The Iliad: Where the West was Born

The term "foundational" is overused. It too often assigns significance to works that have, for good reason, been forgotten. However, in the case of the Iliad it could not be more appropriate. Western culture has two equal origins: the Hebrews and the Greeks. While the Torah resides at the base of the immense edifice that is the Semitic tradition, so too, Homer is the bedrock of the Hellenistic. If one wishes to understand the Greek psyche and way of life it is inevitably begun with the Iliad.

Candidly, I was unfamiliar with the contents of the Iliad until this first reading. I only knew that it involved the Trojan War. So, naturally I assumed it contained the common cultural references to that event; namely, the judgment of Paris, the theft of Helen, Achilles’ heel, and of course, the Trojan horse. I was midway through the poem before I began to doubt my assumptions. I cheated and googled if they were included in the epic. They aren’t. I was a bit disappointed.

Yet, a significant question quickly followed that discovery: What, then, is the story of the Iliad? It is the story of a war. Or is it a story of rage? Or is it both? While there is plenty of war to be found in its lines (not to mention some gruesome imagery), rage is the primary concern of the work. That should not be surprising. In the invocation the poet asks the goddess to sing, not the "war of the Achaeans and Trojans", but the "Rage of Achilles" (1.1). The war is the backdrop, the setting. My annoyance with the missing Trojan Horse was abated. This is a war story, not the story of a war. And rage is the main actor.

Even a story as foundational as the Iliad assumes some knowledge of the reader (or should I say listener?). Figures like Achilles and Agamemnon were comparable to Napoleon or Churchill. They required little introduction. As such, they received none. We are thrust into the story “when the two first broke and clashed/ Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles.’ (1.8-1.9).

Ostensibly the quarrel is about a woman. Yet, pride is the real motivator, and the girl, a prize. When the prophet, Calchas, reveals that the price for the safety of the Achaeans is the return of Chryseis, the daughter of the priest of Apollo and Agamemnon’s most recent spoil of war, Agamemnon responds as anyone might in the face of ill fate: He shoots the messenger. “Seer of misery! Never a word that works to my advantage!” (1.124). Seeing as the messenger is a prophet Agamemnon is in a real sense cursing his fate. He is now primed to lash out at the next person to speak. Achilles foolishly fills this role.

Children know well that if mom and dad are angry, then it is wise to hide in your room to avoid becoming collateral damage. Likewise, it might be best to give a raging wild animal a wide berth. The same could be said of Agamemnon in this opening scene. Achilles, believing the two leaders to be on the same level, makes the misstep of trying to reason with him. Agamemnon responds with a threat to steal Achilles' women as restitution for his forfeited prize.

This threat raises a confusing point about hierarchy that cannot easily be resolved without delving into issues in translation of the Greek and academic debates about this particular ancient warrior culture (of which little is known). The shortest explanation is that Achilles and Agamemnon are of the same "rank", but they do not always act like it. The cause of this discrepancy is a matter scholars debate. My small comment on that debate is to reference a rule that applies regardless of power structure: people will do what they can get away with. Agamemnon asserts his right to take from Achilles. He can do this as long as no one is willing to come to Achilles' defense.

In that light, Agamemnon bolsters his position by proclaiming he can seize any of the other leaders' property.

“I will take a prize myself — your own or Ajax’

or Odysseus’ prize — I’ll commandeer her myself

and let that man I go to visit choke with rage.” (1.161-63).

This is not a benevolent ruler of men, but a tyrant. Unfortunately for all involved, that last line reads with harsh prophetic irony. Agamemnon will come to eat those words. As we will see later in the character of Zeus, a good leader reminds his constituents as little as possible of his position of dominance. If, and only if, it is necessary to make a show of power then it should always be done for the good of the whole, and never for selfish intent. Initially Agamemnon had shown the decency to (rather magnanimously) declare he was willing to give up his prize “if that is best for all. What I really want/ is to keep my people safe, not see them dying.” (1.135-136). However, Achilles’ comments make the lord reveal his true colors. Agamemnon's childish anger earns the expected response from Achilles: indignation.

Now the wronged hero must decide what to do with his rage. “Should he draw the long sharp sword at his hip/ thrust through the ranks and kill Agamemnon now?—/ Or check his rage and beat his fury down?” (1.234-36). It is only the intervention of Athena that stays his hand. I will resist the temptation of interpreting this as the intrusion of the voice of conscience and simply let the myth retain its mystical element for the time being. Regardless, he is forced to swallow his pride and stifle his anger for now.

Counterintuitively the long, steadfast, brooding rage of Achilles that ensues is the most violent outcome. A quick war leads to the least damage. While the lives of both Agamemnon and Achilles are saved for the time being, the rest of the Achaean army and ultimately, the Trojans as well, will pay the price for this resolution. Like Agamemnon’s comment on rage, Achilles' words will also prove prophetic:

“Someday, I swear, a yearning for Achilles will strike

Achaea’s sons and all your armies? But then, Atrides,

harrowed as you will be, nothing you do can save you—‘

not when your hordes of fighters drop and die,

cut down by the hand of man-killing Hector!” (1.281-85).

The price for Agamemnon’s theft of Briseis will be paid in Achaean blood. A fact which Achilles ensures will be remembered when he instructs the messengers sent to take her away to “bear witness” in case “the day should come when the armies need me/ to save their ranks from ignominious, stark defeat.” (1.403-4). This is intended as a mare on the character of Agamemnon. Achilles reminds the messengers that he has no feud with them. Yet, he wants to ensure that the blame for the destruction of the Achaean armies would land firmly on the head of Agamemnon. The rage of Achilles is single minded, and for the first two thirds of the poem it will remain fixed on Agamemnon.

This early feud sets off a chain of events that reels the main members of the pantheon into the conflict. Thereby a recurrent theme is established: the gods as participants in human drama. I struggle with the inconsistencies and oddities of the Greek deities. Growing up immersed in a Christian culture my image of God is the result of thousands of years of effort by theologians to construct the most logically consistent structure that they could manage. The Greeks seem unconcerned with even feigning this. For my part it requires a tabula rasa approach to see the ideas that were being explored in the form of the participants from Olympus.

We will begin our discussion with Achilles' mother, Thetis, who comes to her son after Briseis is taken. Achilles asks her to use the influence that she has earned with Zeus to back the threats he made against Agamemnon and the rest of the Achaeans.

“Persuade him, somehow, to help the Trojan cause,

To pin the Achaeans back against their ships,

Trap them round the bay and mow them down.

So all can reap the benefits of their king—

So even mighty Atrides can see how mad he was

To disgrace Achilles, the best of the Achaeans!” (1.486-90)

Thetis cannot go immediately since all the Olympian gods are off feasting (Evidently the gods are bound by the similar physical laws as us). But, when they return she makes her way up to Zeus and begs for his help in hobbling the Achaeans against the Trojans.

This puts Zeus in a bind. To comply with Thetis’s request would put him at odds with his wife, Hera, who backs the Achaeans. Though, as already mentioned, the Judgement of Paris is not explicitly retold, Hera’s and Athena’s allegiance to the Achaeans and Aphrodite’s backing of the Trojans are clearly fallout from that episode of the saga. Zeus, therefore, is reluctant to assist Thetis.

His eventual consent nearly causes a marital melee when Hera parses out his plans to hamstring the Achaeans. Hephaestus provides the council that dissuades the fight, and sounds like a bystander intervening between feuding sports fans in the process. “It will be unbearable/ if the two of you must come to blows this way, flinging the gods in chaos just for mortal men.” (1.692-94). Mortal matters should not wreck the peace of the undying.

This is wishful thinking. When the war enters a new phase of full combat in Book Five the gods charge headlong into battle. It is difficult for a modern reader like myself to construct a rational framework for interpreting these divine interventions in war. There are three primary means by which the gods tend to influence the war: morale, incarnation, and personal combat. The last eradicates an entirely rational reading of their role.

Initially and throughout the poem the gods influence the moods of a battle. They are often found lifting an army’s spirits or turning the tides. These moments where a god or goddess boosts morale can be understood as convenient means of explaining a phenomenon that is not well understood. The second manifestation is related to the first instance. In this case the gods incarnate in the appearance of a known character and provide useful counsel or encouragement. Again, the modern reader can simply bypass the supernatural to explain this as a way of conceptualizing the origin of good insight. However, the final category does not provide such an easy explanation. To illustrate this it is best to consult the story of Diomedes and his physical combat with the gods.

Much of the fifth book is concerned with the rampage of the Greek hero Diomedes. He is spurred on to battle by Athena who puts, “spring in his limbs, his feet, his fighting hands” (5.134), and also, gives him a warning: do not battle any of the gods except, Aphrodite. The reason for the exception is unclear. Perhaps the goddess of love poses no combat risk. Or Athena, still bitter from the Judgement of Paris, will take any opportunity for retribution.

Regardless, fate (and good narrative sense) ensures that the Achaean hero and goddess of love meet soon thereafter. Aphrodite is trying to protect her son Aeneas who had been hurt by Diomedes. Upon seeing the goddess, the warrior changes targets:

“But he with his ruthless bronze was hunting Aphrodite—

Diomedes, knowing her for the coward goddess she is,

None of the mighty gods who marshal men to battle,

Neither Athena nor Enyo raider of cities, not at all.” (5.370-73)

The idea of a mortal hunting a goddess strikes a powerful image. He manages to stab her in the wrist. She then flees back to Olympus and collapses at the feet of her mother, Dione. Notably we learn that gods can be hurt by mortals.

The scene that ensues seems more apt for the Mean Girls script than Mount Olympus. Diomedes has played the part of the bully and now Aphrodite is running to her mother for comfort. Meanwhile, Athena and Hera gossip in the corner to Zeus, suggesting that she “pricked her limp wrist on a golden pinpoint” (5.489) while trying to seduce another Argive woman to “pant and lust for Trojans.” (5.486). This is another allusion to the judgment of Paris and the theft of Helen. Zeus concludes the strange scene with some fatherly advice for Aphrodite: leave the fighting to the god and goddess of war while she turns her attention to “the works of marriage." With episodes like this it is not surprising that readers of Homer so often emphasize the human-like qualities of the gods.

What should we make of it though? It would be tempting to make a feminist critique of Zeus’ advice were Athena, the female goddess of war, not mentioned in the same breath. So, it seems the advice has more to do with Aphrodite's role as the goddess of love. Perhaps her injuries represent the damage war does to domestic affairs in destroying families and enslaving the wives and children of the defeated husbands. Andromeda's closing laments for Hector come to mind where she bemoans her and her son's fate. Perhaps, Zeus is suggesting a separation of the home and battleground. The Achaeans certainly seem in an advantageous position as the aggressors fighting far from their homes. Yet, this provides no guidance to the Trojans who are forced to fight a war on their own land. Regardless, the strange, abstract, and somewhat obvious statement is made clear: love has no place in war.

Back on the battlefield Diomedes continues his rampage. He charges Apollo while the god is trying to save Aeneas. Apollo rebukes him:

“Think, Diomedes, shrink back now!

Enough of this madness—striving with the gods.

We are not of the same breed, we never will be,

The deathless gods and men who walk the earth.”(5.506-509)

Diomedes is forced to retreat, but one last heroic feat lies before him in the melee. Ares has reentered the battle on the side of the Trojans. This bothers Athena who had previously convinced the god of war to retire from the fighting. She instructs Diomedes to "forget the orders" (5.954) keeping him from battling the gods. Then, under the protection of Athena, he engages with Ares and drives home a spear in the god's midsection.

We again are treated to absurd comedy in the heavens. Ares complains to his father, Zeus, of the injustice of Athena saying, “but that girl—/ you never block her way with a word or action, never” (5.1015-16). Zeus will have nothing of it.

“No more, you lying, two-faced…

No more sliding up to me, whining here before me.

You—I hate most of all the Olympian gods.

Always dear to your heart,

Strife, yes, and battles, the bloody grind of war.” (5.1028-32)

Zeus then relents and has Ares healed. All of the gods and goddesses, including Athena and Hera, retire from the battlefield.

Athena as an instigator is a through line for Diomedes' two attacks on deities. The scenes seem to have as much to do with a battle between the gods as they do with god and man. Ares suggests this in his plaint to Zeus:

“Ah what chilling blows

we suffer—thanks to our own conflicting wills—

Whenever we show these mortal men some kindness.” (5.1008-10)

His “kindness to men” is the aide offered in battle while the "conflicting wills" are the sides chosen. Ares is correct that these conflicts bring "chilling blows" but it is better that those blows be dealt on a human battlefield than on Olympus. The latter would be akin to tears in structures of reality while the former are expected matters of course.

Coming from a Christian perspective the most relatable image of a deity is Zeus. Less fickle than the other gods, Zeus actively balances the scales of most outcomes. He never clearly takes a side in the war nor does he consistently back any particular god. Yet, oddly like the Old Testament God, he is prone to fits of anger and can occasionally be reasoned with. His trappings are more human than his disembodied counterpart in Israel though, and so in many ways he seems to function as the image of the idealized ruler. These features are best represented by three scenes.

The first is when Zeus is seizing control of the war and commanding the other powers of Olympus to resign from the fighting. He declares,

"Let no lovely goddess—and no god either—

try to fight against my strict decree.

All submit to it now” (8.9-11)

What follows is a “stunned silence” (8.32). Apparently Zeus' stern proclamation is an uncommon occurrence. His daughter, Athena, is the first to speak. She concedes Zeus’ power as well known and then meekly bargains for permission to offer tactical military advice to the Achaeans. This seems to cool the god’s resolve who smiles and says, “Nothing I said was in earnest” (8.45). The king of the gods' power is absolute but not often resolute. He can be negotiated with.

The later image of Zeus high on the Gargaron Peak commanding the will of the events on earth seems more befitting of his lordly position. Yet, it holds little water. In another comical interplay Hera seduces Zeus and lulls him to sleep. This gives Athena and Poseidon the opportunity to sway the tides of the battle in favor of the Argives. Again, we have a show of resolve that is subverted. This time through deception. Still these scenes represent moments in which Zeus holds no self interest. He is acting on his promise to Thetis.

The more interesting lesson in Zeus' character comes when he must weigh his own interest against the will of fate. This happens when he is confronted by the death of his son, Sarpedon, who is caught in the vicious offensive of Patroclus. Zeus, seeing that he is fated to die, asks his wife if he should rescue Sarpedon. Hera responds:

“Do as you please Zeus…

But none of the deathless gods will praise you.

And I tell you this—take it to heart, I urge you—

If you send Sarpedon home, living still, beware!

Then surely some other for will want to sweep

His own son clear of heavy fighting too.” (16.526-31)

Absolute power seems less attractive in this light. Hera’s argument is not moral but pragmatic (we will sidestep the discussion of the pragmatic origin of morals). She presents him with two issues. The latter implies that Zeus is not above his own law. If he steals his own son from the fighting then he can longer prohibit the interference of the other Olympians. Kingship demands a constraint on his potential for power.

More significantly, she also tells him that he will not be praised by the other gods. Zeus knows that his power may be absolute, but his grip on the reigns of peace is not. The sanctity of his kingdom is dependent on the perceived justice of his rule. Having already participated in an insurrection against his own father, Kronos, to become king, Zeus is all too familiar with the havoc that would be wrecked were he to lose favor with the other gods. Therefore, ironically his strength and wisdom make him the most constrained character in the whole work. He must allow his son to be killed to maintain the order of the cosmos (The Christian in me feels strange writing that sentence about a member of the Greek pantheon).

This scene is best understood in contrast to Agamemnon’s handling of his feud with Achilles. Zeus and Agamemnon present different modes of leadership. Whereas, Agamemnon when confronted by his “seer of misery”(1.124) uses the privileges afforded to his position of power to selfishly rebel, Zeus takes a nobler route. He faces his “cruel fate” (16.514) with dignity and reservation. He understands the importance of his adherence to the wills of fate. Agamemnon does not, and pays a price for it. Again, we see that Zeus is the model of good leadership.

It is rare that a feud confines its impact to the participants. Countless works of literature, from Romeo and Juliet to A Tale of Two Cities, are built on this fact. The Iliad is not an exception. Homer's initial description of the rage of Achilles, a rage directed towards Agamemnon, is one that is “murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses,/ hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls” (1.2-3). The Achaeans referenced are the soldiers killed due to Achilles' retirement from the war. They are the collateral damage of the feud between the two Greek kings. Similarly the entire Trojan War is built on a personal conflict between two royals. The means by which the two armies attempt to mitigate mass violence is an apt illustration of the manner in which conflict escapes the interested parties.

The two combatants are the Spartan ruler, Menelaus, and Paris, the son of the Trojan king. The feud, again, is over a woman (the evolutionary psychologists must love this). Their first meeting is rather comedic. Paris, dressed in the trappings of a warrior with a leopard skin draped around his shoulders, struts before the lines of the Trojan army challenging any of the Achaeans to battle. But, as soon as Menelaus arrives, chomping at the bit to get his hands on Paris for the theft of Helen, Paris sinks back into the security of the Trojan army. He is a coward.

But, Paris has a brother who will not allow him to shirk his share of the load. After all, he is the cause of the war. Hector's reprimand for Paris' cowardice is brutal, even for a war story. He says it would be better if Paris had “never been born” and that he has “no pith, no fighting strength.” He tells Paris “[you are a] curse to your father, your city and all your people,/ a joy to our enemies, rank disgrace to yourself.” (3.58-59). Paris is spineless, but not a fool, saying, "you criticize me fairly, yes,/ nothing unfair, beyond what I deserve.”(3.69-70). Then, to salvage his character, he proposes a duel between himself and Menelaus, a fight to the death that will determine who keeps Helen.

Upon hearing this, “the Achaean and Trojan forces both exulted,/ hoping this would end the agonies of war.” (3.135-36). They are the collateral damage and they know it. While they will have their share of spoils if they manage to survive and somehow win the war the potential downside is large: loss of life and enslavement of their families. The risks don't match the reward. It is no surprise, then, that the common soldier hopes for a less bloody resolution. In this light a duel to the death between the two interested parties is a more civilized way to resolve the dispute.

Unfortunately, for all involved (except perhaps Paris), this is not the final outcome. To no one’s surprise Paris proves to be far less capable than Menelaus in hand to hand combat. Yet, at the crucial moment when he finds himself being dragged by his helmet to be slaughtered by Menelaus the strap around his neck is snapped by Aphrodite. The following scene is so odd that it merits relating exactly.

“Back at his man [Menelaus] sprang, enraged with brazen spear,

mad for the kill but Aphrodite snatched Paris away,

easy work for a god, wrapped him in swirls of mist

and set him down in his bedroom filled with scent.” (3.438-41)

While gods rescue warriors throughout the poem, this particular instance seems suspect. To begin with it matches the character of Paris that he would flee. He is a coward doing what a coward would do. Is Aphrodite's intervention a guise for Paris tucking his tail and running? Perhaps not. Homer, as though he foresaw this interpretation, mentions the ease of Aphrodite's rescue. This particular statement is important. Seeing as this is the first godly rescue of the poem, part of this aside clarifies the capacity for divine intervention. Yet, that is an insufficient explanation for its inclusion as Homer rarely feels the need to outline a god's power. Instead it serves as reassurance to the listener that it was actually a rescue. Thus, it saves the character (and skin) of Paris for the moment. He will subsequently ruin that reputation by his actions with Helen, but we will discuss that in the next section.

The botched duel causes a pause in the action in which Menelaus continues to demand restitution for his stolen wife. That doesn’t last long as a Trojan archer, again spurred on by one of the immortals, takes a shot at Menelaus, thereby inciting a resumption of the hostilities. The final result is a devastating prolongation of the sufferings of both the Achaeans and Trojans. Much like Agamemnon and Achilles' feud which refuses to be resolved by the two interested parties, so too this war between Paris and Menelaus will not be determined by themselves alone. That will bring with it large collateral payments of human life.

While Paris is the shame of the Trojans, his brother, Hector, embodies all that is noble. In fact, Hector's admirability shines even when juxtaposed with the prime movers on the Achaean side, Achilles and Agamemnon. The Greeks are soaked in selfish pride, valuing their own grudges above the lives of their comrades. Of the four, Hector is the most admirable. This must have been a strange experience for the Greek listening to the Iliad sung. The person who seems most worth emulating is the antagonist of the Achaeans and a hero fated to die. They have painted their ideal on a vanquished enemy.

This is most evident in Hector’s return to Troy. After entering the city Hector visits his mother first. She offers him mellow wine to pour to the gods and refresh himself. To rest while the battle still rages on would be the path of Paris, who is lounging with Helen in his chamber presently. Hector will have nothing of it. He insists:

“Don’t offer me mellow wine, mother, not now—

You’d sap my limbs, I’d lose my nerve for war.

And I’d be ashamed to pour a glistening cup to Zeus

With unwashed hands, I’m splattered with blood and filth—

How could I pray to the lord of storm and lightning?” (6.313-17)

Hector will not be deterred from the task at hand. He is there to request a sacrifice be made to Athena (futile as that will be), not to hide from battle.

I am reminded of Uriah and David. Following his infidelity with Bathsheba, David tries to cover up her pregnancy by calling Uriah, her husband, back from battle in the hopes of coaxing him to sleep with his wife. Uriah proves too honorable though. He insists that while the Ark of the Covenant, Israel, Judah, and his leader, Joab, are still camped in the fields, then he will not go enjoy the comforts of his home. He is of the same spirit as Hector. His focus will not be swayed from his duty simply because he has returned to the city. Interestingly Uriah, like Hector, is also a foreigner in the eyes of the reader. He is a Hittite; not an Israelite. He isn’t the enemy, but he is, likewise, not a member of Israel. Yet, he surpasses the others in nobility. Further, much like Hector, Uriah, the most admirable actor in the story of David and Bathsheba, will be killed by David's command. Evil visiting good people is not a new story.

Next, Hector makes his rounds to Paris. The mighty warrior comes upon his brother polishing his armor while Helen lounges with him in his quarters. This type of detail is what makes the Iliad a lasting work. Paris' character is so succinctly captured by it. Caring only for pleasure and aesthetics, while the battle rages just outside the city walls, he sits cleaning his tools of war. His concerns are with how the armor looks rather than testing how it functions on the battlefield. A dandy has no time for violence, but Hector has no time for a dandy. He scolds Paris and tells him to prepare to go back to battle.

The last person Hector visits is his wife, Andromache. She also tries in earnest to pull him from his duty, begging him to stay behind the walls of Troy. He understands her fears but says he would “die of shame” if he were to “shrink from battle now, a coward.” (6.523 & 6.525). He goes on to express his primary fear: the theft of his wife by one of the Argives if he were to die. But this is caveated with a surrender to his fate.

“No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate.

And fate? No man alive has ever escaped it,

neither brave man nor coward, I tell you—

it’s born with us the day that we are born.” (6.681-84)

The whole scene is vulnerable and intimate. It is even accented by a moment of pure humanity when Hector's son recoils in fear, not recognizing his father in his war helmet. He then, rather symbolically, removes the equipment while visiting with his family. The moment leaves a lasting impression on the listener of who Hector is as a husband, father, and a man. He is not a hardened, bloodthirsty warrior finding enjoyment in the works of war. Yet, he is not a softened coward like his brother, Paris. He responds to his circumstances, fulfilling the duty to which he has been called. He genuinely yearns for peace but is prepared to do the tasks of war.

Before Hector meets his fate in front of the walls of Troy he will first attract the ire of Achilles. This is when Patroclus, Achilles’ closest friend, becomes the centerpiece of the action. After a glimpse of the battle convinces him to take up arms, Patroclus asks Achilles if he can don the warrior’s armor and lead his men into battle. Achilles responds by recounting the offense of Agamemnon, but concludes:

“Let bygones be bygones now. Done is done.

How on earth can a man rage on forever?

Still, by god, I said I would not relax my anger,

not till the cries and carnage reached my own ships.

So you, you strap my splendid armor on your back,

You lead our battle hungry Myrmidons into battle!” (16.69-74)

He is no longer angry, and is prepared to move one. Yet, he can’t. He is bound by his word, a promise made in the midst of anger. Now Achilles must watch as his closest companion leads his army into battle. Rage has committed the hero to a path that in a calmer state he would have never chosen.

However, Achilles is not so foolish as to turn over the reins of his army without a warning to its new commander. He asks Patroclus only to push the Trojans back from the Achaean ships and not to chase them across the fields of Troy. By this he hopes to secure his friend's safety since Apollo will turn the tides of the battle if Troy is at risk of falling.

As one should expect, Patroclus ignores this advice and pursues the fleeing Trojans after leading Achilles' army to a small victory on the beach. His success is short-lived though. He is first disarmed by Apollo and then stabbed by a minor character Euphorbus, who then flees into the battle. This makes him easy prey for Hector who finishes off the warrior and claims Achilles’ armor as a prize.

However, before slaughtering Patroclus, Hector suggests that Achilles must have ordered his friend to kill him. This demonstrates an important misjudgment of Achilles. In reality the Achaean hero was insistent that Patroclus only repel the Trojans from the ships, and not put himself at risk. Apparently Hector is unaware of the falling out with Agamemnon and is therefore left to guess at what is keeping the great runner from joining the fray. This ignorance becomes arrogance as he assumes Achilles is a coward. He then tears the runner's armor off of his friend's body as a prize. This will prove a fatal mistake as Hector will receive the credit alone for Patroclus' death.

Achilles, meanwhile, meets the news of his friend's death with cries loud enough to attract the attention of his mother, Thetis, who rises from the ocean to comfort him. He resolves to kill Hector. Thetis reminds him that his own death is fated to occur soon after Hector’s. Achilles retorts, “Then let me die at once” (18.114), concluding that he has been “a useless, deadweight on the good green earth” (18.123) since he has done nothing to save Patroclus nor any of his other comrades. Finally, the disgruntled man recognizes that the cost of his feud has been paid, not by Agamemnon, but by his fellow Achaeans, and, most bitterly, his closest friend, the last collateral damage. He goes on:

“If only strife could die from the lives of gods and men

and anger that drives the sanest man to flare in outrage—

bitter gall, sweeter than dripping streams of honey,

that swarms in people’s chests and blinds like smoke—

just like the anger the Agamemnon king of men

has roused within me now…

Enough.

Let bygones be bygones. Done is done.

Despite my anguish I will beat it down,

the fury mounting inside me, down by force.” (18.126-34)

Here is the dance of rage. Achilles is wishing for the end of all strife in men. He recognizes its enticing temptation and the way it skews even the “sanest” man’s judgment. However, this reminds him of the anger that was incited by Agamemnon. He is just about to launch into another gripe session when he stops short. Rage truly is "sweeter than dripping honey", but apparently he has had his fill with regard to Agamemnon. The changed hero instead falls into the familiar lines he spoke to Patroclus, almost willing himself to move on. He has realized the damage of this particular anger.

However, Patroclus must now be avenged, and so Achilles' ire acquires a new target. This will not be the brooding anger that he harbored against the Achaean king though. This is a rage that inspires action. He resolves to pay back blood with blood, and kill Hector. The stage has been set for the final great clash of the epic.

Before Achilles can go out to meet Hector in battle he must rouse the other Achaean troops. This preempts a meeting and reconciliation with Agamemnon. Achilles is in no mood for words. He briefly calls for an end to the feud and for a mobilization of the troops. Agamemnon, however, takes the opportunity to deliver a speech that would make a Washington politician proud. It is a long, vaguely related story about how gods can be deceiving. From this, he concludes that he was led astray by a god when initiating the fight with Achilles. Thereby, the selfish leader absolves himself of all guilt. Still with all the magnanimity he can muster, he offers gifts to Achilles as recompense. Achilles is unmoved. He only asks that they move to battle quickly.

The sincerity of Achilles juxtaposed with the pompous displays of Agamemnon is striking. As a reader, we have followed the arc of Achilles, from the incitement of his feud to his decision to move on. He has evolved into a better hero and decided to not allow his emotions to blind his judgment. Here is a man who is now prepared to die to avenge his friend. His political games are through. Agamemnon, meanwhile, is flat and dislikable. Still self seeking, he only cares how he appears to the rest of the Achaeans. There is no mistaking his performative, disingenuous apologies.

Achilles has changed, but the world he inhabits has not. Often, this is what a resolution is. It is not that the two interested parties each achieve a metamorphosis. Instead it is Achilles deciding that the games Agamemnon plays are not worth joining.

It is only in his final chapter that Hector's constancy of character begins to falter. This occurs when Achilles is approaching Troy and ready to engage Hector in battle. After having already ignored his parents' pleas to return to the safety of the city, Hector reconsiders his position and debates if he should preemptively surrender. He even weighs the possibility of forfeiting Helen and half the treasure in Troy for peace, but then, wisely, concludes that Achilles would strike him down regardless. Instead, he runs.

Why the sudden shift in character? There seem to be three intertwined reasons. In part it heightens the stature of Achilles that even the great Hector would flee before him. Still more so, it conveys that any man might barter and flinch in the face of death. Lastly, it adds depth to the rather flat and pristine character of Hector. What I find more compelling, however, is not what inspired him to run, but what stopped his running.

Zeus concedes to the death of Hector after a bit of heckling from Athena. She then takes the form of Hector’s brother, Deiphobus, and convinces the Trojan hero to stand and fight Achilles. The two warriors then face off, each making an initial attempt with their throwing spear. Achilles' throw misses the mark while Hector's fails to pierce the shield of the Argive. Hector then calls for a lance from Deiphobus, but he is gone. He then realizes that he has been tricked by the gods and his moment of fate has finally come:

“So now I meet my doom. Well let me die—

but not without a struggle, not without glory, no,

in some great clash of arms that even men to come

will hear of down the years!” (22.359-62)

Like Achilles, Hector accepts his fate. However, he will not go quietly into that good night. He will, instead, confront death with a last stand to be remembered.

Fate is an odd topic. We can use Hector's final moments as a means of finally discussing this crucial element of Greek thought. However, we will avoid delving into the dense forest of determinism, and explore a simpler realm of the idea. In order to do so, like the Ancient Greeks, we will need to accept fate as a given truth. From that point we can ask: is fate knowable?

The Iliad seems to say yes. Routinely characters are aware of their own fate. It is common knowledge that Achilles will die if he chooses to fight. Likewise, somehow, Hector knows that he is fated to die and in the pivotal moment he recognizes its arrival. Is this merely a fantastical element of mythology that makes for good storytelling? Not necessarily.

Knowing our fate is a uniquely human capacity. Our large prefrontal cortexes provide us with a type of foresight that is not found in any other species. Naturally, this becomes a matter to be wrestled with and the concept of fate is an expression of this. In fact, it is the expression of it. The discovery that any events can be predicted is foundational to how we experience reality. Whether these predictions originate from an oracle, a sign, or rationalistic reasoning is irrelevant. The revolutionary thought is that future events can be understood and we can make decisions in the present based on that information.

Achilles and Hector are excellent examples of this. It is not a bold prediction that a warrior will die when he enters battle. That is an inherent risk. In fact, seeing as both the heroes are great soldiers, they enter the fray with targets on their backs, and are, therefore, more likely to be killed. In this way fate becomes a way to reference likely outcomes.

However, the future being knowable does not mean that it is known. Not all outcomes are seen beforehand in the Iliad (which would make for a rather boring story). Only a few are foreseen. In this aspect fate does enter the realm of a literary device in that it offers the opportunity to demonstrate characters' reactions in the face of a known outcome.

Here we can re-engage with Hector's final moments. He is confronting the inevitability of his own death in a more rational sense than what we might have initially thought, and is choosing to take a stand that will be worthy of the gravity of his circumstance. As an American, images of the Alamo come to mind, but there are no shortage of great final stands that could be referenced here. Ultimately this is the direct message of Hector’s death: to die nobly.

So, Hector dies in the same way he lived: rising to the occasion. His life is an invocation to bear the reality of your circumstances in an honorable way. Our actions have consequences. When we make a mess of things and flee the scene we attract the ire of all. Such is the case of Paris. However, when the moment calls us to action, even if it is not our mess, it is those that respond accordingly that are admired by all, even the gods. The Greeks call this admirability arete.

Anger is the mover of things in war. It is the anger of Menelaus at the theft of his bride Helen, the spite of Hera and Athena at Aphrodite, and, of course, the “rage of Achilles” that is sung in the song of the Iliad. It is the latter ire that sets in motion the tides of war that bring the Trojans to the shadow of the Achaean ships. It is likewise, a small abatement of these passions that releases Patroclus to push the Trojans back to their walls. Achilles temper marks the fate of the Argive expedition. It is only fitting then that the epic concludes when his passions are finally doused.

It is calmed with the meeting of a father and a son. However, not the correct father and son. It is a father with the man who killed his son. Somehow, such a strange ending leads to the deepest resolution.

The stage for the final scene is set even before Hector’s death. When he takes his last stand against Achilles he asks that they make a pact to not defile the others' body if they are victorious and instead return it to the fallen warrior’s people. Achilles, in the midst of his rage, refuses. Then when Achilles strikes down Hector he tries once more to win him over:

“I beg you, beg you by your life, your parents—

Don’t let the dogs devour me by the Argive ships” (22.399-400)

Hector tries to invoke the memory of his parents to soften the iron resolve of Achilles. Achilles will hear nothing of it. He berates him for begging him by his parents, and promises he will defile his body after he is dead. Though it fails, Hector’s plea foreshadows the final book of the epic. A simple reminder of his parents will not do the job. Achilles will instead require the potency of a visit from Hector's begetter, Priam, to bring the image of his own father fully to mind.

But first, Achilles finishes off Hector and attaches his body to the back of his chariot and drags him back to the camp, defiling the corpse. He then leaves the body to be devoured by the dogs. This is juxtaposed against the grand funeral procession that Achilles gives for Patroclus (which involves the shocking sacrifice of a dozen Trojan soldiers on the pyre). The violence and brutality of these final acts which are always punctuated by episodes of weeping from Achilles are the last, desperate spurts of fire from a flame that has burned through all of its fuel. Yet, his rage will still not die.

This is illustrated by Achilles' actions the night after the funeral of Patroclus and his funeral games. He is unable to sleep, turning from side to side, so he gets up and attaches Hector's body to his chariot. He then drags it around Patroclus' tomb. All has gone quiet, but Achilles’ frustration continues to smolder, unable to be released even when its aims have been accomplished. The great runner will receive relief from an unlikely source.

Meanwhile, on Olympus the gods are debating. They urge Hermes to go steal Hector’s body (which up till now Apollo has kept from being damaged). However, this is opposed by Athena, Hera, and Poseidon who hate the Trojans. The matter is then brought to Zeus who has affection for Hector saying’

“the immortals love Prince Hector dearly,

best of all the mortals born in Troy…

so I loved him at least” (24.81-83)

However, he must be mindful of Thetis, Achilles’ mother, and therefore, cannot go steal the body himself. Instead he instructs Thetis and Achilles to allow Priam, the king of Troy, to come collect his son's corpse, so that he may receive a proper burial.

Priam is a character who until now has received little development. This seems almost intentional as in this final book he will take on the role of simply the “good father” in an archetypal sense. When the goddess Iris tells him to go and ransom his son, Priam ignores his wife's disapproval of the idea citing the fact that the command comes from a god. By order of a higher power he is beholden to a duty to try to retrieve the body of his son.

Then, upon disembarking from Troy he is initially accompanied by his "unheroic" sons and in-laws. However, after a short time they all turn back to the city and he is left only with his faithful servant to journey across the plain in the middle of the night. It is a pitiable, and somehow mystical, scene. Stripped of all the trappings of his identity, the titles of king and father are left back in Troy. Now, he is simply a man making his way through the cold wilderness of night. Moved by compassion, Zeus sends Hermes to accompany Priam. Their interaction is telling.

Hermes first word to Priam is an address: “Father” (24.428). In case the listener misses this odd salutation, the god goes on to clarify his words later saying, “You remind me of my dear father to the life.” (24.439). Remember Zeus is Hermes' father, the Great Father. The interchange is so strange that it must be an intentional comparison. Priam, who no longer physically inhabits his role as a father, is affirmed as being a representative of “father” as an abstract and foundational symbol; Abstract in his liberation from the requirements of existing in his family structure and foundational in his comparison to the highest example of the role, Zeus. This is the Priam that goes to meet Achilles: A Father.

Indeed, the first words spoken to Achilles when Priam appears at his side and begs for the return of his son’s body is:

“Remember your own father great godlike Achilles—

as old as I am, past the threshold of deadly old age!

No doubt the countrymen round about him plague him now,

with no one there to defend him, beat away disaster.

No one—but at least he hears you’re still alive

and his old heart rejoices, hopes rising, day by day,

To see his beloved son come sailing home from Troy.

But I—dear god, my life so cursed by fate…

I fathered hero sons in the wide realm of Troy

and now not a single one is left, I tell you.” (24.570-79)

This plea has no practical use. Only a few passages earlier Achilles consented to return Hector’s body for ransom when Thetis told him that it was the will of Zeus. It was a forgone conclusion that Achilles would comply. But, Homer is now working on a different theme than the mere practical: the heart. Both men weep.

Unbeknownst to Priam, who seems unaware of Achilles’ fate, he himself is in the position Achilles’ father will be shortly. Fate guarantees that Achilles' own death will follow shortly after Hector's demise. With one act two men lost their sons. Now, the result of Achilles' actions has appeared suddenly at his side both in the real form of Hector's progenitor and in Priam's abstract representation of the bereaved father. This is the most powerful moment of the epic. I initially believed Achilles shed tears of sympathy for Priam. That is not the case: "as Achilles wept himself, now for his father, now for Patroclus again.” (24.597-98). His heart is with Peleus, of whom Priam is a reminder.

Despite this strange intimacy, the scene with Achilles and Priam is intense. Priam rejects Achilles' initial offer to eat together. He wants to see his son’s body first. Achilles reminds the king of Troy to be careful to not reignite his rage. Achilles is under order from the gods, not Priam. He goes on to suggest that he would be willing to defy the laws of Zeus that protect suppliants such as Priam. Their cordiality is tenuous at best. Ultimately, the Achaean complies, and after preparing the body to be passed off, the two share an odd meal.

This dinner is highlighted by an odd moment in which each man beholds the other:

“Priam the son of Dardanus gazed at Achilles, marveling

now at the man’s beauty, his magnificent build—

face-to-face he seemed a deathless god…

and Achilles gazed and marveled at Dardan Priam,

beholding his noble looks, listening to his words.” (24.740-44)

This is the opposite of dehumanization. After Priam plays the role of abstracted father, Achilles can now see him face to face. He is no longer the distant ruler of the enemy, but a man with whom he is sharing a meal. More powerful still is that Priam undergoes a similar experience. It is impossible that this is affection or even genuine goodwill. What seems most appropriate is to label it respect.

This respect may be why Achilles, who is not prone to generous gestures, asks Priam the number of days needed to properly bury Hector. Priam requests twelve days, an eternity in war, to which the Achaean agrees and promises to hold back any attacks during that time. It is a small measure of grace from a hardened soldier to his enemy.

Despite this Priam only sleeps a short time before being woken by Hermes who tells him to escape back to the city under the cover of darkness. The Trojan king readily complies. One cannot be too careful when sleeping in the enemy's camp.

Upon being returned to his people, Hector is properly mourned by his wife, mother, and sister in-law, Helen, and then buried. The Trojans post sentries to guard the men constructing the pyre, but an attack never comes. Achilles is true to his word. Still, an abundance of caution is wise during war.

I will end this report where Homer chose to end the Iliad: Hector's burial. It appears to be an odd place to draw the epic to a close, but it could be no more fitting. Hector's death is the ultimate manifestation of collateral damage. He paid his life for a war he had no part in starting, and died at the hands of an anger ignited in a feud he did not even know occurred. Here is the end of the Rage of Achilles: "And so the Trojans buried Hector breaker of horses” (24.944).