The Voice of Achilles: Communication, Self and Spectacle in Homer's Iliad more

The Voice of Achilles: Communication, Self and Spectacle in Homer’s Iliad James Duncan Stratford Submitted in total fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy November, 2010 School of Historical and Philosophical Studies The University of Melbourne Produced on archival quality paper ii Abstract The Iliad is the story of Achilles’ journey through anger. Over the epic, Achilles undergoes a continual process of transformation, and as he does, the world changes around him. His anger unleashes the fiery beast of war and creates a spectacle of destruction. However, as Achilles awakens to the immense personal and social cost of his anger, the spectacle begins to transform. In place of rage, compassion and humanity come forth and the fires of war are replaced by the cathartic flames of the hearth and the funeral pyre. In this thesis I chart this journey by analysing Achilles’ communicative acts: his use of speech and action, across the epic. Through examining his communication and the ways in which others communicate with him, subtle but important changes are revealed. These changes in communication reflect the transformation that takes place within Achilles and are instrumental in generating change in the world around him. My interpretation of Achilles’ use of speech draws on insights from contemporary cognitive psychology, especially the work of Martin Seligman. My work on communication is also influenced by a range of contemporary strategic studies theorists who consider a wide range of non-verbal acts that have an important communicative function, including gestural and performative acts of violence. In charting Achilles’ transformation, we also gain a glimpse into the poet’s view of the elemental and personal dynamics that lie behind the creation of war and peace. Whilst a necessary part of the mortal condition, conflict, suffering and death are shown to hold within them the vital forces of change, and to reveal the nature of humanity itself. iii iv Declaration This is to certify that: i. the thesis comprises only my original work towards the PhD except where indicated in the Preface, ii. due acknowledgement has been made in the text to all other material used, iii. the thesis is less than 100,000 words in length, exclusive of tables, maps, bibliographies and appendices. Signed Date v vi Acknowledgments I have been immensely fortunate to have support from many sources at every stage of this project. First, I want to thank my dedicated team of supervisors: Professor Chris Mackie; Dr K.O. Chong-Gossard; and Dr Parshia Lee-Stecum. This thesis has gone through many twists and turns and I was fortunate enough to have in Chris Mackie a supervisor who both encouraged and supported my need to explore. In the last few months, K.O’s enthusiasm and eye for detail were invaluable in helping me bring it all together. I also want to thank those other members of my department who have helped me along the way on many occasions, especially Dr Louise Hitchcock, Dr Andrew Turner, Erica Mehrtens, Coralie Crocker, and June McBeth. I am also very grateful to the staff at the Melbourne School of Graduate Research and the University of Melbourne Post-Graduate Student Association for providing me with the ideal environment to complete this thesis. I have had financial support from a number of sources. Thanks to the Jessie Webb Memorial Scholarship, in 2009 I had the opportunity to spend several months in Athens. This experience was immensely valuable in so many ways. While overseas I also had the great fortune to be able to exchange ideas and test out my thesis as it was forming with an incredible range of scholars from all over the world. In particular, I want to thank Professor Irene de Jong and Professor Andre Lardinois for the opportunity to talk through this thesis and for pointing me towards fruitful new areas of research. I also owe a special thanks to Dr Christiane Tytgat, Janta van Lienden, Dr Willem W. Ledeboer and Emmy Makri at the Netherlands Institute at Athens. Over four months they made me feel welcome and at home in Athens and provided me with opportunities to particpate in numerous events including speaking at the internationaal symposium, “The Role of Classics in the Formation of European and National Identities. Euripides in Modern Europe” in November 2009. The assistance of the NIA staff on several occasions went above and beyond the call. I also want to thank Professor Glyn Davis, Vice Chancellor of the University of Melbourne, for generously funding my participation in the 2007 San Fransisco meeting of the WMD Non-Proliferation Study Group of the Council for Security and Cooperation in the Asia Pacific. While beyond the scope of my formal study, this vii opportunity gave me first-hand experience of the workings of international diplomacy. For most of my years as a post-graduate research student I have had the privilege of assisting in the teaching of a range of undergraduate subjects in Classical Studies. This has played an important and deeply satisfying part in my own growth as a scholar and I am very grateful for having had this opportunity. Teaching has played an essential part in my own quest towards the mastery of both the substance and methods of scholarship and communication. It has also awakened a love of teaching, and feel very grateful to all my students whose passion for Classics and willingness to bear with mine has continued to fuel my own, while continually reminding me why I do what I do. Writing is by its very nature a solitary task. It has been made much less so by my many friends and family who have supported me in so many ways, big and small, along the way. I especially want to thank the two great and inspirational women who have done so much to bring me to this point – my mother Jude and my grandmother, Bernice who took me to my first Classics lecture at the university as a small child. They deserve additional thanks for their efforts with final copy-editing. Special thanks are also owed to those who have provided essential emotional support, fierce encouragement and the guidance necessary for me to learn the strategies necessary to get to this point. They include: Dr Ari Diskin, Dr Janske Olde-Wolbers, Naomi Jagiello, Bronwen Murdoch and Jack Foks, Thea Potter, Alex Katenakis, Mustafa Stitou, Prof. Marcus Wigan, Breanna Kelly and Sam Fraser. I am fortunate indeed to have the support of such a fine group of people. Most of all, I want to express my deepest thanks to my wonderful wife Ophelia. Through every stage over the last five years, she has been there listening patiently to countless meanderings as we paced the hills of Lower Plenty. She challenged my every fear and doubt with her unshakable belief and love. This is for us. JDS November, 2010. viii Contents Introduction Chapter 1: A Model of Crisis and Resolution Chapter 2: Quarrel and its Effects Chapter 3: The Supplication of Achilles Chapter 4: Recognition and Transformation Chapter 5: Communication and Compassion Conclusion Bibliography 1 16 31 69 117 180 201 207 ix x Introduction A t its very heart, the Iliad is less a meditation on war and peace than an account of Achilles’ journey through anger. The drama of the narrative and the fate of all within, are inextricably bound to the inner workings of this man. His burning rage ignites the world around him with the unquenchable fires of war, while his compassion is instrumental in the restoration of order and civility and in place of the spectacle of war we are given scenes of reconciliation, cooperation, and healing. My central argument is that both conflict and harmonious relations result from the communication that takes place between Achilles and his interlocutors at key points in the narrative. However, communicative acts are influenced by the mental state of the communicator, their attitudes and emotions, awareness of self and others, and their understanding of their place in the world. The movement between conflict and harmony is made possible by changes in communication, which are themselves the result and expression of the internal development of character, and one character in particular – Achilles. This thesis is not a study of conflict or communicative dynamics in the Iliad generally. Little attention, for example, is paid to the communication of Trojans and the part they play in the war, except insofar as Hektor functions as the indirect expression of Achilles’ rage, while the people of Troy stand witness to Achilles’ burning wrath. In this way, my focus follows, for the most part, that of the poet. By doing so, I hope to shed some light on the causes of war and peace both in the poet’s world and in our own. Though ambitious, I believe this aim is in keeping not only with the spirit of the text itself, but also with at least one of the original functions of epic in early Greek society. 1 Aside from its value as a work of art and entertainment in its own right, we know that the Homeric epics held a central place in the educational and political development of the polis. As Gentili states: Epic poetry served as an instrument for cultural indoctrination and at the same time as a repertory of models for behavior. By moulding character, it contributed to the education of the members of the governing class.1 Epic, and narrative generally, is used in this overtly didactic fashion by characters within the Iliad, most clearly in the lesson on anger and persuasion offered to Achilles by Phoinix, his childhood tutor, in Book 9. Meleager’s story is not intended to entertain or please, it is meant to teach. Indeed, it is Achilles’ ability to learn which enables him to emerge as one of the ‘best examples’ of the prototypical Greek hero.2 The methodology I developed for this thesis is straightforward. It is obvious to any reader of the Iliad that the main narrative arc begins with the creation of crisis and ends with images of peace. My theory is that behind the change, we can see corresponding changes in Achilles’ character. The question then, is how can we find evidence of Achilles’ change? My method is to look at Achilles’ behaviour, his speech and actions in sequence, from the start of the epic to the end. Change in character will be revealed by systematic and consistent changes in the way Achilles speaks and behaves, and the characteristics that he exhibits will, I hope, be reflected in the development of events around him. The approach I adopted to examine Achilles’ use of speech is informed by the work of the cognitive psychologist Martin Seligman, best known for his groundbreaking work on learned helplessness.3 A major component of learned helplessness was the theory of explanatory style. Seligman observed that people 1 B. Gentili, Poetry and its Public in Ancient Greece: From Homer to the Fifth Century, trans. A. Thomas Cole (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1988), 156. 2 Sluiter and Rosen cite Achilles as an example of the cultural specificity with which ‘best examples’, (those ‘members of a category [who] have a special cognitive status’) are constructed in text. I. Sluiter and R. Rosen, Free Speech in Classical Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 6-7. 3 Other Homerists have also made use of different elements of cognitive psychology. Minchin, for example, drawing on the work of Schank and Abelson, uses the concept of ‘scripts’ in her analysis of the formulaic type-scenes in Homeric epic. I am not using scripts per se. My approach is different insofar as I am applying cognitive tools to the interpretation of character. See E. Minchin, ‘Scripts and Themes: Cognitive Research and the Homeric Epic,’ Classical Antiquity 11 (1992): passim. 2 explained their relation to events in a range of habitual styles. Underscoring the importance of this, Seligman states: Your habitual way of explaining bad events, your explanatory style, is more than just the words you mouth when you fail. It is a habit of thought, learned in childhood and adolescence. Your explanatory style stems directly from your view of your place in the world.4 Seligman identified three basic dimensions to explanatory style: permanence, personalisation, and pervasiveness. Under ‘permanence’ he observed that pessimistic people habitually explain bad events as having permanent causes. Optimists, on the other hand, would explain bad events as having temporary causes. Common markers of permanence in a person’s language include words like ‘always’ and ‘never.’ Conversely, the optimist will tend to explain positive events as having permanent causes (‘I’m always best under pressure’) while the pessimist will explain the same event as having a temporary cause (‘I was lucky that car didn’t hit me’). Explaining the importance of permanence, Seligman states: Failure makes everyone at least momentarily helpless. It’s like a punch in the stomach. It hurts, but the hurt goes away – for some people almost instantly… For others, the hurt lasts; it seethes, it roils, it congeals into a grudge… They remain helpless for days or perhaps months. After major defeats they may never come back.5 While permanence is concerned chiefly with time, Seligman describes the second explanatory aspect, pervasiveness, as mainly being concerned with spatial relations. A pessimistic person will make universal explanations for their failures and will give up generally rather than just in the specific area of failure. The degree of pervasiveness can be gauged by the degree to which one makes universal generalisations (‘books are useless’ – pessimistic), versus specific criticisms (‘this book is useless’ – optimistic).6 The third dimension of explanatory style, personalisation, is reflected by an individual’s tendency to blame events on external factors or on themselves. Pessimists will tend to blame themselves for mishaps, while optimists will tend to blame others. This presents a problem, namely that optimists may tend to avoid responsibility, while conversely the pessimists may take on a greater burden of responsibility and this may 4 5 6 M. Seligman, Learned Optimism (Sydney: Random House Australia, 1992), 44. Ibid., 45. Ibid., 46-7. 3 also contribute toward a negative mental state. By way of answering the question of responsibility Seligman states: we want people to change, and we know they will not change if they do not assume responsibility. If we want people to change, internality is not as important as the permanence dimension is. If you believe the cause of your mess is permanent… you will not act to change it… If, however, you believe the cause is temporary… you can act to change it. If we want people to be responsible for what they do, then yes, we want them to have an internal style.7 The general elements of Seligman’s explanatory styles are very useful in gaining another way of reading dialogue in the Iliad. While Seligman stresses the importance of habits in explanatory style, he also places a great emphasis on peoples’ ability to change their style. That is, explanatory styles are habitual but not necessarily permanent. This is a particularly important point in the context of this thesis because, as will become clear in due course, Achilles’ explanatory style undergoes several significant changes, which, crucially, coincide with Achilles’ changing behaviour. While I do look at certain aspects of Achilles’ explanatory style, I look at his use of communication more broadly than Seligman’s method might require. In this respect, I consider both other aspects of Achilles’ verbal communication, such as his use of gnomai and paradeigma, as well as his use of non-verbal communication – his acts, including his use of force and gift-giving. The actions of characters, as Margolin states, have been ‘universally agreed’ to be ‘one of the main sources for readerinference about their psychological traits… This relation is as important in the interpretation of fictional discourse, where acts serve as signifieds with respect to the textual verbal surface and as signifiers with regard to the characteristics and personalities of NAs [Narrative Agents].’8 I have taken my lead in this area from scholars in the field of Strategic Studies, in particular Kaldor’s notion of ‘Spectacle War’9 and Halloran’s concept of ‘Strategic Communication’.10 7 8 Ibid., 52. U. Margolin, ‘The Doer and the Deed: Action as a Basis for Characterization in Narrative,’ Poetics Today 7 (1986): 208. 9 M. Kaldor, New and Old Wars: Organized Violence in a Global Era (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), 159-65. 10 R. Halloran, ‘Strategic Communication,’ Parameters (Autumn, 2007): 4-14. 4 In the late 1990s, Mary Kaldor used the term ‘Spectacle War’ to describe the air campaign waged by US-led NATO forces against the Serbian government during the war in Kosovo. At the heart of the concept was the idea that the campaign was aimed to provide a spectacular show of force. Kaldor argued that while the war certainly targeted Milosevic’s forces, the principal intended recipients of the spectacle were the US domestic audiences who were able to watch the campaign live on TV. I call this type of war [long-range aerial war] a ‘spectacle’ to emphasize its imaginary nature from the point of view of Americans. These wars do not risk American casualties and, indeed, do not require additional taxes; American citizens merely have to watch the war on television and applaud.11 Kaldor was essentially arguing that use of force was intended as a communicative act. The use of airpower gave the illusion of acting forcefully and even decisively against Milosevic and thereby satisfying domestic and international calls for military action. Like the Gulf War in 1991, which also received live TV coverage via CNN, this campaign provided the NATO powers, and in particular the US, with a valuable opportunity to demonstrate the military might and resolve of the West in the face of mounting international criticism. More recently, Kaldor has used the language of spectacle to describe the Bush Administration’s approach to the so-called ‘War on Terror.’ Kaldor writes: Seen from the outside, the ‘war on terrorism’ seems to be less about defeating terrorism than about staging a performance to meet the requirements of American democracy. What matters is the appearance, the spectacle, not what happens on the ground – except in so far as what happens on the ground seeps into the performance.12 Kaldor continues: The American foreign policy-makers continue to stage a drama from the past, even though the enemies and the technologies have changed. And they will continue to do so as long as this performance satisfies the American public, whatever the consequences for the rest of the world.13 11 M. Kaldor, ‘American Power: from 'Compellance' to Cosmopolitanism,’ International Affairs 79 (2003): 9. 12 13 Ibid.: 1. Ibid.: 2. 5 At the heart of Kaldor’s thesis lies an apparent disconnect between the nature of the conflict and the manner with which the military resources of the state are deployed against it. Indeed if Kaldor’s thesis holds, the connection between ends and means, between the threat and the action to remove it, is itself illusory. This is particularly true in the so-called ‘post-Cold War era’ which has been defined by an increase in particularly devastating civil wars and often closely associated collapse of numerous states previously held together by superpower patronage. Of course this is only part of a much more complex picture. The wars being fought do not resemble the scenarios envisaged by the planners and policy-makers of the state military machines in the US and elsewhere. Kaldor raises important questions about the performative dynamics at the heart of modern war. Not least among them are questions regarding the motivations and interests of the main actors. This has important implications for the way in which those with ‘spectacular’ means at their disposal fight war. In Iraq, the images of ‘shock and awe’ were accompanied by an array of special effects created by the latest generation precision guided munitions, warships, and state-of-the-art ‘stealth’ aircraft. These images celebrated everything that contemporary military planners proclaimed as new and revolutionary in modern war. However, there was also something very ancient in this display of power. The concept of spectacle war appears to be intimately tied to the modern world, and in particular the use of airpower. However, the use of spectacle, or the visual element in war generally in strategy provides a valuable through-line in the history of warfare and political violence, not to mention assisting us in better understanding the expression of power generally. It is this elemental power which Kaldor’s spectacle war touches on but does not really explore. A slightly different perspective on the communicative function of the use of force is offered by Coker. Coker acknowledges the function of the image and ritualistic violence in recent military history, but he does not employ the language of spectacle to discuss this. Instead, he employs the analogy of theatre. Referring to war in the Middle East, Coker states: violence has the character of theatre in which things are said as much as done. One cannot understand violence purely in terms of instrumental goals. In the Levant it can take an expressive form: violation to the human 6 body; the public display of corpses; the burning of the bodies of soldiers… Both the violation and the vindication of honour are represented in the idiom of the human body: the maiming of the body through either a suicide bomb or a beheading is part of the message being sent.14 While the dichotomy drawn between the Middle East and the West is not as clearcut as Coker claims, his general assertion in regard to the expressive and communicative function of violence is useful. Western governments and media have both directly and indirectly sought to exploit the ‘idiom of the human body.’ Public displays of the dead and captives became relatively common in the early phase of the war in Iraq with military leaders eager to demonstrate their power over the old Baath regime. The most notable examples of this were seen in the officially sanctioned broadcasting of images of Saddam Hussein’s medical examination after his capture in 2004, the secret footage of his execution, and the ‘proof of death’ images of his two sons which were displayed before the media. Both were widely condemned at the time, and, especially in the case of Saddam’s medical inspection, the broadcasting of images for purposes of propaganda was a clear violation of both the Geneva Conventions (in particular Article 13 of the Convention (III)) and medical ethics articulated to preserve the dignity of combatants during times of war and individuals receiving medical care generally.15 Other major examples include the thousands of images of prisoner abuse and torture at US military detention facilities in Iraq, most notoriously Abu Ghraib. Comparisons have been drawn between these disturbing images and the souvenir postcards of the lynching of African Americans.16 Drawing on Coker’s theatrical analogy is useful, as it highlights the multidimensional character of the spectacle. For if we employ spectacle in its original broader sense, we are dealing with something much greater than a purely visual display; rather, we should consider a range of communicative actions that contribute toward the manifestation of a process aimed at achieving a range of effects. From this perspective, the spectacle can be understood as a communicative act, or series of actions, that targets the mind of the audience. The spectacle can take various forms, 14 C. Coker, The Warrior Ethos: Military Culture and the War on Terror (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 70. 15 16 S. Jabbour, ‘Fall of a Dictator, Failure of Ethics,’ British Medical Journal (2004): 115. D. Apel, ‘Torture Culture: Lynching Photographs and the Images of Abu Ghraib,’ Art Journal (2005): passim. 7 including (but not limited to) speeches and texts, public images, conspicuous military and humanitarian actions, and even building works which have a significant symbolic value in their environment. Halloran combines these different actions under the rubric of ‘strategic communication’, which he defines as follows: Strategic communication is a way of persuading other people to accept one’s ideas, policies, or courses of action. In that old saw, it means ‘letting you have my way.’ Strategic communication means persuading allies and friends to stand with you. It means persuading neutrals to come over to your side or at least stay neutral. In the best of all worlds, it means persuading adversaries that you have the power and the will to prevail over them.17 Clearly, the breadth of approach advocated by Halloran compliments the fundamental thrust of this thesis. Though writing for a modern Western military readership (Parameters is the journal for the US Army War College) his readiness to consider the communicative potential of a range of actions not typically regarded as forms of communication is extremely useful. For example, alongside traditional forms of military action aimed at demonstrating the resolve of political leadership, Halloran cites the symbolic value of humanitarian operations and public building works, such as those following the Boxing Day Tsunami in 2004 in which US military assets played a vital and visible role in the international emergency response around the devastated Indonesian province of Aceh. Other examples include such projects as the new American embassy complex constructed in the centre of Baghdad, or the controversial security wall built to separate Israel and the Occupied Territories in Palestine. Conversely, as in the case of 9/11, attacks against sites of major cultural significance have to be treated as communicative acts of potentially strategic importance. From the preceding pages, I hope it has been made clear just how broadly I am treating the notion of communication and the sort of mix that I am considering as communicative acts. Indeed, this thesis began primarily in response to my personal interest in the power of the poetic image, rather than language per se. Clearly, though, language has an important place in the communication spectrum. However, as odd as it might sound, this thesis did not grow out of the ancient and vast discourse on Homeric language. In spite of this, it is necessary to understand how this work relates 17 Halloran: 5-6. 8 to the general body of literature on language in Homer generally and the language of Achilles in particular. A logical starting point is the work of Adam Parry whose influential 1956 article set up a new field of questioning.18 Parry inherited and worked with the general thesis of his forebear, Millman Parry, who first argued for the formulaic nature of oral epic. Adam Parry argued that: the formulaic character of Homeric language means that everything in the world is commonly presented as all men (all men within the poem, that is) commonly perceive it. The style of Homer emphasizes constantly the accepted attitude toward each thing in the world, and this makes for a great unity of experience.19 What Parry is arguing, Scully notes, is that ‘within epic society there is linguistically, as well as in other ways, a rejection of individualism and idiosyncratic outlook.’20 Unable to ‘speak any language other than the one which reflects the assumptions of heroic society’,21 Achilles, must content himself with: misusing the language he disposes of. He asks questions which cannot be answered and makes demands that cannot be met. He uses conventional expressions where we least expect him to. Achilles’ tragedy, his final isolation, is that he can in no sense, including that of language (unlike, say, Hamlet), leave the society which has become so alien to him.22 Challenging Parry, Scully argues: The formulaic character of epic language need not also necessitate ‘a unity of expression.’ Although Achilles does not challenge the assumptions of his society after Book 16, either he himself uses, or Homer associates him with, a startling adaptation of ‘available’ language. … That is, the unparalleled usage of language with Achilles between Books 16 and 22 acquires its force, even if only subliminally picked up by the audience, from its resonance against the familiar.23 18 A. Parry, ‘The Language of Achilles,’ Transactions of the American Philological Association 87 (1956). 19 20 Ibid.: 3. S. Scully, ‘The Language of Achilles: The ΟΧΘΗΣΑΣ Formulas,’ Transactions of the American Philological Association 114 (1984): 25. 21 22 23 Parry: 6. Ibid.: 6-7. Scully: 25. 9 Taking a similar line, Brown, in his article on the significance of different forms of address, argues that the choice of language ‘reflect[s] aspects of the poet’s constructed social space and, thereby, the relationships of the characters within that space.’24 This is especially evident when the different names used have the same metrical qualities. Citing Shives’ example of the metrically equivalent vocative phrases Πηλεΐδη (20.200, 431, 21.153, 288) and ὦ Ἀχιλεῦ (1.74, 21.214, 23.543), Brown concludes that ‘meter alone cannot have been a factor in the poet’s choice between one or the other of these two forms of address.’25 Some twenty-two years after Parry, Friedrich and Redfield took a major step for modern Homeric scholarship when they developed a case arguing that Achilles actually had a style of speaking that was distinct from other characters in the Iliad.26 Some of the features they associate primarily with Achilles include: his use of detailed description, cumulative images and rich hypothetical imagery (including the use of simile), ‘poetic directness’, frequency of the use of vocatives and asyndeton. Furthermore, they asserted that this individual speech style was symbolic of personality. Friedrich and Redfield give a brief summary of some of the problems with Parry’s thesis, drawing in large part on the work of Claus.27 One point is particularly relevant from this critique. The authors state that in his discussion of Achilles’ speeches Parry confuses the levels of discourse and language: ‘Parry’s 24 H.P. Brown, ‘Addressing Agamemnon: A Pilot Study of Politeness and Pragmatics in the Iliad,’ Transactions of the American Philological Association 136 (2006): 2. 25 Ibid.: 26. Citing D.M. Shive, Naming Achilles (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 115-6. Brown also notes other scholars, including Beck and Edwards, who have ‘attempted to open the poems up to more sensitive readings… by looking within the text. Beck shows how the poet’s choice of one or the other of certain doublets — ‘formulae’ with the same referent and metrical shape, but differing in lexica …can be read as sensitive to contextual factors.’ Brown: 6. Beck, states in his conclusion: ‘the existence (creation) of contextually conditioned metrical equivalents evidences a strong interest on the part of the epics in maintaining contextual integrity.’ W. Beck, ‘Choice and Context: Metrical Equivalent Doublets for Hera,’ American Journal of Philology 147 (1986): 488; M.W. Edwards, ‘Homeric Speech Introductions,’ Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 74 (1970): 1. 26 P. Friedrich and J. Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ Language 54 (1978): passim. 27 D. Claus, ‘Aidôs in the Language of Achilles,’ Transactions of the American Philological Association 105 (1975): passim. 10 account of Achilles’ speeches refers to problems of congruity and truth value, not language or style.’28 Friedrich and Redfield’s article pointed to a new level of complexity in the language of Homeric epic. They were essentially arguing that the poet was capable of giving at least one key individual his own style of speaking that was different from that of other characters and that the poet was able to maintain this for the duration of the epic. They were not the first to do so, though. Not so surprisingly, some early commentators, including Dionysius of Halicarnassus and Eustathius, had already observed that Homeric heroes had their own individual way of speaking.29 This thesis finds itself, almost by accident, taking Friedrich and Redfield’s argument one step further in the simple but important observation that, not only does Achilles have his own style of speech, but that this style is also prone to change. This change is not random (as if the poet just lost control of Achilles’ voice sometimes). Rather the changes reflect precisely subtle and meaningful shifts in Achilles’ personality. The second closely related discourse within which this thesis is situated is that concerned with the question of characterization in Homer. In his eloquent defence of characterization Griffin describes how both ‘old-fashioned’ analysts and modern oralists have argued against the existence of consistent characterisation in the Homeric poems. Griffin summarises their positions well: For the former, separate authorship of the different parts into which they resolved the poems made it hopeless to look for psychological consistency; for the latter, the rigorous constraints of the formulaic system must, it seems, prevent the singer from allowing his characters to speak or think differently from each other.30 Both perspectives tend to see characterization as the exclusive product of both modern means of literary construction and of the modern mind, if indeed such a thing exists. Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff claimed most strongly: ‘to speak of a 28 29 Friedrich and Redfield: 268. R.P. Martin, The Language of Heroes: Speech and Performance in the Iliad (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989), 98, n.27. See Dionsysius of Halicarnassus, De Compositione Verborum, Chapter 20, On Appropriateness, in W. Rhys Roberts, ed., Dionsysius of Halicarnassus on Literary Composition (London: Macmillan, 1910), 199-201; Marchinus van der Valk, ed., Commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem pertinentes ad fidem codicis Laurentiani editi, vol. 2 (Leiden: 1976), li-lxx. 30 J. Griffin, Homer on Life and Death (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 51. 11 character of the Homeric Achilles or Odysseus at all is a piece of stupidity as different poets conceive the same hero differently.’31 Of course, the question of character brings up the related question of personality and psychology. Von Mühll, in words that echo those of Bruno Snell, stated that ‘to depict characters, beyond the objective wording of the text, did not lie within the intention or the powers of Homer.’32 The problem, as far as Snell was concerned, was that Homer does not have a single all-encompassing term to encapsulate either the whole body or the psychological aspect of the individual. While ‘Homeric man’ had a body, ‘he did not know it qua body.’33 Similarly, for the mind, Homeric Greek has several terms, including ψυχή, θυμός, and νόος. In focussing his attention on the words given to different aspects of body and mind, he concluded that this fragmentation in language reflected the nature of Homeric self-understanding, or rather its undeveloped nature. That Homeric Greek lacks a word that pulls together the different aspects of self, in the way that ψυχή does by the time of Plato, is probably true. However, as Sullivan also argues, the absence of the word ‘should not… be taken as evidence that the concept of a unified soul or self was lacking.’34 Indeed, even considering Homer’s use of ψυχή alone, there is ample possibility for a range of meaning not called for in the literature available from the time. As Snell himself admits: ‘it is impossible to find out from [Homer’s] words what he considers to be the function of the psyche during man’s lifetime.’35 While Homeric Greek may lack such unifying concepts as body, soul, or mind, it is equally likely that this shows up holes in our own understanding of the poet’s language. To assume otherwise is to imagine that Homer exhausts his own language, and the range of meaning at his disposal, within the limits of the epics. 31 Ulrich Von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, ‘Die Griechische Literatur des Altertums,’ in Die Grichische und Lateinische Literatur und Sprache (Leipzig: Kultur der Gegenwart, 1912), 12, quoted in A. Lardinois, ‘Characterization through Gnomai in Homer's Iliad,’ Mnemosyne 53 (2000): 641. 32 P. Von der Mühll, Kritisches Hypomnema zur Ilias (Basel: F. Reinhardt, 1952), 286 quoted in Griffin, 51. 33 B. Snell, The Discovery of the Mind, trans. T.G. Rosenmeyer (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1953), 8. For discussion of the parts of the body in Homer, see 5-8, and for the intellect and soul, see 8-15 especially. 34 S.D. Sullivan, Psychological Activity in Homer (Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1988), Snell, 8. 2. 35 12 In order to proceed then, we must ignore Kirk when he warns: ‘These characters achieve a complexity which has the appearance of being consistently developed as each poem progresses. Even so we must take care not to deduce too much about the methods and the scope of operation of the main poets… .’36 To this Griffin replies ‘It almost seems as though we became so scrupulous that in the end it seems fair to question not only what is not on the surface of the poems, but even what is.’37 Indeed though, as Griffin and Redfield have demonstrated, the evidence of characterization, personality, and speaking style is all to be found in the text. Their theses in no way rely on overly imaginative interpretations. This thesis is composed of five chapters which, for the most part, follow the sequence of the Iliad itself. By adopting this structure instead of a thematic one, I want to emphasise the processes of change as they occur. The first chapter is an analysis of the first dispute and crisis in Book 1 which develops over Agamemnon’s possession of Chryseis. The chapter is noticeably shorter than those that follow. It is so because I am chiefly interested in the way it sets up a model that not only shows how a crisis is generated, but also how it is resolved. Communication plays a critical role at each stage, and even in this brief narrative we can start to see distinct changes in both the way individuals communicate with one another and in the outcomes that different communicative approaches produce. Following the full trajectory between conflict and harmony, my treatment of the episode also presents a model for the structure of this thesis. The second chapter looks at the role of communication in the deterioration of relations between Achilles and Agamemnon. Like the first crisis, here too I argue that both interlocutors are responsible for both the argument that erupts and the fracturing of the Achaian alliance. More than just looking at what these men say to one another, I look at how their language reveals important clues about their particular biased perspectives and their understandings of self. The quarrel results in Achilles’ exiling himself from the Achaian community and in Agamemnon’s removal of Briseis. In the 36 G.S. Kirk, The Songs of Homer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962), 265 quoted in Griffin, 51. 37 Griffin, 51. 13 anguish that the situation causes, Achilles calls on his mother, Thetis. The meeting between mother and son is instructive as we see some of the aspects of Achilles’ expression both continued and developed. Central to this whole chapter is my argument that from the quarrel onwards, Achilles both identifies and expresses himself as a victim, and this is reflected in the passive role that he adopts in refusing to take part in Achaian society. As we see, this attitude is profoundly damaging to the community, and a fiery spectacle of war and suffering develops progressively as a result. In response to the impending defeat of the Achaian forces, an embassy is sent to secure Achilles’ return. The mission ultimately fails and in Chapter 3 I consider a range of factors that contribute toward this outcome, including the influence of the gods, Achilles’ general disposition and focus, and the communicative strategies of each of the embassy members. After the failure of the meeting, the crisis continues to deteriorate. Against this backdrop, the figure of Patroklos rises to the fore as a model of selfless heroism as he undertakes a series of interventions, culminating in his fight to save the ships and his death below the walls of Troy. Before taking to the field, he personally supplicates Achilles, and in this section I examine why his supplication succeeds where others fail. The death of Patroklos is a defining moment for Achilles and in the fourth chapter I look at how he changes in response to this event. No sooner is Achilles aware of Patroklos’ death than he assumes responsibility for it. With this change we begin to hear some important developments in his use of language and communication generally. While this is first expressed in the private surroundings of Achilles’ own compound, this change is soon reflected in his emergence as an active force in the Achaian community as he assumes his place as a speaker in the assembly and as a warrior once more. This process of reconciliation continues with the funeral games that are held to honour Patroklos. In examining the games, I look at how Achilles and the other participants succeed in building and maintaining healthy civil relations within an openly competitive context. I argue that a big part of the games’ success comes down to the readiness of the participants to give honour to each other, both in speech and in actual prizes and gifts. The games present a model of a highly functioning cooperative community and Achilles plays an instrumental role in this. However, on the 14 battlefield Achilles becomes a monstrous force. His merciless treatment of living supplicants and his reckless treatment of the dead bring Achilles into direct conflict with the gods themselves. Finally, in the fifth chapter I focus on the meeting between Priam and Achilles in Book 24. Like the funeral games that precede it, the final supplication is presented as a model of communication and behaviour. As with each of the previous meetings, here, too, I argue that several factors contribute to the meeting’s outcome, including the active support of the gods, and the interlocutors’ use of a range of communicative strategies. High among these is Priam’s ability to elicit Achilles’ pity. This is essential for the successful conclusion of the exchange. Just as importantly, though, this experience assists Achilles in coming to terms with both the death of Patroklos and his own part in the suffering of others. In these final scenes, in Achilles’ words and deeds we hear Achilles emerge as a voice of healing and compassion. 15 Chapter 1: A Model of Crisis and Resolution Looking at the sweep of the Iliad’s narrative from beginning to end, we witness a great spectacle of war and peace. We watch a community enter a destructive period of crisis and conflict and we see how it moves through this towards the restoration of peace between competing identities in the Achaian community, and even (albeit briefly) between the Achaians and the people of Troy. This is a vastly simplified version of the narrative but the story is also introduced as one of arresting simplicity. In the Proem (1.1-7), the poet tells us that this is a poem about one thing, the anger of Achilles. In tracing the trajectory of our narrative, in following the rise of war and the return to peace, we are following the external manifestation of an emotional state: anger. From this perspective, war, conflict, and suffering are expressions and effects of anger. This much is certainly clear after reading the whole narrative. But in the first book we are given a concise view of this process of internal transformation and external change. The meeting between Chryses and Agamemnon, its aftermath and resolution function as a virtual guide to reading the entire epic. This would have been especially useful for ancient audiences, not having the luxury of being able to jump forward to any part of the narrative, to see ‘what happens next’. Without spoiling the story by giving an actual summary of what will happen, or to whom, the Chryses example presents an overview of the general direction and movement of the narrative; the cause, expression and effect of anger. How the specific dynamics play out in the main narrative of the epic is held in suspense, only to be revealed by the progression of the poet’s verse. Similarly, for my narrative, this chapter will use this crisis as a guide to 16 the narrative arc through which this thesis will proceed. Doing so, this chapter functions as an example of the structure and method that will be used for the rest of the thesis. In this brief chapter, I will examine the original crisis in three stages. The first section will look at the role of communication in the development of the crisis. I will argue that the exchange between Chryses and Agamemnon fails as a result of both miscommunication and the way in which these men understand and express their power. Neither Chryses nor Agamemnon communicates in the manner that is appropriate to their respective roles in this specific and well-defined context. In particular, I will examine how Chryses and Agamemnon antagonise each other in what they say and do and, even more importantly, what they do not say and do. Chryses fails to perform as a supplicant must, first by addressing his request to the Achaians en masse rather than Agamemnon personally; second, by not addressing Agamemnon in respectful language; third, by failing to appeal to Agamemnon’s sense of pity, or the shared experience of separation; and fourth, by actually threatening Agamemnon. Likewise, Agamemnon fails in the execution of his role as the leader of the Greek alliance by insulting the priest and rejecting the ransom he brings. Acting in this manner, Agamemnon abuses the position of power that he holds, by placing personal desire above his duty to act in a manner that will benefit the community and honour divine law. Agamemnon is clearly at fault here, just as he is in the quarrel with Achilles. This much he admits himself (9.114-20) and Nestor tells him he is at fault (9.106-11). What I want to stress, however, is that his interlocutors also make decisions about their speech and communication generally that contribute to the failure of these meetings and in so doing contribute to the deterioration of their position at Troy. The second section will look at the effects generated by this breakdown. I will argue that the first casualty of the meeting is in fact Chryses who leaves empty handed without his daughter (1.33ff.). After the intervention of Apollo on the priest’s behalf, success begins to transform into a disaster that is encapsulated in the spectacle of plague and fire (1.50-2). Finally, the third section will look at how the crisis is resolved. Here, I will argue that the resolution begins when, on Achilles’ urging, the Achaians recognise that their actions have created the crisis (1.62-7). Just as poor communication plays a major role in creating the crisis, resolution is achieved through 17 an altogether different communicative approach which succeeds in winning over both Chryses and Apollo with kind words, gestures of submission and offerings. Behind the progression of the narrative is the general principle of cause and effect. Both conflict and peace arise between individuals in response to particular types of communication. Behind communication is the mind of the communicator; communication is the expression of the individual and his/her beliefs, influenced by their perspective, emotions, and the manner in which they understand themselves and their place in the world. So, at another level, the movement between war and peace is about the changes that take place within the minds of the adversaries. As minds change or are changed by events, communication and action also change, yielding with it a new sequence of results or effects. Behind all war and all peace is mind. Communication and the Beginnings of Crisis At 1.12-21 Chryses approaches the Achaians bringing both the symbols of his office and ransom for the return for his daughter Chryseis (1.14-5). The size of the ransom is clear. It is ἀπερείσι᾽ or ‘countless’ (1.13), and ἀγλαά or ‘splendid’ (1.23). That he comes as a supplicant is also clear from the poet’s use of λίσσετο (1.15) to describe his action toward the Achaians.38 He offers a simple greeting to the Achaians en masse, before singling out the Atreidai (1.16-7), wishing them success in their expedition against Troy (1.19). On the surface, Chryses appears to have said and done all the right things, and this much can be gleaned from the enthusiastic reception he receives from the crowd. They applaud the priest and call for him to be respected and his ransom accepted (1.22-3).39 However, Chryses’ bid to secure his daughter’s return fails. While pleasing the crowd, his words succeed in angering the one man they are aimed to move, Agamemnon, who replies with a fierce and threatening rejection of 38 K. Crotty, The Poetics of Supplication: Homer's Iliad and Odyssey (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994), 21. Crotty argues that while there are certainly standard features to a supplication, they need not appear in each one – some are more or less elaborate than others. So with Chryses, he notes that his supplication ‘is in keeping with the dignity of his office.’ He cites J. Gould, ‘Hiketeia,’ Journal of Hellenic Studies 93 (1973): 80, n.39 who lists 35 supplications in the Homeric poems. 39 J.T. Kakridis, Homer Revisited (Lund: Publication of the New Society of Letters at Lund, 1971), 130. 18 Chryses’ request (1.26-32). Rejected and dishonoured, Chryses leaves empty handed and in his grief he calls on the god Apollo to punish the Achaians (1.37-42). Critics generally blame Agamemnon for this first crisis. Kakridis, for example, designates Chryses as the gentle, blameless victim of Agamemnon’s unprovoked aggression.40 It is not difficult to understand why. After all, it is Agamemnon who rejects and abuses the priest. To support this, Kakridis contrasts the way in which Chryses’ and Agamemnon’s speeches are introduced, as well as comparing the manner in which Agamemnon greets the priest, with Odysseus’ more polite approach when he returns Chryseis to her father: ὦ Χρύση, πρό μ᾽ ἔπεμψεν (1. 442).41 Readers are also often guided by the way in which the assembly responds to the priest in the scene. As Scodel has remarked, critics tend to ‘assume that the crowd’s response shows how wrong Agamemnon is, and it does.’42 Agamemnon is in the wrong but Chryses is also partly responsible for the failure of his supplication. The errors that Chryses makes are subtle but extremely important in understanding why Agamemnon responds in the way that he does. In the first place, Chryses does not address Agamemnon personally. Instead, he speaks to the crowd and to the Atreidai collectively (1.15-6). By doing so, Chryses effectively ignores and dishonours Agamemnon. The importance of the direct and personal aspect of supplication is evidenced in latter examples of successful supplications. Priam, himself a king, personally takes the journey to supplicate Achilles and he addresses him personally and directly, though others are also present (Automedon and Alkimos at 24.473). By not speaking directly to Agamemnon, Chryses makes a second error, ensured by the first. He fails to offer any words or gestures of supplication that we will see as necessary inclusions in later successful attempts.43 Pedrick sums up the importance of the gesture in supplication: 40 41 42 Ibid. Ibid. R. Scodel, Epic Facework: Self-presentation and social interaction in Homer (Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales, 2008), 128. 43 D.F. Wilson, Ransom, Revenge, and Heroic Identity in the Iliad (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 42. Citing Crotty, 20-1. Chryses neither kneels in front of nor attempts to touch Agamemnon as a physical expression of submission. This can be constrasted against Thetis’ successful supplication of Zeus. At 1.498-502 Thetis touches Zeus’ knees with her left hand and holds his chin with the right. Another powerful example of the gesture is given by Priam when he clasps Achilles’ knees and kisses his hands, the same 19 the significance of the suppliant's gestures helps explain each recourse to the ceremony. Signaling as they do his humility, his willingness to relinquish hostility (if any intrudes) and his desperate need, they can be the basis for any plea forced by a weakened condition or inferior position, whether to an enemy or a friend.44 Also absent are any words of respect or other honourific expressions offered to Agamemnon personally. Chryses simply offers his greeting to the Ἀτρεΐδαι, the ‘sons of Atreus’ (1.16). In successful supplications, the supplicant is careful to offer such terms as a vocal expression of his/her submission to the will of the one before them. At 1.503 Thetis addresses Zeus as Ζεῦ πάτερ, or ‘Father Zeus’ while Priam greets Achilles with the common, but clearly respectful honourific θεοῖς ἐπιείκελ᾽ Ἀχιλλεῦ, or ‘Godlike Achilles’ (24.486). Even Achilles is more generous in his language just before the games when he addresses Agamemnon as ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν, or ‘lord of men’, (23.49). Such a title would be appropriate for Chryses to use here. Its absence speaks volumes. Chryses also neglects to make any use of appeals to Agamemnon’s sense of pity.45 This is also a feature that we will hear repeated in later successful supplications. Once again, the best example of this is provided by Priam who bases his supplication on Achilles’ pity and love for his father (24.486-506). Indeed, both Chryses and Agamemnon are fathers, and Chryses could appeal on the basis of this to produce the kind of empathy that this situation requires. Both men, we might presume, know what it feels like to suffer as a result of being separated from their own family. Instead, as Wilson states, Chryses relies entirely on the ‘persuasive hands that have killed his sons (24.478-9, 506). Lateiner also comments on the importance of Priam’s kissing of the hand as powerful gesture of supplication. D. Lateiner, Sardonic Smile: Nonverbal Behavior in Homeric Epic (Ann Arbor: Michigan University Press, 1995), 37. Pedrick (who also notes Chryses’ omission) also observes that ‘some suppliants who conspicuously omit important gestures are refused’. Pedrick cites Hektor as an example of this (22.337ff.), though I would add that Hektor does make a vocal expression of submission. This seems fair enough, dying on the ground he is physically unable to get to his knees. V. Pedrick, ‘Supplication in the Iliad and the Odyssey,’ Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 112 (1982): 131, 38-9. 44 Pedrick: 128. 45 Going against this one can argue that such an appeal would be unlikely to succeed, especially as Agamemnon has actually sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia. And yet, in Book 24 we will see arguably the most fearsome warrior at Troy moved by Priam’s supplication. If Achilles can be moved, surely so could Agememenon given the necessary conditions. 20 force of his unlimited apoina, and additionally on the accoutrements of his office as a priest of Apollo.’46 Clearly, this is not enough. Chryses’ supplication is not only weakened by what he fails to do; he also antagonises Agamemnon by threatening him.47 At the end of his brief speech, Chryses refers directly to Apollo, and specifically as ἑκηβόλον, ‘the ‘one who strikes from afar’ (1.21). This is the second time Apollo is referred to in this ominous manner in the opening verses, the first reference coming from the narrator just six lines earlier (ἑκηβόλου 1.14). Here, the reference to the archer god carries with it a definite threat. Observing this, Kakridis states: ‘as soon as he finishes we feel a threat hovering in the air…. one can imagine a cloud thickening gradually and darkening the sky. Behind the priest there now rises the figure of a destroyer god.’48 This is neither the attitude nor the language of a supplicant reliant on securing the favour of another. It is little surprise that it is not received as one either, regardless of the crowd’s approval. The crowd, the poet tells us, is moved by the priest’s ransom and his office (1.22-3). This much Chryses presents, but little else besides, and more on top of this which weakens his position instead of strengthening it. The failure of Chryses’ supplication is evident in the simple observation that it fails to produce the outcome that he desires: the return of his daughter. Instead, the priest’s words make Agamemnon angry and in reply he launches a verbal attack of his own that is both disrespectful and unnecessarily violent. Rather than addressing the priest formally, he refers to him simply as γέρον, or ‘old man’. The scholiast comments ‘His old age, which in the eyes of others is a thing deserving respect, he casts in his teeth as a reproach.’49 Indeed his first words to Chryses are in the form of a direct order when he declares: μή σε γέρον κοίλῃσιν ἐγὼ παρὰ νηυσὶ κιχείω ἢ νῦν δηθύνοντ᾽ ἢ ὕστερον αὖτις ἰόντα Never let me find you again, old sir, near our hollow 46 47 Wilson, 42. On his failure to employ pity see also Scodel, 89. Pedrick also observes that threats given by supplicants in the Iliad are ‘uniformly unsuccessful.’ Pedrick: 132. Note also Hektor’s unsuccessful threat (22.338, 358-60). 48 49 Kakridis, 129. Quoted in S. Pulleyn, Homer: Iliad I (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), ad. 1.26. See also, Kakridis, 130. 21 ships, neither lingering now nor coming again hereafter (1.26-7)50 In describing Chryses as merely δηθύνοντ᾽, or ‘lingering’, he further denigrates the old priest’s mission to recover his captive daughter. This is exacerbated by his mocking of the priest’s official status, clearly indicated by his possession of a golden staff (1.14, 28),51 and his gloating over the power he has over the priest’s daughter. Agamemnon delights in describing the fate in store for Chryseis, far away from home, at the loom and in his bed (1.29-32). Taken together, Brown also argues that Agamemnon ‘not only constructs a version of himself as able to act in such a way, but he constructs a version of the priest as unable to prevent such treatment’.52 Space is instrumental in this picture. As Lateiner notes, Agamemnon taunts the priest both with the great distance between him and his daughter, and the intimacy that Agamemnon will have with her instead.53 Agamemnon will later claim in defence that he fights for Chryseis because of his affection for her (1.113-4). Here, however, Agamemnon’s tasteless remarks about the priest’s daughter reveal a malicious aspect of his character.54 Kakridis comments: It is quite clear that Agamemnon piles up these adverbial phrases only to torment the father by removing his daughter progressively farther away from him… The phrase τηλόθι πάτρης, uttered with reference to Chryses’ daughter, is the cruellest answer to the corresponding wish made by the priest for the Achaeans: εὖ δ᾽ οἴκαδ᾽ ἱκέσθαι.55 50 Unless otherwise stated, all translations from the Iliad are from R. Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press 1961). All line references and Greek quoatations are from the standard Oxford Classical Text edition, D.B. Monro and T.W. Allen, eds., Homeri Opera (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1920), . 51 Brown has a similar reading on this. He adds, however, that ‘Agamemnon’s actions here are similar in effect to Akhilleus’ casting down of Agamemnon’s skeptron later at Il.1.234.’ He goes further, citing Vodoklys’ suggestion that ‘Agamemnon’s treatment of Khryses itself represents a display of his own position.’ Brown: 22. For the latter, see J.E. Vodoklys, ‘Blame-Expression in the Epic Tradition’ (Ph.D. thesis, Harvard University, 1980), 17-37. 52 53 Brown: 24. Lateiner, 52. We should, of course, contrast (as Lateiner does) Agamemnon’s use of space to increase the separation of the priest from his daughter to the closure of the space that Achilles facilitates in Book 24 between Priam and the body of Hektor. 54 Edwards sums up this scene nicely. See M.W. Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 177. See also G.S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), ad. 2931. 55 Kakridis, 131. 22 Agamemnon’s behaviour towards the priest has been rightly understood as evidence of Agamemnon’s unwillingness to appreciate the status held by the priest and his special relationship with Apollo.56 More importantly still, we can read his behaviour as indicative of his inability to control his anger and his lack of metis, or cunning intelligence, in his use of power.57 Agamemnon’s readiness to threaten the priest is unnecessary given that Chryses has offered Agamemnon a way to win without having to resort to force,58 even if the offer has not been presented in the way that he would prefer and probably expect. Instead, Agamemnon uses this as an opportunity to display his power in front of the assembly, expressed in the control he now asserts over the body of the Trojan woman. In a very real sense this is a reply to Chryses’ own performance of power. Both men, in fact, are performing in front of an audience, the assembly, and their acts are as much directed to this audience as they are to each other. After Chryses speaks, his offer of ransom is met with applause. In contrast to this reception a heavy silence follows Agamemnon’s words. The crowd is stunned by Agamemnon’s response to the priest. Their silence is one of disapproval rather than reverence.59 These audience responses are a useful guide to how we might be expected to feel about what has just been said or done.60 Behind the failure of Chryses’ supplication we see two individuals who are primarily interested only in their own honour and power, and this undermines the meeting from the very beginning. Rather than securing the desired resolution, attitudes of narrow self-interest and excessive pride provoke anger, first in Agamemnon (1.24, 1.32), and fear in the priest (1.33). It is important to stress that it 56 57 58 59 Wilson, 43. Ibid. Ibid. Kakridis, 131. We witness similar contrasting responses to the speeches of Achilles. After making his oath declaring that he will not fight until the army is at its knees, the crowd, Achilles’ internal audience, is completely silent. Then, after the death of Patroklos when Achilles rejoins the battle and declares an end to his dispute with Agamemnon the poet describes the pleasure of the crowd 19.74-5. This needs some qualification, however, in light of their response to Chryses’ offer of ransom, which the crowd applauds. While Chryses’ supplication is not the most submissive, an opportunity for a good exchange is on offer nonetheless and this is what the crowd recognises. 60 See also W.F. Jr. Wyatt, ‘Homer in Performance: Iliad 1.348-427,’ Classical Journal 83 (1988): 290. 23 is the mindsets of both men that undermines this exchange. Rather than creating a situation where both men will actually get the honour that they want, they succeed in creating a situation defined by conflict, separation, and suffering; a situation that takes them further away from their objective. The Effects of Crisis The breakdown in communication produces a range of harmful effects that impact an increasingly broad cross-section of the community until all are eventually affected by the arising of anger. At first, the outcome of the meeting appears to go Agamemnon’s way. He holds on to his prize, and from his perspective, he appears to keep his honour. However, it is noteworthy that the poet gives no emphasis to this. As we will soon find out, Agamemnon’s victory is not really a victory at all. In the immediate aftermath of the supplication the primary victim we are aware of is Chryses who leaves for the sea, his grief now compounded with fear (1.33). As Edwards observes, the setting of the prayer is lightly but effectively amplified as ‘an indication of course not of topographical precision but of the connotations of desolation and misery which the motif usually carries.’61 The beach is a liminal place, reaching far beyond the confines of the assembly and mortal community. Indeed, it transcends both. It will serve a similar function later in the epic, when Achilles goes to the sea after his quarrel (1.348-51), and again grieving for Patroklos after killing Hektor (23.59-61). In this special space, these men are able to express their despair, and to connect with far higher, elemental and divine powers through prayer.62 In his silent indignation, Chryses prays to Apollo to bring death to the Achaians (1.35-42). He wants the Achaians to ‘pay for’ his tears (1.42). Chryses appeals to the god on the basis of repayment also. Chryses has served Apollo well as his priest and now he wants this service to be rewarded, and his honour to be restored (1.37-41). The god’s response is swift and deadly coming in the form of plague. The victims of the plague are innocents. First, it takes the mules and the dogs before progressing 61 M.W. Edwards, ‘Convention and Individuality in Iliad I,’ Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 84 (1980): 8. 62 Chryses prays to Apollo, while Achilles prays in the first instance to his own immortal mother. In the second instance, he does not communicate with a god, but he does communicate with the spirit of the dead Patroklos. 24 to the rest of the Achaian community (1.50-2). The image is one of indiscriminate suffering and death as Apollo’s wrath creates a spectacle of devastation on a scale that threatens the very existence of the Greek community at Troy. The culmination of plague is visible in the image of the continually burning corpse fires: αἰεὶ δὲ πυραὶ νεκύων καίοντο θαμειαί (‘Always, the fires of the dead were burning thickly.’ 1.52). In these early verses, we see a community consumed by fire as a direct result of miscommunication, and the abuse of power and divine law. Rather than just punishing Agamemnon, the whole Achaian community which he represents is made to suffer for his pride, anger, and selfishness. The community suffers because of their leader’s failure to respect and act in accordance with the protocols of war. Instead, he treats this as an opportunity to exert his power over the enemy’s woman. Like Helen, Chryseis becomes a symbol of control, conquest, and power. By electing to keep her for himself, Agamemnon abuses the power for which he is responsible, and in doing so damages both the fragile relationship between his own community and that to which the woman belongs, and his community’s relationship with the gods themselves. It is this abuse of power which incurs the harshest penalty. Just as the gods bring their wrath against Troy for the theft of Helen, in the form of the Achaian siege, Agamemnon incites the rage of the gods against the Greek community at Troy.63 Troy will burn, but before the end of the great city, the Greeks themselves burn. As we have seen, though, Agamemnon’s approach to the situation is at least to some degree precipitated by the proud and threatening manner of Chryses’ supplication which fails to elicit the response that the priest desires. In this respect, both men are responsible for the failure of the meeting and the suffering that ensues. This is important, because it is this dynamic which will be repeated in the quarrel that develops between Achilles and Agamemnon. In this case also, we know Agamemnon is at fault and he is accused of wrongdoing by Nestor in front of the other leaders at Troy (9.106-11). Agamemnon will also publicly admit his error both at 9.114-20 and, albeit rather reluctantly, to Achilles himself at 19. 85-6.64 This much is certainly true. However, as I will argue in 63 See L. Muellner, The Anger of Achilles: mênis in Greek epic (Ithaca and New York: Cornell University Press, 1996), 117. 64 Zanker cites two other examples that contribute to the picture of Agamemnon being the guilty party in the dispute. First, in Poseidon’s call to the troops, while in the guise of Calchas, he tells them that Agamemnon is guilty of dishonouring Achilles (13.11-4). The 25 the next chapter, like this first quarrel, the situation is more complex, as Achilles, like Chryses, also contributes to the escalation of the quarrel by adopting an increasingly hostile communicative approach, and must therefore, be seen as at least partially responsible for the disaster that unfolds. Achilles even publicly admits his share of the blame at 19.56-64. In effect, what we see is a domino-like sequence in the transfer of anger. Agamemnon’s anger is transferred to Chryses, and his anger manifests as the μῆνις of Apollo which is directed back at Agamemnon and the entire Greek community, man and beast alike. The effects of Agamemnon’s unrestrained anger travels full circle, ending where it began and punishing its source. Anger manifests as destructive fire, and this fire gives us the first spectacle of the Iliad. Why is this a spectacle? For the simple reason that this is a sight that captures attention. Here, we become aware of an audience that is both mortal and divine. The men present at the assembly for bringing an end to the plague constitute one part of this audience. Arguably, even more important is the divine audience that watches events transpire at Troy. At 1.56, Hera is described as watching on (ὁρᾶτο, 1.56). Viewing, here, is far from passive. In fact, it is instrumental to the gods’ interference in mortals’ affairs. Such is the visual power of the scene of suffering and death that she feels pity and decides to intervene to save them from this miserable fate. This is the power of the spectacle, to make those watching feel, and by so doing, target the mind of the spectator, whether they are sympathetic allies, or enemies. In the spectacle of the corpse fires we witness a powerful visual dynamic that becomes one of the golden threads of the poem, running in parallel to the main action, reflecting the changing spirits and minds of the Iliad’s protagonists. Achilles’ anger, when directed against the Achaian community, manifests in the fires of war – the blaze of the corpse fires, the threat of the burning ships, and the immortal fire of Zeus himself that is brought down against the Achaians. However, this is not a static relationship. Just as the emotions of the most influential individuals change, so does the character and effect of fire. second example he mentions is at 14.49-51, when Agamemnon fears that the other Achaians might follow Achilles’ lead in becoming angry with him and taking their troops out of the fight. G Zanker, The Heart of Achilles: Characterisation and Personal Ethics in the Iliad (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994), 94. 26 To this point, we have been concerned with the processes that generate crisis. We have seen already how crisis is the result of particular ways of communicating and how these in themselves reflect the individual’s understanding of their own power, how that is best served, and how this informs the way in which they relate to the world around them. Crisis, then, is indicative not just of a social or physical state of affairs, but more importantly, of the state of mind of the participants. To move beyond and away from crisis, change must occur in the mind of the individual. Change begins with the recognition that something is wrong and corrective action must be taken. With this awareness, with this change in mind, new actions and new effects are not just possible but inevitable. Resolution The resolution to the crisis begins when Achilles confronts the Achaians with the fact that they have angered Apollo (1.64-5). He essentially acknowledges that the community is responsible for their own suffering by acting in a way that has incurred the anger of the archer god. He speaks up, as a leader must, for the sake of his community65 suggesting to Agamemnon that they should determine the exact cause, by consulting a seer, priest, or reader of dreams (1.62-3). In doing so, Achilles gives authority to the suggestion by providing a gnomic statement: γάρ τ᾽ ὄναρ ἐκ Διός ἐστιν (‘since a dream also / comes from Zeus.’ 1.63-4). At the heart of Achilles’ first intervention is his own realisation of the need to repair the community’s relationship with the gods through restoring the primacy of divine law over personal greed and desire. This sets in motion a new sequence that will result in the resolution of the initial crisis. It is telling that this recognition comes from Achilles and not Agamemnon who remains quite unaware of what he has done wrong. This much is clear in the defence he gives for wanting to keep the girl, when he pouts that he likes her more than his own wife (1.113-4). More than just an indictment against Agamemnon’s leadership, it points toward the pivotal role Achilles will play in the epic, as he emerges as a powerful force of reconciliation and healing. 65 K.J. Atchity, Homer's Iliad: The Shield of Memory (Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1978), 189. 27 Calchas identifies the source of Apollo’s anger as resulting from Agamemnon’s rejection of the priest’s ransom and his refusal to return his daughter (1.94-6) and in spite of his anger at this pronouncement he agrees to return the girl (1.116). This is not the place to discuss the second quarrel that develops between Agamemnon and Achilles. However, Agamemnon’s defence tells us much about his understanding of his own power which is instructive in helping us comprehend both how these crises are generated and how they are resolved. Agamemnon treats power as a personal possession. It is power over others, rather than power on behalf of others which is the way it is understood by Chryses, and why the priest makes his appeal to the gathered host. Later, it will become clear that Agamemnon’s power is in fact less of a possession and more of a responsibility. He is honoured by Zeus as a σκηπτοῦχος βασιλεύς, or ‘sceptred king’ (1.279), but his primary role is not to gather honour for himself, but to maintain order through the distribution of honour and maintenance of justice, by administering the themistes.66 In dishonouring the priest and refusing the offer of exchange, Agamemnon fails in the execution of his principal roles and he does so not for the benefit of the community as a whole, but for his personal gain, to keep something for himself. Whether he likes her more or less than Klytaimnestre is irrelevant to the execution of his role as leader of the Achaians. At the beginning of this chapter we observed the destructive effects of miscommunication. Conversely, appropriate communication plays a defining role in resolving the crisis. At 1.430 Odysseus arrives at Chryse bringing both Chryseis and a golden hecatomb to propitiate Apollo (1.438-9). When Odysseus arrives the roles are reversed. Odysseus is now effectively in the role of supplicant and he carries out his task well, addressing the priest as ὦ Χρύση (1.442). His task here is simply to return the girl rather than ask for anything from the priest. Odysseus does so by placing Chryseis in the arms of her father (ἐν χερσὶ τίθει, 1.441 and 446). Twice this gesture is described and the emphasis on this handing over here is an appropriate gesture equivalent to the touch that is a standard feature of supplication. Like the touch, here too the gesture requires the submissive actor to make physical contact with the one to whom his is submitting. Odysseus’ supplication immediately yields positive results. Chryses’ fear is turned to joy as he is united with his παῖδα φίλην (‘dear child’, 66 See Muellner, 106. 28 1.447). As an expression of his happiness, Chryses responds by making a new prayer to Apollo asking for an end to the destruction of the Achaians (1.451-6). The resolution of this first crisis culminates in a new spectacle, an image of feasting, accompanied by the sounds of song as the Achaians offer hymns to Apollo all day long (1.458-74). The poet describes Apollo listening, his heart glad with their beautiful paean (1.172-4).67 What we witness here is the way in which the whole community benefits from this change in approach; the change of mind and the shift in communication that follows, yields new results which benefit the community. A communal disaster is resolved by reuniting parent and child. The scene foreshadows the reunion of Priam with the body of his son Hektor at the conclusion of the epic. Conclusion This first episode is critical to the epic and this thesis because it provides a microcosm of the narrative arc for the epic, and a model of the dynamics of the breakdown and restoration of community relations: a model of war and peace. While wrought by the angry Apollo, the suffering the Achaians are made to endure has its roots in the emotions and mindsets of two men: Agamemnon and Chryses. At the very core of this first disaster we see two individuals who, instead of entering into a formal exchange, succeed in angering each other. Chryses contributes to the failure of the exchange. While he comes as a supplicant, Chryses is also proud, disrespectful and even threatening in his attempt to secure his daughter’s return.68 He brings a large ransom but as Zanker remarks, ‘the giver means more than his gifts’. Gifts mean more when they are given by true supplicants.69 He is unable to bring himself to behave as a supplicant must, abstaining from offering any of the powerful symbolic gestures that 67 Edwards comments that elements within this scene, including sacrifice, feast, and prayer are all to be found elsewhere, but he adds, ‘It must be noted however that there is no verbatim parallel to the whole scene.’ Edwards, ‘Convention and Individuality in Iliad I,’ 21. He goes on to quote from Chantraine, ‘Même pour un motif aussi banal que cette description de sacrifice, on observe un jeu de formules traditionnelles, non une répétition mécanique.’ P. Chantraine, ‘Remarques sur l'emploi des Formules dans le Premier Chant de l'Iliade,’ Revue des Etudes Grecques 45 (1932): 127. 68 Though Zanker largely focuses on Agamemnon’s disrespectful behaviour toward the priest in this encounter, he cites Chryses as an example of one who presents a ‘threat to [Agamemnon’s] claim on an honor-gift (geras)’. Zanker, 56. 69 Ibid., 116. 29 we see in successful supplications. He neither addresses Agamemnon directly nor greets him in a manner that would acknowledge his seniority within the community. Such omissions may reflect the priest’s dignity, but his behaviour is inappropriate in this context. We think forward to the image of the venerable Priam clasping Achilles’ knees and kissing the hands that that have taken his sons’ lives (24.477-9). Chryses’ veiled threat that the Achaians should honour Apollo is the final straw. He may be right, but this is not the way to go about getting what he wants. I do not want to suggest that Chryses is wholly responsible for the failure of the exchange. However, it is clear that Chryses contributes in subtle and important ways to provoking Agamemnon’s harsh response. With divine inspiration, the restoration of order begins and through a process of recognition, learning, and corrective action the Achaians succeed in placating Chryses and bringing an end to the μῆνις of Apollo. The girl is returned and order is restored. More important though is the manner in which she is given back. She is not simply handed over. Rather, we see Odysseus greet the priest and hand her back personally and with great care. His attitude is clearly that of submission, unlike the priest’s original appeal, and that of Agamemnon earlier. Honour restored, the spectacle of suffering becomes one of celebration and feasting, forerunners of the final scenes in the text, the meal shared by Achilles and Priam (24.621-8) and the feast of celebration which follows the funeral of Hektor and completes the Iliad itself (24.801-3). In the fire of the feast and the sounds of celebration, the poet creates an alternative spectacle to the image of the continuously burning corpse fires. The energy of anger expressed through plague and fire undergoes a clear transformation. Just as the host had suffered as a whole because of the breakdown in order, once order and justice are restored the whole community benefits. 30 Chapter 2: Quarrel and its Effects It is clear in the example of Chryses how critical a role communication plays in the generation of crisis. Even more important though are the characteristics of the individuals involved. Already we have seen how analysis of speech and non-verbal communication can provide valuable insights into these individuals and their role in the narrative. This helps us understand why these characters speak and act in the way they do. In this chapter, I will apply this methodology to the crisis which begins in the dispute between Achilles and Agamemnon in Book 1. Here too, I am interested both in the formal content of the speeches as well as what they reveal about the characters of our speakers. One of the central assertions of this thesis is that Achilles undergoes a process of transformation over the course of the epic, and that this is apparent in a parallel change in the way he communicates. I want to reiterate this here because it is in the quarrel and Achilles’ meeting with Thetis that the first stages of this process are evident. The first part of this chapter is chiefly concerned with the Achaian assembly in Book 1 (1.53-303). The scene is important because it is here where conflict and communal strife begin in the Iliad. In examining the quarrel, we can consider how conflict is created between these men.70 Like the first crisis that unfolds after the unsuccessful meeting between Chryses and Agamemnon, I will argue that the quarrel develops primarily because of the protagonists’ focus on their own narrowly defined 70 For a very interesting comparative study of ‘flyting’ exchanges see, W. Parks, Verbal Dueling in Heroic Narrative: The Homeric and Old English Traditions (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1990), 91-3. 31 self-interest, and conversely, their inability to consider seriously the needs and grievances expressed by the other. Both speakers speak and act in ways that succeed in undermining the other’s honour by engaging in an escalating cycle of aggressive name-calling and character assault, and increasingly targeted threats against each other. In the second section I will focus on the final threat that Achilles makes to Agamemnon in the form of an oath. The oath is important here because it succinctly establishes a model of learning and transformation through the experience of suffering. It provides us with a guide not only to the character of Achilles, but, more importantly, his fate. This chapter will also consider the personal effect of the quarrel on Achilles. Gaining compensation for the loss of Chryseis, Agamemnon appears as the immediate victor from the quarrel, but the poet focuses exclusively on the effect that this has on Achilles. Looking at the language Achilles uses during his meeting with Thetis (1.357-427), I will argue that Achilles casts himself as a powerless victim and that this is expressed in the manner that he reconstructs his own narrative of past events. Comparing Achilles’ version of the initial crisis and quarrel (1.365-412) with that provided by the narrator (1.6-349), I will discuss the significance of the complex editing process in which Achilles engages by adding, distorting, and deleting important features of the narrator’s account to conform to his perception of blamelessness while creating a case for the gods to honour him. The case that Achilles constructs is effective, and Thetis is persuaded to supplicate Zeus on his behalf. The Quarrel In order to begin our analysis of the cause of the primary conflict narrative we must go back to the resolution of the first crisis. It is from this point that communication begins to deteriorate. On the tenth day of plague Achilles is inspired by Hera to call an assembly in order to find a solution to the crisis (1.56ff.). The assembly begins well. Achilles is already aware that they have angered Apollo in some way (1.64-5), but he suggests to Agamemnon that a seer, priest, or reader of dreams might be 32 consulted to determine the exact cause of the god’s anger (1.62-3).71 This much appears to be an appropriate formality in this situation. At this point, we might expect that Agamemnon would normally stand up and issue a formal confirmation of this request. But this does not happen. Before Agamemnon has a chance to speak, the seer Calchas (as Martin points out) responds to Achilles’ own muthos as a direct invitation to make a speech of his own.72 Calchas is the first to contribute to the internal schism that develops in the assembly. The poet introduces the seer as a figure of special value. He is the best diviner and the Achaians have already benefited directly from his gift of sight and his special relationship with Apollo in finding their way to Troy (1.69-72). Calchas addresses the assembly ἐὺ φρονέων, or ‘with kind intention’ (1.73), but despite his declared intent, his opening words are without question problematic. Knowing that he is likely to make Agamemnon angry (1.78-9) he seeks an assurance of protection from Achilles (1.76-7, 83). Of course, Calchas’ fear of Agamemnon is not unfounded. Calchas tries to be subtle by not actually naming Agamemnon. Instead he states that he will anger a man who is king over all the Argives: ἦ γὰρ ὀΐομαι ἄνδρα χολωσέμεν, ὃς μέγα πάντων /Ἀργείων κρατέει καί οἱ πείθονται Ἀχαιοί (1.78-9). The reference to Agamemnon is only very thinly veiled. But requesting protection from anyone else but Agamemnon creates an inevitable point of division within the counsel. The only person Calchas ought to request an assurance of safety from is Agamemnon himself. In this way, Calchas provides Achilles with an opportunity to vent his discontent with Agamemnon. Without hesitation, Achilles makes a pledge of protection to the priest (1.84-91). The significance of Achilles’ pledge takes on multiple dimensions. At the heart of his vow to protect Calchas we hear Achilles’ willingness to use his strength and authority to empower and protect others in the community. As Martin states: ‘Achilles uses command to pass on that authority to others’.73 As readers of the poem, knowing 71 On the indirectness of Achilles’ language here see M. Lloyd, ‘The Politeness of Achilles: Off-Record Conversation Strategies in Homer and the Meaning of "Kertomia",’ Journal of Hellenic Studies 124 (2004): 124. 72 73 Martin, 40. Ibid., 140. Achilles’ offer of protection is, at least in principle, in keeping with what we generally expect of a warrior with the social position and ability to protect dependants from harm. It is this ability, Adkins stresses, which defines him as agathos and justifies the 33 how the narrative will unfold, we can appreciate how different Achilles’ attitude and behaviour towards the community is at this time from that which will dominate the narrative until the death of Patroklos. Furthermore, in the larger ‘ring composition’ of the narrative as a whole, we also know that Achilles will make a similar pledge of protection in Book 24, not to one of his own community, but to Priam (24.656-8) when he again promises to enforce a truce so the Trojans can give Hektor his full burial rites. But less than two hundred lines after offering to protect the seer, Achilles is already vowing that the same community will suffer terribly. We are in this way invited to glimpse Achilles’ character before this shift and we appreciate the significance of his change all the more because of it. More immediately still, Achilles’ offer of protection sets up a contrast with Agamemnon’s harsh treatment of Chryses only a couple of verses earlier (1.26-32).74 Achilles’ response to Calchas raises the level of tension and contributes toward the exacerbation of internal division in two ways that virtually assure an argument will develop. Unlike Calchas, who had been careful to avoid naming Agamemnon outright as the likely offender, Achilles names Agamemnon as the likely object of the seer’s prophecy. He then takes the unnecessary and decidedly aggressive step of publicly challenging Agamemnon’s authority. While Achilles does not make an overt claim for Agamemnon’s position, he casts a shadow of doubt over Agamemnon’s seniority by claiming that he merely calls himself (εὔχεται, 1.91) aristos. In doing so, Achilles implies that this is an honour not recognised by others. It is interesting that Agamemnon makes no immediate reply. Instead, for a second time Calchas speaks up, now emboldened by the promise of Achilles’ protection. With this assurance, Calchas drops the indirect language that he had started with, and offers a direct explanation of the cause of Apollo’s anger. He apportions blame to Agamemnon for committing three delicts: dishonouring the priest, refusing the ransom, and refusing to return Chryseis (1.92-100). Where initially Chryses had offered ransom in exchange for his daughter, now, no such exchange can be made. warrior’s value in Homeric society, both in times of war and peace. A. Adkins, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1960), 34. On Achilles’ kindness towards Calchas, see also Zanker, 75. 74 Zanker also makes this point in his discussion of the kindness and fairness demonstrated by Achilles in Book 1. Zanker, 75. 34 Compounding the loss, in addition to returning Chryseis, he must offer a hecatomb to Apollo. The manner of Calchas’ speech is not provocative in itself. Absent are any overt signs of abuse or other forms of provocation. That said, also absent is any attempt to make this bitter pill easier to swallow. He refers to Agamemnon in the third person, leaving out honourific epithets. At best, such an omission adds to the objective tone of Calchas’ speech. We also have to take into account the fact that Calchas is addressing the assembly as a whole, not Agamemnon directly. It is also possible that the omission of an honourific title may indicate a negative disposition toward Agamemnon. Taken in conjunction with Achilles’ transparent aggression and disrespect, Calchas’ pronouncement only helps to place Agamemnon in an increasingly humiliating position. Only at the conclusion of Calchas’ pronouncement does Agamemnon speak up. Surprisingly, he does not respond to Achilles’ questioning of his authority. Instead, and not surprisingly, he responds angrily to Calchas’ pronouncement. The poet describes the intensity of Agamemnon’s anger with a familiar formulaic expression, picturing his heart as being μένεος δὲ μέγα φρένες ἀμφιμέλαιναι /πίμπλαντ᾽ (‘filled black to the brim with anger’, 1.103-4), while ὄσσε δέ οἱ πυρὶ λαμπετόωντι ἐΐκτην (‘his two eyes showed like fire in their blazing’, 1.104).75 The association of fire with anger is a natural one and it builds on the imagery that began not long before 75 The image of the eyes burning with rage will be repeated later in the epic. Note, for example, Hektor at 12.466. There are two parallels with the Odyssey that are also worth mentioning here. After hearing of Telemachos’ voyage, Antinoos is similarly described at 6.661: ‘raging, the heart within filled black to the brim with anger / from beneath, but his two eyes shone like fire in their blazing.’ More will be said on the language and symbolism of fire generally throughout this thesis. However, in the Odyssey, this phrasing stands out as being the exception rather than the norm. It is also worth noting the similar treatment of Halitherses in the Odyssey. At Telemachos’ first assembly, the old warrior stands up to offer his interpretation of the appearance of two eagles that clash above them (Hom. Od. 2.146-54). Like Calchas’ indirect warning to Agamemnon, Halitherses warns that what he is about to say is likely to anger the suitors (Hom. Od. 2.162). One of the leading suitors, Eurymachos, reacts in a tone that is both dismissive and threatening (Hom. Od. 2.177-207). His main criticism is that he is encouraging Telemachos in his opposition to the suitors. The point is that in both epics we have a skilled seer who interprets accurately, and as a result he confronts others with their actions. What is also true, is that both seers offer a way to avert catastrophe. Halitherses tells the suitors what will happen if they stay. If they listen and are persuaded, then they will live. The fact that Halitherses is a local appears to weaken the credibility of his case. 35 with the image of the corpse fires that arise in the Greek camp as a direct result of the anger of Apollo (1.52). Agamemnon first attempts to save face by launching a personal character attack against Calchas. First, he insults the priest by playing with his title, calling him μάντι κακῶν (‘seer of evil’, 1.106).76 Next, he makes the exaggerated claim that he ‘never’ tells him good things and that he ‘always’ loves being a prophet of ill. μάντι κακῶν οὐ πώ ποτέ μοι τὸ κρήγυον εἶπας˙ αἰεί τοι τὰ κάκ᾽ ἐστὶ φίλα φρεσὶ μαντεύεσθαι, ἐσθλὸν δ᾽ οὔτέ τί πω εἶπας ἔπος οὔτ᾽ ἐτέλεσσας Seer of evil: never have you told me a good thing. Always the evil things are dear to your heart to prophesy, but nothing excellent have you said nor ever accomplished. (1.106-8) What stands out immediately here is Agamemnon’s use of exaggeration. This is immediately evident in his use of ‘οὐ πώ’ (‘never’) at 1.106, οὔτέ τί πω (‘nothing’) at 1.108, and αἰεί (‘always’) at 1.107. What is clear from this generalising speech is that Agamemnon creates a distorted picture of the past to suit his present needs.77 Rather than acknowledging that Calchas has in fact aided him in the past,78 and has shown him how to bring an end to Apollo’s destructive fury, Agamemnon effectively attempts to make Calchas responsible for the situation which he has created. In direct contrast to the ‘seer of evil’, Agamemnon casts himself in the position of the benevolent leader, expressing his agreement to return the girl as an act of great personal sacrifice for his people (1.106-20). To do this he redefines his relationship with Chryseis in an attempt to win the sympathy of the assembly, declaring that he liked her more than his own wife, Klytaimestre (1.113).79 Immediately after declaring 76 Brown comments: ‘the poet’s selection in this passage seems to reflect not just simple identity but how we are to read Agamemnon’s reaction to the seer. This makes sense if we consider Agamemnon’s address in light of Kalkhas’ previous speech in which Kalkhas has placed the blame for the plague squarely on Agamemnon’s shoulders.’ Brown: 13. 77 Andersen also observes this aspect of Agamemnon and Achilles’ language. Ø. Andersen, ‘The Making of the Past in the Iliad,’ Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 93 (1990): 27. 78 Most notably Calchas’ assistance at Aulis Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.108. 79 Wilson, 50. Clark also notes the placement of κουρῆς on 1.111, as an example of caesural emphasis, in this case adding to Agamemnon’s scornful tone. On page 63 Clark notes that the effect of this placement is often, though not always, to create sarcasm. F.L. Clark, ‘Caesural Emphasis in the Iliad,’ Classical Journal 9 (1913): 62. 36 his special affection for Chryseis, the tone in his language shifts. In relinquishing his hold over her, he now emphasises her value to him as a γέρας.80 He proudly announces that he will give up his prize, not wanting his people to suffer (1.117). But there is a twist. He expects to be compensated for saving their lives.81 The strategy is a provocative one as he soon finds out. From here on the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon develops into an escalating cycle of claim and counter-claim, namecalling, and threats. Agamemnon is in a difficult position, and both his standing in the community and his material wealth is taking a direct hit. Given the circumstances, Agamemnon’s desire for compensation is understandable and consistent with his behaviour.82 It also reveals how Agamemnon views his role in relation to the community. Agamemnon essentially regards his position as one entitling him to accumulate τιμή over and above maintaining order and ensuring the proper distribution of honour to others. This is the main point of Achilles’ first reply (1.122-9). Rather than acknowledge Agamemnon’s general claim for compensation, Achilles attacks Agamemnon directly and continues his own public character assassination with a second assault on Agamemnon’s title. First, Achilles adds the honourific κύδιστε (‘most honoured’, 1.122), but the tone is clearly one of sarcasm, and he completes the name by adding a new epithet, φιλοκτεανώτατε πάντων (‘most rapacious of all’).83 At the conclusion of this first volley, Achilles does conclude by 80 81 Wilson, 51. We immediately compare this defence and quasi-acknowledgment of wrongdoing with Achilles’ speech of reconciliation (19.56-73). Rather than emphasising his affection for Briseis, as he does before this, in his language he demotes her emotional importance to him, calling her simply κούρης, or ‘girl’, at 19.58, and wishing that she had been killed by the arrows of Artemis when the spoils were divided (19.59-60). 82 Adkins argues that Agamemnon is actually within his rights to claim another prize for the simple reason that he is more agathos than the other warriors and his society is dependant on the skills and resources of which he is in command. His error is that he miscalculates the disastrous effect of his treatment of Achilles. Adkins, 37, 50. 83 S. Benardete, Achilles and Hector: The Homeric Hero (South Bend, Indiana: St. Augustine's Press, 2005), 32 and A. Adkins, ‘Values, Goals, and Emotions in the Iliad,’ Classical Philology 77 (1982): 294. For more on this, see Brown: 7. Citing Friedrich, Brown observes how Achilles’ manner of addressing Agamemnon changes during the epic, and ‘parallels the deterioration and then reestablishment of their relationship as it develops across the poem.’ Brown: 7. See, R. Friedrich, ‘‘Flaubertian Homer’: The Phrase Juste in Homeric Diction,’ Arion 10 (2002): 2-3. I have observed this change, both in Achilles’ form of address, and in the manner in which he speaks to Agamemnon and the way he treats him 37 stating that the Achaians will compensate him ‘threefold and fourfold’ (1.128), but this compensation is held into the indefinite future, contingent on their successful conclusion of the siege of Troy. This must seem like an ingenuous promise. They have already been at Troy for nearly a decade and there is no sign of victory being close. If anything the opposite is true with the army weakened by Apollo’s plague. Agamemnon responds to Achilles’ attack by escalating the argument in an attempt to frighten him off. Like Achilles, he begins with name-calling, using the honourific θεοείκελ᾽, but as Achilles does earlier, here the epithet is intended to insult. Now, too, Agamemnon expresses his general claim for compensation as a more specific threat that he will personally take the prize of one of the leading warriors, including that of Aias, Odysseus, or Achilles (1.137-9). By escalating the threat to the other leaders, Agamemnon appears to think that he has done enough to end the dispute, concluding with the threat: ὃ δέ κεν κεχολώσεται ὅν κεν ἵκωμαι. (1.139). That Agamemnon considers this to be his final word on the matter is clear as he quickly tries to change the subject, turning his attention to the matter of Chryseis’ return, even suggesting that Achilles might accept the task himself (1.140-7). Agamemnon names Achilles as the last in a list of possible leaders including Idomeneus, Aias and Odysseus. In naming Achilles, he also calls him ᾽έκπαγλος (1.147). Kirk sees Agamemnon’s choice of words as being particularly malicious, reading ᾽έκπαγλος as ‘most daunting’. The meaning seems to be deliberately ambiguous. Kirk lists a number of other instances where this appears in the text. Iris uses it in her commanding address to Achilles when she tells him to rescue the body of Patroklos at 18.170, and at 20.389 Achilles uses it in addressing a Trojan.84 The critical point is that this is not a term used between individuals of similar rank. Agamemnon uses it here as an expression of his superiority over Achilles. Instead of quelling the situation, Agamemnon’s stern rebuke has the effect of enraging Achilles even more. Achilles responds with more aggressive language and physical gesture. He glances angrily at Agamemnon (1.148) and expands on his verbal attack. Twice more Achilles accuses Agamemnon of being κερδαλεόφρον or ‘greedy’ (1.149), of taking more than his contribution to the fighting merits (166-7), generally. I discuss these later in reference to their reconciliation in Book 19 and the funeral games in Book 23. 84 Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.145-6. 38 and of being κυνῶπα or ‘shameless’ (1.159).85 To this he adds his defence: he is not at Troy because of any wrong done to him but to restore the honour of the Atreidai (1.158-60). Achilles claims that he never receives an equal prize and that he always does the great part of the fighting: οὐ μὲν σοί ποτε ἶσον ἔχω γέρας, ὁππότ’ Ἀχαιοὶ Τρώων ἐκπέρσωσ᾽ εὖ ναιόμενον πτολίεθρον˙ ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν πλεῖον πολυάϊκος πολέμοιο χεῖρες ἐμαὶ διέπουσ᾽˙ ἀτὰρ ἤν ποτε δασμὸς ἵκηται, σοὶ τὸ γέρας πολὺ μεῖζον, ἐγὼ δ᾽ ὀλίγον τε φίλον τε ἔρχομ᾽ ἔχων ἐπὶ νῆας, ἐπεί κε κάμω πολεμίζων. Never, when the Achaians attack some well-founded citadel of the Trojans, do I have a prize that is equal to your prize. Always, the greater part of the painful fighting is the work of my hands; but when the time comes to distribute the booty yours is far the greater reward, and I with some small thing yet dear to me go back to my ships when I am weary with fighting. (1.163-8) Achilles’ claim that he only receives a small share is not borne out by the presence of Briseis. She is clearly a γέρας of significant value and this is immediately apparent from the fact that Agamemnon is willing to accept her as compensation for his own γέρας without any additions. According to this logic of exchange, Briseis and Chryseis appear to be of similar worth.86 In Achilles’ response, we also hear the similar expression of exaggerated pessimism as we have observed in Agamemnon’s defence. Here, he replaces Agamemnon’s οὐ πώ (1.106) and οὔτέ τί πω (1.108) with οὐ μέν (1.163) while the sense of permanence is expressed by ποτε (1.163, 166)… and ὁππότ (‘whenever’) at 85 Benardete points out that Achilles calls Agamemnon ‘Atreides’ after he convenes the assembly, but he calls him Agamemnon ‘when he wants to single him out for his crime.’ Indeed, only after his anger does he refer to Agamemnon properly (‘Son of Atreus’ at 19.146, ‘Son of Atreus, most lordly and kingly of men’ at 19.199, and ‘O lord of men, Agamemnon’ at 23.49). Benardete, 32. Friedrich and Redfield also identify abusive language as one of the defining characteristics of Achilles’ speech. See Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 281. 86 Here I disagree with Scodel’s assertion that ‘The audience has no way of knowing whether others would agree that Achilles has received fewer and smaller prizes than he deserves.’ Achilles has clearly received at least some great rewards for his service. Others are also mentioned, especially the instrument he plays in Book 9, and some of the prizes which he distributes during the games. Scodel, 136. Citing W. Donlan, ‘Dueling with Gifts in the Iliad: As the Audience Saw It,’ Colby Quarterly 29 (1993): 165. 39 1.163. It is more subtle than this though, as the sense of permanence is carried by the generalizing tone of 1.165-66 when Achilles claims that his hands do most of the work in battle. Pulleyn’s translation captures the idiomatic form of Achilles’ language,87 while Lattimore, who begins line 165 with ‘Always’, brings out the extent to which the styles of the two speakers in fact mirror one another. Similarly, just as Agamemnon had in his own defence used emotive language in stating why he had kept Chryseis, here Achilles uses a similar tactic, describing his own prize in diminutive language as ὀλίγον and φίλον at 1.167. The distortions are not surprising. Both speakers are angry and this emotion influences their perspective at the time and, it follows, their expression.88 Achilles concludes his speech with a threat of his own: he will leave (1.169-71). Achilles’ words have the effect of focusing Agamemnon’s anger even more closely on Achilles.89 Agamemnon dismisses the importance of Achilles’ threat, twice inviting him to run away (1.173, 179), and launching a series of insults against Achilles, calling him ἔχθιστος (‘most hateful’) of all the kings (1.176), and accusing him of always loving quarrels and fighting (1.177).90 Even Achilles’ physical prowess becomes fodder for derision, when he tells Achilles that he is only strong because the gods have made him so (1.178).91 Now though, he adds a specific threat of his own as 87 Pulleyn translates 165-6 as follows: ‘But the greater part of impetuous war, / is born by my hands. Pulleyn, ad. 165-6. 88 See also Scodel, who cites Donlan on this point. Donlan: 165. Scodel, 136. Commenting on Achilles’ exaggeration of loss against his later assertion to hate the man ‘Who hides one thing in his heart and says another’ (9.313), Friedrich and Redfield argue that ‘Achilles does not feel called upon to adapt himself to the world; rather he describes the world according to his present feelings. This leads to exaggeration.’ Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 276. 89 Kirk also gives a good summary of the escalation of Agamemnon’s threat as it evolves during the course of the quarrel. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.185. 90 It strikes me as interesting that Agamemnon should be able to accuse Achilles of essentially being a ‘war-lover.’ He is really saying that Achilles loves fighting for its own sake. This says something important about the perceived utilitarian function of conflict, both verbal and physical, in the Iliad, and possibly (we might infer) early Greek society. That is, fighting is meant to have a point. It is the means to certain ends, not an end in itself. 91 Van der Mije has a similar reading of this line, quoting van Erp Taalman Kip, ‘Now it certainly is not the normal notion in the Iliad that divine origin, divine support or divine gifts rob the hero's greatness of its value; rather, they underscore it. It is no coincidence, then, that the view represented in these three lines is put by the poet in the mouths of his characters, whenever they want, for whatever reason, to belittle someone else.’ M. van Erp Taalman Kip, Agamemnon in Epos en Tragedie (Assen: van Gorcum, 1971), 14-5. Quoted in S.R. van der 40 he promises to take not just any prize, but that of Achilles in particular. Agamemnon is clear about the message this action will send. He will teach Achilles, and others by this example, that he is superior (φέρτερος, 1.186).92 Rather than being discouraged by Agamemnon’s targeted threat, Achilles escalates his own verbal assault to which he adds a direct threat of physical violence against Agamemnon when he ponders whether or not to break up the assembly and kill him (1.189).93 Achilles now claims that Agamemnon is a fool and a coward who would rather others fight for him (1.225-9).94 There is a certain irony about Achilles’ criticism. Effectively, Achilles will want to be given kleos because of the actions of others, rather than his own action in battle. Adkins also comments on the apparent irony of the remark, coming as it does just after Achilles has yielded to Athene who persuades him not to kill Agamemnon (ἴσχεο, ‘act with restraint’, 1.214).95 He makes Mije, ‘Achilles' God-Given Strength. Iliad A 178 and Gifts from the Gods in Homer,’ Mnemosyne, Fourth Series 40 (1987): 241. This reading deviates from the more common one that Agamemnon is merely saying that Achilles is particularly fortunate. In my view, this is weakened by the fact that this comment comes within a series of insults that Agamemnon levels at Achilles. 92 King comments in response to Agamemnon’s threat that Achilles has only two choices at the point: to assert his position with violence, or to withdraw. Earlier he remarks on the paradoxical situation that Achilles finds himself in, whereby his efforts to maintain the protocols that govern the community, ultimately force him to reject that very community. This is certainly a valid position, but the point that I am making here is that it that these men put themselves in this position by communicating in particularly harmful ways. K. C. King, Achilles: Paradigms of the War Hero from Homer to the Middle Ages (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1987), 29. 93 Edwards rightly observes that the image of Achilles’ half drawn sword captures well the internal dilemma that he faces, which is complemented by a second external description of Achilles thinking ‘within his hairy chest’. Edwards, ‘Convention and Individuality in Iliad I,’ 13. See also Parks, 93. 94 Adkins, ‘Values, Goals, and Emotions in the Iliad,’ 297. I rather like Brown’s rendition of 225: ‘you drunken sot, you look like a dog, but have all the courage of a deer.’ Citing Friedrich again, he goes to add, that Achilles is basically saying that ‘Agamemnon’s decisionmaking seems to bear all the hallmarks of that of a drunken man.’ Brown: 7. 95 Wilson, 60. Scully, in reading the scene, comments on how unusual this example of internal deliberation is, mostly because Achilles is already taking action: ‘Achilles is already drawing his sword, ready to slay the king. Athena, when she intervenes, must thus stop Achilles from further action as well as change his mind. This variation from the norm suggests Achilles’ vigor of mind which cuts short the hesitation obvious in such thinking.’ Scully: 18. Dodds also cites this as an example of ‘divine machinery’ duplicating a ‘psychic intervention.’ Athene is, as Dodds states, ‘the projection, the pictorial expression, of an inward monition.’ E. R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational (Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 1951), 14. This is a perfectly reasonable way of interpreting the appearance of the goddess. I am less comfortable with Dodds’ literal treatment of Homeric deliberation, where 41 a good point when he asks us to imagine how this must actually appear to the assembly. to the others present it must appear that Achilles has backed down before Agamemnon as one more agathos than he, whether in terms of military prowess or of political power; and this concession ill befits one who claims to be aristos of the Greeks, as will appear.96 Adkins is not entirely convincing. It is hard to judge how the audience perceives Achilles’ decision not to draw his sword and follow through with his intent to kill. However, we may be sure that this is clearly a hostile gesture and it must contribute greatly toward the heightening of tension. In looking at Achilles’ use of insults, it is important to remember that this practice is effectively sanctioned by Athene, who advises him to insult Agamemnon rather than use physical violence against him. Following the advice of the goddess, Achilles demonstrates both his obedience to the gods and, as Parks suggests, his ‘willingness to pursue the more conciliatory pathway with respect to his community.’97 In this context, insulting language is the lesser of two evils. On this point Adkins suggests that language here serves as a kind of ‘culturally acceptable safety valve, to discharge the speaker’s emotions before he comes to practical proposals.’98 There is, in this way, a chance for these men to make offensive gestures, without necessarily following these with the threatened action. Indeed, Adkins notes, that ‘Agamemnon’s stated intent is more offensive than the actions he performs: he says that he will go himself and take Briseis, whereas he in fact sends his ‘heralds’ ’.99 This concept of a ‘safety valve’ may be true up to a point. However, this kind of language also carries serious risks and, as the aftermath of the quarrel demonstrates, ‘there is always the danger on page 16, in discussing the example of Odysseus’ thinking through different courses of action (Hom. Od. 9.299ff.), he seems to interpret his deliberation as a kind of literal dialogue between the thumos and the self. Dodds calls this the habit of ‘objectifying emotional drives’. The objectification here is that being applied by Dodds who, in my opinion, takes the poet a little too literally. It is just as common today as it is in Homeric epic to speak in terms of speaking from different parts of ourselves, from the head versus the heart. Even if taken literally, this is just an internal dialogue, and not (as Dodds puts it) one between self and notself. 96 97 98 99 Adkins, ‘Values, Goals, and Emotions in the Iliad,’ 297. Parks, 93. Adkins, ‘Values, Goals, and Emotions in the Iliad,’ 295. Ibid.: 296. 42 that offensive words will be followed by offensive deeds’ and that ‘insults and emotive language... may prevent the attainment of the material advantages which they have come to Troy to secure for themselves.’100 Parks is probably right in explaining the lack of agonistic verbal displays as indicative of a ‘realistic apprehension of the dangers of such disputation among men who need to collaborate with each other on a daily basis in conditions of war.’101 Achilles’ insults and taunts initially sound like a substitute for physical violence (and that is what they are meant to be). But as Miller so rightly states, ‘In the heroic milieu, however, speech… is an extension or a preparation for violence, not a substitute’.102 Perhaps Miller goes too far in his generalising on the violent nature of heroic speech, although his interpretation certainly holds for a good portion of the Iliad, and for Achilles especially, whose speech (and voice generally) can be counted as a powerful weapon. As the spiral of escalation reaches its apex, rather than killing Agamemnon, Achilles declares that the Achaians will suffer for the dishonour that Agamemnon has promised to bring on him. The promise comes in the form of a great oath: ἦ ποτ᾽ Ἀχιλλῆος ποθὴ ἵξεται υἷας Ἀχαιῶν σύμπαντας˙ τότε δ᾽ οὔ τι δυνήσεαι ἀχνύμενός περ χραισμεῖν, εὖτ᾽ ἂν πολλοὶ ὑφ᾽ Ἕκτορος ἀνδροφόνοιο θνήσκοντες πίπτωσι˙ σὺ δ᾽ ἔνδοθι θυμὸν ἀμύξεις χωόμενος ὅ τ᾽ ἄριστον Ἀχαιῶν οὐδὲν ἔτισας. some day longing for Achilleus will come to the Achaians, all of them. Then stricken at heart though you be, you will be able to do nothing, when in their numbers before man-slaughtering Hektor they drop and die. And then you will eat out the heart within you in sorrow, that you did no honour to the best of the Achaians. (1.240-4) The oath sets out a model for Achilles’ use of violence and provides evidence of his beliefs about what violence will achieve. Achilles wants Agamemnon and all of the Achaians to suffer. He courts no alternative but that of inflicting pain on the community. Achilles’ logic is clear. Only through pain and great suffering will 100 101 102 Ibid.: 295. Parks, 91. D. Miller, The Epic Hero (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 230. Miller notes the numerous instances in which the Iliadic heroes shout in battle, including Menelaus (2.585, 4.220, 17.246) and Diomedes (5.320, 347, 432). One of the best examples though is Achilles’ triple cry as he emerges to frighten the Trojans from the field in order to secure the safety of Patroklos’ corpse at 18.228. 43 Agamemnon learn his error. This is not just any kind of violence though. Rather, we are presented with a form of violence that is intended to create change in the mind of the opponent through the witnessing of defeat – through spectacle. The direction of Achilles’ language is made more forceful by the repetition of the second person in the future tense. Through this emphatic repetition, Achilles creates an image of the future, a prophecy,103 in which Agamemnon will be ἀχνύμενος (‘grieving’, 1.241) and οὔ τι δυνήσεαι (‘unable to do anything’, 1.241). Martin rightly draws our attention to the empathic nature of this prophecy.104 He imagines, fantasises almost, how Agamemnon will feel. While not unique to Achilles, this is certainly a recurring feature of his way of communicating. At the end of the epic, he will imagine how his father feels, and this empathy will inform his ability, not just to sympathise but (more powerfully), to empathise with the grieving Priam. At this moment though, Achilles’ imagining has a darker intent. While he can imagine what he wants, at this point, he is not able to empathise with anybody else, and it is this blindness, this lack of empathy, that guides him and contributes toward the deepening crisis. The severity of the image Achilles composes is brought out by the reference to Hektor as ἀνδροφόνος (‘manslaughtering’). This is the first such reference to Hektor with this epithet and it highlights the level of threat to which he wants the Greeks to be exposed. Pulleyn comments: ‘Achilles perhaps aims to shock his listeners by stressing the deadly prowess of the opponent against whom, without him, they will now be helpless.’105 At 1.243 Achilles then vividly describes how Agamemnon will punish himself, lacerating his heart in anger (θυμὸν ἀμύξεις / χωόμενος, 1.243-4). Several commentators stress the power of this phrasing.106 This is not, as Kirk remarks, formulaic language.107 The unique expression helps to further distinguish 103 104 105 Pulleyn, ad. 1.240. Martin, 140. Pulleyn, ad. 1.242. Pulleyn makes the point that Achilles’ speech has the tone of prophecy, partly brought out by his reference to himself in the third person which creates the image of him being separated from the Greeks. 106 107 Ibid., ad. 1.243. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.243-4. 44 Achilles’ difference from the other warriors. Achilles’ language stands out both in its actual phrasing as well as the emphatically visual quality. The final line of the oath completes Achilles’ logic. After describing the future, this vision is explained by a single past cause, now expressed from the vantage point of his new detached perspective, indicated at 1.244 by the shift to the aorist saying, ὃ τ᾽ ἄριστον Ἀχαιῶν οὐδὲν ἔτισας (‘that you in no way honoured the best of the Achaians.’).108 The message is clear: Agamemnon will suffer because of what he has done. Achilles, who might ironically be called a kind of μάντις κακῶν, sees clearly in this dark prophecy what the consequences will be for Agamemnon and the Greeks at Troy. It is apparent in the image created by Achilles that he does not want Agamemnon to die; he wants him to suffer and to learn his error.109 However, this learning requires that Agamemnon is cast into the role of a powerless spectator, one who witnesses the destruction of his community around him. Achilles’ vision of the Greek defeat will be experienced by Agamemnon as a horrific spectacle of destruction. Ironically though, Achilles is also casting himself in the role of spectator. This is what the composition of the oath requires, a kind of omniscient gaze, rising above and seeing the consequences of present events as they play out into the future. It is the view of one who is already disconnected, alienated, from the community. As Muellner points out, this break is clear from Achilles’ use of the third person to refer to himself at 1.240-1. With these words Achilles is making a definitive break with the whole social group to which he has up till now been attached by the bonds of philótês, namely, the sons of the Achaeans, and he does so by referring to himself not as ‘me’, but in the third person, as though he were not himself but someone else experiencing the Achaeans’ longing for him in his absence. 110 108 109 Pulleyn, ad. 1.244. Latacz also stresses this point. See, J. Latacz, Homer: His Art and his World, trans. James P. Holoka (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1996), 103. 110 L. Muellner, ‘The Alienation of Achilles: On the Artistic Control of the Traditional Poet,’ in Hommage à Milman Parry. Le Style Formulaire de l'épopée Homérique et la Théorie de l'Oralité Poétique, ed. F. Létoublon (Amsterdam: Gieben, 1997), 150. In his earlier work (Muellner, The Anger of Achilles, 127, n.9), Muellner cites Benveniste’s discussion on Rimbaud on this point. E. Benveniste, Structure des Relations de Personne dans le Verbe, Problèmes de Linguistique Générale (Paris: Gallimard, 1966), 225-36. 45 One further aspect of the oath is that it is a forerunner to what will become the plan of Zeus after his blessing is invoked by Thetis. Indeed this μέγας ὅρκος (or ‘great oath’, 1.233, 39) is made using the authority of the σκῆπτρον which Achilles reminds his audience is used to administer the justice of Zeus (1.238-9).111 In doing so, Achilles directly connects his judgement and the actions that will follow to the justice of Zeus himself. This draws no immediate objection from Agamemnon. However, following Nestor’s failed mediation, Agamemnon dismisses Achilles’ attempt to assert his power in the assembly, when at 1.289 he states: ἅ τιν᾽ οὐ πείσεσθαι ὀίω (‘there is one, I think, who will not obey him.’).112 Agamemnon’s language is deliberately ambiguous and argumentative, delivered from the position of one who is speaking from within his community to one who is now outside it. At the end of the oath, in a powerful dramatic gesture, Achilles casts the goldstudded sceptre down to the ground. This is a complex act, and one that most likely expresses not one but many different meanings. Edwards is probably right when he sees it as a ‘physical counterpart to [Achilles’] emotional stress’.113 Kirk also quite reasonably interprets it as a forceful confirmation of the oath.114 Kirk is justified by the fact that Achilles lays great significance on the authority invested in the sceptre when he makes the oath. There are also other possibilities that are not altogether mutually exclusive. Hammer, for instance, is probably justified in reading it as symbolic of Achilles’ withdrawal from the community.115 In a similar vein, Lowenstam adds: As the scepter is separated from the forest, so Achilleus is removing himself from society. But is he, like the burgeoning tree, a part of nature? Can he survive alone? Can he grow and bloom as a man apart, unlike the scepter?116 111 112 113 114 115 Pulleyn, ad. 1.234. Ibid., ad. 1.289. Edwards, ‘Convention and Individuality in Iliad I,’ 13. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.245-6. D. Hammer, ‘'Who Shall Readily Obey?': Authority and Politics in the Iliad,’ Phoenix 51 (1997): 12. 116 S. Lowenstam, The Scepter and the Spear: Studies on Forms of Repetition in the Homeric Poems (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 1993), 68. 46 Lowenstam asks a good question. As the narrative plays out, we will learn, as Achilles does, that his life is inextricably connected to the world and that he cannot insulate himself from the fate that will befall the wider community. The other side of withdrawal is rejection. Brown, for example, interprets the action as Achilles’ rejection of Agamemnon’s ‘claim to history’ and his claim to superiority which it supports.117 In a similar vein, Kitts sees it as an act of ‘rejection of all the judgements and laws and other cultural institutions with which the sceptre is associated.’118 In particular, it would certainly appear to indicate, as Lowenstam suggests, his rejection of Agamemnon’s rule.119 Hammer adds something further though when he suggests that this action is more about the ‘limit of force’ than merely the ‘discontent of one warrior.’120 Hammer continues: Agamemnon can intimidate Chryses and Kalchas, and can take back Briseis, but he cannot make Achilles fight. In fact, as Achilles suggests, the resort to force will slowly deplete Agamemnon’s ranks, since the only people who remain, who will submit to Agamemnon’s leadership, are ‘non-entities’ (outidanousin), those who will no longer speak or act.121 This may be so, but Achilles’ reply to Agamemnon’s assertion of power over Achilles is itself characterised by excessive force: fire is fought with fire. Seen in this context, the throwing of the sceptre is a powerful symbol that encapsulates the logic of the great oath. Just as holding the sceptre up ‘dramatizes the equation between them [the Achaians], as well as his commitment to the oath’,122 117 118 Brown: 23. M. Kitts, Sanctified Violence in Homeric Society: Oath-Making Rituals and Narratives in the Iliad (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 103. See also Edwards who, citing F.M. Combellack, ‘Speakers and Scepters in Homer,’ Classical Journal 43 (1948): 209-17, states ‘I suspect that the idea of 234-237, ‘By this staff, which will never bear leaf again ... ,’ conceals the idea ‘only when this staff bears leaf again [will I help you again]’, which is like the when-this-iron-floats practice in making treaties in ancient Greece (Aristotle, Ath. Pol. 23.5, Herodotus 1.165) and may have been a standard motif.’ Edwards, ‘Convention and Individuality in Iliad I,’ 15 n.35. 119 Lowenstam, 67. Lowenstam cites C. Segal, ‘Nestor and the Honor of Achilles (Iliad 1.24784).’ Studi Micenei ed Egeo-Anatolici 13 (1971): 97; J.P. Vernant and F.I. Zeitlin, eds., Mortals and Immortals: Collected Essays (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), 135, n.42; Griffin, 11. 120 D. Hammer, The Iliad as Politics: The Performance of Political Thought (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2002), 86. 121 122 Ibid. Kitts, 107. 47 casting it down emphatically connects the finality of the oath and the death of the Achaians. Kitts also sees spectacle at work here, pointing out that ‘[t]here appears to be a kind of three-way identification between the two spectacles against which Achilles swears (the description of the dead sceptre and the dead Achaians) and Achilles himself’ for whom these images have become ‘implements of ritual display’ and symbolic violence.123 The casting of the sceptre becomes the third spectacle, beginning the harsh process of learning that Achilles has pledged will occur – a process defined by violence, helplessness, and separation. Such readings are certainly tempting, but it is easy to go too far. Something altogether simpler may be closer to the mark. It is useful to compare Achilles’ gesture with that of another young Homeric hero, Telemachos, in the Odyssey, who also finishes his impassioned address to the assembly at Ithaka with the same gesture (Hom. Od. 2.80-1). Certainly, the fact that the gestures appear identical does not sui generis dictate that they carry the same significance. But with Telemachos’ action I think we see more clearly the essential expression of the exasperation of the young man who is expected to excel in the assembly but who, for numerous reasons, is not able to achieve his goal through words alone. The throwing of the sceptre is the action of a man reduced to lashing out physically at the nearest inanimate object. It is the equivalent of hitting one’s head against a wall.124 As readers of the Iliad, we know that Achilles’ oath is given the blessing of Zeus, who assents to Thetis’ supplication by making the μέγιστον / τέκμωρ (‘greatest mark’, 1.525-6).125 However, as accurate as Achilles’ dark prophecy may be, it takes no account of what will happen to Achilles. This is not surprising given the context, but it demonstrates a distinct type of vision, one that is blinkered to the broader effects of this strategy of reprisal. Achilles’ prophecy is incomplete as it fails to take 123 124 Ibid., 105. Edwards and Kirk (in the Cambridge Commentary) also note the similar features of these two scenes. Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 181. 125 On the meaning of τέκμωρ Kirk states that according to Aristotle, this is an old word for ‘goal’ or ‘end’, but states that ‘here it is rather the determination of a resolve… The nodding of the head is elevated by Zeus into an irreversible ritual commitment.’ Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.525-7. Kitts translates this as ‘greatest oath.’ Kitts, 105. 48 into account the risk to which he is exposing himself and his nearest companions, especially Patroklos. As Redfield observes in relation to the development of the quarrel: … he sees the situation so clearly because he sees only part of it. Achilles, with his instinctive rhetorical resources, dramatizes this partial vision to himself until it fills his view and leaves no place for qualifications.126 In the structure and performance of Achilles’ oath, we see the logic and psychology of violent force. Agamemnon will learn because he will suffer. But this logic is flawed. Achilles’ image of the effects of violence is incomplete. Whilst seeking punishment for Agamemnon he is unable to foresee, just as Agamemnon could not when he dismissed Chryses, how he will be affected by it. Indeed, in describing Agamemnon’s powerlessness, Achilles is unknowingly describing his own state of being as he separates himself from the community and relies almost entirely on others to act on his behalf. The oath can, in this sense, be read as a guide to Achilles’ own experience of learning through suffering. One of the final, but by no means least significant, aspects of the oath is the context in which it is enacted. The throwing of the sceptre is a performative act and this emphasises that the oath is a public demonstration. The presence of the audience serves to establish the spectacular nature of Achilles’ violence and the beginning of the Greeks’ learning experience. This experience is grounded in seeing violence take place. In casting himself as an outsider, Achilles effectively makes the rest of the audience helpless, unable to influence his decision as they watch. The Effects of the Quarrel: Achilles The first casualty of the schism is Achilles. Immediately following the oath, Achilles removes himself from the Achaian camp. This separation begins to compound the effects of Achilles’ anger as he broods in isolation. After Agamemnon’s guards take Briseis away (1.345-8), Achilles, like Chryses earlier (1.34), walks down to the water away from the camp where he weeps in despair.127 The parallel with Chryses is 126 J.M. Redfield, Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hektor (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1994), 13. 127 Note that here again we have another parallel, not only with Chryses, but also with Telemachos in the Odyssey. After his unsuccessful bid to make the suitors leave, he is 49 deepened, as Wilson points out, observing that both stretch out their hands in prayer (Chryses at 1.35-6 and Achilles at 1.351), and both are brought to tears (Chryses 1.42 and Achilles at 1.357).128 The poet’s brief description captures the depth of his sadness and isolation. …αὐτὰρ Ἀχιλλεὺς δακρύσας ἑτάρων ἄφαρ ἕζετο νόσφι λιασθείς, θῖν᾽ ἔφ᾽ ἁλὸς πολιῆς, ὁρόων ἐπ᾽ ἀπείρονα πόντον˙ …But Achilleus weeping went and sat in sorrow apart from his companions beside the beach of the grey sea looking out on the infinite water. (1.348-50) Achilles’ sorrow finds its complement in the ἁλὸς πολιῆς (‘grey sea’), while his gazing over the ἀπείρονα πόντον (‘infinite water’) (1.350) reminds us of the deep emotional torment that he feels.129 In his suffering, he calls out to his mother for help. In his prayer to Thetis and his words to her after she appears we find a continuation and deepening of some of the characteristics of Achilles’ language that were observed developing in the quarrel with Agamemnon. The prayer itself is short, only five lines from 1.352 to 356. Even more than during the quarrel, Achilles’ tone is full of pathos and self-pity. What begins as a prayer degenerates into ‘a statement of complaint’130 and a call for help from his immortal mother. It is also worth noting that here any similarity between Achilles and Chryses ends; Chryses’ prayer maintains an aura of strength which Achilles is unable to match. Already aware of his fate to have a short life (1.352), Achilles initially levels his complaint against Zeus for not honouring him in the way he feels he deserves (1.354). The identification of Zeus here is significant as it is his favour Achilles is about to seek. By foregrounding the debt that Achilles believes is owed to him, he clearly sets up what he sees as a compelling reason for Zeus to honour him now. He reminds described as going down to the water (Hom. Od. 2.260-6). By doing so, Telemachos separates himself from the others. Here too, the young hero prays to a goddess for her assistance in overcoming the suitors who stand in the way of his voyage. 128 129 Wilson, 65. See also Edwards, ‘Convention and Individuality in Iliad I,’ 17. Edwards also suggests that the motif of the seashore is expanded to prepare for the arrival of Thetis. 130 Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.352-6. 50 Thetis that in exchange for bearing him to a short life he was meant to receive honour (1.352-5). Achilles now only sees the short life that is ahead of him as a thing of bitterness. Death will come without the consolation of great honour, which is, in the warrior’s mind, the most important raison d'être. The tone of pathos is accentuated by Thetis who weeps in sympathy for her son (1.413). Rather than reassuring him of the honour in which he is and will be held, she paints a bleak image of his life as a thing of suffering from beginning to end.131 ὤ μοι τέκνον ἐμόν, τί νύ σ᾽ ἔτρεφον αἰνὰ τεκοῦσα˙ αἴθ᾽ ὄφελες παρὰ νηυσὶν ἀδάκρυτος καὶ ἀπήμων ἧσθαι, ἐπεί νύ τοι αἶσα μίνυνθά περ οὔ τι μάλα δήν˙ νῦν δ᾽ ἅμα τ᾽ ὠκύμορος καὶ ὀϊζυρὸς περὶ πάντων ἔπλεο˙ τώ σε κακῇ αἴσῃ τέκον ἐν μεγάροισι. ‘Ah me, my child. Your birth was bitterness. Why did I raise you? If only you could sit by your ships untroubled, not weeping, since indeed your lifetime is to be short, of no length. Now it has befallen that your life must be brief and bitter beyond all men’s. To a bad destiny I bore you in my chambers. (1.414-8) The darkness of this image is deepened by its ring composition and the repetition of the language of misfortune. Her motherhood itself is described as αἰνός and Achilles’ life will be ὠκνύμενος καὶ ὀϊζυρός, or ‘short and miserable’ (1.417). The speech begins with the reference to the bitterness and pain of raising a child, and this is completed by a reply to the rhetorical question ‘Why did I raise you?’ (1.414).132 Engulfed in his own misery, Achilles becomes a passive force, one who recalls experiences and events as happening to him rather than as an active individual creating change. The defence he adopts, as Rabel states, is the ‘traditional defense of the outcast, the powerless old man, and the unprotected woman.’133 We see the 131 132 Ibid., ad. 415-6. Kirk has some difficulty coming to grips with this scene. He remarks: ‘Akhilleus’ ‘sitting among the ships’ is solely because of the quarrel, and he could hardly be free from grief in such circumstances; had he been griefless, he would have been out there fighting.’ But Kirk is missing the point here. Thetis simply wants her son not to suffer; whether Achilles is by the ships because of the quarrel or for some other reason is not important. Kirk finds it difficult to consider the possibility of Achilles taking a different course of action than the one that has brought his grief about in the first place. Ibid., ad. loc. 133 R.J. Rabel, Plot and Point of View in the Iliad (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997), 52. 51 beginning of the pattern his deflecting responsibility away from himself. In Achilles’ mind, Zeus is responsible for making sure he is given the honour he believes is his due. This feeds into the passive tone of Achilles’ speech. While he does not use the grammatical passive voice, he nonetheless makes Agamemnon the agent of the crisis, while putting himself in the position of patient as the victim of Agamemnon’s actions. Continuing the prayer, Achilles links his complaint directly back to Agamemnon, who (like Zeus) he says has dishonoured him (1.356), and has also threatened him (1.388). The emotional power of the prayer represents a significant shift from that seen only a short time before in the quarrel and oath. Rage has given way to sadness and self-pity. The arrival of Thetis provides Achilles with the opportunity to give a full account of his woes, which he repeats on his mother’s urging, after asking her impatiently ‘since you know why must I tell you all this?’ (1.365). The scene has received harsh comments from both ancient and modern scholars in spite of the general agreement that it reflects the poet’s loyalty to traditional oral composition.134 WilamowitzMoellendorff comments that a recapitulation could have been achieved with greater economy, stating: ‘Selbst die Tragödie würde, wenn auch kürzer und ohne Aufnahme derselben Verse, eine Rekapitulation gegeben haben.’135 Kirk, on the other hand, who admits to being puzzled by the scene comments: ‘Competent and fluent though it may be within its chosen limitations, it is not, after all, very dramatic or interesting, at least compared with the fuller version.’136 Far less patient is Kakridis who bemoans the 134 M.M. Willcock, The Iliad of Homer: Books I-XII (London: St. Martin's Press, 1978), 193; Kakridis, 78; W. Leaf and M.A. Bayfield, Homerou Ilias (London: Macmillan, 1908), ad. loc. Andersen, who makes numerous observations regarding discrepancies between different accounts, overlooks this speech, seeing it as merely a factual rendition of the past, in which ‘we are presented with things pretty much as they were, in other cases we are as clearly confronted with things as they were not.’ Andersen: 26. Andersen also cites I.J.F. de Jong, ‘Iliad 1.366-392: A Mirror Story,’ in Oxford Readings in Homer's Iliad, ed. D. Cairns (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001). 135 Ulrich Von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Die Ilias und Homer (Berlin: Weidmann, 1916), 253, saying a recapitulation could have been achieved with fewer words. 136 Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.366-92. Kirk certainly sees that it is much more than merely a ‘mechanical’ repetition of preceding events. However, it will be clear from my reading of the scene that I disagree with such a simple explanation for the omission of dialogue just for the sake of fluency. Kirk suggests and swiftly dismisses the possibility that this scene may have provided for an abbreviated substitute if one was required. Another possibility he suggests is that the shorter version was the original, and that the poet had expanded on this with the addition of the earlier speeches. The problem however, which Kirk points out, is that ‘the language of the two versions suggests that the longer is 52 significant amount of repetition in Homeric epic: ‘How boring is it to hear the same words twice, and sometimes even three times! They were right, the old Greek Grammarians, when they characterised these verses as worthless and superfluous.’137 Two of the Grammarians Kakridis is referring to include the Alexandrians Aristarchus and Zenodotus who athetised 1.366-92 and 1.396-406 respectively.138 In a more conciliatory tone, Leaf comments: ‘The real objection [of Aristarchus and Zenodotus] is, of course, that they are not required, at least from 368, for the sake of the hearer.’139 Some scholars, however, have started to acknowledge the particular value that this passage holds. 140 On repetition generally, Lowenstam states: ‘we are told that repetition of narrative pattern is not necessarily significant because it results from a compositional technique.’ However, he adds: composition by theme does not preclude epic poets from using technique to their advantage. In other words, whatever the original motives for the use of repetition, it became a powerful tool in the poet’s arsenal.141 In a similar vein, Wyatt states: ‘Though I do indeed regard the passage as genuine, I cannot accept that repetition for repetition’s sake is the proper explanation of 36692.’142 What then, are we to make of this? Numerous scholars have seen the psychological utility of Achilles pouring out his woes to his mother. Wyatt notes a comment by the bT scholiast that ‘one frequently assuages one’s grief by telling some sympathetic person the source of the problem – ‘tell me all about it’.’ 143 Wyatt goes on to add: being abbreviated, rather than the shorter expanded.’ Kirk is unable to explain this because he does not consider looking at the significance of the differences between the two accounts. 137 Kakridis, 76. Kakridis cites Schmid’s figure of 9253 repeated lines. W. Schmid and O. Stählin, Geschichte der Griechischen Literatur. Handbuch der Alterumwissenschaft, vol. VII, Handbuch der Alterumwissenschaft (Munchen: 1929), 144, n.1. 138 139 140 Wyatt: 289. Ibid.: 293. The most comprehensive narratalogical analysis is provided by de Jong, passim; Wyatt, also offers a useful reading. 141 142 143 Lowenstam, 59-60. Wyatt: 295. Ibid.: 289-90. Similarly Edwards, ‘Convention and Individuality in Iliad I,’ 1-29. On the psychological nuance of characterisation, see also Griffin, 51-80. 53 ‘One might add that excessive emotional tension is frequently followed by a strong release through tears. One can and should defend the scene on the grounds that it is psychologically sound and emotionally satisfying.’144 Certainly also, the scene works, as Rabel suggests, to accentuate the depths of Achilles’ sorrow and anger.145 By repeating the story in his mind and out loud, Achilles engages in a communication strategy that assists in maintaining his rage and pain. Rabel, citing Robins,146 also notes that a big outburst is appropriate as a final act before he departs and becomes silent.147 These points are all perfectly valid, however, more can be gained by looking in detail at Achilles’ speech, especially as it compares to the narrator’s account. On close inspection, it is soon apparent how Achilles’ version of events differs from those narrated by the poet.148 Not one to miss small differences, Kirk comments how the ‘whole passage is far from being a mere mechanical summary of what has preceded; it naturally makes extensive use of the earlier language, but often departs from it’.149 It is the variation between the poet’s account and that of Achilles that offers us more insight into the scene, and into Achilles himself. Indeed, unlike the more detached point of view of the poet, Achilles uses his narrative as a rhetorical device to convince his mother to supplicate Zeus on his behalf.150 The deliberate composition of this alternative narrative is vital in order for Achilles to realise his claim to honour, and to instigate the violence to which the Achaians will be subjected in his absence. By engaging in this act of poetic composition Rabel observes that Achilles ‘seems to work against his artful narrator by discerning a pattern quite different from what the poet presented to his audience.’151 This creation requires 144 145 Wyatt: 289-90. R.J. Rabel, ‘Chryses and the Opening of the Iliad,’ American Journal of Philology 109 (1988): 476. 146 E. Robbins, ‘Achilles to Thetis: Iliad 1.365-412,’ Echos du Monde Classique 9 (1990): n.9, Rabel, Plot and Point of View in the Iliad, 46. 1. 147 148 Rabel also points out that ‘Achilleus constructs an alternative version of the beginning of the Iliad.’ Ibid., 47. 149 150 151 Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.366-92. Rabel, Plot and Point of View in the Iliad, 47; de Jong, 486. Rabel, ‘Chryses and the Opening of the Iliad,’ 476. 54 Achilles to adopt the artful flexibility of the poet, adding, deleting, and copying elements of the narrator’s account at will. Achilles’ composition begins by briefly putting the quarrel into a wider context by introducing the sack of Thebe, during which, he tells Thetis, Chryseis was taken (1.366-9). This constitutes the first deviation from the narrator’s original account. The detail is left out by the narrator who prefers to take the audience directly into the heart of the action.152 The inclusion is explained by Irene de Jong who states that it follows from his declaration that he will ‘tell everything’. More importantly though de Jong states that Achilles includes this detail because he ‘was himself one of the participants in the raid…, and presumably its leader.’153 To this I would add, it bears inclusion for Achilles primarily because it was a successful mission, and Achilles believes he is chiefly responsible for this success (1.368-9, 165-8). However, we should note that while introducing Chryseis, Briseis is conspicuously absent here, and instead Achilles gives an account of the giving of Chryseis to Agamemnon by the ‘sons of the Achaians’ (1.368-9). This provides a suitable lead-in to the supplication of Chryses, which is described in some detail. In fact, Achilles’ account of Chryses’ ransom attempt repeats the narrator’s account almost entirely, word for word (1.12-6 = 1.371-5, 1.22-5 = 1.376-9), with the exception that Achilles omits the dialogue that occurs between Chryses and Agamemnon. In form, this repetition is almost certainly a by-product of oral convention, however, the fact that these lines are repeated so closely certainly seems to support Rabel’s contention, as it functions to strengthen the parallel between Chryses and Achilles. Conversely, the deletion of dialogue has important implications for our reading of the text, and should not be read purely as an abbreviation of formulaic verse. The specific effects of this deletion become apparent in Achilles’ description of the quarrel. In deleting the dialogue and in failing to give a more detailed and objective description of Chryses’ supplication, Thetis is given nothing to diminish the sympathy she is encouraged to 152 See also Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 1-4, ad. 1.366-92. The bT Scholiast also observed that without Achilles’ account we would not know exactly how Chryseis came to be at Troy. Wyatt: 289-90. Remarking on the inclusion of Thebe, Kirk, who admits to being puzzled by this inclusion, remarks that it may indicate either special knowledge or ‘untypical carelessness’ on the part of the poet, as Chryseis’ home is in Chryse and not Thebe, where she was captured. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume I: Books 14, ad. 1.366-92. 153 See also de Jong, 489-90. 55 feel for the dishonoured priest. By portraying Chryses in a sympathetic light, Achilles creates a logical connection, where, by implication, he too should be honoured as the priest had been by Apollo. Achilles makes other significant changes in his characterisation of Chryses. Wilson notes a subtle, yet important difference, pointing out that at 1.380 Achilles describes Chryses leaving in anger, where the narrator had originally stated that he went away in fear (1.33).154 In the narrator’s account it is Apollo who is angry (χωόμενος, 1.44, and χωόμενοιο at 1.46).155 Picking up on this, Rabel states: Thus the human victim of Agamemnon’s caprice and not the god becomes the emotionally charged focus of Achilles’ narrative – precisely the opposite of Homer’s original emphasis. The young hero sees that he shares the old man’s plight and quite naturally, but wrongly, assumes the motivating force of anger in the formulation of the earlier plan for restitution.156 This divergence continues into Achilles’ description of Chryses’ prayer to Apollo as Wilson explains: Achilleus claims that Apollo heard Chryses’ prayer because Chryses was dear to him. (1.381). Chryses’ own prayer, however, is based on an exchange of favours (1.40-41)… By attributing Apollo’s anger to Chryses, Achilleus creates an angry (not fearful) injured party, a victim who does not accept a position of inferiority in relation to the perpetrator of damage.157 Reconstructed in such a manner, we can see how this model of retribution appears attractive to Achilles. While scholars frequently note how unheroic Achilles’ plan actually is,158 to Achilles it does not appear this way at all, and from his perspective even the actions of Chryses are distorted to appear more heroic and thus suitable to be imitated as a form of defence. Achilles’ presentation of Chryses in this account also contributes to an image of himself in which he exists in polar opposition to Agamemnon. An important aspect of Achilles’ self-representation is the way in which he presents his own actions as pious 154 155 156 157 158 Wilson, 68. See also, de Jong, 493-4. 1.46 was athetised by Zenodotus. Rabel, ‘Chryses and the Opening of the Iliad,’ 476. Wilson, 68-9. Rabel, ‘Chryses and the Opening of the Iliad,’ 477. 56 and just. He proudly tells Thetis that it was he who had urged the people to appease Apollo (1.386). This achieves two important outcomes. First, it contributes to Achilles’ self-representation as one who acts respectfully towards the gods, and one who leads others by doing the same. This is important for the simple reason that he is about to ask for divine assistance. Second, it establishes Achilles’ desire to create an image of himself as one acting for the benefit of the community. These details appear to reflect earlier developments closely. However, they fail to convey the full picture. Achilles makes no mention of the part he has played in stirring up the dispute. Instead, Achilles reduces the entire quarrel to just two lines:159 Ἀτρεΐωνα δ᾽ ἔπειτα χόλος λάβεν, αἶψα δ᾽ ἀναστὰς ἠπείλησεν μῦθον ὃ δὴ τετελεσμένος ἐστί˙ and the anger took hold of Atreus’ son, and in speed standing he uttered his threat against me, and now it is a thing accomplished. (1.387-8) Achilles creates an image of Agamemnon as the unprovoked aggressor. Just as during the quarrel Achilles had immediately personalised Agamemnon’s demand to be given a prize from one of the other leaders, here, again Achilles omits this detail. The effect is to create a biased image of Agamemnon as one who has marked Achilles, and Achilles alone, for especially harsh treatment. In doing so, Achilles fails to convey the fact that Agamemnon had, albeit angrily, agreed to give back Chryseis.160 Neither does he represent the more general nature of Agamemnon’s demand for compensation to the Achaian assembly. Achilles’ claim that Agamemnon was the first to become angry simplifies and distorts matters. As Rabel notes, Agamemnon was indeed the first to speak in anger in the assembly in his outburst against Calchas. However, his anger was not directed at Achilles.161 Furthermore, during the exchange between Agamemnon and Achilles, which ensues after Achilles reacts to Agamemnon’s demands for compensation, the poet specifically highlights the moment in which Achilles becomes enraged (1.188). I do not wish to suggest that Achilles is consciously manipulating the narrative. However, it is telling, and consistent with other aspects of his language and 159 160 161 See also Pulleyn, 219. de Jong, 492. Rabel, Plot and Point of View in the Iliad, 51. 57 behaviour, that he shifts the blame for the entire episode unto Zeus and Agamemnon, while reducing his own part to two noble actions: the sacking of Thebe and his initiation of the appeasement of the gods. Identifying Agamemnon as the figure in anger also suggests that Achilles is not actually aware of his own anger and his contribution to events getting out of hand. Not surprisingly, Achilles makes no mention of his provocative and increasingly aggressive use of insults against Agamemnon (1.122, 149, 158-9, 225). Critically also, Achilles omits the fact that during the assembly he went as far as starting to unsheath his sword (1.193-94). Most significantly, Achilles’ account makes no mention of the oath that he has sworn against Agamemnon, and his refusal to fight with the Achaians until they are begging for his assistance. In part at least, this may be because Achilles knows that fulfilment of this oath will require divine assistance. The effect of Achilles’ repetition, omission, and addition to the account is to create a version of events in which Achilles appears as the passive, blameless victim, rather than the active participant in the assembly who is (in part at least) responsible for this deterioration in relations. Rather than seeking blessing or some form of limited assistance, Achilles ‘prays that the god act on his behalf while he sits back and watches. Such a prayer is normally the prerogative of the weak and helpless.’162 This is remarkable since it is the gesture, not of a hero, one who is capable of speaking and acting on behalf of his people, but of one who is powerless to act for himself and thus requires others to act on his behalf. Just as he holds others responsible for the pain and anger that he feels, he wants to make others responsible for improving his situation and ending his suffering. What becomes clear is that Achilles’ summary of events does much more than merely remind the audience of the progress of events so far. This is an unnecessary task for the poet so early on in the narrative. What we hear is the perspective of one particular character. It is the subjective nature of his view, combined with his personal motives, that explains why he constructs his account in the way that he does. We must also acknowledge that Achilles is ultimately very effective here. He succeeds in persuading Thetis to supplicate Zeus on his behalf. He also succeeds in claiming the 162 Ibid., 52. 58 sympathy of at least some readers,163 and this is despite the fact that we have actually seen the bigger picture; we have seen how Achilles has behaved toward Agamemnon and we know that whilst Agamemnon may be at fault, Achilles is also complicit in the creation of tension and conflict within the Achaian assembly. In the chronology of the Iliad, the meeting between Achilles and Thetis takes place immediately before the return of Chryseis. It is easy to forget that this scene of resolution, harmony, and feasting which marks the end of the first crisis has come about, in part, as a result of Achilles’ leadership in the assembly. He was, after all, the first one to acknowledge that they had angered Apollo in some way. However, his positive intervention is soon overshadowed by his later anger. The association between Achilles and this act of communal healing and reconciliation is virtually lost. Immediately after describing the Achaians rejoicing at the end of Apollo’s anger, the poet depicts Achilles sitting beside his ships wasting away his heart (1.488-92). Achilles’ unhappiness stands out in contrast to the relief experienced by the rest of the community. Indeed, as Muellner states, ‘his own longing (1.492) comes before that of the others longing for him.’164 He is unable to share in the harmony he helped to create. Likewise, he can take no part in those principal activities from which he derives both glory and pleasure, speaking at the assembly, and fighting in battle, though ποθέεσκε δ᾽ ἀυτήν τε πτόλεμον τε (‘he longed always for the clamour and fighting.’ 1.492). The Effects of the Quarrel: The Renewal of War As we have seen, the quarrel has an immediate effect on Achilles both materially, in the loss of his prize, and, more importantly, emotionally. It is the distress that Achilles feels which leads him to invoke the wrath of the gods against his own community. By doing so, Achilles sets off a sequence of events that involve virtually the whole community at Troy, both mortal and divine. Achilles may suffer alone, but the real effects of this breakdown in communication are far greater and are felt by many. 163 164 de Jong, 495. Muellner, ‘The Alienation of Achilles: On the Artistic Control of the Traditional Poet,’ 151. 59 Achilles’ prayers are answered by a renewed wave of war and the creation of a spectacle of suffering en masse. One of the most effective ways in which the poet conveys the sense of the spectacle is through the repeated emphasis on both the divine and mortal audience which gathers to watch. As the armies assembled on the plain, Helen is urged by Iris to go to the Skaian gate, where others are already assembled (3.146-53), and watch the θέσκελα ἔργα (‘marvellous things’, 3.130) that will take place on the plain below. Alongside this audience is the immortal one who at various points can be seen watching on, looking out for its favourites or just taking in the great show of battle. Shortly after the duel, as the council of the gods meets (4.1-72), they are described as looking down upon Troy (4.4). Here Zeus compares the active role of Aphrodite with that of Hera and Athene: ἀλλ᾽ ἤτοι ταὶ νόσφι καθήμεναι εἰσορόωσαι / τέρπεσθον (‘Yet see, here they are sitting apart, looking on at the fighting, / and take their pleasure.’ 4.9-10). Later, when the Trojans are being pushed back, we learn of yet more gods watching; Apollo watches from the citadel on Pergamos (4.508) and calls out to inspire the Trojans, while Athene watches over the Achaians as she drives them into battle (4.515). For the gods, watching is far from passive. They watch because they are interested in, and can influence, the outcome of the spectacle below. Most conspicuous of all is Zeus who after the council (8.1-40) comes down to Ida and settles himself in a position where he can see both Troy and the ships of the Achaians (8.51). His position here is critical as it is from this vantage point that he will begin his decisive intervention on Achilles’ behalf. Watching is critical to the action of the gods. But just as they watch the spectacle below, the nature of their interventions is often defined by their visual power. Between Books 4 and 8, the gods contribute to the actual spectacle of conflict through a series of decisive communicative interventions that utilize fire and light. The first example of this can be seen in Book 4, when Zeus, acting on the orders of Hera, instructs Athene to incite the Trojans to break the truce that has temporarily halted the fighting. In a remarkable image, Athene is described as crashing down between the opposing armies in the likeness of a shooting star. οἷον δ᾽ ἀστέρα ἧκε Κρόνου πάϊς ἀγκυλομήτεω ἢ ναύτῃσι τέρας ἠὲ στρατῷ εὐρέϊ λαῶν λαμπρόν˙ τοῦ δέ τε πολλοὶ ἀπὸ σπινθῆρες ἵενται˙ τῷ ἐϊκυῖ᾽ ἤϊξεν ἐπὶ χθόνα Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη, 60 κὰδ δ᾽ ἔθορ᾽ ἐς μέσσον˙ θάμβος δ᾽ ἔχεν εἰσορόωντας As when the son of devious-devising Kronos casts down a star, portent to sailors or to widespread armies of peoples glittering, and thickly the sparks of fire break from it, in such likeness Pallas Athene swept flashing earthward and plunged between the two hosts; and amazement seized the beholders. (4.75-9) The spectacle rekindles battle by inspiring thoughts of war. The Trojans and Achaians interpret the event as a portent of immanent change, either πόλεμός τε κακὸς (‘evil war’) or a renewal of φιλότητα (‘friendship’, 4.82-3). Nowhere is the full effect of the quarrel more apparent than in the burning of the funeral pyres that are built by both armies to dispose of the dead from the renewed fighting. Like the plague sent by Apollo in Book 1, here too, the victims of war are drawn from all quarters. War does not discriminate between Achaian or Trojan in the suffering it brings, and so we see funerary pyres built on both sides of the plain. At the conclusion of the day’s fighting, Nestor advises that they call a truce so that the dead can be collected and buried (7.327-35). Mirroring Nestor’s call, Priam also urges a truce to allow for the burning and burial of the Trojan dead (7.376-7, repeated at Idaios at 7.395-6). The importance of this scene is reflected clearly by the detail the poet devotes to the different stages of the burials. Some Trojans gather the dead, while others gather wood for the pyres (7.418-20). The poet’s tenderness is evident here as he describes the tears of the Trojans as they lift the bodies into wagons (7.4256). The tears give way to silence as the bodies are placed on the pyre for burning (7.427-9). The scene ends with a brief description of the Achaians’ funeral in almost identical phrasing (7.430-2). Here only one detail separates the Trojans and the Greeks; the Trojans will return to Sacred Ilion, while the Greeks return to their hollow vessels. Both share the sorrows of war. It is important, however, to remember the origins of these fires. We have already seen how the funeral pyres following Apollo’s plague are both a direct consequence of the conflict between Chryses and Agamemnon and an expression of the god’s anger. Here too, we must remember that the grief of the funeral pyres is both the result of the conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles, and a powerful expression of Achilles’ rage, manifested by Zeus as war and fire. 61 In the fighting leading up to the gathering of the dead, Zeus’ intervention has a general effect. Neither side appears as winning, and indeed both think that they are losing. It is only after the funerals that Zeus makes his most decisive and spectacular interventions to ensure that the Achaians are punished in accordance with Achilles’ wish. Immediately following the funerals Zeus himself sends his own ominous sign of change interrupting the feasting of the Achaians with a great thunderstorm: παννύχιος δέ σφιν κακὰ μήδετο μητίετα Ζεὺς σμερδαλέα κτυπέων˙ τοὺς δὲ χλωρὸν δέος ᾕρει˙ οἶνον δ᾽ ἐκ δεπάων χαμάδις χέον, οὐδέ τις ἔτλη πρὶν πιέειν πρὶν λεῖψαι ὑπερμενέϊ Κρονίωνι. all night long Zeus of the counsels was threatening evil upon them in the terrible thunderstroke. Green fear took hold of them. They spilled the wine on the ground from their cups, and none was so hardy as to drink, till he poured to the all-powerful son of Kronos. (7.478-81) The detail of the men spilling their cups in fear gives the moment a heightened degree of realism, but it is not immediately clear how to interpret the sign. Regardless, there is no doubt where this lightning has come from. Lightning is the most conspicuous personification of Zeus, and Zeus is the ‘lightning-wielder par excellence.’165 This uncertainty is short-lived. After balancing the fates of the Achaians and Trojans against one another to determine who will have the heavier weight of death (8.69-72), Zeus announces the defeat that the Achaians will experience with a great lightning stroke. αὐτὸς δ᾽ ἐξ Ἴδης μεγάλ᾽ ἔκτυπε, δαιόμενον δὲ ἧκε σέλας μετὰ λαὸν Ἀχαιῶν˙ οἳ δὲ ἰδόντες θάμβησαν, καὶ πάντας ὑπὸ χλωρὸν δέος εἷλεν. and he himself crashed a great stroke from Ida, and a kindling flash shot over the people of the Achaians; seeing it they were all stunned, and pale terror took hold of all of them. (8.75-7)166 165 E. Fay, ‘The Aryan God of Lightning,’ American Journal of Philology 17 (1896): 27. On lightning as a divine weapon see M. Puhvel, ‘The Deicidal Otherworld Weapon in Celtic and Germanic Mythic Tradition,’ Folklore 83 (1972): passim. 166 The image is a very strange one. The lighting strike takes place not at night as before but during the middle of the day (8.68). Both the brightness of the Sun and burst of light from the lightning share the sky. 62 Unlike some earlier signals where the effects are felt across both Trojans and Achaians, here the poet focuses exclusively on the effect this has on the Achaians. The Achaians are sent into turmoil. Idomeneus, Agamemnon and the two Aiantes all give ground (8.78-9). Even Odysseus retreats, in spite of the pleas of Diomedes who attempts to shame him into staying in the fight (8.92-6). The only Achaians that do not are Nestor (and only then, because Paris has wounded his horse (8.80ff.)) and Diomedes, who stays to protect him and feels compelled to stay in the fight. In response to Diomedes’ failure to heed Zeus’ warning, we witness the lightning of Zeus used to deter Diomedes from staying in the fight. This is made necessary because Diomedes’ counterattack is so successful that for a moment it appears that the Trojans might be overcome and ‘penned like sheep against the walls of Ilion’ (8.131). Seeing this, Zeus sends down another bolt of lightning in front of Diomedes’ horses which causes a ‘ghastly blaze of sulphur’ to rise up, terrifying the horses (8.132-6). This has the desired effect and Diomedes, on Nestor’s advice, turns back. However, while in retreat Hektor shouts out abuse at Diomedes (8.161-6),167 who considers turning and facing Hektor rather than accept the shame of retreat. Three times Diomedes decides to fight and each time Zeus gives a sign of thunder. The triple thunder strokes are both a warning for Diomedes and a sign of imminent success for the Trojans (8.171).168 Commenting on the scene, Whitman states: Here lightning, the symbol of the necessity of Greek defeat, has become an actor on the scene, the agent of things as they are, according to the decree of the scales of Zeus.169 167 On the interpretation of this passage see D.M. Schenkeveld, ‘Ancient Views on the Meaning of δαίμων in Iliad Θ 166,’ Hermes 116 (1988): passim. 168 That it takes so many ‘messages’ from Zeus to convince Diomedes to retreat, is certainly meant to remind the audience just how courageous he is. As van der Mije states, ‘He fears that the force majeure (Zeus’ thunderbolt Θ 133-5) may not be overwhelming and evident enough to prevent Hektor from boasting, and himself from being disgraced.’ van der Mije: 244. In a similar vein, Scully notes how in order ‘to portray Diomedes’ enthusiasm Homer shows only one half of the hero's mind. The elaboration of the alternatives which occurs after all other Iliadic uses of διάνδιχα μερμηρίζειν has been avoided, it appears, because Diomedes in his thirst for war shows no fear or need for reflection.’ Scully: 16. I would add that I think we are probably meant to compare this scene with Achilles’ reluctance to give way to the river god during his aristeia (21.222-6). It goes to Diomedes’ credit that he is persuaded to retreat before any real harm comes to him, whereas Achilles nearly drowns (21.233-72). 169 C. Whitman, ‘Fire and Other Elements,’ in Homer and the Heroic Tradition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1958), 134. 63 The direct intervention of Zeus against the Achaians is also joined by an emphatic shift of fire imagery onto the figure of Hektor, who becomes increasingly identified with fire and who, from this point onwards, uses fire and light as the most effective and spectacular means to threaten the Achaians. At 8.118, the poet describes Hektor as μεμαῶτος (‘raging’ or ‘pressing on hotly’) in battle, and three times he is given the epithet κορυθαίολος (‘of the shining helm’) at 8.160, 324, and 377. Fire is also in Hektor’s mind as he begins to imagine what he will do once he has broken through to the Greek ships: 170 ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε κεν δὴ νηυσὶν ἔπι γλαφυρῇσι γένωμαι, μνημοσύνη τις ἔπειτα πυρὸς δηΐοιο γενέσθω, ὡς πυρὶ νῆας ἐνιπρήσω, κτείνω δὲ καὶ αὐτοὺς Ἀργείους παρὰ νηυσὶν ἀτυζομένους ὑπὸ καπνοῦ. But after I have come beside their hollow ships, let there be some who will remember to bring me ravening fire, so that I can set their ships on fire, and cut down the very Argives mazed in the smoke at the side of their vessels. (8.180-3) With fire, Hektor sees a way to utterly destroy both the ships and the Achaians. Smoke from the burning ships will create chaos, which will provide an opportunity to wipe out the Achaians. Here also, the fiery language is even extended to Hektor’s horses, two of which have names associated with fire, Aithos (‘blazing’), and Lampos (‘torch’) ‘the shining’ (8.185).171 The increasing frequency with which Hektor and the Trojans are identified with fire has, as Whitman states, ‘the effect of identifying Hektor and his threat as the agents of the Plan of Zeus. War itself is fire, yet here the real fire which threatens is the blaze of the tragic wrath.’172 In other words, Trojan fire, inspired by Zeus, is the expression of Achilles’ rage. Now the extent of the threat is clear. Hektor will burn the ships. The poet warns how close this fate is at 8.217, stating ‘And now, he might have kindled their balanced ships with the hot flame’. He does not, thanks to the intervention of Hera who stirs Agamemnon into fighting back. Agamemnon too, now aware that the ships 170 Kirk points out that this is a clear precursor to his call at 15.718 to οἴσετε πῦρ. G.S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume II: Books 5-8 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 312. 171 172 See also Whitman, 132. Ibid., 135. 64 are in danger, in language similar to the poet’s, calls out to his men, ‘now we together cannot match one of them, / Hektor, who must presently kindle our ships with the hot fire’ (8.234-5). The Achaians have a brief spell of success during which the archer Teukros manages to quickly dispatch eight Trojans before he is wounded by Hektor and has to be carried off the field (8.266-330), immediately following this, Zeus once again inspires μένος in the Trojans (8.335) who quickly push the Achaians back through their defences to the ships. In his triumph, the poet describes Hektor as having the eyes of the Gorgon, and his horses as being καλλίτριχας, or ‘bright-maned’ (8.348). The image of the horses makes a stunning contrast with the backdrop of terror. Witnessing the spectacle of carnage, Hera and Athene decide to intervene. Before they arrive, however, Zeus sends a messenger, warning them of dire consequences if they do not turn back (8.397-406, repeated by the messenger at 8.416-20). Like Diomedes earlier, the goddesses are threatened with Zeus’s chief weapon, the lightning bolt, or κεραυνός. The Achaians do receive a temporary reprieve, not from the assistance of another god, but from night which brings an end to the day’s fighting, and a suspension of this new threat. Now holding the plain between the two cities, Hektor orders the Trojan forces to set up camp in the plain and for each unit of men to light their own watchfire. This image of the watchfires is built up over three successive stages beginning with Hektor’s order (8.507-11), the building of the fires (8.547), and the poet’s description of the spectacle that these fires create. The final image is one of a thousand fires scattered across the plain, and is likened to a vision of a star-filled sky. πυρὰ δέ σφισι καίετο πολλά. ὡς δ᾽ ὅτ᾽ ἐν οὐρανῷ ἄστρα φαεινὴν ἀμφὶ σελήνην φαίνετ᾽ ἀριπρεπέα, ὅτε τ᾽ ἔπλετο νήνεμος αἰθήρ˙ ἔκ τ᾽ ἔφανεν πᾶσαι σκοπιαὶ καὶ πρώονες ἄκροι καὶ νάπαι˙ οὐρανόθεν δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ὑπερράγη ἄσπετος αἰθήρ, πάντα δὲ εἴδεται ἄστρα, γέγηθε δέ τε φρένα ποιμήν˙ τόσσα μεσηγὺ νεῶν ἠδὲ Ξάνθοιο ῥοάων Τρώων καιόντων πυρὰ φαίνετο Ἰλιόθι πρό. χίλι᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἐν πεδίῳ πυρὰ καίετο, πὰρ δὲ ἑκάστῳ εἴατο πεντήκοντα σέλᾳ πυρὸς αἰθομένοιο. …and their watchfires blazed numerous about them. As when in the sky the stars about the moon’s shining are seen in all their glory, when the air has fallen to stillness, 65 and all the high places of the hills are clear, and the shoulders out-jutting, and the deep ravines, as endless bright air spills from the heavens and all the stars are seen, to make glad the heart of the shepherd; such in their numbers blazed the watchfires the Trojans were burning between the waters of Xanthos and the ships, before Ilion. A thousand fires were burning there in the plain, and beside each one sat fifty men in the flare of the blazing firelight. (8.554-63) The simile creates one of the most stunning spectacles in the poem, and it is one in which the psychological effect upon the spectator, in this case the shepherd, is high in the poet’s mind. Wilamowitz was probably right in his reading of it as being symbolic of the Trojans’ confidence at the end of the day’s victory on the plain.173 In one of the more developed readings of this simile, Rauber states ‘the power of the simile is mainly psychological.’ The effect, Rauber argues, is brought about by the indirectness of the comparison between the readily understandable joy of the Trojans and the somewhat less obvious joy of the shepherd on looking onto the vast spectacle of the clear night’s sky spreading before him. Expanding upon the shepherd’s joy, Rauber elaborates: What Homer is here celebrating, what the Trojan warriors are experiencing, is not so much victory as their breaking out into the open, their escape from the besieged city. For years they have been hemmed in and constricted by walls; now they have spread over the face of the plain like a flood. This is a powerful figure, and one which depends largely upon indirection for its power.174 With this reading, we get a sense both of the awesome nature of the vision and its effect on the spectator, but Rauber finds, I think, a clue to understanding the simile in appreciating the way the Trojans themselves feel as the source of the spectacle. In this spirit of expansive confidence, not only does Hektor fill the plain with fire, he also orders the women inside Troy to each ‘kindle a great fire’ so that they also can keep watch for unwanted visitors in the night (8.520-2). The watchfires within the city complete the image. Troy and the lands they have taken back are drenched in the light 173 Wilamowitz cited by P. Shorey, ‘The Logic of the Homeric Simile,’ Classical Philology 17 (1922): 246. The watchfire simile also caught the attention of the A scholiast who observed the double comparison. The A scholiast, based on a reading of 560 which they believed correctly began with ὢς rather than τόσσα, held that the comparison should be with the brightness of the stars rather than their number. K. Snipes, ‘Literary Interpretation in the Homeric Scholia: The Similes of the Iliad,’ American Journal of Philology 109 (1988): 212. 174 D.F. Rauber, ‘Some 'Metaphysical' Aspects of the Homeric Simile,’ Classical Journal 65 (1969): 98-9. 66 of fire, not the fire of Troy’s destruction (though this is clearly in the poet’s mind), but the fire of Achilles’ anger from which the Trojan flames have arisen. Wilamowitz believed that the poet deliberately created the simile of the watchfires to stand in contrast with the beginning of Book 9, which opens with another powerful simile. This new simile, however, conveys the opposite states of panic, terror, and grief felt by the Greeks, who are likened to a sea being descended upon by the great winds, Boreas and Zephyros (9.1-8).175 In this heightened atmosphere of suspense and fear, Agamemnon calls an extraordinary night assembly in response to the threat. Nestor’s speech makes clear the psychological effect of seeing the Trojan fires so close when he states: …μάλα δὲ χρεὼ πάντας Ἀχαιοὺς ἐσθλῆς καὶ πυκινῆς, ὅτι δήϊοι ἐγγύθι νηῶν καίουσιν πυρὰ πολλά˙ τίς ἂν τάδε γηθήσειε˙ …for in truth, there is need for all the Achaians of good close counsel, since now close to our ships the enemy burn their numerous fires. What man could be cheered to see this? (9.75-7) The night, Nestor tells the assembly, will spell either the end or the salvation of the Greeks, and in response seven leaders are sent out, each with one hundred men to set up fires of their own to guard the area between the ditch and walls (9.79-88). Conclusion When Achilles opens the first assembly, we hear the voice of the archetypal Homeric hero, a leader, speaking up for the sake of the community. By the end of Book 1, we have quite a different man. Over the course of the quarrel, he emerges as an angry youth whose primary interest is in his own lot. This excessive self-interest is expressed in his almost complete inability to understand Agamemnon’s general request for compensation. Of course he is not alone, and Agamemnon also helps to make matters worse. Lacking regard for the other’s need, neither is prepared to give way to the other as Nestor urges them to (1.274-84) by acknowledging the justness of their claim to honour. Furthermore, they make it even harder for the other to do so by launching even more vociferous attacks against the other’s character. The effect is to 175 Shorey: 246. 67 escalate tensions to the brink of physical violence. While the threshold is not crossed by either party during the quarrel, the argument goes far beyond being an innocent exchange of insults. In the great oath, Achilles declares - in speech and powerful symbolic action - the beginning of violence against Agamemnon. There is, however, a logic to this violent desire. Just as Agamemnon wants Achilles to learn his place in the community through punishment, Achilles wishes Agamemnon to do likewise. Both wish for the other to learn through the experience of loss and suffering. The effects of the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon are broad-ranging and manifest in ways that affect all. While targeted at Agamemnon, Achilles is the first victim of his own rage, as he cuts himself off from his community, his very way of life, and his primary sources of honour. In Achilles’ retelling of the narrative to Thetis we hear the voice, not of a great warrior, but of a powerless victim. While being unable to accept responsibility for his own part in the quarrel, he blames others for his distress and thus disconnects himself from his own sense of power. As a result, Achilles undergoes another transformation as he becomes a passive force, cut-off from the greater Achaian community at Troy. He is unable to speak or act for himself. While Chryses prays directly to Apollo, Achilles has to convince Thetis to speak for him. By the end of Book 1, he has become almost completely reliant on others to speak and act on his behalf. The full effect of the quarrel becomes apparent in the spectacle of destruction that develops as war is renewed. The scene is especially captivating for those who are not participating in the actual fighting, the most vulnerable non-combatants and the gods. We also see the spectacle at work as a force in generating and steering the direction of hostilities on the ground. It is, however, in the image of the funeral fires that the costs of the quarrel begin to manifest themselves. Just as Chryses’ grief manifests itself in the corresponding losses felt by the Achaians as they burn their dead, the fires of Book 7 embody the burning of Achilles’ rage. 68 Chapter 3: The Supplication of Achilles Achilles might be the first victim of his rage but soon the whole community at Troy, both mortal and divine, is embroiled in the renewed hostilities that gather momentum with the intervention of Zeus on Achilles’ behalf. Echoing the funeral fires that burn the victims of the plague brought down by Apollo, once again the point of crisis is marked by the fires of the dead as both sides in the conflict gather to give their dead to the funeral pyres. It is against this sombre backdrop that two separate attempts are made to secure Achilles’ return, first by an organised three-man embassy sent with the endorsement of Agamemnon in Book 9, and then by Patroklos alone (16.1-45). These scenes are pertinent for a number of reasons. As with the quarrel in Book 1, here I will examine Achilles’ behaviour and communication as well as that of the other speakers. The embassy fails for several reasons which I will argue in turn: first, it lacks the backing of the gods; second, because Achilles is focused on his own needs and is not interested in the needs of the community. Achilles’ error, I assert, is that at this point in the poem his understanding of what his needs are and how they can best be met is very limited. He is unable to imagine how the suffering of others, for which he still prays, will affect him directly. The content and delivery of the speeches made by the members of the embassy also play an important role. While they are all friends of Achilles and may make claims to his affection, they do not fully understand the man they find. They assume that he is at this time essentially just like them, and that he shares their motivations and interests, which he most certainly does not, except in one regard – they are all acting in accord with what they believe are their best interests. 69 The second part of the chapter is concerned with the final supplication made to Achilles by Patroklos. Like the embassy, he too fails in getting Achilles to return to battle. He does, however, succeed in securing a major compromise from Achilles, who agrees to lend him his own armour and allows him to lead the Myrmidons into battle. Here, too, I am interested both in what Achilles’ language reveals about his psychological state at this time, and in how Patroklos manages to persuade Achilles more than any other. In particular, I will argue that Patroklos succeeds in eliciting a combination of pity and fear from Achilles, and it is from these emotions that Achilles softens his position toward the Achaians generally and alters his course. Like a team of athletes missing its star, the absence of Achilles creates a situation where others are required to fill the gap. All the main Achaian leaders have their time under the poet’s spotlight, however, the interventions of Diomedes and Patroklos stand out as offering powerful models of heroic conduct, both in the assembly and in battle and in so doing, they throw Achilles’ refusal into even greater relief. The Embassy to Achilles Before examining the embassy, I want to look briefly at the assembly that precedes it. This is significant, since in it we hear echoes of the assembly in which the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon erupted. Both take place before a backdrop of crisis and burning. With Trojan fires filling the plain, Agamemnon calls an emergency night assembly (9.13-181). His message to them is one of defeat and he puts forward, for a second time (9.18-25 = 2.110-18), a motion to run away from Troy, abandoning their mission. Unlike the first occasion, this is not merely a trial of his troops’ fighting spirit. However, like the first instance, which nearly results in the Achaians manning their ships, this also backfires as he is openly scolded by Diomedes, who, possibly emboldened by Achilles’ fight in Book 1,176 launches a sharp critique on Agamemnon’s leadership. Diomedes tells him that while he has the sceptre and honour above all (9.37-9), he lacks that which is even more powerful, 176 Hammer, ‘'Who Shall Readily Obey?': Authority and Politics in the Iliad,’ 8. 70 ἀλκή, or ‘valour’ (9.39).177 In an expression of disunity, he states that he will stay until he sees Troy brought to the ground regardless of whether Agamemnon and his ships are there or not.178 As some commentators have noted, Diomedes’ criticisms echo those made so strongly by Achilles.179 As forceful as his language is, he manages to convey his exasperation with Agamemnon’s lack of spirit with far less offensive language. He refrains from name-calling and threats. Instead, he tells Agamemnon that if he lacks the heart to fight, then he should go home and take his ships with him (9.42-4). This is still a harsh rebuke against the most senior figure in the assembly, and the fact that it does not develop into another quarrel is in part due to the intervention of Nestor who speaks up before a fight has the chance to develop. We can compare this with his overdue and largely ineffective intervention in the quarrel (1.247-84) which comes after general abuse has already escalated to the point where both men issue specific threats and oaths of punishment against one another. Here instead, Nestor takes control of the situation. He does this first by acknowledging Diomedes’ prowess, telling him that he is both great in battle and that, for his age, he is the most accomplished in council (9.53-4). Noticeably, Nestor is also more forceful than he was with Achilles, issuing a lesson in the form of an indirect second person gnome180 (1.63-4), warning him that the one who loves war amongst his own people will be ἀφρήτωρ (‘clanless’), ἀθέμιστος (‘lawless’), and ἀνέστιος (‘hearthless’). The use of the gnome works here. He makes his point forcefully in a way that stops short of accusing Diomedes of infighting. Next, he issues orders for a 177 van de Mije comments: ‘the contention ‘the gods gave you a but not b’ is reminiscent of ‘heroic excellences’ rather than of ‘special abilities’; and of course, supreme rule is an aristocratic property if ever there was one’. van der Mije: 262. 178 In another piece, Hammer notes that this is similar to Achilles’ expression of disobedience, just in reverse. While Achilles threatens to go, Diomedes threatens to stay. Both involve separating from Agamemnon. See, Hammer, The Iliad as Politics: The Performance of Political Thought 90. The point of the comparison is probably that Diomedes is acting as we expect the warrior leader to act, in contrast to both Agamemnon and Achilles. 179 180 See for example, J. Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), ad.54-5. Lardinois defines the indirect second person gnome as a saying ‘made about a third person, which at the same time is applicable to or has consequences for the person addressed.’ A. Lardinois, ‘Modern Paroemiology and Gnomai in the Iliad,’ Classical Philology 92 (1997): 223. In this case, the third person is not defined, but more importantly neither does it define precisely who it is referring to indirectly. It is likely that it is actually meant for both men. 71 night watch and the convening of council in Agamemnon’s compound (9.65-78) at which Nestor tells the council that they must supplicate Achilles with δώροισίν τ᾽ ἀγανοῖσιν ἔπεσσί τε μειλιχίοισι. (‘kindly gifts and pleasant words.’ 9.113). After the emergency assembly, the embassy sets off to seek Achilles’ return. Their chances of success are evidently not good. At 9.183 the members of the embassy pray (as they must) for Poseidon’s blessings,181 however, their entreaties are met with silence. They will receive no assurance of aid or threat of hindrance. This point is often overlooked.182 It is important though, because the god’s silence is better read as a warning of the embassy’s certain failure.183 Indeed, in Book 8 Zeus himself effectively declares as much when he gives his prophecy: Achilles will only return when they are fighting by the ships over the body of Patroklos (8.473-7).184 It is a simple point to note, but this time has not yet come, therefore the mission cannot succeed. The non-intervention of the gods for good or ill in this mission also stands in juxtaposition to their active involvement to bring about the success of Priam’s journey to recover the body of Hektor in Book 24. Priam is ordered by Zeus to ransom Hektor’s body (24.171-87). On his departure, Priam prays to Zeus, lifting up his hands and asking for his mercy (24.299-313). Unlike the embassy, Priam receives an immediate and unequivocal sign of the Olympian’s blessing as a great black eagle descends across the city (24.314-21).185 The effect of the spectacle is immediate and 181 The issue of the dual being used to refer to the three members of the embassy is a complex one which falls beyond the parameters of this thesis. I do, however, find Griffin’s reading quite persuasive, when he suggests that this may relate to this episode being modified for special reading as a likely audience favourite. Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, 23-5. 182 Several commentaries on Book 9 simply observe that it is natural for them to pray to the gods at this time. This is certainly right. But the gods’ response, or lack of it (as it is in this case) should not be ignored. C. Wilson, Homer: Iliad Books VIII and IX (Warminster: Aris & Phillips Ltd, 1996), ad. 9.183; Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, ad. loc. J.B. Hainsworth, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume III: Books 9-12 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), ad. loc. 183 See also O. Tsagarakis, ‘The Achaean Embassy and the Wrath of Achilles,’ Hermes 99 (1971): 262. 184 Watson Williams does acknowledge the effect of the plan of Zeus, noting that Achilles ‘cannot ‘cease his wrath’ or fight until Zeus has fulfilled his prayer and ‘the Achaians are penned in by their ships’. E. Watson Williams, ‘The Offer to Achilles,’ Classical Quarterly, New Series 7 (1957): 108. 185 For a very good article on this simile, see: E.K. Anhalt, ‘Barrier and Transcendence: The Door and the Eagle in the Iliad 24.314-21,’ Classical Quarterly 45 (1995): passim. 72 the poet describes how ‘the people were uplifted and the hearts made glad in the breasts of all of them.’ (γήθησαν, καὶ πᾶσιν ἐνὶ φρεσὶ θυμὸς ἰάνθη. 24.321). In addition, the old king receives both physical assistance from Hermes in getting to and from Achilles’ camp (24.349-467) and advice on how to ‘stir’ (ὀρίνῃς) Achilles’ heart (24.467). Most telling of all is that in Book 24, the gods also instruct Achilles on how to receive Priam, telling him that he must give up the body of Hektor (24.133-7). In Book 9 Achilles receives no such instruction, either before or during the meeting. In Book 9, we find a warrior existing in the world of thought rather than action. He is detached, both physically and mentally, from the mayhem which has descended on the Achaian community. In his despair, he finds solace in playing his lyre and singing the κλέα ἀνδρῶν (9.189). Here is a young warrior whose pleasure is normally found in being the inspiration for epic verse, rather than composing it. The poet also describes him as ‘delighting his heart’ (τὸν δ᾽ εὗρον φρένα τερπόμενον (9.186), and ‘Pleasuring his heart’ (τῇ ὅ γε θυμὸν ἔτερπεν, 9.189). In both cases, the verb (at first in the middle,186 then in the active voice) indicates Achilles’ giving of delight or pleasure to his inner self (at first his phren, then his thumos).187 However, there is more to this than mere pleasure and delight. It is necessary to read this in its proper context. That is, Achilles is singing in the midst of his anger and his isolation from the Achaian community. Mackie interpets the pleasure brought about by song in this instance as also having a healing dimension, as it appears to have the effect of soothing his suffering. In particular, Mackie likens Achilles to Orpheus in Virgil’s Georgics in which Orpheus tries to soothe his grief by playing his lyre after the death of Eurydice (4.464-6).188 For both men, Mackie argues, the subject of their song is closely related to their own suffering: Orpheus’ loss of Eurydice and 186 Sullivan notes the comparable use of τερπόμεναι at Od. 8.131 to describe the Phaeacians taking delight while watching the games. Sullivan, 73. 187 This is formulaic language to describe the effect of listening to music, and indeed, Wilson points out that τέρπειν is often used to describe the emotional effect of song in particular. Wilson, Homer: Iliad Books VIII and IX, ad. 9.186, cites 1.474, as well as several references in the Odyssey including 1.347, 8.91, 17.385. 188 C.J. Mackie, ‘Achilles’ Teachers: Chiron and Phoenix in the Iliad ’ Greece & Rome 44 (1997): 7. See Meinecke (49, 80-1) for more discussion on Orpheus, and music as a ‘psychoiatric’ agent. Meinecke also cites Achilles’ playing music as an early demonstration of the ‘psychotherapuetic powers of music.’ B. Meinecke, ‘Music and Medicine in Classical Antiquity,’ in Music and Medicine, ed. D. Schullman and M. Schoen (New York: Henry Schuman, Inc., 1948), 70. 73 Achilles’ loss of Briseis and his estrangement from the community at Troy. Further, Achilles’ capacity to give himself delight, and in so doing soothe his suffering through music, underscores an important, if subtle, connection between Achilles’ music and his abilities as a healer (11.831-2). Rabel also considers the scene a good illustration of Achilles’ self-sufficiency.189 It is this self-reliance, this capacity to heal one’s self, that also helps to distinguish him as unique among the princes at Troy.190 On this point, Rosner also comments: ‘It is difficult to imagine, for example, Ajax or Diomedes engaged in such activity.’191 Indeed, he is the only hero in the Iliad who is also a bard.192 The act of composition requires the poet to engage with his subject with a degree of perspective. For Achilles, this requires as King puts it, that he step back ‘from his role as a doer of heroic deeds to become a shaper of heroic meaning.’193 In this sense, Achilles’ act of singing indicates his capacity for and perhaps even a degree of willingness to engage in reflection. We do of course know the general subject of Achilles’ song. The poet tells us that he sings the κλέα ἀνδρῶν, the ‘glorious deeds of men’ (9.189). However, unlike the professional poet who primarily sings about the acts of others,194 Achilles is both the performer and subject of poetry. As a warrior aspiring to kleos aphthiton, he is, as Griffin suggests, ‘aware of the poetic tradition, and of himself as a part of it.’195 In a similar vein, Friedrich and Redfield state that we 189 190 R.J. Rabel, ‘The Theme of Need in Iliad 9-11,’ Phoenix 45 (1991): 286. King also argues that Achilles’ ability as a healer contributes to his special value as a warrior. Achilles is the only one of the main leaders who is skilled as a healer. She adds, that the fact that he was a student of Chiron points to Achilles being as skilled as the professional healers, Podaleiros and Machaon. King, 9. 191 192 J. Rosner, ‘The Speech of Phoenix: Iliad 9.434-605,’ Phoenix 30 (1976): 317. Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 271. Of course, the authors also note that Odysseus famously acts like a poet in the Odyssey when he recounts his own adventures over four books. 193 194 King, 11. In discussing the place of the singer in the Odyssey, Walsh also makes the point that the singer is typically a public figure and a xeinos, or ‘outsider’, who does not engage in the regular activities of others. They are performers of song, and not of the acts about which they sing. In the case of Demodocus, both the ability and song itself are compensation for his loss of sight (Hom. Od. 8.63). G.B. Walsh, The Varieties of Enchantment: Early Greek Views of the Nature and Function of Poetry (Chapel Hill and London: The University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 10, 15-6. 195 Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, ad. 9.186ff. Note also, that Zanker sees Achilles’ singing about kleos as a sign of his continued interest in τιμή. Zanker, 90. 74 can assume Achilles to be not just a poet of others’ deeds, but also ‘a poet of his acts.’196 This is of course true for many other warriors in the Iliad, especially those like Nestor and Phoinix, who engage in sharing their own stories, reciting them as they do the stories of other heroes of the past.197 Unlike Achilles though, they do so without the aid of music. If Achilles does understand his own action in the context of heroic epic verse, and I think he does, this raises the question: how does he understand this period in his own story? The answer will become more clear in due course. Through song, Achilles succeeds in finding pleasure, and therefore, some temporary relief from his distress. This is clear from Achilles’ own comments during his reconciliation with Agamemnon, when he describes the effect of anger being like smoke inside the heart and sweeter than dripping honey (18.107-10).198 It is no coincidence that the instrument Achilles uses is the very same lyre that he also won from the sack of Thebe, the same victory at which Agamemnon was awarded Chryseis (1.369). Zarker rightly points out that the lyre is important here: ‘Homer is evoking the Achilles of the past, the Achilles who was the heroic chivalric ideal, fearless, invincible in battle, kind and humane in victory.’199 In this sense, at this point of the poem, Achilles effectively only exists in story. He has become like the old men who recite tales of their youthful heroic exploits to remind others and themselves of the honour that was once theirs. Unlike the likes of Nestor though, whose stories are all things of a now distant past, Achilles is in fact, even while he is singing, actually participating in the creation of his own story. Like Helen, who ponders the song that will be sung about her and who also weaves her own image of the struggles around 196 197 198 Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 271. See for example Nestor (1.254-84) and Phoinix (9.446-84). On this simile, see also Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, 28; Tsagarakis: 268 and C. Moulton, ‘Homeric Metaphor,’ Classical Philology 74 (1979): 285. 199 J.W. Zarker, ‘King Eëtion and Thebe as Symbols in the Iliad,’ Classical Journal 61 (1965): 114. King, similarly sees the lyre as an integral part of Achilles’ characterisation as a warrior, stating: ‘the warrior won it, and the warrior sings.’ This is, she argues, the opposite impression to that created by Paris’ association with music (3.54) which Hektor uses against him to scold his brother’s unwarlike character. King, 10. Zanker also adds that the lyre evokes the contrast between Achilles’ treatment of Eëtion and his reception of the embassy and later supplicants, up until Priam in Book 24. Zanker, 9. 75 her (6.358),200 we know that Achilles’ story is happening now and it is this awareness that normally inspires a warrior like Achilles to take conspicuous action. However, here one gets the distinct impression that he is telling the story as a substitute for the intense array of emotions that he experiences when he participates in battle. One of the most striking things about this image of Achilles singing is the way it sits against the background of war which has immersed the world around him for the preceding seven books. Over this protracted period, the audience has witnessed an increasingly spectacular and devastating wave of renewed hostility involving not only the Achaians and Trojans but the gods themselves. Zeus, who is responsible for ensuring that the Achaians experience defeat (at least temporarily) in Achilles’ absence, is particularly prominent at pivotal moments, making numerous stunning interventions that cause a mixture of terror and inspiration among the mortal armies below.201 Against this image of war we might reasonably expect to find a strong and powerful warrior, something reflecting the power of the sentiment that Achilles expressed in his oath to Agamemnon. What we find is the complete opposite of this – the shadow and memory of a warrior. Achilles is completely detached and absorbed in his own world.202 In fact, he resembles those most unwarlike individuals like the sorrowful Paris (6.325-31)203 and the Trojan women (Laodike and attendants, 6.252, 200 Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, ad. 9.186ff. Griffin also compares Achilles’ awareness of his place in song with Helen who we see weaving an image of the war fought over her (3.125), and who imagines herself as the subject of future song (6.358). 201 At 4.74-9 Athene, on orders from Zeus, comes down in a flash that the poet likens to a meteor. In other cases Zeus acts directly, for example, Zeus’ thundering after the funerals (7.478-81), and the lightning strikes after balancing the fates of the Trojans and Greeks on the scales (8.75-7). Shortly afterwards, he has to specifically target Diomedes with a warning shot and three rumbles of thunder (8.135ff.). On the symbolism of lightning see, Fay: 27; Puhvel: passim. 202 Separation and disengagement from life are to a degree integral aspects of both the nature of song and the effect of song on the listener. As the singer, Achilles is already removed from that which he sings about, but song itself can elicit effects that increase this separation, and in the most extreme case, bring about the loss of self awareness. Citing the example of the Sirens in the Odyssey, Walsh remarks that their song is ‘deadly in its charm, apparently because it brings men so much pleasure they forget to live.’ This ‘death’ he adds ‘typifies the charmed state of the human singer’s audience’ which experiences an enchantment causing the abandonment of ‘purposeful effort and the direct experience of joy’. Walsh, 15. 203 Paris’ defence is in some ways a similar situation to Achilles’. He tells Hektor ‘I wished to give myself over to sorrow’ (6.336) and that Helen had been urging him to go into battle (6.338). 76 6.286-310, Helen, 6.343-68, et al) in Book 6, and possibly Andromache in Book 22 (22.437-45) who remain within the safety of the city walls. In each case, the people concerned are shown in a domestic setting which is set against the background of battle. For these women, this is appropriate. It is clearly unacceptable for one of the sons of Priam to be seen holding back from the fighting. Unlike Achilles, Paris is armed for battle, and on the urging of Helen and Hektor he rejoins the fight, and when they are not watching the fighting from the walls the Trojan women are engaged in activities that are at least intended to support those who fight for them. The most resounding criticism of Achilles’ singing is evident in the response of Patroklos. Rather than delighting in the clear sounding instrument or Achilles’ song, the poet describes him simply waiting patiently for him to stop (9.190). Consistent with Achilles’ dominant concern with his own interests, his music also only provides pleasure for himself and nought besides. Patroklos’ response to the music is significant in another way, in that it really serves to underscore just how isolated he is at this time. As King remarks, ‘Achilles has withdrawn into a realm so private that even Patroklos cannot fully share it.’204 How different would the tone of this brief scene be if Achilles was actually performing for himself as well as Patroklos? As it stands, Patroklos is close to Achilles, but he does not share the pleasure that Achilles finds, knowing all too well the predicament that the Achaians face in Achilles’ absence. As soon as he stops playing it becomes evident that Achilles is completely engulfed in his own suffering. Rather than recognising that the embassy has arrived because they need him to return, he instinctively believes that they are there to comfort him. When he greets them, he says enthusiastically: χαίρετον˙ ἦ φίλοι ἄνδρες ἱκάνετον ἦ τι μάλα χρεώ, οἵ μοι σκυζομένῳ περ Ἀχαιῶν φίλτατοί ἐστον. Welcome. You are my friends who have come, and greatly I need you, who even to this my anger are dearest of all the Achaians. (9.197-8) 204 Indeed, King also notes that Achilles is singing in isolation. Elsewhere in the Iliad, song takes place in a communal setting (the Achaian’s singing to Apollo (1.472-4); the young boy on Achilles’ shield who provides music for the people while they pick the harvest (18.56772)). King, 11. 77 Citing Leaf, Rabel states that ‘Achilles may be expressing, however unconsciously, his own need of a visit from his friends.’205 Elaborating on this, he adds that ‘the language of this question speaks equivocally of the need for Achilles and Achilles’ own need, precisely because Achilles’ need is to be needed by his comrades.’206 After welcoming the embassy, Achilles instructs Patroklos to set a fire for the cooking of meat (9.211-2) and for sacrifice (9.220).207 Rosner, commenting on Achilles’ hospitality, observes the similarity between this scene and Achilles’ humane reception of Priam (24.508-51).208 At the same time, Rosner adds that these scenes also work to highlight the difference between Achilles and Agamemnon, pointing out that at 9.70 Nestor has to remind Agamemnon to offer the other lords something to eat and drink.209 So, for a brief moment, our focus on the fires of war gives way to that of the hearth. However, this quickly reverses when Odysseus announces the purpose of their visit. The start of Odysseus’ speech paints a grim picture dominated by the threatening spectacle of Trojan fire: …ἀλλ᾽ οὐ δαιτὸς ἐπηράτου ἔργα μέμηλεν, ἀλλὰ λίην μέγα πῆμα, διοτρεφές, εἰσορόωντες δείδιμεν˙ ἐν δοιῇ δὲ σαωσέμεν ἢ ἀπολέσθαι νῆας ἐϋσσέλμους, εἰ μὴ σύ γε δύσεαι ἀλκήν. ...here it is not the desirable feast we think of, but a trouble all too great, beloved of Zeus, that we look on and are afraid. There is doubt if we save our strong-benched vessels or if they will be destroyed, unless you put on your war strength. (9.228-31) What is clear is the psychological effect of seeing the Trojan fires and the knowledge of the destruction that they may soon cause. It was this outcome that Achilles had envisioned when he made his great oath to Agamemnon – that 205 Rabel, ‘The Theme of Need in Iliad 9-11,’ 285. Quoting from W. Leaf, The Iliad, Edited, with Apparatus Criticus, Prolegomena, Notes, and Appendices (London: Macmillan, 1900), 386. 206 207 Rabel, ‘The Theme of Need in Iliad 9-11,’ 285. If there is any question of seniority between Achilles and Patroklos, this detail is certainly important. In this semi-public context, it is clear who is in charge. 208 209 Rosner: 315. Ibid.: 316. 78 Agamemnon would be helpless looking on the suffering of his army. The language of fire is littered throughout Odysseus’ address. He describes how the Τρῶες ὑπέρθυμοι (‘Trojans in their pride’, 9.233) have κηάμενοι πυρὰ πολλά (‘lit many fires’, 9.234) near the ships, and at 9.241-3 he describes what Hektor now threatens to do: στεῦται γὰρ νηῶν ἀποκόψειν ἄκρα κόρυμβα αὐτάς τ᾽ ἐμπρήσειν μαλεροῦ πυρός, αὐτὰρ Ἀχαιοὺς δῃώσειν παρὰ τῇσιν ὀρινομένους ὑπὸ καπνοῦ. since he threatens to shear the utmost horns from the ship-sterns, to light the ships themselves with ravening fire, and to cut down the Achaians as they stir from the smoke beside them. (9.241-3) Odysseus’ phrasing here closely parallels that of Hektor at 8.180-3. He describes Hektor himself as becoming a force akin to a fire that has gone out of control. Odysseus describes how Hektor’s strength μαίνεται ἐκπάγλως (‘rages irresistibly’, 9.238) and how κρατερὴ δέ ἑ λύσσα δέδυκεν (‘the strong fury has descended upon him’, 9.239). Odysseus’ speech has several functions that are relevant here. Most obviously, in describing Hektor in such glowing and powerful terms he is clearly trying to spark Achilles’ own fiery and deeply competitive nature.210 The fires are now close, and so Achilles’ own interests are threatened; Hektor may win glory for himself and destroy the ships. Both the image of destruction and of Hektor’s pre-eminence operate, albeit unsuccessfully, as rhetorical levers to move Achilles into rising against Hektor who is profiting most from his absence. But, of course, there is another function and that is to inspire any remaining vestiges of Achilles’ affection for his estranged community. By describing the threat that Achilles’ dearest friends are facing, he attempts to appeal to Achilles’ better nature, that which saw Achilles take the lead on his people’s behalf to bring an end to Apollo’s plague.211 Concluding the first panel of his speech, Odysseus gives Achilles a direct warning: 210 See also, O. Tsagarakis, ‘Phoenix’s Social Status and the Achaean Embassy,’ Mnemosyne 32 (1979): 234-5. 211 In his defence of Odysseus’ speech, Zanker also observes how he tries to base his appeal on friendship. His manner of doing so is still relatively impersonal, especially when we compare it to the later (and more effective) appeals of Phoinix and Aias, not to mention Patroklos and Priam later in the epic. Zanker, 84. 79 αὐτῷ τοι μετόπισθ᾽ ἄχος ἔσσεται, οὐδέ τι μῆχος ῥεχθέντος κακοῦ ἔστ᾽ ἄκος εὑρεῖν˙ It will be an affliction to you hereafter, there will be no remedy found to heal the evil thing when it has been done 9.249-50212 The bulk of Odysseus’ speech is taken up with his recital of the lists of gifts offered by Agamemnon (9.262-98). The details of this catalogue are not important here. Just before this, however, Odysseus reminds Achilles of the advice of Peleus to stay out of quarrels (9.252ff.). In forceful and direct language, Odysseus admonishes Achilles, telling him that he has forgotten his father’s counsel (9.252-60). He goes even further than this when he confronts Achilles with his own anger, telling him ἔα δὲ χόλον θυμαλγέα (‘give way from the anger that hurts the heart!’ 9.260). As the first speaker of the embassy, Odysseus makes a number of gaffes. Instead of leading with a formal apology, Watson Williams notes that ‘he lets his own fears carry him away’ in describing their dire situation.213 In doing so, ‘he has entirely suppressed the most important part of the message, Agamemnon’s contrition and desire to make full compensation.’214 He also goes too far. His approach is overtly confrontational and it fails to take into account Achilles’ motivations for staying out of the fighting. Though offering great compensation, it does not actually address the problem of what Achilles needs. Ironically, Odysseus’ speech shows little of his famous cunning, except in his omission of the condition which Agamemnon includes 212 It is interesting to note the correlation between ἄχος (‘affliction’) at 249 and ἄκος (‘cure’) at 250. The words are in the same metrical position but carry the opposite meaning. The position of the words in the middle of the line may to some extent downplay their significance. However, both are lent more emphasis by the proceeding dental syllables, ισθ᾽ and ἔστ᾽ respectively. One might ask whether the poet is drawing a connection between the affliction and the cure. 213 Watson Williams: 104-5. Griffin also observes that Odysseus’ speech fails to offer an apology or recognition of the wrongdoing and Achilles’ suffering. Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, 21. In fact though, to be fair to Odysseus, King points out that while Agamemnon admits that his decision to dishonour Achilles was ἀασάμην (‘deluded’, 9.116), he does not actually include any apology in his speech. Furthermore, she points out that Agamemnon couches his offer in terms of giving rather than returning. It is also conspicuous that Agamemnon refers to Briseis merely as a gift in the same breath as the others, rather than as a geras. Even here, Agamemnon is at pains to maintain the upper hand in their power relationship. By offering gifts rather than restoring Achilles’ geras Agamemnon is effectively trying to merely pay ‘the price for Achilles’ future services’. King, 30. Indeed, Zanker remarks that the ‘cumulative effect of the gift-catalog makes it seem like a statement of regal superiority’. Zanker, 84. 214 Watson Williams: 105. 80 with his offer of compensation.215 His approach is more like a direct assault than the plea of a friend, and this explains why it elicits such a strong reply from Achilles. Achilles, as usual, opens his address with characteristic directness declaring that he will speak his mind: χρὴ μὲν δὴ τὸν μῦθον ἀπηλεγέως ἀποειπεῖν, ᾗ περ δὴ φρονέω τε καὶ ὡς τετελεσμένον ἔσται, ...ἐχθρὸς γάρ μοι κεῖνος ὁμῶς Ἀΐδαο πύλῃσιν ὅς χ᾽ ἕτερον μὲν κεύθῃ ἐνὶ φρεσίν, ἄλλο δὲ εἴπῃ. without consideration for you I must make my answer, the way I think, and the way it will be accomplished… For as I detest the doorways of Death, I detest that man, who hides one thing in the depths of his heart, and speaks forth another. (9.309-10, 312-3) This is the first of three speeches that Achilles makes in reply to each member of the embassy, and with each Achilles shifts his position.216 This has been a source of contention between critics since antiquity. In Plato’s dialogue, Hippias Minor, for example, Socrates argues that these changes reveal Achilles to be a wily liar.217 Cramer urges that we accept that Achilles is sincere when he says he wants to speak his mind. The change in Achilles’ speech is more indicative of just how ‘transitory’ Achilles’ mind is in this emotionally charged environment.218 Friedrich and Redfield are probably right when they say that ‘Achilles does not feel called upon to adapt himself to the world; rather he describes the world according to his present 215 At the end of Agamemnon’s list, he states that Achilles should yield to his seniority as the βασιλεύτερος (‘kinglier’) and the προγενέστορος (literally, ‘born before,’ or ‘elder’) of the two (9.160-1). This seniority is further formalised in the offer to make Achilles his son-inlaw, presiding over lands within the domain of Argos which is of course, Agamemnon’s territory (9.141-56). 216 Achilles’ declaration that he will only speak the truth is interesting in relation to his ability as a performer of song. Walsh, in his analysis of the Odyssey, notes that it is the perceived truthfulness of song, which should ‘narrate the facts without omissions,’ which distinguishes it from other forms of speech about the past. The basis of this is that truth is shared by the gods through the singer. Walsh, 13. It almost sounds as if Achilles is using the standard applied to song to everyday speech. 217 O.C. Cramer, ‘Speech and Silence in the Iliad,’ Classical Journal 71 (1976): 302, (Plat. Hip. Min. 370a-b). 218 Ibid.: 302. 81 feelings.’219 The real point must be that these feelings change, and with them so does his expression. Ironically, the power and directness of Achilles’ words also reveal the full extent of his powerlessness. This is first of all evident when he declares that fighting is a pointless exercise, when: ἴση μοῖρα μένοντι καὶ εἰ μάλα τις πολεμίζοι˙ ἐν δὲ ἰῇ τιμῇ ἠμὲν κακὸς ἠδὲ καὶ ἐσθλός˙ Fate is the same for the man who holds back, the same if he fights hard. We are all held in single honour, the brave with the weaklings. (9.318-9) This self-referential quality of this gnomic expression is, as Lardinois points out, the norm for Achilles.220 As one who is primarily concerned with himself and his own fate, it is no surprise that the ‘truths’ he wishes to express are truths that are foremost about him, and thus they reflect his distorted perspective on the world. The sense of hopelessness here is bolstered by the distorted claim that he has received nothing for his battle-work, comparing himself to a mother bird, feeding her young while herself enjoying only suffering (9.323-4). The pathetic tone of this simile appears to continue the tone, if not the subject, of the language we might imagine he sang earlier when the embassy first arrived. The parent-protector simile is a frequent one in the Iliad, and this is the first of two occasions on which Achilles refers to himself as being like a mother caring for her young, the second being at 16.7-11 when he compares Patroklos to a weeping girl wanting to be picked up. It is certainly a surprising image for a warrior to identify with, but it says a great deal about the heightened sense of responsibility that he feels. However, as Hainsworth observes, here it ‘sounds a petulant note’.221 While evoking the language of the poet (the simile is normally a feature of poetic narrative rather than Homeric speech222), from Achilles’ mouth, the simile primarily succeeds in highlighting his self-pity rather than evoking sympathy from his immediate audience, who are themselves living under siege and without a ‘parent-protector’ of their own. 219 220 221 222 Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 276. Lardinois, ‘Characterization through Gnomai in Homer's Iliad,’ 645. Hainsworth, ad. 9.323-4. Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 273. 82 The language of Achilles’ reply bears many of the same characteristics that began to infuse his speech both during the quarrel and in his speech to Thetis.223 Once again we hear a highly personal focus. Achilles gives an account of his achievements and his alone while serving with the other Achaians: δώδεκα δὴ σὺν νηυσὶ πόλεις ἀλάπαξ᾽ ἀνθρώπων, πεζὸς δ᾽ ἕνδεκά φημι κατὰ Τροίην ἐρίβωλον˙ But I say that I have stormed from my ships twelve cities of men, and by land eleven more through the generous Troad. (9.328-9) Achilles gives the impression that his hand alone was responsible for these victories. This must be taken with a grain of salt for the simple fact that Achilles, like all other warriors at Troy, fights as one of many, even if he and the other promachoi, fight, as the word suggests, at the front. The leaders typically fight ahead of formations of their own troops as has been thoroughly investigated by Hans Van Wees, and is clearly indicated by the poet.224 He then creates a stark contrast when he describes Agamemnon sitting idly by the ships collecting the spoils of others’ work (9.330-3). This account is similar in style to the version of the quarrel which he tells Thetis. There is clearly a high degree of simplification and bias here which serves to create a polarised image of the two men; one, the hard-working warrior who achieves great victories but gets no reward, and the other who does nothing but receives the lion’s share. As we saw during the quarrel also, Achilles continues to describe the present crisis as symptomatic of a permanent state of affairs. This can be heard in a variety of elements in Achilles’ speech. It is most obvious when he declares that: οὐδε τί μοι περίκειται, ἐπεὶ πάθον ἄλγεα θυμῷ 223 R. Scodel, ‘Iliad 9.372-73 and αὐτὸς ἀπούρας,’ Classical Journal 98 (2003): 276. Citing Hainsworth, ad. 9.373-4. 224 Note the mass formation described at 12.78. The poet describes the fighters arrayed in five sections that are κοσμεθέντες, or ‘arranged’. Exactly how they are arranged is not clear. Further, each section fights under its own commander (12.87). For detailed discussion of Homeric warfare, see H. van Wees, ‘Homeric Warfare,’ in A New Companion to Homer, ed. I. Morris and B. Powell (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 668-93; H. van Wees, ‘The Homeric Way of War: The Iliad and the Hoplite Phalanx (I),’ Greece & Rome 41 (1994): 1-18; H. van Wees, ‘Leaders of Men? Military Organisation in the Iliad,’ Classical Quarterly, New Series 36 (1986): 292-6; H. van Wees, ‘Kings in Combat,’ Classical Quarterly, New Series 38 (1988): 2, 5-10. 83 αἰεὶ ἐμὴν ψυχὴν παραβαλλόμενος μολεμίζειν. Nothing is won for me, now that my heart has gone through its afflictions In forever setting my life on the hazard of battle. (9.321-2) Here, αἰεί, or ‘always,’ works in a similar way to οὐ μέν, ποτε and ὁππότ (1.163 and ποτε again at 166). It is important to see here how Achilles continues to construct the past in such an overtly negative manner. As we have already seen, the story he tells himself and others is one which focuses almost exclusively on his mistreatment by others while deleting any evidence of receiving honour for his labours. He neglects to mention the prizes he has already received in recognition of his contribution. From the sacking of Thebe alone, Achilles wins a valuable piece of iron which he later awards in the throwing contest (23.826-9), as well as his lyre (9.186-8), and the horse Pedasos (16.152-4). Certainly, the prize in question, Briseis, was taken away, but there is no evidence to suggest that this has happened before and that it was indicative of a pattern. Effectively, Achilles inverts the pattern of events so that the removal of the prize defines his perception of experience entirely. Achilles’ inability to see the present situation more objectively is both caused and perpetuated by the negative manner in which he constructs his narrative of past events. The first fragments of Achilles’ version of the story were heard in his objection to Agamemnon in Book 1, especially with regard to the perceived imbalance between the amount of fighting done and the rewards given (1.163-8). These fragments he then developed into a more complete narrative for Thetis (1.36688). In Book 9, Achilles’ focus on his particular version of the story and the past in general has an even more developed role. As was noted at the beginning of this section, Achilles is first seen taking pleasure in his recital of heroic deeds, though we understand from Patroklos’ reaction that his singing is not that of heroic celebration but that of self-pity. Again, in his reply to Odysseus, Achilles’ focus is fixed on perceived wrongs committed in the past, to the exclusion of any rewards or honours he has received. Now Achilles adds to this another forward projection. Agamemnon cannot be trusted, and he believes that he is likely to commit similar actions in the future (9.375-6).225 Perceiving the situation to be permanent, Achilles effectively closes off any chance of return or of reclaiming his kleos. This changes of course, but 225 Scodel, ‘Iliad 9.372-73 and αὐτὸς ἀπούρας,’ 276. 84 only when Achilles’ own perception changes to allow other possibilities to enter the field of action. We can observe another important aspect of Achilles’ speech here. Earlier, in analysing his meeting with Thetis, we started to hear Achilles using passive language in describing his role in events, especially when they concern Agamemnon. While not using the passive voice per se, his description of events is clearly distorted by his own exaggerated bias and his construction of Agamemnon as wholly responsible for the troubles. According to Achilles, Agamemnon is the one who ‘dishonours’ (1.356), who takes away his prize (1.355), and who threatens him (1.388). In these examples, we see how Achilles makes Agamemnon the agent, while putting himself in the position of the patient who Agamemnon acts upon. This is a subtle but very important shift in speech and it remains a defining characteristic of Achilles’ language until the death of Patroklos when the passive style is replaced once again by the active. Rather than acknowledging his active participation in the quarrel and the events immediately before it in which he speaks in a provocative manner about Agamemnon, he reduces his own part so that in his version Achilles is simply a passive victim: one who is acted upon rather than one who acts himself. To speak about his own role in the quarrel in a manner that reflected his own agency would require some recognition that he was responsible for what transpired. During the embassy, in describing Agamemnon as the active aggressor who acts upon others, Achilles portrays him as the individual chiefly responsible for the trouble. At 9.344, Achilles states: νῦν δ᾽ ἐπει ἐκ χειρῶν γέρας εἵλετο καί μ᾽ ἀμάτησε, μή μεν πειράτω ἐὺ εἰδότος˙ οὐδέ με πείσει Now since he has taken my prize from my hands and deceived me, let him not try me who knows me well. He will not persuade me. (9.344-5) This tone is repeated at 9.375 when Achilles exclaims ἐκ γὰρ δή μ᾽ ἀμάτησε καὶ ἤλτεν (‘for he cheated and wronged against me’), and again most emphatically, later, in his reply to Aias: ἀλλά μοι οἰδάνεται κραδίη χόλῳ, ὁππότε κείνων μνήσομαι, ὥς μ᾽ ἀσύφηλον ἐν Ἀργείοισιν ἔρεξεν Ἀτρεΐδης, ὡς εἴ τιν᾽ ἀτίματον μεταναστήν. Yet still the heart in me swells up in anger, when I remember the disgrace that he wrought upon me before the Argives, 85 the son of Atreus, as if I were some dishonoured vagabond. (9.646-8) In each of these examples, Achilles describes actions done to him by Agamemnon. Achilles denies all responsibility for the situation and in denying his own agency he casts himself as a victim without honour, an ἀτίματος μεταναστής (9.648). Hainsworth, commenting on this scene, notes Achilles’ description of himself as μεταναστής as indicative of his now familiar hyperbole: ‘Patroklos, hovering in the background would not have agreed that a μεταναστής was necessarily ἀτίματος.’226 Hammer offers a further reading when he states that: ‘Homer has introduced into the narrative a voice which is at once familiar to Homer’s audience and yet outside the dominant values and beliefs of the hierarchical structure of Achaian warrior culture.’ His ‘status has become that of an alien.’227 Elsewhere Hammer also observes the passive aspect that characterises Achilles from Books 1 though 9, stating that ‘Achilles’ image of himself is not that of the warrior who is honored for fighting bravely at the forefront of battle but that of someone who simply ‘suffers from’ the afflictions of war.’228 But this paradigm of passivity has, in Achilles’ mind, a lethal edge. He appears to take some pleasure in watching the Achaians struggling, knowing that without him they will be unable to fight Hektor back (9.348-55). He also knows that they are losing because of the favour of Zeus, of which the others are unaware. As we saw immediately after the quarrel when Achilles retreats to the sea, he feels the effects of his own mind. On the one hand, he suffers emotionally as a result of seeing the situation in the way that he does. Achilles admits openly that thinking of these events causes his heart to swell with anger (οἰδάνεται κραδίη χόλῳ, 9.646). He also suffers in other ways as he increasingly cuts himself off from his community and those who, under normal circumstances, he considers his friends and companions. Achilles’ overriding self-pity and the negative, egocentric bias through which he sees past events and his present situation have the effect of making him deaf and blind to the calls of his friends. Indeed, in his negative mental state, he distorts their overtures, reducing them to conform with the pessimistic narrative which he has constructed. In 226 227 228 Hainsworth, ad 9.648. D. Hammer, ‘Achilles as Vagabond,’ Classical World 90 (1997): n.6, 345. D. Hammer, ‘The Iliad as Ethical Thinking: Politics, Pity, and the Operation of Esteem,’ Arethusa 35 (2002): 209. 86 this state, he is incapable of receiving honour, as he no longer recognises that which he has received already. Instead, with his distorted mind he sees his friends as being against him when in his confusion he states: καλόν τοι σὺν ἐμοὶ τὸν κήδειν ὅς κ᾽ ἐμὲ κήδῃ (‘It should be your pride with me to hurt whoever hurt me.’ 9.615). Achilles’ long and impassioned rejection of Agamemnon’s offer has a powerful effect on the members of the embassy who sit in silent amazement for some time (9.430-1). Their silence is reminiscent of that in the assembly following Agamemnon’s angry rebuke of Chryses (1.26-32). Even more though, it reminds us of the assembly’s silence after Achilles proclaims his great oath (1.225-44). Here, however, the atmosphere is even more fraught with tension. Phoinix, who is next to speak does so δάκρυ᾽ ἀναπρήσας (‘letting tears burst forth.’ 9.433). Beginning his own supplication, Phoinix, like Odysseus, raises the image of the burning ships when he asks Achilles whether οὐδέ τι πάμπαν ἀμύνειν νηυσὶ θοῇσι / πῦρ ἐθέλεις ἀΐδηλον (‘you are utterly unwilling to drive the obliterating / fire from the fast ships’, 9.435-6). Unlike Odysseus’ more official speech, that of Phoinix is more clearly heartfelt and based on his personal, virtually familial, connection.229 First, he reasserts his role as Achilles’ guardian and personal tutor. Peleus had sent Phoinix to be Achilles’ tutor when he was a child οὔ πω εἰδόθ᾽ ὁμοιΐου πολέμοιο / οὐδ᾽ ἀγορέων, ἵνα τ᾽ ἄνδρες ἀριπρεπέες τελέθουσι. (‘who knew nothing yet of the joining of battle / nor of debate where men are made pre-eminent.’ 9.440-1) Stressing the strength of this relationship, he promises that if Achilles leaves, he too would leave, even if the gods gave him his youth (9.444-7). The rest of Phoinix’ rather long speech is composed of three parts. The first is an autobiographical account of his own experience of anger which led to his relationship with Peleus and Achilles (9.447-84). In the story, he incites his father’s rage after he slept with his father’s mistress on the urging of his own mother (9.447-53). In punishment, Amyntor sends the Furies against Phoinix ensuring that he will never have children of his own (9.454-5). After nine days under house-watch, Phoinix escapes and finds refuge in the house of Peleus. Gwara convincingly argues that Phoinix’ own autobiographical story of his flight from his father’s wrath also works in a paradigmatic fashion: 229 See also Tsagarakis, ‘Phoenix’s Social Status and the Achaean Embassy,’ 237. 87 This narrative so closely resembles a parádeigma, in which one’s own “past experience... is frequently used as an indicator for the likely future”, that Achilles cannot help but observe the parallels with his own situation. Phoenix establishes his credibility as a man who made a choice in the past that now faces Achilles in the present.230 Rosner makes a good observation pointing out that in Phoinix’ story he accepts responsibility for at least part of the dispute with his father. In so doing, he implies that Achilles should also accept his share of blame for the present quarrel with Agamemnon.231 Rosner states: ‘As Phoenix’ violence is caused directly by harsh words, so Achilles’ attempt on Agamemnon’s life is also immediately preceded and motivated by Agamemnon’s angry threat to remove Briseis (1.184-85).’232 Both are valid points. Certainly, it is clear that Phoinix is drawing a comparison between his own dispute with his father and Achilles’ quarrel with Agamemnon. The detail with which Phoinix describes his desire to kill Amyntor certainly strengthens the connection, similar as it is to the moment at which Achilles is tempted to kill Agamemnon (1.188-92). However, what Phoinix is saying, more than anything else, is that he knows first hand the experience of anger, and therefore, he understands what Achilles feels. He has been in a similar situation to the one Achilles is in now. The rest primarily provides the story of their early history, and from this point Phoinix shifts the story to that of his tending of Achilles as a young child. In the hope that Achilles will listen to and learn from what he has to say now, he reminds Achilles that he has made him what he is (9.485). He does so with an account of Achilles’ infancy (9.485-91), before he pleads Ἀχιλεῦ δάμασον θυμὸν μέγαν˙ οὐδέ τί σε χρὴ / νηλεὲς ἦτορ ἔχειν˙ (‘Achilleus, beat down your great anger. It is not / yours to have a pitiless heart.’ 9.496-7). One part of the speech flows into the second, a model of the gods’ approach to the supplications of wrongdoers and a cautionary parable about Prayer and Ruin (9.50212). As great and powerful as they are, the gods, Phoinix states, are able to be persuaded and won over by the supplication of those who have wronged against them (9.497-501). Phoinix’ message is clear. By using the example of the gods, he 230 S. Gwara, ‘Misprision in the Para-Narratives of Iliad 9,’ Arethusa 40 (2007): 304. Citing M.J. Alden, Homer Beside Himself: Para-Narratives in the Iliad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 25. 231 232 Rosner: 316. Ibid.: 317. 88 indirectly acknowledges Achilles’ own strength and honour while also acknowledging that Achilles has been wronged. The lesson is simple: if the gods can be supplicated, then Achilles must also accept the entreaties of Agamemnon.233 In case Achilles is not moved, Phoinix follows with a warning. Prayers when answered μέγ᾽ ὤνησαν (‘bring great advantage’, 9.509), but when they are denied, ἄτη follows (9.512). In the third and final part of his appeal, Phoinix tells the story of the anger of Meleager.234 The tale is set during a war between the Kouretes and the Aitolians. During the war, Oineus incites the rage of Artemis by failing to honour her, and in her wrath she sends a monstrous wild boar against the people. The threat manifests as fire. The boar is ἄγριος (‘fierce’ or ‘wild’) and like the plague in Book 1, the boar has the effect of putting ‘many on the sad fire of burning.’ (τόσσος ἔην, πολλοὺς δὲ πυρῆς ἐπέβησ᾽ ἀλεγεινῆς. 9.546).235 Cursed by his mother, Meleager withdraws from the fighting and during his absence the Kouretes get the upper hand. He is repeatedly supplicated by the priests, his father and mother, and third by his closest friends. After the failure of their supplications, the language of fire comes to the fore again as Phoinix describes how Meleager continued to refuse even when the Kouretes were storming and setting fire to the city τοὶ δ᾽ ἐπὶ πύργων / βαῖνον Κουρῆτες καὶ ἐνέπρηθον μέγα ἄστυ. (9.588-9). It is at this time that Meleager’s wife Kleopatra makes the fourth and final attempt to supplicate him, and in her appeal she recounts the sorrows that accompany the fall of a city: ἄνδρας μὲν κτείνουσι, πόλιν δέ τε πῦρ ἀμαθύνει, τέκνα δέ τ᾽ ἄλλοι ἄγουσι βαθυζώνους τε γυναῖκας. they kill the men, and the fire leaves the city in ashes, and strangers lead the children away and the deep-girdled women. (9.593-4) Meleager is moved to fight, but he does so now because there is no alternative. In holding back so long, Meleager must fight without the offer of reward (9.598-99). Finally, completing the tale, the image of the burning ships is invoked again when Phoinix, as bluntly as he can, points out the intended lesson, warning Achilles that 233 234 235 See also, Ibid.: 318. See also, Tsagarakis, ‘Phoenix’s Social Status and the Achaean Embassy,’ 237. It is also worth noting the archery reference here, which is also parallel to the plague which is borne by the arrows of the archer god par excellence, Apollo. At 9.538. Artemis is called ‘Lady of the Arrows.’ 89 κάκιον δέ κεν εἴη / νηυσὶν καιομένῃσιν ἀμυνέμεν (‘It would be worse / to defend the ships after they are burning’ 9.601-2). The speech of Phoinix is important in several ways. Through invoking the memory of shared experience, Phoinix brings to the attention of the audience a side of Achilles that has become increasingly something consigned to memory. It is this more humane side of Achilles’ nature that Phoinix tries to connect with when he tells him that it is not in his nature to be νηλεής (‘pitiless’, 9.497). Rather, we can infer that Phoinix believes it is Achilles’ nature to care. For the remainder, Phoinix mainly speaks as Achilles’ teacher. The lessons he delivers are clear, and it is not difficult to see how they do in fact provide for the audience, as much as for Achilles, a summary of the principal lessons that Achilles will learn. The lessons give us a picture of how Achilles will ultimately develop. He will learn to accept the supplications of those who have wronged him, not as an act of weakness but in a manner that reflects his honour, virtue and greatness. We will see this in his reconciliation with Agamemnon and again, in his acceptance of Priam’s ransom for Hektor’s body.236 In doing so, Achilles will become like the heroes of the κλέα ἀνδρῶν, … who ὅτε κέν τιν᾽ ἐπιζάφελος χόλος ἵκοι / δωρητοί τε πέλοντο παράρρητοί τ᾽ ἐπέεσσι. (‘when the swelling anger descended upon them / … would take gifts, would listen, and be persuaded.’ 9.525-6). While softening Achilles’ position, mostly thanks to the more personal nature of this appeal,237 Phoinix is unsuccessful in securing Achilles’ return.238 An important factor contributing to this is the mismatch between Achilles and Meleager. By this I mean that Phoinix fails to create an example to which Achilles can really relate. There are two main problems. First, in the account Phoinix relates, Meleager is persuaded to act by his wife, Kleopatra, who describes what will happen to the city. The naming of 236 Priam does not wrong Achilles per se, but Achilles does still have great rage toward Hektor, and the Trojans generally, rage which he learns to temper after the prompting of the Olympians and the awakening of his compassion by Priam’s supplication. 237 238 Zanker stresses this point. Zanker, 87-9. Macurdy has written an interesting survey in which she looks at the use of the Meleager story in other examples of Greek literature (9-15). She also states that there are problems with the account that Phoinix gives. However, she does not elaborate on what these problems are, apart from describing his account as being ‘artificial’. G. Macurdy, The Quality of Mercy: The Gentler Virtues in Greek literature (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1940), 11. 90 Kleopatra, a reorganisation of the parts of Patroklos’ own name,239 hardly seems coincidental. The problem here is that Achilles has not been supplicated by a comparable figure, that is, one who is as high on what Kakridis called Achilles’ ‘ascending scale of affection’.240 That is, he has not been supplicated by Patroklos.241 Here too, where Meleager is able to be moved by the plight of his people, Achilles has already expressed his desire for them to suffer. Second, the only cost to Meleager is the loss of the δῶρα (or ‘gifts’) that are on offer (9.602, 604). There is one obvious problem with this: Achilles is clearly not interested in gifts, certainly at least, not in the way that they are offered. He wants his share of honour and he believes, and justifiably so, that he is receiving it from Zeus himself (9.608-10).242 In the end, Achilles commits to repeating Meleager’s error, taking the story as a model to be copied rather than avoided, promising not to fight until the fire has reached his own ships (9.650-3). A more effective retelling of Meleager’s tale might have seen Meleager persuaded by the suffering or loss of Kleopatra. Phoinix does not add such an embellishment because he does not know what the poet knows. Of course, though, the poet does know Patroklos’ fate, so in Kleopatra’s inclusion we have a veiled and inadvertent reference to his death.243 Commenting on the confusion that the assumed poetic allusion to Patroklos has caused readers, Gwara adds: Any external ‘reader’ of Phoenix’s narrative familiar with Patroclus’s death might perceive Homer’s ‘prophecy’ as dramatic irony, but neither 239 Originally argued by Howald, this reading has since been widely accepted. E. Howald, ‘Meleager und Achill,’ Rheinisches Museum 73 (1924): 411. Other detailed discussions on the significance of this include Gwara: 322-3; G. Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1979), 1045, M.M. Willcock, ‘Mythological Paradeigma in the Iliad,’ in Oxford Readings in Homer's Iliad, ed. D. L. Cairns (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 449. Zanker also cites Kleopatra’s supplication of Meleager as an example of the success of the appeal based on affection, commenting that ‘[a]ffection seems to emerge from the Meleagros story as a surprisingly potent means of securing moral behavior’. Zanker, 89. 240 J.T. Kakridis, Homeric Researches (Lund: Publication of the New Society of Letters at Lund, 1949), 21-4. 241 242 Nagy also makes a similar point. Nagy, 104-5. King makes a similar point, pointing out how Achilles rejects the comparison offered; ‘[h]e is not just another ‘angry’ hero.’ King, 32. 243 Beye makes a similar point. C.R. Beye, The Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Epic Tradition (New York: Gordian Press, 1976), 135. 91 Achilles nor Phoenix is prescient. They remain ignorant of the Greek advocate to whom this ‘Cleopatra’ might correspond.244 I do not want to labour the point, but the ignorance of Achilles and Phoinix is central to the drama of the story. However subtle, the audience is meant to hear the warning and pray for the doomed players to hear it also. The third and final member of the embassy to speak is Telemonian Aias who speaks from 9.622-42. It differs from the previous two speeches in its effective combination of indirect speech, gnomai, and direct speech. In the first part of his address (9.624-31), Aias uses indirect speech to express his anger both clearly and forcefully without actually confronting Achilles directly. By speaking about Achilles in the third person, he fires, as Bassett suggests, a ‘Parthian shot.’245 In the second part, still not talking to Achilles directly, Aias offers a gnomic statement (9.632-6). Lardinois has argued that this indirect usage of gnomai is a method of ignoring the addressee of an angry speech.246 Further, it is, he states, ‘just as insulting to address gnomic expressions directly to someone as indirectly, because, as was noted above, the speakers in this way claim authority over their addressees.’247 This may be so, but in this instance, it is not intended to insult and Achilles does not receive it as such. This is partly because Aias makes a sudden shift at 9.636 when he turns and addresses Achilles directly (9.636-42).248 Speaking about Achilles while he is present is also effective because it foregrounds just how disconnected the speakers are from Achilles. They might as well deliberate amongst themselves even when he is present. As Muellner states: ‘Ajax’s third person address to Achilles is in itself a metaphor for his message, which is to assert that Achilles is an absent presence, not an exile but a pariah who does not recognise his ties to the group of philoi despite their efforts to the contrary.’249 244 245 Gwara: 323. S.E. Bassett, The Poetry of Homer, vol. 15, Sather Classical Lectures (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1938), 200. 246 A. Lardinois, ‘The Wrath of Hesiod: Angry Homeric Speeches and the Structure of Hesiod's Works and Days,’ Arethusa 36 (2003): 7, 9. 247 248 249 Ibid.: 10. Ibid.: 8. See also Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, 22. Muellner, ‘The Alienation of Achilles: On the Artistic Control of the Traditional Poet,’ 153. 92 Of all the speeches, that of Aias elicits the most positive reply. Achilles agrees with Aias on all counts, telling him that he speaks after his own heart (9.644-5). Doing so, as Griffin states, ‘he strikes the right manly note.’250 Zanker explains Aias’ success by emphasising how his appeal, especially the final direct address to Achilles, is based more in terms of ‘pure’ friendship.251 Aias pleads with Achilles not to merely accept the gifts on offer, but to honour his own house by making his own θυμός ‘gracious’ (ἵλαος, 9.639). Even while mentioning the gifts, he does not frame these as being given by Agamemnon. Instead, he states that the gifts are being offered by the community including these friends present (9.638). The message is a powerful one. To reject this offering he will not only disrespect the sacred place of the supplicant in his own home, he will be rejecting those who wish to be κήδιστος and φίλτατος, ‘nearest’ and ‘dearest’ to him (9.642). However, he too falls short of convincing Achilles to fight. The reason for this is evident from Achilles’ reply. From 9.646-8 Achilles tells Aias how he feels every time he remembers his humiliation in front of the Argives. Aias fails because he fails to express his understanding of Achilles’ anger and hurt. The result of this encounter follows immediately. Achilles renews his oath that he will not fight until the ships are burning (9.653). The language of Achilles’ promise, like his oath to Agamemnon in Book 1, is deliberately brutal.252 Rather than simply refusing to fight, he vividly describes just how dire the situation must become before he will return, promising in his message for Agamemnon: οὐ γὰρ πρὶν πολέμοιο μεδήσομαι αἱματόεντος πρίν γ᾽ υἱὸν Πριάμοιο δαΐφρονος Ἕκτορα δῖον Μυρμιδόνων ἐπί τε κλισίας καὶ νῆας ἱκέσθαι κτείνοντ᾽ Ἀργείους, κατά τε σμῦξαι πυρὶ νῆας …I shall not think again of the bloody fighting until such time as the son of wise Priam, Hektor the brilliant, comes all the way to the ships of the Myrmidons, and their shelters, slaughtering the Argives, and shall darken with fire our vessels. (9.650-3) 250 251 252 Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, 22. Zanker, 90. Rosner: 320. 93 Of course, saying that he will not think about the fighting is only true insofar as he will not think about participating in the defence of the ships until they are under direct attack. Contrary to this, one gets the impression that he thinks of nothing but fighting (1.491 and 9.186-8). One also detects in Achilles’ words the dislocation he feels. In imagining and praying for the Trojan attack, we get the sense that he would ideally bring fire against the ships by himself in a similar spirit to that which initially saw him getting ready to strike Agamemnon down with his sword during the assembly (1.188-92). We have noted already a series of problems with the embassy, and the way in which it tries to deal with Achilles. Before moving on, I want to note two other communicative features that are absent in their approach. The first concerns the absence of gesture. Like Chryses in Book 1, not one of the members of the embassy makes any formal gestures of submission or supplication. This may not seem important at first glance. They are his friends, after all. However, Achilles explicitly states that this is what he wants, not during the embassy but soon after. As the Achaians get closer to their defeat, Achilles rather excitedly imagines that they will soon come to him begging (λισσομένους) at his knees (11.609-10). There is another important absence, and that is the ransom. This is certainly significant when we compare this scene with successful supplications where the goods are actually brought by the supplicant. This is certainly important in Book 1, with the restoration of Chryseis to her father (1.431-49). Priam also delivers the actual ransom that he offers (24.578-9). These men do not merely try to win their way with a promise of things to come. Granted, Achilles is not that interested in the goods that Priam brings, and he is dismissive when he finally accepts the compensation from Agamemnon. In both cases, though, the presentation of the actual goods is important in achieving closure. Odysseus seems more aware of this than others, and it is he who facilitates the final settlement by prompting Agamemnon to make amends (19.17280). The division is successfully concluded when Agamemnon agrees to the terms in full (19.185-97) and the gifts, including the women, promised by the embassy, are delivered to Achilles’ shelter (19.276-81). 94 The absence of the physical ransom in the embassy points to another missing presence: Agamemnon.253 True, he is also absent when Chryseis is returned, and this does not frustrate the achievement of a successful outcome. Odysseus goes on his behalf (1.430). However, by Priam’s example we see that it is certainly not below a king to act as supplicant when the need calls for it. Here, Agamemnon’s absence stands alongside the fact that we have already heard his explicit recognition of his wrongdoing to the other Achaian leaders (9.115-20). It is significant that he never acknowledges his responsibility for the quarrel directly to Achilles in a similar fashion. Achilles, on the other hand, will do just that (19.56-68). Reporting back to the assembly, Odysseus edits Achilles’ message to Agamemnon. Odysseus speaks like the seasoned diplomat, leaving out unnecessarily inflammatory details. He tells Agamemnon only of Achilles’ intention to return home and that he has said that they must now learn how to save the ships for themselves or leave Troy also (9.676-92).254 Hainsworth, commenting on Odysseus’ speech, interprets Odysseus as seeing Achilles’ threat to return home as a ‘hyperbolic threat.’255 Odysseus’ reasoning seems obvious enough. As Scodel also states: ‘An accurate report of Achilles’ position, apparently promising help when it is too late, would have been extremely discouraging and damaging to morale.’256 However, Odysseus does more than just dilute the language of Achilles’ message. As Rabel correctly points out, Odysseus fails to communicate just how much Achilles’ mind changes during the embassy. True, this answer may be taken as Achilles’ official reply, but the despondency of the Greeks at the beginning of Book 10 is based at least partly upon miscommunication and a false understanding of his wavering state of mind.257 What is implied by Rabel is that the assembly would actually benefit from an understanding of Achilles’ flexibility. Scodel takes the opposite line stating that the 253 Lateiner sums up the embassy as an ‘abortive ceremony of restitution by proxy… [without] any face-to-face personal admission of fault’. Lateiner, 55. 254 On Odysseus’ editing see also, Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, 22-3; Hainsworth, ad. 9.673, 9.7792. 255 256 257 Hainsworth, ad. 9.677-92. R. Scodel, ‘The Word of Achilles,’ Classical Philology 84 (1989): 98. Rabel, ‘The Theme of Need in Iliad 9-11,’ 286. 95 details of Achilles’ message to the Greeks are ‘relatively unimportant’ as ‘more likely, they regard him as unstable and given to spontaneous changes of mind’.258 Such an interpretation seems to miss one of the crucial lessons of the embassy, that Achilles’ mind can be influenced. After the counter-productive intervention of Odysseus, Achilles progressively modifies his position to the Achaians’ advantage after the more heartfelt submissions of Phoinix and Aias.259 However, Odysseus does not report these developments. He reports only what Achilles has said to him. This, it seems, is the formal reply that matters most. Well as he might deliver a modified version of Achilles’ message as he had Agamemnon’s earlier, by ‘ignoring the final message, [he] conscientiously reports only his first angry outburst – and represents Achilles as completely irreconcilable.’260 The effect of his account is to leave the assembled Achaians stunned: ὣς ἔφαθ᾽, οἳ δ᾽ ἄρα πάντες ἀκὴν ἐγένοντο σιωπῇ μῦθον ἀγασσάμενοι˙ μάλα γὰρ κρατερῶς ἀγόρευσε. So he spoke, and all of them stayed stricken to silence in amazement at his words. He had spoken to them very strongly. (9.693-4).261 Furthermore, it is ironic that the effect of this message is presumably much closer to that desired by Achilles than the effect of Agamemnon’s message earlier which very nearly backfired before the more skilful intervention of Phoinix. In a repeat of this pattern, it takes another, in this case Diomedes, to correct matters. Critical of the very idea of the embassy, Diomedes proposes that they leave Achilles be. ἀλλ᾽ ἤτοι κεῖνον μὲν ἐάσομεν ἤ κεν ἴῃσιν ἦ κε μένῃ˙ τότε δ᾽ αὖτε μαχήσεται ὁππότε κέν μιν θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ἀνώγῃ καὶ θεὸς ὄρσῃ. we shall pay him no more attention, whether he comes in with us or stays away. He will fight again, whenever the time comes that the heart in his body urges him to, and the god drives him. (9.701-3) 258 259 260 261 Scodel, ‘The Word of Achilles,’ 97. See also Griffin, Homer: Iliad 9, 26. Watson Williams: 106. These lines repeat those at the conclusion of Achilles’ speech at 9.430-31. 96 Diomedes’ speech is characterised by its confident and even pragmatic quality. No one yet has said with such certainty that Achilles will come back. But this is not the focus of his remarks. He acknowledges that Achilles’ return is out of their hands. In doing so, Diomedes brings closure to the embassy initiative, preparing the way for the next chapter in the defence of the ships. The Cost of Failure The effects of the failure of the embassy materialise very quickly. With Hektor’s forces controlling the plain, defeat for the Achaians is a real and imminent threat. No one is more acutely aware of this dismal end than Agamemnon who gazes over the Trojan watchfires burning menacingly on the plain: ἤτοι ὅτ᾽ ἐς πεδίον τὸ Τρωϊκὸν ἀθρήσειε, θαύμαζεν πυρὰ πολλὰ τὰ καίετο Ἰλιόθι πρὸ αὐλῶν συρίγγων τ᾽ ἐνοπὴν ὅμαδόν τ᾽ ἀνθρώπων. Now he would gaze across the plain to the Trojan camp, wondering at the number of their fires that were burning in front of Ilion toward the high calls of their flutes and pipes, the murmur of the people. (10.11-3) Agamemnon’s fears are well founded. On the following day of fighting, fire transforms from a threatening vision to reality. Where before the Trojans were connected to images of watchfires and the imagined threat of the burning ships, now the image of fire becomes more focused, personalised, tangible, and distinctly threatening. From Book 11 through to Book 15, the Trojans, and Hektor in particular, are regularly associated with fire and depicted as embodying the very power of fire itself. It is on this one day of fighting that the Trojans bring fire to the Achaian ships. There is more to Trojan fire than the failure of communication and the effect of Achilles’ anger. In the fighting leading up to the embassy, I stressed the connection between Achilles’ anger and Zeus’ communication through divine fire. As the mortal embodiment of Zeus’ intervention, Trojan fire can also be read as the expression of Achilles’ rage. As the final Trojan assault gathers momentum, fire is personalised in the figure of Hektor. At 11.61-3 Hektor is shown on the opposite side of the ditch, likened to a star shining through cloud: Ἕκτωρ δ᾽ ἐν πρώτοισι φέρ᾽ ἀσπίδα πάντος᾽ ἐΐσην, 97 οἷος δ᾽ ἐκ νεφέων ἀναφαίνεται οὔλιος ἀστὴρ παμφαίνων, τοτὲ δ᾽ αὖτις ἔδυ νέφεα σκιόεντα, And Hektor carried the perfect circle of his shield in the foremost, as among the darkened clouds the bale star shows forth in all shining, then merges again in the clouds and the darkness. (11.61-3) Hainsworth identifies the star in this simile as Sirius, before commenting that ‘all astronomical and meteorological phenomena are potentially menacing.’262 This is certainly the case, especially for the enemy on the receiving end. This first simile is followed immediately by a second, this time likening the shining bronze of Hektor’s armour to the στεροπή, or ‘lightning flash’, of Zeus.263 ὣς Ἕκτωρ ὁτὲ μέν τε μετὰ πρώτοισι φάνεσκεν, ἄλλοτε δ᾽ ἐν πυμάτοισι κελεύων˙ πᾶς δ᾽ ἄρα χαλκῷ λάμφ᾽ ὥς τε στεροπὴ πατρὸς Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο. So Hektor would at one time be shining amongst the foremost, and then once more urging on the last, and complete in bronze armour glittered like the thunder-flash of Zeus of the aegis, our father. (11.64-6) This layering of images serves at least two important functions. First and most immediately, it amplifies the visual effect of the image considerably. But it does more than this as it also strengthens the triple connection between Hektor, Zeus, and Achilles. Like the appearance of lightning early in Book 8 (8.75ff.), here it is a clear indication that the favour of Zeus is on Hektor’s side. Hektor has prominence in battle because Zeus gives it to him in order to honour Achilles. The fiery vision of Hektor is reinforced in Book 12 at the climactic point at which Hektor breaks through the Achaian defences. The poet paints a vivid picture of this fiery menace: ὃ δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἔσθορε φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ νυκτὶ θοῇ ἀτάλαντος ὑπώπια˙ λάμπε δὲ χαλκῷ σμερδαλέῳ, τὸν ἕεστο περὶ χροΐ, δοιὰ δὲ χερσὶ 262 Hainsworth, ad. 11.62. See, also M. Coffey, ‘The Function of the Homeric Simile,’ American Journal of Philology 78 (1957): 122. Coffey cites this as an example of the extended simile, ‘used to describe the appearance of a hero, particularly at the moment of or just preceding his aristeia.’ 263 This is not the only time the glint of metal armour is compared to lightning. Twice following, the simile recurs, once in the description of the armour of Idomeneus (13.242ff.), and again referring to the glittering edge of Poseidon’s sword (14.386). 98 δοῦρ᾽ ἔχεν˙ οὔ κέν τίς μιν ἐρύκακεν ἀντιβολήσας νόσφι θεῶν ὅτ᾽ ἐσᾶλτο πύλας˙ πυρὶ δ᾽ ὄσσε δεδήει. Then glorious Hektor burst in with dark face like sudden night, but he shone with the ghastly glitter of bronze that girdled his skin, and carried two spears in his hands. No one could have stood up to him and stopped him, except the gods, when he burst in the gates; and his eyes flashed fire. (12.462-6) The power of the image is brought out by the contrasting visual effects achieved by the similes of night and fire. As Whitman states: ‘[Hector] seems clothed in fire, with his arms and eyes flaring; but it is a dusky, threatening fire, for he is also like the night.’264 Later, Poseidon himself, while speaking to the Aiantes at the start of his proAchaian intervention, refers to Hektor at 13.53 as ὁ λυσσώδης φλογ εἴκολος (‘beserk flamelike’). In one of the most powerful episodes in which the aegis is involved directly in battle, approaching the climax of Hektor’s attack on the ships, Apollo assists the Trojan effort by holding it up at the front of the Trojan lines. Not long after, Apollo is described staring straight at the Achaians and shaking the aegis while letting out a loud cry, causing the Achaians to scatter in terror (15.306-27). The idea that the aegis is a source of divine light is supported by its description elsewhere as ἀριπρεπής (‘conspicuous’ or ‘very bright’) at 15.309, and as μαρμάρεος (‘glaring’) at 17.594. In the latter case, the image is made even more brilliant by the appearance of the aegis in conjunction with Zeus’ lightning. The combination provides an Olympian parallel to the combination of the aegis with divine fire in the case of Achilles. In both cases, the divine weapon’s psychological effectiveness is dramatically enhanced by the visual effects of light, flame, and sound.265 The poet makes the connection between Hektor, Zeus, and Achilles even more emphatically during the fight at the ships. The poet reminds us that 264 See also C. Whitman, Homer and the Heroic Tradition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1958), 132. 265 It is worth noting and maybe expanding on the observation that the aegis usually functions in conjunction with sound, whether that be the sound of Zeus’ thunder and lightning, or the shouts made by Achilles and Athene (18.215-29), and Apollo (15.320-27). The enemy is bombarded by a spectacle of light and sound. 99 Ἕκτορι γάρ οἱ θυμὸς ἐβούλετο κῦδος ὀρέξαι Πριαμίδῃ, ἵνα νηυσὶ κορωνίσι θεσπιδαὲς πῦρ ἐμβάλοι ἀκάματον, Θέτιδος δ᾽ ἐξαίσιον ἀρὴν πᾶσαν ἐπικρήνειε˙ τὸ γὰρ μένε μητίετα Ζεὺς νηὸς καιομένης σέλας ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἰδέσθαι. Zeus’ desire was to give glory to the son of Priam, Hektor, that he might throw on the curved ships the inhuman weariless strength of fire, and so make completely accomplished the prayer of Thetis. Therefore Zeus of the counsels waited the sight before his eyes of the flare, when a single ship burned. (15.596-600) This is immediately followed by a description of Hektor. He ‘rages’ (μαίνετο, 15.605) and is ‘in fury’ (μεμαῶτα, 15.604) like fire raging through a dense forest (15.605-6); his eyes ‘shine’ (λαμπέσθην, 15.608) and his brow is ‘fierce’ (βλοσυρῇσιν, 15.608). There is something also distinctly monstrous about Hektor now as the poet describes him foaming at the mouth (15.607).266 The image is made even more vivid by a most powerful simile as Hektor is described as being λαμπόμενος πυρὶ πάντοθεν (‘lit about with flame on all sides’, 15.623) like a powerful storm overpowering a ship in the high seas (15.524-8). Not long after, as Hektor threatens the ships with fire, he is like a αἰετὸς αἴθων (‘fiery eagle’, 15.690).267 Hektor at this point has become something akin to the great hunting bird. Commenting on the simile, Janko emphasises the image of the bird as a familiar hunting motif. ‘Hektor is bringing fire to the ships as the eagle brings death to the birds.’268 Most importantly though, the bird is also the symbol of Zeus himself, and Hektor’s eagle-like quality is explained by the presence of Zeus pushing him onward into the melee (15.694-5). Hektor is not the only warrior described as having the power of fire, even on the day that the Trojans succeed in taking the flames right up to the ships. In fact, the 266 The bT scholiast also thought that this verse evoked the wild beast. At 20.168 Achilles is described in a much more developed simile as being like a lion that is also foaming around the teeth. See R. Janko, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume IV: Books 13-16 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), ad. 15.605-9. 267 Lattimore translates αἴθων as ‘flashing’, while Murray uses the more literal ‘tawny’ which as Janko notes is used to describe ‘bulls, lions, oxen, hunger and iron.’ Ibid., ad. 15.690-2. As has already been noted, Aithon is also the name of one of Hektor’s horses (8.185) and contributes to the overall fiery visage of the hero. 268 Ibid. 100 actions of several Achaian leaders are temporarily likened to fire in their vigorous defence. Agamemnon, during his brief aristeia in Book 11 is likened to a sweeping forest fire: ὡς δ᾽ ὅτε πῦρ ἀΐδηλον ἐν ἀξύλῳ ἐμπέσῃ ὕλῃ, πάντῃ τ᾽ εἰλυφόων ἄνεμος φέρει, οἳ δέ τε θάμνοι πρόρριζοι πίπτουσιν ἐπειγόμενοι πυρὸς ὁρμῇ˙ As when obliterating fire comes down on the timbered forest and the roll of the wind carries it everywhere, and bushes leaning under the force of the fire’s rush tumble uprooted (11.155-7) Likewise, in Book 13 the assembled Achaians see Idomeneus as being φλογὶ εἴκολον ἀλκήν (‘like flame in strength’) at 13.330. Earlier, in a simile that evokes an image of Hektor’s armour shining like the lightning of Zeus (11.61-6), Idomeneus’ glittering bronze armour is likened to the glint of Zeus’ thunderbolt (13.241-5). Janko also makes the point that the image of Zeus holding the thunderbolt recalls Idomeneus holding his two spears.269 At 14.410 Aias hurls one of the ships’ holding-stones at Hektor and hits him straight on, causing him to crash to the ground. In an extended simile this blow is likened to the effect of a lightning strike against a great oak (14.413-5).270 Here again we have the image of the tree uprooted, this time by the stroke of lightning. Significantly though, the poet goes on to emphasise the awesome effect of seeing this by describing the effect of witnessing a lightning strike, stating that ‘there is no courage left in a man who stands by / and looks on, for the thunderstroke of Zeus is a hard thing’ (14.416-7). In spite of their momentary brilliance, unlike Hektor, the Achaians’ possession of fire-like power is even more short-lived and in Book 11, one by one, five of the most important Achaian lords are wounded and forced to withdraw from battle.271 Trojan fire undertakes one last development in the realisation of Hektor’s threat to bring fire to the ships. At the height of the battle at the ships in Book 16 only one ship 269 270 271 Ibid., ad. 242-5. See also, Whitman, Homer and the Heroic Tradition, 136. Agamemnon is stabbed in the arm by Koön (11.251-3). Diomedes is hit by the arrow of Alexandros at 11.377. Then Odysseus is stabbed in the thigh by Sokos at 11.434 and withdraws with the assistance of Menelaos (11.487-8). Then we see Eurypylos wounded while assisting Aias (also by Alexandros), and Machaon, who is also shot by Alexandros at 11.507. What is really conspicuous here is how effective Paris is, disabling three out of five of the leaders. 101 burns, that of Protesilaos, and for a short time at that (16.122-293), until Patroklos, on Achilles’ instruction, rushes out to fight back the flames and to repel the Trojans who have brought them. However, the brevity of the fire does nothing to diminish either its psychological or its strategic effect. Up to now, we have seen Trojan fire as communicating the anger of Achilles and the expression of the will of Zeus. Interestingly, though, the spectacle of the burning ship sends a powerful message not just to the Achaians, but even more importantly, to Achilles and Zeus. The sight of fire is cause for immediate action. Zeus has been on the lookout for this moment,272 and when Achilles sees the fire at 16.127 he is sparked into immediate action. Originating in Achilles’ anger and expressed through his speech and his passive refusal to take part in the Achaian defence, Achilles is now the recipient of his own spectacle. Like Zeus, Achilles knows that this spectacle is a signal for him to act – to shift from the passive to the active state. Before and after the embassy, we observed how Diomedes comes to the fore through his use of speech, providing the community with much needed leadership. In response to the deepening crisis that unfolds after the embassy, another model emerges, not from the ranks of the main Achaian leaders but from Achilles’ own camp, in the figure of Patroklos. For the first half of the Iliad, being loyal to Achilles, Patroklos remains with Achilles apart from the community, and in doing so he too refrains from offering any assistance to the Achaians. However, against the deepening crisis Patroklos makes a series of increasingly important interventions to assist the community, beginning with the medical treatment which he provides to the wounded Eurypylos and culminating in his active defence of the ships at the climax of the Trojan offensive, an act that ultimately costs him his life. The sequence of Achaian casualties comes to a head with the wounding of the healer Machaon (11.507). Unlike the others, the wounding of Machaon raises Achilles’ interest. Achilles does not actually see him wounded in battle. Rather, he notices him being raced to safety by Nestor (11.599-601). Achilles is at first uncertain of the identity of the wounded man and it this uncertainty which provokes him to send Patroklos to determine whether it is indeed the healer Machaon who has been injured. 272 The poet does not narrate Zeus actually seeing the fire himself, just that he is watching out for the first sight of a burning ship (15.600). 102 Arieti is well justified in arguing that this is a critical turning point in the Iliad.273 It is this venture beyond the confines of Achilles’ encampment that exposes Patroklos both to the persuasive rhetoric of Nestor and to the real cost of battle as he is confronted with the presence of wounded warriors in his midst. Even more importantly perhaps, King adds that the scene is designed to raise hope that Achilles’ disposition towards tha Achaians is softening.274 It is in response to this situation that Patroklos makes his first intervention to assist the Greeks. The Interventions of Patroklos On his way back to Achilles’ camp with instructions from Nestor, Patroklos comes across the wounded Eurypylos. The poet describes him in some detail, limping away from the battle, his face still dripping with sweat and his thigh bleeding from a recent arrow wound (11.810-3). Patroklos is openly moved by the sight, and feeling pity for the man asks him for his assessment of just how bad the situation is (11.819-21). Eurypylos confirms that all the most powerful warriors have been wounded and the forces remaining face an increasingly powerful Trojan assault (11.822-7). Patroklos has been sent on a fact-finding mission, and this much fits within the parameters set for him by Achilles. However, in the second half of Eurypylos’ reply, the wounded man makes a direct request for medical assistance from Patroklos. The request is made more persuasive because Eurypylos tells Patroklos that he knows that Achilles has taught him the application of medicine (11.831-2). Already feeling pity upon seeing the man (11.814), Patroklos feels compelled to assist him, in spite of the urgency of his return to Achilles with Nestor’s message. We can infer from Patroklos’ initial expression of reluctance that tending to Eurypylos would be against Achilles’ wishes. That he does so in light of this says a lot about the quality of Patroklos’ character, an attitude summed up in his own reply: ἀλλ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ὧς περ σεῖο μεθήσω τειρομένοιο. (‘I will not leave you in your affliction.’ 11.841). This brief scene is important as Patroklos’ healing intervention is juxtaposed against the image of the completely detached Achilles, who watches the drama unfold 273 J. Arieti, ‘Achilles' Inquiry about Machaon: The Critical Moment in the Iliad,’ Classical Journal 79 (1983-4): 125. 274 King, 9. 103 from the stern of his ship (11.598-600). While appearing to have some concern for Machaon, Achilles sounds excited by the deteriorating conditions. He recognises that the Achaians are reaching breaking point when he proudly observes that χρειὼ γὰρ ἱκάνεται οὐκέτ᾽ ἀνεκτός (‘need past all bearing has come upon them.’ 11.610). With the crisis coming to a head, he looks forward to the imminent arrival of the Achaians, whom he fantasises will soon be supplicating at his knees (11.608-9). Achilles’ sentiment expresses the attitude of an individual who at this point resembles the antithesis of a Homeric warrior hero. Rather than a force defending and pursuing the interests of the community, here we have the greatest warrior at Troy taking pleasure and satisfaction in his community’s suffering. Against this image, Patroklos emerges as a vital model of care. The poet describes the pity and sorrow that Patroklos feels seeing the wounded man. In contrast, Achilles feels no pity at this point. Machaon’s fate interests him because he knows, as the poet tells us at 11.505, that the wounding of the healer in battle is the turning point which sends the Greeks into retreat,275 and as Nestor also states: ‘A healer is worth many men.’ (11.514). The description of the healer at work is unique in the epic. The image stands out especially at this point, coming at the end of a long episode that is defined by a narrative of loss and suffering. With Patroklos’ healing intervention the man’s bleeding and pain stop. However, there is more to the image than the healing of one man. The act of healing looks forward to the end of the Greeks’ suffering, the suppression of Trojan fire, and the resolution of conflict generally. The patient is not of any great importance among the Greeks at Troy. Patroklos does not help the man because he is one of the leaders, or because he has any particular political or strategic value. Patroklos simply helps a man who is suffering. There is something special about the quality of this action and, it follows, the man who takes it. As Hektor rages near the ships, Patroklos goes to Achilles weeping (16.2-4)276 and makes a desperate plea (based on Nestor’s advice, 11.788-803) for him to return to battle or, failing that, to lend him his armour so as to lead the Trojans into believing 275 276 Arieti: 128. Lord points out that the simile used to describe Patroklos weeping (16.4-5) is the same as that used for Agamemnon at the start of Book 9 (9.14-15). M.L. Lord, ‘Withdrawal and Return: An Epic Story Pattern in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter and in the Homeric Poems,’ Classical Journal 61 (1965): 247. 104 Achilles has returned to battle (16.20-45). This supplication comes as the fourth attempt to move Achilles after those made by the embassy earlier. Still caught up in his own suffering and both mentally and physically detached from the suffering of the community, Achilles mocks Patroklos saying: τίπτε δεδάκρυσαι Πατρόκλεες, ἠΰτε κούρη νηπίη, ἥ θ᾽ ἅμα μητρὶ θέους᾽ ἀνελέσθαι ἀνώγει εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη, καί τ᾽ ἐσσυμένην κατερύκει, δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, ὄφρ᾽ ἀνέληται˙ Why then are you crying like some poor little girl, Patroklos, who runs after her mother and begs to be picked up and carried, and clings to her dress, and holds her back when she tries to hurry, and gazes tearfully into her face, until she is picked up? (16.7-10) He questions the reason for Patroklos’ tears, feigning ignorance of the Achaians’ predicament. Commenting on the simile, Macurdy writes: ‘Such a tenderly playful simile is appropriate on Achilles’ lips, as it would not be on the lips of any other of the Greek heroes.’277 This may be true, but playfulness is inappropriate at such a time. His attitude invites Patroklos’ scorn. Patroklos’ answer to Achilles is one of the defining moments in the text. It is the first time he, as Achilles’ closest companion, confronts him directly. He does so first by describing the wounds that have taken the other leading warriors out of the battle, exposing them more than ever to the resurgent Hektor (16.23-7).278 That he does so at this point must be informed by the fact that he has just returned from being amongst the suffering troops, and has even been actively involved in healing one of them, Eurypylos279 (11.809-48). Then Patroklos confronts Achilles with his own inhumanity, stating: νηλεές, οὐκ ἄρα σοί γε πατὴρ ἦν ἱππότα Πηλεύς, οὐδὲ Θέτις μήτηρ˙ γλαυκὴ δέ σε τίκτε θάλασσα 277 Macurdy, 26. Zanker has quite a different reading of Achilles’ words here, remarking that his ‘pity’ is ‘tinged with a sense of menace.’ Zanker, 15. 278 The account that Patroklos gives combines lines from both the versions he has heard. The first line (16.23) copies that of Eurypylos at 11.825, while the remainder of the account (16.24-7) duplicates the more detailed discription of the leaders’ wounds given to him by Nestor at 11.659-62. 279 Arieti: 128. 105 πέτραι τ᾽ ἠλίβατοι, ὅτι τοι νόος ἐστὶν ἀπηνής. Pitiless: the rider Peleus was never your father nor Thetis was your mother, but it was the grey sea that bore you and the towering rocks, so sheer the heart in you is turned from us. (16.33-5) From Patroklos’ perspective, Achilles does not deserve his illustrious parentage. He is not acting in a way that befits a son of either the honoured hero Peleus, or his immortal mother. He confronts Achilles with a powerful metaphor that stands like a mirror to Achilles’ mind. So effective are Patroklos’ words that Achilles is described as being μέγ᾽ ὀχθήσας, or ‘deeply moved’ (16.48).280 This contributes to the fact that Achilles has already been moved to pity (οἰκτείρω) just seeing Patroklos in distress (16.5).281 Crucially, for the first time in the poem, Patroklos clearly identifies himself both in opposition to the stance that Achilles has taken and as a part of the bigger Achaian community for which he cares. He uses this as a way of challenging Achilles before requesting the use of his armour as a disguise so that he might lead the Myrmidons in battle (16.38-45). Achilles’ response to Patroklos contains most of the characteristics that have been discussed in relation to his use of language in Book 1 through to Book 9. We continue to see how he constructs a biased narrative of past events that chiefly serves to perpetuate his own pain, the pain that he wants the Achaians to feel. What is also interesting here, is that twice Achilles clearly states how this story makes him feel. As he recalls the event it gives him αἰνὸν ἄχος (‘dread pain’, 16.52, 55). As before, the narrative that he presents in his defence is based on a distorted and dichotomous picture in which Achilles presents himself as the passive victim who is acted upon by others – as the patient of others’ agency. We hear this expressed when he describes how Agamemnon took his prize from him: τὴν ἂψ ἐκ χειρῶν ἕλετο κρείων Ἀγαμέμνων (16.58), and again when he states that Agamemnon has treated him as if he were an ἀτίμητον μετανάστην (16.59). This tone is repeated at 16.72 280 G.M. Ledbetter, ‘Achilles' Self-Address: Iliad 16.7-19 ’ American Journal of Philology 114 (1993): 481. Zanker also comments on the impact of Patroklos’ ‘affective supplication’, noting that, (like the more successful embassy speeches of Phoinix and Aias) this one ‘cuts at least some ice.’ Zanker, 98. 281 Macurdy points out that this is one of two instances in which pity is explicitly ascribed to Achilles, the other being during the games when he pities Eumelos at the sight of him losing the horse race (23.534). Macurdy, 18-9. 106 after Achilles gives an account of how the Trojans would be fleeing if he had been treated better by Agamemnon. Achilles also continues to minimize his own role in his narrative to that of the good fighter winning his prize single-handedly (16.57). Again, he characterises Agamemnon as the sole aggressor and the one responsible for his anger.282 We have noticed already how Achilles’ accounts of the past tend also to be characterised by meaningful omissions.283 Here also, Eichholz points out, while citing Leaf, that Achilles completely leaves out the fact that an offer of compensation has already been made to him.284 One explanation given is that Achilles thought, rightly or wrongly, that it was a mean and cowardly trap, as we shall find later. Consequently there is no discrepancy. What Achilles says about Agamemnon in this passage is in complete harmony with his views about Agamemnon’s behaviour in Book IX.285 Eichholz’ reading also emphasises the effect of perspective on the use of language. Achilles does not include the offer of restitution in his account because he does not see it as one. Whether it was a genuine offer or not is a moot point. All that matters is how Achilles is inclined to perceive the act. This continuity in Achilles’ language is important as it confirms the picture we have of his internal state: his preoccupation with his own suffering and his inability to accept responsibility for his part in the quarrel, and it follows, the suffering which he experiences as a result of this conflict. In this state, he is powerless to change the situation as he has effectively created a victim of himself and has become reliant on others to act for him, including most conspicuously his mother, Zeus, and even 282 Scodel, ‘The Word of Achilles,’ 92. Tsagarakis, ‘The Achaean Embassy and the Wrath of Achilles,’ 264. 283 In Chapter 2, for example, we observed that in the narrative Achilles gives Thetis (1.352 ff.), he leaves out the dialogue between Agamemnon and Chryses, and he gives no detail of his own part in the quarrel with Agamemnon, reducing the encounter to just two lines, 1.3878. Crucially, of course this means leaving out the threats and insults which he levels against the leader of the expedition. Similarly, in Chapter 3, we noted again how during the embassy Achilles neglects to mention the prizes he has been given, stating at 9.321 how he is never rewarded for his efforts. 284 D.E. Eichholz, ‘The Propitiation of Achilles,’ American Journal of Philology 74 (1953): 137. Citing Leaf, The Iliad, vol. 1, p 770. 285 Ibid.: 140. 107 Hektor. This dynamic of reliance is repeated again when Patroklos takes to the field in his place. Yet, we also hear signs of change in his language which reflect a subtle and very important shift in Achilles’ state of mind. Tsagarakis observes that even while Achilles continues to claim that Agamemnon is responsible for the quarrel, Achilles expresses some interest in the state of affairs on the battlefield, whereas ‘[n]ot long ago he seemed to care for himself alone.’286 What is certainly apparent is that Achilles exhibits signs of his desire to change after being confronted by Patroklos.287 It is only after he is confronted with Patroklos’ forceful disapproval and the potential loss of his allegiance that Achilles offers to make an end to his anger: ἀλλὰ τὰ μὲν προτετύχθαι ἐάσομεν˙ οὐδ᾽ ἄρα πως ἦν / ἀσπερχὲς κεχολῶσθαι ἐνὶ φρεσίν (‘Still, we will let all this be a thing of the past; and it was not in my heart to be angry forever’, 16.60-1). Scodel also observes this shift and points out that the ‘moment of recognition’, as expressed by the use of ἄρα with the imperfect, ‘shows the surprised recognition of what has always been true.’288 Scodel reaches a logical conclusion when she states that rather than showing evidence of profound confusion, this shift indicates that Achilles ‘is no longer controlled by an overpowering anger.’289 However, Scodel possibly goes too far in calling an end to Achilles’ anger. As Ledbetter observes, throughout his reply Achilles vacillates between expressions that hint toward compassion and others that still convey his bitter anger.290 No sooner does Achilles point toward the end of his anger and give way to Patroklos’ request for the armour, than he describes with increasing bitterness and morbid satisfaction the dire situation of the suffering Achaians and the Trojans holding the plain (16.66-79). The tone then softens again as he instructs Patroklos as to how he will win honour for him by beating back the Trojans from the ships (16.83-96). His reply then makes one final shift at the very end as he utters his wish that all the Achaians and the Trojans might 286 287 Tsagarakis, ‘The Achaean Embassy and the Wrath of Achilles,’ 264. See also M. Villela-Petit, ‘The Might of Words: A Philosophical Reflection on the Strange Death of Patroklos,’ Diogenes 46 (1998): 102. 288 289 290 Scodel, ‘The Word of Achilles,’ 91. Ibid. Ledbetter: 488-9. 108 die, and that only he and Patroklos would survive to take Troy (16.97-100). Interpreting these changes, Ledbetter states that the abrupt shifts in his speech represent[s] dramatically the struggles of an unsettled mind. He decides on a compromise that is not so much a resolution as it is a misguided result of his competing feelings of anger and compassion.291 Tsagarakis also captures these changes well, understanding the change in his communication as the logical expression of his changing internal state: There is nothing more explicit than this confession of Achilles. For the first time now he comes to realize that his resentment is not so forceful and repulsive as it was in the past when he rejected the compensation and demanded supplication at his knees. A calmer consideration has begun to replace the former tension, and he seems to experience a change which is human and understandable. His reaction in the embassy is consistent with his disposition at that time, but the rhythm of life, of which man partakes, has its own course. We can only guess what may have affected Achilles’ psyche to this.292 We can do better than guess. At this moment, Achilles speaks from a mixture of pity and fear. Achilles is clearly moved by the anguish of his dearest friend but he is also afraid of damaging his relationship with Patroklos. It is these emotions that cause a subtle shift in his outlook. Ironically though, it is this same mix of emotions which prompts him to allow Patroklos to use his armour. He is unable to move himself for the sake of the Achaians, but he can act to lessen the grief that Patroklos feels by giving him the armour. This is the only concession he is able to make, and in vain, he attempts to limit Patroklos’ intervention to fighting back the Trojans from the ships (16.80-100) warning him against pursuing the Trojans to the city.293 This is, as Scully puts it, Achilles’ ‘moment of greatest delusion.’294 Just as Achilles was unable to imagine the far-reaching effects when he pronounced his great oath in Book 1, ‘he 291 292 293 Ibid.: 481. Tsagarakis, ‘The Achaean Embassy and the Wrath of Achilles,’ 265. This is of course the second time that Achilles tries to limit the scope of a task which he sets for Patroklos. The first attempt does not succeed and neither will the second. Just as Achilles could not stop Patroklos giving medical assistance to Eurypylos, he will be utterly powerless to stop Patroklos from getting carried away in the heat of battle. 294 Scully: 21. 109 cannot fully imagine the consequent death of Patroclus or himself.’295 Achilles’ decision to allow Patroklos to take his armour and enter battle in his place sets in motion the chain of events which ultimately leads to Patroklos’ death.296 However, It is in the aristeia of Patroklos that a powerful model of heroic conduct is created. Others fight because it is expected of them, or they expect it of themselves, in order to be glorified by others and have their place in society confirmed. Patroklos, however, fights simply because of his care for his community.297 He is, at this point, Achilles’ polar opposite. Acting in accordance with the values of his community, Patroklos becomes an embodiment of virtue and a model of heroic conduct. Achilles sends out a man who is not like the other Achaian leaders. Indeed, he is not one of the leaders at all, though he willingly accepts the burden that goes with this position, and he does so without the promise of reward. Most explicitly, Patroklos is to be compared to the man whose armour he wears. Patroklos goes into battle not motivated by personal glory, but out of care for his community, care that Achilles is, at least for the time being, mostly without. It is Patroklos’ capacity for care which makes him so attractive to Simone Weil: In a certain way, Patroclus occupies the central position in the Iliad, where it is said that ‘he knew how to be tender toward all,’ and wherein nothing of a cruel or brutal nature is ever mentioned concerning him.298 His selfless action is brought out by the fact that he fights not as himself, but in a disguise worn to fool the Trojans into believing that Achilles has returned to battle with the Achaians. Indeed, this is exactly what the Trojans think when they see Patroklos arrayed in Achilles’ war gear: Τρῶες δ᾽ ὡς εἴδοντο Μενοιτίου ἄλκιμον υἱὸν αὐτὸν καὶ θεράποντα σὺν ἔντεσι μαρμαίροντας, πᾶσιν ὀρίνθη θυμός, ἐκίνηθεν δὲ φάλαγγες 295 Ibid. This is, as Scully notes, in contrast to the rather more objective view that Zeus has when he gives his consent to Hera, an action he knows will create strife in various ways, including increasing conflict with Hera. 296 Scully compares Achilles’ giving consent to Patroklos to Zeus’ agreement to Thetis. Both are pivotal moments in the narrative. Ibid. 297 Zanker also stresses that Patroklos is motivated by pity and not desire for personal glory. Zanker, 40-1, 139. 298 S. Weil, ‘The Iliad, Poem of Might,’ in Intimations of Christianity among the Ancient Greeks, ed. C. Geissbuhler (London and New York: 1957), 44, quoted in Villela-Petit: 101-2. 110 ἐλπόμενοι παρὰ ναῦφι ποδώκεα Πηλεΐωνα μηνιθμὸν μὲν ἀπορρῖψαι, φιλότητα δ᾽ ἑλέσθαι. But the Trojans, when they saw the powerful son of Menoitios himself and his henchmen with him in the glare of their war gear, the heart was stirred in all of them, the battalions were shaken, in the expectation that by the ships swift-footed Peleion had thrown away his anger and chosen the way of friendship. (16.278-82) Through Patroklos, Achilles effectively creates a spectacle of his likeness in battle: a simulacrum. The Trojans see, and are moved by, a false Achilles, both greater and lesser than the real (16.278-82): greater in that he does what Achilles cannot, and lesser because he is not the Achilles that is so feared. Patroklos fights without any promise of glory, nor does he explicitly make any claim to winning glory for himself. Instead, he inspires the Myrmidons with a call to win honour for Achilles in the eyes of Agamemnon (16.268-74). Janko, commenting on the speech, states: ‘[the speech] underlines the inconsistencies that Akhilleus is not leading them, and that fighting to give him honour will hardly make Agamemnon admit that he dishonoured him’.299 Contrary to Janko’s reading, it appears that the deception is directed at Agamemnon’s sight as well as the Trojans. The inconsistency of which Janko speaks highlights a poignant irony in that Agamemnon will learn his error not through the actions of Achilles himself, but through the efforts of another, a figure that while looking just like him, is at this time his opposite. While the poet does not elaborate on this, the idea that Agamemnon, and presumably the rest of the Greeks, are also meant to fooled by trick, makes sense. Just as the sight is meant to make the Trojans afraid, this would have the opposite effect on the Achaian warriors and their leaders who would be inspired by the sight of the son of Peleus arrayed for battle once more. Unlike Achilles, Patroklos has no direct immortal parentage,300 and no special gifts or talents to speak of to aid him in battle. He has the use of Achilles’ armour and 299 300 Janko, ad. 16.266-77. Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 264. Edwards is right insofar as neither of Patroklos’ parents are gods. However, as the son of Menoitios, Patroklos does have an impressive genealogy, though he is slightly further removed from his more illustrious forebears. According to the mythographer Apollodorus, Menoitios was one of the Argonauts (Apollod. Bibl. 1.9.17) along with Achilles’ own father, Peleus. This goes toward explaining why Menoitios gives Patroklos to Peleus to bring up after the young boy has a fit of rage and kills 111 horses, but not the ash spear (16.140-4). The significance of this is clear from the provenance of the spear which the poet provides. Originally a gift from Cheiron to Peleus, the spear is βριθὺ μέγα στιβαρόν (‘heavy, big and strong’, 16.141) and is too much for anyone else to wield.301 Patroklos, lacking many of the advantages enjoyed by Achilles and other warriors, takes up the challenge regardless, putting his own interests to one side. However, in another sense he actually defines his interests within the larger community as opposed to the more limited form within the confines of Achilles’ camp. In spite of these shortcomings, with the aid of the visual effects of spectacle, combined with hard fighting, Patroklos succeeds in repelling the Trojan attack on the ships (16.293), with the loss of only one ship. Before long, Patroklos and the Myrmidons succeed in routing the Trojan armies which flee back towards the city. Even Hektor himself is described as abandoning his people, many of whom become trapped in the Achaians’ defences (16.367ff.). However, despite Achilles’ stated desire, Patroklos is compelled to push on against Hektor. While allowing Patroklos to fight, Achilles unleashes a force that he is powerless to control. Achilles’ Myrmidons, the best warriors at Troy, have been straining for battle, and Patroklos too becomes carried away in his moment of valour. For a brief time, Patroklos does virtually become Achilles, and in the height of his aristeia this mortal warrior kills a son of Zeus: Sarpedon (16.462-507). But it is this loss, one of the most important after that of Hektor amongst the Trojans, that inspires a renewed attack against Patroklos that culminates in his own death below the walls of Troy. It is very significant that Patroklos is stripped of Achilles’ armour before he is killed. How this actually happens is unclear. The scene is one of chaos. Apollo plays a pivotal role striking from behind causing Patroklos to lose his helmet (16.791) before breaking his corselet (16.804). The poet makes much of Achilles’ helmet falling to the earth and the defilement of its horse-hair plumes. πάρος γε μὲν οὐ θέμις ἦεν ἱππόκομον πήληκα μιαίνεσθαι κονίῃσιν, another boy during a game of dice (23.85-9). According to Pindar, Menoitios’ mother was the nymph Aegina (Pind. Ol., 9.69), and she was the daughter of the river god, Asopos (Pind. Isthm., 8.16 ff.). 301 Later, during Achilles’ aristeia we watch as Asteropaios tries unsuccessfully to dislodge the spear from the river bank (21.174-8). 112 ἀλλ᾽ ἀνδρὸς θείοιο κάρη χαρίεν τε μέτωπον ῥύετ᾽ Ἀχιλλῆος˙ Before this time it had not been permitted to defile in the dust this great helmet crested in horse-hair; rather it guarded the head and the gracious brow of a godlike man, Achilleus (16.796-99). Citing the helmet’s formal connection to Achilles, at this critical point we are obliquely reminded that this divine object was never intended to protect Patroklos, who, unlike Achilles, is neither ‘godlike’ nor of divine descent. Stunned by Apollo, Patroklos appears to have his back to the Trojans, and Euphorbos strikes him in the back (16.806-9). Weakened by these two blows, Hektor comes in to finish him off with a spear thrust into the stomach (16.818-21). Vaunting over his body, we are reminded through Hektor’s words of Achilles’ part in these events (16.837-42). In a moment of what Andersen calls ‘dramatic distortion’,302 Hektor incorrectly imagines that Achilles had wanted Patroklos to take him on in single combat, as well as making an assault on the city (16.830-2).303 In doing so, we are reminded just how far Patroklos has exceeded his mandate to repel the threat of fire from the Greek ships. In imagining Achilles’ order to Patroklos (16.839-42) Hektor mostly misses the mark. He wrongly takes credit for the kill, and in his dying words Patroklos corrects him on this point, reminding him that his was merely the final killing (16.849-50). However, there is some truth in Hektor’s words, chiefly, when he points to Achilles’ inaction and his being powerless to save Patroklos at this crucial time. ἆ δείλ᾽, οὐδέ τοι ἐσθλὸς ἐὼν χραίσμησεν Ἀχιλλεύς, ὅς πού τοι μάλα πολλὰ μένων ἐπετέλλετ᾽ ἰόντι˙ Wretch! Achilleus, great as he was, could do nothing to help you. When he stayed behind, and you went, he must have said much to you: (16.837-8) In these brief lines, the situation is summed up: Achilles chooses to stay behind and as a result of this Patroklos will die. 302 303 Andersen: 27. On the general subject of retrojection in post-combat vaunting see Parks, 109. In this incident the retrojection of heroic achievement alludes to the conflict immediately preceding, so Parks states that retrojection is best applied to ‘verbal acts that span outside the boundaries of the present contest.’ 113 Conclusion The fate of both the supplications of the embassy and Patroklos afterwards are first and foremost influenced by factors that are beyond the control of the individuals concerned. They are all clearly limited by what the gods will allow. Regardless of what any of the supplicants say or do, Zeus makes it clear that Achilles will not be roused from his shelter until they are fighting by the ships over the body of Patroklos (8.473-7). It is only this event, the loss of Achilles’ dearest friend, which is powerful enough to shake Achilles out of his own ego-centric and immature delusions. Until this point, the Achilles who must be contended with is not a character that is responsive to the appeals of reason. His rejection of the direct appeal of his friends, promises of ransom, and the teachings of his long-serving tutor act as testament to this. Even the suffering of his friends is not enough to move him. But of course, we have to remember that this is what he actually wants. There are also numerous aspects of the communication during the embassy’s meeting that serve to undermine their objective. Odysseus’ speech is direct. However, this is problematic because it is also overtly confrontational. Added to this is the fact that he offers something that Achilles does not want. Achilles reads the offer of compensation as a sign that they understand nothing about him, his motivations, or his grievance. It is therefore both unwanted and inappropriate, so Achilles responds accordingly. Contributing to this is the fact that they have brought nothing with them but the pledge of goods from a man whom he does not trust. Diomedes is right when he criticises the whole effort in trying to win him over. Phoinix’s speech would seem to have the makings of the right approach. He speaks from his heart and appeals to his knowledge of a more conciliatory Achilles. The lessons that he offers Achilles are also apt. However, the example he provides in the story of Meleager fails to hit its mark. Meleager does not suffer in a way that matters to Achilles. He loses the gifts on offer but nothing more. The story backfires and Achilles appears to take it as a model to emulate rather than avoid. When it comes to Aias’ turn to speak, he is relatively successful in securing agreement from Achilles. His directness works. However, he too ultimately fails to offer Achilles the one thing he wants – for the Achaians to pay for the grief which this situation has caused him with their own suffering. 114 Achilles responds to both the embassy and Patroklos by choosing a course of action that he believes is in his best interests. What these are exactly is prone to change. During the embassy, he courts the idea of returning home, then he reaches a compromise position – he will stay but not fight. With Patroklos, too, he reaches another compromise in allowing him to fight. Here too, Achilles is explicit that this will win glory for himself, not for Patroklos. Tragedy unfolds with unrelenting force because these interests are so narrowly defined and he is unable to imagine how the suffering of the community will ultimately strike him also. He cannot comprehend that their fate and his are inextricably linked in ways that are also beyond his control. But, as we have also seen, he is not the only Achaian to lack such foresight or understanding of others. None of the members of the embassy are able to express adequately their empathy with Achilles, and so they are unable to offer him what he wants. Earlier we saw how the absence of effective leadership before and during Apollo’s plague provided an opportunity for Achilles to emerge, albeit problematically, as a force of authority in crisis. Achilles’ absence has a similar effect, as the crisis that ensues motivates others to act. Both before and after the embassy, Diomedes restores authority to the assembly and keeps the Achaians focused on their mission at Troy, countering the effect of Agamemnon’s virtual admission of defeat. It is Diomedes again who also limits the fallout of the embassy’s failure. However, the most important figure to emerge in response to this crisis is Patroklos. His first intervention is spontaneous, as he attends to the plea of a wounded warrior. He is motivated not by any personal desire other than the desire to ease the man’s suffering. Surprisingly, perhaps, this act of healing establishes a precedent for Patroklos’ most spectacular intervention when he takes to the field in Achilles’ armour. Here too, he does not fight to win glory and honour for himself, but to save the Greek fleet from annihilation. This is far from being a normal aristeia. He is not one of the great promachoi, though he looks like the greatest of them. It is almost inconceivable to imagine any other warrior in the Iliad being willing to hide their identity in this way, for the single reason that they need to be recognised to win honour. It is only in dying that the true identity of Patroklos is revealed. Through Patroklos, the poet creates an exemplum of heroic action. While lacking fiery brilliance which usually defines the warrior’s τιμή under the poet’s spotlight, he 115 succeeds in doing what the other Achaian leaders are all unable to do. To be fair, we must remember that he has some distinct advantages. He is fighting with and not against the Olympian mandate. Hektor’s success has a very specific expiry date and Patroklos, unbeknownst to himself, capitalises on this change in divine will. Most conspicuously also he looks like Achilles and this image, this spectacle, is a thing of immense power and he is able to capitalise on this, another reminder of the actual power of the man whom it is meant to protect. Patroklos pays the highest price. Just as the image of Patroklos in battle is the culmination of Achilles’ sense of powerlessness and his identification with the victim rather than the agent of change, his death is the clearest manifestation of just how costly this attitude is for all involved. Crucially, though, Patroklos’ death plays such an important role in the development of Achilles himself. It is a vital catalytic event, moving Achilles out of stasis and into action. In this way, his death becomes a vital link, helping to reconnect Achilles to the Achaian community, restoring φιλότης, or as Nagy defines it, the ‘state of being philoi’304 between them. It is this event, and not the suffering of the other Achaians, even those that he considers friends, that causes him to ‘recognise his social obligation’ to the Achaian community.305 The first clue to the importance of this relationship comes in the change we hear in Achilles’ response to Patroklos’ emotionally charged rebuke in Book 16. However, this recognition, and the change that it allows Achilles to create both as a speaker and a fighter, is the subject of the next chapter. 304 305 Nagy, 106. Ibid., 106, citing D. Sinos, ‘The Entry of Achilles into Greek Epic’ (Johns Hopkins University, 1975), 74. 116 Chapter 4: Recognition and Transformation The death of Patroklos begins a dramatic process of change when Achilles is directly confronted with the consequences of his decision to allow Patroklos to defend the ships in his place. The event has such an impact because Achilles takes responsibility for the loss. Doing so results in a fundamental shift in his outlook. This change effects not only the way he understands his role in this event, it also causes him to re-evaluate his position in relation to the Achaian community generally, and Agamemnon in particular. In addition to assuming culpability for the death of Patroklos, he openly accepts his share of blame for his dispute with Agamemnon and the suffering that this fracturing of the alliance causes. This shift in attitude and awareness is reflected in changes in Achilles’ communication, both in the context of his private speech to Thetis in Book 18, and in his public reconciliation with Agamemnon in the assembly. Some of the specific changes that will be discussed include: his use of less emotional and hyperbolic language; his reconstruction of the quarrel in Book 1 with a more balanced perspective; and his use of respectful language and terms of address. Since the quarrel, I have noted the manner in which Achilles talks about himself as a victim, and as one who is acted upon by others – especially, but not exclusively, Agamemnon. This changes completely after the death of Patroklos. It is a small shift, and one easily missed, but it is one that succinctly conveys just how radical his change in self-understanding is from this point onwards. This change in expression is essential to understanding the emergence of Achilles as a speaker, warrior, and healer once more. 117 This process of restoration continues in Book 23 before and during the burial games held to honour Patroklos. Achilles remains the central force, and I will demonstrate how he uses communication to restore and maintain order within the Achaian community. In his interactions with Agamemnon, we hear a continuation of the respectful manner of address that he adopts after the death of Patroklos. During the competitions, Achilles also effectively maintains order through his intervention in quarrels and his use of gifts. While Achilles is central to the success of the games, others also contribute to the positive community experience. Arguments do flare up, but harmony is quickly restored as the various competitors defer to one another and assert themselves with respect and tact. Through hosting the games, Achilles creates a powerful example of effective leadership, and assists in the creation of a new communal narrative based not on conflict and suffering, but on cooperation and peace. The change and re-emergence of Achilles as a speaker is soon followed by his contribution to the Achaians’ efforts on the battlefield, first in his intervention to assist in the securing of Patroklos’ body, and then in his killing of a swathe of Trojan warriors, including Troy’s champion, Hektor. His return is nothing short of spectacular and I will argue that the image of Achilles serves as a powerful weapon in the field. A major element of his return to action is his provision with a new set of armour. The armour does much more than symbolise the emergence of the ‘new’ Achilles: in the decorations that adorn the great shield we are given a glimpse into the new worldview that Achilles is afforded by his experience of traumatic loss. The death of Patroklos and the images on the shield combine to put the human condition into perspective, literally. While Achilles’ return to battle has obvious benefits for his community, his aristeia is characterised by a ruthless spirit of detachment and extreme, almost monstrous, violence and mercilessness in his treatment of supplicants. The poet makes a series of references to monstrosity, both indirectly in subtle allusions to other monsters, and in a series of similes which are employed to convey Achilles’ terrible destructive power. In this wave of violence, we see and hear a very different character from that of the first half of the epic. He has become a powerful active force, but it is still one charged with destructive rage. 118 Recognition and Reconciliation At the start of Book 18, Antilochos arrives at Achilles’ camp with news of Patroklos’ demise (18.15-21). He finds Achilles deep in thought and disturbed, knowing that once again the Achaians have been pushed back in confusion against their ships. The poet lets us hear Achilles’ internal voice in the form of a soliloquy. He prays that the gods are not fulfilling the prophecy Thetis has given him: that the best of the Myrmidons would die while he lived. Commenting on the atypical quality of the monologue Scully states: Like other mortals in their monologues, Achilles confronts a fear of death, but his inner thoughts in 18 and after do not display debate or ambiguity. Unlike other men, the death that he fears is not his own.306 The situation bodes poorly for Patroklos, and before Antilochos speaks, Achilles concludes that Patroklos is dead (18.12-4). Weeping, Antilochos confirms the news (18.18-21) and with this confirmation Achilles plunges into a deep state of grief and rage, covering his face and tunic with dust and ash, rolling in the dust and tearing at his hair (18.22-7). Through this act of self-mutilation and defilement, Achilles treats his own body in a way that echoes the treatment of the corpse of Patroklos.307 While Achilles lies in the dust, the women run to him wailing and beating their chests in lamentation (18.28-31). Schein remarks that it almost appears as if they are mourning for Achilles, rather than Patroklos.308 Such is the intensity of Achilles’ grief that Antilochos fears that he will kill himself (18.34). His cries are so loud that they are heard by Thetis in the depths of Ocean (18.36). Moved immediately to come to his aid, Thetis is at first unable to understand the source of Achilles’ grief. Everything is, as she points out, just as he had requested. τὰ μὲν δή τοι τετέλεσται ἐκ Διός, ὡς ἄρα δὴ πρίν γ᾽ εὔχεο χεῖρας ἀνασχὼν 306 307 Scully: 19. Note also the parallel between this scene and Priam’s self-defilement. Priam, even more graphically, is described has having dung thickly coating his head and neck after rolling in animal faeces (24.163-5). Achilles will treat the body of Hektor in a similar way when he drags his body around Patroklos’ burial mound. Schein also notes how the language used to describe Achilles in these passages closely corresponds with that used to describe death. S.L. Schein, The Mortal Hero: An Introduction to Homer's Iliad (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 129-30. 308 Ibid., 130. 119 πάντας ἐπὶ πρύμνῃσιν ἀλήμεναι υἷας Ἀχαιῶν σεῦ ἐπιδευομένους, παθέειν τ᾽ ἀεκήλια ἔργα. These things are brought to accomplishment through Zeus: in the way that you lifted your hands and prayed for, that all the sons of the Achaians be pinned on their grounded vessels by reason of your loss, and suffer things that are shameful. (18.74-7) Achilles acknowledges this, but he asks ‘what pleasure is this to me, since my dear companion has perished?’ (18.80-1). Immediately, Achilles knows that Patroklos’ death also heralds the imminence of his own death at Troy, and he pities the πένθος (or ‘grief’) that Thetis will soon have to bear (18.88). He wishes instead that her marriage to Peleus, and therefore his birth, might have never taken place. This type of thought is typical of Achilles. However, and as Friedrich and Redfield observe, he abruptly brings his focus back to the present with the particle νῦν δ᾽ (or ‘actually’). Only in his mind can a reality without suffering exist. Neither mother nor son can escape the pain of grief.309 Critically, it is at this moment that we see Achilles begin to recognise his error. He begins to see and accept responsibility for the suffering and death to which his anger and pride has contributed.310 Doing so, Andersen observes, involves a re-evaluation of his past actions,311 and indeed of the present, as Achilles tells Thetis: ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἄρ᾽ ἔμελλον ἑταίρῳ κτεινομένῳ ἐπαμῦναι˙ ὃ μὲν μάλα τηλόθι πάτρης ἔφθιτ᾽, ἐμεῖο δὲ δῆσεν ἀρῆς ἀλκτῆρα γενέσθαι. νῦν δ᾽ ἐπεὶ οὐ νέομαί γε φίλην ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν, οὐδέ τι Πατρόκλῳ γενόμην φάος οὐδ᾽ ἑτάροισι τοῖς ἄλλοις, οἳ δὴ πολέες δάμεν Ἕκτορι δίῳ, ἀλλ᾽ ἧμαι παρὰ νηυσὶν ἐτώσιον ἄχθος ἀρούρης, I must die soon, then; since I was not to stand by my companion when he was killed. And now, far away from the land of his fathers, he has perished, and lacked my fighting strength to defend him. Now, since I am not going back to the beloved land of my fathers, since I was no light of safety to Patroklos, nor to my other 309 310 Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 283. Zanker comments that while Achilles’ language does not explicitly express guilt, ‘we have every reason to believe that guilt was a reality in the human world of the Iliad and the heroes characteristically translate into shame what we would call guilt.’ Zanker, 63. 311 Andersen: 26. Andersen also points out that Agamemnon has already been forced into reassessing his past decisions in light of the Achaians defeat (9.115). 120 companions, who in their numbers went down before glorious Hektor, but sit here beside my ships, a useless weight on the good land. (18.98-104) In a clear shift from his earlier position in Book 9, when he repeated his threat to pack up his camp and return to Phthia, Achilles now expresses his willing acceptance of his own death (18.115). Self-annihilation has become a form of self-imposed punishment, in addition to losing Patroklos,312 for the neglect of his community. Commenting on the scene, Schein states: When he blames himself for being no use to Patroklos and his other comrades, we see again the social side of Achilles that has been inhibited since Book 1. But so much else in him has also been unblocked that the social side seems insignificant.313 Like a change of wind switching the direction of a great fire, from this point until the beginning of Book 24, the outpouring of fury is now directed at the Trojans, rather than the Achaians. It is clear also that this rage is now directed internally as he awakens to the cost of his χόλος (or ‘anger’). ὡς ἔρις ἔκ τε θεῶν ἔκ τ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἀπόλοιτο καὶ χόλος, ὅς τ᾽ ἐφέηκε πολύφρονά περ χαλεπῆναι, ὅς τε πολὺ γλυκίων μέλιτος καταλειβομένοιο ἀνδρῶν ἐν στήθεσσιν ἀέξεται ἠΰτε καπνός˙ why, I wish that strife would vanish away from among gods and mortals, and gall, which makes a man grow angry for all his great mind, that gall of anger that swarms like smoke inside of a man’s heart and becomes a thing sweeter to him by far than the dripping of honey. (18.107-10) Moulton, commenting on this simile, also notes Achilles’ insight into his own psychological state at this time, noting that it is ‘far richer and more concentrated than the bare comparison of soothing speech to honey’ and that it ‘should be appreciated for its psychological insight.’ Moulton goes on to add: The attractiveness of anger and the sweet satisfaction with which it is nursed over time fuse in the image with the notions of danger and emptiness, conveyed by the brief, internal simile ἠὺτε καπνός. The two vehicles of honey and smoke, taken together, produce a sense of clash which is in turn mitigated by the appropriateness of each separate image. 312 C. W. Macleod, Homer: Iliad, Book XXIV (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 25. 313 Schein, 134. 121 As a whole, the complex description of anger is just what we might expect from a character so familiar with that emotion.314 Achilles’ description of his own χόλος vividly conveys its seductive qualities, and its capacity to confuse.315 In its sweetness, we are reminded of his indulgence in selfpity, which we witnessed in his singing (9.185-91) and his repeated hyperbolic selfidentification with the ἀτίμητον μετανάστην (9.648), the powerless victim. Achilles, in his growing self-awareness, is also cognisant of the confused pleasure that accompanied his anger. This first recognition of responsibility takes place in a private setting, and is heard only by those closest to Achilles, including his mother and his attendants. However, in Book 19 this is developed even further when Achilles publicly admits his error to the Achaian assembly.316 Speaking directly to Agamemnon, Achilles accepts his part in creating the trouble between them: Ἀτρεΐδη ἦ ἄρ τι τόδ᾽ ἀμφοτέροισιν ἄρειον ἔπλετο σοὶ καὶ ἐμοί, ὅ τε νῶΐ περ ἀχνυμένω κῆρ θυμοβόρῳ ἔριδι μενεήναμεν εἵνεκα κούρης˙ τὴν ὄφελ᾽ ἐν νήεσσι κατακτάμεν Ἄρτεμις ἰῷ ἤματι τῷ ὅτ᾽ ἐγὼν ἑλόμην Λυρνησσὸν ὀλέσσας˙ τώ κ᾽ οὐ τόσσοι Ἀχαιοὶ ὀδὰξ ἕλον ἄσπετον οὖδας δυσμενέων ὑπὸ χερσὶν ἐμεῦ ἀπομηνίσαντος. Ἕκτορι μὲν καὶ Τρωσὶ τὸ κέρδιον˙ αὐτὰρ Ἀχαιοὺς δηρὸν ἐμῆς καὶ σῆς ἔριδος μνήσεσθαι ὀΐω. Son of Atreus, was this after all the better way for both, for you and me, that we, for all our heart’s sorrow, quarrelled together for the sake of a girl in soul-perishing hatred? I wish Artemis had killed her beside the ships with an arrow on that day when I destroyed Lyrnessos and took her. For thus not all these too many Achaians would have bitten the dust, by enemy hands, when I was away in my anger. 314 315 Moulton: 285. On the simile, see also Tsagarakis, ‘The Achaean Embassy and the Wrath of Achilles,’ 268 and Moulton: 285. See also Snipes, on the dual simile given to Ajax by the poet describing him both as like a hungry lion (11.548-54) and a greedy donkey (11.558-61). Snipes: 12-3, 15, 21. 316 Held argues in support of the genuine rather than merely formal nature of the reconciliation, its substantiveness being confirmed by the fact that ‘he is again performing his role in his community.’ G.F. Held, ‘Phoinix, Agamemnon, and Achilleus: Parables and Paradeigmata,’ Classical Quarterly 37 (1987): 259. 122 This way was better for the Trojans and Hektor; yet I think the Achaians will too long remember the quarrel between us. (19.56-64) Consistent with the ‘new Achilles’, his language is less emotional and avoids perpetuating the biased image of the dispute. In stark contrast to his fiery speeches in Books 1 and 9, Achilles addresses Agamemnon with far more tact and respect, referring to him now as Ἀτρεΐδη (‘Son of Atreus’, 19.56), without joining any veiled or direct insults. Rather than confronting Agamemnon directly, through a rhetorical question he links them both together as being responsible for the quarrel. Crucially also, where before Achilles had spoken to Thetis and Odysseus only of Agamemnon’s anger, here he publicly and explicitly refers to his own. The integrity of Achilles’ language is supported by the change from patient to agent. Achilles speaks again as one who acts in the world rather than a victim. Indeed, this switch is one that lasts for the remainder of the epic. The only exception to this is his reply to Apollo in at 22.15-20. But here, the passive aspect is used in a characteristically heroic style and it results in Achilles taking the fight with even more resolve. The effect of this speech on the assembly is immediate in bringing pleasure to the crowd of listeners who οἳ δ᾽ ἐχάρησαν ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοὶ / μῆνιν ἀπειπόντος μεγαθύμου Πηλεΐωνος. (‘were pleasured to hear him / and how the great-hearted son of Peleus unsaid his anger.’ 19.74-5). The crowd’s response follows on from the poet’s description of their gathering to hear Achilles speak. His re-entrance into the community captures the attention of all. So, in addition to describing the entrance of the wounded leaders (19.47-53), the poet vividly describes the gathering of many other people in the lower orders of the community, including those involved in the feeding of the troops (19.42-6). Ironically, it is their interest here which marks the importance of this assembly, for it has the potential to mark the turning point for the fortunes of each and every one in the community. As Edwards notes, like the assembly of the gods at 20.4-9, the inclusion of lower orders is a clear sign of an immanent climax.317 317 M.W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume V: Books 17-20 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), ad. 19.42-5 and Edwards, ‘Convention and Individuality in Iliad I,’ 12. 123 The positive effect Achilles has on the crowd is complemented by the poet’s reference to Achilles as the μεγαθύμου Πηλεΐωνος, or ‘great-hearted son of Peleus’. This title, as Edwards also observes, appears to ‘have a more magnanimous connotation’ than simply Πηλϊάδεω Ἀχιλῖος.318 Referring to his ‘great heart’, also suggests that Achilles has started to become a man who can be compared positively to his much-respected father. On several occasions during Book 9, Achilles was reminded of the wisdom his father had offered his son. At 9.252ff. Odysseus repeats the words of Peleus˙ τέκνον ἐμὸν κάρτος μὲν Ἀθηναίη τε καὶ Ἥρη δώσους᾽ αἴ κ᾽ ἐθέλωσι, σὺ δὲ μεγαλήτορα θυμὸν ἴσχειν ἐν στήθεσσι˙ φιλοφροσύνη γὰρ ἀμείνων˙ ληγέμεναι δ᾽ ἔριδος κακομηχάνου, ὄφρά σε μᾶλλον τίως᾽ Ἀργείων ἠμὲν νέοι ἠδὲ γέροντες. My child, for the matter of strength, Athene and Hera will give it if it be their will, but be it yours to hold fast in your bosom the anger of the proud heart, for consideration is better. Keep from the bad complication of quarrel, and all the more for this the Argives will honour you, both their younger men and their elders. (9.254-8) Benardete, also observes that during the embassy no one calls [Achilles] the son of Peleus; rather, people point out to him how much he has failed to follow his father’s precepts…. When, however, he returns to the fighting, his father’s name is almost as common as his own; and he assumes his ancestral name, he takes up his father’s spear, which no more could be hurled by another than ‘Peleides’ could be said of another.319 In the aristeia that follows, Achilles is principally referred to as ‘Peleides Achilles’, until Book 24, when he is never addressed as ‘son of Peleus’. ‘Somehow’, Benardete suggests, ‘Achilles has outlived it.’320 For the moment though, as one who 318 Edwards has a similar interpretation of this. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume V: Books 17-20, ad. 19.75. 319 S. Benardete, The Argument of the Action: Essays on Greek Poetry and Philosophy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 28. 320 Ibid. For a more detailed discussion on the significance of the different names used for Achilles, see Brown: 27. In particular, Brown emphasises how the choice of title is used to signify social distinction rather than merely satisfy metrical requirements. For example, he states: ‘Akhilleus is addressed by his given name by characters who can be fairly designated as friends or allies; on the other hand, he is addressed with his patronymic by Trojan enemies.’ 124 has become aware of the need to control his own anger, Achilles begins to practice his father’s advice, and the response of the people is consistent with this. The maturity of character evident in Achilles’ speech is also revealed by a contrasting example in what Lateiner describes as the ‘contorted and defective’ reply of Agamemnon.321 Unlike Achilles, Agamemnon does not use Achilles’ address as an opening for a similar recognition of shared responsibility. Rejecting the criminations of his community Agamemnon blames the gods for deluding him: πολλάκι δή μοι τοῦτον Ἀχαιοὶ μῦθον ἔειπον καί τέ με νεικείεσκον˙ἐγὼ δ᾽ οὐκ αἴτιός εἰμι This is the word the Achaians have spoken often against me and found fault with me in it, yet I am not responsible. (19.85-6) As Edwards also observes: Akhilleus has just shown himself magnanimous enough to admit his mistake directly to the man who injured him. Agamemnon, characteristically, is not big enough to accept this without mean-spirited jibes at the man he hates.322 In spite of this, Achilles, at his most diplomatic, goes along with Agamemnon’s account (19.270ff.), publically accepting the role played by ate.323 During Books 9-16, Achilles frequently recalled past events, describing them with an exaggerated negative bias. This focus on action in the past, such as in his singing of epic, was connected directly to his refusal to act. However, shortly following the news of Patroklos’ death the manner with which Achilles refers to past events changes considerably. Achilles both reframes past events and focuses his attention on present and future action. 321 322 Lateiner, 55. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume V: Books 17-20, ad. 19.76-84. See also Griffin, who describes Agamemnon’s language as ‘inarticulate and floundering.’ J. Griffin, ‘Homeric Words and Speakers,’ Journal of Hellenic Studies 106 (1986): 51. 323 Dodds dismisses the reading that Achilles is allowing Agamemnon to ‘save face’, and argues that he actually accepts the role of ate here. Dodds, 3. Given the general tenor of Achilles’ approach here, I do not think the diplomatic aspect of his use of language can be dismissed so easily. In fact though, I do not think that these points are mutually exclusive. Surely, it is possible for Achilles to be diplomatic while also accepting Agamemnon’s account. In essence, Agamemnon is saying that he acted rashly and Achilles is agreeing with him. As Dodds himself says later on page 11, when discussing the ascription of mental and physical events with external forces, ‘[d]oubtless they do not expect to be taken literally.’ 125 A crucial aspect of this reframing is the initial question that Achilles asks: ‘was this after all the better way for / both?’ (19.56-7). In keeping with the reduced emotional tone of his speech, Achilles also minimises the language he uses to describe the central figure of contention: Briseis. During the quarrel, Achilles had referred to her with diminutive and pathetic language, saying: ἐγὼ δ᾽ ὀλίγον τε φίλον τε / ἔρχομ᾽ ἔχων ἐπὶ νῆας (‘I with some small thing / yet dear to me go back to my ships’, 1.167-8). In Book 9 this language is intensified when he describes her as not just a prize, but as his ἄλοχον θυμαρέα (‘bride of my heart’, 9.336) and as one whom he ἐκ θυμοῦ φίλεον (‘loved this one from my heart’, 9.343). Using such emotion-laden language serves to build up her value so that she is both less and more important than the usual prize. As ὀλίγον, Achilles tries to downplay the value of the prize he has received, but as φίλον and θυμαρέα she has a greater intangible value which he exploits for utmost sympathy and which is impossible to match in material terms. However, in Book 19 he describes her in a manner that greatly reduces her significance. She is now just κούρης, or ‘girl’ (19.58). Not even her status as a γέρας is mentioned.324 Friedrich and Redfield dismiss this change in description as the result of ‘poetic license’, adding that ‘fact and consistency are neglected [by Achilles] for the sake of vivid self-presentation’325. Self-presentation is certainly important, but what is evident also is that at this point in the poem Achilles is aware of his own tendency to distort. Read in context alongside the other changes that are audible in Achilles’ speech and visible in his actions, such alteration is less the result of poetic license than that of the learning and growth of the speaker. Talking about Briseis in this way is clearly intended to put the object of contention into perspective. Just as Achilles’ new awareness is heard in his speech, it is also expressed through his action. Almost immediately after hearing of the death of Patroklos he ceases to be a passive force and instead becomes a powerful active force once more. Indeed we see a correlation between his new active voice and his new direct style of action which produces virtually immediate effects on his environment. This is in sharp contrast to the passive voice and indirect forms of action which are defining features of his character up until the death of Patroklos. Nowhere is this sheer power of Achilles’ direct approach more evident than in his return to battle. Before entering battle, this 324 325 Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume V: Books 17-20, ad. 19.56-73. Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 277. 126 new self becomes the focus of an awesome spectacle of fire and light as the gods support his return, first when Athena cloaks him with the divine aegis and a cloud of fire (18.202-6), and second with the creation of his new, dazzling armour. Only shortly after gathering himself to speak with Thetis, he expresses his wish to go out and confront Hektor (18.90-3). Unlike the preceding books, here his focus is on the needs of the present, and this creates a heightened sense of urgency. Where before nobody was able to persuade him to fight, now he becomes an almost unstoppable force, warning Thetis: ‘Do not hold me back from the fight, though you love me. You will not persuade me’ (18.125-6). He is, as Thetis reminds him, without armour and this is sufficient reason for him to wait until he is provided with new armour. That Achilles accepts this advice is instructive in that it foregrounds the fact that he needs the protection of armour. He is not able to rely on any type of supernatural bodily protection. He is mortal and must take the same precautions as other warriors and that includes dressing appropriately for battle. The advantage his goddess mother provides is that she is able to furnish him with armour better than most, but he must wait for this. In the background, the struggle over Patroklos’ body continues and the poet immediately shifts the focus onto this scene when Thetis departs. In this moment, Achilles’ willingness to act is matched by the gods’ readiness to inspire and assist him. At 18.166ff. Iris is sent by Hera to spur Achilles into action to stop Patroklos’ body falling into enemy hands. Iris creates a particularly brutal image of the potential fate of the body if it falls into Trojan hands, warning that Hektor wishes to: κεφαλὴν δέ ἑ θυμὸς ἄνωγε / πῆξαι ἀνὰ σκολόπεσσι ταμόνθ᾽ ἁπαλῆς ἀπὸ δειρῆς. (‘cut the head from the soft neck and set it on stakes’, 18.176-7). Andersen observes that on the surface, Iris sounds as though she is adding something to this picture as Hektor has not expressed any intention of cutting off Patroklos’ head. Andersen makes a sound point when he states: ‘The point to bear in mind is rather that Iris says what is fitting for Achilleus to hear now, not for Hektor to have thought then’ and then asks ‘Is she intentionally escalating, then? She is out to rouse Achilleus, true enough’.326 This 326 Andersen: 31. Andersen reaches a conclusion different from mine, when he states: ‘I think we should conclude not that she presents the situation differently, but rather that Homer here presents a slightly different situation. In this version, Hektor does think of impaling Patroklos.’ My sense, is that Andersen has it right in stating that Iris delivers a version of events designed to meet the present need: to rouse Achilles. Andersen also quotes Segal, who 127 advice is initially met with some resistance, as Achilles sees it as running contrary to that given by Thetis earlier. However, the point of her message is that he must do all that he can with what he has – he must act now. Iris suggests that his very appearance on the ditch overlooking the battlefield will be enough (18.197-201). With Achilles’ entrance, we see a dramatic deepening of his personal connection with fire. As soon as Achilles rises up Athene cloaks him in the divine aegis, and creates a golden cloud and flame around his head (18.202-6). The poet likens Achilles’ appearance to that of blazing signal fires (πυρσοί τε φλεγέθουσιν, 18.211) lighting up the evening sky around a besieged city (18.207-14). The fires send smoke (καπνός, 18.207) up to the heavens. The light around Achilles originates from a cloud that is ‘golden’ (χρύσεος, 18.206). Gold is appropriate here for its distinctive fire-like qualities; its colour and brightness. From this Athene kindles bright flame (δαῖε φλόγα παμφανόωσαν, 18.206). This divine fire has the effect of making Achilles literally shine (σέλας, 18.214) in a manner that singles him out as special among the other warriors at Troy.327 With this new power the very sight and sound of Achilles strikes terror into both the Trojans and their horses who turn away to flee from the terrifying spectacle (18.223-4). Achilles lets out three criesand each causes utter chaos as Trojan warriors are killed by the crushing stampede of their own horses and chariots.328 It is significant that it is only when Achilles moves to act that Athene assists him. Iris gives no suggestion that he will be protected in any way, only that he does not need to actually fight. This is a particularly powerful moment in the narrative as we see the extent to which the gods go to support the desires of the hero, especially once he takes action. The gods need no persuading as they do in Book 1 when Thetis has to call in an old debt owed to her by Zeus. Now the gods act of their own accord. What is important to stress here, is the link between Achilles’ recognition and acceptance of the effects of his own actions, and the manner in which this internal change so quickly rightly interprets Iris' message as ‘intimating anxieties, exaggerated fears, wild imaginings in Achilles’ own mind.’ Andersen: 31, n.13., quoting C. Segal, The Theme of the Mutilation of the Corpse in the Iliad, Mnemosyne (Leiden: Brill, 1971), 22-25. 327 328 Coffey: 123. Achilles’ cries can be compared to the triple thundering of Zeus. 128 results in effective and direct action that the gods themselves support, even without his request. The Great Shield The spectacle of Achilles’ return develops substantially with the creation and gifting of his new armour, the centrepiece of which is his great shield. Like the aegis, the armour is an important endorsement of his internal change. Like the aegis, the armour is a direct response to Achilles’ commitment to action. Even before he receives it, the creation of the armour forms a spectacle in its own right as the poet describes its intricate surface in an ekphrasis of over a hundred lines (18.478-608). While the exact composition of the shield is not clear, the poet’s description can be divided into approximately nine parts, beginning with the cosmos (including the earth, sky, sea, sun, moon, and several constellations (484-9)). The second major panel juxtaposes life in two cities; one at war, one at peace. In the city at peace we watch a wedding party and the progression of a lawsuit (490-508). The second is a slightly longer description of a city under siege (509-40). The poet then moves on to describe a sequence of everyday scenes: a field being ploughed and ploughmen about to be rewarded with wine at the end of the field (541-9); the domain of a βασιλεύς where the adults collect the harvest with the help of the children (550-60); and a vineyard where young men and women pick the grapes together while a youth plays his lyre and sings for them (561-72). This is followed by a herd of cattle, which is attacked by two lions (573-86), and a valley with sheep and people’s homes (587-89). The last image shows young men and women dancing while a crowd watches on happily (590606). The entire composition is contained by the river Ocean, and this also creates the edge of the shield’s structure (607-8). The shield has drawn much scholarly interest and, not surprisingly, a range of interpretations. In his influential essay entitled Laocoön, Lessing stated that the shield presented an ‘epitome of all that was happening in the world.’329 From this perspective, the shield’s relationship to the rest of the narrative works at an abstract 329 G.E. Lessing, Laocoon: An Essay upon the Limits of Paining and Poetry, trans. Ellen Frothingham (Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1874), n.39, 232. 129 level by placing the drama of the Iliad against an all-encompassing picture of life.330 Later, Schadewaldt and Reinhardt added to this view, albeit in slightly different ways. Reinhardt sees the shield as an image of the continuity of life, 331 while Schadewaldt argues that in the juxtapositions between war and peace, marriage and quarrel, we are given a vision of the well-ordered world.332 A slightly different approach is taken by Becker who sees the ekphrasis as a mis en abîme which is intended to teach the audience how to respond to the epic. As Becker states, it encourages the audience to pattern themselves ‘after the bard in his ekphratic role as audience, with the wisdom and valor and generosity necessary for both appropriation and divestiture.’333 Others have attempted to identify even more specific connections between the stories told on the shield and the actual narrative of the Iliad. Gärtner for example argues that the scenes of harmonious agrarian life and the image of the happy βασιλεύς contrasts to the image we have of Achilles, the unhappy βασιλεύς, who grieves in the background.334 Complementing this view is Andersen’s observation that the images of peace on the shield reflect those aspects of life that are left out of the epic.335 Of course, it is also the life that Achilles has elected to forfeit in pursuit of revenge for the death of Patroklos.336 330 C.S. Byre, ‘Narration, Description, and Theme in the Shield of Achilles,’ Classical Journal 88 (1992): 34. 331 K. Reinhardt, Die Ilias und ihr Dichter (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1961), 405. 332 333 W. Schadewaldt, Von Homers Welt und Werk (Stuttgart Koehler, 1965), 371. A.S. Becker, The Shield of Achilles and the Poetics of Ekphrasis (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 1995), 139-40. 334 H.A. Gärtner, ‘Beobachtungen zum Schild des Achilleus,’ in Studien zum antiken Epos, ed. H. Gorgemans and E.A. Schmidt (Meisenheim am Glan: Hain, 1976), 61-4. 335 Ø. Andersen, ‘Some Thoughts on the Shield of Achilles,’ Symbolae Osloenses 51 (1976): 6. 336 It is difficult to say with any real certainty whether such specific connections were intended by the poet. However, we can be confident in noting both the clear points of similarity and contrast between the shield’s design and the poet’s main narrative. One function of these similarities is that they have the effect of reinforcing and expanding our vision of the world that the poet’s narrative is situated within. As an object created within the world of the epic, the shield draws upon this poetic reality for its inspiration, reinforcing both the reality of the general narrative and that of the shield narrative at the same time. This also has the effect of inviting the poet’s audience to reflect on the Iliad so far, and taking advantage of this necessary pause in Achilles’ story to do so, without actually engaging in an overt recapitulation of the actual narrative. At the same time, by drawing our attention to scenes that are not a part of the Iliadic experience, such as those of dancing, marriage and 130 Whilst a full account of the many possible specific points of comparison is beyond the scope of this thesis, there are a couple of specific points that need to be mentioned. Of central importance is the way in which the shield respresents war itself and the way it relates to some specific aspects of the epic, both before and after the ekphrasis. The shield places war and suffering within the natural order of life. The war panel is not the first section that the poet describes, it comes after both the cosmos and the city at peace. The discription of the city at war is only one one half of one scene. However, as Becker points out, this placement far from diminishes the significance of war on the shield, its less than central placement offset by the fact that the poet devotes a full quarter of the ekphrasis, some 31 lines, to the image of war. 337 War is certainly amplified then in the general scheme of the shield’s design and this is hardly surprising given the larger setting of the poem. However, in spite of this, the poet places war and death alongside images of peace in a manner comparable to Achilles’ extended metaphor of the two urns which he uses in his consolation of Priam (24.527-33) to illustrate life’s mix of good and ill. The image of the city at war is a clear parallel for both the Trojan and the Greek experience of living under siege. Like the main narrative, we find indecision among the counsel of the attacking army akin to the division in the Greek camp and we see the people of the city assembled on the ramparts in much the same way as the Trojan people are shown looking out from the high walls of the city.338 As in the main narrative, even when describing war the poet demonstrates his interest in much more than the warriors themselves, showing at 18.514-5 the innocents whose own fate hangs in the balance, the elderly, spouses (ἄλοχοι) and children (νήπια τέκνα). It is noteworthy here also, that like our main narrative, the army which has the initiative is peaceful agrarian life, our image of this world is expanded. The shield adds to our picture of life in a way that the main narrative does not support, except through devices like simile and in the memories of the characters themselves. By looking at the shield, the audience can see what we might imagine the characters within the epic to recall in their mind’s eye. Taking a similar view, Taplin states that it is ‘as though there lay behind the Iliad the whole world of peace and ordinary life, but only glimpsed through gaps or windows in the martial canvas which fills the foreground.’ O. Taplin, ‘The Shield of Achilles within the Iliad,’ Greece & Rome 27 (1980): 14. 337 338 Becker, 114. For example: the Trojans on assembled on the wall at 3.146-53; Andromache at 6.386-8; and the Trojans watching on after the death of Hektor at 22.405-11. On these general elements of similarity with the main war narrative see Taplin: 6-7. 131 that belonging to the defenders who ambush the enemy’s herdsmen before a general battle develops by the river. While a minor detail, it is tempting to see geographic details like the river as anticipating Achilles’ aristeia. Other details also seem to be showing the poet’s audience glimpses of what is yet to come. At 18.535-7 the figure of Death is depicted dragging a dead body by the feet in what appears to be a chilling preview of the treatment of Hektor’s corpse by Achilles in Book 22.339 The poet may not intend to draw a direct connection between the two, especially as I suspect the image of war on the shield is meant to read as an image of war generally rather than a reflection on the Trojan War in particular. This generic perspective would seem to be all the more appropriate given the divine nature and perspective of the shield’s maker, for whom this war is but one of many that the gods witness. But there may be more to it than that. While the appearance of Death in battle reads perfectly well as an image of war per se, its placement and specific details like the dragging of a fallen warrior may also bear some direct relevance to how we understand Achilles, not simply as a mortal warrior hero but as the very embodiment of this elemental force in war. In short, Achilles will assume the place of Death when he re-emerges on the battlefield resplendent in his armour. Beyond the central panel devoted to war specifically, the shield appears to set up other motifs that will be employed and manipulated by the poet during Achilles’ aristeia. One of the most significant of these is the image of ploughing (541-9). On the shield, the image of ploughing is one pertaining to the world at peace and this, it appears, is its proper place. In setting up this association, it also brings to mind one of the most disturbing similes used by the poet to describe the ruthlessness of Achilles’ killing spree when his horses are described by the poet as crushing men like oxen crush barley underfoot (20.495-503). While not ploughing per se the simile disrupts the association of agrarian practice with peaceful and productive life as represented on the shield, just as war can be seen as intruding upon peaceful, productive activity. In fact, the simile inverts the very essence of the activity, turning an action that 339 Taplin remarks that this scene is the kind of image we expect on a shield, however, he also states that this ‘conception of battle is not typical of the Iliad, and that 18.357-40 might in fact derive from the Shield of Herakles (156-9). Ibid.: 7. 132 supports life into one that destroys it. The ploughing on the shield, like the figure of Death, might be seen therefore as preparing the ground for this later development.340 The city at war follows on immediately after the city at peace which depicts both a wedding and a dispute. It is significant that even in the city at peace we find narrative elements that are familiar to the Iliad.341 The dispute over the blood-price is introduced first as a quarrel and, as in that between Achilles and Agamemnon, one of the men refuses the restitution that he is offered. The significance of this has been discussed in considerable depth by Andersen among others.342 Andersen argues convincingly that the homicide itself is not the main issue of the trial. Instead, the trial on the shield, turns on the question of how the blood-price is going to be paid, not whether it has been paid or not and the acceptance of the poine.343 The trial is much more than simply a depiction of the ‘stable justice of a civilized city’ as Taplin puts it.344 The scene has particular relevance for the Iliad, especially as he points out that Achilles is accused by Aias at 9.632-8 of refusing compensation when even a brother would accept it for a dead brother, and a father for a dead son.345 The point, Zanker states, is that ‘justice, in the form of worthy compensation and involving the concept of tîmê, is expected to restore peaceful relations.’346 This theme of the acceptance and refusal of poine has clear relevance for both Chryses’ dispute with Agamemnon and Achilles’ quarrel with Agamemnon which will come to a formal close in Book 19. 340 Mackie contrasts the images on Achilles’ shield with those more typical images of the Gorgon (11.32ff.) on the shield of Agamemnon which he argues, also prepare the audience for his upcoming aristeia. Specifically, Mackie stresses that Achilles’ shield lacks monsters and explains this absence stating that the ‘horrors are not necessary because they are there in the man.’ C.J. Mackie, Rivers of Fire: Mythic Themes in Homer's Iliad (Washington D.C.: New Academia Publishing, 2008), 45-6. While I agree with Mackie’s identification of Achilles with elements of monstrosity, I think he goes a little too far in minimising the horrors of war on the shield. While there are no monsters on it per se, the monstrosity of war is evident in the largest panel of the ekphrasis. Furthermore, as I hope to make clear, like Agamamenon, I think Achilles’ shield also prepares us for his aristeia, albeit in very subtle ways, at the same time as doing much more. 341 In this sense, I disagree with Taplin’s estimation that the Iliadic scene is restricted to the city at war. Taplin: 12. 342 343 344 See also, Becker, 110-2. Andersen, ‘Some Thoughts on the Shield of Achilles,’ 13. Taplin: 6. The mechanisms and artefacts appear to be in place, but there is no indication of the success of the trial. 345 346 Andersen, ‘Some Thoughts on the Shield of Achilles,’ 15. Zanker, 52. 133 Even more importantly though, it points towards Achilles’ acceptance of the ransom offered by Priam for the death of Patroklos in Book 24.347 Beyond this, however, Nagy observes that the plaintiff’s refusal to accept compensation points back not only to Achilles’ refusal in Book 9, but also forward his continuing refusal to accept compensation for his own life.348 Andersen’s reading of the trial scene has some significant implications, especially for understanding how the shield relates to the transformation of Achilles. If Andersen is right, by foreshadowing Achilles’ acceptance of ransom, the poet may also be alluding in an oblique fashion to the change that Achilles is and will continue to undergo – namely the change in his mentality that makes the acceptance of ransom and the successful conclusion of the final exchange possible.349 What Andersen’s article points toward then is the possibility of change. In this way, the shield takes a god-like panoptic view, not just of the world generally, but of particular elements and dynamics that are at the heart of Achilles’ own story. Indeed, change and flux generally, are defining characteristics of the shield narratives. Byre makes the observation that each of the shield narratives, and especially the scenes of conflict (notably the trial and city at war) are broken off at critical points before they are resolved, leaving the audience to ask ‘what happens next?’350 The effect is to create feelings of uncertainty and suspense, which have both 347 348 Andersen, ‘Some Thoughts on the Shield of Achilles,’ 11-6. See also, Becker, 112. G. Nagy, ‘The Shield of Achilles: Ends of the Iliad and Beginnings of the Polis,’ in New Light on a Dark Age: Exploring the Culture of Geometric Greece, ed. S.H. Langdon (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1997), 204. 349 350 King takes a similar view. See King, 12. Byre: 40. Byre takes his lead here from Lessing, who argues that Homer describes the process of the shield’s creation instead of describing a finished object. The result is that we are given the ‘graphic picture of an action.’ (Lessing, 114). Byre picks up on this emphasis on action, though he disagrees with one aspect of this, arguing that the narration of the stories on the shield does not include any references to Hephaistos actually making it (Byre: 36). However, Lessing’s point is not so much that the poet describes how the shield is made (with the exception of the ἐν phrases that link each of the nine parts which emphasise the god’s action of placing one scene after another (18.483, 490, 541, 550. 561, 573, 587, 590, 607)). Rather, I think Lessing’s point is that the poet describes the progression of the divine craftsman’s placement of individual scenes and the stories included therein. Palm also notes that the scenes are descriptions of events taking place rather than things: ‘überall ereignet sich etwas, mehr Vorkommnisse als Dinge sind beschreiben.’ J. Palm, ‘Bemerkungen zur Ekphrase in der griechischen Literatur,’ in Kungliga Humunistiska Vetenskaps-Samfundet i Uppsala (Årsbok: 1965-6), 119. 134 general relevance to the epic and to Achilles’ story in particular. As Becker argues, the inconclusiveness also lends each scene a generic quality in a manner similar to that created by the use of simile, adding that ‘a specific conclusion… would diminish the generality and make the picture tend toward the particular.’351 In lacking definite closure, the very structure of the shield narratives emphasise both the uncertainty and continuity inherent in the cosmic order. This can be read to have specific relevance for the main narrative. Lynn-George, for example, commenting on the two cities, reads the lack of closure in these scenes as being particularly relevant to the difficulty of achieving resolution in matters of death.352 These deliberate breaks between the narratives, and the suspense and possibility they create, remind us of the central story of Achilles which is also positioned at a critical point of transition,353 a point that is made all the more emphatically by the fact that the armour is being made at night.354 As Becker points out: ‘Die Herstellung des Schildes, in der Nacht zwischen dem Tod des Patroklos und dem Beginn von Achills Eingreifen, bringt einen Ruhepunkt, eine klare Zäsur in die Handlung.’355 With the breaking of the new day and the arrival of this gift of the gods Achilles’ story will also continue. The images on the shield clearly have meaning for the poet’s audience, putting the drama of the narrative within a universal picture of life, while creating subtle parallels with the present story. However, they also have meaning for Achilles and this is revealed in the effect that the shield has on him when he is presented with the divinely wrought armour.356 The way this special object is received tells us much about both the nature of this object itself and its place in the personal journey of Achilles. 351 352 Becker, 123. M. Lynn-George, Epos: word, narrative and the Iliad (Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan, 1988), 186. 353 354 Byre: 41. Night is associated with transition and danger at other points in the Iliad as well, including the night when the Trojans hold the plain (8.484ff.), and the night of Priam’s journey to ransom Hektor (24.351ff.). 355 ‘The preparation of the shield, in the night between the death of Patroclus and the beginning of Achilles’ intervention brings a point of rest, a clear caesura in the action.’ C. Becker, ‘Der Schild des Aeneas,’ Wiener Studien 77 (1964): 114. 356 On this point I disagree with Marg who argues that Achilles is consumed with his desire for revenge. This much I do not doubt, however, for reasons which will become clear, his 135 The Myrmidons fighting under Achilles’ command are the first who see the great armour after Thetis delivers it. The poet describes the incredible effect on them, as they cower away from the awesome sight: Μυρμιδόνας δ᾽ ἄρα πάντας ἕλε τρόμος, οὐδέ τις ἔτλη ἄντην εἰσιδέειν, ἀλλ᾽ ἔτρεσαν. αὐτὰρ Ἀχιλλεὺς ὡς εἶδ᾽, ὥς μιν μᾶλλον ἔδυ χόλος, ἐν δέ οἱ ὄσσε δεινὸν ὑπὸ βλεφάρων ὡς εἰ σέλας ἐξεφάανθεν˙ Trembling took hold of all the Myrmidons. None had the courage to look straight at it. They were afraid of it. Only Achilleus looked, and as he looked the anger came harder upon him and his eyes glittered terribly under his lids, like sunflare. (19.14-7) Several scholars have commented on the different effects that the armour has on Achilles and his men. Both Hardie and Edwards explain the effect of the shield as being primarily caused by its glare.357 Evidence that complements this reading is noted by Parisinou, who observes how the shield of Tydeus in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes is also made more terrifying by its depiction of a scene of ‘celestial brightness’ during the storming of the Proetid gate (Aesch. Sept. 387-90).358 The flash of the armour of the warrior in his aristeia is a common feature in the Iliad and is clearly symbolic of the warrior’s brilliance.359 The brightness of the shield and the rest of their armour also enable the warrior to instrumentalise and focus the power of divine light in a way that the warrior can use. desire for revenge does not necessarily negate Achilles’ ability to comprehend, or at least be effected by the narratives on the shield’s surface. W. Marg, Homer über die Dichtung: Der Schild des Achilleus (Münster: Aschendorff, 1971), 38. Similarly, Becker also assumes that Achilles does not actually look at the images on the shield, stating that the images ‘are there for us, not the characters in the epic.’ Becker, The Shield of Achilles and the Poetics of Ekphrasis, 150. 357 P.R. Hardie, ‘Imago Mundi: Cosmological and Ideological Aspects of the Shield of Achilles,’ Journal of Hellenic Studies 105 (1985): 12-13. Hardie also suggests that the astronomical content of the shield may have been more prominent in earlier and less elaborate accounts of the shield. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume V: Books 17-20 , ad. 18.13-7. 358 E. Parisinou, The Light of the Gods: The Role of Light in Archaic and Classical Greek Cult (London: Duckworth, 2000), 110-1. 359 The poet treats the armour of Agamemnon’s with significant detail (11.15-44). It is described as ‘shining’ (νώροπα, 11.16), while the golden nails on his sword glitter (πάμφαινον, 11.30), and the heads of his two spears ‘flash’ (λάμπ᾿, 11.44). Other examples include the flashing armour of Hektor at 11.61-6 and Idomeneus at 13.241-5. 136 However, it seems that there must be something more than the glare of metal at work here to draw such extreme and contrasting reactions from Achilles, who seems to virtually feed off the divine vision of the world,360 and the Myrmidons who cannot look at it directly. In attempting to explain the psychological effects of the armour Scully convincingly argues that the synoptic vision displayed on the shield’s surface is fundamental to understanding the contrasting responses to it. In the Iliad, this grand, all-encompassing view of nature is more typically the preserve of the gods. Frequently, throughout the text, at the most basic level of seeing, the gods are depicted as viewing the human drama from high on Olympos.361 The only other example in the text of such a vision is at 4.44-7. Zeus, foreseeing the end of Troy, places the reference to the city within the broader context of the heavens.362 The shield is of course a divine creation and its divinity is reflected in the synoptic frame.363 In the glare of the armour we see we how pure light is harnessed by the techne of the divine craftsman, Hephaistοs. But it is the godlike vision provided by the shield’s decoration that is undoubtedly meant to generate reflection, if of another kind. In fact, the vision offered on the shield represents the world as seen by one particular god, specifically, Hephaistos. The fact that Achilles can look on the vision provided by the shield directly without being afraid of it comes to signify his own transcendent, or semi-divine nature, and his immanent movement beyond the mortal realm, both in the evolution of his consciousness and his movement towards inevitable death. For others though, this sight is too much to bear. Scully states: ‘[the] 360 Armstrong states: ‘It is not, I think, mere coincidence that Homer selects the same word [selas] to communicate the visual appearance of both the shield and the eyes of Achilles.’ J.I. Armstrong, ‘The Arming Motif in the Iliad,’ American Journal of Philology 79 (1958): 351. 361 For example, shortly after the duel in Book 3, the council of the gods is described as looking down upon Troy (4.4). In this example, the divine audience is situated on Olympos. There are many other instances of the gods watching over affairs, sometimes their viewing place is specified and other times it is not: Hera at 55-6; Aphrodite at 3.374; Hera and Athene at 4.9-10; and Apollo at 4.507 – just to cite a few examples. On the importance of the divine audience at Troy, see J. Griffin, ‘The Divine Audience and the Religion of the Iliad,’ Classical Quarterly 28 (1978): passim. 362 S. Scully, ‘Reading the Shield of Achilles: Terror, Anger, Delight,’ Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 10 (2003): 41. 363 See, also on the universal scope of the shield, Atchity, 160, 73. 137 synoptic and inhuman perspective breaks the sense of the special status of the human by placing it within the context of a larger cosmos and Zeus’ will.’364 In Achilles’ response to the armour we see a man who is beginning to awaken to his place within the natural cosmic order. Within his own environment he is offered a vision in which this awareness is complemented by an even broader vision of life and the mortal condition. Only in his state of awakening does this image have real power because he is able to appreciate its value in a way that others are not. The armour both reflects and adds to Achilles’ own state of conscious awareness. It is perfectly suited to him at this point in his life in a way that his old armour could not have been. This is truly the armour of Achilles. Seen in its totality, the shield offers an image of mortal life as it is from the perspective of a god. In this image, war, death, and conflict are a part of, quite literally, a bigger picture. The value of this gift is that it provides a vision of the world. On the shield, human suffering is placed within the full spectrum of human experience. Like the complex particle νῦν δ᾽, the shield offers the viewer an opportunity to see the actuality of existence, and to accept suffering and war as inescapable aspects of this. In this way, the shield is a mirror to life. However, it is not until his meeting in Book 24 that Achilles begins to appreciate and accept the inevitability of suffering and loss as an essential part of the mortal condition. Aristeia Achilles’ re-emergence as a warrior begins in earnest with his aristeia. It is for Achilles what it is for all great warriors, his time to shine, sometimes literally, on the battlefield. But Achilles’ martial brilliance is tinted with a distinct hue of ruthlessness. His rage is turned away from the Achaians and is now directed outwardly against the whole Trojan community. Where Achilles had been powerless to express his rage, here it is manifested in the fury of fire. In Achilles’ view, no one and nothing is worth sparing. In a sense, this is one extreme interpretation of his new shield. If suffering and war are part of the natural order, then there is no prohibition against wreaking utter havoc. Achilles leaves no space for mercy or compassion. 364 Scully, ‘Reading the Shield of Achilles: Terror, Anger, Delight,’ 43. 138 Achilles’ aristeia begins with a great air of anticipation following the arming scene at the end of Book 19. Book 20 opens with an assembly of the gods (20.4-30). The assembly is brief and Zeus’ instruction is simple. With Achilles an active force in battle once more, Zeus removes any restrictions on gods who wish to intervene. Indeed, without their interference he fears the war will be decided too quickly (20.2630). However, Zeus himself declares that he will remain apart from the fighting, and that he will instead sit on Olympos: ἔνθ᾽ ὁρόων φρένα τέρψομαι (‘there watching I will enjoy myself’, 20.23). Unlike the long stalemate that had consumed the first nine years, with the new Achilles on the field, Zeus is confident of a great spectacle. Just as Zeus looks forward to enjoying the spectacle he also points to the opposite effect that the sight of Achilles has on his opponents. Even in earlier times, without the fuel of anger and grief, Zeus points out that the sight of him would make the Trojans tremble (20.28). Shortly afterwards as the two armies meet the poet describes this very effect when the Trojans see Achilles in battle: Τρῶας δὲ τρόμος αἰνὸς ὑπήλυθε γυῖα ἕκαστον δειδιότας, ὅθ᾽ ὁρῶντο ποδώκεα Πηλεΐωνα τεύχεσι λαμπόμενον βροτολοιγῷ ἶσον Ἄρηϊ. But the Trojans were taken every man in the knees with trembling and terror, as they looked on the swift-footed son of Peleus shining in all his armour, a man like the murderous war god. (20.44-6) It is significant that he is likened here to Ares as if to suggest that Achilles has in some way assimilated this dark, malignant power. A potential rout is avoided by the entry of several gods on both sides of the battle. Conspicuously, Hera and Poseidon remain apart and, like Zeus, decide to watch the battle at a distance (20.136). They set themselves up, not on Olympos, but on a stronghold built during the previous generation by Athene and the Trojans for Heracles (20.144-8). The detail is a subtle one. It adds to the image of the gathering audience of gods watching this next chapter in Troy’s troubled history unfold, while taking our minds back to the earlier siege of Troy by Heracles. Indeed, as Zeus has just warned, Achilles’ furious onslaught has the potential to repeat Heracles’ singlehanded sacking of the great walled city, if not for their intervention. The poet describes how the stronghold was built as a place of refuge for Heracles to escape the 139 ‘Sea Beast’ (20.147).365 The inclusion of this detail also alludes to Achilles, who, like the Sea Beast, will push the Trojans back from their offensive positions near the seashore. 366 The first phase of Achilles’ aristeia is occupied by an encounter between Achilles and Aineias (20.158-339). When the two meet, rather than a scene of fury, the tone is one of surprising civility between these two goddess-born warriors. Achilles attempts to dissuade Aineias from the fight. Convinced that he has been put up to it and offered some prize by the Trojans (20.178-86) Achilles reminds him of an earlier meeting at which Aineias only escaped with his life after Zeus had come to his aid (20.187-98). Achilles urges Aineias to turn back and reenter the safety of the multitude of warriors, warning him with a gnome: ‘Once a thing has been done, the fool sees it.’ (20.198) It is hard to miss the irony of this remark, as Achilles himself has only recognised his own error with the benefit of hindsight. In this act of generosity, he offers Aineias the chance to learn before it is too late. Unmoved by Achilles’ warning, the two engage in a duel, but, when Aineias is close to losing, Poseidon is moved to intervene to save him (20.318-39). This generosity of spirit is not unusual for Achilles, although here it does come as somewhat of a surprise. Not wanting to fight an uneven match, we also see something of the warrior that Achilles is. I suspect that Parks is probably right when he doubts whether the offer is made in good faith, commenting: his recent career has hardly been distinguished by compassion and concern for the well-being of his enemies. Rather, one suspects that this ‘offer’ adds up to an insult through its presupposition of extreme mismatch. This fight, Achilles insinuates, would not even be a contest, so great is his own superiority.367 Crucially though, Achilles’ reluctance points to his focus, namely his desire to confront Hektor rather than Aineias. Aineias appears as more of a distraction, almost a nuisance. Yet, after being thwarted by Poseidon, Achilles broadens his attack onto the Trojans en masse as he spurs the Achaians on into battle. What follows is a veritable catalogue of death, as Achilles storms into the fight killing man after man. Between 20.382 and 21.210 Achilles dispatches some 23 men in swift succession. 365 N. Richardson, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume VI: Books 21-24 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), ad. 21.441-57. 366 367 See also Mackie, Rivers of Fire, 42-4. Parks, 120. 140 As we saw so frequently during the Trojan attacks that took place during Achilles’ absence, the poet draws on a succession of images of fire and monstrosity to illustrate the power of Achilles’ attack. The first of these at the end of Book 20, likens Achilles to a firestorm: ὡς δ᾽ ἀναμαιμάει βαθέ᾽ ἄγκεα θεσπιδαὲς πῦρ οὔρεος ἀζαλέοιο, βαθεῖα δὲ καίεται ὕλη, πάντῃ τε κλονέων ἄνεμος φλόγα εἰλυφάζει, As inhuman fire sweeps on in fury through the deep angles of a drywood mountain and sets ablaze the depth of the timber and the blustering wind lashes the flame along, so Achilleus swept everywhere (20.490-2) This simile is notable for its effective combination of fire and wind. This is not just an ordinary forest fire but a firestorm fuelled by wind, dry wood, and the very contours of the land itself. It is an ideal combination of elements for fire to flourish and in this way encapsulates the different forces at work during Achilles’ aristeia. Fuelled by grief and rage,368 he sweeps like fire through the Trojan ranks and with each kill the ferocity of his attack gathers uncontrollable intensity. Such is the relentless power of Achilles’ attack that the first simile is followed by a second, comparing his movement through the field of men to that of oxen crushing barley (20.495-503). Where the fire simile conveys Achilles’ emotional intensity and even his ‘superhuman’ nature as he rages δαίμονι ἶσος (‘equal to a divinity’, 21.493), the image of the oxen shifts the emphasis to the almost ‘subhuman’ quality of Achilles and his horses in this scene of slaughter, and in doing so effortlessly captures the hopeless situation of those caught before him.369 With the beginning of Book 21 the slaughter comes to the banks of the river Xanthos (or Scamander). The river is of fundamental importance to Troy and its people as a source of fresh water and even a certain degree of protection. The river forms a natural barrier between the area of the city and the plain leading down to the sea. Such a boundary would naturally slow the advance of an attacking army and be a 368 See also King, who comments that the fire simile evokes the wild grief that drives Achilles. King, 15. 369 On this disturbing simile (and the shift from superhuman to subhuman), King goes on to add how the association of crushed barley and crushed bodies ‘forces us to experience the crushing of these bodies as rge very antithesis of civilized, that is, human behavior.’ Ibid., 24. 141 welcome sign of safety for a retreating army returning to the city. At the beginning of Book 21 the poet lays great emphasis on the beauty of the river, which is described variously as ἐϋρρεῖος, ‘fair-running’ (21.1), δινήεντος, ‘eddying,’ ‘whirling’ (21.2), βαθύρροον, ‘deep-flowing’ (21.8), αἰπὰ, ‘lofty’ (21.9), βαθυδινήεντος, ‘deepeddying’ (21.15), ἀργυροδίνην, ‘silver-eddying’ (21.8, 130), ἐΰρροος, ‘flowing well’ (21.130), ἐρατεινὰ, ‘lovely’ (21.218), and καλὰ, ‘beautiful’ (21.238, 244, 354, 361, 365, 382).370 Citing the poet’s similar description of Axios ‘wide-flowing’ (21.141) and ‘deep-eddying’ (21.143), Mackie notes that ‘such epithets are of course appropriate to any river in Homer, and Scamander is not the only river to be so described, even in Book 21.’371 However, the poet highlights Scamander’s beauty here to show the effects of Achilles’ slaughter as the river is transformed from a place of beauty and life into one of death and destruction by sword and flame. Mackie connects the defeat of the river with the immanent fall of Troy: Water is the life of a city, and the savage defeat of the river by fire is a harbinger of the fate of Troy itself, something of which Scamander is aware when he eventually submits to the Olympians (21.373-76).372 The beginning of the transformation of the river is conveyed by the mingling of the language of beauty with that of chaos and noise as the fleeing Trojans become entangled in the currents: at 21.8 ἀργυροδίνην is combined with εἰλεῦντο (‘shut in’); and at 21.9 αἰπά (‘lofty’) is combined with βράχε (‘clamour’) and μεγάλῳ πατάγῳ (‘huge crash’). A similar effect is created by Achilles who in his vaunting over Lykaon proclaims that his river will not be able to rescue him: οὐδ᾽ ὑμῖν ποταμός περ ἐΰρροος ἀργυροδίνης / ἀρκέσει (‘and there will not / be any rescue for you from your silvery-whirled strong-running river’, 21.130-1).373 So, rather than providing a place of refuge or life for the fleeing warriors the waters are transformed into a trap for the mass of panicking soldiers. There is something distinctly monstrous in this image, and this sense of monstrosity is expanded shortly after at the beginning of Book 21. With characteristic versatility, the 370 C.J. Mackie, ‘Scamander and the Rivers of Hades in Homer,’ American Journal of Philology 120 (1999): 493. 371 372 373 Ibid. Ibid. It is hard to miss Achilles’ sarcasm here also. By this stage, the river is anything but ‘silvery’ as it is already becoming full of Trojan dead. 142 poet crafts a new simile, incorporating both fire and water, likening the scene to a swarm of locusts taking refuge in the water amidst a blast of fire (21.12-4). On this simile the bT scholiast comments on the poet’s use of language to elevate an otherwise everyday image: ‘since the simile is lowly, the poet polished it up with words, with ῥιπῆς and ἠερέθονται.’374 Like the first pair of similes, this is followed by a second, this time comparing the Trojans to fish trapped in a harbour being eaten by a great dolphin (21.22-4).375 The development of these two pairs of similes produces a compounding effect. The elements of fire and monstrosity are expanded upon and adapted to the movement of the fighting as the locus of action shifts from the plain into the river waters. However, at the heart of both pairs is the destructive power of fire. In each pair the second simile serves to convey a sense of the monstrous. While not a monster per se, the crushing effect of the oxen and the wheels of the cart is distinctly inhuman. This monstrous aspect is developed more explicitly in the image of the devouring dolphin. While the simile formations convey the overwhelming power of Achilles as he despatches all before him, it is in his treatment of supplicants that we are offered a window into his mind at the height of this storm of violence. Twice he is approached: once before the first pair of similes in Book 20 and again after the second pair in Book 21. At 20.463ff Tros attempts to clasp Achilles’ knees in the manner of supplication. There is no exchange, no space for a plea for mercy. The poet describes Achilles at this moment as οὐ γάρ τι γλυκύθυμος ἀνὴρ ἦν οὐδ᾽ ἀγανόφρων (‘having no sweetness in his heart, and not kindly’, 20.467). The second and most developed supplication comes from the ill-fated Lykaon. Lykaon is a victim with status, as one of Priam’s many sons, and is caught by Achilles while attempting to escape from the river. He is a picture of complete vulnerability. He is naked, having shed both arms and armour to escape the river (21.51-2).376 The poet creates pathos at the beginning of the scene by providing 374 Σ bT Φ 12-14, H. Erbse, Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem, vol. V (Berolini: de Gryter, 1969), 125. Cited in Snipes: 218. 375 On the dolphin, King remarks:‘there is something ludicrous about the simile.’ She goes on to add: ‘the predatory fish has not become a standard heroic image.’ The reason for this, she adds, is simple, this is not heroic action. It is simply slaughter, ‘evil deeds’ (κακὰ ἔργα, 21.19). King, 24-5. 376 Richardson, ad. 21.49-53. 143 Lykaon’s back-story. We are told how during a night raid on Priam’s gardens Achilles had taken Lykaon prisoner and later sold him as a slave (21.35-7). After being sold on to different owners Lykaon had managed to return to Troy where he enjoyed freedom for eleven days until this moment. Lykaon is the first to recognise the cruel irony of his story. However, it does not stop him making an impassioned plea for mercy. The poet’s description is particularly vivid, as has been noted by the bT scholiast377 who describes Lykaon grabbing hold of Achilles’ spear in one hand as it comes down to stab him and taking hold of his knee with the other. He bases his plea on several premises: his status as a supplicant (21.74-5) and his social position as a member of the Trojan elite. To this he adds further genealogical detail to dissociate himself from Hektor. Lykoan informs Achilles that he and his dead brother Polydoros, while sons of Priam, were born of a different mother, Laothë. He adds this detail in order to appeal to Achilles’ compassion for a mother’s loss of both her children. He pleads: μή με κτεῖν᾽, ἐπεὶ οὐχ ὁμογάστριος Ἕκτορός εἰμι, ὅς τοι ἑταῖρον ἔπεφνεν ἐνηέα τε κρατερόν τε. Do not kill me. I am not from the same womb as Hektor, he who killed your powerful and kindly companion. (21.95-96) The amplification of Lykaon’s supplication primarily serves to expose the singleminded and unrelenting anger of Achilles. The length of his plea adds to the sense of drama around the man’s fate, punctuated by the repeated acknowledgement that he will most likely die in spite of his best efforts. Achilles’ reply has an air of detached suspension. Achilles remembers that before the death of Patroklos he had been merciful to the Trojans, including Lykaon himself.378 But with characteristic phrasing, νῦν δ᾽ (‘now’), he abruptly cuts to the present moment and the reality that no such treatment is possible now. νῦν δ᾽ οὐκ ἔσθ᾽ ὅς τις θάνατον φύγῃ ὅν κε θεός γε Ἰλίου προπάροιθεν ἐμῇς ἐν χερσὶ βάλῃσι καὶ πάντων Τρώων, περὶ δ᾽ αὖ Πριάμοιό γε παίδων. ἀλλὰ φίλος θάνε καὶ σύ˙ τί ἦ ὀλοφύρεαι οὕτως˙ 377 378 Ibid., ad. 21.64-72. Macurdy also cites this scene in order to juxtapose the mercy for which Achilles is known, and which he himself remembers, and his implacable attitude after Patroklos’ death. Macurdy, 21. 144 κάτθανε καὶ Πάτροκλος, ὅ περ σέο πολλὸν ἀμείνων. οὐχ ὁράᾳς οἷος καὶ ἐγὼ καλός τε μέγας τε˙ πατρὸς δ᾽ εἴμ᾽ ἀγαθοῖο, θεὰ δέ με γείνατο μήτηρ˙ ἀλλ᾽ ἔπι τοι καὶ ἐμοὶ θάνατος καὶ μοῖρα κραταιή˙ ἔσσεται ἢ ἠὼς ἢ δείλη ἢ μέσον ἦμαρ ὁππότε τις καὶ ἐμεῖο Ἄρῃ ἐκ θυμὸν ἕληται ἢ ὅ γε δουρὶ βαλὼν ἢ ἀπὸ νευρῆφιν ὀϊστῷ. Now there is not one who can escape death, if the gods send him against my hands in front of Ilion, not one of all the Trojans and beyond all others the children of Priam. So, friend, you die also. Why all this clamour about it? Patroklos also is dead, who was better by far than you are. Do you not see what a man I am, how huge, how splendid and born of a great father, and the mother who bore me immortal? Yet even I have also my death and my strong destiny, and there shall be a dawn or an afternoon or a noontime when some man in the fighting will take the life from me also either with a spearcast or an arrow flown from the bowstring (21.103-13) Achilles expresses a distinctly decisive and objective perspective that is reminiscent of that conveyed on the shield that he now carries. In a similar vein, Griffin comments: ‘He sees his action in the perspective of human life and death as a whole, the perspective which puts slayer and slain on the level, so that it is more than a mere colloquialism that he call Lycaon ‘friend’ as he kills him.’379 For Scully also, commenting on his soliloquy (21.53-64), Achilles now expresses his: recognition of the monumental seriousness of events (the death of Patroclus and the role of fate in it, a divine intervention on the battlefield when Poseidon rescues Aeneas, a focus upon death itself when he is about to kill a man he once saved), but with Achilles the emotion lacks deliberation or indecision. Moreover, his perspective is not self-oriented; he sees life from a distance that incorporates like his shield a broader view of the human condition and the nature of mortality, without vacillation or the desire for escape.380 This perspective, Scully also reminds us, is in marked contrast to what Achilles expresses in Book 9 when he imagines that he can chose which way his life unfolds – short but winning glory, or long and without. Scully states: The change in outlook from a characteristically human perspective [in Book 9] to one freed from all ambiguity, a change which is fundamental 379 380 Griffin, Homer on Life and Death, 55. Scully, ‘The Language of Achilles: The ΟΧΘΗΣΑΣ Formulas,’ 20. 145 to this hero who creates himself in the course of the poem, takes place nine books later as he anticipates the news of the death of his companion Patroclus.381 In spite of the detached and even god-like perspective that Achilles offers, there is little consolation in his words. The omniscient gaze is coupled with a spirit that is devoid of any care for life, without compassion, and one that is racing toward death itself. While Achilles certainly sees death, clearly his vision is tinted with an unmistakable darkness, the bloodied hues of revenge, and hence his desire that all Trojans must pay for the death of Patroklos (21.128, 133-5). The description of Lykaon’s killing is one of the more graphic in the entire epic. Lykaon lets go of Achilles’ spear and holds his arms out wide in a gesture of utter despair (21.114-6)382 while Achilles plunges his sword into his neck. This detail is dramatic enough. However, it is Achilles’ vaunting over the dead man which adds an extreme level of malignancy to this moment. Not content to leave the body on dry ground where it might be recovered and later buried, Achilles takes particular pleasure in denying Lykaon’s mother the rites of mourning and instead looks forward to the corpse being devoured by fish (21.122-27). Far from satisfied, Achilles promises to kill all Trojans in his path in payment for the death of Patroklos.383 This scene is one of the most powerful and at the same time most troubling in the text. In giving Lykaon’s story, the poet creates compassion for the supplicant. However, this chiefly serves to heighten the extreme brutality of Achilles who, in his rage, overturns all convention. Such is the extreme nature of this situation that it brings Achilles into conflict with the river god itself who attempts to find a way of saving the stranded Trojan warriors. In a forerunner to the actual contest between the river and Achilles, Scamander inspires μένος in Asteropaios, a Trojan warrior who is also a descendant of the river Axios (21.140-3). Asteropaios has more success than most, partly, it appears, thanks to his being ambidextrous. He is able to throw two spears at once and one of them grazes Achilles’ arm (21.166-7). However, he is 381 382 383 Ibid. Richardson, ad. 21.115. Griffin, ‘Homeric Words and Speakers,’ 55. Griffin, commenting on Achilles’ language and his vaunting over Asteropaius states: ‘Again we find the same transition: from the cruel taunt of the victor, in this case particularly savage, to the broad rhythm and dispassionate perspective of the movement of the waters.’ 146 unable to rearm, lacking the strength to dislodge Achilles’ spear from the riverbank (21.174-8) and Achilles swiftly closes in for the kill.384 The victory is a significant one for Achilles and, vaunting over Asteropaios’ body, he explains his win as a byproduct of his superior ancestry.385 In this one instance in the epic, Achilles calls himself in the third person, one of the Κρονίωνος / παισὶν (‘children of Kronos’, 21.184-5), in contrast to Asteropaios who is just ποταμοῖό περ ἐκγεγαῶτι (‘born of the river’, 21.185). Achilles qualifies his own statement with a brief account of his own genealogy, in which he states that Peleus was the son of Aiakos, who was himself a son of Zeus (21.187-9). The point of the claim is to explain their difference in strength. Achilles’ logic is simple: τὼ κρείσσων μὲν Ζεὺς ποταμῶν ἁλιμυρηέντων,/ κρείσσων αὖτε Διὸς γενεὴ ποταμοῖο τέτυκται. (‘And as Zeus is stronger than rivers that run to the sea, so / the generation of Zeus is made stronger than that of a river.’ 21.190-1).386 Achilles’ brief account of his genealogy is significant here for the manner in which it demonstrates his own perception and awareness of an ancient elemental struggle which forms one of the undercurrents not just in this episode, but in the epic generally: the struggle between the chthonic element of water and Olympian fire. In closing, Achilles’ genealogy reaches a ‘magnificent, cosmic climax in the dismissal of even Okeanos, the source of all the waters of the world, as no match for the thunderbolt of Zeus.’387 Even Ocean, Achilles proclaims, fears the divine fire of Zeus, his κεραυνὸν / δεινήν τε βροντήν (‘terrible lightning and thunder’, 21.198-9). The contest between water and fire takes a decisive turn when the river finally lets out its growing anger on Achilles himself. This time Achilles is being challenged not by the son of a river but the river itself and the outcome is very different as Achilles is quickly overwhelmed by the water’s power (21.234-69). Fearing a λευγαλέῳ θανάτῳ, or ‘dismal death’ (21.281), Achilles prays to Zeus for assistance (21.273-83) 384 We recall here, how Patroklos is also denied use of Achilles’ great spear. Originally given to Peleus by Cheiron, we are given the impression that it is too great for anyone else but Achilles to wield (like Odysseus’ bow, which the suitors are unable to string in the allimportant agon on Odysseus’ return to Ithaca (Hom. Od. 21.144-87). It is βριθὺ μέγα στιβαρόν (‘huge, heavy, thick’) (16.141). 385 386 See also Parks, 108. Griffin’s analysis of this episode examines some of the characteristic aspects of Achilles’ language. Griffin, ‘Homeric Words and Speakers,’ 54. 387 Richardson, ad. 21.184-99. 147 and blames his mother for lying to him about his fated death at the hands of Apollo (21.275-8). Now, he tells Zeus he would rather have been killed by Hektor than suffer the unheroic death of drowning. Richardson rightly comments that the distinction is an important one, and actually ‘reveals his greatness: it is not death he fears, but an ignoble death’.388 Poseidon and Athene reply that he has nothing to fear and advise him to continue in his pursuit of the Trojans until they are penned inside the city walls (21.284-97). With his spirits stirred by the god’s words of support Achilles makes his way into the plain, but the river continues its pursuit sending waves of water and masses of bodies and armour crashing after him (21.300-02). Growing in power, Scamander calls on another river, Simoeis, to assist him in sending Achilles to an early death (21.307-23). Mockingly, Scamander declares his wish to enfold Achilles within mud and stones where the Achaians will be unable to find him. This, Scamander declares, will be his σῆμα, or ‘monument’ (21.322). Richardson comments on the irony that Achilles is beaten by the very element he has claimed to be so much greater than. Though, in this instance Achilles is not challenged by the son of a river but the river itself, hardly an equal match. Achilles is initially able to outrun the river thanks to the assistance of Athene, but the chase comes to a climax when a great and putrid wave overruns him: ἦ, καὶ ἐπῶρτ᾽ Ἀχιλῆϊ κυκώμενος ὑψόσε θύων μορμύρων ἀφρῷ τε καὶ αἵματι καὶ νεκύεσσι. πορφύρεον δ᾽ ἄρα κῦμα διιπετέος ποταμοῖο ἵστατ᾽ ἀειρόμενον, κατὰ δ᾽ ᾕρεε Πηλεΐωνα˙ He spoke, and rose against Achilleus, turbulent boiling to a crest, muttering in foam and blood and dead bodies until the purple wave of the river fed from the bright sky lifted high and caught in its waters the son of Peleus. (21.324-7) Such is the threat to Achilles that Hera is moved to intervene, bringing a storm and calling on Hephaistos to bring fire to the trees and the river god himself. The blaze brought on by Hephaistos signals the final transformation of the river as he burns up first the dead and the trees about its banks, before directing fire against the river god. Such is the intensity of the fire that the river itself is likened to a cauldron, boiling 388 Ibid., ad. 272-83. The most dismal thing about this kind of death is that is a nobody’s (that of the anonymous συφορβός or ‘swineherd’ (21.282)) kind of death. Making matters worse, is that rather than adding to Achilles’ τιμή, it threatens to take it away. Zanker, 12. 148 under the heat. With a sympathetic tone the poet describes how the καλὰ (‘lovely’) river πυρὶ φλέγετο (‘burned with fire’, 21.365). During Achilles’ absence from the fighting, we observed the development of fire in parallel to Achilles’ inner state. At Scamander too, this association with fire takes on its most intense and destructive form in the epic. Purely on the physical level, the fire of Hephaistos makes the fire brought against the ships pale in comparison. While the prospect of fire terrifies the Greeks, the fire itself is relatively ineffectual, burning part of just one ship. However, where the Trojan fire was seen to be directly linked to Achilles’ refusal, this fire has the effect of transforming his immediate environment into a hellish place that mirrors the intensity of his own grief and unrelenting fury after the death of Patroklos. As Mackie also states ‘the poet of the Iliad seems to envisage the battlefield after Achilles’ return as a place of otherworldly suffering.’389 For Hektor, his own action in bringing fire to the Greek ships was the beginning of a great shift in momentum against Troy. The fire at the river has the opposite effect for Achilles, clearing away the debris of battle and forcing the river into submission. In a very real sense, fire clears the way for Achilles’ progress towards Hektor and Troy and thus fire functions to enable Achilles’ movement forward across a threshold that is at once natural and symbolic, physical and metaphysical. Earlier readings of the river as a symbolic threshold have tended to focus on the important positioning of the river as a significant boundary in Priam’s night journey in Book 24.390 Crossing the river is a clear sign of Priam’s entering a place of danger and even death. The meeting with Hermes at this point, by the tomb of Ilos (24.349), is a confirmation of this risk. His arrival at the river coincides with the coming of night (24.351). As Mackie states: ‘This is a particularly important point in the narrative, for within the very short space of four lines we see four different motifs frequently associated with the journey to the Underworld: a tomb, a river, darkness, and a divine guide.’391 Likewise, on his return to Troy he approaches the river at dawn. The river also acts as a threshold for the fleeing Trojans who seek safety in the water and getting to the other side. As it does for Priam, the river signifies their 389 390 391 Mackie, ‘Scamander and the Rivers of Hades in Homer,’ 487. Ibid.: 488. Ibid.: 489. 149 entrance into a safe environment, emphatically reinforced by the city’s walls. In the panic of their retreat, weighed down by armour, Achilles transforms the river into a trap. In his vaunting over Lykaon discussed earlier, Achilles describes how the river itself will become a participant in his own and the other Trojans’ demise, despite the many sacrifices made in the god’s honour (21.129-32). An important aspect of this is the manner in which the river also acts as an important threshold and test for Achilles. The tests arise in different ways as the confrontation develops. Initially the difficulty of his crossing has little to do with the river itself. Rather, it is more that the river has become full of so many stranded soldiers that, in his unquenchable thirst for killing, he becomes distracted and caught up in the killing and while doing so turns the river against him. However, just as Priam’s crossing is supported by the gods, so is that of Achilles, both in the form of a boost in morale from Poseidon and Athene, and of course, in the intervention of Hera and Hephaistos. But, the fact that Achilles’ crossing requires an intervention of such magnitude says volumes about the importance of this moment in Achilles’ journey. Achilles’ crossing of the river, of this threshold, and the subjugation of the god that this requires, also points to Achilles’ inner conflict. It is noteworthy, that in his speech to Asteropaios, Achilles fails to mention his own divine connection to water, as the son of the sea nymph Thetis. At a deeper level it is possible to recognise that Achilles’ fury, and the mission he is set on achieving, requires the suppression of all that is within him that the river stands for as a source of life, safety, and beauty. As we have seen though, Achilles (or his proxy in Hephaistos) does more than suppress the river, he practically transforms it into one of the rivers of the underworld, as the silvery whirling currents are set ablaze with fire. The destruction wrought by Achilles’ surge toward Troy is likened to that brought by the gods themselves. αὐτὰρ Ἀχιλλεὺς Τρῶας ὁμῶς αὐτούς τ᾽ ὄλεκεν καὶ μώνυχας ἵππους. ὡς δ᾽ ὅτε καπνὸς ἰὼν εἰς οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἵκηται ἄστεος αἰθομένοιο, θεῶν δέ ἑ μῆνις ἀνῆκε, πᾶσι δ᾽ ἔθηκε πόνον, πολλοῖσι δὲ κήδε᾽ ἐφῆκεν, ὣς Ἀχιλεὺς Τρώεσσι πόνον καὶ κήδε᾽ ἔθηκεν. Meanwhile Achilleus was destroying alike the Trojans themselves and their single footed horses; and as when smoke ascending goes up into the wide sky 150 from a burning city, with the anger of the gods let loose upon it which inflicted labour upon them all, and sorrow on many, so Achilleus inflicted labour and sorrow on the Trojans. (21.520-5) The climax of Achilles’ spectacle of destruction comes in the final duel between Hektor and Achilles. As Achilles bears down on Troy with speed compared to a racehorse (22.22-4),392 the poet likens the glare of his new armour to the brightest star (λαμπρότατος, 22.30), Orion’s Dog (22.25-32). The poet is clear about the symbolism of the star. It is an evil portent and a sign of seasonal change, arriving in the night sky with Autumn, and bringing with it fever (22.31, πυρετός). As a κακὸν σῆμα, a sign of evil, it anticipates the death of Hektor and the fall of Troy itself. This is precisely the way Priam sees Achilles’ arrival. The poet places particular emphasis on the effect of this sight on Priam who is first to see him (22.25). Terrified, he pleads to Hektor not to fight, describing in the most vivid language what will happen to him when his strongest son is dead (22.61-76). Priam’s darkly prophetic vision is that of a fallen city, but his description, like that of Hektor at 6.447-63,393 has a particularly personal quality, as he envisages the fate not of the people of Troy generally but his own family and himself. He describes how his daughters and the wives of his sons will be taken away, and the young children will be dashed to the ground. Finally, he envisages his dogs eating him raw in his house – this is truly a kakos thanatos, the worst kind of death.394 Hektor offers no direct reply to his parents. However, in his soliloquy the poet allows us to listen to the debate in Hektor’s mind as he ponders which course of action to take: whether to run or fight. He even considers trying to sue for peace by offering to return Helen and her possessions (22.114) and giving over Troy’s wealth 392 The Cambridge Commentary notes that this anticipates the ‘race’ between Achilles and Hektor. Richardson, ad.22.162-6. 393 During this most poignant meeting, Hektor tells Andromache how he is troubled more by the thought of her being taken away captive than he is of than the loss of Troy and his family (22.447-63). 394 Priam’s supplication is immediately followed by that of Hekuba (22.79-89). She also bases her supplication on an appeal to pity. Unlike Priam, however, she stresses that if Achilles kills him, she will not be able to mourn his body and that it will become food for the dogs. Evidently, it appears that Priam is mostly concerned with his own miserable fate, while Hekuba is more concerned for that of her son. 151 to the Achaians (22.118-21). He quickly dismisses this option as he acknowledges that Achilles will kill him anyway (22.114-26). There is, he knows, no way to reason with Achilles at this point. The contrast he draws in his mind is with a young couple whispering together (22.125-8). In the middle of battle and about to meet his own death, for a fleeting moment Hektor’s mind is taken beyond war, to a scene of youthful romance. While the image of the youths is in itself one belonging to a time of peace, this is not an image of hope. Rather, it emphasises his awareness of the hopelessness of his situation and in doing so it also anticipates Achilles’ declaration of the impossibility of φιλία between them 22.261-7. Beyond the present moment, this does of course have clear ramifications for the last phase of the epic. Presenting Achilles as a ruthless force that is beyond being reasoned with, the poet is also preparing the audience for the challenge that Priam will face in Book 24 when he takes the journey to retrieve the body of his son. However, like Achilles’ new shield, by looking beyond the enmity and destruction of war, the image of the youths gestures towards the possibility of φιλία and civility between enemies, a possibility evidenced in the meeting between Glaukos and Diomedes and their, albeit controversial, exchange of gifts in recognition of their fathers’ guest-friendship (6.119-236).395 This too, will have a bearing on the remainder of the epic. Just as, in its otherness, it stresses the impossibility of reconciliation with Achilles, from the perspective of the poet, this scene also offers a glimmer of hope and looks forward to the success of Priam’s supplication of Achilles with words and gifts, and the change in Achilles’ heart that this assists in creating. 395 The poet seems to undermine the exchange, commenting that Glaukos gives armour worth one hundred oxen in exchange for one only worth nine (6.236). The reason given is that Zeus had robbed Glaukos of his wits. Another reading of the exchange offered by Calder is that Glaukos does this deliberately, giving in a competitive manner, as a way of demonstrating his superiority. W.M. Calder III, ‘Gold for Bronze: Iliad 6.232-36,’ in Studies Presented to Sterling Dow, GRBS Monograph 10 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1984), 34. Whilst acknowledging the importance of competitive giving, Donlan makes sense of the poet’s own remarks by arguing that the scene highlights Diomedes’ victory arising from his intelligent initiation and control of the encounter. W. Donlan, ‘The Unequal Exchange between Glaucus and Diomedes in Light of the Homeric Gift-Economy,’ Phoenix 43 (1989): 13. Traill, also arguing for Diomedes’ victory in the exchange, sees the poet’s remarks as basically pro-Greek, a viewpoint modern audiences have some difficulty empathising with. D.A. Traill, ‘Gold Armor for Bronze and Homer's Use of Compensatory TIMH,’ Classical Philology 84 (1989): 305. 152 At the end of his soliloquy Hektor decides to stay and fight, and in doing so he shuns the calls from his family to return to protect them, just as he had also rejected Andromache’s plea that he should pity his child and stay behind the walls (6.431). The choice he makes is the one we expect a warrior to make. Indeed, a warrior who does otherwise risks being seen not as one deserving honour but as a coward, as kakos. Ironically though, the shame that he feels before the eyes of his people and which drives him to put himself in harm’s way on their behalf, now causes him to act in a manner that ultimately puts their interests below his. Benardete goes so far as to liken his selfishness to that of Achilles, arguing that, like Achilles ‘he is concerned more with his own renown than with the fate of his own people.’396 This may indeed reflect another aspect of the ring composition that plays such an important role, both thematically and structurally, throughout the epic. Though acknowledging the paradoxical nature of his dilemma, Zanker goes even further, stating that: ‘There can be no doubt that on Homeric thinking Hektor’s decision is a wrong decision.’ While he is inspired by traditional motives, he is ‘blinded to other motives, especially pity’ that also have an important place in the heroic code.397 Immediately before Achilles reaches Hektor, for a third time Achilles is described in terms that vividly express his fiery brilliance. At 22.131-5 the poet likens him to Ares, the ‘Lord of Battles’ and the flare of his bronze armour is that of the rising sun.398 Seen in this light, Achilles ceases to be just any great warrior, but has virtually become the personification of war itself. Where earlier similes have stressed the glare of his armour, at the heart of this image is Achilles’ great spear, that which originally belonged to Peleus. It is this spear, we recall, that Patroklos was not able to wield (16.140-4), and its absence underscores the difference between Patroklos and the man whose armour he wears.399 Here though, the presence of the great spear completes the image. It is δεινήν, or ‘terrible’ and like the Dog Star, to which he is earlier compared, the spear is in its association with Ares a σῆμα of death. 396 397 398 Benardete, Achilles and Hector: The Homeric Hero, 121. Zanker, 143. On this simile, see C. Moulton, Similes in the Homeric poems (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1977), 26-7, 80-1. 399 Of course, it is not just Patroklos who cannot use Achilles’ spear. No one else can. 153 The succession of similes likening Achilles to fire and celestial brilliance has a cumulative effect. Together, they convey the rapidly unfolding threat that Achilles presents. This is felt no more keenly than by Hektor himself. Despite having declared to himself that he will stand and fight, Hektor is so shaken by the very sight of Achilles that he runs for his life (22.136).400 At such a climactic point in the text, the sight of this great warrior running away in fear is shocking indeed. As Edwards states, the sudden jolt received by the audience comes ‘just as suddenly as fear overwhelmed Hektor.’401 There is nothing comparable in the Iliad. Certainly, other heroes are whisked out of harm’s way by watchful gods,402 but no one actually runs away from their opponent. To do so is against the very ethos of the Homeric warrior, which demands that a warrior stand and fight. For one skilled and equipped to carry out this charge, failure to fight ultimately means that they not only stand to lose honour in the eyes of their community but that they neglect to protect those who are dependent on them.403 And, as Adkins states, ‘In war, the failure of one man may well contribute to the failure of his friends: a failure which… must result either in slavery or annhilitaion.’404 Under normal circumstances then, the Homeric warrior would rather fight and die well than risk the shame that cowardice brings.405 Hektor himself tells 400 Note also how at 18.306-8, Hektor declares to the assembled Trojans that he will stand and fight Achilles rather than run from him. Interestingly, despite the approval of the crowd who are clearly moved by his rousing speech, at this point the poet tells us that Athene had in fact taken away his wits (18.311-2). Nagy points out that this is a very important point in the development of the ‘ritual antagonism’ that connects Hektor and Athene, in a manner parallel to that between Achilles and Apollo, Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans, 147. For Nagy’s discussion of the thematic convergence between the god and their hero double, see 142-3 generally, and 145-6 for more discussion on Hektor and Athene specifically. The main points of convergence he notes are their association with metis and with the protection of the city. I want to add that the crowd does not recognise Hektor’s error here; this is a further reminder of the need to be wary in taking the reception of crowds as a reliable indicator of the merit (or lack thereof) of that to which they are responding. 401 402 Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 293. Note for example Paris who is saved by Aphrodite (3.373ff.) and Aeneias who is rescued from his fight with Achilles by Poseidon (20.301ff.). 403 Adkins, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values, 34. Adkins discusses in some detail how the most esteemed Greek values both in war and peace are based on those abilities and qualities that are necessary for the protection of the community. He argues that it is also these martial values as opposed to the ‘quieter’ ones that define an individual as agathos (32). Zanker, takes a different line, arguing that the quiteter values are not alien to the code at all, rather they are part of it. Zanker, 9. 404 405 Adkins, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values, 35. For example Sarpedon (12.310-28). 154 Andromache of the shame he would feel if he was not to fight (6.442). Rather than one being seen and seeing himself as one of the agathoi, he fears that he would be likened to a kakos.406 But these are not normal circumstances and to be fair to Hektor it is necessary to put his response in context. Edwards is right to point out that unlike typical encounters, Hektor has no body of troops to fall back to. He is all alone and he fights not merely a warrior seeking glory but one who is semi-divine and fuelled with the blazing fury of revenge.407 Hektor’s response, while unusual, is quite understandable and especially so coming at the end of a sequence of evocative similes that leave the audience with no doubt of the dread that the sight of Achilles inspires. Rather than underscoring Hektor’s cowardice necessarily, his flight captures just how terrifying the sight of Achilles, resplendent in his new armour and wielding the great spear, really is. Rather than the fight which is anticipated, a wholly different spectacle takes shape before the eyes of the mortal and immortal audience as Achilles chases Hektor three times around the perimeter of the city. It is explicitly likened to a great running race (22.160), except, the poet notes, for the one crucial difference – the ἆθλον is Hektor’s life, his ψυχή (22.161). While language evoking racing is used repeatedly through this scene, in a very unusual simile the poet also likens it to a scene in a dream in which the one giving chase is unable to gain and the one being chased is unable to get away. The simile gives us a valuable glimpse into the mind of the poet. However, by causing the audience to recall such a dream, its function is to convey a surreal sense of inescapable tension and the impression of being without end, as they circle the walls of Troy again and again and again.408 Before the encounter, we noted the presence and responses of Priam and Hekuba watching Achilles’ approach. During the duel however, the audience we are made 406 407 Adkins, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values, 47. Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 293. Edwards puts it well: ‘The poet’s bold innovation has set a man with human weaknesses and merely human courage against a remote, invincible, and deadly power.’ 408 On the dream simile, see also Benardete, Achilles and Hector: The Homeric Hero, 123. 155 most aware of is not mortal but divine (22.166-87).409 The gods appear as spectators watching a great race, commentating on its progress. But they are also interested observers, and Zeus in particular, seeing death closing in on Hektor is tempted to intervene even though he is fated to die (22.167-76).410 Doing so, Athene reminds him, would risk inciting the disapproval of the gods (22.177-81). Zeus does intervene, or rather, he invites Athene to enter the fray on his behalf, but he does not give her any instruction, simply telling her do as she wishes (22.185). This focus on the divine audience, in particular Zeus and Athene, serves a number of functions. At the most immediate level it accentuates just how important this moment is, both as the culmination of Achilles’ aristeia and even more importantly as the final ‘all or nothing’ confrontation between the leading champions. This is, in a sense, the moment that everyone, even the gods, has been waiting for. The fact that Hektor is fated to die does nothing to diminish the drama and suspense of this contest. If anything knowing the outcome in advance raises the suspense, for while his end may be known, what is not known (even by the gods it seems) is how Hektor will respond to the situation. After all, as Adkins argues, moira, (or αἶσα in this case) even when it concerns death, does not diminish the responsibility of the individual,411 nor one might add, determine how they will meet that end. While Zeus is dissuaded from interfering with the contest, it is at this moment the question of the gods’ influence for good or ill is introduced as a decisive factor. Just before Athene’s intervention, in a rhetorical question the poet (wondering how Hektor can continue to run so fast) tells us that Apollo is helping him (22.202-4). It is for the last time. Moments later, after Zeus balances the portions of death between the two men, the poet announces Apollo’s abandonment (22.209-14). Now Hektor really is alone. But the situation is much worse than that as Apollo’s departure is matched by Athene’s arrival.412 409 410 Griffin, ‘The Divine Audience and the Religion of the Iliad,’ In his discussion on moira, or ‘fate’, Adkins cites this as example of Zeus’ abilty to overset fate. Adkins, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values, 19. 411 412 Ibid., 22-3. Note that Apollo stays with Hektor much longer than the other gods. Already there is in fact a divine sanction prohibiting the gods from assisting the Trojans which we learn about from Athene who warns Aphrodite not to assist them late in Book 21 (21.428). 156 The arrival of Athene brings matters to a head as she persuades both warriors to stop, getting Achilles to rest, while persuading Hektor to take Achilles head-on (22.222-3). She succeeds with Hektor by taking on the guise of his brother Deïphobos and promising to stand with him against Achilles (22.243-6).413 It is of course a ruse, and no sooner does Hektor launch his attack than Deïphobos is no longer to be found. At once Hektor experiences a moment of clarity, realising exactly what has happened and that his time is up (22.296-305). In an interesting observation, the Cambridge Commentary observes that Hektor explains his ill fortune as arising from external agents, the work of the gods and moira, but ‘the fame which he will win by his death depends on his own human efforts.’414 It is this knowledge, this acceptance of his responsibility to act heroically in spite of certain death that spurs him on. There is a definite sense of circularity in Athene’s intervention, mirroring the role played by Apollo in the death of Patroklos. The two events even take place at roughly the same location below the walls of Troy, near the Skaian gate, upon which the people watch. Indeed, Nagy points out that the death of Hektor is actually described as being caused by Athena, and that Achilles’ spear merely serves as her instrument (22.270-1; 445-6), adding that Achilles and Athene are responsible for his death (22.216-8).415 Like Apollo’s interference in the killing of Patroklos, Athene’s intervention also serves to diminish, or at least limit, the disgrace of Hektor’s death.416 He will be killed not merely by a man, but by a god. Crucially also, he will die executing the role that is expected of him. Indeed, the fact that he does so being aware that a god is against him serves more to raise the quality of his death than lower it. As the duel reaches its crescendo, the now familiar but no less powerful simile of Achilles’ starlike appearance is reiterated as his spear-point is likened to a star moving through the dark sky, standing out against the other stars in the night sky (22.317-20). Unlike the earlier star similes (22.25-32; 131-5), overtly introduced as a 413 Note that Athene only appears in disguise to Hektor. Similarly, Apollo disguises himself as Agenor to fool Achilles at the end of Book 21 in order to draw his attention from the Trojans fleeing back inside the city walls (21.599ff.). By contract, Athene appears as herself to Achilles, both here and during the quarrel (1.197-200). 414 415 416 Richardson, ad.295-305. Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans, 144. On the intervention of Apollo see Adkins, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values, 15. 157 portent of evil, sickness and war, now the poet juxtaposes the celestial beauty of the star in the night’s sky with this final deadly attack. The contrast is one of tragic quality, at once setting the brilliance of one against the death of the other, the night sky announcing Hektor’s imminent death.417 In mid flight, as Achilles looks for the best place to strike Hektor, we are reminded of the death of Patroklos, the source of Achilles’ fury (22.321-3). Though narrated over only a couple of lines, Achilles’ armour, worn once by Patroklos and now by Hektor, is a powerful reminder of just how closely bound the fates of these men actually are. As Benardete suggests, in appearing like Patroklos, Hektor appears almost as an extension of Achilles himself.418 But this is not the same Achilles as the man who confronts Hektor. Achilles is, in a sense, confronted by an image of himself, but it is a former self, and one that died with Patroklos under the walls of Troy. Mortally wounded, Hektor supplicates Achilles. Unlike the earlier supplicants who seek clemency from Achilles, Hektor has already received the killing stroke. His life is not the issue here. Vaunting triumphantly over the dying Hektor, Achilles threatens to deny him a proper burial, and instead promises to feed his body to the dogs and birds (22.335-6, 348-54). Such an end is one of the worst possible fates for a warrior in the Iliad. Earlier, at 22.43 Priam imagines a similar fate for himself when Troy falls and his body is consumed by his own dogs. In his dying words, Hektor entreats Achilles to allow his body to be returned to Troy so that it may receive proper burial (22.337-44). Most importantly of all, he pleads that his body is allowed to be burnt (22.338-43). We can note the features of Hektor’s supplication, most of which are by now very familiar. At the heart of the supplication is an appeal to restraint and an offer of exchange. Achilles’ refusal is absolute. In a manner reminiscent of his rejection of the embassy, he declares that no exchange is possible, even with a great ransom on offer. Achilles then amplifies Hektor’s suffering promising that Hektor’s mother who bore him as a child will not even be able to mourn his body as, he repeats, it will become a feast for the dogs and birds (22.352-4). The reference to Hekuba is likely a deliberate 417 418 Richardson, ad.22.317-21. Benardete, Achilles and Hector: The Homeric Hero, 124. 158 twisting of Hektor’s original plea in which he implores Achilles to think of his own parents, Peleus and Thetis. Where Achilles’ rejections of the earlier supplicants were characterised by a cold, ruthless detachment, his tone is now one of malevolence. The violence he imagines is distinctly monstrous as he wishes that he could eat Hektor’s flesh raw (22.346-7).419 While he does not carry out this gruesome fantasy, the image of the man-eater is reminiscent of the infamous Polyphemus, who delights in making a feast of Odysseus’ companions (Hom. Od. 9.287-93, 310-12, 344). The point of this comparison is that the excessive nature of this violent desire reinforces most emphatically how far Achilles has moved, at least in some respects, beyond the parameters of traditional society and humanity.420 Yet, the fact that he cannot bring himself to carry out the act reminds us that he essentially remains within society, if only just. Achilles’ rejection is excessive and is a powerful expression of the volatile mixture of rage and grief that fuels him at this point in the epic. These emotions are all the more pronounced as he gazes on the killer of his dearest friend. Hektor is, of course, wearing Achilles’ old armour and so the poet creates a symbolically rich image. In facing his old armour he must also be reminded of his former passive and powerless self and the part which he played in Patroklos’ downfall when he permitted Patroklos to fight in his place. This new expression of rage is also dangerous, and Hektor warns him that in his death he might still become a curse for Achilles when he meets his end under the Skaian gates.421 The threat reiterates the lesson offered by Phoinix in Book 9, when he tells Achilles how even the powerful Zeus himself listens to and is persuaded by supplicants, and that when ignored, Λιταί is swiftly followed by Ἄτη (9.502-12). For Achilles, since the death of Patroklos, life itself is virtually devoid of meaning, and 419 The other figure to talk about eating the Trojans raw is Zeus, who tells Hera that she will only be satisfied once she is able to ‘eat Priam and the children of Priam raw, and the other / Trojans, then, then only might you glut at last your anger.’ (4.343-6). 420 King brings attention to the sanction agsinst cannibalism made by Zeus in Hesiod’s Works and Days. Nonhumans eat each other because they have no justice to govern them (Hes. Op. 276-80). King, 26. 421 Pedrick also notes that Hektor’s threat, like that of Chryses’ to Agamemnon, fails to persuade. Pedrick: 130. 159 so, the threat of death has no real significance. Replying to the dead Hektor, he simply directs him: Τέθναθι (‘Die!’) and states that he will accept his own death whenever it comes (22.365-6). Achilles proceeds to strip the armour from Hektor’s body. While this is happening, the poet describes a crowd of Achaians gathering around, each stabbing and jeering at the body: ‘See now, Hektor is much softer to handle than he was / when he set the ships ablaze with the burning firebrand’ (22.373-4). Shortly afterwards Achilles proceeds to cut holes into Hektor’s ankles so that he can attach Hektor’s body to the back of the chariot and drag it to his beach camp. Up to this point, the poet makes no mention of the people of Troy, even though we know the scene is taking place near the city walls. The principal audience that we are made aware of is divine not human. Indeed the gods keenly watch the chase around the city (22.166ff.) and presumably the fight as well.422 Their attention is necessary for their intervention to come at the right time. For Zeus, viewing in this way is both exciting and a cause of sadness as he watches Hektor, a warrior for whom he has great affection, approach his end (22.168ff.). But suddenly, at 22.405, when Hektor is being dragged away through the dust, we are alerted to the fact that Hektor’s parents are watching this horrible scene from the wall, alongside a crowd of Trojans.423 ἣ δέ νυ μήτηρ τίλλε κόμην, ἀπὸ δὲ λιπαρὴν ἔρριψε καλύπτρην τηλόσε, κώκυσεν δὲ μάλα μέγα παῖδ᾽ ἐσιδοῦσα˙ ᾤμωξεν δ᾽ ἐλεεινὰ πατὴρ φίλος, ἀμφὶ δὲ λαοὶ κωκυτῷ τ᾽ εἴχοντο καὶ οἰμωγῇ κατὰ ἄστυ. τῷ δὲ μάλιστ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἔην ἐναλίγκιον ὡς εἰ ἅπασα Ἴλιος ὀφρυόεσσα πυρὶ σμύχοιτο κατ᾽ ἄκρης. and now his mother tore out her hair, and threw the shining veil far from her and raised a great wail as she looked upon her son; and his father beloved groaned pitifully, and all his people around him were taken with wailing and lamentation all through the city. It was most like what would have happened, if all lowering Ilion had been burning top to bottom in fire. (22.405-11). 422 For a useful study of the chase scene see S.E. Bassett, ‘The Pursuit of Hector,’ Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 61 (1931): passim. 423 Note the appearance of Death in the depiction of the city at war on Achilles’ shield (18.535-7). For more discussion on this point see below, Chapter 4. 160 Segal interprets this scene slightly differently arguing that the death of Hektor is not seen by Priam and Hekuba. Segal states: Again and again [Homer uses his] greatest art to portraying the agony of the father, mother, wife of the warrior whose corpse is threatened with exposure. He is careful to place Hector’s death beyond the sight of Priam or Hecuba on the wall, and (unlike Virgil) he never describes the death of a son before a parent’s eyes.424 Whether they actually see him die is unclear. However the poet certainly does not spare his family the sight of Hektor’s mutilation. The notable exception from this audience is Hektor’s wife, Andromache. In one of the most beautiful and poignant moments in the epic, the poet depicts her in blissful ignorance of Hektor’s fate. The poem provides us with an image of the ideal Homeric wife: the woman at home weaving an elaborate gown while having a hot bath prepared in time for her husband’s return from battle (22.437ff.). The time for fighting is clearly almost over and the return of her husband is more or less assured. This scene of domestic tranquillity is interrupted ‘by the noise of mourning and sorrow’ (22.447). In particular, she recognises the sound of Hekuba’s voice and this alerts her to the possibility of Hektor’s death (22.451). When she reaches the walls, she sees Hektor’s body being dragged away from the city. At this sight, she faints and in so doing, drops her elaborate headdress, a wedding gift from the goddess Aphrodite. There are a number of points worth stressing in these scenes. First, of course, is the mutilation of Hektor. While clearly motivated by grief for the dead Patroklos and led by Achilles personally, the mutilation is described as a communal act in which other soldiers participate, at least initially, each encouraging the other in their excesses. Private emotion is transformed into public act. This is further amplified by the attention that the poet gives to the presence of different types of spectators and their reactions to this spectacle. As readers we do not simply watch the duel, we watch the spectators as well, because this is where the poet directs our attention. One effect of this is to foreground the violence created through vision. The scene of violence is intended to weaken the resolve of the Trojan audience, while emboldening the Achaian troops for a final onslaught against the city that does not eventuate within the 424 Segal, The Theme of the Mutilation of the Corpse in the Iliad, 17. 161 poem. Achilles is explicit about this when he suggests that the other Achaians should try to ascertain whether the Trojans will continue to resist now that Hektor, their champion, is dead: εἰ δ᾽ ἄγετ᾽ ἀμφὶ πόλιν σὺν τεύχεσι πειρηθῶμεν, ὄφρά κ᾽ ἔτι γνῶμεν Τρώων νόον ὅν τιν᾽ ἔχουσιν, ἢ καταλείψουσιν πόλιν ἄκρην τοῦδε πεσόντος, ἦε μένειν μεμάασι καὶ Ἕκτορος οὐκέτ᾽ ἐόντος. come, let us go in armour about the city to see if we can find out what purpose is in the Trojans, whether they will abandon their high city, now that this man has fallen, or are minded to stay, though Hektor lives no longer. (22.381-4) From Achilles’ words it is clear that this performance is intended to be read by the spectators on the walls. The act of killing serves a communicative function, even if it is only to instil terror in the mind of the onlooking enemy. The effects of the image of violence are now directed away from his own community and back against Troy. At 22.411 the effect of seeing Hektor’s body mistreated is likened to seeing Troy itself in flames. As we have seen though, for Hektor’s parents and Andromache, the effects of seeing are particularly pronounced. As Segal notes, Andromache suffers the dual grief, experiencing both the death and mutilation of her husband. Segal comments on the scene: That view from the wall is the most painful possible violation of the love and respect with which a wife would treat her husband’s remains. Andromache experiences not just the death of Hector, but the death joined simultaneously with the mutilation of his corpse. By telescoping these two hammerblows of grief into one, Homer makes Andromache at this point the bearer of the utmost cruelty of war.425 Segal is right to emphasise the combination of death and mutilation in multiplying the effects of this scene. What adds even more is the nature of the image that Andromache sees and her relative position to the image. It is critical that Andromache is separated from the body. Through this separation she is denied the opportunity to care for the body of her dead husband. The fact that only moments earlier she was in the middle of preparing Hektor’s bath to soothe his living body accentuates this. It is this separation, and her inability to touch the body – 425 Ibid., 44. 162 to come to terms with the death – which highlights the effect of the image and her utter powerlessness to offer any care. This scene foreshadows the moment in Book 23 when Achilles grasps at the shade of Patroklos. ὣς ἄρα φωνήσας ὠρέξατο χερσὶ φίλῃσιν οὐδ᾽ ἔλαβε˙ ψυχὴ δὲ κατὰ χθονὸς ἠΰτε καπνὸς ᾤχετο τετριγυῖα˙ ταφὼν δ᾽ ἀνόρουσεν Ἀχιλλεὺς χερσί τε συμπλατάγησεν, ἔπος δ᾽ ὀλοφυδνὸν ἔειπεν˙ ὢ πόποι ἦ ῥά τίς ἐστι καὶ εἰν Ἀΐδαο δόμοισι ψυχὴ καὶ εἴδωλον, ἀτὰρ φρένες οὐκ ἔνι πάμπαν˙ So he spoke, and with his own arms reached for him, but could not take him, but the spirit went underground, like vapour, with a thin cry, and Achilleus started awake, staring, and drove his hands together, and spoke, and his words were sorrowful: ‘Oh, wonder! Even in the house of Hades there is left something, a soul and an image, but there is no real heart of life in it.’ (23.99-104) In the final line of this passage, Achilles recognises that ψυχὴ καὶ εἴδωλον (‘soul and image’) are all that remain. The body is reduced to a shadow of its former substantial existence. In this example, as with Andromache, death and the image work closely together. In the failure to grasp, to connect, we are also reminded of Achilles and the failure of the embassy to connect with him. One further aspect of Andromache’s witnessing that has not received significant attention is the fact that what she sees is in flux. As Hektor is dragged away from Troy the image of the body is constantly changing. This change, we can imagine, is not smooth, but jarring. As Richardson points out, the poet amplifies the horror of the vision by the repetition of the reference to the dragging action. Both 22.464 and 465 begin with the dragging reference (ἑλκόμενον and ἕλκον respectively).426 The power of this image is heightened further by the movement of the horses that are described as dragging him ἀκηδέστως. The adverb ἀκηδέστως, from ἀκηδέστος, focuses our attention on the mistreatment of the corpse. In this context though, ἀκηδέστος describes the dragging action as ‘remorseless,’ or indeed as Lattimore translates it, ‘random’. Consequently, the image is not merely receding but moving randomly as the chariot races away across the plain. This movement 426 Richardson, ad. 22.464-5. 163 continually heightens the sense of separation and subtly, but with great power, raises the level of violence.427 Bassett argues convincingly that neither the mutilation of the body nor its dragging are particularly egregious offences in Homeric fighting. On the contrary, Bassett claims that the mutilation of the body of the enemy is standard practice, especially as an act of vengeance in a particularly vicious conflict.428 Similarly, the dragging of the body can be read in the context of Iliadic warfare in an almost utilitarian fashion as a practical way of moving the corpse from one place to another.429 However, what is unusual about the treatment of Hector in this scene, is not the excesses committed on the body, but the fact that these acts occur in front of the eyes of his own family and community. No other warrior is killed and disfigured so publicly. Actions that might be considered normal in the heat of battle become more horrific in the presence of the crowd and it is the horror in the eyes of the spectators that becomes the focus of the poet. And of course this is not just any crowd, it is his family and the civilian population that he protects, those who are the most vulnerable now that he is no longer there to protect him. Despite the horror of the scene the people of Troy continue to watch these outrages take place. As painful as they are, they cannot stop watching. In fact, the contrary is true, as we see Andromache and others make their way to the walls. Andromache’s own gaze is only broken when she faints. But when she recovers she resumes watching. In focusing on the grief of the spectators, it is easy to overlook the other half of the image, that is, the actions of Achilles. This is of course the doing of the poet. Once we are brought up to the walls to join the other Trojans we do not return to the plain below to join Achilles. For this we wait until the beginning of Book 23. Book 22 ends with the image of Andromache in tears, joined in her mourning by the women of Troy. When we do see Achilles again he is back at the camp making preparations for a funerary feast to honour Patroklos. 427 For representations of the dragging of Hektor in vase paintings, see Emily T. Vermeule, ‘The Vengeance of Achilles,’ Bulletin of the Museum of Fine Arts 63 (1965): passim. 428 S.E. Bassett, ‘Achilles' Treatment of Hector's Body,’ Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 64 (1933): 54. 429 Ibid.: 56. 164 By shifting attention away from Achilles in Book 23 it is easy to lose sight of the expressive quality of Achilles’ violence. His actions are public, yet they also express his deepest feelings of rage and his insatiable desire for revenge against the killer of his dearest friend. The poet’s detailed description of Achilles’ treatment of the body serves to amplify not just what is seen by others, but what is felt by Achilles, and indeed what he must see himself. The close-up view of the narrator places us next to Achilles as he cuts into Hektor’s ankles so he can attach the body to the back of his chariot. This is the culminating moment for Achilles. The fact that what he does is seen by the Trojans on the walls is secondary as far as Achilles is concerned and their presence does little at first to influence the direction of his actions. He will mutilate the body regardless. Really most of it occurs back at his camp. He does what he has to and the others are simply opportunists. Mutilation by itself is of course horrific, and, as I have been stressing, it is even more so when done in front of an audience. It is therefore essential to read this event in context. What makes this public action all the more shocking is the way in which it provides a cruel inversion of the funerary ritual. Achilles is explicit about this: he will bury Patroklos within the Achaian community. Hector on the other hand will become a feast for the dogs and birds of prey. The inversion is extended through Achilles’ other actions including the stripping and dragging of the body which come only shortly before we see Andromache preparing for Hektor’s return. While his violence is excessive, Achilles’ aristeia is in many ways the natural and most forceful expression of Achilles’ return to the fold and a powerful recognition and reassertion of the relationships and formal loyalties that distinguish him as being one of the Achaians. In the context of the narrative we hear a major change in Achilles’ communication as he takes to the battlefield. With this movement, what was expressed as a voice of reconciliation within the Achaian community becomes one of pitilessness without. What becomes clear in Book 23, when Achilles returns to the Achaian community and leads the rituals for Patroklos’ funeral, is that these two apparently unreconcilable voices and ways of being coexist within Achilles’ character. One does not cancel out the other. To this point, and indeed until Book 24, Achilles’ recognition of his responsibility and duty only extends as far as the boundary of the Achaian community, no further. However, within these limits Achilles continues to grow. 165 Funeral Games Book 23 marks an important stage in the internal development of Achilles. While ostensibly operating within the community again, he remains cut-off and consciously so from normal life as anger gives way to pure grief and sadness. In a touching moment, the lords give instructions for a cauldron of water to be heated in Agamemnon’s camp in the hope of convincing Achilles to clean the blood and filth from his body (23.38-41). Achilles refuses, declaring an oath not to wash until Patroklos’ burial is complete. This refusal is a consistent aspect of Achilles’ behaviour after the death of Patroklos. Before his aristeia also, he had similarly refused to eat before going back into battle (19.205-14), and had even wanted the other warriors to do likewise. Odysseus intervenes on behalf of the soldiers (19.15470), while the gods themselves take it upon themselves to put ambrosia into Achilles’ chest while he is asleep (19.340-55). In spite of the deep-seated commitment to self-denial, in Book 23 the focus of Achilles’ words and deeds undergoes a major change in direction, shifting back onto the Achaian community. Burial, and the games that follow, provide an opportunity for Achilles to lead, not in the work of battle, but as a speaker once more. The result is the creation of a spectacle of renewed harmony within the Achaian community, of which Achilles is at the very heart. As the games proceed, Achilles, to quote Donlan, ‘becomes the embodiment of collegial cooperation.’430 Most importantly though, as Scott also observes, ‘the ‘communal harmony’ that the game-narrative presents seems to stem from the behaviour of Achilles as the game giver’.431 Achilles, as the sponsor of the games, provides both the store of prizes that are awarded for each event as well as performing the role of umpire and judge, deciding on the division of prizes and the settling of disputes between contestants and between spectators. In this very broad leadership role, Achilles becomes the principal agent for the enforcement of a social code or etiquette.432 In doing so, within the confines of the ceremony Achilles takes on the role which normally belongs to Agamemnon. Achilles’ capacity to fulfil this 430 W. Donlan, ‘The Structure of Authority in the Iliad,’ Arethusa 12 (1979): 52. Quoted in W.C. Scott, ‘The Etiquette of Games in Iliad 23,’ Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 38 (1997): 215. 431 432 Scott: 215. Ibid. 166 duty is borne out in several ways: (1) his use of tact, and respectful language in dealing with other senior leaders; (2) the positive responses of those to whom he speaks; (3) his successful use of mediation to limit conflict and restore harmony; (4) his acknowledgement of senior and other ‘up and coming’ members of the community with well-placed gifts outside the bounds of particular contests. From the very beginning of Book 23, the effectiveness of Achilles is apparent and this is developed until the very end of the games. After making his oath not to wash, Achilles instructs Agamemnon to lead his people in preparations for the funeral (23.48-53). Achilles’ request, while direct, is respectful and acknowledges Agamemnon’s senior position. He addresses Agamemnon as ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν (‘lord of men’, 23.49). The particular wording of the request also acknowledges that it is Agamemnon’s place to order his own people. Achilles, while prompting him to give the order, withholds from making it himself. The effect is immediate and positive, the poet saying οἳ δ᾽ ἄρα τοῦ μάλα μὲν κλύον ἠδὲ πίθοντο. (‘they listened well to him and obeyed him’, 23.54). Even here, it is noteworthy that Achilles, while pushing forward with funeral preparations, is mindful of the need to complete the burial in order to return to the purpose of being at Troy. The ἀκάματον πῦρ (‘unwearying fire’) of the funeral pyre will, Achilles states, θᾶσσον ἀπ᾽ ὀφθαλμῶν, λαοὶ δ᾽ ἐπὶ ἔργα τράπωνται. (‘burn him / away from our eyes, and the people turn back to what they must do.’ 23.52-3). We get a clear sense from Achilles that the burial is something that is important to do but it is not something to be dwelt on for any longer than is absolutely necessary. The tenor of Achilles’ first address to Agamemnon is elaborated shortly afterwards when Achilles seeks to have the multitude around the pyre sent away to prepare the feast, leaving only the leaders to participate in the most solemn phase of the funeral; the sacrifice of men and animals, and the actual burning of the body. Achilles varies his address using the simple, Ἀτρεΐδη, ‘son of Atreus’, while he once again generously defers to Agamemnon’s authority: Ἀτρεΐδη, σοὶ γάρ τε μάλιστά γε λαὸς Ἀχαιῶν / πείσονται μύθοισι (‘Son of Atreus, beyond all others the people of the Achaians / will obey your words’, 23.156-7). In each case, he prompts Agamemnon to act by speaking respectfully to him. He does not leave it up to Agamemnon to initiate action, but gives him the satisfaction of being seen to lead in front of his people. 167 Achilles’ third and final address to Agamemnon comes at the very conclusion of the book at the beginning of the spear contest. Agamemnon and Meriones rise to compete for the cauldron, but Achilles, in an act of preventive diplomacy, abruptly calls the winner before competition starts, declaring Agamemnon to be the best spearthrower: Ἀτρεΐδη˙ ἴδμεν γὰρ ὅσον προβέβηκας ἁπάντων ἠδ᾽ ὅσσον δυνάμει τε καὶ ἥμασιν ἔπλευ ἄριστος˙ ἀλλὰ σὺ μὲν τόδ᾽ ἄεθλον ἔχων κοίλας ἐπὶ νῆας ἔρχευ, ἀτὰρ δόρυ Μηριόνῃ ἥρωϊ πόρωμεν, εἰ σύ γε σῷ θυμῷ ἐθέλοις˙ κέλομαι γὰρ ἔγωγε. ὣς ἔφατ᾽, οὐδ᾽ ἀπίθησεν ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν Ἀγαμέμνων˙ ‘Son of Atreus, for we know how much you surpass all others, by how much you are greatest for strength among the spear throwers, therefore take this prize and keep it and go back to your hollow ships; but let us give the spear to the hero Meriones; if your own heart would have it this way, for so I invite you.’ He spoke, nor did Agamemnon lord of men disobey him. (23.890-5) Achilles extends his courtesy to Agamemnon, deferring to his agreement on the decision to award the second prize to Meriones. The Cambridge commentary also notes that Achilles’ use of the optative here, in ἐθέλοις, is consistent with the courteous tone of Achilles’ speech.433 On several other occasions, the poet describes similar responses to Achilles’ announcements. After the first competition in the games, the crowd responds positively when he suggests honouring Eumelos, despite his coming last in the chariot race (23.536-7). ὣς ἔφαθ᾽, οἳ δ᾽ ἄρα πάντες ἐπῄνεον ὡς ἐκέλευε. καί νύ κέ οἱ πόρεν ἵππον, ἐπῄνησαν γὰρ Ἀχαιοί, So he spoke, and all approved to what he was urging, and he would have given him the horse, since all the Achaians approved. (23.539-40) The positive response is made all the more emphatic by the repetition of ‘approve’ (ἐπῄνεον, ἐπῄνησαν from ἐπαινέω). 433 Richardson, ad. 23.894. 168 Elsewhere, the effect of Achilles’ words is evident even without the poet’s description of the response of the intended listener. A clear example of this occurs during the chariot race when a heated argument quickly arises between Aias and Idomeneus, over the progress of the race (23.473-87). Before getting out of hand, Achilles intervenes decisively: καί νύ κε δὴ προτέρω ἔτ᾽ ἔρις γένετ᾽ ἀμφοτέροισιν, εἰ μὴ Ἀχιλλεὺς αὐτὸς ἀνίστατο καὶ φάτο μῦθον˙ μηκέτι νῦν χαλεποῖσιν ἀμείβεσθον ἐπέεσσιν Αἶαν Ἰδομενεῦ τε κακοῖς, ἐπεὶ οὐδὲ ἔοικε. καὶ δ᾽ ἄλλῳ νεμεσᾶτον ὅτις τοιαῦτά γε ῥέζοι. …And now the quarrel between the two of them would have gone still further, had not Achilleus himself risen up and spoken between them: ‘No longer now, Aias and Idomeneus, continue to exchange this bitter and evil talk. It is not becoming. If another acted so, you yourselves would be angry. (23.490-4) The poet concludes the brief argument simply stating, ὣς ἔφαθ᾽ (‘so he spoke’) before immediately resuming commentary of the race itself. The sudden shift reflects the degree to which the audience, and the poet for that matter, is caught up in the spectacle of the contest. But also worth noting is the absence of any reply from either Aias or Idomeneus. The expression ὣς ἔφαθ᾽ (23.499) has a clear ring of regal finality to it. This contrasts with the earlier ὣς ἔφατ᾽ (23.488) referring to Idomeneus’ reply to Aias, which is followed by Aias actually standing up in an escalation of the exchange. The difference is simple. In the first instance the poet is referring to Achilles. The impact of Achilles’ words is seen most clearly in his interventions to end disputes. In the previous example, Achilles speaks both with command and with empathy. Addressing Aias and Idomeneus, first he instructs them to stop arguing saying μηκέτι νῦν (‘no longer now’, 23.492), before telling them to sit down and watch the contest: ἀλλ᾽ ὑμεῖς ἐν ἀγῶνι καθήμενοι εἰσοράασθε / ἵππους˙ (23.4956). The second command is made all the more forceful by ὑμεῖς, as it singles out the two men for whom the instruction is intended. However, at the same time, Achilles skilfully employs empathy to settle the dispute, telling them καὶ δ᾽ ἄλλῳ νεμεσᾶτον ὅτις τοιαῦτά γε ῥέζοι. (‘If another acted so, you yourselves would be angry’, 23.494). This softens Achilles’ words. Richardson remarks that the line is ironic 169 considering Achilles’ earlier behaviour. This is certainly true. However, this understanding is very much in keeping with the change that we have started to hear in Achilles’ communication after the death of Patroklos. It makes perfect sense that in the first potentially serious dispute since that time Achilles is able to apply his heightened awareness to help avert another quarrel. The effectiveness of Achilles’ timely intervention is evident and the argument is quickly settled. However, at the conclusion of the horse race another argument develops over the awarding of the prizes. At the end of the race the poet tells us that Achilles is moved to pity seeing that ‘The best man is driving his single-footed horses in last.’ (23.536). Seeing this, he is moved to award the winner’s prize, a horse, to Eumelos. This, the poet tells us, is a popular move which would have met with the approval of the people (23.540-1). However, Achilles’ decision is met with a strong objection by Antilochos who is angered at the thought of losing the trophy which he competed for and won: εἰ δέ μιν οἰκτίρεις καί τοι φίλος ἔπλετο θυμῷ ἔστί τοι ἐν κλισίῃ χρυσὸς πολύς, ἔστι δὲ χαλκὸς καὶ πρόβατ᾽, εἰσὶ δέ τοι δμῳαὶ καὶ μώνυχες ἵπποι˙ τῶν οἱ ἔπειτ᾽ ἀνελὼν δόμεναι καὶ μεῖζον ἄεθλον ἠὲ καὶ αὐτίκα νῦν, ἵνα ς᾽ αἰνήσωσιν Ἀχαιοί. τὴν δ᾽ ἐγὼ οὐ δώσω˙ περὶ δ᾽ αὐτῆς πειρηθήτω ἀνδρῶν ὅς κ᾽ ἐθέλῃσιν ἐμοὶ χείρεσσι μάχεσθαι. But if you are sorry for him and he is dear to your liking, there is abundant gold in your shelter, and there is bronze there and animals, and there are handmaidens and single-footed horses. You can take from these, and give him afterwards a prize still greater than mine, or now at once, and have the Achaians applaud you. But the mare I will not give up, and the man who wants her must fight me for her with his hands before he can take her. (23.548-54) The objection of Antilochos echoes that of Achilles in Book 1 without repeating the errors committed by either of the participants. Angry at the prospect of losing his prize, Antilochos suggests that Achilles give him some other prize rather than the one meant for the winner and threatens that he will defend his prize with force. Like Achilles in Book 1, what we see here is a young and capable member of the elite defending his right to honour. However, unlike Achilles in Book 1, Antilochos refrains from speaking abusively to Achilles. He is clearly angry, yet he manages to contain this. He does not, for example, address Achilles in an abusive or disrespectful 170 manner. Rather he manages to restrict his objection to the matter of prize distribution without turning this into a personal attack against Achilles. The situation for Antilochos is ‘zero sum’. By Eumelos being honoured, Antilochos stands to lose and is potentially dishonoured by Achilles’ generosity. But Antilochos does not just defend his claim to receive the prize. Instead, he suggests that Achilles should offer a separate prize, and by doing so satisfy all parties.434 This echoes Agamemnon’s demand that he should receive another prize in Book 1. Antilochos’ reference to Achilles’ abundant store of riches contrasts with Achilles’ remark to Agamemnon that no such stockpile exists to compensate him for the loss of Chryseis (1.122-6). Achilles is persuaded by Antilochos’ tactful objection and he responds with a smile and addresses him in ‘winged words’ (23.557). Achilles empathises with the young man, and this may inform Achilles’ decision to give way to Antilochos’ demand and to respect his claim to be honoured. Instead of being given the horse, a new prize is brought out for Eumelos; a bronze corselet with tin overlay (23.560-5). The successful resolution of the exchange is marked by Eumelos’ joyful acceptance of the gift (23.565). Achilles’ willingness to offer an extra prize highlights Achilles’ generosity and forms a precedent for his later actions which require the relinquishing of significant objects, culminating in his release of Hektor’s body to Priam in Book 24. In contrast to Book 1 again, this action also shows Achilles’ willingness as the host to absorb the costs associated with restoring harmonious relations between members of the community, a loss that Agamemnon was previously unwilling to sustain. This is important because they are both there to honour Patroklos and to win honour for themselves before the eyes of the people, so Achilles knows that all must be satisfied with their lot. As Scott states, Achilles’ action subtly exposes Agamemnon’s failure to enforce a community-serving value code…; the result is Adkins’ ‘doubt, confusion, and argument.’ But the Iliad partly closes when 434 On this point, Adkins points out that while Antilochos contests the loss of his own prize, he does not claim that Achilles is being unreasonable in awarding a prize to Eumelos’ based on his arête alone. Adkins, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values, 56. We will see others awarded in such a manner as the games continue (23.618-23; 23.794-6; 23.890-5). 171 Achilles, the contrasting adequate umpire, re-establishes the code for the community.435 The effect of Achilles’ reply is to create certainty, clarity, and harmony. He does so by acknowledging each competitor’s claim to honour, and as Zanker also observes, by making effective use of the language of his peers in a manner that reflects his reintegration into the community.436 The final notable feature of Achilles’ behaviour during Book 23 is his gift giving. As the example of Eumelos illustrates, Achilles is willing to give out awards based on criteria other than victory alone. Prize-giving acts as a pretext for the honouring the arête of important individuals generally. By doing so, Achilles directly contributes toward the restoration of order and harmony within the community. Before the end of the book, three more prizes are awarded in this manner, including one to Antilochos, one to Nestor, and the final prize discussed earlier, which is given to Agamemnon, and on which note the book ends. After the successful conclusion of the distribution of the prizes for the horse race and the dispute between Antilochos and Menalaos, at 23.615-23,437 Achilles decides to award the fifth prize to Nestor. Addressing Nestor, Achilles says: τῆ νῦν, καὶ σοὶ τοῦτο γέρον κειμήλιον ἔστω Πατρόκλοιο τάφου μνῆμ᾽ ἔμμεναι˙ οὐ γὰρ ἔτ᾽ αὐτὸν ὄψῃ ἐν Ἀργείοισι˙ δίδωμι δέ τοι τόδ᾽ ἄεθλον αὔτως˙ οὐ γὰρ πύξ γε μαχήσεαι, οὐδὲ παλαίσεις, οὐδ᾽ ἔτ᾽ ἀκοντιστὺν ἐσδύσεαι, οὐδὲ πόδεσσι θεύσεαι˙ ἤδη γὰρ χαλεπὸν κατὰ γῆρας ἐπείγει. This, aged sir, is yours to lay away as a treasure in memory of the burial of Patroklos; since never again will you see him among the Argives. I give you this prize for the giving; since never again will you fight with your fists nor wrestle, nor enter again the field for the spear-throwing, nor race on your feet; since now the hardship of old age is upon you. (23.618-23) 435 436 437 Scott: 226-7. Zanker, 111. For a detailed reading of the ambiguous desciption of Antilochos’ driving, see M. Gagarin, ‘Antilochus' Strategy: The Chariot Race in Iliad 23,’ Classical Philology 78 (1983): 39. He suggests that the ‘vagueness of the description of the actual events allows the poet to suggest that both sides may have some justification for their positions and to preserve the dignity and honor of all involved.’ 172 Achilles speaks with restrained grief and great dignity. In honouring Nestor, Achilles reiterates the importance of the prize as a device by which Nestor will remember Patroklos even after he has left the community of the living. However, Achilles also wants to honour Nestor in his own right as one who is worthy of honours even after his active life has ended. In this way, Achilles subtly connects the death of Patroklos to the dénouement of Nestor as an active fighter and contestant for honour in the Achaian community and as a skilled chariot-driver in particular. This is the subject of Nestor’s advice to Antilochos before the race, when he urges his son to rely on skill rather than pure strength or speed (23.301-48). Antilochos’ performance in the race is a testament to Nestor’s knowledge and experience. As Richardson rightly points out, Achilles’ treatment of Nestor is in marked contrast to the quarrel in Book 1 when his attempt to put a stop to the argument is ignored by both Achilles and Agamemnon.438 But here also, Achilles’ readiness to honour the elder statesman foreshadows his similarly respectful and generous treatment of Priam in Book 24.439 As the contests continue, Achilles engages in further acts of gift-giving.440 Following the conclusion of the foot race won by Aias, the young Antilochos remarks at how amazing it is that the race can be won by one of the older contestants, seeing it as evidence that ‘the immortals continue to favour the elder men’ (23.787-88). Aias, Antilochos states, is ‘of another age’ and ‘one of the ancients’. He concludes his remarks, by favourably comparing Achilles to Aias, stating that only Achilles would be able to outrun him. This is a clear case of flattery and it comes as little surprise after a series of increasingly congenial encounters and Achilles is quick to repay him for the compliment, increasing Antilochos’ prize by half a talent of gold (23.794-6). Last of all, Achilles honours Agamemnon, declaring him the winner of the spear contest before it even begins. This encounter has been discussed earlier, but it is 438 439 440 Richardson, ad. 23.612-23. Ibid. Zanker makes the interesting observation that the prize for the foot race, a krater, had been given to Achilles as part of the ransom for Lykaon. The importance of the object and, one might add, its symbolic weight is expressed by the detail the poet gives to recounting its provenance (23.740-7). Zanker suggests that the prize recalls a time when Achilles had acted with mercy and respect for supplicants, while anticipating a return to this way of being. A similar significance can be attached to the lump of iron which was used by Eëtion (23.826-7), whom Achilles had also treated with respect and dignity by giving him full funerary honours. Zanker, 112-3. 173 worth mentioning again briefly as further evidence of Achilles’ use of tact and the spirit with which Achilles distributes honours among the elite. In honouring Agamemnon, Achilles completes the potentially divisive distribution process in a manner that ensures that each leader, young and old, is honoured appropriately. As Dunkle states: the most prominent theme of the funeral games is the triumph of order over disorder. When every hero receives his due, heroic life functions well. The order of the games has as its source Achilles, around whom, as Whitman says, ‘order slowly spreads… in a widening ring’.441 Achilles does more than that. As we have seen, not only are significant individuals honoured, but the honours serve to influence the behaviour of others, and thus the distribution of honours serves as a powerful form of positive reinforcement for particular types of behaviour. Offering to award the spear-throwing prize to Agamemnon, Achilles effortlessly directs Agamemnon away from competition, and manages to satisfy his need for public honour while averting any embarrassment or potential dispute that might have arisen if the competition had run its course. In effect, Agamemnon is honoured for not competing.442443 Antilochos, on the other hand, is rewarded for his good behaviour in a manner that is appropriate as a younger warrior. As we have seen repeatedly both in this book and Book 1, speech has the power to either strengthen community bonds or to break them. It is thus very important that Antilochos be awarded by Achilles for speaking well about another. This is, of course, the second example of this as Menelaos also effectively rewards Antilochos for treating him respectfully after Menelaos’ objection to the outcome of the chariot race (23.566-85). In rather self-effacing language, Antilochos modestly puts his victory down to his own greed and lightweight judgement and begs for his patience: ἄνσχεο νῦν˙ πολλὸν γὰρ ἔγωγε νεώτερός εἰμι σεῖο ἄναξ Μενέλαε, σὺ δὲ πρότερος καὶ ἀρείων. οἶσθ᾽ οἷαι νέου ἀνδρὸς ὑπερβασίαι τελέθουσι˙ κραιπνότερος μὲν γάρ τε νόος, λεπτὴ δέ τε μῆτις. 441 J.R. Dunkle, ‘Some Notes on the Funeral Games: Iliad 23,’ Prometheus 7 (1981): 18. Quoted in Scott: 226. 442 Griffin, remarking on Achilles’ generosity at this point in the poem and on Agamemnon’s relative inferiority to Achilles as a speaker generally, notes that Agamemnon is left literally lost for words. Griffin, ‘Homeric Words and Speakers,’ 51. 443 Zanker adds that this is also a diplomatic way for Achilles to acknowledge Agamemnon’s superiority. Zanker, 110. 174 τώ τοι ἐπιτλήτω κραδίη˙ Enough now. For I, my lord Menelaos, am younger by far than you, and you are the greater and go before me. You know how greedy transgressions flower in a young man, seeing that his mind is the more active but his judgement is lightweight. Therefore I would have your heart be patient with me. (23.587-91) This admission has the effect of softening Menelaos’ anger. Menelaos gives Antilochos the horse, acknowledging the service that Antilochos and his father had given him in the past, and accepts the cauldron of third-prize for himself (23.596611). Conclusion In seeing his transformation from above, as it were, we are given a clear picture of the change that has taken place in Achilles’ character: a change brought about by learning. By the end of Book 18, we hear and see a new man begin to emerge – a new Achilles. No more do we hear the voice of the victim. Gone too, is the angry, violent, and abusive language heard earlier in Achilles’ encounters with Agamemnon and the embassy. In its place, we hear a voice of empathy and one that exhibits characteristics of critical self-awareness. Achilles imagines the loss that Thetis will soon have to experience and feels pity for her in a way that foreshadows the spirit of compassion that infuses his encounter with Priam in Book 24. Rather than deriving pleasure from fantasising about the suffering he wants others to experience, Achilles imagines her inevitable grief. He knows what she will feel because he also feels this loss, or something comparable. This pity sits alongside a new level of self-awareness as he acknowledges and takes responsibility for his anger and the suffering that this has created. However, it is important to note that Achilles’ awareness of his anger does not equate to its passing. Indeed, the opposite is closer to the truth, as Achilles’ anger actually intensifies to a level not seen so far in the epic, especially during his aristeia. Even after this, his rage against the corpse of Hektor continues in the background. The critical point is that he directs his anger away from his community, and instead redirects it against both himself and the Trojans. 175 This private expression is immediately followed by the initiative he takes in reconciling with Agamemnon. When he addresses Agamemnon, for the first time in the epic, he does so using proper terms of respect. His public admission of error speaks volumes about how far Achilles has come since Book 1. The fact that Agamemnon is unable to do the same only reinforces how remarkable Achilles’ selfdeprecating attitude really is. This is, especially in this context, an extremely brave act. Critically, for the first time since Book 1, Achilles’ words have the effect of creating pleasure on the audience that comes to hear him speak. In Achilles’ renewed activity as a speaker, we hear the quality of the man expressed, but it is in his action that these qualities take on another whole level of meaning. Though limited by his lack of armour, he is inspired by the gods to act. Rising up, he is joined by divine fire. In this moment, Achilles is not merely fire-like, he is literally ablaze in fire. The extent to which the gods move in support of Achilles’ re-emergence is most compellingly brought out in the creation of his new armour. Like the image of Achilles adorned by fire, here too, the sheer brilliance of the spectacle is too much for others to bear. However, there is more at work here than light alone. In the shield, we are given an all encompassing image of life and death, an image of the mortal condition. The shield speaks directly to Achilles as a grieving man. Unlike the other onlookers, he is able to read the shield. He feels and is in fact captivated by the sublime power of this image and the divine view contained therein. This perspective on the world is precisely that which Achilles will himself come to see for himself as the poem progresses, and he is able to gradually assimilate the transformational power of the trauma of Patroklos’ loss, and come to terms with death itself. When Achilles embarks on his aristeia, this transformation is far from complete. There is no better indication of this than the contrast that exists between his attitude toward the Achaian community and the Trojans. Achilles’ aristeia occupies approximately one eighth of the Iliad. At the outset we know this is going to be something special. Zeus and other immortals set themselves up to watch the great spectacle. Achilles in action is an awesome sight to behold, wielding destructive power that can only effectively be conveyed by the poet in likening him to a great monster, or weighty beast, a great ox crushing men like barley under foot. However, Achilles’ real monstrosity is conveyed by the inhumanity, and specifically the lack of 176 mercy, that he shows his enemies. With Lykaon and Hektor, he expresses this extraordinary level of ferocity most explicitly in his desire to deny their bodies proper burial, and in his promise of mutilation. In Hektor’s case, he wishes he could eat his body himself. He does not, but the scenes of mutilation are the closest thing we have to the monsters that populate the worlds of the Odyssey and other traditional narratives in Greek mythology. What makes Hektor’s death so powerful is the fact it is being watched, both by the divine audience and, even more poignantly, by the human audience, including his own family. They watch, powerless to intervene and captive to the spectacle before them. With Achilles’ return to the Achaian community after the aristeia and his leadership of the rituals for the funeral of Patroklos we see the extent of his transformation and the positive impact that this has on the Greek community at Troy. Before the aristeia, Achilles’ public reconciliation with Agamemnon had the effect of re-connecting Achilles to the Achaian community. However, it is in the funeral games for Patroklos that we witness the extent of Achilles’ increased self-awareness. In leading the games, Achilles defines himself as a powerful, creative force within his community. He succeeds in settling quarrels with persuasion and is able to be persuaded by others, to compromise, and alter his own position when necessary. Again, we see the greatest change in his tactful treatment of Agamemnon whom he wins over with a combination of kind words and well-timed gifts. Achilles is assertive in communicating his requests. He gives Agamemnon the opportunity to issue commands. In doing so, Achilles demonstrates his respect for Agamemnon’s seniority with respect to the other leaders at Troy. Honouring him ahead of the spear contest, he acknowledges that the honour to which Agamemnon is entitled is not based purely on merit, at least not the kind of merit that can be demonstrated in competition. Others also contribute in important ways to the success of the games. Agamemnon repeatedly listens and responds appropriately to Achilles’ advice. Though Agamemnon is tempted to prove himself, he allows himself to be persuaded by Achilles’ gesture and withholds himself from competing. Similarly, Aias and Idomeneus are also persuaded by Achilles and they swiftly desist from their quarrelling. So too, Antilochos and Menelaos give way to one another and instead of fighting they end up honouring each other. The young and precocious Antilochos knows when he has gone too far and is quick to correct himself. At the same time, he 177 also asserts himself when this is necessary. However, at no time does Antilochos openly abuse or speak disrespectfully toward Achilles. Antilochos makes his point but he does so with respect for Achilles’ seniority. Both men provide a model of effective communication and this results in both being honoured as is their due. Achilles is honoured by the crowd which approves of Achilles’ readiness to submit to Antilochos, and Antilochos is honoured not once but twice by Achilles; once for his coming second in the race, and again for lavishing praise upon him. The gifts that Achilles and others bestow, both in the form of valuable objects and words of praise, are a vital means of healing wounds and building harmony between the different members of the community. Indeed, they are an investment in the community’s easily shaken sense of cohesion and identity where each is primarily concerned with maintaining or growing their own share of honour. There is also a very personal aspect to the gift giving, when we recognise that Achilles is, albeit indirectly, paying reparations to the community and key individuals to whom he has caused so much harm. But what we see is that by honouring others, Achilles is also honoured. His ability to bestow honour is a visible expression of his own power within the community. Through his speech and his actions, Achilles succeeds in creating a spectacle of community where conflict could easily have erupted on a number of occasions. This requires great skill and awareness on Achilles’ part and it is instructive that he is able to avoid repeating errors made in earlier scenes by himself and others. He avoids Agamemnon’s mistake of denying honour to those who have earned it, and he acknowledges the need to listen to and respond appropriately to the grievances of others, as the members of the embassy are unable to do in their attempt to persuade Achilles to return in Book 9. By the Book’s end, we witness Achilles re-emerge as peacemaker and healer within his community. For the war-maker par excellence, it is certainly an ironic change.444 However, in the scheme of the poem it is a natural evolution born of the first-hand experience of loss and conflict. Just as Achilles’ reintegration into the community coincided with his embracing of a new, less divisive narrative of recent events, the games succeed in creating a new narrative of communal harmony, honour, and cooperation. To this point, however, Achilles’ sense of 444 Parks, 90. 178 humanity extends only to those within the Achaian community. At the conclusion of the games, as Achilles’ returns to his tent, he continues to act out his monstrous rage against the dead Hektor, inviting the final challenge of the epic. 179 Chapter 5: Communication and Compassion Like the funeral games of Book 23, the success of the meeting between Achilles and Priam is the result of a combination of factors. Unlike the embassy in Book 9, the primary reason for the meeting (the return of Hektor’s body to Troy) is sanctioned by the gods. The gods instruct both Achilles and Priam as to the actions they are required to take while actively assisting Priam in making the perilous night journey to Achilles’ compound. This much ensures that Hektor will be returned. But the meeting achieves a level of success that far exceeds its mandate. This success is due to the ability of both men to communicate effectively with each other. This is based on their capacity to empathise with each other. From this foundation of compassion, both men utilise a complex and powerful range of communicative strategies to move the other to the necessary perspective: for Achilles’ to pity Priam as he would his own father, and for Priam to come to terms with the inevitable truth of the mortal condition. Achilles, in particular, makes use of communicative techniques not previously employed by him in the Iliad, such as paradeigma and gnomai intended to assist both the speaker and the listener. Where the failure of the embassy resulted in the spectacle of Trojan fire being brought against the Greek ships, in Book 24, the meeting’s success is reflected in the creation of the fires of the hearth445 and the pyre: fires of peace and healing. 445 In referring to the hearth, here and elsewhere, I am employing a broad definition that emphasises both its general heating function as well as its being a place where meals are cooked. At both 9.206-15 and 24.620-4, Achilles appears to have a fire burning already, and this same fire is used for cooking meat for his guests. The specific location of this fire, 180 Priam and Achilles With the conclusion of the games, the focus of the epic shifts back to the treatment of Hektor’s body. After killing Hektor, Achilles repeatedly attempts to mutilate his body, dragging it around Patroklos’ burial mound and leaving it sprawled in the dust. This is Achilles’ first act on the morning after the funeral (24.13-8). So outrageous is this manner of treating the dead that it is the subject of a quarrel between Hera, Poseidon and Athena and the other Olympians (24.31-76). The continuation of the mutilation after Patroklos’ funeral, which itself is marked by acts of human and animal sacrifice (23.166-76), reflects the depth of Achilles’ grief and his inability to bring this episode to a close in spite of his stated wish to do so (23.52-3). There is a definite sense of desperation in Achilles’ attempts to satisfy his fury. Apollo makes this very point in his plea to the other gods to have Hektor given a proper burial, pointing out that οὐ μήν οἱ τό γε κάλλιον οὐδέ τ᾽ ἄμεινον. (‘nothing is gained thereby, for his good or his honour.’ 24.52). By continuing this behaviour Achilles risks inciting the anger of the gods. Apollo, reiterating Hektor’s warning (22.358-60), complains that Achilles now acts without αἰδὼς, or ‘shame’ (24.44), and that he should take care not to make the gods angry (24.54). It is this context which provides the challenge for Book 24: to give Hektor the honour that is his due. However, this can only be achieved through the change in Achilles’ spirit. The gods themselves acknowledge that Achilles must give up the body willingly; they are not able to steal it from him, though they consider this option (24.24). He must be persuaded. From the beginning, then, the gods play an active role in achieving Hektor’s return. Zeus calls on Thetis to pass on the gods’ warning and demand to Achilles: his actions are angering Zeus, and he must accept ransom for Hektor (24.104-19). When she arrives at Achilles’ camp she finds him in lamentation (24.122-3). Here again we are reminded that Achilles’ mutilation of Hektor runs in parallel to his own self-denial which continues unabated. Seeing her son in this state, she asks him how long he intends to deny himself food and sex (24.128-31). For all intents and purposes whether it is inside or outside, is not clear. However, what is clear is its close proximity to Achilles. 181 Achilles remains in a kind of paralysis, a living death that is all the more real for the knowledge that both mother and son have of his own imminent death below the walls of Troy. Earlier, when Iris goes to fetch Thetis she finds her already grieving for Achilles (24.84-5). Thetis also reminds Achilles just how close his death really is (24.132). After these few expressions of maternal care, Thetis declares the reason for her visit and repeats Zeus’ instruction. Achilles’ reply is almost arrestingly matter of fact. Without any objection he simply states: τῇδ᾽ εἴη˙ ὃς ἄποινα φέροι καὶ νεκρὸν ἄγοιτο, εἰ δὴ πρόφρονι θυμῷ Ὀλύμπιος αὐτὸς ἀνώγει. So be it. He can bring the ransom and take off the body, if the Olympian himself so urgently bids it. (24.139-40). The swiftness of Achilles’ acquiescence can be compared to his drawn out refusal of the embassy in Book 9 and the entreaties of Patroklos in Book 16. This can, in part, be explained by Achilles’ readiness to acknowledge the will of the Olympian gods, something which is characteristic of him. A similar attitude toward the gods is evident when Athene intervenes to stop him striking Agamemnon in the middle of the quarrel in Book 1. However, Richardson, rightly I think, also detects a dismissive quality to Achilles’ reply.446 The matter is a delicate one for Achilles on which he does not wish to dwell. A little later, a similar mood can be detected when Priam urges Achilles to make the exchange. Achilles warns him: μηκέτι νῦν μ᾽ ἐρέθιζε γέρον˙ νοέω δὲ καὶ αὐτὸς Ἕκτορά τοι λῦσαι, No longer stir me up, old sir. I myself am minded to give Hektor back to you. (24.560-1) This initial direction by the gods opens the way for Priam to bring the ransom. This much is clear, and it seems that the main obstacle has been overcome. Hektor will be returned. However, during the meeting with Priam we witness a remarkable change in Achilles. This change is not required for the ransom to be accepted. Rather it occurs 446 Richardson, ad. 24.139-40. 182 during the process of exchange and the meeting of these two men, both suffering in the midst of grief. Physical gestures of submission play an important role in beginning the supplication.447 When Priam approaches Achilles he is taken completely by surprise. It is as Lateiner puts it, a ‘proxemic coup’.448 Priam is unnoticed by anyone in the room before he wraps his arms around Achilles’ knees in a gesture of supplication and kisses his hands (24.477-9). The hands that he kisses are the same hands that have killed many of Priam’s own children (24.478-80). As Heiden states: ‘the tenderness of Priam’s gesture… is emphasized by the killing attributed to those hands (δεινὰς ἀνδροφόνους, 479); the doubling of adjectives and the enjambment intensifies the effect.’449 Crucially, as Felson states, it is this gesture which ‘liberates Achilles to experience the full humanity of the suppliant father, and indeed to move forward imaginatively in his development.’450 The poet focuses our attention on Achilles who is described as being in awe of the θεοειδέα, or ‘godlike’ Priam. The emotional force of the supplication is emphasised by the poet who elaborates on its significance with a simile that has no other like it in the text. 447 This is also discussed in some detail by Pedrick who compares Priam’s supplication of Achilles with Odysseus’ successful supplication of Alkinoos in the Odyssey, noting that ‘Although the contexts are very different, the physical gestures on both sides are nearly the same.’ Pedrick: 127. For a comprehensive study of non-verbal communication in Iliad 24 see Lateiner, 33-58. 448 Discussing the use of space as another aspect of non-verbal communication, Lateiner stresses that Priam’s swift movement into Achilles’ ‘body envelope’ or ‘intimate zone’ communicates urgency and ‘unlimited deference. The contrast, he adds, can be drawn between with Chryses in Book 1. Lateiner, 53. Chryses’ uses neither space nor gesture to communicate submission. In close proximity to one another, Lateiner adds that the emphasis shifts from a verbal to ‘an intimately shared, largely unberbal understanding’ (51). Earlier, Lateiner notes that it is Priam’s use of the ‘complete array of submissive ritual’, of verbal and nonberbal communication that compels Achilles to accept his supplication (40). 449 B. Heiden, ‘The Simile of the Fugitive Homicide, Iliad 24.480-84: Analogy, Foiling, and Allusion,’ American Journal of Philology 119 (1998): 3-4. 450 N. Felson, ‘Threptra and Invincible Hands: The Father-Son Relationship in Iliad 24,’ Arethusa 35 (2002): 38. Priam’s gesture of supplication once again is contrasted against the absence of any similar action by Chryses. We also need to be mindful of the series of failed supplications during Achilles’ aristeia. These supplicants also try to take Achilles by the knees, or, in the case of Hektor, at least express their wish to do so (22.338). It does them little good. The failure of the supplicants, says more about the emotional state of Achilles during the aristeia than it does about the standard features of supplicant behaviour. 183 ὡς δ᾽ ὅτ᾽ ἂν ἄνδρ᾽ ἄτη πυκινὴ λάβῃ, ὅς τ᾽ ἐνὶ πάτρῃ φῶτα κατακτείνας ἄλλων ἐξίκετο δῆμον ἀνδρὸς ἐς ἀφνειοῦ, θάμβος δ᾽ ἔχει εἰσορόωντας, ὣς Ἀχιλεὺς θάμβησεν ἰδὼν Πρίαμον θεοειδέα˙ θάμβησαν δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι, ἐς ἀλλήλους δὲ ἴδοντο. As when dense disaster closes on one who has murdered a man in his own land, and he comes to the country of others, to a man of substance, and wonder seizes on those who behold him, so Achilleus wondered as he looked on Priam, a godlike man, and the rest of them wondered also, and looked at each other. (24.480-4) The simile compares the wonder experienced by the fugitive murderer’s host with Achilles’ amazement at seeing Priam.451 As Heiden points out though, the ‘tenor and the vehicle of this simile is more notable for their dissimilarity than their resemblance: Priam is not a murderer, he is not in a foreign land but in his own, the man he supplicates is his enemy.’452 This reversal of roles contributes to what Edwards describes as the ‘shock effect.’453 However, the focus of the simile is on Achilles rather than Priam, and Heiden reads into these lines some nuanced but fundamental associations connecting Achilles to his own father’s place as both a ‘fugitive homicide’ and a giver of asylum.454 Doing so, the simile points to what Achilles must do, as the son of Peleus. By comparing Achilles to a man who gazes in wonder upon a suppliant who has arrived at his home, the narrator suggests that Priam, who is about to appeal to Achilles to treat him decently because he is like Achilles’ father (24.486-87), has fortuitously placed Achilles in a situation where Achilles is implicitly called on to resemble his own father and act as Peleus would have acted.455 451 On this simile see R.R. Schlunk, ‘The Theme of the Suppliant-Exile in the Iliad,’ American Journal of Philology 97 (1976): passim; J.T. Sheppard, The Pattern of the Iliad (London: Methuen, 1922), 208; E. Owen, The Story of the Iliad (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1966), 242ff; Whitman, Homer and the Heroic Tradition, 259ff.; and W.F. Jackson Knight, Many-Minded Homer: An Introduction (London: Allen & Unwin, 1968), 150ff.. 452 453 454 Heiden: 2. Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 107. Heiden: 2. Schlunk and Crotty also note the implied likening of Achilles to Peleus. Crotty, 81; Schlunk: passim. 455 Heiden: 5. Heiden details Peleus’ reputation in the Iliad as a ‘kindly host of exiles’ (4), taking in Phoinix (9.447-84), Epieigeus (16.570-6), and Patroklos (23.85-90). Of course, it is significant that in the cases of Phoinix and Patroklos, both men remind Achilles of just how 184 An intriguing aspect of the ‘fugitive-homicide’ simile is that it is primarily aimed at describing the effects of seeing. Priam’s act of supplication is an extraordinary sight.456 Achilles looks on him in wonder (θάμβος, 24.482), as do his companions, then they look at each other as if they cannot believe what they are seeing (24.484). Even before he has said anything, the sight of the ‘godlike’ old king is enough to strike awe in the hearts of all present.457 His sudden presence defies all expectation. Indeed, only one truly ‘godlike’ could get this far. Coming through their defences unnoticed and in the middle of the night is not the act of a mortal, and a weakened and elderly man at that. Soon after in fact, Achilles says as much when he tells Priam that ‘no mortal would dare’ to go his encampment: οὐ γάρ κε τλαίη βροτὸς ἐλθέμεν, οὐδὲ μάλ᾽ ἡβῶν, ἐς στρατόν˙ οὐδὲ γὰρ ἂν φυλάκους λάθοι, οὐδέ κ᾽ ὀχῆα ῥεῖα μετοχλίσσειε θυράων ἡμετεράων. …not even one strong in youth. He could not get by the pickets, he could not lightly unbar the bolt that secures our gateway. (24.565-7) Priam begins his speech to Achilles by invoking his sympathy for Peleus, who is ὀλοῷ ἐπὶ γήραος οὐδῷ (‘on the door-sill of sorrowful old age’, 24.487). In Achilles’ absence, Priam reminds him that Peleus has no one to defend him from ruin (24.489), though surrounded by those who afflict him (24.488). Crotty observes that Priam good Peleus was to them. Heiden also cites accounts of Peleus’ own exile, as told in the Alkaimonis, in which Peleus and Telamon kill their half-brother Phokos. Later sources, including Pausanius and Apollodoros, give accounts of Peleus’ exile (5-6). 456 It is worth keeping in mind Priam’s general physical appearance. We are not reminded of this during the supplication, but before he leaves Troy the poet describes both his filthy body and clothes (9.163-5), what Lateiner includes under the label of ‘self-adaptors’. Priam’s appearance expresses the intensity of his emotional condition, and serves to ‘distance him from family, not to mention his fellow citizens.’ Lateiner, 46-7. This contributes greatly to Priam’s impression of submission. We can compare this with Chryses’ who is described as bearing his priestly staff (1.15), an object that communicates his power rather than his position as a supplicant. This might be seen as an example of what Lateiner calls ‘communicative dissonance’ (22) where the ‘self-adaptor’ (in this case the staff) acts as a counter proposal to his speech of supplication. 457 θάμβος and its variants are used three times here, stressing the utter bewilderment the sight of Priam generates. Ibid., 45-6. Similarly at 9.193 τάφος, or ‘astonishment’, is also used to describe Achilles’ response to the arrival of his friends. 185 makes Achilles confront the memories and those parts of his imagination that are most disturbing, chiefly his being powerless to protect those he loves.458 Priam uses this image of Peleus to put his own situation in context, reminding Achilles that he has lost most of his fifty children in war to θοῦρος Ἄρης (‘furious Ares’, 24.498). He then reminds Achilles to honour the gods, and in remembering Peleus, to have pity on him and accept the ransom for Hektor. In closing, Priam points directly to his own position being more pitiful and worse than any other has had to endure (24.504-506), thus ‘enhancing his claim upon Achilles’ mercy.’459 At 24.506 he asks Achilles to consider what he has just done, saying to Achilles: ἀνδρὸς παιδοφόνοιο ποτὶ στόμα χεῖρ᾽ ὀρέγεσθαι. (‘I put my lips to the hands of the man who has killed my children.’) Priam’s supplication is particularly effective. Achilles is already resigned to giving up Hektor’s body but Priam’s speech finds a powerful emotional chord in Achilles and with these words, he begins to grieve for Peleus. It succeeds to a large degree because he bases his claim on their common humanity. Indeed, as Zanker states: ‘we are left marveling at the contrast with Agamemnon’s failed supplication, as shot through with the honor-criterion as it was.’460 Huddled at Achilles’ feet (24.510), Priam weeps for Hektor, while Achilles’ mind moves from Peleus to Patroklos for whom he still mourns (24.511-12). The image of Priam prostrate on the ground is a powerful one. This may be an extension of his gesture of supplication as Gould suggests,461 but there is also a sense of Priam collapsing at the climax of a great ordeal. After making a perilous journey through the night and delivering his one request to Achilles, it is reasonable to imagine that Priam would be overcome by a mixture of exhaustion, sadness, and relief. Before Achilles says anything, the poet places great emphasis on the gentleness with which Achilles handles Priam. At the end of Priam’s address, Achilles is described as pushing his hand gently away: ἁψάμενος δ᾽ ἄρα χειρὸς ἀπώσατο ἦκα 458 459 460 Crotty, 72. Heiden: 4. Zanker, 123. The other contrast this brings to mind is that with Chryses’ supplication in Book 1, which, like Agamemnon’s, is based on the material ransom and the priest’s formal claim to τιμή. 461 Gould: 94-5. 186 γέροντα. (‘He took the old man’s hand and pushed him / gently away.’ 24.508). Richardson notes that pushing the supplicant away would normally imply a rejection. However, here the negative effect is balanced by ἦκα, translated as ‘gently’. Achilles does not reject Priam. Rather he is, as Richardson states, ‘overcome by emotion, and the storm of grief breaks.’462 Given this state, the gesture is all the more remarkable for the restraint that it shows.463 This is repeated moments later when Achilles warns Priam not to stir his emotions further in case it incites his anger (24.560-61, 56870).464 Shortly after, Achilles again takes him by the hand to help him back onto his feet (24.515-6). The emphasis on the hand in these two gestures is noteworthy. In the absence of language, Achilles’ spirit of compassion and pity are expressed through the touch of his hand in a way that complements Priam’s own kissing gesture. In these simple but powerful actions we see the beginning of the return of Achilles ‘the healer’, the student of Cheiron. This emphasis on the gentleness of Achilles’ hands is contrasted against the ‘manslaughtering hand’ that Priam had kissed only moments earlier.465 The gesture contributes to the image of Achilles as a leader. Once he has gathered himself he uses his youth and strength to assist the old king. Up until this moment, Achilles is just following the orders of Zeus.466 He is under clear instruction to receive Priam and he does so. But after this extraordinary initial meeting, and with Priam’s effective plea, Achilles begins to go far beyond what he was told he must do. It is important to recognise at this point that Achilles is still in pain. Though he is able to compose himself, his grief is close to the surface, just as is his anger. The critical point is that he is aware of his own emotions and is able to warn Priam not to push him too far lest he is unable to control himself (24.568-70). In spite of his own pain, he chooses to focus on the needs of others with whom he now identifies and for whom he feels compassion. He imagines and feels the suffering of Peleus and he sees and feels the suffering of Priam before him. He does not act with compassion because 462 463 Richardson, ad. 24.508. Lateiner interprets Achilles’ gesture as one expressing his need for personal space. Achilles effectively moves Priam from the ‘intimate’ to the ‘personal’ zone. Lateiner, 51. 464 465 466 See also, Felson: 47-8. See also Ibid.: 49. See also, Heiden: 4. 187 his pain and anger have ceased to exist. He behaves differently because he feels compassion. With the two now seated, Achilles makes the first of two speeches of consolation. As Richardson also observes, Achilles speaks in the style of a tutor, specifically his own – Phoinix. Like Phoinix, Achilles mixes ‘gnomai, allegory and paradeigmata’467 to move Priam through his own grief. The first is a pair of elegantly composed but heartfelt gnomai on the inevitability of suffering in mortal life. As the talk begins, it is immediately evident that Achilles’ perspective has altogether transformed. Inspired by compassion he is able to offer Priam a vision of life: οὐ γάρ τις πρῆξις πέλεται κρυεροῖο γόοιο˙ ὡς γὰρ ἐπεκλώσαντο θεοὶ δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσι ζώειν ἀχνυμένοις˙ αὐτοὶ δέ τ᾽ ἀκηδέες εἰσί. δοιοὶ γάρ τε πίθοι κατακείαται ἐν Διὸς οὔδει δώρων οἷα δίδωσι κακῶν, ἕτερος δὲ ἑάων˙ There is not any advantage to be won from grim lamentation. Such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals, that we live in unhappiness, but the gods themselves have no sorrows. (24.524-8) In Achilles’ vision, mortal life is shaped by the gods and no one is free from some portion of the suffering that defines mortality. These gnomai are in what Lardinois describes as the ‘first person plural/indirect second person’ form.468 The use of this form is significant as it is meant for both the speaker and the addressee. Furthermore, Lardinois points out that this form is normally reserved for use between ‘social equals and friends in the Iliad’.469 Speaking in this manner is another marker of Achilles’ willingness to treat Priam as a friend. Achilles follows these gnomai immediately with a third in the extended metaphor by which he describes the mixed lot that mortals must endure (24.527-33). This gnome comments directly on the fate of Peleus. However, Lardinois also adds, quite reasonably, that in the ‘larger context of the story… it aptly describes the mixture of 467 468 469 Richardson, ad. 518-51. Lardinois, ‘Characterization through Gnomai in Homer's Iliad,’ 647. Ibid. 188 glory and pain Achilles receives in the epic.’470 This much is certainly true. However, like the previous two gnomai, this is also meant primarily to console both Priam and Achilles in their shared grief. Like the shield, in the parable of the jars, Achilles places the grief and misery of mortals within an all-encompassing cosmic framework ordered by Zeus. Achilles speaks of both evils and blessings as gifts bestowed by Zeus in an oscillating, rhythmic manner: ‘he shifts, and moves now in evil, again in good fortune.’ (24.52930). On the parable, Crotty remarks: To speak of evils as gifts… is to view the ills of one’s life as part of its fabric. On this view evils are not simply, or even primarily, pains inflicted from without by particular emotions; considered more deeply, they are woven into mortal life itself.471 Crotty is right insofar as the main point of the parable is that suffering is an inevitable part of life. However, contrary to what Crotty also infers, Achilles does not touch on the individual’s responsibility for suffering as this is not appropriate to the immediate context. Achilles has already expressed his views on self-inflicted suffering. Rather, he wants Priam to see and accept that no matter how great one is, life is always bound to have a mixture of suffering and blessings. Such advice, as Crotty states, certainly: ‘counsels against an excess of emotions, for it is part of the understanding of grief… that any sorrow is but part of a cycle of good and evil things sent by Zeus.’472 Lardinois notes that this gnome, and the very first which he utters in Book 1 (1.63) in which he tells Agamemnon that ‘even dreams come from Zeus’, are exceptions to the general rule that Achilles’ gnomai usually refer to himself. In reading this final gnome, then, we ought to be careful not to put too much weight on the selfconsolation aspect, even though this is also important and says much about the selfreliance of Achilles’ character. What is most important about these gnomai in Book 24 is that they are motivated by compassion and are primarily intended to alleviate the suffering of the listener in addition to the speaker. This is in marked contrast to the confrontational gnome in Book 1 which, despite its well-intentioned appearance must 470 471 472 Ibid.: 648. Crotty, 78. Ibid. 189 also be read as a very thinly veiled threat to Agamemnon’s authority.473 These gnomai help yet again to demonstrate the way in which Achilles’ use of language changes in a manner that confirms and reflects the changes in his character during the epic. Achilles illustrates the parable of the two urns with an account of the mixed blessings of Peleus. He reminds Priam, that along with great riches and gifts from the gods, and having an immortal wife, Peleus also has already and will continue to experience great suffering. Just as Priam speaks of losing his ‘only’ son in Hektor, Peleus will also lose Achilles. ἀλλ᾽ ἐπὶ καὶ τῷ θῆκε θεὸς κακόν, ὅττί οἱ οὔ τι παίδων ἐν μεγάροισι γονὴ γένετο κρειόντων, ἀλλ᾽ ἕνα παῖδα τέκεν παναώριον˙ οὐδέ νυ τόν γε γηράσκοντα κομίζω, ἐπεὶ μάλα τηλόθι πάτρης ἧμαι ἐνὶ Τροίῃ, σέ τε κήδων ἠδὲ σὰ τέκνα. But even on him the god piled evil also. There was not any generation of strong sons born to him in his great house but a single all-untimely child he had, and I give him no care as he grows old, since far from the land of my fathers I sit here in Troy, and bring nothing but sorrow to you and your children. (24.538-42) In telling of the plight that Peleus must endure, Achilles demonstrates his awareness of his father’s suffering. This is indicative of an important shift in perspective. As Crotty states: ‘Earlier, Achilles had primarily imagined Peleus in reference to himself, but now he is able to appreciate Peleus as a distinctive self with joy and suffering like his own.’474 He sees Peleus not just as his father but as a man in his own right. Even more than that, Achilles recognises that he is in part responsible for the suffering of Peleus because he is absent. As Felson states, here Achilles ‘collates the care not given to Peleus with the distress he brings to Priam as he reassesses the effects of the work of his hands.’475 We hear in this a recognition of responsibility and a continuation of the awareness first exhibited after the death of Patroklos. In both cases, people that are dear to him suffer because of choices that he makes: the choice to go to Troy and the choice not to go out and fight back the fire from the burning 473 474 475 Lardinois, ‘Characterization through Gnomai in Homer's Iliad,’ 647. Crotty, 81. Felson: 38. 190 ships. Zanker is right I think in calling for a pluralistic reading of Achilles’ emotions, finding a complex mixture of sorrow, shame and guilt.476 There is a new level of perspective in Achilles’ worldview. He is conscious of the suffering he has caused, but he sees this within a larger context. He accepts human suffering but now this understanding of suffering leads him to care for the living, and especially the life that is before him. He cannot be there for his father, just as he was unable to protect Patroklos. So he says: ἄνσχεο, μὴ δ᾽ ἀλίαστον ὀδύρεο σὸν κατὰ θυμόν˙ οὐ γάρ τι πρήξεις ἀκαχήμενος υἷος ἑῆος, οὐδέ μιν ἀνστήσεις, πρὶν καὶ κακὸν ἄλλο πάθῃσθα. But bear up, nor mourn endlessly in your heart, for there is not anything to be gained from grief for your son; you will never bring him back; sooner you must go through yet another sorrow. (24.549-51) In Achilles’ first offering, it is not difficult to hear the resonance of Achilles’ shield and the all encompassing view over human life that it offers. Like the shield, and indeed like the spectator gods, Achilles sees as if from above. In this image, Achilles sees more than blessings and suffering, he sees himself, not in an egocentric manner, but as one bringing suffering to others: to Priam and his own father. His very existence is inevitably a cause of pain for others. With this enhanced perspective we see a radical development from the view expressed in his rejection of Lykaon. With Lykaon, a detached wisdom is expressed: ‘all will die’. This speech is also characteristically Achillean in its ‘poetic directness’.477 But here this same wisdom is enhanced by the spirit of compassion that has arisen in Achilles as a result of Priam’s supplication. As Crotty states, by the poem’s end, Achilles ‘approaches the perspective of the Iliad’s poet.’478 We see an even greater vision from Achilles and his perspective on life during the period of his conflict with Agamemnon. As Felson also observes, Achilles ‘has evolved from a youthful son thinking about his own short life 476 477 478 Zanker, 63. Friedrich and Redfield, ‘Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles,’ 274. Crotty, 98. 191 and his own losses (first of Briseis, then of Patroclus) to a grown son thinking primarily of the sorrow that will befall his father.’479 Achilles’ speech of consolation is all the more extraordinary given that he is still suffering in the midst of grief himself, and he still feels anger toward the Trojans for Patroklos’ loss. There has certainly been a genuine shift in Achilles’ attitude toward the world generally. Achilles’ words are consistent with his actions. But this does not simply replace or eradicate deeply felt emotions. We see these come to the surface briefly when, after giving the account of Peleus’ own mix of suffering and blessings, Priam urges Achilles to restore Hektor’s body to him, accept the ransom and let him leave (24.552-8). Achilles’ reply is blunt and yet restrained. He tells Priam that Zeus had also instructed him to return the body, and that he knows that Priam had received divine assistance to make it all the way to his camp unnoticed (24.563-67). Achilles ends his reply with a stern warning when he says: τὼ νῦν μή μοι μᾶλλον ἐν ἄλγεσι θυμὸν ὀρίνῃς, μή σε γέρον οὐδ᾽ αὐτὸν ἐνὶ κλισίῃσιν ἐάσω καὶ ἱκέτην περ ἐόντα, Διὸς δ᾽ ἀλίτωμαι ἐφετμάς. you must not further make my spirit move in my sorrows, for fear, old sir, I might not let you alone in my shelter, suppliant as you are; and be guilty before the god’s orders. (24.568-70) Immediately after this, Achilles ‘bounds to the door of the house like a lion’ (24.572) to prepare Hektor’s body for the journey back to Troy.480 The lion simile clearly conveys the potential danger at this moment. This is, after all, the same Achilles who only a short time before was routinely mutilating Hektor’s body. It has been at the front of his mind as we saw at the beginning of the Book when his first act of the day was to harness his horses to drag Hektor’s body around Patroklos’ burial mound (24.14-7). In another sense, as Achilles himself suggests, Priam is not the only one in danger. Because of the rawness of his emotional state, Achilles is still in danger of behaving in a way that will also ultimately cause himself harm. This is expressed most succinctly when he says that he might act in a way that would make 479 480 Felson: 47. King makes a good point, when she states that while the lion simile still conveys a sense of danger, and his mood is almost ‘bestial’, he is no longer so closely associated with the beastlike quality that is so prominent throughout his aristeia. Achilles is now merely like the lion. King, 43. 192 him ‘guilty before the god’s orders.’ (24.570). This line is repeated shortly after when the poet explains the logic of taking such care with Hektor’s body. Achilles does not want Priam to see Hektor’s body before his return to Troy, for fear that Priam: …ὡς μὴ Πρίαμος ἴδοι υἱόν, μὴ ὃ μὲν ἀχνυμένῃ κραδίῃ χόλον οὐκ ἐρύσαιτο παῖδα ἰδών, Ἀχιλῆϊ δ᾽ ὀρινθείη φίλον ἦτορ, καί ἑ κατακτείνειε, Διὸς δ᾽ ἀλίτηται ἐφετμάς. might see his son and in the heart’s sorrow not hold in his anger at the sight, and the deep heart in Achilleus be shaken to anger; that he might not kill Priam and be guilty before the god’s orders. (24.583-6) After the body is prepared, Achilles directs Priam away from confronting the sight of his son’s body by simply telling him that everything has been done as he wanted it and that he will see Hektor when he leaves (24.599-601). We are mistaken if we take these outbursts as signs of Achilles’ ‘real nature’. Rather, I would suggest that his response indicates that Achilles himself is still in the process of coming to terms with his friend’s death. Taking a similar line, Held states: ‘The complete healing of Achilleus' psychological wounds will take time, which is only natural, but the process of healing has well begun by the poem’s end.’481 The critical point here is that he does not harm Priam in any way. Instead, he warns him for his own safety. Achilles knows what he is capable of becoming. He knows his limits, and is mindful of the kinds of triggers that might cause him to lose control of his anger. Uninterrupted, Achilles urges Priam to eat. To do so he draws on the exemplum of Niobe, recasting a model of inconsolable grief into one who, in spite of her grief, accepts the consolation of food and remembers to eat (24.602-20).482 The comparison he draws is a powerful one that corresponds to both the immediate and the larger narrative. In the example of Peleus, Achilles makes the point that all receive a mixture of blessings and suffering, even a great man like Peleus. With Niobe Achilles takes the lesson one step further. In Achilles’ account, Niobe loses twelve of her children after angering Apollo and Artemis. Her grief is compounded by Zeus who turns her people into stone. Unable to bury the dead, the children suffer indignity as they are left to lie untended for nine days until they are buried on the tenth day by the gods 481 482 Held: 258. Ibid.: 255. 193 (24.612). The main point Achilles makes is that amidst such great suffering Niobe still remembered to eat (24.613). The use of this story along with that of Peleus and the parable of the jars is an important development in Achilles’ use of language. As Held also observes, these are the only times in the text when Achilles uses paradeigma, and the especially rare combination of a paradeigma coupled with a parable.483 The only other examples of the latter are the speech of Phoinix in Book 9, and Agamemnon’s reply to Achilles’ reconciliation speech (19.78-144). Commenting on this, Held argues that the parallels between the speeches serve to underscore Achilles’ ‘ethical and intellectual development.’484 The poet gives no indication as to how Priam responds to the call to eat. Indeed, from the continuous narration, it appears that Achilles virtually shuts off any objection from Priam by moving swiftly from speech to action. This happens twice in succession. After his words of warning, λέων ὣς ἆλτο (‘like a lion he sprang’, 24.572) to attend to Hektor’s body and after the account of Niobe the narrator says that ἀναΐξας (‘he leapt up’, 24.621) to slaughter the sheep for supper. Doing so has the effect of protecting both men from the consequences of a renewed burst of anger and instead moves the men through the necessary formalities of exchange and into the decidedly civil breaking of bread.485 This chain of speech and action reaches a crescendo in the description of the two men gazing in awe at one another: ἤτοι Δαρδανίδης Πρίαμος θαύμαζ᾽ Ἀχιλῆα ὅσσος ἔην οἷός τε˙ θεοῖσι γὰρ ἄντα ἐῴκει˙ αὐτὰρ ὃ Δαρδανίδην Πρίαμον θαύμαζεν Ἀχιλλεὺς εἰσορόων ὄψίν τ᾽ ἀγαθὴν καὶ μῦθον ἀκούων. Priam, son of Dardanos, gazed upon Achilleus, wondering at his size and beauty, for he seemed like an outright vision of gods. Achilleus in turn gazed on Darndanian Priam and wondered, as he saw his brave looks and listened to him talking. (24.629-32) 483 484 485 Ibid.: 246. Ibid.: 245. Lateiner also discusses the sharing of food as a symbol of acceptance and solidarity between these men. Significantly, it also marks the end of Priam’s self-imposed fasting and the beginning of his reintegration into society. Lateiner, 33, 47. On the preparation of the body, Zanker, remarks that Achilles is undertaking tasks normally carried out by the mother, and in effect initiating Hektor’s funeral. Zanker, 119. 194 The image echoes and expands on the earlier description of Achilles gazing in awe on Priam at (24.483-4). In the first case, it is only Priam who is the object of wonder and this is appropriate given that Priam has just completed his own night quest. Here, both men are simultaneously the subject wondering at the other and the object of wonder. Both men are at once spectators and spectacles in their own right. It is significant though that it is first Priam who gazes on Achilles. This focuses our attention, through the eyes of Priam, on Achilles and the extraordinary spirit of compassion and selfmastery that infuses his speech and action during this meeting. The image Priam sees is no longer that of the ‘manslaughtering’ killer. Instead, Priam is struck by Achilles’ size and beauty. Just as Achilles had looked on Priam as ‘godlike’ earlier, here Achilles appears also as an ‘outright vision of gods.’ The image is completed by the description of Achilles’ wondering at the sight of Priam’s ‘brave looks’. Both men are clearly moved and experience a profound type of pleasure in the spectacle of the other.486 Both know what the other has endured and, even more importantly, the manner in which they have endured it, and hence the image of Priam is read by Achilles as an image of courage and the sight of Achilles to Priam is one of ‘godlike’ beauty and strength. Towards the end of their meeting, Achilles asks Priam directly what else he might be able to do to help. He asks Priam how many days he will need to maintain a truce for the completion of Hektor’s funeral (24.656-8). On the surface, the question echoes his interaction with Calchas in Book 1 when he offered to protect him from Agamemnon (1.84-91). However, the similarity stops there. In the first instance, Calchas requests protection because Achilles is putting him ‘on the spot’ by asking him to act in a way which he probably expects will incite Agamemnon’s anger. In this instance, Achilles’ question reflects an altogether different spirit than that seen in the beginning of the epic. Achilles’ acceptance of Priam’s supplication certainly contributes to the restoration of humanity and dignity in this wartime setting, which for the most part is characterised by sheer violence and brutality, especially from the hands of Achilles. However, this does not in any way signal an end of war – far from it. After the truce, both Achilles and Priam know that the war must continue. In spite of Achilles’ 486 Crotty, 15. 195 generous acts of consolation toward the old king, the two men remain formal enemies. Lloyd convincingly argues that the poem hints at the reassertion of this status when Achilles invites Priam to sleep outside his tent (24.649-52). The request is formally polite, but he also addresses him ἐπικερτομέων (‘brusquely’, 24.649). With this request, Lloyd adds, ‘The terms on which Priam goes to bed have been defined in a way which makes clear that what has passed between them does not affect the continuation of the war.’487 We have seen so far how Achilles’ cognitive transformation has been consistently reflected in his action (and inaction) and the effects that these generate either directly or indirectly. In Book 24, Achilles’ healing words and physical care for both the body of Hektor and Priam are complemented by the fire on which their supper is cooked. This fire is instrumental and symbolic of the restoration of order that has taken place through the passage of night. It is in essence a fire of healing around which the participants may share the ‘good things’ together. As the locus of the breaking of bread, the fire is a core feature of the mutual realization of mortality which these men share, the effect of which leaves the two in quiet awe of one another. But this fire paves the way for another of communal significance: Hektor’s great funerary pyre. The Effects of Successful Supplication The description of Hektor’s pyre comes in the penultimate verses of the poem, and knowing Troy’s fate as poet and players do, it is not unreasonable to see the ultimate destruction of Troy in this image. Indeed, since the return of Achilles to the battlefield, fire moves progressively with Achilles in the direction of Troy. This was witnessed in the very appearance of Achilles himself as he rages through the Trojan ranks in pursuit of Hektor, culminating most emphatically in the quelling of Troy’s rivers by the fire of Hephaistos in Achilles’ defence. 487 Lloyd: 88. On pages 82-3, Lloyd discusses in some detail some of the problems regarding the interpretation of ἐπικερτομέων. Lloyd also quotes Edwards’ suggestion that ἐπικερτομέων ‘may be intended to convey that he [Achilles] and Priam, though recently united in hospitable meal and understanding of each other's grief, must remain formal enemies.’ Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 312-3. The problem Lloyd has with Edwards is that translating this as ‘gruffly’ bears no relation to other uses of the word and seems to be at odds with the politeness of Achilles’ request. Lloyd has a point, though the general force they give it is in alignment even if Edwards’ exact rendering is not interchangeable in other instances. 196 The way in which we read Hektor’s pyre is informed by the fact that we know that Hektor’s death equates to the death of the city. But the pyre, as a majestic architectural structure, is also a symbolic correlative for towering Ilion itself. The description is short but its monumental scale is clear nonetheless. Nine days are spent gathering wood and building the pyre. Finally, at 24.787, Hektor is placed on its apex (ἐν δὲ πυρῇ ὑπάτῃ νεκρὸν θέσαν). The use of ὕπατος (or ‘uppermost’) clearly contributes to the impression of a monumental structure and Lattimore’s translation as ‘towering’ communicates this sense well. The phrasing here also repeats that which describes the placement of Patroklos’ corpse at 23.165. ὕπατος appears only six other times in the Iliad. Each of the six other occurrences are used to describe Zeus, as in ὕπατον μήστωρ, or ‘high lord of council’ (8.22). Both Agamemnon at 19.258 and Achilles at 23.43 use ὕπατος to address Zeus in their prayers, referring to him as the highest and best of the gods. ὕπατος is important in reference to the pyre because it helps create the sense that it takes these heroes closer to Zeus himself. Other references to height, such as where the walls and towers of the city are concerned, never use ὕπατος. Instead, we find ὑψηλός, or ‘lofty’, as in πύργῳ ἐφ᾽ ὑψηλῷ, or ‘on the high tower’ (3.384). We are led to see the great burning pyre positioned outside the walls of Troy. We can imagine the multitude gathered around the site. All are entranced by the beauty and warmth of the flames. Anyone who has ever sat by a campfire knows the spellbinding and soothing effects of watching and feeling fire. That the fire burns through the night adds even greater impact to the scene. In the darkness there are no distractions from the pyre. So, while the death of Hektor is a thing of great sadness, the pyre, and the fire that consumes it, has an element of magnificence. It serves, at least temporarily, to transform death itself into a thing of beauty. Critically though, the fire here is fundamentally different from that of the raging, destructive fire that threatened to consume the Greek ships and which we saw scorch the river gods. The flames on Hektor’s pyre have μένος, or ‘force’, even after burning through the night, but this μένος is directed, channelled toward the transformation of the body of the dead and the grief of the living. These flames bring calm and momentary peace, rather than terror to the world of war and this spirit infuses the final image of the poem: a glorious feast in the house of Priam. 197 While celebrating the death of Hektor, the magnificence of the funeral glorifies both Hektor and Achilles. As Hektor states before his duel with Aias at 7.84-91, the tomb of the great warrior creates kleos for the man who has killed him. However, this is not merely the celebration of Achilles’ martial excellence. Even more than this, as King argues, the funeral can also be read as a celebration of Achilles’ ‘conquering.. [his] own hate in shared suffering’.488 It is, in essence a profoundly personal victory, though the effects are felt far and wide. The image of the banquet is the antithesis to those of war and death and grief against which it sits. Though Troy’s end is assured, the feast has the effect of focussing on communal peace and the continuation of life.489 In doing so, the poet’s final view over Troy reiterates the spirit and sense of movement expressed in the divine and all encompassing vision of life on Achilles’ great shield, or Achilles’ parable of the two jars, in which blessing of good and ill, of war and peace, co-exist in a constant state of flux as essential elements of the cosmic order. Conclusion The meeting between Achilles and Priam begins under the direct instruction and protection of the gods. The gods ensure the basic requirement that Achilles stops mutilating Hektor’s body and that he release it in exchange for a generous ransom so that it can receive a proper burial within his community. However, the meeting goes far beyond these basic requirements as both men assist one another in understanding the nature of mortality. From the very moment of the initial meeting when Achilles sees Priam in front of him, the course of the encounter evolves organically, taking unexpected twists and turns.490 While chiefly concerned with the retrieval of Hektor, Priam’s supplication, which is based almost entirely on making Achilles feel the pain experienced by Peleus, becomes the final lever by which Achilles comes to see beyond his own grief and instead starts to feel compassion.491 It is this shift in perspective which informs the manner in which Achilles treats Priam. Achilles 488 489 490 491 King, 44. Lateiner, 55. Crotty, 72. Ibid., 71. 198 accepts that he is powerless to change the fact that he has already, and will continue to be, a source of pain, even for those he loves. Feeling some of the suffering he causes though, he starts to view his own part in this within the natural rhythm of life itself, which he himself must also endure, like his father and like Priam before him. However, we also witness how Achilles’ recognition of his powerlessness over the mixed blessings of life complements his newly formed active self. Achilles’ offering of both spiritual and physical care is a direct expression of his understanding of his own healing power. As in previous chapters, once again we have noticed the ways in which Achilles’ speech evolves in a manner which directly reflects his cognitive state. In Book 24, key changes that took place after the death of Patroklos remain constant, chiefly those concerning the dominance of an active form of expression instead of that of the patient, the victim, which is such a familiar aspect of his communication during the period of his absence. However, Book 24 is important for our picture of Achilles’ language as we also see the change in another significant element of his communicative style: his use of gnomai. As previously mentioned, Lardinois, makes an important point when he observes that the gnomai spoken by Achilles are exceptions to the normally reflexive, or self-referential, nature of these wisdom sayings. What we see is that these exceptions provide more proof to the rule that Achilles’ speech changes in a manner that reflects directly his psychological state. As Achilles grows up, he speaks and acts differently. It is true that the gnomai can still be read as having personal relevance for Achilles, but the point is that this is now joined to an external focus that is intended primarily to help Priam make his own cognitive change. Complementing this shift in direction is Achilles’ use of narrative in the paradigmatic stories of Peleus and Niobe. Inventive it may be, but the invention is crafted to fulfil his immediate communicative goal of protecting Priam from his own raw and still dangerous emotions while helping Priam in accepting and moving through his grief. Indeed as Held states, Achilles’ statements have a limited truth: they reflect well his own recent experience and that of Priam. More importantly, they are wise and appropriate for the purpose for which he says them: to console Priam. 199 They are intended not so much to teach Priam about things in general, as one particular thing, that he does not suffer alone.492 As Book 24 comes to a close, fire takes its final expressions in the towering funeral pyre and the Trojan feast on which the epic ends. The fires of feasting also cast their warm light onto the night meeting. No longer the ravaging, threatening, and terrifying fires of war, these fires are those of communal ritual, of healing, and celebration. The picture of life that Achilles offers Priam suggests the need to gain perspective on the nature of mortality, while remaining firmly on the ground as one engages in the activities of life and the care of one’s self and others; in the eating of food and in sleep.493 The fires of the hearth and the pyre work in a similar fashion. One sustains the flesh, while the other assists in the final transformation of the self. 492 493 Held: 260. Ibid.: 261. Held concludes that as a result of his cognitive development through the epic, Achilles is more ‘firmly and stably grounded in the whole of life than he was at the poem’s start.’ 200 Conclusion Communication plays a fundamental role in the generation of war and peace in the Iliad. Words spoken in disrespect, charged with anger, and offering threats contribute to the creation of conflict. At the other end of the spectrum, we see harmonious community relations built through the communication of respect, the giving of kind words and gifts, and the engineering of empathy between people. Moving between these extremes is both difficult and complex. In order to begin to understand this change, I used as my starting point the communication of Achilles. I found that Achilles’ manner of communication consistently reflects his mental state. I also observed that his communication undergoes a series of clear and meaningful changes in response to external events, especially the experience of trauma and loss. Change in speech has been and can quite easily attributed to inconsistencies inherited by the oral tradition. Undoubtedly, this must have some effect on many aspects of the poem, speech among them. However, the changes that are evident in Achilles’ speech are far too consistent and purposeful to be dismissed as the stylistic signatures and accretions, if not errors, of earlier generations of poets. The most emphatic change occurs immediately after Achilles learns of Patroklos’ death. The event has a profound impact on Achilles. He does not merely experience this event, he is able to learn from it. This learning is encapsulated in the image of the shield, the great gift from the gods which accompanies the experience of loss. In a very real sense, just as Patroklos gives his life to save the Achaian fleet, his death is also a gift to Achilles, as it is this event which ultimately puts life into perspective for him, a perspective so marvellously revealed on the great shield. The change we hear in Achilles’ language is, then, a direct expression of his learning and growth. When Achilles speaks after this point, we hear a young man who 201 has begun to come to terms with his own anger, and accept responsibility for its consequences. He ceases to see himself as a victim, and he stops speaking like one. As he does so, his whole narrative and understanding of self changes, and so does the way he speaks to others. It is in Achilles’ dealings with Agamemnon that these changes are most pronounced. After the death of Patroklos we no longer hear Achilles address Agamemnon in the disrespectful and abusive style that characterises his communicative style in Book 1. Instead, we hear an Achilles who has some understanding of what motivates Agamemnon, and so is able to treat him with respect and to give him the honour that his position, if not his person, deserves. While Achilles is able to reconcile with Agamemnon, the death of Patroklos fuels a new and altogether more monstrous type of rage. Combined with the perspective on life and death that the experience of loss has given him, Achilles appears to rush towards his own death and that of all others who cross his path. Certainly, the Achaians benefit from the fact that Achilles is fighting their common enemy, but this point is overshadowed by the extreme inhumanity of Achilles’ aristeia. Where the first period of anger saw him create suffering indirectly for his own community by withholding assistance, in the second his whole approach to war lacks any sense of restraint or humanity as he refuses all appeals for clemency and ignores the entreaties of Scamander to take his fight elsewhere. In this second phase also, Achilles goes too far. His unwillingness to heed the river god’s request almost results in his death, and his relentless and brutal treatment of the enemy, especially Hektor, raises the ire of powerful deities. His meeting with Priam provides both the final catalyst for his growth within the epic whilst also allowing him to fully express this change. Like Patroklos earlier, Priam’s supplication succeeds in eliciting Achilles’ pity by making Achilles imagine his father, at home, far away, and without the care of his son in his final days. The wonder and pity that Priam evokes in Achilles is not essential to the return of Hektor; this is taken care of by the gods’ direct instruction to both the interlocutors, but it is fundamental to the awakening of an altogether kinder and gentler spirit in Achilles’ character. With this change, ironically, Achilles emerges in a manner that is reminiscent of Patroklos. It is ironic, because the likeness usually goes the other way – in battle, Patroklos appears like Achilles, and even as a healer, we know that Patroklos takes his knowledge of the healing arts from Achilles. We hear this new 202 aspect of Achilles expressed in several more changes in Achilles’ communication as he employs a mixture of gnomai, paradeigma, parable, and exempla to assist Priam in moving through his grief. They might be intended to work reflexively, but this hardly seems to be their primary function. This combination of communicative tools is new for Achilles, and his use of them reflects the perspective of one who is no longer concerned solely with his own suffering but one who is focussed on lessening that of others. The way Achilles communicates plays a central part in steering the direction in which events develop, but at each stage of the Iliad we have also seen how other players, mortal and divine, contribute to the shaping of events. In many cases, as Lesky observed, the two work together.494 The arguments that erupt, or threaten to, do so in each case as a direct result of the utterances of each of the interlocutors. Chryses plays his part as supplicant poorly, and this is matched by Agamemnon’s disregard for the office that the priest holds. His treatment amounts to an abuse of the power for which he is responsible. Similarly, in the quarrel we see how both men can be held responsible for this breakdown in civil relations. Achilles’ motivations in calling the assembly and inviting Calchas to speak are sound – they are divinely inspired after all – but the manner in which he speaks about and to Agamemnon ultimately undermines the very purpose of his intervention. Achilles’ openly disrespectful and threatening speech puts him into direct conflict with Agamemnon. Despite his attempts to end the argument, Agamemnon makes matters even worse, repeating the very error that had created the original crisis. We see in the funeral games how honour can be accumulated through bestowing it on others. This is one of the functions of the prizes that Achilles awards. The fact that he can give them at all, and that they are so valuable, is a clear reflection of his own wealth. In honouring others, Achilles is also honoured. However, in the opening pair of crises honour is treated as a scarce commodity, even by the most powerful, and so they seek to increase and protect their own by either refusing to acknowledge the honour that others are due or by taking it from others. The consequences are disastrous on both occasions. 494 Lesky argued that human actions are ‘doubly motivated, that is: suggested/brought about by a god, and at the same time springing from oneself.’ van der Mije: 245, citing A. Lesky, ‘Göttliche und Menschliche Motivation im Homerischen Epos,’ Sitzungsberichte der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften 4 (1961): 14. Lesky: 14. 203 The outcome is very different when individuals are able to give honour to each other. This is one of the defining characteristics of interactions during the funeral games. They do not run without incident, but each dispute is ended quickly and to the agreement of each of the interested parties. Achilles plays a leading role in this. He is decisive in his interventions and generous in his awarding of prizes, but he also demonstrates an openness to be persuaded, a certain flexibility, when he acknowledges the justness of Antilochos’ claim to the first prize of the horse race. In the dispute that follows, Menelaus and Antilochos show a similar readiness to engage in conciliatory speech and action. Antilochos quickly admits his own error and is quick to acknowledge the honour that Menelaus is due. In rewarding the young Antilochos for the example he has set, Menelaus completes this transaction in a way that ensures that honour is given to each. Just as important as that which is said and given, are those things that are withheld and the words and gestures that are not offered. In the Proem, Agamemnon’s abusiveness is obvious. Less so are the omissions from Chryses’ supplication. One thing that becomes apparent on close reading of Book 23 and 24 is that gifts are not limited to material objects. Words are also gifts. Kind words may be offered freely, or they may be exchanged. They may also be withheld. Chryses offers nothing but the most formal greeting and request. In his supplication, we see the lack of the usual gestures of submission, and we hear the absence of praise, generous speech, or appeals aimed at eliciting pity. Similarly, we hear the absence of expressions of empathy throughout the embassy. The embassy offers Achilles many things, and good reasons to return, but at no stage do they express any understanding of the pain that Achilles feels. However, empathy is not the only thing that is missing from both sides during the embassy meeting. The three members are well chosen, but they miss the most important man from their number – Agamemnon. Agamemnon’s absence from the embassy speaks volumes about his attitude toward Achilles. That this would be an appropriate action for a king is borne by the example of Priam in Book 24. The old king comes in person to Achilles’ compound, risking his life to do so, and he brings ransom, fine and heartfelt words, and gestures of submission. He is coached by the gods before the encounter, but Priam is as much responsible for the successful conclusion of his supplication as Achilles. 204 Priam is the most successful supplicant in the epic. Other reasons aside, a large part of his success comes down to his ability to elicit Achilles’ pity and compassion through his effective use of communication. However, he is not the first to do so; this credit falls to Patroklos. Surprisingly, the effect that Patroklos has on Achilles is explained not so much by anything he says, rather it is what he feels that moves Achilles in a way that the embassy is unable to achieve. Even before Patroklos gives his account of what he has seen, his distress is enough to cause Achilles to feel pity. Patroklos’ capacity to feel for others and to care, is at the core of the epic, and it is this quality that inspires and infuses his actions in his interventions as healer, speaker, and fighter. In Achilles’ absence, Patroklos emerges as his substitute. When he takes to the field in defence of the ships, he looks like Achilles, and he achieves what we imagine Achilles would if he were present. However, he is not Achilles, and one thing underscores this difference even more than Patroklos’ inability to wield Achilles’ spear – only Patroklos is motivated to offer himself to save the community from destruction. The fact that he does so incognito, without the promise of glory, sends a powerful message. We can hardly conclude without some mention of the role that the gods play in influencing both the quality of communication and the flow of events generally. Contributions from the gods are, for the most part, made behind the scenes. They inspire mortals to speak and act, and even advise them how to communicate. Divine support, or at the very least absolute non-interference, is necessary for communicative acts to succeed. Where this is absent, or where the goal of communication goes against the will of a powerful divinity, there is little chance of success. There are few better examples of this than the embassy to Achilles in Book 9. For much of the epic, the plan of Zeus runs in the background, but from the moment Zeus gives his assent to Thetis until the death of Patroklos it is very much in full force, and this undermines all efforts to supplicate Achilles during this period. In this way, the gods embody those elements or forces that are beyond the control of mortals. The gods do not only express themselves in indirect ways. They are also important communicators in their own right and those most powerful among them, including Zeus, express their presence and their will through the brilliance of fire and light. What is it about fire in particular that makes it such a powerful communicative tool, quite apart from its destructive potential? This really goes beyond the spectrum of this 205 thesis. Without straying too far, in the Iliad there is a clear impression that fire is instrumental in connecting the divine with the mortal. Fire manifesting in the sky, such as Zeus’ thunderbolts, is the unmistakable expression of a power far greater than that possessed by mortals. Hektor comes close to this power when he succeeds in using it to threaten the Achaian fleet. Achilles comes closer still when he is wreathed in fire and wrapped in the aegis. This association with fire informs their quasi-divine heroic brilliance. Fire is simply the most effective expression of pure power, and this goes some way toward explaining its universal and continuous attraction as a means of expressing power. This thesis has explored the communicative and psychological dynamics that lie at the core of the Iliad. Though the larger conflict involves both Greeks and Trojans, the poet presents the war as a process that is very much driven from the Greek side, and by one in particular: Achilles. The poet’s narrative follows what Achilles says and does, and it describes in vivid detail the chain of events that result from his words and actions. The Trojans are active players, but even their finest hour is presented as a gift from Zeus and as the manifestation of Achilles’ rage. While they are caught up in the tragedy of war, the poem is not about the Trojans. It is, we are told in no uncertain terms, about the anger of Achilles. However, it is about much more than that. 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