The Iliad

“And the whole assembly surged like big waves at sea,

the Icarian Sea when East and South Winds drive it on,

blasting down in force from the clouds of Father Zeus,

or when the West Wind shakes the deep standing grain

with hurricane gusts that flatten down the stalks—

so the massed assembly of troops was shaken now.” 

The Iliad has paradoxically been called both an antiwar poem and a poem that glorifies war. The poet’s simile comparing the surging troops to a surging wave suggest an alternative perspective that the poem neither glorifies nor decries war but accepts it as a force of nature whose tragic scope inspires awe and wonder. In the Homeric imagination, forces of nature are personified as gods and goddesses, as with, in these similes, the East, South, and West Winds, and Zeus. The poet frequently layers similes, as in this instance, perhaps attempting to overwhelm listeners/readers’ senses in the way that nature’s uncontrollable elements often do.

“Sing to me now, you Muses who hold the halls of Olympus!

You are the goddesses, you are everywhere, you know all things—

all we hear is the distant ring of glory, we know nothing—

who were the captains of Achaea? Who were the kings?

The mass of troops I could never tally, never name,

not even if I had ten tongues and ten mouths,

a tireless voice and the heart inside me bronze,

never unless you Muses of Olympus, daughters of Zeus

whose shield is rolling thunder, sing, sing in memory

all who gathered under Troy.” 

The poet invokes the Muses several times in the poem. As goddesses, they see the whole, unlike mortals, whose vision is limited and partial. The poet appeals to the Muses to become their voice so as to convey the full scope of the Achaean allied armies, since mortals do not know all but can hear “the distant ring of glory”—kleos in the Greek text, perhaps referring to the epic song/poem that the Muses transmit through the poet’s voice. The section that follows, in which the poet reviews the Achaean allied states, their leaders, and the troops they command, is called the Catalogue of Ships. It may have served to rally ancient audiences around a Panhellenic concept, as they listened for their particular island or city to be mentioned and connected to a shared heroic past.

“Soon as the warrior Menelaus marked him,

Paris parading there with his big loping strides,

flaunting before the troops, Atrides thrilled

like a lion lighting on some handsome carcass,

lucky to find an antlered stag or wild goat

just as hunger strikes—he rips it, bolts it down,

even with running dogs and lusty hunters rushing him.

So Menelaus thrilled at heart—princely Paris there,

right before his eyes. The outlaw, the adulterer...

‘Now for revenge!’ he thought, and down he leapt

from his chariot fully armed and hit the ground.”

Similes saturate the poem, and they generally fall into three categories: nature, animal, and domestic. In this instance the poet uses an animal simile to depict the warriors and their relationship to each other. Lions are a common choice for describing warriors, as in this passage that compares Menelaus’s predatory delight at spotting Paris to a lion finding a stag or goat. Paris’s “parading,” “loping strides,” and “flaunting before the troops” indirectly associate him with the stag or goat that Menelaus’s lion ravages (129).

“And Iris came on Helen in her rooms…

weaving a growing web, a dark red folding robe,

working into the weft the endless bloody struggles

stallion-breaking Trojans and Argives armed in bronze

had suffered all for her at the god of battle’s hands.” 

Iris has come to fetch Helen to watch the duel between her former and current husbands, Hector and Paris, and finds her weaving images from the war into a garment. Poetry and weaving are often linked in the ancient Greek imagination. Helen weaving the war could represent her role as the token cause, provoked by the gods to construct a web into which men are lured to their deaths via Ares, “the god of battle” (132). The act of weaving the war could also be metaphoric, referring to the poet’s work of crafting epic poetry from the war.

“But you,

Menelaus, the blessed deathless gods did not forget you,

Zeus’s daughter the queen of fighters first of all.

She reared before you, skewed the tearing shaft,

flicking it off your skin as quick as a mother

flicks a fly from her baby sleeping softly.” 

“Zeus’ daughter the queen of fighters” refers to Athena, who has returned to the battlefield after the aborted duel to ensure the war continues (149). After prompting Pandarus to break the truce by shooting an arrow at Menelaus, she then ensures Menelaus’s safety by brushing it away. Comparing the virgin goddess to a mother is unexpected but draws attention to life beyond the battlefield, particularly the many mothers who cannot save their sons from death so easily. The simile also draws attention to the goddess’s power to impose her will, both through the manipulation of Pandarus and the protection of Menelaus. Fate and the immortals exert more power over events and outcomes than human choices.

“And Telamonian Ajax struck Anthemion’s son,

the hardy stripling Simoisius, still unwed...

His mother had borne him along the Simois’ banks

when she trailed her parents down the slopes of Ida

to tend their flocks, and so they called him Simoisius.

But never would he repay his loving parents now

for the gift of rearing—his life cut short so soon,

brought down by the spear of lionhearted Ajax.” 

The poet records 240 deaths in the Iliad, and none of the victims go unnamed. In addition to identifying the victim and the victim’s father by name, the poet typically records details about the warrior’s life before the war. In the case of Telamonian Ajax’s (i.e., Greater Ajax) victim here, the poet describes the circumstances of his birth and draws attention to his parents’ loss: They lose their potential protector and caregiver in their old age. Instances such as these, which saturate the narrative, evoke pathos for the victims but do not villainize the victor.

“High-hearted son of Tydeus, why ask about my birth?

Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth,

now the living timber bursts with the new buds

and spring comes round again. And so with men:

as one generation comes to life, another dies away.” 

As a prelude to dueling, Diomedes has asked Glaucus to identify himself, which means giving his name and genealogy. Glaucus replies that it hardly matters since mortals’ lives are like trees that fall and scatter, undifferentiated. Their lives are absorbed into the cycle of nature, fertilizer for future generations. Glaucus proceeds to defy his own words by launching into a long story about his ancestor, the hero Bellerophon, which alerts Diomedes to their guest-friendship relationship. Though mortal lives come to an end, they are individuated through memory and poetry, through the stories that are sung about them.

“Reaching the Myrmidon shelters and their ships,

they found him there, delighting his heart now,

plucking strong and clear on the fine lyre—

beautifully carved, its silver bridge set firm—

he won from the spoils when he razed Eetion’s city.

Achilles was lifting his spirits with it now,

singing the famous deeds of fighting heroes...

Across from him Patroclus sat alone, in silence,

waiting for Aeacus’ son to finish with his song.” 

When Odysseus, Ajax, and Phoenix arrive to convince Achilles to return to battle, they find him playing the lyre and singing about “the famous deeds of fighting heroes” (257). The passage is one of several instances where characters within the song-poem themselves sing, other notable instances being the many performances of lament among both Achaeans and Trojans. The lyre is also significant, as it was a spoil of war from the sack of Thebes, the city of Eetion, who was Andromache’s father. While Achilles may not feel a personal stake in the war until Patroclus is killed, Hector himself may be nursing a personal grievance that moves him to challenge Achilles, though it leads to his death.

“I say no wealth is worthy my life! Not all they claim

was stored in the depths of Troy, that city built on riches,

in the old days of peace before the sons of Achaea came—

not all the gold held past in the Archer’s rocky vaults,

in Phoebus Apollo’s house on Pytho’s sheer cliffs!

Cattle and fat sheep can all be had for the raiding,

tripods all for the trading, and tawny-headed stallions.

But a man’s life breath cannot come back again—

no raiders in force, no trading brings it back,

once it slips through a man’s clenched teeth.” 

Achilles demonstrates that he is keenly aware of the finality of death on the mortal body. Once the hero’s life force leaves his body, it cannot be restored. Promises of material wealth do not move him because it cannot compensate for or restore life once its lost. He rejects Agamemnon’s piles of gifts for this reason. This episode suggests that Achilles is a warrior who values his life and does not give it up easily. When he does finally return to battle, it is not for the gifts that are once again offered but to avenge his beloved companion, the compensation he accepts for his loss of life.

“So it was in the old days too. So we’ve heard

in the famous deeds of fighting men, of heroes,

when seething anger would overcome the great ones.

Still you could bring them round with gifts and winning words.

There’s an old tale I remember, an ancient exploit,

nothing recent, but this is how it went...

We are all friends here—let me tell it now.” 

Phoenix entreats Achilles to overcome his anger, following the example provided by ancient heroes whose “famous deeds” the present company have heard about—klea anthron eroon (κλέα ανδρών ηρώων) in the Greek text. These past heroes were, like Achilles, prone to dramatic fits of anger, perhaps justifiably, but their anger could be soothed with “gifts and winning words” (269). Phoenix claims to remember “an old tale […], an ancient exploit,” implying that what he remembers is not a personal experience but a poetic rendering that functions as collective memory. Phoenix proceeds to tell the story because the present company “are all friends,” φίλοισι in Greek, implying also the people to whom you are bound and for whom you are responsible.

“Achilles—

he’s made his own proud spirit so wild in his chest,

so savage, not a thought for his comrades’ love—

we honored him past all others by the ships.

Hard, ruthless man...

Why, any man will accept the blood-price paid

for a brother murdered, a child done to death.

And the murderer lives on in his own country—

the man has paid enough, and the injured kinsman

curbs his pride, his smoldering, vengeful spirit,

once he takes the price.

You—the gods have planted

a cruel, relentless fury in your chest! All for a girl,

just one, and here we offer you seven—outstanding beauties—

that, and a treasure trove besides.” 

Ajax expresses his frustration with Achilles, who has rejected Phoenix’s plea and cautionary tale, through the modified myth of Meleager. Ajax points out that even a man whose loved one was murdered will accept a blood-price as compensation for his loss. Ajax portrays Achilles’s loss as much less significant than the death of a loved one, since Briseis is “just one” girl (273). Ajax’s implication is that Achilles is violating his society’s norms, but this somewhat deflects from the underlying obsession that fuels Achilles’s rage: Whatever he does or does not feel for Briseis, she represents his honor. Neither Agamemnon’s gifts nor the embassy address this deeper significance.

“And Dolon son of the herald blurted out, ‘Yes, yes,

I’ll tell you everything, down to the last detail!

Hector’s holding council with all his chiefs,

mapping plans on old King Ilus’ barrow,

clear of the crowds at camp.” 

After being captured by Odysseus and Diomedes, Dolon quickly reveals all that he knows about the Trojans’ plans, adding that their council met “on old King Ilus’ barrow” (290). Ilus was Laomedon’s son and Priam’s grandfather, thus an important ancestor to the Trojan royal family. That the city’s leaders hold council at his burial mound (his barrow) could signal the significance of mythic ancestors in hero cults. It has been posited since antiquity that Book 10 is a late addition to the Iliad that has come down to modern times, but Ilus’s barrow makes several appearances at significant moments.

“Iphidamas, the rough and rangy son of Antenor

bred in the fertile land of Thrace, mother of flocks.

Cisseus reared him at home when he was little—

his mother’s father who sired the fine beauty Theano—

but once he hit the stride of his youth and ached for fame,

Cisseus tried to hold him back, gave him a daughter’s hand

but warm from the bridal chamber marched the groom,

fired up by word that Achaea’s troops had landed.” 

The poet has asked the Muses to reveal the men who battled against Agamemnon, one of whom is Iphidamas of Thrace, a Trojan ally. Young and newly married, Iphidamas joins the Trojan defensive effort though it may lead to his death, prefiguring Sarpedon and Glaucus’s conversation in Book 12. The description of him “ach[ing] for fame” suggests a different kind of personal motive: being included in and achieving immortality through the epic song of Ilium.

“Ah my friend, if you and I could escape this fray

and live forever, never a trace of age, immortal,

I would never fight on the front lines again

or command you to the field where men win fame.

But now, as it is, the fates of death await us,

thousands poised to strike, and not a man alive

can flee them or escape—so in we go for attack!

Give our enemy glory or win it for ourselves!” 

Zeus’s son Sarpedon has explained to Glaucus why they, as leaders, must fight on the front lines: because leaders are most honored “with pride of place, choice meats and brimming cups,” and being regarded “like gods” (335). Unlike gods, however, mortals must die, one way or another. Since death is inevitable, they may as well face it willingly and find some measure of honor through it, by performing deeds worthy of being woven into the epic poem that is the song of Ilium.

“He brought him down with a glinting jagged rock,

massive, top of the heap behind the rampart’s edge,

no easy lift for a fighter even in prime strength,

working with both hands, weak as men are now.

Giant Ajax hoisted it high and hurled it down,

crushed the rim of the fighter’s four-horned helmet

and cracked his skull to splinters, bloody pulp—

and breakneck down like a diver went the Trojan

plunging off and away from the steep beetling tower

as life breath left his bones.” 

This passage depicts Greater Ajax’s awe-inspiring strength, as contrast with the weakness of the poet’s contemporaries. This and other descriptions like it peppered throughout the poem speak to the hero as a superhuman tribe of men of an earlier generation. The force of Ajax’s blow inflicts devastating injuries on his victim, which the poet describes in brutal, gory detail.

“A spearhead punched his gullet under the chin

and the bronze point went ripping through his nape

and down the Trojan fell as an oak or white poplar falls

or towering pine that shipwrights up on a mountain

hew down with whetted axes for sturdy ship timber—

so he stretched in front of his team and chariot,

sprawled and roaring, clawing the bloody dust.” 

The poet describes the death of Trojan Asius, whom Idomeneus cuts down as he is trying to protect his comrade’s corpse from being stripped of its armor. The simile is one the poet uses frequently to describe warriors’ deaths; they are likened to trees being cut down to serve another purpose (in this case to build a ship). These similes can be understood as conveying the meaning of heroic ancestors. Their remarkable deeds—great and terrible—are woven into songs that, through repeated performance, become collective memory, conveying the history, values, and rituals of the hero’s people.

“Holding formation now the Trojans rolled across it,

Apollo heading them, gripping the awesome storm-shield

and he tore that Argive rampart down with the same ease

some boy at the seashore knocks sandcastles down—

he no sooner builds his playthings up, child’s play,

than he wrecks them all with hands and kicking feet,

just for the sport of it. God of the wild cry, Apollo—

so you wrecked the Achaeans’ work and drove the men

who had built it up with all that grief and labor

into headlong panic rout.” 

This passages highlights the ease with which gods can destroy creations that humans labor over. The wall that the Achaeans toiled to construct proves as insubstantial as a sandcastle under Apollo’s hands. Further, for the gods, eternal life means they have nothing to lose or to gain, rendering everything but a game for their diversion and entertainment. The ease with which the Achaeans’ wall, which they did not secure with a prayer to the gods, falls also contrasts with the Scaean Gates that protect Troy. The Achaeans must sack the city with trickery because they are unable to raze the city’s god-built walls.

“Look down. Many who battle round King Priam’s

mighty walls are sons of the deathless gods—

you will inspire lethal anger in them all.

No,

dear as he is to you, and your heart grieves for him

leave Sarpedon there to die in the brutal onslaught,

beaten down at the hands of Menoetius’ son Patroclus.

But once his soul and the life force have left him,

send Death to carry him home, send soothing Sleep,

all the way till they reach the broad land of Lycia.

There his brothers and countrymen will bury the prince

with full royal rites, with mounded tomb and pillar.

These are the solemn honors owed the dead.” 

After Zeus expresses his wish to save his son Sarpedon from death at Patroclus’s hands, Hera warns him that the other gods will resent his attempt to save his son when their own must die. Even if Zeus can prevent a mortal’s fate from being fulfilled, it may not be prudent, as it could provoke other gods who wish to do likewise to rebel against him. As long as the gods remain tied to and invested in their mortal children, those children will be a source of competition among the gods. The burial rites and tomb that Hera describes may refer to a hero’s tomb.

“Patroclus though—the spear in his grip was shattered,

the whole of its rugged bronze-shod shadow-casting length

and his shield with straps and tassels dropped from his shoulders,

flung down on the ground—and lord Apollo the son of Zeus

wrenched his breastplate off. Disaster seized him—

his fine legs buckling—

he stood there, senseless—.” 

The prelude to Patroclus’s death involves Apollo smacking him with the flat of his hand, stunning him and shattering his spear, then removing his protective armor. The direct interference of a god to stun Patroclus and expose him on the battlefield seems to load the moment with ritual significance. Euphorbus leaps in to stab Patroclus between the shoulders, and he tries, unsuccessfully, to retreat into the Achaean line. Seeing his opportunity, Hector strikes the death blow. In predicting Hector’s death, Patroclus’s last word is “Achilles” (440). Patroclus’s manner of death, dressed in Achilles’s armor, prefigures the latter’s offstage death, also at the hands of a son of Priam and Apollo.

“Yes, I gave birth to a flawless, mighty son...

the splendor of heroes, and he shot up like a young branch,

like a fine tree I reared him—the orchard’s crowning glory—

but only to send him off in the beaked ships to Troy

to battle Trojans! never again will I embrace him

striding home through the doors of Peleus’ house.

And long as I have him with me, still alive,

looking into the sunlight, he is racked with anguish.

And I, I go to his side—nothing I do can help him.

Nothing. But go I shall, to see my darling boy,

to hear what grief has come to break his heart

while he holds back from battle.” 

Thetis’s speech above is introduced as “launch[ing] a dirge,” suggestive of lament as a choral community ritual (469). It is Patroclus not Achilles who has died, but Thetis sings the lament for her son, which alludes to Patroclus’s death being a rehearsal or substitute for Achilles’s future death. Thetis knows this because she is a goddess, possessing divine insight into future events but no power to alter them. Her description of Achilles as “young branch” that “shot up” to become “the orchard’s crowning glory” only to be cut down alludes to the warrior dying at the peak of his beauty, though his bodily death will precede his immortalization.

“‘So grief gives way to grief, my life one endless sorrow!

The husband to whom my father and noble mother gave me,

I saw him torn by the sharp bronze before our city,

and my three brothers—a single mother bore us:

my brothers, how I loved you!—

you all went down to death on the same day...

But you, Patroclus, you would not let me weep,

not when the swift Achilles cut my husband down,

not when he plundered the lordly Mynes’ city—

not even weep! No, again and again you vowed

you’d make me godlike Achilles’ lawful, wedded wife,

you would sail me west in your warships, home to Pythia

and there with the Myrmidons hold my marriage feast.

So now I mourn your death—I will never stop—

you were always kind.’

Her voice rang out in tears

and the women wailed in answer, grief for Patroclus

calling forth each woman’s private sorrows.” 

Laments are woven through the Iliad, increasing in intensity as the poem moves toward its climax and conclusion. This passage is Briseis’s lament for Patroclus. It begins not for him but for her husband, father, and brothers, all of whom Achilles killed. Patroclus did not allow her to lament, a gesture she seems to characterize as “kind” (498). As difficult as this may be for modern audiences to relate to, its significance in the poem may be that Patroclus’s death reawakens the grief she felt but perhaps did not fully express for her previous losses. Similarly, her losses provoke the women with her to experience their own “private sorrows” (498). Grief is both personal and communal, lament both solo and choral. The women weep for men who have died, but this grief is not individuated from their own.

“She flung to the winds her glittering headdress,

the cap and the coronet, braided band and veil,

all the regalia golden Aphrodite gave her once,

the day that Hector, helmet a flash in sunlight,

led her home to Troy from her father’s house

with countless wedding gifts to win her heart.

But crowding round her now her husband’s sisters

and brothers’ wives supported her in their midst,

and she, terrified, stunned to the point of death,

struggling for breath now and coming back to life,

burst out in grief among the Trojan women: ‘O Hector—

I am destroyed!’” 

Andromache witnesses Achilles dragging Hector’s corpse behind his chariot through the dirt and faints. When she revives, she tears off her complex headgear, a gesture of intimacy and vulnerability. The reference to Aphrodite introduces a tragic allusion to her wedding day. Now, as then, the women closest to her surround her and sing with her, not in celebration but to lament her young husband’s premature death, which prefigures the fall of the city, which will lead to Andromache’s enslavement and their infant son’s death, the fate they knew would befall Hector’s family if he fell. Andromache’s lament expresses her grief not only for her husband but for herself and her son, as their fates are interwoven.

“A last request—grant it, please.

Never bury my bones apart from yours, Achilles,

let them lie together...

just as we grew up together in your house,

after Menoetius brought me there from Opois,

and only a boy, but banished for bloody murder

the day I killed Amphidamas’ son. I was a fool—

I never meant to kill him—quarreling over a dice game.

Then the famous horseman Peleus took me into his halls,

he reared me with kindness, appointed me your aide.

So now let a single urn, the gold two-handled urn

your noble mother gave you, hold our bones—together!” 

Patroclus’s final request to Achilles, for their bones to be placed in a single urn and buried together, has been cited as possible evidence of the substitutive role Patroclus’s death plays in the Iliad. He dies simultaneously in place and advance of Achilles, as a hero’s death in cult worship may also be conceptualized as substitutive. Hero ancestors died dramatic, tragic deaths and became immortalized in song, and their tombs may provide communal rallying points, as Ilus’s tomb seems to function in the Iliad.