This is one of a few posts dedicatedto Iliad 12. As a reminder, these posts will remain free, but there is an option to be a financial supporter. All proceeds from the substack are donated to classics adjacent non-profits on a monthly basis.
Iliad 12 tells the story of the battle around the walls that protect the Achaean ships. Like other books of the Iliad, remarkable speeches intersperse the action. One of the most famous Homeric speeches appears about two-thirds of the way through the book as the Trojan ally, Sarpedon—a son of Zeus—turns to speak to his friend Glaukos:
Homer, Iliad 12.310-328
‘Glaukos, why are you and I honored before others by place, the best meat and cups filled with wine in Lykia, and all men look on us as gods, and we have great tracts of land Xanthos’ banks, good holdings with orchards and vineyards, farmland for wheat too? Because of this we must stand at the head of the Lykians and take our part of the burden of battle’s fire so that one of those well-armored Lykians may see us and say:
“Indeed, these lords of Lykia are no base-born men, these kings of ours, who dine on the fatted sheep selected for them and drink the finest wine, since there is in fact strength and courage in them, when they fight in the forefront of the Lykians.”
But, friend, imagine if you and I could escape this battle and be able to live forever, ageless, immortal– then neither would I myself go on fighting in the frontlines nor would I tell you to seek the fighting that brings us glory. But now, since death’s ghosts stand around us numbered in their thousands and no person can ever escape them, let’s go on and claim this glory for ourselves or give it to others in turn.”
In this speech Sarpedon first rhetorically affirms their privileged position among their countrymen and then asserts that it is this very position that obligates them to prove their noble worth through noble deeds—deeds that will earn them fame. The two men, according to Sarpedon, are honored like immortals and that they are treated as immortals requires them to attain the immortality that is available for men (that is, kleos).
The near divine honors that they receive, the very acts that require them to seek kleos, are material (food, wine, land). Following this statement, Sarpedon wishes that they were immortal so they would not have to fight, touching upon the irony of heroic immortality, an immortality that is something completely different from that of the Olympian gods. Since they are mortal and they will die no matter what, they should go into battle and “win glory or give it to someone else.”
He gave the glory to someone else: Attic red-figured calyx-krater signed by Euxitheos (potter) and Euphronios (painter), ca. 515 BC.
It is life’s status as a limited commodity that gives those who risk it a share of the immortal in the form of fame. In discussing Homeric heroism, Margalit Finkelberg refers to Sarpedon’s speech writes “The Iliad proceeds from an idea of hero’ which is pure and simple: one who prizes honour and glory above life itself and dies on the battlefield in the prime of life” (1995, 1). Adam Parry cites this passage when he asserts that “moral standards as values of life are essentially agreed on by everyone in the Iliad” (1956, 3; see Pucci 1998, 49-68 for an extended discussion of this passage). And many other authors (see Hammer 2002, Adkins 1982) agree with this. But I think the key phrase in Finkelberg’s sentence is proceeds from. The epic does not by any means insist that this articulation of values is unquestionable or, ultimately, good. As James Arieti suggests (1986, 1), the basic framework of these values are assumed in book 1, where Hera has Athena promise Achilles that he will be compensated 3 or 4 times over for his loss of honor (1.213) but ultimately questioned in book 9 by Achilles dissent.
To fully understand Sarpedon’s comments, they need to be contextualized in the action of book 12 and the flow of the plot since the embassy to Achilles. Achilles’ rejection of the offer of the gifts stands in contrast to his commitment to stay and fight, regardless of what he will receive. Book 12 is the first significant commentary on heroic behavior since the embassy, and the actions center around the Achaean chieftains who have no choice but to defend the walls around the ships and Hektor as he tries to break through the wall. As S. Faron argues, Sarpedon is the one who does the most in battle in this book and, by contrast, Hektor’s grasping for glory might seem more desperate or ill-considered. Yet, even if Sarpedon’s comments ring noble, they are attenuated by his eventual death, one so prominent that it prompts Zeus to cry tears of blood.
Protolucana red-figure hydria by the Policoro Painter, ca. 400 BC. From the so-called tomb of the Policoro Painter in Heraclaea. Stored in the Museo Nazionale Archaeologico of Policoro.
I have no doubt that Sarpedon presents something of a standard heroic ‘code’ in this passage. The question, as usual, is to what extent we are supposed to accept the standard articulation as sufficient or still applying. A key note of dissonance here is the contrast between Sarpedon’s dream of immortality and Hektor’s boast in book 8. There Hektor says,
Tomorrow will show the proof of our excellence, if he will stand To face my spear’s approach. But I think that he will fall there Struck among the first ranks and many of his companions Will be there around him as the sun sets toward the next dear. But I wish I were deathless and ageless for all time, Then I would pay them back as Athena or Apollo might, And now on this day bring evil to the Argives.
So Hektor spoke and the Trojans cheered in response.
One significant contrast between this wish and Sarpedon’s is the audience: Sarpedon speaks only to Glaukos as they face death in an intimate way, acknowledging that, just maybe, facing men with spears on top of a wall is a less desirable way to spend a life than dining and drinking. Hektor, in contrast, speaks in bluster to rally his troops to do something they have never done before (remain outside the walls and face the Achaeans.
I find it interesting that there is some contrast in the scholiastic response to this. Hektor’s wish to be immortal is denigrated (“Praying for the impossible is barbaric” βαρβαρικὸν τὸ εὔχεσθαι τὰ ἀδύνατα, Schol. bT ad Hom. Il. 8.538-539b) while Sarpedon’s reverie is praise as “a noble sentiment” (εὐγενὴς ἡ γνώμη, Schol. b ad Hom. Il. 12.322-8 ex.). Sarpedon’s odd detachment seems somehow more to the taste of Hektor’s more desperate energy.
And this gets me to the primary differences in the statements and the core of what I see as the Iliad’s stance on this kind of heroism. Achilles can linger by his ships, indulging in navel-gazing and worrying about life’s meaning, because no one is forcing him to fight. They are asking him. Similarly, Sarpedon–also a demi-god–comes as an ally who fights for the promise of honor, goods, and glory. Hektor knows what Achilles only learns too late: if he does not fight, everyone he loves dies. All the words of honor and glory and any sense of noblesse oblige ring hollow in comparison to this. And I think that any reading of Sarpedon’s speech that does not acknowledge audience familiarity with his death misses a crucial aspect of its interpretation.
Sarpedon’s articulation, I think, has drawn praise over the ages because it isn’t messy. He doesn’t talk about not fighting; he idly imagines a life of ease and makes the choice to stand. Hektor’s prevarication and later vacillation in the face of danger troubles us because however fantastic it may sound, it is not a fantasy. His fight is about survival; any talk of glory is just a distraction from the mortal truth.
And there’s a moral content as well. What does it mean for audiences to praise the exploits of ‘heroes’ who fight for personal gain and intangible, indefinable, things like fame? Achilles doubts this; Sarpedon merely restates this; the rest of the epic helps us judge the matter for ourselves.
HAMMER, DEAN. “THE ‘ILIAD’ AS ETHICAL THINKING: POLITICS, PITY, AND THE OPERATION OF ESTEEM.” Arethusa 35, no. 2 (2002): 203–35. http://www.jstor.org/stable/44578882.
A. Parry, 1956. “The Language of Achilles,” TAPA 87, 1-8.
P. Pucci,1998. The Song of the Sirens: Essays on Homer, Lanham.
Bonus Sarpedon Content
Pindar, Pythian 3.108-116
“I’ll be small for minor matters but big for big ones and I will cultivate in my thoughts The fate that comes to me, serving it by my own design.
So if god allows me wealth’s luxury I have hope of finding fame’s height as well.
We know about Nestor and Lykian Sarpedon– People’s legends, from famous songs which The wise craftsmen assembled. And excellence blooms In famous songs for all time. But it is easy for only a few to earn.”
‘Glaukos, why are you and I honored before others
by place, the best meat and cups filled with wine
in Lykia, and all men look on us as gods,
and we have great tracts of land Xanthos’ banks,
good holdings with orchards and vineyards, farmland for wheat too?
Because of this we must stand at the head of the Lykians
and take our part of the burden of battle’s fire
so that one of those well-armored Lykians may see us and say:
“Indeed, these lords of Lykia are no base-born men,
these kings of ours, who dine on the fatted sheep selected for them
and drink the finest wine, since there is in fact strength
and courage in them, when they fight in the forefront of the Lykians.”
But, friend, imagine if you and I could escape this battle
and be able to live forever, ageless, immortal–
then neither would I myself go on fighting in the frontlines
nor would I tell you to seek the fighting that brings us glory.
But now, since death’s ghosts stand around us numbered
in their thousands and no person can ever escape them,
let’s go on and claim this glory for ourselves or give it to others in turn.”
He did give glory to someone else. Protolucana red-figure hydria by the Policoro Painter, ca. 400 BC. From the so-called tomb of the Policoro Painter in Heraclaea. Stored in the Museo Nazionale Archaeologico of Policoro.
For a discussion of the importance of this speech with bibliography, see Painful Signs
This post is a basic introduction to readingIliad 12. Here is a link to the overview ofbook 11and another to the plan in general. As a reminder, these posts will remain free, but there is an option to be a financial supporter. All proceeds from the substack are donated to classics adjacent non-profits on a monthly basis.
Iliad 12 puts the audience both at the middle of the epic’s ‘run-time’ and at the middle of the field between Troy and the Greeks. One of the many inversions that characterize our Iliad is the transformation of besiegers into besieged. The only wall-breaching that occurs in the Iliad is of the Achaean Walls at the end of book 12 by Hektor himself. In the arc of the poem’s action, this book sits in the 6 book sequence that takes up the single day following the embassy to Achilles and the night raids of book 10.
Book 12 occupies a curious place in this arc, however: the focus of the narrative moves between the frantic defense of the Greek fortifications and conversations among the Trojan attackers. In addition to the final breaking of the wall and an initial foreshadowing of the wall’s future destruction, book 12 contains two famous scenes: (1) Hektor arguing with Polydamas about an omen that appears as they prepare to breach the wall and (2) Sarpedon reflecting to his buddy Glaukos about why they have to fight. Near the end of the book there are a few remarkable similes, to which I will dedicate an entire post.
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 Narrative traditions, heroism, and politics.
Hector Admonishes Paris for His Softness and Exhorts Him to Go to War by J. H. W. Tischbein (1751–1828)
Narrative Traditions (Redux): The Destruction of the Wall
As discussed in an earlier post, one of the features of book 12 that has made interpreters a little batty is the description of the destruction of the Achaean fortifications after the events of the Iliad are complete. When the wall is first built in Iliad 6, Poseidon complains that the new wall will erase all memory of the wall he and Apollo built for the Trojans. The back-and-forth between Poseidon and Zeus makes it clear that the wall is in part about divine honor and fame, and that Zeus’ ability to guarantee such things keep the divine realm stable politically in a way that is impossible for mortals (and which underpins the conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles in book 1).
When the wall is ‘destroyed’ at the beginning of book 12, it provides a nice structure to the book (anticipating Hektor’s breaching of the wall at the end), but it also engages with the ‘glory’ of the epic in interesting ways.
Iliad 12.1-33
“So, while the valiant son of Menoitios was tending To wounded Eurupulos in the tents, the Argives and Trojans Were fighting in clusters. The ditch and the broad wall beyond Were not going to hold, the defense they built for the ships And the trench they made around it. They did not sacrifice to the gods So that it would safeguard the fast ships and the piled up spoils Held within it. It was built without the gods’ assent, And so it would not remain steadfast for too much. As long as Hektor was alive and Achilles was raging, And as long as the city of lord Priam remained unsacked, That’s how long the great wall of the Achaeans would be steadfast.
But once however so many of the Trojans who were the best died Along with many of the Argives who killed them, and the rest left, And Priam’s city was sacked in the tenth year, And the Argives went back to their dear homeland in their ships, That’s when Poseidon and Apollo were planning To erase the wall by turning the force of rivers against it. All the number of the rivers that flow from the Idaian mountains to the sea, Rhêsos, and Heptaporos, and Karêsos, and Rhodios, And the Grênikos, and Aisêpos, and divine Skamandros Along with Simoeis, where many ox-hide shields and helmets Fell in the dust along with the race of demigod men. Phoibos Apollo turned all of their mouths together And sent them flowing against the wall for nine days. And Zeus sent rain constantly, to send the walls faster to the sea. The earthshaker himself took his trident in his hands And led them, and he sent all the pieces of wood and stone Out into the waves, those works the Achaeans toiled to make And he smoothed out the bright-flowing Hellespont, And covered the broad beach again with sands, Erasing the wall, and then he turned the rivers back again, He sent their beautiful flowing water back to where it was before.”
As I mention earlier, this passage can be seen as engaging fundamentally with epic concerns about the stability of memory and the persistence of human stories. There no mention of kleos in the proleptic destruction of the wall. But there are several markers of the passage of time: the wall is related to the action of the story being told (it will last as long as Hektor lives and Achilles rages), it is situated within the Trojan War tradition (it will last through the sack of Troy), and it is marked as part of the destruction of the race of heroes, placing it in a cosmic outlook.
Lorenzo Garcia suggests that the wall is in a way a metonym: “The wall—itself a stand-in for Achilles, as I argued above—here functions as an image of the tradition itself and its view of its own temporal durability” (2013, 191). Then he draws on Ruth Scodel’s work (1982) to note that this narrative necessarily positions the wall and the actions around it in a larger cosmic framework:
I would like to add to this that the position of this temporal reminder at the middle of the epic, in the very book in which the wall is breached, is of structural significance. If we follow models of performance that split the Iliad into three movements, then the first mention of the Achaean walls’ destruction comes during a different performance. The secondary mention, then, is both a reminder and an expansion. It emphasizes different themes (extinction, destruction, erasure) in contrast to the former. And, in line with Homeric composition in general, it amplifies the discussion, taking the audience outside of the timeline of the Iliad temporarily before plunging us back into the chaos of war.
Beginning book 12 with the destruction of the object that the whole book is dedicated merely to breaching creates a dynamic tension between the larger story tradition and the one being told. How we interpret this tension depends on the position we take towards epic participants. Does divine intervention to erase the wall in the future elevate or denigrate Hektor’s accomplishment in the book? How does the erasure of evidence of the actions help to characterize the power of epic narrative over objects?
I don’t know that I can answer either of these questions, but I suspect a third is important as well: how does knowing about the future destruction of the walls shape our attitude about all the events that fall around them? In a way, I think the entire setup at the heart of the epic is a metaphor for human accomplishment. A pessimistic view sees the juxtaposition of destruction and Hektor’s big moment as showing how futile human action is, how useless from the cosmic scale. Such a reading, I suggest, takes an overly deterministic stance, wholly crediting the notion that all of the events of the epic are just a part of Zeus’ plan.
A less pessimistic view: how impressive it is that Hektor breaks the wall and changes the balance of the war when it eventually takes so much divine effort to get rid of the gods altogether. From the perspective of Homeric poetics, the story of Hektor’s battle persists even though the wall is gone.
But, wait, there’s more: I think the less pessimistic view may be too generous to the power of Homeric poetry to preserve great deeds from destruction. Hektor disappears (in this epic!) long before the walls are erased. I get a sense from this book that the pairing of the two wall-events is indeed about putting human action in cosmic perspective. This is not to relativize it or dismiss it, but to see it for what it is. Hektor did something, he meant something. We spend our lives wondering what it means to have been, to have done much, to have suffered, and then to be gone. Iliad 12 may ask us to think about what it means if no one remembers us at all.
Perhaps it is the general zeitgeist, but scenes like this and those from Iliad 6 cause me to recall the final scenes of the tonally odd but striking Don’t Look Up (2021). As a final atmospheric event promises to end all life on earth, a small group gathers for a final meal, incapable of changing anything. Leonardo DiCaprio’s character opines, “We really did have everything, did we? I mean, when you think about it…” (and it seems the actor may have improvised this!)
I know it may seem that this post-apocalyptic film is rather far away from Hektor, tamer of horses, but the language of book 12 invokes cataclysmic destruction and for the city and the Trojans, Hektor’s death is truly one of those last distant events that seals their doom. I think the point of the final scene and book 12 is the reminder that living is in the doing, in the day to day, in the struggle.
Memory belongs to something else altogether.
Signs and their Meanings: Hektor and Polydamas debate a bird omen
I think that some reading of the futility/meaning of human action is important to this book as well because it can help frame the critical engagement between Hektor and Polydamas in the middle of the book. When the Trojans are about to break through the Achaean wall an eagle carrying a snake flies over them: the snake bites the eagle; eagle drops the snake and flies off screeching. The narrator tells us that the Trojans shuddered at the sight.
Iliad 12.199–257
“They were still struggling standing before the wall when a bird went over them as they were struggling to cross it, a high-flying eagle moving its way over the left side of the army holding in its talons a huge, reddened, snake still alive, breathing: it had not yet lost its fighting spirit. For it struck back at the bird who held him in the skin along the chest as it bent double. And the bird tossed him away to the ground because he was tortured with pains. It dropped the snake in the middle of the throng but flew away on the breath of the wind, sounding out in pain. The Trojans shuddered when they saw the winding serpent lying there, a sign from Aegis-bearing Zeus.
Then Polydamas stood aside and addressed bold Hektor: “Hektor, you are always threatening me in the public assemblies for some reason, even when I advise well, since it is not ever deemed proper for some member of the people to advise against you, either in council or in war. Instead, we must always increase your strength. But now I will tell you what seems to me to be best. Let’s not go to fight the Danaans around their ships. I think that it will turn out this way, if truly this bird came over the Trojans as we struggled to cross the wall, a high-flying eagle moving its way over the left side of the army holding in its talons a huge dark, reddened snake still alive. For it dropped it before it could return to its dear home and did not complete the task of giving it to his children. In the same way we, if we break through the gates and walls of the Achaeans by means of great strength and the Achaeans yield, so too we will not find the same paths in order among the ships. We will lose many Trojans there as the Achaeans strike us down with bronze while defending the ships. This is how a prophet would interpret, one who clearly understands in his heart divine signs and one the people obey.”
Glaring at him, shining-helmed Hektor answered: “Polydamas, you never announce things dear to me in public. You know how to make a different, better speech than this one. If you are really arguing this out loud earnestly, well, then, the gods have ruined your thoughts themselves, you who order me to forget the counsels of loud-thundering Zeus, what he himself promised and assented to for me. Now you ask me to listen to some tender-winged bird? I don’t notice or care at all about these birds, whether they go to the right to dawn and the sun or whether they go to the left to the dusky gloom. We are obeying the plan of great Zeus. He rules over all the mortals and the immortal too. One bird omen is best: defend your fatherland. Why do you fear the war and strife so much? If all the rest of us are really killed around the Argive ships, there’s no fear for you in dying. Your heart is not brave nor battleworthy. But if you keep back from the fight, or if you turn any other away from the war by plying him with words, well you’ll die straight away then, struck down by my spear.” So he spoke and led on, and they followed him with a divine echo. Zeus who delights in thunder drove a gust of wind down from the Idaian slopes, which carried dust straight over the ships. It froze the minds of the Achaeans and gave hope to the Trojans and Hektor. Trusting in these signs and their own strength, they were trying to break through the great wall of the Achaeans.”
Looking at omens helps us to consider how the epic sees people using narratives in different contexts and where re-intrepretation is presented as acceptable or not. In short, this scene is another opportunity for the Iliad to train its audiences in how to read epic and engage with narrative. And understanding Hektor’s position within a larger cosmic scale, may help us to better grasp his response.
In Polydamas’ response to the omen, note how he provides an end to the story and an interpretation. The audience faces a quick and compressed comparison of the story of the omen to the experience and world of the Trojans, a prediction for what might happen in the story, and an extended application to future action. This process enacts a clear blending between the Trojan world and the omen world: children, homes, and families are projected in the narrative blend to the bird; the snake and bird are projected back upon the Achaeans and Greeks; and unforeseen events are predicted for both.
It is really hard for me not to see this exchange as an elaborate allegory for interpreting epic. But let me stick to the process at hand. We can imagine both Pulydamas and Hektor applying the story of the omen to their own experiences and making different moves when the comparisons clash. Pulydamas extends the story of the omen to create parallels between his world and that of the omen; Hektor rejects the comparison altogether, responding either to Polydamas’ extension and disambiguation or rejecting the clash between his expectations and his reality. In other words, when the story fails to work for Hektor, when he cannot assimilate its messages to his experiences, he rejects it as inapplicable and replaces it with another. (And here, coyly, I might suggest Hektor is the kind of reader who is quick to emend a text that frustrates him).
To be clear, I am suggesting that maybe Hektor’s rejection of the omen is not merely a flouting of divine will and a demonstration of his monomaniacal desire to kill Achaeans. The epic sets us up to think this, of course: this pattern of a leader rejecting a prophet is part of the power play in the first book. But here, what if we imagine instead Hektor’s incredulity at Polydamas’ inferences and extensions? Maybe the bird’s just a bird and the snake a snake? Hector is not so simplistic, of course, but he increases the dissonance of the clashing to the point that the stories are irreconcilable. Hektor’s violence in reference to Polydamas extends in part from his rejection of the omen’s applicability. He posits cowardice and fear as influencing Polydamas’ interpretation. We on the outside of the poem know that Hektor is wrong in the long run; but within the poem he seems to be right in the short one, when he receives a sign of the rightness of his interpretation when Zeus sends a blast of blinding dust over the Achaeans.
To return to Don’t Look Up!, if only briefly, Hektor’s willful denial, his embrace of a worldview that allows him to act in it, is so essentially human as to countermand any dismissal of it. At the same time, we know he is likely wrong even as we know nothing he does will change the outcome. Hektor is not yet ready to acknowledge the truth.
For Omens: See De Jong 2001, 52 for list and typology; Ready 2014 for recent bibliography
De Jong, Irene. 2001. A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey. Cambridge.
Ready, Jonathan. 2014. “Omens and messages in the « Iliad » and « Odyssey »: a study in transmission.” Between orality and literacy : communication and adaptation in antiquity. Ed. Scodel, Ruth. Orality and literacy in the ancient world; 10. Leiden: 29-55.
Maitland, Judith. “Poseidon, Walls, and Narrative Complexity in the Homeric Iliad.” The Classical Quarterly 49, no. 1 (1999): 1–13. http://www.jstor.org/stable/639485.
PORTER, JAMES I. “Making and Unmaking: The Achaean Wall and the Limits of Fictionality in Homeric Criticism.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 141, no. 1 (2011): 1–36. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41289734.\
Purves, Alex. 2006a. “Falling into Time in Homer’s Iliad.” Classical Antiquity 25:179–209.
Scodel, Ruth. “The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 86 (1982): 33–50. https://doi.org/10.2307/311182.
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know. Follow-up posts will address kleos and Trojan politics
Christensen, Joel P.. “Trojan politics and the assemblies of Iliad 7.” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol. 55, no. 1, 2015, pp. 25-51.
Clay, J. S. Homer’s Trojan Theater: Space, Vision and Memory in the Iliad (Cambridge, 2011)
Donlan, Walter. “The Structure of Authority in the Iliad.” Arethusa 12 (1979) 51-70.
Esperman, L. 1980. Antenor, Theano, Antenoriden: Ihre Person und Bedeutung in der Ilias. Meisen Heim am Glam.
Létoublon, Françoise. “Le bon orateur et le génie selon Anténor dans l’ Iliade : Ménélas et Ulysse.” in Jean-Michel Galy and Antoine Thivel (eds.). La Rhétorique Grecque. Actes du colloque «Octave Navarre»: troisième colloque international sur la pensée antique organisé par le CRHI (Centre de recherches sur l’histoire des idées) les 17, 18 et 19 décembre 1992. Nice: Publications de la Faculté des Lettres, Arts et Sciences Humaines de Nice, 1994, 29-40.
Mackie, Hillary. Talking Trojan: Speech and Community in the Iliad . Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1996.
Redfield, James. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hektor. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975.
Sale, William M. “The Government of Troy: Politics in the Iliad. GRBS 35 (1994) 5-102.
“So he spoke, and then Hektor reached out to his son.
But the child shrank back to well-belted his nurse
with a cry, afraid of his father’s appearance,
Stunned by the horse-hair crest at the top of his helmet,
When he noticed it nodding awfully from the peak.
His father and queen mother let out a laugh and
Hektor immediately took the helmet from his head
And put it down where it continued shining on the ground.
Then he took his dear son into his hands and he kissed him
And prayed to Zeus and the rest of the gods:
“Zeus and the other gods, grant that this child of mine
Become as great and conspicuous among the Trojans as I am,
In his force and valor, and that he rule Troy with strength.
And may someone someday say he is better than his father
As he returns from war. And may he carry off the bloody weapons
From an enemy he has killed and may he bring joy to his mother.”
So he spoke and placed the child back in his dear wife’s hands
And she welcomed him into her perfumed bosom,
Crying after she laughed. But her husband noticed and pitied her…”
Astyanax, in Andromache’s lap, reaches to touch his father’s helmet before his duel with Achilles (Apulian red-figure column-crater, ca. 370–360 BC).
Schol. bT Ad Hom. Il. 6.467
“These verses are so full of vividness—not only do they make us hear the actions, but we see them too. The poet has sublimely taken this from life to add to the fiction.”
“She cried, after laughing”: what is articulated powerfully here cannot [easily] be explained. For the feeling is not simple, but composed from opposite feelings, pleasure and grief. She produces a laugh in response to her child, but a tear comes for Hektor’s struggles.”
This is one of a few posts dedicated to Iliad 11. As a reminder, these posts will remain free, but there is an option to be a financial supporter. All proceeds from the substack are donated to classics adjacent non-profits on a monthly basis. I’ll be taking the rest of the year off, so expect a return to Iliad 12 in January.
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”.
According to some sources this cup shows Hecamede mixing kykeon for Nestor. Tondo of an Attic red-figure cup, c. 490 BC. From Vulci.
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 pedtrick 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.
This is one of a few posts dedicated to Iliad 11. As a reminder, these posts will remain free, but there is an option to be a financial supporter. All proceeds from the substack are donated to classics adjacent non-profits on a monthly basis.
Book 11 of the Iliad is 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.
Attic Black-Figure Neck Amphora attributed to unknown, Connected with the Class of Cabinet des Médailles 218 (Greek) This is a Getty Open Image of a Greek terracotta Storage Jar with Two Warriors. Object Number 86.AE.78, not currently on view.
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.”
I think that the comments on Achilles’ character show something of a limited understanding. I think 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, I think that 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, I think, 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 I think 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 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, I think, 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.
“Shining Klytemnestra was resisting the shameful deed
Previously, for she had use of some good advice for her mind.
See, a man was there beside her, a singer whom Agamemnon
Ordered much to safeguard his wife when he went to Troy.
But when the fate of the gods was bound to overcome him,
Then [he*] packed off the singer to some lonely island
And left him there as food and booty for the birds
And he, willingly, took her willing to his own home”
*note how carefully the Homeric text leaves the subject of the action in doubt until the final line.
Schol. EM ad Od. 3.267
“In olden days, singers used to hold the position of philosopher, everyone used to consider them wise and they entrusted their kind to them to be educated. When gathering in festivals and to rest for many days, they used to listen to them if any famous or noble deed had happened. So, the singer who was left with Klytemnestra was trying to hinder wicked thoughts from happening by narrating the virtues of men and women. And she was acting prudently as long as that singer was present. Some people say that the singer did not have genitals, wrongly. Some named him Khariades, others call him Demodokos, others Glaukos.”
“A singer was stationed with her too. For in ancient times, singers used to have the position of philosophers. Some people who know things badly report that he was a Eunuch”
“Demetrius of Phalerum has as follows: “Menelaos, when he went with Odysseus to Delphi asked about the expedition which was about to happen against Troy. At that time, in fact, Kreon was running the nine-year contest of the Pythian games. The Spartan Demodokos won, a student of Automedon of Mycenae who was the first who composted the Battle of Amphritryon against the Teleboans and the Conflict of Kithairon and Helikon for whom the mountains in Boiotia are named. He was also a student of Perimedes the Argive who taught the Mycenean Automedes himself along with Likymnios the Bouprasian and Sinis along with Dôrieus, the Laconian Pharides and the Spartan Probolos.
At that time, Menelaos dedicated the expedition for Helen to Athena thanks to forethought. Agamemnon led Demodokos to Mycenae and ordered him to watch over Klytemnestra.
People used to honor singers excessively as teachers of the gods and other ancient acts of good men and they used to delight in the lyre beyond the other instruments. Klytemnestra clearly honored him—she didn’t have him murdered but instead ordered him to be exiled. Timolaus suggest that he was the brother of Phemios who accompanied Penelope to Ithaca to keep a watch over her. He sang for the suitors under compulsion.”
“The music of rhapsodes applied so much to political matters that people report that the city of Sparta used it especially to encourage like-mindedness and preservation of the customs. They also say that once the Pythia, when a disturbance developed, told people to listen a Lesbian song and stop their rivalry.”
This post is a basic introduction to readingIliad 11. Here is a link to the overview ofbook 10and another to the plan in general. As a reminder, these posts will remain free, but there is an option to be a financial supporter. All proceeds from the substack are donated to classics adjacent non-profits on a monthly basis.
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.
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.
Detail of the side A from an Apulian (Tarentum?) red-figure bell-krater, ca. 380-370 BC. Louvre
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?
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.
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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.
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This is one of a few posts dedicated to Iliad 10.As a reminder, these posts will remain free, but there is an option to be a financial supporter. All proceeds from the substack are donated to classics adjacent non-profits on a monthly basis.
As I have implied in the last two posts, 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’!
Dolon. Detail from an Attic red-figure lekythos. Louvre, 460 BCE
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 that goes through it line by line:
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.
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.
“You deny that anything is possible without god. Look, here Strato from Lampascus interrupts to grant immunity to that god of yours, however big the task. And, since the gods’ priests get a vacation, it is so much fairer that the gods do too!
Anyway, Strato denies that he needs to use divine actions to create the universe: whatever exists—he teaches—comes from natural causes. He does not, however, follow the one who argues that [the world] was put together out of rough and smooth, hook-shaped or crooked atoms separated by void. He believes that these are dreams of Democritus not as he teaches but as he imagines things. Strato himself, as he outlines the components of the universe in order, insists that whatever is or develops emerges from or was made by natural means, through gravity and motion.
Thus he frees the god of great labor and me of fear. For, once they imagine that some deity is worrying about them, who wouldn’t shudder at divine power day and night and, when anything bad happens—for who avoids such things?—wouldn’t fear that it happened because of some negative judgment? Still, I don’t agree with Strato nor, to be honest, with you. Sometimes his idea seems more likely, at other times yours does.”
[121] Negas sine deo posse quicquam: ecce tibi e transverso Lampsacenus Strato, qui det isti deo inmunitatem — magni quidem muneris; sed cum sacerdotes deorum vacationem habeant, quanto est aequius habere ipsos deos —: negat opera deorum se uti ad fabricandum mundum, quaecumque sint docet omnia effecta esse natura, nec ut ille qui asperis et levibus et hamatis uncinatisque corporibus concreta haec esse dicat interiecto inani: somnia censet haec esse Democriti non docentis sed optantis, ipse autem singulas mundi partes persequens quidquid aut sit aut fiat naturalibus fieri aut factum esse docet ponderibus et motibus. ne ille et deum opere magno liberat et me timore. quis enim potest, cum existimet curari se a deo, non et dies et noctes divinum numen horrere et si quid adversi acciderit, quod cui non accidit, extimescere ne id iure evenerit? nee Stratoni tamen adsentior nec vero tibi; modo hoc modo illud probabilius videtur.’
![According to some sources,[1] this cup shows Hecamede mixing kykeon for Nestor. Tondo of an Attic red-figure cup, c. 490 BC. From Vulci.](https://i0.wp.com/sententiaeantiquae.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/07/2f965175-4c4b-4d6d-b32f-0012f3a1c02e_1024x1011.jpeg?w=656&ssl=1)
