Iliad 12 puts the audience both at the middle of the epic’s ‘run-time’ and at the middle of the field between Troy and the Greeks. One of the many inversions that characterize our Iliad is the transformation of besiegers into besieged. The only wall-breaching that occurs in the Iliad is of the Achaean Walls at the end of book 12 by Hektor himself. In the arc of the poem’s action, this book sits in the 6 book sequence that takes up the single day following the embassy to Achilles and the night raids of book 10.

Book 12 occupies a curious place in this arc, however: the focus of the narrative moves between the frantic defense of the Greek fortifications and conversations among the Trojan attackers. In addition to the final breaking of the wall and an initial foreshadowing of the wall’s future destruction, book 12 contains two famous scenes: (1) Hektor arguing with Polydamas about an omen that appears as they prepare to breach the wall and (2) Sarpedon reflecting to his buddy Glaukos about why they have to fight. Near the end of the book there are a few remarkable similes, to which I will dedicate an entire post.

The plot of this book engages critically with the major themes I have noted to follow in reading the Iliad: (1) Politics, (2) Heroism; (3) Gods and Humans; (4) Family & Friends; (5) Narrative Traditions, but the central themes I emphasize in reading and teaching book 11 are Narrative traditions, heroism, and politics.

Narrative Traditions (Redux): The Destruction of the Wall

As discussed in an earlier post, one of the features of book 12 that has made interpreters a little batty is the description of the destruction of the Achaean fortifications after the events of the Iliad are complete. When the wall is first built in Iliad 6, Poseidon complains that the new wall will erase all memory of the wall he and Apollo built for the Trojans. The back-and-forth between Poseidon and Zeus makes it clear that the wall is in part about divine honor and fame, and that Zeus’ ability to guarantee such things keep the divine realm stable politically in a way that is impossible for mortals (and which underpins the conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles in book 1).

When the wall is ‘destroyed’ at the beginning of book 12, it provides a nice structure to the book (anticipating Hektor’s breaching of the wall at the end), but it also engages with the ‘glory’ of the epic in interesting ways.

Iliad 12.1-33

“So, while the valiant son of Menoitios was tending
To wounded Eurupulos in the tents, the Argives and Trojans
Were fighting in clusters. The ditch and the broad wall beyond
Were not going to hold, the defense they built for the ships
And the trench they made around it. They did not sacrifice to the gods
So that it would safeguard the fast ships and the piled up spoils
Held within it. It was built without the gods’ assent,
And so it would not remain steadfast for too much.
As long as Hektor was alive and Achilles was raging,
And as long as the city of lord Priam remained unsacked,
That’s how long the great wall of the Achaeans would be steadfast.

But once however so many of the Trojans who were the best died
Along with many of the Argives who killed them, and the rest left,
And Priam’s city was sacked in the tenth year,
And the Argives went back to their dear homeland in their ships,
That’s when Poseidon and Apollo were planning
To erase the wall by turning the force of rivers against it.
All the number of the rivers that flow from the Idaian mountains to the sea,
Rhêsos, and Heptaporos, and Karêsos, and Rhodios,
And the Grênikos, and Aisêpos, and divine Skamandros
Along with Simoeis, where many ox-hide shields and helmets
Fell in the dust along with the race of demigod men.
Phoibos Apollo turned all of their mouths together
And sent them flowing against the wall for nine days.
And Zeus sent rain constantly, to send the walls faster to the sea.
The earthshaker himself took his trident in his hands
And led them, and he sent all the pieces of wood and stone
Out into the waves, those works the Achaeans toiled to make
And he smoothed out the bright-flowing Hellespont,
And covered the broad beach again with sands,
Erasing the wall, and then he turned the rivers back again,
He sent their beautiful flowing water back to where it was before.”

῝Ως ὃ μὲν ἐν κλισίῃσι Μενοιτίου ἄλκιμος υἱὸς
ἰᾶτ’ Εὐρύπυλον βεβλημένον· οἳ δὲ μάχοντο
᾿Αργεῖοι καὶ Τρῶες ὁμιλαδόν· οὐδ’ ἄρ’ ἔμελλε
τάφρος ἔτι σχήσειν Δαναῶν καὶ τεῖχος ὕπερθεν
εὐρύ, τὸ ποιήσαντο νεῶν ὕπερ, ἀμφὶ δὲ τάφρον
ἤλασαν· οὐδὲ θεοῖσι δόσαν κλειτὰς ἑκατόμβας·
ὄφρά σφιν νῆάς τε θοὰς καὶ ληΐδα πολλὴν
ἐντὸς ἔχον ῥύοιτο· θεῶν δ’ ἀέκητι τέτυκτο
ἀθανάτων· τὸ καὶ οὔ τι πολὺν χρόνον ἔμπεδον ἦεν.
ὄφρα μὲν ῞Εκτωρ ζωὸς ἔην καὶ μήνι’ ᾿Αχιλλεὺς
καὶ Πριάμοιο ἄνακτος ἀπόρθητος πόλις ἔπλεν,
τόφρα δὲ καὶ μέγα τεῖχος ᾿Αχαιῶν ἔμπεδον ἦεν.

αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ κατὰ μὲν Τρώων θάνον ὅσσοι ἄριστοι,
πολλοὶ δ’ ᾿Αργείων οἳ μὲν δάμεν, οἳ δὲ λίποντο,
πέρθετο δὲ Πριάμοιο πόλις δεκάτῳ ἐνιαυτῷ,
᾿Αργεῖοι δ’ ἐν νηυσὶ φίλην ἐς πατρίδ’ ἔβησαν,
δὴ τότε μητιόωντο Ποσειδάων καὶ ᾿Απόλλων
τεῖχος ἀμαλδῦναι ποταμῶν μένος εἰσαγαγόντες.
ὅσσοι ἀπ’ ᾿Ιδαίων ὀρέων ἅλα δὲ προρέουσι,
῾Ρῆσός θ’ ῾Επτάπορός τε Κάρησός τε ῾Ροδίος τε
Γρήνικός τε καὶ Αἴσηπος δῖός τε Σκάμανδρος
καὶ Σιμόεις, ὅθι πολλὰ βοάγρια καὶ τρυφάλειαι
κάππεσον ἐν κονίῃσι καὶ ἡμιθέων γένος ἀνδρῶν·
τῶν πάντων ὁμόσε στόματ’ ἔτραπε Φοῖβος ᾿Απόλλων,
ἐννῆμαρ δ’ ἐς τεῖχος ἵει ῥόον· ὗε δ’ ἄρα Ζεὺς
συνεχές, ὄφρά κε θᾶσσον ἁλίπλοα τείχεα θείη.
αὐτὸς δ’ ἐννοσίγαιος ἔχων χείρεσσι τρίαιναν
ἡγεῖτ’, ἐκ δ’ ἄρα πάντα θεμείλια κύμασι πέμπε
φιτρῶν καὶ λάων, τὰ θέσαν μογέοντες ᾿Αχαιοί,
λεῖα δ’ ἐποίησεν παρ’ ἀγάρροον ᾿Ελλήσποντον,
αὖτις δ’ ἠϊόνα μεγάλην ψαμάθοισι κάλυψε
τεῖχος ἀμαλδύνας· ποταμοὺς δ’ ἔτρεψε νέεσθαι
κὰρ ῥόον, ᾗ περ πρόσθεν ἵεν καλλίρροον ὕδωρ.

As I mention earlier, this passage can be seen as engaging fundamentally with epic concerns about the stability of memory and the persistence of human stories. There no mention of kleos in the proleptic destruction of the wall. But there are several markers of the passage of time: the wall is related to the action of the story being told (it will last as long as Hektor lives and Achilles rages), it is situated within the Trojan War tradition (it will last through the sack of Troy), and it is marked as part of the destruction of the race of heroes, placing it in a cosmic outlook.

Lorenzo Garcia suggests that the wall is in a way a metonym: “The wall—itself a stand-in for Achilles, as I argued above—here functions as an image of the tradition itself and its view of its own temporal durability” (2013, 191). Then he draws on Ruth Scodel’s work (1982) to note that this narrative necessarily positions the wall and the actions around it in a larger cosmic framework:

I would like to add to this that the position of this temporal reminder at the middle of the epic, in the very book in which the wall is breached, is of structural significance. If we follow models of performance that split the Iliad into three movements, then the first mention of the Achaean walls’ destruction comes during a different performance. The secondary mention, then, is both a reminder and an expansion. It emphasizes different themes (extinction, destruction, erasure) in contrast to the former. And, in line with Homeric composition in general, it amplifies the discussion, taking the audience outside of the timeline of the Iliad temporarily before plunging us back into the chaos of war.

Beginning book 12 with the destruction of the object that the whole book is dedicated merely to breaching creates a dynamic tension between the larger story tradition and the one being told. How we interpret this tension depends on the position we take towards epic participants. Does divine intervention to erase the wall in the future elevate or denigrate Hektor’s accomplishment in the book? How does the erasure of evidence of the actions help to characterize the power of epic narrative over objects?

I don’t know that I can answer either of these questions, but I suspect a third is important as well: how does knowing about the future destruction of the walls shape our attitude about all the events that fall around them? In a way, I think the entire setup at the heart of the epic is a metaphor for human accomplishment. A pessimistic view sees the juxtaposition of destruction and Hektor’s big moment as showing how futile human action is, how useless from the cosmic scale. Such a reading, I suggest, takes an overly deterministic stance, wholly crediting the notion that all of the events of the epic are just a part of Zeus’ plan.

A less pessimistic view: how impressive it is that Hektor breaks the wall and changes the balance of the war when it eventually takes so much divine effort to get rid of the gods altogether. From the perspective of Homeric poetics, the story of Hektor’s battle persists even though the wall is gone.

But, wait, there’s more: I think the less pessimistic view may be too generous to the power of Homeric poetry to preserve great deeds from destruction. Hektor disappears (in this epic!) long before the walls are erased. I get a sense from this book that the pairing of the two wall-events is indeed about putting human action in cosmic perspective. This is not to relativize it or dismiss it, but to see it for what it is. Hektor did something, he meant something. We spend our lives wondering what it means to have been, to have done much, to have suffered, and then to be gone. Iliad 12 may ask us to think about what it means if no one remembers us at all.

Perhaps it is the general zeitgeist, but scenes like this and those from Iliad 6 cause me to recall the final scenes of the tonally odd but striking Don’t Look Up (2021). As a final atmospheric event promises to end all life on earth, a small group gathers for a final meal, incapable of changing anything. Leonardo DiCaprio’s character opines, “We really did have everything, did we? I mean, when you think about it…” (and it seems the actor may have improvised this!)

I know it may seem that this post-apocalyptic film is rather far away from Hektor, tamer of horses, but the language of book 12 invokes cataclysmic destruction and for the city and the Trojans, Hektor’s death is truly one of those last distant events that seals their doom. I think the point of the final scene and book 12 is the reminder that living is in the doing, in the day to day, in the struggle.

Memory belongs to something else altogether.

Signs and their Meanings: Hektor and Polydamas debate a bird omen

I think that some reading of the futility/meaning of human action is important to this book as well because it can help frame the critical engagement between Hektor and Polydamas in the middle of the book. When the Trojans are about to break through the Achaean wall an eagle carrying a snake flies over them: the snake bites the eagle; eagle drops the snake and flies off screeching. The narrator tells us that the Trojans shuddered at the sight.

Iliad 12.199–257

“They were still struggling standing before the wall when a bird went over them as they were struggling to cross it, a high-flying eagle moving its way over the left side of the army holding in its talons a huge, reddened, snake still alive, breathing: it had not yet lost its fighting spirit. For it struck back at the bird who held him in the skin along the chest as it bent double. And the bird tossed him away to the ground because he was tortured with pains. It dropped the snake in the middle of the throng but flew away on the breath of the wind, sounding out in pain. The Trojans shuddered when they saw the winding serpent lying there, a sign from Aegis-bearing Zeus.

Then Polydamas stood aside and addressed bold Hektor: “Hektor, you are always threatening me in the public assemblies for some reason, even when I advise well, since it is not ever deemed proper for some member of the people to advise against you, either in council or in war. Instead, we must always increase your strength. But now I will tell you what seems to me to be best. Let’s not go to fight the Danaans around their ships. I think that it will turn out this way, if truly this bird came over the Trojans as we struggled to cross the wall, a high-flying eagle moving its way over the left side of the army holding in its talons a huge dark, reddened snake still alive. For it dropped it before it could return to its dear home and did not complete the task of giving it to his children. In the same way we, if we break through the gates and walls of the Achaeans by means of great strength and the Achaeans yield, so too we will not find the same paths in order among the ships. We will lose many Trojans there as the Achaeans strike us down with bronze while defending the ships. This is how a prophet would interpret, one who clearly understands in his heart divine signs and one the people obey.”

Glaring at him, shining-helmed Hektor answered: “Polydamas, you never announce things dear to me in public. You know how to make a different, better speech than this one. If you are really arguing this out loud earnestly, well, then, the gods have ruined your thoughts themselves, you who order me to forget the counsels of loud-thundering Zeus, what he himself promised and assented to for me.  Now you ask me to listen to some tender-winged bird? I don’t notice or care at all about these birds, whether they go to the right to dawn and the sun or whether they go to the left to the dusky gloom. We are obeying the plan of great Zeus. He rules over all the mortals and the immortal too. One bird omen is best: defend your fatherland. Why do you fear the war and strife so much? If all the rest of us are really killed around the Argive ships, there’s no fear for you in dying. Your heart is not brave nor battleworthy. But if you keep back from the fight, or if you turn any other away from the war by plying him with words, well you’ll die straight away then, struck down by my spear.” So he spoke and led on, and they followed him with a divine echo. Zeus who delights in thunder drove a gust of wind down from the Idaian slopes, which carried dust straight over the ships. It froze the minds of the Achaeans and gave hope to the Trojans and Hektor. Trusting in these signs and their own strength, they were trying to break through the great wall of the Achaeans.”

Looking at omens helps us to consider how the epic sees people using narratives in different contexts and where re-intrepretation is presented as acceptable or not. In short, this scene is another opportunity for the Iliad to train its audiences in how to read epic and engage with narrative. And understanding Hektor’s position within a larger cosmic scale, may help us to better grasp his response.

In Polydamas’ response to the omen, note how he provides an end to the story and an interpretation. The audience faces a quick and compressed comparison of the story of the omen to the experience and world of the Trojans, a prediction for what might happen in the story, and an extended application to future action. This process enacts a clear blending between the Trojan world and the omen world: children, homes, and families are projected in the narrative blend to the bird; the snake and bird are projected back upon the Achaeans and Greeks; and unforeseen events are predicted for both.

It is really hard for me not to see this exchange as an elaborate allegory for interpreting epic. But let me stick to the process at hand. We can imagine both Pulydamas and Hektor applying the story of the omen to their own experiences and making different moves when the comparisons clash. Pulydamas extends the story of the omen to create parallels between his world and that of the omen; Hektor rejects the comparison altogether, responding either to Polydamas’ extension and disambiguation or rejecting the clash between his expectations and his reality. In other words, when the story fails to work for Hektor, when he cannot assimilate its messages to his experiences, he rejects it as inapplicable and replaces it with another. (And here, coyly, I might suggest Hektor is the kind of reader who is quick to emend a text that frustrates him).

To be clear, I am suggesting that maybe Hektor’s rejection of the omen is not merely a flouting of divine will and a demonstration of his monomaniacal desire to kill Achaeans. The epic sets us up to think this, of course: this pattern of a leader rejecting a prophet is part of the power play in the first book. But here, what if we imagine instead Hektor’s incredulity at Polydamas’ inferences and extensions? Maybe the bird’s just a bird and the snake a snake? Hector is not so simplistic, of course, but he increases the dissonance of the clashing to the point that the stories are irreconcilable. Hektor’s violence in reference to Polydamas extends in part from his rejection of the omen’s applicability. He posits cowardice and fear as influencing Polydamas’ interpretation. We on the outside of the poem know that Hektor is wrong in the long run; but within the poem he seems to be right in the short one, when he receives a sign of the rightness of his interpretation when Zeus sends a blast of blinding dust over the Achaeans.

To return to Don’t Look Up!, if only briefly, Hektor’s willful denial, his embrace of a worldview that allows him to act in it, is so essentially human as to countermand any dismissal of it. At the same time, we know he is likely wrong even as we know nothing he does will change the outcome. Hektor is not yet ready to acknowledge the truth.

For Omens: See De Jong 2001, 52 for list and typology; Ready 2014 for recent bibliography

De Jong, Irene. 2001. A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey. Cambridge.

Ready, Jonathan. 2014.  “Omens and messages in the « Iliad » and « Odyssey »: a study in transmission.” Between orality and literacy : communication and adaptation in antiquity. Ed. Scodel, Ruth. Orality and literacy in the ancient world; 10. Leiden: 29-55.

Some guiding questions for book 12

What is the impact of the vision of the future destruction of the Achaean walls?

What does the omen interpretation in book 12 between Polydamas and Hektor contribute to the political and narrative themes of the epic?

How does Sarpedon’s speech to Glaukos respond to ideas of ‘heroism’ contested by Achilles in book 9?

A Short bibliography on the Achaean Wall

Garcia, Lorenzo F., Jr. 2013. Homeric Durability: Telling Time in the Iliad. Hellenic Studies Series 58. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies. 

Heiden, B. (1996). The three movements of the iliad. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, 37(1), 5-22. Retrieved from https://www.proquest.com/scholarly-journals/three-movements-iliad/docview/229178418/se-2

Maitland, Judith. “Poseidon, Walls, and Narrative Complexity in the Homeric Iliad.” The Classical Quarterly 49, no. 1 (1999): 1–13. http://www.jstor.org/stable/639485.

PORTER, JAMES I. “Making and Unmaking: The Achaean Wall and the Limits of Fictionality in Homeric Criticism.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 141, no. 1 (2011): 1–36. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41289734.

Purves, Alex.  2006a. “Falling into Time in Homer’s Iliad.” Classical Antiquity 25:179–209.

Scodel, Ruth. “The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 86 (1982): 33–50. https://doi.org/10.2307/311182.

H. W. Singor. “The Achaean Wall and the Seven Gates of Thebes.” Hermes 120, no. 4 (1992): 401–11. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4476919.

Tsagarakis, Odysseus. “The Achaean Wall and the Homeric Question.” Hermes 97, no. 2 (1969): 129–35. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4475580.

West, M. L. “The Achaean Wall.” The Classical Review 19, no. 3 (1969): 255–60. http://www.jstor.org/stable/707716.

On Trojan politics [see this post too]

n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know. Follow-up posts will address kleos and Trojan politics

Christensen, Joel P.. “Trojan politics and the assemblies of Iliad 7.” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol. 55, no. 1, 2015, pp. 25-51.

Clay, J. S.  Homer’s Trojan Theater: Space, Vision and Memory in the Iliad (Cambridge, 2011)

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

Esperman, L. 1980. Antenor, Theano, Antenoriden: Ihre Person und Bedeutung in der Ilias. Meisen Heim am Glam.

Létoublon, Françoise. “Le bon orateur et le génie selon Anténor dans l’ Iliade : Ménélas et Ulysse.” in Jean-Michel Galy and Antoine Thivel (eds.). La Rhétorique Grecque. Actes du colloque «Octave Navarre»: troisième colloque international sur la pensée antique organisé par le CRHI (Centre de recherches sur l’histoire des idées) les 17, 18 et 19 décembre 1992. Nice: Publications de la Faculté des Lettres, Arts et Sciences Humaines de Nice, 1994, 29-40.

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

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

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

 

A heroic blend: Original artwork by Brittany Beverung

In his book The Literary Mind, Mark Turner argues that when we hear (or read) a story, we cannot experience the narrative created by the teller of the tale. Instead, the story unfolds in a cognitive blend in a space between the world of the narrative and the reader’s mind. What this means, in effect, is that our actual mental picture of narrative blends our own experiences and memories with the sketches we receive from stories and generates a new thing, a tale wholly in our own minds.

My general approach to all of the stories told by Homeric speakers is to try to understand that tension between the story that is told and the reaction it elicits by imagining how other characters might mis-read or re-read the story they hear based on their own perspectives or desires. At the same time, however, if we are thinking about Homeric characters telling stories, we also have to think of the way they blend traditional elements with their current circumstances and their own desired outcomes. This tripling and then doubling again of perspectives in turn provides really useful lessons in how to read Homeric poetry which is a prolonged adaptation of received material in particular contexts for diverse and changing audiences.

Let’s get to Nestor: he is positioned by the Iliad as an effective if not an ideal speaker. He has previously used paradigmatic narratives to persuade his audiences to different outcomes. In book 1, he fails to reconcile Achilles and Agamemnon; in book 7 he shames Achaeans into standing up to face Hektor’s challenge. When Nestor speaks to Patroklos, he takes a personal approach: he dismisses Achilles’ concern and provides a catalogue of the wounded Greeks. His opening assertion—that Achilles has no concern for the Greeks—is then balance by a wish to be young again the way he was during some cattle wars. He tells a story of a cattle raid in his youth that led to the Epeians attacking Pylos following the seizure of herds to make up for some stolen horses. Neleus, Nestor’s father, would not allow him to go to war, but he did it any way and killed many men, earning glory for himself.

Nestor moves from his long story to  dismiss Achilles as someone whose bravery is only for himself—he “toils for his virtue alone” (αὐτὰρ ᾿Αχιλλεὺς / οἶος τῆς ἀρετῆς ἀπονήσεται, 11.763). Nestor then reminds Patroklos of his own father Menoitios who advised Patroklos to calm Achilles, to advise him. So Nestor asks him to try to persuade Achilles to return or, if Achilles is holding back for some secret reason, to go to war himself and provide some respite to the Greeks. The narrative lets us know that Nestor “raised the spirit in Patroklos’ chest” (     ῝Ως φάτο, τῷ δ’ ἄρα θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ὄρινε,) with this speech. Stanley Lombardo translates this line as “This speech put great notions in Patroclus’ head”.

Before thinking about Patroklos, I think it is useful to focus first on how Nestor is adapting this story. The scholia have a few summaries of the events contextualizing Nestor’s tale:

Schol. D ad Hom. Il. 11.672

“Neleus was the son of Poseidon was the best equestrian of his time and he sent horses to Elis for the contest conducted by Augeas. When those horses were victorious, Augeas became envious and took them. He sent the charioteers off untouched. When Neleus learned of this, he maintained peace. But Nestor, his youngest child, gathered an army and attached Elis. He killed many people and regained the horses. They also took more than a little booty from the enemy. Pherecydes tells this story.”

᾿Αμφὶ βοηλασίης. Περὶ βοῶν ἀπελασίας.῞Οτ’ ἐγὼ κτάνον ᾿Ιτυμονῆα. Νηλεὺς ὁΠοσειδῶνος, ἱππικώτατος τῶν καθ’ αὑτὸν γενόμενος, ἔπεμψεν εἰς ῏Ηλιν ἵππους ἐς τὸν ὑπ’ Αὐγέου συντελούμενον ἀγῶνα. Νικησάντων δὲ τούτων, φθονήσας Αὐγέας, ἀπέσπασε τούτους, καὶ τοὺς ἡνιόχους ἀφῆκεν ἀπράκτους. Νηλεὺς δὲ γνοὺς, ἡσυχίαν ἦγε. Νέστωρ δὲ, ὁ τῶν παίδων αὐτοῦ νεώτατος, στρατὸν ἀθροίσας, ἐπῆλθεν ῎Ηλιδι. καὶ πολλοὺς ἀποκτείνας, ἀπέλαβε τοὺς ἵππους. καὶ οὐκ ὀλίγην τῶν πολεμίων ἀπέσυραν λείαν. ῾Η ἱστορία παρὰ Φερεκύδῃ.

I am not sure how much this little narrative does for us! (and if you want much, much more on this, I think Doug Frame’s Hippota Nestor will never be surpassed) I do think we can see the opening and closing of Nestor’s speech as instructive. He focuses on responsibility, friendship, and community in framing his narrative: then, he tells a story about individual glory that seems to redound positively on the community. The most important detail that jumps out is his selection of a particular course of action against his father’s wishes. (Indeed, Patroklos as somehow a child to Achilles, despite his older age, is important to the opening scene in book 16 where Achilles compares him to a little girl tugging at her mother’s apron strings).

Nestor’s request/advice near the end is couched in the caveat: unless Achilles has special knowledge. I think if we remember book 9 correctly, we have no reason to believe that Nestor knows Achilles has sworn an oath not to return to battle. Patroklos, however, certainly knows this. Given his own experience of Achilles’ character and Nestor’s story plus the option of leading the Achaeans to battle, we have to imagine Patroklos as accepting that advice as the only option.

Victoria Pedrick usefully contextualizes this speech in the scholarship of paradeigmata and addresses the question of the ‘lesson’s’ target. According to Pedrick, Nestor’s speech in book 11 differs from other persuasive speeches: She notes that “The absence of both command and direct comparison is not normal in paradigmatic speeches and it makes Nestor’s exhortation in 11 unusually indirect” and suggests that “The implicit character of Nestor’s exhortation can be explained by the fact that Nestor is talking not to Achilles, but to Patroklos. The observation is obvious, but it ought to be emphasized”(59). This interpretation, as she implies, is not fully in accord with the situation: Nestor’s long description of his own accomplishments in battle amount to an aristeia that may be scene as an example of heroic behavior for Achilles. The lesson, Pedrick concludes following Karl Reinhardt, is for Patroklos, or, at least he takes it as a model. One of the difficulties in this argument for me, is following the conclusion (67-68) that Achilles has “misread the situation” and expects an appeal from the Greeks. Achiles has perhaps correctly read the situation, he just does not expect Patroklos to appeal to him and make the request he does.

One of the bugbears stalking this debate is to what extent Nestor adapts or innovates in the telling of his tale and, to make it more complex, how much we can imagine the Homeric narrator adapting and innovating in positioning Nestor to do so. There was a time in Homeric scholarship when some argues that innovation or ‘ad hoc’ invention was difficult to imagine for traditional poetry. This is where cognitive approaches have been helpful in showing how narrative moves and changes based on the audience. Elizabeth Minchin’s article on this speech is especially good: she concludes that “his episode reflects the narrator’s skill in turning traditional material to communicative advantage” (285). Nestor is shown here arguing for two possible outcomes: Achilles returns and receives glory through his aristeia (not through goods, as Phoinix argues), or, if he cannot return for some reason, Patroklos takes his place and wins glory too, providing a break to the Greeks.

Rather than being a trick or insidious, Nestor is hedging his bets. He is clear about the problem, offers potential solutions, and uses himself as an example of winning glory in messed-up situations. We, as the audience, think there is something off here, because we know (1) what Achilles asked of Zeus (to punish the Achaeans) and (2) that Patroklos’ death will bring Achilles back to war.

Some things to read on Nestor in book 11

Frame, Douglas. 2009. Hippota Nestor. Hellenic Studies Series 37. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Frame.Hippota_Nestor.2009.

Gaisser, Julia Haig. “A Structural Analysis of the Digressions in the Iliad and the Odyssey.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 73 (1969): 1–43. https://doi.org/10.2307/311147.

Louden, D. Bruce. “Iliad 11 : healing, healers, Nestor, and Medea.” Yearbook of Ancient Greek Epic, vol. 2, 2018, pp. 151-164. Doi: 10.1163/24688487-00201005

Minchin, Elizabeth. “Speaker and listener, text and context : some notes on the encounter of Nestor and Patroklos in Iliad II.” Classical World, vol. LXXXIV, 1990-1991, pp. 273-285.

Pedrick, Victoria. “The paradigmatic nature of Nestor’s speech in Iliad 11.” TAPA, vol. CXIII, 1983, pp. 55-68.

Karl Reinhardt, Die Iliad und ihr Dichter (Gottingen 1961) 258-64;

Roisman, Hanna M.. “Nestor the good counsellor.” Classical Quarterly, N. S., vol. 55, no. 1, 2005, pp. 17-38. Doi: 10.1093/cq/bmi002

Strauss Clay, Jenny. “Iliad 1.282-284 and Nestor’s rhetoric of compromise.” Mnemosyne, Ser. 4, vol. 67, no. 6, 2014, pp. 987-993. Doi: 10.1163/1568525X-12301444

Willcock, M. M. “Ad Hoc Invention in the Iliad.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 81 (1977): 41–53. https://doi.org/10.2307/311110.

Some things to read on paradeigmata

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

Barker, Elton T. E. and Christensen, Joel P. 2011. “On Not Remembering Tydeus: Agamemnon, Diomedes and the Contest for Thebes.” MD: 9–44.

Brenk, F. 1984 “Dear Child: the Speech of Phoinix and the Tragedy of Achilles in the Ninth Book of the Iliad.” Eranos, 86: 77–86.

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

Clark, Matthew. 1997. “Chryses’ Supplication: Speech Act and Mythological Allusion.” Classical Antiquity, 17: 5–24.

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

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

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

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

Nagy, Gregory. 1996. Homeric Questions, Austin.

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

Toohey, Peter. 1994. “Epic and Rhetoric.” In Persuasion: Greek Rhetoric in Actions edited by Ian Worthington. London: Routledge: 153–75.

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

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

Yamagata, Naoko. 1991. “Phoinix’s Speech: Is Achilles Punished?” Classical Quarterly, 41:1-15.

We find Achilles eagerly watching the action, despite the fact that it is taking place on the other side of the Achaean fortifications.

Homer, Iliad 11.596-615

“So they were struggling like a burning fire
And Neleus’ horses were bringing Nestor out of the war,
Covered in sweat as they also drove Makhaon, the shepherd of the host.
Shining Achilles recognized him when he saw him.
For he was standing on the stern of his huge-hulled ship,
Watching the terrible conflict and the lamentable retreat.
He quickly turned to his companion Patroklos and spoke
To him next to the ship. He heard as he came from their dwelling
Like Ares himself, and this was the beginning of his trouble.

So, the brave son of Menoitios spoke first:
Why are you calling me, Achilles? What need do you have of me?

Swift footed Achilles spoke to him in answer:

“Shining son of Menoitios, most cherished to my own heart,
Now I think that the Achaeans are about to stand begging
Around my knees. For a need comes upon them, and it is no longer tolerable.

But come, now Patroklos dear to Zeus, go ask Nestor
Who that man is he leads wounded from the war.
Certainly he looks from this angle in every way like Makhaon,
Asclepius’ son, bit I cannot see the man’s eyes,
Since the horses raced past me in their eager stride.”

῝Ως οἳ μὲν μάρναντο δέμας πυρὸς αἰθομένοιο·
Νέστορα δ’ ἐκ πολέμοιο φέρον Νηλήϊαι ἵπποι
ἱδρῶσαι, ἦγον δὲ Μαχάονα ποιμένα λαῶν.
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ἐνόησε ποδάρκης δῖος ᾿Αχιλλεύς·
ἑστήκει γὰρ ἐπὶ πρυμνῇ μεγακήτεϊ νηῒ
εἰσορόων πόνον αἰπὺν ἰῶκά τε δακρυόεσσαν.
αἶψα δ’ ἑταῖρον ἑὸν Πατροκλῆα προσέειπε
φθεγξάμενος παρὰ νηός· ὃ δὲ κλισίηθεν ἀκούσας
ἔκμολεν ἶσος ῎Αρηϊ, κακοῦ δ’ ἄρα οἱ πέλεν ἀρχή.
τὸν πρότερος προσέειπε Μενοιτίου ἄλκιμος υἱός·
τίπτέ με κικλήσκεις ᾿Αχιλεῦ; τί δέ σε χρεὼ ἐμεῖο;
τὸν δ’ ἀπαμειβόμενος προσέφη πόδας ὠκὺς ᾿Αχιλλεύς·
δῖε Μενοιτιάδη τῷ ἐμῷ κεχαρισμένε θυμῷ
νῦν ὀΐω περὶ γούνατ’ ἐμὰ στήσεσθαι ᾿Αχαιοὺς
λισσομένους· χρειὼ γὰρ ἱκάνεται οὐκέτ’ ἀνεκτός.
ἀλλ’ ἴθι νῦν Πάτροκλε Διῒ φίλε Νέστορ’ ἔρειο
ὅν τινα τοῦτον ἄγει βεβλημένον ἐκ πολέμοιο·
ἤτοι μὲν τά γ’ ὄπισθε Μαχάονι πάντα ἔοικε
τῷ ᾿Ασκληπιάδῃ, ἀτὰρ οὐκ ἴδον ὄμματα φωτός·
ἵπποι γάρ με παρήϊξαν πρόσσω μεμαυῖαι.

There are some interesting responses from ancient scholars. Variously, they see Achilles’ viewing of the battle as an indication of his character and a creation of suspense.

Schol Tb ad Hom. Il. 11. 600-1 ex

“Achilles is shown to be a lover of war here by his viewing of the battle. Still, the poet crafts this in anticipation for Achilles’ return.”

τὸ φιλοπόλεμον ᾿Αχιλλέως ἐνδείκνυται τῷ θεωρεῖν τὴν μάχην. ἅμα δὲ καὶ ᾠκονόμησε ταύτην ὁ ποιητὴς πρὸς τὴν ἔξοδον ᾿Αχιλλέως.

There is also interest in the action Achilles takes here:

Schol. T ad Hom. Il. 11.611 ex

“It is strange that [Achilles] sends [Patroklos] out to the scene of someone wounded”

ἄτοπον γάρ ἐστιν εἰς τὴν σκηνὴν τοῦ τρωθέντος ἀποστέλλειν αὐτόν.

But many comments attend to the brief narrative foreshadowing “and that was the beginning of evil for him” (κακοῦ δ’ ἄρα οἱ πέλεν ἀρχή).

Schol. bT ad Hom. Il. 11.605 ex

“The declaration makes the audience eager to learn what this evil might be. The poet creates this with a brief indication. If he had done more, he would have ruined the order of events and weakened the poem.”

ἀναπτεροῖ τὸν ἀκροατὴν ἡ ἀναφώνησις ἐπειγόμενον μαθεῖν, τί τὸ κακὸν ἦν. προσοχὴν δὲ ἐργάζεται διὰ βραχείας ἐνδείξεως· εἰ γὰρ πλέον ἐπεξειργάσατο, διέφθειρεν ἂν τὸν ἑξῆς λόγον καὶ ἀπήμβλυνε τὴν ποίησιν.

These comments on Achilles’ character show something of a limited understanding. There is an argument to be made throughout the Iliad that when characters who are not engaged in the conflict are watching the battle they function in part as stand-ins for the external audience, helping us to see the action in a different way. In this, I think about the function of the chorus in Greek tragedy—the choruses are far from neutral parties in Athenian drama, but they are nonetheless capable of acting as vehicles between the main story and the audience. Achilles, standing on the stern of his ship, watching with interest both helps us remember that these events are extraordinary and provides us with a few moments respite from the conflict.

Achilles, however, is not like any other character: when he watches, his interest is something altogether different. His stance in part reminds me of those moments when Zeus retreats to watch the battle from somewhere else. A primary difference is that Achilles’ interest is not neutral: as he himself expresses in this passage, the increased suffering of the Achaeans makes it likely that they will appeal to them again. Indeed, ancient scholars have commented on Achilles standing and watching the battle as evidence of his love of war (he just likes to watch fighting, I guess) or his love of honor (is he rooting for the Achaeans to suffer more quickly so that they will offer him more to return?)

As is usually the case, the ambiguity of the scene is part of the point. While Achilles does say that the Greeks will be begging him soon, he swore an oath not to return to battle until the fire reaches his ships in Iliad 9. That recent action makes it difficult to argue that Achilles is simply waiting to be compensated or glorified. He is concerned about a particular person being injured and wants to know what is actually happening in the conflict. Achilles’ limited knowledge here echoes that part of him that is not super human: his knowledge of others’ deaths and fates. Indeed, this scene’s narrative commentary “and it was the beginning of his trouble” points to the limits of human knowledge. The irony we as the audience know is that Achilles prayed for the Achaeans to suffer to make up for his dishonor and he is just now about to send his own cherished Patroklos out there to become part of the comeuppance.

As Jinyo Kim writes in her 2001 book The Pity of Achilles, the hero’s watching of the conflict is a confirmation of Achilles’ concern for the Greeks: the primary arguments that moved him in the earlier embassy (see especially 103-113). She notes that Achilles’ language about how dire the situation is (λισσομένους· χρειὼ γὰρ ἱκάνεται οὐκέτ’ ἀνεκτός) repeats what Nestor said in the previous book. As Kim notes, Achilles knows the situation is bad and does not need to send Patroklos to confirm it. Instead, he is demonstrating a concern for others that is consonant with his characterization in book 9 and his final turn to empathy in book 24.

Objections to this argument will point out that Achilles himself remains distant: Kim argues that Patroklos here begins to function as a ritual replacement for Achilles in book 11, rather than 16. I think this argument works well to help us understand that Achilles is showing his concern for the Achaeans through Patroklos because he is constrained by the oath he took at the end of book 9. Achilles looks like he is cruel and Nestor expresses criticism to that effect. But Patroklos anticipates this when he says to Nestor: “Divine old man, you know what kind of guy that terrible man is. He would quickly blame the blameless” (εὖ δὲ σὺ οἶσθα γεραιὲ διοτρεφές, οἷος ἐκεῖνος / δεινὸς ἀνήρ· τάχα κεν καὶ ἀναίτιον αἰτιόῳτο (11.653-654). A scholiast explains Patroklos’ comments as somewhat self-defensive: “He is pointing to Achilles’ irascibility, gaining for himself some pardon for not persuading him”  ἐπιτείνει δὲ αὐτοῦ τὸ θυμικόν, συγγνώμην ἑαυτῷ ποριζόμενος τοῦ μὴ πεῖσαι αὐτόν, Schol. bT Ad Hom. Il. 11.654).

But I suspect that there is something more personal. The adjective deinos—which famously can mean ‘terrible, marvelous, amazing’—is only applied to mortals in limited conditions in the Iliad. At its root, it is related to verbs of fear and amazement. Gods leaving or entering battle often receive this description, but Helen uses it in addressing Priam in book 3 (171). There’s a familiar sense to this personal use, indicating that the speaker is full of amazement and confusion at the target’s behavior. Patroklos not understand Achilles’ behavior, just as the members of the Embassy in book 9 are confused.

Yet, from another perspective in the work of John Pavlopoulos and Maria Konstantinidou, the language of book 10 is no more anomalous for the rest of the Iliad than book 11, and certainly more regular than book 9 (which no one disputes as Homeric).

As any student of oral poetry knows, language follows theme. The contents of book 10 are thematically and lexically different from the rest of the epic because they describe events that are dissimilar to those that unfold elsewhere. Any decision about the ‘fit’ of book 10 is therefore based on its content and preformed ideas of what the Iliad should be like. As I said in that earlier post, Casey Dué and Mary Ebbott have pretty much made the best case for the traditionality of the Iliad 10 in their Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary.

Book 10, structurally, occupies the night between thee failed embassy to Achilles in book 10 and the resumption of warfare in book 11. The day that follows occupies nine books of the epic (11-18). The book itself furnishes an opportunity to reflect again on differences in politics between the Achaeans and Trojans, differences in characterization, and differences in tone. But I also suspect that it is playing with mythical traditions that pair Odysseus and Diomedes together.

When Agamemnon and Nestor gather the Achaean chieftains to consider spying on the Trojans. Diomedes volunteers and Agamemnon gives him enigmatic advice about whom to choose as a companion.

Iliad 10.234-239

“Indeed, choose a companion, whomever you want,
the best one of those who are present, since many are eager at least.
Do not, because you are keeping shame in your thoughts, leave behind
the better man, but choose the lesser man because you yield to shame
when you consider his birth, not even if he is kinglier.”

Τυδεΐδη Διόμηδες ἐμῷ κεχαρισμένε θυμῷ
τὸν μὲν δὴ ἕταρόν γ’ αἱρήσεαι ὅν κ’ ἐθέλῃσθα,
φαινομένων τὸν ἄριστον, ἐπεὶ μεμάασί γε πολλοί.
μηδὲ σύ γ’ αἰδόμενος σῇσι φρεσὶ τὸν μὲν ἀρείω
καλλείπειν, σὺ δὲ χείρον’ ὀπάσσεαι αἰδοῖ εἴκων
ἐς γενεὴν ὁρόων, μηδ’ εἰ βασιλεύτερός ἐστιν.

A scholion suggest that Agamemnon provides this advice because he is worried that Diomedes will feel pressured to choose Menelaos. Diomedes’ response indicates that Agamemnon probably didn’t have much to worry about.

Iliad 10.242-247

“If you are really asking me to choose my own companion,
How could I then overlook divine Odysseus,
Whose heart and proud energy are preeminent
In all toils. And Pallas Athena loves him.
If he’s accompanying me, then we would both come back
Even from a burning fire, since he really knows how to think.”

εἰ μὲν δὴ ἕταρόν γε κελεύετέ μ’ αὐτὸν ἑλέσθαι,
πῶς ἂν ἔπειτ’ ᾿Οδυσῆος ἐγὼ θείοιο λαθοίμην,
οὗ πέρι μὲν πρόφρων κραδίη καὶ θυμὸς ἀγήνωρ
ἐν πάντεσσι πόνοισι, φιλεῖ δέ ἑ Παλλὰς ᾿Αθήνη.
τούτου γ’ ἑσπομένοιο καὶ ἐκ πυρὸς αἰθομένοιο
ἄμφω νοστήσαιμεν, ἐπεὶ περίοιδε νοῆσαι.

There are not many moments in the Iliad that pair these two heroes together. And, if we follow what happens in the plot here, the two men sneak into the Trojan camp after capturing and killing Dolon, then they kill a bunch of men in their sleep and steal their horses. Diomedes is the one who does most of the murdering, but it seems to be Odysseus who has a plan.

I suspect that part of what is going on in this seen is an echo of stories that put Diomedes and Odysseus together in the Trojan War tradition. In part, Diomedes as a stand in for Achilles may invite consideration of the rivalry between the two iconoclastic heroes. As the figures of force (Achilles) and wit (Odysseus) the two have been seen as in rivalry (Gregory Nagy lays this out memorably in The Best of the Achaeans). Such a feature of myth is confirmed to a degree by the unexplained song of the “strife of Achilles and Odysseus” mentioned in the Odyssey.

Odyssey 8.73-78

“The Muse moved the singer to sing the tales of men,
The story whose fame had reached to the wide heaven,
The strife of Odysseus and Peleus’ son Achilles,
How they were in conflict at a sacred feast of the gods
With harsh words for one another, and the lord of men, Agamemnon
Took delight in his heart, that the best of the Achaeans were in conflict.”

Μοῦσ’ ἄρ’ ἀοιδὸν ἀνῆκεν ἀειδέμεναι κλέα ἀνδρῶν,
οἴμης, τῆς τότ’ ἄρα κλέος οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἵκανε,
νεῖκος ᾿Οδυσσῆος καὶ Πηλεΐδεω ᾿Αχιλῆος,
ὥς ποτε δηρίσαντο θεῶν ἐν δαιτὶ θαλείῃ
ἐκπάγλοισ’ ἐπέεσσιν, ἄναξ δ’ ἀνδρῶν ᾿Αγαμέμνων
χαῖρε νόῳ, ὅ τ’ ἄριστοι ᾿Αχαιῶν δηριόωντο.

But how does a potential rivalry between Achilles and Odysseus translate into a nighttime buddy-comedy of murder? Here we may also want to consider a tradition of difficulties between Diomedes and Odysseus from the lost Little Iliad According to Apollodorus, Diomedes and Odysseus were paired together to go get the bow of Herakles from Philoktetes and then went together again to sneak into the city to steal the Palladion. In that summary, Diomedes waits and watches while Odysseus disguises himself as a beggar to infiltrate the city.

The basic story is that, in order to take Troy, the Greeks needed to steal the Palladion, an image of Athena. In other traditions, Odysseus showed himself to be less than a team player. On the way back from the city, Odysseus tried to kill Diomedes. According to other accounts (summarized by Servius in his commentary on the Aeneid, see Gantz 1992, 643-5), Odysseus just wanted the glory all to himself.

We can see the Palladion-tale is a re-doubling of other Trojan War motifs: the requirement of Herakles’ bow and Philoktetes or the need to have Neoptolemus present, for example, are similar talismanic possessions to end the long war. Odysseus’ conflict with Diomedes, here, is not dissimilar either to his quarrel with Ajax or his feud with Achilles (mentioned in the Odyssey). I suspect that part of what is going on in book 10 is an echoing of these other traditions. I would go so far as to suggest that ancient audiences may have wondered whether Odysseus would betray Diomedes here. Instead of an act of betrayal, however, we see a scheming Odysseus who manages to get Diomedes to do most of the bloody work himself.

There is one fragment from the Little Iliad about this moment:

“It was the middle of the night, and the bright moon lay on them”

νὺξ μὲν ἔην μεσάτη, λαμπρὴ δ’ ἐπέτελλε σελήνη.

In their commentary on book 10 of the Iliad, Casey Dué and Mary Ebbott do a great job of teasing out the meaning available from each phrase. As they discuss in their introduction, the character of Dolon, who appears as the Trojan spy in book 10, is not well-established in the tradition. Part of the way we know that is that he is introduced with a somewhat enigmatic, but detailed passage. Homeric speech introductions can be formulaic—in a way, they are a kind of type scene signaling what kind of speech should be expected. But within the regular patterns, we find room for new, even strange information. When I teach Homer, I tell students to pay particular attention to introductions because they bring in surprising yet almost always relevant information.

In television we have the concept of a ‘red-shirt’, a character from Star Trek who appears and dies shortly after being introduced. Some of them are like NPCs (non-player characters) with barely a name, but others receive longer stories, narratives that engage with the larger story in a way. Dolon’s introduction is a good example of a kind of Homeric redshirt (but he probably deserves some description that rates him a little higher than such disposable characters). And his introduction also helps us think about Homeric composition.  In particular it illustrates how characterization within a speech can be anticipated by the introduction.

Hom. Iliad 10.314-317

“There was among the Trojans a certain son of Eumedes,
The divine herald, a man all about gold, all about bronze, Dolon.
He was pretty base in form, but fleet-footed,
But he was the only son after five sisters.
Then he spoke among the Trojans and to Hektor.
Hektor my heart and proud spirit urges me
To go near the shift ships and learn from them.
But come, raise your scepter to me and swear to me
That you will give the horses and the chariot decorated with bronze,
Those things that usually carry the blameless son of Peleus.
I won’t be a useless spy nor unaccomplished.
I will go straight into the army until I come
To Agamemnon’s ship where I bet that the best men
Are taking counsel over their plans whether they will leave or fight.”

ἦν δέ τις ἐν Τρώεσσι Δόλων Εὐμήδεος υἱὸς
κήρυκος θείοιο πολύχρυσος πολύχαλκος,
ὃς δή τοι εἶδος μὲν ἔην κακός, ἀλλὰ ποδώκης·
αὐτὰρ ὃ μοῦνος ἔην μετὰ πέντε κασιγνήτῃσιν.
ὅς ῥα τότε Τρωσίν τε καὶ ῞Εκτορι μῦθον ἔειπεν·
῞Εκτορ ἔμ’ ὀτρύνει κραδίη καὶ θυμὸς ἀγήνωρ
νηῶν ὠκυπόρων σχεδὸν ἐλθέμεν ἔκ τε πυθέσθαι.
ἀλλ’ ἄγε μοι τὸ σκῆπτρον ἀνάσχεο, καί μοι ὄμοσσον
ἦ μὲν τοὺς ἵππους τε καὶ ἅρματα ποικίλα χαλκῷ
δωσέμεν, οἳ φορέουσιν ἀμύμονα Πηλεΐωνα,
σοὶ δ’ ἐγὼ οὐχ ἅλιος σκοπὸς ἔσσομαι οὐδ’ ἀπὸ δόξης·
τόφρα γὰρ ἐς στρατὸν εἶμι διαμπερὲς ὄφρ’ ἂν ἵκωμαι
νῆ’ ᾿Αγαμεμνονέην, ὅθι που μέλλουσιν ἄριστοι
βουλὰς βουλεύειν ἢ φευγέμεν ἠὲ μάχεσθαι.

The line of introduction itself (ἦν δέ τις ἐν Τρώεσσι Δόλων Εὐμήδεος υἱὸς) has a bit of a meandering suddenness to it: as West notes in his commentary (2011) the opening is “the means for introducing a new character. A scholiast confirms this and then explains the details prefigure what he will do in the text.

Schol. ad Hom. bT ad Il. 10.314 ex 1-3

“There’s a need for some description to explain what is unknown about the man. Nonetheless, he is the kind of person who lusts after Achilles’ horses and turns out to be a turncoat in a little bit.”

διηγήσεως ἐδέησε πρὸς τὸ σημᾶναι τὸ ἄδηλον τοῦ ἀνδρός. ὅμως τοιοῦτος ὢν τῶν ᾿Αχιλλέως ἵππων ἐρᾷ καὶ μετ’ ὀλίγον προδότης γίνεται.

There are three themes in this passage: the first is Dolon’s appearance (he is ugly but fast), the second is his relationship to wealth (he likes it!), and the fourth is his status as a single son with five sisters. One scholiast quips that he has so much cash because of the dowries of his sisters! West (again, 2011) suggests that this detail is important because it increases his value in a potential ransom (Cf. Dué and Ebbott: Certainly Dolon’s wealth comes into play after his capture: when he promises Diomedes and Odysseus a great ransom (10.378–381) the traditional characteristic of his wealth indicates that he could indeed pay handsomely in exchange for his life.” As Dué and Ebbott also note, the patronymic here is an indication of some kind of traditional character.

Ancient scholars draw interesting connections between Dolon’s wealth and his interest in Achilles’ horses:

Schol T. ad Hom. Il. 10.315b ex

“All about gold”: This is because he loves gold. Or because of some other boasting he performed for gold. For being wealthy also creates a longing for the raising of horses

πολύχρυσος: καὶ ὅμως ἠράσθη κέρδους. ἢ δι’ ἀλαζονείαν ἕτερόν τι παρὰ χρυσόν· τὸ γὰρ πλουτεῖν καὶ ἱπποτροφίας ἐμ-ποιεῖ πόθον.

But his appearance and his wealth are also related to his sisters and his efficacy in war:

“This shows that he is unmanly because he was raised in wealth.”

ἵνα καὶ ὡς ἐν πλούτῳ τεθραμμένος ἄνανδρος ᾖ,

Schol. In Hom. Il. 10.317b

“Because he is terribly like a woman and reckless”

ὡς γυναικοτραφὴς δειλὸς ἦν καὶ ῥιψοκίνδυνος.

Schol T. ad Hom. Il. 10.316

“He is base in his form: this is so he can sneak by you because he’s unremarkable. But he does want to be conveyed in the place of Achilles on his horses!”

εἶδος μὲν ἔην κακός: ἵνα ὡς ἄσημος λάθῃ. οὗτος δὲ ἤθελεν  ἀντὶ ᾿Αχιλλέως ὀχεῖσθαι τοῖς ἵπποις.

As I have discussed in connection to Thersites, Greek physiognomy posits an overlap between looks and ethics. An ugly person, the logic goes, is also a bad person. In the mind of the scholiasts, Dolon’s wealth is a marker of Greed and corruption (which is a later belief rather than a Homeric one) and his greed indicates a craven or corruptible character. Again, Dué and Ebbott note “Dolon’s ugliness, by comparison, is not dwelled upon, and does not seem to provoke any particular strong reaction, whether ridicule, repulsion, or irritation.” I think this is a smart observation that points to the kakos (‘ugly, base’) perhaps more indicating a problematic character. The scholiasts take the mention of Dolon’s sisters as a potential indication that he is unmanly (or cowardly) because he was always with girls; while they also use wealth as an explanation for his character.

The striking combination of acknowledging that Dolon is ugly/base but swift-footed also binds him in some way to Achilles who receives a similar description twenty-two times in the epic (again, following Dué and Ebbott). I think this anticipates his speech in inviting us to compare him to Achilles before he makes the hubristic request of receiving the hero’s horses as a reward.

I think one could almost say that Dolon’s entire narrative is anticipated by this speech introduction and the value judgments implied therein. But this passage is not just a good overview of Homeric structures (the device of introducing a new character, value judgments for that character, anticipation of those themes) but it also implies a complexity of composition. I don’t think that we would see such  correlation of speech and introduction nor such significant anticipation of a brief character’s outcome, with a passage that was not in some way repeated or traditional. What I mean by this is that the compositional ties of the Doloneia are integrated enough to suggest strongly that this is a well-structured and planned episode and has been performed on many occasions. For me, this complexity countermands any academic concern that Dolon is ‘untraditional’. (Whatever that really means: Dolon appears in unconnected images like the vase below and he is a rather different character in the Rhesus attributed to Euripides.)

Homeric poetry can introduce or adapt characters and figures to its own ends. I think Dolon here has been set up for a rather particular purpose. Dolon’s relationship to Achilles, moreover, in terms of the shared epithet and the former’s depiction as greedy and cowardly, asks us to think about heroism in response to the actions of book 9. Book 9 deconstructs our notion of Achilles as a hero and leaves us wondering what choice he will make and what he will do if he is not motivated by gold, gifts, or honor. Book 10 sets different models of heroism into play: Dolon contrasts with Diomedes and Odysseus (who are motivated by horses too, in the end!), but he also helps us think about individuals, the war, and communities. Dolon is a straight up mercenary with swift feet: his story functions to help us think about Achilles as a ‘hero’.

(If this doesn’t help explain why book 10 is important to the Iliad, I don’t know what will. Well, except for the political theme too….)

 

 

Bibliography on book 10 and the Doloneia

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

Davidson, Olga Merck. “Dolon and Rhesus in the ‘Iliad.’” Quaderni Urbinati Di Cultura Classica 1 (1979): 61–66. https://doi.org/10.2307/20538562.

Dué, Casey, and Mary Ebbott. 2010. Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary. Hellenic Studies Series 39. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies. 

Fenik, B. 1964. Iliad X and the Rhesus: The Myth. Collection Latomus 73. Brussels.

Haft, Adele J. “‘The City-Sacker Odysseus’ in Iliad 2 and 10.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 120 (1990): 37–56. https://doi.org/10.2307/283977.

Sheldon, Rose Mary. “THE ILL-FATED TROJAN SPY.” American Intelligence Journal 9, no. 3 (1988): 18–22. http://www.jstor.org/stable/44325966.

Stagakis, George. “DOLON, ODYSSEUS AND DIOMEDES IN THE ‘DOLONEIA.’” Rheinisches Museum Für Philologie 130, no. 3/4 (1987): 193–204. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41233632.

STEINER, D. “‘Wolf’s Justice’: The Iliadic Doloneia and the Semiotics of Wolves.” Classical Antiquity 34, no. 2 (2015): 335–69. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26362659.

West. M.L. 2011. The Making of the Iliad: Disquisition and Analytical Commentary. Oxford.

Some things on speech framing

Beck, Deborah. “Speech Introductions and the Character Development of Telemachus.” The Classical Journal 94, no. 2 (1998): 121–41. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3298206.

Beck, Deborah. “Odysseus: Narrator, Storyteller, Poet?” Classical Philology 100, no. 3 (2005): 213–27. https://doi.org/10.1086/497858.

Beck, Deborah. 2005. Homeric Conversation. Hellenic Studies Series 14. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies. 

Edwards, Mark W. “Homeric Speech Introductions.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 74 (1970): 1–36. https://doi.org/10.2307/310994.

Horn, Fabian. “Ἔπεα Πτερόεντα Again: A Cognitive Linguistic View on Homer’s ‘Winged Words.’” Hermathena, no. 198 (2015): 5–34. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26671604.

Riggsby, Andrew M. “Homeric Speech Introductions and the Theory of Homeric Composition.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 122 (1992): 99–114. https://doi.org/10.2307/284367.

Iliad 9.29-51

“So Agamemnon spoke and everyone sat there in silence.
The sons of the Achaeans were quiet for a long time.
Then finally, indeed, Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them.
“Son of Atreus, I will fight with you first when you’re being foolish.
This is right, lord, in the assembly. So don’t get angry at all.
You have reproached my bravery among the Danaans,
Calling me a coward and not a warrior. Everyone knows
These things, the young and the old Argives alike.
But the son of crooked minded Kronos gave you a double-sided gift:
He granted that you be honored above everyone because of your scepter,
But he did not grant you courage, and this is the mightiest thing of all.
Godly one, do you really expect the songs of the Achaeans
To all be cowards and unwarlike as you claim here in public?
If your heart really urges you to go home,
Then go. The road is there. Your ships are near the sea,
The many ships that followed you here from Mycenae.
But the rest of the long-haired Achaeans will stay here
Until we sack Troy. But even if they want, let them flee
In their ships back to their dear homelands.
The two of us—Sthenelos and I—we will fight until we find the end
Of Troy. For we came here with the god.”
So he spoke, and all of the songs of the Achaeans shouted out,
Praising the speech of Diomedes, the tamer of horses.

῝Ως ἔφαθ’, οἳ δ’ ἄρα πάντες ἀκὴν ἐγένοντο σιωπῇ.
δὴν δ’ ἄνεῳ ἦσαν τετιηότες υἷες ᾿Αχαιῶν·
ὀψὲ δὲ δὴ μετέειπε βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Διομήδης·
᾿Ατρεΐδη σοὶ πρῶτα μαχήσομαι ἀφραδέοντι,
ἣ θέμις ἐστὶν ἄναξ ἀγορῇ· σὺ δὲ μή τι χολωθῇς.
ἀλκὴν μέν μοι πρῶτον ὀνείδισας ἐν Δαναοῖσι
φὰς ἔμεν ἀπτόλεμον καὶ ἀνάλκιδα· ταῦτα δὲ πάντα
ἴσασ’ ᾿Αργείων ἠμὲν νέοι ἠδὲ γέροντες.
σοὶ δὲ διάνδιχα δῶκε Κρόνου πάϊς ἀγκυλομήτεω·
σκήπτρῳ μέν τοι δῶκε τετιμῆσθαι περὶ πάντων,
ἀλκὴν δ’ οὔ τοι δῶκεν, ὅ τε κράτος ἐστὶ μέγιστον.
δαιμόνι’ οὕτω που μάλα ἔλπεαι υἷας ᾿Αχαιῶν
ἀπτολέμους τ’ ἔμεναι καὶ ἀνάλκιδας ὡς ἀγορεύεις;
εἰ δέ τοι αὐτῷ θυμὸς ἐπέσσυται ὥς τε νέεσθαι
ἔρχεο· πάρ τοι ὁδός, νῆες δέ τοι ἄγχι θαλάσσης
ἑστᾶσ’, αἵ τοι ἕποντο Μυκήνηθεν μάλα πολλαί.
ἀλλ’ ἄλλοι μενέουσι κάρη κομόωντες ᾿Αχαιοὶ
εἰς ὅ κέ περ Τροίην διαπέρσομεν. εἰ δὲ καὶ αὐτοὶ
φευγόντων σὺν νηυσὶ φίλην ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν·
νῶϊ δ’ ἐγὼ Σθένελός τε μαχησόμεθ’ εἰς ὅ κε τέκμωρ
᾿Ιλίου εὕρωμεν· σὺν γὰρ θεῷ εἰλήλουθμεν.
῝Ως ἔφαθ’, οἳ δ’ ἄρα πάντες ἐπίαχον υἷες ᾿Αχαιῶν
μῦθον ἀγασσάμενοι Διομήδεος ἱπποδάμοιο.

This speech has been important in looking at the politics of the Iliad and among the Achaeans in general. Richard Martin has looked at this speech and Nestor’s response as part of positioning the old Pylian as the epic’s ideal speaker (1989, 91), while Dean Hammer (2002), Elton Barker (2009) and David Elmer (2015) have seen Diomedes’ intervention as important in signaling either extant or developing rules about speech in public. In short, Diomedes can be seen as establishing the right to dissent from the king in public for the public good.

And, yet, the story isn’t as simple as that, because Nestor needs to intervene

Iliad. 9.63-65

‘Son of Tydeus, you are strong in war
and in counsel you are the best among all those your age.
Surely no one will reproach this speech, however many Achaians there are,
nor will anyone speak back, but you have not reached the fullness of speech (télos múthôn).
Really, you are young, and you could even be my child,
the youngest by birth, but you utter knowing things
before the kings of the Argives, since you speak according to tradition (katà moîran).
But come, I, who proclaim to be older than you,
will speak out and go through everything, no one will dishonor
my mûthos, not even strong Agamemnon.
Brotherless, lawless, and homeless is that man
who longs for horrible civil war.’

τοῖσι δ’ ἀνιστάμενος μετεφώνεεν ἱππότα Νέστωρ·
Τυδεΐδη περὶ μὲν πολέμῳ ἔνι καρτερός ἐσσι,
καὶ βουλῇ μετὰ πάντας ὁμήλικας ἔπλευ ἄριστος.
οὔ τίς τοι τὸν μῦθον ὀνόσσεται ὅσσοι ᾿Αχαιοί,
οὐδὲ πάλιν ἐρέει· ἀτὰρ οὐ τέλος ἵκεο μύθων.
ἦ μὲν καὶ νέος ἐσσί, ἐμὸς δέ κε καὶ πάϊς εἴης
ὁπλότατος γενεῆφιν· ἀτὰρ πεπνυμένα βάζεις
᾿Αργείων βασιλῆας, ἐπεὶ κατὰ μοῖραν ἔειπες.
ἀλλ’ ἄγ’ ἐγών, ὃς σεῖο γεραίτερος εὔχομαι εἶναι,
ἐξείπω καὶ πάντα διίξομαι· οὐδέ κέ τίς μοι
μῦθον ἀτιμήσει’, οὐδὲ κρείων ᾿Αγαμέμνων.
ἀφρήτωρ ἀθέμιστος ἀνέστιός ἐστιν ἐκεῖνος
ὃς πολέμου ἔραται ἐπιδημίου ὀκρυόεντος.

Nestor’s speech reflects the danger imminent in Diomedes’ words. But his response is agile and sensitive to the situation. Nestor endorses Diomedes’ dissent while simultaneously mitigating its effects. He concedes that Diomedes has spoken katá moîran, but adds that he, who is older, will explain everything). That Nestor in no way contradicts Diomedes’ claim that it is right (thémis) to fight with a foolish leader in the assembly (agorê) implies a tacit approval of this contention.

Nestor continues with a subtle affirmation of and remonstration with Tydeus’ son—he diminishes Diomedes’ standing, appropriates his words, and amplifies his own position before he proceeds to advise. He does this by first reasserting the importance of his age—he compliments Diomedes, but reminds him that, by virtue of his youth, he is inferior in boulê.  Nestor, however, hedges his compliments with one reservation: Diomedes’ has not reached the télos múthôn.

What does this phrase mean? The A scholia gloss it as “you will not place a completion on your words” (Schol. A Il. 9.56 ex. 1-2. Cf. Schol. D Il. 9.56 ex. 3-8.). Cedric Whitman suggests that Nestor criticizes Diomedes for stopping short, that there is more to be said (1958, 167). One implication is that Diomedes fails to do what Nestor does, namely, to dissolve the assembly and cope with Agamemnon’s crisis in the council of kings where he proposes clear and pragmatic alternatives to Agamemnon’s foolishness. This suggestion is echoed by the D scholia (Schol. D Il. 9.56 ex. 3-8). 

A scarcity of parallels inhibits a complete analysis of the phrase télos múthôn, but there are enough to make a start. Martin’s refinement of the meaning of mûthos as either a command/proposal, or a boast/threat provides a useful starting point. Near the end of book 9 (9.625) Ajax tells Odysseus that the embassy should leave because there will not be a a completion or fulfillment of the mûthos (Nestor’s plan to propitiate Achilles), i.e., it will not achieve its intended perlocutionary effect. In book 16, Achilles requests for Patroklos to assent to his words and follow his plan completely (16.83:). In book 19 Agamemnon’s Hera taunts Zeus by claiming that he will not place a télos on his mûthos (107), which also signals a completion or fulfillment of the proposal/plan made in his speech (that a son, born that day, would reign among men). Again, in book 20, Hektor assures the Trojans that Achilles will not bring a completion to his plans or threats (369). Finally, in book 16, when Patroklos tells Meriones to stop taunting since “the télos of war is in hands, and the télos of words in council” (16.630) it seems that words find their télos (in an Aristotelian sense) in council.

The “fullness of múthoi” implies a recognition of traditional “rules” of critical speech, including identity of speaker, propriety of speech-type and accord with speech-context as well as an emphasis on the outcome of the speech, that a “full” mûthos in the context of the assembly offers a plan in such a way that the speaker achieves his intended effect and contributes to social cohesion. Nestor’s subsequent words offer supporting details for these rules.

First, Nestor takes great pains to remind Diomedes of his youth. While declaring the unassailability of his own words, Nestor implies that Diomedes is “out of line” because of his age. Second, Nestor’s remarkably strong condemnation of civil strife evokes the destabilizing threat of Diomedes’ dissent. The social context (in front of the whole assembly) of Diomedes’ criticism represents a threat to the social order (but, surely, no less a threat than Agamemnon’s cowardice represents to the safety of the army).  Finally, Nestor’s own words are instructive for what Diomedes should have done. In his speech he dissolves the assembly and calls for Agamemnon to hold a boulê, and it is there where he is critical of the king and formulates a course of action. 

Thus, I believe that the phrase télos múthôn conveys an array of meanings. On one level, Nestor may imply that Diomedes’ “plan” to take Troy alone is untenable. On another, the phrase conveys traditional guidelines or limits on the use of speech. Such criticism of the commander-in-chief in the context of the assembly is dangerous for the Achaians and may be beyond the acceptable norm for the youngest of the gérontes. Diomedes’ challenge has the potential to confuse the assembly and further destabilize Achaian authority. Rather than allow another argument (Achilles and Agamemnon in book 1) or leaving space for a negative appraisal of the king (Thersites) Nestor, as neutrally as possible, ends the assembly and deals with Agamemnon in the more private context of the council.

As I argue in a few places, I believe that the Iliad uses Diomedes to demonstrate how a younger man may develop into a stronger role through public speaking. For illustration, I include a brief summary of his story:

(1)           Diomedes (implicitly) witnesses the actions and speeches of Iliad 1-3

(2)           D. shows he knows the appropriate parameters for political and martial speech (Il. 4)

(3)           D. practices public speech and is acclaimed by all the Achaians in his refusal of Paris’ offer to return the gifts but not Helen (7.400-2). Acclamation (7.403-4)

(4)           D. practices public speech in criticizing Agamemnon and is acclaimed by all (9.50-1) but is criticized by Nestor for not reaching the télos múthôn (9.53-62). Acclamation (9.50-1)

(5)           D. practices public speech in reaction to Achilles’ rejection of the assembly (9.697-709) and is acclaimed by all the kings. Acclamation (9.710-11)

(6)           D. volunteers to go on a nocturnal spying mission during the council of kings and is encouraged by Agamemnon to choose any companion he wants regardless of nobility (10.219-39)

(7)           D. executes public critical speech and offers a plan (14.110-32). He is obeyed by all the kings and departs from the epic as a speaker. Acclamation (14.133)

Note the increasing political impact of Diomedes’ speeches and the corresponding development in who approves his oratory.

When we talk about freedom of speech, it is political: it is dissent from the status quo. It also functions to reinforce who matters within a community. In the earliest Ancient Greek reflection on public speech, the right to dissent is essential when the Iliad’s Agamemnon brings a plague upon his people and Achilles challenges. Of course, the story is complex: Thersites in the second book is prevented by who he is from criticizing the king. His body, his voice, his departure from normal conventions and appearance, disqualify him from making the very same arguments Achilles made in book 1.  In contrast, the Achilles-replacement Diomedes asserts in book 9 that it is right to argue with a foolish king in public.

From what we now call Classical Greece, we find parrhêsia, what a modern free speech advocate might call “frank and open debate”—for criticizing your friends in private and also for expressing unpopular opinions in public for the benefit of the state. In addition, “equal access to public speech” (isêgoria) promises that each citizen be given that opportunity. Sure, speech that is just about one’s own opinion–or personal brand–is ‘protected’ in the U.S., but is it sacred in the way so many claim?

Any notion of free speech from this perspective is rooted in its contribution to the public good. But who gets to contribute is constrained by who counts. In the Iliad, the ugly and disabled Thersites is beaten for speaking freely.  In the United States, cries lamenting lost freedom of speech have long been rooted in supporting the status quo rather than increasing and encouraging political participation. Consider how the chartering of the right to political speech in the Iliad is explored within the frame of balancing the character of the body of the speaker against the safety of the body politic.

A Short bibliography on Diomedes

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

Andersen, Öivind. 1978. Die Diomedesgestalt in der Ilias. Oslo.

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

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

Burgess, Jonathan. 2001. The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle. Baltimore.

—,—. 2009. The Death and Afterlife of Achilles. Baltimore.

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

Christensen, Joel P. and Barker, Elton T. E.. “On not remembering Tydeus: Agamemnon, Diomedes and the contest for Thebes.” Materiali e Discussioni per l’Analisi dei Testi Classici, no. 66, 2011, pp. 9-44.

Christensen, Joel P. 2015. “Diomedes’ Foot-wound and the Homeric Reception of Myth.” In Diachrony, Jose Gonzalez (ed.). De Gruyter series, MythosEikonPoesis. 2015, 17–41.

Donlan, Walter. “The Unequal Exchange between Glaucus and Diomedes in Light of the Homeric Gift-Economy.” Phoenix, vol. 43, no. 1, 1989, pp. 1–15. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/1088537. Accessed 2 Oct. 2023.

Dunkle, Roger. 1997. “Swift-Footed Achilles.” CW 90: 227-34

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

Fineberg, Stephen. “Blind Rage and Eccentric Vision in Iliad 6.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-), vol. 129, 1999, pp. 13–41. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/284423.

Gaisser, Julia Haig. “Adaptation of Traditional Material in the Glaucus-Diomedes Episode.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association, vol. 100, 1969, pp. 165–76. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/2935907.

Gantz, Timothy. 1993. Early Greek Myth. Baltimore.

Griffin, Jasper. 1980. Homer on Life and Death. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

—,—.2001.  “The Epic Cycle and the Uniqueness of Homer.” in Cairns 2001: 363-84.

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

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

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

Irene J. F. de Jong. “Convention versus Realism in the Homeric Epics.” Mnemosyne 58, no. 1 (2005): 1–22. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4433613.

Kakridis, Johannes Th. 1949. Homeric Researches. Lund.

Kakridis, Phanis, J. 1961. “Achilles’ Rüstung.” Hermes 89: 288-97.

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

Mühll, Peter von der. 1952. Kritisches Hypomena zur Ilias. Basel.

Nagy, Gregory. 1979. The Best of the Achaeans. Baltimore.

Nickel, Roberto. 2002. “Euphorbus and the Death of Achilles.” Phoenix 56: 215-33.

Pache, Corinne. 2009. “The Hero Beyond Himself: Heroic Death in Ancient Greek Poetry and Art.” in Sabine Albersmeir (ed.).  Heroes: Mortals and Myths in ancient Greece. Baltimore (Walters Art Museum): 89-107.

Redfield, James. 1994. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hektor. Chicago.

—,—. 2001. “A ‘Beautiful Death’ and the Disfigured Corpse.” in Cairns 2001: 311-41.

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

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

Scodel, Ruth. “The Wits of Glaucus.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-), vol. 122, 1992, pp. 73–84. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/284365.

Willcock, M. 1977. 1977. “Ad hoc invention in the Iliad.” HSCP 81: 41-53.

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

When the embassy finds Achilles in Iliad 9, he is sitting outside, singing songs:

Iliad, 9.185-191

“They came to the dwellings and the ships of the Myrmidons
And they found [Achilles] delighting his heart with the clear-voiced lyre,
A finely wrought one which was silver on the bridge,
The one he chose as a prize after sacking the city of Êetiôn.
He delighted his heart with that and sang the famous stories of men.
But Patroklos sat alone opposite him in silence,
Waiting for time when the grandson of Aiakos would stop his songs.”

Μυρμιδόνων δ’ ἐπί τε κλισίας καὶ νῆας ἱκέσθην,
τὸν δ’ εὗρον φρένα τερπόμενον φόρμιγγι λιγείῃ
καλῇ δαιδαλέῃ, ἐπὶ δ’ ἀργύρεον ζυγὸν ἦεν,
τὴν ἄρετ’ ἐξ ἐνάρων πόλιν ᾿Ηετίωνος ὀλέσσας•
τῇ ὅ γε θυμὸν ἔτερπεν, ἄειδε δ’ ἄρα κλέα ἀνδρῶν.
Πάτροκλος δέ οἱ οἶος ἐναντίος ἧστο σιωπῇ,
δέγμενος Αἰακίδην ὁπότε λήξειεν ἀείδων

What is Achilles doing here? One ancient author believed that he was taking Taylor Swift’s advice and calming down:

Aelian, Varia Historia 14.23 Achilles plays the Lyre to Calm his Rage

“Kleinias was serious in his manner and he was a Pythagorean in his philosophical training. If he was ever driven towards rage or had a sense of getting hot-headed, immediately before he became too overwhelmed with anger and before it was clear it was coming, he picked up the lyre and began to play. In response to people asking what the reason for this was, he responded melodiously, “I am calming myself”. Achilles in the Iliad seems to me to put his rage sleep when he sings along to a lyre and brings reminds himself of the famous tales of former men through his song. For, since he was a musical man, he chose the lyre first out of all the spoils.”

Κλεινίας ἀνὴρ ἦν σπουδαῖος τὸν τρόπον, Πυθαγόρειος δὲ τὴν σοφίαν. οὗτος εἴ ποτε ἐς ὀργὴν προήχθη καὶ εἶχεν αἰσθητικῶς ἑαυτοῦ ἐς θυμὸν ἐξαγομένου, παραχρῆμα πρὶν ἢ ἀνάπλεως αὐτῷ ἡ ὀργὴ καὶ ἐπίδηλος γένηται ὅπως διάκειται, τὴν λύραν ἁρμοσάμενος ἐκιθάριζε. πρὸς δὲ τοὺς πυνθανομένους τὴν αἰτίαν ἀπεκρίνετο ἐμμελῶς ὅτι ‘πραΰνομαι.’ δοκεῖ δέ μοι καὶ ὁ ἐν ᾿Ιλιάδι ᾿Αχιλλεύς, ὁ τῇ κιθάρᾳ προσᾴδων καὶ τὰ κλέα τῶν προτέρων διὰ τοῦ μέλους ἐς μνήμην ἑαυτῷ ἄγων, τὴν μῆνιν κατευνάζειν• μουσικὸς γὰρ ὢν τὴν κιθάραν πρώτην ἐκ τῶν λαφύρων ἔλαβε.

Aelian’s interpretation is interesting in part because it makes sense—Achilles is often seen as resting, or taking up time with the singing. But modern interpretations put a lot more weight into Achilles’ words, and what exactly it means to sing the “famous stories of men” (kléa andrôn). Ancient authors seemed to see the poetry as providing a source of wisdom.

Schol. A ad.Il. 9.189b ex. 1-2

“Klea andrôn: [this is because] it is right to be ever-mindful of good men. For singers make their audiences wise through ancient narratives.”

ex. κλέα ἀνδρῶν:ὅτι ἀειμνήστους δεῖτοὺς ἀγαθοὺς εἶναι· οἱ γὰρ ἀοιδοὶ διὰ τῶν παλαιῶν ἱστοριῶν τοὺς ἀκούοντας ἐσωφρόνιζον.

I think few listeners of popular music would agree that all singers improve their audiences, but there’s a convention within Homer of singers (aioidoi, often translated as ‘poets’) being left to advise or watch over people (as with Agamemnon and Clytemnestra). Modern scholars have noted that the phrase kléa andrôn is shorthand for “epic poetry”. Others have also seen evidence for ancient performance in this scene: Gregory Nagy suggests a “a stylized representation of relay mnemonics”. Jose Gonzalez puts it like this: “Here the hero engages in what amounts, on the lips of the performing rhapsode, to a magnificently self-referential metapoetic representation of hypoleptic rhapsodizing”.

The context of book 9 of the Iliad provides another opportunity to think about the function of the kléa andrôn. My dissertation advisor, David Sider was the first person I heard argue that Achilles was singing through the kléa andrôn in order to try to figure out his course of action. That is, Achilles is singing through other heroic narratives trying to figure out what to do next.

This is partly confirmed later when Phoenix chastises Achilles by saying: “This is not what we have heard before in the famous stories of men/ heroes, whenever a powerful anger overtook someone” (οὕτω καὶ τῶν πρόσθεν ἐπευθόμεθα κλέα ἀνδρῶν / ἡρώων, ὅτε κέν τιν’ ἐπιζάφελος χόλος ἵκοι, 9.524-5). And in the Odyssey, the same phrase is used to indicate Demodokos’ ability to sing songs from the Trojan War, right before he sings about the conflict between Odysseus and Achilles. (Μοῦσ’ ἄρ’ ἀοιδὸν ἀνῆκεν ἀειδέμεναι κλέα ἀνδρῶν, 8.73)

This is not the only time that epic implies Achilles is using earlier narratives for self-comparison. So, the basic suggestion is that the phrase kléa andrôn is a metonym for tales from myth or epic and that Achilles is not merely entertaining himself but, just as Phoenix invites him to consider the lessons from “the famous stories of men” as precedents to help correct his behavior, Achilles is singing in order to figure out where his story fits in the pantheon of tales he knows.

But book 9 throws a bit of a curve at audiences expecting the kléa andrôn to provide a solution. The story that Phoenix tells does not push Achilles to change his mind, instead, it produces an unclear response. And I think the story Phoenix tells helps us understand storytelling within the Iliad better (along with the epic itself).

One of the models I have been using to think about how stories are used comes from a cognitive approach to literature. In his book The Literary Mind, Mark Turner argues that when we hear (or read) a story, we cannot experience the narrative created by the teller of the tale. Instead, the story unfolds in a cognitive blend in a space between the world of the narrative and the reader’s mind. What this means, in effect, is that our actual mental picture of narrative blends our own experiences and memories with the sketches we receive from stories and generates a new thing, a tale wholly in our own minds.

I think that this model of understanding narrative helps to explain a lot of the asymmetric correspondences between tellers, audiences, and tales in Homer. This helps also to frame devices like similes that shift and move between the opening and the close of the comparison and often blend characteristics of the tenor (the thing compared) and the vehicle (the comparison). In the case of paradeigmata (stories meant to persuade) it can also help us understand what happens when people try to use a tale: the teller has an idea for what the story should do to his audience, but it does something else.

One thing to start with here, is that Phoenix already seems to make significant changes to his tale. He offers Achilles the story about Meleager, set in the narrative of the Calydonian Boar Hunt, but as part of an internecine conflict that really doesn’t figure much in the narrative’s more well known arc (sound familiar, Iliad?). Traditionally, the hunt is a tale of heroes banding together to kill a massive boar, devolving into a conflict over the spoils when Meleager, the young prince of the city, tries to give the boar’s hide to the heroine Atalanta. In rage, Meleager’s mother, Althaia, destroys a log that is tied to Meleager’s life force, resulting in his death. In some accounts, there’s even a prophecy that Meleager would lose his life if he fought his uncles.

There is some pretty clear evidence that Phoenix is attempting to create a particular narrative blend of the story and his world for Achilles. In his tale, Meleager sits out of the conflict until even his wife, Kleopatra—a clear inversion of Patroklos’ name—asks him to join the battle. In addition, according to Phoinix, Meleager ignored the promises of gifts, had to fight anyway, and ended up laboring without recompense. Phoenix ends by telling Achilles to “think about this” (9.600), warning him that he too will end up fighting without honor. The surprise for Phoenix? Achilles tells him he does not care about the gifts and threatens to leave for home in the morning.

Phoinix frames his narrative with explicit invitations to make comparisons between the experiences of his addressee and that of the central character in his story. He offers a specific interpretation that Achilles rejects because Achilles is likely taking a different lesson from the narrative (to stay out of battle because he does not want the goods or the social obligations they imply). This exchange, then, features both how storytellers adapt stories to the experiences of the audiences and also how audiences misread or reread the stories through their own perspectives as they create their own narrative blend.

Phoenix’s tale has been understood as something of a failure—that is, that Achilles does not hear Phoinix’s tale or that it was somehow the wrong story. Instead, I think that Achilles hears Phoinix’s story and takes his lesson to heart: he does not want to accept Agamemnon’s apology or his gifts. But he also does not want to abandon the war entirely. So, he takes Meleager as a positive model instead of a negative one. He actively shapes the meaning of the tale by imagining himself in a different version of it.

The latter part of this post adapts some material from a book called Storylife: On Epic, Narrative, and Living Things

A short bibliography

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

Avery, Harry C. “Achilles’ Third Father.” Hermes 126, no. 4 (1998): 389–97. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4477270.

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

Compton, Todd M. 2006. Victim of the Muses: Poet as Scapegoat, Warrior and Hero in Greco-Roman and Indo-European Myth and History. Hellenic Studies Series 11. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.

Finlay, Robert. “Patroklos, Achilleus, and Peleus: Fathers and Sons in the ‘Iliad.’” The Classical World 73, no. 5 (1980): 267–73. https://doi.org/10.2307/4349196.

Garcia, Lorenzo F., Jr. 2013. Homeric Durability: Telling Time in the Iliad. Hellenic Studies Series 58. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.

González, José M. 2013. The Epic Rhapsode and His Craft: Homeric Performance in a Diachronic Perspective. Hellenic Studies Series 47. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.

Mackie, C. J. “Achilles’ Teachers: Chiron and Phoenix in the ‘Iliad.’” Greece & Rome 44, no. 1 (1997): 1–10. http://www.jstor.org/stable/643142.

Nagy, Gregory. 2002. Plato’s Rhapsody and Homer’s Music: The Poetics of the Panathenaic Festival in Classical Athens. Hellenic Studies Series 1. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.

Rosner, Judith A. “The Speech of Phoenix: ‘Iliad’ 9.434-605.” Phoenix 30, no. 4 (1976): 314–27. https://doi.org/10.2307/1087169.

Scodel, Ruth. “The Autobiography of Phoenix: Iliad 9.444-95.” The American Journal of Philology 103, no. 2 (1982): 128–36. https://doi.org/10.2307/294243.

Scott, John A. “Phoenix in the Iliad.” The American Journal of Philology 33, no. 1 (1912): 68–77. https://doi.org/10.2307/288985.

Turner, Mark. 1996. The Literary Mind. New York: Oxford University Press.

Yamagata, Naoko. “Phoenix’s Speech – Is Achilles Punished?” The Classical Quarterly 41, no. 1 (1991): 1–15. http://www.jstor.org/stable/639017.

This debate can be somewhat incoherent without knowing a little bit about Ancient Greek language. Early Greek at some point in its history had a full system of nominal and verbal endings for what we call the dual number.  To add to the number distinction between singular (I/ you, alone / she, he, it) and plural (We / you all / they), both Greek and Sanskrit have a dual form to describe pairs of things acting together: eyes, twins, people, etc. And these dual forms exist for the different ‘persons’: 1st person: we (two); 2nd person: the two of you, you (two); 3rd person: the two (people, things, etc). In most cases the sounds marking the dual is quite distinct: the combination wo in two and the long vowel in both are good examples of the vestigial dual persisting in English.

Classical Greek retained a limited use of the dual and Homeric Greek preserves it here and there. The most striking place where it shows up in the Iliad is in describing the movement of two heralds from one place to another. So, when Agamemnon sends heralds to retrieve the captive woman Briseis from Achilles in book 1 of the Iliad, we find dual forms for their pronouns and their verbal endings.

Let me start by setting out the problem. In Iliad 9, Achilles has been withdrawn from the conflict for 8 books of the epic and the situation looks pretty dire for the Achaeans. Agamemnon, at the advice of the elderly Nestor, sends an embassy to Achilles to plead with him to return, offering him compensation and further promises as inducement. Here’s the passage in English and Greek, with relevant plural forms in bold and dual forms in bold italics (Iliad 9.168-198):

Homer, Iliad 9.168-198

Let Phoinix, dear to Zeus, lead first of all
And then great Ajax and shining Odysseus.
And the heralds Odios and Eurubates should follow together.
Wash your hands and have everyone pray
So we can be pleasing to Zeus, if he takes pity on us.

So he spoke and this speech was satisfactory to everyone.
The heralds immediately poured water over their hands
And the servants filled their cups with wine.
And then they distributed the cups to everyone
And then they made a libation and drank to their fill.
They left from Agamemnon’s, son of Atreus’ dwelling.
Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, was giving them advice,
Stopping to prepare each one, but Odysseus especially,
How to try to persuade the blameless son of Peleus.

The two of them went along the strand of the much-resounding sea,
Both praying much to the earth-shaker Poseidon
That they might easily persuade the great thoughts of Aiakos’ grandson.
When the two of them arrived at the ships and the dwellings of the Myrmidons
They found him there delighting his heart with a clear-voiced lyre,
A well-made, beautiful one, set on a silver bridge.
Achilles stole it when he sacked and destroyed the city of Eetion.
He was pleasing his heart with it, and was singing the famous tales of men.
Patroklos was sitting there in silence across from him,
Waiting for Aiakos’ grandson to stop singing.

The two of them were walking first, but shining Odysseus was leading.
And they stood in front of him. When Achilles saw them, he rose
With the lyre in his hand, leaving the place where he had been sitting.
Patroklos rose at the same time, when he saw the men.
As he welcomed those two, swift-footed Achilles addressed them.

“Welcome [you too]–really, dear friends two have come–the need must be great,
When these two [come] who are dearest of the Achaeans to me, even when I am angry.”

Φοῖνιξ μὲν πρώτιστα Διῒ φίλος ἡγησάσθω,
αὐτὰρ ἔπειτ’ Αἴας τε μέγας καὶ δῖος ᾿Οδυσσεύς·
κηρύκων δ’ ᾿Οδίος τε καὶ Εὐρυβάτης ἅμ’ ἑπέσθων.
φέρτε δὲ χερσὶν ὕδωρ, εὐφημῆσαί τε κέλεσθε,
ὄφρα Διὶ Κρονίδῃ ἀρησόμεθ’, αἴ κ’ ἐλεήσῃ.
῝Ως φάτο, τοῖσι δὲ πᾶσιν ἑαδότα μῦθον ἔειπεν.
αὐτίκα κήρυκες μὲν ὕδωρ ἐπὶ χεῖρας ἔχευαν,
κοῦροι δὲ κρητῆρας ἐπεστέψαντο ποτοῖο,
νώμησαν δ’ ἄρα πᾶσιν ἐπαρξάμενοι δεπάεσσιν.
αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ σπεῖσάν τ’ ἔπιόν θ’ ὅσον ἤθελε θυμός,
ὁρμῶντ’ ἐκ κλισίης ᾿Αγαμέμνονος ᾿Ατρεΐδαο.
τοῖσι δὲ πόλλ’ ἐπέτελλε Γερήνιος ἱππότα Νέστωρ
δενδίλλων ἐς ἕκαστον, ᾿Οδυσσῆϊ δὲ μάλιστα,
πειρᾶν ὡς πεπίθοιεν ἀμύμονα Πηλεΐωνα.

Τὼ δὲ βάτην παρὰ θῖνα πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης
πολλὰ μάλ’ εὐχομένω γαιηόχῳ ἐννοσιγαίῳ
ῥηϊδίως πεπιθεῖν μεγάλας φρένας Αἰακίδαο.
Μυρμιδόνων δ’ ἐπί τε κλισίας καὶ νῆας ἱκέσθην,
τὸν δ’ εὗρον φρένα τερπόμενον φόρμιγγι λιγείῃ
καλῇ δαιδαλέῃ, ἐπὶ δ’ ἀργύρεον ζυγὸν ἦεν,
τὴν ἄρετ’ ἐξ ἐνάρων πόλιν ᾿Ηετίωνος ὀλέσσας·
τῇ ὅ γε θυμὸν ἔτερπεν, ἄειδε δ’ ἄρα κλέα ἀνδρῶν.
Πάτροκλος δέ οἱ οἶος ἐναντίος ἧστο σιωπῇ,
δέγμενος Αἰακίδην ὁπότε λήξειεν ἀείδων,
τὼ δὲ βάτην προτέρω, ἡγεῖτο δὲ δῖος ᾿Οδυσσεύς,
στὰν δὲ πρόσθ’ αὐτοῖο· ταφὼν δ’ ἀνόρουσεν ᾿Αχιλλεὺς
αὐτῇ σὺν φόρμιγγι λιπὼν ἕδος ἔνθα θάασσεν.
ὣς δ’ αὔτως Πάτροκλος, ἐπεὶ ἴδε φῶτας, ἀνέστη.
τὼ καὶ δεικνύμενος προσέφη πόδας ὠκὺς ᾿Αχιλλεύς·
χαίρετον· ἦ φίλοι ἄνδρες ἱκάνετον ἦ τι μάλα χρεώ,
οἵ μοι σκυζομένῳ περ ᾿Αχαιῶν φίλτατοί ἐστον.

The embassy includes three speakers, Odysseus, Achilles’ older ‘tutor’ Phoenix, and his cousin, the powerful warrior, Ajax the son of Telamon. The two heralds accompany them as well. Yet the pronouns and verbal forms that describe them move between dual and plural forms. The grammarian responds that this is incorrect because there are at least five entities involved here. Modern responses over the past century have been:

1. The text needs to be fixed, the duals have come from an older/different version of the poem that had a smaller embassy (with several variations)

2. The traditional use is imperfect, the dual is being used for groups. Some scholiasts suggest that audiences would have just used the dual for the plural

3. The dual herald scene is merely formulaic and has been left in without regard for changes in the evolution of the narrative

4. The text is focalized in some way, showing Achilles (e.g.) refusing to acknowledge the presence of someone he dislikes (Odysseus, see Nagy 1979) or focusing on two people he does like (Phoenix and Ajax, Martin 1989)

5. The text is jarring on purpose, highlighting that something is wrong with this scene

Ancient commentators seem less bothered by the alternation in forms: an ancient scholiast suggests that the first dual form refers to Ajax and Odysseus because Phoinix hangs back to get more instruction from Nestor (Schol ad. Il. 9.182). Of course, this interpretation doesn’t even try to explain what happened to the actual heralds who were sent along with the embassy. Yet the interaction of forms seems to give some support to a complex reading. The number and entanglement of the forms makes interpolation seem unlikely (if not ludicrous) as an explanation. Consider, for example this brief passage from book 7 where heralds step forward to stop the duel between Ajax and Hektor:

Homer Iliad 7.279-282

“Dear children, don’t wage war or fight any more.
Cloud-gathering Zeus loves you both,
And you are both warriors. All of us here certainly know this.
Night is already here: it is good to concede to night too.”

μηκέτι παῖδε φίλω πολεμίζετε μηδὲ μάχεσθον·
ἀμφοτέρω γὰρ σφῶϊ φιλεῖ νεφεληγερέτα Ζεύς,
ἄμφω δ’ αἰχμητά· τό γε δὴ καὶ ἴδμεν ἅπαντες.
νὺξ δ’ ἤδη τελέθει· ἀγαθὸν καὶ νυκτὶ πιθέσθαι.

Here we have a lone plural form (polemizete) paired with a dual imperative (makhesthon). The manuscript traditions show some effort to change the dual imperative to a plural to match with the first polemizete, but no record that I can see of attempts to correct the plural to a dual. Plural forms can apply to two. Indeed, in many cases where there are multiple dual forms used in a passage there tends to be frequent recourse to plurals.

But the issue here is not a plural form being used for two figures, but the unclear antecedents for the dual forms as they are. It is not common for dual forms to be applied to more than two figures. I have presented the responses above in a sequence that I see as both historical (in terms of traditions of literary criticism) and evolutionary. The first response–that the text is wrong–assumes infidelity in the transmission from the past and entrusts modern interpreters with the competence to identify errors and ‘correct’ them. The second response moves from morphological to functional, positing that ancient performers might have ‘misused’ the dual for present during a period of linguistic change. Neither of these suggestions are supported by the textual traditions which preserve the duals.

The final three answers depend upon the sense of error explored in the first two: first, a greater understanding of oral-formulaic poetry extends the Parryan suggestion that some forms are merely functional and do not express context specific meaning (#3) while the second option models a complex style of reading/reception that suggests the audience understands the misuse of the dual to evoke the internal thoughts/emotions of the character Achilles in one way or another. The third explanation is harder to defend based on how integrated the dual forms are in the passage: the dual is used to describe travel to Achilles’ tent, then the scene shifts to Achilles playing a lyre and Patroklos waiting for him to stop followed again by dual forms with what seems like an enigmatic line “and so they both were walking forth, and shining Odysseus was leading” (tō de batēn proterō, hēgeito de dios Odusseus).

Ancient commentary remains nonplussed: Odysseus is first of two, the line makes that clear, and Phoinix is following somewhere behind. Nagy’s and Martin’s explanations are attractive and they respond well to the awkward movement between dual and plural forms as well as Achilles’ specific use of the dual in hailing the embassy with a bittersweet observation. I like the idea of taking these two together, leaving it up to audiences to decode Achilles’ enigmatic greeting.

Responses #4 and 5 are not necessarily exclusive. The final option builds on the local context of the Iliad and sees the type scene as functioning within that narrative but with some expectation that audiences know the forms and the conventions. As others have argued, the use of the duals to signal the movement of heralds is traditional and functional in a compositional sense because it moves the action of the narrative from one place to another. In the Iliad, the herald scene marks a movement from one camp to another, building on what I believe is its larger conventional use apart from composition which is to mark the movement from one political space, or one sphere of authority to another. When Agamemnon sends the heralds in book 1 to retrieve Briseis, the action as well as the language further marks Achilles’ separation from the Achaean coalition. In book 9, the situation remains the same–Achilles is essentially operating in a different power-structure–but the embassy is an attempt to address the difference. The trio sent along with the heralds as ambassadors are simultaneously friends and foreign agents. Appropriately, the conventional language of epic reflects this tension by interposing the duals and reflecting the confused situation.

Most of the responses above except for the first two are valid from the perspective of ancient audiences.  The first two explanations–that the text is wrong or the usage is wrong–selectively accept the validity of some of the text but not that they find challenging for interpretive reasons or assume a simplicity on the part of ancient audiences (and many generations in between).  The subsequent responses, however, credit a creative intention rather than the collaborative ecosystem of meaning available to Homeric performance.

In the telling of epic tales, it may well have been customary to manipulate conventional language through creative misuse; and yet, if audiences are not experienced enough of the forms or attentive enough to the patterns, such usage would not likely be sustained. Audiences (like the ancient scholar) imagine Phoinix lagging behind, or Achilles focusing just on one character, or sense the pattern of alienation and separation that makes it necessary to treat Achilles as a foreign entity and not an ally. So, while the text relies on audience competency with epic conventions, this specific articulation also allows for depth of characterization in this moment: The final three interpretive options cannot be fully disambiguated. Although we may argue for greater weight to the typological argument–that audiences would understand the complicated marking of Achilles as a potential enemy through this disjuncture–we cannot dismiss the tension between that larger structural meaning and the immediate force of Achilles’ speech, inviting us to see the use of the dual as a character choice.

Bibliography

n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know. See Lesser 2022 for the most recent recent bibliography and discussion. Cf. Griffin 1995: 51–53. Scodel 2002: 160–71 and Louden 2006: 120–34 represent more recent readings.

Griffin, Jasper. 1995. Iliad, Book Nine. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Kazazis, Deborah B. & Kazazis, John N. (1991). Iliad 9, the duals and Homeric compositional technique. Επιστημονική Επετηρίδα της Φιλοσοφικής Σχολής [του Αριστοτελείου Πανεπιστημίου Θεσσαλονίκης]. Tεύχος Τμήματος Φιλολογίας, 1, 11-45.

Lesser, Rachel H. 2022. Desire in the Iliad. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Louden, D. Bruce (2002). Eurybates, Odysseus, and the duals in Book 9 of the « Iliad ». Colby Quarterly, 38(1), 62-76.

Louden, D. Bruce (2006). The « Iliad » :: structure, myth, and meaning. Baltimore (Md.): Johns Hopkins University Pr.

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

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

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

Segal, Charles (1968). The embassy and the duals of Iliad ix,182-198. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, IX, 101-114.

Thornton, Agathe. “Once Again, the Duals in Book 9 of the Iliad.” Glotta 56, no. 1/2 (1978): 1–4. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40266418.

Wyatt, William F. “The Embassy and the Duals in Iliad 9.” The American Journal of Philology 106, no. 4 (1985): 399–408. https://doi.org/10.2307/295192.

Homer, Iliad 1.210-214

“But leave off the strife—don’t draw the sword with your hand.
Instead, rebuke him with words about how this will turn out.
I will explain this, and this will be fulfilled:
Then someday you’ll get three times as many shining gifts
On account of this insult. So, hold back, obey us.”

ἀλλ’ ἄγε λῆγ’ ἔριδος, μηδὲ ξίφος ἕλκεο χειρί·
ἀλλ’ ἤτοι ἔπεσιν μὲν ὀνείδισον ὡς ἔσεταί περ·
ὧδε γὰρ ἐξερέω, τὸ δὲ καὶ τετελεσμένον ἔσται·
καί ποτέ τοι τρὶς τόσσα παρέσσεται ἀγλαὰ δῶρα
ὕβριος εἵνεκα τῆσδε· σὺ δ’ ἴσχεο, πείθεο δ’ ἡμῖν.

One of the primary questions of book 9 is why Achilles refuses the Achaeans’ entreaties. The whole plot of Iliad 9 centers around the Achaean need for Achilles’ return, in response to the Trojans camping outside the city at the end of book 8. It starts with panic, turns to a plan to appeal to Achilles with gifts and soothing words, and results in something of a surprise when Achilles does not accede to their requests.

The book is split into 4 basic parts: (1) Agamemnon’s assembly, where he again suggests giving up; (2) the small council scene following it where the Greek leaders plan the assembly (under Nestor’s guidance); (3) the embassy scene with its three speeches/exchanges; and (4) the (inaccurate) report of the embassy. Note the chiastic (A-B-B-A) structure of public-private-private-public encounters. By the end of the book, the Achaean leadership (focused through Diomedes) has again restored something of a unified voice without Achilles. In a way, Book 9 integrates the themes and concerns of both books 1 and 2 in a similarly chiastic pattern: it opens with confusion and desperation, and clear echoes of book 2) returns to Nestor and Diomedes before getting to Achilles (book 1) and returning again to an Achaean front, united despite Achilles’ absence (book 2).

Iliad 9 is one of the most important books of the epic for understanding Achilles’ development and epic attitudes concerning ‘heroism’. While the plot of this book engages critically with the major themes I have noted to follow in reading the Iliad: (1) Politics, (2) Heroism; (3) Gods and Humans; (4) Family & Friends; (5) Narrative Traditions. But the central themes I emphasize in reading and teaching book 9 are politics, heroism, and narrative traditions.

This introductory post to book 9 addresses its general outline and the language of Achilles. There will be follow-up posts on the duals prior to the embassy and Diomedes’ speeches book-ending the conflict.

Book 9 and Homeric Speech

Book 9 has the highest proportion of direct speech of any book in the Iliad or Odyssey (provided we treat Odysseus’ own narrative in Od. 9-12 as a story and not direct speech). It provides a great opportunity to think about how speech works in different contexts: we see public speech in the assembly (the first and final parts of the book); semi-private political speech in the leaders’ small council (the second scene); and longer rhetorical attempts at persuasion during the assembly. 

The embassy to Achilles includes three people: Odysseus, Phoenix, and Alax (son of Telamon). Nestor lays out the plan of the embassy and induces Agamemnon to make an (egregiously generous) list of gifts to make amends. He sends Odysseus, as something of the Achaean consiglieri, Phoenix, as Achilles’ ‘tutor’ and surrogate father, and Ajax, Achilles’ cousin. So, at one level, the embassy is a combination of a political appointee and personal connections. On another level, we also have two figures who are extremely important to the heroic/mythic tradition of Troy (Odysseus and Ajax) and one who seems more-or-less tailored to this particular Iliad and this particular moment (Phoenix). The character interactions, then, can draw on audience inferences about their relationships and also their experiences of these characters in the wider tradition (and on that latter topic, Gregory Nagy’s The Best of the Achaeans remains the best of modern scholarship on teasing out narrative resonances).

The three members of the embassy make three different attempts to persuade Achilles. Odysseus amplifies the threat Hektor and the Trojans present in Achilles’ absence and recounts the large number of gifts Agamemnon is offering for his return; Phoenix makes an appeal to Achilles’ honor, sense of duty, and his personal relationship, capping it all with a paradeigma (persuasive example from myth) about Meleager; and Ajax takes a more personal and disguised approach, talking to Odysseus about Achilles, instead of addressing him directly at the start. The interpretive drama in book 9 is less in what these characters say and more in how Achilles’ responds to them. The ambiguity and shifting character of Achilles’ answers have long made this book one of the most debated in the epic. 

Leaving aside the content of Achilles’ speeches, the plot results are important for what follows. Each speech has Achilles taking an increasingly more specific position. To Odysseus, Achilles says that he is going to leave the next day with his troops; to Phoenix, Achilles adjusts and says that he will spend the night thinking about leaving and then decide in the morning; and after Ajax speaks, Achilles swears he will not return to battle until the Trojans reach his own ships. This last move cements Achilles’ course of action, confirms his continued separation from the Achaeans, and aligns his own intention with what Zeus declares for the plot (Patroklos’ death) in book 8.

That’s the plot. How we get there is even more intriguing.

The Language of Achilles

I have been interested in the language of Achilles since I started working on my dissertation in 2005 or so. Like many projects, mine started out of spite: a professor had told me that there was no such thing as rhetoric in Homer and that sent me on a multiyear path of vengeance. (Ok, not really John Wick-level comeuppance, but more like a slow, stubborn chipping away at the idea.) My general approach was that rhetoric in Homer should be defined by Homeric terms and ideas, not by post-oral expectations (like those from Aristotle on). I started out thinking about Nestor as a received ideal of speech whose model is eventually challenged by the epic itself. And, 9 chapters later, I ended with Achilles and the funeral games.

The language of few characters in literature has received the same attention in modern scholarship as that of Achilles. And approaches to his speech have been characterized as well the struggle of the 20^th century over what it means for creativity and meaning to say that Homeric poetry is oral and formulaic. In this vein, Adam Parry (1956; Milman Parry’s son) inaugurated a sub-field of Homeric studies with his paper “The Language of Achilles,” proposing that Achilles struggles to express what he means because the formulaic nature of Homeric language restricts the articulation of innovative notions or concepts contrary to the ethos of epic. While this reading has since been challenged by many (see, e.g. Reeve, Claus, Redfield and others below)

Homerists continued to investigate Achilles’ language in order to understand more clearly both the objections he makes to the Iliad’s world and the nature of Homeric speech in general. The debate may seem rather minor, but at its heart is whether or not ‘conventional’ language can be used to differentiate characters. Scholars responded by saying “no, it cannot, therefore Homeric poetry is not that formulaic” to “of course it can, people are misunderstanding what oral-formulaic means” and included pretty much everything in between. My sympathies are entirely with the extreme form of the second statement: the notion that Homeric speakers cannot be differentiated by language or are limited from saying “untraditional things” (which is, admittedly, the most extreme version of the statement) betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of oral-formulaic poetry and oral-derived epic as well as significant misapprehensions about the levels of freedom available from ‘natural’ languages.

The debate continued into the 21^st century, but two of the finer entries in the discussion came earlier. Richard Martin’s The Language of Heroes (1989) addresses the major questions surrounding Achilles’ use of speech. He suggests that “the rhetoric of Achilles—his heroic self-performance in an adversary relationship with the past and the present—is at the root of Homer’s own composition in performance.” Hilary Mackie’s Talking Trojan (1996) balances Achilles’ language against Hektor’s: Achilles speaks like a Hesiodic poet (from the Works and Days) and uses the language of wisdom poetry to question the Achaean hierarchy.

Achilles’ is an exceptionally evocative speaker whose use of language sets him apart as a character and as a political player. Second, his estrangement from the other characters and his status as the major player positions him to reflect on the epic’s entire world. The plot situates him as the one for whom an evaluation of political structures bears the most meaning. Book 9 shows him making some of his most challenging and interesting speeches, changing his tack from exchange to exchange. To take him at face value at any point in this book—not to mention the epic as a whole—is to tragically underestimate epic’s capacity for subtlety and misdirection. 

Achilles should be read from multiple perspectives simultaneously: he is a late adolescent, struggling to navigate between what he has learned of the world and the frustration he is experiencing; he is a warrior, trying to make sense of the balance between life and death and the rhetoric of eternal fame; he is a person stuck between the self and community, trying to balance his own titanic need for honor with the obligations he feels towards others; and he is a partly occluded mouthpiece for the poet, offering potential reflections on heroism, the mythical tradition, and what it means to be a person. Each of these personae (and more) rises to the surface during his responses and none of them provide clear answers. Achilles’ speeches operate like proto-Platonic dialogues, inviting audiences to think through his problems (and those they represent more widely) without coming to resolution. Instead, they should help to create discomfort and confusion, prompting conversation and thought long after the end of the poem.

Some guiding questions for book 9

 Compare the opening scene of this book to book 2’s assembly and flight to the ships. What are some of the differences?

How has the approach to the conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles changed among the Achaeans since book 1?

Why does Achilles reject Agamemnon’s offer?

Achilles receives three speeches and gives three separate responses to them. How do his plans change with each speech and why?

Bibliography on the language of Achilles

n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know. Follow-up posts will address the political framework of book 9 and the duals.

Arieti, James A. “Achilles’ Alienation in ‘Iliad 9.’” The Classical Journal 82, no. 1 (1986): 1–27. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3297803.

Brenk, F. 1984 “Dear Child: the Speech of Phoinix and the Tragedy of Achilles in the Ninth Book of the Iliad.” Eranos, 86: 77–86.

Claus, David B. “Aidôs in the Language of Achilles.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 105 (1975): 13–28. https://doi.org/10.2307/283930.

Hammer, D. 2002. The Iliad as Politics: The Performance of Political Thought. Norman.

HAMMER, DEAN. “THE ‘ILIAD’ AS ETHICAL THINKING: POLITICS, PITY, AND THE OPERATION OF ESTEEM.” Arethusa 35, no. 2 (2002): 203–35. http://www.jstor.org/stable/44578882.

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

Griffin, Jasper. “Homeric Words and Speakers.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 106 (1986): 36–57. https://doi.org/10.2307/629641.

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

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

Lloyd, Michael. 2004. “The Politeness of Achilles: Off-Record Conversation Strategies.” JHS, 124: 75–89.

Mackie, H. 1996. Talking Trojan: Speech and Community in the Iliad. Lanham, MD.

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

Steve Nimis. “The Language of Achilles: Construction vs. Representation.” The Classical World 79, no. 4 (1986): 217–25. https://doi.org/10.2307/4349869.

Reeve, M. D. “The Language of Achilles.” The Classical Quarterly 23, no. 2 (1973): 193–95. http://www.jstor.org/stable/638171.

Parry, Adam. 1956. “The Language of Achilles.” TAPA, 60: 1–8.

—,—. 1972. “Language and Characterization in Homer.” HSCP, 76: 1–22.

Roochnik, David. 1990. “Homeric Speech Acts: Word and Deed in the Epics.” CJ, 85: 289–299.

Scodel, Ruth. 1982. “The Autobiography of Phoenix: Iliad 9.444-95.” AJP 103.2: 128–136.

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

Scully, Stephen. “The Language of Achilles: The OKHTHESAS Formulas.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 114 (1984): 11–27. https://doi.org/10.2307/284136.