce or adapt characters and figures to its own ends. I think Dolon here has been set up for a rather particular purpose. Dolon’s relationship to Achilles, moreover, in terms of the shared epithet and the former’s depiction as greedy and cowardly, asks us to think about heroism in response to the actions of book 9. Book 9 deconstructs our notion of Achilles as a hero and leaves us wondering what choice he will make and what he will do if he is not motivated by gold, gifts, or honor. Book 10 sets different models of heroism into play: Dolon contrasts with Diomedes and Odysseus (who are motivated by horses too, in the end!), but he also helps us think about individuals, the war, and communities. Dolon is a straight up mercenary with swift feet: his story functions to help us think about Achilles as a ‘hero’.
(If this doesn’t help explain why book 10 is important to the Iliad, I don’t know what will. Well, except for the political theme too….)
Dolon. Detail from an Attic red-figure lekythos. Louvre, 460 BCE
Bibliography on book 10 and the Doloneia
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Davidson, Olga Merck. “Dolon and Rhesus in the ‘Iliad.’” Quaderni Urbinati Di Cultura Classica 1 (1979): 61–66. https://doi.org/10.2307/20538562.
Dué, Casey, and Mary Ebbott. 2010. Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary. Hellenic Studies Series 39. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Fenik, B. 1964. Iliad X and the Rhesus: The Myth. Collection Latomus 73. Brussels.
Haft, Adele J. “‘The City-Sacker Odysseus’ in Iliad 2 and 10.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 120 (1990): 37–56. https://doi.org/10.2307/283977.
Stagakis, George. “DOLON, ODYSSEUS AND DIOMEDES IN THE ‘DOLONEIA.’” Rheinisches Museum Für Philologie 130, no. 3/4 (1987): 193–204. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41233632.
STEINER, D. “‘Wolf’s Justice’: The Iliadic Doloneia and the Semiotics of Wolves.” Classical Antiquity 34, no. 2 (2015): 335–69. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26362659.
West. M.L. 2011. The Making of the Iliad: Disquisition and Analytical Commentary. Oxford.
Some things on speech framing
Beck, Deborah. “Speech Introductions and the Character Development of Telemachus.” The Classical Journal 94, no. 2 (1998): 121–41. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3298206.
Beck, Deborah. 2005. Homeric Conversation. Hellenic Studies Series 14. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Edwards, Mark W. “Homeric Speech Introductions.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 74 (1970): 1–36. https://doi.org/10.2307/310994.
Horn, Fabian. “Ἔπεα Πτερόεντα Again: A Cognitive Linguistic View on Homer’s ‘Winged Words.’” Hermathena, no. 198 (2015): 5–34. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26671604.
Riggsby, Andrew M. “Homeric Speech Introductions and the Theory of Homeric Composition.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 122 (1992): 99–114. https://doi.org/10.2307/284367.
Book 10 (also called the “Doloneia”) takes into the Achaean and Trojan camps at night after the embassy to Achilles. Both sides are worried about what the other might do, so they send out volunteers to spy. Diomedes and Odysseus meet the Trojan Dolon during their scouting and force him to reveal information about the Trojan troop positions before they kill him. They slaughter some Trojan allies in their sleep and steal their horses. The plot of this book engages critically with the major themes I have noted to follow in reading the Iliad: (1) Politics, (2) Heroism; (3) Gods and Humans; (4) Family & Friends; (5) Narrative Traditions, but the central themes I emphasize in reading and teaching book 9 are politics, heroism, and narrative traditions.
Among all other topics, I find the political contrast between the ‘volunteers’ on both sides to be telling; and I also think there is a lot to say about differences in characterization between the Homeric Hektor in this book and his appearance in the Rhesus attributed to Euripides. But before we can even begin to consider those topics, there is a massive war elephant in the room.
Is Book 10 Homeric?
Schol. T Ad Hom. Il. 10b 1 ex
“People say that this book was privately composed by Homer and was not part of the Iliad, but that it was added to the poem by Peisistratos.”
Walter Leaf, in his commentary on the Iliad quotes this scholion and cites two common reasons that ‘modern’ scholars have accepted the ancient commentary as gospel because the action does not advance the main story and the contents of the book are not mentioned elsewhere in the epic. The ancient scholar, however, does not insist that the book does not belong to ‘Homer’, but instead is a separate story, added by Peisistratos during the so-called Athenian recension.
Martin West in The Making of the Iliad, writes “It is the almost unanimous (and certainly correct) view of modern scholars that this rhapsody is an insertion in Il. by a different poet. The conclusion is based on several considerations:” He later adds: “Nothing suggests that the story of the night foray and the killing of Rhesos had any traditional basis. Rhesos achieves nothing at Troy and therefore has no place in the war.”
These conclusions—from the ancient scholars through to the modern day—betray essential assumptions about what a complete poem is and willfully (in the case of West) dismiss a model of composition that admits change in the performance tradition. Andrew Ford, in his review of West’s 2011 book, marks this dismissal as a disagreement or difference:
“West’s ultimate objective is the text made by that unus maximusque poeta who must stand— nihil ex nihilo fit —as the source of the Iliad. It is easy enough to point out that this corresponds to no empirical reality but is West’s abstraction from the data; but this is only to say that, like any interpreter, West must construct the text as he construes it. Nagy’s ultimate concern, equally ideal, is the Tradition, the ever-evolving medium that generated (in a Chomskyan sense) Homeric poetry.5 Hence the difference between them is not simply whether “Homer” wrote but what textualization means. West insists that once the oral versions of the Iliad were written down, the usual processes of textual transmission took over, calling for traditional philological approaches. In Nagy’s sweeping vision, transcription itself is part of the tradition and variation in the written sources is the continuing operation of the system of oral poetics. For Nagy, this system is what needs representing and is best represented as a multi-text. A consequence of this broad view is that P’s poem must be recognized as an “authentic” multiform by an undoubted master of the style (call him W if you like), though Nagy would deny it (and any version) originary status.”
I don’t know how much there is for me to add to this conversation, except that even West concedes the antiquity of both Book 10 and its inclusion in all major manuscripts from antiquity. I think Casey Dué and Mary Ebbott have pretty much made the best case for the traditionality of the Iliad 10 in their Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary. (If you have time, read it: it lays out a detailed view of ‘texts’ in a multiform system and counters well arguments about the propriety of the ambush (it is perfectly ‘heroic’!), the traditionality of the figures (Rhesos is super traditional, Dolon, less so; but for the Iliad and our evidence, what does that really mean), and the utility of taking a multitext approach (do it, it is useful).
Gimmick Episodes and Narrative Contexts
I want to offer another avenue of support, drawing on the basic proposition of the scholion, that “the Doloneia is Homer’s, but someone else added it to this poem.” Part of what I have been suggesting in my re-read of the Iliad—and, indeed, in my teaching over the years—is that we need to distinguish between different ways of experiencing Greek epic for ancient audiences. Ancient audiences rarely read the epic in its entirety and prior to the 4th century BCE, I suspect most still enjoyed epic in performance. The opportunities for monumental performances—those that presented the ‘whole’ story—would have been rare. The majority of epic performances would likely have been based on episodes. Any major festival performance, like those we reconstruct for the Panathenaia (the major Athenian festival) would have invited maximalist versions of the Iliad or the Odyssey. I think monumental efforts to transcribe and transmit the epic would have been similar.
So part of my interest in looking at Book 10 is what it does: it is, in a way, a classic “side quest”, what some might call a gimmick episode or a theme episode, as in Angel’s “Smile Time”, when everyone gets turned into a puppet or Buffy’s “Once More with Feeling”, one of a group of wonderful musical episodes in fantasy/scifi television. As a viewer I adore these episodes, even though they rarely contribute to the overall plot arc. They allow show creators to experiment with different forms and ideas and they let audience members luxuriate in the extension of the fantasy world. I think there’s a very real connection between fan fiction and engagement with popular narrative and the “throw away” episodes that take us all off the clock. We get to linger a bit in the world slightly turned upside down, yet still in the knowledge that we will return to the story, eventually.
The puppet Angel in Smile Time”
Something I have written about a few times is the tension in our drive to get to the end of a narrative and our desire for a story to never really end. Gimmick episodes expand the boundaries of a tale and temporality feed that latter desire. One of the things that has only recently occurred to me is how much the context for the reception of a story conditions how permeable the narrative boundaries are. A recent tweet sent me into a reverie.
I spent a fair amount of time in graduate school not reading Homer or doing school work but instead either binging DVD seasons of shows like Buffy, Angel, The Wire while also impatiently waiting for the next episode of The Sopranos or Battlestar Galactica. The arc-driven drama of the later seasons of Buffy or every season of The Wire made side-quest episodes useful: they relieve some of the stress of the narrative lurching forward (I am staring at you, LOST) while they also create suspense and anticipation at the delay of the major tale. Modern television, post streaming, is designed for a different pace: for binge watching and money saving. Major shows have gone from 22 episodes to 12 to 8 (and even fewer). And when we cut away the ‘fat’, we lose the ability to linger in the tale, to explore its world more broadly, to luxuriate in the fictions we create together. Instead, we are driven almost mercilessly towards the conclusion of the plot and the question we all end up asking: what do we watch next!?
If this analogy has value for Homer, I think it is in thinking about that tension between the whole story and the enjoyment of the parts. When we used to enjoy long form narrative television an hour a week, separated by conversation, speculation, surprises, and anticipation, we had more time for a narrative lark, be it a miscue or a standalone piece that allowed for expansion and experimentation. The episodes of the Iliad, I think, reflect that kind of archipelago mapping: distinct miniature narratives, held together by the single journey we take through them.
The Doloneia (book 10) maintains the same characters, advances some essential Iliadic plots, and contributes to the whole by (1) allowing some downtime after the intensity of book 9, (2) suspending the resumption of the action, and (3) allowing us to see characters who aren’t Achilles engaging with each other and the field of battle in surprising ways. It may not be all about the rage of Achilles, but book 10 makes us feel the impact of his rage all the more.
Some Reading Questions for Book 10
What are the motivations for night raids from either side?
What are some of the implications of the characterization and then the treatment of Dolon?
How is Iliad 10 consonant with the themes of the rest of the Epic?
Bibliography on book 10 and the Doloneia
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Davidson, Olga Merck. “Dolon and Rhesus in the ‘Iliad.’” Quaderni Urbinati Di Cultura Classica 1 (1979): 61–66. https://doi.org/10.2307/20538562.
Dué, Casey, and Mary Ebbott. 2010. Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary. Hellenic Studies Series 39. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Fenik, B. 1964. Iliad X and the Rhesus: The Myth. Collection Latomus 73. Brussels.
Haft, Adele J. “‘The City-Sacker Odysseus’ in Iliad 2 and 10.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 120 (1990): 37–56. https://doi.org/10.2307/283977.
Stagakis, George. “DOLON, ODYSSEUS AND DIOMEDES IN THE ‘DOLONEIA.’” Rheinisches Museum Für Philologie 130, no. 3/4 (1987): 193–204. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41233632.
STEINER, D. “‘Wolf’s Justice’: The Iliadic Doloneia and the Semiotics of Wolves.” Classical Antiquity 34, no. 2 (2015): 335–69. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26362659.
West. M.L. 2011. The Making of the Iliad: Disquisition and Analytical Commentary. Oxford.
WEST, MARTIN. “The Homeric Question Today.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 155, no. 4 (2011): 383–93. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23208780.
At the beginning of book 9, Agamemnon addresses the assembly as he weeps (13-16) and repeats much of his “test” in book 2, but this time he may be serious: he really wants to go home. As the Achaeans stand silent in response, Diomedes reprimanding him:
Iliad 9.29-51
“So Agamemnon spoke and everyone sat there in silence. The sons of the Achaeans were quiet for a long time. Then finally, indeed, Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them. “Son of Atreus, I will fight with you first when you’re being foolish. This is right, lord, in the assembly. So don’t get angry at all. You have reproached my bravery among the Danaans, Calling me a coward and not a warrior. Everyone knows These things, the young and the old Argives alike. But the son of crooked minded Kronos gave you a double-sided gift: He granted that you be honored above everyone because of your scepter, But he did not grant you courage, and this is the mightiest thing of all. Godly one, do you really expect the songs of the Achaeans To all be cowards and unwarlike as you claim here in public? If your heart really urges you to go home, Then go. The road is there. Your ships are near the sea, The many ships that followed you here from Mycenae. But the rest of the long-haired Achaeans will stay here Until we sack Troy. But even if they want, let them flee In their ships back to their dear homelands. The two of us—Sthenelos and I—we will fight until we find the end Of Troy. For we came here with the god.” So he spoke, and all of the songs of the Achaeans shouted out, Praising the speech of Diomedes, the tamer of horses.
This speech has been important in looking at the politics of the Iliad and among the Achaeans in general. Richard Martin has looked at this speech and Nestor’s response as part of positioning the old Pylian as the epic’s ideal speaker (1989, 91), while Dean Hammer (2002), Elton Barker (2009) and David Elmer (2015) have seen Diomedes’ intervention as important in signaling either extant or developing rules about speech in public. In short, Diomedes can be seen as establishing the right to dissent from the king in public for the public good.
And, yet, the story isn’t as simple as that, because Nestor needs to intervene
Iliad. 9.63-65
‘Son of Tydeus, you are strong in war and in counsel you are the best among all those your age. Surely no one will reproach this speech, however many Achaians there are, nor will anyone speak back, but you have not reached the fullness of speech (télos múthôn). Really, you are young, and you could even be my child, the youngest by birth, but you utter knowing things before the kings of the Argives, since you speak according to tradition (katà moîran). But come, I, who proclaim to be older than you, will speak out and go through everything, no one will dishonor my mûthos, not even strong Agamemnon. Brotherless, lawless, and homeless is that man who longs for horrible civil war.’
Nestor’s speech reflects the danger imminent in Diomedes’ words. But his response is agile and sensitive to the situation. Nestor endorses Diomedes’ dissent while simultaneously mitigating its effects. He concedes that Diomedes has spoken katá moîran, but adds that he, who is older, will explain everything). That Nestor in no way contradicts Diomedes’ claim that it is right (thémis) to fight with a foolish leader in the assembly (agorê) implies a tacit approval of this contention.
Nestor continues with a subtle affirmation of and remonstration with Tydeus’ son—he diminishes Diomedes’ standing, appropriates his words, and amplifies his own position before he proceeds to advise. He does this by first reasserting the importance of his age—he compliments Diomedes, but reminds him that, by virtue of his youth, he is inferior in boulê. Nestor, however, hedges his compliments with one reservation: Diomedes’ has not reached the télosmúthôn.
What does this phrase mean? The A scholia gloss it as “you will not place a completion on your words” (Schol. A Il. 9.56 ex. 1-2. Cf. Schol. D Il. 9.56 ex. 3-8.). Cedric Whitman suggests that Nestor criticizes Diomedes for stopping short, that there is more to be said (1958, 167). One implication is that Diomedes fails to do what Nestor does, namely, to dissolve the assembly and cope with Agamemnon’s crisis in the council of kings where he proposes clear and pragmatic alternatives to Agamemnon’s foolishness. This suggestion is echoed by the D scholia (Schol. D Il. 9.56 ex. 3-8).
A scarcity of parallels inhibits a complete analysis of the phrase télosmúthôn, but there are enough to make a start. Martin’s refinement of the meaning of mûthos as either a command/proposal, or a boast/threat provides a useful starting point. Near the end of book 9 (9.625) Ajax tells Odysseus that the embassy should leave because there will not be a a completion or fulfillment of the mûthos (Nestor’s plan to propitiate Achilles), i.e., it will not achieve its intended perlocutionary effect. In book 16, Achilles requests for Patroklos to assent to his words and follow his plan completely (16.83:). In book 19 Agamemnon’s Hera taunts Zeus by claiming that he will not place a télos on his mûthos (107), which also signals a completion or fulfillment of the proposal/plan made in his speech (that a son, born that day, would reign among men). Again, in book 20, Hektor assures the Trojans that Achilles will not bring a completion to his plans or threats (369). Finally, in book 16, when Patroklos tells Meriones to stop taunting since “the télos of war is in hands, and the télos of words in council” (16.630) it seems that words find their télos (in an Aristotelian sense) in council.
Athenian Ostrakon (piece of pottery inscribed with the name of a politician proposed for exile by popular vote, the so-called “ostracism”). This specimens propose the name of Xanthippos, who was submitted to the vote in the 484 BC. On display in the Ancient Agora Museum in Athens, housed in the Stoa of Attalus. Picture by Giovanni Dall’Orto, November 9 2009.
The “fullness of múthoi” implies a recognition of traditional “rules” of critical speech, including identity of speaker, propriety of speech-type and accord with speech-context as well as an emphasis on the outcome of the speech, that a “full” mûthos in the context of the assembly offers a plan in such a way that the speaker achieves his intended effect and contributes to social cohesion. Nestor’s subsequent words offer supporting details for these rules.
First, Nestor takes great pains to remind Diomedes of his youth. While declaring the unassailability of his own words, Nestor implies that Diomedes is “out of line” because of his age. Second, Nestor’s remarkably strong condemnation of civil strife evokes the destabilizing threat of Diomedes’ dissent. The social context (in front of the whole assembly) of Diomedes’ criticism represents a threat to the social order (but, surely, no less a threat than Agamemnon’s cowardice represents to the safety of the army). Finally, Nestor’s own words are instructive for what Diomedes should have done. In his speech he dissolves the assembly and calls for Agamemnon to hold a boulê, and it is there where he is critical of the king and formulates a course of action.
Thus, I believe that the phrase télos múthôn conveys an array of meanings. On one level, Nestor may imply that Diomedes’ “plan” to take Troy alone is untenable. On another, the phrase conveys traditional guidelines or limits on the use of speech. Such criticism of the commander-in-chief in the context of the assembly is dangerous for the Achaians and may be beyond the acceptable norm for the youngest of the gérontes. Diomedes’ challenge has the potential to confuse the assembly and further destabilize Achaian authority. Rather than allow another argument (Achilles and Agamemnon in book 1) or leaving space for a negative appraisal of the king (Thersites) Nestor, as neutrally as possible, ends the assembly and deals with Agamemnon in the more private context of the council.
As I argue in a few places, I believe that the Iliad uses Diomedes to demonstrate how a younger man may develop into a stronger role through public speaking. For illustration, I include a brief summary of his story:
(1) Diomedes (implicitly) witnesses the actions and speeches of Iliad 1-3
(2) D. shows he knows the appropriate parameters for political and martial speech (Il. 4)
(3) D. practices public speech and is acclaimed by all the Achaians in his refusal of Paris’ offer to return the gifts but not Helen (7.400-2). Acclamation (7.403-4)
(4) D. practices public speech in criticizing Agamemnon and is acclaimed by all (9.50-1) but is criticized by Nestor for not reaching the télosmúthôn (9.53-62). Acclamation (9.50-1)
(5) D. practices public speech in reaction to Achilles’ rejection of the assembly (9.697-709) and is acclaimed by all the kings. Acclamation (9.710-11)
(6) D. volunteers to go on a nocturnal spying mission during the council of kings and is encouraged by Agamemnon to choose any companion he wants regardless of nobility (10.219-39)
(7) D. executes public critical speech and offers a plan (14.110-32). He is obeyed by all the kings and departs from the epic as a speaker. Acclamation (14.133)
Note the increasing political impact of Diomedes’ speeches and the corresponding development in who approves his oratory.
When we talk about freedom of speech, it is political: it is dissent from the status quo. It also functions to reinforce who matters within a community. In the earliest Ancient Greek reflection on public speech, the right to dissent is essential when the Iliad’s Agamemnon brings a plague upon his people and Achilles challenges. Of course, the story is complex: Thersites in the second book is prevented by who he is from criticizing the king. His body, his voice, his departure from normal conventions and appearance, disqualify him from making the very same arguments Achilles made in book 1. In contrast, the Achilles-replacement Diomedes asserts in book 9 that it is right to argue with a foolish king in public.
From what we now call Classical Greece, we find parrhêsia, what a modern free speech advocate might call “frank and open debate”—for criticizing your friends in private and also for expressing unpopular opinions in public for the benefit of the state. In addition, “equal access to public speech” (isêgoria) promises that each citizen be given that opportunity. Sure, speech that is just about one’s own opinion–or personal brand–is ‘protected’ in the U.S., but is it sacred in the way so many claim?
Any notion of free speech from this perspective is rooted in its contribution to the public good. But who gets to contribute is constrained by who counts. In the Iliad, the ugly and disabled Thersites is beaten for speaking freely. In the United States, cries lamenting lost freedom of speech have long been rooted in supporting the status quo rather than increasing and encouraging political participation. Consider how the chartering of the right to political speech in the Iliad is explored within the frame of balancing the character of the body of the speaker against the safety of the body politic.
Terracotta column-krater (bowl for mixing wine and water). Attributed to the Group of Boston 00.348. ca. 360–350 BCE
A Short bibliography on Diomedes
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Andersen, Öivind. 1978. Die Diomedesgestalt in der Ilias. Oslo.
Barker, Elton T. E. “Achilles’ Last Stand: Institutionalising Dissent in Homer’s Iliad.” PCPS 50 (2004) 92-120.
—,—. Entering the Agôn: Dissent and Authority in Homer, Historiography and Tragedy. Oxford, 2009.
Burgess, Jonathan. 2001. The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle. Baltimore.
—,—. 2009. The Death and Afterlife of Achilles. Baltimore.
Christensen, Joel P. 2009. “The End of Speeches and a Speech’s End: Nestor, Diomedes, and the telos muthôn.” in Kostas Myrsiades (ed.). Reading Homer: Film and Text. Farleigh Dickinson University Press, 136-62.
Christensen, Joel P. and Barker, Elton T. E.. “On not remembering Tydeus: Agamemnon, Diomedes and the contest for Thebes.” Materiali e Discussioni per l’Analisi dei Testi Classici, no. 66, 2011, pp. 9-44.
Christensen, Joel P. 2015. “Diomedes’ Foot-wound and the Homeric Reception of Myth.” In Diachrony, Jose Gonzalez (ed.). De Gruyter series, MythosEikonPoesis. 2015, 17–41.
Gantz, Timothy. 1993. Early Greek Myth. Baltimore.
Griffin, Jasper. 1980. Homer on Life and Death. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
—,—.2001. “The Epic Cycle and the Uniqueness of Homer.” in Cairns 2001: 363-84.
Hammer, Dean.“‘Who Shall Readily Obey?” Authority and Politics in the Iliad.” Phoenix 51 (1997) 1-24.
—,—. “The Politics of the Iliad.” CJ (1998) 1-30.
—,—. The Iliad as Politics: The Performance of Political Thought. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2002.
Irene J. F. de Jong. “Convention versus Realism in the Homeric Epics.” Mnemosyne 58, no. 1 (2005): 1–22. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4433613.
Kakridis, Johannes Th. 1949. Homeric Researches. Lund.
Kakridis, Phanis, J. 1961. “Achilles’ Rüstung.” Hermes 89: 288-97.
Lohmann, Dieter. 1970. Dieter Lohmann. Die Komposition der Reden in der Ilias. Berlin.
Mühll, Peter von der. 1952. Kritisches Hypomena zur Ilias. Basel.
Nagy, Gregory. 1979. The Best of the Achaeans. Baltimore.
Nickel, Roberto. 2002. “Euphorbus and the Death of Achilles.” Phoenix 56: 215-33.
Pache, Corinne. 2009. “The Hero Beyond Himself: Heroic Death in Ancient Greek Poetry and Art.” in Sabine Albersmeir (ed.). Heroes: Mortals and Myths in ancient Greece. Baltimore (Walters Art Museum): 89-107.
Redfield, James. 1994. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hektor. Chicago.
—,—. 2001. “A ‘Beautiful Death’ and the Disfigured Corpse.” in Cairns 2001: 311-41.
Rose, P. W. “Thersites and the Plural Voices of Homer.” Arethusa 21 (1988) 5-25.
—,—. “Ideology in the Iliad: Polis, Basileus, Theoi.” Arethusa 30 (1997) 151-99.
“They came to the dwellings and the ships of the Myrmidons And they found [Achilles] delighting his heart with the clear-voiced lyre, A finely wrought one which was silver on the bridge, The one he chose as a prize after sacking the city of Êetiôn. He delighted his heart with that and sang the famous stories of men. But Patroklos sat alone opposite him in silence, Waiting for time when the grandson of Aiakos would stop his songs.”
What is Achilles doing here? One ancient author believed that he was taking Taylor Swift’s advice and calming down:
Aelian, Varia Historia 14.23 Achilles plays the Lyre to Calm his Rage
“Kleinias was serious in his manner and he was a Pythagorean in his philosophical training. If he was ever driven towards rage or had a sense of getting hot-headed, immediately before he became too overwhelmed with anger and before it was clear it was coming, he picked up the lyre and began to play. In response to people asking what the reason for this was, he responded melodiously, “I am calming myself”. Achilles in the Iliad seems to me to put his rage sleep when he sings along to a lyre and brings reminds himself of the famous tales of former men through his song. For, since he was a musical man, he chose the lyre first out of all the spoils.”
Aelian’s interpretation is interesting in part because it makes sense—Achilles is often seen as resting, or taking up time with the singing. But modern interpretations put a lot more weight into Achilles’ words, and what exactly it means to sing the “famous stories of men” (kléa andrôn). Ancient authors seemed to see the poetry as providing a source of wisdom.
Schol. A ad.Il. 9.189b ex. 1-2
“Klea andrôn: [this is because] it is right to be ever-mindful of good men. For singers make their audiences wise through ancient narratives.”
The context of book 9 of the Iliad provides another opportunity to think about the function of the kléa andrôn. My dissertation advisor, David Sider was the first person I heard argue that Achilles was singing through the kléa andrôn in order to try to figure out his course of action. That is, Achilles is singing through other heroic narratives trying to figure out what to do next.
This is partly confirmed later when Phoenix chastises Achilles by saying: “This is not what we have heard before in the famous stories of men/ heroes, whenever a powerful anger overtook someone” (οὕτω καὶ τῶν πρόσθεν ἐπευθόμεθα κλέα ἀνδρῶν / ἡρώων, ὅτε κέν τιν’ ἐπιζάφελος χόλος ἵκοι, 9.524-5). And in the Odyssey, the same phrase is used to indicate Demodokos’ ability to sing songs from the Trojan War, right before he sings about the conflict between Odysseus and Achilles. (Μοῦσ’ ἄρ’ ἀοιδὸν ἀνῆκεν ἀειδέμεναι κλέα ἀνδρῶν, 8.73)
This is not the only time that epic implies Achilles is using earlier narratives for self-comparison. So, the basic suggestion is that the phrase kléa andrôn is a metonym for tales from myth or epic and that Achilles is not merely entertaining himself but, just as Phoenix invites him to consider the lessons from “the famous stories of men” as precedents to help correct his behavior, Achilles is singing in order to figure out where his story fits in the pantheon of tales he knows.
But book 9 throws a bit of a curve at audiences expecting the kléa andrôn to provide a solution. The story that Phoenix tells does not push Achilles to change his mind, instead, it produces an unclear response. And I think the story Phoenix tells helps us understand storytelling within the Iliad better (along with the epic itself).
Commonly interpreted as Briseis and Phoenix (Louvre caption, Beazley); minority opinion: Hecamede mixing kykeon for Nestor
One of the models I have been using to think about how stories are used comes from a cognitive approach to literature. In his book The Literary Mind, Mark Turner argues that when we hear (or read) a story, we cannot experience the narrative created by the teller of the tale. Instead, the story unfolds in a cognitive blend in a space between the world of the narrative and the reader’s mind. What this means, in effect, is that our actual mental picture of narrative blends our own experiences and memories with the sketches we receive from stories and generates a new thing, a tale wholly in our own minds.
I think that this model of understanding narrative helps to explain a lot of the asymmetric correspondences between tellers, audiences, and tales in Homer. This helps also to frame devices like similes that shift and move between the opening and the close of the comparison and often blend characteristics of the tenor (the thing compared) and the vehicle (the comparison). In the case of paradeigmata (stories meant to persuade) it can also help us understand what happens when people try to use a tale: the teller has an idea for what the story should do to his audience, but it does something else.
One thing to start with here, is that Phoenix already seems to make significant changes to his tale. He offers Achilles the story about Meleager, set in the narrative of the Calydonian Boar Hunt, but as part of an internecine conflict that really doesn’t figure much in the narrative’s more well known arc (sound familiar, Iliad?). Traditionally, the hunt is a tale of heroes banding together to kill a massive boar, devolving into a conflict over the spoils when Meleager, the young prince of the city, tries to give the boar’s hide to the heroine Atalanta. In rage, Meleager’s mother, Althaia, destroys a log that is tied to Meleager’s life force, resulting in his death. In some accounts, there’s even a prophecy that Meleager would lose his life if he fought his uncles.
There is some pretty clear evidence that Phoenix is attempting to create a particular narrative blend of the story and his world for Achilles. In his tale, Meleager sits out of the conflict until even his wife, Kleopatra—a clear inversion of Patroklos’ name—asks him to join the battle. In addition, according to Phoinix, Meleager ignored the promises of gifts, had to fight anyway, and ended up laboring without recompense. Phoenix ends by telling Achilles to “think about this” (9.600), warning him that he too will end up fighting without honor. The surprise for Phoenix? Achilles tells him he does not care about the gifts and threatens to leave for home in the morning.
Phoinix frames his narrative with explicit invitations to make comparisons between the experiences of his addressee and that of the central character in his story. He offers a specific interpretation that Achilles rejects because Achilles is likely taking a different lesson from the narrative (to stay out of battle because he does not want the goods or the social obligations they imply). This exchange, then, features both how storytellers adapt stories to the experiences of the audiences and also how audiences misread or reread the stories through their own perspectives as they create their own narrative blend.
Painter of Munich 2243 (Heesen) – period / date: ripe archaic, ca. 550 BC
Phoenix’s tale has been understood as something of a failure—that is, that Achilles does not hear Phoinix’s tale or that it was somehow the wrong story. Instead, I think that Achilles hears Phoinix’s story and takes his lesson to heart: he does not want to accept Agamemnon’s apology or his gifts. But he also does not want to abandon the war entirely. So, he takes Meleager as a positive model instead of a negative one. He actively shapes the meaning of the tale by imagining himself in a different version of it.
Barker, Elton T. E., and Joel P. Christensen. 2019. Homer’s Thebes: Epic Rivalries and the Appropriation of Mythical Pasts. Hellenic Studies Series 84. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Compton, Todd M. 2006. Victim of the Muses: Poet as Scapegoat, Warrior and Hero in Greco-Roman and Indo-European Myth and History. Hellenic Studies Series 11. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Finlay, Robert. “Patroklos, Achilleus, and Peleus: Fathers and Sons in the ‘Iliad.’” The Classical World 73, no. 5 (1980): 267–73. https://doi.org/10.2307/4349196.
Garcia, Lorenzo F., Jr. 2013. Homeric Durability: Telling Time in the Iliad. Hellenic Studies Series 58. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
González, José M. 2013. The Epic Rhapsode and His Craft: Homeric Performance in a Diachronic Perspective. Hellenic Studies Series 47. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
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