The War That Killed Achilles

by Caroline Alexander

  Around the pyre, a hundred feet square, are arranged the slaughtered bodies of fat sheep and shambling cattle, in whose blubber the body of Patroklos is wrapped, the better to catch the flames. Four horses and the dogs that had belonged to Patroklos are driven against the pyre and slaughtered, and the whole set fire; now Achilles “also killed twelve noble sons of the great-hearted Trojans / with the stroke of bronze, and evil were the thoughts in his heart against them.” When Patroklos’ body has been consumed and the fire damped down with wine, his companions gather the bones from the ashes, “weeping, and put them into a golden jar with a double / fold of fat, and laid it away in his shelter, and covered it / with a thin veil; then laid out the tomb and cast down the holding walls / around the funeral pyre, then heaped the loose earth over them / and piled the tomb.”5

  Patroklos’ sumptuous funeral accords with heroic burials attested in the literature of different cultures from different ages: Icelandic, Teutonic, Anglo-Saxon, Viking, Vedic, as well as epic Greek—all share a consistent burial pattern. The hero, usually with his armor, is cremated on a pyre;6 many animals are slaughtered; the funeral ceremonies take place over an extended time of many days; the remains are interred in a tumulus, mound, or barrow. This consistency of detail suggests that the origin of these motifs may have lain not in poetic tradition but in actual burial practice.7

  The archaeological record supports this view, and broad historical counterparts with Patroklos’ funeral can be found in both the Bronze Age Hittite kingdoms and Iron Age Greece—although not in the Greek Bronze Age, where interment in tombs or graves, not cremation, was the burial method of the Mycenaeans. In the recently discovered grave of a Mycenaean military official dating to 1200 B.C.—around the time speculated for the Trojan War—a sword, a spear point, and a knife had been laid beside skeletal remains curled into a fetal position, a poignant reminder that not all burials from the heroic age were heroic.8

  For many years, it was believed that the closest match to the rites described by Homer were to be found among the Hittites, who cremated their kings on pyres, quenched the embers with wine, and collected the bones, which they then immersed in oil and wrapped in linen.9 In 1980, however, the spectacular discovery of an Iron Age burial above the town of Lefkandi, on the Greek island of Euboia, revealed that heroic burials had been performed in Greece much nearer to Homer’s own time. Under the remains of a monumental building, over 150 feet long by some 45 feet wide and constructed over the charred relics of a great pyre, lay a bronze amphora containing the bones of a thirty- to forty-five-year-old male wrapped in a fine linen robe that, remarkably, had remained intact from the time of interment, just after 1000 B.C. Buried with the “hero” were four horses and a woman richly adorned in gold, who had possibly been sacrificed, along with personal effects that included a sword, a razor, and an iron spearhead10 (the heroön was illegally bulldozed before its thorough excavation by the local landowner, who wanted the site for a vacation home).11

  When Patroklos’ magnificent funeral has been concluded and his bones laid in their urn and his tomb piled over, the Achaeans turn back toward their shelters but are stopped by Achilles. Seating them in assembly, he then directs a stream of treasures to be carried from his ships: tripods, cattle, iron, and women. These will be the prizes awarded in athletic contests held in Patroklos’ honor, for chariot racing, footracing, boxing, weight throwing, full-armored close combat, archery, spear throwing. Such games were evoked in the Iliad very recently: when Hektor ran from Achilles, it was not for the “prizes in the races of men—/ but they ran for the life of Hektor.”

  Like Patroklos’ burial rites, athletic games performed at funerals and religious occasions are attested in the historical record.12 Boxing and weight lifting were among the contests staged at Hittite religious festivals, for example, although they played only a minor role within the wider pageantry of processions, sacrifice, and ceremonies.13 On the other hand, athletic games and other competitions were central features of funeral and religious ritual of the Greek Iron Age;14 this is, after all, the era of the first Olympic Games, whose traditional foundation date is 776 B.C. Just how such contests were seen to honor the dead is not clearly understood, but it appears that they held no deeper ritual significance than the tribute paid by the spectacle and effort of an outstanding performance—an eminently Greek notion. The benefits to the grieving community, on the other hand, are clear. Ritualized, pseudo-military performances of this kind, accompanied by cheers of encouragement and uplifting “award ceremonies” undoubtedly served to reestablish a sense of normalcy and even optimism.15

  The long set piece, which accounts for most of Book Twenty-three, describing the funeral games held for Patroklos provides us with the only glimpse of the Achaean heroes off duty and “at ease.” The individual competitions are humorous, boisterous, and sometimes dangerous, as in the close-combat contest between Diomedes and Aias, which for a chilling moment looks as if it might end in one of their deaths. Pride of place is given to the first and most thrilling competition, the chariot race, for which five heroes stand; as it will turn out, the actions of the spectators are to be as significant as those of the competitors in terms of the light they shed both on Achilles’ character and on the anger of heroes.

  Of the five contenders, Eumelos, son of Admetos, has the lowest profile, having been mentioned only twice before in the epic, a long while back, in Book Two—once as a leader of an important contingent from Thessaly and once, significantly, as the owner of the “best by far” of mares, “swift-moving like birds, alike in / texture of coat, in age, both backs drawn level like a plumb-line.” Shadowy though Eumelos is in the Iliad, his family has strong associations with other stories in myth, and he was undoubtedly known to Homer’s audience.16 At any rate, his reintroduction here, thousands of lines after his first fleeting mention, is eloquent evidence of the tight integration of the epic’s wide-ranging material.

  Diomedes is second to step up, running horses he won in his encounter with Aineias; as often with Diomedes, a whiff of the consummate horse raider accompanies his actions. Menelaos is third, leading “Aithe, Agamemnon’s mare, and his own Podargos,” a deft summation of his characteristic reliance on his more powerful brother. Fourth is Antilochos, who endures a lengthy stream of advice from his long-winded father, Nestor, which, condensed to its essentials, amounts to “ ‘dear son, drive thoughtfully and be watchful.’ ” Fifth is Meriones, who despite the fact that he is never fully characterized has a high profile in the epic; with Idomeneus, the lord of Crete, to whom he is henchman, Meriones appears to be an old Minoan relic caught into Mycenaean tradition.17

  The race begins, and the horses stride away from the ships toward the turning point, a dry stump with two white stones against it, described by Nestor as either “ ‘the grave-mark of someone who died long ago, / or was set as a racing goal by men who lived before our time.’ ” Is it a grave mark, or is it a goalpost? Given the context—a race by the very grave of Patroklos—the ambiguity is pointed, an ominous reminder that despite what heroes are led to believe, memory of the dead does not always endure.

  Soon Eumelos leads—until a broken yoke sends him spinning from his chariot. Entirely heedless of his father’s labored advice, Antilochos drives a reckless race, crying out to his horses to overtake Menelaos’ mare, “ ‘for fear Aithe who is female / may shower you in mockery.’ ” His hard-driving tactics frighten careful Menelaos, who loses his nerve and pulls his team aside. “ ‘Damn you,’ ” cries the fair-haired son of Atreus. “ ‘We Achaeans lied when we said you had good sense.’ ”

  Sitting in the stands, the Achaean assembly strains impatiently to see who is leading as the horses emerge from the dust on the home stretch. A heated argument breaks out between Aias, the son of Oïleus, and Idomeneus: “Aias, surpassing in abuse, yet stupid, in all else

  you are worst of the Argives with that stubborn mind of yours. . . .”

  So he spoke, and swift Aias, son of Oïleus, was risi
ng

  up, angry in turn, to trade hard words with him. And now

  the quarrel between the two of them would have gone still further,

  had not Achilles himself risen up and spoken between them:

  “No longer now, Aias and Idomeneus, continue

  to exchange this bitter and evil talk. It is not becoming.

  If another acted so, you yourselves would be angry.

  Rather sit down again among those assembled and watch for

  the horses.”

  Éris—strife—between heroes, it will be recalled, was a favorite theme of epic. Looked at coldly, stripped of the dignity of their noble epic contexts, these quarrels are almost always petty. In the Cypria, “Achilles quarrels with Agamemnon because he received a late invitation” to a feast; in the Aethiopis, “a quarrel arises between Odysseus and Aias over the armor of Achilles”; the Odyssey tells of a quarrel between Achilles and Odysseus at a festival, not to mention the Iliad’s own dramatic action arising from the “quarrel” between Achilles and Agamemnon.

  Now, at the funeral games, incipient quarrels proliferate. Not only do Aias and Idomeneus quarrel in the stands, but Menelaos is angry with Antilochos for his reckless driving, and, in an extended, telling scene, Achilles momentarily incurs the anger of Antilochos, who finished in second place, by suggesting that an adjustment of prizes be made to compensate Eumelos for the bad luck of his broken chariot yoke; because of this accident, “the best man” came in last, as Achilles points out, and he proposes awarding Eumelos an honorary second prize. At this suggestion, Antilochos stands to argue:“Achilles, I shall be very angry with you if you accomplish what you have said. You mean to take my prize away from me. . . . But if you are sorry for him and he is dear to your liking, there is abundant gold in your shelter, and there is bronze there and animals, and there are handmaidens and single-foot horses.”

  The proposed redistribution of prizes and Antilochos’ indignant response pointedly mirror the themes of the catastrophic quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon at the beginning of the Iliad. As pointed is the contrast between Agamemnon’s handling of outspoken challenge to his judgment and authority, and that of Achilles now:So [Antilochos] spoke, but brilliant swift-footed Achilles,

  favouring

  Antilochos, smiled, since he was his beloved companion,

  and answered him and addressed him in winged words:

  “Antilochos,

  if you would have me bring some other thing out of my dwelling

  as a special gift for Eumelos, then for your sake I will do it.”18

  This, the only occasion in the Iliad when furious Achilles smiles, serves as a bittersweet reminder of the difference real leadership could have made to the events of the Iliad. Agamemnon’s panicked prize-grabbing in Book One and even Nestor’s rambling “authority” pale beside Achilles’ instinctive and absolute command of himself and the dangers of this occasion. As the host of the games in Patroklos’ honor, Achilles does not compete, and yet by his graceful assurance he dominates them completely. This is seen most starkly in his handling of Agamemnon himself, who makes a single, brief appearance in the games, as a contender against Meriones in the last of the competitions, for spear throwing. “ ‘Son of Atreus,’ ” says Achilles, addressing him before the contest is even begun: “ . . . we know how much you surpass all others,

  by how much you are greatest for strength among the spear

  throwers,

  therefore take this prize and keep it and go back to your hollow

  ships; but let us give the spear to the hero Meriones;

  if your own heart would have it this way, for so I invite you.”

  Coolly forestalling the possibility that the son of Atreus might lose the competition and instigate yet another face-saving quarrel, Achilles tactfully intervenes. “He spoke, nor did Agamemnon lord of men disobey him.” A masterpiece of diplomacy, Achilles’ short speech reveals the great leader the Achaeans never had.19

  The funeral games for Patroklos serve as a kind of epilogue to the Iliad’s Achaean story. The heroes, striving mightily in the peaceable competitions, remain comically true to their heroic, on-the-field-of-battle characters, and these affectionate and knowing portraits represent the last time in this epic that most will be seen. With the conclusion of the games, “the people scattered to go away,” and Achilles remains, as it were, onstage alone.

  Weeping again, Achilles recalls Patroklos “and all the actions he had seen to the end with him, and the hardships / he had suffered; the wars of men; hard crossing of the big waters.” Patroklos’ great deeds are never translated into epic song—kléa andrōn—but survive as a close friend’s private reminiscences. After each sleepless night, Achilles arises at dawn and grimly repeats the one activity he believes will dissipate his grief: “when he had yoked running horses under the chariot / he would fasten Hektor behind the chariot, so as to drag him, / and draw him three times around the tomb of Menoitios’ fallen / son.”

  Patroklos’ was not the only unburied corpse. Hektor’s mauled body has lain facedown in the dust since the day he died, and Achilles shows no sign of relenting on his vow that he will never be given burial. The plaintive plea of Patroklos’ ghost to “ ‘give me my rite of burning,’ ” without which it cannot pass into the next world, served as an oblique reminder that Achilles’ actions maltreat Hektor’s psychḗ, as well as his body.

  So Achilles in his standing fury outraged great Hektor.

  The blessed gods as they looked down upon him were filled with

  compassion.

  Among the watching gods, a plan to send Hermes to steal the body from Achilles is rejected by the powerful alliance of Hera and Athene, “who kept still / their hatred for sacred Ilion as in the beginning, . . . because of the delusion of Paris / who insulted the goddesses when they came to him in his courtyard / and favoured her who supplied the lust that led to disaster.” These few lines are the Iliad ’s only overt reference to the so-called Judgment of Paris, which anointed Aphrodite as the most beautiful of the goddesses over Hera and Athene; Paris’ reward (and bribe) for his judgment was the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen, later of Troy.20 This judgment, of course, was the cause of the Trojan War. On earth, the wrath of Achilles has ended and new quarrels have been defused, but on Olympos the gods cannot relinquish old grudges. This evocation of the original, now distant but still ongoing divine “quarrel” comes at a critical moment, as attention shifts away from Patroklos’ funeral and the Achaeans to the unresolved matter of Hektor’s corpse, to Trojan grief, and the fate of Troy.

  In a passion, Apollo berates the gods for their disregard of Hektor, who when alive had pleased them with his sacrifices, and even more for their support of “ ‘ cursed Achilles,’ ” who has “ ‘destroyed pity,’ ” who has no shame, and who “ ‘does dishonour to the dumb earth in his fury.’ ” Between Apollo’s outrage and Hera’s cold hatred, Zeus mildly intervenes with a plan; he will summon Thetis, “ ‘so that I can say a close word to her, and see that Achilles / is given gifts by Priam and gives back the body of Hektor.” The implementation of the plan summarily outlined by Zeus determines the dramatic action of the remainder of the Iliad.

  Through Iris the messenger, Zeus’ directives are relayed first to Thetis, who, wrapped in a baleful dark cloak, than which “there is no darker garment,” obeys his summons. “ ‘You have come to Olympos, divine Thetis, for all your sorrow, / with an unforgotten grief in your heart,’ ” Zeus greets her, gently. “ ‘I myself know this.’ ” The gods are angered with Achilles, yet, as Zeus declares to her, “ ‘I still put upon Achilles the honour that he has, guarding / your reverence and your love for me into time afterwards. ’ ” Zeus is ever mindful of his debt to Thetis, yet the moment has arrived at which he must retire his pledge to bring honor to her son. Achilles has had his honor. It is time to move on.

  Zeus’ directive is quickly telegraphed to all interested parties. Without demur, Thetis flashes from Olympos
to join Achilles and declare Zeus’ plan. “ ‘So be it,’ ” Achilles responds abruptly, also without demur. Iris is dispatched to Priam by Zeus, to “ ‘tell him / to ransom his dear son, going down to the ships of the Achaeans / and bringing gifts to Achilles which might soften his anger.’ ” As Achilles has shown himself to be wholly resistant to appeasement by gifts, Zeus’ strategy seems an odd one. It is a strategy, however, tempered by keen knowledge of the hero. As Zeus tells Iris, Achilles “ ‘is no witless man nor unwatchful, nor is he wicked, / but will in all kindness spare one who comes to him as a suppliant.’ ” Zeus’ plan, then, accords with Achilles’ essential character, the character he displayed before Patroklos’ death. In turn, Priam’s first instinctive impulse following the death of his son had been to go to the ships of the Achaeans and there “entreat this reckless man of violent deeds.” Zeus’ directives, then, do not so much supply the script that Achilles and Priam must enact as provide both stricken men with the means to transcend their grief according to their own almost forgotten natures.

  When Iris arrives to deliver Zeus’ message to Priam, she finds him sitting in the palace courtyard surrounded by his remaining sons; “and among them the old man / sat veiled, beaten into his mantle. Dung lay thick / on the head and neck of the aged man, for he had been rolling / in it, he had gathered and smeared it on with his hands.” Hitherto, Priam has appeared in the epic as an endearing old warrior, affectionately chatting to Helen as they looked out from Troy’s battlements over the plain, or riding in, with some pomp, to officiate at the rites attending the duel between Paris and Menelaos. But now, as attention is fully turned, as it has been only once before in the Iliad, to Troy, Priam emerges as one of the most compelling and hauntingly memorable of all the epic’s many figures.