Book 11 of the Iliadis one of those battle books that often get lost in conversations about the whole. But the poem does contribute critically to the plot: enough of the prominent Greeks are wounded that the battle begins to turn definitively in the Trojans’ favor. Achilles, watching from the sidelines, notices, and sends Patroklos to investigate. Nestor tells Patroklos a rather long story to persuade him to either convince Achilles to return to war or to lead the Myrmidons to battle in Achilles’ place.
These contributions to the plot make Iliad 11 essential. But the book has some other, more nuanced aspects as well. As I discussed in the first post on book 11, the wounding of heroes, particularly Diomedes, engages with extra-Iliadic traditions in fascinating ways. The book also advances the epic’s strategy of deferring Achilles’ appearance. This time, however, Achilles appears briefly. And what we make of his actions changes how we approach his character.
We find Achilles eagerly watching the action, despite the fact that it is taking place on the other side of the Achaean fortifications.
Homer, Iliad 11.596-615
“So they were struggling like a burning fire And Neleus’ horses were bringing Nestor out of the war, Covered in sweat as they also drove Makhaon, the shepherd of the host. Shining Achilles recognized him when he saw him. For he was standing on the stern of his huge-hulled ship, Watching the terrible conflict and the lamentable retreat. He quickly turned to his companion Patroklos and spoke To him next to the ship. He heard as he came from their dwelling Like Ares himself, and this was the beginning of his trouble.
So, the brave son of Menoitios spoke first: Why are you calling me, Achilles? What need do you have of me?
Swift footed Achilles spoke to him in answer:
“Shining son of Menoitios, most cherished to my own heart, Now I think that the Achaeans are about to stand begging Around my knees. For a need comes upon them, and it is no longer tolerable.
But come, now Patroklos dear to Zeus, go ask Nestor Who that man is he leads wounded from the war. Certainly he looks from this angle in every way like Makhaon, Asclepius’ son, bit I cannot see the man’s eyes, Since the horses raced past me in their eager stride.”
There are some interesting responses from ancient scholars. Variously, they see Achilles’ viewing of the battle as an indication of his character and a creation of suspense.
Schol Tb ad Hom. Il. 11. 600-1 ex
“Achilles is shown to be a lover of war here by his viewing of the battle. Still, the poet crafts this in anticipation for Achilles’ return.”
But many comments attend to the brief narrative foreshadowing “and that was the beginning of evil for him” (κακοῦ δ’ ἄρα οἱ πέλεν ἀρχή).
Schol. bT ad Hom. Il. 11.605 ex
“The declaration makes the audience eager to learn what this evil might be. The poet creates this with a brief indication. If he had done more, he would have ruined the order of events and weakened the poem.”
These comments on Achilles’ character show something of a limited understanding. There is an argument to be made throughout the Iliad that when characters who are not engaged in the conflict are watching the battle they function in part as stand-ins for the external audience, helping us to see the action in a different way. In this, I think about the function of the chorus in Greek tragedy—the choruses are far from neutral parties in Athenian drama, but they are nonetheless capable of acting as vehicles between the main story and the audience. Achilles, standing on the stern of his ship, watching with interest both helps us remember that these events are extraordinary and provides us with a few moments respite from the conflict.
Achilles, however, is not like any other character: when he watches, his interest is something altogether different. His stance in part reminds me of those moments when Zeus retreats to watch the battle from somewhere else. A primary difference is that Achilles’ interest is not neutral: as he himself expresses in this passage, the increased suffering of the Achaeans makes it likely that they will appeal to them again. Indeed, ancient scholars have commented on Achilles standing and watching the battle as evidence of his love of war (he just likes to watch fighting, I guess) or his love of honor (is he rooting for the Achaeans to suffer more quickly so that they will offer him more to return?)
As is usually the case, the ambiguity of the scene is part of the point. While Achilles does say that the Greeks will be begging him soon, he swore an oath not to return to battle until the fire reaches his ships in Iliad 9. That recent action makes it difficult to argue that Achilles is simply waiting to be compensated or glorified. He is concerned about a particular person being injured and wants to know what is actually happening in the conflict. Achilles’ limited knowledge here echoes that part of him that is not super human: his knowledge of others’ deaths and fates. Indeed, this scene’s narrative commentary “and it was the beginning of his trouble” points to the limits of human knowledge. The irony we as the audience know is that Achilles prayed for the Achaeans to suffer to make up for his dishonor and he is just now about to send his own cherished Patroklos out there to become part of the comeuppance.
As Jinyo Kim writes in her 2001 book The Pity of Achilles, the hero’s watching of the conflict is a confirmation of Achilles’ concern for the Greeks: the primary arguments that moved him in the earlier embassy (see especially 103-113). She notes that Achilles’ language about how dire the situation is (λισσομένους· χρειὼ γὰρ ἱκάνεται οὐκέτ’ ἀνεκτός) repeats what Nestor said in the previous book. As Kim notes, Achilles knows the situation is bad and does not need to send Patroklos to confirm it. Instead, he is demonstrating a concern for others that is consonant with his characterization in book 9 and his final turn to empathy in book 24.
Objections to this argument will point out that Achilles himself remains distant: Kim argues that Patroklos here begins to function as a ritual replacement for Achilles in book 11, rather than 16. I think this argument works well to help us understand that Achilles is showing his concern for the Achaeans through Patroklos because he is constrained by the oath he took at the end of book 9. Achilles looks like he is cruel and Nestor expresses criticism to that effect. But Patroklos anticipates this when he says to Nestor: “Divine old man, you know what kind of guy that terrible man is. He would quickly blame the blameless” (εὖ δὲ σὺ οἶσθα γεραιὲ διοτρεφές, οἷος ἐκεῖνος / δεινὸς ἀνήρ· τάχα κεν καὶ ἀναίτιον αἰτιόῳτο (11.653-654). A scholiast explains Patroklos’ comments as somewhat self-defensive: “He is pointing to Achilles’ irascibility, gaining for himself some pardon for not persuading him” ἐπιτείνει δὲ αὐτοῦ τὸ θυμικόν, συγγνώμην ἑαυτῷ ποριζόμενος τοῦ μὴ πεῖσαι αὐτόν, Schol. bT Ad Hom. Il. 11.654).
But I suspect that there is something more personal. The adjective deinos—which famously can mean ‘terrible, marvelous, amazing’—is only applied to mortals in limited conditions in the Iliad. At its root, it is related to verbs of fear and amazement. Gods leaving or entering battle often receive this description, but Helen uses it in addressing Priam in book 3 (171). There’s a familiar sense to this personal use, indicating that the speaker is full of amazement and confusion at the target’s behavior. Patroklos not understand Achilles’ behavior, just as the members of the Embassy in book 9 are confused.
Two handled amphora with Achilles and Ajax, c. 520 BCE, Museum of Fine Arts,
As I mention in an earlier post, much of the debate around book 10 of the Iliad centers around its “fit” to our Iliad and our concept of what the Iliad should contain. Even the most strident critic of Iliad 10—M. L. West—concedes its antiquity, insisting that it was added to an authentic text by later editors. From my perspective, this argument is nullified if we see the Iliad as a composition in performance that intentionally brings together disparate pieces to evoke the whole story of the Trojan War. Recent studies of the language of book 10 using statistical models have come to different conclusions about its ‘authenticity’. The analysis of Chiara Bozzone’s and Ryan Sandell shows notable differences between the Iliad and the Odyssey; that Iliad 10 seems to be an outlier linguistically, and that some of Odyssean books are closer to the Iliad.
Yet, from another perspective in the work of John Pavlopoulos and Maria Konstantinidou, the language of book 10 is no more anomalous for the rest of the Iliad than book 11, and certainly more regular than book 9 (which no one disputes as Homeric).
As any student of oral poetry knows, language follows theme. The contents of book 10 are thematically and lexically different from the rest of the epic because they describe events that are dissimilar to those that unfold elsewhere. Any decision about the ‘fit’ of book 10 is therefore based on its content and preformed ideas of what the Iliadshould be like. As I said in that earlier post, Casey Dué and Mary Ebbott have pretty much made the best case for the traditionality of the Iliad 10 in their Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary.
Book 10, structurally, occupies the night between thee failed embassy to Achilles in book 10 and the resumption of warfare in book 11. The day that follows occupies nine books of the epic (11-18). The book itself furnishes an opportunity to reflect again on differences in politics between the Achaeans and Trojans, differences in characterization, and differences in tone. But I also suspect that it is playing with mythical traditions that pair Odysseus and Diomedes together.
When Agamemnon and Nestor gather the Achaean chieftains to consider spying on the Trojans. Diomedes volunteers and Agamemnon gives him enigmatic advice about whom to choose as a companion.
Iliad 10.234-239
“Indeed, choose a companion, whomever you want, the best one of those who are present, since many are eager at least. Do not, because you are keeping shame in your thoughts, leave behind the better man, but choose the lesser man because you yield to shame when you consider his birth, not even if he is kinglier.”
A scholion suggest that Agamemnon provides this advice because he is worried that Diomedes will feel pressured to choose Menelaos. Diomedes’ response indicates that Agamemnon probably didn’t have much to worry about.
Iliad 10.242-247
“If you are really asking me to choose my own companion, How could I then overlook divine Odysseus, Whose heart and proud energy are preeminent In all toils. And Pallas Athena loves him. If he’s accompanying me, then we would both come back Even from a burning fire, since he really knows how to think.”
There are not many moments in the Iliad that pair these two heroes together. And, if we follow what happens in the plot here, the two men sneak into the Trojan camp after capturing and killing Dolon, then they kill a bunch of men in their sleep and steal their horses. Diomedes is the one who does most of the murdering, but it seems to be Odysseus who has a plan.
I suspect that part of what is going on in this seen is an echo of stories that put Diomedes and Odysseus together in the Trojan War tradition. In part, Diomedes as a stand in for Achilles may invite consideration of the rivalry between the two iconoclastic heroes. As the figures of force (Achilles) and wit (Odysseus) the two have been seen as in rivalry (Gregory Nagy lays this out memorably in The Best of the Achaeans). Such a feature of myth is confirmed to a degree by the unexplained song of the “strife of Achilles and Odysseus” mentioned in the Odyssey.
Odyssey 8.73-78
“The Muse moved the singer to sing the tales of men, The story whose fame had reached to the wide heaven, The strife of Odysseus and Peleus’ son Achilles, How they were in conflict at a sacred feast of the gods With harsh words for one another, and the lord of men, Agamemnon Took delight in his heart, that the best of the Achaeans were in conflict.”
But how does a potential rivalry between Achilles and Odysseus translate into a nighttime buddy-comedy of murder? Here we may also want to consider a tradition of difficulties between Diomedes and Odysseus from the lost Little Iliad According to Apollodorus, Diomedes and Odysseus were paired together to go get the bow of Herakles from Philoktetes and then went together again to sneak into the city to steal the Palladion. In that summary, Diomedes waits and watches while Odysseus disguises himself as a beggar to infiltrate the city.
The basic story is that, in order to take Troy, the Greeks needed to steal the Palladion, an image of Athena. In other traditions, Odysseus showed himself to be less than a team player. On the way back from the city, Odysseus tried to kill Diomedes. According to other accounts (summarized by Servius in his commentary on the Aeneid, see Gantz 1992, 643-5), Odysseus just wanted the glory all to himself.
We can see the Palladion-tale is a re-doubling of other Trojan War motifs: the requirement of Herakles’ bow and Philoktetes or the need to have Neoptolemus present, for example, are similar talismanic possessions to end the long war. Odysseus’ conflict with Diomedes, here, is not dissimilar either to his quarrel with Ajax or his feud with Achilles (mentioned in the Odyssey). I suspect that part of what is going on in book 10 is an echoing of these other traditions. I would go so far as to suggest that ancient audiences may have wondered whether Odysseus would betray Diomedes here. Instead of an act of betrayal, however, we see a scheming Odysseus who manages to get Diomedes to do most of the bloody work himself.
There is one fragment from the Little Iliad about this moment:
“It was the middle of the night, and the bright moon lay on them”
As I have suggested in the last two posts on Iliad 10, confusion about whether or not Iliad 10 is an essential part of the epic is rooted in part to different concepts of textuality, fixity, and unity. The primary issues scholars have with book 10 are (1) we have a scholion saying it is “Homer’s” but not “part of the Iliad, (2) the action of the book does not advance the main part of the story; and (3) the events of the book are not mentioned in other books. To this, we can add (4) West’s insistence that “Nothing suggests that the story of the night foray and the killing of Rhesos had any traditional basis. Rhesos achieves nothing at Troy and therefore has no place in the war.”
Each of these points relies in some way on core assumptions about what the Iliad is. Qualm 4 posits that a story requires traditional basis to be part of our Iliad. This is not at all true of a lot of the Iliad and patently absurd in the face of our limited evidence. The Iliad is best where it capitalizes on a tension between what people think they know about the Trojan War and what happens in the poem. For issue #3: there are also many, many parts of the epic that are not mentioned anywhere else in the poem. For #1, well, ancient scholiasts say lots of things: perhaps Iliad 10 was not a well-known and common part of the Iliad as some audiences knew it: but it has been around and part of our poem long enough that Alexandrian scholars framed it as a Peisistratean interpolation. All of our texts of the Iliad went through some kind of an Athenian ‘recension’!
The only substantial argument I can see is #2, that the book does not advance the main part of the story. This is an entirely subjective statement, supposing that there is a main story to advance and, further, that “advancing the story” is the chief purpose of any book of the epic. As I discuss in an earlier post, I think that book 10 does important work in creating suspense after book 9 and the embassy to Achilles; in addition, Dolon himself offers some interesting echoes of Achilles.
Thinking about those echoes has made me reflect again on exactly how book 10 “advances” the poem. It is not necessarily about the action—since the death of Dolon, Rhesos, and the loss of those marvelous horses does not change the balance of the war at all. But the actions do advance the plot of the epic.
Let me address this by starting from the first line of the poem: Μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω ᾿Αχιλῆος. “Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles.” I think we are so familiar with this opening that we forget it could have gone another way. Imagine knowing about Achilles as a man of rage, a demigod with superhuman strength and overflowing emotions. In art, he appears poised in a game with his cousin, killing Penthesileia, ambushing Troilos, abusing Hektor’s body. His rage may have been primarily known as a reaction to the death of Patroklos (in the Iliad) or over Antilokhos (in the lost Aethiopis). The opening line could have introduced any number of a range of stories.
Here’s a translation of the proem:
Goddess, sing the rage of Achilles, the son of Peleus, The ruinous [rage] which made countless griefs for the Achaeans And sent many stout souls to Hades And made the heroes’ bodies pickings for the dogs And all the birds, while Zeus’ plan was being fulfilled, From the time indeed when those two first stood apart in conflict The son of Atreus, lord of men, and shining Achilles.
Note how new details are added with each line. We don’t actually hear who suffers from Achilles’ rage until halfway through the second line. Audiences hearing this version of the story of Achilles’ rage may not have been shocked at its focus, but they certainly would have been clued in to the fact that this song is not necessarily about the death of a friend. This is a poem about Achilles’ anger against his own people and the deaths he causes among them. It becomes about his friend’s death because Achilles causes it.
Achilles receiving his armor from his mother. 520 BC (Allard Pierson Museum inv. 13.346)
So let’s go back to book 10. Or, let’s start a little earlier: book 8 ends a day of fighting with the trojans camping outside their city for the first time in the war. This act prompts Agamemnon to suggest going home, but results in political assembly and council to send the embassy to Achilles. This action and the embassy itself is a product of a political consensus, of group activity. When Achilles refuses, the group does not fracture. The main players—Diomedes, Nestor, Odysseus, and Agamemnon—maintain the Achaean coalition despite Achilles’ absence.
Book 10 continues this long night and the action of book 9. Everyone else goes to sleep, but Agamemnon stays away, stressed about what he’s going to do. He tosses, looking from the Trojan fires to the ships, and calls Nestor to make a plan to protect the Greeks. Nestor gathers the captains together and suggests reconnaissance to see if the Trojans are really going to stay outside the walls. He offers a small prize and the promise of glory in exchange, after describing the task. Diomedes volunteers: a bunch of others do too, but Diomedes picks Odysseus.
Contrast this with what happens on the Trojan side: Hektor is depicted as keeping the Trojans awake at night, calling the best of them together, and then starting with a promise of pay, a “big gift”: the best horses among the Achaeans. Hektor does this without support from a council; Dolon goes forward alone, without help, wholly motivated by the promise of the prize he will receive in return.
These scenes contrast in the way that the assemblies of book 7 do: they show a more collective-focused, collaborative leadership for the Achaean than the authoritarian, limited politics of the Trojans. In this case, in particular, the outcomes of the actions matter as much as the characterization. Dolon’s isolation and vulnerability contrasts with Diomedes and Odysseus.
And his ‘swift feet’ but “wicked form” (ὃς δή τοι εἶδος μὲν ἔην κακός, ἀλλὰ ποδώκης) may just be a subtle commentary on Achilles, who stands alone during book 10 while his people face the danger he put them in. As a method of ‘advancing the Iliad,” this certainly engages critically with the epic’s themes of politics and heroism. I think it may also engage with the “rage of Achilles” as well. As Lenny Muellner, my first Greek teacher, argues in his book The Anger of Achillesthat mênis is a sanctioning response against the violation of cosmic order—and for Achilles it separates him from friendship, from friends. Dolon’s echoing of Achilles may thus be far from accidental: book 10 provides another opportunity to reflect on the importance of communities and friendship.
Like Achilles, Dolon stands alone. Unlike Achilles, he meets a quick death, because, while he may be swift-footed, but he’s far from divine. And the point of book 10 is in part thinking through these contrasts.
Bibliography on book 10 and the Doloneia
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Davidson, Olga Merck. “Dolon and Rhesus in the ‘Iliad.’” Quaderni Urbinati Di Cultura Classica 1 (1979): 61–66. https://doi.org/10.2307/20538562.
Dué, Casey, and Mary Ebbott. 2010. Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary. Hellenic Studies Series 39. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Fenik, B. 1964. Iliad X and the Rhesus: The Myth. Collection Latomus 73. Brussels.
Haft, Adele J. “‘The City-Sacker Odysseus’ in Iliad 2 and 10.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 120 (1990): 37–56. https://doi.org/10.2307/283977.
Stagakis, George. “DOLON, ODYSSEUS AND DIOMEDES IN THE ‘DOLONEIA.’” Rheinisches Museum Für Philologie 130, no. 3/4 (1987): 193–204. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41233632.
STEINER, D. “‘Wolf’s Justice’: The Iliadic Doloneia and the Semiotics of Wolves.” Classical Antiquity 34, no. 2 (2015): 335–69. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26362659.
West. M.L. 2011. The Making of the Iliad: Disquisition and Analytical Commentary. Oxford.
As I write about in my first post on book 10, the so-called Doloneia has given interpreters fits (why is it there at all?), but I think there are very, very good reasons to consider it part of the whole. One structural reason I argue there, is that it provides a rest and a bit of anticipation of what will come when the fighting begins again. I think there are also important thematic and compositional reasons to consider it an integral part of the Iliad.
In their commentary on book 10 of the Iliad, Casey Dué and Mary Ebbott do a great job of teasing out the meaning available from each phrase. As they discuss in their introduction, the character of Dolon, who appears as the Trojan spy in book 10, is not well-established in the tradition. Part of the way we know that is that he is introduced with a somewhat enigmatic, but detailed passage. Homeric speech introductions can be formulaic—in a way, they are a kind of type scene signaling what kind of speech should be expected. But within the regular patterns, we find room for new, even strange information. When I teach Homer, I tell students to pay particular attention to introductions because they bring in surprising yet almost always relevant information.
In television we have the concept of a ‘red-shirt’, a character from Star Trek who appears and dies shortly after being introduced. Some of them are like NPCs (non-player characters) with barely a name, but others receive longer stories, narratives that engage with the larger story in a way. Dolon’s introduction is a good example of a kind of Homeric redshirt (but he probably deserves some description that rates him a little higher than such disposable characters). And his introduction also helps us think about Homeric composition. In particular it illustrates how characterization within a speech can be anticipated by the introduction.
Hom. Iliad 10.314-317
“There was among the Trojans a certain son of Eumedes, The divine herald, a man all about gold, all about bronze, Dolon. He was pretty base in form, but fleet-footed, But he was the only son after five sisters. Then he spoke among the Trojans and to Hektor. Hektor my heart and proud spirit urges me To go near the shift ships and learn from them. But come, raise your scepter to me and swear to me That you will give the horses and the chariot decorated with bronze, Those things that usually carry the blameless son of Peleus. I won’t be a useless spy nor unaccomplished. I will go straight into the army until I come To Agamemnon’s ship where I bet that the best men Are taking counsel over their plans whether they will leave or fight.”
The line of introduction itself (ἦν δέ τις ἐν Τρώεσσι Δόλων Εὐμήδεος υἱὸς) has a bit of a meandering suddenness to it: as West notes in his commentary (2011) the opening is “the means for introducing a new character. A scholiast confirms this and then explains the details prefigure what he will do in the text.
Schol. ad Hom. bT ad Il. 10.314 ex 1-3
“There’s a need for some description to explain what is unknown about the man. Nonetheless, he is the kind of person who lusts after Achilles’ horses and turns out to be a turncoat in a little bit.”
There are three themes in this passage: the first is Dolon’s appearance (he is ugly but fast), the second is his relationship to wealth (he likes it!), and the fourth is his status as a single son with five sisters. One scholiast quips that he has so much cash because of the dowries of his sisters! West (again, 2011) suggests that this detail is important because it increases his value in a potential ransom (Cf. Dué and Ebbott: Certainly Dolon’s wealth comes into play after his capture: when he promises Diomedes and Odysseus a great ransom (10.378–381) the traditional characteristic of his wealth indicates that he could indeed pay handsomely in exchange for his life.” As Dué and Ebbott also note, the patronymic here is an indication of some kind of traditional character.
Ancient scholars draw interesting connections between Dolon’s wealth and his interest in Achilles’ horses:
Schol T. ad Hom. Il. 10.315b ex
“All about gold”: This is because he loves gold. Or because of some other boasting he performed for gold. For being wealthy also creates a longing for the raising of horses
But his appearance and his wealth are also related to his sisters and his efficacy in war:
“This shows that he is unmanly because he was raised in wealth.”
ἵνα καὶ ὡς ἐν πλούτῳ τεθραμμένος ἄνανδρος ᾖ,
Schol. In Hom. Il. 10.317b
“Because he is terribly like a woman and reckless”
ὡς γυναικοτραφὴς δειλὸς ἦν καὶ ῥιψοκίνδυνος.
Schol T. ad Hom. Il. 10.316
“He is base in his form: this is so he can sneak by you because he’s unremarkable. But he does want to be conveyed in the place of Achilles on his horses!”
As I have discussed in connection to Thersites, Greek physiognomy posits an overlap between looks and ethics. An ugly person, the logic goes, is also a bad person. In the mind of the scholiasts, Dolon’s wealth is a marker of Greed and corruption (which is a later belief rather than a Homeric one) and his greed indicates a craven or corruptible character. Again, Dué and Ebbott note “Dolon’s ugliness, by comparison, is not dwelled upon, and does not seem to provoke any particular strong reaction, whether ridicule, repulsion, or irritation.” I think this is a smart observation that points to the kakos (‘ugly, base’) perhaps more indicating a problematic character. The scholiasts take the mention of Dolon’s sisters as a potential indication that he is unmanly (or cowardly) because he was always with girls; while they also use wealth as an explanation for his character.
The striking combination of acknowledging that Dolon is ugly/base but swift-footed also binds him in some way to Achilles who receives a similar description twenty-two times in the epic (again, following Dué and Ebbott). I think this anticipates his speech in inviting us to compare him to Achilles before he makes the hubristic request of receiving the hero’s horses as a reward.
I think one could almost say that Dolon’s entire narrative is anticipated by this speech introduction and the value judgments implied therein. But this passage is not just a good overview of Homeric structures (the device of introducing a new character, value judgments for that character, anticipation of those themes) but it also implies a complexity of composition. I don’t think that we would see such correlation of speech and introduction nor such significant anticipation of a brief character’s outcome, with a passage that was not in some way repeated or traditional. What I mean by this is that the compositional ties of the Doloneia are integrated enough to suggest strongly that this is a well-structured and planned episode and has been performed on many occasions. For me, this complexity countermands any academic concern that Dolon is ‘untraditional’. (Whatever that really means: Dolon appears in unconnected images like the vase below and he is a rather different character in the Rhesus attributed to Euripides.)
Homeric poetry can introduce or adapt characters and figures to its own ends. I think Dolon here has been set up for a rather particular purpose. Dolon’s relationship to Achilles, moreover, in terms of the shared epithet and the former’s depiction as greedy and cowardly, asks us to think about heroism in response to the actions of book 9. Book 9 deconstructs our notion of Achilles as a hero and leaves us wondering what choice he will make and what he will do if he is not motivated by gold, gifts, or honor. Book 10 sets different models of heroism into play: Dolon contrasts with Diomedes and Odysseus (who are motivated by horses too, in the end!), but he also helps us think about individuals, the war, and communities. Dolon is a straight up mercenary with swift feet: his story functions to help us think about Achilles as a ‘hero’.
(If this doesn’t help explain why book 10 is important to the Iliad, I don’t know what will. Well, except for the political theme too….)
Dolon. Detail from an Attic red-figure lekythos. Louvre, 460 BCE
Bibliography on book 10 and the Doloneia
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Davidson, Olga Merck. “Dolon and Rhesus in the ‘Iliad.’” Quaderni Urbinati Di Cultura Classica 1 (1979): 61–66. https://doi.org/10.2307/20538562.
Dué, Casey, and Mary Ebbott. 2010. Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary. Hellenic Studies Series 39. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Fenik, B. 1964. Iliad X and the Rhesus: The Myth. Collection Latomus 73. Brussels.
Haft, Adele J. “‘The City-Sacker Odysseus’ in Iliad 2 and 10.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 120 (1990): 37–56. https://doi.org/10.2307/283977.
Stagakis, George. “DOLON, ODYSSEUS AND DIOMEDES IN THE ‘DOLONEIA.’” Rheinisches Museum Für Philologie 130, no. 3/4 (1987): 193–204. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41233632.
STEINER, D. “‘Wolf’s Justice’: The Iliadic Doloneia and the Semiotics of Wolves.” Classical Antiquity 34, no. 2 (2015): 335–69. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26362659.
West. M.L. 2011. The Making of the Iliad: Disquisition and Analytical Commentary. Oxford.
Some things on speech framing
Beck, Deborah. “Speech Introductions and the Character Development of Telemachus.” The Classical Journal 94, no. 2 (1998): 121–41. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3298206.
Beck, Deborah. 2005. Homeric Conversation. Hellenic Studies Series 14. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Edwards, Mark W. “Homeric Speech Introductions.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 74 (1970): 1–36. https://doi.org/10.2307/310994.
Horn, Fabian. “Ἔπεα Πτερόεντα Again: A Cognitive Linguistic View on Homer’s ‘Winged Words.’” Hermathena, no. 198 (2015): 5–34. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26671604.
Riggsby, Andrew M. “Homeric Speech Introductions and the Theory of Homeric Composition.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 122 (1992): 99–114. https://doi.org/10.2307/284367.
At the beginning of book 9, Agamemnon addresses the assembly as he weeps (13-16) and repeats much of his “test” in book 2, but this time he may be serious: he really wants to go home. As the Achaeans stand silent in response, Diomedes reprimanding him:
Iliad 9.29-51
“So Agamemnon spoke and everyone sat there in silence. The sons of the Achaeans were quiet for a long time. Then finally, indeed, Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them. “Son of Atreus, I will fight with you first when you’re being foolish. This is right, lord, in the assembly. So don’t get angry at all. You have reproached my bravery among the Danaans, Calling me a coward and not a warrior. Everyone knows These things, the young and the old Argives alike. But the son of crooked minded Kronos gave you a double-sided gift: He granted that you be honored above everyone because of your scepter, But he did not grant you courage, and this is the mightiest thing of all. Godly one, do you really expect the songs of the Achaeans To all be cowards and unwarlike as you claim here in public? If your heart really urges you to go home, Then go. The road is there. Your ships are near the sea, The many ships that followed you here from Mycenae. But the rest of the long-haired Achaeans will stay here Until we sack Troy. But even if they want, let them flee In their ships back to their dear homelands. The two of us—Sthenelos and I—we will fight until we find the end Of Troy. For we came here with the god.” So he spoke, and all of the songs of the Achaeans shouted out, Praising the speech of Diomedes, the tamer of horses.
This speech has been important in looking at the politics of the Iliad and among the Achaeans in general. Richard Martin has looked at this speech and Nestor’s response as part of positioning the old Pylian as the epic’s ideal speaker (1989, 91), while Dean Hammer (2002), Elton Barker (2009) and David Elmer (2015) have seen Diomedes’ intervention as important in signaling either extant or developing rules about speech in public. In short, Diomedes can be seen as establishing the right to dissent from the king in public for the public good.
And, yet, the story isn’t as simple as that, because Nestor needs to intervene
Iliad. 9.63-65
‘Son of Tydeus, you are strong in war and in counsel you are the best among all those your age. Surely no one will reproach this speech, however many Achaians there are, nor will anyone speak back, but you have not reached the fullness of speech (télos múthôn). Really, you are young, and you could even be my child, the youngest by birth, but you utter knowing things before the kings of the Argives, since you speak according to tradition (katà moîran). But come, I, who proclaim to be older than you, will speak out and go through everything, no one will dishonor my mûthos, not even strong Agamemnon. Brotherless, lawless, and homeless is that man who longs for horrible civil war.’
Nestor’s speech reflects the danger imminent in Diomedes’ words. But his response is agile and sensitive to the situation. Nestor endorses Diomedes’ dissent while simultaneously mitigating its effects. He concedes that Diomedes has spoken katá moîran, but adds that he, who is older, will explain everything). That Nestor in no way contradicts Diomedes’ claim that it is right (thémis) to fight with a foolish leader in the assembly (agorê) implies a tacit approval of this contention.
Nestor continues with a subtle affirmation of and remonstration with Tydeus’ son—he diminishes Diomedes’ standing, appropriates his words, and amplifies his own position before he proceeds to advise. He does this by first reasserting the importance of his age—he compliments Diomedes, but reminds him that, by virtue of his youth, he is inferior in boulê. Nestor, however, hedges his compliments with one reservation: Diomedes’ has not reached the télosmúthôn.
What does this phrase mean? The A scholia gloss it as “you will not place a completion on your words” (Schol. A Il. 9.56 ex. 1-2. Cf. Schol. D Il. 9.56 ex. 3-8.). Cedric Whitman suggests that Nestor criticizes Diomedes for stopping short, that there is more to be said (1958, 167). One implication is that Diomedes fails to do what Nestor does, namely, to dissolve the assembly and cope with Agamemnon’s crisis in the council of kings where he proposes clear and pragmatic alternatives to Agamemnon’s foolishness. This suggestion is echoed by the D scholia (Schol. D Il. 9.56 ex. 3-8).
A scarcity of parallels inhibits a complete analysis of the phrase télosmúthôn, but there are enough to make a start. Martin’s refinement of the meaning of mûthos as either a command/proposal, or a boast/threat provides a useful starting point. Near the end of book 9 (9.625) Ajax tells Odysseus that the embassy should leave because there will not be a a completion or fulfillment of the mûthos (Nestor’s plan to propitiate Achilles), i.e., it will not achieve its intended perlocutionary effect. In book 16, Achilles requests for Patroklos to assent to his words and follow his plan completely (16.83:). In book 19 Agamemnon’s Hera taunts Zeus by claiming that he will not place a télos on his mûthos (107), which also signals a completion or fulfillment of the proposal/plan made in his speech (that a son, born that day, would reign among men). Again, in book 20, Hektor assures the Trojans that Achilles will not bring a completion to his plans or threats (369). Finally, in book 16, when Patroklos tells Meriones to stop taunting since “the télos of war is in hands, and the télos of words in council” (16.630) it seems that words find their télos (in an Aristotelian sense) in council.
Athenian Ostrakon (piece of pottery inscribed with the name of a politician proposed for exile by popular vote, the so-called “ostracism”). This specimens propose the name of Xanthippos, who was submitted to the vote in the 484 BC. On display in the Ancient Agora Museum in Athens, housed in the Stoa of Attalus. Picture by Giovanni Dall’Orto, November 9 2009.
The “fullness of múthoi” implies a recognition of traditional “rules” of critical speech, including identity of speaker, propriety of speech-type and accord with speech-context as well as an emphasis on the outcome of the speech, that a “full” mûthos in the context of the assembly offers a plan in such a way that the speaker achieves his intended effect and contributes to social cohesion. Nestor’s subsequent words offer supporting details for these rules.
First, Nestor takes great pains to remind Diomedes of his youth. While declaring the unassailability of his own words, Nestor implies that Diomedes is “out of line” because of his age. Second, Nestor’s remarkably strong condemnation of civil strife evokes the destabilizing threat of Diomedes’ dissent. The social context (in front of the whole assembly) of Diomedes’ criticism represents a threat to the social order (but, surely, no less a threat than Agamemnon’s cowardice represents to the safety of the army). Finally, Nestor’s own words are instructive for what Diomedes should have done. In his speech he dissolves the assembly and calls for Agamemnon to hold a boulê, and it is there where he is critical of the king and formulates a course of action.
Thus, I believe that the phrase télos múthôn conveys an array of meanings. On one level, Nestor may imply that Diomedes’ “plan” to take Troy alone is untenable. On another, the phrase conveys traditional guidelines or limits on the use of speech. Such criticism of the commander-in-chief in the context of the assembly is dangerous for the Achaians and may be beyond the acceptable norm for the youngest of the gérontes. Diomedes’ challenge has the potential to confuse the assembly and further destabilize Achaian authority. Rather than allow another argument (Achilles and Agamemnon in book 1) or leaving space for a negative appraisal of the king (Thersites) Nestor, as neutrally as possible, ends the assembly and deals with Agamemnon in the more private context of the council.
As I argue in a few places, I believe that the Iliad uses Diomedes to demonstrate how a younger man may develop into a stronger role through public speaking. For illustration, I include a brief summary of his story:
(1) Diomedes (implicitly) witnesses the actions and speeches of Iliad 1-3
(2) D. shows he knows the appropriate parameters for political and martial speech (Il. 4)
(3) D. practices public speech and is acclaimed by all the Achaians in his refusal of Paris’ offer to return the gifts but not Helen (7.400-2). Acclamation (7.403-4)
(4) D. practices public speech in criticizing Agamemnon and is acclaimed by all (9.50-1) but is criticized by Nestor for not reaching the télosmúthôn (9.53-62). Acclamation (9.50-1)
(5) D. practices public speech in reaction to Achilles’ rejection of the assembly (9.697-709) and is acclaimed by all the kings. Acclamation (9.710-11)
(6) D. volunteers to go on a nocturnal spying mission during the council of kings and is encouraged by Agamemnon to choose any companion he wants regardless of nobility (10.219-39)
(7) D. executes public critical speech and offers a plan (14.110-32). He is obeyed by all the kings and departs from the epic as a speaker. Acclamation (14.133)
Note the increasing political impact of Diomedes’ speeches and the corresponding development in who approves his oratory.
When we talk about freedom of speech, it is political: it is dissent from the status quo. It also functions to reinforce who matters within a community. In the earliest Ancient Greek reflection on public speech, the right to dissent is essential when the Iliad’s Agamemnon brings a plague upon his people and Achilles challenges. Of course, the story is complex: Thersites in the second book is prevented by who he is from criticizing the king. His body, his voice, his departure from normal conventions and appearance, disqualify him from making the very same arguments Achilles made in book 1. In contrast, the Achilles-replacement Diomedes asserts in book 9 that it is right to argue with a foolish king in public.
From what we now call Classical Greece, we find parrhêsia, what a modern free speech advocate might call “frank and open debate”—for criticizing your friends in private and also for expressing unpopular opinions in public for the benefit of the state. In addition, “equal access to public speech” (isêgoria) promises that each citizen be given that opportunity. Sure, speech that is just about one’s own opinion–or personal brand–is ‘protected’ in the U.S., but is it sacred in the way so many claim?
Any notion of free speech from this perspective is rooted in its contribution to the public good. But who gets to contribute is constrained by who counts. In the Iliad, the ugly and disabled Thersites is beaten for speaking freely. In the United States, cries lamenting lost freedom of speech have long been rooted in supporting the status quo rather than increasing and encouraging political participation. Consider how the chartering of the right to political speech in the Iliad is explored within the frame of balancing the character of the body of the speaker against the safety of the body politic.
Terracotta column-krater (bowl for mixing wine and water). Attributed to the Group of Boston 00.348. ca. 360–350 BCE
A Short bibliography on Diomedes
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Andersen, Öivind. 1978. Die Diomedesgestalt in der Ilias. Oslo.
Barker, Elton T. E. “Achilles’ Last Stand: Institutionalising Dissent in Homer’s Iliad.” PCPS 50 (2004) 92-120.
—,—. Entering the Agôn: Dissent and Authority in Homer, Historiography and Tragedy. Oxford, 2009.
Burgess, Jonathan. 2001. The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle. Baltimore.
—,—. 2009. The Death and Afterlife of Achilles. Baltimore.
Christensen, Joel P. 2009. “The End of Speeches and a Speech’s End: Nestor, Diomedes, and the telos muthôn.” in Kostas Myrsiades (ed.). Reading Homer: Film and Text. Farleigh Dickinson University Press, 136-62.
Christensen, Joel P. and Barker, Elton T. E.. “On not remembering Tydeus: Agamemnon, Diomedes and the contest for Thebes.” Materiali e Discussioni per l’Analisi dei Testi Classici, no. 66, 2011, pp. 9-44.
Christensen, Joel P. 2015. “Diomedes’ Foot-wound and the Homeric Reception of Myth.” In Diachrony, Jose Gonzalez (ed.). De Gruyter series, MythosEikonPoesis. 2015, 17–41.
Gantz, Timothy. 1993. Early Greek Myth. Baltimore.
Griffin, Jasper. 1980. Homer on Life and Death. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
—,—.2001. “The Epic Cycle and the Uniqueness of Homer.” in Cairns 2001: 363-84.
Hammer, Dean.“‘Who Shall Readily Obey?” Authority and Politics in the Iliad.” Phoenix 51 (1997) 1-24.
—,—. “The Politics of the Iliad.” CJ (1998) 1-30.
—,—. The Iliad as Politics: The Performance of Political Thought. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2002.
Irene J. F. de Jong. “Convention versus Realism in the Homeric Epics.” Mnemosyne 58, no. 1 (2005): 1–22. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4433613.
Kakridis, Johannes Th. 1949. Homeric Researches. Lund.
Kakridis, Phanis, J. 1961. “Achilles’ Rüstung.” Hermes 89: 288-97.
Lohmann, Dieter. 1970. Dieter Lohmann. Die Komposition der Reden in der Ilias. Berlin.
Mühll, Peter von der. 1952. Kritisches Hypomena zur Ilias. Basel.
Nagy, Gregory. 1979. The Best of the Achaeans. Baltimore.
Nickel, Roberto. 2002. “Euphorbus and the Death of Achilles.” Phoenix 56: 215-33.
Pache, Corinne. 2009. “The Hero Beyond Himself: Heroic Death in Ancient Greek Poetry and Art.” in Sabine Albersmeir (ed.). Heroes: Mortals and Myths in ancient Greece. Baltimore (Walters Art Museum): 89-107.
Redfield, James. 1994. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hektor. Chicago.
—,—. 2001. “A ‘Beautiful Death’ and the Disfigured Corpse.” in Cairns 2001: 311-41.
Rose, P. W. “Thersites and the Plural Voices of Homer.” Arethusa 21 (1988) 5-25.
—,—. “Ideology in the Iliad: Polis, Basileus, Theoi.” Arethusa 30 (1997) 151-99.
“They came to the dwellings and the ships of the Myrmidons And they found [Achilles] delighting his heart with the clear-voiced lyre, A finely wrought one which was silver on the bridge, The one he chose as a prize after sacking the city of Êetiôn. He delighted his heart with that and sang the famous stories of men. But Patroklos sat alone opposite him in silence, Waiting for time when the grandson of Aiakos would stop his songs.”
What is Achilles doing here? One ancient author believed that he was taking Taylor Swift’s advice and calming down:
Aelian, Varia Historia 14.23 Achilles plays the Lyre to Calm his Rage
“Kleinias was serious in his manner and he was a Pythagorean in his philosophical training. If he was ever driven towards rage or had a sense of getting hot-headed, immediately before he became too overwhelmed with anger and before it was clear it was coming, he picked up the lyre and began to play. In response to people asking what the reason for this was, he responded melodiously, “I am calming myself”. Achilles in the Iliad seems to me to put his rage sleep when he sings along to a lyre and brings reminds himself of the famous tales of former men through his song. For, since he was a musical man, he chose the lyre first out of all the spoils.”
Aelian’s interpretation is interesting in part because it makes sense—Achilles is often seen as resting, or taking up time with the singing. But modern interpretations put a lot more weight into Achilles’ words, and what exactly it means to sing the “famous stories of men” (kléa andrôn). Ancient authors seemed to see the poetry as providing a source of wisdom.
Schol. A ad.Il. 9.189b ex. 1-2
“Klea andrôn: [this is because] it is right to be ever-mindful of good men. For singers make their audiences wise through ancient narratives.”
The context of book 9 of the Iliad provides another opportunity to think about the function of the kléa andrôn. My dissertation advisor, David Sider was the first person I heard argue that Achilles was singing through the kléa andrôn in order to try to figure out his course of action. That is, Achilles is singing through other heroic narratives trying to figure out what to do next.
This is partly confirmed later when Phoenix chastises Achilles by saying: “This is not what we have heard before in the famous stories of men/ heroes, whenever a powerful anger overtook someone” (οὕτω καὶ τῶν πρόσθεν ἐπευθόμεθα κλέα ἀνδρῶν / ἡρώων, ὅτε κέν τιν’ ἐπιζάφελος χόλος ἵκοι, 9.524-5). And in the Odyssey, the same phrase is used to indicate Demodokos’ ability to sing songs from the Trojan War, right before he sings about the conflict between Odysseus and Achilles. (Μοῦσ’ ἄρ’ ἀοιδὸν ἀνῆκεν ἀειδέμεναι κλέα ἀνδρῶν, 8.73)
This is not the only time that epic implies Achilles is using earlier narratives for self-comparison. So, the basic suggestion is that the phrase kléa andrôn is a metonym for tales from myth or epic and that Achilles is not merely entertaining himself but, just as Phoenix invites him to consider the lessons from “the famous stories of men” as precedents to help correct his behavior, Achilles is singing in order to figure out where his story fits in the pantheon of tales he knows.
But book 9 throws a bit of a curve at audiences expecting the kléa andrôn to provide a solution. The story that Phoenix tells does not push Achilles to change his mind, instead, it produces an unclear response. And I think the story Phoenix tells helps us understand storytelling within the Iliad better (along with the epic itself).
Commonly interpreted as Briseis and Phoenix (Louvre caption, Beazley); minority opinion: Hecamede mixing kykeon for Nestor
One of the models I have been using to think about how stories are used comes from a cognitive approach to literature. In his book The Literary Mind, Mark Turner argues that when we hear (or read) a story, we cannot experience the narrative created by the teller of the tale. Instead, the story unfolds in a cognitive blend in a space between the world of the narrative and the reader’s mind. What this means, in effect, is that our actual mental picture of narrative blends our own experiences and memories with the sketches we receive from stories and generates a new thing, a tale wholly in our own minds.
I think that this model of understanding narrative helps to explain a lot of the asymmetric correspondences between tellers, audiences, and tales in Homer. This helps also to frame devices like similes that shift and move between the opening and the close of the comparison and often blend characteristics of the tenor (the thing compared) and the vehicle (the comparison). In the case of paradeigmata (stories meant to persuade) it can also help us understand what happens when people try to use a tale: the teller has an idea for what the story should do to his audience, but it does something else.
One thing to start with here, is that Phoenix already seems to make significant changes to his tale. He offers Achilles the story about Meleager, set in the narrative of the Calydonian Boar Hunt, but as part of an internecine conflict that really doesn’t figure much in the narrative’s more well known arc (sound familiar, Iliad?). Traditionally, the hunt is a tale of heroes banding together to kill a massive boar, devolving into a conflict over the spoils when Meleager, the young prince of the city, tries to give the boar’s hide to the heroine Atalanta. In rage, Meleager’s mother, Althaia, destroys a log that is tied to Meleager’s life force, resulting in his death. In some accounts, there’s even a prophecy that Meleager would lose his life if he fought his uncles.
There is some pretty clear evidence that Phoenix is attempting to create a particular narrative blend of the story and his world for Achilles. In his tale, Meleager sits out of the conflict until even his wife, Kleopatra—a clear inversion of Patroklos’ name—asks him to join the battle. In addition, according to Phoinix, Meleager ignored the promises of gifts, had to fight anyway, and ended up laboring without recompense. Phoenix ends by telling Achilles to “think about this” (9.600), warning him that he too will end up fighting without honor. The surprise for Phoenix? Achilles tells him he does not care about the gifts and threatens to leave for home in the morning.
Phoinix frames his narrative with explicit invitations to make comparisons between the experiences of his addressee and that of the central character in his story. He offers a specific interpretation that Achilles rejects because Achilles is likely taking a different lesson from the narrative (to stay out of battle because he does not want the goods or the social obligations they imply). This exchange, then, features both how storytellers adapt stories to the experiences of the audiences and also how audiences misread or reread the stories through their own perspectives as they create their own narrative blend.
Painter of Munich 2243 (Heesen) – period / date: ripe archaic, ca. 550 BC
Phoenix’s tale has been understood as something of a failure—that is, that Achilles does not hear Phoinix’s tale or that it was somehow the wrong story. Instead, I think that Achilles hears Phoinix’s story and takes his lesson to heart: he does not want to accept Agamemnon’s apology or his gifts. But he also does not want to abandon the war entirely. So, he takes Meleager as a positive model instead of a negative one. He actively shapes the meaning of the tale by imagining himself in a different version of it.
Barker, Elton T. E., and Joel P. Christensen. 2019. Homer’s Thebes: Epic Rivalries and the Appropriation of Mythical Pasts. Hellenic Studies Series 84. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Compton, Todd M. 2006. Victim of the Muses: Poet as Scapegoat, Warrior and Hero in Greco-Roman and Indo-European Myth and History. Hellenic Studies Series 11. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
Finlay, Robert. “Patroklos, Achilleus, and Peleus: Fathers and Sons in the ‘Iliad.’” The Classical World 73, no. 5 (1980): 267–73. https://doi.org/10.2307/4349196.
Garcia, Lorenzo F., Jr. 2013. Homeric Durability: Telling Time in the Iliad. Hellenic Studies Series 58. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
González, José M. 2013. The Epic Rhapsode and His Craft: Homeric Performance in a Diachronic Perspective. Hellenic Studies Series 47. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.
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.
One debate that attends Iliad 9, but which speaks more to issues of Homeric composition than the interpretation of book 9 as we have it, are the forms of the words that describe the movement of the heralds and the embassy from the Achaean camp in general to Achilles’ dwellings. The passage where this occurs shows what appears to be an inconsistent use of word forms, mixing dual and plural forms in a way that makes it unclear to whom is being referred.
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 friendstwo have come–the need must be great, When these two [come] who are dearest of the Achaeans to me, even when I am angry.”
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:
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)
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
The dual herald scene is merely formulaic and has been left in without regard for changes in the evolution of the narrative
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)
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.”
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.
Louvre, G146The embassy to Achilles (book 9 of the Iliad). Red-figure Attic skyphos, ca. 480 BC.
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.
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.
Book 9 is the first time since the breakdown in Iliad 1 that Homer’s audience gets to see Achilles. A great deal of the action–especially the violence–of the last eight books has been to honor Zeus’ promise to Achilles to make the Achaeans suffer for allowing him to be dishonored. I think the expectation set up by the epic from its first book is that Achilles will return to fight, once his feelings are appropriately assuaged. Indeed, Athena appears to set such a scenario up in book 1:
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.”
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).
Ajax and Achilles playing a board game. Black-figure olpai. Capitoline Museum, C. 530 BCE
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 20th 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 21st 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.
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.
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.
As I discussed in the general post on book 8, this book is bookended by speeches from Zeus. Book 8 invites some conclusion because its structure seems rather dissolute or unsure: between Zeus’ speeches is a confusing battle scene that starts with Nestor wrecking his chariot and Diomedes rescuing him, near the end of the book, Hektor reigns supreme and nearly kills Nestor and Diomedes. On either side of this action, Hera and Athena flirt with intervening before Zeus’ stops them and rearticulates the plot.
In important ways, these scenes prepare us for the crisis that motivates the return to Achilles in book 9; but they also act somewhat retrospectively, reinforcing the the themes of the epic’s first third, including Zeus’ control over the action, his managing of the other gods’ defense, and the raising up of other Achaeans, like Diomedes and Nestor, in the face of a vacuum of leadership. Such recapitulations and thematic ‘turning’, I suggest, supports the idea that book 8 is something of a potential stopping point in performance. Even if such thematic reinforcement does not exclusively serve the halting of a performance, at the very least it refocuses the plot on the “plan of Zeus”, the suffering of the Achaeans, and the absence of Achilles.
Such arguments for narrative coherence, however, have often met resistance in Homeric scholarship. In his article “On the “Importance of Iliad book 8”, Erwin cook addresses the scene where Diomedes rescues Nestor from his wrecked chariot. As he notes, many have argued that the scene is modeled on something allegedly included in the lost poem the Aithiopis and that, since the Aithiopis was ‘later’ than the Iliad, that this scene is not a proper part of book 8 and is therefore some sort of a later addition (an interpolation). Cook shows how this book reminds audiences of Zeus’ plan for Achilles and activates the theme of grief (Homeric akhos) repeatedly in its service. He concludes “Homer has marshaled the considerable resources at his disposal, including his inherited traditions and narrative art, with the twin objectives of inspiring akhos in his audience and thereby heightening the emotional drama of the pivotal scene that leads to the embassy to Akhilleus in the next book.”
The late Martin West, probably one of the most famous and successful Hellenists in the Anglophone world over the past two or generations, became a strong proponent of Neoanalysis in the latter part of his career. This approach takes its final form in the two Making of.. Books publishing by Oxford (Making of the Iliad and The Making of the Odyssey), which set out to isolate the ‘original’ version of each poem as it was composed (even written) by individual poets, before the texts were ruined by editors and later scholars. (Not to mention time…). While West’s brilliance as an editor and commentator (his editions of Hesiod have not been surpassed in 60 years) certainly gained these arguments an immediate audience, their reception was not universally positive. In a review of his Iliad book, Bruce Heiden starts by quipping “Despite its misleading title, The Making of the Iliad is not about the Iliad. Its subject matter is an unattested, completely imaginary archaic Greek hexameter poem whose development as a work-in-progress M. L. West sketches in some detail.”
West’s approach is likely the most extreme version of a resuscitation of the analytical approach to Homer. This approach was dominant in the 19th century as scholars struggled with inconsistencies in epic language and plot and the vicissitudes of textual transmission. The scholarship of this school was so rigorous and convincing that by the 1920s, the opposing “Unitarians” were largely discredited as romantics and fools. Of course, the rise of oral-formulaic theory with the work of Milman Parry and Albert Lord changed this story by providing a different way to think about the art of Homeric language and composition. But West would not be the only scholar and reader frustrated by the next half-century of work endeavoring to explore or “prove” Homeric orality.
Mycenaean potery krater decorated with a horse-drawn chariot, 1350-1300 BC (LH IIIa2). Found in Tomb 70, Enkomi, Cyprus. British Museum, GR 1897.4-1.1113. BM Cat Vases C340.
At one significant level, the return to neoanalysis provides permission to think about the way the Homeric epics we have were influenced by other story traditions (in part, the topic of my book with Elton Barker, Homer’s Thebes). As is clear from Cook’s discussion of the chariot scene in Iliad 8, the Iliad is replete with scenes that echo, draw on, or otherwise engage with what we think we know from other narrative traditions. There are, however, significant challenges to this approach: First, there’s a circularity in what we know about these traditions because they are by and large preserved as part of the commentary tradition on the Iliad and the Odyssey (by which I mean the majority of what we know about poems from the epic cycle and other epic traditions remain only in connection with the Homeric epics).
Second, there is a danger to the assumption that a shared narrative pattern necessarily shows direct connection. As Elton and I argue in our first article together (“Flight Club….”), a shared element could be evidence of influence in either direction, of both traditions drawing on a common antecedent, or, as is more likely, of something much more complicated. In an oral performance tradition, different versions of stories play off one another, creating similarity and difference in a cycle whose end products are nearly impossible to disentangle. Neoanalysis–like analysis before it–can yield a simplistic judgment on relationships between texts: “The level of specificity and correspondence assumed by neoanalytical studies relies on levels of fixity and repetition characteristic of literary texts and not oral traditions.” (As we put it in Homer’s Thebes see Marks 2008:9–11 criticizes neoanalysis for a diachronic approach that betrays a “source and recipient model” (10))
Now, this is not to claim by any means that neoanalysis has little to offer. A sophisticated approach to the relationship between poetic traditions can demonstrate quite effectively how shared diction, motifs, and narrative patterns are used to create different narrative traditions. There is, I think, ample space for a performance based kind of analytical reading of ancient myth and poetry. And I think some scholars like Bruno Currie or Thomas Nelson are nearing that (even if the reliance on allusion gives me the screaming fantods). One of the things that is interesting about neoanalysis is a tendency to try to “establish the priority of the non-Homeric material” ( Kelly 2012:227).
In general, I have no qualms with showing Homeric poetry stands at the end of a tradition rather than the beginning (because, well, I think it works that way). My wariness comes more from the positivistic approach that identifies Homer with something we don’t have, except in scholarship on Homer, and resides as well in prizing a one-to-one correspondence between a passage in Homer and another text without considering the steps in between, the various versions of either tradition that may have existed, or other lost narratives that shaped the Homeric ones we are trying to contextualize. Such a process at worst can result in an inscrutable parallelomania; most of the time, it models a simplistic kind of interpretation that ignores too much of what we have learned about orality and human cognition.
But the primary qualm I have developed with neoanalysis and similar approaches over the years is that it is too firmly situated in the business of authorship and too little concerned with the experiences of audiences. This is, to a great extent, my discomfort with the language of allusion as well: in its worst examples, the identification of allusion functions to illustrate the cleverness and knowledge of the critic beyond the realistic operations of the narrative. Neoanalysis and similar approaches do too little to show to what extent audiences were aware of similarities between performed texts. They engage in what I playfully deride as “supply side poetics”, imagining that the full weight of the meaning of poetry comes from what the author wanted it to mean and not from what audiences are willing and able to entertain.
In Homer’s Thebes Elton and I have a home-made graphic illustrating the way meaning making is modeled here: it leaves too little room for audience engagement, misinterpretation, and the mechanics of reception. In addition, it is too insensitive to the potential for multiple versions of ‘traditional’ narratives building off one another, cannibalizing themselves, and competing for attention in an iterative process.
When it comes to Iliad 8, the structure seems to so well articulate prior themes and set the audience up for the return to the political themes of book 9. Note as well that Diomedes and Nestor are crucial to the beginning of that book, too, creating a bridge between the human action of books 8 and 9. Zeus and Hektor are similarly absent from the later book, despite the clear influence they still wield over its action. It is interesting to consider how these plots may have been similar to other stories, but I think one can see that audiences can enjoy the Iliad without any knowledge of this controversy at all.
Almost as if Homeric epic transcends the need for any other stories at all….
Short bibliography on Neoanalysis
n.b this is not an exhaustive bibliography. If you’d like anything else included, please let me know.
Burgess, Jonathan. “Beyond Neo-Analysis: Problems with the Vengeance Theory.” The American Journal of Philology 118, no. 1 (1997): 1–19. http://www.jstor.org/stable/1562096.
Cook, Erwin F. “On the ‘Importance’ of Iliad Book 8.” Classical Philology 104, no. 2 (2009): 133–61.
Currie, B. 2016. Homer’s Allusive Art. Oxford.
Danek, G. 1998. Epos und Zitat: Studien zur Quellen der Odyssee. Vienna.
Kakridis, J. T. 1949. Homeric Researches. Lund.
Kelly, A. 2006. “Neoanalysis and the Nestorbedrängnis: A Test Case.” Hermes 134: 1–25.
Kelly, Adrian. 2007. A Referential Commentary and Lexicon to Homer, “Iliad” VIII. Oxford.
Kelly, Adrian. 2012. “The Mourning of Thetis: ‘Allusion’ and the Future in the Iliad.” In F. Montanari, A. Rengakos, and C. Tsagalis, 211–256. Leiden.
Kullmann, W. 1960. Die Quellen der Ilias. Wiesbaden.
———. 1984. “Oral Poetry Theory and Neoanalysis in Homeric Research.” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 25:307–324.
Kullmann, Wolfgang. “Gods and Men in the Iliad and the Odyssey.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 89 (1985): 1–23. https://doi.org/10.2307/311265.
———. 2002. “Nachlese zur Neoanalyse.” In Realität, Imagination und Theorie, ed. A. Rengakos, 162–176. Stuttgart.
Marks, J. R. 2008. Zeus in the Odyssey. Hellenic Studies 31. Washington, DC.
Nelson, Thomas J. 2023. Markers of Allusion in Archaic Greek Poetry. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press).
READY, JONATHAN L. Review of NEOANALYSIS AND HOMER, by F. Montanari, A. Rengakos, and C. Tsagalis. The Classical Review 63, no. 2 (2013): 321–23. http://www.jstor.org/stable/43301410.
WEST, MARTIN. “The Homeric Question Today.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 155, no. 4 (2011): 383–93. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23208780.
Willcock, M. M. . 1997. “Neo-Analysis.” In Morris and Powell 1997:174–189.
Book 8 offers us our third vision of Hektor in as many books. In book 6, he takes us inside the city of Troy as he speaks to his mother, Helen, and Andromache. Book 7 shows him challenging Ajax to a duel before returning the focus on the city itself. In book 8, Hektor (eventually) takes control of the battlefield and leads the Trojans to remain outside the city walls over night for the first time in the war (according to the Iliad).
At first glance, Hektor seems to be one of the epic’s most straightforward characters: he is the leader of the Trojan war effort, a father and husband, and brother to the prince who started the conflict. The Greeks almost unanimously describe him as a danger on the field: Achilles evokes this by calling him “man-slaying Hektor” from the beginning. And his named-murder count supports his menace: he kills the most named heroes of everyone in the epic. But from our perspective, the Iliadic presentation isn’t without question: Hektor fails to match up to Ajax and Diomedes and ultimately runs when faced with Achilles.
This particular Hektor may be more complex than a stock Trojan leader from the mythical tradition. Compare, for example, the Hektor depicted in Euripides’ Rhesos: he is much more menacing and authoritarian—to the point of being tyrannical—than the Iliad version. Homer’s Hektor wistfully wishes for his son’s future, upbraids and then humors his brother, and is eulogized at the end of the epic as the only Trojan who was kind to Helen. Over a century ago, J. A. Scott argued that the remarkable nature of Hektor’s character was because he was a Homeric innovation, central and special to our Iliad. F. M. Combellack, writing decades later, diagnosed that much of this argument was based on Scott’s own love for the Trojan hero.
Indeed, readers seem to respond to Hektor: I frequently hear that he is the one noble character in the epic, the one person we root for no matter what. (There’s something about our psychological attraction for the victim, for the oppressed here, but I will leave that for another time). James Redfield and Lynn Kozak have both written about Hektor’s character in different ways, but I think both of them get something right: Hektor is different from all of the other characters in the epic.
I used to try to explain that difference with students by saying that Hektor isn’t divine like Achilles or surpassingly clever like Odysseus—he is closer to what a decent person can hope to be: steadfast and strong in the face of adversity, loyal and dear to his family. At the core, he is a clear instantiation of that archaic definition of justice, to help one’s friends and hurt his family. At the core, however, there’s a sadness, a withdrawal to Hektor. And I think we find this in his language, and his resistance to it.
Hilary Mackie (1996, 11 and 107-9) positions Hektor as the archetypal Trojan speaker even though many features of his speeches are idiosyncratic. He is intensely concerned with his fame (kléos) and frequently imagines other people talking about him. His imagination produces a capacity for self-delusion, a desire for a different world, as he is forever trying to fit the world to his words with impossible wishes and paradoxical desires (8.165-6, 179 and 196-7). Hektor does not “converse” normally. Frequently he commands a subordinate or family member and then leaves without response (6.116, 6.286, 6.369, 6.494-5, 6.529-7.1, 12.442 and 17.491.); Hektor often reacts only with action, cf. 3.75, 5.493, 6.342, 12.80, 13.787, 20.379, 22.78, and 22.91). This summary of Hektor, however, goes against our typical emotional responses.
Il. 8.529-542
“But let’s keeps ourselves safe out here for the night, Then at first light we will arm ourselves and Wake up sharp Ares alongside the grey ships. I will find out then if Tydeus’ son, strong Diomedes, Will push me back to the wall from the ships Or if I will savage him with bronze and carry away his bloody weapons.
Tomorrow will show the proof of our excellence, if he will stand To face my spear’s approach. But I think that he will fall there Struck among the first ranks and many of his companions Will be there around him as the sun sets toward the next dear. But I wish I were deathless and ageless for all time, Then I would pay them back as Athena or Apollo might, And now on this day bring evil to the Argives.”
So Hektor spoke and the Trojans cheered in response.
This is typical of Hektor’s speeches: he expresses an eagerness to fight that nears being boastful; like many Trojan speakers committed to the either/or proposition of kill or be killed. But he rallies his people. His wish to be immortal isn’t praised in the scholia: (“Praying for the impossible is barbaric” βαρβαρικὸν τὸ εὔχεσθαι τὰ ἀδύνατα, Schol. bT ad Hom. Il. 8.538-539b). Hektor’s language here evokes the ‘bipartite’ immortality that appears often in epic poetry. In Homer’s Thebes, Elton and I note:
“The quasi-magical formula with which the goddess offers Odysseus the chance to become immortal—“to be deathless and ageless for all days” (θήσειν ἀθάνατον καὶ ἀγήραον ἤματα πάντα, 5.136)—resonates through the epic cosmos. We hear it when Demeter tries to make Demophoon immortal in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter or when Eos succeeds in making Tithonus deathless but not ageless in the Hymn to Aphrodite. Homer’s Thebes 2020, 99
To see how Hektor’s wish here is different from these other instances, it is useful to look at a famous passage from a speech from Sarpedon.
Il. 12.322-328
“Oh, if the two of us could really escape this war, And would somehow become ageless and deathless, I wouldn’t fight among the foremost myself Nor would I send you into man-ennobling battling. But since death’s fates stand ready around us now Countless, those ends no mortal is permitted to escape or avoid, Let us go and give glory to someone else or take it ourselves.”
The Scholia are a little more generous to Sarpedon’s wish:
Schol bT Ad Hom. Il. 12.322-328
“This is a noble statement. For he says that death is common to all, but dying with a good reputation is only for the good. For he means to say that there’s no ultimate safety or escape from death, just a minor delay in time with ignominy.
Where Hektor imagines that if he were immortal, he would fight forever, Sarpedon imagines that if he were immortal, he would not fight at all. He most clearly articulates that essential notion of Homeric kleos, that human life has meaning because it is limited and that giving up so precious a thing, warriors may gain some qualified type of immortality through renown.
While Hektor flirts with this in his speech to the Achaeans in book 7, here in front of the Trojans he rallies them by promising that he would spend his immortality on an eternal war. Troy is fated to live only as long as Hektor lasts and fights; he imagines that his immortality might translate similarly into a city that cannot end, braced by him against a war that ever rages.
At the core of the difference between Sarpedon and Hektor is the fiction of the choice, the very one Achilles claims he has in book 9. Here’s the inescapable sadness fundamental to Hektor’s characterization. Exchanging life for glory is meaningless, if not impossible, if everyone you loves dies without you there to protect them.
British Museum E468, c. 490-460 BCE
Short bibliography on Hektor
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
Lynn Kozak, Experiencing Hektor: Character in the Iliad. Bloomsbury Classical Studies Monographs. London; New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2016. xiv, 307.
Hillary Mackie. Talking Trojan: Speech and Community in the Iliad . Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1996.
W. R. Nethercut. “Hektor at the Abyss.” Classical Bulletin 49 (1972) 7-9.
Pantelia, Maria C. “Helen and the Last Song for Hector.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-) 132, no. 1/2 (2002): 21–27. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20054056.
James Redfield. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hektor. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975.
