This is one of a few posts dedicated to Iliad 19. 

Following the political performance of reconciliation in Iliad 19, the narrative turns back to the personal. We see the resumption of mourning for Patroklos and as the epic moves towards Achilles’ return to battle, it starts to foreshadow Achilles’ death. The plot-link between these two movements is Briseis as she moves from Agamemnon’s possession to Achilles’. We—along with the Achaeans—witness Briseis’ surrender and then we get to see her mourn Patroklos.

Homer Iliad 19. 281-302

“Then when Briseis, like golden Aphrodite herself,
Saw Patroklos run through with sharp bronze,
Poured herself over him while she wailed and ripped
At her chest, tender neck, and pretty face with her hands.
And while mourning the woman spoke like one of the goddesses:

“Patroklos, you were the dearest to wretched me and
I left you alive when I went from your dwelling.
And now I find you here dead, leader of the armies,
When I return. Troubles are always wresting me from troubles.
The husband my father and mother gave me to
I watched run through with sharp bronze in front of the city,
And then the three brothers my mother bore,
Dear siblings, all met their fate on that day.
But you would not ever let me weep when swift Achilles
Was killing my husband and when he sacked the city of divine Munêtos—
No, you used to promise to make me the wedded wife
Of divine Achilles, someone he would lead home in his ships to Phthia,
where you would light the marriage torches among the Myrmidons.
So now I weep for you, dead and gentle forever.”
So she spoke, while weeping….

Βρισηῒς δ’ ἄρ’ ἔπειτ’ ἰκέλη χρυσέῃ ᾿Αφροδίτῃ
ὡς ἴδε Πάτροκλον δεδαϊγμένον ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ,
ἀμφ’ αὐτῷ χυμένη λίγ’ ἐκώκυε, χερσὶ δ’ ἄμυσσε
στήθεά τ’ ἠδ’ ἁπαλὴν δειρὴν ἰδὲ καλὰ πρόσωπα.
εἶπε δ’ ἄρα κλαίουσα γυνὴ ἐϊκυῖα θεῇσι·
Πάτροκλέ μοι δειλῇ πλεῖστον κεχαρισμένε θυμῷ
ζωὸν μέν σε ἔλειπον ἐγὼ κλισίηθεν ἰοῦσα,
νῦν δέ σε τεθνηῶτα κιχάνομαι ὄρχαμε λαῶν
ἂψ ἀνιοῦσ’· ὥς μοι δέχεται κακὸν ἐκ κακοῦ αἰεί.
ἄνδρα μὲν ᾧ ἔδοσάν με πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ
εἶδον πρὸ πτόλιος δεδαϊγμένον ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ,
τρεῖς τε κασιγνήτους, τούς μοι μία γείνατο μήτηρ,
κηδείους, οἳ πάντες ὀλέθριον ἦμαρ ἐπέσπον.
οὐδὲ μὲν οὐδέ μ’ ἔασκες, ὅτ’ ἄνδρ’ ἐμὸν ὠκὺς ᾿Αχιλλεὺς
ἔκτεινεν, πέρσεν δὲ πόλιν θείοιο Μύνητος,
κλαίειν, ἀλλά μ’ ἔφασκες ᾿Αχιλλῆος θείοιο
κουριδίην ἄλοχον θήσειν, ἄξειν τ’ ἐνὶ νηυσὶν
ἐς Φθίην, δαίσειν δὲ γάμον μετὰ Μυρμιδόνεσσι.
τώ σ’ ἄμοτον κλαίω τεθνηότα μείλιχον αἰεί.
῝Ως ἔφατο κλαίουσ’…

This scene is remarkable for both its contents and its place in the poem. It is the only place in the Iliad where Briseis speaks. The emotion she shows for Patroklos helps in part to prime us for Achilles’ subsequent lament and also to help to further characterize Patroklos to help us to understand the scale of his loss. Briseis’ evocation of his tenderness as an intermediary, as Achilles’ gentler, kinder counterpart both re-centers his concern for others as explored prior to his entry into battle in book 16 and anticipates Achilles’ revelation that he always imagined Patroklos would be the one to live, to care for Achilles’ son, and to return to Peleus in Phthia.

But all of this summary serves to redouble the way the Iliad instrumentalizes Briseis to serve Achilles’ needs and the plot of the Iliad. Indeed, even the way we refer to her is indirect: her name is her father’s name.

D Scholia to the Iliad:

“The Poet seems to use their patronymic names and not their personal ones, for other ancient accounts notes that [Chryseis] was named Astynomê and [Briseis] was named Hippodameia.”

ἔοικε δὲ πατρωνυμικῶς τὰ ὀνόματα αὐτῶν σχηματίζειν ὁ Ποιητὴς, καὶ οὐ κυρίως. ὡς γὰρ οἱ ἄλλοι ἀρχαῖοι ἱστοροῦσιν, ἡ μὲν, ᾿Αστυνόμη ἐκαλεῖτο, ἡ δὲ, ῾Ιπποδάμεια.

Briseis’ story connects to other themes in the epic. As Casey Dué shows in her Homeric Variations on a Lament by Briseis., Briseis’ lament recalls Andromache’s speech in book 6 and also foreshadows the deaths of Hektor and Achilles.

There’s some lack of clarity in the Iliad itself about Briseis’ ‘relationship’ with Achilles. It should be clear beyond a doubt that ancient audiences could have assumed that Briseis was subject to sexual violence as a war captive. Her husband, brothers, relatives all died when Achilles sacked her city. Yet some scholars have seen ambiguity here. When the heralds arrive in book 1 to take Briseis to Agamemnon the narrative reads “she went along with them, unwilling, and Achilles sat, apart from his companions, weeping…” ἣ δ’ ἀέκουσ’ ἅμα τοῖσι γυνὴ κίεν· αὐτὰρ ᾿Αχιλλεὺς / δακρύσας ἑτάρων ἄφαρ ἕζετο νόσφι λιασθείς, 1.348-139).

Ancient scholars seem less interested in Briseis’ feelings here than in Achilles. A scholion hedges its bets about whether or not Briseis is upset because she just loves Achilles so much or because she acts this way (generically) as a war prize. Here’s the commentary on this scene from the scholia on book 1:

“unwilling”: This is because she loves her man, as her appearance makes clear. As another explanation, this distinguishes her as a war prize and through one phrase the whole nature of her character has been clarified.

ἔστι γὰρ φίλανδρος, ὡς τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτῆς δηλοῖ. δευτέραν δὲ ταύτην ὁρίζεται εἶναι αἰχμαλωσίαν καὶ διὰ μιᾶς λέξεως ὁλόκληρον ἡμῖν ἦθος προσώπου δεδήλωκεν.

“Cried about from his companion”…otherwise this also shows that because he is covetous of honor he is upset about the insult and is deprived of the customary intimacy, but perhaps he also pities the woman being taking away unwillingly. This characterizes him loving extremely.”

δακρύσας ἑτάρων: …ἄλλως τε καὶ φιλότιμος ὢν ἀνιᾶται τῇ ὕβρει παλαιᾶς τε συνηθείας στέρεται, ἴσως δὲ καὶ τὸ γύναιον ἀκουσίως ἀπαλλαττόμενον ἐλεεῖ. ἄκρως δὲ ἐρῶντα χαρακτηρίζει·

Here, the scholia echo the epic in seeing the movement of Briseis as an opportunity to characterize Achilles rather than give any insight into the experience of a woman who ends up suffering even as she becomes the cause of a conflict that brings harms to others. The denial of any agency to Briseis or concern about her experiences differs from the two other primary women in the text—Andromache and Helen—but we may be able to see her treatment as a metonym to help frame the epic’s presentation of those more fully-realized characters. If the conflict between Achilles and Agamemnon is relativized as “about a girl” in a way that implies a judgment on the whole Trojan War, then the cumulative impact may be to limit or deny agency to women in general and Helen in specific.

So one question is how we can understand the Briseis’ relationship to Achilles in the epic’s terms. The evidence about their relationship in the poem is mixed as well, but easier to understand if we think about the rhetorical context. Achilles in book 9 claims that Briseis is a “wife fit to my heart” (ἄλοχον θυμαρέα , 9.336) but then at the beginning of book 19 when speaks to Agamemnon wishes that “Artemis had killed her among the ships with an arrow / on that day when I took her after sacking Lurnessos” (τὴν ὄφελ’ ἐν νήεσσι κατακτάμεν ῎Αρτεμις ἰῷ / ἤματι τῷ ὅτ’ ἐγὼν ἑλόμην Λυρνησσὸν ὀλέσσας,19.59-60).

Some might suggest that Achilles has changed his mind during the course of the epic, that he has gone from weeping over losing Briseis to wishing she were dead after losing Achilles. However, it seems clear to me that Achilles is rhetorically amplifying his loss (and a scholion agrees, writing “he amplified the insult by calling her his wife and fit to his heart in additino” (ηὔξησε τὴν ὕβριν ἄλοχον αὐτὴν  εἰπὼν καὶ θυμαρέα). This claim, however, does not totally undermine a possibility that Achilles is actually fond of Briseis: if he is rhetorically amplifying his loss in book 9, could he not also be rhetorically diminishing his attachment in book 19 in service of his desire to go immediately to war?

It is nearly impossible to disentangle these possibilities—indeed, I think the ambiguity is important for audiences to be able to choose their interpretation of Achilles’ feelings. One note that is useful from the scholia is the recognition that here Achilles calls her a girl (κούρην) here instead of a “prize” (γέρας). The shift in language both assists in connecting this conflict to the larger Trojan War and it also downplays the conflict between Achilles as personal instead of political (καὶ κούρην, οὐ γέρας αὐτὴν καλεῖ). Another scholion adds that Achilles amplifies this because of the death of Patroklos.

In other traditions, like Ovid’s Heroides 3, Briseis is depicted as desperately writing to Achilles for his attention. In the post-classical retelling of the stories after the Iliad, Quintus of Smyrna presents Briseis as leading the mourning for Achilles. The language and motifs Quintus chooses show an integration of themes from the speeches of Andromache in the Iliad. Yet even here, it seems that Briseis is still instrumentalized in service of Achilles’ story.

Quintus, Posthomerica 3.551-573

“Of all the women, Briseis felt the most terrible grief
in her heart within, the companion of warring Achilles.
She turned over his corpse and tore at her fine skin
With both hands and from her delicate chest
Bloody bruises rose up from the force of her blows—
You might even say it was like blood poured over milk.
Yet she still shined even as she mourned in pain
And her whole form exuded grace.
This is the kind of speech she made while mourning:

“Oh what endless horror I have suffered.
Nothing that happened to me before this was so great
Not the death of my brothers nor the loss of my country,

Nothing exceeds your death. You were my sacred day
And the light of the sun and the gentle life,
My hope for good and tireless defense against pain—
You were better by far than any gift, than my parents even—
You were everything alone for me even though I was enslaved.

You took me as your bedmate and seized me from a slave’s labor.
But now? Some other Achaean will take me away in his ships
To fertile Sparta or dry and thirsty Argos
Where I will again suffer terrible things working away,
Apart from you and miserable. I only wish that
The earth had covered over me before I saw your death.”

πασάων δ’ ἔκπαγλον ἀκηχεμένη κέαρ ἔνδον
Βρισηὶς παράκοιτις ἐυπτολέμου Ἀχιλῆος
ἀμφὶ νέκυν στρωφᾶτο καὶ ἀμφοτέρῃς παλάμῃσι
δρυπτομένη χρόα καλὸν ἀύτεεν· ἐκ δ’ ἁπαλοῖο
στήθεος αἱματόεσσαι ἀνὰ σμώδιγγες ἄερθεν
θεινομένης· φαίης κεν ἐπὶ γλάγος αἷμα χέασθαι
φοίνιον. ἀγλαΐη δὲ καὶ ἀχνυμένης ἀλεγεινῶς
ἱμερόεν μάρμαιρε, χάρις δέ οἱ ἄμπεχεν εἶδος.
τοῖον δ’ ἔκφατο μῦθον ὀιζυρὸν γοόωσα·
“Ὤ μοι ἐγὼ πάντων περιώσιον αἰνὰ παθοῦσα·
οὐ γάρ μοι τόσσον περ ἐπήλυθεν ἄλλό τι πῆμα,
οὔτε κασιγνήτων οὔτ’ εὐρυχόρου περὶ πάτρης,
ὅσσον σεῖο θανόντος· ἐπεὶ σύ μοι ἱερὸν ἦμαρ
καὶ φάος ἠελίοιο πέλες καὶ μείλιχος αἰὼν
ἐλπωρή τ’ ἀγαθοῖο καὶ ἄσπετον ἄλκαρ ἀνίης
πάσης τ’ ἀγλαΐης πολὺ φέρτερος ἠδὲ τοκήων
ἔπλεο· πάντα γὰρ οἶος ἔης δμωῇ περ ἐούσῃ,
καί ῥά με θῆκας ἄκοιτιν ἑλὼν ἄπο δούλια ἔργα.
νῦν δέ τις ἐν νήεσσιν Ἀχαιῶν ἄξεται ἄλλος
Σπάρτην εἰς ἐρίβωλον ἢ ἐς πολυδίψιον Ἄργος·
καί νύ κεν ἀμφιπολεῦσα κακὰς ὑποτλήσομ’ ἀνίας
σεῦ ἀπονοσφισθεῖσα δυσάμμορος. ὡς ὄφελόν με
γαῖα χυτὴ ἐκάλυψε πάρος σέο πότμον ἰδέσθαι.

I imagine that in antiquity there were other narrative traditions that engaged with Homer’s women differently, centering their experiences. But we don’t have them. We do have Pat Barker’s The Silence of the Girls. As a remarkable anonymous essay on Briseis shows (“Just a Girl: Being Briseis”) just how strongly Briseis’ treatment can resonate with audiences today. It is hard for me to imagine that there weren’t similar responses among Homeric audiences over time.

A short bibliography on Briseis

Clark, W. P.. “Iliad IX,336 and the meaning of ἄλοχος in Homer.” Classical Philology, 1940, pp. 188-190.

Dué, Casey. Homeric variations on a lament by Briseis. Greek Studies: Interdisciplinary Approaches. Lanham (Md.): Rowman and Littlefield, 2002.

Fantuzzi, Marco. Achilles in love: intertextual studies. Oxford ; New York: Oxford University Pr., 2012.

Fisher, Rachel R.. « Homophrosyne » and women in the « Iliad ». [S. l.]: [s. n.], 2018.

Lambrou, Ioannis L.. “Achilles and Helen and Homer’s telling silence.” Mnemosyne, Ser. 4, vol. 73, no. 5, 2020, pp. 705-728. Doi: 10.1163/1568525X-12342656

Pucci, Pietro. “Antiphonal lament between Achilles and Briseis.”. Colby Quarterly 258-272.

Wright, Ian. “The wife of Achilles.” Mnemosyne, Ser. 4, vol. 69, no. 1, 2016, pp. 113-118. Doi: 10.1163/1568525X-12341949

This is one of a few posts dedicated to Iliad 18. 

One of the clearer examples of narrative judgment in the Iliad comes in the midst of book 18. After Achilles has announced his return by screaming three times, the Trojans retreat and hold an impromptu assembly. The assembly forms without a command; Polydamas addresses it first and suggests a strategic retreat to the city (not dissimilar to Andromache’s own advice to Hektor in Iliad 6) and then Hektor forcefully rejects his advice, insisting they will stay outside the city walls where he will face Achilles. There is a rather pointed disjuncture between the response of the Achaeans and the narrator’s evaluation

“So Hektor spoke and the Trojans shouted their assent in response.
Fools! Pallas Athena deprived them of their wits.
For they praised Hektor even though he devised bad things,
and no one praised Polydamas who counseled a noble counsel.

῝Ως ῞Εκτωρ ἀγόρευ’, ἐπὶ δὲ Τρῶες κελάδησαν
νήπιοι· ἐκ γάρ σφεων φρένας εἵλετο Παλλὰς ᾿Αθήνη.
῞Εκτορι μὲν γὰρ ἐπῄνησαν κακὰ μητιόωντι,
Πουλυδάμαντι δ’ ἄρ’ οὔ τις ὃς ἐσθλὴν φράζετο βουλήν.

The line of praise used here for the Trojan reaction to the speech is identical to the Trojan praise for Hektor when he first announces their new, more aggressive strategy in book 8 (8.542). In a way, these two assemblies bookend Trojan success and Hektor’s glory in the middle part of the epic. Indeed, Hektor’s bluster in book 8 could in part be switched out with his claims in book 18 and some readers might never sense the difference—but there’s a desperate aggression in his response to Polydamas and a seeping pessimism that is all the stronger in the second speech.

This assembly is marked as out-of-the ordinary in a few ways (18.245-248): they assemble before eating and standing, rather than sitting, frightened by Achilles. In addition, as others have noted, the majority of assemblies in the Iliad are marked by an attention to time and space: they happen in the morning in an authoritative position (e.g. by Agamemnon’s ship, for the Achaeans, and outside of Priam’s palace, for the Trojans). As I mention in earlier posts, the world of epic reflects the basic political institutions that were common in Ancient Greece, including a smaller, oligarchic council with advisory functions (in historical cities, often called a boulê or a gerousia and a larger public assembly (often, the ekklêsia). The Trojans appear to have both institutions, but each is less functional than the Achaean counterpart in clear ways. The Trojan assemblies are primarily audiences for Hektor or (Priam and Paris) and the council has little function at all. Part of the political drama of the Iliad, I think, is the exploration of the limits of advisory counsel in Troy. And this occurs primarily through the relationship of Polydamas and Hektor.

The Trojan assembly in book 18 certainly contributes to a characterization of Hektor, but it is a culmination of a movement that started much earlier in the epic, anticipated in part by the Trojan assembly in book 7, where Paris dismisses Antênor’s advice rather quickly. While the phrase “the personal is the political” did not become proverbial in modern politics until the 1960s, it is certainly applicable in a different way to ancient monarchies where the political emerges from the autocratic person (and their family). In the Trojan acclamation for Hektor I see a metaphor for the subsuming of Trojan hopes into one body and the representation of Hektor’s desperation in the delusion of the mob. Polydamas—whose very name can be seen as a kind of ancient Greek ‘everyman’—is provided as a lone voice calling out the collective madness.

The conflict between Polydamas and Hektor has long been posed as one between different forms of political authority (see, e.g. Wuest 1955). As Matthew Clark has argued, however, there may be other thematic dimensions that map on to the same relationship: Polydamas is a double—more of a mirrored reflection or refraction, than a copy of Hektor. Polydamas and Hektor may be considered among the epic’s other heroic pairs, like Diomedes and Sthenelos, Sarpedon and Glaukos, or even Achilles and Patroklos. And yet Hektor is not paired with Polydamas alone, he and Paris are also reflections of the Greek brothers, Agamemnon and Menelaos. Hektor and Polydamas, however, seem to maintain an uneasy relationship at best. In part, this seems characteristic of Hektor, whose rapport with Paris is best called ‘complicated’. Hektor’s position—if not his personality—isolates him and places him in opposition to other figures. (For the pattern between Polydamas and Hektor see Dickson 1995, 133-43, especially the charts on 134-5. Cf. Redfield 1975, 143-53 and Elmer 2013, 137-138.)

In part, as others have noted, the epic marks Trojan political difference by marginalizing the deliberative council. In book three, the only time we ‘see’ the Trojan council, the elders sit by the city’s walls reflecting on whether Helen is really worth it (a debate that anticipates the content of the assembly in book 7). In book ten, when they gather to discuss espionage (as the Achaeans have just done), Hector merely calls the leaders to execute a plan he has already devised. Shortly afterwards, in book thirteen, when Polydamas calls for the best of the Trojans to aid in deliberation (13.740-741), Hector largely ignores him. In fact, the marginalization of good advice and the absence of a productive advisory council coalesce thematically around Hektor’s engagement with Polydamas. In these exchanges, Polydamas complains about the exclusion of good advice and debate in Troy: Hector rebukes him in the assembly despite the value of his advice (12.211-15) and imagines that, since he’s best in war, he also trumps everyone in council (13.726-34). But Polydamas perseveres in asserting his right to give advice based on the idea that people have different skills (13.726-34):

 ‘Hektor you are impossible to persuade with words.
Since the god grants you to excel in the works of war
you also wish to know better than the rest in council
but you could not ever claim everything for yourself at once—
for god grants the works of war to one
and dancing to another, and the lyre and song to another,
and in another wide-browed Zeus sets a mind—
a fine one because of which many men will profit,
and it saves many, and I myself know this for sure.’

And earlier, he echoes Greek speakers like Nestor and Diomedes in insisting that even he is correct to provide good advice in public (12.211-15):

‘Hektor, always, all the time, you rebuke me in the assembly
even though I counsel fine things, since it is not ever at all seemly
that one who is a commoner argue differently, neither in council
nor ever in war, but one must always increase your power;
but now, once again, I will speak out how things seem to me to best.’

The narrator echoes Polydamas in two significant ways before he opens the assembly in book 18: it affirms both that he has the foresight/knowledge to speak with authority and that he is better than Hektor when it comes to speeches (18.249-252):

Then among them inspired Polydamas began to speak,
Panthoös’ son, for he alone saw before and after.
He was Hektor’s companion, and they were born on the same night,
although the one excels much in múthoi and the other with the spear.

A quick word about the word muthos here. Our English myth comes from the same root but the semantic field has shifted over the years. As early as Thucydides—who seemingly maligns historians like Herodotus as muthologoi, mere ‘storytellers’—the root had gained some fictive aspect. But in early Greek poetry, as Richard Martin argues in The Language of Heroes (1989), a muthos can be a speech, a speech-act, or a plan. This means that a Homeric muthos can impact or change the world through its utterance or present a plan of action that would change things as well. By asserting that Polydamas excels in muthoi just as Hektor excels with the spear, the narrative is granting not just that Polydamas is exceptional, but that he can wield words as weapons or tools.

Polydamas’ ensuing speech acknowledges their dangers, predicts (quite reasonably) what will happen on Achilles’ return, and then enjoins the assembled Trojans to return to the city and ward Achilles off from the safety of the walls. At the center of this, Polydamas emphasizes protecting the city and the woman and predicts that the Trojans as a group will have strength in the assembly and the walls of the city (νύκτα μὲν εἰν ἀγορῇ σθένος ἕξομεν, ἄστυ δὲ πύργοι, 18.274). This offers a different model for both the politics and the protection of the city, one that relies on a collective effort instead of individual heroism.

Hektor’s speech falls into two parts, criticism of Polydamas and an address to the Trojans.  First, he attempts to undermine Polydamas’ authority and question his motives:

Then, looking darkly bright-helmed Hektor addressed him:
‘Polydamas, you no longer argue things that are dear to me,
you who call us to go into the city and crowd together again.
Have you never tired of being shut up in the towers?
for, mortal men all used to say before that
Priam’s city was full of gold, full of bronze—
but now indeed his house has lost the noble treasures
and many of its possessions have gone to Phrygia and Maeonia
sold off since great Zeus has aggrieved it.
But now, when the child of crooked-counseled Kronos actually grants
For me to gain glory near the ships and drive the Achaians to sea,
fool, no longer speak these thoughts among the people,
for none of the Trojans will obey you, I will not allow it.’

Hektor reveals his own frustration here, compressing years of inaction into a rather simple question: aren’t you sick of this? Hektor’s characteristic claiming of Zeus’ favor is certainly delusional from our perspective (we know the plot!), but given the events of the Iliad and what Hektor has recently experienced, it is not completely bizarre to believe that, despite all odds, the Trojans have a reasonable chance of winning at this point. Hektor clings to that reading of events, no matter what else happens.

Hektor closes with simple advice (eat, get ready for tomorrow) and then closes with a rhetorical flourish:

If shining Achilles truly rises from the ships,
if he is willing, it will be more harrowing for him. I will not
avoid him in the ill-sounding battle, but I will stand right
in front of him, either he will bear great strength or I will.
War is shared and common, and he also kills the one who is killing.

εἰ δ’ ἐτεὸν παρὰ ναῦφιν ἀνέστη δῖος ᾿Αχιλλεύς,
ἄλγιον αἴ κ’ ἐθέλῃσι τῷ ἔσσεται· οὔ μιν ἔγωγε
φεύξομαι ἐκ πολέμοιο δυσηχέος, ἀλλὰ μάλ’ ἄντην
στήσομαι, ἤ κε φέρῃσι μέγα κράτος, ἦ κε φεροίμην.
ξυνὸς ᾿Ενυάλιος, καί τε κτανέοντα κατέκτα.

Hektor leans on a series of tropes available in his other speeches: he expresses doubt about Achilles’ actually returning (εἰ δ’ ἐτεὸν), vaunts that it will be worse for him (ἄλγιον), returns to his oft-repeated assertion that a fight can go either way, and then ends with a compressed proverbial statement, that war is shared, and someone kills the killer. This kind of ‘eff it, we all day someday’ attitude has the sound of a cowboy’s bravado but communicates the spirit of someone who is truly uncertain.

Over the years, I have changed my mind several times about the significance of Hektor’s abiding sense of uncertainty beneath his insistent behavior. Although I think the ambiguity of his behavior opens it to productive interpretation (and misinterpretation), I am increasingly convinced that insight into Hektor’s uncertainty has psychological valence. Modern studies have shown a strong correlation between emotions of fear/anxiety and uncertainty. Hektor’s boasting and rhetorical flexing can be seen both as an attempt to cope with these feelings and as an attempt to allay them in others. He is trying to be a good leader, trying to give his people something to rally around in the face of so much bleakness.

Hektor’s violent rejection of Polydamas’ advice here can be seen in many ways. It is an affirmation of the plot of the poem (and the larger Trojan War), where Hektor must die. At that same time, it is an indictment of a heroic approach to keeping a people safe and also a critique of a simple autocracy. Some readers may object that such critiques are outside the bounds of Homeric epic—and the primary rejoinder I have for this is that the Iliad did not need to include the range of Trojan political scenes that it does if they were not important in some way. And, as is the custom of epic, these scenes reflect on multiple themes at once: the epic’s exploration of heroism as much as its engagement with the larger mythical tradition alongside themes of contemporary concern for its ancient audiences.

The final Trojan assembly provides the clearest analogy to the Achaean assembly in book 1—it forms with everyone standing, without any agent convening it (18.243-313). Polydamas stands to propose retiring the walls now that Achilles has returned. Hector rejects his proposal and threatens violence should anyone heed him.

A short Bibliography

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

Barker, Elton T. E. “Achilles’ Last Stand: Institutionalising Dissent in Homer’s Iliad.” PCPS 50 (2004) 92-120.

—,—. Entering the Agôn: Dissent and Authority in Homer, Historiography and Tragedy. Oxford, 2009.

Christensen, Joel P. “The End of Speeches and a Speech’s End: Nestor, Diomedes, and the telos muthôn.” in Reading Homer: Film and Text. Kostas Myrsiades (ed.). Farleigh Dickinson University Press, 2009: 136-62.

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)

Courtieu, Gilles. “Thersite et Polydamas: le masque et le double des héros homériques.” Les exclus dans l’Antiquité: actes du colloque organisé à Lyon les 23-24 septembre 2004. Ed. Wolff, Catherine. Collection du Centre d’Études Romaines et Gallo-Romaines. Nouvelle Série; 29. Paris: De Boccard, 2007. 9-25.

Clark, Matthew Campbell. 2007. “Poulydamas and Hektor.”in Reading Homer in the 21st century, special issue of College literature 85-106.

Dickson, Keith. Nestor: Poetic Memory in Greek Epic. New York: Garland, 1995.

Donlan, Walter. “The Structure of Authority in the Iliad.” Arethusa 12 (1979) 51-70.

—,—. “The Relations of Power in the Pre-State and Early State Polities.” In The Development of the Polis in Archaic Greece. Lynette Mitchell and P. J. Rhodes (eds.). London, 1997, 39-48.

“Achilles the Ally.” Arethusa 35 (2002) 155-72.

Edwards, Mark W.  “Homeric Speech Introductions.” HSCP 74 (1970) 1-36.

 —,—. “Homer and Oral Tradition: The Type Scene.” Oral Tradition 7 (1992) 284-330.

Ellsworth, J. D.. “An Unrecognized Metaphor in the Iliad.” CP 69 (1979) 258-64.

Elmer, David. The Poetics of Consent: Collective Decision Making and the Iliad. Baltimore, 2013.

Hall, Jonathan M.  “Polis, Community, and Ethnic Identity.” In H. A. Shapiro (ed.). The Cambridge Companion to Archaic Greece. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2007: 40-60.

Hammer, Dean.“‘Who Shall Readily Obey?” Authority and Politics in the Iliad.” Phoenix 51 (1997) 1-24.

—,—. “The Politics of the Iliad.” CJ (1998) 1-30.

—,—. The Iliad as Politics: The Performance of Political Thought. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2002.

de Jong, Irene J.F. Narrators and Focalizers: The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad. London, 1987.

Kirby, John T. “Rhetoric and Poetics in Hesiod.” Ramus 21 (1992) 34-50.

Kirk, G. S.. The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

—,—. The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume II: Books 5-8. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990.

Lohmann, Dieter. Die Komposition der Reden in der Ilias. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1970

Hillary Mackie. Talking Trojan: Speech and Community in the Iliad . Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1996.

Pralon, Didier. “L’ honneur du vaincu: l’altercation entre Hector et Poulydamas : Iliade XVIII 243-313.” Ktèma, vol. 20, 1995, pp. 233-244.

Raaflaub, Kurt A., Josiah Ober, and Robert W. Wallace. Origins of Democracy in Ancient Greece. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007.

—,—. “Homer and the Beginning of Political Thought in Greece.” Proceedings in the Boston Area Colloquium Series in Ancient Philosophy 4 (1988) 1-25.

—,—.  “Homer, the Trojan War, and History.” The Classical World 91 (1997-1998) 386-403.

Redfield, James. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hektor. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975.

Rose, P. W.  “Thersites and the Plural Voices of Homer.” Arethusa 21 (1988) 5-25.

—,—. “Ideology in the Iliad: Polis, Basileus, Theoi.” Arethusa 30 (1997) 151-99.

Sale, William M. “The Government of Troy: Politics in the Iliad. GRBS 35 (1994) 5-102.

Schiappa, Edward. The Beginnings of Rhetorical Theory in Classical Greece. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999.

Schulz, Fabian. Die homerischen Räte und die spartanische Gerusie. Berlin: Wellem, 2011.

Scodel, Ruth.  Listening to Homer: Tradition, Narrative and Audience. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002.

Sealey, R. “Probouleusis and the Sovereign Assembly.” CSCA 2 (1969) 247-69.

Tandy, David W. Warriors into Traders: The Power of the Market in Early Greece. Berkeley, 1997.

van Wees, Hans. Status Warriors: War, Violence, and Society in Homer and History. Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 1992.

Wilson, Donna F. Ransom, Revenge, and Heroic Identity in the Iliad. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.

Wuest, E.. “Hektor und Polydamas. Von Klerus und Staat in Griechenland.” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, vol. XCVIII, 1955, pp. 335-349.

At the end of book 16, Patroklos dies and prophesies the death of Hektor. Book 17 opens with Menelaos ‘noticing’ Patroklos fall and then turning to attack one of his killers, the Trojan Euphorbus. This character seems to be created for the moment, although he has something of a life outside of Homer. In the Iliad, he is described as someone with gold and silver in his hair and understood by some as a doublet for Paris, in the reading that makes the killing of Patroklos an echo of the killing of Achilles. Outside of Homer, the story goes that Pythagoras claimed he was Euphorbus reincarnated (according to Diogenes Laertius).

In the Iliad, Euphorbus has a brief narrative: he appears for the first time to kill Patroklos (at 16.808) and dies under 200 lines later. His death is marked by a quick exchange with Menelaos and then a remarkable pair of similes.

Homer, Iliad 17.43-60

“So he spoke and struck his evenly balanced shield,
But the bronze did not pierce, instead the tip bent back
On the strong shield. Then Atreus’ son, Menelaos, attacked
Again with his bronze, following a prayer to father Zeus.
He struck Euphorbus near the bottom of his throat
As he backed away, and he pressed forward, trusting his heavy hand.
The point travelled straight through his tender neck.
The man made a sound as he fell and his armor clattered around him.
His hair was dyed with blood something like the locks of the Graces,
Hair interwoven with silver and gold.
It’s like when a man nourishes an olive shoot
In some isolated place, where there’s plenty of water,
A good, healthy sapling. But then even as gusts of wind
Make it shake, it still blooms in white flower.
But a sudden storm overcomes it with a fierce wind
Rips it up from the furrow and lays it flat on the earth.
That’s how Menelaos, Atreus son killed Euphorbus
The son of Panthous, And then he stripped him of his arms.”

῝Ως εἰπὼν οὔτησε κατ’ ἀσπίδα πάντοσ’ ἐΐσην·
οὐδ’ ἔρρηξεν χαλκός, ἀνεγνάμφθη δέ οἱ αἰχμὴ
ἀσπίδ’ ἐνὶ κρατερῇ· ὃ δὲ δεύτερος ὄρνυτο χαλκῷ
᾿Ατρεΐδης Μενέλαος ἐπευξάμενος Διὶ πατρί·
ἂψ δ’ ἀναχαζομένοιο κατὰ στομάχοιο θέμεθλα
νύξ’, ἐπὶ δ’ αὐτὸς ἔρεισε βαρείῃ χειρὶ πιθήσας·
ἀντικρὺ δ’ ἁπαλοῖο δι’ αὐχένος ἤλυθ’ ἀκωκή,
δούπησεν δὲ πεσών, ἀράβησε δὲ τεύχε’ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ.
αἵματί οἱ δεύοντο κόμαι Χαρίτεσσιν ὁμοῖαι
πλοχμοί θ’, οἳ χρυσῷ τε καὶ ἀργύρῳ ἐσφήκωντο.
οἷον δὲ τρέφει ἔρνος ἀνὴρ ἐριθηλὲς ἐλαίης
χώρῳ ἐν οἰοπόλῳ, ὅθ’ ἅλις ἀναβέβροχεν ὕδωρ,
καλὸν τηλεθάον· τὸ δέ τε πνοιαὶ δονέουσι
παντοίων ἀνέμων, καί τε βρύει ἄνθεϊ λευκῷ·
ἐλθὼν δ’ ἐξαπίνης ἄνεμος σὺν λαίλαπι πολλῇ
βόθρου τ’ ἐξέστρεψε καὶ ἐξετάνυσσ’ ἐπὶ γαίῃ·
τοῖον Πάνθου υἱὸν ἐϋμμελίην Εὔφορβον
᾿Ατρεΐδης Μενέλαος ἐπεὶ κτάνε τεύχε’ ἐσύλα.

When I was discussing book 17 with Mimi Kramer, a friend and author of the great substack Unrelatable, the first thing she mentioned was the hair simile. It is remarkable, among many reasons, for the comparison to the graces and the sense that the dyeing of the hair darkened it to match that of the Graces. The comparison itself may stand to mark Euphorbus as effeminate, or at least falling short of martial exemplarity, like Paris. Yet, when he is introduced, Euphorbus surpassed the men of his age “at the spear, horse-riding, and with his swift feet” (ἔγχεΐ θ’ ἱπποσύνῃ τε πόδεσσί τε καρπαλίμοισι).

With respect to Mimi, I actually find the subsequent simile fascinating. The basic image is of an olive shoot planted in an extreme place, cared for but cut off young by an extreme blast of wind. Menelaos ends up compared to the wind while Euphorbus is the shoot. One really straightforward way to understand the simile, then, is to see it as marking Euphorbus’ youth, his growth despite hostile circumstances, and his death in response to larger forces.

As I have written about before, I am pretty interested in the way Homeric similes engage with contextual themes and advance the plot as well. In earlier posts, I have placed similes in the same categories as other devices and narrative itself, as providing blended spaces between the story and the world of the audience (leaning on cognitive ideas about narrative outlined by authors like Mark Turner in The Literary Mind). I think this simile creates the potential for audience members to think about the tension between the overall narrative of the Trojan War and the particular details of the Iliad.

When Euphorbus is involved in killing Patroklos, he may increase the echoes between Patroklos’ death and Achilles’ and he may also serve to soften or alter Hektor’s reputation, but he also introduces the threat that Achilles’ rage may go the wrong way. Euphorbus is immediately a loose end and the tradition abhors loose ends. And, so, the narrative introduces a rapid way to ‘snip’ a wild strand out of existence. Menelaos, compared to the wind, is an extension of fate or the sky-god Zeus’ ultimate responsibility for maintaining cosmic order.

In writing this way, I am thinking a little bit about causal sequences and time travel paradoxes. When I was working on book 17 a few years ago, I had just watched the show Bodies and was intrigued by its time travel loop and the nearly divine power granted to the universe to erase paradoxes. In a way, it reminded me of “All You Zombies” by Robert Heinlein. In both stories, the supreme agent who can control time is someone who somehow gets outside of time, to establish a causal loop that centers around them. Reestablishing a ‘proper’ or ‘natural’ narrative sequence requires the dissolution of that loop, the erasure of that agency. Homeric poetry, for all of his agentive power, is still beholden to a temporal sequence with specific causes and outcomes and can only work within those limits in telling its story. (And, indeed, often becomes the most interesting when pressing against or expanding those limits.)

So, I have begun to think of moments like the brief life and death of Euphorbus as akin to resolving a temporal paradox. Instead, we find Homeric poetry working in the creases of narrative traditions, adapting as much as possible, and deviating to the point that some people notice. And then, in a truly performative fashion, marking the moment of return with something surprising. To lay on even more to this: there is a metapoetic motif in Homeric poetry that may link trees and plants to narrative traditions.

Elton Barker and I have followed scholars like John Henderson and Alex Purves in seeing trees as a potential metaphor for poetic creation, if not for actual traditions of narratives and poetic traditions. From the leaves of trees for generations of heroes to the orchard of Laertes where Odysseus and his father recount their shared past, trees and their substance can be stand ins for sequences, for identity, and for the stories that put these things in context. When Euphorbus is compared to a shoot of an olive tree, flourishing and isolated, plucked and laid to rest before it is grown, the Iliad is really marking him as an abortive narrative tradition, snuffed out by the force of a storyworld that has no space for its growth and expansion.

A Starter Bibliography on Similes in Homer

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

Bassett, Samuel E. “The Function of the Homeric Simile.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 52 (1921): 132–47. https://doi.org/10.2307/282957.

Ben-Porat, Ziva. “Poetics of the Homeric Simile and the Theory of (Poetic) Simile.” Poetics Today 13, no. 4 (1992): 737–69. https://doi.org/10.2307/1773297.

Mandel, Oscar. “Homeric Simile.” Prairie Schooner 69, no. 2 (1995): 124–124. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40633938.

Minchin, Elizabeth. “Similes in Homer: image, mind’s eye, and memory.” Speaking volumes: orality and literacy in the Greek and Roman world. Ed. Watson, Janet. Mnemosyne. Supplements; 218. Leiden ; Boston (Mass.): Brill, 2001. 25-52.

Moulton, Carroll. “Similes in the Iliad.” Hermes 102, no. 3 (1974): 381–97. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4475864.

Muellner, Leonard. “The Simile of the Cranes and Pygmies a Study of Homeric Metaphor.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, vol. 93, 1990, pp. 59–101. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/311283. Accessed 6 Jan. 2024.

Naiden, Fred S.. “Homer’s leopard simile.” Nine essays on Homer. Eds. Carlisle, Miriam and Levaniouk, Olga Arkadievna. Greek Studies. Lanham (Md.): Rowman and Littlefield, 1999. 177-203.

Notopoulos, James A. “Homeric Similes in the Light of Oral Poetry.” The Classical Journal 52, no. 7 (1957): 323–28. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3294076.

Pache, Corinne. “Mourning lions and Penelope’s revenge.” Arethusa, vol. 49, no. 1, 2016, pp. 1-24.

Porter, David H. “Violent Juxtaposition in the Similes of the ‘Iliad.’” The Classical Journal 68, no. 1 (1972): 11–21. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3296022.

Ready, Jonathan. 2011. Character, Narrator and Simile in the Iliad. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

Ready, Jonathan L. “The Comparative Spectrum in Homer.” The American Journal of Philology 129, no. 4 (2008): 453–96. http://www.jstor.org/stable/27566727.

Scott, William C. 2009. The Artistry of the Homeric Simile. Hanover, NH: Dartmouth College Press.

Andreas Thomas Zanker, Metaphor in Homer: time, speech, and thought. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2019. x, 263 p.. ISBN 9781108491884 $99.99.

This post is a basic introduction to reading Iliad 17 Here is a link to the overview of Iliad 16 and another to the plan in general.

Book 17 of the Iliad is likely one of the most skimmed or skipped books in the reading of epic. And this is not because there is anything wrong with it! On the contrary, it is a masterpiece of expansion and suspense. I think it tends to get ignored because so much of what it does is keyed into the aesthetics of performance. The book starts with Menelaas “not failing to notice the death of Patroklos” and centers around a struggle over his armor, and his body. But it also includes mourning immortal horses, Zeus inspiring a charioteer, Hektor and Aeneas chasing after horses, and Ajax defending Menelaos and Meriones as they carry Patroklos’ body away from the ships and Antilochus, Nestor’s son, rushes to tell Achilles what has happened. Book 18 starts with Achilles finding out what has happened.

At the end of book 15, the audience knows the plot of the rest of the epic. They know what will happen, but they don’t know how it will unfold. There are universes of stories to be told in the how of the events of the Iliad anticipated by Zeus: the deaths of Sarpedon, Patroklos, and Hektor could unfold in myriad ways and most audiences listening to the performance of the ‘rage of Achilles’ would know the basic plot details, but not the connective tissue between them. The 761 lines of book 17 create suspense for the audience as they await Achilles’ response, but at the same time they also provide opportunities to characterize the heroes in this specific telling of the epic and to engage with other narratives traditions.  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 17 are heroism, politics  and Narrative Traditions.

 

Book 17, the Epic Cycle, and Neoanalysis

Let me start by talking about Narrative traditions. When I summarize book 17 above, I mention Menelaos, Hektor, Aeneas, and then Ajax and Antilochus. The collocation of characters here would, for many audiences, likely recall events from outside the Iliad as we know it, from narrative traditions authors like Proclus (in his Chrestomathia) and earlier scholars placed in the so-called epic cycle. As I have written about before, I think that the Epic Cycle is in many ways “a scholarly fiction.” It posits that there was a fixed group of poems that told the whole story of the Trojan War from beginning to end. I think that both the notion of telling the whole story and having one set of poems doing this work is out of touch with how performed songs worked in antiquity while also ignoring that there were many other narrative traditions that aren’t included in the small group of poems in the Trojan Cycle.

One of the reasons I am rather committed to this point of view has to do with what subsequent generations of scholars have done with the idea of the epic cycle, which is to reconstruct the content of the poems and then spend a good deal of time trying to figure out the relationship between such reconstructions and the poems we actually possess. This is dangerous in a few ways: First, almost everything we have about the so-called cycle has been preserved because of its similarity or relevance to our Homeric epics. So, we can’t trust that this material has been represented well or fully. Second, any speculation on the relationship between these reconstructions and the poems we have is complicated by the performance history of the narrative traditions that we have to try to separate from the fixed texts that have come down to us. Many different versions of the ‘rage of Achilles’ could have circulated in antiquity and influenced other poetic traditions, which in turn ended up influencing or shaping the Rage-song that survived for us.

(Elton Barker and I discuss a lot of this in our book Homer’s Thebes)

I don’t want to be dismissive of Neoanalysis entirely, however. Anyone who knows me as Homerist knows the approach gets under my skin, but I have tried to be fairer in years with what it can contribute. At its best–if it adopts a kind of epistemic humility about the actual relationship between texts we have and those we have reconstructed or lost–neoanalysis retains the ability to show us how complex the narrative backgrounds of the Iliad and the Odyssey are and how much our understanding of the poems can be enriched by thinking through these other traditions. This value is attenuated, however, by overly positivistic assertions that a specific passage in the Iliad or Odyssey was modeled on a specific moment in another poem. Such moves, I believe, underappreciate how many story traditions there were drawing on similar motifs while also failing to take into account the many possible versions of a given tradition. In addition, and this is probably what makes me the most irrational, such a positivistic approach also typically does not consider what audiences knew or could have known.

These considerations bear significantly on book 17 because it is possible to frame the book from its echoes of other narratives, foremost the struggle over Achilles’ body, rescued by Ajax, and, second, the relationship between Antilochus and Achilles in the Aithiopis. According to our ancient sources, the Aithiopis begins after the end of the Iliad and includes juicy details like Achilles allegedly falling in love with Penthesilea and killing her,  only to kill Thersites too for accusing him of it. Then, Memnon, the son of Dawn, arrives to support the Trojans, kills Antilochus, which sends Achilles into another rage, that leads to him slaughtering Memnon. Once he has killed Memnon, Achilles pushes too far pursuing the Trojans into the city, and is killed by Apollo and Paris, near the very gate where Patroklos fell.

There are, from this summary, innumerable parallels between books 16 and 17 of the Iliad and the lost Aithiopis. I have shifted to the word “parallel” here instead of my usual “echo” or “resonance” because it is a visual metaphor, common in setting texts side-by-side. I am suspicious of taking such parallels too seriously because they are made up of the same very basic plot detail as Zeus’ outline of the events of the Iliad in book 15: they are just dots on a map, as yet unconnected by the detail that gives epic its force. Even if we assume that the plot of the lost Aithiopis has been faithfully transmitted and not ‘juiced’ or crafted to match the Iliad better, we have no way of knowing whether one poem or narrative tradition influenced the other and have not really developed the scholarly language to describe two closely related traditions influencing each other over time as their stories are told and retold and as they come in contact with other traditions.

We can say, I think, that the Iliad seems conscious of the importance of Antilochus and the basic details of his story (note how much he and Achilles engage in book 23, for example). We also know that the Odyssey is conscious of the fallout over the rescue of Achilles’ body and the awarding of his arms to Ajax instead of Odysseus. (Odysseus acts all surprised that Ajax won’t talk to him in the underworld!) But we can’t say with any confidence to what extent the Iliad we have relies on audience knowledge of the rescue of Achilles’ body in the drama of book 17. 

Book 17 works because of its detail, not because of its plot: the horses mourning, Menelaos striving, Hektor making some bad decisions, Glaukos laying into Hektor, the length of the expansion straining the suspension of our disbelief. All of these things put flesh on what would be pretty bare bones with just the basic outline of Achilles’ death.  The rescue of Achilles’ body, indeed, was a popular motif, appearing in greek art well before the textualization of the Iliad as we know it. But it–and the judgment of the arms, and the rage of Achilles over Antilochus–all could have been episodes in a fluid and living oral tradition from which both the Iliad and the Aithiopis emerged.

(Provided, of course, we believe there was an Aithiopis with the scenes reported by Proclus, and that such summaries did not merely collocate all of the major episodes from the Trojan War later scholars dug up in order to tell the whole story.)

Some reading questions on book 17

Why is the Iliad a better epic with book 17 than without it?

What do Hektor’s actions in book 17 contribute to our understanding of his character?

Why does the narrative spend so much time on the struggle for Patroklos’ body?

A short Bibliography on the epic cycle and neoanalysis

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

Barker, Elton T. E., and Joel P. Christensen. 2019. Homer’s Thebes: Epic Rivalries and the Appropriation of Mythical Pasts. Hellenic Studies Series 84. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies. 

Degener, Michael. “Euphorbus’ plaint and plaits: the unsung valor of a foot soldier in Homer’s « Iliad ».” Phoenix, vol. 74, no. 3-4, 2020, pp. 220-243. Doi: 10.1353/phx.2020.0037

Fenno, Jonathan Brian. “The mist shed by Zeus in Iliad XVII.” The Classical Journal, vol. 104, no. 1, 2008-2009, pp. 1-9.

Harrison, E. L. “Homeric Wonder-Horses.” Hermes 119, no. 2 (1991): 252–54. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4476820.

Kozak, Lynn. “Character and context in the rebuke exchange of Iliad 17.142-184.” Classical World, vol. 106, no. 1, 2012-2013, pp. 1-14.

Moulton, C.. “The speech of Glaukos in Iliad 17.” Hermes, vol. CIX, 1981, pp. 1-8.

Neal, Tamara. “Blood and hunger in the « Iliad ».” Classical Philology, vol. 101, no. 1, 2006, pp. 15-33. Doi: 10.1086/505669

Schein, Seth L.. “The horses of Achilles in Book 17 of the « Iliad ».” « Epea pteroenta »: Beiträge zur Homerforschung : Festschrift für Wolfgang Kullmann zum 75. Geburtstag. Eds. Reichel, Michael and Rengakos, Antonios. Stuttgart: Steiner, 2002. 193-205.

West, M. L. “‘Iliad’ and ‘Aethiopis.’” The Classical Quarterly 53, no. 1 (2003): 1–14. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3556478.

A short Bibliography on the epic cycle and neoanalysis

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

Arft, J., and J. M. Foley. 2015. “The Epic Cycle and Oral Tradition.” In Fantuzzi and Tsagalis, 78–95.

Barker, E.T.E. 2008. “ ‘Momos Advises Zeus’: The Changing Representations of Cypria Fragment One.” In Greece, Rome and the Near East, ed. E. Cingano and L. Milano, 33–73. Padova.

———. 2008. “Oedipus of Many Pains: Strategies of Contest in Homeric Poetry.”

Leeds International Classical Studies 7.2. (http://www.leeds.ac.uk/classiscs/lics/)

———. 2011. “On Not Remembering Tydeus: Diomedes and the Contest for Thebes.” Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 66:9–44.

———. 2015. “Odysseus’ Nostos and the Odyssey’s Nostoi.” G. Philologia Antiqua

87–112.

Albertus Benarbé. Poetorum Epicorum Graecorum. Leipzig: Teubner, 1987.

Jonathan Burgess. The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003. 

Cingano, E. 1992. “The Death of Oedipus in the Epic Tradition.” Phoenix 46:1–11.

———. 2000. “Tradizioni su Tebe nell’epica e nella lirica greca arcaica.” In La città

di Argo: Mito, storia, tradizioni poetiche, ed. P. A. Bernardini, 59–68. Rome.

———. 2004. “The Sacrificial Cut and the Sense of Honour Wronged in Greek

Joel Christensen. “Revising Athena’s Rage: Kassandra and the Homeric Appropriation of Nostos.” YAGE 3: 88–116.

Malcolm Davies. Epicorum Graecorum Fragmenta. Göttingen : Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1988.

Malcolm Davies. The Greek Epic Cycle. London: Bristol, 1989.

Fantuzzi, M., and C. Tsagalis, eds. 2014. The Greek Epic Cycle and its Ancient Reception: A Companion. Cambridge.

Margalit Finkelberg. The Cypria, the Iliad, and the Problem of Multiformity in Oral and Written Tradition, ‹‹CP›› 95, 2000, pp. 1-11. 

Lulli, L. 2014. “Local Epics and Epic Cycles: The Anomalous Case of a Submerged Genre.” In Submerged Literature in Ancient Greek Culture, ed. G. Colesanti and Giordano, 76–90. Berlin and Boston.

L. Huxley. Greek Epic Poetry from Eumelos to Panyassis, Cambridge 1969.

Richard Martin. Telemachus and the Last Hero Song, ‹‹Colby Quarterly›› 29, 1993, pp. 222-240.

Jasper Griffin. “The epic cycle and the uniqueness of Homer.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 97 (1977) 39-53.

Ingrid Holmberg “The Creation of the Ancient Greek Epic Cycle”

Marks, J., ‘‘Alternative Odysseys: The Case of Thoas and Odysseus’’, TAPhA 133.2 (2003) 209-226.

Gregory Nagy. The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek poetry. Baltimore 1999.

Nagy, G., “Oral Traditions, Written Texts, and Questions of Authorship”, in: M. Fantuzzi / C. Tsagalis (eds.), Cambridge Companion to the Greek Epic Cycle, Cambridge 2015, 59-77.

Nelson, T. J., ‘‘Intertextual Agōnes in Archaic Greek Epic: Penelope vs. the Catalogue of Women’’, YAGE 5.1 (2021) 25-57.

Rutherford, I., “The Catalogue of Women within the Greek Epic Tradition: Allusion, Intertextuality and Traditional Referentiality”, in: O. Anderson / D. T. T. Haug (eds.), Relative Chronology of Early Greek Epic Poetry, Cambridge 2012, 152-167.

Albert Severyns. Le cycle épique dans l’école d’Aristarque. Paris: Les Belles Lettres 1928.

Albert Severyns. Recherches sur la Chrestomathie de Proclos. Paris: Faculté de Philosophie et Lettres, Liége, 1938.

Giampiero Scafoglio. La questione ciclica, ‹‹RPh››78, 2004, pp. 289-310.

Laura Slatkin. The Power of Thetis: Allusion and Interpretation in the Iliad. Berkeley 1991.

Michael Squire. The Iliad in a Nutshell: Visualizing Epic on the Tabulae Iliacae. Oxford: 2011.

Tsagalis, C., Early Greek Epic Fragments I: Antiquarian and Genealogical Epic, Berlin / Boston 2017.

Marco Fantuzzi and Christos Tsagalis. “Introduction: Kyklos, Epic Cycle, and Cyclic Poetry.” In M. Fantuzzi and C. Tsagalis (eds.). ACompanion to the Greek Epic Cycle and Its Fortune in the Ancient World. (Brill, 2014).

Martin L. West. The Epic Cycle: A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013.

Patroklos leaves Achilles in book 11 to go investigate the wounded Achaeans and does not return until book 16. When he appears, he is described as weeping. And we hear two similes to describe how he weeps, one from the narrative and another from Achilles himself.

Homer, Iliad 16.1-11

“That’s how they were fighting around the well-benched ship.
Then Patroklos stood right next to Achilles, shepherd of the host,
Letting warm tears fall down his face as a dark-watered spring would,
One that pours murky water down a steep rock face.
When Achilles saw him, he pitied him
And spoke to him, addressing him with winged words.
“Patroklos, why are you crying just like a girl,
A young one, who rushes after her mother asking to be picked him,
Always grabbed her clothes and holding her back as she rushes—
She looks at her mother while crying so she will pick her up.
Patroklos, you’re shedding a tender tear like her.”

῝Ως οἳ μὲν περὶ νηὸς ἐϋσσέλμοιο μάχοντο·
Πάτροκλος δ’ ᾿Αχιλῆϊ παρίστατο ποιμένι λαῶν
δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων ὥς τε κρήνη μελάνυδρος,
ἥ τε κατ’ αἰγίλιπος πέτρης δνοφερὸν χέει ὕδωρ.
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτιρε ποδάρκης δῖος ᾿Αχιλλεύς,
καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα·
τίπτε δεδάκρυσαι Πατρόκλεες, ἠΰτε κούρη
νηπίη, ἥ θ’ ἅμα μητρὶ θέουσ’ ἀνελέσθαι ἀνώγει
εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη, καί τ’ ἐσσυμένην κατερύκει,
δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, ὄφρ’ ἀνέληται·
τῇ ἴκελος Πάτροκλε τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβεις.

The first simile is a repetition of sorts (and may be formulaic): Agamemnon is said to be crying like a stream before he speaks at the beginning of book 9 (14-15). The second part is somewhat more remarkable: from my experience, readers often infer the kinds of misogynistic statements that are typical in Homer (e.g. “Achaean women, not Achaean men, since you are cowards!…”) and in our own time (“fight like a girl”). One could be forgiven for assuming a kind of emasculation intended here on Achilles’ part.

The language outside the simile, however, may countermand such a reading. The narrator tells us that Achilles is pitying Patroklos (ᾤκτιρε) and the ‘winged words’ speech introduction often includes speech-acts that try to do things (although the fill intention of this speech is unclear). The content of the speech may have surprised ancient audiences as well: a scholion reports that Aristarchus preferred θάμβησεν (“felt wonder at”) instead of pitied. The scholia also question whether or not it is strange for Achilles to mock Patroklos for crying when Achilles himself was lamenting over losing a concubine (ἄτοπός ἐστιν αὐτὸς μὲν ἕνεκα παλλακίδος κλάων (cf. Α 348—57), τὸν δὲ Πάτροκλον κόρην καλῶν ἐπὶ τοιούτοις δεινοῖς δακρύοντα, Schol. bT ad Hom. Il. 16.7 ex).

But how does our reception of this scene change if we don’t focus on the routine misogyny? One crucial thing the structure of the speech does for us–in addition to providing us a framework that shows this is not straight invective–is provide the contrast between how the narrator asks us to view Patroklos and how Achilles does. The narrator provides a repeated somewhat bland comparison to a fountain. But Achilles enlivens and personalizes the comparison. We cannot forget that in this simile, Achilles makes himself the mother.

In her extended reading of this simile, Deborah Beck (2023, 91-98) notes that the action described by the simile leaves readers “uncertain as to what happens at the end” (95) and notes the relative scarcity of similes in speeches. She shows well how complex the relationship between the action of the simile and the narrative of the story can be, mixing up our experiences and those of the characters with notes of responsibility and threatened loss. The unresolved end of the simile–whether the mother ever picks up the child–feeds into the dual resolutions of the encounter. Initially, Achilles heeds Patroklos, he accedes to his request. But this action itself leads to the latter’s death and the end to any future together.

One of my favorite takes on this comes from Celsiana Warwick’s article “The Material Warrior: Gender and “Kleos” in the Iliad”. Warwick combines this with Achilles’ description of himself in book 9 as a mother bird trying to bring food to her chicks. In that simile, Achilles compares the whole army to the chicks looking to him for food. Warwick writes:

The image of the mother ignoring the needs of her child represents the way in which Achilles at this point in the poem is ignoring the needs of the Achaeans, whom he described as his children at 9.323–7. Achilles’ use of this simile here should thus not be regarded as incidental, but rather as part of his larger pattern of maternal identification. In Book 9 the mother bird is self-sacrificing, directing all of her attention towards her chicks. In the second simile, a change has taken place in Achilles’ conception of himself as a mother; now he has turned his back on the child and moves away from her. The scene, although domestic and familiar rather than destructive or threatening, highlights Achilles’ refusal in Book 16 to take up his protective role. It foreshadows the destructive consequences of this refusal, especially when juxtaposed with the simile of the mother of the chicks. The gender dynamics of this image are also intriguing; although the comparison of Patroclus to a foolish girl appears to be negative, Achilles does not seem to impugn his own masculinity by associating himself with the mother.

By situating this image along with other comparisons to women in Homer–e.g. Heroic pain compared to women in childbirth, or heroes compared to animal mothers and offspring–Warwick argues that maternity is associated with protection in Homer, implying, perhaps, an obligation to shelter others that yields a greater level of pain and suffering when warriors fail to do so. Consider the existential pain felt by Thetis in response to her inability to save her son or the emphasis Andromache puts on imagining her son’s (impossible) futures. The language of each simile, moreover, strengthens these connections: As Casey Dué demonstrates, Achilles’ similes resonate with women’s laments in the epic tradition. In a way, they are proleptic, priming an audience that already knows the events of the story to see Achilles’ actions in a certain way. The associations may be broader than this too–Cathy Gaca has suggested that the simile recalls the image of a mother and child fleeing a warrior during the sack of a city.

This associative framework is especially effective for exploring Achilles’ actions because he fails in his role as a protector. Warwick adds, “It is particularly appropriate for Achilles to compare himself to a mother because maternity, unlike paternity or non-parental divine protection, is closely linked in Homeric poetry with the mortal vulnerability of human offspring.” Achilles becomes a “murderous mother” who is a direct cause of Patroklos’ death.

This simile and Achilles’ own self-characterization increases the pathos of his story. This is echoed and reinforced–as Emily Austin argues well in her article (Grief as ποθή )–when Achilles’ grief over Patroklos’ death is compared to a mother lion’s sorrow over the loss of her cubs. In addition to these powerful connections between women and the life cycle, these images also underscore the impact that heroic violence has on familial relationships. The Achaeans at Troy do not have their families with them (with some exceptions): the consequences of war fall most heavily on women and children. This simile can both humanize Achilles and vilify him. The greater we understand his feelings of love and responsibility for Patroklos, the more horrifying it is when we understand that Achilles himself ultimately prayed for his own people to die.

We also have to attend to the impact on Patroklos: if Achilles is trying to do something with this speech, what is it? Jonathan Ready suggests that Achilles is letting Patroklos know that he is there and, like a mother, will eventually take care of her child. I like this reading, but I wonder if there isn’t a clash between Achilles’ belief that he can comfort Patroklos and the image itself which remains unresolved. The child in the simile goes on, tugging, wanting to be picked up, but never fully heard. We must imagine, I think, that Achilles sees these actions as being completed outside the simile when he listens to Patroklos and responds. As Rachel Lesser suggests, Patroklos is not fully heard. Patroklos’ “appeal represents a challenge to [Achilles’] will” (175). Achilles is troubled and upset by his friend being upset; but he is also conflicted by what he asks. Like a frustrated, harried mother who finally picks up the persistent child, Achilles concedes to Patroklos, but with demands and limits that will make neither of them happy.

I think this passage provides a great sample of how hard it can be to interpret Homer and how many different ideas need to be balanced at once. The scholars I have mentioned weigh cultural ideas about gender and relationships against what actually happens in the Homeric poems and generate a series of responses that point to the sensitivity and open-endedness of the simile. Achilles frames himself and Patroklos as a matter of expressing their relationship to one another, his view of the situation, and, perhaps more deeply, a troubled sense of responsibility. The lack of resolution in the simile and the striking image itself draws the audience’s attention to the moment, encouraging us to think through the image and make sense of it on our own.

A short bibliography on this simile

Austin, Emily. “Grief as ποθή : understanding the anger of Achilles.” New England Classical Journal, vol. 42, no. 3, 2015, pp. 147-163.

Beck, Deborah. The Stories of Similes in Greek and Roman Epic. Cambridge, 2023.

Dué, Casey. “Achilles, mother bird: similes and traditionality in Homeric poetry.” The Classical Bulletin, vol. 81, no. 1, 2005, pp. 3-18.

Gaca, Kathy. 2008. “Reinterpreting the Homeric Simile of Iliad 16.7–11: The Girl and Her Mother in Ancient Greek Warfare.” AJP 129: 145–71.

Ledbetter, Grace. 1993. “Achilles’ Self-Address: Iliad 16.7–19.” AJP 114: 481–91.

Lesser, Rachel. 2022. Desire in the Iliad. Oxford.

Mills, Sophie. 2000. “Achilles, Patroclus and Parental Care in Some Homeric Similes.” G&R 47: 3–18.

Pratt, Louise. 2007. “The Parental Ethos of the Iliad.” Hesperia Supplements 41: 25–40.

Ransom, Christopher. 2011. “Aspects of Effeminacy and Masculinity in the Iliad.” Antichthon 45: 35–57.

Ready, Jonathan. 2011. Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Warwick, Celsiana. “The maternal warrior: gender and « kleos » in the « Iliad ».” American Journal of Philology, vol. 140, no. 1, 2019, pp. 1-28. Doi: 10.1353/ajp.2019.0001

Patroklos’ death is one of the most significant moments in the Iliad: it advances the plot by redirecting Achilles’ rage toward Hektor and it also engages in some critical themes. The details of how he dies have caused consternation over the years: Apollo strips him of his armor, Euphorbus wounds him, and then Hektor moves in for the kill. All of this happens after Patroklos has pushed too far, ignoring Achilles’ advice from the beginning of the book and dismissing repeated warnings from Apollo. In doing so, Patroklos engages in what later authors might call hubris in two ways: he oversteps his bounds, arrogating to himself honor and glory destined for Achilles, and he does so despite somewhat direct intervention from the gods. 

One of the more important questions in thinking through the end of book 16 is how this depiction of Patroklos’ death informs our reading of Hektor and Achilles. In addition, Patroklos’ demise furnishes further material for thinking through determination and agency in epic: Zeus has previously prophesied Patroklos’ death, thereby making it fated; and, yet, the epic also takes pains to show that Patroklos is in part liable for his own suffering. This is all part of the famous ‘double determination’ that characterizes the pairing of human decisions and behavior within the larger arc of the narrative tradition and divine fate.

Three more topics jump out at me when I look at the final exchange of Patroklos’ life: (1) the Homeric narrator’s direct address to the hero; (2) the ensuing controversies about his actual death; and (3) his brief prophetic power and Hektor’s response.

Homer, Iliad 16. 843-863

“O Patroklos you horseman, then you addressed him, succumbing to weakness:
Now already you are boasting a lot—for Zeus, the son of Kronos
Gave victory to you along with Apollo, and they overcame me
With ease. They are the ones who stripped the armor from my shoulders.
If twenty who are the likes of you had opposed me
They all would have died here, overcome by my spear.
But ruinous fate killed me a long with Leto’s son
And, from men, Euphorbus. You are the third to kill me.
I will tell you something else and keep it in your thoughts.
You’re not going to be here very long yourself, but death
And its overwhelming fate already are standing near you:
To die at the hands of Achilles, Aeacus’ blameless grandson.’
So he spoke and death’s end covered him as he spoke.

His soul went flying from his limbs and went to Hades
Lamenting their fate, because they left behind manliness and youth.
As he died, glorious Hektor addressed him:
“Patroklos, why are you prophesying my death to me?
Who knows if Achilles, the child of nice-haired Thetis
May die, struck first by my spear?”
So Hektor spoke and he drew his bronze spear from the wound
Pressing down with his foot as he pushed him away.”

Τὸν δ’ ὀλιγοδρανέων προσέφης Πατρόκλεες ἱππεῦ·
ἤδη νῦν ῞Εκτορ μεγάλ’ εὔχεο· σοὶ γὰρ ἔδωκε
νίκην Ζεὺς Κρονίδης καὶ ᾿Απόλλων, οἵ με δάμασσαν
ῥηιδίως· αὐτοὶ γὰρ ἀπ’ ὤμων τεύχε’ ἕλοντο.
τοιοῦτοι δ’ εἴ πέρ μοι ἐείκοσιν ἀντεβόλησαν,
πάντές κ’ αὐτόθ’ ὄλοντο ἐμῷ ὑπὸ δουρὶ δαμέντες.
ἀλλά με μοῖρ’ ὀλοὴ καὶ Λητοῦς ἔκτανεν υἱός,
ἀνδρῶν δ’ Εὔφορβος· σὺ δέ με τρίτος ἐξεναρίζεις.
ἄλλο δέ τοι ἐρέω, σὺ δ’ ἐνὶ φρεσὶ βάλλεο σῇσιν·
οὔ θην οὐδ’ αὐτὸς δηρὸν βέῃ, ἀλλά τοι ἤδη
ἄγχι παρέστηκεν θάνατος καὶ μοῖρα κραταιὴ
χερσὶ δαμέντ’ ᾿Αχιλῆος ἀμύμονος Αἰακίδαο.
῝Ως ἄρα μιν εἰπόντα τέλος θανάτοιο κάλυψε·
ψυχὴ δ’ ἐκ ῥεθέων πταμένη ῎Αϊδος δὲ βεβήκει
ὃν πότμον γοόωσα λιποῦσ’ ἀνδροτῆτα καὶ ἥβην.
τὸν καὶ τεθνηῶτα προσηύδα φαίδιμος ῞Εκτωρ·
Πατρόκλεις τί νύ μοι μαντεύεαι αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον;
τίς δ’ οἶδ’ εἴ κ’ ᾿Αχιλεὺς Θέτιδος πάϊς ἠϋκόμοιο
φθήῃ ἐμῷ ὑπὸ δουρὶ τυπεὶς ἀπὸ θυμὸν ὀλέσσαι;
῝Ως ἄρα φωνήσας δόρυ χάλκεον ἐξ ὠτειλῆς
εἴρυσε λὰξ προσβάς, τὸν δ’ ὕπτιον ὦσ’ ἀπὸ δουρός.

Apostrophe in Homer

Whenever I read Homer with people, they will invariably ask why the Homeric narrator uses direct address to a few select characters. The appeal to Patroklos as if in conversation is not a result of a translator’s choice: in the Greek, epic uses the vocative form for Patroklos’ name (i.e., the case ending for a direct address) and 2nd person verbs for the action (the singular “you” forms). Among literary devices, direct-address to a character/person not present  is called apostrophe. (It shares the name with the punctuation mark because both the sign and the action are “turning away”, which is the meaning of the Greek word.) As early as Ps. Plutarch’s On Homer, we have the identification of the trope as apostrophe and the idea articulated that it “moves with pathos and  makes an impact on the audience.” (ὅπερ ἰδίως ἀποστροφὴ καλεῖται. τῷ δὲ παθητικῷ  κινεῖ καὶ ἄγει τὸν ἀκροώμενον, 620-621 ) 

Several characters in Homer receive this treatment, but only two receive it repeatedly: Patroklos in the Iliad and Eumaios in the Odyssey. The general argument I have always shared for this is that the act creates a sense of identification or sympathy with the the character addressed in Homer, setting them and their experiences aside from the rest of the narrative as something special. From a narratological perspective, Irene J. F. De Jong has classed apostrophe as a kind of metalepsis, that is a device that breaks down the narrative, that draws the audience and narrator together to see the actions in a different way. The effect is both to single the apostrophized character out for special attention and to bring the audiences closer to the experience, to immerse them in it, as Rutger Allan suggests.

The repeated effect in book 16 may draw the audience closer to Patroklos and his decision making, while also increasing the emotional effect of his death and preparing us for Achilles’ extreme response. In addition, I think it contrasts with the treatment of Hektor who seems to inspire so much sympathy among modern audiences. What is the impact of the expressed narrative sympathy for Patroklos on our response to Hektor’s characterization?

He is not even third! Hektor’s Contribution to Patroklos’ Death

I think that one of the under-emphasized themes of books 16 and on is the diminishment of Hektor. While he is posed as late as book 9 as a man-slaying menace, threatening the whole of the Achaean fleet, he is wounded in book 14, resuscitated in book 15, and only allowed to make his critical contribution to the plot after his ally Sarpedon has died, and after Patroklos has pushed the Trojans almost back into the city itself.

Patroklos notes that Hektor was only third in line to kill him. The D scholia preserve some additional commentary on Hektor’s achievement:

“We need to look at how the count isn’t four including Fate, Apollo, Euphorbos, and Hektor, when Patroklos says “you are killing me third!”. People are saying that he is not counting Fate because she is common for all mortals. Some claim that Patroklos just indicated this when he listed it as he does….these really means he’s last [πολλοστός]”

Hektor’s killing of Patroklos triggers the plot sequence that ends Hektor’s life but it also reshapes our view of his character. Steven Lowenstam argues that Patroclus’ death can be shown to reveal ambivalence about excellence in warfare. I think the scene definitely undermines conventional notions of heroism and that it does so by showing Patroklos’ excess and emphasizing Hektor’s limitations.

As William Allan shows, Patroklos’ death anticipates Hektor’s fall in important ways, but it also apparently informs our understanding of the relationship between the Iliad and the lost Aithiopis.  Achilles’ eventual death thanks to Paris and Apollo is predicted later in the Iliad. Some authors have argued that it is prefigured in Euphorbus as a doublet for Paris. According to our ancient sources, Achilles’ death actually occurred in the lost Aithiopis. Allan’s discussion about the correlations between these death scenes is nuanced: He suggests that we don’t need to imagine the Iliad or the Aithiopis copying each other: the scenes could be based on conventional patterns, or (and this is my take) they could both be echoing earlier versions of their own narrative traditions (see Jonathan Burgess’ article on this too.)

One of the important motifs Allan focuses on is Euphorbus’ role in the death: while some have seen him as a doublet of other figures, Allan argues that the Homeric narrative gives him an actual backstory: Menelaos killed his brother Hyperenor in book 14 and Hektor is often paired with Polydamas, whose relationship with Hektor I have suggested is a good index for Homeric politics. Hektor’s killing of Patroklos is in a way diminished by his ranking as third in the killers (after Apollo and Euphorbus). The cumulative effect of book 16, one might say, is to emphasize human folly and overreaching. Both Patroklos and Hektor go farther than they are supposed to.

The Prophecy

A traditional motif from early Greek culture is the idea that souls about to die gain some power of prophecy because o their proximity to the divide between mortal and immortal realms

Schol. T in Hom. Il. 16.851

“This is the belief expressed by the poet: souls that are about to make a transition have something of prophetic power. For once they have come closer to divine nature, they get some foreknowledge of what is to come.”

δόγμα ἐστὶ τοῦτο τῷ ποιητῇ ὥστε ἀπαλλασσομένας τὰς ψυχὰς ἔχειν τι μαντικώτερον· πλησίον γὰρ ἤδη τῆς θείας φύσεως γινομένη ἡ ψυχὴ προγινώσκει τι τῶν μελλόντων.

When Hektor dies, he too will provide a prophecy to his killer and will be rejected in a similar way. Hektor’s response here repeats the Trojan refrain that who knows whether they will live or die. Hektor very well suspects what his fate is, as he makes clear in book 6. His articulation of the idea that he may have a puncher’s chance of beating Achilles is different at this moment than when he dismisses his advisors or rallies the Trojans earlier. Here, Hektor is talking to a man as he dies and we have no evidence that anyone else is listening. Hektor’s denial here can be seen either as a taunt for the departing Patroklos or a desperate continuation of his previous attempts to persuade others that their cause is not doomed.

While I think the context is ambiguous–Hektor can be seen as cruelly boastful or in desperate denial–I do think that the characterization is disambiguated by subsequent actions: Hektor foolishly takes up Patroklos’ armor in book 17; he fails to rescue Sarpedon’s body for Glaukos; he refuses to tale his army back to the city as Polydamas advises in book 18; and he is hemmed in by Achilles until he is forced to face him in book 22. At that moment, Hektor expresses his regret. In a way, his narrative arc is a shadow cast by Patroklos’ death: they both fight beyond their fate and die by divine fiat outside the walls of Troy.

Patroklos’ dying taunt of Hektor and Hektor’s subsequent dismissal of his prophecy unite them in a kind of pathos that relativizes and undermines any claims of glory. Patroklos’ ‘great deeds’ transgress and surpass his friends advice and he dies with only the promise of glory to come. Hektor is denied the accomplishment himself. And all that is left in this wake is a heroic rage that does little to elevate the human condition.

A short Bibliography on the end of Iliad 16

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

Allan, Rutger. “Metaleptic apostrophe in Homer: emotion and immersion.” 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. 78-93. Doi: 10.1163/9789004506053_006

Allan, William. “Arms and the man: Euphorbus, Hector, and the death of Patroclus.” Classical Quarterly, N. S., vol. 55, no. 1, 2005, pp. 1-16. Doi: 10.1093/cq/bmi001

Block, E.. “The narrator speaks. Apostrophe in Homer and Vergil.” TAPA, vol. CXII, 1982, pp. 7-22.

Burgess, Jonathan Seth. “Beyond neo-analysis: problems with the vengeance theory.” American Journal of Philology, vol. 118, no. 1, 1997, pp. 1-19. Doi: 10.1353/ajp.1997.0011

Christopoulos, Menelaos. “Patroclus and Elpenor: dead and unburied.” Ο επάνω και ο κάτω κόσμος στο ομηρικό και αρχαϊκό έπος: από τα πρακτικά του ΙΓ’ Διεθνούς Συνεδρίου για την « Οδύσσεια » : Ιθάκη, 25-29 Αυγούστου 2017. Eds. Christopoulos, Menelaos and Païzi-Apostolopoulou, Machi. Ithaki: Kentro Odysseiakon Spoudon, 2020. 163-174.

De Jong, Irene J. F.. “Metalepsis in ancient Greek literature.” Narratology and interpretation: the content of narrative form in ancient literature. Eds. Grethlein, Jonas and Rengakos, Antonios. Trends in Classics. Supplementary Volumes; 4. Berlin ; New York: De Gruyter, 2009. 87-115.

Karakantza, Efimia D.. “Who is liable for blame ? : Patroclus’ death in book 16 of the « Iliad ».” 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. 117-136.

Lowenstam, Steven. “Patroclus’ death in the Iliad and the inheritance of an Indo-European myth.” Archaeological News, vol. VI, 1977, pp. 72-76.

Parry, A.. “Language and characterization in Homer.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, vol. LXXVI, 1972, pp. 1-22.

One of the most memorable scenes in the Iliad is when Zeus cries tears of blood once he accepts that his son Sarpedon is going to die. Sarpedon’s death is not necessarily crucial to the plot: Hektor could very easily kill Patroklos and thus redirect Achilles’ rage without Sarpedon’s presence at all. But this scene retains important thematic connections to the epic’s concern for heroism, human mortality, and widening the space between the worlds of gods and human beings.

Readers have identified internal and external tensions to this scene. Internally, Zeus predicted just in the last book that Sarpedon would die. Externally, there are scholarly traditions that see different kinds of inconsistency. One scholion suggests that “the poet” includes this passage to raise the profile of Sarpedon’s death (Schol. bT ad Il. 16.431-461) while another reports that Zenodotus questioned the entire conversation of Zeus and Hera (Schol. A) because it isn’t clear where or how this conversation is happening. A close reading of the scene can help us see its connections to larger epic and cosmic themes.

Iliad 16.431-438

“As the son of crooked-minded Kronos was watching them, he felt pity
And he addressed Hera, his sister and wife:
“Shit. Look, it is fate for the man most dear to me, Sarpedon,
To be overcome by Patroklos, son of Menoitios.
My hearts is split in two as I rush through my thoughts:
Either I will snatch him up still alive from the lamentable battle
And set him down in the rich deme of Lykia,
Or I will overcome him already at the hands of Patroklos.”

Note the movement from the statement of fate that seems impersonal (in Greek, μοῖρ’ ὑπὸ Πατρόκλοιο Μενοιτιάδαο δαμῆναι) to the active statement I will with the somewhat interesting use of a temporal adverb pointing to now with a future verb (ἦ ἤδη ὑπὸ χερσὶ Μενοιτιάδαο δαμάσσω). Zeus expresses the very confusing overlap between his submission to fate and his status as an agency of it.

But any sensed contradiction here is understandable if we look at the metaphysical world the Iliad constructs itself: as Zeus says to Thetis in book 1, once he consents to a proposition, once he ‘nods’ to it, it moves from the unreal to a future fact. Part of Zeus’ power resides in the belief that his word in some way makes the cosmos what it is by guaranteeing its boundaries. Yet, here, as with Achilles in the epic, Zeus finds that the decisions he made to serve some larger plot have painful implications. There is a correlation of kinds between Zeus’ loss of Sarpedon and Achilles’ loss of Patroklos. The difference is that Zeus understands the promise he has made.

Schol. T ad Hom. Il. 16.433-8a1

“Don’t criticize the poet for this: for it is right to show the gods’ sympathy for men and that he speaks the following to her. In addition, Zeus’ mourning is didactic: the poet shows that even the gods submit to what is fated. It is therefore correct for human beings to bear fate nobly”

οὐ μεμπτέον τὸν ποιητήν· ἢ γὰρ ἀφιέναι δεῖ τὴν συγγένειαν τῶν θεῶν τὴν πρὸς ἀνθρώπους ἢ τὰ ἑπόμενα αὐτῇ λέγειν. ἅμα δὲ καὶ παιδευτικὴ ἡ τοῦ Διὸς ὀλόφυρσις, διδάσκοντος τοῦ ποιητοῦ ὅτι καὶ θεοὶ τῇ εἱμαρμένῃ ἐμμένουσι· δεῖ οὖν καὶ τοὺς ἀνθρώπους τὰς εἱμαρμένας φέρειν γενναίως. 

This exchange in the middle of book 16 has two additional ‘metaphysical’ or cosmic concerns. First, it establishes that mortality is an immutable fact of human life. Sarpedon is a good figure to explore this because he is in a way a refraction of Achilles as the hero son of a god who likely received cult worship. Indeed, his death scene is an important piece of repeated iconography in early Greek art and within the Iliad he is a figure who has spoken directly to the connection between being a noble/heroic figure and risking one’s life as a matter of obligation. In addition, Sarpedon’s death comes at a time when the death of Patroklos is anticipated, a death that in multiple ways serves within the Iliad as a surrogate death for Achilles.

The second cosmic effect of Zeus in this book is to emphasize the honors of the dead. As I discuss in an earlier post, the Theogony and the broader epic tradition positions Zeus’ stability in the universe as a feature of his ability to guarantee the social/religious positions of the gods. In a similar way, the Iliad may be seen to offer not just an etiology for human death, but also an explanation for how the dead should be honored and what kind of extra-mortality is available to the best. This is no minor issue for the Iliad which has offered and complicated kleos (immortal glory/fame) as compensation for an early death and which later shows how important it is to bury the dead and present them with the rituals that are necessary for the creation and perpetuation of kleos: funerary lament and, to get meta-poetic with it, perhaps epic itself.

Iliad 16. 439-461

“Then queen, ox-eyed Hera answered him
Most shameful son of Kronos, what kind of a thing have you said.
Do you really want to rescue from discordant death
When it was long ago fated for this man because he is mortal?
Do it. But the rest of the gods will not praise you for it.
I’ll tell you something else, and keep this in your thoughts:
If you send Sarpedon alive to his own home,
Think about how one of the other gods won’t want
To send their dear son free of the oppressive conflict.
For around the great city of Priam there are many sons
Of the immortals fighting, and you will incite rage in those gods.
But if this is ear to you, and your heart does mourn,
Let him stay in the oppressive battle indeed
To be overcome by the hands of Patroklos, Menoitios’ son.
Then when his soul and and his life leaves him,
Have death and sweet sleep take him until
They arrive at the land of broad Lykia.
There, his relatives and friends will bury him
With a tomb and a marker. This is the honor due to the dead.

“So she spoke, and the father of men and gods did not disobey her.
He was shedding bloody teardrops to the ground,
Honoring his dear son, the one Patroklos was about to destroy
Far off from his fatherland in fertile Troy.”

In this speech, Hera occupies something of a gendered position: in archaic Greek culture, women are represented as having special associations with death and burials, both in the act of caring for bodies and in the performance of laments (as we see at the end of the Iliad). There is a symbolic/thematic connection between a gendered ability to give life and knowledge about life’s end that is likely connected to Greek mythology. Here, in one of the rare places that Hera provides advice Zeus heeds, it is directly related to clarifying human mortality and establishing ritual practices to honor it.

Later on in the same book, Zeus repeats part of Hera’s speech to confirm what Sarpedon will receive the rites due to the dead:

Iliad 16.666-676

“And then cloud-gathering Zeus addressed Apollo:
‘Come now, dear Phoebus, cleanse the dark blood
From the wounds, once you get to Sarpedon, and then
Bring him out and wash him much in the river’s flows
And anoint him with ambrosia and put ambrosial clothes around him.
Send him to be carried by those quick heralds,
The twins sleep and death, and have them swiftly
Place him in the rich land of wide Lykia.
There, his relatives and friends will bury him
With a tomb and a marker. This is the honor due to the dead.”

The final phrase in Zeus’ speech “This is the honor due to the dead” (τὸ γὰρ γέρας ἐστὶ θανόντων) occurs again at line 23.9 when Achilles inaugurates Patroklos’ burial before the games in his honor and its substance is central to the debate at the beginning of book 24 about returning Hektor’s body to his family.

Zeus’ suffering for his son creates common ground between gods and mortals over the death’s inevitability for human beings. It foreshadows, or echoes, Thetis’ sorrow for Achilles’ death even as it brings humans and gods together into a cosmos ordered by the fact that Zeus keeps his word. All humans die, but in the universe stabilized by Zeus some rights remain untouchable even in death.

The death of Sarpedon both anticipates future deaths (Patroklos, Hektor and Achilles outside the epic) and also affirms the importance of burial rites for human beings and inscribes them as part of the same system of honors that stabilize the cosmic order. Implicit in this is burial as a universal human right: the Iliad both provides a framework for establishing such an extra-political belief and also anticipates the sense of umbrage that attends other mythical traditions like the failure to bury the dead of the Seven Against Thebes.

A short Bibliography on Sarpedon book 16

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

Allen, Nick J.. “Dyaus and Bhīṣma, Zeus and Sarpedon: towards a history of the Indo-European sky god.” Gaia, vol. 8, 2004, pp. 29-36.

Barker, Elton T. E.. “The « Iliad »’s big swoon: a case of innovation within the epic tradition ?.” Trends in Classics, vol. 3, no. 1, 2011, pp. 1-17.

Barker, Elton T. E., and Joel P. Christensen. 2019. Homer’s Thebes: Epic Rivalries and the Appropriation of Mythical Pasts. Hellenic Studies Series 84. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies. 

Delattre, Charles. “Entre mortalité et immortalité: l’exemple de Sarpédon dans l’« Iliade ».” Revue de Philologie, de Littérature et d’Histoire Anciennes, 3e sér., vol. 80, no. 2, 2006, pp. 259-271.

Gartziou-Tatti, Ariadni. 2023. “Boreas, Hypnos, Thanatos, and the deaths of Sarpedon in the Iliad.” In “Γέρα: Studies in honor of Professor Menelaos Christopoulos,” ed. Athina Papachrysostomou, Andreas P. Antonopoulos, Alexandros-Fotios Mitsis, Fay Papadimitriou, and Panagiota Taktikou, special issue, Classics@ 25. https://nrs.harvard.edu/URN-3:HLNC.ESSAY:103900170.

Higbie, Carolyn. “Greeks and the forging of Homeric pasts.” Attitudes towards the past in antiquity : creating identities: proceedings of an international conference held at Stockholm University, 15-17 May 2009. Eds. Alroth, Brita and Scheffer, Charlotte. Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis. Stockholm Studies in Classical Archaeology; 14. Stockholm: Stockholm University, 2014. 9-19.

Lateiner, Donald. “Pouring bloody drops (Iliad 16.459): the grief of Zeus.” Colby Quarterly, vol. 38, no. 1, 2002, pp. 42-61.

Marks, J. 2016. “Herding Cats: Zeus, the Other Gods, and the Plot of the Iliad.” In The Gods of Greek hexameter poetry: from the archaic age to late antiquity and beyond, ed. J. J. Clauss, M. Cuypers and A. Kahane, 60–75. Stuttgart.

Nagy, Gregory. “On the death of Sarpedon.” Approaches to Homer. Eds. Rubino, C. A. and Shelmerdine, Cynthia W.. Austin, TX: Univ. of Texas Pr., 1983. 189-217.

Pucci, Pietro. “Banter and banquets for heroic death.” Post-structuralist classics. Ed. Benjamin, Andrew. Warwick stud. in philos. & liter. – . London: Routledge, 1988; New York: 1988. 132-159.

Spivey, Nigel. The Sarpedon krater: the life and afterlife of a Greek vase. Landmark Library. London: Head of Zeus, 2018.

Tsingarida, Athéna. “The death of Sarpedon: workshops and pictorial experiments.” Hermeneutik der Bilder: Beiträge zur Ikonographie und Interpretation griechischer Vasenmalerei. Eds. Schmidt, Stefan and Oakley, John Howard. Beihefte zum Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum; 4. München: Beck, 2009. 135-142.

I always dislike when people ask which books of the Iliad are must-reads. Unsurprisingly, I think they all are pretty necessary. But I do have to concede that there are some that can be skipped without losing too much of the sense of the whole, and there are others that are absolutely crucial. Iliad 16 is pretty near indispensable to the plot of the poem (as anticipated in Zeus’ speech in book 15), but it also has critical engagements with the epic’s themes and connections with larger narrative traditions. It just may be one of the top 4 books of the Iliad, depending on your interests.

Book 16 has three major components, but splits more easily into two parts. The first part is the meeting between Patroklos and Achilles and the preparation for the latter to lead the Myrmidons into war in the former’s place; the second part is the aristeia of Patroklos that includes some wholesale slaughter along with the death of Sarpedon, and ends with Patroklos’ own fall. I think the book could also be seen in three movements: the preparation, the rallying of the Greeks and death of Sarpedon, and the excess, ending in Patroklos death at Hektor’s hands. 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 16 are heroism, Family & Friends, Gods and Humans and Narrative Traditions.

Book 16 is also the second longest book of the Iliad (book 5 is slightly longer at 909 lines): given its detail and how important it is not just to this epic but to other narrative traditions, there’s no way to talk about everything. In my posts on book 16, I think I will stick to a simple scheme: the beginning (Patroklos speaks to Achilles), the middle (Patroklos kills Sarpedon) and the end (Hektor kills Patroklos). Book 16 is remarkable for many reasons, but one of them is how it picks up the action from book 11, when Nestor spoke to Patroklos and encouraged him to convince Achilles to return to war or take his place in turn. As I wrote about in discussing book 13, the narrative is still in the epic’s longest day and for all we know Achilles has been watching the action since he sent Patroklos to investigate.

When Patroklos arrives, Achilles addresses him with a simile that has caught some attention over time.

Homer, Iliad 16.2-19

“So they were fighting about the well-benched ship,
Then Patroklos stood next to Achilles, the shepherd of the host,
Pouring out warm tears like some dark-watered spring
That drains its murky water down a steep cliff.
When swift-footed Achilles saw him, he pitied him,
And addressed him, speaking out winged words:
“Why do you weep, Patroklos, like some little girl
Who is racing alongside her mother asking her to carry her
As she pulls on her clothing and holds her back as she hurries—
She looks at her with tears until she picks her up.
You look like her, Patroklos, as you shed your tears.
Is there something you need to tell the Myrmidons or me?
Have you alone heard some message from Phthia?
People say Menoitios, Actor’s son, lives still and
Peleus, the son of Aeacus, lives among the Myrmidons.
We would truly grieve together if these two were dead.
Or are you upset over the Argives, that they are perishing
Among the ships, because of their own arrogance?
Tell me, don’t keep it secret, so we can both know.”

Πάτροκλος δ’ ᾿Αχιλῆϊ παρίστατο ποιμένι λαῶν
δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων ὥς τε κρήνη μελάνυδρος,
ἥ τε κατ’ αἰγίλιπος πέτρης δνοφερὸν χέει ὕδωρ.
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτιρε ποδάρκης δῖος ᾿Αχιλλεύς,
καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα·
τίπτε δεδάκρυσαι Πατρόκλεες, ἠΰτε κούρη
νηπίη, ἥ θ’ ἅμα μητρὶ θέουσ’ ἀνελέσθαι ἀνώγει
εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη, καί τ’ ἐσσυμένην κατερύκει,
δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, ὄφρ’ ἀνέληται·
τῇ ἴκελος Πάτροκλε τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβεις.
ἠέ τι Μυρμιδόνεσσι πιφαύσκεαι, ἢ ἐμοὶ αὐτῷ,
ἦέ τιν’ ἀγγελίην Φθίης ἐξέκλυες οἶος;
ζώειν μὰν ἔτι φασὶ Μενοίτιον ῎Ακτορος υἱόν,
ζώει δ’ Αἰακίδης Πηλεὺς μετὰ Μυρμιδόνεσσι;
τῶν κε μάλ’ ἀμφοτέρων ἀκαχοίμεθα τεθνηώτων.
ἦε σύ γ’ ᾿Αργείων ὀλοφύρεαι, ὡς ὀλέκονται
νηυσὶν ἔπι γλαφυρῇσιν ὑπερβασίης ἕνεκα σφῆς;

ἐξαύδα, μὴ κεῦθε νόῳ, ἵνα εἴδομεν ἄμφω.

There have been multiple interpretations of this simile. Kathy L. Gaca argued in a 2008 article that this evokes the experience of a mother and daughter pair in war, fleeing capture and abuse at the hands of enemy warriors. Others, like David Porter, have been cautious about how much the image should be particularized to such a moment: suggesting that the simile may also look ahead and back to other conflicts and parts of this poem. Like Gaca, I can’t help but hear the echoes of a city under siege and Agamemnon’s earlier threats; yet, I think we can’t be sure what audiences would have thought about.

Here, too, we can think of the tension in the relationship imagined. Achilles frames Patroklos as someone who desperately needs him just as he also implicitly acknowledges that he needs Patroklos too. There’s something thematically crucial in the mother’s headlong rush, in her interest to get something done, regardless of the child’s needs at that moment. This is something Celsiana Warwick highlights well in her discussion where she argues that “ the Iliad uses maternal imagery in martial contexts to highlight the conflict between the Homeric hero’s obligation to protect his comrades and his imperative to win timē and kleos, “honor and glory.” Maternity in Homeric poetry is strongly associated with protection, and maternal imagery is primarily applied to warriors engaging in the defense of their comrades” (2019, 1). This reading resists modern gender distinctions and instead looks at a pattern in epic that is charged at this particular moment where Achilles’ own concern for his honor results in the failure of his role as a protector. As Warwick writes, “The image of the mother ignoring the needs of her child represents the way in which Achilles at this point in the poem is ignoring the needs of the Achaeans, whom he described as his children at 9.323–7” (9).

As Rachel Lesser summarizes (174-176), this simile also demonstrates that Achilles is actually concerned by Patroklos. As anyone who has lived with a toddler knows, you can put off the tugging and the crying, but ultimately a child needs care. A good parent, while focused elsewhere, learns to balance self and other and responds as they can. The problem is that sometimes there’s no balance of response that will serve all needs. Achilles answers Patroklos’ call and sends him to war with the Myrmidons, but not without a warning not to overstep and take the honor that is truly owed to Achilles.

Jacques-Louis David, “Patrocle”. 1780

Addendum: ‘Patrochilles’

One thing to address here is the status of the relationship between Achilles and Patroklos. My standard answer in teaching the Iliad is to acknowledge that some early audiences received their relationship as romantic/sexual, clear from references in fragments of Aeschylus and later authors like Plato and Aeschines. The epic, however, is not explicit about the status of their relationship and this can be understood in two ways. First, the genre of heroic epic is generally reticent about sexual activity apart from the fact of its occurrence. When sexuality is detailed, it is usually a problem. Second, I suspect that Homeric epic was in part responding to differing sexual customs among their audiences. While pederastic relationships (that is, between an older male and an adolescent) seem to be acceptable in certain contexts in ancient Greece, there were variable sexual customs in different places and times and Homeric poetry endeavors to represent a composite picture of a heroic past that most Greek city-states could see themselves in.

So, I think the core message is, yes, the relationship between Achilles and Patroklos was meant to be profound and significant, but how to ‘code’ it was left to audience interpretation as a feature of Homeric caginess. In recent years, there has been both a scholarly reappraisal of their relationship and a greater interest in modern audiences to frame their relationship as sexual. Recent discussions framing their relationship as on the spectrum from “homosocial” to “homosexual” brings nuance to the discussions and important background material to considering their relationship (see especially the work of Celsiana Warwick and Rachel Lesser). Scholarly frameworks, however, say little about the reception of Patroklos and Achilles as a couple (e.g. ‘Patrochilles’) by modern audiences. Such a reception, which seems largely positive and affirming, is to me a testament of the protean power of Homeric poetry. The echoes of a conjugal relationship between the pair are undeniable, as Celsiana Warwick demonstrates in her article. But the subtlety and the nuance of the relationship is such that it is affective for audiences invested in a broad spectrum of sexual mores.

A short Bibliography on Patroklos and Achilles in book 16

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

Allan, William. “Arms and the man: Euphorbus, Hector, and the death of Patroclus.” Classical Quarterly, N. S., vol. 55, no. 1, 2005, pp. 1-16. Doi: 10.1093/cq/bmi00

Anderson, Warren D. “Achilles and the Dark Night of the Soul.” The Classical Journal 51, no. 6 (1956): 265–68. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3292885.

Burgess, Jonathan. “Beyond Neo-Analysis: Problems with the Vengeance Theory.” The American Journal of Philology 118, no. 1 (1997): 1–19. http://www.jstor.org/stable/1562096.

Clark, Mark Edward, and William D. E. Coulson. “Memnon and Sarpedon.” Museum Helveticum 35, no. 2 (1978): 65–73. http://www.jstor.org/stable/24815318.

Fantuzzi, M. 2012. Achilles in Love. Oxford.

Gaca, Kathy L. “Reinterpreting the Homeric Simile of ‘Iliad’ 16.7-11: The Girl and Her Mother in Ancient Greek Warfare.” The American Journal of Philology 129, no. 2 (2008): 145–71. http://www.jstor.org/stable/27566700.

Karakantza, Efimia D.. “Who is liable for blame ? : Patroclus’ death in book 16 of the « Iliad ».” 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. 117-136.

Kesteren, Morgan van. “ERASTES-EROMENOS RELATIONSHIPS IN TWO ANCIENT EPICS.” CrossCurrents 69, no. 4 (2019): 351–64. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26851797.

Ledbetter, Grace M. “Achilles’ Self-Address: Iliad 16.7-19.” The American Journal of Philology 114, no. 4 (1993): 481–91. https://doi.org/10.2307/295421.

Lesser, Rachel. 2022. Desire in the Iliad. Oxford.

Paton, W. R. “The Armour of Achilles.” The Classical Review 26, no. 1 (1912): 1–4. http://www.jstor.org/stable/694771.

Porter, D. (2010). The Simile at Iliad 16.7–11 Once Again: Multiple Meanings. Classical World 103(4), 447-454. https://doi.org/10.1353/clw.2010.0016.

Ready, Jonathan. 2011. Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad. Cambridge.

Scott, John A. “Paris and Hector in Tradition and in Homer.” Classical Philology 8, no. 2 (1913): 160–71. http://www.jstor.org/stable/262449.

Scodel, Ruth. “The Word of Achilles.” Classical Philology 84, no. 2 (1989): 91–99. http://www.jstor.org/stable/270264.

Sears, M. (2010). Warrior Ants: Elite Troops in the Iliad. Classical World 103(2), 139-155. https://doi.org/10.1353/clw.0.0182.

Warwick, C. (2019). The Maternal Warrior: Gender and Kleos in the Iliad. American Journal of Philology 140(1), 1-28. https://doi.org/10.1353/ajp.2019.0001.

Warwick, C. (2019). We Two Alone: Conjugal Bonds and Homoerotic Subtext in the Iliad. Helios 46(2), 115-139. https://doi.org/10.1353/hel.2019.0007.