The War That Killed Achilles Read online

  Andromache’s anxious identification of Achaean heroes from the ramparts mirrors Helen’s nostalgic identification of her former kinsmen to Priam, from the same rampart. Both women, Homer makes clear, will earn a bitter renown in future ages: “ ‘we shall be made into things of song for men of the future,’ ” says Helen bitterly of herself and Paris at one point, during Hektor’s visit with them. “ ‘ “This is the wife of Hektor, who was ever the bravest fighter / of the Trojans, breakers of horses, in the days when they fought about Ilion.” / So will one speak of you,’ ” Hektor tells Andromache.

  The eventual fate of Andromache and Astyanax was told in one of the epics of the Trojan Cycle, the Little Iliad, attributed to the poet Lesches, from Lesbos, which related events following the downfall of Troy: “But great-hearted Achilles’ glorious son led Hektor’s wife back to the hollow ships,” one ancient testimonial of the lost epic reads; “her child he took from the bosom of his lovely-haired nurse and, holding him by the foot, flung him from the battlement, and crimson death and stern fate took him at his fall. . . .”21 The fate of Astyanax is thought to have been well established in pre-Homeric myth. Vase paintings from as early as the late eighth century B.C. depict his death, and by the sixth century B.C. it had become a popular motif, along with other events depicting the terrible aftermath of the fall of Troy.22 It is likely, then, that audiences of Homer’s time listened to the scene between his parents with foreknowledge that Andromache would be enslaved and Astyanax killed. Notwithstanding its terrible scenes of wounding and dying on the field of war, the Iliad hints that there are fates—Andromache’s—that may be worse than death.23

  In structural terms, the scene between Hektor and Andromache is wholly irrelevant to the Iliad. It does not advance the epic story in any substantive way, and it adds nothing at all to the main narrative arc, which is the story of Achilles’ wrath and alienation, and their aftermath. Strictly regarded, it is as wild a digression as the meeting between Glaukos and Diomedes. And yet it is one of the handful of scenes without which the Iliad could not have been the Iliad. It casts a shadow behind, on events that have already occurred, as well as on everything that is to come. Nestor’s rally of the Achaeans in Book Two, urging no man to go home “until after he has lain in bed with the wife of a Trojan” is exposed in all its brutality. The little, compressed biographies that pathetically accompany each fallen man are made suddenly more vivid. Even Glaukos’ celebrated words—“ ‘So one generation of men will grow while another / dies’ ”—have a new and tragic import.

  “ ‘No, let not one of them go free of sudden / death and our hands,’ ” Agamemnon urged, as Menelaos was poised to spare the life of a supplicant; “ ‘not the young man child that the mother carries / still in her body, not even he.’ ” The single scene before the Skaian Gates makes it impossible to contemplate with any joy the spectacle of Priam’s towers burning. Simply put, the Trojans are no longer the enemy of this Greek epic. And if the Trojans are not the enemy—who is?

  Land of My Fathers

  Toward dusk of the third day, following the cremation of their dead from the previous days’ battles, the Achaeans embark upon a task of sudden urgency. Beside the remains of their burned-out funeral pyre, they build a fort “with towered ramparts, to be a defence for themselves and their vessels,” surrounded by a deep, wide ditch, filled with sharp stakes.

  The building of the fortification is embarked upon without discussion or prelude, and it is unclear what prompted this precaution, but it signals a slow yet inexorable turn in the fortunes of the Greeks and in the action of the epic. A little earlier, Zeus had addressed an assembly of the Olympians and in forceful, threatening language prohibited any god from interfering in the war: henceforth the two mortal armies will face each other on a level field. And although numerically inferior, the Trojans, “caught in necessity, for their wives and their children,” will gain the upper hand. Thus, at last, does Zeus take decisive action to honor his pledge to Thetis, for fight as they will, the Achaeans cannot win without Achilles.

  Slowly, in a series of battles fought by individual heroes, the momentum shifts toward the Trojans. By nightfall the Greeks are on the run, driven back to their very ships. Standing “on clean ground, where there showed a space not cumbered with corpses,” Hektor excitedly gives his men their orders for the night and for the following dawn that will surely bring success. Succumbing to the heady taste of imminent victory, this most careful of heroes drops his reserve to cry in dangerous exaltation:“Oh, if I only

  could be as this in all my days immortal and ageless

  and be held in honour as Athene and Apollo are honoured

  as surely as this oncoming day brings evil to the Argives.”

  High on Olympos, however, where the gods have been watching this turn in the tide of battle, Zeus has already pronounced what he knows will be the inevitable outcome of the ensuing events: Hektor will prevail in battle until the time that “ ‘there stirs by the ships the swift-footed son of Peleus,’ ” the father of gods and men had stated, “ ‘ on that day when they shall fight by the sterns of the beached ships / in the narrow place of necessity over fallen Patroklos. / This is the way it is fated to be.’ ” The remainder of the epic is similarly punctuated with blunt summaries of the events ahead, ensuring that the audience feels the weight of the impending tragedies. Now, despite what Achaeans or Trojans might in their innocence believe, the audience knows what Zeus knows: Achilles’ comrade Patroklos will die, Achilles will “stir,” and Hektor will at that time be stopped from fighting.

  Oblivious that he labors under outcomes already determined by fate, Hektor orders his men to keep a vigil through the night, fearful that the panicked enemy might flee in their ships under cover of darkness. As the men settle down for their long duty, the multitude of their watch fires across the dark plain mirrors the stars in the night sky above Ilion.

  As the Trojans while away the night in high spirits, “Panic, companion of cold Terror,” takes hold of the Achaeans, and of all the Achaeans the most stricken is the son of Atreus. Calling an emergency assembly, Agamemnon stands before his men in tears. Groaning aloud, he concedes that Zeus has deceived him: there is no victory for the Achaeans anywhere on the horizon. He then broaches his solution: the army should “ ‘run away with our ships to the beloved land of our fathers.’ ” A stunned silence follows this suggestion, broken at length by Diomedes. Displaying admirable restraint, he takes issue with his leader, concluding his remarks with a stinging observation: “ ‘The son of devious-devising Kronos has given you / gifts in two ways: with the sceptre he gave you honour beyond all, / but he did not give you a heart, and of all power this is the greatest.’ ”

  In a pattern repeated in the epic, the Achaeans are once again assembled in time of crisis, making public rebuke of their king. Once again Nestor steps forward, now offering a cautious rebuke to Diomedes, along with the suggestion that Agamemnon convene an emergency council of the princes: “ ‘Here is the night that will break our army, or else will preserve it,’ ” he grimly concludes.

  With sentries set, the lords file into Agamemnon’s shelter, where, away from the rank and file, Nestor speaks more bluntly. Things have gone badly from the day that Agamemnon took Briseis from Achilles by force; Achilles must be placated: “ ‘let us / even now think how we can make this good and persuade him / with words of supplication and with the gifts of friendship.’ ”

  Agamemnon’s response to Nestor’s words is unqualified acquiescence and relief; he has been led onto terrain he understands. “Gifts”—of course, Achilles will be won back with gifts. With almost abject eagerness, Agamemnon enumerates the personal treasure he is willing to surrender: seven unfired tripods, ten talents’ weight of gold,1 prizewinning horses, seven women from Lesbos “ ‘who in their beauty surpassed the races of women,’ ” and Briseis, the “prize” who caused the costly rift with his best warrior and whose bed Agamemnon now swears he never entered. All of this, as well as futu
re prizes from plunder still to come, and, as a crowning offer, Achilles’ choice of one of Agamemnon’s own three daughters to be his wife, along with a glittering dowry.

  “ ‘All this I will bring to pass for him,’ ” Agamemnon concludes, and then demonstrates that his ordeal has wrought no real change in his character: “ ‘And let him yield place to me, inasmuch as I am the kinglier.’ ”

  The ensuing Embassy to Achilles—the account of the small delegation of chosen men bearing Agamemnon’s offer of gifts—is one of the most remarkable and innovative scenes in the Iliad. Briefly, the carefully appointed delegates—Odysseus and Aias, led by a previously unmen tioned character called Phoinix—make their way along the beach to Achilles’ tent, bearing the fate of the entire Achaean army in their diplomatic hands.

  In the camp of the Myrmidons, the delegation comes abruptly upon Achilles, “delighting his heart in a lyre, clear-sounding, / splendid and carefully wrought, with a bridge of silver upon it” and taken from spoils won during the sack of Andromache’s city. With this lyre, Achilles is pleasuring his heart—áeide d’ ára kléa andrōn—“singing of men’s fame.” Kléa is the plural of kléos, meaning “rumor,” “report,” “news.” The reports made about a hero constitute his renown, his fame and glory. Desire to win kléos motivates a hero to fight rather than to flee, for he knows that the report of his actions will outlive him. The great heroes—the “men of old”—are the subject of songs that commemorate their deeds. Yet, Achilles, the hero of the Iliad, is now found, after a considerable absence, contentedly playing the role of a bard—a singer of the glorious deeds of other men, not the performer of his own.2

  Alone, watching in ambiguous silence, is Achilles’ closest companion, Patroklos, the son of Menoitios. As the Embassy enters, both men spring to their feet in surprise, and Achilles offers an unexpectedly gracious and encouraging greeting: “ ‘Welcome. You are my friends who have come, and greatly I need you, / who even to this my anger are dearest of all the Achaeans.’ ”

  Achilles orders a meal for his guests, and Patroklos serves. The moment seems propitious. Aias looks at Phoinix and nods, and Odysseus takes the cue and with his legendary eloquence lays out the terms of Agamemnon’s offer. Golden treasures, horses, women, even “ ‘seven citadels, strongly settled’ ” of Agamemnon’s own kingdom—Odysseus faithfully recites the list, along with a private and strategic offering of his own: “But if the son of Atreus is too much hated in your heart,

  himself and his gifts, at least take pity on all the other

  Achaeans, who are afflicted along the host, and will honour you

  as a god.”

  But Achilles is not moved, and in a scorching speech he rejects out of hand all offers of reconciliation. The Embassy stalls, and to the horror of his old comrades it seems disaster for the Achaeans is assured.

  What does Achilles want? The withdrawal of an angry hero from his people is a standard motif in both folktale and epic—a motif that presupposes, however, the angered hero’s eventual appeasement and return. The failure of the Embassy to appease Achilles, then, represents a shocking, dramatic break with tradition. Achilles, moreover, not only rejects the Embassy but, as will be seen, goes further, challenging the very premise of the heroic way of life, which is to say the heroic way of war that epic traditionally extols. The Embassy’s many innovative elements suggest that this scene came late in the Iliad ’s evolution and is the work of its last poet—of Homer.3 Certainly it is in the Embassy that the Iliad most overtly declares that it is undertaking something new and not simply telling another kléos andrōn, or story of old. Intrinsic to the Iliad ’s vision is Achilles, and indeed, it is his character that is the catalyst of the epic’s bold new direction.

  In plain genealogy, Achilles is, of course, the son of a goddess, the sea nymph Thetis, and a mortal man, Peleus. In heroic society, all warriors are defined by their patrimony; Achilles is Pēleídēs—son of Peleus, whose biography and career can be pieced together from the usual collection of fragments of lost epics, references in other poetry, as well as compilations of traditional genealogy and mythology made by later writers of antiquity.4

  From these variegated sources we learn that Peleus was the son of Aiakos, the ruler of the island of Aigina, off the coast of Attica. On killing his half brother—accounts vary as to whether this was by accident or not—Peleus fled north, taking sanctuary with the king of Iolkos, in Thessaly.5 Henceforth Aiakos’ son Peleus is associated only with this northern frontier region, specifically with Mount Pelion, and with his small kingdom, Phthia, where he is king over the Myrmidons.6 Tradition also relates how when the king of the important Thessalian city of Iolkos and his wife later wronged Peleus, he “single-handed, without an army, took Iolkos”; this is the sole unambiguously martial feat attributed to him.7 Peleus also makes respectable appearances in a number of heroic sagas: he is among the Argonauts, with Jason, for example (another tale with Thessalian origins), as well as a high-profile participant in the Kalydonian Boar Hunt, a saga relating the attempt by numerous heroes to hunt the monstrous boar that had been sent by a vengeful goddess to devastate the land of Kalydon.

  Various themes cluster around Peleus, the most consistent and striking being those of murder and purification, exile and sanctuary. Peleus himself, as was seen, came as an exile to Thessaly, where he was purified for the murder of his half brother. Later he accidentally killed a companion in the Kalydonian Boar Hunt and was purified again. To his kingdom, as the Iliad relates, come other exiles, who are received and purified by him in turn, the most important of these being Menoitios’ son Patroklos, Achilles’ closest friend (and, in some accounts, his cousin): “ ‘ just as we grew up together in your house,’ ” Patroklos recalls to Achilles, later in the epic,“when Menoitios brought me there from Opous, when I was little,

  and into your house, by reason of a baneful manslaying,

  on that day when I killed the son of Amphidamas. I was

  a child only, nor intended it, but was angered over a dice game.

  There the rider Peleus took me into his own house,

  and brought me carefully up, and named me to be your henchman.”

  Also received by Peleus were an otherwise obscure Myrmidon warrior called Epeigeus and, most significantly, Phoinix, a faithful family retainer and the third man in the Embassy to Achilles. Having come close to killing his father, who had placed a curse on him never to have sons of his own, Phoinix had fled to Phthia, where Peleus received him and “ ‘gave me his love, even as a father loves his own son / who is a single child brought up among many possessions.’ ”

  Peleus, then, stands in a somewhat similar relation to troubled men as Thetis does to troubled gods: in the Iliad, Thetis is credited with saving Dionysos, Hephaistos, and of course, most famously, Zeus. Importantly, however, Peleus is harboring outlaws, and the congregation of so many fugitives from justice on the wild frontier of Thessaly is striking and suggestive.8

  The manner in which Peleus won the hand of the immortal Thetis is described in various, not wholly incompatible traditions, the most famous being that he was told “to seize her and hold her fast in spite of her shape-shifting,” to quote the vivid account of Apollodorus (writing in the second century B.C.): “he watched his chance and carried her off, and though she turned, now into fire, now into water, and now into a beast, he did not let her go till he saw that she had resumed her former shape.” 9 The theme of a mortal man who wins a fey, or supernatural maiden, by holding her throughout her changeable forms is widely familiar in fairy and folktales. Such mystical marriages are usually resolved when the maiden eventually forsakes the world of men and returns to her own kin, whether they be swans or seals or, in Thetis’ case, deities of the sea.10 Significantly, although the Iliad implies that Peleus and Thetis lived together in the past, it is clear that they are now apart, Peleus living forlornly in Phthia and Thetis with her sisters and father, Nereus, “the sea’s ancient.”

  In other accounts of this
unequal marriage, Thetis is not captured but married off by a directive from Zeus. Usually this is prompted by his discovery of Thetis’ unique destiny to bear a son greater than his father; as has been seen, this is the tradition to which the Iliad alludes.11 In the Iliad, the unhappy outcome of this forced union is made unambiguously clear: “ ‘I had to endure mortal marriage / though much against my will,’ ” Thetis laments, and her keening brokenheartedness for the marriage and the mortal son the marriage produced is her most characteristic trait in the epic.12

  Why, if it was necessary to marry this ill-fated goddess to a mortal, did the gods choose Peleus above all other men? According to one tradition, Zeus, in his role as defender of the rights of hospitality, chose Peleus to reward him for resisting the illicit advances of his host’s lustful wife.13 The righteousness of Peleus is further underscored by his ancestry: Peleus’ father, Aiakos, was said to be wisest of mortals, even rendering judgment among the gods, and in later tradition he appears in the Underworld as one of the three judges of the dead.14

  This specific reward for his righteousness apart, Peleus seems, from early tradition, to have been renowned for enjoying the exceptional love and blessings of the gods. In the Iliad, this love is spoken of on two occasions, once by Hera, who refers to him as “ ‘one dear to the hearts of the immortals,’ ” and once by Achilles, who recalls the many “ ‘shining gifts’ ” the gods gave his father. Hesiod gives a long, striking account of Peleus’ good fortune, and from this, one suspects that Peleus was once a byword for his god-bestowed blessings: “he came to Phthia, mother of sheep, / bringing [much] wealth from spacious Iolcus, / Peleus,] Aeacus’ son, dear to the immortal gods. / The spirit of all [the people] who saw him was astonished at how] he had sacked the well-founded [city], and how he had fulfilled / a lovely marriage], and they all of them said this speech: ‘Three times blessed, son of Aeacus, and four times happy, Peleus.’ ”15