Rereading Death: Ethics and Aesthetics in the Ancient

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REREADING DEATH: ETHICS AND AESTHETICS

IN THE ANCIENT RECEPTION OF HOMERIC BATTLE NARRATIVE

by Nicholas Kauffman

A dissertation submitted to Johns Hopkins University in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Baltimore, MD March, 2015

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Abstract

In this dissertation, I examine the many famous death scenes in the Iliad and argue that their reception within antiquity reflects a lively and diverse discourse about the meaning of violence, and specifically of death in battle. As evidence of this reception, I consider later Greek epics and the exegetical tradition, viewing these texts using the methodological frameworks of intertextuality and reception studies. In the first chapter, I provide a descriptive analysis of the Iliad’s deaths and discuss the often conflicting interpretations of them advanced in modern scholarship. I argue that these deaths are underdetermined, that the text itself articulates no clear ideological framework within which to understand them, and I view this underdeterminedness as productive, in that it makes possible and even encourages dialogue among later readers. In the subsequent chapters I examine three texts that engage in this dialogue. First, I look at the death scenes in Apollonius’ Argonautica. Though these are largely constructed from Homeric motifs, I show that Apollonius consistently defamiliarizes these motifs and thus calls into question not only the formal qualities of the Iliadic narrative but also its ethical underpinnings. In Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica, as I show in the following chapter, the deaths are designed to seem Homeric, and they are formally almost identical to their

Iliadic counterparts. But I argue that this similarity belies subtle differences, and that

Quintus is generally less interested in the ethical and emotional significance of death in battle and more interested in its aesthetic qualities. Finally, I consider the reading of the

Iliad’s deaths preserved in the exegetical scholia to the epic, which represent the most direct response to these scenes available to us. Interestingly, the scholiasts respond to death not primarily as an ethical or aesthetic phenomenon, but as a locus for exploring

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cultural identity. They highlight ways in which Greek and “barbarian” deaths differ, and seem to take a kind of pleasure in the latter. These case studies reveal three very different ways in which ancient readers found (or made) meaning in the Iliad’s battle narratives.

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to my advisor, Professor Silvia Montiglio, whose Iliad seminar prompted me to pursue this project. Her teaching has been consistently inspiring, and her guidance has deeply shaped my approach to ancient texts. She advised me throughout the process of writing this dissertation, providing countless suggestions on points both large and small. I am also grateful to the entire Classics Department at Johns Hopkins University. Many conversations with various members of the faculty and with my fellow graduate students have influenced the thought and arguments reflected in this dissertation. Finally, I am thankful to my wife, Kjerstin, who has been a constant support to me, devoting many of her busy evenings to discussions of dead men in poems written thousands of years ago, and often offering me just the right insights at just the right times. Though it seems not quite right to dedicate a work on death and slaughter to someone as lovely and lively as her, there are moments of beauty and grace in the poetry I discuss here, and it is on those grounds that I do dedicate it to her.

Note on the spelling of Greek names:

I have generally used phonetic transliterations of Greek names rather than their Latinized versions (e.g. Imbrios rather than Imbrius), except in the cases of better known individuals, where I have used conventional spellings (Achilles, Ajax, etc.).

Table of Contents

Abstract ...... iii Acknowledgements ...... v Table of Contents ...... vii

Introduction ...... 1 1. Subject...... 1 2. Scope ...... 6 3. Methodology ...... 7 4. Ethics and Aesthetics ...... 12 5. Outline of the Chapters ...... 16

Chapter 1: Describing Iliadic Death ...... 19 1. Death Scenes and the Oral Tradition ...... 22 2. Philhellenism...... 27 3. Biographies ...... 29 4. Similes...... 44 5. Wounds ...... 58 6. Conclusion ...... 72

Chapter 2. Displacing Death: Parody and Pathos in Apollonius’ Argonautica ...... 75 1. Dying in Battle ...... 81 2. Dying out of Battle...... 105 3. Monstrously Beautiful Deaths ...... 119 4. Death and the Ethics of Reading ...... 131

Chapter 3: Death Without Pathos in Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica ...... 135 1. Philhellenism...... 140 2. Biographies ...... 142 3. Similes...... 153 4. Wounds ...... 166 5. The Aesthetics of Slaughter ...... 173

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Chapter 4. Bloodthirsty Scholarship: Responses to Death in the Iliad Scholia ...... 191 1. The Involved Reader ...... 193 2. Feeling Death ...... 198 3. Learning from Death ...... 213 4. Savoring Death...... 224 5. Conclusion: The Use and Abuse of Homeric Death ...... 232

Appendices ...... 239 1.1 Individual Deaths in the Iliad ...... 240 1.2 Biographies in the Iliad ...... 245 1.3 Death Similes in the Iliad ...... 247 1.4 Graphic Wounds in the Iliad ...... 249 1.5 Slaughter in the Iliad ...... 251 3.1 Individual Deaths in the Posthomerica ...... 252 3.2 Biographies in the Posthomerica ...... 256 3.3 Death Similes in the Posthomerica ...... 257 3.4 Graphic Wounds in the Posthomerica ...... 259 3.5 Slaughter in the Posthomerica ...... 261

Bibliography ...... 265

Curriculum Vitae ...... 289

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Introduction

1. Subject

The Iliad has aptly been described as a poem about death:1 it begins with a prediction of the many fatalities to come (πολλὰς δ’ ἰφθίμους ψυχὰς Ἄϊδι προΐαψεν, 1.3) and ends with a funeral. In between, the deaths of some hundreds of individuals are narrated. What is more, the poet seems to take peculiar interest in many of these men, even the most minor among them. Where epics in other traditions tend to present fallen warriors of this caliber only en masse or in catalogues, the Iliad often lingers over the details of their deaths and supplies us with information about their lives and identities.2

One of the most striking examples of this practice is the description of the death of a

Trojan named Simoesios:

There Telamonian Ajax struck down the son of Anthemion Simoeisios in his stripling’s beauty, whom once his mother descending from Ida bore beside the banks of the Simoeis when she had followed her father and mother to tend the sheepflocks. Therefore they called him Simoeisios; but he could not render again the care of his dear parents; he was short-lived, beaten down beneath the spear of high-hearted Ajax, who struck him as he first came forward beside the nipple of the right breast, and the bronze spearhead drove clean through the shoulder. He dropped then to the ground in the dust, like some black poplar, which in the land low-lying about a great marsh grows smooth trimmed yet with branches growing at the uttermost tree-top. (4.473-84)3

This Simoesios has no role in the action of the poem—he turns up only here, at the very moment of his death—but the poet pauses and focuses the audience’s attention on him, giving us a glimpse of his family and the sorrow his death will bring them, and letting us

1 Marg 1976, 18: “Die Ilias ist ein Gedicht vom Sterben und dem Tod.” See also Griffin 1980 and Petersmann 1973, 3. 2 Strasburger 1954, 12; Griffin 1980, 103. See page 19 below for a brief discussion of one such tradition. 3 All translations of the Iliad are from Lattimore 1951, with occasional modifications. I quote the Greek of this passage on page 45 below.

see him in the lovely image of a young tree cut down. Such treatment seems to make the casualties of war, though minor in terms of the epic’s plot, into a significant part of its poetic project.

What exactly this elaborate attention for the dead is supposed to mean, though, is a vexed and difficult question. Indeed, one’s interpretation of these deaths depends to a large extent on one’s interpretation of the poem’s presentation of war, an even more troublesome issue: the Iliad has been taken variously as a condemnation of war and the violence it does to and in humans and human society,4 or as a celebration of war, a recommendation of “the military life,”5 and even a poem that can itself foment war.6 The deaths of the poem have been taken, accordingly, in very different ways. Sometimes they are read as tragic, evidence of the horror and painfulness of war: the description of the death of Simoesios, according to this reading, is designed to make it seem horrible, wasteful, regrettable. Alternately, they can be seen as ennobling the fallen, drawing attention to their death and life and thus heroizing them: in this view, the poet’s description of Simoeisios’ death makes that death meaningful, even something to be aspired to, in that it preserves an image of him as grand and beautiful, dying a death that is worthy of a hero. The same deaths, then, can be taken as either questioning or affirming the “heroic code” of the epic, or, more subtly, as probing or complicating it.

My aim in this study is not to resolve this question once and for all, to say what the deaths in the Iliad are supposed to mean. One reason is the sheer variety of these

4 Most notably in Simone Weil’s famous essay, “The Iliad, or the Poem of Force.” Though often criticized for its hyperbole, many of the sentiments in Weil’s essay have become widespread in readings of the Iliad, both directly and through the work of other scholars (on which see chapter 1, note 50, and Holoka 2003). 5 Havelock 1972, 33. 6 Momigliano 1966, 113: “Who will deny that the Iliad and the Germania raise most unholy passions in the human mind?” See Bouvier 2012, which contextualizes Momigliano’s reading. See also my discussion of Isocrates below.

deaths. For every Simoesios, whose death is elaborate and poignant, there are others who die without any comment or notice, and others still whose deaths are painted in the ugliest of detail, with eyeballs popping out of heads and marrow gushing from necks. To reduce all of these and make them fit with a single unifying “interpretation” of death would, I think, do a disservice to the complexity of the epic and the tradition it represents.

Moreover, an attempt to identify such a perspective would require a careful reconstruction of the historical circumstances within which the epic was composed, and the social ideologies that underlie it, and these are necessarily difficult to pinpoint, given the poem’s long and evolving tradition.7 Finally, and most importantly, such an attempt is made more difficult still by the nature of the question itself. Death, especially death in battle, is a fraught and emotional subject, and one’s interpretation of its meaning can hardly be divorced from one’s own experiences with and ideas on the matter, which are themselves conditioned by one’s cultural milieu.8 We might borrow here an insight from

Susan Sontag’s study of war photography. She examines the question of whether images showing the brutality of war can be used to prevent war, and offers an answer that is largely negative, because, as she says, such images are always susceptible to various interpretations:

The same antiwar photograph may be read as showing pathos, or heroism, admirable heroism, in an unavoidable struggle that can be concluded only by victory or defeat. The photographer’s intentions do not determine the meaning of the photograph, which will have its own career, blown by the whims and loyalties of the diverse communities that have use for it.9

7 I discuss this context at more detail in chapter 1, section 1. 8 This is generally true of any interpretation (“There is always a connection between the framework within which we read texts and the interpretations we give of them,” Martindale (1993, 11)), but I think it is more pronounced on issues like the one in question. 9 Sontag 2003, 38-39.

To one viewer in one context, the image of a mangled body or an emaciated soldier may serve as a denunciation of war and everything associated with it; but to another, in another context, that very image may have the opposite effect, may rally him to take up arms, or to praise those who have taken them up.

The same thing, I think, holds true for the Iliad’s representations of death. We cannot know what Homer’s10 intention may have been in describing the deaths in his epic in the way he did. We can certainly make more or less compelling conjectures about it, as many scholars have done,11 but all too often these conjectures reveal more about the predispositions of the interpreter than about the text interpreted. Take, for example, the two positions on the Iliad’s relation to war, briefly mentioned above: the antiwar reading of it was articulated by Simone Weil, who was at least partially responding to the beginning of the Second World War,12 while the more militarist reading of Eric Havelock emerged in the midst of the Vietnam War.13 Along the same lines, we might consider

Jonathan Shay’s Achilles in Vietnam,14 or a handful of recent works that more or less explicitly read the Iliad through the lens of the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan.15 These interpreters have responded to the poem in light of their own contexts, and this has led to drastically different readings. Nor is this only a modern phenomenon. In the Certamen,

10 “Homer” is of course a construction, but it is a very useful construction, and one I will use often in this study, since it was shared by each of the authors I will be considering. 11 Chapter 1 of this study offers an extensive discussion of various views that have been put forth on the matter. 12 Weil’s essay has been called “a document of its time: an extraordinary response to the war with Hitler and the fall of France” (Summers 1981, 87; qtd. in Holoka 2003, 3). Momigliano’s later comments, cited in note 6 above, reflect another viewpoint refracted through the experience of the same war. 13 His reflections on the Iliad were delivered as part of the Vanier lectures in 1970; these lectures were dedicated to the memory of Ernest Wilfred Havelock, who died in the Battle of the Somme. 14 His experiences with Vietnam veterans helped him come to a reading of the Iliad as a poem “that is deeply opposed to war” (1994, 206). 15 E.g. Rubino 2005, 428n7 and Alexander 2009, xix. Wolfgang Petersen’s film Troy (2004) is often read as a commentary on the Iraq war, a view that he has confirmed in interviews. On this see Dué 2007, 248. More dramatic still is the view of Bouvier (2012), discussed in section 4 below.

the core of which was likely the work of the sophist Alcidamas, Homer loses a contest with Hesiod because his poetry teaches men to make war, and Martin West has linked this judgment with the author’s advocacy of peace in the 360s.16 A few decades later, though, Isocrates praises the Iliad precisely because of its advocacy of war, suggesting that it celebrates the deeds of heroes who kill barbarians, and thus provides inspiration for a war against Persia.17 The cultural and political circumstances and goals of both authors shape the way they receive the violence of the epic. Whatever Homer may have thought of war, and of killing in war, his readers across the centuries have read it in various ways according to their own preconceptions and purposes.

Rather than regretting the difficulty, or even impossibility, of recovering an

“objective” interpretation of Iliadic death,18 I think we should welcome this vast array of interpretations as interesting and productive on its own terms. For it allows us to study the Iliad not as a historical artifact with a fixed and specific meaning but as a living text that can produce a multiplicity of meanings. In this sense, I view the deaths in the Iliad— like Sontag’s photographs—not as limited by the poet’s intentions for them, or by their meaning as perceived within their original cultural setting, but as subject to and generative of continuous reinterpretations. I take them, that is, as initiating a long and fruitful dialogue about what (or if) it means to die in battle. The object of the present study is to explore some aspects of this dialogue, to trace the ways in which the Iliad’s deaths have been made to mean, put to use in various ways: to engage in polemics, to

16 M. West 1967, 443. Cf. Rosen’s (2004) interpretation, which suggests that the work’s apparently moralizing conclusion should not be taken as straightforward. Graziosi (2002, 175-80) links Homer’s quotation of his best work in the Certamen with contemporary military practices in democratic Athens. 17 Isocrates 5.159. See page 233 for quotation and discussion of his position. 18 As Martindale explains, “The desire to experience, say, Homer in himself untouched by any taint of modernity is part of the pathology of many classicists, but it is a deluded desire (even were such a thing possible, it could not satisfy, for it would no longer be ‘we’ who were reading Homer)” (2006, 7).

arouse emotions, to prompt reflection, or simply to provide entertainment. By studying these various responses, I think, we can in turn deepen our understanding of the Iliad itself, the kinds of questions and issues it raises, and the reasons for its continuing relevance.

2. Scope

Naturally, such a dialogue is far too lengthy to be treated in a single study. We might trace, for instance, the way that Iliadic representations of death were employed within the rhetoric of the classical polis, in the poetry of World War I19 or even in contemporary poetry,20 or in the scholarship of the twentieth century.21 Each of these avenues of inquiry could yield insight into both the Iliad and the ways in which engagements with it have informed and been informed by cultural discourses. For this study, though, I will focus on the earliest stages of this dialogue, considering how the

Iliad’s deaths were received and interpreted by authors within antiquity. Even this presents a vast body of texts that we might consider, and so in the current investigation I present only a series of case studies rather than anything approaching an exhaustive treatment of the subject. Specifically, I look at three texts that display complex and sophisticated kinds of engagement with the Iliad on the nature of death in battle:

Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica, Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica, and the exegetical scholia to the Iliad.

19 For a recent treatment of this rich topic, see Vandiver 2010. 20 A fascinating example of such reception is Alice Oswald’s Memorial (2012), a version of the Iliad consisting entirely of death descriptions, replete with similes and vignettes. Everything else has been stripped away: there is no sense of the progress of the battle, no grand speeches, no gods, only the death of individual after individual. 21 Tatum (2013) insightfully considers twentieth-century Virgilian scholarship, specifically in terms of its approaches to war, in light of historical developments.

Analysis of these specific texts will allow me to offer a broad and diachronic perspective on the ways in ancient readers could reread and reuse Homeric death. Each of them, as I will show, does something dramatically different with the Iliad’s death scenes, and studying their approaches side by side can yield fascinating insights into trends in the ancient reception of Homer. This selection also represents a largely untrodden path of inquiry. Though a few studies have treated some aspects of Apollonius’s death scenes in comparison with Homer’s, neither Quintus nor the scholia have been studied in terms of their representations of or responses to death.22 Indeed, very little work has been done on such fundamental issues as the nature of war and violence in Quintus; and the scholia, despite some fresh approaches in recent years, are still generally treated as repositories of forgotten lore rather than representative of the thought of an individual and interesting reading community. With the present investigation, then, I hope both to offer a new reading of Homeric death, by viewing it from a cross-cultural and trans-historical perspective, and to shed new light on the dynamics of these understudied texts and their interaction with the Iliad.

3. Methodology

As will have become clear by now, my approach in this study is largely guided by the concept of “reception,” a mode of criticism generally associated with the work of

Hans Robert Jauss and Wolfgang Iser. In the field of classics, reception has most often been championed and exemplified by Charles Martindale, and my work is deeply

22 Because of the broad nature of this study, I discuss the bibliography for each text I consider individually, rather than dedicating a chapter to “literature review.”

indebted to his writings.23 The primary insight that I take from Martindale (and which has found its way into my title) is the idea that we can understand “‘imitative’ texts” as

“rereadings of the works imitated.”24 For instance, Martindale takes the Pharsalia as

Lucan’s rereading of the Aeneid, showing his interpretation of it, and thus enlarging its meaning for his own readers; as he explains, “Lucan’s disenchantment can show us a way of reading the Aeneid which alerts us to the ideological nexus it encodes.”25 In the same way, I take the works of Apollonius and Quintus as rereadings of the Iliad, 26 in whose shadow they are consciously writing. I hold that the way they develop the death scenes within their narratives is evidence of their understanding of and response to the death scenes in the earlier epic. The scholia to the Iliad offer a much more direct reading of its deaths, but I consider them too through the lens of reception, taking their comments not as examples of unmediated scholarly analysis, but as situated within the context of their culture and their own interpretive community.

Approaching later epics as “rereadings” of the Iliad presupposes a view of their relation to that epic as intertextual. To understand the dynamics of their reception, then, requires a good deal of careful comparative work, noting the many and often subtle ways in which they interact with their predecessor, and sometimes with each other. As such, specific intertextual comparisons will form the foundation of most of my readings in the chapters that follow. Often, I will point out and analyze allusions within these epics to

23 Martindale 1993, 2006, 2013. 24 Martindale 1993, 35. This idea is not original to Martindale; Conte, for instance, refers to the imitator as “also a type of reader” (1986, 29). 25 Martindale 1993, 48. On the illumination of reception, see also Martindale 2013, 171: “As a result new light is cast on them, they are made newly ‘readable.’” 26 This mode of understanding ancient epics’ relationship with Homer has become fairly typical in recent years. For instance, Knight (1995, 39) speaks of “Apollonius’ creative reading of Homer,” and Maciver (2012a, 9) describes study of Quintus as an exploration of how he “imitates, manipulates, comments on, differs from, in sum reads, Homer.”

Iliadic death scenes. That is, I will draw attention to and attempt to interpret passages in which later authors seem to pointedly and intentionally recall a specific passage or type of passage from the Iliad, and thus to engage with it directly in one manner or another.

The word “intentionally” here is of course problematic, since an author’s intention is necessarily constructed in the mind of the reader, and such construction depends on circumstances and prejudices external to the text. Despite this insurmountable epistemological problem, though, the traditional and philological language of allusion and intention can still be productive, if used cautiously. For, as Stephen Hinds has argued,

“it enables us to conceptualize and handle certain kinds of intertextual transactions more economically and effectively than does any alternative.”27

Let us briefly consider an example of how this type of intertextuality can tell us about the reception of Homeric death. One of the more famous deaths in the Iliad is that of a young Trojan named Gorgythion. Though he plays no role in the plot of the epic beyond his death, he has had a very long afterlife in the poetic tradition,28 thanks to the simile used to describe his fall:

μήκων δ’ ὡς ἑτέρωσε κάρη βάλεν, ἥ τ’ ἐνὶ κήπῳ καρπῷ βριθομένη νοτίῃσί τε εἰαρινῇσιν, ὣς ἑτέρωσ’ ἤμυσε κάρη πήληκι βαρυνθέν. (Il. 8.306-08)29

He bent drooping his head to one side, as a garden poppy bends beneath the weight of its yield and the rains of springtime; so his head bent slack to one side beneath the helm’s weight.

27 Hinds 1998, 50. 28 The simile is used to describe Gorgythion’s death in Memorial (the only case in the poem in which Oswald uses the same simile for a death as in the Iliad itself; Laurel Bowman makes this observation in an unpublished paper which she has shared with me) and Michael Longley’s poem “A Poppy” (1999). On Longley’s use of this simile and its own intertextual complexities, see Hardwick 2008, 349-50. 29 Text of the Iliad from Monro and Allen 1978.

The simile here is short and memorable, and it is also perhaps the clearest example in the poem of the aestheticization of violence: in two lines, it turns the death of a young man into something beautiful and seemingly lyrical. But the surrounding narrative offers little indication of how this simile should be taken, how it should be understood in relation to the overall project of the epic. It is a passing image, not overtly thematized by the text, and as a result, it is susceptible to various interpretations and repurposings. And indeed, both of the epic poets whose works I will consider return to this simile: Apollonius uses motifs from it to describe the death of the monstrous Earthborn in Colchis, and Quintus employs elements of it in two different similes, both attached to famously beautiful young warriors. In adapting the Gorgythion simile to make it fit with their own poetic projects and cultural contexts, these later authors offer their own “rereading” of it. To anticipate my arguments in the chapters that follow, we might say that Apollonius problematizes the simile’s aestheticization of violence by applying it to a strange object and that Quintus incorporates it into an ongoing philosophical reflection about the fragility of youth and beauty. The Homeric original is short and suggestive, and these later readers return to it, exploring its possible meanings and putting it to use in various ways. The simile thus offers them a way of thinking through death, and of entering into dialogue about its meaning.

In addition to considering this kind of direct or allusive intertextuality, I also pay careful attention to broader correspondences and differences in these epics’ treatment of death. For in my view the epics as a whole, rather than just specific passages within them, should be understood as being in dialogue with the Iliad.30 As the first work in its

30 To use Genette’s terminology, I take them as hypertexts of the Iliad (1997, 5-7); the scholia would then be considered metatexts (4).

tradition, the Iliad established the range of patterns and techniques by which death in battle could be narrated, creating31 what Gian Biagio Conte calls “a poetic langue, a system of literary conventions, motifs, ideas, and expressions, with its laws and constraints, that each ‘speaker’ (writer) will use in his or her own way.”32 When a later poet in the epic tradition narrates a death, then, he must necessarily use elements of this langue to do so. While we might distinguish such usages as insignificant because they are so conventional,33 Conte rightly suggests that they too should be considered types of allusion and intertextuality.34 For in deploying them, a poet is making a choice to associate his work with the given tradition, and thus to assert its connection with the Iliad.

Moreover, the ways that they modify this langue, adjusting it according to their own needs, can be just as revealing as their more overt allusions to specific passages.

This level of intertextuality is necessarily subtle and difficult to pinpoint. To get some sense of it, I often rely in this study on statistical analysis. I compile a number of lists, which I include as appendices, enumerating all the individual deaths in the Iliad as well as in the Posthomerica,35 and taking into account the kind of techniques each poet uses in developing the narratives of their deaths. This analysis offers a big-picture view of the ways in which these poets use and adapt the langue of death descriptions, and thus,

I think, it can shed valuable light on their reading of Homeric death.

31 Of course, the Iliad itself could hardly have created such a langue, but is merely the first known instantiation of it. Functionally, though, it can be seen as standing in this initiatory position. 32 Conte 1986, 37. 33 See here Hinds’s criticism of scholarship that warns against making too much of “accidental confluences” in classical texts (1998, 17-20). 34 Conte 1986, 52: “I consider that even the use of the ostensibly inert… should be conceived not as the pole opposite to allusion, but rather as a different degree of the same function.” 35 I do not use such statistics in my analysis of the Argonautica, where the grounds for such structural comparisons are much slimmer, since the epic contains so few deaths. Furthermore, as I explain in chapter 2, section 1, there is serious ambiguity in the epic about whether certain characters are killed or not.

4. Ethics and Aesthetics

As the title of this study suggests, I focus on the ways in which these later authors read Homeric death in terms of its aesthetic presentation and its ethical implications.

These are ponderous terms, and I would like to offer here some sense of what I mean by them. Rather than giving definitions, however, I will do so by means of example, by considering some aspects of the reception of a much more contemporary work of art:

Sam Peckinpah’s 1969 western film, The Wild Bunch. At the time of its release, The Wild

Bunch was considered the most violent movie ever made in American cinema; the

Motion Picture Production Code, which enforced strict rules about what could and could not be shown in theaters, had recently been lifted, and Peckinpah was among the first directors who was free to depict violence in whatever way he wished. He took full advantage of this opportunity, bookending his film with two extended gunfights that include images of countless deaths and a great deal of bloodshed. In crafting such violent and visceral scenes, though, Peckinpah had what he saw as a clear ethical purpose: as he put it, “I personally feel it’s time Hollywood quit glamorizing violence and let people see how brutalizing and horrible it really is. This is what I tried to do [in The Wild Bunch].”36

He saw contemporary culture as anaesthetized to the true nature of violence, and so went to great lengths to show it graphically and vividly. His motivations in this are not unlike those Simone Weil ascribes to Homer—to portray violence, with all its devastating effects, in an effort to combat violence.

But, as we have seen, the artist’s intention is often of little importance for the reception and interpretation of an artwork, and the case of The Wild Bunch neatly illustrates this point. Despite Peckinpah’s design, many of the film’s viewers actually

36 In a letter to his friend Paul Staniford, quoted in Prince 2000, 176.

found the violence of the film exciting, and some were even incited by it to violent action.

According to one account, a group of soldiers involved in the Nigerian civil war watched the film to get themselves motivated for battle, and subsequently went off to fight

“shouting that they wanted to die like William Holden [one of the heroes of the film].”37

The film, then, was put to a very different ethical use than Peckinpah had imagined, actually furthering violence instead of preventing it. We can find a comparable use of the

Iliad, perhaps, in an anecdote related by Elisabeth Samet, a professor of English at the

United States Military Academy. As she explains, one of her students was deeply skeptical about the value of the Iliad until he read the aristeia of Agamemnon in book 11, one of the most brutal and graphic descriptions of slaughter in the entire poem. Once he read this passage, he told Samet, “Now I understand.”38 David Bouvier has discussed

Samet’s observations on teaching the Iliad, and he suggests that the epic became a sort of ethical model for the budding soldiers at West Point, offering them patterns of (in this case violent) behavior to follow.39 Provocatively, he applies this line of thinking to the torture committed by American soldiers at Abu Ghraib—including the dragging of bound individuals—and suggests that this may have been inspired by the infamous actions of

Achilles in Iliad 22. Whatever we make of this particular argument, the dynamic of reading it imagines, like the other examples considered above, is an illustration of what I mean by an ethical response to a work of art. For Peckinpah and the Nigerian soldiers— and for Weil and the West Point cadets—the artistic depiction of death had relevance for

37 Kluge 1972, 53. The story was apparently told to Peckinpah by a war correspondent; hearing it, he says, made him vomit. 38 Samet 2007, 41-42. 39 Bouvier 2012, 88-92. I think Bouvier’s treatment here is overly polemical; he treats Samet’s pedagogy as promoting a view of the Iliad as celebrating war, whereas she explains her experience teaching the epic very differently: “When I read ancient epics with students… we often find less truth and power in the rousing battle cries of Agamemnon and his fellow bloody-minded enthusiasts than in the disillusion of Achilles, the humanity of Hector, or the ambivalence of Aeneas” (2007, 25).

the world outside the confines of the narrative. It prompted reflection about the nature of violence or, more disturbingly, it prompted actual violence.

The reception of Peckinpah’s film can also illustrate what I mean by aesthetic ways of reading. In his attempt to highlight how awful physical violence is, Peckinpah employed a number of innovative filmic techniques, namely the use of “squibs” to simulate the expulsion of blood from a bullet-wound and the montage style of filming, which showed a single incident from a variety of angles and at a variety of speeds.40 He wanted to film death in a way that would make people notice it, that would strike the viewers and arouse a negative response in them. In this intention, though, as we saw, he was greatly disappointed: people did find his stylized violence affecting, but often in a very positive way. Subsequent filmmakers were very taken with the way he aestheticized violence, and the montage technique he pioneered has become a standard element in violent action movies. Stephen Prince, a leading scholar on Peckinpah, explains the significance of this development:

To the extent… that the montage aesthetic has become the enduring template for filmic presentations of graphic violence, cinema has turned death into a mechanized spectacle… Thus this aesthetic, when it becomes the chief means for representing violent death, as it all too often has been, is an insufficient means for probing the meaning and consequences of violence.41

In this analysis, filmmakers have followed Peckinpah’s style, using the techniques he developed for depicting violence, but ignored his (failed) efforts to use this violence for ethical ends. Their reception of his film, then, is primarily an aesthetic one, recreating its artistic dimensions without paying much attention to its possible relation to the real world and to real violence.

40 Prince 2000 provides a thorough analysis of these techniques and the films that influenced Peckinpah in developing them. 41 Prince 2000, 199-200.

The distinction I have been drawing between ethical and aesthetic readings is largely arbitrary: in practice, the two modes often overlap to the point that they are scarcely distinguishable. The Nigerian soldiers who wanted “to die like William Holden,” we must presume, were led to this desire by the particular aesthetics of the film, by the way William Holden, in dying, looked. The same, we might imagine, is also true of the

West Point cadet who was enlightened by Agamemnon’s aristeia, especially when we recall that the episode is preceded by a lavish description of his armor—“a warrior’s haute-couture dream.”42 None of these soldiers would have been similarly inspired to action if the depictions of violence they encountered had been without their striking aesthetic qualities. The same principle also applies in the opposite direction: it is impossible to fully separate the aesthetic from the ethical. The filmmakers who follow

Peckinpah’s aesthetics are also, of course, making an ethical decision: they are choosing to focus on the appearance of violence, on the ways it can be made visually interesting, without probing its “meaning and consequences.” We might say that this is an ethical decision precisely because it represents a refusal to deal with the ethical.

In the study that follows, then, these terms are not intended to strictly define or separate the kinds of questions I will explore. I will look, rather, at the ways in which later readings of Homeric death highlight its intertwined ethical and aesthetic dimensions.

The simile for Gorgythion, discussed above, is a good example of how complex such issues can become. Through the simile, Homer certainly makes death into something aesthetically interesting, but this choice might also be seen to have profound ethical implications. Is it, for instance, painting a positive image of death in battle, and thus prompting young warriors to “die like Gorgythion,” or is it rather offering a pointed

42 Samet 2007, 41.

contrast between the ugliness of war and the beauty of the garden, and thus condemning the effects of violence? Such a question is far from simple, but I hope that tracing the way later authors reused the simile can help us, if not to answer it, at least to appreciate its depth.

5. Outline of the Chapters

In chapter 1, “Describing Iliadic Death,” I offer a descriptive analysis of the

Iliad’s death-narratives, with the goal of providing a firm basis for the comparisons I will go on to make in subsequent chapters. I focus in particular on three of the most characteristic and memorable (in the epic tradition) techniques used in the development of the Iliad’s many death scenes: the biographies and similes that are attached to fallen warriors, and the often detailed physical descriptions of the wounds they suffer. I also discuss a variety of ways in which previous scholars have interpreted each of these techniques, and highlight the fact that these interpretations often conflict with each other, some finding in them evidence of the poet’s delight in battle and killing, and others of his abhorrence of violence. Rather than attempting to resolve such conflicts or offer a synthetic interpretation of my own, I hold them as evidence of the complexity and ambiguity of the Iliad’s treatment of death, suggesting that it is this very quality which makes the dialogue that the epic initiates so rich.

In chapter 2, “Displacing Death: Parody and Pathos in Apollonius’ Argonautica,”

I turn to my first case study in the reception of Homeric death. Though the Argonautica is not primarily focused on war, it does contain a number of battle scenes that make ample use of Homeric techniques, and I show that Apollonius subtly but consistently

manipulates these motifs in an attempt to draw attention to their constructedness. I also consider a number of non-battle episodes that also contain Homeric death motifs, and I find a similar dynamic in them. I argue that Apollonius, in defamiliarizing these motifs, is questioning not only the way in which Iliadic deaths are narrated but also what he perceives as the epic’s heroic project.

Chapter 3, “Death Without Pathos in Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica,” examines a rereading of Iliadic death in a text whose intertextual engagement with the

Iliad is vast and constant. Quintus’ late-antique epic is meant to seem Homeric, and it explicitly positions itself as a continuation of the Iliad. In this light, I analyze the text largely in terms of the way it negotiates Homeric conventions in presenting death, considering the deep-seated structural correspondences and differences between it and the

Iliad, rather than direct and intentional allusions. This investigation reveals that Quintus models the deaths in his epic on Homeric deaths with striking formal precision, but without any particular interest. I suggest that he is more concerned with the aesthetics of death, and especially death on a large scale, than with its ethical implications: he presents it as a spectacle to be marveled at rather than a problem to be pondered.

In chapter 4, “Bloodthirsty Scholarship: Responses to Death in the Iliad Scholia,”

I look at a much more direct reading of Homer’s death scenes, namely the one offered in late-antique commentaries on the epic and preserved in the margins of Byzantine manuscripts of it. I trace in the scholia two kinds of responses to the Iliad’s death scenes, emotional and intellectual. But I argue that both of these responses are deeply linked with identity, and I show that the scholiasts’ reactions to individual deaths differ greatly depending on whether the slain is Trojan or Achaean. For them, the deaths offer a means

of thinking through distinctions between Greek and barbarian. Such a reading sometimes produces comments that would strike most modern readers of the Iliad as strange and even bloodthirsty, evincing what seems like a kind of delight in death.

Chapter 1: Describing Iliadic Death

Let us begin, not with the Iliad, but with a brief look at an epic from a very different tradition: the Song of Roland. Before the first battle of that poem begins, the poet introduces in detail each of Twelve Saracen Peers, eleven of whom will die in the course of the initial encounter. They are presented as powerful, significant figures, kings, sorcerers, or men otherwise distinguished by special skills or abilities (laisses 70-78).

When the battle starts, the Twelve Peers, the flower of French chivalry, deal with these individuals handily and quickly, dispatching all but one of them1 with ease, in a series of fast-paced duels (laisses 93-104). There follow a handful of scattered individual deaths (a total of seven in laisses 106-07, each named but not elaborated), but aside from these the

French victory is narrated in the most general of terms: Moerent paien a millers e a cent

(Hundreds and thousands of pagans die, 1417); Paien sunt morz a millers e a fuls (The pagans have died by the thousand and in masses, 1439).2 In this epic, the only victims deemed worthy of much attention are the powerful, who are killed by those even more powerful. The rest become part of the nameless and faceless mass of corpses that strew the field when the fray has ended.

Things are much different in the Iliad. Over two hundred distinct, named individuals die in the course of the Iliad’s many battles, and virtually all of these are

“minor warriors,”3 in the sense that they appear in the narrative only at the moment of their death, playing no role in the narrative except to be killed. The fact that only a few major warriors are killed in the epic might be accounted for by the amount of time that its

1 Margariz escapes, presumably to tell the news of the defeat to the Saracen king (Brault 1978, 196). 2 Text and translation from Brault 1978. 3 Strasburger (1954) offers a detailed and often insightful study of these characters, whom she calls “Die kleinen Kämpfer.”

plot covers. Unlike the Song of Roland, the Iliad describes not a complete war, only a small portion of one—the fighting is already well underway when the poem begins, and the city has not fallen yet when it ends, and so most of the important characters on both sides must remain alive. But narrative factors alone cannot explain why the poet focuses so much of his—and his audience’s—attention on the minor warriors that are everywhere slain in his epic. About a third of these casualties are dispensed with rather hastily,4 but the remainder are more or less elaborated. Indeed, in some cases he pays them so much heed that the forward momentum of the narrative seems to be interrupted.

Consider, for instance, the narrative of Achilles’ aristeia. The hero goes on the rampage, killing twenty-three named men, in addition to an indefinite number of others only alluded to, in the course of around three hundred lines. Aside from Asteropaios, none of his victims is a hero of much note, and none puts up any fight against him. Yet the poet lingers over several of them. Such is the case with the young Polydoros:

…ἀντίθεον Πολύδωρον Πριαμίδην. τὸν δ’ οὔ τι πατὴρ εἴασκε μάχεσθαι, οὕνεκά οἱ μετὰ παισὶ νεώτατος ἔσκε γόνοιο, καί οἱ φίλτατος ἔσκε, πόδεσσι δὲ πάντας ἐνίκα δὴ τότε νηπιέῃσι ποδῶν ἀρετὴν ἀναφαίνων θῦνε διὰ προμάχων, εἷος φίλον ὤλεσε θυμόν. τὸν βάλε μέσσον ἄκοντι ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεὺς νῶτα παραΐσσοντος, ὅθι ζωστῆρος ὀχῆες χρύσειοι σύνεχον καὶ διπλόος ἤντετο θώρηξ· ἀντικρὺ δὲ διέσχε παρ’ ὀμφαλὸν ἔγχεος αἰχμή, γνὺξ δ’ ἔριπ’ οἰμώξας, νεφέλη δέ μιν ἀμφεκάλυψε κυανέη, προτὶ οἷ δ’ ἔλαβ’ ἔντερα χερσὶ λιασθείς. (20.408-17)

… godlike Polydoros, Priam’s son, whom his father would not let go into battle because he was the youngest born of all his sons to him, and also the most beloved, and he outpassed all the others in running.

4 There are 86 deaths in which no information is provided about the individual or the manner of his death. Of these, 62 are found in “slaying catalogues” (Fenik 1968, 68), where the names of multiple victims are contained in two or three lines.

But now, in his young thoughtlessness and display of his running he swept among the champions until thus he destroyed his dear life. For as he shot by, swift-footed brilliant Achilles hit him with a spear thrown in the middle of the back where the clasps of the war belt were golden and came together at the joining halves of the corselet. The spearhead held its way straight on and came out by the navel, and he dropped, moaning on one knee as the dark mist gathered about him, and sagged, and caught with his hands his bowels in front of him.

For a moment, Achilles fades out of sight, and the Trojan becomes the object of our attention. There is little here to cast renown back on the great Achilles, for his victim is only a boy, untried and without any skill. The killing of Polydoros is no great accomplishment, and indeed Achilles himself barely seems to take notice of the lad. But we do, as we learn of his tender age, his father’s care for him, and the golden clip on his armor. We might understand this interruption of the aristeia in any number of ways: as an ornament, adding variety to what might have become a monotonous series of killings; as a bit of lore about a member of Priam’s family that the poet felt obligated to include; as a digression, well-motivated or unmotivated;5 or as a kind of commentary on the aristeia, a reminder of the human consequences of Achilles’ violent spree. However we take it, though, it is important to note that the poet is not interested only in the doughty warriors on the plain of Troy, but also on their victims, no matter how unimportant they may seem.

He pauses to develop their deaths at great length, to make them an object of interest in their own right.

As we shall see in the chapters that follow, these developed death scenes become the site of intense reflection later in the tradition, as their meaning is debated and renegotiated through various rereadings and reuses. In this chapter, I hope to prepare for the analysis of those later texts in two ways. First, I will offer a detailed descriptive

5 On digression in Homer, see e.g. Alden 2000 and Austin 1966.

analysis of the Iliadic death scenes, providing statistics and discussing numerous examples to show both the motifs from which they are composed and the way they fit in with the narrative patterns of the epic.6 I will divide this analysis into three sections, each of which will address one of the three main techniques that the poet uses to focus attention on the dead: 1) biographies, the addition of details offering information about the family, history, or homeland of a given individual; 2) similes, which create a visual image of the individual at the moment of death; and 3) descriptions of the particular wounds that individuals suffer. My second goal is to sketch out some of the many ways in which these deaths have been interpreted within modern scholarship. These interpretations, as we shall see, often contradict each other, but my purpose in presenting them is not to advocate one in preference to another, to attempt to zero in on any fixed or essential meaning in the death scenes. I present these readings, rather, to provide a set of possibilities with which to understand the rereadings offered by later Greek authors— which often anticipate modern scholarly interpretations—as well as to highlight what I take as the essential and irreducible complexity of these death scenes.

1. Death Scenes and the Oral Tradition

My analysis of the Iliad’s deaths will be predicated on an understanding of the

Iliad as an oral-derived poem.7 The text, as we now have it, represents a recording, however modified, of a performance, a speech act,8 in which a bard addressed an

6 I will not, however, consider the structure of the individual combats in which the deaths are embedded. On this, see the studies by Beye 1964, Fenik 1968, Visser 1987, 44-54, and J. Morrison 1999. For the words used to describe death, see Visser 1987, 59-65 and Micheelsen 2002. 7 This term is from Foley 1990, 5. 8 My understanding of the orality of the Iliad is deeply influenced by Taplin 1992, Bakker 1997, and Foley 1999.

audience of living, breathing human beings. Though the later authors I will go on to study would not have understood the epic in this way, I think that paying attention to its oral nature can help create a fuller understanding of the function of its death scenes, and also perhaps account to some extent for some features of their reception in both literature and scholarship.

Perhaps the most important insight about these death scenes to be gained from oral theory is that they must be treated as parts of a continuous performance, rather than as separable episodes, miniature poems, or lyric passages embedded into a larger work.

This makes the fact of their existence all the more striking. For, as Egbert Bakker has explained, following the studies of linguist Wallace Chafe, spoken language reflects the speaker’s consciousness more directly than written language does that of the writer.9

When the narrative shifts from Achilles to Polydoros, then, the bard makes him the center of his poetic vision, leaving Achilles momentarily outside of his and his audience’s consciousness, to be “reactivated” later. This points toward his significance. Bakker notes that “whatever is dealt with at length… takes time, which is a precious commodity, and the subject gains in prominence for that reason.”10 In spending time on the narrative of the death of warriors who do nothing to advance the plot, the poet is declaring their importance, choosing to focus his own limited attention, and that of his audience, upon them and the details of their lives and deaths. In the midst of vast and sweeping battles, the poet pauses, zooming in on these individuals.11 This observation does nothing to

9 Bakker 1997, 45. 10 Bakker 1997, 55. 11 The metaphor of film technique is often applied to the study of the Iliad, and especially its battles, which alternate between “wide-angle” shots of the war as a whole and close-ups of individuals, including particular details of the wounds they suffer. See e.g. Latacz 1977, Bakker 1997, 88-100, De Jong and Nünlist 2004.

explain the poet’s purpose in thus narrating deaths—it might equally be intended to entertain the audience or to challenge their conception of heroism—but it raises the stakes. The minor warriors killed are not to be skipped over to get back to the “real story”; for a moment, at least, they are the real story.

The details that the poet uses in developing such narratives, moreover, are themselves deeply traditional, and recognizing this can help us to better understand how they work. The influence of the oral tradition is especially apparent in the similes used to describe deaths. Seven of these similes, as we will see, liken the dying warrior to a tree or other plant that is felled or uprooted. The choice of such similes is in no case original; each one draws on a traditional family of simile types, which, as William Scott explains, gradually “developed to provide easy comparison to the events that are customary in such stories.”12 But this does not mean that there is no creativity or significance in this choice.

Because these simile types are well known to the audience as well as the poet, they can become the locus for sophisticated play and communication, offering added meaning through traditional referentiality.13 Scott suggests, for instance, that the choice in a tree simile of an ash over an oak adds “overtones of mortality and destruction,” while the decision to include mention of a woodcutter who chops down a tree highlights the purposefulness and power of the warrior who kills the individual thus described.14

Something similar also holds in the kinds of details provided in the biographies attached to the victims of war. Previous scholarship has shown that the characters

12 Scott 2009, 25. He refers to these families using the term “simileme,” which I will not use in this analysis. 13 See Foley 1999, ch. 1. 14 Scott 2009, 177. See Mills 2000 for a different approach to the interpretation of similes; she puts less stress upon the bard’s deliberate planning and more on his “subrational selection from his repertoire of possibilities” (6).

described by these biographies are, with a few possible exceptions,15 not fixed personages in the oral tradition, but creations of the bard, shaped to fit the dynamics of each particular scene.16 Even their names often seem to be inventions of the moment.17 The motifs used in the construction of the biographies, however, are clearly traditional in nature; the poet has a store of such motifs ready to hand, and he can allocate and combine them in unique ways for various purposes. Fenik has shown the extent to which the biographies are composed from these common materials (aged parents, birth beside rivers), but he rightly notes that they include “particular details that give each one its own individual color.”18 The way the poet combines and elaborates on these traditional details make the particular scenes present themselves to the audience’s consciousness in different ways, affecting the tone and meaning as well as the pacing of the narrative. In employing similes and biographies to describe characters’ deaths, the poet does not simply repeat inherited formulae, but draws on a traditional language,19 resonant with connotations and implications, that allows him to present them in ways that are familiar to the audience while also productive of various meanings.

Finally, the oral nature of the Iliad can help to explain the difficulty of pinning down any clear notion of the meaning of death in the epic. As we have seen, the death scenes are created from a number of traditional motifs developed over generations of re-

15 E.g. Iphidamas, a warrior given a long biography (11.220-45), who evidence from visual art suggests may be traditional: he is depicted on the Chest of Kypeslos, as Pausanius describes it (5.19.4-5), and Burgess (2001, 86-89) argues that this image draws on an older, non-Iliadic tradition. See also my discussion of Krethon and Orsilochos in section 3 below, with note 58. 16 Strasburger 1954, 11-12: “Solche Kämpfer waren wohl dem Iliasdichter zum größten Teil nicht mit einem von ihm verwendeten Sagenstoff gegeben, sondern er schuf sie frei für die jeweilige Szene”; cf. Beye (1964, 354) who notes that many are “quite obviously random creations of the moment.” As Higbie (1995, 92) explains: “By manipulating formulae, conventional details, naming patterns, and the structure of the hexameter verse, [Homer] can create biographies for warriors at their moment of death which seem to be individualized and distinctive, but which are developed through intelligent repetition.” 17 On this, see chapter 2, section 1. 18 Fenik 1968, 152. Cf. Higbie 1995, 92. 19 Foley 1999, 22-25.

performance. And though the poet of the Iliad as we now have it is generally a consistent and unique voice, carefully controlling his material,20 the very eclecticism and traditionality of the language he uses make for a wide mixture of different elements, which may not all be perfectly coordinated to create a single effect or call for a unifying interpretation. I do not mean by this to impute carelessness to the poet (I think Scott is essentially right, e.g., to argue that “no simile, long or short, appears by accident”21), but to suggest that his point is not to communicate a specific “view” of death, a goal perhaps more modern than ancient in any case. He evokes meaning in different ways, drawing on various and sometimes conflicting elements of a long tradition.22

One might take this observation further, and suggest that the poet of the Iliad (or the most recent stage of the tradition) challenges the poetics or the ideology of the earlier stages, although they may still be partially reflected in his own narrative. Martin West has articulated this idea very strongly:

Behind the Iliad stands a centuries-old tradition of Greek martial epic. The formulaic vocabulary for armour and weapons, for killing and wounding, for chariotry and massed fighting, for heroes who are sackers of cities or famed with the spear, and the notional poetic ideal of celebrating κλέα ἀνδρῶν, the renowned deeds of men, suggest a conventional emphasis on battles and heroic accomplishments in the field… Seen against this presumed traditional background, the Iliad seems to present a remarkable shift of focus… There is a pervasive sense of mortality and of the ultimate futility and tragedy of war which tends to subvert the received values of heroic poetry.23

20 In this I follow the interpretation of e.g. Taplin 1992 and Scott 2009. 21 Scott 2009, 17. 22 Gagliardi (2011, 37) speaks of a “centuries-old stratification of oral poetry, collected and arranged in an age of great changes. Homeric texts do not give us an exact description of an age, with its opinions about life, death and glory. Rather, they give us a set of sometimes contradictory social and cultural elements from an arc of time extending from the remote Mycenaean origins until the rise of the πόλις.” See also Griffin (1987, 98): “Epics also glorify attitudes which they themselves, in other ways, deplore.” Zampaglione (1973, 19-23) briefly discusses what he sees as a “refinement” from a brutal, war-crazed earlier period in the tradition to the more moderated one of the Homeric epics. 23 M. West 1997, 334-35.

Whatever we may make of this specific interpretation, others based on the same premise—that one aspect or layer of the narrative deliberately contradicts or challenges another—have abounded in Homeric scholarship over the years, and continue to do so.24

If such a dynamic is operating, it necessarily complicates any attempt to interpret the death scenes, for some of them may reflect an older, more straightforward conception, while others may subvert that very conception. I will not advance any specific form of such an argument in this study, but I do not rule out the possibility, which I think the very nature of the epic leaves open.

2. Philhellenism

Before turning to analyze the specific elements of the Iliad’s death scenes, I would like to briefly note an issue that will come up again and again throughout the remainder of this chapter: the question of Homer’s philhellenism. That Homer favored his own countrymen, the “Greeks,” and went out of his way to make them look good in contrast to the Trojans, is a very old assumption, and one that is particularly prominent in the ancient scholia.25 In modern times, Homer’s purported philhellenism has been the subject of long and sometimes heated debate.26 This question is unavoidable in any consideration of death in the Iliad for a simple reason: of the 241 individuals slain over the course of the epic,27 a huge majority (187) are Trojans, so that the Trojan dead

24 Notably Parry’s important article of 1956; more recently, see also Renehan 1987; Micheelsen 2002; Neal 2006a, 33; and Holmes 2007, esp. 80-81. 25 For the philhellenism of the scholia and some of its potential sources, see ch. 4, especially section 5. 26 See Hall 1989, 21n64 for some bibliography; see also the extended list in Stoevesandt 2004, 351-55, which lists over a hundred publications and classifies them according to their author’s stance on the poet’s sympathies. 27 See appendix 1.1 for a complete list. One of these men is unnamed (the charioteer of Asios, killed at 13.394-99). Different scholars offer different numbers, depending on their standards for inclusion. Stoevesandt counts 243 (a number also found in Bassett 1938, 256n37), which includes two individuals that

outnumber the Achaean by more than three to one. This is surprising, given that the

Trojans are on the ascendant during most of the narrative time on the battlefield; even when they are supposed to be winning the battle, their own deaths are noted far more frequently than those of the men they are apparently killing. This fact is often taken as evidence to support a view of Homer as pro-Achaean.28 And, as we shall see, the differences in Homer’s treatment of the dead is not just a matter of numbers. Magdalen

Stoevesandt has investigated these differences at some length, and she finds in them corroboration of the view that Homer does favor the Achaeans, although she does not adopt the strongly nationalistic language used in many studies of the subject.29 I will discuss several of Stoevesandt’s observations throughout the chapter, but it is worth noting now that the dead in the Iliad are differentiated qualitatively as well as quantitatively. Homer does not focus attention equally on the dead on both Trojan and

Achaean sides.

the poet introduces in the catalogue as victims of Achilles (Ennomos, 2.858-61, Nastes or Amphimachos, 2.867-75), but who are not mentioned in the actual narrative of his aristeia. Bethe (1914, 59) counted 242, and his figure is frequently followed (e.g. Kakridis 1971, 63; Hall 1989, 30); the difference between this figure and Stoevesandt’s may result from the fact that Periphas, killed by a god rather than a mortal (5.842) is not counted. Visser (1987, 41) counts 306, which includes a single named addition to Bethe’s count, and also includes the sixty-three numbered but unnamed Trojans slain at several points (on which see chapter 3, section 5). Armstrong 1969 (followed by Neal 2006a, 26n41) cites a larger number (269), which includes the wounded as well as the slain. Van Wees (1996, 73n100 cites a higher number (273). Mueller (2009, 80) offers a rather low number (220), which he admits is only an estimate. For a list of individuals, see Garland (1981, 52-53), who however omits two found in my list (Periphas and Alkmaon (12.394), and includes Dolon, whom I have left out as a non-battlefield death). 28 This argument is first advanced, as far as I can tell, by Bethe (1914, 59); a similar point is made by Armstrong (1969); Kakridis (1971, 63) rejects the argument, while Scodel (2002, 96), Hall (1989, 30), and Mueller (2009, 86) accept it as evidence that the poet favors the Achaeans in combat, though not necessarily for nationalistic reasons. 29 E.g. Van der Valk 1953, who refers to “Homer’s Nationalistic Attitude,” and Bethe (1914, 59) who speaks of “den Nationalstolz der Griechen gegenüber den Asiaten.” Traill (1990, 299) accepts Van der Valk’s thesis but prefers the milder term “philhellenism.”

3. Biographies

With these preliminary observations out of the way, we are now in a position to begin examining the death scenes themselves, looking in particular at the short biographies30 that the poet supplies to many of the men who die in the course of the

Iliad’s battles, the little vignettes he offers to describe the way they lived—their wives, their skills, their riches—just as they are about to die. These are perhaps the most distinctive and memorable feature of the way the Iliad treats the dead: we will see that they captured the interest of later poets in the epic tradition, and they also frequently stand out to more contemporary readers, despite their relative brevity, as aesthetically or morally central to the poem as a whole. They have been praised, for instance, as “a master-stroke of Iliadic art”31 and “among the great glories of the poems.”32

We might first consider the frequency of these biographies in proportion to the total number of deaths in the Iliad. All but ten33 of the 241 distinct, named individuals who die in battle throughout the course of the epic are minor warriors, who appear only at the moment of their death. Counting precisely how many of these individuals receive biographies is a matter of some difficulty: different kinds of details are given about different warriors, with often dramatic differences in length, and scholars have accordingly come up with various numbers, depending on what criteria they use.34 For

30 This feature is sometimes called by other terms: “anecdote,” “vignette,” “obituary,” “necrologue,” or “Nachruf.” 31 Mueller 2009, 86. 32 Renehan 1987, 111. 33 The other ten are, in order of their death: Pandarus, Tlepolemos, Asios, Askalaphos, Sarpedon, Kebriones, Patroclus, Euphorbos, Asteropaios, and Hector. Although only three or four of these would be considered “major characters,” enough is known about each that we would not expect the poet to provide a biography for them at their moment of death. I count as “minor” also those individuals that are mentioned in the Catalogue, but who take no action in the narrative proper. 34 Stoevesdant (2004, 127, followed by Ready 2011, 229) counts 58, but her criteria are different from mine, and there are significant differences between our lists. I include only biographical information

my purposes, the defining characteristic is not length or elaboration, but a shift in narrative focus, which, in an oral-derived poem, is closely determined by syntax. Thus, I count as biographies all passages in which details about an individual’s life outside the battlefield35 are introduced by a relative pronoun or in a separate sentence. This syntactical criterion may seem arbitrary, as the same kind of information that is contained in a short relative clause can also be included in a short participial phrase. But as far as the poet’s and audience’s attention is concerned, I do think the different is significant; the relative pronoun is in most cases in the nominative, which puts the victim in the spotlight, making him the subject of action in his own right, rather than the passive object of a slaughtering hero.36 In Bakker’s terms, the biography temporarily makes a “patient” in the narrative proper into an “agent” in his own mini-narrative.37

Using these criteria, I find that fifty-nine warriors in the Iliad, about one in four of all the men killed, receive biographies of some sort at or near the moment of their death.

Eight of these describe a pair of brothers, which means there are fifty-one discrete biographies.38 Within this total, though, there is great variety; some are only a line in length, offering a single detail, while others are complex, stretching to more than a dozen verses. As a result, the shift in narrative focus created by a biography is in some cases only barely felt, while in others it is very noticeable, even dramatic. Moreover, the nature recorded in the narrative surrounding a man’s death, while she includes three individuals whose deaths are mentioned in the Catalogue only (Protesilaus, Nastes, and Chromis). She also counts as biographies details given about 6 of the more prominent characters. Furthermore, she omits several of the shorter anecdotes (e.g. Demokoön, 4.500 and Elatos, at 6.33-35). Tsagalis (2004, 181) counts 45, but includes only the “expanded” ones; his criteria are not explicitly stated, and some of his choices seem strange, e.g. 11.301-09, which contains a list of nine men slain by Hector, with no further descriptions. 35 This qualification means I do not include relative clauses explaining an individual’s relationship with others on the battlefield (e.g. Axylos’ driver, described at 6.18-19, Καλήσιον, ὅς ῥα τόθ' ἵππων / ἔσκεν ὑφηνίοχος). 36 My methodology here is influenced by Ready (2011, 228-29), who focuses “on the relationship between the obituaries and the [narrative] spotlight.” 37 Bakker 1997, 108-09. 38 See appendix 1.2 for my list.

of the attention directed toward the dead can vary drastically. For the sake of offering a more complete view of these biographies, then, I propose to classify the biographies into three types, which I call basic, pathetic, and detailed. These categories, as we will see, are far from perfectly descriptive; some might fit into more than one category,39 and other readers might wish to put some individual biographies into categories different from those I have assigned them. Nevertheless, I think this division will allow us to see at least some general trends in the types of biographies at the poet’s disposal, and provide grounds for comparison in later chapters, especially with Quintus’ epic.

I count more than half (30 of 51) of the Iliad’s biographies as basic. I adopt this term not because they are short (though indeed most of them are only one or two lines long) but because they contain unelaborated motifs that provide only general information about a warrior. Some simply tell of an individual’s arrival at Troy; of one Demokoön, for instance, we learn only that he “came over from Abydos, and left his fast running horses” (ὅς οἱ Ἀβυδόθεν ἦλθε παρ’ ἵππων ὠκειάων, 4.500).40 Sometimes one’s homeland and its geography are described in more detail, as for Oresbion,

ὅς ῥ’ ἐν Ὕλῃ ναίεσκε μέγα πλούτοιο μεμηλώς, λίμνῃ κεκλιμένος Κηφισίδι· πὰρ δέ οἱ ἄλλοι ναῖον Βοιωτοὶ μάλα πίονα δῆμον ἔχοντες. (5.708-10)

39 In his important study of the death motifs attached to minor warriors, for instance, Griffin (1980, ch. 4) argues that an emotional/pathetic component should be understood to operate in all of the biographies, even the ones where it is not explicitly marked: “I begin with passages which appear to have no emotional content, and aim to show that it is impossible to separate them from others in which such content is undeniably present” (104). I think his argument is persuasive, but I choose to separate out the pathetic and the basic here for practical purposes: the same emotional coloring will not necessarily apply in the cases of the other poets whom I will go on to consider. 40 This is not counted as a Nachruf by Stoevesandt, but I place it at the lowest level of the spectrum of biographies. Stoevesandt does count, by contrast, the description of one Apisaos: “ὅς ῥ’ ἐκ Παιονίης ἐριβώλακος εἰληλούθει, / καὶ δὲ μετ’ Ἀστεροπαῖον ἀριστεύεσκε μάχεσθαι” (17.350-51). As I see it, the addition of the second line makes this relative clause longer than the one for Demokoön, but it does not make it any more a biography. So I accept both.

who had lived in Hyle much concerned with his property in a place hard on the Kephisian mere, and beside him other men of Boiotia lived and held the fine fertile country.

Other biographies provide details of many different types. Some mention the names of a man’s parents (e.g. 7.8-9), the occupation of his father (e.g. 5.76-78), his personal history

(e.g. three men who went into exile after committing manslaughter, on which see below), or the honor in which he was held (e.g. 5.534-35). In a few cases, a number of these motifs are combined to create a rather long biography that is still, in my classification, basic. Consider Imbrios, whom the poet describes as follows:

ναῖε δὲ Πήδαιον πρὶν ἐλθεῖν υἷας Ἀχαιῶν, κούρην δὲ Πριάμοιο νόθην ἔχε, Μηδεσικάστην· αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ Δαναῶν νέες ἤλυθον ἀμφιέλισσαι, ἂψ ἐς Ἴλιον ἦλθε, μετέπρεπε δὲ Τρώεσσι, ναῖε δὲ πὰρ Πριάμῳ· ὃ δέ μιν τίεν ἶσα τέκεσσι. (13.172-76)

Before the coming of the sons of the Achaians he lived in Pedaios and had married a bastard daughter of Priam, Medesikaste. But when the oarswept ships of the Danaans came, he went back to Ilion, and was a great man among the Trojans, and lived at Priam’s side, who honoured him as he did his own children.

Here we have four separate motifs attached to a single individual: his homeland, his marriage, his arrival at Troy, and his prestige. Despite the length of the biography, though, the picture we are given of this man remains fairly generic. Many of the motifs in this category are repeated in several different biographies without significant expansion or elaboration.

These basic biographies are not the sort that generally receive much attention, either from ancient readers or from modern scholars.41 The men they describe do come to occupy the audience’s consciousness for a greater or lesser extent of narrative time, but

41 We will see in chapter 3 that Quintus makes plentiful use of this type of biography in his own epic, but I will argue there that this does not reflect a serious interest on his part in them as aesthetically or ethically significant.

they are not particularly memorable, since the details they share are largely interchangeable. We might say that they create a kind of verisimilitude, making it seem as though the poet has a full knowledge of the war before Troy, and we might also take them as betokening a general sort of interest in the victims of battle, but not much more beside.

Things are quite different with the next, rather smaller category, which I am calling the “pathetic” biographies. The fourteen biographies that I categorize as such, indeed, are often commented upon, and sometimes taken as especially significant for the poet’s overall project. While many of them include motifs that are common in the basic ones, these motifs are developed, or others are included, in such a way that the audience’s attention is directed more pointedly and emotionally to the lot of the individual so described.42 For example, several of them make mention of a warrior’s parents, which is common also in the first type, but in these cases the parents are dwelt upon, and the poet highlights or alludes to the sorrow they will feel as a result of the death of their sons. We have already seen something of this with the biography for Simoeisios (discussed in the introduction), in which the poet first mentions the young man’s mother and the circumstances of his birth, and then notes that “he could not / render again the care of his dear parents” (4.477-78).43 More markedly emotional is the biography given to two brothers killed by Diomedes:

βῆ δὲ μετὰ Ξάνθόν τε Θόωνά τε Φαίνοπος υἷε ἄμφω τηλυγέτω· ὃ δὲ τείρετο γήραϊ λυγρῷ, υἱὸν δ’ οὐ τέκετ’ ἄλλον ἐπὶ κτεάτεσσι λιπέσθαι. ἔνθ’ ὅ γε τοὺς ἐνάριζε, φίλον δ’ ἐξαίνυτο θυμὸν ἀμφοτέρω, πατέρι δὲ γόον καὶ κήδεα λυγρὰ

42 Judging whether or not a passage should be taken as emotional is to a large extent subjective; on this see note 39 above. 43 On the subject of parental care and its sociological importance in the Iliad, see Felson 2002.

λεῖπ’, ἐπεὶ οὐ ζώοντε μάχης ἐκνοστήσαντε δέξατο· χηρωσταὶ δὲ διὰ κτῆσιν δατέοντο. (5.152-58)

He went after the two sons of Phainops, Xanthos and Thoön, both late-born, but Phainops was stricken in sorrowful old age, and he could breed no other son to leave among his possessions. There he killed these two and took away the dear life from them both, leaving to their father lamentation and sorrowful affliction, since he was not to welcome them home from the fighting alive still; and remoter kinsmen shared his possessions.

Here, the audience’s attention is drawn far from the battlefield, to the father of the men who are killed. The poet does not just tell us who he is, but rather shows us how miserable he will become: these are his only two sons, and they are described as

τηλυγέτω, an uncertain word suggesting “darling son, petted child” or, as some ancients took it, only or latest-born.44 Thus old Phainops will die without an heir, so his possessions must be distributed among more distant relations.45 He is already oppressed by his age; and he will mourn and lament the passing of his dear sons, who, as we are reminded, will never come home.

The biography just discussed is long and detailed, but a similar effect can also be felt in shorter biographies involving parents, as is the case with Pedaios:

Πήδαιον δ’ ἄρ’ ἔπεφνε Μέγης Ἀντήνορος υἱὸν ὅς ῥα νόθος μὲν ἔην, πύκα δ’ ἔτρεφε δῖα Θεανὼ ἶσα φίλοισι τέκεσσι χαριζομένη πόσεϊ ᾧ. (5.69-71)

Meges in turn killed Pedaios, the son of Antenor, who was a bastard, but lovely Theano nursed him with close care, as for her own children, to pleasure her husband.

The biography is not extended at any length, but it has a powerful effect on the audience.

The mother figure here is not a mere name or a type, as in many of the more basic biographies, but a particular woman (appearing in the nominative) in an unusual marital

44 LSJ. 45 This motif, as Fenik (1968, 24) notes, is unique to this scene.

situation, who acts generously toward her stepson, yet loses him. The mention of her attentiveness in raising him (πύκα δ’ ἔτρεφε), coupled as it is with the notice of his sudden death, creates a poignant effect not unlike the one that results when we are told that Polydoros (discussed above) was the best beloved of Priam’s sons (φίλτατος, 20.410).

In both cases, we get more than the name or position of the warrior’s parent; we are given a sense, only sketched, of the relationship between them, a relationship that is unceremoniously ended just as soon as it is mentioned.

Other biographies develop pathos by focusing on different aspects of an individual’s life. A few of them draw attention to the particular skill or character of the man who is killed. Such is the case with Axylos:

Ἄξυλον δ’ ἄρ’ ἔπεφνε βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Διομήδης Τευθρανίδην, ὃς ἔναιεν ἐϋκτιμένῃ ἐν Ἀρίσβῃ ἀφνειὸς βιότοιο, φίλος δ’ ἦν ἀνθρώποισι. πάντας γὰρ φιλέεσκεν ὁδῷ ἔπι οἰκία ναίων. ἀλλά οἱ οὔ τις τῶν γε τότ’ ἤρκεσε λυγρὸν ὄλεθρον πρόσθεν ὑπαντιάσας. (6.13-17)

Diomedes of the great war cry cut down Axylos, Teuthras’ son, who had been a dweller in strong-founded Arisbe, a man rich in substance and a friend to all humanity since in his house by the wayside he entertained all comers. Yet there was none of these now to stand before him and keep off the gloomy destruction.

The biography begins, like many others, with a notice about the man’s homeland, and a description of his wealth; but it goes on to offer a detail of a more peculiar nature, describing his universal generosity, and concluding with a pathetic comment about how little this generosity availed him at the moment of his death. Similar is Skamandrios, who learned archery from Artemis, but whose skill with the bow could not save him (5.48-55).

Another motif included in a few of these biographies and exploited for its emotional

resonance is the bride of the warrior who dies. We have seen this above in the more basic biography for Imbrios, but it can be developed at greater length with poignant effect. A great deal of attention is devoted, for instance, to the virtues of Alkathoös’s bride,

Hippodameia (13.428-33); we are allowed to see what a beautiful and excellent young couple they are, just before Alkathoös is brutally killed. More dramatic still is the case of

Iphidamas, who receives the longest biography in the Iliad, the greater part of which discusses his efforts to win his own bride, whom he is quickly separated from by war and then death.46 In each of these cases, the audience is made to focus not on the physical circumstances of the warrior’s death, but on his life and family, and especially on the consequences of his death. The men treated thus are made to seem like actual people, with their own particular circumstances, who leave behind full lives, including people who love them and will mourn their loss.

Scholars from antiquity to the present have often identified pathos as the driving force behind the creation of these biographies.47 What is sometimes contested, though, is what to make of this pathos. Some scholars, most notably Jasper Griffin, have taken the pathetic biographies as evidence of the profundity of Homer’s reflections on the nature of mortality. He ends his study of them with the conclusion that “the obituaries and the other passages of austere pathos are vitally important” to the poet in developing his “tragic and consistent view of human life.”48 They show us, that is, the frailty of the human condition, and the inexorability of death. As Schein puts it, the poet’s treatment of minor warriors

46 I analyze this biography in greater detail in chapter 2, pages 85-87. 47 Griffin 1980, ch. 4 offers the fullest analysis, but see also the shorter discussions in Strasburger 1954, 123-29; Schein 1976; Mueller 2009, 86-87; Stoevesandt 2004, 131-34. Passing references to the pathos of the biographies are extremely frequent; see e.g. Pope 1716, 4-5; Renehan 1987, 111; Crotty 1994, 99; Fenik 1968, 24, 150-52; Marg 1976, 11; Kirk 1985, 388; Macleod 2001, 308. On ancient scholarship, see my discussion in chapter 4, section 2. 48 Griffin 1980, 143.

“makes us aware of what the war, with its splendid killing, costs in human terms.”49 They reveal, above all, a humane vision on the part of the poet, who sees the death of Trojan and Achaean alike as tragic.50 As Griffin observes, “the audience sees them [the dead] in the perspective in which the gods see them, as equal in vulnerability, in mortality, in death.”51 Mueller likewise observes that “the necrologue characteristically ignores the division of Achaean and Trojan and deals with the death of the warrior as a human event.”52 The biographies can also be seen in connection with the broader purposes of the poem; Colin Macleod, for instance, sees the pathos implicit in them as heightened and made central in the pathetic encounter between Achilles and Priam in book 24, and

Christos Tsagalis discusses the connection between the biographies and the importance of lamentation in the epic.53 In these readings, the biographies enact on the micro-level what the poem as a whole does on the macro-level.

The same biographies, however, are also susceptible to a much simpler interpretation. They may be seen as designed to provide narrative interest in the midst of the battle scenes, to prevent the narratives of war and killing from becoming too monotonous. Alexander Pope, in the preface to the second volume of his translation of the Iliad, notes the “many pathetick Circumstances about the Deaths of the Heroes, which raise a different Movement in the Mind from what those Images naturally inspire, I mean

Compassion and Pity; when he causes us to look back upon the lost Riches, Possessions, and Hopes of those who die,” and lists this feature as one way by which “our Author

49 Schein 1976, 5. 50 Lying behind such interpretations is Simone Weil’s essay, “The Iliad, or the Poem of Force.” The essay’s influence is acknowledged e.g. in Porter 1972, 11n1; Griffin 1980, 193n41; and Taplin 1980, 17. Schein (1984, 82-84) and Dué (2007, 238-39) challenge aspects of her argument, but clearly agree with and are influenced by others. 51 Griffin 1980, 106. 52 Mueller 2009, 186. 53 Tsagalis 2004, 179-92.

could prevent Descriptions of such a length from being tedious.”54 Bowra likewise suggests that the biographies are part of Homer’s larger attempt to grip his audience “by the reality and solidity of his narrative… to maintain this he resorts to a constant, lively invention, especially of small touches which do not much affect the main story.”55 This, indeed, is a way of understanding all of the techniques used to develop the death scenes, and it certainly accords with the understanding of the oral nature of Homeric poems, as discussed above. If the audience becomes bored with the extended battle scenes, it cannot, like the reader of a text, skim past them and get back to the “main” narrative. So the poet may be thought to provide a change in pace and focus to maintain their interest. This view and the one suggested above are not, of course, mutually exclusive—the poet can be concerned to reflect on the nature of death and to keep his audience engaged at the same time, and in providing a “break” from a battle narrative he can also direct critical attention toward it—but they suggest different emphases.56 In the first case, the biographies are essential to the meaning of the poem, while in the second they are largely decorative.57

I will return to this interpretive question at the end of this section, when I think it will be easier to approach. But first, let us consider the third category of biographies, which I call detailed. These biographies offer more than just motifs, elaborated or unelaborated. Instead, they provide specific details, which generally connect the men so

54 Pope 1716, 4, 2. 55 Bowra 1972, 56. Quoted in Griffin 1980, 140. See along the same lines Thornton 1984, 80. 56 In some cases, though, as in the arguments of Emily Vermeule, which I discuss in section 5 below, the entertainment/interest argument does explicitly conflict with the humane reading. As she puts it, “Homer the murderer never bores us” (1979, 97). 57 See Griffin’s critique of Bowra: “The defect of this account is that it takes no serious account of the content and tone of the passages. They are thus reduced to mere ornaments, empty of emotional significance, as if we could just as well have been told of the deceased’s size in shoes, or his favorite colour, or his taste in toothpaste” (1980, 140).

described to various stories in the mythological tradition. A pair of Achaeans killed by

Aeneas, Orsilochos and Krethon, are given a lengthy (10 line) biography tracing their lineage back to the fourth generation (5.543-52). This is far more information than is given for any other minor warrior’s heritage, and it seems that the poet here is using a traditional genealogy, which is referenced twice in the Odyssey.58 Two other individuals are linked to various mythological accounts: the Achaean Periphetes is the son of a messenger for king Eurystheus (15.638-43), and a pair of Trojan allies are children of a man who raised the Chimaera (16.328-29). These biographies seem to highlight the strength and heroism of the fallen warriors, connecting them with important families and stories.59

Of quite a different order are another three biographies which can be seen as casting their subjects in a negative light. One of the warriors so described is Phereklos, whose father, we learn, built the ships in which Paris sailed to take Helen. No explicit blame is attached to him for this, and the poet even mentions that he had no idea to what use his ship would be put (οὔ τι θεῶν ἐκ θέσφατα ᾔδη), but the anecdote hardly casts him in a good light. Even less favorably presented are two men whose father, Antimachos, accepted gifts from Paris in exchange for his support (11.122-25) and plotted to murder

Menelaos and Odysseus (11.139-41). The sons themselves are, as far as we know, innocent of any complicity in this injustice, but their slaughter is presented—at least from the point of view of Agamemnon, their killer—as serving the interests of justice (νῦν μὲν

δὴ τοῦ πατρὸς ἀεικέα τίσετε λώβην, 142). Another character who might also be seen as

58 Telemachus spends the night at the home of the father of these men on his journey from Pylos to Sparta (3.488-90); later, it is revealed that Odysseus himself had also visited this home, in the time of the warrior’s grandfather (21.15-16). On the traditionality of these characters, see Beye 1964, 356 and Kirk 1990, 115. 59 On Periphetes, see Strasburger 1954, 51-52, followed by Stoevesandt 2004, 145.

criticized at the moment of his death is Othryoneus (13.363-69); as his biography tells us, he had promised to drive away the Achaeans in exchange for the hand of Priam’s daughter Cassandra, which he sought without bride-price. After his death, he is ridiculed by his killer for this presumptuous and unconventional arrangement. For this reason, he too seems unlikely to elicit a sympathetic response. As Janko notes, “Othruoneus’ terms for Kassandre’s hand forfeit our sympathy: it is greedy to offer no gifts, but only a promise to repel the Greeks.”60

We might note here that each of these three men, portrayed in death as less than sympathetic, belongs to the Trojan side. The poet’s treatment of these individuals has been seen as one sign among many of his (or his tradition’s) anti-Trojan bias.61 Even

Mueller takes them this way, though he marks this as an exception to the poet’s generally neutral method.62 But considering these biographies in light of their individual contexts might suggest a different interpretation. Agamemnon’s slaughter of the sons of

Antimachos might be called just (if, like Agamemnon himself, one appeals to an older sense of justice, in which the sins of the father are visited upon the son); but the next men he kills are two sons of Antenor, who had been a guest-friend to Menelaos (ἐξείνισσα,

3.207). The contrast between these two, just and unjust, both mown down under the wrath of Agamemnon, may be the point: death comes for all, good and bad alike.

Something similar seems to be at play in book 13. Othryoneus, the untoward suitor, is contrasted with another warrior who dies soon after him: Alkathoös, whose biography specifically paints him as the good and virtuous husband of an admirable wife (13.427-

60 Janko 1994, 93. 61 A reading that goes back to the scholia; see chapter 4, section 2. 62 Mueller 2009, 186.

33).63 The poet, we might argue, is not attempting to criticize Trojan “sinners,” but rather presenting a range of character types, and subjecting them all to the same inevitable fate: violent death.

Perhaps, then, we can make these apparently prejudicial biographies fit in with the poet’s supposedly universal perspective on human mortality. Nevertheless, closer analysis of the biographies attached to warriors on the Trojan and Achaean sides does reveal several key distinctions in the way they are treated. Stoevesandt has thoroughly analyzed these distinctions, and I will present in brief only a few of her findings. Most notably, she observes that all of the biographies that mention the pain that a warrior’s death will cause for his family are attached to Trojans or their allies, rather than to

Achaeans.64 All of the biographies in my second category, in fact, are given to Trojans.

The Trojan biographies often mention wives, mothers, and fathers, who always

(implicitly or explicitly) come to grief; the Achaean biographies never mention wives, only mention a mother once (in passing at 7.8), and mention fathers to establish warriors’ heroic lineage, but without any reference to their old age or their difficult position.

Several of the Trojans’ fathers are priests or seers, but their abilities render no useful services to their sons; the one Achaean who has a seer for a father, by contrast, uses his knowledge to make an informed, even heroic, decision about his own actions (13.663-

70).65 We learn about the pre-war pursuits of several of the Trojans (one was a hunter

(5.51), others tended sheep or cows (11.106, 15.547)), but we are told no such facts about

63 Friedrich (2003, 16) makes this observation: “Intentionally enough, the arrogant would-be son-in-law of Priam is contrasted with the ἀνὴρ ὤριστος who is well worth marrying the most beautiful and most loved daughter of Anchises.” 64 Stoevesandt 2004, 134. 65 On this character, see chapter 2, section 2.

any Achaeans.66 We do, however, find that three of them have at some point committed manslaughter and gone into exile (15.332, 15.429, 16.571),67 which we learn of no Trojan.

Each of these details, taken individually, could be seen as coincidental, given the small number of Achaean biographies, but when collected they suggest a subtle but important difference in the way the poet characterizes the victims. As Stoevesandt summarizes:

Die Behandlung der bisher betrachteten Nachruf Motive hat die Tendenz des Dichters hervortreten lassen, die Troianer überwiegend als bedauernswerte, hilflose Opfer darzustellen und die Achaier mehr mit heroischen Zügen auszustatten.68

The Trojans tend to appear as tragic figures, doomed despite their families, wealth, or skills. The Achaeans, by contrast, are more straightforwardly heroic: they are strong men from good families, who have done well for themselves. The biographies, in light of this analysis, do indeed evoke pathos for the fallen, but this pathos is not wholly impartial, even if it is not necessarily philhellene.69 Indeed, the poet evokes more sympathy for the

Trojans; but this is because they are more deserving, by nature or position, of sympathy.70

This observation militates against the interpretation mentioned above, according to which the biographies should be considered only or primarily as ornamental, as ways of maintaining the audience’s interest in a series of otherwise undifferentiated deaths. For the biographies are not doled out randomly. Rather, they can be seen as subtly

66 See Sale 1994, 49-50 on this point. 67 See Stoevseandt’s (2004, 134-36) interesting analysis of this fact. She argues that it suggests the “Loyalität, Solidarität, und Freundschaft” of the Achaeans, since it focuses on the relations among themselves rather than with wives, parents, or children. 68 Stoevesandt 2004, 144. 69 Mackie (1996, 9) makes a similar argument about the two sides’ use of language: “Differences drawn up between Greeks and Trojans are numerous, various, and subtle, and they are not obviously reducible to any one evaluative scheme.” 70 See here Hall’s (1989, 22) conjectures about the historical developments in the epic tradition with regard to the portrayal of the Trojans: “Perhaps a traditional epic standpoint, sympathetic towards the defenders of a beleaguered citadel… was diluted by sequences resulting from a growing sense of Greek collectivity and superiority.”

characterizing the different combatants in the war, and evoking a variety of responses at their deaths, making them seem by turns heroic or tragic according to the poet’s particular choice at any given point in the narrative.

A final way of considering these biographies remains to be considered, namely the possibility that they may serve to cast light not on the victims themselves but on the men who kill them. We will see in chapter 4 that the scholiasts tended to view biographies as glorifying the (necessarily more successful) warriors who slay the men thus described. Similar arguments, though in more sophisticated formulations, are also to be found in modern scholarship. For instance, Bakker suggests that the details offered by the biographies are central to the epic discourse, in that “the kleos of the warrior slain serves as context for the kleos of the victorious hero.”71 As he notes, this mindset is sometimes referenced by the warriors themselves, who reflect on the men they kill, and their quality, as important for their own prestige.72 This is straightforward enough in the basic anecdotes, where the wealth, lineage, or fighting skills of fallen individuals are often mentioned.73 Such references suggest that killing such a man is a worthy accomplishment. With other kinds of details, though, such as ones that refer to the sorrow of an individual’s parents, or the bride he has left behind, this understanding seems more difficult to maintain.74 How, for example, does hearing that a victim’s father was oppressed by old age make the man who kills him seem more glorious? Another potential problem with this interpretation is the fact that the correlation between a hero’s

71 Bakker 1997, 118n58. 72 He cites 7.81-91. We might also think of passages in which the worth of slain individuals is compared, e.g. 14.471-74 and 17.538-39. See also Lendon 2000 on the economy of killing and (specifically) mutilation. 73 Stoevesandt makes this point, noting that such details “dient... nicht nur deren eigenem Ruhm, sondern mindestens ebensosehr dem ihrer Besieger” (2004, 145). 74 Though Strasburger (1954, 44) makes a similar argument about the distinctly pathetic account of Simoesios’ death.

prominence in the narrative and the kinds of men that he kills is fairly faint. The warriors whose victims most often have biographies are Diomedes, Achilles, and Agamemnon, which is hardly surprising. But lesser characters like Meriones and Meges also have a fair number, while Patroclus, who has the most named kills in the entire poem, has only one victim with a biography, and it is a very short one at that.75

Throughout this section, we have seen four broadly defined ways in which readers have responded to the biographies of the Iliad. They see them as providing narrative variety, as commenting on the nature of mortality, as evoking sympathy for the victims of war, or as glorifying their killers. Though I have expressed some reservations about stressing any of these too strongly, I have not attempted to rule out any, or favor one in particular; I think that each, in its way, can reveal something about the nature of the text, suggesting some of the parameters within which it can be understood. And we shall see in the next section that similar interpretative moves are also often used in response to

Homer’s death similes.

4. Similes

Similes focus attention on the death of an individual by presenting to the audience’s imagination some vivid and generally familiar image to illustrate or reflect on it. They are used to describe the dead much less commonly than biographies: of the 241 individuals who die in the epic, only twenty-one receive a simile.76 Four of these are two

75 Diomedes, 5; Agamemnon and Achilles, 4; Meriones, 3; Meges, 2. See appendix 1.2 for specific details. The lack of biographies attached to Patroclus’ victims may in fact speak to the poet’s desire to maintain sympathy for him, in view of his impending death, rather than diverting it towards his victims. Patroclus is typically considered the most sympathetic character in the Iliad; see pages 210-211 for discussion. 76 See appendix 1.3. I have included here only those similes that compare the act of death itself to some other object, leaving out similes that occur in the context of a death narrative but refer only to something

pairs of brothers, making nineteen death incidents with similes; and a further three of these incidents include two different similes, making a total of twenty-two discrete death similes. With three exceptions,77 these all compare the dying individual to either a falling tree/plant (seven similes, two of which are identical) or an animal that is killed or about to be killed (twelve similes). As these two types of similes seem to be distinct in tone and development as well as in subject, I will consider each separately in the analysis that follows. Before considering the individual similes, though, it is worth noting from the beginning that, as we saw above with the biographies, the poet does not treat Achaean and Trojan dead with similes to the same extent. Only three similes are given to

Achaeans, compared with nineteen to Trojans. And we will soon see that the kinds of similes assigned to warriors on each side are markedly different.

Let us look first at those similes that liken the dead to trees or other plants. These are certainly more famous than the others, and they have proven remarkably productive in the tradition of poetry after Homer, which renders them especially interesting for the present investigation, and worth dwelling on at some length. One notable aspect of these similes is the way they aestheticize the epic’s deaths. This is especially so in the simile for Simoeisios, which we considered briefly in the introduction, and which I print here again for the sake of closer analysis:

πρῶτον γάρ μιν ἰόντα βάλε στῆθος παρὰ μαζὸν δεξιόν· ἀντικρὺ δὲ δι’ ὤμου χάλκεον ἔγχος ἦλθεν· ὃ δ’ ἐν κονίῃσι χαμαὶ πέσεν αἴγειρος ὣς ἥ ῥά τ’ ἐν εἱαμενῇ ἕλεος μεγάλοιο πεφύκει λείη, ἀτάρ τέ οἱ ὄζοι ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῃ πεφύασι· τὴν μέν θ’ ἁρματοπηγὸς ἀνὴρ αἴθωνι σιδήρῳ other than death proper (e.g. a man transfixed like a tree or a gravestone before he is wounded at 14.437) or to a specific body part (e.g. a head compared to a poppy at 14.499). 77 Two compare a man falling from some raised position to a diver (12.385 and 16.742) and the other compares a man’s fall to that of a tower (4.462). None of these similes is developed at any length.

ἐξέταμ’, ὄφρα ἴτυν κάμψῃ περικαλλέϊ δίφρῳ· ἣ μέν τ’ ἀζομένη κεῖται ποταμοῖο παρ’ ὄχθας. (4.482-87)

[Ajax] struck him as he first came forward beside the nipple of the right breast, and the bronze spearhead drove clean through the shoulder. He dropped then to the ground in the dust, like some black poplar, which in the land low-lying about a great marsh grows smooth trimmed yet with branches growing at the uttermost tree-top: one whom a man, a maker of chariots, fells with the shining iron, to bend it into a wheel for a fine-wrought chariot, and the tree lies hardening by the banks of a river.

The victim is quickly transformed into a tree, smooth-barked and lively, which is itself destined to become part of a particularly beautiful chariot (περικαλλέϊ δίφρῳ). The physical destruction of the young warrior is alluded to only briefly; for the rest of this elaborate narrative, the audience is made to focus solely on the lovely tree and its future as a lovely artifact. As Seth Benardete puts it, “Simoeisios is lost in a work of art.”78 The simile thus emphasizes the beauty of death over its horror, which is foregrounded in many of the Iliad’s other deaths, where no such simile is present, but where the poet is free in describing the blood that sprays from noses, or severed arms lying in the dust.

Because they make death into something aesthetically pleasing, similes like this have sometimes been interpreted ideologically, seen to reinforce the ideal of the beautiful death, as discussed by Jean-Pierre Vernant.79 Susanne Wofford has argued that the way they treat death, both aestheticizing it and connecting it with natural cycles of growth and renewal, makes them crucial to the poet’s overall project, to “assign [death] symbolic and collective value.”80 Simoeisios, in this reading, is not presented simply as a young man who dies and is no more. Rather, his existence is shown to take meaning precisely at the

78 Benardete 2000, 38. 79 Vernant 1991. 80 Wofford 1992, 47.

moment when he dies: only in dying does he enter the narrative at all, and in dying he is made into something lovely and lasting, a chariot, and also a poem.81

At the same time, the transformation via simile of the fact of death into something beautiful can also be taken to serve the opposite purpose, i.e. to highlight by means of contrast just how ugly death is. For the similes, however lovely, are only brief, a handful of lines applied to a handful of individuals in the midst of extended battle-descriptions replete with bloodshed and slaughter on an enormous scale. They make no attempt to transform it entirely, offering only momentary glimpses of a beautiful and peaceful world.

We might argue in this sense that similes like the one for Simoesios are inserted into these violent narratives to offer contrast, to show what death is not like.82 For the vision they present is fundamentally different from Simoesios’ own experience and that of his fellow warriors. As Laura Slatkin points out, the characters in the battle scenes are constantly surrounded by “images of lacerated flesh, of bodies subjected to death blows, of disfigured and dismembered remnants of the human corpses,” and the image that the audience is sometimes given through similes “only reinforces the relentless cruelty of what the fighting men stare down.”83 Wofford likewise notes the disjunction between the perspective of the characters in the epic and the similes offered by the narrator, and finds in it evidence that such similes are less than fully successful in promoting the epic’s heroic ideology. They attempt to figure death as aesthetically and culturally meaningful, but the unmistakable difference between the world they portray and the contexts in which

81 Naomi Rood has made a similar argument in her 2008 study of the tree similes, suggesting that the cultural products that the trees are said (or hinted) to be made into should be seen as parallel to the poem itself, which grants the young men cultural permanence. 82 This argument is most fully elaborated in Porter 1972, which I discuss below. 83 Slatkin 2007, 20-21.

they occur makes their ideological work patent.84 The beauty of the plant similes, then, reveals that death needs to be transformed aesthetically, to be made into something it is not.

Closely connected to the plant similes’ aesthetics is their pathetic quality, which is often noted by scholars.85 Like many of the biographies, they are seen to make the death of individuals seem emotionally poignant, revealing the extent of what is lost when a man is killed. In fact, we are told something about each of the warriors described in death with a tree simile. The minor warriors are given biographies,86 and the others are already familiar to the audience. This correlation, I think, supports the idea that the similes have a pathetic coloring: the individuals they describe are not, like many of the casualties in the

Iliad, mere names, but more or less elaborated characters. The pathos of the similes can be seen most clearly, perhaps, in the case of Euphorbos, who rises somewhat above the status of a minor warrior because he accomplishes something in the narrative (he stabs

Patroclus) before he is killed. In the narrative preceding the simile, the poet has offered various pieces of information about this young man’s character and history, including the fact that he only recently arrived at the war (16.811), that he lost a brother in the day’s fighting (17.24-27), and that his hair is like the Graces’ (17.51-52). He then provides a striking simile:

οἷον δὲ τρέφει ἔρνος ἀνὴρ ἐριθηλὲς ἐλαίης χώρῳ ἐν οἰοπόλῳ, ὅθ’ ἅλις ἀναβέβροχεν ὕδωρ,

84 See e.g. her comments on the tree similes applied to Asios and Sarpedon: “The violence in the heroic scene contrasts with and limits the similes’ power to place heroic death in a broader social and natural context…. the gap opened up in this way between the symbolic claims of the epic and its representations of the war gives the poem a tragic structure” (1992, 54). 85 See e.g. Porter 1972, 14-15 and Kirk 1985, 388 on Simoesios; Stoevesandt 2004, 272-73 and Mueller 2011, 525 on Euphorbos; Janko 1994, 69 on Imbrios; and Minchin 2001, 40-41 on Asios. More skeptical of this idea, or at least of taking it too far, are Rood 2008 and Brockliss 2011, 275. 86 We are told of the birth and parents of Simoeisios, of the ancestry of Krethon and Orsilochos, of the beauty of Gorgythion’s mother, and of Imbrios’ marriage to a daughter of Priam.

καλὸν τηλεθάον· τὸ δέ τε πνοιαὶ δονέουσι παντοίων ἀνέμων, καί τε βρύει ἄνθεϊ λευκῷ· ἐλθὼν δ’ ἐξαπίνης ἄνεμος σὺν λαίλαπι πολλῇ βόθρου τ’ ἐξέστρεψε καὶ ἐξετάνυσσ’ ἐπὶ γαίῃ. (17.53-58)

Like the sapling of a flourishing olive tree that a man raises in a lonely place, and drenched it with generous water, blossoming and beautiful, and the blasts of winds from all quarters tremble it, and it bursts into pale blossom. But then a wind suddenly descending on it in a great tempest wrenched it out of its stand and laid it at length on the ground.

Here we are made to see Euphorbos as something lively but vulnerable, as we watch a sapling tended by the gardener, shaken but still growing and eventually blossoming, and then suddenly uprooted and brought to the ground. We have already been allowed to know something about Euphorbos, and the simile seems designed to produce sympathy for him, offering an image that reflects his beauty and highlights the pointlessness of his loss. Similes with such pronounced pathos are relatively few and far between in the course of the Iliad’s long battle narratives,87 but they are striking and memorable, reminding us that it is real individuals that die, each one with his own concerns and qualities, each one irreplaceable.

We might go further still and suggest that similes like this one—and by extension the biographies that often accompany them—should be thought of as not only pathetic but actually mournful. For plant imagery, especially that involving trees and saplings, is common in the tradition of Greek lament.88 We might think for example of the scene in which Hecuba, imagining Hector’s death, refers to him as a dear sprout (φίλον θάλος,

87 The plant similes themselves are not all as markedly pathetic as this; the pathos can be highlighted or not according to narrative needs. On this, see Scott’s discussion (2009, 176-79) of two different similes and the way they are developed differently to create different connotations. 88 Nagy 1979, 183-84; Dué 2006, 66; Tsagalis 2004, 103, Alexiou 2002, 198-201.

22.87). Thetis uses a similar image in her (anticipatory)89 lament for Achilles, though she makes it into an actual simile:

ὃ δ’ ἀνέδραμεν ἔρνεϊ ἶσος· τὸν μὲν ἐγὼ θρέψασα φυτὸν ὣς γουνῷ ἀλωῆς. (18.56-57)

he shot up like a sapling, and I nurtured him, like a tree grown in the pride of the orchard.

As she mourns her son’s future fate, she employs vegetal imagery, picturing her tender care for him, and the experience of seeing him grow. The language she uses to do so closely recalls the simile for Euphorbos, which came in the preceding book. The young

Trojan, too, was presented as an ἔρνος which someone carefully raises (τρέφει), only the simile for him went on to show what Thetis naturally leaves out, but which the audience can easily supply: the sapling’s tragic end. Euphorbos’ own parents had twice been mentioned in the narrative preceding this simile (17.28, 17.37); in the latter case,

Euphorbos specifically refers to their lamentation and sadness (γόον καὶ πένθος).90 When we hear the pathetic simile given to him, then, we might picture his mother using just such expressions in her own mourning for him.91 The similes draw on the traditional association between plant imagery and the lament,92 allowing the audience to experience

89 It is often argued that this lament is derived from another tradition in which Thetis actually mourned the death of Achilles himself. See e.g. M. West 2003 and Tsagalis 2004, 136-39. See also Nagy 1979, 183: “The context of these words is an actual lamentation… sung by the mother of Achilles himself over the death of her son—a death that is presupposed by the narrative.” The same imagery, as Nagy shows, is also of cultic significant, e.g. in the case of Demophon. 90 Similar language recurs in several biographies (e.g. γόον καὶ κήδεα λυγρὰ at 5.158), and these themselves might also be linked to the tradition of lament. On this see Tsagalis 2004, 182-92. 91 Griffin (1980, 135) likewise observes that “The care lavished on the plant reminds the reader of what he had been told… of Euphorbus’ mourning parents.” 92 Stein (2013, 76) makes a similar point, linking tree imagery to “funereal associations” through traditional referentiality. He cites a simile comparing a man struck motionless by Poseidon to a tree or a gravestone (ἀλλ’ ὥς τε στήλην ἢ δένδρεον ὑψιπέτηλον ἀτρέμας ἑσταότα, Il. 13.437-38).

or at least imagine the emotional responses that an individual’s death might produce in his own family members.93

The emotional intensity perceived in these similes, moreover, is sometimes taken as a challenge to the epic’s heroic ideology. For the lament itself is a potentially subversive form of expression, as Sheila Murnaghan explains:

Lamentation threatens to undermine the kleos-conferring function of epic because it stresses the suffering caused by heroic death rather than the glory won by it; lamentation calls into question the glorification of death sponsored by martial societies and the epics that celebrate them.94

The similes might be seen to do something similar, to work against the warrior ethos of the epic, or at least the one voiced by many of its characters, making the audience wonder whether the deaths of so many fine young men can possibly be justified. Along these lines, Porter has argued that the similes often serve “to increase our sense of the violence and destructiveness of the war, perhaps even at times to suggest its senselessness.”95

They might be taken as evidence of the “bitterness that proceeds from tenderness,”96 which Simone Weil saw everywhere in the poem, making us feel the horrible weight of what is destroyed in war.

On the other hand, the sadness they entail need not be taken as subversive.

Murnaghan and others have shown that Iliadic lamentation, however much it may seem to conflict with the ideology of the epic, is in practice made to fit in with and even

93 Cf. Oswald’s (2012, 1-2) admittedly non-scholarly reaction to the Iliad’s death scenes: “I like to think that the stories of individual soldiers recorded in the Iliad might be recollections of those laments, woven into the narrative by poets who regularly performed both high epic and choral lyric poetry.” 94 Murnaghan 1999, 204. 95 Porter 1972, 18. See also Taplin 1980, 15. 96 Weil 1965, 25.

support it.97 Indeed, Nagy has demonstrated that heroism itself largely depends on the pain and suffering it brings to others,98 and the pathos produced by the similes can be understood in the same way. In evoking sympathy, even mourning, for the fallen warriors, they are also enshrining them as heroes, marking them as worthy of remembrance. Their deaths bring great sorrow to their families, and the audience themselves may share in this sorrow, but this is what grants them access to heroism in the first place. It is only on account of the image of the sapling woefully blown down, perhaps, that we remember someone like Euphorbos at all.

Throughout this investigation, we have seen that the very same aspects of the

Iliad’s plant similes are subject to different interpretations, which (potentially) conflict with each other even more so than in the case of the biographies. The beauty and pathos in them are seen both to valorize death in battle and also to question its value. Though some of these readings go too far in arguing that the similes reflect a particular position on death in war,99 I think they all offer evidence of the richness and complexity of the similes, which have allowed (or, better: generated) such a multi-faceted reception in scholarship. Within this wide array of interpretations, though, we can detect a common element: the plant similes are consistently read as sites of intense reflection about the meaning of death in battle, even if the precise nature of this meaning remains contested.

97 See e.g. Murnaghan 1999, 217: “Before it can be converted into pleasant, care-dispelling song, a hero’s achievement is measured in the suffering that it causes, in the grief that it inspires.” See also Gagliardi 2011 for more recent bibliography on this issue. 98 Nagy 1979, 184: “Thus the specific institution of lamentation… leads to the kléos of epic.” 99 E.g. the interpretations of Porter, who argues that such similes “underline the tragic nature of war” (1972, 19); and Rood, who holds that they suggest a view of warfare as “essentially positive” (2008, 20).

The similes help to transform the death of men from a fact, a statistic, into an object of memory and consideration.100

The other group of similes, which compare warriors to dead or dying animals, collectively suggest a rather different emphasis, which should be used as a corrective to the generally grand and lovely picture of death offered by the tree similes. First, while the latter seem to direct the audience’s attention almost exclusively to the victims and the tragedy that befalls them,101 the former also draw attention to, and reflect on the character of, their killers. Second, the images of death they offer tend to be rather less aesthetically pleasing, verging at times on the grotesque.

In most of these similes, the chief point of comparison is an animal that is basically defenseless, usually slain by a man or a predator. A typical example is a pair of brothers slain by Diomedes toward the beginning of his aristeia:

Ἔνθ’ υἷας Πριάμοιο δύω λάβε Δαρδανίδαο εἰν ἑνὶ δίφρῳ ἐόντας Ἐχέμμονά τε Χρομίον τε. ὡς δὲ λέων ἐν βουσὶ θορὼν ἐξ αὐχένα ἄξῃ πόρτιος ἠὲ βοὸς ξύλοχον κάτα βοσκομενάων, ὣς τοὺς ἀμφοτέρους ἐξ ἵππων Τυδέος υἱὸς βῆσε κακῶς ἀέκοντας. (5.159-64)

Next he killed two children of Dardanian Priam who were in a single chariot, Echemmon and Chromios. As among cattle a lion leaps on the neck of an ox or heifer, that grazes among the wooded places, and breaks it,

100 This is true of any poetic element used to describe death; but the plant similes do it in particularly noticeable ways. 101 Some scholars do see at least some of the tree similes as serving to glorify the killers. See e.g. Stein 2013, 68, following Fränkel 1977, 35. This argument hinges on the fact that, in three of the similes (Simoesios, 4.485 and Asios/Sarpedon 13.390=16.483), woodcutters are explicitly mentioned, while another implies them (with the phrase χαλκῷ ταμνομένη at 13.180). Only in the Simoesios example, though, is there a specific individual in the vehicle who might be related to the actual killer (in this case Ajax); the others are collective. Scott (2009, 178-79) suggests that the mention of the woodcutters serves to emphasize the slayer more than the slain, in order to show “the increase in Greek power.” Against this, Ready (2011, 246-47) argues, I think rightly, that the collected woodsmen should not be taken to represent the killer; in his reading, the focus of these similes is directed toward the slain individual, whereas with the Simoesios simile, Ajax’s role as killer is emphasized through the figure of the chariot-maker (255-56).

so the son of Tydeus hurled both from their horses hatefully, in spite of their struggles.

There is no close literal correspondence here between simile and scene: the warriors are on a chariot rather than on the ground, and their necks are not broken.102 But the general form of this comparison is repeated often in the epic;103 it casts the attacking warrior as powerful and his victims, who offer no resistance, as relatively weak.104 This weakness is further emphasized in a simile (11.113-19) that likens two of Agamemnon’s victims to young fawns (νήπια τέκνα, 113) whose hearts a lion rips out (ἁπαλόν τέ σφ' ἦτορ ἀπηύρα,

115). The only case in which the lion’s prey offers any resistance is the simile for the death of Patroclus (16.823-26), in which the victim is compared to a boar that is called

“tireless” (ἀκάμαντα), and which is only brought down after a fight.105 This is doubtless reflective of his superior status as compared to any of the other victims compared to animals; Sarpedon, whom Patroclus himself killed a few hundred lines before, was likened to a bull brought down by a lion (16.487-89). These similes, then, provide an image for the slain, but they provide a more flattering image for the slayer.

A similar group of similes have a human as the one who kills the given animal, without a major shift in emphasis. The same range of possibilities exist in this group: three cattle are killed, as well as a fawn and a fish.106 All of these reflect the dominance

102 Kirk 1989, 75: “It helps not to press the comparison in detail.” 103 In individual death similes, lions kill cattle at 16.487-89 and 17.61-67; they are also extremely frequent in more generalized fighting similes, e.g. at 5.136-43 and 11.172-76. 104 Lions are the most frequent subject of similes in the Iliad (see the chart in Scott 2009, 193-96 for a full listing), and a great deal of scholarship has focused on them and related animals. See e.g. Moulton 1977, 97-98, 112-14; Schnapp-Gourbeillon 1981; Lonsdale 1990; and Spinoula 2005. On similes involving farm animals, see Scott 1974, 79-80. 105 In a previous simile, both Hector and Patroclus were compared to lions fighting over a deer’s carcass (16.756-58). Scholars have devoted a good deal of attention to the shifting representation of the two heroes; see Ready 2011, 211-12, with further bibliography. 106 The fish, according to Scott’s analysis (2009, 161), belongs to a different family of similes (in his terms, is derived from a different “simileme”).

of the victor over his victim, and show the easiness of his kill. In one exceptional case, the victim is actually a predator, or more specifically, a pair of young lions. The simile describes two brothers killed by Aeneas on the first day of fighting:

οἵω τώ γε λέοντε δύω ὄρεος κορυφῇσιν ἐτραφέτην ὑπὸ μητρὶ βαθείης τάρφεσιν ὕλης· τὼ μὲν ἄρ’ ἁρπάζοντε βόας καὶ ἴφια μῆλα σταθμοὺς ἀνθρώπων κεραΐζετον, ὄφρα καὶ αὐτὼ ἀνδρῶν ἐν παλάμῃσι κατέκταθεν ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ. (5.554-58)

These, as two young lions in the high places of the mountains, had been raised by their mother in the dark of the deep forest, lions which as they prey upon the cattle and the fat sheep lay waste the steadings of men, until they also fall and are killed under the cutting bronze in the men’s hands.

It is common enough, as we have seen, for lions to appear in death similes, but these fierce beasts are always, except in this case, the killer rather than the killed.107 This comparison elevates these young men beyond the level of the typical cow or fawn, and this makes them seem powerful and strong, even as they are killed. This emphasis on these particular men is rather surprising, given that they accomplish nothing on the battlefield. Perhaps they are assigned a grander simile on account of their family’s prominence in the epic tradition.108 Or perhaps, more simply, it is because they are

Achaeans. Indeed, as Stoevesandt has pointed out, of all the dead described with animal similes, it is only they and Patroclus—the only Achaeans—that are compared to animals that are able to resist; all of the Trojans are compared to helpless animals that are inherently “weniger heroisch.”109 Again, then, the animal similes suggest a treatment of

107 Fenik 1968, 58. Scott (2009, 180, with note 15) states that “there are several instances of lions being wounded or killed,” and cites 12.41 and 12.299; but in both these cases the death of the lion is only hypothetical, and the tenor in both cases is a warrior who fights impetuously but is not killed. Cf. also Od. 4.791-92, in which Penelope is compared to a trapped lion. 108 On this see page 39 above on the references to their father and grandfather in the Odyssey. 109 Stoevesandt 2004, 269-70.

the dead that is (at least seemingly) less impartial and humane than that suggested by the plant similes.

Thus far, my analysis has highlighted the role of the similes in revealing the hierarchy of killer and killed, i.e. showing the difference between them in terms of status or ability. They may also be seen to have different functions, as well, namely to illustrate the physical circumstances of the warrior’s death.110 In one case, the short worm simile at

13.654-55, no killer is even mentioned; the nature of the death is the only point of comparison.111 Other similes likewise reflect the responses of dying warriors to the pain of their wounds, most notably the one for Adamas:

Μηριόνης δ’ ἀπιόντα μετασπόμενος βάλε δουρὶ αἰδοίων τε μεσηγὺ καὶ ὀμφαλοῦ, ἔνθα μάλιστα γίγνετ’ Ἄρης ἀλεγεινὸς ὀϊζυροῖσι βροτοῖσιν. ἔνθά οἱ ἔγχος ἔπηξεν· ὃ δ’ ἑσπόμενος περὶ δουρὶ ἤσπαιρ’ ὡς ὅτε βοῦς τόν τ’ οὔρεσι βουκόλοι ἄνδρες ἰλλάσιν οὐκ ἐθέλοντα βίῃ δήσαντες ἄγουσιν· (13.567-72)

But as he went back Meriones dogging him struck him with the spear between navel and genitals, where beyond all places death in battle comes painfully to pitiful mortals. There the spear stuck fast driven and he, writhing about it, gasped as an ox does when among the mountains the herdsmen have bound him strongly in twisted ropes and drag him unwilling.

Here the narrative explicitly refers to the pain caused by the wound,112 and the simile seems inspired by this pain and the warrior’s reaction to it; the point of correspondence is

110 Bowra (1968, 116) argues that “Homer’s similes aim at illuminating the narrative,” and judges their success according to how well they do this. Such an approach, however, is much too limited, as has been shown above all in Fränkel’s early but influential study, which argues for a multiplicity (or an infinity) of functions for the similes and suggests that “it is only the emotion… which gives the most beautiful similes their actual life; it is in most cases more important and effective than illustrative clarity” (1997, 104). As my discussion thus far has suggested, very few of the death similes “illustrate” the death of an individual very precisely. They are much better seen as relating to the narrative, and the reader, in more complex ways. For a summary of scholarship on Homeric similes in general, see Edwards 1991, 24-41. 111 See below for the text and further analysis of this simile. 112 This is the only case where this happens in the narrative of a fatal wound; on pain in non-fatal wounds, see Holmes 2007.

the gasping rather than the wound itself, since the ox in this case has not yet been struck.

Two other cattle similes also highlight the groaning or bellowing in pain of both animal and warrior (Sarpedon, 16.485-89 and Hippodamas, 20.401-05). Others of the similes seem pictorial rather than auditory. This is clearly the case with the Trojan Thestor:

ὃ δ’ ἔγχεϊ νύξε παραστὰς γναθμὸν δεξιτερόν, διὰ δ’ αὐτοῦ πεῖρεν ὀδόντων, ἕλκε δὲ δουρὸς ἑλὼν ὑπὲρ ἄντυγος, ὡς ὅτε τις φὼς πέτρῃ ἔπι προβλῆτι καθήμενος ἱερὸν ἰχθὺν ἐκ πόντοιο θύραζε λίνῳ καὶ ἤνοπι χαλκῷ· ὣς ἕλκ’ ἐκ δίφροιο κεχηνότα δουρὶ φαεινῷ, κὰδ δ’ ἄρ’ ἐπὶ στόμ’ ἔωσε· πεσόντα δέ μιν λίπε θυμός. (16.404-09)

[Patroclus] coming close up to him stabbed with a spear-thrust at the right side of the jaw and drove it on through the teeth, then hooked and dragged him with the spear over the rail, as a fisherman who sits out on the jut of a rock with line and glittering bronze hook drags a fish, who is thus doomed, out of the water. So he hauled him, mouth open to the bright spear, out of the chariot, and shoved him over on his face, and as he fell the life left him.

This simile has been the subject of much and varied commentary, and its interpretation is rather troubled,113 but it seems clearly to have been inspired by the physical fact of

Patroclus’ spear entering Thestor’s mouth, and that he was pulled from his chariot by this means. Similarly, one Aretos, who leaps forward when wounded (προθορὼν, 17.523) is compared to an ox who makes the same movement when struck with an axe.

I will discuss several examples from this last set of similes at more length in the following section, when I consider the nature of the physical violence of the death scenes, but let it suffice for now to note that they do seem designed to illustrate something about death, in fairly vivid detail. In this, too, they are markedly unlike the plant similes, which go out of their way to make death seem other than it is. The similes as a whole thus

113 E.g. Scott (2009, 161) calls it “lyrical” and “the gentlest of its family and the one least focused on the death of the fish,” while Janko (1994, 368) describes it as “a grotesque, apt and unflattering image.”

represent a wide range of different ways of focusing on death. Some of them are simple, while others invite complex interpretations, prompting reflection about the meaning of death. This, in Scott’s analysis, is the purpose underlying Homer’s overall use of similes: in choosing to use a simile rather than direct narration, “he is inviting his audience to blend their familiarity with the narrative item and their understanding of the removed world of the simile in order to judge how each affects the presentation of the other.”114 In comparing a dying warrior to lion or a fawn, a flower or an oak, the poet is evoking a whole range of disparate connotations, some traditional and others perhaps startling, and so developing a complicated and irreducible reflection on what it means to die in battle.

5. Wounds

The biographies and similes, by and large, direct what we might call positive attention on the victims of war, making them seem like real people and presenting them with a kind of dignity. In the last set of similes we surveyed, though, the effect of the poet’s technique is to highlight the corporeality of the victims, the ways that the end they meet in battle affects their bodies. The same is true, to a far greater extent, with the descriptions of wounds that the poet provides. And while the Iliad is famous for its seemingly tender biographies and similes, it is rather infamous for its wounding scenes.115 Consider, for instance, the death of one Ilioneus:

τὸν τόθ’ ὑπ’ ὀφρύος οὖτα κατ’ ὀφθαλμοῖο θέμεθλα, ἐκ δ’ ὦσε γλήνην· δόρυ δ’ ὀφθαλμοῖο διὰ πρὸ καὶ διὰ ἰνίου ἦλθεν, ὃ δ’ ἕζετο χεῖρε πετάσσας ἄμφω· Πηνέλεως δὲ ἐρυσσάμενος ξίφος ὀξὺ αὐχένα μέσσον ἔλασσεν, ἀπήραξεν δὲ χαμᾶζε

114 Scott 2009, 16. 115 See Mueller 2009, 81.

αὐτῇ σὺν πήληκι κάρη· ἔτι δ’ ὄβριμον ἔγχος ἦεν ἐν ὀφθαλμῷ. (14.493-99)

This man Peneleos caught underneath the brow, at the bases of the eye, and pushed the eyeball out, and the spear went clean through the eye-socket and tendon of the neck, so that he went down backward, reaching out both hands, but Peneleos drawing his sharp sword hewed at the neck in the middle, and so dashed downward the head, with helm upon it, while still the strong spear was in the eye-socket.

The description here certainly focuses our attention on the dead man—more, perhaps, than we would like—making us see the physical process resulting in his death, and forcing us to witness his subsequent mutilation. In the Iliad’s battle narratives, the poet often gives us such “close-up shots” of the piercing and sundering caused by weapons, bringing out the effects of various blows in a level of detail not common in other parts of the poem.116

Not all deaths, however, are depicted so graphically. In fact, about half (122 out of 241) of the poem’s battlefield deaths do not mention any wound at all, using instead only a verb for killing.117 For the remainder, some information is supplied, but its extent varies greatly. In about half (59), the poet tells only the location where a weapon hits the victim’s body (e.g. ἑσταότ’ ἔγχεϊ νύξε κατὰ κληῗδα τυχήσας, 5.579). The other half include both the location of the wound and some further detail about its effects. In a third of these cases (19), a category I call “simple,” the additional detail simply shows where the point of the weapon ended up, as for example with Simoesios:

116 In their discussion of narratorial viewpoints within the poem, De Jong and Nünlist (2004, 78-79) note that the battle scenes, with their frequent attention to wounds, contain the most instances of the (otherwise) “generally rare close-up standpoint.” 117 I include in this figure seven deaths that mention the weapon that kills an individual but do not relate where the weapon entered the body.

πρῶτον γάρ μιν ἰόντα βάλε στῆθος παρὰ μαζὸν δεξιόν· ἀντικρὺ δὲ δι’ ὤμου χάλκεον ἔγχος ἦλθε. (4.480-82)

[Ajax] struck him as he first came forward beside the nipple of the right breast, and the bronze spearhead drove clean through the shoulder.

In the first line we have a wholly typical wound; four other warriors receive wounds in the exact same spot (στῆθος παρὰ μαζὸν),118 but their wound-descriptions end here; only in this particular case is the detail about the progress of the spear through the torso added.

Such an addition focuses further attention on the act of wounding, which becomes here a complex rather than a simple process; it also increases the visuality of the description, as the audience can imagine the movement of the spear through the chest and out the shoulder. We should note in passing that this is the same Simoesios who also received a tree simile and a pathetic biography, and we might take the additional detail about his wound as adding to the attention the poet devotes to him. Other wounds in this category are perhaps less marked: four of them, for instance, are identical.119 Still others are more detailed and unique: in one case, a man dies when a spear goes in one ear and out the other (20.473-74); in another, a spear point is said to become lodged in a man’s lung

(4.528).

In the next category, which includes 41 wounds, we are given further detail about the continuing effects of the wound. I call these wounds “graphic” for convenience, though there is a broad spectrum of levels of visual detail within them. Eight mention the blood flowing from a wound.120 Six refer to intestines coming though a wound; the most

118 8.121, 8.313, 15.577, 17.606. 119 ὤμων μεσσηγύς, διὰ δὲ στήθεσφιν ἔλασσε(ν) (5.41, 5.57, 8.259, 11.448). 120 A remarkably small number, given the extent of the other sorts of detail given. On the role of blood in battle-narratives, see Neal 2006a; on blood’s function as “visual evidence” of (invisible) pain, see Holmes 2007, 60-65.

distinctive of these is when Polydoros is said to grab hold of his own entrails as he dies

(20.418). In eight cases, an individual’s head is smashed by a rock, and three of these include mention of the splattering of brains. In many wounds of this type, the language used is quite formulaic; the detail of the brains, for instance, is always expressed in the same way: ἐγκέφαλος δὲ / ἔνδον ἅπας πεπάλακτο (11.97-98, 12.185-86, 20.399-400).121

But others are more distinct. Thirteen detail the separation from an individual of some body part (head, tongue, arm, eyes, etc.) that is cut off or knocked out. Four involve the severing of some specific (real or imaginary) physiological feature, like the large vein that is said to run up the back (13.546-47). To a greater or lesser degree, the wound descriptions belonging to this category bring before the audience’s attention parts of the body that are not normally seen: bowels, blood, brains, even in one case an individual’s liver, which slips out of a sword wound (20.470). The anatomical realism of such wounds has been the subject of long debate (can a liver be so easily severed?),122 but this issue is irrelevant for the present investigation. Whether or not wounds of the type Homer describes could actually happen, their detail and graphicness draws the audience’s attention to the injuries that lead to the death of warriors.

A handful of these wounds are developed so extensively, and so imaginatively, that they seem to make the physical destruction of an individual into a spectacle, a marvel, and at times a sort of mini-narrative in its own right.123 The death of Ilioneus, with which

I opened this section, is a prime example: the spear enters through the eye-socket and

121 Though another wound at 17.297-98 deals differently with the same subject; there, bloody brains are said to run out through the hole left by a spear wound. 122 See Saunders 2003 for an extensive discussion with further bibliography. Friedrich 2003, to which Saunders 2003 is appended, is a classic text touching on the subject. See also Robertson 2002 and, more recently, Apostolakis et al., 2010. 123 Most of the wounds discussed in this paragraph are identified as “phantasmata” by Friedrich, i.e. he deems them too implausible to actually have occurred. I single them out here, however, on account of their dramatic nature rather than because of any connection they might have (or not have) with reality.

reaches the neck; then the sword cuts off the head; the spear is withdrawn, bringing the eye with it. Less gory but more spectacular is the death of Mydon, narrated thus:

Ἀντίλοχος δὲ Μύδωνα βάλ’ ἡνίοχον θεράποντα ἐσθλὸν Ἀτυμνιάδην· ὃ δ’ ὑπέστρεφε μώνυχας ἵππους· χερμαδίῳ ἀγκῶνα τυχὼν μέσον· ἐκ δ’ ἄρα χειρῶν ἡνία λεύκ’ ἐλέφαντι χαμαὶ πέσον ἐν κονίῃσιν. Ἀντίλοχος δ’ ἄρ’ ἐπαΐξας ξίφει ἤλασε κόρσην· αὐτὰρ ὅ γ’ ἀσθμαίνων εὐεργέος ἔκπεσε δίφρου κύμβαχος ἐν κονίῃσιν ἐπὶ βρεχμόν τε καὶ ὤμους. δηθὰ μάλ’ ἑστήκει· τύχε γάρ ῥ’ ἀμάθοιο βαθείης· ὄφρ’ ἵππω πλήξαντε χαμαὶ βάλον ἐν κονίῃσι· (5.580-88)

Antilochos struck down Mydon, his charioteer and henchman, Atymnios’ brave son, as he wheeled the single-foot horses about, with a stone striking mid-elbow, and from his hands the reins pale with ivory dropped to the ground in the dust. Antilochos charging drove the sword into his temple, so that gasping he dropped from the carefully wrought chariot headlong, driven deep in the dust his neck and shoulders; and there, since he chanced to light in a depth of sand, he stuck fast until his horses knocked him into the dust with their feet.

In another, a spear lodged in a man’s chest is made to vibrate by the exertions of his heart

(13.442-44); twice, a blow causes a man’s eyes to pop out of his head and fall to the ground (13.616-18, 16.741-42); once a man’s partially severed head dangles from his torso, connected by only a flap of skin (16.339-41); another man is speared through the jaw and pulled by the spear off of his chariot (16.405-06); when another warrior’s head is cut off, his marrow spurts out of his neck (20.482-83); finally, when another man is hit in the neck, the poet adds the striking detail that his face hits the ground before his knees

(14.465-67). In each case, the poet adds some detail to an otherwise normal wound description, and this makes the circumstances of death an object of curiosity. This might be seen as an aestheticization of death of a different kind from that offered in the similes.

Rather than making death itself beautiful, the narration of these deaths highlights its own

ingenuity, the marvelous and—in a strange way—fascinating variety of ways in which it can deconstruct men’s bodies.124

The frequency and variety of the Iliad’s wounds, especially those in this last category, have produced a number of responses from readers of the poem, and many of these responses have been starkly contradictory. For some, Homer’s graphic representation of the violence of death seems designed to convey a sense of the awfulness of battle. In this interpretation, Homer’s descriptions of wounds expose the “horror of slaughter and mutilation,” making his audience confront it in all its “relentless cruelty,” refusing to offer a sanitized version of it.125 As Simone Weil puts it in her analysis of the poem’s violence, “The cold brutality of the deeds of war is left undisguised.”126 Weil’s reading of the poem is rather hyperbolic, but other scholars have, like her, seen the poem’s unflinching representations of the ugliness of death as a kind of critique of its own (or at least its characters’) warrior ethos. Micheelsen has argued that the epic’s many

“detailed and horrifying passages pertaining to death” undermine the characters’ own rhetorical and ideological views of death.127 They imagine heroic, beautiful deaths for themselves, but the narrator’s often “horrifyingly graphic [and] purely biological” descriptions of the process of dying reveal that the actual fact of death is much less neat.128 Nicolai’s reading of the poem is similar, though more political; he holds that the grievous wounds of the victims of war should be seen as evidence of a “‘kritische’

124 Vermeule (96-97) makes this point: “There is an almost baroque magnificence in the physical ruin of Homer’s heroes… for Homer the human body is a marvelous network of connecting parts he can pierce or sever or use for pictorial and emotional effects.” 125 Slatkin 2007, 20-21. 126 Weil 1965, 26. 127 Micheelsen 2002, 114. Closely related is Renehan 1987. 128 Micheelsen 2002, 67.

Wirkungsabsicht” towards the aristocratic warrior ethos of the poem.129 Such ways of understanding the poem’s violence can be made to fit neatly with those interpretations of the similes and biographies that take them as humane, sensitive to the sufferings inflicted by war. Descriptions of spilt entrails simply show the same thing as the similes, though in a very different way.

Others, though, have taken these same descriptions as evidence of a keen interest, even delight, in violence. Finley, for instance, suggests that “the poet and his audience lingered lovingly over every act of slaughter.”130 Emily Vermeule argues stridently for a similar interpretation, insisting that the poem’s violence was meant to produce pleasure.

“When some poor Trojan gets wounded in the bladder,” she says, “[Homer] and his audience enjoy the scene enormously.”131 The audience can appreciate the poet’s ingenuity in describing death so variously and so colorfully, and we might think here of violent films, which have the same effect for many viewers.132 The members of the audience can also, perhaps, take pleasure in the ability of the warriors to inflict such wounds. Van Wees has suggested that “The poet’s extended descriptions of gruesome wounds and spectacular deaths… must surely be attributed not only to appalled fascination with death and mutilation, but also to a certain pride in the ability to inflict horrific injuries.”133 In such readings, the violence that leads to the warriors’ deaths is ornamental, a pleasant diversion for the poem’s original audience.

129 Nicolai 1983, 9. For another reading questioning the fundamentally aristocratic nature of the Homeric epics, see Dalby 1995. 130 Finley 2002, 121. 131 Vermeule 1979, 96. 132 See my discussion of The Wild Bunch in section 4 of the introduction. 133 Van Wees 1996, 51.

These two interpretations are starkly opposed to each other: Homer loved violence, or he abhorred it. Is there any way to judge between these two responses? The case for the former is predicated upon a reconstruction of the tastes of the inhabitants of archaic Greece, and this is necessarily a tenuous venture, considering how much remains uncertain about the culture(s) that produced the Iliad. On the other hand, the contrary interpretation is susceptible to accusations of anachronism, of reading modern sensibilities onto an ancient text. Vermeule suggests, for instance, that “Homer would be surprised at the delicate stomachs of his later readers.”134 There is danger, then, in assuming too much about the poem’s cultural context, and in acknowledging it too little.

Add to this the possibility, briefly addressed above, that the epic may be challenging or questioning its own received values, and the difficulty of interpretation becomes even more pronounced.

On this account, I think it will be more productive to consider the poem’s wounds in their narrative contexts rather than in the abstract. We might pay attention, that is, to how the wounds are distributed throughout the battle narratives: which characters dole them out, which receive them, and in what circumstances do we find them? One clear pattern that emerges from this sort of analysis—and which immediately poses problems for a view that sees the wounds as evidence of anti-war sentiments on the poet’s part—is that Trojans are far more likely to endure grisly wounds than their Achaean opponents.

Only eight Achaeans receive wounds that are described with any detail beyond location, compared to fifty-one Trojans. If we consider the slightly narrower pool of those wounds that contain a greater level of detail, the ratio becomes a much more dramatic 3:38. This

134 Vermeuele 1979, 95n11.

fact can quite naturally be taken as the result of Homer’s pro-Achaean bias.135 It might seem to suggest, that is, that he did not just enjoy imagining wounding in general, but the wounding of “the enemy,” i.e. the Trojans. Mueller, who notes this phenomenon, attributes it to “the bias of the poet’s narrative sources,” as though the poet were compelled by tradition to have the Trojans wounded this way, despite his generally impartial outlook.136 Van Wees also observes the predominance of wounds among the

Trojans, and takes this to support his interpretation that a warrior is glorified when he wounds an enemy in grievous ways, and thus that detailed wound descriptions powerfully illustrate of “the superior force of the ideal warrior,” who is almost always an Achaean.137

He compares the poem’s descriptions of such horrible wounds to pictures that British soldiers took of their dead enemies during the Falklands War, noting that “Modern soldiers do not, of course, take photos of mutilated comrades, and it is no coincidence that in Homer it is almost always Trojans rather than Greeks whose injuries are described in detail.”138

The implication here is that a kind of favoritism for the Achaeans underlies the poet’s presentation, i.e. that he is too sensitive to show “his own countrymen” suffering dismemberment and the like, but that he is happy to show them inflicting it on the enemy.

Not only the quantity of Trojan wounds but also their particular nature has been taken as evidence of the poet’s prejudice against them. They are much more likely to be wounded in the back than the Achaeans (the ratio is 18:3),139 which reflects their greater propensity

135 Unless one takes these wounds as reflecting the poet’s sensitivity to pain. In this case, the wounding of so many Trojans would speak to his sympathy for them. 136 Mueller 2009, 83. 137 Van Wees 1996, 39. 138 Van Wees 1996, 51. 139 This statistic is from Stoevesandt 2004, 117.

to flee, and can be taken as a criticism of their ethos.140 More specifically gruesome wounds have also been seen to reflect the poet’s view of individual Trojans. Consider the case of Harpalion, a Trojan ally who attacks Menelaos without success, and is then killed while retreating:

Μηριόνης δ’ ἀπιόντος ἵει χαλκήρε’ ὀϊστόν, καί ῥ’ ἔβαλε γλουτὸν κάτα δεξιόν· αὐτὰρ ὀϊστὸς ἀντικρὺ κατὰ κύστιν ὑπ’ ὀστέον ἐξεπέρησεν. ἑζόμενος δὲ κατ’ αὖθι φίλων ἐν χερσὶν ἑταίρων θυμὸν ἀποπνείων, ὥς τε σκώληξ ἐπὶ γαίῃ κεῖτο ταθείς· ἐκ δ’ αἷμα μέλαν ῥέε, δεῦε δὲ γαῖαν. (13.651-55)

But as he went back Meriones let fly at him with a bronze-shod arrow, and hit him beside the right buttock, so that the arrow was driven on through under the bone to fix in the bladder. There, sitting among the arms of his beloved companions, he gasped out his life, then lay like a worm extended along the ground, and his dark blood drenched the ground in its running.

Janko thinks that this description is crafted as a condemnation of the young man’s behavior: “Harpalion’s blow is ignoble, his retreat craven; hence his shameful wound in the buttock… and his likeness to a worm.”141 In Janko’s reading, the wound is ideologically motivated, as the poet goes out of his way to shame the Trojan by making him die such a miserable and humiliating death.142 The animal simile, too, is part of this project: rather than elevating or ennobling his death, it seems to scorn it, creating a picture of his wretched writhing. Janko likewise identifies a number of other men who likewise suffer appropriate wounds, and it is no surprise that all of them are Trojans.143

140 On the ideological difference between wounds in the front and back, which is explicitly discussed by characters within the poem (at 8.94-5 and 13.288-91) see Salazar 2000, 156-57. 141 Janko 1994, 126. 142 Mueller (2009, 183) takes the same simile very differently, as one of several “unique images that make it clear that a sense of revulsion [at violent descriptions] is intended and not the result of a later and more refined sensibility.” 143 Janko 1994, 116. He names Asios, killed in the throat on account of his boastfulness; Peisandros, whose eyes pop out because he is “a fool”; and Adamas, another “coward,” who, as we saw above, is speared between the groin and the navel and described as gasping in pain.

Another character whose wound is often seen in this way is Pandarus, whose death is described in elaborate and vivid detail:

βέλος δ’ ἴθυνεν Ἀθήνη ῥῖνα παρ’ ὀφθαλμόν, λευκοὺς δ’ ἐπέρησεν ὀδόντας. τοῦ δ’ ἀπὸ μὲν γλῶσσαν πρυμνὴν τάμε χαλκὸς ἀτειρής, αἰχμὴ δ’ ἐξελύθη παρὰ νείατον ἀνθερεῶνα. (5.290-93)

Pallas Athene guided the weapon to the nose next to the eye, and it cut on through the white teeth and the bronze weariless shore all the way through the tongue’s base so that the spearhead came out underneath the jawbone.

Pandarus broke the truce in book 4; he is also a boaster, twice wrongly claiming (5.101,

5.283) to have killed Diomedes. On this account, commentators often suggest that the brutal wound to the mouth reflects a kind of poetic justice, in which the boastful tongue is rightly cut off;144 this in turn is thought to satisfy the audience, who are glad to see him thus rewarded.145

A related factor is the inclusion in wound descriptions of the suffering of the victim. As I noted above in my discussion of similes, a number of warriors are compared in death to dying animals who vocalize their pain or distress. These similes, as we saw, were applied exclusively to Trojans. Several other warriors are also said to gasp

(ἀσθμαίνω), bellow (βρυχάομαι, ἐρεύγομαι), call out (οἰμώζω), or groan (στενάχω) after they have been wounded. In these cases, again, the men who cry out are always Trojans, while the Achaeans are uniformly silent when they are wounded.146 Stoevesandt takes

144 See e.g. Saunders 2003, 143. 145 Stoevesandt 2004, 121: “Daß der eitle Prahler ein solches Ende nimmt, dürfte das Primärpublikum durchaus mit Genugtuung erfüllt haben.” As discussed below, however, she also sees cases where the opposite holds true, where grisly wounds are indeed intended to evoke pity; context determines which response is appropriate, in her view. Cf. Kirk 1990, 89. 146 Stoevesandt (2004, 122-23) assembles a list of such instances; nine times dying Trojans make such noises, but no Achaeans do. One apparent exception is the Achaean Hypsenor, who is said to groan at 13.423, but who is then already dead (see Stoevesandt 2004, 123n407, Fenik 1968, 132).

this fact as evidence of the poet’s lower estimation of the Trojans,147 and it might also be linked to the Trojans’ more general tendency to vocalize where the Achaeans remain silent, most famously as they muster for battle in book 3 (1-9).148 A similar phenomenon can also be observed in cases of non-fatal wounding. As Neal has argued, “Silent endurance characterizes the Achaean experience of physical suffering while a lack of self-control marks the Trojan experience of pain.”149 Greater warriors, it seems, should be able to bear their pain silently.150

Trojans, then, are wounded more than their Achaean counterparts, but they are also wounded differently, and the difference seems to be to their disadvantage. But before we attribute this difference to the poet’s nationalistic interest in protecting the image of his countrymen, we might consider these same wounds from a few other angles. We should first note, as is often observed, that the brutality of the slayings increases sharply as the plot of the epic progresses; in books 16-21 deaths with detailed wounds are described almost three times more regularly than in the rest of the poem.151 Battlefield deaths, which were initially fairly tidy, become increasingly vivid; as Neal has shown, no individual death narrated before book 13 includes any mention of bleeding, but bloody deaths become common in book 16 and following.152 This shift is associated in her reading, as also in Mueller’s, with a shift in the overall presentation of the battle, which becomes less glorious and more cruel. Achilles’ aristeia is, not surprisingly, the bloodiest

147 Stoevesandt 2004, 124. She follows here an observation of Herder’s. 148 On this, see Mackie 1996, 15-21 and Montiglio 2000, 79-80. 149 Neal 2006b, 70. See her chapter 2 as a whole for differences between Trojan and Achaean responses to wounds. On vocalized responses to wounding, see also the discussion in Salazar 2000, 151-52. 150 See also Odysseus’ silence when he is struck by one of the suitors (Od. 17.462-67). At the moment of death, though, the greatest heroes do speak; on this see Montiglio 2000, 80-81. 151 22 out of 71 deaths in those books, as compared to 19 of 170 elsewhere. On the general increase in violence, see Mueller 2009, 83 and Neal 2006a, 21n18, with further references. 152 Neal 2006a, 26. Benardete (2000) offers a different explanation for changes in the level of violence throughout the epic, correlating it with the involvement or noninvolvement of the gods.

part of the poem, and Neal’s analysis suggests that this is meant to “reveal not heroism but monstrousness.”153 Indeed, as she says, “The excess of his rampage contrasts with and calls into question the seemingly idealized heroism of the earlier books of the

Iliad.”154 In this reading, the propensity of a warrior to inflict appalling wounds does not reveal his greatness, but his brutality. The fact that it is only Achaeans who dole out wounds of this sort, which was seen above as a sign of the poet’s favoritism towards them, could in this light be seen as reflecting rather on their greater cruelty.155 We might think here, for comparison, of Achilles’ cruelty towards the corpse of Hector. He commits violence on it, but this is presented unfavorably, as witnessed by the gods’ harsh judgment of his behavior (e.g. at 24.39-54).

We might also reevaluate the wound descriptions applied to the Trojans in the context of their overall treatment in death. As we have seen in the previous analyses,

Trojans are much more likely than Achaeans to receive biographies revealing the pain caused by their deaths, as well as similes portraying them as defenseless creatures or fragile plants. While each of these features can be interpreted as characterizing them as weaker than and generally inferior to the Achaeans, they can also be seen as highlighting the pathos, even the tragedy, of their deaths.

The wound descriptions, too, might be taken along the same lines. The biography and the brutal details of the wound, we might say, can reinforce each other in highlighting the awfulness of the man’s death; the biography shows the value of the life that is lost, while the wound shows just how horribly and irreversibly it is destroyed.

153 Neal 2006a, 33. Such a reading of Achilles’ aristeia is common enough” 154 Neal 2006a, 33. 155 As Neal (2006a, 27) puts it, this feature shows that “the Iliad—somewhat ambivalently—privileges the vanquishers.”

Ilioneus, as we saw above, had his head cut off and his head impaled on a spear; but he is not merely an anonymous warrior, a body on whom an Achaean can showcase his strength. Just before his brutal slaughter, the poet tells us that he is:

υἱὸν Φόρβαντος πολυμήλου, τόν ῥα μάλιστα Ἑρμείας Τρώων ἐφίλει καὶ κτῆσιν ὄπασσε· τῷ δ’ ἄρ’ ὑπὸ μήτηρ μοῦνον τέκεν Ἰλιονῆα. (14.490-92)

The son of Phorbas the rich in sheepflocks, whom beyond all men of the Trojans Hermes loved, and gave him possessions. Ilioneus was the only child his mother had borne him.

His character is thus developed, and his father’s future sorrow at the loss of his only son is highlighted, at the moment before he is grotesquely butchered. We might also think of

Imbrios, who receives a biography and a tree simile and then, shortly after his death, has his head cut off and sent rolling through the battlefield.156 A similar dynamic appears in the death of Polydoros, described as the most beloved (φίλτατος, 20.411) son of Priam, who proceeds to die clutching his entrails in his hands. In this scene, as in the others, we are presented with a combination of pathos and horror (might we even say pity and fear?), as we see the father’s tender love for the young man just before we see him killed so viscerally. It is hard to imagine that the poet or audience would delight in the sight of the lad, so bright and so beloved, holding his intestines. In each case, the vivid description of wounding or mutilation seems rather to increase for the audience the sense of the tragedy of the loss.157

The more difficult question, though, is whether all of the poem’s grievous wounds can be interpreted as likewise evoking pathos for the fallen. More than a third (14 of 41)

156 Buxton (2004, 151) cites this scene as an example of how “it is sometimes impossible to separate the beautiful-pathetic from the grotesque.” 157 Stoevesandt 2004, 120-21. Salazar (2000, 130), however, objects to this reading, holding that the “details of deaths are not normally used as a means to elicit sympathy for those who are slain.”

of those who receive the most detailed wounds are also given biographical information, or else are already known, and this proportion is slightly higher than the overall ratio of such individuals to the total slain (60 of 241), which suggests some concentration of wounding among the more pathetic of the casualties. But plenty of others who are killed in grisly ways remain more or less distant and anonymous. For example, the Mydon whose head gets stuck in the sand when he falls dead from his chariot is known only as the charioteer of another minor warrior. Whether or not, as Vermeule suggests, his plight

“must have raised a laugh,”158 there is certainly nothing in the scene to suggest any sympathy for his lot. Ultimately, then, we are left with a complication rather than a resolution of the conflicting views presented above, of violence as a cause for somber reflection or for aesthetic pleasure.

6. Conclusion

Rachel Bespaloff has remarked that “Homer and Tolstoy have in common a virile love of war and a virile horror of it. They are neither pacifist nor bellicist.”159 Whether this is true of “Homer” or not, this both/and, neither/nor approach seems fitting to describe the impression left by the poem’s treatment of death, and it is certainly borne out in the interpretations of death in Homeric scholarship. Readers have argued forcefully for one view or another, and have often levied reasonable and compelling evidence in support of their claims. Perhaps the problem lies therein: in the sheer abundance of deaths, described with such varying emphases. They prove intractable, and cannot all

158 Vermeule (1979, 98). 159 Bespaloff 2005, 71.

satisfactorily be made to support one particular view of death. The text itself offers very little commentary on its own deaths, does little to frame them within a code or ideology.

Rather than being frustrated by this inconclusiveness, though, I think we can accept it as interesting and even fruitful. For it is this variety and underdeterminedness, I think, that render the deaths of the Iliad so productive in both scholarly discourse and later poetic appropriations. The epic offers a myriad of memorable and evocative techniques for narrating death in battle, but their significance is far from obvious or fixed.

As we will see, one can read them—or reuse them—in any number of ways, incorporating them into dialogues about the meaning of death, the ethics of warfare, and the purposes of poetry itself.

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Chapter 2. Displacing Death: Parody and Pathos in Apollonius’ Argonautica

The earliest rereader of Homer whom I will investigate in this study is Apollonius of Rhodes, an individual known as both an epic poet and a Homeric scholar in his own right.1 The fact that he engages with and responds to Homer is a commonplace, and such interaction is a condition of writing an epic in the Hellenistic period in the first place.

Hunter nicely expresses the nature of the poet’s project vis-à-vis the master of old:

“Whatever other models and narrative patterns have left their impression on the

Argonautica, it is Homer who is the determinant influence, and if the Argonautica is in part an exploration of the Homeric poems, it must also confront their significance.”2

Apollonius is both following Homer and creating his own epic; thus he must necessarily reject or revise much that he finds in his predecessor, making judgments about what is appropriate for his own time and context.3

Despite its extensive and well-recognized interaction with the epics of Homer, however, the Argonautica may seem an odd choice for a study on death. For it is not focused on war, like the Iliad, but on a journey and—more remote still—on love. But the

Argonautica does contain a large number of deaths, many of which occur in battle, and even some of its non-martial scenes are replete with motifs that are common in Iliadic death scenes. In both cases, I will argue, Apollonius is revisiting and renegotiating the

Homeric text, and encouraging his readers to participate in this process. Specifically, I

1 On the ways in which his scholarly work on the Homeric text manifests itself in his epic, see Rengakos 2001. 2 Hunter 2004, 98. 3 The most comprehensive treatment of this subject is Knight 1995, which has greatly informed my approach in this chapter.

suggest that Apollonius’s use of Iliadic death motifs is parodic, i.e. that he uses them to reflect not on the nature of death itself but on the nature of poetry about death.

The concept of parody has sometimes been applied by scholars to the Argonautica, and especially to its battle scenes. Consider Knight’s assessment, in which the battles are distinguished from the rest of the epic:

The Argonautica as a whole lacks both the exaggeration of characteristics and the application of ‘high-flown’ style to banal subjects which are the commonest features of parody. However, the battle scenes in Books 1 and 2, which distort the conventions used in Homeric battles, manipulate these conventions in a way similar to parody.4

Goldhill likewise observes how one of the epic’s few battle scenes “forcefully parodies a

Homeric narrative.”5 Scholarship has not, however, focused to any extent on the representation of individual deaths within the Argonautica or discussed their relation to parallel scenes in the Iliad.6 Such a study will thus help to reflect on Apollonius’ narrative practices as well as on his interpretation of and response to the famous deaths in the Homeric epic.

In calling Apollonius’ treatment of deaths parodic, I am relying on a limited use of the concept of parody as developed by M. Bakhtin. According to his analysis of ancient and medieval literature, epic (as a genre) is separated from contemporary reality by a vast distance; formally and thematically it views the past with reverence,

“display[ing] a profound piety toward the subject described and the language used to describe it, the language of tradition.”7 Parody, which he sees as constantly developing alongside epic, removes this distance, often by means of laughter, which “demolishes

4 Knight 1995, 10. 5 Goldhill 1991, 317. See also Effe 2001, 214 and Durbec 2008, 67 for parody in/of battle. 6 Durbec (2008) investigates “several deaths” in the epic, but focuses on their thematic significance within the epic. Hunter (1993a, 41-45) has a short but valuable discussion of “Death and some deaths.” 7 Bakhtin 1981, 17.

fear and piety before a world, making of it an object of familiar contact and thus clearing the ground for an absolutely free investigation of it.”8 The apparent greatness of the past and its heroes is brought by parody into the present, where it can be subjected to analysis and evaluation.

In one sense, the Argonautica hardly seems to fit this description. It is itself an epic, after all, and uses epic language and motifs.9 Indeed, it makes a point from the beginning of asserting the chronological distance of its subject matter (παλαιγενέων κλέα

φωτῶν, 1.1).10 And though laughter may be at times an appropriate response to the text, it is very far from comic. In the case of the deaths, this is especially true: they are no laughing matter. But parody need not be comic, and can function from within the form of a given genre. Consider, for instance, Bakhtin’s discussion of a parodic sonnet:

In a parodied sonnet, the sonnet form is not a genre at all; that is, it is not the form of a whole but is rather the object of representation: the sonnet here is the hero of the parody. In a parody on the sonnet, we must first of all recognize a sonnet, recognize its form, its specific style, its manner of seeing, its manner of selecting from and evaluating the world—the world view of the sonnet, as it were. A parody may represent and ridicule these distinctive features of the sonnet well or badly, profoundly or superficially. But in any case, what results is not a sonnet, but rather the image of a sonnet.11

In the same way, I argue, Apollonius’ epic can function, at times, as the object of its own representation; it can represent and ridicule (or at least call into question) its form and

8 Bakhtin 1981, 23. 9 Though it has also been described, most notably by Beye (1969, 34) as an “anti-epic”; its language also shows marked differences from Homer’s, especially in terms of its formularity, on which see Carspecken 1952, Beye 1982, 65-68, and Fantuzzi 2001. 10 The epic’s explicit marking of its own antiquity, though, is belied by what Hunter calls a “lowering of tonal level.” The situations that the heroes find themselves in, and their responses to them, are less remote than in Homer: “The sympathy between ourselves and the characters of epic is now explicitly marked by the shared patterns which govern their lives and ours” (Hunter 2004, 101-02). The prevalence of aetia in the text likewise removes this distance, as A. Morrison (2007, 273, quoting Fusillo 1985 137-42)) observes: “the un-Homeric connection of narratorial present and mythological past…. [is] a ‘betrayal of the Homeric epic, shattering the fiction of the ‘absolute past.’’” 11 Bakhtin 1981, 51. Emphasis in the original.

ethos. Before discussing how this applies especially to the deaths in the epic, I would like to illustrate this aspect of the Argonautica by considering an example from another context, which Hunter has drawn attention to. At the end of book 2, Jason meets Phrixos, and the latter offers a short speech outlining his lineage; he prefaces this account with the assumption that Jason will already know of his father’s exploits. In form, the whole thing resembles a number of similar incidents in the Homeric poems, most famously the speech of Glaucus in Iliad 6. Here, Hunter comments,

We recognize a typical reworking of an archaic motif—the assumed fame of one’s family history—but the form of the reworking forces us to ask: why should these complete strangers know this? Perhaps Phrixos is so self-absorbed that he cannot conceive of a human being ignorant of the story of the Golden Fleece, but perhaps rather the literate poet, always concerned to put ironising distance between himself and the discursive, repetitive style of archaic epic, not only cuts the storytelling short, but, in so doing, lays bare the assumptions of epic form. Such ‘commentary’ on inherited poetic techniques and themes is a central feature of the Hellenistic epic.12

Hunter does not use the language of parody in his analysis, but the dynamic that he recognizes seems to work nicely with Bakhtin’s insights about the parodic sonnet. In the passage he refers to, the “genealogical introduction” is not simply an account of who

Phrixos is; rather, it becomes the object of the poet’s representation. He takes something recognizable as a type, but modifies it in order to question that very type, to lay it open to the scrutiny of his readers.

It is this specific conception of parody—in which the form becomes the object, rather than the vehicle, of representation13—that will inform my analysis of the death scenes in the Argonautica. I will take the Iliadic death scene as a specific form, like the

12 Hunter 2004, 121. 13 See also Wray’s analysis of the Argonautica, according to which “the dynamics of narrating are thrust forward, taking precedence over the content of the story…. they take voice, they are impersonated and embodied in characters of the story” (2000, 246).

sonnet. As we saw in the previous chapter, these scenes follow specific patterns and are developed by means of a range of techniques, which themselves employ a limited set of motifs. I argue that Apollonius, in his narration of deaths, is exploring this form, rather than simply telling poetically of the demise of certain individuals in the story. He examines those mechanisms by which the epic tradition deals with death, probing and testing them rather than accepting them as a given. His parody is to this extent largely aesthetic in orientation, concerned to highlight (and criticize) the ways in which the earlier epic makes the death of young men into the subject of poetry.

At the same time, I will argue, especially towards the end of this chapter, that

Apollonius’ parody also touches upon ethical issues. As I suggested in the introduction, the ethical is never fully separable from the aesthetic, and I think that Apollonius designedly tackles some ethical problems that he perceives in the Homeric epic. Here again I think Bakhtin can help us. He asserts that the “straightforward” epic (the Iliad) shows a kind of piety towards its subject (in this case, the deaths) and the way it is represented (its patterns and motifs). While Bakhtin’s assessment of epic as fundamentally pious and monological may be an oversimplification14—as I argued in the last chapter, Homer’s death scenes in particular resist any unifying interpretation, and they cannot easily be made to support a single dominant ideology—I think that a

Hellenistic poet like Apollonius would have seen the Iliad as such. Holding as it did such a dominant and authoritative position in Greek culture, it would have seemed monolithic,

14 For an in-depth discussion of his arguments about epic, see Nagy 2002. Peradotto (1990, 53-58) actually applies Bakhtin’s ideas of dialogism to the Odyssey. As both scholars note, Bakhtin’s own understanding of the epic and its relation to the novel developed over time (Nagy 2002, 73-74; Peradotto 1990, 53n13).

perhaps even oppressive.15 For Apollonius, the Iliad—and especially what he saw as its conception of heroic death—needed parodying. It is too serious, too pious; and in his own epic he largely rejects any such piety toward the past, whether in subject or in language, and encourages the readers to do the same.

The primary way in which he does so, in my analysis, is through displacement. In the Iliad, the death scenes are constructed with various levels of detail; some are bare, while others include biographies, similes, and/or graphic descriptions of violence. These elements are more or less evenly dispersed throughout the battle narratives, such that the majority of them are fairly brief and undifferentiated, but every now and then one appears that is more elaborated and thus more memorable. In the Argonautica, however, these different modes of narration are isolated from each other, and this defamiliarizes them, making them seem strange and allowing them to be evaluated critically. In the first section, in which I analyze the two extended battle scenes in the epic, the displacement I find is fairly mild: Apollonius uses a limited number of motifs to describe the death of certain warriors, while applying quite different ones to other warriors. In the second section, the displacement is somewhat more pronounced, as motifs from battlefield deaths are removed from their normal contexts and used to describe deaths that take place in non-martial circumstances. In the third, the displacement becomes more radical, as

Apollonius uses death motifs in new and shockingly inappropriate (according to the tradition) situations. In each case, though, the effect drives towards the same end: it calls attention to the texture of the poetry itself, reminding the reader that she is reading a poem about death and making her consider anew the ways in which such death is narrated.

15 A point I discuss at greater length in section 4 below.

1. Dying in Battle

In this section, I focus specifically on the death scenes in the Argonautica that bear the most direct relation to the Iliad, namely the ones in which the Argonauts engage in battle with other groups of men. There are three such scenes: In the first of these

(1.1025-51), Jason and his companions fight against the Doliones, a kindly people who had previously received them hospitably. The whole battle is a mistake, taking place in the dark after the Argonauts are blown off course in the night.16 The second battle (2.98-

135) pits the Argonauts against the Bebryces, who attack them when Polydeuces kills their leader, Amycus, in a boxing match. The third, between the Argonauts and the sailors on Aspyrtus’ ship, is much shorter, condensed to a mere five lines (4.484-89); it narrates no individual deaths, and so I will not address it here.17

In the battle with the Doliones, Apollonius disrupts the normal mechanisms of

Iliadic death scenes by creating a sharp disparity in the way he presents the different victims of the battle. Cyzicus, the king of the Doliones, is given an extraordinary amount of attention, and is presented very sympathetically, while the remaining twelve victims are mere names, listed without feeling or detail. Knight has argued that this unequal treatment is not particularly unusual, since in the Iliad “conflicts involving the more important warriors are described at greater length.”18 But as we saw in the last chapter, this is only partially true; sometimes indeed the most minor of warriors come to occupy

16 This mistake has been understood as an attempt to reconcile different traditions about the Argonauts’ reception on Cyzicus; on this, see Hurst 1964 and Knight 1995, 85. Clauss (1993, 161-65) makes an extended comparison between the circumstances of this mistake and the Odyssean episode with the winds of Aeolus. 17 For an interesting analysis of this scene as it relates to the other battles of the Argonautica, see Clare 2002, 190-95. 18 Knight 1995, 87.

the poet’s attention for a considerable length of narrative time. So in a way, his exclusive focus on the one “major” warrior in the scene runs contrary to the patterns established in the Iliad. Moreover, we shall see that the contrast Apollonius creates between the minor warriors and Cyzicus is more stark than anything in the Iliad. I suggest that this is a deliberate displacement on Apollonius’ part: he gives us one death that is extraordinarily elaborated, and many others that are extraordinarily unelaborated.

Let us first consider Apollonius’ presentation of the life and death of Cyzicus, the young leader of the Doliones. Unlike any of the other of the Argonauts’ victims, this

Cyzicus has a role in the epic beyond simply being killed: he is a recent husband who hospitably welcomes the Argonauts, and later fights with them, in a (misguided) attempt to defend his kingdom from invaders. He is then killed by Jason himself, and is subsequently honored with a tomb and funeral games. The way his character is described gives him prominence, making him resemble Hector, the young husband who likewise dies defending his city, at the hands of the greatest of its enemies, and is duly honored.19

At the same time, though, Cyzicus’ function in the narrative as a whole is not very significant; he is a marginal figure, who is never mentioned again.20 In this light, it is notable that his character is largely constructed from motifs typically applied to the

Iliad’s minor warriors. Like them, he has no effect on the outcome of the action in the epic, but he nevertheless becomes an object of attention, and emotion, for a moment of narrative time.

19 Knight (1995, 88-92) develops this comparison at some length. 20 When Jason narrates his adventures to Lykos, he mentions only generally “all they had done at Dolonian Cyzicus” (ὅσσα τε Κύζικον ἀμφὶ Δολιονίην τ’ ἐτέλεσσαν, 2.765). There is some dispute about whether Κύζικον here refers to the individual or the region (see Matteo 2007, 510 for full bibliography). In either case, the scene is passed over very quickly.

For one, Cyzicus is literally related (by marriage) to a pair of Iliadic minor warriors. Apollonius tells us that his wife, Cleite, is the daughter of one Merops of

Percote. This same Merops was the father of two young men who would later (according to mythological chronology) be killed by Diomedes in Iliad 11 (where their father’s name appears in the same metrical position as in the Argonautica).21 We know from the scholia that this Cleite was a traditional figure (her name and parentage were given in Deiochus and Ephorus),22 so it is clear that Apollonius is not inventing her in order to connect

Cyzicus to the Iliad. He does, however, seem to be playing with this tradition, and incorporating further elements from the Homeric account into his narrative. According to the Iliad, Merops was a seer who had foreseen his sons’ doom and attempted to keep them from going to war, of course without success. Cyzicus, too, has received some sort of prophecy (φάτις, 969) warning him not to fight when a company of heroes should arrive in his land. The narrative does not tell us where he might have heard this, and it is not known to have been present in any earlier account, but the Iliadic connection suggests his father-in-law as the likely source.23

Apollonius strengthens this connection between Cyzicus and the Iliadic minor warriors by means of a comment about the power of fate. When Cyzicus falls, the narrator pauses to extract a general principle from his death:

ὁ δ’ ἐνὶ ψαμάθοισιν ἐλυσθείς μοῖραν ἀνέπλησεν. τὴν γὰρ θέμις οὔποτ’ ἀλύξαι θνητοῖσιν, πάντη δὲ περὶ μέγα πέπταται ἕρκος· ὧς τόν, ὀιόμενόν που ἀδευκέος ἔκτοθεν ἄτης

21 Il. 11.328-334; the name of the father appears in 329 and in Arg. 1.975. Their story is also told in the catalogue of Trojans, 2.828-34, where we learn their names: Adrestus and Amphios. 22 Schol. 1.974-76a. 23 Clauss (1993, 155) makes a similar point, though less directly: “From this Iliadic model, Apollonius may well have conceived the idea of using a prophecy to motivate Cyzicus’ welcome of the Argonauts, which tragically leads to his death.”

εἶναι ἀριστήων, αὐτῇ ὑπὸ νυκτὶ πέδησεν μαρνάμενον κείνοισι. (1034-39)24

Rolling over in the sand, he met his fated end. This mortals may never escape, and all around us is spread a great net of doom. Thus Kyzikos no doubt believed that he was now beyond the reach of any grim disaster that the heroes could inflict, but fate caught him on that same night as he fought with them.

Comments similar to this one, though much less developed, often occur in the Iliad’s death scenes. We know, for instance that the sons of Merops themselves were subject to fate: τὼ δέ οἱ οὔ τι / πειθέσθην· κῆρες γὰρ ἄγον μέλανος θανάτοιο (Yet these would not / listen, for the spirits of dark death were driving them onward, Il. 11.331-32). Their responses to prophecy are the opposite of Cyzicus’s, but fate nonetheless overtakes them all. Apollonius’ language also recalls motifs from other Iliadic deaths. Of particular note here is the expression μοῖραν ἀνέπλησεν, which resembles several phrases used in the

Iliad to refer to death. It occurs several times to describe hypothetical death or defeat, but only once to describe the actual death of a warrior on the battlefield. Notably, this is in book 11, less than a hundred lines from the death of the sons of Merops. In this scene, two sons of Antenor, Iphidamas and Koön, are killed by Agamemnon, and the episode concludes with the line πότμον ἀναπλήσαντες ἔδυν δόμον Ἄϊδος εἴσω ([they] filled out their destiny and went down to the house of the death god, Il. 11.263). Another correspondence between Cyzicus’ lot and that of Iliadic minor warriors is the verb

πέδησε(ν), which is used describe what μοῖρα does to a Trojan named Diores, who dies in the first skirmish of the Iliad (4.517).25

24 Text of Apollonius from Vian 1974-1981; translation from Hunter 1993b, with my own modifications. 25 The same phrase, μοῖρα πέδησεν, also describes Hector just before his final duel with Achilles (22.5); but Apollonius’ usage seems closer to what happens to Diores. With Hector, the verb is used to suggest his literal inability to escape his fate by taking refuge in the city; with Diores, the usage is more metaphorical, as here.

Cyzicus, then, suffers the same lot that befalls many of the Iliad’s minor warriors.

Indeed, we might say that Apollonius uses Cyzicus’s case to take this motif to a new level. What were merely passing phrases in the Iliad become here the inspiration for a somber reflection on the inexorability of fate. Apollonius is thus making the lot of

Cyzicus into something more tragic, more moving than any of the Iliad’s minor warriors’: the narrative drives home the fact that the young king attempted to do right, to honor the gods, and to be kind to his guests, but that he died just the same.26

This sense of the tragedy of Cyzicus’ lot is further emphasized by his similarity to another of the Iliad’s minor warriors, Iphidamas, who like him filled up his fate in death.

This Iphidamas is perhaps the most memorable of all the minor warriors who die in the

Iliad, and I would like to discuss the narrative of his death at some length here in order to demonstrate the extent to which Apollonius draws on it in constructing his own scene.27

The account of Iphidamas’ death is differentiated structurally from the others in several ways. For one, he is the first individual mentioned after an invocation to the Muses, where the poet asks them who was the first to meet Agamemnon (ὅς τις δὴ πρῶτος..., Il.

11.219). Additionally, he is unlike the vast majority of other warriors, in that he appears first in the nominative, as the subject of his own sentence (Ἰφιδάμας Ἀντηνορίδης ἠΰς τε

μέγας τε, 221), rather than primarily the object of Agamemnon’s attack. The narrative surrounding him also diverges from the typical pattern in which deaths are described. It begins with a biography (221-30) describing his upbringing, marriage, and journey to

Troy; then follows an account of the duel itself and Iphidamas’ fall (231-40). This much

26 Thus Knight (1995, 93) states: “The effect of the Homeric elements in the battle scene and its aftermath is to emphasise the seriousness of the contest. The tragic fate of Cyzicus recalls the pathos of Homeric heroes.” One might recall here also Axylos in Iliad 6, who was “a friend to all humanity / since in his house by the wayside he entertained all comers (14-15). 27 The connection between Cyzicus and Iphidamas is mentioned in passing by Knight (1995, 87).

is typical; but then the narrative returns again to his marriage, describing the gifts that he had given for his wife (241-45). Closing thus with a biography deviates from the normal pattern in such scenes, as observed by Beye,28 and creates a striking effect. More than in other death scenes, there seems to be a sort of competition between slayer and slain for the narrative spotlight,29 and Iphidamas manages to hold the narrator’s and audience’s attention for a good while before the narrative moves on to other victims.

The content of the Iphidamas scene is also peculiar, for it is more explicitly pathetic than the narrative of any other minor warrior’s death. The motif of a young bride left behind is not unusual in itself,30 but it is particularly emphasized here. We are told near the beginning that he left her (227), and the poet reemphasizes this point when he dies:

ὣς ὃ μὲν αὖθι πεσὼν κοιμήσατο χάλκεον ὕπνον οἰκτρὸς ἀπὸ μνηστῆς ἀλόχου, ἀστοῖσιν ἀρήγων, κουριδίης, ἧς οὔ τι χάριν ἴδε, πολλὰ δ’ ἔδωκε.

So Iphidamas fell there and went into the brazen slumber, unhappy, who came to help his own people, and left his young wife a bride, and had known no delight from her yet, and given much for her. (241-43)

The narrative explicitly marks him as οἰκτρὸς, to be pitied, because his rewards did not match his exertions; as Hainsworth notes, this is the only time in the Homeric epics that this adjective is applied to a person.31 This detail is all the more pronounced because of the unusual structuring of the scene, which breaks the biography into two parts. The last

28 Beye 1964, 348. The biography (called an “anecdote” in his analysis) usually comes before the death. Fenik (1968, 17) cites two other examples (17.288-311, 17.348-51) where it comes last; but in this case alone is a biography given and then elaborated upon after an individual’s death. 29 For this conception, see Ready 2011, 222. 30 Griffin 1980, 121. 31 Hainsworth 1993, 251.

image we see of this man is not the severing of his neck under Agamemnon’s sword, but the many (and fruitless) gifts he lavished to win his wife.32

A final element that distinguishes the death of Iphidamas is the relation between him and his killer. The Atreids and the Antenoridae are connected by guest-friendship, and it seems that, according to the ethos of the poem, Agamemnon should not have killed

Iphidamas. In the famous encounter in book 6, Diomedes declines to fight Glaucus when he recognizes him as a guest-friend (ξεῖνος, 215) because his own grandfather had hosted his grandfather (ξείνισ’, 217) and they had exchanged gifts. Likewise, Antenor had hosted Menelaus (ἐξείνισσα, 3.207); by the code of Diomedes and Glaucus, it seems that

Antenor’s children should be off limits for Menelaus’ brother. This may seem a fine point, and indeed the narrative in this scene makes no reference to guest-friendship. But

Agamemnon’s last pair of victims (11.122-148) were two sons of Antimachos—who plotted to murder Menelaus during his embassy—and this contrast makes the innocence of the Antenoridae more pronounced, and their fate all the more pitiful.33 Moreover,

Agamemnon’s killing of them was understood as a problematic case by the ancient scholiasts,34 and I think it would have seemed so also to a reader like Apollonius.

These features—the unusual structure, the marked pathos, and the sense of impiety—combine to make the Iphidamas scene memorable, and I argue that Apollonius has this scene very much in mind in his construction of the Cyzicus episode, and that his readers would have recognized it as an intertext.35 First, Cyzicus’ situation in life closely resembles that of Iphidamas. Both are young men: Iphidamas has just come into his

32 Fenik (1968, 17) observes that “a closing anecdote adds a strong note of pathos.” 33 Hainsworth (1993, 248) also points out the significance of the contrast between these two pairs of children. 34 See chapter 4, page 220. 35 Iphidamas was famous enough in antiquity to become the subject of visual art: see chapter 1, note 15.

prime (ἥβης ἐρικυδέος ἵκετο μέτρον, 225), and Cyzicus has the down of youth on his cheeks (ὑποσταχύεσκον ἴουλοι, 972). Both have recently married, and each marriage is marked by the narrative as doomed; Cyzicus’ bride will never bear children (973-74) and

Iphidamas’ marriage is without delight.36 To attain their wives, both had to offer a large number of gifts (Cyzicus, θεσπεσίοις ἕδνοισιν, 977; Iphidamas, πολλὰ δ’ ἔδωκε, 243).

More explicitly, both are said to have left their wives behind, in pursuit of some other end.

Of Cyzicus, Apollonius tells us: ἀλλὰ καὶ ὧς θάλαμόν τε λιπὼν καὶ δέμνια νύμφης, / τοῖς

μέτα δαῖτ’ ἀλέγυνε (Even so, leaving his chamber and his bride’s bed, he feasted with them, 978-79). Hosting the Argonauts is not incompatible with his new marriage, but it is made here to seem like an abandonment of his wife, and conveys a sense of finality.

Indeed, we get a reminder about the loss of his marriage again, just before he is killed in battle, when the poet relates: οὐδ’ ὅγε δηιοτῆτος ὑπὲρ μόρον αὖτις ἔμελλεν / οἴκαδε

νυμφιδίους θαλάμους καὶ λέκτρον ἱκέσθαι (He was not destined to escape his fate by returning from the battle to his marriage-chamber and his wife’s bed, 1030-31).37 This closely resembles the language used to describe Iphidamas, who also left the bridal chamber in his pursuit of kleos (γήμας δ’ ἐκ θαλάμοιο μετὰ κλέος ἵκετ’ Ἀχαιῶν, 227), and of whom we are told, right after he is killed, that he never enjoyed the fruits of his marriage.38 Not only the theme of the abandoned wife is shared, but even the narrative structure, which emphasizes it by this repetition. In both accounts, the reader is made to

36 This phrase, ἧς οὔτι χάριν ἴδε, was interpreted by the scholiasts to mean that he did not have children with her (schol. b and T, 243). 37 This also recalls language applied to other minor warriors, whom we are told will not return home, e.g. a certain Harpalion: οὐδ’ αὖτις ἀφίκετο πατρίδα γαῖαν (13.645). 38 This similarity also creates a dissonance; where the Homeric character left his bride for the sake of fame in battle, the Apollonian equivalent takes the same action for a feast and companionship; the fight and death that will happen later are wholly unintentional.

focus on the potential happiness of the young man, and then to see it vanish as he dies a violent death.

Another link between the two figures is the fact that both men are slain by guest- friends. This fact, as we have seen, is not felt though not explicitly stated in the

Iphidamas scene, but in the Argonautica it is a crucial point. When Cyzicus first meets

Jason and his crew, he receives them with φιλοτήτι and treats them εὐξείνως (961, 63), providing provisions and preparing a feast for them.39 The guest-friendship is thus more personal than in the Iliad; it is Jason and Cyzicus themselves, rather than their kin, that have this relation. The kindly nature of the Doliones is mentioned again, just before the battle takes place, when they are called ἐυξείνοισι (1017). Jason, however, pays back this hospitality in the worst way possible; he himself kills Cyzicus, and his men kill twelve of the Doliones. The whole episode is a mistake, and so the sense that the killing should not have happened becomes dominant here; ἄχος seizes the Argonauts when they realize what they have done, and they spend three days in lamentation (1054-58).40

I have been arguing here that Apollonius has made Cyzicus resemble Iliadic minor warriors in a number of ways. Cyzicus has some relation, both familial and thematic, with the sons of Merops, and has even more in common with one of the Iliad’s more “prominent” minor warriors, Iphidamas. At a deeper level, he shares the lot of all

39 The giving or neglecting of hospitality is thematically significant in the epic. In sharp contrast to Cyzicus, Amycus treats strangers with outrage (2.5); such intratextual contrasts are common, as are intertextual ones, e.g. with the Odyssey. On the theme in relation to this scene, see Cuypers 1997, 2-4 and Rose 1984, 117-22. 40 Another, more subtle connection between the Iphidamas scene and the Cyzicus episode is the simile that likens the latter battle to a fire falling upon bushes (1026-29). Knight (1995, 90-91) suggests that this is a common type of simile, but it seems to me much more closely linked to a specific simile (which Knight does not mention) from Iliad 11 (155-59), which is the only Homeric fire simile to mention bushes. Notably, this simile is the last one used before Agamemnon kills Iphidamas. This seems unlikely to be coincidental, and I suggest that it shows at the very least that Apollonius had Iliad 11 in mind when crafting the Cyzicus episode.

the Iliad’s minor warriors: whatever his personal qualities, he is bound to be killed in the service of someone more famous, more heroic, than himself. And, as in the Iliad, the narrative lingers over his life, seeming to mourn his loss. Indeed, we might even say that

Apollonius makes his character more sympathetic than any of the Iliad’s minor warriors: the fate he meets is more cruel, and ironic, than that of the sons of Merops; the loss of his bride is more poignant than Iphidamas’, and the injustice of his death more pronounced.

The pathos latent in the Iliadic deaths is brought to the surface in the Argonautic version, and we are also made to see its tragic aftermath: friends and “enemies” alike mourn his death; his wife cannot bear to live; and the entire city cannot eat for a long time after.

However insignificant his role in the epic, his death is made into an emotionally wrought affair.

Given this treatment of Cyzicus’ death, the cursory way with which the twelve other Doliones’ deaths are narrated in the following lines creates a strong contrast. All of them are introduced and killed off with great haste:

Ἡρακλέης μὲν ἐνήρατο Τηλεκλῆα ἠδὲ Μεγαβρόντην, Σφόδριν δ’ ἐνάριξεν Ἄκαστος, Πηλεὺς δὲ Ζέλυν εἷλεν ἀρηίθοόν τε Γέφυρον, αὐτὰρ ἐυμμελίης Τελαμὼν Βασιλῆα κατέκτα· Ἴδας δ’ αὖ Προμέα, Κλυτίος δ’ Ὑάκινθον ἔπεφνεν, Τυνδαρίδαι δ’ ἄμφω Μεγαλοσσάκεα Φλογίον τε, Οἰνεΐδης δ’ ἐπὶ τοῖσιν ἕλε θρασὺν Ἰτυμονῆα ἠδὲ καὶ Ἀρτακέα, πρόμον ἀνδρῶν. (1.1040-47)

Herakles slew Telekles and Megabrontes, and Akastos slaughtered Sphodris; Peleus destroyed Zelys and the bold Gephyros, while Telamon of the strong spear killed Basileus. Promeus was Idas’ victim, and Hyakinthos Klytios’, while the two sons of Tyndareus took Megalossakes and Phlogios; next to them the son of Oineus destroyed bold Itymoneus and Artakes, leader of men.

In this account, nine of the Doliones are reduced to mere names, and the other three have only the most colorless of epithets.41 No other detail is given about any of these, neither patronymic nor biography. Nor does Apollonius describe any of their wounds or death- throes (as he did for Cyzicus). Their names are simply given, along with several different

Homeric words for “kill.” The narrative has a kind of Iliadic ring to it, but it is in fact significantly different from anything in the Iliad’s battle scenes: it is too abrupt, too generic. In the slaying catalogues of the Iliad, a hero may kill as many as nine men in a row; groups of heroes may also kill groups of enemies, as here, but never so many or so quickly. Consider the closest parallel to this scene, which is offered by Levin:42

Αἴας ῥα πρῶτος Τελαμώνιος Ὕρτιον οὖτα Γυρτιάδην Μυσῶν ἡγήτορα καρτεροθύμων Φάλκην δ’ Ἀντίλοχος καὶ Μέρμερον ἐξενάριξε· Μηριόνης δὲ Μόρυν τε καὶ Ἱπποτίωνα κατέκτα, Τεῦκρος δὲ Προθόωνά τ’ ἐνήρατο καὶ Περιφήτην· Ἀτρεΐδης δ’ ἄρ’ ἔπειθ’ Ὑπερήνορα ποιμένα λαῶν οὖτα κατὰ λαπάρην, διὰ δ’ ἔντερα χαλκὸς ἄφυσσε δῃώσας· ψυχὴ δὲ κατ’ οὐταμένην ὠτειλὴν ἔσσυτ’ ἐπειγομένη, τὸν δὲ σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψε. (14.413-20)

First Telamonian Ajax cut down Hyrtios, he who was son to Gyrtios, and lord over the strong-hearted Mysians. Antilochos slaughtered Phalkes and Mermeros. Morys and Hippotion were killed by Meriones. Teukros cut down Periphetes and Prothoön. Next the son of Atreus, Menelaos, stabbed Hyperenor, shepherd of the people, in the flank, so the bronze head let gush out the entrails through the torn side. His life came out through the wound of the spearstab in beating haste, and a mist of darkness closed over both eyes.

Here the pace is relatively slower, as eight men are killed in nine lines. Some of the deaths are summary, as in Apollonius, but in two of them more details are included:

Hyrtios’ position and family are elaborated, and the death of Hyperenor is given a

41 ἀρηίθοον, 1042; θρασύν, 1046; πρόμον ἀνδρῶν, 1047 42 Levin 1971, 103.

physical description. Both of these elaborations are entirely formulaic, and neither draws attention to itself, but they are a constant feature in such scenes.

The effect of Apollonius’ extremely condensed narration of these twelve deaths, I argue, is to highlight the artificiality of his own account, and thus also to reflect back on the technique as it is used in the Iliad. According to the ancient scholiasts, details about individuals at the moment of their death are supposed to lend verisimilitude to the narrative. When the poet tells us that Simoesios was named after the Simoeis river, beside which his mother gave birth to him, the scholiast notes: ταῦτα δὲ εἶπε πολλὴν πίστιν

ἐπιφέρων τῷ λόγῳ ὡς αὐτόπτης ὤν (He said these things adding great trustworthiness to the account, as though being an eyewitness).43 The logic here is somewhat problematic

(how would an eyewitness know where a particular combatant was born?), but the idea underlying it is clear: the biographies provide the sense that the war, and the participants in it, are real, that they had lives outside of the text of the poem. Descriptions of wounds have a similar effect, making the battle seem physically real, verifying the deaths, as it were.44 By excluding these snippets of biographical or anatomical interest from his account, Apollonius refuses to create this illusion of reality.45

The deliberate artificiality of Apollonius’ narrative becomes even more apparent when we consider the particular names of the slain. There is some debate, which goes back to antiquity, about whether Apollonius invented the names of the Doliones, or whether they came to him from his sources. Two ancient scholia seem to contradict each

43 Schol. bT 4.473-69, 5-6. 44 See Salazar’s (2000, 144-45) comment on descriptions of wounds in the Iliad: “Medical details may be intended to add the kind of quasi-realism that one tends to find in eyewitness reports.” 45 Such is the effect perceived by Goldhill (1991, 318), who also uses the language of parody in discussing this scene: “It is a surprising narrative that parodies Homer’s effets du réel by such a reductio.”

other on this account,46 and different scholars have attempted to conclude which (if either) is correct.47 According to Goldhill, though, even an appeal to such erudite sources does not lend reality to the names: “Indeed, the more arcane the details are that Apollonius alludes to, the more difficult it is for the reader to distinguish between the author’s access to authoritative knowledge and the suspicion of fabrication—the fiction of scholarship.”48

In fact, the names themselves have often seemed strange and unreal to readers. Campbell observes that “the list as a whole… savours of invention.”49 Knight explains the causes of this suspicion: the names seem artificial because some of them are “simply common nouns (Basileus) or are clearly derived from them (Gephyrus, Promeus, Phlogius).” She goes on to suggest that this is deliberate, and pointed: “The use of such generalized names suggests that Apollonius is drawing attention to the disposability of minor warriors who are brought on the scene only to be killed off immediately.”50 The names themselves are thus noticeably unreal, and we are made to understand them, or at least suspect them, as creations of the poet, just like the warriors themselves.

The inventedness of the Doliones’ names may be understood, at one level, as a critique of Homer’s own naming practices. Most of his victims’ names are more or less generic, drawn from a limited supply, so that they are often repeated; twenty names appear twice among the dead, and three thrice.51 At other times, the names seem to be invented ad hoc. For instance, Kirk suggests that the name of Phegeus (introduced at 5.11

46 Goldhill (1991, 328-29) summarizes this debate. 47 See e.g. Vian 1976, 99n1 (cited by Goldhill) and, more recently, Clauss 1993, 166n38, who follows Hasluck 1910, 240n2, though explaining his conclusion based on his own thematic interpretation of the Cyzicus episode. 48 Goldhill 1991, 328. 49 Campbell 1971, 314. 50 Knight 1995, 90. 51 Armstrong 1969, 31. See also Higbie 1995, 92.

and given a biography) is probably from φηγός, and “therefore … fictitious.”52 Similarly, when Idomeneus soon after kills a warrior named Phaistos, Kirk explains that the name

“probably arises out of a simple association of ideas in the singer’s mind” (Phaistos is the name of a city in Crete, and Idomeneus is from that island).53 The names of the warriors in the Iliad are thus themselves artificial and invented (in the sense that they do not reflect the names of actual people, or even traditional characters), but the narrative gives them patronymics, biographies, and other details that make them seem less arbitrary by placing them within a broader context. We might say that Apollonius, in neglecting such details, is pointing out the carefully concealed artificiality of the minor warriors and their names, making us see what we might overlook in the Iliad: that it is all made up by the poet.

A further element that points to the artificiality of the narrative is the peculiar nature of the battle itself. The conflict takes place in the middle of what is presumably a very dark night, as the warriors are unable to recognize their foes. Indeed, it is not until dawn (ἠῶθεν, 1053) that they finally realize their mistake. Yet, despite the impenetrable blackness of the night, the narrator is somehow able to recount not just who was killed, but precisely which of the Argonauts killed which of the twelve Doliones. Considering the necessary ignorance of the involved parties, the narrator’s certainty is remarkable,54 even supernatural. Indeed, just before the parallel scene from the Iliad (quoted above), and in several similar instances where numerous names are recorded, the poet is

52 Kirk 1990, 54. 53 Kirk 1990, 57. See also Reichel’s discussion of the way in which the names of the minor warriors in the Iliad are made by association and combination (1994, 292-93). 54 Clare (2002, 190) notes this fact in passing (“given the confusion of the respective combatants, the clarity of the slaughter detailed is all the more shocking”); but other studies (e.g. Knight 1995, Goldhill 1991) do not address it.

compelled to call upon the Muses for aid.55 But here, of course, there is no invocation; and the poet himself possesses information that is not simply difficult to remember, but literally impossible for an ordinary mortal to have. This is especially striking when we consider Apollonius’ tendency to claim that he does not know the truth about certain matters, most famously in the proem to book 4.56

The narrator’s incredible and confident knowledge of the details of the deaths in this scene, I think, casts suspicion on the whole account: the poet must be inventing the names of the fallen, since, even if he were an eyewitness, he could not have seen who was killed! We might say that he is demonstrating the implausibility of the Homeric mechanism by using a similar catalogue of names, but placing it in a context where such knowledge is clearly implausible. Interesting in this regard is the parallel between this scene and the raid on the Thracians in Iliad 10,57 both of which occur in the middle of the night, though the circumstances are dramatically different. The fact that the numbers of those slain are identical (twelve minor figures and one leader, or thirteen total) in both cases, though, seems too striking to be coincidental. But, where the poet of the Doloneia left the first twelve killed nameless (perhaps because they are unimportant, or perhaps in an attempt at realism), Apollonius diverges from his model and names them all, rejecting the earlier poet’s restraint. This comparison suggests that Apollonius is consciously playing with conventions here, and making an effort to render his narrative of death unrealistic.

55 14.508-10. The most famous of these is at the beginning of the catalogue of the ships (2.484-93), where it indeed seems that superhuman memory would be requisite. 56 4.2-5. This passage is much commented upon; see e.g. A. Morrison 2007, 300-01, and Albis 1996, 94- 95, and Feeney 1991, 90-91. 57 Mentioned in passing by Knight (1995, 86) as the only killing in the Iliad that takes place at night. Durbeck (2008, 61) associates the Apollonian battle more specifically with the Rhesus.

We are in a position now to consider the dynamics of the scene as a whole. After presenting a full and emotional account of Cyzicus’ life and death, Apollonius offers a sparse, minimalist description of the death of the other twelve. This sharp contrast between the elaborated and the unelaborated exemplifies what I have referred to as displacement. Apollonius takes typical, unexceptionable elements of the Homeric death scenes and isolates and exaggerates them. Cyzicus resembles the minor warrior with a biography, but the account of his death is more developed and more pathetic than any of theirs. The narrative of the twelve recalls an Iliadic slaying catalogue, but is more stripped down. The juxtaposition of these two modes draws attention to the constructedness of both: by making such a noticeable contrast between them, Apollonius reveals his own hand in creating them. We may feel the tragedy of the death of Cyzicus, but when we read of the deaths of the twelve Doliones, we are forcefully reminded that all these deaths are alike products of the poet’s pen. The pathos can be turned on or off at his whim; it is just as artificial, and just as suspect, as the careful listing of the names of men who died shrouded in darkness, hidden even to each other.

Throughout the scene, Apollonius makes heavy use of Homeric motifs and phrasing, but the effect he creates is quite other than Homeric. Many scholars have seen this as some kind of thematic or ethical response to the Iliad, e.g. as distinguishing the

Argonauts from Homeric heroes,58 problematizing heroic exemplarity,59 or even highlighting the tragic consequences of war.60 There may be some truth to each of these

58 E.g. Hunter (1993a, 43): “The catalogue style is here used to subvert the whole ethos of Homeric fighting”; Lawall (1966, 153): “The episode at Cyzicus teaches Jason to hate war.” See also Beye 1969, 42. 59 Goldhill 1991, 316-20. 60 Effe (2001, 213) suggests that Apollonius highlights “the meaninglessness of killing in war,” though his discussion focuses largely on the poet’s manipulation of similes. This interpretation is appealing, and there is much to commend it, but I will argue in sections 3 and 4 that what Apollonius offers is more fundamental than a criticism of war per se.

explanations, but I hope to have demonstrated here that Apollonius is also, at a different level, investigating the very mechanisms by which death can be narrated. Apollonius does tell of the death of thirteen individuals, but he is not trying to depict them realistically, or to use them to convey serious emotion, as the Iliad does. We might say— to return to Bakhtin’s formulation—that the narrative of death is the object of representation, not the individual deaths.

Apollonius continues to reflect on the capacity of narrative to depict death in the next battle, which occurs only a short distance later, at the beginning of book 2. There, the Argonauts find themselves fighting with the Bebryces, after Polydeuces kills Amycus in a boxing match. This battle is very different from the previous one: the Argonauts are attacked here by a cruel and lawless people. They fight in self defense, so it seems as though the Bebryces deserve what they get. As a result, the fight has none of the tragic or ironic undertones of the previous one. Nevertheless, the narrative of this battle is just as strange as that one, if not more so, despite its generally Homeric appearance. For one, it describes several extremely graphic wounds, but these are very peculiar and, I argue, intentionally unrealistic. Second, and more importantly, the account is markedly vague about the fate of the combatants, to the extent that death itself seems to be largely displaced: the narrative creates the expectation, formally and linguistically, that men will die in the battle, but seldom satisfies this expectation.

In describing this battle, Apollonius pays particular attention to physical details.

Thus, in four of the five narrated encounters, we are told the exact location on the body where a blow lands. This in itself brings the narrative much closer to the Iliad, though it contrasts with the battle with the Doliones, where only one wound (that of Cyzicus) is

mentioned. The particular wounds in this scene, however, are in some ways unlike anything from the Iliad. Consider, for instance, what happens to the first man who dies:

πρῶτός γε μὲν ἀνέρα Κάστωρ ἤλασ’ ἐπεσσύμενον κεφαλῆς ὕπερ· ἡ δ’ ἑκάτερθεν ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθ’ ὤμοισιν ἐπ’ ἀμφοτέροισι κεάσθη. (2.102-04)61

First Kastor struck a man in the head as he rushed to attack; his head was split in two and the halves dropped down on his shoulders.

Heads are shattered from time to time in the Iliad, as we saw in the previous chapter, but never like this. As Knight suggests, “the gruesome detail of the bisected head falling half on to each shoulder is exclusively Apollonian.”62 Similar is the injury that Polydeuces inflicts on a certain Mimas:

τοῦ δ’ ἆσσον ἰόντος δεξιτερῇ σκαιῆς ὑπὲρ ὀφρύος ἤλασε χειρί, δρύψε δέ οἱ βλέφαρον, γυμνὴ δ’ ὑπελείπετ’ ὀπωπή. (107-09)

As the other [Mimas] approached, he [Polydeuces] hit him with his right fist above the left eye, tearing off the lid and leaving the eyeball exposed.

This wound, too, has no close parallel in Homer, though several times in the Iliad eyes are said to pop out of individuals’ heads, and the death of Ilioneus (Il. 14.493-500) involves an injury to the eye that is more graphic than this.

These incidents give this scene a very different feel from that of the earlier battle.

Cuypers has called attention to the “detailed descriptions of truly horrible wounds,” and seen them as part of “a pastiche, which pushes the characteristics of the Homeric duel scene to extremes.”63 Knight sees an ethical dimension in Apollonius’ presentation of these wounds: “The Bebyrces… receive their just deserts. This keeps the reader at a safe

61 I have made a significant modification to Hunter’s translation here, for reasons I shall discuss below. 62 Knight 1995, 94. 63 Cuypers 1997, 135.

emotional distance from the gruesome injuries inflicted in the battle.”64 In both readings,

Apollonius is exaggerating the violence of this battle, making it seem especially appalling, whether for ethical or aesthetic reasons.

Upon further consideration, however, what seems most striking about both of these wounds is not their gruesomeness, but the way in which they are stylized. With the eyelid, for instance, Apollonius offers a very detailed description, but it hardly seems

“truly horrible.” Cuypers makes an interesting observation about the narration of this wound:

That it was Polydeuces’ right hand which dealt the blow, and Mimas’ left eyebrow which took it (with juxtaposed δεξιτερῇ σκαιῆς) is a detail which seems not actually essential, or even, since οne would not expect the disposition of arm and brow to be different, one detail too much. It is tempting to assume that Ap. has intentionally overdone the painstaking exactness of such descriptions of injuries in Homer.

The precision of the description seems excessive; we are made to dwell for a moment on the exact disposition of hand and eye, the separation of lid from eye. It seems that this description draws attention to itself, more than to the gruesome nature of the wound.65

With the cloven head at the beginning of the scene, the effect is similar: it is sundered into equal parts, which fall precisely upon each shoulder. With both wounds, the focus is on the symmetry of what happens, rather than the violence of it. Indeed, as Knight points out, there is no mention of blood or gore in the whole of the battle scene. Apollonius, we

64 Knight 1995, 99. We might compare here the observation that in the Iliad it is the Trojans whose deaths are most often described in gruesome detail (Salazar 2000, 130). As we saw in the last chapter, this fact is sometimes taken as a reflection on their moral character; this interpretation is more pronounced in the scholia, on which see chapter 4. On the other hand, Rose (1984, 131) finds some sympathy for the Bebrycians killed in this scene. 65 Cf. Ciani 1975, 92, who compares this wound to that of Ilioneus, and notes that it is a typically Homeric description rather than peculiarly Hellenistic: “Essa rientra invece nella consuetudine omerica di applicare spesso un realismo grottesco e iperbolico nella descrizione delle ferrite.”

might say, proves able to split a head without making a mess. Compare a scene from the

Iliad:

Ἰδομενεὺς δ’ Ἐρύμαντα κατὰ στόμα νηλέϊ χαλκῷ νύξε· τὸ δ’ ἀντικρὺ δόρυ χάλκεον ἐξεπέρησε νέρθεν ὑπ’ ἐγκεφάλοιο, κέασσε δ’ ἄρ’ ὀστέα λευκά· ἐκ δ’ ἐτίναχθεν ὀδόντες, ἐνέπλησθεν δέ οἱ ἄμφω αἵματος ὀφθαλμοί· τὸ δ’ ἀνὰ στόμα καὶ κατὰ ῥῖνας πρῆσε χανών. (Il. 16.345-50)

Idomeneus stabbed Erymas in the mouth with the pitiless bronze, so that the brazen spearhead smashed its way clean through below the brain in an upward stroke, and the white bones splintered, and the teeth were shaken out with the stroke and both eyes filled up with blood, and gaping he blew a spray of blood through the nostrils and through his mouth.

In comparison with this, the head wound in the Argonautica seems remarkably tidy. As

Knight puts it, the lack of blood in this battle makes it come across as “a ‘literary’ battle, unsoiled by the messiness which even the conventions of Homeric battles admit.”66 In

Apollonius’ handling, there is no attempt to overwhelm the reader with the horror of battle, as there is in the Homeric example. Nor can we say that these wounds create an impression of realism, as is the case in the Iliad.67 Rather, the wound is made to seem fundamentally a poetic occurrence. The text reveals, once again, that it is a text.

The artificiality of the narrative is further highlighted by the way in which death itself is presented. In its structuring, the scene resembles a typical Iliadic battle, divided as it is into a series of individual duels.68 But, where each of the duels in the Iliad ends with a specific narrated outcome (usually the death of one of the parties, or, more seldom, a rescue/intervention preventing such death), the duels in the Argonautica are left vague.

Indeed, though the account creates the impression that people are dying left and right,

66 Knight 1995, 96, 67 See above, note 44. 68 Discussed by Knight (1995, 99, with reference to Vian 1974, 1:140).

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only one sure death seems to be narrated at all. About the man whose head is cloven, there can be no doubt (though the poet does not actually use any word for death). The next two warriors to fall are Mimas, who suffers an eyelid wound, and Itymones, who is kicked in the chest by Polydeuces. The nature of their wounds is far from conclusive: the loss of an eyelid is graphic, but it seems far from deadly; a kick in the chest could conceivably be fatal, but nothing in the narration suggests that it is. All we are told is that

Polydeuces “cast him in the dust” (ἐν κονίῃσι βάλεν, 107). Now the dust is the typical site of death in the Iliad, and is mentioned in dozens of death scenes, but a plunge to the dust there comes after the narration of some deadly wound.69 Here, the mention of dust suggests fatality by allusion, but this is counter to what we would expect of someone kicked in the chest: that he would pick himself up from the dust and move on.

With the next sequence of attacks, the vagueness becomes more pronounced. One of the Bebryces, Oreites, attacks Talaos and wounds him, but the narrator explicitly says that the wound is not fatal (ἀλλά μιν οὐ κατέπεφνεν).70 This scenario is familiar from the

Iliad, but it is generally followed by a reprisal in which the original attacker is killed by the man he wounded.71 Here, though, Apollonius tells us nothing more about Oreites; he simply vanishes from the narrative, seeming to have escaped retribution. The next case is similar; one Aretos fails to kill Iphiton, though he does stun him. At this point, we are told that this Aretos is soon to be killed by Klytios (ἦ τάχ’ ἔμελλεν / αὐτὸς δῃώσεσθαι

ὑπὸ ξίφεϊ Κλυτίοιο, 116-17), but the death itself is not itself narrated; it is left suspended,

69 E.g. at Il. 4.481-82: ἀντικρὺ δὲ δι’ ὤμου χάλκεον ἔγχος / ἦλθεν· ὃ δ’ ἐν κονίῃσι χαμαὶ πέσεν. 70 The phrasing here, as Matteo (2007, 101) notes, strongly recalls Iphidamas’ attack on Agamemnon (Il. 11.234-36), especially in its use of the verb τορέω, found only there in the Iliad. This strengthens the argument I made above that the Iphidamas incident was important for Apollonius in his construction of death scenes. 71 E.g. Koön (11.251-60); Sokos (11.428-49); Asteropaios (21.166-82). Archers are an exceptional case, since they wound from a distance and are not subject to immediate reprisal, though Diomedes does eventually get Pandarus.

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in the imagination but not in the text. After this sequence, the four most prominent

Argonauts72 burst into the battle, and this is where we might expect the killing to begin in earnest. But here the narrative of individual battles ceases, and the Bebryces flee.

In terms of death, then, this scene defies our expectations. It reads like an androktasia, a traditional scene of accumulated slayings, and scholars have generally considered it to be one. Though noting some ambiguities, they take it as a “detailed account of a series of killings”73 or a collection of “deaths and wounds.”74 Mimas, who suffers the indignity of losing an eyelid, is taken as certainly dead.75 But the scene is notable for its lack of specificity about these men’s fates. In contrast to the thirteen innocent Doliones cut down one after another by the Argonauts, the lawless and hubristic

Bebryces seem largely to escape. Indeed, one might say that Apollonius is refusing to kill off the Bebryces, that he is displacing death at the moment where it seems most natural, and thus revealing the ultimate power of the poet to “kill off” his victims as he likes.

As in the battle with the Doliones, the names of the combatants in this scene lend a strange effect to the narrative. As Matteo points out, the names of two of the five

Bebryces are repeated elsewhere in the epic—another Itymoneus was killed by Meleager in the battle with the Doliones (1.1047) and another Mimas is mentioned later as a victim of Ares (3.1227)—and this might be seen as a marker of their constructedness. More significant, however, is the first of the Bebryces referred to (the one whose head is split), who does not seem to be named at all. He is referred to simply as “a man” (πρῶτός γε μὲν

ἀνέρα Κάστωρ / ἤλασ’ ἐπεσσύμενον, 102-03). This is in sharp contrast to Homeric

72 Ancaeus, Telamon, Peleus, and Jason (2.118-22). 73 Cuypers 1997, 135; emphasis added. 74 Knight 1995, 93. 75 Matteo (2007, 97) labels him as “ucciso.”

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practice, where each warrior slain in individual combat is given a name and identity.76

Scholars have taken issue with the text here, and assumed that some corruption has led to the loss of this warrior’s name, but no suitable emendation has been found.77 Campbell proposed78 that ἀνέρα should itself be taken as a proper name (Ἀνέρα), along the lines of the name “King” in the Cyzicus episode (Βασιλῆα, 1.1043), and his suggestion has proven more convincing.79 Cuypers, on the other hand, has argued that there is no real problem here, that Apollonius is simply using “a short-cut of the Homeric pattern, combining the ideas ‘Castor first slew his man’ and ‘he hit an attacker on the head’ in one clause.”80 This is perfectly correct in one sense; there is no logical need for a name here.81

But, when considered against specific Homeric parallels, Apollonius’ narrative seems to be doing more than taking a shortcut.

As Cuypers has himself shown, Apollonius’ phrasing in this clause recalls, and modifies, a formula common in the Iliad. I cite one example here, together with the

Apollonian equivalent, for comparison:

Πρῶτος δ’ Ἀντίλοχος Τρώων ἕλεν ἄνδρα κορυστὴν ἐσθλὸν ἐνὶ προμάχοισι Θαλυσιάδην Ἐχέπωλον…

Antilochos was first to kill a chief man of the Trojans, valiant among the champions, Thalysias’ son, Echepolos… (Il. 4.456-57)82

76 With the single exception of the charioteer of Asios (13.394-99). Sometimes, though, a group of nameless warriors is killed en masse during an exceptional aristeia (e.g when Patroclus kills twenty-seven men at 16.784-85). For more on such anonymous killing, see chapter 3, section 5. 77 On the name and the debate over it, see Cuypers 1997, 139 with much additional bibliography. 78 Campbell 1971, 413. 79 Hunter has accepted it and printed it in his translation. Cuypers, though, expresses caution, which seems sensible: “A man called ‘Man’ is surely twice as odd as a man called ‘King’ and one would like to have parallels…or at least an indication in the text which would point the Greek reader to this unlikely interpretation of ανερα (the two are, after all, not distinguished in script).” Hunter has made this problem easier in his translation by transliterating rather than translating: when one reads the English “First Kastor struck Aner in the head,” nothing seems particularly unusual. 80 Cuypers 1997, 139. Emphasis in the original. 81 Indeed, it would be more realistic for the Argonauts, and the narrator, not to know the names of the individual Bebryces, as no formal introductions are made. 82 The death is fully described in the following four lines.

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πρῶτός γε μὲν ἀνέρα Κάστωρ ἤλασ’ ἐπεσσύμενον κεφαλῆς ὕπερ… (Arg. 2.102-04)

First Kastor struck a man [or, Aner] in the head as he rushed to attack.

Cuypers cites six other passages that are virtually identical to this one; each begins a new series of killings after a narrative hiatus, and each uses the word ἄνδρα, in four cases in the fifth foot, as in these examples.83 In each of these cases, without exception, the name of the “man” is provided somewhere in the following line. Apollonius’ formulation, then, makes readers expect a name to follow, but he never gives it, and I argue that this frustration of expectations is deliberate. To say, like Campbell, that the man should be named “Man,” does not really change the effect, since readers could not realize this without first realizing that any other name has been withheld; they would have to go back, as Campbell has done, to try to make sense of it.84 This, I argue, is exactly the point:

Apollonius wants to create confusion here. The narrator, who is everywhere else so precise about the names of the slain, withholds this one, which comes at the very beginning, and ought therefore to be most prominent.85

In sum, this battle narrative is all wrong, in Homeric terms. The narrator, who had exact, even supernatural knowledge in the previous battle, seems here to be either indifferent or ignorant: he does not tell us whether most of the combatants live or die, and omits the name of the one who does certainly die. Moreover, he offers extremely stylized, and unrealistic, wounds. So, despite the scene’s overall resemblance to a Homeric

83 5.37-9 (Campbell’s example, slightly different from the others), 8.256-7, 11.91-2, 11.738-9 (in a secondary narrative, a story told by Nestor), 12.378-80, and 13.170-71. 84 Campbell himself sees this peculiar name as a bit of fun with the Homeric precedent: “I suspect that Apollonius has here pulled a fast one on his readers” (1971, 413). 85 Less strongly, we might attribute the lack of a name to a simple desire on Apollonius’ part to distance himself from Homeric conventions. Such is the argument of Vian (“la mention de l’ἀνήρ anonyme tué par Castor est sans doute aussi un moyen pour Apollonios de se differéncier d’Homère, 1974, 141), which is followed in the most recent commentary on book 2 (Matteo 2007, 196).

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battle,86 it is in fact quite dissimilar. Death, omnipresent in the Iliad’s battle scenes, is here startlingly sparse; wounding, another constant, becomes so stylized as to seem fanciful rather than frightful. We might read this manipulation of conventions as a pastiche, as Cuypers does, but parody seems more apt. For, in developing this narrative,

Apollonius brings the mechanisms of Homeric death into focus, allowing the readers to consider and evaluate them.

2. Dying out of Battle

No Argonaut dies in either of these battles, or in any other armed conflict. Aside from one individual who receives a grazing wound (Talaos at 2.110-13), they never even seem to be in any real danger, but are able to dispatch their enemies quickly and neatly.

While this might be said to show the unquestionable superiority of the Argonauts over any other mortal, it also serves to deny them a route to heroism via death in battle. This is perhaps in itself a sign of Apollonius’ distancing of his own epic and its values from the great martial epic of the past. If his heroes are to live on in poetic memory, it cannot be through beautiful, heroic deaths on the field of war.87 But Argonauts do die in the epic, in contexts wholly removed from war or combat. And in narrating these deaths, as we shall see, Apollonius often uses motifs derived from Iliadic deaths. This represents a greater degree of displacement than the kind we saw in the previous section, and this in turn makes the motifs less familiar and thus more susceptible to our critical scrutiny.

Four of the Argonauts die throughout the course of the journey: Idmon and

Tiphys in book 2, shortly after the Clashing Rocks episode, and Kanthos and Mopsos in

86 Levin 1971, 145. 87 See Hunter 1993a, 43-44.

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book 4, during the sojourn in Libya. The first thing we might note about the accounts of their deaths is that the narrator in each case draws attention to the instrumentality of fate in causing their destruction, just as he did with Cyzicus. This is most pronounced88 in the first and last of the deaths, those of Idmon and Mopsos, both of whom are prophets:

Ἔνθα δ’ Ἀβαντιάδην πεπρωμένη ἤλασε μοῖρα Ἴδμονα, μαντοσύνῃσι κεκασμένον, ἀλλά μιν οὔ τι μαντοσύναι ἐσάωσαν, ἐπεὶ χρεὼ ἦγε δαμῆναι. (2.815-17)

Then it was that fated destiny drove Idmon, son of Abas, excellent in prophecies; his prophecies did not save him, since necessity led him on to death.

Ἔνθα καὶ Ἀμπυκίδην αὐτῷ ἐνὶ ἤματι Μόψον νηλειὴς ἕλε πότμος, ἀδευκέα δ’ οὐ φύγεν αἶσαν μαντοσύναις· οὐ γάρ τις ἀποτροπίη θανάτοιο. (4.1502-04)

Then on that same day pitiless fate overtook Mopsos, son of Ampykos. He did not escape the bitterness of his allotted end by prophecies, for there is no turning away death.

Here we find four different terms for the forces of destiny that lead the seers to their death (μοῖρα, χρεώ, πότμος, αἶσα). And in both cases, the prophetic powers (μαντοσύναι) of the individual killed are specifically marked as insufficient. These details powerfully connect the two seers to many of the minor warriors killed in the Iliad, as discussed in the last section (especially the two sons of Merops).89 They also recall a number of warriors who died despite special skills. Skamandrios, for instance, was trained to hunt by Artemis, but his prowess as a hunter did him no good when Menelaus attacked: ἀλλ’ οὔ οἱ τότε γε

χραῖσμ’ Ἄρτεμις ἰοχέαιρα, / οὐδὲ ἑκηβολίαι ᾗσιν τὸ πρίν γε κέκαστο (Il. 5.53-54).90 We might note especially here the last word, which is paralleled in κεκασμένον in the account

88 In the other two cases it is less fully developed, but still felt: It was not fated for Tiphys to sail on (οὐδέ οἱ ἦεν / μοῖρ’, 2.854-55) and the Keres snatched Kanthos (Κῆρες ἕλοντο, 4.1485). 89 See also Abas and Polyidos, sons of a dream interpreter, who are killed by Diomedes (Il. 5.148-51), and Euchenor, whom I discuss below. 90 See also Axylos, whose quality of hospitality to all men did not avail him at the moment of death (ἀλλά οἱ οὔ τις τῶν [ἀνθρώπων] γε τότ’ ἤρκεσε λυγρὸν ὄλεθρον, Il. 6.16).

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of Idmon: both men were the best at what they did, but the best among mortals is no match for fate.91 At a more general level, the narrator’s emphasis on the inevitability of these men’s lot resonates with the dynamics of Iliadic death, especially in the cases of more important characters like Patroclus and Hector, who we know are bound to die.

We can also see the centrality of fate in these scenes as reflecting on Apollonius’ own carefully controlled poetics. For three of these four deaths were in fact already predicted, in the Catalogue in book 1. Upon introducing Kanthos and Mopsos, the poet reveals that

αἶσα γὰρ ἦεν αὐτὸν ὁμῶς Μόψον τε δαήμονα μαντοσυνάων πλαγχθέντας Λιβύης ἐπὶ πείρασι δῃωθῆναι. (1.79-81)

It was fated for him [Kanthos] and Mopsos alike, the one knowledgeable of prophecy, to perish in the course of their wanderings on the boundaries of Libya.

From this early stage, we know that these characters will die, and we know precisely where death will overtake them. The word αἶσαν in Mopsos’ death (4.1503), just a few hundred lines from the end of the epic, picks up on the αἶσα from this introduction at the very beginning. There is thus a kind of tidiness to his fate, not unlike the tidiness of the violence in the battle scene in book 2: we get a sense in Mopsos’ death not so much of the dread, unspeakable power of fate, but of the poet’s exacting control over his narrative.92

Idmon’s death is foreshadowed in the Catalogue in a way that interacts more directly, and also I think more subversively, with Iliadic precedents:

91 The same word appears in the introduction of Euphorbos, shortly before he too is cut down (16.808-09: Εὔφορβος, ὃς ἡλικίην ἐκέκαστο / ἔγχεΐ θ’ ἱπποσύνῃ τε πόδεσσί τε καρπαλίμοισι). 92 In a work of fiction, of course, “fate” and “plot” amount to the same thing (see Redfield 1994, 133-34 for an insightful discussion of this dynamic in the Iliad). But Apollonius seems to go out of his way to draw attention to this fact.

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Ἴδμων δ’ ὑστάτιος μετεκίαθεν ὅσσοι ἔναιον Ἄργος, ἐπεὶ δεδαὼς τὸν ἑὸν μόρον οἰωνοῖσιν ἤιε, μή οἱ δῆμος ἐυκλείης ἀγάσαιτο. (1.139-41)

Of those who dwelled in Argos Idmon came last of all. Though he knew of his own fate from studying birds, he came so that his people should not begrudge him his glorious reputation.

Idmon is a seer and knows his fate, which is left shadowy at this point—but it is certainly not going to be good. In making the decision to go and die despite this foreknowledge, he thus resembles a minor warrior from the Iliad, Euchenor:93

ἦν δέ τις Εὐχήνωρ Πολυΐδου μάντιος υἱὸς ἀφνειός τ’ ἀγαθός τε Κορινθόθι οἰκία ναίων, ὅς ῥ’ εὖ εἰδὼς κῆρ’ ὀλοὴν ἐπὶ νηὸς ἔβαινε· πολλάκι γάρ οἱ ἔειπε γέρων ἀγαθὸς Πολύϊδος νούσῳ ὑπ’ ἀργαλέῃ φθίσθαι οἷς ἐν μεγάροισιν, ἢ μετ’ Ἀχαιῶν νηυσὶν ὑπὸ Τρώεσσι δαμῆναι· τώ ῥ’ ἅμα τ’ ἀργαλέην θωὴν ἀλέεινεν Ἀχαιῶν νοῦσόν τε στυγερήν, ἵνα μὴ πάθοι ἄλγεα θυμῷ. (13.663-670)

There was a man, Euchenor, son of the seer Polyidos, a rich man and good, who lived in his house at Korinth, who knew well that it was his death when he went on shipboard, since many times the food old man Polyidos had told him that he must die in his own house of a painful sickness or go with the ships of the Achaians and be killed by the Trojans. He therefore chose to avoid the troublesome price the Achaians would ask and the hateful sickness, so that he might not suffer pains in his heart.

Like Idmon, this Euchenor is gifted with knowledge of the future (δεδαὼς, εἰδὼς), though it comes from his father rather than from himself, and he makes a decision in light of this, choosing between two possible alternatives, one heroic and one less than heroic. Of course, his choice is closely linked to that of Achilles himself, who likewise navigates

93 The parallel is pointed out by Hunter 1988, 443n35.

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two options, and ultimately chooses death in battle.94 These associations set Idmon up as a hero, embracing death over obscurity.

The nature of his death itself, however, hardly satisfies this expectation, and the whole scene comes across as strange and unsettling. Despite the fact that his fate is known to him, it comes as a great surprise to the reader. He dies at the end (or what seems like the end) of the Argonauts’ stay with Lykos, just as they are heading toward their ship to depart:

ἦρί γε μὴν ἐπὶ νῆα κατήισαν ἐγκονέοντες, καὶ δ’ αὐτὸς σὺν τοῖσι Λύκος κίε, μυρί’ ὀπάσσας δῶρα φέρειν, ἅμα δ’ υἷα δόμων ἔκπεμπε νέεσθαι. (2.812-14)

In the morning they hastened to return to the ship; Lykos gave them countless gifts and himself accompanied them on their way. He also dispatched his son from the palace to travel with them.

In the very next line, just when we expect them to embark, the narrative of Idmon’s fate thrusts itself upon our attention: Ἔνθα δ’ Ἀβαντιάδην πεπρωμένη ἤλασε μοῖρα… (“Then it was that fated destiny overtook Idmon, 2.815). We learn that a boar has been lurking in the marsh all along, and it springs upon Idmon:

ὕψι μάλ’ ἐκ δονάκων ἀνεπάλμενος, ἤλασε μηρόν ἀίγδην, μέσσας δὲ σὺν ὀστέῳ ἶνας ἔκερσεν. ὀξὺ δ’ ὅγε κλάγξας, οὔδει πέσεν· (2.825-27).

The boar leapt up from the reeds and with a charge gored him in the thigh, cutting right through the sinews and the bone. With a piercing cry Idmon fell to the ground.

His comrades kill the boar, but it is too late to save Idmon, who dies in the arms of his companions (χείρεσσι δ’ ἑῶν ἐνὶ κάτθαν’ ἑταίρων, 2.834).

94 On the connections between the two characters, see Strasburger 1954, 75-76 and Fenno 2008, 154-55; on some differences, though, see Sammons 2008, 376n72.

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The narrative here is both like and unlike Homeric death scenes. Much of the language can be found in them, but the way it is used here is markedly different. The adverb ἔνθα often introduces the beginning of an androktasia, with phrases like Ἔνθα δ’

ἀνὴρ ἕλεν ἄνδρα κεδασθείσης ὑσμίνης,95 but in such cases it serves as a transition from a broader narrative of the progress of battle to a series of specific slayings. Here, it is wholly unexpected. The verb used for the striking of the boar’s tusk (ἤλασε μηρόν) resembles an Iliadic expression used for wounding individuals in the head, ἤλασε

κόρσην.96 We might note here, however, the echo between this phrase and the motion of fate used to introduce the scene (ἤλασε μοῖρα), which occupies an identical line position just ten verses before this, and has a markedly similar sound (μηρόν/μοῖρα). Thus a kind of wordplay intrudes upon the grave scene, and we see that Fate drives Idmon in the same way that this creature drives (his tusk into) Idmon’s leg. Moreover, the detail about the tusk cutting through his sinews and touching the bone recalls several anatomical details in Homeric wound descriptions, e.g. the location of the wound suffered by one

Amphiklos:

πρυμνὸν σκέλος, ἔνθα πάχιστος μυὼν ἀνθρώπου πέλεται· περὶ δ’ ἔγχεος αἰχμῇ νεῦρα διεσχίσθη. (Il. 16.314-16)97

at the base of the leg, where the muscle of a man grows thickest, so that on the spearhead the sinew was torn apart.

95 15.328, 16.306; similar is the question, Ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον τίνα δ’ ὕστατον ἐξενάριξαν (5.703, 8.273, 11.299, 16.692). 96 5.584 and 13.586. 97 Cf. the death of Thoös, cited as a comparandum by Jackson (1993, 5), in which similar anatomical detail is supplied and a line is ended, as in Arg. 2.826, with the verb ἔκερσεν (13.546-49). This individual also embraces his companions in death.

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The fact that Idmon dies in his comrades’ arms is a Homeric motif, too; the same thing happens to one Harpalion: ἑζόμενος δὲ κατ’ αὖθι φίλων ἐν χερσὶν ἑταίρων / θυμὸν

ἀποπνείων (Il. 13.653-54: note the verbal parallels with Arg. 2.834).

All of this creates the impression of a battlefield death. Like Euchenor and

Achilles himself, the scene seems to suggest, Idmon has ended his life in a worthy manner, one that he chose for himself as the best possible option. But at the same time, the peculiar narrative context makes this seem very odd. As Jackson observes, “The death itself occurs in a totally futile manner, a goring by a wild boar which lived alone in a fen unnoticed by anyone; Idmon does not even appear to be in a fen for any particular reason.”98 Plenty of men in Greek mythology die as a result of incidents with boars, but none of them, as Jackson notes, is random and arbitrary, like this one. The boar was not a threat to be conquered; in all its days, it had never troubled a soul (2.821-22). What happens is simply the ultimate ill luck: a previously unknown boar suddenly decides to become hostile, and kills an unoffending seer. We might also note that Idmon’s reaction to the boar’s attack (ὀξὺ δ’ ὅγε κλάγξας, 827), though natural enough given the circumstances, is hardly in keeping with the way a wounded warrior, especially an

Achaean, should behave.99

The dynamics of the scene become still more complex in light of the narrative that follows, in which the poet describes Idmon’s grave.

τάρχυον μεγαλωστί, συνεκτερέιζε δὲ λαός αὐτῷ ὁμοῦ βασιλῆι Λύκῳ· παρὰ δ’ ἄσπετα μῆλα, ἣ θέμις οἰχομένοισι, ταφήια λαιμοτόμησαν. καὶ δή τοι κέχυται τοῦδ’ ἀνέρος ἐν χθονὶ κείνῃ τύμβος, σῆμα δ’ ἔπεστι καὶ ὀψιγόνοισιν ἰδέσθαι,

98 Jackson 1993, 5. 99 On this point, see my discussion on page 69 above. Prominent warriors do call out like this during battle, but it is when they are attacking rather than being attacked. See e.g. Il. 17.88.

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νήιος ἐκ κοτίνοιο φάλαγξ, θαλέθει δέ τε φύλλοις, ἄκρης τυτθὸν ἔνερθ’ Ἀχερουσίδος. (2.838-44)

They buried [him] with lavish honour; the people and King Lykos himself joined in the rites. Beside his tomb they slaughtered countless sheep as grave-offerings, in the manner appropriate for the dead. This man’s tomb rises in that land a little below the Acherousian headland as a marker visible for men of later generations, it is crowned by a ship’s roller made from wild-olive and covered in abundant foliage.

Here we have the kind of heroization we expect from a warrior’s death, replete with

Iliadic vocabulary of a grand order.100 It is just the kind of σῆμα that Hector envisions for

Ajax in Iliad 7, which will preserve the memory of the great deeds at Troy for those in generations to come (ὀψιγόνων ἀνθρώπων, Il. 7.87). Yet immediately afterwards, this vision is challenged:

εἰ δέ με καὶ τό χρειὼ ἀπηλεγέως Μουσέων ὕπο γηρύσασθαι· τόνδε πολισσοῦχον διεπέφραδε Βοιωτοῖσιν Νισαίοισί τε Φοῖβος ἐπιρρήδην ἱλάεσθαι, ἀμφὶ δὲ τήνδε φάλαγγα παλαιγενέος κοτίνοιο ἄστυ βαλεῖν, οἱ δ’ ἀντὶ θεουδέος Αἰολίδαο Ἴδμονος εἰσέτι νῦν Ἀγαμήστορα κυδαίνουσιν. (2. 844-50)

If, with the Muses’ help. I must also tell without constraint of what follows, Phoibos instructed the Boiotians and Nisaians to pay honours to this man under the title ‘Protector of the City’ and to establish a city around this roller of ancient olive-wood; they, however, to this day glorify Agamestor rather than Idmon, the descendant of god-fearing Aiolos.

What seemed like a promise of lasting fame is thus revealed to be short-lived, as even

Idmon’s name will be forgotten.101 Moreover, it is ironic that the Muses—instead of preserving memory, as they should—compel the narrator to tell of this failure of memory.

100 E.g. μεγαλωστί, used to describe the death of Kebriones (Il. 16.776) and Achilles (anticipatorily at Il. 18.26 and retrospectively at Od. 24.40). The fact that he is given a σῆμα connects him also with Cyzicus, who gets the same treatment, described in virtually identical language (σῆμα καὶ ὀψιγόνοισιν ἰδέσθαι, 1.1062); parallels between the two are discussed in Hitch 2012, 139 and in note 103 below. On tombs in Apollonius as they relate to Homeric precedents, see Saïd 1998, 17-19. 101 See Fusillo 1985, 127 on Apollonius’ use of local traditions here.

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He himself intimates that he is reluctant to tell what happened, stating that he does so only on account of necessity; and the word he uses is χρειώ, the same one he used above in explaining the fate that led Idmon to his death in the first place (817).102

This peculiar information demands a reconsideration of the role of fate and authorial control in Idmon’s death. Idmon set off on the journey in the first place because of concern for his own kleos with the people (μή οἱ δῆμος ἐυκλείης ἀγάσαιτο, 1.141).

Now, despite his knowledge of his fate, his kleos is obscured in the minds of a people not even his own. Thus, though the seer predicted his own fate and made what he thought was a reasonable decision based on this knowledge, the poet proves himself stronger than that fate, even while pretending his own submission to it. He turns what should be a hero’s death into a pointless accident, and precludes eternal memory by means of a careless mistake.103 Lest we give credence to his self-positioning as compelled by the

Muses or the force of necessity, we should note that Apollonius in fact appears to be modifying the tradition in this account. In Eumelus’ version, as the scholia relate, Idmon is still alive and well during the Argonauts’ time in Colchis.104 Apollonius thus chooses

102 The invocation to the Muses at this point is much discussed in Apollonian scholarship. A. Morrison (2007, 296-98) takes it as the first sign of the narrator’s “crisis of confidence” in his ability to command his material. Goldhill (1991, 324) takes it as an affirmation of the kleos of the individual, but mediated by the erudition of the scholar-poet. Fusillo (1985, 368-70) considers it in light of the way it disrupts the flow of time maintained in Homeric epic. 103 Hitch (2012, 141) offers a different interpretation. For her, “the surprise disappointment, that Idmon is not in fact worshipped as the foundation hero, does not decrease the significance of this episode in the ongoing heroization of the Argonauts, but rather highlights the role of the narrator in this process.” In this last point, she follows Goldhill, as cited in note 102 above. I hold, to the contrary, that this heroization is deeply ironic, as is that of Cyzicus, who likewise receives a heroic funeral and the promise of remembrance in cult, and likewise on account of a case of mistaken identities. 104 Schol. Ap. Rh. 3.1354-56a. The scholia on 2.815 suggest that other sources (Herodorus, Nymphis, and Promathidas) did have Idmon dying in this location, but Jackson (1993, 2-3) argues that in their accounts he probably died on the return journey. See Beye 1982, 46.

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to kill him off early, depriving him of any further role in the epic’s adventures, and rendering his prophetic powers more ineffectual, his death more strange and senseless.105

Death is further thematized right after this account, when Apollonius asks a

(rhetorical?) question in the next line: Who else died? (Τίς γὰρ δὴ θάνεν ἄλλος, 2.851).

This is very much in keeping with the style of the Iliad. We might think, for instance, of the proem, when the poet asks, Τίς τ’ ἄρ σφωε θεῶν ἔριδι ξυνέηκε μάχεσθαι; (Il. 1.8), or of the numerous battle scenes in which a string of killings is introduced by the question

Ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον τίνα δ’ ὕστατον ἐξενάριξαν;106 Closer still is another scene, in which such a question follows an explicit invocation to the Muses:

Ἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι ὅς τις δὴ πρῶτος Ἀγαμέμνονος ἀντίον ἦλθεν. (Il. 11.218-19)

Tell me now, you Muses who have your homes on Olympos, who was the first to come and stand forth against Agamemnon?

Based on these examples and on the reference to the Muses that came shortly before, it seems as though the narrator of the Argonautica is calling on those goddesses to help him with a feat of memory, to recall the next hero who died in sequence. This endows the scene with what Hutchinson calls an “imposing gesture of the Homeric narrator.”107

Yet this gesture, however imposing, seems out of place. Unlike in a battle scene, there is no reason here to suspect that anyone else will die. The question makes it seem as though a continuation of some kind is coming, as though another boar, or perhaps a wolf, is about to emerge from some other marshland. But as we find out in the lines that follow,

105 Jackson (1993, 5) thinks that his death at this apparently nontraditional point in the narrative is pedagogically motivated, i.e. designed to teach Jason a lesson about fate. We might also attribute it to Apollonius’ narrative sturcturing: Phineus’ recent, detailed prophecies (2.311-407) have rendered Idmon’s superfluous (and they were already too vague to be of any specific help), and so there is no further need for him. 106 5.703, 8.273, 11.299, 16.692 107 Hutchinson 1988, 94.

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Tiphys’ death is in no way linked causally to Idmon’s.108 He dies of a quick sickness that is left wholly unexplained and unelaborated (αὖθι μινυνθαδίη πάτρης ἑκὰς εὔνασε

νοῦσος, 2.856). The sickness treats him gently, putting him to sleep (εὔνασε), which makes it quite unlike the violent incident with the boar that kills Idmon. So there is a disconnect, as in the previous death, between the form in which the death is narrated and the nature of the death itself. The same can also be observed in the elements of this scene that recall Iliadic death motifs: in addition to the emphasis on his fate, mentioned above, there is the word μινυνθαδίη, which occurs in several Iliadic biographies,109 and is often used of Achilles’ own short life,110 and the detail that he dies far from his fatherland.111

All of these add a tint of pathos to the steersman’s death.

This pathos, however, is undercut by the way the death is introduced. For the answer to the narrator’s question (“Who else died?”) is not immediately answered:

Τίς γὰρ δὴ θάνεν ἄλλος (ἐπεὶ καὶ ἔτ’ αὖτις ἔχευαν ἥρωες τότε τύμβον ἀποφθιμένου ἑτάροιο, δοιὰ γὰρ οὖν κείνων ἔτι σήματα φαίνεται ἀνδρῶν); Ἁγνιάδην Τῖφυν θανέειν φάτις…. (2.851-54)

Who else died? Once more at that time the heroes raised a tomb over a lost companion, and two markers of those men may still be seen. The story is that Tiphys, son of Hagnias, died…

It becomes clear from these lines that the narrator is not calling upon the Muses for help with memory, but rather anticipating the question that must occur to the (imagined) reader: why are there two burial mounds in this location? These δοιὰ σήματα indeed

108 Several scholars have noted the lack of connection between the two, e.g. Beye 1982, 46. Fontenrose (1959, 477-87) connects Tiphys with Charon, the ferryman of the dead. This fits with the geographical circumstances of the whole episode (see the references to Hades at 2.735 and Acheron at 2.743), which are often noted by scholars in connection with the fact that the first of the deaths of the Argonauts occur at this locale (e.g. Thalmann (2011, 107); Beye (1982, 113) goes so far as to call these deaths “expiatory”). 109 E.g. Il. 4.478 (Simoesios) 110 E.g. at Il. 1.352. 111 See e.g. Il. 17.300-01. On this motif see Griffin 1980, 106-11.

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occupy the foreground of the narrative, taking precedent over the actual death of Tiphys, who is not mentioned for some lines after the initial question. As Hutchinson points out, the narrative emphasis on these aetia in the midst of the account of the two deaths serves to “dispel and frustrate” any emotional engagement on the part of the reader.112 The motifs that would evoke emotions are present throughout both scenes, but they are put in the strange context of the most unwarlike of deaths, and they are interrupted by erudite comments that have a very unemotional tenor. The phrase that introduces Tiphys’ death, for instance (Ἁγνιάδην Τῖφυν θανέειν φάτις) makes the event into an abstraction, a bit of lore, something perhaps not even true;113 and this creates a strange contrast with the more emotive description in the lines that follow.

In the second pair of deaths in book 4, we can observe a similar interplay between the heroic and the banal, the pathetic and the detached. At the most general level, we might note that both deaths occur in contexts that are well beneath the dignity of epic battle (Kanthos is killed by a shepherd, Mopsos by a snake) and that their deaths are narrated as a sequence, though they are causally unrelated. Furthermore, they are constructed, like the deaths in book 2, using a variety of techniques derived from Iliadic death scenes. The narrative of Kanthos’ death is introduced, uniquely, with an apostrophe:

Κάνθε, σὲ δ’ οὐλόμεναι Λιβύῃ ἔνι Κῆρες ἕλοντο (Kanthos, in Libya the deadly Keres overtook you, 4.1485). In the Iliad, this treatment is generally reserved for particularly sympathetic characters.114 That it is applied to Kanthos, who has not appeared before this

112 Hutchinson 1988, 94. 113 On the untrustworthiness of φάτις, see Montiglio 2000, 87. 114 Patroclus receives apostrophe eight times, Menelaos seven (Janko 1994, 132). Two others receive it once: Achilles at 20.2 and Melanippos, an otherwise unknown Trojan, at 15.582). The connection between apostrophe and sympathy can be found in the scholia (see schol. bT 16.789) and is often advocated by modern commentators, e.g. Janko 1994, 317-18, Block 1982.

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scene since the Catalogue, is thus a bit surprising. The tone it creates is grand and grave, but the next lines challenge this tone:

πώεσι φερβομένοισι συνήντεες, εἵπετο δ’ ἀνήρ αὐλίτης· ὅ σ’ ἑῶν μήλων πέρι, τόφρ’ ἑτάροισι δευομένοις κομίσειας, ἀλεξόμενος κατέπεφνε λᾶι βαλών. (4.1484-89)

You came upon grazing flocks followed by their shepherd. In defending his sheep which you wished to take back to your comrades who were in need, he hit you with a rock.

We go from the spirits of death to nibbling sheep, a sudden and surprising change of registers. More surprising still is the fact that this shepherd is able to get the better of

Kanthos, killing him apparently without struggle, by throwing a rock at him. This turn of events verges on the ridiculous, especially in light of the two earlier battles, in which the

Argonauts easily defeated warlike enemies in pitched battle without suffering any losses.

In the next statement, though, Apollonius seeks to rectify this situation, and bring some dignity back to the scene, by explaining that Kanthos’ killer was not just some random shepherd, as we had been led to believe: ἐπεὶ οὐ μὲν ἀφαυρότερός γ’ ἐτέτυκτο (No weakling was he, 1485). This phrasing connects this individual to one of the mightiest of the Iliad’s heroes, Ajax, who is described, after hitting Hector with a rock (14.409-13) as

οὔ … ἀφαυρότατος … Ἀχαιῶν (15.11).115 The narrator goes on to provide an extensive lineage for this shepherd, who turns out to be Kaphauros, the son of a nymph and the grandson of Apollo himself (1486-96). The episode as a whole is thus structured like an

Iliadic biography: the combatant is first named (1490), there follow six lines of family history (1491-96), and then the fact of the killing is restated (1497).116 The difference is

115 Even closer in phrasing is the description of the servant woman who has spent the night milling grain in Odyssey 20: ἀφαυροτάτη δὲ τέτυκτο (20.110). 116 The ABC pattern formulated by Beye 1964.

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that in Apollonius it is the killer thus described rather than the victim. So we have the veneer of the Homeric, but the insertion of the biography is here made to seem artificial, and is clearly motivated by the (ironic) need to rescue the Argonaut from the ignominy of dying at the hands of a nameless rustic.

The second death, that of the seer Mopsos, is noticeably similar to that of Idmon, the other seer. We have already seen that both narratives are introduced by notices about the inability of their prophetic powers to ward off death, and there are many other structural parallels as well. Both are introduced by the word ἔνθα (2.815, 4.1502), at moments when the reader has no reason to suspect their deaths. Both are also killed by wild animals not otherwise inclined to hostility. The snake in Mopsos’ case is sluggish

(νωθὴς, 4.1506), and we are explicitly told that it would not go out of its way to bite anyone (4.1507). So it is extreme ill fortune that leads to both encounters. Moreover, the way the two scenes begin is identical: after some remarks on fate, the animal is introduced as lying down, minding its own business (κεῖτο γὰρ εἱαμενῇ, 2.818; κεῖτο γὰρ

ἐν ψαμάθοισι, 4.1505), and named in the nominative at the beginning of a line (κάπριος

ἀργιόδων, 2.820; δεινὸς ὄφις, 4.1506). Both injure their victims in the leg (2.825-26;

4.1519-20). Such an animal attack, befalling a single seer, might be taken, as Jackson takes what befalls Idmon, as “merely an instance of τύχη,” serving to demonstrate “the futility of man’s lot and the inevitability of one’s destiny.”117 But when it happens twice in such similar ways, and when we remember that both deaths have been predicted from the beginning of the epic, we are made to see not the fundamentally unpredictable power of chance, but the exacting artistry of the author, who bends chance to his will.

117 Jackson 1993, 4; emphasis in the original.

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In all of these deaths, we have observed a number of related phenomena. Though they take place far from battle, they all contain various motifs that recall Iliadic death scenes, thus evoking both pathos and a sense of grandeur and nobility. These sentiments, though, are made to seem unfamiliar by the changed context, especially considering the fact that the deaths these men suffer are generally quite non-heroic, and that they never even attempt to resist their attackers. The emotions evoked by the scenes are further called into question by the nature of the narrative itself: it constantly plays with the readers’ expectations; it pontificates seriously on the power of fate, yet winks at the way the poet controls fate; and it introduces aetia that distance the reader from the events narrated.118 In these ways, both the ideology and the aesthetics of heroic death are consistently undermined. The deaths of these Argonauts resist any effort to take them seriously, either as meaningful sacrifices or as objects of aesthetic pleasure.

3. Monstrously Beautiful Deaths

In this section, I turn to survey some even more dramatic displacements, passages in which Apollonius employs elements from Iliadic death scenes in contexts that are not just banal or contradictory but downright bizarre. Specifically, I will look at several of his similes, which have been notably absent from the foregoing discussion. This is because

Apollonius never, in fact, uses a simile to describe the death of any human throughout the epic. He does, however, make consistent use of the most famous and characteristic of

Homer’s death similes, those which compare a dying combatant to a tree or plant. As we saw in the last chapter, these similes are typically understood to render death in battle

118 In the death of Mopsos, Apollonius offers a lengthy and learned discussion of the snake’s powers and its origin (1508-17) before he even narrates its biting of the seer.

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meaningful, ennobling the victim by making his fall seem grand and beautiful, if also perhaps tragic and sorrowful. Apollonius uses four such similes in the Argonautica, but he applies them in each case to brutal monsters rather than beautiful young men. This displacement, I argue, is not only more noticeable than the others we have observed thus far, but also more overtly polemical. Like the Iliadic ones, his plant similes offer an aesthetically pleasing image to describe death, and they do so in terms that are sometimes markedly pathetic, but their application to monsters casts them into a strange new light, radically defamiliarizing them and thus prompting the reader to consider them anew, to rethink the kind of work they are traditionally made to do.

For reference, I have assembled the similes in question in the following chart:

Locus Tenor Vehicle 1.1003-07 Earthborn on Cyzicus Tall trees (δούρατα μακρὰ) recently cut down by woodcutters 3.1374-76 Earthborn at Colchis Pines or oaks (πεῦκαι ἢ δρύες) blown over by wind 3.1396-1404 Earthborn at Colchis Saplings (ἔρνεα) blown over by storm 4.1682-88 Talos A huge pine tree (πελωρίη … πεύκη) cut down by woodcutters

Before turning to analyze the similes themselves, I would like to reflect briefly on the character of the creatures they are used to describe. We should note first that, in terms of their appearance, they are not all unambiguously monstrous: the Earthborn on Cyzicus have six arms; those in Colchis are said to resemble humans in body (3.415),119 but are also referred to as Giants (γίγαντες, 3.1054); and Talos, though called a man by Medea

(ἄνδρα, 4.1655),120 is made of bronze, and has ichor instead of blood. In some respects,

119 We might also think of the Earthborn of Thebes, sprung from the teeth of the same dragon, who go on to become the first families of the city, and are certainly not treated as monsters. 120 Polyphemus is likewise called an ἀνήρ at Od. 9.187, as Buxton (1998, 89) points out.

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then, they look like humans, but in others they are strongly differentiated from them.121

They are also characterized by violent and apparently senseless behavior. Talos and the first group of Earthborn both attack the Argo without any provocation, and the other

Earthborn kill each other indiscriminately. None of them ever speaks or attempts to speak, dealing with problems by brute force alone. They are further distanced from normal humans and human society by their lack of human parentage, which is obvious in the case of the Earthborn, but also true of Talos, who is said to be the remnant of the bronze race of ash-born people (χαλκείης μελιηγενέων ἀνθρώπων / ῥίζης λοιπὸν, 4.1641-42).

This detail is unique to Apollonius’ account,122 and I suggest that it emphasizes Talos’ monstrosity, severing him from any family ties, and linking him with the Hesiodic

Bronze Race, who were likewise born of ash trees (WD 143-155),123 and were characterized by their violence,124 eventually dying by their own hands, just like

Apollonius’ own Earthborn.

The unusual physicality, violence, and chthonic origin of these creatures has led some scholars to identify them as naturally inimical to the Argonauts. Anatole Mori states this point very strongly, noting that while the Argonauts are “noble, enlightened, and devoted to the cultivation of knowledge,” their enemies are not: “Those who willfully resist or oppose the Argonauts are represented as members of ancient, often autochthonous, races: isolated, hostile, prone to anger and pointless aggression, and filled

121 Buxton (1998, 84) calls Talos “a Greek anomaly, a mythological creature who (or which) embodies many kinds of questions and question-marks relating to what it is to be human,” and I think this would apply equally to the Earthborn. 122 He is usually the son of Kres or Oinopion, or else made by Hephaestus. 123 Or perhaps by the Melian nymphs (mentioned at Theog. 187). On this question see M. West 1978, 187; Gantz 1994, 153. 124 Yates (2004, 183-87) connects the violence of the Bronze Race specifically with the ash-tree on account of its usage in the construction of spears, noting the Iliadic connection between bronze and ash in such weapons.

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with suspicion verging on paranoia.”125 Mori’s formulation here is perhaps too simple— the boundaries between brutality and nobility, monstrosity and humanity, are not so precise in the Argonautica.126 But Apollonius does develop, and play with, such dichotomies, and it seems fair to take these creatures as representatives (at least in the

Argonauts’ thinking) of the inhuman enemy, the other that must be subdued if Jason’s mission is to proceed.127

So it is to this sort of creature that Apollonius applies the kind of similes reserved in the Iliad for the deaths of heroic young men. While startling in one sense, Apollonius’ choice to use plant similes to describe these monsters is in another sense perfectly natural, because, as we have seen, they are literally sprung from the earth, like plants. Apollonius seems eager to highlight this similarity, drawing as he does many and precise correspondences between tenor and vehicle in these similes. The one that likens the

Earthborn in Colchis to falling trees is immediately preceded by a notice that they were falling upon their mother (ἐπὶ γαῖαν / μητέρα, 3.1374-75). The next one makes more specific and abundant comparisons: like the saplings to which they are compared, the

Earthborn have just begun to grow from seeds planted in plowed furrows, and when

Jason kills them, many of them are still “planted” in the ground, with their feet not yet out of the soil (πρὶν ὑπὸ χθονὸς ἴχνος ἀεῖραι, 3.1396). Finally, the simile applied to Talos neatly reflects his own arboreal origins: the creature descended from a tree dies like a tree, and the two are connected in more detailed ways, too. The pine is monstrously huge

125 Mori 2008, 47, 49. 126 For a more complex treatment, see Stephens 2003, 184-87. She notes one scene in which “the conventional Greek message of civilization triumphing over barbarism is deflected by an attack of cultural relativism” (187). See also Hunter 1993a, 164-65 for a discussion of the strange beasts on Circe’s island. 127 Thalmann (2011, 198) expresses an idea similar to Mori’s, noting that when Talos is killed, “The savage and primitive have been effaced and, presumably, supplanted by a more civilized (Ptolemaic) age.”

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(πελωρίη, 4.1682), like Talos; its position up in the mountains corresponds to Talos’ own stance on a cliff; and it falls after being half-chopped (ἡμιπλῆγα, 1683), just as he falls as the result of a wound to a single ankle.128

Both generally and specifically, then, Apollonius’ plant similes accord very thoroughly with the subjects they describe. In this, they might be read as an improvement upon, or a more sophisticated version of, the plant similes in the Iliad. Like other

Homeric similes, these are often thought to have only a single point of correspondence,129 and they were sometimes criticized in antiquity for their loose and impressionistic relation to the narratives in which they are found.130 On the elaborate and extended tree simile describing the death of Simoeisios, for instance, one scholium notes that only the first line is strictly relevant, and that the rest is superfluous, mere adornment.131

Apollonius might thus be seen to be doing what Homer did, only better and more precisely, perhaps as a direct response to ancient criticisms like the one recorded in the scholia, as Clausing argued132 (and Reitz has applied this line of thinking to the tree similes themselves).133

At the same time, the very preciseness of these similes, and their multiplicity of correspondences, might suggest something besides a serious attempt to outdo Homer.

128 This is in contrast with the warriors compared to trees in the Iliad, who are all struck in the upper body. 129 E.g. by D. West (1969, 44) who argues that many of the details in Homeric similes are “purely ornamental, with no analogue in the narrative,” in contrast with those in the Aeneid. In another article (1970, 272) he argues that Apollonius’ similes are closer to Homer’s than to Vergil’s in terms of their correspondences. 130 On this see Nünlist 2009, ch. 14, esp. 288-89. 131 Schol. bT 4.482: μέχρι τούτου τὰ τῆς ὁμοιώσεως. τὰ δὲ λοιπὰ ἐκ περιουσίας ἐναβρυνόμενός φησι καὶ διώκων ἡδονήν. 132 Clausing 1913, 28-59. 133 Reitz 1996, 26. She discusses the first tree simile, which describes the Earthborn on Cyzicus.

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Hunter notes in the Talos simile “a very mannered concern for close parallelism,” but offers a different interpretation of what this might mean:

[It is] deliberately ‘naive’ within the textured literariness of the epic. It calls our attention to the process of creating similes and to the difficulties inherent in that process… When the two parts are very closely matched structurally and/or verbally, the parallelism (paradoxically) alerts us to the artificiality of the ‘likeness’ and to the very reality of difference that the purely linguistic construct of the simile cannot contain.134

In his reading, the simile emphasizes its own constructedness, and I think the same would also apply to each of Apollonius’ plant similes. In using them, he chooses objects of comparison that are already fundamentally like their subjects, and this draws attention to the nature of the simile itself. Similes in the Iliad, including the plant similes, generally compare like to unlike,135 and their peculiar power is often attributed to the distance this comparison creates, the way the audience’s imagination is transported from one realm to another.136 Fränkel has suggested that a careful balance between similarity and difference is essential for the functioning of a simile: “Everybody will feel that a simile which is correct in every respect would be just as dull and boring as the one which fits in with the narrative in only one point is disturbing and absurd in effect.”137 In his plant similes, I argue, Apollonius upsets this balance by systematically collapsing the distance between tenor and vehicle, and thus creates a somewhat disorienting effect. In the Iliad, a beautiful young warrior is compared to a blossoming sapling knocked over by the

134 Hunter 1993a, 130-31. 135 See Ready 2011, ch. 1 for a discussion of the range of distances between tenor and vehicle. Granted, one can find similes in the Homeric poems with very little distance, e.g. one in which Achilles, fearing that he will die in the river Skamandros, compares himself to a young swineherd swept away by a torrent (21.282-83, discussed in Ready 2011, 194-96). What Apollonius does, though, is more striking, in that he consistently decreases the distance already established in a traditional corpus of similes. 136 Porter 1972 offers a thorough treatment of this phenomenon; see also Taplin 2007, 178: “An effective simile does its work through dissimilarity no less than, or even more than, similarity—it needs both.” 137 Fränkel 1997, 114.

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wind;138 in the Argonautica, it is a crop of plant-like warriors emerging from furrows plowed in the ground that are so compared. This later simile, I think, serves to make the earlier one, so traditional and so familiar, seem strange, prompting the reader to reflect on it and its implications,139 to ask, perhaps, whether a man’s death is really like the uprooting of a sapling, any more than a monster’s is.

Apollonius’ application of plant similes to monsters may thus be at least partially explained by a desire to exploit the formal correspondence between the two. But we can get a fuller picture of what the similes are doing if we consider them in light of their emotional dynamics. These are most clearly visible in the simile just discussed, which I now quote in full, along with the lines that immediately precede it:

πολλοὶ δ’, οὐτάμενοι πρὶν ὑπὸ χθονὸς ἴχνος ἀεῖραι, ὅσσον ἄνω προύτυψαν ἐς ἠέρα, τόσσον ἔραζε βριθόμενοι πλαδαροῖσι καρήασιν, ἠρήρειντο· ἔρνεά που τοίως, Διὸς ἄσπετον ὀμβρήσαντος, φυταλιῇ νεόθρεπτα κατημύουσιν ἔραζε κλασθέντα ῥίζηθεν, ἀλωήων πόνος ἀνδρῶν, τὸν δὲ κατηφείη τε καὶ οὐλοὸν ἄλγος ἱκάνει κλήρου σημαντῆρα φυτοτρόφον· ὧς τότ’ ἄνακτος Αἰήταο βαρεῖαι ὑπὸ φρένας ἦλθον ἀνῖαι. (3.1396-1404)

Many were struck before they had lifted their feet clear of the earth and that part of them which had reached the upper air lay on the ground, sinking under the weight of their soft heads. It is no doubt like this when a fierce storm from Zeus causes young shoots in the vineyard to bend to the ground, broken at the roots. The labour of the farm-workers is wasted, and the farmer who owns the land is seized by despair and bitter grief. Just so then did grievous pain grip King Aietes’ mind.

This description of the demise of the Earthborn has close intertextual relations with two of the more famous and poignant Iliadic plant similes, those for Gorgythion and

138 Euphorbos, at Il. 17.53-58; quoted above, page 48. 139 In Wofford’s reading, discussed in chapter 1, section 4, the context of the similes already reveals their ideological work; I think, though, that Apollonius’ transformation of the simile does this much more strongly, inasmuch as it makes the simile new again.

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Euphorbos.140 The opening lines describe the creatures as being weighted down

(βριθόμενοι) by their own heads, just like the poppy (βριθομένη, Il. 8.307) to which

Gorgythion is compared. Both likewise bend towards the ground (κατημύουσιν, ἤμυσε,

8.308),141 because of the effects of the weather. But the Apollonian simile makes their affliction permanent; unlike Gorgythion’s poppy, his plants are fully uprooted

(κλασθέντα ῥίζηθεν). The Euphorbos simile is more explicitly recalled here, since the vehicles of both similes are the same (saplings), and are in both cases marked by their tenderness: Euphorbos’ plant is lovely and blooming (καλὸν τηλεθάον; βρύει ἄνθεϊ

λευκῷ, Il. 17.55, 56), the Earthborns’ are “‘nurtured’ like children” (νεόθρεπτα).142 Both, though, are ultimately destroyed by winds, despite the labor of the man who tends them

(which is emphasized in each case). Indeed, Apollonius’s simile might be said to go beyond Homer’s in evoking emotion, as he makes overt the sorrow that overtakes the farmer when he sees his crop destroyed (κατηφείη τε καὶ οὐλοὸν ἄλγος), while Homer only implies it. The resonances with these two remarkable Homeric similes bring sadness to the surface of the text; the monsters become the tender young plants that the farmer nourishes, and the delicate poppy whose head droops to the ground.

In accordance with the way in which Iliadic similes of this sort have traditionally been interpreted, we might take Apollonius’ pathetic plant simile as doing one (or both) of two things: highlighting the tragedy of the violence that led to the death of these creatures, or marking them out in poetic memory as heroes dying a beautiful death. The

140 The Gorgythion simile is quoted in the introduction, on page 9. Knight 1995, 111 briefly points out some connections between Apollonius’ simile and these. 141 As Thiel (1996, 55) points out, the compound is unique to Apollonius; it occurs also at 2.862, when the Argonauts are grieving the death of Tiphys. This comparison suggests a further heightening of the emotional coloring of this scene. 142 This phrase is from Campbell 1983, 93. On the monster/child connection, see also note 158 below.

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first of these arguments has been advanced by Bernd Effe, in his study of the similes in the Argonautica; in his analysis of the simile in question, he concludes that “Apollonius applies the central image of a Homeric simile to the sorrow of the frustrated husbandman, thus emphasizing the pain caused by war.”143 This interpretation is tempting, especially in light of the battle with Doliones in book 1, which, as we saw, lends itself to an anti-war reading, since it is plainly meaningless and purely destructive. The emotional tint of the simile with the saplings might be taken in the same way, i.e. as intended to show that death is to be regretted.144

On the other hand, the same emotional quality of the simile might be said to valorize the death of the creatures it describes, making them into something like heroes themselves. Indeed, there is some precedent in the tradition for sympathy and even admiration for monsters. We might consider, for instance, the figure of Polyphemus, who is clearly suggested by Apollonius’ Talos. Even his cannibalistic character in the Odyssey has sometimes seemed to readers to evoke pity as well as revulsion.145 In Hellenistic poetry, he becomes a more obvious object of sympathy, as Theocritus humanizes him and shows him as a lover and poet.146 More relevant to Apollonius is Stesichorus’ Geryon, who dies fighting a Greek hero, but is developed as a character, perhaps even a hero.147 In the fragments of the Geryoneis, we hear him speak, explaining his motivations to his

143 Effe 2001, 162. Effe sees the attempt to “problematize war” (160) as a consistent theme in Apollonius’ similes. See also Reitz 1996, 99, whom Effe quotes, and Rose 1984, 131. 144 Carspecken (1952, 93) makes a related point, suggesting that Apollonius uses many similes in violent contexts because he is “deeply sensitive to all human suffering and sympathetic with all sorrow; he must seek, by every means conceivable, to dissemble the violence and the ugliness of death.” 145 See e.g. Newton 1983, Pucci 1998, 122, and Clare 1998. 146 We might trace this treatment back to Philoxenus, though ancient testimonia suggest that his Polyphemus, though a lover, may not have been very sympathetically portrayed, since he was related allegorically to Dionysius of Syracuse (see Gow 1950, 118). 147 On his resemblance to Homeric heroes, see Noussia-Fantuzzi 2013, 249-50. She links him with Hector in particular, as does Tsitsibakou-Vasalos (1990, 28).

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friends and interacting with his family; though monstrous in appearance, he “is given a human psychology and ethic that qualify him for the role of human epic hero rather than epic monster.”148 And, like Apollonius’ monsters, Geryon is compared to a plant as he approaches death:149

διὰ δ’ ἀντικρὺ σχέθεν οἰ[σ]τ̣ὸ̣ς ἐπ’ ἀ- κροτάταν κορυφάνͅ, ἐμίαινε δ’ ἄρ’ αἵματι πο̣ρ̣[φυρέωι θώρακά τε καὶ βροτό̣ε̣ντ̣[α μέλεα· ἀπέκλινε δ’ ἄρ’ αὐχένα Γ̣α̣ρ̣[υόνας ἐπικάρσιον, ὡς ὅκα μ[ά]κ̣ω̣[ν ἅτε καταισχύνοισ’ ἁ̣π̣α̣λ̣ὸ̣ν̣ [δέμας αἶψ’ ἀπὸ φύλλα βαλοῖσα̣. (Fr. 12, col. ii, 10-17)

and the arrow went straight into the crown of his head, and his armour and his gory limbs were stained with blood; and Geryon tilted his neck like a poppy when spoiling its gentle body suddenly drops its petals…150

Many scholars have, I think rightly, taken this simile as pathetic. Tsitsibakou-Vasalos says that it shows that he has a “natural, uncultured but gentle and tender life.”151 Curtis likewise notes that “Stesichoros’s comparison of a soft-limbed flower to an armoured three-headed monster is remarkable, and one which perhaps gives some credence to the idea of a sympathetic portrait.”152 The question of why Stesichorus should treat his monster in this unusual way has prompted a good deal of debate,153 but this need not concern us here. We should simply note that monsters can be sympathetic figures, even

148 Noussia-Fantuzzi 2013, 246 149 This parallel has, remarkably, seldom been commented upon in Apollonian scholarship. Kouremenos (1996, 237n13) suggests in passing that Stesichorus’ simile may have influenced Apollonius here; but no other discussion that I have found makes this connection. 150 Text and translation from Curtis 2011, 84. 151 Tsitsibakou-Vasalos 1990, 26-27. 152 Curtis 2011, 44. 153 E.g. Curtis (2011) thinks that this sympathy has to do with Geryon’s importance in cult. Franzen (2009) connects it specifically to the colonization of Himera, while Noussia-Fantuzzi (2013) takes it as reflecting more generally on colonization (both in Sicily and Iberia) and the process of defining the “other.” Tsitsibakou-Vasalos (1990) associates it with a new notion of heroism.

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heroes, in Greek poetry, and that plant similes can serve as part of their representation as such.154

Perhaps, in evoking pathos for his monsters by likening them to plants,

Apollonius is following, or modifying, this Stesichorian precedent. He may be encouraging his readers, that is, to see what happens in the field of Ares and elsewhere from the perspective of the monsters, to focus, if only momentarily, on their individual significance, and the pain that their loss may cause. Or, less emphatically, we might think that the emotional attention focused on them detracts from Jason’s heroism,155 exposing the brutality and emptiness of his victory, as many other elements of the epic have been seen to do.156 Karsten Thiel has argued that the pathos of the Colchis scene has a serious purpose: he thinks the whole incident is meant to be tragic, and he takes Aietes’ emotion about the loss of the Earthborn as equivalent to Thetis’ over the death of her own son.

The fate of Aietes’ “children” here, moreover, foreshadows the future fate of his real son and daughter, who will be killed or kidnapped by Jason.157 The nominal hero, then, is actually revealed in a negative light; he kills innocent creatures,158 and the readers’ sympathy is directed towards those creatures, and towards Aietes himself.159

Neither of these interpretations of the simile’s emotional character, however, seems wholly adequate. In the Iliad, we saw, the evocation of sympathy for fallen

154 Scholars have posited a traditional connection between flowers and monsters; see Brockliss 2011, ch. 18 for a thorough discussion, with further bibliography. 155 Franzen (2009, 64-65) makes a similar argument about Heracles, suggesting that he comes across as “a villain to Geryon’s noble heroism,” though Noussia-Fantuzzi (2013, 248n74) challenges this argument. 156 E.g. his magic protection, which has been seen by many to diminish his success and/or his character. Lawall, for instance, states that it makes him “the great hero that he never was in reality” (1966, 166). 157 Thiel (1996, 59-60). 158 Their lolling heads have also been seen to suggest the weak muscles of the neck of a newborn baby (Vian 1974-1981, 2:150). Thiel (1996, 54) takes this as a reflection on the ruthlessness of Jason: “Jason tötet hier also gewissermaßen Babies!” 159 Williams (1996) makes a similar argument, calling Aietes a “sympathetic figure” (479).

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warriors through similes is closely connected to their development as characters, and even the minor characters with similes are given short biographies, telling of their parents or past accomplishments. The same is also the case with Geryon, who is “‘familiarized’ as a bearer of human (and Greek) values”160 throughout the course of Stesichorus’ poem.

In these cases, the emotion evoked by the similes is directed towards the characters they describe, who have been given an identity, and can thus be dwelt upon and mourned as individuals. The Earthborn and the other Apollonian monsters, on the other hand, are given no such identity: they have no families but the earth, and no history; they never speak, and scarcely seem to think. The last line of the simile in question, which suggests a connection between Aietes and the farmer who grieves the sudden loss of the plants he has toiled to bring up, might suggest that he is an object of sympathy, like the parents mentioned or recalled in the Iliadic similes. But this too is problematic. Aietes had earlier stated that he often sowed and killed the Earthborn himself, apparently as a diversion

(3.409-18),161 so we can hardly think that he is truly sad about their loss, but rather about the failure of his own scheme.

Apollonius’ simile, then, makes it seem as if emotion is to be evoked, but the objects toward which this emotion might be directed—the band of senseless monsters or the murderous tyrant who “mourns” them—are strange and unexpected. The reader may feel sympathy for them, but she can recognize this response as somehow inappropriate.162

The emotion is thus abstracted; we note it, and reflect on it, rather than being carried

160 Noussia-Fantuzzi 2013, 249. 161 Campbell 1983, 93: “Aeetes himself is capable of butchering the Earthborn ruthlessly, as a matter of course.” 162 Campbell (1983, 89) notes its “mocking affectation of sympathy”; Hunter (1993a, 42) sees “weird pathos” in another of the Apollonian tree similes.

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away by it.163 I suggested earlier that Apollonius’ plant similes were in one sense too precise, that the many formal connections they create between creatures and plants emphasize their artificiality. In another sense, though, the similes are emotionally imprecise, conjuring up pathos but offering no fit object for it. This too directs the reader’s attention back to the similes’ constructedness. The poet reveals his own careful control in establishing correspondences between tenor and vehicle, while also showing a

(deliberate) lack of care in directing the emotion the simile evokes. In both ways, what comes into focus is his own activity, the role of poetic language itself. The simile becomes opaque,164 and the reader is made to see it as well as what it purports to describe.

4. Death and the Ethics of Reading

Throughout this analysis, I have largely focused on the way Apollonius responds to the Iliad’s death scenes as aesthetic phenomena, using traditional motifs in a manner that makes them seem unfamiliar and perhaps even ridiculous. I have been resistant to ethical readings according to which the epic’s treatment of death and battle are evidence of an anti-war perspective on the part of the poet. In closing, though, I would like to touch on another way that Apollonius’ treatment of death does reflect what I think are profoundly ethical concerns.

As we saw in chapter 1, Homer’s plant similes, like many other techniques in the

Iliad, transform the brute fact of a young man’s death into a site of memory and intense

163 This process is marked linguistically, too. The sapling simile is introduced by the phrase που τοίως (“in a similar way, I imagine”), which, as Hunter (1989, 254) argues, “distances the poet from the grief felt by the owner of the vineyard, and calls attention to the literariness of the device of the simile.” 164 I adopt this term from Conte (1986, 46), though my use is somewhat different from his. In his analysis, all poetic language must be opaque, in that it draws attention to itself as distinct from everyday discourse. I argue that Apollonius makes the similes in particular more opaque, or rather reminds the reader of their opacity.

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emotional reflection. In this chapter, I have shown that Apollonius refuses to do this with the deaths in the Argonautica. Though they are at times colored with pathos or made to seem noble, in the manner of Iliadic deaths, such gestures are consistently undercut, as the narratives in which they are embedded alternate from the sublime to the absurd. In this, I suggest, Apollonius is not merely having fun with Iliadic motifs, playfully manipulating them to create un-Iliadic effects. Rather, he is undermining the very ability of poetry to make death meaningful by exposing the artificiality—and perhaps even the dangerousness—of its attempt to do so. To return to Bakhtin’s formulation, we might say that he is impious toward the great epic of the past, rejecting what he sees as its values along with the more grandiose of its forms. In so doing, he is encouraging his readers to reconsider values and forms alike. Through his displacement and defamiliarization of death motifs, he lets us see the seams of the poetry, revealing the kinds of aesthetic and emotional manipulations that are entailed in the Iliad’s many poignant death scenes.

We can perhaps better understand the nature and purpose of Apollonius’ challenge to the Homeric ethos by placing it within the broader context of post-Homeric poetry. To this end, let us briefly consider some lines from another poem, one which falls somewhere between Homer and Apollonius: Simonides’ Plataea Elegy. In West’s reconstruction, the proem of this elegy includes a tree simile:

π̣α̣ῖ̣[σέ] σ̣.̣[ συ δ’ ἤριπες, ὡς ὅτε πεύκην ἢ] πίτυν ἐν βήσ[σαι’ οὔρεος οἰοπόλου ὐλοτόμοι τάμ[νωσι (fr. 11.1-3)165

str[uck you… and you fell, as when a larch] or pine-tree in the [lonely mountain] glades is felled by woodcutters…

165 Text and translation from West’s restoration, in Sider 2001.

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The addressee here is most likely Achilles,166 who is more explicitly referred to shortly hereafter. Like the warriors in the Iliad, he is compared to a mighty tree felled for timber.

The detail about the woodcutters suggests a constructive purpose for the felling of the tree, and thus, symbolically, also for the death of Achilles. We might say that the simile makes him (once again) into a cultural hero, and this is confirmed a few lines later, when the poet tells how Homer gave the heroes of the Trojan War undying fame (ἀθά]ν̣ατον...

κλέος, 15). This process proves central to Simonides’ own project, as we see when he asks the Muses for their assistance:

...ἵνα τις̣ [μνή]σ̣ε̣τ̣α̣ι ὕ̣[στερον αὖ ἀνδρῶ]ν, οἵ Σπάρτ[ηι τε καὶ Ἑλλάδι δούλιον ἦμ]αρ ἔσχον] ἀμ̣υνό̣μ̣[ενοι μή τιν’ ἰδεῖν φανερ]ῷ[ς οὐδ’ ἀρε]τ̣ῆς ἐλάθ[οντο, φάτις δ’ ἔχε]ν οὐρανομ̣[ήκ]η̣ς καὶ κλέος ἀ]ν̣θρώ̣π̣ω̣ν̣ [ἔσσετ]α̣ι̣ ἀθάνατο⟨ν⟩. (24-28)

...so that rem[embrance is preserved] of those who held the line for Spart[a and for Greece,] [that none should see] the da[y of slavery.] They kept their co[urage, and their fame rose] heaven-high; [their glory in] the world [will] never die.

In this context, it seems clear that Simonides’ tree simile is not just an ornamental allusion to the Iliad, but a tool used in the praise—and construction—of heroes. He connects the Greeks at Plataea to the Achaeans at Troy, finding meaning and value in their death through this link to the past, and using the associations of the traditional simile to ennoble and memorialize their sacrifice.

Against this background, Apollonius’ treatment of death comes into sharper focus.

He is reacting to a tradition in which, to use Bakhtin again, individuals and events in the contemporary world “receive their value and grandeur precisely through [their]

166 This application depends on West’s reconstruction. It is possible, though, as Lloyd-Jones (1994, 1) argues, that it might come from later in the poem, and describe the death of Mardonius or Masistius. Barchiesi (2001) agrees with West and finds confirmation in Horace 4.6.

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association [via epic] with the past, the source of all authentic reality and value.”167

Apollonius rejects this kind of ennobling linkage,168 though I do not maintain that he explicitly denies value to death in battle.169 Rather, he highlights the role poetry plays in making it seem heroic. By applying plant similes to monsters instead of men, he shows that it is the similes themselves, rather than any reality extrinsic to them, that evoke the reader’s emotion. In all his poetic skill, Apollonius can make the death of even brutal creatures grand and tragic; but this, as he makes clear, is only an illusion, only words.

Then again, he (or we) might ask, isn’t it always only words?

167 Bakhtin 1981, 18. He actually cites Simonides’ poetry as an example of this dynamic, though he could not have known this particular poem. 168 They are still made in Apollonius’ own time, as for example in Theocritus’ Idyll 17.53-57, where Ptolemy Philadelphus is compared to Diomedes and Achilles. On this passage see Hunter 2003, 138-39. Though my analysis here is general rather than specific, I am skeptical of recent interpretations of the Argonautica that view it as encomiastic of the Ptolemies (e.g. Mori 2008 and Hitch 2012). 169 On this point, see Goldhill’s (1991, 319) comments on the Cyzicus episode: “The paradigmatic activities of warfare and dying for the state, them, that found heroic status are here carefully manipulated both by the allusive reworking of the Homeric texts and by the ironic juxtapositions of the mistaken battle. The language of memorial with which the scene is composed only ironizes further its exemplary value.”

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Chapter 3: Death Without Pathos in Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica

In moving on to Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica, we make a huge leap, as the epic was written under the Roman Empire, probably in the third century CE.1 It is thus substantially further removed from the Iliad, culturally and chronologically, than the

Argonautica. Nevertheless, the Posthomerica’s engagement with the Iliad is more pervasive, if arguably less complex, than that of the Argonautica. The difference becomes apparent from the first line, which begins with a temporal clause: εὖθ’ ὑπὸ

Πηλείωνι δάμη θεοείκελος Ἕκτωρ (When godlike Hector was killed by the son of Peleus,

1.1). This is peculiar for an independent epic, where we expect an invocation, or at least a proem of some kind, but it makes perfect sense for a continuation.2 It creates a direct link to the Iliad, picking up on the final line of book 24.3 Silvio Bär suggests that Quintus uses this opening strategy to imply “that he is ‘Homer’ himself,” and he argues that “a contemporary reader is very likely to have read the Posthomerica as ‘genuinely

Homeric.’”4 Apollonius’ opening line, by contrast, evinces a fabulously rich intertextual relationship with the Homeric epics, competing with, revising, imitating, and diverging from them in just a few words.5 Where Apollonius attempts to challenge Homer, Quintus seems determined to be Homer. His language and style are so closely and consistently

1 For a recent summary of the evidence for the epic’s date, see Maciver 2012a, 3-6; for a more thorough treatment, see Baumbach and Bär 2007, 1-8. 2 The closing of the Iliad lends itself nicely to such continuation; on this see De Jong 1996, 24. 3 See Maciver 2012a, 30. 4 Bär 2010, 291. Cf. Combellack’s (1968, 10) observation that book 1 of the Posthomerica seems very much like book 25 of the Iliad. 5 Apollonius’ proem is much discussed in scholarship; see for example Hunter 2004, 90-92; Goldhill 1991, 286-91; and Clare 2002, 20-32.

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tied to that of the archaic epics, in fact, that some aspects of his poetry have been described as “more Homeric than Homer.”6

This strongly Homerizing tendency makes the Posthomerica fertile ground for an investigation of the reception of Homeric death scenes. Its subject matter is very close to that of the Iliad (as the traditional title implies, it covers all of the events of the Trojan

War that take place after those narrated in the Iliad), and its many battles ensure that it is positively full of deaths. And in describing these death scenes, Quintus seems intent upon being as faithful as possible to the style and ethos of the Iliad, constructing them with many Homeric techniques and phrases. As we will see, though, Quintus does not follow

Homer’s usage in every particular; there are several ways, some subtle and some fairly dramatic, in which his handling of death scenes is distinct from his ancient predecessor’s.

Before turning to look at these deaths in detail, I would like to discuss briefly the way I will approach Quintus and his relationship to Homer. This relationship has been variously received in scholarship. Most scholars working outside of the past decade or so have thought that Quintus’ close resemblance to Homer marks him as imitative and derivative, laboriously maintaining a semblance of epic grandeur but without any real genius.7 In this view, Quintus only shines when he tries to do something original. Paschal, for instance, notes that the handful of Quintus’ similes that seem to be drawn from

“things he has seen with his own eyes” (which in effect means those that are not found in

6 James 2004, xxv, speaking in reference to similes. Several studies have focused on particularities of Quintus’ language and style; see e.g. James and Lee 2000, 27-30 on his epithets; Vian 1959, 182-92 on his adjectives; and Appel 1994 on his use of Homeric hapax legomena. 7 For a more thorough treatment of the epic’s generally negative scholarly reception, see Maciver 2012a, 24-26. Influential voices critical of Quintus include Lloyd-Jones (“the aenemic pastiche served up by Quintus is utterly devoid of life,” 1969, 101; qtd. in Maciver 2012a, 25) and Keydell (e.g. 1963). The most that Campbell can muster about Quintus is that “he is at least businesslike” (1981a, vii). See also Mansur 1940, 2: “Quintus was an artificial imitator of a bygone age, which he did not really understand.” Vian, who offers no such negative criticisms, is a notable exception.

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previous literature), Quintus’ “excellent powers of description serve him well.” In the similes that are based on Homeric originals, by contrast, he finds only “striving for effect, extravagance, and lack of freshness.”8 Combellack similarly holds that Quintus’

(relatively few) “interesting and memorable scenes” occur when he is describing events of a kind that are not found in Homer.9 According to these analyses, it is only when

Quintus ventures out on his own that he manages to create a successful passage or image; the rest is no more than a dry imitation of a greater intellect by a lesser.

More recent analysis, on the other hand, has highlighted the dynamism of Quintus’ relation to Homer. We can see this trend clearly enough in the subtitles of two volumes on Quintus published in the past several years: “Engaging Homer in Late Antiquity” and

“Transforming Homer in Second Sophistic Epic.”10 Even in passages that are clearly modelled on ones in Homer, Quintus is no longer seen as slavishly imitating, but as creatively rereading and reimagining his works. Quintus’ most vocal champion, Calum

Maciver, sums this approach up nicely, arguing that “Quintus imitates, manipulates, comments on, differs from, in sum reads, Homer,” and finds his poem to be “a demanding text with intricate possibilities for interpretation.”11 Boyten stresses the erudition of the poem, connecting it with Alexandrian poetics, and states that “Quintus is writing an ‘Homeric’ epic for a modern, highly literate/educated audience.”12 Bär finds the poem’s very “traditionalism” to be rather bold, considering Quintus’ cultural context,

8 Paschal 1904, 38. 9 Combellack 1968, 16. 10 Maciver 2012a; Baumbach and Bär, 2007. 11 Maciver 2012a, 9, 24. 12 Boyten 2010, 14. See also Maciver 2012b on Quintus’ Callimacheanism, and Vian 2001, 285-94 on his use of Apollonian materials. Cf. Paschal 1904, 76-78, who downplays the influence of the Alexandrians on Quintus.

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and he sees it as part of a dialogue with other works of the Second Sophistic that more radically and innovatively manipulate the Homeric poems.13

To illustrate the differences between older and more recent approaches to Quintus, we might consider the range of scholarly comments that have been offered on the

Posthomeric shield of Achilles (Post. 5.6-101). For Paschal, Quintus’ shield is frigid in comparison with the original. Quintus takes what is beautiful and simple and makes it ornamental and complicated: he attempts to “show originality by variation from his model, and cannot resist a falsely artistic desire to daub his picture with details.”14

Combellack calls the poet’s decision to include the shield a “bad idea,” and holds that his

“repeated assurances that the figures in the designs looked as if they were alive add no life to his account.”15 Maciver, on the other hand, devotes considerable attention to the shield; for him, it is not merely a more or less faithful imitation of the famous original, but the locus for an innovative reading, and rewriting, which offers a new understanding of the earlier text. According to this reading, Quintus finds Stoic elements in Homer’s shield, and in his own shield he “is expounding these readings and making them more explicit.”16 Indeed, Maciver sees the shield as a mise-en-abyme17 for the work as a whole: its structure and language are closely determined by its tradition, but that tradition is meticulously and imaginatively reworked.

Approaches like Maciver’s, I think, offer a productive way of approaching and appreciating Quintus’ poem. For it is arbitrary and unhelpful to divide the epic into

13 Bär 2010. 14 Paschal 1904, 37. 15 Combellack 1968, 14. 16 Maciver 2012a, 85. 17 Bär 2010, 292 also finds the shield a mise-en-abyme, though in a different way: he sees it as linked to the epic as a whole in the way that it completes and supplements the Homeric original.

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“imitative” and “original” parts. Rather, the whole thing should be understood as original; even Quintus’ reuse of traditional materials can be seen as interesting and significant, if we consider why he is making his poem seem like an epic of the ancient past. When he differs from or expands upon his model, we need not see it as a failure on his part, an attempt to decorate “Homer” with a few details of his own, but as a way of imbuing traditional18 elements with new meaning and emphasis as he fits them to a new context.

As Maciver explains, “a studied attempt on the part of the poet to make the poem as

‘Homeric’ as possible makes any differences in the epic technique in relation to the

Homeric epics all the more noticeable and worthy of discussion.”19 This should apply, I think, not only to the ways in which Quintus changes or elaborates upon received material, but also to the ways in which he chooses not to make such changes, when he brings in Homeric elements more or less intact, treating them mechanically or even minimizing them. For in this, too, we can detect the poet’s unique character and perspective, by noticing what he thinks is unimportant or uninteresting.

In the following analysis of Quintus’ death scenes, I will make frequent comparisons between the Posthomerica and the Iliad. But these comparisons, as I hope the discussion above will have made clear, are not motivated by any desire to judge

Quintus according to how well or ill he follows his “master.” Nor are they meant primarily to rehabilitate him or show his sophistication, as much Quintean scholarship in recent years has done. Rather than criticizing him as a hack or hailing him as a genius, I will show ways in which he stakes out his own ground, creating a poetics of his own. The

18 I discuss specifically Homeric elements here, but he can also be seen to do the same with other poets, notably Apollonius, whom I discuss in section 3 below. For examples of discussions of Quintus’ interaction with Apollonius, see Vian 2001, Maciver 2012b and André 2013. 19 Maciver 2012a, 33.

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recent work I have described has shown convincingly that the Posthomerica is not just

“what Homer didn’t tell”;20 but a work that can stand on its own, with its own view of heroism, ethics, fate, even poetry itself. In this chapter, I aim to show that the

Posthomerica also offers a unique perspective on the nature of death in battle.

I have designed this chapter to reflect the structure of chapter 1, to allow for easy comparison, because the Posthomerica’s presentation of death is in many ways closely related to the Iliad’s. In the first (short) section, I address the question of philhellenism as it relates to Quintus’ deaths. I then go on, in the next three sections, to consider Quintus’ application of the three main techniques that Homer used in developing his death scenes

(biographies, similes, and wound descriptions). In the final section, I discuss a phenomenon that is important in Quintus’ epic but not a significant part of the Iliad: descriptions of death on a large scale.

1. Philhellenism

As we saw in chapter 1, Homer does not describe the death of Trojans and

Achaeans in the same way. For one, many more Trojans than Achaeans are killed in the epic. They also tend to be described with different types of biographies—ones that emphasize the pathos of their deaths rather than their prowess—and are killed with more graphic and grievous wounds than their foes. This unequal treatment, we saw, has sometimes been taken as evidence of Homer’s philhellenism, even of his prejudice against the Trojan “enemy.” In studying the deaths in the Posthomerica, though, I find that little or no distinction is made between the two sides. The Achaeans in the epic actually die much more often, proportionally, than they do in the Iliad, even though we

20 Combellack uses this phrase as the subtitle for his translation (1968).

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might well expect the opposite, given that the Achaeans are actually on the ascendant throughout most of the epic, but not in the earlier epic.21 Moreover, the deaths of individuals on both sides are described using the same sorts of similes and biographies, and both parties are susceptible to being killed in equally grisly ways. Indeed, Achaean casualties are more likely to receive detailed wound descriptions than their Trojan counterparts.22

The fact that Quintus treats Achaean and Trojan victims in roughly the same way should not be interpreted as evidence that he is more impartial than Homer. On the contrary, a recent study has shown convincingly that Quintus is markedly philhellene, in that he makes his Achaean heroes seem braver and stronger than their Trojan counterparts.23 That this pro-Greek bias does not find its way into his death descriptions, I think, speaks rather to the lack of importance the poet assigns to the scenes in which minor warriors die. In the Iliad these scenes are a place where the character of individuals is reflected on and subtle differentiations are suggested. In the Posthomerica, as I shall be arguing throughout this chapter, the deaths of individuals are not treated as a matter of much emotional or ethical significance, and thus Quintus makes little distinction in those scenes between Achaean and Trojan. These distinctions emerge in the way they fight and talk rather than in the way they die.

21 The ratio of (named) Trojans to Achaeans slain is 110:56, compared to 187:54 in the Iliad, which means that 34% of those killed in the Posthomerica are Achaeans, and only 22% in the Iliad. 22 Achaeans receive 16 of the 37 graphic wounds in the Posthomerica, which means that 1 in 3.5 Achaeans is so wounded; in the Iliad, Achaeans receive only 3 of the 41 graphic wounds, which means that only 1 in 18 of them is so wounded. See appendix 3.4. 23 See the thorough treatment of the subject in Jahn 2009.

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2. Biographies

By my count, there are 166 individual deaths24 narrated over the course of the

Posthomerica’s many battles. This is less overall than the Iliad’s 241, but Quintus’ epic is not as long, and the deaths in it are thus in fact slightly more frequent.25 The proportion of minor warriors26 who receive biographies to those who do not is also slightly higher in

Quintus’ epic than in Homer’s. We learn something about the history of 45 individuals,27 or 28.8%, as compared to 25.5% in the Iliad. Moreover, the biographies in the

Posthomerica are about a line longer, on average, than those in the Iliad.28

At first glance, these figures would seem to contradict the assertion I made in the last section, that Quintus directs little attention toward the minor warriors in his poem.

Unlike in an epic meant for performance, though, the length of a description in a poem meant to be read does not necessarily correlate with the importance of its subject. Quintus’ biographies may be longer than Homer’s, but I argue that they are less important and less emotionally wrought. They are included for the sake of form, to maintain a Homeric feel,

24 I do not include in this count the individuals that are killed during the sack of Troy in book 13. Some of those killed there did attempt to defend themselves (see e.g. 13.145-52 for the Trojans’ makeshift weapons) while others did not (e.g. Ilioneus, 13.181-205), and the narrative makes it difficult to distinguish between the two. In any case, the overall context is far removed from the battles of the Iliad, and thus less fruitful for comparison. 25 By my calculations, an individual dies once in every 17 lines in Quintus’ battle scenes, compared to one per 25 in Homer’s; this is based on my count that battle scenes occupy 2856 lines in the Posthomerica, and 6164 in the Iliad. I include in these figures any lines describing events that take place after a battle has explicitly begun and before it has explicitly ended, either by a narrative statement to that effect or by a shift in scene. Thus I include in my count for the Iliad, the long series of speeches between Glaucus and Diomedes in book 6, but exclude the duel between Hector and Ajax in book 7, since in the latter case both armies have formally ceased from fighting. 26 I count 156 of the poem’s 166 casualties as minor warriors; I exclude here those warriors who play a larger role in the narrative or are known from the tradition: Podarkes (1.238), Penthesileia (1.619), Antilochos (2.257), Memnon (2.542), Achilles (3.177), Glaucus (3.278), Nireus (6.372), Machaon (6.408), Peneleos (7.104), and Eurypylos (8.199). As I discuss at the end of this section, even the more minor of these figures is given special attention in the narrative. I do not count Paris, who dies off the battlefield. 27 Seven of these are pairs of brothers, which means that there are 38 discrete biographies in the poem. See appendix 3.2. 28 4.3 lines as opposed to 3.3, by my calculations.

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but they seldom become compelling or memorable in and of themselves, as they often do in the Iliad.

First, we can see that Quintus uses a far smaller variety of motifs in constructing his biographies than we saw in the Iliad. One common motif in the earlier epic was the birth of a warrior, which occurred in five separate biographies. Twice, we saw, the birth took place beside a river, once beneath a mountain, and twice in an unspecified location.29 In the Posthomerica, this motif is much more frequent, and we find it occurring in fourteen of the epic’s thirty-eight biographies. We are told that no fewer than ten lads were born by rivers, another two beneath mountains, two less specifically in regions, and one beside a lake. This dependence on a single motif in such a large number of biographies suggests, in my reading, that Quintus did not consider the biography to be particularly significant. He throws a number of quick references to warriors being born beside bodies of water into his death scenes, perhaps wishing to add a bit of Homeric coloring to them, but seldom does much more with them. Nine of these fourteen birth- biographies are very short (1-3 lines), and belong to the category I described in chapter 1 as “basic.” I quote here three examples:

ὃν τέκε δῖ’ Ἀρέθουσα παρ’ ὕδασι Ληθαίοιο Κρήτῃ ἐν ἀμφιάλῳ. (10.82-83)

Arethousa had borne [Hyllos] beside the river Lethaios On sea-girt Krete.30

τόν ῥα παρὰ λίμνῃ Γυγαίῃ γείνατο μήτηρ Κλειτὼ καλλιπάρηος· (11.68-69)

[Hellos], whose mother had given him birth beside the Gygaian lake, Fair-cheeked Kleito.

29 Simoeisios (4.473), Satnios (14.443), Iphition (20.382), Gorgythion (8.302), and the brothers Aisepos and Pedasos (6.21). 30 Text of Quintus from Vian 1963-69. Translations are from James 2004, with my own modifications.

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τόν ποτε μήτηρ γείνατο πὰρ προχοῇσιν ἐυρρείταο Καΐκου, Κλείτη καλλιπάρηος ὑποδμηθεῖσ’ Ἐρυλάῳ. (8.119-21)

[Meilanion], whom his mother Had borne beside the fair-flowing river Kaikos, Fair-cheeked Kleite, after lying with Erylaos.

In these cases, which are fully representative of this category of biography, there is little detail to distinguish one dead man from the other. That they were born beside rivers or have pretty mothers might be considered poignant, but such facts are presented so regularly and so briefly that any emotional effect seems only residual. Quintus is recycling these details rather than recombining them or developing them in interesting and evocative ways.

The remaining five birth-biographies, though more elaborate, are nevertheless quite different in content and tone from those in the Iliad, and the particular way in which they are developed can serve to illustrate the more general differences between the two poets’ treatment of death. Two of these biographies are extremely lengthy: at 15 and 25 lines, both are in fact longer than any biography in all of the Iliad.31 While this extension might seem again to work against my thesis, I think that this will not prove to be the case upon closer consideration. Let us look briefly at the shorter of the two, which is given to a Trojan named Dresaios:

Δρησαῖον δ’ ἐδάμασσεν ἀρηίφιλος Πολυποίτης τὸν τέκε δῖα Νέαιρα περίφρονι Θειοδάμαντι μιχθεῖσ’ ἐν λεχέεσσιν ὑπαὶ Σιπύλῳ νιφόεντι, ἧχι θεοὶ Νιόβην λᾶαν θέσαν, ἧς ἔτι δάκρυ πουλὺ μάλα στυφελῆς καταλείβεται ὑψόθε πέτρης, καί οἱ συστοναχοῦσι ῥοαὶ πολυηχέος Ἕρμου καὶ κορυφαὶ Σιπύλου περιμήκεες ὧν καθύπερθεν ἐχθρὴ μηλονόμοισιν ἀεὶ περιπέπτατ’ ὀμίχλη· ἣ δὲ πέλει μέγα θαῦμα παρεσσυμένοισι βροτοῖσιν,

31 The longest Iliadic biography, at 13 lines, is the one for Iphidamas.

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οὕνεκ’ ἔοικε γυναικὶ πολυστόνῳ ἥ τ’ ἐπὶ λυγρῷ πένθεϊ μυρομένη μάλα μυρία δάκρυα χεύει· καὶ τὸ μὲν ἀτρεκέως φῂς ἔμμεναι, ὁππότ’ ἄρ’ αὐτὴν τηλόθεν ἀθρήσειας· ἐπὴν δέ οἱ ἐγγὺς ἵκηαι, φαίνεται αἰπήεσσα πέτρη Σιπύλοιό τ’ ἀπορρώξ. Ἀλλ’ ἣ μὲν μακάρων ὀλοὸν χόλον ἐκτελέουσα μύρεται ἐν πέτρῃσιν ἔτ’ ἀχνυμένῃ εἰκυῖα. Ἄλλοι δ’ ἀμφ’ ἄλλοισι φόνον καὶ κῆρ’ ἐτίθεντο. (1.291-307)

The war god’s favorite Polypoites killed Dresaios, Whom divine Neaira bore to wise Theiodamas, Whose bed she shared at the foot of snowy Sipylos, Where the gods turned Niobe to stone, whose tears Forever flow profusely from a rocky height, While Hermos’ sounding streams murmur in sympathy, As do the lofty peaks of Sipylos, on which A mist, the shepherds’ enemy, is always spread. This is indeed a wonder to all who pass that way, Because it looks like a sorrowing woman who weeps In abject grief with endless flow of tears. You think it is truly so whenever from afar You catch a view of her, but when you come up close It’s clearly a vertical rock, a fragment of Sipylos. And yet the gods’ destructive wrath is fulfilled in her As she weeps among the rocks, appearing still to grieve. And one inflicted doom and death upon another…

In this long biography, it is clear that the slain man himself is not the object toward which the reader’s attention is directed, nor is it any member of his family,32 as is often the case in Iliadic biographies. It seems as though Dresaios himself is wholly forgotten in this account,33 since the narrative does not return to him and detail the specific circumstances of his death, as is almost always the case in the Iliad.34 Instead, it moves on immediately

(in the last line quoted) from the description of this rock to the more general slaughter taking place on the battlefield.

32 One might suggest that Niobe, who mourns over her dead children, should be connected with Neiaira, who is thus indirectly figured as a grieving mother. It seems to me, though, that the geography is more important than the myth, and this is certainly the case in the other biographies of this type (discussed in the following paragraph), where such metaphorical links are not to be found. 33 As Glover (1901, 82) says, “His interest is clearly not in Dresaios, but in Niobe.” 34 On the structure of death scenes see especially Beye 1964; also Fenik 1968 16-18; and J. Morrison 1999, 129-36.

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In this instance, the young man’s death is not presented as something to reflect on and try to make sense of in one way or another (is it heroic? tragic? horrible?). It seems, rather, like an excuse for the author to showcase his geographical and mythological learning. Biographies like this are very common in the Posthomerica. In another, Quintus describes a cave of the nymphs in extraordinary detail (6.469-91). Others touch on points of geography connected to various other myths (e.g. the cave where Endymion slept,

10.128-37; a river formed by Leto, 11.21-26; the rock of Hephaestus, 11.92-98), while others still confine themselves to real world geography (the topography of a region,

3.232-36, 11.92-98; the confluence of rivers, 10.141-46). Quintus’ apparent interest in geographical matters has often attracted the attention of scholars. Some suggest that it can be connected to his own purported location in Asia Minor, and that his own travels allowed him to offer so much detail as an eyewitness,35 while others find in it evidence of his reading of geographical material.36 And certainly several of these biographies show a high level of literary erudition. Tomasso points out the intertextual links between the biography for Dresaios, quoted above, and Achilles’ narrative of Niobe in Iliad 24.614-

17, and James notes the connections between the Posthomeric cave of the nymphs and those in Apollonius (2.727-45) and the Odyssey (13.103-12).37 In each of the biographies of this type, the details of the location or the myth connected to it occupy the foreground,

35 Köchly 1850, iii-iv; Glover 1901, 82-84; James 2004, xviii and 271. Tomasso (2010, 114), however, notes that Quintus never claims autopsy, and points out that for a poet to highlight his first-hand knowledge would be out of place in a purportedly muse-inspired epic. 36 Vian 1959, 144. 37 James 2004, 305. Chrysafis (1985, 33-42) examines the parallels between the caves in Quintus, Homer, and Apollonius more thoroughly, though with a strictly philological interest.

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and the death that provides the opportunity for the excursus quickly fades from view.

What comes into focus is not the loss of a young life, but the knowledge of the poet.38

In developing biographies of this sort, Quintus’ method seems more Apollonian than Homeric. Granted, some Iliadic biographies do include mythological or geographical details similar to these, but they are generally only passing references. For instance, two

Trojans killed in Iliad 16 are said to have been the sons of the man who reared the

Chimaera (16.328-29). The poet does not pause, however, to elaborate on the story, or the region in which it took place, assuming, no doubt, that the story will be well-known to his audience. But Quintus feels the need to supply this information, and lets it drive the narrative for many lines. Geographical details and mythological aetia of the kind he often provides are, however, important elements in the poetics of the Argonautica. Apollonius’ aetia, which explain the presence of visible landmarks by reference to ancient stories,39 are often seen as serving to bridge the gap between the heroic world and the author’s contemporary reality.40 Similar features in Quintus’ biographies (e.g. the description of the Niobe rock), I think, should be taken in the same way.41 Indeed, the accessibility of the mythological past to the contemporary reader is made explicit in several of these biographies. In describing various geographical features, Quintus mentions the perspective of a traveler who goes to look at it, recording this imagined visitor’s impressions in the second person (φῂς etc., 1.302ff; φαίης, 10.134), or painting it more broadly as a spectacle (θαῦμα ... βροτοῖσιν, 1.299; 6.482; 11.93-94). So Quintus uses the

38 Paschal notes that Quintus “has seemingly checked an innate love for parading his knowledge” but that “he has not always been successful” in doing so (1904, 77). 39 E.g. his account of the σήματα of Idmon and Tiphys, as discussed in chapter 2, page 115. 40 See chapter 2, note 10, and also the discussion in Goldhill 1991, 321-33. 41 Tomasso (2010, 119) makes a similar point, though without reference to Apollonius: “Rather than distancing the present from the past, Quintus’ depiction of contemporary landscapes blur the boundaries of time, which suggests that the narratives of the past are continually being re-enacted in the present.”

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opportunity provided by the death scenes to create a point of contact between the past and the present. He is thus recreating the inherited form (the Iliadic biography), imbuing it with new life and new interest, by infusing it with typically Alexandrian material. This bespeaks not only a very different poetics from Homer’s, but a different view of death as well.

In examining those biographies in the Posthomerica that are formed on the birth motif, then, we have seen two types: those in which the motif was bare and unelaborated, and those in which it served as a vehicle for learned display. We can now examine a few examples which fall into a third category and which do seem designed to evoke a certain amount of pathos. Consider first the biography for one Hippomedon:

τὸν Ὠκυρόη τέκε Νύμφη Σαγγαρίου ποταμοῖο παρὰ ῥόον· οὐδέ νυ τόν γε δέξατο νοστήσαντα· κακαὶ δέ ἑ Κῆρες ἄμερσαν παιδὸς ἀνιηραί, μέγα δ’ υἱέος ἔλλαβε πένθος. (11.37-40)

…whom the Nymph Okyroe Bore beside the river Sangarios. And she did not Welcome him on his return. The cursed Fates robbed her Cruelly of her son, and great grief over him seized her.

There is clearly an emotional component here, as the mother and her future grief are explicitly mentioned. The motifs employed in this biography, moreover, are closely connected to Homeric ones: the birth beside a river we have already seen to be quite traditional; the fact that his mother did not receive him closely resembles a comment made in the biography for Abas and Polyidos, whose father likewise did not welcome them home (οὐ ζώοντε μάχης ἐκνοστήσαντε / δέξατο, Il. 5.157-58); and her sadness

(πένθος) also recalls that old man’s sorrow (γόον καὶ κήδεα λυγρὰ, Il. 5.156).42 This same

42 The role of the cruel fates in this man’s death is also familiar from the Iliad, e.g.in the biography of Adrastos and Amphios (κῆρες γὰρ ἄγον μέλανος θανάτοιο, 11.332).

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Iliadic biography is recalled even more strongly in another death in Quintus’ poem, that of a certain Menalkes. In that case, the father is left with no heir after his son’s death, and his property is divided among distant relatives: δόμον δέ οἱ ἔργα τε πάντα / χηρωσταὶ

μετόπισθεν ἀποφθιμένοιο δάσαντο (Post. 8.298-99). This detail is an almost direct repetition of the final line of the Iliadic biography: χηρωσταὶ δὲ διὰ κτῆσιν δατέοντο (Il.

5.158).43

In another case in the Posthomerica where pathos features prominently in an individual’s biography, Quintus is also clearly working directly from a particular

Homeric model. Two young men killed by Polydamas were skilled fishermen, as the poet explains over several lines; he goes on to note, in conclusion, that their skills could not save them: ἀλλ’ οὔ σφιν τότε πῆμα θαλάσσια ἤρκεσαν ἔργα (Post. 11.66). In this, their lot resembles that of the Iliadic Skamandrios, the archer trained by Artemis, but whose death Artemis could not prevent (ἀλλ’ οὔ οἱ τότε γε χραῖσμ’ Ἄρτεμις ἰοχέαιρα, Il. 5.52).

It also recalls the plight of Axylos, a man who had been friendly to guests, but from whom, the poet says, no guest could ward off destruction (ἀλλά οἱ οὔ τις τῶν γε τότ'

ἤρκεσε λυγρὸν ὄλεθρον, Il. 6.16). In Quintus’ biography, though, an important difference can be observed. As Emily Kneebone points out, the simile is in fact very erudite: the technical aspects of the description of the fishermen’s trade are taken from Oppian’s

Halieutica.44 Thus it seems that even here Quintus is intent on showing his own knowledge of fishing (or rather of Oppian) instead of highlighting the tragedy of the brothers’ death. One wonders, after all, how their skill at fishing could possibly have

43 Quintus adds the detail that the man has died (ἀποφθιμένοιο), making clearer what was only implicit in the Iliadic passage (cf. here Hes. Th. 607). 44 Kneebone 2007, 291.

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aided them in battle in the first place. So inasmuch as the biography may contain pathos, it hardly seems to be the main thrust of it, as learning is again foregrounded.

In other cases, whatever emotion Quintus adds to a warrior’s death is not contained in a biographical narrative at all, but in only a line or two, in the form of a brief pathetic comment. Thus, the fact that a warrior’s parents will not welcome him home is mentioned in two passages besides the one mentioned above, though we are told virtually nothing about those parents in either case.45 Notices that a warrior will not reach his homeland are more common, occurring four times.46 At another point, the poet briefly mentions that a warrior will not repay his parents’ care (οὐδ’ ἐρατεινὰ / θρέπτα τοκεῦσιν

ἔδωκεν, 11.88-89), a motif included in the highly developed account of Simoesios’ death in the Iliad (οὐδὲ τοκεῦσι / θρέπτρα φίλοις ἀπέδωκε, Il. 4.477-78).47 In the Posthomeric example, though, the poet does not even name the man’s apparently devoted parents. The pathos in each of these cases rests in a single phrase, and has no particular relation to the death itself or its specific circumstances; the phrases could just as well be attached to any other deaths in the poem. The emotion seems here, then, to be largely ornamental:

Quintus, a close reader of Homer, realizes that a certain pathetic tint is appropriate for his battlefield deaths, and he provides it with these brief comments. But he does so, as it seems, without conviction, generally relying on more or less formulaic phrases, and only occasionally developing the pathos at more length.

In concluding this section, I would like to discuss one final Posthomeric biography which seems to me unique, in that it is pointedly pathetic and yet without any

45 οὐδέ ἑ μήτηρ / δέξατο νοστήσαντα (3.304-05); οὐδέ...δέξαντο τοκῆες (10.140-41) 46 οὐδ’ αὖτις ἑὴν νοστήσατο πάτρην (1.269), οὐκέτι νόστον ἕλοντο (6.633); οὐδ’ ὅ γε Θρῄκην / ἵκετ’ ἀπὸ πτολέμοιο (8.99-100); ἀλλ’ οὔ τι φίλην πάλιν ἔδρακε γαῖαν (8.305). 47 Homer himself reuses this pathetic comment much later in the poem, in describing a man who is without any biography of his own (Il. 17.301-02).

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clear Homeric precedent, which would suggest a certain interest on the poet’s part on the emotions evoked by death in battle. It is given to two brothers slain by Neoptolemus, and

I quote the entire episode here:

Ἔνθα δύω κτάνε παῖδε πολυχρύσοιο Μέγητος ὃς γένος ἔσκε Δύμαντος, ἔχεν δ’ ἐρικυδέας υἷας εἰδότας εὖ μὲν ἄκοντα βαλεῖν, εὖ δ’ ἵππον ἐλάσσαι ἐν πολέμῳ καὶ μακρὸν ἐπισταμένως δόρυ πῆλαι, τοὺς τέκε οἱ Περίβοια μιῇ ὠδῖνι παρ’ ὄχθας Σαγγαρίου, Κελτόν τε καὶ Εὔβιον· οὐδ’ ἀπόναντο ὄλβου ἀπειρεσίοιο πολὺν χρόνον, οὕνεκα Μοῖραι παῦρον ἐπὶ σφίσι πάγχυ τέλος βιότοιο βάλοντο. Ἄμφω δ’ ὡς ἴδον ἦμαρ ὁμῶς, καὶ κάτθανον ἄμφω χερσὶ Νεοπτολέμοιο θρασύφρονος. (7.606-15)

Then he slew two sons of Meges the rich in gold, Who was the offspring of Dymas and had such glorious sons, Accomplished at casting the javelin, driving horses In battle, and at wielding the long spear skillfully. They were borne at one birth by Periboia beside the river Sangarios, Keltos and Eubios. They did not enjoy Their unbounded wealth for long, because the Fates Imposed on them a life-span that was very short. As both had seen the light of day together so both Now died at the hands of dauntless Neoptolemos.

Many of the components from this account are familiar: familial wealth, excellence in various martial pursuits,48 and birth beside a river. What is unusual for Quintus is the way the episode is drawn out, as the narrative focuses on these two warriors, their life and death, for more than ten lines. The structure of the biography is complex, unlike the geographical anecdotes, where a simple formula introduces a lengthy excursus. Here, the brothers are not introduced by name for several lines; their death is told at the beginning

(606), then foreshadowed (611-13), and then narrated again in general (614-15) and in detail in the wound descriptions that follow (615-19). The notice that both were born on the same day, and died on the same day, is a particularly pathetic touch, and one without

48 Cf. Il. 15.642-43.

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parallel elsewhere in Quintus or in the Iliad,49 and the conceit is artfully contained in a single line beginning and ending with ἄμφω.50 The way the episode is presented serves to draw attention to these particular men and their death in a way that is unique in the

Posthomerica.

While not discounting the pathos in this scene, I suggest that Quintus’ decision to evoke it so strongly at this particular juncture may have more to do with the flow of the narrative than with any special interest in their lot.51 These two young men are the first named victims killed by Neoptolemus upon his arrival at Troy, and indeed the only ones mentioned for over five hundred lines.52 Their death thus comes at a crucial time in the plot of the epic, as close to a turning point as possible in an episodic narrative like the

Posthomerica. The ascendancy of Eurypolos is coming to an end, and Neoptolemus is on the rise, and these unlucky individuals are the first victims in this new and bloody phase of battle. Their death is developed at such length and with such ingenuity to mark the beginning of this new phase of the epic.

The general hastiness of Quintus’ treatment of the deaths of minor warriors becomes more noticeable when we compare it with his handling of the more important warriors who die. Naturally, major warriors cannot receive biographies, since they are already known to the audience, but they are treated in death with markedly more emotional interest than their minor counterparts. Consider the case of Podarkes, who is killed near the beginning of the battle in book 1 (1.238-46), after killing a single Amazon

49 Brothers die together frequently in the Iliad, but this idea is not explicitly stated; the closest parallel is the case of two brothers slain by two other brothers (16.326-29). 50 Quintus uses a similar conceit at 11.41-43, where two men bred in different places are slain together by Aineas in the same location (ἕνα χῶρον). 51 They are connected to the Trojan royal line, but only distantly. Dymas is also the father of Hekabe (mentioned at Il. 16.718 and pointed out by James 2004, 310), so they are Hector’s maternal cousins. 52 The last was Peneleos, slain at 7.104.

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warrior. The narrative passes over his death fairly quickly there, and we might think that his death is unimportant. But then, at the end of the book, he is reintroduced as a subject of interest during the funeral ceremonies. The Achaeans burn the collected corpses of their fallen comrades, grieving over them (μάλ’ ἀχνύμενοι, 1.814), but Podarkes receives his own special treatment: they lament him most of all (ἔξοχα δ’ ἄλλων / ἀμφ’ ἀγαθοῦ

μύροντο Ποδάρκεος, 814-15), feel a terrible sorrow about his death (λυγρὸν… πένθος,

819), and bury him apart from the masses (πληθὺν… ἀπόπροθι, 1.820). Though he hardly played a major role in the narrative, his traditional status (he is the brother of Protesilaos, and is twice mentioned in the Iliad53) makes him distinct, and earns him this additional mourning. This difference between minor and major is far more pronounced in the deaths of characters like Memnon and Achilles, to whom Quintus dedicates hundreds of lines of laments and descriptions of tears. Death is clearly a source of pathos in the Posthomerica, but the distribution of this pathos is far different from the way it is in the Iliad, and the minor warriors who die in the poem are the subject of very little of it.54

3. Similes

As readers and scholars have long observed, Quintus’ poem is extraordinarily full of similes. In fact, the Posthomerica actually surpasses the Iliad both in terms of the relative frequency of its similes55 and their sheer number.56 Like Homer, Quintus often uses similes to describe the individuals who die in the battles within his epic, and many

53 Il. 2.704, 13.693. 54 Mueller (2011, 525) discusses “how important the minor warriors are to the management of the narrator’s sympathy, which is a crucial feature of the economy of the Iliad.” 55 According to the figures in James 2004, xxv, Quintus has on average 1 simile per 39.5 lines, as compared to 1 per 76.2 in the Iliad. A slightly different figure is given in Niemeyer 1884, 2:17. For an interesting interpretation of the significance of this abundance of similes, see Tomasso 2010, 97. 56 Maciver (2012a, 126) counts 226 “long similes” (e.g. ones including a conjugated verb) in Quintus, compared to 197 in the (much longer) Iliad. The latter figure is derived from Lee 1964, 3-4.

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of the ones so used are clearly based on specific Homeric death similes. But, as with the biographies, I will argue that this formal similarity belies a deeper dissimilarity in the two poets’ perspective on death.

The most notable difference between the two, I suggest, is that Quintus uses markedly different kinds of similes in describing the deaths of his major and minor characters. While many of the Iliad’s most memorable similes are attached to unknown or relatively unimportant characters (e.g. Gorgythion and Simoeisios), in the

Posthomerica it is only the more prominent warriors that receive such treatment, while the minor warriors receive similes of a different nature.57

Let us consider first, then, those similes that Quintus attaches to minor characters.

At two points, he uses similes to describe warriors who are shot with arrows while standing on the walls of Troy, and then proceed to fall down from them:

κάππεσε δ’ αἰγυπιῷ ἐναλίγκιος ὅν τ’ ἀπὸ πέτρης ἰῷ ἐυγλώχινι βαλὼν αἰζηὸς ὀλέσσῃ. (8.405-06)

He fell just like a vulture which a strong man kills, knocking it down from its rock with a keen-barbed arrow.

ὃ δ’ ἐ<κ> πύργοιο κατήριπεν, εὖτ’ ἀπὸ πέτρης ἄγριον αἶγα βάλῃσιν ἀνὴρ στονόεντι βελέμνῳ. (11.483-84)

He tumbled from the tower, as a wild goat from a rock, Which a man knocks down with a cruel shaft.

In both of these cases, the difference between the tenor and vehicle of the simile is very slim. The slain warrior is changed to an animal, but everything else is the same: the arrow, the archer, and the fall from a high and rocky position are common to both. Note also that in both similes the man doing the killing remains sharply in focus, and is left in the

57 See appendix 3.3 for a complete list of the death similes in Quintus, with those applied to major warriors specially marked.

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nominative. Comparable is the simile attached to two Amazons slain in the first battle of the epic:

Ἀλκιβίης δ’ ἄρα Τυδείδης καὶ Δηριμαχείης ἄμφω κρᾶτ’ ἀπέκοψε σὺν αὐχέσιν ἄχρις ἐπ’ ὤμοις ἄορι λευγαλέῳ· ταὶ δ’ ἠύτε πόρτιες ἄμφω κάππεσον, ἅς τ’ αἰζηὸς ἄφαρ ψυχῆς ἀπαμέρσῃ κόψας αὐχενίους στιβαρῷ βουπλῆγι τένοντας. (1.260-64)

From Alkibie and Derimacheia the son of Tydeus Cut the two heads with their necks clean off at the shoulders With his terrible sword. They fell like a pair of heifers Which a strong man suddenly robs of life Cleaving the tendons of their necks with a stout axe.

In the Iliad, as we saw, similes likening the dying to oxen were fairly common. But the correspondences between tenor and vehicle in that epic are never so strongly developed as they are in this case, where two women struck on the neck by a man are compared to two female cows also struck on the neck by a man. In each of these cases, the poet’s primary concern in the simile seems to be to illustrate as precisely as possible58 the physical circumstances surrounding the given death, whether a fall from a great height or the severing of a head, and in each case the type of wound received in the narrative is maintained in the simile. In another simile, two warriors who are slain while attempting to strip the armor from a corpse are likened to wasps killed in a vineyard while trying to eat the grapes (10.114-16).59 Here the correspondences are naturally much more hazy (e.g.

58 One might well criticize these similes for this very closeness, which leave little to the reader’s imagination (see Fränkel’s quotation on page 124 above). Though many of Quintus’ similes offer more complex levels of representation, some do suffer from this defect, as observed by Paschal (1904, 39); even Maciver (2012a, 175) tentatively admits this, noting Quintus’ generally “more mannered concern for structure and parallelism between simile and narrative” and suggesting that he “arguably goes too far in some respects.” He links this tendency with the broader literary concerns of the era, as witnessed by the occasional criticisms of Homeric similes in the scholia (a similar argument is also sometimes made for Apollonius, on which see page 123 above). 59 This simile is one of several insect similes used in Quintus; all of these are related to comparable similes from the Iliad. On this, see section 4 below.

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no weapon is specified), and it is the dramatic situation rather than the specific details of the killing that is evoked.

What is striking in these examples is not so much how the similes function, but how they do not function. Homeric similes, as we saw in chapter 1, can indeed illustrate the physical aspects of death (e.g. the fishing simile at 16.406-08), but they are not limited to this function;60 they also frequently show the significance of the death in question, making it seem beautiful or horrible, tragic or strange. But the Quintean similes considered thus far do not seem to do anything of the sort. Furthermore, the objects to which they compare the dead are neither beautiful nor strong; no Iliadic warrior is compared in death to a vulture, a goat, or an insect.61 The range of objects described, and the highly artificial correspondences developed between simile and narrative, suggest a kind of emotional detachment on the poet’s part. The power of the killer and the ease with which he kills is brought out by the similes, but the victim is not regarded with any tenderness. This becomes clearer when we consider the comment that the narrator makes right after the simile comparing the two Amazons to heifers:

ὣς αἳ Τυδείδαο πέσον παλάμῃσι δαμεῖσαι Τρώων ἂμ πεδίον σφετέρων ἀπὸ νόσφι καρήνων. (1.265-66)

So these two fell, killed by the hands of Tydeus’ son, Out on the plain of Troy far away from their heads.

60 Despite e.g. Bowra’s claims to the contrary, on which see chapter 1, note 110. 61 Though the activity or number of warriors is sometimes evoked by means of insect similes, most notably in this context at 16.641-43, where men battling over Sarpedon’s corpse are likened to flies surrounding buckets of milk. A simile in Homer that does compare a dying warrior to something lowly is the worm simile given to Harpalion (see page 67 above for discussion).

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While such grimly ironic sentiments are not unknown in Homer,62 the inclusion of this one here, after this particular simile, seems to point to the poet’s distance from the narrated events. He is concerned to create a precise picture of the death, but he treats the event itself with “macabre humor” rather than pathos.63

There remains to be considered, though, another simile that would seem to tell against my argument. This one compares a minor warrior to a falling tree, which is a simile type that, as we saw in the last two chapters, is often associated with sympathy and heroization:

Ἰδομενεὺς δὲ Βρέμουσαν ἐνήρατο δούρατι μακρῷ δεξιτερὸν παρὰ μαζόν, ἄφαρ δέ οἱ ἦτορ ἔλυσεν. Ἣ δ’ ἔπεσεν μελίῃ ἐναλίγκιος, ἥν τ’ ἐν ὄρεσσι δουροτόμοι τέμνουσιν ὑπείροχον, ἣ δ’ ἀλεγεινὸν ῥοῖζον ὁμῶς καὶ δοῦπον ἐρειπομένη προΐησιν· ὣς ἣ ἀνοιμώξασα πέσεν. (1.247-52)

Idomeneus struck down Bremousa with his long spear, Close to the right breast, and stilled her heart at once. She fell like an ash tree in the mountains, which Woodsmen cut because of its outstanding height; With a screech of pain and a thud it crashes down, So she moaned aloud as she fell.

This simile closely recalls the one given to an Iliadic minor warrior named Imbrios, which I quote here for the sake of comparison:

τόν ῥ’ υἱὸς Τελαμῶνος ὑπ’ οὔατος ἔγχεϊ μακρῷ νύξ’, ἐκ δ’ ἔσπασεν ἔγχος· ὃ δ’ αὖτ’ ἔπεσεν μελίη ὣς ἥ τ’ ὄρεος κορυφῇ ἕκαθεν περιφαινομένοιο χαλκῷ ταμνομένη τέρενα χθονὶ φύλλα πελάσσῃ. (Il. 13.177-80)

Now the son of Telamon with the long spear stabbed him under the ear, and wrenched the spear out again, and he dropped like an ash tree

62 E.g. when corpses of fallen warriors are said to be dearer to the vultures than to their wives (γύπεσσιν πολὺ φίλτεροι ἢ ἀλόχοισιν, 11.162). This, though, might well be taken as seriously grim rather than darkly comic; such is Weil’s reading (1965, 6). 63 James 2004, 270.

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which, on the crest of a mountain glittering far about, cut down with the bronze axe scatters on the ground its delicate leafage.

Both warriors are compared in death to mountain ashes which are cut down by men. Two salient differences, however, appear. First, the Iliadic simile includes mention of the way the tree brings its tender leaves (τέρενα… φύλλα) to the ground, an image that is often taken as particularly poignant,64 while the Posthomeric one has no indication of beauty or fragility. Second, Quintus’ simile draws particular attention to the sound the falling tree makes, which he describes as both a whistling (ῥοῖζον) and a thud (δοῦπον). It is this detail, moreover, that provides the direct point of correspondence between tenor and vehicle: Bremousa is like the tree precisely in the sound she makes when she dies (ὣς ἣ

ἀνοιμώξασα πέσεν). This emphasis on the noisiness of her death is also in keeping with her name, which looks to be derived from the verb βρέμω, meaning to roar. Thus, while we cannot exclude pathos from this simile, I suggest that its primary purpose, like that of the other ones discussed above, is to illustrate exactly how she dies, even perhaps to pun on her name at the moment of her death.

My analysis of this simile’s function, I think, can be confirmed by comparison with another tree simile, which the poet uses to describe the death of Penthesileia, a much more prominent character:

Εὖτ’ ἐλάτη κλασθεῖσα βίῃ κρυεροῦ Βορέαο, ἥν τέ που αἰπυτάτην ἀνά τ’ ἄγκεα μακρὰ καὶ ὕλην, οἷ αὐτῇ μέγ’ ἄγαλμα, τρέφει παρὰ πίδακι γαῖα· τοίη Πενθεσίλεια κατ’ ὠκέος ἤριπεν ἵππου, θηητή περ ἐοῦσα· κατεκλάσθη δέ οἱ ἀλκή. (1.625-29)

Like a fir tree snapped by the north wind’s icy blast, Which as the tallest in a deep and wooded glen Was the pride of the earth that nourished it beside a spring;

64 Janko (1994, 69) finds in this scenes “explicit pathos… intimated by the ‘tender’ foliage.”

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Such was Penthesileia fallen from her horse, Lovely to behold; but her strength had snapped.

For the queen of the Amazons, we see, the poet offers a much more developed and heroic simile. The beauty of the tree is clearly emphasized here: it is an ἄγαλμα, almost a work of art, and situated not on a mountain, but in a pastoral setting, beside a spring. The poet also explicitly shows what the simile is supposed to convey with the phrase θηητή περ

ἐοῦσα: Penthesileia is lovely in death, and worthy to be looked at. This will become apparent to the Achaeans only later, when Achilles removes her helmet and her beauty suddenly appears (659-60), but this simile provides an early hint of her striking effect.

There is certainly pathos here, especially in the fact that the tree is brought down by the wind rather than by woodcutters,65 and the whole conclusion of the Penthesileia episode has aptly been described as pathetic.66 But the more important point I wish to make is that

Quintus treats major and minor warriors differently. With a character like Bremousa, the tree simile acts simply to show what the death was like (spectacular and noisy). In the case of Penthesileia, a simile of the same type is used for a very different end, to direct the reader’s attention toward her as an individual, to show what kind of character she is, to paint her, that is, as beautiful, heroic, and tragic.

Quintus likewise uses similes to reflect on the qualities of several of the epic’s other prominent characters. Eurypolos, perhaps the fiercest of the Trojan champions in the whole account, is also described as a lofty tree blown down by the wind (8.204-06), and this simile closely recalls the one given to two prominent heroes in the Iliad (Asios and Sarpedon, Il. 13.389-91=16.482-84). Machaon, an important Achaean who also appears as a healer in the Iliad, is compared to a bull killed by a lion (6.410); the short

65 See Scott 2009, 176-77 for a discussion of the significance of this detail in Homeric tree similes. 66 See Schmiel 1986, 189.

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simile offers no concrete visual details, as in the case of the one for the two Amazons discussed above, but it does connect him to Sarpedon, who receives just such a simile (Il.

16.487-89). When Achilles dies, the poet apparently deems him too great for a tree or animal simile, and thus likens him instead to a mountain, and a large one at that!

(ἀλίγκιος οὔρεϊ μακρῷ, 3.177).67 Glaucus, who dies soon after, and falls right beside

Achilles’ corpse, receives very different treatment:

Ὃ δ’ ὕπτιος ἀμφ’ Ἀχιλῆα κάππεσεν, εὖτ’ ἐν ὄρεσσι περὶ στερεὴν δρύα θάμνος. (3.279-80)

Over Achilles he fell on his back Just like in the mountains beside a solid oak a bush.

The language here, as I have tried to convey in the translation, suggests that Quintus is playing with the reader’s expectations. We are told first of the mountainous setting (ἐν

ὄρεσσι) and then of a mighty tree (στερεὴν δρύα), but the actual point of comparison does not appear until the last word of the line, and it is only a lowly bush. As this image powerfully reveals, there is a clear hierarchy among the characters in the poem, and the similes reflect it neatly. Glaucus is well known from the Iliad, where he plays a crucial role in several scenes, but next to the great Achilles he seems trifling.

The epic also has two more developed death similes that demand special attention.

Both are applied to more or less major characters, and both draw strongly on Iliadic precedents in complex ways. Consider first the death of the Achaean Nireus, who is killed by Eurypolos:

ἐκ δέ οἱ αἷμ’ ἐχύθη, δεύοντο δέ οἱ κλυτὰ τεύχη, δεύετο δ’ ἀγλαὸν εἶδος ἅμ’ εὐθαλέεσσι κόμῃσι. Κεῖτο δ’ ἄρ’ ἐν κονίῃσι καὶ αἵματι καὶ κταμένοισιν, ἔρνος ὅπως ἐριθηλὲς ἐλαίης εὐκεάτοιο

67 His effectiveness in battle is also described in such geological terms, when he is compared to an earthquake knocking over buildings (2.230-34).

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ἥν τε βίη ποταμοῖο κατὰ ῥόον ἠχήεντα σύν τ’ ὄχθῃς ἐλάσῃσι βόθρον διὰ πάντα κεδάσσας ῥιζόθεν, ἣ δ’ ἄρα κεῖται ὑπ’ ἄνθεσι βεβριθυῖα. (6.375-81)

Out gushed his blood and soaked his splendid armor; Soaked too was his radiant beauty and luxuriant hair. There among the slain in the dust and blood he lay, Like the vigorous shoot of a tender olive sapling Torn by a flooding river along its roaring course With the broken bank and all the scattered trench; Uprooted it lies there heavy with its blossom.

The passage has several resonances with similes from the Iliad, especially the famous ones attached to the deaths of Gorgythion (8.306-07) and Euphorbos (17.53-58). The notice at the beginning about the soiling of Nireus’ lovely hair (εὐθαλέεσσι κόμῃσι) recalls the statement that Euphorbos’ hair, which was also wet with blood, resembled that of the Graces (κόμαι Χαρίτεσσιν ὁμοῖαι, 17.51). More strikingly similar is the simile proper: both Euphorbos and Nireus are compared to uprooted olive saplings, and Quintus’ version uses several of Homer’s exact words (notably ἔρνος… ἐριθηλὲς ἐλαίης and

βόθρον, the latter of which is found only here in both epics). The final image, of blossoms weighing down the plant, also recalls the Gorgythion simile, where the poppy was likewise weighted (βριθομένη, 8.307). In combining elements from what are often noted as two of the Iliad’s most poignant death similes, it would seem as though Quintus is eager to develop the pathos of Nireus’ death.68 We should note, however, that his application of this particular simile to this particular individual is likely motivated by more than a simple desire for emotional effect. For this Nireus was a famously beautiful individual. He appears in the Iliadic Catalogue of Ships (Il. 2.673-75), where he is ranked second in beauty after Achilles (κάλλιστος ἀνὴρ) but called weak (ἀλαπαδνὸς); later in

68 In this he was anticipated by Apollonius, as we saw in chapter 2, section 3, and there may be Apollonian influence here, as I will argue for a simile in section 5 below.

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antiquity he became a stock example of male beauty.69 Quintus, then, has selected a tender and lovely simile for a tender and lovely youth. In describing the funeral for

Nireus, which opens the following book, the narrator directly comments at some length on the combination of beauty and weakness embodied by the hero (7.7-12). So the simile may be pathetic, but it is not only pathetic; it is also carefully chosen to accord precisely with the character to whom it is applied. In the Iliad, by contrast, the plant similes for

Euphorbos and Gorgythion had no such motivation; given to more or less minor characters,70 they seem intended only for their effect, to draw attention to the lives that were destroyed in the battle for Troy.

We should also look, in concluding this discussion, at what is by far the longest and most complex of the poem’s death similes. It is given to Troilus, the son of Priam, whose death71 is described thus:

τὸν ἠιθέων ὄχ’ ἄριστον Τροίῃ ἐν ἠγαθέῃ Ἑκάβη τέκεν, οὐδ’ ἀπόνητο ἀγλαΐης· δὴ γάρ μιν ἀταρτηροῦ Ἀχιλῆος ἔγχος ὁμοῦ καὶ κάρτος ἀπήμερσαν βιότοιο. Ὡς δ’ ὁπόθ’ ἑρσήεντα καὶ εὐθαλέοντ’ ἀνὰ κῆπον ὑδρηλῆς καπέτοιο μάλ’ ἀγχόθι τηλεθάοντα ἢ στάχυν ἢ μήκωνα, πάρος καρποῖο τυχῆσαι, κέρσῃ τις δρεπάνῳ νεοθηγέι, μηδ’ ἄρ’ ἐάσῃ ἐς τέλος ἠὺ μολεῖν μηδ’ ἐς σπόρον ἄλλον ἱκέσθαι, ἀμήσας κενεόν τε καὶ ἄσπορον ἐσσομένοισι

69 E.g. at the beginning of Chariton’s novel Callirhoe, he is listed along with Achilles, Alcibiades, and Hippolytus as a mythological comparison for the novel’s handsome hero (1.1.3). 70 Though it is sometimes argued that Euphorbos is actually a stand-in for Paris, which would explain the poet’s emphasis on his physical beauty. This argument is developed in Mühlestein 1987, 78-89, and followed by Janko 1994, 414, among others. See, however, Nickel 2002 and especially Allan 2005 for two challenges to this thesis. 71 There is no indication in the text that the death of Troilus should be understood as murder, as is common in the tradition. When first mentioned by Nestor in his narrative of Achilles’ deeds (4.154-55), he is between Polydoros and Asteropaios, both killed in Achilles’ aristeia in Iliad 20-21. In the passage quoted here, he is killed by Achilles’ spear (ἔγχος, 422), suggesting a clean battlefield death. This omission of the more sordid account of Troilus’ fate can be seen as part of the way Quintus idealizes heroes in his epic, on which see Boyten 2010. Then again, neither Homer nor Virgil portrays the death of Troilus as the result of murder, and it may be that Quintus is simply following this tradition rather than the darker one better known from other sources. On these two traditions, see Sommerstein 2006, 197-202.

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μέλλονθ’ ἑρσήεντος ὑπ’ εἴαρος ἀλδαίνεσθαι· ὣς υἱὸν Πριάμοιο θεοῖς ἐναλίγκιον εἶδος Πηλείδης κατέπεφνεν, ἔτ’ ἄχνοον, εἰσέτι νύμφης νήιδα, νηπιάχοισιν ὁμῶς ἔτι κουρίζοντα· ἀλλά μιν ἐς πόλεμον φθισίμβροτον ἤγαγε Μοῖρα ἥβης ἀρχόμενον πολυγηθέος, ὁππότε φῶτες θαρσαλέοι τελέθουσιν, ὅτ’ οὐκέτι δεύεται ἦτορ. (4.419-35)

…far the best of the bachelor sons Of Hekabe in holy Troy, but from his radiant beauty He had no benefit, because the deadly strength Behind the spear of Achilles robbed him of his life. As in a garden dewy-fresh and flourishing, Growing strongly close to a the side of a water channel, A poppy or a blade of grain before it ripens Is cut by a newly sharpened scythe and isn’t allowed To come to true fulfillment in another seeding, Mown down still empty and seedless for future generations,72 When it was ready to grow with the dews of spring. Such was the son of Priam in his godlike beauty When killed by the son of Peleus, beardless still and still Without a bride, no more than a child in his youthfulness. He had been lured into destructive war by Fate Just at the start of the joys of youth, the time when men Are full of boldness and they have no lack of heart.

Here we see the basic components of the Iliad’s Gorgythion simile—a garden (κῆπον), dew (ἑρσήεντα), and a poppy (μήκωνα). But Quintus makes it his own, expanding it significantly and adapting it for a different context. For one, he makes it fit with the circumstances of violent death more closely: in Homer’s simile, the poppy was only temporarily bent over by the rain, but in Quintus’, it is permanently destroyed, by a scythe. This can be understood as an improvement on the Homeric original, in the sense that it increases the correspondence between tenor and vehicle, which are both cut down by a sharp blade wielded by a man. The inclusion of this detail has also been seen as evidence of the influence of Virgil, who included a plow in the famous poppy simile he

72 James accepts the variant reading αἴθοπι χαλκῷ for ἐσσομένοισι and translates “by the gleaming bronze” (2004, 292). Reference to posterity, however, seems appropriate for a simile that focuses on the loss of seeds.

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used to describe the death of Euryalus in the Aeneid (9.435-37).73 If Quintus is thinking of the Roman poet here, though, he does not follow him very directly. For the plowman cuts down the poppy only accidentally, and it is the unfortunate byproduct of his work, while the scythe is wielded expressly for the purpose of cutting. Thus Quintus makes the subject of his image a poppy or a sheaf of grain (στάχυν); the former recalls the mood of the Homeric (and Virgilian) similes, but the latter makes for a more accurate correspondence with the narrative.

Quintus also develops this simile to make it more thematically expressive. In his version, unlike in Homer’s, the poppy/stalk is not laden with fruit (πάρος καρποῖο

τυχῆσαι). With this detail, the poet highlights the lost potential of Troilus himself, who is killed while still young, even childlike, not yet having grown a beard or known a wife

(431-32). The simile stresses the immaturity of the plant in various ways: we also hear that it cannot come to maturity (ἐς τέλος), and that it is left empty (κενεόν), despite its readiness to grow (μέλλονθ’… ἀλδαίνεσθαι). This multiplication of comments on the immaturity and unfulfilled promise of both plant and youth bespeaks a strong, even insistent, element of pathos; we are made to see Troilus’ death as tragic and wasteful.

This effect strongly resembles, and in fact magnifies, the pathos in many of the Iliad’s similes. But if the simile is in this respect hyper-Iliadic, it is also in other respects quite un-Iliadic. First, like that for Nireus, it is attached to a traditionally beautiful74 and pathetic figure, who was himself the subject of a Sophoclean tragedy.75 More importantly,

73 James 2004, 292 attributes this simile’s development to Virgil. The question of whether or not his epic was known to Quintus is vexed; for a survey of scholarship on the issue, see James 2007. More recent scholarship has supported an answer in the affirmative; see especially the book-length treatment of the subject by Ursula Gärtner (2005), which does not discuss the passage in question. 74 See Sommerstein 2006, 198n6 for references to Troilus’ beauty in post-Homeric literature. 75 See Sommerstein 2006, 196-216 for a discussion of the testimonia on this play and a reconstruction of the plot.

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this simile differs from Homer’s in its context. For the account of Troilus’ death is not given on the battlefield, when he actually dies, but much later, during the funeral games for Achilles, where it is inspired by the presence of Troilus’ armor, which is given as a prize for the archery contest. This puts the simile at a substantial remove from death as a physical event, though it makes it more interesting from a literary and ethical standpoint: the man who killed Troilus, the promising youth, has himself been killed, all too young, and he too has been led to his death by an unavoidable fate. Indeed, the last three lines of the passage quoted above could apply just as well to Achilles as to Troilus. Quintus, then, has taken a short and poignant simile from Homer, and put it to work, expanding it to make it more precise and descriptive, and using it to evoke reflections on the nature of heroism, mortality, and destiny.

As this last example shows, Quintus’ similes can be extremely sophisticated, enlivened by intertextual dialogues and suggesting complex relationships with the narratives in which they are found.76 But they are not generally used, like many of the ones in the Iliad, to draw attention to the individuals who die in the poem, to arouse interest in their plight, or to comment on the nature of death itself. As we saw with the biographies, Quintus takes the Homeric form but makes it do very different things, and the way the deaths in the poem come across is very different as a result.

76 Several recent studies of Quintus’ similes have focused on just such complex and multi-signficant examples. See esp. Maciver 2012a, ch. 4 and Maciver 2012b. See also Spinoula’s extensive treatment (2010) of the thematic significance of the poem’s animal similes (some elements of which I will disagree with in section 4) and Kneebone’s (2007) analysis of some fishing similes. Earlier critics were far less favorable in their judgments of Quintus’ similes (see e.g. Glover 1901, 91; Pascal 1904, 38; and Combellack 1968, 18), though some saw them more favorably, “as roses among the Posthomerica’s thorns” (Kneebone 2007, 283n2, citing Müller and Donaldson 1858, 3:366 and Paley 1876, 9).

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4. Wounds

I now turn to consider the other side of the death scenes, the way in which the poet describes how individuals are physically destroyed in the course of battle. Here, perhaps, we might expect to find a more lively engagement on Quintus’ part. For the

Posthomerica is often noted for its extremely violent nature. Edith Hall, for instance, comments on “the creative variety marking the descriptions of bloodshed in Quintus’ spectacular, sophisticated and gruesome narrative,” and compares the epic’s aestheticized violence to that of a Quentin Tarantino film.77 This comparison, I think, is quite apt, but beyond such impressions, scholarship has paid relatively little attention to the

Posthomerica’s violence, or indeed, even to its battles in general.78 All of the major modern commentaries on the epic have focused on books or parts of books in which no battles take place.79 As such, there has been little analysis of the specific qualities of the poem that make it seem so gruesome. Thus, I hope that my analysis in this and the following sections can contribute to a greater understanding not only of Quintus’ reading of Homeric death but also of the peculiar quality of Posthomeric violence.

The first thing we should note is that despite the apparently more violent nature of his epic, Quintus is only slightly more likely than Homer to offer detailed descriptions of individual deaths. In chapter 1, I analyzed all the battlefield deaths in the Iliad according to the presence and extent of the wound descriptions contained in them, dividing them

77 Hall 2005, 4. 78 Exceptions are Jahn 2009, which analyzes the narrative sequences of the battles, especially the frequency of fight and flight within them, and Ozbek 2007, which I discuss in note 96 below. 79 Bär’s 2009 commentary on book 1 considers only lines 1-219, leaving off immediately before the first battle begins. Campbell 1981 considers book 12, which narrates the construction of the horse. James and Lee 2000 discuss book 5, the contest between Ajax and Odysseus. Commentaries on books 6 and 9 and a study of book 10, by Maria Deliyannis, Leyla Ozbek, and Georgios Tsomis, respectively, are listed as “in progress” on the Hellenistic Bibliography entry for Quintus (last updated July 2012), but to my knowledge none of these has been published to date. A recent commentary on book 2 (Ferreccio 2014) came to my attention too late to be consulted.

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into four categories: those where no mention was made of any wound, those that mentioned only the location on the individual’s body where the wound was received, those that described the progress of the weapon through the body (simple), and those that provided further details about the wound or its effects (graphic). I have analyzed Quintus’ death scenes in the same way, and present my findings in the following table alongside the figures from the earlier study. I have included also in each category a percentage showing the proportion of deaths of each type to the total number of deaths in each epic:

Iliad Posthomerica Total deaths: 241 166 Deaths with no mention of wound: 122 (50.6%) 106 (63.9%) Deaths with only wound location: 59 (24.5%) 20 (12.0%) Deaths with simple wound: 19 (7.9%) 3 (1.8%) Deaths with graphic wound: 41 (17.0%) 37 (22.3%)

As this chart shows, Quintus’ epic is quite close to Homer’s in terms of the detail it lavishes on wound descriptions. Quintus has slightly more deaths with no wounds, slightly fewer with minimal detail, and slightly more again with graphic detail. This last category is the most significant for our investigation, since it is this type of wound that focuses the most attention on the deaths of individuals. But the difference is fairly small, and we can say that the violent character of the Posthomerica is not primarily derived from its sheer abundance of elaborately narrated deaths.

We must turn to consider, then, whether there are qualitative differences between the more detailed wound descriptions contained in the two poems. My analysis reveals that there are in fact some differences in this regard, but that much about the nature of the wounds in the two epics is very similar. The vast majority of the details in Quintus’

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wound descriptions, in fact, are thoroughly Homeric.80 Five times the progress of a weapon through an individual’s body is noted; entrails pour out of wounds at five points; four heads are shattered by rocks; three times there are mentions of specific anatomical details (tendons and the like) that are pierced by a given weapon. There is nothing new about any of these kinds of wounds, each of which corresponds to a similar type in the

Iliad, without any notable difference in frequency or elaboration. Many of them also employ similar language or imagery. We might think, for example, of Podarkes, who is hit with the spear in the thick muscle, where the spear cuts his veins (ἐς μυῶνα παχὺν

περιμήκεϊ δουρὶ / χειρὸς δεξιτερῆς, διὰ δὲ φλέβας αἱματοέσσας / κέρσε, 1.240); his wound clearly recalls that suffered by the Iliadic Amphiklos, hit “at the base of the leg, where the muscle / of a man grows thickest, so that on the spearhead the sinew / was torn apart” (ἔνθα πάχιστος / μυὼν ἀνθρώπου πέλεται: περὶ δ’ ἔγχεος αἰχμῇ / νεῦρα διεσχίσθη,

Il. 16.314-16). We see in each a similar concern with anatomical, even surgical precision; whether or not the wounds are physiologically accurate, they create an impression of reality.81 Closer still are the head wounds in each poem that result in the expulsion of an eye, which use identical technical vocabulary.82 Quintus also adapts one of Homer’s more dramatic and memorable wound details in developing the death of his own Kleolaos:

Κλεόλαον ἐὺν θεράποντα Μέγητος εἷλε βαλὼν κατὰ μαζὸν ἀριστερόν· ἀμφὶ δέ μιν νὺξ μάρψε κακὴ καὶ θυμὸς ἀπέπτατο· τοῦ δὲ δαμέντος ἔνδον ὑπὸ στέρνοισιν ἔτι κραδίη ἀλεγεινὴ ταρφέα παλλομένη πτερόεν πελέμιξε βέλεμνον. (6.634-38)

80 My findings here correspond with the observation offered by Ozbek, the only scholar to my knowledge who addresses (albeit briefly) the specific nature of Posthomeric violence: “La grande varietà di ferite presenti nell'epica omerica, che vengono molto spesso riprese da Quinto ... rappresentano semplicemenete un calco del modello precedente” (2007, 160). 81 See on this Salazar 2000, 144-45. 82 Post. 3.155-57 and Il. 14.493-94.

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He killed Kleolaos, Meges’ worth attendant, Hitting him on the left of his chest so that deadly darkness Seized him and his spirit flew away. Though killed, Inside his breast his pain-pierced heart was still Producing rapid throbs and shaking the feathered weapon.

This brings to mind a vivid image from the Iliad, from the scene of the death of

Alkathoös:

δόρυ δ’ ἐν κραδίῃ ἐπεπήγει, ἥ ῥά οἱ ἀσπαίρουσα καὶ οὐρίαχον πελέμιξεν ἔγχεος (Il. 13.442-44)

and the spear in his heart was stuck fast but the heart was panting still and beating to shake the butt end of the spear.

The weapon is different,83 as is much of Quintus’s language (with the exception of

κραδίη and πελέμιξε), but the essential situation is unchanged. In these cases, and many more like them, there is little to differentiate the nature of Posthomeric and Iliadic wounds.

In a few ways, though, Quintus’s descriptions of wounds do diverge from Iliadic patterns. First, the wounds in the Posthomerica tend to be somewhat bloodier than those in the Iliad. Where the earlier poem contains only eight references to blood in connection with deaths, the later one has fifteen bloody deaths, meaning that they are nearly three times more frequent there.84 In a few cases, too, blood and gore are treated at more length, rather than simply being mentioned as present or flowing. Thus when one Asaios is killed by a wound in the gullet, the poet notes that his food was mingled with gore (μίγη δέ οἱ

εἴδατα λύθρῳ, 8.309), and realism of this sort is nowhere to be found in the Iliad’s

83 James (2004, 305) suggests that Quintus’ choice of an arrow instead of a spear “could be seen as a concession to realism.” On the literal possibility of the heart making a spear shaft quiver, see Saunders (2003, 140-41). 84 9.0% (15 out of 166) in Quintus and 3.3% (8 out of 241) in Homer.

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deaths.85 The deaths in Quintus thus appear generally messier, and perhaps more horrible, than those in Homer.

More noticeably different are the handful of wounds in the Posthomerica that focus particular attention on the dismemberment of individual warriors. While dismemberment does occur in the Iliad,86 the physical process is dwelt upon with much greater detail in Quintus’ poem. Consider the particularly elaborate case of one Hellos, who loses an arm in combat:

τοῦ δ’ ἀπάτερθεν ὁμῶς δόρι κάππεσε μακρῷ. ὤμου ἀπὸ βριαροῖο κεκομμένη ἄορι λυγρῷ χεὶρ ἔτι μαιμώωσα ποτὶ κλόνον ἔγχος ἀεῖραι μαψιδίως· οὐ γάρ μιν ἀνὴρ εἰς ἔργον ἐνώμα, ἀλλ’ αὕτως ἤσπαιρεν, ἅτε βλοσυροῖο δράκοντος οὐρὴ ἀποτμηθεῖσ’ ἀναπάλλεται οὐδέ οἱ ἀλκὴ ἕσπεται ἐς πόνον αἰπύν, ἵνα χραύσαντα δαΐξῃ· ὣς ἄρα δεξιτερὴ κρατερόφρονος ἀνδρὸς ἐς αἰχμὴν ὥρμαινεν πονέεσθαι· ἀτὰρ μένος οὐκέτ’ ὀπήδει. (11.70-78)

Separate from him had fallen, along with the long spear, Shorn from his brawny shoulder by a cruel sword, His arm, which was still eager to raise a spear for combat, In vain. For the man did not guide it to work, But all the same it twitched, like the tail of a dangerous snake, Which jumps after being cut off, but has no power In it for the difficult task of killing the man who struck it. Like that the stouthearted man’s right arm was keen To toil with the spear, but had no longer any strength.

The arm itself becomes the subject of the poet’s attention here; it seems to have a will of its own, and it receives its own rather striking simile. The snake’s tail corresponds very precisely to the sundered arm, not only twitching like it and vaguely resembling it in shape but also desiring to take action against its attacker. Other scattered wound descriptions in the Posthomerica likewise present body parts only reluctantly letting go of

85 Though cf. Od. 22.20-21, where Antinoös’ food is bloodied while it sits on the table. 86 E.g. at Il. 5.82: αἱματόεσσα δὲ χεὶρ πεδίῳ πέσε.

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life: one man’s legs are hacked at, and they remain in place, as we are told, unwillingly;87 a spear pierces a tongue while it is still speaking;88 and a head rolls along, still sending out its voice.89

These wounds do seem to stray both in detail and in emphasis from the sort typically found in Homer. But this does not mean that Quintus is generally more interested in wounds, or that his wounds are more gruesome than Homer’s. For we saw that in the Iliad too individuals died in a vast number of different ways, and many of them are without parallel in Quintus. We might recall, for instance, the man whose marrow spurted from his neck when his head was cut off (Il. 20.482-83), the one whose eyes popped out of his head and landed on the ground at his feet (Il. 16.741-42), or the one whose severed head hung from his neck on a flap of skin (Il. 16.339-41). Vermeule has seen in such wounds “an almost baroque magnificence,”90 and Fenik attributes them to the poet’s “free-ranging imagination.”91 Quintus’ wounds, then, elaborate as they are, are not especially innovative. Nevertheless, his particular focus on the movements of severed body parts does suggest that he has a different sort of interest in the wounds he gives to his warriors.

A final example of a particularly detailed Posthomeric wound will perhaps help to make the nature of this difference clearer. The individual killed here is an anonymous

Achaean92 who is struck with an axe on the arm while riding his horse:

87 πόδες δ’ ἀέκοντες ἔμιμνον / αὐτοῦ, ὅπῃ μιν τύψε (6.585-86). 88 γλῶσσαν ἔτ’ αὐδήεσσαν (11.28). 89 κάρη δ’ ἀπάτερθε κυλινδομένη πεφόρητο / ἱεμένου φωνῆς (11.58-59). Speaking heads are not a Quintean innovation, but can be found in the Doloneia (Il. 10.457) 90 Vermeule 1979, 96. 91 Fenik 1968, 19. 92 The only anonymous individual casualty in the whole epic, like Asios’ charioteer in the Iliad (13.394- 99).

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βίῃ δ’ ὑπόειξε σιδήρου ὀστέον οὐταμένοιο βραχίονος· ἀμφὶ δὲ νεῦρα ῥηιδίως ἤμησε· φλέβες δ’ ὑπερέβλυσαν αἷμα. Ἀμφεχύθη δ’ ἵπποιο κατ’ αὐχένος, αἶψα δ’ ἄρ’ αὐτὸς κάππεσεν ἀμφὶ νέκυσσι· λίπεν δ’ ἄρα χεῖρα κραταιὴν στερρὸν ἔτ’ ἐμπεφυυῖαν ἐυγνάμπτοιο χαλινοῦ, οἷον ὅτε ζώοντος ἔην· μέγα δ’ ἔπλετο θαῦμα, οὕνεκα δὴ ῥυτῆρος ἀπεκρέμαθ’ αἱματόεσσα, Ἄρεος ἐννεσίῃσι φόβον δηίοισι φέρουσα· φαίης κεν χατέουσαν ἔθ’ ἱππασίης πονέεσθαι· σῆμα δέ μιν φέρεν ἵππος ἀποκταμένοιο ἄνακτος. (11.190-200)

To the force of the steel The bone of the wounded arm yielded; the sinews were severed Easily and blood came spurting from the veins. Collapsing over the horse’s neck, his body fell Straight down among the dead, but he left the powerful arm With fingers firmly gripping still the pliant reins, As when it was part of the living man. It was a wonder, When it hung there, bloody, from the strap, Bringing fear to the enemies by the commands of the war god. You would say it was working out of a longing for horsemanship. The horse thus bore a memento of its murdered master.

As in the case of the first severed arm we studied, Quintus lavishes a good deal of attention on this member, its position and apparent animation. But what is interesting here is that he provides what seems a hint about how this strange circumstance should be taken: it is a marvel (θαῦμα) to behold, and it evokes a paradoxical response from the imagined onlooker (whose presence is posited with the word φαίης).93 We have seen both of these verbal markers already, in the poet’s descriptions of unusual geographical features in the biographies of the slain. The severed arm thus turns out to be very like the

93 Homer sometimes introduces a hypothetical spectator as well, and the difference is instructive. At the end of one battle sequence, he indicates the response that is appropriate for an onlooker : ἔνθά κεν οὐκέτι ἔργον ἀνὴρ ὀνόσαιτο μετελθών / …. / πολλοὶ γὰρ Τρώων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν ἤματι κείνῳ / πρηνέες ἐν κονίῃσι παρ’ ἀλλήλοισι τέταντο (“There no more could a man who was in that work make light of it… for on that day many men of the Achaians and Trojans lay sprawled in the dust face downward beside one another, 4.539- 44). In this passage the killing of war brings somber and sober reflection, a kind of awe, where in Quintus’ it brings eager curiosity.

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Niobe rock which is called a θαῦμα (1.299)94 and also invited comment from the second- person spectator (1.302). The fact that the poet uses these terms to describe what might be taken as a truly horrible wound—complete with blood, shattered bones, and shorn tendons—suggests that the wound is in his mind a curiosity rather than a shocking and unsettling display of violence.95 It is something, that is, to be seen and appreciated for its creativity and particularity, just like the engravings on Quintus’ version of Achilles’ shield, which he calls a θαῦμα three times (5.40, 7.200, 7.204). Like the shield, the wound may bring fear to the other combatants, but it is primarily of interest to the poet— and the reader—as a work of art.96

5. The Aesthetics of Slaughter

It is not only individual warriors who die in the Posthomerica, though. In addition to the 166 who are killed in the course of the epic’s battles, many masses of unnamed and unnumbered men are also cut down. In this, as we shall see, Quintus is not without

Homeric precedent, but he describes such generalized killing extremely frequently, such that the death of these many indefinite masses seems to overshadow that of any individuals. This emphasis on the sheer scale of death in the epic, I think, corresponds

94 Two other mythological biographies also use the word θαῦμα: 6.482, 11.94. 95 Seemingly fascinated narration of spectacular wounds was also something we saw in the Iliad (see above, pages 61-63), but I think this is something Quintus takes much further, both in development and in the fact that he explicitly frames the wounds as spectacles. 96 Ozbek (2007, 159-64) has analyzed several of the wound descriptions under consideration here, and she connects them specifically to Quintus’ interest in contemporary medicine, seeing his description of the residual movements of body parts as evidence of his desire to create a kind of learned verisimilitude. This reading is concordant with my own, in that both highlight the poet’s desire to showcase his own erudition in the death scenes.

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with what we have observed thus far: the poet’s interest in massed slaughter fits with his his relative lack of interest in developing the accounts of individual deaths.

To assess the significance of this phenomenon in Quintus’ epic, we must first see how it compares with what happens in the Iliad. By my count, there are thirty-five references to collective killing in the Iliad.97 I have analyzed and divided these into two general categories. In the majority of them, the poet uses such references as indications that a broader battle is going on. So, for instance, he says at four different points that a host fell (πῖπτε δὲ λαός) in the course of a period of fighting; at other points we are told that men in the battle were killing each other (e.g. ἀλλήλους ἐνάριζον, 11.337). Such notices, as scholars of Homeric warfare have suggested, offer a sort of “panoramic overview,”98 reminding the audience at various points that a vast war is going on, despite the narrator’s restricted emphasis for much of the narrative on highly individualized encounters. Occasionally, these notices of death and killing refer to a particular event taking place at a particular part of the battlefield—for example when a crowd of men kill each other while fighting around the image of Aeneas (4.451-52) or the corpse of

Patroclus (17.361-62)—but for the most part they suggest the broad background against which the more specific events of the story are taking place. I call these collective events of death and killing “general.” In a small subset of these descriptions, it is only warriors on one side that are killed, as when we are told that many were killed by the Trojans

(πολλοὶ δὲ δάμεν Τρώων ὑπὸ χερσίν, 8.344). Such notices also suggest broader battle, but characterize it more specifically as being dominated by one side. In the second category of collective killings, a specific individual is said to kill some indefinite number of enemy

97 See appendix 1.5 98 Raaflaub 2008, 475, drawing on the work of Van Wees and Latacz.

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warriors. Sometimes he pursues a fleeing army and keeps on killing the last man in the mass (e.g. Agamemnon at 11.154); sometimes he slays a specific number of individuals

(e.g. Patroclus’ slaughter of twenty-seven Trojans at 16.785); sometimes it is more generally “men” or “men and horses” that are killed (e.g. at 11.497); in one case, Hector kills a whole crowd (πληθύν, 11.305). The notices of this second category, I think, have a markedly different effect from those of the first; rather than describing the battle generally, they intensify it, showing that a greater number of casualties are inflicted by a specific individual at some crucial juncture. They make the scenes in which they take place seem more deadly and more intense.

Both types of collective killing are present in the Posthomerica to a much greater extent than in the Iliad. In the table below, I have listed the number of times that these types of killing occur in both epics. I have also included for each type the ratio of such collective deaths to individual deaths, to show how frequently they occur in proportion to the more regular type:

Iliad Posthomerica Total incidents: 34 (1:7.1) 80 (1:2.1) General: 20 (1:11.5) 27 (1:6.1) (Side-specific): 3 (1:80.3) 10 (1:16.6) Individual: 13 (1:18.5) 53 (1:3.1)

As these figures show, Quintus is much more likely than Homer to describe killing en masse, including such descriptions more than three times as often as his predecessor.

More striking still is his preference for individual acts of mass slaughter, which I have argued serve to intensify the deadliness of the battle narrative; the Posthomerica has such incidents about six times more often than the Iliad.

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In Quintus’ poem, large groups of men are continually being killed by solitary warriors; at some points, indeed, these generalized killings dominate the battle narrative, and individual deaths hardly occur at all.99 In the lengthy battle sequence in book 1, most of which is dominated by Penthesileia’s aristeia, the first ninety-two lines contain twenty- three individual deaths, a fairly high concentration. But after this listing, the poet turns exclusively to more general descriptions of killing; the rest of the sequence, lasting 186 lines, contains no individual deaths whatsoever, but seven notices of multiple killings. As

Penthesileia goes on the rampage, all her particular victims fade from view, and her actions take on much grander dimensions; she becomes a sort of killing machine.100

Moreover, in many of the epic’s notices of collective slaughter, it is not simply a indefinite number of enemies killed, as is almost always the case in the Iliad, but some enormous mass of them: we are told again and again of hordes, often described as countless (μυρία φῦλα),101 great crowds (πουλὺν ὅμιλον),102 masses (πολὺν... λαόν),103 or other similarly large bodies.104 In eleven other cases, the number killed is more generally described as many (πολλοὺς).105

The poet insists on these vast quantities, in a way unparalleled in the Iliad,106 and this creates the impression that the named casualties represent only a tiny fraction of the

99 In two books, collective killings actually outnumber individual ones; in book 7 the ratio is 7:3, in book 9 it is 8:4. 100 Along these lines, note that Quintus often highlights the fact that his heroes do not grow weary while engaged in killing (κάματος… οὔ τι μενεπτολέμου Ἀχιλῆος / ἄμπεχεν υἱέα δῖον, 7.581-84); this is in sharp contrast to the Iliad, where even Achilles is worn out by his efforts in the Scamander (ὃ δ’ ἐπεὶ κάμε χεῖρας ἐναίρων…, 21.26). 101 11.243, 7.618. ἀάσπετα φῦλ’, 6.618; φῦλα, 7.100, 7.577. 102 2.370, 6.510, 6.598, 8.129, 9.202, 10.169. 103 1.336, 3.21; λαὸς ἀάσπετος, 8.232; λαοὺς, 1.476, 10.206. 104 μυρίοι, 9.161; πουλὺς στρατὸς, 1.492, 9.184; ἀπειρέσιον στρατὸν, 1.528; στρατὸν, 7.112. 105 1.312, 2.229, 3.162, 3.269, 3.306, 3.352, 7.105, 8.109, 9.158, 10.99, 11.242. 106 The general killing in the Iliad is in most cases indefinite in extent: six times “many” are cited, and aside from the formula πῖπτε δὲ λαός, the only time a specifically large mass is said to be killed is when

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total number of men killed in the epic’s battles. We might see this in itself as part of the

Quintean aesthetic, an aesthetic of magnitude, which stresses not that specific people are dying, but that many people are.

The distinctiveness of Quintus’ presentation of slaughter becomes more noticeable when we pay attention to the similes he uses to describe it, which are found in twenty-six of his eighty mentions of slaughter. Consider this aestheticizing simile which describes a killing spree by Penthesileia:

μινυνθάδιοι δὲ πέλοντο πάντες ὅσους ἐκίχανεν ἀνὰ κρυερὸν στόμα χάρμης. Ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἐπιβρίσασα μέγα στονόεσσα θύελλα ἄλλα μὲν ἐκ ῥιζῶν χαμάδις βάλε δένδρεα μακρὰ ἄνθεσι τηλεθόωντα, τὰ δ’ ἐκ πρέμνοιο κέδασσεν. (1.486-90)

Short-lived were all those caught By Penthesileia on that frightful battlefront. As a howling gale bears down with its mighty force, Uprooting and throwing to the ground some lofty trees With all their blossom, snapping the trunks of others.

The simile type is familiar from Homer, where violent battles are sometimes compared to storms that affect trees (e.g. 16.765-69). But Quintus’ version reads like a magnification of the Homeric tree simile typically applied to individual victims of battle; instead of a single, vulnerable sapling blown over by a storm, we have an indefinite mass of trees all uprooted or snapped at once. Yet even in the midst of this raging storm, Quintus draws attention to the beauty of the trees, mentioning their blooms (ἄνθεσι τηλεθόωντα). In another slaughter simile, Penthesileia is compared to a cow that has made its way into a dewy garden (ἑρσήεντος ἔσω κήποιο, 1.396), where it tramples all the blooming young plants (φυτὰ πάντα νέον μάλα τηλεθόωντα,1.399). Though references to the beauty and

Hector kills the πληθύν (11.305). There is no reference to anything like thousands (μυρίοι) being killed at any point, let alone by a specific individual.

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tenderness of the fallen, as we saw above, are seldom found in similes for individual minor warriors, they are very much present in these descriptions of slain masses.

These two similes, and many others like them, are of the same basic type as the similes used in the Iliad to describe acts of large-scale killing, in that they liken the agent doing the killing to some destructive force: a storm, a fire, a ravening beast, or the like.

But there is another group of similes in the Posthomerica that is more peculiar, and it is these that I will focus on for the remainder of this chapter. These similes, of which there are ten, actually compare the slaughter to some productive activity. I have assembled them in the following table:

Locus Tenor Vehicle

1 2.370-76 Memnon killing a large host A hunter killing deer caught in a net (πουλὺν ὅμιλον) 2 3.372-78 A vast host (εὐρὺς ὅμιλος) of Sheaves of ripe grain cut down in a the dead field 3 7.568-75 Neoptolemus killing many A fisherman spearing fish at night men (πολέας) 4 8.128-32 A large host (πουλὺς ὅμιλος) Tall trees chopped down killed by Eurypylos 5 8.276-81 One after another (ἄλλος ἐπ’ Young men cutting down grapes ἄλλῳ) dying on both sides 6 8.330-36 Neoptolemus killing ἄλλον A boy killing flies around pail of milk ἐπ’ ἄλλῳ 7 9.160-66 Deiphobus killing countless A woodcutter felling trees for charcoal men (μυρίοι) 8 9.170-77 Deiphobus kills more men A young man spearing swordfish caught in a net 9 9.198-202 Neoptolemus kills a πουλὺς A young man knocking down olives ὅμιλος with a rod 10 11.156-58 The Trojans kill countless Grain cut down by reapers hordes (ἀπερείσια φῦλα)

In each of these comparisons, animals die or plants fall, and this provides the immediate point of correspondence with the slaughter described. This much is unsurprising. But in

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every case it is a human agent that cuts or kills, not a predatory animal or a natural force, as is normal in the Iliad. Moreover, the human is engaged in the activity in order to bring some kind of benefit upon himself, usually to produce a comestible good, such as meat, fruit, or grain. The very subject of these similes, then, seems to present something like a positive view of slaughter, or of war more generally. The heroes who go around cutting down thousands of enemies are not seen only as ravening lions and blazing fires—things perhaps admirable but also fearful and unsettling—but also as master technicians who complete their tasks with skill and efficiency.

Of course, as we saw in chapter 1, Homer also sometimes compares killing to a productive activity, especially in those similes that compare a dying warrior to a tree felled by a woodcutter. But in those cases, what is brought into focus is the individual killed, whom we are made to see as significant, an object of sympathy, admiration, or both. It is the victim whose body is beautiful, and whose death is made via simile to seem like something beneficial. The similes that Quintus applies to collective slaughter, by contrast, necessarily ignore the individual warriors killed, for they are legion. Instead, they focus attention on the act of destruction itself, or on the power of the men who are doing the killing.

This particular group of similes also provides some possible clues about the way they are to be read. In several of them, the individual performing the action in the simile is specifically said to take delight in it. Consider simile 2, which comes at the very end of the battle in book 3, when Ajax has just killed a great mass of Trojans in revenge for the death of Achilles:

κεῖτο γὰρ εὐρὺς ὅμιλος ἀπειρεσίῃ ἐπὶ γαίῃ ἄχρις ἐφ’ Ἑλλήσποντον ἀπ’ εὐρυχόροιο πόληος

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αἰζηῶν κταμένων ὁπόσους λάχε Δαίμονος Αἶσα. Ὡς δ’ ὅτε λήιον αὖον ὑπ’ ἀμητῆρσι πέσῃσι πυκνὸν ἐόν, τὰ δὲ πολλὰ κατ’ αὐτόθι δράγματα κεῖται βριθόμενα σταχύεσσι, γέγηθε δὲ θυμὸς ἐπ’ ἔργῳ ἀνέρος εἰσορόωντος, ὅ τις κλυτὸν οὖδας ἔχῃσιν. (3.372-78)

There lay a great host across the wide expanse From Troy’s broad streets right down to the Hellespont, Of strong dead men, all whom the doom of heaven took. As when a close-packed field of ripened grain Falls to the reapers; on the ground lie many sheaves Heavy with their seed, and the heart of the man looking on Rejoices in the work, the man who owns the splendid land.

Here we see a huge mass of slain young men, spread over the entire plain before Troy, and the poet supplies the image of a field with all its grain cut down in thick sheaves. The basic picture here comes from a famous simile in the Iliad, at the beginning of battle in book 11, which is in fact the only simile in that epic that compares slaughter to any kind of productive activity:

οἳ δ’, ὥς τ’ ἀμητῆρες ἐναντίοι ἀλλήλοισιν ὄγμον ἐλαύνωσιν ἀνδρὸς μάκαρος κατ’ ἄρουραν πυρῶν ἢ κριθῶν: τὰ δὲ δράγματα ταρφέα πίπτει: ὣς Τρῶες καὶ Ἀχαιοὶ ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοισι θορόντες δῄουν... (Il. 11.67-71)

And the men, like two lines of reapers who, facing each other, drive their course all down the field of wheat or of barley for a man blessed in substance, and the cut swathes drop showering, so Trojans and Achaians driving in against one another cut men down…

The agricultural situation is the same, but each simile focuses on a different point of the harvest, Homer’s on the actual reaping, Quintus’s on the result, the field covered with fallen grain. Quintus’ simile may be seen as a correction of Homer’s, which presents problems when one looks for exact correspondences: the men in the narrative are not, like those in the similes, working independently of each other toward the same goal, but at

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close quarters and against each other; the Trojans and Achaeans are then both the reapers reaping and the grain being reaped.107 In shifting his simile to make it compare only the disposition of the sheaves to the dead men, Quintus has avoided this difficulty, and made his comparison more precise, as we have seen he is keen to do in so many cases.108

More interesting, however, is the final comment in Quintus’ simile, which is without parallel in Homer’s: that the owner of the farmland rejoices to see his mown field.

Though this is a perfectly reasonable response for a farmer in such a situation, it seems hard to imagine how it might correspond to the narrative situation. Who would enjoy beholding such carnage? Combellack cites this detail, in fact, as extraneous, arguing that

“there is nothing in the narrative equivalent to the pleasure felt by the owner of the field in the simile.” It is possible that the innate interest of the simile has led Quintus to develop his simile further than necessary, in ways that are no longer strictly relevant to the narrative context, as often happens in the Iliad.109 This specific detail, in fact, closely recalls one from another famous Homeric simile where such a thing is often said to have happened. At Iliad 8.555-59, the Trojans’ many fires are compared to shining stars, and the last phrase of the simile relates that this sight makes a herdsman rejoice (γέγηθε δέ τε

φρένα ποιμήν, 559). This detail, like the Quintean one, is often seen as irrelevant to the narrative context, most notably in a well-known article by Adam Parry.110 Perhaps, then,

107 As discussed by Hainsworth (1993, 228), who says of the whole simile that “there is some confusion in thought behind the present comparison.” 108 Simile 5 is in fact much closer in spirit to the Iliadic grain simile (though it changes the scene to a vineyard) in that it also shows that the killing is equal on both sides. But there, too, he makes the point of comparison explicit and avoids the kind of logical muddle found in the Iliad: the work of the vineyard- tenders is presented specifically as a contest (τῶν δ’ ἶσον ἀέξεται εἰς ἔριν ἔργον, 8.280). 109 As Fränkel (1997, 111) says, “the image contained in the simile, once it had appeared, would fight uncompromisingly to take on a life of its own.” 110 Parry 1956, 2. See also Kirk (1989, 341), who says of this detail only that “the herdsman’s reaction is typical,” and cf. De Jong (1989, 32) who thinks the herdsman’s emotions are not irrelevant, but should be connected with the “optimistic mood” of the Trojans at this point in the narrative

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Quintus is simply losing control of his simile, or attempting to be Homeric here, allowing an unnecessary and non-corresponding detail as a sort of decoration, and in contrast to his normal tendency to make his similes fit so neatly with their contexts.

But we can find, in fact, very similar notices in other similes describing death on a large scale. Simile 3 compares Neoptolemus, who kills many (πολέας) Trojans to a man killing fish with a trident, who is delighted by his catch (γάνυται δέ οἱ ἦτορ ἐπ’ ἄγρῃ,

7.575). Similarly, when Deiphobus kills μυρίοι, he is likened to a man who cuts down trees for charcoal, and finds enjoyment in his work (ἐπιτέρπεται ἔργῳ, 9.166). The grain simile’s mention of pleasure, then, is hardly an isolated case: slaughter and pleasure seem closely connected in each of these incidents. I suggest, then, that these references to the rejoicing of characters within the similes are not accidental or ornamental. I think rather that they can be taken to reflect the mental state of the characters in the narrative, who take satisfaction in killing so many men.111 They should be taken, that is, as what De

Jong calls “assimilated similes,” in which the emotion of the character described finds its way into the simile the narrator uses to describe him.112 This interpretation finds confirmation in yet another simile, number 6, describing Neoptolemus again:

ἐπὶ δ’ ἔκτανεν ἄλλον ἐπ’ ἄλλῳ Ὡς δ’ ὅτε τις μυίῃσι περὶ γλάγος ἐρχομένῃσι χεῖρα περιρρίψῃ κοῦρος νέος, αἳ δ’ ὑπὸ πληγῇ τυτθῇ δαμνάμεναι σχεδὸν ἄγγεος ἄλλοθεν ἄλλαι θυμὸν ἀποπνείουσι, πάις δ’ ἐπιτέρπεται ἔργῳ· ὣς ἄρα φαίδιμος υἱὸς ἀμειλίκτου Ἀχιλῆος γήθεεν ἀμφὶ νέκυσσι. (8.330-36)

111 In the grain simile, no specific individual is mentioned, but I think the emotion can be linked with Ajax, who was responsible for a great many of the corpses: in the narrative since Achilles’ death, he killed nine named men and four indefinite groups of them, more than all the other characters combined. 112 De Jong 1989, 136: “The comparison or simile, thereby, acquires as a secondary function the expression of the emotions of characters.”

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He killed one man after another As through flies that swarm around a pail of milk A young boy sweeps his hand and by his feeble blow The flies are slain; and here and there around the vessel they Breathe their lives away, and the boy delights in the deed; Thus the glorious son of merciless Achilles Exulted over the corpses.

Here, the narrator makes the correspondence explicit: the pleasure of the boy in the simile is directly linked to the pleasure of the young man in the narrative, who exults as he sees the corpses pile up around him.113

In four separate similes attached to acts of slaughter, then, we are given reason to think that the slayers find their work enjoyable, that it gladdens their hearts. So what are we to make of this? Why does the poet highlight this particular emotion in these particular scenes? One answer to this question has been provided for the last of these similes, the one comparing Neoptolemus to a boy killing flies. Spinoula and Maciver have both read this simile as intended to highlight the monstrosity of war, or of

Neoptolemus’ character. Both take it as functioning like the ones in the Iliad that compare awful events to pleasant ones, and use the discrepancy between tenor and vehicle for emotional effect, offering as a parallel the Homeric simile comparing Apollo destroying the Achaean walls to a boy kicking over sandcastles (Il. 15.361-66).114

According to their reading, the contrast between the boy happily and innocently killing pesky flies and the young man delighting in the slaughter of other men, is supposed to show that Neoptolemus is “a brutal, merciless killer”115 and to offer “Quintus’ own

113 I have used Maciver’s (2012a, 173) translation of the last phrase in this simile, which is more accurate than James’ softer “Rejoiced at those he had slain.” Spinoula (2000, 104) softens it even further in her discussion; she does not offer a translation, but paraphrases saying that Neoptolemus is “as content with killing Trojans, as a young boy is content with killing the flies.” 114 Spinoula 2000, 109; Maciver 2012a, 181. Both also cite the influential article by Porter (1972) on “Violent Juxtaposition.” 115 Maciver 2012a, 174.

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picture of cruelty in war.”116 This same line of thinking might also be extended to the other similes as well; the delight of these characters in killing might be seen as shocking, an illustration of how far war can drive men from normal ways of thinking.

While this interpretation is appealing, I think it is problematic. For one, it reads too much of the Iliad’s sensibility—or rather one interpretation of it—into the

Posthomerica. But I would argue that this ethos is quite foreign to Quintus, who, as we have seen, does not generally present the death of minor warriors as tragic or wasteful.

Furthermore, as several scholars have observed, Quintus largely idealizes his characters,117 making them seem noble and sensitive rather than cruel and unfeeling.

Boyten has demonstrate that this applies in particular to Neoptolemus, who is distinguished in the epic from his father’s bellicosity and shown as restrained in battle.118

Though Neoptolemus is traditionally known for his cruelty during the sack, Boyten has observed that Quintus goes out of his way to skip over the more unsavory elements of his career there; he does not kill Astyanax, and though he does kill Priam, it is presented as an act of mercy rather than impiety.119 It thus seems unlikely that the poet would be so careful to present a positive image of Neoptolemus, and then give him a simile that casts him in a negative light. I suggest that the young hero’s pleasure in slaughter should not be taken to reflect poorly on him, or on his manner of warfare. He is shown, rather, as doing what heroes are supposed to do—and doing it happily.

Regardless of what these mentions of pleasure may suggest about heroic psychology in the Posthomerica, I think they help illuminate Quintus’ aesthetics of

116 Spinoula 2000, 109. Cf Vian (1954, 33), who calls it “une image de mauvais gout.” 117 Mansur (1940, 1) calls them “absurdly idealized owing to the omission of derogatory traits and the exaggeration of good qualities”; see also, less critically, James 2004, xxvi-xxvii, and Boyten 2010. 118 Boyten 2007, 308-09. 119 Boyten 2007, 308-09, 314-19.

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slaughter. The men who do the killing in his epic are efficient and tireless, and they are also pleasantly occupied by their work. The death of untold thousands is thus not presented as disturbing or appalling; it is joyous for the individuals doing the killing, and also, presumably, for the poet himself, who chooses the similes, and for those who will read about it. Wofford has argued that the reference to the shepherd’s delight in the watchfire simile in Iliad 8 (discussed above) should be seen as reflecting the perspective of the audience, who likewise take pleasure in the imagined spectacle of the innumerable fires,120 and I think the same applies in Quintus’ similes, except that it is corpses piling up rather than bright lights that evoke the feeling.

It is in this, perhaps, that Quintus’ divergence from the Homeric mode of representing death becomes most apparent. Consider, for the sake of comparison, the aristeia of Achilles in Iliad 20 and 21. The killing in the Homeric epic is densest in that scene, but there is no joy in Achilles’ own heart, or in the similes that describe him. His violent rampage seems rather to be presented in an unfavorable light, and it is unsettling to see him eviscerate the young Lykaon as he crouches naked and unarmed before him, begging for his life. William Scott voices a common response when he calls this climactic killing spree “successful and sweeping, but also dehumanizing and repellent.”

But Quintus’ heroes are not dehumanized by the slaughter they engage in. On the contrary, as the similes convey, they seem to come into themselves at their moments of most extreme violence. When Neoptolemus, again killing a mass of Trojans, is compared

120 Wofford 1992, 38: “The shepherd’s likeness to the audience of epic is perhaps especially striking since he is an onlooker at a kind of spectacle. The distinct settings of shepherd and warriors dramatize how very different is the audience’s point of view from that of the participants.” This would also apply in Quintus’ case, where the reader is better able to take in the scope of the slaughter than those involved in it.

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to a young man knocking olives off of tree branches, we might well imagine that he is smiling while he does it.

To get a clearer sense of the uniqueness of Quintus’ aesthetics of slaughter, let us briefly reconsider the grain simile we looked at a moment ago in light of two related similes from Apollonius’ Argonautica. In describing Jason’s conflict with the Earthborn at the end of book 3, Apollonius uses a pair of agricultural similes that seem particularly relevant here.121 The first of these compares Jason’s slaughter of the earthborn to a farmer cutting down his grain before it has ripened, out of fear that it will be seized from him in a looming war:

ὡς δ’ ὁπότ’, ἀγχούροισιν ἐγειρομένου πολέμοιο, δείσας γειομόρος μή οἱ προτάμωνται ἀρούρας, ἅρπην εὐκαμπῆ νεοθηγέα χερσὶ μεμαρπώς ὠμὸν ἐπισπεύδων κείρει στάχυν, οὐδὲ βολῇσιν μίμνει ἐς ὡραίην τερσήμεναι ἠελίοιο— ὧς ὅγε γηγενέων κεῖρεν στάχυν. (3.1386-91)

As when there is war between neighboring peoples and a farmer fears that the enemy will ravage his fields before the harvest: he snatches up his well-curved sickle which has just been sharpened and hurriedly cuts the crop before it is fully ripe, not waiting until harvest-time for it to be dried by the rays of the sun. Just so did Jason cut the crop of the earth-born.

Here, the act of reaping is actually, and uniquely, destructive, as the farmer kills his own crop before it comes to maturity. This simile has been read, I think rightly, as a response to the Iliadic grain simile discussed above. As Bernd Effe has argued, Apollonius reformulates that simile to highlight the discrepancy inherent in it: farming is supposed to be constructive, giving sustenance and life, while slaughter is of course just the opposite.

Apollonius, then, is correcting Homer, revealing that battle really isn’t like harvesting

121 Not discussed in Vian 2001.

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grain.122 Another simile that comes soon afterwards also compares the dying Earthborn to plants, specifically to young saplings. We have already examined this simile at some length in chapter 2, and need only note here that it concludes by mentioning the emotional response that the destruction of these sapling evokes in the farmer: “despair and bitter grief” (κατηφείη τε καὶ οὐλοὸν ἄλγος, 3.1402). Here again, Apollonius’ simile seems to point toward the painful and destructive side of war, highlighting the sorrow it brings to the victims’ families.

Quintus’ grain simile, I think, can be read as a response to these Apollonian similes. Where the crops in the Argonautica are marked as still unripe (ὠμὸν), Quintus’ are specifically called dry (αὖον), a detail not found in the Iliad. Apollonius’ harvest is futile and destructive, but Quintus’ is rich and rewarding, and his plants are said to be weighed down with grain (βριθόμενα σταχύεσσι, 3.377). More importantly, the emotional character of Quintus’ simile contradicts that of Apollonius’: his farmer is joyful rather than sad. I suggest, then, that Quintus is re-reading the Homeric simile, but specifically differentiating his response to it from Apollonius’. Apollonius’ similes have been seen as “problematizing war,”123 but it seems as though Quintus is de- problematizing it. For him, a plain littered with corpses is compared to something productive and gladsome rather than bitter and wasteful. It is a grand thing, a spectacle on a scale befitting his epic. As his modifications here suggest, and as the similes on the whole make clear, Quintus finds little troubling in the narrative of countless deaths. I think, on the contrary, that he enjoys them, and expects his readers to do the same.

122 Effe 2001, 161. 123 Effe 2001, 160. I argued in chapter 2 that this interpretation is perhaps too simple, that Apollonius is really problematizing poetry about war. In any case, he is infusing traditional battle similes with a darker tone, and this is what I think Quintus is resisting.

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Throughout this exploration, we have seen that what makes Quintus’ epic seem so brutal, so Tarantino-esque, is not so much the developed and graphic violence of the epic’s individual killings, but the way in which its victims are effectively made anonymous. By and large, they are not people whose death evokes strong responses, but bodies to be cut down, preferably in great number, for the distinction of the killers and the pleasure of the reader. It is this that separates Quintus’ epic very far from both the

Iliad and the Argonautica, in which the death of even minor warriors is a cause for intense ethical and emotional reflection.

In closing, I would like to look briefly at a final slaughter simile, one which may provide some context for Quintus’ violent aesthetic. In the passage preceding the simile,

Menelaus and Agamemnon have been isolated from their companions and surrounded by a mob of Trojans:

Τοὶ δ’ ἐν μέσσοισιν ἐόντες στρωφῶντ’, εὖτε σύες μέσῳ ἕρκεϊ ἠὲ λέοντες ἤματι τῷ ὅτ’ ἄνακτες ἀολλίσσωσ’ ἀνθρώπους, ἀργαλέως δ’ εἰλῶσι κακὸν τεύχοντες ὄλεθρον θηρσὶν ὑπὸ κρατεροῖς, οἳ δ’ ἕρκεος ἐντὸς ἐόντες δμῶας δαρδάπτουσιν, ὅ τίς σφισιν ἐγγὺς ἵκηται· ὣς οἵ γ’ ἐν μέσσοισιν ἐπεσσυμένους ἐδάιζον. (6.531-37)

Those two were caught in the middle, Turning this way and that like boars or lions in an enclosure, On a day when rulers gather people together And cruelly shut them up, engineering a bad death By savage beasts, which, penned up together Tear apart any slave who comes close to them. Enclosed like that they dealt death to their assailants.

In this description of what seems to be an arena spectacle where criminals are executed by means of beasts, we have one of the few cases of obvious anachronism in the

Posthomerica, and scholars have sometimes used this in an attempt to fix the date of the

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epic’s composition, though without much success.124 But regardless of precise chronology, the simile does offer some grounds for situating the aesthetics of slaughter in the poem. The two Greek leaders, in slaying untold numbers of Trojans, are likened to wild beasts that slay criminals as part of a display organized for the amusement of the public and for the expediency of the state—a situation, that is, where brutal violence is assigned a certain amount of cultural value. There are no grounds for conjecture about whether Quintus himself witnessed such spectacles, or what he may have thought of them if he did. But he inhabited a milieu in which the slaughter of human beings was, or had recently been,125 an institutionalized form of entertainment, and the aesthetics of violence in his own poem seem to reflect the values of this milieu.

124 Tomasso 2010, 127-39 discusses the simile’s reception in scholarship, and offers a very thorough discussion of the historical, cultural, and intertextual dynamics of this scene. It is from his study also that I take the translation “engineering” for τεύχοντες. 125 When such displays might have ended is hard to pin down, Theodosius’ decree notwithstanding. See Tomasso 2010, 128, with notes 113 and 114, for discussion and bibliography.

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Chapter 4. Bloodthirsty Scholarship: Responses to Death in the Iliad Scholia

In the past two chapters, my analysis of ancient readings of the Iliad’s deaths has depended upon careful intertextual and comparative study. In this chapter, though, I turn to a much more direct source of evidence of such a reading, in which ancient readers offer their reactions to the deaths expressly: the scholia preserved in the margins of

Byzantine manuscripts of the Iliad. I consider in particular the category of scholia generally called “exegetical,” which derive from manuscripts belonging to the families b and T. The scholia attached to these manuscripts contain elements from various sources, some of which date back to Alexandrian scholarship,1 but the bulk of their material probably derives from one or more late antique commentaries.2 The scholia are particularly valuable for a study like this one because their marginal nature ensures that they include discussion of every part of the Iliad, including the relatively minor death scenes of unknown warriors, which are generally overlooked in other works of ancient criticism.

As we shall see, the scholiasts’ comments on the death scenes anticipate many of the interpretations voiced by more contemporary readers, as discussed in chapter 1. They also reflect some of the same concerns and responses that we saw operative in the epics of Apollonius and Quintus. But what I will attempt to highlight in this chapter is the uniqueness of the scholiasts’ reaction to the deaths of the Iliad. Martin Schmidt,

1 See Richardson 1980, 265 and Erbse 1960, 171-73; Snipes (1988, 200) seems to me to go to far in holding that the scholia are “basically Alexandrian in origin.” On the formation of bodies of scholia, see Montana 2011, which offers an extensive bibliography on the subject. On the difficulty of dating scholia precisely, see Nünlist 2009, 17-18. On Roman references in the scholia, see Ascheri 2011, 73-80. 2 Schmidt 2011, 153-156 dates the core of the scholia to the third or fourth century CE; Van der Valk (1964, 1:479) speculates that they may be from the second or third century; Dickey (2007, 19-20) calls them generally “late antique” in origin.

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following a neglected observation of Wilamowitz’, has argued that a large proportion of the scholia share a “distinctive voice.”3 He identifies a particular set of concerns that he finds cropping up again and again in them, and posits a single commentary or pair of commentaries as a likely source. My study supports this observation, and I trace in the scholiasts’ responses to the Iliad’s death scenes a consistent and complex dynamic, which

I take as reflecting the perspective and preoccupations of a specific reading community.4

What is characteristic about this community’s reading of death, I find, is its foregrounding of questions of cultural identity. While some scholia do, like many of the readings we have encountered thus far, touch on emotional and ethical concerns in their discussions of death, these concerns are generally connected to, and often overshadowed by, a lively discourse about the values and characteristics of Greek and barbarian.

In analyzing the scholia, I will diverge from my method in the previous chapters.

Rather than dividing my study by technique, and discussing how the scholiasts reacted to biographies, similes, and wounds in turn, I will look at several different modes of response that I detect in their comments. After some introductory observations in section

1, I consider in section 2 the emotional elements in their comments, seeking to contextualize their references to pathos within their larger project. In section 3, I look at what I term their intellectual readings, the ways they use death to make moral observations or reflect on questions of fate and justice. The distinction between these two modes, however, is far from cut and dried, and in section 4 I examine a number of

3 Schmidt 2011, 120-21. 4 Accordingly, I will often speak in the discussions that follow of “the scholiast” for the sake of convenience, though I do not necessarily assume a single individual. Even scholars who identify three commentaries as the source of the bT scholia tend to treat them as functionally unified. Van der Valk notes some slight differences in phrasing in notes supposed to be from separate sources, but generally treats their views as distinct, even from such generally similar authors as Ps-Plutarch (see e.g. 1:471-72 on the religious attitudes of the sources of bT).

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comments which suggest that the scholiasts’ intellectualizing hides a deeper emotional reaction to the deaths, a kind of satisfaction in them. In each of these sections, the philhellenism of the scholiasts is a prominent theme, and I argue that it deeply informs the way they respond to death. By way of conclusion, I discuss this phenomenon in an attempt to situate it within the context of the exegetical tradition and the overall reception of the Iliad’s deaths.

1. The Involved Reader

Before turning to the scholiasts’ comments on the individual deaths, I would like to provide some context by discussing two general trends in the scholiasts’ exegesis: their attentiveness to the responses of the poem’s readers, and their prejudice in favor of the

Achaeans, or as they put it, the Greeks (οἱ Ἕλληνες). Both these aspects of the scholia have been explored in previous scholarship,5 but they will prove vital for this investigation, so I will discuss them briefly here. I will also argue that these two tendencies are closely connected, i.e. that the scholiasts are so sensitive to readers’ emotional responses as a consequence, to a large extent, of their philhellenism.

First, as Schmidt observes, one distinctive feature of the scholiasts’ commentary is their focus “on the relation between poet and hearer.”6 In their discussions, the scholiasts are not simply relating alternate myths, debating punctuation and prosody, and defining unfamiliar words; rather, a major part of their project is “to explain to the reader

5 On philhellenism, see most recently Schmidt 2011, 123-137, with further bibliography on 123n12 and 129n27; see also Hall’s discussion (1989, 21-24) of the philhellenism of the scholia and its influence on later scholarship. 6 Schmidt 2002, 174. He calls this interest “the real novelty of late antique philology against Aristarchus and all his friends and enemies.”

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the poem as an emotional enterprise with all its ups and downs.”7 René Nünlist devotes a chapter of his study of the scholia to the “Effects on the Reader,” gathering a large number of comments in which the scholiast makes reference to the ways in which the poet manipulates his readers’ emotions.8 Many of the effects thus pointed out are familiar from rhetorical treatises, e.g. the importance of holding the readers’ attention, creating expectations, maintaining suspense, and introducing surprise. In commenting on the proem to the poem, for example, a scholiast suggests that the point of beginning with the word “wrath” (μῆνις) is to make the readers more attentive (προσεχεστέρους, schol. bT

1.1b, 11). This particular comment is attributed to the school of Zenodotus, and thus represents a traditional way of talking about the poem, using the language of rhetoric. We can see that many of the same terms are also applied to the study of Homer in the second- century Essay on the Life and Poetry of Homer.9

More interesting for our purposes, though, are the many cases in which the scholiast expects a deeper emotional response from the reader. The readers are assumed to be at times anxious, irritated, or disturbed, and at others delighted, by the events that unfold over the course of the poem. Consider, for instance, the scholiast’s comment when

Zeus criticizes Hector for wearing Achilles’ armor: τὴν ἀγανάκτησιν τῶν ἀκροατῶν ὅρα,

πῶς συνελὼν τῷ Διῒ περιέθηκεν (Observe how, taking the irritation of the readers,10 he put it upon Zeus, schol. T 17.205a).11 According to this understanding, the poet is

7 Schmidt 2002, 172. 8 Nünlist 2009, ch. 5. 9 See especially section 6, where we find many shared terms (e.g. those related to παράδοξος, ἀγωνία, θαῦμα, and ἔκπληξις); see also the discussion of the proem in section 163, which is very close to Zenodotus’. 10 Throughout this chapter, I translate ἀκροατής as “reader” instead of more literally as “listener.” This is in keeping with the way words related to ἀκούειν were used in antiquity, on account of the practice of reading aloud (see Schenkeveld 1992). Nünlist (2009, 12n41) does the same in his treatment of the scholia. 11 Text of the scholia is from Erbse, 1969-88; the translations are my own, except where noted otherwise.

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attentive to the readers’ feelings, and gives expression to it. Sometimes, the scholiast even uses the expected reactions of the reader as part of his explanation for the appropriateness of a given passage. For instance, earlier scholars had athetized a few lines in book 15 (610-14), describing the imminent death of Hector, as redundant and not in keeping with the Homeric style;12 but, according to the scholiast, the point of the comment is not to convey new information, but to engage the reader: προσεκτικὸν δὲ

ταῦτα τὸν ἀκροατὴν καὶ περιπαθέστερον ἀπεργάζεται (These things make the reader attentive and more passionate).

Many other comments show that the poet, in addition to knowing how to excite his readers, knows how to help ease their turmoil. At one point, in the midst of a great slaughter by the Trojans, the poet observes that Zeus did not want the entire race of the

Achaeans to be destroyed (οὐδέ τι πάμπαν / ἤθελε λαὸν ὀλέσθαι Ἀχαιϊκὸν, 13.348-39).

On this notice, the scholiast notes: ὑπὲρ παραμυθίας δὲ ταῦτα τῶν ἀκροατῶν διὰ μέσου

φησίν (He says these things in a parenthesis, for the sake of the consolation of the readers, schol. bT 13.348). In another comment, the scholiast makes the emotional reaction even clearer. The context is, again, a situation when things have been going poorly for the

Achaeans; this time, the poet refers to the imminent destruction of Troy, and the scholiast explains the reason for this pronouncement: ἵνα μὴ λυπώμεθα νῦν τὰς τῶν Ἑλλήνων

ἀκούοντες συμφοράς (so that we should not grieve now, reading of the misfortunes of the

Greeks, schol. bT 12.13-15, 10-11). Here the scholiast uses a verb in the first person plural; it is not simply readers in the abstract that are expected to feel this way, but all readers, including the scholiast himself. I think the same holds true even where it is not explicitly marked, i.e. that mentions of the anonymous reader’s responses reflect those of

12 Schol. bT 610-14b1, 1-3: ἀθετοῦνται στίχοι πέντε ὡς περιττοί· οὐδὲ παρὰ Ζηνοδότῳ δὲ ἦσαν οἱ πέντε.

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the scholiast, or, put another way, that he is mapping his own experience onto the abstracted reader.

In these last two examples, we have seen already begun to see the connection between the scholiast’s observation of emotional responses and his pro-Greek bias. In the first case, the prospect of the destruction of Troy was actually a comfort to the readers, and in the second, the Greeks’ misfortunes were a cause of pain for them. These emotions are not universal, a response to the general carnage on the battlefield; they are provoked, rather, by the losses on one particular side, and this suggests a pre-existing preference for the Greeks. A broader survey would suggest, in fact, that in the great majority of comments that mention emotion, it is the result of some kind of fellow-feeling for the

Greeks.13 Nünlist also observes the connection between emotion and philhellenism, highlighting the scholiast’s interest “in the reader’s direct psychological involvement with the events of the poem, sometimes in the form of downright partiality.”14

The scholiast’s pro-Greek bias is made more explicit in a number of comments which describe the poet himself as a philhellene. The first of these occurs on the very first word of the poem, where the scholiast attempts to explain the poet’s reason for starting with such an ominous word (δυσφήμου ὀνόματος) as μῆνις. We have already seen that scholars around Zenodotus provided an explanation from rhetorical effect. But this is not enough for the scholiast, who also supplies a second explanation:

δεύτερον δέ, ἵνα τὰ ἐγκώμια τῶν Ἑλλήνων πιθανώτερα ποιήσῃ. ἐπεὶ δὲ ἔμελλε νικῶντας ἀποφαίνειν τοὺς Ἕλληνας, εἰκότως †οὐ κατατρέχει ἀξιοπιστότερον† ἐκ τοῦ μὴ πάντα χαρίζεσθαι τῷ ἐκείνων ἐπαίνῳ. (schol. AT 1.1a, 6-8)

13 Though as we shall see below, the scholiast did also sometimes record sympathy for Trojans, especially Hector. 14 Nünlist 2009, 155.

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And second, so that he might make the encomia of the Greeks more persuasive. For, since he was about to show the Greeks conquering, it is reasonable that he does not throw aside believability [?] by not favoring [the Greeks] in every respect in his praise of them.

The text here seems to be somewhat corrupt, but the sense is clear enough: the poet wants to praise the Greeks, but he does not want to be so overt about it that the story becomes one-sided and unbelievable. Though beginning with the strife among the Greeks may make them look bad in the short run, it will make the grandeur of their ultimate victory ring truer.15 A related comment on the next line, which continues to reflect on Achilles’ wrath, makes this interpretation even clearer. The scholiast draws attention to the fact that the relative pronoun in this line is feminine, rather than masculine, which means that it was the μῆνις, rather than Achilles himself, which caused the affliction of the Achaeans:

ῥητορικὴ ἡ μετάληψις· παρὸν γὰρ ἦν φάναι· ‘ὃς μυρί’ Ἀχαιοῖς ἄλγε’ ἔθηκεν’· ἀλλ’ ὡς φιλέλλην οὐ τῷ ἥρωϊ ἐπάγει τὴν βλασφημίαν, ἀλλὰ τῷ πάθει. (schol. bT 1.2b.1-3)

The metalepsis is rhetorical. For it would have been possible to say, “who put pains thousandfold upon the Achaians”; but, as a philhellene, he does not bring this blasphemy upon the hero, but upon the emotion.

For the scholiast, both the grand structure of the poem and the gender of its pronouns are dictated by the poet’s philhellenism. In each case the scholiast’s comment seems unconvincing: Is the wrath of Achilles really just a brief interlude in an otherwise laudatory poem? And can the pronoun really make us imagine that Achilles is not responsible for the deaths of the Achaeans? But, however little the scholiast’s comments may tell us about the poet’s intentions or the poem’s meaning, they tell us very much

15 The scholiast uses similar language in schol. bT 17.198-208, when Zeus comments on the way Hector wears Achilles’ armor: ἐλέγξαι βουλόμενος τὴν κενοσπουδίαν Ἕκτορος οὐκ ἐκ τοῦ ἰδίου προσώπου τὸν λόγον ἐποιήσατο (ἐφαίνετο γὰρ ἂν πρὸς ἀπέχθειαν κατηγορῶν), περιθεὶς δὲ τῷ Διῒ τοὺς λόγους ἀξιοπιστότερον τοῦ βαρβάρου κατηγόρησεν (Wishing to reprove the vain zeal of Hector, he did not make the comment in his own character (for he would have appeared to be criticizing him out of hatred), but attributing the words to Zeus he criticized the barbarian more believably).

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about the way the scholiast himself understands the poem. For him, the Iliad is all about

τὰ ἐγκώμια τῶν Ἑλλήνων, and everything the poet does must somehow further this end.

Maintaining this interpretation may require some straining, some twisting of the text, but the scholiast is willing to do this, for the poet’s philhellenism is to him a fact, no matter how much it may at times be veiled.

Both of these characteristics will naturally factor into the way the scholiasts read the death of warriors in the Iliad. The kind of emotional investment that they expect from readers—and demonstrate themselves—will affect the way they respond to the poem’s deaths. To a philhellene, moreover, the death of a Trojan may not mean the same thing as the death of a Greek. One comment makes this point directly. In book 7, when the tide of battle first turns in favor of the Trojans, the poet narrates the death of only three

Achaeans. But, according to the scholiast, these few deaths are deeply significant: ὡς

φιλέλλην δὲ καὶ τοὺς τρεῖς τοὺς ἀπολωλότας πολλοὺς εἶναι δοκεῖ (And since [he is] a philhellene, even the three that were killed seem to be many, schol. bT 7.17-18, 3-4).

Although the syntax is not entirely clear here, the φιλέλλην seems to be the poet, and this comment is perhaps intended to explain why he chooses to have such a small number of

Greeks killed in this battle. But we might also quite reasonably understand it as referring to the reader/scholiast himself, to whom these deaths seem so many; for he is a reader deeply and emotionally engaged with the events of the poem, and no neutral spectator.

2. Feeling Death

I turn now to the scholiast’s comments on the Iliad’s many death scenes, and particularly to the way they address the emotional impact of these scenes. The emotion

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they most frequently refer to is pity or sympathy, which we have seen as a typical response to the deaths throughout this study. In the scholia, mentions of this feeling can take one of three forms: the scholiast can describe the technique of the poet thus (e.g.

περιπαθῶς ἀπήγγειλεν [He narrated this pathetically], schol. bT 11.262-63); he can attribute this feeling directly to the poet (e.g. ἔοικε δὲ ὁ ποιητὴς συνάχθεσθαι [The poet seems to be sympathetic], schol. bT 13.180); or he can suggest that the reader himself is made to feel it. In light of the brief discussion of philhellenism above, we might suspect that this sympathy is connected to the scholiasts’ particular prejudice for the Greeks, and

I will argue that this is to a large extent true. The response is not, however, solely dictated by philhellenism; that is, the scholiast does not lament the death of the Greeks and delight in, or ignore, the death of the Trojans. Rather, as I will show, even the Trojans can sometimes elicit the scholiast’s sympathy, but this does not contradict what he sees as the poet’s larger project of praising the heroism of the Greeks.

Before continuing further with this analysis, I need to address the work of a scholar who has discussed many of these same comments and found in them something quite different from what I am about to present. In his well-known study of “Homeric

Pathos and Objectivity,”16 Jasper Griffin argues that Homer uses “obituaries and the other passages of austere pathos” to illustrate his “tragic and consistent view of human life.”17

His reading, as he acknowledges, does not correspond with the views typical in contemporary scholarship, so he often refers to the testimony of the scholia “as a confirmation of the validity of our remarks.”18 As he puts it elsewhere, “It is heartening to find that the ancient commentators… very often found in these passages the same

16 Griffin 1976; the article became chapter 4 of Griffin 1980. . 17 Griffin 1976, 186. 18 Griffin 1976, 162.

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qualities of emotion and pathos as we shall find there.”19 In his reading, that is, the scholiasts understood the poem, and particularly its deaths, in the same way that he does.

The scholiasts appear to be sensitive to the tragedy of death, and to mourn the passing of so many fine young men cut down in their prime.

Though I find much of value in Griffin’s understanding of the Iliad as a poem whose chief concern is “the significance of death,”20 I find his use of the scholia to support his reading to be problematic. For one, as we shall see, it relies on a rather selective use of the scholia; he does find more than a hundred passages in the scholia that use pathos as an interpretive principle,21 but he might also have found many others that contradict, or at least complicate, his reading. He cites phrases from scholia that support his view in isolation, but does not consider these comments in the context of the overall aims and tendencies of the commentary. More fundamentally, however, his method rests on the presupposition that an ancient reading of a work of literature, by virtue of its antiquity, has privileged access to the “truth” of the Homeric text.22 Montanari has addressed the danger of evaluating ancient scholarship according to “how far the ancients had drawn close to the ‘correct’ interpretation”; he suggests, I think rightly, that it is better to use such scholarship “for the purpose of discerning the critical principles, the ideas on literature and language, the interests, the thought of the scholars themselves in their cultural context.”23 In the following discussion, I will look closely at the scholiasts’

19 Griffin 1980, 105. 20 Griffin 1976, 162. 21 Though by no means do all of these deal with battlefield deaths. 22 Griffin does grant that there is much that is “unrewarding” in the scholia, but he argues that they nevertheless “have a certain value as a check on our own views: if we find support for them in the work of the ancient commentators, then that tends to show that they are so far not anachronistic, that they made sense at least in later antiquity” (1980, xiv). On this notion, see Dennis Feeney’s article, “Criticism Ancient and Modern” (1995), which takes issue with a similar view advanced by Malcolm Heath (1987, 1-3). 23 Montanari 2011, 23-24.

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comments on the pathos of Homeric death and attempt to situate them within broader trends in their thought, with the aim, not of supporting a particular reading of Homer, but of more fully understanding the scholiasts’ own reading as a fascinating chapter in the ancient reception of the Homeric poems.

In examining the scholia on the deaths of minor warriors, we find references to pity scattered throughout. In many cases, these are only brief notes, of a few words’ length, and they seem to apply equally to Trojans and Achaeans. When the Trojan

Hypsenor dies (5.76-83), the poet describes his severed arm lying in the dust, and the scholiast sees this as evoking pity (οἶκτον ἔχει ἡ χεὶρ δίχα παντὸς τοῦ σώματος κειμένη, schol. bT 5.82). In a comment on a passage where the dying Imbrios is compared with a detailed simile to an ash tree, the scholiast remarks, ἔοικε δὲ ὁ ποιητὴς συνάχθεσθαι τῇ

μελίᾳ (The poet seems to sympathize with the ash, schol. bT 13.180). The scholiast remarks later that the poet’s narration of the death of another Trojan, Hippothoös, who was short-lived, shows his pity: οἰκτίσατο περὶ τὴν διήγησιν ἱκανῶς (He has made the narrative sufficiently pathetic, schol. T 17.301-03).24 The death of the Achaean Koiranos, who accidentally saves the life of his friend Idomeneus by means of his head, is seen as

περιπαθὲς (schol. T 17.615-16). Homer is likewise said to have narrated the death of

Kebriones περιπαθῶς (schol. bT 17.755). Given the brevity of these comments, it is difficult to determine exactly why these passages distinguished themselves as particularly pathetic in the eyes of the scholiast. Some of these scenes are ones we would designate as pathetic, like the death of Imbrios, while others seem remote from our sensibility (the severed hand, for instance, seems more grotesque than pathetic). It is worth noting, though, that in none of these cases does the scholiast specifically mention the readers’

24 Trans. Griffin 1980, 108.

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reaction to the death; his comments are couched rather in discussions of poetic technique or the intent of the poet, both of which are closer to the generic rhetorical tradition than the more specifically emotional responses of the scholiast.25

In a few other cases, the pity experienced by the scholiast is discussed at more length, and we can get there a better sense of the dynamics of this response. The first time we find any significant discussion in the scholia of pity regarding a death comes at the fall of Krethon and Orsilochos, two Achaean youths slain by Aeneas more than halfway through book 5. Homer’s description of their life and death is quite full, including a seven-line description of their lineage (5.543-49) and two similes (554-60).26 In the analysis of the scholiast, Homer intentionally uses these details to evoke the reader’s pity:

ηὔξησε τὸ πάθος καὶ ὅτι ἡβῶντες καὶ ὅτι δίδυμοι ἦσαν δηλώσας, καὶ εἰς οἶκτον κινεῖ τὸν

ἀκροατήν (He increased the pathos, revealing both that they were in their prime and that they were twins, and he moves the reader to pity, schol. b 5.550). The brief tree simile that closes the account is seen to tend toward the same end: περιπαθῶς τὸ ἐλάτῃσιν

ὑψηλῇσι διά τε τὸ κάλλος καὶ τὴν ἥβην (Pathetically [he uses] the [simile] with the lofty firs, on account of their beauty and youth, schol. b 5.560). Here the response is explained, and we see that it is motivated specifically by the brotherhood of the two men, as well as by their youth and appearance. These specific features of the two warriors, then, are what distinguish them in the scholiast’s mind from others who die without comment. The scholiast’s response thus suggests a kind of sensitivity to the tragic loss of these youths, very much indeed like the response that Griffin argues is appropriate.

25 See e.g. [Plutarch]’s comment on Priam’s prediction of the fall of Troy, which he said is meant to evoke pity (τὸ οἶκτον κινῆσαι, 167). 26 On these characters and their presumed role in the poetic tradition, see above, page 39.

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Yet the scholiast’s interest in this particular scene is curious. For, in the previous scenes, three other pairs of brothers were killed by Diomedes, and each of them was described by Homer in some detail, much of it explicitly pathetic. Polyidos and Abas

(5.148-51) were the sons of a seer who failed to guide them properly, and Echemmon and

Chromios were both sons of king Priam (5.159-65); neither of these pairs is marked as emotional by the poet. More dramatic is the case of Xanthos and Thoön, the lateborn sons of an aged man, whose sorry lot we considered in chapter 1 (page 33), but which I quote here again for reference:

ὃ δὲ τείρετο γήραϊ λυγρῷ, υἱὸν δ’ οὐ τέκετ’ ἄλλον ἐπὶ κτεάτεσσι λιπέσθαι. ἔνθ’ ὅ γε τοὺς ἐνάριζε, φίλον δ’ ἐξαίνυτο θυμὸν ἀμφοτέρω, πατέρι δὲ γόον καὶ κήδεα λυγρὰ λεῖπ’, ἐπεὶ οὐ ζώοντε μάχης ἐκνοστήσαντε δέξατο· χηρωσταὶ δὲ διὰ κτῆσιν δατέοντο. (Il. 5.153-58)

But Phainops was stricken in sorrowful old age nor could breed another son to leave among his possessions. There he killed these two and took away the dear life from them both, leaving to their father lamentation and sorrowful affliction, since he was not to welcome them home from the fighting alive still; and remoter kinsmen shared his possessions.

Despite this emphasis on the sadness of Phainops and the destruction of his estate, the scholiast again fails to make any comment about pathos. Quite the contrary, he asserts that the poet brings in this grieving father specifically to rebuke him: ἐλέγχει τοὺς

οἰομένους δεῖν ἐπὶ γήρᾳ παιδοποιεῖν, ὅπως διαδόχοις χρήσωνται, ὡς κακῶς οἰομένους·

νικᾷ γὰρ ἡ πήρωσις (He reproaches those thinking it necessary to beget children against old age, so that they can make use of their descendants, as though they are thinking ill; for the disability wins out, schol. bT 5.153). Sympathy is thus very far from the

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scholiast’s mind in this case, although it might seem an obvious case where pathos is intended.27

Nor do the scholia record any emotional quality in the much more extended and elaborate tree simile that describes the death of Simoeisios at the very beginning of the battle narrative (4.473-87, especially 482-87).28 Like the twin Achaeans, this warrior is in the bloom of youth (ἠΐθεον θαλερὸν, 474), and we are reminded again that his life is short

(μινυνθάδιος δέ οἱ αἰὼν, 478); he too is likened to a tree, only here the tree is the dominant image, and is lingered over for six lines, whereas in the other case the two brothers are primarily compared to a pair of lions, and the tree simile takes up only half a line. But, although the scene has been described by a more modern commentator as among the most pathetic in the whole poem,29 the scholiast does not find the pathos here worth noting. He does comment about the length and detail of the narration about this man, but the purpose of this, in his reading, is to make the account more realistic. No emotion is registered.

So why does the scholiast ignore the emotive element in this scene and in the deaths of the three other pairs of brothers, and remark on it only in the less notable case of Krethon and Orsilochos? The answer, I suggest, is philhellenism. The scholiast is less attuned to the sympathy evoked by the death of Trojans, even though it is arguably more pronounced, and more likely to experience it over the death of an Achaean. That philhellenism is at play here is confirmed, I think, by some of the scholiast’s other observations on the Orsilochos and Krethon scene. First, consider the note on the line that

27 As Griffin observes, “[The father’s] feelings are the real subject of interest, and every device is used to increase their bitterness… pathos is the explanation of the development” (1980, 124-25). 28 Discussed above in chapter 1, page 45 and following. 29 Kirk (1985, 388) calls it “one of the most carefully formed and moving encounters in the whole Iliad” and notes that “pathos, rather than vividness or credibility, is the chief aim.”

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introduces Aeneas’ killing of “the best men” (ἄνδρας ἀρίστους, 5.541): δικαίως, ἐπεὶ καὶ

ἀριστεὺς καὶ παροξύνεται διὰ τὸν ἑταῖρον καὶ προθυμίαν ἔχει παρὰ τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος

(Fittingly, since he is a chief, and he is provoked on account of his companion, and he has zeal from Apollo, schol. bT 5.541). Though no reference is made here to the fact that

Aeneas is a Trojan, the note bespeaks a need to explain the fact that Aeneas is able to kill two such excellent Greeks in this way. Notably, it cites the help of Apollo as essential, explaining that the god was responsible for not only his success but even his inspiration

(προθυμίαν). This reflects a common tendency in the scholia, often very explicit, to explain that the Trojans only ever succeed because of the gods’ intervention.30 The scholiast later makes it even clearer that he is viewing the scene in terms of ethnicity, when he describes the brothers’ death as follows: Ἑλληνικὸν καὶ φιλάδελφον τὸ

συναποθνῄσκειν τοὺς ἀδελφούς, οὐχ οἷον τὸ Ἰδαίου ἦθος τοῦ ἀδελφοῦ τοῦ Φηγέως (The fact that the two brothers die together is Greek and brotherly, unlike the character of

Idaios concerning his brother Phegeus, schol. bT 5.542). In the scholiast’s mind, these brothers are exemplary, illustrating the difference between Greek and barbarian. They are contrasted sharply with another pair of brothers, Phegeus and Idaios (5.9-29), whose fate was rather different; after Diomedes kills the first of these, the other is driven by panic to flee from the killer, and he is saved only by the intervention of Hephaestus. Of course, the scholiast’s reading here overlooks the other three pairs of Trojan brothers in between the two scenes, all of whom did in fact die together. Yet, for the scholiast, these examples of brotherly conduct are not worthy of comment; when it is a pair of Greek brothers, however, the same action becomes a fit subject of praise.

30 Schmidt 2011, 143-47 offers a number of examples of this, which he says “almost resembles a leitmotif”; e.g. εἰ μὴ ἐπεκούρει Τρωσίν, ἐνίκησαν ἂν οἱ Ἕλληνες (if [Zeus] were not helping, the Greeks would have conquered) (schol. T 11.78).

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The next case where pathos figures prominently in the scholiast’s discussion is the death scene of Iphidamas, a Trojan (11.221-45). As discussed in chapter 2 (pages 85-87),

Iphidamas is among the most remarkable of the minor warriors of the Iliad. He receives the longest biography in the epic, and it is broken into two parts, creating a dramatic effect. He is also markedly pathetic, specifically and uniquely identified by the narrator as pitiable (οἰκτρὸς, 242). Naturally, this unusual and extended account of a minor warrior was the subject of some discussion in the scholia, and several comments refer to pity over his death. One comment notes the division of the anecdote into two parts, and marks the latter part as aiming at pathos: ὅπου δὲ παθαίνεται ἐπὶ τῷ ἀνῃρημένῳ, καὶ περὶ

δώρων ὑποβάλλει καὶ παίδων (Where he is evoking pity for the one killed, he also brings in gifts and children, schol. T 11.226). A similar comment reads, ἐκεῖνα μὲν οὖν ψιλῶς

διηγήσατο· νῦν δὲ συμπαθῶν φησιν ὅτι σπουδάσας περὶ τὴν γυναῖκα οὐκ ὤνατο αὐτῆς.

οἰκειότατα οὖν ἔχει ἡ τομὴ τοῦ διηγήματος (Those things were narrated simply; but now, sympathizing with him, he says that after being so eager for his bride, he did not enjoy her. The division of the narrative is therefore most appropriate, schol. T 11.243). A comment on the word οἰκτρὸς attempts to make the source of the pathos more explicit:

ἐπεὶ περὶ θαλάμου ἔμπροσθεν διελέγετο καὶ κοίτης τῆς παρὰ γυναικί, περιπαθῶς ἄγαν τῇ

ἐπιφωνήσει ἐχρήσατο (Since he mentioned the bedroom earlier and the sleeping beside his wife, he employs this addition very pathetically, schol. bT 11.242a).

So we have here several different comments that all draw attention to the pathetic aspects of the death of a Trojan. This may seem to challenge my argument that philhellenism influences the scholiast’s feelings of pity. A few reservations, however, are in order. First, each of these comments is found within the context of an explanation for

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the poet’s division of the anecdote into two parts. The structural anomaly demands an explanation, and pathos supplies one. Second, these references to pity are directly motivated by the poet’s use of the word οἰκτρὸς; the scholiast can hardly avoid commenting on the pity of a scene that is verbally marked by Homer as pitiful. Third, the emotion here is attributed to the poet and his technique, rather than directly to the response of the reader, as with the Achaean brothers discussed above.

In any case, the scholiasts’ philhellenism need not prevent them from having sympathy for “the enemy.” The way these two modes of reading can be compatible is suggested by another scholium. When Ilioneus dies (14.489-505), the poet tells us that his father was loved by Hermes, who made him wealthy, and that he was an only child. The scholiast has a comment on the purpose of these details: πιθανῶς εἰς τὸ παθητικὸν αὐτὸν

μόνον φησὶ γενέσθαι τῷ πατρί, κα τἆλλα αὐτῷ εὖ ἔχειν πράγματα· τετιμῆσθαι γὰρ ὑπὸ

Ἑρμοῦ (Compellingly, for the sake of the pathetic effect, [Homer] says that he alone was born to his father, and that his other affairs were good; for he was honored by Hermes, schol. bT 14.492). So far, so good; the scholiast reads the details as tending to produce an emotional response, as we have seen before. But in what follows, he puts this technique into broader perspective: συνιστὰς οὖν τοὺς ἀναιρουμένους θεραπεύει τοὺς ἀνελόντας

(for in building up those killed, he serves the killers). The pathetic details themselves, in this reading, have a further purpose, inasmuch as they serve to glorify the one who killed him, in this case Peneleos. We might expect these sad remarks on Ilioneus’ fate to detract from the glory of Peneleos (who proceeds to decapitate him and lift his head up on the end of his spear while vaunting over him—perhaps the single most gruesome scene in the

Iliad), but the scholiast sees it in just the opposite way. This statement, moreover, is

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generalizing, using as it does the plural, so we can understand it as applicable to each pitiable death, perhaps to all deaths. The slaying hero, they hold, is elevated by the quality of the men that he kills.31

We can see signs of this reading operative throughout the scholiast’s comments on the deaths of minor warriors. When Patroclus makes his first kill, the victim is one

Pyraichmes, the leader of the Paionians, who is also mentioned in the catalogue of

Trojans (2.848-50). There are no pitiful details surrounding this man, but his status as a leader is significant for Patroclus, in the reading of the scholiast: ἐκ πρώτου δὲ ηὔξηται

τοῦ Πατρόκλου ἡ ἀρετὴ οὐ τὸν τυχόντα ἀνελόντος (Patroclus’ excellence is increased from the beginning, since he did not kill just anyone, schol. bT 290-91).

We can see a version of the same principle in effect even in the case of the two brothers slain by Aeneas, in which the scholiast saw so much pity. At the beginning of the conflict, the scholiast notes: προσυνίστησιν αὐτοὺς αὔξων τὴν περὶ αὐτῶν μάχην (He builds them up, magnifying the battle surrounding them, schol. bT 5.543). But the terms are slightly different, and it is not Aeneas himself who is magnified by the development of their characters (for he is a Trojan), but the battle that follows. Indeed, as soon as they are dead, Menelaus and Antilochos emerge to protect and retrieve their bodies, and

Aeneas is unwilling to do battle with such a formidable pair. Even in the case of the

Greeks, then, the pity that the scholiast perceives is not unmotivated, and the poet increases them in this way in order to cast their saviors in a better light.

The converse also seems to be true: listing the bare names of those killed provides less glory to the men who kill them. Consider the scholium on 11.300, right before

31 This reading is also reflected in the thinking of some modern scholars. See chapter 1, page 43 for discussion.

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Hector kills nine Achaeans in just three lines (301-03, the most extended catalogue of

Achaean deaths in the poem).32 To the scholiast, the fact that Hector should kill so many men is appalling, so he attempts to diminish the glory that seems due to him. In fact, he says, his apparent triumph is a sham (νόθα τὰ κατορθώματα), since the poet says that

Zeus gave him κῦδος, and thus it is not his own effort that led to the kills.33 More significantly, he goes on to state that the very narration of the kills should also reflect on the character of those involved: ὡς ἐν παρόδῳ δὲ καταλέγει τοὺς ἀναιρουμένους,

ἐπικρύπτων τῇ βραχυλογίᾳ τὸ ὄνειδος (Thus he lists those killed in passing, covering up the reproach by means of brevity, schol. b 300b2). In this reading, Hector’s success is less than genuine, and the bare-bones narrative of his killings seems to highlight this fact.

Had he been a true hero, like the Greeks, his victims would have been more fully described. Notable too is the scholiast’s use of the word ὄνειδος; the death of minor warriors brings shame to their own side, as well as praise to the killer’s, and both are accentuated when the death is narrated with more detail (pathetic or otherwise).

As we saw at the beginning of this chapter, the scholiasts consider the ultimate goal of the poet to be the glorification of the Greek heroes of the poem, and it seems that even the emotional response of pity may be subsumed into this endeavor. In their reading, the minor warriors sacrifice their lives (or rather, the poet sacrifices them) for the greater glory of others, and though there may be some sadness at their loss, this is matched with delight in the greatness of the major warriors who slay them or fight over them.

32 Elsewhere (5.705-07) Hector kills six in a row; even collectively, the Trojans never kill more than eight in a row (15.329-42). 33 This is implied from the placement of the note on line 300b, ὅτε οἱ Ζεὺς κῦδος ἔδωκεν. It also accords with a common type of scholium criticizing the Trojans for their reliance on divine help (see note 30 above).

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By contrast, when major warriors die in the epic, the scholiasts offer a very different response. The sympathy they show for Patroclus and Hector in particular is much more palpable and direct, and seems less guided by nationalistic bias, than their sympathy for minor warriors. In each case, the emotional consequences are commented upon numerous times, and often in emphatic terms. When the poet apostrophizes

Patroclus shortly before his death, the scholiast finds this evidence of his feeling towards the hero:

ἡ ἀποστροφὴ σημαίνει τὸν συναχθόμενον· σοὶ γάρ, ὦ Πάτροκλε, τῷ οὕτως ὑπ’ Ἀχιλλέως ἀγαπωμένῳ, τῷ πᾶν εἰς σωτηρίαν τῶν Ἑλλήνων πραγματευσαμένῳ, τῷ Νέστορος φιλοπόνως ἀνασχομένῳ, τῷ Εὐρύπυλον φιλοστόργως ἰασαμένῳ, τῷ ὑπὲρ τῶν Ἑλλήνων δακρύσαντι καὶ τὸν σκληρῶς διακείμενον Ἀχιλλέα πείσαντι, τῷ κατὰ τῆς ἑαυτοῦ ψυχῆς τὴν ἔξοδον κατορθώσαντι. ταῦτα πάντα ἔνεστιν ἐπαναφέροντας ἐπὶ τὴν ἀποστροφὴν ὁρᾶν τὸ ἐν αὐτῇ περιπαθές. (schol. bT 16.787)

The apostrophe indicates one who sympathizes; “for you, Patroklos,” for the person who was so beloved by Akhilleus, who would go to any lengths to save the Greeks, who patiently put up with Nestor, who affectionately healed Eurypolos, who wept for the Greeks and persuaded the stubborn Akhilleus, who made the foray succeed at the risk of his own life—by relating all this to the apostrophe, one can see the emotive element in it.34

The scholiast reads into the apostrophe the entire history of Patroclus in the Iliad, and sees him here, at his moment of death, as a fundamentally gentle hero, and one worthy of the poet’s sympathy as well as the readers’.35 Another comment supposes that the poet grieves even for the hero’s helmet, which is defiled in the dust: ἐμπαθῶς τῷ θείῳ ὅπλῳ

συνάχθεται (Emotionally, he sympathizes with the divine armament, schol. T 796-97).36

When the poet mentions, shortly afterwards, that Hector is himself soon to die (σχεδόθεν

34 Translation from Janko 1994, 411. 35 This interpretation of the apostrophe is often followed in more recent scholarship. See e.g. Janko 1994, 317-18. 36 Griffin (1980, 136), no doubt influenced here by the scholia, calls the plight of the helmet “almost more moving than Patroclus’ death itself.”

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δέ οἱ ἦεν ὄλεθρος, 800), the scholiast understands this as a solace for the readers: τὴν

ἀγανάκτησιν δὲ τῶν ἀκουόντων ἰᾶται, οὐκ ἐπὶ πολὺ φάσκων ἀπολαύειν τῶν ὅπλων τὸν

Ἕκτορα (He heals the vexation of the readers by saying that Hector will not enjoy the armor for long, schol. bT 800). In the reading of the scholiast, the death of Patroclus is a highly emotional experience, more so than any other scene, and is filled with anguish, anger, and sympathy. None of this is especially surprising, and the character of Patroclus has drawn similar responses from many scholars and readers over the years.37 Indeed,

Elisabeth Block observes that “there has seldom, or never, been articulated a response to

Patroklos that was not sympathetic.”38

The scholiasts’ expressions of sympathy over Hector are somewhat less expected, not only because they are normally philhellene, but also because of the role he plays in the death of the beloved Patroclus. It is true that they often seem to hold the Trojan champion in rather low esteem, deriding him as “arrogant, cruel, and cowardly,” in comparison with the warriors on the Achaean side.39 But despite this distaste for him as a warrior, the scholiasts still find him worthy of pity. Consider this comment on Zeus’ prediction in book 17 that Hector will not live long: εἰ καὶ ἔμελλε τις τῶν ἀκουόντων

ἀγανακτήσειν ἐπὶ τῷ τὸν Ἕκτορα χρῆσθαι τοῖς Ἀχιλλέως ὅπλοις, μαθὼν ὅτι οὐκ ἐπὶ πολύ,

κἂν ἠλέησε τὸν Ἕκτορα (Even if the reader was about to be vexed about Hector’s use of the arms of Achilles, learning that it would not be for long, he even pitied Hector, schol.

AbT 17.207-08). The reader was indeed irritated when Hector killed Patroclus, and there

37 Simone Weil (1965, 22) speaks of him, quite hyperbolically, as “that warrior who dwells in a peculiar way, at the very center of the poem… who ‘knew how to be sweet to everybody,’ and who throughout the Iliad commits no cruel or brutal act.” Janko (1994, 312) observes about his death that the poet’s goal is “to make us feel Patroklos’ loss as keenly as if we ourselves were Akhilleus;” and Fenik (1968, 216) notes how the narrative is designed to create “pathos and massive effect.” 38 Block 1982, 17. 39 Richardson 1980, 274; he lists several examples of this prejudicial treatment.

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the notice on his near death was a comfort, but here, after a little time, the reader feels pity even for Hector. When the hero does eventually die, this emotion is again registered; in the scholiast’s assessment, the description of the beauty and size of his corpse is meant to evoke our pity.40 The reader is also expected to feel distressed about the defilement of this corpse, so that when Homer tells us that the gods protected it from damage, this is supposed to be a consolation: διὰ δὲ τῆς ἀναφωνήσεως ἐθεράπευσε τὸν ἀκροατήν· ἤδη

γὰρ συνέπασχε τῇ τοῦ Ἕκτορος αἰκίᾳ (With this announcement, he aided the reader. For

[the reader] was already suffering over the outrage to Hector, schol. bT 23.184).41

Though Hector may be disliked by the scholiasts when he is trying to kill the Greeks, in death he becomes an object of pity.42 For, despite his barbarism, he is still a great hero, and his death is poignant, even terrible.

In this investigation we have seen that the scholiasts do register more or less sympathetic responses to some of the deaths in the Iliad. When examined carefully, however, it becomes clear that their sympathy is not a universalizing, deeply human response to “the terrible transition from light to darkness that faces all men.”43 Rather, it seems to be somewhat colored by philhellenism, as the scholiasts seem more likely to feel pity for “their own” countrymen. More fundamentally, when this pity is registered for the minor warriors, it serves as a means of glorifying the more significant warriors.

40 Schol. bT 22.370: καὶ ταῦτα εἰς οἶκτον τοῦ ἀνῃρημένου. 41 Nünlist, who cites this pair of comments, observes that “Even if the scholia generally expect the reader to be partial to the Greeks, this does not rule out that he feel sympathy with the Trojans” (2009, 147). 42 This emotion is also registered for him while alive (ἡμᾶς συναχθομένους τῷἝκτορι, schol. bT 6.373), but notably when he is in Troy looking for Andromache, not when he is on the battlefield. Their feelings for Hector resemble those that Van der Valk, himself a scholar of the scholia, assumes Homer to have had: “As an artist, Homer portrayed the Trojans (Priamus, Andromache, Hector) objectively and even favourably, whereas as a Greek he was influenced by nationalistic sympathies” (1953, 6). 43 Griffin 1980, 139.

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Only for the “major warriors” do we find emotional responses that seem more purely sympathetic.

3. Learning from Death

The comments we have considered so far suggest that the deaths in the Iliad could indeed elicit emotional responses from the scholiasts, though those responses are not always the ones we might expect. But these are not the only way they had of reacting to the death scenes; in many other comments, they are concerned to look for intellectual value in them. This could take a wide variety of forms, from moralizing, to explicit didacticism, to reflections on the nature of reality. I will begin here by addressing a few of the simplest of these responses, but I will devote the majority of this section to a more sophisticated discourse that appears at various junctures, in which the scholiasts use the death scenes to reflect on questions of justice and on what they perceive as the poem’s system of ethics.

In some cases, the narrative surrounding the death of an individual suggested to the scholiast a kind of moral or practical instruction. For instance, when the poet tells us that the father of a fallen warrior is a priest who was honored as a god, a scholium reads:

διδάσκει, πῶς χρὴ διακεῖσθαι πρὸς τοὺς ἱερεῖς (He teaches how we ought to be disposed towards priests, schol. bT 5.78). In a grisly simile that compares Patroclus’ killing technique to the action of a fisherman, the scholiast finds some even more useful information: διδάσκει, ποῦ δεῖ τοὺς ἁλιεύοντας καθέζεσθαι, οὐ παρ’ αἰγιαλῷ, ὅπου

σπανίως ἰχθὺς παρατρέχει (He teaches where fisherman ought to sit, not beside the beach, where a fish seldom comes, schol. bT 16.407). Sometimes, the lesson is less

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straightforward. Consider the comment on Pedaios, a bastard son of Antenor, whom

Theano nevertheless raised, as a favor to her husband (χαριζομένη πόσεϊ ᾧ, 5.71). The scholiast acknowledges that fathering children on different women is barbaric,44 but he still finds in the scene an application for women: νόμον δὲ τοῦτον ὑπογράφει ταῖς

γυναιξὶν ὁ ποιητής· σώφρονος γὰρ γυναικὸς τὸ γεγονὸς ἁμάρτημα τοῦ ἀνδρὸς σκέπειν

(The poet subtly suggests this as a rule for women. For it befits a chaste woman to cover the begotten mistake of her husband, schol. bT 6.70b, 4-5). In each of these comments, the scholiast ponders how he might take the details surrounding the death of the warrior and make them meaningful, to turn what some might consider a tragedy into something edifying. This interpretive move is typical of the scholia in general, however, and not unique to the death scenes. Similar comments can be found in many contexts, as the scholiasts attempt to find educational value wherever they possibly can, often in places where it seems far from appropriate.45

Several kinds of reflections do emerge that are more closely connected to the actual deaths of the minor warriors. A number of comments focus on the way that these scenes reveal the working of fate.46 Skamandrios, for instance, is a hunter, trained by

Artemis herself, and well skilled with arrows. When he dies, the poet informs us, ἀλλ’ οὔ

οἱ τότε γε χραῖσμ’ Ἄρτεμις ἰοχέαιρα, / οὐδὲ ἑκηβολίαι ᾗσιν τὸ πρίν γε κέκαστο (Yet

Artemis of the showering arrows could not now help him, / no, nor the long spearcasts in which he had been pre-eminent, 5.53-54). According to the scholiast, this comment is

44 βάρβαρον ἔθος τὸ ταῖς πολλαῖς γυναιξὶ μίγνυσθαι (schol. bT 6.70b, 2). 45 Wilson (2007, 55) points out “the anxiety of scholiasts to extract an edifying moral from a text that does not justify it.” See also Van der Valk 1964: 465 on the scholiasts’ emphasis on “the paedagogical character of the Homeric poems.” 46 There may be some Stoic coloring here; Stoic influence has often been seen in the scholia; see Van der Valk 1964, 1:479-83.

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meant to point toward the power of fate: δείκνυται διὰ τούτου τὸ τοῦ μοιριδίου

ἀπαράβατον (Through this, the inviolability of destiny is shown, schol. bT 5.53). When a certain Amphios falls, and we are told that he is wealthy and that fate drew him (ἑ μοῖρα /

ἦγ’, 5.613-14), a related moral truth is seen to be offered to the reader: διδάσκει τοὺς

πλουσίους θνητὰ φρονεῖν καὶ τὸν θάνατον νομίζειν (He teaches the wealthy to think about mortality and to consider death, schol. bT 5.613). In both cases, the death of a minor warrior is itself significant, and should prompt us as readers to consider the fragility of existence, the ineffectualness of wealth. This force can be also be seen in the overall structure of the battle scenes. During the opening of hostilities in book 4, the first two sequences begin with the death of Trojan warriors; in the third, though, an Achaean is the first to die. This division is significant, as the scholiast comments: νῦν ἀπὸ τῶν

Ἑλλήνων ἤρξατο, ἐπεὶ τότε ἀπὸ τῶν Τρώων. μοιρίδιον δὲ τὸν θάνατόν φησιν (Now he begins with the Greeks, since before it was with the Trojans; he says that death is according to fate, schol. bT 4.517). In killing off these particular warriors in this particular order, Homer seems to be trying to teach something about destiny, which comes for all. The minor deaths, in this reading, are not simply brute facts, but markers of a deeper truth. This line of reasoning, much more so than e.g. the comment about fishing discussed above, resonates with many more contemporary, humanistic readings of the epic, which see in it a prolonged meditation on death.

Somewhat more foreign is the scholiasts’ tendency to use the Iliad’s death scenes to explore questions of justice and desert. As we shall see, this is something of a fixation in the scholia, and it appears in discussions of the minor deaths with startling frequency.

Their analysis of the death of Elephenor (4.463-69) offers a clear example of this

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tendency. He is the second warrior to die in the Iliad, and is speared while trying to strip the armor of Echepolos, who was just killed by Antilochos. His interest in material gain is seen as problematic to the scholiast, who says, δικαίως κολάζεται ὁ αἰσχροκερδής,

δέον τῶν ζώντων ἅπτεσθαι (This greedy one is chastised justly, since he should have gone after the living, schol. bT 4.466). There is a kind of instantaneous poetic justice at work here, in the mind of the scholiast, as the warrior’s poor character immediately meets with its due punishment. Slightly later in the same scene, another Achaean is killed while dragging a corpse, and the scholiast sees a similar reproof. He quotes a line from the earlier scene (466) and then states, περὶ ὃ δὲ μάλιστα ἐσπούδαζον, τούτου στερῶν αὐτοὺς

ὁ ποιητὴς κολάζει (The poet chastises them, depriving them of what they were most eager for, schol. bT 4.493).47 Here the sense becomes even clearer, and the poet himself, with his careful planning of every death, becomes the arbiter of justice, doling out rewards and punishments as he deems fit.48 The scholiast manages here to extract a subtle sort of moral teaching, and the reader, following his observations, can be instructed even as he sees warriors clawing the ground in death, because justice is being served. It is worth noting here that both of these warriors are Achaeans; the scholiast is not so philhellene that he thinks the Greeks can do no wrong. The same is also true of

Tlepolemos, who, according to one very peculiar note, was killed because of his boastfulness towards Sarpedon.49

47 See also schol. bT 5.224b, where Aeneas is thought to be deprived of his horses because he takes too much pride in them. 48 For a reward, see e.g. the scholiast’s discussion of why Antilochos is chosen to make the first kill: τοῦτο χαρίζεται αὐτῷ, ἐπεὶ ἄλλην ἀριστείαν αὐτοῦ οὐ γράφει (schol. bT 4.457). The poet is seen to pay a favor to the young warrior here, balancing out his account with this kill, since he does not have an aristeia of his own. 49 Schol. bT 5.666-67b, 3-4: ὁ μὲν Τληπόλεμος πρότερον καυχησάμενος ἀναιρεῖται, ὁ δὲ Σαρπηδὼν μόνον τιτρώσκεται, ἐπεὶ ἀνταλαζονεύεται.

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In other cases, the behavior of a minor warrior on the battlefield is irreproachable, and the scholiast must look further to find a cause for his death. Consider, for instance, the two sons of Merops:

Ἔνθ’ ἑλέτην δίφρόν τε καὶ ἀνέρε δήμου ἀρίστω υἷε δύω Μέροπος Περκωσίου, ὃς περὶ πάντων ᾔδεε μαντοσύνας, οὐδὲ οὓς παῖδας ἔασκε στείχειν ἐς πόλεμον φθισήνορα· τὼ δέ οἱ οὔ τι πειθέσθην· κῆρες γὰρ ἄγον μέλανος θανάτοιο. (Il. 11.328-32)

There they took a chariot and two men, lords in their countryside, sons both of Merops of Perkote, who beyond all men knew the art of prophecy, and tried to prevent his two sons from going into the battle where men die. Yet these would not listen, for the spirits of dark death were driving them onward.

We might expect here a comment on irresistibility of fate—and we saw in chapter 2 that

Apollonius exploits this sense in crafting his own death scenes50—but the scholiast takes quite a different point from the scene. He suggests that the poet is again exercising a kind of moral judgment: οὔτε ἀπειθεῖν πατράσιν ἀξιοῖ οὔτε μαντικῆς καταφρονεῖν, θανάτῳ

τοὺς τοῦτο δράσαντας κολάζων (He does not deem it right to disobey fathers nor to scorn prophecy, punishing by death those who do this, schol. bT 13.331-32). Again, the poet emerges as a kind of avenging force, sending death upon those who misbehave. In the scholiast’s reading, he has invented the sins of these men—and indeed, invented the men themselves—in order to punish them. Their whole existence, life and death, becomes no more than an object lesson.

At other times, it is the misdeeds of parents that result in minor warriors’ deaths, rather than anything that they themselves did. Phereklos (5.59-68), for example, is wholly innocent as far as we know, but he is the son of Harmonides the carpenter, who had built the ships for Paris’ ill-fated voyage. The poet seems to exculpate Harmonides for this act,

50 See page 84.

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telling us that Athena loved him, and that he didn’t realize what was going to happen as a result (οὔ τι θεῶν ἐκ θέσφατα ᾔδη, 64). But for the scholiast, the father’s guilt is patent, and the whole episode serves to illustrate this: διδάσκει δὲ μὴ κακῶς κεχρῆσθαι τοῖς παρὰ

θεῶν δώροις μηδὲ συμπράττειν ἀδίκοις (He teaches not to use the gifts of the gods for evil, nor to work together with the unjust, schol. bT 5.61).51 How does he communicate this lesson? It seems that he makes the son pay with his life for the indiscretions of his father. Once again, the death of a young man is supposed to serve as a warning for the reader. Here, though, we find a further element, and the poet’s point is apparently brought home more viscerally. In the scholiast’s understanding, the wound that kills him—a spear to the buttocks (βεβλήκει γλουτὸν κατὰ δεξιόν, 66)—is itself significant: αἰσχρὸν τὸ

τραῦμα τοῦ τῆς πορνείας ναυπηγοῦ (The wound of the shipwright of fornication is shameful, schol. AbT 5.67).52 Not only the death, but the very wound, offers a lesson.

This is a very grim justice indeed, and we can perhaps see the intensity of the scholiast’s response as stemming from philhellenism, as this man (in a very roundabout way) is implicated in starting the whole war. Notably, the ignominious wound that he suffers is elsewhere marked by the scholiasts as particularly appropriate for the Trojan character.53

Very similar is the case of the two sons of Antimachos killed by Agamemnon during the course of his aristeia (11.122-47). Their father, as the narrative recounts, had taken money from Paris and advised against Helen’s return; Agamemnon himself claims that he had also wanted to kill Menelaus when he came as an ambassador. The scholiast,

51 The last clause is found only in b. 52 Friedrich (2003 [1956], 42) mentions the scholiast’s comment here as a (misguided) effort to justify the poet’s inclusion of such a horrible wound. 53 When a Trojan ally named Harpalion is killed by a wound in the exact same spot, the scholiast says: δηλονότι φεύγοντος. τοῦτο Ἕλλην οὐχ εὑρίσκεται πεπονθώς (Clearly [it is the wound] of one who is fleeing. No Greek is found suffering this [wound]) (schol. bT 13.651-52).

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as we might expect, finds plenty of material in this scene for criticizing these warriors.

For one, they supplicate Agamemnon, though they outnumber him, and this action is itself sharply distinguished from the behavior of Greek warriors: οὐδεὶς Ἑλλήνων

τοιοῦτος. εἰσὶν οὖν πλούτῳ μᾶλλον ἢ δυνάμει ἐναβρυνόμενοι (None of the Greeks is like this. For these two glory in their wealth rather than in their strength, schol. bT 11.131).

Their character is thus marked as inferior to the more manly Greeks, as the use of the word ἐναβρυνόμενοι, with its connotations of luxury and effeminacy, reinforces. But they are guilty of more than just weakness, and we find stated openly what was only assumed in the last example: διδάσκει γὰρ ὅτι καὶ παισὶ φυλάσσονται τὰ πταίσματα (He teaches that the errors [of the father] are kept even for the children, schol. T. 11.142).54 This is very specifically applied as a lesson about monetary gain: εἰς εὐσέβειαν δὲ ἡμᾶς

παρακαλεῖ, τὸν ἐξ ἀσεβείας χρηματισάμενον στερίσκων τῶν παίδων (He encourages us to be pious, by depriving of his children a man made wealthy by impiety, schol. bT

11.132).

As in the case of Phereklos, the particular manner of death is also meant as a demonstration of guilt and punishment. In this case, Agamemnon decapitates

Hippolochos and shears off his arms, sending his trunk rolling through the battlefield.

About this manner of death, the scholiast remarks: οἰκεία ἡ κόλασις τῷ τοῦ πατρὸς

ἀδικήματι· κεφαλή τε γὰρ ἀποτέμνεται ἡ φθεγξαμένη γνώμην πονηρὰν καὶ χεῖρες, αἷς

τὸν χρυσὸν ἔλαβεν (The punishment is appropriate for the injustice of the father. For the head, which spoke a wicked opinion, is cut off, as are the hands, with which he received the gold, schol. bT 11.146). In his enthusiasm to show the justice of this young man’s

54 This comment is prompted by Agamemnon’s statement of the same principle (νῦν μὲν δὴ τοῦ πατρὸς ἀεικέα τίσετε λώβην), which the scholiast takes to be the poet’s own opinion, and a guiding principle for the rest of the text.

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death, the scholiast seems to forget that it was the father who took the bribes, not the son.

The whole grisly incident, with suppliants brutally cut down, is thus made into an edifying demonstration of justice. Agamemnon may not be kind here, but he is surely in the right.55

In this regard, the next pair of Agamemnon’s victims stand in sharp contrast to the sons of Antimachos. They are two sons of Antenor, Iphidamas and Koön, whom we have already encountered at several points throughout this study (11.221-63). In many ways,

Antenor is the very opposite of Antimachos: he publicly advised Helen’s return (7.348-

53), and is a guest-friend to Agamemnon’s brother Menelaos (ἐξείνισσα, 3.207). So, following the scholiasts’ logic, we might expect them to be spared, or at least killed in a more dignified manner. Yet they are treated no differently than the sons of the wicked

Antimachos, and Koön loses his head just like Hippolochos. Where is the justice here?

And should Agamemnon be held responsible for killing men that are innocent, perhaps even friendly toward him and his cause? The scholiast grapples with these questions:

διὰ τί δὲ Ἀντηνορίδην φονεύει; ὅτι αὐτὸς ἦρξε σταθεὶς εὐρὰξ καὶ βαλὼν Ἀγαμέμνονα· οὐ γὰρ ῥητέον ὡς ἠγνόουν ἀλλήλους, ἐπεὶ σαφῶς εὑρίσκομεν ἐν τοῖς Αἴαντος λόγοις “ἀλλὰ κασίγνητος Ἀντήνορος·” ὁ γὰρ Ἰφιδάμας νέηλυς ἦν. (schol. T 11.262-63, 2-6)

Why does he kill a son of Antenor? Because he [Koön] was the one who began it, coming from the side and striking Agamemnon. For it should not be said that they did not know each other—as clearly we find in the words of Ajax, “but he is some brother of Antenor.” For Iphidamas was a newcomer.

Here, Agamemnon has to be exculpated on both killings. The train of the argument is difficult to follow, but I think it can be reconstructed along these lines: Agamemnon was justified in killing Koön—even though he probably knew who he was (based on the fact that Ajax could recognize another son of Antenor based on family resemblance, 14.472-

55 Schol. bT 11.137 (describing Agamemnon’s reply to their entreaty): ἀμείλικτον ἑαυτοῖς, δικαίαν δέ.

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74)—because he was acting in self defense (Koön attacked him from the side, a cheap shot). In the case of Iphidamas, it seems to be suggested that Agamemnon was justified in killing him because he did not recognize him, since the young man had been away in

Thrace, and had only recently returned to Troy (11.222-30). The logic here is questionable, since it seems hard to imagine how a sojourn abroad would obscure the family resemblance, but this is beside the point. What is important is that Agamemnon’s action was criticized or questioned at some point in the exegetical tradition, as indicated by the question-and-answer format of the scholium.56 Some readers had thought that killing the Antenoridae was inappropriate, but our scholiast does not accept this argument.

Instead, he hold that Agamemnon is in the right, and that the death of these men is not objectionable on moral grounds.

Still, their death cannot be made to seem just in the same way as that of the sons of Antimachos, given their disposition. Instead, the scholiast tells us that their death reveals an entirely different lesson. In addition to highlighting the sadness that can result from war,57 it shows the uncertainty and the vicissitudes of battle: ἄδηλα δὲ τὰ τῶν

πολέμων· διὸ φονεύει τοῦτον Ἀντηνορίδην ὄντα, ἀγνοῶν τίς ἐστιν (Affairs in war are unclear. Therefore he kills him, though a son of Antenor, not knowing who he is, schol. T

11.221). Where possible, the scholiast attempts to justify the deaths, to make them seem like appropriate recompense for some misdoing, but he drops the question of justice in cases where it is inconvenient, and looks for different explanations instead.

56 Many of the scholia are structured as question/problem and answer, a tradition that dates back at least to Aristotle’s Homeric Questions (on which see section 5 below) and continues in Porphyry’s Homeric Questions. 57 See above on the scholiast’s statements about the pathos of Iphidamas’ death.

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An even more problematic death that the scholiast must deal with is that of

Axylos, who is actually distinguished in the narrative by his kindness and generosity to all people (φίλος δ’ ἦν ἀνθρώποισι / πάντας γὰρ φιλέεσκεν ὁδῷ ἔπι οἰκία ναίων, Il. 6.14-

15). After describing this quality, the poet goes on to relate that Axylos’ kindness did not avail him when he died at the hands of Diomedes (οὔ τις τῶν γε τότ’ ἤρκεσε λυγρὸν

ὄλεθρον, 6.16). Naturally, this presents some difficulty for a reading that seeks to understand the deaths in the Iliad as justified. For the narrative seems to commend him, not condemn him, and yet he is miserably killed. How can there be any justice in this?

The scholiast discusses this question at some length:

δοκεῖ ἡ προσθήκη κάλλιστον τοῦτο καὶ βιωφελὲς ὑπάρχον ἐξευτελίζειν ὡς οὐκ ὂν καλόν. καίτοι ἐχρῆν μᾶλλον καὶ βοηθόν τινα ἐκ θεῶν τούτῳ ἀναπλάσαι, ἵν’ ἡμεῖς προτρεπώμεθα ἐπὶ τὸ φιλόξενον. ἢ οὖν ἁπλῶς ἀναπεφώνηται, ὡς τὸ “οὐδὲ ἑκηβολίαι,” ἢ ἀποδοκιμάζει τὴν ἄκριτον φιλοξενίαν καὶ τὸ μὴ ἐπικρίνειν, ποῖός τίς ἐστιν ᾧ μέλλει δεξιὰν συνάπτειν· ἐναρέτων γὰρ ἴδιον οὐχὶ τὸ πάντας φιλεῖν, ἀλλὰ τινάς· διὸ οὐδένα φίλον ἔσχεν. (schol. bT 6.16)

This addition seems to disparage this quality [of philoxenia], which is most good and conducive for life, as if it were no good. Indeed, it would have been better if he had invented some helper from among the gods, so that we would be turned toward philoxenia. It is either said simply (like “nor the long spearcasts”), or he is rejecting uncritical philoxenia and the practice of not judging what sort of person it is to whom one extends the right hand. For it is characteristic of virtuous people not to be friends with everyone, but with some; and it is for this reason that he has no friend.

Again, we can see the scholiast struggling to make sense of a seemingly senseless death.

The alternatives offered in this explanation58 mirror those for the sons of Antenor and the sons of Antimachos: Axylos must die either to show the power of fate59 or to fulfill a

58 We shall see in the following section that there is a final sentence to this scholium that offers still another solution to the problem of his guilt. 59 The quotation here is from 5.54, where Skamandrios is unable to avoid death, despite the help of Artemis and his own skill in the hunt. As we saw above, the scholiast took this as an example of the power of fate.

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very subtle justice (he was, in effect, generous to a fault).60 Notably, the latter explanation, which attributes his death to his uncritical friendship, is more elaborated. It is farfetched, no doubt, but it is perhaps more satisfying to the scholiast’s desire to pinpoint a specific, human cause for the warrior’s death.

We have seen throughout this section a pervasive interest in the intellectual or moral implications of the death of warriors. Specifically, we have seen that the scholiasts are eager to find justice in these deaths, to show that those who died somehow earned their fate. This is in keeping with a popular interest in poetic justice in antiquity. Elsa

Bouchard has highlighted how, in Aristotle’s understanding, “punishment or misfortune for the wicked” was favored by audiences, since it was “morally satisfying.”61 We might see the scholiasts’ interpretation, in this light, as an attempt to make Homer’s epic accord with popular taste, to show that he too had a keen desire to see the wicked punished and the righteous rewarded, and in this way perhaps to bring it closer to the ethos of the

Odyssey, in which the slaughter of the suitors is indeed a matter of just deserts.62 This interest in the justice of the minor warriors’ deaths, then, might seem only one more example of the scholiasts’ determination to find moral instruction in even the most unlikely of places. But a few characteristics of these comments should make us pause before we see in them only a hyperactive desire to moralize. First, their explanations are often extremely contorted, as in the last example. Second, the comments occasionally show a morbid fascination with wounds, and find justice even—or especially—in the more horrific ones. Finally, the arguments about justice seem to be themselves influenced

60 On the subject of selectivity in friendship, see Plutarch’s essay “On Having Many Friends” (περὶ πολυφιλίας). 61 Bouchard 2012, 195-96. 62 A point the Odyssey scholia take for granted. See schol. V 22.325, on Odysseus’ justification in killing Leodas.

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by philhellenism. With a few exceptions, each of those whose deaths are marked out as deserved fight on the Trojan side. The scholiasts, while nominally seeking to identify just causes, are more sensitive to the wrongdoing of the barbarians. Thus they observe that the sons of Merops are punished by death for disregarding their father’s prophecy, but they have no comment about the three Achaean victims who previously committed manslaughter.

I suggest, then, that beneath the scholiasts’ moralizing response to the deaths lies a deeper reaction, which amounts to a kind of satisfaction, perhaps even pleasure in them.

Their language of justice and blame might be said to mask a desire to see the minor warriors die, so that the more important warriors may be glorified, the Greeks may be vindicated, and justice may be served. In the next section, I discuss a few examples of comments where this desire comes close to the surface of the text, but I hold that it underlies many of the comments we have already seen.

4. Savoring Death

Most problematic of all the perceived injustices that the scholiast confronts is

Agamemnon’s notorious wish to kill even the unborn babies of the Trojans:

τῶν μή τις ὑπεκφύγοι αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον χεῖράς θ’ ἡμετέρας, μηδ’ ὅν τινα γαστέρι μήτηρ κοῦρον ἐόντα φέροι, μηδ’ ὃς φύγοι, ἀλλ’ ἅμα πάντες Ἰλίου ἐξαπολοίατ’ ἀκήδεστοι καὶ ἄφαντοι. (Il. 6.57-60)

No, let not one of them go free of sudden death and our hands; not the young man child that the mother carries still in her body, not even he, but let all of Ilion’s people perish, utterly blotted out and unmourned for.

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Agamemnon seems to be possessed here by a sort of bloodlust. He has just run across the battlefield specifically to prevent a Trojan from being allowed to live, and he goes on to impale the unarmed suppliant. We might expect that some readers would find this behavior problematic, and indeed, we find just such a comment in the scholia:

μισητὰ καὶ οὐχ ἁρμόζοντα βασιλικῷ ἤθει τὰ ῥήματα· τρόπου γὰρ ἐνδείκνυσι θηριότητα, ὁ δὲ ἀκροατὴς ἄνθρωπος ὢν μισεῖ τὸ ἄγαν πικρὸν καὶ ἀπάνθρωπον. (schol. bT 6.58-59b, 1-4)

These words are hateful and not fitting with a kingly nature; for he shows the brutality of his nature, and the reader, being human, hates what is too bitter and inhuman.

We find here a notice of the reader’s response, and this time it is far from favorable. The reader is expected to condemn the harshness of Agamemnon’s desires. But this response, couched as it is in the language of moderation and humanity, is not the scholiast’s. Rather, it is a “problem” that the scholiast takes upon himself to solve:

λεκτέον δὲ ὅτι, εἰ μὲν ἐλέγετο ταῦτα πρὸ τῆς ἐπιορκίας, ἔγκλημα ἂν ἦν· ἐπεὶ δὲ μετὰ τοὺς ὅρκους καὶ τὴν παράβασιν, οὐκ ἐπαχθὴς Ἀγαμέμνων· σχεδὸν γὰρ καὶ ὁ ἀκροατὴς τοῦτο βούλεται, τὸ μηδὲ γένος ἐπιλιμπάνεσθαι τῶν ἐπιόρκων. σχεδὸν οὖν ὑπὲρ τῶν θεῶν ὀργίζεται. (schol. bT 6.58-59, 7-11)

But it is to be said that, if he had said these things before the oath-breaking, it would have been a [valid] accusation; but since [he says these things] after the oaths and their transgression, Agamemnon is not liable. One might say that the reader wishes the same thing, that nothing would be left of the race of the oath- breakers.63 One might say he is angry on behalf of the gods.

In this line of thinking, no blame should be assigned to Agamemnon for desiring the death of babies, since his desire is justified by the Trojans’ own behavior. Because they have broken their sacred oaths, and thus defied the gods, they are no longer subject to normal human considerations. Before the oath-breaking, a wish like Agamemnon’s

63 I differ substantially here from the translation of Schmidt (2011, 135), who seems to euphemize: “Maybe the listener does not want perjurers to remain untroubled.” This may simply be hasty translation, as he takes the next phrase to mean “Maybe the listener is already angry at the gods” (my emphasis), which seems untenable.

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would have been damning, but after it, all is fine. The whole race is thus implicated by

Pandarus’ treachery, and killing them becomes a kind of piety towards the gods, who have been outraged by the oath-breaking.64 According to this logic, then, the death of any

Trojan is justified, no matter his individual goodness or badness.

In fact, we see this same idea expressed also in the case of Axylos, the friend-to- guests we met above. A final note applies this logic to his death: εἶτα καὶ ἐπίορκος μετὰ

τῶν ἄλλων ὑπόκειται, τὰ δὲ καλὰ καθαρεύειν ἀπὸ τῶν ἐναντίων ὀφείλει (Then, he is also an oath-breaker along with the rest, and the good needs to be free of its opposite, schol. bT 6.12). The logic here is not spelled out very clearly, but it seems to mean that Axylos, despite his noble qualities, is tainted by his affiliation with the Trojans, so that his goodness is not sufficient to keep him alive. The debate about the particular character of his generosity is therefore, in the final analysis, beside the point: he is, by the very fact that he sides with the Trojans, guilty and worthy of death, just like the babies still in the womb. The scholiast takes the enormous step of condemning all the Trojans and their allies, and poetic justice is thus made wholly compatible, even identical, with philhellenism.

We may not make much of the logic of this argument (can a Trojan baby be held responsible for the action of an ally who has been prompted to do his deed by Athena herself?), but what is important to note is that there is more to this response than pure logic. Rather, as the scholiast remarks, the reader is himself made to wish for the destruction of an entire race, just like Agamemnon.65 Had he merely wanted to exculpate

64 This is a curious position, as the gods themselves initiated the oath-breaking. The scholiast, however, assigns no blame to them in this matter (schol. bT 4.66). 65 The word σχεδὸν does suggest a slight hesitancy in this regard; he softens the wish with this insertion. I translate as “one might say” rather than, like Schmidt, “maybe” or like Bouchard (2012, 202) “nearly,”

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Agamemnon, he might have ended with οὐκ ἐπαχθὴς Ἀγαμέμνων. But he goes on instead to add this stronger reaction onto the more reasoned one; the reader’s wish is, for him, an indispensable part of the explanation. Indeed, his argument depends on a repositioning of the reader. Where the traditional objection to Agamemnon’s wish held that the reader abhors his attitude as a human (ὁ δὲ ἀκροατὴς ἄνθρωπος ὢν μισεῖ…), the scholiast postulates a reader that is first and foremost a Greek.

Even in cases like these, where we might think that the narrative highlights the injustice, cruelty, and tragedy of death, we find that the scholiast still manages to find justice. His determination to do so, however, seems more than intellectual or moralizing, as he explicitly wishes for the deaths of the Trojans, for the “cleansing” of the impure

(καθαρεύειν, schol. bT 6.12). We can find further evidence of this view in a comment on the prayer offered up along with the oaths in book 3:

Ζεῦ κύδιστε μέγιστε καὶ ἀθάνατοι θεοὶ ἄλλοι ὁππότεροι πρότεροι ὑπὲρ ὅρκια πημήνειαν ὧδέ σφ’ ἐγκέφαλος χαμάδις ῥέοι ὡς ὅδε οἶνος αὐτῶν καὶ τεκέων, ἄλοχοι δ’ ἄλλοισι δαμεῖεν. ὣς ἔφαν, οὐδ’ ἄρα πώ σφιν ἐπεκραίαινε Κρονίων. (Il. 3.298-302)

Zeus, exalted and mightiest, and you other immortals, let those, whichever side they may be, who do wrong to the oaths sworn first, let their brains be spilled on the ground as this wine is spilled now, theirs and their sons’, and let their wives be the spoil of others. They spoke, but none of this would the son of Kronos accomplish.

The scholiast makes a very short but suggestive remark on these lines: διὰ δὲ τοῦ πώ

ἐλπίδα πάλιν ὑπολείπεται τῷ φιλέλληνι (Through this, he leaves some hope for the philhellene, schol. bT 3.301-02). In this interpretation, the mention of slaughter and slavery is meant as a kind of hint to the philhellene reader, reminding him that there are

because of the next statement, where I take the anger on behalf of the gods to be actual rather than hypothetical.

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still good things to come. Presumably, the prospect of the war ending without any spilling of brains is too depressing for the pro-Greek to consider. More charitably, we might read this to mean that the readers know in advance (as they must) that the truce will be broken, and this prayer offers a reminder that such a violation will not be without consequences.

In either case, the philhellene is expected to take satisfaction in the death of the enemy, and to wait hopefully for the slaughter that is to come.

Another example of the scholiast’s seeming delight in the violence of a Trojan’s death can be found in the case of Imbrios (13.171-81). This Trojan is provided with a short biography concerning his marriage and former life, as well as a detailed tree simile.

After he is killed, though, he suffers a terrible fate: Locrian Ajax cuts the head off of his corpse and throws it back into the Trojan lines, where it lands at Hector’s feet. This mutilation of a corpse goes beyond the norms of epic battle.66 As in the case of

Agamemnon’s wish, some readers criticized this action, but the scholiast defends it:

ὠμὸν δέ φασι καὶ οὐχ Ἑλληνικὸν τὸ ἔργον, ἀλλὰ συγγνωστὸν ὑπὲρ φίλου ἀγανακτοῦντι

(They say that this deed is savage and not Greek, but it is forgivable, since he was vexed over his friend, schol. T 13.203, 6-7).67 The scholiast is apologetic, explaining that Ajax’s behavior is acceptable, since it was motivated by an especially Greek feeling, friendship.68 But the earlier part of this comment suggests that his primary reaction to

Ajax’s action is one approaching pleasure:

θαυμαστῶς {δὲ} τῇ ἐπεργασίᾳ ἐχρήσατο ὁ ποιητὴς εἰπὼν “κεφαλὴν κόψεν·” ὁ μὲν γὰρ Ἕκτωρ τοῦ Ἀμφιμάχου οὐδὲ τὸ κράνος ἀφελεῖν ἠδυνήθη, ὁ δὲ Ἕλλην οὐ

66 On this theme, see Lendon 2000; Segal 1971; and Redfield 1994, 168-69. 67 See also schol. A 17.126, in which Achilles’ maltreatment of Hector’s corpse is likewise said to be forgivable (συγγνωστὸς) on account of the fact that Hector intended to maltreat Patroclus’ corpse. 68 See e.g. the bT scholium on 8.345-47, when the Achaeans halt their retreat: οὐχ ὥσπερ οἱ Τρῶες “πεφυζότες ἠΰτε νεβροί.” φιλάλληλον γὰρ καὶ αἰδέσιμον τὸ Ἑλληνικόν. εὔχονται γοῦν θεοῖς καὶ ἀλλήλους παρακαλοῦσιν ([They are] not like the Trojans, “fleeing like fawns”; for fellow-feeling and respect are Greek. Therefore they pray to the gods and encourage each other).

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μόνον τὰ ὅπλα ἀπεσύλησεν τοῦ Ἰμβρίου, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ σῶμα ἐλυμήνατο. (schol. bT 13.203, 2-6)

And the poet, saying “he hewed away his head,” made marvelous use of this detail; for Hector was not even able to remove the helmet of Amphimachus, but the Greek not only stripped off Imbrios’ armor, but also outraged his corpse.

In this reading, what some criticized as un-Greek becomes in the scholiast’s reading an example of Greek superiority over the Trojans. Ajax, who becomes here simply ὁ Ἕλλην, is better than the Trojan Hector, who struggled shortly before even to strip a corpse. The justification of Ajax’s brutal deed becomes, in a sense, a praise of that very action. We see here, again, that philhellenism underlies the scholiast’s interest in justice, and what would be by normal standards an outrage is transformed into a tribute to the Greeks.

In each of the cases we have surveyed thus far, the scholiasts have defended some behavior that is subject to criticism for savagery. In his discussion of these and similar comments, Schmidt attributes to the scholiast a desire to protect “the Hellenic ideal” by appealing to “exceptional circumstances.”69 But this argument does not seem to me to go far enough; the scholiast’s comments here are not merely defensive; they seem eager to explain that those who are killed, dismembered, or ripped from the wombs of their mothers actually deserved to meet such an end, and they wish for these very things to happen.

In two further comments, this desire becomes slightly more explicit, and we can see it in positive rather than apologetic terms. Both of these are taken from the narrative surrounding the battle and death of Patroclus. This, I think, is significant in itself, since, as we have seen above, Patroclus is clearly a favorite of the scholiasts’, and I argue that their sympathy for him makes their pleasure in the death of his enemies all the more

69 Schmidt 2011, 134-36.

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pronounced, and more explicit than we find it elsewhere in the scholia. First, consider a brief note discussing a scene near the beginning of Patroclus’ aristeia, when he is starting to kill in earnest—slaying twelve men in twenty lines: συντόμως ἅμα καὶ κεχαρισμένως

τῷ ἀκροατῇ περὶ τῶν ἐκδικουμένων Ἑλλήνων ([He narrates] about the revenge of the

Greeks concisely and pleasantly for the reader, schol. bT 16.399-418).70 Here, the language of pleasure (<χαρίζομαι) is combined with that of justice (<δίκη). The poet

(through Patroclus) is making up for the Greeks’ earlier losses by killing off so many of the Trojans all at once, and this violent turn of events is to be greeted with delight. The same expression is used in a scholium in book 7 to describe the readers’ response when the lot of Ajax is drawn to fight against Hector.71 The selection of an accomplished warrior, and the death of a number of Trojans are both happy occurrences for the reader.

There is no sympathy for the twelve men who fall at his hands, only delight, and this delight is fully justified: the Trojans had it coming.

We find this emotional satisfaction expressed even more clearly in a comment on the scene of Euphorbos’ death. As we have seen, the narrative of his fall includes a simile likening him to a tender sapling that has been destroyed,72 and this is preceded by a description that draws attention to his hair:

ἀντικρὺ δ’ ἁπαλοῖο δι’ αὐχένος ἤλυθ’ ἀκωκή, δούπησεν δὲ πεσών, ἀράβησε δὲ τεύχε’ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ. αἵματί οἱ δεύοντο κόμαι Χαρίτεσσιν ὁμοῖαι πλοχμοί θ’, οἳ χρυσῷ τε καὶ ἀργύρῳ ἐσφήκωντο. (Il. 17.49-58)

And clean through the soft part of the neck the spearpoint was driven. He fell, thunderously, and his armour clattered upon him,

70 Clearly, the scholiast has double standards when it comes to concisely narrated deaths. As we saw above, when Hector was the one doing the killing, the briefness (βραχυλογία) was meant to detract from his glory; here, when a Greek is doing the killing, the opposite holds true. 71 κεχαρισμένως τῷ ἀκροατῇ (schol. bT 7.182b, 2) 72 The text is quoted in chapter 1, page 48.

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and his hair, lovely as the Graces, was splattered with blood, those braided locks caught waspwise in gold and silver.

This focus on the beauty of the young man, as we saw in chapter 1, has marked the scene for many readers as a meditation on the tragedy of his death; it is a place where Homer seems to humanize and respect the enemy. Weil cites it as an example, in fact, of the way that, “the enemy’s misfortunes are possibly more sharply felt” by Homer than those of the Greeks.73 Dué uses this scene, placing special emphasis on the image of blossoms, as an example of what she identifies as “a central theme of the poem: the death of glorious young men in battle and the sadness of that death.”74 Griffin suggests that it illustrates the tragic motif of “beauty brought low,” along with the helmet of Patroclus; for him, both events evince the same feeling of pity. Each of these readers sees the death as something to be lamented, a painful loss.75 But for the scholiast, its meaning is just the opposite:

Οὐκ εἰκῆ ἡ ἐπεξεργασία τῆς κόμης· ἀλλ’ ἐπεὶ ἔφθη εἰπὼν „μιάνθησαν δὲ ἔθειραι / αἵματι καὶ κονίῃσι πάρος γε μὲν οὐ θέμις ἦεν / ἱππόκομον πήληκα μιαίνεσθαι“ παραμυθίαν εἰσφέρει τοῖς λυπουμένοις ὑπὲρ Πατρόκλου, ψευδεῖς ἀντιπαραθεὶς τρίχας ταῖς οὐ ψευδέσιν. (schol. bT 17.51)

This elaboration of the hair is not at random; but since he said before “the plumes above it were defiled / by blood and dust. Before this time it had not been permitted / to defile in the dust this great helmet crested in horse-hair,” he brings consolation to those grieving over Patroclus, contrasting the false hair with the real.

The soiling of Euphorbos’ hair, like as it is to that of the Graces, is seen here to be comforting to the reader. There is a clear notion of justice at play here—an alternate form of the note reads “εἰς ἐκδικίαν καὶ παραμυθίαν” (for revenge and consolation, schol. A

17.51), using the same language that earlier denoted the readers’ pleasure with Patroclus’

73 Weil 1965, 25. 74 Dué 2007, 238. 75 We might also consider here the testimony of Dio Chrysostom, who observes in the Encomium of Hair that the poet laments (ὠδύρετο) the spoiling of the beautiful Euphorbos’ hair. But perhaps we ought not take this too seriously, given the context.

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justified killing of so many Trojans—but it is of a peculiar kind. Euphorbos is not said to be punished, as several other warriors were, for any crime or shortcoming.76 Indeed, the helmet was not disturbed by Euphorbos, but by Apollo. The point of orientation for the justice is the reader himself, who has seen the helmet defiled, and sees the lovely hair defiled, and takes pleasure that one has made up for the other. The “justice” served, then, is emotional rather than logical. The scholiast praises the poet as one who masterfully accounts for the emotions of his audience, but he reveals in the process his own emotional attachment to Patroclus, and his willingness to take comfort in the mangling of another young man’s beauty.

We are very far here from any notion of the scholiasts as readers sensitive to the tragedy of the loss of human life. They can indeed sympathize with Patroclus, as we saw above, but not with his victims, and certainly not with his killer. They make much use of the language of sympathy, and often appeal to justice, but beneath all of this, we can see that they are so passionately attached to the heroes of the story—and particularly the

Greeks—that they can take positive pleasure in the deaths of lesser characters—and particularly the Trojans.

5. Conclusion: The Use and Abuse of Homeric Death

Throughout this exploration, the scholiasts’ partiality toward the Greeks has emerged as a constant theme. We have seen that their comments on death reveal a variety of responses, ranging from sympathy to moralizing to triumph, but that each of these responses is deeply bound up with questions of identity. This tendency of theirs to make

76 Another note (schol. bT 16.814-15) does suggest that the poet was mocking Euphorbos by making him run away from Patroclus after wounding him, but there is no mention of this behavior here.

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the epic’s death scenes a locus for exploring (or asserting) the difference between Greek and barbarian is striking, at times even shocking, as we saw especially in the previous section, where the slaughter of Trojans was greeted with something approaching delight.

We might well speculate that this mode of reading reflects some of the scholiasts’ own anxieties, or those of their community, in light of their particular cultural situation.

Unfortunately, though, given the state of our knowledge about their identity and the time and place in which they worked, any conjectures we might make would have to be very shaky indeed. Are they—like the people of Borysthenes in Dio’s account77—using

Homer as a way of maintaining their own Greek identity, of differentiating themselves from others whom they perceive as barbarians? Or does their favoritism for the Greeks reflect their view of the Romans, those latter-day Trojans? But rather than indulging in such speculations, I would like to conclude this chapter with a brief attempt to situate the scholiasts’ philhellenism within the broader reception of the Iliad in antiquity. This endeavor will in turn prompt some final reflections on the issues with which I began this study.

We should note first that the scholiasts’ position is by no means unprecedented.

Several centuries before, we find Isocrates adopting a very similar approach in the

Panegyricus, where he discusses the Iliad in the context of his proposed venture against the Persians. For him, Homer was a poet who “nobly glorified the men who fought against the barbarians” (καλῶς τοὺς πολεμήσαντας τοῖς βαρβάροις ἐνεκωμίασεν,

77 Dio 36.9: καὶ τἄλλα οὐκέτι σαφῶς ἑλληνίζοντες διὰ τὸ ἐν μέσοις οἰκεῖν τοῖς βαρβάροις ὅμως τήν γε Ἰλιάδα ὀλίγου πάντες ἴσασιν ἀπὸ στόματος (And although in general they no longer speak Greek distinctly, because they live in the midst of barbarians, still almost all at least know the Iliad by heart) (Text and translation from Cohoon and Crosby 1940). On the significance of this passage, see Zeitlin 2001, 202-03.

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4.159).78 Like the later scholiasts, he took the poem as an encomium,79 and not of heroes in general but of specifically Greek heroes. Nor is this fact merely an intellectual curiosity; he goes on to state that Homer’s intention, and the intention of the polis in promoting his works, is to make citizens emulate the deeds of the Greek heroes:

… ἳνα πολλάκις ἀκούοντες τῶν ἐπῶν ἐκμανθάνωμεν τὴν ἔχθραν τὴν ὑπάρχουσαν πρὸς αὐτούς, καὶ ζηλοῦντες τὰς ἀρετὰς τῶν στρατευσαμένων τῶν αὐτῶν ἔργων ἐκείνοις ἐπιθυμῶμεν

… in order that we, hearing his verses over and over again, may learn by heart the enmity which stands from of old between us and them, and that we, admiring the valor of those who were in the war against Troy, may conceive a passion for like deeds.

In this reading, Homer is himself opposed to the barbarians, and he hopes to reveal and foster this enmity (ἔχθραν) toward them.

Some scholars take Isocrates’ position as representative of the Iliad’s reception within antiquity, and see the scholiasts as simply reflecting this traditional view.80 Two factors, however, speak against making this connection. First, there is a huge gap— chronological and cultural—between the Panegyricus and the scholia, such that positing an essential continuity between the two seems a stretch, without further evidence to connect them.81 Second, this view assumes that Isocrates’ stance is typical, whereas it

78 Translation from Norlin 1928. 79 Nagy (1990, 197) similarly understands the epic as related to praise poetry, though without the nationalistic overtones. He stresses especially Aristotle’s explanation of epic’s roots in hymns and encomia (ὕμνους καὶ ἐγκώμια, Poetics 1448b27). 80 Buffière 1956, 354-55; Van der Valk 1964, 1:474 n335. Interestingly, both scholars think that the Iliad itself is deeply philhellene. As Buffière puts it: “Nulle oeuvre poétique n’est plus salutaire que l’Iliade pour inculquer au coeur d’un Grec cette haine nécessaire du barbare” (354). 81 One might compare the passage in Dio Chrysostom’s Trojan Oration (11.147) in which the speaker suggests that Homer’s (fictional) tale had the advantage of decreasing the Greeks’ terror at the prospect of facing an Asian enemy (ὅπως μὴ θορυβηθῶσιν, ἐὰν γένηται πόλεμος αὐτοῖς πρὸς τοὺς ἐκ τῆς Ἀσίας). But this oration, too, seems to discourage one from taking its claims too seriously. On this text, see Kim 2010, ch. 4.

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may actually be quite idiosyncratic, if not downright disingenuous. Such is the position of

Stephen Halliwell:

Isocrates is… engaging in a tendentious hermeneutics which wrenches the Iliad into the service of fourth-century politics. Those critics of Homer who classified him as an expert on (inter alia) warfare were perhaps naively simplifying or abbreviating the status of the Iliad’s themes. But Isocrates is deforming the Iliad’s world, and its values, for his own purposes.82

In this understanding, Isocrates’ take on the Iliad is hyperbolic, and far removed from any conventional way of reading the epic. And, as we might also note, it conflicts with the view, widespread in the ancient world, that Homer was a cosmopolitan, universal poet.83

Some caution is necessary, then, in linking the scholiasts with Isocrates as reflecting a common, nationalistic interpretation of the Iliad.

We might also look to the Hellenistic scholarly tradition for the (or at least a) source of the scholiasts’ philhellenism. Some scholars have noticed, for instance, that

Aristarchus occasionally shows signs of prejudice against the Trojans. At one point, he changes Zenodotus’ text slightly in order to make Hector appear more boastful and less pious, taking this attitude as more appropriate to his character.84 Likewise, he sometimes seems eager to protect the reputation of the Greeks, e.g. when he changes a preposition in

5.249 to make it seem that Sthenelos did not want to flee from Aeneas, thus showing that he was no coward.85 On account of comments like these, Van der Valk sees in

Aristarchus’ thought a milder version of the scholiast’s philhellenism.86 Schmidt likewise posits that Aristarchus understood “that Homer favours the Greeks,” and cites to support

82 Halliwell 2011, 297. 83 As Graziosi (2002, 58) discusses, in the earliest extant references to Homer, his audience “is not identified with a specific group of people or restricted to a particular geographic place.” See also Graziosi’s discussion of ancient testimonia on the poet’s birthplace (62-86). 84 Schol. A 8.526. See, along the same lines, schol. A 8.535-37. 85 Schol. A 5.249. Both examples are from Van der Valk (in next note). 86 Van der Valk 1964, 1:474-79.

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this claim an article by Schenkeveld.87 But Schenkeveld’s article hardly proves this point.

He does hold that “Homer showed sympathy for the character of Achilles,” but his primary objective is to show the systematic nature of Aristarchus’ literary judgments. In fact, I think that his argument undercuts the notion that the scholar was philhellene. He shows that Aristarchus does not generally athetise lines because of moral problems, as some scholars have suggested, but for the sake of consistency of character,88 and we might extend this argument to the two passages cited above, in which Hector is made to seem more boastful and Sthenelos more brave. In both cases, Aristarchus’ changes may have been motivated by a desire to make the scenes fit better with these characters’ overall quality, rather than to make them conform to the Hellenic ideal or its opposite.

Notably, none of Aristarchus’ comments in this context refers to Greekness or barbarism at all,89 only to the character of the individuals involved. The case for Aristarchus’ philhellenism thus seems rather tenuous; but even if we grant that he does favor the

Greeks, there remains an enormous distance between his approach to the Greek/barbarian distinction and the much more pronounced one shown by the later scholiasts.

So, while the philhellene reading of the Iliad was certainly not an innovation of the scholiasts’, neither was it typical of the poem’s reception. Rather, I suggest, it is a possibility presented by the text of the epic itself, one that can be activated, highlighted, and made use of, as circumstances or preferences dictate. So Isocrates, eager to make war on the Persians, could see Homer as a champion of the Greeks against the barbarians; and the scholiasts, perceiving, perhaps, some kind of cultural crisis in their own day, could

87 Schmidt 2011, 123. 88 Schenkeveld 1970, 165-70. 89 Though Aristonicus does use the term βάρβαροι to describe the Trojans, and Schmidt (2011, 130-31) sees this as reflecting Aristarchus’ own usage.

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find in his poem a celebration of Greek values. Both, of course, distort the text rather egregiously in the process, at least in the eyes of contemporary readers (myself included), who are accustomed to see deep and impartial humanity in the Iliad, not vituperative partisanship.

But this interpretive move, and the distortion it entails, should come as no surprise.

As I argued in chapter 1, the nature of the Iliad’s deaths dictates that any universalizing interpretation of them must do them some degree of violence. For they are extremely varied in both detail and character, and they are also underdetermined. This means that they (or a selection of them) can be used to support many different interpretations, each compelling in some respects, but suspect in others. Thus the modern readings that I surveyed in chapter 1 found reflected in the Iliadic deaths varying degrees of levity and seriousness, tenderness and brutality, universality and chauvinism. The epic poets I examined in the following two chapters did much the same. For Apollonius, the Iliad made the deaths of its warriors too beautiful, too meaningful; and he saw this as an aesthetic and ethical problem that needed to be exposed. For Quintus, by contrast, the cultural and emotional aspects of individuals’ deaths were relatively unimportant; what he found interesting in them, and what he brought out in the deaths in his own epic, was their spectacularity, their ability to stimulate aesthetic pleasure. Both these responses, as I showed, can be linked with the poets’ broader projects as well as their particular cultural circumstances. The scholiasts, in finding a demonstration of Hellenic superiority in the deaths, are only offering another variant reading, one that also has some basis, however faint, in the characteristics of the Iliad’s presentation of death.

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We might evaluate these several readings according to how closely or loosely they adhere to (what we perceive as) the spirit of the epic, but this would be to miss a valuable opportunity. For, by paying careful attention to the diverse ways in which the deaths in the Iliad were found and made to have meaning, we can learn a great deal not only about the receiving texts and their relationship to Homer, but also about the Iliad itself, its potentialities, its capacity to generate and fuel discourse about issues of perennial concern: cultural identity, the meaning of death and warfare, or the ethics and aesthetics of violence, and of the poetry that describes it.

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Appendices

In the following pages, I have provided a total of 10 appendices, 5 each for the Iliad and the Posthomerica. These appendices record details about the deaths in the two epics for the sake of quantitative and other comparisons. The appendices are as follows: 1. A listing of all named individuals slain in battle in each epic, with the individual who kills each listed, and with the victim’s side noted (T for Trojan or ally, A for Achaean). Those receiving a biography and/or a simile are designated as such (major characters receive an M in the biography category). The wound suffered by each individual is also tabulated: N means that no wound is mentioned, L that location only is specified, S indicates a simple wound, and G a graphic one. 2. A listing of individuals who receive biographies at the moment of death. These are categorized as basic (B), pathetic (P) or detailed (D). For each, the length of the biography is noted and a brief description provided. 3. A listing of individuals who receive similes in death, with a brief description of each simile. Major characters are also specified. 4. A listing of individuals receiving graphic wounds, with indications of the location of the wound and its effects. 5. A listing of incidents of large-scale slaughter, i.e. the killing of a collection of unnamed warriors in a single episode. These are categorized as those describing general slaughter (G), side-specific slaughter (S), and slaughter enacted by an individual (I). The side of the victims is also noted: T for Trojan and allies, A for Achaean, and B for both. Similes are also provided in cases when they are used to describe the slaughter.

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1.1 Individual Deaths in the Iliad

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 4.457 Echepolos Antilochos T X S 4.463 Elephenor Agenor A L 4.473 Simoeisios Ajax T X X S 4.491 Leukos Antiphos A L 4.499 Demokoon Odysseus T X S 4.517 Diores Peiros A G 4.527 Peiros Thoas T X S 5.9 Phegeus Diomedes T X L 5.38 Odios Agamemnon T S 5.43 Phaistos Idomeneus T X L 5.49 Skamandrios Menelaus T X S 5.59 Phereklos Meriones T X S 5.69 Pedaios Meges T X G 5.76 Hypsenor Eurypolos T X G 5.144 Astynoos Diomedes T L 5.144 Hyperion Diomedes T G 5.148 Abas Diomedes T X N 5.148 Polyidos Diomedes T X N 5.152 Xanthos Diomedes T X N 5.152 Thoon Diomedes T X N 5.160 Echemmon Diomedes T X N 5.160 Chromios Diomedes T X N 5.290. Pandarus Diomedes T M G 5.534 Deikoon Agamemnon T X L 5.541 Krethon Aeneas A X X N 5.541 Orsilochos Aeneas A X X N 5.576 Pylaemenes Menelaus T L 5.580 Mydon Antilochos T G 5.608 Menesthes Hector A N 5.608 Anchialos Hector A N 5.612 Amphios Ajax T X L 5.655 Tlepolemos Sarpedon A M S 5.677 Koiranos Odysseus T N 5.677 Alastor Odysseus T N 5.677 Chromios Odysseus T N 5.678 Alkandros Odysseus T N 5.678 Halios Odysseus T N 5.678 Noemon Odysseus T N 5.678 Prutanis Odysseus T N 5.705 Teuthras Hector A N 5.705 Orestes Hector A N 5.706 Trechos Hector A N 5.706 Oinomaos Hector A N 5.707 Helenos Hector A N 5.707 Oresbion Hector A X N 5.682 Periphas Ares A N 6.7 Akamas Ajax T X S 6.12 Axylos Diomedes T X N 6.18 Kalesios Diomedes T N 6.20 Dresis Euryalos T N

240

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 6.20 Opheltios Euryalos T N 6.21 Aisepos Euryalos T X N 6.21 Pedasos Euryalos T X N 6.29 Astualos Polypoites T N 6.30 Pidutes Odysseus T L 6.31 Aretaon Teucer T N 6.32 Ableros Antilochos T N 6.33 Elatos Agamemnon T X N 6.35 Phulakos Leitos T N 6.36 Melanthios Eurypolos T N 6.37 Adrastos Agamemnon T L 7.8 Menesthios Paris A X N 7.11 Eioneus Hector A L 7.13 Iphinoos Glaukos A L 8.119 Eniopeus Diomedes T L 8.254 Agelaos Diomedes T S 8.274 Orsilochos Teucer T N 8.274 Ormenos Teucer T N 8.274 Ophelestes Teucer T N 8.275 Daitor Teucer T N 8.275 Chromios Teucer T N 8.275 Lukophontes Teucer T N 8.276 Amopaon Teucer T N 8.276 Melanippos Teucer T N 8.302 Gorgythion Teucer T X X L 8.312 Archeptolemos Teucer T L 11.92 Bienor Agamemnon T N 11.93 Oileus Agamemnon T G 11.101 Isos Agamemnon T X X L 11.101 Antiphos Agamemnon T X X L 11.143 Peisander Agamemnon T X L 11.143 Hippolochos Agamemnon T X G 11.221 Iphidamas Agamemnon T X L 11.256 Koön Agamemnon T G 11.301 Asaios Hector A N 11.301 Autonoos Hector A N 11.301 Opites Hector A N 11.302 Dolops Hector A N 11.302 Opheltios Hector A N 11.302 Agelaos Hector A N 11.303 Aisumnos Hector A N 11.303 Oros Hector A N 11.303 Ipponoos Hector A N 11.320 Thymbraios Diomedes T L 11.322 Molion Odysseus T N 11.329 Adrastos Diomedes T X N 11.329 Amphios Diomedes T X N 11.335 Hippodamos Odysseus T N 11.335 Hypeirochos Odysseus T N 11.338 Agastrophos Diomedes T L 11.420 Deiopites Odysseus T L 11.422 Thoon Odysseus T N

241

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 11.422 Ennomos Odysseus T N 11.423 Chersidamas Odysseus T L 11.426 Charops Odysseus T N 11.446 Sokos Odysseus T L 11.489 Doryklos Ajax T N 11.490 Pandokos Ajax T N 11.491 Lysandros Ajax T N 11.491 Pyrasos Ajax T N 11.491 Pylartes Ajax T N 11.578 Apisaon Eurypolos T L 12.183 Damasos Polypoites and Leonteus T G 12.187 Pylon Polypoites T N 12.187 Ormenos Polypoites T N 12.188 Ippomachos Leonteus T L 12.190 Antiphates Leonteus T N 12.193 Menon Leonteus T N 12.193 Iamenos Leonteus T N 12.193 Orestes Leonteus T N 12.379 Epikles Ajax T X G 12.394 Alkmaon Sarpedon A N 13.170 Imbrios Teucer T X X L 13.189 Amphimachos Hector A L 13.363 Othryoneus Idomeneus T X L 13.384 Asios Idomeneus T M X S 13.384 Charioteer Antilochos T L 13.411 Hypsenor Deiphobus A L 13.428 Alkathoös Idomeneus T X G 13.506 Oinomaos Idomeneus T G 13.518 Askalaphos Deiphobus A M L 13.541 Aphareus Aineas A L 13.545 Thoon Antilochos T G 13.568 Adamas Meriones T X L 13.576 Deipyros Helenos A L 13.601 Peisandros Menelaus T G 13.650 Harpalion Meriones T X X G 13.663 Euchenor Paris A X L 14.443 Satnios Oilean Ajax T X L 14.451 Prothoenor Poulydamas A S 14.463 Archelochos Ajax T G 14.476 Promachos Akamas A N 14.489 Ilioneus Peneleos T X G 14.511 Hyrtion Ajax T N 14.513 Phalkes Antilochos T N 14.513 Mermeros Antilochos T N 14.514 Morys Meriones T N 14.514 Hippotion Meriones T N 14.515 Prothoon Teucer T N 14.515 Periphetes Teucer T N 14.516 Hyperenor Menelaus T G 15.329 Stichios Hector A N 15.329 Archesilaos Hector A N 15.332 Medon Aeneas A X N

242

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 15.332 Iasos Aeneas A X N 15.339 Mekistes Polydamas A N 15.339 Echios Polites A N 15.340 Klonios Agenor A N 15.341 Deioxos Paris A S 15.420 Kaletor Ajax T L 15.429 Lykophron Hector A X L 15.445 Kleitos Teucer T L 15.515 Schedios Hector A N 15.516 Laodamas Ajax T N 15.518 Otos Polydamas A N 15.523 Kroismos Meges T L 15.541 Dolops Meges and Menelaus T X S 15.576 Melanippos Antilochos T X X L 15.638 Periphetes Hector A X L 16.287 Pyraichmes Patroclus T X L 16.308 Areilykos Patroclus T S 16.312 Thoas Meleaus T L 16.314 Amphiklos Meges T G 16.318 Atymnios Antilochos T X L 16.321 Maris Thrasymedes T X G 16.330 Kleoboulos Oilean Ajax T G 16.335 Lykon Peneleos T G 16.342 Akamas Meriones T L 16.345 Erymas Idomeneus T G 16.399 Pronoos Patroclus T L 16.401 Thestor Patroclus T X G 16.411 Erylaos Patroclus T G 16. 415 Erymas Patroclus T N 16.415 Amphoteros Patroclus T N 16.415 Epaltes Patroclus T N 16.416 Tleplemos Patroclus T N 16.416 Echios Patroclus T N 16.416 Pyris Patroclus T N 16.417 Ipheas Patroclus T N 16.417 Euippos Patroclus T N 16.417 Polymelos Patroclus T N 16.463 Thrasymelos Patroclus T L 16.481 Sarpedon Patroclus T M X L 16.571 Epeigeus Hector A X G 16.586 Sthenelaos Patroclus T G 16.594 Bathykles Glaukos A X L 16.604 Laogonos Meriones T X L 16.694 Adrestos Patroclus T N 16.694 Autonoos Patroclus T N 16.694 Echeklos Patroclus T N 16.695 Perimos Patroclus T N 16.695 Epistor Patroclus T N 16.695 Melanippos Patroclus T N 16.696 Elasos Patroclus T N 16.696 Moulios Patroclus T N 16.696 Pylartes Patroclus T N

243

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 16.738 Kebriones Patroclus T M X G 16.821 Patroclus Hector A M X S 17.47 Euphorbos Menelaus T M X S 17.288 Hippothoös Ajax T G 17.306 Schedios Ajax A X S 17.312 Phorkys Ajax T G 17.344 Leokritos Aineas A N 17.348 Apisaon Lykomedes T X L 17.519 Aretos Automedon T X L 17.578 Podes Menelaus T X L 17.614 Koiranos Hector A X G 20.382 Iphition Achilles T X G 20.395 Demoleon Achilles T G 20.402 Hippodamas Achilles T X L 20.407 Polydoros Achilles T X G 20.455 Dryops Achilles T L 20.458 Demouchos Achilles T L 20.460 Laogonos Achilles T N 20.460 Dardanos Achilles T N 20.463 Tros Achilles T G 20.472 Moulios Achilles T S 20.474 Echeklos Achilles T G 20.478 Deukalion Achilles T G 20.485 Rhigmos Achilles T X L 20.487 Ariethoos Achilles T L 21.114 Lykaon Achilles T X G 21.179 Asteropaios Achilles T M G 21.209 Thersilochos Achilles T N 21.209 Mydon Achilles T N 21.209 Astypylos Achilles T N 21.210 Mnesos Achilles T N 21.210 Thrasios Achilles T N 21.210 Ainios Achilles T N 21.210 Ophelestes Achilles T N 22.324 Hector Achilles T M S

244

1.2 Biographies in the Iliad

Locus Slain Side Type Length Content 4.474-78 Simoeisios T P 5 birth beside river; parents 4.500 Demokoon T B 1 arrival 4.520 Peiros T B 1 arrival 5.9-11 Phegeus T P 3 occupation of father (priest) 5.44 Phaistos T B 1 arrival 5.51-52 Skamandrios T P 2 skills, inability to help 5.60-64 Phereklos T D 5 father's history (shipbuilder) 5.70-71 Pedaios T P 2 mother's care 5.77-78 Hypsenor T B 1.5 father (priest) 5.149-50 Abas and Polyidos T P 2 father (seer) 5.153-54; Xanthos and Thoon T P 5 age of father; division of property 156-58 5.535-36 Deikoon T B 2 honored; good fighter 5.543-52 Krethon and Orsilochos A D 10 lineage; arrival 5.612-14 Amphios T B 2.5 wealth; arrival 5.708-10 Oresbion A B 3 homeland; wealth 6.7 Akamas T B 0.5 best among thracians 6.13-15 Axylos T P 3 wealth; kindness 6.21-26 Aisepos and Pedasos T B 5.5 heritage, secret birth 6.34-35 Elatos T B 1.5 homeland 7.9-10 Menesthios A B 1.5 parents 8.304-05 Gorgythion T B 2 mother, birth 11.104-06 Isos and Antiphos T B 2.5 former capture 11.123-25 Peisander and T D 2.5 father (bribed by Paris) Hippolochos 11.222-30; Iphidamas T P 13 family; arrival; bride 242-45 11.329-32 Adrastos and Amphios T P 3.5 occupation of father (seer) 13.172-76 Imbrios T B 5 marriage; arrival 13.364-69 Othryoneus T D 6 came to marry Kassandra 13.428-33 Alkathoös T P 5.5 virtues of bride 13.644-45 Harpalion T P 2 arrival with father, no retrun 13.663-70 Euchenor A D 8 seer father, choice 14.444-45 Satnios T B 2 birth by river 14.490-92 Ilioneus T P 2.5 father loved by Hermes 15.333-36 Medon A B 4 manslaughter 15.337-38 Iasos A B 2 lineage 15.431-32 Lykophron A B 1.5 manslaughter 15.526-27 Dolops T B 2 lineage; skill 15.547-51 Melanippos T B 4.5 occupation (herdsman); arrival 15.639-43 Periphetes A D 4.5 lineager (messenger for Eurystheus); skill 16.287-88 Pyraichmes T B 1.5 arrival 16.328-29 Atymnios and Maris T D 2 lineage (Chimaera) 16.572-76 Epeigeus A B 5 manslaughter; arrival 16.595-96 Bathykles A B 1.5 homeland; wealth 16.604-05 Laogonos T B 1.5 father (priest) 17.307-08 Schedios A B 1.5 homeland 17.350-51 Apisaon T B 2 arrival; prowess 17.575-77 Podes T B 3 friend to Hector

245

Locus Slain Side Type Length Content 17.611 Koiranos A B 1 arrival 20.384-85 Iphition T B 2 birth beside mountain 20.408-10 Polydoros T P 3 father's advice; skills 20.485 Rhigmos T B 1 arrival 21.35-46 Lykaon T P 11 former capture

246

1.3 Death Similes in the Iliad

Locus Slain Slayer Side Major Simile 4.462 Echepolos Antilochos T tower (πύργος) 4.482-87 Simoeisios Ajax T poplar (αἴγειρος) felled by chariotmaker (ἁρματοπηγὸς) 5.161-62 Echemmon Diomedes T Lion killing cattle (λέων ἐν βουσὶ) and Chromios 5.554-58 Krethon and Aeneas A Lions (λέοντε) killed with weapons (ὀξέϊ Orsilochus χαλκῷ) 5.560. Krethon and Aeneas A Fir trees (ἐλάτῃσιν) Orsilochus 8.306-07 Gorgythion Teucer T Poppy (μήκων) in garden 11.113-19 Isos and Agamemnon T Lion (λέων) killing fawns (ἐλάφοιο… νήπια Antiphos τέκνα) 12.385 Epikles Ajax T Diver (ἀρνευτῆρι) 13.178-80 Imbrios Teucer T Ash (μελίη) cut with bronze (χαλκῷ) 13.389-91 Asios Idomeneus T Tree (δρῦς … ἢ … ἀχερωῒς … ἠὲ πίτυς) cut by carpenters (τέκτονες) 13.571-72 Adamas Meriones T Ox (βοῦς) dragged by herdsmen (βουκόλοι) 13.654-55 Harpalion Meriones T Worm (σκώληξ) 15.579-81 Melanippos Antilochos T Dog (κύων) attacking fawn (νεβρῷ) 16.406-08 Thestor Patroclus T Man catching a fish (ἰχθὺν) 16.482-84 Sarpedon Patroclus T X [=13.389-91 16.487-89 Sarpedon Patroclus T X Lion (λέων) killing bull (ταῦρον) 16.742 Kebriones Patroclus T X Diver (ἀρνευτῆρι) 16.823-26 Patroclus Hector A X Lion ( λέων) killing boar (σῦν ἀκάμαντα) 17.53-58 Euphorbos Meleaus T X Olive sapling (ἔρνος… ἐριθηλὲς ἐλαίης) blown over by storm 17.61-67 Euphorbos Menelaos T X Lion killing female cow (βοῦν) 17.520-22 Aretos Automedon T Ox (βοὸς) killed with an axe (πέλεκυν) 20.403-05 Hippodamas Achilles T Bull (ταῦρος) sacrificed to Poseidon

247

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248

1.4 Graphic Wounds in the Iliad

Locus Slain Slayer Side Wound Position Wound Effect 4.517 Diores Peiros A παρὰ σφυρὸν (518); παρ' ὀμφαλόν χύντο χαμαὶ χολάδες (526) (525) 5.69 Pedaios Meges T κεφαλῆς κατὰ ἰνίον (73) ὑπὸ γλῶσσαν τάμε χαλκός (74) 5.76 Hypsenor Eurypolos T ὦμον (80) αἱματόεσσα δὲ χεὶρ πεδίῳ πέσε (82) 5.144 Hyperion Diomedes T κληῖδα (146) ἀπὸ δ' αὐχένος ὦμον ἐέργαθεν ἠδ' ἀπὸ νώτου (147) 5.290 Pandarus Diomedes T ῥῖνα παρ' ὀφθαλμόν (291) λευκοὺς δ' ἐπέρησεν ὀδόντας / τοῦ δ' ἀπὸ μὲν γλῶσσαν πρυμνὴν τάμε (291-92) 5.580 Mydon Antilochos T ἀγκῶνα (582); κόρσην (584) stuck in sand (ἐν κονίῃσιν ἐπὶ βρεχμόν τε καὶ ὤμους, 586) 11.93 Oileus Agamemnon T μετώπιον (95) ἐγκέφαλος δὲ / ἔνδον ἅπας πεπάλακτο (97-98) 11.143 Hippolochos Agamemnon T αὐχένα (146) χεῖρας ἀπὸ ξίφεϊ τμήξας (146) 11.256 Koon Agamemnon T not mentioned κάρη ἀπέκοψε (261) 12.183 Damasos Polypoites T κυνέης διὰ (183) ἐγκέφαλος δὲ / ἔνδον ἅπας πεπάλακτο (185-86) and Leonteus 12.379 Epikles Ajax T κυνέην (384) σὺν δ' ὀστέ' ἄραξε (384) 13.429 Alkathoos Idomeneus T στῆθος μέσον (438) δόρυ δ' ἐν κραδίῃ ἐπεπήγει / ἥ ῥά οἱ ἀσπαίρουσα καὶ οὐρίαχον πελέμιξεν (442-43) 13.506 Oinomaos Idomeneus T γαστέρα μέσσην (506) διὰ δ' ἔντερα χαλκὸς / ἤφυσ' (507-08) 13.545 Thoon Antilochos T not mentioned ἀπὸ δὲ φλέβα πᾶσαν ἔκερσεν (546) 13.601 Peisandros Menelaus T ῥινὸς ὕπερ πυμάτης (616) τὼ δέ οἱ ὄσσε / πὰρ ποσὶν αἱματόεντα χαμαὶ πέσον ἐν κονίῃσιν (616-17) 13.650 Harpalion Meriones T γλουτὸν κάτα δεξιόν (651) ἐκ δ' αἷμα μέλαν ῥέε, δεῦε δὲ γαῖαν (655) 14.463 Archelochos Ajax T κεφαλῆς τε καὶ αὐχένος ἐν συνεοχμῷ κεφαλὴ στόμα τε ῥῖνές τε / οὔδεϊ πλῆντ' (467-68\) (465) 14.489 Ilioneus Peneleos T ὑπ' ὀφρύος (493); αὐχένα μέσσον ἐκ δ' ὦσε γλήνην… (494); ἔγχος / ἦεν ἐν ὀφθαλμῷ (498-99) (497) 14.516 Hyperenor Menelaus T κὰλ λαπάρην (517) διὰ δ' ἔντερα χαλκὸς ἄφυσσε (517) 16.314 Amphiklos Meges T πρυμνὸν σκέλος (314) νεῦρα διεσχίσθη (316) 16.321 Maris Thrasymedes T ὦμον (323) πρυμνὸν δὲ βραχίονα δουρὸς ἀκωκὴ / δρύψ' ἀπὸ μυώνων (323-24) 16.330 Kleoboulos Oilean Ajax T αὐχένα (332) πᾶν δ' ὑπεθερμάνθη ξίφος αἵματι (333) 16.335 Lykon Peneleos T ὑπ' οὔατος αὐχένα (339) ἔσχεθε δ' οἶον / δέρμα, παρηέρθη δὲ κάρη (340-41) 16.345 Erymas Idomeneus T κατὰ στόμα (345) ἐκ δ' ἐτίναχθεν ὀδόντες, ἐνέπλησθεν δέ οἱ ἄμφω / αἵματος ὀφθαλμοί (348-49)

249

Locus Slain Slayer Side Wound Position Wound Effect 16.401 Thestor Patroclus T γναθμὸν δεξιτερόν (405) διὰ δ' αὐτοῦ πεῖρεν ὀδόντων / ἕλκε δὲ δουρὸς ἑλὼν (405-06) 16.411 Erylaos Patroclus T μέσσην κὰκ κεφαλήν (412) ἣ δ' ἄνδιχα πᾶσα κεάσθη (412) 16.571 Epeigeus Hector A κεφαλήν (578) ἣ δ' ἄνδιχα πᾶσα κεάσθη (578) 16.586 Sthenelaos Patroclus T αὐχένα (587) ῥῆξεν δ' ἀπὸ τοῖο τένοντας (587) 16.738 Kebriones Patroclus T μετώπιον (739) ὀφθαλμοὶ δὲ χαμαὶ πέσον ἐν κονίῃσιν / αὐτοῦ πρόσθε ποδῶν (741- 42) 17.47 Euphorbos Meleaus T ἁπαλοῖο δι' αὐχένος (49) αἵματί οἱ δεύοντο κόμαι (51) 17.288 Hippothoös Ajax T κυνέης διὰ χαλκοπαρήου (294) ἐγκέφαλος δὲ παρ' αὐλὸν ἀνέδραμεν ἐξ ὠτειλῆς / αἱματόεις (297- 98) 17.312 Phorkys Ajax T μέσην κατὰ γαστέρα (313) διὰ δ' ἔντερα χαλκὸς / ἤφυσ' (314-15) 17.614 Koiranos Hector A ὑπὸ γναθμοῖο καὶ οὔατος (617) ἐκ δ' ἄρ' ὀδόντας / ὦσε δόρυ πρυμνόν, διὰ δὲ γλῶσσαν τάμε μέσσην (617-18) 20.382 Iphition Achilles T μέσσην κὰκ κεφαλήν (387) ἣ δ' ἄνδιχα πᾶσα κεάσθη (387) 20.395 Demoleon Achilles T κατὰ κρόταφον (397) ἐγκέφαλος δὲ / ἔνδον ἅπας πεπάλακτο (399-400) 20.407 Polydoros Achilles T νῶτα (414) προτὶ οἷ δ' ἔλαβ' ἔντερα χερσὶ λιασθείς (418) 20.463 Tros Achilles T καθ' ἧπαρ (469) ἐκ δέ οἱ ἧπαρ ὄλισθεν, ἀτὰρ μέλαν αἷμα κατ' αὐτοῦ / κόλπον ἐνέπλησεν (470-71) 20.474 Echeklos Achilles T μέσσην κὰκ κεφαλὴν (475) πᾶν δ' ὑπεθερμάνθη ξίφος αἵματι (476) 20.478 Deukalion Achilles T διὰ χειρὸς (479); αὐχένα (481) μυελὸς αὖτε / σφονδυλίων ἔκπαλθ' (482-83) 21.114 Lykaon Achilles T κατὰ κληῗδα παρ' αὐχένα (117) ἐκ δ' αἷμα μέλαν ῥέε, δεῦε δὲ γαῖαν (119) 21.179 Asteropaios Achilles T γαστέρα … παρ' ὀμφαλόν (180) ἐκ δ’ ἄρα πᾶσαι / χύντο χαμαὶ χολάδες (180-81)

250

1.5 Slaughter in the Iliad

Locus Slayer Side Description Type Simile 4.451 General B ὀλλύντων τε καὶ ὀλλυμένων G 4.538 General B πολλοὶ δὲ περὶ κτείνοντο καὶ G ἄλλοι 4.543 General B πολλοὶ γὰρ Τρώων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν G ἤματι κείνῳ / πρηνέες 5.452 General B δῄουν ἀλλήλων G 8.65 General B ὀλλύντων τε καὶ ὀλλυμένων G 8.67 General B πῖπτε δὲ λαός G 8.342 Hector A αἰὲν ἀποκτείνων τὸν ὀπίστατον I 8.344 Trojans A πολλοὶ δὲ δάμεν Τρώων ὑπὸ S χερσίν 11.70 General B δῄουν G reapers (ἀμητῆρες) in field of grain (67-69) 11.85 General B πῖπτε δὲ λαός G 11.150 Greeks T πεζοὶ μὲν πεζοὺς ὄλεκον S 11.154 Agamemnon T αἰὲν ἀποκτείνων I forest fire (πῦρ ἀΐδηλον ἐν… ὕλῃ) (157-59) 11.178 Agamemnon T αἰὲν ἀποκτείνων … πολλοὶ δὲ I cattle (βόες) harassed by πρηνεῖς (179) lion (172-76) 11.305 Hector A πληθύν I west wind creating waves (305-08) 11.326 Odysseus and T ὄλεκον Τρῶας I Diomedes 11.337 General B τοὶ δ' ἀλλήλους ἐνάριζον. G 11.497 Ajax T δαΐζων ἵππους τε καὶ ἀνέρας I swollen river (πλήθων ποταμὸς) carrying dead trees (492-95) 11.500 General B ἀνδρῶν πῖπτε κάρηνα, G 12.425 General B δῄουν ἀλλήλων G 14.520 Oilean Ajax T πλείστους δ' Αἴας εἷλεν I 15.2 General T πολλοὶ δὲ S δάμεν Δαναῶν ὑπὸ χερσίν 15.319 General B πῖπτε δὲ λαός G 15.708 General B δῄουν ἀλλήλους1 G 15.746 Ajax T δώδεκα I 16.378 Patroclus T ὑπὸ δ' ἄξοσι φῶτες ἔπιπτον I 16.661 General B πολέες γὰρ ἐπ' αὐτῷ / κάππεσον G 16.771 General B δῄουν G warring winds (Εὖρός τε Νότος) knocking trees together (765-69) 16.778 General B πῖπτε δὲ λαός G 16.785 Patroclus T τρὶς δ' ἐννέα φῶτας ἔπεφνεν I 17.361 General B τοὶ δ' ἀγχιστῖνοι ἔπιπτον G 17.413 General B ἀλλήλους ἐνάριζον G 20.494 Achilles T κτεινομένους ἐφέπων I forest fire (θεσπιδαὲς πῦρ) (490-92) 21.20 Achilles T τύπτε δ' ἐπιστροφάδην I fish and dolphin (ὑπὸ δελφῖνος…ἰχθύες) (21- 24) 21.521 Achilles T Τρῶας ὁμῶς αὐτούς τ' ὄλεκεν I smoke (καπνὸς) from burning city (21.522-24)

251

3.1 Individual Deaths in the Posthomerica

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 1.227 Molion Penthesileia A N 1.227 Persinoos Penthesileia A N 1.228 Eilissos Penthesileia A N 1.228 Antitheos Penthesileia A N 1.228 Lernos Penthesileia A N 1.229 Hippalmos Penthesileia A N 1.229 Haimonides Penthesileia A N 1.229 Elasippos Penthesileia A N 1.230 Laogonos Derinoe A N 1.230 Menippos Klonie A X N 1.235 Klonie Podarkes T G 1.238 Podarkes Penthesileia A M G 1.247 Bremousa Idomeneus T X L 1.254 Euandre Meriones T L 1.254 Thermodossa Meriones T L 1.258 Derinoe O Ajax T L 1.260 Alkibie Diomedes T X G 1.260 Derimacheies Diomedes T X G 1.267 Kabeiros Sthenelos T X N 1.274 Euenor Paris A X N 1.279 Itymoneus Meges T X N 1.279 Agelaos Meges T X N 1.291 Dresaios Polypoites T X N 1.529 Deiochos Ajax T N 1.529 Hyllos Ajax T N 1.530 Eurynomos Ajax T N 1.530 Enues Ajax T N 1.531 Antandre Achilles T N 1.531 Polemousa Achilles T N 1.532 Antibrote Achilles T N 1.532 Ippothoe Achilles T N 1.533 Armothoe Achilles T N 1.620 Penthesileia Achilles T M X G 2.228 Thalios Achilles T N 2.228 Mentes Achilles T N 2.238 Pheron Memnon A G L 2.238 Ereuthos Memnon A G N 2.247 Aithops Antilochos T N 2.257 Antilochos Memnon A M G 2.292 Polymnios Phereus T N 2.293 Laomedon Thrasymedes T N 2.368 Meneklos Nestor T N 2.540 Memnon Achilles T M G 3.150 Orythaon Achilles T G 3.155 Hipponoos Achilles T G 3.158 Alkathoos Achilles T G 3.177 Achilles Apollo A M X G 3.229 Agelaos Ajax T L 3.229 Thestor Ajax T N

252

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 3.230 Okythoos Ajax T N 3.230 Agestratos Ajax T N 3.230 Aganippos Ajax T N 3.231 Zoros Ajax T N 3.231 Nissos Ajax T N 3.231 Eurymas Ajax T X N 3.278 Glaucus Ajax T M X N 3.299 Mainalos1 Odysseus T X N 3.300 Autumnion Odysseus T X N 3.303 Oresbion Odysseus T X N 3.308 Alkon Odysseus T G 6.372 Nireus Eurypolus A M X G 6.408 Machaon Eurypolus A M X G 6.465 Kleitos Podaleirios T X N 6.469 Lassos Podaleirios T X N 6.549 Laophoon Meriones T X G 6.562 Hippasides Alkimedes T G 6.580 Deiopites Eurypolus and attendant A G 6.615 Boukolion Eurypolus A N 6.616 Nesos Eurypolus A N 6.616 Chromios Eurypolus A N 6.615 Antiphos Eurypolus A N 6.622 Pheres Aeneas A N 6.622 Antimachos Aeneas A N 6.624 Molos Agenor A X G 6.631 Mosynos Paris A X N 6.631 Phorkys Paris A X N 6.634 Kleolaos Paris A G 6.639 Eetion Paris A G 7.104 Peneleos Eurypolus A M N 7.606 Keltos Neoptolemus T X L 7.606 Euboios Neoptolemus T X X G 8.77 Melaneus Neoptolemus T X N 8.77 Alkidamas Neoptolemus T X N 8.81 Mynes Neoptolemus T X N 8.85 Morys Neoptolemus T N 8.86 Polybos Neoptolemus T L 8.86 Hippomedon Neoptolemus T L 8.93 Aristolochos Aeneas A G 8.96 Eumaios Diomedes T X N 8.99 Stratos Agamemnon T N 8.101 Chlemos Meriones T X N 8.111 Eurytos Eurypolus A N 8.111 Menoitios Eurypolus A N 8.113 Harpalos Eurypolus A N 8.119 Meilanion Antiphos T X N 8.201 Eurypolus Neoptolemus T M X G 8.291 Perimedes Neoptolemus T X N 8.293 Kestros Neoptolemus T N

1 Depending on the reading of the text, there may be two individuals slain in this passage. I follow Zimmerman 1969.

253

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 8.293 Phaleros Neoptolemus T N 8.294 Perilaos Neoptolemus T N 8.294 Menalkes Neoptolemus T X N 8.300 Lykon Deiphobus A G 8.303 Dymas Aeneas A X N 8.306 Astraios Euryalos T G 8.311 Hippomenes Agenor A G 8.317 Deiphontes Teucer T G 8.402 Phylodamas Meriones T X L 9.150 Hippasides Deiphobus A N 9.186 Amides Neoptolemus T G 9.192 Askanios Neoptolemus T L 9.192 Oinops Neoptolemus T L 10.74 Harpalion Aeneas A X L 10.80 Hyllos Aeneas A X L 10.86 Kebros Neoptolemus T N 10.86 Harmon Neoptolemus T N 10.86 Pasitheos Neoptolemus T N 10.87 Ismenos Neoptolemus T N 10.87 Imbraisos Neoptolemus T N 10.87 Phlegys Neoptolemus T N 10.87 Schedio Neoptolemus T N 10.88 Menasaios Neoptolemus T N 10.88 Amphinomos Neoptolemus T N 10.88 Ennomos Neoptolemus T N 10.89 Phasis Neoptolemus T N 10.89 Galenos Neoptolemus T X N 10.107 Eurymenes Meges T G 10.111 Deileon Aeneas A X N 10.111 Amphon Aeneas A X N 10.118 Menon Diomedes T N 10.118 Amphinoos Diomedes T N 10.119 Demoleon Paris A X L 10.125 Zelys Teucer T X N 10.138 Alkaios Meges T X L 10.167 Deioneus Philoktetes T N 10.168 Akamas Philoktetes T N 10.213 Kleodoros Paris A X S 11.20 Laodamas Neoptolemus T X N 11.27 Niros Neoptolemus T G 11.33 Euenor Neoptolemus T S 11.36 Iphition Neoptolemus T N 11.36 Hippomedon Neoptolemus T X N 11.41 Bremon Aeneas A X L 11.41 Andromachus Aeneas A X L 11.52 Pyrasos Philoktetes T G 11.60 Kleon Polydamas A X N 11.60 Eurymachos Polydamas A X N 11.67 Hellos Eurypolus T X X G 11.79 Ainos Odysseus T X N 11.79 Polyidos Odysseus T X N 11.81 Abas Sthenelos T S

254

Locus Slain Slayer Side Biography Simile Wound 11.85 Laodokos Diomedes T N 11.85 Melios Agamemnon T N 11.86 Dryas Deiphobus A N 11.86 Alkimos Deiphobus A N 11.87 Hippasos Agenor A X N 11.90 Lamos Thoas T N 11.90 Lynkos Thoas T N 11.91 Lukon Meriones T N 11.91 Archelochon Menelaos T X N 11.99 Menoites Teucer T L 11.119 Meles Euryalos T G 11.184 τις Ἀργείων Agenor A G 11.201 Aithalides Aeneas A G 11.461 Alkimedon Aeneas A X G 11.482 Mimas Philoktetes T X L 11.486 Toxaichmes Aeneas A G

255

3.2 Biographies in the Posthomerica

Locus Slain Side Type1 Length Content 1.231-32 Menippos A B 2 arrival 1.268-269 Kabeiros T B 2 arrival 1.275 Euenor A B 1 arrival 1.280-86 Itymoneus T D 7 arrival; geographical details 1.292-306 Dresaios T D* 15 birth beside mountain; Niobe rock 2.241-42 Pheron A B 2 homeland 3.232-36 Eurymas T D 5 arrival, geographical details (rocks) 3.299 Mainalos T B 1 homeland 3.300-02 Autumnion T B* 2 birth by river 3.303-06 Oresbion T P 2.5 homeland, mother 6.466-67 Kleitos T B* 2 birth beside river 6.469-91 Lassos T D* 23 birth beside river; cave of nymphs 6.550-52 Laophoon T B* 3 birth beside river; arrival 6.625 Molos A B 1 arrival 6.632-33 Mosynos A B 1.5 arrival 7.607-15 Keltos and T P* 9 birth beside river; wealth and skills Eubios 8.78-80 Melaneus T B 2.5 homeland 8.82-84 Mynes T B* 3 birth beside river; geography 8.96-98 Eumaios T D 2.5 homeland; Anchises 8.103-07 Chlemos T B 5 homeland; leadership 8.119-21 Meilanion T B* 2.5 birth beside river 8.292 Perimedes T B 1 homeland 8.295-99 Menalkes T P* 5 birth beside mountain; father, goods divided 8.303-05 Dymas A P 2.5 homeland, arrival 10.75-77 Harpalion A B* 2.5 birth; arrival 10.82-83 Hyllos A B* 1.5 birth beside river 10.89-96 Galenos T D 7.5 arrival; promised gifts 10.120-22 Demoleon A B 3 homeland; arrival 10.126-37 Zelys T D 12 geography; Endymion 10.141-46 Alkaios T P 6 homeland; parents 10.222 Kleodoros A B* 1 birth 11.21-26 Laodamas T D 6 geography; Leto 11.37-40 Hippomedon T P* 3.5 birth beside river; parents 11.42 Bremon A B 1 homeland 11.61-66 Kleon and A P 6 fishermen Eurymachos 11.68-69 Hellos T B* 1.5 birth beside lake 11.88-89 Hippasos A P 2 arrival; parents 11.92-98 Archelochon T D 7 geography; Hephaestus

1 An asterisk indicates the presence of the birth motif in a biography.

256

3.3 Death Similes in the Posthomerica

Locus Slain Slayer Side Major? Simile 1.249-51 Bremousa Idomeneus T Ash tree (μελίῃ) felled 1.262-64 Alkibie and Diomedes T Two heifers (πόρτιες) killed Derimacheie 1.613-14 Penthesileia Achilles T X Organs (σπλάγχνα) roasting on fire 1.615-18 Penthesileia Achilles T X Deer (ἐλάφοιο) stuck to tree with spear 1.625-28 Penthesileia Achilles T X Fir tree (ἐλάτη) knocked over by wind 3.177 Achilles Apollo A X Mountain (οὔρεϊ) 3.280 Glaucus Ajax T X Bush (θάμνος) 4.423-29 Troilus1 Achilles T X Grain or poppy (ἢ στάχυν ἢ μήκωνα) cut down 6.378-81 Nireus Eurypylos A X Sapling (ἔρνος) uprooted by river 6.410 Machaon Eurypylos A X Bull (ταῦρος) killed by lion 8.204-06 Eurypylos Neoptolemus T X Pine or fir (ἢ πίτυς ἢ ἐλάτη) blown over by wind 8.405-06 Phylodamas Meriones T Vulture (αἰγυπιῷ) 10.114-16 Deileon and Aineas A Wasps (σφῆκας) killed by man Amphon 11.74-76 Hellos Eurypylos T Snake's tail (δράκοντος / οὐρὴ) 11.463-64 Alkimedon Aeneas A Arrow (ὀιστὸς) from a bowstring 11.483-84 Mimas Philoctetes T Wild goat (ἄγριον αἶγα) shot with javelin

1 Note that Troilus is not slain in the narrative proper; on this see page 165.

257

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258

3.4 Graphic Wounds in the Posthomerica

Locus Slain Slayer Side Wound position Wound effect 1.235 Klonie Podarkes T κατὰ νηδύος (236) χύθη μέλαν αἷμα, συνέσπετο ἔγκατα πάντα (237) 1.238 Podarkes Penthesileia A μυῶνα παχὺν... / Διὰ δὲ φλέβας μελὰν δέ οἰ αἷμα δι’ ἕλκεος οὐταμένοιο / ἔβλυσεν (241- αἱματοέσσας (240) 2) 1.260 Alkibie Diomedes T κρᾶτ’ ἀπέκοψε σὺν αὐχέσιν ἀπονόσφι καρήνων (266) ἅχρισ ἐπ’ ὤμους (261) 1.260 Derimacheie Diomedes T κρᾶτ’ ἀπέκοψε σὺν αὐχέσιν ἀπονόσφι καρήνων (266) ἅχρισ ἐπ’ ὤμους (261) 1.620 Penthesileia Achilles T ὑπὲρ μαζοῖο (594) μέλαν δέ οἱ ἔρρεεμ αἷμα (595) 2.257 Antilochus Memnon A ὑπὲρ μαζοῖο… ἐς κραδίην (258) ὠκὺς ὄλεθρος (259) 2.540 Memnon Achilles T ὑπὸ στέρνοιο θέμεθλα (542) κάπεσσε δ’ ἐς μέλαν αἷμα (545) 3.150 Orythaon Achilles T ἔσω κροτάφοιο (151) ἶνας ἐς ἐγκεφάλοιο (154) 3.155 Hipponoos Achilles T κατ’ ὀφρύος ... ἐς θέμεθλ’ ἔκπεσε γλήνη (156) ὀφθαλμοῖο (156) 3.158 Alkathoos Achilles T διὰ γωαθμοῖο (158) γλῶσσαν ὅλην ἀπέκερσεν ... Αἰχμὴ δὲ δι’ οὔατος ἐξεφαάνθη (159-60) 3.177 Achilles Apollo A κατὰ σγυρόν (62) αἷμα / ἔσσυτο (84-85) 3.308 Alkon Odysseus T δι' ἀσπίδος (13) θωρήξ / δεύετο φοινήεντι λύθρῳ (316-17) 6.372 Nireus Eurypylos A ὑπὲρ πρότμησιν (374) αἷμ’ ἐχύθη (375) 6.408 Machaon Eurypylos A διὰ στερνοῖο (408) αἰχμὴ δ’ αἱματόεσσα μετάφρενον ἄχρις ἵκανεν (409) 6.549 Laophoon Meriones T αἰδοίων ἐφύπερθε (554) εἴρυσεν αἰχμήκατα / ἔγκατα (554-55) 6.562 Hippasides Alkimedes T κατὰ κροτάφοιο (563) chariot runs over him (565) 6.580 Deiopites Eurypylos and A ὤμου τυτθὸν ἔνερθε (581); κόψε σὺν δ’ αἵματι κήκιεν ἱδρὼς (582) attendant δέ οἱ θοὰ νεῦρα (585) 6.624 Molos Agenor A ὑπὸ νείατα κνήμης (627) ἔθρισεν ὀστέα (629) 6.634 Kleolaos Paris A κατὰ μαζὸν ἀριστερόν (635) ἔτι κραδίη… πελέμιξε βέλεμνον (637-38) 6.639 Eetion Paris A διὰ γναθμοῖο (640) μίγη δέ οἱ αἵματι δάκρυ (641) 7.606 Euboios Neoptolemus T κὰκ κεφαλῆς (617) ἐγκέφαλον συνέχευεν (618) 8.93 Aristolochos Aeneas A κατὰ κράατος (94) ἔθλασσεν / ὀστέα σὺν πήληκι (94-95) 8.201 Eurypylos Neoptolemus T διήλυθεν ἀνθερεῶνος (200) τοῦ δ’ ἔκχυτο φοίνιον αἷμα (201) 8.300 Lykon Deiphobus A ὑπὲρ βουβῶνα (301) ἔγκατα πάντ’ ἐχύθησαν, ὅλη δ’ ἐξέσσυτο νηδύς (302) 8.306 Astraios Euryalos T διὰ στέρνοιο (307) στομάχου δ’ ἀπέκερσε κελεύθους / ... μίγη δέ οἱ εἴδατα λύθρῳ (308-09)

259

Locus Slain Slayer Side Wound position Wound effect 8.311 Hippomenes Agenor A ἐς κληῖδα (312) σὺν δ’ αἵματι θυμὸς / ἔκθορεν ἐκ μελέων (312-13) 8.317 Deiphontes Teucer T λαιὸν ἐς ὀφθαλμόν (318); γλήνην δὲ διέτμαγεν (319) διέθρισε δ’ αὐχένος ἶνας (322) 9.186 Amides Neoptolemus T ἐς νηδύν (189) ἔγκατα δ’ ἐξεχύθησαν (190) 10.107 Eurymenes Meges T κατὰ στομάχοιο (108) ἀνὰ δ’ ἔβλυσεν αἷμα / ἐκ στόματος (108-09) 11.27 Niros Neoptolemus T διὰ γναθμοῖο (28) πέρησε … / γλῶσσαν ἔτ’ αὐδήεσσαν… /… περὶ δ’ ἔρρεεν αἷμα γένυσσι (28-30) 11.52 Pyrasos Philoctetes T διέθρισε δ’ ἀγκύλα νεῦρα / κάρη δ’ ἀπάτερθε κυλινδομένη πεφόρητο / ἱεμένου γούνατος (53-54); ἀπάμερσε φωνῆς (58-59) καρήατος ἄορι τύψας (56) 11.67 Hellos Eurypylos T (not mentioned) ὤμου ἀπὸ βριαροῖο κεκομμένη ἄορι λυγρῷ / χεὶρ (71- 72) 11.119 Meles Euryalos T κάρη (119) σὺν πήληκι κάρη … / θλάσσε (119-20) 11.184 τις Ἀργείων Agenor A μυῶνα κατ’ ἀλγινόεντα (189) φλέβες δ’ ὑπερέβλυσαν αἷμα (192); λίπεν δ’ ἄρα χεῖρα κραταιὴν (194) 11.201 Aithalides Aeneas A ὑπὲρ ἰξύα (201) συμμάρψας χείρεσσιν ὁμῶς χολάδεσσιν ἀκωκὴν (204) 11.461 Alkimedon Aeneas A κὰκ κεφαλῆς (462) οἱ λασίοιο καρήατος ἄλλυδις ἄλλῃ / ἐγκέφαλος πεπάλακτο (471-72) 11.486 Toxaichmes Aeneas A κάρη (488) συνέαξε δὲ πάντα / ὀστέα σὺν πήληκι (488-89)

260

3.5 Slaughter in the Posthomerica

Locus Slayer Side Type Description Simile 1.288 Meges T I ἄλλους... ὅσους κίχε 1.307 General B G Ἄλλοι δ’ ἀμφ’ ἄλλοισι 1.336 Penthesileia A I Πολὺν δ’ ὑπεδάμνατο λαόν 1.344 Trojan A S οἳ Δαναοὺς ἐδάιζον falling leaves or raindrops leaders (φύλλοισιν ἐοικότες ἢ ψεκάδεσσι, 345) 1.385 Penthesileia A I ἀεὶ δ’ ἢ νῶτα δάιζε / φευγόντων 1.395 Penthesileia A I Ἣ δ’ ἄλλοθεν ἄλλον ἔναιρεν cow (πόρτις) trampling garden (396-400) 1.476 Penthesileia A I Ἣ δ’ ἔτι λαοὺς / δάμνατο goats (αἶγες) killed by leopards Πενθεσίλεια (479-80) 1.487 Penthesileia A I πάντες ὅσους ἐκίχανεν storm (θύελλα) blowing flowering trees (488-91) 1.523 Achilles and T I Πολλοὺς pair of lions (λέοντε) killing Ajax (524-27) 2.218 General B G ἀλλήλους δ’ ἐδάιζον 2.229 Achilles T I Βάλε δ’ ἄλλων πολλὰ κάρηνα earthquake (αἰγὶς… ὑποχθονίη) shaking buildings (230-32) 2.236 Memnon A I Ἀργείους ἐδάιζε 2.354 Memnon A I μετόπισθε δ’ ἐπισπόμενος κεράιζε. 2.355 Aithiopians A S Πολλοὶ 2.370 Memnon A I ἐνήρατο πουλὺν ὅμιλον hunter (θηρητὴρ) killing deer caught in a net (371-76) 2.398 Achilles T I ὅσους ὑπὸ χερσὶ δάιζεν 3.21 Achilles T I πολὺν περιδάμνατο λαὸν 3.24 Achilles T I Ὃ δ’ ἑσπόμενος κεράιζε 3.162 Achilles T I πολλῶν δὲ καὶ ἄλλων θυμὸν ἔλυσε 3.269 Ajax T I Πολλοὺς δ’ αἶψ’ ἐδάμασσε 3.275 General B G ἄλλοθεν ἄλλοι / μυρίοι ἐν boars around lion (σύες ἀμφὶ κονίῃσιν λέοντα, 276) 3.294 Ajax T I κτείνων ἄλλοθεν ἄλλον 3.306 Odysseus T I ἄλλων / πολλῶν θυμὸν ἔλυσεν… κτείνων ὅν κε κίχῃσι περὶ νέκυν 3.323 Achaeans T S πολὺν δ’ ὑπὸ χείρεσι λαὸν winds (ἄνεμοι) blowing down leaves (325-27) 3.331 Ajax T I Τρῶας ἄδην ἐδάιζε 3.352 Ajax T I πολλοὺς ἐκπνείοντας field of grain (λήιον) cut down (375-78) 6.369 Eurypylos A I Ἀργείους ἐνάριζε 6.453 General B G πολλοὶ γαῖαν ἔρευθον ὑπ’ Ἄρεϊ δῃωθέντες / μαρναμένων ἑκάτερθεν 6.493 General B G ἑκάτερθεν ἀπέφθιτο πουλὺς ὅμιλος 6.498 Trojans A G ὅτε δὴ μάλα πολλοὶ ἐνεπλήσαντο κελαινὰς / Κῆρας 6.510 Agamemnon T I ἐνήρατο πουλὺν ὅμιλον 6.537 Atreids T I οἵ γ’ ἐν μέσσοισιν boars or lions in arena (εὖτε ἐπεσσυμένους ἐδάιζον σύες μέσῳ ἕρκεϊ ἠὲ λέοντες) killing slaves (532-36)

261

Locus Slayer Side Type Description Simile 6.598 Eurypylos A I κτείνων ὅν κε κίχῃσι, πολὺν δ’ ὑπεδάμναθ’ ὅμιλον. 6.602 Eurypylos A I μετόπισθε δ’ ἐπισπόμενος κεράιζε 6.613 Trojans A S Πολλοὺς δ’ ἐν κονίῃσι βάλον 6.618 Eurypylos A I άσπετα φῦλ’ ἀνθρώπων 6.642 Trojans A S Ἄλλος δ’ ἄλλον ἔπεφνε 7.100 Eurypylos A I δάμνατο δήια φῦλα 7.105 Eurypylos A I πολλοὺς / ἔκτανεν 7.112 Eurypylos A I αναῶν στρατὸν αἰχμητάων / river banks (ὄχθαι) in flood δάμνατ’ ἐπεσσύμενος· τοὶ δ’ (115-20) ἰλαδὸν ἄλλοθεν ἄλλος / ἀθρόοι ἐν κονίῃσι δεδουπότες ἐξεχέοντο 7.146 Achaeans T S κτεῖνον ἐπασσυτέρους 7.527 Neoptolemus T I Τρῶας ἔναιρεν 7.568 Neoptolemus T I πολέας κτάνεν fisherman (ἁλιεὺς) killing fish with trident (569-75) 7.618 Neoptolemus T I φῦλα περικτείνοντο καὶ ἄλλων / μυρία δυσμενέων 8.88 Neoptolemus T I ἄλλοθεν ἄλλον bushes (θάμνοις) under forest fire (89-91) 8.108 General B G Ἄλλος δ’ ἄλλον ἔπεφνε κατὰ μόθον 8.109 Eurypylos A I πολέεσσι κακὰς ἐπὶ Κῆρας ἴαλλε 8.129 Eurypylos A I κατήριπε πουλὺς ὅμιλος trees (δένδρεα μακρὰ) felled by iron (130-32) 8.228 Neoptolemus T I δάμνατο δ’ ἄλλοθεν ἄλλον many leaves (μυρία φύλλα) ὅσους κίχον ἄμβροτοι ἵπποι falling (230-31) 8.276 General B G ἄλλος ἐπ’ ἄλλῳ men cutting vines (278-81) 8.286 General B G Κτεῖνον δ’ ἀλλήλους· 8.324 General B G Ἄλλος δ’ ἄλλῳ τεῦχε φόνον 8.330 Neoptolemus T I ἐπὶ δ’ ἔκτανεν ἄλλον ἐπ’ boy (κοῦρος νέος) killing flies ἄλλῳ around milk (331-34) 8.367 Neoptolemus T I κτείνων ὅν κε κίχῃσι κατὰ κλόνον 8.421 Achaeans T S Τρῶες / ἰοῖσι κτείνοντο πολυσθενέων ὑπ’ Ἀχαιῶν 8.423 Trojans A S καὶ τῶν / πολλοὶ γαῖαν ἔρευθον 9.147 General B G ὀλέκοντο δ’ ἀνὰ κλόνον ἄλλοθεν ἄλλος 9.158 Deiphobus A I Πολέεσσι δ’ ὀλέθριον destructive storm (ἀέλλῃ, 159) ὤπασεν ἦμαρ 9.161 Deiphobus A I μυρίοι ἐκτείνοντο, treecutter (δρυτόμος) making charcoal (162-66) 9.171 Deiphobus A I οὐκ ἀπέληγε φόνοιο fisherman killing fish (172-77) 9.181 Neoptolemus T I σφεας ἐδάιζεν 9.184 Neoptolemus T I πουλὺς στρατὸς ἐν κονίῃσι / πῖπτεν 9.195 Neoptolemus T I Ἄλλους δ’ ἔκτανε πάντας man harvesting olives (198- ὅσους κίχε· τίς κεν ἐκείνους / 201) ἀνδρῶν μυθήσαιτο, κατὰ κλόνον ὅσσοι ὄλοντο / χερσὶ Νεοπτολέμοιο

262

Locus Slayer Side Type Description Simile 9.303 General B G ὄλοντο δὲ μυρία φῦλα / αἰζηῶν ἑκάτερθε. 9.324 General B G ἀλλήλους ὀλέκοντες 10.169 Philoctetes T I Ἄλλων δ’ αἰζηῶν Ares or a river (Ἄρηι / ἢ ὑπεδάμνατο πουλὺν ὅμιλον· ποταμῷ) that rages (170-75) 10.206 Philoctetes T I δάμνατο λαούς 10.245 General B G Συνεκλονέοντο δὲ λαοὶ / raindrops, hail, or snowflakes ἀλλήλους ὀλέκοντες (ψεκάδεσσιν ... ἠὲ χαλάζῃ / ἢ χιόνος νιφάδεσσιν, 248-50) 11.121 General B G Ἄλλος δ’ ἄλλον ἔπεφνε, trees (δένδρεα μακρὰ) falling περιστεναχίζετο δ’ αἶα in storm (122-25) 11.154 Trojans A S δυσμενέων ἀπερείσια φῦλα grain (ἄμαλλα) harvested (156- δάιζον 58) 11.167 Aeneas A I δυσμενέων μετόπισθεν ὑπ’ ἔγχεϊ νῶτα δαΐζων 11.227 Neoptolemus T I ἄλλῳ ἐπ’ ἄλλον ἔπεφνε κατὰ μόθον 11.242a Neoptolemus T I Τρώων πολέας κτάνεν 11.243 Aeneas A I δάμνατο μυρία φῦλα 11.251 General B G καὶ ἐς χέρας ὅν τιν’ ἕλοντο / κτεῖνον ἀνηλεγέως 11.280 General B G Τεῦχον δ’ ἀλλήλοισι φόνον καὶ ἀνηλέα πότμον; πολλοὶ 11.303 Greeks T S πολλοὶ γὰρ ἄδην πέσον ἐν κονίῃσιν 11.395 Aeneas A I δάμασσε δὲ τλήμονι πότμῳ / ἀνέρας 11.444 Ajax T I Ἐπ’ ἄλλῳ δ’ ἄλλον ἔπεφνεν

263

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264

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Curriculum Vitae

Nicholas Kauffman was born on March 26, 1987, in Allentown, Pennsylvania. He earned a BA in English from Hillsdale College in 2008, and began pursuing his PhD in Classics at Johns Hopkins University in 2010. At Hopkins, he has taught various courses on Greek and Latin, and on classical literature and culture. He has also published an article, “Beauty as Fiction in Leucippe and Clitophon,” in Ancient Narrative 12 (2014).

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