This is one of a few posts dedicated to Iliad 24. 

The Iliad begins:

“Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles”

Μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω ᾿Αχιλῆος

And then it ends:

“And so they were completing the burial of Hektor, tamer of horses”

῝Ως οἵ γ’ ἀμφίεπον τάφον ῞Εκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο 

Imagine if all we had of the poem was a scholarly record conveying these two lines. What would we make of the journey that we would have to take to get from line 1 to line 2? How would we relate the opening request with the final fact and then connect these in turn to a larger tradition of myth? One might naturally assume that the former leads to the latter in a causal fashion, but there’s no necessary reason to posit that.

There’s an openness, though, to both lines. The initial invocation asks for a story to be told; the final one offers a scene in process: the imperfect tense of the verb ἀμφίεπον shows an action that is ongoing but not yet complete, it leaves the audience with the sense that more is still to come, that the final word has not actually been spoken. This certainly functions to mark the epic as part of a larger story cycle, just as the imperfect in line 1.7 (Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή) indicates that the Iliad is part of a larger process, a cosmic narrative arc.

Yet, without external evidence, each name is merely an empty sign waiting to be filled, a story needing to be told. But we have the whole poem. We can follow from line 1.1 to 24.804. And we still likely ask why the Iliad ends with the burial of Hektor, tamer of horses. Ancient scholars had a range of less than satisfactory answers. The scholia record that a scholar named Menekrates believed that Homer was silent about the events after Hektor because “he sensed his own weakness and inability to tell the events in the same way” (Schol. bT ad. Hom. Il. 21.804). Another claims that some modified the final line:

Schol. T ad. Hom. Il. 21.804a

“Some people write “and so they were completing the burial of Hektor. Then the Amazon came / the daughter of Ares, the great-hearted man-killer”

τινὲς γράφουσιν „ὣς οἵ γ’ ἀμφίεπον τάφον ῞Εκτορος· ἦλθε δ’ ᾿Αμαζών, / ῎Αρηος θυγάτηρ μεγαλήτορος ἀνδροφόνοιο” (804. 804a).

In this version, we find the possibility of an ever-expanding tale, moving from the Iliad to the events of the Aithiopis without much of a break at all. While I have no doubt that ancient performances offered such opportunities for stitching and re-stitching narratives together, I think we still need to contend with the beginning, middle, and end of our Iliad. Even if a performer would segue from an Iliad to an Aithiopis, we still face the fact that each was felt to be a unitary and individualizable narrative. So, here are some other reasons why the Iliad ends as it does.

1.‘Epic’ time is different from normal narrative time: it is more like a time loop in modern science fiction. All the main events always happen and have already always happened, but there’s room for variation in the journey between them. This occupies a place between what we might clumsily call “ritual time” and a causal narrative chain. For the former, I have in mind the narrative cycle of a liturgical calendar where congregants/audiences are treated to the same stories at the same part of the year. The stories never change because they have happened and must happen the same, but our experiences of them change as we move from one repetition to another. For the latter, the logic of causation is imposed through the repetition of the same basic events, but by finding space in the interstices to tell different stories, audiences explore the dynamic interaction between determinism and agency, between accepting what one cannot change and being empowered to alter what one can.

2.The city has already been destroyed in the imaginations of the characters and the audience. Following on the immutable layering of epic time, Iliadic narrative refers to canonical events of the Trojan War but mostly moves around them: the judgment of Paris, the abduction of Helen, the marshaling of the armies, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, the sack of the city, and other events all exist on the periphery, at times marginalized to such an extent that scholars can doubt whether or not the Homeric epics appeal to them. At the same time, the Iliad appropriates and reperforms moments from the larger tale that should not be part if its tale, engaging in a creative anachronism that manages to place the catalogue of ships, the teikhoskopia, the duel over Helen, and the building of Achaean fortifications between Achilles’ falling out with Agamemnon and the embassy to try to resolve the spat.

The Iliad reshuffles the deck of mythical time both to assert the supremacy of its story and to show that no series of events, no causal chain, can alter the outcome of the overall narrative. This is theological in the cosmic sense: notions like Zeus’ plan and the double determination (when the narrative shows the gods ‘causing’ an action but also features mortals choosing to act without knowledge of divine will) underscores the complexity of causation and the inscrutability of single efficient causes. At the same time, such shuffling is evocative of human cognition, the way we understand and retain basic concepts of beginning and ending but can lose track of intermediary steps.

3.Achilles has already died. In a way, this is no different than the previous point, but it is important enough to emphasize again. The Iliad does not merely deal out the deck of myth in a different order, it redraws the images on the most important cards to achieve similar ends. Achilles dies through Patroklos—his physical death is disassembled and re-used in book 11 and then book 16, anticipated in books 18, 19, 22, 23, and 24, but never performed because it has already been achieved. Just as the city is destroyed in the words of Hektor, Andromache, Priam, and Hecuba, so too is Achilles’ death portrayed through Patroklos’ surrogacy and the divine and mortal speeches that anticipate it.

4.Hektor’s death may be more important than Achilles’.  As I have mentioned before, the Iliad takes part in an etiological (that is, explanatory) arc that moves from the dios boulê, Zeus’ plan to rid the world of the race of heroes, to an era when the realms of gods and men are more thoroughly distinct. While the Odyssey more-or-less completes this journey toward Hesiod’s Works and Days, where human beings toil distant from tangible divine favor or aid, the Iliad moves audiences from the twin rages of Achilles and Apollo in book 1 (where they are both upset at Agamemnon) to Apollo’s anger at Achilles for his treatment of Hektor in book 24. Apollo—much to Hera’s surprise—takes the side of a non-divine mortal for the rite of burial against one closer to his own kin.

Along the way, we see the widening distance between divine knowledge and human knowledge—the whole motif of double determination, whereby we as audience members see the gods and mortals as understanding different levels of causation for a given action. The repeated toggling between divine intervention paired with human decisions shows us separate worlds, even separate realities or dimensions whose entanglement does little more than increase damage and pain to one another. It is almost as if the Iliad attests to a time when the fabric between two different realities was thin enough to be permeable and that it shows us how perilous it is when beings from one realm meddle with events in another. The world of the gods was overturned by the silly decision of one man (Paris!); the mortal plain roils with each outsized, overwrought divine act. The steady movement towards emphasizing the honor of mortals in death and the separation of gods and humans both justifies and supports the way the world is for mortals and suggests rather strongly that it is better this way.

5.Hektor’s burial is the end of an era. And also a beginning. Hektor is different from Achilles as a full-mortal and as a ‘family’ man. By ending with his burial rather than the fall of the city or the funeral games for Achilles, the Iliad elevates his importance and closes out the race of heroes by encapsulating a different series of values in this one fallible man. Hektor is far from perfect throughout the epic: he struggles to understand his role in leading the city, he blusters and glowers when things don’t go his way, and he is shown to be in the framework of Achilles and Diomedes somewhat un-heroic in his final moments. But the laments that follow his death in books 22 and 24—cast against the obscenity of Achilles’ treatment of his body—double down on the importance of his unheroic character as a son, father, and a man whose kindness towards the most hated woman in the world and the cause of all his troubles is so incredible that scholars have speculated he was under the spell of her charisma. Hektor’s inconsistencies and internal contradictions form a counterpoint to Achilles’. In a universe where even the gods are churlish and quick-to-rage, what kinds of excess should we be grateful for in a man?

6.Hektor’s burial may also be self-reflective for epic poetry. As I mentioned above, the tense/aspect of the verb performing Hektor’s burial is incomplete, and ongoing (῝Ως οἵ γ’ ἀμφίεπον τάφον ῞Εκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο). The Iliad doesn’t so much end as fade away, to black as in the end of the final episode of the Sopranos. The process of burying Hektor remains ongoing as the poem ends, as we all continue to engage in its continuation through sharing in his memory. But I think the process, the imperfectivity goes farther than this.

The process of the burial is the beginning of enshrining Hektor’s memory and creating his kleos. But this may also be an example of an unnoticed ekphrasis. While the tomb itself is not the creation of a work of art like Achilles’ shield, it is still the execution of a physical craft described within an oral/written artform. As such it may contain an implicit comparison between the practice of burial and the art of epic poetry.

Homer, Il. 24.797–800

“They quickly placed the bones in an empty trench and then
They covered it with great, well-fitted stones.
They rushed to heap up a marker, around which they set guards
In case the well-greaved Achaeans should attack too soon.”

αἶψα δ’ ἄρ’ ἐς κοίλην κάπετον θέσαν, αὐτὰρ ὕπερθε
πυκνοῖσιν λάεσσι κατεστόρεσαν μεγάλοισι·
ῥίμφα δὲ σῆμ’ ἔχεαν, περὶ δὲ σκοποὶ ἥατο πάντῃ,
μὴ πρὶν ἐφορμηθεῖεν ἐϋκνήμιδες ᾿Αχαιοί.

In Iliad seven, Hector challenges the ‘best of the Achaeans’ to a duel. There he imagines that, once he had won the contest, the dead hero’s tomb would be a monument to, and sign of, his everlasting glory. Ironically, the dead hero’s tomb turns out to be his, once the Trojans construct it at the epic’s end

But what kind of sign is it? Homer describes how the Trojans’ burial mound for Hector leaves ‘a mark’—the word here is sêma (from which we get the words ‘semantics’ or ‘semaphore’), and also means a sign or symbol. In the end, then, the epic leaves us with a symbol of some kind that I think points back to this epic itself. Ostensibly, of course, that is Hector’s burial mound, a physical marker of his fame—and as a metonym it stands for the fame of all the heroes who fought at Troy. Yet, its immediate referent, the physical thing it describes, is a ‘hollow grave’ (koilên kapeton).

An English speaker might wonder whether or not the hollowness of the grave marks some sort of empty meaning and thus offers some judgment on the vanity and meaninglessness of the conflict, perhaps evoking ambivalence. But part of the trick in translating metaphors from one culture to another is understanding that a cognitive valence can be very different. In English, ‘hollow’ and ‘empty’ tend to refer to the absence of substance within something else. (Hence, our use for it to describe depression or anhedonia.)

But in ancient Greek, the word koilê is used to describe the shape made by a thing that allows it to hold something else. It can sometimes then come to shift to point to the absence of that something else, but it is, more often, a marker for the vessel which can carry something, even when it is carrying it. In conjunction with Hektor’s grave, consider the following lyric mentions of the ‘hollow ships’ of the Trojan War:

Consider:

Ibycus fr. 1a 16-19

Nor yet the overreaching virtue
of heroes whom the hollow,
many-benched ships brought
as the destruction of Troy.

ἡρ]ώων ἀρετὰν
ὑπ]εράφανον οὕς τε κοίλα[ι
νᾶες] πολυγόμφοι ἐλεύσα[ν
Τροί]αι κακόν, ἥρωας ἐσ̣θ̣[λούς·

Pindar, Ol. 6.1

Unrisked virtue becomes honored
Neither among men nor in the empty ships.
But many a man is remembered
When something noble has been tried.

… ἀκίνδυνοι δ’ ἀρεταί
οὔτε παρ’ ἀνδράσιν οὔτ’ ἐν ναυσὶ κοίλαις
τίμιαι· πολλοὶ δὲ μέμναν-
ται, καλὸν εἴ τι ποναθῇ.

In both these passages, the ships are marked out for their potential to carry something and their ability to do so. It is also arguable that the ships carry ethical content of the heroes they convey to Troy as well. Of course, in the Iliad the ships are often invoked as empty in their capacity to carry things as well as people—but these moments are also seen as critical in telling the story, as when the Trojan herald Idaios refers to the beginning of the conflict:

Homer, Il. 7.399-400

“However many possessions Alexandros led in his hollow ships
To troy. Oh, how I wish he had died first!”

κτήματα μὲν ὅσ’ ᾿Αλέξανδρος κοίλῃς ἐνὶ νηυσὶν
ἠγάγετο Τροίηνδ’· ὡς πρὶν ὤφελλ’ ἀπολέσθαι·

So, when the word used to describe that ‘hollow trench’ (koilein kápeton) is the same used for the ships that brought the Achaeans to Troy and will take their stories away, the grave is being marked out as a vessel for Hector’s fame. The message of Hektor’s “empty grave” is not like the elegiac regret of T.S. Eliot’s “Hollow Men”, but instead it represents the potential of an empty vessel to be filled by the audience in its reception of the poem. It is a signal, I think, of the assumption that meaning continues to be made outside the world of the poem and that when we stare into the sign we create the meaning based on what we ‘read’ there and knew before. Each time we engage in this process, we create anew. This outward looking burial mound that is simultaneously Hektor’s grave and the Iliad itself is a continuation of the narrative’s strategy of showing us characters responding to other’s narratives by reflecting on their own lives and then engaging in storytelling themselves, as we see in Achilles’ final story to Priam in book 24. We are the people to come, walking or sailing by on the Hellespont or traveling through the tale as it is sung or read. We recreate the story of Achilles, bound up in the grave of the man he killed, just as Hektor imagined his story would be told through his own enemy’s tomb.

So, in addition to Hector’s grave, this vessel, this sêma, refers to the Iliad itself. The epic is a vessel of fame, of Hector’s, Achilles’, and Agamemnon’s, but it is also a marker for the death of a world, for the end of a bygone time. On the one hand, it marks the transition from the heroic age to the present day. On the other, it acts as a grave marker of an entire tradition of epic poetry which would have sung about the wars at Troy and Thebes. We as audience members recreate the tale, but in the raiment of our time, transforming it, but reviving it too.

The hollowness of this thing is not about being empty, but about having the power to carry something, to produce something else, even something new. As the Tao Te Ching states, “We shape clay into a pot / but it is the emptiness inside / that holds whatever we want. We hammer wood for a house, but it is the inner space / that makes it livable” (Chapter 11; Stephen Mitchell, 1988). Thus, Hector’s grave carries with it everything he was or could be; and the Iliad, far from empty and devoid of meaning, is that vessel that carries so much unknown across the oceans of time.

Tao Te Ching: Chapter 11
translated by Stephen Mitchell (1988)

We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it is the center hole
that makes the wagon move.

We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we want.

We hammer wood for a house,
but it is the inner space
that makes it livable.

We work with being
but non-being is what we use.

This is one of a few posts dedicated to Iliad 24. 

In the last post on book 24, I wrote about how pity and wonder drive the actions of the epic’s close, furnishing both a resolution to many of the poem’s conflicts while also providing models for interpretation and ‘reading’, if not a foundation for ethical humanism. I focused in part on the mirroring and blending that happens in our relationship with narratives and proposed as well that the core function of pity in facilitating identification between Achilles and Priam through their recognition of each other’s suffering may also help to explain the ‘tragic’ core of the Iliad. By this I don’t mean simply that the Iliad follows a tragic arc, but that it also produces tragic effects in Aristotelian terms. Homeric epic, by modeling people seeing their own experiences and sufferings in other peoples’ lives and then articulating narratives with new understanding, clarifies the potential for narrative art to help us see more than ourselves in the world while also framing ourselves as part of a human and cosmic continuum.

This post follows on earlier posts positioning the meeting between Achilles and Priam as in a liminal space between life and death and on the importance of Thetis to the Iliad, especially when she gives advice to her son about taking the remaining time he has to enjoy what pleasure life has to offer. I bring these topics up because I think they are linked to the story Achilles tells Priam about Niobe and how we should interpret it.

Once Achilles and Priam have had their (temporary) fill of weeping, Achilles tries to encourage Priam to stay and share a meal with him. This meal-sharing is critical for Achilles on a symbolic level as a step in his return to acting like a human being instead of some kind of a wild animal or a god of war.  Priam is reluctant because he wants to get Hektor’s body home for burial and he is rightly wary of being around Achilles too long. Achilles uses an interesting narrative of myth to ‘persuade’ Priam to join him.

Iliad 24.596-620

“And then shining Achilles went back into his dwelling
And sat on the finely decorated bench from where he had risen
near the facing wall. Then he began his speech [muthon] to Priam:

‘Old man, your son has been ransomed as you were pleading—he
Lies now on the bedding. You will see him at dawn yourself
When you lead him away. But now, we should remember our meal.
For fair-tressed Niobê, too, remembered to eat,
Even though her twelve children perished at home.
Six daughters and six sons.
Apollo killed them with his silver bow
Because he was angry at Niobê, and Artemis helped too,
Because their mother had considered herself equal to fair-cheeked Leto.
She claimed that Leto birthed two children while she had many.
And so those mere two ended the lives of many.
They lingered in their gore for nine days and no one went
To bury them—Kronos’ son turned the people into stone.
On the tenth day, the Olympian gods buried them.
And she remembered to eat, after she wore herself out shedding tears.
And now somewhere in the isolated crags on the mountains
Of Sipylus where men say one finds the beds of goddesses,
Of the nymphs who wander along the Akhelôis,
She turns over the god-sent sufferings, even though she remains a stone.
So, come, now, shining old man, let’s the two of us remember
Our meal. You can mourn your dear son again
After you take him to Troy—he will certainly be much-wept.”

῏Η ῥα, καὶ ἐς κλισίην πάλιν ἤϊε δῖος ᾿Αχιλλεύς,
ἕζετο δ’ ἐν κλισμῷ πολυδαιδάλῳ ἔνθεν ἀνέστη
τοίχου τοῦ ἑτέρου, ποτὶ δὲ Πρίαμον φάτο μῦθον·
υἱὸς μὲν δή τοι λέλυται γέρον ὡς ἐκέλευες,
κεῖται δ’ ἐν λεχέεσσ’· ἅμα δ’ ἠοῖ φαινομένηφιν
ὄψεαι αὐτὸς ἄγων· νῦν δὲ μνησώμεθα δόρπου.
καὶ γάρ τ’ ἠΰκομος Νιόβη ἐμνήσατο σίτου,
τῇ περ δώδεκα παῖδες ἐνὶ μεγάροισιν ὄλοντο
ἓξ μὲν θυγατέρες, ἓξ δ’ υἱέες ἡβώοντες.
τοὺς μὲν ᾿Απόλλων πέφνεν ἀπ’ ἀργυρέοιο βιοῖο
χωόμενος Νιόβῃ, τὰς δ’ ῎Αρτεμις ἰοχέαιρα,
οὕνεκ’ ἄρα Λητοῖ ἰσάσκετο καλλιπαρῄῳ·
φῆ δοιὼ τεκέειν, ἣ δ’ αὐτὴ γείνατο πολλούς·
τὼ δ’ ἄρα καὶ δοιώ περ ἐόντ’ ἀπὸ πάντας ὄλεσσαν.
οἳ μὲν ἄρ’ ἐννῆμαρ κέατ’ ἐν φόνῳ, οὐδέ τις ἦεν
κατθάψαι, λαοὺς δὲ λίθους ποίησε Κρονίων·
τοὺς δ’ ἄρα τῇ δεκάτῃ θάψαν θεοὶ Οὐρανίωνες.
ἣ δ’ ἄρα σίτου μνήσατ’, ἐπεὶ κάμε δάκρυ χέουσα.
νῦν δέ που ἐν πέτρῃσιν ἐν οὔρεσιν οἰοπόλοισιν
ἐν Σιπύλῳ, ὅθι φασὶ θεάων ἔμμεναι εὐνὰς
νυμφάων, αἵ τ’ ἀμφ’ ᾿Αχελώϊον ἐρρώσαντο,
ἔνθα λίθος περ ἐοῦσα θεῶν ἐκ κήδεα πέσσει.
ἀλλ’ ἄγε δὴ καὶ νῶϊ μεδώμεθα δῖε γεραιὲ
σίτου· ἔπειτά κεν αὖτε φίλον παῖδα κλαίοισθα
῎Ιλιον εἰσαγαγών· πολυδάκρυτος δέ τοι ἔσται.

One scholiast notes that the comparison is aimed at persuasion and that the adduction of similar suffering “lightens Priam’s” (ἐπικουφίζεται γὰρ τὰ πάθη, bT ad Il. 24.601 ex. 2) while another focuses on the logical way in which Achilles unfolds the tale. Yet the overwhelming ancient response is incredulity:

Schol. A ad. Il. 24.614-617a ex

“These four lines have been athetized [marked as spurious] because it does not make sense for her to “remember to eat” “after she wore herself out shedding tears.” For, if she had been turned into a stone, how could she take food?

Thus, the attempt at persuasion is absurd—“eat, since Niobê also ate and she was petrified, literally!” This is Hesiodic in character, moreover: “they wander about Akhelôion. And the word en occurs three times. How can Niobê continue pursuing her sorrow if she is made out of stone? Aristophanes also athetized these lines.”

Ariston. | Did. νῦν δέ που ἐν πέτρῃσιν<—πέσσει>: ἀθετοῦνται στίχοι τέσσαρες, ὅτι οὐκ ἀκόλουθοι τῷ „ἡ δ’ ἄρα σίτου μνήσατ’, <ἐπεὶ κάμε δάκρυ χέουσα>” (Ω 613)· εἰ γὰρ ἀπελιθώθη, πῶς σιτία προ<σ>ηνέγκατο; καὶ ἡ παραμυθία γελοία· φάγε, ἐπεὶ καὶ ἡ Νιόβη ἔφαγε καὶ ἀπελιθώθη. ἔστι δὲ καὶ ῾Ησιόδεια τῷ χαρακτῆρι, καὶ μᾶλλόν γε τὸ ἀμφ’ ᾿Αχελώϊον ἐρρώσαντο (616). καὶ τρὶς κατὰ τὸ συνεχὲς τὸ ἔν (614. 615). πῶς δὲ καὶ λίθος γενομένη θεῶν ἐκ κήδεα πέσσει (617); | προηθετοῦντο δὲ καὶ παρ’ ᾿Αριστοφάνει.

Schol. bT ad Il. 24. 614-617

“these four lines are athetized. For how could a stone taste food? Also, why does the poet place a river from Aetolia on Sipylos?”

ex. νῦν δέ που ἐν πέτρῃσιν<—πέσσει>: ἀθετοῦνται τέσσαρες· b(BCE3)T πῶς γὰρ ἡ λίθος τροφῆς ἐγεύσατο (cf. Ω 602. 613); b(BCE3E4)T τί δὲ ὁ Αἰτωλῶν ποταμὸς ἐνΣιπύλῳ ποιεῖ (cf. 616); T πῶς τε λίθος οὖσα κήδεα πέσσει (617)

The scholia note that the lines were athetized because it makes no sense for Niobê to stop eating during her destructive mourning; or, it is impossible to eat for one who has been turned to stone. And worse—one cannot mourn post petrifaction! In Achilles’ defense, he has selected an example from myth of a parent mourning the loss of a child; the loss has come at the hands of the gods who have sought to punish human transgression. In Achilles’ application of the tale, Niobê stops to eat—is this altogether absurd?

The effect of the scholiastic comments and the dissonance between what Achilles says here and what he has attributed to Niobê has led many scholars to argue that the lines about Niobê turning to stone are later “interpolations” by editors trying to explain the whole story. Authors like Johannes Kakridis (1930) and Thomas Pearce (2008) have made strong thematic arguments about why these lines shouldn’t be there. I think that some of what they say is reconcilable with multiform approaches to Homer like that explored by Casey Dué in Achilles Unbound, that these lines are legitimately part of telling the story of the Iliad, but perhaps were not present for all audiences. To my taste, these lines are necessary if people don’t know the story of Niobê because her turning into a stone is critical to the impact of the comparison. This is a very different perspective than others have offered, so I want to take a moment to explain.

Schol. bT ad. Hom. Il. 24.602a ex

“Some say that this Niobê is the daughter of Pelops; others say she is the daughter of Tantalos. Others claim that she is the wife of Amphion or of Zethus. Still more claim that she is the wife of Alalkomeneus. Among the Lydians she is called Elumê. And this event occurred, as some claimed, in Lydia; or, as some claim, in Thebes.

Sophokles writes that the children perished in Thebes and that she returned to Lydia afterwards. And she perished, as some claim, after she swore a false oath about the dog of Pandareus because [….] or later when she had been ambushed by the Spartoi in Kithaira. There were two Niobes, one of Pelops and one of Tantalus. He explains the whole tale because the story is Theban and unknown to Priam.”

ex. | ex. <καὶ γάρ τ’ ἠΰκομος Νιόβη:> τὴν Νιόβην οἱ μὲν Πέλοπος, οἱ δὲ Ταντάλου· γυναῖκα δὲ οἱ μὲν ᾿Αμφίονος, οἱ δὲ Ζήθου, [οἱ δὲ] ᾿Αλαλκομένεω. ἐκαλεῖτο δὲ παρὰ Λυδοῖς ᾿Ελύμην. ἡ δὲ συμφορὰ αὐτῆς, ὡς μέν τινες, ἐν Λυδίᾳ, ὡς δὲ ἔνιοι, ἐν Θήβαις. Σοφοκλῆς (cf. T.G.F. p. 228 N.2; II p. 95 P.) δὲ τοὺς μὲν παῖδας ἐν Θήβαις ἀπολέσθαι, νοστῆσαι <δὲ> αὐτὴν εἰς Λυδίαν. ἀπώλετο [δέ], ὥς τινες, συνεπιορκήσασα Πανδάρ[εῳ] περὶ τοῦ κυνός, ὡς δὲ [..], ἐνεδρευθεῖσα ὑπὸ τῶν Σπαρτῶν ἐν Κιθαιρῶ[νι]. οἱ δὲ δύο Νιόβας, Πέλοπος καὶ Ταντάλου. T | ὡς Θηβαῖον ὄντα τὸν μῦθον καὶ ἀγνοούμενον Πριάμῳ ἐπεξεργάζεται.

Yoshinori Sano (1993) has argued that the full account of Niobê helps to explore the isolation and loneliness of both Priam and Achilles. I think this is a really good argument and what I would like to add is that this isolation is in a crucial way synonymous with death. Homeric narrative provides multiple meanings—its polysemy is connected to a dynamic model of reading that I have tried to emphasize throughout the process of posting on the Iliad.

As I have discussed in earlier posts, paradeigmata like this—examples from myth offered to persuade an audience member—respond well to interpretations that use notions of cognitive blending like those presented by Mark Turner. Rather than assume a logical comparison between the worlds of the speaker, the audience, and the story, we have to see them as creative separate narrative blends

It certainly does not make logical sense for Niobê to eat—but there are other details in the narrative that can produce through projection from the target space a latticework within the creative blend. For instance, the pairing of a sequence of nine followed by resolution on the tenth recalls for the audience locally the recent delay of the gods in their argument over the burial of Hektor (24.108–109) and generally the nine and ten days of the plague at the epic’s inception (1.53–54) as well as the nine and ten years of the Trojan war itself. The looming finality of the tenth unit of time is emphasized through the petrifaction of the people in Achilles’ tale—an image that easily coalesces with Iliadic language about grave markers standing in place for a man after his death.

The clear input source from Achilles is that Niobê and Priam are similar—they have both lost children thanks to divine anger over human action. Achilles does not specify any wrongdoing on Priam’s fault (that occurs in Priam’s notional blend and in the audience’s imagination). In the repeated first-person plural injunction to eat (νῦν δὲ μνησώμεθα δόρπου… μεδώμεθα…/ σίτου, 601/618), moreover, there is an invitation to Priam (and to us) to allow Achilles himself into the creative blend—especially since he has so strongly refused to eat earlier in the poem (in book 19).

When we admit Achilles into the blend alongside Priam we as audience members may sense his (1) acknowledgment of impending death; (2) acceptance of some responsibility for his loss. If Niobê’s absurd break from mourning to eat creates an image-schematic clash, it may be an effective one: Priam lost more children over a longer period of time and will lose more still. Achilles is acknowledging the magnitude of their combined losses and that their story is not yet at its end. In now encouraging another to eat, Achilles offers another lesson about the necessity of living on despite the pain until life reaches its final closure.

It is this last step where I think we can really understand how Achilles has learned, in this book alone. Recall the advice his mother gives him just 500 lines earlier: she tells him that it is good to take time to eat, to have sex, to enjoy life before its over. She offers this when everyone knows that Achilles’ life is foreshortened following the death of Hektor. But when Achilles applies similar wisdom to Priam through the story of Niobê, the jarring contrast is intentional: it uses a very extreme case to make a more general point.

Achilles has adapted his mother’s lesson to his understanding of an an earlier tale. Audiences knowing the story of Niobê turning to stone increases the force of the passage. Yes, she stopped mourning to eat. We all continue living amid scars, losses, and grief. Life goes on during war. Children are born during sieges and famines. People fall in love as their worlds fall apart. Life continues right up to the moment of death and whether the end is 5 minutes from now or five decades it is uncertain. We should take the time we can to eat and enjoy the pleasures life offers, where and when they appear.

Achilles forgot this after Patroklos died—in fact, we might even argue that he never learned this or else wouldn’t have lost his mind at a slight to his honor in book 1. To be fair, we all forget these truths in the repetitive busyness of life. Whether we have one day left or most of a lifetime, what matters is making it matter. But this doesn’t have to mean dying in glory for eternal renown. It can mean sharing a meal with another, stopping to feel the earth turn.

Achilles’ wisdom is hard won and brief and all the more precious for it. Book 24 shows him adapting a narrative to try to share a moment of life with his bitter enemy’s father despite every force trying to keep him from doing so. He can do this because he has learned to see himself in Priam’s world. And the lesson of the Iliad for us is twofold: we too should take what life gives us while we can—but we need to see ourselves in others to truly do so.

A short bibliography

n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.

Ahern, Charles F.. “Two images of « womanly grief » in Homer.” Essays in honor of Gordon Williams: twenty-five years at Yale. Eds. Tylawsky, Elizabeth Ivory and Weiss, Charles Gray. New Haven (Conn.): Henry R. Schwab Publ., 2001. 11-24.

Andersen, Øivind. 1987. “Myth Paradigm and Spatial Form in the Iliad.” In Homer Beyond Oral Poetry: Recent Trends in Homeric Interpretation, edited by Jan Bremer and Irene J. F. De Jong. John Benjamins

Braswell, B. K. 1971. “Mythological Innovation in the Iliad.” CQ, 21: 16-26.

Combellack, F.M. 1976. “Homer the Innovator.” CP 71: 44-55.

Dué, Casey. 2018. Achilles Unbound: Multiformity and Tradition in the Homeric Epics. Hellenic Studies Series 81. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.

Edmunds, L. 1997. Myth in Homer, in A New Companion to Homer, edited by I. Morris and B. Powell, 415–441. Leiden.

Friedrich, Paul and Redfield, James. 1978. “Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles.” Language 54: 263–288.

Held, G. 1987. “Phoinix, Agamemnon and Achilles. Problems and Paradeigmata.” CQ 36: 141-54.

Johannes Theophanes Kakridis, ‘Die Niobesage bei Homer. Zur Geschichte des griechischen Παράδειγμα’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie (1930) 113-122[JC1] .

Knudsen, Rachel Ahern. 2014. Homeric Speech and the Origins of Rhetoric. Baltimore.

Martin, Richard. 1989. The Language of Heroes: Speech and Performance in the Iliad. Ithaca.

Nagy, Gregory. 1996. Homeric Questions, Austin.

—,—. 2009. “Homer and Greek Myth.” Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology, 52–82.

Thomas E. V. Pearce, ‘Homer, Iliad 24,614-17’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, 151.1 (2008) 13-25[JC2] .

Pedrick, V. 1983. “The Paradigmatic Nature of Nestor’s Speech in Iliad 11.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Society, 113:55-68.

Walter Pötscher, ‘Homer, Ilias 24,601 ff. und die Niobe-Gestalt’, Grazer Beiträge , XII-XIII. (1985-1986) 21-35.

Turner, Mark. 1996. The Literary Mind: The Origins of Thought and Language. Oxford.

Willcock, M.M. 1967. “Mythological Paradeigmata in the Iliad.” Classical Quarterly, 14:141-151.

____,____. 1977, Ad hoc invention in the Iliad, HSCP 81:41–53.

Yoshinori Sano, ‘An interpretation of the Niobe-paradeigma: Iliad XXIV 602-620’, Journal of Classical Studies, 41. (1993) 14-23[JC3] .

This is one of a few posts dedicated to Iliad 24. 

In an earlier post, I wrote about Priam’s journey to Achilles as a passage to a liminal space, but one dominated by death. This katabasis, guided by Hermes, is part funerary procession and part dream-like reverie. But before Priam starts his night-time crossing of the battlefield, we get to see Achilles in his place with his mother, who tries ever so briefly to remind him of life.

Homer, Iliad 24.128-37

Then his queen mother sat very close to him,
And she reached him with her hand as she spoke and named him:
“My child, how long will you consume your heart
Mourning and grieving [akheuon] and thinking nothing of food
Or bed. It is a good thing to have sex with a woman—
For you will not live much longer, since already now
Do death and strong fate stand right beside you.
But listen to me quickly, for I am here as a messenger from Zeus.
He says that the gods are angry with you, and that he
Is especially enraged of all the gods, because you are keeping
Hektor [hektor ekheis] along the curved ships in your crazy thoughts—
You do not let him go. Come now, let him go. Take payment for his corpse.”

ἣ δὲ μάλ’ ἄγχ’ αὐτοῖο καθέζετο πότνια μήτηρ,
χειρί τέ μιν κατέρεξεν ἔπος τ’ ἔφατ’ ἔκ τ’ ὀνόμαζε·
τέκνον ἐμὸν τέο μέχρις ὀδυρόμενος καὶ ἀχεύων
σὴν ἔδεαι κραδίην μεμνημένος οὔτέ τι σίτου
οὔτ’ εὐνῆς; ἀγαθὸν δὲ γυναικί περ ἐν φιλότητι
μίσγεσθ’· οὐ γάρ μοι δηρὸν βέῃ, ἀλλά τοι ἤδη
ἄγχι παρέστηκεν θάνατος καὶ μοῖρα κραταιή.
ἀλλ’ ἐμέθεν ξύνες ὦκα, Διὸς δέ τοι ἄγγελός εἰμι·
σκύζεσθαι σοί φησι θεούς, ἑὲ δ’ ἔξοχα πάντων
ἀθανάτων κεχολῶσθαι, ὅτι φρεσὶ μαινομένῃσιν
῞Εκτορ’ ἔχεις παρὰ νηυσὶ κορωνίσιν οὐδ’ ἀπέλυσας.
ἀλλ’ ἄγε δὴ λῦσον, νεκροῖο δὲ δέξαι ἄποινα.

As I have mentioned in earlier posts on book 24, we find themes and motifs from book 1 echoed and closed as the epic nears its end. This speech makes a few of these moves clearer. Where book 1 has (1) Achilles get angry (using forms of kholos) after (2) a ransom has been refused to a father leading to him sending (3) Thetis as a messenger to Zeus with (4) a request/plan from Achilles, book 24 could be seen to invert it insofar as it has (1′) Zeus angry over (2′) Achilles not releasing/ransoming a body then (3′) sending Thetis as a messenger (4′) to give Achilles a plan from Zeus. But, then, this inversion flattens out to focus on the relieving of the kholos (which Thomas Walsh has argued is anger over social disorder) through the acceptance of apoina (the ransom from book 1).

Thetis’ speech also has some interesting word play that relies on etymologies. Major names in the Homeric tradition have some pretty opaque etymological origins. But folk etymologies (really any ‘false’ etymologies that are important to the reception of myths in performance) are viable objects of study both for what they tell us about Greek thoughts on language and for what they tell us about the life of myths outside our extant poems. Some of these are ridiculous–as in “lipless Achilles” or the story of an Odysseus who was born on the road in the rain. But they all tell us something about how audiences responded to traditional tales.

This speech has two points that may remind us of traditional identities before the beginning of the end of the tale. First, consider the verb/noun combination: “you are holding Hektor” (hektor ekheis). This could be a play on the meaning of Hektor’s name as “the protector” coming from a reflex of the verb ekhô (“to have, hold”) the ringing sound of Hektor ekheis may remind audiences of the irony/inversion of the man who held everything together being held prisoner, holding up the resolution of the poem by the opponent who ended his life. Second, while the speech introduction anticipates that Thetis will “name” her child, she does not, but characterizes him with a participle akheuôn, “grieving” that may remind audiences of his name’s etymology.

As Gregory Nagy has emphasized, Achilles’ name, made up of roots for “grief/woe” (akhos) and the “army/people/host” (laos) likely indicates a traditional association between the hero and pain. Some scholars have emphasized that akhos’ semantic field may also include “fear” and that his name may be important as well for his role as a lord among the dead (see Holland 1993). The major adjustment I would make here is to note yet again that we cannot know what audiences knew, but we can deduce from the internal evidence of poets like Homer and Hesiod that they were well-versed in etymological word-play and not averse to revisionist or ahistorical takes.

For me, this indicates that audiences over time (and even those in the same space) might ‘read’ Achilles’ name differently: he could be a man of sorrow, because of his own suffering; he could be one of grief, because he feels it and causes it; he could also be a cult-figure god of death, depending on what audiences knew and expected. As we can see from the Iliad, his realization in a single epic can embrace all of these identities on a continuum, as he moves from feeling akhos among/because of the people, to inspiring akhos among and across many people, to being the focal point for the experience of grief and its resolution.

One of the topics I have not written about at length in this series of posts is on the identity and the importance of the character Thetis. This omission is mostly due to my belief that nearly everything important about Thetis has already been said by Laura Slatkin in her (now classic) book The Power of Thetis. Slatkin’s book wasn’t the first of Homeric scholarship I read as an undergraduate (Richard Martin’s The Language of Heroes and Lenny Muellner’s The Meaning of Homeric EUKHOMAI Through Its Formulas have that privilege) but it is the first I ever read cover to cover without much of a pause. I took it with me on the train ride from Boston to NYC when I went on my PhD admissions interview at NYU. It changed the way I thought about the Iliad and about how to write scholarship in general. It is a sustained look at the way the Iliad integrates and toys with traditional narratives about a figure like Thetis without always acknowledging them. As a close reading of the epic, Slatkin’s book gives a glimpse into the complexity of the narrative backgrounds that make Homeric epic possible alongside an elegant demonstration of how to interpret the constant shifting ground between the story being told and the (possible) worlds it relies on.

In commenting on this passage, Slatkin summarizes “ Thetis must accept the mortal condition of Achilles, of which, as Isthmian 8 explains, she is the cause. This acceptance means the defusing of μῆνις, leaving only ἄχος. It is thus comprehensible thematically that Thetis should be the agent of Achilles’ returning the body of Hektor, of his acceptance not only of his own mortality but of the universality of the conditions of human existence as he expounds them to Priam in Book 24.” As she argues in this chapter, the Iliad in a way presupposes Thetis’ own mênis over the death and loss of her son as part of its overall thematic framework: “The Iliad is about the condition of being human and about heroic endeavor as its most encompassing expression. The Iliad insists at every opportunity on the irreducible fact of human mortality, and in order to do so it reworks traditional motifs, such as the protection motif, as described in Chapter 1. The values it asserts, its definition of heroism, emerge in the human, not the divine, sphere.” As such, I take this scene as a kind of ‘hand-off’, a turn away from the mother’s rage and the realm of the immortal, to focus ever more closely on human life.

And this is part of what Thetis does in her comments to her son. While it may seem somewhat awkward to have your mother encouraging you to have sex, there’s a symbolic sense to this. As a mother, Thetis has unique knowledge about her child’s mortality. Because she is immortal, however, this knowledge is terribly wrapped up with the anticipation that she will witness his death and live with the loss forever. One could, perhaps, see Thetis’ advice as coded for reproduction, looking to continue Achilles’ life through yet another surrogate. But I think instead there’s far more a sense of resignation and a message for all mortals. Death is inevitable, whether it comes today or forty years from now, postponing engaging in the matters of living is always a mistake.

In a rather naive paper earlier in my career, I explored the similarities in the treatment of life, death and the rhetoric of immortal fame in the Iliad and the Gilgamesh poems. One of the shared themes focused on is a turn that happens in both traditions when a woman on the margins of life gives advice to the main character to enjoy life while it lasts. Part of my inspiration for this was Thetis’ advice to Achilles and the way it seems to resonate with one variant in the Gilgamesh narrative.

In a fragment from the Old Babylonian version of the Gilgamesh story,  Gilgamesh recounts to the boatman Ur-Shanabi his experiences with Shiduri, the innkeeper. In the standard version of the story, the innkeeper/barmaid bars the door and excludes Gilgamesh. In a Tablet from Sippar, dated to the 18-17th century BCE, Shiduri listens to Gilgamesh’s lament and responds:

But you, Gilgamesh, let your belly be full,
enjoy yourself always by day and by night!
Make merry each day,
Dance and play day and night!
Let your clothes be clean,
let your hair be washed, may you bathe in water!
Gaze on the child who holds your hand,
Let your wife enjoy your repeated embrace.’ (Sippar Tablet III 6-13; Trans. George 1999, 124.)

This passage, in a way, echoes the famous epitaph attributed to Ashurbanipal in the Greek tradition, “I keep whatever I ate, the insults I made, and the joy / I took from sex”. And it has a pattern familiar to what we see in the Iliad:

1 Woman on sea/margins

2 Hears heroic lament

3 Gives advice about enjoying life (eating and sex)

The advice given about enjoying life echoes also sentiments from the biblical Enoch and Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes). In a book coming out from Yale at the end of this year, I look at these passages using frameworks from evolutionary biology to think about their possible interactions.

We could easily imagine a general diffusion of the motif throughout the eastern Mediterranean. The pattern of ideas in the heroic context makes this comparison striking. But too often our interest in comparing cultural elements like this resides in creating a kind of theoretical genealogy that establishes the originary nature of one text over another. I think it is better to start from an agnostic position regarding hierarchy and focusing instead on what we learn from differences and what we can surmise of the immediate function of narrative elements for their audiences (who are likely wholly ignorant of cultural diffusion over time).

A significant difference between the two scenes, however, is the emphasis on children in the Gilgamesh fragment. Such an acknowledgement is not absent from the Homeric epics, but it is downplayed–perhaps pointedly–in the Iliad where the loss of children and parents is repeatedly lamented. I think the similarities are due in part to(1) human mortality and our consciousness of it and (2) a trope of investing women with special knowledge about life and death. Consider, as comparison, the lyrics from John Prine’s “Spanish Pipedream” (1971). The narrative of this song presents a soldier who goes to a bar and encounters a dancer/stripper who gives repeated advice to his disenchantment: 

Blow up your TV
Throw away your paper
Go to the country
Build you a home
Plant a little garden
Eat a lot of peaches
Try an’ find Jesus on your own

The chorus repeats between verses until on the third round it turns from the quoted advice into a statement of action:

We blew up our TV
Threw away our paper
Went to the country
Built us a home
Had a lot of children
Fed ’em on peaches
They all found Jesus on their own

Here, the turning away from news and the noise is a withdrawal from martial life, from the chaos of worldly events. Prine’s narrator moves on from his youthful uncertainty to a life of food, presumably sex, and caring for offspring. Each of the three examples provide advice about abandoning mourning, providing what has been called “a prescription for healing”. Now, while one might suggest that John Prine was familiar with the Old Babylonian version of Gilgamesh or Thetis’ advice in the Iliad, I would argue instead that his narrative is a reflex of ‘traditional’ advice relying on a cultural structuration of gender and an attitude towards death that is similar enough to that of the ancient eastern Mediterranean to yield themes that seem familiar.

Achilles, on the seashore, becomes a locus of shifting meaning, like so many elements in Homeric poetry. At this moment, when death stands literally and figuratively around him, his mother reminds him and us that this case is always so for mortal beings. Whether we are looking ahead for days or years, the end that comes is final and, in the words of Ashurbanipal, all we take with us is the memory of the things we did. Thetis centers this, perhaps unsettingly so, prior to the epic’s most memorable moment and the beginning of the creation of Hektor’s immortal renown through his funerary laments. Everything in book 24, this suggests, should be considered from the perspective of the life we have, always under the shadow of the death that will never leave us.

Short bibliography

n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.

Abusch, Tzvi. 2001. “The Development and Meaning of the Epic of Gilgamesh: An Interpretive Essay.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 121 (4): 614–22.

———. 2015. Male and Female in the Epic of Gilgamesh: Encounters, Literary History, and Interpretation. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

Bachvarova, Mary R. 2016. From Hittite to Homer: The Anatolian Background of Ancient Greek Epic. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

Christensen, Joel P. 2008. “Universality or Priority? The Rhetoric of Death in the Gilgamesh Poems and the Iliad.” In Quaderni Del Dipartimento Di Scienze Dell’Antichità e Del Vicino Oriente Dell’Università Ca’ Foscari, 4, edited by E. Cingano and L. Milano, 179–202. Padova: S.A.R.G.O.N.

George, A.R. 1999. The Epic of Gilgamesh. New York: Penguin Books.

———. 2003. The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

———. 2007. “The Epic of Gilgamesh: Thoughts on Genre and Meaning.” In Gilgameš and the World of Assyria, edited by J. Azize and N. Weeks, 37–66. Leuven: Peeters.

Helle, Sophus. 2021. Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Higbie, Carolyn. 1995. Heroes’ Names, Homeric Identities. Ann Arbor.

Holland, G. B. 1993. “The Name of Achilles: A Revised Etymology.” Glotta 71:

Hommel, H. 1980. Der Gott Achilleus. Sitzungsberichte der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften 1980.1. Heidelberg: Winter.

Kanavou, Nikoletta. The Names of Homeric Heroes : Problems and Interpretations, De Gruyter, Inc., 2015

Konstantopoulos, Gina, and Sophus Helle. 2023. The Shape of Stories: Narrative Structures in Cuneiform Literature. Leiden: Brill.

Herrero de Jáuregui, Miguel. “Priam’s catabasis: traces of the epic journey to Hades in Iliad 24.” TAPA, vol. 141, no. 1, 2011, pp. 37-68. Doi: 10.1353/apa.2011.0005

Nagy, G. 1979. The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University

John Peradotto. Man in the Middle Voice: Name and Narration in the Odyssey. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990

Pryke, Louise M. 2019. Gilgamesh. London: Routledge.

Walsh, Thomas. Feuding Words, Fighting Words: Anger in the Homeric Poems. Washington, D. C.: Center for Hellenic Studies. 2005

This post is a basic introduction to reading Iliad 24. 

How does one bring the Iliad to a close? How does one begin to write about this epic’s end? Do we start with the image of Priam kissing the hands of the man who killed his son? Do we try to make sense of the story Achilles tells of a Niobe who stopped to eat while she was weeping en route to her transformation to stone? Do we interweave all of the ends that are tied up alongside those left dangling in the completion of this overwhelming tapestry?

One of the finest scholarly responses is C.W. MacLeod’s commentary on the book. I tend to think that there is so much going on that a line by line response is the only way to make sense of what the book achieves: it addresses the major tensions lingering since book 1 without resolving them altogether by providing an understated coda to the political plot, offering transitional movement from the world of the living to the dead and back again, arranging for the themes of reciprocity and ransom to be revisited in the meeting of Priam and Achilles, providing an ambiguous yet moving testimony to Achilles’ change in character, and revisits the generative power of mourning with the women’s lament for Hektor and his funeral.

Of course, much of the action of the Iliad’s final book is forgotten because of the power of its most famous scene, the meeting of Achilles and Priam for the ransoming of Hektor’s body. The iconography of this scene is widespread enough in early Greece for me to believe that it was an episode independent of our Iliad—so how it is integrated into our particular epic is of great moment here. The book starts with Achilles’ unrelenting abuse of Hektor’s corpse, followed by a divine assembly to decide what to do over his behavior. Hera and Apollo argue against each other and Zeus intercedes on Hektor’s behalf. Hermes guides Priam at some length (and in secret) to Achilles’ dwelling where the famous meeting takes place. Priam returns with a guarantee for an armistice to arrange a funeral; Andromache, Hekuba, and Helen provide funerary laments for Hektor and the epic ends with his burial

Each the book adds something to the themes I have outlined in reading the Iliad: (1) Politics, (2) Heroism; (3) Gods and Humans; (4) Family & Friends; (5) Narrative Traditions. Among these, however, I think for book 24 to do its job, it needs to resonate with all five of these themes. And, I think I will likely do more than three posts to bring this epic to a close.

The ‘Trial’ of Achilles

To start, let’s take a closer look at the opening deliberative scene in book 24. It addresses the relationship between Gods and Humans and also adjusts our expectations for heroic life (and death). [N.B. I have repurposed some unpublished material from my dissertation for what follows.] But most importantly, it signals a different approach to politics. As I have discussed before, the Iliad examines politics on three separate stages, one each for the Achaeans and Trojans, and the third is among the gods. Divine power operates differently because Zeus’ authority (allegedly) guarantees every god’s place in a fixed universe.

The message of the Iliad’s political interest is in part that human institutions cannot mirror divine ones because humans collectively change and individuals are subject to our torrent of self-interest and emotions. In addition to the thematic echoes/resonances, there are also some important structural returns. We find out at the beginning of Iliad  24 that there has been a nine-day neîkos among the gods, mirroring the nine-day plague at the beginning of the epic. And this creates something of an epic long chiastic [AB B’ A’] structure. Ransom [denied]: 9 days of divine wrath [culminating in Achilles’ rage] :: 9 days of divine strife : Ransom [accepted, final resolution of Achilles’ rage] (Whitman and Reinhardt are really good on these structural correspondences.)

The epic’s final book, however, has to answer general issues remaining with the gods, while also responding to the structure of the first: foremost, how their own self-interest has perpetuated violence in the form of the Trojan War and the Iliad itself and, second, whether Homer’s gods can hope to stand for justice the way the divinities of the external audiences are expected to in later years. These questions are addressed in part by the final divine assembly where they guarantee the right of burial to all mortals, regardless of their lineage.

The divine conflict over the corpse has been about just how transgressive Achilles’ behavior has been and whether or not the gods should intervene to preserve Hektor for burial. Since he died in book 22, Hektor’s body has been preserved by the gods, but the emotional impact of his mutilation has not been limited. The internal human audience does not know that Hektor’s flesh has been preserved. With the exception of Hera, Poseidon, and Athena, the gods long for Hermes to steal him away. Apollo stands to address them all (24.33-54):

‘Gods, you are cruel, baneful. Didn’t Hektor always
burn the thigh pieces of bulls and full-grown goats for you?
Now you do not dare to save him, even as a corpse,
for his wife and mother and child to see,
and his father Priam and the host, who soon would
cremate him in fire and offer him a burial.
But you gods decide to help ruinous Achilles,
who has neither fateful thoughts nor flexible intention
in his heart, but he’s like a wild lion
who, after he gives in to his great force and proud heart,
goes after the flocks of mortals to take his feast,
so Achilles obliterates pity and has no shame
that thing that does so much in helping men.
Someone else would lose one so dear, I suppose,
either a brother of the same womb or a son,
but surely, after mourning and crying, he sets this aside;
for the Moirai gave men an enduring heart.
But this man, at least, after he has tied his horses
to shining Hektor, whose dear heart he extinguished,
he drags him around the grave marker of his dear companion—
that surely will not be better or finer for him.
Let us not be chastised by him even though he his noble;
For, indeed, he disfigures the fallow earth in his rage.’

Apollo speaks to show both that there is a clear majority for rescuing Hektor and that the majority is right with a poetic tour de force. As Richardson (1993, 280) notes in his commentary on the Iliad, this version of Apollo differs from the vengeful god of plague we meet in book 1 and closer to the god of prophecy and law who is more prominent in later years. First, he assails all the gods and appropriates Zeus’ language from book 4 in asking, rhetorically, whether or not Hektor was pious in his sacrifices. The implication is that, if Hektor was pious when alive, then he deserves the rites of burial. Apollo poetically expands this statement as he enumerates each member of Hektor’s funeral party (wife, mother, son, father, people). Then, he insists that, instead of helping Hektor, the gods help Achilles, a destructive man whose thoughts are not fitting and whose inhuman behavior he evokes with a surprising simile. By comparing Achilles to a lion who knows “wild” things, Apollo points to the politically destabilizing force he has had on the Achaeans and the uncivilized manner in which he is behaving. Not only does Apollo appropriate a theme from Zeus’ speech in book 4 (cf. 4.7) but instead of naming just those who have helped the Achaeans, he implicates all of the gods and insults them by their connection with ruinous acts against fate. Apollo, in the application of poetic devices, the appropriation of motifs from Zeus, and the manipulation of verbal persons, exploits a performance context where his ‘success’ depends conceptually on a majority approval, but realistically only on persuading Zeus.

The scene appears to proceed in the fashion of litigation. This is Apollo Lykaios, Apollo the barrister-god who appears in Aeschylus’ Oresteia, arguing against the Furies. The sought-after compromise between this particular, younger god, and an older figure of the earth and the matriarchy, Hera, would offer obvious parallels to ancient audiences. In her rebuttal, Hera defends inaction and attempts to manipulate the same performance dynamics (24.56-63):

‘This would only be your word, silver-bow,
if, indeed, you would set the same timê for Achilles and Hektor.
Hektor is mortal and nursed from a mortal woman and breast;
but Achilles is the offspring of a goddess whom I myself
raised and reared and I gave her as a wife to a man,
Peleus, who is dear to the heart of immortals.
You all attended the wedding; and you feasted among them,
holding your lyre, companion of evils, always untrustworthy.’

Hera claims, in a strange conditional, that if Apollo’s word were accepted, Hektor and Achilles would garner the same timê.  Hera changes addressees during the speech, but her alteration is sudden (during the conditional), which may heighten the angry (if not irrational) tone of her speech. Hera aims the political language of valuation at the sensitivities of her audience. She attempts to depict a settlement as ridiculous through antithesis: Hektor is a mortal and was nursed by one, Achilles is not the same. Then, she accuses all the gods of being disingenuous since they all attended the wedding of Achilles’ parents. In closing, she calls Apollo a liar and implies that he is a hypocrite, because he performed at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. Hera’s argument is posterior-focused—it emphasizes the relationships of the past, of a world that mixed gods and men. Apollo’s is anterior—he looks to a world in which the gods can authorize and champion some very basic values for mortals.

In his summary judgment, Zeus succinctly offers a verdict on the contest before him and occupies a more distant position from his engagement earlier in the epic, as if he never responded to Achilles’ plea at all. He briefly reflects the threat of neîkos inherent to Hera’s speech and then sets things in order quickly. Hera has little to say because Apollo has already won over Zeus, as his response makes clear (24.65-71):

‘Hera, really, don’t be completely angry with the gods.
Their timê [honor], at least, will not be the same. But Hektor
is also dearest to the gods of the mortals who live in Troy,
so he is to me, since he never missed dear gifts.
For my altar never lacked a fine feast,
both smoke and libation; for that is the share we have obtained.
But, certainly, we will not allow you to steal bold Hektor away
from Achilles in secret, there is no way. For his mother
always watches over him night and day the same.
But let someone of the gods call Thetis near me,
so I may speak some wise word, that Achilles
will accept gifts from Priam and ransom Hektor.’

Zeus starts with a negative imperative ἀποσκύδμαινε, a hapax legomenon (a word that occurs only once), to characterize the anger of Hera’s speech. The verb resonates well with the themes of irrational anger and political strife. Lexically, it appears to be related to éris. After depicting Hera as a politically dangerous and irrational speaker by using this verb, Zeus quickly dismisses her complaint about Achilles and Hektor earning the same timê and confirms that Apollo delivered the suggestion closest to his own perspective (Hektor is due funeral rites) by repeating his words from book 4 (4.48-9 = 24.69-70). Zeus’ response, however, is not a complete valorization of Apollo’s speech. Instead of relenting and having Hektor’s body stolen away, Zeus offers something of a compromise. At the same time, he retains his control over the narrative, his support of a world in which human sacrifices are observed, and the place of the basic right to burial.

The opening scene of Iliad 24 further justifies the separation between mortals and gods while also carving out a different kind of role for Zeus outside of this particular narrative. The importance of this scene is easier to appreciate if we consider the unfolding of events in this particular epic where leaders have repeatedly failed to resolve conflict. This movement repositions the gods to serve as examples for human beings and centralizes Zeus as the deity of justice more familiar from the Zeus presides over this scene as the king from Hesiod’s Theogony and Greek tragedy.

Hesiod Theogony, 80-93:

[Kalliope] is the Muse who attends to kings and singers.
Whomever of the god-raised Kings the daughters of great Zeus
Honor and look upon when he is born,
On his tongue they pour sweet dew
And gentle words flow out of his mouth. Then the people
All look upon him as he judges the laws
With straight decisions. He speaks confidently
And quickly resolves a conflict with skill.
For this reason, kings are intelligent, so that they
May effect retributive actions in the assembly when men are harmed,
And with ease as they persuade everyone with gentle words.
When he walks into the contest ground people propitiate him
Like a god with gentle reverence, and he stands out among the assembled.
Such is the gift of the muses for men.

ἡ γὰρ καὶ βασιλεῦσιν ἅμ’ αἰδοίοισιν ὀπηδεῖ.
ὅντινα τιμήσουσι Διὸς κοῦραι μεγάλοιο
γεινόμενόν τε ἴδωσι διοτρεφέων βασιλήων,
τῷ μὲν ἐπὶ γλώσσῃ γλυκερὴν χείουσιν ἐέρσην,
τοῦ δ’ ἔπε’ ἐκ στόματος ῥεῖ μείλιχα· οἱ δέ νυ λαοὶ
πάντες ἐς αὐτὸν ὁρῶσι διακρίνοντα θέμιστας
ἰθείῃσι δίκῃσιν· ὁ δ’ ἀσφαλέως ἀγορεύων
αἶψά τι καὶ μέγα νεῖκος ἐπισταμένως κατέπαυσε·
τούνεκα γὰρ βασιλῆες ἐχέφρονες, οὕνεκα λαοῖς
βλαπτομένοις ἀγορῆφι μετάτροπα ἔργα τελεῦσι
ῥηιδίως, μαλακοῖσι παραιφάμενοι ἐπέεσσιν·
ἐρχόμενον δ’ ἀν’ ἀγῶνα θεὸν ὣς ἱλάσκονται
αἰδοῖ μειλιχίῃ, μετὰ δὲ πρέπει ἀγρομένοισι.
τοίη Μουσάων ἱερὴ δόσις ἀνθρώποισιν.

In the public space, subordinates offer competing visions and engage in verbal strife as evinced by Hera’s insults. Zeus listens to their speeches and then offers his own; his language presents a solution previously unavailable to prevent actual strife from developing. These parallels, however, quickly begin to collapse—the exchange loses its luster when compared to earlier conflicts in the Iliad. First of all, since the dispute is over men, the course of divine conflict in the Iliad has already determined that the stakes of such a contest are diminished. Second, the conflict is not with Zeus, but between factions of gods who spar with one another and expect him to orchestrate a resolution. Finally, the decision itself is a simple one. Although Zeus’ speech amounts to something of a compromise, he explains that there is a co-dependence between honors from men and honoring men. The import of this scene is undermined and left under-determined. And this is because there is still more work to be done. It is one thing to know that Achilles will return Hektor’s body; it is another to see it happen.

Short bibliography on the Book 24

n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.

Bowie, Angus. “Narrative and emotion in the « Iliad »: Andromache and Helen.” Emotions and narrative in ancient literature and beyond: studies in honour of Irene de Jong. Eds. De Bakker, Mathieu, Van den Berg, Baukje and Klooster, Jacqueline. Mnemosyne. Supplements; 451. Leiden ; Boston (Mass.): Brill, 2022. 48-61. Doi: 10.1163/9789004506053_004

Carvounis, Katerina. “Helen and Iliad 24. 763-764.” Hyperboreus, vol. 13, no. 1-2, 2007, pp. 5-10.

Currie, Bruno. “The « Iliad », the « Odyssey », and narratological intertextuality.” Symbolae Osloenses, vol. 93, 2019, pp. 157-188. Doi: 10.1080/00397679.2019.1648002

Burgess, Jonathan Seth. “Untrustworthy Apollo and the destiny of Achilles: Iliad 24.55-63.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, vol. 102, 2004, pp. 21-40.

Danek, Georg. “Achilles hybristēs ? : tisis and nemesis in Iliad 24.” Έγκλημα και τιμωρία στην ομηρική και αρχαϊκή ποίηση : από τα πρακτικά του ΙΒ’ διεθνούς συνεδρίου για την Οδύσσεια, Ιθάκη, 3-7 Σεπτεμβρίου 2013. Eds. Christopoulos, Menelaos and Païzi-Apostolopoulou, Machi. Ithaki: Kentro Odysseiakon Spoudon, 2014. 137-152.

Ebbott, Mary. “The wrath of Helen: self-blame and nemesis in the « Iliad ».” Plato’s « Laws » and its historical significance: selected papers of the I International Congress on Ancient Thought, Salamanca, 1998. Ed. Lisi, Francisco Leonardo. Sankt Augustin: Academia, 2001. 3-20.

Felson, Nancy. “« Threptra » and invisible hands: the father-son relationship in Iliad 24.” Arethusa, vol. 35, no. 1, 2002, pp. 35-50.

Franko, George Fredric. “The Trojan horse at the close of the « Iliad ».” The Classical Journal, vol. 101, no. 2, 2005-2006, pp. 121-123.

Hammer, Dean C.. “The « Iliad » as ethical thinking: politics, pity, and the operation of esteem.” Arethusa, vol. 35, no. 2, 2002, pp. 203-235.

Heath, Malcolm. “Menecrates on the end of the Iliad.” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, vol. 141, no. 2, 1998, pp. 204-206.

Herrero de Jáuregui, Miguel. “Priam’s catabasis: traces of the epic journey to Hades in Iliad 24.” TAPA, vol. 141, no. 1, 2011, pp. 37-68. Doi: 10.1353/apa.2011.0005

Kiss, Dániel. “Iliad 22.60 and 24.487: Priam on the threshold of old age.” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, vol. 153, no. 3-4, 2010, pp. 401-404.

Knox, Ronald A.. “Iliad 24. 547-549: blameless Achilles.” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, vol. 141, no. 1, 1998, pp. 1-9.

Kyriakou, Poulheria. “Reciprocity and gifts in the encounters of Diomedes with Glaucus and Achilles with Priam in the « Iliad ».” Hermes, vol. 150, no. 2, 2022, pp. 131-149. Doi: 10.25162/hermes-2022-0009

Mackie, Chris J.. “Iliad 24 and the judgement of Paris.” Classical Quarterly, N. S., vol. 63, no. 1, 2013, pp. 1-16. Doi: 10.1017/S0009838812000754

MacLeod, C. W., editor. Iliad, Book XXIV. Cambridge: Cambridge University Pr., 1982.

Most, Glenn W.. “Anger and pity in Homer’s « Iliad ».” Yale Classical Studies, vol. 32, 2003, pp. 50-75[JC1] .

Murnaghan, Sheila. “Equal honor and future glory: the plan of Zeus in the « Iliad ».” Classical closure: reading the end in Greek and Latin literature. Eds. Roberts, Deborah H., Dunn, Francis M. and Fowler, Don P.. Princeton (N. J.): Princeton University Pr., 1997. 23-42.

Pantelia, Maria C.. “Helen and the last song for Hector.” TAPA, vol. 132, 2002, pp. 21-27.

Perkell, Christine G.. “Reading the laments of Iliad 24.” Lament: studies in the ancient Mediterranean and beyond. Ed. Suter, Ann. Oxford ; New York: Oxford University Pr., 2008. 93-117.

Karl Reinhardt. Die Ilias und ihr Dichter. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1961.

Rabel, Robert J.. “Apollo as a model for Achilles in the Iliad.” American Journal of Philology, vol. CXI, 1990, pp. 429-440.

Race, William H.. “Achilles’ κῦδος in Iliad 24.” Mnemosyne, Ser. 4, vol. 67, no. 5, 2014, pp. 707-724. Doi: 10.1163/1568525X-12341406

Nicholas Richardson. The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume VI: Books 21-24. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993.

Strauss Clay, Jenny. “Iliad 24.649 and the semantics of κερτομέω.” Classical Quarterly, N. S., vol. 49, no. 2, 1999, pp. 618-621. Doi: 10.1093/cq/49.2.618

Taplin, Oliver. “A word of consolation in Iliad 24, 614.” Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica, 3a ser., vol. 20, no. 1-2, 2002, pp. 24-27.

Thalmann, William G.. “« Anger sweeter than dripping honey »: violence as a problem in the « Iliad ».” Ramus, vol. 44, no. 1-2, 2015, pp. 95-114. Doi: 10.1017/rmu.2015.5[JC2] 

Cedric Hubbell Whitman. Homer and the Heroic Tradition. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1958.

Xian, Ruobing. “The dramatization of emotions in Iliad 24.552-658.” Philologus, vol. 164, no. 2, 2020, pp. 181-196. Doi: 10.1515/phil-2020-0105[JC3] 

Zanker, Graham. “Beyond reciprocity: the Akhilleus-Priam scene in Iliad 24.” Reciprocity in ancient Greece. Eds. Gill, Christopher, Postlethwaite, Norman and Seaford, Richard A. S.. Oxford: Clarendon Pr., 1998. 73-92.